#Aid To the Soulless Music

[10bendog]

From disrespecting creators, to tax write-offs, to the Max purge, many Cartoon Network shows have suffered at the hands of greedy execs, who don't care for animation.

And the problems don't just stop at CN;

The entire animation industry is currently in a horrible place right now, where the artists responsible for the media we enjoy get worked to the bone by studios, and yet don't get paid enough money to survive comfortably.

And arguably worst of all, corporations have also started to use АI to replace those same artists with soulless machines. Artists' creativity, talent and skill is the foundation of ALL media (animation, video games, film, music, etc.) and robots can never replace what they provide to the world, but corporations don't care and WILL do it to save more money if they're allowed. Recently the Animation Guild was to negotiate with studios for a new contract that will benefit animation workers, but no agreement was reached and they're expected to try again in September. It's important now that we support the Animation Guild and animation workers in any way we can.

Spread the word online and, if you can, donate to 839 workers from the Animation Guild through Aid IA. link here

[robthegoodfellow]

Step 9

pre-Harringrove, references to addiction/recovery, references to AIDS epidemic, 90s earworms

originally published in @strangerthingscharityzine | read on ao3

.

Steve didn’t know what he’d been expecting until the bells above the diner door let out a merry jingle—and there he was.

Apparently his subconscious had imagined someone gaunt, haggard. A shaky mess. Not that he’d sounded like that on the phone, despite the obvious nerves.

I’m looking for Steve Harrington? Dunno if he lives here anymore. The voice was gruff in a way that enticed, so he’d said this is Steve, and the ensuing silence was broken by a cough. Oh—uh, hi. This is… Billy Hargrove. From high school?

Sense memory knocked him flat—Hargrove taunting him at practice, pressed against him, tongue wagging; crouched above, pummeling; on his knees, clinging to consciousness, the Mind Flayer melted mush. 

Hargrove stumbled through a semi-rehearsed spiel. How he was in recovery, had reached the step of compiling the people he’d done wrong. How he wanted to make amends—could do it over the phone or in person or not at all, which he’d understand.

I’m back in Hawkins, but I can drive—and Steve had interrupted that he was in Hawkins, too. Did not say he’d been back a couple months, ever since Nance said they needed to talk.

It was a little pathetic, how eager Steve had been to meet up with a guy he hadn’t thought of in over a decade, because the only friends nearby were his and Nancy’s friends in Indianapolis.

So they’d made plans, and here they were: Steve, a soon-to-be divorcé working a soulless job at the family business, who at least had his hair, health, a measure of wealth; and Billy, not even slightly a woebegone waste case—scanning the booths with piercing baby blues, hair shorn on the sides, tawny curls piled on top. His ears glittered with metal hoops and studs, and that skin was bronze as Steve remembered. New tattoos twined his arms, disappeared under the white tank hanging loose from his shoulders, tucked into tight jeans.

He’d gained some weight—stood solid. Thick. It suited him.

Spotted, Steve raised an awkward hand, pursed awkward lips, and when Billy scooted in opposite, the exchanged hellos were—yep—awkward.

Unsure of the protocol for amends, Steve tried small talk—learned Billy lived with Max, who was caring for her ailing mother. His dad was still in the wind, vanished post-flaying while Billy was comatose.

Far as Steve knew, Billy had likewise vanished after a spell in the ICU. Rumors he’d been abducted by the government, but most figured he’d run off. Done the reasonable thing and put Hawkins behind him.

Turned out it was both. In exchange for his silence plus months in a secret lab, they’d set him up in the city of his choosing—and he’d chosen home. San Diego.

“Got an apartment, started community college…” Billy shrugged. “Over-indulged in the club scene. Couldn’t keep a job, couldn’t sleep. Tipped some bad dominoes. Hurt some good people.”

He’d been sober about a year, fully committed to the whole body-is-my-temple mentality. Been using music and exercise as his outlet whenever he itched.

“Went from bar hopping to gym bunny?” Steve suggested, and Billy flicked an assessing glance, wondering if the pun was deliberate.

It was. Steve’s mouth twitched, and Billy huffed a laugh. “Least I’m not eating rabbit food,” he said, nodding at Steve’s very sad salad.

“Hey, it’s tough diving into singlehood at our age,” he protested. “Gotta whip myself into shape.”

Billy guessed it—divorce?—and winced, commiserating. 

“How about you?” No ring, he noted. “Seeing anyone?”

“Ah—nope,” Billy replied, with a self-deprecating snort. “Not the marrying kind.”

And that… wasn’t quite what Steve asked. “Not the dating kind, either?”

Billy grimaced, conducted a short debate with the middle distance, and cleared his throat. “How about I say what I came to say and then we can… keep chatting. If you want.”

Steve pushed his plate aside, hands folded like it was a contract negotiation. “Okay.”

Deep inhale, and Billy mirrored him. “All right. So—I’ve been working backwards through people I’ve hurt, and you’re part of the last group. From when I was still a kid, technically, but old enough to do real damage. And… whether or not I need to… I want to. Like, it feels good to… purge, I guess.”

Beating Steve’s head in—that’s what he wanted to apologize for. He could have inflicted some lasting traumatic injury, hoped he hadn’t—you didn’t, Steve assured him, I’ve always been this confused—and had since developed other ways to cope with and express his anger.

“Like what?” he asked, curious. Billy blinked, lost track of his mental cue cards.

“Like—meditation,” he said, and Steve pictured him cross-legged on the beach at sunset, centering his chakra. “And journaling. And…” He scrunched his nose, flushed. “Uh—crochet.”

“Is that… when you hit balls through little hoops?”

“That’s croquet. Crochet is like—” Billy huffed, dragging hands down his cheeks. “It’s like knitting, okay? Will you let me just…?” 

Steve waved for him to continue, mimed zipping his lips. Covered his mouth at the thought of Billy knitting blankets of rage. This was serious, he scolded himself. Knock it off.

But… teasing Billy was fun. Gave him a strange thrill. Like when they used to spar at school. Banter.

Taking a deep breath, Billy found where he’d left off. “Right. Anger management. But I’ve also been re-examining my—motivations. Because for awhile, I told myself you deserved it, that I was protecting Max from shady dudes who’d lured her to the woods—”

Well, that’s fair, Steve thought, his perspective on that night radically shifting. Optics not great.

“—But I didn’t give a shit about Max,” Billy confessed. “I was just mad she got me in trouble with my dad and ruined my date… mad you lied to me about her being there, and that she’d ignored me about Sinclair, and… mad I was in Bumfuck Nowhere. So—I’m grateful you grabbed me off the kid. I’ve already made amends with him. And with Max. And I’m sorry I beat you so bad. Sorry I took it out on you.”

Steve hadn’t even remembered some of those details until Billy blew off the dust—one of those weird moments where you realize a hazy event was crystalline for someone else. Vivid and weighted with meaning.

“It’s fine, man,” Steve said, simple and easy, and Billy nodded, a fine tremor up and down. “Water under the bridge. I’m glad you’re—”

“I’m a fag,” Billy said, blunt. The eyes that rose to meet him were flat. Slate blue. “S'why I’m not the marrying kind.” A short, fractured laugh, devoid of humor. “And don’t think you’d call it dating, what I was doing. Russian roulette, more like. I should be dead several times over by now. Dunno how I’m not.”

Steve swallowed hard, couldn’t wipe the dumb shock—and the blue slate buckled, about to crack. So he revised his sentence from before. “I’m glad you’re not.” Managed a weak smile, heartfelt. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

Billy ducked, but Steve caught the flash of wet. Slate in the rain. “I don’t have it,” he muttered, single sniff. “In case you’re wondering.”

And Steve meant to say I’m glad, a broken record but a sincere one, only the thing gnawing at him since the separation hijacked his mouth. “Nancy thinks I’m in love with this guy at work. This guy who’s a man.”

Billy’s head swung up, thrown off course for maybe the fourth time since he’d entered the cafe, and Steve facepalmed.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s not why we’re here. I keep dive bombing your… amending. Amendment?”

That might have broken Billy—the poor dude slumped forward, brow on the table.

“I really am sorry,” Steve repeated, earnest. “And I’m glad you’re okay. That’s what I meant to say—that I’m glad you’re okay.”

A long sigh, and Billy propped his chin on folded wrists. “Are you in love with this guy who’s a man?”

“No,” Steve said, heating as it dawned on him that Guy Who’s a Man bore a striking resemblance to Man Sitting Opposite. “It’s more—crippling lust.” 

“Did you cheat?”

“No!” Then, dialing his tone from offended to firm: “I don’t do that.”

“Okay.” Billy straightened, thinking. “I’m not the best person to be anyone’s gay sensei, but I’m gonna give you my number in case you need to talk about this shit. And you better be careful. Be safe if you decide to… dip your toes in the water.”

Through the wall-mounted speakers, Jewel wondered one last time who would save their souls if they wouldn't save their own, the track winding to a close, and Steve had opened his mouth to ask Do you think we could have done that, way back then? Dipped our toes in the water? when Billy scrambled upright, nope, nope, nope under the faint strains of the next tune.

“Gotta go—this song’s gonna wreck my sobriety.” Finger guns, backpedaling. “You pay up. I’ll wait outside.”

Steve cocked an ear, bemused, listening hard all the way to the register. Plucky melody, a crooning boyish falsetto, incomprehensible—then finally, impassioned: Can you tell me who will still care?

The chorus kicked in as he walked out, and Steve caught on—laughed at the sky.

Mmm bop, ba duba dop Ba du bop, ba duba dop Ba du bop, ba duba dop Ba du—

He sang along, full chested: “Yea-ee-yea-ah!”

Billy groaned, slipping him seven scribbled digits with the air of already regretting his decisions.

“Thanks,” Steve said, genuine, running his thumb across the numbers. “Maybe I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah.” Billy swiped his curls. Unwilling smile. “Maybe.”

💛.🎶.💛

[keeksybee]

Rimmer’s Incident:

I think that under the right circumstances Rimmer would go absolutely feral if he believed something was enough of a threat to Lister, this is roughly based on the “Get in the Water” sound from Epic the musical with the concept that when someone with a great deal of power is pushed far enough they can cause untold destruction.

Trigger Warning: Blood, Gore, fairly extreme violence.

Something has hurt Lister, they’re on the ship of whatever alien-ish thing they’re facing off against and it’s seriously hurt Lister, maybe mortally, he could die. Kryten is trying to administer emergency first aid and Lister is playing it like there’s nothing wrong but he’s pale and the nauseating puddle of blood collecting around him makes Rimmer want to wretch.

The thing is laughing. The thing is smegging laughing.

It may take Lister away from him, his friend, his brother, his…he doesn’t want to think about those feelings but they’re there, his only real connection to the living, in short, his everything. That thing may take his everything and it’s laughing, suddenly his vision whites out, his mind clouds with such an unimaginable rage his that sensory processing unit fritzes, and he’s laughing too, high, and tinny, and utterly crazed, the laugh he saved for moments of great hilarity, the thing stops laughing.

When he comes back to himself his face is wet and he’s clutching a stunned, shaking Lister whose clutching him back, the area around them is decimated and he’s covered head to toe in green, vicious, blood.

From Lister’s point of view the sight was as horrifying as it was precise and almost graceful if it hadn’t been for the ear piercing scream, the savage charge of the group of combatants and the spaces where Rimmer eyes should have been going jet black, for the first time he witnessed the true potential power of a hologram, Rimmer must have tapped into the electrical system because power leads flung themselves off the walls creating a rain of molten sparks, pieces of shrapnel flying as whole panels of the ship corridor bent and warped itself sending a thick, bitter smog into the air. He watched as Rimmer tore through creatures almost thrice his size with primal efficiency, twisting heads clean off and using spare bits of shrapnel to gut others like hapless fishes, he saw Rimmer squeeze the life of one of them with his bare hands ensuring the light left their eyes before he released its throat, their blood stained deep into his ruined clothes as he left what appeared to be the youngest of the soldiers alive, trembling staring up at Rimmer’s blank, soulless gaze.

“I have a message for your people” he speaks stilted and unnaturally, the electricity making him fizz and crackle, but it’s more determined than he’s ever seen him.

The trembling thing nods.

“In human culture we protect our friends and loved ones by any means necessary”

The soldier nods again.

“Let this…” he gestures to his carnage “serve as an example of why you are not to cross that line, ever” he fixes his stony eyes on the thing.

“Go!”

It scarpers off limping.

Rimmer then makes an equally unnatural 180 degree turn and walks toward him falling to his knees and hanging on to him like a limpet muttering “I could have lost you, I could have lost you” over and over until a sob breaks out of his chest and his protestations became agonised wailing as if a lifetime of anger, grief and self loathing could be let out in a sound, he can only cling on to Rimmer and allow this to pass on its own, it must take more than an hour for the vacant look to vacate Rimmer’s eyes and for him to start saying words again. No more creatures come, he surveys the remains of the ones Rimmer had dealt with, that was probably a good thing.

After what seemed like eons finally, finally Rimmer actually stares back at him, completely alert.

“Hey you”

Rimmer rubs his head slightly taking in his bloodied hands “What happened here?”.

“You did”

Rimmer thinks for a moment “Oh” he says quietly “That’s right”.

“Why?” He asked softly.

“They hurt you”.

Lister squeezed him tighter, Rimmer had done this for him, he cared about him that much. Just then Kryten appears.

“Sirs, I’ve scoured the ship for resources we might need and already put them in vacuum storage, now let me help you back to the ship’s medibay, and Mr Rimmer I believe a shower is in order”.

“Thanks Kryten” he said as the mechinoid assisted him to his unsteady feet and back to the Dwarf, Rimmer was already following behind them with this look on his face that said he was worried, it was cute, maybe his stay in the medibay wouldn’t be so bad after all.

[narislotus]

love washed ashore

a kokosara drabble ( ~800 words)

- sailor sara x mermaid kokomi (hbd queen!)

- love at first sight

- no warnings (rated teen)

A flash of light across the sky.

The first sign of trouble and the last coherent memory in Sara’s head. The moments afterward were in a miscellaneous jumble of thunderous bangs and a sickening feeling in the pits of her stomach. Even in her unconscious state, the sounds of horrified screams rang into her ears and elevated her already-splitting headache. Along with that pain is the aching sensation persisting throughout her entire body.

All Sara could feel was pain.

Well, for the most part.

Combating the distant screeches was the sound of a hypnotic melody that got louder along with the awakening of her consciousness. The heat from the island sun was nothing compared to the heat radiating a particular part of her arm - a soothing warmth rather than an agonizing one. Despite her battle with the heaviness in her eyelids, Sara begrudgingly opens them and was immediately blinded by the scorching sun.

