#Live Cell Encapsulation

[mitinosh]

https://www.worldwisepeople.net/main/blogs/335155/Live-Cell-Encapsulation-Market-Size-Key-Developments-Company-Overview-Competitive

Live Cell Encapsulation Market Size,Key Developments, Company Overview, Competitive Landscape, Demand and Trends by Forecast to 2030

[thebellearchives]

HELLO and congrats on the followers milestone!! Yippeee!!! You probably saw this coming fdjhvjj there's so many good prompts to choose from aaaa but i think i'll go with "You're the best thing to have ever happened to me" with Solomon hehe thank you!! I love your works 🫶🫶

𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃

~ solomon ; obey me

✧˚ · . S Y N O P S I S : when Solomon’s staring at you you probably have no idea of the amount of things that go through his head

‧₊˚ c o n t e n t s : gn!reader, fluff

‧₊˚ a / n : omg thank you sooo much Ven!! I really called upon my inner poet on this one, hope you enjoy! thanks for loving my writing i love you 🥹🫶🏻

prompt list

Solomon’s gaze is fixed on you, and it has been for a while. He examines your pretty lashes, your smooth skin, alluring lips. He swears he’s engraved the curves that form every single one of your hair strands on the back of his mind. He’s been so absorbed in the sight of you that he can hear his heated up heartbeat drumming in his ears. Humanity’s strongest sorcerer has been bewitched by you.

The curse of immortality is a heavy one. He has lived a life that counts as many, he has stories for days, for months. His pupils have seen heaven and hell, he’s seen creatures that are believed to be fairy tales and some that don’t even exist anymore. His body has felt all kinds of emotions, fear, surprise, adoration, betrayal, grief. He’s been hurt and rejected, praised and admired.

And yet when you’re close to him it all ceases to exist. All the pain, the loneliness and despair make sense. All the marvelous experiences pale in comparison to being in your presence. All of the things that are encapsulated in his immortality are suddenly worth living again if it means he’ll get back to you in the end.

You raise your eyes and stare at him, the curiosity that shines in them each time you see him makes his stomach get tied in knots.

“What is it, Sol?”

And heavens he has never in his long life felt what he feels when you call him like that. For a short second his throat closes up, he’s not able to properly put into words what being privileged with your attention feels like.

“It’s just…” he isn’t even able to remember everything he’s been through, but he’s certain that he has never spoken truer words as the ones that stumbled out of his mouth in that moment “you’re the best thing to have ever happened to me.”

Shades of pink bloom across your cheeks, and he is almost certain he’s able to name every single one. Flustered, you blink repeatedly and look away.

“That’s so out of the blue” you’re terrible at receiving compliments and he loves it.

Telling you all sorts of flirty comments and romantic words just to see you blushing breathes life into every single one of his cells, it almost gives immortality a whole new meaning. Solomon is in love with you to the bone, and when you’re around he knows you’re the reason he’s lived all this years. He had never been cursed, he had been blessed.

[callmelittlebuttercup]

Peace Offerings Pt. 14

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Chapter Summary: In the previous chapter, Reader was separated from Joel and placed her trust into another member of the group to find their way to him. When they stop into a house to find food and shelter, they run into a man named David and things take a turn for the worst.

Chapter warnings: MDNI 18+, Jackson! au, No Ellie! au, extreme angst, cannibalism, mentions of murder/death/loss, suicidal ideation, cursing, attempted SA, Reader is locked in a cage, broken bones, Reader is knocked out with chloroform.... lmk if i missed any other fun things! :)

