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jarofstyles · 2 years

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wait more dadrry pls 🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼

Absolutely. He’s so cute.

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“Hmm. Very good.” He murmured, looking down at the paint coated high chair. Very little paint had made it on to the target- the white sheet of paper- but the baby proof finger paint was organic and edible, which suited their mouth tot quite well. “Abstract art is the way you’re going to go. A bold, smooth choice in my opinion.” He stroked his chin, observing the mess their apparent prodigy child was making.

“Ba!” The squeal and smack of wet paint made Harry grin, their baby returning the enthusiasm.

“Mhm. Mumma will happily put this on the fridge. And who’s to think- years down the line, we will have an original piece. Priceless. The museums will fight over it- and we will give it on loan, of course.” His hand smoothed over the soft curls on the baby’s head, fondly looking over their child.

“Mm. And Mumma is also not cleaning up this mess. That’s all Daddy’s doing.” Y/N walked into the dining room, wiping her wet hands on the back of Harry’s shirt.

“Oi! Watch it. Demon woman.” He hissed playfully at the cool water dampening his shirt. “Daddy will, but he’s helping our child grow their artistic integrity. The next Picasso. Really, look at the use of color. So bright and vivid.”

“Maybe that’s because you literally only put neons on the palette.” Y/N Snarked, though pressing a kiss to his bicep as she passed him to look at their baby. The paint was washable and edible, yes, but that didn’t mean she wanted the paint all over their cheeks and clothes. Unfortunately, she couldn’t always get what she wants. “Very creative choices, my dove. You can do whatever you’d like. But make sure you ask daddy to do the messy things. Mumma will watch and clap.” She teased, gently pushing the curls from their little, soft cheeks. “Made a mess of your new jumper, didn’t you? It’s a good thing your daddy makes lots and lots of money. Because he’s going to have to buy you a new one.”

“I will. Ruined clothes are part of the creative process. You should know, considering you love having clothing ripped-“

“Okay. None of that. Little ears.” Y/N hissed, cutting Harry a look. The shit eating grin covering her man’s face proved it did little more than tickle him with her reaction, the baby happily ignoring each of them to smack the wet paint again.

“Oh? Come on. Don’t you want another baby to paint with, little dove?” Harry cooed, talking to the child. “Don’t you want a brother? Or a sister? Hm?”

“Ba! Baba.” The only sound the baby currently made bubbles from little lips, smacking them together. It was stupidly cute, making Y/N melt a little bit as sticky, paint covered fingers reached up to grab Harry’s larger digit. He let it happen, not minding the mess it would make on his skin.

“See? Even our lovebug wants some more babies toddling around. We could have a whole gallery of first paintings very soon. Right?” He wiggled the baby’s hand, an eruption of little giggles making the pair grin down at the happy, chubby cheeks. “Mhm. Lots of babies. We discussed it, love bug. Don’t you worry. Mumma just needs to let daddy do the magic spell where I can give her another one, and you can have lots of brothers and sisters running about. Any sort of sibling, really.” Harry shit Y/N a sly glance. Baby fever was possible with your own baby, unfortunately. Y/N was so in love with being a mother, but Harry was a whole other level. Insanely devoted to being a father. It was beautiful.

“Maybe. I’ve already told Daddy that Mumma definitely needs a few more months. But he isn’t helping me wanting to wait when you’re this cute together.” She sighed, taking a wet wipe from the packet and gently wiping the streaks of neon pink from the little cheeks.

“Exactly. S’my job to wear you down.” He would never truly push too far- no. He respected her body and her choices. But he was eager and playful, and they’d already discussed more. It was fun to play around with- and to practice.

“Mm. Sure, that’s what it is.” Her hip humped into his, walking past him and gently shoving the wet wipes into his hands. “Clean baby bug up and get a nice bath going. Im finishing our lunch and then we will have nap time.”

“Do we get a nap time-“

“If you behave, yes. Now go.” She cut him off as she walked back into the kitchen. He couldn’t help but stare longingly at the woman who had manage to capture him and own his heart so fully. Gave him this beautiful little family. He would happily clean up paint spills and hear little screams for the rest of his life. This was home.

#dad harry #daddy harry styles #dad!harry #harry styles dad #writing #jarofstyles #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles smut #harry writing #harry styles imagine #harry drabble #harry styles blurb

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catslvrr · 6 months

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heaven sent — 06. art museum

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“Okay, I thought I was out of place at the ice skating rink. But this is considerably worse.” You crossed your arms over your chest, standing outside of the art museum that loomed over you.

“Don’t be such a party pooper, I’ll be an excellent tour guide.”

“We literally know nothing about art.”

“Not we,” she wagged her finger in your face with an annoying grin. “You know nothing about it.”

You scoffed, “Tell me one interesting art fact.”

“I know that there’s a guy named Picasso. He cut off his ear.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s Vincent Van Gogh.”

“Close enough,” she quipped indifferently. “Come on.”

Danielle dragged you inside. You flinched when she intertwined her fingers with yours.

“What are you doing?” You hissed, trying to pull away.

“Stop it,” she whispered. “There's a discount on the entry fee for couples, so act natural, babe.”

She emphasized the last part as the two of you neared the admission desk. Of course, you paid, and the two of you made your way into the exhibition.

“The guy at the desk didn’t even look at us twice,” you rolled your eyes. “I don’t think they care.”

“Well it worked,” she smiled proudly. “And you’re still holding my hand. I think you secretly like it.”

Blushing, you hastily tried to let go, but she only giggled in response and held your hand tighter, pulling you to the first artwork.

It was a blank canvas, with a blob of blue paint smack dab in the middle.

“Amazing,” you said, devoid of emotion. “This one really speaks to me.”

Danielle cleared her throat, and adjusted her glasses.

“This piece right here,” she took on a posh voice as she straightened her posture. “Is quite an exquisite piece. Made in the Baroque period by painter Jean DeJean.”

You tried to hold back a snicker.

“Jean DeJean?”

“Yes,” she nodded seriously. “An artist ahead of his time. This artwork in particular conveys his sense of isolation, the blue representing sadness and the single dot representing himself.”

“Wow,” you said in pretend awe. “I love the symbolism.”

