#discomfort
I’ve been musing this week on two experiences I’ve had watching a couple of videos I’m about to screen in my next program. Both of them make me uncomfortable in different ways, and I’ve realized that the uncomfortable experience itself is actually what I like about each piece.
The first project doesn’t have a lot that happens during the course of the film and the other is weirdly intimate. Because the first one moves along so slowly, of course, I found my mind spinning out. Normally I’d describe this experience as being bored by the film, except that the contents of my thoughts were not any of the usual stuff. Instead I was debating with myself, trying to work out if what is being depicted is real or if it’s an actor or if that even matters at all. I’d already seen the piece before. I knew what happened at the end and I still continued to have this philosophical discussion with myself about authenticity and representation. I had experienced the same chain of thoughts the first time through the film, and I was almost pleased that the second viewing produced the same result.
The other project is clearly making use of the audience’s discomfort to make a point. The camera is too close, the subjects are behaving strangely, the sounds they’re making are unpleasant. Previewing the film, I stopped it, then fast forwarded, and finally skipped ahead to the end. Later, I still had to re-watch it, and even though I knew what was actually being depicted it didn’t help me feel less uncomfortable being so close to these strangers. Which is part of the point, you can’t ever be sure you understand why another person is behaving in a certain way, or what their motivation might be. And again, this same issue between what is real, what is acted and whether or not the differentiation makes any difference.
Both pieces are fairly short, and being uncomfortable or having your mind wander for a few minutes doesn’t seem like too much of a sacrifice. But I wonder if others will experience these two pieces and come away with the same positive reaction that I have—I wonder if they will see the value in being uncomfortable.
My Cup Runneth Over
d&d oc whump commissioned by [anon]
content warnings: blood drinking, terminal illness, very brief emeto mention
—
Rolith never imagined he would step foot inside a vampire’s home for any reason other than to slaughter the fiend, yet here he is, knocking on the front door of Lord Serador’s estate with no malicious intentions to be found. He’s been tasked to perform a wellness check on the behalf of Queen Juliet, the matriarch of Willowfen, or the independent human settlement they both call home. As the town’s military leader, he receives his orders directly from her and spends a sizable portion of his time advising the crown. They’ve built up a healthy working relationship over the years, and she trusts him indubitably. She told him she was worried about Serador because he returned the Empyreal Wand (the Queen’s family heirloom, which she gave him in return for his help in solving their werewolf problem). Considering how badly the vampire initially wanted the wand, her highness saw his generosity as cause for concern.
Brows furrowing, Rolith glances down at the wand. Although Serador seems to be somewhat less of a prick than most vampiric nobility, Rolith still can’t imagine him helping them for free. There must be another reason why he returned it.
As time passes and his knock remains unanswered, Rolith begins to suspect the Queen’s worry was well-founded. Unwilling to wait any longer, he reaches for the door knob and, surprisingly, finds it unlocked. Perhaps Serador doesn’t consider the animal inhabitants of his domain to be any threat to his safety. Still, in Rolith’s experience, an unlocked front door is never a good sign. He might be young for a military leader (all of the older commanders perished in the fight to free Willowfen from vampiric rule, leaving the next generation to carry the torch alone) but he’s seen enough in his lifetime to know a bad situation when he sees one.
Without hesitation or any regard for proper manners, he slips inside. As soon as the door closes behind him, he’s consumed by darkness. All of the windows are covered, and none of the candles are lit, so he unsheathes his sword and casts Daylight upon the blade. The spell causes the metal to glow and illuminate the foyer. White brightness crawls into every nook and cranny, and he takes a look around.
He isn’t sure what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t this.
The manor is archaically well-decorated, of course, but it’s in bad shape. Nothing has been cleaned in ages: the painted portraits are peeling, the wood paneling is dusty, and the ceiling is covered in cobwebs. A shudder of unease rolls down his spine, and he heads toward the stairs, hoping to find Serador quickly so he can get out of this place.
“Hello?” he calls, marching up the creaking steps, “Serador? You here?”
He reaches the second floor and starts down the hallway toward the East Wing. All of the heavy, velvet curtains are drawn closed, but specks of light peek through moth holes. The state of Serador’s house reaffirms his suspicions about his well being. During the period of their alliance thus far, Rolith has noticed that there’s something not quite right with him. The vampire seems to have little to no regard for his health, the most prominent example being the time when he overexerted himself in battle to the extent that he was vomiting blood for hours after. At the time, Rolith tried to help, but he was brushed off. They’ve never discussed the matter. Even when he’s not visibly ill, Serador always has dark circles underneath his red eyes, and his pale skin is more gaunt than even a vampire’s complexion should be. There’s definitely something wrong with him. If only Rolith knew what the problem was.
Turning a corner, he spots an open door at the end of the hall. He heads straight for it, entering the room without preamble, anxious about what he might find.
“Mother of God,” a familiar voice groans. It’s Serador. He’s lying in his bed, his eyes slammed shut against the white glow. “Put that out.”
Rolith waves his hand to disperse the magic, and the vampire sighs in relief at the ensuing darkness. His comfort is short-lived, however, because the paladin immediately strides over to the nearest window and throws open the curtains, letting the evening sunlight in. Serador hisses. Rolith ignores him.
“Your door was unlocked,” he says, turning around to face him. Serador’s bed is ornate and massive, a large canopy frame that’s almost as tall as the ceiling. Propped up by a mountain of pillows and tucked under the covers, the vampire looks none too pleased about being seen in such a vulnerable state. His red eyes immediately hone in on the Emperyal Wand.
“What are you doing with that?” he asks brusquely. “I returned it to your Queen.”
Rolith sheaths his sword and places the wand down on the nearest surface. “But you didn’t tell her why.”
The vampire shifts. “I no longer desire it.”
