#Non-compliant

[mkcosplayorcovid-19prevention]

Longshot... but Vice President Sanders???

[skalidra]

Just so you know (and no pressure intended) I am SUPER EXCITED at the prospect of a fourth chapter of Non-Compliant appearing at some point *insert excitable clappy hands here*

Hehehehe. It's good to know that it's got an audience, cause it's certainly one of my pet projects. Some things are just for me, so everyone else that actually likes it is just bonus. XD

[who-always-pays-their-taxes]

“that’s not accurate to the comics!!” I couldn’t care less, these r my dolls and I will do whatever I want to them, i’m playing house goddamnit!! lemme live in my delusions!! It’s called feeding ur inner child!!!

[boop-le-snoot]

kinktober #2

Strange Candy

kinktober day two | aphrodisiac | 18+, cw: intoxicated sex (all consensual), female reader. both of them hella sassy, book-ish!thran because no angst in my house. this is very silly, just like the author. don't eat funny mushrooms you find in the forest! | wc 3,7k | want more kinktober? click here |

“Strange indeed.” Said the King thoughtfully. The group of hunters who'd led him to the newfound development traded a long look. Crouching down, the King's majesty eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead as he studied the newfound addition to his great Elven forest. “And the beasts have returned seemingly unharmed, you say?”

“Yes, my Lord. The bears had retreated into a den and so did the foxes, emerging approximately three days afterwards. All seemed in good health and very hungry.” The Silvan hunter replied.

“Then these must be harmless.” Deduced the King, taking out a thin blade to poke at a dense cluster of brightly coloured fungus.

At least, he guessed it was a fungus. Upending one cluster, he found no roots. The flesh of the mushroom was white and fragrant, pleasantly earthy and rich, with subtle floral undertones that made his mouth water slightly. The smell intensified tenfold upon cutting the mushroom down the middle. The King brought it closer to his nose, carefully scenting for any bitterness or rot.

“My Lord...” A concerned Feren piped up from his spot behind the King.

You offered the Captain a glance full of genuine compassion, without a doubt considering his job to be the most complicated and tedious in the whole of Thranduil's kingdom. Minding Greenwood's fiery monarch was not for the faint-hearted.

“Surely you are not thinking of putting it in your mouth?” You added a dash of sarcasm into your question, equally concerned.

You were sassed right back, eyeroll audible. “It is a mushroom, where else would I put it?” Thranduil straightened up, holding the newfound addition to the flora of the forest impaled on his knife. As soon as his eyes zeroed on you, you gulped. Thranduil gave you a nasty little grin. “What is the worst that could happen? I have the best healers of my realm at my disposal.”

Feren's fingers twitched, a tell-tale sign of his withering self-restraint. You sighed and contemplated the best time to begin backing away.

Thranduil simply raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge. “Worry not, the Kingdom has forgotten of your and Feren's...” Elegant pause, Feren's sigh. “Accident.”

“'twas no accident,” you said defensively. “You gave us your Ada's moonshine to see if it was still good. On purpose.”

Thranduil shrugged as the mushroom was evenly divided into two parts with the help of his knife. A perfect picture of innocence, he held up the treat in his palm, grey eyes sparkling.

“I am NOT doing it, my Lord!” Exploded Feren, and gave into his urge to take a step back. He, more than anyone, knew how insistent Thranduil could get. A seven-thousand year old elf giving huge puppy eyes! And it worked! The Captain shielded his own face with his palm. “Throw me in the dungeons for a fortnight, I care not!”

Contrary to your expectations, Thranduil simply rolled his eyes, and swiftly stuck one part of the colourful fungus in his mouth. Everyone gasped, including you, but the old Elvenking remained completely unbothered.

“Hm,” he blinked after a second. “That is not bad.”

Waves of impending doom washed over you with each contemplative movement of Thranduil's jaws. Looking first to the left, and then to the right, you found no immediate means exit of the situation. It was you, the resident human, and the tree behind you, which your King had no problem with crowding you against. Not that he moved or anything. He was just... Large. And very handsome. And spectacular at rounding his shiny, bottomless eyes with great purpose.

“We must know if this fungus is harmful to Edain,” he said, honey-sweet. You hated that he was right. “According to hunters, there is an abundance of it, and, knowing how curious you Edain are...”

“Ugh!” You shook your head. “Just give me the mushroom. If I die, I will haunt your halls for all eternity.” Obediently and with no small worry, you snatched the piece and stuck it in your mouth, chewing quickly, not even taking note of the taste.

Thranduil's last experiment that involved you and Feren still fresh on your mind, you turned back towards the Halls before you'd even finished chewing. You'd rather be in the privacy of your rooms least intoxication has you do something embarrassing... Again. Thankfully, the King conceded, and after giving the hunters a command to gather more of this mystery fungus, the party set out back home.

It was Feren's turn to offer you fleeting looks of compassion. You quietly smiled back, not feeling anything out of sorts. The ride back was pleasantly uneventful. Not a creature was stirring: even the ever-present spiders were absent in their bothersome scuttling.

Too smug for his own good, Thranduil entered his halls with a spring in his step. “The haunting of halls of Greenwood has been postponed indefinitely, I see,” he said in passing as he shrugged off his outer travel robes. A maid immediately offered him a silver robe of heavy satin which he politely declined. “Nay. The discovery has warmed me plenty.”

You noticed that yes, the weather has turned rather warm indeed and bowed before departing back to your daily business. Mid-way through your chores, a thin, translucent sheen of sweat glistened on your brow as you silently cursed the Vala responsible for such unusually pleasant weather. The Halls had already began to prepare for a long winter with covering unnecessary exits and patching up drafty areas.

What wouldn't you give for a gulp of fresh, cold air! Chores forgotten, you hurried to the nearest balcony. There was one not frequently visited by Elves as it was hidden behind a clever alcove; stepping aside and squeezing through the narrow opening, you sighed happily and deeply as your clammy skin finally felt crisp late night air.

Your shoulders dropped as you exhaled, finally shaking off some of that uncomfortable heat. A tranquil scene of swaying treetops and budding stars over a darkening sky emphasized the calamity of your solitude.

“Hm.”

“My Lord,” you greeted without turning, familiar with the timbre of voice and soft swishing of expensive fabric coming from behind you.

Thranduil's profile appeared within your field of view as he posted up next to you and demurely placed a hand over the stone railing of the balcony. “I was unaware someone had found the secret entrance to my private balcony.”

“Oh,” you froze. “I apologize... I was simply...”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “I take no offense. Indeed, it was quite clever. Even keen Elven eyes miss the opening behind the alcove.” Sans outer robe and clad in a simple but rich ensemble of sateen shirt and velvet breeches, it became evident you'd caught the King in a private moment of relaxation. His brow, usually tinted with concern with kingdom, was pleasantly warm.