“We’ll move on to the next piece now.” She gestured towards the next artwork. “Follow me, ma’am.”

You coughed back laughter as she strutted boldly in front of you. Surprisingly, she kept up the facade for a while, truly living up to her name as an excellent tour guide. You couldn’t help but laugh at her nonsensical explanations and pretentious acting.

And despite your initial reluctance, you found yourself enjoying your time. You caught yourself looking at her instead of the artwork more times than you’d like to admit. It was then that you knew it was over for you.

“So,” Danielle said, munching on your fries as you drove back to the apartment. “I’m a pretty good art museum tour guide, right?”

“Sure,” you answered playfully, eating a fry that she fed to you. “You should apply there. I’m sure everyone else would love to hear about Jean DeJean.”

She threw a fry at your face in response (“You just wasted a fry!”).

“I’m guessing you didn’t like art back in high school?”

You chuckled at the thought of your grades for art back then. “God, no. I cannot be artistic to save my life.”

“You can’t be worse than Jean DeJean,” she joked.

“I remember being so insecure of my pottery skills that I purposefully left a big air pocket in my clay figure. It exploded in the kiln and destroyed everyone else’s. My classmates were devastated.”

“Never mind,” she grimaced. “What subjects were you good at, then?”

“English. Guess I have a way with words.”

“That makes sense. Seeing that you do law now.”

“Yeah.” You paused. “Music, too.”

“I do remember seeing a keyboard in your room.”

“But that’s a story for another day.” You slightly smirked, mimicking Danielle’s words from the other day, “Ask me again tomorrow.”

She narrowed her eyes at you, still curious, but didn’t push it any further and focused back on the moving scenery outside.

“Honestly, today was a bit of a last minute thing.” You could see her peek at you out of the corner of your eye. “Did you enjoy it, though?”

You smiled. “Aren’t you tired of asking everyday?”

“Never,” she answered earnestly. “I always want to know.”

Your attempt to fight off a blush was futile. “Today was good. Like always.”

“It’s because of me, isn’t it?” She teased.

Yeah, it is.

“You wish,” you rolled your eyes. “…Are you down for movie night later?”

She bit her cheek, clearly hesitant to respond.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to spend more time with me,” you rushed out awkwardly, hands tightly clutching the steering wheel. “I forget that this is your job.”

“No,” she hastily reassured you. “It’s not that. I love spending time with you.”

“Really?”

“I do. It’s just that…” she trailed off, then shook her head and smiled. “Nothing. Let’s watch Frozen.”

“Out of all movies, you choose Frozen.”

She turned down the radio and started to loudly sing Let It Go.

She has a nice voice. Maybe it’s another ‘messenger of God’ thing.

“Enough,” you groaned, resting your head on the steering wheel at a red light. “Save it for later.”

Later, the two of you lay on your bed, your laptop on your lap, as you pressed play. You didn’t know if it was the warmth radiating off Danielle, or if it was the way she was playing with your hair, but you fell asleep 30 minutes into the movie.

You got up in the middle of the night to find her already gone. You could still smell hints of her entangled in the sheets, a mixture of strawberries and vanilla. You always thought the bed had always felt so small, but tonight it had never felt emptier.

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#newjeans x reader #newjeans fanfic #newjeans fic #danielle marsh x reader #mo jihye x reader

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crystallizedtwilight · 11 months

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I wanna be a tumblr artist aswell do you have any advice. It’s fine if you don’t I’m pretty sure it’s getting annoying by now but they are right you are so beautiful and your art is so good like Picasso could never 😭✋

If you want to be a tumblr artist, all you have to do is draw what you love and upload it here with tags. You'll find your people 🩷

If you want to gain followers, however, draw for popular and current fandoms. Draw popular ships. I'm not gonna pretend this doesn't work, it just seems like a painful process if you're not naturally interested in these things.

Being an artist and gaining followers are two very different things. They can correlate but the development of one does not depend on the other in any way. You're not more or less of an artist if you have a following. You're an artist if you make art.

The only reason I have the following I do is because I've been on this site for a decade. Other than that, I only draw what I want, and 99% of the time it is for extremely niche fandoms. I don't want fame or money I'm literally just here to have a fun time and if people want to join me in that, let's gooooo

So, being an artist here is as simple as posting art. My wish for you is that you have fun.

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blood-mocha-latte · 4 months

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Fandom positivity ask! 1, 3, 12, and 28!

linh truly you are. the number one. forever and always and also for all time <3

~ hbowar positivity asks ~

1 - what is your fav part about being in the fandom?

people are NICE and people are TALENTED. holy shit. it's like being friends with someone that has the skills of picasso and the kindness of our lord and savior jesus christ. which is blasphemous but TRUE

3 - what are some fics that you go back and read again and again?

oh man i am a rereading BITCH i could be here all day. but for top three i would have to gooo

Knit Us Together by @almost-a-class-act - truly the mvp boss of luztoye fics. Thee Perfect Fic it's truly art simple as that. i licherally reread it like. yesterday and am now making my wife read it. sam watch out for that because she's handwriting all her thoughts for me to show you because. oh my GOD everyone go read it

The Last Voyage by @ep6bastogne - VASTLY underrated baberoe fic. the perfect blend of human sunshine babe and tired but Good gene. sad and funny and good and i will admit that i cried. @mutantmanifesto made some GORGEOUS art for this very fic on this very day, because it's That Good

Before the Fall of Rome by @educationalporpoises - quite literally could NOT have asked for a better fucking secret santa. zee slayed. zee knocked it so out of the park that no one is yet to find the ball. it's luztoye and ancient history and reunions and truly what else do you need? 10/10

12 - songs that you associate with certain mutuals?

ohoho, this is where it gets LONG. sorry about that friends. under the cut because i have a lot to say and the time to say it, which is a bad combination

@lamialamia - linh my beloved. my darling. don't kill me but you are never gonna give you up by rick astling. not only are you catchy wonderful and always brightening up my notes, but i both never want to give you up nor let you down

@almost-a-class-act - guiding light by mumford and sons because truly what would the luztoye people do without you. die i think. you are the guiding light. the OG. thee #1

