#Aid To the Soulless Music

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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

[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]

CLASSIC FICS

The incestuous courtship of the antichrist's bride (Sam/Dean, nc-17, crack-horror): Sam is trying to become the Antichrist in order to save the world. {dowload ✿}

The firefly that loved Metallica (Sam/Dean, R, set post-AHBL): In which Sam has a bottle full of soul. 

Moths on the Mirror (Dean/OMC + Dean/Sam, nc-17): There's something wrong in Red Haven Hospital for the Criminally Insane, but no one's going to listen to a psychopath like Dean Winchester. {dowload ✿}

Flying Weight (Sam/Dean + Dean/OMC, nc-17): Sam wakes after being soulless for three years to discover that Dean and his relationship with him have undergone some serious changes. {dowload ✿}

Dark Side of the Moon (Sam/Dean, nc-17) {dowload ✿}

Couples' Counseling (Sam/Dean, nc-17): in which they get just that.

Fumbling in the Dark: Love Advice For the Romantically Impaired (Sam/Dean, nc-17): true love is really blind. {dowload ✿} 

Sing Your Hymns Like Angels In Defeat (Sam/Dean, nc-17): And Lucifer fell for a second time with the burning brilliance of a star. The Flare shone in his wake, and darkness fell upon the land. {dowload ✿}

The Little Spoon (Sam/Dean, nc-17): To his horror, Sam discovers that he's a stealth!snuggler. {dowload ✿}

Top This (Sam/Dean, nc-17): Dean's sure he's a top. Only problem is, Sam's pretty sure that's his job. {dowload ✿}

Hush (Sam/Dean, nc-17): Motel walls are thin... {dowload ✿}

Fairytale Life (Sam/Dean + Dean/OFC, R ): There are no happily ever afters... {dowload ✿}

Camdon Inn (Sam/Dean, nc-17): In the backwoods of Northern Michigan, Sam and Dean are on the trail of what they think might be the area's fabled 'Dog Man.' What they find instead in the small town of Silver Lake is a suspicious sheriff, a shady innkeeper, a closed mouth town and a lot more than they bargained for when the supposed overly large wolf that they were hunting starts hunting them back. And, much to Dean's horror, he can no longer seem to keep his hands off of Sam. {dowload ✿}

The Bright Lights of Disturbia (Sam/Dean, nc-17): Not all of our scars are worn on the outside...

God Made Boston on a Wet Sunday (Sam/Dean, nc-17): Sam and Dean live in an apartment in Boston while John is away on a hunt. Money is scarce, so Dean picks up a particularly slutty part-time job. Sam finds out.

Sleepwalking Back Again (Sam/Dean, nc-17): “Wish ‘Verse. Spoilers for 2x20, and very vaguely for season 3. Warnings for established incest, adultery, angst, smoking, dramatic irony, and the complete absence of a happy ending.”

Soul-Eater, Death-Dealer Sam/Dean, nc-17): “A grieving Dean is pulled into an alternate universe where a much more hardened, cold Sam is working to get his Dean out of hell. Though Dean doesn’t want to go back to his lonely world, he aids Sam in his dark quest, a Sam torn between the brother he’s fighting to save and the one right in front of him.”

Not Time’s Fool (Sam/Dean, nc-17): “A story in 21 parts, featuring an Ancient Greek curse, an unexpected metamorphosis, adventures in pool sharking, numerous shots of tequila, a nun outfit, zombies, angels, demons, kidnappings, startling discoveries about old acquaintances, massage, a game of strip poker, girl-on-girl action, girl-on-boy action, and boy-on-boy action.”

How many floors to realize (Sam/Dean, nc-17): “AU from the end of It’s A Terrible Life, in which Zachariah decides to keep stringing them along a little while longer, because damn if they aren’t somewhat entertaining, right?”

Supercross (Sam/Dean, nc-17): “Set in a world where competitive team stunt biking shows – explosive entertainment performances full of tricks, talent, fireworks and music – dominate the world of freestyle motocross biking, this story follows Sam and Dean Winchester as they deal with their lives, bikes, flips, tricks – and love.”

