#I will answer your ask after the SAG strike! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

otipe · 10 months ago

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Neuvillette x Fem!Reader

Coffee shop AU

[Fallin in love is hard. Falling in love with someone who is away from your reach and possibly in love with someone else is even harder.]

— x — x — x — x — x — x — x — x —

Tick-tick-tick

Glancing at the clock, you sigh a shaky breath, feeling your body sag from the nervousness when you realize it's time.

You start the shift at the bar with clean cups and soft voices from your co-workers in the background, brewing the fresh coffee for the upcoming clients with carefulness, and ignoring the sudden palpitations of your heart as the seconds pass by and the awaited moment approaches.

And then, after retrieving your apron and carefully putting away your tools, the bell from the door echoes with a soft clink in the background while a man walks in the shop.

As if memorized a script, and never breaking in character nor actions when he comes closer with his usual calm demeanor and expressionless eyes, you cannot take your sights off him the first few seconds, mouth ajar and cheeks warm with embarrassment when you catch yourself in the act—because it's impossible to react differently, when all the man does is impress you with his elegance and beauty.

Is like a practiced play.

She knows the answer, the man never asks for anything different since his first visit, but she purposely tries to prolong his stay for as long as she can to seek the opportunity to start a conversation in hopes today will be different.

The girl at the register smiles brightly at his presence, unbothered and swiftly taking charge, and asks the same question she's programmed to do to every customer.

“What would you like to order?”

You watch from afar their interactions with nothing but contemplation, heartstrings tugging the edge of your heart and getting lost on the way his silver hair flows like a cascade and frames his broad shoulders like a shield from the sunlight.

His lilac eyes watch the list of beverages rapidly, as if deep in thought and indecisive, as if he were considering choosing another item to try out despite having a routine.

“One black coffee.” Is his reply, the usual. His voice is deep, curt and cold, but it makes her blush nonetheless, smiling behind her hand and tucking away a strand of hair while ringing the order.

The reaction she has is ridiculous, yet you can't find in yourself to blame her.

You're embarrassed to admit he has the same effect on you, after all this time, even when you've never crossed words—but you'd rather die than let anyone else know you fancy the mysterious man from your morning shift just like the register lady.

The man seems unfazed by her attitude though, paying for the order before retrieving his figure to the nearest available window and sits there in silence.

And now is your turn, the next act follows.

You have three minutes until you have his order.

Three minutes to take advantage of your position and glance over whenever you want to admire him from afar without his knowledge, to enjoy and indulge in the fluttering of your heart and warmness spreading to your cheeks when you think about striking a conversation to the man you’ve found liking for a long while.

Would he be kind, or perhaps rude?

Is there something else beneath the persona he sells when he goes out of his house and into the world? Or does he know about the enchanting aura he carries flawlessly anywhere he goes?

Does he know you exist beyond the display of pastries? A singular person pinning for a stranger they found infatuated with since day one?

The answer might not be something you wish to know, already regretting your weakness into daydreaming about said man with him present.

But dreams are free and painless, and the safest way to cope with your unrequited feelings.

“Did he talk to you?,�� one of the cooks whispers to the girl.

She shakes her head, “Cold as ever, but I think he's just pretending.”

“He was looking your way a few moments ago! Maybe he's shy.”

Alas, it's all but a fantasy in your head.

He's beautiful, a gorgeous being out of a fairy tale, and enchanting on his own. It would make more sense to ask the pretty cashier about her growing crush on the man and its advances than the coffee girl who never dares interact with the crowd.

You suppose that's how it's meant to be.

Everything has an order and law, the handsome lead and the pretty girl together. They look like the main couples from romcoms about to have their destined encounter and waiting for the right time to develop their romantic relationship, with obstacles and problems in between to make it the more entertaining.

And every romcom needs to have the antagonist, someone who also desires to be with the leads, to have their own fairytale and love to cradle with gentleness without regarding anyone but themselves—but you don't want to play that part, you don't have it in you to be brave and jeopardize your own feelings nor be mean to get in the way of two destined people.

Is something you've accepted a long time ago and try not to dwell much on the thought.

“Is the coffee ready?"

Nodding your head, you lend her the cup with the lid tightly closed. She smiles and thanks you, jogging to the man at the window and delivering the beverage before returning behind the register.

So deep in thought, you are unable to tear your sights off him when he gets ready to leave.

And then, both of your eyes meet in-between.

The air gets stuck in your throat from the sheer surprise. His eyes are enchanting, like a sweet siren’s song, melting your insides and penetrating to the depths of your soul in silence.

The man blinks slowly, lips parting and turning his body to face you, and you feel your heart leap in your chest when he takes the first step in your direction.

Suddenly, you are too aware of your surroundings and what it means for him to still maintain eye contact after an uncomfortable time. So to save yourself the embarrassment, you turn around to face the wall and try to calm down your hammering heart.

It takes a while, but when the bell from above the door echoes once again, you look over your shoulder and notice the man has since left the coffee shop.

It is said it takes eight seconds to fall in love at first sight.

You wonder if that's how long it lasted for you to end up bewitched by his presence.

— x — x — x — x — x — x — x — x —

The boss arranges a gathering with all the coworkers to celebrate the coffee shop's anniversary since the grand opening a few years ago.

He says it's nothing out of this world, but a celebration he wants to have to not forget all he's worked for and that dreams come true for everyone if they work hard on it—besides, it's a way to get back at his roommate, whatever that means.

Is a cute incentive, and you'd be more than eager to participate if it weren't on your only day off of the week. But what could you do? Coming one more day to interact with people and blend in with the joy they'll share shouldn't be that bad.

Besides, you appreciate the boss just like everyone else. He's a good man, he deserves the attention and love from his workers. That's the reason you accepted going in the first place.

“You should come this Saturday!”

The cashier extends a little pamphlet to the beautiful man, to Neuvilette, in hopes to establish a conversation.

You have half the mind to ponder about her attempts when you've finally acquired a name to match the face.

Neuvilette, that's a really pretty name, unique on its own, and fitting.

“I'm not a worker.”

“But everyone is invited to celebrate! You should come by, since we will have discounts on drinks and all.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, “I know you usually don't come on Saturdays, but it would mean a lot to have the usual clients celebrating with us.”

Neuvilette reads the pamphlet in silence, as if pondering and giving it a thought, but gives it back to the now pouting cashier after a second, “Thank you, but I must decline.”

At the pit of your stomach, you feel disappointed. If she was unable to convince the pretty man, who says anyone else would have a fair chance at talking to him?

Being in love is hard when you are actively seeking it, you realize.

“Hey! Boss is asking for everyone's favorite color, need yours, too!”

Despite the interactions with Neuvillette, she doesn't seem deterred by the failure and carries on with a smile and notepad in hand after delivering his order.

You avoid any sort of comment towards her behavior after the rejection—the least you want is to converse about him and give her the wrong idea. She's kind, but a gossip at heart. You want your little crush dying with you instead of being outed to the rest of the crew for saying something out of pocket.

“I like blue.”

Raising a brow, she shakes her head and sighs.

“The colors are for custom cups the boss is making for us to share this Saturday,” she replies, “What about a light green? I think that color would suit you.”

“I like blue.” You repeat like a parrot.

The cashier purses her lips, shaking her head and writing down your request.

“Don't blame me if the cup comes out ugly.”

You wouldn't dare, since it is not her job to ensure the aesthetic. As long as the requests arrive with no delay and on time for the little event, you will have no complaints about it.

“That would be everyone, then.” she mutters, looking longingly at the window, “Hopefully, we will have better weather by Saturday.”

Is raining quite heavily outside, with the pit-pat pit-pat hitting the glass in a harmonious melody.

The sound is soothing alongside the machines surrounding you, vibrating under your hand when you pour another cup for yourself on this fine morning and watch the pouring outside in silence.

Neuvillette stands from his chair when he gathers his thing, catching your attention once again: an umbrella hooked to his arm, and the other holding his suitcase and cup of coffee. You try to not follow him with your eyes when he walks towards the exit, but you are unable to when he suddenly stops at the door, turns around and walks with quick steps to the counter to take one pamphlet and exits the shop hurriedly.

The squeal from the cashier is hard to miss when she jumps and runs to the kitchen to tell her friends about this development, assuming the meaning behind his actions.

Alone and with the silence vibrating, you think that yeah, that certainly was something.

— x — x — x — x — x — x — x —

The morning is cold.

Clouds are overtaking the sky menacingly, gray and blues fighting to take control over the city, and there is a faint humidity in the air that warns you enough about the upcoming rain about to pour.

The cashier is helping you out unwrapping a box containing the personalized cups and organizing it in alphabetical order for better handling for the toast. Most of the colors are bright and colorful, some with pastel tones and gentle details on the sides that you find adorable.

You’re surprised to see your cup, a soft baby blue with tiny white stars in the corner, being handled by the girl with a gentle smile on her face.

“It ended up being cute.” she says, an apologetic smile on her face.

You only nod, taking it from her hands and placing it under the coffee machine. You never minded her comment in the first place, so you find yourself ignoring her embarrassment to make the most of your morning and finish quickly.

Understanding you don't want to talk, she starts humming under her breath while picking up the tossed paper wraps and putting them inside the now empty box. She nods to herself, giving you a thumbs up when you deem you've finished and you return the gesture with a soft smile.

“Do you think he's going to come today?” she asks, standing up. There is a pout in her glossy lips, and you blink owlishly at her sudden change in mood.

“Um, not sure.”

“Should I have told him to come later? He comes early every morning, but never on weekends. The paper never says at what time we are celebrating.”

She sounds so sad you don't know a thing to try and comfort her. Finding it difficult to interact with the cashier outside work-related stuff, you pat her back shyly in an attempt to reassure her.

“He always comes around this hour,” you continue saying, catching her attention. You feel your face warm, “Sometimes he takes his time, but he always comes, doesn't he?”

She nods, sighing and sagging against the register. “Yeah, but today is Saturday! And I'm sure he's coming, moreso because he took the pamphlet with him.”

Wearing your apron, and readying your tools, you end up being her focus to pour her feelings about Neuvillette and how pretty he is, since none of her friends were coming today until later.

Is a little tiring, but you are kind enough to nod or give short replies to let her know you were listening.

Despite feeling a little jealous over her feelings for Neuvillette, you know this is just the immature and childish part of you that cannot speak freely just like she does, and for that, you commend her for her bravery.

Gushing over someone sure does seem fun, in truth.

When she starts talking about…not so decently about him, it is when the bell above the door rings loudly in the empty coffee shop and gets you both attention.

When Neuvillette comes through the door and the cashier is ready to greet him, both of you fall silent. Because you are faced with blue, instead of silver. You are faced with a Neuvillette dressed up like this were his wedding, instead of his usual casual attire.

There are a few streaks of blue on his hair, all brushed back and tucked behind his ears. He’s wearing a low ponytail, loose strands of hair framing his long face, and the gasps from the cashier echoes what you’re currently thinking: He looks gorgeous.

The sudden change in his looks has the both of you flabbergasted and blushing on different levels.

