#it's built on the backs of millions who are ALSO having their jobs replaced by people typing in ai prompts

[threshasketch]

Bye Bye Photoshop

So, yeah, Adobe is pushing the generative AI stuff more and more (and their "ethically sourced" AI engine Firefly uses around 1.25 million Midjourney images in its dataset, e.g. made with scraped stolen art, and opted all of the stock it offers in for training without asking the creators.)

Seeing Kyle T. Webster, the guy who made the 1000 free amazing brushes that PS Creative Cloud users get, quitting PS and being outspoken about his stance against gen AI around social media was an eye opener. (He offers some brushes on Gumroad apart from Adobe as well, thank goodness!)

When I first got Photoshop and switched from Krita to it, I found the brushes incredibly bad and unusable until I got the Kyle's brushes sets. You might say PS only worked for me so long because of Kyle's brushes, and that's not an exaggeration!

Anyway, my annual Photoshop Creative Cloud subscription was about to renew next month on July 6th, my birthday, as it has since 2017. I was already considering switching to something else when I saw it: Clip Studio, on sale for 60% off! I had literally downloaded the demo the week before to try it out and consider whether to invest $54 in a copy to switch from PS.

The perpetual license was under $25 USD now, but the subscription for an entire year was $10.79—cheaper than one month of my Photoshop subscription—and I'm already used to a subscription with constant updates. So I ended up getting the CS subscription and quit PS cold turkey.

So now I'm saving $109/year on art software, not giving money to people contributing to the biggest art theft in human history (literal billions of images scraped), and as a bonus, CS has a great community with tons of free brushes and textures and such up for grabs all the time!

I'm happy to say that all of the PS brushes I've purchased from Gumroad loaded right into CS and work perfectly. All of my Creative Fabrica fonts load in and work perfectly.

To be sure I could use CS before I committed to the switch-over, I whipped up a book cover (cannot tell it's made with anything different than my previous ones), and I illustrated and colored a piece of character art (looks super clean!) I opened PS and copied down my favorite fonts short list (minus the Adobe fonts, of course, which came with my subscription.)

And then I uninstalled Photoshop and Creative Cloud entirely, including their fonts. And it felt good! I sincerely thought switching to CS would be going to slightly worse software to be ethically okay using it, but after getting used to CS and customizing it with some very shiny brush sets (oil paints, watercolors, ink pens, gorgeous pencil, all free), I think it's just as good.

And CS won't shove "generative fill" AI tool garbage at me, or load my account with "generative credits" without ever asking.

It felt so gross logging into Adobe after ages to cancel my subscription and seeing those credits on my account, knowing they offered the option to buy more of them, taking money for things generated by using (among many other things) every art piece I've ever posted in the past 21 years for their scraped dataset training. Good riddance, Adobe!

Anyway, yeah. I'm using Clip Studio Paint now, and I'm excited to get to play with my new brush sets! ♥♥♥

[bedlamsbard]

how the FUCK am I supposed to change the lightbulbs on the twenty-foot ceilings in this apartment????

ALL of the overhead lights in this apartment are like this. (there are a handful of hanging lights that I can change myself.) I understand that there's some kind of grippy lightbulb changer suction cup or basket on a pole you can get at Lowe's or Amazon but a lot of these lights aren't normally recessed, they're beneath covers. And a lot of them are already burned out. (I can also tell that several have normal bulbs behind the cover, which means they were replaced before with the wrong kind of lightbulbs -- the one in the laundry room has two regular bulbs, one burned out, and there's literally no way I can get at it. I'm not climbing on a sixteen-foot ladder, I will die.)

*dubiously* I guess this is what handymen are for. (I mean, in a college town I'm sure I can always hire an enterprising college student to do various things, but perhaps not for the lights. I'm sure one of them would buy my excess mattress, though.)

I'd honestly be willing to try the lightbulb changer on a pole, but I'm not sure I can physically manage it with all of these lights, and the ones behind covers (which includes both bathrooms and the laundry room) I definitely can't. Also I guess I'll send another plaintive text to my property manager. (I am still trying to figure out where trash goes.)

this is a recently renovated apartment, but it is immediately evident to me that the reno was designed by (a) a man who was (b) COMICALLY taller than me (not hard, I'm 5'2.5"), (c) probably left-handed, and (d) didn't actually cook much despite the nice kitchen. (I do have SUBSTANTIALLY more counter space than in the Decatur house, but it would actually be difficult not to have more counter space than in that house -- I dealt with it by having a kitchen cart.)

on the other hand, there are FIVE MILLION outlets in this apartment. so it has that going for it. literally, from where I am sitting in the not-quite-open plan kitchen/dining/living room I can see thirteen outlets and I know there are two more in the office nook (built-in desk!). on the third hand it is a second-story walk-up and if I'd known the stair situation I'm not sure I would have rented it. (I had a video tour but didn't realize the stair situation until I got here.) probably the restaurant below also has twenty-foot ceilings.

this is the kind of apartment that would be a few grand in a city (I looked up the rent for an equivalent apartment in Decatur and it was $3-5K a month), but this is small town South Dakota, so while it's more expensive than my duplex in Decatur, it's not actually that much more expensive, especially considering that it's larger, new appliances, washer/dryer, 2 full bathrooms, and parking. also I wanted an apartment that made me feel like a Real Adult Professor and not a graduate student, especially if I had to live in rural South Dakota. (As I have bitched about endlessly, I didn't want to leave Atlanta and I didn't want to leave the Deep South; I'm one of the people who actually wants to live in the South (apparently rare? at least of people I know at my previous institution who were all like 'I don't know how I ended up here') and I do expect to go back on the market in an attempt to move back, TT job or not, unless I absolutely fall in love with this school/town. though if I absolutely hate living here, I can move to one of the nearby cities and commute (there's one half an hour away over the state line, and one an hour away in the same state). but like, I wanted to stay in the South and the universe said the best it could do was South Dakota.

but also jesus. this light situation makes me nervous. I do own floor lamps (because the Decatur house actually had terrible lighting), but come on, man. also I haven't yet found where I packed the cover for one of the floor lamps. I also can't find the bulbs for my regular non-floor lamps. found the bulbs for one of my floor lamps because they take E12 chandelier bulbs and they were packed in one of my 'random things' boxes. I will be unpacking for...a while.

[terresdebrume]

Nobody sent asks about the persocons AU but fuck it, I'm having visions at 11pm and doing anything more than typing away on the phone would be really unreasonable so here we go for a very short pile of Vibes

Ps: I'm using persocons in reference to the manga Chobits, as a shorthand way of saying that the boys in this are robots with a very solid mimicry of sentience going on + are a normal part of society but ALSO as a way to indicate to those in the know that we are fucking with the laws of robotics a little bit

"Thank you," says Vera as Edwin hands her the crate and the spitting mad cat it contains. "You're very kind."

Charles isn't so far gone yet that he doesn't catch the infinitesimal twitch of Edwin's lips. They're pretty nice lips, plopped in the middle of a classically nice face, paired with a neat haircut and what is probably a classically nice body under all the tweed. The PAYNE line was kind of designed for that, after all. Well, Charles doubts any designer ever planned for the tweed, but the broadly appealing features and physique were definitely discussed for at least ten years down in the bowels of Hilarion Inc. headquarters. All in all: not surprising Charles would look. He's only—well.

Out of the shadows where Charles lurks, Vera steps back towards the next service shaft and the upper levels of London. Edwin watches her go with near perfect immobility, but even Charles' factory-work-oriented eyes don't miss the relaxing in his jaw, the miniscule sag of his shoulders. Edwin, Charles is willing to bet, is satisfied with a job well done... Which means there is no reason for him not to smile when Edwin joins him at the back of the alley.

"She's right you know. You're proper kind."

He falls into step with his newly found work partner, smirking when Edwin throws him a sideway glance and looks back ahead.

"Do not be ridiculous. Kindness is a human trait, and I am not human."

"Plenty of us Robots grow emotions, you know."

Mainstream research currently holds that persocons happen over time. Owner misses a software adjustment here, shakes a bot's servers a little too hard there, and eventually that all messes with the auto-learning routines in ways unpredicted and unpredictable and boom: your fuck off tall toaster now has opinions. Charles, who gave himself a name before he was even out of the factory, would beg to differ if he didn't suspect that would get him shipped straight to the richest R&D department for a nice long play session with his programming. Not exactly an appealing prospect.

"So experience seems to indicate," Edwin says, sounding exceedingly prim. "I however, haven't. It would be illogical for you to pretend I did."

"Sure mate. No worries."

Edwin gives a little nod that Charles decides to go ahead and label as satisfied. He'll keep mum about the whole emotions thing, of course. No point in going against Edwin on it. It's just that he also knows it's a load of tosh, really, and he doesn't know it because of the way Edwin's lips twitch sometimes in response to what other people are saying. It's not because he took one look at Charles' crumbling state—the shot up voice modulator, the stringy red hair falling off his head, the long stripe of skin missing from his jaw to his collarbone—and took Charles under his wings. It's not even because Edwin gave himself a name.

It's because, well. Charles was built as a factory model. He has the specs for thousands of android parts running through his data banks at any given time and access to millions more with the internet. Edwin's eye covers—the pale green of his irises, specifically—haven't been on the market for the past sed venty three years, four months, one week and two days. A normal android his age would have been replaced a long time ago. Crucially: it wouldn't have given a shit.

That's kind of the thing with androids that work like they're supposed to: they mimick emotions real well—as much as the humans want them to, that is—but when the moment comes to have them recycled they treat it like any other day. 'Oh, you want to erase me from existence forever? Okay.' And then they go. But then once in a while, someone like Charles comes along: a defect, a bug in the machine. An everlasting problem to robotics engineer everywhere, whose position on the whole being recycled is a resounding:

"Fuck that."

That's how Charles knows Edwin isn't actually emotionless. Because no matter how many personality protocols he's actually got running—or shut down, really, he sounds like enough of a beautiful freak to actively have played with his own brains—when the time came to be recycled, it is abundantly clear that Edwin's answer in spite of any Robotics Law overrides was also no thank you.

And if Charles is lucky, one of these days, Edwin might even admit it.

[unschool]

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Artificial intelligence (AI) is blowing up the world today, with worries that algorithms may fully replace humans in creating digital content. Author Vallaeys acknowledges the problems in this book by stating that it’s powerful but not the perfect solution. His breakdown of what AI is best used for and how it helps PPC marketers do their jobs better is both reassuring and practical. 

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3. Marketing Made Simple: A Step-by-Step StoryBrand Guide for Any Business (Donald Miller, 2020)

You may have already heard of Donald Miller, a best-selling author with notoriety in the branding sphere. His latest book takes that initial momentum into an actionable checklist for building sales funnels. Even if you’re familiar with funnels, the principles behind them are worth reviewing. Moreover, a step-by-step workbook lets you brainstorm and strategize before executing those principles. Hence the readers get a nuts-and-bolts look at creating a marketing plan, including email and an engaging website. 

4. Join or Die: Digital Advertising in the Age of Automation (Patrick Gilbert, 2020)

Despite the book’s somewhat threatening title, Join or Die is a detailed look at how automation transforms digital marketing jobs. Gilbert refers to Google Ads in most case studies but highlights the adaptability of the mindset to almost any paid media platform where automation tools exist.

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[theotheristhedoctor]

As a UK-trained doctor, I can say that SLS is very much a Thing, and is a bit more complicated than this description.

So, some background: the UK has the National Health Service (NHS). Sometimes described as the "State Religion," it is one of the things British people hold to be most important to their culture. Even people who hate it define themselves as such; having known and worked with many Americans it's actual closest equivalent is the US army in terms of general attitude to it.

Importantly, the NHS is "free at the point of delivery." That means that nobody pays to see their doctor, have surgery, or get medications prescribed*(1). Even in an increasingly privatised system, the NHS delivers about 90% of all medical and Surgical care in the UK. Importantly, most surgeons have a private & NHS workload; it's rare to have a surgeon ONLY practice privately and the evidence suggest's they're on average less good!

This also means that the NHS is the major trainer and employer of hospital doctors. Given that the NHS has a desperate need to serve the whole country, trainees get flung around the place. This theoretically ensures that the quality of doctors is pretty evenly spread*(2). Family doctors (GPs) have a slightly different system of employment, but in a small country this has led to traditionally good goegraphic spread of doctors*(2), as well as a similar access to surgeons and a fairly egalitarian approach to surgical prioity. Whilst many people do pay to have their knee replacement done slightly earlier, it's probably the same surgeon who would have done it, in the same hospital, with the same kit. More urgent surgery is even less likely to be done privately, because the ability to jump the queue is less; surgical lists are built based on urgency of care, not who's paying*(3).

Why is this important? Because despite all this I know which patients are going to get post-op complications, and it will always be the patient with SLS. The one who's aunt died a few years ago during an appendicectomy, who's got chronic pain and is overweight despite running 3 marathons two years ago (before they got their 1-in-a-million cancer).

I know which patients will get their cases cancelled on the day, and it will always be the ones who had to book annual leave three months in advance and who's wife has just been diagnosed with breast cancer after their third failed pregnancy.

And I know which patients careful opioid prescriptions will nevertheless result in them turning up in 6 months for a detox, because if I was living their life I took would accidentally take one extra codeine a day, except they happen to be supermetabolisers so they get full morphine blowback and it builds and builds and they can't get to their doctor cos the dog just died and the car broke down and now they're fixed on OTC doses, and then it's heroin because they can't get fuck all else ...

But if i don't prescribe the Opioids they'll get terrible chronic pain and lose their job and then their wife will leave them and then their kids will get cancer. Because. Because because because. SLS.

It's absolutely socioeconomically linked, but so frequently it's not just "you're poor so you get shit healthcare." Its also "you got unlucky with a health thing a family thing and a work thing all at once and now your life will simply spiral out of control." It's "you don't live in a good dessert but you might as well because your back pain and commute stop you doing a full shop every week and now you've eaten shit for 6 months you've got lifelong constipation". It's an endless humbling reminder that no matter how good my care is health is intrinsically linked to so much else, and that balance is more important than perfection.

