#because hes an old white guy in washington

[stairs-feooff]

An Open Letter to White Emo Kids

When I was thirteen years old, I googled ‘how to be emo.’ The music, the aesthetics, the darkness of it all captivated me. There was transgression there, with boys in makeup and girls who weren’t ashamed to be bisexual. The online emo community on google plus (anyone else remember google plus? Just me?) took me in with open arms. I was allowed to be depressed, I didn’t have to hide my burgeoning sexuality or the starts of my struggle with depression, something I now know was caused by intense amounts of dysphoria and life in an abusive and queerphobic household.

Only, there was one problem. I wasn’t white. 

Certainly, nobody would say they had an issue with me being Latino to my face. Most people in the scene genuinely believed they were not racist. After all, they loved Latino people, they thought the guys in Pierce the Veil were so hot. They appreciated the culture too, sombreros and maracas were the full extent of Mexican culture, right? 

But to be emo, you had to be pale. I remember Onision saying that Black people couldn’t pull off emo, and while everyone I knew talked about how horrible he was for saying that, they all secretly believed it. The emo kids I knew stayed out of the sun, they wore long sleeves to stay whiter and some on the more goth side carried around parasols. It was just part of the gothic, to stay white and dead looking. I hid myself from the sun, my skin tanned quickly and well, we couldn’t have that. 

Every guide on emo aesthetics emphasized stick straight hair. Every emo kid I knew reinforced that idea. I begged my mom for a relaxer, she refused. It was alright, I figured out how to damage my hair well enough on my own. Pete Wentz kept his hair straight, spent his time with a flat iron to press down the curls that made him inpalatable to white suburban teenagers. I could too. The burns, the split ends, the fact that my hair didn’t start to return to its natural texture until I cut several inches off this year, that was the sacrifice kids like me needed to take to come into the scene. If not, you would be made fun of. You’d be compared to Ray Toro, everyone’s favorite ‘princess fro fro.’ He was Puerto Rican, just like me. No one talked about that, beyond whispering it around like a dirty secret. No one acknowledged his pride in his country, mirrored by my own pride instilled in me from my mother. Every piece of him, every feature identifiable as nonwhite was sneered at. His hair, his nose, his lips, the white kids said he was the ugly one because of them. I was too, I suppose. 

That was back in 2014. I remember it vividly, still.

Turn back the clock to the early 1980s. Dischord records has just signed seminal emo group, Rites of Spring. There is change in the humid Washington DC Summer air. A new genre would be born from it, branching from the existing hardcore movement. To say Dischord records created emo would be no exaggeration. Without them, the music all of us in the scene know and love would be nonexistent. Dischord was seminal in the scene, Dischord was also founded by Ian MacKeye, vocalist for Minor Threat and later, Fugazi. 

Minor Threat is not emo in the tradional sense. Musically, it’s similar to punk and hardcore groups of the time, lacking the distinct musical flourishes of MacKeye’s later emo group, Fugazi. Still, Minor Threat helped shape the hardcore scene emo was born from and created the record label that signed Rites of Spring, the first emo band. Fugazi is legendary in first and second wave emo circles, influencing bands like Thursday. MacKeye’s stamp on emo is inescapable, even in the third wave. MacKeye also penned the song: Guilty of Being White. 

Guilty of Being White is a minute of MacKeye complaining about systemic racism - or rather, being blamed for systemic racism. He’s sorry for being white, he’s so so sorry, don’t you feel sorry for him, a white man in the 1980s? Isn’t it horrible that white people are blamed for systemic inequality? Isn’t it horrible that he actually has to put work into allyship with people of color? 

MacKeye says he never meant for the song to seem racist. Surely, the fact that it’s become a favorite of white power groups is a coincidence. 

All that is to say, racism was baked into emo from the very beginning. The label that created the genre was founded by white men with very clear issues with racism, even if they did not see it that way. Pete Wentz flat ironing his Black hair and Tyler Joseph refusing to say he’s influenced by rap aren’t bugs unique to the third wave. Instead, they’re features of the genre. 

Now, I’m not writing this to ‘cancel’ emo. I love emo dearly, I still consider myself emo. It, in every wave, is my favorite genre of music. Rites of Spring, Jawbreaker, My Chemical Romance, these bands have shaped my life like no other. Through emo I have met some of my best friends, white and nonwhite alike. Emo allowed me to express my gender and sexuality freely. Emo changed my life for the better, and it continues to do so. No, I am not writing this to cancel emo, whatever that means. Instead, it is because I love the genre so much that I feel the need to point out its flaws, its shielding and harboring of racism since Dischord herself began. 

They say you should end essays like this with a call to action. Personally, I don’t know what I can say that hasn’t been reiterated a thousand times. Really, what am I supposed to say here? Stop being racist? I, like so many other people of color both in and out of the scene are tired of telling white people to do just that over and over. We are tired of seeing white people stop saying what isn’t acceptable anymore, not due to any sort of active unpacking of white supremacy on their part but simply out of a wish to not be ostracized. I am tired of going to emo spaces outside my friend groups and explaining to white thirty year olds what racism is, over and over and over again ad infinitum. I am tired of seeing white people try and take the lead on discussions of racism, whether it is to rapidly assert ‘im not racist but-‘ or to be on the opposite extreme, to jump the gun and form a dog-eat-dog circus, where the end goal is not to actually form a safe place for people of color but to prove how not racist they are. I am tired of watching white people jump on whatever they can to demonize people of color in the scene. I am tired of watching nuanced conversations about racism and complicitness in racism be overshadowed by people upset their pet white man isn’t going to kiss their other pet white man anymore. I am tired of watching children be called slurs. 

Perhaps my frustration is coming loose. It’s hard to be in the middle of all this and not be frustrated. At this point, I am disillusioned. These conversations are seemingly brought up every month, and yet, there is no systemic change. All I can say is I hope that one day, emo becomes actively hostile to racism and racists. Perhaps being aware that racism has been integral to the scene since the beginning is a good place to start. 

#*swings bat at hornets nest*

[mausinly]

Grrr cowboy!velikan thoughts, au belongs to @ghouljams, also big thanks to @reyesbignaturals for enabling me hehehe

I don't think he's exactly retired yet, more like laying low with a lot of other guys from Shadow Company. Maybe they did something just a little (not little) risky (they almost blew up all of Washington) and need to stay off the radar for a while. Since Lerch is canonically from Texas, I think it may have been his idea. He's got some of the shadows working as temporary hands while others are holed up on various plots of land in plain sight.

While Graves is busy riding bulls and being a usual showboat, I think Velikan is more dedicated to the laying low part of laying low. He's living on a small ranch, nothing more than maybe 5 acres. He's got a few horses and livestock, mainly chickens and goats because he wants things he can wrangle easily.

It takes some adjustment for him, the slow and somewhat repetitive life in a small town like this. He's so used to constantly being on the move, constantly being on guard. He didn't become the warden by half-assing his job.

But it's so quiet. He always drags himself down to the bars and rodeo arenas with the rest of the shadows, just for the white noise (and to bet on how quickly his CEO gets bucked). They must look like some kind of old western gang, all wearing black hats and bandanas over their mouths. At least there's still that familiarity. He hates to admit it, but he cares about these kids more than he wants to.

It's nice for a while, a little too nice. Laying low seems to drag out longer and longer, and he finds himself calling his little farm "home" more often than not. He starts to understand the suspicious amount of retired military here, this weirdass town has a way of luring you in and wiggling its way into your heart.

Apparently, a lot of the other shadows seem to agree because, one by one, they all begin to settle down with oddly charming and beautiful women. They start making jokes that there must be something in the water when Graves starts chasing around a pretty bronc rider.

He didn't take it all too seriously until he walked by a little stand in the market, selling jars of honey with you sitting comfortably behind the display. There's a frayed little straw hat sitting comfortably on your head and he can't help but wonder how it would look replaced by his own.

Hell, maybe there is something in the water...

#maus writes #i both love and hate writing for characters that dont have much of a personality #because i can play with them like dolls and make them whatever i want but i also want them to feel accurate #which is hard when this guys only voicelines are just his maniacal ass laughter and legit no one knows anything abt him #so im taking him and running #next cowboy post will be the introduction of his darling + meet cute #so ill actually be able to write how he acts and speaks in day to day human interaction #call of duty x reader #cod x reader #velikan x reader #velikan #velikan cod #velikan call of duty #cowboy!velikan #velikan x f!reader #cod

[gwenllian-in-the-abbey]

What do you think of Grrm's portrayal of religion?

Hi anon, this is a really interesting question, and it took me awhile to put together what I hope is a coherent answer.

For context, I think GRRM's background is important to keep in mind. George is almost exactly my parents' age and belongs to the same demographic of American anti-war ex hippies who aged into broadly liberal baby-boomers. Their radicalism has largely mellowed over the years, they may not be the most up to date on the appropriate terminology, and they tend to prioritize nonviolent solutions to systemic problems (my mom often tells me the younger generation needs to do another March on Washington). One thing liberal boomers also tend have in common is that often they grew up religious but, as they entered their 20s and went to college, broke away from the churches of their childhood. My family is full of ex-Catholic liberal boomers like George. They might have dabbled in Buddhism or Hinduism in the 70s, New Age mysticism in the 80s or 90s, and ended up settling into statements like, "I'm spiritual, but not religious." Almost invariably, they have a sort of disdain for organized religion, which they associate with a kind of yokel mentality, a place for anti-Choice anti-LGBTQ traditionalists. Although they will profess "to each his own," to the average liberal boomer, the church represents regressive values and they cannot imagine why anyone would willingly return to it. Even those who did remain religious take great pains to make it known they are not like those Christians. And to be fair, liberal boomers have a good reason to feel this way. The churches of their childhoods were not fun places for people whose own ideas and values went against post-WW2 broadly white middle class values. Unsurprisingly, SFF authors tend to fit into this category.

And this sort of bleeds into a lot of 90s SFF. You see a lot of worlds that have religion, but rarely do you have characters that are religious, and even more rarely do you have sympathetic young protagonists who are religious. You might have the occasional kindly priest or nun type, but far more often these characters will be abusive, mean spirited, or narrow minded (think of Brienne's childhood septas). Religion is often treated with the same disdain by in-world characters as it is by the authors themselves. You might even have worlds that are almost entirely secular, with vague references to "The Gods," but without any real religious traditions constructed around them (Robin Hobb's Realm of the Elderlings series, which features two vague dieties, Eda and El, who seem to have no religious traditions surrounding them whatsoever). You might have cultish religions that are actively dangerous and must be stopped, or you might have Catholic church analogues, existing in opposition to everything cool and fun. Protagonists tend to be cynical non-believer types, or they might start off as true believers and lose their religion along the way. Rarely are they allowed to have sincere and abiding faith.

And you can see a lot of this in George's writing, in the way he portrays the Faith of the Seven and other religions, and the way the fandom receives them. The Faith of the Seven is Westeros' answer to the Catholic church, but there are also the Old Gods, the faith of R'hllor, and others, often presented in opposition to each other. George himself sees religion as a divisive force, and in ASOIAF, we see religions in conflict with each other, we see them weaponized to fuel vendettas, we see them used to drive prophesies and start wars. There's a clip somewhere, of George at a panel, where he's talking about religious conflict and his take is very reminiscent of George Carlin's-- you can tell he knows the bit. "Are you really going to kill all of these people because a giant invisible guy in the sky told you too? And your giant guy in the sky is different?" George asks, receiving a round of applause from the crowd. It's a very modern view on religion, which is fair, I think. He's writing for a modern audience who have modern conceptions of the church, and he is making a deliberate point about the harm religion can do. .

What I do think is missing, or at least downplayed, are the ways in which the medieval church was really a driving cultural and social force in medieval Europe. We live in a secular society, so we have the luxury of disregarding the church in a way that medieval people did not. This is one major way in which the worldbuilding of ASOIAF departs from the real world middle ages. To portray the medieval church as a primarily regressive institution that mostly drove conflict is too simplistic. The Catholic church is what culturally unified most of western Europe into what was known as "Christendom." The clergy served political functions, such as providing an important check upon the power of medieval kings, and when the power of the church declined, despotism grew. Socially, for most western Europeans, the church was also the center of day to day life. Insofar as medieval peasants had any opportunities for leisure time and celebrations, most of these revolved around the church. The church was for centuries a driving force behind art, music, literature, and architecture, and it also performed important social functions, such as operating poorhouses and leper-houses, and providing educations for children.