Your Fields So Green Can Whisper Tales of Gore (Sam/Dean, nc-17): Dean is 100% everything Sam’s been unintentionally searching for.Sam is 100% everything Dean’s been secretly hoping would find him.

ANTIBODY (Sam/Dean nc17):  AU where the boys run the town morgue - Dean is the pathologist and Sam is his assistant.

Do Roses Know Their Thorns Can Hurt? (Sam/Dean, nc17): Dean needs a new body part and Sam doesn't cope well with any of it.(A very AU!AU borrowing the lovely idea from Time Is on My Side - somewhat Burton inspired and super unserious.)

Almost at Home (Sam/Dean, nc17):  Sam graduates from high school in early June in rural Tennessee. He and Dean start the summer with an all-nighter of celebration; the day after, while both fight hangovers, John calls to assign them their first hunt by themselves. They go to northern Virginia to investigate the homicidal ghost of a dangerous escapee of a high-security prison and mental institution whose MO is beheading people with an axe while wearing a filthy, grotesque bunny suit. Then throughout the long, happy summer, as they move around tackling a series of minor hunts together, John's absences grow longer. Sam and Dean explore their relationship as it burgeons into something they've both been craving and which neither of them regrets.

Suite!Verse (Sam/Dean, nc17): “ To save Dean from going to Hell, Sam has voluntarily embraced the role of the Anti-Christ and triggered Armageddon. As the world burns around them and demons enslave the human population, an increasingly demonic Sam begins to chip away at Dean’s will through alternating acts of of sex and violence. Caught between lust and fear, Dean struggles with the hope that his brother can be redeemed and slips further and further into the Stockholm Syndrome. As the series progresses, Dean loses more and more of his agency and personality, leaving the reader to wonder what, if anything, of Dean will remain at the end.” [WIP, very dark content]

We were Twenty (Sam/Dean, nc17):  It's sunny the day he buries his brother .

Fine Wonderful Things (Sam/Dean, nc17):  Sam doesn't want to deal with what happened in Cold Oak, but he can't ignore it anymore when he and Dean investigate a murderous spirit in New Mexico.

Rip us out at the seams  (Sam/Dean, nc17):  Hookerfic that leads to first-time wincest, set through season 3 and into season 4. Title from Heather Nova. 

[curewhimsy]

Haruhi Whimsica AU and Emotions

Before I tell you about Yuki’s story, here are some facts about her home planet, Nagatopia.

The planet Nagatopia has an oblong shape, referencing the kanji pronounced “naga”, meaning long.

Nagatopia is in a distant galaxy from Whimsica’s location in space. However, this location is closer to Whimsica than Whimsica is to Earth.

Whimsica and Earth have the same average temperature. However, Nagatopia is colder than both these places by 45 degrees less on average.

Nagatopia is very technologically advanced. The jet engines and rockets make almost no noise. This is why Yuki isn’t used to loud noise.

Contemporary music and dance doesn’t exist on that planet. Music is mathematically and scientifically composed by machines alone. It’s purpose is to aid as a thinking tool. Music is not considered art, and almost no human feelings and composing goes into it. Most Whimsicans consider it to be soulless.

Aside from mathematical designs, there is a lack of art on the planet. Writing and books are considered art, however. 

Nagatopia isn’t explicitly evil the way Monochrome is, but it can be argued that it’s low-key evil.

“Nagatopian” is an umbrella term for any being hailing from Nagatopia. The human-resembling species that Yuki is a part of is actually known as Xoro.

Nagatopia will be under a different name in original (non-fandom) Whimsica stories. The alternate name will be Xoropolis. This is to avoid the reference to a copyrighted franchise.

About Xoros (Humanoid Nagatopians)-

The species of Xoro (plural: Xoros) share no common ancestors with humans, despite resembling them almost identically. Xoros even have the same range of skin tones that humans typically have.

Xoros are ice-blooded organisms. This is different from being cold-blooded. Ice-blooded organisms naturally produce a cool body temperature of 59 degrees Fahrenheit, and need to stay cool.

Anyway...