It's also a reminder that the Tories can fuck off, because anything that drives up inequality WILL make healthy worse and nobody can fix it once it spirals.

*:

(1) you do pay for the pharmacist to make up your prescriptions, but this is also cost-controlled. Very few people in the UK pay the actual cost of their medications.

(2) This is getting worse due to changes in how doctors are recruited, employed and re-emberced. The destruction of Primary Care Practice in my lifetime is a sin that neither Labour nor the Tories can escape responsibility for.

(3) Mostly. Unfortunately if the only surgeon available is an ankle surgeon then your ovarian mass isn't going next.

[esoutherngolf]

Eagle Ridge Resort and Spa

Mark Klausner changed almost everything since taking over ownership of the Eagle Ridge Resort & Spa four years ago – with one notable exception. We’ll get to that one later. Klausner hosted the grand opening of his pride and joy, the Stonedrift Spa, earlier this year; it is something to behold. The original spa in the resort’s Inn measured 3,500 feet.  The new one, located in what had been the General Store, is 12,000 and was two years in the construction phase. Its antique columns are 150 years old and came from a nearby Dubuque, Iowa, building.  They’re old, but they add to the attractive architecture of the new place. The Stonedrift Spa is Eagle Ridge’s latest and greatest new attraction. (Joy Sarver Photos) Notable features of the new spa are lighted vanity mirrors, vaulted ceilings, saunas in both locker rooms, a barber pole, beautiful co-ed relaxation rooms, manicure and pedicure stations, state-of-the-art showers with power sprays, a movement studio and facilities for unusual treatments.  All those enhancements have boosted the Spa’s attractiveness for wedding planners. Klausner declines to give a cost estimate for all the upgrades he’s given to the resort, but the Stonedrift Spa alone was a $3.5 million project and is a big boost for women guests. The 10-year marketing and sales director Colin Sanderson estimates that Spa users are 70 percent women. Beyond that, long-time visitors to Eagle Ridge might not recognize the place. The 63 golf holes are still in place, but the nines on The General course were flipped. The old General Store is now located near The General and has been enlarged. What is now Lounge 289, there used to be a pro shop. Klausner struck a deal with Illinois-based John Deere Company to revamp the golf course maintenance equipment, and a new 30,000-square-foot maintenance building has been built by the South course. Course conditioning has marketably improved throughout the resort because of those changes. Solar panels have been installed at all the resort’s profit centers, and striking back-lit signs have replaced the old ones at the resort entrance and in front of the Eagle Ridge Inn. The Inn was also converted from propane to natural gas, and the entire complex has been re-roofed. The computer and telephone systems have been upgraded, and the indoor swimming pool, while still located in the Inn, has been enhanced. There have been some new key staffers, most notably Steve Geisz as general manager and Mel Anderson as executive sous chef within the last year. There’s also that previously mentioned new/old one.  That would be John Schlaman.  He’s back as Eagle Ridge’s director of golf operations after leaving that post 25 years ago. His return contrasts with all the new things at the resort but also adds a nice touch. Schlaman’s first post-college job was as an assistant professional at Eagle Ridge in 1984, the year the South course opened. There’s even a classic picture in a golf shop of Schlaman teeing off on The General when that course was under construction. (It opened in 1997). Pete Jones was Eagle Ridge’s headman then. He left in 1987 to take the head job at Cantigny, in Wheaton, IL., which was also preparing to open a new course.  The Cantigny opening came in 1989. When Jones left, Schlaman, who had also been working for five winters at Innisbrook Resort in Florida, was named Eagle Ridge’s director of golf in 1988. He stayed until 1998, then spent two years at River Hills in Valrico, FL. Schlaman returned to Illinois in 2002 as general manager at Prairie Landing, an upscale public facility in West Chicago that was well-known for its state-of-the-art practice facilities. He was also working with a winery when Eagle Ridge beckoned again. Ownership changes had played a part in Schlaman’s earlier departure from Eagle Ridge, but his wife had been from nearby Iowa and was also involved in the winery.  That made a return to Galena an attractive possibility. “It wasn’t my intent to retire when we came back here,’’ said Schlaman.  “Both of us wanted to work.’’ He worked with his wife at a Galena winery until Mike Weiler, then the new director of golf at Eagle Ridge, invited Schaman to join his staff as the head pro at the South course.  While Schlaman was well known in the Chicago golf community after his Prairie Landing stint, Weiler had also been in charge at two other Chicago clubs – Bull Valley in Woodstock, and Wynstone, in Barrington. Schlaman was happy with his new golf role at the South course and stayed around the resort as night manager after the golf season,” he said.  “I wore a white shirt, a tie, and a name tag.   That was a good move on my part because I got to know all the people within the resort.’’ Then Weiler opted to retire, announcing his decision on April 27. “It hit me by surprise,’’ said Schlaman.  “I applied for the job when Mike left.  The (people at the resort) didn’t want to go through a hunt, and I was quick and easy.’’ At 62 years old, though, he had to take a second look at his eventual retirement plans. “I gave them a five-year plan to transition to the next guy,’’ said Schlaman, who moved his office from the South course to The General and quickly campaigned for a range ball machine for the practice area. Artificial turf also goes in at the back of the range to minimize damage on busy outing days. Already a lifetime member of the PGA of America, he just had to have his membership shifted from the Illinois to the Iowa section. While he doesn’t see a major tournament coming Eagle Ridge’s way — “the population here is a little thin,’’ he said, “but I see some regional college potential and some high school events.’’ Even before all the changes Eagle Ridge – spread over 6,800 acres — was Illinois’ premier golf resort. It has 80 guest rooms at the Inn and over 150 homes and villas located throughout the Galena Territory. For more information, please visit eagleridge.com Read the full article

[thimbil]

Having some thoughts about the references and inspirations used for the Bad Batch’s designs.

So Boba Fett is my absolute favorite character and Temeura Morrison was perfect casting. I went to see the 2008 TCW movie in theaters because I was so excited to see him again, even if he was animated. You can imagine my disappointment. Whoever was on screen was not Temeura Morrison. You could sort of see a resemblance if you squinted and didn’t think too hard about it. They replaced Temeura with Racially Ambiguous G.I. Joe. If I didn’t know better and someone told me the animated clones are space Italians from the moon of New Jersey I would buy it. One Million Brothers Pizzeria and Italian Bistro. Not that there’s something wrong with being space Italian, I just don’t think it’s the right choice for the Fetts. The design got slightly improved by season 7 but it still bugs the hell out of me.

I did eventually get into the show later and (of course) got invested in the clones. Unfortunately, they were largely sidelined by the Jedi storylines. Out of the two new main characters created for TCW, Ahsoka definitely got more development and focus than Rex. When they announced The Bad Batch, I was excited to see a show specifically devoted to the clones… at least that’s what it said on the tin. We have all seen what lurks beneath those stylish helmets.

Jango Fett, you are NOT the father.

So who is?

Based on interviews with Filoni, it sounds like the Bad Batch was a George Lucas idea. And like all his ideas, it’s super derivative. The original trilogy directly lifted elements from sci fi serials, westerns, and samurai movies, more specifically Kurosawa films like The Hidden Fortress. For The Bad Batch character designs, the influence is obviously American action and adventure movies.

Now let’s get specific. Bad Batch, who’s your daddy?

Hunter

Sylvester Stallone as Rambo in First Blood 1982. That bandana has become an integral part of the iconic action hero look. You see a character wearing one and it’s a visual shorthand for either “this character is a tough guy” like Billy played by Sonny Landham in Predator 1987, or “this character thinks he is/wants to be a tough guy” like Brand played by Josh Brolin in The Goonies 1985 or Edward Frog played by Corey Feldman in The Lost Boys 1987.

Hunter’s model is closest to the original clone base. If you look closely you will see the eyebrows are straighter with a much lower angle to the arch. His nose is also not the same shape as a standard clone like Rex, including a narrower bridge. It’s certainly not Temeura Morrison’s nose. Remember what I said about space Italians? It didn’t take much to push the existing clone design to resemble an specific Italian man instead of a specific Māori man. The 23&Me came back, and Hunter inherited more than the bandana from Sylvester.

Crosshair

The long narrow nose, the sharp cheekbones, the scowl. That’s no clone, that’s just animated Clint Eastwood. Not even Young and Hot Clint Eastwood from Rawhide 1959-1965. With that hair, I’m talking Gran Torino 2008. The man of few words schtick and family friendly toothpick in lieu of cigar are pure Eastwood as The Man With No Name from Sergio Leone’s spaghetti westerns A Fist Full of Dollars 1964, For a Few Dollars More 1965, and The Good the Bad and the Ugly 1966.

In a way, this is full circle because the actor Jeremy Bulloch took inspiration from Clint Eastwood for his performance as Boba Fett in ESB.

Wrecker

In an interview Filoni lists the Hulk as an (obvious) inspiration for Wrecker. Ever seen the old Hulk tv show from 1978? Well take a look at the actor who played him, Lou Ferrigno. Would you look at that. Even has his papa’s nose.

You could make the argument that Wrecker was influenced by The Rock, an appropriately buff ‘n bald Polynesian (Samoan, not Maori) man. But look at him next his Fast and Furious costar Vin Diesel and tell me which one resembles Wrecker’s character model more.

Tech

Tech is a little trickier for me to place. If he has a more direct inspiration it must be something I haven’t seen. That said, his hairline is very Bruce Willis as John McClane in Die Hard 1988. His quippiness and large glasses remind me of Shane Black as Hawkins from Predator 1987. In terms of his face, he looks a but like the result of McClane and Hawkins deciding to settle down and start a family. Although, Tech’s biggest contributors are probably just everyone on TV Trope’s list for Smart People Wear Glasses.

And finally,

Echo

Oh Echo. Considering he wasn’t created for the Bad Batch, he probably wasn’t based on a particular character or movie. But if I had to guess, his situation and appearance remind me a lot of Alex Murphy played by Peter Weller in Robocop 1987. However, Robocop explored the Man or Machine Identity Crisis with more nuance, depth, and dignity. Yikes.

The exact tropes and references used in The Bad Batch have been done successfully with characters who aren’t even human. Gizmo from Gremlins 2: The New Batch 1990 had a brief stint with the Rambo bandana. I could have picked any number of characters for Defining Feature Is Glasses but here is the most cursed version of Simon of Alvin and the Chipmunks. Suffer as I have. Marc Antony with his beloved Pussyfoot from Looney Tunes has the same tough guy with a soft center vibe as Wrecker and his Lula (also a kind of cat). Hell, in the same show we have Cad Bane sharing Cowboy Clint Eastwood with Crosshair. I actually think Bane makes a better Eastwood which is wild considering Crosshair has Eastwood’s entire face and Bane is blue.

So we’ve established you don’t need your characters to look exactly like their inspirations to match their vibe. So why go through the trouble and cost of creating completely new character designs instead of recycling and altering assets they already had on hand? Just slap on a bandana, toothpick, goggles, and make Wrecker bigger than the others while he does a Hulk pose and you’re done. Based on the general reaction to Howzer it would have been a low effort slam dunk crowd pleaser.

But they didn’t do that.

So here’s the thing. I like the tropes used in The Bad Batch. I am a fan of action adventure movies from the 80s-90s, the sillier the better. I am part of the Bad Batch’s target audience. Considering what I know about Disney and Lucasfilm, I went in with low expectations. I genuinely don’t hate the idea of seeing references to these actors and media in The Bad Batch. I don’t think basing these characters on tropes was a bad idea. If anything it’s a solid starting point for building the characters.

The trouble is nothing got built on the foundation. The plot is directionless, the pacing is wacky, and the characters have nearly no emotional depth or defining character arcs. They just sort of exist without reacting much while the story happens around them. But I can excuse all of that. You don’t stay a fan of Star Wars as long as I have not being able to cherrypick and fill in the gaps. This show has a deeper issue that shouldn’t be ignored.

Why do the animated clones bear at best only a passing resemblance to their live action actor? In interviews, Filoni wouldn’t shut up but the technological advancements in the animation for season 7. So if they are updating things, why not try to make the clones a closer match to their source material? Why did they have to look like completely different people in The Bad Batch to be “unique”? Looking like Temeura Morrison would have no bearing on their special abilities and TCW proved you can have identical looking characters and still have them be distinct. In fact, that’s a powerful theme and the source of tragedy for the clones’ narrative overall.

Here’s Filoni’s early concept art of Crosshair, Wrecker, Tech, and Hunter. (Interesting but irrelevant: Wrecker seems to have a cog tattoo similar to Jesse’s instead of a scar. Wouldn’t it have been funny if they kept that so when they met in season 7 one if them could say something like “Hey we’re twins!” That’s a little clone humor. Just for you guys 😘)

None of these drawings look like the clones in TCW, much less Temeura Morrison. Let’s be generous. Maybe Filoni struggles with drawing a real person’s likeness, as many people do. But he had to hand this off to other artists down the line whose job specifically involves making a stylized character resemble their actor. Yet the final designs missed the mark almost as much as this initial concept. Starting to seem as if the clones looking more like Temeura Morrison was never even on the table. It wasn’t a lack of creativity, skill or technical limitations on the part of the creative team. I don’t think there is an innocent explanation. They went out of their way to make the final product exactly how we got it.

This goes beyond homage. They could have made the same pop culture references and character tropes without completely stripping Temeura Morrison from the role he originated. It was a very purposeful choice to replace him with more immediately familiar actors from established franchises and films. It wouldn’t shock me if Filoni, Lucas, and anyone else calling the shots didn’t even think hard or care enough about the decision to immediately recognize a problem. And I don’t think they believed anyone else would either. At least no one whose opinion they cared about. Those faces are comfortingly familiar and proven bankable. They are what we’re all used to seeing after all. They’re white.