Approaching his bedside, Rolith takes a moment to more thoroughly examine his appearance. Gone is the demeanor of a haughty immortal. The creature before him looks sickly, and the sheets surrounding him are covered in blood. His chin is stained red.
“What’s wrong with you?” Rolith demands. The vampire doesn’t answer, averting his eyes. He makes a face and then coughs into his elbow. His throat makes a wet, gurgling sound, and his shirt sleeve is soaked in crimson.
Alarm bells go off in the paladin’s head. The carnage isn’t from feeding. It’s not the blood of his prey. It’s his own.
“Serador.”
“What?” he gasps, breathless and clearly annoyed.
“You know what. You look like you’re dying. You need a cleric or, or something,” Rolith says, running a hand through his blonde hair and wracking his mind for a way to help. He doesn’t know much about vampire physiology. Information regarding their weaknesses is kept secret by the vampiric nobility. Before this very moment, he thought they couldn’t even get sick in the first place.
Intent on rushing out of the manor and grabbing the first healer he comes across, he moves toward the door to leave, but Serador clears his throat and makes him pause.
“A cleric won’t help,” he says.
Crossing his arms, Rolith glares at him. “So you know what’s wrong with you?”
Serador sighs deeply. He looks miserable. His cheeks are hollow, and his limbs sag with every movement as if his very bones are weighing him down. Rolith hates seeing him like this.
“I was cursed a long time ago, in a blood feud. The curse manifests as an illness of sorts, weakening me until eventually…” Rolith shrugs, “Well, I assume it’ll kill me someday. It’s been a decades now.”
The vampire’s casual tone makes it difficult for Rolith to immediately comprehend the meaning of his words, but the more he thinks about it, the more everything begins to make sense. He recalls every time he’s witnessed Serador utterly drained after battle, and the pieces of the puzzle slot together in his mind. “You’re cursed?”
Serador gives him a tired look. “Yes. I thought perhaps the wand could cure me, but I doubt it.”
Rolith raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t even try?” At this, he marches over to the table and grabs the wand, determination pumping through his veins. “You’re dying. You should at least try.”
“It would destroy the wand,” Serador explains, struggling to sit upright, “and the odds of success are low. It’s more important to preserve it for future generations if there is to be any hope for an insurrection.”
Rolith looks at the wand skeptically. “I thought it was just an heirloom.”
The vampire coughs into his fist, his shoulders shaking in violent jerks. “The Queen’s father was a legendary cleric, as you know. If you and your people want to harness the power of the forbidden magics and overthrow the corrupt court, then you’ll need that wand.” He gives Rolith a pointed look. “I can’t teach you everything.”
The paladin frowns. It’s true Serador taught him illegal spells to use against the undead. The enchantments aided him in defeating an evil witch, but the vampire was burned by simply being in close-proximity when Rolith cast the spell. Serador has taken great risks in aiding them in their goal of freeing humankind… and now he would sacrifice his only chance at life for their sakes?
Rolith shakes his head. “Then there has to be another way to break the curse.”
The vampire sports a wry smile. “As much as I admire your optimism, I’ve been around for much longer than you’ve been alive. I doubt there’s a cure.”
“Well, I’ll find one,” he asserts, leveling Serador with a challenging look. He doesn’t appreciate being told what he can and cannot do by vampires, especially when he’s trying to help. He takes a step closer to the bed and sits on the edge of the mattress, fire burning in his blue eyes.
“You might’ve given up on your life, but I—we haven’t. Queen Juliet wishes to continue her alliance with you. Your help has been immeasurable, and I know the other paladins feel the same. You’ve saved my life multiple times. It’s only right that I return the favor.” Rolith takes a gamble and reaches for the vampire’s hand, squeezing his pale fingers in a reassuring grip. “I’ll help you break the curse. I promise.”
Serador meets his gaze with an unreadable expression. Rolith has always struggled to understand him because of their differences. He’s loathed all vampires for so long, it’s taken him a while to realize that Serador is a valuable ally and a good person. Before he can even attempt to dissect the nuances of his face, Serador breaks his silence.
“Do you ever cease to be charming?” he murmurs. It’s the first compliment the vampire has ever given him, and the words level Rolith. His breath catches, and he has to clear his throat before speaking.
“Only on my days off. Right now I’m here on the Queen’s dime.”
The vampire pulls his hand away to brush back several strands of long, white hair from his face. “Of course you are.”
Rolith smiles briefly before his face settles into a grave expression once again. Although he enjoys how far they have come since meeting each other (Serador no longer calls him ‘boy’ in a derogatory way), the pleasantness of their camaraderie is overshadowed by the revelation of a deadly curse.
“What can I do to help? You’re not going to be confined to your bed forever, right?”
“I should hope not,” the vampire huffs, smoothing down the stained sleeves of his black robes. “I should be back to normal in a couple days. It comes and goes in waves.”
“What about…” Rolith bites his lip and gestures vaguely, “When was the last time you fed?”
Serador’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “It’s been a while.”
Eager to help, an idea forming in his mind, Rolith continues, “Would that help? If you had something?”
The vampire sets his jaw. He doesn’t speak. Rolith takes that as a yes. His hand goes to his blade, and Serador makes an insulted noise.
“Whatever you’re thinking, I won’t allow it.”
The paladin unsheathes his sword and rests it in his lap. “Why not? I’m perfectly healthy, you’re on the verge of death… if I can hasten your recovery—”
“No,” Serador cuts in, his voice stronger than it has been all throughout their conversation thus far. He seems resolute in his refusal, but Rolith knows that a vampire’s morality blurs at the edges of hunger, so he takes a deep breath and presses the sharp edge of his blade against his palm. He pauses there, waiting for protest, but Serador doesn’t say anything further to stop him, so he drags the sword across his skin and slices open a thin red cut. It stings, but only a few beads of blood rise to the surface. He looks Serador in the eye. The vampire’s breathing is labored as if his fight against his baser instincts is a physical effort.