Masterlist

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Part Fourteen

I didn’t know what to do. In the new world, it wasn’t a custom to politely introduce yourself anymore. Usually you’d hold a gun up and pray they wouldn’t shoot you first, but this man was standing in front of me and holding his hand out to shake. It felt completely unnatural. I couldn’t help but wonder what Joe would do in this situation. I concluded that he definitely would not shake the man’s hand, so I backed away and stood with my hands crossed over my chest. “Hello David.” I said, trying to sound as intimidating as possible, “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He chuckled lightly and began to pace across the living room, “Well, you see… You and your friend have wandered into my commune, and I take the safety of my people very seriously. I need to be sure you’re not a threat.” I swallowed. Commune was a scary word, and made the man’s welcoming, yet unsettling demeanor make sense. I couldn’t help but wonder if I was dealing with a cult leader of some sort. If so, I had to get out of there, and fast.  “Look, David, I can assure you that my friend and I are not a threat to your people. We were just passing through the town and hoping to find something to eat along the way.” I explained innocently. He nodded and stared at me as if he was deciphering me like some sort of code. “You’re hungry?” He asked, his voice lacking the enthusiasm it once carried. “Well, I’m okay but my friend is-” The man cut me off, “Well then you must come with me to our mess hall. There’s plenty of food to go around here.” He smiled. My stomach flip flopped, and upon instinct I blurted out a “No thank you.” His smile quickly folded into a frown. “You’re really going to pass up a free meal? Since when has anyone offered you one of those in the past twenty years?” He questioned suavely. He sounded like a salesperson. “I normally wouldn’t, but my friend and I are in a rush to get somewhere. Just point us towards the exit and we won’t be in your hair anymore.” I said. He pressed his lips together and turned to look over his shoulder into the kitchen. “I’m not sure if your friend will be going anywhere anytime soon.” He said wearily as he looked back at me. “Wha-” My question was caught in my throat when I followed his gaze around the corner and caught sight of Jacob who was sprawled across the floor with a knife buried into his neck. My heart began to pound in my chest and the familiar feeling of adrenaline pumped through my veins. I turned back towards David with my fists balled, but suddenly a strong, sweet smell filled my nose as a cloth was pressed against my face. I tried not to breathe, knowing it was a chloroform rag, but it was too late. My fighting slowed as my vision darkened and I fell unconscious. 

~~~~~~~~

The sound of a knife hitting wood rythmically slowly pulled me into consciousness. My head pounded and the sweet, alcoholic smell was stuck in my nose. Every limb ached as I  examined the small metal cell that encapsulated me. I stopped short when I saw where the noise was coming from. Horror filled my body as a human arm fell to the floor as the figure brought down the cleaver once more. My hand flew to my mouth to push the bile back down my throat. The dizziness from being knocked out caused me to fall back into the metal, causing the rungs to vibrate at the impact. The figure paused momentarily and then called out, “David! She’s awake!” I scrambled to sit up against the furthest side of the cage, ensuring that he had no way to get to me through the bars, and eyed him aggressively as he walked into the room. 

“How are you feeling?” David asked as he bent down to my level on the opposite side of my enclosure. My hands were pressed up against my chest, instinctively making myself smaller. “Super.” I blurted. He dropped a tray that he’d been carrying onto the ground and slid it through the gap between the bars and the floor. The gap I wished I was small enough to slip through and disappear. “Here, eat. You’ve been out so long… Must be starving.” He said softly. I stared at the contents of the tray. The majority of it was some kind of meat with a pitiful amount of rice. “What kind of meat is it?” I asked reluctantly. “Deer.” He answered stoicly. I scoffed at his blatant lie and kicked the tray with such force that the contents flew across the cell. Some even landed on his shoe. “You’re a fucking animal.” I grunted through my teeth. He leaned closer to the bars and his lip curled up into a sneer, “Oh… You’re awfully quick to judgement. Considering you and your friends killed how many of my men back at your little camp site?” My mind traveled back to that fight outside the tents. Those were his men? And then it all made sense. He captured me for revenge for killing his precious followers. 

“They didn’t give us a choice.” I said emotionlessly. “And you think we have a choice? Is that it? You kill to survive... and so do we. We have to take care of our own. By any means necessary.” He demanded. “So now what? Are you going to chop me into tiny little pieces because I killed a few of your delusonal prospects?” I questioned mockingly. “You killed husbands, fathers, brothers. That is nothing to joke about. But I’d rather not kill you. I figure you telling me your name would help me convince the others not to either.” He said in a dark tone, all while trying to keep his patience. I was sick of being looked at like his next meal so I shakily pulled myself up to stand in the center of the cell. David rose off of his knees and to my eyeline. “I’m not telling you shit. Killing me or doing whatever the fuck you’re going to do is not going to bring back your men, so just let me go.” I demanded as I stepped closer to him. He stood on the other side of the bars unmoving, but his lips curled into an even more threatening sneer. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. See, there’s this saying… ‘an eye for an eye.’ Ever heard it before?” He asked patronizingly. I gulped as I nodded slowly. “Right. Now, four men equals four eyes and unless I’ve counted wrong… you only have two.” My nails dug into the palms of my hands as I waited patiently for him to get to him to get to his point. He moved to the doorway, but continued, “Luckily, your brother counted as two more.” 

I hurled myself towards the metal bars, banging and pushing as hard as I could. “What the fuck did you do to him?” I growled at David. He walked over to me and wrapped his hands around the rungs. “Let’s just say… his life will help many others to prosper.” He whispered softly. My heart nearly stopped. Though nearly blinded by anger and adrenaline, I still saw an opportunity and wasted no time as I brought my elbow down onto his knuckles, slamming them onto the horizontal bar below. A loud cracking sound filled the air along with David’s pained scream. I reached through the cell door and ripped the key ring off of his belt loop and it ripped away as David fell to the ground. I kept my eye on him as I immediately began fumbling with the lock. David was snapping out of his pained state, but I was faster, and pushed the door open before sprinting down the hallway. 

My coordination was low from the dizziness as I tried to navigate our way through the kitchen and to the nearest exit. We ended up going further into the restaurant and found ourselves in the dining room. “I thought you’d be smarter than to think you’re getting out that easily.” David’s voice called out. I quickly crouched behind a booth and peeked over the seats to see him standing there with a machete hanging from his right hand. After throwing a piece of shrapnel away from me to make sure he was heading the opposite way, I began to move, lunging between boothes to stay out of sight. I neared him and planned to take him from behind with a strangle move I’d seen Joel do. 

I was inches away from him now, close enough to see the sweat gathering on the back of his neck. I seized the opportunity and launched myself onto David’s back and wrapped my arm around his neck, squeezing with all of the strength I had in me. Sickening gurgling sounds left his mouth as I continued to strangle him and I felt his knees buckling under him. The burning in my arms was only motivation to keep my grip on him, and he finally fell to the ground, taking me down with him. I gasped for breath as I stood up off of him and turned to run out of the door that was feet away, but a sharp sting spread through my calf. I cried out as I toppled to the ground, my head landing inches away from David’s. A sick smile spread across his face. “You’re weak.” He said through his teeth as he pushed himself off of the ground, “Just how I like ‘em.” I tried to sit up and grasp for my leg, but he pushed me down harshly by my shoulder and proceeded to push his body onto mine. I squealed, pushed, and kicked in attempt to get him off of me, but he was too big, too determined. “That’s it, keep fighting.” He breathed. Nausea filled my stomach as I felt him reach down and unzip his pants and began trying to rip my clothes off.  I continued to fight, digging my nails into the ground and bringing my knees into his stomach over and over again. Suddenly my hand connected with something hard. Something metal. It was the machete. I grasped it and wasted no time burying it under David’s ribcage. A look of shock occupied his face before his whole body fell onto me. 