Just as Sara reached up to cover her eyes, another hand beat her to it. She didn’t comment on this at first as she focused on regaining her eyesight. But seconds later, she recognized the oddity of the situation. She noticed the hand when her vision was restored - or, at least, what she assumed to be a hand. The limb was slimy with webbed fingers and scales scattered across what would be the wrist. It was an odd combination of human and aquatic.

As the hand lifted, Sara turned to her left when she noticed something flapping at the corner of her eyes. She nearly jumped when she saw a large fish-like tail at her side, extending under her head. As peculiar as it was, the appendage was quite majestic. The ombré of pinks and blues sparkled under the sun’s reflection, finishing with a crepe-colored caudal fin. Sara would have had a stronger reaction if she wasn’t so dazed but was still curious regardless. Her unexplained questions and light pressure on her arm led her to immediately turn her attention to the right.

And just then - that was Sara’s fatal mistake.

As her eyes traveled up the pale torso and seashell-themed bralette, she faced what could only be described as eerie beauty. It all started from the neck, being altered by what appeared to be many gills slashed across. Her eyes journeyed upwards to rose-colored lips that sourced the sedative tune. Behind them, Sara could see the tiniest fangs sticking out before being masked behind a tight smile.

Sara’s eyes continued upwards and passed by rounded cheeks and a pointed nose - both flushed light red. Her travel paused as she met another set of eyes - a gradient of deep indigo to the lightest pinks. Despite the lack of a pupil, these eyes were anything but soulless. Rather, it was like a vibrant spread of paints being mixed along a canvas. The more you stared, the more you were unknowingly drawn into the masterpiece. With the aid of the tranquilizing music, it became difficult to turn her gaze away.

A gust of wind brushed past them, kicking up the creature’s pinkish-blue hair. A hand reached up to tuck the hair strands behind a finned ear. Pearls were decorating the oceanic being’s ears, neck, and head. Once the shock started to wear off, Sara could piece every new sight together to get a complete visual of the artistry.

“How long will you keep staring without a word?” the woman spoke delicately, complimenting her angelic image.

“I-I apologize,” Sara stammered, sounding unusually nervous. “You’re just so…”

“You aren’t the first. But you’re certainly the most notable,” the woman smiled, stroking Sara’s cheek. “Although, if you had stared any longer, I would’ve suspected some sort of brain damage. You were in quite the wreckage.”

Sara attempted to move but every limb felt like it was being punctured with needles. She noticed that parts of her limbs were wrapped with bandages, with a part of her arm still being tended to.

“Since we’ll be in each other’s presence for a while, we should at least become familiar,” the hybrid woman continued. “Call me Kokomi. And you are…?”

“Sara…”

“Sara? Simple but endearing. Then, let me ask - are you afraid of me, Sara?”

Sara immediately shook her head, being compelled not to think.

“Then we’ll get along just fine - even better than fine,” Kokomi giggled. “Now, rest. I’ll prepare food for you once I’m finished.”

Sara felt coerced into following her every word, already being swayed back to sleep. She didn’t know where she was, if anyone else had survived, or even if she would ever make it home again. But all of those worries felt distant - just like the sound of hypnotic humming in the background as she closed her eyes.

[lavelled]

charming sibling tapestry. 

Harrow:

KING BUYS LUXE CONDO UNIT 11A AT THE CANADIAN CONSULATE OF NEW YORK.

Did Daddy’s unfavorite son get his very own rape room?

A young hockey player angered you.

Lots of people don’t like you. Move your swivel chair. They say you’re ostracized poison.

Your response to me was prohibiting me from seeing my dead cult when this is over. Little absurdist rape-recruit criminal. Shouldn’t you be tantrum throwing or rewatching Fight Club?

For years, regal elegance has trended online. Cheaply achieved. I wouldn’t flaunt performance art to the unsuspecting public on a worldwide platform, for profit, with no artistic entity to sell, with a man who clearly didn’t love me. The stepping back as senior royals to enjoy private life in California is him realizing oh wait the hands-tied, pathological-lying ruse is catching up to me. Don’t get me wrong: they still cash in. British and Hollywood fans have been in a steady decline, thankfully.

In spoiler-filled Xotel Harry, we’ve lifted digital camouflaging for Archillect, Murat Pak, Piers Morgan, narrating English football in UK time, and Elon Musk. Typing martyr today? Soulless. You tweeted: Put Never Went To Therapy On My Gravestone when I left the cave site. Google musk never gone to therapy Feb 28.

In the meantime, there’s a Tom Cruise marathon of cinema. Syfy. Disney. Animal Planet. I haven’t seen, A Few Good Men, since 1992. Sharp Sorkin dialogue. In minute seven, Tom’s in Washington, DC in a baseball team uniform, Boston Red Sox cap, playing SOFTBALL, and dropping effortlessly hip references to oregano. That’s me! Those are my letters. He did read them. You were 8.

Far from the entertainment business, your family of high principles did this because unlimited access to wealth and privilege can be toilsome. I don’t know what it’s like to be born into such elevated social status. If I cobbled together the trappings of royal life for a babied prince, I’d get that the necessary detachment and trafficking saved you from shocking abuse.

Skydiving, English football, tennis matches. Premiere of movie, Spice World, in the somber year of 1997. A three-pronged holiday ski trip in Whistler, Canada in 1998. Regular family trips to Klosters Ski Resort in Switzerland. Romantic ski vacation in exclusive resort in Kazakhstan. Endless photog evidence of you leaving London nightclubs. On a motorcycle in South Africa. First pitch at Mets game. Stag parties. Caught naked in a VIP suite in Las Vegas. Sprinting with Usain Bolt in Jamaica. Charity polo matches. Meeting Rihanna in Barbados on World Aids Day. Visiting Casablanca to promote girls’ education. Videotaping a challenge to the Obamas. Taping heartfelt message to Elton John. Speech at the United Nations for Nelson Mandela Day. Chairing Vax Live: The Concert to Reunite the World. Spouses accepting Kennedy Human Rights Award for leadership to dismantle structural racism. Meeting human rights icon, Desmond Tutu. Date night at The Lion King premiere. Obstacle course race with James Corden. Super Bowl 2022 with your cousin. Chat show and podcast interviews for Book. Hosting The Kinsey African American Art & History Collection in LA. Katy Perry concert. Beyoncé Renaissance concert.

Seems stifling.

My life has been a little different.

When the British press published cavorting Vegas pictures in 2012 titled, Heir It Is, why are you in a Let’s Get Wild Lauren’s Bachelorette shirt? Are you not admitting to being my older male cousin by proxy, locking up a little girl for arranged marital sex?

What is it about music that is lightning crashes, would you capture it, genie in a bottle, can’t find a better man, dearly beloved, guess the fortune teller’s right, the club isn’t the best place, shut up and dance, it’s gonna be me. Your vinyl-shaped rapey spinster schoolchild code is caught in youtubing stories full of tellers.

Welcome to the Internet—Bo Burnham. Toby Keith—How Do You Like Me Now. Bad Wolves—Zombie. Skillet—Monster. Avenged Sevenfold—Hail To The King. Avicii with Aloe Blacc—Wake Me Up—Tim Bergling traveled to Muscat, Oman to fatally wound himself 5 years later.

K

[raisedbyelectronics]

"Just pick up a pencil."

I honestly disagree with this sentiment.

Let's start with the collateral damage.

There is generative art out there that isn't made through GANs or other similar methods. Reddit's r/generative is home to this kind, made without either lifted training data or a prompt-based workflow. Just math, computer wizardry, and human ingenuity. You can make beautiful fractals, flowing shapes, etc., and you can take as many liberties as you want. Yet this unrelated art form happens to share the name "generative."

Then there's procedural effects in 3D digital art, animation, VFX, and CAD. I see that form of randomness as no worse than the natural imperfections that result from a pencil or paintbrush.

Even stabilization tools on apps like ProCreate have come under fire.

People hear about "Photoshop's plagiarism algorithms" and think the whole app uses them, or that Gaussian blur algorithms use content from Google Images.

I think a lot of the "pick up a pencil" crowd are missing the point and vilifying all computer-aided art forms as soulless, or making points tangential to the overall AI debate.

I can follow the logic behind a lot of arguments over the collection of training data for "true" AI art made with GAN and stable diffusion-based models, or the skill level of prompt engineering. (But I don't agree with banning or shaming it at all, or even with the idea that it's wrong, as enforcing the copyright of images from a Google Search would inadvertently ban many memes, and stable diffusion is way more complicated than a simple collage)

But mathematical or random models, liberties left to the computer, and digital art in general, are unfairly vilified in the process.

It's okay to pick up a pencil. But you can pick up a stylus, pick up your finger and put it on whatever control is in reach, etc., or pick up your technical intuition in one way or another.

And I also would love to see more ML-based AI that gives an artist even more liberties, and that discloses, for example, what it was trained on (perhaps consensual algorithms or mass libraries of stock photography).

Hypothetically, not all "true" AI has to be based on prompt engineering, or use it as the sole means of calling up images – and prompt engineering can also be used for finer details, etc. Perhaps as a way of generating the textures of 3D polygon animation.

But the goalposts keep moving.

This AI was trained on images in the public domain/that the company has permission to use!

Well, did the artists know at the time?

Well, this AI was trained on images expressly submitted to us!

But still, you're enabling non-artists to make fake art!

How?

Well, all you're doing is typing in a paragraph!

But this system has more areas to type in what you want, not just a single box!

But still, writing isn't making art!

Okay, this system more closely resembles a drawing program that turns your basic sketches or lasso fills into whatever you want them to be – the composition is yours!

But that's too easy!

Okay, this system just uses a really good ML algo to imitate brush strokes of a paintbrush!

Well....

"Why can't we use computers to simplify the boring stuff instead of simplifying the fun stuff?"

I've heard this so many times... implying that making art with a computer isn't fun, or that using a computer to automate or randomize anything is an insult to those who "took the time."

A few people speaking about AI music seem to also criticize things like random LFOs, random note generators, etc., that influence the sound design or composition of a production in a random way, though still ultimately on the terms of the producer. It's still a craft of love, and a great way to make cool R2D2 sounds or glitchy percussion.

Or speak of live musicians as the victims of AI music – something that as an electronic musician, I've heard about my hobby in general. That quantizing and pitch correction, or any kind of post-modification of any performance, is dishonest or disrespectful to those who "took the time" to learn to "properly" play. As if music were a sport, not an artform with many ways of practice. That gridding things in or arranging stock samples (a term that has two meanings: either arranging single notes or adding stock loops, or even bits of other songs) is dishonest. A lot of people don't even know that you can program in original melodies in electronic music, or skip samples entirely and use geometric or electronically-generated waveforms.

As if we don't take the time to develop our sounds and mix and match a variety of nonstandard, yet technical, areas, even if we leave some stuff to the computer and/or a stock loop library (or not... I tend not to use the latter).

As if people making any kind of procedural medium on a computer are only doing it because they're inartistic.

As if someone's personal opinion that 3D art with procedural FX, generative mathematical art, the music of Trovarsi, or anything with some randomization is soulless... makes it so.

As if they could do better just sitting down at the tools of the "talentless hacks'" trade.

As if anyone can sit down and make anything on r/generative, or even use Photoshop's Generative Fill, effectively on the first go.

One friend of mine thought electronic music was talentless and unoriginal, and that it was all "soulless and sterile and made from stolen loops"... I offered her 10 minutes of time with my laptop and a pair of headphones... she didn't want to try it out...

Speaking of that, when GarageBand was first announced to the general public, Steve Jobs mostly focused on the stock loops, even though you could make your own loops, record performances all the way through, or just grid things in... or use third party plugins.

I can see a similar trend happening with ML-based AI.

People will take the time to make it, and people will find it worth their time to consume it.

The opposite of "electronic" isn't "real". This is the force of thunder, thought, magnetism, chemistry, and emotion itself.

The opposite of "computer" (adj.) isn't "human." Humans designed computers.

And a lot of more "computery" art and music is very appealing to me. Am I a robot? No, but I'm of the species that designed them, and can tell you first-hand that creativity is very... complicated. Not that I don't think we should have it, but that it's ultimately in the eye of the beholder.

You didn't plan out each imperfection of your pencil line.

Nor each variation in harmonic overtone content or waveform each time you slap your bass.

Nor were you the first to draw a person, photograph the LA River, or tap out a clave rhythm.

Nor do comic book artists generally spend the same time on a single frame as a realist painter does on a whole painting... but that just lets them make more and create a whole new art form. And some comic book artists do slave away on each detail – or draw stick figures and still make effective comics. Or just take pictures for a photo comic. Or use stabilization. Or generative (mathematical) backgrounds.

Not too long ago, calculators were controversial in STEM classrooms. Now, many classes outright require them.

Not too long ago, spell check was lamented by English teachers. Now, many will outright encourage its use in typed essays, or have students do assignments on Canvas with it turned on.

The general attitude for using Wikipedia for research has evolved from "never use" to "use with skepticism and don't cite directly for school, but it's a great 'springboard' to find more info".

And typing has pretty much replaced cursive's role in high schools.

It's all how you look at it.

I will not be convinced that my computer is evil or unhealthy.

[struggle-but-its-all-ocean-floor]

Hybe is so... I watched the Antifragile MV and really liked it and the song, so I was like, maybe I'll give Le Sserafim a try since it's kind of hypocritical to avoid certain groups with minors but not others... so I listened to both of their EPs. I already knew Fearless and Blue Flame. I watched the Antifragile Studio Choom performance today and the girls are all strong dancers with great stage presence. They're truly powerful on stage, but their bsides are just not for me...

Idk what's happening, but lately some songs have been better on YT than on Spotify. I can only listen to Pink Venom and Shut Down on YT because they sound empty and terrible to me on Spotify - same with Antifragile and Fearless, I won't be listening to them on Spotify. I also think they sound better with a visual aid anyway, like the choreo or MV. Overall, I thought both EPs sounded bad - the girls' voices were so autotuned they sounded soulless and bland. They reminded me a lot of Enhypen. Both Le Sserafim EPs had the same generic intros of members saying clichés in Korean, Japanese, and English, and the heavily autotuned and generic yet trendy songs all Enhypen albums have. I liked Blue Flame and Sour Grapes, but not enough to want to listen to them again. Elevator music is a good way of describing some of Le Sserafim's music tbh - I'm talking about the empty production rather than the music itself.