@dcyllom - dance the night by dua lipa because MOLLY whatever can i say other than you are the number one cheerleader of the modern webgott divorced two times au. you light up this world truly. this song fills me with joy and so do you

@whollyjoly - read my mind by the killers. because em you. you read my Mind on many occasion it must be said. same brain at times. how's mash going

@ewipandora - cheap thrills by sia because everytime you reblog literally anything i quite literally go ooOOOOH. you have an awesome beat good words Fascinating person. ewi i am holding your hand

@educationalporpoises - the baby shark song. zee i just see your pfp and i just immediately think of this song. i've never even heard it in it's entirety the lovely lyrics just run through my head whenever i'm lucky enough to see you on the dash <3

i have so many more mutuals that i love and adore but i do not have a mind for songs!! hugs and kisses to all

28 - what's something that lives in your brain rent free and you want everyone to know about the show/the fandom/your works?

portuguese luz. portuguese luz. do i have to say anything else. that is what everyone should know. that is number one. some good fucking food <3

#rie answers #i love this game this is like. the best. i am having the Best Day y'all #joy and love to all amen

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beastlycheese · 9 months

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A British writer penned the best description of Donald Trump I’ve ever read:

“Why do some British people not like Donald Trump?”

Plus, we like a laugh. And while Trump may be laughable, he has never once said anything wry, witty or even faintly amusing – not once, ever. I don’t say that rhetorically, I mean it quite literally: not once, not ever. And that fact is particularly disturbing to the British sensibility – for us, to lack humour is almost inhuman. But with Trump, it’s a fact. He doesn’t even seem to understand what a joke is – his idea of a joke is a crass comment, an illiterate insult, a casual act of cruelty.

Trump is a troll. And like all trolls, he is never funny and he never laughs; he only crows or jeers. And scarily, he doesn’t just talk in crude, witless insults – he actually thinks in them. His mind is a simple bot-like algorithm of petty prejudices and knee-jerk nastiness.

There is never any under-layer of irony, complexity, nuance or depth. It’s all surface. Some Americans might see this as refreshingly upfront. Well, we don’t. We see it as having no inner world, no soul. And in Britain we traditionally side with David, not Goliath. All our heroes are plucky underdogs: Robin Hood, Dick Whittington, Oliver Twist. Trump is neither plucky, nor an underdog. He is the exact opposite of that. He’s not even a spoiled rich-boy, or a greedy fat-cat. He’s more a fat white slug. A Jabba the Hutt of privilege.

And worse, he is that most unforgivable of all things to the British: a bully. That is, except when he is among bullies; then he suddenly transforms into a snivelling sidekick instead. There are unspoken rules to this stuff – the Queensberry rules of basic decency – and he breaks them all. He punches downwards – which a gentleman should, would, could never do – and every blow he aims is below the belt. He particularly likes to kick the vulnerable or voiceless – and he kicks them when they are down.

So the fact that a significant minority – perhaps a third – of Americans look at what he does, listen to what he says, and then think ‘Yeah, he seems like my kind of guy’ is a matter of some confusion and no little distress to British people, given that:

• Americans are supposed to be nicer than us, and mostly are.

• You don’t need a particularly keen eye for detail to spot a few flaws in the man.

This last point is what especially confuses and dismays British people, and many other people too; his faults seem pretty bloody hard to miss. After all, it’s impossible to read a single tweet, or hear him speak a sentence or two, without staring deep into the abyss. He turns being artless into an art form; he is a Picasso of pettiness; a Shakespeare of shit. His faults are fractal: even his flaws have flaws, and so on ad infinitum. God knows there have always been stupid people in the world, and plenty of nasty people too. But rarely has stupidity been so nasty, or nastiness so stupid. He makes Nixon look trustworthy and George W look smart. In fact, if Frankenstein decided to make a monster assembled entirely from human flaws – he would make a Trump.

And a remorseful Doctor Frankenstein would clutch out big clumpfuls of hair and scream in anguish: ‘My God… what… have… I… created?' If being a twat was a TV show, Trump would be the boxed set.”

-Nate White

#donald trump #nate white

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reddancer1 · 2 months

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A British writer penned the best description of Donald Trump I’ve ever read:

“Why do some British people not like Donald Trump?”

• Americans are supposed to be nicer than us, and mostly are.

• You don’t need a particularly keen eye for detail to spot a few flaws in the man.

God knows there have always been stupid people in the world, and plenty of nasty people too. But rarely has stupidity been so nasty, or nastiness so stupid. He makes Nixon look trustworthy and George W look smart. In fact, if Frankenstein decided to make a monster assembled entirely from human flaws – he would make a Trump.

-Nate White

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beauleifu · 2 years

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hihi :D may I request some good ol yin/jin x reader fluff? they deserve more love

Oooooh, yes! Roughly 2k oneshot, hope you like it! And they do deserve love, those goofballs are hilarious.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

YIN/JIN X READER Pt 1

Lego Monkie Kid

Context: You invite your good friends Yin and Jin over to paint and have dinner. Unfortunately, these idiots are demons, and brothers. A dynamic duo that's doomed to be a hassle. But hey, you gotta love 'em.

TW: None. Fluff is fluff lol

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Uh-oh.

That's the first thought that crosses your mind the moment you open the door to your home. Earlier, you'd taken a huge risk by inviting the notorious demons Yin and Jin to an art fight at your place, and they'd mysteriously responded to your text by saying: [well, we never fought with paint brushes before, but hey! First time for everything!]

Not what you had in mind, actually. It's supposed to be an innocent and hearty time with your boys - having not seen them in quite sometime. Instead, the two troublemakers took your invitation quite literally.

So here you stand, staring at the pile of art supplies piled into the hands of Yin and Jin.

They beam at you. "Oi!"

"How's it going?"

"Heyyy!" You greet, voice slightly strangled as you get over the shock of seeing so much stuff, opening the door further to let them in. "Uh, going good! I see you guys came prepared . . ."

The demons stride right in as though they own the place, smiles wide and full of sharp teeth. As Jin sets everything rather unceremoniously on the art table you'd set up, Jin faces you with his hands on hips. "O' course! I mean, where's the fun in having a limited weaponry?"