And all of this was just extremely normal. Most people prayed multiple times each day, and sincerely believed in heaven a hell. The state of one's soul after death was such a real concern that the sale of indulgences-- a way that you could pay to get your dead loved ones whose souls were in purgatory into heaven more quickly-- became a major racket for the Church. I've seen the HotD fandom react to Alicent Hightower's level of devotion calling her a religious "fanatic" and I cannot stress enough how absolutely normal Alicent would have been in medieval times. This is where I blame the framing of the show more than George, because it does set Alicent's faith in opposition to Rhaenyra's seemingly more modern values, but does it in a selective way. For instance, Alicent comes off as prudish, and modern audiences hate a prude, but we never see how her faith would have certainly inspired her, as queen, to take other more progressive actions such as giving alms to the poor or bestowing her patronage upon motherhouses. In another post about the fandom perception of Valyrian culture, I talked about how this modern view of devout belief, particularly Catholicism, tends to cast anything that is presented in opposition to it as an unequivocal good, and I see this sort of rhetoric slung around the fandom a lot, "why would you defend the pseudo-Catholics who hate women??" But the pseudo-Catholics are really just normal medieval people, and they didn't hate women, they simply lived in a patriarchal society and the material conditions did not yet exist which would allow them to challenge that in any meaningful way.

#asks #faith of the seven #alicent hightower #grrm #asoiaf and religion #asoiaf

[nonotnolan]

The Great Gym Shift

Day 15 of life after the body swapping incident that affected downtown Washington DC, and life was still weird as shit.  Some people were calling it the Great Shift-- a government cover-up for a science experiment gone wrong.  I don’t think a two mile radius really deserves a “Great” moniker but I had to admit it was catchy.  Others were calling it a terrorist bioweapon meant to cause havoc across the nation’s government.  That did seem possible, but the terrorists had terrible aim if that was the case.

A few people even said it was a plan to put key politicians into younger, healthier bodies, but... I know for a fact that one isn’t true.  I was there at ground zero when the swap occurred, working as a personal trainer at the gym.  All those desirable bodies, mine included, went to some of the most pathetic white collar workers you could imagine.  Whatever happened, it was definitely an accident.

It’s been a month, and I still haven’t gotten used to my reflection.  I hope I never do, to be honest.  The government is working on getting this whole mess resolved, and I can only hope it will be sooner rather than later.  I’ve never had hair this long, and I am in desperate need a of a haircut.  Since it’s not my body, I’d have to fill out a requisition form, and I keep hoping it won’t come to that.  

One of the first things the Government did was send in the National Guard to put everyone affected into a quarantined hotel area, and then they started drowning us in regulations and paperwork.  I’m still working as a personal trainer... only now most of my clients are lazy office drones.  Those desirable bodies I mentioned?  I’m in charge of making sure their new owners keep them in shape.  I’m slowly losing my sanity.

“Mitch!  What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” I said, walking out into our shared kitchen.  Uncle Sam was putting us up in some very nice accommodations, I had to admit, but my clients-turned-roommates left a lot to be desired.

“C’mon Grady, it’s Saturday,” he said, as if that was supposed to be an answer.  I kept starting at him until he continued.  “Saturday is my self-care day, and today that means Netflix and cookies.  I don’t see what the big deal is...”

“Absolutely not,” I said, holding out my hand.  “Give me those, that is way too many calories for one serving.  We’re sharing those with the whole floor.”  He rolled his eyes and sighed at me, but at least he obeyed me.  I can’t help but feel self-conscious bossing all of these men around, especially when they’re large enough to beat me to a pulp if they knew how to leverage their strength.  The real Mitch was a lanky college intern who had no idea how to build or maintain muscle mass.  Russ would’ve had a heart attack if he was here to see even half the things Mitch wanted to do in that body.

As I walked the plate of cookies out to the common area, I couldn’t help but notice that Larry was still sitting at his room’s computer desk, shirtless and surrounded by a few wadded tissues.  Gross, but... I’ve seen Larry’s old body.  I can’t entirely blame the old pervert.  “Please tell me you didn’t stay up all night watching porn again.”

He just smiled at me, his bloodshot eyes telling me everything that I needed to know.  “So what if I did, Grady, it’s Saturday.  The fitness schedule you made for me says I don’t have to work out today, and a sleep schedule isn’t a part of the body cohabitation contract we all signed.  As long as I still eat three healthy meals today, you can’t make me do anything.  So how about giving me some privacy?”  He was right, of course.  Larry was one of my most frustrating clients, because he knew exactly how to do the bare minimum and nothing more.  Tana was one of the gym’s biggest over-achievers, so seeing his body do a complete 180 had been quite the adjustment.

I knew better than to engage with him right now-- better to save my strength for fights that I would be able to win.  I set the cookies down in our shared kitchen, waved at a few of the other guys, and retreated back to the bedroom I shared with one other man.

Simon smiled at me, and I could feel my frustrations starting to lift away.  “Good morning, Grady.  Rough start?” he asked, looking up from his book.  Simon was a licensed psychologist who happened to be at a nearby Industry Convention when the Great Shift happened, and I was so glad to have his assistance dealing with all of the heated emotions that boiled over during the aftermath.  Furthermore, Simon had ended up in my body.  It was a relief to know that my body was being controlled by someone responsible, even if seeing myself each day came with its own set of weird situations.

"You have no idea,” I said, shaking my head.  “Or rather, you have an exact idea, because you’ve also had to deal with those guys.  I don’t suppose you would be up for some... stress release?” I asked, peeling off my tank top and tossing it onto the floor.

He laughed, quickly setting aside his book and his glasses.  “In this body?  Always!”  Was it weird that I was having sex with my own body?  Maybe, but honestly, our daily hookups felt like one of the least weird things about this whole mess.  I always knew I was an attractive man, and I’ve always been attracted to anyone who keeps themselves healthy, regardless of gender.  Presumably that’s how Simon now felt-- I know that ever since I’ve been in this new Twink body, I have only felt attraction for hairy men.  Sexual attraction seemed to follow the body, not the inhabitant.

“Do you ever worry that we’re complicating things?” Simon asked.  “For whenever the government is able to switch everyone back into the right bodies, I mean.  They’ve told our loved ones that we’re in quarantine, but... how can we go back to normal life when this is all over?”  I understood where he was coming from-- his real body was at least twenty years older, and while he didn’t like sharing too much about his life, I’d gotten the impression he had a wife and maybe a few grandkids waiting for him back home.

Simon clearly had a tendency to overthink everything, and I was now used to offering friendly advice while his warm load was still inside of me.  “Honestly, I think we’re dealing with a stressful situation, and we’re all just coping however we can.  There’s nothing wrong with two consenting adults having sex.  And I don’t know about you, but... if I didn’t try to get a wide range of experiences inside of this temporary body, I think I’d regret the missed opportunity forever.”

He smiled at me.  “I suppose you’re right,” he said, as he sipped on cheap hotel coffee.  “’In sickness or in health’ wasn’t really meant to cover something so impossible.  And I’d rather seek forgiveness than forever ponder what might have been.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said, smiling back at him.  I think we both knew it was a bit selfish, but how else could we be expected to process these strange new desires?  Yeah, I guess I felt a bit guilty having sex with someone other than my girlfriend back home, but... when else would I ever get an opportunity to have sex with myself?  I don’t think there is a person alive who could blame me.

#male body swap #gay body swap #after the swap #muscle jock #great shift

[abybweisse]

Blood Work (p1), Elitism, transmutation, and religious fear

⚠️ long post ⚠️

So, I now have a copy of Blood Work: A Tale of Medicine and Murder in the Scientific Revolution, by Holly Tucker. It's a reference for Yana-san, as she mentioned it in her old tuna.be blog around the start of the blue arc.

I see in the list of important people a mention of the real Dr. Moreau, and there's a later chapter about chimeras... so I know I'll be talking about that some, over this series of posts.

It's important here, too, because when researchers were first attempting blood transfusions in the 17th century, people were terrified about receiving blood from animals, like sheep and cattle. They thought that animal blood would transmute humans into human-animal hybrids. Even in the 20th century, some white people were terrified of receiving blood from black people, because they thought the blood could effect the race of their future children or grandchildren. Nonsense, of course, but they didn't understand.

17th century blood transfusions were generally performed by taking blood from a lamb or a calf. The barbers/physicians/researchers had no clue about blood types. Jean-Baptiste Denis successfully transfused blood from a lamb into a teenage patient. Then he made several successful attempts at transfusing from a calf to a "madman". The guy later died, and Denis was blamed. Turns out some doctors who didn't want him to succeed had actually poisoned that second subject with arsenic.

It wasn't even a matter of those physicians wanting his experiments to fail while theirs worked; no, they simply didn't want blood transfusions to become a practice. They were afraid of transmutation from animal blood, and they were afraid of what animal-to-human blood transfusions would reveal about humanity -- that we are truly just animals, too. The trial against Denis ended research into blood transfusions for about 150 years.

Blood types were still unknown in the late 18th century, when a physician wanted to attempt to revive George Washington's largely exsanguinated corpse with a transfusion of lamb's blood. FYI, he died on a December 14th, just like Prince Albert. His family refused the offer only because they feared sullying his body with animal blood, and they insisted his body must be left untainted and wholly together for him to be properly received into heaven. Such was the continued lack of understanding. Yana-san might have given Undertaker the idea to use blood transfusions in conjunction with other techniques for the reanimating and revival process from the account of what that physician wanted to do to Washington.

When blood transfusion research was in full swing, in the 19th century, they were starting to piece together the idea of blood groups, but they still didn't quite know about things like universal whole blood donor and universal whole blood recipient. There was a strong elitist element to this, so they generally thought like could only be compatible with like. They also still saw non-human blood as inferior, even if it might be compatible. The best compatibility was expected between twins and then between close relatives.

I have a feeling that Yana-san has played around with this bias, which would explain why real Ciel is only receiving AB (Sirius) blood, Canopus B, Vega O, and Polaris A. All those people at Sphere Music Hall are led to believe they are being treated as equals, when they are in fact being split up into a caste system where some "stars" are of a higher magnitude than others. And, at times, Blavat Sky and others have made it clear they see some blood types as being less worthy than others. By extension, some people are treated as less worthy. Blavat seems to realize that Sirius can receive blood from other blood types, because he gives "leftovers" of Vega and Polaris blood to the Sirius renal patients. It's possible that real Ciel doesn't know he can have any type of whole blood, but I suspect he knows and simply doesn't think anything else is good enough for him.

I'd also like to mention Snake and Finny here, since we know Finny was injected with something to increase his strength and other traits. Then we see Snake with various attributes that are associated with snakes. In either case (or both) we could be dealing with transmutation. It's not realistic in our world, but it might very well be possible in theirs. Each of them might have been injected with chemical cocktails derived from other animals: Snake from snakes and Finny from perhaps a few completely different species.

We now know Snake wasn't born a snake and turned into a human, but there's nothing to say he wasn't born human and "adulterated" with snake traits. There's also the weird story the freak show attendant claims: human mother and snake father. Maybe not an actual snake as his father but more like his mother being injected with snake blood or something... and that producing a hybrid child. Again, not what we'd consider possible, but the Kuroverse plays by different rules.

One other aspect I want to touch on in this post: Othello's and Grelle's fears regarding the very nature of human souls and existence. This is a form of religious fear, not too different from what George Washington's family feared. His family feared he wouldn't be accepted into heaven, while these two reapers fear humans might no longer even need souls, and that heaven may no longer matter to them. What would that mean for the existence of reapers, when their supposed salvation requires them to keep collecting souls?

Well, I'll probably talk about bias and fear again, as well as these other issues, but I'll stop here... for now.

#black butler #kuroshitsuji #blood work #blood transfusion #blood type #research #medical advancements #reference material #books #holly tucker #yana toboso #ciel phantomhive #real ciel #dr moreau #chimeras #othello #grell sutcliff #grelle sutcliff #observation #feb 20 2024 #long post #long reads #part one #part 1

[jacevelaryonswife]

Maybe I just wanna be yours

Even though he were handsome and kind, you were successful in avoiding fantasizing about Billy, after all, what is the possibility of seeing him again?

∴pairing: Billy Washington x Fem!reader

∴warnings and a note: fluffy and smut, english is not my first language. This shot was made for this request. 2,8k

ewanverse characters

Your routine was well defined. You would wake up early to work as a waitress at a local restaurant, which worked in the morning until late and was open for breakfasts and lunches, then you would come home and study for a few hours, to finally spend the rest of the day with your mother. Even smaller and working hours less than the other establishments, the restaurant was quite old, classic and well located, with a satisfactory flow of customers every day. It was not exactly what you imagined for your life, but it was a good job, with a good salary and close to your home, a real rarity to find. When the financial situation of your house stabilized, you planned to take a vocational course or a college, but so far you hadn’t made up your mind. While this didn’t happen, you enjoyed the happiness that life provided you, whether it was staying at home on lazy days, taking some walks, buying things, taking advantage of the day off or trying to find some nice guy, but the latter was more of a torment than a happiness in fact.

