#neural blender

[pepiempanadas]

They thought i was a regular Joe

I was just Biden my time

[indigobluerose]

these warped fragments of our collective consciousness are the closest thing to real art that machine learning got

I loved when AI art could never be anything but AI art. the dreams of a computer. now it's all boobs and photorealistic women doing bad kink. but I remember you. I miss you. I love you, Secret Horses.

[funnyrobot]

while we're on the topic of those old neural blender ai images, i'd like to share the two that never fail to make me emotional

[bionic-baby]

guys, remember neural blender? The first AI art program?

[ink-the-artist]

Fuck you for using ai and fuck you for ripping off samsketchbook. Unfollowed.

are u good lol

[lowpawly]

I feel like it was more fun to play with craiyon like a year or two ago when the images it generated were more nonsensical now it just makes kinda boring attempts at creating more generic aesthetically pleasing ai art. I liked it when you could just type whatever bs into image generators and by god it would give its all to make you an honest visual interpretation of "penis beast suicide"

[cyberpunkonline]

10 CYBERPUNK ARTISTS THAT'LL JACK INTO YOUR SKULL AND REWRITE YOUR TASTE IN MUSIC

Your auditory implants won’t know what hit ‘em.

Right then, reader — pull up your faux-leather trousers and strap on your chrome-plated headphones. We’re blasting through the corrupted circuits of the 2025 underground, bringing you 10 contemporary artists who sound like they’re scoring a riot in Neo-Tokyo while being hacked in real time. Yes, there’s synths. Yes, there’s screaming. No, Grimes isn’t on this list.

MACHINE GIRL Genre: Gabberpunk, Cybercore, ADHD-core Ever wanted to be mugged in a server room by a rave demon? Machine Girl has you covered. It’s breakbeats plus punk plus absolute chaos. Every track is a manic assault from a frothing modem on fire. Start with “MG Ultra” — it's like doing parkour through a collapsing arcade. Machine Girl is a project from New York-based Matt Stephenson, who started it in 2013. What began as breakcore mutated fast into a multi-genre freakout. Live performances are frenzied, sweaty, and borderline ritualistic, often featuring live drums and mosh pit energy in tiny venues. Bandcamp: https://machinegirl.bandcamp.com Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/0WwSkZ7LtFUFjGjMZBMt6T

TENGUSHEE Genre: Faewave, Electrofolk, Cyberdrift, Post-Ratcore This glitching shadow-beast of the net is what happens if a faerie takes too many digital drugs and starts a resistance movement in a cursed VR chatroom. Tengushee doesn’t just cross genres — they light them on fire, digitise the ashes, and make a concept album out of it. Expect story-driven drops, haunted samplers, and the occasional whisper from the void. Tengushee operates like a ghost in the wires, often dropping full-concept albums with narrative arcs tied to multimedia projects, zines, or even encoded tone signals. Based somewhere between London and Faewave, their work includes collaborations with glitch-artists and mythmakers, crafting a world as deep as it is weird. Bandcamp: https://tengushee.bandcamp.com Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/5pPzJk8q2YbVRo3dEiE5rZ

PERTURBATOR Genre: Darksynth, CyberGoth Former black metal guitarist turns synth wizard and soundtracks the end of civilisation in style. Every track feels like the opening credits to a forbidden anime you found on a hacked VHS tape. His recent albums dip into goth rock, coldwave, and grim industrial — a sonic warehouse rave thrown inside a haunted monolith. James Kent is the man behind Perturbator, rising out of the French synthwave explosion in the early 2010s. What set him apart was the sheer cinematic density of his work, as well as his willingness to evolve. His later albums feel like full-blown existential crises scored with analog doom. Bandcamp: https://perturbator.bandcamp.com Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/0O02jvPzKT1kQEYg5XEqRA

GUNSHIP Genre: Synthwave with Dad Issues Think “Stranger Things” but horny for Blade Runner. GUNSHIP slaps synth arpeggios across your face while whispering movie references into your ear. Songs like “Tech Noir” and “Dark All Day” are pure neon cocaine. Bonus points for the video with Tim Capello, the sax guy from The Lost Boys. Formed in the UK, GUNSHIP emerged from the ashes of alternative rock band Fightstar. What they lacked in punk energy, they made up for with lush synth arrangements and cinematic ambition. With vocal guests ranging from horror icons to YouTube animators, they’re a love letter to analog future-fantasies. Bandcamp: https://gunshipmusic.bandcamp.com Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/3dD9W6Gh8Mo9Tu4S7ydz8q

SHREDDER 1984 Genre: Darksynth, CyberMetal French producer who mashes heavy metal energy into a screaming cyberpunk blender. His album "Dystopian Future" is all dark atmosphere and adrenaline. This is music for doing squats with a neural interface strapped to your head. Shredder 1984 is exactly what it says on the tin: shred. A project born from metal roots but raised on VHS aesthetics and neon grime, Shredder builds tracks that feel like boss fights in an underground data vault. Occasionally throws in face-melting guitar solos for good measure. Bandcamp: https://shredder1984.bandcamp.com Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/2YlR5FzF4XWgeXGxR2b3Vh

REVOLTING PUPPETS Genre: Cyberpunk Punk These Swiss psychos deliver rebellious punk fused with grinding electronics. The kind of band that would stage-dive into a riot squad. Add in LED helmets and maximum cyber attitude and you’ve got a live act worth risking a black eye for. Born in Bern, Switzerland, the Puppets are part cyber-art project, part live-action political tantrum. The band leans hard into performance art, complete with backstories and a lore-rich website that feels like an ARG. Think Rage Against the Machine, but upgraded with malware. Website: http://revoltingpuppets.com

CLIPPING. Genre: Sci-fi Horror Rap Experimental hip hop trio fronted by Daveed Diggs that brings tales of malfunctioning AIs, haunted ships, and cosmic terror over glitch-heavy beats. Their albums feel like audio novellas for doomed protagonists. Start with "There Existed an Addiction to Blood" or "Visions of Bodies Being Burned." clipping. formed in Los Angeles, with William Hutson and Jonathan Snipes providing the surgical, abrasive production. Their use of silence, static, and horror tropes makes them unique in the rap world. And yes, Diggs was in Hamilton, but don’t let that fool you — these guys write soundtracks for existential dread. Bandcamp: https://clppng.bandcamp.com Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/7cNNNhdJDrt3vgQjwSavNf

BEAST IN BLACK Genre: Cyber Metal, Synth Power If you're into big riffs, bigger vocals, and synths that sound like they were mined from an alien war machine, Beast in Black delivers. Their album "Dark Connection" is basically a concept record about AI girlfriends and cyber-samurai. Finnish-Greek metal band formed by former Battle Beast guitarist Anton Kabanen, Beast in Black are unapologetically bombastic. They mix anime aesthetics with power metal drama, and if you can get past the over-the-top vocals, you’ll find a band that gets how to marry synths with shredding. Website: https://beastinblack.com Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/5wJ1z2KgFvb1GQ9ApnFlog

