#sometimes u gotta sacrifice things in return for happiness | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tossertozier · 4 years

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you mentioned possibly doing a ben or mike writing guide.. would you.. be willing to post a mike one. i'm plotting a fic and im struggling to get my mans down?? also i think abt ur fics weekly bare minimum.

hi there!!! i did my best. i tried to not sound preachy or like a know it all bc y’all know i can barely write. i hope this is helpful in some way!! disclaimer of of course this is all just my opinion & there’s no wrong way to write, you’re the only person who can tell your story!!

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i think the first really important decision you have to make as Person Writing Mike is his

family & background

-are both of his parents alive?

-if yes, what’s their relationship like?

-if no, who’s his primary caretaker? what’s their relationship like?

-if no, when did they die? did he cope well with it? what’s his relationship with their memory like?

these are really really where you gotta start to write mike imo. or any character! i think one thing stephen king is to be admired for is he doesn’t neglect the parent-child relationship as so many people who write youth do. your parents are the most important people in your life for a long time. i don’t think there’s a wrong or ooc way to answer the above questions tbh. canon has really left a wide open field for you to run amuck in.

(example: i’ve mentioned in the past that my & tfat mike being a small adult is no mistake and intentional. it’s a bit of a throwaway scene, but i mention in on pointe that mike’s parents are coming. it’s intentionally done there too. mike is goofier, more outgoing, more immature in general in that fic in the small bits he’s in & that’s all a response to his familial life. )

culture + friendships

after you answer those questions, important follow up questions are:

-are the losers his first set of friends?

-how much social exposure has he had?

-has he dated? who is he attracted to?

-who influences him? (celebrities, family, culturally)

-what are his cultural interests? what does he do in his free time? how would that impact how he interacts with the rest of the world?

again, no wrong way to answer these. i’ve seen a super broad spectrum of indirect answers to these questions. even thinking about where he might pick up patterns of speech can make him feel much more like a realized character. i’ve noticed some people dip fully into aave to an extent that doesn’t even seem logical in their character’s current situation & it can really seem like a caricature, but i think to write mike without any sense of aave at all is a little ?? too. just be cognizant of it is my only real advice here. it doesn’t so much matter as long as you don’t forget who mike is which next point

humor & personality

-what do you think he would find (shows, comedians, youtube videos) really funny?

-does he have something he quotes often? something he started saying ironically but never stopped?

man i know i’m all there’s no wrong way to write mike !! in this post but i will say real quick that i think mike is funny and i don’t really respect depictions of him where he’s not. i think this is where the movies really just fucked up. book mike drops some of the funniest lines of the book. and honest to god tip is to write out a scene as you feel the urge too, look away for five minutes, look back and give half of richie’s lines away. (or... dialogue.) this sounds like a joke but it was what i did when i first started writing & tfat

i’d always be like “n the funny part goes... to richie.” and thats a fandom inclination too. nooooo. avoid this trap. it doesn’t even make sense. have u ever been in a friend group where only one person... makes jokes? that’d be genuinely so weird. especially bc if you give the joke away to someone else, you can also build on it. amazing things start happening when u start thinking of the characters in flexible patterns. like for example, i almost always give absurdist humor to stan now. wholesome to ben.

mike’s humor is largely situational to me. solid comedic timing & he’s an observant person. sometimes i read back my own writing & have to change the pov bc richies making jokes about things he would never ever notice to make fun of. mike would. mike genuinely sees all. i think he’s just got one of the most analytical brain of the losers. & i think intelligence is subjective and people are smart in different ways but i think it’s foolish to write him as anything other than incredibly intelligent both academically and emotionally. he’s just a natural observer and pattern notice-er. which brings me to my next mike thing:

love & selflessness

i think the biggest part of mike being harder to flesh into a fully realized person is the fandom tendency to make him kind and nothing else. here’s mike. he’s nice. next. bc the book kind of points out his selflessness in his decisions and it makes itself one of his strongest character traits.

especially bc nice seems to trump him having any other emotions. ...no?

i believe in general, but ESPECIALLY in the case of mike, that kindness is a choice. it’s one i genuinely believe he’d make, over & over again. but a choice he makes. he gets annoyed with his friends being annoying like anyone else would. he gets hurt when he feels left out. he feels tired & anxious & hungry and all those other human things. sometimes he might not let it show outwardly, but there’s a difference between that and not giving him feelings at all.

people are selfish. it’s a defense mechanism. it’s to protect us. it’s not a bad thing. we think of how the world impacts ourselves first. we don’t always act upon those thoughts or voice them, but don’t forget to let mike have them. he doesn’t need to be happy for his friends all the time, or rooting for them or supportive. he should have his own things going on.

also. mike’s not a doormat. yes, he stays in derry. but those were life-death consequences for generations of children. it’s really not comparable to almost any decision mike would make in a pennywise free universe. yes, he made a sacrifice in the book but i don’t think he’d just lay himself down in any given universe to whatever fate wants to hand him. but this is where i end this topic bc i’m actually only barely beginning to get to this topic in my own fic!

it’s hard writing the losers young sometimes bc i do feel relationships are naturally a little unbalanced based on basic maturity levels as young people. sometimes friendships just are unbalanced bc of who people are at that time. everyone involved can still be good people in these relationships. it’s about growing together and learning how to be good friends to each other.

for example, in &tfat: certain losers are always checking in with others. others are really wrapped up in their own shit and don’t really notice what bothers the others. it would probably take a chart the size of a textbook to explain how i think this dynamic wholly pans out in full. and yeah, i think it grates on mike a little bit that he is always the checker and never the checkee.

but even when mike snaps, even when he gets upset, i always write it coming out of him with a lot of love. i genuinely think mike, regardless of experience in that fic, has the deepest understanding of love as its own concept and an understand of how exactly it rules his life and and his relationships. mike knows to feel strongly about something he has to care about it. there are lots of things he just doesn’t care about. in the book it’s stated he’s difficult to connect with as an adult. he’s distant. he’s focused on what he wants to focus on. i think mike is actually the most interesting when he becomes a little bit of a disaster man with very little time for what doesn’t interest him.

which last thing, dislikes & disinterests

-what annoys him?

-what makes him genuinely angry?

-what bores him to tears?

i always make jokes that i bring up the nastier parts of the losers bc i love nasty boys but thinking of things people don’t like is as much a part of them as the things they do.

for example, in &tfat, i write richie as making fun of “nerdy” things like anything you could find at comic con. i write bev as not giving a fuck about sports. bill doesn’t care about richie’s music tastes. eddie hates getting condescended to.

bc of the ... kind thing, mike’s one of the harder losers to do this with. i genuinely think mike would listen to any of his friends tell him about anything. & he knows, in return, they can’t say shit when he wants to ramble about history. but dislikes can also be super situational.

again, for example in & tfat: mike doesn’t like when his friends talk about college right now. no one is really being sensitive to him at all. he hates getting blamed for stuff that isn’t his fault, mostly bc it keeps happening.

anyway. i based a lot of my mike (mostly sense of humor and personality) off of a mix of real life friends of mine. it’s a luxury. i know. i’ve been blessed to have friends from literally all walks of life & for me borrowing little habits & quirks & sayings & jokes to slip into my fics and characters is my way of writing one massive love letter to those ive known. i hope i’ve helped you in some way anon. n if not.... don’t be sad i’m hardly one to take writing advice from anyway jandjxjx

overall, as i used to do often, i’d genuinely stop myself and say: is this a person, or a convenience for the plot? and if it was the latter, sigh, and get my backspace key ready.

#mike hanlon

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darkworkcourier · 5 years

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sometimes u just gotta come to terms with the fact that you want to be in a marston/escuella sandwich (AND THANK YOU AHHHH)

also [bangs pots and pans together] nerds! in! love! i mean it! this is so cheesy in parts that it’s ridiculous!!

and this is p much a threesome at this point, but with everyone going p slow and learning about each other. yaaaay for communication!

- - -

“He’s not gonna show up,” you say, matter-of-fact.

Javier sighs through his nose and glances out through the curtains again, peering through the dark and watching the mud-slick road in front of the hotel. It’s raining hard, drumming a constant drone on the roof. You watch as the gaslight outside is warped in the raindrops running down the windowpanes. “He will,” he insists, and not for the first time.

What you don’t discuss is how nervous both of you suddenly feel. You see it in the tense line of Javier’s shoulders, and in the way he looks out the window, craning his neck. He’s trying not to fidget too much, but you’ve noticed the half dozen ways he’s tried to occupy his hands. Whittling on some wooden object that hasn’t really taken a definite shape yet, cutting up an apple into neat, clean slices, and even trying to harness some kind of focus to read a dime novel you picked up at the general store.

As for you, it’s not much better. You’ve taken to the bed--possibly the largest bed you’ve ever been in--having napped off a long, rainy afternoon. The wallpaper on your side of the bed has been thoroughly studied, and you’ve had your turn with the dime novel as well. For the past few hours, it’s been nap, read, study the walls, and repeat. Honestly, it’s been a waste of a beautiful bedroom and a massive, comfortable bed.

Javier makes a discontented noise before closing the curtains again and striding over to the bed. He’s stripped down to an undershirt and his pants, suspenders hanging down from his hips. At the end of the bed, he shimmies out of his pants and kicks them aside before collapsing onto his side of the bed with a defeated grunt. “Gave him the room number and everything,” he says, more to the mattress than you.

“Well, even he couldn’t count on the rain from goddamn Revelations. Cut him some slack,” you say, reaching over to stroke his back.

He sighs again and turns his head in your direction, body still prone. There’s a pinch in his brow as he stares at the wall. “You don’t think we read this wrong, do you?”

“‘Course not. I mean, unless you needed to be reminded that he got himself off to us fuckin’ in the woods.”

His mouth quirks up on one side.

The two of you lay side by side, and you’re sure that your minds are occupied with the same thing; John Marston, and what he has to be thinking right about now.

