#I 100% count you among my friends

[life-of-kalos]

Happy Munday! How's it going? What would you say is, in your opinion, the funnest part about ask blogging?

Especially when they can build relationships, good and bad. I love world building and seeing how others do their own thing is amazing. And when we bring them together, it’s just loads of fun! The big reason I still ask blog is because of all the friends I’ve made

[ms-demeanor]

hi, hopefully this isnt a stupid question -- this is only my second election i'm voting in, and i'm a little confused about results. is it actually confirmed that trump has won, or is it just almost certain based on the counted votes? bc i know that provisional ballots (like mine) probably arent immediately counted, and there was that thing about votes needing to be verified because of signatures, plus to my knowledge the electoral college doesnt vote til december? i'm probably just grasping at an infinitesimal chance of things not being shit, but also i do actually want to understand and google is not helping :( if you can't explain no worries, you just seem to be knowledgable & willing to answer questions haha

This is absolutely not a stupid question.

So everything is currently pointing at what is most likely, not at what is 100% certain, but it's like 99% certain. There are still votes being counted, but in the states where the election has been called it has been called either because enough of the ballots have been counted that the remaining count wouldn't change the results, or that the area is historically so strongly in favor of one party that it's exceptionally unlikely that they'd flip the other way (for example, they're still counting california's ballots but you're more likely to get struck by lightning five times today than california is to flip red in this election). The places that have not yet been called do not have enough electoral votes for Harris to win the election.

The electoral college is exceedingly unlikely to flip their votes against the state/district vote; "Faithless electors" is the term for members of the electoral college who would vote against the vote they are committed to for their region. It was something discussed in both the 2016 election and the 2020 election and flipping the electoral college without winning the election was the motivation behind J6. As shitty and bullshit as I think the electoral college is, if you're going to have one and you're going to have the rule of law, you can't hope for faithless electors because what you're hoping for at that point is that the people representing you are acting directly against the choice of the voters.

I want you to listen to me. I have been voting in presidential elections since 2004. Presidential elections always suck. Who the president is does matter, and does impact your life, but you genuinely do not have a ton of influence over that so you can't let it throw you into despair and inaction, because we should be active and political and protesting the wrongs of the world even if your favored political party wins. Vote in local elections, work with your local community, and if your local community sucks too, work with online communities to both give and get support.

Whenever something like this happens, people pass around the Mr. Rogers quote about looking to the helpers. I like that quote. I think it's good, I think it's hopeful, I think it helps! But I also think that sometimes it's even more effective if you look for how to help. Who are you the most scared for after this election? Who are you worried about in your community or among your friends? What can you do that might make their life easier? What can you do to protect people like that in your community? What don't you know that might make you better prepared to help them in the future?

One thing that I think is a fantastic way to prepare to help is to either begin or continue learning a language that you don't know. I am working hard on my Spanish because I live in California and there are a ton of Spanish speakers here who I might be able to help. Is it directly aiding anyone right at this second that I'm practicing conjugation? No. But it might help someone who is being harassed by a cop, or who is unhoused and needs help, or who is being abused by an employer at some point in the future, and I can get myself ready to help. Learn how to use naloxone and pick up up an inhaler; you might not need it now, but it'll make you ready to help someone who does need it. Order free covid tests every chance you get, even if you don't need them, because then you can give them out to people who do need them. Plan B has a multi-year shelf life. Pick some up so that you've got some on hand if someone needs it.

Maybe there's nothing you can do right at this exact second (though if you are able to donate to gender affirmation fundraisers, border kindness, abortion funds, bail funds, etc., you can absolutely do that), but you can get ready to help someone who will need you someday.

[mollywog]

Thinking about Katniss’s friendship with Madge (and also Gale)

I think Madge is important for several reasons, but one being: She shows us that Katniss doesn't 100% 'buy' the whole merchant vs seam thing.

The mayor’s daughter, Madge, opens the door. She’s in my year at school. Being the mayor’s daughter, you’d expect her to be a snob, but she’s all right. She just keeps to herself. Like me. Since neither of us really has a group of friends, we seem to end up together a lot at school. Eating lunch, sitting next to each other at assemblies, partnering for sports activities. We rarely talk, which suits us both just fine.

Katniss (and Gale) are actually progress thinkers in this way. They hold biases/resentment about the merchants, but also can recognize it as a Capital driven division.

Even though Gale snaps at Madge at the start of the book, Katniss credits him with knowing ‘his anger at Madge is misdirected.’ In fact he is the one verbalizing the idea to her.

You can see why someone like Madge, who has never been at risk of needing a tessera, can set him off. The chance of her name being drawn is very slim compared to those of us who live in the Seam. Not impossible, but slim. And even though the rules were set up by the Capitol, not the districts, certainly not Madge's family, it's hard not to resent those who don't have to sign up for tesserae.

Gale knows his anger at Madge is misdirected. On other days, deep in the woods, I've listened to him rant about how the tesserae are just another tool to cause misery in our district. A way to plant hatred between the starving workers of the Seam and those who can generally count on supper and thereby ensure we will never trust one another. "It's to the Capitol's advantage to have us divided among ourselves," he might say if there were no ears to hear but mine. If it wasn't reaping day. If a girl with a gold pin and no tesserae had not made what I'm sure she thought was a harmless comment.

Madge and Gale inspire Katniss’s rebellious actions just as much Peeta

Madge’s pin is what makes Rue trust Katniss.

I unclasp the pin and hold it out to her. “Here, you take it. It has more meaning for you than me.”

“Oh, no,” says Rue, closing my fingers back over the pin. “I like to see it on you. That’s how I decided I could trust you. Besides, I have this.” She pulls a necklace woven out of some kind of grass from her shirt. On it, hangs a roughly carved wooden star. Or maybe it’s a flower. “It’s a good luck charm.”

And Katniss is reminded of both Gale’s rants and Peeta’s piece in their games speech in the aftermath of Rue’s death

Gale’s voice is in my head. His ravings against the Capitol no longer pointless, no longer to be ignored. Rue’s death has forced me to confront my own fury against the cruelty, the injustice they inflict upon us. But here, even more strongly than at home, I feel my impotence. There’s no way to take revenge on the Capitol. Is there?

Then I remember Peeta’s words on the roof. “Only I keep wishing I could think of a way to . . . to show the Capitol they don’t own me. That I’m more than just a piece in their Games.” And for the first time, I understand what he means.

Please also check out this beautiful analysis of Madge by @wistfulweaverwoman!

[goldenwilliamson]

more than friends | leah williamson

a/n: please send any recs you have my way! probably most comfortable writing for leah, lucy bronze, mapi leon, and some of the matildas. but feel free to send anything through and i'll see how i go x

pairing: leah williamson x reader

summary: reader and leah both play for arsenal and england. reader and leah get together after being friends for many years, but they decide to keep it a secret from their teammates. they don't do a very good job though.

word count: 1.2k

You and Leah had been teammates for several years now, playing together at Arsenal, and representing England together since you were just teenagers. It was a strictly platonic friendship as for most of this time you were both in relationships with other people. More recently though, since you were both single, you'd helped each other through your breakups, and had become closer than ever.

You didn't see it coming, but you started to feel yourself developing feelings for your old friend. At first you brushed it off, telling yourself that it was just platonic love. You loved hanging out with Leah, you always had. Upon some reflection though, you started to realise that your feelings were deeper than friendly affection. Every moment with Leah started to carry a new weight. You began to replay every conversation and every touch over and over in your head, dreaming that she would admit she was also harbouring hidden feelings for you.

One night while away on international duties you were rooming with Leah, as you had since you were in U17's together, and after a day of training and team dinner you had sat down on the end of Leah's bed. You decided it was time to tell her. With your heart in your throat, you tried to suppress your anxiety and mumbled your way through a romantic confession. She had laughed at first when you told her, then opened her arms.

"Come here," she told you.

As the two of you embraced she said, "You know, I've been meaning to tell you the same thing."

"Really?" You looked at her, not quite believing it.

"Yeah, but I was too bloody scared, I'm glad you're braver than I am," she said.

You two had spent the rest of the night talking about realising you had feelings for each other, and giggling about how you had both been so scared to act on it. The conversation was sealed with a kiss that made you both wonder what had taken you both so long to get to this point.

While you were ecstatic about having your feelings reciprocated, both of you were nervous to break the news to the girls that you played with. Within teams there is a very unique dynamic that everyone settles into, and you didn't want to do anything to disrupt that. Both of you were also very individual players, and you didn't want your relationship to become a defining part of your football. This was something you both agreed on, as you both felt your relationships with teammates in the past had influenced your play on the field more than you would have liked. Especially once people in the public knew about it.

So you and Leah decided that you would keep it between the two of you for the time being, until you were both 100% ready for it to become a public thing. However, the development in your relationship didn't fly under the radar in the way that you both had hoped it would.

There were whispers among your teammates, people noticing the lingering touches between you and Leah, and the way you looked at each other with such love and adoration every time one of you were speaking. You both were glowing, and the girls knew you too well. People online too had started speculating purely based on some brief interactions you guys had on the pitch.

It all came out one night when a handful of the Arsenal girls were around at Kim Little's house for some dinner and drinks. Leah found it hard to contain her loving touches, letting her hand rest on your leg when you guys were on the lounge, or rubbing circles into your back as you stood around the kitchen counter chatting.

Pizzas were spread out across the dining table for everyone to help themselves to. You grabbed two plates, making up one for yourself and one for Leah. She was speaking with Jen in the backyard when you carried it out to her.

"Here, Lee," you hand it to her and she took it from you with one hand, allowing her other hand to pull you into her side so she could kiss your forehead.

"Thanks baby," Leah said, your heart swelling at the unexpected display of affection.

Your eyes shoot to Jen's face, noting the smirk, and the realisation dawning upon her.

"Oh, are you two...?" Jen asked immediately, knowing what was going on.

You looked at Leah, shaking your head, knowing you couldn't keep it a secret any longer. She nods, and you nod, and you both look back at Jen.

"Yeah," You both say, affirming everyone's suspicions.

"God, Beth was trying to say that there was something going on, but I was saying nah nah, if there was they'd tell us," Jen said, scoffing.

"Bloody Beth, she knows us too well," you say a bit too loudly, alerting the girls inside the house to your conversation.

"You called?" Beth says.

"You knew about this," you says, motioning between you and Leah.

"Oh!" Beth says, seeming caught of guard, "So this is a thing then?"

Leah chuckles, unconsciously letting her arm snake around your waist, "Yeah mate."

"Oh my god," Beth exclaims, sheer joy spreading across her face, "My sweeties, I've been waiting for this."

"What have you been waiting for?" Steph asks, stepping into the conversation.

"Cats out of the bag then," you say, laughing.

"What are we talking about?" Kim calls from across the room.

"Okay, since everyone would like to know," Leah says, raising her voice to invite everyone into your conversation, "Y/N and I are together, we have been for a couple of months."

"Hey, I told you!" Steph says, turning back to point at Kim.

"You love birds were so obvious, why'd it take you so long to tell us?" Beth asks.

