#when will she show us true artistry instead of making things that are easy to sell!!

[thoughts-on-bangtan]

Hi! I hope you’ll answer this question bc it bothers me quite a lot.. https://www.quora.com/What-does-it-mean-now-that-BTS-are-partial-owners-of-Big-Hit-Entertainment do you think it is true what the second person (Christine Herman) said? After reading this, i started to wonder…what if BTS does really have only profit in mind while doing new projects these days? Maybe they don’t really care anymore about creative and meaningful lyrics and sound? With Butter and PTD…all this generic music sung in English. Of course they say “we wanted to make fans feel good”, “butter and ptd represent who we are” and all these things fans want to hear but.. do you really think it’s true? moreover, don’t get me wrong, i don’t find product placement in their reality shows as something terrible, i believe this is a normal thing, however, nowadays the members really film ads and do marketing a lot. so yeah, for some reason i began to question their integrity dhsjjss i hope you will understand from where my concerns come from and won’t find this ask stupid sjdjjdjd

After reading that persons answer I can immediately tell you that I basically don't agree with an overwhelming majority of what she said (even more so since a lot of it just makes her sound like a manti that hates the company and basically would want them to make music for free or something). Generally I don’t agree with most of the opinions this person holds, and also Quora really isn’t a good source for info or good opinions, most of it is written by mantis, haters, and toxic shippers with an agenda so most ARMY will tell you to stay as far away from that website as possible.

Anyway, her focus in that answer was on money, since BTS are shareholders (and how that’s a conflict of interest despite other artists doing the exact thing but no one really cares or ever thinks about it), but what she failed to consider and note was that Big Hit Music, so BTS' label, isn't part of HYBE in the sense that shareholding has no baring on it since BHM is private. So while BTS profit off of HYBE doing well, and have a small percentage of a voice as shareholders, that has nothing to do with BHM in the classical sense, even if BHM's earnings reflect well on HYBE numbers and the shareholder money. 

BHM was made private to ensure their artistry would remain untouched, that was the whole point of that.

Even if they weren't HYBE shareholders, take Namjoon as example. He has more than 170 KOMCA credits, is among the top 3 Korean artists with the most credits and is also the youngest of them all. It is said that his earnings from that alone can sustain his family for 3 generations over. Look at Hobi and Chicken Noodle Soup, that song was a hit and he paid the original creator of that song 2 million dollars upfront and earned a lot back due to how successful it was. Same goes for Hope World which, again, was and is still immensely successful. Look at Yoongi and his work both as prod. SUGA, featuring artist SUGA, and as Agust D, as well as the credits he holds for his work on BTS songs (giving him as well a total of over 100 KOMCA credits, just like Hobi). Bangtan have worked and continue to work extremely hard for their music, put their heart and souls into it, and it shows even if their style changed as they grew older and more mature.

Yes, money is a major motivator, but looking at the above paragraph, do you really peg the members as these corrupt money hungry sellouts with no music related integrity? Who would need to sign major deals and would throw away their passion to just release empty shells of music for the sole reason of money? Am I naive enough to believe that they don't care about money? Of course not, we live in a capitalist society and even if BTS wouldn't care about money anymore at this point, HYBE very much does, and yet still I can't find it in me to agree with any of what was said in that answer that person wrote.

More below the cut:

And that point about how Hyundai cars were sold out because of BTS, isn't that the point why literally any company ever hires celebrities to advertise and endorse their product? And sure, again, I'm certain they earned a lot on these deals, they aren't the first or last or only ones in the history of ever to do so. Besides, look at JK and what he's done for small companies, or Tae who wore a brooch made my a small creator at the airport which catapulted that creator into the eyes of millions of ARMYs enough so that they could move to a proper studio and earn money with their work. Or the modern hanboks JK wore which led to the brand being able to move into actual stores in malls because of their sudden new popularity and demand. Or him wearing a bracelet that helps whales with a percentage of the money from the sales of said bracelet. And for all of that JK and Tae didn't earn any money at all. JK himself said that he's more conscious of the brand he wears now because he wants to help smaller businesses in these trying times, not because they pay him to do so (especially since they would never be able to afford that), but because he's aware of the influence he has and how he can use it to help others. Sound very much like a capitalistic villain, right?

As for the product placement bit, have you been on YouTube recently? Have you noticed that many, if not most, YouTube videos by “bigger” creators (and by that I mean even people who are around the 100k subscriber mark) begin with them thanking whoever sponsored that particular video and give you a scripted minute to two minute long ad before getting into the actual topic of the video? And In The SOOP featuring Chilsung Cider, FILA clothes and the random mention of how good Samsung phones are isn’t much different from it, though really, if you’re not someone interested in fashion much, would you really notice or care that they wore FILA? It’s just...clothes? If it weren’t a BTS related show, would you even notice it much? And it’s not even like they mentioned those brands every five minutes or anything, just a few times, which sure sounded a bit out of place at times, but personally I thought it was easy to look past. That’s just how things work nowadays and it’s odd for people to behave like somehow BTS are the first and only ones to use product placements despite literally every movie and show doing it in subtle and less so manners.

The answer by that person you sent also mentioned the Hyundai song for their car IONIQ and, unsurprisingly, that person wrote it off as just some commercial jingle but I’d actually disagree with that. Not to sound like a Hyundai and Samsung stan, which I am neither of, but I actually think those two knew best how to utilize the artist they have spent millions on signing a deal with. Hyundai didn’t just write them off as pretty faces with a millions strong fan army behind them and that’s it, they remembered that they are musicians so they gave them a song and made a whole music video for it as well. And say what you will, it is a good song. Then, just a few days ago, Samsung stepped up their game and we were given Over The Horizon Prod by SUGA of BTS. For those who aren’t Samsung users, Over The Horizon is their signature ringtone and basically their company sound, and over the years different artists were asked to make their own version of it. And this time they reached out to Yoongi and asked if he’d like to do it as well. It’s kind of a big deal. Sure, Butter is used in one of their commercials much the way Dynamite was last year, but that’s beside the point. Would that person make the same claim about Imagine Dragons whose song Believer is also part of the ads for the new Samsung phones? I have my doubts.

Furthermore, and I don't want this to come across as mean toward you but, I think it is uncalled for to question their artistic integrity based on a total of 3 (three) English songs when last year alone we received 50+ songs, most of which were in Korean, among them the entirety of BE which was, according to the members, the album they were most involved in ever when it comes to both music and everything around it.

You can dislike their English songs, that’s more than fine, they have a very extensive discography you can listen to instead, but questioning their integrity based on them doing something that most, if not every, artist on their level does (as in sign ad deals with brands etc) is a bit much if you ask me. Does that mean indie artists whose songs get picked up for commercials (or for Netflix shows or movies) and thus it catapults them into the mainstream are also just money hungry people with no integrity and ones who don’t care about their music? Or is that, again, just a standard Bangtan is held to (as in that their integrity is questioned based on everything, even the most trivial/normal things) that only applies to them and no one else?

In the recent Weverse Magazine article about how Permission to Dance came to be there is a lot of talk about not only that song but also Butter and Dynamite, among the things being discussed and talked about they mentioned how the original lyrics for Butter were much more materialistic but that the members didn't like that so they asked for that to be changed. Likewise the original lyrics for Permission to Dance, as you'd expect from the penmanship of Ed Sheeran, were much more romantic, almost proposal like, which wasn't what the members wanted either so it was, again, adjusted in a way that would fit what they, as well as the A&R team, wanted. While you may not like these songs, they still had a say in them to a certain degree, could say yes or no and ask for adjustments. Why else would PTD take eight months?

While they might outsource their English songs, their main focus, so their Korean (as well as Japanese) discography is still centered around them, their lyrics, their songs, their sound. Of course you’ll also find outside producers and some lyricists on those as well, because that’s how music works these days, as in collaboratively, that doesn’t change anything at large. Their integrity is still very much there, their hearts are still in it, what other reason would any of them have to say that they want to continue for a long time, for Yoongi to say they want to figure out how to make their career last as long as possible, for JK to say that he wants to sing forever?

Admin 2 also wanted me to add that in their opinion, to a certain degree (though not fully of course), their English songs are like a way to laugh at and expose how shallow the English-centric music industry is. As in, while they made music in Korean with deep and meaningful lyrics, the US industry didn’t care but once they switched to easy to listen to sound with easy to understand English lyrics, they suddenly paid attention, are played on the radio, and even received a Grammy nomination which they wouldn’t have gotten for a Korean song ( A1: regardless how much Black Swan or Spring Day really would’ve deserved it...). 

#answered ask #BTS #hybe entertainment

[airi-p4]

Ice Dreams - Chapter 1

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | ...

Lukanette Figure Skating AU? Lukanette Figure Skating AU.

I’ve been planning this for more than one year already ( @mamanabeille​ knows ) but Freya’s recent art for me fueled me to finish the first 2 chapters (out of more than 60...)

Header art is traditional art drawn by me about one year ago - Full pic HERE.

Summary

Despite being very talented and loving to skate, Marinette is determined to quit Figure Skating after the lack of decent results and the great amount of stress and pressure on her shoulders.

On the other hand, Juleka and Luka are average skaters in pairs category who, after years of hard work, have finally started showing some good results. But suddenly, Juleka is forced to retire, leaving Luka at the verge of retirement because of his need for a partner.

Can Juleka convince Luka and Marinette to give figure skating a second chance? Can they form a bond strong enough to reach the top and accomplish their dreams? Could something more than partnership spark between them?

AO3

________________________________

CHAPTER 1: Marinette

Figure skating can appeal to people for many reasons: the competitive part, the artistry, the music arrangements, the performances…

For Marinette figure skating was everything- her whole life.

When she was happy, she would love to skate. When she was sad, skating never failed to cheer her up. She was athletic, flexible and talented, gifted by both technique and artistry, as well as tenacity to work hard and never give up. Skating was an irreplaceable part of her life.

WAS.

In past tense.

Because even when it’s pleasant to watch the beautiful programs the skaters have to offer, there’s something that never changes during competitions: the scores are what really matter. Fail one element and you're screwed. Keep the program perfect but with minimum difficulty, you're off the podium. Do perfect in practice but fail in front of the judges: it's over.

This was Marinette's case.

Recently, consistency always failed her in competitions, and it had been a letdown to see how the past seasons had been going blank for her, without any outstanding accomplishment, despite her being on top almost all of her childhood. Her effort, and full potential didn’t show off on her competition results.

Marinette's parents and her coach, Miss Bustier, associated her disappointing results to her mentor’s and grandmother’s passing. But Marinette was well aware that the main reason behind her failures wasn't only how much she missed her granny; the real cause had a girl’s name: Lila Rossi.

It had already been 2 years since Lila joined her training classes under Miss Bustier's teachings. And everything had gone downhill after that.

It's not that she hadn't already been enduring bullying from Chloe Bourgeois, but Lila's bullying was at a whole different level.

The pressure, the expectations, the stress, the bullying, the injuries and damaged property, the struggle her parents went through to pay for her classes and competitions, how she had to sew her own dresses because she didn’t have the money to buy them, how she almost had no friends left... Everything piled up for years and made her finally crumble. Her skating consistency was affected and led only to constant failure.

In the end, she was exhausted, and no matter how much she loved ice skating, she reached her limit. She surpassed her limit.

Lila Rossi had won.

For two weeks now, since her last failure at a National Competition, Marinette had been skipping her skating classes. Coach Bustier was always exceptionally kind to her, and had been considerate (in her own way) this time as well, suggesting she take a few days to rest and get back again when she felt confident again.

But Marinette didn't intend to return under her coaching. Instead, she had set her mind to resign from her classes and, probably, even quit figure skating too.

She couldn’t take it anymore.

The most talented skater of the decade was seriously considering quitting skating for good. And it made her sad, but she couldn’t see any other way out of the spiral of failures she was caught in. No one was there to get her out of the dark hole she was buried in.

She certainly didn’t expect a second chance in figure skating.

_________________________________

During the days she didn't go to her classes, Marinette always spent her time at the Miraculous Ice Skate Rink, where her 'grandfather', Master Wang Fu worked as a manager, taking care of the installation and the opening and shutting down hours, along with the material to rent and the tickets for open to public times. Being her mother’s uncle, she had been babysat by him and his wife since she was a little kid. It was, in fact, Marianne Lenoir, was the one who taught Marinette the skating basics and the one who made her start practicing and love figure skating since she was 3 years old.

Marinette loved her grandparents a lot, and the passing of Miss Lenoir still pained her everyday. After her tragic loss, they became even closer, especially when Master Fu gave Marinette his late wife's earrings as a memento - he knew she would have given them to her at some point, since she loved the dark-haired girl a lot. And with no children on their own, Marinette was the closest they had to a daughter or granddaughter. Marinette had promised to treasure the earrings. They had a ladybug’s design engraved on them, only visible when light illuminated themfrom a certain angle. They were very mysterious and unique, and Marinette had loved them since her eyes had fallen on them. After becoming their owner, not even once she took them off. She felt the luck on her side as long as she wore them.

Except, that wasn’t the case anymore.

Marinette had her own theory of how Lila might have corrupted them when she touched them once, since all her luck was now gone from her side from that moment onwards.

On the ice, Marinette skated a little. But when she attempted to jump, a memory of her last competition crossed her mind and she fell down. Instead of standing up like always, she stayed seated on the floor, tears falling down her cheeks.

"Marinette! Are you ok? Did you get hurt?" asked Fu, worried. Rushing (as much as his old legs allowed him to) to aid her.

"Master-! I- I-... I can't skate anymore!" She broke down to cry even harder.

"That's not true, Marinette. You're just feeling discouraged now because of your recent results in competition. It's normal to feel like that. It will be ok"

"No Master…  It's not just competitions… It's everything… Lila, Chloe, my coach, my parents, my friends…and I miss Granny Marianne so much... I'll never be able to follow her steps now… I should just be realistic and give up..."

"Don't say that, dear. You have luck on your side. Like a ladybug. Lady Chance. You are talented enough to overcome this. I’m sure Marianne would be proud of you, even if you don't follow her steps. And you know? There's no need to compete if you don't feel like doing it. Many people just skate for fun or minor competitions. I’m sure the future has good things prepared for you. You just need to keep moving and you’ll find the right path to follow. And whatever you choose to do, we'll be proud of you. The doors to this ice rink are open for you to come whenever you want to"

That's right. She could skate without competitions. She could focus on something else and have skating as a hobby. Maybe she could make a living out of a figure skating outfit designer…

It was settled. She was quitting. And she was telling her parents tonight.

"Thank you, Master. I know what I want to do now" she answered, giving him a heartfelt hug. Fu smiled at her and patted her back a little, happy to see her smile was back on her face and how his granddaughter's tears had finally stopped.

___________________________

Marinette was very nervous when she arrived home. She tried to sneak to her room without being noticed, but her mother had been waiting for her, with a deeply worried expression on her face. Marinette gulped. 'She has probably found out I've been skipping my classes' she thought, but her mother's mind was focused on something else- more serious. Something the girl didn’t expect or could have imagined.

“Marinette. Calm down and listen to me. Are you still friends with Juleka?”

Marinette blinked: that was not the question she expected. She sighed before answering, confused about her mother’s unusual distress.

“Yes, mom. It’s been a long while since we’ve last seen or talked to each other, but she is my friend”. She paused for a second. “Why do you ask? You’re scaring me...”

Sabine Cheng took a deep breath before answering “Marinette… Juleka is at the hospital”.

Marinette’s mother’s grip on her shoulders wasn’t strong enough to keep the girl from jumping in shock, neither stopped her from panicking a second later.

“What!? What happened to her!? Is she ok!?”

“Calm down, Marinette. She’s ok. She just fainted. She…” Sabine paused, hesitating, before continuing with the explanation. “She’s been diagnosed with an eating disorder”

Marinette felt a rush of mixed feelings forming inside of her: but between sadness and worrisome, anger was the first emotion to come out of her body.

“No…! No way! I’m sure it’s all Chloé’s fault! She used to make mean comments about her body since we were little. Her ideas must have grown bigger in Juleka’s mind! Just because she was taller and larger than many of us…! And now Juleka is…! Juleka is…!”

The spiral of emotions she was feeling ended up falling in the form of tears, again, in a crying whimper. Sabine, worried for her daughter, cupped her cheek and let her cry until she calmed down a little. It was not easy for her to wait patiently to ask her what she had really wanted to know after she had heard about Juleka’s condition, but she knew the girl needed to let it out, even if it hurt her to see her daughter crying like that. It almost felt like there was something more behind the salty water spilling from her eyes, but she remained silent until her sobbing sounds ended, being engulfed by the silence of the living room. When the wait finally was over, Sabine Cheng spoke again, looking straight to her eyes.

“Marinette, I need to ask you something. And please, be honest with me" Marinette gulped and nervously nodded. "Are you eating properly? You’re not throwing it out, aren’t you? I know you’ve always been thin, but I can’t help it but worry about you… You know how common eating disorders are in figure skating… And with what happened to Juleka and how discouraged you look recently…”

Marinette tensed at her mother’s question, more offended than shocked. “Of course not, maman! I’m properly eating what you put on my plate! I would never waste what it takes you so much work. I’m grateful I always have freshly baked bread on my plate”

Marinette’s mother relaxed at her daughter's answer, hugging her.

“Good. That’s good. I’m so glad. So relieved. Thank you, Marinette”. She spoke again after breaking the hug. “I think you should pay Juleka a visit. Here’s the room number and the hospital address. You should be there for her”

“Thank you for telling me, maman. I’ll visit her tomorrow morning”, the girl said, grabbing the paper with Juleka’s hospital contact from her mother’s hand.

“Good girl. I’m proud of you”

“Thank you, maman…” the twin-tailed girl managed to answer, feeling both happy and nauseous for the trust in her mother’s eyes. The thought of seeing disappointment on her parents' face terrified her.

‘No… I definitely can’t tell my parents yet…’ she thought.

_______________________

When Marinette arrived at Juleka's hospital room, she wasn't alone. The door was partially opened and she saw a blue-haired boy standing beside her. As soon as she knocked on the door, the boy noticed her and approached, with an interrogative and sad expression on his face. He was handsome despite his sad expression, Marinette thought, distracted for a second.

"I- I'm- Juleka...?" She managed to say, and the boy just nodded.

“Juleka, you have a visitor. I’ll let you two talk privately" he said, turning his head to the girl in the bed. "Thank you for coming,” he solemnly told Marinette before leaving the room.

“Thank you” she said when getting inside, without looking at him.

It had been a while since Marinette had talked to Juleka. It had been more difficult to keep in touch after she switched to pairs skating some years ago, even if they still exchanged messages and hung out together sometimes.

“Juleka, how are you? I heard you fainted and…” Her feet moved slowly towards her friend as she greeted her, but she gasped when she saw her figure: she couldn't be healthy looking the way she did.

“Marinette. Thanks for coming” Juleka weakly smiled.

“Juleka, look at you! You look so skinny! You have to eat! You shouldn’t listen to what people or magazines say, it’s dangerous! You need to be healthy.”

“I am healthy" she assured her, but Marinette's worried eyes made her admit her problem. "But… you’re right. There’s no need for me to keep throwing out my food. I’m retiring from figure skating”

"What?" Marinette gasped, and Juleka reaffirmed her words with a nod. “Oh no, Juleka! I know you loved it… I’m so sorry for you…” The baker's daughter sympathized.

“It’s Ok, Marinette. Thank you… I’m actually more worried about my brother. We were a team and now his dream is crushed because of me… He can’t compete without a partner and… I’ve wasted everything…”

“Oh, Juleka…”, she warmly hugged her friend.

Not wanting to talk more about her eating disorder, Juleka asked Marinette a question.

“What about you, Marinette? How are things going? Are you getting closer to your dream? You were always first place no matter what! I bet you’ve been improving and setting even higher scores by now. I wouldn’t be surprised if you could even land a triple axel!”

“I can land it, actually! It’s just… for some reason I can’t seem to land any of my jumps lately during competitions… I keep failing over and over… and then there’s Chloé and Lila… You know… I’m thinking of quitting…” she said in a sigh.

“Oh no, Marinette! You can’t quit! You are the most skilled and talented skater I’ve ever seen. Your scores as a child were in another league! You are bound to make history in figure skating, I know you do. You can’t quit!”

“It’s not a matter of skill anymore, Juleka… It’s a matter of results and wasted effort. I just… I can’t do it anymore. I can’t keep my parents overworking to pay for my skating classes with me failing every single jump in competition. I can’t look at their disappointed looks every time I fail their expectations. And Lila’s bullying only keeps escalating while my coach never believes anything I say… I’m not motivated anymore. I don’t have the strength to keep trying...”

Marinette looked devastated as she spoke. Quitting figure skating couldn't make her happy. Juleka knew she would be feeling even worse than herself. She didn't like to see her friend like that.

“Are you sure, Marinette? Because I think it’s a waste. You could win an Olympic gold medal if you aimed for it. It’s just… so frustrating…”

“Juleka…”

After a long silence, Juleka set her determination and faced a surprised Marinette with a serious look on her eyes.

“No. Marinette, I can’t let you quit like that! Look at me. I’ve been forced to quit because of my condition. I wanted to keep skating! I didn’t want to stop! And yet… you say you want to quit. My brother says he wants to quit. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!? You have no consideration for me or for yourselves!" She yelled and then paused to take a deep breath. "Marinette, look at my face and tell me again you want to quit! Can you do it?”

“I-... I want to… " Marinette paused, unable to lie. "I want to keep skating!" She finally admitted. "But I can’t anymore, Juleka! I’ve tried to endure it, I’ve tried so hard! And yet… Nothing! It’s just useless. What’s the point when I’m starting to feel that skating is not fun anymore?”

“Oh no, Marinette, you can’t say that! You can’t give up your dream so easily. Who was that skater you admired? Your grandmother? Miss Lenoir? You dreamed of being like her someday! Graceful, elegant yet strong; sliding on the ice like if you were an angel coming from heaven, announcing salvation to all the graceful public crying tears of joy at your beautiful movements. I know you can do it, Marinette. You just need something or someone to…" Juleka paused for a moment. "Wait, I… I have an idea. Why don’t you try pairs skating for a while?”

Marinette was taken aback at her friend's suggestion.

“What? What are you talking about? I told you I want to… to quit…”

“No. Listen to me. You just need to try it out. You try, and I won’t oppose you quitting if you decide to do so after you’ve tried it out.”

“What’s the deal…?”, Marinette said, unconvinced.

“I want you to take my place. I want you and my brother to help each other recover your motivation, your goals, your dreams. We just got a decent score for international competitions and I… I messed up. He did his best and improved a lot. He could score high, to the top maybe, with the right partner… and I think you’re a better fit partner than I could ever be” she said in a weak sigh.

“But- I don’t even know your brother. And I’ve never done pair skating before! And most importantly- there’s no way I could fill in your place! Nobody can! I'm sure you’re important for your brother, and he doesn’t even know me! He won’t want me to pair with him anyway” Marinette protested.

“That’s my part. I’ll convince him to give you a chance. So I need you to give pairs skating a chance, too. You both still have a second chance in figure skating. And I bet you can reach the top in a few years'', Juleka smiled. Her eyes showed conviction in her words, but Marinette had doubts.

“Are you sure he-?” she started, but Juleka cut her, knowing how the question ended.

“I’m sure. Just give it a try. For me. For our friendship. I want you to skate on my behalf. Please... I’m begging you, Marinette. Just one week. One more chance. I’m sure you won’t regret it. No, I promise you won’t”

“Ok, Juleka… I’ll do it. Just one try. No more. I’m quitting if I can’t keep it up. Or if your brother doesn’t like me…”

“He’ll like you. He just needs to meet you.” she smiled in reassurance and Marinette hugged her.

Marinette, noticing the time, broke the hug and spoke again. "I have to go now, but I’ll come again next week. Get well soon, please”

“Thank you, Marinette. For coming and for accepting my selfish request. I’ll send you a message later.”

“Of course, you are still my dear friend, Juleka. Get well soon, ok?”

“I’ll try… Thank you for coming”, she answered, waving her goodbye. ‘Now I need to convince Luka…' she thought, eyeing her friend crossing through the door.