I was numb. David’s limp body was still draped over mine, but I didn’t have the strength to move it. I’d begun to accept defeat. My brother was gone and Joel nowhere to be found. My last two motivations to be alive were now gone. So there I laid, under my captor on the grimy floor of a restaurant that was being engulfed in flames. The smoke burnt my lungs, but I didn’t care. I breathed in further, hoping it would make my demise come quicker. As I lay there, my mind went back to when Matthew and I were younger. Sitting next to our father’s strawberry plants and stuffing our faces, causing red rings to form around our mouths. I smiled at the memory and felt a tear drip down towards my ear. 

Suddenly a loud bang rattled the walls of the restaurant. I stayed still, figuring that it was the ceiling collapsing, but flinched when I heard my name being called. I thought I was imagining it, that I was finally letting go, but then I saw Joel’s face over me. His eyes were wild with concern. “Joel.” I choked. He grunted as he pushed David’s body off of me, his face dropping when he caught sight of David’s undone belt and zipper. My hands floated up to reach for him and he quickly obliged, gathering my quivering form up against his chest. “S’okay babygirl. I’m here. I’ve got you.” He soothed as I sobbed against him. I began to cough between sobs from the smoke gathering in the air, and he quickly moved to carry me outside. 

It had snowed more since I’d been captured, and the air stung my exposed skin. Joel set me down gently onto my feet and hurriedly shrugged his heavy jacket off before draping it over my shoulders. “Here.” He breathed before his arm moved to wrap around my shoulders and he began to coral me into the woods, away from the burning building. Suddenly, I dropped to my knees and my breathing became frantic. I was finally processing that my brother was gone. That he’d been murdered, chopped up, and eaten. Joel knelt down next to me and wrapped his arm around me once more as I sat there heaving. I tried to speak, to explain, but I could only manage one word at a time between gasps. “He…. they…” Joel pulled me against himself again and pressed my head under his chin and whispered, “God I’m so sorry.” He pulled away and wiped the wetness from my cheeks and under my nose. “But you’re not hurt.” He said weakly, “Thank fucking god you’re okay.” He pulled me into him again before pressing his lips to the top of my head. I let my body go limp against his. I was relieved to be with him again, to be safe in his arms, but I was so very far from being okay. 

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a/n: This was an INTENSE chapter but it's not a Joel fic without angst in every chapter lmao. I hope you enjoyed and as always thank you for reading!!

Taglist:

@ashleyfilm @ayamenimthiriel @demonsasss

Masterlist | Next Part

[tobiasdrake]

Between the Galick Gun, The Final Flash, and the Final Explosion, which of these Vegeta moves is A: The Coolest B: The most representative of Vegeta and C: The most successful

Answering these in order:

A - Coolest: Final Explosion.

This is Peak Vegeta.

Not in the sense of being the most representative of Vegeta, but in the sense of... literally being the peak of his character arc. This is it. This is the apex of the journey that Vegeta had been on since the day we met him.

We don't know what the full plan was originally for the Majin Buu arc. We know that Gohan was supposed to remain the main character and we can see that play out. This arc sees Gohan off to his own Climbing Karin Tower arc.

It's the same thing Toriyama did a lot with Goku. Gohan's missing in action and is undergoing secret ultra-training so he can return at the 11th hour and slay Majin Buu; The rest of us just have to hold the line until he gets here.

This changed significantly later in the arc, when Toriyama decided he liked Goku better and flipped the script on poor Gohan. We don't know when exactly that decision was made or know for sure what the original plan would have looked like.

But it's interesting to note that Vegeta only came back with Goku. Vegeta's return was a tool to reignite Goku's relevancy.

There is a real possibility that, had things gone according to the original plan, this would have genuinely been Vegeta's swan song. So with something like this, it's important to ask the question. What if this was it?

What if this were the final word on the Saiyan Prince?

It's not about what would be better or what would be worse. Just. If we never saw Vegeta again after this point, would we be satisfied? Would we feel that the story had said all there was to say? Would we need any more?

For me, I could have lived with this. If this was where Vegeta ended, I could have walked away satisfied with it. This was a powerful capstone on the story of an incredibly flawed man. A heroic sacrifice by a man who finally found something worth dying for, but whose heroism is tainted by the ugly reality that he made this problem to begin with; Itself a meaningful summation of the complicated and morally compromised life that he lived.

It did not end up being the final word. But it could have been, and it's no less beautiful for the later series walking back on it.

B - Most Representative: Final Flash

This is the technique that truly captures the spirit of Vegeta's martial style. In his heart of hearts, Vegeta's a blaster. He can fight hand-to-hand, to be sure. He's no slouch at it. But he loves to shoot, moreso than any other character.

He has multiple different named techniques for "Shoot the guy with concentrated ki REALLY HARD." Galick Gun, Big Bang Attack, Final Flash, they're all concentrated blasts. Vegeta likes to shoot.

I talked about this quite a bit before in my breakdown of Goku and Vegeta. Vegeta muscles through like a soldier, but his ki blasts legitimately are the most powerful ki blasts around (with possible exception of the Kikoho/Tri-Beam).

Final Flash perfectly encapsulates that, as an attack that could very well have vaporized Cell and ended things before the Cell Games were even an idea in his head... had Vegeta been willing to destroy the Earth to do it.

Given the damage we see it do to Cell, a wider beam would have been as catastrophic for him as it was for the planet.

This technique, moreso than the other two, best encapsulates Vegeta's style as a fighter.

C - Most Successful: Galick Gun

Both Final Flash and Final Explosion are powerful moments for Vegeta, but if we're talking effectiveness then they're held back by the fact that they achieved nothing.

Majin Buu and Cell both regenerated and kept on going like it didn't happen. In strictly utilitarian terms, Final Flash and Final Explosion both failed.

Galick Gun lost the exchange Vegeta used it in.

But it won him the fight. Goku had to push his Kaio-ken to x4 in order to pull this off, and that was a step too far for his body to handle.

At this point, Goku's cooked. He's still got ki to spare, certainly. He's not out of the fight completely.

But his body simply can't keep up anymore. His whole body is fried. Imagine a balloon that's been overinflated to the point that starts springing holes in it for the gas to spill out. That's Goku. That is his body.

It needs to be said that the Fake Moon/Oozaru trick did most of the heavy lifting for winning this fight for Vegeta. Like. Goku had no chance against this thing. Remember when Goku fired up his Kaio-ken and made Captain Ginyu shit himself?

180,000 is also the exact Battle Power of Vegeta's Oozaru form. True facts. At least, in the best of circumstances. Having to use the Fake Moon technique costs Vegeta a substantial enough amount of ki for it to be worth commenting on.

(Fun fact, Raditz was so weak that even as an Oozaru, he'd get his teeth kicked in by base form Vegeta.)

So. Yeah. The fact that Vegeta was an Oozaru is the key factor in his absolute shitstomp of Goku that followed the Beam Struggle. But the fact that Goku's entire body was so burned out he could barely offer any sort of defense is also a factor.

Could Vegeta have still shitstomped Goku if he hadn't done this? I don't know.

Could Goku have actually found a solution to the Oozaru if he wasn't already at the end of his rope? I don't know.

What I do know is that the Galick Gun brought Vegeta closer to victory than the Final Flash or Final Explosion, and so it wins category C.

[music-interpretation-review]

TW: War, severe injury, suicidal ideation

Metallica's song One is based on the concept of a World War I soldier who had been devastatingly injured by an exploding mortar, losing his limbs, jaw, sight, and hearing. Metallica later learned of the movie Johnny Got His Gun, which has the same base concept, and used clips in the music video.

[sourpatchys]