OKLOU Genre: Glitchpop, Cyberambient A softer, prettier ghost in the machine. Oklou blends vaporous vocals with ambient electronics and medieval fantasy energy. It’s like if a fairy princess got lost inside a Sega Dreamcast. Oklou is the moniker of French artist Marylou Mayniel. With classical music training and a background in club culture, she creates tracks that are emotionally dense but digitally fragile. Her work occupies the misty edges of cyberpunk, where romance and signal loss overlap. Bandcamp: https://oklou.bandcamp.com Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/1FqqOl9itIUpXr4jZPIVoT

NAZAR Genre: Deconstructed Club, Warwave Amsterdam-based producer with beats sharp enough to cut through reinforced concrete. Inspired by war, trauma, and classic cyberpunk anime. His upcoming album "Demilitarize" might be the most realistic sonic vision of future conflict you’ll hear this year. Nazar was born in Angola and raised in Europe, and his music reflects that blend of postcolonial tension and Western club evolution. His productions on labels like Hyperdub use field recordings, mechanical rhythms, and unflinching political commentary. Harsh, heavy, and honest. Bandcamp: https://nazarmusic.bandcamp.com Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/1pQWsZQehhS4wavwh7Fe8D

[cryoculus]

— TRACK 06: STOLEN ⟢

in an place that wants you to forget, you all cement yourselves into something worth remembering. but when a heated moment gets swiped from underneath your nose, you're rightfully terrified of its consequences.

★ featuring; mydei x f!reader

★ word count; 7.1k words

★ tags; rock band au, found family, hostile acquaintances to friends to lovers, grief/mourning, angst, slow burn, eventual smut

★ warnings; contains suggestive content, alcohol

★ notes; nothing graphic, but our heroes do make out like a bunch of fiends in a very public setting?? freaks!

★ header art cr; sarhiyu on x & ig

TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

The rehearsal room smells like stale sugar, three kinds of regret, and someone’s aggressively iced coffee.

Cipher’s curled on the couch in her hoodie like a hungover forest sprite. Castorice is attempting to tune her guitar while lying flat on the floor. Phainon, silent but deadly, sips coffee like it’s holy water. Anaxa’s the only one upright and functional, though judging by the industrial blender-sized smoothie he’s working on, even he’s playing defense.

“I swear to every god,” Cipher croaks out, “if one of you so much as breathes the word ‘tequila,’ I will start swinging.”

Mydei walks in then—freshly showered, sunglasses perched neatly on his head, towel slung loose around his neck like he’s just stepped out of a goddamn wellness retreat.

“Did you even drink last night?” Phainon accuses, shielding his eyes.

“I did, just responsibly,” he replies, deadpan.

Behind him, you step in, cradling two coffees and a paper bag that smells like salvation. The others stare. 

���…I brought pastries?” you offer.

Castorice whimpers. “I might actually die for you.”

While you feed your bandmates some sugar to keep them running, Tribbios storms in like she’s late to a boardroom coup. Aglaea follows in her signature blazer and clipboard combo, already flipping pages like she’s reading everyone’s obituaries. And then Garmentmaker glides in last, ethereal as always.

“Everyone alive?” Garmentmaker asks, head tilted just slightly. “Vital signs are technically within safe thresholds. Though someone’s blood sugar is plummeting, and at least two of you are operating at 30% neural efficiency.”

Cipher groans from the couch. “Snitch.”

Tribbios sighs as she takes in the state of the band. “This is why we don’t party on a three-day set. It’s always the second morning that turns everyone into roadkill.”

“Good morning to you, too,” Anaxa mutters, still sipping his nuclear smoothie.

“Ten minutes,” Aglaea says briskly, flipping a page. “Stretch, warm up, whatever dark ritual you people do before pretending to be functional.”

A shuffle of groans and protests follow, but you all start moving.

Rehearsal starts messy. Notes slip, transitions stutter, and the tempo drags like it’s carrying a hangover of its own. Cipher’s late on the first synth run, and Castorice keeps dipping into a riff from the wrong song entirely. You stick to lead guitar with laser focus, letting muscle memory guide your fingers even though your brain feels like it’s still back in bed.

But slowly, things tighten. Second run-through. Then a third. Somewhere in the bridge of a track off the newest album, it clicks. Clean and sharp. You break through the fog with a solo that sings like lightning in slow motion.

“That tone suits your playing,” Mydei casually says from across the room. He’s poised across the mic stand like it’s a trophy he only half-pretends to deserve. He doesn’t even glance up when he says it—just lets the words fall, offhand, effortless.

The room stutters.

It’s not the kind of compliment he hands out often. Especially not in front of everyone. Especially not to you. The rhythm doesn’t falter under your fingers, but something in your chest does. You clutch your pick a little tighter, suddenly too aware of your own pulse.

“Thanks,” you murmur, trying to sound like it’s nothing.

Cipher doesn’t let it slide, of course. She’s already smirking like she’s been handed a gift. “You two disappear together for one night and come back sounding all rehydrated and mysterious.”

Mydei doesn’t miss a beat. “Try electrolytes next time.”

“Hey,” Aglaea cuts in, voice sharp as the snap of her clipboard closing. “Save the banter. Eyes on the set.”

You exhale, plant your feet, and reset your grip on the guitar. Showtime, even in rehearsal. The aftertaste of Mydei’s compliment lingers like something half-sweet, half-dangerous.

Maybe this set’s going to burn a little brighter than the rest.

Your Mnemosyne primetime slot happens upon you in no time.

Everything is louder here. The festival grounds pulse like a living thing. Compared to the streamlined flow of your usual solo concerts, this is glorious, glitter-soaked chaos.

On tour, you and your bandmates glide through backstage like gravity bends for you. But here? You’re just another name on a lineup of giants, lost in the whirl of pop-up tents, smoke machines, and artists trying to outshine the sun. The open-air backstage is a maze of folding chairs, mirror stations, and wardrobe racks that sway in the breeze. You’ve bumped into at least ten people in five minutes, nearly tripped over a clump of wires tangled like seaweed by the lighting rig, and caught a flying powder brush midair as a frantic makeup artist reached for it.

Somewhere out there, past the barricades and food trucks, the crowd is swelling. The sky is bleeding gold and lavender. Your set time ticks closer.

One of the only couches that’s freed up backstage is ugly and sunken, but you sit anyway. You meant to rest your eyes for thirty seconds. Just until your brain stops vibrating from too much sound, not enough water. But the next breath you take smells like sage and laundry drying on a railing just outside.

