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fanaticsnail · 2 months

Text

"Good Boy"

Masterlist here

Word count: 3,200+

Synopsis: Eustass Kid didn't know exactly when it happened, but now he craves to be praised by you. He thrives beneath your words, but the one time you didn't call him a "good boy" has him in a bratty rage.

Themes: mutual pining, kid x gn!reader, fluffy, praise kink Kid, he just wants to be a good boy, no kisses just praise.

Notes: it's past 1am where I am, and I physically couldn't get to sleep until I got this request by @remisloves out of my mind. It's all about praise and softening rough characters lately with me. Good night everyone! Sweet blorbo dreams

Tag list: @sordidmusings @writingmysanity @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @feral-artistry @carrotsunshine

A shudder erupted from the base of Eustass Kid's spine to the top of his cranium. Downturning his chin, he attempted to disguise how wide his smile had risen to his lips beneath the shadow of his blast goggles.

Never one to shy away from a challenge, Captain Kid pushed himself to the absolute limit to best his latest opponent. Blood dripping from his body, his bones bent to the point of nearly breaking. The weight of his metal arm overencumbered his body, his brute strength no longer enough to propel his legs forward.

Successful at last, he claimed their loot in their vast treasury, selecting a few key pieces that caught his eye to present back to you: a former thief, his ships’ appraiser, and now his curator of chronological dialogue, items and routines.

What would possess this hulking captain to risk his body and his crew to collect this small piece of art to present to you? Why would he ever risk such a heavy physical toll for a mere trinket?

Because he was a good boy.

And you always informed him as such.

While Kid saw no need for a chronicler initially, he very quickly warmed to the idea of maintaining one on his payroll. When Massacre Soldier Killer suggested a small snippet of their adventures be cataloged in journals, Kid never knew that reading the words back would prompt a rapid boil beneath his skin. A craving. A need.

Seeing those words scribed on paper held him hostage. Those doting, praising, uplifting words that held such passionate composition regarding his exploits; they pushed him to go further, drive harder, propell longer in his adventures. This was all in an attempt to dream of seeing more of those beautiful words describing him articulated upon paper.

Well, his exploits at least.

Most of all, he craved to hear them depart from your lips. You managed to slip a single verbalized expression of praise once upon his return from doing a menial task. Since then, he was hooked on the rush it brought him.

“Oh, wow! Captain, you've done so well! So unbelievably well!” was that first door opening to the praise he needed.

That small snippet from you, was all well and good in his opinion. He did enjoy your recognition of his talent, but it was not what he craved the most.

And what he wanted the most, was to be told he was, “a good boy.”

He couldn't explain it, but the thought of hearing those words flee from your lips had his eyelids half-hooded, eyes glazed, pupils blackened and blown, and a droopy smile lazily draw itself up onto his lips.

You had only ever come close one time to praising him personally, rather than the talent of his exploits. He felt the flutter of his heart rapidly igniting his veins with adrenaline, screaming with his eyes for you to utter the words he so desperately craved.

And you said it.

You finally said it today.

His feet thumped upon the wooden deck, after he hoisted himself over the small opening on the side of the ship. The ‘away team' had finally assembled together and began greeting those who remained behind.

Rushing to greet your Captain, he shot you a reciprocated, triumphant and winning smile, while happily presenting a small object up to you in the center of his right, flesh hand.

“You found it? You actually found it?” your eyes widened, reaching your hand out to Kid's extended right palm. His body was still dripping with the blood of his enemies, a visible shake in his fingertips as he elevated the trinket up to you.

“It nearly cost me my other arm,” he winced through the words, his forearm beginning to twitch beneath the strain of his exhaustion, “But I brought it back for you-...” he halted his words, pondering whether it was now time to make his affections known or not “...-to add to the collection.”

“For me?” your eyes widened, looking at the shiny and ornate gold filigree design. In the center of the flattened piece lay a single garnet: small, something one would cast aside should more items be presented. But to you, a prized piece in an antique collection you had been dedicating your life to find.

“It's the missing piece, yeah?” Kid smirked, huffing through his words as the rest of the crew assembled atop the Victoria Punk, “The one you told us about last Friday?”

“Honestly, Captain, I don't remember half of what happened last Friday,” you confessed sheepishly, up turning your brows as your fingers brushed against his palm, “You'd think my liver would be able to tolerate being aboard your ship, drinking that slosh alongside the crew by now.”

He barked a cracked cackle at your confession, prompting your own to rise in your chest. His laugh was contagious, a laugh that could be felt through his whole body springing and vibrating up within your own.

“Thank you, captain,” you expressed your deepest gratitude to the taller man, your head nodding in praise, “You don't know what this means to me.”

After a moment's pause, he looked down at the object before bringing his whisky-coloured eyes back up to meet with your own. He inhaled a shaken breath, baited and waiting within his lungs while anticipating his next words.

“S-So,” he stuttered over his words, scolding himself under his own anxiety, “Did I do good? Is this the one you needed? Am I a-...” he didn't want to lead you into giving him the praise he desperately sought, but didn't want to not hear it either.

With all the patience you could muster upon such a triumphant moment in your life, you prompted him with your eyes to have him complete his sentence.

“...Am I a good-...” trying so, so hard to say the final word, he physically couldn't have them pass his lips, “...-Captain?” He mentally slapped himself, knowing that those were not the words he craved and how stupid that must've made him sound.

You took a moment to carefully think about your next words, noticing how bruised he was, how bloody his knuckles were, how a lot of the crew that went with him on this private ‘away mission' were faring upon return.

“Of course you are. You captain us extremely well, sir,” you uttered with a soft smile, “I'll adjust my findings accordingly in the journals, if I may be excused?”

A small puff of air flew from his lips, defeat almost tangibly thick as it shrouded his shoulders with its presence. He looked away after giving his nod of dismissal, his gaze fixed on the wood of the deck below his feet.

Your smile widened, claiming the object from his palm and holding your hand within his for a moment longer, before withdrawing completely. Fluttering your eyes over each fixed point of concern on his features, you searched for what his body seemed to be screaming for.

Thanking him with a curt nod, you turned on your heel and abruptly halted your next step.

At this moment, it fully dawned on you exactly the words your Captain wanted to hear. Eustass Kid, captain of the Kid pirates, champion and leader of the Victoria punk, devil-fruit user and wielder of Haki… had a praise kink. And he wanted you to praise him.

A playful smile spread like warm honey up your cheeks, a scrunch in your nose as you rolled your next words over your tongue. You turned your head over your shoulder, guarding your intentions close to your chest as you spoke two words that almost had your Captain fall on his knees in gratitude.

“Good boy.”

From that moment on, he was simply smitten. No matter what he did, whether it was aiding his crew with carrying supplies, carrying out great acts of violence, defending his Nakama from their enemies, or simply finishing his vegetables at meal time - he would look to you in anticipation, that anticipation being met with those two simple words.

“Good boy.”

They echoed within his mind, swirling around within the chasms of his brain as slumber eluded him. He did not mind in the slightest having his lack of rest consumed with praises departing from your lips.

Your voice plagued him, haunted him as a spectral ghost would hunt down their unfinished business. He did not mind such a haunting, in fact: he wanted more. He wanted to have more praise, more compliments, more of your verbal, beautiful words crying out from your perfect lips.

He was smitten, completely smitten, by your compliments. The way your talented tongue made his name sound, the way your lips curved up in a knowing smirk each time you told him he was a ‘good boy.’

Until the day you didn't.

Eustass Kid was in a foul mood, one that nobody knew the cause nor the cure for such a horrid, stampeding mess of a captain. Food, ales, meads, even gold - nothing appeared to pry him from his raging temper. Breaking tankards, tipping over tables, scattering documents on his captains’ desk, nothing was safe from the wrath he was wreaking on the furniture.

Hunched over your desk, you continued cataloging and appraising the latest haul of trinkets and treasures thrust into your office. It was overwhelming for you, the sheer number of items scattered around your room. You attempted to alphabetize them, sort them accordingly and lump them into itemized piles.

The toll the elevation of work raised onto your shoulders had you dismiss all those who presented you with various finds, including your Captain. He rocked on the ball and heels of his feet, eagerly awaiting and anticipating his sought-after praise - but found nothing but an anxious sigh and scratch of your neck in response to his hard labor.

This was the reason for his intense rage.

After leaving your office, and selfishly paying no mind to your exhausted expression, he began to spiral.

“He was so good. Why didn't you tell him he was? Was there something he could've done better? Something he could've pushed harder to strive for?” all circled within his mind as he tore piece after piece of his office apart.

Several hours had passed, and you carved a hefty chunk of your work apart and managed to get a fair bit done. It was nowhere near complete, but it had you feeling a sense of anxious accomplishment.