Both of you made your offer pretty clear. First, at the cabin, when Javier asked John to join you. And again, later at camp when John wouldn’t keep eye contact with you and kept stammering his way through conversation like a nervous schoolboy. That time, you rested one hand on his shoulder while Javier smiled. Stay with us, you had told him. We want you to. We’re sure.

Granted, he had kept stammering, and turned a new shade of red that was almost impressive to see. He hadn’t said no, but as both you and Javier are well aware of, he hadn’t agreed either. Regardless, before you and Javier left for the hotel, Javier had told him where the pair of you were headed, and heavily insinuated on the room number. Javier had reported that John had, again, blushed a fascinating color and had said the word ‘okay’ about seven different ways, each with a different intonation. Once more, not a yes. And once more, still not a no.

But it’s left that part of your relationship open. You’ve confessed that mutual attraction, and it feels like one of those point-of-no-return situations. Even if John outright rejected you (and he didn’t!), it would never quite be the same.

Javier stretches an arm out so that it’s draped over your waist, and at the same time, lets out a low, frustrated noise from somewhere in the back of his throat.

“We wasted a whole day on this,” he laments.

“And a really nice bed.”

As if now suddenly aware of this fact, Javier tilts his head up to take in the four poster bed, the plush brocade pillows, and the soft sheets, invitingly cream-colored in the lamplight. “Mierda,” he sighs, his head falling back so that his forehead is pressed back into the mattress.

You laugh and scoot over to be closer to him, pressing yourself up against his side and kissing his cheek. “Not too late,” you remind him, stroking one hand up and down the divot of his spine. “We still have another--” Cue serendipitous look up at the mantle clock. “--eight hours until we have to leave.”

He peeks back up at you, one eye bright through his hair. “Eight hours, huh?”

“Ocho, indeed.”

“No idea what we could do for eight hours.”

You let out a thoughtful hum. “I have a few suggestions.”

He smiles. “I’m all ears.”

He doesn’t need those much, considering the fact that the next thing you do is nudge at his shoulder to get him to lay on his side. Then, you kiss him deeply, one hand rising to press against his neck, thumb following the ridge of his jaw. It’s the sweetest kind of kissing there is, deep and loving with absolutely no expectations. You keep it slow and almost rhythmic, punctuated only with soft sounds of your mouths pressing against each other, and the low sighs and hums exchanged between you.

What follows feels as natural as breathing. He gently guides you onto your back, kissing you all the way through the motion. At least you’ve already shucked yourself down to the most basic of underclothes, so he doesn’t have to remove much to get you naked from the waist down. Then, his hand is between your legs, working you up in slow strokes and practiced motions.

You’ve read other sorts of novels--usually the sort you can’t typically buy in a general store--where the characters have some sort of ecstatic expulsion or some other violent expression of their pleasure. The way they’re written typically makes it sound like a painful act. You’d like very much to send a few letters of correction, especially as Javier’s fingers work at you, pressing and rubbing against all the right places, knowing your body the way he knows the strings of an instrument. Play it just so, and it sings.

He’s holding himself up on his right elbow while his left hand plays at you in all sorts of magnificent ways. When he leans back, you open your eyes to see him looking down at you, eyes as warm as candlelight, with a particular kind of happiness that softens any hard line on his face.

Those books only cover the feeling of love so well, and even they don’t accurately capture what you see in Javier at that moment.

Your orgasm comes as a slow, steady roll, like a motion of the tide. Short, shallow waves rise up in you, bright and warm, quickening your pulse and making you moan without a thought as to the sounds you’re making. Javier happily takes them into himself, lowering down to kiss you again, nuzzling his nose against yours, brushing your foreheads. He says something in Spanish, something that you think means, “Let me hear you.”

You’re all too happy to oblige.

When the waves quicken and take on a new depth, you tilt your head back into the pillows, shutting your eyes. The sounds that rise out of you aren’t yours to control. Javier plays them out of you, kissing you through them, down to the vibrations in your throat, down to that divot in your collarbones, until his head is pressed to your chest, listening to you.

Your hips rise off the bed, and you shudder and sigh. Beside you, Javier makes a hum of contentment before leaning up to kiss you again.

Then, from the other side of the room, a soft and gravelly, “Oh.”

It really is a fine indicator of how occupied you and Javier were with each other. If John knocked, neither of you heard it. You certainly didn’t hear the door open. But the two of you look up at the same time, at John Marston standing there, door shut at his back, looking like a lost child who wandered into the wrong place. He’s absolutely drenched, lamplit water still dripping from the brim of his hat. He wrings his gloved hands in front of him, unsure what to do with them otherwise. And, to your delight, he’s flushed clear up to his ears, visible even in the dim slants of light.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt nothin’,” he says, lowering his head.

“You didn’t,” you reply. Honestly, you have no idea what to say to him in the first place. There’s only a handful of ways to address a man walking in on lovemaking that doesn’t involve him, and historically, those reactions haven’t been favorable. But you do grin, looking up at Javier, his own expression a cross between relief, delight, and some pinch of hesitation. “Certainly didn’t stop Javier.”

“No, I... I suppose I didn’t.”

Poor John looks like he’d enjoy nothing better than finding a way through the floorboards, clear out of sight. Clearly, you need to do or say something to change that. “More than welcome to change out of those clothes, Mr. Marston,” you say, leaning back against the pillows. “An’ we got plenty of room on this bed if you’re feeling either enterprising or exhausted.”

John bobs his head like a damn horse, surprise still a bright and open thing on his face. That’s certainly one of the things you’ve learned about him over time; he can’t hide an emotion worth a damn.

“Bit of both, actually,” he says, and you’re pleased with his honesty.

You smile and nudge Javier with your elbow. “I’d be inclined to help him out but, well...” You gesture down to your rather stark half-nakedness, causing Javier to grin. “Mind filling in for me in the interim?”

“Mmm, that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make,” he replies, kissing you on the cheek before he edges his way off the bed. Then, he’s standing there in front of John who looks as awkward as can be, blushing like a new bride, dripping with cold rain water.

But all Javier has to do is pull the hat off his head, setting it on a wicker chair pressed up against the wall. It seems to set off some sort of reaction in John, like he was waiting for a sign that he hadn’t walked into the wrong situation, that the two of you hadn’t set up a grand prank to laugh about later. He’s suddenly surging up to Javier, catching his lips in a kiss that looks painful, his hand on the side of Javier’s face, keeping him still.

“Damn,” you whisper, but you’re certain neither of them hear you.

You know Javier has a bit of a depository inside of him of feelings for John. He’s done a decent job of labeling them, sorting them with you by his side, trying to figure out if what he was feeling couldn’t just be chalked up to some sort of summer-idyllic infatuation. Watching him kiss John, you’re pleased to know that it wasn’t, just as you insisted. Once he’s rearranged the kiss to something more comfortable, he kisses John with a fiery sort of passion, made of something he’s been kindling for a long while.

And John-- Oh, he is a delight to watch. Part of him reminds you of a colt, all loose-limbed and clumsy, trying to figure himself out in regards to the world around him. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, and every motion telegraphs like a mad scramble. He’s impatient, a pot right at the time of boiling over, wanting everything at once but not knowing how to go about getting it. His hands are on Javier’s waist, up on his chest, tracking again to go underneath his shirt.

You have to remind yourself that there was a time that you were like that as well. You and Javier didn’t know each other well enough yet, unlike this practiced symphony with a few variations that you do nowadays. John hasn’t been a part of this, as much as you’ve wished he had been. But you have time. Lord above, you certainly hope he agrees that you do.

Javier reaches up and tugs at John’s belt loops, tugging him backwards in the direction of the bed.

You clear you throat, and both men pause only to look at you in their periphery. “Clothes off, please,” you say, making a quick gesture over John’s entire being. “You’re a little... damp.”

John only pulls away enough from Javier to take quick stock of himself before a sheepish expression comes over him. “Oh, yeah,” he says.

Javier laughs and helps him out of his soaked coat, tossing it over the back of another chair while John yanks his boots off, and then his pants. Your first thought is romantic, watching him pull his clothes off with Javier’s help, allowing himself to become vulnerable and naked in front of you, as much of a show of trust to you as it is a show of trust to him as well.

Your second thought is much more practical. You might need to add another day on the hotel room, if only to send to get John’s laundry done.

Once all his clothes are off, and Javier’s shirt as well, he stands awkwardly beside the bed, once again unsure of how to arrange himself. His hands hover in front of his half-erect cock, like an only slightly ashamed Adam. Javier is behind him, a reassuring hand on his back.

“You sure?” John asks, and you feel that the question is directed at both of you.

“Of course,” you say, at the same time Javier says, “Absolutely.”

Coltish, again, as John slowly places a knee on the bed. He’s a full grown man, but he moves like he’s just grown into his arms and legs. You move aside on the bed to let him take up the middle, and Javier follows suit to bracket John in. He stretches out beside John, one hand splayed out over John’s stomach. “You wanna be on the edge?” Javier asks.

John blinks. “Huh?”

“In case you want to leave or something. Don’t want you to feel like you’re trapped, y’know?”

It’s the kind of consideration that makes your heart feel full and warm, and you smile at Javier over John’s bewilderedness.

“I... I think I’m okay. Pretty sure.” John then swallows hard, glancing between both of you. “I’ve just never--”

“Done this?” you ask.

He nods, and almost looks ashamed, like it’s standard procedure for a couple to offer to share their bed so openly. You turn your smile to him, and lean your head down to rest against his bare shoulder. You can feel his breath stirring at your hair, can hear the slight hitch in it.

“Leave it to us,” Javier tells him. He reaches up to stroke at John’s hair, still wet from the storm. “You tell us if somethin’ bothers you, and we fix it. Easy as that.”

“And if you don’t want to keep going,” you add.

John makes a soft noise through his nose and looks at Javier. “What kinda things, exactly?”