You and Leah both look at each other, suddenly unsure of how to answer that question. It all seems redundant now.

"We didn't want it to change anything," you explain.

"You worry worts, as if this would change a thing!" Beth tells you both.

"Thanks Bethany," Leah smiles.

"You guys are perfect for each other, we've all been saying it for ages," Steph says, making everyone laugh.

"It's true, you know," Kim adds in her two cents.

"Thanks guys, sorry we didn't tell you," you say.

"Don't be sorry, we're just happy for ya," Jen says, wrapping her arms around both you and Leah.

"Alright, alright, this is getting sappy. Why don't we sit down and eat," Leah suggests.

"Please," you agree, desperate to have the attention off of you.

The girls all agree too, and you move inside, finding seats on the lounge and on the floor as you dig into the pizza. As everyone is distracted by the food and the game on the telly, Leah leans into you.

"I'm glad we told them," she says.

"Me too," you say, and now that you can kiss Leah without any inhibitions, you do.

You can feel the room fall into silence as you do so before Jen says, "That'll take some getting used to."

"Better get used to it quick Jenny," Leah says, kissing you again, and then planting several kisses all over your face for good measure.

[chronically-ghosted]

you call and I come running

rating: E for Explicit! 18+

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

word count: 8K

summary: a drunken confession leaves you and Javi on unsure ground. When an on the run narco douses you in an unknown, off-market drug, Javier has to save you by doing the one thing that may truly well and good fuck him over.

warnings: sex pollen, dub con due to sex pollen, minimal plot scaffolding to hold up a gratuitous amount of porn, minimally edited, feral!javi is best javi, the barest hint of breeding kink, not really butt stuff more like butt touching, light angst, no use of y/n, spanking

a/n: comes from @perotovar 's ask for my 100 follower milestone event: hi there! congrats on your milestone!! i saw your prompt list and saw "I’m so sick of this ‘will we, won’t we’ shit." and "A whispered, “Fuck, can we do that again?” against the other’s lips." and thought it would be a really good combination for either javi p or max p? which ever one you feel fits better! 😊 (as for smut, only include it if you think it works!)

🤍Masterlist 🤍AO3 Link 

Bogota was begging for rain. At the end of summer, the city and its people had been suffering months of stifling, thick, humid air without a drop of relief. Sweat clung to exposed skin, dampening shirts and tightening waistbands. Heat weighed like a physical presence in the air while open windows and doors sought to tempt in some non-existent breeze, hoping to coax some pity out of the militant heatwave. But the heat and the moisture-thick air stayed, hovering like a cloud of mosquitoes, just as merciless and just as blood-thirsty. 

Night offered no consolation either. Stagnant and cloistered, the sun-bleached air greeted its visitors with a great, warm lick – like the wide tongue of a particularly aggressive bloodhound. The ongoing joke among the locals blamed the blackouts on all the fans, spinning throughout all hours of the day and night, instead of el gobierno barato. Only then came the sigh of ease, in front of whirling blades with ice water behind them. Flapping shirts and mopped brows. Only then, was there relief to the tension. 

Unfortunately, a running car would tip off any narcos in the area, so even that small miracle is denied to the two agents sitting in the darkness of la calle. A crack in the glass window releases a tendril of smoke, not enough to expect a breeze, not enough to wipe away the smear of sweat from across forearms and under knees. 

A drunken confession lingers even thicker in the air.

You thought you could do this. You really thought nothing would change – it was an accident after all. He didn’t mean it – he couldn’t – he was just teasing you, when he leaned over the sticky fourtop in the back of the bar at three in the morning, his breath tangy with the ghost of four glasses of whiskey, his body heat immense and overwhelming as he pressed into you and said – 

Whatever he said, you told him no.

Actually, you laughed and then said no. No, because he didn’t mean it, he couldn’t, he was just teasing you and he would never, ever, ever, ever know how much you actually wanted it and even if – even if you both wanted it, it could never, ever, ever, ever happen. 

It couldn’t. It was so absurd for him to even consider it, you laughed.

And then he never looked at you the same way.

You had done something irreversible. He had said the words, but you had done something irreversible to him. 

Something in the air had changed, maybe forever. And that, that you might have lost your partner, your friend, potential potential potential disappearing in a cloud of Marlboro smoke over bottles of cerveza, that was the worst part. 

He doesn’t look at you the same way.

Or at all. 

He smokes and he watches and he acts like you’re not in the seat next to him. Like his confession hasn’t cleaved him apart.

Nothing’s moved in hours. Neither the target or the shadows in the car. The tension presses up against the windows, hot and stifling. There is no relief.

“I didn’t want it like this, you know,” you say to the sun visor, arms crossed, low in your seat. “I . . . tried to see if Murphy would switch, but I didn’t think the tip would pan out so fast, and I didn’t . . . I didn’t want . . .”

The shadow next to you emerges with his face as he brings the glowing orange light of the cigarette to his mouth. Full lips, short thick hair below his nose, a jawline sharper than any hit of cocaine. 

“What did you expect?” he asks, his voice thick and heavy like oil. It clings to you.

You scowl into the darkness beyond your window. “For Murphy to me a fucking solid, for once. Covered his ass more than once after they adopted Olivia. I just wanted one goddamn –,”

He forcefully flicks the stub of his cigarette out the window as a precursor to punctuate his next sentence. “No. What did you want, if you didn’t want it like this?” 

The acidity in his tone stings you and you unintentionally flinch as if he had pressed the cigarette nub into your skin. 

“Javier, c’mon, that’s not fair.” 

He arches one eyebrow, his teeth clenched in his jaw, hollowing out a pocket of skin below his temple. The overhanging orange streetlights sap the color from his skin.

“So you get to make all the rules now. Got it.” He crunches up the empty box of cigarettes and chucks it in the back seat. You watch him with narrowed eyes as he settles back against the seat with his arms crossed. 

“Why do you have to make this difficult?” You snap. “You know this isn’t easy for me either.” 

“But it is easier than the alternative, right?” After two hours of ice cold silence, he finally looks at you and you can feel the spike of frost in your chest. The twitch in his jaw is the rage in his eyes taking physical form. “Easier than . . . trying. Right?” 

He looks away, already having confessed too much with whisky on his breath, and he can’t afford another slip-up. He knows this. You know this. You want to reach out and touch him but you worry he might physically slap you away if you do. You’ve hurt him in places Javier Peña doesn’t like to admit he has. 

“It’s not that simple,” you say to his thigh. “And you know it.” 

His jaw twitches again. “I’m not asking for your goddamn hand in marriage. I’m just — sick of this ‘will we, won’t we’ shit. I want –,”

“No.” You say and you can feel the word imprint under your sternum. “There’s too much at risk. We’ve been in this fight for too long to get benched and if Noonan even gets a whiff of anything out of whack with her agents, she’ll . . . I want to, Javi, can’t you see that? I really want to – in case I didn’t make that crystal fucking clear. I want to, but there’s no trying for people like us. In a place like this.” The firm weight in your voice pushes on something that makes him look at you again. That rage has dissipated, melted, leaving only a corporeal ache. His brown eyes were endless in their confusion, their disappointment, their hurt. Please, he begs without words. You swallow, your thumbnail digging into your palm to keep yourself from launching yourself across the bench seat of his truck and into his lap. “I want to, Javi. I want . . . you.” 

He drops your gaze as if it burned him. He shifts back, hand coming up to cover his mouth, the side of his knuckle rubbing his upper lip as if coaxing whatever was sitting just behind his teeth back down his throat. 

Javier stares out into the oppressive Bogota night, his clavicle dewy with sweat and he shakes his head.

“Save it.”

You actually flinch. God, you knew it was going to hurt but you never thought it would hurt this much. Hurts so much it claws up your chest with cut-metal knives until you can’t breathe. Until you can’t see as tears flood your eyes.

“Javi, please.” Your voice is calm, despite the small implosion in your chest. “Don’t–,”

“No, I mean – look.” He points out across the dashboard.

The door that has been shut tight for the past three hours has opened. El Corto, a man who lives up to his name, pokes his round face around the edge of the door, glancing up and down the street with the paranoia of someone who trafficks drugs for a living. You turn your head into your shoulder to act like you are adjusting the firearm on your hip to wipe your eyes. Beside you, Javier turns the safety of his handgun and slips it into the back of his jeans.

“You good?” He sounds like Javier, your friend, and that swell of confidence gives you the strength to kick down a door into a whole nest of narcos. You meet his eyes and nod. 

The air is no cooler out in the open when you slip out of Javier’s truck into the dark night of Bogota. Javier strides across the black street, eyes just as fast as El Corto, paranoia just as high. There’s never any telling if the narcos are alone and that’s why you hang back just a bit, eyes on Javier and a dozen other places. 

“El Corto,” Javier snaps, sharp and demanding. The voice of authority. The narco freezes, narrow shoulders going taught. You keep eyes on his hands, your own hovering over your weapon in case he chooses to go for his. “Ven aquí. Tenemos algunas–,”

Without warning, El Corto takes off running, darting off down an alleyway. 

“Fuck,” Javier hisses and pulls his shirt out of his pants, experience the cruelest teacher. But you’ve already passed him –  running your favorite way to unwind, train, and way to avoid your problems, tearing down the alleyway after the shadow sprinting into the night. 

There is something singular about running that is more addicting than any drug the narcos peddled. A chosen target. A finite end. The only thing you had to count on, the only thing to worry about, is how hard you had to pump your arms, the length of your stride, the control of your breathing. Hunting down narcos was a breeding ground for chaos. But not this. This made sense. 

El Corto, despite having about half your stride, makes up for his short stature with speed. You catch only a glimpse of his jacket, then his shoe. A mile through an empty street and he finally comes into view. You’re gaining on him. The unrestrained creature in your chest roars and blocks out the searing pain in your calves, under your ribs. God, you swear you can almost smell him.

Maybe all animals, big or small, can sense the moment before the trap ensnares around them because without warning, El Corto darts left, leaping over a wrought iron fence into the lower levels of an apartment building. He’s gone before you can blink.

Snarling, you squeeze the fence railing as you tuck your legs over it, the momentum of your run clearing you from the tips. 

A voice in your head and possibly behind you is yelling at you to wait, don’t go inside without backup, but you can’t stop. You can’t help it. If you can’t have who you want, this is what you want. This is what you need.

And you need a fucking win. 

You burst through the screen door to an empty concrete room – torn carpet, wall paint chipped away, maybe an old living room – a flash of jeans around the hallway at the end giving a fraction of an indication of your target. So you take off after him, rounding the corner. You watch as he nearly runs through a faded yellow door, the wood cracking and splintering from the force as it slams open into the wall. The door ricochets off the wall, nearly slamming close again, just as you reach it, but the brunt of your shoulder knocks it back again.

And something cracks you across the chest. 

Powder. Blue. Lots of it.

You stumble, your eyes and nostrils burning, as it seizes in your lungs. You cough and hack, trying desperately to unseal it from your lungs, but it barely budges, barely slides loose. Blind and gasping from the heat of your run and through the powder, you veer off course, stumbling into what feels like boxes. Your knees tremble, suddenly unsteady on your feet. 