You've had one night stands and some failed attempts at romance, but you've never found a minimally decent guy to be ideal. You see, you were demanding, but you knew how to be flexible in your choices and yet immense bad luck seemed to haunt your love life. Maybe the mistake was in you after all, maybe you weren't ideal for anyone, not even for the guy who made you pay the dinner bill and blamed you for not being able to make you cum.

No, heavens! He was an asshole, idiot and profiteer, you deserved more than that asshole! But so many disappointments made you stop looking for someone.

Your life was followed the way it was in recent months, a good routine and a well-deserved rest, without many big emotions and weekly happiness in small things, until everything changed when he, Billy, showed up.

An attitude that constantly embarrassed you was to imagine your life with some clients you served, it was pathetic and needy, but you couldn't contain yourself sometimes. Because of the last events of your life, you stopped paying attention to them, but then a tall and slender figure entered a calmer moment of the day, with dirty blonde hair and such beautiful blue eyes. You anticipated to serve him, since your co-worker was with two other desks, greeting him with a simple smile without showing your teeth. “Hello, welcome to Little Jim, I will be in charge of your table. If you need anything, just call,” you said.

“Thank you,” he said softly, returning the smile.

To your surprise, your boss had known him for some time — from what you listened discreetly.

"Billy, how are you, lad? What about Lana? It's been so long since I've seen you two," Jay said with one hand on his shoulder.

"She's fine, you know, a lot at work," he, Billy, replied.

“What about you? Did you find something nice? Something with computers, huh? It's the job of your young people's dream."

Billy lowered his head with a small weak smile. “I got a nice job, the last few years have been a little tough but I managed to reverse the situation,” he pouted.

"You deserve it, you're a good boy and you have the same blood as your sister. Feel free here, who is serving you?"

You pretended to be waiting for the order from the other table as you turned to disguise yourself, but soon heard your name being called by you with a large amount of white threads and looked at him in false curiosity as you walked to his side.

"Take good care of my lad Billy, he's a special customer!" He said playful.

“I will, don't worry,” you smiled at both of them, but even more at Billy, who returned your gesture with sweetness and shyness.

Even though he were handsome and kind, you were successful in avoiding fantasizing about Billy, after all, what is the possibility of seeing him again?

Surprisingly you was discharged, since approximately five days later he returned to the restaurant, but this time he was attended by Nancy, your co-worker and another single waitress. Even busy, you looked at him a few times and caught him stealing glances at you too, causing a shy smile on both of you. No words were exchanged between you that day, but the fate seemed to reserve good things, since three days later he appeared again, only at the time you were closing. You knew you should say goodbye to your boss and leave, but Billy looked so handsome with his clean hair and trimmed beard...

You wanted him to talk to something, anything in your direction.

And then, when you signaled to your boss that you were on your way to catch the bus, he apparently had another idea.

"Billy, are you still living in the same apartment?" He asked, stating that you lived on his own streets. Oh... he lived near...

Mm.

No, stop.

While you were daydreaming about the fact, your boss was already planning some things, such as a possible ride, until you realized it. "Oh no, you don't have to bother!"

"It's not a problem, I'm going home anyway."

Although you was reluctant to accept it, Jay insisted that you go. It would be a hand in the wheel and an economy in your money, what could go wrong? As you got into the car, your old boss blinked suggestively at Billy, making him blush and lower his head in shame. What was better than a cupid?

“Thank you for the ride, it's very kind of you,” you said.

“You're welcome, it's no problem,” he said softly. "So... how long have you been working for Jay?" He tried.

“A few months ago. It's a good job, and he's a good boss,” you answered sympathetically. "And you, how long have you known him?"

"Since I was a kid, he's been a friend of my family."

"Oh, that's good."

The desire to look for another subject was mutual, as well as the shy silence that followed, neither of them confident in asking something particular from the other, so Billy asked another comprehensive question.

"Have you lived here for a long time?"

You watched him calmly, although your heart was a little racing. "A few years ago, not many, we lived somewhere else but things got a little difficult and we need to move."

“I understand,” he contemplated your answer.

"What about you?"

“I've always lived in the region, but I've been living alone for some time,” he replied.

Again the silence gained strength, only more comfortable than before since neither of you were so nervous. However, your side that avoided fantasizing about the beautiful blonde and his incredibly big hands? You can forget it. You were already thinking about him and his pleasant smell, and luckily for him, he remembered Jay's suggestive wink and decided to act when he arrived at your apartment.

“Thank you again,” you said with a shy smile.

"You're welcome, so, would you like to go out for coffee someday?" Billy asked slowly. Oh, how he hated these situations! His self-esteem was not a big deal and receiving a no from a beautiful girl was not pleasant, but then life - and you - seemed to smile at him.

"I'd love to go out with you. But I'm not a big fan of coffee,” you timidly confessed.

Heavens, the little smile he showed you was so cute and sweet, as if your answer had illuminated his whole life. "So what do you suggest?

“Can you give me your number so we can arrange it?"

“Sure,” he gave you the number and his full name. Billy Washington. You had a date with Billy Washington at the weekend at a cute local desserts place that you always wanted to go to. Your mind became restless when you got home, looking for him immediately on social networks to learn more about him. His Instagram didn’t have so much actionable information and the last update was about a year, Facebook was a little more revealing about some curiosities about his age and education — Twitter was out of the question. He was older than you, which caused a different excitement in your belly. But even with your efforts to find out things about your date, that night Billy and you began to chat by messages, starting a routine where curiosities about you were exchanged.

The anxiety built on your body had peaks and falls over the days, disturbing your thoughts. How should you go? Should you really go? After so many loving disappointments your mind and heart were not the most hopeful in a new endeavor, but the fire and the desire to find a love and be found by it were still lit in you. That's why you chose your best products to get ready that day, starting with a fragrant soap for the bath, the hair care kit, waxing cream, moisturizer and body oil, perfume and makeup. You were beautiful and serene, and you knew you would cry if things went wrong this time.

Luckily for you, Billy was extremely punctual. Quickly saying goodbye to your mother and making sure you would send her some messages to say you was fine, you greeted him when you saw him wait in front of the car.

“Hi,” your smile was wider than usual.

“Hi. You look pretty,” he said in a soft voice, opening the car door for you to enter.

“Thank you, you too.”

Maybe fate intended to smile at you, since from the moment you chose the table the dialogue was present at full speed. He talked about his sister's work in the bomb squad, his own work in information technology, some stories of his life and his tastes. You did the same, talking about your reality, your dreams, what you wanted to conquer and the things you found happiness. There was no pattern of dialogue, since at one hour he was telling about his uncle who named his dogs with atypical names, followed by you telling how you fell on your first day of employment.

At the end of each report there was a gaze full of expectation on both sides, an unspoken suggestion. Maybe he was the guy. But it was you who took the first step.

"I wanted to ask something. Doesn't it bother you to go out with someone younger?" Your voice was low and uncertain.

"Doesn't it bother you to go out with someone older?" He answered with another question.

“No, it doesn't bother you,” you said.

"Neither me."

It was already night when you asked for the bill and he fervently insisted to pay, holding your waist on the way back to the car. Your next step was bold, preventing him from opening the door for you as he leaned against it and gently pulled it by the hand to stand in front of you.

“I had a lot of fun today,” you leaned your two hands gently on his chest.

"Me too," he circled your waist, "but you don't have to do that if you don't want to."

A bold smile shone on your face before saying, "I want to. And you?"

He smiled too.

“Me too.”

Your lips touched each other with sweet tenderness, soft and shy as you tasted each other quickly.

"Do you want to come home with me?"

He didn't have to make an effort to convince you to say yes.

Just a few seconds after the apartment door closed, Billy traced his thumb over your lower lip before you kissed again, more intense than before. You held both sides of his head and leaned on his soft lips, returning the anxious desire to prove it. The wet and gentle kiss made you float in his arms, making it easy for him to take your body to the room to undress you without haste, passing his long fingers through each exposed piece of skin. You closed your eyes when you felt the steaming sensation of tongues and teeth in your neck, allowing yourself to sigh loudly. His hands kneaded your naked breasts and the flesh of your ass while diving into your neck, flooding yout mind with such delicious sensations.

“Let me take it off,” you said while holding the hem of his shirt, getting space to grope his deliciously defined chest and with some hair. God, he was so handsome.

You leaned over to return the kisses on his soft chest, sucking the pink areolas to provoke him — and apparently it worked, as the tightness on your waist got sharper. He moaned softly when you spanned him over your pants, closing your eyes and leaving erotic sounds with the intimate massage received. Your hands were masturbating him and your mouth tasting his abdomen were making him warm and needy, making him move away against his taste to remove his pants, shoes and socks.

He pulled you for a messy and wet kiss, sucking your tongue and tasting your tasty lips. He squeezed your ass and waist while depositing your body on the bed, retreating to pick up the condom package in the nightstand drawer.

You felt in the clouds when kisses were planted on your inner thighs, contributing to the accumulation of moisture in your flower.

“Your skin is so soft,” he purred satisfied.

“Mmm. Thank you,” your voice was sly.

And then, your panties were removed to expose your needy intimacy and bright entrance, making his mouth water while more kisses were destined to his belly. “You’re so damn beautiful,”

“You too,” you said out of breath. The wet and loving trail followed your breasts, where he sucked, licked and nibbled like a hungry and spoiled man, making you purr like a cat and your pussy squeeze for him. Your legs caged him and you pulled him for a terrifying kiss full of tongue and teeth crashing, you wanted him so much, you needed him so much. Your hand pulled his beautiful hair while gently scratching the light skin of his shoulder, making him moan and grind against your pussy. “Billy,” you sighed expectantly, every vein of your body burning in eagerness to receive you.

He moved away weakly to remove the last piece of his body and put on the condom, smoothing your leg before adjusting to your entrance. Your eyes closed when he felt him enter and a moan left your throat in the sensation. Billy was slow to push on you, but just as noisy. He held your thighs before moving gradually, at a deliciously slow and constant pace, making you relax and squeeze on his perfect cock.

“Mmm Billy.”

He moaned deeply as he leaned over your body to capture your lips in a quick and superficial kiss, sinking into your neck as he continued to slowly fuck your body. Your legs caged him when the friction of their bodies became too terrifying to hold, so stupidly good to be real, so affectionate and hot that it made you shipwreck with pleasure. His speed increased when you started to squeeze him more intensely, getting lost in yous body and in your hot and wet grip.

"So good… fuck.”he praised you close to your ear, contributing to the construction of your majestic peak that made you moan loudly and twitch belos him with fire burning your body and clear lights blinding your sight. You loved him, it was almost certain — or the orgasm made you believe it.

“I'm close,” he warned breathlessly and with wandering movements before cumming with a deep moan, weighing a little on your body, which you willingly left.

You smiled satisfied and happy for the amazing sex and for the whole set of the night, but a weight on your chest appeared soon after to harm your peace. What if that was all he wanted? Just one night. Oh no, please don't! How should you approach the subject without spoiling the most pleasant weather? Luckily for you, he decided to start.

"Did you like it?" A classic question asked when he rolled to your side after discarding the condom.

“Yes, I did, I liked our day today,” you confessed.

"Me too," he brought you to his chest, "could become common, us you know," he suggested with expectation.

"Do you want it too?" Your eyes shone when he asked, "because I would love to. Us."

Billy smiled, cradling you even closer, his eyes as bright as yours.

"It's a mach, then."

———————————

ewanverse taglist: @aemonds-fire @partypoison00 @schniiipsel @fan-godess

general: @chompchompluke @kravitzwhore @partypoison00

#billy washington #billy washington x you #billy washington x reader #trigger point #smut #billy washington smut #fem!reader #Billy Washington x fem!reader #ewanverse

[bisamwilson]

It’s about as cool as it gets in Louisiana most days—a brisk fifty-two—and Sam’s bundled up like he’s back in Washington, DC in the middle of January. 

All those years away from home, and he still never had managed to get used to the cold.

Bucky’s only in a slightly thicker leather jacket, lined with some kind of fleece, mostly because the boys had warned him to bundle up. Bucky’s sweating now, but Sam knows their earnestness in trying to keep him warm means he’ll keep the jacket on all night, the sheer amount of heat his body puts off like a furnace be damned. 

