#i guess this is like an interview almost?

[spookysanta]

Grills. (drabble.)

Pairing: Michael B. Jordan x reader

Warnings: a baby amount of smut, bad writing. minors DNI.

UNEDITED.

yoooooo i've risen. i saw sinners twice already and the only thing on my mind is that man and those grills. i've missed my peeps! hopefully y'all are well. you can tell i'm a bit rusty, but more will be coming soon!

I’ve never been one to be overly impressed with them. Sure, they’re attractive. But there’s nothing about them that’s really caught my eye.

Until this. 

He’s worn them before, yes. He’s drawn himself to them for other press runs — I mean, Black Panther had him wearing grills in the movie. So you’d think I’d be immune. 

Clearly not.

I can’t help but imagine him wearing them with me. His iced-out grin glinting in the moonlight as his chiseled frame towers over me, absolutely demolishing whatever inhibitions I had from the work day prior. Or his slight — adorable, might I add — lisp of his words grunting in my ear, the diamonds on his teeth grazing at my skin in a way that could only be defined as sinful. 

Or, most damningly, the diamonds grinding against my clit — with every nibble and tug, his mouth has an added layer of pleasure that rocks my world. 

Do grills leave a mark?

I wonder if he’d leave fang prints in my ass —

“Hey, you.”

I damn-near spilled my coffee over myself at the surprise. He’d just come home from his most recent interview, where the cast of his latest film, Sinners, answered questions about each other. Shortly after, he had a photo shoot with, you guessed it, a set of grills in his mouth.

I intentionally didn’t go to either of them, opting to keep my mind.. somewhat clear.. as I worked on an upcoming project. And it’s funny, his co-star, Wunmi, could spot my unease from a mile away at previous interviews — “You can’t get enough of him, can you?” she’d asked, Manchester accent peeking through with a smile. “I could see you undressing him from across the room.”

Yeah, no shit, babe.

I quickly snapped back into reality before he could pick up my neediness. “Hi, love.” I greeted as he entered the kitchen, taking my mug from my hands and sipping my coffee, wincing at the taste. “How was it?”

“Good. Missed you there though, everyone asked if you were OK.” He shrugged. “Also, this is nasty. How are you drinking this? It’s pure sugar.”

“I like it. Because it is mine, y’know.” 

Humming with a slight roll in his eyes. He leaned down to meet my lips with his. He was right, though; his lips tasted coyingly sweet. His warm mouth engulfing mine, I set my mug down on the counter behind me to free my hands so I could wrap my arms in his warm embrace. Breathlessly, he mumbled against my lips, “Love you.”

“Love you more, Kari.”

His grin was immediate. That nickname was his weakness. Sure, I’d call him a plethora of other names — “bear”, “lover”, “honey”.. But Kari, an abbreviation of his middle name, was unique. He’s told me that it makes him feel “warm inside”. 

And I almost didn’t catch it when my eyes darted down to his mouth. His grin was coated in silver, canines ever-so pointed as they were enwrapped in diamonds. 

My breath escaped shakily.

“You good, babe?” His eyes bore into mine. “You seem unsettled.”

I cleared my throat, leaning against the cool marble of the countertop. “Yeah, no. I’m good. Great.”

“Mhm.”

“You just look nice, is all.”

“I look nice.” He repeated with a chuckle. “You saw me getting dressed this morning and you weren’t nearly this breathless.”

Here’s the thing. Michael’s an ass. He knows he’s an ass, and truly, he takes pride in his cockiness. 

When he’s freshly showered after the gym, sauntering into our bedroom from the en suite with his towel riding low on his hips, happy trail on full display, and his muscles beckoning me forward, my imagination has my mind racing a mile-a-minute. But then, in his assholeish ways, he chuckles out, “Like what you see?”

Oh shut up.

Or when he has me on all fours, pounding me into the mattress. My face buried into the pillows, moans and whimpers muffled into whispers into the fabric. His calloused palms grip my shoulders and pull my upper frame back, just so he can hear what he does to me. “I need those screams, baby. Le’me hear how good my dick is.”

“Y’know,” I tried not to let my face show the fact that just his eyes on me, with that stupid grill in his mouth, were enough for a ball of pleasure to grow in the pit of my stomach. “you just look nice. I’m taking it all in.” 

“Sure.”