A knock at the door prompted you to raise your chin, eyes panicked and overwhelmed with the amount of work still required to be completed before mealtime.

“Need help?” The light flickered off the cerulean and pearl colored mask of the first mate, who peeked his head around the doorframe.

“Please,” you sighed, gesturing to your position kneeling on the ground beside you. Killer promptly entered your office, crouching beside you and sifting through the uncharted treasures still needing to be sorted.

“What we up to?” he elevated his hand, gesturing out to the various piles in front of you both, “I think I see where they need to go. You written down them all?”

“All recorded in the book, down to the last drooped earpiece,” you confirmed, nodding to the mess in the center of the room, “They just need to be put in the right piles, locked in the treasury, and then we can call it a night. Maybe have an ale, if you're up for it, Kil?”

After a moment's pause, both of you rolling the items in your fingertips and placing them within the according: gold, silver, platinum, gemstone, raw material, ceramic, wearable materials, and weaponry piles.

“Leave this with me,” Killer uttered, placing a throwing knife within the weaponry stack, “And you go and perform your other job.”

“What other job?” your brows knit with confusion, “I've already done the journalling of the exploits, the timetabling of the crew shift-changes, notarizing the stock we need within the kitchen-.”

“-Oh, no, buckaroo,” you could audibly hear the smirk behind Killer's mask as he teased you, “the other one. The one nobody pays you to do.”

“Which is, champ?” you taunted in return, nudging him with your shoulder roughly against his, “Be specific.”

“The one where you-...” he took this brief pause as an opportunity to sigh in huffed frustration, “...-where you tell our captain he's a good boy. Although, in his current state,” Killer rotated his neck to relieve the tension on his shoulders, “I might even go so far as to suggest you call him a bad one, considering that's exactly how he's behaving.”

Your confusion knit your brow down in the center of your face, your mind focussing on when the last time you praised the puppy you had turned your Captain into.

“Oh, fuck! I didn't praise him when he brought in the loot!” your eyes widened in shock, promptly rising to your feet and brushing over your pants, “I just got so overwhelmed by the sheer bloody number, I couldn't think of anything else. Oh, I'm an idiot.”

“You're not an idiot,” Killer interrupted you, rising to his own feet and cupping your shoulders in an attempt to halt the rise in your anxiety, “Hell, you're not even dating him. It shouldn't be your job-,” he brushed over your shirt, adjusting the crumpled material to make it more appealing to the eye.

“-Yet here you are,” he concluded, nodding at you before glancing down at the piles of treasure, “And here I am: the first-mate, the best friend, the confidant. The one who is unable to tear him away from his absolutely shit-house mood, because all he wants is you.”

You attempted to stifle the warm flush that drew itself up to your cheeks. Captain Kid was a tall, broad and intimidating man - those were the three assessments you initially made when you were hired to serve aboard the Victoria Punk. Then you got to know him, and were made privy to truly see who he was beneath the surface.

The twinkle behind the feral rage, the purity in his unbridled emotions, the lack of restraint in all his advances: you adored him. When he began to seek out your praises, you were immediately swooning at his attention.

He wanted your words, not just due to the fact words were your job, but because he wanted you to speak them. Just to speak his praises to be granted the luxury of a light tingle in his ears, a blush rise to his cheeks and a smile decorating his lips with such beautiful words.

Now within the doorframe of your captain's office, you arched your brow and crossed your arms. Leaning on the wooden panel, you continued to watch his chest rise and fall with each exasperated and berzerk breath. Your eyes never left his body, each arch of his back and ripple of his muscles straining under the taut fabrics atop his shoulders.

“All this because I didn't call you a good boy?” you addressed him in a low and dangerous tone. His feral eyes snapped over to you, widening as he truly witnessed the devastation in the destruction in his office.

“You've been a bad boy, I see,” you continued in your dark tone, promptly stepping into his office and closing the door behind you, “Look at all this mess. Tsk, naughty.”

The click of your tongue had Kid arching his back, straightening his spine as he bit back a soft whimper. His brows triangulated in the center of his face, bottom lip now quivering under the weight of your disciplinary tone.

Circling his body, fingers brushing against his large right hand beside his hip as you leaned into him. You shook your head, stooping down and beginning to collect the paper, stationary, tankards, and paperweights that had been flung against the floor.

Before you could say a following, disciplinary word, Kid immediately fell onto his knees and began hurriedly picking up the items he threw onto the ground beside you.

“I-I’ll pick it all up,” he nodded his head as to confirm his words further, “I'll tidy up all this shit. Please, I-I’m sorry. I just-.”

“-Just wanted to be praised, hm?” you hummed at him. He hid his head from view, his painted lips pouting while his eyes held their attention firmly against the mess.

He nodded, the weight of finally admitting his craving lifting off his chest and shoulders as he received the items you were holding atop the stack he was forming.

“Tidy up your mess, handsome,” you smiled, elevating your right hand to capture his pointed chin within your thumb and index finger, “I'll watch every step you take, and let you know how good you're being, if you do it properly.”

Kid’s breath caught in his lungs, a pink dust settled against his cheeks and ears. He hurriedly rose to his feet, up-turning his askew desk and dusting off his captains’ chair. He extended it outwards, wordlessly and politely gesturing for you to take a seat.

“My, my,” you commented, rising to your feet and accepting his invitation, “Such a gentleman, you're being. But, you've gotta’ work a little bit harder to earn that title you crave.”

Captain Eustass Kid was a dutiful, whimpering puppy under your watchful eyes. He was, almost, happily rearranging all of the objects he had thrown askew. He even took the time to appropriately categorize the pages he didn't complete prior to his little tantrum.

“Hm, very good. Well done picking up after yourself.” He blushed further at your words, but craved so much more.

“Oh, look at how much time you're taking on that bookshelf. I can even see how clean you're making each of the panels. Look at you go, big boy.” That praise had him whimpering, his eyes fluttering shut as he continued to clean in silence.

“So strong, picking up that heavy weight all by yourself. So proud of you.” He could not stop the audible gasp, nor the rush of blood seeping to places they had no business in flooding to at that moment.

He completed all this while glancing over his shoulder and thriving beneath the giddy feeling rushing to his chest upon being the center of your unwavering gaze.

Upon the last paperweight being placed and straightened atop his desk, he knelt between your knees and glanced up into your eyes. He looked innocent of all wrongdoing, all prior anger and malice fleeing from within his silent pleading.

He was desperate for those words, those two simple little words that he so yearned for. Noseying up further between your knees, his shuddering metal and flesh hands cautiously placed themselves gently on your calves.

Soft and slow circles were traced against your legs, his eyes never leaving yours as they began twinkling with hope. All his mind was screaming, silently and internally, was a simple repetition of: “Please, please, please. Say it, say it, say it.”

And you obliged him by leaning down, caressing his left, scarred cheek and drawing your lips close enough to taste the tingle of his breath upon your skin. Hovering before contact was made, you floated your gaze between his whisky-hued orbs and his parted lips with a soft smile.

“Good boy.”

#one piece #x reader #Eustass Kid #eustass kid x reader #op kid #one piece eustass kid #kid x reader #kid x gn!reader #gn!reader #one piece x reader #kid has a praise kink #he just wants to be a good boy #fic request #ask snail #snail answers #snail needs sleep

746 notes · View notes

wordsvomit101 · 1 month

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That awkward moment when you realized that your big bro got laid with the person you tried to kill.

Author Notes: Credits to @eternal_auditor & @jazeswhbhaven, I got this idea for this shameless worldbuilding headcanons for Heaven and Angels thanks to both of them and the latter's "Angel Bros Headcanons: Michael Flips" post. I also just want to write the scenario in general. Warnings: Raphael is a caution flag himself, depictions of violence, thoughts of brutalizing and eating someone (being directed at MC) by Raphael, a lot of name-calling from Raphael directed at MC

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(Heaven - Time of Councils and Assemblies)

In the tranquil embrace of Heaven, evening descends like a gentle caress, casting a soft golden hue upon the timeless realm. As the radiant sun dips below the horizon of ethereal clouds, the celestial landscape is bathed in hues of pink, orange, and purple, creating a breathtaking tapestry of colors that stretches across the vast expanse of the heavenly domain. The sky is like a canvas painted lovingly by the hands of God, with the colors of a thousand sunsets, each stroke a masterpiece of divine artistry. The clouds, like celestial brushstrokes, dance across the canvas, their forms ever-changing, their edges illuminated with an ethereal glow.