#my fic #fic: ice dreams #lukanette figure skating AU #airip4 #lukanette fic #endgame lukanette #my art #I can't believe I'm already posting this #it's been sooo long #Blame Freya for rushing me XD #lukanette #Pro LukaMari

[tripleaxeldiaz]

maybe one day i’ll fly next to you

chapter 1/8

read on ao3

The sun is just rising when he gets to the rink, the early morning light streaming in through the high windows, making the ice glow. He’s the first one there, just like he planned, so he gets to take his time getting ready. He stretches a bit in the locker room before lacing up his skates and heading to the ice. Placing his guards on the boards, he takes a minute to just look, relishing in the stillness, the quiet, the smooth surface of the untouched ice. He takes one step, two, and he’s off, gliding through the mirrored surface, carving his path as he goes.

Buck can’t remember a time when skating wasn’t his entire life. He first put on skates at four, wobbling on the side of the rink while Maddie was in lessons. He started lessons of his own at six, and after that, he never stopped thinking about being on the ice. And he was good, too — by eight he was competing in the regional circuit, already landing a handful of clean triples when most kids were still struggling with doubles. He qualified for his first nationals at 10, won gold in Juniors at 11, and by the time he qualified for Junior Grand Prix at 13, people already knew his name. They knew his “modern artistry” as they called it, his powerful jumps, and talked about him like he was someone worth watching out for once he made it to the senior level.

It helped that by then, Buck was already addicted to competition. He loved skating on its own — the power he felt when he jumped and flew across the ice, the beauty of well-executed spirals and step sequences — but nothing made him feel more alive than doing it in front of a crowd and a panel of judges. Landing each element perfectly sent a thrill through him that he never wanted to stop feeling, and seeing his scores, usually much higher than others, was something that never got boring. He wanted to be the best, was on his way to being the best, and those hazy dreams of an Olympic gold medal didn’t feel quite as hazy anymore.

For a while, at least. Until he showed up.

But Buck doesn’t want to think about him right now, he just wants to enjoy the peace and quiet while he can. He’s not skating to anything in particular, just the music in his head taking him wherever feels right. He’s so lost in it, trying to nail the bit of choreo he just made up, that he doesn’t even notice Bobby until he hears him clapping from the benches. 

“Looks good, Buck. Talk to Hen, I think that would work in your new short.”

“Thanks Bobby,” Buck says, making his way to the boards. Bobby hands him his guards and his water bottle, heading back towards the locker room.

“Come on, we’re just about to get started.”

Bobby and Athena have had this beginning of the season meeting for as long as Buck has been at their club. They go over assignments for Grand Prix and the Challenger series, figure out general training schedules, and do a “goal setting session” for what they want to accomplish this season. 

Bobby calls it a “family meeting”, which is cute but also annoying. Skating isn’t a team sport. Families don’t win medals. And that’s all Buck wants to accomplish every season until he retires: he wants to win.

He sits down on a bench next to Maddie, who’s deep in conversation with Athena about her and Chimney’s programs, he’s sure. She’s been planning them since Worlds, so they’re probably fully choreographed and ready for competition. The Buckleys are nothing if not overachievers.

Bobby clears his throat, standing in front of the roll-away white board, and gets started. Buck’s half paying attention — it’s the fifth time he’s heard the “athletes aren’t born, they’re made” speech, he gets the point — letting his eyes wander over the small crowd of skaters. Chim’s on Athena’s other side, nodding along with Bobby. May and Hen are standing along the lockers, whispering quietly. The Juniors kids are sitting on the floor, in awe of their coach as he talks about hard work and victory. Buck gets it, he’s still a little in awe of Bobby himself, but not so much of his recycled speeches.

There’s one face, though, that he doesn’t see, and for a minute, he’s hopeful. He’s gone, he moved, he went to work with Rafael in Lakewood or something, so I’ll only have to see him maybe four times a year instead of every goddamn day thank god—

The doors to the locker room burst open, and fuck. 

Because, nope, he’s still here. Windswept and out of breath and 15 minutes late, yet somehow still oozing confidence and jackassery.

Eddie Diaz. Olympic Bronze Medalist. Two time reigning World Champion. And the absolute bane of Buck’s existence.

Bobby doesn’t even say anything, just waves him in and keeps talking. If Buck had been that late, even if it was for a good reason, he would have had his ass handed to him in front of everyone and would’ve had to run laps or something after his ice time. But of course, Eddie gets a pass.

Whatever.

Buck doesn’t pay much attention to the rest of the meeting, too busy trying to keep himself from glaring at Eddie every 20 seconds. He tunes in enough to hear that they’ll both be going to Skate America and NHK because of course they are and spends the rest of the meeting trying to keep his blood pressure down. When it’s finally over, he makes his way through the crowd to get back to the ice for his first session with Bobby. He’s scrolling through his phone, trying to find his music, when he feels someone walk over and join him on the bench. He looks over, and lo and behold— 

“Eddie,” he says with what he hopes is a low level of contempt.

“Buck,” Eddie responds, looking over and nodding as he laces up his skates. “Good summer?”

“Fine.”

“Ready for the season?”

“Always am.”

Eddie smiles, easy and charming, and Buck hates his fucking guts. He nods at him again as he heads onto the ice, and Buck gives into the temptation to thump his head against boards a few times.

It’s going to be a very long year.

~~~~~~~~~~

Buck has hated Eddie since they were 16 years old.

Okay, maybe “hate” is a little strong, but whatever emotion it is when just looking at a person makes you feel like smoke is coming out of your ears, that’s how he feels. 

It was his first season in Seniors, and he had been doing better than he expected in the first half — a silver and a bronze at his Grand Prixs, and fifth at the Grand Prix Final. Nowhere near perfect or the best in the world, but he was the best US men’s skater and poised to win gold at Nationals. He hadn’t even heard the name “Eddie Diaz” until he got to Nats, and even then it was just whispers — some small town kid from Texas who was landing clean quadruple jumps at a time when some of the highest ranked skaters couldn’t. Buck was working on them — his coach kept harping on how important they’d be to the sport one day — but he’d hit a growth spurt just before the beginning of the season, so he was still getting used to his new center of gravity. 

But the rumors were true, Buck saw it with his own eyes at a practice session. He remembers the mix of awe and dread as he watched Eddie jump — the thoughts of damn I want to be as good as this kid and he’s about to take everything from me.

Eddie won Nats by about 30 points. Buck came in second. The US only had one spot at both Four Continents and Worlds, and Eddie got picked for both. Something about having “a better chance with his abilities and consistency in the international field” or some other bullshit. 

He didn’t podium at either. Buck felt shamelessly vindicated.

Over the next three years, they became perfect foils of each other — Buck with good jumps but better artistic expression and connection to the music, Eddie a little stiff but a blur of height and speed in the air. They flip-flopped at competitions — Buck got silver, Eddie got gold. Buck got gold, Eddie got bronze. Nats turned into a yearly showdown, the media always highlighting their “friendly rivalry”. Buck must have been a better actor than he thought if he was coming across as “friendly”.

He won Nats right before the Olympics, pretty much guaranteeing his chances of getting named to the Olympic Team. Two days before the announcement, he broke his leg on a bad landing and felt his dreams shatter along with the bone. 

Eddie went instead. He placed third, higher than any US man had placed in 12 years. 

Buck watched it all from his couch, unsure if he’d ever be able to skate again.

Fast forward three seasons, and while Buck is still struggling to get his consistent jumps back, Eddie keeps skyrocketing. He hasn’t lost a major competition in two years and is the overwhelming favorite to win the gold medal in Beijing. It was bad enough to hear about it from other skaters or see at competitions, but then Eddie moved to Bobby and Athena’s club a year ago, so now Buck gets to suffer through first hand observation.

It simultaneously pushes him harder and makes him want to die.

Which is the exact feeling he has right now as he watches Eddie land a perfect quad toe triple toe combo. He tried the same combo yesterday and landed flat on his ass, so now he just wants to practice it over and over until it’s perfect and he can rub it in Eddie’s smug face. See, you’re not the only one who can do it. You’re not that special.

“You better watch how hard you’re frowning, Buckaroo, you’re gonna get wrinkles,” Hen says as she walks over to him. She follows his line of sight, and her expression turns from vaguely worried to exasperated. “Staring that hard at Eddie isn’t gonna make him fall.”

“It could,” he says. “Maybe I have untapped psychic powers that are just waiting to come out.”

She gives him a flat look. “Sure, and I’m the long lost crown princess of a small European country. Can we go over your free instead of fantasizing about stupid things, please?”

“Fine, fine,” Buck says, finally turning away from Eddie as he steps on the ice.

He loves his programs this season — he usually doesn’t get used to them for a few months, but this time around, he already feels connected. His short is more modern, melancholic and gritty, while his free is more classic, hopeful, makes him feel like he’s floating rather than skating. He’s always been good at choreography — either taking it and making it his own or creating steps himself — and he feels like both really highlight his talents. Plus Hen, being the amazing choreographer and friend that she is, let him have a lot more input this time around, so it all feels more authentic. He likes to think that no matter what happens, he’ll be proud of whatever he puts out with these pieces.

They work on his free for an hour, and he stays an extra two to work on his short and his jumps on his own. By the time he leaves, the sun has set, his legs are already sore, and he has a lovely bruise blossoming on his right thigh from falling on his quad flip three times in a row.

It’s all worth it, though. Because as much as he wants to be happy with his programs no matter what, he knows he won’t be unless they get him to the top of that podium, hearing the national anthem play with a gold medal around his neck.

~~~~~~~~~~

He’s floating away in his dream, higher and higher like a runaway helium balloon. He can see the whole world below him, spread out and endless, rolling hills and forests and oceans. He wonders if he’ll ever come back down, or if he’ll just keep moving up and up, into the atmosphere, into space, into a different universe. He thinks that might not be so bad.

Suddenly, he’s falling, plummeting back down to Earth like an asteroid. He’s racing and racing towards the ground, bracing for impact, for everything in his body to break, he’s falling and falling faster and faster—

He wakes with a yell, covered in sweat, his leg twinging. He takes a few minutes to breathe and get his heart rate back down, but even then, he’s still shaking.

He looks at the clock. 4:30am. He could go back to sleep — he doesn’t have practice until noon. 

Except his mind is churning now with the phantom memory of breaking. The feeling of going from standing to not being able to move, pain radiating from his leg into every other part of his body. The panic, not just for his body, but for his whole life and what it could turn into. What he could lose.

He lays there for another half an hour, but the memories just keep burning. So, he does what he always does when he needs to shut his mind off.

He goes to the rink.

First practice isn’t until 8am, so he uses his keys to unlock the back door. Chuck, the janitor, was sick of waiting two extra hours to lock up after him, so he gave him his own set after his first season. Buck gives him a giant cookie bouquet for Christmas every year in return.

He feels better after just a few laps around the ice. The chill that bites as he speeds up his pace, the white noise of his blades in the ice, it all settles him like nothing else. He speeds up still, setting up for a triple Salchow — easy, almost second nature, a jump he could do in his sleep. He pushes off, but as soon as he’s airborne, something jolts through him, makes his stomach turn over. He pops the jump to a single and lands on the wrong edge, losing his balance and sprawling across the ice on his back. He stays there, staring up at the lights, letting the cold leech in through his sweatshirt. 

Almost four years later, and this is still happening. He scares himself out of jumps like he expects each one to end badly, even though he knows — logically, statistically knows — that it’s unlikely. 

And yet. Here he is. On his back. After another failure.

He’s too tired to feel pissed or frustrated like he usually does, so he’s just resigned. Today is not the day for jumps. That’s just how it is.

He gets up finally and skates over to his bag, digs his headphones out and queues up his short program music. He works through the step sequences, over and over, making little tweaks as necessary, thinking through where the judges could take off points until it’s perfect. The repetition quiets the last of his racing thoughts, and he finally feels like himself again. 

He’s moving into his last spin when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. He slows down enough to recognize Eddie, inching towards the locker room like he’s trying not to be seen.

Buck stops, staring Eddie down. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Eddie freezes eyes wide, looking suspiciously guilty. He walks forward, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I have an 8am and wanted to beat traffic on my way in. The back door was open when I got here, and I saw the lights on, so I—” he swallows, looking anywhere but Buck’s face. There’s a blush crawling up his neck, and he looks nervous.

Nervous like he just got caught somewhere he shouldn’t be, Buck thinks. He narrows his eyes as he checks his watch — it’s 7:00. He gets wanting to beat traffic, but a whole hour?

He quickly makes his way off the ice, grabbing his bag from the bench. “Well, I’m done for now, it’s all yours.”

“Thanks,” Eddie says quietly. Buck’s just about through the door when he hears his name. He turns back to Eddie, his blush now all the way up to his hairline.

“You looked good out there. Can’t wait to see it in competition.”

Buck freezes, processing the compliment. A compliment. From Eddie. They hardly talk unless they have to, and even then it’s never friendly. Cordial, sure, but not friendly.

So why is he being so nice now?

Buck just narrows his eyes again before stalking off to the lockers.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Mads, I really think he’s gonna pull a Tonya Harding on me.”

She looks at him over her wine glass, unimpressed. “Yeah, because that worked out so well for Tonya the first time.”

“I’m serious!” he says, taking a sip from his own glass. Neither of them drink during the season, so they’re taking full advantage of their weekly wine nights while they can. Buck’s not a lightweight by any means, but two glasses in and he is starting to feel a little fuzzy. And a little crazy, trying to figure out what Eddie was up to this morning. “You haven’t seen any weird guys lurking around have you? You’d tell me if you did, right?”

Maddie rolls her eyes. “You sound insane.”

“I’m not insane if I’m right. Why else would he be watching me?”

“We all watch each other, Buck! He was watching Chim and me yesterday too while he was on break. He even said our twizzles were really in sync.”

“You better watch your back too, maybe he’s trying to take the whole club out.”

“Oh my god,” she says, pouring another, very full glass.

“He’s just so— he’s—”

“Annoyingly perfect? Obnoxiously talented? I know, Buck, you only bring it up every 15 minutes.”

Buck deflates at that. “I don’t— it’s not that often.” Sure, he rants about how clean Eddie’s edges are and how good his quad flip is, but that’s because it’s so irritating. Buck works just as hard as Eddie, and he knows he’s not flawless. But somehow, Eddie is. Stupidly flawless and perfect and— 

“I’m just saying,” she says, squeezing his hand across the table and bringing him back to the conversation. She pours him another generous glass, too. “This energy is great, but it would probably be better to put more of it into practice and less of it into worrying about one of your competitors. I know you’re nervous about this season, but you can’t let that turn into this weird paranoia. Don’t let it take your head out of the game.”

He sits back and sighs. She’s right, of course. She always is.

He doesn’t tell her that, though. Just takes a gulp of wine and tries not to think about Eddie’s annoyingly perfect anything. 

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s a news truck parked outside the rink when he gets in the next morning, and he spends about 15 minutes contemplating just going home and telling Bobby he’s sick. 

The lead reporter — Taylor, he thinks — claims they’re here to do a profile on the club and how they’re preparing for the Olympics, but he knows they’re mostly here for Eddie. They want any and all sound bites they can get from him to use over and over and over in coverage leading up to Beijing. Quotes about hard work and following his dreams that they can play over footage of him skating and smiling after winning again. Buck’s already annoyed at the prospect of seeing them on NBC Sports for the next six months.

To their credit, they do film everyone practicing at some point. They get Maddie and Chim doing their new rotational lift, May landing her triple lutz that she’s been working on for months, and Buck’s nearly perfect (if he does say so himself) flying camel spin. So at least they have good footage of him, not just random shots in the background of Eddie’s. Maybe he’ll even get his own little promo. 

Bobby calls him into his office after lunch, where the news crew has set up an interview space. He wasn’t expecting to talk to anyone — maybe a quick question at the boards, but nothing this fancy. He sits in one of the chairs as someone puts powder on his face and tries to do something with his hair. Taylor sits down across from him, a 1000-watt smile turned on as the cameras start rolling.

“So, Evan. Or do you prefer Buck?”

“Evan’s fine.” As much as he hates his first name, it’s how the general public knows him. Buck is reserved for friends and family.

And Eddie, an annoying voice reminds him. Fine, friends and family and...competitors.

“You came in second at Nationals and Four Continents last year, and fourth at Worlds. How do you feel about the momentum going into this Olympic season?”

“Every season is different,” he says as diplomatically as possible. These reporters always want drama, someone slipping up and bragging about themselves when they have no right to. He’s not wrong — every season is different. No matter who’s expected to win or who has the most medals, you never know how everything will play out. “We haven’t had a men’s field this strong in a while, so it’ll be interesting to see what happens. But I’m as prepared as I can be at this point.”

“You were injured right before the last Olympics. Do you see this year as a bit of redemption for yourself?”

He feels his smile go tight. “It’s every kid’s dream to go to the Games. It’s certainly still mine. I’m ready to do whatever I can to make that dream come true.”

“Eddie Diaz has been with your club for just over a year now. What’s it like training with him?”

There it is, he thinks. He’s surprised she asked so many questions about him before getting to Eddie. The first responses he thinks of are all variations of he sucks and I can’t stand the sight of him, but he knows any petty answers will be worse for him personally than anyone else. So, as much as it pains him, he settles on the nicest version of the truth he can muster.

“Eddie’s an amazing skater,” he says, surprising himself at how genuine he sounds. “He’s been paving new paths in the sport, and he’s pushed everyone to be better to try and get on his level, myself included. He definitely brings that same energy to the club.”

“Do you think you can beat him this year?”

Wow, she’s not holding any punches.

