#rather than the band that paid them for the art

[bigsniffy]

For a second, I thought someone had jacked some plastiboo art. But this is either an application of filters or just a photo of an aged album cover.

The original looks like:

I can see why the aesthetic/soulsborne loving among us might enjoy the first pic better, but I think there's something charming to the visibly drawn lines on the armor and the vibrant color of the bird.

From a quick search, the artist may be Aussie Mr. Paul Pattie. Who may be the same Paul Pattie who did background animation for Disney shows like Darkwig Duck and The New Adventires of Winnie the Pooh.

The Church - The Blurred Crusade

Stunn

1982

[kryptonitejelly]

Can you do a newly wed Art x Y/N smut where they can’t seem to keep their hands off of each other. Like every day they just can’t resist ripping each others clothes off. They know they’re in the honeymoon faze, but they are so sure it will continue throughout their marriage

art donaldson x reader // challengers. nsfw - minors DNI

-

“Art,” you caution with no real bite as you feel his fingers slipping under the hem of your dress.

He hums back at you, in acknowledgment rather than in question as you feel his fingers move up higher, pushing the hem of your dress a few more inches up.

“Art,” you say again as he leans forward to capture your lips in a kiss which you meet willingly. You feel his fingers now brushing the lace of your underwear, and you can feel him groan in appreciation as his fingertips skim across barely there lace which he easily pushes aside. Your legs part involuntarily, as Art finds you already slick.

“You’re wet,” he says as he breaks the kiss to bring his lips up to your ears. He shouldn’t have been surprised, because your body’s reaction to him has always been the same, and always quick, but Art always is.

“Mhm,” it’s now your turn to hum in response as he drops his lips to your neck, sucking lightly on the spot of flesh that he knows will get you even wetter while his fingers begin massaging your clit in gentle, barely there circles which leave you wanting more. You can feel your eye lids fluttering close and you’ve never been more thankful for the secluded, private booth in the otherwise packed restaurant.

“I want to fuck you,” you hear Art say against your skin, as he withdraws his fingers, causing you to whimper at the lost of contact. His voice is soft, almost gentle, a stark contrast to his words. He brings his fingers up, which are shiny with your slick, only to pop his index finger into his mouth.

“Then fuck me,” you breathe out, watching as he tastes you, catching sight of his wedding band, a relatively new addition to his hand and yours, glinting.

-

You both barely make it past the threshold of your apartment before your hands are undoing his jeans, his hands pulling down your top of your dress. Art bends his head, tongue swirling around one of your nipples, an act which causes you to arch into his mouth, a loud moan falling from your lips as the electronic lock on your apartment door whirls shut.

“I need you,” you say, a desperate quality to your voice as you make quick work of unzipping his jeans, pushing them down with his underwear.

“Jump,” Art says against your lips, both your mouths moving against each other, and you do. He catches you easily, his years of tennis working to both your advantage. You hands work their way around his neck, legs winding around his body as your back presses into the wall behind, the door which you had both come in from still just mere steps away. Art can feel the stem of your right heel pressing into his butt cheek as he lines himself up against your entrance with his right hand, his left supporting you. He had gotten rid of your underwear before you had even left the restaurant, making you tug it off before he paid the bill, and slipping it into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Ready?” He asks.

“Always,” you manage to pant out, your hips bucking forward as you feel the tip of him nudge you. Art pushes his hips forward, bottoming out in one fluid motion. You’re practically dripping but the stretch still makes you gasp, half in pleasure and half in pain as you adjust to him. You throw your head back against the wall, and Art takes the opportunity to bring his lips to your neck as he gives you a few seconds to adjust to him.

“Move,” you implore him, as you attempt to press your hips into his, “please.”

Art begins to move, his hips snapping into yours at an unmatched pace. You throw one of your hands back, palm flat against the wall your other hand finding its way to the back of his neck, nails sinking into his skin. Art can feel the cool metal of your ring stack, wedding and engagement, against his skin. He turns to kiss the inside of your forearm.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he mutters against your skin, the words falling from his mouth like a litany as he continues to thrust into you, “my wife is so fucking beautiful.”

“I want to cum,” the words escape you like a whine, but also a command as your hands inch up the back of Art’s neck to grasp the hair on the back of his head. It earns you a growl from him, not dissimilar to the sounds which he makes on the tennis court, as his strokes become more intention filled, his hips pressing further into you with each movement; Art aims to please. You feel Art’s teeth sink down onto your shoulder as the familiar pressure begins to coil in your middle.

You come with a cry, your orgasm washing over you, and you lose control of your body in the moment, your hips jerking uncontrollably between Art and the wall. Your pleasure drives him over the edge, and he cums with a groan, his hips on auto pilot as they continue to push into yours, but now at a languid pace as he fucks himself through his own high.

“You okay to stand?” He asks, forehead against yours, your back still pressed against the wall, legs still wrapped around him, but more loosely.

“No,” you respond, your eyes fluttering open, looking into Art’s blue-brown eyes. You can feel him softening inside you, but Art doesn’t pull himself out. He manages to shuffle deeper into your apartment, into the guest toilet nearest to the entrance with you still wrapped around him, his jeans and underwear still hooked around knee height.

Art sets you down on the bathroom counter, your skin meeting cool marble before he pulls out of you.

“We’re no better than a couple of horny teenagers,” you muse as you move to tug your dress over your head before letting it drop on the counter beside you, “how long do you think it’ll last.”

You feel Art run a finger up your slit as his cum starts to drip out of you, your still sensitive body shuddering slightly at the contact. You both had always had trouble keeping your hands off each other but since the wedding, something about knowing that you were husband and wife had made it so much worse.

“Do you want it not to last?” He asks, his tone light, but with a flash of insecurity that you know its there.

“I want it to last,” you say firmly as you reach for his hand, your lips going over his finger, tongue swirling around the digit as you taste both yourself and his cum on him, before releasing his finger with a pop. You see Art’s eyes darken with lust, his hand coming to grasp your jaw lightly tilting your head up so his lips can meet yours.

[wishcamper]

Cassian Appreciation Week Day Two: Hair

Happy @cassianappreciationweek! Here is my first offering for Day Two: Hair. You can read it here or on ao3.

Enjoy!

My Sweetest Downfall

A Nessian re-telling of the biblical story of Samson and Delilah, set during the first war for human liberation.

CW: consensual sexual content, reference to sex trafficking

Art by Terry Strickland

Oh, we couldn't bring the columns down Yeah, we couldn't destroy a single one And the history books forgot about us And the Bible didn't mention us, not even once "Samson”, Regina Spektor

She was the most beautiful female Cassian had ever seen.

Woman, rather - the rounded edge of her ear had been what caught his eye, entranced by the freshness of her face, the self-possession of this human woman weaving through the sea of fae in the lower markets of Adriata. All visions of using his shore leave to drown himself in wine, blow all his wages at the tables, and bed as many females as possible vacated his mind the moment her blue-gray eyes met his over the heads of the crowd, the exact color of an Illyrian sunrise.

She belonged to one of the pleasure houses, as evidenced by the copper bands at her wrists and throat, likely one of the more expensive ones gives the fine silk of her gown, the glint of her golden brown hair braided about her head like a crown. He searched for days until he found the right one, coming across her at last at the Golden Thread. He wasn’t even really sure what he wanted, just to be near her, to feel the heat of her body, the thrum of mortality under her skin.

More than anything, he wanted to understand that tug in his chest, the pull that urged him to crash himself to the ground for her, even if it reduced him to rubble.

—

He was a force of nature, wild as a winter wind yet gentle as the crush of petals under bare feet, a mountain of a male whose waters ran deep and smooth.

And in spite of it all, she still had to break him.

She pushed down her guilt, her disgust at the task before her. They’d been all over each other for a week, stealing moments in hidden coves, remote beaches, even once behind a corner stall in the market when the vendor was away. Despite having paid for her, and handsomely, he seemed to want only what she gave freely of her time, her body. What he wanted lay beneath, he said, a chance to listen to the symphony of her human heart for however long she’d allow.

That same human heart condemned her, left her helpless to the forces of power and control that bound her tighter than any ropes ever could.

The stories of him in battle had spread across Prythian long before his arrival in the great Summer city, of the Illyrian foot soldier who razed armies with his deadly dance, blessed by the Mother herself. Enalius reborn, they called him, and the Lord of Spring wanted him eliminated in neutral territory if they were to have a chance at winning the war. Ten thousand gold marks they'd promised to her if she could find the source of his power.

She knew she condemned herself with this cursed bargain, much less her people, but there was no way around it. She’d never make enough with her body to free her family, to protect them from the ravages of the fae without the riches they dangled in front of her.

And so when he slipped through the lavender curtains of the Golden Thread, she hoped to hate him. Prayed he’d be despicable, possessive and brutish like the other males, head swollen large enough so just a single pinprick could deflate it. Instead, that first night he came to her plush, dark chambers she found a tenderness that stunned her and knew this would be so much more damning than she’d ever imagined.

He was willing to sacrifice everything for human freedom, he told her in the wake of their joining, dark curls clinging to his brow. The shame consumed her knowing he’d fulfill that promise, even if his martyrdom would come not on the daybright battlefield as he imagined, but rather with the breathless gasp of a knife in the night.

For the next week he worshiped her body in their beachside bungalow, ran his fingers over and under the copper cuffs as if he’d rip them off with his bare hands.

“And how would one shackle you, Lord of Bloodshed?”

“No bonds can hold me, sweetheart, save for those given by the Mother.”

He promised to smuggle her out between presses of his lips against her skin, or else to buy her freedom, to win the whole damn war by himself if that’s what it took. She only smiled and called them beautiful words, nothing less, nothing more. At night when he slept, she lay awake tracing the fresh scar cleaving his eyebrow, the lines of tattoos swirling over his chest and arms.

Make a bargain with me, he said, hazel eyes sparkling with something too painful to look at for more than a moment, like staring into the sun. Tell me what makes you so strong, she said, tell me what gives you the power of ten males, a hundred. She watched her warrior spar with his own heart, and though he denied her in the end she felt a relief in it, that they could have one more day, one more night with none to witness what bloomed save for the stars, the moonlit sea.

She’d ask him twice more, she told him, and he grinned in a way that broke something in her, something she could never repair.

In the cradle of seclusion, long-buried hurts began to emerge, the throes of pleasure giving way to tears that flowed like wine. He held her pain like a bird in his hand, stroking her jagged edges gently. Unafraid of what lay within her, the blink of her mortal life.

Why do you touch me so?, she asked, and he ran a hand up her thigh to the crook of her waist, following the path his mouth had blazed before they’d collapsed in satiety. 

She asked him the second time in the cove off the beach, the one he’d flown her to on those resplendent wings. The white sand floor glowed under turquoise water, casting his body in an unearthly light, their echoing moans giving way to laughter that ricocheted off the rock, through her chest. He told her of his days training, the foolish arrogance of his youth before it was shattered by the war. She shared a memory of stealing sweets from a shop when she was a child, the rush of her first taste of sugar, of the successful con.

“And is victory always sweet for you, siren?”

Mostly not, she told him, and a challenge sparkled in his eyes, one that made her blood go hot. She forgot for a moment why she was there, the trap at the center of the maze, and let him fly the long way home, skimming the waves with her fingertips as they chased a pod of dolphins playing in the surf.

When they returned, he disappeared for a short time while she bathed, stepping back through the leaning door frame as she was toweling off, arms laden with gifts from the market. That night she claimed her victory in all the ways she wanted to, the Lord of Bloodshed under command of his interim queen.