Lack of imagination, bad intentions, or simple ignorance doesn’t really matter in the end. The result is the same. Call it what it is. They replaced a man of color with a bunch of white guys. That’s by the book garden variety run of the mill whitewashing. There’s no debate worth having about it. For a fanbase that loves to nitpick things like whether or not it’s in character for Han to shoot first or Jeans Guy in the Mandalorian, we sure are quick to find excuses for clones who look nothing like their template. Why is that? If you don’t see the problem, congratulations. Your ass is showing. Pull your jeans up.

[acapelladitty]

Heisenberg/Reader fic (nsfw)

(please check the link below to see all tags and warnings)

Full fic is also available on AO3 here

His hands are warm against your shoulders as he pins you into place with both his grasp and his stare, “Before I lock you in,” there is a slight hesitancy in his voice which isn’t common and it has your full attention, “if something fucks up then you let me know straight away so I can scrap it. Can’t go breaking my favourite toy before I’m finished with it.”

It was an attempt at humour, and you smile along with him, soothing his concealed anxieties as your hands come to rest on his chest. Both fully clothed, you knew you wouldn’t remain that way for long and the anticipation of your game was heady as he accepted your touch as consent.

“Good girl.” He purrs, the words low in his chest, “Then strip and we’ll see just how much you can take.”

The instruction sends a shiver down your spine, and you follow his command; first to go is your shirt as you carelessly pull it overhead before dropping it to the floor and you quickly follow by unclipping the back of your skirt, allowing the fabric to slip to the floor without difficulty.

A low grumble escapes his throat as he takes in your exposed core, your decision to not wear any underwear having the desired effect as you stand there and await his next instruction, the warm air of the room dancing across your skin pleasantly.

His hands come to rest on your hips, gripping the flesh there almost painfully as he guides you backwards until your ass hits upon the stocks which you will be encased within.

“Well don’t just stand there,” he growls, “assume the position so I can lock you in.”

Breaking from his grip you move around to the other side of the metal stocks and place your head and hands within the holes there, each one specifically moulded to fit you perfectly and wide enough to not be too uncomfortable with prolonged use. The height of the stocks is low, requiring you to bend your body at a right angle to fit within them; a move which leaves you fully exposed as you spread your legs to ease the ache on your lower back.

In position, you glance up at him and you can imagine how pleasant you must look, spread out and vulnerable as you were to his every whim and command. A sound of metal locking lets you know that you are now firmly trapped in place as he drops to one knee before you.

Caressing your chin with his rough fingers, his hair is falling around his face as he pierces you with his heated gaze.

“When this is all said and done and you’re a fucking mess who can barely speak let alone walk,” he says in a voice which is heavy with lust and promise, “I think we’ll celebrate by bathing together so I can inspect that body thoroughly.”

Nipping at his fingers as he brings them close to your lips, you can agree with that idea and you nod your consent.

“Anyway!” He announces loudly, causing you to jump in place as you scowl, “On with the show. Shall we meet our grand toy for this game?” He snaps his fingers and from the darkness of the room, a mechanical grating sound springs to life as a soldat appears from the gloom.

One arm is still relatively human as it connected to the torso, the glowing reactor of its heart brighter than most light sources within the room. The head is encased in metal, emotionless and anonymous, but the shining drill which has come to replace its other arm causes a spike of alarm in your heart.

“A custom build,” Heisenberg continues with a showman flourish, “with a few special touches. My soldats are built for aggression but this sorry bastard,” he indicates the soldat to move forward a few feet so that it can stand by his side, “has had that particular electrical impulse removed, he is entirely subject to my will as I control and guide his movements.”

Your eyes are so glued to the drill that it takes all your effort to pull away from it to glance at the crotch of the soldat, the area which Heisenberg was directing your attention to now.

“As you can see, it’s also been fitted with a little something extra to keep any wanton slut amused for as long as I think she deserves.”

The metal cock which juts forward from soldat was intimidating in how rigid it looked but as you peered at it, you noticed that it was just slightly smaller than Heisenberg’s own cock, coming it at about a half inch shorter and slightly thinner.

You bite at your bottom lip to hide the smile which was threatening to escape as you realise that Heisenberg must have made a point to create something less impressive than himself. Maybe he was worried he would be replaced?

Mistaking your bitten lip for worry, Heisenberg smirked.

“Don’t worry about the size, kitten, it’s nothing that I know you can’t handle.”

Gathering up some scrap metal with a wave of his hand, Heisenberg quickly fashioned it into a comfortable high-backed chair, the base of it floating a few inches off the floor as he took easy control of the materials and fell into it with ease.

“I suggest you get your lips around it and wet it up,” Heisenberg called out to you from his seated position as the soldat moved to stand by your trapped head, “because you’re going to want it to be comfortable when it’s buried within your cunt.”

Running your lips around the metallic cock, you make a show of wetting it as you take your time in running your tongue along the shaft and allowing thin trails of saliva to soak the tip.

The soldat remains passive as you manipulate it, its metallic body unable to register either pain or pleasure, and the loud whirring of its mechanics is almost soothing as it rumbles above you.

Lost in the action, your attention is caught by the sound of a belt unbuckling, and you glance up at Heisenberg to see him freeing his cock from his slacks. He’s already half hard and he runs his hand along his shaft casually as he watches you please his creation. His back is reclined on his makeshift throne and he looks every part the lord he claims to be.

“On with the show.” Heisenberg grunts, inclining to the soldat with an open palm and the creature follows its masters’ instructions without hesitation. Pulling free of your mouth, it steps back and turns methodically as it leaves your line of sight.

Moving behind you, the soldat takes position as it lines up with your entrance and awaits the instruction for it to begin. The familiar warmth of skin is missing, an odd sensation against your thighs as its unnatural cock holds position against the wetness there, a telling sign of just how much this was turning you on.

Exhibitionism was more of a ‘him’ thing but that didn’t mean you couldn’t appreciate putting on a good performance and you fix him with a lustful gaze, daring him to begin. Behind you, the soldat makes its first movement as it pushes the tip of its metallic cock within you slowly, stretching you in the most enjoyable way as you run your teeth along your lower lip.

The soldat continues to push inside you until you feel the cold metal and skin which made up its crotch pressing against your ass. The fullness is intense and lacking both the softness and natural warmth of a cock which you were accustomed to. Clenching your walls around it as it slowly pulls free once more, the friction steals a full body shudder from you as it brushes your sensitive walls.

Setting a pace which was slow yet deep, you give a low moan as you squeeze your eyes closed, focusing on the ache of your clit as you wish one of your hands free to stimulate it. The stocks around you creak slightly as you push back against the soldat, trying to encourage it to move faster but to no avail as it continues its measured strokes.

A cough draws your eyes open and you lock eyes with Heisenberg once again, his cock now fully hard and laying against his stomach as he runs a finger along the shaft. Extending one finger out, a small metal ashtray cut through the air as it responded to his call and he placed the ashtray on the arm of his throne.

His fingers disappear within the ashtray and pluck free his cigar from within as his other hand dipped within his coat, pulling free a lighter which he quickly used to light the end of the cigar before dropping the lighter back into his pocket.

Inhaling deeply, he sent a thick plume of smoke to the air and you watch it dissipate with a needy growl as the soldat to your back continues its torturously slow pace.

“Something to say, kitten?” He asked, lips mumbling the words around the cigar as he tilted his head at you, amused by your noises and stroking himself slowly.

You knew you were playing with fire but logic was a million miles from your mind as you bare your teeth at him with a feral smirk.

“If this is all you have, Karl,” the use of his name gets a slight brow quirk from him, “then I’m disappointed. I could do a better job myself with less effort.”

“Is that so?”

Giving a deep hum as his lips curl into a considerate smirk, he drops some ash from his cigar carelessly to the floor and inclines to the soldat with a sharp nod as he takes a fresh draw.

Instantly, the pace within you picks up as the soldat snaps its hips forward, burying its metal cock deep within you- drawing a loud gasp of pained pleasure from you- before pulling back just as quickly and repeating the move. The gentleness is gone and your fingertips scramble against the metal stock as your breath is stolen by the sudden onslaught of pressure and pleasure.

The metal within you is unyielding and almost surgical in its precision as it brushes your most sensitive spots without pause, having no need to regain stamina or breath. You felt like a piece of meat, having no say or connection to the creature bringing you such pleasure and the dehumanising nature of it was intoxicating as you allowed yourself to be used and abused.

One particularly deep stroke seems to catch your g-spot perfectly and your scream is low and guttural as your body tenses in position, every nerve alighting and making your wrists pull against the stocks as your knees weaken. Behind you, the soldat cares nothing for your predicament as it keeps up its thrusts, ensuring that your sex remains stimulated even as your pleasure peaks and ebbs.

It’s almost too much and the brutal pace ensures that a constant stream of moans and squeals is all that can escape your throat as you can do little but endure the constant stimulation.

Your eyes were focused on your tormentor, the puppet master who was pulling the strings, and his clear enjoyment of your suffering did nothing but add to the arousal which was coursing through you. Eyes burning as your teeth snapped shut tightly enough to cause a genuine tension in your jaw, you lost yourself in the sensations as your mind seemed to white out.

As though hearing your thoughts, Heisenberg rose from his makeshift throne and came to stand before you even as you continued to whine in place. You take in his form with blurred vision, trying to blink away the unshed wetness in your eyes as you glance up at him.

“Too much, little slut? I thought you were better than this.” His cock bobbed ever so temptingly before you and your tongue licked at your lips as you listen to his words, “What a shame.”

Noticing your attention on his cock, he drops to one knee once again and brushes his fingers along your mouth as you sob out a low keen against him due to the soldat once again brushing against your most sensitive spot.

“Don’t worry, kitten, you’ll be receiving your reward in a moment but first,” his hands produce a large ring gag from within his coat and he slips it within your willing mouth as you tilt your head forward to allow him to secure it, “can’t have you accidentally biting down on me because you can’t handle a little machine fuck, can we?”

Taking a draw of his cigar, he blows the smoke in your face gently and your predicament plus the ring gag make you unable to move away from it as the scent and taste of smoke invades your senses. Standing back up, he dips his hips forward and his hand guides his cock towards your defenceless yet willing mouth and you use it as an opportunity to concentrate on something other than the hard pleasure rocketing through your core.

Your tongue reaches out to lap at the head of his cock but whatever teasing you had planned was swiftly put to rest as he shook his head for a moment before thrusting his cock within your mouth, pausing at the tip of your throat to allow you to prepare for him. Breathing deeply though your nose, you relax your throat and dip your head forward slightly as you accept him.

The invitation was clear and with a triumphant growl he pushes down your throat greedily and you fight back the urge to choke as the familiar taste of him overwhelms you. Added to this, as though taking instruction from its master, the soldat also seems to pick up its pace as it impales itself within you.

Now plugged at both ends, the soldat moves so quickly against you that you can barely differentiate the strokes and the unyielding stimulation leaves you a mindless mess of pleasure.

To your front, you allow Heisenberg to use your mouth; his own strokes deep and messy as he fucks your face with abandon, confident in the security that his cock ring provides him, and you can do nothing but attempt to relax your throat as you resign yourself to the abuse of your willing body.

Pleasure was indistinguishable from pain as ecstasy and agony melted together into one unending mess of sensation; orgasms ripping through you as time lost meaning, even as Heisenberg’s thick fingers came to pluck at your nipples as he used your throat roughly. Tears streaming from your eyes freely as you try to keep up with your breathing, as erratic and broken as it was.

Eventually you feel the cock within your mouth twitch and you have a moment’s notice before he explodes within your throat with an animalistic grunt; the soft tickle of his pubic hair irritating the end of your nose as he buried himself fully and you have to concentrate on swallowing down his release, lest you choke on it.

It's too much and another orgasm tears through you, your fingernails carving crescent shaped divots into your palms as you fist your hands desperately. The tension within your body is almost unbearable as you jerk and writhe, unable to do much more as you remain speared in place.

However, just as you feel like your legs are ready to buckle, a small mercy makes itself known.

Behind you, the soldat pulls free of you and powers down without warning and the sudden lack of fullness within you feels strange, the air of the room brushing past the mess of juices which were coating your thighs and steadily dripping down your legs. So used to Heisenberg’s lack of protection, it feels unnatural to be so thoroughly fucked and not have the warmth of another release within your core, leaking out with your own.

As you consider it, Heisenberg pulls free of your mouth and tucks his saliva-coated cock back within his slacks as he flicks what remains of his cigar butt away without care. Taking a step back, he takes in your prone state and the thin veil of sweat which coats your body.

Twitching in position as your overstimulated nerves continue to fire off despite the lack of stimulation, your knees continue to wobble dangerously for a moment before your body collapses in on itself. Knees striking the floor roughly, you have to straighten your back to keep the pressure off your neck and hands as you reclaim control of your body.

A click of unlocking metal lets you know that you are no longer secured in place but before you can make any effort to move, gentle hands release the ring gag which was still stretching your mouth open. Snapping your jaw shut in appreciation as you move the muscles there, you glance at him with a thankful look as he disappears to your side, just out of eyesight.

Gasping in surprise as his hands come to rest on your hips, the metal stock unlatches and opens at his command and you find yourself quickly swept up into his arms. The physicality of the act draws an appreciative hum from your throat as you curl in towards his chest instinctively; the small pendants and dog tags which he wore as part of his usual outfit brushing against your bare chest as his welcomed warmth envelops you.

“I can walk.” You bite out in a low mutter, having no intention of doing so but unwilling to admit the weakness, “Put me down.”

“No,” the refusal is simple and his grip tightens around you as he takes you in the direction of the bathroom, his earlier promise ringing in your ears, “I want every inch of you scrubbed to wash off the stink of the machine.”

Even through the teasing tone, you can hear just the faintest hint of jealousy peeking through and it makes you smirk.

“Can we keep it?” You ask in a tired voice, slipping your hand in the crease of his shirt and rubbing against the hair of his chest seductively, “I wouldn’t mind having a spare in the bedroom for when the Lord of this factory is too busy to meet my needs.”