This is Javier’s forte, making an easy segue between talking and doing. You watch the hand on John’s stomach lower to the thatch of dark pubic hair, his fingers brushing over John’s stiffened cock. “How we touch you,” Javier says. He’s being deliberately gentle; too gentle, all teasing. “You tell us how hard we go, or if we need to back off.”

John certainly doesn’t complain when Javier takes him fully in hand, pumping slowly to get him fully erect. If anything, he seems to have been stunned into silence. Happily stunned, you notice.

Not to be outdone, you tilt your head up to kiss John. That’s been something of a fantasy of yours, albeit a tame one. You kiss him rather chastely at first, something like assurance. His lips are softened from the water, and his motions are tentative and testing. Then, once he seems to get a sense of your rhythm, he deepens the kiss.

Javier kisses you in a way that reminds you of fire contained in a jar, like everything he feels for you is concentrated down to this small point, not unlike the light of a lantern. John doesn’t bother to contain how he feels, once he’s sure that he won’t be punished for feeling it. You saw that a bit with how he kissed Javier, passionate and scattered all at once. He kisses you much of the same way, hard as iron one moment, soft as silk the next. You feel his lust at the same time that you feel his quiet fascination with the two of you. He isn’t sure where to place these things, or how to combine them, so he engages in both.

John suddenly lets out a soft gasp against your lips, and you open one eye to see Javier move in your periphery. He’s gone from John’s side to straddling himself over John’s legs, his head dipped low to take John’s cock in his hand, and then as you watch, his mouth.

You know as well as he does that you won’t take things too far tonight. As much as you’re both close to John on a friendship level, you don’t know all of his boundaries yet. You haven’t investigated that whole map of himself the way you’re experts on each other. He wants you, that much you’re sure of. If you were different people, you might try to take all his pleasure at once, in one mind-numbing marathon session that would last the whole night. But both you and Javier want this to last. You want to bait the hook with promises of what you’re capable of together, so that John knows he can trust you, knows you’re open to love him, and knows that there’s more to you than just what you’ve shown. In that time, you can learn about him as well.

Tonight, it’s Javier licking at his cock, mouthing at him, letting his fingers learn those intricate pathways of pleasure that are unique to John.

And tonight, it’s you kissing him, letting your hands roam and allowing him to touch you as well. You feel hard ridges of new scar tissue, and low, thin dents of the old ones. You feel his nervous, excited heart drumming against his ribs as you kiss your way down his body, and then back up to taste the sweat and rainwater on his skin. His hands graze over you as well, calloused fingers making long, unsteady trails on your arms, on your back, over your shoulders, and across your chest. At one point, he twitches and rests his head against your shoulder, shuddering and sighing as Javier takes him deep into his mouth, swallowing him down.

You reach up and stroke John’s hair, smiling at him and at Javier, who looks all too pleased with himself. “You like that?” you ask John. He nods against you and you laugh. “You ever thought about him doing this to you before?”

A boundary check. You and Javier enjoy talking your way through sex. It excites you, it excites him. You tell each other your fantasies, and have made good on plenty of them. It’s something you’ve considered with John, not knowing if he would enjoy it or not.

Evidently, he does. He sighs against your shoulder and nods.

You keep going, enjoying both his sounds and the wet sounds of Javier’s mouth sucking him off. “That night, when you were watching us at the cabin, did you imagine he was fucking you?”

A choked-off noise. You feel his hips buck, and it’s only through intuition that Javier instinctively pins John down.

“Or did you imagine fucking me?”

Choked off again, then a moan. He nods, shakes his head, nods again. You understand, and you smile like a beatific little saint, pretending to be ignorant of how Javier bobs his head, makes the most debaucherous noises that you’ve ever delighted in.

“Both?” you ask.

“Y-e-esss,” John croaks. The word slides through his rough voice beautifully, and you hope you hear plenty more of it.

Self-indulgent as it may be, you press on as you gently tuck some of John’s hair behind his ear. Then, you trail your hand down his face, trying to commit his expression to memory. “How many ways did you imagine this, I wonder,” you continue, admiring the look of hazy wonder on John’s face. “When you grabbed your cock, did you pretend it was one of us?”

He nods, now frantic. It’s amazing how quickly he’s unraveled, and yet not so surprising at all.

“Javier’s mouth, or maybe mine,” you say, and it’s as lighthearted and casual as a conversation after Sunday dinner. “Maybe both of us. Wouldn’t that be nice? Working at you together, sucking you off, licking you, exploring every inch of you.”

“Yes, yes,” John breathes. His hips buck again, and he curls against you, shuddering.

All that’s left to wonder is how long he’s wanted the two of you as badly as you’ve wanted him.

He comes quick, and almost without warning. Almost is the term that’s operative, because he makes a beautiful series of sounds, and you realize that Javier’s quickly learning how to play John as well. John’s gasping and moaning, twisting away from you before turning back towards you like he isn’t sure where to go. Then, he stiffens up and groans low in his throat, a raw scrape of sound that fills the room to each corner.

Javier leans back but keeps pumping John with his hand. John spends over both of them, over his lower torso in long streaks, over Javier’s hand which only helps Javier jerk him off a little quicker. Eventually, it’s too much for John, and he twists towards you again, gasping and moaning like he’s dying. Javier looks beyond pleased, nodding in a way that seems self-satisfactory before he slides off the end of the bed to get a towel.

The cleanup is fairly quick, as Javier’s more eager to get back in bed with the two of you. You help him wipe John off, and you enjoy the dazed, happy look on John’s face now while Javier throws the towel on the pile of clothes that absolutely have to be washed now. At the very least, you get another day at the hotel out of it, presumably with more preoccupation than you’ve had over the last day.

Javier sprawls out beside John, one arm draped over his waist and the lower half of his face pressed against his shoulder, kissing a trail downward.

After a quiet moment, John tiredly looks between the two of you. “That was...” He blinks, and looks up at the darkened ceiling thoughtfully. “I don’t even know what to call it.”

“Nothing yet,” Javier tells him with a grin. “You don’t have anything to compare it to.”

John has just enough energy to look a little indignant. “I’m not a virgin, Javier,” he retorts.

“No, no. I mean, you don’t have anything to compare it to with us,” Javier amends, and presses another kiss to the side of John’s neck.

“Wha--”

You take the reins on this one, which makes Javier’s smile grow where it’s pressed to John’s skin. “What he means, John, is that we want to do more of this with you,” you say. One of your hands lowers down to brush over half the V of his hips, and he gives a minute shudder while looking amazed at his own reaction. “If you’d let us,” you add.

“It only gets better from here,” Javier says.

John almost looks mystified, but the unmistakable look of pleasure crosses his face and he nods slowly. “Sure. I-- I mean, I don’t know how to do all of... this,” he says, loosely gesturing to the three of you. “But, yeah, I could... I could do this again.”

“Una y otra vez,” Javier says, smiling up at you like you’re sharing a secret.

You are, except it doesn’t feel like much of a secret at all.

You tilt your head down again to kiss John, more or less a pleasant brush of your lips over his. Then, you say, “And we’ve got another seven hours to do just that.”

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #prompt fill #javier escuella #john marston #javier/john #javier/john/reader #john/reader #i probably could have made this longer but i'm so tiiiiireeeeddddd #and sex is hard to write without getting super repetitive #WOOOF I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT

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love-killed-the-superstar · 5 years

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femslash february strikes again and i finally updated that one cornirma fic that ive been meaning to get back to for literally an entire year

Title: The Frying Pan Conversation Pairing: Cornelia/Irma Chapter: 2 - funny how we run around Summary: “You're awake...” “Great detective work, Sherlock, want a medal?” “It's too early in the morning for you to be sassing me,” grumbled Cornelia, half-heartedly throwing her phone onto the blankets and scooting closer to Irma. “Good thing you're way too cute for me to be sassing you with intent to kill,” Irma teased, pulling her in closer for a hug. She was overly warm from sleep and Cornelia happily melted into it. Irma's boobs made for an excellent pillow. (Cornelia and Irma spend Christmas with the Hales.)

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13743063/chapters/42144206

Cornelia loved watching Irma sleep. While she usually ran her mouth during the day, when she slept she had some sort of serenity around her, a tranquillity one wouldn't expect from someone who spent half the night tossing and turning, hogging the blankets and drooling all over her pillow. Yet, when morning came and Cornelia returned to wakefulness, Irma was at peace with herself in the land of dreams, hair framing her face like a halo. It took all restraint not to kiss her, but Cornelia had never been a fan of kissing before one had brushed their teeth.

Instead, she continued to watch. It was quiet and dim, the early morning sun casting strange light and shadows throughout the main room where they were set up. Without her family milling around, it felt peaceful. She wondered if this was how it would be all the time, if she and Irma moved in together some day. Sure, it wouldn't be some luxury cabin, but the world would be quiet like this. There would be no eyes on her. The whole room would be theirs to lie in silence and watch each other and feel cosy and secure. While Cornelia did want lavish things for herself someday, when she was older and things like throw pillows and vases mattered greatly in the grand scheme of things, it amazed her how easily she would sacrifice that just to be able to wake up next to Irma each morning and take on the day, regardless of whether they were in a plush king-sized bed or squashed together on a pull-out.

Geez. She really was picturing the rest of her life with Irma, like the hopeless romantic she was.

She rolled over to reach for her phone in the semi-dark. Too early to start messaging the group chat, but she hedged her bets with someone who did have a tendency to be up at this hour.

Will, you awake?

Not three minutes later, she received a reply.

ofc?? no rest for an athlete, corny. how did telling the parents go?

It didn't. Turns out I'm a bit of a coward.

nah it's tough. i only told my mom about being genderfluid a month ago, and i had no idea if she'd even CARE about it

Well, she cares about YOU. And from what you've told me, she's taken it well?