“Please,” she begged the Spring lord through the mirror he’d given her, the forget-me-nots in his golden hair either a cruel jest or devastating providence. “Please spare him. Take his power but do not take his life.”

The High Lord laughed in answer, and the guilt stretched her to the point of breaking, her skin a dull hide drying in the sun. “It seems the hearts of human sluts are as open as their legs.”

She knew he felt her sadness, her fear when he returned from a swim in the ocean, salt glittering on his wings like diamonds in the sunset glow. He lifted her into his arms and retreated to the bathing chamber, showed her where to touch them to bring him to his knees, to make him fall apart with her name on his lips.

Ask me, he said, ask me once more.

“No.”

“Why not? Have you given up on me, sweetheart?”

He couldn’t want everything that came with her, she told him, wouldn’t desire her if he knew the wickedness of her heart, the crumbling ruins of her soul.

“How can I prove it to you?”

Her fingers clutched at his shirtfront, begging him to stay, to run, to see the deception at her core.

“Tell me the source of your strength. Tell me what gives you the power of ten males, of a hundred. Show me your weakness and I shall show you mine.”

Her faithful lover brought his forehead down to hers, resting it lightly, drew her hand up to bury it in the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

“If my hair is cut, I lose my strength. I am as weak as any other until it grows long again.”

She grabbed a handful of it in her fist, pulling his head back sharply. But he only looked at her with that sun-bright devotion, the passages of his heart open to her to walk through as she pleased. She decided to leave a footprint there, the barest trace. Hoped it was enough for him to remember.

“I have a daughter to the south. She does not know what I am. All I do is for her.”

Something like understanding passed through him then, but she didn’t get the chance to question it for he captured her mouth with his own, sinking her down into the deep waters where only they lived, borne along by the current.

Moonlight glinted off the shears where she hovered over him hours later, praying for him to wake. To grab her wrists and throw her against the wall, or else to kiss her desperately and fly her as far as those wings could take them, past the edge of the world.

But he did not wake, and instead she cut each lock from his head, the thread in her chest ripping violently with each traitorous snip.

—

They paraded him through the temple in chains, the jeers and taunts hitting his back like a volley of arrows. The warrior god shackled like the slaves he so foolishly defended, reduced to the bastard-born nobody he feared lived at his core.

He found her at once among the crowd assembled, her beautiful face broken with agony, and even though he knew he should hate her the space where his anger lived felt hollow. The absence of her was more devastating than any of the whips that lashed at his back, the blunt blows to his chest, his legs.

His power gone, the feeble call of it sluggish in his veins, he could only watch as they brought the ropes forth. They lashed him to the great column at the center that held up the ceiling, painted with scenes of resplendent High Fae, their faces cold and cruel. He tried to tell her to go, to run, but he was too weak to speak, knew from the way she clutched the collar at her throat she’d never leave while he was still alive. He only hoped she’d be far enough away to miss the worst of it.

I’m sorry, he said as best he could, feeling the imprint of her body on his skin, in his bones. I’m sorry I couldn’t save us from this. I’m sorry I didn’t know until it was too late.

Hazel eyes lifted skyward, a prayer to the Mother on his dry, cracked lips. With a great heave he twisted, rammed his bound fists into the pillar he leaned against, ripping apart the world.

Stone rained down and there was screaming everywhere, thick dust pouring into his lungs and he waited for the crush, the flash of pain before it all went quiet and still. In the long tunnel of time he hoped to return as a tree somewhere in a quiet wood, to feel her sit in his shade, or else to be a clear pool she drank from, the splash of him over her face washing her clean.

And all at once he was shoved aside, a great boom echoing somewhere overhead, soft hair tickling his face, soothing his heated cheeks.

He opened his eyes to find her body splayed over him, taking the blow of the stone that would’ve been his death. A shimmer of gold disappeared into the dust engulfing the ruined temple, and he felt the pull in his chest begin to break, ever-reaching and grasping at the building darkness.

“Don’t go, sweetheart. I didn’t get enough. I want more. We should’ve had more.”

This brave human woman, his mate, her body broken and bleeding, reached a hand up and touched his face lightly, pain and love in her dawn-colored eyes.

“I’ll find you in the next world, the next life. I promise. And we will have time.”

A fierce, burning pain seared along his scalp. He heard someone shouting, felt a wave of night-dark power sweep over him before oblivion dragged him under, stealing the only thing he wanted, one last memory of her face.

But all he was left with were the spikes of an eight-pointed star on the crown of his head, the only remnant of her final words, his failures. Their future snatched away by the greed of death, the indifference of fate.

Five hundred years passed, and Cassian searched every face for hers, heart leaping at every flash of golden brown hair, every knowing grin in a crowded market. He’d almost given up the day he stepped into the Archeron manor when he saw her glaring across the room at him, when that thread in his chest yanked so violently he thought he’d been shot by an arrow, straight through. She didn’t remember him, of course, but he could’ve sworn a flicker of recognition passed through her, the past lingering in the core of their bones, woven into their skin.

And he knew in that moment, more than he’d ever known anything, that he’d rip every hair from his head for her. That no matter what war he had to win or building he had to shatter, he’d free her from the shackles of the world, from those in her heart, her mind. 

That they would have time.

---

Thank you if you got this far! I'm pretty proud of this one so I hope you enjoyed aka it didn't hurt too much. Shoutout to all the other awesome creators putting out amazing work this week. There is so much more to come!

[blanchebees]

About the removal of your art from print shops: It's something record labels enforce, as they also make money from merch sales of the bands signed to them. The reason smaller labels do not enforce it might be that it costs time and/or money to monitor platforms (e.g. because it needs to involve a lawyer). These big print shops also have no interest in hosting copyrighted art, as they might be fined (they get a bit of money for printing/hosting the shop and therefore would be making money off of art that belongs to someone else who did not consent to their designs being used).

Contacting the band will extremely likely have zero effect, as they have a contract with the label defining how much money the label gets from merch sales, and the label will enforce getting that money (e.g. by preventing unauthorised merch being sold). There are also contracts in place between the label/band and the merch companies designing and making the official merch. Those employ or pay artists for their art, and for these artists it's their job and they need to get paid. Merch sales are really the main money maker for bands these days and the days where a moderately successful band (compared to pop music) would get rich just from selling music are over. For touring, Sleep Token also has quite a few people involved in addition to the band members (fairly large crew, Espera etc.), who all need to get paid.

A similar art form to fan art is fanfiction and it is widely accepted that it cannot be published for money without changing details of the story referring to the original fandom (especially if the fanfiction is based on a book, film or TV series).

What you could do is have people donate money to you for making fan art (e.g. Kofi). There might also be other ways around it without using big commercial print shops.

In summary, while I understand that you don't mean to make a lot of money from your art, you're simply infringing on someone's copyright. That smaller labels don't enforce it is more of a lucky circumstance for fans selling art rather than necessarily how it should be. People deserve to get paid for their intellectual property and in the best case copyright serves to protect it.

Another problem is that they are also removing normal posts, this one artist got their reels and posts and posts taken down on insta, so it looks like we won't be able to post any fanart at all, which is even worse.

Some had their whole account disabled.

Cosplayers also didn't get affected, when they wear their symbol and some may gain money as well but maybe they will eventually, which would be extremely shitty. Not letting anybody express themselves.

It's just baffling that they're shutting down artists when they bring in the most fans thanks for the effective arts.

I can't force people to donate, buying prints was alright because they get something back but not everyone is gonna donate.

Just don't want to do anything and be affected like this.

[cherrylng]

BREAKTHROUGH IN AMERICA [STYLE Series #004 - Muse (August 2010)]

The band's ability as a live band, the enthusiasm of “Twilight,” and Matthew's star power, and the great success in the U.S. achieved through repeated tours without fuss or hurry Text: Hisashi Murakami

It was a long time ago, but I remember seeing Muse on stage in New York City when The Cure toured North America in 2004 as part of their Curiosa Tour. Muse appeared on the second stage, which was much smaller than the main stage. Since Muse was already popular in the UK and Japan at that time, I paid attention to the show, but I am ashamed to say that I have almost no recollection of the performance. I tried hard to remember, but all I could remember was that I had seen the performance. To make things even more embarrassing, when I was researching Muse's tour history in the U.S. for this article, I discovered that they had participated in the 2000 U.S. tour, which was double-headlined by Red Hot Chili Peppers and the Foo Fighters. So it is almost certain that I saw them on stage at that time. I certainly remember seeing the opening band. However, I never dreamed that 10 years later they would become one of the biggest bands in the world, and I can only be appalled at my own lack of foresight.

However, only a handful of UK and international artists have been successful in America. Aside from U2, looking back over the past 15 years, Radiohead and Coldplay are the only bands that have truly achieved success in America. Even Oasis had a momentary breakthrough in the early days, but in the end, they never really showed off their monster act like they did overseas. Of course, in cities such as New York and Los Angeles, where they are more sensitive to trendy developments in the UK music scene, and where there are many foreigners, new rock bands that NME pays attention to, such as the Arctic Monkeys, can be exciting for a moment, but they do not develop into a big boom. Dance music bands such as the Gorillaz may be more widely accepted.

It was assumed that Snow Patrol or Keane would follow Coldplay and become the next bands to make a big splash in America. However, while both of these groups have had some success, it is Muse who has outshone them all. The blueprint that everyone had in mind was for UK bands in the vein of sensitive rock music like Radiohead and Coldplay to succeed in the U.S., and they turned out to be wrong. This is because the image of UK bands that Americans are looking for is one of liberal arts rock with a sensibility not found in the U.S. (although this author's own prejudice is also a major factor), and the grass is always greener on the other side. Muse has been off the radar since the 1990s, and although they have been giving concerts in the U.S. every once in a while, unfortunately and fortunately, they have been turned away. I guess that many Americans, like myself, were not caught by it. However, the reason for their success can be said to be that they slowly and deliberately spread their one-of-a-kind presence in the U.S. over a long period of time, rather than suddenly and unexpectedly.

The Police, whose 1983 release "Synchronicity" topped the US charts for 17 consecutive weeks. Sting also enjoyed great solo success.

Radiohead frontman Thom Yorke also played in the band Atoms for Peace with Flea of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers. He has become a superstar.

Moreover, Muse was equipped with the weapon of musical performance. Many of the new bands coming out of the UK can't compete with their American counterparts at all in terms of performance, and even though they understand the point of feeling and impulse rather than technique, when they actually go out on the live circuit In the American market, where the question is how well you can satisfy the audience, no matter how much NME praises you, if you lack persuasiveness in your live performances, you won't be well-received. In this respect, the fact that Muse was a band that could fully demonstrate their abilities live was a major factor in their success. After the Curiosa tour in 2004, Muse toured the U.S. for a long period of time, and it is no coincidence that the band has been making a name for itself in the U.S. as well. Thanks in part to these steady live performances, “Absolution�� released in 2003, although it never appeared in the top 100 of the U.S. album charts (peaking at #107), it sold slowly and steadily, eventually earning a gold disc (500,000 copies sold). In the U.S., such a foreshadowing of the next album can lead to a big turnaround, and that was exactly the case with Muse as well. Their follow-up, 2006's “Black Holes and Revelations“, debuted at number 9 in the U.S., and 2009's “The Resistance“ debuted at number 3, setting a good record.

And we must not forget the extraordinary popularity of the “Twilight” movie. Muse themselves seem to be saying, "We owe our success in America to 'Twilight,'" with lip service, but there is no denying the fact that there was certainly a piggyback effect. The enthusiasm for “Twilight” has turned into a huge movement that cannot be compared to that of Japan and other countries. The soundtrack of “Twilight” which included their song “Supermassive Black Hole,” reached No. 1 in the U.S., and the soundtrack of the sequel “New Moon/Twilight Saga,” which included “I Belong to You,” also reached No. 1.

