#he really is the great liberator

[kacievvbbbb]

I truly do love that Luffy is fighting for the right to take down Doflamingo with all these people who have extremely valid and long-standing beefs with dude and he's just like;

Rebecca bought me a food with all the money she had left and was generally just really nice and I don't really understand the specifics of the situation but I know that flamingo dude is making her and everybody in this country that has helped me and my crew, real sad so I'm gonna fight him.

And it is presented as just as valid a claim as the dude that had his father-in-law's thrown stolen, was turned into a toy forgotten by his family, his wife was killed and his daughter was forced to fight in a colosseum. And Law who has a decade-long beef with dude over the murdering of his father figure who was also said dude's brother.

And Luffy will obviously be the one that fights and defeats doffy and we are all the better for it because One Piece isn't about revenge it's about Liberation. By fighting these antagonists on their behalves Luffy is also liberating his friends from revenge. Because Luffy doesn't go into these fight to seek vengeance or some kind of recompense he does it to set people free.

also him going "well I've been beefing with him for 30 years" is objectively hilarious.

[akkivee]

read thru the arb event and the differences in how ichiro and jyushi greeted sasara vs rosho has been hilarious lmao

🎋: oh we’re really getting into it now!!!!

🌙: y-you surprised me……!!!

1️⃣: where did you even come from sasara-san…….

———

🍮: well if it isn’t ichiro-kun and jyushi-kun!! what a coincidence!!

🌙: ah, rosho-san!!! hello!!!

1️⃣: hello 😌

[orestesimp]

delicious food

Min Redux

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Marc Spector x female reader x Steven Grant (x hints of Jake Lockley)

Summary: Marc is possessed by a horny ancient sex spirit and refuses the help you're willingly offering. Sequel to Gift of Min but can be read as stand alone.

Content: sex pollen, restraints, Marc being a stubborn bastard.

Word count; 12,800 words (do not look at me)

Series Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

There's a white, pot-bellied goose staring up at Marc expectantly with hunger. He ignores it, pretending he doesn't see it as he turns his head, eyes circling around the park.

If he ignores it, it will give up eventually.

"Oh hello there fella! You're a plump one aren't you?"

Marc resists the deeply ingrained urge to roll his eyes. Of course, Steven would acknowledge the animal.

“I think it wants us to feed it”, Steven says.

Marc hums in acknowledgment. He doesn't want to get into this right now. Doesn't want Steven distracted and excitedly buzz in their head with anecdotes about Geese and the bird wildlife in London when they're supposed to be on the lookout for their contact.

Flicking his wrist, Marc glares at his watch.

8:12am.

Twelve minutes late. You'd think Ancient Egyptian Deities would have some kind of culling process when picking their Avatars. Punctuality should be a bare minimum requirement.

He leans back against the wooden slats of the park bench, hands shoved inside his field jacket against the chill of the London air as a woman with a stroller walks by nearly running over the goose in the process (to Steven's outrage). For the umpteenth time since he sat down, Marc's fingers trace the lining until he catches at the sharp edge of the small golden trinket box, just to make sure it's still there.

Gift of Min. A tiny trinket box that's been sealing away some sex-crazed sprite serving the Ancient God of Sex for decades. One that Steven managed to accidentally free with his uncanny puzzle solving skills in just under a minute, getting himself possessed in the process.

Marc's fingers clutch at the brass-metal, until it's digging into his palms as he squeezes down. Flashes of your bare skin underneath Steven's hands, and the soft curves of your naked form pressed underneath him, pushes to the surface of his mind.

Fuck, he shakes his head. No, his mind is not going there. He needs to stay here, in the present, find the other Avatar and hand this over so it's out of your lives for good.

Get rid of it so that what happened last week won't ever repeat itself. He won’t allow that to happen, won’t risk putting you in harm’s way again.

It's all so vivid and Marc has replayed the memory of it so many times, every detail of it. Every gasp, moan and whimper of your voice. The way your back arched from the floor, the way your mouth fell open. The way your eyes would roll back right before you came… repeatedly. He’s played it like a VHS tape on repeat until it’s been so worn out from replays that the image is filled with static and he almost can't tell anymore if it was entirely Steven's experience or his as well, trapped as he was in the mind space. 

Steven rutting into you mindlessly like an animal. Hips snapping against your soft plump thighs. Your legs squeezed tight around his hips, around his cock as you kept coming uncontrollably, again and again and–

"Marc Spector?"

With a jolt, Marc's pulled from his thoughts at the voice. Looking up, there's a man standing two feet away from him with a much too friendly smile on his face for someone that's—Marc flicks his watch—22 minutes late.

The man reaches out a hand in an inviting gesture to shake Marc's hand.

These Avatars always want to make pleasantries and be friends, like they're all part of the Mickey Mouse Club on account of their ostensible connection of being in indentured servitude to defunct Egyptian Gods.

Reluctantly, Marc relents, slipping one hand out of his pocket. The man's hand is bony, his grip tight like he's trying to assert dominance by crushing Marc's hand. Then he lets it go, the smile spreading even wider with that uncanny eager friendliness.

"I believe you have something for me?"

Standing up from the bench, Marc reaches into his pocket again and shoves it into the man's hand.

"Ah there it is. Gorgeous little thing isn't it?" Min’s avatar holds the box up in the daylight, inspecting it as if it were a diamond, then he tilts his head with a confused expression.

"Oh dear," he says.

At first, Marc misses the alarm in his voice, because the man practically sings out the words.

"What?" Marc asks. 

Instead of answering Marc, the man hums, turning the trinket box in his hand as if weighing the contents, his friendly smile fading into a slight frown.

"What is it?" Marc repeats, irritated this time.

"Well…" the man shifts the box into his other hand, repeating the same weighing motion. Then the man holds the box up to his ear, like he’s trying to hear the ocean in a seashell.

The Avatar’s inability to give a straight answer has Marc's patience balanced on a tenuous line that he can physically hear as it snaps.

"What is wrong," Marc repeats for a third time through gritted teeth.

"The seal's been opened."

There's a tension in Marc's jaw as he grinds down on his teeth. "There was an accident. Someone opened it. But I made sure to trap the sprite back inside."

"Well whatever you did, you didn't do a good enough job.” The man says it so matter-of-factly like it’s not even an insult, and Marc has to take a deep calming breath, his hand closing into a fist. 

“The puzzle sequence wasn't completed when you retrapped the spirit and thus not sealed. It must have escaped." This time, the man flips the panels in sequence of motion, in-out-up-up-down until Marc loses track. The gears in the box whir and the box opens-- and adrenaline ramps up in Marc as instincts have him backing away from the box, holding up an arm to shield his nose and mouth shut.

But there's nothing. No blue shiny smoke like last time.

It's empty.

“Wait so what does that mean?” you ask him, as you stab the fork into the thick double slice of french toast he’s made you. Double dipped in batter drowned in cinnamon sugar, just the way you like them.

Turning on the tap, Marc fills the kettle with water as he puts it on the stove to boil your morning tea.

Except it’s not morning anymore. It’s the afternoon now, almost 1pm. You slept through the whole of the morning, but considering the morning-afternoon-and parts of the evening you endured with Steven barely 48 hours ago, Marc is hardly going to begrudge you sleeping in.

“Don’t worry about it,” Marc says, hoping his reassurance will allay any worries you may have. Because you don’t have to worry. He’s going to fix it—fix everything—and keep you out of trouble this time.

But as he looks up at you, the frown that borders on a glare on your face tells him that was absolutely the wrong thing to say.

Shit, he’s doing that thing again isn’t he? The very thing you told him not to do after the post-possession talk.

His shoulders sag. He sighs in capitulation. Right. Communication. Tell you things.

“I have to find it again. This time I’ll have Steven seal it so it doesn’t escape.”

“It’s been days, it could be anywhere, did they tell you how to find it? Do we have some kind of magical ancient artifact compass?”

Marc’s shoulders tenses at your use of ‘we.’ There’s no ‘we’ here. He’s not getting you involved in this. He’s gonna catch it. Steven’s gonna seal it. That’s the plan.

“Marc?” You ask, but he pretends he doesn’t hear you as he moves to the cupboard, to find a teapot.

“Do we know how to find it?” you repeat when he doesn’t answer.

He pretends to busy himself, foregoing the perfectly good teapots he can use that sits in the front and pushes them aside as he continues to search the cupboard.

If he ignores you, you will give up eventually.

Faintly, he thinks he can hear Jake’s (sarcastic) voice in his head. “Jefe, she’s not a Goose. Ignoring her isn’t going to cut it.”

“Stop pretending you’re looking for teapots and ignoring me. I’m just going to keep asking until you answer.”

Shit.

You’re so insistent. Worse than park geese. Worse than Steven and Jake combined.

“No compass,” Marc answers as he pulls out a random teapot in the furthest corner. Dusty from lack of use. He’s gonna have to clean this. With the way Steven cleans this apartment, it might be covered in asbestos for all he knows.

“The guy said it likes cramped small enclosed places. Tiny chests, jewelry boxes, tupperware. Anything that closes with a lid.”

“That hardly narrows it down in London!”

“Like I said, I’ll take care of it.”

Turning on the tap, he runs the teapot under water in the sink, scrubbing the dust and grime. He lifts the lid but it’s been so long since it’s been used the pot is practically sealed shut from dirt, even as Marc pushes against the top.

He can hear you approaching from behind. “You won’t get it open that way,” you offer as you turn the tap and turn it as far as it goes for hot water. Then you take the pot from him, running the lid over the running water, gripping at the base and start to turn it until he can hear it give with a quiet ‘pop’.

“Tada!”

You’re grinning at your success, and Marc has to bite the inside of his cheek to tamper down his own smile at the sight of you. Because fuck, that gloating, I-know better-than-you smile, (which should be aggravating) is infectious.

“See! This is why you need me,” you sing-song, rubbing your success in his face as you lift the lid. He’s so distracted by your easy-smile and glow of schadenfreude he doesn’t pay attention to the quiet hiss of pressure that gives from the lid.

A tendril of blue-white fog rises up, reaching towards you. Before Marc fully processes what he’s doing, he’s already stepping forward into your space. One hand clasps at your wrist as he yanks you backwards and away from the kitchen.

Gotta fucking be kidding him. That fucking thing was hiding in the teapot all this time.

It hits him like a kick in the gut. It’s like swallowing live fire into his throat except it keeps burning all the way as it travels into his chest and digs into the inside of his stomach, settling into every inch of his flesh. It’s the feeling of downing a bottle of whiskey in one sitting with none of the side sickness and nausea that he has to swallow down. It burns and crackles inside his veins.

With the intensity of the heat as it bubbles in his blood, he had expected it to hurt. It doesn’t. Instead it’s molten and slow, oozing through his system like a heated haze. He feels heady as the sensation rushes through him from the curl of his toes to the tip of his nose until it has his scalp tingling. It’s pleasant. Euphoric even if he lets his mind linger on it. He doesn’t.

From a distance he thinks he can hear your voice, and buried underneath the fog, Steven’s concerned babbling. But it’s drowned out by the blood thrashing in his ears. He tries to find you, but his vision is swimming in front of him.

Then he hears it, you’re shouting his name. You sound so worried.

He can feel you. Soft and doting hands cupping his cheeks with a tender touch that has the heat in his stomach reach a boiling point, then you tilt his face upwards to meet your worried gaze.

It’s the same expression on your face when you were tending to Steven not two days ago. Heat spikes in his lower belly, his cock twitching against the constricted confines where it’s trapped under hard denim.

‘Need you’, a voice inside his head, neither Steven or Jake’s but entirely his own, calls out. ‘Want you’.

Flashes of you, your back arching from the floor, trapped underneath him as he thrusts into you invade his vision. The phantom sensation of your wet tightness wrapped around his cock shivers through him and the ache makes the length of him pressed hard against his boxers, twitch and leak against the soft fabric.

Fuck… He can’t put you through that again.

He can’t have you here.

"Leave," he grits out, scooting backwards, dragging himself away from you by the heel of his hands along the wooden floor.

"What?"

"You need to go. Leave!" He barks out.

He tries to get up but fuck, his legs have gone all wobbly like fucking Bambi, can't steady himself, and his faulty balance has you running forwards towards him. 

Marc throws out his hands, palms up as a signal for you to keep your distance.

"No! Don't get close to me. You need to go now."

He grabs at the side of one of the wooden shelves, as he steadies himself on his feet and props himself up, but fuck, everything is spinning. He feels like he's drunk, and he closes his eyes to make it stop.

"Marc," you say his name so softly, it makes the heat in his veins grow hotter. There's liquid fire pumping through his blood.

Even with his eyes closed, he sees you.

You underneath him, exhausted and fucked out. Swollen lips kissed raw and tender. Legs shiny and slick, with your come and his, as it drips over his cock in a shiny silvery thread and down the wooden floor below.

Shit! Shit! Stop, don't think of that.

His eyes fly open to the sight of you, the you in front of him right now, your pretty face mere inches from his. Lips so close he can practically fucking taste you already on his tongue from pure sense memory.

He's getting worse by the second. He's not sure how much longer he can keep his body in check. Every inch of him wants to touch you. Fingers itching to dig into your plump flesh. His cheeks tingle and all he wants is to have your thighs pressing down and enveloping his face. His tongue is heavy in his mouth and salivating at the thought of licking every inch of your soft skin, to have the familiar taste of you fill his mouth– fuck, he can’t– he needs something to restrain himself with as a precaution.

His eyes flicker to the bed, and of course, it's not there. Where is Steven's stupid ankle bracelet when it’s actually needed? 

Shit.

Wait, the cuffs. Jake keeps some cuffs here, where did he – his eyes roam the space, until he spots the shiny metal glinting from underneath Jake's cap that he's carelessly slung against the shelf behind him.

"I'm not going to leave you here by yourself. Let me help," you say and his eyes linger on your pouty lips, the way they open and close as you bite your lower lip in worry. He wants to sink his own teeth into them until you whine for him. Slip his aching cock between them, until his hard cock is enveloped by your softness.

He shakes his head, taking a step back as he looks around himself, planning his exit route. The front door is behind you, which means he'd have to get past you to get out.

Crap. Stubborn as you are, you'd try to block him in a heartbeat, and unless he's gonna tackle you (out of the question) this is going to get him nowhere.

"You can't help with this," he says, eyes continuing to scan the room until he spots the open door to the bathroom.

You frown, eyes narrowing in irritation. "I can actually. We've been here before Marc. I helped Steven remember?"

And fuck does he remember, can't forget. That's part of the problem.

Your hand reaches for him, fingertips brushing over his fisted knuckles, and the touch of it tingles with a burning ache.

"It'll feel better if you let me help you," you say.

Marc takes a step back, arm reaching behind him, until he feels the cold metal against his hand and grabs the cuff.

"I'm not going to do that to you," he says. Before you get a chance to respond, he's already turning around. He's leaping on his feet, darting to the bathroom and slams the door shut behind him.

His fingers are trembling, cold sweat dripping down his forehead as he fumbles locking the door.

From behind the door he can hear your panicked voice calling for him.

"Marc? Marc!!"

