#writers are on strike to be paid better

[fatherentropy]

Not to go on the same rant I did like three days ago on twitter but

AI art isn't necessarily bad and I think could be used for good. Personally I think it'd be great if artists were the one in control of curating their own databases. Choosing what they're okay with being in a database to begin with and then getting paid royalties from people who pay to use a license to use that database.

Personally I think it'd be a lot of help to have a database of my own work that I could load up and generate to grab bits and pieces of that I can edit the way I want after the fact. Lots of art is just a lot of work and it is destructive on your body. You have to be very careful about doing exercises so you can do it for longer but even still you can get fucked up to the point you can never draw again. I am ALL for any and all means to make that easier.

Also hypothetically being able to lisence the use of their own fucking work, some artists might even be able to focus purely on their original art by maintaining a popular database.

WE DO NOT LIVE IN THAT KIND OF SOCIETY

We have the story about the bracelet maker who had a customer demand that she only pay the cost of the base supplies because that's all she should have to pay. So the bracelet maker doesn't send her a bracelet but she DOES send her wire and beads and tools and tells her that that's what she paid for. Because That is the world we live in where art is thought of as something that's "easy" to do and should be cheap and affordable while also not wanting to put the work in themselves.

I think a lot of people think AI art is them making the bracelet themselves but it's them stealing bracelets from the bracelet maker's shop and then sloppily combining them to say they made it. WHILE also not even being that hard which is embarrassing and understandably humiliating to people who have worked hard for years getting good at their work.

Art is not magical talent. It's work. It's practice. It's grueling. It'll fuck your body up as I said.

And in this capitalist society that forces people to work forever, it almost certainly has broken artists into little bitty pieces. And now people are taking that work and that pain and those years and years and years and ripping it up into itty bitty pieces to create some soulless mockery of it.

And I frankly don't know if my government can be trusted to pass regulations on it so that we do have that ideal standard that AI art could have because American politicians are funded by corporations and corporations don't give a shit about whether a thing is cheap. They'll package it and sell it enmasse and we'll have no choice but to live with it because they won't put the money into hiring people the price they deserve to be paid and lots of people have shown they don't give a shit if it's cheap and soulless if it's "fun"

[secretcircuit]

obviously theres lots to critique about some of the Discourse around the wga strike, least of all that "your shows will be better if the strike is successful" is not and should not be the point (the point should be to ensure that writers are compensated as THEY need/are asking(/demanding) for their labor, regardless of outcome in terms of production etc) but like, idk, its just such a bleak and consumerist way of thinking, like, rather than engaging with creative work, thinking about who is behind it & how to support them, youre like uwu what will i stream when i eat dinner idk its just SO FLIMSY

[fans4wga]

Adam Conover: So the writers strike is finally over, and I'm so happy to tell you that...

Full transcript of text on images below the cut!

And we changed not just our industry for ourselves, but for every writer who comes after us. And I am…so proud of us. 

Thank you to every writer who made this victory happen, and thank you, thank you, to every fellow worker who stood with us. 

We are gonna stand with you as well because what this proves is that when workers stand together, we win. 

And now…LET’S GET BACK TO WRITING.

[video ID: Adam Conover summarizes the terms of the 2023 WGA Contract that ended a 148-day strike.

So the writers strike is finally over, and I'm so happy to tell you that...WE FUCKING WON.

These are all things that they swore to us five months ago they would never give us in a million years. But we went on strike and we hung together until they were forced to come to the table and meet our demands. 

Contract Summary

This is the contract that we just spent the last 148 days fighting for. And lemme tell you what’s in it: 

a guarantee that a minimum number of writers be hired on every show, 

comedy-variety writers like me be paid [equally on streaming and TV],

provisions that mean better pay for screenwriters, 

better pension and health for writing teams, 

script fees for staff writers for the first time, 

and protections against AI.

AI Protections

AI can’t write scripts, edit scripts, or undermine our rights and credits.

Success-Based Residuals

And we won a success-based residual! So for the first time, when more people watch a movie or TV show on streaming, the writer that created it will make more money, too.

---

And we changed not just our industry for ourselves, but for every writer who comes after us. And I am…so proud of us. 

Thank you to every writer who made this victory happen, and thank you, thank you, to every fellow worker who stood with us. 

We are gonna stand with you as well because what this proves is that when workers stand together, we win. 

And now…LET’S GET BACK TO WRITING. [/end video ID]

[lady-griffin]

It was very weird for me to go from Tumblr where I’ve been seeing a lot of good, supportive, and informative takes about the Writers’ Strike – where even the one or two posts I’ve seen being critical, still had a nuanced and sympathetic view.

To go to a community post on YouTube, where I saw some truly god awful, spiteful, uninformed, and just overall condescending takes on the subject.

And basically I was forced to remember that anti-union is not an uncommon stance at all, even by those who shouldn’t be anti-union in the slightest. Also, there are these dominanting ideas in our culture and society like - 

‘Someone else has it worse than you, so shut up’

‘You’re not owed a job that pays you well’

‘You should be thankful for what you have and work harder to get a “better” and even different job if you want more, rather than just demanding it.’

‘You don’t deserve that (and by that, they mean things like dignity, respect, or any kind of good paying job)

And I’m just like...

Wow, you guys really drank up that capitalistic Kool-Aid, didn’t you?

There’s just so many things to unpack and criticize, but I can’t help but focus on this somewhat ambiguous idea of ‘it’s wrong for writers to do this, when other workers, like teachers and nursers are being treated unfairly today.’

Do you think you can only care about one thing?

Do you think only some workers deserve to be treated fairly and earn a living wage?

Do you think there’s only x amount of strikes that can happen in a given year?

Or that there’s a limit to how many unions can exist?

Do you think that writers receiving protections or more that what they are currently being given will somehow impact how teachers and nurses are being paid or treated?

It’s weird and beyond stupid that you’re bringing up other workers being treated unfairly as a reason for why this strike is bad.

Also, I’m not sure what you think the WGA can exactly do for nurses or teachers.

I’m still honestly very annoyed and even angry about this one stupid comment I saw - “Just use ChatGPT”

And yeah... 

I forgot how strong and stupid anti-union rhetoric can be, as well as annoyingly pervasive. 

[dduane]

Ma’am Im in the final third of writing my first draft for my novel (just passed 70k words!) do you have any advice about book marketing or self publishing? Ive been looking at something called Royal Road also in regards to those two things but no on I know has even heard of it…

First of all: congrats on your 70K!

"Do I have advice about marketing or self-publishing?" Wow, probably way too much, at this point. But for the moment let's limit ourselves to specifics. :)

I hadn't heard of Royal Road either, so I went and did some poking around. Below is an article that deals with some basic questions about them.

(Adding a cut here, because this gets long...)

Having read this article, I went and had a look at Royal Road's ToS, and their fee structures.

The fees were the first thing that gave me pause. Specifically, this; while RR has free options for readers, they don't appear to have any free options for writers. (If I'm wrong about this, I invite anyone with a pertinent link to point me at it.)

Now, the rule in writing as regards money is this: "The money flows toward the writer." This rule was codified years back by writer Jim McDonald and called Yog's Law (and over here at John Scalzi's blog there's a discussion of the Law and what it involves in these self-publishing days). It means that any kind of professional writing or writing-for-pay that involves the writer paying someone else to get their work where people can read it must routinely be carefully examined. You, after all, as the writer, are the source of the product and of the value in the product. If you're paying anybody to help get your writing seen, you need to look carefully at who controls whatever you're paying for along the road to being published.

So: if you use RR, you're paying them to show your work to people. (It seems a bit like AO3, except RR charges you for publishing with them.) Their ToS emphasizes that you own your work, but if you use them to publish, "...you grant Royal Road a non-exclusive, worldwide, sub-licensable, revocable license to use, display, promote, edit, reformat, reproduce, publish, distribute, store, and sub-license Your Content on the Services. This allows us to provide the Services, and to promote Your Content or Royal Road in general, in any formats and through any channels, including any third-party website or advertising medium."

Okay. So how, though, do you get paid for publishing on this site?

RR simply says that you're allowed to link your work to your Patreon or your PayPal account, and can accept donations that way.

Well, that's nice. But it doesn't strike me as much in the way of a payday. (Especially after what Patreon takes off its subscribers' earnings these days.)

What people are seeing this work?

Just Royal Road members, as far as I can tell.

And how many of those are there?

...I'm finding it surprisingly difficult to quickly determine that with any certainty. There are numerous sites that talk about millions of pageviews (assuming that's what "M" means these days): but views are not users.

And what is feedback worth, from that readership? ...Also hard to say.

This equation has way too many imponderables in it for my liking.

There are a number of articles scattered around that discuss numerous webpublishing options and which seem preferable. (This one seems to rank RR highest.)

...If I'm starting to sound unenthusiastic about this whole prospect, I think that perception would be correct. From where I'm sitting, RR looks to me kinda like paying for feedback... and from what might be a fairly small, and at the very least, limited, pool of contributors. I'm not at all sure how this experience would be likely to do anything much but help you feel better about yourself as a writer. Which, well, sure, that's nice. But is it value for your money?

More: how does what you get from RR actually help you transit into the wholly different experience of getting your work edited, getting a cover for your first novel(s), and learning about marketing out in the broader marketplace? That's unclear to me.

(I have to add one thing here as a general caveat. I'm in the Really Annoying Congestion stage of a head cold at the moment, and as a result my view of everything today is significantly jaundiced. But I also have to say that I doubt this particular assessment is going to change much after my nose stops running.)

So. If I was in your position, I'd be tempted to give the RR concept a miss and start inquiring into how best to use actual online publication resources that feed into a system where to get your work at all, people give you money.... because Writers Gotta Eat. (And yes, there's a whole self-publishing strategy that runs on the Nickel Bag paradigm: make sample work free online—sometimes through a retailer like the 'Zon—and then have all the samples "point at" work that people have to pay for. But that's another discussion.)

Anyway: hope this has been of some general help!