And for the soundtrack of their latest film, “The Twilight Saga: Eclipse,” they once again offer a new song, “Neutron Star Collision.” The fans of this hit series are overwhelmingly teenagers, which seems to have added to their popularity. For young people who have never been exposed to a stage performance by a band like Muse that plays classic rock or progressive rock, it must be easier for them to learn from the British than from their father's generation. It is reminiscent of the late 80's breakthrough of Depeche Mode in the U.S., and shows the enthusiasm that comes with catching on to a new movement. Then there's the question of star quality and celebrity status, but Matthew and actress Kate Hudson's dating story has surfaced and cleared this one up nicely, too. Matthew is now a muse with no fear in the United States.

Debuted in 1979, the band finally broke through in the US with 1992's Wish. The Cure, led by Robert Smith, reigned as the parent band of the goth genre and also had a successful Curiosa tour.

U2, the biggest Irish band in the world, who have toured with Muse, and whose stage sets on each tour are so spectacular that Muse may have taken a leaf out of their book?

Depeche Mode, which Muse has also opened for. A rare electro band that can consistently fill stadium-class venues.

Translator's Note: A decent article, with quite good information that really showed to us what helped Muse to finally have that 'breakthrough' in America. Yes, we can't dismiss that the Twilight film series gave them that much needed boost back then.

[geodax]

Codywan Reverse Bang

It’s that time of year! Here’s my contribution to the @codywanreversebang. It’s an enemies to maybe lovers story in an alternate universe where Cody and the clones were raised to serve the Empire and fight the Jedi. Read the fic below or on AO3.

Check out the amazing art by @cmarani linked here. And thanks to the mods for the extra time!

~~

Pain.

It radiated out from his abdomen, burning shards of agony shredding through his stomach and liver, splitting open his rib cage, and leaving his heart only just beating. The pain was far too familiar and no less agonizing than before. It was almost unfair that the agony of plasma cutting through skin and organs never seemed to lessen no matter how many times he endured it.

Cody was fairly certain he was screaming, or at the very least, yelling for a medic, but there were no medics here, no surgical wings equipped specifically to treat clones, no specialists standing at the ready to ensure the army lost none of its leadership.

He had long expected to die in battle. Not like this certainly, but it was a fact he had accepted a long time ago. Still, it was a shame. He had rather hoped that after dealing with the band of raiders, he would have enough credits to take a few months off and settle somewhere quiet, away from the roiling political shitstorm of the Core.

Blurry faces appeared in his vision. More pain lanced through his side - someone was touching him, trying to staunch the flow of blood where the blackened skin had broken open.

Cody tried to push them away. He’d rather die quickly, without the added pain of treatment, but his arms were caught and pulled aside.

Jumbled voices filled his ears, trying to calm him, but nothing could soothe him the way his brothers could. Their voices always meant help was coming, help was here, even if help was impossible, at least he would die in someone’s arms.

He thrashed violently when they moved him, nearly escaping their grasp, before they pinned him firmly to a stretcher.

More jumbled words, more soothing voices filtered through the pain. Something about healing, something about debt. No, he did not like the sound of that at all.

“Stop--” his voice slurred, then failed him entirely as he hacked at the blood suddenly filling his throat. The sickly sweet scent of bacta flooded his nostrils before it poured into his sinuses.

In the Core or in a medical bay, he would have inhaled deeply, allowing the mist to reach his lungs and staunch the bleeding until surgery could be completed.

But out here, bacta was worth more than the few thousand credits in his bank account. Certainly more than these people had paid him for this job.

How much would they demand in return?

How many years of service would they deem an acceptable exchange for saving his life?

This would never end, would it? He barely escaped the clutches of the Empire before they snatched back what little freedom they had offered the clones as thanks for fighting the war. And even then, he had to fight tooth and nail just to keep what bare semblance of choice he had.

“Breath,” the healer repeated again, this time just as someone else pressed on his wound. He screamed again, wheezed in another breath, and felt the bacta soothe the burning tissues even as he tried to cough it back up.

It was already too late, but he couldn’t give up.

He couldn’t--

The sunlight vanished and he found himself indoors, somehow. They were still hours away from the village, he had been certain of that. It’s why he had laid his trap here, where no one was supposed to get hurt.

They were gentle as they placed him back on the floor, but it did little to stop the blinding pain.

And then the chanting began.

Cody would have sighed if he had breath to spare. He knew this village was a little off - most groups isolated for long enough tended to diverge from the galactic norm at least slightly - but he hadn’t thought a cult was flourishing here. And it certainly was, judging by the sudden appearance of glittering white and gold robes swirling throughout the room.

Well, at least whenever their supposed god failed to save his life, Cody would die free. There wasn’t much more he could ask for at this point.

Metal clanked and then hands were on him. They lay upon his side and moved outwards, the pain numbing with each pass of their hands over the torn skin.

Cody wondered idly what painkiller they were using. There were more than a few on the market that acted so quickly, but they were extraordinarily expensive. Perhaps some crop had those properties. He had seen stranger things in the galaxy.

Still, it didn’t matter. No painkiller would save his life, just ease his passing. That had been an unheard of luxury to the clones; it had never made sense to waste resources on the dying. But lying here, on the receiving end, he thought it would have been justified to spare even a half dose to his brothers clutching their spilled guts in their hands.

Cody squinted upwards and caught a glimpse of brilliant blue eyes before his vision blurred again, too accosted by agony to focus on anything.

Some memory tickled at the back of his mind. Something important. Something--

He screamed through another wave of pain, even as the painkillers fought to soothe it. It wasn’t enough.

“Breath,” the man said. Now, there was a soothing - familiar? - voice. Yes, it had the same Coruscanti lilt of the Empire’s senators and bootlickers that had spent a lifetime trying to keep Cody enslaved, but this voice reminded him of the rare specialists that had visited medical frigates to conduct more complex surgeries than the clones were trained for.

It was one of those specialists that had stitched his brain back together after his skull had been cracked open. She hadn’t said much, but she had allowed Rex in during his recovery to ease his back awake from the anesthesia.

He hadn’t realized such an act was normal to so much of the galaxy, that this was only a hint of the kindness natborns showed each other on a day to day basis that was so often denied to the clones.

There were a lot of things he hadn’t realized back then.

Cody closed his eyes and allowed his body to relax as the pain continued to fade. Really, there was no harm in falling asleep. In all likelihood, he wouldn’t wake up again, but that was okay.

Maybe he’d finally get to see Rex again.

--

Pain was there when he woke up, but it was the light glaring into his eyes that drew him to wakefulness. Cody groaned and covered his eyes, too tired to consider moving out of the sunbeam. His whole body ached, but some of the supposed god’s painkiller must still be in his bloodstream because he didn’t feel the need to scream through the agony.

He was almost comfortable. The floor beneath him was plushily carpeted and a pillow was tucked under his head. Someone had wiped the blood off his face and hands and removed his armor to make room for the bandages wrapped around his torso.

He felt much better than he should, considering.

A blaster bolt to the chest was a death sentence, more often than not. In triage scenarios, it was too time intensive a surgery to be performed when so many others were in just as much danger. Even outside the chaos of a mass casualty event, it was a risky procedure on the best of days since surgeons were permanently in short supply.

Really, the only option was a Jedi healer.

But they were all long dead. Cody had made sure of that - had even once reveled in destroying the Empire’s enemies and facing a cunning opponent. He would have laughed at the irony of it all if the ghosts did not weigh so heavily on him.

The light in his eyes abruptly dimmed with the rustle of a curtain. Footsteps approached, accompanied by the soft clink of - a chain?

Carefully, Cody squinted into the dim light to find the supposed god haloed by what light still filtered in through the curtains.

“Hello again, Commander,” the god said and what little warmth Cody had felt in his bones turned to ice.

Obi-Wan Kenobi. Jedi master. The last knight of Alderaan, the savior of Christophsis, the guiding light of the Hyperion Cluster. The reaper, as his brothers called him. The man had a thousand names to accompany his own, dozens of titles to commemorate his victories against the Empire before Cody had finally outmaneuvered him.

The Empire had heralded the day as a great victory.

But too many brothers had lain dead at his feet.

Because Cody had to win, damn the consequences.

“You’re--” Cody choked on the rest of his sentence. Of course, Kenobi was alive. Of course, he was here, of all places, pretending to be a god, when Cody had no blaster at his side, no army at his back. Cody doubted he could even land a punch if Kenobi were to so helpfully place himself within range.

Kenobi would take his revenge.

And Cody wouldn’t be able to lift a finger to stop him.

He was free - from the Empire, from the smugglers that had gotten him off Coruscant in exchange for five years of his life, from the bounty hunters the Empire had sent after their most famous deserter. No more army, no more regulations, no more collars wrapped tight around his neck.

Cody deserved to die for what he did. His heart knew that even as he ran from it, too terrified still to dare recall that day.

He just wanted a little more time.

Just--

Kenobi smiled at him, but it wasn’t the blazing, flirtatious smile Cody had gotten to know over the battlefield. There was something too knowing in those eyes, too aware of everything Cody had done, every corpse he had left in his wake. And yet there was no hate in his gaze.

Cody looked away.

“I didn’t know the Empire allowed for armor paint,” Kenobi said.

The gold stripes painted on his armor were certainly not regulation. Neither was the hair curling over the tops of his ears or the dusting of stubble across his cheeks that he hadn’t bothered to shave. The blaster he usually carried wasn’t standard issue nor were the few hesitant strokes of polish on his nails and the single piercing he had gotten during a drunken evening on the streets of Nar Shadda.

Each small deviation had felt unforgivable. For days, he couldn’t help but look over his shoulder, certain he would be caught and reprimanded - or worse. Not even deserting had cranked his paranoia so high.

But no one had said anything. His brothers hadn’t been waiting behind every corner to arrest him. Local security hadn’t even given him a second glance for so obviously flaunting the rules that the clones had never lived a day without.

“They don’t,” Cody said.

The silence stretched on.

“I don’t serve the Empire anymore.”

The words felt like an apology.

They weren’t.

“I see,” Kenobi said. The Jedi certainly did not - could not - see what Cody meant. But Cody wasn’t in the mood to clarify. Not to him.

Again, the Jedi’s gaze fell on him, searching for something, though Cody could not guess what. Too often he had borne the brunt of Kenobi’s piercing gaze and the too-knowing look in his eye that usually meant he was a dozen steps ahead of Cody and would be walking away from their confrontation without even igniting his saber.

It was strange now to realize how little stood between them. No armies, no politics, no strategies. It was just the two of them.

And all the bodies they left in their wake.

The Jedi remained still, far from Cody’s side and his twitchy trigger finger. His blaster was probably out in the field where he fell or maybe Kenobi had finally had the good sense to disarm his opponents before trying to sweet talk them.

He had tried to shoot the Jedi in the face on more than one occasion. It never landed, but it had always been satisfying to startle Kenobi out of whatever tangent he had travelled down and allow Cody to make a break for it before the Jedi’s word could sink too deeply in his mind.

“I need to change your bandages,” Kenobi said. He had the good sense not to approach, but Cody wasn’t sure how long that would last. If he was intent on saving Cody’s life, he would do it, one way or another. Because alone, Cody was no match for a Jedi. Especially a Jedi like Kenobi.