He seems composed as ever, if not slightly nervous for the way he fidgets with the cuffs of his suit constantly while he walks up to the cashier, stopping and clearing his throat to catch her attention.

It suddenly crashes on you, oh.

He has dressed up. For her.

The realization of such a small, but meaningful, action makes your heart throb in pain and jealousy, biting your lower lip and avoiding to look at him for even one more second.

Disappointment was the first emotion to swirl in your mind when smashing the coffee beans on the machine, loud enough to avoid listening to their conversation and focus solely on your job.

There is the urge to cry, too, and you almost scoff at the absurdity of your reaction upon realizing that her feelings might as well be reciprocated by the beautiful man. And you’re once again standing behind the curtains of a play.

The doors open with a strength that has you breaking out of your thoughts, raising your head nervously and thinking that the last thing you want is to deal with troublemaker customers.

“Good morning, my lads!” Your boss walks through the main entrance, blindingly beautiful and energetic as always. He graces the two of you with a smile of his and a simple bow to Neuvillette who seems startled by such a greeting. “Ah, my dear ____, you didn't have to work today. You could have come later in the evening for the celebration!”

Oh, your saviour.

His outburst is enough to override the sadness tugging at your heart and entertain you while finishing his usual order.

“Is okay, Kaveh,” is all you can reply, a forceful smile on your features. “I like doing this.”

He nods, “Of course you do! But I can replace you if you get tired, yes? Is a miracle itself you've come today, I don't want you to regret it because you felt pressured to work.”

“The cups came earlier today, just before we opened, and she was helping me arrange them.” The cashier chimes in, ringing the order for Neuvillette who hasn't moved an inch from his spot since Kaveh entered. “I roped you in, sorry about that.”

Shaking your head, you take the receipt and read the order despite knowing what it is already.

Kaveh takes that time to rummage through the cabinet to check everything is in order while the cashier curses under her breath when Neuvillette leaves to sit by the same window as always.

“Everything in order, yes.” he nods to himself. Craning his neck a little, he smiles up to you, “Could you make me a caramel macchiato? I think I'm going to work here until the rest of the crew comes.”

“Sure,” reciprocating his smile, you begin working on his beverage, “Hot or cold?”

Taking his things to the back of the kitchen, he yells, “Cold, please! Thank you, love!”

You roll your eyes at the pet name, but don't argue it. Despite Kaveh being so affectionate with his crew, you know he does it with good intentions and the love he has for his workers. He's said so himself, and you believe him.

Still, you cannot help the blush covering your cheeks at being addressed so lovingly.

“Oh, the ingredients have come!” You can hear the excitement in Kaveh’s voice from inside the kitchen. Is not long until he comes through the door, motioning to the cashier to come in. “I need to make an inventory and a pair of hands might help!”

“O-oh, I—uh,” she looks bashful for being targeted. She looks between you and Kaveh a couple of times, pondering whether to reject him and offer you as a help, instead, but nothing comes out of her mouth in time.

Kaveh, blissfully unaware of her inner struggle, happily takes her wrist and drags her to the back with a peppy step, leaving you now at the front to take care of the register and the orders.

It was just your luck no one else was here to distract you. Being Saturday morning, the influx of people coming in so early were pretty low, so you had all the time to relax and make the order to the utmost best despite knowing what happens next.

Do you approach Neuvillette and give him his drink? Or do you call him to take his beverage?

A part of you wanted to go and strike the conversation you've always wanted, now without the prying eyes of your coworkers, but the anxiousness and nervousness were getting the best of you—besides, it would only hurt you further if you keep longing for a man who is clearly not interested in you.

“Neuvillette?”

Your call seems to break him from a trance, blinking up once, twice, before registering you were calling out to him.

Neuvillette approaches with the slowest walk you've ever witnessed—time stopping for you to admire him from close and afar, making his way to the counter and gingerly picking up his cup.

But he doesn't move.

He stays still at the same spot in front of you, clearly flustered and embarrassed. But for what reason? Neuvillette isn't speaking, nor looking at you to guess what he needs.

Does he want sugar? A napkin? Another shot of espresso?

If he asks me for her number I swear to god—

“What is your name?”

The question quells your irritation quite easily, blinking up at him confused and lost.

His lilac eyes maintain eye contact with you for a long time where you don't answer, opening and closing your mouth like a fish out of water and unable to understand his sudden want to…talk.

“You don't carry a tag,” he continues, a finger tapping to the side of his coffee, “I was wondering what your name was, since you know mine.”

Is a stupid attempt to satiate his curiosity, and you've known because you have thought of the same before.

You tell him your name, breaking eye contact and continuing to work on Kaveh's order with your heart hammering inside your ribcage. But curiosity gets the better of you and when you glance back, he smiles at you. He smiles so blindly.

It takes all your self-restraint not to swoon right then and there.

“Such a fitting name,” he says, “It's beautiful.”

Where is this coming from?!

Panic seizes you for a moment when your brain short-circuits from his compliment. Warmness spreads through your cheekbones and you yelp, embarrassed and suddenly in pain, when you realize you dropped the hot shot of coffee on your free hand and not on the cup you were aiming for.

“Fuck,” running to the sink, you do your best to conceal the pain from the burn and ignore the sudden warmth at the back of your neck for committing such a careless action.

The cold water makes you hiss in pain, and that is enough to make the man break out of his shock.

Neuvillette walks around the counter and tresspasses the station where you deem as worker's space to hold your wrist gently between his gloved hands to see how bad the accident has been.

“Is nothing serious,” he twists your wrist gently to the other side, and nods to himself, “keep your hand under the water. Do you have a towel we can use for your hand? I'll place some ice on the towel and wrap it to keep it cool on your skin to lessen the burn.”

“The towel on top of the coffee machine, you can use that.”

He goes to retrieve the object, leaving you with your hand tingling from his touch. He turns the faucet off and dries your hand gently before taking a few pieces of ice, wrapping them up, and lays it on your skin softly to ease you into the sudden change of temperature. Neuvillette never backs off, but walks a little closer, making it obvious the difference in sizes, and suddenly making you aware of his warm touch.

“I-I can hold it myself,” you mutter, taking a step back. You don’t know how much you can handle the closeness without fainting, “Thank you.”

Blinking owlishly, he nods, returning to his previous spot behind the counter. But just like before, he doesn't move from there.

Slightly anxious from his out of character actions, you clear your throat, peeking up at him.

“Do you need something else?” you dare ask, fingers twitching under the towel.

Neuvillette seems pensive, eyes roaming your injured hand to your face. His stare is unwavering, and it makes a slight shiver run down your spine from the intensity of his lilac eyes examining your features.

“It has come to my attention that…you seem involved in some sort of romantic aspect with your boss, yes?” He begins.

What.

“And whatever I might say will come off as rude or simply crossing boundaries, so I hope you find it in yourself to forgive me for my indecency.” Neuvillette seems bashful, “If you could give me some of your time to hang-out, like the young say, I can prove myself worthy of your affections and daresay, your love.”

Huh?

“But if your relationship with your boss is on a serious note, a respectable commitment and admirable, I won't meddle in between the young love and will proceed to exit the establishment for I have overstayed my visit.”

The fuck.

The silence that follows is so dreadful you think you're dreaming. You are the only one who seems affected by such claims of love and misunderstanding of the situation, because Neuvillette looks composed as ever if it weren't for the blush on his face betraying his nervousness.

What could you even say?

Is like the spotlight has suddenly shifted to where you’re standing; you’re suddenly the main character to this story where you believed wasn’t even to have you as part of the play. With the main lead, nonetheless!

Most of your thoughts don't lead you anywhere and confuses you further. It looks like this is some sort of joke, a distasteful one, and the dread of uttering a single yes might break you apart from the seams until you’re drowning in your own self-pity.

“If my words have made you uneasy about my presence or uncomfortable in any way, I can see myself out,” He whispers the last part, as if regretful for giving you the option, “But, if you also harbor the same feelings as I do, please do tell—”

“Why did you dress up today?,” you blurt, cutting him mid-sentence. The bitterness in your voice doesn't go past him, “Why…why did you come…like this?”

Is such an innocuous question but nags the back of your head, eager to hear the reply because, whatever his speech has told you, he has made aware that he likes you, too.

He likes you.

Neuvillette brushes a loose strand of hair behind his ears where you can make out the silver lining of an earring decorating it. You cannot help but think: Does this man have anything that is not hot and gorgeous on himself?

“I asked a close acquaintance how to win the affections of someone I haven't had the pleasure to meet yet, and they called me a buffoon for attempting a ridiculous thing. Despite their insult, I searched through the internet to find a solution to my plight.”

Cocking your head to the side, you raise a brow, unable to comprehend the correlation, “What…does that have to do with you dressing up?”

“You said your favorite color was blue.” He says, the corner of his eyes crinkle when he smiles, “I don't own anything blue, so my next good suggestion was to dye my hair. Sadly, I underestimated the amount of hair dye I’d need, and the kind lady at the store didn't know it was for the entirety of my hair. Despite the little mishaps, I believed it would be nice to present myself more elegantly to make a better impression.”

His heartfelt confession does nothing but accelerate the rate of your heart, fanning your face because of how hot you're starting to feel.

“If my attempt wasn't clear, I apologize for that matter.” he chuckles, Neuvillette's smile broadening, “Can't help a man who is smitten, for all he will do is embarrass himself further without good communication. But I couldn't wait any longer after listening to your conversation with your boss, believing I have lost a battle that never began...”

“...I dare say, I was feeling defeated, and very jealous, over the fact that he calls you love. I thought: maybe one day I will get to call her mine.”

How can he say this…so shamelessly!

Neuvillette speaks without shame and so earnestly, baring his heart and intentions to you when all this time you've deemed him as someone who comes out of a fairy tail and out of reach. The kind of man who wouldn’t bat an eye at your presence just because, but he’s gone out of his way to look appealing enough to your tastes to get your attention when all this time he’s had it.

“Perhaps this comes as a shock to you, but I've been intending to court you since the first time I came here.”

“...What?”

Nodding softly, smiling, he offers his hand for you to take. Unable to resist his attempt, you extend the good hand and burn from the inside when he holds you gently, caressing the skin of the back of your palm affectionately.

“It has been an agonizing journey for me. To understand my own emotions and intentions for me to act accordingly has been taxing, but it has given me plenty of time to finally see that I would love to have you in my life.”

And this is it.

Neuvillette has given you the whole story in a plate of gold, sincerely and open-hearted, that there is no doubt in your mind that he wants you, and no one else.

No tragedies to come, no twists in the story for more excitement, it's you and him, and no one else.

“I’m not dating Kaveh,” is what you say, lips trembling from the emotion, “I’m not dating anyone. He’s just, very loving to his friends.”

And oh, to rejoice in his open expressions and the relief that courses through him from hearing that yes, you’re available and not straightly rejecting him.

“Oh, that’s good to hear,” smiling apologetically, he shakes his head, “Sorry, that must have sounded rude.”

You laugh, brightening up at him, “Don’t worry, you are just fine.”