Through your watery eyes, you watch as El Corto drops the plastic bag that used to contain the powder, a malicious glint in his eyes.

“Puta,” he spits, the slur hardly original for a female DEA agent. He steps back and sheds the gloves you didn’t realize he had been wearing, still watching you with twisted interest. 

You’re no longer coughing, but the air still hasn’t settled in your body. You feel the heat in your lungs rise, expand, then fall, against your skin, as if it is in sync with your heartbeat. With every breath, a sour, sticky warmth presses against every joint in your body, every bone. There’s a knot building at the base of your spine, tightening your hips, and you stumble until you’re seated on one of the boxes, which you now see as packing crates. 

You swallow but your mouth is dry. Head heavy. Distant. Your eyes feel swollen in your skull.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” you whisper. 

He’s not scowling at you, you realize, he’s leering. Eager. Excited. He takes a step towards you. 

A floor above, you hear the sound of the door being breached and Javier calling out your name. El Corto scowls, as though his favorite toy had been taken away, before he tears himself away to the narrow window on the other side of the room. More shipping crates have been stacked against the wall and El Corto scurries up it, unlatching the window. He pauses, glancing back over his shoulder at you.

“Diviértete para mí, putita,” he waves with three fingers as Javier crashes into the room, his gun raised. He spots El Corto just as he slips up through the narrow window – the space no bigger than the width of a child – his foot kicking down the tower of boxes. Javier nearly nabs his ankle, leaping up the concrete wall, as the narco disappears into the night.

His open palm striking against the humid wall is a wet slap. “Fuck,” he snarls, this time pounding with the heel of his fist, “we almost fucking had him. What the fuck ha–,”

He turns and meets your gaze for the first time. His mouth drops in horror.

Sweat blooming across your forehead, you lean over on a crate, limbs trembling, breathing uneven. Every scrap of fabric over your skin burns, your thighs burn, your blood burns, you are burning. The sweat peaks in droplets that run down the back of your neck, under your armpits. Whatever he hit you with makes you want to take off every inch of your clothes –maybe then you could fucking breathe – but even then, it wouldn’t be enough. 

He’s got you by the shoulders, forcing you to look at him, before you realize what’s happened.

“Talk to me.” Javier snaps, that authoritative force sharp and demanding, and it sends an aching bolt between your legs. You whimper in pain, your eyes fluttering. He shakes you. “Stay awake and tell me what happened. I need you to focus. ”

Your lips feel puffy, overripe and ready to split, your jaw tight and throbbing. “H-h-hit m-me with blu-ue – don’t–don’t know what i-it is.” 

Javier steps closer and the scent of his cologne hits you like a train. Groaning, a strange, unwelcome instinct yanks your head down into the curve of his neck, the source of the smell. The touch of his skin beneath your lips is a balm – cool egg yolk over a fresh burn – and you bury your face in deep.

“Oh, fucking Christ, Javi.” Your voice trembles, wavering down into a low moan. That same alien instinct latches your hands over his shoulder, nails digging into the cotton. But it’s not alien, you realize through the muggy, humid fog in your mind – you know this feeling. You are intimately aware of the coiling knot between your legs, your soaked underwear, the tightness of your nipples. But this can’t be happening. It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t hurt like this. 

You gasp, in real pain, a throb that starts clenching your cunt before rippling up your spine and locking your shoulders. You hunch against him, waiting for the contraction to pass. 

“What is it?” Javi holds you, panic evident in his voice. You swear you can hear his heartbeat in his neck. “What’s wrong? Talk to me, goddamn it.” He demands with no bite in his command. 

He peels you off him, you hiss, ripped out of the soothing embrace of his arms, and he makes you look at him. His eyes are wide, mouth twitching. The entirety of his chest is blue, most of powder from your skin covering his shirt.

He cups your cheeks, trying to see if the powder has left an acid burn, as another wave hits and you lock your body, now a battleground against the strangling desire to turn your face into his wide palm and inhale. There’s liquid making the crotch of your pants sticky and it’s embarrassing. It’s mortifying and silly and the ounce of sanity still left in your head keeps an iron grip on every muscle in your body – sanity telling you to not fucking do this. Don’t do this to him. Not when it would mean so much to him.

To you. 

But fuck, you want it. You need it. You might actually die without it.

Tears spring into your eyes, making a gooey muck as they slide down your cheeks and mix with the powder. Whatever this is, you have to fight it.

His eyes dart to your tears, the little bit of powder still on your face, and without thinking, he brushes your tears away with his thumbs.

Sanity cracks the whip – if it gets on him, then –

With the last ounce of strength, you shove him back, as far away from you as you possibly can. The second his warmth is gone from your skin, you tremble and your knees give out. Fresh tears, spurred on by the pain, by the fear, by the shame, spill from your eyes and you curl up against the wall. 

“D-don’t, Javi, don’t. I th-think it’s t-t-transderm-mal–,”

“What do you–,”

You watch helplessly as his pupils contract and then expand wildly, black swallowing that aching brown. He shakes his head like a bewildered animal, sweat already bleeding across his skin, and he stumbles back onto a springy metal cot on the opposite wall. He blinks, hand tightening around his knee. It makes his forearm flex and you have to physically close your eyes, the sight forcing your cunt to clench down on nothing. 

“What . . . what the fuck is this shit?”

You bite your lip, your chin tucked to your shoulder as your body cramps, punishing you for denying it the only source of relief. You squint at him and see he’s half-hard in his jeans. You whimper.

“I-I don’t know . . . new– new party drug?” You grunt, your head thrown back against the wall. God, your skin is going to melt right off your bones.

“This is way fucking worse than ecstacy,” Javier murmurs, his jaw tight. “Fuck, got a bit on me, but you . . .”

He blinks at you, eyes glassy, with sudden and total understanding, with perfect clarity why you shoved him away, and what exactly you need. 

He murmurs your name and you gasp, another cramp yanking new tears down your cheeks. 

“J-Javier,” you swallow thickly, “I know what I s-said before, a-and in the car, but if you ever cared about me, p-please . . . please, just –,”

You can’t encompass all that you need into words, but you hope he understands, is feeling kind despite all that you had done to him. Your bones ache, skin too tight.

He shakes his head, but weakly, his eyes caught on your throat, the wetness clinging to your lips. “You’re just saying that because of the drugs. We have to call Murphy. Get us to a hospital or something.”

“Javi,” you whine and maybe it is the drugs, or maybe he has an inkling of how much it hurts, but he’s across the room in an instant. He grabs you by the shoulders and hauls you to your feet. He drops his head and inhales like he can draw the heat from your blood. The tip of his nose dragged across your jaw is a cube of ice against the furnace of your skin. You shudder, hands clasping around his shoulders, dragging him against you, his hands cupping your hips as if to steady him. 

“I-I’ll give you this.” Javier Peña doesn’t stutter. Your eyelids weigh a thousand pounds as you draw your gaze up to him. “I’ll help, cariño, and then we call Murphy. Okay?” 

You nod, dizzy and overheated and sick with wanting. You nod and tilt your hips forward into his fingers as they pop open the button of your jeans. The sound of the slide of the zipper drives a shiver through you and you feel his cock, fully hard, against your thigh. 

His lips brush your cheek, his voice slurred, dripping slow in molasses, sweet and dark. “I’ll help. I’ll give you what you need.”

The first press of his fingers against your pussy rubs slippery and wet. With a sigh of relief, you drop your head against the wall, hips shoving into his hand, begging for more.

“Fuck,” he wheezes. “You’re already soaking.”

“More, Javier, more.” 

He grinds his cock against your thigh to soothe his own ache. He nods slowly as if dazed, his eyes locked onto to where his hand disappears inside your jeans. “Y-yeah, okay.”

If any hesitation remains, it’s gone when he sinks two fingers inside of you and taps up. You moan and he shoves his knee between your legs. 

“You like that, pretty girl? Does that help?”

“Yes,” you gasp into his neck, his fingers rocking into you. “Yes, Javier, yes!” 

His touch douses the ache, the fire, across your skin, in your spine. With every snap of his wrist, he draws away the heat from your exposed, too-sensitive nerves, easing the lighting storm in your low stomach. The noises you’re making, the noises your cunt makes against his fingers – it should embarrass you, should draw red up into your cheeks and ears, but it’s just more release. You yowl like an animal in heat and Javier’s groin jerks against you. You gain enough sentience to realize he’s fucking you with his jeans on up the wall, his hand never slowing or easing. You can feel yourself gush between his knuckles. 

“You’re almost there, muñeca, I can feel it. Just give it to me. Come for me,” he pants into your clavicle, the spread of bone across your chest. You tighten at the thought of his breath against your nipples, his teeth on the soft weight of your breast –

And you do. You come with the easy brush of his thumb against your clit. White lightning soothes the rage beneath your skin and you shudder in his arms, forehead collapsing against his shoulder. The snap of his hips against your thigh is a bruising rhythm, harsh, feral, an understanding that only something rough and wild can actually save your life. 

“Is that better, querida?” His wide palm pushes the hair back from your damp neck, cradling your heated cheek. His thumb brushes just under your bottom lip. You can feel his own fever, radiating from his skin. “Can we get you somewhere safe?”

But you’re still too high, too taut, to answer him. Another one builds, stacks up on itself every time his rock-hard cock digs into your hip. He scissors his fingers and you bear down onto his thigh. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, but without exhaustion or anger. He sounds almost gleeful. When he looks at you, his pupils are blown wide, sweat making his skin glow. The skin around his mouth is damp. “Alright, I’m not gonna stop. You can have one more. One more, querida.” 

His shoulders tense, the muscles in his back shifting, as he changes the angle of his fingers, renews the pressure of his thumb on your clit. He brushes against something deep inside of you, wet and spongy and never before reached and you arch your back in response, air sucked from your lungs. His thigh nearly lifts you off the floor. 

“Oh, that’s it, isn’t it?” He taps the spot again and tears flood your eyes and spill down your cheeks. 

“Oh my god, Javi,” you murmur and he seems to like that. You clamp down around him and his hips stutter, his moan deep and coming from an ache in his chest. He inserts another finger and your cunt sucks him in, greedy for more. 

He eases back into his rhythm, raggedly humping your hip, the rough material of his jeans burning between your thighs. 

“You’re so close, aren’t you?” he breathes. “Fuck, I knew it would fucking feel this good. You’re clenching down on me so hard, baby.” 

On the tip of your next orgasm, the haze clears for just a second and you catch him in the eye. This isn’t just the drugs, you know, this isn’t just an excuse for both of you. This is hating to see the other one in pain. This is sharing a worry for a bit of yourself that lives in another body. What passes along the length of your gaze is the exact thing you feared losing. 

Selfishly, you’d rather not have him like this, than not having him at all. 

But this is what it could be, he tells you through an open, gasping mouth, through eyes that pin you to the wall, this is what we could have every day, every night. If you just let me in. 

If you just –

“Come for me.” 

You answer with his name, on a cry high and sharp, and you’re coming – harsh, fast, exploding as you drench him, his fingers pressing roughly into that one sweet spot. 