“No, seriously! You do look nice.” It wasn’t a lie, either. A simple black t-shirt with his signature gold chain on display, in combination with dark wash jeans and sneakers. It was nice, don’t get me wrong. But that wasn’t my focus. I gestured to my mouth. “I like your, uh..”

“You like my grills?”

I nodded wordlessly, eyes fixated on his mouth. And again, he smiled cockily. 

“I was waiting for you to say something.”

My eyebrow cocked.

“You’ve been staring at my mouth for days now.” He stepped back with arms folded across his chest. “Since Ryan had the cast wear them at the premiere, actually. You’re so obvious.” 

“OK, but in my defense, you do look really good with them. Could you blame me?”

[sugardollcurse]

𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓

꒰ pairing ꒱ george harrison x reader

꒰ summary ꒱ you’re a florist’s apprentice. the boys stop in to buy flowers for an interview shoot. george asks you what the meanings of the flowers are, and listens. really listens.

꒰ note ꒱ i'm so proud of this i think

The bell above the shop door jingled with a sound so familiar you didn’t bother to look up. It was the middle of a Thursday, early spring, and the windows were still a little fogged from the morning's chill. Your hands were buried in a bucket of cool water and daffodil stems, fingertips tingling from the cold, when you heard a chorus of vaguely familiar voices. “No, Paul, it’s not for you. It’s fer the camera. You don’t need to pick the pinkest ones.”

“‘Course I do, don’t want my complexion lookin’ grey in that shot.”

“Oh, sod off, you’re always hoggin’ the spotlight.”

You blinked. Froze a moment. Looked up... slowly.

They were there. Not just people. Them.

The Beatles.

Real. In your shop. Or at least, the shop you apprenticed at, tucked on the corner of a street just shy of town center. They looked like they'd just wandered in off the street, which, well, they had. No entourage, no screaming fans. Just four young men in tailored coats and those mop-top haircuts you'd seen in magazines and on telly and... right there. In front of the hydrangeas.

You dried your hands on your apron without thinking, watching as Paul turned a bunch of roses this way and that, critiquing the hue like he was selecting paint for a living room wall. John was already halfway to bored, poking at the baby’s breath and pretending to sneeze dramatically into it. Ringo peered curiously at a row of chrysanthemums.

And George was standing still.

He wasn’t talking. Just looking around. He had one hand in his coat pocket, and the other gently grazing the edge of a display bucket filled with lilies.

You moved forward before your brain fully caught up.

“Um. Can I help you?”

They all turned toward you like a school of fish changing direction, but it was George who answered.

“Yeah, ta. We’re doin’ a shoot later. Some magazine thing. They want us holdin’ flowers. We wanted to look for the flowers ourselves.” His accent was thick with Liverpool, low and smooth like the underside of a river stone. “Don’t know why. Just want us lookin’ ‘springy’, apparently.

“Oh,” you said, nodding. “Seasonal.”

“Yeah. Flowers ‘n all. Makes sense, I s’pose.”

You expected him to wander off again, maybe nudge Ringo or roll his eyes with John. But instead, George kept looking at you. Curious. Not impatient. He leaned a little closer, chin tilted toward the bucket you’d been sorting.

“What do these ones mean?” he asked, gesturing.

You blinked. “The daffodils?”

“Mm.”

You hesitated a beat. “Rebirth. New beginnings. Some say unrequited love.”

That made his eyebrows lift. “S’pose they couldn’t make up their minds either, eh?”

You smiled faintly. “It depends on the culture. But yeah, most flowers have a few meanings. Layers, I guess.”

George hummed like that meant something to him. Then turned toward the rest of the display, eyes scanning slowly.

“What about those?” he asked, pointing to a cluster of delicate white blooms... sweet alyssum.

“Sweetness of soul,” you said. “And serenity.”

He nodded once, then twice, like he was filing that away. Not just hearing you, listening. You could almost see it, the way his attention lingered. Not on your apron, or your hands, or your face in that glassy, half-present way most customers did. But all of you. As if your voice, your knowledge, your presence, all of it held weight.

“What’re you gettin’ all poetic for?” John called from the corner. “It’s just a bunch of petals, George.”

George didn’t even turn. “They’ve got meanings, y’know.”

John made a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “So do I, but you don’t see me wrapped in cellophane.”

Paul shook his head, still fussing with a bouquet. “Can we just pick somethin’ already? We’ve got to be at the studio in half an hour.”