The speech bubble indicating a reply stayed for a while, and Cornelia repositioned herself so that she could watch Irma doze while waiting on Will to get back to her. After a few minutes, her phone finally pinged, and she hastily lowered the volume as Irma stirred slightly.

yeah, turns out dean being our teacher way back in the day finally paid off bc sheffield has diversity training or smth. he sat down w me and my mom and talked over all this stuff she was confused about. and she still doesn't totally get it, but she said she just wants me to be happy. guess that's all i really needed. stuff like if she comes to pride and w/e doesn't matter to me tbh, just knowing she's there for me is enough

Cornelia chewed her lip wistfully. If only it worked out that simply for everybody...

That's great. Really, I'm so happy it all worked out for you. I'm just worried about my parents, I guess. They're not bad people, but sometimes they can be so backwards with things. Really, I just want them to accept that this is a part of me so I can stop lying about a college guy just to keep them from overanalysing the way I am around Irma.

hey i get it! you're both just so darn cute together!

Indeed we are.

They shared some quick, casual conversation (Will, as usual, had some funny story to tell her about life as Taranee's roommate, and Cornelia caught them up on the bullshit that was her and Irma's road trip to the cabin) before Will had to leave to start their morning swim practice.

“Psst. Blondie.”

Cornelia dropped her phone in surprise, catching sight of rich green eyes watching her intently.

“You're awake...”

“Great detective work, Sherlock, want a medal?”

“It's too early in the morning for you to be sassing me,” grumbled Cornelia, half-heartedly throwing her phone onto the blankets and scooting closer to Irma.

“Good thing you're way too cute for me to be sassing you with intent to kill,” Irma teased, pulling her in closer for a hug. She was overly warm from sleep and Cornelia happily melted into it. Irma's boobs made for an excellent pillow.

“You're comfy,” she mumbled.

“Yup, cushy tits run in the family,” Irma remarked, relishing in the way Cornelia shuddered with an implosion of laughter. “You know this is the first time in months we've woken up together?”

“Feels like it too,” Cornelia sighed. “I've missed this. You should really come visit me more often, you know.”

“Oh yeah? I visited you twice last term. It's your turn to visit me just as soon as daddy dearest hands over your fucking prius.”

“Well, no offence, but your college campus is like a 30 minute drive away from Heatherfield,” pointed out Cornelia. “I'd sooner you visit me than risk bumping into Uriah of all people at a house party.”

Irma scoffed. “Thanks a lot! It may not be ivy-league or State U or anything, but there's still a ton of stuff to do! Besides, pretty sure Uriah's at Sheffield Community College, Anna works with his mom.” She paused. “Though, I did run into our dear old chum Nigel at a Halloween party this year.”

“Oh? And how did that go down?”

“How do you think? He followed me around half the night asking about Tara until I finally snapped and was like, 'you missed the boat, honey, our girl is gay as the day is long'. Haven't seen him since. Reckon he dropped out when he heard how swimmingly Taranee's life is going without him.”

“I doubt he flunked out because of a girl he was dumped by five years ago,” Cornelia deadpanned.

“Uh, hello? Our girl is a catch. He's lucky to have even walked the Earth in the same lifetime as her.”

“A bit dramatic, but I get the sentiment.”

Cornelia fell quiet, listening intently to Irma's heartbeat, her breathing.

“D'you think today's gonna be the day?” Irma asked softly.

Cornelia let out a noise, somewhere between laughter and a sigh.

“How do you always know what I'm thinking?”

“Because you have the antithesis of a poker face, darlin'. I've been reading you like a book since I was thirteen.”

She tangled her fingers up in Cornelia's hair, gently combing through, careful to avoid knots.

“I don't know if it'll be today,” sighed Cornelia. “Does it make me a hypocrite? I was so certain I wanted to do it this time.”

“Look. You need to stop putting this pressure on yourself to do everything exactly how you imagined,” Irma said firmly. “You don't have to tell them I'm your girlfriend. You don't even have to tell them you're pan if you aren't ready for it. We can call this off, you can spend the rest of Christmas break not having to worry about their reactions, and we can make out and cuddle and all that good stuff the second we set foot in my house. Would that make you feel better?”

“No?” Cornelia reached up to pull Irma into a proper hug. “I want them to know how happy you make me. I want them to know that I'm happy being myself. But the part where I actually tell them? Opening up like that, it... it's a very emotional process.”

“I know. I know it is. But I promise you, once it's out in the open... never mind their reaction, you will feel worlds better with it off your chest.”

“Ugh, why does my girlfriend have to be so wise?” Cornelia wondered aloud. Irma formed a fist and lightly knocked her on the head.

“If I'm going to be a teacher some day, I gotta be wise. I'm meant to be some sort of inspiring prophet, if your dad's stirring speech at dinner last night was anything to go by.”

“He's a passionate guy,” Cornelia shrugged.

“Sounds like someone else I know.”

A sudden creak from down the hall disrupted them, and they sprung apart, Cornelia sitting upright and reaching for her phone while Irma pretended to go back to sleep. A moment later, Harold's face poked around the door.

“Morning, darling!” he uttered in a stage-whisper, before stepping into the room clad in his robe and slippers. “Does Irma take coffee? I was thinking of brewing a pot to wake your mother up.”

“Only with six million sugars in,” Cornelia said, rolling her eyes fondly. “Don't worry, I'll take over. I know how to make it so she doesn't spit it out.”

Harold laughed, and moved over to start on breakfast as Cornelia set up the coffee maker.

“You two are as thick as thieves.”

Cornelia's hand froze.

“...Well, we're still good friends, but...”

“I drifted apart from my school friends when I went away to college, you know,” Harold mused. “I regret it now. The rift grew so big, and by the time I saw them again they were married, had families... and although we could still talk with ease about these kinds of things, the bond we shared at school – the books we liked to read, the movies we saw together, the pranks we would play on our teachers – all of that was gone. It was something we could look back upon and laugh at, but it's not the same.”

“I didn't know that.”

Harold offered her a kind smile, and reached over to crack some eggs into a bowl, dusting the mixture with pepper.

“Well, I think it's important to keep in touch with those you love. I was actually quite worried when I heard that you were going to your college alone. I know how close you are to the girls you met at Sheffield. I'm... glad that you were able to keep a close bond with them despite the distance.”

Oh, if only he knew how close.

Cornelia set out some cups on the side, hoping her face wasn't burning. If she really was as easy to read as Irma said...

“Well, they're my friends. They're important to me.” She glanced over at him. “Dad, I'm... I'm really happy with my life right now. With the person I am, and the person I'm with.”

Harold stopped whisking, and moved over to pull Cornelia into a tight hug.

“I'm so glad to hear that, darling. I really am.”

They worked in a pleasant silence after that, and when Irma next rolled over, Cornelia was nudging her, cup of overly sweetened coffee in her hand.

“Rise and shine.”

Harold was whistling away as Irma took her first sip, his back to them as he began tossing some bacon and eggs in the pan.

“Mmm. You made it just how I like it.”

“Well, you're picky. If my dad made it you'd choke it down and feel awful the rest of the day,” Cornelia teased. Irma stuck her tongue out.

“Jerk.” After another sip, she added coyly, “I heard the conversation between you two. It was sweet. Are you thinking today might be the day after all?”

“Maybe,” Cornelia said, a flame of confidence ignited in her heart. “He really wants me to be happy, so... maybe when I tell him, he'll understand.”

“Look, Harold Hale might not be leading a revolution, but he's always seemed like a chill guy to me,” Irma said quietly. “If you keep dropping hints, he might figure the rest out on his own.”

“Maybe.”

Cornelia glanced back at her father, still blissfully unaware of their conversation, and she leaned down to press a kiss to Irma's forehead.

“Now, drink up. We have a big day ahead of us.”

…

Breakfast was uneventful, with Lillian dominating the conversation with talk of some dream inspired by a zombie TV show she'd been binge-watching over Christmas break. Irma munched on French toast and bacon and watched in amusement as Harold became disgustingly sweet with Elizabeth, pressing kisses to her head whenever he went to refill drinks, even reaching down to pinch her behind when he was sure his daughters and his oldest's girlfriend weren't looking. Elizabeth swatted his hand away, pretending to be mortified at his brazen display in front of Irma, but the rouge on her cheeks and the affectionate eyeroll told another story. All the while, Cornelia quietly ate and drank, keeping a straight face while prodding Irma's foot playfully with her own under the table.

Oh, Irma could get used to mornings like these.

They took turns showering and dressing, and did the usual routine of wrestling for more mirror space as they brushed their teeth and put on make-up.

“So what's the plan for today?” Irma asked, rubbing some kind of moisturiser into her cheeks. Cornelia leaned in closer and inhaled with a happy sigh. Mango. Irma took the opportunity to turn and press a kiss to the tip of her nose, and Cornelia pulled away with a grin.

“Oh, well now we're all together, today will definitely be a decorating day. I mean, it's Christmas eve tomorrow, so it'd be a little sad if we didn't have the decorations ready by then,” she explained with a shrug, uncapping her mascara beginning to apply it to her upper lashes. “It really shouldn't take too long though. We'll have some time to get away, don't worry. And I think tonight my parents reserved dinner for us at a restaurant in town. I have to warn you, the waiter we had last time was super obnoxious...”

Irma stared at her reflection in the mirror, zoning out of Cornelia's anecdote about the wait staff at said restaurant, before glancing over at her girlfriend. In their teen years, she'd always envied how immaculate Cornelia's appearance was. She'd always seemed flawless somehow, even though Irma knew better and would never ever admit that much. Then, those feelings started to mix with something else, and attraction, jealousy and self-consciousness melted into an ugly soup of insecurity in her psyche. Even now, when she knew better than anyone that Cornelia was smitten with her, doubt crept in, especially in situations like these when they had to stand beside one another and pretend like they belonged in the same league.

“You're beautiful,” she sighed, interrupting Cornelia's spontaneous yelp review. Cornelia's hand jerked at the suddenness of Irma's statement and she hurriedly reached to blot away a clump of mascara stuck to the end of her eyelashes.

“Oh. Well, I do my best, and when it comes to make-up practice always makes perfect, you know.”