Amidst the celestial splendor, angelic beings gracefully glide through the sky upon the archways of purest gold span the thoroughfares of Heaven, their graceful curves reminiscent of angelic wings in flight. Beneath these archways lie crystal atriums, their transparent walls revealing the celestial wonders of Heaven in all their resplendent glory. Their iridescent wings shimmer with divine light, flying gracefully as if they dance and pirouette in ethereal ballets, painting radiant trails of luminescence across the sky.

The lower-ranking angels engage in celestial chorales, their melodious voices intertwining in harmonies that resonate throughout the Heaven. The soaring soprano of archangels blends seamlessly with the velvety alto of cherubim, weaving a symphony that would uplift the soul and transport the listener to realms of pure bliss. The music reverberates through the celestial expanse, like a cosmic symphony conducted to worship the Almighty.

For middle-ranking angels, their beloved duty during the Pilgrimage to the Mount of Revelation to commune with their dear creator has to be despairingly pushed to merely Contemplation of Sacred Texts and attending to the Halls of Eternal Wisdom, a lesser, but an honorable duty nonetheless.

Even higher above, amidst ethereal spires and resplendent palaces that grace the heavenly expanse, angelic artisans toil diligently within the Halls of Artistry. Their deft hands sculpt magnificent statues and weave intricate tapestries, each a testament to the wonders of creation. They yearn for the day when their divine creator will bestow upon them a glimpse of their artistry, even a millisecond of recognition for their unwavering dedication to him would be more than enough.

While other angels tend to the flourishing celestial flora in the Gardens of Eternal Bliss. Radiant blooms burst forth in a splendor of colors, their petals shimmering with an otherworldly luminescence. The angels nurture these heavenly gardens with love and care, a single damage to a petal of these beautiful flowers is enough to have their heads roll to the disgusting pit of Hell, however making a mistake in God's favorite garden is an even bigger sin.

It is a mundane day for all of them.

Bang!

"Sir-!"

Creak!

"AAAAAA-!"

Crunch!

"I have yet to finish my prayer-!"

Snap!

However, it wouldn't be a normal day if there wasn't a Raphael brutally tearing and eating fleshes of every angel on his path to the Chamber of Divine Counsel to meet with other Seraphs. His blood-caked shoes thundering over polished marble as he swaggers through the vaulted corridors of Heaven, his crimson-smeared wings unfurling like banners of carnage. Red marred his short blonde hair and white attire. With each wrathful step, he leaves a trail of dismembered angel carcasses, their alabaster feathers floating like ethereal snowflakes in his wake. His crimson eye fully emits an aura of violence and fury.

Thump!

Bursting into the Chamber of Divine Counsel with enough force to make the office tremble, the room was bathed in an ethereal glow, and the other Seraphs present, Gabriel and Michael, sat in their resplendent chairs, their expressions inscrutable. Raphael's form, however, drenched in the gore of his victims, stood in stark contrast to the pristine surroundings. He only has one thought of personally feasting upon that purple hair wench's flesh when she is still alive and making her watch herself being devoured alive and cut off her tongue so she couldn't even voice out her pain.

"Why... Why is it always her...! That bitch!"

The pure white chairs, crafted from the finest celestial ivory, bore the brunt of his rage, splintering and crumbling under his kicks. Yet Gabriel and Michael, their faces devoid of emotion, paid him little attention.

"If you insist on throwing a tantrum, I implore you to do so in a realm more suited to such sorrowful displays. Hell would accommodate your temperaments more appropriately."

Michael stood tall over the intricately designed long table with a mindmap and countless brainstorming notes. Standing in a place Brother Lucifer used to stand in each council meeting. His glare locked on the furious blonde seraph before him. A frown, as if carved in stone, creased his handsome face, adding an air of solemnity to his prideful demeanor. Around his neck, a regal purple choker, embellished with ornate gold rings and shimmering gemstones, encircled his throat. At its center, a prominent gold ring held a solemn cross pendant, its gentle clinking accompanying his every movement.

In a swift motion, Michael tilted his head to the left, displaying effortless grace as he dodged the flying chair hurtling towards him at high speed. The chair collided with the wall, its impact leaving a deep dent in the panel, a testament to the force behind the throw.

"Shut that shitty mouth of yours! Maybe try to go down there yourself to ask why our dear brother is entertaining trash!" As Raphael spoke, his voice trembled with anger and frustration, his words dripping with venomous accusation. A few veins already popped on his crazed, striking appearance. Filled with unrepressed anger that led him to kill his spies who reported to him and fly from the dungeon up here.

Yet Michael continued to look at his notes, his face blissfully indifferent. His right hand continued to write on many of his papers on the white table.

"He has simply strayed from the right path."

Brother Lucifer’s footstep-less feet headed for the vile tiny red devil.

'Stop it.'

However, he couldn't say the same about his head. Memories he had been trying to wipe from his mind for years served only to haunt him. Taunting him of the gut-wrenching event more than a hundred years ago.

In the silence, pure white hands pushed through the grass and preciously held up the rotten red thing.

'Don't dirty your hands.'

His brother stroked that thing's body so softly with his hands so similar to how he once did with Michael's face. Those strong, beautiful hands that once held his face so tenderly to wipe his tears away. As he placed a gentle kiss on his forehead.

'Brother...'

"I remain confident in my ability to guide him back to the right path."

His brother's hand was holding Michael’s ray of light. The light in Brother Lucifer’s hand had stopped in front of the disgusting beast's chest, unable to advance further. He was again protecting worthless things that didn't deserve his grace.

'Why did you save it?!'

When his brother finally stood before Michael on his third step, black energy, not white, began to flow from his body.

'No-NononononoNONO-'

From his beloved brother’s head, the gorgeous head of the Morning Star, bright red horns that were the same color as the vile thing that tempted him began to grow.

'Brother- Brother Lucifer please!'

"You shall witness it in due time."

"I love you, my brother. Which is why I will give you one last chance. Return."

Crack!

The force of Michael's left hand left a massive crack in the opulent crystal marble table that trailed down to the other end of it. Effectively bringing clarity back to Raphael as the blonde gazes at Michael's hard knuckle gripping the table painfully, ignoring the blood pooling down to the marble floor and further dirtying the former pristine chamber.

Michael's abrupt actions were met with an air of knowing silence from the two. It wouldn't be far-fetched if they possessed a secret understanding of his motivations that would elude outsiders.

"Hmph," a scoff rang out and pierced the silence of the room, originating from the slender man with platinum blonde hair seated to Michael's right. His face, though classically handsome with a pale complexion, remained stoic and emotionless, belying the arrogance that dripped from the single syllable he uttered.

"Then you better live up to those words."

Gabriel's lean was a graceful movement, his body sinking into the chair as if it were a throne. His arms crossed over his chest, the crisp white of his shirt contrasting sharply with the gleam of the gold chain that adorned his white jabot ruffle shirt. The fabric of his sleeves rustled softly against the delicate filigree, creating a symphony of subtle sounds that echoed through the silent room. His eyes, deep and enigmatic, surveyed the scene before him, his expression a mixture of amusement and quiet contemplation.

"Furthermore, even in his current state, Brother Lucifer still demonstrates a reverence for God. It is conceivable that his actions are merely a symptom of his yearning for God's divine presence."

In this timeless realm, where Gabriel proudly proclaims to reign supreme as the epitome of seraphic obedience, there exists but one for whom he would willingly surrender his esteemed position: Brother Lucifer. The firstborn of God's creations, Brother Lucifer's devotion to his Maker surpassed all others, earning him the title of Morning Star. His brilliance illuminated the heavens, casting an unrivaled radiance that even Gabriel's wings could not obscure.

It was Brother Lucifer who instilled within the celestial choirs the rituals and observances that expressed their gratitude to the Almighty. Yet amidst his unwavering piety, Brother Lucifer adhered to a solitary discipline known only to himself. Only a select few had glimpsed this secret regimen, elusive even to those who had followed his every step for countless eons.

Solitary would not be said without Brother Lucifer's name being attached to the word. He found solace in his own construction of hallowed sanctuaries. These Majestic Temples of Worship at odd places in Heaven served as his solitary refuge, where he could commune with the divine without the distractions of others. His devotion ignited a spark in other angels, who, inspired by his example, crafted Halls of Artistry. They sculpted countless colossal statues of the Almighty, their grandeur exceeding the limits of mortal imagination.

No one dared step one foot into his havens, they were for Brother Lucifer alone, and death would be upon those who broke that unspoken rule.

Yet there were times he allowed Gabriel to join him during Celestial Meditation in the secluded Garden of Eternal Reflection, a sacred sanctuary hidden deep within the heart of Heaven. Here, amidst the fragrant blossoms and tranquil pools, Brother Lucifer let Gabriel join his silent meditation and prayers. It was one of the highlights of Gabriel's day when his brother was still around.