Javi slumps forward, the weight of him nearly stifling, as he gasps, his hips stilling, stuttering, stopping. His skin flushes cold for a second, sweat cooling his fever, his face buried in your neck. 

You feel it. Against your thigh. You swallow in surprise, the fog parting briefly again. 

“Javi, did you . . .”

He wrenches his hand out of you, releasing his grip on your hip as he lowers you down. 

“I’m not fucking calling Murphy,” he grits out.

*~*~*

Javier is a man of singular focus. Almost dogged and single-minded in his hunt, it’s rare he is even capable of listening to the voice of reason. It’s a different voice than his own that tells him when he’s doing something monumentally stupid. There’s a part of him that knows exactly why that voice sounds a lot like you, unconsciously knowing that you’re the only thing that could give him pause. And yet, there are times when he can shut the voice out, can shut out everything inside of him screaming at him not to do the thing he’s going to do. But this, this decision, genuinely has him torn. There is no right way to do this.

Well, there is a right way. One where he takes you to dinner, buys you flowers, walks you home, tucks your hair behind your ear, kisses you softly at first, then rough, until you beg him to come up the stairs. Despite what some may think, he is capable of being romantic. He can be sweet. He can ask nicely. 

But that is something he is not capable of right now. 

In his post-nut clarity – because, yes, he did come in his pants like a twelve year old with his first porn mag after having his fingers up your cunt for what was all too short – he realized the room you both were in was some sort of safehouse. 

A cot against the wall. A portable stove with something in the pan black and sticky. The crates are empty of any valuables – by the shape and length, most likely guns – but the few that are still full have a few bags of that elicit blue powder. He makes a mental note, somewhere on the very distant laundry list in his brain, to take a bag – with gloves on and wrapped up in several other baggies – to have it tested at the lab. Because whatever this stuff is, it might actually be more dangerous than cocaine.

Especially to idiots like him, he thinks roughly as he yanks the thread-bare mattress off its wiry frame onto the floor. He snatches up the cotton sleeping bag at the foot of the frame and unzips it, the inside facing down. This is such a monumentally stupid idea, he knows it is, but he can already feel that cramp building up his thighs, his cock throbbing awake, arousal clamping down on the base of his spine. And he just got a whiff of it. He can’t imagine what you’re feeling already. Behind him he hears you moan softly, never one to complain or whine when things get tough or hard, so he goes faster. He tucks up the other end of the sleeping bag in what he hopes is some semblance of comfort, but he wonders if that will even matter to either of you when it hits again which, judging by how hard his cock is growing, is eminent. The wet spot on his thigh, beneath his jeans, is sticky, uncomfortable. He needs no further reason to unbutton them. 

You moan, this time louder, higher, again and he turns to face you, his shirt already undone to his stomach.

You’re pale again, skin glossy and sickly wet. When your eyes flutter open, they’re glassy, gaze distant and unfocused. You twitch when that first cramp settles in deep. He thinks, his mind not entirely his own, about how deep the clutch of your cunt sucked in just his fingers and he shivers. He simultaneously wanted to get this over with and drag it out for days. Have you beneath him for days. 

Your legs tucked up beneath you from where he laid you down, Javi approaches quietly, kneeling as he takes off his shirt and goes to untie your boots. He touches your ankle as gently as he can and you shudder, cracking an eye open. 

“Javier, it’s coming back. It’s coming back and it hurts.”

In addition to the many, many agency violations, this is monumentally stupid because he’s obsessed with you. Has been for a while. Not just in a way that makes him want to fuck you for hours flat on your back, but in a way that your smile is the last thing he sees before he goes to sleep and the first thing on his mind when he wakes up. An obsession with your wellbeing, your safety, your happiness. A persistent coiling thought about your laugh, and strength, and the way you can make grown men twice your size tremble in fear. You’re a hunter, just like him, and with your beauty – your staggering, haunting beauty – how was he not supposed to immediately attach himself to you? It came on slowly, his pathological need to be near you, and once he realized what it was, there was no going back. No turning it off. 

He didn’t mean to tell you when he was drunk, but after bagging another narco, it was like he could see the light at the end of the tunnel. A brief glimpse into a world where you both were safe, and happy, and – god willing – together and in this world, he told you and he was brave about it and you said it back and he felt warm all over. But that was not this world, not his reality. In this one, he has to save you by doing the one thing that may truly well and good fuck him over. 

“Sit up, baby, that’s it.” He eases you into his arms and it’s like his touch drags you back into consciousness. Your fingers dig into his bare arms as you take in his exposed chest. 

“Javi, fuck, I don’t wanna beg, but before when you – you – I felt better. It cleared. I don’t know why or how, but with your fingers inside m-me, it . . . helped.” 

“I know, cariño, and I want to help more.” His thumbs press up under your jaw, tilting your head up to look him directly in the eyes. There’s fear there, pain, and it’s agonizing to him. “But I don’t know if that’s what you want.” 

“What I want? Javi, I–,” your eyes widen in understanding of what he’s offering, of what he’s scared to do. What he’s scared to take without your permission. 

You swallow, a pink flush crawling up your throat. “I . . . I don’t . . . I didn’t want our first time together to be anything like this, but . . .” You shake your head, shuffling closer to him, your breathing thinning as the drugs start to strike matches against your nerves. “I just don’t want you to think it doesn’t mean anything.” 

“It’s gonna mean everything to me, no matter how I get it.” He presses a soft kiss to the corner of your chin, just in front of his thumb. You nod, eyes squeezing shut, as you fight this arousal that claws into your skin like meat hooks. He pulls you to your feet, holding you steady as your knees try to lock up. He unbuttons your shirt with shaking hands. 

You touch his chest like you’ve never seen a man naked before. The hesitant, awed touch of you sends all the blood still remaining in his head straight into his cock. 

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” he murmurs to your cheek, your shirt off your body, his hands tugging your jeans down your hips. You nod again, speechless in your relief, and follow your jeans to the ground. Twisting on the nest he made for you, you slide your bra off, your nipples already tight and perk and waiting for his mouth. You huff, a sound so unlike you it makes him genuinely concerned, as the front of your panties darken again. 

“It’s okay, Javi, this is what I want. I want this.” You hate being vulnerable, he knows this, your attitude a front that leaves no room for sexist comments in the bullpen. And yet, here you are, deflowered and begging for him. You spread your legs for him, eyelids heavy, and he can smell the arousal on you. 

He drops to his knees, unsure where to start first, but the blue powder coursing through his veins demanding he puts his hands on your hips, which he finally acquiesce to. 

“I don’t think I can be gentle,” he admits quietly. He wants to nip, suck, slurp every inch of you, wants to see that perfect body bend to his will, to his turning. He wants to fuck you open and stuff himself up inside you so deep it leaves a mark. In his haze, the instinct to fuck supplies him with an image of you pregnant, bred and full of him, and his cock twitches so hard he drops onto all fours over you. 

You slip your underwear over your toes and your knees take him by the ribs.

“Please, Javi, please.” 

He knows it must hurt, must be so blindingly painful for you to beg like this. You never asked anyone for anything and that independence turned him on and frustrated him to no end. 

“Please, be rough,” you ask him from under your lashes, your body writhing beneath him. His hips, on a separate system than the rest of him, thrust the rough teeth of his zipper against your cunt and you keen, the sound imprinting into every crevice and curve of his brain. “Make it hurt.”

Oh fuck, this might actually be the thing that kills him. 

He hushes you, stills your flushed whimpering with a kiss that ends in teeth against the high curve of your cheek. He noses to your mouth, then down to your ear, where he bites on your earlobe. He’s balancing on one hand as his other tugs his jeans down and off his hips. 

He wants to fuck your tits. Come all over them, have his spend flush up your throat, your chin. He wants to come so hard he blinds you with it. And then he wants to flip you over and fuck your ass with his come-lubed dick. 

You wriggle and whine, legs wrapping around his hips, tugging him down onto you when, half-a-mind away, he realizes he just said all of that outloud.

“Yes, Javi, you can have whatever you want. Fuck me however you want.” His blood is boiling now, the white-hot bomb settling itself in the base of his spine, his balls already tight. Why he’s dragging this out is beyond him and possibly a medical detriment to you. 

“Javi, just fucking put your cock ins–,”

He watches as every conscious thought wiped from your mind, brow heavy, mouth seared open as he plugs you full of him in one rough thrust. You shudder and his elbows buckle, his body locked up tight because if he moves, if he dares to rub his cock through your velvet, hot clutch, he’ll come right there. Your eyes roll back in your head as his cock makes space for itself inside you.

“Javi–,” he claps a wide palm over your mouth, his teeth straining in his jaw, his temple twitching.

“Baby, I know it hurts – I know it fucking does – but I need you to stay still.” It feels too good. You’re too hot, too slippery, and soft. He can feel the hum of words behind his fingers and he shakes his head. “Do not fucking move – I just need to – I have to –,” 

He inches in just a bit more and you both gasp to the ceiling when he bottoms out. Your rough curls against his pelvis sears him, hot and sweet like cinnamon. He drools when he thinks about eating his own come out of you.

You only get one word out, one word that sets his whole world on fire: “Please.” 

He rears back, yanks you up his thighs, hands cupping the backs of your knees and he plows into you. Your tiny fingers that have pulled countless triggers and clapped irons on criminals twitch, tightening into the smelly cotton fabric, your mouth contorted open. His pace, his thrusting, is relentless, unforgiving but the look on your face is pleased, an almost maniacal grin across your lips. 

“Oh, right there, Javi, just like that. Just like that.”

He’s faster than he is precise. Precise comes later when the bestial fog clears from his brain, when the lust bleeds out of his system, when he doesn’t want to hump you like an animal with his teeth bared and cock so deep inside of you it kisses your womb. 

Before his mind entirely succumbs to the mounting arousal, he’s grateful he had the foresight to take the mattress down. If he hadn’t, there’s a good chance he would have fuck you, the bed, and himself right through the paper-thin walls. 

And then he lets go. Lets this thing in his chest and hot behind his groin take over, lets himself indulge in whatever carnal, depraved thing sparks in his mind.

He’s fucking you so hard you’ll both have bruises by morning. 

He watches, transfixed, at the place where his soaked cock disappears through your puffy, wet lips into the mind-numbing heat of your pussy. He can’t stop watching. He barely feels your nails digging into his thighs. 

The walls of your pussy squeeze him and it makes him falter, hitch speed. His gaze is torn away and instantly, it focuses on the bounce and sway of your tits. Sweat droplets roll from your neck into the valley of your breasts and without hesitation he bends to catch them with his mouth, tugging you further down his cock. You cry out, hands digging into his hair, as his tongue drags a wet trail over the top of your breast, the tip flicking your rock hard nipple, then beneath the swell where he meets it with his teeth. 

You jerk, pleasure overwhelming. “Uh – oh – oh – fuck – Javi.” The words leave your mouth truncated, cut short by his rhythmic bouncing. He nuzzles your tit, streaking you with his own sweat, not able to stop fucking up into you to really get a good grip on your breast, but wanting to put the whole thing in his mouth. 