It’s become a nightly routine, these walks, first starting during warm, wet, and hazy summer nights and continuing on even now, when the sun dips past the horizon entirely too early each afternoon. They never stray far from home, walk mostly in laps near the house, but tonight, Sam takes Bucky’s hand and leads them out a little farther. 

The Christmas lights are out on all the houses Sam knows are going to put them up, and he’s feeling a little nostalgic. 

Nostalgic enough to wander over to the old house nearby that he’d absolutely adored as a child, now worn down and unlivable, marred by years of neglect and abandonment and storm damage. A years-old “for sale” sign sits in the yard, weather-worn and illegible. 

Sam stops just in front of the house—a tall, dark silhouette amidst all the bright red, green, and white lights around it—and smiles. 

“I was convinced I was gonna live in that house one day,” he says, a little wistful. “Slightly older couple owned it back then, a Mr. and Mrs. Jackson. You’d never seen two people so in love, maybe other than my own folks. They’d invite us over for dinner after church sometimes—said it was a thank you for a sermon well delivered—and Mrs. Jackson always had it decorated so lovingly. They didn’t have any children back then—never had any at all actually—so there was no one to leave it to, and I’d always hoped I’d be able to buy after they moved elsewhere, wherever that might have been.”

Sam sighs, shrugging his shoulders and running a hand over the overgrown fence. “I was already out of Delacroix when Mr. Jackson passed, about a year after his wife, and no one else ever picked it up. Now it looks like this.”

Bucky squeezes his hand and Sam takes that as a cue to turn away from the old house and to his boyfriend, swinging their intertwined palms as he pulls them forward again on their walk. 

“A shame,” he says as they walk away, “what it looks like now. Mrs. Jackson’d be heartbroken.”

Five months later, almost to the day, Bucky asks to go for a walk in the middle of the afternoon. 

It’s rainy, like it always is in May, and Sam gives him a strange look while he gestures to the outside, the rain coming down in a constant, heavy stream, loud on the roof of the house. “In this weather?”

Bucky shrugs, a little sheepish. “I’ve got an umbrella?”

Sam’s not too keen about getting wet because of Bucky in the not-so-fun way, but Bucky’s got a heightened nervousness about him that Sam hasn’t really seen since the first time he asked him to dinner as something other than just a couple of guys, so he begrudgingly grabs his own umbrella and opens the door, gesturing for Bucky to leave first. 

To his surprise, they start out on their normal route, and Sam’s a little confused as to what’s got Bucky so on edge, outside of the rain. 

When he takes a slight turn off their normal path, Sam thinks they might be getting somewhere. 

They come to a very water-logged stop right in front of the old Jackson house, and Bucky’s anxious nervousness disappears abruptly, replaced by almost deadly stillness. 

“Why are we here, Buck?” Sam half-shouts, doing his best to be heard over the roaring of the rain. 

In answer, Bucky just pushes open the gate, the latch having broken probably a decade ago, and leads Sam up to the front porch. 

There’s holes in the little roof above the porch, and it’s only slightly less rainy under it than it is outside of it, but Sam closes his umbrella anyway when he sees Bucky do the same. He waits for Bucky to explain why they’re there, but Bucky just looks around the house, his fist opening and closing again—his telltale fidget—so Sam asks again.

“Why are we here?”

“I got pre-approved for a loan,” is all Bucky says, looking around the old place and fixing his eyes on one of the holes in the porch roof. “Haven’t put an offer on this place yet, thought I should talk with you first even though you were okay with me buying the house on my own, but I’m good for it if you want it.” He scratches behind his ear, his frame entirely too small for someone normally so large. “You said you always wanted to live here, right?”

Sam doesn’t answer, a little too stunned to speak both by the thought of all the work this house needs and by the way his heart is so full to bursting when he thinks about getting to live in it. 

Bucky takes his silence as cue to keep talking, his words a little more frantic than they were before. “I’ve always been good with my hands, you know? I wanted a bit of a fixer upper in the first place, even if this is more than I’d imagined. But I can make it just how you imagined, sweetheart, let you pick out the paint and the crown molding and everything just how you wanted it growing up. Can even make some of the furniture if you can’t find what you want anywhere. 

“And it wouldn’t all be me, you know? I’m saving a lot on a down payment and a mortgage since this house is all worn down, so I can hire some contractors for things as we need. Least to make it livable quicker, make it a house. But I want to make it a home myself, sweetheart. Make it our home. What do you think?”

Sam’s quiet for long enough Bucky goes still again, and the eerie lack of movement is enough to shock him out of his reverie. It’s his turn to not answer Bucky’s question. “Dance with me?”

Bucky blinks. “What?”

Sam takes his hands in his, guides them around his waist. He places his own around Bucky’s shoulders. “Mrs. Jackson used to open up the windows on rainy days. Her record player was just beneath it, and her and Mr. Jackson would put on some oldies and dance the whole rainy day away right on this porch. Louis Armstrong was always her favorite.” He starts to sway with the music, Bucky following suit, and raises up on his toes just enough to kiss Bucky solidly on the cheek. “Thought we should continue on with the tradition if it’s gonna be our house now.”

“Our house,” Bucky whispers, like a dream, as rain steadily pours down on top of them whenever they happen to sway underneath a hole in the roof. 

“The dining room’s going to be green,” Sam says with certainty, remembering how much he’d loved the color when Mrs. Jackson had it painted one year, citing a want for something new, something fresh. 

Bucky doesn’t answer, just tilts his head up to feel the rain on his brow before he kisses Sam’s droplet-laden eyelids. Sam hums a few notes of “A Kiss To Build a Dream On,” and feels Mrs. Jackson’s approval in the warm Louisiana breeze. 

Three months later, when the house is fixed enough to at least be lived in, the first thing Bucky does is buy green paint.

(also on ao3, post dividers found here)

#sambucky #onlysambucky #otp: i’m coming with you #only sambucky #sambucky fic #sambucky fanfic #sambucky fanfiction #sambucky fic rec #winterfalcon #buckysam #sam wilson x bucky barnes #bucky barnes x sam wilson #sam wilson #bucky barnes #marvel #mcu #the falcon and the winter soldier #tfatws #mak writes #this was inspired by yesterday's viewing of it's a wonderful life which is truly one of the best holiday movies ever made

[fiapartridge]

dumb + dumber (that’s what gabe calls them, but they’re both equally dumb)

all i can picture is they’re playing trivia and both say the wildest, most incorrect answer to a difficult and grin at each other like they’re right

(no one will tell them that’s severely wrong, because they love how excited they got over knowing the answer)

bye this is so fucking funny

gabe and amelia would be on one team, ryan + grumpy (shoutout @owenpowpow love her au) on their team, drew and his random date (he's got a new girl every week - he's trying his best), and then daisy and will - they're all playing trivia together

gabe's reading the question for daisy and will and he's like “who invented the lightbulb?”

and daisy immediately shoots up off the couch “OH! IT WAS THE GUY-“

will's nodding his head as if he understands “THE GUY, YEAH!”

“THE GUY… WITH THE… THE OLD GUY!” daisy shouts

will's like ohhhh him! “YEAH, YEAH- AND HE HAS THAT LIKE BALD SPOT-“

“NO, THE OTHER OLD GUY!”

everyone else is like wtf are they talking about??

“OHHH, NOT THE GUY WITH THE GLASSES” will and daisy's brain is one. like they have the same exact brain cells. it's just one big pile of mush

“NOT THE GLASSES GUY BUT THE GUY WITH THE WHITE HAIR”

“OH SHIT! YEAH IT HAS TO BE HIM!” will's on the couch smiling like an idiot while he's watching daisy jump around trying to come up with the guy's name

gabe's whispering to amelia like “okay, so they’re either thinking albert einstein or benjamin franklin?”

“okay, but ben franklin has glasses so i don’t think they’re taking that route” amelia is like so into this

“WITH THE- WITH THE BIG NOSE!” daisy's pointing at her own nose as if they are remotely comparable

will claps his hands “BIG NOSE! ITS HIM!”

gabe's laughing so hard “okay, your guys’ time ended a long time ago, what’d you guys get?”

daisy's smirking at will “it's obvious, cmon"

will's rolling his eyes "you couldn't have given us an easier question"

and in fucking unision, their asses say “GEORGE WASHINGTON!”

everyone is doubling over in laughter, not a dry eye in the fucking living room

gabe's nodding + he's trying to recollect himself “… um, yeah. yeah, it was him. it was… george washington who… invented the lightbulb.”

will and daisy are high-fiving and daisy's smiling so big - they're so confident in their answer and they're like shouting “I KNEW IT! WE'RE SO GOOD AT THIS.”

and amelia's chin is on gabe's shoulder whispering to him “you ever gonna tell them it's thomas edison?”

he's shaking his head “nah, let’s let dumb and dumber be happy for a bit before we tell them.”

they're still shouting to this day

#perreault!sister x will smith

[qqueenofhades]

Watching the evolution of the Biden administration is honestly sad tbh. He began with his whole bipartisan schtick, trying to play buddy with the Republicans, and was very much like, "Trump is gone now we can all be friends!!!" And then after he eventually came to the sad understanding that they've all been way to radicalized, now he's like "screw the MAGA crowd. Here's some student loan debt relief and btw marijuana offenses are being pardoned." Like the guy was forced left by the maga.

I mean, why is it sad? He wasn't wrong to hope that the Republicans would decide to un-crazy themselves (unrealistic, perhaps, but still). Biden is a career politician who has worked in Washington and with both parties for almost 50 years, and he knows that this current climate of frothing fascist hate and violence is neither normal or admirable. Of course he wanted to pull back on it, for the sake of the country, but when that proved impossible, he was willing to adapt, to change his tactics, and become much more willing to go it alone. See his promise that if Dems hold the House and get 2 more senators to overcome the odious Manchin and Sinema, the first thing he will do is push for a nationwide restoration of abortion protections, and that is the first bill he will sign. That means that he is willing to say not only "fuck you SCOTUS," but "we will get rid of the filibuster and pass it that way, with only Democratic support." Because it is sure as hell not going to get a single Republican vote, so once Manchin/Sinema are out of the way and can't play their stupid games, we would be in business.

Biden has likewise promised to reintroduce a national assault weapons ban, which would likewise be HUGE, and in both cases, these are not small-time, creep-around-the-edges measures. I mean, don't we all want him to keep moving left, rather than stubbornly continuing to pretend that it's possible to govern from a place of milquetoast moderate centrism? It's admirable that a 79-year-old white guy from Delaware has in fact been willing to go "fuck the Republicans, they're crazy so I guess it's time for Full Dark Brandon" as quickly as he has. That, in my opinion, is a good thing and should be encouraged, not sad. Sad because they're crazy and dangerous, yes, but at least Biden seems to finally grasp the full urgency of the moment and be willing to take all measures to meet it, including the ones that he himself previously considered to be off the table.

#anonymous #ask #politics for ts

[favescandis]

new interview with Entertainment Weekly: Stellan Skarsgård gave his Andor speech 10 times before he was happy

The Swedish actor opens up joining the Star Wars galaxy and building a revolution as Luthen Rael

By Devan Coggan June 15, 2023 at 10:00 AM EDT

Star Wars has always dealt in archetypes — the wizened mentor, the scoundrel with a heart of gold, the wide-eyed farm boy destined for greatness. But Andor introduces a far more complex character, one unlike any we've ever seen before.

Stellan Skarsgård plays Luthen Rael, a hardened freedom fighter and early architect of the Rebel Alliance. When the series begins, Cassian Andor (Diego Luna) is still taking his first steps toward revolution. But Luthen has already spent years in the trenches, abandoning all personal attachments to try and kickstart the fight against the Empire. On Coruscant, he poses as a wealthy antiques dealer, donning a wig and peddling trinkets to the upper class — but he's secretly building a revolution, recruiting allies around the galaxy.

Star Wars has long positioned the Rebel Alliance as the good guys, the knights in shining armor determined to fight the Empire's fascism and cruelty. But Luthen is proof that revolution is rarely so black and white: He's willing to sacrifice anything — and anyone — to destroy the Empire.

The 72-year-old Skarsgård is no stranger to massive, otherworldly franchises, starring in Marvel's Thor movies and playing the villainous Baron Harkonnen in Dune. But the Swedish actor shines as Luthen, and he's since earned Emmy buzz for his weary yet determined performance. He plays Luthen with a single-minded intensity that's usually reserved for Star Wars villains, and he delivers Andor's most moving speech, explaining how he's burned his life to make a sunrise he knows he'll never see.