"Not if he is messing with the descendant of Solomon."

Raphael's voice now had the former rage in it that reminded him of what he came here for, to be in these two insufferable presences. He could barely believe it when one of his spies uttered those words out of their useless mouth. That Lucifer? The Morning Star? His brother who despises Solomon as much as any other angel and the one that would bite another head off if they recklessly touched him even in the rendezvous night at the sacred Eternal Flame at the heart of Heaven where they allowed themselves to let loose for a bit?

It sounds fucking unbelievable, but when they show him a picture of that purple-haired vixen bumping parts with his brother, it sends him off the reels. He kills most of the spies and storms out of his favorite dungeon to here.

"Pardon?" Michael's mismatched eyes bulged, his neck creaking and twitching as he stared up at Raphael in a frenzy of incomprehension, his falsely composed display gone. The mere hint of the truth was liable to send the black-haired Seraph into a rampage and murder them all.

"Are you suggesting..." Gabriel's face, previously etched in stoicism, crumbled into a mask of horror. He couldn't believe the words that had escaped Raphael's lips, but he couldn't shake the realization that was slowly creeping upon him. He desperately wished that the words that came out of Raphael's mouth were nothing more than a cruel jest, but the look in his eyes said otherwise.

"I said, he's with the descendant of Solomon, that purple-haired harlot...that traitor....that cheat- That tempting trash!"

It pissed Raphael off even more as he raised his voice volume, veins now appearing on his throat, especially at the reminder of his text with that two-timer. The sheer self-satisfied energy radiating off his phone screen almost makes him fly down to Hell to choke that bitch until her brain pops out of her head himself.

"This is preposterous...impossible..." Michael's jaw hung slack, his eyes wide with disbelief as Raphael's accusations cut through the air like a madman who had just been cheated on. His normally steady stance faltered, replaced by a palpable sense of hysteria that made his body tremble. He stumbled backward, his back colliding with the cold, unforgiving wall as if seeking solace from the onslaught of emotions that threatened to consume him. The wall provided no comfort, its smooth surface a stark contrast to the turmoil raging through his body.

"I'm not joking. I heard her talking about Lucifer, his scar, his... 'thing'," The mere mention of his beloved brother's private part sends shivers down his spine as his voice quivered. The thought of that conniving bitch taking full advantage of the trust Brother Lucifer had placed in her made his blood boil with simmering rage. And that she dared to go against her promise to him as if those moments they shared in the poisonous sky of Hell meant nothing.

"She knows his exact measurements!- You know what, look at this shit yourself!" With a resounding slam that echoed through the room like a thunderclap, he unveiled the damning evidence: a collection of photographs frozen in time, capturing moments of intimate interaction between Lucifer and the individual in question.

The images fell upon the table with a heavy thud, causing the fragile surface to tremble under the weight of their revelation. Despite the force of impact that threatened to shatter the fragile table beneath them, the pictures remained intact, their unspoken truth radiating from their glossy surfaces like a painful revelation begging to be acknowledged.

Michael's face contorted with a ghastly twitch as if he were attempting to conjure laughter, but the sound that escaped his lips was more akin to a hollow echo in the thick, suffocating atmosphere. "Shut up," his mind struggled to piece together the unthinkable truth that lay sprawled before him like a macabre revelation. Denial, a feeble shield against the onslaught of evidence, crumbled before the weight of reality, leaving him quaking.

"I swear before Thrones of Heavenly Majesty I will make her rue the day she even touched him. She corrupted him and brought him over to the side of temptation. God would never-" As Gabriel's solemn vow echoed through the room, the air crackled with the intensity of his conviction, thick with the gravity of impending retribution for the sinner.

His words struck a nerve, exacerbating Michael's fraying composure. The gravity of the situation bore down upon him like a suffocating weight, his anger bubbling to the surface in fervor.

"FUCKING SHUT UP! IT'S NOT REAL! IT'S NOT REAL!" Michael's voice cracked with anguish and insanity, his outburst sending shockwaves through the chamber. In his distress, the chamber was engulfed in an inferno, casting eerie shadows that danced upon the walls. In the distance, the echo of Michael's despair mingled with the desperate prayers and curses of those trapped within the blazing office. The once-orderly chamber had become a scene of utter chaos and destruction.

"O, Almighty Creator," Gabriel's voice trembled with urgency, his words a fervent entreaty to the absent God above. "Grant us clarity in this hour of darkness, illuminate our path with Your divine light."

Meanwhile, Gabriel's attempts at prayer offered little solace as he grappled with the implications of Raphael's revelations.

His murmurs grew more frantic with each passing moment, a desperate attempt to find solace in the face of unsettling truths. "Guide us through this tempest, O Lord, for we are adrift in a sea of uncertainty. Let Your wisdom be our compass, and Your mercy our salvation."

But despite his fervent appeals, only shrieks and flames answer back, echoing throughout Heaven from the burning chamber they're in.

"She said she'd only do that with me..." Raphael’s voice cracked with bitterness, each word laced with venomous resentment. His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms as he fought to contain the seething anger threatening to consume him whole. "...she lied...she lied..."

The weight of betrayal hung heavy in his heart, suffocating him with its oppressive presence. Raphael's chest heaved with each labored breath, his heart aching with the sting of betrayal. "Fucking cheater..." His words dripped with venom, the bitterness of betrayal poisoning his soul.

With a primal snarl, Raphael's control shattered like glass, shards of rage cutting deep into his consciousness. He lashed out blindly, his teeth sinking into the flesh of a passing stupidly brave angel that came to check on the three Seraphs, the taste of blood a bitter reminder of his own foolishness.

"I hate her..." The words escaped his lips in a guttural growl, each syllable dripping with raw fury. His grip tightened around the angel's trembling form, nails digging into flesh as he sought to vent his pent-up rage on an unwitting victim.

"I'm not sloppy seconds..." Raphael's voice cracked with rage, his crimson eyes ablaze like a firestorm. He tore into the angel's flesh with savage ferocity, his actions a grotesque display of his inner turmoil. "...I'm no side bitch!"

Boom!

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —

"Hm?", in the dim recesses of his grandiose office, Lucifer, who was engrossed in his craftsmanship of carving the statue of the divine, lifted his gaze from his artistic endeavor by the sudden but subtle yet discernible disturbance in the island above the sky of Hell.

His pure white eyes shimmered with an otherworldly glow. Despite the plaster and pigments that adorned his once-pristine garments save for his bloody back that had his broken wings. His form radiated a timeless beauty, marred only by the grim expression on his handsome visage.

The sensation he felt was like a creeping up from above, like a ripple in the placid waters of a celestial lake.

'What are those three getting angry at right now?'

Raon, who was perched upon the plush velvet couch that adorned his office, her tall form immersed in the pages of an ancient tome, looked up swiftly at Lucifer's voice, a rare occurrence after hours of silence.

Once she raised her gaze from the text, her curious eyes meeting Lucifer's form with silent inquiry. Normally, she would wait until Lucifer is willing to tell her what is on his mind, but currently, she is bored and needs a break after reading several magic grimoires Lucifer gave her and practicing with them for almost a whole day.

'Let's just hope he will at least give me a short answer.'

"Um, Lucifer, is there something wrong?" Raon's voice, soft and tentative, carried a note of concern as she awaited his response, her gaze fixed unwaveringly upon him.

Lucifer's answer was measured, his words carrying the weight of foreboding. "I feel there's a disturbance. There would be a storm soon," he left out the part that it was most likely his brothers being angry about something again.

"Is it related to the angels?" Yet the young woman still managed to catch onto the hidden message, her question not directed at ordinary angels but at his brothers as she nervously tightened her grip on her grimoire.

Lucifer nodded solemnly. "Very likely," he confirmed. His gaze remained fixed on the distant horizon but his voice relaxed to ease the lady's tension as he contemplated the unfolding events in the celestial realm.

"Oh, then I will get back to my training-", with a subtle shift of his form, he turned his attention back to Raon, his gaze meeting hers with a serene intensity as he stood up to clean himself with a swipe of his finger. He tidied himself with a cleaning spell and put his tools and statues back into their orderly places without doing so himself physically—a casual display of his magic that Raon wishes to get to one day.

"It's fine," Lucifer assured her, his tone gentle yet authoritative. "Let's take a rest. Care to join me for a walk to the observatory room?" Quietly, he held out his right arm for her to hold on to if she wanted to accompany him.

Raon's heart fluttered at the invitation, her breath catching in her throat as she struggled to contain her excitement. "Really? I-I mean, of course! Please lead the way." Her words spilled forth in a rush of eagerness, her eyes shining with anticipation as she rose from her seat and she excitedly but carefully walked over to Lucifer's spot.