“I trust you,” Rolith reassures, even though he knows he’s already won this argument. “Just take a little bit, since you’re so worried. I’ll even get it healed later today.”
Serador raises a trembling arm and wraps his clammy fingers around his wrist in a delicate manner, gently pulling his hand closer. With his other hand, he caresses the inside of his forearm soothingly, as if calming a spooked animal. Shivers race down Rolith’s spine, but he isn’t afraid of a little pain. He’s willing to endure it for a friend.
Serador opens his mouth and slowly sinks his fangs into the cut, widening the wound a bit. An odd sensation spreads across his palm—the venom must be numbing him. The vampire seals his lips over the cut and sucks slowly, eyes closed. The whole affair feels strangely intimate, and although he knows blood is being leached from his body, Rolith can’t look away. He doesn’t tell him to stop, either. He was serious when he said he intended to find a way to break Serador’s curse. He doesn’t intend to let the vampire wither away anytime soon.
A couple minutes later, some of the color has returned to Serador’s face, and he pulls away with a wet pop. Rolith’s fingers are tingling, but otherwise he feels fine. The vampire licks the wound clean and then grasps his palm with both hands. Warmth spreads across his skin in a flash of golden light, and when Serador lets go, the cut has healed.
“You didn’t need to do that,” Rolith says, rubbing his thumb across his palm where the slice had been. Serador sits back against his pile of pillows, evening his breath. His face is placid, but underneath his calm demeanor, he looks refreshed.
“You didn’t need to offer yourself to me,” he counters with a tilt of his head.
“I wanted to.” Rolith wipes his blade clean on the sheets, earning a disgruntled huff from the owner of the bed, before sheathing his weapon.
“If I were in a better state, I would’ve never let you do something so unnecessary and, frankly, dangerous,” Serador insists, coming back to himself now. He looks embarrassed, but he really shouldn’t be, in Rolith’s opinion. “Don’t try that again.”
“Alright,” the paladin agrees. He doesn’t regret encouraging Serador to drink from him against his wishes. If it keeps Serador alive, he’ll do it, even if it makes the vampire uncomfortable. He recognizes that he overstepped a boundary, though, so he stands up from the bed and looks away. “I’m sorry.”
Serador snorts. “You’re not. But you should be.”
Rolith’s lips quirk up in a half-smile, unbidden. “I have to tell the Queen why you returned the wand, you know.”
“I suppose you do.” The vampire doesn’t sound happy about that. “While you’re at it, tell her to stop sending trespassers into my home.”
Rolith’s smile broadens into a grin. He pockets the wand, handling it with much more care than he did previously. “I might advise her to send a cleaning crew over, if anything.”
There’s a long pause, and then, “You are one of the most audacious humans I have ever met.”
Rolith laughs, daring to meet the vampire’s eyes. He looked genuinely affronted, which only amuses him more. “You clearly haven’t met enough humans, then.”
“Clearly,” Serador drawls, “Now get out of my house.”
“Gladly,” Rolith shoots back, even though he would rather stay and ensure the vampire doesn’t drop dead anytime soon. He slowly moves toward the door, hesitant. The hallway is dark. He glances over his shoulder briefly and catches one last glimpse of Serador. He’s looking down at his hand, the evening sunlight casting shadows over the bed.
Rolith steps into the darkness and leaves before he can be caught watching.
“What did you say to me?” the whumper asks in a dangerously calm tone.
“Fuck off,” the whumpee hisses, teeth bared.
“No, not that.” The whumper grabs their captive’s chin and tilts their head back. “Just a moment earlier. I believe you said something along the lines of ‘you’ll never fucking own me, you piece of shit.”
The whumpee doesn’t bother with a reply, simply continuing to glare at their captor.
“Now, I can tolerate your rather excessive use of profanity,” the whumper begins, squeezing their captive’s jaw with enough force to bruise, “but I won’t condone lies.”
The whumpee snorts. “It’s not a lie. You don’t own me.”
The whumper’s eyes narrow. They’re silent for a long moment, and then they shove their thumb into the whumpee’s mouth, prying their teeth apart.
“Open up,” they demand sharply, and although the whumpee resists, biting at their fingers, the whumper manages to create enough of an opening to shove something past their lips.
The chemical taste explodes across the whumpee’s tongue, and they grunt in disgust. It takes them a second to process, but their eyes widen when they realize what’s happened.
There’s a bar of soap in their mouth.
The whumpee curses, but their words are muffled by the rectangular object filling their mouth. Nose crinkling, they grimace, trying to push the bar out with their tongue. The whumper clucks in disapproval, shoving the soap in deeper, all the way until it can’t go back any further.
Satisfied, the whumper steps back to admire their work. “Good. Keep that in there. Starting now, you’re going to tell me the truth. If you lie, I’ll have to wash out your filthy mouth.”
The whumpee squirms, gagging on the overwhelmingly repugnant taste. Their teeth dig into the waxy soap, and their gums sting. Tears spring to their eyes from both the discomfort and humiliation.
With a content smile, the whumper runs a gentle hand through their hair. “You see?” They caress the whumpee’s cheek, wiping away stray tears. “I do own you.”
Submitted by Anon - thanks!
So imagine a character who gets stabbed and it’s not like fatal but the wound is large so it’s very uncomfortable anyways they can’t go to a hospital because what he did to get hurt was illegal
But his team has to have this meeting while he’s still hurt and has to sit through it while pretending he was fine despite infection starting to take place and being so uncomfortable.