“I’m gonna do it right next time,” he swears fidelity to your skin. He grinds his teeth against your sternum. “Next time I fuck you I’m going to pull you apart bit by bit. Starting with these fucking tits and ending with my tongue up your cunt. Maybe your ass.”

Against his cheek, he feels your skin break out in ridges, your whole body shivering at his words. He leans up, grinning wildly and grinds particularly deep inside of you. You still haven’t fully opened your eyes.

“Oh, you liked that, didn’t you? You want my tongue up your ass. What about my cock, huh? Want my fat fucking cock inside there?” 

You whine, clawing at his chest, as you nod frantically. He could ask anything of you right now and you’d give it to him. And god, he wants so much.

“It’d hurt, baby, you know it would.”

You nod, words tumbling out of your mouth in a mindless babble. “I don’t care. I want it there. I want you inside me. I want it to hurt. I want you to fuck me raw, Javi.”

He groans, more like a growl, rapidly picking up his pace. He lifts your knees higher and fucks up, the change in angle making you moan so loudly it fills up his ears with blood.

“Tell me where you want it. Say it, querida.” 

“I want it in my fucking ass, Javi.” 

His jaw twitching, that primal, unrestrained urge in him wrapping itself around his spine, he shoves you off him. Wetness dribbles down his lap but he doesn’t let himself smell or see it for long, as he flips you onto your hands and knees, sliding in and pummeling your pussy from behind.

You whine, singing for his cock, and collapse onto your elbows, presenting your ass for him. The pair of you really are just fucking animals.

He presses his thumb to your tight hole, the wet slap of his balls against your ass suddenly the least obscene thing in the room. There’s barely enough room for his thumb there and he tips his head back at the thought that no one had ever taken you there before. His. All his and no one fucking else’s. 

“Javi,” you sob, that preening need gone from your voice as though you are begging him not to go further, but desire kept you from voicing what you actually wanted. 

His bottom lip twitches and he leans down and gently bites your shoulder, grounding you and clearing out all fear. Drugs or not, he’d never do anything you didn’t explicitly ask for, but the second this is all over, he’s going to get on his hands and knees and beg you to let him work your ass open. 

“Not tonight, cariño.” He slides his thumb out of you, his wrist twisting as he palms the meat of your ass. “But I’m not leaving this completely untouched.”

He smacks the jiggling flesh until he sees a pink hand print, earning him a yelp from you every time his palm lands. He feels fresh, sticky wetness soak his cock with each slap, enough for it to dribble down his thigh. He’s not going to shower for a week. 

The higher he climbs, the faster that animalistic heat leaves his blood. You’re not as pale as before, the skin of your back growing a nice healthy flush. As his grip around your hips tightens, he feels your cunt clench around him. If he won’t take your ass tonight, he still wants you puffy and sore. He leans back just to watch his cock pound your pink, abused hole.

“I’m close, Javi,” you admit breathlessly. He nods, leaning forward again, that image of your pussy split open for him deliciously sealed in his mind, and he drags his nose down your spine. Sweat from his chest drops and splatters against your skin.

“I know you are, I can feel it. Can I see your face? Watch you? Can I put you on top?”

You nod and he slips out of you for what he hopes will be the last time in his fucking life. He’s no longer drug-crazed, but he is drunk. Pussy drunk. Drunk on you. Imbibed by the juices trailing down his thighs. He shifts and you swing a leg over his hips, immediately swallow him deep inside you. 

Unlike the courtesy he gave you, you give him no time to adjust, grip his chest, and ride him within an inch of his life.

Your tits swinging in his face, he presses his fingers so tight into your thighs, he’ll be able to count the distinct bruises, and plants his feet. He meets you, thrust for thrust, and he watches your competitive nature battle your overwhelming chase for release. 

“Just come, cariño,” he pants. “You’ve done so good tonight. Just fucking come all over my lap. Let go.” 

His words melt something inside of you and you whimper, curling down over him, which he takes to wrap his arms around your back, and roll you under him. He kisses your chin, your temple, the corner of your mouth. His big palm cradling your head, he grinds low and deep, seeking out that place he touched with his fingers. 

“It’s alright. I’ve got you. You can come.” He prods that spot once and it’s all over. You clamp down on his cock, milking him for all he’s worth because as you arch, mouth open, tears down your face, he comes too. He comes and he comes and he comes until he drips out of you and that breaks another orgasm across you, this one bumpy and leaves you shaking. 

He feels dizzy, unsure up from down, the loudest sound he hears is his own blood rushing in his ears. He’s never been more exhausted. 

He can hear the vibration of you saying something against his throat, but nothing is quite working like it’s supposed to, so he slumps off you, his hand never leaving your skin, as he tugs you against him.

He’ll be dried and sticky in only a few hours – you both will – but that doesn’t matter right now. The only thing that does is the feeling of your heartbeat over his. 

*~*~*

Morning, along with the scent of rain, glides in through the open window and your fingers twitch as sunlight hits you. Your eyes fluttering open, you lift your head from the sleeping bag to see wet puddles on the floor under the window, the concrete streaked and stained with water. It must have rained sometime last night and, shockingly, you didn’t hear a thing.

The heatwave had finally broken. 

It’s not until you’re full awake do you realize his hand rests in the cup of your neck, thumb rubbing smooth, soft circles into the hard knot near your shoulder blade. You smile, groaning softly, becoming more relaxed by how good it feels. 

You roll over and greet his eyes. They’re brown again, the hungry blackness gone, but leaving an edge of uncertainty in its wake. 

He wants to know how you feel about last night.

“You fucked up,” you tell him and that worried crease appears between his eyebrows. You inch closer, your hand curling up against his jaw. “All that time last night, all the time you had me under you, and you didn’t kiss me once.”

You close your eyes, drop your head, and press a fervent, determined kiss against his pink lips. You can feel it as he swallows it in, his body shifting forward, hand coming up to your hip. But just as quickly as it starts, he pulls away. 

Javier shakes his head. “I can’t,” he says almost mournfully, eyes downcast. “I don’t want to know – what you taste like, if . . . I can’t kiss you if this is the last time.”

He’s still respecting your boundary, your wishes, while coated in his release and yours. He knows he can’t be selfish with you again.

You wet your lip, hand still on his cheek. 

“Javier, you saved my life last night. That was some kind of fucked up drug, but if you hadn’t been here and did what you did, I think I would have had a heart attack.” He shakes his head, ashamed and desperate to prove you wrong. You understand his hesitation. It felt too good for it to be anything other than a transgression. “And if anything, it showed me something I think I already knew but couldn’t find in myself to admit. I need you, Javi. I need you because I can’t live without you. Because I love you.”

His eyes light up when you return the words he uttered in the bar. None of this is how it should have been – in an abandoned narcos hideout, but god, there’s not a single thing you’d change. 

“Yeah, baby? You mean that?” You nod as hot, natural desire flashes in his eyes as he pulls your body under him and captures your mouth in his. His warm palm cups your hip, your ribs, up under your arm, and pushes your elbow to your head. There’s more to say, more to worry about, but that fucking heatwave over Bogota has finally broken and Javier Peña’s cum is dried and flaky between your thighs. 

“We should call Murphy,” you giggle, withdrawing your tongue from his mouth. He shakes his head, the blunt edge of his teeth against your cheek. “There’s a deadly new drug on the streets. Lives are at stake.”

“My dick is at stake,” he murmurs, lips hovering over your skin, drawing your knee up to his ribs as he slots himself between your thighs. The smile slides off your face as he thumbs your raw clit in rough, desperate circles. 

“I thought you said you were going to take it slow next time,” you huff, hips rolling against his stiff cock. 

“I will. Gonna take you to dinner. Cup your ass over a distractingly short dress. Buy you flowers and fucking gold jewelry . . . then I’m going to take you home and open you up with my fingers, then my tongue.” 

“So what’s this?” You gasp against his neck as he sinks his cock into you. 

He groans, grunts, as if he hadn’t spent the better part of the night making your cunt his personal possession. 

“This is me, fucking you, before breakfast. Then we call Murphy. Any objections?” 

You squeeze your knees around him, ankles hooked across his low back, sucking a mark into his neck. 

“Not at all.” 

When you do go public, not shying away from holding hands in the office, or openly walking in at the same time from the same car, Noonan is irate, but can’t bring herself to cut her two best agents loose. It seems catching Pablo Escobar matters more than some silly, little government-issued guidelines. She’d get her day in court, but not today. Not for a while. 

Noonan is annoyed. 

Murphy is not. 

“Came across some new party drugs and not a single thing happened, right?”

“You could have found it, taken it home for you and Connie to enjoy,” you say as you slide your arm across Javier’s back, his hand on your hip. He rarely ever takes his hands off you now. “But, no, you bailed on me instead.” 

“Sounds like you should be thanking me, instead of busting my balls.”

“He’s right, baby,” Javier nuzzles your neck. “Could have been him stuck in that basement with me, horny as a cat in fucking heat.” 

You shrug as Murphy makes a face. “I blame the heatwave.”

He leans into your ear. “And I blame your fucking ass in that skirt. I’m gonna take you home, make good on my promise. Any objections?”

“Not at all.” 

[hollowtakami]

THE BIRD’S BOOKSHOP

BANNER ART: KADEART

Keigo Takami x GN!Reader

CONTENT: bookworm keigo x bookworm reader, pure fluff, keigo has bird mannerisms + is the cutest hopeless romantic

WORD COUNT: 447

AUTHOR NOTE: thank you so much for 100 followers!! i appreciate every single one of you, every single interaction! i loved writing this one, im thinking of making it a fluff miniseries? for now, be safe, friends! you are so loved!

In one universe, Keigo Takami is one of Japan’s  top heroes. He’s saving lives everyday, constantly on high alert. He’s a marionette on a string, the puppeteer the HPSC - they raised him, made him into a “hero”. 

In another universe, Keigo Takami spends his days with his face in a book, sipping his favourite sweet, canned coffee. 

He adores fantasy novels, he gets lost in them for hours. Losing himself in the pages, with every turn comes with it a new discovery. Keigo is captivated by the mystique, the weird and wonderful creatures bound by ink and paper. 

He reads of unlikely heroes, pilgrims, sorcery and witchcraft, dragons and humans with wings; those are his favourite characters, he loves seeing himself in them. 

If he’s not at a locally-owned cafe, Keigo will be at the bookstore. When he’s not clocked in at the library, he’s at his second home. He spends hours scanning the shelves, reading blurbs of books he found interesting, re-shelving them with careful fingers. 

All the employees know him, they love the charming, golden bird that always walks in with a smile and stars in his eyes. 

He’s tried local book clubs, but found that they thought his incessant rambling - or, chirping - about his latest reads to be rather irritating. 

At times, Keigo felt erroneous, a dusty, tattered thing among a freshly-printed paperback. 

That was until he wandered again into the bookshop, and saw you sauntering around the fantasy section - his place in the bookstore. 

He didn’t feel territorial, as a bird of his stature would. Instead, Keigo Takami found himself besotted by the stranger gazing at the spine of one of his favourite novels. 