May I request France era Daryl? Reader sees how stressed he is and, though she is feeling the same way, she wants to take his mind off things. Cue some sexy times.

Title: The Theory of Touch

Rating: NSFW❤️‍🔥 18+

Word count: 1.6k

Time: Daryl Dixon ep 1

Summary: Daryl and Reader haven’t met eye to eye since they were in America, with Daryl’s guilt over the situation, reader can’t seem to get through to him— until finally, they do. FEMALE reader!

A/N— please ignore the fact that the reader didn’t have a bra or shoes on. Just pretend she took them off to dry or something idk. Also! I haven’t written smut in over a year so I do apologize if it’s not up to par with my other works!

France. You hated France.

You couldn’t read any of the signs, you couldn’t understand any of the labels, you didn’t know where you were, you didn’t know how to get home.

You were lost, in a vacuum of uncertainty.

Daryl wasn’t really helping. Once you’d washed to shore, it was as if a switch flipped and he turned into a shell of the man you knew. He wasn’t speaking to you— he couldn’t even look at you.

You knew— he felt guilty. He was the one who started the fight that got you here. He wouldn’t talk to you in the cell either, apart from a grunt or a nod— he even shrugged you off when you tried to hold his hand.

You missed the man you’d married. He’d had his moments in the past— but they’d never lasted this unbearably long— not with you— never with you.

Finding that little abandoned boat was probably the best thing that’s happened to either of you in weeks. Not only was the past owner English speaking, but he had laid out a map, and unknowingly gave you the strength to keep going.

Even so, the issue with Daryl persisted long into the night. His spark was gone.

“Daryl.” You called, scooting over to him on the creaky floorboards. His back was turned to you as he stared up towards the cloudless sky, picking at the bones from the fish you had shared earlier in the day.

Of course, he didn’t answer.

“Daryl talk to me.” You borderline begged, reaching your hand up to grasp at his shoulder, begging to whatever god may be listening that he wouldn’t shrug you off again.

He didn’t, though he didn’t seem to be paying you any mind either. His coastal blue eyes still staring up, a newfound gleam settling itself over them. He was fighting back the urge to cry.

“I love you.” He finally cracked out, his head falling as his body shook.

He just didn’t know what to do. He had promised you so many years ago, that he’d protect you, that he would keep you safe no matter the cost. All he’s managed to do is cause trouble. He didn’t deserve your kind words. He didn’t deserve your love.

But his love was all he had to give. Not salvation, not protection, not even a roof over your pretty little head.

Wrapping your arms around him, you held him close, peppering small kisses along his tear stained cheek.

“I know you do, I know you do— I love you too.” You repeated over and over again, begging him to see you, to see that you were okay, to see that you loved him just as much as you did yesterday, just as much as the day you’d met him. He was your life, your reason for living.

The kisses continued, soothing their way up and down his neck, behind his ear and along his hairline. You needed his touch— and he needed yours.

After what felt like hours, he finally turned your way, his calloused hand making its way up to cradle your soft cheek as he leaned in, his lips finally encapsulating your own.

This kiss— it felt just like the first kiss you had ever shared, the absolute desperation in your body’s screaming to be satisfied. You couldn’t live without each other’s touch.

You quickly became breathless as his body pushed into yours, his teeth dragging along your lower lip as he begged you for permission to deepen the kiss— you of course, complied.

His tongue felt like fire against yours as his hands ripped their way under your clothes, his cold fingers tracing the indentation under your breasts, warming themselves up before engulfing them whole, squeezing and twisting your malleable skin.

Soon you felt your own hands doing much the same, sneaking their way to the hem of his shirt, begging for him to rip it off.

The cold air of the night long gone between the friction of your bodies.

Soon both of your shirts were long gone as he pushed you to the floor, the freezing feeling of the damp wood bringing you down from your high as Daryl crawled his way between your parted legs, his head darling straight for your neck as his hands once more moved to cup your breasts.

His mouth traced every vein and artery you had, sucking in perfectly round bruises as he skillfully made you lose your sanity.

The ache between your legs unable to be soothed as his hips were angled just perfectly to make it impossible to create friction.

“Baby please—“ you begged, silently groaning with half lidded eyes as you clawed your fingers down his spine, unable to take the sweet torture after weeks without it.

He didn’t listen to your begging however, he only moved his body downwards, making sure your legs had no chance of coming together. He wasn’t a sadist, but he did love to see you beg— to see you completely undone.

His tongue darted down your chest, leaving bitter kisses down its path, avoiding your nipples all together— he had a different craving that day.

He traced all the way down to the hem of your pants, tracing his fingers across the seams, sucking away at the spot right above where you needed him most.

You were almost in tears, feeling the hot building pressure begging for release. You dared not beg as you thrashed your body around, you needed him now, you couldn’t handle it any longer.

Ripping your hands from above your head, you threaded them into the archers hair, pushing his face where you needed it, almost growing as you did so.

He chuckled, his first real laugh in heaven knows how long, as he slowly undid your button and zipper, ripping down the rest of your clothing before sliding his hands under your thighs, pushing them up, refusing to give you the power you so desperately wanted.

With your body open to him fully, he took a glance at your beautiful wet folds, how they quivered in the newly chilly environment, as he brought his head down to you once more.

The first dart of his tongue was nothing but that— a tease to rile you up, purposefully missing all of the parts that needed attention.

“Daryl— Daryl please I can’t handle this— please!”

This time, he did listen to you, his tongue darting out once more, immediately circling your clit in a way that had you arching your body in utter relief.

His skillful tongue flicked and prodded, finding all of your weak spots using nothing but muscle memory, the hot boiling feeling building in the best way possible as you came closer and closer to your sweet release.

Soon his lips closed around your sensitive bud as he started sucking and lapping, his hand releasing your thigh as he slowly slid a finger into you, his calloused fingertip immediately finding the soft spot that drew you mad.

Your moan was quiet as you finally got your release, it came like hot boiling lava. You were positive you’d never had an orgasm so unbelievably blissful.

He rode you out throughout your high, slowing down his motions as your body began to twitch, your thighs quivering uncontrollably.

Soon his mouth and hand were removed, his eyes glancing into your own, both pairs half lidded.

A small laugh filled the space between the two of you, you were finally becoming yourselves again.

Daryl had planned on giving you time to recover, you were still heaving, your eyes completely glossed over— though you had other plans as you shoved your heel into his side, urging for him to continue.

You still needed his touch— you weren’t satisfied.

You watched as his beautifully crafted hands popped open his jeans, sliding them down to his knees.

He never was a guy who enjoyed underwear— and today was no different.

His cock sat firm between his legs, the tip already glistening with precum as he stroked himself, preparing his body for your warmth.

“I love you Daryl.” You whispered, looking him in the eyes as he began to trace the tip of his cock between your folds.

Instead of replying, he once again smashed your lips together as he slid himself inside you, the stretch once again igniting that soft burn between your legs.

The first few thrusts were deep and slow, his body colliding with yours over and over again as he began to create a blissful rhythm.

Your lips stayed connected as you once more fought for dominance, your tongues dancing with the melody of your body’s.

Daryl’s hands were gripping your hips so hard with every thrust, you knew you’d be sore, but just knowing he was touching you, that he was feeling you— it was worth it.

Every thrust lit a fire under your skin, constantly hitting that soft bundle inside of you— your head felt like static, all you could feel was him— his body— his breath. You were in heaven.