[colleendoran]

Hi, I just had a quick question. I tried submitting it before, but I don’t think it went through.

Firstly, I just wanted to congratulate you on reaching way beyond your goal for the graphic novel!

My question is that I know there was so much money raised for the project, and I know more items were being added to the overall rewards, but is it possible that any of the leftover money would be used for bringing season 3 to us? I’m not sure how funding a show works with Amazon or anything, but I wasn’t sure if that would help.

Thanks, and good luck!

I don't know how much leftover money there will be, considering that we are producing over 25,000 books and extras, this number is likely to more than double, and there is a team of people who need to be paid, including me.

Kickstarter money can be illusory. People see a big tally and it's important to realize that's not profit. It's money that gets put back into the project, percentages need to be paid to the crowdfunding platform, the credit card processors, the company that packages everything, the marketing people, the creative teams, and the tax man.

I know that Rob and Neil are producers of the show, but I don't know how any money might transfer from the book project to the show project. Ultimately, it's up to Amazon to renew no matter how much money the book makes.

This is definitely a question better answered by the Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman teams!

But I'm right there with you in hoping for Good Omens Season 3. It's just nerve wracking out there with the writer's strike going on. It's sad that the studios have pushed things to this point.

I absolutely love this show, when I was really down for awhile, I just had it running on my tv on a constant loop/

[hurpdurpburps]

Astoria: Fate's Kiss Is Getting Re-released On 25 July, Here Are Some Things You Should Keep In Mind

Most people don't know it (until now I guess), but I'm the founder of, and have been running the @ls-salvation-squad project since Christmas 2021. I hardly interact with the LS community outside of the project server in a personal capacity as I've largely left the fandom around 6 months before the announcement of the app's closure.

I was pretty late to the game (pun intended), having only learnt about the app in 2020, but managed to be around for 'milestone events' such as the writers' strike and the DMCA rampage on YouTube/tumblr. Thanks to certain friends and technology, I've also had privileged access to a quasi-'insider look' into Voltage's workings (and failings) as a studio, both in real time and through secondhand horror stories of the past.

This culmination of experiences has spurred me to make my first, and last, personal opinion piece regarding LS on tumblr, a corner of the community that I haven't really interacted much with.

While I understand the sheer joy, relief and excitement that comes with revived, legal access to some of the most impressive, unapologetically queer stories to have ever graced the internet, I want to point out the ugly truths that are intertwined with the revival of this troubled app:

Buying the game =/= supporting the creators. Not a cent of your money goes towards them. Even when Voltage USA used to be a thing, barely any of it went towards the employees in general either. The writers were paid 3 cents/word, and producers were working twice as hard but only paid around half of their counterparts in other companies. AFAIK the artists have kept quiet but it would be more of a surprise if they were treated any better than their peers.

Buying the game =/= supporting queer content/community. This might come as a shocker, but homophobia ran rampant within Voltage's management. The best evidence of this can be found in their history of 'peculiar' business or creative decisions - and they've made a fuckton of bad choices. Fun fact; the first queer routes were only made possible via sheer force of will of a particular producer. I'm not at liberty to share the nitty gritty on this public platform as the stories aren't mine, but maybe if you asked some of the former staff nicely, they might give you cryptic hints.

You're gonna be paying them a THIRD time. Many of us have already shelled out hundreds of dollars on heart choices - not once, but twice. Putting the whole version on Steam/Switch had always been a valid option from the beginning of the end, but they chose not to do it. Why? Because users scrambling to make bulk purchases of tickets and hearts to record routes as a last hurrah meant a last, fat cash-in. Not to mention the fact that they're selling the game at US$30 per series, for almost decade-old content, presumably without any new additions. At this point, throwing your hard earned money at them AGAIN is just rewarding scummy management and unscrupulous business models.

Do you really need to? Our team of around 100 archivists worked tirelessly in Q1 of 2022 to provide you high quality recordings of every single route. We've gone so far as to acquire recordings of pre-LS Voltage content such as Queen's Gambit and all of the soundtracks. We've put assets up for download. There are a dozen passionate creators out there who have been updating their Ren'Py recreations so that you can scratch your itch - and all for free!!! What more could you possible want or need that only the greedy bastards at Voltage can give you - apart from seeing your custom MC name on the screen and the absolutely inconsequential choices B & C that our videos didn't cover?

Is this a call for a boycott? I guess not really, or at least I didn't consciously set out to make it like this. Dissuading others from purchasing legal access to media when it's easily available goes against my general principle about responsibly and pragmatically supporting creators. And as one 'em Gays™, I know the preciousness of possessing Queer Stories Written By Queer People.

But I was concerned at what seemed to be a wave of happiness and eagerness at news of the revival, without any mention of the absolute shit show that has led us to this very point. There's a very big part of me that's absolutely pissed at being taken for a ride. News of the revival has been a bittersweet development for us all, especially those who have poured their time, money and energy over the past 2.5 years into salvaging what was thought to be a lost piece of queer media - only to find out that all that effort might only get them a slap to the face in the form of a DMCA from the grave. So yeah, fuck you Voltage.

TLDR: You should really save your money for more ethical, indie developers who have the decency to not mock your consumer intelligence. I don't think it's a crime against humanity if you end up buying it after all, but just think about it yeah?

[husbandograveyard]

*leaps back in* Ooooh, heyas <3 second request time go go.

Hawks for 9 or 3 as you please or don't please ^_^

I hope you're enjoying your event so far =D

Hiya Quin! I am enjoying this event a lot!! more than any of my other recent events, it's really been pulling me out of a writer's block! :D Hope you enjoy a little chicken story <3

☁️ Pillow talk event - Masterlist ☁️ Prompt: “well... it was nice getting to know you" Character: Keigo Takami / Hawks (BNHA) x GN reader (no pronouns or genitals mentioned)

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽ Suggestive content | Minors DNI | One night stand but more is implied, fluff, humor ☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

You knew Hawks was attractive. There was a reason the top hero was all over the billboards, and it was not just because he was so strong and so fast. He was effortlessly hot, with his messy hair and lazy grins, the way he seemed to connect with everyone so effortlessly -at least on a surface level-. 

Attractive people got people to let their guards down, and that’s exactly what happened here. You were to work together with him for a mission. Not in any big capacity, more of an assisting role. Still, you had spent most of the briefing staring at him more than you had paid attention, a move you would certainly regret later. 

He had noticed your undivided attention was on him, and had made use of that to strike up a conversation. Polite introductions turned to cheeky teasing remarks, turned to plain out flirting. And you fell for it. Of course, how could you not? 

You had not expected it to end up in a hotel room not too far from the briefing location. You were sitting back against the headboard, his head in your -still naked- lap, you were absentmindedly playing with his hair. It was less awkward than you had anticipated a random sexual encounter to be, but there was nothing said between you two after the conversation turned physical, besides some questions in the moment and moans of each other’s names. 

You were just about to say something as his phone rang, and he got up with a groan. You watched as he picked up the phone, expression souring immediately as the voice on the other hand started rambling. Hawks only could give some affirmative grunts, and ended the conversation with a “yes. I will see you there”. 

He bent down to pick up some of his clothes and started getting dressed. You weren’t sure why you were feeling so disappointed, there had been no agreements or expectations of anything more than what your encounter had been. 

“Well… It was really nice getting to know you.” 

You smiled, teeth clenched together, and responded. 

“It was nice getting to know you too.” You nodded, and got off the bed as well, figuring out you might as well get ready to leave too. 

He was faster than you were though, and was the first out the door. He hesitated while in the doorway, and turned around to address you, just as you were pulling your shirt back over your head. 

“No need to rush. Room is paid for till tomorrow morning. And ehm- maybe after our mission is done, we can get to know each other better?” 

He didn’t leave you time to respond, just winked at you and left. You nodded to what was now a closed door.

[juunobox]

──★ ˙ ̟ sitting on nikolai's lap and testing his limits by pretending oblivious. (nikolai gogol x gn! reader)

summary: enjoying ice cream while u sit on his lap, intentionally moving around in ways that'd turn him on but pretending you have no idea what you were doing to annoy him lol warnings: n/sfw. no actual woohoo scene , just the teasing leading up to that, and i don't use explicit languages here but u can tell what's happening note: i have mixed feelings ab this one i think im having writer's block idk help me e i hope u enjoyed tho

"Me, oh my, looks like someone is enjoying themselves a liiittle too much," Nikolai chuckled whilst playfully tousling your [h/c] hair, causing you to nod with a laugh. "I didn't expect myself to enjoy it this much, either– carnivals are typically crowded places- but this was a pleasant surprise," you admitted with glee. 

Initially, you hesitated to accept the invitation to go visit a carnival with Nikolai because you have a dislike for crowded and busy environments, but his company made a significant difference.

Whenever you started feeling overwhelmed, Nikolai, with his keen eyes would almost immediately notice it– immediately whisking you away into his arms; using his overcoat to move the both of you to a quieter spot nearby and stay there until you felt better before continuing the activities.

Nikolai was enthusiastic throughout, and although keeping up with his energy was challenging– seeing his beaming excitement warmed your heart and kept you going. His eagerness to explore every nook and cranny of the carnival while still making sure to take breaks just for you was a gesture you deeply appreciated.

Nikolai grinned, "See? I knew you'd enjoy it, dove!" You responded with another nod, mirroring his satisfaction in how today's events had turned out pleasantly. Leaving the carnival behind, the two of you walked in comfortable silence for a moment.

As the lively lights slowly faded into the dusky evening, you and Nikolai wandered into a nearby park. Typically bustling with activity, the park had now settled into a peaceful hush, possibly due to the approaching darkness. Nikolai's eyes suddenly lit up as he exclaimed, "[Y/N], look over there! An ice cream vendor with Halloween-themed flavors!" He pointed at the vendor with an enthusiastic grin, slightly jumping in his spot. "Wow, they have 'blood' flavor! We have to try it." He tugged your arm, coaxing you to join him. "Let's gooo!"

