Imagine that everywhere in the mechanical engineering world suddenly got infatuated with lasers.
Lasers have a lot of uses! Measuring things, heating things, cutting things, entertaining cats, particle physics. Lasers are pretty cool. Very versatile, very useful, potential to be very powerful.
Someone shows up one day and says "I have developed a never before seen technology! I call it a Death Star."
And it's a 3.4mW laser. Well no, we haven't seen this exact size of laser much since that's not really standard, but that's a bit of a misnomer, and I wouldn't call it new -
"HOLY SHIT GUYS! This Death Star is so entertaining! My cat loves it and it has such a nice color!" The Death Star becomes a viral novelty, and is mildly entertaining, as laser pointers often are.
Somehow, seemingly overnight, this leads to mania. "Lets stick lasers in EVERYTHING! The public loves them!"
More companies make 3.4mW lasers to jump on the bandwagon. Everyone that makes anything vaguely mechanical starts sticking lasers into their designs.
Everyone is calling them Death Stars. Any time there is a "Death Star innovation", it is just that they made a bigger laser.
Ford's next truck comes out and it has "Death Star integrated headlights", where they have just stuck giant lasers in place of their previously functional headlights.
An electric toothbrush is now "Powered by Death Stars" and shoots a laser at the tooth its cleaning. You think that maybe this could have actual applications as a sanitizing device if you're being generous, but when you actually look at the product, its laser has no purpose but to point at the tooth and drain the battery.
Mechanical products across the board get noticeably worse as everyone starts stuffing lasers in places where lasers have no right to be.
The lamp business gets in on it. "Here's a Death Star powered lamp!" These guys haven't even tried to stick a laser in their damn lamps. They've just started calling their light bulbs Death Stars and hoped you bought it before you could tell the difference. You at least appreciate that they haven't ruined their lamp about it.
Death Stars are lauded as the solution to all the world's problems. If it's not working, you should stick a laser in it! That'll fix it, everyone says. Once in a blue moon, it's even true! Weather prediction is really good now. But most things are garbage. Like "Death Star powered washing machines". What the fuck does that even mean?
Meanwhile, since all functioning mechanisms are being replaced with lasers, problems start showing up. All mirrors now cost $1000+ dollars, because the whole supply is being used up to make more lasers. The earth heats up, because everyone's blasting lasers at everything. People keep going blind, on account of all the lasers.
You, in fact, study optical mechanics. You know what a laser is, and how it works, and that it was invented many years before any of this nonsense actually started. People keep asking you about Death Stars, since surely you must know so much about them.
You explain that this is not really what lasers are for, except you have to call them Death Stars now, and that they're causing a lot of harm, so you don't like them much.
"Oh, but they're still such new tech!" they reply. "They'll figure out how to make Death Stars that don't burn your eyes out soon, and then it won't be an issue anymore!"
Somewhere, deep and buried, you remember lasers being used in particle accelerators, or in telescopes, or in laser cutters, or funny cat videos. They are, in fact, still interesting. Still cool.
But by this point they have replaced roads with "Death Star Powered Pathways", which are just laser pointers propped up on tooth picks pointing vaguely through the forests.
That feel when you brush your scalewolf and now there's fur scales everywhere
He gave her a fancy quill and everything.
He? They? Idk man. What was the name again? Penguin?
"Treats......good...!"
....Oh, interesting!
They restored his............mind?
Well, yeah. But they're only not-forbidden until someone realizes what you're doing and forbids them.
Those other guys are fakers, Coco. Wannabes.
I mean, if the possibilities were truly infinite, draw a spell to make Coco change her mind! But you can't. 👀 Even true magic must have SOME limits, for that inspires innovation.
Bro, leave the poor kid alone! He didn't do anything!
aristocratic method of education, huh. Montessori style?
get yoinked, idiot.
curiously, that's not a 'No'.
You might have a better time if you kept it from tattering so frightfully.
Ahhh, right. Ol'Drew-gio IS characterized by fire magic. Like Qifrey is water.
And is Tetia is air, and Richeh is earth........ then perhaps.........
Perhaps Agott is Light.
But that means.........
Uh oh. :)
OH, GOOD JOB!!!! SHE CALLED FOR BACKUP!!
iooooodfghodhfgohgf
................. is he referring to Qifrey....? Or is Olry somehow....?
ehehe......... withDRAW. ehehe... get it?
Olruggio is really doin' his job this chapter.
And aww, a warm reunion!
Tetia, under no circumstances should you tell them what happened.
"They wouldn't do that! ......actually they fuckin WOULD lmfao"
"....your bangs, on the other hand, could stand to be erased just a lil bit"
Richeh is out here casually doing teleportation magic, huh.
"hey, kiddo, I know shit sucks but you'll just have to do some hardcore camping and hide from the authorities. no biggie."
Awww, yaaaay! Maybe that's where she lives?
oh my gods he's precious.
Also, how is he planning to put the pendant back ON though?
hey STOP MAKING ME CRY
the dads are flabbergasted but their daughter's LOCKED IN
Oops. You DID get your story ironed out before you get separated, right?
The LLOUD headquarters conference room feels different today—more charged, more intimate. The massive glass table that dominates the space is littered with lyric sheets, empty coffee cups, and the remnants of takeout from our twelve-hour brainstorming session. I'm perched on Y/N's lap, my silk robe falling open to reveal the constellation of hickeys and bite marks decorating my breasts and stomach. My hair is pulled into a messy bun, tendrils escaping to frame my face as I lean forward to examine the lyrics Y/N has just proposed.
My breath catches in my throat as I scan the words—explicit references to "Lisa's tight pussy gripping my cock," "Lisa's throat bulging as I force myself deeper," and "Lisa Manoban, the Thai whore who runs LLOUD with cum dripping down her thighs." These aren't metaphors or artistic abstractions—they're direct declarations that would permanently cement my public image as exactly what I've become behind closed doors. My pussy clenches involuntarily at the thought, wetness gathering between my thighs even as my business mind races to calculate the implications.
"You want to use my actual name?" I ask, my voice huskier than intended as Y/N's fingers trace lazy circles on my inner thigh, inching closer to where I'm already embarrassingly wet. "That crosses the line from artistic expression into... something else entirely. The first two songs maintained plausible deniability—this would eliminate any separation between Lisa the artist and Lisa the... whore." The term comes out as a whisper, sending a shiver down my spine as I acknowledge what I've truly become.
Y/N's hand slides higher, his middle finger parting my folds and finding my clit with practiced precision. My hips buck involuntarily as he begins to circle the sensitive bundle of nerves, his other arm tightening around my waist to hold me in place. The creative director and three executives across the table pretend not to notice, though the bulges in their pants betray their arousal at witnessing my submission once again.
"That's exactly the point, baby girl," Y/N growls into my ear, loud enough for everyone to hear. "The first song introduced the concept. The second detailed your breaking. This final one reveals the truth—that Lisa Manoban, global superstar and CEO, has found her true calling as my personal fucktoy. The music video will be just explicit enough to stay on streaming platforms—you bent over this very table while I pound you from behind, close-ups of your face contorted in pleasure, shots of my hand around your throat as you cum. We'll dance right up to the line of pornography without crossing it, and the world will eat it up because they've been waiting for this revelation since the first song dropped."
My head falls back against his shoulder as his fingers work faster, my body betraying my business sense as pleasure builds low in my belly. The marketing team has arrived now, standing awkwardly at the door as they witness their CEO being fingered to the edge of orgasm during what should be a professional meeting. But this is LLOUD—this is the new normal I've established, where my sexual availability is as much a part of company culture as our innovation strategy.