In an exclusive interview, Skarsgård spoke to EW's Dagobah Dispatch podcast about joining a galaxy far, far away. Here, he opens up about how he approached the morally complex Luthen — from that "tense" monologue to the joys of wearing wigs.

ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY: Take me back to the beginning. How was this character pitched to you?

STELLAN SKARSGÅRD: Tony Gilroy pitched it to me. He himself was a very great reason for me to take it. He pitched it and said he was going to make a story that is more real than the others. I know him and his writing, and every scene has an urgency to it. Every scene has a great tension to it. I got to read the first three or four episodes, so it was not a big question. And I said yes.

Luthen is a fascinating character. He's so driven and committed to the Rebel cause, at the expense of everything else in his life. What was it about him that you found interesting?

As an actor, it's interesting to play this guy who lives a double life and to make two different characters out of one. That was interesting for me, but he's interesting as well because he is extreme. He's like Che Guevara or the Rote Armee Fraktion in Germany or any terrorists, really. But also, as a revolutionary, he is like George Washington. So, he's got all those ingredients that make him very exciting. He has this conflict between doing the right thing and also being able to kill for the right thing.

You talked about how he lives this double life, and he really is a shape-shifter. We see him put on his wig, and he can suddenly become the shopkeeper from Coruscant. What interested you about the way he literally transforms?

Well, it was very funny. It's a great thing for an actor to do, to be able to play two characters at the same time. But I also love wigs! [Laughs] I think it's fantastic to put a wig on and be someone else.

One of my favorite moments in the season is that speech that Luthen gives, where he talks about why he does what he does. There's that incredible line about burning his life to make a sunrise he'll never see. What do you remember most from filming that scene?

I mean, of course I knew I had a speech that was very well written, and it was probably one of the best scenes in the season. And I worked on it. When we shot it, somehow I was tense. I think I said, "Let's go again, let's go again." I think I did it 10 times in a row, very fast, right on top of each other. 10 times, like "Go, go, go." And then it was good. Then, I was satisfied, and the director was satisfied.

Oh wow. It really is this intense moment.

Yeah, it was very intense.

I've spoken to Tony Gilroy and some of the cast, and they've all talked about the production design on Andor and how big the sets are. What was it like for you to walk around those sets and be in the Star Wars universe like that?

Well, I was very happy to be in that kind of Star Wars universe and not like in many films, where you're just in the world of green screens. Because it affects you physically when you have the set. You can't deny that. It was the same thing with the sets on Dune. They are physically there, these enormous sets, and you feel it in your body. You move differently. We had all of Ferrix built up as this city. It's very exciting.

Was there a day on set where you really felt like, "Oh my gosh, I'm in Star Wars?"

No, but I was happy that I had my own spaceship. I've lacked that in my career so far.

What's that like to get to pilot a spaceship? What's it like behind the controls?

[Laughs] You're like 10 years old when you sit down behind the controls. You become serious, and you turn the wheel and push the buttons and stuff. You become very silly, but it's very fun.

Tell me a little bit about working with Diego Luna on this. There are some really beautiful, intense scenes between the two of you.

He was also a reason for me to take the job. We met several years ago. We were supposed to do a film about football, but it didn't happen — not with us. It sort of broke down. So I've been waiting for him to do a film with me again. And I love the fellow. He's a true actor, and he's a true man.

I also love the scenes with you and Genevieve O'Reilly, where Mon Mothma comes to Luthen's shop. What do you remember most about filming those scenes with her?

I'm playing the Coruscant character there, which is much more flamboyant. But the first scene she entered, she came with this great limousine she has, flying in. She was much more sexy and beautiful, and she took over the space much more than I realized than she had ever done in the films. And then, of course, she has a great humor, so we had a lot of fun doing that.

There's a lot of really great actors that I met all the time there. It's so well cast. I had a lot of fun.

I know season 2 is in the works. How's that been going?

That's going great. I mean, Tony Gilroy has gone on strike, as of the first of May. He finished the scripts right on the day, and then he shut off the phone and disappeared into a picket line somewhere. So, we'll see. He claims that the [series] is director-proof and actor-proof, which means that it can't be destroyed. [Laughs] We'll see if it works.

Well, I can't wait to see what you guys have up your sleeves and where this story goes.

It'll be lovely. But I can't tell you, I'm afraid! [Laughs]

For more from Skarsgård, as well as exclusive interviews with Tony Gilroy, Diego Luna, and more, listen to EW's Star Wars podcast, Dagobah Dispatch.

#Stellan Skarsgård #Stellan Skarsgard #Andor #Luthen Rael #Entertainment Weekly

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

I know the A-Town writers would have no way of knowing about the Elimist, Crayak, the Drode, etc. but do they somehow have stand-ins anyway?

[For those of you just tuning in: A-Town is the shitty postwar sitcom inspired by the life of Jake Berenson, to the eternal annoyance of Jake Berenson.]

Hmmmm. I think places where the writers not knowing about the Ellimist and Crayak would come up:

Due to misinterpretations of news reports at the time, the fauximorphs meet not!Elfangor because they snuck into the construction site to set off illegal fireworks. In this version of events, the fireworks attract the attention of an alien ship that lands veeery far away (or is just very small) and issues a telepathic voice telling the kids they have to touch the green dodecahedron that's lying on the ground if they want to save the planet. Brandon and his friends do this without question, don't ask how the dodecahedron got there, and then point up in the sky at what's meant to be the ship flying away.

There's an educational episode where a different alien, in a spaceship disguised as a phone booth, takes the kids back in time to learn about U.S. history. Due to budget constraints, this mostly consists of various historical figures walking up to the kids and giving them lectures. The writers aren't surprised at the flood of hate mail complaining about the Doctor Who ripoff — they knew it was a bad idea when the producers pitched it. They are, however, surprised at the 4-page angry missive from Marco ranting about how George Washington was way taller and had a completely different haircut and much better boots than those cheap knockoffs, how dare you.

At one point, a guy appears out of thin air in Brandon's room and announces, "You have done well, my son." (The actor's a white guy with long brown hair, a long white robe, and halo-like lighting. Jake is DEEPLY offended.) This declaration kicks off a wacky fantasy plot where Brandon gets to make three wishes and of course misuses all of them, first wishing for more wishes and then wishing for a yacht he can't use, a beautiful girl he's too shy to date, a Ferrari he's not old enough to drive... Normally, this would beg the question of why Brandon didn't just wish to win the war. But anyone who might ask is either a) stuck on Brandon's non-reaction to a strange man teleporting into his bedroom, or b) stuck on SERIOUSLY? You gave him a halo? SERIOUSLY!?!?!?!?

More A-Town nonsense can be found here.

#animorphs #animorphs crack #a-town

[tropes-and-tales]

Uncertain

CW:  Pure angst

Word Count:  4668

Other Pieces:  This is a sequel to this.

You finally feel like your life is starting.  Washington D.C. is free of Marcus Pike.  He’s back in Texas with Teresa Lisbon (you gave in to your misery for a weekend, and you had stalked the woman’s social media until you felt sick and deleted your profile altogether).

Then you decided to be happy.  To move on.  To set the misery aside, to consider your years’ long crush on Marcus Pike as a painful lesson.  

You do just that.  You move on.  You find a semblance of happiness.

You love D.C.  You love your job.  You find a townhouse in Truxton Circle, a mile from work, and you bike there every day.  Your neighborhood is walkable, and it reminds you of your time in Europe.

You can’t fathom how this is your life.  You can’t quite believe that the girl raised in a working class home with a mechanic father and a waitress mother grew up to get her doctorate in art.  

Sometimes you go to sleep worried you’ll wake up in the morning to find that it was all a dream.  Love-life aside, you have a dream job in an interesting city.  You have a great townhouse with a lot of old character, and the entire scene rounds out when a stray cat adopts you and moves in, just saunters in your backdoor one morning like she owns the place.

You don’t allow yourself to think about Marcus.  You know he moves fast; you know he’ll probably propose to Teresa and remarry soon.  Maybe this one will stick, but you don’t care to hear about it either way.

Deep down, underneath all the hurt, you know you still love him.  But that love has only ever been nourished by your own fragile hopes, and it’s like a hot coal banked under cold embers.  It still could burn bright, but with each day that passes, it flickers a little dimmer, grows a little colder.

Someday it will be a cinder.  Someday your love for Marcus Pike will just be a burnt piece of ash.

-----

You love your work in restoration because it’s so many things at once.  It’s art and history, science and economics.  It’s sociology.  A woodblock from feudal Japan is utterly unique when compared to an oil painting by a Dutch master…but it’s also exactly the same.  It’s the same human impulse to create, to form something in their time and place.

You love the National Gallery.  You love everyone who works there:  your teammates, the docents, the gift shop employees.  The guard who hails you each morning when you scan in, the coffee shop lady who calls you “sweet pea” when she slides your coffee across the counter at you.

But you love the work more than anything.  You love receiving a new painting.  You love being a steward of fine art:  knowing that others came before you and others will come after you, but that you’re linked to your predecessors and successors over a mutual love of timeless pieces.

You love x-raying the paintings to see what secrets they reveal.  Other paintings that the artist covered over.  Sometimes it’s earlier, poor attempts at restoration or even censorship.  The Catholic Church was especially famous for the latter, covering up the upsetting genitals of fat little cherubs, turning black Madonnas lily-white.

A lot of your work is collaborative.  Other museums reach out to you.  Galleries.  Auction houses and private collectors.  You help verify paintings with dicey provenances.

More rarely, you help law enforcement.  It’s only been twice, so far, and both have been consulting outside of D.C.  One was NYPD—a rumored Rothko turned up in a raid.  Another was DEA, when a cartel capo’s house was raided and trio of unknown Tamayo paintings were found.

When you get a call from the FBI, you don’t think anything of it.  Marcus is in Austin, so you get that dip of excitement in your stomach at the prospect of a puzzle to solve.  There was a shipment of contraband intercepted, and there’s a crate full of art pieces.  They need your help identifying some of them.

“Of course,” you tell the guy—an agent named Roberts—over the phone.  “Bring the pieces over as soon as you can, and I can look at them.”

-----

It takes a couple days, and you never once think you’ll see Marcus.  There’s no portents, no omens that your life in D.C. is going to turn.  There’s no crow cawing at you from a tree.  There’s no dark cloud following you as you ride your bike to work that morning.

Life isn’t like a movie.  You have no sign that your world is going to tilt off axis.  You scan in that morning, sort through some mail.  You eat lunch with a coworker.  And then at one o’clock, you stroll down the hallway to the workshop where the FBI’s art pieces—and the FBI agent, Roberts—are waiting.

When you open the door, it’s not one agent.  It’s two.  A tall man with greying hair at the temples—Agent Roberts, you assume.  

And Marcus Pike, standing right beside him.  Looking at you like he’s been shot.  His eyes are wide, and his mouth falls open for a fraction of a second before he snaps it shut.

Goddamned, fucking Marcus Pike.

*****

It’s been almost a year since Marcus saw you last.  It was that disastrous dinner when you had, he assumed, wanted to confess your feelings for him.  When he instead broke your heart by telling you about Teresa Lisbon.

Almost a year.  A lot has happened.

He falls fast and hard for Teresa.  He proposes too early.  He asks her to move to D.C. with him when the promotion comes up.

He is left, in the end.  Teresa chooses Patrick Jane over him, and Marcus finds himself with the prospect of being alone.  Again.

Alone, his impulse is to reach out to you.  You had blocked him, however—his calls and texts don’t go through, his emails seem to go into a black hole.  He could find your address but doesn’t dare.  

For the first time ever, Marcus is left to be uncomfortable in his own feelings of loneliness and heartbreak.  For the first time, you aren’t there to prop him up, to be his one-woman hype-crew.  

He wallows.  He finds a condo in D.C., but he doesn’t bother to unpack most of the boxes.  His stubble turns into a beard, a little patchy, and he finds that he doesn’t care to shave it off.  It makes him look roguish, on good days, and downright depressive, on bad days.

Almost a year, and then he sees you again.

Roberts is the one with the hookups at the Smithsonian, at the National Gallery.  He knows all the local experts, and when their raid turns up a crate full of unidentified art pieces, Roberts reaches out to his experts.

“I know of a guy,” he says, but Marcus doesn’t realize that his partner uses the term “guy” in a gender neutral way.  

The guy Roberts knows of is you.  

A few thoughts occur to Marcus all at once.  First, that you must be setting the art restoration world on fire to have already acquired a reputation as an expert.  Second, that you’re an utter professional, because you shake Roberts’ hand and then his own, giving away none of your personal ire at him.