The build up of his vigorous hips happened much faster than before, your body was already beyond sensitive, as you felt the elastic band inside you snap, you once again spilled your high squeezing yourself around his cock as your warmth overtook him.

“Gnh—!” He growled, snapping his hips a few more times before ripping himself out of you and spilling all over your breathless, heaving body.

You stayed like that for a few minutes, catching your breath, listening for any change of sound around you. As quiet as you both tried to be, any noise is still noise.

Once the coast was deemed clear and the two of you had calmed down and gotten dressed, it seemed your relationship had been put back into place.

Lying on the floor, your head cradled into Daryl’s chest, you spoke one final time for that night,

“We can get through this, I know we can.”

[claudemblems]

One of my friends asked me to write for this prompt from the list I posted, and one of you requested Sherlock for it, so here you go. Enjoy the angst 🥹

Sherlock Holmes - Moriarty the Patriot

Prompt 18: hugging them tight without saying any words when they're having a hard time

Why didn’t he kill Jefferson Hope when he had the chance?

It was a horrible thing for a detective to consider, especially one that was determined to save as many innocent people as he could, but if he’d taken the offer presented to him, would things have turned out different? Would he have had the Lord of Crime bound and shackled, harbored in a prison cell for the rest of his life? Would the people no longer live in fear of seeing yet another murder plastered on the newspapers' front pages? If he'd taken the offer by killing Hope, Sherlock would have had all the information he needed to find the mastermind. The hard part would be proving his guilt.

But if he’d pulled that trigger, he would have not only learned the true identity of the Lord of Crime, but he would have put an end to Hope's suffering. He’d practically begged Sherlock to take his life, but, out of kindness or conscience, he couldn’t.

Honestly, how pathetic of a detective did he have to be to second guess not killing a man in cold blood.

“...Sherlock? Sherlock?”

The sound of your voice rang in Sherlock's ears, gradually dragging him out of his thoughts and back into the sitting room he rested in, his body splayed out across the couch.

“Are you all right?”

No would have been his first answer had he not cared about worrying you. With all this baggage weighing on his shoulders, he was almost tempted to let himself crumble underneath it.

“I’m fine,” he answered, finally sitting upright. The room still smelled of smoke from the cigarette he’d had earlier. However, when he looked down at the ashtray, it appeared he’d ended up having several more than that.

“For a detective, you’re a terrible liar. I hope you know that.”

Sherlock sighed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, dear.”

“I’m not joking around. I’m worried about you!”

Well, there went his efforts to not make you worry.

"I...I'm just thinking about a case, is all."

"It's the one where you were offered the name of the Lord of Crime, isn't it?"

Somehow you always knew exactly what had been troubling him.

"I just keep thinking about it. Every time I close my eyes, I imagine what it would have been like if I'd pulled the trigger. Would it have been a good thing to put that man out of his misery? Would I have caught the mastermind by now? Would London have been freed from his reign of terror...or am I just a foolish man who's no different than he is?"

Sherlock buried his head in his arms, fighting back the frustration that wanted to burst out of him. What should he do? What was the right thing to do? For once in his career, Sherlock had no evidence, no confidence, and not a clue of what to do next.

But in all this gloom surrounding him, your ray of light encapsulated him, determined to drive out the darkness in his mind.

"Even for a famous detective, it's okay to not know the answer," you said, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling his head next to your heart, its slow and steady beat a soothing lullaby. "You're human, and no human can be perfect. We're bound to be ignorant, to mess up, to get lost along the way...but that's to be expected. All we can do is rely on our morals and ambitions to keep us going. If we can't do that, what else will we have left?"

"...Do you think ill of me because I questioned if I should have killed that man?"

"No, I don't," you answered without hesitation, "because I know you never would. Truly, Sherlock, if you found yourself pulling the trigger, it wouldn't have been to learn the Lord of Crime's name but to save that man, Jefferson Hope, from the misery that consumed him. Your heart went out to him, didn't it?" Gently, you stroked Sherlock's hair, watching as the stress from the past few days slowly began to leave his face. "He killed the monster who had kidnapped his wife and put her through so much suffering. But even with him dead, Mr. Hope can never forget what was done to his beloved wife. The thought eats him alive day by day, and you understood that. Who wouldn't have compassion on a man that wanted a peaceful life for the woman he loved, only to have it ripped away from her?"

Sherlock clutched the edge of your shirt, and though he made no sound, you knew that he'd begun to cry.

"You're no monster, Sherlock. You're a man that wants to save all of London, but you can't. You can't save everyone. You know that, yet you still try."

"If I don't try...then who will?"

Tears fell down Sherlock's cheeks and onto your shirt like light summer rain, and you held him in the warmth of your arms, intent on sheltering his broken heart until the storm had passed.

"One day, love, you'll find the answers you're looking for. For now, take a deep breath, and you can think through all of this when your mind has cleared."

Sherlock cried for a long time, and your hold on him never once faltered. There, in your embrace, you knew he felt safe, and though no words were spoken, being in your presence was all he needed. Eventually your sunshine chased away the clouds, and Sherlock found himself ready to go searching for answers once more.

London needed him. He would not fail.

[bangsinc]

🎃BTAS!Scarecrow Headcanons🎃

X Reader included!

Jonathan is a ‘cold and unfeeling’ man, on the outside that is. Despite his incessant need to show others how terryfing he is, he is awfully sentimental. He’s the kind of man to cry over a children’s picture book if it truly strikes a chord with him. The same could be said if you do simple gestures for him

I’d like to imagine that he’s a ‘Tea and heated blanket, maybe with a book’ kinda guy. It’s the comfort that gets to him, truly.

He’d keep copies of his favorite books at Arkham. Now, since this is BTAS, Arkham still mistreates everyone, but I can imagine they allow certain things into the inmates cells to keep them feeling a little more human. His favorite book is Dantes Inferno, because to him it’s a perfect example of fear encapsulated in one man’s mind. Go off, cornball.

He had a pet, once, back when he was a professor. She was an old kitten, who he’d kept with him since he was a child. She’s a black cat that’s missing part of her ear, and her name is Jessicat, which leads into the next headcanon.

All of his pets have a corny pun name. He has multiple, yes. Canonically he has a singular crow named Crowford, and he thinks it’s the funniest thing.

Most scarecrow x readers often veiw scarecrow as like, your protector but.. this man couldn’t save his ass let alone someone else’s. Yes, he would live and die for you, and do it over and over again, but he’s touch starved and lonely. He doesn’t expect it or demand it, but he’s the kinda guy to need to be comforted by his significant other all the time. Jonathan or Scarecrow he wants to feel cared for.

He’s good friends with Harley Quinn due to their shared position. Yes, it’s canon their friends but.. *sets off a smoke bomb and runs away*

Before joker fucking destroyed Gothams television, Jonathan and Edward would watch documentaries and discuss them. Now, Arkham didn’t have any services other than cable, and since there was always a fight on who got to watch what.. they hardly did enjoy spending time like that.

Shakes sometimes. Mostly an anxiety thing.

This is all I have for now. If you have a request please tell me! Dms are open, I think.

[nhaneh]

the whole question of whether viruses are or are not really "alive" is kind of interesting to me because viruses are kind of like software if you think about it?

Like a virus on its own is a fairly inert thing - it's a packet of RNA code inside a protein casing and doesn't really do anything on its own except float around until they contact a matching cell membrane whereupon the casing gets hooked up and the RNA injected. In software terms, RNA is kind of like a segment of free-floating biological machine code, while the casing is the encapsulating data structure that allows it to interface with things, like the MZ EXE format of the DOS/Windows world or the ELF format of Unix and its relatives. What effectively makes biological viruses work at all is the fact that cells tend to absorb the contents of anything that can bind to their surface and have minimal if any protections in place against processing foreign RNA code. In computer security terms, cells are extremely vulnerable to remote code execution, and the antiviral protections that the body has is primarily a question of either identifying and eliminating viral particles before they get linked up to a cell, or murdering any cell that looks infected.

