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softlyspector · 6 months

Text

Apple cinnamon

Summary: You and Joel get away for the weekend.

Pairing: tattoo artist!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: ~5.3k

Warnings: fall themed!, no outbreak tattoo!au, reader has issues with touch, brief insecurity and anxiety, fluff, uhhhh and smut! (not saying what it's a surprise but be aware yknow), many feelings

A/N: Honeyed is BACK, baby! And I'm so happy I get to share them with you again. As always, we are pretending Joel can draw. Thank you for reading! I would love to know your thoughts! Please please please, be sure to leave feedback!

You can find out how Joel and Honey got together here.

“Maybe we go north in search of some cooler weather.”

It’s mid November and the Texas sun still burns hot and bright, shining onto the back deck of the Miller home in undulating drifts.

The air is scented warm, and old. It smells like sunshine on decaying leaves, like cloves and cinnamon and the bitter acidity of Joel’s coffee.

Joel isn’t quite looking at you, his gaze turned toward the edge of his property. Steam curls in the air above his mug, liquid the color of pitch swirling in its depths. It’s some small miracle that you’ve managed to get him to add cinnamon to the coffee grounds. You have a very strong suspicion that it has everything to do with you mentioning how nice it tasted.

You put your book down and fold it closed over one finger to hold your place.

Mornings are always spent like this when you stay over at Joel’s. Coffee on the back deck in the sun, Joel silent as he stares out across the yard, you reading and pretending not to notice him watching for the deer he started leaving corn out for. Joel hadn’t named the chickens, but you’ve very sure the deer have identities, and even assumed personalities.

“And do what?” You ask, propping your chin in your hand.

He shrugs and takes a long sip of his coffee, like it’s inconsequential to him. He still doesn’t look at you, a muscle jumping in the strong line of his jaw.

But you know Joel now, and he probably has a map hidden somewhere with the scenic routes north traced out, the stops you could take along the way clearly marked and noted in the margins in his messy handwriting. He has such a particular way of making you feel special, like he was always thinking about you. You know, now, that the clenching of his jaw is his own nerves beating against the back of his throat.

“I’d like that,” you say, tilting your head to the side. “Like a road trip?”

“Mm.” He glances at you and then back to the treeline, now leafless, bare and unprotected. The world seems so much wider, so much bigger and lonelier. “Just for a couple days.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Joel sets his coffee cup down and labors to his feet and when he passes you, he leans down to press a kiss to your temple. “Next weekend work for you, honey?” He asks against your skin.

“It does.”

“Good.”

The sky is still a purplish dawn blue when Joel pulls up to your apartment building.

He intends on shutting off the engine and knocking, so he can take your bag and carry it down the stairs and open the door for you, but as soon as his truck comes to a halt the street door flies open.

You cross the sidewalk in two big steps and open the truck door, even as Joel is leaning across the passenger seat to do it for you.

He huffs gently, mildly irritated that you’re snatching the chance to be gentlemanly right out of his hands. His mama raised him better than letting a lady open her own door.

But the exasperation melts away as soon as he glances up into your face and finds you smiling at him. It’s a big smile, and bright.

“Well,” he says. “G’mornin’, ma’am.”

“Hi, Joel,” you laugh. It’s a rare thing but getting less so and he already feels like he’s doing everything he should be. “I, uh,” you gesture to your bag on your shoulder.

“Yeah,” he snaps his seatbelt off. “Hold on.”

He rounds the truck and takes your bag from you to slide in next to his in the backseat while you climb into the passenger seat and immediately start fiddling with the radio.

“I could have done that,” you say when he’s back behind the wheel.

“No need for you to do it,” he answers. And then, because you’re still smiling and clearly giddy, he asks, amused, “You excited?”

The morning is warm and your shoulders are bare in the early slant of the sun. He takes stock of your shoulder tattoo, eyes sliding across the ink he’d put there to cover up something you hated. It looks good on you and you seem, at least to him, to feel more confident for it.

He tells himself it’s the tattoo that’s done that, anyway.

Joel still draws designs for you anytime he gets the chance, and he pretends he hasn’t noticed you doing the same for him, though he hasn’t gotten to see any of them yet.

Your shoulders tip inward just a fraction. You fade, wilt, just the tiniest bit at his question. “I just love road trips.”

“Good,” he slides his hand over yours. “Otherwise things were about to get mighty uncomfortable.”

You loosen again, smile and lean against the center console. “Good morning, Joel.”

“Hi, honey,” he answers and it feels sappy and stupid and he loves it. You deserve it, and some days, he thinks he might, too.

You lean easily into his hands, chin dropped into the cupped palms of his hands, eyes focused and waiting. When he kisses you hello, you taste like mint.

Joel tilts your head back, slides one hand along your jaw, fingers digging into the soft skin behind your ear, while the other shifts to your waist, dragging you that much closer, even though the center console prevents him from bringing you as close as he’d like.

Your lips part against his at his slightest urging, like you’re desperate to give yourself over to him these days. He can’t say the sentiment isn’t returned. He wishes he could pull you closer, drag you into him, soothe the ache that gnaws at his belly. When your tongue slides against his you make a tiny sound in the back of your throat that makes him groan softly into you.

You’re glowing when he pulls back. You always look pretty through the haze of early morning sunshine. “Suppose we should get to it, huh?”

“Yeah,” you duck your head, smile twitching at the corners of your mouth. “Where’s the map?”

“How’d y’know I got a map?”

You roll your eyes. “Because you’re you. And you don’t even use the computer you have, I know you aren’t trusting the map on your phone.”

Said paper map is grudgingly dropped into your hands. You unfold it and you smile when you take in the outlined routes north, the point of your finger dipping along the marked lines.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head and seem amused. You lean over and kiss his cheek and everything in the world feels like it might be okay. “Let’s get coffee before we get on the road.”

The drive is long, but peaceful, and the routes Joel had mapped out are so far out of the way that you never even see a sign for the interstate.

You head east first and then north, stopping wherever Joel sees fit to, in tiny towns and oddly quaint little villages where the trees are somehow still fringed in orange and red and brown, where locals tell winding ghost stories, where everything feels storybook perfect in the chilliness that settles in the air, swaddled between one night’s moon and the morning.

Each stop feels like it’s preserved in honey and amber.

There always seems to be some tiny autumn festival with apple bobbing and corn mazes and haunted houses and stalls that sell apple pie and cider, locally made crafts and novelty t-shirts. The ghost tours are a little funny, and not at all spooky. It’s surprising they’re still telling those stories, so far past Halloween.

You get lost in one of the corn mazes, fingers tangled together stickily, the red syrup from candied apples staining your tongue red and pink. Joel doesn’t much care for public displays of affection, but when you find yourself in a particularly deserted portion of the maze and escape seems impossible, he pulls you in tight and kisses you. He kisses the cherry and apple taste right from your lips. He tastes like the sweetness of caramel and cream, coffee and cinnamon.

There’s a buzzing kind of lightness in your veins, like a colony of little bees busy building something permanent in your chest. The chill feels nice, the heat of his chest pressed to yours, even better. The quiet shush of the stalks is a gentle music.

When you escape the maze, Joel folds his fingers between yours again and kisses the back of your hand.

You pick apples right from the tree one state over from the corn maze, and promise Joel that you’ll try not make them into something resembling pie when you get back home. You’re both poor cooks, and even worse at baking.

But you’ll try, for him.

And Joel will eat it and grimace, and tell you it’s good, and you’ll pretend to believe him.

A couple hours down the road from the apples, there’s a pumpkin patch. You pay a couple bucks each to smash the last of the season’s left over pumpkins, already starting to rot. The cab of the truck smells like pumpkin guts for a few hours after that, on account of all the muck of it all over your clothes. You think it's funny, and Joel smiles, a good sport about pumpkin guts all over his truck and clothes.

Joel hums while he drives, to whatever music you put on. Sometimes he complains about your choice in music, but he always settles into it. He holds your hand and turns down the volume when you start to talk about something.

He doesn’t complain when you keep his hand in yours, tracing the lines in his hands and the bump of veins in his wrist and the back of his hand. It’s his fault, you’d say, if he ever said something about it. He’s made you like this, desperate and needy for something only he can give to you.

It’s his fault, that you’re healing and happier and looking to the future. It’s his fault, all of it.

On your last night you stop in an inn after driving and indulging in any little thing for the better part of a very long day. You’re still a day’s drive away from home, but in the morning you are heading home.

You eat at the restaurant on the first floor of the hotel, watch Joel finish out dinner with yet another slice of apple pie and another cup of black coffee before you head to your room and throw open the window of your room to a chilly night.

Real chilly, that is, not Texas chilly. And tomorrow you’ll go back to that decidedly not seasonally appropriate weather.

The sky is a dusky, autumn purple, tinged at the edges with midnight blue and a dying crimson. A sharp wind whips the curtain back, and the air you breathe in burns your lungs.

You shiver and turn to Joel with a small smile. His mouth quirks in return.

“Good day?”

“Mhm. Really good.”

He shifts and then pulls off his jacket and toes off his boots by the door, still looking down. “You sure?” Joel asks offhandedly. “This trip wasn’t a total waste of time for ya?”

“Of course not,” you murmur, trying to suppress a smile.

He glances up from folding his jacket over the back of the chair in the corner.

The question mark etched into his voice makes your chest ache. “I like spending time with you, you know,” you tease. You reach a hand out, open and close your fingers to beckon him closer.

“I know,” Joel says but doesn’t protest, just walks closer until you can fit your hands against his chest. You trail your fingers to the collar of his flannel, not daring to meet his eyes, and pluck open the first button.