The rickety panel door rattles and shakes against the frame with your effort to slide it open. “Marc, did you lock the door?! Marc!” 

You sound so worried, and a small pang digs under his skin when he hears you. 

It’s so stupid. He knows you’re safe, that the worry in your voice is meant for him, and yet every instinct in his body is screaming out for him to check on you and make sure you’re okay. He fights it. Eyes darting around the tiny confined space to search for something, anything, permanently affixed to the wall that he can cuff himself to. 

“Marc, open the door or I’m gonna kick this bloody thing down. I swear to god.”

Marc doesn’t have much to work with. There’s the toilet, the sink, with nothing he can attach the cuffs to, and the railing to the shower head that looks… flimsy at best. Still beggars can’t be choosers. 

Forcing his stupidly shaky hands to bring the cuffs to the shower, he tightens one end to his wrist until he can feel the sharp metal dig through his skin, hard enough that it’s probably going to cause the blood flow to constrict. 

Stupid, he’s so stupid, he knows better than this, but his coordination isn’t cooperating and if Marc is honest with himself, the blunt pain helps. 

Helps his mind to sharpen and to distract himself from the burning heat that’s riding him hard at the sound of your voice on the other end of the door calling his name. 

Helps him to shove down the pathetic need that sings in his vein to tear off the flimsy panel door and run into your arms and beg you to help him. 

Helps him find the will in himself to clasp the other end of the cuffs around the metal rod before it clicks satisfyingly to let him know the deed is done. 

Safe. the metal click tells him. You’re safe from him now. He couldn’t get his grubby hands on you even if his weak will breaks. 

The rattling of the door has stopped now. The room fills with silence and you’re no longer shouting for him. Marc turns back and sees the shadow of your feet under the spring as you walk away from the door. You’ve finally given up on him. 

Good. That’s good. 

You should get as far away from him as possible. With any luck, you’re already halfway down the stairs towards the tube.

He knows you’re pissed. Probably slamming the front door on your way out. But that’s ok. He’ll take your anger over your worry. He can deal with anger, knows how to handle it like an old shitty friend he wants to cut ties with but never can. What he can’t take is the way you sounded when you were calling for him. 

The worry. The care. You always care. And it’s wasted on him. All that’s ever earned you since you got involved with him is trouble. 

If you weren’t involved with him then you wouldn’t have been in their apartment that morning when Steven opened the stupid thing. If you weren’t there, Marc would’ve taken over, would’ve taken care of himself instead of — instead of– 

‘Steven, fuckfuck Steven–’ the phantom memory of your voice rings hauntingly sharp in his ears. Slurred and honeyed, the feel of you, slick and dripping between your thighs, clamping down tightly on his Steven’s cock. 

His whole body aches. Skin flushed and burning and his brain feels feverish and rubbed raw with heat at the fraying edges. 

A shower. A cold shower will help. 

Marc takes a shaky breath, as his fingers fumble with the taps. Turning the cold water as far as it goes. He thinks he’s prepared for it but he’s not. It’s a shock to the system. The cold water slams down on him with a heavy punch. Cold and piercing and bitter as it wraps all around his feverish skin and strangles his lungs with it. 

His eyes are closed, but instead of the blank darkness all he sees are your big eyes staring back up at him. Dazed and out of it, fuckdrunk, on him. 

His skin burns. Blood boiling inside his veins until it’s painful. The icy water is still pummelling down at him punishingly, and he’s grateful for it because he thinks he’s going to incinerate from the inside out if it wasn’t. His cock is hard and heavy against the clammy and cold wet denim that’s pressing up against his searing skin. It’s uncomfortable, painful. 

The memory of you refuses to leave him. The silky feel of you wet and hot and writhing on his painfully hard cock. Fuck, fuck, why does he do this to himself. One hand comes up to his face, and he scrubs it hard with the freezing water, rubbing his thumb into his eyes to help with the throbbing heat that’s growing at his temple. It doesn’t help. Can’t scrub out the image of you, mouth parted, head thrown back as you squirm on his cock, as you grind yourself on him and come… again, and again, and– again. His eyes slam open, until he’s staring at the grungy white tiles of the wall. 

There’s something inside his flesh, burrowing into his skin and veins. An infectious heat that slivers and crawls that drips with hunger and greed. Starved for touch and pleasure, it screams and it roars until it’s all Marc can feel too. He wants it, wants you, and nothing else will do. You and the warmth of your body and the way you always welcome him as you wrap yourself around him. 

Shit, he – fuck. fuckfuckfuck. 

He takes a long shuddery breath and it fogs against the cold of the room. He’s shivering but if it’s from the cold of the water stinging against his skin or the heat burning underneath it he doesn’t know anymore. Does it even matter? 

Everything feels raw and painful. Sore and tangled up inside him. He wants– fuck, no fucking stop. He needs to – 

“Marc.” He can hear it again. Your voice calling out his name. Not Steven’s name, his. It echoes and lingers in his mind, soft and sweet. The way it had been when he’d been the one fucking you into the bed between the soft sheets of their bed the night before the incident. 

The way you’d whimpered it, while your nails were digging crescent shaped marks into his skin that were still denting the back of his shoulders when he’d looked this morning. Tiny little marks that are evidence of your love for him. 

His stomach draws tight, hips hitching up without his permission, desperately searching for any friction… shit shit, it’s not enough and it’s too much, the sensation that spears through his stomach as his cock rubs against the hard seam of his jeans. Heat settles at the base of his spine and the sound that escapes him is pathetic. He’s not sure if it’s a gasp or a sob, but he grinds it down between his teeth, snuffing it out. 

Why is his brain trying to murder him like this? 

The heat (or the cold, he doesn’t know which anymore but it doesn’t matter, one of them) is making his mind fuzzy. The grout delineating the tiles in front of him is blurring together, and the room, Marc realizes, is starting to sway and swim. He draws in another breath into his chest, but there’s no oxygen in it. He tries again, and this time the sharp jagged breath hurts, like swallowing broken glass and needles. He doesn’t know what’s wrong. The body is panicking. 

Jake’s trying to push him for the front seat. Marc can feel it, an insistent presence that lingers at the edges of his mind, trying to gain and take hold. But Marc is much better at resisting him these days. Marc’s not going to let him. He doesn’t trust that Jake will be able to hold himself back when it comes to you. Doesn’t trust that the man won’t selfishly uncuff their body and run straight to where you are. His priorities are different from Marc. Jake’s prime concern is to always take care of their body first, everything else comes secondary to that man. Marc doesn’t trust it. Doesn’t trust him. Not with you. He can’t risk it. 

Alarm and anxiety blares bright in his veins, but he can take it. Can endure this. Can–

There’s a loud slam from behind him. 

“Marc, Jesus christ!” 

The sound of your voice makes him whip around. You’re standing in front of him, the bathroom door’s been shoved to the side, wide open, and you’re holding a butter knife in your one hand and what looks like the remnants of his dismantled door handle in your other. 

His heart flutters erratically, a pleasant warmth trickling into his chest. You’re here.

It lasts for a heartbeat and a half, until the realization hits him harder and colder than any ice water could have. You’re here. You’re actually here.  

There’s a concerned expression in your face as you take him in for a full second. Then you drop the items in your hand and rush forward to him until you’re standing under the shower with him. 

“The water is bloody freezing! Have you lost your mind?” You’re shoving past him to get to the tap and turn it off entirely, as you continue to scold him. “You’re going to get hypothermia”.

Your voice might be harsh, but your hands are soft and doting, palms cupping his cheeks, and your eyes are wide and worried in that way that makes everything inside him tighten. His skin tingles where your fingertips brush up against his cheekbones and it takes everything in him to not nuzzle his mouth against your wrists, chasing into your touch for more. 

“You feel like ice. We need to get you into bed, we need to–” your eyes stop at the shower rail and then trail downwards to his right hand that’s cuffed to it in disbelief. Then he hears you take a long exasperated inhale. “Of course, you did,” you murmur, “of course you’d cuff yourself to the damn shower. Where are the keys, Marc?”

His eyes flicker away from your face to stare at the tiles on his left as he grinds his mouth and jaw shut. 

You sigh, then you come closer. You’re crowding in on him, pressed tight to his chest, “fine, I’ll just look myself shall I?” You stand on your tiptoes to reach for the small shower shelf behind him, lifting a shampoo bottle to check if there’s a key underneath. 

Your hair tickles his nose and the familiar comforting smell of you surround him. You’re soft and warm, and amazing and he just wants to sink his teeth into your bare throat that’s inches from his jaw and bite into you like the sweetest and ripest fruit of Summer. 

You shift as you reach for the highest shelf, hips rubbing up against him where they’re slotted between his thighs and fuck–fuck– 

Sharp heat shoots through his stomach, white pleasure blinding and intense that rushes to his head and his knees want to fold under his weight. He groans at the touch and you freeze as he does. 

For a moment both of you are silent and still. The only thing Marc can hear is his own ragged and hash breathing. His body is trying to acclimatize to the new temperature of the room as the heat from his body is quickly evaporating out of him. But the thing under his skin, poisoning his mind and sanity is still there. He feels like he’s on fire. You’re pressed up against every inch of him, and it is screaming in his ears with an ugly hungry need. Marc feels like he’s burning up. Like he’s going to die, flesh burning away until there’s only ashes left, and that’s okay the burrowing need tells him. Let it burn away every inch of resistance left within him, and then he can have you.

Marc wants that, wants you in any way he can have. 

Wants you to grind up on his aching cock that’s so hard it hurts. Wants you to hold him, fingers tugging at his hair until it stings and burns. Want your legs and arms wrapped around him as he sinks inside of you, bury his cock as deep as it goes until he can never leave. 

Wants you, wants you, wants you. It echoes with fury and overtakes everything else. There’s no other brain process except this, as his hand clamps down on your waist and grinds you down on him. His traitorous hips hitching up until he can feel that perfect press of your body against his trapped and pulsing cock. 

You don’t stop him, hand coming up to the back of his neck and hold him close to you. You’re so fucking perfect letting him rub himself up against you, even when he’s acting like some stupid animal in heat. The pleasure sends him on the tip of his toes, chasing the high and it’s good, it feel so fucking– Fuck! 

His eyes slam open, tearing himself away from you. You’re blinking up at him with a confused look. 

The fuck is he doing? 

With his free hand, he moves you out of the range of the shower until your back is pressed against the opposite wall. 

He’s such an idiot, he’s such a fucking stupid– his cheeks burn and prickle, sweat stinging his back underneath the waterlogged shirt. He needs to cool down. Get his head straight. Needs to rid himself of this burning inferno of a hellfire that is roaring under his skin. 

A shower, a cold fucking shower. He needs to calm the fuck down. Needs to– Marc moves back towards the tap and turns it back on. 

“Marc! No! Stop!”

You’re leaping forward into the shower again, uncaring of being in the firing range of the cold water cascading from the showerhead, as you reach for the tap to turn it off. 

“You’re fucking freezing, you need to stop. Marc, I need to get you out of the shower. We need to warm you up. Where’s the keys?” 

He ignores you, tries to wrangle you away from the shower with his back and shoulders, wrestling his path to the tap again. 

You slap at his hand. “Marc, no!” you bark. “Stubborn fucking –” 

He knocks your hand away from the tap, turning it again as he tries to block the ensuing shower from you with his shoulders, and you growl in frustration. 

“Fine, fine! You want the water on, it stays on, but you have to let me–” you shove your way back to the front of the tap, turning the hot water on. It takes a few moments but then the punishing coldness turns lukewarm and almost comforting against his stinging skin. 

“There,” you murmur and back away enough until you’re both staring up at each other again. The water is hitting you too, drenching and soaking your clothes as you peer up at him cautiously. 

“Should I help you take your clothes off? It’ll be more comfortable for you this way,” you say the words slowly, giving him the time to react before you move. 

The logical part in him that’s still intact knows he should stop you. Should tell you to leave before he loses the last of his sanity and tries to maul you like an animal again. 

But his tongue is heavy in his mouth. All his words are failing him, and as you inch closer to him, all he can do is stare up at you, silently begging you– to go, to stay, to abandon him, to touch him, to run, to help him– until he doesn’t know anymore what he wants, and ducks his head to the ground. 

“I can help you if you want to,” you tell him. 

His eyes squeeze shut. He’s so fucking useless. He swore to never let this happen again to you, never put you in that situation again and here the two of you are not even 48 hours later, in the exact same fucking seat. He’s no better than Steven at this. Useless at protecting you. Instead you’re the one trying to take care of him. Maybe you’d be better off with Jake in the saddle. 

“You shouldn’t have to hel–” he starts, but you cut him off. 

“I want to help you,” you enunciate each word and syllable, leaving no room for doubt, as you’re facing up to him in challenge. Then your eyes soften as does your voice. “But I don’t want to force anything on you that you don’t want.” 

There’s a brief silence and the only thing he can hear is the water falling from the shower. Then, “Marc, look at me.” You say it softly, it doesn’t sound like an order, but not quite a request either as Marc tips his head up to meet your gaze. “I’m not going to touch you unless you want to. But I’m gonna stay here with you until this passes. I’m not going anywhere.”

He stares up at you like an idiot, eyes drawn to that determined look in your eyes that he knows he can never win against, and he feels his resolve fail him. 

“Is it okay if I take off your clothes?” you ask again.

And until he gives you an answer, he realizes, you’re going to ask him again and again. You’re so persistent, more than a goose. He loves that about you and he doesn’t know how to say no to you anymore, even if he had wanted to (which he doesn't, not really). 

So he doesn’t, instead he nods. 

You move slow, giving him plenty of time to change his mind. Your hands come to the soggy hem of his shirt, drawing it up against his torso and over his head. Fingertips scraping under the bare naked skin underneath as you go, and it fucking tingles. It tingles and burns and smolders until his insides are on fire, and for a second, Marc is sure that his knees can no longer carry his weight and he’s going to tip over and capsize. 

He leans down his head for balance, and you’re there to catch him. You ground him, as you always do. He rests his forehead against yours and for a moment, the roaring noise of blazing fire in his veins stops. It’s quiet and calm in his head. 

“You okay?” you ask, staring up at him, eyes gentle, as you go slow. 

“Yeah.” 

His shirt is left hanging on the shower rail, where his hand is still cuffed to it. Then your fingers come to the front of his jeans, nail tapping against the metal button and his cock jerks and strains against the wet and heavy material in anticipation. 

Popping open the button, you undo his fly, and the too-strict pressure of the material finally eases. He squirms, “Fuck, baby,” he gasps out, raw and broken. 

You hush him, sweet and comfortingly, with your lips pressed close to his ear, “do you want me to touch you?” 

His mouth feels thick and dry, everything turned into cotton against the roof of his mouth. He swallows, taking another long breath and holds it deep as he tries to get himself together. He’s weak, useless. Can’t get anything right. Can’t even say no when he knows he should. 

“Marc?” you ask again and he inhales deeply to calm himself, then nods. 

You smile, sweet and bright, and…relieved. You look so relieved and… happy, even. It makes it better. Makes him feel a little bit less of a colossal fuck up that you’re doing this for him when you’re smiling at him like that. Your head tips up, lips pressing up against his, and that helps too. With his eyes closed, listening to the sound of your soft hums as he licks into your mouth, he can almost pretend to himself that this is okay. 

