#virgin media television

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

David Tennant with Michael Sheen (Good Omens promo video) and then David Tennant with Catherine Tate (Doctor Who bts video) trying to convince us that they work very very hard :D ❤ (poor David trying to censor his actor companions :D)

David and Michael smol interview for Virgin Media Television, 10.7.2023

Michael: We never bicker.

David: Nooo.

Michael: I mean, that's that's sort of the key to it, I think. Yeah. Is that when we're not directly working together with each other on screen or whatever, it's just very sort of easy.

David: Mmm.

Michael: I mean, we're we're both essentially quite lazy actors, and we… it's too much hard work to be…

David: We can't say that!

Michael: We can't say that no.

David: No, we're very professional.

Michael: Sorry. Yes, we are, we are.

David: We are very appropriate.

Michael: It's too much. We see it, you know, we see other actors on set and everyone's working very hard, and it's just very easy for us.

David: We work very, very hard. Don't listen to him.

-

David: We have to make it sound that this has been difficult.

Catherine: No.

David: Do we have to say it's been hard.

Catherine:It's not hard work or… I don't mean it's not…

David: It's not easy!

Catherine: It's not easy!

David: Don't think this is easy!

Catherine: Don't get me wrong, don't think this is a walk in the park.

David: Very hard! Very… it's a very specialized job!

[the-pea-and-the-sun]

hey, out of curiosity, what don't you like about ray bradbury's writing? 451 specifically

okay so basically, I think that the valuable messaging and themes that most people extrapolate out of 451 kind of have to ignore the message actually intended by the book, and what inspired that message. here's a bit from a goodreads review i like that explains it a lot better than i probably could.

so yeah, bradbury is claiming that "burning books = bad" but this is just not the anti-censorship book that everyone seems to think it is. the banning of ALL books in favor of ALL television isn't making any sort of statement how censorship actually happens. it's an author fearfully writing about a world where people don't read books (an inherently superior artform) and instead watch television (an inherently inferior artform). it's no different from the moral backlash against novels in the 1800s (as people feared that women would be corrupted by mass-consumption romance novels) or the moral backlash today about new media forms like tiktok corrupting today's youth. the attitude that bradbury adopts about modern technologies and modern ways of consuming fiction and media is one thats much more likely to be used in favor of censorship rather than against it.

i think a lot of people who read and enjoy 451 are just extrapolating a different, better message than the one that's actually in the book. the comics code authority, the hays code, and the classification and ratings administration, and the fcc (those last two are still very much active) are all groups who's censorship has had and continues to have massive affects on the media we still view today - and none of those groups are censoring books. they all are or were censoring forms of art that were new and growing at an alarming rate for the time: comic books, films, radio and television. there is of course often a call to censor books as well, particularly children's books, but bradbury's idea that modern art forms and ways of consuming media are corrupting the youth of today isn't actually making any kind of stance against that censorship.

i also havent read the book in like. 5 years and im a big hater in general so like. take my opinion w a grain of salt yk. if you like 451 im not trying to take that from you. i just personally think its one of the most over-hyped books of all time and we should stop making high schoolers read it. there are just. better books out there. books actually about censorship even. classics, even.

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Enigma - Return to Innocence 1994

"Return to Innocence" is a song by German new-age worldbeat musical experiment project Enigma, released in 1994 as the lead single from their second studio album, The Cross of Changes (1993). It reached number one in over 10 countries, peaked at number three on the UK Singles Chart, and entered the top five in several other countries. "Return to Innocence" was the project's biggest hit in the US, reaching number two on the Billboard Modern Rock Tracks chart and number four on the Billboard Hot 100. The music video, which depicts a man's life in reverse, received heavy rotation on European music channels. The song was used to promote several types of media in the mid-1990s, including film and TV commercials. In autumn 1994, the song was featured in an episode of the TV show My So-Called Life. In 1996, the song was further popularised when it was used in a television advertisement to promote the 1996 Summer Olympics.

The song's melodic and talking vocals in English are provided by Angel X (Andreas Harde), and a short talking vocal by German pop singer Sandra, while an Amis chant ("Weeding and Paddyfield Song No. 1") is repeated, which opens the song. Difang and Igay Duana, from the Amis (an indigenous Austronesian ethnic group native to Taiwan), were in a cultural exchange program in Paris in 1988 when their performance of the song was recorded by the Maison des Cultures du Monde and later distributed on CD. The producer of Enigma, Michael Cretu, later obtained the CD and proceeded to sample it. In addition, the drum beat of the song was sampled from the Led Zeppelin song "When the Levee Breaks", played by John Bonham.

In March 1998, Difang and Igay sued Cretu, Virgin Records and a number of recording companies for unauthorised use of their song without credit. The case was settled out of court for an undisclosed amount of money and all further releases of the song were credited (including royalties) to the Duanas. Cretu has stated that he had been led to believe that the recording was in the public domain and that he did not intentionally violate the Duanas' copyright.

"Return to Innocence" received a total of 57,2% yes votes.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

To Those Who Wait 2

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as non/dubcon, virginity loss, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are tired of being the safe one so you decide to pay for some excitement.

Characters: escort!Ransom Drysdale, Curtis Everett

Note: yeah, I couldn't resist.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Tony loves himself. Take care. 💖

“Busy?” Vivica hums with doubt. “Again.” 

“Sorry, Vic, I just... can’t,��� you roll your eyes at your reflection. No, the eye liner is too much. You think mascara’s fine. 

“What’s going on?” Her voice rises from your phone as it rests amid the mess of your bathroom counter. “Ever since your birthday, you’ve been kind of a bitch.” 

She isn’t wrong. You twist the wand of the mascara and pop it from the tube. You sigh. 

“I know, I’m sorry. Better reason for you all to go without me,” you say. “I don’t want to bring you down.” 

“Hm, fine,” she lets her disappointment through. “But you’re getting coffee with me soon. I’m worried.” 

You nod and brush through your lashes. “I’ll let you know what I’m free.” 

You sniff as she tuts noisily. “Fine, I’ll wait.” 

“Go, have fun,” you insist. “Text you later.” 

“Right, sure.” 