When he doesn’t stop you, you continue, pushing one button after another through its little pocket until you run out of room and the material parts in your hands. His breathing hitches when you draw your hands back up to his chest, nerves stretched thin. You are still unable to meet his eyes, and so you stare at his collarbone instead, the broad planes of his chest, the line of his shoulders, and slide your thumb along the base of his throat.

It would be nice, to kiss him there, to press the edge of your teeth against his skin.

Joel’s skin is warm, shaded from hours spent in the sun. The muscle flexes beneath your touch, tendons tightening and straining in his neck. This close he smells like the earthen fields you’d walked through earlier, the crisp tangle of apples, woodsmoke on chilled air. He groans softly when you lean in.

The breeze from the window is icy against your back, raking deep nails into your flesh in a shiver that traces each vertebrae in your spine. You lean in, tipping your head forward, intoxicated by the scent of him, the feeling of his skin beneath your hand, the warmth he radiates like a furnace.

Maybe he’s looking at you the same way, drawn like a moth to flame, to your body, to the heat of you.

Joel cups one hand around your wrist and the little illusion shatters immediately. “Look at me, honey.”

You raise your eyes from the broad stretch of his shoulders to his gaze, embarrassment pooling in your belly with a sharp twist. “What?”

He shakes his head and presses one big hand against your jaw. Instead of answering, he kisses you, his other hand anchoring against your hip. You feel him smile against your mouth, amusement pouring off him in waves. “You’re just real pretty when you want somethin’.”

“Ugh,” you push him gently away and turn out of his grip. A smile pulls at your own mouth when you close the window to the night and pull the blinds and then the curtains. “You’re very funny and very cruel.”

His arms circle you again, tight and thick around your body. “I ain’t either of those things.” His lips brush the space behind your ear, the shell of it, until another shiver slides up your spine. “But you are pretty.”

And he is cruel. Your want for each other has flowered over the last few days. Though you’re used to sharing a bed with Joel, sharing a hotel room has been different. It’s been more intense, more intimate. Especially when you’ve spent every single second together, still smelling of each other and the cold and outside when you climb into bed, even after showering, like you aren’t quite able to rid yourself of the other.

Joel is too polite, too cautious with you, to do anything about it. He waits for you, always.

But you want so badly it’s like a physical ache in your chest, resting thick fists against your breast bone, hammering against your lungs, the slippery, wet viscera of your heart.

The stubble on his jaw scrapes against your cheek, the prickle of it pleasant. It sends shockwaves across your skin, bolts of electricity sparking in your veins, right to your belly. Something in your chest tightens, but not the usual thing that makes you want to cower away from arms curled around your body, but the kind that pinches in and makes you want to stay, makes you want to fall into him.

His hands could wrap around the curves of your ribs and tear open your chest and you would let him, because he would be that much closer. The feeling still scares you, just a little bit. It makes your skin tighten and smart.

It also makes you feel safe and calm.

The contrast is dizzying and, you feel, easily misplaced in your mind, considering how badly you want him. So, you turn in his arms and say, “You are, too. Real pretty.”

It’s delightful, the way his cheeks go pink right beneath his beard. He clears his throat gruffly and pulls just slightly out of your grasp. “You, uh, wanna get ready for bed? Or we can go on that shitty ghost tour that guy at the front desk told us about.”

You think of it for a moment—you and Joel, hands tangled together, led around the little town’s main thoroughfare, staying toward the back of the group packed with local couples having a date night outing. It would be cold and Joel would put his arm around your back and you’d probably drink something warm.

But—

“Mm,” you hum, looking him over. “I’m tired, I think.”

“All right,” he pushes on your hip, pats the curve of your waist gently. “Get goin’ then.”

You cup your hands against his jaw and kiss him one last time, tasting the lingering press of apple pie and vanilla cream against your tongue. “Thank you for today,” you say. “For the last few days.”

Joel, always bad with thank yous, just nods, like it was a given he should give you such a special little trip.

More weekends than not, these days, you stay over at Joel’s place on the weekends. He likes having you there, even if the weekday evenings are a little lonelier for it. He likes waking up with you, likes getting to see you at your most raw and unfiltered. And, you always look most beautiful in the morning light, when you’re smiling at him just because he fixed you a cup of coffee.

The other part of that is that he likes getting to sleep next to you, even on the nights where you don’t touch. He likes having you within an arm’s reach, rather than halfway across town in an apartment he worries about the safety of. Most nights that you stay with him are bliss. They are—you in his arms, your mouth against his, his hands tracing your bare skin, your tattoos, in the darkness of his bedroom, your fingers on his naked skin.

He always stops before things go too far, because that’s not what you need from him. You need slow and steady and sure. And that’s what he gives you. Even if he wants you so badly it hurts sometimes.

But you’ll let him know when you’re ready. He knows you feel it too, that pull, but he also knows that the fear always wins out, too.

This night with you, fresh from the shower, skin pliant and soft against his, feels different.

You’re just as easy in his arms, just as comfortable and soft.

But, somehow, it feels different, in this dark, unfamiliar hotel room in this tiny town with winter cold knocking at the windows. The scent of your skin is different, like salted caramel and chilled autumn air and him. You’ve spent so much time in his truck and his house that you’ve started to smell like home.

Usually, you smell like summer, like the earthy smell of sun-warmed skin, like coconut and spun sugar, and he misses it. He can’t wait to have you back home.

He swears he can taste the damp of your skin, water left over from the shower, the tang of your sweat against his tongue when he sucks a harsh line down your throat.

You make a keening noise, delicate with want, low in the back of your throat. His thigh is between your legs. That’s new, something recent that’s been happening more and more in the last few weeks, something you haven’t gotten self conscious or worried about wanting, about taking. You never get off that way, though he wishes you would.

He can feel the heat of your pussy through two layers of fabric. You grind against the muscle. That feels different here, too. It feels more.

He presses warm palms on your waist and hips and ribs. He traces the outline of your tattoo, taps his fingers along your spine.

His touch is the same as he always makes it, slow and steady and sure, and only asking for as much as you’ll give.

But your hands trail hot across his chest, against his neck. Something about you seems different, hungrier.

“Joel,” you murmur into his throat, lips brushing his collarbone. Your hips stop their slow roll against him. “I want to touch you.”

“Honey,” he grits, an ache forming hard and low in his gut, when your hands slide down his chest to his belly. His cock twitches and he knows you must feel it. “You sure that’s what you want?”

You stop, fingers grazing his lower stomach before you retract them. “I won’t if you—”

“No,” his hand curls around yours, keeping it in place against his skin. “I want it more than you can know, darlin’. Just don’t seem very gentlemanly of me.”

“Why?”

You tilt your head, that odd little thing you do, more animal than person sometimes in your curiosity. The dark of the room casts your face, and your eyes, in shadows. You look hungry, needful.

“‘Cause the right thing for me to do would be to touch you first, honey. Ladies first n’all.” The ache claws at him again, slides hot fingers around his lungs. “Baby, I want to. I wanna touch you so bad.”

It feels damn near wrong to admit but you just hum.

You nudge your forehead against his. “I want this first. I want to touch you. Wanna make you feel good. Can I?”

He nods, just once, and releases your wrist, because you said it’s what you want. And he does too, whether he should or not. Your hand slips lower, beneath the waistband of his briefs, and then your fingers are circling tight and hot around his cock.

A curse breaks past his lips.

Your breathing hitches against his neck, the muscle straining against your lips when he grits his teeth. You press your mouth against his skin, your curled fist slowly stroking down, thumb curving over the tip. “Oh,” you murmur, your lashes tickle against the underside of his jaw.

He grunts against you, but you just kiss the rapidly pounding pulse in his throat. Your teeth dig into his skin, the curve of his collarbone, sharp and sudden. You bite him, tongue following the sting, hot and wet. You twist your wrist around him, dragging a sound up out of him that borders on obscene.

“Is that good, Joel?”

Christ.

You’re going to kill him.

“Yeah,” he grunts.

You’re going so fucking slow at it, the caress of your hand careful and too warm, dragging the precome at the head down, your palm not nearly slick enough.

But he doesn’t want you to stop, it feels so fucking good. And Joel knows he’s going to embarrass himself, because he’s older and no one had touched him like this in a long time. He’s going to come quick.

The way you’re stroking him is better than the way he’s hastily been touching himself in the shower lately, his own palm so rough and quick, staving off the images that come unbidden. You above him, sinking down onto his length, features twisted in pleasure; you falling to your knees, lips a little o as you take him into your mouth—

Another moan slips past gnashed teeth when your fingers graze the skin of his balls, palm almost curious when you cup him in your hand.

“Gimme your hand.”

You’re breathing hard against him, chest rising and falling against his arm, the peaks of your tightened nipples brushing his bicep. You nod against him, forehead pressed against his jaw, eyes glued to his cock when you push his briefs down and pull your hand away from him.

You don’t question what he wants with your hand, and so when he spits into your palm, you gasp and then groan.

Well, thank Christ for that. Thank fucking God you liked it. His dick jumps in your hand when you slide it back over his skin, the slick noise of it intoxicating.

Your hand is smaller than his, the way you touch him so different from the way he touches himself. You’re soft with it, and slower. When you curl yourself tighter into his side, mouth pressed to the pulse in his throat, he reaches for you, touches the curve of your hip and the dip of your waist.

A needy little sigh snaps out against his collarbone, and you tilt your face up to kiss him, the press of your lips wet and soft and open. He wants to devour you, push you back and learn every single inch of you, all the parts of you he wants so badly to memorize.