You swallowed, looking away. He was a beauty even among his own kin, and like this - relaxed and comfortable - bordered on irresistible. A flash of heat spread through your body at the realisation. It took no small effort to squash these thoughts and steer them towards some semblance of propriety.

“The Valar have blessed us with good weather this autumn, my Lord. I was doing my chores and nearly felt faint from the heat.” You said, noticing Thranduil's eyebrows rise. “And the construction of your halls is incredible! Not a single drafty corner.”

“Heated, you say?” He interrupted suddenly, turning to face you fully. Etiquette (whenever you remembered it) dictated you should, too, and you two faced each other. Thranduil radiated curiosity, eyes lingering on your flushed cheeks and the warmth crawling down the neckline of your clothes. “Strange.”

“What is, my Lord?”

“I have said the same thing to Galion but he gave me a very pointed look and gestured towards Lady Anariel, who had been complaining to her maid about not lighting a fire in a timely manner.”

You frowned, too. The Lady Anariel was as Northern as Elves come and was fairly tolerant of wintery weather. When others wore furs, she got by with an outer dress of wool and, perhaps, a pair of gloves.

“Do you feel... Strange, my Lord?” You had a slight suspicion. Just a teeny-tiny one, that boiled down to those Eru-forsaken mushrooms.

In response you received an impish sort of shrug. “Not necessarily so. Do you?”

Your face blanched. Aside from suddenly finding him irresistible and feeling a little hot under the collar, nothing was amiss. But the longer you lingered on those two thoughts, the stronger they became. It was as if you were an adolescent again: barely any impulse control and all feeling.

‘twas a delicate situation. You could speak to a healer, of course, or let the strange circumstance run it's course. If it even could do that. Thoughts growing jumbled by the second, you said the only clear thing on your mind.

“Those cursed mushrooms.”

Thranduil was unperturbed. “I do not believe they are cursed. Potent, yes, but not cursed.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “... You too?”

He sighed. “I came out here in hopes of clearing my head from this fog of lust.” As you prepared to mutter- what, exactly? Apologies? - Thranduil's finger reached out for tour face to trace the curve of your jaw. “And in the process I found something much more exciting.”

Your bottom lip trembled. Such a simple gesture felt heavenly. Wherever his skin came in contact with yours, the heaviness receded briefly. Your breath caught in your chest as your heart picked up a hare's pace.

“Am I being propositioned?” You wished to say to yourself but in the fog, managed to sputter out loud.

“We could help each other out...” The King, unfurled to his full height and radiating heat equal to that you felt on the inside, grinned a crooked grin. It sat youthfully on his timeless features, just the right amount of flirtatious and reassuring.

You pretended to think about it. No, you really did, out of concern for your dignity. Throwing yourself onto the King was simply uncouth. Such was your next course of action, but the necessary amount of time had passed and the need, having been brought to the forefront or your mind, took hold of your sense. Slowly, you leaned into the touch and brought your hands to Thranduil's forearm, tilting his fingers to your mouth. Hot breath caused them to twitch.

“Does this answer your question?” You tilted your head, lips brushing against the multitude of rings he wore on his persona. It was most exhilarating to see his pupils widen and his mouth tremble.

Adam's apple bobbing, Thranduil swallowed. “No.” And smirked, the stunning bastard. “I need a clear, straightforward statement.”

You sighed, feigning annoyance. “I enthusiastically consent to having uncouth, untoward and potentially nasty things being done to my body by my Lord and King...”

You did not even get to finish. In a flash, Thranduil's hands had encircled your face and he bent himself over you, pushing your body into the balcony as he devoured your mouth with his. There was no grace and no finesse; something heavy and hard poking your stomach showed you just how much self-control your King had.

Seconds ago, you'd been having a perfectly normal conversation and now you found yourself airborne, having been unceremoniously picked up by the tall Elf and carried towards his chambers like the most coveted spoil of war while he devoured your mouth. You hummed into the kiss and responded with a groan, tearing the back lacing of your clothes clean off.

Your back connected with the mattress of his bed. Blinking at the rapid change of pace and scenery, you moaned out in frustration regarding your ruined clothes.

“I will commission more for you,” he said carelessly, throwing his own shirt Mordor knows where. His bare chest, chiseled with lithe muscle and pale as fresh milk, captivated your attention.

Previously having contended yourself with the occasional glance at the tiny window of bare skin where the sides of his robes met, you used your newfound opportunity to drink yourself full of Thranduil's fair skin. It felt as soft as it looked when he laid upon you, the weight of his body offering a delicious momentary reprieve from the tension building up in your muscles. Gossamer hair shielded you from the outside world as he leaned in towards your mouth again, this time capturing yours in a sensual dance of tongue and teeth.

A nimble hand took care of your bottoms, sliding inside your underwear as slick and cunning as a snake, to cup your mound. Thranduil groaned into the kiss, finding you soaked and willing, fingering the cleft of your lower lips with practiced gentle moves. The tenderness of it drove you crazy. Your need flared as a wall of standstill fire and you were surprised you did hadn't noticed it earlier. If the pulse in your cunt was anything to go by, you would come undone the very moment your King would finally allow you to feel full.

He was fairly content with sucking your soul out through your mouth and mapping the fat outer lips of your cunt. Never quite breaching and wholly avoiding your throbbing pearl, Thranduil simply basked in the amount of sticky juice your cunt was capable of producing.

The first loud moan of the night broke free if your lips and it was one of frustration.

Thranduil smiled into the kiss, your teeth clashing together. “What is it, mm?” He queried in-between wet pecks.

“I want to come.” You whined.

He chuckled. “And what's in it for me?”

Thankfully, your eyes were closed and he did not see your eyeroll. “You'll get to come, too?” Cringing at how lame it sounded, you were nonetheless powerless beneath him and overwhelmed from your desire.

“I prefer to play with my food.” He grinned a predator's smile, all shiny teeth and lidded eyes, but tugged down on your bottoms nonetheless. “Try harder.”

That became difficult as you were now bare; shivering in your King's arms, you cracked open a hazy eye to see him settle himself closer to your dripping center. It captivated him. Sliding two fingers along your lips, your eyes closed and head fell back as every nerve in your body came alight. Rewarded by a long moan, Thranduil gathered ample amount of moisture on his fingers and brushed over your quivering entrance.

Your back arched as he plunged them deeply within your aching cunt. The sticky noise it made was positively scandalous.

“I will-ah! forgive you for gathering the entire -ahh! King's guard to look at Feren and I!” You managed to form a quasi-coherent sentence through the moans and gasps spilling from your lips and were rather proud of yourself for it.

Thranduil's laugh echoed in the room as it did in his chest, a pleasant rumble vibrating through your core. “Whether Galion forgives you two for barking at him remains to be seen.”

Genuine amusement briefly overshadowed your shame at the situation of the past and at your own current neediness. The combination of emotion startled a laugh out of you, causing your core to clench around Thranduil's fingers and coat them in your wetness. He groaned low in his throat and rubbed your inner walls, reveling in the resulting moan. It did nothing to bring you closer to the peak.