Your hand wraps around his cock, squeezing firm and tight in that perfect way that you know he likes. It's relief and pleasure and warmth all wrapped into one, as everything inside him buzzes with a quiet soothing noise that drowns out the rest.

Your soft lips, drags downwards, mouthing at his neck, teeth nipping at his shoulder. He’s still aching, but it feels good. It doesn’t hurt this time, instead everything lingers pleasantly as your lips drift further down, soft plushness dragging against the sore muscle, down the slope of his belly and–wait! What’re you– 

His eyes fly open. He’s staring at the empty walls again. You’re no longer standing face to face with him and his head drops down. The sight that greets him slams into his ribs until he nearly doubles over. Fuck. 

You’re on your knees on the wet bathroom floor, tucked between his legs. Staring up at his cock through your water-lined lashes that glitters against the harsh fluorescent light. 

“Baby– wai–wait,” his words fumble and trip out of his mouth, brain unable to process the sight in front of him. He wasn’t prepared for this. “You don’t have to–” 

“Marc,” you breathe, cutting him off again. From this close distance he can feel the warmth of your mouth gust over the overwrought tip of his cock, and he nearly blacks out. Your voice sounds drippingly sweet and warm. “I know I don’t have to. I want to. Let me do this for you”.

He should stop you. You shouldn’t have to be on your knees and take care of him when he’s the one who fucked up and got himself caught in this mess. There’s a tight lump stuck in his throat that he tries to swallow down so he can speak, but it doesn’t ease and the words aren’t coming to him. 

Your hand comes to the side of his thighs, dragging the drenched denim down his legs and discard them into a sloppy pile in the corner of the floor. 

He gazes down on you, how the shower has drenched your oversized sleepshirt, until the white of it has gone see-through. The drenched cotton cling onto your skin and the curve of your breasts and his cock bobs up and strains against his stomach at the sight. Shit. 

Embarrassed heat climbs his cheeks, and judging from the smile tugging at your cheeks, you definitely noticed his reaction. You lean up, mouth brushing up against the length of his cock and press a kiss to the swollen flesh. White blinding heat streaks through his chest and his stomach draws in tight. He can’t think. 

It’s here again, that hungry ember that scalds hot in his veins. It’s overwhelming, his toes curl against the tiles, breath catching sharp in his lungs until he feels like the ground is going to swallow him up. His knees are giving out, the hard tiles gone soft and weightless beneath the sole of his feet. He’s panicking again. His hand flings out, clutching at your shoulders, fingers digging in, it’s too hard and too rough, and he shouldn’t be doing that – shouldn’t be doing anything of this, but he can’t help himself. 

One of your hands comes to rest on top of his, and you tilt your head just enough to press a soft kiss to his knuckles. 

“It’s okay, Marc. it’s okay,” you say, and with those words, the panic in him dissipates somewhat. Enough to have his fingers ease their hard grip on your shoulders, as you lean your back closer between his thighs. 

Try as he might, he can’t pretend he doesn’t want this, want you. Your mouth is inches from his cock, and he can see the incriminating precome welling up at the tip, where it shines slick, giving him away. His breath constricts in his chest, as he waits for you. 

You lean closer, and he catches the pink tip of your tongue as it darts out to lick at the liquid dribbling down the length of him. His spine seizes up at the barely there contact, an ugly noise tearing from his throat. 

“Marc, you okay?” you ask, and when he blinks down at you, lips slick with him, he feels undone. “Should I keep going?” 

Marc swallows down the whimper that is lingering dangerously at the tip of his tongue that wants to leap out. He nods a little bit too frantically in response and he barely has the time to meet your eyes, and how it glitters with pride at his reaction. Then your lips part and you envelop his cock in the perfect sweet warmth of your mouth. 

An electrical static noise crackles in his head. Your mouth is so fucking good. Soft silk wrapped all around him. Your tongue slides softly over the ridge of his cock and sweet aching bliss twines through his limbs. It’s slow and languid, the tip of your tongue darting out with soft, fluttering licks against his oversensitive flesh as you take your time and try to murder him. You’re succeeding too. 

Heat carves through him sharp and intense. With the way his heart is trying to pound its way through flesh and muscle and out of his chest, he’s pretty sure he’s only got minutes to spare before his heart entirely gives out and he drops dead on the bathroom floor. 

You’re so ridiculously gorgeous. Eyes half-lidded as you stare up at him with unwavering attention. 

It’s bliss. It’s torture. It’s heaven and hell. Marc doesn’t know up from down anymore. All he knows as his cock slides between your lips, wet and slippery and so fucking good, is that he doesn’t want it to stop.  

For all the composure he’s trained into himself for years and decades, he can’t seem to find an ounce of it to draw from in this moment. He never can as far as you're concerned. His hands fists at his side, every muscle in him tensing, trying to stop the way his hips cants up with small thrusts into your mouth. But it’s not working. His body is betraying him, refusing to stay still. 

Good, it feels so– The burning flame under his skin is back, the whole of his body is wracked in warm pleasant shivers and he wants to curl into your touch. 

You hum, a small quiet little sound as you suck on the tip and he can feel the pleasant vibrations of it skitter up his entire spine. He jackknifes forward, pressing further into your mouth and fuck, he can feel the head of his cock nudge against the resistance of your throat. He stops there. Makes himself stop, ignores how every muscle in him is screaming for him to move. His cock pulses eagerly on your tongue, desperate for friction. But he ignores it. 

He can’t have this for himself. Doesn’t deserve it. 

“Come back up here, need to make you feel good baby. Let me- fuck let me make you feel good,” he says, even as his balls are drawing up, cock going somehow even harder, swelling and throbbing on your tongue. 

Marc swears, bites down on his lip hard until he tastes blood, and clenches every damn muscle in his body as he backs away, and slides himself out between your lips. Somehow, miraculously, he manages to hold on. His damn dick jerks and bounces spasmodically, oozing precome all over the damn floor as he struggles for control.  And through it all you just smile indulgently up at him, eyes gleaming, the pearly edge of your teeth digging into that perfectly plump lower lip.

He wonders if you even fucking heard him, because you’re leaning back in towards him, and wrap your mouth back around his cock. That inescapable fire is building at the base of his spine, threatening to burn him to the ground, but he can’t let himself come yet. He can’t because then it will be over, and you’ll have given this to him, and he doesn’t fucking deserve it. 

Marc doesn't deserve you, period. But he definitely doesn't deserve to have you on your knees like this for his miserable ass. Doesn't deserve that warm, worshipful mouth, slicking and sliding so perfectly over his aching cock. Perfect lips stretched tight around him as you struggle to take him as deep as you can. Doesn't deserve the way your hand alternates between clutching at him and petting so gently over his skin. Doesn't deserve the loving look in your eyes. Has to close his own eyes against the sight of you or this is all going to be over in about half a second.

But somehow that's even fucking worse, behind closed eyes it makes the feeling of it all the more acute. There's nothing there to distract him. He can't escape the feel of your clever tongue and perfect wet heat of your mouth wrapped around him in the blank darkness. The way your tongue curls around him. You’re moaning just slightly with each press forward, and he can feel the vibrations of it along every throbbing inch of his dick. It's fucking killing him.

“Let me–I can’t stop, I can’t–” He’s sobbing, the sound raw and needy as it wrenches out of his throat. Pleasure sears through his entire back. 

He's trying to hold still. He's fucking trying. But his legs are fucking shaking. Trembling thighs threatening to dump him on his ass any second, and he can't seem to control the way his hips are hitching forward in tiny abortive thrusts, seeking more even as he knows he should be jerking back, pulling away, and convincing you to let him make you feel good instead. but you don't seem to mind at all. 

Fuck, you seem to love it, moaning louder every time he loses the battle with his instincts. 

This is so wrong. He’s not in his right mind, not in control. You should be shoving him away, but instead you’re clutching at his ass with one hand, fingernails digging in as you encourage him to thrust harder, deeper. Tiny sharp bites of pain that just seem to add to the maelstrom of pleasure twisting and building in his gut.

Marc opens his mouth, determined to make one more attempt at convincing you, but then you swallow around him, moan around him, and all that comes out is a guttural groan. 

"Ba-baby-," he stutters out. He tugs on your hair, trying desperately to be gentle, but he's not entirely sure he manages it. You let him pull you off, one torturous inch at a time, and he barely manages to stop the thrust of his hips, the instinctual need to chase your mouth.

You look up at him, all wide eyes and slick, swollen lips. One long shiny string of spit or precome of both still connecting the two of you.

Oh shit,  how is he supposed to resist when you’re looking at him like that? Like he's actually worth a damn, when you’re the one who's worth anything, everything. He can’t, he was crazy to think he ever fucking could.

"Marc," you say, tone mildly reproachful. Your voice is hoarse... from swallowing his cock, and for a second, he thinks that's fucking it for him.  

Close, so fucking close. It’s pushing and clawing at every stitch and seam inside of his skin and he is unraveling. No wonder Steven lost it. No wonder he gave in. Marc can taste his climax at the tip of his tongue, dangling precariously on the fine thread of his fragile sanity. He squeezes his eyes shut. Tries to block it out. 

“Let go,” you hum, and you press your mouth to the trembling muscle on the inside of his thigh that makes him jolt up and nearly swallow his tongue. “You don’t have to hold on anymore. I want you to come. Want you to come in my mouth.”

Fuuuuck. 

You kiss your way up, and he’s trying desperately to hold on, to hold back. But he can’t, not when he feels your tongue trail the underside of his cock with a long wet and devoted line. Not when you’re kissing his hips. Not when you put that perfect mouth of yours back on his cock and swallow him down. 

Your hand wraps around the base of his cock, where your mouth can’t reach, giving it a firm stroke downwards, and his toes tingle. His whole body is shaking uncontrollably now. The pleasure is almost unbearable. his muscles jerking and twitching uncontrollably with every slide of those pretty lips.

That insidious flame flickers at the base of his spine ominously. Warning him of what’s to come. It feels too fucking good, he can’t deny himself of this anymore. His orgasm swells up, large and looming, rushing out along every nerve ending and won’t be ignored. 

“Baby, fuckfuck, please– I can’t–can’t,” he opens his eyes, and looks down on you and fuck that’s such a mistake. You’re looking up at him, a dark pitch that bleeds into your blown pupils. His eyes slam back shut again because he can't survive the hungry look in your eyes.

But it’s already too late. 

His orgasm is consuming, large and looming as it’s trying to eat him whole. It wraps around his flesh and licks down to the marrow. From the curl of his toes, searing through his thighs until it’s permanently carved somewhere deep into his ribs, as he comes down your throat. Leaving nothing but a tingling ache in its wake.

It feels endless, the way he keeps pulsing into your mouth. Cock twitching against your lips, riding out his oversensitivity at your lapping tongue. 

He’s moaning and whimpering, toes skidding along the wet tiles as he desperately tries to find his footing. There’s nothing left but his undeniable surrender. Letting you take as much as you want from him. Until he’s empty and the blazing blue flame in his veins is sated and wrung dry from your attentive tongue. 

There’s clarity again. The dust and smoke clears until there’s only a faint smell of ashes lingering in the back of his mind and he feels like he can think again. His muscles ache with the soreness, and as he takes a long inhale, oxygen floods his head with a rush. Sweet fucking relief, he can breathe again. 

It doesn’t last very long. His eyes open, to see you smile up at him, bleary eyed and messy, drenched hair plastered on your forehead. The water from the shower is still running down your face as you’re trying to catch your breath.

You look like a mess. He did that to you, and you look so fucking good like this.

It’s all it takes, and the insidious heat licks at his bones, corrupting his blood again. The hunger in him returns with a devastating scream in his flesh. His mouth salivates, like what came before was only an appetizer. Now he’s gotten a taste and he’s hungrier than he was before. 

It makes him gain a new sympathy for Steven and the hell the man must’ve gone through with you two nights ago.

Fuck what’s wrong with him. Marc’s already gotten one release. That should’ve sated him. But he can already feel the simmering hunger gain hold again. All it did was make that selfish hungry monster inside him more insatiable. The greedy need claws at his veins, refusing to be ignored anymore.

There’s a knowing look in your eyes that makes his heart seize up. “Do you need more? Do you want to go again?” you ask. 

He swallows around the constricting lump of guilt lodged deep in his throat, blinking up at you, unable to answer. Unable to open his mouth to ask. You’ve given him too much already, he can’t ask for more. 

“It’s okay, Marc. You can ask me.”

You say it with that voice. Breathless, filled with love and affection, like you’d offer him the world if he asked you for it, and it’s not right, he’s the one that should be doing that. The one to give you everything. Yet somehow he keeps finding himself in this seat where he’s the one taking and you’re the one giving. 

“I’m here,” you tell him. “It’s going to be okay, I’m not going anywhere until you’re okay.”

Shit. His chest squeezes tight. The feeling is so large and overwhelming his veins are overbrimming with it. But he never knew how to tell you with words. So he shows you in the only way he’s ever known. 

He drops down to his knees, ignoring the strain in his shoulder from the hand still cuffed tight to the shower. His free hand reaches for you, cupping the back of your neck to pull you in, His mouth slant over yours, and he swallows the sweet affectionate hum between your lips. 

I love you. 

That’s what he’d say if he knew how to. 

I love you and I want to be everything to you. 

He cups your face in his one free hand, thumb smoothing over your cheekbone as he tilts you up to his mouth and kisses you. Your mouth parts, letting him lick into into your mouth properly. You still taste of him. Tart and salty, and the taste of him on your tongue makes him lightheaded. 

Needy heat rolls over his back, and he can feel it again. The demanding hunger that is consuming his insides. The one that wants him to sink his teeth into your soft and pliant flesh, lick and nip at every inch of wet skin you’ll let him as he tries to swallow you whole. It’s not enough. Kissing you isn’t enough. He wants you pressed up against every inch of him. Wants your body lined against his, your legs spread wide as he settles between them. Wants your back arching up against him, breathless and keen as he buries himself inside you. 

He leans further down, pressing you downwards until he has you flat on your back against the cold and hard tiles, and he should do better by you. Should take you into bed, where it’s soft and warm. Nice and sweet. Not fuck you against the dirty floor of Steven’s dirty bathroom like some savage. 

But his body isn’t listening to him, surging down to reclaim your lips as he grinds his hips and cock against the softness of your stomach. He’s hard again, or maybe he never went down for the count, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’s aching for you. All of him dying to be buried inside of you to the hilt. 

Pleasure sparks deep in his veins at the contact, and he does it again, grinds himself needily into you, smearing precome over the fabric of your already soaked sleepshirt. God he’s such a mess, he’s ruining your clothes. 

He forces himself up again, kneeling over your body, as he stares down at you. He’s made such a fucking mess of things… of you. Your face is wet from the shower, hair matted against your forehead, and your shirt is soaked and opaque clinging wetly to your skin underneath. The sight of you makes his mouth dry with heat. 