“I'm not talking about make-up, though yeah, you should consider dropping out of college and becoming a beauty guru on youtube instead.”

“Well, I think you're gorgeous too,” Cornelia replied with a smile, moving onto her lips. First a layer of balm to soften them, a waiting period of three minutes, and then the application of gloss or lipstick. It was her routine every time, and the waiting drove Irma mad in the mornings they'd spent together over the years. Cornelia's lip balm always smelled so damn good that fighting the temptation to kiss it clean off was a rare torture.

“Have you seen me?” muttered Irma, frowning at her reflection. “Eyebags for days. Messy brows. My lips are chapped to fuck and my skin has been kind of red lately...”

“Every time I see you I want to kiss you all over,” Cornelia said in the kind of factual tone that had Irma raising an eyebrow in disbelief. Still, she didn't protest as Cornelia wound her arms around her, and Irma caught a whiff of coconut lip balm. God damn it, she wanted Corny-kisses so bad. “You still get insecure, huh?”

“Hard not to when my girlfriend could pass for a fucking supermodel.”

“While I'm flattered that you hold me in such high regard, you're a far cry from the disaster you're making yourself out to be,” Cornelia laughed. “Besides, if you're really worrying about stuff, just talk to me, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Irma muttered. Cornelia rifled through her make-up bag for a few moments, before bringing out a small bottle.

“Come here, dope. Let me help you.”

“Why pay big bucks for a beautician when you can get one for free in the form of a generous girlfriend?” Irma deadpanned, but a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Cornelia grinned back and started to apply the liquid to her cheeks and brow with some kind of blender sponge thing shaped like an egg.

“The trick to combating redness and dark circles is to have a good, strong base that neutralises any discolouration in your skin. In your case, green tones kind of cancel out reds, and yellows are good against dark circles, so it just leaves your skin looking healthier, see?”

She switched over quickly to one with a yellower hue, and Irma hummed in agreement, staying put as Cornelia began tending to her eyebags.

“I think I get where you're coming from. Hay Lin calls me up all the time to gush about colour theory, the importance of colour wheels is stuck in my brain for life.”

“Oh, you and Hay Lin call each other all the time? More than me?” Cornelia teased. She put down the sponge and reached back over to her make-up bag, retrieved something that Irma could only describe as the world's tiniest broom, and began to tame Irma's unruly eyebrows. “Don't tell me the two of you are having a sordid affair behind my back.”

“Our torrid love affair is about as real as yours with mystery botanist man,” Irma responded. Without breaking eye contact with Cornelia, she reached over for her own chapstick and began to apply it. Cornelia's tongue poked out slightly in concentration as she smoothed down Irma's brows.

“It's bad enough my parents keep going on about him, don't you start.”

“Well, he is my alter-ego,” Irma pointed out. “Seems a little rude to silence my opinions on him.”

“I hate when you make a good point.”

Cornelia leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Irma's brow, breathing in the smell of her mango moisturiser one more time and sighing deeply. Irma, in a similar moment of pure, unfiltered lesbianism, caught the scent of Cornelia's lip balm and damn went out of her mind. She tilted Cornelia's head down and what transpired for the next few minutes were a combination of kisses, hugs, and several attempts to escape Irma's python-like grip.

“It's lipstick time,” Cornelia complained, a playful glint in her eye as she finally pried Irma's arms off of her waist. “My lips will dry out.”

“Honey, we're both balmed up, if anything, now we have a double coating. You'll be fine.”

“Still, the sooner my make-up is done, the sooner we can get decorating out of the way, and the sooner we can chill out watching crappy holiday movies.”

“The temptation to stay in this bathroom where no one's watching and we can keep kissing forever, though...”

“Aren't we saving 'kissing forever' for the week at your place?” Cornelia asked innocently, perfectly pencilled eyebrows raised.

“No, that's 'sex forever', silly,” Irma said cheerfully, clapping her on the back.

She glanced back at her reflection. While the foundation and tiny grooming hadn't done much besides tidying her reflection up some, her eyes twinkled with something she could only describe as 'the Cornelia effect', and she found her appearance didn't really bug her so much by this point. As they stood side by side, Irma came to the realisation that she and Cornelia really did fit together, but more like a pair of odd socks that compliment each other in all their contrasting glory.

Maybe someone else would call that love.

…

Christmas with the Hales was turning out to be pretty fun.

Irma and Lillian fought bitterly over control of the spotify playlist that morning, while Elizabeth and Cornelia decorated the tree and Harold cheerfully filmed the entire ordeal. Lillian was stubbornly obsessed with the classics, while Irma kept switching them out for lesser appreciated cover versions, partly because rooting for the underdogs was how she rolled, and partly because she got immense glee out of pissing Lillian off (and for that, Cornelia saluted her for her heroism). When Karmilla's edition of 'All I Want For Christmas' came on instead of Mariah Carey, Lillian threatened to throw Irma's phone out of the window, which had Elizabeth swooping in and putting an end to their temporary rivalry.

They called a truce when the parents set out to buy icing and other edible decorations for the Christmas cookies, leaving the girls to prep them for baking. Lillian greased the baking tray while Cornelia mixed eggs and flour and sugar and cinnamon together in a big red bowl. Irma, meanwhile, sat herself on the island and, in compromise with Lillian, put on a playlist of nineties nostalgia, singing along to Re-feel-it and pretending to drum with a pair of wooden spoons against the countertop.

“Funnyyyyy, how we run around,” she belted. “And see what we got, we don't even know what it is we found...”

“And honey, take a look around,” Cornelia chimed in, using the whisk as a microphone. She spun on her heels, her eyes meeting Irma's as she lifted the whisk up to her lips. “By the time we get there we won't even know where it is we're bound!”

The two of them burst out laughing, and Lillian rolled her eyes. “Dorks.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Cornelia sighed dramatically, smirking at Irma before turning back to the mixing bowl and continuing to whisk the mixture. “I forgot we were in your divine presence, Lillian. I hope you can forgive us for entering the realm of uncool nostalgia for two seconds.”

Irma snorted.

“You know, she always gets more sarcastic when you're around, Irma,” Lillian accused.

“Yeah, I rub off on her. I'm a baaaad influence.”

“Is that any way to talk to our renowned guest?” Cornelia chastised. “What would Dad say?”

“He'd probably tell you not to sing into the whisk. You know how many germs you could be putting into the cookies by breathing on the mixture? You've built up an immunity living among students, but have some consideration for those of us who haven't stepped foot in a sweaty student union hall.”

“You're actually mad,” Irma cackled. “What kind of diseases could Cornelia have besides a bad case of the cooties? Unless... Corny, please don't tell me your parents are anti-vaxxers, or I might have to end this friendship for good.”

“Hell no, they're fine. Since when did you become such a germophobe, Lillian?” Cornelia teased.

“I play zombie games,” Lillian responded sagely. “I know how infection spreads.”

“They really don't paint as accurate a picture as you've been led to believe.”

As the mixture began to thicken into a dough, Lillian joined Irma on sitting on the island counter.

“So what's college like?”

“Classes are boring, my roommate sucks, and I'm drowning in student loans. But the parties are fun, and the people are cool when they aren't being pretentious tools.”

Lillian hummed.

“I can't wait until I go to college. Community's one of my favourite shows.”

“Heh, well, Community is an exaggeration for the sake of comedy, but...”

“Cornelia, what's your college like?”

“You saw it when you and Mom and Dad helped me move in,” Cornelia pointed out, distracted as she began to knead the dough.

“Yeah, but it's not the same! Your dorm is nice, sure, but what about the classes? The parties? The boys?”

“Hmm, I don't know about that. Boys aren't my area of expertise.”

“Well that's gay.”

Irma raised her eyebrows.

“Using 'gay' as an insult? Very 2004 of you.”

Lillian rolled her eyes. “Sorry. So you don't have a boyfriend?”

“Nope,” Irma said shortly.

Cornelia began to knead a little harder.

“I bet you know stuff about Cornelia's boyfriend though,” Lillian said to Irma, arms folded. “Why doesn't she talk about him? Is he secretly ugly?”

Irma snorted.

“Ha. I know a thing or two, but he's actually... probably the most handsome person I've ever known. Aside from your sister!” She playfully punched Lillian on the arm, who looked unimpressed by the statement. Cornelia made a strangled sound.

“Lillian, pass me the cookie cutters, please,” she choked.

Lillian raised her eyebrows and hopped off the counter top, retrieving ones shaped like pine trees and angels and bells, handing them to Cornelia.

“Here they are, weirdo. Anyway, you can't blame me for being curious! We had to pry it out of you that you were seeing anyone at all, and you're always so twitchy when we bring him up. Irma, is he a junkie or a biker or something?”

“Nope, just a loser who lies around watching cartoons all day,” Irma responded with a lazy grin.

“So you have a thing in common.”

“Lillian!” Cornelia admonished, slamming a cookie cutter into the dough with enough force to make the other shapes jump. “Also, Irma, I don't appreciate you calling my partner a loser.”

Lillian pulled a face.

“Partner? What are you, old timers?”

“Cowboys,” Irma chimed in.

“Oh, stop teasing me,” Cornelia huffed. “I'm just trying to be more inclusive. The world could do with more of that, you know.”

Lillian shrugged. “Whatever. So you're liberal now?”

“I reckon I've always been, yes.”

“And you, Irma?”

“Socialist, through and through.”

“Of course you are.”

“Just wait until college, Lillian,” Irma chided with a smile, as Cornelia began setting out the Christmas cookies on the tray. “There's a whole wide world out there.”

…

The Italian restaurant Harold took them to that night was fucking fancy, to say the least. The kind of fancy where there were lemon-scented wipes in little packets on every table and complimentary garlic dough balls and everyone was in suits and dresses. The Hales looked like they fit right in, and Irma was some vagrant they'd picked up off of the streets and were treating to dinner in a commendable act of charity.