He shrugs, smiling through the sudden burst of anxiety in his veins. “We’ll just have to wait and see.” 

~~~~~~~~~~

Despite his less than fiery interview, Taylor asks him what he’s doing after practice right before they leave. It’s easy enough to turn her down — he’s got an early PT appointment in the morning, plus the way she’s been looking at him all day is making him itchy. He can tell she only sees him as an object — as a means to get her name on a lead story or a body to keep her bed warm or both — and that’s just not something he’s interested in. Maybe a few years ago, when sex was a way for him to forget about the potential end of his career, but not now.

As nonchalant as he was in the interview, this season really could make or break him. 

He can’t afford any distractions.

#buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #911 fox #buddie fic #911 fic #9-1-1 #SHE'S HERE #I HOPE Y'ALL LOVE MY CHILD AS MUCH AS I DO #and if not that's okay this is pure self indulgence #fs au #ficcery

[silvanable]

Sweetest Gift : Shingen Takeda

me before writing this : ah, yes, cute fluff time for my husbando. something i would do for his birthday? baking. i would absolutely bake something for that sexy sweet-tooth fiend.

me as i was writing this : wHEN DID WE INVENT BUTTER? WAIT I CAN USE APPLESAUCE— SHIT WHAT ABOUT CHOCOLATE? I CAN SAY WE GOT THAT FROM SPAIN. WHAT’S A 16TH CENTURY OVEN LOOK LIKE?? CREAM CHEESE IS TOO MODERN I CAN’T MAKE THAT!

not to mention i had one way that this was supposed to go and instead i took 3 devours, a u-turn, and then ended up at a different destination. bUT OH WELL.

and i finished it fairly quickly and then went to edit and what do i do? add 5 more pages of my shamelessly simping my heart out haha.

ANYWAYS ENJOY THIS SHAMELESS SELF INDULGENT MESS FOR OUR BELOVED TIGER OF KAI!

↪  GUIDELINES

✒ tags : shingen x oc, fluff, shameless self insert, we got off track and it got long

✒ warnings : n/a

✒ notif crew : @oikame​

✒ word count : 4,429

Sometimes, just sometimes, she forgot how different her time and this time was. There were things that she desperately missed about the future, but could live without them. That is until it turned out she really needed them… Particularly butter, chocolate, and an electric oven. All the things the petite girl had grown up with and taken for granted until now.

At least she had planned for this early— having that meticulous but mostly anxious drive to prepare for things long before necessary. She was able to gather all her ingredients and learn the necessary skills for the surprise she wanted to bake.

It also helped to have friends in high places though.

If it was not for Masamune and Nobunaga mostly, and a lot of help from everyone else, it might have been impossible. Luckily she had the best time-traveling ninja on her side, as well as the support of all those at Kasuyagama. It was between her and Sasuke’s uncanny knowledge of ingredients and historical markers together, as well as Nobunaga’s influence over foreign trades, that everything fell into place.

Now it was a matter of keeping it all secret. Shingen, after all, was eerily on par with Mistuhide’s tactical and informational gathering abilities. Lying outright was a definite no but without extreme care, he would find out.

Dancing around the topic was not as hard as she expected, then again being evasive or vague on certain things was almost second nature. After all, when one had four other siblings of varying ages, you had to be quick, not-quite-truthful, and convincing when it came to getting or staying out of trouble.

Any time the subject would get too close to becoming an interrogation, she would always change the subject to what Shingen wanted for his birthday. Of course, each time she was answered with another smooth but cheesy line, how he only wanted to spend the day with her. It was a heartwarming thing but she wanted to do more for him, something more than her words or the little bits of artistry she would leave for him to show her affections.

There were a number of things within her arsenal of creativity that she could do but after their trip to the future, she had kept a particular idea close.

Shingen had taken an affinity to the vast array of sweets from the future. Whether he realized it or not, she had been carefully taking notes on what he enjoyed the most. Of course, with the limitation of certain ingredients not being invented or hard to come by in 16th Japan, improvisation was necessary.

Now it only came down to what she was going to make, which at this rate seemed to be every available confection that could come to mind. 

At current, it was truffles, applesauce which was a necessary substitute, and a sinfully hopefully delicious applesauce cake from her Oma’s recipe she could barely remember. At this rate, she might continue her baking spiral and attempt the first edible glitter in the world.

When night came around, the petite girl had rushed off and excused herself to go ‘work’ to finish before tomorrow morning. That was true in part, except that work involved fighting with sugar in the kitchen.

It was probably not the best time to bake but the quiet stillness of the night was an ally. Many people by now would have retired to rest, so it made it easy to move around and do what she needed. Granted, the darkness that stretched over the land also extended into the room the girl needed. Nothing a few quaint candles could not fix nor a nice, warming, bright fire that illuminated all necessary things.

Besides the occasional hum, she was alone with herself and the night. It was far too cold now, being practically December, so there were no nightly sounds from any nocturnal companions. At most, the noises that could be heard were uncontained swears, the crunching of chocolate under a knife, and the occasional hollow ring when she stirred the mixture a little too aggressively.

“I will never call Nobunaga an insufferable asshat behind his back again,” She murmured to herself in the kitchen, “And I will forever worship Masamune’s kitchen skills, he makes it look so easy.” She paused on mixing her ingredients to brush fallen strands of her brown and pink hair from her face, the stubborn few that refused to stay up like she wanted.

She reached off to the side, her hand fumbled across the surface for the sugar. When her fingers reached the edge of the container, she rather haphazardly, pulled it over towards her. A mess she nearly caused when she underestimated the weight and almost sent sugar to dust the floors.

“Oh shit!” Luck would have it no one was around to hear such an unladylike swear to leave her. Equally lucky, she managed to balance the sugar into her arm before she dropped it.

By agreement, Kenshin and Yoshimoto were supposed to distract Shingen for the evening. Sasuke and Yukimura were busy setting things up for the celebration. And she, well she was baking in the growing darkness praying to whatever deity was listening that Shingen would not come looking for her. After all, she had told him she would be busy working and would be done very late because she wanted to spend his birthday with him.

That still did not stop her from stilling every time there was an ominous creak or peculiarly loud howl of the wind. She would pause with a tilt of her head towards the cracked door to listen for the approach of footsteps. Either able to dismiss them being nothing or that the speed and weight of the footfall were not Shingen’s and she would continue.

There were soft voices in the distance this time but too far for her to make out clearly. She shrugged and returned to her mixture. If anything, it would likely be one of the guards who found her in here when they came for a late night snack. She had run into plenty of them like that because they all seemed to have the same thought… which was just their stomach demanding food late in the night.

The bowl was put down with a thud and she turned. Her ingredients all assorted on the counter, just out of reach, with a few measuring tools lying around.

Most of which were left from the evening when she had attempted to make applesauce. It had been a mess, mostly because the help she employed was intent on making a mess rather than cooking. Who was she kidding, she threw the first fistful of sugar. Really she had asked Yukimura and Sasuke for help because it would have taken too long to peel and mash all the apples. That and the fact she hated the texture and taste of applesauce was another big thing, so she needed special guinea pigs to taste test for her before she accidentally poisoned a cake or two.

When the monstrous experiment of a cake was nestled into the oven to cook and the truffles were set aside, it was fairly late into the night.

With a sigh, the petite girl stepped out from the kitchen, and into the cool winter air outside. Brown eyes flitted across the glowing garden, covered in a light layer of powdery snow from the earlier flurry. Her fingers deftly tugged at the collar of her kimono, loosening it and revealing further skin to be greeted by the cold air.

It was a wonder to her how anyone survived before having air conditioning or heaters. Then again, she would not complain after spending so long in a room with a roaring fire. The cold was something she would greet openly but not too much, seeing as she could not get sick until after tomorrow. Still… The snow was tempting to just dive into to cool down.

She took a seat on the edge of the raised walkway, lifting her eyes up to the sky. Stars danced and twinkled, seemingly waving down at her, as clouds lazily breezed across the open sky. The half moon greeted her once again for the night, except this time further in the west, as it descended into the horizon.

That was a sign to how late it was, how low the celestial sphere dipped to signal that sunrise was not far behind its farewell.

The nice was pleasant though. The chill in the air was refreshing and shooed away any sleepiness that had threatened her in the kitchen, enveloped by the warmth of the fire she worked with.

Besides, she could sleep later. There were no rules against a nap in the morning or afternoon before the banquet Kenshin and the others had set up to celebrate Shingen’s birthday. Not sleeping was not entirely uncommon for her either. Staying up late into the night, or dare she say morning, was an old habit that was not entirely her fault. Besides, it was for an important reason she was up right now and she had to use all the time she had to finish her surprise for… well, the man who had stolen her heart completely.

Granted right now, having a break made her realize how much she would have loved to curl into his arms and snuggle against his warm chest. Steal the warmth he radiated to battle the cold she allowed to crawl over her skin.

Her head nodded down, eyes drifted close at the pleasing fantasy. Her body leaned forward and her bare feet caressed over the snow. She jumped up with a start at the sudden damp, frigidness against her skin.

A laugh erupted from her lips as she rubbed her eyes. “Okay, break time is over!” She stretched the wariness out of her bones, not daring to give in to the desire to just hibernate through the pleasant winter season, “Back to the finishing touches!” She turned on her heel, entering the kitchen once more to check on her confections.

Light began to peek over the horizon. Stars began to fade as the deep sapphire of the sky began to fade and instead bled into luxurious shades of red, orange, and pink.

The girl was quiet as she snuck through the halls, careful where she placed her feet as to not make a sound. Luckily she had memorized which boards would creak and groan under her weight after sneaking around at night so often. She made a point to avoid the creaky betrayers, especially as she began to near her and Shingen’s shared room.

A tray in one hand, she slid open the shoji door, almost painfully slow as to not abruptly wake the sleeping figure in the room with any sound.

Teeth sank into her pink bottom lip, quieting the giggle that threatened to escape her as she crept into the room. She knelt beside the futon, the dark material of her kimono pulled aside as she sat on her knees.

The tray, decorated with the special sweets, tea, and fruit was placed safely to the side.

Brown eyes fell to Shingen’s face, admiring the soft way his lips parted and how his chest rose and fell with each deep breath.

He looked so peaceful and calm, she almost did not want to wake him.

A soft smile found its way onto her lips. A tan hand delicately touched over his forehead and brushed the strands of auburn locks from his handsome features. Her loving gaze trailed over his features, following an invisible line over his lips to his jaw, down his neck, and to the exposed skin of his chest that peeked through his sleeping kimono.

The trace of a scar, even in the dimness of the room, could be seen in contrast over the skin of his chest. Unlike all the other scars his battle-worn body bore, this one was the one she was most grateful for, because it had scared her the most. Yet now it meant only one thing to her, that this beautiful and infuriatingly charming man was alive and breathing still, so she could love and adore him for many more years.

She was overwhelmed by happiness, a spark that ignited in her chest and spread from her heart to her fingers and toes. Surely she was dreaming, to have someone as wonderful as him, and to have such a chance to celebrate his life with him.

Slowly, she bowed her head. Soft lips pressed gently against the side of his temple. Warm eyes fluttered closed as her lips lingered. A small, loving smile graced her lips as she barely pulled away.

“Hey, it’s time to wake up, birthday boy,” She whispered against his skin.

Her grin stretched further over her lips as he let out a low, groggy groan. Then she was greeted by his delightfully smoky eyes. The wariness in them faded the moment those silver hues met her dark ones, brought to life with a light that she wished she could bask in forever.

“I will never tire of waking up to see my goddess’s shining smile,” His voice was rough and deep from sleep. How she adored the way in made her heart leap in her chest, eager to listen and hear more of anything he said, so long as it was towards her.

If possible, she smiled wider and stroked his hair gently. “Good morning to you too.”

The smile Shingen gave her caused a giddy feeling to take her over, a mixture of her eagerness and happiness. She should have been ashamed at how easily he made her feel like a little schoolgirl but she could hardly care with how loving that smile was.

She dipped her head again, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. A fleeting touch she almost rescinded to indulge in him deeper, but she had to behave herself.

“C’mon, sit up now, I want to give you something.” Her petite form shuffled back a bit.

“Oh, something for me?” It was unfair how sinful and tempting his voice was as he shifted up onto his arm to watch her.

The edge of the blanket slid down, further revealing a frame hidden only by a thin layer of cotton. Her eyes raked down the outline of his figure. The lazy, satisfied smirk he offered her shook her back to her senses, somewhat at least. She tore her gaze away.

It was a lot warmer suddenly. How strange.

He caught her cheek with his free hand, gently denying her escape, and forced her gaze back to him. The sultry look, focused solely on her, was enough for her to let out a breath— one she had not realized she was holding. The smoldering heat, she knew now, was what radiated off him and the sinful way his eyes glazed over her features.

 He guided her back down, joining their lips once again. The kiss, unlike before, was far deeper. His lips moved against hers in sensual skillfulness, drawing her further into him. Her hands pressed against his jaw to cup his face. The cool digits trace slowly over his skin as she drowned into him, savouring him.

It was only the need to breathe that caused them to part. Her faced flushed as her chest rose and lungs greedily sucked in air. Their gazes remained fix on each other, Shingen seemingly satisfied with how out of breath he left her. A callous thumb brushed over her lips gently.

“I do hope it’s you.” His hand lowered from her face, following the curve of her shoulder and down her arm until her hand rested in his.

A giggle escaped her as she moved to her knees, reluctantly allowing her fingers to slip from his, as she crawled away to grab the tray she had brought in.

“Well now you’ve spoiled tonight’s present,” She teased, allowing her fingers to curl into his palm, taking in his warmth.

“And what sort of sweetness would you offer otherwise?”

Her heart jumped, his choice of words seemingly all too specific. But surely she was overthinking it, right?

“I wonder what it might be.” The teasing tone and look he cast her made her flush.

How unfair he was, being so astute and observation. Her midnight snacking sampling of the truffles might have been a bad idea but she had been hungry. There was no doubt she had traces of that confection on her lips.

“You’re awful, it was a surprise!” She playful stuck her tongue at him as she shuffled away, “And I was doing so good too!” She returned to his side, “But despite that—” She presented the tray lavished with a surplus of sweets, “—I made you these.”

The way Shingen’s face had lit up with surprise and awe stole her breath. He was truly unfair to be able to make her heart beat like it did and to make her chest swell with giddy excitement.

 Grey eyes flickered up to meet her eyes. Suddenly she felt rather shy under the loving and admirable gaze. The attention and emotions fixed so intently on her made her squeamish. She fidgeted in place, tearing her dark eyes away as she sank into embarrassment, as her face flushed.

“I know it’s not huge but I know how much you loved the sweets, so I wanted to make you some that I grew up around or making. Plus you liked so many of the sweets from the future and I wanted to share that with you—” Was she talking faster, or was that her imagination? “— despite not having everything exactly at our disposal. But just to show you how much I really love you and am so grateful that you’re here so I can make them for you and tell you happy birthday.”

She could still feel his gaze on her while she frantically allowed the words to fall from her mouth. Heat rose up her neck and to her cheeks, dusting the tawny color of her face dusted over with red. 

At this rate, the way he was looking at her was going to cause her to implode on herself. Perhaps a run and dive into the snow would do some good to cool her down but she was afraid it would melt if she went near it now.

As silly as it was, his loving attention was still something that flustered her and it did not help she was confessing her feelings through words— she was only good with those when they were written, not spoken.

His callous hands brushed over her own softer ones as he took the tray from her. Fingers delicately guided her chin up to meet his gaze, one that was so soothing but tempting her further.

“And surely you are a goddess— bestowing me with such a beautiful sight and lovely blessings when I should be giving offers to you.” His lips pressed feather-light kisses from her ear to the corner of her mouth.

“Shingen!”

She let out a girlish squeal she was not proud of as his lips stole her own.

“It’s your birthday and—mph!—I’m trying to pour my heart out here!” She tried to pull away from his lips, only finding herself distracted with each time she tried to speak. She could not escape though, not unless he wanted her to, and she could not resist the flurry of affections pressed against her lips again and again to silence her protests.

When she did manage to push away, laughter bubbled from her lips, and she was met with a charming smile. How effortlessly he could make her flustered and steal it away with a touch or a kiss. She both hated and loved him for it.

“And you’re doing a wonderful job.” Fingers brushed through her unusually colored hair and lingered to twirl the pink ends around them.

“I’ll just write it in a letter, that’ll be easier than and you would have to listen to me stumble so ungracefully through it.” She covered her face with a nervous laugh.

Shingen pulled her hands away, laying gentle kisses over her knuckles as he grinned. “No, continue, I quite enjoy how cutely flustered you’re getting.” Of course, he would find her stumbling endearing. What a lovable jerk.

She huffed, trying to hide a smile, and pointed to the tray. “Stop teasing and try them!” Her order was more of a childish demand, “I slaved literally all night and you don’t even know what it took to get half of these ingredients!” It might have started out as a scolding but before she had finished, her words were broken by laughter.

“Oh, so this is that ‘very important’ work you had?” Shingen mused, a twinkle in his eyes, “And that trip to Azuchi?”

She did not have to answer, he already knew, that look said he always knew.

“You’re so unfair! I tried so hard to keep it a secret and be subtle!” She whined, “How did you know?”

“Well,” Shingen said carefully as he picked up one of the truffles, “I do now, especially after such a sweet kiss from your lips,” He offered her a smirk, “And Yuki rushed me away from the kitchen last night saying you were busy when I went looking to pull you to bed.” His amused gaze flickered from her to the confection between his fingers.

So much for subtly. She was definitely going to throw her sandals at Yukimura later for that.

Shingen popped the sweet into his mouth, allowing the sweet chocolaty flavor to coat over his tongue as it practically melted in his mouth. A satisfied hum filled the air as he reached for another one of the delightful chocolate bites.

All while the girl wiggled eagerly in her seat, an unspoken question reflected on her face.

“Delicious,” He purred the praise praised.

She sighed in relief. There should not have been anything to worried about to begin with, seeing as it was not hard to please a man who would eat anything so long as it involved sugar. But there was always that underlying anxiousness to whatever she did for him and she had worked so hard, so she only wanted it to be perfect.

A truffled was pressed to her lips, the man responsible smiling sweetly at her.

“Open,” The order was obeyed almost immediately, allowing the tasty morsel to melt into sweetness her mouth.

“It was worth all the trouble,” She mumbled from behind her hand with a smile.

It was not long before the tea and confections had been finished off, leaving the tray empty. Something she took great pride in.

She moved to grab the tray but was stopped by a hand on her wrist. In the next moment, she was pulled into a warm, comforting embrace. There was no protest from her, she only nestled into his chest and wrapped her arms around him in return.

“This was a lovely way to wake up,” Shingen hummed, his voice rumbling through his chest. Her eyes closed to listen to his heart and the soft rumble of his voice, a smile on her lips.

“I’m glad. And there’s plenty left in the kitchen. Just don’t tell Yuki I let you have some already.” She giggled against him.

“Of course not,” Shingen replied, laughter in his voice.

Now with the petite girl trapped in his arms, he fell back into the futon, which had began to cool with the absence of their warm presences.

“Wait—!” She made to protest but he shushed her immediately, lips finding her own to steal whatever complaints or excuse might befall those lips next.

Clearly kissing her into submission was his only choice. So when she broke away from the kiss, his lips immediately sought hers again, pulling her further into his warmth and inviting her to melt into him.

“I’m afraid I’m still quite tired,” The playfulness in his tone suggested otherwise, “And my darling goddess has worked all throughout the night without rest.”

She rolled her eyes. “If this is a guilt trip it won’t work. Nothing you can say will get me to stay. I’ve got more to set up for today still.”

“Oh, but it’s my birthday is it not? I can request you stay here with me and rest a little while longer. You would not deny me of my wishes on my special day, would you?” Even his pout was sensual and charming.

Brown eyes met grey ones as she looked up at him. Her glare was far too cute to be threatening and it spoke volumes to him. Apparently, he was playing the right angle and they knew it would work against her. She would never be so cruel as to deny him.

“It will be your fault if I don’t wake up for the party then—” Her eyes widened and she gave him a wary glance, “—you knew about that already too, right?”

He laughed. The sound filled the room with warmth, despite the cold outside, and vibrated through his chest, enveloping her as she hugged him.

“I did,” He replied, “So will you stay, my darling goddess?”

How could she resist such a sweet request and that roguishly charming smile?

She hid her face in his chest, “You’re so mean.” He was anything but mean, but she had a right to whine against his charm.

Fingers laced in her hair, rubbing soothing circles through the curiously colored locks. “You need your rest, I can’t have you drifting to sleep during the banquet—” A pair of brown eyes peeked up at him, “—Or tonight when I’ll indulge in the rest of my gift.” And promptly those eyes disappeared again.

A low chuckle rumbled through his chest, he could feel the heat radiate from her skin. How cute she was.

She pinched his arm in response.

“Be quiet, I’m trying to sleep,” She scolded, the embarrassed tone only barely muffled by his kimono.

“Of course, you will need it…” He paused as she settled against him, “Because you won’t be resting tonight.” His provocative tone left nothing to her imagination, he knew.

“SHINGEN!” She slapped his arm gently, face flushed red as she glared at him. That glare was anything but meaningful, he knew, because those murky, night eyes betrayed how eager she was for night to fall.

Besides, he truly wanted was her.

She was the sweetest gift after all.

#i will apologize for nothing #and you all know it #ikemen sengoku #ikesen #ikesen fanfic #ikemen sengoku fanfiction #ikemen sengoku fanfic #ikemen sengoku shingen #ikemen sengoku shingen takeda #shingen takeda #ikesen shingen #fluff #fluff fanfic

[ashbournerp]

THE DESERT ROSE

The Duchess of Sandspell

Name: Yasmin Melek Yıldırım Age: 30 Pronouns: She/Her Occupation: Duchess Dukedom: Sandspell FC: Esra Bilgiç Status: Played by Admin B

About

If there was a flower to bloom in adversity it would be you. Growing up as another face among the crowd, you are more than just another noble in a position of a power- you are the heart of your people and there is a reason they've chosen you to lead. Not only are you incredibly intelligent, having been a skilled spy for the kingdom once upon a time, but you are also an artist, knowing how to gain one's trust and when to lean on others to take advantage of their select skillsets. But, what no one knows is how much of a toll being the people's 'perfect' choice takes upon you.

Occupation

The Duke/Duchess is the ruler of the formidable deserts known as Kum Diyari. They manage the Dukedom's various enterprises, oversee the strategic plans of trading routes, transportation and espionage as well as the preservation of knowledge and artistry.

Biography (TW: Depression, Alcoholism, Addiction, Violence, Self-Harm)

If there was one thing Yasmin could always count on- it was finding solace in the stars. Growing up in the city of artists, she would find herself sprawled out upon some abandoned rooftop. The cool desert air stinging her cheeks as she’d trace the constellations with her eyes. The patterns were ever changing, but the promise of starlight was always the same. Those brilliant shimming lights an ever present reminder that there was beauty amongst the darkness. 

For the Yildirims weren’t born a noble breed. They were forgotten faces amongst the crowd. Her grandfather had been engineer who tinkered his life away bringing other’s designs to life, lacking the skills to truly create anything of worth himself. While, her father, the poet, practically embodied the nature of the ‘starving artist’. He must have been charismatic and suave back in the day. An idealistic dreamer sweeping others up in his intoxicatingly dreamy words. That is how he managed to capture the heart of her mother after all.  Only, in Yasmin’s lifetime, she had never once met that man. 

The man she knew as babacığım was a washed up empty shell of the dreamer he was before, having quickly slipped into a depression shortly after his wife walked out on him. The man Yasmin knew as father was a man who found himself over and over again at the end of a bottle. A man who gambled any spare coins they had away, had a tendency to invite strangers into their home and, when she was toddler, would fail to remember where he last left her. Now that all wasn’t to say he didn’t love her. He adored her very much. So much so, that he throw money he didn’t have at her. He’d take his family out to fancy dinners, borrow money he didn’t have with the promise he’d one day pay the people he took from back. And maybe in part he truly believe that he would. But, between him barely managing to get out of bed during the day to having strange men invade their home and threaten them at night- it all became too much.

So she left. The dusty streets of Kum Diyari becoming her home. Those next few years marked some of the best of her life. Living on the streets was far from easy, but given her upbringing, it wasn’t exactly as if she was accustomed to a cushy lifestyle before and she was used to taking care of herself. But, amongst the boisterous market places and crowds flooded with artists, she felt free. She felt as if a weight had been lifted off her chest, having only the responsibility of herself and herself alone. That and it didn’t hurt that she had met quite the handsome newfound company.

Kaan was unequivocally captivating. He was quick witted charmer who never ceased to live in the moment. He may have been a petty theft out for himself, but she had, maybe naively, believed in him when he promised to have each’s others back. Laying out underneath the luminescent moon, their pinkies locked in an almost childlike gesture as her heavy lids fell close. Her head rested against his shoulder. They were supposed to be each other’s chosen family. They were suppose to be there for each other when no one else would. Only, Yasmin was quickly reminded of how a promise was made up of easy words all too easily broken. 

Kaan didn’t just leave her. Yasmin rolled over ready to cuddle up against the man she was smitten with to find that he vanished into the night as swiftly as he had entered her life and cleaned her out along the way. He didn’t even leave a coin to her name. She eventually managed to track him down after weeks of struggling to fend for herself, but when she did, she was met with an accusation rather than an explanation. She had a family unlike him, he so poignantly reminded her. He needed the money to make something of himself while a girl like her? If she was smart, she’d do herself a favor and return to where she belonged. 

He hadn’t been unaware of the full situation. She knew that and yet his words couldn’t help, but sting. Her father had sold the last of what they had. She had no home to return to and the one person she had believed wholeheartedly was her family had tossed her aside as if she was nothing. A nobody. 

The next few months, Yas spent attempt to fend for herself- shifting from the girl who tried to avoid precarious situations like an attempted mugging or escaping a handsy drunken merchant who sought to take advantage of how innocent she seemed, to seeking them out. She needed money. She needed food. She needed roof over her head and she needed to eat. So, she took a page from Kaan’s book. But, rather than relying on nibble fingers, she was quick on her feet.

She lunged forwards, cloak draped over head to conceal her face from view, as she held a dagger up against a passerby’s neck. It hadn’t been her first mugging, but what she wasn’t expecting was for the woman she had threatened to quickly take the upper hand, pining her onto her back in a matter of seconds. 

To Yasmin’s surprise, instead of reporting her to the authorities, the woman saw potential in her. Extending out her hand, the teacher offered to mold her into the perfect weapon. A mercenary for the kingdom who would spy for the crown and whom one would never be able to gain the upper hand on again. 

And, oh, how they were right. As the years progressed, Yasemin didn’t just gain notoriety from that of the late duchy of Kum Diyari, she perfected her smile into that of a sharp blade, carrying an eased charm about her that would make others feel comfortable and connected to her enough to share their secrets, but not from ever truly knowing what thoughts were running through her own head at any precise moment. And when it was the late duchy’s time to step down, it was on their recommendation for her to take over.

Yasmin Yilidrim wouldn’t have been the person you’d bet on to make something of herself and, yet, she’s a leader who has managed to steal the hearts of her people. They view her as one of them. The daughter of an artist. A skilled ex-spy. An incredibly intelligent rose amongst the desert who acts with their best interests in mind, making the choice to resist the existing rule after the growing political upheaval from their own. She is a picturesque duchess, managing to come across as mesmerizing and relatable, all while holding her head held high. Her nails, all the while, cutting dipper into the skin around her palms. The weight of the world and her past sometimes becoming far too much for her to carry upon her shoulders- not that she’d ever let it show across her calm facade.

Personality

+ Charismatic: Yasmin has a way of captivating those around her with that of a simple smile. She has an effortless pull of her lips that has a way of putting those around her at ease. She is far from the loudest in the room, preferring to sit back and observe those around her rather than steal the show. But, she has conversing down to an art form. 

+ Clever: For a dukedom that values intelligence and ingenuity, it is no wonder that their leader would as clever as they come. Yasmin is a strategic thinker, liking to remain at least ten steps ahead of anyone else in the room. Her open-minded nature and survival instincts allowing herself to think outside the box and connect the dots others might not have picked up on. But, where she may lack, she makes up for by purposely surrounding herself with those she can lean on.

- Secretive: Yas goes out of her way to make sure her true self remains just out of reach. With knowledge is power and she’d be damned if she will allow anyone else to gain a leg up on her.

- Apprehensive: Yasmin spends each day dreading the worst. She’s far too paranoid for her own liking, constantly afraid that someone will use her own vulnerabilities against her or take everything from her once more. Playing the role of an unattainable and perfect leader is more exhausting than she’d ever let on. The scars she has inflicted upon herself, tucked away out of view, and the faint scabs healing over across her palms are proof alone that she isn’t as skilled at holding it all together as she’d like the world to believe.

#sandspell #taken #esra bilgic fc

[thesublemon]

on reviewing

Watched a documentary on Pauline Kael a couple nights ago. It clarified for me why I always find her reviewing refreshing and frustrating by turns. Refreshing because she doesn’t tend to treat genre or subject matter as something sacred. She will watch many kinds of movies with the same degree of curiosity and judgment. Her instincts about whether a movie is working, or lying, or doing something new are also often very on point.

But she falls prey to the two big things that I think make reviewing a flawed, sometimes maybe even useless endeavor. Especially if the goal is to accurately describe what a work is.

1) An inability, or disinterest, in modeling why artistic choices work or don’t. For instance, at one point in the documentary she complains about artists and critics equating repetition with lyricism, and states that repetition in movies simply annoys her because it feels like belaboring a point that she’s already gotten. But that complaint misses out on an opportunity to explore why people would think that repetition is lyrical, or why an artist would reach for it as a choice. And whether, once you’ve modeled what the goal of repetition actually is, maybe there are good and bad versions. If it were me, I would argue that when repetition is good, it doesn’t actually feel like repetition. It feels like riffing. The artistic impact comes not from reiteration, but from reframing—and if it does feel like reiteration, then it’s probably weak repetition. If I were to make a similar complaint about a movie, I might instead complain that a motif did not add or gain complexity each time it appeared. Or I might complain that an attempt to convey monotony by unchanging repetition did not feel worth it, because I didn’t find the underlying point insightful enough to justify the experience of slog. Whatever my exact argument though, the point is that there would be a curiosity and emphasis on what the artist was trying to accomplish. And a generosity about what they could accomplish. As well as a self-awareness about my own values (like “density” and “coherence”) and the fact that I judge works by those values. Without this sort of meta-level mindset, reviews seem to quickly descend into authoritative subjectivity. Kael was good at viciously panning things, but how can a pan help the artist make better work unless it’s accompanied by some sort of model or rationale? Why would an artist listen to your opinion unless you first prove that you understand what they were trying to do? Without a level that exists outside of the reviewer, a review runs the risk of simply being an exhortation to appeal to that reviewer’s taste.

2) A love of saying things that sound good, regardless of whether they’re actually meaningful. At one point in the documentary, Renata Adler, another writer, attempts a takedown of Kael. But ends up making the exact mistake that Kael does.

RENATA ADLER: [Kael] has, in principle, four things she likes: frissons of horror; physical violence depicted in explicit detail; sex scenes, so long as they have an ingredient of cruelty and involve partners who know each other either casually or under perverse circumstances; and fantasies of invasion by, or subjugation of or by, apes, pods, teens, bodysnatchers, and extraterrestrials.

Compare to Kael’s own style of evisceration. Here’s her on The Sound of Music.

PAULINE KAEL: What is it that makes millions of people buy and like THE SOUND OF MUSIC—a tribute to "freshness" that is so mechanically engineered, so shrewdly calculated that the background music rises, the already soft focus blurs and melts, and, upon the instant, you can hear all those noses blowing in the theatre? […] And the phenomenon at the center of the monetary phenomenon? Julie Andrews, with the clean, scrubbed look and the unyieldingly high spirits; the good sport who makes the best of everything; the girl who's so unquestionably good that she carries this one dimension like a shield. […] Wasn't there perhaps one little Von Trapp who didn't want to sing his head off, or who screamed that he wouldn't act out little glockenspiel routines for Papa's party guests, or who got nervous and threw up if he had to get on a stage?

Having read both pieces, I think both writers identify something true about their subject (Adler even makes remarks similar to what I’ve already said). But are the pieces useful? Or accurate in a more total sort of way? Kael had particular kinds of movies she loved, it’s true, and tended to be bad at self-criticism about whether her preferences actually indicated any sort of objective reality. But Adler’s criticism of Kael is no more interested in modeling than Kael’s reviews are. It isn’t interested in an evenhanded consideration of what Kael gets right and wrong and why. What unites Adler’s takedown of Kael and Kael’s takedown of The Sound of Music is that they want to be takedowns. They want to be stylistically rollicking reads that create the aesthetic experience of nailing something to a wall. But the thing about wanting too badly to make an argument “aesthetic” is that it becomes tempting to gloss over anything that would ruin the aesthetic flow. Adler devotes a long paragraph to identifying all of Kael’s tics, and the wall of text is certainly rhetorically effective at making you feel like Kael is some sort of dirty-minded one trick pony. But at the end of the day, it’s rhetoric. Not really argument. Similarly, Kael is so delighted to be able to use phrases like “glockenspiel routines”, that it gets in the way of saying anything more considered. Which isn’t to imply that I think the writers don’t actually believe what they’re saying. On the contrary, I think they hold their opinions powerfully and sincerely, and are trying to identify something wrong in their culture by singling out and drilling down on the sins of one thing in particular. But nonetheless, by caring so much about being good bits of writing—and they are good bits of writing; there’s something juicy and relentless about Kael that sticks with you—they end up empty on the level of argument.

These two failure modes highlight the central problem of reviewing, I think. Which is that reviews tend to be three things at once: ekphrasis, analysis and evaluation (which implies some sort of rubric of quality, whether personal, cultural, or “objective”). This is partly understandable, given that art is an abstract, experiential thing and therefore difficult to evaluate or analyze without some degree of ekphrastic description. It if was easy to say what a work was doing, the artist wouldn’t have needed to make art of it in the first place. So it makes sense that the process of making a work legible enough to opine on would have to trade in artistry itself. It makes sense that in order to show an audience what a work feels like, a review would have to poetically reproduce that feeling. Similar to the way that the translator of a poem needs to be a good poet themselves in order to make the meaning and experience of a poem accessible to an audience in a different language.

The problem is that ekphrasis, being expressive, is also necessarily subjective, and not primarily concerned with logic. Which on its own, is perfectly fine. I’ve written a ton of ekphrasis on this blog. I’m pretty pro-ekphrasis. When it’s done right, there isn’t much like a bulls-eye poetic description of a work to make you feel like you get it on a level you didn’t before. But when that sort of writing is also trying to say whether or not a work is “good”, the expressiveness frequently gets in the way. It’s easy to state or promote an opinion expressively. It’s harder to defend an opinion that way. In good faith, anyhow. Which results in all of these reviews that succeed in observing true or true-feeling things about art, and do so in a sometimes deliciously readable way, but don’t leave me with the feeling that the writer has any consistent or defensible take on how art works. I can’t help thinking that I much prefer reading writing about art that keeps its purpose siloed. So either a piece that tries to poetically explain how a work affected them, or an academic work that tries to argue for an interpretation, or something more philosophical that puts forth a theory of what makes things good and bad and explain why a work does or doesn’t live up to that. I don’t want this to be the case. I think writing that can blend those three modes together is some of the best possible writing about art. But the average reviewer is not really up to the task, despite the fact that the review is probably the most common and widely-read type of writing about art.

(None of which is to say that I’m free of sin these regards. One of the reasons I try to keep the tone of this blog casual is because I want to be able to be able to play with these different modes of writing about art. And see where and when and how I can get away with blending them. It’s a practice space.)

#posts: art

[keeroo92]

Be My Nightmare Ch14

Truth

Warnings for NSFW, brief mention of alcoholism and edgeplay.

Word count - 6,039