Behind him, the spray of the shower is raining down lukewarm water over his back. It should calm him, that’s why he turned the damn thing on in the first place, but it doesn’t. He can’t even feel it anymore, can barely hear the sound of the shower drizzling down like rain. Instead it’s all turned to static noise inside his head. 

The only thing he sees is your pretty face look up at him, warm and affectionate, and so fucking loving, and he feels sick with want over you. 

“Baby, you gotta tell me to stop,” he forces out, and his hand draws down between his legs to grip his aching cock, that’s throbbing in time with his heartbeat. 

“If it gets too much– you have to–” 

You rise up to meet him, curling one arm around his neck until you’re face to face, so close that your nose nudges his. Your hand reaches down between you, wrapping your hand over his, and your eyes never falter from his, as you shove your panties to the side and guide his hand to notch his cock against your entrance. 

Fuck, you’re dripping. He’s not even inside, and he can feel you slick and warm and wet against the head of his cock. 

“Can you feel that?” you murmur, against his lips. “How wet you got me? I need this too. Need you to fuck your cock inside me, Marc.” 

Shit. 

He snaps. Plain and simple. 

He thrusts down and into you with a long and deep consuming stroke and it’s fucking everything. 

Ecstasy rushes into his bloodstream with a heady sugary rush, and he chases it with his hips, burying his cock inside as deep as you can take him, until it nudges something sweet and blissful that has you clawing at his arm with a gorgeous sob ripped from your throat. 

And it’s so good, so fucking good, he wants to crawl into that sound and nestle into it. He drags himself out of you, until only the overwrought tip of his cock rests inside you, watching you bite down on your lip to muffle your sounds, and that won’t do. Marc wants to hear you. Wants you to scream so loud his ears ring from pain with it. Fuck, he wants to go deaf with it. Wants the sound of your voice obliterate him until it echoes in his ears til the day he dies.

His arm moves to your leg, curling around your thigh to pull you in closer towards his torso, canting you upwards, tilting you at that angle that he knows will make you cry for him. Then he slams forward, his thighs tense, burning with the pleasure that threatens to incinerate him. You’re so fucking tight around him. It’s heaven if Marc ever believed in one. 

Your fingers tighten down on him, nails digging into his skin and the biting pain only makes the pleasure of it all the more ripe and sweet as you clamp down around his cock. 

He can’t stop. Hips thrusting into you with a demanding pace like his body is no longer his own, just a conduit for him to chase that mad pleasure that skitters to his brain and has him want to go harder, deeper, until he’s lodged so deep inside that you can never rid him of you. 

It’s a selfish need that Marc would never allow himself to give voice to. He keeps it jammed under a lid and pretends it’s not there. That deep gnawing hunger that wants you all to himself and never have to share. The possessive streak in his veins that wants to mark you, fuck himself so deep into you until you can fucking taste him in your throat. 

Your legs are wrapped all around him, clamping down around his torso until he’s sure you’re constricting his lungs from the sheer force of it and he almost can’t breathe. “Shit, baby–fuck, you’re so– I–” he grinds down on his teeth, and doesn't let himself say the words, swallowing down the groan that tears through his throat. 

So good, he thinks to himself. You feel so fucking good. So warm and wet and blissfully tight around his cock. He loves you. Loves you so fucking much and he can’t stop, won’t stop– Never want to stop fucking his cock into you. 

Then he sees it. That all familiar tell that lets him know you are close. Every muscle in your body goes taut, and you’re squeezing down almost rhythmically and so tight it knocks the fucking breath out of his lungs. “That’s it baby, come on my cock for me.” 

Your eyes roll back, mouth parting as your back arches upward.

And there you go. You’re so fucking beautiful. 

You come hard and punishingly tight as you squeeze around his cock. 

The pleasure swirls hot and hungry inside his gut, and it’s all it takes to push him right over the edge with you. He spills himself inside, pulse after greedy pulse as he fills you. 

He barely manages to catch himself with a palm braced next to your head on the tiles as he tries to come down.

There’s no relief this time. Not like last time, however brief it was. This time his climax only serves to fuel the pathetic need in his chest. Like someone threw gasoline over an open fire and now it’s spreading everywhere and there’s no extinguisher in sight. 

More, the hunger inside his veins scream out. Again. 

Wants to feel you come again. Wants to feel you squeeze tight around his cock, as your lips part and moan out his name in bliss again. Want to feel your slick drench his cock as you come again and again and again and again. 

He’s still hard. 

He thrusts forward, and you cry, high pitched and broken and the sound makes the blood in his veins sing. 

You're slick and excruciatingly tight, but his come drips out of you, easing the tight press of his cock no matter how hard you squeeze down on him. 

“It’s okay baby,” he hushes, and you sob in reply even as he bends down to press a kiss to your temple. “It’s okay. You can take it for me. Doing so good. You’re being so good,” he coos, as he cants his hips and pushes into you as deeply as he can again. 

Closer. He needs you closer than this. Wants his hands to touch and grip every inch of your skin. He brings his other arm to wrap around your waist, and something tugs and restrains him from behind. It locks up his shoulder, and no matter how hard he pulls forward, he can’t quite reach you. 

You blink up at him, eyes narrowing in confusion as you watch him before your eyes widen, hand reaching up for him. “Marc, wait– you’re–” 

His free arm shoots out around your shoulders and reels you close as he captures your mouth, swallowing down your words. He’s trying to come down to you, to press you down against the floor with the weight of his body, and wrap his arms around you, and never let go. Hold you so tight to him until you can never leave. But something won’t let him. No matter how hard he strains forward the strength holding back his arm won’t budge. 

There’s a metallic groaning noise that protests as he continues to pull against the resisting strength from behind him, as he rolls his hips relentlessly into you, chasing the pleasure. It digs sharp into his wrist with a jagged pain, but he doesn’t even care. Marc wants to hold you close, wrap his arm around your leg and squeeze it tight to his hips and lock you there. 

He rips against the hindrance, with an impatient and angry snarl. The strain and resistance finally gives, and he’s free to put both his hands on you. His arms lock up tight around your waist. 

There's a cacophony of sound somewhere in the distance. Of broken dishes and sharp crashing noise, but he doesn't care. The roof could be collapsing right now and it wouldn't make any damn difference to him so long as you were still here with him.

“Fuck! Marc!”

It doesn’t even register until he hears your agitated shout. He looks up in a daze at you, Your wide and alarmed eyes. Something’s wrong. 

His head whips back, tearing himself away from you prepared to leap into action at the culprit. But that's not what he sees.

There’s debris on the wall. Bare cement in the large torn cracks of the tiled walls. There’s jagged pieces of cracked white porcelain on the floor. Debris and parts of the wall along with the showerhead and the metal rod he handcuffed himself to is lying in ruined shambles below, as the shower spits out water all around like a death rattle. 

Well fuck.  

Fuck– what is he… 

Shit!

He’s completely lost control. The familiar dread and anxiety bleeds into his veins, and he can fight it all he wants, but it’s already here. 

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. He was the one who was supposed to be able to keep it together. The one who was supposed to protect you from this and keep you safe from harm. The bitter acrid taste of failure lingers on his tongue and drips down his throat until it reaches his lungs. Embarrassment clings to his cheeks and burns like fire. His body wants to curl into itself and hide, until he’s so small no one can see him anymore, least of all you. 

“Marc, it’s okay,” you say as you plant an elbow against the slippery floor to you can raise yourself into a sitting position. Until you’re both at eye level with each other. 

“It’s okay. Just ignore it. We’ll clean it up later,” you murmur as you crawl closer to him, until your face is within inches from his and you press your mouth to his cheek. Then you climb into his lap, the firm press of your warm body straddling his thighs and he looks up at you in dazed awe. 

“Do you want to keep going?” you ask. 

Despite the fact that he knows he shouldn’t. That he shouldn’t ask this of you, he still nods, whimpering at the reassuring press of your body against his achingly hard cock. 

“As many times as it takes, okay?” Your fingers circle around the base of his cock, and he chokes on a moan, as you position him against your entrance. You’re slick and warm and fucking dripping for him. 

“Let’s keep going until you feel better. I don’t want you to hold back anymore. Is that okay?” you say.

He doesn't understand how that's a question. Of course it's okay, it's more than okay, it's all he wants. All he ever wants. He nods, and you smile at him. That warm and affectionate smile filled with love and it fills him to the brim. He feels like his heart is going to give out again. There's no more space for shame anymore, the way your smile crowds his vision and every inch of space inside him.

You lift your hips slightly, then you lower your knees, slowly sinking down on his cock until he’s buried all the way inside you, squeezing down around his cock in that perfect way you do, and he can’t fucking think. 

You’re looking down at him like you’re expecting him to answer and he doesn’t even remember how to open his mouth and use vocal cords anymore, fuck he doesn’t even remember what the question was. 

“Marc,” you repeat, 

He still doesn’t know what you’re asking him. But it doesn’t matter does it? When it comes to you, he’s never going to say no to you. So he answers you with the only answer he has. 

“Yes.”

It must be the right answer you were looking for, because you’re looking at him in that way again, smiling up brightly at him, like he’s worth a damn, worth everything to you. He knows that you’re wrong about that. He doesn’t deserve it. But it fills his chest with something sweet and heady. An antidote to the poisonous fire that’s still burning hot and bitter in his veins. He doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t fight the warm buzz that’s trickling slowly into his veins and lets himself bask in it. 

After all, who is he to say no to you? 

You roll your hips against him and your eyes flutter close with a gasp as his cock hits something deep inside, and both of you moan at the feeling as he tightens his arms around your waist. 

You lean closer, lips pressed to his ear, “I love you, Marc” you whisper in the hair above his ears and his whole back shudders pleasantly. 

He tilts his head upwards, his nose brushing up against your chin and cheeks as he tries to find his way back to your mouth. 

Marc might not deserve you. But you deserve everything you want and more, and if Marc is one of those things (for whatever unfathomable reason that he will never understand)… then that makes things a little bit easier for him. 

He wakes with a pounding headache. 

The muscles in his shoulders and back are stiff and sore, cramping up with a sharp throb as he tries to get up. Every limb aches. He feels like he was hit by a fucking truck going at full speed down a highway. 

“Morning,” your voice greets, as your hand comes to his forehead and rests there as if you’re checking for his temperature. It’s soft and soothing, a balm to the ache in body and he fights every instinct to not nuzzle into the palm of your hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” he replies. His voice scrapes against the lining of his throat, like something crawled up in there and died. 

He can hear you laugh quietly at his reply, and despite how crap he feels, the sound seeps into his chest and the stiffness melts just a little bit. The bed dips as you sit down on the edge next to him. 

“How long was I out for?” 

“Not too long. Just a bit. You needed the rest,” you answer, and it's entirely too vague for his liking. 

He anchors his elbow into the soft bedding below and despite the angry creak of the mattress and the protesting groan in his bones, he tries to get up into a sitting position. His head feels lightheaded with the sudden altitude, like he’s about to throw up all over the sheets. It’s like he’s experiencing the world’s worst hangover, the second time in less two days. As soon as he gets his hand on that sex sprite, he’s going to fling it into the surface of the sun. Don’t care how upset that will make Min’s avatar. 

Bringing his hand to his face, he rubs at his temples and the blunt throbbing pain that’s killing his head, when it occurs to him. His wrist feels light and unimpeded, there’s no sharp metal digging into his wrist.  He stares down at his now bare wrist, then he looks up at you in confusion. 

“Jake told me where the key was,” you answer. 

He frowns, but holds his tongue. That means at some point while Marc was still unconscious, Jake must've woken up without him being aware. Marc doesn’t love that. He’s still not completely at ease with Jake being around you. Especially when he’s unconscious and can’t keep an eye out to step in and protect you if something were to go wrong. 

As if something hasn’t already.

Marc is such a hypocrite, talking about protecting you as if he isn’t the very wolf at your door, fangs poised at your throat. 

Your thumb smooths over his knuckles, as you nudge his leg with your knees.  “Should I make you some coffee? Maybe some breakfast. Can whip up some omelets for you.”

He shakes his head. “No I gotta get up. Try to catch that thing before it does more damage again.”

He should tell you to leave. It’s not safe for you here. But he knows you’re going to fight him tooth and nail over it. 

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” you say as you rise from the bed, “stay there for just a sec will you?” 

You walk up to the Gus trio’s tank, sliding a few books around, and pick something up before you make your way back to him, holding an all too familiar brass-metal box in the palm of your hand outstretched to him. 

He can see from the shape on the golden lid the puzzle sequence has been properly completed, just like that obnoxious Avatar had shown him. Locked and sealed.

“How did you–” he sputters out in shock as he eyes it. 

“Steven sealed it for me.”

He blinks, feeling a little bit stunned as he takes the box from you. “How did you get it back in there in the first place.”

“You said that it liked small cramped spaces with a lid. I figured it couldn’t have gotten far from the flat like last time. So I just started opening every single item in the place with a lid. It hid in an empty shoebox this time.” 

Marc grits his teeth. “That’s dangerous, it could’ve possessed you.”

You wave your hands dismissively at his concerns. “It’s alright. I had a fly-swatter,” you answer, like that answers everything and Marc’s just being silly. 

“You what?”

“A flyswatter. I just swatted at it until it finally got back into the box. Had to chase it around the flat, reopening every jar and box in the flat for a good hour or so until it got the hint.” 

He wants to scold you, want to point out everything that could’ve gone wrong and how you should have just ran out of the apartment and gotten yourself to safety. It’s a speech he’s made a hundred times before, but you never listened then either, and those times you didn’t have the upper hand with the argument, given that he passed out and you saved the day. 

So he bites his tongue. 

“Hey,” you say softly as your hand comes to cup his cheek. “Everything worked out fine alright? It’s a happy ending. You don’t have to look so sad.” 

He bites the insides of his cheek. Flashes of you under him, soft and moaning, legs spread and wrapped around him, invading in startling technicolor.

“I’m…” he wants to say sorry, but the word won't come. His hand curls into a fist to his side with unease. “That shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have let you stay and do that for me”.

“Marc, it’s not a punishment for me to have sex with you. This shouldn't come as a surprise to you by now, but I like having sex with you.” 

He doesn’t answer you, just stares blindly at his feet at the end of the bed, as the guilt crawls in his gut and tries to consume him. Maybe he should let it. It’s what he deserves after all. 

You scoot closer to him, an exasperated but fond look in your eyes as you take his hand in yours. “You see Marc, when two adults love each other very much,” you sing-song and start to jokingly explain to him about the bird and the bees.

Despite himself he can feel the smile tugging at his lips, and the gnawing anxiety fades a bit. You think you’re so fucking funny sometimes (and to Marc you are), but he isn’t going to let the laugh that wants to push up against his throat betray him. You meet his smile with your own, and that helps to take away the last of that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

“Can you promise me that next time something like this happens again, you won't run away… or lock yourself in the bathroom to deal with it all by yourself? We’ll handle it together alright?”

Marc meets the look in your eye. It's the same one that he keeps finding somehow even though he never quite understands why, of love and adoration for him.

A part of him wants to fight it, push it away because he doesn't deserve it... But your soft voice echoes in his ear. The weight of your arms wrapped around his shoulders still lingers from before. 'I love you', you had told him, and whether he deserves your love or not is maybe not the point. You love him regardless. And who is he to say no to you?

