#I feel y'all because honestly...

[egophiliac]

don't think I'm not still obsessing over 7-12

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

nearly, nearly, nearly: dovquez [t]

@dovquezdecember + near

“Dovi!” Marc says clumsily, flashes him a grin—sun-bright, shameless.

Andrea is thinking. He was nearly a champion this season. Nearly, nearly, nearly. But it wasn’t so close at the end, -37 points, and the entire ocean between Marc making a miraculous save and him screaming on the gravel trap.

His fingers spasm around his empty glass, just once. Andrea is acutely aware of the camera glares, of way, way, way too many people around. Too soon to get another one, and the one after that. The frizz of alcohol is heavy in his stomach, leaden.

Marc makes a noise—impossible to make sense of. Andrea blinks, remembers he should answer him any time now. His tongue is stuck on the roof of his mouth, but it isn’t Marc’s fault that everything had to go right today and nothing did.

He drops whatever he was planning on saying. Marc brandishes his own champagne flute, takes Andrea’s empty one for himself. It’s full—lukewarm prosecco, sure, but it’s full.

Andrea—against his own will, let it be said—laughs.

Marc’s eyes go round, shiny. His hand comes down to cling to the sleeve of his suit, where it falls half an inch too long. And he sways towards him, chest brushing against the side of his arm. Andrea cups the small of his back, raises his eyebrows.

“The drinks aren’t good enough for you to be drunk already.” He prods—harmlessly, his voice pitched low.

He could be drunk on everything else, though. His podium, his sixth championship in—God—eight years, Honda delirious over their golden boy.

Marc bats his lashes coyly, pretends to think. “It was a good dinner, don’t be mean.”

It was, is the thing. He stopped counting after the fourth course, the tenth FIM/Dorna exec with a polished smile that congratulated him on a clean, sportsmanlike dispute—probably having the time of their times that it didn’t end in death threats and a sports court.

Andrea snorts. “Drinks are still shit.”

For all that Marc says don’t be mean, the corners of his lips are trying to quirk up again. Just as cruel.

And when he catches Andrea looking, Marc ducks his head away. Tries to hide it.

He’s so—he’s a sharp, shameless little thing. Hurts to cradle him close, cuts his palms to gory ribbons. Andrea clings, anyway. The party has dulled to a trickle of I wish it was me that barely registers. He fancies he can spot the place where Marc kissed the tower on his mouth, his teeth—like Raphael’s blessing.

His stomach rolls with champagne, too little food he wasn’t feeling up for. Sizzles.

“It was a good season, too.” Marc speaks abruptly but quietly. The cut of his jaw turned bullish, stubborn.

He can feel the tension pressed on his side. It’s not even like gearing up for a risky overtake—Marc throws himself into those with wild joy, again and again and again. This is measured, strained. Marc’s spine grows rigid where he’s touching.

Andrea hums. “Are you going to say you’re sorry?”

Marc’s expression slackens, softens with confusion. “What?”

“You look like you might.”

“For winning?” Andrea nods, stares at him expectantly—wills his face to stay flat and unamused and is only mostly sure he succeeds. Marc purses his mouth, lets him catch a hint of teeth and the downturned curve of his lips. “No way.”

And listen—

Andrea shakes his head. He feels that gold-tinted lightness filling the insides of his chest. Maybe he’s drunk, four glasses catching up like outbreaking himself into a highside, but it’s easier now than it was a couple minutes ago, when the champagne tasted stolen, tasted like trackside dust and a mocking round of applause in his garage.

“You are horrible.”

He watches it happen in real time, how Marc pulls a face, how his eyes flutter to look at him and then away.

People call him brutish, impulsive—it’s not true. Just because he was born without a sense of self-preservation doesn’t mean he doesn’t think. Marc is a shrewd thing. Calculating. He wonders what he was trying to find with that look.

But he’s probably a little drunk himself too, or Andrea wouldn’t have caught that minute flinch in his expression. Marc is too opaque for acting mistakes these days.

It is the thing about Marc. Andrea doesn’t know if he’s bracing for a slap or it never coming despite how much he wants it to.

“I don’t think you mean that,” he says—petulantly, imperiously.