You tap the red button and the call ends. You slide the wand into place and twist the mascara shut. You fighting a losing battle here. You drop the tube and throw your head back, heaving out a breath. 

You don’t even know why you’re doing this. It’s a joke. A date? You’ll just be letting down one more person. You hate to waste Curtis’ time. Hence, why you haven’t told anyone about it. You don’t need them to know about another fuck up. 

The phone buzzes. You roll your eyes and press your fingerprint to the screen to unlock. You expect another long lecture typed out by Vivica, instead, it’s Curtis. Is he already here? No, you’re not ready. You bend to read his message. 

‘Hey, if you got em, wear sneakers or hiking boots.’ 

You squint. Huh? Is he taking you on a hike? Wow. Well, you suppose you deserve that kind of effort. Besides, you’re really not in the mood for a crowded restaurant where you have to pretend to know the appetizer sharing etiquette. 

‘I can dig some out’ you type back. 

You step back and sift through your sparse make up. You pick out a shade of lip gloss closest to your natural hue. Is it really necessary? Why are you even trying? You know how this ends. You pop your lips and snap the cap into place. 

Maybe he’s a murderer. Somehow, that doesn’t scare you. Even as the pieces seem to fall into place. He’s taking you out alone. Somewhere he’s kept a surprise, and he told you to bring sporty shoes. You expect you might be running from an axe in the woods soon enough. Not such a dire end considering. 

You shake off the absurd thought. You don’t want to look like you went overboard. Curtis has been so casual about all of this. Yeah, casual. Just put on something simple. 

The black jeans could easily be mistaken for nicer pants. The turtleneck isn’t too much either. Blue cotton with little white daisies. You’ll put a cardigan over it and pull on your hiking boots. Wow, a dream come true. A date in Sorel avant garde. 

Your nerves begin to go wild. You don’t know why. It’s not a real date, it’s a courtesy. He asked so you might as well just go. You grab your phone and wait on the couch, a youtube video babbling unheard from the television. 

Your phone vibrates. You sit up. It’s Curtis. 

‘Here. I think.’ 

‘I’ll come down’. You type back. 

You get up and hurry around. You grab your crossbody bag and your keys. You shoulder out the door and lock it behind you. Your phone buzzes once more. 

‘Right by the door.’ 

You come out and look around, searching the cars parked along the curb. Your attention is drawn back to the motorcycle between an SUV and Honda Accord. You approach Curtis as he hugs a second helmet under his arm. 

“Hope you don’t mind.” He offers the helmet. 

You take it as you process the full picture. The matte black tank, the leather saddle bags in the same shade as his jacket and gloves, the steel gray exhaust and thick tires. You nod. 

“Not at all.” 

“I shoulda warned you,” he says. 

“I’ve been on one before,” you assure him as you pull on the helmet and loop the strap under your chin. 

“Oh?” 

“I know, I don’t look like the type. I’m not.” You flip the visor down. 

“Ah, well, whoever he was, hope he didn’t spoil the ride completely,” he says, “get on.” 

He turns and straddles the bike, kick back the stand. You hesitate then reach for his arm. You climb up behind him and swing your leg over. You wince as you land on the seat. Ouch, you’re still a bit sore down there. 

“Gonna have to hang on tight,” he pats his side. 

“Sure, uh... right.” 

You hook your arms around him. This is an easy gag for a man. Get a woman nice and close under the fear she might become road kill. Slick. 

“You ready?” He rolls the bike towards the street. 

“Ready,” you assure him. 

He starts the motor and revs. He angles around and speeds off down the road. You pull yourself closer as the wind tunnels around you. The smell of leather fills your nose as you close your eyes. It’s not awful, is it? 

When you look again, you’re head towards the town line. You watch the trees grow thicker as he steers along the country roads. That paranoia rises again. It would be just your luck. Look what happened the other night. 

You lift your head and peek over his shoulder. He rides up to a farm and comes a halt. He plants his feet in the dirt and kills the engine. A thrum lingers in your muscles as the roar of the bike dulls your hearing. 

“We’re here,” he proclaims. 

You take his cue. You get off first and he parks the bike with a kick of the stand. You wiggle the helmet off and look up at the farmhouse and the barn further back. Your brows pinch together curiously. 

“It’s not that lame, I promise.” He takes your helmet and hangs it with his on the handle bar.  “Friend of mine owns the place. He let me have it for the night.” 

“Mhm, good friend.” 

“Yeah, he can be,” he removes the saddlebags from the back of the bike and waves you on. “That way, just around the back.” 

You nod and turn away. You stride up along the side of the house. It’s an old-fashioned place. Faded wood and peeling paint. You pause before you can pass it completely. You look back at him as he nearly runs into you. 

“Everything alright?” He asks. 

You look him in his stormy gray eyes, “you’re not going to kill me, right?” 

He snorts and his cheek dimples. “I can’t guarantee no blood but that’s far from the plan.” 

You frown. What a strange answer.

You shrug and turn back to your path. You come out around the back of the house, sown fields in the early stages of growth behind a large board painted with circles. A ply wood target. A picnic table across from it with a clutter over one half. You cross your arms as you near. 

“Hatchet throwing,” he puts the saddle bags on the table. “Thought it would be fun. Something a little less... crowded.” 

“Oh?” You tilt your head like a squawking crow. 

He lifts one of the axes and holds it up. “Good stress relief.” 

“Mm,” you reach for one, less confident in your grasp. 

He turns to the target and extends his arm towards it. “You wanna keep a light but sturdy grip,” he says. “You don’t want it to catch.” 

He bends his arm back and swings it ahead again, letting the hatchet fly with easy. You flinch as it thunks into the target, just off-center. Your lips slant. 

“You got a lot of experience?” 

“Well, I started with darts at the bar but didn’t like all the drunks. There’s a place you can pay to do this in town but it’s pricey and loud,” he says. “So... I put this together.” 

“Yeah, probably not worth the money.” The words hang in the air, a question whether you mean the activity or yourself. 

“Go ahead.” 

“Uh, oh,” push your bag behind you and look at the target. “I...” You raise your arm, try to line up your aim, then drop it down. “I can’t.” 

“You want a few tips?” 

“Think I need them.” 