The coffee has gone slightly cold by now, too deep in words and confession through a little accident, that the beverage has become less important. A little voice at the back of your head tells you that Kaveh is taking a long time sorting things out with the new delivery, but you don’t mind, you are in good company, anyways.

“I think you deserve a proper question now, don’t you? Now that everything has been cleared up,” he asks, raising a brow. Clearing his throat, he straightens his back, never letting go of your hand, “Will you do me the pleasure of going on a date with me?”

Covering your mouth with your free hand, you nod. The hold he has on your other palm tightness slightly, showing the excitement he feels.

“I would love to go on a date with you, Neuvillette.”

— x — x — x — x — x — x — x — x —

“By the way,” you ask, leaning on the counter. You delight from the sudden blush on his cheeks, “how old are you?”

“Ah, I’m forty-seven, love.”

Oh, lucky you.

#neuvillette x reader #genshin impact fanfic #genshin fic #neuvillette/reader #he my baby girl my sun #otip writes

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luciuscodedswedeboy · 1 year ago

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i cannot stress enough how much literally none of us want to hear what the actors think about Izzy’s death once the strike ends. None of us.

“But why not??” Because even if the actors don’t agree with the decision they literally cannot tell us that if they want to keep working. This industry is entirely built on relationships. Publicly criticising your boss’s creative decisions doesn’t book you more gigs.

So even if a fan does make the terrible decision to ask one of them, all we’re gonna get are vague, diplomatic answers and platitudes that’ll just add more fuel to this already blazing dumpster fire and piss off the fandom even more. This will be especially true for the actors who weren’t mainstream before this show (ie basically all of them)

So please, for the love of all of our sanities…

do not ask the actors for their opinion on Izzy’s death or the finale after the SAG strike ends!!!

#this is for all of us #we don’t need to add any more fuel to this fire #leave the actors out of this and let us heal #our flag means death #ofmd #ofmd spoilers

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pippin-katz · 1 year ago

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Alright before anyone asks me:

yes I’m aware Taylor used an AI app/filter thing

no I don’t like that he used it

yes it’s a little problematic that he used it

no he did not violate the strike by using it

yes I have seen the tiktok of those two white bitches demanding queer roles only be played by queer characters

yes they are completely fucking stupid and hypocritical

The SAG strike is fighting against the use of AI to write scripts, create footage, recreate their likeness and voice to steal their identity, and all that fantastic bullshit.

The AI app Taylor used has nothing to do with that.

If the app’s algorithm was trained by photos and artwork that the developers had permission and consent to use, it would be completely fine.

However, 99.9% of them do not have permission. That is also an important AI issue, but it is not the same as what the SAG strike is about. It’s not great that he used it, but he did not do anything wrong regarding the strike.

Also, I’d like to point out that most people are unaware of the theft that goes on behind the scenes. It may seem obvious to people like me, an artist, or people who spend a lot of time on the internet looking at art, but most ordinary people who hop on something like TikTok and use an AI filter are not aware of the thievery that is taking place.

It is not impossible that he isn’t familiar with this issue either, especially given how much he seems to travel, and his attention being on sustainability, specifically in the fashion/clothing industry. He’s busy doing stuff in real life. He’s also a bit of a bookworm, so he’s probably not on the internet nearly as much as people like us.

Is it still bad that he used it? Yes, but it is not something to freak out over. Inform him of the problem and move on.

As for the bitches, I would probably punch the one with braces in the face if I was put in a room with them. They had the gall to complain about Love, Simon being “too happy”, citing how miserable queer people are and how we’re scared to come out of the closet, right after demanding all queer characters be played by queer actors.

Please let this idea DIE. It does far more harm than the good people have in mind.

The idea is that it would get more queer actors hired and more representation overall and whatnot, but if you actually stop to fucking think about it, it is completely stupid.

1. Sexuality is an invisible trait. Anyone can identify as anything simply by saying it.

2. Any queer actor would have to out themselves just to play a queer character on a screen.

3. Actors do not owe the public details about their personal life and identity.

4. Stop assuming everyone is straight until said otherwise. It’s heteronormative and harmful.

One of the best lines in the entirety of Red, White & Royal Blue is this one from Alex’s speech:

“The forced conformity of the closet cannot be answered with forced conformity in coming out of it.”

There are far too many queer people who are failing to understand this. By pressuring people to come out, you are harming them. There are a bunch of different reasons for why they haven’t, with the most important one being that they simply don’t want to. It is their decision, and your opinion is unwanted and irrelevant.

Alright there, I addressed the stuff. Moving on!

#red white and royal blue #rwrb #rwrb movie #taylor zakhar perez

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loserboyfriendrjl · 1 year ago

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it was late, possibly past midnight, when there was a knock on the door.

her boys were upstairs, “going to sleep”, as james had phrased it, but euphemia could still hear their laughs from her son’s room; fleamont had some issues to deal with in the ministry. he said he’d be home for dinner, but euphemia was not exactly upset that he hadn’t been — she knew difficult everything was, at that moment, and, in times of war, she was glad that she had someone who worked for a change in her family, besides her slightly reckless son.

she groaned as she stood up, and hoped that whoever had taken the time to show up on her doorstep was not someone of high importance; her hair was messed up by sleep, and she was wearing just a nightgown, in opposition to her usually elegant appearance.

when she opened the door, she didn’t even have to know the name of the person in front of her, because the resemblance between her and the young man upstairs was striking — the same sharp jaw, the same raven curls, the same hooded eyes. walburga black had always been of an aristocratic beauty, and, while she was usually of a graceful elegance, the dim light accentuated her sharpness so much she looked like a caricature, and there was something that resembled a mad grief in her eyes.

“walburga black,” she nodded politely, admittedly slightly uptight, “to what do i owe the pleasure?”

“hello, euphemia potter. i came to see sirius,” she answered, clasping her hand around her cloak.

“i’m afraid i can’t help you with that, he and james have already gone to bed, and they must have fallen asleep. besides, unfortunately, i don’t think he wants to see you very much.”

“he’s my son,” she said, and there was something pained in her voice that made her want to hold walburga. after all, was she not lost soul, a mother, too?

“he’s not your son anymore,” euphemia whispered, and she was surprised by the slight tinge of melancholic sadness in her voice.

walburga looked away from her, blinking quickly, so as if to not let her tears escape her eyes, and, for the first time ever, euphemia saw the woman’s shoulders sag. “i am sorry i have come to disturb you as such an hour, mrs potter.”

euphemia stayed silent for a while. “may i at least offer you a cup of tea?” she asked, feeling like it was the only suitable thing to fill their silence with. “after all, your trip from london to here can’t have been that pleasant. it’s the least i could do. we could go drink it in the garden, if you don’t want to come in.”

“i don’t think i should stay,” she retorted, but there was a certain hesitation in her voice.

“very well, then.” euphemia nodded and, right as walburga turned her back and began to move, she gently grabbed her hand in hers. “walburga, i know how you must feel; i am a mother, too, and i would not want to be in the situation you are in right now. however, i also want sirius to be safe and healthy, and if that means keeping him away from your family, at least for now, that is what i will do. i am sure you understand.”

walburga nodded, biting her lip. “indeed, i do.”

“if, by any chance, he willingly wants to talk to you, without being coerced into doing so, i will let you know, one way or another.”

she nodded once more. “thank you. good night, euphemia potter.”

“good night, walburga.” she watched over the younger woman as she disappeared into the night, and only then did she walk back into her home, her mind filled with grieving mothers and lost sons.

#honestly i don’t know what came over me #rereading it i kinda lowkey slightly want to cry for some reason #anyways!!! mothers angst. never was a mother and (probably) never will be so hoping that i nailed the motherly nature even just a little bit #euphemia potter #walburga black #sirius black #euphemia&walburga #<- might use this tag again idk #my writing

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mariacallous · 1 year ago

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“Barbenheimer”—the collective celebration around the release of the Barbie and Oppenheimer movies—has collided with the wedding industrial complex. That’s not a joke. According to a Variety story this week, people are planning on taking their friends and family, prenuptials, to see the two films as a double feature. People who aren’t getting married are planning similar movie-watching marathons. It’s the kind of viral cultural moment marketing teams dream of. It also feels like a sign of the end times.

This sense of dread doesn’t stem from the public’s collective yearning to absorb stories about a Mattel doll and the development of atomic weapons at the same time. It’s because this weekend promises the kind of “let’s all go to the movies!” hype (and box office haul) that cinemas haven’t seen since before the Covid-19 pandemic shut theaters down—and it’s happening as Hollywood is going on strike.

This week, WIRED rolled out a series of stories detailing what we believe the future of entertainment might entail. The purpose was to look at how all aspects of culture, from books to video games to YouTube, could be impacted by advancements in technology. As we worked on it, though, something happened: Contract talks between Hollywood studios and the writers and actors unions began to break down. One of the major sticking points in those negotiations was the use of artificial intelligence in movie- and TV-making. Suddenly, as Madeline Ashby wrote in her essay this week, the world was in the midst of Hot Strike Summer.

Then, Hot Strike Summer slammed into the Barbenheimer moment. Once the Screen Actors Guild—American Federation of Television and Radio Artists, or SAG-AFTRA, called for a walkout, stars could no longer smile on red carpets without looking like scabs. The stars of Oppenheimer walked out of the film’s London premiere when the strike began. The cast and filmmakers behind Barbie, which premiered before SAG called for a strike, voiced their support. Soon, “This Barbie Is Now on Strike” became the headline, transforming one of the world’s most well-known figurines into Norma Rae. The marquee at my local theater in Brooklyn listed both movies alongside the phrase “Atomic Kenergy,” while The New York Times asked, “Can I Watch ‘Barbenheimer’ Despite the Hollywood Strikes?” (Short answer: Yes.)

To that end, the strikes will not affect Oppenheimer or Barbie’s opening weekend box office numbers. Earlier this week, AMC Entertainment reported that some 40,000 people had bought tickets for both films, and together they’re estimated to make around $150-200 million domestically, with Greta Gerwig’s send-up of the Mattel doll bringing in a bigger chunk than Christopher Nolan’s historical drama about the man behind the atomic bomb.

But what matters is what happens after this weekend. By all accounts, Hot Strike Summer seems poised to last beyond one season. Even before SAG went on strike, studio sources were telling reporters that the plan was to let the strike “drag on until union members start losing their apartments and losing their houses.” In response to that, actor Ron Perlman took to social media to say “listen to me, motherfucker—there’s a lot of ways to lose your house.” He later walked that back, but when Hellboy enters the chat, you know it’s not going to end gently.

The longer writers and actors are on strike, the bigger the hole next summer or the summer after that, when the movies that would be filming right now aren’t ready. (Deadpool 3 and the sequel to Mission: Impossible—Dead Reckoning Part One, for example, are both currently on hold.) Cinemas have been bouncing back in the years since Covid restrictions were lifted and people began feeling comfortable in movie houses again. A lackluster year brought on by a dearth of films could prove detrimental.