Very, very deliberately.

Andrea smiles, squeezes his back. “I do, I do!”

“No, you don’t.”

He does. But Marc is horrible like a tricky corner, or a bull charging in a bullfight. Predictable only in how it scares you shitless no matter how many times you try it. Horrible in that clammy fear you’re going to be swept along. Fucking fantastic when you conquer it—if you do.

It’s there anyway, of course, red-hot, that frustration—the shame in the gravel, in the garage. But Andrea tries to get angry only about things he can control.

Marc winning isn’t personal, is it.

He takes a breath, lets that awkward silence wash over him, over them, releasing that aimless frustration knot by knot. Marc fidgets against him, rehearsing taking a small step to the side, away from him. Andrea considers for a moment, half of one—doesn’t let go of his grip on him, on the fabric of the back of Marc’s suit.

There are cameras, still. Too many people. It’s none of their business—

This is, Andrea reasons, nothing worth hiding.

“It was a good season,” he says, gently—either an agreement or a concession.

Marc relaxes a fraction, does his best to tuck himself against him no matter that he’s a couple of centimeters taller. Finally, finally, he looks at Andrea straight on, with his usual hungry shamelessness, eyes huge and liquid on his face.

“You looked like you were having fun.”

“Here and there,” Andrea shrugs, isn’t even a bit surprised when he feels Marc’s fingers slip under his shirt to hold the jut of his wrist. “I had this pest bothering me.”

He is surprised at how hot those tiny points of pressure feel. His pulse drums against the thin skin of his wrist.

Marc bristles, indignant. “You ambushed me this whole year!”

Here and there, when he could, when he managed to make it work. In Austria, Japan. Andrea made himself steady as a metronome, harmless until he wasn’t—he wasn’t going to outcrazy Marc anyway, might as well try something unorthodox.

“You weren’t very angry about that from what I remember,” Andrea replies mildly. Mock-dry.

Marc nudges him with his shoulder, tries to scowl but melts into a loud, honking chuckle. It’s evidently, incredibly disarming. “Fuck off, I was! You always knew what I was going to try next. I thought you were going to drive me crazy.”

“Not even you can win them all.”

Marc grins—shiv-quick, self-satisfied. He looks like he’s winning this one, whatever this one is. “I can try.”

Andrea is thinking—it isn’t self-pity this time. Feels about just as dangerous. Marc’s touch is insistent, makes him fidgety all the way to the bone. He isn’t even the slightest bit innocent himself either—hand splayed on Marc’s back, the tip of his little finger reaching suspiciously lower than it was a moment ago.

He swallows. Marc tracks the jerky move of his throat, stares at him through his lashes. It is as shameless as it is—unfortunately—effective.

“Aren’t you going to ask if I enjoyed myself?” There’re nails biting into his forearm lightly. A smirk—broad, pink-lipped.

Cocky little bastard, isn’t he?

“You still are.”

Marc preens, forgets—for a slip of a second—to keep his cards close to his chest. Everything about him becomes bright enough to blind, to cast spots in his vision like he’s staring into the sun. He is horribly easy to like, to forgive.

Even through the stab of the annoyance, the tangle of thorns wrapped around his throat that Andrea has to name envy. Even when he wants to shake Marc by the shoulders—don’t you know? Don’t you see what you are? It never sticks. Marc is that dangerous in close proximity.

Looks eager to prove that he is, too. He shifts his head from one side to the other, gauges the crowd. There’s this focused frown on his forehead. Andrea knows him well enough to brace himself. Realizes—too late—that there’s no bracing for an inspired Marc.

“Do you want me to suck you off?” He pauses, bludgeons on when Andrea doesn’t immediately reply. “I want to.”

Christ.

Christ on the bloody cross.

He doesn’t know why he expected Marc to be subtle or careful, but still.

Andrea sputters out a cough, laughs. He can hear the strain in his voice—the complete fucking disbelief. “What? Here?”

It is a yes by any other name. Marc shrugs, chuckles—he’s an insolent thing, fingers straying playfully over his arm, looking so very sure of himself. Of getting what he wants, always.

Smug.