“Would you rather change them yourself?” Kenobi asked, a single eyebrow twitching almost into his characteristic smirk before it disappeared.

Cody scowled, but there was no way to change the bandages himself. He was almost willing to try anyway if he wasn’t guaranteed to rip back open what the bacta and Kenobi’s Force had begun to heal.

“Go ahead,” Cody said, trying not to feel as if he were surrendering. The battle was already over. He lost. Now, he could only hope for the mercy Cody had not once shown to Kenobi’s people.

Kenobi’s hands were quick and sure. He removed the soiled bandages and bacta patches before replacing them with fresh gauze and a new layer of bacta. Cody idly wondered at the cost of it all, before realizing it was probably beyond his ability to repay at this point. Besides, his life was in Kenobi’s hands now. His financial woes were the least of his concerns.

“You should be healed enough to leave in a few days,” Kenobi said as he finished. “The organs still need time to heal and you’re still at risk for infection, but you’re out of the woods. You’ve got your remarkable healing abilities to thank for that.”

Kenobi had already started talking about something else before the words finally caught up to Cody.

“You’d let me leave?” Cody asked. It felt like a trap to ask, but Cody had always thought it best to spring the trap rather than let it close when he least expected.

Kenobi shrugged. “I have no quarrel with you Commander, unless you feel inclined to dig up old grudges.”

The sentiment was so obviously a lie it was almost laughable. Kenobi was clearly trying to lull him into some false sense of security. Cody would not fall for it.

“And the town?” Cody asked.

“I don’t believe they have taken issue with you.”

Cody scowled, then looked away. Of course, the Jedi wouldn’t even have a proper answer. He had lived too long assured that his needs would be met, that medicial supplies would not be withheld as bartering chips or punishment. He wouldn’t even know what Cody was asking.

“Commander,” Kenobi said. There was a touch of steel in his voice, the hint of the general Cody remembered bleeding through. “I’m afraid I am not particularly involved in local politics. I cannot answer your question without the relevant information.

“I can’t--” Cody steeled himself. “I can’t afford the bacta treatments.”

The bacta treatments should have been his right after the war ended. He was supposed to have his citizenship, backpay, and medical care to cover the plethora of injuries he had sustained over the war. Even as a soldier, bacta was readily available. It was cheaper than fulltime surgeons. And once the Empire established a monopoly, they had as much as they needed while the civilian market struggled.

But even as he lamented the loss, he realized too late what he had revealed.

“You deserted,” Kenobi said.

“No!” Cody snapped, but the truth rang too loud to be ignored. His cheeks burned with shame, still just as fresh as it was ten years ago.

“There are people out there that can help you build a life away from the Empire, Commander. Help you get your feet on the ground, maybe--”

“I don’t want your help, Jedi. I just want to be left alone.”

“It’s a little late for that,” Kenobi said.

“I know.”

The silence between them stretched on. It was not the silence Cody had grown to know in the moments before battle nor the silence of the barracks when most had already gone to bed. It was not the sort of silence that begged to be broken, nor the kind that must not be. It was simply the space between breaths, stretched out a moment too long.

“Do you know why the Jedi fought in the war?” Kenobi asked, apparently oblivious to Cody’s own desire to never discuss the war or the Empire, but he supposed it was a fairly neutral question. Better than Kenobi asking after him.

They both knew the answer the propaganda fed them - greed, power, madness. Even the Alliance had gradually begun to turn their back on the Jedi; for all great feats the Jedi accomplished, the lives they saved, their abilities only served to alienate them from the general public.

Cody didn’t provide an answer, though he had a guess or two. One couldn’t learn to predict their enemies’ moves without knowing their motivations.

“We can feel the galaxy’s suffering. Not just the feelings of the people near us, but the actual weight of every sentient life that has ever lived or will ever live. Their feelings leave an imprint on the Force that echoes through time,” Obi-Wan said. “Every day, we wake up to a billion voices begging for help. By night, there are just as many, no matter how many lives we save. But we can’t stop trying.”

It was certainly not the official answer - that they were honor bound to restore the peace, to restore freedom and justice to a galaxy rapidly destabilizing under the ever expanding grip of the Empire - but it rang true in the way Kenobi’s words rarely did.

And yet it made no sense.

“Isn’t that an exercise in futility?” Cody asked.

“Perhaps,” Kenobi said. He paused to look down at his shaking hands. Cody wondered vaguely when that had developed. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry for what happened, Commander. You and your brothers deserved more than to fight a war that was not your own. And if you don’t mind me asking, I would very much like to know why you fought at all. Because you are certainly not mindless, obedient droids, no matter what your Senate claims.”

Cody could easily give him the official answer - citizenship, honor, duty, training. The list went on for miles, all of it dedicated to lofty ideals that the Empire claimed to uphold. But they all knew that was crap from the beginning.

Honor hadn’t kept him on Coruscant when the Empire declared war again mere days after they had finally defeated the Alliance. Duty hadn’t freed him of what he had done, of the ghosts that haunted his steps.

But love did.

At least, it used to. Before the death reports trickled in, before the numbers tallied up faster than Cody could track. Before his brothers stopped looking him in the eye, stopped trusting him to watch their back.

Before he had sacrificed hundreds of his brothers to win a war none of them cared about.

Before he had killed Rex.

It had been the right choice, tactically speaking. A few hundred brothers fed into the meat grinder, so that the rest of them could finally have the freedom to live, to breathe, to take whatever life they wanted and make it their own.

It had been love that drove his hand.

And love was why his brothers hated him - because they would have rather kept fighting than see their brothers slaughtered.

Because at war, they were together. United. Purposeful.

Without it…

“We were made for it,” Cody said.

It felt like a lie.

It had to be.

Kenobi collected the soiled bandages and disappeared from Cody’s eyeline. His instincts made a half-hearted attempt at panicking, but Cody was too tired to consider the danger. Kenobi was right; he would never have the quiet life he desired, never be at peace while his brothers were still enslaved by the Empire.

And yet none of them would ever desert - they were too loyal to each other to even consider it. And the promise of citizenship, of being acknowledged as a sentient, free people had been motivation enough to prevent their more scheming minds from finding them some way out.

But it was a lie. Just like every damn thing Cody had ever believed. Over and over he found himself living with the consequences of the lies the Empire told - that they were bringing peace to the galaxy, that they were doing something good, that the clones would be rewarded for their work, that they would all be free someday.

Only a few years alone had revealed the truth to him.

And with the truth, came the horror of what he had done - the blood he and his brothers had left in their wake. But much stronger than guilt, was frustration.

It had all been pointless. All the brothers that died for a better life, all the lives he had sacrificed: they were never going to be given their freedom.

He heard the clank of a chain again as Kenobi returned. He looked almost as bad as Cody was feeling: his face was gaunt, his skin almost gray, his eyes red. More than that, he looked exhausted.

“What are you doing here?” Cody asked. Kenobi was in hiding, certainly. All the Jedi (what remained of them) were. Cody had been quite efficient at wiping out their network of support. But Jedi didn’t go into hiding as gods - rumors traveled too quickly of such things. Even out here, far from most hyperspace lanes, on a planet that disdained outsiders, rumors should have spread eventually. And yet he was; alive and untouched by the hunters that had burned their way through the galaxy for years now.

Kenobi had always been the exception to the rule - too clever, too manipulative, too proud. It was what made him a great general, how he inspired devotion in his troops, how he could convince them to trust even his most ridiculous plans.

It’s why he had been the Empire’s greatest enemy, why Cody had been tasked with slaughtering his battalion, his allies, down to the last member. He had succeeded when no one else had, but never managed to track down the Jedi’s starfighter after they shot it out of the sky.

“The whole galaxy thinks you’re dead,” Cody said.

“I almost was,” Kenobi said. “I was caught in the hyperspace slipstream of a cruiser before I was spat out here, no comms, no support, not even a general idea of where I might be. I walked for days to find civilization, and when I did, it was under attack. I revealed myself as a Jedi to defend the town, but I was shot twice in the process and brought here to heal.”

The Jedi came to Cody’s side with a tray of biscuits and a glass of infused water that shimmered almost blue in the dim light.

“You should eat,” Kenobi said.

“It’s been ten years,” Cody said.

Kenobi didn’t answer. There was something terribly close to guilt in his eyes, but more than that, Cody finally glimpsed his freezing anger.

Good. It was about time they stopped this pointless, slow dance around each other.

“Kenobi--”

“What do you think happened, Commander?” Kenobi asked. “No matter how many times we offered you and your brothers a way out of slavery, you spit in our face. You destroyed our Temple, you developed the protocols for the killing squads, you ensured we had nowhere to run. And then when we were practically beaten, you gave the order to hunt and execute us. As if we were nothing but animals.”

“So you set yourself up as a god to these people? Using and manipulating them in the same way that the Empire does to us? Because if that’s the kind of people the Jedi really were, then I’m glad we never followed you. Because you deserved what we did to you.”

Kenobi looked away, his fringe falling over his eyes. And then pulled his robes aside to reveal a heavy chain around his ankle.

“I didn’t choose this,” he said. “No Jedi would.”

Kenobi ran his fingers through his hair and sighed at Cody’s skeptical expression.

“While I was healing, they trapped me here. They thought they could use my abilities to keep their crops growing, their children healthy, so they tried bribing me – giving me gifts and food, anything they could imagine. And when I couldn’t help them, they turned to punishments and coercion.”

Kenobi’s fingers ghosted over a nearly invisible scar cutting across his cheek.

“They had never heard of the Jedi. All they had were stories of fickle gods that wandered the stars that could destroy planets on a whim or bring great riches to those that won their favor. They thought they were doing the right thing. Eventually, I taught myself to heal. That was the one gift I could actually give them.”

“You healed them?” Cody growled. The very idea set him on edge. He certainly wouldn’t lift a finger to help the shitty natborns that denied him and his brothers their citizenship. “Why?”

“I couldn’t leave them to suffer.”

“But they hurt you, they—”

Cody stopped. Because Kenobi had been telling him why since he opened his mouth. Because it was only a chain – ten years was more than enough time to wiggle his way free one way or another, Cody had seen him escape for more secure prisons.

“It’s because you’re a Jedi, isn’t it?”

Kenobi nodded. “It is not such a bad life,” he said. “I can still help people without bringing the Empire down on my head. I can meditate freely, still practice my beliefs. I can sleep without worrying what tomorrow will bring or what harm I will have to cause. I can simply serve these people as best I can – and here, that means healing.”

“Then you already know why so many of my brothers cannot leave.”

Kenobi smiled sadly. “You love each other and each other only.”

“Yes.”

The truth was simple. It did not make the loss of their love any less agonizing.

“They hate me,” Cody said when it felt like the silence had stretched on for long enough. “That’s why I left. After what I did—” He shook his head. “We only ever had each other. And I—”

Cody couldn’t continue, but he didn’t need to. He had seen the shock on Kenobi’s face when he realized that Cody was going to walk his brothers into a trap just to distract the other Jedi generals and their army long enough to bring in the bombers and the surrounded them.

The annihilation had been complete.

Not a single survivor walked away.

Not even Rex.

The Alliance had tried to retreat under Kenobi’s quick direction, but Cody hadn’t let them go, hadn’t allowed for surrender, for decency.

He won the war.

And lost everything else.

“Then go back for them,” Kenobi said, as if it were that simple.

It wasn’t. There was no way to pull everyone off Coruscant and the outposts at once. Too many things could go wrong, too many brothers would be left behind to face the wrath of the Empire. Cody had spent years agonizing over the problem, turning it over and over, accounting for thousands of variables and possibilities without luck.