It turns out that emotions are considered flaws on Nagatopia. When babies are born on the planet, they are given emotion-suppressant drugs in the brain that last their entire lives. This essentially closes the door to their emotions. This also makes it so the affected can never fulfill themselves, as doing so involves opening the heart.

(To fulfill oneself means to triumph over an important obstacle or to have a similar meaningful moment. They then are able to unlock their magical transformation, complete with a special outfit and weapon. A person’s powers can grow more than tenfold in the state when they are transformed.)

The emotion-suppressant drugs administered to Yuki’s brain as a newborn are why she has the demeanor that she has. She, like the rest of those who have received the drugs, still have decision-making skills, desires, and a conscience. They still know right from wrong, but they just can’t feel emotion—the indescribable feelings from deep in the heart. 

When Yuki was nine years old, she read her first Whimsican book. Whimsica had been sending signals and messages to space in hopes to find alien life. When they reached Nagatopia, they figured out how to decipher the Whimsican languages, and were able to teach it to people. Yuki was taught how to read English at a young age.

The Whimsican book stirs something powerful deep within Yuki... She experiences a substantial bout of emotion for the first time. It changes Yuki’s life. The Whimsican book and it’s magical, heartfelt qualities had opened to door to her feelings ever so slightly, From then on, Yuki had been obsessed with that inexplicable sensation that she felt. Her native Xoro language doesn’t even have a name for it.

Emotion.

Yuki reads more of the books and eventually attains the desire to move to Whimsica. Maybe if she went to Whimsica, she could feel that magical sensation even more. Yuki’s parents don’t approve of her going to Whimsica and don’t want to help her get there. So Yuki has to build her spacecraft all by herself.

When Yuki meets friends on Whimsica, her heart begins to open up more and more. Yuki is originally bullied for being quiet and distant, which is because of the emotion-suppressants in her brain.

She begins to feel more and more, but it never feels like enough.

Eventually, Yuki gets so frustrated with not being able to experience full emotions. She wants to rewrite the nearby universe, so that she was born and raised on the planet Whimsica, instead of being Nagatopian. This way, she would’ve never been given the emotion suppressants. She would just be a normal human girl who can feel emotions.

Yuki hijacks Haruhi’s godlike powers and reloads the nearby universe. In this universe, Yuki is a shy and emotional bookworm. This is who Yuki truly is deep inside of her heart. This is how Yuki would’ve turned out if she was never given the emotion suppressants. The procedure of altering the universe takes a lot out of Yuki, and she had been quietly planning it for a while.

When the new universe is finished being built, Yuki will forget about her old life in the old world. Yuki will have been reborn. She’s willing to sacrifice all her memories, including the fact that she remade the world, for a better life.

In this new universe, Haruhi never came to Whimsica (she’s still back on Earth) due to a butterfly effect. Kyon is the only one who remembers the old universe. Yuki made it this way so that Kyon could ultimately bring back the old world if he wanted to. Yuki trusted Kyon enough to let him to be the one to make the decision.

Kyon brings back the old world, and Yuki’s memories are restored. He believes that Yuki didn’t have to make a new world, and promises to fix the old one.

Kyon comes to Yuki’s apartment to visit and comfort her. He finds that she’s on the roof. Yuki breaks down in tears, in front of Kyon alone. This is the first time Kyon had ever seen Yuki cry.

“I’m sorry.” Yuki says. “I just didn’t know what to do.”

Kyon wipes Yuki’s tears, and tells some words she’ll never forget.

“You have such a wonderful heart, Yuki. You already have one of the purest hearts I know. I’m so sorry you have to feel this way, so don’t apologize. I know I wouldn’t like it if I couldn’t laugh, or feel joy when I wanted to. But I promise I’ll do all I possibly can to help you. It’s promise. And not just me, but Haruhi, and all your other friends will help too. You’re our precious companion. I want you to know how wonderful you truly are.”

It starts snowing. It’s so cold outside, that even Yuki feels chilly. Kyon wraps his warm jacket around her, and they spend a few moments watching the snowy night together.