Really, he just wants his face in your pussy, to swallow you down, find out what your cunt feels like clenching around his fingers.

But you said—

This first. Him first. Your tight fist around his cock, learning him first, making him come first. His hand trails up your side, cups your breast through your shirt, pinches the stiff peak of your nipple softly to be rewarded with a keening sound that makes him buck his hips up into your hand.

“Christ,” he mutters against your mouth, cupping your jaw in his hard. Your pupils are blown wide, lips swollen from kissing him. You tasted like apple pie, even though he was the one that had it at dinner. “Doin’ so good, feels so good. My good girl.”

Your eyes flutter shut, forehead knocking against his again, moaning so soft against him, breath a tiny little huff against his lips. “You feel good,” you say, stroking him slower, steady. “So good, Joel.”

He’d never admit it, but that white hot thing curling around his spine goes tight with your words, and just like that he’s at the brink of spilling over your fingers.

“Honey—” he tries to warn you but you just twist your wrist and say it again.

“So good. Always good to me,” your breath washes warm over his skin. His chest goes hot and tight, a groan tearing right out of his throat, straining against you, fucking up into your hand as he spurts over your fingers, praises from your mouth still being gifted to him, over and over and over, pleasure stealing his voice.

You, you, you.

Everywhere, his whole world in this dark room, kissing him saying thank you and you did so good and thank you for letting me touch you.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. He doesn’t do well with thank you, it curls up tight around the bones in his chest, stomps on something delicate.

His mind goes silent and still, satiated and warm with your praise, despite himself. You believe things about him that he’ll never believe about himself. But he needs to give back to you, sink his fingers into you and give that pleasure right back to you. He’s desperate for it. He doesn’t need anything else but that, to make sure you’re taken care of, that you feel as good as he does, better.

But when he reaches for you, you push his hands away. “No. No. I don’t want anything. It’s all right. It’s okay to just take things sometimes, Joel.”

It feels wrong to let it go, to take from you, but he does. You’re saying no, and he has to be okay with that. There are tissues in a box on the nightstand that make for quick cleanup. He’s only a little shamed by that, though you don’t seem to mind.

Hands through his hair, massaging the back of his neck, the knots permanently twisted into the top of his spine. Your fingers are sleepy, going slower and slower until they stop and only occasionally twitch when you momentarily jerk back awake again.

“Go to sleep, darlin’,” he murmurs against your forehead, the curl of your body tucked in close to his, warm and safe, both of you.

The next morning, you wake well before Joel. His face is slack, years washed away from his face in sleep, hair mussed and unkempt.

He’s snoring lightly.

When you pull away and sit up next to him, toes brushing the cold floor, the worry hits you like a freight train. Anxiety, like it had pooled somewhere different during the night, rushes in to hit you all at once.

Maybe you should have let him touch you. You have that feeling again, like maybe you’d done something wrong, maybe you were proving again that you were too slow to love and so that was grounds for him to decide you’re not worth it.

You touched him, made him come with your hand, praised him for giving that to you when you could not give him yourself in return.

That had been easy in the moment.

Now, it just feels wrong again. You should have given more, given him your body.

But. . . it’s just the past snapping at your heels again, old worries with a new person. A different person, who doesn’t think those things. You trust Joel, in so many ways. You trust him with this too, that he wouldn’t take what you weren’t yet willing to give.

That slows the spiral, just a little, and so does his hand against your back, his lips against the column of your neck. “G’mornin’,” he grumbles, the sound of his voice deep down in the well of his chest.

“Hi.”

“You upset with me? Looks like you’re thinkin’ pretty hard. I’m. . .I should have—”

And, typical, Joel is thinking the opposite.

“No,” you say and twist to face him, pushing him back down with a palm against his chest, sitting cross legged beside him. “No. I was thinking you might. . .just the same shit as always. I’m hard work and I’m taking too long for you.”

He watches you, one big hand cupped around the back of your knee. “You know that ain’t it,” he says, so steady and steadfast.

“I was trying to remember that,” you admit.

“Okay,” he agrees. “Good. But I’ll tell ya. It ain’t that.” His thumb arcs over your skin, the knob of bone in your shin, careful and slow. “It’s not that.”

You smile and lie back down with him, fingers against the edge of his jaw. “That’s not it either. What you’re thinking.”

“Okay.” He tucks an arm around your back, hand flat between your shoulder blades. “Should have at least asked a second time before fallin’ asleep on ya.”

“No,” you say. “You were perfect for me.”

You swear you can feel the heat of his flush against your skin.

Even though you have a long drive ahead, the bed is warm and the air is so cold, so you stay wrapped up there between the duvet and Joel’s arms, careful as he always is with you, waiting until you absolutely have to get up.

The knot of want in your belly hasn’t loosened, but something is satiated all the same. You have something real now, an image of Joel’s cock in your hand, the straining pulse of his throat, the sounds he made. You have that, for those nights you let yourself think about something more. You gave him something, instead of the other way around, something you wouldn’t have been able to months or weeks before.

The scruff of his beard is soft beneath your fingertips, his eyes shut now as you stroke his skin, those little lines beside his eyes, the scar on the bridge of his nose. “When I’m ready,” you say, not looking away when he opens his eyes, even though you want to. “I think I’ll probably let you do anything you want to me.”

💞 Thank you for reading! Comments and feedback are so appreciated. 💞

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction

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queer-little-demigod · 9 days

Note

Hi lea!!!! Can you write about an clarisse la true x apollo!reader

Clarisse got in trouble for something (what's new tho) and got a punishment of helping out with the little demigods art class for 2 weeks (or however long) the volunteer teacher is reader. At first Clarisse did NOT wanna be there she acted like a baby for the first few days but after she got more involved and started to understand she enjoyed it (she would never admit it), she started talking to the kids more (she totally has favorites, reader has to constantly tell her dont be so obvious about her favorites 😭) it got to a point where the kids would start talking to her outside of class. Also Clarisse definitely doesn't develop a crush on reader. AT ALL. SHE DEFINITELY HATES HOW PASSIONATE SHE IS ABOUT THE KIDS AND ART AND HOW GOOD SHE IS WITH KIDS SHE DOESN'T THINK ITS CUTE AT ALL. SHE DOESNT THINK OF THAT CLASS AS ONE BIG FAMILY. I mean what???? Who said that???

Anyways when it's time for her to go reader takes some of the kids to make a goodbye sign for clarisse; clarisse takes her 100% not favorite kid on a secret mission to make an 'I'm staying' sign. Then reader and Clarisse present them at the same time and it's all cutesy!! After class, reader asks clarisse on a date via showing her a pain she drew of them on a date and hopes she gets the message!

Thank you! :)

you got an artist inside you - clarisse la rue

summary where clarisse finds herself falling in love with a girl over paintbrushes and a punishment

fic type fluff

pairing clarisse la rue x fem!apollo!reader

word count 1.8k

warnings none

The camp was usually sleepy, quiet, and mostly empty apart from a few stray campers training here and there. But with summer already beating down with a burning force, it was full of kids running around, training left right and center, and all-in-all just general chaos.

So with the burning heat came grumpy older campers, which meant fights.

And a fight at lunch is what led to Clarissa having to help the younger campers with art class, with the co-teacher being none other than you, Y/n L/n, counsellor of the Apollo cabin. Additionally and otherwise known as the girl Clarisse was smitten with.

"Clarisse La Rue if you don't stop whining like that right now, I am going to smack you," you grumbled in utter frustration for the fifth time that hour, when she complained to you about some kid not cutting the paper the way it was supposed to be cut.

For a child of the god of war, she was such a wuss sometimes.

"But they're not following-" she began to protest, but a smack upside the head with a roll of wrapping paper shut her up.

"They're seven year olds in a summer camp art class," you emphasised on those facts. "They're gonna do their own thing!"

This was how the first few days went. She complained, you disciplined both her and the kids. But once she got used to the whole routine of you both giving instructions and the final products having irritatingly distinct variations, she cooled down.

If this was going to be a punishment for the next two weeks, she might as well enjoy it.

The art room, as usual, was a mess. Glitter was everywhere, coloured pencils were strewn around, papers were on the floor, blackened and trampled on. The strong scent of glue made everyone a bit woozy, and there was enough shouting for supplies across the table to give even the calmest camper a sensory overload.

Clarisse sat in the danger zone where the most glitter was being thrown around and spilled, and her soft skin was already glimmering with purple and red glitter as she tried restoring order. However, instead of yelling as usual she was laughing along with the little kids.

One kid in particular, you noticed, she helped far more than the others. A Hephaestus kid named Dennis, who was the sweetest little thing with big, round glasses and bronze hearing aids that you had Charlie customise so they looked like metal elf ear tips.

You pulled Clarissa aside and scolded her with a smile, “Clar, you cannot pick favourites!”

Clarissa loved your smile with everything she had. So naturally, she was so captivated by it that she didn't hear you the first time. Nor did she register the scolding.

"Excuse me, but Dennis deserves special treatment--" She began, but you cut her off.

"No, he's just like the other kids, okay? Just make sure you don't pick favourites, please," you sighed and walked away, going back to showing the kids how to make paper butterflies.

But you're my favourite, she thought to herself. She wished she had the courage to say it out loud, admit her feelings for you, but she couldn't.

Later, as time went by, as days of standing in clouds of glitter and glue fumes began and ended, Clarisse found that she was apparently likeable. After classes, during training, during dinner, she'd have little kids pulling her sleeve to talk to her, she'd have kids randomly hugging her at odd times of the day, or giving her small artworks like a wonky bird or a odd-looking Cerebrus. It shocked the campers beyond belief.