Yesterday, Comic-Con International began in San Diego. Typically, or at least before the pandemic, the event has been full of panels with flashy stars promoting their next big movie or TV series. As long as SAG is on strike, those celebs won’t show. Some attendees will likely welcome the event’s return to its comics roots, rather than the Hollywood hype-fest it has become. But no matter what happens, it will be unlike any Comic-Con in recent memory. Maybe a little less plastic, but not fantastic.

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satashiiwrites · 9 months ago

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wip Wednesday

It’s wednesday and i have time, so time to challenge everyone else 😜

Tagging @westernlarch @rosieposiepuddingnpie @monsterrae1 @tkwritesdumbassassins @missanniewhimsy @whimsyswastry @outtoshatter and @quietborderline with no pressure and anyone else who wants to join in.

From: Choices and Regrets, chapter 14 or 15 (depending on how much meandering the muse does—score one for the nonlinear writer)

Fandom: 911, Dark Matter (Blake Crouch novel/upcoming tv series)

Pairings: Buddie

Tags/warnings: not quite a fusion of the source material. Multiverse hoping, multiple versions of people/doppelgangers, character death (not our version of Buck or Eddie or Chris), stolen identities, mistaken identity. This is a first draft and might not end up being the version I go with/changed majorly

Fic summary:

If you could go back and change the choices in your life, would you? Would you love the same people, go on the same vacations, have the same career? Or would you have regrets? After the lightning strike, an unexpected visitor makes Buck question all the choices he’s ever made. From dropping out of the Seals to never making a move on Eddie because the time hasn’t been right. He’s going to get an up close and personal look at what could have been because another version of Buck is focused on taking his choices away from him—including Eddie and Christopher Diaz.

Eddie sees another Buck has stepped into the light. Like his Buck, this one has the same devastatingly lost look to his eyes that plead with him not to go, heart on his sleeve.

He isn’t like the other one. This is another version of the Buck whose hand is in his.

“Eddie?” The other says, voice breaking with held back tears.

“Buck,” Eddie says back, unable to not attempt to comfort any version of his lover when they look at him like this.

“Where are you going?” Other Buck asks, already knowing the answer and bleeding inside because of it.

“We can’t stay here,” Eddie says aloud, confirming Other’s fears.

Other Buck doesn’t protest. He understands, even as his shoulders sag and defeat colors his face. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie adds—and he is. He’d take every Buck like this if he could but they only have enough serum for one trip.

“I love you,” Other Buck admits, eyes darting to himself and then away. His fingers are clenched tightly into fists at his side, like he’s holding back from fighting himself for the position at Eddie’s side and it breaks Eddie’s heart all over again.

“I love you too,” Eddie says back, squeezing his Buck’s hand once before letting it go and approaching Other Buck. “I… I need you to do something for me?”

“What?” Those blue eyes are devastating up close. How Taylor could ever walk away from Buck, Eddie has no clue. Abby and Ali were also idiots. Buck has so much love to give and they squandered it… and he’s going to use it to make Buck live after he leaves.

“I need you to be happy—live your life to the fullest. I can’t stay but I’ll always be with you.”

“I don’t know that I can do that, Eds.” Other Buck is openly crying now, tears streaming down his handsome face so Eddie wipes them away, curling his hand around Buck’s face to cradle it.

“You can. That’s why if anything happened to me you were always going to be the one I trusted with Chris. You’re still that man, Buck.”

“You’re not choosing me,” Buck argues weakly.

“No… I am. I choose you every time and I’d take you with me if I could. But I need you to take care of the rest of our family.”

“The fire fam?”

“Yes. And Abuela and Pepa and the rest.”

“It’s like you’re dying,” the protest is faint and Buck is leaning heavily into his hand, taking comfort from Eddie’s touch.

“In a way I am. They can’t know what happened but Athena and Bobby do. They’ll support you… and the others like you.”

Buck grimaces, making a face to show he knows there’s more of him out there. Probably headed here now and Eddie doesn’t have much time. He’s not sure he could say no to an army of sad, depressed Bucks.

“I love you,” Buck reiterates.

“I love you too,” Eddie replies, meaning it.

“You need to get out of here,” Buck says, pulling away. “They’re coming and not… not all of…not every me will let you leave.”

“Thank you,” Eddie says, leaning forward to brush a kiss against Buck’s mouth that makes Buck whimper, hands briefly tangling in Eddie’s shirt to deepen the kiss. This version of Buck kisses much similar to the one behind him.

This isn’t however, a claiming kiss.

It’s a kiss goodbye.

Over too quickly, Buck pulls away. His eyes are shuttered and he’s closing off the parts of him that are in pain. It’s galling that Eddie can’t do anything about it because he’s causing it.

“Goodbye, Eddie,” Other Buck says, glaring over Eddie’s shoulder. “You’ll take care of them?”

Buck, still holding Christopher, nods gravely. “With my life.”

Curtly nodding, Other Buck turns on his heel to put his back to Eddie. He’s shaking but every muscle is rigid with his determination to let Eddie and Chris go, to protect them.

“Goodbye, Buck,” Eddie says softly, letting his hand run along the shoulder to calm Buck. “I’ve always got your back and you’ve got mine. No matter where you and I go, I’ll be thinking of you.”

“Get out of here, Eddie,” Buck says lowly enough for the words not to carry. “Get out of here before I do something to myself to make you take me instead.”

#wip wednesday #choices and regrets #911 #buddie #First draft #dark matter fusion

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cowboyemeritus · 2 years ago

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Libations (Papa IV/Reader)

You feel like your baby is growing up too fast. Copia helps take your mind off of it. (18+)

Read on AO3

“I had a feeling I would find you in here, cara mia.”

Copia’s voice startles you out of your meditation and you jump. It seems he snuck up behind you while you were lost in prayer. You turn to look as he kneels beside you at the altar and makes the traditional gesture of reverence towards the ground. No one knows exactly what to call it. Upside-down crossing yourself? Reverse-crossing? Uncrossing? Millennia of history and still no proper name for it. Some church you lot are.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” you say quietly, meeting his gaze. Despite the small smile that graces his features, there is worry in his eyes. He takes your hand and gives it a gentle squeeze.

“A lot is happening up there?” he asks, gently poking you on the forehead with his index finger. You merely nod in response.

“Si, si,” he says. “I had a feeling this was true. Why don’t you tell Papa what is the matter, eh?” You let a small laugh out through your nose.

“It’s dumb,” you sigh, looking up at the vaulted ceiling of the chapel. Admiring the painted stars, your attention is instinctively drawn to where you know the constellations are. It’s a habit you’ve had ever since you joined the Church, discovering early on that it helps pass the time during particularly dense sermons. Not like you’d ever do that now, though; something tells you that’s not exactly proper Prime Mover behavior. Besides, how could you ever be bored when it’s him in the pulpit?

“Dumb?” Copia asks, incredulous. “Never.” He maneuvers himself so that he’s sitting in front of you now, his hands on your shoulders.

“Amore mio,” he all but begs. “Talk to me.” You laugh again.

“It’s probably just hormones or something, really.” Copia quirks an eyebrow. That answer clearly isn’t enough for him. You let your posture sag before you continue.

“I just…” You have to collect your thoughts for a moment. “I’m just weirdly emotional about Regina.” Remembering your infant daughter prompts you to look around the room. “Wait, where is she, anyway?” To your relief, the smile returns to Copia’s face.

“The Ghouls are watching her,” he says. “Cirrus called it ‘pack bonding.’” You’d think she was one of their kits, they way they dote on her. Even before she was born, the hellish creatures fawned over her, never letting you and your swollen belly out of their sight. The memory makes the weight pressing down on you feel a bit lighter.

Copia gestures for you to continue. “I don’t know, babe. It’s just weird to think about how fast she’s growing already.” Fast indeed; your baby isn’t even a year old yet and is already walking and beginning to talk. So young, and already so smart. Copia says she takes after you. Looking into her two-toned eyes, however, you’re not so sure.

“What if… What if she’s the one?” Reflexively, your gaze shifts to the statue of Baphomet just beyond the altar. Its eyes, carved from blood red stone (carnelian, you guess), bore into you. Copia cocks his head to the side.

“You say that like it is a bad thing.” You sigh again.

“Of course it’s not a bad thing. I just… that’s a lot of responsibility for a little girl, you know? I don’t want her to grow up too fast like you and I did.” Copia considers your words quietly. A beat passes before you speak again.

“Is it wrong for me to want that for her? Will the Dark One strike me down for wanting my baby to have a normal life?” Internally, you question if that's even possible.

Gently, Copia wraps his arms around you, pulling you close. He lightly pets your head, wanting to provide comfort but knowing better than to mess with your veil. You’ve always been very particular about it, meticulously pinning the garment in place every morning so that it feels right on your head. The last thing you need, he knows, is to have to worry about fixing it.

“Tesora-“

“I’m fine, really,” you say, trying to pull away. When your efforts prove futile, you slump into him, your head coming to rest in the crook of his neck. “I really do think it’s just hormones. She’s growing up and my body doesn’t like it.” You’ve been steadily weaning your daughter over the last few months, giving her more real foods and less of your milk. Although it’s definitely starting to dry up, that doesn’t stop your mind from wandering to the extra bottles in the fridge. Inevitably, you’ll have to toss them soon. The thought makes you groan. What a waste.

“I’m just dreading the point when she won’t need me anymore, even if it’s far in the future,” you finally admit. The words are painful, but just being able to say them is cathartic enough. Copia nods.

“I know, amore, but that doesn’t mean you ever stop being her mama.” As much as you’ve been trying to tell yourself that, somehow only he makes it really sink into your brain. It’s always been like this with him — he’s the only person who can break down the walls you’ve built around yourself. Sometimes you think he has you under some sort of spell, the way he’s able to move you. Not that you really mind.

“And as for la nostra bambina… No matter who she becomes, she will be great. She will be amazing. I have seen this in my dreams, cara. She has the favor of our Benefactor.”

Satan in Hell, he has such a way with words.

You take a moment to just savor being in his company. The warmth of his body, the smell of his cologne; you take it all in. In the quiet of the chapel, you can hear how his heart beats for you. All your angst and woe seems to melt away as he holds you. When was the last time the two of you were able to just… exist like this? You can’t remember.

At last — at long last! — you let yourself smile. A long breath escapes from your mouth as you return his embrace, wrapping your arms around his torso. You turn your head slightly to place a kiss on his neck. The thick collar of his cassock keeps your lips from his skin, but the intent is there.

“Thank you,” you all but whisper. “I needed this.” Copia hums in agreement. Oh, he knows.

“Ti amo, Papa.” You shift again, lifting yourself up to give him a proper peck on the cheek. Your lipgloss leaves a faint stain on the white of his skullpaint and you try and wipe it off with your thumb before he stops you, gently catching your wrist with a gloved hand.

“Pink looks good on me, no?” You both chuckle. The arm that’s still wrapped around you snakes down to your waist. Copia suddenly pulls you onto his lap and you gasp in surprise.