“Alright, no problem. It’s no biggy. Worst that happens, it lands in the dirt.” He comes close and lightly guides you by your shoulders, standing you perpendicular to the target. “Alright, bring it up.” 

You raise your arm and he helps you line up. He gets even closer and nudges your feet with his scuffed boots to get you in position. “That’s it, just like that.” 

You grip the axe tighter and your eyes widen. Those words hit you like the blade, slicing deep. The body on top of yours, his rasping cooes, and his cruel thrusts. You blink away the vision of Hugh and shudder. 

“Here,” Curtis touches your hand, “loosen up. Pull back. Yeah, you got it.” He steps back, “when you’re ready, let it fly.” 

He stands away from you and watches. You bite down and stare at the target. All your frustration and fear bubbles in your chest. You narrow your eyes and take a breath. You fling the hatchet without restraint. The thunk in the wood is deafening. 

Curtis whistles, “wow, good shot.” 

You turn straight to examine the board. Your shot is opposite of his, right on the line with the bullseye.  

“Lucky,” you say. 

“I dunno, you seem like a natural,” he crosses the ground and pulls out the hatches. “Wanna toss a few more? Build up an appetite?” 

“Uh, sure,” you agree. “It is kind of fun.” 

“I think so. Even more when you have company,” he approaches and offers the hatchet. “I packed a picnic so we won’t have to chew on seeds.” 

You glance at the sprouting fields. You laugh. It was a little fun. 

“Got one,” he spins the hatchet in his hand. “You go first. Since you won first round.” 

“What? No I didn’t.” 

“You were closer so... that’s a win. Champ.” 

“Alright, no need for the sarcasm,” you shake your head. 

“I’m a sore loser,” he winks. “So, take it easy on me and I might lighten up.” 

🎯

The rumble of the engine stays with you as you climb off the bike. Curtis cuts the engine and flips down the stand. He takes off his helmet as you descend back to earth. Literally. Somehow in those last three hours or so, he kept the world from invading your mind. 

“That was nice,” he says. “I think.” 

You hold the helmet in your hands, a good way to keep them still. You look down and crack a smile. He hangs his on the bike. 

“Another one huh?” He says and you pop your head up. “Got another smile.” 

You blush and shake your head, “I don’t know. I guess.” 

“You had fun?” He asks. 

“I did,” you contend and hand over the helmet. “Thanks. For everything.” 

“No, thank you.” He holds the helmet at his side and stares at you. The streetlights cast ominous shadows over him. He shifts so his sole scrapes the ground. “I hope maybe we can do it again.” 

“Er...” you’re struck by the suggestion. Again? Like a second date. That can’t be real. Not after everything. Oh bitter irony. “Sure, Curtis. I think next time I could let you win.” 

“Yeah, next time,” he rasps. He leans in and you realise what’s happening. He’s going to kiss you. Oh. 

“Ugh, oh,” you trip on nothing and hop up on the curb. “Oops, sorry, it’s so dark out here.”  

He recoils and clears his throat, “yeah, uh, you want me to walk you to the door?” 

“Uh, no, no,” you put your palms up. “I won’t take up any more of your time.” 

“Alright,” he says despondently. “Have a good night.” 

“Yeah, you too.” 

“I’ll text,” he mutters. 

“I’ll answer.” 

You spin and cringe at your building. You suck. You're a dork. Ew. Ew. Ew. 

You march up the walk and don’t stop until you’re inside. You blew it. So close but so far. Just like you expected. Well, then you can be that disappointed. 

You retreat to your apartment and slam your phone down. You won’t think about it. He has to drive home and he won’t text tonight anyway. You just hate a date. A date! 

Was it really real? After everything? You think so. 

You sink onto the couch. You hold your chin and pick your lip. Just another day and you’d be in la la land. This would be heaven. One more day and you may have let him kiss you. Before you were used up and tarnished. 

Ugh. Why couldn’t you have just let it happen? Because those things don’t happen to you. Romance isn’t for you. It’s for other people. And people lie. Even Curtis. Maybe he won’t text after all. 

You lean back and turn on the television in resignation. You put on an early 00s sitcom with a sadly departed main star. That’s how life is. When it’s good, it goes wrong, or it’s just over. When it’s bad, that’s when it seems eternal. 

You cross your legs then think better of that. Even with all the lube, there’s a lot of damage done. Nothing serious, just sensitive. It was your first time. You don’t imagine it gets better. 

Your phone buzzes at the end of episode two. You nearly jump off the sofa. Don’t be stupid. 

You get up, patiently, and get your phone. You sit down again before you unlock it. The message that comes up isn’t from Curtis. Or Vivica. Or Mila. Or Jerrod. 

It’s from WhatsApp. You only ever used that for... 

‘You lookin’ for another weekend fling?’ 

You stare at Hugh’s message. You deleted the conversation but you recognise the number. The two checkmarks turn green to show you’ve read the message. God dammit. 

You don’t answer. You can’t. You’re mortified. You crash back to earth with startling speed. You can’t undo that. Worse, you don’t think you’ll ever get past it. 

You clear all your apps and put your phone on do not disturb. 

You stretch out on the couch and focus on the TV. Not really. It just glares in your vision as you stare through it. As you can hear nothing but a distant whistle. You stay like that, fractured, until your consciousness slowly falls away. 

You’re back in the hotel room. Alone one minute then pinned to the bed. The ceilings tear open as Hugh fucks you. You’re gushing around him, the smell of blood fills the air with iron. You meld with the blankets, shrouded in them, then suddenly thunder roars through the space. 

Curtis rides in on his motorcycle. How? A hatchet flies and hit the headboard, glancing by your cheek. You look past Hugh’s writhing body, completely oblivious of the other’s man disgusted glares. 

“Slut.” 

The word wakes you. You jolt up and hold your head dizzily. The windows are glazed over with the soft tones of morning. You groan and turn your legs over the edge of the couch. 

You get up to make your coffee. The dark roast brew and the aroma eases your nerves. You grab you phone out of habit and sit down. You have another message. You put the phone down. 

You go back to the kitchen and fill a mug. You drink in silence. You take the cup into the bathroom and shower before you finish the dregs. As you sit to pee, you wince. It’s been a week. It’s still painful but you’re sure it’s all in your head. After all, your pride hurts worse than anything else. 