Happy Hour XI
Public Property
Please Touch
I had this written on me at happy hour yesterday by a new friend, Sunny, at my request. Of course, when Lioness saw it, she slapped me hard, then grabbed me and used her nails on me, making me yelp and squirm. Then someone I didn’t know approached me hesitantly and double checked for consent. He did ask Lioness before asking me, which is amusing. A woman owning property. Imagine that! I suppose it was good of him to keep up the charade that I have the right to refuse a man permission to do something to me, especially when I ask for it like that.
Of course I reassured him that it was perfectly fine. He was so hesitant, though, that when he was done, I clapped in a not very sincere way, which Lioness chastised me for. I felt bad for having made a man feel bad for doing something he had every right to do.
For most of the rest of the evening, my friends took advantage of the implied consent (I wanted Sunny to write that on me, but she said it “isn’t sexy.”)
A little while before it was time to leave, someone I didn’t know came over to me. He double checked with me about what he could do, after watching Lioness slap my tits several more times. I did tell him that I knew her and didn’t know him, so hitting wouldn’t be a good choice. I felt somewhat uncomfortable with the idea of him touching me, but I didn’t stop him. My discomfort isn’t relevant or important. As I continued talking to my friends, he started touching me, mostly just gentle groping. He was very much enjoying himself and started touching other places on my body.
I got increasingly uncomfortable, to the point where I felt like refusing this stranger who I’d never seen before access to my body. Access that is his right as a man. I didn’t move to stop him, though. I let him touch my tits, my stomach, my thighs.
Finally, he told me I was doing “a good job” with my legs, and when I asked what he meant, he said they were smooth and soft. I rolled my eyes, but then remembered my place and thanked him, explaining that I rolled my eyes because I used to not shave but now I have to. His reaction was to ask “Do you shave everywhere?” with his hands still on my legs. That kicked up my discomfort to a whole new level. I didn’t exactly make him stop touching me, but I didn’t respond and when Boy Genius said people were heading next door for food, I jumped up and said I had to go eat. I know it would have been better of me to answer the man’s question and let him continue touching me, since he clearly wanted to, but it was my first time having that happen so I think I did a decent job considering that fact, and the fact that I didn’t have my owner or another man to look out for me anywhere nearby.
At the metro station on the way home, I wanted to take a picture of the writing. I was about to have a friend do it, but then I processed that we were in public and said “Never mind.” I explained why and he said “So?” I responded, “It’s rude to other people.” (what a silly little excuse) He told me “There aren’t any” and half dommed, half peer-pressured me into it.
I pulled down the top of my sundress, and, as he stood in front of me taking the picture of my tits, the train behind us pulled out. Anyone looking would have seen what was happening, even if they couldn’t see my breasts. I was thoroughly embarrassed. And, of course, at the same time I was excited.
Being groped by a stranger was a new experience. No one told me to do it. It just seemed like that was a good time and place to offer myself up for use in a way I can’t do in everyday life. I asked for that man’s hands on me, for the uncomfortable, somewhat icky feeling of knowing he was getting off on touching me when I didn’t even know his name. I should do it again next time until I have the proper, fulfilled reaction to being pleasing to a strange man.
(I don’t normally have disclaimers, but since this involves a stranger, I just wanted to be clear that I could have stopped this from happening at any time, and, although I did feel intensely uncomfortable, I never felt unsafe. If I had, or even if the discomfort had been too much, I would have stopped it, and my owner would not have been upset with me. Being safe, mentally and physically, is vital to my continued usefulness. Also, you know, he cares about me.)
Post link
When I last Skyped with The Super Sadist (That was an intense session that involved him and Marxman and lasted about ten hours. There’s plenty to be said about it, but I wanted to share this bit first), he told me, “I think you should write dumber.” I balked a little, since I don’t want to make this blog unreadable for you folks, and we decided that I wouldn’t do it for lengthy pieces of writing, or, of course, for work. Primarily, I’m doing it when I text friends and partners. I’ll also try to write some more short things on here, so y’all can see how dumb I am.
It’s just little things, for now. He gave a couple examples: “u” instead of “you,” to/too mixups, things like that. I added a few more, such as your/you’re mixups, using the wrong its/it’s, their/there/they’re confusion, and using as many abreves as possible. These aren’t major changes, but they’re things my friends would notice, and things that bother me a lot when I fuck up by accident.
He was understanding and is letting me not do it with people I can’t or shouldn’t explain the instructions to, but really, I can’t think of many people I talk to regularly who I couldn’t tell about it. Actually, I may not explain it to everyone. I sent a text to Legolas prior to explaining it where I used “u” instead of “you” and used the incorrect “too.” It was intensely uncomfortable, even physically so. And it turned me on. A lot. (Oh fuck. I should probably start using “alot” instead. That’s going to be painful.)
So, I was already sounding stupid when I was texting people yesterday. Then, when I was talking with my owner (Who, by the way, when I asked if the dumb texting would bother him and offered not to do it with him if it would, replied “lol. Yeah, no, you’re not doing that with me.”), I confessed that I hadn’t followed a direct order he’d given me to finish an assignment. The consequence for that is another language rule. For the next week, in the same places where I’m writing dumber, I am not allowed to use the letter “f.” In addition, any time I have to stop and think about how to rephrase a sentence to avoid it, I have to insert the word “like.”
I was texting under those rules for a few hours yesterday and I sound fucking…well, I’d say “dumb” or “silly” or “ridiculous” or “stupid,” but I know the word The Super Sadist would use is “retarded.” I sound fucking retarded*.
*It causes me great distress to throw around this word like that. I haven’t used it casually, especially as an insult, in years. It even bothers me when The Super Sadist does it, just in general conversation. So, of course, he’s taken to using it frequently in reference to me. During our last conversation, he asked me about my dislike of it, listened to what I had to say, and then said, “Tell me you’re retarded.” I could tell what fun it was for him to see my refusal turn to reluctance turn to resignation turn to incredibly uncomfortable obedience as I sighed, whinced, and said, “I’m retarded.”