Even though you weren't in the mood for any more sweets after indulging in them with Nikolai in the carnival earlier– it was difficult to resist his gleeful enthusiasm, so you responded with a smile and a nod. The vendor appeared pleasantly surprised by Nikolai's striking excitement for the sweet, cold dessert. He ordered 'blood' flavored ice creams for both of you, but Nikolai's cone contained an unexpected swirl of vanilla.

He happily accepted it, paid the vendor, took your hand in his before leaving.

"He was so kind, wasn't he? Giving me the vanilla flavor as well," Nikolai giggled softly while savoring the ice cream. You agreed with a small giggle, "Yeah, I think he appreciated your excitement. It's not every day you see someone this thrilled about getting an ice cream."

"Hahaha! I hope that's true," Nikolai laughed before taking a taste of the ice cream. "Oh, turns out this is strawberry jam," he remarked, taking another lick of the dessert. "Just the right amount of sweetness! What do you think, dove?"

You tasted your own ice cream before replying, "Mmm, it's good, I agree!" You glanced at Nikolai, who was enjoying his treat with repeated nods in silent approval. "Can I taste the vanilla flavor, Kolya?

"Sure thing!" Nikolai smiled and lowered his hand, offering you a taste of the vanilla. You leaned in to taste it- approving the taste, "The vanilla is so creamy," and returned to enjoying your own ice cream.

Unbeknownst to you, his gaze lingered on your lips for a little longer. "Isn't it? Sooo good!" he forced a grin on his face, promptly looking away– pretending that the sight of you tasting his ice cream earlier didn't make him feel nor think of certain things that shall remain… unspoken. At least for now.

As you both strolled a little further, you came across an unoccupied bench. Nikolai abruptly halted and turned to you, saying, "Let's sit here for a bit!" He tugged your arm, guiding you to the bench before taking a seat himself.

Leaning back against the wooden bench, he savored the taste of his ice cream; legs spreading slightly as he relished the treat. It was difficult not to look at his legs— his thighs, his lap. Your eyes remain fixated on his lap, and a familiar desire stirred within you.

You often fantasized about sitting on his lap; his thick thighs looked incredibly alluring. Or, perhaps you just yearned for something more. You wanted to feel them… on you, against you– experience that closeness in some way or another.

That's why now, instead of taking the empty space beside him, you boldly plopped down on Nikolai's lap.

He was taken aback by the sudden contact, his eyes widening in surprise. It nearly caused him to drop his ice cream. "[y/n], what would you do if I dropped my ice cream?!" he proclaimed theatrically, a small laugh accompanying it.

Despite his words, you chose to ignore them and continued to enjoy your ice cream while making yourself comfortable on his lap.

Nikolai, maintaining his playful tone, remarked, "Someone's feeling a bit daring today, I see~?"

With faux innocence, you replied without even sparing him a glance. "What? I just wanted to sit here. Your lap always seems like a comfortable seat to me." Not giving him any chance to respond, you continued by shifting your sitting position on his lap.

He chuckled, "Suuure. Comfortable, is it?" Nikolai said smugly, clearly seeing through your intentions but didn't make a comment on it. "But we're in a public space, [y/n]. Don't you think people might find this… at least a teeny bit inappropriate?"

Nikolai wasn't wrong. You knew exactly what you were doing at this moment: teasing him– but this time, you intended to play the innocent. After all, he was always the one poking fun on you. This would be a sort of payback. Fair, right?

"Kolya, I'm just sitting on your lap, trying to find a good position. These hard wooden benches aren't very forgiving," you responded with mock ignorance, enjoying your ice cream and continuing to shift your position on his lap, pressing down against him even more. 

Nikolai's words caught in his throat at this, feeling your movements. Oh, his expression was priceless – if you could see it. He's trying so hard to pretend he's just as oblivious as you are; but his flushed cheeks, the glistening sweat on his forehead, and the way he nibbled on his lower lip– revealed everything.

There was a brief pause before you heard a response from Nikolai in the form of a soft hum. "Hm~ well, if you insist." He leaned back, trying to relax again and enjoy his ice cream that's starting to melt a little.

What you were doing was clearly having an effect on him, but he was valiantly attempting to maintain his composure. You looked around, spotting a dog passing by in the distance. You jumped a bit on the spot, intentionally pressing down on him even more. "Oh, a cute dog," you exclaimed, "Kolya, look!" you extended an arm and pointed in the direction where the dog is, deliberately ignoring his reactions as you continued to shift on his lap.

The clown's eyes widened once again, sucking in a sharp breath as you moved. He almost let out a moan. Almost.  In his mind, you were practically grinding on him, because, well, that is exactly what you're doing– it's just that you're pretending clueless to it. 

Nikolai's hand drifted to the edge of the bench, his fingers gripping it tightly as you continued to move. He blinked slowly at the sensation, releasing a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh. It was becoming progressively more challenging for him to keep his composure.

"Dove... You're moving a bit too–" he said in a hoarse, unsteady voice. But before he could finish what he was trying to say, you quickly interrupted, "Oh! That really sucks. I wanted to see the dog's face up close; it already looks incredibly cute from here!" You continued to move, undeterred by his pleas.

Nikolai's blush intensified, "[Y/N]," He swallowed, transitioning from gripping the bench to placing his hand on your hip, attempting to keep you from moving...

But you just continued and kept going.

"Aaah," you gasped, posing disappointment as your eyes followed the dog racing away. You kicked your legs and held onto Nikolai's thighs even tighter, leaning back, "The dog ran away." You murmured, maintaining the feigned innocence to the impact of your actions on him up until now, but finally putting a stop to it.

Nikolai was noticeably sweating, his breathing slightly heavier. You were in such close proximity to him, practically pressed against his body– you could feel the heat emanating from him.

Just as you were preparing to rise from his lap, he finally spoke up. "Nope. Come back here," Nikolai's grip on your hip suddenly tightened, leaving you with no choice but to remain in close contact with him. You were caught off guard by the sensation, your eyes widening as a soft gasp escaped your lips. 

"Hey," you began, attempting to speak and make eye contact, but Nikolai swiftly nuzzled your neck and slid his hand beneath your shirt, gently caressing your skin. His touch sent shivers down your spine, accompanied by a flutter in your lower stomach. "Kolya, wait," you squirmed, trying to stop him; but instead– ended up losing your balance. Your ice cream tumbled into your lap, the creamy substance sliding down in between your thighs.

Nikolai paused and leaned back, assessing the mess with a small pout. "Hm, your ice cream spilled... What a waste." His hand swiftly ventured further upwards, tugging onto your shirt. "If you remove this, then I can use it to wipe the ice cream off your thighs," he suggested with a mischievous giggle, slipping a finger underneath.

Your cheeks turned red at his words. "I'm not doing that," you held onto his arm, preventing him from going further. "Not here-"

"Oh, my prettiest dove, you were the one who initiated this... I knew what you were doing, moving around on my lap like that!" he chuckled, "But, fine." Nikolai finally withdrew his hand before gently helping you get off his lap before standing up.

"Let's head over to that alley instead. I'll help you clean that up!" Nikolai chirped with a sly grin, his cheerful tone contrasting with the true intentions behind his proposal. 

You nodded and walked alongside him, the stickiness from the ice cream made walking a bit uncomfortable– but the prospect of getting rid of the sticky feeling soon was somewhat relieving.

Then, you suddenly felt Nikolai's hand on your thigh, where the ice cream had spilled. You jumped at the sudden touch, turning to glare at him. He met your gaze with a playful giggle, licking the ice cream off his fingers.

"Did you just—"

"It's called not wasting food, [Y/N]!" He giggled, eyeing you suggestively, "I'll clean the rest of it too, don't you worry~"

[probablyasocialecologist]

Regardless of what companies and investors may say, artificial intelligence is not actually intelligent in the way most humans would understand it. To generate words and images, AI tools are trained on large databases of training data that is often scraped off the open web in unimaginably large quantities, no matter who owns it or what biases come along with it. When a user then prompts ChatGPT or DALL-E to spit out some text or visuals, the tools aren’t thinking about the best way to represent those prompts because they don’t have that ability. They’re comparing the terms they’re presented with the patterns they formed from all the data that was ingested to train their models, then trying to assemble elements from that data to reflect what the user is looking for. In short, you can think of it like a more advanced form of autocorrect on your phone’s keyboard, predicting what you might want to say next based on what you’ve already written and typed out in the past. If it’s not clear, that means these systems don’t create; they plagiarize. Unlike a human artist, they can’t develop a new artistic style or literary genre. They can only take what already exists and put elements of it together in a way that responds to the prompts they’re given. There’s good reason to be concerned about what that will mean for the art we consume, and the richness of the human experience.

[...]

AI tools will not eliminate human artists, regardless of what corporate executives might hope. But it will allow companies to churn out passable slop to serve up to audiences at a lower cost. In that way, it allows a further deskilling of art and devaluing of artists because instead of needing a human at the center of the creative process, companies can try to get computers to churn out something good enough, then bring in a human with no creative control and a lower fee to fix it up. As actor Keanu Reeves put it to Wired earlier this year, “there’s a corporatocracy behind [AI] that’s looking to control those things. … The people who are paying you for your art would rather not pay you. They’re actively seeking a way around you, because artists are tricky.” To some degree, this is already happening. Actors and writers in Hollywood are on strike together for the first time in decades. That’s happening not just because of AI, but how the movie studios and steaming companies took advantage of the shift to digital technologies to completely remake the business model so workers would be paid less and have less creative input. Companies have already been using AI tools to assess scripts, and that’s one example of how further consolidation paired with new technologies are leading companies to prioritize “content” over art. The actors and writers worry that if they don’t fight now, those trends will continue — and that won’t just be bad for them, but for the rest of us too.

[dangerousduckcloud]

take my hand, i'll fly you to the stars - a superbat oneshot

Clark Kent, Daily Planet reporter, doesn't know that Bruce Wayne is Batman. Bruce Wayne, Gotham's billionaire, doesn't know that Clark Kent is Superman. So when Superman confesses he kissed Bruce Wayne in front of Batman one day, there's only one reason as to why he began acting weird with him. Batman's homophobic. or: two idiots in love that don't know how to communicate and instead make their own assumptions.