[strawberrysoup]

Down with the Ship || Chapter 1

You never could’ve expected a celebration to go so, so wrong. The land was foreign, too warm compared to the Cold Lands, and filled with horrible people. Horrible people that planned to sell you to the highest bidder — who, as you’d come to learn, was the ruler of the stupid seaside city. She was a beautiful empress, the high priestess and war general her consorts and evidently, your new masters. Human beings shouldn’t be given as gifts, much less called ‘pets’, and you found the ship that was your life sinking so much faster than you ever could’ve expected.

rating: M | 18+ chapters: at least 7, not sure chapter: 1/? relationship: dark!carol danvers x dark!natasha romanoff x dark!valkyrie x reader warnings: noncon&dubdon, pet play, degradation&humiliation, kidnapping, slavery, detailed warnings to be included per chapter; read more and CTRL+F to search ‘content warnings’ to skip to the more detailed tags at the bottom of the chapter. 

note: hey guys, this story was inspired by @scarlettwlw​ who helped me come up with the idea! if you enjoy this story, please consider donating to my ko-fi or buying me a birthday present from my wishlist! 

The night sky through the bars of your cage was beautiful, bright stars and a glowing moon casting a vibrant glow over the plaza, a gaudy waste if you’d ever seen one. There were stones laid in the ground to aid the turn of wheels, as if the dips and grooves didn’t cause wagons to stutter and bounce hopelessly. At least dirt roads could be cared for with regular maintenance to prevent damage, like the welts crisscrossing your entire back side down to the soles of your feet where the bars of the cage had dug more and more painfully into your flesh the longer you were forced to rest your weight on them.

It might’ve been the cage’s fault you hated the stone road—the bumps made it impossible for your bare feet to find purchase on the bars and you fell, constantly, if you tried to stand while the horses hauled you and two others earlier in the day. One memorable event had seen to your feet slipping through the bars, your left leg bashing against a rock so hard you felt something crack. Screaming had been a mistake though. The man steering the horses had nearly caved your face in for causing damages. The damages that could’ve been prevented with carefully pressed dirt roads. You never would’ve caused damages if you hadn’t been in the stupid fucking cage to begin with.  

You couldn’t remember exactly what had happened. Your village had been celebrating the winter solstice beneath the auroras. It marked your 18th winter, in fact, which meant you’d been drinking vodka like water most of the day. There was music and dancing and the food had smelled wonderful, but then the scent of smoke had grown more intrusive than the bonfire should’ve caused.

The screaming came after that. There had been blood and fire and so much screaming but you could barely remember what happened—your head still pounded with the after effects of the alcohol and extreme dehydration, but you had no idea how long it had been since that night. You’d been attacked and woke up in the bowels of a ship, vomiting profusely from both the vodka and the blow to the head you’d taken. The fucking cage had come an indeterminate amount of time later, when the boat finally docked.  

It wasn’t nearly as cold as it should’ve been. There was no snow and the brisk night air made you shiver but certainly wasn’t unbearable like it would’ve been at home. Your clothes and the furs you’d cherished most of your life had been taken from you, the black pelt your father gifted you in your 13th winter devastatingly gone leaving you naked in the cage. The weather reinforced how far from home you were, the unrecognizable language further emphasizing the distance—you we’re good with different dialects, you made a point of being able to speak to those who lived outside your village, but you’d never heard a language like the ones the slavers spoke.  

That’s what they were, of course. Aside from kidnapping and beating you they had treated you like furniture (and not even a precious piece at that). Not once had they spoken to you, with the exception of the one who’d screamed at you while decimating your face with his fists. The other prisoners had been spared similar fates thanks to the fact their cages had wooden slats across the bottom to provide stability—well, except the woman. She’d screamed at the slaver beating you until he’d deviated his attention to her, leaving you bleeding on the ground while yanking her from her cage. Luckily he'd expended most of his energy nearly killing you and didn’t spend much time on her, mostly just screaming and pulling her long black hair.

You didn’t know her name or where they’d stolen her from, but you’d carefully waved a small thank you to her once you were both returned to your cages. The look on her face betrayed how badly the man hurt you and she’d reached through the bars towards you with tears in her big, dark eyes. Now she was asleep in her cage, leaning against the bars closest to you while you held her hand. She’d attempted to give you some of the slats from the bottom of her cage but you’d refused—she was older than you by at least forty years and you worried; you were young and fully able-bodied, you would be sold regardless of your physical state. You didn’t know what would happen to her if the bars caused even half the damage they’d caused you, she already moved so stiffly. You couldn’t say for sure, but you assumed the life of an unmarketable slave was short.  

The other prisoner was a man, several years older than yourself. He’d kept quiet through the entire journey, a blank look in his eyes. You wondered how long he'd been under the thumb of the slavers, to be so dejected and nigh on soulless. You hadn’t so much as made eye contact with him, even as you both sat awake through the night. The stars shifted above you, the moon taking its path across the sky until the sun began to rise behind you. Hours passed like days, stretching infinitely until people began shuffling around the plaza. The slavers you recognized returned, yawning and speaking in soft voices to each other. They barely paid the three of you any attention until the sun was fully up—then they went to the man’s cage.

He complied with whatever they were saying, dutifully and with his eyes cast down. They dumped a bucket of water over his head and threw handfuls of dense white powder all over him, the grains sticking to his wet skin. He wasn’t given clothes, much to your disdain considering it meant you’d also not be given clothing, but they wrapped some sort of belt around his waist before shackling his hands to it. The other woman was next, also doused with water and powder and shackled. Instead of shuffling her immediately back into the cage like they had the man, dark paint was smeared over her tan shoulders and they forced her to the ground outside of the cage before attaching her belt to the bars.  

The slavers walked towards your cage with irritated expressions, the younger man gesturing angrily about your person while they conversed. The damage to your body, you leg and face especially, was evidently extensive. Everything hurt, but your leg was the worst. You assumed something was broken, at the very least deeply, deeply bruised and you could barely rest any weight on it—not that you’d tried in hours.

When the cage door was yanked open you tried not to startle, but a cry escaped your lips when the younger man dug a hand into your hair and yanked you out onto the stone ground of the plaza. Your ankle radiated pain up towards your shin and you collapsed, forced to crawl forward when he didn’t stop pulling on your hair.  

They were still muttering angrily when frigid water spilled over you, leaving you shivering on the stone. Another bucket followed and you found yourself being tossed around while they thoroughly drenched your skin. The powder caked onto your flesh like a layer of clay, itchy and tight as it quickly began to dry. It had a strong odor you didn’t recognize, overwhelming and unpleasant and you found yourself sputtering and spitting where a small amount had gotten past your lips.

A yelp escaped you when a hand immediately gripped your hair again, shaking you roughly and shouting. It stopped when the older slaver yelled at the younger one, slapping him away and gesturing at you angrily. They continued to argue while you laid on the ground, feeling like your lungs wouldn’t inflate. The woman shackled to her cage behind you shouted angrily at the pair, beckoning you towards her urgently.  

Your body didn���t hesitate even when your head did, crawling slowly across the stone. She grabbed you the second you were within reach, tugging you into her chest and shuffling to the side to try and block you from their sight. Her shackles rattled quietly, one hand running gently through your hair while the other gently roamed over the welts across your back. You could hear her speaking, another dialect you didn’t recognize, quietly with her lips almost pressed to the top of your head.

It sounded like a prayer and you wondered if the goosebumps that ran across your skin was a result of being touched gently for the first time in so long or if whoever she invoked was now watching you. There was no telling how her Gods worked, maybe they were willing to look over someone who didn’t worship them. The Gods of your village were rarely so kind, especially in the absence of a sacrifice.  

It was easy to tell when the slaver's attention returned to you; she immediately began spitting what you were very, very sure was a curse. The slavers hesitated, evidently able to understand what she was saying—or at least what she was implying with her furious words. It didn’t stop the younger man for long, he stomped over and grabbed a fist full of your hair once again and used it to throw you several feet away. The woman continued to spit a furious string of words, to which the slaver seemed to grow increasingly angry about. He turned towards her, arm raising swiftly.  

“Don’t you touch her!” Your voice was hoarse, you’d barely spoken since being kidnapped but the man’s head snapped in your direction immediately. “I’m right here you son of a bitch, me! Don’t touch her, beat me, asshole!”  

They didn’t understand your language, you’d learned that early on when they mocked your words with gibberish, but he certainly understood your tone if the vibrant red of his cheeks was anything to go by. His hand fell to the whip rolled up at his waist while he stomped towards you, lips curled in a snarl as he let the end fall to the ground with a startling crack. A wash of fear went down your back; you’d never been whipped in your life. You had a particularly high pain tolerance, but what was a broken arm to a whipping?

The other woman was shouting at him again and you steeled yourself—you’d either live or you wouldn’t, but you could at least keep his disgusting hands off of her until she could be sold. She looked as kind as she acted, beautiful and sharp, and next to the slavers her skin tone and eyes were exotic. Someone would purchase her to clean or cook, as long as she was able bodied. Even if your wounds were left to fester until you passed from fever, you would survive the initial whipping and still be fit for the auction block almost immediately. She didn’t have that luxury.

Your eyes widened when he raised his arm and you scrambled to cover your head, tucking your chin against your sternum and drawing your knees in; you desperately wanted to avoid learning what sort of pain a lash to the face would illicit while he seemed so keen on teaching you. She was still screaming and the older slaver was yelling and the crack of the whip was potentially the loudest thing you’d ever heard.

When it landed a line of fire erupted on your skin, stretching from that first point of contact on the crest of your shoulder down to your hip. If you hadn’t moved that line would’ve been in the dead center of your face and with the force used, bleeding profusely. The only reason you didn’t scream was because you bit down on your lip so hard you were unable to, purposefully falling to maintain your curled position down on the stones while you writhed—you wouldn’t give him the chance to aim for your face again.

The second strike ran diagonally from the same shoulder, across your back, and to the opposite hip. The third was directly on your spine and your body spasmed violently in response, a scream finally torn from your throat when you physically couldn’t keep your mouth shut any longer. There would’ve been more, you were sure, had the voice of another woman interrupted the man. He spoke in return with stuttered, nervous reverence and while you didn’t move from your curled position you believed his face likely reflected his tone with fear.

You couldn’t understand anything that was being said. The woman was shouting, one word more and more desperately and you assumed it must’ve been something she assigned to you in her head. Your brain fogged and you found yourself having to fight your muscles from going limp every time you exhaled. You wondered what she was calling you, what she referred you to as in her language. Your mother had always called you her baby, your father called you sweetheart.

Pulling yourself up wasn’t a matter of wanting to or not; it came down to the fact you were unable. Otherwise you would’ve dragged yourself across the stone once again to find a place in the older woman’s arms, to keep her from drawing attention to herself with her shouting, but you didn’t have the energy, the will, or the ability. There was no way your arms would hold your weight, your left ankle was entirely out of commission and the right was just as useless considering the circumstances.

You would’ve laid there until you died had it not been for a pair of soft hands taking hold of your upper arms. A wail died in your throat, lips clamping shut—you had to keep it together, if it was the very last thing you did. It was bad enough for these people to see you bleed, you wouldn’t let them hear you cry. Your father was one of the greatest warriors in the Cold Lands, you wouldn’t disrespect him by showing such weakness to the enemy.

A woman’s voice spoke close to your ear, a crooning coo that set your teeth on edge even more than the pain. She propped you up on your hip, laying your upper body carefully against her side where she sat on the stone and resting your weak head against her shoulder. Your eyes caught dark red hair, falling in loose waves to a pale, pointed chin. Before you could examine her more closely, your attention was drawn to the sound of a loud smack.

There was another woman, this one blonde and wearing what looked like miles of folded pale gold silk, had evidently just backhanded the younger slaver so hard the man lost balance and hit the ground. You marveled, just a tiny bit, at the sight. Her hair fell in windswept blonde waves to her exposed collar bones and she looked like she’d just been wrecked in the bedroom. Absently you wondered if the woman whose hand was cupping your ribcage had anything to do with that.

The blonde proceeded to speak to the older slaver for several long minutes, gesturing lazily every once in a while with jewel laden fingers. You’d been able to realize that the redhead holding you was also incredibly richly dressed, even in comparison to the well-dressed merchants making their way into the plaza to set up for the day. The slavers also deferred to the blonde; she was evidently someone of incredibly high stature—especially considering the redhead, who you assumed was her wife or consort, was practically dripping with gold.

Your attention shot to the woman holding you when she spoke, shrinking back when she pressed her cheek to the top of your head. It sounded like she was pouting, using a cutesy tone that made the blonde smile affectionately and respond with a long-suffering sigh before turning back to the slaver.

It was obvious that there was a transaction occurring and based on the fingers walking their way down your rib cage towards your legs, you could only assume you were the merchandise in question. It was easy to tell when the sale was complete, the blonde looking pleased and the old slaver looking nothing short of relieved.

“Oh, fuck this,” you murmured quietly to yourself, eyes squeezing shut as frustrated tears tried to well.

Hearing your own language spoken back to you after so long was so shocking you almost didn’t process the redhead’s words. “Don’t be like that, pet. It’s our girl’s birthday and she’s always wanted a cute little kitten.”

content warnings: human trafficking/slavery, public humiliation 

[claraweems]

Post-Destroy Shakarian Mini-Fic

Her body was found in the rubble a little more than thirty-six hours after the Citadel event and it was rushed to the nearest triage tent with little more than a pulse. It wasn’t more than a couple hours before she was ushered to a more capable facility outside of London proper and then it was all hands on deck.

That was six weeks ago now; six long weeks of awaiting communications channels to open, for any news, for hope. A vid call was the best the Alliance could offer the crew of the Normandy at this point and they all knew who to give those precious few minutes of airtime to.

The doors to the commanding officer’s quarters locked and Garrus quickly took a seat in the small task chair at Shepard’s computer. A deep breath, eyes closed, and he connected the call. It was a nurse, or an aide of some sort, who confirmed his identity and carried the mobile vid device over to the hospital bed.

And there she was. Garrus’s heart raced, his mandibles clenched and his eyes searched over all he could see of Shepard. She looked pathetic in her blue hospital gown, cannula under her nose and who knows how many connections all over her body to any number of telemetry devices. Maybe even life support, ported directly into her cybernetics. Black circles under her eyes, hair thin and greasy from lack of proper bathing, but there she was.

And her eyes, her bright green eyes, they were… Blank. Just, blank.

Not lifeless, but soulless, that’s how he would describe the blank stare that Jane Shepard gave him. He saw no relief, no joy, nothing, when her eyes focussed on the screen put in front of her.

“Are you another doctor?” That alto which could be music to his auriculars was so shallow.