“Sadist!” You accused and attempted to grind down on his hand, fisting the crumpled sheets.

“Slander!” He punctuated the rebuttal with an expert curl of his fingers. You arched. He smirked. “You should learn patience.”

There was no strength in your mind to formulate another witty comeback. Sensation, low and insistent, built up in the pit of your belly, an ache so sweet and tender you were sure it would be any second that you'd burst with it. Every pore on your skin open and receptive to touch, even the slide of silk sheets as your body bent with pleasure was overwhelming. You panted wetly through parted lips as a third finger joined in, the stretch of it making your eyes roll back into your head.

Thranduil would kill you. You were sure of it now. He would end you with a blinding smile and clever fingers never ceasing to move within you, the movement just shy of where you needed him most.

“Mercy!” You moaned. “Mercy, my King!”

You should have known his idea of it would be no less torturous than the ‘kindness’ that led you to your current place writhing atop his bed. Slowly, his tongue traced a path around your outer lips before dipping inside; it was hot and wet, like a summer storm, when it connected with your engorged clit and flicked it from root to tip. Electric feel of sensation pierced your body in a lightning bolt as your leg muscles seized. The King gave a pleased rumble and went for seconds and thirds, effortlessly holding your thighs open with one strong, long arm, palm digging into the soft meat.

Even the pain of it echoed with pleasure.

While the need within your loins kept steadily climbing with no end in sight, your King treated himself to a leisurely late night snack. His tongue delved in and out of your cunt, lapping up the waterfall of arousal. You would have been mortified, really, for the mess had you glued stuck to his face, your hips attempting to follow his mouth in circles.

Coupled with the digits slowly but surely stretching the entrance to your channel, brushing over the sensitive fornix, you knew the night would be long. Dark, but not cold. Hazy.

“Ngh!” You articulated through gritted teeth, feeling him pull away from a particularly sensitive spot in favour of sucking a bruise onto your inner thigh. Thranduil followed a path only he himself knew, marking your flesh with pulling, precise bites that left discoloured spot damp with spit. They pleasantly ached.

Over your stomach and at the underside of your bottom rib. The sides and bottoms of your breasts, all the way up at the root of your nipples. He took each one in into his mouth, suckling on it like a hungry babe, before releasing them with a wet pop just blow a gentle breath onto the pebbled nubs. Through parted lashes, you watched him, aptly fascinated by the lack of colour in his eyes, pupils blown wide and deep with lust.

You tasted your cunt on his tongue as he made way back up. Risking a glance downward, you saw Thranduil's cock hard, flushed and heavy, hanging out of his breeches. He hadn't bothered with removing them and that single detail had you nearly undone. How the King himself could not wait to he inside of you!

An understanding of his previous games had come too, for he was rather proportional everywhere. Just the slide of his weeping tip against your bruised thigh invoked a shudder in you, back arching. You presented yourself to your best ability, eyes shining with pleading as he rested his forehead against yours.

Thranduil held himself above you, weight on his elbows, as his cock nosed at your sopping entrance. Immediately, it tried to suck him in, coaxing his lips to bend into a smirk. Such proximity was putting your sensibility directly into negatives. With a wild look mirrored in his own darkened pupils, you petulantly stuck out your bottom lip and panted with all the sarcasm that you could muster:

“we'll get to the good part... About tomorrow?” You wished to add more, something about him being old, but that remark and many more drowned in the absolute extasy flooding your body as he slid into your cunt in one single smooth stroke. “Aah...” Left your lips instead, and with it, any remaining oxygen departed from your lungs as well.

“Mouthy,” Thranduil remarked, sounding unfairly put together for someone who's mouth was as slippery as wet stone and cheeks brighter than a ripe beetroot.

You forgave him then and there. In awe, you watched him give you another one of his impish grins and nudge at that spot deeply within you. And he did it all over again, plush mouth releasing the sweetest, quietest of moans as he did so. Time got lost in the tug of war tour cunt played with his cock; like this, your release was imminent and fast approaching.

You grabbed Thranduil's arms, rubbed his shoulders as your legs wound up around his narrow waist while he contentedly and systematically unraveled you apart with rapid, smooth snaps of his hips. For a while, there was nothing in the room but the two of you and the lewd noises of damp skin slapping against skin. Clutching harder, you felt yourself tighten around his girth. Each measured stroke abused your engorged clit, heavy sac adding extra sensation on your perineum.

A low, feral groan joined the thrilling cacophony of sex. Thranduil fucked you through your first orgasm with gritted teeth, barely slowing with the new resistance of your cunt attempting to milk him for his worth. Hair hanging over your faces like a curtain, he claimed your lips in a searing kiss as you whimpered with overstimulation. Evenly, his thrusts became shallow, grinding.

Having become a acquainted with your bearings somewhat, you made a confused noise. The King just grinned. His palm connected firmly with the side of your hip as you squealed. He withdrew.

“Present yourself to your King.” He ordered, both smug and slightly breathless, helping you along onto all fours.

You chuffed into the damp bedding and obeyed, arching your back at a sinful curve. Within seconds, you were once again blissfully full.

a/n: I am way too horny of a person to write anything LACE compliant. Or is that my commitment issues talking? Anyway, ELVES FUCK SEVERELY! At least this October. mwah 💋

I once ate like 12 grams of cubensis and was a cat for 3 hours, so Feren barking at Galion with the help of some 3k+ year old mushroom infused moonshine isn't that far-fetched.

[withdenim]

I may never finish this so before I forget to post it. Have my contribution to dragons rising.

[rdps01]

:P

[myimaginationplain]

On one hand, I think that Kiyi is actually a wonderful idea for a character; you can get a lot of interesting stories out of inserting this innocent, guiless little girl into such a fraught & complex pre-existing family dynamic.

However, some mind-numbingly bad storytelling decisions surround Kiyi's existence in canon. Ursa's magical amnesia chief among them; it is so goddamm boring to take a character with as much baggage to chew on as Ursa has, only to make it so she has to grapple with literally none of it.

No Ursa looking at baby Kiyi & mourning for the two babies she was forced to leave behind, grieving children who are still alive. No Ursa looking at Kiyi grow up & seeing Zuko & Azula in her, equally as happy as she is afraid for her. No Ursa trying to give Kiyi as normal & happy a childhood as she can, while constantly looking over her own shoulder, praying that she won't be recognized. No Ursa hearing wild rumors about her older children's whereabouts & actions, not knowing what to believe.

No, instead of any of that, we just get Ursa becoming a blank slate who can now go off & live a blissfully ignorant happily ever after with her (equally blank) high school sweetheart, forgetting the very children whom she risked everything for in the first place. And that sucks.

Also, if I were writing Kiyi, I'd just say fuck it & make her Ozai's kid. That's a thousand times more interesting.

