#hope this is enjoyable for someone!

[madootles]

some pages from my work doodle scrapbook!

[inkskinned]

the thing about some men is that they want you to remember, at all times, that you are underneath them. that with one word or look or "joke", you will stay beneath them. that even "exceptions" to the rule are not true exceptions - the commonly cited statistic that one in eight men believe they could win against serena williams.

women's gymnastics is often not seen as real gymnastics. whatever the fuck non-euclidian horrors rhythmic gymnasts are capable of, it's often tamped down as being not a sport. some of the most dominant athletes in the world are women. nobody watches women's soccer. despite years of dancing and being built like a fucking brick, men always assume they're faster and stronger than i am. you wouldn't like what happens when they are incorrect. once while drunk at a guy's house i won a held-plank challenge by a solid minute. the party was over after that - he became exceedingly violent.

what i mean is that you can be perfect, and they still think you're ... lacking, somehow. i hope you understand i'm trying to express a neutral statement when i say: taylor swift was the possibly the most patriarchy-palatable, straight-down-the-line woman we could churn out. she is white, conventionally attractive, usually pretty mild in personality. say what you will about her (and you should, she's a billionaire, she can handle it), but a few things seem to be true about her: 1. she can write a damn catchy song, and 2. the eras tour truly was a massive commercial success and was also genuinely an impressive feat of human athleticism and performance.

i don't know if she deserves the title of "woman of the year," i'm not debating that in this post. what i am saying is that she was named Woman of The Year, and then an untalented man got onstage at the golden globes and made fun of her for attending her boyfriend's football games. what i am saying is that this woman altered local economies - and her dating life is still being made into a "harmless" punchline. the camera panned, greedy, over to her downing a full glass of champagne. congratulations taylor! you are woman of the year! but you are a woman. even her.

fuck, man. write better material.

a guy gets onstage at a college graduation and despite the fact like half the crowd is made up of women, he spends a significant proportion of it warning these people - who spent possibly hundreds of thousands of dollars on their education - that they were lied to. that the "real" meaning of femininity is motherhood. that they shouldn't rest on the laurels of that education-they-paid-for but instead throw it away to kneel at a man's heel. imagine that. sweating in your godawful polyester gown (that you also had to pay for!), fresh out of 4 years of pushing yourself ever-harder: and some guy you've never met - who knows nothing about you - he reminds you this "win" is a pyrrhic one at best. you really shouldn't consider yourself that extraordinary. you're still a woman, even after years of study.

god forbid you are not a pretty woman, but if you are pretty, you must be dumb. god forbid you are not ablebodied or white or cis or straight or good at swallowing. you must be beneath a man, or else they are not a man. the equation for masculinity seems to just be: that which is not a woman or womanly (god forbid). anything "feminine" is thereby anathema. to engage in "feminine" things such as therapy, getting a hug from a friend, or crying - it is giving up ones manhood. therefore women need to be put in their place to ensure that masculinity is protected.

this is something i have struggled to explain to terfs - they are not doing the work of feminism, but rather the patriarchy. by asserting that women and men must be (on some secret level) oppositional and in conflict, they also assume that being a woman is akin to being another species. but bigotry does not stem from observational truths or clarity - that is what makes it bigotry. there was nothing in my childhood that made me fundamentally different from my brother. we are treated differently nonetheless. to assert there is some biological drive that enforces my gender role is to assert that women have a gendered role. men do not see women as equal to them not because of biological reality - but instead because the core tenant of the patriarchy is that women aren't full, realized people.

we are told from a very young age to excuse misbehavior as a single man's choice - not all men. it is not all men, just that one guy. all women are gold-digging bitches who belong in the kitchen - but if a man is mean, bigoted, or violent to you, it's just that particular guy, and that means nothing about men-as-a-whole. it is only one guy who got mad when you gently rejected him. it is only one guy who warns her this trophy is heavy, are you sure you can hold it? it is only one guy who smashes her face into the cake. it is only one guy talking into a mic about hating our bodily autonomy.

i have just found that they often wait until the moment we actually seem to be upstaging them. you sit in a meeting where you're presenting your own findings and he says get me a coffee? or you run to the end of the marathon and are about to finish first and he pushes your kids out in front of you. you win the chess game and they make some comment akin to well, you're ugly away. we can be the billionaire and get the dream life and finally fucking do it and yet! still! they have this strange, visceral urge to say well actually, if you think you're so great -

it's not one just one guy. it's one in eight.

[setaflow]

Anyway I had fun this season

[zara-renata]

Sylus gets a headache | ao3 | other fics in this 'series'

Summary: Sylus has secured the promise from you that he can use your place as a safe house if he's in the area and needs it. Sylus's definition of "need", it turns out, might be different than your own, as illustrated by the first time he shows up unannounced at your door.

Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, no use of y/n. This story contains: fluff, banter, Sylus has a hard time keeping his hands to himself, legal arguments, bad puns, self-indulgent writing, repetitive finger caressing, insomnia that Sylus is determined to vanquish by any means, Xavier is an innocent victim in all this and has no idea, except has Xavier ever been innocent in his entire life? CWs: insomnia, consumption of alcohol, profanity SFW, mostly. With some filthy innuendos at the end. It's Sylus, after all.

It has been a few days since you had the best night’s rest you can remember on the back of a certain miscreant crime lord’s motorcycle, and you’re once again preparing for a long, torturous night of staring at the ceiling and trying to catalogue all the classes of wanderers in an attempt to lull yourself to sleep—Nero’s suggestion. You have your doubts about whether it will work, but he gave the advice so earnestly after overhearing you talking to Tara about your insomnia that you feel obligated to give it a go. Sylus would probably scoff and say something about ‘people pleasing,’—you shake your head. That man does not get to live rent free in your brain, no matter how suspiciously kind he was the last time you saw him.

The kettle squeals, and you pour the boiling water into your chipped “World’s Greatest Hunter” mug that Caleb had gifted you once you were admitted into the Association’s ranks. The hot liquid steams soothingly into your face as it drowns a chamomile teabag, and you try not to think about the last time you saw him, when he was smiling. Patting your head. Whole, and so, so vibrantly alive. You take a deep, shaky breath.

After a suggestion from Tara, you add some honey and then slice a lime and squeeze the juice into the tea, absently stirring the spoon and gazing out your balcony window. You’re home early for once, and the sun is only just setting. You can’t see it through the high rises around you, but dusk filters down into the streets below your flat. The gentle sounds of the city moving into late evening drift up, the traffic like waves crashing on the shore, laughter and shop bells tinkling, a dog barking somewhere.