As Raon raised her gaze, a silent query lingering in her eyes, she studied the handsome devil's countenance for the slightest hint of unease. Finding none, she shyly reached out and clasped his arm, a silent agreement passing between them. Together, they embarked on a leisurely stroll, the pace unhurried yet purposeful.

Lucifer, typically swift in his movements, slowed his steps to accommodate Raon, pausing whenever she expressed a desire to linger and marvel at the exquisite white blossoms that adorned Paradise Lost, a sight reserved only for the privileged few. The air was filled with a sense of tranquility and reverence as they meandered through the garden, each step bringing them closer to their destination, yet allowing them to savor the beauty that surrounded them. Unbothered by the chaos that is currently exploding in Heaven.

#what in hell is bad #whb #whb worldbuilding #whb michael #whb gabriel #whb raphael #whb lucifer #whb mc #minors dni #these 3 are so silly/jk #i will act like the christmas event didn't happen and just let mc girlbossing in another way #let homegirl be magical #lucifer is literally God's first fan boi #guess who these three got there habits from #it would be funny if lucifer was the wild one that contain himself to be a role model to his brothers but it failed anyway #they still love him tho and that is all it matter

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tobiasdrake · 27 days

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FUN FACT: Did you know Frieza had a finite amount of soldiers on Namek? (And he doesn't kill his troops.)

Also Appule is kind of important and there's a clearly marked place where Goku's six-day space journey happens in the timeline?

I have a laundry list of grievances with the Dragon Ball and DBZ animes. We're here to talk about one of those right now! The Z anime gives Frieza infinitely respawning soldiers that just seem to pour out of his ship whenever he needs them.

This interferes with a key plot point of Frieza's portion of the Namekian Dragon Ball hunt: That Frieza, for all his power, is rendered helpless when his attack on Moori's village goes south.

See these guys?

These guys ruin Frieza's entire goddamn week.

Get his ass, my Namekian thembruhs.

A consistent weakness of Frieza's forces is that they fight blind. By this point in the series, characters on Earth have been taught advanced fantasy martial arts involving manipulation of ki or chi. They can concentrate ki into attacks more powerful than the wielder, sense ki in other beings and feel incoming attacks without having to see them, suppress ki to become invisible to ki detection, etc. etc.

The Earthlings are goddamn amazing at ki manipulation, and the Namekians are just as good.

But Frieza's Planet Trade Organization represents the uncaring hand of capitalism. There is no artistry in their methods. There is no true discipline or understanding. They're a bunch of paid thugs with guns, looking to gentrify planets for their boss: a real estate mogul. So they rely on fallible technology that fails time and time again when put up against experienced martial artists.

The battle at Muri's village is no exception, as Frieza's forces get slaughtered by the "harmless" interlopers.

With only the elites vaguely understanding, from second-hand accounts, what they're seeing here.

Which, in turn, gives Muri the opening he needs to cripple Frieza's campaign by destroying the Scouters they're using to track down Namekian villages.

This is Muri's checkmate. Muri destroys the Scouters, the technology Frieza relies on to find Namekian villages on this planet and take their Dragon Balls. Meanwhile, his reinforcements wipe out Frieza's army.

That guy right is the only survivor of the massacre.

This is Appule. If you've ever wondered why Appule was so important that he got to be his own distinct character in Tenkaichi 3, this is why. Appule is the last grunt left standing.

Though Dodoria makes short work of the Namekian warriors, the damage is done. Frieza's lost his Scouters and he's out of manpower. He's going to have to fan his men out to search the planet, a planet larger than Earth, by looking around with their eyes. And the only men he has left to do that are Zarbon, Appule, and Dodo--

...are Zarbon and Appule.

So. Y'know. Frieza is two deaths short at this point of being completely and utterly fucked sideways.

As his two remaining men set out to search, Zarbon takes great care to tell Appule not to do anything that might get him killed.

It is absolutely pivotal for Frieza's campaign that these two live. There is no one else on this planet who can do the job. It's Appule who ultimately succeeds in finding the last Namekian village.

For some reason, in their eagerness to rewrite the story so that there are far more soldiers on Namek for some reason, the anime makes this Appule's vampire cousin?

Uh. Okay, man. Sure. In any case, it's Appule who finds the village and Appule who reports its destruction to Frieza. He's not a significant character by any stretch, but you can see why he warrants a bit more name recognition than Frieza Soldier #72. He has more impact on the plot that Cui does, that's for damn sure.

Too bad about Vegeta though.

It's a lot easier for Vegeta to get away with this gambit in the manga than it is in the anime. In the anime, somehow the infinitely respawning Frieza soldiers (who he regularly kills for funsies) flooding the halls don't give away the fact that Vegeta's still here.

But with Appule dead, Zarbon and Frieza are the only people left alive in the ship. It's a lot easier to distract two people for a minute than a limitless garrison.

In the manga, this is the closest Frieza ever gets to team-killing one of his own soldiers. Once he realizes Vegeta has stolen all five of his Dragon Balls, has a sixth Dragon Ball stashed away, and is now just one Dragon Ball away from immortality while Frieza's blind and understaffed? All because Zarbon fucked up?

He says some shit.

So. Yeah. He's not above killing his men when they fuck up so bad that they cost him immortality and give his most dangerous archnemesis the means to topple his empire and end him.

But that's a much higher bar to clear than shooting down his infinitely respawning dudes because, uh....

*checks notes* With the Ginyu Force on their way, Frieza can afford to kill his own guys because the Ginyus are better than them anyway. So he keeps them all in the ship and murders them for no reason despite the fact that Vegeta is actively making off with his Dragon Balls right this second and he has no idea to where.

Yeah. That's. Uh. That's a pretty significant story difference. In any case, Frieza's campaign grinds to a screeching halt when....

That's it. That is the very last one. Frieza's campaign is sunk. Until the Ginyu Force arrives, Frieza has no forces and no resources left. He is an unbelievably powerful man, the most powerful in the universe, and the only way he could ever hope to catch up to Vegeta is by flying aimlessly around a colossal planet and looking for Vegeta with his eyes.

I've often heard people express confusion about where Goku's six-day transit is supposed to fit into the Namekian timeline. This, right here? This is it. At this moment, it's over for Frieza. For the next five days, he is soundly defeated. He's out of the race for the Dragon Balls entirely.

And the only reason Vegeta hasn't won the race is because of that one Ball Gohan smuggled away from him.

So Frieza, defeated, is forced to sit in his broken ship with his thumb up his ass and wait for reinforcement.

Vegeta, with six Dragon Balls, is forced to sit on his balls with his thumb up his ass hoping the talented martial artist Earthlings currently suppressing their ki signatures get stupid and give him something to detect - knowing that if he leaves for a second, those little shits with the Dragon Radar might scoop 'em up from under him.

While Gohan and Krillin, with ki signatures suppressed, make the five-day trek at minimum power to Saichoro/Guru.

It's here. Right here. Where everything stops for five days to pass, and for Goku to approach the planet. All because Frieza ran dry on resources and manpower to keep up the hunt.

#dragon ball #dragon ball z #frieza

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gothhabiba · 1 year

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On the one hand, people who take a hardline stance on “AI art is not art” are clearly saying something naïve and indefensible (as though any process cannot be used to make art? as though artistry cannot still be involved in the set-up of the parameters and the choice of data set and the framing of the result? as though “AI” means any one thing? you’re going to have a real hard time with process music, poetry cut-up methods, &c.).

But all of this (as well as takes that what's really needed is a crackdown on IP) are a distraction from a vital issue—namely that this is technology used to create and sort enormous databases of images, and the uses to which this technology is put in a police state are obvious: it's used in service of surveillance, incarceration, criminalisation, and the furthering of violence against criminalised people.

Of course we've long known that datasets are not "neutral" and that racist data will provide racist outcomes, and we've long known that the problem goes beyond the datasets (even carefully vetting datasets does not necessarily control for social factors). With regards to "predictive policing," this suggests that criminalisation of supposed leftist "radicals" and racialised people (and the concepts creating these two groups overlap significantly; [link 1], [link 2]) is not a problem, but intentional—a process is built so that it always finds people "suspicious" or "guilty," but because it is based on an "algorithm" or "machine learning" or so-called "AI" (processes that people tend to understand murkily, if at all), they can be presented as innocent and neutral. These are things that have been brought up repeatedly with regards to "automatic" processes and things that trawl the web to produce large datasets in the recent past (e.g. facial recognition technology), so their almost complete absence from the discourse wrt "AI art" confuses me.