[fifthnailinstevesbat]

after the events of season 4, steve just wanting SO BADLY to be friends with eddie. just LOVING the idea of them getting closer and having eddie as a friend because hell yeah! a close male friendship with someone that is actually my age, and who i don’t have a weird history with involving bruised eyes and love triangles? count me IN! and eddie is FUN, he is actually hilarious! the way they share the same glances of understanding when dustin is being an absolute shit head, rambling on and on about some obscure topic, expecting everyone to always be on the exact same page as him. of course. and, although steve suspects that eddie actually probably is keeping up with everything dustin says, much better than he ever could, he knows that above it all eddie can appreciate the antics for what they are, and roll his eyes with steve at dustin, i concur, you dustin henderson, are a total butthead.

steve just about junps RIGHT IN to being friends with eddie. hey man, what’cha up to tonight? wanna watch a movie? get drunk, smoke a bit? hey eddie, how have you been, man? he starts calling eddie up on the phone regularly just to check in, shoot the shit, he loves it! he loves having this new friendship with eddie munson and he loves how much the other boy has surprised him with how much he actually enjoys being around him. he’s not a freak, really, well ok maybe he is a little bit, but only in the best ways. he’s kind, thoughtful, and is always looking out for the people he cares about, which is something steve can really respect in a dude. but he’s also so funny? steve never could’ve anticipated just how much eddie has managed to make him genuinely LAUGH over their short amount of time spent together. and he’s really, out there? with the way he presents himself, the way he takes up space with these big THEATRICAL movements, leaving no room for regret or shame or god forbid embarrassment. steve isn’t even sure munson is capable of feeling it at all.

eddie munson is a good dude, and steve could use a bit more of that kind of person around him. he loves all of his friends, the weird little bonded family he’s found himself apart of, and they are all good people, but it never hurts to have afew more added in here and there. it never hurts to know there are more good people out there to find.

so steve is all over eddie, it seems.

at least, from where eddie is standing. nobody else seems as phased as eddie does at this sudden change in steve’s demeanour, in his interest in what eddie munson spends his time doing these days. it seems like, to everyone else, to steve, it’s just a natural progression in their relationship, after being sort of role model figures to the same group of kids, both being the two single dudes, who fought the same monsters together last spring, it seems nobody questions too much that they’d start casually hanging around eachother more. especially since eddie has found himself to fit into his own special spot as one of the group now after it all, after he unwillingly became tangled in this whole upsidedown-superpowers-supernatural-monsters and demons debacle, and tangled quite dramatically at that, the rest of the group that’s been with this since the beginning seemed to find no trouble in taking him in and seeing him as “one of them” now.

so, steve asking eddie to smoke, to watch movies, to go for a drive with no real end destination, it’s not really something that earns them too many double takes. dustin makes a comment or two in the beginning, because steve since when did you like hanging out with eddie? you guys are like so opposite, you don’t like any of the same stuff he does? and steve barely gives a shrug and a dismissive yeah yeah whatever man in response, with a signature eye roll, and dustin had said it seemingly also not too seriously, poking fun at steve wherever he can, not really meaning anything by it, as he fidgets around and rambles in the backseat of steve’s car, eddie riding up front. after that, though, he’s dropped it. it’s never brought up again. part of eddie thinks, too, that dustin would actually be enjoying that his two older friends are becoming friends themselves.

robin seems to be the only other person to look a bit harder at their situation, lingering stares at their interactions, all squinted eyes and eyebrows raised, though from her all this seems to be almost always and only ever directed at steve. eddie’s not sure what to make of that. isn’t he the weird one? i mean, he’s the one that stands out, right? he’s the odd denominator that makes their friendship strange. why would steve harrington want to hang out with Him? HIM? but robin doesn’t spend her time studying eddie to try and search for what about him could possibly have piqued the interest of cherished steven harrington, no, shes always looking at steve. like she’s seeing him differently, almost. eddie doesn’t even think that steve notices it, either, because he doesn’t seem to be questioning or doubting anything odd or strange or out of the ordinary with their newfound time spent together. and maybe, maybe robin is seeing him differently. eddie knows he definitely has been. seeing him more, intensely. deeply. human. seeing the person that steve is, as just steve, not this idealised version of a boy that eddies starting to question ever really even existed at all, or if everyone around him just needed to believe that he did, and who was steve if not happy to comply to the wants of the people around him for who he should be?

eddie likes having steve as his friend, too. don’t get it twisted. he loves how unexpectedly expressive steve is about everything, even really small things. steve LOVES to raise his voice, rest a hand on his popped hip, scolding the kids for something stupid with no real heat or malice behind it. and steve is, like, kinda bitchy too. eddie knew he had the capacity to be a real asshole when he wanted to be, that’s all he knew steve for back in the day, when he was back in high school, hanging around tommy h and the basketball boys, the jocks. eddie would spend his days hearing only whispers and gossip in the hallways of the parties at king steve’s house and the fights king steve had started and won on the court or out in the fields, only ever getting as close as a shove into a locker with the guy at the time, but eddie knew how it could go. he knew all about what steve had done to jonathan, what he’d said to him, the words he’d used. eddie knew it all. he’d seen enough, and been through enough himself, to know how these guys acted in response to guys like him, like jonathan, people who were lower on the social food chain. so, eddie knew about steve’s “mean streak”, if you will, but this kind of snarky bitchiness was something new to him. harrington was almost, sassy, when he wanted to be. it was less so cruel and more just, just sass. if he’s being completely honest it kind of blew eddie away, at first. he thought steve was one of those dull headed jocks who thought with their fists more than their actual brains, but that couldn’t have been farther from the truth. steve’s insults were well thought out, they were FUNNY, he was smart with his words. and silly. oh my god steve harrington could be so fucking silly, real honest to god goofball when the moment called for it, when he felt comfortable enough. eddie had caught on multiple occasions steve mimicking lightsabers to play fight with dustin, or the stupid fucking shit he would do or say just to make robin laugh, singing along to a song playing on the radio with a funny voice.

it was all a little, intoxicating, to watch. eddie didn’t know what gave him the right to be in on this now, to get to see this side of steve and better yet to be at the other end of some of his best qualities. it was fun, all the time they spent together, but there was always something else tugging inside eddie everytime they spent close time together, too. something, he knew steve wasn’t aware of. something he knew steve wasn’t equipped to deal with. something he knew, was him. was him, making things something more than they should be, because, nobody seemed to be questioning that they could become friends, so why ruin that? why disrupt it?

- robin and steve

“Steve.”

“-but then like, it wasn’t that I didn’t want to watch it I just thought, hey, y’know, let’s try something different for a change, but then he- oh my god he honest to god TACKLED ME Robin — I mean, it was so fucking funny and it happened so quick — and all over a fucking Tom Cruise movie-“

“STEVE.” Robin lightly slammed a hand onto the counter. She had been standing behind it for no short of 20 minutes, watching Steve as he paced around, supposed to be stacking tapes onto shelves, but ended up spending the whole time going on and on, and ON, about how movie night went with Eddie last night. She thought she was bad…

Steve jumped, almost running into a shelf and knocking down his hard work, and seemed to snap out of whatever trance he had found himself in after starting to tell Robin a story about something funny Eddie had done last night.