“I love you, too.” Dropping your wrist, Copia cups your face with his now free hand and leans in to kiss you. It’s relatively tame, but it leaves you wanting more nonetheless. You immediately go in for another, pressing your mouth against his with more force.

Copia gets the message, moving his hand to the back of your head in order to pull you even closer. You allow your lips to part slightly, (not so) subtly inviting him in. He, of course, obliges you, gently caressing your tongue with his. Your core throbs in response and you let out a quiet moan. Copia is already hard beneath you, the warmth of his arousal pressing against yours.

He starts trailing kisses from your lips to your cheek, and then from there to to your chin, pulling at the collar of your habit to expose your neck. “I love you, so, so much, cuore mio. Please never forget that.” He plants an open-mouthed kiss to your skin, suckling on the delicate flesh. You gasp and grind your hips down against his.

“I- oh, Copia.” You’re certain your panties are already soaked. “I’d never forget. You’re so good to me. Too good, probably.” You cry out as Copia gently nips at your neck. There’s going to be a mark for the next week or so, and now there’s definitely no hope for his papal paint. C’est la vie, you guess.

“Nonsense. Nothing is too good for my Prime Mover.”

Your lips meet his again, tongues feverishly swiping at one another. Feeling bold, you reach down to palm him through his cassock. Copia groans at the touch, bucking into your hand. He’s so hard you imagine it must hurt.

“Is this all for me, sweetheart?” You ask, stroking him as best as you can through the thick black cloth. Wanting to reciprocate, Copia brings his hand down to the apex of your legs. The touch makes you shiver. Quickly backtracking, he brings the hand up to your mouth, resting his middle finger on your lips. As if reading his mind, you gingerly bite down on the leather of the glove as he slides his hand out. He takes the article from between your teeth and carefully places it off to the side.

“Now,” he murmurs. “Where were we?” He caresses your face lovingly before slowly beginning to trail his hand back down. Stopping at your chest, he gives it a squeeze and you yelp. You’ve been so distracted by the business of the day that you hadn’t realized how full and sore your breasts had gotten. Copia quickly realizes his mistake as a wet spot forms on the front of your habit.

“Shit,” you grumble, peeling yourself off of him. “I forgot to pump today.” Both of you rise to your feet and set about straightening yourselves out. It’s of little use, though; anyone who dares walk into the chapel now would be able to tell what you and Copia have been up to.

“It has been a long day for you, cara mia.” You merely grunt in response.

“I should go take care of this,” you say, gesturing to your chest. “And I should probably change.” You give Copia an awkward sort of side-hug, as to avoid getting his cassock dirty, and give him another, albeit less heated, kiss.

Your beloved, it would seem, has his own agenda. Before you can make your retreat, his arm snakes around your waist once again, pulling you into him. His tongue prods at your lips, pleading for entrance. You quickly grant his request; how could you possibly refuse your Papa?

You expect Copia to let you go once he’s done exploring your mouth. It’s a promise for later, behind closed doors and between the sheets. To your surprise, however, he doesn’t let up, instead leading you towards the altar. The feeling of the cold stone on your back, even through the material of your habit, makes you shudder.

“Babe,” you whine, managing to break away from the kiss for a moment. “What are you doing?” Papa presses his pointer finger to your lips.

“Shh, cara. Just trust me.” Your eyes wander to the open chapel doors and a pang of anxiety runs through you.

“What if someone comes in?” You know this is a Satanic church and all, but damn! Sometimes you get shy.

Copia waves his hand dismissively. “Then they will have the privilege of observing their Papa and his Prime Mover in worship.”

Oh, this is going to be good.

Copia is crushing his mouth against yours before you get the chance to respond. You brace yourself against the altar bed to keep the edge from digging into your back. The contrast between the warmth of his body and the cold marble drives you wild.

Much more carefully this time, Copia traces his hand down the curves of your body. He drags his finger over your peaked nipple, just barely applying pressure, and yet the sensation makes you moan into his mouth. Abandoning all caution, you decide fuck it, and allow yourself to lean fully against the stone platform, not caring how it digs into your flesh. Your hands find their way down to his ass and you give it a squeeze. Copia pulls away from you, chuckling softly.

“Now, now, preziosa,” he chides. “All in due time.” His hand finally reaches your core and the touch sends an electric jolt through your body. Copia’s eyes glimmer with mischief when he feels how embarrassingly wet you are. “You will let Papa take care of you for now, yes?” Your legs feel like jelly. All you can do is nod.

He cracks a cocky smile. “Atta’ girl.” He’s absolutely ridiculous sometimes. You’d roll your eyes if you weren’t suddenly distracted by him teasing your clit through your underwear. Being the bastard he is, his touch is purposefully delicate. Needing more, you buck your hips into his hand, trying to create friction, pressure, anything. His feather-light touch does not relent, and you resort to burying your face into his chest. When he gets like this, that’s the only thing you can really do.

Your submission pleases Copia. With a hum of approval, he slides his hand up to the waistband of your panties before dipping under. The sensation of his bare hand against your sex is positively delicious.

“Babe,” you mewl, tightening your grip on his cassock.

“You like how I touch you, amore? Do I make you feel good?” Like he even needs to ask.

“So good, baby. You’re so good.” You can feel your resolve starting to slip. Pride be damned, you’re ready to beg.

Copia doesn’t give you the chance, however. Finally, he slips a finger into your throbbing cunt. His pace is still infuriatingly slow, but it provides some relief to the deep ache in your abdomen.

“You know,” he begins. “Outsiders believe that we discourage all virtue in this Church, that we live completely without law.” You recognize the tone creeping into his voice; you hear it every time he stands before the congregation at Black Mass, and every time he takes the stage at a ritual. Papa Emeritus IV, it seems, has come out to play.

He scoffs. “Fools, all of them. But you and I know this is false. We understand the merits of patience and obedience here, do we not?” He punctuates his sentence by pressing into your sweet spot. You keen, stifling a moan in the fabric of his cassock.

“Yes, Papa. We- ah!” You lose the ability to think when he gently kneads the heel of his hand into your clit.

“That’s right, cara. Molto bene.” There’s a pause. “Do we not also exalt those who are diligent in their worship of the Unholy Father?” He’s enjoying this a little too much, the smug bastard. You’ll hopefully have an opportunity to put him in his place later.

“We do, Papa. We do.” You nod furiously, hoping to please him in any way you can.

“Well then, suora,” he says with a huskiness in his voice. “Shall we show Him our devotion?” You thought he’d never ask.

“Please, Your Eminence.” That’s a title you haven’t pulled out in a while, and you’re glad you decided to save it for this moment. With a growl, Papa captures your mouth in a rough, passionate kiss. His fingers pump into you just a bit faster as he all but shoves his tongue down your throat.

Just as you start to feel a hint of your climax building, he withdraws from your cunt. You want to scream, but you know that whatever Papa has planned for you, it’s going to be spectacular. Playing along seems like the smartest option for the time being.

Papa shakes his hand out in a feeble attempt to rid his fingers of your juices. When that fails, he brings the wet digits to your lips with an expectant look. Without hesitation, you take them into your mouth, tongue swirling around them like you would his cock. When he’s satisfied with your work, he wipes whatever’s left on his cassock. You say a silent prayer for the siblings on laundry duty this week, although they’ve definitely seen worse. You certainly did when you were a lower-ranking sister.

Papa’s hands come to rest on your shoulders as he presses a loving kiss to your forehead. Despite the debauchery of the situation, it makes your stomach flutter. You feel him reach around to the zipper of your habit, slowly dragging it down. A small gasp leaves you when he exposes and begins fiddling with the clasp of your bra. It takes him a moment (this was never his specialty, especially one-handed), but the force holding your swollen breasts in place eventually alleviates. You let out a sigh of relief as they fall free.

Papa slips the garments off your body and they pool around your feet, your panties soon joining them. Now completely exposed to the cool air of the chapel, goosebumps prickle across your skin and a shiver runs down your spine. You’re so distracted by the temperature change that it takes you a second to notice the transfixed look on Papa’s face as he basks in the glory of your bare chest. Your breasts are engorged, almost painfully so, small droplets of milk beading in anticipation. A deep flush settles across your face; you’re still not exactly sure what Papa’s intentions are, but you suspect things are about to get a little messy.

Ducking his head down, Papa gently swipes his tongue over one of your nipples. You can’t tell if the sound that leaves your mouth is an embarrassed wail or a moan. Either way, it’s fucking obscene. He hums with contentment and licks his lips.

“Squisita,” he purrs. You try to cover your face in embarrassment, but Papa grabs your wrists and pins your arms to your sides.

“For as much as I would love to indulge in gluttony with you right now, suora, we are here to worship, are we not?” You nod sheepishly. With an approving look, Papa guides you as you step out of the pile of your clothes before turning you to face the altar. He presses a hand to your back, bending you over so that your chest hangs over the slab.

“That is right, we are here to thank the Old One for His generosity, for blessing us with strong and healthy progeny.” His hands, both of them now bare, wrap around to caress your breasts. Without warning, he gives them a gentle squeeze, and milk spurts out onto the altar. You gasp, writhing against him. The mixture of pain, pleasure, and embarrassment is intoxicating.

“And what better way to honor His Infernal Majesty than to offer up the abundance of your body, hm? This,” he gives you another squeeze, “is only possible through His grace.”

Papa begins massaging your breasts, carefully coaxing out more of your milk. It begins to pool on the stone beneath you, running through the carved channels towards where it drains into the earth. Giving libations is common during special services, on holidays or after an important church accomplishment. Nowadays, wine is normally the offering of choice, but the palm of your hand still bears a scar from your ascension as Prime Mover, when you and Papa mixed your blood and were bound to one another. This kind of sacrifice is new, but you get the feeling the Big Guy Downstairs will still appreciate it. He’s probably into this sort of thing, being the Devil and all.

The pleasure Papa’s touch elicits quickly overwhelms any feelings of anxiety you had over your exposed state. You lean into his hands, begging for more, a moan echoing through the chapel when Papa pinches and tugs at your nipples. Your ass is pressed against his stiff cock and you grind into him.

Somehow, you manage to find your words again. “Papa, please,” you groan. “Please fuck me.” Tears begin to well up in your eyes. You don’t think you’ve ever been this desperate for dick before, but as the last few minutes have shown, there’s a first time for everything.

Papa huffs out a laugh. “You have always been so eager to do the Devil’s work, dolcezza. I truly could not have picked a better woman to carry my offspring. And just look at how well you nourish our little one.” He gestures to the altar before you and your blood quickens at the sight of all the milk you’ve expressed. You’re so entranced watching it flow through the grooves that you only barely notice when Papa finally lets go of your breasts. The loss of his touch is devastating.

That is, until you hear the telltale sound of Papa parting his cassock. There’s a little more fumbling around, likely him scrambling to undo the laces of his ratty pants (the ones that make his ass look absolutely scrumptious), before you feel the searing heat of his cock against your backside. From the hardness of it, you can tell he’s just as eager as you are.

“Now, suora, shall we conclude this ritual by partaking in the Unholy Communion?” He takes himself in hand, teasing the head of his manhood through your lips. You press yourself against him, trying to slide onto him.