Being able to acknowledge and think critically about discomfort is a skill that the world doesn’t want you to learn.
No, this is not a conspiracy theory.
Discomfort is your body and mind’s way of telling you, “Hey! Something’s different! Something’s off! Something’s changing!” It’s a useful tool, evolutionarily. The primordial ape that responded to being cold by bundling up in a pile of leaves was more likely to survive than the one that did nothing. As a result, humans are generally quick to feel uncomfortable.
Sometimes, discomfort is a sign that something is truly wrong, and you need to get away from the source of the discomfort right away. Other times, discomfort is a sign that this is an opportunity for growth, for improvement, for making the world a better place.
However, we are not encouraged to think critically about discomfort and figure out which of these two circumstances it is. In fact, we are actively discouraged from doing this.
If you’re in a position of power, you are encouraged to think about any discomfort at all as the most terrible thing ever. This is why white people often behave as though being called racist is worse than actually being racist.
If you’re not in a position of power, then you’re not supposed to think about your discomfort as important at all. This is why people with chronic illness are so often told that they’re faking it or making a big deal out of nothing.
Being willing and able to think about our discomfort – to consider it instead of simply avoiding it – is not an easy thing to do, but it is a revolutionary act. Thinking critically about discomfort opens doors and is a vital skill for changing the world.
(I talked about this first on TikTok – watch it here!)
A commission story for Imiut! His character Imiut attends an unusual party, has an unusual dinner, and then proceeds to have an unusually bad time.
Imiut leaned against the wall as the party went on before him. It wasn’t so much that he was trying to avoid the party; more that he still wasn’t quite sure how to act with this particular kind of company.
“Everything okay, my friend? You seem nervous. You know we’re throwing this party for you, right?”
Imiut looked down at the shorter canine standing next to him. He wore an ornate headdress covered with feathers, a mantle over his shoulders, and numerous accessories. His mouth hung partially open, revealing huge fangs and a long tongue, which lolled out into the open air. And his eyes were intense, swirling pools of light and color.
And yet he was the most relatable person Imiut had at this particular party.
“I know, Xolotl, I know,” Imiut said. “My ‘one thousandth incarnation.’ I’m just… not sure I really belong here.” He looked out over the party.
The party had been set up in a large, rectangular room. The wooden walls were decorated with balloons, and a large buffet table had been placed along one wall, covered with many foods that Imiut recognized, as well as even more that he did not. Various party-goers visited and talked, some getting food from the buffet, others chatting or telling jokes in small groups. They were all canines, and the majority seemed to be having a good time.
And every single one, Imiut knew, was some creature of myth or legend, things that the average person didn’t believe existed. Hell, even this place was mythical: a hidden tavern only accessible by “extraordinary” folk.
It was kind of overwhelming.
“I know you only just awoke,” Xolotl said, his voice sympathetic, “but please, believe me, you definitely belong here. There is no doubt with regards to who you are.”
Imiut nodded. “I know,” he said. “I just wish I had gotten a little bit more time to adjust before…”
“Hold up,” Xolotl said. “We’ve got company.”
Imiut looked up to see a figure approaching them. He would have noticed her anyway, even if she hadn’t been pointed out. Not just because she was beautiful, or because she wore a dress that hugged her curves in all the right places.
No, it was mostly because she was over ten feet tall and had three heads.
“Cerberus,” Imiut said.
“Anubis,” was the polite reply from the middle head.
Imiut felt a small thrill run through him as he heard the name. His name. There was no doubt in his mind that Xolotl was correct: he could feel who he was. The guardian of tombs. The judge of the dead.
“Nice party,” Imiut said weakly.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” Cerberus’s left head responded with a smile.
“Is he, though?” The right head asked. “He looks a little nervous.”
“He’s just still getting used to all this,” said Left.
“But what if…”
“Girls!” The middle head snapped at the other two. Then she turned her gaze back to Imiut. “My apologies. I understand you’re going through a transition that is not always easy.”
Imiut shrugged. “Well, if Xolotl here can do it once a day, I’m sure I can handle it once a lifetime.”
Xolotl smiled, looking a little embarrassed.
“Well put,” Cerberus answered. “Here, this is for you.” She held out a small, decorated box in one hand.
Imiut stiffened. This was the part he was concerned about: the gifts. Because he might not know much about this world, but this was one thing he did know: the Laws of Hospitality demanded that he accept any gift he was given. To refuse would be a grave insult. And he did not want to make an enemy of anyone here, so he would have to accept anything they brought him, no matter how outlandish or magical.
Cautiously, he took the package.
“Open it now!” Cerberus’ left head said. “I want to see your reaction!”
Imiut nodded, then turned his attention to the box. He placed his hand on the lid, took a deep breath, and opened it to reveal…
“Fighting Fantasy IV!?” Imiut stared at the small video game cartridge, then up at Cerberus. “How did you know I wanted this!?”
“We have our ways,” the middle head said. Her right head looked relieved, and her left had a smug expression on its face.
She reached down to give Imiut a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Enjoy the rest of the party. Try not to get overwhelmed,” she said kindly.
“Um, thank you, Ma'am,” Imiut said.
Cerberus gave him three smiles, then turned to walk back into the crowd.
“See? And you were worried,” Xolotl said, giving Imiut a friendly punch on the arm. “I told you that…”
“Why, hello there!” A friendly voice called out from across the party.
Imiut froze. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He could see another figure approaching.