And third….you look good.  If Marcus has fallen apart a bit, if he’s living in slightly rumpled suits and a patchy beard, you’ve pulled yourself together.  You’re in dark wash jeans and a button down Oxford of sky blue.  Your hair is in a low ponytail.  You look casual and professional at the same time, polished and understated.

You look lovely.

You also look eager.  When your eyes drift from him back to Roberts, you light up.  You rub your hands briskly together and ask the other agent what goodies he’s brought you.

-----

You’re good.  Marcus is good, but you’re better.  He can see where you got your reputation.

There’s five oil paintings.  You dismiss four of them outright.  You pull on a pair of magnifying glasses, click on the small light on the frames, and you peer at the paintings closely.  Marcus and Roberts stand off to the side, listening as you mutter about pigment types and aging, and then you stand up.  Click off the light.

“These four were done in the style of Titian,” you tell them.  “But I’m certain they are recent copies.  I could run an analysis on it, but some of the aging qualities look like faking.  Tea bags.  Nicotine.  These are no more than thirty years old, tops.”

“Okay, good,” Roberts says.

You nod and then turn to the fifth painting.  Click your light back on and study it.  

“Can you give me any details around the operation?” you ask them as you focus on one corner of the painting.  “Where it came from might help.”

Roberts gives you the details:  they are running down a smuggling ring out of Russia.  The son of an oil oligarch has been stealing rare paintings from small museums and galleries and private collectors in former Soviet countries, then releasing forgeries back into the market.  Allegedly.

“Huh.”  You say it like you have an idea, and a moment later you whip off your glasses and stride—almost running—over to a laptop.  You tap furiously on the keys, then throw a switch that projects your screen on a nearby wall.

“Okay, so this fifth one might be something,” you tell them, and your voice is shaky.  It sounds like you might cry, but when Marcus looks closer, he sees that you’re trembling.  You’re practically vibrating, and he realizes that you are excited.  

“Just eyeballing the pigment, it looks 16th century, but I can test it and verify.  But look at these details.”  You point at the painting they brought you, then point at the painting you are projecting.

“See the lily of the valley in that pot there?”  You point at the projection, then point to their painting.  “Sure, lilies were a common motif in religious paintings of the Virgin Mary, but look.  It’s almost exactly the same.  The same pot of lilies of the valley.  And here, in the corner of each painting, the signature.  A single ‘G.’”

“What is the painting you’re comparing to?” Marcus asks, and whatever anger you feel for him has been buried under the excitement of your possible find.

“It’s Annunciation.  It’s the only known, signed work by a painter called Master Jerzy.  Jurek Almanus.  He’s almost completely unknown.  There’s been a couple of other paintings that they think might have been his, but….”  Your words trail off, and you just stare at the confiscated painting from the raid.

“I saw Annunciation in Krakow when I was in Europe,” you add, and your voice has a hushed, reverential quality to it.  “I fell down a Jerzy rabbit hole.  I never thought I might see a second painting of his.”

“We can sign the painting into your custody,” Roberts tells you.  “If you can verify it, it might help us start the trail of its provenance.”

“I can get in touch with the Czartoryski Museum, where Annunciation is, as a start,” you reply.  Your eyes never leave the painting they brought you, and your face is full of wonderment.  

Marcus knew that you loved art—obviously so, since you got your doctorate for the love of it—but he had never quite grasped how much.  You gaze at the painting like you are witnessing a miracle in real time, and maybe to you, you are.

-----

The recovered painting is a foot in the door.  It’s a way back into your life.

Marcus isn’t too proud.  He asks Roberts if he can manage the possible Jerzy paining, which means checking in with you at regular intervals.  It’s only phone calls, and sometimes emails, when you send him lab results from your National Gallery email.  Official business only, as much as Marcus tries to pry that door open a little more each time.

The first call:  he asks how you’re doing.  You ignore the question altogether and update him on the talks with Krakow.

The second call:  again, he asks how you are.  You give a terse, “I’m fine,” then explain that you’ll be sending the x-rays of the painting that show an earlier, discarded painting underneath it.  The confiscated painting is a palimpsest, and there’s a quality of excitement in your voice when you tell him so.

The third call:  he’s in a low spot already.  He’s heard news about Teresa and Jane, and it shouldn’t hurt as much as it does…but it does.  On the phone with you, after you update him on the chemical analysis of the painting—the pigment, the canvas, the frame—there’s a beat of silence that Marcus fills awkwardly.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, weary to the bone.  Wanting just a fraction of comfort from you.

He can hear your sigh.  He can hear the long stretch of uncomfortable silence, and he knows that you’re probably struggling with how to reply to him.  It makes him feel even worse.  His best friend is a stranger to him now, and he doesn’t know how to find his way back to her.  To you.

“I’ll talk to you soon,” he adds, sparing you the awkward need to reply to his admission of missing you.

Sparing you the need to lie and say that you’ve missed him too…or worse, telling him the truth:  that you haven’t missed him at all.

-----

It takes a while before the painting is verified.  There are a million tests you have to run, conferences and long hours arguing with other art experts.  An expert from Poland flies in to examine the painting, and he helps pick up part of the trail on this painting’s long journey across time.

Marcus goes to the National Gallery, ostensibly to pick up a thick folder of your findings, though you have been emailing a lot of it to him piecemeal, as you’ve gotten it.  But you’ll pulled together an impressive amount of research, and it’s an excuse to see you.

An excuse to try and push that door open another fraction.

You hand him the folder, and Marcus pages through it with an appreciative whistle.  “If you ever get tired of working in a museum, the FBI is always hiring.  This is remarkable work.”

The bit of praise makes you smile.  “That’s the thing, though.  This job is art and detective work.”

“Best of both worlds.”

“It really is.”

He shuts the folder, taps the cover in a nervous tattoo with his fingertips.  This paltry exchange is the closest he’s gotten to a meaningful talk with you.  It’s nothing at all, but it’s the best he’s got.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, echoing his last call with you.  

You sigh again.  “Marcus—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupts, hasty to not hear what you may reply with.  “I just wanted to let you know that I’ve missed you.  And I thought I might get a coffee with you sometime.”

You look at him, and he can’t read your expression.  You’re inscrutable now.  Maybe you always have been.  Maybe he’s never read you right before.

“You want to get a coffee?”  You ask finally.  “Let’s go then.”

“Now?” You glance at the watch on your wrist.  “Yeah, why not?  It’s that time in the afternoon that I start to flag, so a coffee will do me good.”

*****

You don’t know why you agree to get a coffee with him.  Maybe because you have missed him, despite it all.  Maybe because you can’t help the way your traitorous heart stammers in your chest when you see him, despite how disapproving your head may be.  Maybe you’re curious about what he might say.  Maybe he’ll apologize.

Maybe you’re just high on the research, on finding a missing painting from a mysterious guild painter.

Either way, you find yourself at a nearby café, a mom-and-pop place that serves the D.C. workers, not the D.C. tourists.  At two in the afternoon, it’s quiet—just you and Marcus, pretty much.

He orders a coffee.  You get a honey halva latte, and when he tries to reach past you to pay, you turn your shoulder and block him, muscle memory from all the times the two of you play-fought over the check.  You don’t even realize you’re doing it until his hand brushes against you, and you frown at how easy it is to fall back into the old patterns with him.

If I’m not careful, I’m going to let him break my heart again, you chide yourself.  It’s your logical mind that thinks the thought—and it’s your duplicitous heart that hammers against your ribcage at the touch of his hand.

The two of you take your drinks and find a quiet table tucked away in a corner.  You watch Marcus stir creamer into his coffee.  He looks…less crisp than he used to.  He looks a little dog-eared, a little worn down.  You like the stubble, actually, but his eyes look forlorn.  

All it takes is a simple, polite question from you to open up the floodgates.  The usual, polite-society question.

“How are you, Marcus?” you ask, and yes…you fall right back into the old pattern.

He treats you just like he used to.  He treats you like his therapist:  he tells you about Teresa, and someone named Jane, and you don’t know if Jane is a first name or a last name, or if Teresa left him for a man or a woman, but his words wash over you and you stop comprehending what he’s telling you.  His voice fades away and a low roar fills your head:  the hot-blood of your temper being raised.  The fuzzy, staticky roll of years’ worth of anger and disappointment and heartbreak filling you.  Making your face and neck break out in a hectic flush of rage.  Making your hands clench into tight fists in your lap.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath, interrupting his litany of words.  

Marcus stops midsentence.  Cocks his head and asks, “What?”

You’ve always swallowed your bad feelings down with him.  Always.  You’ve choked on disappointment, swallowed the bitter wash of unrequited love.  For so long—since you were a fucking kid.  You hate that he has this power to make you feel like that kid again, that unworthy, second-best kid who can’t compare to the random, disappointing women he convinces himself are the One.

“I said you’re unbelievable,” you repeat, and you unclench your fists.  You realize that you’ve been slumped over—that insecure teenager again—so you sit up straight.  Push your shoulders back, lift your chin and stare him down directly.  

The anger must be apparent in your eyes.  Marcus flinches at what he sees.

“I haven’t seen or talked to you in over a year,” you say, and you keep your voice low and steady.  You’re in public and you don’t want to make a scene.

“That’s why I wanted to get a coffee…”  He trails off, uncertain.

You laugh, bitter.  “Get a coffee so you can unload your problems on me?  Nice, Marcus.”

“We are friends,” he says.  He sounds defensive, even if his eyes look sad.  “Or we used to be.”

“Were we friends?  Really?”

He sighs and looks down into his coffee mug.  “I know you had a thing for me,” he starts to say, but you don’t allow him to get any more of that thought out.

“A thing.”  You laugh again, a short bark that is mirthless.  “Marcus, I was in love with you for years.”

“I didn’t know that.  Didn’t know it back then, I mean.  But we were friends….”  He trails off again, but he raises his head to look you in the eyes.

“We weren’t friends, not really.”  You shake your head and snort at how fucking obtuse he is.  “You know, I’m not even mad that you never loved me back.  You can’t help who you love.  I’m not it for you?  Well, that’s tough for me, but that’s life.  I was never mad about that.  Sad, sure.  Disappointed?  Sure.  But never mad.”

“You seem really mad at me now.”

“Because you call me a friend!”  You raise your voice, and you hate how girlish you sound when you’re mad; your voice is shaky with anger, and it sounds like you’re about to cry.  Which, you might.

“You are a friend!”  He raises his voice too, lifts his hands in frustration before letting them fall back onto the tabletop.

“I’m not a friend to you, Marcus.  I’m your…your fall back plan.  I’m your therapist.  Your….I dunno.  I’m your emotional punching bag, and I’m not going back to that place with you.”

“I don’t know what—”

“You never come to me unless you need something,” you clarify, and now your voice really is trembling.  Your throat feels tight from the sobs that want to tear free, but you push through it.  You need to tell him this.  You’ve sat with it for years, and now it’s coming to light.  It’s a festering wound that is finally being treated.

“When you have someone, you disappear,” you continue.  “You lose yourself in that person, and you put me back on the shelf.  And I’m just supposed to sit there and wait until you need me again, but all you want is someone to tell you that it’s okay and that you’ll find real love someday.”

Marcus seems to go pale under his tan.  He wilts in his seat, slumps a little.  “That’s not true,” he protests weakly.

You lean forward and fix him with a glare.  “When have you ever asked about my life?  Or put me first?  Isn’t that what friends do, give and take?  You just take though, Marcus.  You take and take and take, and you save all the give for the disappointing women you date.”  You snort.  “Or the women you marry.”

“I—”

“You didn’t come to any of my graduations, and I had three.  You never dropped me a note or got me a gift to celebrate any of the milestones I’ve hit.  You barely talked to me when I was in Europe because you were married.  Even my celebration dinner back in Austin turned into the fucking Teresa Lisbon hour, and how did that end up, in the end?”

He doesn’t answer.  He opens his mouth but then shuts it, and he only gazes back at you.  He looks so sad, it might have dampened your ire any other time.  But this is the first time you’ve ever said this stuff out loud, and it feels cleansing.  Like you’re bleeding out all of the poison that had accumulated over the years of loving him without receiving any love back.

You take a deep breath and will your hammering heart to calm.  You lay your hands on the table.  

“Just answer me this, Marcus.”  Your voice is quieter now, and a lot of the anger has burned off.  

He nods at you, gestures for you to continue.

“If Teresa had moved here with you…if the two of you had gotten married and moved to D.C., and then you ran into me about the Jerzy painting again.  Would you have asked me out for a coffee to catch up?  Or was this just you being alone and lonely again?”