A few days later, Haruhi gets one of her trademark ideas. Only this time, it’s a meaningful and courageous idea. She suggests that and the rest of the Brigade should infiltrate Nagatopia and demand them to stop producing the emotion-suppressant drugs by persuading them with how beautiful emotions can be. This way, nobody else will have suffer like Yuki. Meanwhile, the group will help open the hearts of the Nagatopians who already emotion-suppressed.

Everyone goes to Nagatopia undercover. The trip takes three days, using magic space fuel that the Queen of Whimsica let them use. On Nagatopia, they have to fit in with the rest of the planet’s inhabitants to hide they’re from Whimsica.

The friends have to act monotone and emotionless to pass as people who are native to the planet.

They’re in disguise wearing dull, modest clothes. They want to infiltrate into the radio station, pretending they have a job there. Then, they’ll put on some music that has emotions in it and blast it on all the stations so everyone around the planet can hear it.

Things are going good so far… but suddenly in the midst of it all, Haruhi randomly bursts out laughing at something incredibly stupid. Everyone gets caught that they’re actually from Whimsica.

But in the end, everything ends up working out. With the persuasion of Yuki and her friends, Nagatopia is open to emotions and the emotion-suppressant drugs stop being manufactured and administered for good.

Throughout Yuki’s life, her heart opens up more and more. Her smiles are incredibly meaningful, and she smiles more and more every year.

[blkwidowsweb]

Chicago Spotlight: A Conversation with Julius the Mad Thinker

Julius the Mad Thinker is a dynamic producer and International DJ talent. Since the age of 17, Julius has worn many hats while distinguishing himself in the dance music industry. He is a true visionary with infectious energy and amazing music. His reputation for uniting music communities and launching premiere DJ music events has attracted worldwide acceptance and respect. Julius’ most recent production to gain international awareness is Mi Casa Holiday (MCH). In 2009, Julius and business partner Jenn Hurst bridged DJ entertainment with unique travel concepts to co-found and form MCH. In 2012, MCH achieved sold-out status. Approaching its 10th season, MCH is a destination event of choice for international travel, leisure, and music enthusiasts in the know.  In March of 2017, He released his debut album, “Perspective.  I recently had a chance to speak with him about his career, Mi Casa Holiday, his Album and upcoming projects. 

BW:  Where did your name come from?

JMT:  That’s a funny question.   I was a creative manager/executive producer of a hip-hop group we (Emmaculate and I) worked together with called the “Rec Center”. We were working on our first album and deciding what would be the first music video. It was 10 MCs, Emmaculate and myself.  Everyone went in line and said what they thought the first video would be.  When it was my turn and I finished talking the room was silent.  One of the MC's looked at me and said,  “The Mad Thinker”.   It was right around the time I was deciding what my DJ name would be.  So that’s how I got my name. It just made sense.

BW  Wow…I totally thought it was based on the Marvel Character. [Laughter]

JMT:  I didn’t even know there was a Marvel character named The Mad Thinker until years later when I was looking up my name.

BW:  You know he’s known for being a genius with this knowledge of technology and photographic memory?

JMT:   That’s crazy! [Laughter] Well, I’m definitely on the mad kind of analyzing tip.

BW: What attracted you to house music?  How were you introduced to the genre?

JMT:  When I was a kid, we would listen to the radio and do splice mixes with three radios and it would always be playing on one, recording on the other.  It was always somebody in the mix, whispering “shhhhh” {Laughter}.  I didn’t know what I was doing. We were just doing it to do it.  Then in 6th grade, there was a kid who moved to our city.  He was the kid that if the teacher could control him, she could control the class. So one day she told him," If I grant you one wish, can you make sure the kids will do what they are supposed to do”?  He said yes and his wish was to listen to the hot lunch mixes in class instead of going to the lunchroom. I was one of those kids who listened every day at lunch.  That was the first time I knew house music.  Then, as a junior in high school, I remember seeing these guys getting ready for a talent show and they were dancing. They were moving in a certain way to this music and I was like what is this music? One of the dudes told me it was Larry Heard.  I was aww man…this is the real deal. Then there was a teen club that opened and from there… you know…it went from seeing it and listening to it, to dancing to it.  After that, I remember throwing my first party.  It was so boring sometimes in the suburbs; I bet my cousin that I could throw a party with 500 people.  My cousin thought I was crazy.  I convinced my mom to throw a party and she would only let me do it on 2 conditions. I had to write an organized plan of what it would be and if I made any money, I’d have to give my sister some spending cash for her first senior trip.