When you open your eyes, the festival is gone.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the worn rug of your old apartment, guitar resting against your thigh like it never left. The window’s cracked open, letting in the buzz of cicadas and someone’s pop playlist thudding faintly from two floors down. The heat outside is sticky-slow, and Erin is sprawled on the floor, sunburnt and barefoot, twin braids falling over her shoulders. She’s holding a half-melted popsicle like it’s precious.

“Play the middle part again,” she says, voice soft. “The bit with the bends. You keep speeding up.”

You blink at her. “I’m not speeding up.”

“Don’t lie. I was a metronome in a past life.”

You laugh, just a little, but your hands already know what to do. You don’t have to think. The guitar responds like it always did when there were no crowds to impress, no expectations—only the music, and her, and summer through the window.

“Better,” Erin murmurs.

You look up.

She’s not lying on the floor anymore. She’s sitting now, arms wrapped around her knees, face quieter than before. The popsicle is gone. Her eyes shine in a way that makes your stomach tighten.

“You’re going to tell them the truth soon, right?”

Your fingers still. “...What do you mean?”

Erin gives you a knowing look, the kind that’s impossible to argue with. “Don’t play dumb. You know exactly what I mean.”

You want to answer. You really do. But your throat has gone dry, and the guitar’s disappeared from your lap like it was never there. The air in the room is heavier now. Still.

And Erin’s form begins to blur at the edges, like watercolor bleeding in the rain.

You reach for her, but you’re too late.

“Hey.”

Your eyes snap open. Your fingers fly to your necklace, heart pounding, until you feel the familiar press of the guitar pick resting at your collarbone.

Mydei stands over you, outlined in the cool glow of festival lights bleeding through the partition. His face is unreadable, his silhouette washed in blue and gold. In his hand is a bottle of water.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

You’re damp with sweat. Your hands are shaking.

“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat. “Just… I think the hangover is catching up to me.”

He passes you the bottle without pressing further. But as you drink, your hands still trembling, his gaze lingers on you longer than it usually does.

That night, The Flamechasers take the Mnemosyne stage.

Lethe’s heat clings to everything—your skin, your strings, the space between breaths. The crowd is ecstatic, filling the entirety of the festival grounds with people who move like a single pulse. By the second track, you’ve sweat out the last of the hangover. By the third, adrenaline takes over. The stage feels different tonight.

You don’t remember every moment. Just flashes. Anaxa’s bass thrumming beneath your feet like a heartbeat. Phainon, hair wild, grinning like he’s summoning storms. Mydei at the mic, magnetic and incandescent. When he launches into Firestarter, the crowd erupts. The front row screams the lyrics like scripture, every syllable ricocheting off the stage and into your bones.

Later, you’re in the audience with the others, sweat still drying on your skin, watching Thalia’s set tear the night wide open.

She’s pop royalty wrapped in gold and glittering fury. Her voice is sweet and serrated, flipping from honey to razor blades in the space of a breath. Castorice mouths along to every line line. Aglaea, ever composed, sways in time without realizing. Even Phainon lets out a low whistle when Thalia struts to the edge of the stage mid-bridge. She locks eyes with someone in the front row and blows them a kiss. Then, with a wink, drops into a perfect split.

The crowd loses it. She rises just as the beat slams back in, grinning like she owns the night.

Gods, you love Mnemosyne.

When you all haul yourselves back to the hotel two hours later, you’re exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. 

The lobby glows gold and sleepy, chandeliers dripping light onto marble floors smudged by sand. The air-conditioning hums like a lullaby, sharp against sunburned skin. Everyone’s still in their stage clothes or half out of them—eyeliner smudged, boots in hand, glitter refusing to come off.

Cipher tosses her shoes into the corner and flops across a velvet bench. “I think my knees are in another time zone.”

Phainon’s scrolling through photos on his phone, the edge of a smile playing on his lips. Castorice and Anaxa are nearby, murmuring quietly to themselves. It’s the kind of post-show talk that’s mostly muscle memory by now.

Then—

“Hey, rockstars.”

Thalia appears like she never left the stage, dressed down but still untouchably radiant. Flowy white dress with golden accents, wrists jingling with leftover costume jewelry. You glance up from where you're leaning against a marble pillar. Mydei shifts beside you, posture instinctively sharpening.

“Wanted to catch you before you disappeared,” she says, eyes flicking toward you, then Mydei. “I owe you two an apology. For walking in on your conversation the other night. Wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, I promise.”

You start to wave it off, but Thalia leans in, conspiratorial. “Let me make it up to you. I’m throwing something low-key at that nearby beachfront club with some friends of the fest. Bring whoever wants in. Free day tomorrow for us, right?”

Cipher sits up. “Is there food?”

“There’s food, a firepit, and a bartender who owes me his soul.”

Aglaea opens her mouth, probably to shut it all down.

“Let them be, Aggy,” Tribbios says quickly, slinging an arm around her shoulder. “No performance tomorrow, so I think they’ve earned the right to get plastered two nights in a row.”

“If someone ends up sparking a scandal, don’t ask me for help with PR, got it?” Aglaea mutters, at which Tribbios simply laughs.

“Thank you, but I physically cannot handle another hangover.” Castorice shakes her head with a polite smile, while Anaxa offers a clipped nod of agreement.

Phainon looks at you, then at Mydei. “I’m game.”

“Lethe doesn’t sleep. Why should we?” Cipher giggles, already putting her shoes back on. 

You meet Mydei’s eyes and share a small, knowing smile. No words needed.

Lethe hums softly around you. Nothing’s set in stone tonight.

Not yet.

It takes about an hour for everyone to get ready.

Your usual leather-heavy stage outfits were clearly a no-go for a beachfront club, so the band made a collective wardrobe shift.

Cipher, naturally, invited herself to get ready in your hotel room. She claimed she was torn between dressing for comfort or for chaos, and in the end, chose comfort for herself… then volunteered you as tribute for the chaos. The synth player practically wrestled you into a short, floaty skirt that rides up your thighs with every step. You’re not even sure why you packed it, but when she squealed about how well it matched one of your strappy tops, you let her win.

By the time your makeup is locked in, Mydei and Phainon are already in the lobby waiting. Mydei’s eyes linger a second too long when he sees you, and while you clock it instantly, you keep your reaction tucked away.

It’s safer that way.

To your surprise, both managers show up too. Aglaea announces she’s coming along because she has a “very bad feeling” about letting you all run loose tonight. Tribbios, ever the diplomat, claims she’s there for the free drinks. Though you suspect she’s mostly there to keep Aglaea from exploding over a spilled cocktail.

The club rises out of the beach like some half-forgotten temple—sleek marble columns, black glass, golden lighting that flickers like candlefire against the tide. A carved sign above the entrance reads MNEME in gilded lettering, almost lost to the creeping vines that wind around the archway. You can already hear the pulse of the bass from outside.

A line stretches out past the velvet ropes, but the bouncer takes one look at the golden coin Thalia left you with at the hotel and lets your whole group through without a word.