The guilty look on his face is all the answer you need.  You nod, once, and stand up.  You could yell at him more, but you feel exhausted all of a sudden.  Spent.  Drained.

“Take care of yourself,” you tell him softly, but he doesn’t reply.  He doesn’t even look at you.  He keeps his gaze fixed on the table in front of him, an unhappy frown on his face.  His eyes glassy with tears.

*****

Marcus knew he had messed up, but he never realized just how badly he’d done.

He thought it was a broken heart.  Unrequited love.  Maybe it was that, but it was so much worse.

He wants to argue you with.  He wants to tell you that you’re wrong, that he’s always been there for you…but he can’t.  As you lay your recriminations at his feet, he realizes that you’re right.  That he’s faded out on you when he was in a relationship.  That he pulls you back into his orbit when he needs you.

You’re right:  he takes from you, but he rarely gives you anything back.

If he thought he felt low when Chloe cheated on him and he got divorced….or when Teresa chose Jane over him….neither of those moments compare to this.  You’ve been his dearest friend for years and years, but he hasn’t been that for you.  You had let it slide in the past because of some misplaced, blinding love for him, but he’s never been a real friend to you.

What can he possibly do to make it up to you?  Blocking his number and his email, moving away without a farewell—it all feels like the end.  Like you crossed that bridge and tossed a match after you, and only now he’s seeing the burnt remains between you and him.

All he can do is honor your wishes.  He hands the bulk of the case back to Roberts, makes up an excuse about wanting to focus on other cases, which isn’t a complete lie.

But not before he sends you an email:  from his personal email address to your work one.  He doesn’t want to guilt you or put you into an uncomfortable position.  He only wants you to know that he understands.  He finally understands, years too late.

I’ve handed the case back to Roberts, he writes.  I realize now how I failed you for so long.  I don’t deserve your friendship and probably never did, but please know that I always treasured it.  I want to respect the boundaries you’ve put up.  I won’t reach out again, but please know that if you ever need anything from me—anything at all—you can call me.  I will always want the chance to be the friend you always needed but never got.

When he hits “send,” he feels a rush of various emotions:  shame at the situation with you getting to this point, to where he’s reduced to communicating via email.  Guilt too.  

But the most prevalent emotion:  a deep melancholy that seems to sink into the very marrow of his bones.  It’s more than sadness.  It’s a feeling of finality, just as he’s starting to wise up to the fact that he’s lost you, before he had the space in his life to realize just how much you meant to him.

You don’t reply to his email.  He doesn’t expect you to.  All he can do is be patient and work on himself.  He needs to not fall into the next convenient relationship; he has to stay single and really address the deep-down issues that cause him to be so clingy, so quick to move in a relationship.  

He waits a few weeks, and then he finds a therapist.  Twice a week, he sits and spills all of the secrets of his heart, and sometimes he feels better after, but sometimes he feels worse.  It’s all good work, though—the hard work of learning who he is, what drives him.  

Marcus Pike may never hear from you again, and he’s probably lost you forever.  But there’s always a chance you may return to his life, and if you do, he wants to be the best possible version of himself.  He wants to be well-adjusted and conscious of how he treats his friends.