“Go on, then,” George said. But he didn’t move away from you. He pointed to a spiky stalk of delphinium. “That one?”

“Dignity,” you said. “Sometimes grace. But in the old Victorian guides, it could also mean fun, or lightness.”

He gave a small smile. “Nice mix, that. Like a posh joker.”

“I guess so.”

He went quiet for a moment, then offered his hand. “I’m George.”

You shook it before thinking. “I know.”

He tilted his head. “Do you?”

Your fingers slipped away, a bit too warm now. “Everyone does.”

“Dunno about that,” he said, but didn’t press it. “What’s your name?”

You told him. Something about the way he repeated it, quietly, as if testing the shape of it in his mouth... made it bloom behind your ribs.

“I think I’d like a bunch that means somethin’,” he said. “Not just for the photo. You’ve got a good sense for it.”

You nodded. “Alright. Give me a minute.”

You moved on instinct, half-aware of his gaze following as you plucked stems from across the room. An iris for wisdom. A sprig of lavender for devotion. A single hellebore for serenity in the face of challenge. You weren’t sure why your fingers chose those, only that they felt right. Then something softer, a wild pansy, delicate and thoughtful. And at the last moment, a bloom of peony. Passion. A quiet flame.

You handed them over in a tied bouquet, no frills. George took it gently, like it was a glass bird.

“Thanks,” he said.

He looked down at them, then back at you. “Think I’ll remember this.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you just nodded. A beat passed. Then another.

And then Paul whistled. “Come on, George, don’t fall in love in the flower shop, we’ve got telly to do!”

George rolled his eyes, but still lingered another moment.

“See you ‘round,” he said, and it sounded like a promise.

Then the bell rang again, and they were gone.

You didn’t expect him to come back.

But he did. A week later.

You were arranging window baskets when the bell chimed, and you glanced up, already speaking.

“We’re out of tulips until Tuesday, I’m afraid-”

“Wasn’t comin’ for tulips.”

You froze. Then turned.

George stood in the doorway, hands in his coat pockets again, hair messier than last time. A little windblown. A little tired.

But smiling.

“Oh,” you said. Brilliantly. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

There was a pause. The air smelled like eucalyptus and lemon balm, and your knees suddenly felt like water.

“I liked the flowers,” he said, after a beat. “Didn’t just look good in the photo. Felt… right. Like they meant somethin’.”

“I’m glad.”

Another pause. He stepped closer, slow. Like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome.

“D’you mind if I ask about a few more?”

“No,” you said quickly. “Of course not.”

So you did. You walked him through meanings again, deeper this time. Into forgotten symbols, language barely spoken anymore. He listened like it was music. Like your voice had chords. Sometimes he’d ask strange things, like:

“If you were a flower, which one would you be?”

You thought. “Maybe a thistle.”

He laughed. “Prickly?”

You shrugged.

He tilted his head. “Yeah. I see that.”

And sometimes he'd point and ask, “What would you never give someone?”

You answered. “Yellow carnation. Rejection. Contempt.”

George raised his eyebrows.

“Brutal, isn’t it?”

“Mm.” His gaze stayed on the flowers a moment longer, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Flowers’ve got more bite than I thought.”

You nodded. “That’s why people used to take them so seriously. Whole courtships, built on what someone handed you in a nosegay.”

That made him laugh under his breath. “Suppose I’d best brush up, then.”

“You planning to court someone?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just gave you a small smile and changed the subject, easy as water slipping through cracks.

It was two days later when you opened the shop early, fog still hugging the pavement, keys cold in your palm, and found something leaning against the front door.

A single bloom. Pale, soft, and unmistakable.

A moonflower.

You crouched without thinking, brushing a finger along the velvet white petals. It had been left gently, carefully, wrapped in a twist of brown paper and twine. Not one of yours. Not from your buckets or any arrangement in the shop. In fact, you hadn’t seen a moonflower around here in months. Not since late summer, when they crept open only at night, shy and glowing under moonlight.

And yet, there it was. Waiting.

You unlocked the door with your breath held and brought it inside like it might dissolve in your hands. There was no note. No explanation. Just that singular bloom, unfurled with something like trust.

You pressed it into water, heart thudding.

George didn’t come that day.

Or the next.