BW:   That sounds like me as a mom! [Laughter]

JMT: [Laughter] So it took a while, but I wrote a plan. She didn’t think I would do it and be so detailed.   She told me years later when she saw that plan, she said, “I can’t believe this kid wrote this plan…now I gotta let him throw this party”! [Laughter]

BW:  Your first business Plan!

JMT: RIGHT!  She couldn’t believe how detailed I was, down to the garbage cans and security.   I had 605 people to show up for that party. At that party, Emmaculate was one of the first DJs I hired along with another guy, DJ Beauty.    I was able to give my sister $300 for her trip.  So, my sister goes to Acapulco and has the time of her life. I go on to produce a slew of parties and events.  My sister was trying to convince the company she traveled with to hire her as a student organizer.    Around the same time, I decided to start DJing.  My sister got hired and started working in the travel and hospitality industry and  I get hooked on DJing and event production and spend years doing that while my sister spends years working in travel and hospitality.   Fast Forward to 2009 we founded Mi Casa Holiday.

BW:  What was your motivation for creating Mi Casa Holiday?

JMT:  You know, after 9/11, people started to reprioritize what they wanted to do and what was important.  I was into producing events; I produced another event around that time called 3 degrees.  The disposable income wasn’t the way it was before and it had an effect on promoters, events, and clubs.  They didn’t want to pour any money into taking risks anymore so it made the window to be able to succeed in the business, get noticed or have opportunities get smaller and smaller. They started hiring the same DJs over and over again from out of town. I decided to take the type of community and music and create my own niche. That’s the vision I had.  My sister always said I should do something in Mexico because that’s what she was doing as a student organizer.  It didn’t make sense to me until I started traveling around the world and meeting different artists. One of which was Frank Oral. I ran into him one day and he told me they would love my sound down in Playa Del Carmen.   That was 3 years before we started the event.  A few years later, I ran into a guy named Nicodemus at a music festival in North Carolina and told him what we were thinking about doing.   Nicodemus told me he would introduce me to the president of the clubbing district. I met all the right people my sister had the resources.  Ironically, that same company that took her on that tour in high school and hired her is the same company that handles our hotels and tours now.  That’s a 20-year relationship that has enabled us to offer 4, 5 and 6-star hotels since the beginning.

BW:  See that was a $300 investment and you didn’t even know it! [Laughter]

JMT:  Yeah! Totally! [Laughter]

BW:  You focused on event production instead of music production initially.  Why is that?

JMT:  A couple of things. I really felt strongly about the art of DJing.  I always wanted to travel around the world and I wanted to be known as a DJ not necessarily just a producer.  I went out of my way not to work on music until about 2003.  Then I was buying so much music. I remember telling Eric we can totally make this or even better.  I’ll never forget what he said; he said: “Dude, this shit is surpassable”!  [LAUGHTER]    So I started making music. I had a mentor named RC and he was one of the original engineers with Ron Gresham and Steve Shapiro.  He told me to keep working on music but to continue to build my community. He asked me, do you see yourself as this superstar DJ or do you see yourself as the person who plans and produces everything? I remember telling him, I can’t imagine not producing things because I’ve always been that way.  He said if you build your community, everything else you want to do, you can do it. After a few years of producing Mi Casa holiday. He told me I  don’t have fans going to Mi Casa Holiday, I have devotees.  I didn’t understand that until he said, These are people who are devoted to your community.  Companies spend millions to get what you have. He said the road may be rougher because everything you are going to do is unconventional but you will naturally distinguish yourself from everyone out there.  He told me to stick with my own vision. He said when it hits…it’s gonna hit hard.

BW:  That’s awesome advice!

JMT:  I feel like we are at the very beginning of everything, even though it’s going on 10 years. I kept doing the music but I focused on the event brand and building the community. That’s the narrative of my life, building community. You know it’s either be a star or build a community; for me, it’s always been to build a community.