"The... the shareholders," I gasp, trying desperately to maintain some semblance of professional concern even as my hips grind shamelessly against his hand. "They might... oh fuck... they might have concerns about... about explicit use of my name and... and pornographic content with their CEO." My words dissolve into a high-pitched moan as Y/N slips two fingers inside me, curling them to hit that perfect spot while his thumb continues its assault on my clit.
"Your shareholders have seen their investment triple since our collaboration began," he reminds me, his voice a commanding rumble that makes my walls clench around his fingers. "They know exactly what's happening here—why do you think your board approved the penthouse renovation with the sex swing and the custom fucking machine? This final song isn't a revelation, Lisa—it's a confirmation of what everyone already knows but hasn't heard you admit publicly. 'Corporate Whore: Rebirth' is about you embracing your true self without the shield of artistic metaphor. It's about Lisa Manoban declaring to the world that she's found liberation through submission, power through surrender. And that music video will make history—the first mainstream artist to simulate actual sex on camera while maintaining just enough plausible deniability to avoid an explicit rating."
My orgasm crashes through me without warning, my body convulsing in his lap as I cry out, uncaring of the growing audience at the conference room door. Through the haze of pleasure, I can see my marketing director frantically taking notes, already planning how to leverage this final revelation for maximum impact. As I come down from the high, panting and flushed, I realize Y/N is right—this has always been the inevitable conclusion to our trilogy. The gradual unveiling of my transformation from respected businesswoman and artist to willing corporate whore has been building to this moment of complete exposure.
"You're right," I whisper, turning to face him with newfound clarity. "Let's do it. Let's use my name, let's make the video as explicit as we can without getting banned. Let's show the world exactly who Lisa Manoban has become—who she was always meant to be. But I want input on the lyrics—if we're going to expose me completely, I want the words to be perfect. I want every woman who hears it to secretly wish she could be me, and every man to wish he could use me like you do." I reach between us to palm the impressive bulge in his pants, my eyes never leaving his. "This final song isn't just about my submission—it's about my rebirth as something new: a powerful woman who finds her ultimate power in being powerless, a CEO whose greatest business strategy is her willingness to be used for pleasure."
Y/N praises me as he guides his cock inside me and starts fucking me casually.
A gasp escapes my lips as Y/N's thick cock stretches me open, my body instantly responding to his familiar invasion. The conference room table feels cool against my back as he establishes a steady rhythm, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. The other executives continue their casual stroking, their eyes hungrily taking in the sight of their CEO being fucked during what should be a professional meeting about our final collaboration. My silk robe has been completely discarded now, leaving me fully exposed under the harsh fluorescent lights that illuminate every expression of pleasure crossing my face.
"Fuck, baby girl," Y/N growls, his hips snapping forward with each word, "you're going to look so fucking perfect in that bikini. The camera's going to capture every little twitch of your body when I'm inside you, every little gasp when I hit that spot." He punctuates this by angling his thrust to hit my g-spot, making me arch off the table with a loud moan. "The whole world's gonna see how their favorite Thai superstar responds to my cock, even with those tiny scraps of fabric between us."
My hands grip the edge of the table as he increases his pace, my breasts bouncing with each powerful thrust. The marketing director is frantically typing notes on his tablet, occasionally pausing to adjust himself through his pants. The creative team has set up a mood board at the end of the conference room, pinning up images of barely-there bikinis of LLOUD.
Alongside sketches of potential sets for the video. Through the haze of pleasure, I can see they've designed a corporate office setting with transparent furniture, a visual metaphor for the transparency we're bringing to my transformation.
"The—unngh—the censors will never allow it," I manage to gasp out, my voice breaking as Y/N's thumb finds my clit and begins circling it mercilessly. "Even with—oh god right there—even with the minimal coverage, simulated sex for an entire music video will get age-restricted at minimum." My concerns sound hollow even to my own ears, undermined by the way my pussy clenches greedily around his shaft, my body betraying how much the idea excites me.
Y/N laughs, the sound deep and knowing as he leans down to bite my nipple, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain through my body. His free hand wraps around my throat, applying just enough pressure to make my vision blur at the edges—the perfect amount that he's learned I crave during our month together. The executives watching us have formed a loose semicircle around the table now, their cocks fully exposed as they stroke themselves to the rhythm of Y/N's thrusts. My CFO has his phone out, discreetly recording this meeting for what he'll later claim are "documentation purposes" but what we both know will be added to his private collection of my most compromising moments at LLOUD.
"That's exactly the point, Lisa," Y/N says, his voice steady despite the force of his thrusts. "We'll shoot it so perfectly that it'll be impossible to ban but impossible to mistake for anything other than what it is—me fucking the soul out of you through your clothes. Every frame will be a masterpiece of suggestion. Your bikini bottoms pulled aside just enough that the audience can imagine my cock sliding into your tight little pussy. My underwear stretched around my balls while I pound you from behind. Close-ups of your face as you cum over and over, those pretty little Thai features contorted in pleasure while I whisper filthy things in your ear." He punctuates each description with a particularly deep thrust, making me cry out as my orgasm builds. "By the time we're done, 'Corporate Whore: Rebirth' won't just be a song—it'll be a cultural moment. The day Lisa Manoban showed the world exactly who she is."
My back arches off the table as his words push me over the edge, my pussy contracting violently around his cock as waves of pleasure crash through me. My vision whites out momentarily, my mouth open in a silent scream before sound finally tears from my throat—a primal, desperate noise that echoes off the conference room walls. Y/N doesn't slow his pace, fucking me through my orgasm and pushing me toward another as the executives around us groan in appreciation of the show. Through my pleasure-hazed vision, I can see our head of legal making notes, already preparing for the inevitable challenges we'll face with releasing such explicit content under the LLOUD brand. But as Y/N's cock hits that perfect spot inside me again, sending another jolt of ecstasy through my system, I find I don't care about the legal implications or potential backlash. This final song, this final video, will be the ultimate expression of what I've become—what I've always been beneath the carefully constructed image of global superstar and business mogul.
"Yes," I moan, my nails digging into Y/N's back as I pull him closer, my lips brushing against his ear. "Let's do it exactly like that. Let's show them all what Lisa Manoban really is. Let's make something so fucking hot they'll have to invent new censorship rules just for us. I want every frame to be art and pornography at the same time. I want schoolgirls to study it in music video analysis classes while pretending they're not getting wet. I want businessmen to jerk off to it in their office bathrooms while telling themselves they're just appreciating the artistic merit." My words dissolve into incoherent moans as another orgasm builds, my body completely surrendered to the pleasure Y/N is inflicting on me in front of my entire executive team.
My body trembles with aftershocks as Y/N continues his relentless pace, his cock stretching me in ways that still make me gasp despite our month of constant fucking. The conference table squeaks beneath us, papers scattering to the floor as he pulls me closer to the edge, my legs dangling over his powerful shoulders. Through the pleasure-haze clouding my vision, I notice our songwriting team has entered the room, quietly taking seats along the wall, notebooks open as they study the way my body responds to Y/N's dominance—research for the lyrics they'll craft for our final collaboration.
"A two-part structure," I moan, my mind somehow still capable of processing creative decisions even as Y/N's thick shaft pounds against my cervix. "That's... mmm... that's brilliant. The duality represents my transformation—fuck!—from independent woman to... to your personal fucktoy." My back arches involuntarily as he hits a particularly sensitive spot, causing my toes to curl and a high-pitched whine to escape my throat. The executives watching us murmur their approval, several of them now openly masturbating as they witness their CEO's complete submission.