Okay that's interesting but what does that have to do with whether or not viruses are alive you may ask, so let me pull this analogy together a little by asking the following: Where does software exist?

This might seem like a silly question at first, but it's actually not as simple as it might seem. Consider this post you're reading - where is it? Well, on the servers of tumblr dot com you may say, but you're not looking at the servers right now, are you. Okay well a local copy on the device you're reading this on too then - and sure, there is definitely such a copy, but you're not looking at that either, not directly at least: that data only exists in memory as electrical signals and charges on a few microchips are not something we can see either. No, what you're looking at is an image most likely rendered on a screen through a complex interplay of code and data, of both hardware and software operating together, and only from that full stack of interoperating elements does the post you're reading emerge in a form that you can read.

Or, to go back to the main topic: viruses are code - code which comes alive when introduced to a living cell, but lies inert within the virus itself. They live in the sense that they have functional biological machine code, if you will, but lack the active process with which to execute said code themselves. Like software needs some kind of computer to run, a virus needs a living cell to run - they are alive but only when inside a cell, on their own in isolation they are just inert clumps of protein that depend on being picked up and executed.

A virus is kind of the ultimate expression of life as an emergent property: no one single part of the virus itself is really alive, and yet when introduced to a susceptible cell, its code will interact with the processes of that cell and real, living behaviour emerges. The life of viruses is not contained anywhere within the virus itself, it is something that only exists in interaction with other things outside of itself.

[astarionsilverbough]

Prompts you say! Prompts I got!

Love to see some Needy!Raphael in whatever fashion you choose. Just wanna see the devil beg.

Love your work by the way! <3

oh you - you I like

also thank u bb ilu

i hope (such a funny thing, hope) you enjoy ~

—

“You cannot be here.”

“Shh. You’re making it worse. I need to focus so I can mend these properly without missing pieces of muscle or tender sinew.”

Gale can feel Raphael’s teeth grinding together. The lines of his lean body are tense, every muscle knitted up tight like his furrowed brow.

Guilt chews at Gale despite his protective anger. Exhaling through his nose, the mage presses a hand flat to Raphael’s ruined back and murmurs “how long do we have?”

“It varies,” Raphael drawls. “Depending on what my dear lord husband requires.”

Bile and rage crowd into Gale’s mouth. Raphael’s pale back is a mottled battlefield of new whiplash wounds, frayed flesh going purple at the edges of what will surely become a new grid of scars on his ruined body.

No - not ruined. He has not been ruined in any way that could matter. No one, not even the great devil Mephistopheles, would be the ruin of such a man.

“You need to go,” Raphael says, not for the first time. “Or we will both suffer when he finds you here. Especially as you are.”

“And how am I?”

There’s a brief silence.

“Furious,” Raphael murmurs, turning his head to the side to eye Gale in his periphery. “I can taste it. Like licorice and whiskey.”

Gale smiles a bit. He takes in the elegance of Raphael’s aquiline profile and reaches out when a tear cuts down the devil’s cheek. Slowly, the mage rises from where he sits on a stool behind Raphael - sat backwards on a simple chair so Gale can tend to his back - and moves to stand before him.

The sanctuary of Raphael’s bedchamber is a fickle one. He knows this. It is less a sanctuary and more a concubine’s cell; the bathchamber has become Gale’s domain, the place where he can put a barrier - magical and mental - between Raphael and the rest of the room.

“Dekarios,” Raphael starts warningly; “Gale,” the wizard murmurs as he crouches down and takes in the bloodied plain of Raphael’s chest. “I think we’re past the threshold of surnames and bullish masculinity to keep the tenderness at bay, Raphael. At least, I hope we are.”

Perhaps it’s not the best thing, the fact that Gale finds anger so very fetching on Raphael’s vulpine face. Ever hurtling towards imminent demise, Gale reaches up and cups Raphael’s clenching jaw. He thumbs over the five o’clock shadow there and Raphael’s fury ebbs away to reveal a horribly aching thing - an emotion Gale cannot rightly put a name to because it encapsulates too much.

It bleeds. That much he knows.

And then - Raphael’s eyes flash open and he stiffens, swaying back and away from Gale’s touch.

“You need to go,” the Devil says urgently. “Dekarios - Gale. Please.”

His voice fractures around the word. True fear radiates from Raphael like heat from a burning coal.

“Please,” Raphael utters wretchedly again, lurching forward to fist a hand in Gale’s tunic, “take this victory and run - you have to go. Please, Gale - go. I will be - I will endure.”

Gale’s heart thunders in his throat. When Raphael splays his hand over his chest, he covers it with his own and cups Raphael’s jaw with his other.

There is a moment - a Moment - wherein Gale Dekarios realizes that the world as he’s known it has been irrevocably changed. Raphael’s eyes drop to his lips and Gale’s gut tightens like it’s been wound around a steel bar.

For a Moment suspended far out of fear, they share a breath between them. Their lips do not touch - but it’s a very close thing. Raphael makes a sound as if he’s been struck, mouth parting as his body strains towards Gale’s, drawn by the magnetic force that exists like a living thing between them.

And then -

“Please,” Raphael croaks. “Go.”

He’s done it.

He’s made the devil beg.

It’s a sour, hollow victory. Just as Gale toes the line between utter stupidity and selfish ignorance, his eyes fly open and he sits bolt upright in his cot. In his tent, in their camp - leagues and realms and ruins away from where Raphael lingers in the maw of a beast he cannot outrun.

He moves through his morning in a stupor, the scent of musk and cherries and sulphuric ozone burning at the back of his tongue. It’s not until Astarion says “as long as Gale stays on his good side, that is,” that Gale blinks and forces himself to look up from his own wringing hands.

“What?”

“I was saying,” Astarion says, irate that he has to repeat himself, “that we can count the devil as an ally - so long as you remain useful to him.”

It’s as if someone’s gone and dropped a chunk of glacier into his belly.

That’s right, isn’t it? Astarion’s right.

Gale is useful. Raphael didn’t beg him to flee out of any want to keep him, the man surrounding the orb, safe. If it weren’t for the orb, Raphael wouldn’t give half a damn about him.

And yet -

And yet.

Gale has sympathy for the devil. That will never change.

But something… something has changed.

And he’s not going to give up on Raphael until he figures out exactly what that means.

[b0kksu]

‘ I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. ‘ (choso? :3c)

         THE INTENSITY BETWEEN THEM CAUSES HIS LIPS TO PURSE; in the quietness of their walk, there are few indications Satoru was peculiar. Finger tips that reach forth the graze against the softness of leaves, branches, all that he can feel vibrates deep within the core && there are a few times, the shrouded gaze appears magnified upon the petals of blossoms. In the labyrinth that was the Gojo Estate, there are several reflection pools, several gardens, each one vastly different && neither to his liking.  “It works on a molecular level” the small bug that crouches upon his arm moves with each movement, soon, it will cocoon to resemble all that was beauty in the masses of hydrangeas. Delicately, Satoru places it back upon a tall branch, warmth echoing within the corners of his smile, “All that is living, all that is between, the small cells that make up the atoms from who we are” echoed a thousand times, yet even he pondered this strange blessing.

       A hand beckons, deeper they move, ever present && swirling, as if the stone walls could go on forever if willed. Tendrils of white, the mark of a Gojo clad in their haunting marble features, he is perfect && encapsulated in otherworldly nature that screams could he be of this life? This world? Or a relic of a bygone era? “Give me your hand” the barrier drops, a burst of sharp mint && oxygen replaced with vanilla && ginger. He does not ask, a deity does not need permission, instead he reaches forth && for a split second, Gojo Satoru feels mortal. Pulsating, the hum within his palms is electrifying, akin to the storm && the sky that breaks open, all that reaches forth to the horizons && the knowledge that none shall deceive the oculars that bare forth the past. A soft glow, one that glimmers && moves in ribbons, his smile breaks, between fanged teeth && lopsided grin, Satoru snickers.