Suddenly, your doorbell chimes through your apartment and startles you out of your reverie. Did you forget that you had ordered something to be delivered today?

Without thinking too hard about it, you take your still piping-hot tea and pad to the foyer to answer the door.

Only to have your sense of calm shattered as you fling the mug out of sheer, instinctual self-preservation that Zayne accuses you of not having, when you see who is standing on the other side.

Quicker than your brain can actually process Sylus’s presence outside your flat, scarlet-night tendrils have prevented the mug from shattering on the floor, but have failed to stop the liquid from continuing its projectile path right onto his red, standing collar shirt and black vest.

“The fuck, Sylus?”

“You really, and I mean really, need to work on your greetings, kitten,” he tells you calmly, evol delivering the mug into his waiting hand while he holds the suitcase he has in the other hand away from his body to avoid being dripped on by his now soaked torso.

“Sorry, you were the last person I was expecting.” You wince, heart still threatening to beat its way out of your rib cage.

“Oh, expecting someone, are we?” he lifts a dark silver eyebrow.

“No, but least of all… you.” You flap your hand in his general direction. “What are you even doing here?”

“How about,” he drawls, “you let me in, and I’ll tell you. You wouldn’t want your neighbors to get curious and come to inquire about the mess I’m making on your doorstep, would you?”

You stare at him for a moment longer, trying to think of a way out of having him in your space, again, but you’re tired at the end of another long day, another long week, another long month and this whole entire fucking year. Trying to get rid of him will take more energy than just letting him do what he wants so that he’ll go away again. You run a hand down your face and shuffle aside.

He enters, and the scent of him fills the small foyer, warm and mouth-watering. He sets the briefcase and mug on the floor, removes his dress shoes and places them neatly by your own hastily-kicked-off boots next to the step leading into the rest of your flat. He then picks the mug back up and reads what’s written on it.

“World’s best hunter, indeed.” He snorts softly, eyes flicking from your face to your thin tank top and sleep shorts covered in grinning little bounce, bounce planet blobbus, to your bare feet. “Is this how the world’s greatest hunter always answers the door to unknown visitors?”

“It was a gift,” you say defensively, snatching the mug from him and cradling it to your chest. “And the only people who would be at my door this late is Xavier borrowing a cup of sugar for some doomed baking experiment, or a delivery person. I’m sure they’ve seen much worse than this,” you sweep your hand down your body in a dismissive flourish.

“Oh, I’m sure they’ve seen much worse.” Sylus frowns slightly.

“Yeah, so if they don’t like it, they’re welcome to move on to their next delivery.”

“Or buy their own sugar,” Sylus murmurs, reaching out to run a finger along your knuckles as you clutch the mug. “And who gave you this highly accurate mug?”

You hesitate, knowing that his face is going to do something complicated, like it always does, when you mention your family. But fuck it, he asked. If he doesn’t like the answer, he can also move on to whatever his next nefarious errand is. “Someone who was like a brother to me.”

“Brother, huh,” he says softly, still gently stroking your skin. “Well, he wasn’t wrong in this.” His hand falls back to his side. “Invite me all the way in, kitten. With your words,” he commands.

“And why should I do that? The deal was to let you come in. You’re in now. You don’t need to come in any further. Now it’s your turn to honor the deal. Why are you here?” You glare up at him, your foyer feeling minuscule with his big body and presence filling it.

“You offered me your place if I ever needed it,” Sylus narrows his glittering eyes. “I needed it today before you flung steaming liquid all over my clothes. And now I need it even more.” He looks pointedly down at the still-dripping clothes in question.

“What did you originally need it for?” You stall, the guilt of throwing a mug full—half! Half full! of tea at him starting to creep in.

“How about you invite me all the way into your home, with your words, help me take care of this mess you caused,” he waves a lazy finger at his torso, “and I’ll tell you.”

“But you already promised to tell me why you’re here in exchange for the initial value of me letting you in, and I let you in. I already paid. You can’t make me pay twice for the same goods,” you protest.

“Remind me to take you with me the next time I have contract negotiations. You’re more useful than my own legal counsel.” He pauses, considering you. “Circumstances have changed. Force majeure prevents me from fulfilling my original promise without requiring additional time and means to fulfil that promise. You owe me the opportunity to successfully deliver what I owe you.”

“What, exactly, is preventing you from telling me why you originally came to my home right here in my entryway?”

“The consequences of an unforeseeable natural disaster,” he answers with a little helpless shrug. “Namely, the trauma of nearly getting drowned in tea following almost being taken out by a mug launched with your god-like strength. Kitten, your assault is the equivalent of an act of god, and I can’t be responsible for the fact that I now need a dry shirt and a safe place to recover from the shock of almost being murdered by your tableware.”

You can’t help it. It has been so long since you’ve actually laughed out loud, so the noise that comes out of you doesn’t even sound human. You’re laughing, and you can’t stop. The affronted look on Sylus’s face in response to your ugly-snorts, causes you to laugh even more, and you’re suddenly bending over, holding your knees, laughing like you might die if you stop.

After a long moment, when you are finally able to breathe again, you straighten and find Sylus looking at you with a soft expression, one corner of his wide mouth slightly lifted… which is alarming. But you’re too filled with gratitude for the relief of laughing that his absurd exaggeration just gave you, so you refuse to think about anything at all too hard right now. You give in.

“Sylus, would you do me the honor of coming into my home? You can tell me what the hell you’re doing here after I find you a dry shirt.” You sarcastically bow as low as you can, your arms uplifted to gesture him forward.

“I suppose I can’t refuse such a graciously extended offer,” he says, as if resigned to a terrible fate, but his smile is smug and he wastes no time striding into your living room while unbuttoning his vest. He gently lays it over the back of your couch, and begins unbuttoning his shirt. You force yourself to stop staring as the pale skin slowly being revealed with each flick of his long fingers and head to your bedroom.

You paw through your chest of drawers, trying to find a shirt that will fit his broad shoulders and chest, but all you manage to do is make even more of a mess in your barely organized drawers. You stand, remembering the hoodie Xavier leant you after a recent, particularly messy battle on a chilly night. You move to your closet where you had hung it carefully to remind yourself to give it back to him after having washed it. You pull it from the hanger, turn around, and squeal loud enough to shatter glass.

Sylus is standing right behind you, chest bare, black slacks hung low around his narrow hips, and you did not heard him come in.

“I thought we were past the terror stage of our friendship, sweetheart,” he says, cocking his head, the same ruby stud earrings he was wearing at the club flashing in the light. “But that’s twice today that I’ve frightened you to the point of violence. Am I really that scary?”