“Yeah,” Marc nods. “Together.”

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.

Happy Moon-aversary everyone!!! I can't believe I'm still here a whole year after this show premiered. When I first saw that trailer with Oscar Isaac's strange british accent I remember telling @thirstworldproblemss I was sceptical and then I watched about 5 minutes of Steven on screen and went "oh no, I'm in love with this man" and the rest is history.

I hope you guys enjoyed this piece as much as I enjoyed writing it, thank you so much for taking the time to read it I appreciate all of you so very much.

Dedications and credit

To my co-worker, co-clown and the love of my life @thirstworldproblemss she's had a busy few months and she is everything to me please go over and send her some love if you have time!!!!

Also to my muse @guruan who draws horny sketches and the most inspiring artpieces that makes me write near 13k of blowjob for this man. That blowjob scene was particularly inspired by THIS sketch. Send her love! Send her reblogs, send her everything you have and more!

[reignpage]

Lying To Himself

Content: in which toji is left alone and how he deals with your temporary absence

You have to leave for two weeks, something about a mission in another city. Your boyfriend, Toji, swears it'll be okay, even insists that time will pass by in a blink of an eye. 

“‘m not a fucking child, ma. I’ll be fine. Just take care, yeah?”

And so, you peck him on his lips and wave goodbye before you get in the car. Then you’re disappearing in the distance. Toji shrugs, going back in feeling pretty excited to have the house to himself for two weeks — this has never happened before. As he sits on the couch, bottle of beer in one hand and tv remote on the other, he thinks about all the things he can do now.

The toilet seat can stay up, the bins will be full for longer, same goes for the dirty dishes in the sink, and he can watch whatever he wants; no more of those sappy romcoms with predictable plots and cheesy lines. 

“’s gonna be fun,” he mutters, a growing grin on his face. 

A couple days pass in relative silence, he stays out late, sleeps till noon and eats all the junk you’ve banned from the house. Toji cooks all the steak he wants and leaves the beer bottles to collect dust on the coffee table. And he accepts every invitation from his buddies to go out for drinks, watch basketball at the bar, and plays a couple games too.

He stays up all night, on the evenings he's not getting stupid drunk, playing videogames -- the violent ones you cringe at. During the day, he walks around the place in just his boxers, sometimes not even that, and it's liberating. All a man needs is to be free to be balls naked in their own kitchen.

"You're not missing her at all?" Shiu asks, smoke blowing in his face as they stand in the back alley, leaning against the wall of the bar.

Toji snorts. "What am I? Five years old? I can last a couple weeks without being sappy."

His friend gives him a look, half amused, half disbelieving and a hundred percent smug. None of them miss the death grip he has on his phone, the way his knee is bouncing, and how he isn't even looking at the hot chicks that sway their asses as they walk by.

It’s been great. Really fucking great. 

You haven’t been texting much. Sure, you check in here and there, letting him know you’re alright, you’re safe, and making sure he’s watered your plants. However, there are rarely any opportunities for phone calls longer than five minutes, no FaceTime either, and sometimes he goes to sleep without a ‘goodnight’ from you. 

It’s fine. 

At least, he can sleep at whatever time he wants without you whining about needing cuddles.

More days pass just like that. 

And now he’s rarely leaving the house, finding his drunk friends boring, obnoxiously loud. It’s like he's suddenly realised they’re kinda fucking stupid. He starts to get sick of all the steak and fried chicken and takeaway, and instead he’ll text you for the recipe of your lasagne or that smoothie you make him in the mornings that’s always greener than the last. 

His feet tap on the floor when you don’t reply straight away. And when his phone lights up, he practically dives for it and grips it tight in his palm, screen threatening to crack when it’s not from you. 

“God fucking dammit, Shiu. Don’t fucking talk to me if it’s not important.”

The movies he’s been dying to watch are pretty shit. There’s no depth, no proper pacing, and the dialogue’s cheesy as fuck. Usually, you’d throw popcorn at the screen and complain about all those things, but he finds that he has to mutter them to himself for white noise. Even smirks when he thinks he got it exactly right, guessing what you’d say as if you’re yapping right in his ear. 

“She’d totally find that shit stupid. And that blood looks fake as fuck. What was the fucking budget for this shit?”

Most of the phone calls on his history log are from him, more reds than greens. What the fuck have they got you doing over there anyways? 

When you do reply to his ‘g’night’ and ‘hey, sleep well?’, he’ll have a go at you for taking so damn long. It’s just fucking ridiculous that you’re clearly sleeping well when he has to hit the gym and tire himself out to even get an hour of shut eye nowadays. Sometimes, he can’t even get any and he just paces the length of the living room waiting for a notification from you to pop up. 

“Fucking come on! Y'r phone better be dead or something.”

Toji hates having dinner on the table; the seat opposite him is empty, the placemat bare and he feels a freaky fucking soreness in his chest. When that happens, he never finishes his dinner. Must be a symptom of early heart disease. Gotta talk to the doctors about that. 

Instead, he eats on the sofa or in his car.

Eventually, you find time to speak to him for an hour, recounting all the crazy things you’ve seen and had to do. He doesn’t interrupt, he just grunts here and there, not even really listening but he urges you to keep talking when there’s a pause, like you’re unsure if you’re talking too much. And when you try to turn the conversation on him, asking about his day, he gives one word answers and then throws you another question. 

“Yeah?” He grunts. “What else? Speak up, ma. Wanna hear ya. D’ya go to that shop? Yeah? Y’ buy anything? Send me a picture.”

He gets two nights of decent sleep after that.

But then…

The guys at work know better than to open their fat mouths around him when he turns up with an extra wrinkle and a ticking in his jaw. Toji is somehow even more sadistic and violent and eager for blood. Even finally accepts their invitation to go out for drinks and drowns himself in the extra strong shit. Assuming he just woke up on the wrong side of the bed, they don’t question his sour mood. 

But what they don’t know is that you texted, just a day before you’re set to come back, to let him know you’re staying another week. 

Fucking texted. 

Didn’t even get to hear it from your own voice. 

He buries himself in more work and stays at the gym for even longer, pushing his body so far, his mind quiets down and he don’t gotta think about the fact that he’s started sleeping on your side of the bed, that the house is losing your scent, and that divot on the couch where you always sat has flattened out. 

Everyone knows he’s losing his mind. They can tell by the dark circles under his eyes and the fact that he’s started snapping at women who are either flirting or just doing their jobs. And sometimes they even have to block his view of couples practising PDA. That’s the closest to hell they ever want to get around Toji. Suddenly, everyone’s hoping you throw the guy a bone and send a nude or something. Literally anything to rein him back in.

The day comes, though, when you’re finally returning home. 

“Y’ sure? Not gonna flake again? Be fucking sure, ma. Alright, get back safe.”

Toji throws all the rubbish out, washes the dishes and dries them, double checks that the toilet seat is down, and he’s followed your recipe for beef stew to the letter — it’s cooking in the oven, and it looks fucking great. Even exfoliated in the shower like you’ve been asking him to, almost took off an entire layer of skin. He doesn’t want to admit he feels pretty fucking fresh. 

The door handle rattles. 

He sits up. And then stands. Walks over to the front door, arms crossing and then uncrossing. 

You’re here. 

“Hey, Toji—“

Your greeting is smothered in his chest as he threatens to suffocate you with the hardest bear hug in the whole world. And though he’d never hurt you, if you weren’t a sorcerer, you’d have been in big trouble. 

“Y’ hungry? Or y’ wanna shower first?”

His hands are all over you, lifting your chin to search your face for any scratches, even squishes your cheeks to be sure, and he’s patting you down for bruises or just to make sure all your limbs are intact. There’s a frown on his lips and it’s pretty darn cute. 

“Aw, Toji, baby. Did you miss me?”

“No.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re not a child, blah blah blah.”

Walking past him to take your shoes off, hang your coat and roll your suitcase to the side, you’re inhaling the air and moaning about the delicious food in the oven. Oh, God. You’ve been craving homemade food for so long now. You might actually die if you don’t eat. 

“Come here.” Your eyes dart to him, still standing by the doorway, fists clenching and unclenching. Toji looks furious. You look closer. No, he looks…embarrassed? “Said come here, ma.”

“Why?” You ask, head titling in curiosity and slight suspicion. 

He grunts. “What? I gotta spell it out for ya?”

Laughing, you tap your foot on the ground and retort back, “Yeah, you might because you need to have a good reason from keeping me from both a good shower and a warm meal.”

Toji rolls his eyes and stalks over to you, yanking you back to his chest so he can wrap his arms around you and keep you still. It’s much softer than before, but you feel the same sense of passion, something that verges on desperation.

It’s almost like…

No. 

It can’t be. 

Oh, but when you feel his face bury itself in your neck and you hear that long inhale, followed by a deep groan vibrating through his chest, you’re absolutely sure. 

Toji missed you. 

An overwhelming feeling of love fills you, so does a sense of victory, and you just hug him back, inhaling deeply too. He smells like home, like reluctant cuddles, pats on the ass, and early morning sex. You thought you’d have the most trouble in the two weeks, which turned into three, but as it turns out, he didn’t fare much better. 

Though he’d never admit it with his own mouth, his body betrays him.

Toji doesn’t let you get very far without a hand on you somehow, whether that’s a hand on your thigh as you eat dinner side by side, instead of across from each other, or you sitting on his lap as you watch the movie you want to watch. He even waits on the toilet lid as you shower, though that only lasts a couple minutes before he’s stripping and joining you. 

“Y’r not washing y’r hair right,” he tuts. 

Getting into bed is even worse because he’s practically lying on top of you the whole night, still sniffing your neck, and with his hands exploring your body. Not really in a sexual way, which is odd for him, but as if he just wants to feel you. He wants to feel your warmth, your softness, and reassure himself you’re home. 

Soon, he’s out cold and you mumble a goodnight against his forehead.

He wakes up feeling completely refreshed, like a newborn, stretching and grinning about getting ready with the day, and frowns when you’re still fast asleep. Part of him wants to make sure you’re getting your rest, but that part doesn’t win for very long and the much bigger part is shaking you awake.

“Come on, ma. Fucking bored here. Wake up, yeah? Let’s get some breakfast. Wanna talk to ya.” 

And when you do wake up, grumbling at how loud he’s being, he ignores the glares you’re giving and the swatting of his hands. Toji gives you a rare, wide, toothy smile and he says, 

“There’s my gorgeous girl. Good morning, baby.”

Yeah, this man totally missed you. 

[daisywords]

Well I finished The Hands of The Emperor, and well it was by no means a perfect read or my personal favorite ever, I did enjoy it immensely. My main takeaway is that more books should be allowed to be really long and character focused and about retirement-age adults and have a bajillion little subplots

[reasonsforhope]

Kamala Harris just announced that her vice president will be Minnesota governor Tim Walz. Based on the coverage so far I'm really reassured by this decision.

The Washington Post did an obviously great job of making a prepared article for each option, considering how long an article they had up 7 minutes after the announcement.

((Okay technically it's not an official announcement yet it's "according to three people familiar with the pick, who spoke on the condition of anonymity to discuss a decision that is not yet public." But listen. I am 99% sure this is a weather balloon. (Meaning: a deliberate leak to gauge reaction.) Because the sheer weakness or incompetence on the part of the Harris campaign that it would take for three people to all confirm that within a few hours hours of each other and the planned announcement it is massive.))

-via The Washington Post, August 6, 2024

Honestly this decision, from everything I've read and can tell, looks like it's brilliant politics.

Important Context: The vice president(ial candidates)'s job in an election is not to be similar to the president. The vice president's job on the ballot is very, very much specifically to be different from the president. Why? So they can cover each others' weaknesses. Especially regionally.

(Sidenote: I feel a bit ridiculous saying this. But genuinely if you want to get a stronger understanding of how US elections really work. Go watch seasons 6 and 7 of The West Wing. Genuinely, a lot of politicians have said - especially back in its day - that that was the most accurate depiction of an election they'd ever seen. Also specifically features an entire arc about a contested Democratic primary convention, so also very good if you're interested in understanding weird nominating convention shenanigans.)

From the article:

"Harris’s choice for a running mate was among the most closely watched decisions of her fledgling campaign, as she sought to bolster the ticket’s prospects for victory in November and rapidly find someone who could be a governing partner. In picking Walz, she has selected a seasoned politician with executive governing experience and signaled the importance of Midwestern battleground states such as Wisconsin and Michigan.

Walz’s foray into politics came later in life: He spent more than two decades as a public school teacher and football coach, and as a member of the Army National Guard, before running for Congress in his 40s. In 2006, he defeated a Republican to win Minnesota’s 1st Congressional District--a rural, conservative area--and won reelection five times before leaving Congress to run for governor.

Walz was first elected governor in 2018 and handily won reelection in 2022. Though little-known outside his state, Walz emerged publicly as one of the earliest names mentioned as a possible running mate for Harris, and in the ensuing days he made the rounds on television as an outspoken surrogate for the vice president...

“These are weird people on the other side. They want to take books away, they want to be in your exam room. … They are bad on foreign policy, they are bad on the environment, they certainly have no health care plan, and they keep talking about the middle-class,” Walz told MSNBC in July. “As I said, a robber baron real estate guy and a venture capitalist trying to tell us they understand who we are? They don’t know who we are.”

Walz also has faced criticism from Republicans that his policies as governor were too liberal, including legalizing recreational marijuana for adults, protecting abortion rights, expanding LGBTQ protections, implementing tuition-free college for low-income Minnesotans and providing free breakfast and lunch for schoolchildren in the state.

But many of those initiatives are broadly popular. Walz also signed an executive order removing the college-degree requirement for 75 percent of Minnesota’s state jobs, a move that garnered bipartisan support and that several other states have also adopted.

“What a monster. Kids are eating and having full bellies, so they can go learn, and women are making their own health-care decisions,” Walz said sarcastically in a July 28 interview with CNN when questioned whether such policies would be fodder for conservative attacks, later adding: “If that’s where they want to label me, I’m more than happy to take the [liberal] label.”

Walz also spoke at a kickoff event in St. Paul for a Democratic canvassing effort, casting Trump as a “bully.”

“Don’t lift these guys up like they’re some kind of heroes. Everybody in this room knows--I know it as a teacher--a bully has no self-confidence. A bully has no strength. They have nothing,” Walz said at the event, sporting a camouflage hunting hat and T-shirt.

Walz has explained that he felt some Democrats’ practice of calling Trump an existential threat to democracy was giving him too much credit, which prompted his decision to denounce the GOP nominee instead as being “weird.”

“I do believe all those things are a real possibility, but it gives him way too much power," Walz said on CNN’s “State of the Union” regarding the Democrats’ rhetoric. “Listen to the guy. He’s talking about Hannibal Lecter, shocking sharks, and just whatever crazy thing pops into his mind.”

If Walz is elected vice president, under state law, Minnesota Lt. Gov. Peggy Flanagan (D) would assume the governorship for the rest of his term. Minnesota Senate president Bobby Joe Champion, a Democrat, would become lieutenant governor."