“I don't even know what half the stuff on this menu is,” Irma hissed to Cornelia as they took their seats.

“It's good food,” Cornelia promised. “They just use posh names to scare people into thinking its worth the money they're paying. Come on, you watch enough Hell's Kitchen to know what filet mignon is.”

Irma ended up ordering something that she was pretty sure was some kind of beef thing, and Cornelia ordered the one pasta dish on the menu that used aubergines instead of pancetta. The wine was decent at least, and Irma found it easier to sneak glances at Cornelia's cleavage in the scoop neck dress she was wearing with the large flower centrepiece obscuring them from her parents. Lillian, while looking the part in a simple white turtle neck dress, was very obviously playing on her phone under the table.

The sweet onion soup starters arrived swiftly, and Irma was dragged back into a light grilling about her teaching degree from Harold, while Elizabeth began to catch Cornelia up with the latest family drama.

“Why, I just think it's so inspiring that you're choosing to act as a beacon for young people, and pave their futures-”

“-And your uncle, of course, is still coming around asking for money, as if your grandparents don't have enough to worry about-”

“-And you know, teaching qualifications open up the whole world to you! You could teach in international schools, or you could teach English in schools where it's a secondary language-”

“-It's not like their health is getting any better, you know! I keep telling him it's time to stand on his own two feet, he's certainly old enough-”

The moment that their waiter came to take the dishes away, Irma hurriedly excused herself.

In the bathroom (one of those spotless white ones with tiny shell-shaped soaps and embossed toilet paper because of course, rich people) Irma took a few moments to collect herself, staring at her reflection in dismay. She'd done her best to look presentable, but she still stuck out like a sore thumb in this kind of environment. Her dress was a little tight since the last time she'd worn it was for graduation, and her choker was crooked. Her bun was already starting to look lopsided, the redness of her cheeks was starting to show through the base Cornelia had applied that morning...

“Why am I not as perfect as the folks out there?” she muttered to herself, eyes narrowing as she glared at her reflection. She reached for one of the shell-shaped hand soaps and began to pick it with the edge of her fingernail. Absently, the faucet turned and water began to gush out, thrumming to the beat of her frustration.

After a few minutes of self-loathing and contemplation, she heard the sound of the door open behind her, and saw a flash of Irish green fabric, before Cornelia came up behind her, a vision of concern. She startled as the small army of water gushing from the faucet turned on her, almost letting out a hiss of steam, before Irma quickly called it off, allowing it to taper down the drain and out of sight.

“Irma, are you okay? My parents thought I should check on you in case the wine didn't agree with you, but...”

“Yeah, it isn't the wine,” Irma sighed. “It's this whole place. I can't fucking believe your dad called this place rustic on the way here.”

“He doesn't know the meaning of the word,” Cornelia agreed with a giggle. She wrapped her arms around Irma, leaning down to rest her chin on her shoulder. “You look amazing tonight.”

“Really?” Irma sighed. “I don't feel it. Or is this a classic 'lying to your girlfriend's face so she doesn't start crying in a stupidly fancy bathroom' tactic?”

“Well, it wouldn't be a great start to the meal.” Cornelia pressed a kiss to her jaw. “But I'm serious. You look great.”

“I'm practically bursting out of this dress. My tits are fighting for freedom. And my hair is coming undone and my stupid face is getting stupid red!”

“Of course it is, you've been drinking,” Cornelia said, rolling her eyes fondly. “And your face is the furthest thing from stupid, so don't even start.”

“I'm past the point of starting, Corny, I'm waist-fucking-deep in it. Look at this damn soap.” She gestured aggressively towards a shrivelled pebble in the basin. “That was shaped like a fucking seashell when I came in here and I picked and picked at it and now it looks like, I don't know, a really tiny golf ball?”

“Wow. Okay, let's take a step back from the soap.” Cornelia spun her around and rested her hands on her shoulders. “Irma, you look wonderful tonight. Seriously, you do, and I hate that going to this stupid dinner has made you so worked up.”

“It's not just the dinner.” Irma frowned up at her so-tall-it-was-unfair girlfriend. “Look at us. I mean, really look. We're like chalk and cheese, except, you're too pretty to be chalk. We're like – I don't know! An oil painting and cheese! I don't belong here eating food so fancy I can't pronounce it with wine I'm too weak to drink and in a dress that's too tiny for my damn good. You might fit into this magazine-spread life where everything is minimalist and perfect and velvet but I just don't. I saw it in the mirror this morning and I saw it in the mirror again just now. Are you honestly okay with that?”

“Why are you asking me this?” Cornelia asked, the smile gone from her face. “I love you. I love having you in my life. Sure, I like the nice material stuff sometimes, but if you think for one second that I'd put that stuff before you – before us – then the wine has definitely gone to your head.”

Irma huffed. After a beat, she muttered, “Rich people wine is ridiculous.”

“Agreed. Now, listen to me. We're too deep into this relationship to be hitting insecurities over stuff like this, got it? You know I come from money. You wanted to come on this trip with me. Unfortunately, that means seeing the way my family lives up close and personal. I just want you to remember that doesn't define me, or how I feel about you. I want you here. Okay?”

“I hate when you're being reasonable,” Irma groaned. She hugged Cornelia tight.

“Oof. Heh, don't tell me you're drunk already, we have the rest of a dinner to get through.”

“Are you gonna tell your parents tonight?” Irma mumbled into Cornelia's waist.

Cornelia hummed uncertainly. “Maybe. I don't know.”

“Well, remember I still love you. If you don't wanna come out here in this stupid fancy restaurant, no pressure. We'll make it happen some other time.”

“Hey, no need to comfort me, you're the one feeling insecure,” Cornelia teased. Irma lifted her head up to protest, and was met with Cornelia's lips pressing against her forehead.

“Ugh, you're too cute,” whined Irma. “If I weren't wearing heels I would go on my tiptoes and kiss you. And if you weren't wearing heels, we might actually be fucking level for once.”

“Thanks for clarifying that,” Cornelia quipped. “Not to worry, I can accommodate you.”

She leaned down and cupped Irma's cheeks, pulling her into a kiss.

The sound of the bathroom door abruptly shutting ended the sickeningly sweet moment, and they jolted apart. Lillian stood there, wide-eyed.

“Uhhh. Mom told me to come get you two, the main courses are out...” She blinked a few times. “Are you guys... lesbians?”

“Lillian,” Cornelia started, voice strained.

“I'm a lesbian,” Irma said with a shrug and an awkward chuckle.

“So you called me ignorant earlier even though you really are gay?”

“Ignorance is ignorance, sis.”

“Lillian, please don't tell Mom and Dad about this,” Cornelia pleaded. “I'm going to tell them myself, I just haven't had time to yet.”

Lillian folded her arms and huffed.

“I can't believe your mystery guy is just Irma.”

“Oh, ouch?”

Cornelia let go of Irma and approached Lillian.

“I'm serious. Can you please promise me you won't say anything?”

Lillian shrugged.

“I guess. I mean, I don't care about it. Not like they'd believe me anyway.” Seeing Cornelia's pinched expression, she sighed loudly. “All right, no. No, I won't say anything. So you can stop looking at me like that! Now come on, or Mom will be next to find us in here.”

As she pushed open the door to leave, she turned back.

“Also, Irma, you've got lipstick on your face. Hard to play dumb when the evidence is right there on your forehead.”

“When did she become such a smartass?” Irma muttered as Cornelia fished around in her clutch, bringing out a make-up wipe. “Look, don't panic. Lillian might be a pain, but she respects your business. Probably. I mean, I don't know her that well, but it's none of her business right? She knows that.”

“How did she seem to you?” Cornelia asked, chewing her lip. “Uncomfortable? Freaked out? D-Disgusted?”

“None. It was the same kind of grossed out she got when she caught you making out with Peter for the first time, I reckon. It was sibling disgust, not, y'know, her being a phobe.”

“Are you sure?” Cornelia fretted.

“Super sure. Now come on, you heard what she said. Lets go back before your mom drags us back by the ears.”

Irma reached over to squeeze her hand and didn't let go until they were out of the bathroom and in sight of the Hales. Elizabeth turned and shot them a disapproving look, motioning them back over, and Harold's face lit up with a delighted smile.

“I was starting to think the two of you had fallen in!” he joked, as they took their seats. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh, everything's fine,” Cornelia promised, a lie rolling effortlessly from her tongue as Irma stared down at the steak au poivre in front of her. “Irma just smudged her mascara and needed me to come to her rescue.”

“Ah, I see. Surely it shouldn't take that long though?” Elizabeth turned to Lillian. “Were they taking selfies?”

“Oh, they were having a gay old time in there,” Lillian deadpanned.

Cornelia froze. Irma dared to look up from her food to stare daggers at Lillan.

A moment passed, and Harold shrugged.

“Well, I'll never understand it, myself. But the youth of today are always finding beauty in everything! They can make moments last a lifetime! And I'm envious that an entire generation has learned to take pictures from an angle that certainly appear more flattering in post-production...”

As his speech continued, the tension melted away. Elizabeth raised her eyebrows at the two of them, as if to silently chastise them for sending Harold on a spiel about technological advancements, before tucking into her food.

Cornelia swiftly kicked Lillian under the table, but all she got back in response was an impish grin.

…

“Urgh, I'm full to burst.”

A now pyjama-clad Irma flopped face down on the pull-out bed, before rolling onto her side and burping softly into the back of her hand.

“I told warned you against dessert, if you recall,” Cornelia said with a grin, pulling her nightgown over her head.

“Yeah, but they had cheesecake. You know I'm weak for cheesecake, Corny.”

“That I do.” Cornelia lay down beside her. “I was a bundle of nerves the whole night.”

“Aw, come here.” Irma pulled Cornelia close, combing her fingers through her hair. “Lillian was just being a brat, that's all. She's got dirt on you, of course she's gonna poke a little fun. But she wasn't about to out you or anything.”