~~~~Previous Chapter~~~~

Tagging a few people who mentioned looking forward to this: @blqckmedusa @m-pana @kylo-v @wackywoohoopizzalady @tehrevving Sorry if I missed anyone :)

_________

On the other side of town, a young woman sat in a dark room surrounded by filing cabinets. Her chocolate hair hung in a limp ponytail, loose strands attesting to how long she’d been there. Empty coffee cups littered her desk along with scraps of paper with half-formed thoughts scrawled upon them. Shadows played under her eyes and an exhausted slump curled her shoulders, but she couldn’t give up now.

“Hey, I’m heading out. Don’t stay too long, okay, kid?” a familiar voice said from the doorway. Tony.

Officer Nicoletta Goldstein forced a dry chuckle from her lips. “You got it, I won’t be long. Just finishing up.”

Her mentor offered a lazy salute and turned away, his heavy steps echoing through the nearly empty police station as he approached the elevator.

Nico frowned and returned her attention to the monitor, releasing yet another deep sigh as her latest search came up empty. She hadn’t expected it to be easy, but digging up dirt on Waras was proving more challenging than she imagined. A more spotless record, she’d never seen. If anything, it made her even more suspicious.

There’s gotta be something, I can feel it!

If Tony caught her looking into the doctor, he’d be furious. They’d already had an argument about it, but still she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Normal folk didn’t leave crime scenes without showing some kind of reaction to them. The neutral, flat expression on Waras’ face on her way out wasn’t right. The young officer might even call it indecent.

Tony said it made sense, considering her career. The woman dealt with criminals on a regular basis, no doubt she was desensitized to horror by now. He had a point, but she knew from personal experience how different it felt to be there in person, instead of looking at pictures or hearing someone tell you about it.

When Nico first saw the carnage, she’d had to run outside to vomit. It was far from her first murder scene, but never had she viewed such gruesome evidence. Even thinking about it brought a sour taste to her tongue. She’d expected a similar reaction from a civilian.

Maybe her social security records have something?

She opened yet another database and entered the search terms, reaching for the most recent cup of coffee as it loaded the results. 

“Ugh,” she grumbled, grimacing at the ice-cold fluid. Why couldn’t the search run faster? Crappy government internet… Might as well get a fresh cup while she waited. Stretch her legs.

She stood and sighed, glancing once more at the monitor before departing for caffeine. The progress bar was halfway done, she had plenty of time.

As the echo of her footsteps faded, a soft ping sounded from the unattended computer.

---Reader---

You had to admit, it was nice to come home to a hot meal. The chicken was spiced perfectly, and the vegetables had a delightful crunch. The madman knew his way around a kitchen, it seemed.

I should make sure none of the knives are missing later.

“I couldn’t find any wine; I hope the meal is still to your satisfaction.”

Late afternoon light spilled through the window behind him, lighting his form with a gentle glow. The scent of lemon and sizzling meat wafted from the kitchen area, the fruits of his labor still waiting on the stovetop. Quiet music flowed from your stereo, barely noticeable but the ideal accompaniment for a meal.

You swallowed the savory bite residing in your mouth and raised an eyebrow. “I don’t drink much.”

Forest green eyes studied you curiously, the artist’s chin resting on one hand. He’d been more attentive than when you left; he must be feeling better. For a moment, it was all too easy to forget who you were with and enjoy the fading light of the setting sun behind him. If only the peaceful facade of two regular people sharing a meal were true.

He’s a killer. You just saw what he’s capable of.

“Why not?” he asked.

You took another bite and shook your head. “My dad’s a drinker. I’d rather not get into it.”

“Hmm, what shall we discuss, then?”

The fork in your hand clicked against the almost clean plate as you set it down. “How about Michael?”

“Who?”

So he didn’t even know his victims name. Was it all coincidence, then? Most likely; his other victims seemed random, too. His unpredictable targets were part of why the police needed your help.

“That’s the name of the man you killed and chopped into pieces.”

His face lit up, an excited shine entering his gaze. “Ah, yes! You found the true meaning, I assume?”

Suddenly, the bottle of whiskey hiding behind the olive oil sounded appealing. How the hell were you supposed the talk about this? You were no stranger to complicated conversations but chatting about the artistry in a murder scene was a new standard. 

No doubt the artist would break that standard soon, too.

Yup, getting drunk is looking better by the second.

You pursed your lips. “Yes, I found it. You’re not quite as clever as you think you are.”

A beat passed in silence before he smirked, carefully setting aside the remains of his meal. “I do not recommend you underestimate me.”

“I could say the same, you know. I can still turn you in.”

He hissed, muttering something under his breath with a glance to your left. Most of his words were lost to the void, but you caught something about chicken soup and plucking.

“If you were going to betray me, you would’ve already done so. You’re in too deep to run now,” he said a moment later. “But I am curious what you thought of my work.”

You hummed and sat back with a sly smile. True, it was too late to run, but that didn’t mean he held all the cards. Not even close. It was about damned time you regained the upper hand.

“We can trade. A straight answer for a straight answer.”

“Oh, are you finally willing to stop hiding? I admit, I have many questions. Griffon and Vergil, too.”

So, he was still hallucinating. It made sense, especially since he wasn’t getting any medication anymore. You couldn’t help but wonder what he wanted to know, and how different the questions from his voices would be. How much of his odd personality was his own? How much was a manifestation of trauma? How much of it was real?

“Let’s raise the stakes. What if I refuse to answer you? What should my penance be?” he asked.

You eyed him, noting his slim build. No doubt he hadn’t had much exposure recently, his system wouldn’t handle it well. The chicken might slow down the process, but still. Plus, you knew your own tolerance could handle it. 

Thanks, dad…

“Whiskey. I have a bottle in the cupboard.”

Sure, there was some risk to it; if he drank too much, you’d have to clean up any vomit. You’d have to watch him carefully and stop him before it got to that point. What kind of drunk would the man turn out to be? An honest one, hopefully.

At his agreement, you fetched the unopened bottle and a fresh pair of glasses, filling them before taking your seat again. The signature smell made you gag, but you’d drink him under the table with ease. It was in your blood, after all.

“So… who goes first?” you asked.

The murderous artist smirked and took a tiny sip, sampling the drink. “The lady, of course. Don’t hold back.”

Smug bastard, he has no idea how fucked he is.

“Who was the white-haired man in the painting?”

The change was instant; his smirk flipped into a tight frown, his shoulders tensed and a muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t like that question, not one bit. Maybe you should’ve started with something a little gentler.

The artist released a deep breath and closed his eyes. “His name was Nero. He was my friend.”

“What happened to him?’

He tutted, shaking his head like a parent scolding a child. “Ah, ah, ah. It’s my turn now. What did you think of… Michael, was it?”

You pursed your lips and swirled the amber fluid in your glass. It was a mild enough question, a safe place to start. Might as well answer and conserve your capacity. Considering your experience with him so far, you’d need it later. He was too clever for you to expect to get out of this game sober.

“I thought it was extraordinary. Chaos to a casual glance, but an intricate web designed with one purpose for those who look deeper. Very clever, if grotesque.”

To your shock, a pink stain tinted his cheeks and the madman averted his gaze. He was embarrassed, unbelievable. Someone with his ego should be used to praise.

But it was your turn. Time for an answer, or to force him to drink. You repeated your question from moments ago, watching his expression like a hawk. Even if he refused, you’d learn something here.

He sighed and raised his glass, taking a generous gulp. Damn. 

“My turn. Are you a virgin?” he tossed back.

Well. Apparently personal boundaries were a thing of the past, that much was clear. Sex wasn’t that personal, though. Everyone did it, why beat around the bush and pretend to be pure and innocent? “No. Why did you leave school?”

“Hmm, that’s easy. My calling drew me elsewhere. What’s your relationship with your father like?”

You crossed your arms and glared at him. “I thought we agreed to give straight answers. Why did you leave school?”

Adam’s apple bobbing, he licked his lips and fidgeted with his glass, refusing to meet your intense gaze as the last dregs of sunlight faded away. Judging by how uncomfortable he seemed, you were on the right track. This line of inquiry held great promise. Maybe tonight was the night you’d finally figure out why he did the things he did.

“There was… an attack,” he murmured at last. “It opened my eyes to the truth, that innocence and naïveté are foolish and must be eradicated. I woke to my purpose and left to fulfill it.”

A moment passed in reflective silence. This was a major piece of information, the latest step toward the truth. The thrill of resolution danced across your skin and sent your heart galloping. If you could get him to tell you just a little more, you’d solve the puzzle at last. Finally- answers.

Assuming you didn’t fuck it up and make him raise his guard again. It wouldn’t do to be disrespectful and break his melancholy remembrance. Instead, you pondered what else you might ask and watched the shadows dance across the table.

Eventually, his eyes lifted to meet yours once more. “Forgive me. It is not a pleasant memory.”

“I understand. Take your time,” you replied softly.

The quiet was unbearable. Perhaps you’d gone too far, pushed too hard too soon. It wasn’t easy to judge where the line was, it never had been.

“What do you do for fun, doctor?”

Wait, what?

Even with all the questions you’d imagined he might ask, this hadn’t crossed your mind. It was too mundane, too ordinary. The sort of thing Kotomi would’ve asked you.

Oddly enough, you didn’t want to answer. The things you did in your spare time didn’t include normal hobbies like cooking or going for a jog. You didn’t like talking about it, because inevitably others made fun of your interests. The idea of the man before you laughing at your expense left your heart feeling strangely tight.

You lifted your glass and took a sip, cringing as the fluid burned its way to your belly. Disgusting.

“Interesting…” murmured the artist. 

Shit, maybe I should have made something up.

But it was your turn. No time to think about it, better to find a good question instead. What combination of words would unlock the mystery of his origin?

“What kind of attack was it?”

He sighed and traced the lip of his glass with one finger, thinking. Technically, the question didn’t reveal anything about him directly, and it wouldn’t be hard to find the truth online. Any kind of attack would have made headlines. It was a gamble to ask openly, but the odds of victory seemed high.

“A shooting,” he replied at last. “But back to you… why did my last question make you uncomfortable? What twisted hobby are you hiding?”

Bastard. He’ll figure it out if I answer.

The dark liquid didn’t burn as much this time, instead leaving a pleasant tingle in its wake. How strong was it, anyway? What had Kotomi gotten you? It shouldn’t affect you this much yet, but there was no mistaking the warmth growing within. Maybe you should’ve finished dinner first, gotten a bit more meat in your stomach.

A quick glance at the bottle your ex-friend gave you for Christmas explained it. Fifty-seven percent, no wonder it was hitting you hard. You couldn’t afford to keep drinking like this, or you’d end up completely wasted.

It didn’t matter. You would win this. Failure was unacceptable.

“How many voices do you hear?”

He chuckled and rolled his shoulders. The black shirt he wore hid nothing and your eyes traced the curve of his muscles, admiring his broad chest and defined form. Why did he have to be so damned attractive? The whole situation would’ve been simple if he was balding or had a beer gut, but no…

I should have some water. Already feeling foggy.

“Three, though I consider them friends. They aren’t simply ‘voices’, but I doubt you’d understand.” 

The man had the audacity to smirk as he met your eyes, as if he knew you were watching the way his body moved. Coils of heat gathered in your core when his tongue darted out to moisten his lips, all without looking away. Bastard.

“My turn. Have you ever wondered what it’s like to take a life?”

The warmth turned to ice. Of course you had, but you didn’t want him to know that. There was no safe answer here. No matter what you did, he’d see right through your lies or find a way to use the truth against you.  The man excelled at mind games, maybe a drinking game was unwise.

You raised your glass, shocked to see that it was already close to empty. A single swallow remained; just enough to dodge the question.

“Ha, I’ll take that as a yes.”

Your vision swam. Using the larger glasses was a miscalculation, and you were paying the price. It almost made you laugh; every time you thought you’d outsmarted the murderous artist, he proved he was two steps ahead. In an odd way, it was nice. Finding someone that could keep up with you was rare.

“Whatever, it’s my turn. How mush do you plan ahead for your kills?” you slurred. Damnit.

As you spoke, he refilled your glass with a knowing smirk. His was still half full.

“Not much. Usually I have an idea for the piece but it’s quite vague, until I find the right canvas.”

You pursed your lips. “You mean the right person.”

He frowned and leaned in, eyes glittering. Did they always look that green?

“Tell me, doctor. Do you really consider everyone equally valuable to society? Aren’t there some who, while cared for, do not contribute? When looking at society from a utilitarian perspective, what determines someone’s value? Why should it matter who I choose, so long as they fulfill their role?”

Without thinking, you took a healthy swallow from your freshly filled glass, mulling over his words. “But why do you get to pick? Plus, if you cut someone’s life short, you’re not just destroying their current contribution but any future ones. Just because someone isn’t doing something important now doesn’t mean they never will. Who are you to deshide?”

“Would you rather choose them yourself?”

“Th- that’s not the point!” you stuttered. “You shouldn’t kill people!”

A frustrated growl rumbled from his throat. “People die every day, for no other reason than they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. My work serves as a reminder to be vigilant. It might make the difference for someone out there.”

He had a point. Nothing served to guide social change quite like the need for safety. People were idiots like that, sacrificing anything just for the illusion of normalcy. But would his work truly accomplish what he hoped for?

Fuck if I know.

You giggled, then leaned back and sighed, too tipsy to continue the debate. A warm buzz saturated your senses, the slightest hint of dizziness only adding to the whimsical mood. Drinking wasn’t so bad, maybe you should do it more often.

“Whose turn was it?” you asked with a crooked smile.

The artist gave you a bemused look and reached for your glass. “It seems wise to stop for now. At least the drinking aspect, that is.”

“Ha. Are you admitting defeat?”

The clatter of glass on wood echoed through the room as he set aside the glasses and bottle, smirking again. Smug bastard. “Not at all. Do your worst.”

You drummed your fingers on the table, assessing options. Curiosity tugged at your mind and danced across your tongue, a myriad of questions begging to be answered. Knowledge is power, as the saying goes.

“What was your first kill like?”

“Messy. It took a few tries to refine the technique,” he replied with a mischievous look. “My turn. Did you enjoy yourself at the museum?”

Though blood already heated your cheeks from drinking, somehow your face managed to heat even more. The beat of your heart quickened, and goosebumps prickled your flesh. You squirmed as your core twitched, the memory enough to slicken your walls. Did you dare to answer? He’d taken away your drink; did you even have a choice?

They don’t call it liquid courage for nothing.

“Yeah, until I had to babysit you and drag your sorry ass here. What’s your full name?”

The ebony-haired man chuckled and took a sip. His glass still wasn’t even half empty.

“You know, my dear doctor… you haven’t returned the favor I performed.”

A snort of humor slipped from your lips. As if you hadn’t already risked everything for him, now he wanted more? But maybe you could turn this to your advantage. It might be fun to make him lose control. Time to change the game. New tactics, since the old ones weren’t working.

Besides, an orgasm might help you sober up.

“Hmm, are you requesting a consult?”

He stood and stepped closer, licking his lips. Bastard.

“Your insight would be greatly appreciated,” he purred.

His voice sent a shudder down your spine. The beige walls of your home spun and you blinked, forcing your eyes to focus through the drunken haze. Between your legs, flames licked at your core and urged you onward, wanton need filling you with daring. Or maybe that was the whiskey.

“I do shpecialize in psychiatry… I suppose I could examine your head.”

The artist’s eyes widened, his pupils blown as you reached for his belt. A single finger hooked around the leather and tugged his body closer, and you scooted to the edge of the chair in preparation with spread legs. The angle wasn’t great, but it was too late to worry about it.

“Tell me alllllll about your symptoms,” you murmured with a sultry smirk. Oh, you’d show him who was in charge all right. No mercy, not even if he begged.

But the accursed man wasn’t yet fazed, his steady hands stroking your cheeks and hair and leaving trails of sparks behind. “I’ve had terrible swelling, and a slight fever…”

You licked your lips and unhooked his belt, giving the buckle a sharp tug to remove it fully. It made a satisfying snap! and you grinned, fingers already teasing at his pants. The tight fabric did little to conceal his engorged cock, and you dragged your thumb over the end with just a hint of pressure.

The resulting groan was all the encouragement you needed; you’d see him come undone tonight. 

Mere heartbeats later, the length you’d glimpsed weeks ago stood before you in all its glory, thick and curved and already shining with arousal. A throbbing vein ran down his length, the perfect target for teasing. Soft as a feather, you dragged the tip of your tongue down the vein. Your heart was racing, sinful desires flooding your system with lust.

“Ah… what treatment would you recommend?”

You smirked at the tension in his normally honeyed voice. This was going to be fun.

“We’ll have to relieve the pressure somehow. You might need regular treatment, too.”

The artist hummed, hooded eyes glittering down at you as his hands guided your lips closer once more. Blood thundered in your ears, anticipation a heady drug as he rested his cock on your lower lip, forcing you to make the next move. His scent tickled at your nose, the first hint of his essence enough to leave you dizzy. You could barely breathe, you wanted to taste him so bad!

How does he smell so good?

“And what are my chances of recovery?”

“Don’t worry, I take excellent care of my patients,” you replied, and then you made your move.

 Your tongue danced across his slit, back and forth until not a drop remained of the creamy sample. Tattooed fingers twitched, his staccato breathing a mark of the effect you had on him. His tangy flavor tingled on your taste buds and summoned lightning across your skin, fanning the flames heating your core. 

“I feel better already,” he crooned.

It almost broke your focus.

Almost.

The smooth, hot flesh of his head was heaven in your mouth as you engulfed him with a soft moan, caressing the ridge with your tongue. Dainty hands drifted up his thighs to grasp his hips and ease him into motion. A low growl escaped his mouth as you hollowed your cheeks and explored his shaft, mapping every inch.

Hellfire and brimstone, he tasted gooooooood. It wasn’t fair how he fit inside your mouth so perfectly, or how his every touch made you shiver. You’d never experienced such intense need, all consuming and impossible to deny.

The artist fisted your hair and snapped forward, tapping at the back of your throat with a muttered curse. Unprepared for the sudden invasion, you gagged on his length but quickly recovered and welcomed him as deep as he’d go, humming as he somehow filled you even more. Hair tickled at your nose and you pulled back, working your tongue and coating him in your saliva.

You paused to press kisses on his toned stomach and bring your hands to help in your efforts, stroking and teasing at the tender area. The murderer shivered under your ministrations, his dark and hungry eyes watching your every move. A sheen of sweat coated his abs, his normally alabaster skin tinged pink in between his intricate tattoos.

“Should I continue?” you asked with a smug smirk.

In response, his hands tangled in your hair and guided your mouth back in place. You didn’t resist, shifting your hips to rub your aching clit against your chair. Ripples of arousal blasted your nerves as you started grinding, whimpers slipping from your crowded mouth. Setting a steady rhythm, you bobbed up and down his length, moaning at his flavor and reveling in the power you held to summon such obscene sounds from his throat. What would it feel like, to have him inside you?