“Shit, sorry. Sorry, what were you saying? Were you- were you saying something?”

To this, Robin just rolls her eyes and let’s out a laugh, “You, sir, are goddamn hopeless.”

“Sorry. How long was I talking for?” Steve wandered his way over to lean his arms onto the counter from the opposite side.

“Oh, I dunno Steve, just about half an HOUR?”

“That is an over exaggeration Robin, it’s only been like-“

“Honestly, man, i’m concerned for you. You are like next level OBSESSED with Eddie. Eddie Munson. You do realise this right??? You are obsessed with him, Steve.”

To this Steve sputters, lazily waving his hands back and forth.

“No, Robin, what the hell are you talking about? I am not OBSESSED. No need to be jealous, alright, Stevie-Boy here can have more than one friend. Your spot in my heart isn’t any less special now that it’s beginning to be shared by another.” He bats his eyelashes up at her, holding both hands over his chest as if to cradle his heart.

“Oh my GOD! You even SOUND LIKE HIM!”, she playfully slaps his shoulder. “Steve. You are obsessed.”

“I am not obsessed! He’s just a really great guy, alright-“

“Blah blah, yep whatever you say, lover boy.” Robin quips, plopping down onto the chair chair infront of their staff computer, turning herself to face it.

“Wha- what? Lover boy? What the hell Robin, that is not- that doesn’t even make any sense!”

She is just smiling at him now, enjoying seeing him spiral like this. Steve let’s out a sigh as he puts his hands on his hips, and shakes his head, looking at her right back.

He opens and closes his mouth afew times, like he’s really thinking about what he wants to say next. Or like he has no idea what to say next, and his brain is not moving fast enough to formulate the next sentence his mouth knows he wants to say. He wasn’t obsessed. That’s not- that’s like- no. No he was not, Robin was just playing around with him, she knew how to get on his nerves. Get him all wound up over little things just to see him react like this.

After a minute or two, Robin realises Steve was not going to reply anytime soon, so she turns fully back toward him. Saving him from his spiral.

“So, what are you’re plans for tonight Steve-O?”

He lets out a chuckle and walks around the counter till he’s behind it with Robin, leaning his back against it so he can stand across from her and face her.

“Well, not really sure. Parents aren’t home, no early shift tomorrow, might drink afew beers, listen to some music, —“

“See what Eddie’s doin?” Robin finishes for him, quirking her eyebrows up and down as she does it.

“Oh shut up!” Steve just laughs and softly throws a tape from the counter at her chest. “As a matter of fact, yeah I will see what he’s up to. Because we are friends now, Robin. Is that a problem? Actually I was also gonna ask you what you were up to after work, too, but you know what after this I’m having second thoughts, I mean, the way you’ve been treating me lately-“

“Oh my god, you are the worst. Yes, I’m free, of course I’ll hang out with you dingus. You and your tweedle dee.”

Steve laughs at this, then tilts his head.

“Wait, does that make me dumb? Tweedle dumb?! That’s how you see me?”

“Yeah it is actually, got a problem?”

“Oh wow, she’s feisty today. Can’t believe you think I’m dumb, Rob’s. When you come knockin’ tonight, do not expect a warm greeting at my front door.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll take my chances.”

- later. steve’s house. to be continued?

[m0on-boys]

I don't ship any of the x-men they just all fuck

[evasive-anon]

Jason was having a pretty OK time with the league of assassins, sure getting dunked in a lazarus pit sucked and Bruce turned out to be a scumbag who didn't care about him, but at least he isn't dead. He even liked most of the new skills he was learning there so on the whole being with the league seemed like a pretty good deal to him until Talia woke him up in the middle of the night and left him alone with two child assassins.

Or, a demon twins AU where when Talia realizes her father intends to have her boys fight to the death takes action first by deciding to take all her kids and leave the league. Talia either dies or is separated from them in the initial escape and now Jason just has a bag of supplies and a letter from Talia explaining the plan to get to Gotham. Jason has to get himself and two 7 year olds out of the Himalayas, across a desert, and over 12k miles to Gotham. Only now the league members hunting them down want them dead or worse and Jason isn't too confident that B will accept them given their kill counts.

Featuring:

Good Mom Talia. she loves her kids. Did she teach them to kill? Sure, but that's an important life skill.

Single Teen Mom Jason. He's the oldest and in charge but he also will not answer any questions about The Plan™ given he isn't committed to Talia's but also doesn't have a set alternative. Oscillates between looking forward to just dumping his new little brothers with Bruce so they'll be his problem and thinking of just moving somewhere random in the US and keeping them based entirely on how cute vs annoying they are at that time. Didn't realize how much he relied on Talia to help him with things until she is gone. He's really trying his best but he wasn't all that emotionally stable before this so hang in there.

Angry Smol Dami. He's still drinking the LoS punch and really dislikes that he is now considered a traitor. Can't stand that Jason won't answer any of his very relevant questions. Is actually very scared but will not show it. Misses his mom. Didn't even know he had siblings until his mom yoinked him out of bed that night and brought him to Jason and Danny and started all this. Physically the stronger twin. Thinks Danny is dragging them down in fights and also may blame him a bit because clearly his mother only did all this to spare him.

Danny, reincarnated with limited access to his memories and powers. Has been trying to keep his powers a secret. Talia knew about them but never told anyone but she may have hinted at it in her letter to Jason. Not the strongest physically but very good at stealth and social interactions. Didn't know he had and older brother or twin before Jason woke him up at Talia's instruction that night. Thinks Damian is mean and has faith Jason knows what he's doing even if that is very much untrue.

[venacoeurva]

Multiple people suggested Teldryn for a pinup and after trial and error of like 3 different poses, so here he is havin a summer evening to himself—conveniently placed sujamma bottle included🍹

-Please do not reupload, edit, or use without proper credit or linking back. Ask first, please.-

[cowboy-robooty]

this is a dorohedoro moment (redraw of a sketch i never poasted lawl)

[skalidra]

Non-Compliant? Also what do the numbers mean?

The numbers are chapter numbers! So, 'Non-Compliant - 4' is chapter 4 of the story, and so on.

And speaking of, Non-Compliant is a Detroit: Become Human, Reed900 story that I have, featuring enemies to lovers and heavy, dubcon-ish BDSM on all sides, in an androids-rule-the-world AU. Currently at three chapters, and I'm working on the fourth.

This one is shaping up to be a mostly talking-and-development chapter, as opposed to a sex-times chapter, but it's also getting back into Nines' head and I really enjoy writing in Nines' head, even if he can be a challenge. He's a delightful passive aggressive (and sometimes just straight-out aggressive) asshole.