You rinse your cup, pick up your phone, and determine to delete the message. As the chat opens, you’re stopped by the image there. You nearly drop it. Instead, you lean on the counter is gasp. 

‘Thot I was ur 1st' the message reads beneath the photo of you and Curtis in the yellow cascade of the streetlight. 

The checkmark fills and three bubbles pop up. Fuck. The next text comes quickly. 

‘How would ur bf feel about u fucking strangers?’ 

‘Not my bf. Leave me alone.’ Your thumbs tap furiously and you hit send. 

He sends a laughing emoji and the dots appear again. ‘I got a discount. Just 4 u.’ 

‘No thx. Not interested’ 

‘Didn’t ask don’t care but think I know who would’ 

You huff and hang your head back. You don’t get it. Why is he doing this? He got his fee and you got what you paid for. 

‘No. Pls don’t message again.’ 

You bring down the menu and delete the conversation and block the sender. It isn’t until after that that you realise. He took that picture outside your building. He knows where you live. How? 

The police? Would they do anything? Would they believe you? You just deleted the evidence. 

He’s bluffing right. He just wanted more money. You’re not stupid. Come on. You are a wallet to him, nothing more. You’re not naive enough to think he enjoyed it any more than you did. It’s business to him. He did his job and he got a pretty penny. If you could get that much for a few hours, you’d be hustling too. 

It’s just a poor attempt at blackmail. A hail mary for any extra pay check. Too bad for him, you don’t have that type of money. You already splurge on regret. 

You’ll keep an eye over your shoulder but you really doubt it’s anything more than greed. He must have a dozen clients. Hm... that thought doesn't make feel you better. You don’t know that you’ll ever really feel good again. Did you ever before? 

📱

“I know it’s cliche but I told you, I’m not exactly the creative type,” you settle in at the table and look through the cafe window. 

“I told you, I trust your judgment. And can’t go wrong with coffee,” Curtis says. 

“Guess not, but I’ve had some shitty coffee in my day.” 

His cheek dimples and he tilts his head in agreement, “me too. I’m not some coffee snob but some of the water they serve around town.” 

“You’re talking about Smokey’s, right? They serve ash-flavoured piss. Oh, sorry, I...” you give a sheepish smile. “I got carried away.” 

“You’re right though,” he snorts. 

“Ha, thanks. Mila disagrees. She keeps trying to convert me.” 

“Sounds like Jensen but with those acid energy drinks. I told him, he’s going to have a heart attack.” 

“Ew, those things are worse. It’s like someone made mountain dew worse.” 

He chuckles. That doesn’t happen often. “Wow, I should bring you in as backup. Then he might actually listen.” 

The barista comes with your drinks and you thank her. You ordered a tea latte, not your usual fare. Curtis eyes it as he cradles his cup of dark roast between his large hands. 

“I’m not much of a tea person but that looks interesting.” 

“London Fog. Just very foamy Earl Gray,” you explain. 

“Ah,” he nods thoughtfully. Your bag vibrates and you elbow it back on your hip. Not right now, Mila. “Not to be socially awkward but you like horror movies?” 

“I like them but they still scare me,” you say. 

“Really? Something actually scares you?” 

“What do you mean?” You scoff. 

He stares at you. “Do you really not know?” 

“Know... what?” 

“You’re terrifyingly hard to read,” he says. “You’re so lock and key that it’s hard to tell what you’re thinking. Easy to assume you want to scoop my guts out with a plastic spoon.” 

“I’m not much for slashers, I’m more into psychological scares,” you counter then catch yourself. You smile. “Sorry. I’m not... you know, I can be a bitch but I’m not really one.” 

“That isn’t what I meant.” 

“I know, I just don’t know how else to say... if I look at you like a rabid dog, I swear, I’m just thinking.” 

“Yeah, Jensen says I have RBF too.” 

“RBF?” You wonder. 

“Resting Bitch Face, although he started calling it Raging Curt Face.” 

You laugh. He does too. The last bit of ice melts away. 

“I’m on a roll today,” he says. “So I may as well ask, wanna come over and watch scary movies?” 

🍿

The mood is set. The curtains are drawn to darken the room and the television glows as the only source of light in the space. Not much of a beacon as the images on the screen remain in shadow as the grinding soundtrack drones from the speakers.

You sit on the couch, enthralled by the manic horror of the character’s shallow breaths. 

You jerk as something brushes over your shoulder. You quickly still yourself as you realise what it is. Curtis stretches his arm over your shoulders. 

“Scared yet?” He asks. 

You giggle, “only a little.” 

He stays close and you don’t push him away. It’s such a weird feeling. To have someone in your space but you don’t mind it. To be honest, it’s comforting. 

You stare at the screen as the tension builds. As a loud noise frightens you, you jolt and lean into Curtis. He curls his arm snug around you. Then the next startling twist comes and you turn your face into his shoulder. 

“You didn’t say you were a baby,” he teases. 

“Oh, hush,” you speak into his shirt. 

“Hey, it’s alright,” he grits and brings his hand up under your chin. “I’ll protect you from the boogeyman.” 

You glower up at him and he sighs, “don’t look at me like that.” 

“How can you tell how I’m looking at you?” 

“I can feel it,” his thumb rubs your chin and he leans closer. 

You swallow as he keeps coming. You don’t stop him. You’re stuck. Your body won’t answer the screaming in your head. He presses his lips to yours and you let out a soft noise. He presses his mouth against yours for a moment then pulls away. 

He’s quiet as you puff you, your heart racing. “Was that okay?” 

You cough, “uh, yeah... sorry, I... I’m surprised.” 

“Can I do it again?” He asks. 

You quiver and nod, “sure.” 

He kisses you again. This time his tongue traces the crease of your lips. You open to him, unsure what you’re supposed to do. He delves within as he cradles your head and squeezes you closer. 

A warmth creeps up your body. Cozy at first. Intoxicating either. But it keeps burning. Hotter and hotter as his hand slithers down your back. His groan triggers a tickle in your brain and nearly bite down.  

You touch Curtis’ chest and urge him away. He reluctantly parts and slackens his hold on you. You stand up without a word. 