Abeba Birhane's thread here, summarizing this paper (h/t @thingsthatmakeyouacey) explains how the LAION-400M dataset was sourced/created, how it is filtered, and how images are retrieved from it (for this reason it's a good beginner explanation of what large-scale datasets and large neural networks are 'doing'). She goes into how racist, misogynistic, and sexually violent content is returned (and racist mis-categorisations are made) as a result of every one of those processes. She also brings up issues of privacy, how individuals' data is stored in datasets (even after the individual deletes it from where it was originally posted), and how it may be stored associated with metadata which the poster did not intend to make public. This paper (h/t thingsthatmakeyouacey [link]) looks at the ImageNet-ILSVRC-2012 dataset to discuss "the landscape of harm and threats both the society at large and individuals face due to uncritical and ill-considered dataset curation practices" including the inclusion of non-consensual pornography in the dataset.

Of course (again) this is nothing that hasn't already been happening with large social media websites or with "big data" (Birhane notes that "On the one hand LAION-400M has opened a door that allows us to get a glimpse into the world of large scale datasets; these kinds of datasets remain hidden inside BigTech corps"). And there's no un-creating the technology behind this—resistance will have to be directed towards demolishing the police / carceral / imperial state as a whole. But all criticism of "AI" art can't be dismissed as always revolving around an anti-intellectual lack of knowledge of art history or else a reactionary desire to strengthen IP law (as though that would ever benefit small creators at the expense of large corporations...).

#ai art #ip law #neural networks #machine learning #ai #technology #readings #art tag

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lookinghalfacorpse · 18 days

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Itwall c!doomsday trio prompt ideas: 1)Techno plays dress-up with steve and Dream and Phil are the judges or 2) Techno convinces Dream to play dress-up and they go show Technos masterpiece off to Phil

"Philza Minecraft."

"Yeah, mate?" Philza was lounged on the couch, his slippered feet propped on an ottoman close to the fireplace. Despite Technoblade's gameshow-host-esque tone, Phil's eyes stayed locked on the book in his lap. A hound's furry white head also occupied his lap, unbothered by the book cover on his forehead, and a crow was nestled carefully at his thighs. This old man wasn't going anywhere.

But Techno still had to try.

"Philza Minecraft!" He tried again, "If I may have the honor of your eyes upon my great creation."

"Oh!" Phil tore himself from the page, keeping a finger on his spot. "Great creation. Yes. Show me."

"You see, Phil," He extended an arm dramatically, summoning his best showmanship, "I am a man of many talents--"

"Mm-hmm--"

"I am a man of many talents, Philza, and while I'm most often concerned with the art of war, I am, of late, involved in the war of art. The battles of self-expression. The eternal struggle to create something beautiful. Philza Minecraft," he said, "I am entering the world of fashion."

"You always do dress very well, mate."

"I-- Well-- Thank you, Phil, thank you. I appreciate your immediate recognition of my genius. But fashion also means knowing how to dress more than just my peak-performance body. My perfect musculature. My piglin-ousity"

Philza nodded sagely.

"And you denied me an opportunity to play dress up earlier, so I am now taking back my right to express myself. My artistry. Through fashion. I present to you: Dream!"

Dream walked out through the shadow of the doorway, the dim light of the fireplace slowly illuminating the absolute mess that he was dressed in. He was dressed, exclusively, in Techno's clothing. Techno's crown hung limply at his gaunt shoulders, while the lacy white shirt was slowly sliding down his torso and revealing the skin all the way down at his ribcage. The pants, too, appeared to be sliding, ready to cascade into the oversized boots.

Dream had a massive grin on his face.

The crow fluttered away and the hound whined as Philza hopped to his feet.

"Nope! Nope!" Philza said, though he was fighting laughter, "No, no, no," He rushed over to Dream and gathered fistfuls of fabric in his hands, trying to pull it all up and keep the young man covered. "I told you it wouldn't fit! Lad, this is all gonna fall off you in three seconds."

Dream's face was red, but his smile remained. Despite Phil's efforts, the clothes had no chance of staying on. He felt the pants drop completely, though the length of the shirt kept him partially covered. A few weeks ago, he was embarrassed of his scarred skin, but there was nothing left to hide from either Techno or Phil anymore. "You bathed me earlier today, Phil--"

"We are in the living room! The windows are open! We don't get naked in the living room with the windows open! Mr. war-of-art doesn't know how to measure his models, eh?"

Techno stood with his arms across his chest, looking awfully proud of himself. "I think it's his best look yet."

Phil sighed, his shoulders falling as he realized how badly he was failing to preserve Dream's decency. Yet, there Dream was, smiling, looking absolutely dwarfed in Techno's clothes and almost half-naked as gravity took its toll. He had some color to his face, and his eyes were shining. He looked, for the first time in a long time, like he was having fun.

"Credit where it's due, mate."

#itwall #itwall extra scenes #in the wild all lessons last #drabbles #cdoomsdaytrio #ty for this prompt it was great :)#dreblr #asks

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innuendostudios · 7 months

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youtube

New video! Another miniature Alt-Right Playbook, about how Far Right recruitment is not dissimilar from pick-up artistry.

Back me on Patreon. Transcript below the cut.

Say, for the sake of argument, you’ve been having a knock-down-drag-out online with a reactionary for weeks. It’s been going long enough that you don’t remember how it started, or, entirely, what you’re talking about. The argument seems to center around the nation of Israel. You’re fuzzy on what his position on Israel is - he seems to think of it as a religious ethnostate, which he likes, and wants to use as a model for the US, but it’s a Jewish state and he has a lot of awful things to say about Jews. He also has a lot of awful things to say about you! He’s been giving you every incivility you can imagine - and a few you’ve never heard of - since this began. It’s not helped by the fact that, while you know your position on ethnostates and antisemitism - they’re bad! - you don’t actually know a lot about the history, founding, or government of Israel, so he often catches you out by infodumping and then mocking your ignorance.

He’s just so rude and conceited and you’re absolutely desperate to show the guy up, trying to bulk up on history every day before logging on, but then something unexpected happens. All of a sudden, he stops insulting you. He’s still saying awful things about everything you’ve ever claimed to believe, but now it’s directed at a “them.” Liberals, commies, SJWs, what have you. But he’s not calling you any of those things. He’s treating you like you’re smarter than all those limp-wristed leftoids, smart like him. Better than them. It’s like he sees potential in you. And after weeks of trying to one-up this guy, suddenly having his respect is actually kind of cool.

This is a recruitment technique. This is the outer edge of the onion. It centers around treating a person badly so they fixate their attention on you, seek some kind of recognition, and maybe have their confidence undermined, and then turning around and treating them very well. The nearest analogue is actually pick-up artist techniques like Negging and Love-Bombing.

If anyone does this to you, understand: you are being groomed.

#alt-right playbook #video essay #Youtube

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renton6echo · 4 months

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Day 7 of 30 Days of The Bad Batch

Season 1, Episode 7: Battle Scars

Our noble King returns and the squad confronts a unnerving and malignant truth.

This episode easily makes my top three favorites of the series because (1) it has Rex in it and (2) it's a chilling reminder for the Batch on how they are still susceptible to the influence of the chip. Also, if you're a Jedi Fallen Order fan this was a fun cameo of Bracca.

Re-watching this episode, I cannot get over just how beautifully rich this episode is in detail. The texture of the rusting ships, the contrasting lighting you experience as the squad and Rex move in and out of old decommissioned Venators. The animated Star Wars shows just don't get enough recognition for the amount of artistry and creativity.

Inhibitor chip controlled Wrecker is terrifying, but I think, in a lot of ways, the squad got off easy. He's scary because of how imposing he is, but I can't imagine what would have happened if Tech or Echo's chip had activated. With all the technology and the maze of ships on Bracca, the rest of the squad would have had a hell of time controlling either of them.

Also! Did anyone else want a clip of Hunter fussing with his hair when they had to shave his head for the chip procedure? Missed opportunity.

#30 days of the bad batch #captain rex #star wars #the bad batch #tbb echo #arc trooper echo #tbb crosshair #the clone wars #tbb hunter #tbb tech #tbb wrecker #tbb omega #renton6echo

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image-junkie · 2 months

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Patrick Nagel (American, 1945-1984) Girl Seated on a TV, Playboy magazine interior, May 1982 Acrylic and ink on board

Patrick Nagel (American, 1945-1984) Terri Welles, Playmate of the Year, Playboy, 1981 Acrylic on board

"Drawing inspiration from Art Deco and pop art movements, and capturing the dynamic futurism of his time, Patrick Nagel's captivating, minimalistic style has become synonymous with the 1980s. Nagel's illustrations are a visual feast, and during his all-too-brief career, his work gained widespread recognition through his collaborations with Playboy magazine and the iconic rock group Duran Duran. With over 285 illustrations within the magazine, Nagel's paintings graced the pages of every Playboy issue between August 1975 until his death in 1984, particularly in notable columns like the Playboy Advisor, Playboy Forum, and Playboy After Hours. This exposure to a wider audience propelled the popularity of what became known as "the Nagel Woman."