Snippet:

There's no one in the hallway outside Connor's apartment. No immediately audible sound from within, though he wouldn't expect there to be much, given the soundproofing on both their floors. Nothing to indicate whether his brother is home. Connor doesn't answer the first press to his doorbell. Or the second. Or the third. RK900 narrows his eyes at the little button. It doesn't require even a pound of pressure to depress the little circle, and hold, and hold. The door yanks open. "I require a conversation with your pet," RK900 demands, stepping forward to push past Connor. The closing of the door is a familiar click, behind him. "Brother," Connor says, tone rather tightly controlled. "I was busy." "I noticed." Lack of a shirt. Mussed hair. A scent that's easy to identify, with an obvious human source. (Connor may not sweat, but his human does.) "You've destroyed the sanctity of my apartment; I don't see a reason I should respect yours."

(Post for the WIP Ask Game is here.)

[nopes-and-dreams-and-nightmares]

Draw your OTP like this

[amoscontorta]

No way out, revised

I thought that MC was too mean to Sylus in his 4 star No Way Out card, and I didn't like it, so I fixed it. I mean, I rewrote how it went like a proper rabid fan. Summary: Sylus shows up injured near MC's place, MC tends to his injuries, and he takes advantage of the situation like a vampire and secures himself an open invitation into MC's home whenever he 'needs' it.

Reader POV, Second person POV, gender neutral reader CWs: blood, injury, Sylus is hurt and bleeds a lot, foul language, cursing, MC has a dangerously messy apartment and how do you live like this??, Sylus is manipulative (just a little) to get what he wants. I see a lot of people putting minors do not interact and 18+ and whatnot warnings on their fics. Anything I write isn't intended for children, but I'm not your mom, read what you want. SFW in terms of sex, except for MC's barely contained thotiness in the face of Sylus's scent and sharp teeth

ao3 link here

You can’t bring yourself to apologize to Sylus, properly. With words. After everything that happened when you first met him. First, because part of you feels like words will never be sufficient to make up for how gravely unfair it had been for you to blame him for … well. For everything. To the point of actually wanting to kill him. And another part of you thinks that if you ever do say the words out loud, and admit how terribly wrong you were about him, that the smug look on his face as a result would make you want to kill him all over again.

No, no, better not to risk it. Even when you try, the words just won’t choke their way out of your throat. So you resolve yourself to show him in other ways, with action. And though you don’t know him very well yet, you’re pretty sure that Sylus is the kind of man that appreciates action far more than pretty words (later, you will learn how wrong you are. Sylus is the decadent embodiment of “Why not both?”).

After you left the N109 zone, you didn’t expect to see him anytime soon, so you have no idea when you’ll be able to wipe the ledger clean on what you owe him, but when the opportunity presents itself, you’ll repay this debt to him, no questions asked. And then you’ll be free again. Free to return to your predictable, comparatively safe existence in Linkon City.

Of course, nothing about Sylus is predictable, so when you receive an alert on your hunter watch that a citizen is in distress near your flat, you almost can’t believe your eyes as you sprint down the sidewalk, careen around the corner of your favorite neighborhood place to get iced lattes, and skid to a stop in front of a very big, very hurt Sylus. Elbows on knees, head hanging low, and blood visibly dripping down one of his wrists from under the cuff of his beaten up black leather jacket.

“The fuck, Sylus?” You stand in front of him awkwardly, suppressing the bizarre instinct to get on your knees in front of him, to lift his face and check for the source of injury.

“Now that’s not the most professional greeting to a citizen in need from one of Linkon City’s most heroic hunters, is it?” He sounds almost normal, the deep grind of his voice steady, except for an almost imperceptible hitch when he lifts his head. From that alone, you can tell that he is in a lot of pain.

Part of you is really worried—you’ve seen how quickly he heals, how seemingly indestructible he is. To be sitting out here, exposed in the twilight, clearly vulnerable, must mean that he is pretty desperate. And another part of you is relieved: finally, you can repay your debt, show him that despite all of your previous misconceptions, you’re sorry for thinking so poorly of him, for trying to stab him in the face and then kind of shooting him through the heart. To be fair, he did pull the trigger, but you didn’t try very hard to stop him. And then once you’ve helped him and gotten him on his way, hopefully you can stop thinking about him altogether.

“Can you get up?” you finally ask, taking a step closer. He looks up into your face, and you see how pale he is.

In response, he leans forward in preparation of standing, but grunts and sits abruptly back down.

“I might need some of that famous hunter assistance,” he says, wincing. “I’m afraid a wanderer got the better of me.”

You sit down next to him on his uninjured side, feeling the heat radiate from his thigh and shoulder, and smell sour sweat under his already-familiar scent—warm skin, gun oil, and strangely, oranges.

“I’m going to put your arm over my shoulder and help you lift up, ok?” He nods quickly, and lets you lift his meaty arm over your shoulders without complaint, just another hitch in his breath as you haul him up.

“Don't tell me I'm too heavy for Linkon City's finest hunter,” he tries to tease, but leans on you even more heavily.

“I can deadlift you, Sylus. This is nothing.” Ok, maybe you’re exaggerating. But if his weight presented a problem for you, you’d be a pretty piss-poor hunter. You pause for a moment, readjusting his arm around your neck. “I’m assuming you want to avoid hospitals and paperwork,” you state, trying not to be overwhelmed by how good he smells even covered in blood and stress-sweating under his edgy leather outfit.

“That would be a correct assumption, yes,” he breathes, and you hate the way that even in this messy state his breath is warm and welcome drifting across your cheek.

“Can you use your evol to transport us to one of your safe houses?” You’ve never confirmed with him that he actually is routinely in enough danger to require a safe house, let alone multiple, but you’re not surprised when he murmurs “Too drained right now,” acknowledging their existence.

Ok. You have no other option. You aren't prepared to let him into your space, to have the memory of his overwhelming presence in the only safe place left to you since your grandmother’s house was destroyed. But if this is the price you must pay to finally be free of your debt, of him, you’ll pay it.

“Fine. My flat is a short walk from here. Let’s go.” He says nothing, but takes heavy steps with you as you slowly make your way across the clean and even sidewalk of your city block, so different from the cracked, weed ridden paths winding through the N109 zone, when one is lucky enough to have a sidewalk to walk on at all.

Sylus isn’t the only one sweating now, as you haul him into your flat’s elevator. You’re relieved that Xavier is out of town, on one of his secretive missions doing who knows what, so you there’s no chance you’ll be asked to explain the presence of this bleeding stranger leaving a mess all over the pristine elevator floor. You make a mental note to come back as quickly as possible to clean it up, after you’ve dealt with the more urgent, hulking issue draped across your shoulders.

Sylus isn’t even looking around, just leaning more and more heavily into your body. His head tipped toward yours, soft hair drifting along your cheek, nose buried in your neck. You tell yourself he's just breathing heavily because of the pain--he can't possibly be inhaling your scent. You resist the urge to sniff your own armpit to make sure you did, of course you did, put on deodorant this morning.