But for you it just made your love for her grow.

One day during class, a Demeter kid named Flora started to cry because glitter went into her eye. You rushed over immediately and helped her up, holding her in your arms as you took her to the basin to clean her up.

"Shh, don't cry, baby, it's okay, I'm gonna wash it out, alright?" You said softly.

"Guys, focus on your work, Flo's fine," Clarisse said, clapping her hands to direct the staring kids back to work, her eyes fixed on you as you washed Flora's eyes with water gently, telling her that she should not to go so close to the page when blowing glitter off in the softest voice the child of war had ever heard.

You were so gentle, like the softest summer breeze which didn't make the leaves rustle, but cooled one's warming skin. You were so precious, with your soft smile and loving words. Your voice was sweet like honey, no matter who you talked to or how.

If your voice was bottled, she swore to the gods that she'd get drunk on it every night.

"You okay, champ?" She asked, gently ruffling Flora's soft brown hair as the girl sat down. "You're a strong girl, aren't you? Showed that stupid glitter it's place."

You giggled at the way she spoke, covering your mouth with your hand to hide it. It was ridiculously obvious that Clarisse thought the kids in the art class were like family, and it was genuinely so adorable.

Seeing her like this, curly hair pulled back in her red bandanna, arms splattered with paint here and there, with glitter shining off her smooth caramel skin with every movement she made into the light, lit up something inside of you. Seeing her without her usual scowl, pulling funny faces with the kids as she showed them how to draw a monster, made your heart beat twice as fast.

However, two weeks went by with heartbreaking speed, and before she knew it, she was in Chiron's office, listening to him gleefully say she was officially un-grounded.

But honestly? She didn't share his happiness.

Nor did you.

"What?! Already!?" You exclaimed that evening as you sat in your cabin at your desk, which had plans put out for what to make for the next art class.

"Yeah," she grumbled, lounging on your bed. "I hate it."

"That's rough, but it's okay, you can always hop in to volunteer,"

"What do we tell the little ones?"

"The truth?"

"You're fucking crazy if you think they'll go with it,"

"I'm out of options, Clar," you leaned back in your chair and put your hands over your eyes. "I love that class, and I love teaching art."

"I know, and as much as I hate to admit it," she sat up. "So do I."

The very next day, Clarisse rushed to Chiron and begged him to let her stay for that class. Even going to lengths that she told him how she felt for you.

"Fine," he relented. "You can stay with the class for as long as you'd like,"

She'd never run to the forges to find a kid so fast.

"Beckendorf!" She exclaimed, looking at the cabin counselor. "Hey, where's Dennis?"

The boy looked around, and his eyes landed on Dennis, who was inquisitively watching one of his half-sisters mold a few practice swords, helping occasionally with putting the swords in water.

"Dennis!" Beckendorf exclaimed, "Clarisse wants to talk to you!"

Dennis immediately ran over, grinning broadly, showing his gap-toothed smile. "Hi, Clarisse!" He said, excitedly.

"Hey there, big boy!" She smiled back, giving him a high five. "So listen, I'm going to need your insane artistic skills and your help..."

While you did help the other kids make a 'goodbye' sign for Clarisse, on the side you decided to confront your feelings.

You knew you liked her from the beginning, from when you first saw her infectious smile, from when you heard her deep laugh reverberating through the empty Apollo cabin on days where you both would plan lessons.

She held the key to your heart, she knew her way past your walls. She clearly also knew how to remain in your thoughts, subconscious and conscious, to the point where you found yourself in the art studio, canvas on an easel before you.

Thoughts of her, of feeling her coarse, battle-worn hands on your skin, of gazing into those deep brown eyes which were like the colour of the rain-kissed earth, and when she fought were like the evening sun, golden enough to put the wings of Icarus to shame, made your paintbrush move. It made your colours flow like the blood in your veins, made each stroke perfect enough to create the scene you most desired on the canvas in front of you.

You stepped back once you felt the need to express yourself flow away, gazing at the canvas. A scene it held, and what a scene indeed. The sky was cornflower blue, a cloudless day, with the sun’s rays shining down on a big oak tree. The leaves were paler as the golden light kissed the surface, casting sharp shadows on the pillowy grass.

But then there was vivid orange and red, a flash of bronze. In the foreground there sat both you and Clarisse, the latter having more detail than any part of the drawing.

Then the dreaded day came where you all had to say goodbye to her.

The little ones were devastated, not letting Clarisse go anywhere without following her around like baby ducklings, making her explain to them that she's not going away from camp, she's just not going to teach them anymore.

At the end of the final class, just as everyone unveiled the 'we'll miss you' poster, she and Dennis revealed their 'I'm Staying' poster, causing a loud, thunderous cheer to erupt from all of you.

Later, you pulled her aside to give her your canvas painting.

Nerves wracked your body, your palms began to sweat.

When was the last time you had felt this nervous? It was probably your cello recital the day you had come to camp...

"Holy shit, Y/n this looks absolutely amazing!" Clarisse exclaimed, taking the painting in her hands.

She didn't miss the detail you had given her, drawing her angelically, despite her thinking she was the opposite. It was so well done that the brush strokes weren't even visible.

Please get the message, you blockheaded, oblivious fool...you thought.

Deciding to act against your nerves, you asked her in a shaky voice, "That's a painting of us on a date...would you like to go on one with me sometime?"

Clarisse's heart stopped. Had you just asked her out on a date?

She was at a loss for words, they didn't touch her tongue, nor did they pass her lips. She stood there, speechless, gaping at you for a moment too long.

"I mean, I get it, you're probably not even a les--" you began, but a pair of gentle lips on yours silenced your words.

Sparks flew, butterflies went haywire, your brain short-circuited. You didn't know what to doo, just stood there frozen with shock. Kissing the girl you had liked for the last few months now.

Clarisse, however, was ecstatic. Her mind was a burst of colour, her body was ablaze. She felt like she had wings, and her heart was taking her up, up, up.

Once she pulled away, she winked at your blushing face and dopey grin.

"It's a date, L/n."

hi, it's me! lea! i hope you enjoyed this long overdue oneshot <3 requests are open via dms or asks!

#clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse la rue fluff #clarisse x reader #clarisse la rue #x fem!reader #first request #requested #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #you got an artist inside you #fluff imagine

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bumblequinn · 7 months

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on a more personal note: death grips were and are a pretty major source of inspiration for my own music. not in the sense of "i like this sound so i'm going to ape it," but in the sense of "oh i can get this weird with it if i really want to."

a decent chunk of the music in SLARPG would have been a lot more restrained and self-conscious if it weren't all the death gripses out there. sophie, knower, joanna wang, wednesday campanella, KKB, lemon demon... these artists and countless others helped to show me that it's okay and even extremely cool to get weird with it.

i'm reminded of this comment on one of my tracks in particular:

and look, part of me thinks this is more or less harmless, right? i even pinned it, because it made me chuckle. it's all in good fun! (seriously, don't go causing any trouble over a comment like this. i do not condone that kind of harassment.)

and yet - if i stop to think about it a second longer, i start to ask: what is this kind of joke really saying? "this sucks." "turn that shit off." and... i dunno, that feels bad, you know? i was bouncing in my seat grooving to that track when i was making it. i like what i made. that's why i made it.

every time i make music, i'm making something i want to hear but that doesn't exist yet. i'm incredibly, stupidly lucky that i get to do that, and that other people connect with it. but when the end result of that effort is a "joke" like "this is so weird omg, put something normal on," well...

even as a joke that's enough to make me second guess myself the next time i make music. it's enough to make me change the preview track for the album to something a bit tamer so i don't "scare off" first-time listeners. that feels like capitulating, and capitulating is the opposite of authentic self expression.

i have much, much weirder, more difficult and challenging ideas that i have yet to explore and put out there because i already feel like enough of a pariah just as a trans woman in the world.

i'd like to find the inner courage and esteem to create that art without softening its edges, trying to appease, or apologizing for myself. i think i'll get there. i'm already closer than i used to be. but seeing more people respect weird art, rather than quip about about its strangeness, would be a start. a girl can dream.

#ok that's all #bird words

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cuubism · 1 year

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"A van Dyck," Dream drawled, dragging a light finger along the gilt frame of the painting propped on the top of one of Hob's shelves. Hob really should do something more formal with that. "Interesting thing to have in your living room, Hob."

"I tell people it's a print," Hob said, coming to stand beside him and handing him his tea.

"Oh, but it is not." There was a smirk dancing on Dream's lips, Hob knew without even looking at him directly.

"Makes sense that you'd be able to tell," he sighed.

"Of course. Just how did you come across such a thing?"

"Well, I was still mingling with the aristocracy in the early 17th century. Met some interesting people." He shrugged. "Really should have sold it when I was, well, destitute, but couldn't bear to. Managed to stash it away. One of the few things I have of that time, actually."

"I can only imagine you had more than one valuable thing in your possession over the centuries," Dream mused, sipping his tea. "Why this one?"

Oh, God. He knew, didn't he?

Hob rubbed at the back of his neck. "Reminded me of you."

Hob had never known much about art, particularly back then. He hardly would consider himself a collector and certainly not a connoisseur. But that particular portrait had caught his attention immediately for its similarity to Dream.

The likeness was, indeed, striking. His hair was longer than it had been when they'd met in 1589, sweeping over his shoulders, and his features were half-draped in shadow, but his eyes. Hob would know that haughty, intense gaze anywhere.

He'd never quite discounted the idea that it was a portrait of his stranger, except that he couldn't imagine him having the patience or cause to sit for it, or the desire to be immortalized in that way.