This one was also big, though not in the same direction: the fox had a long “taur” shaped body, four legs padding lightly across the floor. He was wearing a rather nice button-up shirt and a bright purple vest. Small balls of similarly-hued flame hovered around his body, and multiple large, fluffy tails trailed in his wake.
“Rythven,” Imiut muttered.
“Nice to see you again, too, Imiut!” The fox responded with a jovial smile, reaching out to offer Imiut a handshake.
Imiut hesitated. It was the same feeling that would make him hesitate to shake the hand of a slimy salesman at a car dealership. He knew that he had never met Imiut before – at least not in this life – but something in his inherited memory was poking at his subconscious.
But he also knew that he shouldn’t be inhospitable, especially here. So he took the hand and gave it a firm shake, even when Rythven held onto it for a bit too long.
“Such a big event!” Rythven said. “Your one thousandth incarnation! I’m so happy to be here to see it.” He glances down at the still-open box in Imiut’s hand, and turns his gaze to Xolotl. “Ah. Was that yourgift?”
“No, it was from Cerberus.” Xolotl sounded annoyed.
“And it’s an excellent gift,” Imiut said, annoyed himself at the note of disdain in Rythven’s voice.
“Of course, of course! But I have a gift truly befitting a god of your stature!” He raised his hand in a grand gesture.
“Attention, everyone! I will be presenting my gift to Imiut!” Rythven shouted, making sure the whole room could hear it.
Xolotl shook his head. “We’re not really doing that, Ryth. You can just give your present to…”
But canine eyes all across the party had already turned to the fox. Rythven smiled, and began moving his upraised hand in small circles. The motes of flame flowed around him, and other party-goers started to approach to see what the big deal was.
“My friends,” Rythven said, “we are all here today to honor a momentous occasion for one of our number…”
“Weknow why we’re here,” came a voice from the crowd.
Rythven ignored it. The flames were circling faster now, and spiraling closer together. “We’re here to celebrate the one thousandth incarnation of our dear friend! A thousand lifetimes of great feats and godly tales! A thousand stories of myth and legend!”
Imiut could feel his hackles raising. He hadn’t wanted to call this much attention to himself, and now the fox was putting on a damn show. What kind of gift was this, anyway?
The foxfires gathered into a swirling maelstrom right in front of Rythven, gradually coalescing, starting to take shape…
And suddenly, with a pop, they turned into a body. It let out a squeak of surprise and hit the floor with a thump.
Lying dazed on the floor was a female possum. She was wearing a black t-shirt emblazoned with the logo of a band that Imiut didn’t recognize, and black leather pants held up by a belt covered with small, spike-shaped studs. Her ears had numerous piercings.
“What… what is this?” Imiut asked, feeling just as stunned as the possum looked.
“Your gift!” Rythven answered, with a flourish of his hand. “The paltry refreshments offered here are hardly befitting one such as you, so I thought I would offer a meal fit for the god you are!”
Imiut stared at the possum, his brain taking a few moments to process what Rythven was saying.
“Rythven.” The stern voice came from Cerberus, who was standing a little ways off among the other watchers. “This is hardly an appropriate gift for…”
Rythven gave an exaggerated shrug. “Alas, regardless of your opinion, the gift has already been made!” He turned his attention back to Imiut. “So, enjoy it, my friend!”
Imiut swallowed hard. He stepped forward and dropped to one knee next to the possum.
The girl had sat up, and was shaking her head, still obviously dazed. She looked up at Imiut. “What… where am I? A minute ago I was on the street, and then this fox came up and said he wanted to talk to me, and then… and then…”
Imiut put a hand on her shoulder. “Shh. Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter now.”
The possum looked around, her eyes starting to widen as she saw the myriad bizarre party guests surrounding her, all looking at herself and Imiut. “What… what’s going on?”
Imiut just sighed. “I’m really very sorry about this,” he whispered, keeping his voice low so that only the possum could hear him. “But I literally cannot refuse.”
“Refuse? Refuse what? What are you…?”
But her question trailed off as Imiut opened his long muzzle, his maw gaping wide in front of her. Moving quickly, Imiut slid his hand behind her ears, gripping the fur there hard with his fingers, in order to shove the surprised possum’s head into his mouth.
She struggled – of course she struggled. But it was still over quickly. The possum was disoriented and confused, and Imiut was a lot stronger than the petite female. It took him less than thirty seconds to shove the struggling, squirming possum down his gullet, her screams and pleas for mercy quickly muffled by layers of fur and flesh. Before long, he tilted his head back, swallowing up her footpaws.
Glk.
As Imiut rose back to his feet, he now had a large, squirming bulge in his gut, pushing up his shirt.
“I say, excellent!” Rythven said, clapping. There was a smattering of applause from a few of the other party-goers, too. “A wonderful display of predatory instinct!”
Imiut took a step back to steady himself as his stomach writhed. He felt a rumble moving upward, and he brought his hand up to stifle a small belch. “Th-thank you for the gift,” he managed to say.
Xolotl rushed to his side, as if to help him stand, but Imiut waved him off.
“I’m fine,” Imiut said. “But I think I’ve had about enough party for one night.”
——–
Imiut leaned against the stone wall at the bus stop. His gut was making even that difficult: the possum was still kicking up a storm, not that he blamed her. All the movement was making it hard for him to keep his balance, though at least the other people waiting at the stop had all edged away from him, so he wasn’t bumping into anyone.
He let out a relieved sigh as the bus arrived. He waited for the others at the stop to board first, then attempted to board the bus himself.
It wasn’t exactly easy. His huge stomach made fitting through the narrow bus doors difficult. It took a few tries, but he finally managed to squeeze his way in. He climbed the steps up into the bus.
The bus driver, a female rabbit, looked at his squirming gut for a long few seconds. “I’m gonna have to charge you for two seats,” she says.
“Seriously!?”