Read it also on AO3

I know I should be writing for 'Flowerbeds' but I got a bit of writer's block and I had this idea in my head for a while so I began writing a bit to get inspiration for the fic, but I got too much inspiration for this fic and so I wrote it all. Sorry.

English is not my first language.

Being a reporter comes with a lot of benefits; you are privy to information before anyone else. You uncover truths, bring down empires. You’re the voice of the people, helping to be heard those whose voice is underwater.

You fall in love.

Alright, well, maybe that last one is not exactly tied up with the job, but for Clark Kent, Daily Planet reporter, it sure felt like it. Being born out in space and raised in a Kansas farm, the possibilities of being invited to a Wayne Charity Gala were none had it not been because of his profession, although ‘invited’ might be a bit of a stretch, more like Cat Grant had gotten sick and no one else wanted to come, not even Clark, at first.

Point is, he’s here now. His tall, broad figure easily ignore by the one percent who could perceive he didn’t belong; they could sense his suit was off the rack, his glasses from the dollar store, his watch older than most people here, a gift from his Pa when he turned eighteen, a Kent heirloom that’d been passed down every generation from father to son, something he’d probably do one day.

So no, he didn’t belong here. Nevertheless, that didn’t matter, he was here to do a job, and he hoped ‘Clark Kent, clumsy Daily Planet reporter’ would strike pity in the guests to grant him and interview.

“Mr. Paul!” Clark mumbled, his pen ‘accidentally’ falling from his hands and clattering to the polished marble floor, the stifled chuckles heard with clarity thanks to his super hearing. “Do you have anything to say about the recent allegations regarding your company’s involvement in money laundering?”

Clark was a good man, he cared about the safety of the lives of beings walking on earth, be it human or animal, but he still allowed himself from time to time to see pleasure on seeing how guilty people changed their faces when confronted about their criminal activities. The mighty, haughty smile on Mr. Paul’s face fell, a sour look replacing it.

“There’s not much I can say that hasn’t been reported on the news. We discovered the person behind it all and we have left the police to handle the matter.” Generic, memorized answer that Clark was sure his PR team had advised him to learn by rote. One explanation that in reality it meant ‘I was behind it all and I already paid the right people to not do anything about it.’

“And what about the rumors it was your people doing so to avoid bankruptcy?” Had he added more force, Mr. Paul’s wine glass flute would shatter.

“It’s just that, rumors.” Mr. Paul said acerbically. “Such a brilliant mind as yours should know better than to believe what the common mouth spews. A shame, Mr. Kent, that quite an outstanding reporter as yourself has been reduced to writing gossip columns.”

“Well, that’s why I’m coming to the source. To stop the gossips.” Clark had another question ready for the man when he conveniently received a call on his phone, raising a finger to stop his next words.

“One moment, please.”

Clark was no idiot and knew that meant ‘don’t bother me anymore’ while he saw the man walk away, his hearing revealing the man was, in fact, talking to no one.

It was fine, Clark had already learnt a thing or two more about him by other attendants with a loose tongue due to the alcohol making them more talkative than usual.

He checked his watch for the umpteenth time that night; he desperately wanted to leave, and it’d only been two hours since the gala started and the main person of the night had yet to make an appearance, the only reason he still couldn’t leave, as Perry had asked him to get at least one quote from him.

Bruce Wayne, the man every reporter just could not get a serious single answer out of him, unless you were asking about his children or ‘The Gray Ghost’.

Bruce Wayne, the Prince of Gotham, labeled as the hottest man in the world by several magazines for several years now.

Clark knew about Bruce. Everyone did. However, he hadn’t had the opportunity to meet the man, no actual reason to do so, but he’d done his research; orphaned at eight, ‘disappeared’ at sixteen, came back at twenty-three, more children than braincells, according to some people.

Single. Hot.

Yes, Clark had eyes, and he recognized the man was nice to see, staying up late at night re-watching all his interviews ever given despite not having something more to learn about his businesses or recent charities work.  

Unintentionally, he did discover something else.

Bruce ‘Brucie’ Wayne was a liar.

He wasn’t as stupid as he pretended to be. Every single word that left those plump, pinkishlips was idiotic on purpose, to keep up a façade of a bimbo idiot for some reason. Business advantage, maybe?

And no, it wasn’t his slight, minimum, non-existent ‘crush’ as Lois had worded it, nor ‘all the hits to his head Bruce had gotten in all his accidents leaving him dumber every time’ theory Jimmy had concluded. No, it wasn’t anything like that.

There was a clear difference between his first interviews, his more recent ones, and all the undercover videos people had uploaded of him on social media, where he showed quite a different personality when he was with his children.

He used to be shy, withdrawn, a lot of vague answers but on point. Now he always finds a way to get into the interviewer nerves, to be obnoxious. And with his kids? Totally different. Sweet, calm. There was a recent video of him discussing with Timothy Drake about if time travel was possible, all his answers those that belonged to a scientist.

Bruce Wayne, the man who had barely stepped one foot in the ballroom and was already swarmed by potential opportunists—err, shareholders, businessmen, reporters, gorgeous, single men and women and mothers with single children that would do anything to get their daughters married off to the richest man in Gotham and, in turn, become part of that position.

All lovely people, Clark was sure.

Brucie didn’t seem to mind, though. At least, not externally. While on the outside he was all smiles, handshakes, and flirtatious jokes, his heart, Clark could hear, was beating rapidly, the tiniest crease on his temple and the way his eyes were searching for a way out.

Another point to his theory.

Clark desperately wanted to go back to his hotel room, the only good thing about this whole event. (He could totally get back home in less than a minute, but he wasn’t going to pass up on the opportunity of being pampered) but in lieu of making a beeline to where Mr. Wayne was currently being held by the arm by a beautiful blonde woman attempting to seduce him, Clarke opted to take another walk around the perimeter of the gala, keeping himself out of view.

If he wanted to get a good interview, or at least a quote, with Gotham’s most eligible bachelor, he needed to wait, not corner him like a wild animal.

Clark liked to wander and mostly hover around the food table in these kinds of events, making a bee line to the hors d'oeuvre, without fail trying to find the baked brie, glad that the staff had re-stocked them.

“I recommend the stuffed mushrooms, they’re my favourite.” Clark jumped a bit in his place, how had he managed to sneak up on him?

Clark had his breath taken away, the man was even more beautiful up close and in real life that all the pictures he’d seen of him.

“Mr. Wayne! It’s, uh—pleasure to meet you!”

“Bruce, please. Mr. Wayne was my father.”

“Bruce, then.” Clark smiled widely, enthusiastically shaking his hand until he heard a groan from the billionaire. “I—I’m so sorry, I—”

“Quite a strong hand for a reporter.”

“I… Exercise.”

“I noted.” Bruce’s gaze travelled over his body, and this time, Clark wasn’t pretending to be clumsy, he was flustered and anxious. “Now, usually I prefer to be left alone, but why is it that a Pulitzer winning journalist would prefer to hover over the food table rather than trying to interview me? Am I that uninteresting?”

“I was just— you know about me?”

“Of course, I read all about your piece on ecological alternatives to reduce carbon emissions, been a fan ever since. In fact, I implemented quite a few of your ideas on my companies.”

That was written years ago. Had he been noticed by the Bruce Wayne for that long?

“Thank you, Mr—Bruce. It’s good to know someone like yourself cares about the environment. If you let me, do you have something else to comment on the topic?”

“Well, my parents always taught me to give back to the world that helped us be where we are now. Be it the people or mother nature, and without her, we’re nothing. So, I urge people, but most importantly my most fortunate peers, to research on how we can help heal our world.”

Nothing at all like the clueless man seen on TV.

“And the charity, it’s being held due to your youngest son, right?”

“Yes! Damian is such an animal lover. He brought to my attention that there are not a lot of animal sanctuaries in Gotham and those few don’t have the support they need. So, we’re raising money and awareness to help them rebuild their buildings, to give those precious dogs and cats a proper place to live while they’re waiting to be adopted. And as well, to encourage people to adopt and not to buy. He also volunteers every weekend in one of them. Of course, he couldn’t be here today, as it’s a school night.”

Bruce’s face changed completely when asked about Damian, his eyes shone with pure love and pride, a real smile on his lips, not the kind where it seemed as it physically pained him to smile when talking to others.  

“You never answered my question, though.”

“Excuse me?”

“Why didn’t you want to interview me?”

“Oh!” How could one man hold so much power? To look at him with those blueish-grey eyes and turn him into putty? “I didn’t—I mean, I wanted to wait for the right moment. With all those people…”

“Well…” Bruce got close to him, taking a hold of his red tie and pulling him closer. “You got it. Now, why don’t we go somewhere quiet and finish this interview?”

𓆩𓆪

Life had gone back to normalcy —or as normal as it could be for an alien on Earth. But at last, he’d gone back to Metropolis.

He’d all but fucked up his chance to sleep with the most handsome man, though.

They’d gone back to Clark’s hotel room, as it was just two blocks away from the building where the gala was held. He felt as giddy as a teenage boy getting his first kiss, hands sweating and looking into every reflection he could to check he was presentable.

Bruce didn’t wait a second until they closed the door to start kissing him, touching him everywhere. Clark had held his face between his hands, feeling the strong, but soft skin under his fingers, the small nips and cuts that littered his face.

It wasn’t until Bruce had unlatched his belt and had almost pulled Clark’s pants down that he asked him to stop, anxiety pooling in the pit of his stomach and hands cold.

“Is everything alright?”

Clark nodded, looking everywhere but him. “Yeah, yes. I just… I don’t know how I’m feeling with being just a one-night stand.”

Bruce stood quiet, still halfway getting down on his knees and Clark’s zipper on his hands.