“Everything alright?” He asks. 

“I need your bathroom. Sorry.” 

You hurry away, staggering through the dark, and close the bathroom door behind you. You flip the light on and stomp to the tub, sitting on the porcelain as you drop your head into your hands. What the fuck? What is wrong with you? 

That wasn’t bad. It was great. You were getting somewhere. You were having a normal experience. It’s like you just can’t let yourself win. 

You smack your cheek, then your other. You do it a few more times before you sit up straight. God! What a disaster. What a stupid woman you are. You can’t even blame anyone but yourself. You did this to yourself. 

You ran away from Curtis. You came in here to mope. And you hired Hugh. 

No, don’t-- that’s not relevant. You’re forgetting that. It didn’t happen. You’re trying to move on. You can move on. Curtis doesn’t have to be your penance; he can be your antidote. 

There’s a knock at the door. You stare at the wood. 

“Yeah?” 

“Are you okay?” Curtis asks. 

“Yep.” You call back. 

“I’m sorry if... if that was too much. If I went too fast,” he says. 

You huff and stand. You drag your feet to the door. You make yourself open it and face him. He turned the lights on. You ruined the night. 

“I think maybe I should just go. I’m sorry I spoiled the movie,” you say. He doesn’t move. 

“What? I paused it. It’s fine. We can finish it.” 

“No, Curtis, I’m just... I keep... aren’t you tired of me yet?” 

He shakes his head, “no, are you tired of me?” 

You clamp your lips and pop them in exasperation. “No.” That makes this harder. Because you aren’t tired of him. Because you do like him. 

“So why are you running away?” 

He grips the door frame. He’s a big man. He doesn’t have to let you leave but you know if you say you want to go, he will. For a moment, his size reminds you of another person. One who didn’t listen. One who didn’t hear your 'stop'. 

“This is really embarrassing but I’m just going to be honest otherwise you’ll just think I'm insane,” you throw your hands up. “I’ve never, uh, never... had... someone before. You know? Never been on any dates, er, until you.” 

He nods and his expression stays the same, “alright.” 

“So yeah...” 

He narrows his eyes, “is that it?” 

You stare at him. “Yeah, I guess that’s it.” 

“I don’t care about that. I care about us, you know? About right now. So then or whenever, it’s not important. But right now I can be patient. I can take it slow.” He drops his hand from the frame. “We can just watch the movie. That’s it.” 

You look down and slump, “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” he gently touches your arm. “I don’t want you to be sorry because you did nothing wrong. Thank you for telling me.” 

You don’t say anything else. You’re too mortified to muster more than a grumble. You reach for the light switch but he stands as a wall between you and escape. 

“One more thing though,” he says, “I’m not just someone. I'm your boyfriend.” 

You falter and clasp your hands in front of your stomach, “boyfriend?” 

He smiles, “I can wait for my girl. That’s half the fun, isn’t it?” 

He offers his hand and you consider it as your lips curve without a thought.  You accept the offer and latch onto his large hand.  

“Guess I’ll find out,” you say.” 

[hollywforever]

Holly Willoughby attends the Virgin Media British Academy Television Awards at The Royal Festival Hall on May 12, 2019 in London, England. 

[themotherofhorses]

im begging you, dark!aemond bodyguard of the president/king’s innocent daughter omggggg

pairing: bodyguard!aemond targaryen x president's daughter!reader

warnings: explicit language. oral sex. loss of virginity (kinda). daddy kink. slight breeding and housewife kink. small mentions of past obsessive tendencies on aemond's part.

notes: hello, long time no write. consider this me using this request like i'm saddling the horse after getting thrown off.

(also ik aemond might not seem AS dark as other times but like pretty pls read between the lines. thank you ☺️)

masterlist

For being the nation’s current president, your father was quite the fucking fool of a man.

He loves you, truly. How could he not? You were the spitting image of your late mother, and the youngest of his children- his sweet little chick that was barely beginning to spread her wings and leave the nest. He would never forgive himself if you ever got hurt due to his elected role as the commander-in-chief and head of state.

That was the main reason why he hired Aemond Targaryen as your personal bodyguard.

The man had a commendable record behind him, despite his young age. Your father was beyond impressed with him when he first interviewed him for the job. Two tours in the U.S. army as a sergeant and sniper before receiving an honorable discharge and a Purple Heart due to an eye injury while seeing combat overseas. According to some of the everyday politicians, he threw himself over his younger nephew during an ambush with enemy fire, and took a massive chunk of bomb shrapnel to the left side of his face; doctors saved him, of course, but his eye was too damaged to save.

They offered him a glass eye and a fully paid scar revision (along with special vet benefits and apparently some hush-hush money as well), but he refused it all. Instead, he accepted the purple heart, crammed a pretty and shiny sapphire into his empty socket, and made sure everyone- military personnel and civilian altogether- looked him in both eyes whenever they addressed him.

The rumors were true- Sergeant Aemond One-Eye was as terrifying as he was deadly.  

Perhaps that was the reason why it did not take very long for him to be buried between your thighs.

You never had a boyfriend before, always too devoted towards your college academic and hobbies, and way too protected and overshadowed by your father. But it was Aemond who stole your first kiss, two months into his new job as your bodyguard. He had been accompanying you on a small shopping trip to the mall, treating it as a sort of bonding experience. When you had mentioned the new lip gloss you were trying out (it was flavored ‘chai latte’), he had asked to taste it.

Okay! you giggled, thinking nothing of it; only for it to be a week later and with his head in between your thighs, eating you out like a starved man.

“Stop it…! Aemond! My daddy might walk in!” You cried, tossing your head back against the pillows as you bit down on your bottom lip to stop the moans from tumbling out. It was all in stupid vain; your bodyguard had you putty in his hands. Anything he wanted, you would happily give him- yourself included. “A-Aemond…!” How could he ever stop? Not when you sounded oh so fucking pretty, so sweet and yummy, his newfound favorite meal served to him on a silver platter, just ready to be completely devoured.

Aemond shook his head. “I don’t give the tiniest shit, babygirl,” he muttered as he sucked on your clit, only pausing every few seconds to kiss your soaked pussy. He had to be soft as well, considering this was a fucking dream come true for him.