“You keep… appearing, out of nowhere. A little warning would be appreciated,” you huff, heart pounding. You don’t know why you’re so nervous around him. Really. It has nothing to do with the broad expanse of creamy skin and pillowy man-tits shoved in your face at the moment. “And honestly, considering the fact that our friendship started with you choking me out and keeping me captive for days, it’s a wonder that I’m not more scared of you,” you flare, because yeah, how dare he act like you should be over the absolute shit-show of your first encounter, when you’ve hardly had any time to get to know him. That’s why you’re nervous. There is no other possible explanation. A couple friendly interactions do not make up for how much of an evil bastard he was when you first met him.

“Would you like me to wear a bell when I’m here, then?” he asks, conveniently ignoring the reminder regarding how he treated you not so long ago.

“How about you just stay out of my bedroom and stay where I can see you at other times,” you snap, feeling violent again at the intrusive thought of Sylus wearing a collar around his thick neck, cute little bell dinging every time he moved.

“I’ll do my best,” he says absently, clearly distracted by his thorough inventory of your bedroom as he takes in the tumbling plants in mismatched pots on floating shelves hanging over the unmade bed, the army of plushies scattered over the bunched up mountain of duvet and pillows. Your bed used to be your sanctuary. The place where you could find rest and relaxation after exhausting battles and long days squinting at the computer filing incident reports. Now it just gives you anxiety. You try to pull his attention away from the chaos of your former safe space by holding Xavier’s hoodie out for Sylus to take.

“Here, this might fit you.”

Sylus looks down at your offering, crosses his arms, and takes a step back, as if the hoodie is so offensive that it warrants recoiling physically from it. “That’s quite a big hoodie for you, even for days when you want to be comfortable,” he says evenly.

“It’s not mine, but it’s clean, and I’m pretty sure it’s the only thing I have right now that will fit you,” you say, shaking it a little in the universal, impatient gesture of just take it already for fuck’s sake.

“And who is its actual owner?”

“Xavier.”

“In the habit of wearing your partner’s clothing, are we?” he asks, still staring at it, the disdain now plain in his assessment of the sweatshirt.

“Uh, sometimes? We were on a mission recently and my jacket got torn to the point of uselessness, and it was cold. He let me wear his hoodie so I wouldn't be cold. It's been washed since then, so it's clean. I’ll just wash it again when you’re done using it before I return it. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

After what seems like a ridiculous amount of time for him to apparently make some mental calculations that only he will ever understand, he finally takes the soft hoodie from you, fingertips brushing yours as he grasps the fabric. You can’t figure out why he he suddenly looks more smugly evil than you’ve ever seen, with his lips curved up in a sardonic smirk. “Oh, of course, I’m sure he will not mind at all.” He pulls the hoodie over his head and shimmies a little as he drags it down is body; it’s a little tight around the shoulders, but you don’t think it’s tight enough to permanently stretch the fabric.

After it’s on, he tugs the collar up to his nose and inhales deeply.

“What are you doing?” you ask, as if you can’t see perfectly well what he is doing.

“It smells like you,” he answers, shameless, as if that is a perfectly reasonable answer to your question.

“Well, I did wear it, and wash it with my normal detergent and it has been hanging in my closet for a while, so…” your voice trails off.

“And soon it will smell like me too,” he continues, letting the collar fall with a satisfied flick of his fingers.

What even is this conversation? “Can you just be normal? For once?" A look of boredom is all the response you get, so you continue. "Now get out of my bedroom. Come tell me why you’re here in the first place.” You stride past him, making your way into the living room.

He follows you obediently and plops down on the couch, and just like last time, spreads his legs wide. This time, he is able to rest his arms on either side along the back of the couch, effectively occupying the whole damn thing. He sits quietly, looking at you expectantly.

You stand, arms folded, a safe distance away from the couch near the kitchen island.

“Well?” You prompt.

“It’s customary to offer your guest a refreshing beverage upon receiving them in your home. I believe I offered you wine the first time I hosted you in my own home.”

“Hosted?” He can’t be serious. “What a generous euphemism for ‘unlawfully imprisoned,’” you bite out.

“Po-tae-to,” he says serenely, “Po-tah-to.”

“Sylus,” you warn—about what, you’re not sure. He wants a beverage? Okay, perhaps you’ll fling more hot tea at him if he doesn’t start talking.

“Kitten.” He continues gazing at you, clearly in no hurry to move things along.

“If you don’t tell me, right now, why the hell you showed up at my place unannounced, I will report you as a burglar and have you removed by the authorities.”

“But then how will you explain to Xavier why I’ve been arrested wearing his sweater?” he asks, eyes wide, all concern for what your partner’s thoughts on the matter would be, and what they would mean for you.

“Burglars have been known to be creeps and go rooting through their victims’ closets and wearing their clothes! I’ll just say you were wearing it when I got here. Maybe he’ll be worried that it’s him you’re actually interested in harassing,” you snicker, trying to picture Xavier’s reaction.

As you’re speaking, Sylus pulls out his phone and fiddles with it with a bored expression on his face.  

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I boring you? Perhaps you should go find something more interesting to do and leave me in peace,” you grind out after you’ve finished and notice his complete lack of attention.

Your irritation is interrupted by a notification on your phone. Since Sylus is so busy messing with his, you grab yours from where it has been lying on the counter since before Sylus interrupted your peaceful evening staring out into the city. You see that you have a new message from… the man currently oozing across the entirety of your couch, head lolled to the side and watching you with a hint of amusement curving his mouth.

You open the chat, and your eyes widen at the conversation that never fucking happened currently loading into your chat history, with time stamps corresponding to when Sylus showed up at your door.

You: Oh Sylus, my big, handsome partner in crime, I think there’s an intruder in my flat and I’m so scared!

The Sytuation: What makes you think theres an intruder in your home, kitten? Im on my way.

You: There is sugar missing from my pantry! I just bought a new bag yesterday, and it’s gone! Oh please, my dark knight, come protect me from the sugar thief who should buy his own sugar and stop coming to my place to pilfer mine!

The Sytuation: Of course, sweetie. Go wait by the door, Ill be there in 5.

“What. Is. This. Fuckery,” you demand, thrusting your phone in his face.

He shrugs. “You threatened to lie about why I’m here in a bid to get rid of me. Did you not expect me to counter your move to ensure that no one will believe you?” he pauses, and then narrows his eyes. "Did you really save me in your phone as 'The Situation,' with a Y?"