BW:   Why is that important to you?

JMT:   I’ve always felt like I can make it but what’s more gratifying for me is when I build something where multiple people can make it or take advantage of it. I’ve been that way since I was a kid. 

BW:  Who were some of your early house music influences?

JMT: I remember some of the first records I bought.   I bought Lil Louis, “Video Clash”, Frankie Knuckles “Whistle Song” and Kerri Chandler, “inspiration”.  But what really hit me was when my friend, Eric sat me down and had me listen to "Journey of the Lonely"  by Lil Louis.   We listened to the entire album and it told this entire story…it was ingenious. I was blown away. It gave me a detailed interpretation of how I view music and projects.

BW:  How do you feel music is transformed in your hands as a DJ?

JMT:   It correlates to the passion you have for it.  For me, I learned that the way I treat the mixer is like an instrument. I played the trumpet from 5th to 12th grade.  When I’m playing music, it’s just like when I played the trumpet.  The way I take in or absorb the music is an intricate analyzation. When I’m hearing it, I don’t know what I’m listening for but it’s always something special about what I choose and it’s  not the same thing or the same amount.  It could be one little sound.  From that point, I’ve dissected the song and when I play it, I’m going to break it apart so that I understand the role of the part that touched me and deliver it to the crowd I'm playing for; everything else is supporting.  I’ve never been intimidated by how someone plays something or if they have the same record as me because they aren’t going to interpret it like I do.

BW:   I took a listen to your album and was completely caught off guard by my emotional reaction to it.  It had so many different sounds and emotions.  I thought it was eclectic, original and told such a relatable story.  What was your intention with Perspective?

JMT:  I knew I wanted to do an album but wasn’t sure when.  Once I connected to Russoul and he shared with me the direction he was going in,  I told him about this album.  Russoul and I started working together and during a session, I gave him two options, and he chose “Born to Do It.” Now, I originally wrote this song for Peven Everett but that didn’t work out, so then I tried to do it with Nathan Adams, but that didn’t work out either.  So Russoul did it and it worked beautifully.  “Born to Do it” was the first song we recorded for the album. Once we finished the song, we were super hyped and excited about how it came out.  After that, I remember Lil Louis booked me for a party and he asked me if I produced music.  I let him hear a few songs and he said this is really good music, however, you played some stuff tonight that was really hard.  You got to remember to make sure to give people the ability to hear that side of you as well.  That’s why the song “Lifeline” is so intense! Then we worked on the title song, “Perspective”,    I knew the album was going to be called Perspective. I had to ask myself, “What’s my perspective on life”?   Life can be intense, it can be tragic but here are all these opportunities and possibilities in between. You have to make sure you don’t drown in the negativity. 

So now I had the feeling of the album but I still needed to figure out what the story was. What was the story that would generate those feelings and emotions?  This album is 99% about telling the story. This story is about a young girl with this incredible musical ability who loses her entire family in this horrible tragedy.    Her friends convince her to perform years later and join the music business again and it goes from there.   I had to figure out, how does she feel? What is she going to go through?  That’s why the 2nd song was “Moments” because it’s about reflection.  How would you feel 5 years after this tragedy and performing at this incredible moment of success but your family isn’t there to share it with you?  What does it feel like going from that high to that low?  Every time I would talk about the different songs, the pieces of the story would come together. “Do It” was going to be the final song on the album but we ended up deciding not to do that.  That forced me to write a new song.  That’s where “Fearless” came from.  Russ and I wrote it together for the album.  So the opening song and closing song were the two songs written specifically for the album.  When I thought about the album, it wasn’t just about making an album to sell but more about telling this story.  After that, I had to figure out the order. So the best way I did that was to make a screenplay for it and that’s how I figured out the order of the album. 

BW:   It’s rare to get bodies of work in house music because you usually get just singles and tracks.  The album reminded me of my own life’s journey.  The highs and the lows and all the emotions in between; the anger, the frustration, the pain, the joy, sadness, the doubt, the hope and the fearlessness to rise above it all.   That’s why I connected to your album so much. 