I wanna know…

His rolling hips shattered the lewd images racing through your mind, forcing you back to the present as he blocked your airway. In and out, harder and faster with each moment. Impressive enough to make your jaw ache, but it didn’t matter. You wouldn’t stop until he broke.

A harsh gasp and sudden twitch of his length signaled his imminent release and you pulled away, lips swollen but curled into an impish grin. The expression on his face was perfection, frustrated and hungry and begging for more.

“Well, that’s just cruel,” he said.

You giggled and flicked your tongue across his tip, teasing. A small corner of your mind warned you of the danger of teasing a serial killer, but you ignored it. It was the same voice that told you not to stand out or break the rules, the voice that chained you in normalcy. The power it once held over you seemed so foolish, now.

“You want more?” you asked, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

A low growl rumbled up his chest as he seized your jaw, putting pressure on the hinge until you opened to accept his scorching length. It shocked you to realize how much you enjoyed provoking him, and the sheer thrill of his dominance. You matched his pace, rubbing against the chair to ease the howling need between your thighs. It didn’t help much.

His hands would feel so much better…

But tonight, it was his turn to beg. The moment his grip on your hair loosened, you pulled away again, wiping trails of drool from your lips. “Use your words. Tell me what you want.”

The artist hummed, fingers lazily caressing your cheeks. “I want you.”

His hands drifted lower, exploring your chest and sending shivers down your spine. Sweat glistened on his skin, shimmering over his tattoos like glass catching light. The outline of his body blurred, your vision swimming as he crouched to your level. The look in his eyes stopped your breath.

“I want all of you. Body, mind, and soul. I will settle for nothing less,” he murmured.

And then his lips were on yours, smooth and gentle. Your heart hammered against your rib cage, stomach flipping as your eyes fluttered closed to revel in his flavor. This was an altogether different sort of kiss, leisurely and unhurried yet still deep and passionate. It left you reeling and breathless, craving another the moment he broke away.

“I’d also very much like to see you swallow every drop of my cum.”

Withholding the whimper of need his words summoned proved to be a challenge you couldn’t defeat, and his lips curled into a knowing smirk. Smug bastard, but two could play at that game.

“Well, we do need to finish your treatment,” you purred, fingers teasing at the fabric covering your chest.

His breathing hitched, Adam’s apple bobbing as you pulled the cloth away, your bra barely a heartbeat behind. You bit your lip and leaned forward, taking his saliva covered cock between your breasts. It was sheer decadence to stroke him, your hands dancing with your hardened peaks as they kept him in a tight hold.

V threw back his head and groaned as your lips joined in, tongue teasing at his ridge and slit in turn. Hints of a deeper, sweeter taste leaked onto your waiting taste buds, the promise of his seed making you light-headed.

Lithe fingers gripped your shoulders, tight enough to bruise. Emphatic curses and panted moans slid from his smooth lips, his snapping hips bucking wildly against your body. He tightened again, cock twitching against the roof of your mouth.

You pulled away and smirked at his frustrated groan.

“Accursed woman! D- don’t stop now!”

The chair beneath you creaked as you leaned back, lazily stretching your arms behind you. “Tell me what you want.”

His hands clenched, jaw tight with what could only be rage. Was this the face he showed his victims?

“I want to cum,” he muttered. “Please.”

Hahaha! There it is!

The superiority of victory crashed against your lust like waves on stone. You wanted to dance and shove it in his face that he, the mass murderer, was begging you to let him cum. Oh, how delicious it was to be in control. Just look at him, so desperate and needy he was willing to beg.

“I’ll allow it, since you asked so nicely,” you replied with a grin.

Before you even had time to blink, his swollen head barged past your teeth and deep into your throat, choking you without mercy. Hands wrapped around your neck and tugged at your hair, forcing you into the position he needed. Your own need was forgotten as he pumped against your face without mercy, giving you no chance to draw breath.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” growled the artist.

You moaned and caressed him with your tongue, wet heat encasing him as you pressed your nose into his stomach. The air stank of sex and sweat, whiskey and chicken. The muscles of your jaw screamed for a break but you denied them, putting all your focus on him.

He tightened once more, the grip of his hands refusing to let you withdraw this time. A guttural moan accompanied the first pulse of his release, his hips stuttering and thighs quaking. You didn’t stop, slurping and humming as his cum flooded your mouth. Rope after rope splattered against your throat, filling what little space he wasn’t occupying with his cock and dribbling from your lips to mix with your saliva on his length.

At last, his body relaxed. The last few drops of his euphoria tingled on your tongue as you slowly pulled away, pausing to lick any morsels left behind. It was a flavor you already wanted to taste again.

The room trembled and bucked as he stepped back, still panting in the wake of his pleasure. Your head was spinning, giddiness welling up in a flash. Damn, how much did you drink?

“My dear, dear doctor…”

You couldn’t help it; you cackled, snorting between peals of laughter. “Ha ha, do you- ha! Do you have insurance?”

The artist smirked and pushed the ebony strands away from his face. “I’m afraid not. Perhaps I can offer payment in another form?”

“Heh, I’m sure we can come to an agreement. Come to my office and we’ll discuss it,” you replied, then stood on wobbly legs and stepped toward the staircase, beckoning the artist to follow you. On the second step you paused to dispose of your pants, wiggling your ass a bit more than was strictly necessary. You couldn’t resist putting on a show. Clothes were a stupid idea, anyway.

The next thing you knew, tattooed arms wrapped around you and held you close, one large hand cupping your skull to keep it from hitting the staircase on your way down. Stairs were a stupid idea, too, come to think of it.

“Are you alright?” asked the artist.

Well. So much for putting on a show. Whatever, it didn’t matter. You shot him a grin and rose, dashing up the next few steps with a giggle. Tomorrow, you’d have to send Kotomi a thank you email for the whiskey. The woman had good taste.

The steps trembled under your feet; they weren’t supposed to do that.

“Here, let me help you,” murmured a silken voice.

“Pfft, I’m fine. C’mon,” was your response. You didn’t need help; it was just stairs. You could handle stairs.

Another few steps. The handrail was cool to the touch, but it gave the support you needed. Warm hands hovered behind you, a concerned pair of green eyes watching your every motion. Perhaps that was for the best, as the railing jumped out of your hand and left you off-balance once again.

“Damnit!” you cried, struggling to stay upright as the world shifted like the inside of a kaleidoscope. Color and light, shapes and shadows blended together as you fell, right back into a set of powerful arms.

“Got you, almost there.”

I know, I live here. Thirteen steps. I shouldn’t need help to climb thirteen steps!

---V---

At first it was rather enjoyable to see you indulge your every whim, but by the time the artist managed to get you upstairs the novelty had worn off. Four times, you fell. Four times, he caught you. It would’ve been easier to just carry you like a sack of potatoes.

“Smooth moves, Van Gogh!”

“Shut up, Griffon,” he replied to the blasted bird hovering overhead.

“Griffon? The way you draw him is so pretty,” you commented. “Pretty bird.”

“Hear that? I’m a pretty bird.”

V sighed and helped you to the bed, pausing to pull the blankets back. You lacked the coordination to do much more than collapse into the sheets with another giggle. He felt a slight mirth as well, a subtle tingle of intoxication, but you were obviously worse off.

“Soooo… where’s my payment?” you asked with a smirk.

As much as he craved the sounds you made in the museum, the artist paused. The two of you hadn’t discussed the parameters of your relationship, was it okay for him to make you writhe with ecstasy?

Do it. You know you want to.

He shook his head, casting aside the words. As much as he relied on Vergil for good counsel, the man didn’t place much value in other people. Not the most reliable source for guidance, in this situation. If only he had a canvas; painting always soothed his spirit.

“Why don’t I pay you tomorrow? For now, you should rest,” he finally said.

A petulant frown was his response, but you didn’t resist as he urged you to lie down properly. Your hair was loose, splayed out across the pillow like a splash of blood. “Don’t think you’re getting out of it, okay?”

His fingers itched to plunge inside you, stretch you open and drown in your fluids. The way you’d moan his name, the way your body quivered under his attentions… Quite tempting. He longed to see you wrecked and incoherent, destroyed so that you could at last see the truth.

But not tonight.

“I won’t forget. I promise.”

Satisfied for now, you closed your eyes and snuggled deeper into the blankets, nuzzling the pillows. Someday soon, you would nuzzle his chest instead as he held you, talking quietly about his next piece.

Soon.

The ebony-haired killer stayed by your side until soft snores filled the silence. He reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear with a soft smile. “Hmm, you really are a lightweight, aren’t you?

---------

Kotomi Ishida wrung her hands outside her boss’ office. This was a terrible idea, she should just walk away and get back to updating her patient’s files. Pretend nothing was wrong.

Pretend she hadn’t put her own career above that of her best friend.

It’s all my fault. I should never have accepted this job.

By all rights, she didn’t belong here. The patients terrified her, she hated the commute, the hours sucked and she had no one to talk to since Waras’ suspension. Maybe her mother was right, maybe the psychiatric field wasn’t a good fit for her. 

If only Waras was here. She was such a good listener and always had the best advice. No doubt she’d have a genius way of phrasing things that would make it all fall into place and help her figure out what she was supposed to do.

I miss her…

Kotomi sighed and forced her hands to relax. It wouldn't do to say nothing. The guilt was crushing her, a weight heavier than anything she’d ever known squeezing her heart. She had to at least try to make things right.

Her slim hand rapped against the barely open door, her voice a diminutive whisper. “Dr. Malphas? May I speak with you?”

“Of course, come in,” he replied.

The young woman gathered what little courage she possessed and entered, softly clicking the door closed behind her before taking a seat. Once, her boss’s office felt like a safe haven. A place to escape the horrible people she was responsible for helping. Today, it was a prison.

“Dr. Ishida, what a pleasant surprise! What can I do for you?”