You tried not to wonder about it too much. He was famous. Busy. You told yourself he was probably in another city. Probably recording, or flying, or being asked to smile for someone else’s camera.

But you couldn’t stop looking at the moonflower. Turning it over in your mind. In the language of flowers, it meant dreaming of love. Of waiting in the quiet dark, hoping for something that blooms when no one’s watching. It must've been from him. You knew it was.

He came back the morning after that.

The bell above the door rang, and you were elbow-deep in ivy stems, not expecting anything. Not anymore.

But then there he was. Same coat, collar upturned. Eyes a little tired. Hands in his pockets.

You stared. “You left a flower.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Did I?”

“Moonflower.”

“Sounds romantic,” he said, and his lips twitched like he couldn’t quite hide the smile. “D’you like it?”

You tried not to beam, tried not to let it show, but you knew it was already there in your voice. “Where’d you get it?”

He shrugged, but it was a loaded one. “Got a bloke I know. S’pose I could’ve asked you, but I wanted it to be... right.”

“You remembered what it meant.”

“‘Course I did.”

He moved closer, quiet, careful. The hum of traffic outside seemed very far away. And then:

“What’s your favourite?” he asked, low and rough-edged, like it cost him something.

You looked at him, really looked. His eyes were soft but searching, wide with a kind of wonder you weren’t used to being the subject of.

“I don’t know,” you said. “It changes.”

“Tell me anyway.”

You hesitated. Then: “Snowdrops. First ones to bloom in winter. They’re not flashy. They just… come back.”

George nodded slowly, the answer sitting somewhere deep in his chest. “Hope,” he murmured.

You smiled. “You remembered that too.”

Another pause, close enough now that you could smell his cologne, soft, musky, clinging faintly to the lapels of his coat.

Then he reached into his pocket.

“I brought you somethin’,” he said, almost shy.

He pulled out a single sunflower. Like he just plucked one on his way here. Like he’d taken painful care of it.

Your breath caught.

“George-”

He didn’t hand it to you yet. Just looked at it. Then you. “D’you reckon that’s a bit too obvious?”

“No,” you said, voice small. “It’s nice.”

This time, when he passed it to you, his fingers lingered.

You took it like it was something sacred.

He stayed after that.

Not every day. But enough that your coworkers stopped asking. Enough that your boss raised a brow once, then smirked and let it go.

He didn’t bring flowers every time, but he brought other things. Stories, poems he’d read, a sandwich he thought you might like. Once, a record he said reminded him of you. You never told him how many nights you played it on repeat, how your room filled with his voice and the soft thrum of longing.

He told you about Liverpool. About the road. About how everything felt fast and far too loud sometimes.

You told him about your old garden. The one you left behind. How you still missed the smell of wet earth after it rained.

He said, “I think that’s why I like you. You talk like you’re rooted in something.”

You said, “I think you’re still growing.”

The first time he kissed you, it wasn’t a moment. Not like in books.

It was just after closing, and he was helping you sweep. You’d turned off the front lights, and the whole shop was dusky with the last light of the sun. You said something about peonies again, how they always reminded you of quiet wants. Of things that aren’t said, but felt.

And then he was kissing you. Like the answer had bloomed inside him all at once.

It was soft. No fanfare. No rush.

Just yes.

Your fingers brushed the back of his neck, his coat collar, the edge of his cheek. And he held your face like he’d always been meant to.

When you parted, he rested his forehead to yours. “Took me too long.”

You whispered, “You got here.”

━━

Months passed.

Spring faded into something warm and golden. You got used to waking with flower petals in your pockets, your hair, sometimes your sheets. George would leave them like breadcrumbs, a violet on your windowsill. A primrose tucked into the strap of your bag. Once, a clover pressed between the pages of your notebook.

You started to learn him the way you’d learned flowers.

What his hands did when he was nervous. The weight in his voice when he was tired. The way he said your name, soft and reverent, like it was already part of a lyric.

And you knew. Deep down. That he’d never just breezed in.

He’d seen you.

Chosen you.

The same way you chose each flower: not for flash. Not for show.

But for meaning.

One evening, as summer stretched lazy across the horizon, he walked you home.

The street smelled of jasmine and distant bonfires. He held your hand, warm and steady.

“D’you think we’ll last?” he asked suddenly.

You looked at him. “Us?”

He nodded.

You thought for a moment. Then:

“Some flowers bloom once and never again. But some come back every year.”