Y/N grabs my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat which he immediately attacks with his teeth and tongue, marking me further as his property. His hips never slow their punishing rhythm as he speaks against my skin, his words vibrating through me like another form of penetration. "First part will be us talking about your rebirth, baby girl. How Lisa Manoban died and was reborn as my personal cum receptacle. How the CEO of LLOUD found her true calling as the company whore. We'll name names, places, positions—tell them exactly how many times I've filled your tight little Thai pussy with my cum, how many cocks you've sucked in this very conference room." His words make my pussy clench around him, the degradation hitting me like a physical force that somehow translates directly to pleasure. "Then the second part..." he continues, punctuating his words with particularly brutal thrusts that make my vision blur, "...the second part will be nothing but praise. I'll tell the world how perfect your pussy feels when it's gripping my cock, how beautiful you look with my cum dripping down your chin, how your eyes roll back when I'm balls deep in your ass. I'll praise your dedication to becoming the perfect fucktoy, how you've trained your throat to take me all the way, how your pussy gets wet the moment I enter a room."
"Yes, yes, yes!" I cry out, my nails leaving bloody trails down his back as another orgasm builds within me. "Tell them everything! Tell them how their favorite idol begs for your cock every night, how I can't sleep unless I've been filled with cum, how the great Lisa Manoban is nothing but a set of holes for you to use!" My words shock even me, but they're true—this is what I've become, what I've always secretly wanted to be. The marketing team is frantically taking notes, already planning how to leverage the explicit content for maximum impact while maintaining just enough plausible deniability to keep us on mainstream platforms. The creative director has moved closer, studying the expressions on my face as Y/N drives me toward another shattering climax—reference material for the video shoot, where we'll need to recreate this authentic pleasure while technically remaining clothed.
Y/N suddenly pulls out, flipping me onto my stomach with my ass in the air. Without warning, he slams back into me from behind, the new angle allowing him to reach depths that make me scream in a mixture of pain and ecstasy. His hand comes down hard on my ass, the sharp crack echoing through the conference room as a red handprint blooms on my skin. "And when we shoot the video," he growls, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to leave bruises, "I want you to remember this moment. When you're wearing that tiny bikini and I'm grinding against you, I want you to remember how it feels to have my cock actually inside you, stretching you open, claiming you. I want that real pleasure to show on your face, in your eyes. I want every frame of that video to be so charged with authentic desire that people cum just from watching it. 'Corporate Whore: Rebirth' won't just be the end of a trilogy—it'll be the beginning of a new era where art and pornography become indistinguishable, where Lisa Manoban's name becomes synonymous with sexual liberation through submission."
Y/N pulls out of me abruptly, leaving me whimpering at the sudden emptiness. He strides across the conference room, his magnificent cock still glistening with my juices, and grabs a whiteboard marker. The executives shift in their seats, some still stroking themselves lazily as they watch him begin to write on the glass wall of the conference room. My body aches deliciously as I push myself up on trembling arms, my hair a wild mess around my face as I watch him work. The marker squeaks against the glass as Y/N's hand moves with surprising grace, words flowing from him as easily as the filth he whispers in my ear when he's balls deep inside me.
"Listen to this, baby girl," he commands, his voice carrying that irresistible authority that makes my pussy clench involuntarily.
First verse:
'Lisa Manoban, CEO by day, on her knees by night
Corporate meetings, boardroom dealings, then she takes this dick just right
Rebirth of a superstar, now she's famous for her throat
Every hole's a profit centre, every moan a banknote.’
He turns to me, his eyes burning with creative intensity mixed with lust. "You like that, don't you? I'm putting your name right in there, no metaphors, no hiding."
I nod eagerly, sliding off the table and crawling toward him on all fours, drawn to his creativity like a moth to flame. The cool marble floor against my knees is a stark contrast to the heat building between my thighs again. My marketing director is filming this entire process on his phone—documentation of the creative process for our behind-the-scenes content, he'll claim later, though we all know it's just another addition to the company's growing collection of my debasement. Y/N continues writing, the muscles in his back flexing hypnotically as he crafts the second verse, occasionally stroking himself to maintain his impressive erection.
"Second verse hits even harder," Y/N announces, stepping back to admire his work.
‘From Bangkok to worldwide fame, now she's famous for taking cock
LLOUD's founder takes it deeper than her company's stock
Reborn as what she always was, a set of holes to fill
The Thai princess on her back, letting me have my will.’
He turns to me with a predatory grin that makes my heart race. "Then we transition to the praise section.”
'Perfect lips wrapped around my shaft, eyes watering as she chokes
Most beautiful when she's gagging, that's not just a joke
Never seen a woman take it like Lisa does for me
Corporate Whore reborn complete, exactly as she's meant to be.'
I feel tears of joy and arousal welling in my eyes as I reach his feet, looking up at him with undisguised worship. The lyrics are everything I wanted—explicit, degrading, yet somehow empowering in their brutal honesty. They tell the story of my transformation without apology or metaphor, laying bare the truth of what I've become and celebrating it. The songwriting team is frantically typing every word into their tablets, occasionally exchanging glances that mix professional appreciation with obvious arousal. My CFO has moved closer, his expensive suit pants around his ankles now as he jerks himself off to the sight of his boss on her knees before another man.
"The final verse," Y/N continues, his cock now inches from my face as he writes, "will be the crescendo:”
'No one takes a dick like Lisa, no one moans the way she does
Her pussy grips like it was made for me, gets wetter than it was
Trained her body perfectly now, responds to just my voice
Corporate Whore: Rebirth complete, this is her only choice.'
He caps the marker and tosses it aside, then grabs my chin roughly, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. "What do you think, baby girl? Is that explicit enough for you? Does it tell the world exactly who Lisa Manoban really is?" Without waiting for my answer, he slaps his heavy cock against my cheek, leaving a wet streak of precum across my skin that I don't dare wipe away.
Sometime later.
The release day for "Corporate Whore: Rebirth" arrives with unprecedented anticipation. The music industry has been buzzing for weeks about the final installment of my trilogy with Y/N—rumors spreading about just how far we've pushed the boundaries this time. I'm sitting in my penthouse suite at LLOUD headquarters, watching as the streaming numbers climb at a rate that makes even my seasoned executives gasp. My marketing director bursts through the door, tablet in hand, his eyes wide with excitement.
"Lisa, we've just broken the record for most streams in the first hour! The video is being flagged on every platform but they can't take it down fast enough—people are downloading it and reposting faster than the censors can work!" he exclaims, showing me the analytics that look more like the stock market during a boom than music statistics. I smile, feeling a deep satisfaction that goes beyond professional pride. My body still aches pleasantly from the month-long video shoot with Y/N, where what was supposed to be simulated sex for the camera frequently crossed the line into real penetration between takes—or sometimes during them, the camera operators pretending not to notice when Y/N would whisper in my ear that he couldn't wait and would slide inside me, the thin fabric of my bikini bottom simply pushed aside.
"The comments section is absolute chaos," my social media manager adds, scrolling through her phone. "Half the people are calling it the most revolutionary artistic statement of the decade, the other half are demanding your arrest for public indecency. The religious groups are organizing boycotts while music critics are praising it as 'the final dissolution of the boundary between art and pornography.' Everyone's talking about the scene where you're in that blue bikini on the yacht
and Y/N is behind you—the way your face changes when he... well, you know."
I know exactly which scene she means. We were filming on a private yacht off the coast of Monaco, the sun setting behind us casting everything in a golden glow. I was wearing the blue coloured LLOUD bikini that left little to the imagination, especially when wet. Y/N was behind me, grinding against my ass as the choreography dictated, but between takes he had whispered, "I'm going inside you for real when we roll again, and you're going to keep that perfect face camera-ready while I fuck you." True to his word, when the director called action, I felt him push my bikini bottom aside and slide his full length into me in one smooth thrust. The camera captured my genuine reaction—the widening of my eyes, the parting of my lips, the flush spreading across my cheeks—all while I continued to perform the choreography, my voice somehow remaining steady as I sang about my rebirth as his perfect fucktoy.