In case you ever choose to speak to him again, he wants to be the man you always thought he was.  The friend you always needed.

~~~Tag List~~~ @bananas-pajamas  @massivecolorspygiant​   @imspillingcoffee​   @amneris21​   @paintballkid711​   @mad-girl-without-a-box​   @bestattempt   @rosiefridayrogersunday​   @strawberrydragon​   @hoeforthefictional​   @greeneyedblondie44​  @leannawithacapitala​   @stardust-galaxies​  @buckybarneshairpullingkink​   @harriedandharassed​  @thatpinkshirt​  @isvvc-pvscvl​   @mrschiltoncat​  @stillshelbs​   @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics​    @tobealostwanderer​   @nuvoleincielo​  @knivesareout​  @frankie-catfish-morales​    @prostitute-robot-from-the-future  @probablybraindamage​   

#marcus pike #marcus pike imagine #marcus pike x reader #the mentalist

[cupidscrule]

GEGGEGE NEW FANFIC!! Leon kidnapps you !!1!1

Tw noncon + drugs + past trauma

Poorly written short smut lol

"Honestly Leon you really are impressive, lucky guy" Chris had always said, lucky? Really, is that the fucking word to describe someone with a crippling alcohol addiction and depression. Yeah, lucky. Leon Scott fucking Kennedy, the lucky guy. Got stuck in raccoon city, lost all his friends, chasing after a girl who won't EVER come back. Ain't he just the DEFINITION of lucky, hell he got forced to work for the government ain't that just lucky. No love life, never being able to sleep without thinking someones gonna kill him, yeah, lucky. It didn't matter anymore, he knew Chris wouldn't get it, hell no one understood. Claire, Jill, even little rebbeca they all just sucked it up, they saw horrible things, went through so much but they just pushed through. Not Leon though, not little old Leon, he couldn't suck it up, he couldn't just look the other way.

Lucky man Leon, Leon s fucking Kennedy luckiest man alive, had no one, other then the men twice his size at boot camp, and well just say that wasn't pleasant when you're soft and pretty. He was alone, until today. It was a late night, he was just walking through the dim lit streets looking up and down the alleys, he had nothing to do in Washington. What go to the white house and  suck up grahm? Fuck no, so he just walked, he walked everywhere, seemed to calm him in some weird way. He was lost in his throughts just feet moving without him asking them too, just dragging along side. Until he stopped, and noticed you , a nice looking girl, standing by a building talking to someone on the phone. "Dad- no I don't need anything else- hey com'on pa don't buy me anything else. I'm serious I'm fine- ah okay- Bye I love you too!" She was speaking, geez what woman would think it's smart to just stand out In the middle of fuck no where late at night. Leon was just gonna walk past you but something just snapped, you were beautiful - like he means BREATH TAKING, beautiful long hair, thin waist, pouty lips, hell you were wearing a cute ass fluffy white coat and white matching boots, who wouldn't fall for you? Leon just stopped walking, just started at you as he thought, thought what to do with you , 'Just walk away' 'no she's too pretty to let go' 'fuck' 'i need her.'

His mind landed on the last one, y'know no hard feelings but he couldn't just let his sleeping beauty slip past him like her , fuck no. But he didn't really know what to do "Hey I've been watching you wanna go back to my place and fuck?" Of course not, that's the creepiest thing to say- well not that Leon wasn't creepy but yknow he didn't want you to freak out and be all confused. Actually no that's a lie, he didn't fucking care how you feel, he just wanted to take your stupid little body back home, y'know for safe keeping. Fuck it, I'm just gonna grab you, only problem. I don't fucking have ANYTHING, what just knock her out? Don't wanna kill her, thad be no fun now would it. Fuck think fast Leon before she starts walking away, you seemed pretty small, and if he had gone up against tyrants you'd be no problem. THAT'S IT, just choke her out, good job Kennedy. Finally thinking of something, just walk up to her, put his hand over your mouth and choke you out, rough, but hey it's fine.  Not that really matters what happens to you not like he cares.

And thats how you ended up duck taped and tied together in a basement, a dim light just like on the street. Your clothes removed, pretty little mouth also taped shut. PANIC all you felt was panic. Frantically squirming around like a scared cat, a muffled scream for help, which wasn't a good idea. Because that's when he realized you were awake, huh didn't last very long. Honestly thought you'd be out faster, Leon had thought, already relaxed as if he didn't just kidnap a college girl, lucky girl you are. He unlocked the basement door, walking down. He was wearing a nice black shirt and baggy jeans, y'know at least you weren't kidnapped by an ugly guy, but that's besides the point. He came walking down the concrete steps, it was an unfinished basement so it was pretty ugly, no bugs thankfully just dark and dull. A small tv was in the corner, some boxes just collecting dust, a little bathroom, to be honest it was pretty good it could be like a little home. Or at least bedroom. Back to the point, you looked up with tears in your eyes, confused, scared, why you? Why did it have to be you? What did you do? Well nothing, in all reality you just got unlucky that's funny, you're whole life was luck, now your confined in rope and tape wearing nothing but panties in some guys basement. Leon rips the tape off your little mouth, tossing it to the side. Tears still staining your roesy cheeks you muffle out a pathetic sentence "w-what are you doing" stuttering and blabbering. Jeez nothings even happened yet, acted like a fucking moran, already crying? How are you a grown adult, can't even handle dick from someone?

It didn't matter, really nothing did in this moment, Leon didn't respond just stared at you, as if he was judging you for being a baby. Before knocking you out again, it was his first time kidnapping someone so he wasn't gonna just be good at it- but hey he tried. Grabbed some sleeping aids from the bathroom cabinet Doxepin or something weird, wasn't the type to look at the label just prayed it would fucken work and not kill you, the hell he's gonna do with a lifeless corpse, listen he's weird but not THAT weird. Eh enough with the small details, leon was getting inpatient. He untied your sleeping body, flipping you over onto your stomach, face down ass up. Leon's personal favorite position, simple, easy, effective. pushed your white panties to the side, he didn't bother with taking them off too fucking lazy, but back to the point, no need for him to just stare and think about how fucking lazy he is with this shit. He unzipps his pants, damn it's been a while since Leon's been in control, pulling someones hair, him being the dominant one. Choosing your fate, he slams into your dripping cunt, fuck you were nice, fat ass nice tits, grabbing your hips and thrusting in. Maybe life was worth livin now, he nipped at your neck, slamming in an out. He liked it rough, and it's not your unconscious body could care, fuck you didn't even know you were getting a sweet piece of that Kennedy dick, you were drugged out of your mind, limp body hitting into his, no reaction to him roughing you up. Kinda cute, helpless, well more unknowing but who cares about specifics?

Moving on he was still pounding into your dripping your hole, fuck you were hot, he was on the edge of cumming, damn you were tight. Such a nice fucken pussy, with one more thrust his seed leaked into your tight little hole, pulling out the sticky white substance leaking down your pretty little thighs, fucken miracle by god you didn't wake up. By all means that wouldn't have made Leon stop, hell he would've loved it even more. Jesus Christ though afraid he killed you, whatever just means he doesn't have to try and keep you hidden, not like anyone would suspect Mr Kennedy of anyone? Leon Kennedy the man who saved the presidents daugther? Kennedy the one who takes it up the ass like a good boy? Leon with the pretty little fuck face? Of course not, no, no Leon's the one who takes it like a goodboy he's not going around raping the girls in Washington.

But that's enough about Leon, to be honest he really didn't wanna kill you, but hey it doesn't matter. Well- it does but he doesn't care at the moment, just had a good fuck so he didn't have a care in the world, he put a shirt over you just incase you were y'know still alive and zipped up his pants getting the fuck out of there. A few hours went by, Leon didn't sleep, he can't sleep. He went down to check on you though, just to make sure you didn't actually croak, he was back in the right headspace, what the fuck was he gonna do with a dead body? Plus your pussy was too good to just die like that yeesh. He unlocked the basement door and walked down the steps again, however you weren't on the mattress on the floor?

No-no, you had woken up a few minutes before, hiding behind one of the concrete walls holding a piece of broken glass from the bathroom mirror, Jesus how the fuck did you pull that off so easily. Honestly you didn't have that much faith in yourself, your hands were a little bloody, y'know didn't really think it through- but hey all that matters is you have a shirt that barely covered your cunt, tear stained face and a dinky piece of glass that probobly couldn't do anything but hell you're trying.

"The fuck -?" Leon says looking around, before being cutoff by you running at him with your stupid little glass knife, much to your surprise that does shit all and suddenly you're pressed against the wall, hands above your head with a man's leg between your thighs. Jeez you didn't think it would work that bad, y'know your plan wasn't that shitty. Wait for him to get close enough and start swinging, a flawless plan I do say, if we ignore the unpredictable factors but hey who fucken cares about that?

Oh yeah but back to fact at hand you're pinned against a wall by a man twice your size practically nude crying with blood running down your hand, hell aren't you the lucky girl now? Lost your family, friends, probably gonna die in the cold, alone or be killed. Lucky lucky girl, got that Kennedy dick and Kennedy treatment, every girl's dream isn't it? "Woah short stuff the fuck were you trying to do?" He says releasing your hands and backing away from you, his arms crossed giving you a look of disapproval, catching your breath, you don't even say anything just pant and stare.

Well until a pathetic "why" leaves your smudged lips. Pulling the shirt down trying to cover your leaking pussy.

"I'm such a lucky fucking guy."

#cupidscruel🍡 #leon kennedy #leon smut #fanfic #rapekink #poorly written shit #ptsd #trauma #Spotify

[january-summers]

Whoopsie, More Wash centric AUs, now with OCs for extra flavour.

What if he wasn’t court-martialed until the very end of the war so he never joined PFl, and instead of David, Agent Washington was some douche named George who either legit died on the cliff with Meta, or never recovered from Epsilon.

And, David kills some people in self defence, like has to shoot his direct superior in the head very publicly to stop them from ordering his entire platoon to their very avoidable deaths, or during his slap-on-the-wrist free-with-court-martial two months prison time he kills some guys in the showers because they were trying to kill/harm him, so he ends up with *serious* prison time.

Like ends up on the Tartarus, serious. And naturally he makes friends with the other inmates near his cell, including someone who probably shouldn’t be there because she’s technically still a teenager and her crimes were more white collar than murder even if they were very very serious. (Hacked ONI for the lulz, they’re trying to scare her into compliance/working for them.)

Think Emily Grey but with a more limited area of hyper-focused intelligence and higher anxiety/obvious autism.

Meanwhile with the Reds and Blues, Alpha Church managed to basically eat Sigma, O’Malley and Gary, because he didn’t have anyone to Emp them out in a last stand and Meta got their hands on him so it was eat or be eaten.

And he reconnects with Epsilon who basically treats it like a backstory update and goes on being Epsilon Church (Caboose is stoked, double best friend!)

(All Churches get their therapy moment and Tex gets to decide on her own personhood, going off to self examine for a bit and meeting up with Carolina, they get to talk out their issues and decide to kill Director. Tex gets to have her “I exist now, no matter how I was made I have experiences of my own and I am my own person, not your dead wife.” moment, and Carolina gets her, “you died when mum did, and I can’t, I won’t keep chasing your ghost.” moment.)

And the Reds and Blues get to keep the rest of the AIs by virtue of not mentioning they have them to others. They all still end up on Chorus.

In the Tartarus, David figures out what Felix is planning, and even though he has no interest in working for or with him, he still grabs the bars and warns his nearby inmates what’s probably about to happen. (It’s way too easy for David to think “if I was a sack of shit what would I do?”)

By cosmic coincidence, David ends up with the old Freelancer armour belonging to KIA Agent (George) Washington. (Price recognises David and mentions later that he’d actually been on the list for the project.)

David gets to be in charge of his own little strike team, not that anyone on it is particularly interested in working for team Felix.

“Do you think the locals will let us swap sides?” Asks one of David’s men.

But David shakes his head, “not after Felix and Locus pulled their multiyear double agent crap.”

“… is it Locus or Locust?”

“What?”

“The big scary one, is it Locus or Locust?”

“Locus?” Now David is questioning what he’s been hearing, because it could easily be eith- “Wait, where’s the kid?!”

The team is one short, the hacker teen who shouldn’t have been there is missing. She should be back up on the ship, but David didn’t like the idea of leaving her unsupervised. For her safety sure, but also the safety of others.

“Spread out, find her. Don’t engage with anyone unless you have to, finding the kid is priority.”

David finds her with a soldier in… Teal? Aqua? Cyan? Blue, it’s a shade of blue.

The kid is trying to poke at a small hologram next to the soldier and David makes it just in time to stop the kid from taking a knife to the anything.

“Hey now, let’s all just calm down and everyone respect everyone else’s personal space, okay? No putting fingers or knives in others, okay?”

“Well that’s definitely not Washington in there,” the soldier says, “that guy was a grade A asshole who would love to see knives in people.”

“You can call me D.C. Sorry about the kid, she gets excited about techy stuff. So, from what Counsellor Price said, you must be Agent Carolina?”

“That’s right,” Carolina confirms like she’d like nothing more than to stick her knife in David.

“… has he always been that much of a creepy asshole?” David asks, then notices the kid’s reflection in Carolina’s visor, fidgeting with her helmet. The kid stims by chewing on things, normally her braids, David knows. “Kid, I need you to keep your helmet on for me, okay? It keeps your head nice and safe.”

*someone gets headshot in the background*

“…er, safer.” David corrects.

-

And through the power of being him, David and his team get to join team good guy. the folks on Chorus.

And all is well with the world. Until the kid and dr Grey meet and everyone has to deal with the “oh god there’s two of them” perfectly reasonable fear response.

-

Sorry for any typos in this mess of a plot bunny, I wrote it on my phone in bits and pieces during a bbq, which lead to another, competing bunny asking the tough and distracting questions: who is the best griller out if all the Reds and Blues and Freelancers, who shouldn’t be allowed near a grill, and who is a great bbq master but is someone everyone thinks shouldn’t be allowed near a grill? (And vice-versa)

This whole bunny thread was just a way to lead to the “keeps your head safe *bang* -er. safer” joke. Was not expecting the Tex and Carolina detour, but stuff it, ladies road-trip of murder and justice!

#rvb #red vs blue #rvb aus #agent washington #agent carolina #agent texas #leonard l church #ah canon I like to watch it drift away like agent georgia and wave as it passes the window

[allysah]

list 5 topics you could talk about for an hour without preparing any material (i have reason to yap now).

james “jimmy” stewart.

jimmy is just like. that guy for me. i could probably go on an hours long tirade about him, his films, his characters, his relationships, his military experience, his ptsd, his politics, etc. without interruption. right now i'm specifically thinking of his relationship with henry fonda (who deserves his own honorable mention) which OH MY GOD is one of the best hollywood friendships to date. orson welles said they were either having the hottest affair in hollywood or were the straightest men alive. he realized they were the latter... anyways that leads me into:

old/classic hollywood + its underground queer scene and the hays code.

first of all just old hollywood in general i can go hours and hours about because i just love so many of the actors and actresses. leslie howard and gregory peck are other honorable mentions in that category. however, the queer folks will always be my favorite <3 people like farley granger and marlene dietrich come to mind as well as cary grant and his biwife energy. but just all of the queer undertones from then i just appreciate so, so much. also the HAYS CODE... when i get you... i've seen so many pre-code movies which are just incredible and whenever they put that damn code in place everything got boring... unless they fixed the subtext so then you have films like rope (1948) which is such a good gay film like wtf?? old hollywood is a gem and if you avoid black + white movies or just older movies in general you SUCK!!

franklin expedition.

i've written academic essays about this damn expedition and i had no sources at all. just my mind and a dream. for two years my only thoughts for a future career was becoming a franklin expedition researcher who worked in the arctic. of course that's not gonna work?? okay but these dumb mfers were some of my favorite people on this earth like COMMANDER JAMES FITZJAMES was a real person who walked this earth and i never even got close to touching him. this is sickening. captain francis crozier is ALIVE and WELL on king william island you just cannot see him. i think i will genuinely throw up if they ever find crozier's captain log on the hms terror. the desolation and sickness is just like. eye clawingly scary and i could never fathom what truly went down on that island. i feel so so bad for the cold boys and i love them so, so much.

fallout lore

here’s where i start geekin about shit. FALLOUT IS SO FUCKING GOOD I DONT CARE WHAT ANYONE SAYS. 3, 4 and new vegas are top tier games (yes nostalgia is clouding my head but idc) i also love 1 and 2 but genuinely cannot play a turn based game like that. okay but the entire plot of new vegas is such a top tier storyline and it’s just such a fun silly game and is like made perfectly for gay trans autistic people i love it. 4 is just The Game you play it doesn’t matter you just end up there and it’s always fun idc what the haters say PRESTON GARVEY MINUTEMEN #1!!! 3 is there. BUT ITS SO BAD ITS GOOD LIKE COME ON ITS ALMOST ENDEARING GOING BACK IN THOSE SUBWAY TUNNELS AND GETTING LOST FOR 30 MINUTES!! these games are the only reason i know the layouts of nevada, washington, d.c., and boston. thank you for the geography lesson AND the history lesson fallout. i love you.

civil war politics and battles

ok this is my latest fixation and one that came out of ABSOLUTELY no where. i literally told myself years ago to never become a civil war buff because it's so stupid and only old men like it but here we are. i for real blame this on david straithairn's portrayal of william h seward because otherwise i would NOT care (sorry ddl, i love you still). also atun-shei films and his humongous catalogue of videos. but oh my godddd i'm so obsessed with these annoying fuckers i hate them ALL. lincoln and seward are just an absolute class-act together and whenever i watched gettysburg (1993) it was just over for me. jeff daniels and c thomas howell when I CATCH YOU (I Want You)!!! it's just all so interesting i love seeing how these men ticked. it's like a zoo exhibition but with random dead racist white guys. (i also had like a 5 minute discussion about lincoln being racist today after i gave a book talk on team of rivals in my college comp. absolute all-timer)

HONORABLE MENTIONS!!!

rms titanic. film in general (i have memorized a shit load of the letterboxd catalogue and I WILL not shut up about my favorite films and directors). classic literature. us presidents. history in general. musical theatre. how arthur morgan is the best fictional character ever written period.

TAGGED BY: @rmstitanics (THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME YAP AND BASICALLY JUST RANT. SORRY!)

TAGGING: @brainandnarfunkel + no one in particular, but know if you see this i want you to… and i know you want to yap as well… :)

#me #thank u callie i had to air out the vibe i’m giving for this blog #these history hyperfixations better last me at least through college #if not my whole career (becoming a teacher) #just like my pa….

[popentertainment-moviereviews]

CIVIL WAR (2024)

Starring Kirsten Dunst, Cailee Spaeny, Wagner Moura, Stephen McKinley Henderson, Nick Offerman, Nelson Lee, Evan Lai, Sonoya Mizuno, Jefferson White, Juani Feliz, Edmund Donovan, Karl Glusman, Jin Ha, Jojo T. Gibbs, Jess Matney and Jesse Plemons.

Screenplay by Alex Garland.

Directed by Alex Garland.

Distributed by A24. 109 minutes. Rated R.

Civil War takes place in the very near future, a look at an America that is at war with itself and violently coming apart at the seams. It’s a dystopian wasteland with hundreds of abandoned cars, burnt out cities, gunfights punctuating the night, abandoned corpses and people turning on each other. It’s a very depressing thing to speculate about. Particularly because none of it seems all that far-fetched from where we are in history.

Interestingly, the writer/director Alex Garland doesn’t really bother with the politics of the situation. We never completely know what has caused the rift in the States – we are just plummeted into the situation with little or no understanding of the reasoning behind the conflict.

Even occasional hints are somewhat confounding. For example the force taking on the American government is apparently a coalition between the states of Texas and California – and I don’t think in reality you can find two more diametrically different States. Also the US President, as played by Nick Offerman, is somewhat reminiscent of Donald Trump, and yet in other ways he is not.

Garland seems to be saying it really doesn’t matter to the story that he is telling. Once the war has come, the causes sort of blur into the background. This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco, this ain’t no fooling around.

Civil War revolves around four war correspondents who are crossing the country in a news van trying to cover the story, and hopefully get an interview with the President.

These (extremely) intrepid journalists are: Lee (Kirsten Dunst), a renowned but rather jaded photo journalist, Jesse (Cailee Spaeny), an extremely young-looking photographer who idolizes Lee and is still old-school enough to use a 35mm film camera, Joel (Wagner Moura), a writer who seems to be just a bit too excited by the warfare going on around them and Sammy (Stephen McKinley Henderson), an aging journalist who is much more circumspect and concerned about all that is going on around them.

Interestingly, although the two women are constantly taking pictures and the two men are supposedly writing the stories, they have no way of forwarding the pictures (cell coverage is gone) and they guys never seem to actually get around to writing.

However, they cheat death many times in their voyage across country to Washington DC. They realize very few people can be trusted at this point and are nearly constantly getting shot at. They also realize quickly that their press credentials are not going to keep them safe.

In general I am not a huge fan of dystopian films, but I have to admit that Civil War is a particularly gripping one, particularly in its fast-paced, danger-filled climax. The sight of Washington DC under attack, with trashed cars piled up to make barricades and missiles lighting up the night sky is disturbing, to say the least. And a brief earlier segment with Jesse Plemons as a renegade soldier deciding who is a “real American” is one of the more harrowing scenes in recent cinema.

Director Garland (Ex Machina, Annihilation) has been saying that Civil War will probably be his last directing job, at least for the foreseeable future. (He will probably continue on as a screenwriter.) If that is indeed the case, Civil War is a pretty good way to sign off.

Jay S. Jacobs

Copyright ©2024 PopEntertainment.com. All rights reserved. Posted: April 12, 2024.

#Civil War #2024 #Movie Review #Kirsten Dunst #Cailee Spaeny #Jay S. Jacobs #Youtube