His accent is thick, something you love about the both of them. With a nervous laugh, you close the front door. "We're not fighting, Yin. We're painting."

"You said art fight, though," Jin pipes up, looking smug at the very thought.

Like he'd win??

"Pfft! No, you dork," you scoff, grabbing your own supplies and situating them on the art table. Yin and Jin both watch you curiously, like cats who'd found something interesting. "It's just an expression. I really just wanted to draw with you guys. We can make it competitive if you want, though. Winner gets something special?" You offer, shooting them a smile.

Yin and Jin share a glance.

"I'd beat your ass," Jin says, wearing a shit-eating grin.

His brother retaliates with a swift punch to the challenger's shoulder. "Yea, right! If Loserville had a President, that'd be you, mate."

"No, it wouldn't!"

You deadpan the both of them, interrupting before they could start bickering. "Guys. You came here to paint."

The demons look rather sheepish as the shut up - not before sending the other a narrow-eyed glare, though. Scoffing fondly, you gather up a few cups and hand them out. "I assume you guys know how this works, right?"

"Yup! And it's gonna end with Jin's face lookin like a copy of The Weeping Woman," Yin snorts.

Jin blinks. "Wha- you mean Picasso's painting?"

"What else??"

Running water reaches your ears as the brothers fill their glasses, talking all the while. You notice Jin taking the time to fill an extra glass for you, and Yin, not wanting to be outdone, fetches a stack of fresh canvases. Honestly, you had expected to be the one doing all the work, but it's a nice change to get to sit back and watch in wonder as your boys walk around the room like they live here. And hey, that thought isn't exactly a bad one.

Resting your cheek on your hand, you smile at them in turn. "So what are we painting?"

"Dunno," Yin says thoughtfully, setting aside three pieces of paper for everyone." You want something simple or you want a real fight?"

"I'll pass. I'm kinda attached to my home, rather not have you guys wrecking it trying to prove you're the best," you say, smiling tiredly at the thought.

Jin comes over, eyes mischievous. "An who said that's a bad thing?"

"Uh. Me??"

The Golden Demon snorts, waving a brush offhandedly. "Well, you could always live with us," he says in a tone so casual he could be discussing the weather. Yin's head snaps up curiously, having already started on his art piece. Jin locks eyes with you, looking smug. "We don't mind. You'd be better company than this brute, anyways," he ads, nudging Yin.

His brother deadpans, poker faced. "Jin, (Y/N) don't want to lose their home. You're really thinkin of blasting their stuff to bits, now?"

"N-No! We're painting, how'd I even do that?"

You laugh, eyes on the canvas as you think of what to draw. "Yin, it's fine. Jin's just poking fun."

When you look up, though, the look in Jin's eyes makes you suddenly doubt your own words. Could the demon actually desire you to live with him and his brother? Would it actually be that much trouble? Well, now you've got a solid back-up plan whenever your home is destroyed. The boys would be totally down to have you over. You've never really thought about it, though. And, for some reason, the idea of living with the demons sounds rather nice.

"A-Anyways," you continue, risking a glance at them. Luckily you'd caught them before they went off at each other. "Why don't we paint some headshots? Whoever wins gets first dibs on dinner?"

Yin's jaw drops. "We're stayin for dinner?"

"If you want to, yeah."

"Are you kidding me right now?" Jin says, face splitting into a wide grin. Honestly, he's so excited he accidentally splatters his canvas with paint. "Your cooking is amazing! I mean, not as good as that pig's down the street, but hey, I'd choose your dish over his anytime."

You bite your lip. "Uh, thanks? I'm not that good, I normally just make you guys simple dishes."

"Heh, you think that, then."

Positively confused and embarrassed, you clear your throat and tap your brush nervously on the table. "So. Headshots?"

"Yeah, yeah, o' course," Yin says, dipping his brush into the water and patting it on the towel. Then, he pauses, glancing between you and his brother as Jin does the same. After a second, you look up to see him wearing a shit-eating grin. "Oi, Jin," he says, elbowing the orange demon, who glares. "Why don't we team up on our old friend here? It's only fair."

"Eh?" Jin blinks dumbly for a moment before realization crosses his face. Wielding the paintbrush like a weapon, he waves it at you. "Say, you're finally talking sense, Yin. That is a good idea."

It's your turn to look confused. "You guys are gonna team up?"

"Hell yeah," Jin says determinedly, tossing his piece of parchment aside in favor of Yin's ink-free canvas. "I mean, you obviously outrank us in the painting department, so it's only fair we get to team up against you. Whaddya say?"

You shrug. "Okay, go for it."

The brothers chuckle simultaneously, huddling close over a single piece of paper. It's fascinating how much they resemble actual demons at this moment in time. You're so used to seeing them so carefree - albeit troublemaking and argumentative. Sure, it's a nice change, but the evil expressions they're wearing is making you nervous. Gripping your paintbrush tightly, you get to work.

It's a lovely evening.

Minus the occasional bickering from Yin and Jin, but most of the time they actually cooperate very well. Each would take turns painting an area where the other was having trouble with, and more often than not you'd catch either one staring at you, paintbrush hovering in mid-air. They must've looked up to aid the progress of their painting, but got sidetracked with something unknown to you. It's actually hilarious. You have to swallow a laugh a few times when the demons begin arguing.

"Oi, Yin, you're getting their table all dirty!"

"It ain't my fault the brush is leaking water!" Jin fires back, glaring at the parchment at his mercy.

Yin sighs exasperatedly, rolling his eyes. He catches yours, shoots you a smile, and continues bickering as though he didn't just express a sliver of affection for you. "That ain't the problem, you're just a clumsy nitwit. You'll ruin the painting if you keep this up!"

"I'd like to see you do better!"

"Fine, I will! Gimme the brush," Yin huffs, reaching over with a muscular bicep to snatch the paintbrush out of Jin's hands. The demon quickly pulls back, shaking his horned head furiously.

"It's still my turn!"

All right.

You really can't control the laugh that sneaks it's way out of you.

The demons across from you pause to stare as you let out a snort of laughter. They're so goddamn silly it's no surprise you've been reduced to such a mess. When you're finished, you regard them with a grin.

"I really admire the teamwork, guys, but I think you've been painting long enough," you say.