“It’s impossible.”

“Then let me help.”

Epilogue

The chain broke with the snap of Obi-Wan’s fingers. He had not bothered with fanfare or comment, simply done what he had spent ten long years avoiding. But Cody saw the way his shoulders uncurled, how the permanent tension seemed to bleed out of his body. This was a relief too long in the making.

Cody’s armor slipped back on easily now that his wound was healed. Kenobi had certainly become a master healer in the intervening years. With the help of bacta, there was not even a scar to remember it by nor any lingering tightness in his lungs. He was fairly sure the Jedi had managed to soften some of the scar tissue in his lungs and gut that had been his constant companion since the day he woke up with his skull stapled back together.

Obi-Wan packed them both a bag, woven together by the rich sheets the town’s residents had gifted him. In it went what necessities Obi-Wan could scrounge up, though there wasn’t much besides the simple robes he wore, a few hygiene items, and some medical supplies. He left the gifts and offerings behind, not budging even when Cody revealed his sorry financial situation. He was certain the Force would provide. It was a faith Cody allowed himself to hesitantly share.

He stretched his stiff muscles as they readjusted to the comforting weight of his armor. It felt much the same as always, but the persistent itch between his shoulders blades was gone.

“My ship’s only a few kliks south of here,” Cody said as Obi-Wan tidied up the cottage. There wasn’t much to do – the place was kept almost spotless – but he folded away the nest of blankets and set the pillow back on the bed. The meditation corner he set up for himself was quickly dismantled. In minutes, it was as if no one lived here.

“Clean slate,” Obi-Wan said as he pulled the curtains open, letting the light flood into the room. He hesitated briefly before the last, before flinging it open like the others, letting in a mess of colors and lights like Cody had never seen.

Cody tucked his helmet under his arm as he stepped forward, a hand outstretched to touch what was certainly the results of hundreds of hours of work. Hundreds of glass pieces had been cut and soldered together to depict Obi-Wan in the moments after a battle, the sun at his back, his lightsaber extinguished, his eyes closed as he centered himself, a perfectly serene expression on his face. The artist had added a pair of colorful wings to Obi-Wan’s back that glimmered as the sun passed through the glass before it pooled on the floor in a mesh of hues.

“They loved you,” Cody said.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said. His own hand reached out to trace the soldered lines, a labor of love by an artist who must have spent decades practicing their trade before they brought their work here. “Too much, perhaps.”

“They’ll be alright.”

“I know.”

Obi-Wan turned away from the window, the fire finally returning to his eyes. “Well, there’s no time to waste, my dear. Shall we?”

Cody put on his helmet and hefted his bag.

His brothers had been waiting long enough.

[scarlettsabetlondongirl]

Happy tenth anniversary Poet Scarlett Sabet and Jimmy Page

Gloria article online here or below:

"No one gave them a chance : The couple who caused consternation due to their age difference is celebrating their tenth anniversary

Jimmy Page, who was followed all his life by the fame of a womanizer, found peace at the age of 70 with today's 35-year-old Scarlett Sabet, a poet whose father has Iranian blood and with whom he shares his Victorian castle in Kensington.

Although almost no one gave them a chance because of the age difference, musician Jimmy Page, founder of the cult band Led Zeppelin, is celebrating the tenth anniversary of his love with the 35-year-old poet Scarlett Sabet this year . The famous musician and author of Led Zeppelin's greatest hits, who celebrated his 80th birthday in January, was enchanted by her lyrics, a red-haired beauty with long curly hair who seems to have come from some renaissance times.

As she told the British magazine Tatler a few years ago , it happened at the World's End Bookshop in King's Road, where she read her poems publicly for the first time. Seeing the crowd and the beautiful poetess who was also acting at the time, Page entered the bookstore, and after her reading, which left the audience speechless, he approached her and quietly said: "Your poems cut like a knife."

But it wasn't love at first sight, at least not on her part. His compliment touched her and was the impetus that made her decide to ignore acting and devote herself entirely to writing. But his reputation as a womanizer was rather odious to her. In the first months, they were just friends who would meet more by accident than on purpose, but the experienced rocker must have had a plan.

He was not even known as an excessively moral guy, he seduced Krissy Wood , Roni Wood's wife , during the period when they were good friends. Numerous models, actresses, singers have been "guests" in his bedroom, more than thirty of them are publicly known, he was married twice and has five children. Of course, all his affairs and scandals were followed by media articles that did not escape the romantic Scarlett.

Nevertheless, several random meetings on the street led to the first coffee, then lunch and socializing. And little by little, instead of in the bookstore, Scarlett spent more and more time with her laptop in his castle, where she soon moved. They started dating in August 2014 and it seems to be the most serious relationship Jimmy Page has ever been in.

They also opened the doors of their home for Tatler magazine, the Town House mansion made of red brick in London's Melbury Street, a well-known destination for fans of the band Led Zeppelin who "kidnapped" Page from David Bowie and bought it in 1972 for 350,000 pounds.

Today, the famous Victorian castle is their common home, the house is full of art, and supposedly - ghosts live with them. As Scarlett said, there is a strange energy in the house and that even though some have claimed that the castle is haunted, she and Jimmy feel nothing but positive energy.

When their relationship came to light in early 2015, the then 25-year-old poet admitted that she was horrified and frightened by so much media interest. She was then working as a waitress at the Chelsea Arts Club, a private club where famous artists gathered, and one day at the reception she received a phone call from a distraught member of the club. He said that a journalist from a tabloid stopped him in front of the entrance, showed him her picture and asked him if he knew her. "What did you do to have journalists walking around the club?", he asked her annoyed. Since then, Page paid her a bodyguard to accompany her to work, and their relationship was almost daily in the British media.

It was mostly about their 45-year age difference. Scarlett said that at that time she was indescribably ashamed, she thought that her life was sealed, but still she did not give up on her love choice, unusual for many. Now she is much more confident and openly talks about her love, and she says that she could not have found a better and more handsome partner who is her friend and who makes her laugh every day." Gloria

Photo: Shutterstock

[fruityuncleskeletor]

I'm so sorry if I sound like a cunt right now but I have so much trouble empathising with rich people when they're "sad". And I get it, idol life sounds like it can be a nightmare half the time, but they know what they're signing up to. Most of us will never have this kind of opportunity in life, or even escape poverty with the way the world is. And sure, money can't buy true happiness but it sure as hell eliminates the vast majority of stressors that drive people into deep depression and gives access to all the treatments and meds that improve your condition. Maybe this makes me a horrible person but I'd much rather go through trauma and depression in a mansion being able to feed myself and my loved ones, all my bills paid on time, than struggle with depression as is plus the depression of having to choose between eating or paying rent. He could retire tomorrow and have his life set.

You know what? Your feelings are valid AND justified. I feel the same most of the time. Buuut... There's also a halo effect at work, surrounding celebrities - just because they are attractive and competent in one area, we tend to assume they are ethical people and in our minds, they can do no wrong. Their PR machine definitely works hard to confirm this biased view we hold of them.

My tags on the story video have just as much chance to be projection as they do to be a reflection of his emotions and intentions while posting that video. There was just something so endlessly sad to it - the fact that he is bare-faced and not smiling at all, and how he shifted the focus towards that one lonely insect in that tiny, mostly dry patch of flowers. It made me feel horrible because I forgot all about festival season and favourite bands and it reminded me that the bugs are fewer and fewer, we have no more seasons in Europe and the heat in the cities is making the elderly die in their homes. I have definitely said it before: I too would prefer to weep in a Ferrari than on a fucking bus. And I am a bigger, saltier cunt for thinking how easy it would be for celebrities to be vegan, to not wear fur and leather, to not work with corrupt brands, to tell people to really think it through before having kids they cannot afford to raise - and seeing that none of my faves are engaging in that. Because being famous and rich is more rewarding than being compassionate and using your platform to ACTUALLY change the world for the better by changing the people you touch with your art. But that stance can definitely coexist with compassion towards him. He could be my child, age-wise, and he seems to have a harder and harder time with the demands of celebrity. And even if he's feeling despair at the state of the world while dripped in Louis Vitty from head to toe, he would still get a hug from me. We're all trapped in this hell together and HE is definitely not the one who's keeping you and me poor and making the oceans boil. Oh and by the way: money doesn't buy happiness, but it definitely buys you the freedom you need to search for happiness. I'm definitely struggling right now, and feeling shame about it too. So we're not looking at things from that different of a perspective. By the end of this summer, all my friends will have seen SKZ live somewhere near them and I will feel really poor and left out. I can't even say, "fuck it! I won't have a future anyway, better live it up now" because I am too salty and it costs nothing to have my friends think I'm a fake fan for not traveling to another country and paying one month's paycheck to see men shaking their butts on a tiny-ass stage far away. So not engaging in that kind of sacrifice just to see my current obsession band is all I can afford right now.

[venture-through-the-mist]

Tennotober 2024

My collection of works based on the Tennotober 2024 prompts.

Hi all! I wanted to take part in Tennotober 2024, but I also knew that I wouldn’t be able to draw 31 art pieces, so I’m doing some fics instead!

The Warframe Tennotober 2024 Prompt List can be found here: https://forums.warframe.com/topic/1412660-official-tennotober-2024-megathread/

Day 15: Wedding: Fondness Lingers, Even In Wounded Souls

The Entrati family has changed drastically, has lived through wrath and loss and pain. They will never again be who they once were, yet perhaps there is merit in who they are now, and their connections to one another — new and old alike.

TW:

Mentions of paranoia, anger issues, and other mental health issues.

Going off of the above warning, there are brief, non-graphic mentions of the canon-typical domestic abuse—mainly physical, though you might see verbal if you squint—that comes with this family, as well as the lingering emotional impacts of that.

Memory issues due to the Infestation.

Just as another note, this piece does switch from Vilcor’s POV to Gomaitru’s POV about half(ish)way through. I tried to make the transition pretty smooth so it didn’t break up the flow of the story, but I do apologize if it’s a little unclear. Also, as I’m sure y’all might’ve gathered by now, this will have spoilers for Rank 5 with the Entrati family.

With everything out of the way, the fic begins under the cut.

She’s still the woman he married.

Somewhere, locked away in the far recesses of his mind, in one of the few places that hasn’t been consumed by the Infestation that worms its way into his thoughts, is a memory. It’s muddled, faces blurred and names obscured, but it’s still mostly intact. Or, rather, the important parts are.

It was a lavish ceremony—no, it wasn’t…was it? That doesn’t sound right, somehow—, but his focus hadn’t been on the sea of experts, nor had it been on their parents—his, he manages to recall…her father was already gone by then—, no. He had paid no attention to them, to the saccharine smiles and the practiced niceties that their kind was so well known for. 

His eyes were solely on her.

Her expression had been seared into his mind, those sharp, azure eyes boring into his soul, the corner of her lip turned into the faintest hint of a smirk. The dress she wore was flawless, of course, milky-white with golden accents, and her hair had been done into a style not much different from what she normally wore, save the ceremonial rings and beads adorning it. She hated it, he remembers. She had despised taking time away from her precious research to be primped and preened like some ornamental songbird. It didn’t matter anyways. Not to him.

He would’ve married her even in peasant’s clothes.

He remembers sitting next to each other, late that night, after everyone left, after all the superficial flatteries were done with. She had scoffed at him as he placed his hand next to her own. One hand rough, calloused, its nails cut short—and cleaned of oil and other debris, for once. The other, thin—not delicate, never delicate—, with sharp angles and even sharper nails, manicured so they were flawless. Despite their differences, both were united by the thin, ornately-carved gilded bands that wrapped around their ring fingers. 