“No way you’re fitting in one right now.”
Imiut sighs, then scans his bus card.
The bus ride itself wasn’t that bad – the driver had been right, the space of an extra seat made it easier to get comfortable. Though there was a young female rabbit sitting across the aisle from him who kept staring at his gut, until her mother whispered something in her ear and covered her eyes. He didn’t want to imagine what those two thought of him.
When they finally arrived at his stop, he thanked the driver for her patience on the way out, before squeezing himself back out of the bus.
——–
“C'mon, c'mon, c'mon…”
Imiut’s teeth were clenched, his eyes focused on the tv. He leaned forward on the couch, his fingers gripping the game controller, his hands resting on his swollen gut.
“C'mon, c'mon, so close…” he muttered, his fingers moving deftly across the buttons and joysticks. He was almost in position. He had already tried this level three times, and he was so close to…
There was a muffled scream, and his stomach bulged out as the possum kicked hard. The kick hit his left hand, knocking the controller out of his grip.
The TV played a dark tone, and the words “GAME OVER” appeared on-screen.
“Damn it!” Imiut shouted, tossing the controller onto the couch next to him in frustration. He had been hoping, after the fiasco at the party, that he could at least relax at home and enjoy his other gifts. But no! His big, squirmy gut said otherwise. Growling to himself, he picked the controller back up and turned off the console. He would just have to play his new game later. Maybe he would just go to bed early.
——–
Imiut lay in his bed, wide awake.
It wasn’t like he could blame the possum. It would be a little hard to sleep while you’re being digested alive. But Imiut just wasn’t used to this much extra weight on his abdomen, and the fact that that weight kept struggling and squirming around made it even worse.
He glanced over at his alarm clock. It read 2:36 AM.
He sighed, then rolled over onto his side, hoping to try againt to get at least somesleep.
——–
Imiut stood in the bathroom, wearing only his boxers. He assessed the small shower. It was the kind that lacked a bathtub, with plastic walls and only enough space for one person.
There was no way he was going to fit in it.
He looked down at his stomach. He – naturally – hadn’t been hungry enough to eat breakfast this morning, but he had at least made himself a cup of coffee to try to boost his energy after the mostly sleepless night. Unfortunately, the hot liquid had awoken his “guest,” who was now kicking up a storm.
“Of course,” he said. “Of course she’s a fighter.” He didn’t do this often enough to have a strong frame of reference, but how long was she going to last? Probably another day or two at minimum. Would he be able to work in this state?
Would he even fit in his car?
Imiut sighed. He shook his head, before turning and walking out of the bathroom sans-shower, in spite of how grungy he felt. Without bothering to get dressed, he picked up his cell phone and dialed his boss’s number.
“Hey. I’m gonna have to use a few sick days.”
——–
Imiut reclined on his couch, watching TV. He was bored.
He had thought, that if he was forced to use some sick days, he could at least spend that time doing some things he enjoyed? But that possum was still fighting, and that made it impossible to do… well, almost everything, it seemed. As he had seen before, playing games that took any kind of concentration was pretty much out of the question. He had thought that maybe he could draw – but that had turned out even worse. And he was carrying way too much extra weight to go hiking. So in the end, all he could do was sit on his couch and watch TV.
There was a vibration on the side table next to the couch as his phone rang. Imiut sat up, paused his show, and picked up his phone. “Hello?”
“Hey, Imiut!” The voice on the other end sounded cheerful.
Imiut perked up immediately. “Tom! Great to hear from you! What’s up?”
“Well, me and a couple of the other guys scored tickets to that concert tonight! We were wondering if you wanted to join us!”
Imiut froze. He knew the concert they were talking about. He had been thinking about going himself. Going with friends would be even more fun. But…
“Sorry, Tom, I’m gonna have to turn you down.”
“Aww, really? What’s up, I thought you’d be excited!”
“I am, really!” Imiut sighed. “But I’m not feeling well. Just not a good idea right now.”
“Man, that’s a bummer. Sorry about that.”
They exchanged a few more pleasantries, then ended the call.
Imiut set the phone down and then let out another sigh. He had really wanted to say yes. But aside from the logistical questions of getting to the concert – what if he got hit with a double fare again, like on the bus? Even one ticket would have been stretching his budget, there was no way he could afford two.
No, it seems like his only option was to veg out at home until his stomach got under control. At least he couldn’t do any damage that way.
He hefted himself to his feet. He needed a beer.
Unfortunately, on his way to the kitchen, he took a corner too close. He felt his belly bump into a wooden table. And that was followed by a loud crash.
Imiut stared at the lamp, now shattered into pieces on the floor.
“DAMN IT!”
——–
There was the sound of a bell as Imiut pushed the door to the diner open, stepping inside. He took a seat at the bar, put in an order with the waitress, and then settled in to wait.
While he waited, he pressed one hand experimentally into his stomach. It was still swollen, giving him the appearance of having a sizeable beer gut. When he pressed against it, he could feel the shifting outlines of smooth, hard objects – what remained of the possum after his stomach had worked on her for the last two weeks. He was going to need to do some extra exercise to work off this weight, but at least he could go out without trouble now.
The waitress returned, setting a platter in front of him.
Imiut closed his eyes, taking in the scent of grilled beef and hot, crispy french fries. He picked up his burger, taking a big bite, savoring the flavor as he rolled the morsel on his tongue.
“How is it?” The waitress asked, a friendly smile on her face.
Imiut swallowed the bite. “Better than people, that’s for sure.”
“Huh?”
Imiut felt his face flush. Had he said that out loud? “Nothing! Just an inside joke. It’s really good. Thank you.”
The waitress raised an eyebrow at him, but moved on. She had other customers to serve.
Imiut took another bite of his burger, thrilled to have his life back to normal.