"It is me," said Dream.

"What? Seriously?" Hob turned to stare at him and found Dream already looking back, ethereal and lovely. There was only one lamp on in the living room, night falling around them, and it cast his face in a similar light to the portrait, soft gleaming skin and plunging darkness as backdrop, limitless shadow in his eyes. "You, allowing a portrait? You're not having me on?"

"I do not joke." Dream took a step closer to him, setting his tea aside on a table. "I suppose I must have been in good humor that day."

Hob raised both eyebrows. "Oh, uh-huh, you in good humor?"

Dream's lips ticked up in a half-smile. "It happens occasionally."

Hob leaned against the shelf, careful not to jostle the painting. "For someone who so disdains the waking world, you sure are very aware of the art scene."

Dream leaned beside him, tilting his head. "You might consider me a patron of the arts."

Hob chuckled. "A patron? Or an inspiration?" He reached out and dragged his thumb along Dream's lower lip. "Dream?"

"A lover of artists, perhaps."

"I'm sure." Hob swept a hand along his cheek, breaking up the light like he was dragging a wet brush through paint. "You look like you could have stepped right out of that painting right now. You could have stepped out of any painting."

Dream looked at him from under his lashes. "Are you calling me a work of art, Hob Gadling?"

"Always."

Then Hob kissed him, hands framing his beautiful face. Dream was like an artwork, constant in essence but changing interpretation in every new light. Hob could imagine how many people over the centuries had had a fleeting encounter with him and come away changed, just as he had.

Dream hovered near him when they parted. Hob looked over to the painting again. No mere depiction could capture Dream in all of his colors, but it really was a rather good try. Van Dyck had gotten the depth of his eyes just right.

"The Baroque period suits you," Hob told him.

"Now who knows something about art?"

"I've picked up a few things over the years. I'm in love with the world's greatest artist, after all."

Dream moved in as if to kiss him, but paused to speak against Hob's mouth. "There are other works of me out in the world, if you care to seek them out."

"Don't open that challenge because I will do it," Hob informed him, quite seriously.

"I hope so." There was a sharp gleam in Dream's eyes. Hob could only imagine what kinds of paintings might inspire that look. "I look forward to seeing what you find."

#this is so like. specific to MY interests XD #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #the sandman #dreamling fic #i think about Dream and art a lot #and also Hob having random weird expensive stuff just casually in his flat #kinda wanted to use a more dramatic baroque artist for dream than van dyck but i just really like the way he does EYES and GAZES #also he worked in england so hob could have conceivably come across his work? idk #i don't actually know anything about art i just guesstimate #my writing

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b1rds3ye · 8 months

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I love your writing style!

(also love how you always go for gn!reader!)

Silly request for another masked reader?

Masked reader who has those more solid material masks that can easily be cleaned has in the past painted their mask during one holiday just for the fun of it and they boys wanna do it too. Variation of it; masked reader got injured and has to stay bed bound for a while so their mask is being written and painted on like people do with casts :D

(there would be so many pictures)

PLEASE THIS IS SO CUTE (also tysm anon!! It means a lot that you like my writing and writing decisions AHHHHH). I'm thinking a white-hockey mask sorta vibe that can look intimidating for missions, but also far too tempting for the 141 to wreak havoc on. Of course, they'll ensure you always have at least one spare blank mask so you can keep being the ominous badass on missions, but when a mission goes south and you escape with barely your life, they do what they can to make your bed-bound recovery as entertaining as possible.

Soap in particular truly treats your mask as a canvas. I already touched that Johnny has a journal of alternative designs for your mask and with a plain mask his mind is racing with so many ideas! He also has a general knack for drawing, in the quiet nights when he's done with training and can visit the med-bay he can spend hours just drawing on your mask with a thin sharpie (think like those highly intricate black-ink tattoos). His art is a little rough and scratchy but the artistry is there. He also provides his signature which lacks the tact of his art - if another member of the 141 hasn't he'll be the one stamping his name across your forehead with an obnoxious "SOAP WAS HERE!!".

Ghost is not an artist. There isn't a single artistic bone in this poor man, when he draws a circle it somehow looks like a square. Instead, Simon writes. A card is too sappy but your mask makes the perfect patch of parchment. His handwriting is legible but far from aesthetic, it's practical and hastily done with your head shaking slightly as he writes on it. Eventually he has to stabilise your head with his other hand, and his hold is surprisingly gentle. It's a general message wishing you get better soon, and a special military pun for everyone to read when they see your mask. He says that now your mask is a little more customised it almost looks half as good as his. While being unable to draw, he does accompany Johnny or Kyle if they pay a visit to vandalise your mask.

Price is straight forward. You want people to sign your mask? He'll sign your mask. John is surprisingly sentimental, he genuinely treats your mask as a get-well-soon card. He encourages you to rest - which is admittedly redundant since you can't get out of bed - but also to hurry up and get back on the field because he's losing his mind putting up with the rest of the 141. His handwriting is small because he has a lot to say, his message taking up the expanse of your cheek. He puts effort into his message and handwriting, it's going to be on your mask for everyone else to read and when he tries the captain has some exceptionally nice cursive. When he's done, he pulls away and lets out a satisfied huff at his message and how it looks on you... and then a consequential sigh when he looks at what of the rest of the task force has done to your poor mask.

Gaz does everything with your mask. He first covers the basics, signing his name and a quick, encouraging message for your health. Then Kyle goes ham on redesigning your mask and making it look as terrible as possible. Because it's a plain white mask, in particular he loves to use coloured sharpies on it. He'll shade panda-like eye bags where your eye sockets will be, or colour the area of your nose with a bright red circle like a clown. If you ever complain he'll just say this is the price you pay for getting injured and being sent to medbay. It's a joke but the underlying concern isn't missed from you. He's not the best artist but he'll leave a cute little doodle like a flower or that "S" sign that's used to graffiti everything known to man. He also enjoys giving you something to do (laying in med-bay all day must be terrible!), taking your hand in his to guide your hand across your face so you can draw a simple little star or love-heart on your own mask.

Surprisingly, it's Simon who initially asks for your permission to take photos of your mask. He says it's for the rest of the task force so they can have a reminder of what they're fighting for as they continue doing operations in your absence. John did add on that it was also simply for the memory as it's expected that you'll keep the mask once you've gotten better - unless you're willing to auction it off in which Kyle already called dibs.

It's only when you can freely move around do you take off your mask to realise that under your chin would be, generally obscured from view, one of them drew a shoddy little penis. You have half the mind of chasing up on who it was but it was simply too funny and you let it go. (Also because you already know deep down it was Soap)

Masked Reader Masterlist Call of Duty Masterlist

#cod x reader #call of duty x reader #cod x you #task force 141 x reader #captain price x reader #john price x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #john mactavish x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #anon mail ❤️#/*avery checks the mailbox*/#/*avery actually writes*/#/*cod x masked reader*/

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 12 days

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WIBTA for posting my cross stitch of someone else's pixel art? 🪡🧵

Yea this is more low stakes but like also uh... So basically I follow this artist and they make really, really good pixel art. They also have a shop that sells their art and in particular cross stitch patterns for some of their pixel art. Problem is, the pattern and the original art don't match completely, like the colours and slightly off and there's less colours and detail overall in the pattern being sold

Thing is, I really, really liked one particular art and I wanted to stitch it. But I don't like the pattern the artist is selling. So I pulled up one of those pattern converting websites and made a pattern based off the same art, but with more colours so it looks more like the original.

I'm already partially stitching the work and I want to post it online when I'm done, but uh, that sounds like a bit of a dick move? Like it's the artist's art and they clearly had a shop selling a pattern so it seems kinda dirty to wave around a work that I did without paying them. But on the other hand, the artist didn't create this specific pattern I converted to include more colours. Of course I do plan on giving them credit for the original art, but would that be enough? Should I add a link to the shop/leave a tip?

#aita #am i the asshole

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moongothic · 2 months

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People often bring up the omake No Respect Time to use as Crocodad Propaganda, and y'know, I think there might be just a smidge more the omake can provide to Crocodad than what people have already discussed in the past

Like everyone's seen the comparisons between Crocodile and the anime screencaps of Don Luffyone, we all know how the two look so similar etc etc. But honestly, the resemblance is even more obvious (and hilarious) when you look at the OG manga version (Sidenote but Don Luffyone is the only one who smokes cigars in the omake... Everyone else has plain ol' cigarettes... That sure was a decision there Oda)

And yeah, you might be thinking I picked this mangacap of Crocodile in particular because the resemblance is the most obvious here and I have My Crocodad Agenda to push etc etc. But I will have you know that the original omake was from Log Book 5, which was published February 28th 2006. Meanwhile that Crocodile is from the cover of chapter 398, published February 6th 2006. So these were drawn by Oda around the same time. I didn't just cherry pick this cover page because it's convenient for my evil agenda, if these were drawn around the same time then the likelihood the resemblance is intentional does legitimately go up a little. (Also since they're both drawn by Oda instead of random animators, again, it's a bit less coincidental and could be a bit more intentional)

But as I said, I think there might be more to the omake than that.

In the past people have also pointed out and joked how a mere few months before Oda revealed Dragon was Luffy's father to us in the story (post-Enies Lobby), in the Monster Time-omake Luffy was depicted as a dragon.

Needless to say, people believe this was intentional foreshadowing (/trolling) to the Dragon reveal by Oda-- if not it'd be one hell of a coincidence at the very least.