“I--” Garrus was interrupted by the nurse, no doubt due to the time lag. The human woman corrected her patient, ‘No, dear, this is a connection to the SSV Normandy. This is one of your shipmates.’

Shipmates, Garrus huffed in his mind.

“The Normandy?” Jane brought a hand to her lips, drawing a finger tip over them in thought. An IV or some other connection hung from the back of her hand, taped in place. She seemed in good care, if done a bit archaically. It was likely the best they could do, all things considered. “Captain Anderson’s new ship. You must be the turian envoy. Nihlus, was it?” Shepard smiled weakly. Diplomatic, even at her lowest.

His heart sank. A low hum escaped Garrus’ throat, inaudible over the call, but it washed over his body. Shock, sadness. It was hard to process what he had just heard, what Shepard-- Jane, his Jane-- had just said.

“No, no, I’m Garrus,” he spoke up after a pause, voice deflated. “Garrus Vakarian, I’m…” He watched Shepard’s eyes struggle to focus on the video. She was obviously tired, and didn’t seem particularly interested if for no reason other than fatigue. “I’m, yeah, just checking on you. Wanted to make sure you were alright.”

The Commander looked toward the nurse, every third or fourth word slurring, “I’ve got such a damn headache. Everyone keeps telling me my injuries happened on the Citadel, something heroic. I’ve never even been to the damn Citadel.” Her attention went back to Garrus, “Last thing I remember I was boarding a shuttle to rendezvous with Anderson, and now...” She weakly gestured at the room.

The turian nodded solemnly, eyes diverting from the screen to nothing in particular on Shepard’s desk. He listened to her slow speech, and it was painful. So painful. This was … this was hardly Shepard. A severe brain injury was the obvious culprit of this behavior and it absolutely was not a surprise considering events. To witness memory loss like this was shocking. It was one thing to expect it somewhere in the back of his mind, but it knocked the wind out of Garrus’s sales to see it first hand. Was it a ‘physical’ erasure caused by the injury? Was it post-traumatically induced?

Did he really want to know, or care? It was reality, plain and simple.

All that mattered right then was that he couldn’t find his words. The silence likely lasted little more than a handful of seconds, the hospital machines beeping away to fill the voice, but finally Shepard spoke up once more. “I guess I should ask… if I was injured this bad, how is everyone else? Where is the Captain?”

“Shepard…” Garrus instinctively responded, voice hushed. His tone was on the cusp of an incredulous laugh; this was … unbearable.

“That bad, huh?” The Commander tried to smirk, but yawned.

“Yeah,” he nodded in response, “It’s a long story and I don’t have much time on the vid call to really tell it. Shepard, I should... go. Give the crew an update on you.” He felt like a coward.

“Tell them not to kick too much ass without me. Obviously the Normandy’s maiden flight went off without a hitch if she’s got a crew waiting for me, uh…” She raised an eyebrow, as if searching for the word. Name, more like. “Soldier.”

“Garrus.”

“Garrus. Right.”

He ended the call and stood within the same motion. His name echoed back to him so colorlessly… it hurt. He shuddered as he paced across the room, the quarters he had commandeered after the crash-landing. No one protested, of course. They were family. They understood.

Now their matriarch was… Well, Garrus didn’t even know how to describe the short conversation, how to tell the crew that they were nothing more than acquaintances in her mind. Hell, she had no recollection of him… there was no way she was going to remember any of the non-Alliance crew.

Garrus sat on the edge, on Jane’s side, of the squat human bed. He had brought in a few ergonomic cushions for himself, but they were splayed out across the far side, spilling onto the floor. Three fingers rubbed across his face and over his cranial blades, eyes distant and glassy. He looked around the room, trying to compose himself; the squat couch and chairs, the emptied fish tank, the stack of cups and saucers left over from the past few days.

She was alive, she was safe, but…

His whole body shuddered once more, blue eyes closing and a hand covering his face. Subharmonics rumbled low, from head to toe, a collection of sounds at pitches and in tones that melded together in a mournful song. His emotions spilled over, out of his control, and he sobbed. It would have been absolutely useless, probably more harm than good, to tell her who she really was to him. Damnit. He wanted to tell her he loved her, he wanted to remind her of … of everything. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

A jerking, choking sob; Garrus had never been wracked with such agonizing grief before. With his mother there was closure through longanimity. With his crew on Omega there was closure through revenge. With watching Palaven burn there was closure through Shepard.

This was a fate worse than her death.

[tiesandtea]

SUEDE: Style & Substances

Alternative Press, May 1997 (no. 106). Mag cover. Written by Dave Thompson. Archived here.

Suede Give Us A Glimmer...

Bleeding through the debate about vocalist Brett Anderson's sexuality and rumored drug intake, the overall glamour with which society equates a fucked-up lifestyle drapes Suede like a second skin. Dave Thompson travels to London to discover why Suede are one of the few bands that matter in an age of stars who are "just like you."

Brett Anderson leans against an amplifier, hands in pocket, shoulders hunched. To his left, the rest of Suede are playing Fleetwood Mac's "Albatross"; to his right, a television crew is fiddling with camera angles. He wants a cigarette, but he never smokes this close to showtime. Instead, he swings a keychain and glowers into the monitors. It's rehearsal time in Studio Four, a theater-sized room as the BBC, and the only person who's enjoying himself is an increasingly rotund-looking Jools Holland. He's the host of this evening's show, and he's away in another room entirely. 

Later...With Jools Holland is a British TV institution. Less than three years old, it has nevertheless sewn up a comfortable niche somewhere between the chart-conscious grooviness of Top of the Pops and the more indulgent pastures of MTV Unplugged. It's a showcase for bands to run through a handful of new songs, play a favorite or two and give a taste of their live prowess without boring the unconverted senseless. Boring themselves senseless, of course, is another matter entirely, and as Suede are counted into the third rehearsal of their opening song "Trash," you can almost sense the desperation in Anderson's face. Then the action starts, and he's utterly transformed. Though he's barely moving and scarcely singing, he's conveying an intensity that explodes from his very presence, drawing the most disinterested eyes in his direction. Even the soundmen look up from their meters, and the camera crew compete for his undying attention. If Anderson weren't a rock star, he'd make a great lunatic. But because he is a rock star...well, he's probably a lunatic anyway. You would be, too, in his shoes. If the 1990s have given us anything, it's the demystification of the rock star. From the boy-next-door Weezers to the angst-ridden whiners, the message is the same: I'm no different from you; I'm no better than you; and, of course, I'm just as screwed up as you. Enter, or more properly, re-enter Suede, with their third album, Coming Up (Columbia). And all that hard work reducing idols to idiots counts for nothing. Because Suede couldn't be "just like you" even if they wanted to. Bleeding through the "is he?/isn't he?" debate about vocalist Brett Anderson's sexuality and the "does he?/doesn't he?" of his rumored drug intake, the overall glamour with which society equates a fucked-up lifestyle drapes Suede like a second skin. The scent of teen spirit clings to them, the doomed romanticism of consumptive youth which peaked on their last album, 1994's Dog Man Star, and peeks through the stunning Coming Up. Suede deal in emotional extremes, from the A Clockwork Orange apocalypse of their "We Are The Pigs" video in which armed hooligans howl through a burning industrial landscape while Suede gaze down from giant video screens, to the incandescent loneliness of the current "Saturday Night" video, in which a London subway station is transformed into a rave to which the band have not been invited. The band's junkie chic is as apparent in the stoned immaculate presentation of their latest wasted-youth album-cover artwork, as it is in the gorgeously gaunt frame which Anderson angles for the television cameras. Add a live show that oozes subversive glamour; couple that with the fearless decadence of Anderson's greatest lyrics, and whether it's all an act or not, Suede are a walking advertisement for the joyful sins of sleaze. Backstage in the bowels of the BBC, Anderson sighs. He's heard all this before. "Yeah, you can look at it like that, but that's other people's interpretation of it, and that's their problem. You can't look at yourself through other people's eyes, then worry about what you say through their ears; you've got to have some self-belief in what you are." Which is, right now, the biggest thing on 10 legs. Across Europe and the Far East, Coming Up charted at No.1 and has already outsold both its predecessors. Three singles have kept the pot boiling ever since, and the current Suede line-up (their fifth on record since their 1990 "Be My God" 7-inch single debut) is their strongest yet. Like Brian Eno's departure from Roxy Music, founding guitarist Bernard Butler's exit did not so much rid the band of one creative spark, as open the door for the flowering of another. Anderson's unequivocal grasping of the reins, only partly aided by the recruitment of guitarist Richard Oakes, may have diluted Suede's overall sound, but it has sharpened their vision to a razor's edge. The further addition of keyboardist Neil Codling fills the gaps that teen maestro Oakes couldn't plug; the Simon Gilbert/Mat Osman rhythm section is a thunderous roar that never lets up; and Coming Up is unmistakably the sound of the same great band that recorded Dog Man Star. The difference is, Anderson affirms, they've stopped pissing around. "After Dog Man Star, everyone thought we were going to do an operetta or something like that. But you get things out of your system. We wanted to refocus the band, the fact that we were virtually starting again; we wanted to readjust the basics." And did it work? "You can't completely divorce yourself from your past. I haven't got the memory of a goldfish; I was aware that I'd made two albums before it. But it felt fresh, and it felt as though we were making the record away from a lot of the crap you have to deal with, away from the spotlight, which was great. Plus...", and here he gestures to new arrivals Codling and Oakes, "... there's less of an obsession with self-importance, which was definitely a change in the band. The last two albums were quite precious and self-important, and that can be good and that can be bad." Ah, preciousness. Plough through five years of Suede press and the buzzwords leap out: "superficial", "fake", "David Bowie" - three hollow sides to the same soulless coin. But most of the people who call Suede "pretentious" are the same ones who fancy the Spice Girls. And the closest those cynics get to class is the corridor outside the school room. "It does bother us a bit," says Anderson. "People always want to polarize bands into camps, and what I always find objectionable, even with journalists who are pro-Suede, is, they always want to write about us as an alternative to this good, honest musicianship going on elsewhere, which kind of implies that there isn't any good, honest musicianship going on within Suede." Anderson resents that implication, just as he resents the accusations of vanity that are flung at him with equal frequency - the two go hand in hand, after all. "People ask, 'Are you vain?' Hang on, let me turn the question around. If you were going to appear on television in front of five million people, you'd probably look in a mirror to see what you look like. You'll brush your hair and put a bit of make-up on because you don't want to look like a pig. Does that mean you're vain? I don't think it does. "Ninety-nine percent of my career thought is dedicated to thinking about music; a very tiny percentage is spent on image. I may go shopping once a month; but while I don't think we're the honest blokes down the pub, we're not kooky weirdos either. We're just what we are." A decent image, though, is still worth a thousand songs (ask Marilyn Manson), and if it's not their Englishness that holds Suede back in the U.S., then it has to be their appearance. They look weird. Catch the "Beautiful Ones" video: Codling apes the same abstracted pose of diffidence and boredom that once made a star of Sparks' Ron Mael; and Osman and Oakes look like they're trying to extinguish a particularly persistent cigarette end. Their singer is fey. Imagine Bryan Ferry if a stick insect stole his trousers. Their music is arty. And they come on like they're somehow special, so special that America poses little interest or challenge to Suede. Other bands make no secret of their desire to crack the country, nor do they hide their disgust when they fail. Suede, though, never seemed bothered. Past U.S. tours (three so far) have been languid affairs, barely publicized flirtations which almost gratefully acknowledge that as far as most people are concerned, Suede might as well be a lesbian performing artist. Anderson dictates the band's Stateside manifesto: "I don't give a shit." "Don't get me wrong: please don't portray us as some sort of anti-American thing, because we're not. But as far as America is concerned, you can talk about airplay and videos, but all it really boils down to is the fact that America doesn't like Suede. And I'm not going to knock it, if they don't like it, they don't like it." And what don't they like? Kurt Cobain had a tummy ache, and a nation felt his pain. Trent Reznor's dog died, and a nation held his hand. Brett Anderson wrote songs about holes in your arm ("The Living Dead") and pantomime horses ("Pantomime Horse"); he equates love with flyaway litter ("Trash"), and he's never been in rehab. "I hate that rehab shit! That's one place where America get really suckered, with those rehab rock bands. Let me explain what going into rehab means. It means you're cool because you used to do drugs, but now you're a good lad, and you're really '90s, so you want to give them up. But it's a complete excuse, and anybody who says it or does it is a complete careerist. I don't think the public shoulg go out and buy records by people whose record companies have told them to say they're going into rehab. You want to talk about fakes and falseness in the music business; I think this rehab rock thing is such a lot of dog shit." So you don't just say no? "I can't sit here and honestly say that drugs are bad for you, because I don't believe that, and I don't think anybody with a brain believes that." He elaborates: "Smoking a bit of pot and taking a bit of LSD can open a few barriers in your mind, although I certainly don't think taking smack, taking coke or taking crack does anything. I know I've taken drugs before and looked back on it and said, 'That's fucking crap; you should have got your act together and stopped taking them.' They just numb you and turn you into a wrong-thinking fucking idiot. "But that's the whole problem with drugs, isn't it? You can't say 'drugs' because there's so many different factes to it. 'It's an aid to creativity.' Well, some of it is, and some of it isn't. You can't paint everything with one brush." As for the veneer of glamour which Suede's own observations convey, the danger that, to quote the new album's "The Chemistry Between Us," "we are young and easily led," Anderson remains equally adamant. "There's no point in trying to filter things like 'Don't talk about this, don't talk about that.' Lots of times when I'm talking about drugs, I'm talking in a pedestrian context. I'm not trying to make it into a big deal; I talk about it like I'd talk about anything else that's in this room." And though he agrees there is a moral question, he also believes it's impossible to do much about it. "The only way you can set yourself up as something moral is in the broader sense, by not treating music as this completely throwaway, meaningless thing, and not treating the sentiments expressed in the music as completely throwaway, meaningless things. "That's where I see my position morally, someone who can write a love song and actually bring a degree of warmth to someone else. You can't act as censor in your words; you just have to be positive about what you're doing and see that making records that people love, that people cling to, and that help people through sticky patches in their lives is, at the end of the day, a positive thing to do. There's very few things I think that are positive in the world, but music is one of them." And that is that. In an age when a star is only as big as his last three videos, and most stars are as interesting as a line at the post office, Suede are three albums into a career that means more to more people than any of the bickering of Suede's petty, wormwood competitors; and certainly far more than the bitter, twisted harping of their detractors. Stars shine, shit stinks, and the lowest common denominator is nothing to be proud of. No one really wants to watch Hootie feed his blowfish, but Brett Anderson spends "Saturday Night" moping around on a subway train, and it's the best thing on MTV this year. Who cares what else he gets up to? Turning as he heads for the soundstage, Anderson won't be drawn. "My drugs of choice are ginseng and chamomile tea, but don't worry. I'm going into rehab soon."