The present work is an exceptional and rare example by Patrick Nagel featuring the renowned model and actress, Terri Welles, and comes from her personal collection. This stunning and bold piece holds a unique significance for several reasons. Firstly, it was gifted to Terri as part of her Playmate of the Year award in 1981 after Terri sat for Nagel in his personal studio-the first Playmate to ever do so. After the sitting, Terri received the portrait as a gift from the magazine. A one-of-a-kind hidden treasure, this artwork was never published in the magazine, and has until now remain unseen by the public for over 40 years, carefully preserved by Terri it in its original frame in her private home. This untouched and highly personal work showcases Nagel's artistry in a distinct way. Additionally, it is worth mentioning that Terri is one of the very few blondes Nagel ever painted and chose to keep as a blonde, as he often preferred to darken their hair to a brunette hue." --- Heritage Auction April 2024 Illustration Art Signature Auction

#patrick nagel #Illustration #acrylic painting #art deco #minimalist art #contemporary art #pop art #modern art #modernism #1980s #1980s fashion #1980s art #vintage art #vintage illustration

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anyyyyb · 1 month

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Time to get rid of the awful "Romancing Mister Bridgerton" cover!

Guys, this ugly thing needs to go! You know it, I know it, let's at least TRY to make it happen. The goal is to go from this :

To this :

Honestly, it ain't gonna kill anyone to take 2mins to sign the petition to get it done.

Don't y'all feel horrible for Nicola over this? She's the only character, so far, whom they felt they had to edit beyond all humanity and recognition.

In a book entirely about Penelope and Colin accepting themselves and getting comfortable/finding love in that, they didn't accept Penelope & thought the way to publish a cover/poster was to turn an already pretty actress into an A.I. monstrosity. WTF?!?!

Please! Let's show them, that it's not okay to do this kind of shit! Let's stand up & show Netflix, Julia and Shondaland, that if they're not gonna hold themselves accountable for realistic depictions of females and beauty, at least WE WILL!

Please sign this Petition :

Let's kick hollywood in the balls and show them, that this is not okay! That we won't stand for it! We can do it!

Let's actually fight together for once! 💪🏼

Btw, I already send them a Mail & got a response from the publishers. If any of y'all wanna contact them, I'll add their emails & the draft, which is basically copy/paste of the petition :)

Emails : [email protected]

[email protected]

Mail :

Dear Representatives for Julia Quinn, Staff at Netflix, Harper-Collins & Shondaland,

I Am writing to inform you of my decision to cancel my pre-order of "Romancing Mister Bridgerton" by Julia Quinn.

I found what the editing team did to the cover unacceptable and refuse to support a company that thinks it's appropriate in 2024 to change a woman's entire face to - apparently - make it "publishable".

In - AGAIN - 2024, it’s really disappointing to see the female lead of a show be so heavily edited, whilst the male lead has been hardly touched.

While I understand that marketing images will always have touch-ups, the amount that was done to Nicola Coughlan is sexist and insulting to her and her hair, makeup artistry team and any plus size fan of the show.

There has been nothing more beautiful for fans than seeing how Nicola Coughlan has stepped into her own power as a leading lady, and to have the spotlight redirected from her on a primary piece of the show’s advertising is a disgrace. She looks like an AI version of herself.

I understand, that the editors have overlaid the actor's faces so that they’re both looking in different directions.

However, when we compare the two photos, we can see that beyond basic retouching AND flipping her face, the following edits to Nicola have been made:

-Redefined her chin

-Erased her elbows

-Elongated her arm

-Enlarged her lips

-Changed the shade of her eyes

-Changed her makeup (she looks like a circus clown)

-Added cleavage

-Slimmed her waist

The following edits have been made to Luke Newton:

-Increased saturation and sharpened quality

All this on the cover of a book about finding self-acceptance!

It's shameful, troubling and disturbing to any female fans, especially those who have their own body image issues. I know that the books will likely already have been printed, but I also know that they can be reprinted.

At the very least, there is time for the posters to be redone. And if not, I Am calling out bad marketing.

Sincerely,

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buttersmama · 7 months

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CRIMSON VEIL

Crazy obsessed fan recreates his favourite author's murder scenes from his book (choi yeonjun referred to as Daniel hunter- his pen name)

Warnings: obsession, murder, gore, demonic symbols (mention), hurting please proceed with caution!!

choi yeonjun, known to the world as Daniel Hunter, had always been captivated by the mind of darkest villains. He reveled in fabricating tales of murder mysteries, weaving intricate webs of intrigue and suspense that kept his readers yearning for more. His books were celebrated, his storytelling skills praised, and his pseudonym became synonymous with the chilling tales.

To say that Yn was fascinated with Daniel’s works would be a colossal understatement. He didn’t merely read the novels, he consumed them with an insatiable hunger. Yn dissected every page, every sentence, and every word with meticulous precision. He unearthed hidden meanings and reveled in the artistry behind each murder scene.

For Yn, these were not just books, They were sacred texts, and Daniel Hunter was his literary deity. His admiration for the author knew no bounds. Yn’s room had been transformed into a shrine dedicated to Daniel’s work. Every inch was plastered with crime scene photos, excerpts from the novels, and handwritten notes analyzing the meticulous details of each murder.

It was an obsession that bordered on madness, a testament to the profound impact Daniel’s writing had on his life. Late at night, while the world slept, Yn delved into the depths of darkness. He tirelessly studied criminal psychology, immersing himself in the minds of the killers depicted in the novels. Yn was relentless in his quest to understand the darkest corners of the human psyche, the very places where Daniel drew his inspiration.

All to make Daniel’s ‘art’ as yn considered, come to life.

In “Crimson Veil,” Daniel Hunter had penned a scene that sent chills down the spines of his readers. The murder was a macabre dance of violence, meticulously detailed in the pages of his novel. The room, depicted in hauntingly vivid language, was cloaked in shadows, save for a single source of light casting eerie crimson hues. On the bloodstained carpet, a lifeless figure lay, their pallid face twisted in eternal anguish. The walls bore cryptic symbols and menacing graffiti, seemingly whispering the secrets of the deranged killer. The weapon, a gleaming knife, lay beside the lifeless body, its blade still wet with fresh blood. Crimson splatters adorned the walls, ceilings, and even the once-pristine windowpane, turning the scene into a nightmarish canvas of death and despair.

Yn, had recreated the exact murder scene from the pages of “Crimson Veil.” The parallels were uncanny, the similarities unsettling. In the real world, a lifeless body lay, the room cloaked in the same shadows and eerie crimson lighting. The walls were adorned with the same cryptic symbols and menacing graffiti, as if Yn had plucked them from the pages of the novel. The weapon, a gleaming knife, lay beside the lifeless body, its blade still wet with fresh blood. Even the crimson splatters adorned the walls, ceilings, and windowpane, as if Yn had taken Daniel’s words as gospel, breathing life into the darkest corners of fiction.

The distinction between creator and re-creator, fiction and reality, had blurred beyond recognition. Yn had, with eerie precision, made Daniel’s ‘art’ come to life, and the line that separated the two worlds had become an abyss of obsession and darkness.

It all started with an online forum where the admin, an avid fan of crime fiction, talked about how the new murder case had a striking resemblance to Daniel’s “Crimson Veil.” The post drew the attention of fellow enthusiasts who were quick to note the eerie parallels between the real-world crime and the fictional murder meticulously crafted by the author.

The revelation sent shockwaves through the virtual community, with users dissecting the similarities in chilling detail. They combed through the descriptions in “Crimson Veil” and compared them to the grisly details emerging from the murder investigation. The alignment was uncanny—the shadows, the bloodstains, the cryptic symbols—all bore a striking resemblance to Daniel’s haunting prose.

After a few weeks had passed since the horrifying murder, the police force had made efforts to assure the public about their safety. It was a strategy to provide a semblance of security, even if the reality was far more unsettling. The public, in their quest for comfort, clung to the notion of safety, accepting the reassuring words of the authorities. Ignorance, in this case, was indeed bliss.

It was in this atmosphere, when the initial shock had given way to cautious relief, that Daniel decided to make an announcement. He had delayed a fan meeting that was originally scheduled to take place, blaming the circumstances surrounding the murder.