The reason I'm bringing that up is that if people think it's safe to assume Oda was hinting at Luffy's heritage in one omake by making him a dragon like his father, then why couldn't Oda do the same in another omake (by making Luffy a mafia boss who smokes cigars like his father)? Keep in mind that Monster Time was published in May 2006 (in Log Book 7), just three months after No Respect Time. So again, these are from the same era. To me, that just makes the resemblance between Don Luffyone and Crocodile seem even less coincidental

Oh, but there's one more omake I want to bring up.

So people do often bring up Nerd!Luffy's appearance in One Piece Gakuen spin-off manga, pointing out how much he looks quite a lot like the Theoretical Child Oda gave to Crocodile in that one SBS. Yeah. So. 'Bout that.

There was this one omake called Red Hair of Class 3-Sea Time, in which Luffy was a loser ass nerd. And man, that resemblance

Like it's one thing when a spin-off manga drawn by a different artist does A Thing. It's another when Oda himself does it

#Moon posting #OP Meta #Crocodad #Sir Crocodile #3rd Year Class is from 2007. Can't remember what year the SBS Child is from but I'm guessing long after 2013??#Point is that I would considder the Theoretical Child the weakest piece of Crocodad Propaganda #Also just to re-iterate: even if Crocodile wasn't Luffy's other dad I'm sure Oda knows who Luffy's other parent is and what happened to 'em #Like it doesn't matter if it was some random chick who fell down the stairs or was kidnapped or whatever #It doesn't matter if Luffy's other parent is relevant to the story or not; I'm sure Oda knows The Truth himself #But also Crocodile's always been relevant in the story around the same time the rest of Luffy's other family is relevant to the story #You know what I might actually save these thoughts for a separate post hold on #POINT IS THAT THE FACT THAT THE TWO OMAKE ARE FROM THE SAME TIME #AS WELL AS THE TIME WHEN DRAGON AND GARP WERE REVEALED TO BE RELATED TO LUFFY #THAT'S A SUS COINCIDENCE. THAT'S THE POINT

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shinybearnerd · 10 months

Text

"Notes of Chaos"

Hi everybody!

Since Good Omens season 2 is almost here, I wanted to share some of my ff with you.

The pairing is not between Crowley and Aziraphale, even tho there may be one of them in the future. They are so cute together and I ship them, but I think I'm not that good at capturing their ineffable love. Idk, I hope it makes sense...

This is my first time publishing a smut ff. I'm a little nervous lmao.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this! Let me know if that's the case!

Pair: Crowley x Gn!reader

Words: 2,6k

Genre: Fluff, smut +18

Story: After the Armageddon, Crowley has been kicked out of his apartment and now he's living in his Bentley. You and Crowley are good friends, so you propose he stays at your place for the moment. He accepts, even tho he's reluctant. Days pass and you and the demon are coming to get closed and closed until one night, at a party...

-Engish is not my first language. So I'm sorry if there are any mistakes-

Every person that has known y/n would describe them as someone that has an infectious smile and bright eyes that light up even at the littlest thing.

They had always been fascinated by the idea of supernatural creatures, and as soon as they learned that Crowley was a demon, they were drawn to him in a strange and intriguing way. Despite their human nature, y/n was open-minded enough to accept Crowley for who he was.

Ever since the demon had entered their life, they had discovered an unexpected complicity with him.

After weeks of living together, Crowley had become accustomed to y/n's company and their eccentricity. Though at first, he'd been reluctant to accept their offer of hospitality, he'd gradually come to trust them and realized that he couldn't have found a better person, apart from Aziraphale of course, to share time with than them.

One evening, Y/n enthusiastically approached Crowley while he was immersed in one of the many blogs about plants that the demon followed. <<Hey, some friends are planning a party this night. Five minutes from here. Would you like to come with me? >> asked, trying to hide the excitement.

Crowley lifted his eyes from the phone and looked at Y/n, considering their proposal. Initially, the prospect of a party didn't seem very appealing to the demon, who preferred to spend the evenings alone or with a few people he felt comfortable with. But then, a thought crossed his mind: perhaps, this would be an opportunity to get closer to them.

After a short pause, Crowley nodded. <<Yeah, sure. It'll be fun.>> Y/n eyes immediately lightened up as they embraced him enthusiastically. <<Crowley, you'll love them! And I'm sure they'll love you too!>>

In the evening, the two walked towards the meeting place. Crowley followed Y/n. As they passed through the neighbourhood, the lights of the adjacent houses cast a welcoming atmosphere on the whole street.

When they reached their destination, the music and the sound of laughter greeted them. The party was on an elegant terrace, above a very chich club, with upbeat music and some people already laughing and dancing.

Crowley noticed that Y/n was like a fish in water, in the midst of people, while he preferred to remain cold. Still, Y/n's presence offered him a sense of comfort he'd never experienced before.

<<Come, Crowley, I want you to meet my people!>> They insisted, gently taking his arm and leading him.

The demon found himself in a various circle of people: there were artists, musicians and people with eccentric clothing.

And if before he felt out of place, at that moment he felt at home.

He left himself carried away by the festive atmosphere and found himself laughing and joking with guests who weren't Luna or her friends. Maybe it was the alcohol. Yes, it was definitely the alcohol.

As the evening wore on, Crowley realized how gorgerous and charming Y/n looked as they danced lightly. He was beginning to love the way their eyes sparkled with a particular light when they talked about something that fascinated them or when they talked to their friends… The way their nose crunched when smiling or laughing…

The hours passed, and the party continued in its fervency.

Crowley and Y/n found themselves sitting against the railing of the parapet. The bright colour of the lights created a magical and intimate atmosphere in some way.

There was no need to talk much. They seemed to understand each other even without many words. <<Crowley>> Y/n said, placing their hand lightly on his. <<Thank you for coming with me tonight. It's nice to have you here.>> The demon smiled. A sweet one that he rarely showed to others. <<Yes. I'm happy too. It was a... pleasant evening.>>

They were smiling at each other when suddenly the DJ spoke, telling everybody that the night was almost ending and that he was putting on the last songs.

Immediately, Y/n took Crowley by the arm, dragging him into the dance floor. The demon didn't know whether to feel bothered or amused by their gesture. He chose the second option.

The music was loud, but that didn't seem to bother Y/N, who danced carefree and sensually, as if there was no one around them.

Crowley found himself mesmerized by their presence. His ancient and mischievous soul recognized Y/n's attraction and excitement, and the thought made him smile. He even thought that they would have been a heaven of a demon.

He let himself go to the music, allowing Y/n to lead him on an intoxicating experience.

The evening had revealed a side of them that Crowley had never seen before: a wild and charming person, capable of awakening new sensations in him.

With an amused smile, Crowley followed Y/n's movements, letting the music surround them both. He no longer cared about the outside world or his worries. The only thought that mattered to him was sharing that moment with them.

At one point, they moved even closer to Crowley, their bodies almost touching. The heat and electricity between them seemed to increase. It wasn't just the music that moved them, but a mutual attraction that was growing more and more.

In a playful tone, Y/n whispered in Crowley's ear over the noise of the music. <<You know... we could wreak some havoc together! That would be fun.>>

Crowley smiled, realizing that they were playing with him, but at the same time seeing a small spark of truth in their suggestion.

<<We could, but you know, I've spent millennia wreaking it… Maybe I need a break, gorgeous.>> he replied winking behind his black glasses.

Y/n laughed, looking down as they resumed letting the music wrap around them. Trying to hide their blushed cheeks.

Something in hearing their laughter snapped in him and, without them realizing it, the demon slipped behind, grabbing them with one hand, which he held on their stomach, and pulling Y/n towards himself, continuing to dance.

Although Y/n seemed to never stop laughing, they felt their breath short for a few seconds. Crowley's touch made them shiver, but not in the way they expected. It was an electrifying sensation, a combination of awe and pleasure.

They turned to him, meeting his leering gaze, and their heart started pounding even faster. <<Crowley.>> they whispered, almost out of breath. The demon answered them with a knowing smile, moving closer. << Sounds to me like you need some guidance, Y/n. I can help you with the pacing if you like.>>

Y/n smiled. And immediately after they let themself be completely caught up in Crowley's grip. They felt his strong, warm hands on their skin as his rhythm joined in an intense, sensual dance. The heartbeat quickened the breathing of both mixed.

As they danced together, Y/n felt the heat of Crowley's body against theirs, a magnetic energy that seemed to grow stronger and stronger. It was as if their souls touched, opening the door to a deep and mysterious understanding. The more they danced, the more Crowley closed them, letting themselves be overwhelmed by their aphrodisiac smell; the more Y/n grinded and danced against Crowley. There were no words, just the music enveloping them, and their emotions melding together.

Y/n felt like they were in a trance, fascinated by the way the demon treated them. His touch was electrifying and everything they needed in their life.

Crowley, on the other hand, was surprised about how Y/n could push his emotions so high. In every movement, in every touch, he felt the pull of their power, humanity and irresistible energy. He had gotten used to being cold and calculating, but with Y/n, everything seemed different.

They continued to dance, letting themselves be guided by the music and the intensity of the moment, until they felt the demon's crotch behind them, letting out a sigh of pleasure. Which didn't go unnoticed by the demon, who gripped them closer. He leaned closer to them, leaning into Y/n's ear, grinding more. He spoke with a husky and amused whisper. <<Do you like dancing with me, my dear? >> Y/n moaned softly. << Yes...>>

Crowley's hands trailed up Y/n's hips as his sensual movements made them feel alive like never before. It was as if the whole universe was concentrated at that moment. The demon's hands squeezed them tighter, their bodies moving in unison. The dance floor felt like their kingdom, where they could express themselves without fear or judgment.