        “You are correct, it becomes digested then a part of me, think of it like a host - the body is merely a vessel but the Six Eyes encapsulate everything. What you feel right now is Infinity, though a smaller spectrum of it, all that is, all that can be, all that is in between” then he withdraws, like a wraith that was once there now gone.

          “We’re bound in this union together, both our families believe to be prosperous, yours more than mine - that’s the nature of a Gojo they don’t trust anyone including each other. The more we understand one another, the more I can protect you when they speak, let’s try our best if we want a happy life”   

[raisans-art]

Been going through tonight's Chimera!Emmet posts, and I have a couple thoughts. First of all, your example of "If you chopped up a bunch of brains and sewed them together, you'd get a new consciosness" honestly might not be that accurate. Assuming someone did have the technology to make a functioning brain out of that, not only are brains kinda cracked on how much bullshit they' can they're capable of, it's surprisingly common for people to live almost completely normal lives with upwards of half their brains flat out missing; but having multiple identities sharing a brain space is a thing, as seem with Dissasociative Identity Disorder, though you might only know it as the outdated name of Multiple Personality Disorder. Ofcourse, none of that is accounting for how much psychological trauma such an operation would result in. And is completely powerless to the point of it being your AU, you can do whatever the hell you want. Other than that, I think it's sort of confusing to call this AU "Chimera Emmet AU" If Emmet's dead. It's not wrong per se, given that Emmet was used as part of the Chimera. But I feel the name implies that calling it "Chimera Emmet" implies that Emmet would still be in there somewhere. Sorry if all that came off as negative by the by. I mostly just wanted to talk about how damn weird our brains are, and why people might be confused about the relationship between Agee and what they used to be.

On your points:

1: this is pokemon so people's ability to do shit is significantly heightened. The idea is that just about every brain from every being in Agee contributed a part of each major sector of the brain therefore no real "ruling" on which part would (in an instance where all entities are conscious during activity) have greater standing.

Also, chopping up brains and sewing them together is not how the scientists literally made Agee. It's an example. In my little think-piece world (and please mind that I am working on limited knowledge and stretching a lot because none of this can actually happen), each brain was dissected, tested for certain responses, broken down, had their DNA sequences altered to a spliced and edited sequence via a man-made virus while the bodies were under immunosuppressants, and collected into a vat with some sciency goo that is full of embryonic stem cells that are stimulated to take the bits of the brain already provided and stitch all the necessary bits together using new cells. Is it unrealistic? Hell fucking yes it is but shshshshshsh don't worry. I monsterfied him. It's all gucci.

2: I'm fully aware DID's existence, don't get it twisted. And you are right, my story specifically involves Agee being their own being and not multiple personalities. It kinda ruins what I'm going for. I didn't make claim that multiple personalities can't exist in the same brain, just that it's certainly not happening here and definitely not happening solely in part to 4 different brains being frankensteined together, seeing as DID is a trauma response primarily and the majority of Agee's memory of what happened before consciousness is not really there.

3: Chimera Emmet AU is kinda grandfathered in at this point. The au started a whole lot differently. I even had an og name for Agee- Galemartross- that got totally scrapped in favor for Agee. Chimera Emmet AU is just meant to encapsulate the premise of the AU in an easily understandable way. Emmet. He's a Chimera now. Read more to find out what the fuck is going on. I just started with Chimera Emmet Au when I first drafted concepts and I'm not changing it now

Hope that covered everything =w=

[jovenshires]

Sorry if this has already been asked, but how did u decide all the school names in iwks?

omg absolutely no need to apologize ever (i love talking ab her i am so honored you asked <3<3<3) and no one has asked so!! here we go!!

st. charles' academy for boys: this is entirely based on spencer's first name actually being charles LNDKNFLKNK like i knew i wanted to go with an all-boys school (as opposed to olops which is actually a co-ed school!) and i thought. "this is kinda funny." and it was!

our lady of perpetual sorrow: this is actually - and i Did Not Know This - the catholic school from suite life of zack and cody SDFGHJK which means one of two things: 1. either i heard it there and it stuck in my brain and i didn't realize OR 2. i just have the same brain cell as the suite life writers. i have no idea. but i chose that name bc, growing up in catholic school, i heard So Many 'our lady of ___' school names and i thought tommy, known Mental Illness actor, would enjoy 'perpetual sorrow' as a nod to that knfkfnfk

holy trinity preparatory school: ah the easiest one tbh!! holy trinity because TRI. TRI bc there's three of them and also it sounds like TRY. try guys! no more thought to it than that tbh.

aquinas academy: i went into it in more detail here, but basically st. thomas aquinas is the patron saint of college students - thus college humor, thus dropout!!

st. george: this one was a little more deep-cut!! i almost went with st. martha, the patron saint of the culinary arts, but i wanted their patron to encapsulate more of the crew rather than just the kitchen. even if it was josh's world and we were all living in it. but basically, st. george is the patron saint of knights, cavalry, and armourers. he's frequently depicted as slaying dragons and was often compared to many mythic heroes. therefore, you can consider st. george your official patron saint of mythicality!

[dolphin1812]

“ This door with an unclean, and this window with an honest though dilapidated air, thus beheld on the same house, produced the effect of two incomplete beggars walking side by side, with different miens beneath the same rags, the one having always been a mendicant, and the other having once been a gentleman”

The Gorbeau house encapsulates Valjean’s past through its structure. On the one hand, he’s always been a “mendicant” in the sense that Jean Valjean has never had much, and has always lived at risk of starvation, imprisonment, etc for the smallest error or problem. On the other, Valjean in disguise as Madeleine was a “gentleman” who lost his status once his origins were revealed. The Valjean we follow now contains both of these pasts, just as the building consists of both of these seemingly contradictory features at once and makes them into a semi-coherent whole (the building is very deceptive in its appearance, so it seems inaccurate to just say coherent; still, that’s a link to Valjean in itself, since his life relies upon disguises and deception to maintain his safety).

Hugo specifies that the chambers resemble “stalls more than cells,” but that’s really only a small comfort as he continues with his description. They almost match the cells he has described in how gloomy they are, and he even characterizes them as “sepulchral,” as if they were graves. The building isn’t a prison, but it certainly isn’t very hospitable, either. However, we know from the last chapter that to Valjean, death is a comfort in a way, so perhaps this dark environment that seems so forbidding to the reader (and the narrator, who is choosing to use all of these terms) is actually a relief.

I love that the name of the house came from lawyers trying to change their names after being teased through puns (?), it’s so Hugo to include that sort of humor in the middle of a lengthy and sad architectural description.