"The censored version for mainstream platforms is still explicit enough to make most people blush," my legal advisor comments, adjusting his tie nervously. "But the uncensored director's cut that's available on our website behind the age verification wall... Lisa, I have to be honest, I've never seen anything like it in mainstream media. The way Y/N is clearly... inside you in at least half the scenes, the close-ups of your expressions, the visible... fluids. It's revolutionary, but we're definitely in uncharted legal territory."
I wave away his concerns, crossing my legs to ease the throbbing that has started between them just from discussing the video. The centerpiece of the video—the scene everyone is talking about—takes place in a mock-up of this very office. I'm bent over my desk wearing nothing but a LLOUD-branded thong and nipple pasties, while Y/N stands behind me in low-slung jeans, his hands gripping my hips as he simulates taking me from behind. Except it wasn't simulation. The director had cleared the set except for one camera operator, and Y/N had spent nearly an hour actually fucking me while they captured various angles. My orgasms in that scene were real, my screams authentic, the way my makeup ran with my tears of pleasure genuine. When he finally came inside me, the camera zoomed in on my face, capturing the exact moment I felt him pulse within me, my eyes rolling back, my mouth forming a perfect 'O' of ecstasy.
"The song is already being called the anthem of a new sexual revolution," my PR director says proudly. "People are saying Lisa Manoban has redefined what it means to be a powerful woman in the entertainment industry. By so openly embracing and showcasing your sexuality, you've somehow flipped the script on the male gaze. You're being hailed as both a feminist icon and the world's most successful pornographic artist simultaneously. It's... confusing for many, but that's what makes it genius."
The room falls silent as my face appears on screen, wearing nothing but the tiniest red string bikini that barely covers my nipples and pussy, the camera lingering on my body as I writhe against Y/N's muscular frame. His V-cut underwear leaves almost nothing to the imagination, the outline of his massive cock pressing against the thin fabric as he grinds against me.
The first verse hits and I feel my pussy getting wet as I hear my full name – "Lisa Manoban" – explicitly mentioned in the lyrics describing my transformation from K-pop idol to industry fucktoy. On screen, I'm bent over a grand piano, Y/N’s hips slamming against my ass as he simulates fucking me from behind, my face contorted in pleasure that wasn't simulated at all – we'd actually fucked between takes, and the director had captured my genuine orgasm face. The choreography is nothing but thinly veiled sex positions – me riding Y/N on a throne, him pressing me against walls, lifting me onto countertops, bending me over furniture – all while maintaining the barest minimum of clothing coverage to keep the video on streaming platforms.
"This is fucking genius," whispers one of the executives beside me, his hand not-so-subtly adjusting his erection through his pants. "The way you two transition from the degradation in the first half to that twisted daddy-babygirl dynamic in the second... it's going to be controversial as hell but impossible to cancel because of how it evolves."
I nod, transfixed by the second half of the video where the tone shifts subtly. Y/N is still dominant, still controlling my body on screen, but there's a possessive tenderness that wasn't present in our previous songs. His lyrics have transformed from purely degrading to worshipful – still filthy and explicit, but now praising my "perfect pussy" and "cock-sucking lips" with an almost reverent tone. The camera zooms in on my face as fake cum (though viewers wouldn't know it was fake) drips down my chin, Y/N's hand gently wiping it away before he kisses me deeply. The daddy-babygirl dynamic is unmistakable as he cradles my head in one scene, whispering lyrics about how I'm "his perfect little slut" and how he's "never seen anyone take dick so beautifully."
"We're already trending worldwide," announces my social media manager, looking up from her phone with wide eyes. "The video dropped just one hour ago and we've already crashed two streaming platforms. The hashtag #LisasRebirth is number one globally, and #LisaManobanSlut is number three." She scrolls through her phone, eyes widening further. "Holy shit, your Instagram followers just jumped by two million in the last five minutes. Everyone's sharing clips of the video."
I feel a rush of pride and arousal washing over me as I watch the final scenes of the music video – me on my knees in front of Y/N, in his V-cut underwear, his bulge prominently displayed as I look up at him with adoration. The camera pans away just as Y/N pulls his waistband down, cutting to a shot of my face moments later with glistening liquid dripping down my chin and chest. The actual cumshot had been real – Y/N had actually cum on my face during filming, though we'd replaced it with a sanitized version for the official release. The song ends with Y/N's voice softly praising me: "Lisa Manoban, the queen who chose to be a slut, the most beautiful fucktoy the world has ever seen." As the screen fades to black, the room erupts in applause and cheers. My phone is already exploding with notifications – offers from brands wanting to capitalize on my new image, interview requests, and messages from celebrities either condemning or praising my bold new direction.
"We've done it," I say breathlessly, standing up to address the room. My nipples are hard beneath my tight dress, my pussy wet with excitement. "We've changed the game forever. No one in the industry will ever be able to go back to pretending sex doesn't sell. I'm proud to put my name – my real name – on this project and show the world that a woman can be powerful precisely because she embraces being a slut." I raise my champagne glass, feeling the eyes of every person in the room on my body. "To breaking the internet, breaking boundaries, and to never having to pretend I don't love cock ever again!"
A flush of excitement colors my cheeks as I hear the request for me to sing the lyrics. The room falls silent, all eyes turning to me expectantly. I stand up from my plush chair, my tight black dress riding up my thighs as
I move to the center of the penthouse. The executives and Y/N's entourage form a semicircle around me, their gazes hungry and appreciative. I toss my long hair back, a confident smile playing on my lips as I prepare to perform the explicit lyrics that have just broken the internet.
"You want me to sing it? Right here?" I purr, running my hands down my curves suggestively. "I guess it's only fair since everyone's about to hear my name attached to these lyrics worldwide."
I clear my throat and begin with the opening verse, my voice sultry and confident as I recite the explicit transformation narrative:
"Lisa Manoban, that good girl gone bad
K-pop princess now on her knees, ain't it sad?
Or maybe it's what she always wanted, deep inside
To have her holes filled, nowhere left to hide
From Bangkok to LA, she's found her true calling
On her back, legs spread, to the industry she's falling
Lisa Manoban, reborn as what she's meant to be
The perfect little fucktoy for the world to see"
As I sing, I begin to move my body in rhythm with the words, recreating some of the dance moves from the video. My hips sway hypnotically, hands tracing the outline of my breasts and down to my thighs. The room is completely silent except for my voice and the occasional sharp intake of breath from my audience. I can see the bulges forming in pants around the room, executives shifting uncomfortably in their seats as I continue with one of the Y/N's verses:
"Never seen a girl take dick like Lisa does
Her pussy grips so tight, makes a grown man buzz
Those lips were made for sucking, that throat so deep
The way she begs for cum makes a hard man weak
Lisa Manoban, my personal Asian slut
The way she arches her back when I fill her up
Those doe eyes roll back when she's getting fucked
The perfect little cumslut, forever mine to corrupt"
My voice grows breathier as I reach the bridge of the song, my hands now moving more explicitly over my body, cupping my breasts through my dress, sliding between my thighs momentarily. I lock eyes with different men in the room as I sing, personalizing the performance. When I reach Y/N himself, I slink over to where he sits, dropping to my knees before him as I deliver the final chorus:
"This is Lisa's rebirth, watch her take what she needs
On her knees, begging please, born to serve and to please
Lisa Manoban, remember that fucking name
'Cause once you've seen her work, you'll never be the same
My perfect little fucktoy, my Asian delight
Taking load after load from morning till night
Lisa's rebirth is complete, there's no going back
The world's favorite slut, and that's a fucking fact"
As I finish the final line, I'm still on my knees before Y/N, my chest heaving with exertion and arousal. The room erupts in applause and cheers, several men standing to give me an ovation. Y/N reaches down to cup my chin, tilting my face up to look at him with a mixture of pride and lust in his eyes.