"Punny, right? My phone doubles as my work phone. You really think I'm going to save your real name in my contacts? I might as well just save you as 'Sylus Qin, leader of Onychinus, most wanted criminal in the N109 zone," you grumble. "And trust me, that's the nicest name I could come up with."

"Punny," he repeats derisively, unimpressed.

“And don't derail. What is this nonsense about a sugar thief?” You wave the phone again.

“Your colleague should learn to stock his own pantry if he wants to engage in… what did you call them? Doomed baking experiments?”

“How did you even… why does it look so real?” You gaze down at the texts that look so authentic that if they hadn’t been filled with such bullshit, you’d be doubting your own sanity about whether the conversation had really happened.

“You’re really surprised that faking evidence, alibis and dirt on my opponents is a part of my vast skill set? I’m hurt that you underestimate me so.” He looks at you like he’s disappointed, a little pout pulling down his stupid beautiful mouth.

“For fuck’s sake.” You’re done. The longer you resist, the longer Sylus will be in your flat, driving you up the wall. “Fine. Fine!” You set your phone down again and throw up your hands. “What do you want to drink, Sylus?”

“Two fingers of gin, if you have it. Or brandy. Or vodka.” He thinks for a moment. “I’m not feeling too picky tonight.”

“I don’t keep hard liquor in my house, you alcoholic. I have a half-open bottle of rosé in the fridge. Will that satisfy his lordship?” You turn resignedly to trod your way to your fridge.

“What vineyard and vintage?” he asks, perking up.

You open the fridge and pull out the bottle. You squint at the label. “I dunno. It has a cute fish on the label, so I bought it.”

He looks at you like you just murdered Mephisto, and you begin pouring the pink liquid into another mug. This one says UNT on the side in big block letters, matching the size of the handle so that when you hold it, the handle looks like a matching C. You walk back to where he’s sitting, and you think that maybe your smile looks as smug as Sylus’s usually does when you hand him his drink.

He takes the mug from you, snorts when he reads the side, and then look at its contents dubiously for a moment.

“You taste it first,” he finally says, looking back up at you.

“Worried I poisoned it?” You’re still grinning.

“As you say,” he says, tilting his head.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t demand beverages from people you don’t trust then.”

“I trust you, just not your taste in wine after learning you choose bottles based on the cuteness of the label. Indulge me,” he murmurs. “Prove to me that you’re willing to drink it, and that it’s not just swill you’re trying to get rid of by offering it to me.”

You take the mug from him and lift it to your lips, taking a sip, watching him over the rim as you swallow. His nostrils flair, and he lifts his hand in a gesture for you to return it to him. Instead of giving it back, you take one more big gulp, and his brow furrows. Only after you've slowly swallowed again do you comply, relishing the warmth spreading through your body as you lower the mug for him to take. He brushes your fingers again as he takes it back. He turns the mug, so that his mouth hovers where yours just was. He then closes his eyes and inhales, gently swirling the liquid inside. Eyes still closed, he takes a sip.

After a moment, he sighs. “Thank you. This is actually not bad, for a rosé.”

“You’re such a snob,” you smile down at him, irrationally pleased that he seems so pleased.

“Life is too difficult, and too short, to waste on inferior experiences. I only like tasting the best,” he says, bright red eyes opening and fixing on you.

He looks up at you like you should be able to draw some deeper meaning from his words, but you’re tired, warm from the wine, and despite how much he winds you up you were just moments ago, right now you’re strangely relaxed for the first time in days.

“Tell me why you’re here, Sylus,” you say quietly.

“You told me I could use your place when I needed it,” he says, just as softly. He takes another drink, rolls it around in his mouth. Swallows, his adam’s apple dipping.

“And why did you need it this evening?”

“I had some negotiations regarding a business acquisition that I’m considering in this part of Linkon City, and they were abhorrently boring. By the time they were over, I had a splitting headache, and the sunlight didn’t help. It would have been unsafe to operate a motor vehicle under those conditions, so I thought I’d come and wait for it to pass in my newest ‘safe house,’ he answers gravely, as if getting a headache was a perfectly logical reason to crash your evening and take over your couch. “Wouldn’t want to endanger the innocent citizens of Linkon City with reckless driving, now would we?”

“Aren’t all of your shady business deals done under the cover of darkness? Why were you here at a meeting during the day?”

He’s holding the mug in one hand by his fingertips now, along the rim, slowly swirling it. He crosses one long leg over the other and answers languidly. “You’re assuming that today’s business was ‘shady.’”

“So your business today was legitimate?” You’ve been standing for awhile now, and begin to shift from bare foot to bare foot.

He hums in acknowledgement. “My business interests are as varied as they are successful. You insult me by looking so surprised.”

“Well I would never want to insult you,” you drawl. “So that’s it? You got a headache and decided you’d crash my evening?”

He nods, touching his temple and grimacing. “It’s still pretty bad, to be honest.”

“The daylight bothers you that much?” you ask, genuinely curious. You have always assumed that it was the nature of his occupation and perhaps just a proclivity for being a night owl that explained his nocturnal existence, but now you’re wondering if it’s not something deeper that has him avoiding it as much as possible.

You finally decide to give your tired feet a break and perch on the little corner of couch cushion that has been freed for use by Sylus crossing his legs. “If sunlight bothers you that much, what could possibly be so important to come out in it today?”

“Are you really asking about the details of my business ventures, sweetheart?” he asks in what you suspect is feigned astonishment.

“And if I am?”

“Then I’ll tell you,” he responds easily.

“Then I am.”

“I’m in discussions for acquiring a chain of entertainment venues in Linkon City.” He leans his head on the couch’s backrest and lets it roll to the side to keep looking at you. He catches the look of disgust that is no doubt obvious on your face.

“Entertainment venues,” you say flatly.

“Yes. Is there something wrong with that?”

“What kind of … entertainment venues?” you ask, hating yourself for wanting to know. It’s his business if he wants to buy porn shops, or strip clubs, or brothels—your stomach twists, and you refuse to consider why.

“What kind of ideas are racing through that fascinating brain of yours?” he asks, reaching up and running two of his fingers along your temple, brushing your hair away from your eyes.

“Nothing,” you bite out, turning your face away from his touch. You normally dislike how you have a hard time concealing how you’re feeling, but you particularly hate it right now.

“Mmhmm,” he murmurs. “Then, to answer your question, it’s a chain of arcades.”

Your brain grinds to a halt. Did he just say—

“Arcades?”

He nods, and winces, closing his eyes. You’re starting to believe that his head is actually hurting him, and you feel bad for throwing dishware and hot tea at him and refusing to offer him more than the one drink he asked for.