Inside, it’s cooler than you expect. Breezy, the scent of salt and something sweeter in the air, like citrus and vanilla. Every surface glows: from the shimmer of the glass tiles underfoot to the long bar carved from pale stone, backlit with warm gold. 

Thalia finds you almost instantly, still draped in white linen and glittering jewelry. There’s a flute of champagne in her hand that already looks tempting on its own.

“There you are,” she says, slipping an arm around your waist in greeting. “I was starting to worry you’d ghost me.”

“And waste a perfectly convenient invite?” you deadpan with a sweet grin. “No chance.”

“Perfect! Then drink with me. All of you. Everything is covered, but no dying tonight, alright?”

Just like that, the popstar flutters off, swept into a fresh crowd with a wink and a toast. Phainon snorts, amused, then promptly beelines for the bar, snagging a mildly protesting Mydei along the way. Aglaea’s already mapping out every exit like she’s expecting the place to catch fire. Tribbios tugs her toward a plush booth with the promise of liquor and plausible deniability.

That leaves you with Cipher, which is to say: trouble.

She’s already grinning like she knows exactly how the night will end. Before you can ask what’s running through that brain of hers, a server appears with two drinks: tall glasses, gold and glinting, cold to the touch. One sip, and the floral note coils around your tongue like smoke.

The club fills around you like a fever dream—shadows stretching longer, lights softening into molten gold. The air pulses with bass and body heat and the scent of sun-warmed skin. Nothing holds still. Everything moves like water.

Including you.

Cipher grabs your hand, and suddenly you’re on the dance floor, all limbs caught in the rhythm. The music doesn’t ask; it claims. It pours down your spine, spills through your knees. You dance like you don’t owe the world anything. Because here, in Lethe, you don’t.

In a sliver of peripheral vision, you spot Aglaea perched on a cushioned alcove like a very well-dressed gargoyle. She’s sipping from a sleek black bottle and scowling at nothing in particular. Tribbios, two drinks deep, is in the middle of a conversation with a vaguely familiar country artist who’s clearly smitten.

By the bar, Phainon’s gesturing with mock outrage while Mydei smirks into his drink, clearly enjoying whatever petty argument they’re tangled in. His shirt is barely buttoned, collar open like he couldn’t be bothered to finish the job. The warm light skims over his tattoos, setting every flame-lined design aglow like fire beneath his skin.

A flush prickles beneath your collarbone. You down the rest of your drink in one go.

Cipher catches your expression, cackles, and hands you something stronger.

"Hydration," she says innocently.

Cipher doesn’t wait for your reply. She tugs you deeper into the dance floor, straight into a knot of revelers who move like they’ve already forgotten their names. One moment you’re laughing into her shoulder, the next, your hand is clasped by someone else. Some pretty woman with ruby red lipstick and shiny green eyes. You spin with her, twist, let the music take you again.

The crowd folds around you like waves. Cipher’s somewhere nearby, flirting or stealing another drink, maybe both. You lose track.

You’re not sure how long you stay there—ten minutes, an hour, a lifetime—but the bass is still pounding when your ankle buckles on an uneven step. The floor tilts. The lights blur. Your heart lurches with your body. But then, one arm cinches around your waist, firm and effortless, catching you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Another hand finds yours, steadying your wrist.

“Careful,” Mydei murmurs against your ear. “This place will eat you alive if you let it.”

You smile, half-drunk, half-something else. You don’t ask how he got here in the nick of time, or why his voice feels like a lit match drawn along your spine.

“Maybe that’s the point.”

You’re close. Too close. You could say something light to break the tension. Shatter it completely.

But instead, you press a kiss to his jaw—brief and careless, like it didn’t matter at all.

“Thanks for the save.” 

Then, you’re gone.

Back into the crush of bodies as if that moment won’t leave a mark forever. Lethe breathes around you, electric and eternal. Tonight, there are no consequences. Just the thrum of the beat and the weight of sharp, amber eyes following you through it.

You find Cipher again in the blur of strobe lights and bodies, her hands latching onto yours like you’re her favorite song. She spins you into her orbit, neon streaks turning her hair into ribbons of light. Her laughter peals over the music. She bumps her head lightly against yours and screams, “We should come back here next year!” even though there’s no way she’ll remember saying it tomorrow.

By now, the club is feral. Half the crowd has shed layers, inhibitions, and probably memories. The air smells like salt and sweat and something sweet and heavy, like fruit left too long in the sun. Phainon ends up in the DJ booth somehow, but no one bats an eyelash when he works behind the console on-par with Cipher on the synth. Thalia stands nearby with a glass of something glowing. She sees you, winks, and points to the balcony above the dancefloor.

You don’t look right away.

Instead, you drift. You find yourself shoulder to shoulder with Tribbios, just as Cipher vanishes on a mission to secure more shots. Her heels are off, red hair aired out and she’s deep in a philosophical debate with another Lethean clubgoer wearing a mesh toga and LED wings.

“I’m just saying,” your PR manager shouts over the music, “you can’t define the soul by absence alone!”

You raise your glass to that, whatever it means.

But Cipher’s taking too long. The heat of the floor presses into your knees, into your spine, into your pulse. You slip away with a gentle nudge to Tribbios’ side, though she’s too deep in metaphysics to notice. Then, you push past people, stumble up the stairs Thalia had pointed out earlier—past velvet ropes and laughter like static.

The balcony is quieter, high above it all. 

Mydei’s there. Alone.

Of course he is.

He leans against the black marble railing like he’s carved from the same obsidian, watching the chaos unfold below. His back is to you, broad and shadow-sculpted in the low golden light, hair tousled from the heat of the club. There’s some distance between you, but not enough to keep you from noticing the way his fingers tap soundlessly against the railing, like the music hasn’t quite left his body.

He hasn’t heard you yet. Or maybe he has, and he’s just waiting.

The breeze brushes past, carrying the scent of the sea. It ghosts across your bare shoulders, cool against the sweat still clinging to your skin. You hesitate at the threshold. You could still turn around and vanish back into the crowd, leaving the moment untouched.

But you’ve already left too many hanging.

You take a step forward.

Then another.

Your sandals click softly against the stone floor, and still he doesn’t turn. You pause beside him, just far enough not to touch, close enough to feel the echo of him in your chest.

Below, the crowd writhes like a living thing, pulsing to the bassline Phainon’s stitched into the night.

Mydei’s voice finds you before his eyes do. “Done dancing?”

“Needed air,” you say, then pause just long enough to make it count. “And maybe… the right company.”

You glance at him as you speak, and even in the half-light, something shifts. It’s subtle, but unmistakable. The flicker at the corner of his mouth. The narrowing of his eyes. Like the words landed somewhere deeper than they should’ve. Lethe murmurs below, a city stretched out in velvet and vice. Mydei lets the silence linger for one beat too long, before saying:

“Then you’re exactly where you should be.”