George looked at you like that meant more than anything. Like it was the kind of answer that could keep him going when the world spun too fast.

“I’ll come back,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

He leaned in, kissed your temple. Then your cheek.

And finally, your lips, like a slow season turning, like a new petal unfolding in the dark.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps

[lauronk]

20 questions for fic writers

I didn't get tagged but I saw my friends @bumblepony and @ameerawrites do this and it looked fun!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

19

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

377,477 (why is that number so satisfying?)

3. What fandoms do you write for?

TLOU

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

streetlights pointed in an arrowhead

all our memories, they're haunted

if the timing is right i'll turn back the clock

come tomorrow this will all be in our past

on the road again (there i go)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I don't 🙈 unless they're asking a question usually. i never know what to say and it gives me such anxiety.

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

there's nothing surgery can do and i swear i'll never be happy again. because uh...people don't survive those fics 🙈

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

probably either streetlights or out of the darkness and into the sun

8. Do you get hate on fics?

i think i've only gotten one so far?

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

i do not but i would never rule it out

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

No

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No, thankfully

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

no, the closest i've gotten is hanging out in a friend's google doc while she writes and live reacting (and helping her catch tense changes and typos lol)

14. What's your all-time favourite ship?

elizabeth bennet & mr darcy

15. What's the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

idk i'm pretty determined to finish all of them at some point or another, but that's a bold claim to make when your WIP count currently stands at [pause for counting] 15 and seems determined to keep growing

16. What are your writing strengths?

i have a good vocabulary, i think i string words together pretty well. idk, i'm really not good at praising myself with this type of thing.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

i am insanely wordy (which i have been told is a good thing but idk) and sometimes i can feel myself getting repetitive

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

i used a bit of spanish in streetlights, which wasn't too difficult because i have a fair amount of fluency and whatever i wasn't sure about i could just pester my partner about (spanish is his first language). i think it can be a fun challenge but you don't want to just rely on google translate if you have other options, it helps the language sound more authentic and natural.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

harry potter, so much harry potter.

20. Favourite fic you've ever written?

uhhhhhh this is like which is your favorite child or what's your favorite taylor swift song? i think at this moment (subject to change at any time) it's if you never bleed, you're never gonna grow, the random "ellie gardens" fic that i thought would take me a day and 7K words to write and it took me a week and almost 20K (plus some help from people here on tumblr bc i don't know much about plants)

tagging people makes me feel like i am pestering them (even though i like being tagged for these things myself lol) so i'm not gonna but feel free to do it if you want!

[azurechicken]

It is a good thing that the BG3 team is attentive and we get updates all the time, but where does it end? If they are going to continue changing stuff about the game per request, what will be there left of what they envisioned in the first place? Especially for character traits and dialogue, like making them kinder and more likeable, just because there were two more people asking for it and they happened to see it. I just don't want to see characters shift into generic ones just because of a need to respond to everyone's ideas

[museincarnate]

Once the Little Rabbit had finally managed to begin her process of healing her dear friend's opposition, and while the interview between Hakkona and King Opart had begun, it would take a few more moments until the Rebel began to regain his consciousness; pained groans preceding his eyes slowly opening, and falling upon the Lagomorph's form. Between being rendered knocked out and reawakening, only a minute or two had passed, but for him... It felt like only a few seconds had passed. From how he awoke, though, he quickly pieced together what had happened; a frown etching itself on his features for a moment.

"You're that Earth girl from before, aren't you?" When he spoke condescendingly before, and never really talked to Tater prior to this moment, his tone seemed almost... Humble, and devoid of arrogance. Even if the Lagomorph was paying attention to the ongoing interview between the Buff Gal and the King, Lirocco still decided to speak to the woman healing him. "I don't know what good healing me is going to do, if King Opart or Hakkona decide to imprison me for attempted treason, but thanks... I guess." Unaware of why Tater was even helping him to begin with, it seemed as though he had a ways to go, before his mental faculties were fully recovered from being knocked out by Hakkona... Even if the decisive blow wasn't a shot to the head.

The Would-Have-Been Usurper would silence himself, however, as even he seemed curious about the interview's topic, once a question had been posed to the Heiress, while anything Tater said to him could've likely been addressed after the fact. Lirocco wore a look of disappointment, shock and concern mixed together as he woke up more, while his gaze shifted from the Little Rabbit to Hakkona. As for Hakkona...

