Random Art AI Issue 88
Issue 88 of Random Art AI - Four New Pieces of AI-Generated Art!
Welcome to Issue 88 of Random Art AI! Each issue showcases four unique pieces of AI-generated art. At the end of each month, we release a special collection containing all the issues for that month.
0:00 - Intro
0:15 - Eruption 1
0:40 - Eruption 2
1:05 - Eruption 3
1:30 - Emotional Crimson
1:52 - Outro
Twitter (Gaming & AI Art)
https://twitter.com/zero2zedGaming
Instagram (AI Art)
https://www.instagram.com/random_art_ai/
Check out the full playlist of Random Art AI issues
https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFJOZYl1h1CFQwIos4hSlQEDNsb3gMdYd
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Writing this chapter in my book KILLED me 😭
(Wattpad story is not finished yet so not every page has been published out to you guys yet, stay tuned.)
Book is called: "Face of Broken Glass" if you're wondering. Also, I posted the link for it a while back :v
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Idk if i’ll be able to articulate this properly but i love trans ppl in alternative subcultures. Here you have these aesthetics with an already higher than average baseline of gnc attributes in terms of hair, makeup, clothing, and accessories or lack therof. But then you add in the fact that the person dressing in this way that is gnc as part of this culture is doing something that is gender affirming for them when in other contexts it might not be. Like, a punk trans girl with buzzed hair and a tank top, or an emo tboy wearing a skirt and eyeliner are being gnc in a way that fits to their preferred gender even though to outsiders they might look #Normal. I just think it’s really cool, and also pretty smoking hot! Yeah!!!
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cw: you two have a son together, mention of being married, old man Bakugou
older retired pro hero Bakugou, who you find hunched over his desk one night. it’s late and the day was long and your son was whinier than he usually is. you’d think the old man would be in bed right now, but alas—he’s not beside you.
instead, as you round the corner to get a full look at him, he’s wearing his reading glasses, adorning an old ratty tank, his arms still big but softer than the years from before. he has a book open in front of him, desk scattered with pictures you can’t see from your angle, scissors, stickers, glue sticks.
“What are you getting up to at this hour, old man?” You ask softly, smiling when Bakugou doesn’t even look up from what he’s doing. his tongue is sticking out in the corner as he cuts a squiggly line on a picture, posing it beside another on a blank piece of paper.
“Therapist said I should get into crafting,” he grunts, finally looking over at you from over his glasses. “Do things with my hands, feel busy, get my mind off’a shit.”
you pad over to where he sits, the overhead lamp on his desk focused on the big baby blue book with white pages. peeking over his shoulder, you rest your head on top of his, chin nestled in the still unruly blond and silver locks, overseeing his work.
and honestly? it almost makes you wanna cry. it’s a scrapbook, the page open to pictures of your wedding day, how pretty you looked, how big he smiled at you. you can see other scattered pictures on his desk—when you got a promotion at work, when he was number one for seven months in a row, a positive pregnancy test, the cutest baby you’ve ever seen, two little teeth coming in, baby being held in dads big ole arms that will always protect him.
“After this page, I gotta do the honeymoon.” Bakugou speaks gruffly, setting down a picture to wipe a hand down his face. “And then life accomplishment shit, the baby, his first steps.” He sounds so tired, and you can’t help but wrap your arms around his shoulders, sliding down to smush your face against his own.
“You always have tomorrow. Come to bed.” You say against his cheek, squeezing him when you feel the rejection start up in his belly. But he deflates, pulling his glasses off, reaching around to pull you in his lap. He looks so grumpy, with his frown lines and crows feet, and yet so handsome with his small smile and soft eyes.
“I’ll print more pictures tomorrow. And maybe go by the store to get some more stickers, too.” He tells you in between kisses, his words soft, his hands rough through your pajamas. You hum against his mouth, holding his nape, afraid to ever let him go.
“You do that. Now let’s go to bed.” You whisper, standing up and pulling him with you. He closes the scrapbook for now, and you glimpse at the cover, heart melting at the picture of you two holding up your son, both kissing his cheeks. The picture is captioned with “Our Life” and you don’t think you’ve ever been more grateful to have met him.
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