Jin blinks. "But we ain't done . . ."

Yin glances at the time, eyes narrowed. "Oh, damn. We've been at this for an hour?? (Y/N), why didn't you tell us?"

"I liked watching you guys paint," you say simply, fingers drumming on the table. You'd finished awhile ago, but saw no reason to stop your boys from their adventure. "Do you need more time?"

Yin shakes his head hurriedly as Jin cleans up their workspace. "No! Nah, we're done. Um. Yeah."

Heh.

"You're nervous?"

"No! We're the Golden and Silver demons! If anyone's gonna be nervous, it's you, 'cause we totally won your art fight," the blue demon snorts, large arms folded over his armored chest. The two of them had neglected to change into something more comfortable before arriving at your doorstep.

A smile blooms on your face. "All right then, let's see."

"Uh . . ." The brothers share a nervous glance - to your absolute amusement - before slowly revealing your self-portrait. You peer close, eyes narrowing.

It's honestly not bad. You don't know if Yin and Jin are good at painting, but after glancing over the painting, you realize that they must've hoarded at least some talent for it to be this good. The shading is nice, and you can actually recognize yourself within the mass of wet colors. It seems as though they tried really hard to make it worthy of your approval - that's what they hope for, anyways. You don't consider yourself a great artist, only doing this to hang out with them. Your approval does mean the world to them, though.

A sound of awe escapes you. "Ooo, this is really good, guys. We should hang this up somewhere!"

"Here? You wanna hang it up here?" Jin demands, eyes wide.

"It's up to you. Honestly, you can take it back to your place or leave it with me - but if you choose the latter, please sign it," you add hurriedly; "I'd want to remember the idiots who painted such a masterpiece."

Yin and Jin share a glance.

"Yeah. You can have it," Jin says, practically shoving the canvas into your arms.

Yin follows up, tone earnest. "We'll sign it, too."

The canvas is promptly yanked back towards the brothers as they whip out some markers, wielding them with foreboding intent. But all they do is take about five minutes writing a quick note on the back of the canvas. You wait patiently, a weird feeling settling in your chest. It's warm.

When they finish, Yin sets the canvas aside, telling you not to read the notes until they've gone. Then, you reveal your own painting, which is just a double-portrait of the brothers.

Of course, they want to take it with them. You honestly wanted them to.

Dinner comes along, and the brothers are eager to do as much as possible. However, before starting, you offer for them to change into something more comfortable - clothes you'd stored over time specifically for them.

Could they be arriving in their armor just for you to ask that?

Maybe.

If it's true, you don't care.

The smiles on the demon's faces are a sight to behold, though. Yin grabs the outfit presented to him and makes a break for the bathroom while Jin hollers at him.

"OI! Slow down, you idiot!"

Laughing, you offer a second outfit to the remaining demon; a simple T-shirt and some sweatpants, "Guess someone's excited."

"Yeah, what a loony," Jin snorts, relieving you of the clothes.

The two demons change swiftly, coming back looking much more at home now. You decide to make dumplings, and the three of you move fluently throughout the kitchen, chatting all the while. Yin and Jin are much taller than you, and much stronger, so at one point, Yin just decides to pick you up and plop you on the counter without a word. You're obliged to demand why the hell he did such a thing.

"Why not? Jin and I can get way more done without havin' ta worry 'bout you burning yourself."

"This is my kitchen, though."

Jin shoots you a smug smile. "Yeah? Well, now it's ours. For now."

"You're mean."

Yin snorts from his spot by the stove, grinning wickedly at his brother. "Yeah, Jin. Why are you so mean to our little (Y/N)?"

"Little-?!" You start furiously, but the two break out into a fresh argument. With your voice drowned out by theirs, you let out a sigh, lean back against the cabinet doors, and cross your legs up on the counter. It's decided: you'll just watch. That's probably what the demons want you to do, anyways.

However, you don't mind. Yin and Jin prepare dinner soundly and smoothly after that one bicker episode, and you're content with watching and making small talk.

It's warm in the kitchen. Or perhaps it's just warm in your heart.

Yin and Jin just look like they belong here from how well they move around. Whenever they pass you, a smile is offered, or an occasional high-five. And dinner is simply delicious, making that little hint about you living with them only more inviting. You honestly want to ask them if they'd like to stay the night, but apparently they've been planning to sabotage someone tomorrow. Ah, well. At least you get to take a look at the notes they wrote when they leave:

'Hey, sorry if my brother was being a jerk. Don't know what else to write except that you should totally join us on our next heist. We'll be sure to invite you over for dinner next time too! ~Yin'

'Sorry about my brother, he's an idiot. Anyways, thanks for everything and we should totally do something epic next timer we get together! ~Jin'

#lmk #lego monkie kid #lmk Yin #lmk Jin #Yin/Jin x reader #oneshot #fluff #so much fluff #your boys are crazy #in love with you-#nah but for freal #domestic life #painting #troublemaking demons yessir #me writing this at midnight like yes hmm this is good shit #thanks for the ask!

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gawsby · 3 months

Text

Why do British people not like Donald Trump?

Someone asked "Why do British people not like Donald Trump?"

Nate White, an articulate and witty writer from England, wrote this magnificent response:

"A few things spring to mind.

Trump lacks certain qualities which the British traditionally esteem.

For instance, he has no class, no charm, no coolness, no credibility, no compassion, no wit, no warmth, no wisdom, no subtlety, no sensitivity, no self-awareness, no humility, no honour and no grace - all qualities, funnily enough, with which his predecessor Mr Obama was generously blessed.

So for us, the stark contrast does rather throw Trump’s limitations into embarrassingly sharp relief.

Plus, we like a laugh. And while Trump may be laughable, he has never once said anything wry, witty or even faintly amusing - not once, ever.

I don’t say that rhetorically, I mean it quite literally: not once, not ever. And that fact is particularly disturbing to the British sensibility - for us, to lack humour is almost inhuman.

But with Trump, it’s a fact. He doesn’t even seem to understand what a joke is - his idea of a joke is a crass comment, an illiterate insult, a casual act of cruelty.

Trump is a troll. And like all trolls, he is never funny and he never laughs; he only crows or jeers.