He tilts his head toward the far end of the balcony, where a low table waits beneath a canopy of hanging lights. It’s the only one up here, immaculately set with chilled glasses and a bottle already sweating through its gold foil. How long he’s been drinking up here alone, you’re not certain.

“Sit with me,” he says, not quite a request.

If you were sober, you might’ve asked questions. Like how he managed to carve out this little corner of velvet luxury in a club built on bedlam. Why no one else was here. Maybe it has something to do with Thalia, who'd winked at you earlier with a little too much knowing in her smile. Maybe she opened a door and simply chose not to lock it behind her.

But you’re not sober.

So you follow him without asking, letting the music carry your limbs, your better judgment. Mydei settles across from you like the night bends to his whims, shadows dressing themselves around him. He uncorks the bottle and pours you a drink with the kind of care that feels like seduction all on its own.

The glass is cool in your hand. His fingers brush yours—too brief, too deliberate to be anything but.

The drink hits your tongue. Something expensive. Something gilded with danger. Across from you, Mydei leans back against the velvet cushions like he belongs there—shirt still barely buttoned, collarbone lit by the glow of hanging lights. His tattoos flicker faintly with the movement, flame-laced lines catching every shift of muscle beneath his skin.

His gaze rests on you like it has nowhere else in the world to be.

“You’ve got glitter in your hair,” he says, voice smooth, the kind that curls around your ribs and doesn’t let go.

You run a hand through it and laugh. “This stuff has been here since the show. Might have to rebrand my look now.”

“Maybe. It looks good on you.”

There it is. That subtle slide from casual to something else. The air between you pulls tighter, tugging at your spine. You sip again, too fast this time, but it gives you a second to look at him. 

There were moments like this before—ones you let pass too easily. On that rooftop in Dolos. The hotel in Carmitis. Even in his suite just five minutes away. In all instances, it was easier to pretend you didn’t notice the way he looked at you. Easier to believe he’d never follow it through.

But here, under the halo of low light and indulgence, neither of you moves away.

“So,” he says, swirling the liquor in his glass with a flick of ring-clad fingers, “is this the part where you pretend this is all just a happy accident?”

You could. You both could. Like before.

But tonight doesn’t feel like before.

“Would it matter if it was?” you ask, voice steadier than you feel.

His smile breaks, slow and sharp and unbearably knowing. “Only if you’re planning to keep pretending.”

That’s the tell. The slip. The quiet confirmation that he remembers it all—every moment you both held back, every glance you let drift away like smoke. Mydei’s always been hard to read, a fortress wrapped in barbed wires. But now? With the loud thump of music coiled around the night and alcohol softening the edges, he’s letting more slip than usual.

You shift in your seat, cross your legs slowly (intentionally) and let your knee brush his beneath the table. Just enough to feel the warmth. Just enough to see if he flinches.

He doesn’t.

“I’m not pretending anything,” you murmur.

Silence stretches, taut and humming. His gaze flicks down just for a second then returns to yours, heat steady and unflinching. Every part of him reads like temptation dressed in aftermath.

“Good,” he laughs, low and lazy, voice curling through the air like smoke catching fire. “I hate wasting time.”

His glass is empty now. So is yours. You don’t remember setting them down. You only know the table’s between you, and that’s starting to feel like a problem. But this island doesn’t believe in clocks. Doesn’t believe in good decisions, either.

You should sit still. You should let this moment cool before it turns molten.

But you don’t.

One second you’re across from him. The next, you rise in a slow blur of silk and adrenaline. Your skirt flutters as you move. One hand steadies you on his shoulder as you lower yourself onto his lap, legs draped across his like you’ve always belonged there. You feel Mydei tense beneath you before his hands come to rest on your hips, heavy and warm and far too steady for how intoxicated he is.

You’re not exactly graceful yourself. But none of it stops you.

“What a coincidence,” you murmur, breath grazing the shell of his ear, “I hate wasting time, too…”

The words fall soft, almost playful, but you can feel the way he goes still beneath you, like something in him just locked into place. A voice—dim and buried in the back of your mind—whispers that it's a lie. You've both wasted time. On restraint. On silence. On pretending.

Yet, all of that ceases to exist. 

Here, where the only thing you can feel is his breath hitching against your neck; his thumb brushing the inside of your thigh like he’s deciding whether to ruin the rest of your night or make it unforgettable.

You feel his fingers tighten for a fraction of a second, then loosen. Hesitation creeping in like a tide he doesn’t want to acknowledge but can’t quite ignore. His hands shift, sliding up your sides like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s memorizing the moment before he lets it go. Mydei breathes out your name, low and hoarse, the syllables caught somewhere between a warning and a plea.

There’s something in his gaze now that wasn’t there a moment ago. Not fear or rejection, but restraint drawn taut over a sliver of clarity.

“This isn’t—” His voice breaks off. He exhales, jaw tight, eyes flicking to your mouth and then away again, like the sight of it alone might be enough to undo him. “You’ve been drinking. We both have. I don’t want to—”

But you’re already moving.

Your hand finds the line of his jaw, thumb grazing the spot just beneath his cheekbone. He stops talking. You lean in.

Your lips brush his, soft but certain, and you feel the moment he breaks, when all that controlled tension gives way to something molten. Mydei doesn’t deepen it right away, doesn’t pull you closer. He just exhales against your mouth like the decision costs him something. Like he’s waited too long for it to be casual.

Finally, his hands slide beneath the hem of your top, and he kisses you like the moment stopped asking for permission.

Mydei groans against your mouth like it’s been dragged from somewhere deep. His hands tighten again—no longer hesitant, no longer careful. They pull you closer, anchoring you to him as his mouth claims yours with a hunger that borders on rough and reckless.

Your fingers tangle into his hair, tugging gently, and that’s all it takes. He parts your lips with his, tongue brushing in, slow at first, like he wants to savor you. But it doesn’t stay slow. Not when your hips shift in his lap until you’re fully straddling him, not when your breath catches and his arms lock around you tighter like he needs more of you just to stay grounded.

The club, the island, everything else—they all disappear.

He kisses you like he’s starving. Teeth graze your lower lip and you gasp, which only makes him chase deeper, tongue sliding against yours with a heated rhythm that steals thought and leaves only sensation. His fingers grip your thighs for purchase, and you feel the cold bite of his rings across your heated flesh.

Then his mouth breaks from yours only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. Down the column of your neck. You tilt your head, breath ragged, and he doesn’t waste the invitation. His tongue flicks against your pulse before he sucks lightly at the skin, just enough to make you shiver.

Your nails drag down his shoulders, and he grins against your skin like it hurts so good. You grind down without meaning to, and his grip falters. Just enough to let you know it’s not only your self-control unraveling. 

“Fuck,” Mydei murmurs against your throat. “You’re going to kill me.”