Tilting his head down, he catches the mischievous glint in your eye and a rumble emits from his chest.

“Be careful what you wish for, kitten,” He mutters, kicking the door of the bathroom open with ease, “because you know I like to make a fucking point. Especially when it comes to my favourite toy and her insatiable needs.”

[dreamylyfe-x]

Your trevor meta is making me realize how weird it is that the writers and cast were so insistent that mickey wasn't coming back, because I don't think theyve ever really known what to do with ian's story without him. They put him in these lukewarm relationships and tell us they're so much better and healthier, but then have ian straight up admit that he still loves mickey and nobody else has made him feel the same way. How do they set that up and then have him go back to trevor? They set up ian moving on with "I'm not that person anymore" and follow up with season 8. It's like okay...who he is now is gay Jesus? Lmao. He's always been the shows forgotten middle child and after they wrote mickey off "for good" they could have taken him in a million directions but they chose one so shitty it basically made cam leave lmao. Sometimes it feels like fan insistence kind of forced mickey back but in actuality, the seasons where he's gone just hammer home that he was always the inevitable end to ian's story. So bizarre how little the showrunners understand their own story sometimes.

Ok. I’m going to be a little more Doylist here than I usually am, because we’re talking about what the writers are thinking. And I’m also going to take this opportunity to share this fascinating article from the AV Club in 2016: When Fan Engagement Goes Wrong. Everyone beware, it contains significant spoilers for The 100. But it’s also largely about Gallavich, the fact that online promotion of Shameless leaned hard into the popularity of the couple, and were up against it when Noel left. I’ll quote: 

“[Supervising Producer Shelia] Callaghan’s choice to be honest and straightforward when engaging with fans is admirable, and yet also on some level futile. She can’t tell them exactly why Fisher chose to leave, she is (logically) unwilling to spoil future storylines outright, and she can only speak her own mind as part of a collaborative process over which she holds only some influence. So while many fans respect her effort to maintain the connection to this now marginalized community, others attack, reinforcing that attempting to manage these situations is a full-time job that no one has been properly trained for.” 

This article links some tweets and the one I find the most interesting is this one:

“But the actor left.  So...what to do? Have them just break up?? Felt way less true to me than a forced separation!” 

That tweet is from Krista Vernoff, who wanted to convey that they tried really hard to come up with what they do with Ian now that he’d lost Mickey. And I’m sure they did try really hard. And.... People hated it. Mostly. 

Here’s what I think, based on what I’ve read and the interviews I’ve seen, on deleted tweets and Tumblr rumours and YouTube clips: The show didn’t want Mickey to leave the canvas. At all. Noel wanted more money. The show could not come up with both that money and the money they needed for everyone else. The show let him go. And hoped they could solve the creative problem their budgetary problem had dumped in their lap. 

I actually think Ian’s story in season six is decent. I miss Mickey, of course. I find the last scene with him really painful -- but it’s not painful because the show is trying to diminish him. They write and then cut together a scene where Mickey is DEMONSTRATIVELY still deeply in love with Ian. He’s carved his name in his chest. He is looking at Ian like he’s the most beautiful creature ever given breath. And Ian can barely meet his gaze. They tell us Mickey is being sent away for 16 years but when we see the last of Mickey Milkovich in season six I think “God, this is so sad. They love each other so much and this is so fucked up.” 

I do NOT think “We are NEVER EVER EVER getting back together.” 

The show always knew what it had with Ian and Mickey. They leaned into it promotionally. They gave meaty storylines to the characters, particularly given that Ian was the fourth lead on a family dramedy built around six children. John Wells replaced Aaron Sorkin on The West Wing. He knows how hard it is to follow a phenomenon. 

The more I think about it, honestly? I don’t think they tried. I think they knew that they couldn’t bring in Mickey Milkovich, the sequel in season six, so they brought in Caleb. And maybe they meant for him to be a LITTLE more viable than he was... but I think there’s a pretty good chance they were just throwing something at the wall to see if it stuck, while being fully aware that the important storyline in season six was getting Ian from despair to a fulfilling career. Caleb was just there as a catalyst. 

Season seven if more interesting, because Trevor is brought on and it’s very much... “Hey, let’s do something new. Let’s bring on a transmasc character and put him into a relationship with Ian and explore those complications.” 

“Great! Put it up on the board!” 

“Also. Let’s call Noel Fisher’s people and see what we can work out because we can do better with Mickey’s send off and people are yelling at me on the street about it.” 

Quite honestly, these are not equal tasks for his writer’s room. You have one story -- Create a whole ass new character. The only thing we know is that he’s trans. Figure out the romance from there. You have six episodes to get them together as an established couple. 

Then: Bring back the well-established and beloved character for an epic romantic two-episode arc where he reunites with his true love and they run away together and then ultimately realize it cannot be, and say goodbye and it all feels like I Will Always Love You should be playing in the background. They actors worked together for five years. They have a great professional partnership. They like working together. They have a ton of history so there’s lots of juicy subtext. The longing and sexual tension comes pre-established. See what you can do. 

HOW do you make both those things work out so that they are equal? You need lightening to strike. And that already happened on How I Met Your Mother. They squandered their good luck and now there is none left for Shameless. I do not disparage Elliot Fletcher at all when I say that for Trevor and Ian to really work he’d have had to have come with scorching chemistry with Cam, rich material that really gave them a good opportunity to build rapport between the characters, and A wizard standing by to cast spells in the wings. They had SIX episodes, a pretty average connection between the actors, and the “these are the LGBTQ+ people in your neighbourhood” scene. 

I just can’t believe that someone with as many years of TV writing under his belt as John Wells has expected that to work. He hoped the Trevor story might be good, and was certainly going to break some ground in terms of telling trans stories. And the Mickey story was going to be the highlight, because he knew people wanted it and he also knew that they’d had something pretty special to start with. Which is why people were yelling at him at Comic-Con. I DO think he hoped it might placate fans a bit. But... he wasn’t going to completely close the door on Mickey this time, either. 

So... I don’t really think the show every intended to write Mickey off “for good”. I think they wrote him off “for now, and we’ll see what happens...” -- and they did that with Karen, Shelia, Jody, Steve and Fiona, too. They only brought a few of those people back... They brought Mickey back three times. They ended Gallavich FOUR times. Noel is in ever season except eight. I don’t think they wanted Mickey gone -- but I KNOW the fans also made it pretty hard for them not to know his value, so absolutely I think that played a role. But when you create something people love and you get that lightening in a bottle like they did with this story, I think writers are always going to be excited to get that back. They like praise! They like people to be excited about their show. And Gallavich was always one of the things that got people excited about Shameless. 

I think they also wanted Gay Jesus to be a great story. But that’s why the lightening in the bottle is so valuable. You can’t just get it anywhere. 

[vostokovasmelina]

— 𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝟑𝐂. (𝐬.𝐰.)

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢  |  𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐢  |  𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

characters: fem!reader; sam wilson; archibald the tabby cat; sarah wilson (mentioned)

word count: 2.1k+

warning: none (no tfatws spoilers yet)

series summary: after the blip, sam wilson gets home to an unpleasant surprise - his key doesn’t fit the lock anymore and his apartment is now inhabited by a stranger and a grumpy feline. however, the unusual encounter is only just the beginning of their post-blip lives and the reader soon learns that what life takes away, it can give back in the most particular ways.

a/n: if this flops, i’m quitting.

Sam was tired. Truly, utterly tired. It felt like he hadn’t felt anything but fatigue for the last few days, the kind that seeps deep into your bones and cozies up in your marrow, the kind that never seems to leave. Like, ever again.

He knew he was probably supposed to call Sarah and tell her he was on his way. They had only talked once since he came back, right before Tony’s funeral, and even that was a rather brief telephone call. His sister had told him there was something he needed to know but Sam had said they would talk once he got to hers. First, he needed some rest. A short nap would do, really. And a cup of strong black coffee. Or maybe two.

He parked his car where he always had; the space furthest to the left, right under his favorite maple tree that looked so pretty in the autumn and kept the inside of Sam’s car relatively cool in the summer. He watched for a while as the light spring breeze played with the fresh green mane of this majestic old lady, and felt a soft wave of calm rush through every tiny particle of him. He was home. The battle was over and he was on his way to his family. He wouldn’t take that nap. He’d just get his stuff out of his car and put Cap’s shield somewhere safe - he would deal with that later.

But he would have that coffee. He did deserve a treat after all.

Sam had no trouble getting inside the building, thanks to a delivery guy leaving right when he was about to enter. He took a deep breath, just a short second before making his way up the stairs to the third floor. He had been told at least a million times that what felt like five seconds to him, had actually been five years for those left behind. And still, the dirty old apartment complex had not changed at all, not even a tiny bit. Everything had stayed the same; the chipped grey paint on the dense walls, the rusty banister, the dusty steps... It felt like a time capsule. It felt safe, it felt like home.

Except it wasn’t anymore.

As soon as he got up to his floor, he knew something was off. He didn’t realise at first but he did approach the door to his apartment more carefully, with a slight shadow of a frown on his face. Sam slowed down his last few steps and looked the door up and down, down and up again, checking every corner for something out of the ordinary, something that was not meant to be there. When he found nothing, he chuckled to himself. So stupid. He had become paranoid. It was only natural given his job but honestly, it had been high time he had calmed down. So he slid his hand into his jacket pocket to grab his keys, and with a small smile lingering in the corners of his lips, he tried to unlock his door.

And that was precisely when his smile fell.

The key just wouldn’t go into the lock. Sam tried to insert every single one of them, even went as far as attempting to force his car key through the tiny hole, which obviously didn’t work. His anxiety was slowly building up in his stomach again and just as he looked down at his key charm, he realised what had made him so suspicious the first time - his doormat was gone. His black scraper had been replaced by a dark green carpet doormat that looked like it was in desperate need for a wash. Or maybe a one-way trip to the dumpsters.

Eyebrows furrowed, Sam looked up at the rusty number 3c on the door and, once sure it was indeed his apartment, he thought he’d try his luck with the doorknob as well. His fingers were already wrapped around the cold metal when the door swung open with such force that Sam froze for a few seconds.

“I’m warning you; I’m armed!”

Sam immediately threw his hands into the air and even took a step back from your doorstep. He was frozen for a few seconds and only relaxed when he saw what you were actually holding in your hands - a tabby cat in one, and a bottle of deodorant in the other. He let out a silent sigh of relief at the sight and slowly brought his arms back to his sides, but he made sure to stay put and not to approach you just yet.

“It’s alright! I mean no harm.”

*  *  *

Several minutes later your heart was still racing, threatening to punch a whole through your chest and making a getaway down the corridor. However, you slowly relaxed your muscles as your breathing started to calm down, too, still staring the stranger dead in the eyes and making sure to hold Archie as steadily as your shaking hand could. Once you had decided you trusted the words of the man standing before you, you dropped your other hand holding the almost empty - and therefore useless - bottle. However, you did keep your distance and wrapped your now free fingers tightly around the doorknob on the inside, ready to smash it into his face the moment it would be necessary.

“Can I help you?” You asked, cradling your uninterested cat closer to your chest and burying your fingers deep in his soft fur. You raised a wary eyebrow at the stranger standing in your doorway who himself seemed just as suspicious as you were. As if he had any right to.

“Yeah...” 

You watched him look you up and down, your little grey feline jumping to your defence and staring the man dead in the eyes as if daring him to spend one more second eyeing you. And it worked. With a tiny frown he looked you in the eyes again and continued. Good job, Archie.

“Who are you?”

You thought he was joking. So you laughed and then saw the man’s face and then felt bad. He was absolutely not joking. He was genuinely confused and obviously had no idea who you were. And it was not like you were a celebrity around here but you had built quite a decent following of fellow plant-lovers over on Instagram, so you were actually mildly offended.

But it was alright; you decided to let it slide and give this stranger a chance. Who knows, maybe he had been following your updates on your snake plant stories. He did look like a snake plant kind of guy.

And maybe you could also clear up the confusion around why he had been trying to break into your home just a minute ago.

So you told him your name and when he still looked as confused as ever, you looked at him expectantly, shifting Archie’s weight from one arm to the other.

“And... who are you?” You finally decided to help him out and even offered him a tiny smile, which evaporated the second you heard his answer leave his lips.

“Sam Wilson. I-”

“Sam Wilson?” You cut him off and stared at him for a few seconds, trying to process the information. The longer you looked, the more obvious the similarities got and you cursed at yourself silently for not having realised it before. Sarah had warned you about it the moment the news broke out but she had also promised to deal with it and let you know once she had enlightened her brother. You had been expecting a phone call or maybe a text, definitely not the brother himself right on your doorstep.

“Yeah. Why?”

You had already opened your mouth to answer but were interrupted by Archie who had obviously had enough of being cradled like a baby and since the drama seemed to have ended, he was no longer interested. You let him land on the floor gently and nudged him in the direction of your tiny living room before turning back towards Sam and opening the door several inches wider.

“You know, I really think you should come in.”

“No, I have to call my sister and-”

“You haven’t called Sarah yet?!” You exclaimed, stopping in your tracks and shaking your head ever so slightly. “She’s gonna be so pissed, man.”

You watched him furrow his eyebrows and do that thing again where he looked you up and down, down and up again as if you could be an alien in disguise trying to lure him into some intergalactic trap. As if you hadn’t just tried to protect yourself with an empty deodorant bottle and a kitten. Sam Wilson clearly was a poor judge of character.

“Yeah, I know your sister, get over it. Would you please come inside?”

You put on your most friendly smile just for him and stepped aside, gesturing Sam inside the apartment you both knew so well. He gave you one last wary look before stepping over the threshold, and you rolled your eyes at him behind his back before closing the door behind the two of you.

*  *  *

“Tea? Or maybe coffee?” Sam heard from behind him and did a double take before turning towards you, already making your way to the tiny kitchen area  divided from the living room only by a worn wooden table. Sam watched you take out two identical white mugs from one of the cabinets and felt his stomach jump up into his throat and fall back into its place again; that was exactly where he kept his mugs, too. Well, used to keep them.