The poor bastard remembered all the times he saw you on the television, in those paparazzi photos and the Christmas cards and those gorgeous social media posts of yours. No one would ever understand just how badly he wanted you, and the lengths he went just to have you.

And, well, maybe you should’ve thought first before stepping out in that sinful, short-cut and backless blue dress, the one that made you look perfect for him to knock up, his pretty little housewife. Perfect for him. Made for him. He kept your legs wide open with the tightest grips as he feasted on your cunt, ignoring your desperate (but adorable) attempts to push him away.

“If you can’t handle this, how will you handle my cock?” he tutted. “Poor baby, I’m going to fucking destroy you.”

Everything made your pretty face scrunch up in pleasure, especially when you felt him lick a large stripe up your pussy before he shoved his face in only deeper. You squealed, hiding your face from behind your hands. You could feel his nose, his chin, the heavy pants and low growls and soft kisses he peppered along inner thighs. “And what did I say to call me?” before he gave your ass a hard spank.

You whimpered, already on the verge of sobbing. Fat tears were streaking down your cheekbones. “I-I’m sorry…s-so sorry, daddy!”

Oh but your entire body felt like it was lit on fire- a burning yet tightening sensation nestled deep within your belly. It was so strange. You didn’t know what to make of it. Your head lolled to the side while your back arched up from the bed and your hand found Aemond’s long, whitish-blond hair.

(A common genetic mutation in his family, according to him. Some of the politicians mocked it as the ‘new Habsburg jaw’. You thought it made him look all the godlier.)

His hands soon slid up to your breast, palming and tweaking your nipples between his fingers. Your toes curled as you felt ready to explode at any second. “Daddy!” you mewled, peering down through teary eyes to watch as his face shook side-to-side. His own face held sheer bliss, especially when he brought a finger to trace along your drenched folds. “Daddy…! Daddy! Ah, gods, please!”  

“Yeah, that is right, pretty baby, I’m your new daddy now.”

Your father was none the wiser to the fact that, every night, his youngest daughter’s bodyguard had her in a mating press every night, whispering into her ear that it would not be long until she made him into a real daddy.

It was the least you could do in return, considering he was protecting your life with his.

After boring meetings and countless banquets and your a.m. college classes, Aemond would be quick to shove your panties in your mouth before bending you over the nearest furniture set.

You were his.

All his.

His pretty baby, his sweet little future housewife, the girl whose picture he used to secretly carry in one of the vest pockets during his days in the military.  

One day, your father pulled him aside and offered him a bonus.

“Truth is, son, you’re doing such a fine job at protecting her. I don’t worry as much as I did before you came along. We could not ask for a better bodyguard, Sergeant,” he admitted, patting him on the back. “Would there be anything you’d like in payment? A vacation? A bonus? Some free time with your family? I know you miss your mother very much; my little girl told me.”

But Aemond shook his head, declining everything. “Sir, with all due respect, your daughter feels like my new family now, considering how close we’ve grown in these past several months, and my duty in keeping her safe. I would prefer to remain by her side if you would allow it,” he said, and your father gave him a cheeky grin.

“Should I perhaps be worried, Sergeant?”

“Of course not, Mr. President. I adore your daughter, but only as a brother would his little sister.”

So it was true, it seemed- your father, bless his heart, was quite the fucking fool of a man. It should’ve been no surprise to him at all that seven months down the line from his conversation with your bodyguard, you would be trying to hide a swollen baby bump from everyone's eyes.

And if he really was smart, then he would’ve remembered the reason why the Targaryens were so often compared to the old Habsburgs of Austria.

[relentlesslyexisting]

I'm not convinced that Kaze to Ki no Uta is that cut in dry in it's relationship to pedophilia and sexual assault. I think it's obvious that Gilbert's relationships with older men are supposed to be interpreted as unhealthy and self-destructive. We're supposed to think that's tragic and want for Gilbert to experience more healthy connections with people. I mean, his relationship with Serge banks on the reader feeling that way. But Takemiya is a weird pervert lady, and she actually does write plenty of stories with much older dudes sleeping with much younger boys that aren't particularly interested in unpacking the morality of such a thing. I dare say she's fujoing out about it, and I don't think Kaze Ki's exempt from that.

There is an aestheticism to Gilbert's relationship with Auguste that is meant to compel a certain kind of reader. It's that codependency, its that Gilbert is the only person Auguste ever shares his wounds with. Auguste made Gilbert because he needed Gilbert. A lot of the ways Auguste grooms Gilbert is his own fucked up way of saving himself. He genuinely believes hes doing whats best on some level, and I think he really does care about Gilbert. It's very stimulating!!! I can understand why there are people who are more interested in that dynamic than what Gilbert has with Serge. I mean, JUNE magazine, (of which Takemiya was a major contributor) is full of similar dynamics.

Side tangent: Kaze Ki's much more light-hearted cousin, Mari to Shingo is incredibly flippant about pederasty. Mari fucking loses his virginity to one of his dad's business partners when he's 14 and literally no one cares. Mari's just like "i guess I must be gay for that, I never thought about it before." In fact, Mari keeps sleeping with the guy no problem after returning to Europe. I bring this up because I think historical context is important and I think MariShin is really funny for pulling shit like that....

Serge and Auguste aren't as different as they seem on the surface. We want to see Gilbert and Serge happy together, but what Serge envisions as healthy for Gilbert is rooted in his own selfish desires. If Serge can "fix" Gilbert, he can perceive himself as noble. We have to remember that Serge is someone who got very little love and support growing up. He freaks out when Gilbert is called dirty because he was seen as dirty and lesser for his background. He sees himself in Gilbert and wants to save him because of that. (God, Utena really is daytime television Kazeki) To some degree, Serge is on the same level as all of Gilbert's "suitors."

I think its kind of dumb to analyze media in an effort to glean to moral standing of an author. It kind of takes away from the fun. Taboo themes in media are always erotic because the content is always meant to shock the reader to some degree. People like the danger.