She took a deep breath. “I need to tell you about the day of the fire.”

~~~~Next Chapter~~~~

#fanfiction #fanfic #My writing #Be My Nightmare #spicy #v x reader #DMCV #DMC #devil may cry #reader insert #Self Insert

[matildainmotion]

A Brief Blog about Boundaries – Loving them, Hating them, Renaming them

Boundaries- a thing that children are famous for needing, testing, and that parents are meant to hold with benevolent firmness, as discussed in many a parenting manual. Boundaries – a thing that artists, like children, need, test and often get applauded for breaking. A deadline, a commission, a brief, a genre - structures that support creativity to happen. As someone who makes things (usually shows and stories), I love a boundary, especially when someone else is holding it for me. It’s the reason I have found ways to return to student-status so many times. As a parent, boundaries are something at which I feel I fail daily (see June’s blog on shame) – my children go to bed stupidly late, rarely stay seated at mealtimes, hardly eat any fruit and veg, and have more screen time than many advise to be wise. There is, of course, a relationship between why I find it hard to hold boundaries as a mother but crave them as a maker – my need to make is fuelled by an ongoing sense of uncertainty, a kind of constant questioning of the whys, the whos, the whats of existence, which does not help when I am trying to be strict about bedtime.

           Boundaries are on my mind for a number of reasons right now. We are about to enter back into the structure of school, a term time rhythm that has been absent since March. My daughter is going for the first time – only three mornings a week, but still there will be that boundary-line moment when I need to let her go and she me. Also, I have a self-imposed deadline, a creative limit, that I am taking very seriously – I have a novel to finish by the end of December. In mulling on all this, I keep coming back to the word ‘boundary,’ and finding it lacking.

           It is one of those many hidden metaphors that we use every day without noticing. Hidden by virtue of its wide acceptance, which means that we no longer think of it as metaphorical. Let me expose it for a moment, turn it back in its more starkly visible form – a simile. Ensuring that my children are in bed by a certain time, eat certain things, behave in certain considerate ways, is like building and then maintaining a fence or a wall, that marks the edge of a territory, the perimeter of their lives. This is meant to provide a sense of safety, of stability. But stability is not the same as rigidity, and I do not believe, ultimately, that a true sense of security comes from the building of walls. Perhaps if it was a drystone wall, or a hedge, some barrier built with artistry and age, it might feel better but on the whole, the image of a boundary compares all kinds of relational, evolving, dynamic interactions to a static line. It only starts to feel accurate when I think about the ways in which boundary lines can become hotly contested sites, either because they invite rebellion – the bid for freedom over the wall - or because they trigger acrimony between neighbours, and even wars. In these instances, the image has ceased to function as it was intended - not a line to keep the children safe inside, but a barrier between us – them on one side, me on the other, glaring at each other over the top. Having a metaphor in place that feels most alive when things go awry, does not seem terribly healthy or helpful. It also continually makes me feel at fault – the boundary becomes a winning line, a deadline, which I never reach, an early bedtime that never happens. I want a lifeline instead – something to support me and the children, as we navigate our days and our desires. But what other metaphor might I use?

           I have an older sister who is, and always has been, as sure of herself, as I am doubtful of myself. She is a world-famous plant scientist (Dame Ottoline Leyser, for the curious). Ironically however, it is something my ever-certain sister taught me when I was little, that has come to me as a more flexible metaphor, better able to accommodate variance than the solidity of a boundary. When I was four, and my sister was thirteen, she taught me the definition of osmosis - it was one of her party tricks to get me to recite it. I still remember it: “Osmosis is the passage of water through a semi-permeable membrane, moving from a low concentration to a high concentration solution, resulting in an equal balance of solute on both sides of the membrane.” She taught me hand gestures to go with it too, the last of which was a kind of paddling motion, both my hands moving up and down to show that things were now in a state of equilibrium. When I remembered this, I smiled. I like the image of a membrane – something semi-permeable, that allows for the passage of water, and maybe, once made into metaphor, the passage of other things too – tears, hopes, ideas – in order to create balance. The membrane is porous, but it is undeniably there – a barrier, a living one, a listening one, supportive of life at a cellular level. I like the image of a process, in place of a static line. I looked up the word ‘membrane’: “A thin sheet of tissue or layer of cells acting as a boundary, lining or partition in an organism.” The word ‘boundary’ is in there, but this is the boundary of an organism, something animate, and that seems vital. The image is not a perfect fit, and I want to acknowledge that there are times when a categorically impermeable barrier is needed, but I will go with it as my new metaphor for now – test it out, see how it feels.

For the next month then, at least, I will try managing the membrane of our lives, the back and forth. It may be messy. It may not be a neat boundary line. But things will happen- the children will get to bed, to sleep, to eat, to school, to play, on and off screens, and I will get to write. Because I want to complete my novel by the year’s end, I am going to invite other people to write the monthly Mothers Who Make blog between now and December. But, before I hand the space over, here are my questions for September:

Do you find it easy to hold boundaries? As a mother? As a maker?

Does the image of a boundary work for you? And if not, what does? A membrane? A hedge? A lock on a tidal river? A threshold?

Share your answers on our Facebook page/ group, or at a MWM meeting. Most of our meetings are still taking place on Zoom, regionally via our diverse hubs, and also internationally, every other Tuesday – you are welcome to join from anywhere in the UK or the world. The ‘membrane’ surrounding MWM is merely this: we are here for those identifying as women or non-binary people who care and who create, for those who are curious about how to do both these things with full-ness, because there are many barriers in place in the world - contested boundary lines- that make it hard to do these things as we might wish, in a way that results in balance, as happens via osmosis.

[beneaththetangles]

Watch ‘Til I Drop: Yorimoi and a Good Immaturity

Based on your votes, Twwk is spending the upcoming weeks watching BNA: Brand New Animal, Mob Psycho 100, and A Place Further Than the Universe, three series he’d never picked up or barely started, and continuing with one show he made it a third of the way into before stalling, Vinland Saga. He’ll watch several episodes at a time and blog on them, but at any point, could drop a series and may end up finishing just one or two (or none at all!).

-----

Let’s get started! Er, let’s raise the roof!

A Place Further Than the Universe (Yorimoi) works in part because the main characters all act like kids. Though they display varying levels of maturity, the girls all still see the world through teenage eyes: They get discouraged easily, sometimes fail to see the big picture, and most importantly, dare to dream big. Go to Antarctica? Why not?! It’s enough to make you want to go yourself (Don’t tell me you haven’t googled “Antarctica trips” if you’ve watched this show).

But perhaps the most childish among the travelers is Mari. Bright, energetic, and irresponsible, she just oozes childlike qualities. There’s nothing about her that’s adult, which is precisely why Megumi, her best friend, has always been attracted to her. She sees in Mari someone who can depend on her and her wisdom, rationality, and worldliness. But leading up to episode five, Megumi has been giving her friend the stink eye and continually saying discouraging things. Finding that her words don’t have the power they once did, the “mature” Megumi does the unthinkable—she begins to spread hurtful rumors about Mari out of spite and in an attempt to drive her back under her wings.

I hate to say it, but I was like Megumi when I was in high school, and even well into my adulthood. I was very manipulative, knowing that I could turn relationships toward the directions I wanted them to be, which usually meant toward my advantage. I had one particular friend who was very naive, like Mari, and I tried to convince her of a great many things. She would agree with me but then follow her own ways, and I would get mad. Although I wouldn’t spread rumors like Megumi did, I would basically throw a hissy fit. Looking back, how I wish I had been less like myself and more like my friend—a bit more innocent, a bit more like a child.

The Bible, of course, speaks highly of children—particularly, Christ talks of his love for them. In one passage, Jesus says, “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:3). But what exactly does Jesus mean by “become like little children”? Does he mean us to be innocent? Loving? Trusting? I’ll let theologians dig further into the specifics, though I wonder if we really even need an extended explanation. I bet you’re like me, implicitly understanding exactly what Jesus means. The statement infers that we as adults are not like little children—we lack those qualities in our adulthood. These are the characteristics that we lost along the day, that we wish could have retained, that we wish we still had.

In episode 5 of Yorimoi, each of the four girls are letting go of the things they’d relied on. They’re moving on, in a sense, from childhood (though all but Mari seem to have been thrust out of that stage life already and too early). And yet, Mari faces this transition into adulthood much as a child would—with fear and courage, with anticipation, with excitement. She’s retaining her inner child as her experiences and everything else move her toward the next phase of life. I think that’s a good example of how an adult can be like a child. Those same characteristics help us trust God completely, dream and do great things for the kingdom, and love others fully and completely, even when they break our hearts.

In the final scenes of episode 5, Megumi admits her wrongdoing and gives an assertion that she’s ending their friendship. After all, she’s already broken it by her deeds.

She’s done two every adult things—one in a terrible way, hurting Mari, and one in a responsible way, owning up to her actions, and in turn, it would be very adult for her friend to end their relationship. But instead, Mari responds, “Break-up denied!” through tears and hugs. She doesn’t choose the mature, “adult” response. Mari acts like a child, instead. And in doing so, shares a powerful, life-changing love—and one that helps her friend grow, too.

And if that childlike exuberance and goodwill doesn’t demonstrate the godly love of children, I’m not sure what else would.

Series: A Place Further Than the Universe, episodes 5 and 6 Episode grade: A- and B+ Likelihood for completion (1-5): 5 (no change)

A Place Further Than the Universe can be streamed on Crunchyroll.

The rest of the series…

Series: BNA, Episode 5 Episode grades: C+ Likelihood for completion: DROPPED

As much as I appreciated the artistry of the series, it ultimately just wasn’t for me. It felt like BNA was trying to be lot of different things, but in doing so, ended up achieving nothing (at least through five episodes). It wasn’t deep enough, funny enough, clever enough, or warm enough. I was just left with a show whose episodic nature didn’t capture me with a larger story that I didn’t care about, either. And with these other three shows being simply better, in addition to others I’m watching as well. this was frankly a pretty easy drop.

BNA: Brand New Animal is available for streaming on Netflix.

Series: Mob Psycho 100, Episodes 6-12 Episode grades: A Likelihood for completion: COMPLETE

Quite the opposite of BNA, MP100 had me glued to my screen. What an amazing season—an almost perfect mix of comedy, action, and heart. I also loved how well it was set up for Reigen to play a vital role in the final couple of episodes in a way so true to his character. He, along with Mob, are now among my favorite characters in all anime, though I’m starting to like so many of the others as well. I would trade a hundred episodes of this series for BNHA. Alas, the second season will have to do.

Mob Psycho 100 can be streamed on Crunchyroll.

Series: Vinland Saga, Episodes 14, 15, 16, and 17 Episode grades: B+, B+, A-, A- Likelihood for completion: (1-5): 4 (+1.5)

Vinland Saga is such a slow burn, but it feels necessary to tell a story with so many moving pieces. I am glad, though, that it finally seems we’re past the initial, contextual parts of the series and onto more significant things. A lot happens in these several episodes—the slaughter of a village, the reveal of Canute’s background and of his status in the kingdom, Ragnar’s death, the mutiny against Askeladd, and Thorkell’s arrival. I have to lot to discuss from these episodes—I already wrote one full post, but may sit on it a bit to see how the rest of the series pans out (and how that could potentially add to what I’ve already written).

Vinland Saga can be streamed on Amazon Prime.

#Anime #A Place Further than the Universe #BNA: Brand New Animal #Mob Psycho 100 #Vinland Saga #Sora Yori mo Tooi Basho #Yorimoi #Articles #Author: TWWK

[borisbubbles]

Eurovision 2010s: 60 - 56

60. Emma - La mia città Italy 2014 

Emma is short for “Emmanuella”. 😍 Clearly the inspiration for this act:

You may not know this, but “La mia citta” is probably my favourite song out of 2014? It’s ROCKIN’ A RIDE (na na na na na na) of high voltage energy that I instantly became addicted to.  😍 Of course we were also immediately forewarned that Emma couldn’t sing her own song (which is hilarious, but yeah  😬)  so I was expecting a ready disappointment.  What I did NOT expect however was that Italy would yank UP the fun factor by trapping Emma into the direct-to-video sequel of Tinto Brass’s Caligula and letting her steal the show even more. 😍 ITALY <3 <3 <3 

The vocals may have been beyond subpar, but Emma flailing herself around the stage, contorting her body in IMPOSSIBLE angles, dismissively pushing the beta manfolk around like the boss she is gives me SO MUCH LIFE. If she had sung in a key that suited both her voice and the song, she would’ve ranked even higher, but a spot right outside of the highest tier will have to do. ALL HAIL THE EMPRESS OF TERRIBLE TASTE. 

________________________________________________________________

59. AWS - “Viszlát nyár” Hungary 2018

[2018 Review here]

GIVE ME FIRE, I’M A FIGHTER!

2018 may not have been as great of an experience for me as it has been for many others, but good god did it NEED AWS. A 2018 without AWS has no high voltage, uptempo, loud, aggro ENERGY. “But Boris there’s also Toy” yeah no. Na na banana I do what I wanna :-) 

and honestly, why shouldn’t we love “Viszlát nyar”? Loss songs that instead of mourning solemnly burst into a primordial tempest of ire and flame. IT’S INTENSE, all thanks to Orz’s excellent performance. 

and this comes WITHOUT the consideration that AWS were the backstage deities for the 2018 contest as well, providing many hilarious interviews and other moments of levity. 

AWS were great, because they weren’t a typical Eurovision entry. They are an indie metal band from Hungary that won A Dal by accident and in doing so were thrusted into an adventure beyond their wildest expectations. They never took Eurovision seriously, but regardless they had loads of fun with it and so did I. We will continue this line of thought when we get to a certain deadpan Slovene duo, much, much later in this ranking. 🤭

________________________________________________________________

58. Loïc Nottet - “Rhythm inside” Belgium 2015

Cutting Loïc means I have my change my t-shirt into the one my friend gave me for my 25th birthday (😍)

and I mean what is there to say about Loïc? He’s widely regarded as one of the most artistic and memorable entrants in recent years, sparking a hot streak of entries which ended when Sennek refused to rehearse her song/come up with an act. 

I may as well use this moment for a little confession: Avant Garde is one of my favourite Eurovision genres. AG entries are always interesting, always delivering, always different from what we’re used to. They are brave and inspired. When well-executed they can easily becomes some of the all-time best Eurovision entries.

“Rhythm inside” also falls into the category, taking a fairly simple subject (the beating of the human heart) and turning it into a metaphilosophical journey of discovery, star matter and mindblowiness. Loïc launched “Rhythm” into greatness, providing excellent vocals, dancing and miming. 

and also like all amazing things in life, it contains a small dose of SuRie: 

However, avant garde often comes with one massive problem: poorly-executed AG tends to frame every twirl, fart and headturn as a testament of some highly ~artistic vision~ when it adds nothing of value. In other words, fuckin’ meaningitis. “Rhythm inside” is actually one of the worst offenders, imo. For every epic moment of Loïc gazing into the camera or twirling around like an ebon cygnet, we get a tryhard one in which somebody lays themselves down and starts kicking their feet into the air for no reason and *sigh*. 

It saddens me that  “Rhythm inside”, despite being a very innovative composition that explores the boundaries of music, tries too hard to sell its own artistry and well... it is that moment of self-doubt which prevents me from ranking it inside the elite tier. BELIEVE IN AND LOVE THYSELF!!!

________________________________________________________________

57.  Madame Monsieur - “Mercy” France 2018

[2018 Review Here]

Every year is defined by its political zeitgeist, and in 2018 there were two defining themes: #MeToo, covered by “Toy”, and “Transmigration” covered by Madame Monsieur. I soon was convinced one of them would win 2018, which happened, but sadly it was the weaker of the two entrants 😭

Regardless, Madame Monsieur deserve all the praise they can get. It is SO easy to take a topic such as “migration” and turn it into an Americanized story of Wrong And Right. It’s SO easy to turn it into a sob story. It’s SO easy to cheapen the plight over others for self-gain. It is important to remain authentic, austere and respectful. 

Which is exactly that Madame Monsieur did. 

Using a peppy synthpop beat as a platform to carry their haunting lyrics (”je suis ces enfant que la mer a pris” ::shivers::), Emilie and Jean-Karl turn “Mercy”, a tribute to a baby born at sea to refugee parents, into a true humanitarian hymn, focusing on their message and letting this speak for itself. The end result is pretty potent. THE SEA OF FISTBUMPS <3

So naturally I really fucking love “Mercy”. However, I also think it was lacking in the little area of staging. While I do think the intent of keeping it sober and free of gimmicks was a clever coice, the gut-punching message didn’t exactly come across.

The act was too subtle. It’s the Hassani story of France getting outclassed by Italy at the last second, but much stronger than with Bilal. I don’t think the lack of LEDs was the issue though, like, just bring stage props? Work the camera more? It sucks that I have to nitpick so close to the highest tier, but the fact that I do proves to me that “Mercy” can’t make it that far. RIP sweet synth angels. 

________________________________________________________________

56. DiHaj - “Skeletons” Azerbaijan 2017

[2017 Review here] Another lovable avant garde angel, morph! DiHaj improved quite a bit for me on the rewatch, but I can’t let her move onto the elite tier for reasons that I think are obvious. (If they are not, please unmute your computer.)

HOWEVER, I do think “Skeletons” a great, dark moody song that is highly entertaining. It is, for the most part a great example of how to do novelty at Eurovision: It displays the greatest strength of modern Azerbaijan: the visually stunning SPECTACLE. Music is supposed to a form of expression and DiHaj goes ALL OUT.

Of course, I understand that the act isn’t to everyone’s taste and it does suffer a *little* bit from Fuckin’Meaningitis™ , which is fair enough. At the same time... the story told here is pretty obvious? There is no dispute that this song is about a broken relationship and the moral dilemma that often comes with it. Azerbaijan stuck with the source material provided by the song and that makes Skellingtons’ act much better than that of “Rhythm inside”. It’s a captivating story, because it makes sense. 

Too bad those Professional Swedish Backings sounded like crap tho...x

And that was the last of Azerbaijan,

After a pretty terrible start of the decade, Azerbaijan reinvented themselves as trash angels and the rest is herstory. I hope they continue to dazzle us with ridiculousness in the years to come. 😍

_______________________________________________________________ 

And now we move on to the higher tier. CONGRATULATIONS TO THESE (nearly) FLAWLESS ANGELS:

2010 

Juliana Pasha - “It’s all about you” Tom Dice - “Me and my guitar” Kuunkuiskaajat - “Työlki ellää” Jessy Matador - “Allez ola olé” Giorgos Alkaios & Friends - “OPA” Paula Seling & Ovi - “Play with fire” maNga - “We could be the same”

2011

Dino Merlin - “Love in rewind” Poli Genova - “Na inat” Lena - “Taken by a stranger” Maja Keuc - “No one”

2012

Ott Lepland - “Kuula” Pasha Parfeny - “Lăutar” Loreen - “Euphoria”

2013

Elitsa Todorova & Stoyan Yankulov - “Samo shampioni” Koza Mostra ft. Agathonas Iakovidis - “Alcohol is free” Gianluca - “Tomorrow” Who see ft. Nina Zizic - “Igranka” Anouk - “Birds” Zlata Ognevich - “Gravity”

2014

Aram MP3 - “Not alone” Conchita Wurst - “Rise like a phoenix” Cleo - “My słowianie- We are slavic” Tinkara Kovač - “Round and round” Ruth Lorenzo - “Dancing in the rain” Sebalter- “Hunter of Stars”

2015

Elina Born & Stig Rästa - “Goodbye to yesterday” Nadav Guedj - “Golden Boy” Aminata - “Love Injected” Polina Gagarina - “A million voices” Bojana Stamenov - “Beauty never lies” Måns Zelmerlöw - “Heroes”

2016

Iveta Mukuchyan - “LoveWave” Laura Tesoro - “What’s the pressure?” Poli Genova - “If love was a crime” Nika Kocharov & Young Georgian Lolitaz - “Midnight gold” Hovi Star - “Made of Stars” Francesca Michielin - “No degree of separation”

2017

NAVIBAND - “Story of my life” Blanche - “City lights” Joci Pápai - “Origo” fusedmarc - “Rain of revolution” JOWST ft. Aleksander Wallmann - “Grab the moment”

2018

Rasmussen - “Higher ground” Elina Nechayeva - “La Forza” Ieva Zasimauskaite - “When we’re old” DoReDoS - “My lucky day” Lea Sirk - “Hvala, ne!” ZiBBZ - “Stones”

2019

Kate Miller-Heidke - “Zero gravity” Mahmood - “Soldi” KEiiNO - “Spirit in the sky” Zala Kralj & Gašper Šantl - “Sebi”

#Eurovision #Eurovision Song Contest #Azerbaijan #Madame Monsieur #Loïc Nottet #AWS #Emma Marone #DiHaj #France #Belgium #Hungary #Italy #Skeletons #mercy #Rhythm inside #Viszlat nyar #la mia citta

[fysunmi]

Sunmi Talks Artistry, Touring & Upcoming Music: 'It's Going to Be Interesting'

K-pop star Sunmi has spent more than a decade thriving in the spotlight, and now she’s doing it on her own terms as one of the Korean music world’s most prominent young divas.

Getting her start in girl group Wonder Girls in 2007, she went on to become one of the industry’s most beloved young stars as the group saw hit after hit in the late ‘00s, leading to their becoming the first K-pop act to ever debut a song on the Billboard Hot 100 in 2009, with the English version of their 2008 hit “Nobody.” Throughout the years, she’s vacillated between being a soloist and a member of the group; she left the act in 2010, released her first solo song in 2013, and then rejoined the team in 2015. After Wonder Girls broke up in 2017, she found her footing again as one of K-pop’s most intriguing young ingenues. With the release of her third solo single “Gashina” in 2017, she reinvented her identity as one of K-pop’s most invigorating stars, blending witty lyricism with theatrical musicality and showmanship, and followed it up with several other singles, which were all compiled on last year’s Warning album.

Sunmi recently returned with her single "Noir," which takes on social media, blustering in a dramatic music video as a clout-chaser trying to show off her best life to the camera even while dealing with the stresses that follows putting one’s life out in the open in front of the Internet. The song fronted her Warning world tour, through which she met up with fans throughout North America and Asia.

Switching between Korean and English, Sunmi sat down with Billboard ahead of the last show of her Stateside leg of the tour at the Lincoln Theatre in Washington, D.C., on March 18 to discuss her career, her music and more.

How do you feel about completing your U.S. tour?

It’s been really amazing as it’s my first world tour. I didn’t really expect that crowd. It’s all sold-out so I was really surprised. Even though I’m a female solo artist, I can have my own show in the States. I really appreciate that. I was surprised that fans were different from those in Korea. In Korea, the audience is all, ‘Sunmi, Sunmi!’ While here in the States, they’re like, “WAH!” They look really free to enjoy with enthusiasm. Compared to the boy groups... They have massive scale when they come here, but I think my fans that I see are quite incredible and I’m really proud.

You just released your new song “Noir.” What made you want to releases a song like this?

I was inspired by social media. Twitter, Instagram. “Noir” is a genre of movies, and I think social media is the noir for this generation. I’m a celebrity, and entertainers-- we always want to get attention from audiences. I think that, [since] I’m the one taking this on [it] is so ironic.

The music video didn’t necessarily put social media in a positive light. Has your relationship with social media been largely negative?

I acted with exaggeration, but I thought it was cute. I didn’t want to be too direct because noir is a genre that can be uncomfortable, but I wanted to represent it in a way that makes it my thing, that isn’t necessarily negative but dramatic.

You engage a lot on social media with fans, on Twitter in particular, both in Korean and English. Do you think that’s important for stars nowadays?

Definitely. Twitter is really big, but in Korea people are more focused on Instagram. But fans exist on Twitter where they can interact. I think Twitter is a place where you can express yourself more freely.

You’re one of South Korea’s most popular soloists but you got your start in the Wonder Girls, who also spent some time in the U.S. How have things changed?

I can’t believe it. At the time, there was no section of K-pop on Billboard.

It’s partially because of the groundwork laid by you and Wonder Girls.

No, BTS.

We started the column in 2013.

Oh, really? Well, in general the approach towards K-pop has changed a lot, it wasn’t well known. I was an opener [with Wonder Girls] for the Jonas Brothers, but now I’m having my solo concert.

What do you think has changed?

The number of people I see in the audience is different.  

What sort of message did you want to share with listeners through last year’s Warning album?

The message that I wanted to deliver was to give everyone an individual warning to learn about themselves, about what’s coming, about who they are. I don’t really know my character. I often go up and down, I’m unpredictable. When I was young, I thought that I was limited, but then when I started producing myself I realized, “Oh, I can do this this way.” There were so many more ways to express myself. For example, in my “Gashina” music video, I showed my middle finger. But when I was in an idol group, I couldn’t express myself this way. Now, I can express myself more freely.

You often lean into retro elements for your songs and music videos. Why does the past appeal so much to you?

J.Y. Park, my producer in the Wonder Girls, when we were young, he would give us songs to listen to that we may not have been familiar with. Personally, I like music from the ‘70s, ’80s, and ‘90s, so I try to find instrumentals and sounds that evoke those periods and work them into my music.

Do you like wordplay? You have a lot in your lyrics.

Yes, I really like it. Nowadays, when a movie, show, or new music comes out, people really like to dissect it and analyze it, try to find the real meaning behind it. So I wanted to give fans a few more opportunities to find a deeper meaning of the songs, I feel like they really like that.

Is that how you come up with your dramatic music videos as well?

I prefer using symbolism instead of being direct.

Now that you’ve released “Noir” and are almost finished with your tour, what’s next?

I am working on my album and preparing new music. When I release an album, there isn’t anything I don’t put my hands on. I literally go from music videos to finding sources to creating the album. For this album, I preferred being a bit distant from the audience but still show who I am. Rather than make the music easy to understand, I want to show my true colors and make people understand me. When I’m creating music, I try to balance my preference with the audience’s preference, to meet in in between my needs as an artist and theirs as listeners. Through that process, I want to show more colors of myself, I want to see how people think of me. It’s going to be interesting.

#sunmi #t: interview #billboard #190329

[scornedlove]

Chapter Twenty-Four

ROBYN

“Shit!” I exclaimed jolting awake. The sunlight shining on my face pulled me from my deep slumber. I sat up and my head immediately began to pound. Where the fuck am I? I wondered as bits and pieces of last night came back. Then I noticed the mirror covering the wall in front of the bed and my jaw dropped. I was at Aundre’s, naked in his bed. I looked around and noticed an envelope on his bed stand with a note scribbled on it.

Went to work. Call me when you wake up. -Dre.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I groaned falling back into the plush comforters. I couldn’t remember how I got here and wanted to slap myself for being so stupid and bringing Dre into my mess. Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through my abdomen and my full bladder began to get weak. I jumped up so fast, I stumbled my toe into the corner of his nightstand as I ran to the bathroom. I made it to the toilet in time, but the moment I flushed it, a wave of nausea rushed over me. I tried to make it to the sink, but threw up all over his marble floors instead.

By the time I’d finished cleaning his bathroom, making his bed, and finding my shoes, it was almost one o’clock. Of course, it would be the day I had a hair appointment. I didn’t care how vain I came across as, I refused to miss my hair appointment. Ursie was booked solid and had a six to eight week waiting period. I needed it done last week and I haven’t had anyone else in my head in years. The last stylist I had left bleach on too long and damaged my hair tremendously. It cost me a lot of time, money, and tears. I couldn’t afford to go through that again.

I searched high and low, but couldn’t find my clothes or phone anywhere. After wasting half an hour, I gave up and called John from the house phone, picked one of Dre’s shirts that could pass as a dress, then took a quick shower. By the time I finished dressing, John was out front smoking a cigarrette. “How’s my favorite island gyal today?” he inquired with a lopsided grin after putting his smoke out on the ground. “Hungover” I grunted, smoothing out my shirt before getting in the backseat. “I told you to simmer down last night” he laughed as he closed the door. I had no idea what he was talking about so the moment he got in the driver seat, I began interrogating him. “What did I do? Did you bring me here? Why didn’t you talk some sense into me?” I quizzed, tossing questions left and right. “Ms. Robyn, it’s my job to mind my business, and I did that while you were smoking a blunt and drinking Moscato from the bottle in my back seat.” he pressed his lips together and took a deep breath through his nose. “But when you started taking shots of whiskey back there, I tried to tell you to simmer down, and you went left on me. You told me to mind my fucking business before you throw that bottle at the back of my head.”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I hope you know I didn’t mean that and I would never do something so horrible!”

“I hope not!” he laughed. “I know you’re going through a lot, but getting drunk is not the answer”

“I know and that won’t happen again. I promise to compensate you for your trouble.” I added as my face burned with embarrassment. I had no cash on me, but definitely felt the need to give him a bonus or something. He didn’t have to deal with that and he still came back for me.

“That’s unnecessary. You’re my favorite client by far, so I’ll let the first one slide” he teased. “Besides, that was nothing. Compared to some of the crazy things I’ve seen, you’re a breath of fresh air.”

“Well, thanks for putting up with me and still getting me to my destination safely. I owe you one” I replied gratefully. I don’t know what I would do without John. He always got me where I needed to be in record time, and today was no different. I arrived at the salon a few minutes early, just as Ursie was collecting payment from the lady before me.

“What are we doing today?” she asked, once I was settled in her chair.

“I don’t know, but I need a drastic change. My life is so full of shit I need something easy and low maintenance. Do whatever, I trust you.” I shrugged.  My head was pounding so hard, that I didn’t care. I knew whatever she did would look great anyway, so I put the ball in her court.

“I can do anything?”

“Yep. Nothing is off limits.”

“See that’s why I love you. You challenge my artistry” she smiled pulling out her clippers.

CHRIS

Why does shit have to be so fucking complicated. I thought to myself as I blew smoke from my mouth. After hearing Robyn’s true feelings yesterday, I felt like shit. I tried calling her multiple times once I made it home, but she never answered. I didn’t know what to say anyway. My heart was heavy and I just wanted to make sure she was okay.