“Oh, ugh, coffee. Please. Black. One sugar.”

He saw you nod and get to work. Sam did wait for a while for you to start the conversation and finally explain to him what was going on. When that didn’t actually happen, he turned his head to look around, trying to shake off the weird feeling he had seeing you feel so at home in what used to be his home just a few days ago. Or five years ago. Question of perspective.

The first thing Sam noticed once he had actually taken the time to look around was green. What, at first glance, had slipped his attention was now screaming at him from every corner of the apartment. The living room was filled to the brim with houseplants. There were handsome little pots of plants on the windowsills, on the bookshelves, even on the kitchen counter. What hadn’t fit higher, got place on the floor.

You had turned the apartment into a botanical garden.

“Hey, plant lady? Is this even legal? It feels illegal.” He gestured all around the room and you followed his movement with your eyes, a tiny grin creeping its way onto your face but disappearing the very next second. Sam tried his best to play along and act like he hadn’t even noticed.

“Oh would you look at that, you can actually form full sentences,” you teased, giving him a side-eyed look before handing him your mug filled with hot black coffee, which Sam took gladly, ignoring the drop of sarcasm in your voice.

“Those are actually fine,” you continued after the first sip of your tea and pointing at the cat yawning on the dirty old couch in the middle of the living room. “Archie is the only problem here. But hush, he’s a secret.”

“How can you keep a cat here in secret?”

“I bribed the superintendent,” you whispered, leaning a little closer to Sam and flashing him a perfect albeit forced smile.

“Old Charlie? No way!” Sam scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief.

“O-ho, yes way! Everyone has a weakness and I’ve found our old Charlie’s.”

“Which is...?”

“... a secret I’ve vowed to take to the grave with me,” you replied and gave emphasis to your words with a tiny nod of your head, leaving Sam slightly disappointed but smirking nonetheless.

In the short silence that followed, he took another sip of his hot coffee, enjoying every millisecond of the burning, bittersweet sensation before finally addressing the elephant in the room. Because even though his suspicions had somewhat settled, Sam was still completely confused about how on Earth you could possibly know his sister and talk about her so casually. And you must have been thinking of the same thing because as he looked at you above his now half empty mug and your gazes met, you closed your eyes and let out a sigh, gesturing towards the small kitchen table.

“Let’s talk, I guess.”

*  *  *

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[cellsshapedlikestars]

Robot Jon! ☺️

(ok, I've been off tumblr for a few days, but I went on early this morning and had an ask with a bunch of prompts because I said I'd be taking a break from my Bachelor fic - which is true, if not for another 3 chapters yet. I haven't answered that ask because I'll lose it and therefore the prompts, but it reminded me that I still had two prompts left from when I asked for them back in... December? I'm the worst. Anyway, I re-looked at those prompts, saw this one, and then couldn't stop thinking about it. So I'm coming out of my vague tumblr hiatus to write this.)

Thank you, as always, for the prompt!

.

Sansa has never liked amusement parks.

The sun that always burned her, no matter how diligent mom was about reapplying sunscreen; the fried food that always made her sick; the crowds and the noise and having to walk everywhere. But the worst part was the rides – oh, she didn't mind some of them, like the Ferris wheel or the teacups; she could even handle the swing ride. The problem was that the rest of her family wanted to go on the horrible rides – roller coasters, haunted houses, swinging ships; the ones that go fast and drop you from a million feet in the air. And since it was hard enough wrangling the amount of children in their group to begin with, it was impossiblefor one adult to split off with Sansa, who alone wanted to ride the gentler ones.

And so, it's sort of ironic that she works at an amusement park now.

She may not have a taste for most of the rides in the park, but she is good at designing them – not the actual rides, but the aesthetics of them. It's her (and her team's) job to come in after the engineers and the builders and take a bare-bones ride and turn it into an experience. She loves her job – she loves watching children exit one of her rides with glowing faces and excitement in their eyes.

Today, she also gets to do one of her favorite aspects of the job, which is costume design. The animatronic models have already been installed, and when she enters the new Dance of Dragons ride, she can already see the scene taking shape in her mind. The concept art has already been drawn up, it's already being advertised – a medieval world that everyone knows is meant to capitalize on the stunning success of the Aemon the Dragonknight series (which her employer does not own the rights to, much to their dismay). But concept art is one thing – reality is another, and it's not until the ride is complete that she can start to truly see it come together in her mind.

“Oh good, you're here,” Margaery Tyrell sighs dramatically as she comes to meet Sansa's team. Margaery is in charge of Marketing and PR for this ride and Sansa knows it's a big responsibility, so she's been even more high maintenance than usual. Margaery walks her through the ride that Sansa has seen so many times in drawings.

“This is our Aemon,” Margaery slaps a hand against the shoulder of one of the animatronic models. “Although we can't call him Aemon. Copyright and all that.”

Sansa looks at the robot and she's struck for a moment how lifelike he is. A lot of the animatronics aren't this detailed, though she guesses this one is because of how close to the ride it is.

“He's handsome, right?” Margaery flashes her a grin and there's something in her eyes that Sansa can't quite place. (Well, she can, it's mischief, Sansa just can't tell why it's there.)

“I guess, in the way that cartoons can be handsome,” Sansa laughs and takes another look at the model – the somber grey eyes, dark curly hair, and an equally dark beard. “You even gave him abs,” she points down at the robot's chest which does, indeed, have a very detailed set of abs. “Am I supposed to leave him shirtless?”

“Oh, no, obviously we want realism, like we talked about,” Margaery waves her hand dismissively. “We just couldn't help ourselves when we put in the order.” Sansa shoots her a confused look, which only gets a delighted laugh out of Margaery. “I'm guessing you don't recognize him?”

“Recognize who?”

Margaery gestures at the animatronic. “Jon!” At Sansa's blank stare, Margaery rolls her eyes. “Jon Snow?”

The name sounds familiar and it takes her a second to place it. “The engineer?”

“Duh! Seven hells, don't tell me you've never actually seen him?”

Sansa shakes her head – she usually comes in well after the engineers have done their part.

“Mormont let him take the lead on this project and he's so... ugh,” Margaery makes a noise that's half frustration, half delight. “So serious all the time. But somehow likable? It's infuriating, really. And no one should be that attractive for a nerd.”

“So... does he know you made him into a robot?”

“He does not,” Margaery grins. “We're all just dying for him to come in for an inspection and see it. In fact,” she pulls out her phone and checks the time, “if you wait around for a bit, you'll get to see it happen.”

Sansa shakes her head and they continue on through the set, Sansa writing down notes in her trusty notebook that she always carries with her. Lists of costumes, set pieces. She'll need to bring in Asha later to discuss the lighting options (right now the dark ride is lit with spotlights, giving the whole place a surreal atmosphere).

Margaery eventually leaves her to it and Sansa loses herself in going over the set inch by inch with Gilly and Mya following along with her. She's so lost in thought that Mya has to shake her arm to bring her back to reality, and they turn to see a group of what has to be engineers standing in the main Great Hall set.

“Oh come on, Jon,” Margaery is giggling as a man who must be Jon stands, staring at the animatronic. He's scowling at it, hands tight around the pile of binders in his arms that are... well, ok, Sansa can understand now why Margaery made the robot so well muscled.

Sansa edges closer to the scene, and she can see that his fellow engineers are laughing – one of them is red-faced from trying to hold it in while another is actively wiping tears from his eyes.

“It's already made,” Margaery says in response to whatever Jon had grumbled to her. “Replacing it would be an irresponsible waste of funds. Oh! And here's the team that will be styling you... I mean, styling not-Aemon because that's copyright infringement.”

Jon looks up and the scowl drops from his face.

“This is Sansa, Mya and Gilly are over there.”

“Hi,” Sansa greets and Jon shifts his binders into one arm and then holds out his hand for her to shake (she can feel her face heating up and she hopes the dark hides it). “I promise to try and do you justice.” She regrets her words immediately, especially when she sees a slow grin spread over Margaery's face. “Though it doesn't totally look like you,” she continues on to try and backtrack. “It... doesn't have glasses?”

She wants to sink into the floor in embarrassment, but the gods are not that kind. At least she doesn't spout out how much she likes his glasses. Maybe Margaery is right – no one who clearly cares so little about their appearance should be this attractive. His beard needs a trim, his outfit is painfully unstylish, his hair is pulled back into a bun. All of it should add up to something she hates, but she just... doesn't.

(And honestly, Margaery's description of nerd isn't so far off the mark, but Sansa finds this isn't a detriment – in fact, she might be more attracted to him because of the glasses and the multitude of thick binders organized with labels and tabs that he's got tucked under his arm.)

“I'd also hope real Jon isn't built like a Ken doll,” one of the other engineers barks out a laugh and points at the animatronic, which, yes, does not have any reproductive anatomy.

“Gods,” she hears Jon whisper, and the hand that he had used to shake hers comes up and covers his eyes. “This is a nightmare.”

“Stop being so dramatic,” Margaery sighs and pats him on the shoulder. “Now, why don't you take Sansa around and make sure she's really taken care of, hmm?” At the words, Sansa feels her face heat even further and Jon drops his hand from his eyes and glares at Margaery. “I just mean,” Margaery grins, not even trying to pretend the innuendo wasn't on purpose, “it might help the design if she has a good understanding of the mechanics. I know there's some new things on this ride we haven't had before, you could show her.”

Jon opens his mouth, but doesn't get a chance to speak, because Margaery barrels on. “Sam, Grenn, you can chat with Gilly and Mya while that's happening. And I... well, I'll just be over here, minding my own business.”

With that, Margaery walks away and the other two engineers – Sam and Grenn, she guesses – head over to where the rest of her team stands, watching from afar.

“You don't have to,” Sansa starts, but Jon quickly turns from glaring at Margaery's back to her and his face settles into something less... scowly.

“I don't mind,” he says quickly and maybe it's the low lighting in here, but she thinks the tips of his ears are red.

“Perfect,” she gives him her best smile, which seems to throw him even more off balance and... and she thinks she could get used to throwing Jon Snow off balance.

[please-buckme]

Hii, can I request a smut where reader and anakin were like enemies, but one day she gets distracted thinking about his metal arm (in an inappropriate way) and he reads her mind?? then, in the night he goes to her room

The Metal Arm.(Part 1) Anakin x reader

Warnings⚠️: Metal armin boi, slapping, choking

2300 words

Authors note: I know Anakin didn’t make his arm, just go with it.

——————————————————————

“Yes, we’re leaving Kashyyyk now, Master. The mission went very well. I hope this makes the counsel content in my efforts.” Anakin boasts to a holographic Obi-Wan.

“Yes, yes Anakin I’m sure it will. Great job to the both of you, we’ll see you when you get here. May the Force be with you both.” Anakin nodded as the hologram faded out.

“Oh gee, I hope the counsel will be proud of my efforts, if they aren’t it’ll just break my itty-bitty heart!” You say mockingly to your shipmate, to which he replies with ‘shut up’ and a nice punch to the arm. “Calm down, Skywalker. And hey it wasn’t all you out there. I had to save your butt like 10 times.” You laugh.

Anakin, however, did not find this funny, of course. “Oh please!” He scoffed before continuing,”If it weren’t for me half the crew wouldn’t be alive, including you.” Anakin points one of his bionic fingers into your chest, making you gasp.

“Sure.” Was all you had to say. You still stood there with Anakin for a few seconds before he slightly dug it a little deeper into your chest, then removed it all together. He walked to the front of the ship to go sit in the pilot's seat and that’s when you found your voice.

“Hey! You said I could fly us back home when we discussed who was going to fly us here.” You huffed now standing over him in his preferred seat.

“And you were dumb enough to believe it, not my problem. You can sit in the seat next to me though, if you must.” He pointed, with the bionic finger again, to the co-pilot seat next to him. You were furious but you’d had this fight a million times. You protest him flying you home and he’d just say ‘okay’ and never actually get up, so you didn’t say anything in response. You just sighed, rolled your eyes and took the next best seat on the ship.

“Next time I’m flying.”

“Sure.”

You had gotten settled in making sure everyone was on and the ship was ready to go before taking off.

You despised missions with Anakin for this main reason, and many others. He was super bossy and treated you like scum. It wasn’t just a fight over who got to fly, no, it was a fight over everything. Who got the best missions, who gets to the counsel meetings first, who had the better lightsaber, everything. You eventually started to notice that it was only you he picked on this way. Am I a threat to him? You thought, he chuckled.

“Get out of my head, Skywalker.” You demanded.

“If your thoughts weren’t so loud I wouldn’t be in them. Also, I pick on you the most because you make it so easy.” He laughed again. You stuck your tongue out at that. Asshole. You thought, he stopped laughing.

Once you jumped into hyberspace you wouldn’t be home for another 2 hours, making you very bored. Your only options were to talk to Anakin or spin around in your seat and stare at the ceiling. You chose the latter. You were trying to think of anything but the time. As it ticked on though you started to think about the battle you’d just fought against a fleet of battle droids, which is never really much of a battle. Then, you remember seeing Anakin across the way slashing them with his lightsaber at lightning speed. You hated him but that was fighting you’d never seen before. It was all due to the bionic arm, of course. There’s no way he could’ve done that with his original limb. As you were ‘fighting’ the droids off you couldn’t stop staring at his gloved metal arm. The way it moved so perfectly between him and his lightsaber. Every twist and turn it made while fighting had some odd trance on you.

Your mind wander a little further, what else could that metal arm do? You imagined the plam running up and down your inner thigh, pinching at the skin forcefully. You could see it moving up a little further to toy with your clit over your panties before pushing them aside to enter one of its digits into your warmth. You catch yourself almost moaning at the thought of it. Indulging yourself a little deeper you thought of how it might feel against your throat, feeling the smoothness of the leather pressing into your air way. You were holding your breath without realizing until you felt yourself exhale loudly. You began to think of how it might feel palming your breast, while tweeking at your sensitive bud.