His lips return to yours, sloppier now, the wet slide of his tongue curling deep as if he’s trying to drink you in. Like you’re both losing track of whose breath belongs to whom. Mydei’s hands drift lower, fingertips skating along your sides, the bare sliver of skin just above your waistband. When he exhales, it’s sharp as if the tension is cutting through him in waves, and then his touch slides down, over the curve of your hips, then lower still.

The warm surface of his palms skim your thighs, slow and reverent, and you can feel the way his breath hitches against your mouth as you shift again, your knees pressing deeper into the cushions on either side of him.

Your skirt rides higher. Mydei notices. You can tell by the way his hands freeze like he's trying to decide whether this is a line he can afford to cross.

He does.

Not all at once. Not recklessly, but with intent.

He drags his mouth from yours, letting it linger—kissing the corner of your lips, your cheek, your jaw—before dropping his head lower again. Down your neck, to your collarbone, to the space just above your sternum. His hands grip your thighs, thumbs tracing slow circles as he kisses a path down your body like you’re something holy. Like worship feels more honest than lust ever could.

“Mydei—” your voice breaks when he shifts you in his lap, catching you off guard.

His hands settle firm beneath your thighs as he eases you off him—not away, not even out of reach, but back gently onto the velvet of the sofa. You’re breathless. Stunned. He sinks to the floor and stays kneeling, eyes fixed on you from between your knees as he hooks one of them over his shoulder. The soft lighting halos him, but the look in his eyes is anything but angelic.

“You don’t have to—” you start, but he cuts you off with a slow shake of his head.

“I want to.” 

Your breath catches. Heat floods your chest, your throat, your cheeks. He’s still between your legs, steady hands pressing into the plush of your thighs like he’s holding himself back from devouring you whole. But he waits. Eyes locked on yours. Voice low, like a secret he only wants to share if you’ll keep it.

“Do you?”

“Yes,” you whisper, throat dry, lips parting on instinct. “I do.”

The second you say it, the tension coils tighter between you like a storm that’s been circling all night finally giving in to lightning.

Mydei leans forward, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. Then another. Each one slower, deeper, hungrier, tracing a path up your thigh like it’s a lit fuse. His hands follow, thumbs dragging up your skin as if to memorize every inch. By the time his breath brushes between your inner thighs, your hips lift off the couch on their own, chasing contact you can’t bring yourself to beg for.

But then a flash slices through your peripheral like a knife.

A split-second flare, there and gone, but it guts the moment all the same.

Your breath hitches—not from pleasure this time, but from panic. Ice floods through the heat that had just started to bloom in your belly. Your hands snap to Mydei’s shoulders, not to pull him closer, but to stop him. To push him back. He blinks up at you, confusion furrowing his brow.

But you’re already scrambling upright, skirt tugged down in a jittery motion that feels far too slow. You can’t even speak. Your heart's pounding too loud in your ears. You’re no longer thinking about the velvet beneath you or the warmth between your legs or Mydei’s mouth. All you can think of is that flash.

Mydei moves to steady you, his hand still warm on your thigh, but you flinch and his touch stills instantly. His brows knit in concern, confusion flickering across his face.

“Hey,” he says gently. “What’s wrong?”

Your eyes sweep the corners of the room. Too many shadows. The slow pulse of club lights overhead, streaking everything in gold and purple and haze. You don’t see a camera. You don’t see anyone.

But what if it was real?

You open your mouth. Close it. You feel sick.

“I—” you manage, clutching the arm of the sofa like it’ll anchor you. “I thought I saw… a light. Like a flash. Someone with a camera, maybe. I—I don’t know.”

He straightens, still kneeling but no longer reaching. His eyes follow yours, scanning the dim spaces between movement and noise, his shoulders drawing tight like a wolf catching the scent of something wrong.

“Security should’ve locked this place down.”

“I know,” you whisper. Your voice is cracking. You wish it wouldn’t. “But what if they didn’t? What if someone got in? What if they—”

What if they recognized me?

You don’t say that part. You can’t.

Mydei rises, slow and careful, like you’re something fragile that might shatter. He doesn’t crowd you, doesn’t ask anything else. Just stands there, watching you with that same focus he gives the stage before a show—like nothing else in the room matters.

“We’ll check,” he says at last. “Let’s find Phainon and Cipher. I’ll talk to Thalia. We’ll make sure.”

You nod. It helps that he doesn’t mention your managers.

Because you know what’ll happen if Aglaea catches wind of this. That weird gut feeling of hers had been right all along, and you can already picture the fallout. Not even Tribbios could spin this into something salvageable. You're trembling now, breath catching in your throat, your heartbeat skidding out of rhythm. The moment that had been so warm, so private, so yours, has been torn at the seams.

Stolen.

Then Mydei moves, not with urgency, but with a quiet resolve, like the decision had already settled in his bones before you even realized you needed him to make it.

He reaches for your hand with fluid intent, fingers open in quiet offering. There’s no urgency in the gesture, just warmth, and the kind of stillness that grounds more than words ever could. When your hand meets his, he wraps his fingers around yours, steady and sure, like he’s not just holding on but reminding you that he’s here. That you don’t have to face this alone.

“Come on,” Mydei says quietly. “Let’s get you out of here.”

You don’t argue.

He leads you through the haze and the hum of music still thrumming downstairs, his pace brisk enough to mean business but soft enough not to jostle you. Mydei uses his body like a shield, keeping close as he threads through the crowd, your hand held firmly in his while the space between you does the rest. When the press of bodies grows tighter, he shifts, letting go just long enough to slip an arm around your back, guiding you forward with a quiet kind of care, like he’s parting the current so you won’t have to feel it crash against you.

No one tries to stop you. No one even looks your way. It feels too easy, and that makes it worse. Like danger could still be hiding behind any face, behind any lens.

You find Phainon near one of the alcoves, half-leaning against the back of a couch. Slumped beside him is Cipher, something shiny smeared across her cheek, laughing at something no one said. She’s got a drink in one hand and the other flung over the back of the seat like she’s just conquered a kingdom. Her eyeliner is immaculate. Her balance, less so.

Phainon plucks the glass from her fingers mid-sentence and sets it on the table when he spots you and Mydei. His brows lift slightly, a silent question poised between curiosity and concern. Then he takes a longer look at you—and the shift is immediate. 

“Aglaea had to take Tribbios home,” he says, straightening up. “I suspect she had too many to drink. Then Aglaea put me in charge of making sure we all got back to the hotel and bolted.”

His blue eyes linger on your face. “You alright?”

You don’t answer.

“She’s just a bit shaken,” Mydei says. He doesn’t explain, just gives Phainon a look that says this isn’t the time to ask. “I need to find Thalia. Can you watch them?”

“Yeah,” Phainon says, already nodding. “Of course.”