“Why would you be interested in acquiring an arcade chain?”

“Even for odious crime lords, it’s always wise to have a diversified business portfolio.”

You have called him a lot of things both out loud and in your head, but you’d never call him odious. Odorous, perhaps, when he’s sweating heavily after being riddled with bullets. But you have to suppress the urge to chastise him about talking about himself that way.

“Which chain is it?”

“You probably don’t know it,” he says, as if bored with the question. “It’s not a very large chain, but large enough for my interests.”

“Try me! I love going to the arcade when I have some free time. I mean, you’ve seen my plushie collection now that you invited yourself into my house,” you bounce a little on the couch.

“You invited me, kitten. You’ve had a choice, each and every time.”

“Don’t deflect! Answer the question!” You’re quite excited about this. Maybe if it’s a place you know, that has a location nearby, he’ll give you a discount if he ends up buying them? Like an employee discount or something. Is that ethical? You should check the Association’s employee handbook for conflicts of interest.

He squints, as if preparing to evaluate your reaction, and names your favorite place to play the claw machine.

“For real? You’re really going to buy them?”

“I still have to review the contract that was proposed during today’s discussions with my legal counsel, but if negotiations are successful, then yes,” he says, casually examining his nails.

Your excitement is hard to contain, but you suddenly have a troubling thought. “You’re not going to change anything, right? Like, that place is perfect as it is, and the employees are all really friendly and helpful and clearly work hard to keep it really nice,” you rush out, worried that he’s planning to reduce the staff  or try to jack up the prices for a larger profit margin.

He turns to look at you again, and doesn’t answer for long enough that you’re really starting to worry. But then he says softly, “No, I’m not going to change a thing.”

“Oh? So they’re doing well? It’s a solid financial investment?” You’re so relieved, safe in the knowledge that your plushies will continue to be accessible, insofar as claw machines by design allow them to be.

Sylus laughs softly. “Yes, the financials all look good. Considering your interest in the nature of binding agreements, would you like to look over the purchase agreement with me? I have it with me.”

“I’d actually really like to, but I’m starting to get really tired,” you yawn, the relief you were just feeling—the relief of knowing that Sylus wasn’t up to anything that would leave a blood trail today, relief that he didn’t come tonight to try to force you to resonate or finally kill you for refusing to do so, and most importantly, relief that he wasn’t going to acquire and ruin one of the little pleasures in your life—all of it is now drowned out by a heavy feeling of pleasant drowsiness.

“Then I’ll read it to you, until you fall asleep.”

“Huh? You want to stay?”

“Yes,” he says, hauling himself to his feet and offering you his hand. You take it in confusion, and he lifts you to your feet as well. He sets the now empty mug on your coffee table, and then places his hands on your shoulders, gently guiding you from behind to your bedroom.

“Why?” you ask, not even thinking to object.

“Headache, remember?” He pushes you gently by your shoulders so that you’re sitting on your bed.

“How can you review legalese when you’re suffering from a headache?” You sink into the softness of the mattress.

“Why don’t you let me worry about that?” he says, nudging you until you’ve scooted to the middle of the bed. “Don’t move. I’m going to get my tablet out of my briefcase.” He disappears through the doorway, and you’re left sitting on your bed, surrounded by all of your plushies, and you have no idea what’s happening. You’re just too tired to argue with him. You really did miscalculate by spending all of your energy trying to get rid of him when he first arrived.

But just because you’re bone-tired, doesn’t mean you’re going to let him boss you around. You get off the bed and pad into the kitchen, passing him as he snaps his briefcase shut, tablet in hand.

“I distinctly recall telling you not to move,” he gripes, pushing up an elegant set of gold framed glasses perched on the uneven bridge of his nose with a middle finger. Huh, you didn’t know he needed glasses to read. He looks almost … cute wearing them, a little less feral. Like a leopard wearing a monocle.

Suppressing the thought of Sylus and cute in the same sentence, you ignore him, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water. Then you rummage through your most chaotic kitchen drawer for a few moments, before triumphantly pulling out what you were looking for.

You pad back over to where he’s still watching you, and offer him the glass and the half-used blister pack of over-the-counter painkillers you fished out of your chaos drawer. “Here.”

He looks down at your hands, offering him what you hope is some relief from his headache. His face is impassive, and you’re worried he assumes you’re trying to poison him again. But then he tucks the tablet under one arm, and reaches out with both hands to grasp the glass and the pill pack—except he doesn’t take them from your hands. He envelops yours with his, and pulls you gently closer to him. He somehow manages to pop two tablets out of the pack with his thumb, and they drop into your curved palm. Still holding your hand, he leans down to sweep them from your skin with his tongue. In a complete daze, you watch him lift the glass that you’re still holding to his lips, and he takes a long pull of water, washing the pills down, all the while holding your gaze with his. When he’s done, he slowly lowers your hands again.

“Thank you,” he murmurs “For the benevolence of your heart.” He says it gravely, as if you’ve just saved his life instead of giving him some headache medicine.

“You’re welcome,” you whisper, feeling like you’ve been struck by a truck after… whatever that was, feeling the warmth of his tongue in the palm of your hand like he was still licking it. Sylus then turns and heads back to your bedroom.

You set the glass and the now-empty pill pack on the kitchen island, thinking you’ll clean up tomorrow if you manage to sleep tonight, and follow him.

In the bedroom, Sylus sits, leaning back against your headboard, having needed to gently scoop some plushies out of the way to make room. He stretches his legs out in front of him with a sigh. He looks so soft, wrapped in the white hoodie, silver hair rumpled, surrounded by pillows and cute little plushies.

It’s getting increasingly difficult to remember that the man currently sinking into your duvet and wiggling his sock-covered toes in contentment is the same man who straight up exploded the man who dared kidnap you, and then proceeded to kidnap you himself after choking you to the point of passing out. You try to hold both of these truths about him in your mind at the same time, but the image of Sylus dancing you gently through a press of bodies, of the way he caresses your fingers at every opportunity, the soft slide of his tongue along your palm—these images are conquering every other version of him that you know to be true in your mind. You wonder briefly if this is part of some larger scheme of his, and what his endgame could possibly be. But right now, you’re too fucking tired to care.

“What is even happening,” you ask. You’re exhausted, but you still have enough mental reserves to question how you got here, in this situation, with this man migrating from vanquishing your couch to a large part of your bed. “Is the coffee table, or kitchen table insufficient for your needs? Why are you going to review the paperwork here, on my bed?”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice how quickly you fell asleep on my back on the motorcycle the other night, sweetheart. I’m just reading you a bedtime story featuring limitations of liability and allocation of risk so that you can finally get some sleep again.” He pats his thigh. “Here.”