Suddenly, though, you felt something on your leg. You opened your eyes and looked down to see the black gloved bionic hand resting itself gently on your upper thigh, making you moan, which for your sake sounded like a gasp. Then you looked up to its own smirking at you. “You can’t be serious?” You exclaimed.

He gave your thigh the forceful pinched you’d been day dreaming of before saying, “You’re the one that wants it.” He stated.

“Yeah it not you.” You shove his hand from your thigh and turn in the opposite direction of him.You feel him tug your chair back towards him in protest to your actions.

He came closer to your face, just above your ear to whisper, “And, uh, who do you think controls it.” He backed away just enough to look into your eyes. You saw as he lifted the hand up next to his face. “I built it, from scratch. I taught it every trick it knows. This thing is nothing without me.” You swallowed the lump that was now in your throat as he gently rubbed the leather against your cheek. The gentle touch did not last long. Anakin drew his hand back and brought it down hard against your now swollen cheek. You growled. What the fuck? You thought, he smirked. You hated Anakin but fuck if that didn’t turn you on. You audibly growled again while mentally telling him again. He gave you a look of surprise before bringing his metal hand back down to smash against your face. This blow caused your lip to split. Anakin reached up a finger, from his flesh hand, to your swollen, bleeding lip. He dipped the digit into the open wound, making you wince. He tsked at you before having you open your mouth to suck the blood from it.

After he removed his finger from your mouth you said, “With the other hand now.” He smirked. To your surprise he began to take the glove off. Slowly he undid the latches that held the leather on and tugged at each finger. “Today, Anakin!” You say impatiently. He laughs at you as he finishes taking off the leather glove. It was beautiful and shiny. It was crafted so elegantly in black and gold that you couldn’t believe Anakin had done it himself. He lifted it up to your face allowing you to take one of the digits onto your tongue. You hummed at the taste of metal mixed with a hint of leather. Anakin just sat intently watching as you bobbed your head along his fingers.

“Where else do you want me to touch you.” He asks. You open your eyes that you hadn’t realized were shut to see him palming himself, with his flesh hand. You release him with a pop and sit back, almost in a panic.

“Anakin this is so wrong. I can’t believe we’d even done that and I’m not doing- doing that.” you say pointing to the bulge in his pants. He laughs at your reaction.

“Relax. I wasn’t expecting anything from you, I just like to watch.” He reached for your hand and you hesitated. “Trust me.” He says and you reluctantly oblige. Once you give him your hand he lifts you from your seat, bringing you to sit in his lap.

You sigh, “Anakin, seriously.” You plant your feet to the ground to get up. Anakin takes his flesh hand to hold you in place on his lap though. Then his metal hand around your throat, making you gasp out of surprise and pleasure. The digits press down hard on your trachea making your face turn to a bright red. It hurt but only in the best of ways.

“Tell me what you want and I’ll let go.” He growls in your ear. He presses down a little harder before releasing just enough for you to form words.

“Touch me.” You can feel him smirk in your hair. He releases your throat making you cough a little while you catch your breath. You can feel the hand make its way down to your right breast.

He teases at your nipple, “Right here.” You knew what he was doing. You sighed loudly before forcing him off you. “Oh come on I was just-”, he cut himself off when he realized you were stripping off the clothes around your lower region. You see him palm himself again once you discard the material. “Fuck me.” He whispered to himself.

You bender over to be directly in front of his face. He tries to kiss you before you pull away and say, “Uh-uh, for once this is something that’s not about you.” You moved his hand from his lap and sat back down, intentionally grinding slightly down on his hard member. He growled in your ear again. This was your idea. You thought, earning you another growl as he replaced his hand, the metal one, back to your throat. You grab at it though. “Not this one. I have plans for this one.” He allows you to take the hand from around your throat where you needed it to be.

You let the fingers glide down your body slowly, causing goosebumps to gather around your whole body. Once you got down to your heat Anakin took over. He skillfully found your clit and just barely touched it. You moaned at the sensation when he finally put a little bit more pressure on your sensitive nub. He rubbed the metal digit down on you as if he’d trained it exactly for this moment. “You-you taught it this.” he rubbed a little hard at your words. Making you yelp in satisfaction.

He brought his flesh hand back up to your throat. “Shh. Don’t be so loud. It listens to me. I told you these fingers are nothing without me.” He reached a digit down in between your walls to gather up more of your wetness, making you moan again. He laughed, “You like that.” You nod your head “You want my fingers deep inside.” You nod again. He tightness his grip around your throat. “Speak.”

“Y-yes. Please.” You choke out. He rims your hole with his middle digit. You can feel him toying with you before he slides the first digit in slowly. Pumping it in and out of you makes you lay your head back on his shoulder, the feeling leaving you light headed. He starts to kiss and suck at your neck. You protest these actions, “Anakin, no.” he doesn’t stop. Instead he trails his lips up to your ear.

“I’m going to make you feel good though. You can’t tell me this doesn’t feel good.” He was right. It felt so good, all of it. You were afraid of getting attached to him or he to you. You took a deep breath though just trying to stay in the moment.

He continued his assault on your neck when he entered another digit to your wetting warmth and sped his pace up a bit. You were trying to hold back your moans but it felt almost impossible. “Feels so good.” You utter through gritted teeth. He sped up a little more making you moan even louder before he put his flesh fingers in your mouth to suck on.

“You’re so loud.” He whispered in your ear before continuing, “Makes me want to bend you over the control panel and fuck you raw.” You moaned loudly again around his fingers. He laughs. “Maybe next time, huh?” He shoved his flesh fingers down your throat a little further making you gag around them. He groaned at the feeling on your throat close around his fingers. “You’re so sexy.” He praised now increasing the pace of metal fingers at an inhuman rate.

Nothing is stopping your moans now. “Oh god Anakin. You’re gonna make me cum.” You shout.

“It feels that good?”

“Y-yes so good. I-I’m cumming.” You inform him.

“You’re such a slut for my fingers. Cum all over my fingers slut.” You feel your legs start to shake as he somehow speeds up again, slightly. This makes you reach your climax within seconds. Your whole body falls back into Anakin as he reaches around your waist to keep you steady. You swear you blacked out for the euphoria you felt from just his fingers. He let you ride out your high and come back down from your high. He stilled his fingers inside you as you throbbed around then before he released them slowly. Your head still on his shoulder, you saw him bring the fingers to his mouth. He groaned at the taste of you around them.

You can still feel the erection in his pants. He glances from you down to himself almost pleading with you. You laugh, “Maybe next.” With that you put your pants back on and sit back in your seat.

“I am definitely fucking you next time.” He spat.

Anakin sat in discomfort for the rest of the trip and you loved.

[jawritter]

The Arrangement

Part 1

Summery: You are a young girl that was raised in a small church in Dallas, TX. One of the only churches left in the state that still practices arranged marriages. When your betrothed ran off to California you thought you'd escape the fate you were trained for ever since a small child. Now upon the death your parents your fate seemed to be inescapable as he's returned, and is ready to take you as his bride.

Book Warnings: Arranged marriage, loss of virginity, smut, unprotected sex, angst, language, suicide attempt, battles with anxiety, struggles with mental illness, age gap (about 11 years), I think that’s it, chapters will have warnings of their own!

Chapter Warnings: Grief, dealing with the death of parents, talk of arranged marriage, some language probably? I think that’s it really.

Word Count: 1140

A/N: This book is a book about Christian and church based arranged marriages, I would like to take this moment to say that I DO NOT have ANYTHING against the Chirstian faith, and mean absolutely no harm to anyone! Especially Jensen’s family! This is a complete work of fiction, and should be treated as such!

Beta’d by the amazing @deanwanddamons who was awesome enough to do all this for me! It was a lot of work, and she deserves all the praise for it!!

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Reader

Want More? Check Out My Masterlist!!

***MASTERLIST***

***SERIES MASTERLIST***

Looking around at the boxes and items that are stacked haphazardly around the room full of all your childhood memories, you can't help but take a deep breath to try and steady yourself, doing all you could to ward off all the memories that threaten to flood in and invade your emotions.

Like a damn on the brink of breaking, little sprinkles of water filled with memories drip down the concrete walls that you've built up in your mind, wetting the cement and changing its color to a much darker one. Each one leaves it's trail of pain as it goes down to join the pool waiting for it at the bottom of the dam.

At any given moment it could break, letting lose a flood that would surly overflow and destroy everything in its wake. 

That's where your mind was right now. 

Trying it's best to hold off all the memories, just long enough to do the task at hand.

It was threatening to devastate you, to overtake you, but you held it back.  It was working so far, but barely . You needed to get the job done.

Pulling the packing tape over the box that you had been filling with pictures and nick nacks  that once lined the living room walls, you placed it with the others. 

"Last one" you tell yourself, stacking it with the others that lined the wall.

Standing back, you take a look around the room. The carpet still showed indents of the furniture  that stood there for so many years, but were now gone.

If you looked hard enough you could see the square outlines where pictures, and a clock once hung on the wall, permanently marking their spot over the span of time that it was there.

Shaking back the ache in your chest, you walk room to room in your parents small little house, making sure there is nothing left to box up. Nothing remaining that would be left behind.

As you slip from room to room  the silence feels deafening. The atmosphere was so thick, you could cut it with a knife. 

You blink hard to hold back the tears that threaten to fall down your face. In your mind you know this was the last time you'd ever walk down this hall.  You thought back to the millions of trips you'd made as a child, and throughout your adult life.

You should have treasured it more. 

The sound of the TV playing Jeopardy in the living room, the smell of that morning's breakfast, or whatever meal was being prepared to be served; the sound of your mother singing to herself old gospel hymns as you got closer to the kitchen.

You would have stopped and just enjoyed the things that you once thought were mundane. The things you took for granted. 

Now they were the things you missed the most.

Walking into the kitchen, the table was no longer there, and the room stood empty of everything that wasn’t an appliance of some sort. 

It was once the life of this old house. Where your mother and her friends would gather with their coffee cups, and little cakes that your mother would bake, laughing and gossiping away.

It was just silence and emptiness now. 

Nothing. 

It was like this house itself had died along with your parents. There was a light gone from it that nothing could ever replace. Nothing could ever revive. It was permanent.

"Ms. Y/L/N?” Pastor Burton is waiting outside in the SUV. “Whenever you're ready to leave." said the young assistant pastor. Everyone jokingly called him Peewee  since he had such a striking resemblance to Peewee Herman.

"I'll be ready in just a moment Bro. Charles. Ask him to allow me to turn off everything, and lock it up for the movers tomorrow, and I'll meet the two of you there."

With that, he only nods and turns to go. 

This was such a difficult situation that no one really was wanting to push you, or make you feel like you were being rushed. That you were thankful for. This wasn't how all this was supposed to happen, but here you are. Now you just have to deal with it.

"Bro. Charles?" you call out, just as the young man's foot hits the landing leading to the front door of your childhood home. 

"Yes?"

"Is he here? In Dallas?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. 

All the emotions you had been holding back since you followed the black caskets of your mother and father out of your family church were threatening to spill over, the dam more than ready to break. Still you held them back.

"He's waiting at the church with his father. He said to take your time. He knows this is difficult for you."

You just nod your head, your heart in your throat. Charles leaves you to your thoughts as you begin to turn the remaining lights off in the house.

It was arranged long before you were born. When you were just a child, he married her. 

Now, just in time it seems, he's returned home and said he's ready to take his place as your husband; like was intended all those years ago, less than 24 hours after your mother and father passed away in a horrible car accident. 

Leaving you alone.

"It's the Lord's way of fixing things. He sent Jensen home for you just when he knew you'd need him." Pastor Burton had told you.

This isn't the way you'd pictured your wedding day. Not with this much grief and pain. It felt more like a funeral all over again. 

The death of your freedom. To be given completely over to a rich man that you didn't even know.A man that was meant to be your husband, but turned his back on you all those years ago. Now he was back to claim you as his own. 

There was nothing you could do to stop it, and honestly where the hell would you go? You had nothing and no one left. Just Jensen, the man that in less than two hours would be your husband, not only in the law of the state of Texas, but also in the eyes of God.

Closing the door to your childhood home, you lock it. Standing in the pouring Texas spring rain, you  press your forehead against the door of your childhood home one last time.

"Goodbye Mom, goodbye Dad." you whisper as you push yourself off the door, your heart tearing into two pieces. 

A part going with you, a part staying there on the doorstep.

You make your first steps toward the unknown, and the black SUV that waits for you just beyond your driveway.

"This is it. There's no turning back now."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tag List: @lyarr24 @amandamdiehl @deanwanddamons @imabitch4jensen @rvgrsbrns @bi-danvers0 @onethirstyunicorn @i-love-superhero @akshi8278 @lyss-dw79 @magssteenkamp @lemondropirwin @squirrelnotsam @hobby27 @spnbaby-67 @mrsjenniferwinchester @defenderrosetyler @screechingartisancashbailiff @thecreatiivecorner  @aflamboyanceofgays @vicmc624 @busy-bee-angel-misska @justanotherwinchester @brilovesdeanwinchester @idksupernatural

[ricaffeine]

𝐇𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 | 𝐓𝐰𝐨

an: in conclusion i suck at writing, this took far too long to write and i'm not impressed. fingers crossed that the next chapter will make up for it 🖤

leave a comment! i'd appreciate it a lot :))

CHAPTER THREE

The doors creaked open, screeching into the frosty silent of the night, before snapping loudly against the wall. In contrast of the dark night, the full moon shined proudly, its light gently twinkled through the glass ceiling of the room.

Followed by were firm footsteps, shoe soles tapped against the hardwood floor and fainted into the distant. He collapsed onto his arm chair, a sigh of relief washing over as he shifted his weight back.

A knock was heard twice, followed by a steady pace of footsteps that visited the room. Kangtae averted his vision to the man– no, the ghost. Polished in his neat blue uniform, reflecting against the moonlight was a silver half-moon shaped pin tucked above his chest.