“I understand.” He stood up, looking up to meet Clark’s eyes, placing a quick, soft kiss on his lips. “Unfortunately, I can’t assure you this could become a regular thing. I’m sorry.” He fixed his opened shirt before leaving. “I’m… Well, if you ever need an interview, or help with anything, I won’t say no to you.”

And with that, he left.

And now Clark was chiding himself for letting him go.

Hero life had also taken an extremely rare break, with little to no serious attacks, only an attempted robbery here and there.

“In more recent news, Gotham’s billionaire, Bruce Wayne, was held for ransom two nights ago.” The T.V droned out, catching Clark’s attention from the game of Scrabble he was playing with Flash. Like all nights for the past weeks, the night watch at the Watchtower had been long and dull. Don’t get him wrong, he was glad there wasn’t truly a need for them, but they still had to stay the whole night just in case. “When questioned after his rescue, the man had this to say:”

“Oh, this was real? I really thought they were pretty bad strippers.” The image on screen showed a dirty, bloodied Bruce. A lip split open, with messy hair and shirt halfway unbuttoned, his tie loose. “So that’s why they taped me up after ten minutes. I guess it wasn’t a kink thing.” That explained the reddened area around his mouth.

A very tired and embarrassed man in a chauffeur outfit asked to have no more questions, helping Bruce get in the back of a limousine.

Was it simply a game for him to appear so dense in front of the cameras?

In front of him, Flash chuckled. “Can you believe someone like him owns half of a city?”

“He’s not that bad.” Clark said, arranging the letters on his tile rack to see if he could form a word with his remaining letters. “He’s a nice guy.”

A truly nice guy that didn’t pushed Clark when he told him he didn’t want to be used for pleasure.

On the computer behind him, the click-clack of the keyboard stopped momentarily. Taking advantage of the slow, calm nights, Batman had thought it best to update the Watchtower’s security system, bringing along with him Robin, the one you would rarely see without an energy drink. Apparently, the kid was a real prodigy with computers, maybe even more so than Batman.

“Wait, so you know him?” Flash asked, hand halfway through placing a tile on the board.

“I’ve… Met him. Once. He, uh…”

“Oh, Sups, there’s a child present!” Flash chuckled, looking at where Robin was sitting. “Our Sups has a crush! It’s his pretty face, isn’t it? Can’t be his brains.”

Next to the computer, Batman put down his coffee mug with more force than necessary, his super hearing catching on a low, muffled chuckle from Robin.

“I… No.” He sighed, placing I and R on the board to spell ‘Liar’. “It doesn’t matter, does it? Guy’s already being kidnapped every other day; he wouldn’t be able to leave his house for the rest of his life if somehow word spreads that he’s dating Superman.”

Flash nodded, playing the word ‘soul’. He was unusually quiet for the guy who always had something to say, especially if it came to the love lives of everyone in the League. “Cape life’s not easy, is it?”

His sombre demeanour made Clark feel he wasn’t talking specifically about his situation.

𓆩𓆪

Bruce knew, knew chaos was bubbling in his son’s mind, sure to ensure as soon as they got home. Tim had been suspiciously quiet all the way home from the zeta tube location to the Batcave, a leg going up and down repeatedly, and he knew it wasn’t from the energy drinks he so desperately wanted him to give up drinking.

“Don’t say anything.” He grumbled as they entered the cave, the dark tunnel giving way to the lights from the cave.

“Say what about what?” He turned to give him the bat-glare as Dick had once so eloquently named it, but his only response was a meek smile, hand reaching for the door’s handle, waiting for Bruce to unlock it.

He couldn’t really hold him here the rest of his life, could he?

With a sigh, he unlocked the door, and Tim hurried out of the car and up the stairs leading to the manor, not caring about Alfred’s ‘no capes inside the house’ rule. “DICK, YOU WON’T BELIEVE THIS.” Was all he heard before the clock closed.

There goes Bruce’s peace.

Making use of the few remaining moments of tranquillity, he sat on the batcomputer, his cowl removed and hanging behind him.

So, Superman had interacted with him in his civilian identity. Both of them.

Problem is, when? How? Everyone had agreed that they would reveal their identities when they were ready, and Bruce had agreed not to investigate them, as they knew he so easily could. And he’d kept his promise.

Kind of.

He knew it would be a total break of their trust in him, but he also knew this kind of information could be necessary in the, hopefully not probable, case any of them ever went rogue.

Thus, he’d written a code, with Tim’s help, to analyse every bit of information online and compile possible candidates on who was who. Information heavily encrypted and hidden.

Surely this is something he’s allowed to do? It involves him, after all.

Opening the file for Superman, he scrolled past the names of people that were a likely fit for Superman’s physique and related events. There were quite a few, but the stats always showed a probability below sixty percent, besides, those were names he didn’t recognize ever talking to. All except one.

Clark Kent.

His file had a ninety-eight percentage of being Superman.

He was adopted by a couple in Smallville, Kansas, moving to Metropolis… Right around the time Superman was seen for the first time in the city, not to mention there had been strange sightings and unexplainable situations both in Smallville and around him in general before that.

When Bruce inspected more on his adoption, he was met with an unsuccessful result, as there hadn’t been any records of him before the Kents adopted him, as if he didn’t exist for the first few months of his live.

And the adoption agency had only handled one adoption before going ‘bankrupt’ just weeks after opening. His.

God.

He almost slept with Superman.

The man he has been dreaming with ever since he met him.

When the echoes of hurried steps reached his ears, he closed the file, heart beating frantically with this new information, yet he had a stoic face. His oldest son rushing to his side, with Tim behind him. “Superman what?”

“Irrelevant.” Bruce said as he stood up, taking off his gauntlets.

“B, you have to date him, can you imagine how cool it would be to have Superman as your dad?”

“What about Batman being yours?”

“No offense, B.” Tim’s voice reached his ears. “But you’re just a regular guy with enough money to buy this.” He gestured with his thumb to the screen behind him, leaning on the desk of the computer.

“Yeah! And Superman is Superman!”

“Hng.”

“Oh, you know we love you.” Dick said, hugging him and not letting him move, something that made his senses spike when he heard Tim on the computer. “But you’re our favourite after Superman.”

“And Wonder Woman.” Jason’s voice was rarely heard these days in the cave, surprising both Bruce and Dick.

“And Wonder Woman.” Dick nodded, his chin resting on Bruce’s shoulder.

“So why are we dissing Bruce?”

“Superman has a crush on Brucie.” Tim replied, fingers still pressing the keys on the keyboard, Jason’s laugh resonated through the whole cave, only once cutting when they heard a grasp from Tim. “The reporter?”

They all turned to see what he just discovered, Clark’s file on display for them, the picture of him with a cute smile taking a quarter of the screen, the blinking ‘98% MATCH’ going off and on.

Shit.

𓆩𓆪

“KENT!” Perry’s shout shook the building, and years of working for the man had taught him it was a terrible idea to have the man call out for you a second time, rushing to his office and closing the door behind him, standing in front of his desk. “Pack your bags, you’re going to Gotham, again.”

“What for? I can’t, Perry, I’m still working on my investigative piece—”

“You can do it later. You’re going to another Wayne Gala; the man loves to throw his goddamn parties…”

“And why can’t Cat do it?”

“Wayne asked specifically for you. And the man owns the newspaper, so we can’t exactly say no to him.”

He… Had? Had he been thinking of their past encounter? Why would he ask for him specifically?

No, maybe it was because Clark was focused on his job and wrote worth-reading  articles, as the official account of the Wayne family had shared his reportage of the past gala on their social media.

Surely, it was simply that.

He was once again waiting for the horde of guests to stop hogging Bruce’s attention before trying to interview him. He didn’t worry, he had promised he would give him an interview if he asked.

But the bewildered and flustered look Bruce gave him when he noticed him didn’t make him feel all that confident.

So today, he was eating a stuffed mushroom, savouring the melted cheese and toppings inside it while he waited.

It seemed this time, Bruce had opted for the company of two of his children, his oldest, Richard Grayson, and his third oldest, Tim Drake.

“You think we should?” Clark heard one of them say, he didn’t need to use his super hearing, as they’d also decided to favour the food over the people, and the kids weren’t talking particularly low.

“B’s getting lonely, and I can only handle so many ‘father-son’ days when Damian’s not around.” The youngest one groaned.

So, Bruce’s sons were playing matchmaker, that was genuinely nice and cute of them.

Except when he sensed them behind him. “Excuse me. Are you Clark Kent?” It was the youngest one who’d approached him, the poor kid had more bags under his eyes than a Christmas tree, his face looking a second away from falling asleep in the middle of the Gala. Just what could be so dire to keep a billionaire kid staying up all night?

It couldn’t be parties, Clark was sure. Unlike their parent, none of the Wayne kids had taken to be the life of parties —excluding, of course, Damian Wayne for the moment—, they rarely were seen in one if it wasn’t hosted by Bruce.

There actually wasn’t much about Timothy Drake online besides what he wanted there to be; son of the deceased Jack and Janet Drake, taken by Bruce, suspected to be Wayne Enterprises next CEO, despite barely being able to drive.

“That’s me, what can I do for you?”

“We want you to interview our dad.” Said Dick Grayson, —or ‘Gotham’s sweetheart’ as most gossip magazines liked to call him— standing behind Timothy. There were more things online about him than his younger brother. From his earlier research for the first gala; Richard Grayson was son of the world renown acrobats John and Mary Grayson, who had, sadly passed away in an ‘accident’ at the circus, taken shortly after by Bruce. The kid was a prodigy in gymnastics, always outshining everyone in every school competition he went to in his youth, although why he never made it a career out of it and go to the Olympics was a mystery to everyone. “You know, you’re the only honest reporter who won’t twist his words.”

The way they both smiled and shared a look was unsettling, the kids knew how to be creepy if they wanted to. There was something in the twinkle of their eyes that only spoke of mischief. Clark might not be a top-notch detective as Batman, but he still had learned to tell when people weren’t being sincere.