That damn ring had been a bitch to find, something that wouldn’t be cumbersome as she worked, but was adequately stunning for a being of her station. He’d eventually turned to one of his colleagues—an engineer with an odd knack for metallurgy—to create it.

The ghost of a rare, genuine smile had danced on her lips, covered by a pointed insult that he knew she didn’t truly mean.

He did love her. He still does.

That’s why it hurt so much, watching as her paranoia heightened, her descent quickened by the Infestation that stole her memories, that had twisted those which remained into something toxic.

It was easier to bear the brunt of her fury than it would’ve been to break what was left of her heart.

It was easier to pretend that he hated her.

Regrettably, a part of him wasn’t pretending for a long time. He learned from his wife, learned to do what she did, to lean into his anger—his hurt—, let it consume him. Only when their Ayatan gave them the opportunity to mend the cracks did he realize that it did no one any good to keep blaming her for everything.

One mistake doesn’t change his love for her.

Not if he doesn’t allow it to.

His wedding band is gone, lost somewhere in the Necralisk with the long-decayed remnants of his left arm. He doesn’t know if she kept hers, what with all the animosity that’s gone around. It doesn’t matter, he realizes. Those bands symbolized who they were, but they’ve all changed. Perhaps not entirely for the better, but that doesn’t make it any less true. They’re scarred, and sometimes he finds himself unsure that he feels entirely comfortable with her, after everything—his body still aches on bad days like it did all those years ago.

But they’re together.

So, he finds himself moving through the tunnels, slipping around the corner towards her post. He finds himself under the scrutiny of those piercing, ice-cold eyes—the eyes that still ignite something within him, some feeling of warmth that fights its way from beneath the weight of his scars—, as he holds out his hand to her. He hopes that he isn’t imagining the way the edges of her gaze soften slightly, her jaw relaxing just barely.

His hand hangs in the air.

Waiting.

Her husband is flawed. She knows that well. She has punished him for it countless times—the uncomfortable feeling of regret is one that she is still learning to endure—, and yet, she has only recently begun to let go of her rage in an attempt to understand. 

He had only wished to help her, in his own misguided—idiotic—way. She recognizes that now, though a part of her still does not wish to accept it. That part of her still screams of betrayals and conspiracies and plots against her. 

He will leave her. He will destroy her.

Just like all the others.

She can stop that from happening if she strikes first.

With some difficulty, she ignores the voices which threaten to send her back into her fury. She decides that, for the first time in a very long time, she will not hide behind her anger. She will no longer use it as a weapon to destroy what has finally started to mend. Her tongue will remain sharp, her words pointed like the thinnest of blades, but, she rationalizes, they are used to that. She never was a weak-willed being. One can be coarse without being cruel. It is time that she remembers how. 

She did trust him once.

Her memories have fallen prey to the Infestation—more-so than the others’, evidently—, and she finds that she is unable to recall most details from before. Whenever she seeks them out, she only finds glimpses, fragments of larger moments, the context unknown to her. 

His warm, ultramarine gaze is in more of those shards than she would care to admit.

The thin, gold band presses against her neck, hidden from view behind the larger pendant. She does not remember when she had placed it there, nor the reason why. She attempts to deny the fact that her skin prickles uncomfortably at the thought of losing it, similar to how it had burned at the thought of giving up the only connection to her father.

But that shard had never been a connection to her father at all, had it?

The ring is, however, a link to her former self. It is a link to him. 

In her darkest moments, she had contemplated tearing it from its place, discarding—destroying—the ring and thus her connection to the pathetic being that she had married. 

She knows not of why she never followed through with that thought.

She is secretly relieved that the ring remains where it is.

Her gaze narrows as he moves towards her. Suspicion and fury and disgust coil around the recesses of her mind, scratching at her thoughts, attempting to provoke her wrath once more. He holds his hand out, and something new flickers through her, winding through the negativity, forcing it to quiet. It forces her to confront her more difficult emotions. 

She still cares for him.

After a few patient moments, Gomaitru slowly takes Vilcor’s hand. Her fingers entwine with his, the callouses feeling familiar beneath her skin. His muscles are slightly tense, holding a wariness within that she doubts will disappear simply because his mind has begun to forgive her. She feels the pendant on her neck shift slightly, and notices surprise dance through his gaze, his warm eyes lingering on the strip of gold that lies behind it. She fights back the urge to snap defensively, to build up that barbed shell once more, the armor which harmed others in the interest of self-preservation.

She used to think herself incapable of regret, a mentality which nearly cost her everything.

She prides herself on her intelligence, yet it had become twisted into paranoia.

Her husband has his flaws, it is true. But, although her stomach twists uncomfortably at the admission, she is finally realizing that she does as well. As she releases her grip, huffing a remark that she knows he is aware that she does not fully mean, a tiny ember of a thought ignites amidst the hissing voice of the Infestation.

He is still the man she married.

[finnsfm]

harry   styles.     he/him.     cis   man.      ›spotted   at   the   met   steps   ,   finn   caulfield   ,   most   likely   listening   to   strawberry   swing   by   frank   ocean   with   their   airpods   pro   .   the   twenty   eight   gained   quite   a   reputation   ,   known   to   be   -elusive   yet   +athletic   to   anyone   who   knows   them   .   you'll   easily   spot   them   when   you   hear   about   keeping   your   head   up   and   stick   down   on   the   ice   ,   breaking   records   from   a   young   age   ,   red   wine   stains   on   white   button-ups   ,   cigarettes   laid   out   in   ashtrays   ,   followed   by   tom   ford's   black   orchid   .   latest   nepoupdates   article   talks   about   finn   seen   without   his   wedding   band   for   the   first   time   since   divorce   rumors   began   circling   around   him   (   true   )   ,   but   i   guess   any   reputation   is   good   reputation   .   (   alex   ,   25   ,   he/they   ,   est   ,   none   .   )

STATISTICS.

full name   .   griffin   south   caulfield   .  nickname   .   finn   .  birthdate   .   april   1   ,   1994   .  age   .   twenty   eight   .  pronouns   .   he   /   him   .  gender   .   cis   man   .  sexuality   .   bisexual   /   biromantic   .  occupation   .   nhl hockey player for the new york rangers   .  faceclaim   .   harry   styles   .  

BIOGRAPHY.

you’re   born   into   a   middle   class   family   in   a   smaller   than   small   town   near   the   canadian   border   .   your   family   classifies   big   ,   summer   vacations   as   a   trip   over   the   border   to   toronto   or   montreal   and   you   indulge   yourself   in   beaver   tails   and   ketchup   chips   and   maple   syrup   flavored   cookies   and   poutine   and   ,   perhaps   most   important   of   all   ,   hockey   .   it’s   not   like   there   isn’t   hockey   where   you   grow   up   ,   but   you’re   really   not   very   good   at   first   ,   and   you’d   rather   keep   some   semblance   of   popularity   back   home   .   that   is   ,   until   you   get   quite   good   on   the   ice   ,   and   you   join   the   rec   league   that   practices   in   the   ice   rink   behind   your   house   .

your   official   start   date   for   hockey   is   at   the   age   of   ten   ,   but   you’d   been   playing   off   and   on   since   eight   –   though   no   one   considers   you   professional   in   any   sense   of   the   word   until   you’re   drafted   out   of   high   school   .   you   land   a   spot   for   toronto’s   home   team   ,   wear   the   hell   out   of   the   maple   leafs   jersey   until   you’re   traded   to   the   new   york   rangers   in   2019   .   you   break   records   left   and   right   for   the   leafs   ,   almost   wonder   why   they   traded   you   in   the   first   place   .

your   parents   still   live   in   the   house   you   grew   up   in   ,   despite   you   begging  them   to   move   to   new   york   –   all   expenses   paid   and   everything   and   they   still   turn   you   down   .   your   sister   lives   in   the   city   ,   but   she’s   in   brooklyn   pursuing   an   art   degree   ,   so   you   don’t   see   her   too   often   .   you   were   married   for   a   short   while   there   ,   married   the   first   person   you   hit   it   off   with   when   you   moved   into   the   city   and   fuck   if   that   didn’t   work   out   .   the   media   has   been   all   over   the   story   since   you   stopped   wearing   your   wedding   ring   (   despite   the   divorce   being   finalized   almost   six   months   ago   )   .   you   don’t   see   them   too   often   ,   either   .   besides   ,   being   out   of   a   relationship   has   given   you   more   time   to   devote   to   your   greatest   gift   and   passion   –  hockey   .   who   needs   anything more   than   that   ?

PERSONALITY.

once - considered rather the golden boy in terms of hockey and his personal life , finn is now quite the opposite . he gets in routine fights on and off the ice , has picked up smoking for the first time since high school -- though won't touch any sort of drugs due to his career -- , drinks excessive amounts of wine at parties and gets 'wine drunk' according to his friends , but ! on the more positive note ! he's very charming and can hold very intelligent conversations , loves animals and charity events and his family and friends and horror films and diet coke and laughing so hard it hurts and trying to be a good person . he hates that his former marriage is in the spotlight , because he's actually been doing a lot for different organizations and non - profits , including starting his own that would pay registration fees for kids to play hockey , and he feels like there needs to be more light on things that matter . which ! isn't to say he doesn't indulge in everything new york has to offer , but he's definitely not out there trying to make a negative reputation for himself .

[historyhermann]

The Promise of Rad Sechrist’s “Project City” [Part 1]

In November 2021, Rad Sechrist, creator of the well-regarded series, Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts, announced the creation of a platform known as Project City. Writer, comedian, and musician Ethan Becker, director and storyboarder Chase Conley, and character designer, storyboarder, and illustrator Coran Kizer Stone, joined on as co-creators of this platform.

Reprinted from Pop Culture Maniacs, my History Hermann WordPress blog on Jan. 23, 2023, and Wayback Machine. This was the tenth article I wrote for Pop Culture Maniacs. This post was originally published on February 6, 2022.

Project City was formerly named the Rad How to School, when it was only an animation school. Sechrist recently described the platform as “like several small creator owned studios banding together” to tell stories they wanted. In this article, I’ll examine Project City and projects on the platform. I’ll also discuss the project’s impact on the animation industry and indie animation space.

The official website of Project City describes it as a “project based platform for learning how to create animation.” It proposes a way for artists to fund their own projects by “splitting up the Intellectual Property into Fractional shares” that anyone can buy. This will allow fans to “fund the projects that they want to see happen and artists get to create their vision.” Future profits go to the IP holder. They are then “divided amongst investors and creators, according to their ownership percentages,” in a process known as fractional intellectual property or F-IP for short.

The site says it is trying to seek stories from creators providing “diverse perspectives that explore controversial subject matter” that larger studios wouldn’t touch, while trying to “teach students the ins and outs of animation…[and] allowing them to invest in animated projects.”

The website’s FAQ says that Project City lets people “learn how to make animation” by working on their own projects and offering classes about the “different stages of the production process.” [1] The same FAQ states that there is a Discord, notes that people can access classes they paid for until their account is inactive, and answers specific questions about projects and teachers. All in all, this platform, which reportedly has a small staff, shows promise beyond anything in the usual studio system.

Project City’s section for animation classes has courses taught by top professionals in the animation industry. These classes focus on voice acting, animation programs, storyboarding, artwork fundamentals, pitching a series, and concept art. Others talk about character design, life drawing, film making, writing for animation, and fundamentals of animation storyboarding.

One of the more interesting sections is about investing in your favorite projects. There are four projects ready to be funded as soon as the F-IP process begins. All four have begun pre-production: Wonna the Wanderer, Robot Hunter: Rossum, Delinquents, and The Brave War.