He has to fight down an excited chirp as he sees your hands fold over the book, you slip it out and read over the blurb. Though, his wings flap audibly and catch your attention, the soft breeze tickling your face. 

You look over and smile at the sheepish bird in front of you, an awkward smile plastered on his face, redder than his wings. 

“Sorry-! Uh, I couldn’t help but notice you’d picked up some of my favourites!” 

You can hear the excitement in the bird’s voice, and feel those emotions repeated in the beating of your heart. 

You beam, “Yeah! They’re one of my favourite authors, actually,” 

The bookstore staff watched as you enamoured over each other, discussing your beloved fantasy novels; the best parts of ongoing series, plot twists and your favourite characters. 

They smiled. 

Keigo Takami had finally found someone who shared his love for the world within pages of a book. Little did he know that you’d been searching for the exact same thing. 

[peachypede]

I will never not be bitter about how Kamado is portrayed as an shitty guy in the fandom and Volo is uwu pretty boy he was just feeling angsty when he tried to destroy the world and kill protagonist with giratina uwu

Rant below

Kamado, yes, made a horrible decision. He had his reasons. He saw his whole village destroyed by pokemon when he was young and never wanted that to happened again, Beni says they watched their family and friends DIE, so he gave in to his paranoia and banished the protagonist. It’s not an excuse, but he has his reasons for doing so.

And what does Kamado do when he realizes he’s wrong? The man get down on his hands and knees and BEGS your forgiveness. He does the Dogeza, the bow in Japanese culture that is the ultimate form of apology and respect to the other person. Kamado eats dirt and is basically saying “I fucked up so bad and I am so very, very, very sorry.” The Dogeza also is performed to show high respect, so Kamado is basically telling you as well that you far surpass his position. Your emperor levels of worthiness and strength. I think the amount of how embarrassing and humble this pose is is lost to people in the Western culture but this is a BIG apology and possibly even the BEST apology Kamado could gives since it’s an apology beyond words. He also apologizes to everyone else, telling them they were right and he was wrong.

"I acted on ill-considered presumptions and drove you from the Galaxy Expedition Team, forcing you to face great hardship alone…”

And you change Kamado. He becomes more willing to delegate and work with other people. He follows your lead. Hell, he has a line after you beat him on Prelude Beach where he basically calls you a god, that’s how much this dude respects you now.

"Perhaps you are a divine being yourself, sent to bring us gifts from above…”

The guy takes no credit for the victory on mount coronet, he says it’s all you!

"I know I've no right to say this... But we are truly fortunate to have been able to count you among the Survey Corps' ranks. If you had not joined us, we would have fallen on Mount Coronet. We would have lost our home. We would have lost our future."

He is a truly changed man in the end.

"I used to think that Pokémon were terrifying creatures. You've helped me see otherwise."

Volo on the other hand? Tricks you, betrays you, and then tries to KILL YOU. Kamado was always upfront from the beginning that he didn’t trust you, but Volo? He’s buddy-buddy with you to take advantage of you.

And he’s the reason why this all happened! He created the rift, displaced pokemon and hell some people since Ingo obviously fell in through this rift too (People blame Arceus for this :/ ) and nearly killed everyone in Hisui with rampaging nobles and origin forme Dialga or Palkia.

And in the end, Volo doesn’t apologize at all. The dude doesn’t even change.

"Someday, I'll solve every riddle in the legends of Hisui's Pokémon. And on that day, I'll stand before Arceus at last—No, I will CONQUER it! No matter how many years, how many decades, how many centuries it takes me!"

I’m just fully convinced at this point that it 100% has to do with Volo being pretty and Kamado not being that attractive.

My hot take of the new year: Kamado is WAY better husband material than Volo could ever be.

Anyway my rant is over…no hate on Volo lovers, I do think he’s a fun character to rotate like a chicken on a spit in your brain but this has been my biggest grievance in the PLA fandom.

[thousandstories]

hey do u hv fic recs ?

i do! disclaimer that these are only a few of many amazing fics in this fandom. (also check individual works for content warnings.) i went pretty much exclusively from my bookmarks on ao3 as that's just where i save my favourites- i've tagged the authors if i know their tumblrs but otherwise check out their ao3 profiles <3

Heaven Is Not Fit by bloodofkingsonmytrousers / @you-know-i-get-itt (Jean/Renee / Jean & Renee, Time Loop AU)

honestly everything gia writes is incredible but this is one of my favourites. jeanee timeloop au with incredible twists & turns and an insane amount of emotion. i'd say more but if any fic deserves a spoiler-free reading experience it's this one. 100/10 ruined me for a month and counting.

anytime, always by kevjean (Kevin/Jean, Canon Compliant- Post-Canon)

post-canon, professional exy players kevin/jean where kevin's still trying to work through the trauma of his earlier years and jean seems to have made a lot more progress in healing (spoiler alert, they've both got stuff to work through). featuring biker jean, minor breaking-and-entering, and some lovely OCs. absolutely adore this fic.

we carry our own weight by wyverning / @wyverningx (Jeremy/Jean, Canon Divergence)

insanely well-done text-fic where jeremy messages the wrong number and finds himself regularly texting jean. it follows canon so well, the amount of research that goes into depicting the events is amazing. i don't want to give spoilers but the author really uses the medium to their advantage & everyone is so in-character (seriously, the jeremy dialogue especially feels like something straight from tsc). it's part of a series & it's excellent.

take yourself home by moonix (Neil/Andrew, No Exy AU)

amazing no-exy au where aaron only finds out andrew exists when tilda dies from non-car-murder-related causes. what follows is a mad race among his friends (the foxes) to track his twin down. i haven't really summarised the plot because spoilers, but it's excellent: the andrew POV is so well-written & his interactions with the various characters are perfect.

eyes wide open by jaylocked (Jeremy/Jean, No Exy AU)

love this one. despite being written several years pre-tsc, the characterisations are still absolutely amazing (not that them being different would be a deal-breaker, but it's still so impressive how the author took the hints of their personalities from the original aftg books and reached such a similar destination.) also jean has a service dog called napoleon & he's perfect (and jeremy's a high school english teacher!)

Lavender for Luck by Mercey / @merceyca (Kevin/Neil/Andrew, Witch AU)

please everyone read this, i need someone to talk about it with. practical magic/witch au where kevin escapes from the raven coven with jean and ends up being found by andrew and neil. kandreil shenanigans ensue. featuring neil having heartwrenchingly-fitting powers, andrew being insanely powerful, and riko getting a deserved fate. also jean is a cat and it works so well. (and while i was getting the link for this fic i saw the author's made it part of a wider series (though it's the only work at the moment) so that's my day made.)

[judasgot-it]

Headcannons: What kind of lover are they? (Sigma, Mushitaro)

Continuing this series a little cause these characters get NO love and they're among my favs.

SIGMA

He's the type of guy to spoil his lover rotten since he really dreams of a TV style romance. It's borderline silly sometimes, but his person would be someone who would be as cool as he is - possibly cooler. No amount of money can buy the easy style and fashion that him and his lover have.

He'd be the BEST omg

Type of guy to send his lover money and be like "buy yourself something nice" and it's like 2k

This man spoils but he also has the mindset of looking rich and being rich cause he doesn't wanna be poor

He smells better than handmade leather

He probably expects his lover to look good enough to walk around the casino though so he does have high expectations - he's a career guy. Also he cares about that place a lot (before you know....)

Although he's the type to be like "you don't want me...I've killed people" stfu bro you're favorite food is cookies

He's like a killer Teddy bear compared to the rest of the BSD cast tbh

He'd be a sweetheart but he needs praise and 100% if he has a lover they're in on all of his life drama too

You probably know more about him than he does himself lol

Will try to protect you from anyone he knows is weird and a killer - dazai, fyodor, nikolai, even the hunting dogs (he has serious beef)

Honestly he'd be a great BF but you'd need to carry a gun on you 24/7 or something so sigma feels better with him not around

He is probably needs security the most out of anyone

MUSHITARO

Certified loser, this guy really just wants people he can depend on and won't betray him considering his past. He'd never cheat, he just wants to enjoy the day to day with his lover even if he seems like a sour apple all the time.

He's a fucking loser (no offense, just a fact. The washing machine manual did it for me) so this guy is guaranteed not to cheat tbh

Like. He has 2 friends if you count ranpo and poe and maybe anyone associated with the detective agency. And none of them are touching his weird astrology obsessed ass (I love him)

This guy would date someone and is loyal be default, plus if he opened up then like. Bro idk how he's moving on from that

Marriage. Point blank. He wouldn't move on from a breakup at all

Also as depressed as he is ik he'd probably enjoy day to day life instead of focusing on the long term anymore. You can't be assured of the future, so he'd always go get whatever sweet treat you want

Honestly he'd be an amazing bf tho like this man APPRECIATES the people in his life

If you're in. You're IN

He'd be chill about it like. Probably would do a whole lot of stuff like sight seeing and all of that. Maybe he'd be sour about it, but he'd enjoy being forced outside of his shell

Inside he's a sweetheart and would think about his lover a LOT

Probably gets them their favorite snacks on his day to day

Cries during sex tho he can't help it

[asnowdriftsomewhere]

Daylight pt4

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Cassian x F!reader

AN: Thank you to everyone for reading this series and enjoying it! Part 1 now has over 100 notes, which makes me very happy! I hope you continue to like what i have to say!

Summary: Helion comes to check on you in the Night Court. You have feelings about it and Cassian is shirtless.

Warnings: talking about death and expectations and pressures

Word count: 1596

You sat perfectly still in the seat across from Rhysand. Everything in your body begged you to run, to flee this room where the walls pushed in. Suffocating you, trapping you. But your spin was a pillar of steel and your eyes belied none of your discomfort. As far as anyone in the room was concerned you were perfectly calm as you kept your gaze on the High Lord before you.

“Y/N?” The voice came from the seat next to you. A warm, familiar tone that once wrapped around your bones and soothed your anxious heart. Now it made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and a muscle in your jaw tic.

“My research is slow moving,” you spoke to Rhysand, your fingers interlaced over your crossed knees, “but it is progressing.”

Violet eyes flicked from you to the male beside you and back again, “Do you require anything to aid you? The resources of the Night Court are at your disposal.”

“A most generous offer, High Lord-”

“Y/N-”

“Perhaps you can spare your Shadowsinger for a few questions,” you continued as if not hearing him speak. “I think he would have some most illuminating things to say.”

Rhysand nodded once, “When Azriel gets back from the continent, I'll send him to you.”

You bowed your head in thanks as you got to your feet, “Until then, I shall return to the library.” You started to leave but paused, “Males aren't allowed down there unless given permission, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Y/N-”

“Good to know,” you turned and left without another word to either male. The door slamming in your wake.

Rhysand turned to Helion, who slumped into his chair and raised an eyebrow. “Well…” he started, and the High Lord of Day let out a low groan. “You've certainly managed to piss her off. What did you do?”