[airi-p4]

What’s lacking

Rated T just in case.

Summary: After dating happily for 6 months, Marinette starts feeling something is lacking in her relationship with Luka. On the other hand. the young man can’t figure out what’s making his girlfriend unhappy. Can they save their relationship?

Thanks to @livrever​ for the check!

AO3

______________________________

Luka still couldn’t believe how lucky he was.

It had been 6 months since Marinette returned his feelings and agreed to date him for real. 6 happy months of calming melodies, sweet kisses, softer touches and gentle intimacy. 6 romantic months full of happiness.

At least on his behalf.

It was now their 7th month together and he perceived something was wrong. The guitarist suspected his girlfriend didn’t feel the same way about him anymore. NO- he could actually hear it from the song of her heart, sincere as a melody, but sounding off tune from time to time. And even if he knew something was not right, he couldn’t bring out the courage to ask her.

He was afraid of her answer. Afraid of losing her. Scared of not being good enough for her.

__________________________

Marinette knew something was off with her. Not that she didn’t know exactly what- she knew perfectly. And she knew her distress was the reason of everything: her sadness included. She could feel how Luka seemed to be distancing from her little by little every day. And she hated it. He didn’t deserve to be hurt. He didn’t deserve to be unhappy either. She wanted him the happiest, like she had been from when they started dated half a year ago until recently. She was aware it was all her fault - her feelings fault -, and she also knew how Luka could tell her heartsong’s tune was off even when he never mentioned it. But she still could say nothing.

She was scared. Scared to hurt his feelings, scared of rejection. Scared to see disappointment and heartbreak in his eyes.

___________________________

Knowing something was off made both sides uneasy. Their time together didn’t seem as happy anymore. Their kisses had involuntary gotten colder. Their phone calls and texts had considerably decreased. Their affection and intimacy time was almost nonexistent.  They still had dates, but there were subtle actions that showed how their relationship was starting to deteriorate. Like every time she noticed how he avoided her shoulder touching his arm, the distance between them widened. Or when she hesitated to hold his hand or return his kisses, that became to feel soulless, coming out more from a routine instead of love. Confusion and sadness was standing in the path of their love. They didn’t know how to go back to their previous lovey-dovey relationship anymore.

As days went by, the pain in their hearts kept progressively growing. And it hurt. Yet neither called their relationship off. Neither attempted to. Neither dared to even talk about the matter: they were too scared speaking those words could make the pain even more unbearable, and neither of them wanted that.

They endured it. But growing distant and colder, was unsustainable for a relationship, unavoidable too. And they both were well aware of it, passively waiting for the other to speak up, neither of them bidding on it.

At the end, it was Luka the first one who decided to shove away his fears and ask directly to his girlfriend. It took him every drop of inner determination to face his girlfriend with the talk he had been avoiding for days. Yet her happiness was more valuable for him than all his existence, and that’s what drove him to speak, stopping from walking during their date and calling for her attention, serious, hurt, gazing directly to her eyes - the called window to her heart.  Everything he wished was for her to be happy. And she wasn’t. At least not right now. Not with him. And he had to fix it. Even if it meant a dead end for him.

“Marinette. I don’t think this is working anymore” he finally said, swallowing his fears, staring at her unsurprised eyes.

His loved one stared back at him, sad and scared, knowing the words about to come out of his mouth soon. The words bound to break her heart. And his too.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong? Is it something I’ve done? Have you fallen out of love with me? Maybe you were not ready to move on from Adrien? Just tell me, Marinette. I can accept that. But I need to know, because I love you and I can’t bear it to see you unhappy with me anymore” Luka stated, waiting for her answer.

Marinette’s eyebrows curved up, frowning closer together, eyes narrowing from the tears forming at the verge of her blue sapphires. Her lips were pressed together, impeding any words from leaving out her throat.

Luka gazed at her, with a hurt look in his eyes. He waited for her to say something, but only some hiccups and a little cry could be heard. He wanted to hold her so bad. But he couldn’t. He didn’t dare to. He needed to be sure she wanted that first, and he didn’t know that anymore. He hadn’t known for days.

Luka left a loud sigh out, dejected.

“That’s not it…” she finally managed to say, still tearing up. “I love you, Luka. I really do. It’s just…” she broke eye contact and looked at her feet, tears falling down her cheeks, voice broken in a shy cry.

“Just what, Marinette? What am I lacking? Just tell me! You know I won’t judge you. You know I’m ok with you having your own secrets too. But this can’t continue. Whatever is going on your mind, whatever I’m lacking, is making our relationship crumble. I know you’re not happy anymore. And all I’ve always wanted is your happiness. Even if it’s not with me. I have the impression you would be happier without me at this point...” he said, his fist clenching in frustration, avoiding looking directly at her, teeth pressed together.

Marinette’s cry intensified, although she still managed to keep it silent. Her hands had moved to cover her face, hiding her tears. A knot had formed in her throat, impeding her to speak. She felt a heavy need for air. Suddenly, her back bent forward and her breathing intensified, rhythmically, her heart rate dangerously getting faster. She couldn’t catch up on her breath, panting, rapidly gasping for oxygen.

“Marinette! Are you ok!? Breath, please!”

Luka panicked at the view of the lady he loved suffering. One of his hands moved to her back for a moment, in a comforting manner. He then took a paper bag from Marinette’s handbag and gave it to aid her breathing. “Calm down and breathe slowly, inside the bag. I’m here, ok?” He said, caressing her back. “It’s ok, baby. It’s ok… Slowly...”

Marinette’s tears were still flowing from her eyes as she breathed inside the bag, gradually recovering her normal breathing rhythm. She finally calmed down after a few minutes, inhaling and exhaling big and slow, eyes closed as her tears started to dry out a little. Luka sighed in relief, hugging her softly. “Don’t scare me like that again, please…” he whispered, kissing her hair.

Marinette hugged him back, tightly, her head pressed strongly against his chest, mumbling something Luka couldn’t catch well. “...so scared…” she had managed to say, in a very low voice, tears forming in her eyes again.

Even if the fashion designer couldn’t hear heart songs or melodies, she could hear Luka’s heartbeat, calming yet powerful, louder than she had ever witnessed. Luka’s embrace had a healing effect on her, always had. The soft pats he was giving to her back seemed to be helping too. She felt mistakenly prepared to meet her boyfriend’s gaze, but she was taken aback by the sorrow and hurt projected in his caring ocean colored-eyes.

Marinette felt horrible. She was the reason of his hurt. She was the reason he was suffering. She was reason for their unhappiness. Her insecurity was. She knew she loved him. And yet, those gloomy eyes... she couldn’t stare at them any second longer without breaking again.

“Sorry!” she cried, pushing him abruptly from his embrace before starting running as fast as she could, without looking back.

The boy called out for her “Marinette!”, chasing after her footsteps, desperately, but he couldn’t catch her. She disappeared from sight, as if she had just evaporated in front of his eyes as soon as she turned around the deserted corner.

Luka didn’t notice how Ladybug was gazing mournfully at him from a roof nearby. And even if he had noticed, he wasn’t aware of Marinette’s secret identity to understand her sudden disappearance or the reason for Paris superhero’s unenergetic and sad look. And, with his head facing down and his hands covering his watery blue eyes, the young man wouldn’t have been able to see it, anyway. He couldn’t see anything else than the obscure pain engraved in his heart.

Luka’s body felt exhausted. He didn’t want to go back home. He didn’t wish to go anywhere or to do anything at all. Not even playing his guitar or listening to music, his favourite activities. He just wanted Marinette’s happiness. And he didn’t know how to make her lively anymore - How could he bring back the shining, bright, funny Marinette he fell in love with at first sight? He had no answer to that question.

He let his weight rest on a bench of a park nearby, thinking about his loved one and the recent events, regret started taking form in his thoughts. He had been tempted to send Marinette a message, but he didn’t feel steady enough to. Instead, he turned off his phone- missing the akuma alert that arrived just one minute later.

Ladybug’s cheeks and hands were covered in tears when the akuma alert arrived on her bug-phone. The sight of her boyfriend being heartbroken because of her was wounding her, interfering with her superhero job. She didn’t feel like moving. She couldn’t. Not even when the akuma found and attacked Paris spotted superhero directly, sending a dark arrow towards her.

“Ladybug! Look out!”

Chat Noir’s voice made Ladybug snap out of her thoughts, destroying the arrow with his baton. Only then she noticed the akuma approaching, taking his time looking for someone on the street.

“Dark cupid again, huh? The poor guy has no chance against me! I’m full of love and love is invincible! Right, Bug?” he winked at her, grinning, pointing his stick at the akuma, preparing to defend himself from his attacks.

“Thank you, Chat” Ladybug smiled softly at him, with a hurt that didn’t pass uncalled to her Black Cat partner. “Can I leave the akuma to you today? I’m a mess today and... I’m only going to be in the way...” she sobbed in a low heartbroken voice, tears threatening to spill out again.

“What’s wrong, Bug? What happened? This is not like you. We’re a team. We fight together” Chat Noir placed his hand over her shoulder in a reassuring way, trying to understand and lift her spirits up. He was worried. He had never seen Ladybug in such a fragile state before. Not in the 5 years they’ve been fighting together.

Ladybug burst out into a cry, hugging Chat, who somehow managed to avoid the arrows directed against them meanwhile. “I’ve lost boyfriend, Chat. I broke his heart and I can’t… I can’t-“

“Hey, Bug. It’s ok. There’s nothing you can’t fix, right? You’re the amazing Ladybug! You’ll be fine, I promise” he smiled at her, giving some encouragement. His happiness was contagious and the spotted Lady felt slightly better. She broke the hug and smiled back at him.

“Thank you Chat… You seem happy”

In which Chat grin widened as he prepared to strike against the akuma.

“I am! I’m dating this amazing girl since last week and I couldn’t be happier! But I’m not letting my partner and best friend down. Let’s take down this akuma, Bug! For this city and its people too! What do you say?”

“Always!” she smiled. “Thank you, Chat...” added Ladybug, getting ready to take her part in the battle as Chat Noir charged over the akuma. “Lucky Charm!”

Hawk Moth noticed through Dark Cupid’s eyes how Ladybug seemed to be less focused than usual and decided to take the chance. The evil man ordered the akuma to focus on her, who had now an angry look on her face - contrary to the grin of her partner. Through the years, he had noticed how she lost it when innocent people were attacked and decided it would be a good start to distract her. Following the orders, Dark Cupid started flying multiple arrows at once at multiple people standing on the street, as if it was raining dark arrows all over the street.

“Watch out, the akuma is aiming at citizens now!!” Chat Noir shouted, shoving his baton at the black-winged akuma, who was throwing another rain of arrows, this time over the park.

Ladybug’s eyes showed a never before seen panic in her superhero gaze, as she looked at the park and observed how Luka was still seated on that bench, looking down, his mind blank, unaware of his surroundings - not even the arrow about to fall on him. ‘Oh no! Please, no! Not Luka! Not now!’ she thought, hurrying in alarm.

“LUKA! Watch out!”

Ladybug’s voice sounded desperate, frantic even, in a broken shriek, loud enough to be heard all over Paris. Her body moved on her own to protect the young man she was in love with, but not even superhero speed could match the speed of an arrow combined with gravity in its favor.

Luka gazed up the sky, blinded by the sun. He saw something approaching from over him, and instinctively covered himself with his arms, knowing it was too close to be avoided. Before being hit by the arrow, he saw a red figure covering the sun. And Luka thought it looked like an angel… Like his angel Marinette, coming to get him to heaven.

Ladybug reached Luka’s position too late: the arrow had already hit him. She hugged him tightly, and waited, with her face only a few centimeters apart from him, her gaze focusing on his about to turn black lips. The lips she had kissed multiple times and she loved. She secured his grip with her arms, immobilizing him, who just looked back at her in confusion, with deep sad eyes. She was so concentrated staring his lips she didn't notice another arrow shower coming towards them, Hawkmoth taking his chance to try to get rid of Ladybug and seize her miraculous at last.

“Ladybug, watch out! Focus!!” shouted Chat, activating his ‘cataclysm’.

But Ladybug was more worried for Luka than for herself, her stare still unmoved from his unchanging lips. And she was about to be hit.

The end. Game over.

But just at the last moment, Luka stepped in between, shoving her on the floor, covering her with his body over hers, getting hit again by the arrows in her place, multiple times.

Ladybug left a broken cry at the sight, Luka’s body protecting hers, hurting sounds leaving his mouth. Ladybug gasped and tried to shove him off of her, but he was stronger than her and had an immovable determination. Ladybug broke into a cry “No! Luka, no..! Stop it…!”

But Luka smiled at her. “Love always wins over hate. Isn’t it what you said? I told you I could never hate you, Marinette” he said, surprising the red-suited hero.

“How…?”

Luka smiled at her question, while she hugged him tightly, corresponded by her boyfriend. The answer was easy, but he kept it to himself.

One minute had been enough for Luka to realize her loved one was behind the red-spotted mask. The closeness of their faces allowed him to stare and notice the unmistaken stains of darker blue on her majestic eyes, perfectly positioned in the exact same spots of his girlfriend’s, same sizes too. And, the still noticeable puffiness for her cry, along with her soft perfectly shaped lips and her sweet fragrance, cleared all his final doubts.

Marinette was Ladybug.

It made sense. Everything: The secrets. The excuses. The constantly interrupted dates. Her athletic form. Her secret night chats and disappearances... How had he failed to see? He missed half of her true self: half of her tune and song. Of course she had to be upset, unconfident, even. Everything was his fault for not noticing Marinette’s full picture: a lady even more incredible than he already knew she already was.

“NOOOO!” Hawkmoth screamed as Chat Noir defeated the akuma.

“Ladybug! The akuma! Hurry up before it escapes!” Chat called from far away.

Ladybug looked up to meet Luka’s eyes. Luka recognized that look: she didn’t want to separate from him. He couldn’t help it but to smile softly at her reaction.

“Go. I’ll wait for you here. Don’t worry, I’m not leaving” he gave her a peck on her cheek which made Ladybug smile, blushing a little.

“I’ll be right back”

Ladybug threw her yo-yo and jumped to the roof Chat Noir was waiting for her, out of Luka’s vision. The boy couldn’t help it but to grin, happily. Marinette was Ladybug. She had always been. And she had even trusted him with a Miraculous. Just how amazing was his girlfriend? How could he be dumb enough to even think of breaking up with her? She loved him, just as much as he loved her. All the pieces matched: the score he had been unable to finish was finally complete- the song that perfectly described her heart.