"That's why you're a fucking star," he growls, loud enough for everyone to hear. "You don't just perform the songs – you embody them. You live them. That wasn't just singing lyrics; that was you telling your truth. And that's why this shit is going to be bigger than anything the music industry has ever seen."
I rise to my feet, accepting a glass of champagne from an assistant as the room continues to buzz with excitement. My phone hasn't stopped vibrating with notifications since the video dropped, and I can already see headlines forming about the explicit nature of both the video and lyrics. But instead of fear or shame, I feel only pride and a deep sense of sexual power. I've transformed myself completely, put my real name on the most explicit mainstream music project ever created, and the world is eating it up exactly as I knew they would.
"To Corporate Whore: Rebirth," calls out one of the executives, raising his glass. "The woman who just changed the music industry forever!"
The room buzzes with excitement after my performance, but the energy shifts as Y/N rises from his seat. His imposing figure commands attention as he moves to the center of the penthouse where I just performed. A hush falls over the crowd of executives and industry insiders as he positions himself beside me, his muscular arm wrapping possessively around my waist. The heat from his body sends shivers down my spine as he pulls me against him, his fingers digging into my hip through the thin fabric of my dress.
"Y'all heard Lisa's part, but that's only half the story," he announces, his deep voice resonating through the room. "This track is about transformation—about taking something beautiful and making it fucking transcendent." His hand slides lower, cupping my ass possessively as he begins to recite his lyrics, not just speaking but performing them with the same intensity as in the recording studio.
"Lisa Manoban got me feeling some type of way
The way she takes this dick, got me wanting her to stay
Not just another pretty face from across the sea
This Thai goddess was born to worship on her knees
The way her pussy grips, the way her throat expands
Lisa Manoban, the finest work of nature's hands
From K-pop princess to the queen of taking cock
The way she begs for cum got my heart on lock"
As Y//N continues, his hand moves from my ass to the small of my back, then up to grip the nape of my neck, forcing me to look up at him. My pussy throbs with each explicit mention of my name, each graphic description of what I've become. The room watches transfixed as he essentially claims ownership of me through his lyrics, the daddy-babygirl dynamic from the video materializing in real life before their eyes. Some of the executives shift uncomfortably in their seats, adjusting their erections, while others lean forward, completely captivated by the raw sexual energy between us.
"Lisa Manoban, remember when you first got on your knees?
Now look at you, taking dick with such expertise
Your lips were made for sucking, your body made to fuck
The perfect little Asian doll who loves to get filled up
The way you arch your back when I'm deep inside
The way you beg for more with tears in your eyes
Lisa Manoban, my personal Thai delight
Taking load after load from morning till night"
Y/N's grip on my neck tightens as he delivers the final verse, his eyes locked with mine. I feel myself getting wetter with each word, each explicit praise of my sexual prowess. The room has disappeared around us—it's just him and me in this moment, the lyrics cementing our twisted relationship for the world to hear. As he finishes, he pulls me into a rough kiss, his tongue invading my mouth as applause erupts around us. When he finally releases me, I'm breathless, my lipstick smeared across both our mouths.
"That's why this shit is revolutionary," he says to the room, but his eyes remain fixed on me. "We're not just making music—we're documenting the rebirth of Lisa Manoban. The world's never seen anything like this because no one's ever had the balls to put their real name on something this explicit. But Lisa here?" He grabs my chin, tilting my face up. "She's not just embracing it—she's fucking thriving in it. And that's why this is going to be the biggest fucking thing in music history."
I lean into his touch, my body responding to his dominance even as my mind processes the magnitude of what we've created. The explicit lyrics with my full name—Lisa Manoban—repeated throughout will ensure that my identity is forever linked to this new persona. There's no going back now. I've crossed a line that no mainstream artist has ever dared to cross, and instead of feeling shame, I feel an intoxicating rush of power and liberation. The room continues to applaud as Y/N and I stand together, his arm now draped possessively around my shoulders, both of us basking in the knowledge that we've created something that will shock the world—and make us both legendary in the process.
A year has passed since "Corporate Whore: Rebirth" changed the music industry forever. The glittering lights of the Billboard Music Awards flash around us as Y/N and I step onto the red carpet, his arm possessively wrapped around my waist. My outfit—if it can even be called that—consists of a completely sheer dress with strategic rhinestone placements that do little to hide my nipples and the thin diamond-studded G-string underneath. The side slits extend all the way to my waist, revealing the rose tattoo Y/N had me get on my hip—his name hidden within the petals. As we pause for photographers, The photographers go wild, cameras clicking frantically as I pose, turning to show off the dress's backless design that dips dangerously low, revealing the top of my ass crack. Y/N’s possessive hand slides down to cup my nearly-exposed ass, and I lean into his touch instinctively. It's been a year since "Corporate Whore: Rebirth" changed everything, and now I'm no longer just Lisa from BLACKPINK—I'm LISA MANOBAN, music's most explicit star and Y/N's publicly claimed woman.
"Baby, they're all looking at what's mine," he whispers against my ear, loud enough for nearby microphones to catch. "Tell them who owns this body that the whole world jerks off to."
I smile for the cameras, my diamond collar—a gift from Y/N that I never remove—catching the light as I turn my head to answer him. "You do, daddy. Only you," I purr, knowing the clip will be viral within minutes. Our relationship has become the most discussed topic in entertainment—a mixture of genuine love and theatrical performance that keeps everyone guessing where the boundary lies. The truth is, there is no boundary anymore. The line between Lisa Manoban the artist and Lisa Manoban the woman disappeared somewhere between our third platinum album and the night Y/N proposed to me while I was on my knees servicing him in the studio.
"Lisa! Lisa! Can you tell us about the inspiration behind your latest video where you're completely nude for the entire seven minutes?" a reporter calls out. I turn, making sure to angle my body so the light reveals the exact shape of my nipples through the mesh—a deliberate tease that will generate millions in free publicity.
I laugh, the sound genuine despite the calculated nature of my response. "Art is about vulnerability, and what's more vulnerable than being completely exposed? But I'm never truly naked when I'm with Y/N—I'm wearing his love, his possession, his cum," I answer, watching the reporter's eyes widen at my explicit language. Y/N's hand tightens on my waist approvingly. Our latest album, "Property Rights," has been both condemned and celebrated—twelve tracks alternating between songs where Y/N praises me as his muse, his goddess, his everything, and tracks where he explicitly details all the degrading acts he subjects me to. The public can't decide if we're relationship goals or the most toxic couple in entertainment, and we've made a fortune from that confusion.
"And Y/N, your lyrics have evolved over this past year—some critics say you've created a new genre that merges misogyny with worship. How do you respond to that?" another journalist asks, thrusting a microphone toward my fiancé.
Y/N pulls me tighter against him, his hand sliding up to rest possessively on my throat—a gesture that makes me instantly wet, conditioned as I am now to associate his dominance with pleasure. "I just tell the truth about my woman," he replies, his voice deep and commanding. "Lisa is both my queen and my whore. She's the most powerful woman in the industry precisely because she surrenders that power to me. Look at her—everyone knows what her pussy looks like, everyone's seen her cum face in our videos, everyone knows the sounds she makes when she's being fucked senseless. And yet she's the CEO of a billion-dollar company, she's won more awards this year than any other artist, and she's changed the fucking game. That's not misogyny—that's evolution."
I beam at his words, genuinely moved despite the crudeness. Our relationship is complex—he does truly love me, protects me fiercely in business dealings, and supports my vision for LLOUD. But he also shares me when it serves our mutual interests, films me in compromising positions for our art, and keeps me in a constant state of sexual submission. Somehow, in this contradiction, I've found the most authentic version of myself. As we move further down the red carpet, I catch sight of a massive billboard overlooking the venue—an advertisement for our upcoming world tour featuring a still from our most controversial video: me on my knees before Y/N, looking up at him with genuine adoration as he holds my face in his hands. The tagline reads simply: "LOVE IS SUBMISSION: THE Y/N & LISA EXPERIENCE." The image perfectly captures what we've become—art and pornography, love and ownership, power and surrender—all wrapped into one revolutionary package that has made us the most profitable couple in music history.