“Yes, Papa. Give it to me please- oh!” It takes everything you have to not scream has he finally, finally, buries himself inside you. Papa lets out a noise that’s halfway between a sigh and growl. Legs already shaking, you brace yourself against the altar as he starts fucking into you at a steady pace. Every stroke of his cock against your walls has you reeling and panting like an animal. It seems you needed this a little more than you thought.

“That’s it, cara. What a good girl you are,” Papa coos. “Always so devout, so willing to please.” His hand moves from your hip to your front to play with your clit. He hisses through his teeth when his touch makes you moan and twitch around him.

Papa keeps rambling. “You would do anything for this cock, wouldn’t you?” You nod weakly, rocking back into him.

“You would let your Papa plant his seed in you? Make you grow round with child again?” The thought brings you exponentially closer to your climax and he knows it. It’s like your legs have been kicked out from under you. He laughs. “That is what you truly desire, is it not? That’s what all this moping has been about?” He really does know you better than you know yourself.

“I- oh, Papa. Fuck!” The grip on your hip tightens, nails digging ever so slightly into your flesh.

“Answer me, woman.” His pace slows to a crawl, just barely pumping into you now. You cry out in what feels like agony.

It takes you a second to gather yourself. “Yes, Papa,” you sob through heavy breaths. “I want another baby! I want one so badly. Please, grace me with another one of your progeny.” There is a long, almost painful moment of silence before Papa speaks again.

“Very well, then. How could I possibly refuse my most devoted acolyte?”

He begins mercilessly pounding into you. The slapping of his hips against the meat of your ass, accompanied by the squelching of your pussy, echoes through the chapel. You’re so wet, so desperate for Papa to impregnate you, that rivulets of slick start to run down your thighs. You have to stuff your fist in your mouth to stifle the moan that rips from your throat when Papa begins angling his thrusts just right, abusing the spot that makes you see stars. Judging by the barely contained moans you hear from behind, it seems like Papa is enjoying this as much, if not more than you are.

“You are so good to me, bella. Such a perfect mother to our child.” It sounds like Copia has resurfaced. “So strong and brave, my- oh, Sathanas- my beautiful Prime Mover. I could not have asked Him for a better mate.” The praise has your head spinning and your cunt clenching. “How can I get you there, amore? What can I do for you?”

It feels like you’ve been close for millennia. “Fuck, baby, just don’t stop. You- ah! You fuck me so good. Fucking hell, I love you so much.” You barely have any idea what you’re saying at this point, the pleasure is so intense. The memory of last time you and Copia made love like this evades you, but it has to have been before you fell pregnant with your daughter.

“Ti amo più di ogni altra cosa, cara mia. Tu mi completi.” As your orgasm rapidly approaches, you find yourself looking to the image of Baphomet once again. Realistically, the chances that Copia’s seed will take are low, but perhaps the Dark One is willing to assist you tonight. The way the statue’s red eyes seem to gleam with recognition, you would think He’s pleased with the performance you two have put on.

Copia swipes at your clit once, twice, three times, before your release washes over you. It’s a struggle not to completely collapse as you lose yourself in the euphoria. Faintly, you feel yourself gushing around his cock, your fluids running down your legs and soaking the carpet beneath you (and very likely the front of Copia’s cassock).

You snap back to reality as overstimulation starts to course through your body. A whine wrenches itself from your throat. Copia is still at it, fucking you with reckless abandon. Craning your head back, you take in the sight of your lover. His face is scrunched up into a grimace as he takes his pleasure, clearly affected by your orgasm. The brutal pace of his thrusts begins to falter, and you know that means he’s almost there.

“Kiss me, baby,” you beg with a breathy sigh. Copia obliges immediately, probably hoping you’d ask. You twist your back even further as he leans in to capture your lips. His hands travel up to your breasts, grabbing them and pulling you close so that your body is flush with his. He moans into your mouth as he finally reaches his peak, cumming so deep you swear you can taste it.

You’re still kissing long after he comes down. When you finally break away, Copia has to hold on to keep you from collapsing into the altar. Both of you are so lost in each other’s embrace, desperately trying to catch your breath, that you fail to register the sound of footsteps growing ever closer.

“Pardon me, Papa. I- oh, whoops.” The familiar voice startles you out of your reverie. The two of you whip your heads around to the source. It’s one of Imperator’s ghouls, the guy who used to do PR before Copia took over. Nowadays, he’s more or less her errand boy. For what feels like an eternity, you stare at each other, equally wide eyed. The creature finally clears his throat before speaking.

“I- uh- This looks like a bad time. I’ll come back later.” He promptly turns tail and scurries away. It takes a second for both of you to recover from the interruption. Copia, seemingly less affected than you, breaks the silence.

“In nomine patris, il filio, et lo spiritus malum…” He gives your ass a playful smack and you can’t help but roll your eyes. This fucking dork. Well, at least he’s your dork.

“Nema.”

#my writing #the band ghost x reader #the band ghost fanfiction #papa emeritus iv x reader #copia x reader #this was my first fic you guys be nice

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sgiandubh · 1 year ago

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Labor of love

I was very interested to see what S told Mark Gillespie on the last episode of the latter's WhiskyCast podcast, @bat-cat-reader immediately shared with us.

It was a most instructive 35 minutes. I listened to all of it, because I wanted to also hear Gillespie's tasting notes forThe Sassenach. And I regret nothing: once you get past the traditional (and a bit obnoxious) 'why The Sassenach?' question, you're in for some interesting news.

You can listen to it here, by the way:

Before anything, who is Mark Gillespie?

One of the most respected professionals in the very small world of alcohol specialized podcasters, with a 37 years work experience in media and broadcasting, spanning household names such as CNN, Bloomberg, Wall Street Journal, Gallup and MSNBC. But also, and this I found very interesting, given the current context, the owner of CaskMedia, a firm specialized not only in media production, but also marketing and PR.

The podcast was recorded at The Metropolitan Club's library, moments before the Keepers of the Quaich dinner, where S was a keynote speaker. So not 'just there for the Haggis Ceremony ' - a 'guest of honor' is never invited just for the show, people should have known better, eh?

S's 7 minutes interview starts at the 09:32 mark. Comments in brackets are mine.

Gillespie surely doesn't like to beat around the bush and after the customary niceties, asks a million-dollar question:

MG: 'I have to ask: did you have the troubles (problems?) in Germany straightened up?'

SH: ' Ha, ha, ha [not an organic giggle, but hey - gotta do what you gotta do, eh?]. Well, I am not entirely sure I should talk about it [speaks very quickly and through his teeth - visibly annoyed/nervous; not entirely sure I got it all correctly, so feel free to amend in comments], ah... ummm... not as yet... not as yet...ummm...we did fall into an issue with the name Sassenach, which was similar to a big brand in the US... ah!... in Germany, sorry... of a beer brand... I...I personally don't see the similarity [neither do I, S...neither do I], but I am sure once people taste our whisky, they'll know what it is, whatever the name is on it.'

Yes, this interview was probably rehearsed. Yes, Gillespie might have sent the questions to S/his people in advance for reviewing. No, he could not speak about a legally complicated situation before the final settlement with that Schoppingen beer brewer (penalties are probably still to be fixed and paid, but I will check that, so don't take my word for Gospel truth, yet). I will write separately about this whole thing, because I still think that was a very questionable decision of the EUIPO. Not because it royally pisses me off (so fucking unfair!), but because I really fail to see the proper legal reasoning and basis for it. His answer was perfect, under the circumstances. Absolutely perfect.

Anyways, FWIW, it would seem some sort of solution has already been found ('whatever the name is on it') and that most probably would be to rebrand it. And sell it on the German/EU market under a new name.

Lallybroch (https://trademarks.justia.com/981/67/lallybroch-98167525.html), perhaps? Time will tell, but that could explain this recent trademark application I didn't have time to properly look into, yet:

Further ahead (and fast forward through the cask version release, these things bore me to death), we land on another (as yet) unexploded ordnance:

MG: 'I have to mention your show MIK that you do with Graham McTavish, you visited a bunch of distilleries during that one... any visit in particular stands out?'

Now I am not very sure if that question was the best possible one, since that SAG-AFTRA strike is still an ongoing situation. And his answer was quite clever, changing the focus on their visit to Laphroaig's distillery on Islay and waxing lyrical about the casks, the peat, the landscape, etc. But other than a perfunctory and logical 'we', I heard absolutely nothing about McTavish, and it could have been so damn easy to further change the subject and mention his bourbon, with a few kind words. Therefore, I think things are pretty obviously not exactly on the sunny side, between the two. And I guess we all know why.

To end this long post on a cheerful note, I almost forgot to mention something very important. Answering a listener's question about Sassenach not being available in Rhode Island/part of New Jersey, S said something very interesting: 'obviously you can get it online, (...) we've just signed a deal with Southern Glazer's, so we're rolling it out. It is a limited batch, so you know, every year we do do a release and it is very limited, so it does tend to sell out pretty quick. But yes, it is available (...), but obviously you're not gonna see it in every bar, restaurant or retailer, because we just don't have enough of it. But online you can get it and great delivery service, it's very quick.'

I am taking two things home from this last answer: demand exceeds supply, which is both a blessing (solid yield, room for expansion) and a curse (lackadaisical market presence). On short to mid term, distribution will concentrate on the online market, with the help of Southern Glazer's superb infrastructure.

Remember the older guy he had lunch with in MIA, in May? You should, if you didn't focus on Mordor's inept babble about shirts, ballerinas and the like. That guy was instrumental into arranging the deal with Southern Glazer's. Just the biggest wine and spirits distributor on the US market, mind you.

Don't believe me? Check this out:

That company was founded in Florida. Its HQ is still in MIA. He didn't go there because he was looking for ballerinas at his birthday dinner. He went there because when these people are available to meet you, well: you leave everything aside and you damn GO.

Now who the hell is writing fanfiction, eh? You really should be ashamed, madam.

I rest my case.

#BoozeWars

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cecexwrites · 8 months ago

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Ace x Ismene + Kinktober 3

Ismene didn't know what a heart attack felt like, but it had to be pretty close to this. She paced back and forth, writing her hands, waiting.

She was supposed to be across town, taking care of a woman who claimed Frollo had assaulted her. Ismene's plan was to swing by there after she'd finished this.

When she had walked up to the building and knocked, it had been answered by a man she didn't recognize.

"State your business." He ordered.

"I'm here to see Ace." She responded. The man looked her up and down, telling her to wait there and closed the door in her face.

That had been five minutes ago.

The door opened again and she whirled, it was the same man, he gestured for her to follow him. She did so, the door closing behind them sounding louder than anything she'd ever heard before. Of course, that was probably just the nerves.

She'd never been in this building before but she didn't take the time to really look around, she was focused on the task at hand. It was all that mattered. He opened a door and held it for her, letting her walk in by herself.