[nymphiedoll]

!! nsfw accs n boys dni it makes mi uncomfy !!

m a little fairy ִ ִ resting in floral day dreams ʚїଓ

꒰ about mi ꒱ m a sixteen years old doll ִ ִ i hav a boyf who i adore ♡ ִ ִ i hav bipolar disorder along with other things ִ ִ so somtimes i might not b as active ִ ִ i lov unicorns, baking, music, mi stuffed animals, mi boyf, watchin animal docs n more ! mi name is vali / nymphie ִ ִ i lov to draw n color for mi boyf ִ ִ mi favorite disney princess is rapunzel ִ ִ i lov lov lov making edits n pinterst boards ִ ִ i like many things n aesthetics ִ ִ m a pisces ִ ִ i adore sweet scents ִ ִ n other things

꒰ la la la ꒱ i lov music with all of m heart ! im usually listening to nicole dollanganger ִ ִ lana del rey ִ ִ ptv ִ ִ sleepin with sirens ִ ִ 60s - 90s songs ִ ִ ethel clain ִ ִ elita ִ ִ a lil bit of metal ִ ִ mercy necromancy ִ ִ flower face ִ ִ sum goth music ִ ִ jack of jill ִ ִ n others ♪

꒰ television ꒱ tangled ִ ִ i believe in unicorns ִ ִ all of the 2000s barbie movies ִ ִ any psychological horror movies ִ ִ the virgin suicides ִ ִ the lst unicorn ִ ִ i like true crime vids n lost media docs ִ ִ Tim Burton movies ִ ִ n i enjoy som animes

꒰ byf ꒱ i dnt always understand tones, so indicaters are appreciated ♡ mi mental health can get bad ִ ִ slight cw for vents ִ ִ mi heart is very fragile so pls b kind

꒰ interact pls ! ꒱ creepy girls ִ ִ cute girls ִ ִ nicole dollanganger fangirls ִ ִ girlygirls ִ ִ any girls really are welcome ִ ִ m always open to making friends

꒰ important ꒱ i might post miself somtimes ִ ִ but tht doesnt mean im comfy with people using mi in icons, banners, or repostin mi ִ ִ ask 1st ♡ i age regress a bit, if it gets sexualized by any1 i will block ִ ִ pls do not directly copy everythin i do, it makes me rlly uncomfy ִ ִ please do not remove mi watermarks or steal m stuff ִ ִ ask mi prnouns ִ ִ aesthetic may change often

꒰ socials ꒱ nymphiedoll on pinterest ִ ִ vaalidoll on instagram ִ ִ nymphiette on tiktok

[veritas-scribblings]

video - @jartylusmicrofics - words: 1,343 [explicit / NSFW]

[inspired by this post by @thatcoolguyeli]

The conference had been such a ‘drag’, as Barty would put it. Davide Bastelli, CEO of Bastelli Group, is a monolith of a man with impressively sculptured facial hair and little personality to speak of. He’s not so much grey, in any sense of the word. He’s more rough, chiselled slate stone—impressive to look at, expensive to purchase, but really that’s all. Even his accent, the lyrical way in which Italians speak that normally makes James a little weak at the knees, hadn’t been enough to counteract the aggressive boredom.

Actually, James had spent a ridiculous amount of the meeting trying to subdue his violent urges; a side effect, he thinks, of all the time he’s been spending around Barty. It had been around the one hour and fifty minute mark when James’s thoughts had taken a drastic swerve away from blood and gore and battered fists, courtesy of a text message from RegulusBarty.

There’s this game that Barty and Regulus like to play. It had started, Regulus says, when they were in school and he had admitted to Barty that he watches strangers simply existing and invents stories for them. Imagines who they are, their days and their lives, what adventures they’re going on and where they’re going on these adventures, and who they’re in love with and out of live with. And in his darker times, when they’ll die and how they’ll die and who they’ll leave behind.

Of course, Barty (being Barty) and taken this game and started to wonder what these strangers are like when they’re naked, when they’re having sex. What turns them on, what they’re freaks and unique kinks are, who they’ve recently had sex with, when they lost their virginity, what their O-face looks like, who would be their free pass.

James reckons that Bastelli is straight. As straight as an arrow, because no man that dull could possibly bend. It would be an insult to gays and lesbians and bisexuals and queers everywhere. Bastelli, James reckons, is a real sub in his sex life. There is no way he would wear the pants in any romantic dynamic. No man that tightly wound, that in control of himself, could ever continue to be so in bed. Bastelli for sure gets off on being dominated, and Barty and Regulus would have loved the challenge.

This is how Barty and Regulus had snared James. Because Barty had said to James that he strikes him as someone who is ‘vanilla in real life and an absolute freak in the sheets’ and had determinedly pursued confirmation. That’s Barty’s running theory: that the dullest people in real life are the filthiest in bed. James doesn’t think of himself as a vanilla sort of person, though he does like to think he’s a generous and creative lover.

He shrugs his jacket off, drops his bag by the door, stumbles over to the bed and falls face-first into the softness of the quilt and the sheets and the feather-down pillows. The Bastellis are filthy rich—Black Family Empire rich—and have put him up in the penthouse suite of what is likely a thousand-euros-plus-a-night luxury hotel in the heart of Milan. There is a fully stocked bar. A huge spa in the bathroom decked out with whirlpool features. A media room with a huge squashy couch and a thin-as-paper-big-as-the-wall television. A full kitchen with stainless steal premium appliances.

The bed is huge. King-sized. Enough room for James to comfortably fit three people, not that he has anyone to currently share it with. For the fourth time that afternoon, his phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out with a groan. The phone and the thought of what was in those messages being sent to him have plagued him all day. Ever since he had made the mistake of opening the first photo that Barty had sent using Regulus’s phone, and he’d seen Regulus spread out naked on their bed.

And the blood in James had rapidly drained south. And he’d had to quickly hide his phone, because he’d been sitting in the conference at the time right next to Bastelli’s personal assistant, who is nosy enough to have tried to sneak a glance.

James has all the plans of strangling Barty when he gets back, and not in the kinky sort of way either, because Barty would eat that shit up. It’ll be strangling in the ‘I’m going to actually murder you’ sense of the word. Because it’s day five, and James is tired and lonely and sexually frustrated. And Barty obviously knows this, because he’s spent the last five days sending James explicit photos with sentences like, ‘wish you were here’ and ‘thinking of you’.