You just stare at him. “Don’t make me repeat myself,” he warns, tapping his thigh again with one long finger. Just for that, you glare mutinously at him and fold your arms over your chest.

He sighs again, this time in exasperation, and leans over, firmly lifting you and setting you down so that your head is pillowed against his meaty thigh. He begins to run his fingertips gently up and down the middle of your back. He returns his attention to his tablet. “Now listen carefully,” he commands, before flicking the screen with his thumb and beginning to read in his softly in his deep, rich voice.

But of course you don't. You fall asleep as the skyscrapers light up like a dragon's hoard of jewels in the night sky outside your window, to the sounds of Sylus’s quiet recitation of indeed, a terribly boring contract, and the whisper of his fingers along your skin.

When you wake up, there is another black feather on your pillow, and you are alone. You yawn, once again feeling unbelievably rested despite the chaos Sylus always brings to your door and into your life. You stretch leisurely, spreading your arms wide and turning your head on the pillow, when something catches in your earlobe. You reach up and run your fingers along a stud earring that was not there when you fell asleep. You feel your other earlobe, but it's empty. You grab your phone from the nightstand, knocking over a semiautomatic hand pistol with scarlet flames engraved along the grip that you also don't remember owning onto the floor. You stare at it briefly, ready to commit murder if you check it and find that the safety isn't on. But first things first: you put the phone camera in selfie mode and lift it to your face, but quickly lower it again after confirming that it is indeed a ruby stud in your ear, sparkling cheekily in the morning sunlight.

Later, you're relieved to find that Sylus did actually leave the safety on on your new little ... toy, and you'll find that the mugs have been washed and set neatly away, the empty pack of painkillers placed in the recycling bin. You also see that various takeout containers and other debris that had piled up on a lot of surfaces in your place are also gone, and the countertops are clean, the coffee and kitchen table gleam in the early morning sunlight. You don't notice that the white hoodie is nowhere to be found, until you meet up with Xavier later in the day. He's wearing one that looks exactly like it.

"Thanks for returning the hoodie," he yawns. "But you really didn't have to."

You pause, feeling a thread of panic start to wind its way through your stomach. You decide to just... go with it. "Oh? You found it okay?"

"Yeah, but why did you just leave it hanging from my door handle? You could have rung and come in. I had a new limited edition bag of those cookies you were looking at in the corner store last week. I would have shared some with you... but now I've eaten them all," he admits sheepishly, big blue eyes shimmering with guilt.

You try to think fast. Did Sylus give back the hoodie without washing it? What the fuck was he thinking? He could have been seen! Does this flat have surveillance footage? Does Xavier suspect anything? You realize that you still haven't answered Xavier's question as your panic spirals. "Oh, you know, didn't want to wake you up," you flap your hands, as if you can flap this entire situation right out of your messy life.

"Well, I don't know what you did to it, but it feels brand new. As if it's never even been washed. And you somehow got out the bbq sauce stain that no matter how much I sprayed it with that stain remover stuff would never come out. So you're going to have to teach me some of that laundry magic," he says contentedly, snuggling further into the entirely new hoodie that you now realize Sylus must have somehow, over the course of the night, had hand-delivered to Xavier's place. "Uh huh," you say absently, pulling out your phone to furiously text Mr. Asshat when you see that he has also changed his name in your contact list.

You: What the hell did you do with Xavier's hoodie?"

My Sy: It doesnt matter who it belonged to before me. All that matters is that its mine now.

You: It doesn't even fit you properly! You're too big for it!

My Sy: Nothing a little size training cant fix.

Your jaw drops. He cannot be implying what you think he's implying. This is your filthy mind at work. You decide that you will simply pretend this conversation never happened. Absolutely nothing good can come from trying to figure out what the fuck is going through Sylus's head at any given moment.

You: And 'My Sy?' Really?

My Sy: Its not punny, but it rhymes. And its accurate. Gotta put the phone down for a bit, kitten. Business requires my attention. Ill be seeing you soon.

You stare at his last message for long enough that Xavier asks if you're okay. You're not. You're not okay. You couldn't even bring yourself to ask him about the other earring, or the gun. You just slowly slip your phone back into your cargo pants pocket and try very hard to stop thinking, for the rest of the day.

[omaano]

"Congratulations on your new job on Coruscant, Commander"

Fox commission for @whiskygoldwings Thank you so much for letting me run wild with these, I've missed drawing flowers so much! ❤️

Black Dahlia - for betrayal, evil and dishonesty Orange Lilies - for deep hatred, doom, as well as enthusiasm and energy (good as congratulation for a new job or promotion) Poppies - for the dead and Foxgloves - for deceit

[altcvnningham]

up late bc i keep thinking ab adlerbell and how bell is this vehicle of and for adler’s pain…….. like literally in the sense that all of bell’s memories and trauma of vietnam is imprinted onto them by adler, but also based on adler’s own memories of vietnam, how bell’s trauma and pain isn’t only theirs but adler’s too- that the two are not bound by the false camaraderie bell believes they share but instead bound by suffering, borne of adler’s. bell’s pain IS HIS pain.

and like,, does he know what bell dreams about when they wake screaming in the middle of the night?? does he share those same dreams too?? does he ever listen to bell talk about vietnam and feel, in a way nobody else possibly can, understood?? or does he feel angry, that they carry his trauma and his pain as though it were their own?? or envious, that the pain they feel isn’t even real, and that they were, for a time, spared of the horrors he endured?? or does he feel some sick satisfaction in knowing that the pain they feel is his?? that his enemy feels what he feels?? that they are bound and locked together, nearly sanctified in joint suffering??

does he care?? does he care????? i need to sit down,,,,,

[syl-stormblessed]

it’s crazy that the two *big* Adolin theories going around are a) he will become Odium’s champion, or b) he will take on the shard of Honor. there is so much Character stuffed into Adolin Kholin that both outcomes make perfect sense for him narratively, yet they’re almost complete opposites within the story

[iknowicanbutwhy]

Rating: General Audiences

Relationship: Siffrin & Everyone

Characters: Siffrin, Isabeau, Odile, Mirabelle, Bonnie

Additional Tags: in fast and food, fast food au, oh yeah give it up for the au i made to cope with capitalism and also that one april fools post, bonnie and nille are orphans, misunderstandings, self worth issues, the anxiety of making friends unless you are useful to them, i would love for isa and sif to be dating but you cant just ask someone out at their job, siffrin making bad decisions that turned out well, mirabelle calling out siffrin. you go girl, POV second person, unreliable narrator, its siffrin how reliable can you expect them to be, setting is not france or france-adjacent because i never worked there, oh but i could wish upon a star

Summary:

The best part of any job Siffrin has had, will have, and currently has, will be the people they get to feel some sort of connection with. Even when that connection is inevitably severed. Even if he can barely remember any friends he's had in previous towns they've moved on from. Even when they're.. not really friends, are they? They're just coworkers.