The Daughter of Torno needed only a second or two more, to consider her answer, as her gaze noticeably shifted from her uncle, to the other Royals in attendance; eventually coming to settle upon Tater and Lirocco for just a moment, before then looking back to her uncle. Hakkona would bring her forearm to her face, and wipe the blood from just above her upper lip, before casually spitting out what bit of blood was still filling her mouth after such a hard-hitting battle. Sure, royalty was expected to conduct themselves professionally, but this was her moment. The Buff Gal almost seemed to purposefully set herself apart from her royal lineage, if not to drive the point home that she was special, and damn proud of it.

"Fuck the critics."

Paragu, Scallia and Chylli had their share of immediate reactions to the rather crass, albeit deserved statement, as the Chief and Empress seemed to crack a smile each, while Scallia cheered rather proudly for the Mighty Saiyaness. Chylli, meanwhile, pursed her lips and offered a nod of acknowledgement, as she privately owned up to what she'd said at the start of the emergency council that allowed Tater to meet the Royals in the first place. Even if it was a jest, it was still critical about Hakkona. The crowd, meanwhile, almost erupted into cheers and applause again; keeping themselves under control, as Opart had requested. Even he couldn't help but grin, though he certainly wasn't expecting that answer!

The Rebel, on the other hand, averted his gaze from the Buff Gal, and instead focused on the Lagomorph again. He was aware that she didn't like him, and yet there she was... Tending to his injuries. "So... Before they decide my fate, be honest. What does an outsider like you think I deserve, after everything I tried to do? I can't imagine they'd make it a public display or announce it, so I guess I'm just... Coming to terms with the idea that this might be my last few minutes of freedom." And yet... Lirocco sounded like he wasn't going to fight against such an idea.

Even as she could just barely hear the sounds of the Little Rabbit's feet swiftly approaching, beneath the sounds of applause and cheers from the spectators in attendance, the Heiress's gaze was so slow to shift towards the direction of where her finger had previously been pointing; Hakkona's frame of mind rather unstable, as she tried to register just what she'd done, and what was real around her. Having to see a manifestation of Ghost again, and next to Lirocco... It made her feel something that she couldn't quite put into words.

Though, the feeling of blood still filling her mouth, albeit less than before, and the slowing of her bloody nose's outpour of the same bodily fluid, would keep her grounded enough in reality to not outright lose herself in her thoughts. Little, soft hands from a familiar face would come to take the Buff Gal's own face between themselves, while a soft sway of Hakkona's tail would initially indicate that she was happy to see Tater... Even if she needed a moment to come down from the adrenaline running through her entire body. "Sure did, Tater!" Thankfully, she wasn't swallowing mouthfuls of her own blood to sound too slurred in her speech, or otherwise in poor condition, but it was obvious that Torno's daughter could've been better.

When asked to show the Lagomorph where she was hurt, however, her gaze instead shifted towards her downed opponent who was mere feet from the both of them; a low hum escaping the Saiyaness, while King Opart had finally stood from his shocked and seated position. It looked as though he was waiting for his niece and Earth's Representative to have their talk, so that he could properly declare the winner. "Heal Lirocco, please. I should be alright, after a visit to the hot springs before we leave, if you'd want to come, but... I think he needs help more than I do." If or once Tater likely obliged her dear friend's odd request, only then would Opart make his proper declaration, as he raised a hand to signify a moment of silence, so that he could speak.

"Let it be made official, that Hakkona is the winner of this bout! A continued few moments of silence are in order, so that we may hear from the victor, herself!" Post-declaration, the King would immediately do as the Lagomorph had done just moments ago, as he made his way into the arena's battlefield itself, and approach his niece, and thus allowing her to stay close to Tater and the downed Rebel, in case the latter decided to be outraged by his loss, once he eventually woke from his unconscious state.

"Hakkona, as you and many are aware, Lirocco's purpose for challenging you to this fight was to attempt to usurp our lineage for the throne, and to rule the very sect that we've cared for, since before the other sects were even formed across the universe! To those who still doubt your right to be royalty, or your worth as not just a Saiyan, but a person overall, what say you, to those steadfast critics?" It likely felt cheesy to the King, to interview his own niece like he wasn't related to her, but clearly everyone in attendance seemed to prefer that, over things ending differently; previously vocal members of the massive crowd actively having cheered Hakkona, by the end.