And scarily, he doesn’t just talk in crude, witless insults - he actually thinks in them. His mind is a simple bot-like algorithm of petty prejudices and knee-jerk nastiness.

There is never any under-layer of irony, complexity, nuance or depth. It’s all surface.

Some Americans might see this as refreshingly upfront.

Well, we don’t. We see it as having no inner world, no soul.

And in Britain we traditionally side with David, not Goliath. All our heroes are plucky underdogs: Robin Hood, Dick Whittington, Oliver Twist.

Trump is neither plucky, nor an underdog. He is the exact opposite of that.

He’s not even a spoiled rich-boy, or a greedy fat-cat.

He’s more a fat white slug. A Jabba the Hutt of privilege.

And worse, he is that most unforgivable of all things to the British: a bully.

That is, except when he is among bullies; then he suddenly transforms into a snivelling sidekick instead.

There are unspoken rules to this stuff - the Queensberry rules of basic decency - and he breaks them all. He punches downwards - which a gentleman should, would, could never do - and every blow he aims is below the belt. He particularly likes to kick the vulnerable or voiceless - and he kicks them when they are down.

So the fact that a significant minority - perhaps a third - of Americans look at what he does, listen to what he says, and then think 'Yeah, he seems like my kind of guy’ is a matter of some confusion and no little distress to British people, given that:

* Americans are supposed to be nicer than us, and mostly are.

* You don't need a particularly keen eye for detail to spot a few flaws in the man.

This last point is what especially confuses and dismays British people, and many other people too; his faults seem pretty bloody hard to miss.

After all, it’s impossible to read a single tweet, or hear him speak a sentence or two, without staring deep into the abyss. He turns being artless into an art form; he is a Picasso of pettiness; a Shakespeare of shit. His faults are fractal: even his flaws have flaws, and so on ad infinitum.

God knows there have always been stupid people in the world, and plenty of nasty people too. But rarely has stupidity been so nasty, or nastiness so stupid.

He makes Nixon look trustworthy and George W look smart.

In fact, if Frankenstein decided to make a monster assembled entirely from human flaws - he would make a Trump.

And a remorseful Doctor Frankenstein would clutch out big clumpfuls of hair and scream in anguish:

'My God… what… have… I… created?

If being a twat was a TV show, Trump would be the boxed set."

#donald trump

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jenny-from-the-box · 8 months

Text

The following passage needs to be posted.

Quick background: I went to the Brooklyn Museum summer 2023 to see the exhibit curated by Hannah Gadsby called “It’s Pablo-matic”. She selected works of Pablo Picasso’s juxtaposed with works by women who had been influenced by him for better or worse. The following was on the Brooklyn Museum’s website (additional reading) by Gadsby about a particular part of the exhibit that just showcased works by artists who are women, and I found it to be brilliant. So have fun.

“Guess what? There are no Picassos in this room. Now I'm not advocating a cancellation of PP, but I do think it's fun to fantasize about it, in the same way that it's fun and cathartic to imagine a world without cars or what life might be like if white people hadn't colonized the Earth with such destructive arrogance. But even if we could remove PP from our collective consciousness, why would we? Why would you want to remove somebody who was so clearly influential and continues to be influential? What good would it do to pretend PP never happened? Honestly, what a stupid, stupid, stupid idea. Canceling PP would be about as constructive as denying black women access to power structures. Like I said, a stupid, stupid, shortsighted idea. Why would you do that? Why would you pretend somebody does not exist? Having the white European male front, center, and wholly representative of the human condition has put the blinders on us all. To have a huge cultural blind spot is to lose the ability to truly understand ourselves and the world in which we exist. You may as well go to school in Florida. We should not be driven to course-correct out of guilt. “I feel bad that women and people of color and non-European perspectives have been diminished and erased for centuries upon centuries. Oops. Here's a little bone.” No. We should be striving to undo ourselves out of curiosity, and with more than a little bit of rage. We should all be shouting, what have we missed? What glorious enrichment have we been denied because we have been sold the thin edge of the wedge? PP is the granddaddy of the direct-from-artist's-studio-to-collector pipeline that is the hallmark of the modern art market ruse. The first we hear of many priceless PP's is after they're being sold at auction, decades after PP’s original creative ejaculation. Does a work of art such as that have any legitimate claims to having broader cultural relevance if it never exists in the world that it was created in? If we can say that it does, and we do, then surely we can go back and retroactively find important women artists. But we really struggle to do that. Why? Because PP takes up so much space. But I think it's worthwhile trying. I think it is an important quest to flood the zone with as many perspectives as we possibly can. I really do, because we are standing on the precipice of an AI revolution and AI cannot glean from what is not there. Algorithms are limited to what has been, not what could have been. The status quo always assumes that it is because it should be. But I don't agree. I believe that if we want to build a world where everybody who literally exists can also theoretically exist, we need to broaden our scope of what qualifies as worthwhile creative contributions. And if we don't make a real effort on that front now, if we don't try to unearth and champion voices and perspectives that are missing from our collective understanding of ourselves, we will be forever blind and we will be forever talking about fucking Picasso.”

Hannah Gadsby on Picasso /BK Museum

#hannah gadsby #pablo picasso #art #woke #cancel culture #perspective #feminism #ai #ai art #women in art #representation matters

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little-bullheaded-shit · 2 years

Note

please do go off about the thing you're angry about 👀🎤

In relation to this post

Maybe I'm just pissy after a long day but the NBA does not need to pay people who just throw balls almost a MILLION. A fucking year just so they can live because I get it I get doing what you love as a career is incredibly rare and not very feasible in this hellscape we call society. Teen boys are constantly ushered to go big if they have an iota of talent because of male toxicity of "big man make big money play sports get bitches" and I hate that entire circlejerk of men who think they're talented and entitled just because their team won or lost or they play for a professional team, but it's not feasible, it's literally almost impossible to become a pro sports player yet people are constantly praising people they've never met and cheer for them every Saturday and you know what other career path is a major hobby, nearly impossible to get into professionally, and individuals are passionate about? Art.