The music surrounded them more, leading them into a whirlwind of emotions and desire. Every movement, every touch, was filled with passion and mystery. Suddenly, it stopped. But, even though the song ended, the connection between the demon and the human was still strong.

They stopped to stare into each other's eyes, not saying a word. The short breaths were due to the movement and desire they felt towards each other. Crowley was breathing heavily too, looking at them through his glasses with an impenetrable gaze.

<<Follow me. >> he ordered, breaking the silence.

Y/n didn't have to hear it again. They let the demon grab their wrist and followed him, slipping through the crowd that had resumed dancing.

As soon as they got out, Crowley pushed Y/n against the nearest wall, approaching them with an intense expression in his eyes. Their lips met passionately, hungry for each other. Each kiss was a promise of pleasure and togetherness.

As Crowley brushed his hands against Y/n's skin, the contact ignited a fire that spread throughout their bodies. They felt the heat emanating from the demon, an intense and overwhelming feeling that made them want him even more.

Y/n's hands hooked on the collar of Crowley's jacket, pulling him closer. They could feel the hardness of his muscles against their body, and the energy emanating from him made them shiver with excitement.

Their breaths mingled, quickened by the desire that burned them from within. There was no more room for inhibitions, just the will to indulge in an uncontrollable passion.

As the kiss deepened and deepened, Crowley moved his hands over the curves of Y/n's body, exploring them with desire and reverence. His fingers traced lines down their back, leaving a trail of fire on their sensitive skin.

Y/n moaned in pleasure, responding to Crowley's touches with smooth movements of their body. It was as if they were in perfect harmony, dancing to an ancient tune of passion and desire.

The pressure of the demon's body against theirs intensified, and Y/n could feel their arousal spreading now. It was an explosion of sensations, a shiver that shot through their spines and spread through their entire being.

As the kiss broke off, leaving a line of saliva that united them, their gazes met once again. There was a promise of lust and affection in those golden eyes. An intensity that made their heart beat even faster. <<Crowley...>> whispered Y/n, their voice full of desire. The demon smiled at them. A smile full of mischief and affection that only they could see. Y/n bit their lower lip, their body vibrating with a desire that was impossible to ignore. <<Crowley, please... Fuck me.>>

Without saying a word, Crowley took Y/n's face in their hands and kissed them again hard and passionately. It was as if they were two souls on fire, consuming each other. Crowley's hands moved impatiently, exploring Y/n's body with uncontrollable hunger, starting to free both of the encumbrances of pants/and dresses.

Their breathing was irregular, their moans mixing in the night air with the muffled noise of distant music. It was a symphony of desire, a crescendo of sensations that carried them higher and higher.

The demon picked them up, pressing them against the wall, and Y/n wrapped their legs around him, welcoming him. Crowley began to playfully rub his hard erection against Y/n's core, who moaned impatiently. A sly smile was on his lips. <<Crowley... please!>> <<You know what to do, sweet cheecks.>> replied grinding harder against them. Y/n tightened their grip on the shoulders of the demon, who watched them in amusement. <<Crowley-… fuck. Please, fuck me hard. Ruin me! Ruin other people for me. >> With a sudden movement, Crowley thrust all of him hard, causing them to let out a strangled cry of pleasure. <<Fuck. You're so deliciously tight! ...Can I move?>> <<I'll kill you if you don't!>>

Their bodies moved in unison, dancing in a timeless, erotic choreography. Each movement was a promise of pleasure, a celebration of the intense connection between them. The more the demon moved, the more the human felt they were about to come.

As Crowley's trusts quickened, Y/n understand that he was close too. They could hear him gasping and grunting in pleasure, feeling Y/n's core squeezing him just in the right way. He tilted his head backwards, moaning and grunting into the free air as he had his way with Y/n.

<<Oh, my- fucking god! Yes, baby! Just like that!>> The blasphemy and the tone of their voice were his last straw. His movement quickened more, while his pushes became harder.

They soon came together: Crowley feeling his cock sweetly being milked by his lover's soft walls, and Y/n feeling his warm seed coating and filling them.

With their bodies still vibrating with passion, Y/n and Crowley remained embraced against the wall, wrapped up in each other and seeking the breath and the sweetness in each other's embrace. Their skins touched delicately as if they wanted to keep every spark of that magical moment.

With the accelerated beat of their hearts in the background, they exchanged an intense kiss, full of gratitude and complicity. Their warm skins pressed together as heavy breathing filled the air around them. It was as if time had stopped, leaving room only for the present, just for the two of them.

Crowley continued to support Y/n in his arms, his golden eyes fixed on their y/e/c. His hands caressed them delicately, almost as if he were touching a precious work of art. They felt every touch of the demon on their skin, an electric hiss that made them shiver with pleasure. He seemed fascinated by every inch of the human's body as if he were exploring an unknown and fascinating world. Every nuance, every curve, seemed to be etched into his mind like a symphony of beauty.

<<You're so gorgeous...>> Crowley whispered hoarsely, the words spoken with worship and adoration.

Y/n smiled, feeling loved and wanted in a way they had never experienced before.

<<And you are extraordinary. >> answered softly.

Their gazes met again, and deep in Crowley's eyes, Y/n could read a mix of emotions: desire, passion, but also a vulnerability that made him even more fascinating.

The demon's lips explored their necks, leaving a trail of hot kisses. His sensual bites on their skin made them quiver with pleasure, blending sweet with spicy in a symphony of sensations. Y/n's hands tangled in his red hair, pulling him even closer. They felt his heart beat in unison as if they had become one soul.

They lost track of time. It was just the two of them, immersed in a world of their own, a world of desire and pleasure that enveloped them like a whirlwind.

Suddenly the kissing stopped and Y/n felt Crowley's strong arms wrap around them while his head was buried against their chest. As if he wanted to protect them from the whole world and at the same time, wanted to protect himself.

They welcomed him gently, feeling the warmth of his body next to theirs. Making the demon feel loved. In the silence of the night, their breaths calmed. <<What a way to provoke havoc... >> he remarked, amused. Y/n chuckled. <<We should do it more often. >> The demon turned his gaze to look at them. A smirk full of love and devotion on his face. <<Yeah, we should.>> He brought his face closer and kissed them passionately, keeping their head in place with his hand.

<<I think it's time to go home...>> suggested Y/n with a smile. << Yes, I think so too.>>

He carefully set them down, asking if they could stand on their own. Once Y/n felt more comfortable, they dressed each other again and then left the party together. Crowley's arm was placed over their shoulders.

#crowley good omens smut #crowley #good omens crowley x you #good omens #good omens crowley #crowley smut #crowley x reader #anthony j crowley #fluff #smut #good omens crowley x reader #crowley x y/n #x reader #reader insert #gn reader

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thelaurenshippen · 6 months

Text

finally taking the time to read through the SAG agreement summary and oof, I hope they have an AI town hall soon because...well, there are things to discuss!

so, in case folks are curious, here are my immediate takeaways from the deal as a SAG actor, a SAG producer, and person who is not any kind of expert but spends a lot of time being skeptical of contracts I sign. this is a summation/commentary, not a holistic breakdown of every point, nor even an in-depth discussion of the points I do talk about. and it is, of course, in no way legal advice or voting advice.

this post is already maybe the longest post I've ever written on tumblr (lol) and I feel like I've barely scratched the surface. to be clear, nothing I'm saying here represents how I'm going to vote, how I think other actors should vote, or my be-all-end-all stance on a particular issue. this is me reading through, flagging what concerns me, and asking myself questions. and I'm here to take your questions too! though of course my expertise is limited.

(what?? something I wrote got annoying long?? in my tumblr? it's more likely, etc. huge write-up after the cut)

the good

self-tape stuff: this is one of the more niche/the thing that the general public will find least interesting, but they've put in a lot of provisions to make sure self-tape auditions have limits (# of pages, no stunts, no nudity, doesn't have to be professionally shot, etc.) which is amazing because these types of auditions have gotten out of control since the pandemic. this feels like a great gain

data transparency: in no world did I think the streamers were ever going to agree to any data sharing with either the wga or sag so even though the data is limited, this still feels huge to me.

folks who sing and dance will be paid for both of those things now, which is great

they've added MLK day and Juneteenth as holidays (about time)

a performer cannot be required to translate their own lines

principal performers are required to be given hair and makeup consultation or reimbursed for obtaining their own services - this seems like a small thing, but it's being put in here pretty much entirely because HMU services have generally been appalling when it comes to textured hair/a variety of skin tones. there's also stuff in here about working to hire more diverse HMU artists

it looks like it's going to be easier/provide a path for folks getting IMDb credits even if they're not credited on screen

miscellany: there's a bunch of gains in wage increases, P&H increases, relocation fees, franchise language etc. that all seem good to me, though my limited knowledge on those subjects prevents me from going in depth on them.

this is not important, but it tickled me, there's a term to replace all instances of "telegraph" in the contract with "email & text" which like...why has it taken us thirty years to do that lol.

the "...hm..."

intimacy coordinators: oof. when I watched the press conference SAG gave, I was fucking thrilled when they said that the new agreement required folks to hire intimacy coordinators for nudity and simulated sex scenes. that was almost reason enough for me to vote for it tbh - not requiring it is the exact reason I voted no on our last contract. however, reading the contract summary now, the exact language is: "Producer must use best efforts to engage an Intimacy Coordinator for scenes involving nudity or simulated sex and will consider in good faith any request by a performer to engage an Intimacy Coordinator for other scenes. Producer shall not retaliate against a performer for requesting an Intimacy Coordinator." this....sucks. "best efforts" and "good faith" are not the same as "required". IMO, an intimacy coordinator is the same thing as having a stunt coordinator or, like, any number of health and safety requirements. OSHA doesn't say you must "in good faith" put your "best effort" to providing fire exits. it's great that performers can request coordinators for any kind of scene, and this is still the strongest language we've ever had in a contract but....c'mon guys.