“Why not?” He asks, eyebrows wagging. It is ridiculous. So is the rush of fondness in his chest. The fishhook tug of Marc’s tongue flashing over his teeth.

Andrea isn’t—usually, he amends—so reckless.

“You’re insane.”

Marc stares at him, shark-eyed, unblinking. It slices through him cleanly like a hot knife, like Marc on a left-hander circuit. “You keep saying that.”

And yet goes unsaid.

He breathes in, a little funny, constricted. His fingers spasm on Marc’s back, cling to the smooth downiness of his pressed shirt. Want jolts through him like touching a live wire—he isn’t thinking. It’s the easiest thing in the world to move his hand, eyes on the party that feels like his burial.

Marc chokes on a noise when Andrea untucks his clothes to reach the skin of his back, when his thumb digs into one of his Venus dimples.

“Alright,” he mutters, soft.

The room melts to nothing around him, a kaleidoscopic blur of color and people he doesn’t care about. Marc’s head is bent, tucked close to his own—an inch closer, and they’ll be inside each other’s skin, breathing the same air. Andrea can only think about the pinkness of his mouth—how near it is.

[millenomine]

They are like catnip to me.

This is 100% how the beer fight ended. Trust me.

[epickiya722]

Jumping off my other post, I will admit that the whole "Izuku forgot about the river" is something that seemingly came out of nowhere for me.

I never understood it.

I get that we haven't seen him talking about it, but how is it acknowledged that Izuku is an "unreliable narrator" and he doesn't talk about all of his feelings... but then when he doesn't mention the time at the river, he has forgotten about it?

He doesn't mention some things, but that doesn't translate to he forgotten anything.

It's like not mentioning your favorite color all the time and people assume you don't have one or you don't like that color anymore.

In fact, episode 7/chapter 9 alone proves Izuku doesn't forget anything, especially from their past. That episode has him narrate their childhood except for when we get to the river scene, but that was because to show Katsuki's POV on that day and why he started to resent Izuku.

It's not that Izuku forgot that day. It's just he saw it differently from how Katsuki did.

While Izuku saw he was helping out a friend, Katsuki saw it as someone thinking he was weak.

I don't know, I just never got the thing about forgetting the river when Izuku clearly is the last person to forget anything. Especially, when it comes to Katsuki.

It's just emphasized a lot with Katsuki because it was the day he begun really resenting Izuku and soon later regrets it.

It's definitely just a fanon thing. And just me, but some of the things the fandom does agree on when it comes to Izuku, I don't get.

[priceofreedom]

funny how everyone seemed to adore Zack until he started having more screentime...

[fluffs-n-stuffs]

_____ used Destiny Bond! _____ is hoping to take his attacker down with him!

-

(Belatedly) celebrating the one-year anniversary of the 'Destiny Bond' comic with a rare, fully-illustrated piece. A bit of extra context and rambly thoughts under the cut 🫶💖💕

A little over a year ago, I posted the first part of the Destiny Bond comic, originally intended to be a one-off doodle exploring the consequences of Morty's prophetic abilities on his relationship with Eusine.

That sketchy doodle of mine ended up being a whole narrative project spanning across a few months, before I eventually took a pause on it to focus on my mental health (having reached a low earlier in the year).

It was a daring enough project in and of itself, especially with how I had spontaneously taken it on when I was still recovering from a years-long burnout with 2D art. Though (temporarily) stopping sooner than I had hoped, I can confidently say that this little comic project of mine had helped to rekindle my love for drawing as a whole, and had further lead me to meeting some of the most wonderful people and friends in this small corner of the Pokémon fandom (whom also happen to be obsessed with these two silly guys from the GSC/HGSS games). It's a project I hold dearly to my heart, and one that I hope to revisit and continue once I feel ready to do so; as the story has yet to truly kick off (I'm not even joking we're still in the prologue technically I'm yelling /lh).