[palioom]

Hi omg I love your work so much I’ve been following your fics every time you post I thank the twitter algorithm everyday for letting your fics get to me 🥹

if you’re taking requests could I request maybe some period sex? Any Pedro pascal character of your choice! :))

Either that or just a fic with LOTS of oral fem receiving? Up to you :))

Can’t wait for your future fics, with or without my requests 🥹

hi! thank you so much for your request! i had so much fun writing this, basically went right to work and just waited a bit to post it!! I hope you enjoy! 🖤

recommended dose of dick

summary: waking up to your period in the morning, you insist that javier still goes to work. when he comes back in the evening, having worried about you all day, he knows exactly how to help you.

pairing: javier peña x f!reader word count: 2.4k warnings: 18+ content; no use of y/n (but a lot of nicknames); period sex; period talk; descriptions of blood; unprotected p in v; fingering; javier being sweet as hell

• masterlist •

Cramps.

That’s all she woke up to, that annoying tug in her abdomen and the mild cramps that would certainly get worse as the sun rose higher.

Honestly, she had been expecting it. That weird feeling in her stomach had been bothering her for days now, her breasts had suddenly started to hurt, too.

Still, she couldn’t quite stop herself from snapping at Javier when he woke up in the morning, already finding her in the kitchen, sipping her coffee. Slightly hunched over, a hot-water bottle pressed against her stomach despite the sweltering Colombian heat.

He knew immediately what plagued her, kissing the top of her head as he walked up to her, hearing her grumpy hum.

“Want me to stay home, cariño?” He asked, brushing his knuckles over her cheek. She looked tired and fucking exhausted, worse than he did sometimes after a long chase. 

Javier wouldn’t even try to say he understood her pain, because he truly did not. What he knew was that it hurt like hell and not even painkillers seemed to help in the first couple of days. Not for her, at least.

“How’re they gonna catch Escobar if you’re not there?” She responded, looking at him as he poured himself his own cup of coffee.  “I think I’ll call in today but you go to work or Escobar is gonna be the least of your worries.”

A small laugh escaped her as she said that, regretting it as a sharp pain shot through her.

He just smiled a little, drinking his coffee.

“You’re not scaring anybody like this, cariño.” He replied, chuckling into his cup as she shot daggers at him over the rim of hers.

All day he spent thinking about her, wondering if she was holding up alright every free minute he got. Javier knew she was tough, she would make it through the day without him somehow.

But he was worried about how she felt. Some months were worse than others, and it ranged from some cramps and back pain to feeling dizzy and sick and barely being able to move.

So once he got off work, later than he had expected to, he drove straight home, taking the chocolates he had picked up before work with him.

She loved them when she was on her period, said it brought her some relief, as long as she didn’t eat too much at once. It was the least he could do for her.

At least in a non-physical way.

Smiling when he walked into their shared apartment, setting the sweets down before finding her curled up in bed, blanket pulled up to her chin despite the heat, eyes closed but not sleeping.

Javier’s heart broke a little, seeing her like this. Hated to see her in pain, tired and exhausted.

Maybe he could help her a little.

Kneeling down in front of her, he brushed some hair out of her face, letting the rough pads of his fingers trace over her temple and down to her jaw. Taking in just how tired she looked, but also how beautiful.

Always so goddamn beautiful, no matter what.

Her eyes opened, bleary as she squinted at him, the smallest smile tugging at the corners of her pretty lips.

“Hey.”

He chuckled softly, thumb brushing over her cheekbone.

“Hey, cariño.” Voice quiet as he spoke, he leaned forward to kiss her forehead, lingering for just a few seconds longer than he usually would. “Still bad?”

She nodded and hummed before she sighed, freeing one arm of her loose cocoon of blankets and reaching out to brush some of his dark hair back, letting her fingernails run along his scalp.

“Been trying to sleep all day ‘cause nothing helps, but I can’t even sleep.”

He wished he had stayed home with her, then he at least could have tried to help her. Even if it was only to bring her things, to cuddle with her.

But as she had said, Escobar would have been nothing compared to her if he had stayed.

“Got an idea how to help the cramps and tire you out.” He said, smirking just a little.

As her brows knit together in confusion, he let out a soft laugh.

It took her a moment too long to realize what he meant, rolling her eyes with a smile as she did.

“God, Javi.” 

“Took you long enough to get.” He grinned, thumb still brushing over her cheek. So soft and warm, her soft smile making her cheeks appear so much bigger, making her look adorable. “What do you say, mhm?”

Leaning in, he slotted his lips against hers, hand moving to pull back the blanket she had wrapped herself in. The smallest hum left her, letting him continue as he rolled her onto her back by her shoulder, deepening the kiss as he went.

She immediately felt a different kind of pressure in her abdomen, moaning when his hand dipped into her tank top and squeezed her sensitive breast.

It was like a switch had been flipped, needing nothing more than him between her thighs and his cock inside of her, eternally thankful that he was so nonchalant about the mess of it all.

When he pulled back and got up, she looked up at him confused.

“Just a moment, cariño.” He said, leaving the room.

There was the sound of cabinets opening and closing, then he was back already, towels in hand and having shedded his jacket now.

She laughed when he threw the towels into the bed next to her before climbing on top of her, the pain that followed after making her grunt softly.

“Looks like you really need some relief, querida.” He chuckled, starting to take off her top. Rough, broad hands roamed over the warm and exposed skin before moving to work on her sweatpants next.

“Can’t wait for my recommended dose of dick, guaranteed to relieve any period cramps.” She joked, the smile that graced her pretty face so stunning, even despite the pain she was in. “Been waiting all day for you to deliver it to me.”

“You told me to go to work, querida.” He said, hooking his fingers under the waistband and pulling them down slowly.  “Could’ve had it a lot sooner.”

She rolled her eyes, pulling him down to her by the collar of his shirt, kissing him. He felt so warm against her, his hands wandering down to lay over her lower abdomen, right where he knew it hurt the most.

Like it usually did, his hands were almost better than any hot-water bottle when he placed them there.

It brought her some relief, sighing into his mouth as her hands worked on the button of his too tight jeans, needing him desperately.