I was worried all night, so I didn’t get any sleep. As much as I still love Robyn, I didn’t have it in me to walk away from Tae. I guess I was being selfish and didn’t even realize the effect it was having on Robyn. I never imagined having to choose between the two, so I couldn’t. It hurt like hell watching her leave my life for good, but her mind was made up.  

On top of that, Mama announced that she was moving to Florida with Richard next month. That’s what the gathering was for. She wanted to spend time with everyone before she moved. The thought of my mom picking up and moving across the country for Richard made my heart skip a beat. Yes, he’s a good guy, but the thought of not having my mom a few minutes away gave me anxiety. 

“You sure you’re okay” Tae asked for the umpteenth time since she woke up an hour ago. Her flight wasn’t until one this afternoon so I took the morning off to spend a little more time with her before she left. After that fiasco with Robyn yesterday, I was a little frustrated. Not with her or Tae, but the circumstances. I wasn’t trying to be the bad guy, but here I was yet again.

“I’m good. Just a little stressed about this art battle coming up” I lied. I did decide to join an art battle this weekend, but that was the least of my worries. I loved a challenge and always had fun with them, but I couldn’t tell her why I was really upset. Especially after we just reconciled.

“You sure it’s not about Mama J moving” she countered with a side eye.

“I won’t front. That shit hit me hard too.”

“So, that’s why you’re on your third blunt this morning. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smoke so much, especially by yourself.”

“Oh, that ain’t nothing. I used to smoke almost an ounce a day”

“Why would you smoke that much every day?” she asked turning her nose up.

“I was going through a lot of shit”

“What were you going through to make you smoke that much?”

“I lost my scholarship senior year over some bullshit. I thought I told you about that.”  

“You didn’t tell me what happened exactly”  

“It’s a long story”

“I’m listening” she replied, sitting next to me on the couch. She snuggled as close as she could then pulled my arm around her neck, forcing me to put the blunt out and cuddle her. Diamond followed suit, laying her head in Tae’s lap. I’m sure it was because she’s constantly sneaking her snacks, but any time Tae is here, Diamond is attached to her hip. I love how close they are.

“Well as you know, my dad died in the line of duty when I was eleven.” I began after a deep sigh. “When that happened, I went from being the class clown to the quiet kid. I was beyond depressed and there wasn’t a pill I didn’t try to fix it. Trey and I were best friends then, but I even distanced myself from him. 

Fast forward to freshman year, I met this girl named Michele. She was beautiful, smart, and funny. She was the first person to get a real laugh from me in years. She became my best friend; I was closer to her than Trey. We were tight until she started to hang with the wrong crowds and experimenting with drugs. Long story short, her boyfriend cheated on her, so she cheated on him with me. He beat the crap out of her and to keep him out of trouble, she told the police it was me. I’ve never put my hands on a woman before, but after losing everything that was important to me, I don’t know what I would do if I saw her now.”

“Wow, that’s some crazy shit. I want to beat her ass for you. Did she ever apologize or admit her wrongdoing?” she quizzed as her forehead creased.

“Hell nah. She had been blackmailing mama for money without my knowledge. When she didn’t get what she wanted, she showed up the night before I was supposed to get married, and told the same lie to Robyn. She showed her the newspaper articles and everything. I never told Rob about my past and we were already on rocky grounds, that shit killed what little hope she had in us and she left me. I just don’t get it though; I was always the perfect gentlemen to Michele. I guess it’s true; that shit doesn’t matter when people are strung out.”

“That’s so fucked up. Where is Michele now?”

“Shit, that’s a mystery to all of us. She up and disappeared again, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she just relocated and is using someone else. She’s not a good person and it sucks that I had to find that out the hard way”

“Well, let that bitch pop up again, imma give her a taste of her own medicine. You’re mine now, and I don’t play when it comes to mines”

“I don’t play when it comes to mine either. I know you’re all the way in Dallas, but it ain’t nothing for me to hop on a plane when you need me. Matter of fact, that brings up another conversation. Have you considered moving out here?”

“As crazy as it sounds, I never really gave that much thought. We’re serious, but relocating for a relationship is a big step.”

“I agree, but if you’re serious enough about me, I’m ready to step it up. Which means I need to get some shit off my chest.” I announced. If being with Tae cost me my relationship with Robyn, it was time she knew everything. I couldn’t make the same mistake twice.

“Oh shit. Here comes bad news”

“Not necessarily, it’s just a lot to take in.” I explained, shaking my nerves off. I was no longer worried. If she accepted me that’s great and if she doesn’t that’s okay too. “I invited my ex to Mama’s party yesterd-”

“What?! I don’t remember you introducing us” she blurted, scaring Diamond. She seemed to sense the mood shift and quickly jumped down and jetted out of sight.

“She didn’t stay long, and she told me she’d already met you. She designed Lala’s dresses.”

“What!? That Robyn is your ex? I was trying to hook her up with my brother the whole time we were working together.” she revealed, her eyes widened with shock. “I wonder why she never said anything, she must’ve felt awkward as hell. But why would you invite her to your mom’s barbecue? How long have ya’ll been in contact?”

“Not long. I invited her because they have their own relationship. I knew how happy mama would be to catch up with her.”

“Then what are you getting off your chest? Did you fuck her?” she inquired, putting some distance between us so she could look me in the eye.

“No, I’m not fucking her. There’s just a lot of emotional baggage still there. We lost our first-born last year and it was my fault” I admitted in shame. It was the first time I confessed my blame out loud and as soon as the words escaped my lips, tears started to fall.  

“What? How was it your fault?” she asked, immediately pulling me closer.

“I wasn’t there for her when I should’ve been. Her doctor recommended she stayed from behind the wheel, so I was supposed to take her to her appointment. I got caught up with Kate-”

“The girl you cheated with, right?” she interrupted, putting two and two together. This topic always had me on edge. I didn’t want her associating that Chris with the person I am today, but I needed to know how real this was.

“Yeah, I thought she was pregnant by me too, but it turned out to be someone else’s. Anyway, we thought her baby was coming, but it was a false alarm. I spent so long at the hospital with Kate that I ended up running late for Robyn’s appointment. She decided to drive herself and someone ran a light, smashing her side of the car. She was in a coma for a few days, but we lost our son. He died two days before my birthday.”

“That is so sad. Damn, you’ve been through some horrible things. Ya’ll both have been through a lot, but how can you blame yourself for an accident someone else caused?” She asked, wiping my cheeks with her palm.

“I should’ve been the one in the driver seat. The impact wouldn’t have been as bad and she could’ve made it to full term with him.” I sighed, standing up to dry my face with my shirt.

“I know it may seem that way, but everything happens for a reason. God decided he needed him more. You can’t hold that over yourself. We all make mistakes, but I know you’re a good person.” she responded, standing to hug me. Her touch was calming. I was relieved that instead of agreeing with me, she was showing me so much compassion. “I’m sorry things turned out the way they did, but you got to forgive yourself.”

“I’ve tried, I just don’t know how.” I confessed, releasing her and picking the blunt back up.

“That won’t help. You need to see a psychiatrist.” she ordered, taking the blunt from my hand and holding it behind her back. “When Brandon died, I couldn’t get through a single day without crying for a whole year. The last time we spoke, we had an argument over something so silly, I don’t even remember what it was. My psychiatrist helped me open up and let it out. Also, it feels better talking to someone who isn’t biased about the situation. You obviously blame yourself, but has Robyn ever blamed you.”

“Not once. At least not to my face. Knowing all the pain I caused is a hard pill to swallow. She’s never blamed me out loud, but I’ve never asked. You’re a woman, put yourself in her shoes. Would you blame me?”

“No. I’m a firm believer in everything happens for a reason. The healing process would hurt like hell, but it’s not like you meant for that to happen, so I couldn’t blame you for it.”

“You have a good soul and I really don’t deserve you either. I know I deserve to feel pain and heartache every day. Look, I would understand if hearing all of this makes you want to back out of this relationship.”

“Not at all. You’re right, it is a lot to take in, but I meant it when I said I love you. I’m not going to leave you for something you did in your past to someone else. Our mistakes make us human. I don’t expect you to be perfect. Hell, I’m not perfect either”

“You’re pretty damn close.”

“Not really. I’ve been holding back too. I ha-”

“AARRGHHH” Anthony screamed at the top of his lungs interrupting us. Seconds later, I heard some glass break and a female voice screaming in Spanish. Tae and I jumped up and darted towards his room just as he was coming out. He must’ve been startled from his sleep because he was still in his drawers and had dried saliva on the corners of his mouth.  

“That crazy bitch cut me!” he yelled, grasping his right thigh with both of his hands. The moment he let go, blood started to leak down his leg.

“You fucked me knowing you have chlamydia!” a girl in her bra and panties screamed at the top of her lungs. She was tiny with a loud screechy voice and big, wild curls falling in every direction. She threw his phone at his head with all her might. He dodged it, then bent down to pick it up, but fell instead. “Fuck!” he yelled out in pain as Tae took off the scarf that was on her head and tied it around his wound. “I don’t have no fucking STD!”

“Liar! I saw everything! Whoever the fuck Ashley is said she had it and you didn’t even respond to her text or answer her calls. It’s because you’re the one that gave it to her!” She accused, still holding the pocket knife she used to cut him with as she slipped her dress on.

“This ain’t the place for this shit. Ya’ll gotta go” I shouted, staying in between them as they bickered back and forth.  

“She didn’t get shit from me and I know I don’t have anything! I can’t believe you cut me!” he whined, fighting the pain.

“Be glad I didn’t kill you!” She exclaimed grabbing her purse, storming past us, and pausing at the front door. “You better pray my test results come up clean mother fucker!” she threatened before letting herself out.

“That’s what yo ass get for breaking the one rule you had. Get up so I can take yo stupid ass to the hospital” I ordered, stepping over him to go get my car keys. That was the last straw. I was tired of feeling like I had a child. From dealing with his passive aggressive attitude to his poor choices, I was over it. It was time for Anthony to go.

#ff #fanfiction #rihanna #RiRi #chris brown #CB

[kinsbin]

Movie Night

Title: Movie Night Ship: Johnny Cage/Alexys [Self Insert/Canon] Word Count: 2058 Summary: Johnny and Alexys plan for their annual movie night, with a selection of good monster movies and a plan to kiss during all of them. Pure fluff.

A/N: A commission for @bad-blue-moon-rising! She’s slowly getting me into mortal kombat and it is a TIME

Movie nights were, more or less, a tradition now.

Alexys would call it a testament to their relationship, in a peculiar sort of way. The endless entertainment both herself and her boyfriend seemed to garner from the animated or live-action features always drew them closer together. It was important to how they first met and, hell, it would be important for the rest of their time together certainly. There was something about being able to forget about the outside world that warmed her heart. Of cuddling into a pile of blankets with her boyfriend and being able to exist only in that pure bubble of momentum and delight. The mere idea brought a smile to her lips as she imagined a life where they could be together comfortably. To always have movie nights. To be...she dared say normal...but what life was normal with Johnny Cage?

Her thoughts were interrupted when a hand fell against her wrist, pulling her back against a strong chest as a chin rested on the top of her head. She could feel the taught muscles of the body against her go lax the moment they made contact, the warmth of their shared heat nothing short of delightful as she exhaled outwards and smiled. Reaching up, she felt the arm around her and squeezed it, half hugging the being behind her in the best way that she could as she also tried to focus on the hot popcorn bag she had been pouring into a bowl before hand.

“Johnny,” She managed out through a small fit of laughter that only seemed to grow as his lips descended on her neck, “I’m trying to make us popcorn!”

“And I’m trying to kiss you,” He purred back with a smirk that she could feel on her neck, “Looks like we’re both doing pretty good at what we decided to try, eh?”

“Easy for you to say! You don’t have hot butter near your fingers, now either help or sit on the couch.” She giggled and smacked his arm playfully. Johnny laughed back at her before relenting, raising himself upwards and off of her body so that he was at her side rather than behind her. Alexys looked up and admired the face of the man before her, muscled with a curved and perfectly kissable jaw that she loved and adored so much. Without his signature sunglasses covering his eyes, she was able to note the soft laughter lines that trailed from underneath his pupils to down on his lips, admiring their movements as he stretched his face between words and expressions. They were always so fascinating and, somehow, so melancholy to see on him all at once...it was interesting.

“Hey, Ripley, you’re spacing out on me.” He joked as he snapped his fingers in front of her, drawing her out from her momentary enamorment of his face. HIs grin was wider now than it was before, “I know I’m good looking but, dang darling, you’re gonna make me blush if you keep those doll-eyes up on me.”

Alexys felt her face heat up with intense redness, her gaze pulling itself away so that he wouldn’t catch the effects it had on her as a whole. He did, however, because he was just that good. Because he was Johnny Fucking Cage. And he bit back a laugh as he instead returned to hugging her, his lips this time finding her cheeks and nuzzling into her temple with a purr, “Don’t be so embarrassed, doll, I think it’s incredibly adorable. Goes with the rest of you~.”

“Stop being a sap and tell me what movies you brought over,” She laughed it off with a grin, turning to kiss his nose in retaliation. After a moment of sputtering and laughter over the sudden kiss attack he had been the victim of,  he recovered by removing his hands from her in a gesture of surrender before reaching around to the messanger bag he had set unceremoniously on the ground before wrapping himself around his lover. When he rummaged through it, he eventually pulled out two DVD cases with a wide, delighted smile.

“Aliens and Big Ass Spider. Classics.”

“One of these things is certainly not like the other,” Alexys managed out with a bubbling laugh over the ridiculous title of the second one, admiring the way its cover displayed its concept almost too perfectly. A large, comically photoshopped tarantula whose eight legs were busy crushing cars as people ran in mock terror was organized on the front, along with the name of the movie in comic sans font and the head actors who, surprisingly, were no one Johnny actually knew. Well, not so surprisingly perhaps. It was a very niche movie.

“One is a cinematic masterpiece filled with beautiful acting, a strong female lead, and a fearsome inhuman foe ready to kick the ass of everyone in its way,” Johnny declared, “And the other is Alien.”

Alexys cackled at the comparison, her hand flying over her mouth to stop the laughter as she shook her head. Johnny’s own laughter echoed heartily against the kitchen as they shared the moment of giggles together. It was moments like this, she admitted with ease and delight, that she loved these movie nights most of all. The feeling of laughing with the man she loved, the strong earthen defender who had somehow fallen for her...It was almost normal. A sweet sense of normalcy that she had craved time and time again amongst fights and bloody fists and watching him come home with blood that wasn’t his across his torso...It was something else, certainly.

It was almost homey.

“Go put it on the TV,” Alexys sighed, “I’ll finish getting the popcorn.”

“And the soda!” Johnny called out before exiting the kitchen to the living room with a grin, sending a sharp wink her way before complying to set up their featured films. Alexys smiled as he went, watching him as he began to juggle the two DVDs in his hands, knowing she was staring behind him. Knowing that she knew he was showing off. She laughed again before gathering the popcorn up into its bowl and melting some butter to go with it.

The snacks organized and balancing precariously in her hand with some sodas, Alexys meandered her way towards the couch, where Johnny had already set himself up comfortably, DVD in and remote in hand prepared to hit play on the feature whenever his girlfriend gave the okay. He reached over to nab the sodas from her, smiling as she sighed with relief and was able to put the popcorn down with no spillage to its contents. “Gotta say, doll,” He joked while putting one of the buttered popcorn pieces into his mouth, “You know how to butter me up.”

“That joke was as corny as these kernels.” Alexys chided with a laugh at the joke either way, making Johnny grin and lean forward to press a kiss to her cheek, which she accepted happily with a hum of approval.

“So which cinematic masterpiece are we watching first?”

“If we watch Alien first, it’ll only enhance the pure artistry of Big Ass Spider,” Johnny reasoned, the shit-eating grin on his lips stretching further when Alexys rolled her eyes and shrugged to indicate that she was fine with that order of business, perhaps even a bit happy to be putting off the lesser horror movie for a couple hours longer as she pushed herself closer to Johnny and snuggled up into is side. Johnny felt the tips of his ears glow a bright red at how close she was, at how he could feel her body press on him, and he could only cough between a subtle remark of how he was going to press play.

The movie started in the way it always did, for they had seen Alien together more times than Alexys could actually count on her fingers. She considered it a bonding movie in one way or another, the joy to which the both of them had in quoting the entirety of it line for line and laughing at the parts that  did not hold up to modern day cinematic standards was a delightful way to offset the true tension and terror the Xenomorph could instill upon them to that day. Alexys felt Ripley’s lines falling from her lips, word for word, while Johnny seemed to read for everyone else. It had been their fifth time watching it together when she had acquired the teasing nickname of ‘Ripley’ by her star of a boyfriend, happy to hear her quote words in and out of the comfort of their home. Happy to hear her excited about whatever she was talking about.

Happy to be with her.

The thought still rustled in the back of her mind, making her blush at the mere idea of it. Someone like Johnny Cage somehow liked her...It’s how most people would view it, wouldn’t it? When she had met his friends, their first impressions had been something along that nature but now...now? Their shared banter of movie quotes and bad jokes had everyone nodding in understanding. An appreciation to how well they got along permeated the friendship circle endlessly as they continued to stay together.

Alexys leaned in further against Johnny’s chest, her breath hitching as the climax of the movie set itself into place and Ripley was facing off against the Xenomorph at long last. The music score crescendoed darkly, emphasizing the already dark parts of the room around them. Johnny watched her out of the corner of his eye, biting back his own smile at just how cute she looked pressed up against him. How her eyes grew wide with tension and excitement and her tongue darted out to lick at her lips while she waited for the part she knew was going to happen occur full force. Her excitement warmed his heart, in a strange way.

His arm found its way around her shoulders, bringing her close to his body and giving him a chance to haphazardly hug her. Alexys startled at the touch, blushing brightly but smiling as she snuggled into his body. He pressed his head to the top of hers, kissing and inhaling the scent of her soft hair as they watched the rest of the movie together. Against her, he whispered softly:

“You know it’s popular to kiss during the scary parts. Distracts you from the actual scare.”

“We’ve seen this movie like ten times, Johnny,” Alexys teased, “What are you, a teenager?”

“Maybe at heart,” He laughed back, “But maybe I just really want to kiss you right now. Did you think about that?”

She averted her gaze biting back a smile with a thoughtful hum for comedic effect. Johnny laughed, but used the moment to lean in and capture her lips in a kiss. Alexys squeaked, but accepted it. In the background, the final fight scene echoed against her eardrums as Ripley and the Xenomorph attacked one another. As they fought for survival. In the meantime, she put her hands on Johnny’ chest, feeling the solid muscle underneath the loose shirt he wore. Feeling how careful he was being with her, keeping his hands on her shoulder and hips, to bring her as close as possible to him while he kissed her.

When he pulled away, she was breathless. Alexys felt the warmth of her face as she looked up at him, the only saving grace of the embarrassment was the fact that she could see the red tips of his ears and nose as well, showing just how in love he was with her. Showing just what she made him feel.

“I love you,” He finally murmured out, pressing a new and more gentle kiss to her forehead. Alexys sighed with a content breath, snuggling into his chest and reaching for a piece of popcorn, popping it into her mouth and closing her eyes for a moment to relish in the shared care they had for one another.

“I love you, too.”

#self insert #self shipping #self ship writing #writing commission #kinley writes #other ships

[anneesfolleshq]

Bonjour et bienvenue!

Paris welcomes you, our Grande Dame, Rosalie ‘Rose' Murdock! May we say, you’re the spitting image of Carla Gugino! Please make your presence known within 24 hours, and do have a look at our checklist before setting out into the city on your own.

                                                                                À bientôt!

MUN

Name/Alias: Mel

Preferred Pronouns: she/her

Age: 22

Timezone: PST, evening and early mornings mostly - unless it’s the weekend, then I could pop in any time at all. December I’ll have a lot of free time as well.

MUSE

Chosen Skeleton: The Grande Dame

Muse Name: Rosalie ‘Rose' Murdock (née Charpentier)

Muse Age: 38

Chosen FC:  Carla Gugino

Muse Occupation: fashion designer

Muse Affiliation & Frequent Haunts: Though most entertainment-seekers frequent the infamous Moulin Rouge for the thrilling talent that takes center stage there, Rose delights in the sparkling substance that supports it all. The under-appreciated background work that makes the astonishing final production the spectacle it is; the unsung heroes not responsible for belting notes or kicking up their heels to the high heavens - the wardrobe department. She utterly adores the decorative fixings that link it all together. The elaborate costumes adorning many of the more theatrical displays of talent are, by far, her favorite things. It’s that which keeps her coming back - every fibre and sequin telling a fascinating story of their wearer’s tastes and origins before a single word is even spoken, or a pirouette performed. Multiple times a week, Rose makes an effort to drop by for the duration of an new act or two. Whenever the well of her inspiration is running low, her visits to color-saturated cabaret shows are noticeably longer and more frequent in occurrence, the weight of her attentive gaze appearing far more shrewd and studious than it’s usual ponderous and dreamy state. Sometimes it’s what’s off the stage that captivates her focus just as intently. People-watching is an activity endlessly supplied within those cabaret walls, spotlit or not.

Direct from Le Petit Journal:

Most of us window shop not with the intention of ever possessing the wildly expensive imported materials perched behind the glass, but because doing so educates our eye and hones our taste, just as eating gourmet food can refine and reawaken even the the dullest of palates. A similar sort of pleasure is enabled by allowing oneself the privilege to believe themselves acquainted with Rosalie Murdock’s radiant presence. Though known to prefer a life at a distance from beneath the inspection of any magnifying glass herself, her quest toward finding the most glamourous ways to uplift the human spirit via the senses speak volumes in her creations. It is easy to feel as though one knows Rosalie well, even if all she’s presented to you is only a selected scrap of evidence - for it is always a marvelous one, always a version of her, personally crafted just for you). She can make rags feel like riches; even the most aged and weary surface deemed worthy of a fair chance to shine before being thrown away. Some say even already promising silver linings might melt into spun gold beneath her touch. Years have awarded her a reputation cloaked by a ruthlessly polished aesthetic, her refusal to participate in the repetitive and safe choices of her competitors leading to ethical and integrity-driven risks that keep paying off with flying colors. She fabricates her fantasies in the form of beautiful embellishments designed to distract and attract the curious eye, never playing into her customer’s sense of inadequacy or doubt. Instead, as if a direct extension of her own hands, each garment warmly envelopes it’s wearer. Reminding all to take unapologetic satisfaction in parading oneself saturated in every manner of hedonistic finery: clothes, jewels, and imbibement alike. With a world of vibrant color and life possible to be crafted at her fingertips, certainly it may cause certain more cynical and bitter minds to wonder… would it not get a little lonely, sitting above the rest, pulling strings and playing God?

BIOGRAPHY

Born on August 15th, in the small village near Angles-sur-l'Anglin in Western France, Rosalie Charpentier was descended from a long-established working-class French family. Her ancestors were carpenters, farmers, cobblers and milliners. Though, at first, these professions and what they entailed meant very little to her. Watching her parents sit hunched over in the same position for hours on end looked far more tortuous than it did an act of artistry and skill. Failing to develop an interest in their patient techniques until later in life, she spent most of her childhood wandering the countryside and abandoned castles built upon it. Her parents had been late to conceive, lending to Rosalie being one of the youngest of the children populating their small town. A loner by default, she was forced to befriend adults far more frequently than she encountered someone below her own age. At all times she fought to understand and keep up with the conversation happening above her head. As soon as she should talk and comprehend language, any word she didn’t understand, she would promptly demand it’s detailed definition. If she disagreed with something, there existed no filter between her brain and mouth to admit as much. Debating with others thrilled her, even if she was far out of her depth the majority of the time, she always left equipped with a new piece of information. From the beginning, Rosalie made it clear she would not be excluded for lacking anything, nor brushed off due to her appearance or status. She would figure out her shortcomings and surmount them through a rapid cycle of learning, improving herself, and participating from there. All or nothing was young Rosalie’s way.

The closer she drew to entering her teenage years, the more her purposeless exploring and solo-driven causes for adventure and argument (or ‘trouble’ as her parents liked to label it) around her rural hometown started to feel itchy against her edges. She was outgrowing the place, but couldn’t understand how or why when it was all she’d known. Her parents were happy settled there with the bare minimum, so why could she not join them in that contentment? The utter vacancy of exciting substance in her surroundings only led Rosalie to resort into more elaborate daydreams of lavishness and splendor - indulgently filling her own head with ideas that, so long as she lived in a simple village detached from the business, lights, and chaos of the city that overshadowed it, were born to die. The afternoons occasional Parisian gifts were received from extended family living closer to the capital thrilled her like nothing else, though she tried to ignore the hunger of her wanderlust, her appetite continued to steadily grow as time ticked on.

The path her life was headed was all but finalized when one of these relatives ended up spending a week visiting their humble abode, after many weeks spent in basking in the energetic liveliness of Paris, and boasting countless stories that  wide-eyed adolescent Rosalie couldn’t believe were true. Though she’d never personally seen the extravagant people or events described to her, she already knew she wanted to be among them. She wanted to be a someone worth telling such tales about. Her parents denied her initial pleas to visit Paris, too protective of their only daughter to let her travel so far away at such a  tender age, and unwilling to accompany her do to the many local obligations that required their attention. So Rose brought Paris to her - or, at least, how she imagined it to be based on the descriptions and few tangible tokens she possessed. Finally taking an interest in the craftsmanship of her parents, Rose began to attempt to make items that her imagined the poised version of her Paris identity might wear. Whilst her mother worked on weaving crocheted flowers into the brim of a straw hat and her father manipulated leather into neat sole-sized pieces, their incorrigibly curious daughter flexed her own creativity. In typical Rose fashion, she went above and beyond the existing standard set for her to achieve. It was no surprise that, surrounded by a miscellany of tools and fuelled by a creative bloodline, combined with an almost maddening passion to experience a life larger than her current existence, Rose easily took to the the overdue outlet needed to express the artistic streak of her own she’d spent so long letting simmer beneath the surface. Her first attempts were rough around the edges - comprised of bits of table cloth, yarn, patches of outgrown baby clothes, buttons of every color collected from the cutting room floor, etc. But in her intuitive re-purposing of these ordinary objects, Rosalie miraculously succeeded at creating beautiful trinkets out of nothing. She might not had known what she was dong completely, but she knew she thoroughly enjoyed the act of creation and the looks on people’s faces when she could proudly brag ‘I made that’. The confused stares and the endearing laughter and the eye rolls faded with time as her technique improved and the rainy day hobby evolved into something her days revolved around. She never tired of the exciting task of designing her next self-made accessory, nor did her desire ever lessen for the rewarding looks of surprise and wonder on the faces of those who received such objects as gifts. Slowly but surely, she began to receive stares for an entirely different reason.

The moment she turned eighteen, she asked again for her wish to travel to Paris to be granted, as she had been, like clockwork, on the eve of her birthday for a consecutive couple of years. It was both exhaustion and admiration toward her zealous fiery spirit that led to her parents to grant her desires this time around. With prototype products of Rosalie’s uncurbed creativity unveiled, for the first time, her parents saw her: beautiful and bold, brash and unapologetic, sarcastic and daring, a hardened shell trembling under the weight of all that she could be. They knew she likely wouldn’t return once she saw what existed beyond their small-minded community, but more than that: they knew they couldn’t get in her way.

It was a lonely first few years in Paris, Rose barely scraping by, which was both exhausting and all the more motivating to prove she could handle whatever curveballs the city had to throw at her. Forging an independent path that deviated from the main one was a task Rose would manage with patient grace and resilience, even if she had to fake it. Collecting connections with her bright-smile framed charms at every turn, after many not so savory arrangements, she eventually befriended Delphine: a retired costume designer and owner of a local boutique, who permitted Rose the use of her sewing equipment in the evenings until sunrise, in exchange for Rose’s part-time assistance throughout the day tending the shop. Many a sleepless night was spent locked away in that tiny broom closet of a studio at the back of the store, sketching gowns and pinning materials mannequins until her head spun. Left to her own devices, Rose’s naiveté and stubbornness to succeed at any cost might have seen her crashing and burning before her spark of had a chance to truly catch. Fortunately, Rose also obtained a teacher in Delphine’s companionship through the lack of filter she tended to have whenever she’d drop by to check on Rose’s in-progress designs. Rose’s over-eager and rushed sloppy stitches were ridiculed endlessly until they looked immaculate; her uneven hemlines traced and re-traced until they hung in the most flattering manner. And in depth explanations were given on how to avoid sleeves that ripped when an arm was raised too high, or how to condition broadcloth into resembling something silky rather than the clearance-rate textile it was. Rose quickly learned that she didn’t need to be a perfectionist to be taken seriously, only to appear like she knew exactly what she was doing. It was what you looked like that meant something- whether or not it matched what was layered on the inside didn’t matter. For Rose, it was a philosophy that bled into many areas of her new life. Despite the incredibly active social scene of Paris, Rose never had the time to build any solid foundations concerning genuine relationships. Nothing past the sporadic late nights of impulsive passion she had shared with others; the only wanton affection she had been open to giving and receiving- meaningless, she wholeheartedly believed. Safe. Allowing a second person to permanently perforate her everyday life would surely be nothing but distraction from the career she was on the cusp of claiming. Bitch, people had called her, in return. Selfish and rude. Self-absorbed. Unattainable. Cold. An enigma - never around for long, but too unique to depart without leaving a lasting impression. Rose had never been one to fake any type of emotion, after all. She didn’t have the patience for being inauthentic to the mercurial whims of her feelings. Most people simply didn’t interest her enough for longer than an evening. That’s all she needed to have the chance to pick and choose the parts of a person that fascinated her the most, letting each mental image merge into a patchwork of ideas that would serve as a source of muse furthermore. That’s all she needed to get by.