I hope to be able to share the rest of this story with you all one day, in whatever new form it'll take as. For now, I want to say thank you, from the deepest parts of my heart, for supporting this passion project of mine - and to assure you to tune in for the future of this title. 👀✨

[megkuna]

where's that post about how USamericans talk about gifted kid programs like it was a supersoldier program. it makes me laugh so hard

[atwas-gaming]

"Amy's just an obsessive fangirl," then explain her reaction to Sonic in Unleashed? Most fans and paparazzi and whatnot ditch their favorite for a new favorite the second their favorite turns weird or ugly. But Amy still loves werehog Sonic as much as daytime Sonic. Once she understands, she's like, "Oh, this is who you are now. Cool. I hope you're all right. Now when can we have a date?"

Granted, she doesn't necessarily have her priorities in order there, but she still cares about him. She just got confused when she first saw him. I saw a translation of her Japanese dialogue one time, and she said something like, "But I know I felt Sonic's presence." As soon as Amy finds out it really is Sonic, she's by his side again. As far as any of them knows, Sonic could be like this the rest of his life, and she doesn't care, as long as she can be with him.

[junespriince]

Connor: what's with handcuffs?

Wally: he ate a tide pod, for once lived unlike in his comics, and then handcuff us in maniac induce headaches and threw the key into the sun and now we are stuck here because DC took my vibrating out of physical matter and moving my atoms again.

Wally: all this happened at 2am.

Kyle: well, pay more attention to me than instead of your wife and husband.

Wally: if the thought of being stuck with your rotting corpse wasn't so off putting i would have strangled you by now.

Kyle: nun-uh

Wally: THE FUCK YOU MEAN NUH UH, YEAH UH I WOULD HAVE!

Kyle: YOU WOULD MISS ME!?

Wally: ugh! *To the sky* KILL ME!

Connor: so... No waffles?

Wally: in the microwave.

Connor: nice!

[non-un-topo]

If you have a staff member who's been consistently half an hour late to every shift, are you allowed to beat them up before sitting them "down for a chat"?

[pardonmydelays]

also, just so you know, the eras tour was my final moment as a swiftie

[stinkiesdraws]

[crossbackpoke-check]

Why I Am Not Coming In To Work Today [abridged], Jess Zimmerman

part one | part two

[featherdusterbelphie]

Saw one of those 'only in Japan' shorts on my mom's feed and thought, "hey, that's WHB Belphie."

Another (shorter) WHB Belphie discussion under the cut!

He seems so goofy-coded but I love him 😭 I'm definitely going to be scaroused and maybe more than annoyed when he comes out lmao. To me, he kinda seems very '🤪' but also like very parental/caring but in an aggressively affectionate way (to MC, at least. I know he acts much more distant to his nobles and people). Much like what we have with Lucifer if he was more, uh, expressive.

I've said before that he seems kinda mean-ish when he interacts with mc, kinda like one of those tsunderes who begin to act up when their crush is with them. It's very cute ! And also like, him being cold to his nobles but nice to MC is just 🏹💞💘

Oh and no, I don't condone bullying nor the 'bullying your crush to get them to like you' behavior. It's not okay. It's only okay because I'm talking about a fictional character. I don't condone most of this silly game's antics in real life 🪼

Also, anyone else farming red keys/keys in general? I'm late to this (I only have like ~200 red keys and 48 golden keys ATM) but I've seen people farm their red keys for the upcoming pancakes shop update and I'm dreading it 😭

Because like, what if the update arrives at the same time as Belphie?! Also, why the update in the first place!! They could've just made the nightmare pancake shop an extension of the current pancake shop but with better items to buy!

Lile here's an idea, PB; the new normal pancake shop should sell resources like low-tier candies, gold keys, Solomon tears and the jellies and then the nightmare pancake shop will sell high-value stuff like the red keys, (limited amounts of) Solomon seals, the advanced candies and the pies! It doesn't solve the unnecessarily confusing amount of in-game currencies but it gives better rewards than exchanging S-grade and below cards into more useless grimoires and gold!

Do you know how much of each I have? 10 million. It's stupid. And I only have that much because I'm trying to farm the other book currency that I use to exchange daily into Solomon tears.

Nightmare pancake shop can also just sell one piece per month of high grade cards/artifacts. But I guess that defeats the purpose of the pop-up shop/Azatoth's shop that does the same thing.

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[whitestopper]

What if bi Jayce and gay Viktor are canon but it's also canon that it's platonic, like they just aren't into each other like that

[siristaci]

.