-via The Washington Post, August 6, 2024

--

This guy. Sounds like. fucking Moderate swing-state/rural/Midwestern/southern/"heartland"/working class white voter catnip. He sounds like he's also a very smart politician and strong campaigner. And he's apparently genuinely a good guy with a good record, too.

He sounds like he's going to do a really good job of appealing to voters in several of the big deal swing states without being from any of them specifically. Which means it doesn't feel like pandering to one of the states involved (and thereby spurning the others), which is also great.

(Also he was the one who started "weird" @ conservatives and I think we should take that seriously as a very good political instinct/move. Judging in large part by how it has so clearly hit an actual nerve with conservatives like so little else. Also hugely relevant: that post going around about how part of why conservatives are so upset about "weird" is because in the Midwest, "weird" specifically also implies anti-social or harmful behavior.)

Officially feeling more optimistic about Trump not winning in November

[aloeverawrites]

New reading challenge for 2023!!

Read Mandate for Leadership The Conservative Promise- Project 2025, so I can be adequately terrified at the possibility of this list becoming reality.

Who wants to read it with me?

[dollyichi]

I JUST GOT A CRUSH! ᯓ★ katsuki bakugou x f ! reader. 1.02k words / fluff / not proofread

bakugou is bad at social media. not exactly terrible, yet not so great either.

he really doesn’t care too much for it nor does he use it that often but he’s not that unfamiliar with it. he finds himself being on tiktok from time to time though he never really bothered to make it known that he had an account in the first place, just enjoying whatever he comes across and liberally blocks accounts that come up on his fyp that pissed him off. he never posts anything either so it didn’t matter. it’s a typical account with a generated username and a blank profile, 57 following, 0 followers.

recently he found a video that he wanted to share (an edit made by a fan) and posts the link on twitter, alongside saying how ‘it’s real sick’ of them to make that for him. he didn’t even know videos like that were famous. the effort and skill it took made him think it were cool.

what he also didn’t know, was that his profile would be revealed when you press on the link.

he got so confused when his account suddenly gained so many followers in just two days since he ‘never mentioned it.’ that was until he sees the replies on his tweet that the linked he used to share got him exposed.

he checks it out for himself which proved that he did actually share his account without knowing, but it’s ‘whatever.’ even after everyone found out he just used it like normal. it’s only a pain when they kept asking him to post something.

he truly is without care, yet he underestimates the fans who immediately stalk his ‘almost’ empty profile. you see, he doesn’t know that his reposts are public because he doesn’t actually look at his own profile. it’s usually a like, like, repost, favorite, like, then close app routine that he does before he goes to bed.

there's a few funny videos here and there, cooking videos and recipes too, things he'd like to try out soon for himself, or techniques that were really helpful for him. some are also videos of fan edits that he recently discovered, where the same video he shared was at the top of the page.

yet, there was one reoccurring face that kept popping up. a pretty girl who likes to lip sync some songs or show off their trinket hauls. sometimes mini vlogs from their day to day or makeup vids. and the topic trends everywhere: DYNAMIGHT TIKTOK CRUSH

when you saw it you really couldn’t believe it yourself that the one anonymous commenter on your videos was a pro-hero, your favorite nonetheless. though, it makes you a little nervous since your face is plastered all over different social platforms because you’re only active on that app. you don’t know where to go from there except squeal into your pillows. definitely flattered when you recall the many times he called you pretty on your vlogs.

as the rest dive deeper into his little ‘crush’ they even saw him comment on a few of your videos with compliments that sounded extra flirty. they teased him so hard saying how he looks like a creep especially with that profile. he’s never gonna hear the end of it. soon a new topic blows up that reads: GO FOR IT DYNAMIGHT

in his defense, if he were to give anyone an explanation, he thinks you have a really nice smile and a really soothing voice. also that you’re real cute and charming, that’s why he could watch and even rewatch all your content in one sitting. he couldn’t get enough of you, absolutely smitten. even had to ask kirishima how to turn on notifications for an account in the guise of turning it on for his agency's tiktok.

you’re also the only account he’s following that’s not a cooking channel or a pro-hero. and yeah it’s basically all that, a crush. not that he expects you to actually give him a chance, he’s happy just seeing your content.

however, the poor (not really) bakugou is actually unaware of the whole situation of his ‘tiktok crush’ trending since he was finishing a mission. only finding out when he got a call from kirishima asking if he found a girlfriend already. “what the fuck are you on about?”

“your fans are talking about how you keep reposting videos of this one girl on tiktok. i mean, it’s kinda obvious if you’re dating.” and it hits him, quick. your username (the one he could only remember, really) flashes in his head, but he laughs it off. “nah nothin’ like that. think i could shoot my shot though?” he asks him and kirishima says, “haha! i think she already beat you to it.”

not knowing what he meant, he swiftly gets home, showers, and lays on his couch whipping his phone out of his pocket to search up your username. and there he was, staring at his phone, unable to stop the smile on his face when he sees the thumbnail of your new video. he opens it immediately and there you were, holding a dynamight figurine (a very limited one too!) close to your cheek that you’ve never shown before until now. you never thought to show it thinking he might see it and think of you as weirdo. it gave the opposite effect actually, even made him more confident because who would've thought your pretty collection had a 'random guy' in there (definitely not random for you at least).

bakugou immediately likes, reposts and adds it to his favorites. even screen recording the whole thing cause you never gave access to download your videos—it was a very special moment for him okay!

he then comments, ‘you can have the real thing too.’

a few minutes later it’s got your icon with a heart beside it. he chuckles, happy that you finally noticed him. beams when he gets a notification that you followed him back.

he’s definitely going to dm you after he calms down. just hopes this time you don't beat him to it again.

do not copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost my works

note : i love a katsuki with a crush i think it's so cute. but i love it even more that he's still confident about it!!! i like to think that reader probably has like 20k followers or something so pretty big but not as big as the others. the first time he met you he stumbles upon a video of you talking about the ice cream u just got and then he got hooked cause u were so cute when u were picking the flavor. PLEASE DO NOT SHARE THIS ON TIKTOK BTW >< also minors & ageless blogs please do not follow me!

[wilwheaton]

For some odd reason, moderator Jake Tapper told Trump in the beginning that he didn't need to answer the questions and that he could use the time however he wanted. Trump ran with that, essentially giving a rally speech whenever he had the floor and was unresponsive to the vast majority of the questions. He made faces and insulted Biden to his face, at one point calling him a criminal and a Manchurian candidate. If anyone had said 10 years ago that this would happen at a presidential debate they would have been laughed out of the room. After the debate when most of the country had turned off cable news or gone to bed, CNN aired its fact check. [...] Even had Joe Biden been at the top of his game, he would not have been able to parry all those lies and he shouldn't have been put in the role of being Donald Trump's fact checker. His choice was to either ignore the lies and let them stand so he could use his time to make his own case or spend the entire debate correcting the record. It was not a fair fight. It's obvious that Biden's terrible performance has caused panic among Democrats and liberal pundits and analysts. The calls for him to withdraw are loud and meaningful and it's going to be a very rough period in this campaign whatever happens. For me, this isn't really a question. As long as Donald Trump is on the ballot, I will vote for the Democratic nominee. If it's Biden or someone else, the calculation remains the same. Nothing is worse than another Trump administration and I suspect that at the end of the day Democratic voters will agree with that. So it's still a matter of those undecided voters in swing states, just like it was on Thursday morning.

CNN's debate was no fair fight

CNN, yet again, gave Trump a national stage to vomit an endless stream of unchecked lies, and today, CNN is telling itself and anyone who will listen that the network and its moderators did a great job. That’s just plainly false, and America is paying the price for their failure.

That doesn’t let Biden off the hook. Biden had a terrible night. He was so bad, it’s allowed the political press to completely ignore not just how much Trump lied, but what he lied about: January 6, all his indictments, his Covid response, and on and on. President Biden was a disaster, and his campaign should be at DefCon 1 to try and repair all the damage. I am terrified that his awful performance will obscure his surprisingly good record and leadership in the post-insurrection era, and give the political press an excuse to run with “Biden is old” in the face of Trump’s endless lies, his felony convictions, his pending trials, and all of his criminality. Someone at Salon said that Trump didn’t win, but Biden absolutely lost. I can’t argue with that, even if the facts are all on Biden’s side.

I’ve seen President Biden on TV today, and even last night after the debate, where he didn’t come across as an ancient dude who needs a walker on his way to some Matlock reruns. He looks and sounds like the SOTU Biden we all expected would show up last night. I have no idea why he was so awful for 99% of the debate (the campaign says he has a cold), and I have no idea why the guy who is showing up to speak to supporters today, and who delivered the SOTU didn’t show up last night to save America from Trump, again.

But we have to live with this reality now, and I hope like hell that the Biden campaign, the candidate, and the entire Democratic party apparatus scrambles like fucking crazy to get all hands on deck to fix this, and remind voters that

This isn’t about BIden vs. Trump. This is about America vs. Project 2025.

There will be no second debate where Biden can try to salvage something out of the wreckage of this one. Trump has everything to lose and nothing to gain. Trump will crow about how he won, and declare he has no reason to debate again, and he’s right. Biden had one shot and he absolutely blew it. The moderators did not help, but the campaign had to have known they wouldn’t, and it sure looks like they didn’t prepare Biden for what we all knew was coming. I don’t know how those same people stop the bleeding, and if they can’t, America and the world are in real, real trouble.

But we all have to remember that we have a choice to make in just a few months. Right now, and probably on election day, the choice is between Joe Biden and Democracy, or Donald Trump and Fascism. It’s stark, it’s clear, it’s binary, and I can not believe that it is even a question. I just hope that there are enough voters out there who will understand that we do have a choice. The options suck, but we do have a choice.

Please choose Democracy. Please choose America. Please choose the future world our children will inherit from us.

[soft-beams]

vi x reader, parallel universe!vi x reader | character death (reader)

ekko paints a picture of you.

"I wanted to show you something," Ekko tells Vi before he's leading her and Powder to where he's made his masterpiece. He doesn't know how Vi will react; if she'll be overcome with joy or overwhelmed with immense sadness.

Maybe she'll get angry and storm off, too hurt by the painting to truly express how she feels. But Ekko feels like doing this is worth that risk because hopefully, in a way, it will provide Vi with some closure.

When they reach the mural, Ekko stops and watches Vi and Powder take the remaining steps forward. He takes in how Powder's face lights up before she's pursing her lips with a slight tremble. He can tell that she's trying not to cry, and Ekko wants to pull her into his embrace and tell her that it's okay to let it out.

Vi's harder to read.

She's staring up at the mural, expressionless, and Ekko worries that he may have crossed a line. Vi's silence is deafening; it shakes him to his core, and he almost steps forward to apologise when Vi asks:

"Is this...them?"

Ekko swallows and nods as he replies, "Yes." He walks up until he's by Vi's side. "I took some artistic liberation and...imagined what they would have looked like if they hadn't..." Ekko stops himself, finding the words still too hard to say.

Vi stares and stares until she's closing her eyes, letting out a trembling breath.

"They're even more beautiful than I imagined," she whispers, barely loud enough for him to hear. Powder hears it too because she's smiling, sniffling as she wipes at her eyes.

"Yeah, a real looker," she says. "They were cute when they were younger, so it's no surprise that Ekko made them a bombshell." She looks at Ekko, a teasing glint in her eyes. "Should I be worried? Did you hold a candle for our dear friend here?"

Ekko chuckles and shakes his head. He's never held feelings of that sort for you. Yes, he did think you were pretty when he was growing up, but it never escalated beyond that. Besides, everyone knew that it was Vi you were going to end up with. Because it was you and Vi and Vi and you, and it was so obvious, the love you held for each other.

Still is obvious back in his own universe, but...he wishes he could have seen you thrive here. Happy and alive with no reason to run or hide. To be at peace with the people you love and who love you.

"They were everything to me," Vi says after a moment of silence. "They were my world in a way that was different from you guys." She gives a rueful chuckle. "Barely grown up, and we were already talking about getting married. We knew we wanted to be each other's for the rest of our lives." She then sighs. "Then that damn explosion happened, and they protected me. Made sure I survived, and I still...still deal with the guilt."

The silence settles among them again, but it only lasts for a second as Vi breaks it.

"But I know they wanted me to be here for Powder," she continues softly. "And know they'd be cursing me to the ground if they knew my thoughts." Her lips curve into a gentle smile. "But at least, I can look at her now and see her a bit more vividly in my dreams." She looks at Ekko, smile still in place. "Thanks, Little Man."

Ekko nods, unable to speak due to the tightness in his throat. If only...if only he could tell Vi that there's a universe where you did survive. A universe that isn't as great as this, but you're together and manage to find happiness despite all the shit thrown at you.

If only he could tell Vi that's what you really look like. That's how you've grown and how you've transformed.

If only.

But at least he can take solace in the fact that he's graced Vi with some form of closure.

In the form of a picture of you.

[miyukisu]

1 | Awaken, My Love .ᐟ

❤︎ | Ever since you two got together, he discovered some of the things that he's actually really really into ╰ feat. various blue lock characters x afab! reader

tags - both sfw and ns/fw headcanons (under the cut), mostly vanilla stuff, tit fucking, dirty talk, pussy eating

minors do not interact

You know that I love you // So let me into your heart

— movie nights Movies in general used to be boring for them. You sit down for 2 hours and then what? There were other forms of entertainment out there and they preferred that. However, once you invited them to watch a movie one night, they couldn't refuse. They sat down, albeit reluctantly, and found that the movie was only slightly interesting. But they did like how you cuddled with them under a blanket and how you would comment every minute on what was happening on screen. Movies are still unamusing, but you were more than enough to keep them awake.

Bachira, Barou, Otoya, Hiori, Sendou, Lorenzo, Nagi ❤︎

— public displays of affection It was cringey when they first thought about it. Wouldn't people judge you for being so touchy and lovey-dovey out in broad daylight? But then you started holding their arm while navigating through crowded places. It was fine; they wouldn't want you getting lost anyway. As time went on, they just found themselves reaching out to you on their own. They'll just surprise themselves one day that their arm's already around your waist or that they're already kissing your forehead when they see some other guy looking at you too much.

Barou, Chigiri, Rin, Sae, Karasu, Kaiser, Raichi, Kiyora ❤︎

— terms of endearment They found it a bit childish as if only younger couples were doing that. You had a name, they had a name—what's the point of coming up with something else to call out each other? As much as they tried, the petnames never rolled off their tongue well. It always left a weird aftertaste. But his whole outlook changed when he heard you utter it accidentally. As you apologized for the slip of the tongue, he was internally malfunctioning from how adorable and heartwarming it felt to be called by something other than their given name.

Nagi, Karasu, Barou, Ness, Kurona, Gagamaru, Niko ❤︎

Sleeping with the moon and the stars // I know where you've been

— tit fucking Sure, they understood the appeal. But why waste time on that when perfectly good pussy was right in front of them? Hell, even your mouth would do more wonders. But you like to surprise them—keep them on their toes and such. So after sucking him off, you thought it would be a great idea to put his aching cock between your breasts. He was annoyed by it at first, but soon as he felt the softness and silkiness of your flesh—he was smitten. It was a sensation never felt before and now... he craves for it.