Later that night, after the awards show where our duet "Thai Treasure" won Best Collaboration, Y/N carries me into our penthouse suite, already tearing at what little clothing I have on. The diamond G-string that cost more than most cars is ripped away with casual disregard as he throws me onto the bed. My body responds instantly—a year of being his sexual muse has conditioned me to get wet at his slightest touch. As he looms over me, I can't help but reflect on how completely my life has transformed. From K-pop idol with a carefully managed image to the music industry's most explicit star, with my naked body more recognized than my face. And somehow, in the midst of all that public degradation and sexual exhibition, I found love with the man who helped me embrace my true self—a self that craves both the spotlight and submission in equal measure.
"You know what I was thinking about all night?" Y/N growls as he unzips his pants, his massive cock springing free. "How every motherfucker in that room has seen your tits, your ass, even your pussy in our videos... but I'm the only one who gets to feel this tight cunt squeeze around my dick. The only one who gets to hear you beg for my cum. That's love, baby—sharing you with the world's eyes but keeping the real you all to myself."
I'm on a 20+ city book tour for<p>placehold://://er </p> my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in AUSTIN on MONDAY (Mar 10). I'm also appearing at SXSW and at many events around town, for Creative Commons and Fediverse House. More tour dates here.
It's true that capitalists by and large hate capitalism – given their druthers, entrepreneurs would like to attain a perch from which they get to set prices and wages and need not fear competitors. A market where everything is up for grabs is great – if you're the one doing the grabbing. Less so if you're the one whose profits, customers and workers are being grabbed at.
But while all capitalists hate all capitalism, a specific subset of capitalists really, really hate a specific kind of capitalism. The capitalists who hate capitalism the most are Big Tech bosses, and the capitalism they hate the most is techno-capitalism. Specifically, the techno-capitalism of the first decade of this century – the move fast/break things capitalism, the beg forgiveness, not permission capitalism, the blitzscaling capitalism.
The capitalism tech bosses hate most of all is disruptive capitalism, where a single technological intervention, often made by low-resourced individuals or small groups, can upend whole industries. That kind of disruption is only fun when you're the disruptor, but it's no fun for the disruptees.
Jeff Bezos's founding mantra for Amazon was "your margin is my opportunity." This is a classic disruption story: I'm willing to take a smaller profit than the established players in the industry. My lower prices will let me poach their customers, so I grow quickly and find more opportunities to cut margins but make it up in volume. Bezos described this as a flywheel that would spin faster and faster, rolling up more and more industries. It worked!
The point of that flywheel wasn't the low prices, of course. Amazon is a paperclip-maximizing artificial intelligence, and the paperclip it wants to maximize is profits, and the path to maximum profits is to charge infinity dollars for things that cost you zero dollars. Infinite prices and nonexistent wages are Amazon's twin pole-stars. Amazon warehouse workers don't have to be injured at three times the industry average, but maiming workers is cheaper than keeping them in good health. Once Amazon vanquished its competitors and captured the majority of US consumers, it raised prices, and used its market dominance to force everyone else to raise their prices, too. Call it "bezosflation":
We could disrupt Amazon in lots of ways. We could scrape all of Amazon's "ASIN" identifiers and make browser plugins that let local sellers advertise when they have stock of the things you're about to buy on Amazon:
https://pluralistic.net/2022/07/10/view-a-sku/
We could hack the apps that monitor Amazon drivers, from their maneuvers to their eyeballs, so drivers had more autonomy and their bosses couldn't punish them for prioritizing their health and economic wellbeing over Amazon's. An Amazon delivery app mod could even let drivers earn extra money by delivering for Amazon's rivals while they're on their routes:
We could sell Amazon customers virtual PVRs that let them record and keep the shows they like, which would make it easier to quit Prime, and would kill Amazon's sleazy trick of making all the Christmas movies into extra-cost upsells from November to January:
Rival audiobook stores could sell jailbreaking kits for Audible subscribers who want to move over to a competing audiobook platform, stripping Amazon's DRM off all their purchases and converting the files to play on a non-Amazon app:
Jeff Bezos's margin could be someone else's opportunity…in theory. But Amazon has cloaked itself – and its apps and offerings – in "digital rights management" wrappers, which cannot be removed or tampered with under pain of huge fines and imprisonment:
https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/
Amazon loves to disrupt, talking a big game about "free markets and personal liberties" – but let someone attempt to do unto Amazon as Amazon did unto its forebears, and the company will go running to Big Government for a legal bailout, asking the state to enforce its business model:
You'll find this cowardice up and down the tech stack, wherever you look. Apple launched the App Store and the iTunes Store with all kinds of rhetoric about how markets – paying for things, rather than getting them free through ads – would correct the "market distortions." Markets, we were told, would produce superior allocations, thanks to price and demand signals being conveyed through the exchange of money for goods and services.
But Apple will not allow itself to be exposed to market forces. They won't even let independent repair shops compete with their centrally planned, monopoly service programs:
And they take the position that if you do manage to acquire a donor part from a dead phone or laptop, that it is a felony – under the same DRM laws that keep Amazon's racket intact – to install them in a busted device:
"Rip, mix, burn" is great when it's Apple doing the ripping, mixing and burning, but let anyone attempt to return the favor and the company turns crybaby, whining to Customs and Border Patrol and fed cops to protect itself from being done unto as it did.
Should we blame the paperclip-maximizing Slow AI corporations for attempting to escape disruptive capitalism's chaotic vortex? I don't think it matters: I don't deplore this whiny cowardice because it's hypocritical. I hate it because it's a ripoff that screws workers, customers and the environment.
But there is someone I do blame: the governments that pass the IP laws that allow Apple, Google, Amazon, Microsoft and other tech giants shut down anyone who wants to disrupt them. Those governments are supposed to work for us, and yet they passed laws – like Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act – that felonize reverse-engineering, modding and tinkering. These laws create an enshittogenic environment, which produces enshittification:
Bad enough that the US passed these laws and exposed Americans to the predatory conduct of tech enshittifiers. But then the US Trade Representative went slithering all over the world, insisting that every country the US trades with pass their own versions of the laws, turning their citizens into an all-you-can-steal buffet for US tech gougers:
This system of global "felony contempt of business-model" statutes came into being because any country that wanted to export to the USA without facing tariffs had to pass a law banning reverse-engineering of tech products in order to get a deal. That's why farmers all over the world can't fix their tractors without paying John Deere hundreds of dollars for each repair the farmer makes to their own tractor:
But with Trump imposing tariffs on US trading partners, there is now zero reason to keep those laws on the books around the world, and every reason to get rid of them. Every country could have the kind of disruptors who start a business with just a little capital, aimed directly at the highest margins of these stupidly profitable, S&P500-leading US tech giants, treating those margins as opportunities. They could jailbreak HP printers so they take any ink-cartridge; jailbreak iPhones so they can run any app store; jailbreak tractors so farmers can fix them without paying rent to Deere; jailbreak every make and model of every car so that any mechanic can diagnose and fix it, with compatible parts from any manufacturer. These aren't just nice things to do for the people in your country's borders: they are businesses, massive investment opportunities. The first country that perfects the universal car diagnosing tool will sell one to every mechanic in the world – along with subscriptions that keep up with new cars and new manufacturer software updates. That country could have the relationship to car repairs that Finland had to mobile phones for a decade, when Nokia disrupted the markets of every landline carrier in the world:
The US companies that could be disrupted thanks to the Trump tariffs are directly implicated in the rise of Trumpism. Take Tesla: the company's insane valuation is a bet by the markets that Tesla will be able to charge monthly fees for subscription features and one-off fees for software upgrades, which will be wiped out when your car changes hands, triggering a fresh set of payments from the next owner.