You hesitate for only a moment outside your door, but take a deep breath and open it, hauling him into your foyer where you try as gently as possible to lower him to the ground and catch your breath. He grunts as his ass hits the floor, and you wince. “Sorry,” you offer (why is it easy to say it for this, but not for the biggest reason looming between the two of you?).

“I’m going to knock a star off your rating when I write my review on the Hunter’s Association feedback form,” he sighs, gingerly leaning back on his hands, wincing, and then putting all his weight onto his uninjured arm, ridiculously long legs stretched in front of him. His blood drips onto your foyer floor now, and you are mesmerized by it for a moment. It really does match the color of his eyes, and you’ve never thought blood beautiful until this moment.

“I suppose I’ll have to live with the consequences,” you say, trying to shake your head to free yourself of these weird thoughts. You kneel at his feet, and try as efficiently as possible to remove the boots with the stupid chains around the heels from his giant feet. “You can bleed on my floor, but I draw the line at you keeping your shoes on. Lift.” You tap his other foot, and he lifts it minutely so you can drag it off. “I’m going to get my first aid kit. Don't go anywhere,” you can’t help but snark, knowing that he isn’t in any position to move. You make your way through your flat, trying not to look at it through a new perspective, hyper-aware that he’ll soon be taking it in, evaluating your space, making judgments, gathering intel that he’ll file away to try to exploit another day.

You resist the urge to grab discarded clothing along the way, to tidy the bathroom sink and wipe down the mirror. You’re busy as fuck, not home nearly enough to fully relax most days, and certainly do not possess the energy to clean up often. If he has a problem with it, he should have found somewhere else to bleed out. You’re sorry for the circumstances of your first meeting, but you’re not going to apologize for the way you manage to live your life. You snap the cabinet closed and head back to the foyer.

Only to find this big motherfucker sitting on your couch, his jacket folded neatly on the seat under his hand so he doesn’t bleed onto the fabric underneath. How thoughtful, you think, seething.

You stop in the doorway and level him with a look that you hope conveys the disgust coursing through you at the moment. “Too injured to walk unassisted, huh?”

“Your support on the way here was invaluable in allowing me to catch my breath so that I could make my own way into your… uniquely charming home,” he rasps in response, completely unapologetic. His eyes leisurely drift around your living room and kitchen area, taking in the old take-out containers on the island counter, the guns and ammo scattered on the couch’s side table, the plants spilling over every other available surface. He nudges a plushie that has made its way from the armchair next to the couch to the floor with his sock-covered foot, and it squeaks, startling you out of your irritation. You move to his side on the couch and sit next to him, sweeping the magazines about distant, peaceful travel destinations that you’ll likely never see from the coffee table to the floor to make room for the first aid kit.

“I can take it from here,” he offers, watching as you pull out medical pincers, gauze, and disinfectant. “I don’t want to give you nightmares.”

You scoff softly, batting away his hand reaching for the supplies. “Despite your best efforts, you’re not scary enough to compete with the nightmares I already have,” you say, grasping his wrist and gently lowering it to rest on his knee. As you carefully roll up the sleeve of his shirt to examine the first wound, you realize just how much you have just revealed, for free, in that statement. You suppress a wince, overly conscious of his bright eyes drifting from your face to his arm and back again.

In the corner of your eye, you see his jaw clench as you reveal the bullet hole gaping in the round meat of his deltoid underneath his ruined sleeve.

“Wanderer got you, huh?” You sigh. “Since when do wanderers wield .38 caliber pistols?”

“Humans have been known to wander, from time to time,” Sylus deadpans, utterly shameless, glancing pointedly at your scattered travel magazines.

“You should have been a lawyer instead of a crime lord,” you sniff, resigning yourself to the task ahead.

You do your best to be gentle, offering him something to sink his teeth into as you dig into both the bullet hole in his shoulder and the one in the side of his left pectoral, uncomfortably close to where your own bullet ripped through him not so long ago. You know what to do, because you’ve been on the other side of this predicament with Zayne more times than you can count, and Zayne is a good, patient teacher. Sylus is panting and uncharacteristically quiet, and you hate yourself for the insane image that intrudes into your thoughts as you imagine his teeth sinking into something else, as you have to pointedly ignore the unblemished expanse of his exposed torso that heaves with each breath, the softness of pale, sweat-slicked skin under your calloused fingertips.

Finally, the last bullet drops onto the pile of extra gauze on the coffee table with a muffled thunk, and Sylus hisses as you generously pour disinfectant over the hole you just dragged it out of.

“Who is the kitten now, hiss boy?” you tease, trying to distract him from how much pain this is obviously causing him.

“Hiss … boy?” he narrows his eyes. “I’m rather certain that in contrast to the normal company you keep, there is nothing ‘boyish’ about me,” he responds smoothly, unruffled. So much for trying to get a rise out of him.

“Opinions differ,” you retort, beginning to wrap bandages tightly around his chest. You try again. “Ironic, that you’ve suffered injury from your own merchandise, don’t you think? Has it made you reconsider your line of work?”

“How are you so sure that I was shot with one of the guns I sell? This could be the result of the use of a legally registered firearm issued to one of your colleagues,” he says, watching you carefully. Your hands pause. You sit, gazing at the bandages you’ve just wrapped around his big shoulder, his broad chest, these parts of him that despite all their strength, their ability to knit themselves back together, are still just fragile flesh and blood, easily flayed open by a speeding bullet or the slash of a blade. You realize in an uncomfortable moment of self-awareness that it doesn’t matter if he was shot by one of his underworld counterparts with a grudge, or by one of your own colleagues. You just don’t want him to be hurt at all.

You move your hands again, snipping the end of the bandage you’ve just finished wrapping around his chest and using butterfly pins to secure it with a decisive snap. “There. Now you can begin to heal properly.”

You say this with a finality that you hope he can hear. It is done. You’ve cared for him to the best of your ability, at a time he needed it, and you hope that with each careful touch you offered, he heard the message loud and clear that you were sorry for what had previously happened between you, that you now owe each other nothing. Life can return to normal. It won’t matter anymore that you don’t want him to be in pain, that you want to protect his body from harm. You won’t be seeing him again.

“Still too drained to heal myself,” he murmurs, leaning back on your couch and closing his eyes as if he owns the place.

“Sylus—” you start, because he can’t stay here. You can’t handle him here, the silken fall of his ivory hair in stark contrast to the deep maroon of your couch, his legs manspreading, taking up more than his fair share of the cushions, his breath, scent, presence threatening to overwhelm your sense of space and boundaries. He doesn’t belong here, in this modest little flat, amongst yesterday’s take-out cartons and the light from the street lamps outside filtering in through your unwashed windows to illuminate the regal line of his nose. It’s like having a jaguar in a petting zoo, and you need him to leave. Now.