“I brought her here,” Helion sighed as he stood to cross the room to the window. The golden rays of the sun seemed to shine even brighter in his presence. “The Grand Library was her home, and I sent her away.”

Rhysand hummed softly, “Why did you bring her here, old friend?”

Helion's amber eyes closed briefly, a shiver of what almost seemed like regret running through his powerful body, “Y/N had a sister. My father's chief advisor and a brilliant researcher. She died defending the library from being looted again just before Amarantha fell.”

“Ah.”

“Y/N hasn't been the same since,” he continued, slipping his hands into his pockets. “It's as if, because she survived, she feels she needs to live up to her sister's legacy. That she needs to be as good or better than her. But Y/N already was those things, just in a smaller way.”

Rhysand tipped his head to the side, “What do you mean?”

“Her sister made miracles, feats of magic that we never could have dreamed possible. Y/N…” he trailed off, turning back to the Night Lord. “Her research was about philosophy. The very concepts of Life and Death. She dove into the essence of Religion and Mythology and the laws of the universe itself. She sought answers to questions no one else in my court would have ever bothered with because they did not affect or change our day to day. And I believe she felt like she had the freedom to do so because her sister's accomplishments shielded her from the competition my father fostered among his Advisors.”

Rhysand steepled his fingers in front of him, “And with her sister dead, her own lack of answers is weighing on her.”

Helion nodded once, “She feels that if she can't provide results, then the wrong sister died.”

“Do you know what she's looking into now?”

“I don't,” he admitted with a sigh, “I've not been privy to her research since coming back from under the mountain. She hides it from everyone.”

Rhysand seemed to ponder something for a moment, “She asked Cassian if he's ever heard a swan song. Are you familiar with the concept?”

Helion turned back to him, “I am.”

“And now she's asking to speak with Azriel,” the corners of his mouth ticked down.

Helion raised an eyebrow, “What are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking about death…” he trailed off before meeting his friend's amber gaze. “I'll need to speak to Clotho to verify but…” the two males fell into conversation quietly as Rhysand relayed his theory to Helion. Too engrossed in the debate to notice the slip of daylight that slithered under the door and into the hall.

***

You found yourself not in the library as you had intended after winnowing back to the House of Wind, but instead in the training right above it. You don't know why you ended up here. What force drew you to this place you'd not yet had need of in the two months since coming here. But once you were staring into the wide open sky above, you let out a scream that nearly shook the mountain before collapsing into the middle of the training pit.

Your breath was coming in shaky, uneven gasps as if your lungs were being held in a vice, so you buried your hands up to your wrists into the gravel. Focusing on the cool stones against your skin helped sooth and smother your roiling anger. The burning you felt in your soul dissipating into the mountain below until slowly your breathing evened out and your body stopped shaking.

Your rage was still there. It never left entirely. Like a ball of fire, it squatted in your chest, waiting to be unleashed. Some days, it was the only thing that got you out of bed. Others you had to lock yourself in your room to keep from lashing out indiscriminately. Regardless, it was always there, always prepared for however you would wield it.

“Are you okay?”

The voice came from behind you, and your head snapped up in response. Cassian stood at the edge of the pit. Shirtless and sweaty, he'd clearly been in the middle of training when you'd stomped through the space like a viper ready to strike.

He'd know better than to intercept you. A female with that look on her face was more dangerous than entire armies, and Cassian wasn't stupid enough to think his presence would improve the situation. Especially after he heard the scream that came out of your small frame. Pain and rage and sorrow- he knew that scream. Knew how deep the hurt had to run to be able to produce a cry like that. He'd heard every single one of his family members make that scream and knew what caused it. A wounding of the soul itself.

He'd been about to slip back into the House, intent on giving you your privacy when he saw you collapse into the training pit and bury your hands in the stones. It confused him enough that he lingered in the threshold and baffled him entirely as he WATCHED the anger leak out of your body.

Cassian approached then, not only to make sure you were okay but also because some central part of him wondered at what you had done. How you had leashed your rage.

“Are you okay?”

Your head snapped up to face him, your expression turning weary. He held up his hands to show you he had no weapons and your shoulders eased some.

“Why are you always sneaking up on me?” Your voice was heavy and held none of the bite he imagined you intended your words to carry.

“In my defense” he shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest, “I was here first this time. You just didn't see me.”

You let out a hard breath, eyes falling back to the stones, “Indeed.”

“Y/N,” he said your name so softly, so sweetly, something in your chest cracked in response, “Are you okay?”

You looked up at him again, your gaze crashing into his, and your vision blurred. “No,” you admitted, something straining in your voice, “But I will be. I must be.”

“What does that-”

“Thank you, General,” you silenced him as you stood up from the gravel. Wiping the dust from your hands as you did. “For caring enough to check, but please, let's not fool ourselves into thinking this is anything more than court politics.”

He frowned at that, “Court polit- Y/N-”

“I am a member of the Day Court, your High Lord's closest ally. I was sent here to be kept from breaking under the weight of my role,” you said simply, studying the dirt now crusted under your nails. “I know this, you know this. Your kindness, while appreciated, is not needed or wanted. I will fix myself. I will not break.”

Cassian was at a loss for words, “Y/N-”

“I will not break,” you said again, your eyes flicking to meet his, and he felt his world shift out from under him. He was not in Prythian. He was not in the Night Court or Velaris or standing atop the House of Wind. He was standing on a sunbeam, walking on the wind, fingers trailing through the clouds. And across from him, there you were. Glowing and graceful, a star made just for him.

Cassian blinked, and the vision was gone. He was back in the training pit, his gaze locked with yours. Only you were fading, like the edges of your body were fraying into the wind as you disappeared before his eyes. He blinked again, and you were gone.

Part 5

[runabout-river]

It has happened now, a JJK artist on Twitter is in critical condition after being shelled by the Israeli Army in Gaza while sheltering inside a school. Reportedly, she lost an eye.

The screenshot is from a friend who barely manages to keep in contact with Noury with a family member's phone. This of course is Israel's tactic to cut communication from Gaza. The world isn't supposed to see the genocide and at least the amount of reports and eye witness accounts have dropped since because most people simply can't communicate their suffering to the world anymore.

This is the picture Noury drew before Israel decided to finally cleanse the Gaza Strip like it always wanted thanks to an exaggerated death count of a provoked military response, undisclosed shelling by the IOF of their own citizens and lies of 40 beheaded babies.

The caption of this piece of art reads "Please don't take my sunshine away," a response to chapter 236 and Gojo Satoru's apparent death.

Think back to that time. A favorite character of yours dies in a manga and you either draw or look at drawings of him to deal with that. Then a war starts that had been brewing for 75 years because Jewish Extremists and Supremacist with the backing from the war hungry US want you dead.

You know what I thought this entire time? That it's statistically unlikely that the one JJK artist from Gaza that I follow will be a victim in this war. There are 2.2 million people in Gaza but there's only one Noury, so what's the chance that something is going to happen to her?

What an absurd thought that turned out to be. I've been writing and raging on Tumblr about the genocide again and again and I know the severity of it, I know the numbers. I've seen the pictures and videos of dead children with their faces, not their heads, turned over like the pages of a book.

But most of that, the sheer enormity and the scale of it, was still abstract in my mind. Now, outside of the dry and clinical fact of it, the human element made me realize in my heart and mind that this is a genocide.

1 person among 2.2 million getting harmed isn't a statistical probability of 0.00001 percent. It's 100% because everyone is the target. Every Palestinian in Gaza is targeted with deprivation, hunger, thirst, illnesses and bombs. That is ethnic cleansing. That is the threat of genocide.

And the US, the UK and the EU, they're all complicit in this genocide and because I'm from Germany I'm also explicitly saying that Olaf Scholz, Marco Buschmann and Nancy Faeser are also complicit in this new holocaust.

Hopefully Noury will recover and hopefully she and her family and everyone else in Gaza will be able to go back to their homes. Homes btw, that per international law, Israel is supposed to replace or compensate for after destroying them.

Of course you don't need to compensate for anything if no one is there anymore, either because they're dead or they moved to another country involuntaryily.

[the-100-days-of-junkan]

Day 12

Got real close to having another Junkan minus the Kan, however I did draw a silly little doodle of Mikan in the picture frame so guess what it still counts! Sorry No.7 you are still a freak of nature among the 100 days.

This is just some more of Junko crushing super hard on Mikan, so since I have no interesting details for the pic itself, time to discuss more personal behind the scenes stuff! So I’ve mentioned a few times that when I was first making these pics I was extremely paranoid about showing anyone, especially the public, these Junkan pieces. So I might as well go into more detail about what I mean when I say that. 

My fear was never fully based in stuff like “Oh people are going to think I’m weird” or “Oh I’m going to get harassed.” When it comes to how people perceive me as a person I care more about the opinion of close friends and the people I respect rather than the general public. I wouldn’t like it if everyone thought I was some weirdo, but I can live with it. I’m hopeful that when this project starts (as a reminder these posts were prepped before the the announcement went up, I have no idea how people are reacting as I type this) I won’t be harassed or threatened for this, but I feel decently confident that I will be okay in the long run. It’ll be annoying and definitely stressful but it could be worse. 

My fear at the time was based on how it could affect my career. I have for a long time set out with a goal to make art with the intention of bringing a positive vibe to peoples lives, and the main way I hope to do that is by working on a webcomic. That said if I post Junkan and it causes people to perceive me in a negative light, my art would forever have that roadblock. I’m sure I’d still have fans, but people are less likely to partake or look fondly towards something created by someone perceived as a bad person from what I can tell. There’s also the worry of how it could affect me financially but even back then I was certain that I’d be pretty safe on that front. I’m of course long over this, that was a result of my extreme paranoia from earlier in the year. I’m content with the possibility that this event could shift public perception of my work. How that happened will be brought up much later.

Have a great day!

BONUS MESSAGE FROM FUTURE JEM: Hey there! I haven't been making major additions to these pre-scheduled posts, however I just wanted to chime into say, yeah! Past Jem was way too paranoid! I admit this blog hasn't exploded enough to attract crazy attention, but I'm happy to say I've received a lot of nice comments and the like from people as it continues. We're only 12 days in out of 100 so who knows what the future might hold, but I'm real glad to have started posting now. Take that past me!

Reblogs, Comments, and Little Notes in the tags are always appreciated!~

[alexissara]

The Very Best Characters Of 2024

I’m a character focused writer always aiming to make the best characters I can to tell the best stories I can so I love to look back at all the media I took in and think of which characters really blew me away that year, who am I taking with me as I go on making new characters and new art in the world. I will not be counting any of my own characters this year despite the fact you can in fact go to Patreon.com/alexissara right now and read the rough draft of Love Beyond The Holy Light volume 1. Being 100% honest, this list would be mostly Love Beyond The Light characters if I did that and the stories not officially published yet so here we go, my favorite characters that weren’t by me.  I did have a 2023 list you can check out here if you like since there will be no repeats from last year's list. 