“Miraculous Ladybug!”

__________________________

After parting ways with Chat Noir, Ladybug returned to where Luka was, waiting for her as he promised. After a little bow in apologize from both sides, Ladybug took him back to his apartment, far away from the curious Parisians gazes. As soon as they entered the living room through his balcony, she called her transformation off, giving Tikki a cookie before she hid in the drawer she used to sleep in when Marinette stayed over her boyfriend’s.

The tension on the air was noticeable. Marinette couldn’t speak and she kept her face looking down, afraid of her boyfriend’s reaction at her unplanned identity reveal. But Luka threw himself to hug Marinette tightly, loving, caring. And she finally could breathe again, her arms at his back upper back.

“I’m so sorry, Marinette” He said. “I’m sorry for not noticing earlier. It must have been hard for you, wasn’t it? Keeping your identity a secret, always putting yourself in danger in order to protect Paris… I’m sorry for not noticing earlier… I’ve been ignoring the other you- the ladybug you. Forgive me, baby”

Luka held his girlfriend even closer, sinking his nose in her hair, making Marinette smile gently.

“No, Luka. It’s not your fault… It’s my fault. You weren’t supposed to know… You AREN’T supposed to know” she pressed her lips together, pausing before speaking again. “But I’m happy to finally lose this burden. I’ve been carrying it with me since I was 13, always alone... I’m happy I can stop keeping this secret from you. It’s been.. extremely frustrating… The lies, the responsibilities…”

Marinette then patted his back slightly, asking him to face her with her touch. Her face was slightly red, but she wanted to face him honestly. Especially after how their relationship deteriorated over the past days. Luka looked softly at her waiting to hear her voice again.  

“I love you, Luka. I don’t want us to be apart…” and his face lifted bright, cupping his face with his hands.

“I don’t want either, Marinette. I love you. Let me try to make you happy again. This time I have the whole picture. I promise you this time I’ll cover for what I’m lacking” he pressed his lips on hers softly in a rapid kiss. “I love brave, confident Marinette as much as I love your sweet quiet self. You don’t need to repress yourself anymore when you are with me. If there’s anything I can do to make you happy, you just need to tell me”

“I… I’m scared, Luka… I don’t want you to hate me…” she hesitated.

“I could never hate you, Marinette. I LOVE you. As you are. Your complete self. Just give me a chance. Trust me. Like you trusted me with the Snake Miraculous before. We’re a couple, aren’t we?”

Luka caressed her cheeks with his hands as he spoke, squeezing them a little at the end in an affectionate teasing way. Marinette smiled and moved her hands over his, squeezing them softly before linking fingers with him and lower them down, locked together as she spoke.

“Luka… You know I love being with you… Our time together has been the happiest in my whole life. I feel safe around you. Relaxed and calmed… You have the power to heal my heart. I feel at home when I’m with you” she smiled a little before giving him a small peck on his lips, making him go to heaven for a second. But she continued speaking. She needed to make clear what was on her head those lasts days their relationship almost collapsed. “But…”

“But you’re Ladybug. I think I understand what I’m lacking now” he interrupted her, with a shy and knowing smile.

“You do?” Marinette asked in surprise, blushing slightly.

“Yeah. I think I get it. The thrill, the adrenaline, the excitement of action... That’s what I missed, isn’t it? I was trying to help you relax and calm down in a passive manner, but Ladybug- Marinette enjoys some action just as much, doesn’t she?” he smiled at her.

“I… Wow… Yes…” astonished of how well her boyfriend knew her. But that wasn’t all she wanted him to know. “I mean- not exactly but… something similar, yes” she answered, shyly, lowering her face in embarrassment from expressing herself better. “You know I love how you always make sure I’m comfortable, or how you always ask for permission for anything. It’s very sweet and I feel your love and caring, but... I can’t help it to… to wish-”

“I was bolder” he surprised her again with his answer, making her heart pound faster and her cheeks red.

“Yes…” she answered, the color in her cheeks turning more intense. “I know you love me but you are always so collected… I can’t understand how you do it. I can’t help to want more of you. I want you to desire me as much as I desire you.”

“Marinette, I desire you. More than you think… It’s always hard for me to restrain myself to touch you or to kiss you, I can’t help it but want more of it” he sincere to her, flushing in embarrassment “It’s the same for me, Marinette... I desire you but I don’t want to be hated if I end up doing something you don’t want me to. I’m scared of hurting you. Afraid of losing you. And I want to respect your wishes, since I treasure your happiness more than anything…” He smiled as she hugged him again, glad her feelings were reciprocated.

“I was so scared… I thought I had lost you…” she sobbed a little, holding on his arms.

“I wish you had told me you felt like this, Marinette. You know I wouldn’t judge you. It would make me the happiest man alive if I can make you happy”

“But what if you hated me or thought I was being rude or even pe-pe-perverted… or something like that? I would hate it if you fell out of love with me! I care too much about you to part ways… And yet today… All this happened… I’m so sorry...”

“Marinette, you should have known me better. I could never hate you. You saw it yourself: not even an akuma can make me hate you” He caressed her cheeks “And hearing you want to enjoy more ‘action’ with me makes me the happiest man alive. Is it really OK if I don’t restrain myself anymore? Think about it, because if you say yes there’s no turning back”

Marinette could tell he was asking seriously, his face very close to hers. She could see what it seemed like his true unleashed desired for the first time in his eyes, and could feel how her lips would brush his as soon as she moved them to answer. And she wished nothing more than the love of her boyfriend, answer clearly decided for weeks.

“Yes, I-”

She couldn’t finish the sentence as Luka captured her lips, in hunger, his tongue deep inside her mouth, teasing hers to follow up with his. His hands were on the back of Marinette’s head, pulling her towards him to deepen the kiss. Marinette couldn’t hide her surprise, but she immediately responded his kiss. Unsure of how to proceed with her tongue, she just followed his, savouring every inch of his mouth. Marinette’s hands soon moved to his hair, pulling him even closer. They didn’t care if their teeth clacked awkwardly while learning to process their hunger - Their desire was uncontrollable, only stopped to catch some air.

“Told you” Luka said between gasps, catching his breath.

But Marinette impatiently pulled him again, lips crashing as their mouth opened. They moaned in pleasure as their tongues danced together. Luka could feel his erection out of control. He pulled her body closer, growling in need before stopping the kiss to speak.

“Marinette. I hope you’re ok with it, but I want you in my bed. NOW”

“Shhhh...” Marinette whispered, mimicking ‘Silencer’, his akumatized self. Her shush was followed by one more deep kiss, passionate and rough, she took the chance to steal when he opened his mouth to say something. He clearly understood what she meant with it, and proceeded to lift her body and carry it to his bed, with Marinette giving him repeated passionate little kisses around his neck.

No more words were spoken that night. Instead, only sounds of pleasure, unrestrained and loud, barely able to be controlled too, was all that could be heard.

FIN

[inspirationdivine]

Let The Right One In || Orobas and Lydia

Timing: Current  Parties: @inspirationdivine @eldonash Summary: These violent delights have violent ends.  Warnings: head trauma, (intense) gore, stalking,  suffocation

The night was perfect. It was cloudy, the moon hanging low and heavy, with the light catching the clouds to make the sky appear beautiful and dimensional against the darkness. He had even gotten a bit distracted with admiring it while he walked up to the familiar house. Orobas stopped just outside the home, a tilt to his head that could appear curious in nature. The ache that had made his life almost unbearable these past weeks was gone, but the hunger it left was all consuming. His tongue darted out, licking his lips in pre-emptive want as flashes of his desires were soon coming to light. With confident steps he walked up the back door, hand on the handle with pause-- he pushed it open. The hinges creaked slightly, but the breeze of cool air conditioned air and homey scents blew into his face. A shiver raked over him as he took a step inside, permission granted, and his red eyes almost glowed in the dark space as he closed it behind him. It was quiet, but not vacant. Moving carefully, Orobas made his way in.

Lydia was idly humming in the living room, swaying her body back and forth to Chopin playing as she idly texted people. Her mind drifted to the poisoning, to Remmy needing their stomach cut out, to Jared. Lydia blinked, clicking send on the text to Morgan, and scrolled through her contacts list. An unusual amount of spam seemed to have found her the last few days, but two glasses of wine into her evening, Lydia couldn’t find it in herself to care, instead smiling at the message from Deirdre buried in the midst of it all. Completely self involved, she didn’t hear anything. 

Orobas paused as the music came into the space, the sway of her body, and relaxed state almost hypnotising. He didn’t savor much when it came to hunting. He was a violent killer, someone that hacked people up and watched them die in horrible ways. Orobas’ observed her for many minutes, a dark shadow in the edge of sight from another room. Desires to simply go in there was almost overwhelming, and his features changed more monstrously as he stood there. With a turn away he made towards her bathroom, toying with the facets like they were enticing treasure. Old memories pulsed in the back of his mind from the environment, many faces blurred from the water as they screamed under it up at him. He smiled, a dark chuckle carved out of him as he turned the handle to let it begin to fill up. Sitting on the edge, waiting. 

Lydia paused. Was that water running? Had someone left a tap on? “Chlo?” No response. Tilting her head, Lydia walked to the kitchen, setting her phone on the coffee table with a frown. The kitchen was as pristinely clean as she’d left it, marble surfaces shining in the light. Whatever tap was running, it wasn’t in here. “Sammy?” Upstairs, perhaps. It must be, really. Lydia finished off her wine, humming to herself as she walked upstairs. The place had grown so much quieter without Remmy or Moose’s presence. Idyllic piano followed her up the stairs. “Hey, can you-“ Lydia froze in the hall, staring into the main bathroom. Her heart stopped. “You’re not- You can’t-“

Water cascaded into the tub, a rushed, constant noise that filled the space. When she stuttered in surprise, it was savored. Gaze on hers, taking it all in, from the smallest detail and the entire package. Why didn’t he do this more often? Haxian was already in his head, even now warning him in his own overbearing and consuming way. Orobas hummed in pleasure as he looked at her. A low sound, that stretched his lips into a wide smile, but it shifted quickly and he chuckled then, the sound crescendoed up until he was genuinely laughing at her richly. “You can’t--” Orobas repeated, voice playful. Eyes alight in wonder and cruelty. “How amusing. Do you know that I’ve gone decades without this desire? This game, this push and pull. It’s been interesting, but you know-- it’s been a little in your favor, no?” The singsong, mocking tone changed at the end, the ‘no’ sounding more like a period then a question to be answered. “Lydia,” Orobas rose up, tucking his hands by his side. “When this tub fills-- you will die.”

The first thing Lydia managed to think was that she was exposed. She was in a long green satin dress, and leopard spot pattern slippers. She wasn’t wearing any make up nor any glamour. It was a silly, trite thing to think about as she swallowed, but as he perched on the edge of the bath, she could help the comparison to his blue suit. Clothes were armour, after all, and Jesus Christ there was a murderous, soulless vampire in her home. Lydia whimpered, turning her gaze to the water in the bath, slowly filling up. “I didn’t- I didn’t invite you in.” What if she just reached across him to turn the water off. What if she pushed him into the water? What if- She took a step back. This was Marley's vision all over again. It has to be. A couple deep breaths and the Mara would be leaning over her, reassuring her. The alternative was too impossible to imagine. "You're lying. You can't hurt me."

“Hm, so it seems you didn’t,” Orobas shrugged. The water continued to fill the tub, it’s bubbling and splashing noise a pleasing background to his ears. He smoothed down the non-existent wrinkles to the front of his vest, before he pulled the jacket off in an easy motion and draped it on the counter. He began opening cabinets, looking for towels, and paused only to roll up the sleeves of his long sleeve shirt as she took a step back. Orobas matched and took a step forward, not calmly, but a disjointed, blur of motion that put him right before her, and he cocked his head a little, tongue just touching his lips, and the edge of his fangs. His hand rested on her lower back and pulled her in close so he could look her right in the eye, the lack of glamour barely important though it was difficult to deny their presence without it. “I have never lied to you,” Orobas said quietly in threat between them, the slow thud of a pulse absolutely heaven to his ears, and his fangs ached in pleasing ways, the thin skin around his jaw and cheeks scared in pocket marks from before. “Come on-- do something. You are running out of time to play.”

“You’re lyi-” The words died in her throat as he appeared suddenly in front of her, Lydia looking up at the scars she’d made, divots and twisting skin that would not heal back for ever such a long time. Her mouth ran dry, and when Lydia tried to find in herself the promises that trapped him to her, her heart began to hammer. There were hundreds of threads inside her trying hundreds of people and humans to her whims, but none that held her safe from him. He’d broken it, somehow. Where his hand sat on her, her skin crawled. The water continued to pour into the bath, changing pitch and sound as the pool slowly got deeper. Lydia forced herself to open her eyes and look at the bath, begging herself to move. He’d frozen her in place, her body revolting against being so close to him. The bath was a third of the way full, counting down to- no. No. Lydia inhaled sharply, and twisted out of his grasp, her wings jerking open as she dived down the stairs, landing heavily on her feet. Lydia looked behind her briefly, before sprinting to her front door. 

This game with Lydia aided him in his current evolution. Perhaps he was stagnant for too many decades, edging closer towards transforming into an Elder without tampering down the chaos he unleashed so easily. It was always a gory mess with him, but there was a calm, quiet, storm within Orobas right now, one that was groomed from his age, and now fine-tuned to enjoy the fear. All of him ached for a release, but he remained on the cusp over giving in. He appeared down the steps, matching her movement. The brief look she gave back towards him not showing his form at the top of the stairs, but behind her. With glowing red eyes that almost trailed in wisps of delayed light as his hand grabbed the base of her left wing and twisted with a threatened creek to throw her towards the living room. 

His cold, viperous hand caught her wing at the muscled joint by her back, jerking Lydia back and dragging her escape out of reach. Lydia’s muscles popped and spasmed as he twisted, before pulling her backward. Lydia smacked into the back of her lily-white couch with a ground, collapsed against the marble floor. “Chloe!” She screamed. “Sam!” Lydia scrabbled back to her feet, kicking off her slippers as she rushed for the counter, she’d left her phone on. Lydia reached for it as she tried to run by, but her hand hit air. It was gone. It wasn’t there. She stared at the blank space too long, before running to the French windows along the back and trying frantically to open them. 