Art is just as important to our species (as much as sports, despite the fact that it pains me to admit that.) because we are still sentient monkeys, we still need, on a psychological level, to be rough and tumble sometimes, its instinct we haven't evolved out of yet. Yet DESPITE the fact we are sentient beings capable of such newfound creativity art is actively REJECTED as a professional career or respectable hobby. People actively encourage others to not BE creative as a professional because it doesnt pay peanuts. Because society doesn't care about exploring the psyche of our species in a deep and meaningful way, but sports? Aw hell yeah everybody loooooves sports./sarcasm

You could probably walk up to some random Joe blow and ask him what professional sports players they know and they could probably answer at least 3. Ask them about an artist and revert back to a default artist like picasso or Da vinki and I'm so tired and angry that art isn't regarded as meaningful and I wanted to rant about inherent misogyny in this divide but I think it's visible in this batshit rant I made at 9pm while pissy i misordered something online as the wrong size with no editing so here. Thank you for coming to my Ted talk im going to untie you from the chair now

#my bullshit #asks #thank u balam i feel better💖

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sciencestyled · 20 days

Text

Glitch in the Matrix: When Code Met Canvas and Made Pixels Pop

Alright, buckle up, internet denizens, because we’re diving into the wild, whacky, and pixel-poppin’ world of algorithmic art! 🎨💻 Imagine if Picasso and your favorite coding genius had a baby. That's right, it's not just a fever dream fueled by too many hours on Reddit; it's the reality of blending science education and art!

Let’s crash course this like we’re trying to binge-watch the entirety of "Stranger Things" overnight. Algorithmic art is like the love child of Star-Lord and a MacBook—super cool, slightly unpredictable, and absolutely out of this world. It’s where brainy meets artsy, where code curls up on the canvas, and something magical happens. If Hogwarts taught JavaScript instead of charms, you’d get the picture.

Picture this: coders and artists, or as I like to call them, "Cods" and "Arts," locked in a creative battle royale, Fortnite style. Each keystroke and brushstroke clashing and merging to spawn mind-bending visuals that could give Salvador Dali a run for his money. It’s not just art; it’s art with an agenda, bending algorithms like they're spoon-bending at a Matrix-themed party.

Now, let's zoom into the 'how' like we’re on a TikTok discovery mission. Ever seen those mesmerizing GIFs that keep you hypnotized while you pretend to work? That’s algorithmic art. It’s made using computational algorithms—think of them as recipes, but instead of whipping up avocado toast, you’re cooking up visual feasts that can trick the eye and tickle the brain.

Here’s where it gets cooler than a polar bear in sunglasses playing ice hockey. These artsy coders use loops, logic, and a lot of what I call "controlled chaos" to generate patterns that can mimic nature, or go completely rogue, creating visuals that look like your screen just had a rave in a pixel factory. It’s like watching "Inception" on your desktop; you know it’s not real, but dang, does it look mind-blowing!

Let’s pull a #throwback moment and talk fractals. Remember those? They’re not just for your math geek buddies anymore. In algorithmic art, they become the backbone of some seriously trippy imagery. It’s like taking a zoom lens into a kaleidoscope. Each zoom reveals more detail, in a never-ending, ever-evolving image that’s more layered than the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

And oh, the colors! Imagine if the whole Crayola box got dumped into a coding compiler. The results are more vibrant than a K-pop band’s wardrobe during comeback season. These aren’t just any visuals; they’re visuals that strut down your optic nerves like a runway model, turning your gray matter into their personal disco.

Applications? You bet there are applications! From fashion where designs are generated by AI that knows more about color theory than Van Gogh, to architecture that looks like it was dreamt up during a particularly bizarre cheese dream—algorithmic art is there, making the mundane magical.

It’s not just for the 'gram, though. This blend of science education and art teaches critical thinking, complex problem-solving, and yes, even a bit of aesthetics. It’s like your brain’s doing leg day, but for coding and creativity. And the outcome? A more innovative, visually literate generation that thinks in code and dreams in color.

In the classroom, imagine this scenario: instead of snoozing through a lecture that's dryer than British humor, students are coding up storms, creating art that’s as expressive as their last Tweetstorm. Educators are like, “Forget monologues; let’s monochrome!” as they guide students through the labyrinth of programming languages, each line of code a brushstroke on a digital canvas.

Now, let’s get existential for a sec. What does it all mean? In the grand scheme of things, algorithmic art is more than just a quirky crossover episode between Silicon Valley and the Louvre. It’s a signpost for where we’re headed—towards a world where creativity is not bound by traditional mediums. It’s messy, it’s beautiful, and it’s a little bit out of control, kind of like your favorite meme.

So next time you see a piece of algorithmic art, tip your imaginary hat to the coders and artists—the architects of this mad, mad digital world. And remember, in the age of algorithmic art, everyone’s a bit of an artist, and life, dear netizens, is your canvas. So go forth, create, code, and for goodness' sake, keep it weird. Because normal was never this much fun. 🎨💾🚀

#algorithm #art #science #science education #education #science art

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kley-blog · 2 months

Text

“Why do some British people not like Donald Trump?”