The announcement was met with a mixed response. Some fans were understanding, appreciating his consideration for the timing. Others, however, felt a lingering unease, a reminder of the unsettling connection between his work and the real-world horrors that had unfolded. As the date for the fan meeting drew closer, the anticipation and trepidation among his fans and the public grew, creating an atmosphere tinged with both excitement and lingering fear.

Yn, the fan whose obsession with Daniel’s work had taken a chilling turn, closely followed every move of his idol. When he learned of the announcement for the delayed fan meeting, his reaction was a complex blend of emotions, a sinister concoction of excitement, anticipation, and the darkness of his own obsession.

The news sent shivers of eagerness down Yn’s spine. He had been waiting for this moment for what felt like an eternity, and now it was within reach. The thought of finally meeting the author face-to-face, of being in his presence, was intoxicating. Yn’s mind raced with the possibilities, the conversations they could have, the connection he believed was destined to be.

The day of the fan meeting had arrived, and for most attendees, it was a day of excitement and anticipation. They gathered in a large, well-lit hall, where Daniel would soon make an appearance to meet his adoring fans. The atmosphere was electric, buzzing with chatter, laughter, and the eager rustling of novels and merchandise.

Among the crowd, Yn stood at the forefront, his demeanor a stark contrast to the fanfare around him. His gaze was unwavering, his eyes locked on the entrance where Daniel would soon appear. Yn’s excitement was palpable, but it was a sinister kind of excitement, one that spoke of a deeper, darker devotion.

As Daniel finally walked onto the stage to thunderous applause, Yn’s heart raced. The moment had come, the moment he had been waiting for, not as a fan seeking an autograph but as a disciple, ready to claim his place.

The fan meeting proceeded, with fans asking questions, sharing their love for the author, and relishing the chance to be in his presence. Yn, too, had questions, but his were laced with a intense curiosity.

As Yn sat down in front of his idol, he carefully handed his cherished copy of ‘Crimson Veil’ to Daniel. The author, with his characteristic sweet smile, graciously accepted the book. It was a gesture that sent Yn’s heart racing, a surge of exhilaration coursing through his veins.

Yn couldn’t help but stammer out his admiration, “Mr. Hunter, your work means everything to me. Meeting you is like a dream come true.”

Daniel, though surprised by the intensity in Yn’s voice, replied with a gentle nod and a soft-spoken, “I’m so glad to hear that. It’s the support of readers like you that keeps me going.”

The moment stretched, a palpable tension in the air as their eyes met. Yn’s voice dropped to a husky whisper as his eyes began to wonder finding the correct words, “Your writing is so… inspiring. It’s like you’ve taken the darkest corners of my mind and put them on paper.”

Daniel, though unsettled, managed a faint smile, “I’m fascinated by the human psyche. It’s what drives my storytelling.”

Yn’s heart raced at the gesture his hands moved on their own as if they possessed free will of their own grasping the writer's hand. The audience gasped in response, but Yn paid no mind to their reactions. He was entranced, his focus consumed entirely by the man sitting before him.

Daniel’s smile, once sweet and welcoming, now bore a hint of curiosity and uncertainty. He had encountered enthusiastic fans before, but Yn’s intensity was unlike anything he had experienced and that scared him.

Then, as the fan meeting drew to a close, Yn couldn’t resist one final, chilling moment. He whispered, his voice barely above a breath, “Oh, Daniel, how I would kill for your next book.”

A chill ran down Daniel's spine, his eyes meeting Yn’s.

#choi yeonjun x male reader #choi yeonjun #txt yeonjun #txt #tomorrow by together #txt post #txt x male reader #txt x reader #male reader

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cherokeecharles · 3 months

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#Hottakes #11: White Mediocrity at The Grammy’s Isn’t a Surprise Anymore.

It wouldn’t be award season if we weren’t talking about white mediocrity being rewarded or people being surprised that it was awarded. The never-ending saga of ‘I can’t believe Taylor won over [insert great black artist here]’ is now plaguing my timeline for the time being and what better way to break my silence?

During my writing hiatus, I went on an inspiration scavenger hunt—poking around pop culture, TV, music, and yes, even sports (times are tough, sisters). Yet, nothing sparked that writing flame. Then came the Grammys buzz, the usual drill: nominations, snubs, and the betting game of who should win versus who will win. We all would like to think of ourselves as Grammy psychics to some degree. So, imagine my surprise at the post-Grammys shockwave. Why the gasps for the winners? Why the faux shock when black artists get the snub? And seriously, why keep submitting music if it's playing hide-and-seek with recognition? It's like sending your resume to a job that never calls back—maybe it's time to rethink the application process, huh?

Jay-Z delivered a powerful speech while receiving his honoree Hip Hop award. Rather than talking about his accomplishment he went on to give a rant about his wife, Beyoncé, being the most awarded Grammy winner yet always falling short of her peers of winning the coveted Record of the Year award. The speech was compelling and it reflected what many of us said for years. I would’ve been moved by the speech if I knew they weren’t going to keep submitting their music to be snubbed yearly. The speech reflected all of my thoughts of Beyoncé being categorically snubbed every year for that award that we know is likely missing from her résumé. However, I don’t like the fact that it’s being deemed that she’s missing this one thing from greatness. Beyoncé is great on her own and her career, music, and work ethic back up that claim. I think that it’s unfair that her ‘shortcoming’ amounted to an award where the line is always moving.

The award show progressed, and we’re all left to simmer with Jay-Z's speech about snubbing at the Grammys. The end of the award show comes around, and the last and biggest award is Album of the Year. The album of the year award was presented by the one and only Celine Dion. The Album of the Year award is a coveted award, it’s essentially the album that shaped the year we just went through, and the cultural and social impact of said album are factors into who gets the win, or so I thought. The category for album of the year was groundbreaking on its own because this is the first time it has ever had seven of the eight nominations be women. The category on its own with poised for someone who showed great artistry through one album that spoke to the public, and to the Grammy voters. Imagine the lack of surprise on my face when Taylor Swift won. Taylor Swift’s album Midnights won the most desired award beating out SZA’s SOS, Miley Cyrus’ Endless Summer, Janelle Monae’s Age of Pleasure, etc. This Album of the Year award made Taylor Swift the most winningest recipient of the award receiving the most nominations and win in this category.

The aftermath was a storm of criticism that hit Taylor Swift like a hurricane. From her award-acceptance antics to dropping her album bombshell mid-show and dragging poor Lana Del Rey on stage, Swift's behavior was undeniably tacky. But let's not kid ourselves—the uproar wasn't just about her manners. It was the fact that she clinched the Grammys' holy grail, becoming the all-time winningest. Viewers collectively winced, wondering why Taylor got the crown instead of, say, SZA. We act shocked, but really, we've read the exposés, pondered the think pieces, and still tune in annually. Artists keep submitting, black artists keep getting snubbed. If Taylor's the poster child for white mediocrity, why do we willingly sign up for this annual masochism? It's like déjà vu with a side of irony.

I'm not exactly Taylor Swift's number-one fan (and never will be), and I join the chorus of critics giving her the side-eye. But what grinds my gears is the phony shock everyone's putting on. Sure, there are more deserving artists out there, and it's downright ludicrous that a powerhouse like Beyoncé hasn't snagged the top prize. Yet, when does the surprise party end? We've witnessed Grammys snubs so brutal they make 2024 look like a tea party. That's why Jay-Z's speech didn't move my needle. Valid points, definitely, but let's be real, you're still cashing in those Grammy chips and probably gonna play again. Our beloved artists secretly crave that Recording Academy nod and that's why they keep tossing their tunes into the Grammy ring. It's like a messed-up lottery where, once in a blue moon, an artist (looking at you, Zayn and The Weeknd) says, "Enough is enough!" If it's a rigged game, why keep rolling the dice? If you know the ending, why splurge on the movie ticket?

The Grammys will persist as the top accolade artists crave for artistic validation. However, it's crucial to grasp that Grammy wins don't make or break careers. Complaining without a push for change is futile. The Grammys will keep snubbing until artists stop submitting. Despite acknowledging the celebration of mediocrity, there's a glaring lack of transformative action. Perhaps, giving Grammys less power than fans and artists do is key. Even Beyoncé, the greatest artist, faces snubs. Does she need another Grammy to prove her greatness? No, because she already is. Embracing this mindset could make music more enjoyable, sans the Grammy obsession.

What do you guys think? Do you think artist should continue to submit their music to the Grammys? Do you think the Grammys are losing their credibility every year go on? What can the Grammys do to gain back the credibility?

Let me know what you think!

Until then��

Cherokee🤎✨

#hottakes #grammys #grammys 2024 #SZA #Taylor Swift #Beyoncé #Miley Cyrus #Pop Culture #snubs #black femininity #black womanhood #black pop culture #black blogger #lana del rey #olivia rodrigo

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