Conley, Sechrist, Becker, and Stone, with Prynoski on the screen in the background, in a January 28 video talking about their projects

The first of these series is by Coran Kizer Stone. Its story is simple: a young girl named Wonna wanders into a forest, meeting an old man who sends her on “the most dangerous missions to meet and destroy the most powerful beings” in this world. Currently, it has a script, storyboards, an animatic, and visual development.

The second series is by Chase Conley. In this series, artificial humans known as Primus Proxies have taken mankind prisoner. When a robot champion, Robot Hunter Rossum, appears to kill off the robot oppressors, the real champion, the real Rossum, watches, deciding whether it will aid or stop the impostor.

The third series is by Ethan Becker. It is about “kindness and having fun” with a series of short stories. It is set in the real world rather than a fantasy one. There are characters, such as Pat and Titi, who struggle over whether to kill people, Bo, who has a crush on Zoey, best friends Zoey and Su, and a boy named Max who misses his family.

The final series, The Brave War, is a unique one because Sechrist is one of the co-creators, with writer and director Andra Gunter and Daniel Rojas. This animated film focuses on a group of young graffiti artists “from Watts make a punk song that goes viral.” Before they fulfill their wishes, a “kaiju apocalypse happens, destroying the world and their plans.”

In keeping with Sechrist’s desire for more young adult animation, this is a young adult “2d animated movie with all original music,” featuring Nya Durango, a painter and clothing designer who is 16 years old, an avid drawer C.J., also known as Caleb James, who is 12, and wants to prove himself to Nya and her friends. There’s a crew leader known for his incomplete ideas, Knowledge Croswell, and his little sibling, Essence, who has a “quiet dry sense of humor.”

The series has already been promoted on the Kipo subreddit, where it is described as the “next project after Kipo.” [2] Andra and Rojas previously both worked on Kipo. Specifically, Andra wrote some songs for Kipo, while Rojas composed music for the series.

On the Kipo subreddit, Sechrist said that music for The Brave War will be composed by Rojas. He described it as separate from Kipo and stated that The Brave War may turn into a bigger series in the future. He argued that The Brave War, in terms of its content, is “somewhere between Guardians of the Galaxy, Walking Dead, and Attack on Titan. Sechrist noted that one of the film’s character, Essence, is non-binary. He further explained that in the film, creatures/monsters are affected by people’s energy, whether they are good or bad. He also argued that the film will have the highest quality animation possible. The show was promoted on other subreddits as well. Sechrist is also working with Gunter on Kin, an animated music series about a demon girl named Kin who falls in love with an angel, and after the angel’s death, goes on a “revenge mission to kill God.”

The platform also has a number of other projects in different stages of completion. This includes stories about miners (Amythias), anime battles (Sideman vs. Beta Squad), a girl who tries to survive in a dangerous, dark cave (Nina), a student who has to face off against a robotic food service who tries to put local food trucks “out of business” (Soul Food), two sisters with magical powers (Hanh and Minh), a young Chupacabra taking chances in an annual band battle (Monstar), and an inter-dimensional wrestling championship (Battle Dimension). There are others about houseless people (Hobos), a mythical shapeshifting monster (Lagahoo Girl), supernatural high school sophomores (Revamped), supernatural gangs (Spirit Fist), a teen girl who accidentally time travels (Time Trip), or a series taking place inside of a video game (Digital Hijinks).

There are various projects consisting of creators sharing fan art, fan comics, webzines, short films, graphic novels, or trying out their storyboarding and drawing. Some projects focus on topics such as masked wrestling (Los Torneos), a gangster trying to leave his brothers (Old Dog), superhuman spies (Titan Effect), a space fighter pilot and his team (Ganymede), and friends who beat up angels (The Pact).

Others share ideas for magic, mystery, thriller, horror, neo-noir, sci-fi fantasy, adventure, humor, action, sports, supernatural, detective, and slice-of-life animated series. [3] The same site hosts various webcomics, including a sci-fi comic with nudity titled For Those Who Wonder, an adventure story titled Boundless!, and a comedic, fantasy action titled Taverns and Tentacles. [4] While there is a lot there, I wish the site was better organized with more subcategories.

Before looking into Project City, I was only familiar with The Figments, The Garden Age, and Indigo. The head writer and project manager of The Figments, Jennifer Rust, who I have mentioned in past articles, is the creator of The Journey for Our Lives, Planet Magi, and Little Wolf, all on Project City. The Figments is created by Kip, creator of the webtoon Welcome To Sleepy Hollow. In an interesting aside, before it became an animated series, Kipo was a webcomic which ran for 32 issues on a website run by Sechrist. Some of the webcomics on Project City may follow the same path.

On January 7, Sechrist said they were going to do a “very small test run of FIP shares to fund just one shot of Brave War to start,” and asked if there are some cool anime-style animators and background artists he should know about. This led artists and animators to promote themselves in the comments.

On January 28, Ethan Becker posted a video on his channel entitled “I quit my NETFLIX job for this.” In the video, Becker said that they are trying to produce shows that major studios are too afraid to touch, explained what F-IP is, and described a few projects they are working on.

This includes a show by Titmouse Chris Prynoski, who produced shows like The Legend of Vox Machina, The Midnight Gospel, Metalocalypse, and Megas XLR. He described his series in development, Leafland, which has no plot, no characters, just feelings, and experience getting high.

Becker talked about his show, Delinquents, with all the “good” characters killed off. Instead it focuses on the bad kids who live in an abusive household. He said that he would be incorporating many of his personal experiences into the show. He hoped that the show would be something that a lot of kids could relate to.

Gunter, who is working on The Brave War with Sechrist and Rojas, talked about how the film deals with a sense of abandonment. Sechrist described the film as going “against the grain.” Gunter also argued that with animation there is more of a range to make things “real,” with the film placing Black characters in “stressful situations.” He later noted that the show’s title comes from his name in German.

Conley, the creator of Robot Hunter: Rossum, said that none of the projects he had worked on for the last ten years truly represented him. He described how certain aspects of Saturday morning cartoons resonated with him, keeping him going, and giving him inspiration.

Stone, creator of Wonna the Wanderer, described how his characters exist as “emotional beings” in a world. Instead of being heroes or villains, they would be characters who exist. Wonna, the series protagonist, has to battle entities from an artificially created universe, all while she doesn’t realize she is in a simulated world.

Sechrist, Becker, Gunter, and Conley shared the names of actors or actresses they’d like to work with, if they could, and continued to pass around a mic literally attached to a butcher’s knife. It will be interesting to see all four of them (Becker, Gunter, Sechrist, and Conley) come together and talk about their projects every week.

Project City has the potential to expand the indie animation space beyond the scattered, often crowdfunded series on YouTube, some of which are in development and a few which are currently airing like Ollie & Scoops and Helluva Boss. Whether the platform is pioneering or not, it allows for more independence for creators in the series, movies, music, or shows they create. It is also really cool, with its fun and slick design. More significantly, it provides people with a platform to fund and create their own projects outside of using crowdfunding sites like GoFundMe, Kickstarter, and Patreon, meaning that it could be a game changer of sorts. [5] It is, as aspiring screenwriter Wade McGrath described it, “a kickstarter for animation…that also functions as a platform for people to hire other creatives.”

From the chatter on Twitter and responses on YouTube, it seems to be a place that creatives, allowing any possible intellectual property, including a Craig of the Creek storyboarder and it has the “potential to collaborate” with others, allowing “cool projects” to flourish. There are over 3,000 members on the Discord for the platform. Hopefully, Project City will be a boon for indie animation and push the animation industry in a direction that favors creators.

© 2022-2023 Burkely Hermann. All rights reserved.

[2o3dinge]

It's been a long time now since...

...Thirty Seconds to Mars released This Is War in 2009, an album allegedly born out of the struggle against their record company EMI who required a bigger output which they could not or would not (and possibly shouldn't) deliver thus leaving them in immense debt. Record label EMI put them under threat of a 30-million dollar lawsuit, then dropped it and released the record. Maybe some part of the deal was that 30STM would tour this album to no end around the world, even gaining a Guiness World Record in December 2011 for the "longest concert tour by a rock band".

Two years, 309 concerts, a world tour truly that had Jared increasingly at war with ill health, a failing voice and all sorts of pain. It surely had a cost for Tomo and Shannon too. But - it was the foundation to their worldwide fame. It was what catapulted them from a rather obscure alternative rock band to sing along arena rock in the vein of U2. Producers Flood and Steve Lillywhite made sure of that and pulled off an energetic and unique sound for This Is War.

All of this helped by the full embrace of the blooming social media age for communication purposes and constant documentation. Through Tumblr I became an unwitting follower of that period, not as a fan but interested observer. Jared even made a documentary about it, meant as a reckoning and FY to the corporate music industry. Artifact (2012) won some nice accolades. It was a daring strategy to attack - the album title being a kind of mantra - but it paid off. By now Jared Leto is really effing rich.

You gotta give it to Jared Leto: he never shies away to work his ass off and he'd rather attack than give in. All while being quite entertaining. I'm sure there are many people behind him who make his vision of an artist's life possible and he conducts them all with perfectionist verve. He's doing his part well. Presenting a designer-clad surface, demanding and holding attention, weird and mysterious and good looking - he seems to unapologetically enjoy it.

He was never relatable though, always obscuring himself, his interviews over the years have become more and more... vacuous. Being relatable as a human being, not an idol or screen of projection, is nothing that comes easily for him, it seems work. Most often he meanders between two states when fronting the public, intellectual distance or infantile provocation as way to obfuscate himself. He's made an art form out of merging the two. His brother on the other hand is way more natural, but he's not the great talker or shower. That's why, beyond their biographical bond, they make a good team.

This Is War is an album I still enjoy listening to. It's not for the lyrics and Jared's style of singing is overly dramatic at times, impatient, as if he can't decide whether to sing or belt for emotional impact. But as a whole it's coherent and carried by a peculiar spirit that is animating, vitalizing, encouraging. A battle cry that refuses to surrender to a broken heart. It does sound like a love letter often times.

One song though is outstanding to me. Not only on this album but in all their output: Night of the Hunter. This is objectively a great song. The best the Leto Brothers have written yet and it works with and without the bombastic production. Something about this song is real and timeless.

We'll see if their musical output will ever have that energy again that went into This Is War. Their last two albums didn't have that coherence or power, though not being failures as such. There are always some songs that work and I wouldn't begrudge them their trajectory towards electronic pop sounds. These guys are in their fifties, let them be.

[urapunk2023]

London Calling: Anti-Capitalist Anthem

By Erin Wilson

When I got my license at 17 years old, I certainly did not have my own car to drive. No matter whose car I took—my mom’s, sister’s, or brother’s—music was always what I cared about most on my drive, even the five minute ones to and from school. Usually anxious about going wherever I was, my mood was changed by the music. Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours made me feel energized; Lorde’s Pure Heroine, sad and angsty; Bahamas Is Afie to feel calm.

Driving my mom’s car, equipped with the modern luxury of bluetooth and Spotify, meant I could listen to anything I desired. My brother’s and sister’s cars were older, which meant I could listen to the radio or CDs. My brother had a strongly different taste in music, so none of his CDs compelled me and I often opted for the radio instead (104.5, Philly’s alternative rock, was my favorite). My sister had a small collection of CDs, which included Fleet Foxes’ self-titled album, mixtapes from boyfriends of present and past, and The Clash’s London Calling.