He wouldn’t be opposed to the idea, he was here to do that, after all, but he needed to know the reason as to why they were personally asking him to interview him. However, the sound of glass shattering and screams put him on alert. “Oh, great. Not another one.” Timothy mumbled. Were Gothamites plainly this desensitized about criminals taking in hostages?

He was looking for an exit to change into his suit when the cold end of a gun’s barrel was pressed to his back. “To the centre, now!” Clark complied, if only to not risk his identity or risk the chance of the man accidentally shooting one of the kids. Kids that were much calmer than they should be.

He’s never coming back to Gotham.

The trio moved to the centre of the ballroom, where every attendant was huddled in a circle. “Everything of value in the bag!” Another man shout, holding a dirty, ragged brown bag in a hand, and a semi-automatic gun in the other.

Clark tripped, or at least, he made it seem like that, to take the opportunity to slide behind all the hostages, for the outside eye, it seemed he did that to cover himself in case things went awry, but in truth, it was so he could make his disappearance easier and change from Clark Kent to Superman.

There were only four armed men inside, and another outside sitting in a car, the getaway, Clark assumed. He couldn’t see much else with his x-ray vision, just that the car had the trunk open, waiting to be filled with the spoils of the night.

Thing is, they weren’t taking that much stuff to require the extra space, so what could be the actual reason? Kidnapping, maybe?

But who?

“I love playing rough, don’t get me wrong.” Of course it had to be him. “But even I think this is a bit overkill.”

“Shut up.” The man holding Bruce by the scruff said, pushing him to the floor and letting the end of his gun crush his hand. Bruce’s howl of pain mingled with the cry of Timothy, ready to get up and run to help his father, only being stopped by Richard, who held him by his shoulders and sitting him down again, talking in hushed whispers. It was the only reaction the kid had shown so far tonight.

They’d already taken Bruce outside, leaving only the guy who was still collecting money and jewellery, walking backwards towards the exit, gun pointed at the attendants. The split second he turned to leave was his mistake, colliding with a body as strong as steel. Clark had taken that millisecond to change into his suit and get behind the man, swiftly taking his gun and pulverizing it in his hand. “I don’t think you were invited to this party.”

Clark didn’t need to use much strength to knock out the assailant, a simple hit with his index finger was enough.

The rumble of an engine let Clark know the rest of them didn’t bother to wait for their partner, clearly already having secured what they wanted, and the things in the bag were just a bonus.

The getaway car, had, of course, not made it very far before Clark stood in front, crashing into him. The back going up in the air for a second before falling, and he rushed to hold it and gently drop it lest he hurts Bruce even more.

Clark made sure the delinquents were unconscious before opening the car’s trunk. “Are you alright, Mr. Wayne?”

Despite looking a bit green and having a broken finger, he didn’t seem to have any other serious injury… Not recent, at least. All his bones hand been broken in several places, several times, some not fully healed correctly. Just in what kind of situations was this man getting in?

He, in turn, was oblivious to the revelation he’d just had, awestruck, and eyes wide. Bruce accepted the hand Clark had lend him to get off the trunk, careful not to put too much pressure on his broken finger. “Superman.” He whispered. “I… I’m fine. Just a broken finger. I’ve had worse.”

“No doubt.” Clark mumbled. Wayne looked at him curiously, as he hadn’t heard him completely, but shook his head after a second, his dazzling smile back in place.

“How can I pay back the man who saved me?”

“It’s not necessary, Mr. Wayne. I’m glad to be of help. Please, let me take you to a hospital so that you can get treated.”

“No need, I’m sure the ambulance will be here soon.” And true, Clark could hear the siren a couple kilometres away getting closer to them. “Besides, my sons will worry if they don’t see me, but…” he placed is good hand on Clark’s shoulders, standing on his tiptoes to reach him and place a gently, warm kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, superman.”

𓆩𓆪

Batman hates him. There’s no other way to put it.

It’s not hard to make the man broody and angry, Clark thinks, he just never expected it would be because he’s disgusted by his choice in romantic partners.

He’s never said it outright, but he shows it in the way he’s began to distance himself from the man every time they are together in a mission or in a meeting debriefing. If his hands happen to slightly touch his or any other part of his suit, Batman pulls away as if he was burned.

And the man was always cold, talking only if needed, but Clark could see that he was getting even colder with him, his words clipped as if it offended him to talk to him.

He never thought Batman would be homophobic.

He was conflicted. He didn’t want to get into his companions’ personal matters and preferences, but this was something he couldn’t simply ignore, as it was something he considered was wrong of him.

But he also didn’t know how to approach him.

He was distressed. Even though they didn’t know each other names, he had still considered Batman a reliable ally —how ironic—, and to discover the man who claims to fight for justice and peace it’s in truth a hater with prejudices… Well, it was a lot to take in.

But now it made sense. He’d seen Batman work with the Red Hood a few times, and he knew he was a part of the ‘bat-family’ due to the red bat symbol embedded in his chest. He’d also seen how cold Batman was with him unlike the others, like Nightwing, or Robin, or Batgirl.

He also knew Red Hood was involved in some kind of a romantic mess with Arsenal, as Green Arrow once told him in passing.

“I’m surprised Batman hasn’t threatened you already.” Flash mentioned so casually as if he were talking about the weather. “Or has he?”

“What?” Clark turned to see him, his cape slightly billowing. “Why would he do that?”

“Because you slept with his boyfriend?”

Clark had to rewire his brain for a second. “What did you say?”

“Oh, come on!” Flash gestured with his hands, bits of granola flying around from the bar he was eating. “It’s common knowledge those two are dating, how do you think Spooky gets all his toys?”

It would explain why Batman has suddenly turned so hostile against him.

But it doesn’t explain why he’s also cold and hostile with the other guy who’s also dating a man. And he didn’t want to believe sweet Bruce would cheat like that. At least, he didn’t seem the type the other night.

But then why Bruce would still flirt so carelessly if he was dating him? Could it be to throw off all those rumours about them? Because it would explain why he’s getting kidnapped so frequently.

But even behind closed doors, he still wanted to sleep with him.

This is all a mess.

He’s a mess.

He should go to the one person that could have the answers.

Even though he’d decided to never come back to this city if he could help it, he still found himself taking a bus towards Gotham city. It would be way easier to get there flying than having to spend an hour and a half in an uncomfortable bus seat, but if he wanted to do this, he would need to be laying low as much as possible to avoid detection from the bat.

It didn’t take long to find the man he was looking for, he simply had to keep an open ear for any kind of gunshots he could hear, as he knew the vigilante wasn’t opposed to using guns. Clark was concerned about the number of gunshots he heard in one night in different parts of the city.

“Red Hood.” Clark said before the man could get on his bike and drive away.

“Boy scout.” The robotic voice from the helmet’s modulator reached him. He leaned on his bike, his arms crossed. “What brings the man of tomorrow to our lovely, green city?”

He ignored the sarcasm, walking closer to him. “We need to talk.”

“About…?”

“I know about you and Arsenal.”

It was hard to gauge a reaction out of him with the helmet on. The man kept quiet for several seconds.

“And that concerns you, because…?”

“I… First, I want to say that it’s alright. And if you ever feel that you’re not safe, you can always count on me if you need help.” Clark was able to hear the small ‘what the fuck’ coming out of the helmet. “I don’t know what the extent of your relationship with Batman is, if he’s your father or just a mentor, but whatever it is, you shouldn’t have to be shunned for being yourself.”

“Look, man, I appreciate the feelings and whatever. But I must know, what the fuck you’re talking ‘bout?”

“I… I thought Batman was mistreating you because you’re dating a man?”

“What?” The robotic voice was high pitched, a low chuckle coming out. “You think B’s homophobic?”

“He’s not?”

“Of course not. Hell, me dating Arsenal is probably the only thing he’s approved of me ever since I came back.”

Clark wasn’t sure what he meant for ‘came back’, but it wasn’t something of importance right now.

“But then… Oh, so the rumours are true?” He couldn’t help but feel even more disappointed, because that also meant that Bruce had tried to sleep with him even though he’s dating someone else, and he’s also gotten on the bad side of Batman. His voice had gotten small at the end, clearing his throat to hide that fact.

“What rumours?”

“Batman’s dating Bruce Wayne.”

This time, Hood’s boisterous laughter was heard through the whole alley, having to place his hands on his knees for support.

“You’re on your own, boy scout.”

𓆩𓆪

Several weeks had gone by since the gala fiasco, and Bruce had already been kidnapped twice, his lucky star —or as lucky as it could be—, had helped him leave unscathed just a couple hours later.

Of course, Clark would only find out about this when the news would report it in the evening news, as he hadn’t been in Gotham again since the night he met with Red Hood.

“Batman.” Clark greeted him when he saw the man walking into the Observation Deck. Tonight, they were both going to be alone for the night watch.

He hadn’t seen the vigilante in a while, as the man was ever busy with all the criminals running rampant in Gotham since they escaped the asylum a couple of weeks ago.  He and Wonder Woman had offered help, of course, but being the stubborn bat that he was, he never accepted, despising the presence of other supers in his city.

Which was the topic he wanted to talk about.

“Superman.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard of me being in Gotham a month ago. I know you don’t like it when we step foot in your city, but I… I was visiting some friends, and happened to hear the screaming, I couldn’t just sit by and do nothing. I hope you understand.”

The man had continued walking to the computer, ready for a night of sitting down in front of the screen until sunrise, waiting for an attack to happen, and not once acknowledged the kryptonian, besides the slight twitch on his fingers, not visible for the human sight, but enough for him.

“Don’t let it happen again.”

With a sigh, Clark sat on the air with his legs crossed, hovering a meter over the floor, looking at the Earth through the windows surrounding the deck.

An hour had turned into two, then into three, all spent in complete silence.

“I apologize for my comment the other day.” Clark settled on talking about the elephant in the room rather than continue like this. “I didn’t know you two were…”

“What are you talking about?”

He was going to make him say it, didn’t he?

“You, and Bruce. I didn’t know you two were a thing. And you don’t have to worry about me, I won’t get in the way of you two.”