Mydei gives your hand a final squeeze before letting go, stepping away with that same purposeful calm, already cutting through the crowd. You stay a moment longer, watching the people swirl and sway around you like they’re moving through another world—one you’re no longer part of.

Phainon watches you, too, but he doesn’t speak. He just shifts to make room beside him, and when Cipher starts to giggle at nothing again, he settles a steadying hand on her shoulder and keeps his other free, just in case you decide to sit down. You don’t, but you hover uncertainly, like the floor might vanish under your feet if you let go of the momentum that brought you here.

Cipher tips her head toward you with an exaggerated grin, eyes glassy and wide. “Dianaaaa,” she drawls. “You missed the jellyfish!”

You blink. “The what?”

“She means the LED light sculpture above the bar,” Phainon mutters. “Changed colors. Apparently, that’s what counts as life-changing now.”

Cipher throws a hand in the air, nearly clocking Phainon in the jaw. “It was beautiful,” she says, deadly serious.

You manage the faintest smile. To his credit, Phainon doesn’t crowd you or fill the silence with noise. He just watches the way your hands tremble as you cross your arms over your chest and take a breath that still doesn’t quite settle.

“Did something happen?” he asks, quieter this time.

You hesitate, but let the secret spill nonetheless.

“I thought I saw a camera flash,” you say at last. “Back in the lounge.”

He doesn’t react at first. Just nods, slow and thoughtful. “You sure?”

“No,” you admit. “That’s the worst part.”

Phainon tilts his head slightly, gaze scanning the crowd with new intent. “Okay,” he says. “Then we treat it like it was something. I’ll keep her here,” he nods toward Cipher, who’s now fascinated by her own fingers, “and keep you out of the middle. Mydei will handle the rest.”

You finally sink down onto the edge of the couch. Your limbs feel boneless. Cipher leans against you immediately, mumbling something about margaritas and applause, and Phainon, without missing a beat, takes a seat on your other side. The rest of the club pulses on, even this deep into the night, half-expecting Mydei to reappear already. You hope Thalia’s still here. You hope she understands.

You hope someone has answers.

The walk back to the hotel is short, but stretched thin by silence. The city has quieted now, lulled by surf and moonlight. Streetlamps cast long shadows over sand-dusted pavement. Neon signs from the boardwalk shimmer across shallow tide pools, painting the sidewalk in fractured gold and pink.

You and Mydei don’t say much. The quiet lingers between you, unspoken but not uncomfortable. It isn’t until Phainon and Cipher peel off at the lobby that Mydei casts one last glance toward the entrance, making sure the coast is clear. Then, as you both head down the hall, with your keycard clenched tight between your fingers, he speaks.

“Thalia’s handling it,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “She’s not just here for the parties. She’s got people. Professionals.”

You nod once, still a step ahead of him.

“She said paparazzi are like rats in Lethe. But rats can be dealt with.”

You almost laugh, a dry huff through your nose, but your chest still feels like it’s been wrung out. You stop at your door, scanning the keycard. The lock on the door beeps green. Mydei doesn’t follow you in, just stays leaned against the wall like he’s posted guard.

“You believe her?” you ask softly.

“I believe she wouldn’t lie to me. Or to you.”

There’s weight in that. Unspoken things. Shared trust, shaken but still intact. You look at him then, and for a second, you forget the panic, forget the fear. Just see the faint glint of gold in his eyes, hotel hallway light catching the edges of tired resolve. He doesn’t push you to talk about it again. Doesn’t ask if you’re okay.

Instead, he nods toward your door.

“Get some rest. If you need anything… I’ll be right down the hall.”

You want to say thank you. You want to say more. Most of all, you want to ask him to stay with you. But all you manage is a quiet:

“Good night, Mydei.”

You close the door behind you, the latch catching with a quiet finality.

TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[girlballs]

actually one more mabel thought before i sleep. a really fucking wonderful potential use for generative AI that would actually be cool (instead of like. infinite hentai slop generator or The Machine That Lies About Everything) would be a 3d retopology tool

like. nobody on earth who does 3d stuff enjoys retopology. it's literally the least interesting part of making a character since you've already done the Art part of it but now you have to trudge through a bunch of extremely tedious extra bullshit just so you can then Also do the slightly less extremely tedious step of rigging. i don't think anyone would miss retopo if there was some neural net tool integrated with blender that you could feed a high poly mesh + some guide geometry ("loops should be oriented like this here and here" etc) and have it fill in the gaps

[sharkface]

how are we supposed to believe any of your art is real and not ai when youre talking about how much you love ai.. lol

I mean, if that's what you think, nothing I say or do is gonna dissuade that anyway. I honestly think it's kind of interesting how the whole AI moral panic has led to this exact attitude where you think only manually drawn art is "real" but then because I don't have an exclusively negative opinion on generative AI the threat here is to de-legitimize my (entirely hand drawn) work because you think that opinion can itself make my art "fake" even though I haven't even tried to use an AI to make images since, like, the first version of neural blender. Like not to sound all annoying fake intellectual I'm genuinely interested in the general implications of that

[katsigian]

⁺⊹𑁍˚𖥸 𝙒𝙄𝙋 𝙒𝙃𝙀𝙉𝙀𝙑𝙀𝙍 𖥸˚𑁍⊹⁺────────

Hiiii everyone, we are so back.

First up, Valen baby. I recoloured his cyberware! All of that golden hardware he has - his forearms, his neural wiring on his face, his piercings, his wedding ring - finally match. I recoloured them to be the same gold as his eyes and he matches so nicely that I've ascended into heaven. I love matching and symmetry in OC designs 🫠

I also made Valen more freckle-y. I love freckles, so Valen's got even more on his shoulders and chest. Lastly, lore-accurate love marks; Valen's normally covered in both bitemarks and hickies. Why? Because Valen and his husband are (healthily) possessive of each other + leaving marks is a way for them to bond (they're also just extremely horny for each other). That bond with his husband is essential to his character, so I figured I'd add them in

More ongoing projects under here ♡

Second up, Vesper baby. Yes, my rarely seen second son is getting an awful lot of upgrades and will be reappearing soon because I missed him. He's back to being pink like his OG version! It'll be a little while yet before I've got him done, as I'm making him a new hair from almost scratch in Blender + giving him brand new tattoos. I'm very happy with how he's coming along so far, though.

Lastly, I'm recolouring cyberware for public release on Nexus! I really needed more variety when it comes to OC creation + I haven't seen recolours of these before. So I figured If Not Me, Then Who. There's two ready to go and I'll likely do more if everything goes well.

And that's everything for now!