I grew to love this album, knowing nothing else of The Clash. As I paid more attention to their lyrics, I noticed that the revolutionary tones of the 1979 album still rang true in my senior year of high school, 40 years after its release.

In fact, due to their commercial success, The Clash is a notable band of those in punk subcultures that concerned themselves with politics. Though they were criticized for signing with CBS as contrary to punk (Anderson and Heibutzki), there is an inherent impossibility in trying to widely spread a message while also remaining mostly underground and unknown. And although they critique capitalism while reaping its benefits (once success is achieved), how else is one expected to operate under the conditions in which they exist? Rather than becoming anti-punk, the deal allowed the band to move leftist, revolutionary ideas into the mainstream.

Punk evolved out of the social and economic crises in Great Britain in the summer of 1976: high unemployment, a dire heat wave, and the conservative policies and beliefs of the National Front on the rise (Denyer). A movement hopeless with the current situation, yet holding on to a tinge of hope for change in the future, led to the formation of The Clash. Originally a five-man band, they eventually consisted of Joe Strummer and Mick Jones both on vocals and guitar, Paul Simonon on bass, and Nicky “Topper” Headon on drums (Bindas). They got their start opening on tour for the Sex Pistols’ Anarchy in the UK in ‘76, and took off from there (Wilder).

Their revolutionary sentiments existed from the start with their singles “White Riot” and “1977”. Two years later, in 1979, just six months after conservative Margaret Thatcher was elected Prime Minister of Great Britain, The Clash released their third album, London Calling (Bindas). They were informed not only by the social conditions around them, but their personal experiences too. Paul Simenon worked in a factory to save money and gain admission to an art college, which he eventually abandoned for rock and roll. Art college was “bollocks” (Jolly). In a 1979 interview with Punk Magazine, Joe Strummer made his opinions clear:

"First of all let me tell you my personal politics are and always have been and always will be to the left…I’m not into fucking people working away in factories doing useless boring jobs just for some cunt to take the rake off. But I don’t want to say that I’m a socialist or that I’m a communist ‘cause I fuckin’ hate parties and party doctrine…When anybody has a great idea they go and make it a manifesto, a party. Like, I don’t want anyone tellin’ me what I gotta do, right?" (Jolly)

The views of The Clash are evident in their eclectic musical style and evocative lyrics. The title track, “London Calling,” sums up the decaying mania felt by the punks:

The ice age is coming, the sun's zooming in

Engines stop running, the wheat is growing thin

A nuclear era, but I have no fear

'Cause London is drowning

I, I live by the river

Climate change, drought, hunger, nuclear power and threat: the problems of capitalism in 1979 still rang true when I first heard it in 2019, and still today in 2023. In “The Guns of Brixton,” they address police violence in the London neighborhood of Brixton, which had a large Afro-Caribbean and working class population. Simonon himself grew up in this area.

When they kick at your front door

How you gonna come?

With your hands on your head

Or on the trigger of your gun

You can crush us, you can bruise us

And even shoot us

But oh-oh, the guns of Brixton

And finally, in “Death or Glory,” they make their plans of resistance clear:

We're gonna fight you, brother

We're gonna fight 'til you lose

We're gonna raise trouble

We're gonna raise hell

We're gonna fight you, brother

Raise hell

Death or glory

Becomes just another story

Unlike other punk bands, The Clash advocated for means of resistance that did not involve violence, which was often present at punk rock gigs. According to Elin Wilder for Punk, “in fact they abhorred [violence], and were one of the few bands to continually speak out against it; their ideal was to convince kids to focus their anger toward fighting for a common cause instead of fighting each other.” (p. 52)

Gen Z, my own generation, is highly active in advocating for common causes in today’s society, in which the same capitalist-caused issues addressed by The Clash, plus hundreds more, run rampant, if not worse. Now is a better time than ever to look back to The Clash, London Calling as well as their other albums, and the plenty of other frustrated, politically-motivated punk groups of the 1970s and ‘80s. What can we learn from their groundbreaking subculture? What worked and what didn’t? How should we address the ills of capitalism today?

Now that I have my own car, my grandmother’s 1997 Saturn, I have some freedom to choose the music that changes my mood. However, with a broken cassette player, radio is my only listening option, which means there are limitations to the discography I hear on my drives. Although I don’t frequently hear The Clash on the radio, I’m learning to appreciate local radio again, and listening to songs by chance; music that I would typically not seek out on my own accord. It is also a delightful surprise to turn on a station and hear some of my favorite songs and artists, like Feist on WXPN, as well as music I once loved and haven’t heard in ages. There is so much that we can learn by looking back on the art and music of the social movements that contributed to the groundwork of our culture today.

Left to right: Jones, Strummer, Simonon, Headon. 1978. (Sheila Rock/Rex).

Works Cited

Anderson, Mark, and Ralph Heibutzki. We Are The Clash: Reagan, Thatcher, and the Last Stand of A Band That Mattered. E-book, Akashic Books, 2018.

Bindas, Kenneth J. “‘The Future is Unwritten’: The Clash, Punk and America, 1977-1982.” American Studies, vol. 34, no. 1, Spring 1993, pp. 69-89.

Boy George’s 1970s: Save Me from Suburbia. Directed by Ian Denyer, IWC Media, 2016.

Jolly. “The Clash: Don’t Give ‘Em Enough Rope!” Punk Magazine, vol. 1, no. 17, May-June 1979.

Wilder, Elin. “The Clash.” Punk Magazine, The D.O.A. Filmbook Special Edition, 10 Apr. 1981, p. 52.

[holdharmonysacred]

I redownloaded Project Sekai because I want to get in on the Evillious collab (because as much as I’m burnt out on the fucking fandom I still love the actual series) and I’m once again noticing the problem I’ve always had with the game where it’s like. Somehow simultaneously not Vocaloid enough, but also too much Vocaloid?

Like, it’s ostensibly a Vocaloid game, but it just doesn’t cash into its full potential as a Vocaloid game to actually be a Vocaloid game. The Crypton vocaloids are there, but they’re only really there to be manic pixie dream cheerleaders for the original characters, and the OCs are clearly meant to be the actual meat-and-potatoes of the game. Which is... an interesting choice for a game that’s ostensibly about Miku and friends where the players are gonna be there for Miku and friends, but okay, they could balance it out by making all the cards and costumes and events Vocaloid-themed to go with all the actual songs. Except then they don’t do that either! All the cards and outfits and events are just these horrible boring generic idol/band gacha game themes that are never actually tailored around the Vocaloid songs and content the game uses. About the most Themed it gets is the 3D stages and the Evillious collab, which is just an absolute waste. They could make some World Is Mine-themed cards and let you put everybody in the World Is Mine, outfit, but they don’t, and for why???? I saw that they have a paid costume based on the art for Roki, why did they only include it as a paid costume???? Legal issues can’t be the problem here, because Project Diva was able to do themed outfits just fine, what’s stopping them from doing that in ProSeka?????

And then on the flip side it’s like. Okay, the devs clearly want to make an original game rather than a true Vocaloid game, but then the game itself is too tied to Vocaloid to really be an original game????? Like, Miku and friends are irrelevant but still Around, the songs are still exclusively Vocaloid songs and covers thereof, and there’s just enough flavoring to the band storylines that only makes sense if you’re familiar with the Vocaloid music scene in specific to make things potentially confusing to someone who wants a band story but isn’t familiar with the scene in question. There’s a specific level of subcultural context needed to really Get the game to the point where I can’t recommend it to someone who doesn’t like or isn’t familiar with Vocaloid stuff, but then also it doesn’t cater to Vocaloid fans enough to sell itself to me or other fans like me. It’s weird, it’s very weird, I genuinely don’t know what Crypton and the ProSeka devs were thinking with this one.

[dracox-serdriel]

Uhm, no.

Tech bros (and tech ladies, thank you kindly) work for a living, and none of us do work "because it's easy." We do work because we're paid to do said work.

If you think anyone who works in tech thinks things are "just coded away," then it's you disregarding the labor of coding. Coding requires creative labor as much as problem solving labor. There's no "just coding" anything.

So why are tech folks coding AI for art-related output? Because they are being paid to use AI for art-related output. And do remember that AI is also threatening coder's jobs, too. So laying the blame at the tech folk's feet is a shortsighted mistake of epic proportions, and it's playing into the hands of the people in power.

There is exactly ONE reason we are in this mess: greedy corporations want to save money and pad their profits. That is the only reason for this mess. That's it. Anyone out there pointing fingers at anyone else is either a fool or deliberately trying to cloud the issue. This is a common tactic of people in power: get the masses to focus on blaming each other so they don't band together.

AI is an immensely powerful tool that has so many applications that could benefit humanity, including applications to support artists and help them produce art (rather than trying to replace artists). AI can also assist programmers and help them produce great work (rather than trying to replace coders). So, why is AI being abused like this? One simply needs to ask: who benefits when the laborers are replaced with AI? Boom, you have your answer. And it's not the tech folks.

I will say it again: we are ONLY in this mess because greedy corporations are paying for AI to replicate art so that they can pad their profits by cutting their labor force.

Do not let anyone convince you that anyone else is to blame here.

Remember who the real enemy is.

Sincerely, an engineer with a dual degree in computer science/theatre arts who works both as an engineer and an artist.

The AI issue is what happens when you raise generation after generation of people to not respect the arts. This is what happens when a person who wants to major in theatre, or English lit, or any other creative major gets the response, "And what are you going to do with that?" or "Good luck getting a job!"

You get tech bros who think it's easy. They don't know the blood, sweat, and tears that go into a creative endeavor because they were taught to completely disregard that kind of labor. They think they can just code it away.

That's (one of the reasons) why we're in this mess.

[tathastuedu]

IELTS Reading Tips from Tathastu Education, the Top IELTS Coaching Institute in Delhi

IELTS (International English Language Testing System) can be seen as a crucial step for those who plan to continue education or find a job in an English speaking country. Of course, reading can be the most challenging segment of the test. Over the years, Tathastu Education, the best IELTS coaching institute in Delhi has helped thousands of students prepare for IELTS – a majority of whom have found getting to grips with the Reading section of IELTS a challenge. Below are some of the best reading strategies that Tathastu Education being the best IELTS coaching institute in Delhi advises students for achieving good band scores in IELTS exam.

1. Familiarize Yourself with the IELTS Reading Structure.

There are three reading passages and 40 questions in total, and you will have 60 minutes to answer all of them. The tutors at Tathastu Education, the best IELTS coaching institute in Delhi took their time to prepare their students on the common test patterns to avoid surprises on test day. The types of questions in this section include multiple-choice, sentence completion, matching headings, and True/False/Not Given questions. When you are accustomed to these, you will have what it takes to deal with each one of them effectively.

2. Master the Art of Skimming and Scanning

A considerable amount of time should be spent on the Reading section, and special focus should be paid to the skills of skimming and completing the texts’ scanning. It is a short type of reading where a student tries to have a mere conception of the passage without paying much attention to the details and main reading is the sheer racing through the passage in order to locate any specific information or word. Tathastu Education teaches its students to apply these techniques repeatedly so students can find solutions more quickly without scanning the entire material. This is also time-saving and, most importantly, allows providing more accurate answers to questions.

3. Build a Strong Vocabulary

A strong vocabulary is key and it is important while reading passages to avoid getting lost in between different sections. Tathastu Education, the best IELTS coaching institute in Delhi offers its students proper barrage vocabulary exercises specifically designed for IELTS reading passage. Rather than memorizing endless word lists, the instructors at Tathastu teach students about using context clues and making deductions, helping students to deduce unfamiliar terms from the surrounding text.

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