residuals: look, I can't speak to these new terms in any concrete way. there are increases, there are bonuses for streaming success, there's a whole thing about a fund regarding those successes that I need explained to me more in depth, but overall, it looks like we made some in-roads here. as someone who employs actors under digital distribution contracts that has no residuals (podcasts), I know how genuinely cumbersome the unholy trifecta of "views-success-profit" can be (as in views do not equal success, success does not equal profit, etc.). I also have no sympathy when the majority of companies dealing with that cumbersome trifecta are massive media conglomerates. anyway, long story short, idk if this is good enough, I'm hoping to attend the next info meeting sag has.

the bad

the new hair/makeup provisions are explicitly for principal actors. while I hope it leads to better, more inclusive HMU services all around I haaaate that this implies supporting or background actors (who oftentimes also have to sit in HMU) don't deserve the consideration. (then again, background actors are usually required to do their own HMU/bring their own costumes, but for productions where that's not the case, the same HMU provisions should apply IMO)

as with every contract, there's language that could be stronger, clarity that needs to exist, and important things missing - but this isn't the final contract and I'm not a lawyer, so I'm gonna leave that stuff to the experts.

but, "lauren", you say, "what about all the AI stuff? where does that go?" well, reader, I was planning on including that in the above but it's the hot-button issue right now and I think it's wickedly complicated, so I wanted to break it down separately, after I had a chance to point out all the good-bad-in-between stuff that's not getting talked about.

a note: in my career, I've learned there's two big things to keep in mind when reading a contract you might sign:

what is the worst case interpretation of this language (thank you to my lawyer, prince among men, for teaching me how to do this in practice (that said, anything I say here is not legal advice, he'd also want me to say that lol))

what are you willing to lose/compromise on/what are the limits of your pragmatism? contracts are not about a company giving you everything you want out of the goodness of their heart - it is always a compromise. pragmatism has to be a part of the equation.

so, with that said, I'm going to play a little devil's advocate here, and a) try to find the good/the pragmatic and b) catastrophize the worst case scenario. but first, it might be handy to look at this SAG infographic for some basic definitions. let's go.

the AI good

a ton of stuff here requires consent. that is not a small thing, and the consent continues even after your death (whether it was a yes or no; though this can be complicated by your estate/your union)

the language does establish that the consent must be a separate signing from the employment contract, even if its in the contract, which is great (but more on that below - timing matters)

actors often do get paid for use of their digital replicas, though it's different based on the use/type of replica.

the actor must be provided with a "reasonably specific description of the intended use". this language is vaguer than I would like, because it allows producers to decide what "reasonably specific" and "intended" means - there's always going to be some vagueness when it comes to this specific thing, but a good start would be for producers to require not blanket consent, but conditional consent for each significant use of digital replicas.

if the replicas are being used in other mediums, that must also be consented to, thank god.

replicas cannot be used in place of background actor counts on a given day - if I'm understanding this correctly, this means a production can't just have a bunch of fake background actors by themselves, they have to engage real people up to a certain number first (which in this new contract is 25 for TV and 85 for movies). we're already filling in background with digital people or copy-pasting of the same crowd over and over and have been doing so since at least the late 90s, so it's good we're continuing to put up boundaries around that.

the AI "...hm..."

it's unclear (to me) when an actor can be asked to consent. IMO, everything is meaningless if the consent is happening as part of regular contract negotiations. these things have to happen when - and only when - the actor has already been engaged in a role and feels empowered to say no

the use of independently created replicas (replicas pulled from existing footage, not created by the actor) being allowed without consent under first amendment reasoning - this is obviously concerning a lot of people bc first amendment arguments are so broad. that said, there's a pragmatism part of me that understands this is already happening/has been happening for a while and used in ways I think are perfectly fine - I was just watching the new episode of For All Mankind (one of the best TV shows right now!) and it's an alternate history, which meant that in the opening scenes of this season they had some bonkers good deep fakes of Al Gore saying stuff he never said. I think that's okay to do in a fiction show that imagines a different US history! "but Lauren", you might be saying, "Al Gore isn't a member of SAG!" are you sure? are you positive? because I'm pretty certain he is - he was in several episodes of 30 Rock, way more people are in SAG than you think (every NPR reporter for instance), and the two worst presidents we've had in the last 50 years (yes, those ones), are both definitely members of SAG (even if one is dead). now, the other side of this is that public figures like politicians are under a different social contract than actors, and if they wanted to sue, they could, unlike the average SAG actor who might have their image abused. this is why this is in the "hm" column - deep fakes and parody/satire/commentary use of replicas is already here and there's always going to be a 1st amendment argument to make, so we need to figure out how best to limit those and protect the most vulnerable.

alteration: with this language, a project can digitally alter without consent if the script and performance stays "substantially" the same. again, this language is too mealy-mouthed. I don't know that I have a huge problem with a line of dialogue getting replaced with a digital version of that actors voice if, for instance, a word was mispronounced, or wind garbled the sound or whatever - yes, it would eliminate the need for ADR, but if we put some limit on it like..."if there are more than 5 lines in a given episode/movie that require digital alteration in the service of clarity, the actor must be engaged for an ADR session or paid for the digital replacement" then I could see this being workable. I'm also personally okay with things like costumes being digitally altered but, again, we need limitations on that. digital altering cannot replace the art of costuming but, for instance, if a costume needs to be altered to include a hate symbol or something, I think that's fine (example: I have friends who worked at the VFX house for an alternate history TV show that involved a lot of Nazi costuming and set design - a huge part of that VFX house's job was to put swastikas in places, rather than props making nazi flags. I'm okay with that!) but again, these fringe cases do not a compelling arugment make, and this contract language can be interpreted too broadly for my comfort! like everything else in this "hm" category, I need to see the final contract language to decide.

the AI bad

there's a bunch of circumstances in which actors don't get paid for creating their replica/use of it and those circumstances are too broad for my taste.

synthetic performers - this is just awful. no. no, we should not be allowing AI to generate entire actors. just............no. there's some language about the producers having to talk to the union if the synthetic performer is "used in place of a performer who would have been engaged under this Agreement in a human role" but this doesn't apply to non-human characters so....wouldn't that be all roles?? leaving the producers room to be like "this role has to be synthetic, we never would've cast a human!" is bullshit. also, even if we're having AI create a magical talking unicorn whole cloth (which, like, also no, we have artists for this), that unicorn still needs to be voiced by a human person. this whole section is a disaster.

the exceptions to consent for digital alteration are bad-bad. I talked about the potential ADR replacement above and that has a whole host of issues with it that I didn't even get into, but I can see the argument. the rest are very troubling:

there is an exception under "any circumstance when dubbing or use of a double is permitted under the Codified Basic Agreement or Television Agreement" - okay, so does this mean we can replace dubbing artists and stunt performers entirely? this section is about digital alteration, but who's to say alteration couldn't turn an actor broadly miming a fight into an entirely digital, expertly performed fight that usually a stunt double would have done? with AI translation technology, does this mean we're replacing VO artists for dubs entirely? bad!

similarly, "Adjusting lip and/or other facial or body movement and/or the voice of the performer to a foreign language, or for purposes of changes to dialogue or photography necessary for license or sale to a particular market" - Justine Bateman has a great twitter thread on the terrible puppetry potential of this but I want to draw attention to the particular market bit - we all know that selling to china is such a huge part of studios' strategies that they'll remove entire scenes or lines around queer stuff. to me, this clause makes all of that so much easier. I know the argument here is going to be "we can replace swear words and license it for kids!" which.......sure? fine? but, uh, we already have ways to deal with that? and the potential for abuse here is terrifying to me. with all the digital alteration stuff too, there's just so much icky implication for the beauty/body standard to get so much worse.

if a background actor’s digital replica is used in the role of a principal performer, they'll be paid as if they actually performed the days for that role, which, sure, but uhhhh why are we saying it's okay for a digital replica of a background actor to suddenly be a leading role!?!?! I can't think of anything more demoralizing than going to set to act in background (a job I've done! an important job! a fun job a lot of the time! but creatively limited) and then getting a much bigger role (the dream!) and.....not being able to, you know, act that role or be in scenes with other principal actors or do the thing that you've dedicated your life to doing. nightmare stuff.

woof. there's so much more to say but I'm going to leave it there. these are the concerns I'm going to go into SAG's meetings with, and the concerns I'll be considering as I decide how to vote. I know there are things I didn't address and very possibly things I misinterpreted or misrepresented - if you're an actor, I highly recommend a) reading that Justine Bateman thread and b) attending SAG's meetings to ask questions and express your concerns. and I'd love to hear what y'all think! my ask box is open.

#sag aftra #sag #sag strike #AI #me: I'm just gonna look through the terms #me: I'm just gonna do a quick write up before starting my day #clock: it's been almost two hours #not to keep hammering at the 'this is not me saying that I am correct or that I've made up my mind' bit #but this is the piss on the poor reading comprehension website so #I'M NOT SAYING I'M RIGHT #TAKE ALL THIS WITH A GRAIN OF SALT #i mostly have questions and concerns and am pleasantly surprised at some stuff #knowing that there *is* a degree to which we will have to compromise #and I'm WILDLY concerned about other stuff #would love to hear what other SAG members think

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