Post link
Here I am with the final part of September’s themed week in “Lyrical Love”! The subject is a song of the visual kei band Dexcore, precisely Brain Washing, the lead-track of the same name single came out on 14th November 2018. The song summarizes all the band’s key features, going from a technical and aggressive sound to direct words, expressing raging feelings in the best way possible.
THE MUSIC
The song starts with crystalline notes, leading up to an heavy and highly paced metal theme, showing off an incredible technique; Kagami’s vocals are aggressive at maximum, featuring also clear notes in the refrain, a proof of his fascinating versatility; a complex and astonishing track, where the articulated breakdown represents something unusual and hard to forget.
Lyrics (Romaji)
Is that how you really feel?
Do you want to see someone smiling when you are tricking yourself?
You have lots a fucking words that someone used lined up in front of you
And you listen to those words with no doubt
and the venue is filled up with irritated sweat and mother fucking tears
Remove it before I drawn
I got a problem with the fucking world like that
Pushing my self down to get famous
Brain washed by others to get famous
Sing for the fame
You are already done at the time you are saying that you want to be famous
Appropriate words
soko ni wa nani mo umare wa shinai
kibou mo namida mo itami mo
Is that how you really feel?
Do you want to see someone smiling when you are tricking yourself?
You have lots a fucking words that someone used lined up in front of you
And you listen to those words with no doubt
and the venue is filled up with irritated sweat and mother fucking tears
This is not the world I wanted
Appropriate words
soko ni wa nani mo umare wa shinai
kibou mo namida mo itami mo
nagashite hontou no namida o
kikasete hontou no koe o
“koko” de misete
Welcome to my mother fucking heart
Probably you won’t fell anything
Your basically brain washed
Don’t fucking disturb me
Appropriate words
soko ni wa nani mo umare wa shinai
kibou mo namida mo itami mo
This world makes me sad
kowashite
Dope people disappears and shitty people grows
This is not the fucking world I wanted
This is not the music I wanted
Lyrics (Translation)
Is that how you really feel?
Do you want to see someone smiling when you are tricking yourself?
You have lots a fucking words that someone used lined up in front of you
And you listen to those words with no doubt
and the venue is filled up with irritated sweat and mother fucking tears
Remove it before I drawn
I got a problem with the fucking world like that (I)
Pushing my self down to get famous
Brain washed by others to get famous
Sing for the fame
You are already done at the time you are saying that you want to be famous
Appropriate words
Nothing is born there
Either hope, tears or pain (II)
Is that how you really feel?
Do you want to see someone smiling when you are tricking yourself?
You have lots a fucking words that someone used lined up in front of you
And you listen to those words with no doubt
and the venue is filled up with irritated sweat and mother fucking tears
This is not the world I wanted
Appropriate words
Nothing is born there
Either hope, tears or pain (III)
True tears are shed
A true voice is heard
Show me “here”
Welcome to my mother fucking heart
Probably you won’t fell anything
Your basically brain washed
Don’t fucking disturb me
Appropriate words
Nothing is born there
Either hope, tears or pain
This world makes me sad
Breaking
Dope people disappears and shitty people grows
This is not the fucking world I wanted
This is not the music I wanted (IV)
THE WORDS
Written by the singer Kagami, the text is pretty simple to follow, especially thanks to the massive use of English, one of Dexcore’s peculiarites, and to a plain layout. The single where it released deals with the common theme of discomfort for the world where we live in, reflected indeed in the language used for each track. The two b-sides, Hey!! CockroachesandNaked, deal respectively with the rottenness of human soulandthe necessity of expressing ourselves, rendered with the act of screaming, making them strictly linked with the lead-track’s subject. It deals with the mind being the frailest part of a person, which can be easily influenced by words and images, often carrying a mistaken meaning or leading to a wrong purpose or thought. The manipulation of human mind leads unavoidably to the erasure of any authentic feeling and to a constant and meaningless searching for the fame, a vain concept for itself, which is linked to the music world, which sees this dark concept in action. And now… let’s analyze the song!
I) The text starts with the author who is asking to the reader if his feelings are properly real, trying to see someone smiling, while he is deceiving himself; in his mind there are a lot of words, disposed by other people, which he listens to without any doubt, making his world full of fatigue and sadness, so he invites him to leave that world before he is drown into it.
II) The author admits to have gotten too far only for the fame, aware that his brain is actually manipulated by other people for that purpose (there’s a sure reference to Kagami’s personal life); he says that fame brings to the end of life and so he invites the reader to not follow that path, since nothing comes, good or bad, from those aligned words by others ( Appropriate words/soko ni wa nani mo umare wa shinai/kibou mo namida mo itami mo,not by case, this part has two lines written in Japanese).
III) After the repetition of the first sequence, the protagonist says that he doesn’t want a world made of deception and manipulation, and then the sequence ends with the repetition of the second part.
IV)In the final sequence, the author says that tears have started to flow, fulfilled by truth, along with a voice, made in the same manner (nagashite hontou no namida o/kikasete hontou no koe o), so he asks to the reader to show him everything he has in that distorted world (“koko” de misete). The author decides to accept it in his heart, but he is aware that he won’t feel anything, because of the manipulation he’s getting, so he screams to not being disturbed. Following a repetition of the second sequence, the author says that the world where he lives is making him sad, because of its contradictions, such as the bad people living more than the “dream-doped” ones, ending the text with the desire of not hearing the music of this cruel world anymore.
The most important thing for an human being is his/her identity, unique and personal, which is often attacked by manipulation and distorted realities. Dexcore talk directly with each one of us, expressing the cruelty of a rotten and deceiving world, where nothing is as it seems and the individuality is becoming rarer.
That’s all folks! See you with a new review in “Let’s Listen to”!
Thanks for the reading!
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