Taglist ♡ if you'd like to opt in/opt out, please feel free! As always, there's no pressure to do these if you'd rather not. And if you've been tagged already/have done this already, then feel free to ignore! 🖤

@rindemption @noirapocalypto @westealtoys @quickhacked @cloudofbutterflies92 @opaleyedprince @mercymaker @nightbloodbix @sunites @vvanessaives @skelior @peaches-n-screem @spicyraeman @feykiller @florbelles @aceghosts @riikugan @devilbrakers @dani-the-goblin @elvenbeard @dickytwister @hibernationsuit @hiddenbeks @jerichoes @cybersteal @kharonion @aggravateddurian @hummingbirdsage @archonfurina @vanoefucks @seluned @gothimp @onehornedbeast @carlosoliveiraa @baldurians @thefrostyshepard @balverine2077 @magicmissiled @ancunine @ronqueesha @wormskul @vivanightcity @cyberholic77 @lilacmox @strafethesesinners @vincentmatthews @jaydenborn @sh00kspeared @crookedvultures @saintemarvel

[accretion-disk-anxiety]

I will admit to liking ai image shit for absurd photoreal shit.

[bionic-baby]

When I was a in my early teen years, I got depressed. I was about to quit drawing, when I decided to try and do something to cheer me up. I eventually found a free version of stable diffusion and neural blender, and I would just go at it for hours. I eventually started redrawing the AI images it gave me and it gave me the motivation to draw again (that combined with me getting instagram)!

AI art greatly inspired how I do surrealism nowadays. I always asked myself “wait, AI? Why does this image look like this, it looks so surreal?”, and that was the thing, it was completely nonsensical, and just had a core theme. I wanted to make art that captured the same vibe. Ai is kinda my autistic hyperfixation/special interest. It got to the point that up until now, I would rave on in the comments of any anti AI post because I thought that they were telling me that my biggest inspiration and the thing that got me out of my art block was not valid. (Also, chat bots helped me become better at speaking to people and socializing in general. I hadn’t gotten to do that for most of my life since I have been homeschooled since the first grade.)

I’m sorry if any of you were upset by this, I’ll stop doing it. In fact, go around saying AI is bad if you want!

I still watch AI videos when I’m depressed and/or sad, gives me motivation and nostalgia.

I hope this doesn’t make anyone unfollow or choose not to interact with my blog, I don’t post any AI stuff, even redraws of AI images on here. Just my art.

[canmom]

rn attempts to use AI in anime have mostly been generating backgrounds in a short film by Wit, and the results were pretty awful. garbage in garbage out though. the question is whether the tech can be made useful - keeping interesting artistic decisions in the hands of humans and automating the tedious parts, and giving enough artistic control to achieve a coherent direction and clean up the jank.

for example, if someone figured out how to make a really good AI inbetweener, with consistent volumes and artist control over spacing, that would be huge. inbetweening is the part of 2D animation that nobody especially wants to do if they can help it; it's relatively mindless application of principle, artistic decisions are limited (I recall Felix Colgrave saying something very witty to this effect but I don't have it to hand). but it's also really important to do well - a huge part of KyoAni's magic recipe is valuing inbetweeners and treating it as a respectable permanent position instead of a training position. good inbetweening means good movement. but everywhere outside KyoAni, it mostly gets outsourced to the bottom of the chain, mainly internationally to South Korea and the Philippines. in some anime studios it's been explicitly treated as a training position and they charge for the use of a desk if you take too long to graduate to a key animator.

some studios like Science Saru have been using vector animation in Flash to enable automated inbetweening. the results have a very distinct look - they got a lot better at it over time but it can feel quite uncanny. Blender Grease Pencil, which is also vector software, also gives you automated inbetweening, though it's rather fiddly to set up since it requires the two drawings to have the same stroke count and order, so it's best used if you've sculpted the lines rather than redrawn them.

however, most animators prefer to work in raster rather than vector, which is harder to inbetween automatically.

AI video interpolation tools also exist, though they draw a lot of ire from animators who see those '60fps anime' videos which completely shit all over the timing and spacing and ruin the feeling and weight of the animation, lack any understanding of animating on 2s/3s/4s in the source, and often create ugly incomprehensible mushy inbetweens which only work at all because they're on screen so briefly.

a better approach would be to create inbetweens earlier in the pipeline when the drawings are clean and the AI doesn't have to try to replicate compositing and photography. in theory this is a well posed problem for training a neural network, you could give it lots of examples of key drawing input and inbetween output. probably you'd need some way to inform the AI about matching features of the drawing, the way that key animators will often put a number on each lock of hair to help the inbetweener keep track of which way it's going. you'd also need a way to communicate arcs and spacing. but that all sounds pretty solvable.

this would not be good news for job security at outsourcing studios, obviously - these aren't particularly good jobs with poor pay and extreme hours, but they do keep a bunch of people housed and fed, people who are essential to anime yet already treated as disposable footnotes by the industry. it also would be another nail in the coffin of inbetweening's traditional role as a school of animation drawing skills for future key animators. on the other hand, it would be incredible news for bedroom animators, allowing much larger and more ambitious independent traditional animation - as long as the cheap compute still exists. hard to say how things would fall in the long run. ultimately the only solution is to break copies-of-art as a commodity and find another way to divert a proportion of the social surplus to artistic expression.

i feel like this kind of tool will exist sooner or later. not looking forward to the discourse bomb when the first real AI-assisted anime drops lmao

[manyblinkinglights]

ugh my room looks nice when I remove the MULTIPLE LAUNDRY BASKETS OF CRAP from my bookshelves, leaving only books. However! That! Is my crap!

That is a significant capital investment IN CRAP. Old mic, controllers, flight sticks, spare keyboards, bags of pokemon figurines, batteries, stickers, post-its, CRAP. Blank CDs, ripped CDs. Stores of emulation in potential laid in by past mbl against future hardship. HDDs.

I still read and daydream, but I MAKE videogame( asset)s, these days, I don’t have the same endless well of need to play them. Plus old games aren’t that great anyways—I’m glad to HAVE played them and been shaped by them, but if I’m really in trouble someday I don’t need to be able to emulate a PS2. Indie games and phone games (VRChat itself will eventually even be a damn phone game)—I should probably shed a lot of this hardware.

The REAL thing that should be done is properly install all the software for emulation on my backup pc, get all my backup hdds in place, get it all working, and then discard the old stuff. But that’s so much. I use that neural architecture for Blender and Unity now, not other teams-of-people’s lifeworks.

Other people can archive the video games… I think I should discard my old hardware of just video games. I will always be able to turn to video games in better times but it’s not worth unusable stores of physical crap that I will have to leave behind if eg I become homeless, versus stolen comics and ebook library that just needs any screen. I don’t NEED this STUFF. I’m not into weird enough stuff to personally need to hold on to piles of it. I can MAKE my OWN stuff. Stuff is other people. Maybe the real stuff is the people we meet along the way

[neonstatic]

Mental distress caused by AI art is so reaaaal. I thought I was being a little bitch for reacting the way I did back when tthere was a neural blender phase on tumblr and I would see all these generated images that would give me the creeps. Like it hurt me in my brains.