It was an office, with a desk, off to the side there was a slightly lumpy couch. All pretty normal for the Isle and by the desk stood the man she was there to see. Ace Hearts. He wasn't dressed for bed so at least she knew she hadn't woken him up despite the late hour.

"Clifford said you wanted to see me?" Ace prompted. Ismene dropped her hands to the side.

"I have a request." Ace quirked one dark eyebrow, walking to the desk, leaning his back against it.

"Oh?"

"I- want you to kill my father." There, she had said it, there was no taking it back. It was out there in the world and she couldn't put the genie back in the bottle, so to speak. Ace scoffed, shaking his head.

"You want me to kill Frollo." He repeated. She nodded and he pushed off of the desk, crossing the room. "Aren't you the Wraith of The Isle? The youngest person to have a body count that rivals mine and my sisters- well... in murders anyway." He gave he a suggestive look that she felt in her core but she didn't let herself react to it.

"Yes." She rarely admitted that out loud but hell, she'd already opened up about her need for a hit man.

"You kill him."

"I can't." She ground out the words.

"What do you mean you can't?" He asked. "You don't strike me as the sentimental type."

"It's not sentimental." She snapped. At least she didn't think it was. It was something but she wasn't sure she had the words to explain it. "But the fact remains that I can't do it. So I wanted to hire you-"

"Ismene." He shook his head. "I'm not going to do it unless you can tell me why you can't do it your damn self. As far as I know he has put some kind of curse on himself that will instantly kill anyone who harms him-"

"My father would never play with witchcraft." Ismene snarled. Ace didn't budge. After a moment of silence she sighed, her shoulders sagging slightly. "He's the one who tells me what to do. He- decides who I go after. What they did to deserve it. He's the one who- tells me what to do." She repeated. "I can't do it."

Ace stared at her for a moment longer before shrugging.

"And what do I get in return? I don't do anything for free."

"I'll pledge my loyalty to Queenie." She answered. "And when my father is gone, I'll be in charge of the church so... you'll have that too."

"You'll be in charge of it? It doesn't go to another one of the clergymen?"

"No. My father owns it. When he dies, I get everything. Including the church." That had his attention. The church was the nicest kept building on the Isle and it definitely had it's benefits.

"Fine." He decided, walking around to the other side of the desk and plopping down. "Now the big question is, how?"

"Quickly." She answered, She sat in one of the chairs on her side of the desk, glancing around for a clock, trying to time out how to get from here to the woman's house, kill her and get home in time to make sure breakfast was ready for Frollo when he woke up.

"Well that's not fun." He shook his head. "No if I'm going to do this for you, I want it to be enjoyable. What does he like?"

"Control." Ismene answered. Ace didn't say anything waiting for her to go on. "He controls- so so much. The church, the people in the church. He controls at least part of the deliveries that come to the Isle and me." She trailed off with the last word.

"And you?" Ace asked. Ismene pressed her lips together, her eyes focusing on the large window behind him. Currently it looked out into utter darkness.

"I said- He decides who I go after, how they die. He decides how I dress, who I speak to. He's going to pick who I marry. He made sure to keep me proper and pure for whichever of his fellow holy men he decides to give me to-"

"What was that?"

"He's obviously going to pick someone from the church who is already under his thumb-"

"Not that, the proper and pure part-" Ismene refused to blush at the fixating on her virginity- well she tried to refuse and because her chest was covered, she was sure he couldn't see the flush that crept up her chest whenever she as flustered.

"What about it?"

"That's the answer."

"To?"

"How we kill him." Ace leaned back in his seat as if he had answered a huge riddle.

"We?"

"Yes, You get to play a part in his demise- well, other than coming to me." He shrugged one shoulder.

"And what role is that exactly?" Ismene asked. feeling the blush crawl from her chest up her neck.

"I'm going to fuck you, Ismene, and let your father watch before I slit his throat.

---------

Sex was wrong- sex before marriage was a sin. She shouldn't even be thinking about it but the plan Ace laid out for her- it felt good. It got her excited.

"Now there is a very important question to be answered." Ace pointed out to her. "Do you actually want to lose your virginity that night, or do you want to practice?"

"Practice?" Ismene asked.

"Yes. The first time can be pretty uncomfortable, there is sometimes pain involved. And if we want him to be truly horrified before he dies, I think it's better if he thinks he's seeing you lose it, but when there's no pain or suffering, just you taking my cock like a good girl-" The blush had finally made it all the way to her cheeks "He will die knowing you were made to be fucked."

"But then I'm not... really losing it in front of him." She mused. leaning back in her own seat hoping the flaming hotness in her face would go away.

"No. But he doesn't know that." Ace answered. Ismene sighed, thinking about it. On one hand, he was right, she didn't want to be distracted by the pain, by the discomfort of it. But on the other- the authenticity of it felt right. She tapped her finger tips on the arm of the chair as she thought about it- One minute- two minutes- three minutes passed before Ace spoke up again.

"of course, you two have more than one hole for me to take."

"Excuse me?" Ace grinned at her across the desk.

"At least I'm assuming you do." He amended.

"I do- have two but what do you mean by that?"

Ace stood up, moving a few things off of his desk.

"Take off your pants." He ordered. She hesitated, looking back over her shoulder like there might be someone else there that he was talking to. "Ismene. Now." This time the order was harsher. She hopped up from her seat and wriggled out of her pants, taking her panties down with them.

"Good girl." He nodded. "And the shirt. I want to see what I'm working with here." He watched intently as she unbuttoned her shirt, dropping it with her pants. Then her bra, leaving her completely nude. She resisted the urge to cover herself up.

He eyed her up and down slowly, then stepped back from the desk.

"Up here." he ordered. This she could do. Following orders was easy. She got up on the desk, sitting up straight. He moved her a little further back. "Lay down, and I want you to get your feet up on the desk- yes, just like that with your knees bent, and spread them wide." She could feel the cold air against her pussy- something the definitely wasn't used to.

"Hmmm." He ran his fingertips up her inner thigh to her cunt, her chest heaved as he teased her, his fingers trailing almost to the junction- and stopping. She whimpered as he pulled his hand away.

"I think- we compromise- do not move." He pointed a finger at her as he pulled open a drawer in the desk. He searched for a moment before popping back up.

"A compromise?" Ismene asked.

"The first time you take my cock will be at the church." He reached out, running a finger tip over her nipple, it hardened instantly and he gave it a rough pinch. She cried out at the pain that shot pleasure right between her legs.

"But tonight- and every night Sunday when we do this- you'll come here, You'll lay on my desk and I will make you cum- as many time as I want. And then, when the big day comes, you'll be all ready to take my cock. Deal?"

She stared at him, unsure if this was a good idea but- this had to end, she couldn't let her father keep doing what he was doing. And currently she felt an ache in her body that needed to be satisfied.

"Deal." She agreed.

"Good." He tweaked her nipple again before moving down to the end of the desk where her legs were spread. She closed her eyes, the anticiptation building, but instead of the toy she felt something else, his mouth- soft and warm on her pussy, his tongue toyed with her clit, she groaned, her head falling back to rest on the desk.

Ace sucked on her clit, he wanted to make sure she was nice and wet, his fingers ran slowly up and down her slit, and when he felt she was wet enough, he slipped two fingers into her, stopping when he felt resistance. she tensed up a bit when he inserted his fingers- which he knew meant it could hurt more, but he did it anyway.

A swift push forward and he forced his fingers all the way in, She let out a cry of pain- or was it pleasure? as he broke through.

He kissed her inner thigh and pulled his fingers out. There was a little blood but it wasn't too bad.

"Unfortunately for your holy husband- you're not so pure anymore." Ismene opened her eyes to look at the blood on his fingers and she licked her lips.

"No, No I'm not." She agreed.

"No, and now, I'm going to make this pussy mine." He brought his hand down, slapping her clit and she cried out. He didn't give her any warning as he picked up the toy he'd pulled from the drawer and slipped it into her cunt, turning the vibrator on.

Ismene moved as if trying to get away from it but there was no fighting it. The toy was thicker than his fingers had been, stretching her out, leaving her feeling nice and full. He gripped her legs, forcing them open.

"And on the day of, I'll be taking this too." He warned her, pressing a finger against her asshole, but not pushing it.

"It's too much-" Ismene insisted, her toes curling.

"No it's not, you can take it, just enjoy it." He began to thrust the toy in and out, moving faster harder, she clawed at the desk, looking for something to hold onto and only finding the edge of the desk. He was about to turn up the vibration when she came, a small scream escaping as she experienced her first orgasm.

"See was that so bad?" He pulled out the toy and turned it off.

"Oh- My...." She trailed off, her body still reacting to the orgasm.

"Exactly. Open your mouth." He ordered. She didn't even think, just opening. He pushed the toy in, and her lips closed around it automatically. It wasn't until she realized what it was that she tried to push him off. "Take it, Ismene, suck it nice and clean for me." He ordered. Her eyes widened a bit, but she did it, and when he pulled it out, all that was left was saliva.

"See, I knew you could do it." He praised her. She brightened at the compliment. "By Sunday you're going to be an expert at this." He promised. he pinched her nipple again, this time twisting.

"Ace." She whimpered.

"And he is going to hear you scream my name."

#ismene frollo #ismene and ace

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ratmobstudio · 2 years ago

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hi everyone! as promised, here's a little snippet of chapter one, very early in-game, featuring michael and walter. please enjoy!

The walk back to Walter’s apartment isn’t as far as you’d think — but Walter’s incessant chatter makes it seem further than it is. He’s been like this since you two were knee-high, constantly talking and walking, as though even a moment of silence would strike him dead.

“— You should’ve seen the look on his face when you told him you weren’t his boy.”

Oh, you’d seen it alright. That dark look that passed over Nicky’s face, the blaze of unfettered rage in his eyes. You could take him in a fight, easily, but there were rules to be adhered to— rules you’d learnt to respect, or face the consequences of breaking.

Rounding the corner, you cross the street to the apartment Walter lives in. The brownstone building is a familiar sight to you , with its chipped steps and ivy steadily crawling up the side of the building.

Walter stops at the bottom of the stairs. He glances over his shoulder at you, and you nod towards the front door.

“Go on,” you say. “You’ve had a long night, buddy. I think we both have.”

Walter bites his lip. You’ve come to recognize his body language when he wants to ask a question, see the curve of it in the way his shoulders round, as though almost hesitant.

“Do you want to come upstairs?”

You blink. “Upstairs?”

“Upstairs. Y’know, the place hasn’t changed since the last time you were here.”

“Walter, that was two weeks ago.” “Exactly! I mean— I have coffee.”

You watch him for a moment, standing there, periodically brushing his foot against the ground. Like a bird moments before flight, he balances, watching you watch him.

“It’ll be just like when we were kids,” Walter continues, abruptly. “Right? I mean—”

“I know what you mean.” You grin at him. “Don’t tell me you’re still afraid of the dark.”

He laughs. It’s a wild sound, but there’s beauty in it, and you can’t help but chuckle and shake your head.

“I can’t stay,” you say. “I’ve got things to do tomorrow.”