A few things spring to mind. Trump lacks certain qualities which the British traditionally esteem. For instance, he has no class, no charm, no coolness, no credibility, no compassion, no wit, no warmth, no wisdom, no subtlety, no sensitivity, no self-awareness, no humility, no honour and no grace – all qualities, funnily enough, with which his predecessor Mr. Obama was generously blessed. So for us, the stark contrast does rather throw Trump’s limitations into embarrassingly sharp relief. Plus, we like a laugh. And while Trump may be laughable, he has never once said anything wry, witty or even faintly amusing – not once, ever. I don’t say that rhetorically, I mean it quite literally: not once, not ever. And that fact is particularly disturbing to the British sensibility – for us, to lack humour is almost inhuman. But with Trump, it’s a fact. He doesn’t even seem to understand what a joke is – his idea of a joke is a crass comment, an illiterate insult, a casual act of cruelty. Trump is a troll. And like all trolls, he is never funny and he never laughs; he only crows or jeers. And scarily, he doesn’t just talk in crude, witless insults – he actually thinks in them. His mind is a simple bot-like algorithm of petty prejudices and knee-jerk nastiness. There is never any under-layer of irony, complexity, nuance or depth. It’s all surface. Some Americans might see this as refreshingly upfront. Well, we don’t. We see it as having no inner world, no soul. And in Britain we traditionally side with David, not Goliath. All our heroes are plucky underdogs: Robin Hood, Dick Whittington, Oliver Twist. Trump is neither plucky, nor an underdog. He is the exact opposite of that. He’s not even a spoiled rich-boy, or a greedy fat-cat. He’s more a fat white slug. A Jabba the Hutt of privilege. And worse, he is that most unforgivable of all things to the British: a bully. That is, except when he is among bullies; then he suddenly transforms into a snivelling sidekick instead. There are unspoken rules to this stuff – the Queensberry rules of basic decency – and he breaks them all. He punches downwards – which a gentleman should, would, could never do – and every blow he aims is below the belt. He particularly likes to kick the vulnerable or voiceless – and he kicks them when they are down. So the fact that a significant minority – perhaps a third – of Americans look at what he does, listen to what he says, and then think ‘Yeah, he seems like my kind of guy’ is a matter of some confusion and no little distress to British people, given that: • Americans are supposed to be nicer than us, and mostly are. • You don’t need a particularly keen eye for detail to spot a few flaws in the man. This last point is what especially confuses and dismays British people, and many other people too; his faults seem pretty bloody hard to miss. After all, it’s impossible to read a single tweet, or hear him speak a sentence or two, without staring deep into the abyss. He turns being artless into an art form; he is a Picasso of pettiness; a Shakespeare of shit. His faults are fractal: even his flaws have flaws, and so on ad infinitum. God knows there have always been stupid people in the world, and plenty of nasty people too. But rarely has stupidity been so nasty, or nastiness so stupid. He makes Nixon look trustworthy and George W look smart. In fact, if Frankenstein decided to make a monster assembled entirely from human flaws – he would make a Trump. And a remorseful Doctor Frankenstein would clutch out big clumpfuls of hair and scream in anguish: ‘My God… what… have… I… created?' If being a twat was a TV show, Trump would be the boxed set.”

(H/T Nate White)

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whatthehelloh · 2 months

Text

“Why do some British people not like Donald Trump?”

• Americans are supposed to be nicer than us, and mostly are.

• You don’t need a particularly keen eye for detail to spot a few flaws in the man.

-Nate White

[ x ]

#british #british take on trump #trump #donald trump #trump is a loser #trump is awful #england #uk

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faithnfrivolity · 2 months

Text

“…a Picasso of pettiness, a Shakespeare of sh*t…”

A must-read from British writer Nate White:

“Why do some British people not like Donald Trump?”

• Americans are supposed to be nicer than us, and mostly are.

• You don’t need a particularly keen eye for detail to spot a few flaws in the man.

-Nate White

#Shakespeare of sh*t #Picasso of pettiness

0 notes

antti-nannimus · 2 months

Text

CALL TO ACTIVISM

@CalltoActivism

A British writer penned the best description of Donald Trump I’ve ever read: “Why do some British people not like Donald Trump?” A few things spring to mind. Trump lacks certain qualities which the British traditionally esteem. For instance, he has no class, no charm, no coolness, no credibility, no compassion, no wit, no warmth, no wisdom, no subtlety, no sensitivity, no self-awareness, no humility, no honour and no grace – all qualities, funnily enough, with which his predecessor Mr. Obama was generously blessed. So for us, the stark contrast does rather throw Trump’s limitations into embarrassingly sharp relief. Plus, we like a laugh. And while Trump may be laughable, he has never once said anything wry, witty or even faintly amusing – not once, ever. I don’t say that rhetorically, I mean it quite literally: not once, not ever. And that fact is particularly disturbing to the British sensibility – for us, to lack humour is almost inhuman. But with Trump, it’s a fact. He doesn’t even seem to understand what a joke is – his idea of a joke is a crass comment, an illiterate insult, a casual act of cruelty. Trump is a troll. And like all trolls, he is never funny and he never laughs; he only crows or jeers. And scarily, he doesn’t just talk in crude, witless insults – he actually thinks in them. His mind is a simple bot-like algorithm of petty prejudices and knee-jerk nastiness. There is never any under-layer of irony, complexity, nuance or depth. It’s all surface. Some Americans might see this as refreshingly upfront. Well, we don’t. We see it as having no inner world, no soul. And in Britain we traditionally side with David, not Goliath. All our heroes are plucky underdogs: Robin Hood, Dick Whittington, Oliver Twist. Trump is neither plucky, nor an underdog. He is the exact opposite of that. He’s not even a spoiled rich-boy, or a greedy fat-cat. He’s more a fat white slug. A Jabba the Hutt of privilege. And worse, he is that most unforgivable of all things to the British: a bully. That is, except when he is among bullies; then he suddenly transforms into a snivelling sidekick instead. There are unspoken rules to this stuff – the Queensberry rules of basic decency – and he breaks them all. He punches downwards – which a gentleman should, would, could never do – and every blow he aims is below the belt. He particularly likes to kick the vulnerable or voiceless – and he kicks them when they are down. So the fact that a significant minority – perhaps a third – of Americans look at what he does, listen to what he says, and then think ‘Yeah, he seems like my kind of guy’ is a matter of some confusion and no little distress to British people, given that: • Americans are supposed to be nicer than us, and mostly are. • You don’t need a particularly keen eye for detail to spot a few flaws in the man. This last point is what especially confuses and dismays British people, and many other people too; his faults seem pretty bloody hard to miss. After all, it’s impossible to read a single tweet, or hear him speak a sentence or two, without staring deep into the abyss. He turns being artless into an art form; he is a Picasso of pettiness; a Shakespeare of shit. His faults are fractal: even his flaws have flaws, and so on ad infinitum. God knows there have always been stupid people in the world, and plenty of nasty people too. But rarely has stupidity been so nasty, or nastiness so stupid. He makes Nixon look trustworthy and George W look smart. In fact, if Frankenstein decided to make a monster assembled entirely from human flaws – he would make a Trump. And a remorseful Doctor Frankenstein would clutch out big clumpfuls of hair and scream in anguish: ‘My God… what… have… I… created?' If being a twat was a TV show, Trump would be the boxed set.” -Nate White

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