"Mr. Moon, you're back." His voice emitted softly as he stopped right in front of the desk- exactly four feet away– accompanying in this hotel for over seventy years– the longest person aside from Kangtae yet to stay, he had his own merits. Jin Hyun paused reluctantly, his wrinkles creasing from concern, eyes wide alert. "What happened to your hand?"

At first a bit muddled, but realization crept after him and Kangtae sighed. Glancing at his blood-clothed hand– scenarios of red winded up in his head. "Ah.. this?"

That impulsive woman.

"Just some accident." His reply was simple– like the man he was and unlike the moon guest house's previous owner, he was, you can say, far less complicated.

Kangtae peeled at his clothed hand, anticipating as the blood wrenched skin morphed back to what was before, clean flesh took back its place. "Where's Manager Lee?"

He then reached for his whiskey decanter, filling up a quarter of the lowball glass. "Isn't she back yet?"

Jinhyun hesitated. "About that, I'm afraid to tell you that there had been a major issue regarding your latest purchase. But do not worry sir, Manager Lee will inform you once she has discussed with the–"

"Tell her to take the day off tomorrow." Kangtae spoke and sipped his glass, embracing the scorching burn that drained down his chest. "I'll manage it myself."

Although struck in confusion, the old spirit knew better than to question his boss's command. Jinhyun nodded reluctantly, made sure he would address the message to the mortal being.

"It's the full moon today, so I think we are expecting many guests."

Kangtae drained his glass and set it back on the table, jaw clenched at the comment– though it was swiftly masked away with his poker face. "Open for business, but don't accept the ones whose death were so gruesome. They're a pain in the ass."

Suppressing the urge to tell him that discriminations shouldn't be allowed, instead Jinhyun bowed, no interest to provoke any further into his bitterness. "I will take special care, so they won't get in your way."

He left with another steady bow, footsteps fell into the distant and Kangtae picked on the red stained cloth that layed flat on his desk. A blue flame lit up on its end, he watched waves of blue consumed all of it, before golden ashes swirled and vanished into thin air.

One speck however, did not follow and he reached out, trapping it between his pincers.

"Ko Munyeong, what should I do with you?"

Munyeong slapped her phone shut.

Frustration built up like a ticking bomb as she threw it behind her. It landed with a loud thud, but she could care less. Yesterday's event had bittered her enough and Sangin's repeating missed calls since 6 a.m. weren't brightening her mood any better. Tires screeched against the waxed floor as she struck a sharp turn into the parking slot, the reserved for CEO sign knocked into nowhere.

In her new prized possession, Munyeong stomped through the building, brave less employees– who ever barely had the guts to look at her on a usual day, shuddered twice as much–

"Good morning Ms. Ko!" The tiny body wiggled its way to block her off. A weary smile is served from Sangin's pesky assistant.

"Move aside."

Seungjae shuffled, hands suspiciously frantic as she spoke. "Mr. Lee just informed me that he will be here soon–"

Munyeong hissed. "And?"

"..And that you should go wait in his office." She finished meekly, unsure of her tone.

"Why would I wait there?" She pointed her finger foward. "The meeting room is right here."

Not intrigued for her reply, Munyeong nagged the girl's shoulder, rather she'd figure it out herself.

"Move."

She strolled across, then paused within her pace, eyes captivated by a figure. Leaning onto the metal rail, Prada purse dangling in the air, she hummed in her own favor.

Ah. Him again.

"What a sight." Munyeong said as she stepped down in her extravagant red mini dress, ballooned sleeves cuffed tight at her wrists, a plunging neckline where she proudly presents her new gold necklace. True to her words, he appeared just as fine. Black slacks– which to her favor, did an incredible job in displaying his godly thighs. Cuffed sleeves of his button up accentuated his broad broad shoulders, and the spectacular waistcoat that hugged his chest.

"You look more dashing in these clothes."

The man teared his eyes away from The Witch's Rose– another of her cash-claiming pieces. A work of watercolors and actual blood splayed onto the canvas, everyone who has seen it ends up in complete awe.

However his gaze was not purely admiration, rather laced with criticism– certainly something she never enjoyed from anyone. But there are some exceptions for some specific people, aren't they?

"I thought you were different, but I was obviously wrong." She crossed her arms. "How much did he offer you?"

His voice was rough, almost coarse even. "If you can't talk politely, at least try to not be so cryptic."

"Ah. Look at you talking so casually."

Munyeong raised her chin and barged into his space, weaklings would have already shown signs of discomfort, but surprisingly he was remarkably unbothered. She dragged a finger along his shoulder, the curve of his skin firm beneath her touch, and tapped his bicep. "I practically stabbed you."

He swiveled around, this time his body directly faced hers. "What about it?"

"How much did Mr. Lee offer you to compensate and make sure your mouth stays shut?"

A short spur of silence fell before he let out an cocky ahh. "I'm guessing that method always works."

Her smile dropped. "Verbal consolation is bullshit, money is best."

"You really think so?"

She shrugged. "Then what do you want?" Eyes wide as she suggested. "Sex?"

In a swift moment he had drowned closer to her. His gaze burned at her, brushing at her lips and froze. "Is it worth that much?"

Admittedly he was good at getting on her nerves. Too good, though she'd never lose to anyone, including him. Munyeong let out a scoff.

"If you're not here for money nor sex, then what do you want?

He cocked his head slightly, his prominent eyes playing innocent and for a second Munyeong forgot that they were bickering. "A refund?"

A snap back to reality, her face laced with confusion. "What refund?"

He dodged her question and looked over her shoulder. "Ah. There it comes."

She turned around to see a Sangin entering with a box of not-so-secret cash in his hands.

"Good afternoon Mr. Moon Kangtae. I deeply apologize for what happened, what can we do–"

As usual, meetings with her always began with Sangin's devastated face– knowing all the trouble she is going to cost him– but today it did seem particularly worse.

Kantae lifted his hand, as if it was a sign to stop. "Let's cut to the chase– I want my money back."

Sangin's smile dropped, though immediately replaced by his appealing mask. "Yes, I understand–"

Kangtae stared at Munyeong, a smirk rising on the corner of his lips. "Including our little incident, I say it'd be 11 million."

Tragically, Munyeong had not noticed by the consequence of the appalling numbers. She snapped at the man to her side. "What the hell is he talking about?"

Sangin sighed. "Munyeong-ah, you see.. your little smashing session. It had wrecked The Nightmare Garden, therefore, we will have to repay our client. Mr. Kangtae is here to–"

Client?

Her eyes shot at him again, impossibly wider. "What do you mean client? Then who was that snobby lady?"

"Ms. Lee is my representative." Kangtae stepped in. "But it doesn't matter. The fact that you jeopardized my painting with that cheap wine-"

"I'm not giving up my money!"

"Well, there's nothing you can do." He smiled– devilishly and yes Munyeong would kill to wipe it off his charming face.

"You'll be hearing from my lawyers in a few days." Kangtae reached for his box of honey money, which was sheepishly handed from Sangin. "Until then, I'll take this."

With another amused– and irritatingly handsome smile, and piles of cash he headed off. Left in silence was a raging pit of fire and its hopeless manager.

Three hours and seven corspe employees later, Munyeong crumbled the paper cup in her hand. Furious was an understatement. How could she give her money back to him? She was set, eyes on her prize but just like a fucking clownery it vanished into thin air.

"Aish Moon Kangtae, that bastard." Munyeong trampled at the crumbled trash, letting out on a slice of her frustration. It was his choice to interfere with her, no one forced him to.

"Oh my my, you're a such a pretty girl." A squeaky voice giggled, penetrating into her quiet atmosphere.

She glanced at the lady, head to toe. Dressed in a horrifying shade of hot pink. Her frail grey hair was topped by a floppy hat- also in the same absurd color. She seemed to fond pearls, as it was accented everywhere, including on wrinkly her fingers where she had slotted a card in between. "Mr. Kangtae had asked me to pass this to you."

Her high-pitched voice rang like bells as she added. "He also said that he'd be willing to compromise, if' you go visit his hotel."

Munyeong raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

With a delighted smile, the lady nodded along and Munyeong promptly snatched it, ambiguous eyes interpreted onto the cursive blue lettering.

"Hotel.. Blue Moon?"

A condescending smile played on her lips. More so amused by the piece of paper and unaware of the soft breeze that swept past her.

Fine. If he wants to play with her, she'll play with him.

[transparenttriumphzombie]

Christine Jorgensen (May 30, 1926 – May 3, 1989) was an American transgender woman who was the first person to become widely known in the United States for having sex reassignment surgery. Jorgensen grew up in the Bronx, New York City. Shortly after graduating from high school in 1945, she was drafted into the U.S. Army during World War II. After her military service, she attended several schools and worked; it is during this time she learned about sex reassignment surgery. Jorgensen traveled to Europe, and in Copenhagen, Denmark, obtained special permission to undergo a series of operations beginning in 1952.

She returned to the United States in the early 1950s and her transition was the subject of a New York Daily News front-page story. She became an instant celebrity, known for her directness and polished wit, and used the platform to advocate for transgender people. She also worked as an actress and nightclub entertainer and recorded several songs. Jorgensen often lectured on the experience of being transgender and published an autobiography in 1967.

Jorgensen was the second child of carpenter and contractor George William Jorgensen, Sr., and his wife Florence Davis Hansen, and given a male name at birth. She was raised in the Belmont neighborhood of the Bronx, New York City. She later described herself as having been a "frail, blond, introverted little boy who ran from fistfights and rough-and-tumble games".

Jorgensen graduated from Christopher Columbus High School in 1945 and was soon drafted into the U.S. Army at the age of 19. After being discharged from the Army, she attended Mohawk Valley Community College in Utica, New York,[5] the Progressive School of Photography in New Haven, Connecticut, and the Manhattan Medical and Dental Assistant School in New York City. She also worked briefly for Pathé News.

Returning to New York after military service, and increasingly concerned over, as one obituary later called it, a "lack of male physical development", Christine Jorgensen heard about sex reassignment surgery. She began taking estrogen in the form of ethinylestradiol and started researching the surgery with the help of Joseph Angelo, the husband of a classmate at the Manhattan Medical and Dental Assistant School. Jorgensen intended to go to Sweden, where the only doctors in the world who then performed the surgery were located. During a stopover in Copenhagen to visit relatives, she met Christian Hamburger, a Danish endocrinologist and specialist in rehabilitative hormonal therapy. Jorgensen stayed in Denmark and underwent hormone replacement therapy under Hamburger's direction. She chose the name Christine in honor of Hamburger.

She obtained special permission from the Danish Minister of Justice to undergo a series of operations in that country. On September 24, 1951, surgeons at Gentofte Hospital in Copenhagen performed an orchiectomy on Jorgensen. In a letter to friends on October 8, 1951, she referred to how the surgery affected her:

As you can see by the enclosed photos, taken just before the operation, I have changed a great deal. But it is the other changes that are so much more important. Remember the shy, miserable person who left America? Well, that person is no more and, as you can see, I'm in marvelous spirits.

In November 1952, doctors at Copenhagen University Hospital performed a penectomy. In Jorgensen's words, "My second operation, as the previous one, was not such a major work of surgery as it may imply."

She returned to the United States and eventually obtained a vaginoplasty when the procedure became available there. The vaginoplasty was performed under the direction of Angelo, with Harry Benjamin as a medical adviser. Later, in the preface of Jorgensen's autobiography, Harry Benjamin gave her credit for the advancement of his studies. He wrote, "Indeed Christine, without you, probably none of this would have happened; the grant, my publications, lectures, etc."

The New York Daily News ran a front-page story on December 1, 1952, under the headline "Ex-GI Becomes Blonde Beauty", announcing (incorrectly) that Jorgensen had become the recipient of the first "sex change". This type of surgery had previously been performed by German doctors in the late 1920s and early 1930s. Dorchen Richter and Danish artist Lili Elbe, both patients of Magnus Hirschfeld at the Institut für Sexualwissenschaft in Berlin, were known recipients of such operations in 1930–31.

After her surgeries, Jorgensen originally stated that she wanted a quiet life of her own design, but once returning to the United States, the only way she could manage to earn a living was by making public appearances. Jorgensen was an instant celebrity when she returned to New York in February 1953. A large crowd of journalists met her as she came off her flight, and despite the Danish royal family being on the same flight, they were largely ignored in favor of her. Soon after her arrival, she launched a successful nightclub act and appeared on TV, radio, and theatrical productions. The first of a five-part authorized account of her story was written by Jorgensen herself in a February 1953 issue of The American Weekly, titled "The Story of My Life" and in 1967, she published her autobiography, Christine Jorgensen: A Personal Autobiography, which sold almost 450 thousand copies.

The publicity following her transition and gender reassignment surgery became "a model for other transsexuals for decades. She was a tireless lecturer on the subject of transsexuality, pleading for understanding from a public that all too often wanted to see transsexuals as freaks or perverts ... Ms Jorgensen's poise, charm, and wit won the hearts of millions." However, over time the press was much less fascinated by her and started to scrutinize her much more harshly. She was often asked by print medias if she would pose nude in their publications.

Knox and Jorgensen after being denied a marriage license, April 1959. After her vaginoplasty, Jorgensen planned to marry labor union statistician John Traub, but the engagement was called off. In 1959 she announced her engagement to typist Howard J. Knox in Massapequa Park, New York, where her father had built her a house after her reassignment surgery. However, the couple was unable to obtain a marriage license because Jorgensen's birth certificate listed her as male. In a report about the broken engagement, The New York Times reported that Knox had lost his job in Washington, D.C., when his engagement to Jorgensen became known.

After her parents died, Jorgensen moved to California in 1967. She left behind the ranch home built by her father in Massapequa and settled at the Chateau Marmont in Los Angeles, California, for a period of time. It was also during this same year that Jorgensen published her autobiography, Christine Jorgensen: A Personal Autobiography, which chronicled her life experiences as a transsexual and included her own personal perspectives on major events in her life.