And now James is ready to cut the business trip short and fly back home so he can join in, because he wantswantswants. Fuck the Bastelli luxury portfolio. James has other, more important, business to attend to.

It’s not a photo this time. It’s a video. James knows he shouldn’t open it; he probably should just delete it. Watching it will not solve his problem, nor will it do him any good. As it is, his trousers already feel so tight and, laying face down on the bed, the friction against his arousal is doing things for him. With a sigh, James flips over, toes off his shoes and socks and pulls his trousers off, discarding them by the foot of his bed. He reaches down to palm himself through his pants, a groan caught in his throat. He’s wanted to do this for hours now.

Realistically, James has always been the curious sort, the sort with impulse control issues. He thumbs the video open and is immediately greeted by the sound of skin rustling against a microphone. The movement of the camera is so shaky and blurry that James has no idea what’s going on—no, actually, he does—though he does recognise their bedroom.

When all the movement in the video stills, the phone having been rested on what’s likely the dresser, Barty gives him a shit-eating ‘cat who got the cream’ grin. He’s on all fours, staring into the camera, his erection full, glistening and hanging heavy between his legs. He’s sweaty and messy enough that James can tell they’ve been doing things for a while now. He can just imagine how it had all gone down: they’d been in the middle of something and either Barty or Regulus had stopped and said, ‘oh hey, let’s film this so James doesn’t feel left out.’ James wouldn’t put it past them to think that they’re actually being considerate.

In the video, Barty glances over his shoulder at Regulus, who is laid out on the bed behind him, his knees spread open so he can comfortably work his fingers into himself. Barty turns back to the camera and says with a breathy laugh, ‘we didn’t want you to feel left out.’

James quickly dumps the phone aside so he can loosen his tie and pull his shirt off. In his haste, he becomes tangled and tugs and struggles and squirms, and when he finally gets the shirt off his glasses go with it and he cries out in sheer frustration.

He can hear familiar noises coming from the phone. Regulus’s moans, which are always ‘from the depth of his chest’ deep, and Barty cursing up a storm, his pure and creative obscenities. James yanks his pants off and throws them onto the floor, and finally settles back against the pillows, his glasses securely in place so he can clearly see Barty on his knees, Regulus reaching behind to hold onto the headboard, Barty holding onto Regulus’s hips as he thrusts into him.

Lip caught between his teeth, James fists his leaking cock, works his hand up and down his length, squeezes firmly at the base because he knows he’s not going to last. The video is just over eight minutes long and James has every intention of seeing it through.

[jilyandbambi]

yeah, if 6 teenage girls and 1 teenage boy had emerged from the Canadian wilderness after 19 months with a 1 year old baby in tow, there would've been no escaping the media hellstorm. They would've been on 20/20 within 3 months. One group interview and a few candids of Shauna holding the baby would've been the price they'd all have had to pay in order to be left tf alone because while in 2023 society pretends to care about trauma, PTSD, and teens' mental health, this was the 90s--when Nicole Brown Simpson was blamed for her own murder, Lorena Bobbit was a late-night punchline, R. Kelly marrying 15 y/o Aalyiah was an open secret, grown men were calling into radio stations to speculate on 16 y/o Britney Spears' virginity, and Monica Lewinsky was doxxed and getting death threats for sucking off Bill Clinton.

What I'm saying is:

Seven teens (the girls + Travis) surviving against the odds for 19 months is the epilogue to a tragedy with enough unanswered questions to keep true crime nerds speculating & reporters digging.

But them being found with an infant? Had it come out that one of the girls was pregnant and gave birth during the ordeal? That's mainstream tabloid fodder. The kind that not even "papers of repute" would turn their noses up at. Barbara Walters, Lesley Stahl, and Mike Wallace would be beating each other and TMZ down to get the first interview, the first photo of the baby. NBC would've backed a U-Haul full of money onto the Shipman's, the Martinez', and the Sadecki's front yard (because speculation as to who the actual father really was would be kept going until it came directly from the source). Did she know she was pregnant when she got on the plane? Who else knew? What was it like giving birth? Did any of the other girls get pregnant? How many of the girls did Travis do it with? Weren't any of them afraid of the same thing happening to them? Did doing it help them cope?

And it wouldn't just be the media. Doctors, child development specialists, psychologists, sociologists, and academics would be calling non-stop to get Shauna and the baby to participate in clinical trials and studies.

The only way they'd have been left alone is if they'd done a televised interview and ended it by pleading to be allowed to go on with their lives in peace

[thecolebrothers]

Joe Cole photographed at BAFTAs Virgin Media British Academy Television Awards on July 31, 2020 in London, England.

📷Iona Wolff

[novy2sirius]

hey greye! what does mars conjunct uranus in 9th house (in taurus) mean in a solar return chart? my birthday is this Friday so my solar return chart is close 😝🫶‼️

uranus in 9h conjunct mars solar return

becoming popular on television/in media for mars related things (modeling, fitness, conflict, etc) this year, getting into a big fight unexpectedly about 9h topics this year, losing virginity while traveling spontaneously this year, getting a tattoo surrounding 9h topics spontaneously this year, unexpectedly getting in trouble with the law this year, dropping out of college due to conflict this year

this can be a tricky aspect

[world-of-celebs]

Charlotte Hawkins attends the Virgin Media British Academy Television Awards ceremony at the Royal Festival Hall on 12 May, 2019 in London, England.

[bridgertonladies]

MAY 8TH 2022 - VIRGIN MEDIA BRITISH ACADEMY TELEVISION AWARDS - BACKSTAGE

[loremori]

Martin Freeman (363/366)

Others other Top 5 Martin Freeman outfits. [Part One & Second]

BAFTA Television Awards 2024 With P&O Cruises - 2024

"Whiskey Tango Foxtrot" World Premiere - 2016

Virgin Media British Academy Television Awards - 2022 (Martin & Rachel)

"wonder.land" Gala Performance - 2015

Screening of "Cargo" during the Tribeca Film Festival - 2018

[hollywforever]

Holly Willoughby attends the Virgin Media British Academy Television Awards at The Royal Festival Hall on May 12, 2019 in London, England.