“We’re not… You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” Clark stood, walking towards the bat, his voice louder than it should. “Because then I don’t know why you’ve been acting so cold towards me, even more than usual. If you hate me because I kissed the man you’re dating or if you hate me because you’re a bigoted idiot, then please, let me know and stop with these childish attitudes.”

He waited one, two, three seconds and the man had barely even tried to face him, although he’d stopped tipping in the computer, but he didn’t say anything. “Figures.” Clark scoffed, turning around and ready to leave the deck to stay the night in any other part of the watchtower.

“Clark.” It wasn’t just that Batman talked that made him stop, but the fact that he used his civilian name.

And when he turned, he certainly wasn’t expecting to see the man without his cowl.

“Bruce?”

“I don’t hate you.” The man who spoke wasn’t Batman, nor it was Brucie. It was simply… Bruce, the real man that probably few people got to meet, probably just his family. “Quite the opposite.”

Taking long strides, Bat—Bruce walked until he was so close to him, they could almost melt into each other, placing his hands on his cheeks. He didn’t need to stand on his tiptoes this time, as the suit added him quite a few centimeters more. “Totally the opposite.”

And then, he kissed him.

[nihilnovisubsole]

Because of your latest post: not sure if you’ve answered this before, but how does someone even entertain the idea of writing for the game dev industry? Did you start out on indie games or just write before and show them your work? Since it’s such a subjective field etc

if i have, it bears repeating! here's a rough timeline of what i did. never discount the value of luck and the kindness of friends

2016: i was doing a random freelance transcription job when i saw @theivorytowercrumbles post about writing for voltage. they reblogged the studio's open casting call for new writers. since it was so lenient - no experience, fanfic samples allowed - i applied. they hired me for their new project, but let me go after a trial period, citing that the tone of my writing was a bad fit for that game. i foundered for a while after that. i don't take rejection well. i started dangerous crowns to try to make money from writing some other way.

2017: one of voltage's producers reached out to me and said they'd started another project that i was a good fit for. she felt letting me go was a mistake and wanted to snap me back up. i said yes, i mean, are you kidding? so i started on reiner's route.

2018-2019: i kept at it. i took on diego's route. it occurred to me that i wasn't making very much money, but i liked my coworkers, and i was building my portfolio, so who cared? i also finished dangerous crowns, and a handful of people bought it, but certainly not enough to support myself or anything.

early 2020: between the pay and creative differences with voltage's team, it started to sink in that i needed to find other work. i applied to the few open game writer jobs i could find, but with only mobile romance in my portfolio, i got nowhere. i threw in dangerous crowns samples. i tried to network on twitter. i still never made it to the interview phase. i foundered for a while again.

late 2020: the voltage writers went on strike. i gave a statement to a journalist that one of obsidian's narrative designers noticed. we became acquaintances over it. another old friend of mine threw me a life raft in the form of a different contract, better paying, on a non-romance indie game. i took it gladly. i added a twine game to my portfolio, too. i kept applying. i got a few interviews, but something still didn't click.

2021: i finally accepted that i needed formal help. i did a portfolio workshop. i got resume coaching. the coach passed my name to a writer on the company of heroes team. they liked me! they also paid me more money than i'd ever seen in my life. at the same time, obsidian advertised a narrative job opening. i applied on a lark and let my ND pal know i was doing so. why not, right? college-new-vegas-fan me would want me to. they rejected me, but not before i passed their writing test and two interviews. i had nothing to lose at that point, so i told my ND pal that i was bummed. she gave me a golden piece of advice: "you came really close. try again."

2022: obsidian had another narrative opening. i threw myself at it. i was now going to annoy them into hiring me. since i was a known quantity from applying six months before, they had no qualms about interviewing me again. this time, it worked out, and i've been there ever since.

what's the common denominator here? i met people who thought i was all right and gave me a hand up when i needed it. the standard advice is to work with a community of your peers instead of trying to get your heroes to senpai-notice you. it's not that they don't care - they just have their own thing going on, and your peers could be the heroes of tomorrow if the right project comes along. i also found the portfolio was the end-all-be-all when it came to job hunting. i went through a grieving process with that! i'm not afraid to admit it. i wish studios had held my degree or dangerous crowns in higher regard, but i just had to make games in a wider variety of genres, and that was that.

one caveat: narrative is a really saturated field right now. a lot of people want to write, and there aren't many openings. it's not uncommon for big studios to get hundreds of applicants. larian probably got over a thousand for the job they posted recently. i feel awful saying that, because i don't want to discourage you, but i'd feel worse if i didn't let you know what you were getting into. if it's something you want, you should try! keep an open mind about the random projects you may find. you never know where they'll take you.

[fans4wga]

[September 1] Don’t Fall For Hollywood Bosses’ New PR Spin

'Today marks the 122nd day of the Writers Guild of America (WGA) strike and 48th day of the Screen Actors Guild and American Federation of Television and Radio Artists (SAG-AFTRA) strike. The dual work stoppages have brought Hollywood to a standstill, with production halted on films and television programs, and premieres and other promotional events either scaled back or canceled. Both guilds are striking over demands that are more than reasonable, particularly given studio executives’ record pay. These demands include fair compensation for streaming media (particularly better residuals, which currently pale in comparison to what they are for network and cable broadcasts), robust studio support for health and retirement funds, and safeguards around the use of artificial intelligence. (For more on why WGA and SAG-AFTRA are on strike, read the excellent reporting of Jacobin’s Alex Press). 

In a move that has shocked…pretty much no one, Hollywood bosses don’t want to share their earnings with the very storytellers responsible for generating them. At the same time, they’re happy to make workers pay the cost for their own miscalculations about streaming.

The major Tinseltown studios – organized under the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers (AMPTP) trade association – remain stubbornly opposed to striking a fair deal with either guild. Under the leadership of AMPTP president Carol Lombardini, studios have employed brutal tactics to bust the strike, including threatening to drag things out until writers lose their homes and using management-friendly trade publications to pressure the guilds into accepting lowball offers. These tactics have backfired spectacularly: not only have they failed to end either strike, but they’ve also turned the public overwhelmingly against the AMPTP. A new Gallup poll finds that Americans back the WGA over the AMPTP by 72% to 19%, and SAG-AFTRA over AMPTP by 64% to 24%.

Aware of their reputational damage (but willfully ignorant of the anti-worker attitude that caused it), the AMPTP announced a “reset” to its approach this week – not by negotiating in good faith or meeting the guilds’ demands, but by hiring a pricey crisis-management PR firm to revamp its image! According to Deadline, the AMPTP has hired The Levinson Group – a D.C.-based PR shop best known for representing the U.S. Women’s  National Soccer Team in its campaign for pay equity – to “reframe the big picture for studio and streamer CEOs who have been characterized as greedy, imperious and out of touch.”

If you’re feeling like you’ve seen this movie before, you’re not wrong. During the last WGA strike 15 years ago, studio bosses hired former Clinton comms strategists Mark Fabiani and Chris Lehane to revive the AMPTP’s flagging public image. The revolving-door duo were paid a jaw-dropping $100,000 per month by the AMPTP to strike-bust, deploying campaign-style spin attacks designed to break the WGA’s resolve. 

As I wrote for The American Prospect in May:

“Fabiani and Lehane created a website with a live tally of the millions of dollars in income that guild members and on-set crew had purportedly lost by striking. They urged studio CEOs to publicly refer to WGA representatives as “organizers” rather than “negotiators” because the former “sound[ed] more Commie.” Lehane even told the press at one point that striking writers were “making more than doctors and pilots,” cynically arguing that the strike was harming “real working-class people” like below-the-line workers who had lost income from struck late-night talk shows […] Fabiani and Lehane were [also] the brains behind a “strongly worded and downright menacing” AMPTP press release breaking off negotiations with the WGA in December 2007. This move allowed the studios, which cited a protracted strike as an “unforeseeable event,” to invoke force majeure contract clauses and cancel multiple writer-producer deals worth tens of millions of dollars, severely demoralizing the WGA’s rank-and-file members.”

The parallels between 2008 and today are striking. Like Fabiani and Lehane (who have worked for scandal-plagued clients like Gray Davis, Bill O’Reilly, Lance Armstrong, and Goldman Sachs) the Levinson Group has no qualms about representing greedy and unsavory characters. Over the years, Levinson has done PR for predatory student lender Better Future Forward, reviled monopolist Live Nation/Ticketmaster, a talc mining company linked to the Johnson & Johnson baby powder cancer scandal, and Theranos fraudster Elizabeth Holmes. 

And just like the ex-Clinton spin doctors, the Levinson Group boasts close revolving-door ties to powerful politicians and the news media. The firm currently represents President Biden’s personal attorney Bob Bauer and previously represented John Podesta’s family lobbying firm. Levinson partners have previously worked for an array of influential politicians, including former President Bill Clinton, Senators Jon Tester and Amy Klobuchar, Representatives Maxine Waters and Ted Lieu, and former and current Los Angeles Mayors Eric Garcetti and Karen Bass. The firm’s founder and CEO Molly Levinson spent eight years working for CNN and CBS, while two of the Levinson Group’s top managing directors are alumni of CNBC and The Wall Street Journal. With a web of strong connections to power players in the entertainment industry’s twin capitals of LA and New York, along with the nation’s capital, Levinson could help the AMPTP tilt the regulatory and media scales back in the bosses’ favor. 

Though this may sound demoralizing, striking writers and actors shouldn’t lose hope. For one, consider a surprisingly uplifting parallel between 2008 and 2023. Fifteen years ago, after Fabiani and Lehane took the AMPTP’s contract, the SEIU and other unions that had previously worked with the duo severed ties with them for trying to bust the writers’ strike. Fast forward to this week: the U.S. Women’s National Soccer Team Players Association (Levinson’s star client!) publicly rebuked the firm for doing the AMPTP’s dirty work and voiced support for the dual WGA and SAG-AFTRA strikes. If history is any indication, it’s only a matter of time until other pro-union Levinson clients – like the majority SEIU-owned Amalgamated Bank – follow suit and sever ties with the firm. 