During the 1970s and 1980s, Jorgensen toured university campuses and other venues to speak about her experiences. She was known for her directness and polished wit. She once demanded an apology from Vice President Spiro T. Agnew when he called Charles Goodell "the Christine Jorgensen of the Republican Party". (Agnew refused her request.)

Jorgensen also worked as an actress and nightclub entertainer and recorded several songs. In summer stock, she played Madame Rosepettle in the play Oh Dad, Poor Dad, Mamma's Hung You in the Closet and I'm Feelin' So Sad. In her nightclub act, she sang several songs, including "I Enjoy Being a Girl", in which, at the end, she made a quick change into a Wonder Woman costume. She later recalled that Warner Communications, owners of the Wonder Woman character's copyright, demanded that she stop using the character; she did so, and instead used a new character of her own invention, Superwoman, who was marked by the inclusion of a large letter S on her cape. Jorgensen continued her act, performing at Freddy's Supper Club on the Upper East Side of Manhattan until at least 1982, when she performed twice in the Hollywood area: once at the Backlot Theatre, adjacent to the discothèque Studio One, and later at The Frog Pond restaurant. This performance was recorded and has been made available as an album on iTunes. In 1984, Jorgensen returned to Copenhagen to perform her show and was featured in Teit Ritzau's Danish transsexual documentary film Paradiset er ikke til salg (Paradise Is Not for Sale). Jorgensen was the first and only known trans woman to perform at Oscar's Delmonico Restaurant in downtown New York, for which owners Oscar and Mario Tucci received criticism.

She died of bladder and lung cancer in 1989, four weeks short of her 63rd birthday. Her ashes were scattered off Dana Point, California.

Jorgensen's highly publicized transition helped bring to light gender identity and shaped a new culture of more inclusive ideas about the subject. As a transgender spokesperson and public figure, Jorgensen influenced other transgender people to change their sex on birth certificates and to change their names. Jorgensen saw herself as a founding member in what became known as the "sexual revolution". Jorgensen stated in a Los Angeles Times interview, "I am very proud now, looking back, that I was on that street corner 36 years ago when a movement started. It was the sexual revolution that was going to start with or without me. We may not have started it, but we gave it a good swift kick in the pants."

In 2012 Jorgensen was inducted into the Legacy Walk, an outdoor public display which celebrates LGBT history and people.

In 2014, Jorgensen was one of the inaugural honorees in the Rainbow Honor Walk, a walk of fame in San Francisco's Castro neighborhood noting LGBTQ people who have "made significant contributions in their fields".

In June 2019, Jorgensen was one of the inaugural 50 American "pioneers, trailblazers, and heroes" included on the National LGBTQ Wall of Honor within the Stonewall National Monument (SNM) in New York City's Stonewall Inn. The SNM is the first U.S. national monument dedicated to LGBTQ rights and history, and the wall's unveiling was timed to take place during the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall riots.

Nation of Islam leader Louis Farrakhan, during his earlier career as a calypso singer under the name The Charmer, recorded a song about Jorgensen, "Is She Is or Is She Ain't" (The title is a play on the 1940s Louis Jordan song, "Is You Is or Is You Ain't My Baby".)

Chuck Renslow and Dom Orejudos founded Kris Studios, a male physique photography studio that took photos for gay magazines they published, which was named in part to honor Jorgensen.

Posters for the Ed Wood film Glen or Glenda (1953), also known as I Changed My Sex and I Led Two Lives, publicize the movie as being based on Jorgensen's life. Originally producer George Weiss made her some offers to appear in the film, but these were turned down. Jorgenson is mentioned in connection with Glen in Tim Burton's biopic Ed Wood (1994), but Jorgenson is not depicted as a character.

The Christine Jorgensen Story, a fictionalized biopic based on Jorgensen's memoir, premiered in 1970. John Hansen played Jorgensen as an adult, while Trent Lehman played her at age seven.

In Christine Jorgensen Reveals, a stage performance at the 2005 Edinburgh Festival Fringe, Jorgensen was portrayed by Bradford Louryk. To critical acclaim, Louryk dressed as Jorgensen and performed to a recorded interview with her during the 1950s while video of Rob Grace as comically inept interviewer Nipsey Russell played on a nearby black-and-white television set. The show went on to win Best Aspect of Production at the 2006 Dublin Gay Theatre Festival, and it ran Off-Broadway at New World Stages in January 2006. The LP was reissued on CD by Repeat The Beat Records in 2005.

Transgender historian and critical theorist Susan Stryker directed and produced an experimental documentary film about Jorgensen, titled Christine in the Cutting Room. In 2010 she also presented a lecture at Yale University titled "Christine in the Cutting Room: Christine Jorgensen's Transsexual Celebrity and Cinematic Embodiment". Both works examine embodiment vis-à-vis cinema.

The 2016 book Andy Warhol was a Hoarder: Inside the Minds of History's Great Personalities, by journalist Claudia Kalb, devotes a chapter to Jorgensen's story, using her as an example of gender dysphoria and the process of gender transition in its earliest days.

Jorgensen, Christine (1967). Christine Jorgensen: A Personal Autobiography. New York, New York: Bantam Books. ISBN 978-1-57344-100-1.

[bluewhale52]

The History of Us - Ch. 16

Synopsis: You have built your career and you have 2 rising hip hop superstars as your besties. Life is pretty good, until one drunken night that derails your life plan. How would you survive?

Pairing: ?? x OC , main characters are mostly Namjoon, Yoongi and Tae, but all 7 are present now

Fic type: social media au + text 

Genre: Strangers to Lovers!AU, fluff, angst.

Rated: R

Warning: swearing, talk about sex and unplanned pregnancy

Disclaimer: photos are not mine, and of course characterization and scenarios of the boys are purely of my imagination

Masterlist  |  Next>>

Ch. 16 - 3some

—

10 March, 20:15

You and Taehyung sit nervously across from Seokjin. He still has not said anything since you broke the news that you are in fact, carrying Kim Seokjin’s baby, and not Kim Taehyung’s. There are probably a million questions that will need to be answered, but Seokjin has not shown any indication that he has processed the jawdropping news. 

“Maybe you should wait in the bedroom,” you whisper to Taehyung. At the raise of his eyebrows, you pat his cheek lovingly. “It’s OK, Tae. It might be easier for him to talk to me alone.”

Your heart aches with the way Taehyung looks at you. A flash of jealousy, possessiveness then understanding, one quickly replaces another. He kisses the top of your head and gently rubs your belly, before excusing himself and heading to your bedroom.  Watching him leave, you immediately blush at the memories of what you did last night and this morning.

You and Taehyung had not talked in a month, since you  told him about the identity of your baby’s father. All the frustration and anger finally boiled over last night at Yoongi’s birthday dinner. Annoyed at Taehyung’s cold demeanour towards you, you openly started flirting with Seokjin all night, which resulted in you and Taehyung shouting at each other across the table. 

When a particular barb Taehyung threw at you finally broke the dam of tears you had been holding back, Namjoon dragged you out of the restaurant and held you as your cried into his chest. Minutes later, however, Taehyung came out to pull you from Namjoon’s arm, flagged a taxi down, and you both ended up going back to your place together. 

The taxi ride was quiet, but once you both entered  your apartment, you were anything but. Lips smacking, skin slapping, pants and moans filled your living room then your bedroom. And it was at your fourth orgasm of the night, when you screamed his name over and over again, that he claimed you as his, and you gladly accepted it.

This morning was no different, instead of talking, the two of you were going at it again, and you both apologised, cried and promised to be honest and to communicate better, all said between orgasms. Spent, a decision was then made that Kim Seokjin needed to know- that the baby growing in your belly is his. Which led you to inviting him to your place for dinner, to break the news.

You turn to the man in front of you, wondering how long more you need to wait before Seokjin is able to say anything at all.

“Seokjin,” you reach out and rub his knee, “are you OK?”

He blinks at your touch, and clears his throat. “Uh, let me just get the facts straight.” 

You nod, silently encouraging him to talk. In the short amount of time you have known him, you realise he has a habit of talking his thoughts out loud.

“So, we met that night, at the Halloween party, then we came here, and you know, and somehow our protection was faulty..” his hands are flapping and you nod at him, “and you’re pregnant.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“And i was the one night stand guy whose identity you didn’t know, until the whole partnership thing with Namjoon and Yoongi.” You nod again.

“But you told me last week that Taehyung was the father.”

You shrug your shoulders a little. “Well you caught me off guard, I panicked and just said the first name that came to mind.”

This time it is Seokjin who nods. then he chuckles, “You know I thought you were going to offer me a proposition, like for a threesome.”

You choke on your own saliva at his blunt confession. “Excuse me?”

Seokjin laughs loudly, his shoulders shaking. “Turns out I’m going to be a father.”

You stare at him wondering how his mind could go from ten to 200kph in an instant. “Yeah well, no threesome. I think we have enough spice in our lives as it is now.”

You wait till Seokjin stops laughing, and when he buries his face in his hands, you start to worry. He must be going through a hell of a rollercoaster of emotions right now.

“So... what now?” he finally looks up at you and asks.

“I don’t know, really,” you helplessly answer, “Tae and I agreed to tell you because all eight of us will be working closely. And not only that, you’re becoming friends with Joon and Yoongi too. And then Hoseok and Tae seem to be forming this bond over fashion, I just didn’t want to ruin any of these relationships you guys are building.”

You take a deep breath. “I didn’t want to tell you, but Tae insisted that you need to know,” you confess reluctantly.

“I see.”

Seokjin and you  awkwardly stare at each other. Something seems to hold him back from saying anything, so you continue talking.

“I don’t want your money. I swear, this is not why I told you about the baby. Before Tae was even in the picture, I was ready to have this baby and raise them on my own. My relationship with Tae just happened, and I’m grateful for it.  And he was planning to move in here so he can help, you know he loves children, and I know he’d be an amazing fath- I mean, he’s amazing with kids...”

You stop talking when you see Seokjin tilts his head at your almost referring Tae as the baby’s father. 

“So it’s like a parenting threesome.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What?”

“You know, two dads, one mom. Is that what’s going on here?”

You sputter, lost for an answer, and Seokjin feels agitated by your lack of response.

“Are you expecting me not to be involved? Do you want me not to be involved?” he asks, voice firmer now.

Your heart is beating faster. “I’m not... it’s up to you Seokjin, I-”

“Jin.” he says firmly, interrupting you. “You’re carrying my baby so call me Jin.”

You swallow, getting nervous now. “Jin,” you repeat his name, “it’s up to you. It’s your choice how much you want to be involved. I’m not expecting anything from y-”

Jin abruptly stands up, startling you. “Well I’m telling you now I’m not expecting to be a third wheel in this, it’s my child!”

He runs his fingers through his head in annoyance. “You can’t just tell me and expect me not to be involved.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” you speak gently, trying to ease down the tension. “I’m just saying it’s entirely up to you. If you want to be involved, that’s great. If you don’t, that’s fine too. I don’t want you to feel obligated.”

“Because you have that knight in shining armour, right?” he gestures towards your bedroom. You groan inwardly, praying Taehyung is not eavesdropping. You stand up and grab Jin’s arms and direct him back to his seat.

“What do you want then, Jin?” you ask, forcing your voice to stay calm.

“I want to be involved, and I want the baby to call me dad. The baby can call Taehyung whatever you guys want, but the baby will call me dad.”

“OK, that’s absolutely fine.”

“And I will pay for the baby.” He shushes you as you shake your head. “50% of the baby is me, so whatever medical costs of this pregnancy, and when you give birth, and whatever the baby needs later in life, I’m also responsible for it.”

“OK, if that’s what you want.” 

“If you don’t mind, I will start a fund for the baby. For financial security. My parents did it for me, and I want to do it for my child too.” Jin continues, “there’ll be paperwork involved, to ensure the money goes to the child and the child alone.”

You nod, it makes sense. He has money and he wants to ensure his child’s well being. As an expectant mother you feel somewhat relieved, and as a CPA, you know it’s the right arrangement if one can afford it. “OK, that’s a good plan and I’m really grateful for it. But Jin, do you want people to know you’re the father?”

Jin stares at you blankly. You have thought about this question long and hard. You are fine admitting your child is fatherless, or when an answer is needed and you can’t circle around it, you know Taehyung is ready to step in. Your inner circle knows who the real father is, and that’s all that matters.

But if Jin wants to be openly involved with the child, it would be his reputation on the line. He is too much of a public figure now- the whole situation will definitely be seen as a scandal, tainting his name and very likely will cost you your job too.

Jin seems to understand the dilemma. “If your firm finds out...”

“... I’ll probably lose my job.” You finish his train of thought.

“So we’ll be discreet. We’ll just tell those who need to know. Wait, does everyone in Bulletproof know I’m the father?”

“Just the guys, and you know we can trust them completely.” You assure him, and yourself.

Jin nods. “So your job should be safe then. As long as no one from outside finds out. Though you know, most first borns tend to look exactly like their fathers. One day people will put two and two together.”

“Well then,” you chuckle, “let’s hope our child is going to be a boring accountant like me, and not famous like you.”

At that Jin smiles at you, a real genuine smile, and you feel hopeful that this strange arrangement- this parenting threesome as Jin puts it- may just work out. 

Jin and you both whip your head at the sound of Taehyung clearing his throat. You freeze, wondering when Taehyung came out of your bedroom, and how much has he heard? Then you realise you are sitting very close to Jin, and you start to worry if Taehyung misreads it. The fight you had is still fresh in your mind and heart.

“Sorry to disturb you, and to burst your happiness bubble,” Taehyung walks closer to you and Jin, “but you need to see this.”

Taehyung holds out his phone, and Jin and you quickly read what is on the screen. Jin groans, and you grab the phone from Taehyung’s hand, reading the screen over and over again. Taehyung bites his lower lip nervously.

And then you let out a blood curling scream.

“WHAT THE FUCK?”