It’s a flat excuse, of course, you both know it, but what else can you say? Walter says nothing. The streetlights reflect themselves in his eyes, and you pull out your pack of cigarettes, if only for something to do with your hands.

You put one in your mouth before you offer the pack to Walter; he takes one, and by the time you tuck the pack away in your pocket, you hear the telltale clink! of his lighter. Looking up, you see him holding it out, the flame flickering in the cool night breeze.

You cup your hands around the flame, leaning in until your cigarette catches light, and smoke fills your lungs. You take the first, heady drag, exhaling as you stand there, looking at Walter.

He smiles at you, blows a lungful of smoke towards the sky.

“Come upstairs,” he says, again. “You can sleep on the couch; we can get your car from Sonny’s tomorrow.”

You want to say yes. You want to. There’s a feverish shine in Walter’s eyes, and his hands tremble as he takes drag after drag of his cigarette.

In the half-dark, he looks angelic.

In the half-dark, he looks like temptation.

Your chest abruptly tightens. Flicking the cigarette to the ground, you stomp it out beneath your heel, grinding it into dust for good measure.

“I really have to go.”

You wonder when you’ve begun to sound this tired, this worn down by life. Walter’s shoulders seem to sag. His voice is even when he speaks, but you detect a bite of hurt in his words.

“I get it. You’re busy.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?”

Instead of answering, Walter bounds down the stairs towards you, stopping at the last stair. It gives him a few inches of height above you, his eyes staring into your very soul.

You hope he cannot see what lies there, this rising bubble of desire that seems to choke you, this bear trap slid right below your heart, waiting for you to stick your leg in.

He cups your face in both of his hands. “You’ll see me tomorrow?”

You wonder if he can feel how hot your face is. “I already said I would.”

“Okay, Mikey.”

There, again, that childhood nickname. He’d used it in the bar, and here again, beneath the stars and the clouds and god, god, you aren’t sure if you love him all the more for it or hate him in equal measure.

You push his hands from your face, step back out of his reach.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say, with finality.

Walter grins, watches as you turn and make your way back up the street. You can feel his stare burning into you, watching, waiting, as though you’ll suddenly change your mind and walk right back to him. But you don’t.

You walk, and you keep walking.

#interactive fiction #interactive fiction wip #if game #if wip #only the lonely if #wip; otl #ch; michael amadeo #ch; walter latorre #okay to reblog!#these two are cute :(

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stuckinapatriarchalbullshitland · 1 year ago

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My answer to @samcscreams

I don’t wanna start any drama but I feel like either post wasn’t for the other. My only reason is that Jenna isn’t an A-list celebrity. Don’t get my wrong after Wednesday Jenna became a highly sought after actress (rightfully so). So her social value is high but since that really only happened about 7-8 months ago she hasn’t reached A-list millionaire yet. I mean I’m not 100% sure but I don’t think Jenna’s made over a million for any project she’s done.

Thanks for comment. I'd like to discuss a few points here that I think would be worth clarifying, and I'll start by saying that nothing I mentioned in your comment post is anything against Jenna at all. That being said, what you say about Jenna not being an A-list artist is not true. She stopped being an unknown artist since she became popular with Wednesday and Scream and thus, she is already considered an A-known artist. She is in that range and if you take a look at her IG, you will understand what I am saying. Jenna Ortega's image is absolutely controlled as a mainstream artist and as such, she is making money in the same way. Maybe not to the extreme of a Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise, but she is on her way to it and that is clear with her sponsoring. Adidas, Dior, Neutrogena, Jenna's invitation to an event like the Met Gala positions her as an important artist who will gradually continue to gain cachet and a better salary, which if you ask me makes me very happy. The issue here is that she stopped being a working actress who has to fight every day to get a job and it shows. It's good news. As for the amount of money earned in her movies and series, as far as I know, she exceeded the million dollar range without counting sponsorship, which, as far as I know, most of that money goes into her pocket. at least she's lucky to reach the annual money that Sag-Aftra asks for health insurance.

Also you have to take into account that out of what she does make she has to pay her team. Her publicist, her agent, accountants, coordinators whoever she has she has to pay. I as a consumer often forget about how much actors have to pay out of pocket for their team. So when they negotiate it’s not only for themselves.

What you say is true, but as I commented in the previous paragraph, I wouldn't worry about the money that she can generate because she is doing excellently at the advertising level and that is partly what I don't like with her. The fact that she is now a mainstream artist means control of her image, therefore much of what she can say, especially on social networks, is not her 100%. No artist is 100 percent genuine in that sense and it's something I don't like artists to do, I don't know if I'm making myself understand

I also understand what Melissa is saying and she’s right. If Leonardo DiCaprio or Meryl Streep did an Indy film it would be a little off putting. Sorry for the rant I just don’t feel like there’s any drama here and I’d hate for nothing to become something.

Melissa is absolutely right. I was discussing the subject with a friend and we both agree that indie productions should be left to working artists who are not mainstream, because it is more convenient for them to have work like this. That's not to say that mainstream artists can't do indie, but it's unfair that they take jobs away from hard-working actors when they're paid so much less for that work. So no, I didn't mean to make a drama out of Melissa and Jenna, but it was really funny to me that Jenna's IG came up with two strike-related stories when she or her team only posted one strike-related post when it started. That's what I meant when I said I hated that Jenna's image and her networks were so controlled, because it seemed like she was really affected by that Melissa story.

This is all of course my point of view which can also be wrong, but I'm still happy to see Jenna's hard work getting the recognition she deserves because she really does. I would leave out the excessive attention and control, but we know that the industry does not give you anything for free and this is part of what makes it a famous artist.

#jenna ortega #what makes you famous #wednesday #sag aftra #strike #answering #melissa barrera #scream

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scullyloves-science · 1 year ago

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Thoughts on SC’s absence lately?

I am an analyst of the patterns, not necessarily a sleuth. At least, I think I am lol. That being said, I am not the best to ask this question but…. I’ll try. They can’t promote their shows right now due to SAG-AFTRA strike. And I don’t think we will ever get the feverish tweeter banter of the early days back because they are older and wiser. Therefore, they are using SM for business ONLY nowadays, regardless of the message or content of their posts.

To answer you question:

Generally, I prefer to apply this concept to anything related to SC: “when you hear hoofbeats, think horses not zebras”. So, they could be just on vacation, together, separately, whatever floats your boat. I mean they are on hiatus after all.

#anons

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izzzzzzieeeeeeeee · 2 months ago

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I’m going to approach this as though when tumblr user tanadrin says that they haven’t seen anti-AI rhetoric that doesn’t trade in moral panic, that they’re telling the truth and more importantly that they would would be interested in seeing some. My hope is that you will read this as a reasonable reply, but I’ll be honest upfront that I can’t pretend that this isn’t also personal for me as someone whose career is threatened by generative AI. Personally, I’m not afraid that any LLM will ever surpass my ability to write, but what does scare me is that it doesn’t actually matter. I’m sure I will be automated out whether my artificial replacement can write better than me or not.

This post is kind of long so if watching is more your thing, check out Zoe Bee’s and Philosophy Tube’s video essays, I thought these were both really good at breaking down the problems as well as describing the actual technology.

Also, for clarity, I’m using “AI” and “genAI” as shorthand, but what I’m specifically referring to is Large Language Models (like ChatGpt) or image generation tools (like MidJourney or Dall-E). The term “AI” is used for a lot of extremely useful things that don’t deserve to be included in this.

Also, to get this out of the way, a lot of people point out that genAI is an environmental problem but honestly even if it were completely eco-friendly I’d have serious issues with it.

A major concern that I have with genAI, as I’ve already touched on, is that it is being sold as a way to replace people in creative industries, and it is being purchased on that promise. Last year SAG and the WGA both went on strike because (among other reasons) studios wanted to replace them with AI and this year the Animation Guild is doing the same. News is full of fake images and stories getting sold as the real thing, and when the news is real it’s plagiarised. A journalist at 404 Media did an experiment where he created a website to post AI-powered news stories only to find that all it did was rip off his colleagues. LLMs can’t think of anything new, they just recycle what a human has already done.

As for image generation, there are all the same problems with plagiarism and putting human artists out of work, as well as the overwhelming amount of revenge porn people are creating, not just violating the privacy of random people, but stealing the labour of sex workers to do it.

At this point you might be thinking that these aren’t examples of the technology, but how people use it. That’s a fair rebuttal, every time there’s a new technology there are going to be reports of how people are using it for sex or crimes so let’s not throw the baby out with the bathwater. Cameras shouldn’t be taken off phones just because people use them to take upskirt shots of unwilling participants, after all, people use phone cameras to document police brutality, and to take upskirt shots of people who have consented to them.

But what are LLMs for? As far as I can tell the best use-case is correcting your grammar, which tools like Grammarly already pretty much have covered, so there is no need for a billion-dollar industry to do the same thing. I am yet to see a killer use case for image generation, and I would be interested to hear one if you have it. I know that digital artists have plugins at their disposal to tidy up or add effects/filters to images they’ve created, but again, that’s something that already exists and has been used for very good reason by artists working in the field, not something that creates images out of nothing.

Now let’s look at the technology itself and ask some important questions. Why haven’t they programmed the racism out of GPT-3? The answer to that is complicated and the answer is complicated and sort of boils down to the fact that programmers often don’t realise that racism needs to be programmed out of any technology. Meredith Broussard touches on this in her interview for the Black TikTok Strike of 2021 episode of the podcast Sixteenth Minute, and in her book More Than A Glitch, but to be fair I haven’t read that.

Here's another question I have: shouldn’t someone have been responsible for making sure that multiple image generators, including Google’s, did not have child pornography in their training data? Yes, I am aware that people engaging in moral panics often lean on protect-the-children arguments, and there are many nuanced discussions to be had about how to prevent children from being abused and protect those who have been, but I do think it’s worth pointing out that these technologies have been rolled out before the question of “will people generate CSAM with it?” was fully ironed out. Especially considering that AI images are overwhelming the capacity for investigators to stop instances of actual child abuse.

Again, you might say that’s a problem with how it’s being used and not what it is, but I really have to stress that it is able to do this. This is being put out for everyday people to use and there just aren’t enough safeguards that people can’t get around them. If something is going to have this kind of widespread adoption, it really should not be capable of this.

I’ll sum up by saying that I know the kind of moral panic arguments you’re talking about, the whole “oh, it’s evil because it’s not human” isn’t super convincing, but a lot of the pro-AI arguments have about as much backing. There are arguments like “it will get cheaper” but Goldman Sachs released a report earlier this year saying that, basically, there is no reason to believe that. If you only read one of the links in this post, I recommend that one. There are also arguments like “it is inevitable, just use it now” (which is genuinely how some AI tools are marketed), but like, is it? It doesn’t have to be. Are you my mum trying to convince me to stop complaining about a family trip I don’t want to go on or are you a company trying to sell me a technology that is spying on me and making it weirdly hard to find the opt-out button?

My hot take is that AI bears all of the hallmarks of an economic bubble but that anti-AI bears all of the hallmarks of a moral panic. I contain multitudes.

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