The dead silence made it feel as though Hakkona needed a few moments to formulate a response, even if nothing more than a minute had passed since she'd requested that Tater focus on healing the Would-Have-Been Usurper, instead of the Buff Gal herself. What would Hakkona say? How long would Lirocco be out for? It was almost as if the immediate aftermath of the fight, itself, was still holding onto some of the skirmish's tension.

[crazymecjc]

i am the devil’s minion, and he grants my every wish.

[trans-yllz]

the dash has been so dead lately I'm about to mutualize some of you

[johanna-swann]

Are some of the Buddie fans aware that they're creating their own feedback loop?

(Some) Fans are really excited about Buddie. So the journalists, some of them Buddie shippers themselves and keen to feed their avid readers (and get their clicks), keep asking questions about it. The actors have to answer those questions in some sort of way, even if only to say that they have a strong platonic bond and amazing friendship. That leads to headlines like "Buck & Eddie closer than ever" and stuff like that. Which gets even more fans even more excited about potential Buddie canon. Which leads journalists to ask more questions about it and write about 911 through the Buddie lense which draws more attention to the Buddie circles online which leads journalists to write more about- You get what I'm saying.

Meanwhile the actors keep talking about the FRIENDSHIP and PLATONIC bond, about Ryan Guzman and Eddie Diaz both having to figure out how not being the tough guy all the time and having a sensitive side DOESN'T mean they're gay or unmanly, about how important and beautiful it is to have that coming out scene between a bisexual man and his HETEROSEXUAL male friend.

But journalists keep phrasing headlines in ways that suggest Buddie canon is almost upon us, even though the words the actor actually said were him doubling down on Eddie being straight and struggling with his (conservative) upbringing for other reasons.

[noirve]

actually still baffled about how they managed to stay together for 77 years. 77 YEARS. just decade after decade despite all the betrayal and the lies and the dissatisfaction like i'm going insane. there is literally no reason for them to ever interact again because they should have divorced years ago and too much has happened and louis is definitely sick of armand but then also. they were together for 77 years. that's such a significant time, even for immortals. i just need to see them interact again at some point, if only as bitter exes so be it

[cuntmand]

this was kinda the worst episode out of the entire series tbh simply because of the pacing. i liked the episode, but it was all over the place. they tried to tie in all the lose ends in 50 minutes, and that just wasn’t possible. louis being imprisoned, then released, losing his mind, recovering, AND burning down the theater and killing santiago, all in the span of like 5 minutes, the whole louis/lestat/armand scene, daniel exposing armand, loumand divorcing (that was so underwhelming, esp after 2x05, like, i needed these bitches to have a proper verbal argument, i needed them to be AT EACH OTHER’S THROATS), armand turning daniel (offscreen, cause they didn’t have time to get into all that, cause like… no way it was that simple lol there were too many devil’s minion hints throughout both seasons), louis flying to nola, reuniting with lestat (they have far too long and complex a history for it to be resolved so quickly, it would’ve been far more meaningful had it been done right), daniel publishing his book (compiling, writing, editing, publishing it AND selling 4-5 million copies must have taken a lot of time, so time jump, i guess?)… just by typing this out, it’s too much, way too much to cover in a single episode. the hectic pace left me unsatisfied and it also left a lot of room for plot holes (no more unreliable narrators now, cause the interview is done). idk i think they really should’ve split this into two episodes, at least. one of the things that i really admired about this show was the pace. in season 1, they managed to cover 3 decades in the span of only 7 episodes, while simultaneously showing us what was happening in dubai in 2022, and it never felt rushed. season 2’s pacing was still amazing and satisfying, up until this episode. idk man… i hope this doesn’t happen again, cause it really left a bitter taste in my mouth, and it was the finale, so my expectations were high.

[dxxtruction]

Part of me feels like if you enjoy and/or are involved in the fandom of IWTV, knowing how a rather significant part of the show is set in Dubai (a part of the UAE), you should be aware of, and taking action about what's going on in Sudan.

To explain: the UAE has been exploiting Sudan for its resources in gold (mostly), and in many ways actively fueling the war there to get it. Making the UAE a responsible party for the multiple humanitarian crisis happening there; over 6 million displaced peoples, genocidal massacres, extreme sexual violence, etc. - just look into it.