“If you’re so impatient to be rid of me, then resonate with me. That will expedite things significantly,” he interrupts your growing panic, not bothering to open his eyes.

“Do you not remember last time? We were chained together, and we still don’t know what broke the connection.”

“Mmm, is that what happened?” he murmurs drowsily.

“Oh, having trouble recalling? You kindly offered to cut off my hand to speed up the process—does that jog your memory?” you snap, frustration building again at the memory.

“How are we sure that the link happened because we resonated? Maybe it was just a coincidence.”

“What?” You can’t believe your ears. It’s so obvious that the successful resonance caused the uncomfortable link that chained you together for an unbearable amount of time.

“Correlation is not causation,” he enunciates slowly, as if you’re hard of hearing. Which ok, you have permanent tinnitus due to the almost constant gunfire involved in your occupation, but still! “The only way to confirm your theory is to resonate with me again.”

“You are not going to goad me into resonating with you again, Sylus.” You take a deep breath, breathe it out again. A smirk drifts across his face, which incidentally has regained some of the color that was missing when you first found him. You’ve paid your debt. He needs to go. You move to stand, but his voice stops you.

“Did you know? I had to increase my credit limit because of your little shopping spree at the auction,” he says wistfully.

“What?” You turn to look at him again. His eyes, glittering like rubies, are open now, amusement written all over him.

“Does the Hunter’s Association offer a hearing package in their health insurance policy? You might want to get your hearing tested, Sweetie.”

“What do you mean you had to increase your credit limit because of me?” you demand, ignoring his jab and annoying nickname. “I don’t believe that for a second!”

“My, my, have we learned to be less gullible after the little handcuff and smoke pistol incident?” he drawls, clearly steadily feeling better. “I should give Kieran and Luke a raise for what they did; it was a fun little interlude for me, and they taught you the very valuable lesson of recognizing bullshit when you hear it. They’ve given me one less thing to worry about.”

All you can do is stare at him, frustrated with how tongue tied this man often leaves you. Finally, you manage: “There is too much to unpack there so I’m not even going to touch it. Are you trying to tell me that I owe you something?”

“Well,” he draws out the word, producing a coin from… somewhere? Up his sleeve? Like the true cartoon villain he is, he begins flipping it with the hand of his uninjured side. “Naturally I don’t have a credit limit, because everyone knows that I’m good for my debts. But you did put a … dent in my bank balance with your little spending escapade at the auction, and I think the scale between us is a little unevenly tipped, don’t you? I mean, an honorable, fiscally responsible Linkon citizen such as yourself should be able to recognize when they’ve run up a fortune on someone else’s tab, and would feel compelled to make things square. Right?”

You can’t believe this. Here you were, from the very beginning, doing your best to wipe the ledger clean, repay your debt, treat this motherfucker with kindness, thinking about how you wanted to protect him from pain and injury, and this stingy asshole is pointing out that you, while following his directions, spent more of his money than you manage to make in…. multiple years, in one night, and he expects to be repaid. He’s right, though. Unlike him, you are honorable. Unlike him, you are fair, and believe in justice, and your spiteful doubling of what he said you should offer on that first protocore… and subsequent purchase of the entire inventory… maybe was… childish.

You look up at your ceiling, hands hanging at your sides. You try to remember not to let this man get under your skin like he has done from the very moment he melodramatically swooped down from an absurdly ringing bell tower and re-materialized in a whoosh of ridiculous crow feathers, sauntering towards you as if you should know who the fuck he is and simper accordingly.

Still staring at the ceiling, you hear yourself ask, “What would make us square, Sylus?”

You’re met with silence, long enough that you give in and glance down into his satisfied face.

“Because I’m a generous man, I’ll give you a choice: resonate with me now, or…”

“Or?” You take the bait.

“Let me use your place as a safe house if something like this happens again. I’m embarrassed to admit that I don’t have one in this area, and I have a feeling I’ll be passing through more often now.”

“What? Why?”

“Which one will it be?” He smoothly ignores your questions, not even bothering to inquire about the state of your hearing. “Tick tock, I know you’re eager to be rid of me right now.”

Dimly, you’re aware, somewhere in the back of your mind, that Sylus can’t force you to make this choice at all. You don’t actually have to go along with him, be pulled into his slip stream as he moves who knows how many steps ahead of you towards a goal you can’t see. You know that this so-called lingering debt is a pretext, and that he doesn’t actually  want to balance the scales. He wants something else. You just can’t figure out what the fuck that something else is.

The more you interact with him, the more you have to begrudgingly admit that the little cat he sees when he looks at you might not be as far from the truth as you’d insist if ever asked. Your curiosity, your hyper-awareness of his every movement, every twitch of his lips and fingers and the labyrinthine twists of his sharp, sharp mind have you mesmerized like a cat in front of a drifting feather.

You can’t help it. You know that you can’t handle resonating with him right now. You recall all too vividly the feeling of his power coursing through your body, the hunger, the starvation, finally sated, and the subsequent addiction that had already begun to form from the first moment your respective evols locked into their feedback loop, enabling each other, intertwining until one was indistinguishable from the other. You could lose yourself in this man and never find your way back to yourself if you’re not careful.

So. The safest option here, in this bargain that Sylus is offering you in exchange for the debt you apparently (doubtfully) still owe: “You can use my place when you need it.”

You don’t think he realizes it, but you can see the way his shoulders relax, his big body melting deeper into your couch. His face is serious; for some reason, he’s resisting his impulse to insult you by letting the satisfied grin spread over his face. He just breathes deeply, once, and watches you through half-lidded eyes.

“Deal,” he huffs after the silence drags almost unbearably long, heavily hauling himself to his feet. “I’ll get out of your hair for now.” He slowly, carefully picks his way through articles of clothing on the floor to reach the foyer again.

“I’ll make a spare key for you when I get the chance,” you mutter, already regretting your decision. All you had to do was resonate with him one more time, thereby wildly reducing the chances of ever running into him again. Maybe you should have gone with that option, the idea of him showing up at your place unannounced fills you with too much dread (anticipation), and you open your mouth to let him know you’ve changed your mind—

“No need,” Sylus finally smiles, his sharp canines glinting under the automatic hall light. “I’ll be seeing you, Kitten,” he promises, and promptly vanishes in a cloud of stupid, fucking feathers. Feathers that you have to later pick out of the bloody mess he left in your foyer, on your hands and knees.

[jq37]

I've largely been thrilled with the amount of sister content for Adaine and Aelwyn in Junior Year considering that Aelwyn's main arc was more or less completed last season and she could have easily been benched like so many other NPCs were this season. The only thing I was hoping would come into play but didn't was the Nemesis Ward. Even if it never comes up though, I still love it so much as a point of characterization for her. That action says so much about who she is as a person. That she would take a piece of magic specifically intended for evil and make it good in the same way that her protective magic which should have been good was twisted to be used for evil the first 18 years of her life? Mwah. Chef's kiss.