That business model is entirely dependent on making it a crime to reverse-engineer and mod a Tesla. A move-fast-and-break-things disruptor who offered mechanics a tool that let them charge $50 (or €50!) to unlock every Tesla feature, forever, could treat Musk's margins as their opportunity – and what an opportunity it would be!
That's how you hurt Musk – not by being performatively aghast at his Nazi salutes. You kick that guy right in the dongle:
The act of unilaterally intervening in a market, product or sector – that is, "moving fast and breaking things" – is not intrinsically amoral. There's plenty of stuff out there that needs breaking. The problem isn't disruption, per se. Don't weep for the collapse of long-distance telephone calls! The problem comes when the disruptor can declare an end to history, declare themselves to be eternal kings, and block anyone from disrupting them.
If Uber had been able to nuke the entire taxi medallion system – which was dominated by speculators who charged outrageous rents to drivers – and then been smashed by driver co-ops who modded gig-work apps to keep the fares for themselves, that would have been amazing:
The problem isn't disruption itself, but rather, the establishment of undisruptable, legally protected monopolies whose crybaby billionaire CEOs never have to face the same treatment they meted out to the incumbents who were on the scene when they were starting out.
We need some disruption! Their margins are your opportunity. It's high time we started moving fast and breaking US Big Tech!
If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:
Just a heads up because I’ve seen several people who I know are otherwise opposed to ai art re-blogging posts from Antonia Bishop, I’m almost certain their art is ai generated and they’re not being upfront* about it. Which then lead me down a rabbit hole of thinking about ai art, because I have sort of complicated feelings on the whole situation, and now we're here.
First off, I want to establish that they are definitely using ai. As ai has gotten more popular, so have accusations that random stuff is ai generated. Also, this is not a witch hunt or me saying that anyone should hunt this person down or anything. Please do not do that. If you're mad at them for using ai images block them. I just don't think its fair for them to be deceptive about it. ANYWAY.
They used to be upfront about ai usage, if you look their oldest stuff is tagged ai art, so they’re clearly making a choice now to not talk about it or include that tag.
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 1 · Are you still going to release your book with the AI “art” as the cover?
YES!!!
💬 0 🔁 3 ❤️ 6 · stewing about volume 2: sinking up
Their newer stuff doesn’t seem ai generated at a glance, but if you look for more than a second it does have some giveaways. That combined with their previous usage of ai and the frequency that they're churning out work makes me very confident that it is ai.
There’s a decent number that I wouldn’t be able to catch even after spending a long time with them, so it might be that they’re also doing their own drawings or editing the ai results? Although a lot of them also have pretty obvious issues that it seems weird to leave if they’re going in and fixing some of them. Like, these horses are very clearly ai.
💬 20 🔁 3434 ❤️ 3874 · The Southwest and its wild horses 🐴 🖤🥲
Seeing these got me thinking. It is interesting how popular this art has gotten, even with people who are pretty vocal about hating ai. I think a lot of the reach has come from being featured on tumblr radar, but clearly there’s an organic interest. One of the biggest issues I have with some of the anti-ai stuff I've seen is anyone claiming it isn't art. Trying to draw any clear line between “art” and “not-art” is a fools errand. Getting an mfa doesn’t qualify me to do a lot, but it does give me some expertise in this area. The only thing that is required for something to be art is that someone, somewhere called it that. There’s no point in arguing about it. There’s not even really much of a point talking about whether or not art is “good”. But does it achieve what it’s trying to do? Is it interesting? Are you drawing meaning from it? Do you, personally, find it appealing? That’s a space we can play in!
Back to Antonia Bishops work. Their work is certainly pleasant to look at, and most of it is competently done in a way that doesn't immediately read as ai. Is it doing anything particularly groundbreaking or innovative? No, but that’s true for a LOT of “real” artists. The color schemes and motifs are definitely just regurgitating what’s currently trendy, but again that’s not in any way unique to ai. Humans have been making pretty but ultimately lazy and shallow art long before ai became a thing.
I don’t want to sound like a pretentious asshole here, trends are trends for a reason and you don’t need to feel bad for liking things just because lots of other people like them. I don’t think theres anything wrong with people looking at this work and enjoying it (and I almost think its good for people who have a knee jerk response that all ai is soulless garbage and they can always tell to be checked on that). I sort of doubt anyone who reblogged it spent a lot of time looking at it critically, but I too have reblogged plenty of pretty pictures without thinking too much about it. In a lot of ways I’d say that is engaging with this work on the level it is designed to be engaged with.
I also don’t want to just dunk on the work. This is a matter of personal taste, but to me the only moments that work beyond the surface level are the places where it’s obviously ai. I actually love the horses I mentioned earlier. Or this girlie???
She’s got three legs, but it takes a shocking amount of time to notice that. I'm always gonna be a sucker for work that has that uncanny illusory quality, where it looks like one thing at a glance but after a moment you realize it’s something else entirely. That still works for me, even if it wasn’t necessarily intentional. The way your eye slides over ai images unless you train yourself to actually look at them is fascinating. I love that uneasiness, the way it makes you question your own perception. I've said it before and I'm sure I'll say it again, ai art was at its most fun and interesting a few years back when it was doing weird fucked up stuff!!! Bring that back, its too good now!
Of course, none of this negates the ethical issues that ai comes with. The environmental costs are significant, although I would like to point out that again that isn’t unique to ai. I personally don’t use ai for a number of reasons, but the environmental impact is top of my list. At the same time, there’s plenty of things I do that are detrimental to the environment, so I can’t in good faith act like generating ai art is a stain upon your soul or whatever. I don't eat pork or beef for ethical/environmental reasons, but most of the people I love and care about and generally think of as ethical people do. It is what it is.
The biggest issue I have with this person is that they’re not being honest about what they’re doing. The fact that they’re hiding it makes me think that they don’t have the confidence to defend what they’re doing as art, and that’s an issue on an ethical and artistic level. In my opinion at least, the worst thing art can do is be afraid of itself.
And artistic values aside, they're selling prints. If it weren’t for that I probably would have ignored this and moved on with my life. But being deceptive about your work to make money is not okay, people deserve to know what they’re spending money on.
*I recognize that they have, as far as I can tell, not actually directly said their work ISNT ai, but this to me qualifies as intentional midsection and lies by omission.
Not b me wishing that Expendable somehow smuggled a device into the Blacksite with them with enough storage to have P.Ai.Nter transferred onto it somehow.
Not be being desperate for a happy ending.
genuinely, I think pressure has a canonical happy "true" ending. Both Sebastian and Painter get out together! And Sebastian, eventually, gets to be human again.
If you listen to the radio in Sebastian's shop, innovation is communicating to him that they're going to pick up him and 1 other as well as 12 packages.
In ridge, there's a room with a door that requires a code breacher, if you go down there, it's a dock with Painter and Sebastian's stuff! (The actual room name is called SebastianDock#, there's at least 6 variants, it's a guaranteed room spawn in ridge now I believe)
Mr Lopee saying to "Stick to the script" at the end of the bad ending has me thinking, he is going to keep resetting this timeline until the ultimate perfect outcome for taking down Urbanshade happens because he has a grudge against the company for some reason (I'm guessing.. because it's Urbanshade's fault he's green)
If you die after killing Painter but before achieving the bad ending, Mr Lopee still talks to you with different dialog and basically chastises you (I don't have any pics of this, sorry)
Painter or Sebastian dying do not fit into his plan, so in the final true timeline, they are alive and escaped :)
-
Also Painter is playing a vague musical tone in that room (can't hear it better till the Freecam mode is fixed though..) and has music on his screen, though Zeal confirmed the actual sheet music here isn't significant. If you'd like to hear a transcription of it anyways!