There's been a demand not to travel to the UAE/Dubai for this reason. Luckily, from what I gather they don't film those scenes on location, except for the aerial driving sequence in Season 1 episode 1. This would've also been before the war started in Sudan where this such demand wasn't in place (as far as I'm aware). Which is good for fans as it means enjoyment can just be critical and not reason to turn it off.

Anyway, just something to very much consider.

[brawlingdiscontent]

Interview with the Vampire 1.6/2.7

[hauntedwoman]

literally had to give my mom the entirety of my bday money so that i can use the car again and see my boyfriend when i want

[skitskatdacat63]

if u’re still doing these… top 5 most insane martian moments.

Sry for the late response, I really had to think on it! But these have been pretty fun to do so thank you!! <3

1. The entirety of Monaco 2010

Any Monaco celebration has a special place in my heart as you probably well know! But just Monaco 2010 as an entirety is insane to me, to name a few: the matching Porsches...their parc ferme hug...Seb trying and failing to pull Mark into the pool...them jumping into the harbor together and Seb having to pull Mark up onto the dock, MONACO REALLY GAVE US SO MUCH 🤧 but also this race being the calm before the storm, like seeing them be all cute with each other but then knowing how the season ends and how things continue to proceed after that

2. Their Singapore 2008 date

Always holds a special place on my heart. Just that we have so many pictures and even footage(!!!) of their PR mandated date in a time where this kind of thing wasn't really common yet. The caption of the YouTube vid "Mark Webber and Sebastian Vettel share an evening in Singapore" 😵‍💫 and I also think often about this comment on that vid calling Seb a "kleine Mädchen." I just think it's very cute. Giggly STR Seb and older gruff RBR Mark, not yet affected by teammate tensions

3. Japan 2007

I think its always very interesting the foreshadowing you can read into while watching older races. I love that Martian were always on an inevitable collision course. Like imagine being Mark and that rookie who crashed into the back of you then goes to win a race before you and then becomes your teammate and then becomes wdc. That they were on this collision course before they even became teammates and Seb had barely been in the sport yet. And LIKE that quote from Mark about Seb about "kids with no experience" and Seb crying in his garage, crazy.

4. Turkey 2010

I have such a fondness for "WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE DOING HERE!? WHAT A STUPID ACTION! I'M GOING HOME! FUCK YOU!"(to the point where my friends who know nothing about f1 know about that quote by proxy bcs I quote it so much") I think it's interesting how much Martian's conflicts revolve around team orders and disobeying radios. It's funny bcs in Turkey 2009, a very similar situation to both Turkey 2010 and Malaysia 2013 happens, them telling Seb to stay behind Mark bcs of whatever reasons. And in 2009, Seb is clearly 🫤 about it but obeys but then goes on to try to overtake Mark in 2010 and fails, but then succeeds in 2013, very interesting to see how that dynamic evolves and grows more toxic! But by far the best part about Turkey 2010 is them having to take that "Us in our Get-Along T-Shirt" pic 😭 it's so funny and I wish they'd do press releases like this nowadays

5. That Monaco 2021 interview where Mark interjects about knowing the meaning behind the coins in Seb's race boots

It's just very sweet to me. There's some post about it on here that explains how meaningful it is, but I don't feel like searching for it, so I'm kinda just paraphrasing that. But like imagine them having a conversation where Seb explains it to Mark and the meaning behind it, and like probably a decade later, Mark still remembers it in perfect detail, enough to remember about the specificities about which coin goes in which boot and why.

Obligatory mentions: Malaysia 2013 of course(but I wanted to mention others, but Multi-21 is a given when considering crazy Martian moments), Australia 2016 podium, Mark's various Instagram forays during Seb's retirement, that one interview where Mark grabs Seb from behind while Love Will Tear Us Apart plays, when Seb sat on Mark's shoulders, anything of them from Abu Dhabi 2022, etc etc

[birdmans]

What are your takes on the dragon show?

[trashworldblog]

god its so fucking weird for me when i describe that im not good in *insert senario where you have to kind of bs the truth. like an interview* and describe it as "a situation where you have to lie" and people look at me weird and say "no, thats not lying!" when it very much is !!! thats what lying is !!! saying things that arent true !!! if an interviewer asks why i want a job i cannot say money even when thats the only reason ! thats lying ! and im not good at that !