JMT:   That’s so cool.  I’m an unconventional thinker, so the entire time the strategy was to provide the context before you hear the music.  A lot of times it’s about what’s hot or whether or not this song fits here or there. I thought to provide the context first then let people hear what it’s all about.   Everyone who worked on this with me put their blood, sweat, and tears into this project.  I may have gone about the distribution differently but the feedback I’ve received has been similar to yours. People who listen to it really connected with the story.  I put everything into it and I’m totally cool with the outcome. As long as I keep going, eventually someone is going to see what we are doing over here. 

Black Widow:  You wear many hats, DJ, Event Producer, Label owner, Music Producer.  How do you balance it all and what do you do just for fun and relaxation?

JMT:   My favorite thing to do in the world is DJ, but who I am in life is a producer, whether it’s music, events, etc.  Everything I do is a part of one vision so it’s not like I’m going left or right, I’m going the same direction. It’s more about timing.  Last year I put a lot of time into Mi Casa Holiday and I had a short window to finish the album. So instead of resting, I did my album. That kind of burned me out. I usually shut down after the Mi Casa finale for about a month to regroup recover and reset.  I love to binge Netflix movies and series because it helps me as a writer.  Sometimes it reaffirms how I think…everything starts with a story. Whether you build it into a song, movie or business…it’s always about a story.   Outside of that, I work out and that helps.  My wife also… I don’t know how she puts up with me because I have these crazy creative swings.  She keeps me laughing and grounded.  

BW:  That’s the Yin and Yang! It’s awesome to have a partner to bounce those ideas off of and to keep you grounded and be honest with you.

JMT: {Laughter} she’s the tester of all my ideas! We think completely different which is what I love.  When I’m writing music, the lyrics have to be strong otherwise my wife will let me know. She’s all about the lyrics first. I’m like a student with some of the awesome friends and musicians I work with.  They help me craft the writing into melodies and such. I’ve learned so much from them.  

BW:   What’s next for you? What’s in store for you in 2018?

JMT:  2018 will be the Launchpad for the next 5-10 years of music, events, writing.  It’s  also the 10th anniversary of Mi Casa Holiday and we are planning that right now.  We have so many different countries we are scouting; Negril, Italy, Rio, San Paulo, Panama, Brazil.  I’m focused and excited about that. I’m also working on making sure the “Perspective” story gets in the hands with some Hollywood producers too.   I’m in talks about possibly turning the screenplay into a musical, TV series or a movie.  I also have Break Away remixes coming out in Dec/January and my song, “I Just Love You ft. Kaye Fox and Russoul was licensed for the movie, “Illicit” ft. David Ramsey and Vivica Fox. 

BW: Oh wow, you have your hands in so many different pots.

JMT: Yeah, when I wrote the screenplay, the point was to hand it off so it can keep going. So while I’m doing everything else, these other things are still developing.  

BW:   What does it mean to you to be a Chicago Artist and to represent Chicago around the world?

JMT:   It’s where I’m from. I love my city.  I take pride in being from here.  Knowing that it’s the birthplace of house music.  I feel honored, blessed and privileged. It’s almost not fair because one thing Chicago DJs have in common is their passion. It’s unmatched here!   The tier of DJs here is so high, the passion for what we do shows no matter where we are.  

BW:  Thank you so much for speaking with me today! I look forward to hanging out with you for your birthday party!

JMT:  Oh cool!  I’m so happy you shared your thoughts on the album. It’s what Life is all about. It’s about going through the most traumatic stuff but you didn’t give up and you bounce back from things you thought you’d never bounce back from and the only way you do that is by becoming fearless.  It was my pleasure speaking with you! Thank you so much!

BW: It was my pleasure! 

Hope you enjoyed my interview with this amazing artist and musical creative!  Until next time, see ya on a dance floor!

Black Widow

Find Julius The Mad Thinker at the following:

Website:                      www.themadthinker.com

Mi Casa Holiday:         www.micasaholiday.com

Facebook:                   www.facebook.com/juliustmt

Instagram:                   www.instagram.com/juliustmt/

Twitter:                        www.twitter.com/juliustimt

Soundcloud:               www.soundcloud.com/themadthink