“I know,” Cornelia groaned. “I know. But she's on thin ice, I'm telling you now!”

“Well, the sooner you get it off your chest, the sooner she'll lose that power over you,” Irma pointed out. She yawned. “I'm pooped. Can you turn the light off? And then come spoon me?”

“Sure, your highness,” teased Cornelia, prying Irma's hands off her waist. As she wandered over to the light switch near the hallway, she caught sight of Lillian leaving the bathroom. The two stood there in silence for a few moments, before Cornelia uttered, “Hi.”

“Hi.” Lillian shifted from one foot to the other awkwardly. “Hey, Cornelia?”

“Yeah?”

“Um. I know I didn't say it at the restaurant, but... I don't like, mind or anything. About you and Irma.”

Relief washed over her.

“You don't?”

“No! And you should stop caring that somebody does, you know? Mom and Dad are whatever. I don't know if they'd care about it. But, it shouldn't matter if we mind or not, that's my point. It's about you and Irma, not about the rest of us. Although, since you're a lesbian now, I wish you had better taste in girls. I've seen her eat peanut butter out of the jar with her fingers,” Lillian pointed out, pulling a face.

Cornelia, stunned by the overload of information, leaned back against the wall.

“With her fingers?”

“Yup. It was our house peanut butter, too!”

Cornelia buried her head in her hands. “Oh my god. If I didn't love her so damn much that would for sure be a deal breaker. Also, I'm not a lesbian.”

“You're not?”

“No. I loved Peter, remember?”

Lillian pouted. “Yeah. I miss him.”

“I know you do, you remind me all the time.” Cornelia squared her shoulders. “Lillian, I'm pansexual.”

Lillian raised an eyebrow. “Pansexual?”

“Yes. Pansexual. I... fancy people regardless of whether they're a guy, a girl, or nonbinary.”

“Nonbinary?”

“The internet is a great place to learn about this stuff, since you're on the track to being an ally now.”

Lillian giggled.

“Yeah, I guess. Well, okay. So you're not gay, you're... what's the short of it? Pan?”

Cornelia nodded wordlessly.

“Okay. Cool. You're pan. And Irma's your girlfriend. And she's a lesbian?”

“Yes. You caught on fast.”

With a shrug, Lillian said simply, “It wasn't that hard to grasp. You're pan, Irma's gay, you're dating. That's that.”

Cornelia's mouth opened and closed a few times. At last, she uttered, “You made that seem really easy.”

“I'm a smart and socially aware kid,” Lillian said proudly, hands on her hips. Her smug expression softened. “And I'm happy you're happy. I was kinda thinking, cause you never mentioned your 'mystery uni boyfriend', that maybe you didn't really like him. I'm glad it's just a mix up.”

Cornelia's heart swelled, and she stepped towards Lillian, hugging her tight.

“You're a good sister.”

“And you're a clingy sister, god!”

They bid goodnight and Cornelia climbed into bed beside Irma, who had her back to her and was softly groaning. She yelped as Cornelia wriggled under the covers.

“Holy crap, Corny, your feet are colder than Mount fucking Thanos!”

“So warm me up.”

“Sorry, you got the wrong guardian for that party trick.”

Cornelia rolled her eyes fondly and reached around to spoon her.

“Geez, you ate too much. Your stomach feels like a rock.”

“Don't bully me, that was rich people food! How many times am I gonna get to eat like that again, huh?”

“If you'd just let me take you fancy places-” Cornelia pointed out.

“You know I hate fancy places!” whined Irma, punctuated by another burp. “Ugh. Just cuddle me to sleep, jerk.”

“Who are you calling a jerk, jerk?”

Cornelia obliged nonetheless, letting her body wrap around Irma's with a familiarity that had adapted over the years; from guardian sleepovers to family vacations to just the two of them drunkenly sprawled out in Cornelia's dorm. And now here they were, fitting together like jigsaw pieces, water and earth.

“Sweet dreams,” Cornelia whispered, pressing a kiss to the back of Irma's neck.

“Keep your lips to yourself, Corny,” mumbled Irma sleepily, snuggling closer all the same.

#w.i.t.c.h.#w.i.t.c.h #cornirma #irmelia #femslash february #cornelia x irma #irma x cornelia #cornelia hale #irma lair #irma/cornelia #cornelia/irma #writing

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bluebellowl · 6 years

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i looove your drawings! they are great!! the principal is handsome! :D Sometimes (almost all the time) im scared to ask people things, commission (?) ect... i don't want to be annoying or rude...or asking to many things to people :(...

I’m so happy you enjoy my stuff, I know that my drawing skills suffer from no-time-syndrome but you gotta make sacrifices when u wanna answer so many questions. You don’t need to be scared to ask for anything. Questions are a voluntary thing and often make my day. For my standards I get a lot of them rn so I have to choose, with which I can do something or I’m able to answer but yours never failed to be interesting soo..

Also commissions are always welcome! I don’t do any rn but I will next month. Artists are usually grateful for them. They might get upset, tho, when you asked them for free commissions/ requests cuz that would mean a ton of work, that they probably don’t even wanna do, for basicly nothing in return.

but again: Questions are really cool, especially when they have nice content and you really don’t need to be concerned about that, the way I see it ;)

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pigeonespionage-blog · 7 years

Text

Pristin’s Wee Woo: Analyzing Song Structure by the Seventeen Standard

I was sent this link of a post by @basedtzuyu on Twitter: https://twitter.com/basedtzuyu/status/844365400016142336

And the below stuff is me analyzing Wee Woo using Seventeen’s songs as a point of comparison and let’s have such A FUN TIME APPRECIATING MUSIC CHOICES!! WOO!!! Note: I will sometimes say things that sound very critical of Wee Woo. But I think Pristin is full of cool dudes and this is just an analysis I made for fun times. I’m not lookin’ for fan wars!! Definitely not!

CARATS AND PRISTIN FANS GATHER ROUND, this is super interesting actually!! This person (@basedtzuyu) has some pretty interesting stuff to say and I think that they did a good job in starting a conversation we can branch from (even when we don’t agree with her points). IT'S TIME WE TALK ABOUT SONG STRUCTURE, in a very analytical way we haven't talked about it before. Let's try to figure out why some people are so critical of Wee Woo, where Wee Woo pulls from Seventeen, and how Woozi has established a Seventeen style through song structure.

Let's start off by talking about Mansae. The most typical pop song structure follows a verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus format. Mansae starts off with an intro-- normal for kpop-- but then it goes into a pre-verse, and that's more interesting.

The intro is a proper introduction, and it's centered around one particular rapper. Its arrangement is pretty bare and the rap follows an adlib-like format. Then the pre-verse (with HVC aka Vernon) resembles the verse in some ways and serves to actually lead in to the verse.

Then it’s the verse, and this verse is strange because it's 15 bars. Most music follows multiples of 4, so verses are almost always 8 bars or 16-- why is this verse 15 bars? The first half of the verse is based on singing, melody, and when Woozi is just about to resolve the melody... he's interrupted. The melody would have felt very complete on the 8th bar, but it was interrupted by something else: the second half of the verse, which is rap-based. So there are 7 bars of singing, and the melody is cut off, unresolved and replaced by 8 bars of rap.

Then, there's a 4-bar pre-chorus. In this pre-chorus, there are three bars of singing and then the arrangement clears out into near silence for 1 bar of rap-- this is THREE BARS OF BUILD-UP and then on the fourth bar, when the melody could either resolve or go over the edge, it does neither. The little pause for a bar of rap allows for A STAGNANT MOMENT, a moment where the tension just hangs there briefly, until the chorus bursts in.

And it does, holy hell, it does. We're treated to an 8-bar chorus, sung by Seungkwan and DK, which is the first resolved melody we've even heard so far. We’ve been building and building all this time; when it ends on that eighth bar, there's a certain satisfaction to hearing that resolution.

And what do you do when a melody resolves?

You usually don't hype it up even more but they do because hOLY FUCK MANSAE HAS TWO CHORUSES. YES, THIS IS A POST-CHORUS, THE "MANSAE-RU-MANSAE-RU-MANSAE-RU-MANSAE-YEAH" IS ANOTHER FUCKING CHORUS. NO RESOLUTION GOES TO DOUBLE RESOLUTION. Post-choruses are NOT a common song structure and Mansae is daring and very of its own for building up to TWO different choruses, and such excellent choruses as well. When you think you're done with Your Ears Succeeding, the happiness JUST DOESN'T END. There's a lot more I can say about Mansae's song structure, but let's cut it short there and talk about what this means for Seventeen and what it means for Pristin.

Seventeen has actually uses elements of Mansae’s structure not only on title tracks, but a lot of non-title tracks as well. (All rules vary; Pretty U and Aju Nice don’t have post-choruses, while No FUN and Beautiful do.) Seventeen-ish song structure suggests:

Raps can be used as a way to keep energy STAGNANT. Resolving a melody causes a decrease in energy, and carrying it upwards, unresolved, can cause overblown build-up which is ultimately unsatisfying. Instead, adding brief rap lines holds the current energy of the song where it is, all the way up until that satisfying burst of energy in a hook or a chorus. (This rule is very often broken for the bridges, where SVT likes to throw a shit ton of whatever they feel like throwing at you for the best possible sensory overload.)

There’s a particular SVT strategy for chorus, post-chorus song structure. The first chorus seems like the main hype train, initially. The post-chorus, though, is what actually contains the primary hook, and often, the title. Contrary to the first chorus, the post-chorus is catchier, often following simpler melodies that resolve quickly. They’re also more percussive, including plays with silence, and may be as short as 4 bars (as in Adore U). I feel like I don’t usually hear pre-choruses AND post-choruses integrated smoothly in the same song, but SVT does that as well; often songs with post-choruses sacrifice their pre-choruses.

The second verse typically has an alternate melody. This is pretty normal for kpop but it’s a choice that Seventeen makes consistently. Typically this requires two alternate melodies, and as for the backtrack, the second verse will start out with a broken down or rhythm-based version of the first verse. Then, on the 9th bar, the backtrack will essentially return to that of the first verse.