Her scream was everything. Orobas stood a moment and savored it. The windows rattled loudly in exposed desperation with her tugging, and though his face held a stoic stillness, a curl of amusement did surface under it. The entire house seemed to quiet to nothing, less the amplified sound of pouring of water upstairs in threat and reminder. Orobas couldn’t help himself, her back to him again was so enticing. Flashes of other women overlaid the visual as he walked in, hundreds of years, different locations all over the world. The same reactions, the same fear. Immortality only ever proved so many moments could exist, and how some could be replayed. A yawned hungered ache had his fangs elongating to their longest position, stretching his jaw in inhuman ways as he darted forward. With a back hand, he struck her without holding back his strength. The sound alone like a crack of lightning in the home. “Stay down,” he warned. “Look at me.”

Her fingers fumbled the door latch, and just as it clicked the vampire was there, his arm a blur before it collided with the side of her head. Lydia dropped like a rag doll, vision blacking out. When it came back, she stared up at those red, nightmarish eyes, that blurred and danced and doubled in her vision. He told her to stay down, to look at her, and the world between them reeled so violently Lydia had little choice in the matter. Pain radiated like lightning bolts from the side of her face, shooting right down her spine and across her face. She rolled over, not to crawl away but to spit out a glob of blood. If she stayed there, her death was inevitable. If she stood- Lydia groaned, getting her knees under her.  She wouldn’t succumb quietly. Heart pounding, head reeling, she crawled away from him.

Her heartbeat became the loudest sound in the house. For a delirious moment, he almost forgot about the water rising upstairs. Hunger swelled within him, heavier than lead, and had he been any other age but the one he was at, that control would have burned away everything else into a feeding frenzy. His nail tucked under his fang, nipping the hardened edge. All of him ached denying himself a taste, a bite-- but Orobas never was one to mix feeding into those he wanted to murder. It really was a different headspace-- premeditated. “Okay--” the word was calm, like he was simply confirming, but it seemed once more an ending to something. He walked forward, reaching down to wrap a cold, bruising grip around her ankle, and began dragging her through the house at a slow pace and headed for the steps. 

“No, no, no!” Lydia screamed as her leg was pulled out from underneath her, her ears rang as he twisted her around and began dragging her back through the hall. She grabbed at everything, her acrylic nails scraping futilely along the marble floor. She grabbed the leg of the couch, which just buckled and scraped like nails on a chalkboard as it was dragged along the floor with her. “Stop, STOP!” She screamed, trying to kick back at him, wishing beyond anything she’d kept her stilettos on this evening. “Sam! SAMMY!” The couch caught in the doorway, crushing her hand between it and the doorframe, but like fuck was she letting go. Through the searing pain pounding through her head, she tried to figure out a plan. Holy water in her purse, gun in her office, knives in the kitchen. Lydia screamed again as her muscles burned under the effort of holding herself in place. Her devout humans? Already dead. They had to be, to not be answering her call. Lydia squeezed her eyes shut and prayed, kicking harder as if she might possibly shake him loose. Alone. She was alone.

Orobas needed to remove her mobility. The small bones in her ankle cracked with an audible sound as he used all of his strength to yanked her towards him, uncaring for the damage. He took hits and kicks, anything she gave him, in order to get her onto her stomach, and pushed his hand up her back until it was the base of her wing. The fluttered twitch of it, the bewitching charm of the Fae always hypnotising, but the one he loved didn’t have pretty, sparkling beauty. She was draped in darkness, hugged by fear. “I may give you insight, Lydia,” Orobas admitted. The sound like a piece of paper being slowly torn was heard, but it wasn’t such-- as he curled his hand around her left wing and flattened it towards the ground, twisting it, as it cracked, splintered, and severed from the base with agonizingly slow torture. “I am the worst monster you could have ran into that day. How unlucky. I have done this hundreds of thousands of times. Your life is nothing but gratification for me within this small moment. Afterward, you will be among the rest as I find another to bring this same feeling back. How does that feel, hm? To be one, insignificant number.” He tore her wing clean off.  

Pain shattered her concentration as it shot up her leg, bones creaking against each other than cracking like popcorn on the stove. Lydia screamed as he pulled on the broken like and the door frame splintered, shredding the back of her hand, awareness growing that he'd pull her shoulder out before ever letting her go. She dropped the couch, grabbing at the splinters as he pushed her onto her front. Lydia froze as he touched her back, wrapping his hand around her wing. With just that touch, he has knocked all of the resistance out of her, her heart jackhammering against the floor. "Please," she breathed, trembling. She tried to use the hard-beetle shells that attached above her wings to push away his hand, but those muscles were not made to be strong, and the shell, while hard, could not carry much force. Both wings fluttered feebly as he began to talk. It was just him, and the sound of her rabbit-like breathing.

Lydia screamed as he squeezed his fist, shattering the chitin cuticle. The muscle controlling her flight wrapped right around her chest, contracting agonisingly as her ligaments popped and tore, pulling on her spine and the pain ripped through her nerves like a lightning bolt. Her scream died in her throat as her dress suddenly soaked right through. Blood, Lydia thought weakly, as it spurted out of the torn stump on her back and poured out of the wing, he now held above her. Some primal instinct pushed her to roll over, to trap the bleeding against the weight of the floor. She stared at him with wet, glassy eyes, her strength fading out of her with every beat of her heart. Her gaze fixed on the crumpled and cracked wing in his hand, sinew and glowing skin dangling bloodily from the end of it.

He tossed her wing on the ground with a splatter, uncaring, and cruel. Orobas hoisted her up like a corpse bride, the white long-sleeved button down he was wearing drenched red in his front. Still, he calmly carried her up the stairs, each step bloody on the marble, on the wood as this agonizing march. The tub was just at the edge, not a drop having spilled over. He reached down to stop it, creating quiet in the room. He paused over it. Looking down at her, the state of the bruise on her face, the ashen hue overtaking from the loss of blood. His smile stretched exposing white, sharp fangs, and the blackened scarring along his gums from the holy water. “Hmm,” with that sound, he dropped her into the tub.

Orobas staggered minutely as old memories played over, warnings thundered in his mind that this ran risk of drawing attention from the FBI, but such ancient feelings were enticing. He wanted to feel them again. Haxian’s presence surfaced in his mind, and he knew he was on the roof. Close by as always. 

‘Do it.’ Haxian said in those seconds of Lydia’s fall towards the water. The room fell away like he was but standing on the edge of the world. 

‘Master--’ Orobas said as the water cascaded up and over the edge from her impact. Haxian’s sweet and youthful laugh was heard from above the ceiling. Seeming to understand everything without saying anything at all. Orobas pushed his arm into the tub and held her under. 

‘I know.’ Haxian said. 

The two words burned in his mind, his master always attuned to his emotions, knowing more than he ever told him. Shaping the situations. Haxian forever intertwined with him, and it felt like it was part of his hands in the water as much as Orobas’. He kept holding her under the water, no matter the struggle, the mess, or the noise. 

‘I want more.’ Orobas admitted. ‘I want so much more.’ The swirl of hunger was pounding like a drum in the back of his mind. Chaos this war cry in the background, a high-pitched whine in his ears. Haxian hummed within his mind and responded. ‘Then finish it. We can get into more.’ 

Orobas held Lydia under the water.

Lydia tried to wriggle out of his grasp as he picked her up, protesting with a voice she could hear growing weaker. He didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t seem put off in the slightest. Carrying her like he might a shopping basket. His steps on the stairs were like the ticking of a clock, the rushing water growing louder. Lydia’s eyes slipped shut even as she tried to kick against the wall, to push him off balance. Everything felt cold. His hands, his chest, the air, her skin. Colder, colder, sucking her under even as her back burned searing hot. Lydia grabbed the bannister and sank her nails into the mahogany. Somewhere along the evening, she’d lost nearly all her acrylic nails, only two digging into the wood. There was little to do but stare as she accomplished nothing, just gouging long scratches in the wood. She’d need the interior decorator; it would cost a small fortune to fix everything. The blood stains alone... 

Lydia blinked, forcing herself to look back at Orobas, even as her pain and concussion pulled her further and further from reality. She had to fight, to stop, to do anything. He was close enough for her to try. She had to try. Her mouth was wet, dripping with saliva. She sucked it all onto her tongue, whimpering as half her face revolted in pain. If she could do this, she could call Deirdre, Marley, Remm- Lydia spat it at him with all her worth, watched the blood globule rise triumphantly in the air, and landed squarely on his collar, where her poison couldn’t touch him. She blinked, and they were in the bathroom. Her head drooped down, looking at the tub. Perfectly full. He’d done this so many times, Lydia realised with sickening dread. 

“Please. Please, I promise, I’ll do-” He dropped her, and her croaking words were swallowed by a scream as Lydia’s back slammed into the bottom of the tub, pushing her elytra up against the bleeding, agonising stump. The cold water filled her mouth, her lungs already burning for air as she tried to grab the edge and pull herself up, only for Orobas’s hand to push her back under, crushing her back against the ceramic. Lydia clawed at his arm and hoped she cut his skin, she tried to get her legs under her, but her broken ankle kept sliding away. She tried to leverage her beetle shells to push her up out of the water, but no matter how recently she had fed, he was always going to be stronger. The water turned pink, then red, but she could still see him looking down at her, smiling, probably. Lydia couldn’t breathe even if she wanted to, her chest refused to expand, and she just grabbed him harder, like if she held him just right, she’d be able to pull herself out of the water by the very limb that held her down. Anything to get out, anything to breathe. She couldn’t think of anything else but that need, the promise of air just a few inches from her lips. The want for air burned brighter than her face, her hand, her leg, her back, brighter than him. Lydia gasped, and her lungs convulsed to reject the bloody water trying to get in, and Lydia’s arms dropped away from him. The water stopped sloshing around her, everything still. Lydia sank into that horrifying blackness gladly and let it swallow her.

Orobas didn’t smile at first. He didn’t grin, laugh, or chuckle. The moment she stopped moving he waited corpse still, one second, two second. The murky bloody water drew a rare shiver from his body. The damage from her hitting him, kicking and scratching at his body burned pleasantly. How his hunger was pitted and dangerous, the kind that made his mind hazy and the world seem draped in red. His eyes bled into an impossible crimson as he looked down at the water, almost demonic as they burned through his iris’ and into the entirety of his eyes. His form dissolved in places, a fog like visual that swirled and separated his being as his control slipped into a slow descent from the violence. 

It’s been so long since he’s done this type of kill, and those memories toyed in the back of his mind to a human life centuries ago as Haxian murdered him the same way. 

A laugh peeled out in sudden glee. It broke the eerie silence. He rested his forearm on the edge of the tub as he settled on the tiled ground, peering in. Like letting go of a leaf pushed under water, he released her body and watched her resurface. He worried his lips. Shivering. The throb of desire to hurt her again almost overwhelming. I want to do it again. 

‘Orobas, let’s go.’ Haxian spoke in his mind, ever constant, and movement could be heard on the roof, but Orobas ignored him. He pulled her out, with it the water gushed up and over and laid her on the ground. The crunch of her broken wing struck the flooring hard, with it a release of water having been trapped in the other shell. She looked impossibly fragile right now. Everything was a mess in the bathroom, a chaotic explosion in its exposed violence. Orobas hovered inches over her, parts of his hands and arms dissipated and came back together, all of his body shook as a bloodlust bubbled up and over. Gently, he touched her face. Savoring the quiet, the cold, barely suppressing the desire to break the bones under his touch.

I want to see it again. His thumb pressed under her jaw, caressing it as if mapping details. He lifted her chin enough to let gravity part her blue tinted lips. He inhaled. The weird unnecessary sensation still filled his lungs, and drew his lips to hers. The connection drew pause, before he forced the air back into her body. Pushing against her sternum to force the water back out. 

“Orobas, I said let’s go.” Haxian was in the room, but Orobas didn’t look up, just kept breathing into her, a feral demand as her ribs creaked under the onslaught. Desperation shrieked at her still face. The obsession of their game resurfacing with a violent need. 

“One more time! Wake up!” Orobas’ voice cracked and came out demented and monstrous. Haxian grabbed him by the arm, the move constant, grounding, and damaging. Haxian grabbed Orobas’ jacket, and with a tug he was removed instantly from the bathroom like so many times in the past. Without a say or delay. Haxian held him half tossed over his shoulder, unable to not look at her, his entire world consumed by her. Orobas' hand outstretched for Lydia with an inhuman shriek as the world burned into an impossible red, and sunken bloodlust. 

Lydia gasped. 

[miminorenai]

Ikemen Genjiden CHARACTERS

Heroine (MC)

Affiliation: Kamakura shogunate

“Oresama x Charismatic Haraguro”

“Shogun” Minamoto no Yoritomo

『I’ll act as much as I like, as a perfect shogun-sama.』

VA: Fukuyama Jun

Affiliation: Kamakura shogunate Birthday: 9 May Height: 178 cm Hobby: Working (to the point of addiction), human observation

The pillar of Genji who was the founder and the first shogun of the Kamakura shogunate. He’s inviting you to the shogunate as you obtained the power of fox spirit. From the outside he seems perfect, but his original personalities are more to overbearing, high-handed and haraguro. Behind that two-faced, a certain grand determination is hidden…?

“Cold x *Hypocritical Courtesy”

“Strategist” Kajiwara Kagetoki

『An incompetent person is not needed in Kamakura shogunate.』

VA: Takehito Koyasu

Affiliation: Kamakura shogunate Birthday: 2 June Height: 179.5 cm Hobby: Knowledge compilation, koto practice (unskillful)

Yoritomo’s close aide, he’s being feared by other warriors due to his speech and conducts without lenient. He is an efficient person regarding his job, but has an unexpected side of being weak at the morning and cannot clean up properly in his private life. Acting as shogunate shadow although he’s being resented by other people, seems he has his own reasons…?

(*慇懃無礼 - superficially polite but rude in intent

“Cunning older brother x Courageous”

“Fierce General” Adachi Morinaga

『If we’re going to fight, we’re going head to head with a bang, right? Um, I’m glad you understand that.』

VA: Shinichiro Miki

Affiliation: Kamakura shogunate Birthday: 18 August Height: 184 cm Hobby: Gambling, playing kemari intensely

Shogunate’s number one brave general, associating with Yoritomo since they were children. Appears as a gentle older brother, but tends to solve things with brute force above his favorite habit of gambling. A natural airhead and spontaneous person with wide personal connections, he’s also good in martial arts and information gathering.