Which would become ironic, all things considered, when she met Malachi. Mal who, looking like something out of an artist’s dreams, managed to catch and keep her attention throughout the night with a startling amount of ease. They were so different, but so fundamentally the same. Scouring the city for the beauty left in it (even if  Rose’s quest had been a far more shallow and selfish one). A child and a marriage were never milestones Rose had ever coveted, but alongside him, she curiously embraced the experience. Or, rather, there had been no other option. Refusing to let such developments distract her as she’d feared a lingering relationship of any kind would, she instead drew inspiration from it. Any overwhelming emotion she felt was channeled into creating a work of wearable art. From heavy-handed designs of bold and clashing colors born from her anger at falling into the trappings of a life she’d once sworn wasn’t for her, to the meticulously penciled pastel colored floral patterns for the days she was blissfully happy to surrender to the moment-to-moment mystery of it all. Then there were the days she’d draw nothing but heavily beaded blouses - morning sickness rendering her too weak to desire a task much more demanding than forming dots on a page. The sketches she produced, overlooked by Delphine, didn’t stop their production for a single day of her unpredicted pregnancy. In fact, to their collective delight and satisfaction, she was more occupied than ever. Each of Rose’s finished pieces that Delphine had the idea to begin putting up in the shop to sell, were doing just that - and quickly. After several months of steady production, Rose found herself with awaiting clients eager to know what she had planned next. Her name was being praised, personal requests being sent forth with handsome deposits, even the occasional letter of interest sent from out of the country. She thrived off the chaos of everything happening all at once. Better late than never. It was not at all the neat and tidy series of events she’d originally envisioned would precursor success… it was better. After the birth of her son, Phillip, it came as a surprise how effortlessly the domesticity of it all suited her, to build a bond, to not be so alone- for once. To feel understood without trying to impress anyone. And then- though she would never openly word as much- it all came tumbling down the day her husband failed to return from the war, as if he had been nothing more than a figment of their imaginations- gone. Not dead, she would soon learn, but what difference did it make?

Rosalie was, at her core, devastated. It had been the first time she had felt such a white hot betrayal, and her fears of commitment to other people, seemingly tamed, flared back to life- a burning ache in her chest. But she had always been unnaturally gifted at appearing unaffected, at cutting off ties, blood or not, and so Rose did what she had to to get over it, to duck passed the falling debris of confusion and independent motherhood that Mal had left in his wake for her to deal with. Survival trumped the need to feel comforted. She’d be damned if she let something at trivial as heartbreak cause any damage to her livelihood. Manipulation into ensuring her own situation wouldn’t further be affected by Malachi’s absence led to her investing her earnings into bettering her quickly growing business, immediately. Upgrading every aspect of it: all new machinery, workers, and helping sell Delphine’s old cramped storefront in favor of a much larger one on a central street. The rent was intimidatingly high there, but so was the list of orders to fulfill. The decision very soon proved to be a risk worth taking, regardless. Rose continued to keep up appearances whenever she interacted with those who wanted something from her; wore her dazzling smile like it was as durable as the plethora of adornments she’d woven over the years. Whatever she needed to do in order to keep selling what she had to offer, price inflated at double - sometimes triple - their worth, internally too numbed to feel any sort of guilt in the matter. Whatever kept her occupied. Whatever filled the void that Mal had left behind, and keep Phillip educated and satisfied; asking the least amount of questions. He would never know what it felt to lack anything important, nor would he miss what he never had. She’d dress up the truth as much as possible if it meant keeping his warm and innocent heart from going cold.

POTENTIAL PLOTS/CONNECTIONS

The Zealot - Her husband. It is as simple and as complicated as that. Though estranged by eighteen years, it’s a title part of her stubbornly refuses to fully relinquish. If he had vanished without a trace, perhaps it would have been an easy act to forgive. Unfortunately, there was nothing but remembering, when almost everyday Rose looks into the eyes he left behind; the impression they both caused, yet Phillip was undeniable his father’s son. Potential plots: - any dynamic that challenges how polished and self-assured she is. She worked hard to build up her impenetrable image, and likes to believe she’s in control of everything that comes and goes from her life nowadays. However… her biggest unknown flaw definitely is in her parenting skills. Though she believes she’s done the best for her son, most of the time managing her work has taken priority and he was raised being cared for by someone else, or off on his own exploring the city. Someone who’s gotten to know him (whether a legitimate acquaintance or the owner/worker of a place Philip frequents) and heard the rough second-hand stories of how negligent and detached of a person Rose is behind closed doors… could be interesting. - any and all unlikely friendships. She’s extremely wealthy and well known around socialite circles, but it’s a very limited shallow existence. It’s all facade and show-off antics, but no-one genuinely knows Rose. Veerrry performative. The difference between the authenticity of the Rose that existed ten years ago versus the Rose of now is shocking, but she’s merely jaded and hyper-protective of her heart. I’d love for her to befriend someone the polar opposite of her who doesn’t admire her or think anything special of what she makes. Someone to ground her. She’d have to kick her ego and faux-charms and cheer to the curb and remember her own quick-tongued quick-wit origins. - she likes to pretend she’s moved on from Mal’s abandonment, but every time someone shows romantic interest she retracts. She’s very touch starved, but desires to do nothing about it due to the fears that arise of commitment and loss. It might be interesting if someone could manage to unravel her rightly spun threads to soften up those hardened edges again.

#accepted

[awashsquid]

From one artist to another

I can’t take credit for this idea--it was inspired by a post that @presidentnerd made a while ago about Michiru bonding with Chibi-Usa over their shared artistry.  About 1900 words.  Like it?  Reblog, shoot me a comment, or check out my ko-fi!

Michiru padded over the plush area rug in the living room to sit in her favorite chair, a hot cup of tea delicately balanced in one hand, the novel she was currently perusing tucked underneath her arm.  The tea cup clinked gently against the marble coaster on the end table as she set it down, watching the steam curl upwards gently and dissipate into the air.  She turned to retrieve a blanket out of the chest, the encroaching winter chilling the air, when she spotted an item that did not belong in the carefully cultivated decor of the space.  

On the corner of the glass coffee table was a sketchpad--one of the cheaper ones, she noted habitually--that was well-worn, the corners of the pages rolling upwards, a stain marking one spot towards the center.  Michiru crossed and picked up the foreign book, noting the melange of worn stickers decorating its cover, before flipping through its pages.  

The first page declared in fanciful lettering: “CHIBI-USA’S DRAWINGS.”  That would explain its presence, then, she mused, fingers leafing through the thick pages with deft precision cultivated from years of skimming through her own similar tomes.  Professor Tomoe had not yet been declared mentally fit to raise Hotaru, not since the “tragic explosion” that had overtaken the Mugen School a few years back.  He was a loving and doting father, but his frequent memory lapses meant that he had been confined to a group living facility since that time.

He had been surprised, but not ungrateful, when Michiru, Haruka, and Setsuna had offered to take Hotaru during his rehabilitation, Michiru offering up expertly forged paperwork declaring them to be cousins of Hotaru’s mother (easy enough to obtain for someone with her wealth and connections).  The young girl had aged rapidly from baby to toddler to teenager, but her growth seemed to have stalled and returned to a normal pace somewhere around the age of sixteen.  Chibi-Usa had been delighted by this rekindled opportunity to spend time with her best friend and had become a frequent visitor in their flat, the two teens typically shut up in Hotaru’s room, the door open just a crack at Haruka’s protective insistence.

The drawings weren’t half-bad, Michiru recognized with some measure of surprise as she flipped through them.  Many towards the beginning of the pages were of Pegasus in various landscapes, then one with the horse looking into a mirror where a young boy was looking back, fingertips touching the glass barrier lightly.  There was a degree of awkwardness to the proportions, but the expression on his face was captivatingly rendered, sadness and resignation evident on his carefully penciled visage.  Michiru sat on the couch absently and continued to look through the book at pages depicting what she assumed to be Crystal Tokyo, a few rough sketches of Diana, an unflattering caricature of Usagi shoving rice cakes into her mouth, and various other subject matters before landing on the final drawing.  

It was Hotaru, looking at the viewer with a knowing smile not dissimilar to the Mona Lisa’s, her eyes kind and wise even as there appeared to be a distance between her and the audience.  The proportions were a little imperfect, the shading rough and the lighting inconsistent, but Chibi-Usa had managed to capture the essence of Hotaru’s character in the sketchy lines of the face, and the eyes of the drawing were captivating, showing a true promise of talent.

Michiru shut the sketchpad gently and placed it back onto the coffee table, then rose and went upstairs to dress, tea forgotten and growing cold in its cup where she had left it.  She had some calls to make.

--

“Hello?”  Usagi answered the door, a confused smile appearing on her face.  “Michiru!  What’s up?  Um, I mean, how can I help you?  Do you need something?”  She danced a little on the balls of her feet, clearly nervous even after years of knowing the older woman.  Michiru pushed away the thought that Usagi would naturally assume she wanted something from her rather than just stopping by for a visit and instead smiled back placidly.

“Hello, Usagi.  I was wondering if Chibi-Usa was home.  Might I come in?”  Usagi nodded and stepped out of the way, shutting the door as Michiru delicately slipped out of her shoes.

“Lemme just go grab her!  Um, you can sit down, or whatever; be right back!”  With that, Usagi bounded out of the room and up the stairs.  Michiru could hear a muffled shout of “CHIBI-USA!  MICHIRU’S HERE FOR YOU!” followed by the reply, similarly bellowed.  She felt a small smile turn up the corners of her mouth.  Perhaps it was that Chibi-Usa was a princess allowed to be a child where Michiru had been a child expected to act like a princess, but something about the freedom with which the two were able to interact in such an immature but open manner warmed her in a way she couldn’t quite parse out.

Michiru sat down primly on the couch for a moment, absently smoothing her skirt as she glanced around the room at all of the various knick-knacks and photos on display.  After a minute or so, she heard the thumping of little feet running down the stairs.  Chibi-Usa skidded into the room, nearly toppling over, and took a moment to catch her breath before standing straight.  “Michiru!  Usagi said you wanted to see me?”  Her eyes flickered over the table between them and she frowned, turning to scream up the stairs.  “USAGI!  You didn’t even offer her something to drink!”

Michiru chuckled, her hand rising to delicately cover her mouth.  “I’m not planning to linger for very long, Chibi-Usa, but thank you for your hospitality.”  Chibi-Usa’s cheeks flushed pink and she nodded.  “I believe that you left this at our house yesterday, and I thought you may be missing it.”  She pulled the sketchpad from her purse, offering it out towards the girl.

Chibi-Usa’s eyes lit up and she took it quickly, holding the book close to her chest as she twisted back and forth in an embrace with it.  “I was looking for this all morning!  Thank you so much!”  She smiled widely during her response, prompting Michiru to smile back without even recognizing that she was doing so.

“I’m glad I was able to reunite you.  I understand the anxiety of being separated from your works.”

The young girl’s happy expression fell slightly, and her bottom lip disappeared into her mouth as she bit it, her movement stilling and an expression of anxiety working its way across her features.  “Did- did you look at it?”

Michiru winced internally, knowing that she was going to have to admit to the inquisitiveness that had caused her to violate Chibi-Usa’s privacy.  “I did,” she affirmed, and Chibi-Usa’s expression turned more nervous.  “Initially, just to determine who it belonged to, but I confess that my curiosity can best me at times, and I admit to looking through it.  I am sorry if I invaded your privacy.”

Chibi-Usa blushed, face turning pink to match her hair.  “It- it’s not private or anything, it’s just sketches though, it’s not my best stuff or anything--” she stammered out anxiously, rocking back and forth slightly as all children do when embarrassed.

Michiru raised her eyebrows.  “You mean to say that you have more works?  What medium do you prefer?”  She received no reply, so she decided to rephrase the question slightly.  “Do you like watercolors, oil paints, pastels, sculpture…?” she trailed off, waiting for a response.

“We did all of those at school, um, but I wasn’t too good at sculpture,” she responded, face wincing as she recalled all of the assistance she had needed to complete her Holy Grail.  “I like painting, mostly.  Watercolors are nice because I like how light they are.  It makes it look all dreamy,” she described, her eyes flicking off as though envisioning herself painting.

“Between the two of us, Chibi-Usa, I’m not talented at sculpting myself,” Michiru confided in a conspiratorial tone, and the girl seemed to relax at the idea that even an artist like Michiru wasn’t perfect at everything.

“Really?” she asked.

“Really,” Michiru affirmed.  “Sculpture was the course I performed most poorly in during my schooling.  I found it too abstract, too much to visualize at once, perhaps.”  She cleared her throat.  “I digress.  I am sorry for looking through your works.  I know how personal they can be.”  She thought of her own sketchbooks, full of drawings of her visions, of Haruka, of things that she wouldn’t necessarily want to be shared to the world.  “I assure you I won’t tell anyone about the contents of your sketches.

“I do want to tell you, though, that the reason I even perused so was because I think that you have genuine talent, Chibi-Usa.”

“Wait, seriously?  You’re not just being nice, are you?”  The skepticism was heavy in her tone, her small face crinkling in suspicion.

Michiru smiled.  “Have you ever known me to give a compliment insincerely, just to make the recipient feel better?”  There was a pause where Chibi-Usa’s light eyebrows furrowed together as she though hard before deciding on an answer and shaking her head ‘no.’  “Precisely.  You have a real gift for capturing the emotion of your subjects, and I think with some refining that you could be a truly great artist.  How would you like to be enrolled in some studio classes?  Evenings and weekends, of course, so that they wouldn’t interfere with your traditional schooling.”

Chibi-Usa’s eyes lit up.  “Really?  But wait, I have to ask about--”

Michiru held up a smooth palm.  “Everything will be paid for in full; I insist.  My only stipulation is that I be invited to your first gallery showing one day.”  Chibi-Usa rushed forward and wrapped her in a tight hug, shocking the air out of her as the small arms squeezed around her torso.  She smiled and patted the girl’s back before Chibi-Usa withdrew, flushing once more with a mixture of embarrassment and happiness.

She graciously accepted the multitude of proffered thanks before exiting, assuring Chibi-Usa that she would be receiving information via the mail in a few days regarding her upcoming coursework.  The next morning, a package arrived on the Tsukinos’ steps addressed to Chibi-Usa, a card attached.  The careful calligraphy on the inside read: To get you started, from one artist to another. -M. Kaioh.  

Inside the large box were thick, expensive sketchpads and painting pads, fine watercolors and brushes, shading pencils, several canvases, and other assorted supplies, each one of the highest quality, purchased from an expensive art-specialty boutique, not just the local craft store where her previous supplies had come from.  Usagi’s mouth had fallen open when she saw the contents of the box, and Chibi-Usa promptly ran up to her room with the contents, eager to try out some of the new supplies that she had been given.

She unwrapped a watercolor set carefully and selected a piece of thick paper to begin her first work, smiling as the brush glided across what would become a carefully-detailed thank-you card to Michiru, one that she would secretly keep on display in her studio for years to come.

#fanfiction #michiru kaioh #chibiusa tsukino #chibi-usa tsukino #my writing #sailor moon #yes that's how i headcanon they got hotaru btw #bc i Do Not sit well with kidnapped child just because we could

[samosoapsoup]

Women designers in history

In a world that largely fails to properly recognize the millions of women who lead the way in many fields, here at Webflow, we want to do better for the design community.

Here are fifteen women who have made lasting contributions in their creative fields, whose careers and work should serve as an inspiration to everyone.

1. Paula Scher

“The goal of design is to raise the expectation of what design can be.” - Paula Scher

Paula Scher’s work unleashes the hidden potential of typography. Through positioning, scaling, and space, she takes the tame lines of letters and makes them eclectic. This imaginative rendering of typography, combined with her bold yet tasteful use of color, makes her work instantly recognizable.

Paula’s first major role was working in the music industry as a designer for CBS Records and she would later move on to Atlantic Records. During her tenure in the music business, she would create album covers for such artists as Charles Mingus, Boston, the Yardbirds, and other notable musicians.

Her experience designing album covers would inform the widely recognized work she did for New York’s Public Theater. Where theater is often associated with a stuffy seriousness, she pioneered a branding identity for them that reflected the creative spirit of their productions. The posters she produced for them buzz with the energy of rock and roll and hip-hop.

A good designer can capture — in a microcosm of space — the essence of what makes something unique. Whether it’s on the space of an album cover, a poster, or the cover of a book, Paula’s designs balance experimentation with practicality to communicate messages in a way that captivates. Paula is still a working designer — check out more of her work over at Pentagram.

2. Ray Eames

“What works good is better than what looks good, because what works good lasts.” - Ray Eames

Ray Eames’ roots were in abstract painting, and she was an active member of the art scene in New York during the 1930s. A common criticism of abstract art is that it’s an amorphous mess, lacking any sort of cohesion. But looking at Ray’s paintings shows that, early on, she understood how shape, form, and color worked together.

Her talents in creating visual harmony would serve her well with the work she did with her husband, Charles, in creating furniture and other industrial designs. Ray was a true polymath, whose work as a designer, painter, and filmmaker all display attention to detail as well a high level of artistry.

There’s something timeless about all the work Ray was involved in. From the functional beauty of the chairs she produced to the abstract symbol patterns she crafted for textiles, even those with an untrained eye can recognize the talent behind her designs. She embraced a sense of modernism that has never gone out of style.

3. Louise Fili

One of the things Louise Fili does best is synthesize classic typography in new and unique ways. We can see traces of where she draws her inspiration, but her sense of inventiveness and imagination takes typefaces to places that are uniquely hers.

This flair for typography can be traced back to her time at Pantheon books. She was an art director there for 11 years and designed almost 2,000 book covers. That time spent on looking and arranging text gave her a chance to develop her own typographic sensibilities, as well as give her a keen eye for clean design.

Louise is still designing today. She heads her own agency in NYC and is still creating book designs that have a classic elegance and a slick sense of modernism.

4. Elizabeth Friedländer

Elizabeth Friedländer was born in Berlin, Germany in 1902. As someone of Jewish descent, hostility in Germany and the anti-Semitic Nuremberg laws of 1935 forced her to flee from her home country. Though she only got to spend a short amount of her young adult life in Germany, she managed to become the first woman to create two typefaces — Elizabeth-Antigua and Elizabeth-Kursiv — for Bauer Types in 1927.

After Elizabeth left Germany, she spent much of her time as a designer in England. She worked across various mediums including book covers, packaging, prints, and typography. She had a talent for patterns and texture, which can be seen in much of her work.

From book design for Penguin to counterfeit Nazi documents and materials for the British black propaganda unit of the Political Intelligence Office — she did it all.

Elizabeth’s work is an example of how the creative spirit can shine through, even during some of the darkest days in history.

5. Zaha Hadid

Born in Iraq in 1950, Zaha Hadid was one of the most prominent Iraqi-British architects in history.

She studied mathematics and later went on to the Association School of Architecture in 1972. Though she was adept at the analytical skills that came from her education, she found something lacking in standard architectural illustrations. She developed an approach to loosen up these rigid lines and tapped into the expressiveness of painting to inform her work. We can see this duality — where formality meets artistry — in the curves and lines of her architectural works that can be seen worldwide.

Her professional accomplishments are many. She was the first ever woman to land the Pritzker Architecture Prize, which she received in 2004. Her buildings are undulating waves of glass and concrete, melding into the landscape, instead of the unmoving straight lines of more conventional architecture. Some of her most famous creations include the Broad Art Museum, the Guangzhou Opera House, and Galaxy SOHO.

6. Susan Kare

“Good design’s not about what medium you’re working in, it’s about thinking hard about what you want to do and what you have to work with before you start.” - Susan Kare

Susan Kare’s contributions to design shaped how we interact with computers today. Her work in creating icons for the early Macintosh brought what was once a sterile and cold piece of technology to life.

Susan put much of her time into developing her skills in the fine arts — she pursued sculpture in undergrad and in graduate school. Though her focus was in the malleable medium of clay, she learned graphic design as an intern in high school and would continue to land design gigs in her adult life. Her skills in these two different artistic pursuits — one tactile and the other visual — would be her guide in her work for Apple.

Susan created digital-based icons that reflected the real world. Macintosh’s scissor symbol was instantly recognizable as something used to cut. Instead of boring symbols, she wanted users to feel a personal connection with the machines they were interacting with.

If you’re on a Mac right now, look at the symbol on the command key. This icon was created by Susan. Derived from a Swedish symbol representing “special attraction,” any designer will see the brilliance in this small clover-shaped knot.

Susan has had a long and varied career as a designer, having also worked with Pinterest, Facebook, Intel, and IBM.

7. Bea Feitler

Bea Fetier was a Brazilian graphic designer who worked at the zenith of magazine publishing. At 25, she became an art director at Harper’s Bazaar. She held this role for 10 years, pushing its identity in a more modern direction. After her stint at Harper’s Bazaar, she was the art director at Ms. Magazine, whose feminist-empowering philosophy aligned her own beliefs.

Her work from the late 60s and early 70s captures an aura of excitement and experimentation that seized the art world. Before her death in 1982, her design skills touched Rolling Stone and Vanity Fair, as well as album covers, advertisements, and posters.

Bea was one of the first women in design to give a voice to feminism through her work, showing that graphic design can be more than just an arrangement of text and visuals, but that it can help challenge societal norms and push forward change.

8. Deborah Sussman

Environmental graphic design places a focus on how people interact and process physical spaces. It relies on understanding how disciplines like graphic design, interior and exterior design, and architecture intersect to create spaces that are more than pedestrian experiences.

Deborah Sussman has had a prolific career as an environmental graphic designer for the last thirty years. She’s most famous for the work she did for the 1984 Olympics held in Los Angeles. She developed graphics and signage with a distinct visual language that helped visitors attending.

Whether you’re creating an Olympic Village or a website, both need to have a user experience that’s both engaging and easy to navigate. Looking back on her work has many valuable lessons for designers today.

Unleash your creativity on the web

Use Webflow's visual development platform to build completely custom, production-ready websites — or high-fidelity prototypes — without writing a line of code.

Get started for free

9. Cipe Pineles

Cipe Pinele brought fine art into the world of publishing. As the art director for publications such as Mademoiselle, Vogue and Glamour, she commissioned artists to create custom illustrations and other visuals, elevating these magazines from generic consumerism, into artworks of their own right. Her skills as an artist and graphic designer helped her find the appropriate artists who would give these publications a sense of distinction.

She is credited as being the first woman to land the role of art director for a major mass-market publication. Her influence can still be seen in high fashion today.

10. April Greiman

When computers became a viable way to create art and design in the early ’80s some were skeptical of this emerging technology. Others, like April Greiman, saw new dimensions in artistic creation that could be opened up, and jumped into this new medium. April was an early adopter of this brand new way to design.

As a part of the CalArts faculty and a member of the design department, which she joined in 1982, she took advantage of the technology available at the school. It allowed her to experiment with digital and video equipment. She used this technology to innovate new ways of creating designs.

This poster titled “Iris Light” was one of April’s most notable pieces. She took a 35mm photograph of a video image that was displayed on a monitor. The end result was silk-screened, bringing together both old and new technologies for something fresh and exciting.

Forward-thinking designers have a way of seeing the potential in technological advancements. April is an inspiration to any creative for embracing change to help one evolve in their work.

11. Marian Bantjes

Marian Bantjes draws from a deep pool of inspiration in creating stylized lettering, heady patterns, and rendering designs that defy conventions. She spent a decade as a typesetter in book publishing, fostering uniformity and cohesion in her work. Though there’s a strong sense of structural undertone in her designs, there’s an organic feeling and warmth to her creations.

After spending time as an agency cofounder, she now works on her own as a designer and writer. She continues to create work marked with her modern, yet hard-to-classify artistic sensibilities.

12. Margo Chase

We always love hearing stories about those whose paths took a turn or two before landing on their current career. Who would have thought that the woman responsible for the Buffy the Vampire Slayer logo earned her BA in biology?

Margo planned on becoming a veterinarian, and in an effort to boost her GPA for grad school applications, she took an illustration class. It was here that she found her calling as a creative. After graduation, she was accepted into the medical illustration program at UCSF, ultimately discovering that it wasn’t the best fit. She would then move to LA where she started her design career as a freelancer.

Outside of the work she did for Buffy, Margo has also worked with high-profile clients like Pepsi and Procter Gamble. She also worked in the music industry, creating album cover artwork for Prince, Madonna, and Selena. Her personality and flair for typography can be seen across all of her designs.

13. Debbie Millman

“Visual storytelling utilizes both language and art to pass on the essence of who we are.” - Debbie Millman

Debbie Millman isn’t only skilled as a designer. She’s also an artist, writer, and speaker. She also launched the first-ever design-focused podcast, Design Matters, in 2005.

Along with her impressive career as a designer, Debbie is also an accomplished author. She has authored six books touching on various facets branding and design. She’s also an illustrator, whose work has appeared in a variety of publications including Fast Company and The New York Times.

With an impressive skill set, Debbie is a multidisciplinary wonder woman, showing that it’s possible to be successful in a variety of creative realms.

14. Carolyn Davidson

Carolyn Davidson found her way to a career in design after taking a design course as an elective at Portland State University (PSU) in 1972. Her major was journalism, but she enjoyed the class so much that she soon switched to graphic design, earning a bachelor’s degree.

While still a student at PSU, Carolyn had a chance encounter with Nike’s co-founder, Phil Knight, who was an accounting teacher at the time. That encounter led her to a career at Nike, where she would eventually design one of the most widely recognized brand logos in history: the Nike Swoosh.

She started her career at Nike doing grunt work, churning out visual materials for meetings. She eventually moved up, creating marketing collateral, and was tasked with coming up with a logo for a new line of shoes. She came up with a couple different ideas, and the swoosh was chosen. She was paid $35.00 for her work at the time. Phil Knight later gave Carolyn more compensation in the form of Nike stock — 32,000 shares, to be exact.

The Nike swoosh is a simple symbol, but it’s effective in communicating motion — a pure display of Carolyn’s genius as a designer.

15. Muriel Cooper

“Information is only useful when it can be understood.” - Muriel Cooper

Muriel Cooper began her career as a designer in the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) publication office. She had a simple job, creating and printing flyers for the office. In the 40 years that followed, she continued working for MIT, where she became the first design director at MIT Press.

Similar to April Greiman, Muriel was another designer who embraced digital technology in its early stages — but she also saw the challenges that technology posed. She was brilliant at figuring out how to navigate the complicated nature of digital technology, using it effectively in her design work.

Her Bauhaus-inspired design graced many covers of books that MIT published. She also created the iconic MIT Press logo, with its minimalist row of lines reminiscent of a row of books.

Muriel is a great example of someone who stayed curious her entire career, whose expertise grew, and who stayed ahead of design trends.

Giving women the recognition they deserve

Women have existed at the top of creative fields for decades. Though much has changed in favor of design becoming a more inclusive space, there will always be room for more awareness and appreciation.

Pear Weerawong, Webflow blog https://webflow.com/blog/women-designers-history?utm_source=iterable&utm_medium=email