As in the post-chorus of Mansae, rap can also be manipulated to RESOLVE. Typically not melodically, but rhythmically. If your melody is complete and you have space to fill, rather than adding an unnecessary flourish, the rap gives you time to resolve the rhythm without untying an already-complete melody.

There is an intro filled with rap adlibs that introduce the song, and possibly a pre-verse to bridge the intro to the verse.

There’re many hook-like vocal fills and adlibs.

The chorus’s melody (esp. the 1st chorus) tends to take an unexpected turn on the 3rd bar and DOES repeat on the 5th, but switches things up again on the 7th. The chorus is willing to repeat in the name of resolution; typically resolves twice.

The verse’s melody tends to take unexpected turns at specific points in time. Usually the melody will take a twist every 2 or 4 bars. The melody will only repeat for the sake of resolution.

So let’s see how Wee Woo compares!!

Wee Woo’s intro is really fuckin’ solid and, broadly speaking, it’s the most popular section of the song. It’s mostly instrumentation with the hook SLIPPED IN there— only for the hook to later return as the basis for the entire post-chorus, becoming, therefore, a refrain that adapts to more than one section. When a song has a post-chorus, it’s common to use the post-chorus as an intro as well because of how the post-chorus connects to the verse. But Wee Woo’s intro is not DIRECTLY the post-chorus, it’s an entire section based on a refrain from the post-chorus with interest added to the spaces in between— much like how the post-chorus of Adore U is made. This is a really unique structure that I’m certain draws from Adore U.

In Adore U, this is actually an amazingly thoughtful strategy because a quick refrain from the intro becomes intertwined with the main hook of the entire song so that they’re dependent on each other, going so far as completing a sentence which was originally unfinished in the intro. How Wee Woo’s approach differs, we’ll get to that in a sec.

First, the verse. We have a lot of differently melodies that’re jammed in here and that hasn’t been so well-received. But Mansae’s verse changes melodies, right? Let’s break that down.

Mansae’s first verse goes…

-2 bars of a consistent melody

-Same 2 bars repeated

-2 bars of a twist on the melody which does not seem predictable

-1 bar that leads from that twist of melody into a resolution of the melody that’ll bring the melody together

-Last bar is cut off by the second half of the verse before it can resolve

Wee Woo’s first verse, by contrast, is…

-1st bar: A melody

-2nd bar: A totally different melody (“ayayaya”)

-3rd bar: A different different melody

-4th bar: 2nd bar repeated

-5th bar: Another totally different melody, and this one is amelodic as well

-6th bar: Back to “ayayaya” (2nd/4th bar) but it still doesn’t tie to the 5th bar

-7th/8th bars: Another totally different melody, this one taking up two bars rather than relying upon the “ayayaya” refrain

You can see this is more of a mess, but it’s not just complexity that caused the downfall; the first half of every line, the odd bars (not even), are all totally different melodies that they try to justify by repeating the same “ayayaya” melody at the end. It sounds like there are two parts of the song; the part which is consistent, and the part which is just about randomized. There’s a repeated line tagged onto what sounds like chaos. Rather than creating an “I didn’t expect the melody to go there,” moment, the listener says, “Wait, what’s the melody?” Furthermore, the refrain is only one note, so even though it’s the part that makes melodic sense, it’s like the organized part is bringing attention away from itself. Mansae throws wrenches into its melodies and then spends time trying to justify them; Wee Woo’s melody here is pretty much all wrenches.

The second half of the verse has a totally different issue. Melodically it sounds like a continuation of the verse… but THE ARRANGER SPLIT PART OF THE VERSE INTO THE PRE-CHORUS. This is definitely an issue of miscommunication. Hold on, I gotta explain, haha.

It’s trendy to spend the second half of a verse building into a pre-chorus… but here we have what sounds like 4 bars of a verse and then an 8 bar pre-chorus? What? What is happening? Fuckery. Fuckery is happening. The first half of the verse is 8 bars. The second half, which builds more, should be 8 bars. And yet instead of that, we have an unusually long pre-chorus… THE RAP WAS WRITTEN TO BE A PART OF THE VERSE, AT LEAST THAT’S WHAT IT SOUNDS LIKE. The you’re-my-super-he-ro shit? When we have an actually really lovely build-up from two sung lines and then two rapped lines, those should be part of the same section. The rap slipped in there, ignoring the arrangement, sounds much like Seventeen’s use of rap lines to stall build-up and keep your attention. But the arranger, for some reason, changed the instrumentation from that of the verse (all that cool stuff that @basedtzuyu said about changing the instrumentation from that of the foundation), ultimately shoving them in with the pre-chorus. So the composer wrote part of a verse… and the arranger turned that into part of the pre-chorus. Yeah, someone was playing a really extensive game of telephone, that’s for sure. This isn’t the only time an arranger has misunderstood the Seventeen system (something similar, although less noticeable, happened with Boom Boom) and it won’t be the last, but it’s good to know what we’re hearing here! Rather than totally switching up the instrumentation to match the change from vocals to rap, the instrumentation should have been based on the rest of the verse’s instrumentation; it was originally written as an extension on the verse. And this is especially a clusterfuck because Pristin already wrote two different musical motifs into the pre-chorus—that sing-rapped line and Kyla’s line—so adding 4 totally irrelevant bars to a PRE-CHORUS (which is supposed to be a really brief way of transitioning things) can be confusing.

I also personally think Kyla’s line there was a bit too amelodic, but if they were experimenting with a way to SING (rather than rap) their way into stagnancy, another way to deal with a melody you don’t want to resolve or leave unresolved, then I respect that, I’ll give that a lil’ head pat and let it be.

Now, let’s skip to the post-chorus, by which I mean that famous WEE WOO WEE WOO WEE!! The last line of the chorus, the line that resolves the melody, becomes a hook of the post-chorus, just like Adore U. There’re a lot of things good about this post-chorus; the instrumentation is such a fucking strong-point, and the quirks of this chorus are memorable— a sung hook made out of a rhythmically manipulated siren sound? And there’re real siren sounds incorporated into the song, and most importantly, it’s dynamic; the relationship between hard guitar/rhythm and the declining, quiet, subtle nature of this post-chorus is done very well. On its own, it’s lovable— so why might it not work? @basedtzuyu’s version where she cuts out the post-chorus actually sounds significantly more natural.

Well, this post-chorus doesn’t quite do what a post-chorus is supposed to do. A post-chorus, aside from being another chorus, is made to CONNECT INTO THE VERSE. In the same way a pre-verse connects to the chorus, the post-chorus must connect directly into the verse. Despite the fact that it’s built surprisingly similarly to the Adore U post-chorus, the Wee Woo post-chorus does not correctly make way for the verse. A post-chorus should not BUILD excitement, it simply doesn’t make sense. It stays where it is or gradually decreases excitement. It should be a double reward of melody resolution; one chorus finishes up and we go on to the next satisfying moment immediately because we’re hit with a double reward. We shouldn’t build all the way to the chorus’s resolution only for the post-chorus to drop down and build up again. And more importantly, building up the post-chorus WORSENS the transition into the verse instead of making it better. The post-chorus should be a satisfying descent into the verse. But on the 5th bar of the post-chorus, the drum kicks in and there’s an exciting synth, the addition of those siren sounds… It’s natural for some part of the brain to very quietly say, “Didn’t we already go through this?” We shouldn’t be building up right now. It makes the chorus and the verse additionally appear unsatisfying and leaves a more sour impression of the song, even though the chorus, post-chorus, and second verse actually have some interesting things about them!! Little mistakes like this can be a big deal! Mansae is VERY careful about build-up, and Wee Woo has no pacing.

Also notice that Mansae and Adore U descend excitement in post-choruses in a certain way. They start with an EXCITING HOOK!!! Then things descend and descend in energy… EXCITING HOOK!!! Descend, descending, verse. Just like that!!! Verse, right then, right there, a seamless transition!! Wee Woo doesn’t descend very well, however. Melodically, the same two bars are repeated without any descent, and if they absolutely insist on repeating that melody over and over, a descend can be hard… and what’s more, since the hook comes AFTER the instrumentation, it’s less clear that the melody should be getting less exciting even over the course of those two bars. Plus, the hook goes UP rather than going down, the instrumental bit before the hook is lower and therefore less exciting… Yeah. They made their jobs a lot harder.

Once they had this post-chorus that gets more exciting instead of resolving into the verse, they tried to patch-up the problem by making the last bar very bare and quiet compared to the others so the verse wouldn’t sound too boring, but it doesn’t fix the smell, it just adds a Febreeze on TOP of the smell.

That being said, I do think the 2nd verse does its job!! I think the rap should’ve been had an extra 4 bars at the beginning, but that’s okay! Moving on!

There’s only one section left to talk about and I’m not sure what to say because there ARE things here that’re kind of… out of my league to tackle, haha. The bridge, to my ears, doesn’t work but I can’t really tell you why. What I will say though, is that I don’t agree with @basedtzuyu that a bridge must be exciting. (Note: I’m assuming that by breakdown she meant bridge, since those things’re different.) Adore U’s bridge starts out chill and then picks up, adding excitement that pays off in the final chorus. But Wee Woo’s bridge, while attempting to do the same thing, doesn’t… sound consistent with the rest of the song, and I feel confused,,, about this,,, All that I can say is that they probably should’ve left emphasis on the off-beat during the bridge but that feels like it’s not a significant explanation enough AHAHAHA I TRIED

But hey!! I think I did alright on the rest!! Hope this satisfies HAVE A NICE DAY EVERYBODY *BLASTS ROLLER COASTER SO LOUD THAT YOU’LL HAVE TO GET OUT OF MY HOUSE* no but really ty for reading my super long post hehehheu youre appreciated officially now yes

#pristin #seventeen #kpop #review #music #wee woo #adore u #mansae

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