“Tsundere x Hidden wild/passionate side”

“Young Noble of Taira” Taira no Shigehira

『The restoration of Heike (Taira)…that’s my purpose, and that’s why I’m by Yoritomo-sama’s side.』

VA: Ichikawa Aoi

Affiliation: Kamakura shogunate Birthday: 16 January Height: 175 cm Hobby: Playing musical instrumental (skillful)

Taira’s survivor who was hostile towards Yoritomo before, but now he’s an alliance partner who shares the same intention. Seemingly fragile, he’s so attractive to the point of being described as peony flower, but has a bad mouth. A character who spares no effort, besides *gagaku, he’s also excellent in martial art.

(*雅楽 - ancient imperial court music and dances

“Fascinating beast x Fickle/Moody”

“Nine-tailed Fox” Tamamo

『Your soul is beautiful. So…I allow this contract with me.』

VA: Tamaru Atsushi

Affiliation: Collaboration with Kamakura shogunate Birthday: 5 October Height: 180 cm Hobby: *Kōawase, teasing people

A nine-tailed demon fox with strong magical power. You were given magical power from the “contract” exchanged with him. He lead people astray with dripping sensuality. Behaving wild, but somewhere, it’s hard to hate him with his mysterious charm.

(*香合わせ (incense-smelling game/incense blending) - one of the entertainment devised by Japanese aesthetes during Muromachi period.

“Mysterious x Untainted madness”

“Fallen Hero” Minamoto no Yoshitsune

『In order to defeat Yoritomo, I was resurrected from the abyss of death. To those soulless people, you should surrender.』

VA: Ishida Akira

Affiliation: Rebel army Birthday: 14 November Height: 177 cm Hobby: Training, basking in the sun

Yoritomo’s half brother, and the general of shogunate rebellion force. He exchange “contract” with *karasu tengu and gained unrivaled power. He possesses natural ability to fight against listless and weary atmosphere. People are strongly attracted to his madness with the pure mind as a fine line.

(*烏天狗 - crow-billed goblin

“Masculine yankee/delinquent x Meddlesome person”

“Ferocious Monk of Superhuman Strength” Musashibo Benkei

『If you’re going to compete with me, since you’re preparing to die, bring it on!』

VA: Tomokazu Seki

Affiliation: Rebel army Birthday: 7 April Height: 186 cm Hobby: Growing vegetables for Yoshitsune to eat

Yoshitsune’s loyal retainer who’s swearing to support him for his whole life even to anywhere dangerous. Apart from holding unworldly superhuman strength, his appearance and attitude are also rough. But in truth he’s a very caring person and adored by his companions. He pulls everyone in his manly manner, but there’s a hidden past from his chest.

“Laid back x Full of sarcasm”

“*World’s Famous Archer” Nasu no Yoichi

『If it’s necessary, would you have your revenge? …Well, honestly I think it’s all soo bothersome tho.』

VA: Suzuki Ryouta

Affiliation: Rebel army Birthday: 23 July Height: 173.5 cm Hobby: Ceramic art (occasionally broken by Benkei)

The head of Nasu clan, and a bow (and arrow) expert. Always shows indifferent and dispirited attitudes, but no one is superior to him when it comes to his skill as an archer. He may as well looks young, but he actually the oldest in Yoshitsune Army. It seems he has a deep connection with Shigehira, but…?

(*Note: Word using here is “天下(tenka)” which also means the whole country

“Tyrant x Hedonism/Pleasure seeker”

“Crow Tengu” Kurama

『I’m not interested in such things as war. I only lend my hand to those I consider interesting.』

VA: Morikawa Toshiyuki

Affiliation: Collaboration with rebels Birthday: 6 September Height: 181 cm Hobby: Interested in Yoshitsune’s training, collecting shiny things

An *arrogant ayakashi and hates boredom. In return of saving dying Yoshitsune, he is promised “to receive his soul after death”. He has a weak understanding of human being and also inconvenience to others. Acknowledging Tamamo’s power, he always challenging him to a fight.

(*傍若無人 - outrageous, overbearing, insolence

“Sly x Eccentric”

“Genius Onmyouji” Abe no Yasuchika

『Too bad! Today’s fortune for you shows bad luck somehow? Must be because our chance encounter, right?』

VA: Namikawa Daisuke

Affiliation: The Bureau of Yin-Yang in the imperial court Birthday: 15 March Height: 177 cm Hobby: Onmyōdō experiment, astronomy & ayakashi observation

Called as the reincarnation of Abe no Seimei, he possesses an outstanding ability as an onmyōji of present. He’s a member of The Bureau of Yin-Yang in the imperial court and cooperate with the shogunate. He’s a hardcore eccentric, and devoting himself completely on the research of Yin-Yang techniques and ayakashi. He usually takes an attitude of teasing others, but his real intention is shrouded in mystery.

[wormwoodandhoney]

since this is a musical retelling of disney movies, do you have like specific artists that are similar to the main characters who sing? i was just thinking like what songs would they most likely sing or are close to songs they would write?

charm q is based on khalid, so songs like his. 

leona is sort of based on a lot of different blonde country singers, but imagine her as sort of a bad, soulless version of faith hill or carrie underwood. like a real pandering version, insert bo burnham panderin’ song here.

beau is based on eric nam, but beau’s actually a songwriter, not a singer himself. i imagine he’d write upbeat, poppy numbers for girl kpop groups. honestly i’m not really a kpop stan everything i know comes from @callmehawkeye. he’d definitely steer closer to pop than hip hop, and i always imagine his songs with like??? a lot of clapping?? 

beast is a rockstar but i don’t really listen to rock music lol??? so i don’t know??? i imagine him to have a bruce springsteen style gravel, but definitely more a modern rock sound. 

juno sounds like jade bird or maybe first aid kit. modern folk. that’s the stuff she wants to sing, but when she’s singing for adair it’s definitely ariana rip off songs. 

as for ms paloma, i know you know what mariachis sound like but how about just listening to all female mariachi group flor de toloache just for fun.

[hangmanshands]

Hangman’s Commissions #1

Here it is! My first commission ever. A big thank you to @hicsaster​ for working with me through this process and, of course, for commissioning me! This series was a lot of fun to work on, and I hope we work together more in the future! Please enjoy! Summary: Soraru returns home from tour. Mafumafu's been having a hard time since he's been gone. Established relationship. TW: Mentions and discussions of self-harm, stalking, threats of various kinds.

Home, Sweet Home (1684 words) [Mafu, I’m Comin' Home Part I]

Soraru has been on his latest tour for three months. The rush of playing directly for his fans, digital avatar on screen for their amusement, is nearly unparalleled. It’s better than any drug, any rollercoaster, any thrill--except one. He loves his job, just like he always hoped he would as a child, but he’s beyond excited to finally be going home. He lands at four p.m. and has his bag by four-fifteen, impatient to get home to a shower, to his bed, to Mafu. He rushes out to find the car they’ve sent for him. 

It’s easy to find. They always send a nondescript silver car, something like a Volvo, a vehicle middle-class middle aged white men might drive. Nice and vague. Surely nothing that the face behind a famous Vocaloid would ever be caught dead in. Soraru’s team arranged for it to take him from the airport directly to his home. His driver is the retired father of one of the members of the marketing team this time. They change it up frequently--even more often now, considering the threats Mafumafu’s been receiving lately.

Soraru frowns.

He feels guilty, having left Mafu to field such a dangerous--and, to be frank, treacherous--time alone. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to be done. Contracts are contracts, and he’s got to honor them. They won’t get anywhere if they’re not selling music; the harassment and the protection have the same origin. He sighs. He wishes there was more he could do about it. But, he’s not police or security, after all. He’s just a concerned boyfriend.

It takes an hour to get home because of the traffic. Despite pleasant conversation with whoever’s father this is, it leaves Soraru in a sour mood. He thanks the older man shortly, and heads up to the apartment he shares with Mafumafu. His heart feels heavy as he inserts his key into the lock, but joy creeps in as his door creeps open. “Mafu!” he says. “I’m home!”

He closes the door behind him, dropping his bag and stretching. Home smells like peace, like quiet. He stretches, satisfied. The lights are off, so he makes his way to the bedroom. He needs to freshen up as much as he needs to see his boyfriend’s sleeping form. He’s sure he’d have heard if something had happened to Mafumafu while he was gone, but it’s infinitely better to see him in person.

He walks in the room with a big, loud greeting ready, but Mafumafu is very much a curled lump on the bed. Soraru imagines that this is the result of Mafu not watching his diet as closely as he should. As much as Mafu likes to say that it’s under control, but he’s as guilty as anyone about being lazy when no one holds him accountable for how his eating impacts his health and this causes him to end up in bed feeling sick more often than he’d like. Sora is used to this.

The bathroom light is still on, illuminating a single stripe that crosses Mafu’s body. He aborts the greeting and heads to the bathroom instead to freshen up before waking his boyfriend up.

Sora takes the state of the bathroom in, and comes to a very simple conclusion. His normally picture-perfect bathroom strongly resembles a fucking crime scene.

At least, the kind of romantic, stylized crime scene Sora’s seen countless times in movies and on television--there’s signs of a struggle: soaps knocked off of the edge of the sink in a hurry, cracked caps spilling pearly soap in pools on the tile, skidmarks through the wreckage. There’s a pile of disheveled towels, the top one stained crimson and turning maroon with half-dried blood. There’s discarded bloodied toilet paper and ripped bandage wrappings in the garbage. They half-obscure discarded glass shards. The sink is coated in rivulets of dried, cracking blood, smeared and half rinsed away. There’s blood on the box of band-aids and gauze threads stuck in the residue caking the basin. There’s a bloody thumb impression on the medical tape. Tweezers. And the mirror. Cracked in a spiderweb pattern around a singular impression--sized for one small, bony fist.

Sora very easily pieces together what kind of struggle took place in the bathroom before he got home. Mafumafu knocked the soaps to hell. Mafumafu threw a punch. Mafumafu shattered the mirror. Mafumafu used the broken glass to hurt himself. Mafumafu tried to fix it. Mafumafu went to bed.

Sora reaches under the sink for the Clorox wipes. He cleans the sink first, tossing everything bloody in the trash. He uses a towel to clean up the soap and throws away the unsalvageable bottles. They can always buy more. When he’s finished, he throws the towel in the hamper and the wipes in the garbage. The bloodied towel joins the trash.

Soraru leaves the light on and the door wide open when he exits the bathroom. He sits on the edge of the bed and runs his hand over Mafumafu’s side. “Sweetheart,” he says softly. “Are you awake?”

Mafu flips over and wraps his body around Sora’s in the fetal position. “Thank you for cleaning up,” he responds, voice just as hushed.

Ah, so he’s been awake.

Sora pets Mafu’s white hair. “Want to tell me what’s happened?”

Mafumafu sighs quietly and presses his head into Soraru’s hand. “Suzumu called me while you were gone. A lot of times.”

Sora feels his stomach turn over and over, as if in the dryer. “What did he say?”

“He threatened our home. Our cars. My family.” He swallows, closing his eyes tight. “He said he’d spread rumors about how terrible I am to you, discredit my work, say that I believe in horrible things and hate women. He said he’d turn all of our friends against me, and then you.” 

Sora feels Mafu tremble under his hand.

“He said he’d have people find me and hurt me, Soraru.”

Anger blossoms, explosive, in his chest. Every cell in his lungs is a match head, aflame. “He won’t,” Sora says, vehement and venomous.

Mafu continues, “I started to panic after his last voicemail. I know I shouldn’t listen to them, but I can’t help it. I have to know.” His voice is weak, apologetic. “I locked myself in the bathroom and saw myself in the mirror. I looked so scared and helpless. I looked so....” he makes a disgusted noise. “I looked like a child, useless and reliant on his mother. I couldn’t stand it. I... I punched myself in the mirror.”

Mafu snakes his hand out of the blanket and shows Sora the damage. There’s gauze wrapped around his knuckles like boxing tape, lightly stained with blood. Below that, a large brown bandage needs changed, a red rose bud soaking through the pad. It’s not nearly as bad as the bathroom looked, and that alone makes Sora feel better.

“I’m sorry, Sora,” Mafu says. “I know I promised I would stop. I didn’t mean it, I-I just needed to ground myself! I was out of control--he’s driving me crazy. A bird flies in front of our window and I scatter like a cockroach.” Mafu clenches his fist and lays it on Sora’s leg. More red stains appear on his gauze. “I couldn’t take it--I still can’t. I had to, Sora. It would have been worse if I hadn’t.”

Sora pulls Mafu up and holds him tight against his chest. “I know,” he whispers. “I know. I’m not mad.”

“You’re not?” Mafu leans back, his unharmed hand on Sora’s chest so Mafu can look at him.

“No,” he promises. “I’m just glad you’re okay, Mafu. I know how hard all of this has been on you. I’m not mad at you. I’m not disappointed in you. You’re getting better still, and doing your best to do so. This is a hiccup. I’m glad you could control the situation to the extent you did. I’m glad I came home to you, alive. That’s what’s important to me. Recovery isn’t linear, and I’m so proud of you.”

“You swear?” Mafu asks, red eyes big and teary.

Sora nods. “I swear. I’m very angry at Sumuzu. No one should treat another person like this. Especially not one that I love. But, you have to know he’s full of hot air by now. He’s all threats and no action. I’m not going to let anything happen to you, and it’s going to take a lot more than that... that... soulless copycat to take you away from me, Sweetheart. I promise you that.”

Mafu throws his arms around Sora, pulling him tight. The dam--full of three months’ dread and fury, helplessness and loneliness, and pure, cleansing relief--breaks. He cries with his cheek against Sora’s shoulder, ugly and too-hard. He can’t control this, either, and it’s freeing. The catharsis of falling apart in the place you’re the safest is unlike anything in the world.

Sora kisses his head, tender. He rests his cheek against the back of Mafu’s head and speaks softly. “I’ve got you,” and “I’m here, now,” and “I won’t let anything happen to you,” and “Let it out,” and “It’s okay, Sweetheart,” and “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

When there’s nothing left inside of Mafumafu but the calm, he leans back up and wipes his face. He looks up at Sora and smiles. “Thanks,” he says, almost embarrassed. “I needed that.”

Sora runs a hand through Mafu’s pretty hair. “Feel better?” “Much,” he agrees. He pauses. “Are you hungry?”

“I could eat,” Sora says with a shrug.

Mafu smiles. “I’ve been so nauseous-anxious for the last couple days, I haven’t really eaten.”

Sora’s eyes are the size of tea plates. “Mafu!” He peels the blankets off of his boyfriend. “Get to the kitchen! Go!” He pulls Mafu off the bed by the uninjured hand. “What do you want?”

“Something spicy?” he asks, playful.

Sora makes a disgruntled noise. “I said I thought you were doing better!”

Mafu laughs, following Sora into the kitchen.

[whyimmathere]

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