Isagi, Kunigami, Rin, Oliver, Sae, Gagamaru, Raichi ❤︎

— dirty talk Truth be told, they're just really shy. They can't fathom the idea of spilling out such filthy words and hearing it for themselves. But there came a time when he couldn't help but blurt out the dirty thoughts running through his mind. It caused your pussy to wantonly clench down on him and it sent him to heaven. Maybe, just maybe, he'd consider throwing away his pride for a moment if it meant experiencing that feeling once more. Oh, but if you're doing the dirty talk, then he's all ears.

Isagi, Nagi, Reo, Karasu, Yukimiya, Hiori ❤︎

— pussy eating Before meeting you, they were fully convinced that they were a receiver through and through. Nothing beats a blowjob after a particularly stressful day. Or so they thought. But why was it oddly liberating to lap up your pussy like there was no tomorrow? They found it strange that this was somehow more arousing than receiving. They experience a reluctant change of heart. They're not ready to admit that maybe they're more of a giver... he'll settle on being a switch for now.

Bachira, Nagi, Rin, Otoya, Oliver, Kaiser, Lorenzo ❤︎

©kzyluvr do not repost/reupload/translate any of my works on other platforms

╰ author's note more headcanons for blue lock or a different fandom? hmmm...

[brilliantfantasticgeronimo]

like, i agree with the main principle that they need to hire writers from other backgrounds. for sure. no arguments. i also agree in general, said so in my own post, that this episode is more of a "learning experience for white people" anti-racism story than a "catharsis for black people in the struggle" story. but there's an undercurrent in these criticism for the episode that i don't agree with, being that "white writers should never touch the subject of anti-racism because they could never understand it" (or conversely, "men should never write about feminism because they could never understand it") and like, tbh that's just not a premise i agree with. politically or artistically. being from a specific background doesn't actually guarantee that you understand your struggles or that you have the best ideas for liberation out there (if it were, rishi sunak and suella braverman wouldn't be in the positions they are, doing the things they do). and in dw itself, like, "hiring writers of color" doens't mean the episode will automatically be great. for example, i appreciate that rosa exists, but there's a lot of moments in rosa that diminish the episode for me and held me back from embracing it as truly anti-hegemonic, truly anti-racist piece of art. like for all the work it does in showing viewers the reality of segregation and showing the catharsis / admirability of people fighting it, it takes 10 steps backwards saying obama's election was "a victory" for anti-racism (ah yes the anti-racism of bombing yemen, syria, somalia, iraq....) + having rosa be congratulated in the bloody white house as "a symbol of her victory" or having a satellite named after her as the "end goal" of her work (ie. all symbols that just stand in for white "tolerance" rather than actual black liberation). conversely, if the person writing has a good grip on the issue, even if it's alien to them, yeah,,, i do think they can portray it well. and that they *should* try, because something genuinely interesting / pertinent may come from the exercise. and like, from my pov, living where i do, having unfortunately witnessed and lived thru racism......... yeah? the racists in dot and bubble and the doctor's reaction to them are pretty realistic to me (shrugs))? people criticism them as "caricatures" and ... i don't see it, honestly? like rich people really are Like That. racist are exactly like that. like i can agree with the crit for example that having ricky or a character like ricky at the end, saying the same stuff as lindy and co, would have driven the point home better (of "if you live in a society founded on racism, you will inherit racist views even if you're a "good" person most of the time"), but like, overall i do think the "cartoonism" or bluntness of the finetime's awfulness was a strong writing choice. i do think rtd make the right call there, and even if he's white, he got a good grip on how a black man like the doctor would react (like, pretty realistic to how irl black medical doctors speak about their experiences, for example). also lbr, some audience members are so dense about this (even a lot of people on /r/gallifrey said they *didn't* understand what the problem was in the end! ) and like... i don't think this should be that controversial? that's the magic of writing. that if you take the time to listen, learn and observe, you can write experiences other than your own pretty competently. anyway, back to the initial common ground, would a black writer have given them more specificity? most likely.do need to bring more of them (and if anything else, as good as the 3 boys in boys club are, it does get a little tiring to have only 3 voices in the choice for the last 5 years)? absolutely. but i dont think that means that rtd shouldnt have written this episode, or that him being white diminished how much of what the text actually says. and i think it would be a lot more productive to try to understand it on its own merits rather than defaulting to a kind of "locus theory essentialism" in media analysis.

i'm still baffled that an episode about racism had absolutely zero writers of colour. like what the fuck

[denimbex1986]

'...“It’s fun playing bad, but actually he’s not,” the actor says, smiling as he reflects on his character, Crowley. “He’s a villain with a heart. The amount of really evil things he does are vanishingly small.”

...As it always has, “Good Omens” dissects the view of good and evil as absolutes, showing viewers that they are not as separate as we were led to believe growing up. Aziraphale and Crowley’s long-standing union is proof of this. The show also urges people to look at what defines our own humanity. For Tennant — who opted to wear a T-shirt emblazoned with the words “Leave trans kids alone you absolute freaks” during a photocall for Season 2 — these themes are more important now than ever before.

“In this society that we’re currently living in, where polarization seems ever more present, fierce and difficult to navigate. Negotiation feels like a dirty word at times,” he says, earnestly. “This is a show about negotiation. Two extremes finding common ground and making their world a better place through it. Making life easier, kinder and better. If that’s the sort of super objective of the show, then I can’t think of anything more timely, relevant or apt for the rather fractious times we’re living in.”

“Good Omens” is back by popular demand for another season. How does it feel?

It’s lovely. Whenever you send something out into the world, you never quite know how it will land. Especially with this, because it was this beloved book that existed, and that creates an extra tension that you might break some dreams. But it really exploded. I guess we were helped by the fact that we had Neil Gaiman with us, so you couldn’t really quibble too much with the decisions that were being made. The reception was, and continues to be, overwhelming.

Now that you’re no longer bound by the original material that people did, perhaps, feel a sense of ownership over, does the new content for Season 2 come with a sense of freedom for you? This is uncharted territory, of sorts.

That’s an interesting point. I didn’t know the book when I got the script. It was only after that I discovered the worlds of passion that this book had incited. Because I came to it that way, perhaps it was easier. I found liberation from that, to an extent. For me, it was always a character that existed in a script. At first, I didn’t have that extra baggage of expectation, but I acquired it in the run-up to Season 1 being released… the sense that suddenly we were carrying a ming vase across a minefield.

In Season 2, we still have Neil and we also have some of the ideas that he and Terry had discussed. During the filming of the first one, Neil would drop little hints about the notions they had for a prospective sequel, the title of which would have been “668: The Neighbour of the Beast,” which is a pretty solid gag to base a book around. Indeed there were elements like Gabriel and the Angels, who don’t feature in the book, that were going to feature in a sequel. They were brought forward into Season 1. So, even in the new episodes, we’re not entirely leaving behind the Terry Pratchett-ness of it all.

It’s great to see yourself and Michael Sheen reunited on screen as these characters. Fans will have also watched you pair up for Season 3 of “Staged.” You’re quite the dynamic duo. What do you think is the magic ingredient that makes the two of you such a good match?

It’s a slightly alchemical thing. We knew each other in passing before, but not well. We were in a film together [“Bright Young Things,” 1993] but we’d never shared a scene. It was a bit of a roll of the dice when we turned up at the read-through for “Good Omens.” I think a lot comes from the writing, as we were both given some pretty juicy material to work with. Those characters are beloved for a reason because there’s something magical about them and the way they complete each other. Also, I think we’re quite similar actors in the way we like to work and how we bounce off each other.

Does the shorthand and trust the two of you have built up now enable you to take more risks on-screen?

Yes, probably. I suppose the more you know someone, the more you trust someone. You don’t have to worry about how an idea might be received and you can help each other out with a more honest opinion than might be the case if you were, you know, dancing around each other’s nervous egos. Enjoying being in someone’s orbit and company is a positive experience. It makes going to work feel pleasant, productive, and creative. The more creative you can be, the better the work is. I don’t think it’s necessarily a given that an off-screen relationship will feed into an on-screen one in a positive or negative way. You can play some very intimate moments with someone you barely know. Acting is a peculiar little contract, in that respect. But it’s disproportionately pleasurable going to work when it’s with a mate.

Fans have long discussed the nature of Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship. In Season 2, we see several of the characters debate whether the two are an item, prompting them to look at their union and decipher what it is. How would you describe their relationship?

They are utterly co-dependent. There’s no one else having the experience that they are having and they’ve only got each other to empathize with. It’s a very specific set of circumstances they’ve been dealt. In this season, we see them way back at the creation of everything. They’ve known each other a long time and they’ve had to rely on each other more and more. They can’t really exist one without the other and are bound together through eternity. Crowley and Aziraphale definitely come at the relationship with different perspectives, in terms of what they’re willing to admit to the relationship being. I don’t think we can entirely interpret it in human terms, I think that’s fair to say.

Yet fans are trying to do just that. Do you view it as beyond romantic or any other labels, in the sense that it’s an eternal force?

It’s lovely [that fans discuss it] but you think, be careful what you wish for. If you’re willing for a relationship to go in a certain way or for characters to end up in some sort of utopian future, then the story is over. Remember what happened to “Moonlighting,” that’s all I’m saying! [Laughs]

Your father-in-law, Peter Davison, and your son, Ty Tennant, play biblical father-and-son duo Job and Ennon in Episode 2. In a Tumblr Q&A, Neil Gaiman said that he didn’t know who Ty’s family was when he cast him. When did you become aware that Ty had auditioned?

I don’t know how that happened. I do a bunch of self-tapes with Ty, but I don’t think I did this one with him because I was out of town filming “Good Omens.” He certainly wasn’t cast before we started shooting. There were two moments during filming where Neil bowled up to me and said, “Guess, who we’ve cast?” Ty definitely auditioned and, as I understand it, they would tell me, he was the best. I certainly imagine he could only possibly have been the best person for the job. He is really good in it, so I don’t doubt that’s true. And then my father-in-law showed up, as well, which was another delicious treat. In the same episode and the same family! It was pretty weird. I have worked with both of them on other projects, but never altogether.

There’s a “Doctor Who” cameo, of sorts, in Episode 5, when Aziraphale uses a rare annual about the series as a bartering tool. In reality, you’ll be reprising your Time Lord role on screen later this year in three special episodes to mark the 60th anniversary. Did you always feel you’d return to “Doctor Who” at some point?

There’s a precedent for people who have been in the series to return for a multi-doctor show, which is lovely. I did it myself for the 50th anniversary in 2013, and I had a wonderful time with Matt [Smith]. Then, to have John Hurt with us, as well, was a little treat. But I certainly would never have imagined that I’d be back in “Doctor Who” full-time, as it were, and sort of back doing the same job I did all those years ago. It was like being given this delightful, surprise present. Russell T Davies was back as showrunner, Catherine Tate [former on-screen companion] was back, and it was sort of like the last decade and a half hadn’t happened.

Going forward, Ncuti Gatwa will be taking over as the new Doctor. Have you given him any advice while passing the baton?

Oh God, what a force of nature. I’ve caught a little bit of him at work and it’s pretty exciting. I mean, what advice would you give someone? You can see Ncuti has so much talent and energy. He’s so inspired and charismatic. The thing about something like this is: it’s the peripherals, it’s not the job. It’s the other stuff that comes with it, that I didn’t see coming. It’s a show that has so much focus and enthusiasm on it. It’s not like Ncuti hasn’t been in a massive Netflix series [“Sex Education,”] but “Doctor Who” is on a slightly different level. It’s cross-generational, international, and has so much history, that it feels like it belongs to everyone.

To be at the center of the show is wonderful and humbling, but also a bit overwhelming and terrifying. It doesn’t come without some difficulties, such as the immediate loss of anonymity. It takes a bit of getting used to if that’s not been your life up to that point. I was very lucky that when I joined, Billie Piper [who portrayed on-screen companion, Rose] was still there. She’d lived in a glare of publicity since she was 14, so she was a great guide for how to live life under that kind of scrutiny. I owe a degree of sanity to Billie.

Your characters are revered by a few different fandoms. Sci-fi fandoms are especially passionate and loyal. What is it like being on the end of that? I imagine it’s a lot to hold.

Yes, certainly. Having been a fan of “Doctor Who” since I was a tiny kid, you’re aware of how much it means because you’re aware of how much it meant to you. My now father-in-law [who portrayed Doctor Who in the 80s] is someone I used to draw in comic strips when I was a kid. That’s quite peculiar! It’s a difficult balance because on one end, you have to protect your own space, and there aren’t really any lessons in that. That does take a bit of trial and error, to an extent, and it’s something that you’re sometimes having to do quite publicly. But, it is an honor and a privilege, without a doubt. As you’ve said, it means so much to people and you want to be worthy of that. You have to acknowledge that and be careful with it. Some days that’s tough, if you’re not in the mood.

I know you’re returning to the stage later this year to portray Macbeth. You’ve previously voiced the role for BBC Sounds, but how are you feeling about taking on the character in the theater?

I’m really excited about it. It’s been a while since I’ve done Shakespeare. It’s very thrilling but equally — and this analogy probably doesn’t stretch — it’s like when someone prepares for an Olympic event. It does feel like a bit of a mountain and, yeah, you’re daring to set yourself up against some fairly worthy competition from down the years. That’s both the challenge and the horror of doing these types of things. We’ve got a great director, Max Webster, who recently did “Life of Pi.” He’s full of big ideas. It’s going to be exciting, thrilling, and a little bit scary. I’m just going to take a deep breath.

Before we part ways, let’s discuss the future of “Good Omens.” Gaiman has said that he already has ideas for Season 3, should it happen. If you were to do another season, is there anyone in particular you’d love to work with next time around or anything specific you’d like to see happen for Crowley?

Oh, Neil Gaiman knows exactly where he wants to take it. If you’re working with people like Gaiman, I wouldn’t try to tamper with that creative void. Were he to ask my opinion, that would be a different thing, but I can’t imagine he would. He’s known these characters longer than me and what’s interesting is what he does with them. That’s the bit that I’m desperate to know. I do know where Crowley might end up next, but it would be very wrong if I told you.

[At this point, Tennant picks up a pencil and starts writing on a hotel pad of paper.]

I thought you were going to write it down for me then. Perhaps like a clandestine meeting on a bench in St James’ Park, but instead you’d write the information down and slide it across the table…

I should have done! I was drawing a line, which obviously, psychologically, I was thinking, “Say no more. You’re too tempted to reveal a secret!” It was my subconscious going “Shut the fuck up!”

[ciciyup]

Phantomhive manor (+ Gregory Violet) X Fem! Reader time traveler headcanons.

Summary: You are a time traveler and you have arrived in the Victorian era, how would you fare with certain characters if they met you?

━━━━━━✧ 🦢 ✧━━━━━━

Ciel Phantomhive

In one moment he was drinking his tea and enjoying his chocolate cake and the next Sebastian had arrived with you at his side. Everything about you seemed to confuse him, from your unusual and very inappropriate clothing to your casual and bland way of speaking.