There is also one crucial way in which 2023 is thankfully not like 2008: The Levinson Group is bad at their jobs. 

Consider an August 27th New York Times article about AMPTP President Carol Lombardini*, which was almost certainly pitched or otherwise molded by Levinson flacks. The article goes to ridiculous lengths to rehabilitate Lombardini’s image:

The article passively describes Lombardini’s tenure as “marked by labor peace until now” (a peace that she has now broken) and shifts blame for her unpopular decisions to anonymous AMPTP members (how convenient!).

Article co-authors Brooks Barnes and John Koblin quote a 2014 email from then-WarnerMedia CEO Kevin Tsujihara praising Lombardini’s negotiation skills and recommending she receive a $365,000 bonus. Curiously absent from the article is any mention of Tsujihara’s high-profile 2019 resignation from WarnerMedia for pressuring actresses into non-consensual sex.

Barnes and Koblin attempt to paint a “she’s just like us” picture of Lombardini (who reportedly earns a $3 million annual salary), mentioning her upbringing in a “working-class town outside Boston” and love for Red Sox and Dodgers games.

Barnes and Koblin paint a rosy picture of the AMPTP’s “sweetened proposal” (their words) to the WGA, describing the studios’ August counteroffer as “including higher wages, a pledge to share some viewership data and additional protections around the use of artificial intelligence.” Barnes & Koblin never quote the WGA’s well-founded reasons for turning down this lowball offer, saying only that the WGA is “holding firm to demands related to staffing minimums and transparency into streaming-service viewership.”

Bizarrely, the core issue of underpaid streaming residuals (the main reason writers are demanding greater streaming transparency) is never mentioned in the article.

Barnes and Koblin frequently imply that criticism of Lombardini is unfair, describing her as an “easy target” for the “grievances of striking workers” and singling out a tweet purportedly “mocking [Lombardini] as a fuddy-duddy who hangs out at chain restaurants”.

Barnes and Koblin quote a pre-strike September 2022 Deadline interview with Teamsters organizer Lindsay Dougherty to claim that Lombardini has the “grudging respect” of union leaders who see her as a “fair individual.” They did not quote more recent statements from Dougherty, who last month tweeted that the “greedy” AMPTP had “declared war on Hollywood Labor” by refusing to negotiate in good faith with WGA and SAG-AFTRA.

In one unintentionally eyebrow-raising line, Barnes and Koblin state that Lombardini was “inspired to become a lawyer by reading articles about F. Lee Bailey.” Neither Bailey’s sordid clients (like OJ Simpson) nor his multiple disbarments are mentioned in the article.

And it’s not just me who finds the Levinson Group’s efforts laughable. Discussions of the NYT story on Reddit and Twitter are dominated by comments tying the story’s blatant reputation laundering for Lombardini to the AMPTP’s concurrent hiring of Levinson. A recent New Yorker puff piece on Warner CEO David Zaslav has been met with similar ridicule – with many commenters also pointing to Levinson’s potential influence. So too have recent stories from management-friendly trades like Deadline – all of which have failed to make a dent in strong public support for WGA and SAG-AFTRA. This is a good sign: not only is the public more inclined to side with striking workers than it was in 2008 – it’s also seemingly more attuned to the role of corporate PR flacks in shaping the media narrative. If studio bosses think they can remake the same movie and end another strike with flashy spin-doctors, they’re sorely mistaken. 

So here’s my advice to the AMPTP (and it won’t cost you six figures per month to hear it): the way to fix your reputation problem is to end the strike by giving writers and actors what they want. No strike-busting comms team can rescue you from the hole you’ve dug yourself into. 

As the LA Times’ Mary McNamara recently put it, “You’ve lost the war. The best thing to do now is negotiate the terms of surrender.”'

[beguilingcorpse]

actually the best case scenario for the strikes (on top of "writers and performers are paid more than fairly for their incredibly valuable contributions to art and culture") is that we reach a point where movie theaters just start screening old films. i'm talking about golden age classics like the wizard of oz and casablanca or whatever but i'm also talking about cult classics or more recent movies that are just better in a theater and with an audience. set piece heavy action movies. fantasy films with sweeping orchestral scores. sing alongs of movie musicals. a twilight marathon. idk the possibilities are endless

[oneshortdamnfuse]

Anyone arguing that we wont have anything to watch because of the strikes has lost their mind. I am overwhelmed on a daily basis by the options for entertainment available to me. I am eager for a slow down of entertainment so I can finally sit down and watch things on my own schedule, and I strongly believe that if the strikes are successful then we will have better paid writers and actors dedicating more time and energy on one high quality project rather than 100 mediocre ones.

[feraltuxedo]

A Tentative WIP Wednesday

I'm in the throes of a serious bout of writer's block at the moment, but very slowly a new fic is emerging. I'm only getting a few sentences written each day, but it's better than nothing, right?

With this one, I'm sticking very firmly to my comfort zone.

Since there's been so much love for Intermezzo in the past few weeks (thank you to all of you who have read and enjoyed it), and this new fic is very much Intermezzo 2.0 in terms of tropes, vibes.... everything really... what better time to share a bit of it?

Anyway, here's a snippet of said WIP. Ex rockstar Crowley meets classical musician Aziraphale. Rock music and bickerflirting aplenty:

Aziraphale was still digging through the mess of cables on the search for one that didn’t look like it might electrocute his bass guitar, when the door opened again.

This time it really was Anthony Crowley who strode through it. In the flesh. God, he was striking. Taller than Aziraphale had imagined, and skinnier. In his Hellspawn days, he’d been dressed in heavy leather jackets and those impossibly tight jeans everyone insisted on wearing a decade ago. His hair had trailed behind him like a cloud made of pure fire when he’d strutted across the stage in snake-skin boots. Statuesque, drawn in sharp lines like a Picasso masterpiece come to life.

Present-day Crowley looked a lot more casual in a black hoodie, short hair, and, surprisingly, no sunglasses. A guitar case was slung over one shoulder, a messenger bag across the other. Like any other mortal walking the streets of London. Still outrageously good-looking, mind, middle age be damned. Aziraphale barely had time to notice the deep brown colour of his eyes, before they glared right at him.

‘Can’t get an espresso anywhere in this place. Oi Blondie, be an angel and go fetch one, would you? Double shot, no sugar.’

Aziraphale jumped to his feet. He’d never before felt quite so threatened by the words be an angel. The pathetic part of his brain that was still stuck in 2015 didn’t fail to point out that Anthony Crowley snapping at him to get coffee was the hottest thing that had happened to him all year.

Anathema stopped him with an outstretched arm before he reached the door, eyebrow raised in disapproval.

‘Don’t you fucking dare.’

He flinched at the fire in her voice before he realised it was aimed squarely at Anthony Crowley.

‘You don’t have the name, money, or credibility to boss people around these days, so shut up, sit down, and listen.’

Crowley waved his arms about to demonstrate the rehearsal room's utter lack of seating options. Even the drum stool was cluttered with assorted cardboard boxes. Anathema ignored him.

‘Aziraphale isn’t your personal coffee boy. He’s in the band, so you better treat him right or you’ll be playing without a bass, which is literally impossible.’

Crowley crossed his arms.

‘Jim Morrison managed.’

‘You’re not Jim Morrison.’

‘And the White Str—’

Anathema cut him off with a sound that could only be described as a hiss.

Anthony Crowley turned to face him again, and god-in-heaven, Aziraphale was not prepared for the effect of the man he’d spent many a lonely night fantasising about actually acknowledging his existence.

Admittedly, he didn’t look all that pleased about it.

‘So you’re actually a bass player? Like a proper one?’

Alright, that wasn’t the tone he’d hoped to hear out of Anthony Crowley’s mouth. Aziraphale picked up his bass guitar and clutched it tight, with the sinking feeling that perhaps there was truth to that saying about never meeting one’s heroes.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You look like you’ve just passed your grade four exam, paid for by mummy.’

‘Actually, I have an MMus in Performance.’

‘A what?’

‘A Master’s degree.’

Which is more than Anthony Crowley had managed. 3 GCSEs, and none of them in music, if Wikipedia was to be believed. Aziraphale held onto just enough tact not to point that out. He raised his chin a fraction and noticed a shift in Anthony Crowley’s gaze, perhaps a smidgen of respect creeping into those deep brown eyes.

‘You can get a degree in bass guitar?’

‘You can, though mine’s in cello.’

Crowley’s eyes narrowed and the trace of respect vanished, as if he had a personal vendetta against the cello. That certainly didn’t bode well for Aziraphale’s prospects in his band.

‘Yeah, well, I don’t think faffing about with an overpriced bit of wood between your legs qualifies you to play in my band. Not that I wouldn’t pay good money to see that, mind…’

The mix of embarrassment, indignation, and the hot flush of feeling star struck did strange things to Aziraphale. It made him drop his bass, which landed on his foot. This was great news for the bass, since Aziraphale’s foot was a good deal softer than the thin carpet.

Not such great news, however, for his toes.

‘Botheration,’ he yelped, grabbing the bass to lean it against one of the many amps that surrounded him.

‘Botheration?’ Crowley repeated. ‘Fucking hell, Anathema, where d’you find these people?’

Anathema’s disapproving eyebrow rose a little higher.

‘I found him at a strip club, actually.’

‘I was playing the cello!’ Aziraphale corrected hastily, as he wiggled his toes, just to make sure they were all still attached.

The G String was London’s only classical-music themed strip club. Or at least that was what the manager claimed, and Aziraphale had never bothered googling the matter. The music was easy, the audience distracted enough not to notice when he hadn’t practiced that week.

Crowley’s gaze shot back to Aziraphale, raking over him from head to throbbing toe and back. The irritation from just a moment ago made way to… admiration? Sweet Jesus, he was looking at him, and he clearly liked what he saw, judging by the small smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

‘With your clothes on?’

‘Of course with my clothes on,’ Aziraphale huffed, trying his hardest not to look too pleased with the once-over he was receiving.