(This screenshot isn't mine, I found it in the community server)
Post-canon post-reunion post-reuinion-sex. Dean takes Cas out in the Impala for a drive for the first time since he got back a year after he was taken. Before Dean starts the engine he hesitates and gets a little shy and defensively says "don't laugh at me, okay? I need them." and he pulls a pair of plastic framed glasses out of his jacket front pocket and puts them on.
Cas does not stop staring at him, which Dean can only handle up to the first stop light. There's an heated blush on his face when he barks:
"Quit the surveillance Big Brother. Something wrong with my face?"
"You've aged."
"Jesus."
"It's a compliment. Your resourcefulness and resilience have allowed you to live past the time you were intended to by fate."
"You need to go back to charm school, Thermopolis. 'You've aged' is never a friggin compliment."
"It is. You've aged, and you're taking care of yourself."
There's a touch, light, to the side of Dean's face, tracing gently up under the gap of his glasses to caress his crows feet.
"Cas!" Dean complains, "I'm driving!" But he doesn't push his hand away.
"You're growing," Cas continues, sliding a long finger over Dean's eyebag, "You've lived." He taps the leg of Dean's glasses as he withdraws, adding, "You have defied God."
Dean tries very hard to follow the logic, feeling his face screw up as he does, but he's got nothing. "Huh?"
"Chuck's design for humans was faulty, amateur. There was much he did not account for. In creating the means to live, and live well, with the body you have been given, humanity has proven its superiority to God himself."
Dean scoffs, feeling a little shy again, "It's just glasses, Cas."
"The product of thousands of years of innovation. The work of thousands of people across millenia." Cas pauses for a moment, then asks, a touch breathless, "Can I tell you what I like to imagine?"
"Uh, sure?"
"I like to imagine, when I think of the work of other humans across all of time, that they were doing it all in service of you."
Considering this, Dean lets a Jeep turn onto the road in front of him. "Is it like a sex thing?"
"It's not a sex thing. It is the placement of my desire for you over the will of thousands. My love supercedes their true intentions, their ambitions, their circumstances. I am reappropriating their care to act as a vessel for the depth of my feelings for you."
"Hm. Sounds like a sex thing."
"It is not a sex thing."
"Okay, tell me this, then," Dean says, turning to face Cas at the next red light, "Do you or do you not want me to wear the glasses next time I suck you off?"
"...yes, I do want that."
"I rest my case. And hey - just a tip, from one flirt to another. Next time you want to bring up your hot librarian fantasy, or whatever, don't start by calling the other person old."
"It's not a librarian fantasy, it's a you fantasy."
"Yeah, yeah. Not like I haven't got you-fantasies of my own. How about this: I'll wear just the glasses if you wear just the trench coat."
"I think I could be persuaded," Cas says, and he's smiling, and Dean's smiling, and when he catches a glimpse of his own smile-lines in the rear-view mirror magnified through his glasses, he thinks maybe he gets it. They made it. They're alive. There's proof of it.
summary: sturmhond was the love of your life, even if brief. then he vanishes sailing the high seas. you finally chose to avenge his death against the royal family and find someone unexpected || warnings: mentions of death, angst || word count: 1029 || masterlist
The way you and Sturmhond met could be called ridiculous, even if you just call it fate. It had been a stupid mistake, a slip from the mast that sent the sails tumbling to the ground. If they weren't destined to hit you, you could appreciate the way they billowed and danced as they fell.
Unfortunately, they were destined to hit you. And rather quickly. Now, as the Captain's daughter, the crew's worst nightmare was for you to be injured. So a young deckhand, red hair and eyes like a fox jumps towards you, taking the brunt og the offending sail beam before it can knock you to the ground. Instead, it knocks him to the ground.
"Are you alright? Did it hit your head? Can I get you a healer, some help?" You rush over, your hands cradling his head as he comes back to.
"As you wish, anything you wish." He's delirious, words slurring slightly.
The next few days and weeks blended together, a flurry of activity aboard the ship. but everytime there was something you needed doing, the ginger fox, Sturmhond, would always be there for you. Always ready to do whatever you like and always with a murmur of a phrase.
"As you wish, anything you wish."
Then there was something else behind his eyes. Becuase when he told her 'anything you wish', he truly meant it. The truth was, when he said 'as you wish' he really was saying 'I love you, do you love me?' And if you were brave enough to speak your answer rather than think it, the answer would always be yes.
It's a late night, the sky is full of stars and it's the final week of Sturmhond on the ship. "Why do you have to go?"
"You can come with me." He was saying to you, this doesn't have to end. You don't have to stay here for the rest of your life. You can come and join me on my own ship, our own ship.
You meet his eyes, the stars relflected within them. "I can come with you? You'd do that for me?"
"I've told you already; as you wish, my darling, anything you wish."
Becoming the feared and revered privateer couple of the true sea took far shorter than either of you expected. Then again, no one had ever been as forthright and daring as Sturmhond before.
Your innovations on the ocean meant that you and Sturmhond's crew were permanently head and shoulders above the rest of the competition, if they could even be called competition. There was no one that could touch you. Nothing you ever had to be worried about.
Sturmhond trained you to become as fearsome as his crew, your own reputation having men shudder as much as his. But when a missive comes from the Ravkan royal family demanding Sturmhond for a job, he's very hesitant to go.
"It's good money my love. We could take this and then never have to take another suicide job again."
Sturmhond shakes his head, the stress immediate on his features. "but they don't want us. They're just requesting me."
"We've done alone jobs before." You promise him, "I'll be here when you return and we'll never part again. Anything you wish."
Sturmhond agrees, reluctantly. And he's sailing off with a small number of crew. You have no worry, kissing him softly with a whisper of love, a gentle goodbye, a temporary goodbye.
Except it wasn't.
Because Sturmhond never returned. His crew returned with the ship, but no Captain. They returned with solemn faces and apologies to you. Sturmhond had vanished just before they'd got to the capital city to end the job. No word from him, completely vanished into mid air.
First of all, it's a sadness that paralyzes you, then comes the silence. The whole boat is stewing, waiting for a boiling point to break. That moment comes a few weeks in, when the sadness burns away and turns to blinding rage.
Your ship rallies around you, each thirsting for a moment of revenge for their captain and you find yourself marching towards the palace, only once thought on your mind.
By a miracle (but not really), your audience with the King is the afternoon after you arrive and when you walk into the room, it's only you and him inside.
The King looks at you with a hidden fondness in his eyes, like there are memories simmering below the surface he can never tell.
"I have travelled across the true sea and scoured these lands, Ravkan and otherwise, all for a glimpse of a moment that would demand your presence in front of me." You spit the words as if they offend you. The King stays silent. "My love was slain, while on a contract with the Ravkan crown. As far as I and all my crew are concerned, you are held responsible for his death. How do you plead?"
He takes a step towards you but you don't move. "Who was this love of yours? Another pirate, only in the business for the coin?"
"No." You would not have Sturmhond's name dragged through the sand, even in death. "He was a privateer, did it to help the common people. He did far more than any King or politician I've ever seen. And he was kind, and loving, and he cared. Because of you, he's dead. And all of his care has been stripped from the world by men like you."
The King pondered for a moment. "What do you want in restitution?"
"I want my husband back."
The room stiffens, as if waiting for something to happen. The King runs a hand through his blond curls, as unruly as they were when he was a boy. He glances towards you, then takes a breath, "As you wish." He whispers the words, begging you to recognise them. "Anything you wish."
"Sturmhond?"
This was your husband, your lover? Your lover is the King of Ravka, not a privateer when you knew him, but a prince. You lover was alive. He was right in front of you. He wasn't dead.