At first, he only let you stay in his mansion so he could study you, for some reason you seemed to know more than him and even more than Sebastian, and the more time you spent there the more you seemed to confuse him with your strange ways.

The inappropriate clothes you were wearing seemed to not want to take them off while you complained that the corset and the amount of things in the dresses were uncomfortable, which made Ciel roll his eyes more than once, on top of that, in your comments you added that the clothes you were wearing were “the fashion” and “the trend” when Ciel only saw in them two pieces of fabric like a poorly covered window added, in his opinion, to your bad style.

The way you spoke was so strange, that way so casual and without any grace, but at the same time confusing to hear you say words that he had never heard before. He had bothered to look up those words himself in some books, but then he left the task to Sebastian, who soon informed him that those words did not exist... At least not in his time. On top of that, it seemed that you did not appear in any kind of paper that informed about your birth or other important things that should be in people as soon as they are born, which made Ciel stop taking it as a bad move and see the possibility that you really were a time traveler, since Sebastian had ruled out the possibility that you were some entity like a demon, angel or shinigami by not feeling any of that in you.

It was really surprising for him, he would not deny it, to see such a strange and at the same time so useful device. You called it 'cell phone'. It was surprising for Ciel to see a device that could take color photos, see himself on video moments before while doing something random and be able to watch it and replay it. The fact that music came out of that device surprised him quite a bit too, not only because of that, but because of the huge difference between the music of the future and that of his time, it had certainly been a big shock. Surprisingly, some of the songs you taught him he ended up liking, the ones with a soft and pleasant rhythm, and the fact that you put those 'headphones' you had shown him where the music could be heard better turned out to be a great experience.

He seemed to start to trust you more, your conversations were pleasant and you seemed to have a very different kind of thinking than he was used to seeing in people, it was nice in a way. You seemed to have a more open mind, more liberal, without prejudices or hypocrisy.

Maybe with you there Ciel could take advantage of certain things to have an advantage over his adversaries in the business and political sense, after all he was an earl and it was always good to be one step ahead of everyone, if it was three steps then it would be even better. Although he was always on guard and cautious while you seemed to tell him certain things, he took mental notes of what could happen or happen in the future if he didn't change something in the present. It was all very intelligent and strategic on his part.

Finding you had been a great important piece for his game and being aware of more things that he probably wouldn't get to see, but he was pleased to have been lucky enough to have you appear. He just wished you could stay a little longer to be able to appreciate a vision as different and at the same time as pleasant as yours.

Sebastian Michaelis

Surprise was to say the least. This human really had something. He felt curious? Fascinated? You were so strange, your way of seeing everything was so different. Sebastian felt surprised because you even surpassed him in subjects he didn't know about such as politics, future wars, economics. It was fascinating and perhaps also, in a way, a blow to his ego. Why did this human come out of nowhere with all the answers up her sleeve, in such a way that she managed to surpass him in knowledge? Still, Sebastian was an extremely intelligent being with centuries of experience, so even if you had advanced knowledge, he wouldn't feel intimidated. Instead, he would see this as an opportunity to learn and expand his own understanding.

While he lets you settle into the mansion at his master's request, as the days passed, he would soon bring out his sarcasm when he saw your attire and clothes, dropping some sarcastic comments, but always with a polite tone to sweeten.

Seeing the device in your hands and turning it on would surprise him at first, being somewhat impressed by the great advancement of humans in technology and since he is a very intelligent supernatural being, he would quickly learn to use the cell phone and any other device you had with you. He would even dare to take your phone with him secretly just to study it, sometimes to take pictures, videos and other times to listen to music, noticing the great change between one era and another. The photographs and videos would be what would attract his attention the most, enjoying filming some cat that appeared in the mansion and then watching it on the phone.

Despite enjoying certain things, Sebastian would evaluate if you represented a potential threat, being cautious, but without raising suspicions on you. He would always prioritize Ciel's safety so he would stay close to you for a certain amount of time, even if sometimes you wouldn't notice. Coming to the conclusion that you didn't seem to be dangerous or an enemy to Phantomhive, which made him become more friendly and even offered you hospitality while you stayed at the mansion.

He would take advantage of your advanced knowledge to improve efficiency and security at the mansion, as well as a chance to learn about humanity and how they had advanced so much over the centuries. He would come to enjoy the conversations if they interested him enough, you don't always meet a time traveler so he had to get something out of it, it was sure better than hearing anyone else talk about the same old topics.

You were different from what he was used to, clumsy, closed-minded and boring people who had nothing new to offer, but since you had arrived it seemed like you had awakened something in Sebastian that he hadn't felt for centuries. He hoped you would stay a little longer, it would be a shame if he had to go back to the same boring emotions.

Finnian

He was very excited about you, although at first he seemed confused, especially by your unusual clothing, his excitement made him see beyond. Seeing artifacts he had never seen before amazed him, his eyes shining as he took the first picture with so many colors and heard the music coming out of it. Surely asking you for your phone a few times so he could take lots of pictures of himself with big smiles and doing different things or anything in general that he found nice to capture, even leaving the phone without storage.

“Can I really talk to someone who is on the other side of the world right now?” Finny would ask you in surprise when hearing you explain about calls and messages. But surely the game apps would also keep him very entertained, especially the pet care and gardening games, spending so much time there that he would already know how to use most of the things. He seemed to be amused by the fact that you would randomly throw out words that he had never heard before, some of them amused him so much that he would keep them in his mind and would often repeat them, even while there were people there, causing them to look at him in confusion. His enthusiasm could be higher than the looks they usually gave him. Finny liked to learn new things and having met you would definitely continue to fascinate him even after days.

His face would light up as you explain to him the simplest thing for you it would be surprising for him like the fact that there was something called 'internet' or 'television' that made everything easier in everyday life like a blender, bed warmer, cars. Whatever you told him it seemed like the boy would explode with excitement.

He would definitely be mesmerized if you showed him series or movies, whatever was moving on the screen would surprise him, but if they were fantasy movies he would surely enjoy them more seeing the special effects and thinking about how everything looked so real. He would definitely like to know all the musical genres, especially the most lively ones, but at the same time with a pleasant rhythm, trying to imitate modern dances, laughing at his own clumsiness and certain dance steps that made him laugh.

It would be enriching for both of you to have met him. Finny enjoyed your company and everything he managed to learn at your side, but in addition to that he also liked to teach you about his own time by telling you first-hand details and even making you see certain things from a new perspective. Being with him was undoubtedly a breath of fresh air and both of you could have a new look at the world.

Snake

He would be mostly confused by your unusual way of speaking, puzzled by words you used to say at random and not have a specific meaning, it would be difficult for him to understand. Unlike what one would think, even though Snake is a very shy boy, he would not feel ashamed to see you in a different type of clothing or in lesser cloths, since having been in the circus before he lived with people with little clothing or more "revealing" clothing, so although it would still be somewhat surprising and embarrassing for Snake, it would not be on a large scale.

Seeing a phone, something that did not yet exist back then, would make him feel particularly intimidated and think that it is something dangerous, staying cautious while you show him the device. He would be surprised when you showed him videos and people or anything in general moving inside that small device, even his snakes could be attracted and watch while they communicate through Snake asking questions about the device.

What he might like the most would be snake documentaries and anything about snake care. When you used to lend him your phone you would probably find him in the mansion's greenhouse surrounded by his snakes while his eyes were glued to the screen as he watches videos on snake care as well as precautions for when they shed their skin, their habitat, best food, even on wikipedia looking up different things to take care of himself and his friends.

Telling Snake about your knowledge and things that would happen in the future would make him feel intrigued and at the same time fearful thinking about what thing could cause something else to happen and prevent it from happening even if it was inevitable anyway. Also, he would like to know more about how people have evolved, if they were kinder to others, if there wasn't as much fuss when they saw someone different, if they accepted certain things more easily.

Seeing you want to teach him music with those big sound devices that you called 'headphones' would make him feel a little self-conscious, but finally when the music plays his surprise can be seen in him as he feels something he had not experienced before. He would have preferences with some genres more than others, the ones he might like the most would be ambient music, classical music and jazz.

He could get used to your presence in the long run. You seemed to be one of the few people he enjoyed the company of, and he learned more things with you by his side. He wouldn't deny spending a nice afternoon with you while you tell him how much everything had changed over the years and Snake would gladly listen to you.

Gregory Violet

First of all, why was there a girl at Weston College if it wasn’t for some special event? Secondly, he would be very intrigued, so he would take you out of public view if he had the chance so you wouldn’t cause any fuss at the time. Although he might initially keep his distance between you due to being generally reserved, his curiosity would make him approach you little by little.

Despite your unusual attire, Gregory would remain just as reserved, not judging anything about you as he silently analyzes you. He probably wouldn’t care much about how you look or what you wear, perhaps he would at first glance, but then he would remain discreet. He would be interested in the unusual and aesthetically different, wanting to capture the essence of your appearance in his drawings. You would be a source of artistic inspiration and he would want to draw you, but being so reserved he wouldn’t ask you to, at least until he gets to know you more deeply.

Seeing a phone for the first time would certainly leave him in awe. The ability to see color photos and color videos and even be able to take them yourself would leave him speechless. He would be more attracted if you showed him art-related photos with lots of colors and different things like that. Speaking of art, he would definitely be fascinated with the amount of things he could learn on different internet sites about artists’ paintings, drawing ideas, biographies and even reading any pdf book and using apps to draw and create without using pencils or hands would be extremely intriguing to Gregory.

Watching stories told through moving images and sound would be another completely new experience. He might be especially interested in movies, series or documentaries that deal with artistic and historical topics. He would be very intrigued and have many questions about how the device works and how you can see anything through it, be it movies, books, letters, numbers, photographs. How a movie could be created and what kinds of devices would be required to film and make the special effects.

If you had been there long enough for Gregory to become more comfortable, he could draw you, maybe he would ask you or, more likely, he would draw you without you noticing or telling you. He would like to capture your “futuristic essence” and keep those drawings to remember you if the time came when you had to leave. He would also make separate drawings of the electrical devices you had told him or shown him, wanting to remember them too.

It would be a unique experience for him and his memory to have met you and learn about all the new advances of the future generations. The fact that you seemed to have a more open mind and no need to judge would have made him enjoy your company more during the time you shared, after all you had not labeled him as weird or different like most people in his time and he appreciated that.

━━━━━━✧ 🦢 ✧━━━━━━

[marlshroom]

came to the fucked up realization after finishing gravity falls again last night the parallels of the dream bubble bill made for mabel and the literal state of delusion he keeps himself in.

in the book of bill on the page where bill cipher describes how he figured out a way to manipulate her into giving him the rift, it says:

"Summers ending, my guy. Ending to death, bro. She'd do anything to make it last just a day longer. Probably something RASH and OUT OF CHARACTER, even!"

as we know, mabel cannot handle the fact that she will be growing up. that the relationship with her brother is going to change. she is scared of high school.

bill then says "That was it. She'd never make a deal with me. But she'd make a deal with someone she believed could give her more time. The dream was done. I had her."

bill then creates the dream bubble for mabel, he makes every one of her dreams come true, a place where time is still and she can be a kid forever. a lie so great that she wont have to face the truth.

in journal 3 on one of the pages bill is writing in code, we see this:

[ID: "I ask you, why must[should] time only move forward? Why must cause preceded effect. Who voted on the law of physics."]

my friend helped me break down what bill means by this:

why can we only move forward in the 4th dimension of time. why does something have to make another thing happen, why must cause come before the effect. why cant you move backwards, in the other direction, change the decisions youve made.

how interpret this is bill asking why he is not able to back and stop what he did to his family. he says to ford that he tried and failed to undo the past.** why did him wanting people to acknowledge his advantages instead of suppress him lead to the destruction of his whole dimension?

**(i just want to point out that this is probably the time where bill is the MOST open to anybody, or at least the first. to his henchmaniacs he had been telling them that he liberated his dimension until the oracle discovered the truth. here, to ford, he got so much closer to telling the truth. he SHOWS ford the last atoms of his world. he says that it was destroyed by a monster, not that it was liberated! destroyed)

back to when bill says "I had her" about mabel, he had her cause he knew exactly what needed to happen to trap mabel in a delusion because it is exactly what he is doing to himself. creating a fake narrative of what happened to him, that he was vindicated in killing his whole dimension. only ever doing exactly what he wants because confronting the truth is too scary for him(good fucking lord). the morality page offers good insight into this too.

i am actually just going to quote the whole page and highlight the important part. it speaks for itself really

"THE POINT IS it's[morality] is a very flexible concept! But parents and presidents don't want you to know that, because then you might start asking other questions, like who put them in charge, anyway? So they cram your brain full of guilt and regrets for transgressing the laws that they just made up(the laws that they made to prevent the destruction of their dimension, regardless of if the law + the wrongful medication of a fucking baby triangle did any good to actually prevent it). Wouldn't it be nice if you could put all that baggage down? Quell the shame that follows you everywhere for a lifetime of crimes? MAKE THE SCREAMS FINALLY STOP? The good news is you CAN silence that annoying voice, and here's how!

DENIAL

Works 100% of the time in every situation. What you you mean there are people who disagree? I can confidently say there aren't!

RATIONALIZATION

If you can do it, you can justify it! "Truth" is open-source code and anyone can edit it anytime! Want to be like me? List 3 "evil" things and then 3 "reasons why they're actually good." You'll be rationalizing like Bill in no time!

DETACHMENT

Did you know 100% of your human cells die and are replaced every 7 years? That means that anything you did 7 years ago wasn't even you-it was some dead loser! You can't be held accountable for what a dead person did! What? You think this is just another form of rationalization? I DENY THAT!

THE BILL CIPHER DECISION METHOD!

Working over the eons, the voices in my head teamed up and worked out a foolproof method for making any decision in any situation.

DO WHATEVER I WANT."

ooooooooooooooooooh boy.

he is fully admitting here that he is living in a completely different really in order to justify doing whatever he wants. he gives mabel the tools to deny, to rationalize, to detach herself from the reality of it all. that time has to move forward. and he thinks it will work because it worked on himself.

but it doesn't work on mabel because she understands that she needs other people. shes vunerable, she lets people in, admits when shes wrong. and bill cant do that because it would destroy the fantasy he's created for himself.

[straightlightyagami]

the thing about the second story is like it makes you really think about the fact that people in the past were just people too, who felt tragedy and pain as much as anyone nowadays does. but statistically like there was so much more of it they'd have to experience in their lifetime (eg much more likely to see their child die) so i guess they'd necessarily have to learn not to let it break them

when i was a baby antivaxxer friends told my mom to not vaccinate me bc i’d become autistic (i am and it’s better than being dead ngl) which is so crazy to me bc 1. i had already almost died from infectious disease ??? 2. my grandpa (mom’s dad) grew up in a remote village and his family lived across the street from the graveyard and every summer almost every day they would see people carrying dead infants and young children to be buried in unmarked graves just wrapped in a blanket. like most people had some of their children die in infancy from diseases that can be easily prevented by vaccination and sanitation. this was in late 1950s - early 1960s