It seems telling that all the trees in the area are mostly dead or unhealthy. The presence of factories calls to mind the worst environmental consequences of industrialism (although the 1820s are, admittedly, early for that), and the fact that people are living in this toxic environment emphasizes their marginalization. The wealthy wouldn’t live in a place that kills trees and where the smell of factories is ever-present (and where every location is a reminder of violence, crime, and death, as Hugo details). Only those with no alternative would (although the fact that bourgeois houses later appear suggests that either the neighborhood changed [likely because of the railroad Hugo mentions], urbanization put enough pressure on the city’s housing that they had no alternatives, both, or that some other factor pushed them to that area). Either way, the Gorbeau house seems intimidating, but we also know that it might not be, since much of its outward appearance doesn’t match its reality. It looks small, for instance, but is actually large inside. In the same way, while its neighborhood and gloomy character seem frightening, it may be a good shelter.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

On a highway near you ...

* * * *

THE GOP AND JANUARY 6

TCINLA :: [Thats Another Fine Mess]

JUN 19, 2024

I think we can all agree that Marjorie Traitor Goon belongs in locked padded cell in a secure mental facility. With her public performances over the past several days, it’s clear that her padded cell should be in the prison ward of the facility.

For those trying to avoid the news, Greene spoke this weekend at the Turning Points Action political conference as the introduction to Trump’s appearance. What she said needs to be seen as truly alarming.

Greene began her speech by saying, “Anyone that wants to continue shame us for January 6th can go to hell.” The raucous crowd responded with loud applause.

She continued on, bragging about her role on Jan. 6, based on her belief that Trump had won her home state of Georgia, despite no evidence to that effect.

She ended the speech by saying she was the one who organized the attempt to overturn the peaceful transfer of power - again to loud applause. As usual, she overstating her role; at most, she was a relatively minor character in the plot, though she was indeed involved in the planning. But the fact that she could make this claim to praise and applause is what is terrifying.

Note her initial line there: A civil war started on Election Day 2020 when Democrats stole the presidency from Trump.

The fact is, Greene is merely the most obvious of the GOP traitors, due to her essential stupidity. Just remember, however, that many of the Nazis were stupid people who were considered “clowns” prior to 1933. The entire Republican Party is now completely under the thrall of Trump. With his appearance last week at the scene of his greatest act of treason, where he was applauded by Republican office holders who were among those hiding in the Capitol on January 6, 2021, in fear for their lives from the murderous mob of insurrectionists Trump summoned and launched at the seat of the government he had taken an oath to defend “against all enemies, foreign and domestic,” where his arrival was met by applause, it should be clear to anyone that the two political parties in the United States are The Party of Government and the Party of Insurrectionary Treason.

As David Kurtz put it at TPM, “A lot about the last four years can be encapsulated by the notion that one side in American politics is fighting a cold civil war, and the other side is totally bewildered by it. That’s not what war fighters mean when they refer to an asymmetric battlefield, but the asymmetry is stark as hell.”

Unfortunately, too many Democrats seem to either be unable to see this or, if they do see it, they choose to deny the truth before their eyes.

In fact, there are too many Democrats who will attack anyone who points out the utter and complete evil of MAGA now, and the fact that the Democratic Party needs to have a stronger response, by claiming the speaker is “no better than” whatever MAGA traitor was mentioned.

For anyone who has studied the political history of the 1930s, there are two groups of people in Germany who were responsible for the Nazi takeover: the enablers - the German industrialists who gave money to the Nazis, the politicians who believed they could “manage” Hitler - and the fools who said people like Billy Wilder were “cranks” for their warnings about the true nature of the Nazis, who they claimed were nothing more than “clowns.”

Our new political normal is one in which far right populism is - and will be for the foreseeable future, regardless of the November election - a consistent competitor for power. In past times a political realignment usually involved a change of view about the role of government, or the ends of foreign policy. What we are seeing those from the Republican Party is a revolutionary recreation of government as a tool for minority rule and a rejection of the rule of law.

There’s a name for this problem: Motivated ignorance. The term refers to a person willfully blinding themself to facts and choosing not to know something. For many people, knowing the truth is simply too psychologically painful, too costly, too threatening to their core identity.

In greater numbers, people can be incentivized to adopt motivated ignorance and actively decide to remain in a state of disbelief. When presented with a strong argument against a position they hold, or being presented with compelling evidence disproving their personal narrative, that information will be rejected. Doing so fends off the psychological distress of the realization that they’ve been lying to themselves and to others. Motivated ignorance is a widespread phenomenon; most people, to one degree or another, employ it, and it is found equally among the Democrats who refuse the admit the nature of the threat, and the true believers who refuse to even listen to anyone attempting to discredit their cult leader.

In the case of MAGA true believers, the lies they believe as Trump supporters, or say they believe, are all obviously untrue and obviously destructive. But as can be seen in the 2025 Project book, the Trump true believers who will be in a position - should he win - to make and carry out policy, those policy decisions are being made on the belief that the lies are the truth. Over the past eight years, each succeeding conspiracy theory has been ratcheted up, being more preposterous and more malicious in order to keep the believers ready to act on their beliefs, no matter how deranged.

Unfortunately, the fact that these are all demonstrable lies allows the motivated ignorant in the Democratic Party to discount them, to denigrate those who say “when someone tells you what they want to do, believe them” as “cranks,” the term used by the disbelievers Billy Wilder knew.

Anti-anti-Trump is not confined to conservatives unwilling to become Never-Trumpers and possibly lose their social position by so doing.

It happened to Wilder’s friends in Berlin with their belief that the Nazis were “clowns” no matter the information received that the “clowns” were actually a direct personal threat to their continued well-being. A Wilder said, “When I returned twelve years later, all of my friends who told me the Nazis were clowns, were dead. Killed by the clowns.”

Things aren’t that dire here (yet), but the willingness of some Democrats to take a the statement of exasperation made by a strongly anti-Trump person, and then claim that statement is equally dangerous to whatever threat made by a ranking Trumper about what they intend to do when they take power, is to not only shut one’s eyes to what is happening in favor of a belief that we still live in a civilized society where one argues “properly,” but to actively oppose anyone presenting evidence to the contrary.

The question is, how complicit are people who live in a hall of mirrors inside a bubble, that nothing consequential has changed or threatened to change and have convinced themselves they represent the “proper response” and want to police the word and actions of those who threaten their belief those people are the real “threat” with their “incivility”?

The truth is that the Republican Party is no longer a conservative party, or even a radical party. The statements of intent over what will happen when the MAGA movement takes power are revolutionary in their desire to overturn everything. Just in the past 30 days there hasn’t been a MAGA Republican who hasn’t either made a direct threat against democracy, or tried to cover up such a statement by a fellow MAGA Republican when questioned in the media. They are now all complicit. The ones who say nothing but vote in favor of MAGA positions and policies are no different from the Marjorie Traitor Goons shouting it from the rooftops.

However, as Jonathan Last pointed out, “The Trumpist revolution’s weakness is that it has no ideas. It has goals, but these are motivated by nothing more than will-to-power. There is no logic—not even a faulty logic—behind them.”

While we - on the side that would like to preserve liberal democracy - are becoming exhausted, the people who want to destroy the Constitution are energized. The system has allowed and will allow without radical changes, for the MAGA “revolutionaries” to make their charge of the capitol a many times as they want to. And they only have to win once.

As the Old Gunnery Sergeant said to the Marines at Guadalcanal, “Off your dead asses and onto your dying feet. There’s work to be done!”

[TCinLA]