10. Harleen and Harley [The Stage Case Of Harley and Harleen]

While Harley is at the bottom of this list it’s not that she is at least place but that my love for Harleen in this book can’t be detached from my love of Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy more generally so I think it’s fair to put her at the bottom here even if this version of Harley may just be my favorite character on this list. In this book Harleen and Harley are both fantastic characters and their work as a plural system together makes for a fantastic set of interactions between the characters giving different dynamics that are fun and in general their unity is just great. I love these two and I couldn’t ask for more from my iconic bisexual clown girls. This might be the best version of the character which even with a ton of awful Harley’s out there is extremely high praise for all the fantastic ones out there. This Harley still feels really real but she also feels like she could grow into any of the great independent Harlies who end up with an Ivy [in this case they would be together from childhood but that would be the only major difference]. 

9. Neve Gallus [Dragon Age: The Veilguard]

While Veilguard’s characters are mostly just kinda saying their gimmicks and traits, I still loved Neve a whole lot. Neve just has a kind of body you simply don’t get to see in games and has the hard boiled detective persona which is still very rare to see in women, she is so many flavors of refreshing to see and engage with and I love her for it. 

8. Magilou [Tales Of Berseria]

She’s just so goofy, I love my silly goofy girl. I love her so much she is always up to some trouble, she’s causing problems on purpose and she is just overall a blast. Her subtle arc over the game is really nice too it’s great seeing her develop while maintaining her persona she developed for himself. A lot about Magilou is spoilers but she really is just a delight and certainly among the very best characters the Tales of Series has ever produced and perhaps among the top characters in action RPGs. 

7. Saffron [Potionomics] 

Potonomics is a game jam packed with great characters but I only wanted to pick one to show up on this list and well Saffron is my favorite of the bunch. Saffron's past is really great and while the rest of the game sadly fails to follow up on the questions her storyline provides she actually makes The world way more interesting along with being sexy.  She's also really fun romantically and dating her is just a blast, I love her so much.

6. Yako [She Loves to Cook and She Loves To Eat]

An extremely rare case of explicitly canon asexual lesbian existing in media. Representation is nice but then add to that that she’s fucking funny, a great friend, allowed to have depth and trauma too and seems to be in the starts of a background romance while the main couple is finally getting together and well you have a recipe for a really perfect character. She Loves to Cook and She Loves To Eat is a masterpiece and Yako is an important piece of that puzzle. 

5. Olive [My Dragon Girlfriend]

Trans Lesbian Vampire, let’s go!  Olive is one of the characters who basically every year could be on these lists. Olive gets a ton of love in My Dragon Girlfriend which means we are graced with more of this anxious ball of lesbian energy from bonus smut comics on Patreon to little scenes in the comic to full focus. She is just great, you cannot underestimate the power of a cute transbian. 

4. Sylvia [Mice Tea]

Trans Rich, demisexual, sapphic sometimes snake girl, I love you.   I haven't even finished all her endings yet in the game so I actually have more Sylvia to engage but I figured I had to he honest without even seeing everything of her on offer. She was just top rated. I really think she's basically only likely to go higher. Who knows maybe in the 2025 list she'll be number one. 

3. Valentine [Sunset Phoenix]

Lesbian Mob Boss!  Valentine is a fucking mess, she wants to die so bad and she punishes herself. While her self harm is over the top anime styles played with some comedy it is a woman who ultimately is self harming as a weapon to fight because the guilt in her tells her she had to fight, that she has to keep moving forward.  She’s intense, sexy and a whole lot of fucking fun, she is among the coolest characters ever made. 

2. Tama [Sword Of The Necromancer]

A plucky bandit girl who ends up finding the one thing worth giving up herself, treasure and anything else for, the woman she loves. Tama is brash, She's hot headed, she's passionate and she's really just perfect. I was so captivated by her right away. Her voice performance in the game is great and while the little bits of art in game are limited they are used well to captivate her emotion at different times really making a spectacular character who I can’t help but want to see more and more of. 

1. Claire François [I’m in Love With The Villainess]

I am already weak to Clair’s type of character but in Volume 2 Clair goes from a trope I like to a character I love and Volume 3 further Highlights Clair as a standout fictional character. This bisexual legend gets to genuinely grow as a person, realize her class position and the corruption of her class then try to do things about it and struggle with it ultimately leaving her life of wealth to live as a commoner with her girlfriend and raise 2 adopted kids. She has such a great arc, one of the best character arcs around in the ways she grows but keeps core attributes and she is flawed still the whole way through doing awfully dumb shit. 

[seat-safety-switch]

The Mafia of Incompetence is out to get me, and not even for the first time this week. There’s all kinds of reasons these non-aligned dimbulb thugs wish me harm, but chief among them is my insistence that I must always receive my RockAuto magnets.

Perhaps you are unfamiliar. You see, RockAuto is a modern e-commerce corporation. It exists as sort of amorphous blob. Old-school parts warehouses, retail operations, and liquidators go out of business all the time. RockAuto scoops up those car parts and sells them over the internet. One of the things they include with every order is at least one small, rectangular refrigerator magnet, of another freak's car.

Time was, you could count on four things in life: gravity, death, taxes, and RockAuto magnets showing up with your order. Now, fewer than that many things are true. Border patrol has been getting increasingly sticky-fingered around my part of the world, and I'll often have a RockAuto package show up with different tape on it, missing all of its packing material and – critically – the magnet.

I've complained to my local political representative, using virtually the same words as I'm speaking to you now. They ignored me, because they have real problems to solve (what caviar to pair with which wine, how to give a larger tax break than 100% to oil companies.) I had to take matters into my own hands. Contrary to popular belief, a background check for the federal government is really easy to fake. Soon, I was the government's newest parcel snoop.

That's where I met my then-coworker, now-friend, Shaky Tim. You see, he was the one stealing the magnets. I caught him red handed my first day. When all the other border guards went to lunch, he stayed behind and hacked open a bunch of the RockAuto packages. His desk at work was laden with the things, a cascading pile many inches thick of gleaming hot-rods, warm-rods, and even cold-rods.

Ethically, I was in a bit of a pickle. Reporting him to my "superiors" would stop the flow of my magnets into his pockets, but it would result in no other benefit to myself. Ignoring him was out of the question: my refrigerator still had at least a few square inches of empty space on its fascia. When in doubt, make like King Solomon: we decided to split the booty. I wouldn't report him, and he'd punch my time card for me and come by with a shopping bag full of magnets every weekend.

We've been doing this for a few years now, and everything was going great. My boss had been giving me glowing performance reviews, based entirely on my ability to not embarrassingly fuck up at work. And my pension was fattening nicely. Unfortunately, Shaky Tim was the weak point in the whole apparatus. He had a crisis of conscience, and quit the government altogether rather than admit his horrible crime. Doing so backed up the entire works: all the remaining border guards were not nearly as motivated to process RockAuto packages quickly. I didn't get my new Mikuni carb floats for, like, a whole week.

[lonniemachin]

Hello

How are youI am Amal ashour from Palestine, Gaza

Can you help me spread the campaign among your followers?

https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-me-get-out-of-gaza-for-my-baby-girl

I ask you to share with your friends and donate. I desperately need you. Thank you, my friend 🙏💔

Of course, Amal.

Everyone, Amal's campaign has been verified by @/el-shab-hussein and @/nabulsi - she's 100% legitimate and in need of donations, with only €4,702 out of her €30,000 goal raised so far. She and her husband are a young Palestinian couple taking care of their baby daughter Maryam, who is under 1 year old, in the midst of the genocide against their people and are looking to evacuate Gaza as soon as it is possible so that she may live and grow in safety. Please give what you can to help them survive -- can we get them to at least €5,000 ASAP? Every euro counts!

[acertainmoshke]

Intro Post!

(If you’re mostly a Doctor Who blog I probably followed you for my side blog @presidentdisastraofgallifrey and you might be more interested in that one than here)

Updated: 02/01/25

General tag list (ask to be +/- for any or all works): @ashirisu

Published work

7 Days for Fae: A low-stakes realistic middle grade story about an autistic girl learning to accommodate her own needs, making a new friend, and helping her aunt understand that having a nonbinary parent isn't that big a deal. MC is also physically disabled and her new friend is ADHD-coded.

Available now as a paperback from Amazon or Booshop.org, and in paperback or ebook form from Lulu.

In Progress

Cracks in the Stone: A steampunk high fantasy following a royal bastard prophesied to save the kingdom when all they really wanted was to have a normal life. Set in a kingdom with an entirely different gender system, MC is physically disabled, important side character is intellectually disabled. No one is white.

Word count: 43,555/150,000

Story intros: Legends of Halara series, book 2, book 3, book 4, book 5, book 6

Character intros: Ko'a, Nalki, Azja, Sunka, Lila

Worldbuilding: magical illnesses, pantheon, gender conceptualizing

Tag list: @amielbjacobs @starsoughtfrost @rbbess110

Emerald Outpost: A sci fi thriller following a team of spies sent on a nonsense mission as punishment, only to discover that they might be the only ones who can save their planet as well as their enemies'. MC is Jewish and bi, the rest of the main cast includes a gay Muslim man, lesbian Latina woman, aro lesbian, and Black bi trans woman.

Word count: 7,303/50,000

Character intros: Esther, Nasir, Val, Euyla, Minerva

Cold Iron: A dark urban fantasy set in the 50's about two adult changeling siblings on a quest to release from captivity the humans they replaced as infants. MC is autistic and both are trans.

Status: first draft done (85,039 words), second draft in chapter 18

Character intros: Shaka, Kris, Maggie, Zuri, Cassie, Sparrow

Tag list: @stesierra @amielbjacobs @ettawritesnstudies @the-inkwell-variable

Future/Hiatus Projects

The Taken (Cold Iron book 2): A dark urban fantasy set in the 80's following the same characters from the first book and their new found family in underground queer culture as they investigate the mysterious disappearances of changelings with no one to miss them, people the authorities won't look for.

Stage: Planning

Character intros: Shaka, Kris, Maggie, Cassie, Sparrow, Vick, Mal, Megan, Jun

Falling Petals: A historical story covering 100 years and 4 generations in a family that loves each other but is living in a world they don't fit into in very different ways and find themselves hurting each other instead. Entire family is Jewish and all 4 MCs are autistic-coded (except for the last one who is able to realize she's explicitly autistic).

Stage: Planning

Character intros: Ira, Daniel, Shoshannah, Naomi

To Die Among the Stars: A dystopian sci fi in which people no one is supposed to miss—the poor, mentally ill, outcasts, and inhuman—are quietly stolen away to experiment on. But each of those people left behind someone who cares, and they won't rest until they've unraveled the mystery and saved their families. All of the 5 POV characters are disabled and/or mentally ill, and 2 are trans. The group is also racially diverse.

Word count: 19,569/85,000

Dragonfly Wings: A middle grade fantasy about a changeling girl who is taken back to faerieland but finds she no longer knows how to stop masking as a human. MC is autistic-coded.

After the War: An urban high fantasy following a war between the human and elfen countries, as people struggle to return to a peaceful normal after 30 years of violence. Werewolves, vampires, and mers were unwillingly affected by a conflict that wasn't theirs. No one trusts each other. But they have to move on somehow. Basically everyone is physically disabled and traumatized.