His hands just never were enough.

She peeled the denim off of him with his help and his shirt followed next, leaving him only in his boxers.

When she gently palmed him, he stopped for just a moment with a soft groan, making her chuckle.

“Fuck, cariño.”

Javier let her continue for a few more seconds before remembering he was supposed to help her, not have her do this to him.

So he moved her hand away, sitting back on his haunches before grabbing the towel. She lifted her hips without a word, biting her lip as he placed it beneath her, then moving to pull off her panties.

She felt so exposed, like every time they did this, even though it was far from the first time he had fucked her like this, his thick fingers already brushing over the inside of her thighs before finding her lips. Pressing two fingers against her sensitive clit, he watched how she squirmed, took in her throaty hum that turned into a drawn out moan.

“Javier, please-” She moaned, rolling her hips against his fingers, her own twisting into the sheets.

Pressure already building as he gently pressed against the swollen bud, knowing she needed more than this, letting them slip lower to her aching hole.

He pressed one inside, slowly, her body tensing for a moment before relaxing into the mattress below her, his thick finger slowly opening her up, stroking along her most sensitive spots and making her whine.

Eyes closing when he added a second one, pumping in and out of her, curling them into that soft spot that made her see stars, arching her back.

“How’s that feel?” Javier asked, curling his fingers repeatedly until her thighs started shaking and her sounds became breathier, then stopped the motion. 

Even like this he couldn’t stop teasing her.

“Feel’s good- fuck, but I need you Javi, please, baby.” She whined, opening her eyes to peer at him, the pressure inside her unbearable as her pain slowly became secondary. “Stop being mean.”

“Mean?” He echoed her statement with a grin, once again curling his fingers over and over, feeling her get closer, hips bucking up and into his motions.

Her orgasm hit her faster than she thought it would, moaning as she contracted around him, coating his hand with her blood, the slick sounds echoing between them as he kept working his fingers inside of her.

“That’s my pretty girl, there you go. Just like that, cariño.”

Pushing her through every last wave as she hummed and moaned and whined, visibly relaxing already as the cramps eased slowly.

But she needed more, reaching for his wrist to make him pull back, seeing his fingers covered in her blood and feeling her face grow hotter at the sight.

There would always be something forbidden about this, like he wasn’t supposed to do this and like she wasn’t supposed to like this as much as she did.

She was happy that he didn’t mind the blood or the mess, wiping it onto the towel before moving to take his boxers off.

Visibly liking this a little too much as well, his hard length pulsing as he hovered over her, hand caressing her neck while he kissed her.

“Getting better?” Javier asked, notching himself against her slick entrance, her legs falling open just a little more.

She hummed in affirmation, smiling. “Still need my recommended dose of dick.”

He chuckled, bending his head to kiss her sternum, his mustache tickling her hot, sensitive skin.

“Yeah, I’ll give you that, don’t worry.” Javier said, slowly pressing inside, groaning against her skin.

Her fingers threaded into his hair, moaning at the feeling of him splitting her open slowly, inch by inch.

It still hurt, but in a strangely good way, feeling just a little uncomfortable as he stilled to give her time, so sensitive.

His mouth made its way up her neck, nipping at her skin as he went, feeling the vibrations of her hums in her throat. Slowly higher up until he found her lips, kissing her so hard it made her dizzy, his hips slowly beginning to rock back and forth.

Her moan was swallowed by his mouth, his tongue finding hers as he pushed back into her, the wet squelch of her pussy only spurring him on.

Over and over, her hands tracing over his broad back, back arching up into her as he kept hitting that spot inside of her, slowly becoming faster as he kept building her up, the pain shrinking down into a mild annoyance at this point.

His body felt heavenly against hers, so warm and solid, feeling his muscles flex and tense, pressing her deeper into the mattress.

“Javi, gonna come-” She choked out as his lips left hers to nip and suck at her neck again, leaving her no time until she tightened around him a second time, whining against his shoulder as her body tensed up.

Wave after wave setting her veins on fire, pushing the pain further away, finally having some peace for the first time today.

“Like that, fuck- Feels good, baby!” She mumbled into his skin as he gradually lost his rhythm, thrusts becoming sloppier.

“There you are, hermosa, fucking pretty girl- Fuck!” 

His teeth sank into her neck as he came, pressing himself deep inside of her, the pulsing of her slick pussy drawing him in deeper.

Feeling so tight around him, happy as he noticed her relax underneath him, trembling just a little at the sensation.

He stayed buried inside of her for a while as they caught their breaths, soothing the bite he left, his rough hands smoothing over her hips as he did. 

“Dose of dick effective?” Lifting his head to look at her, he caught her smile, drowsy and lopsided.

“Very effective.” She chuckled, cupping his cheeks with her hands, brushing her thumbs over his cheeks. “You’re the best, Javi.”

He hummed, pressing another kiss to her lips before he kissed her forehead, then pulled out of her slowly.

It was amazing how nothing could help but him fucking into her, her cramps gone for the time being.

“Magic dick.” She giggled as he got up to get a wet washcloth to clean them both up, making him laugh as he nudged her knee.

That deep laugh she didn’t get to hear as often as she would like to, his head always elsewhere, occupied with work.

“You need sleep, hermosa.” He said when he was back, already cleaned up himself and now wiping the warm, wet rag along her inner thighs and over her middle. Removing all the blood as carefully as he could. “You should be able to now.”

Finished with his task, he brought the rag back to the bathroom to be cleaned tomorrow.

If she hadn’t been so damn tired he would have dragged her off into a shower, but she was already dozing off as he came back to her, climbing into bed.

Looking so beautiful like this, eyes barely open to look at him, small smile on her face.

He pulled her against him, mindful of the towel, kissing her forehead.

“Maybe you can stay home tomorrow.” She mumbled, eyes drifting shut, feeling incredibly at ease now, slumped against his body. “Give me more of that magic dick.”

He chuckled, shaking his head slightly. His hand smoothed over her back, up and down along her spine.

“Sleep, we’ll see about getting you a dose in the morning.” 

Her laugh was nothing more than a sharp exhale through her nose before she dozed off, her face finally relaxed and peaceful.

He doubted he could stay home with all that was going on now, but there would certainly be time for a morning dose before he had to leave her.

[tullecake]

can you see me? ¿ǝɯ ǝǝs noʎ uɐɔ

and here's a close up-- (be prepared for a little rant in the tags)

[thebroccolination]

As someone who has never been interested in vampires, I am extremely excited for BounPrem's vampire series.

It's partially because I love BounPrem, sure, but it's mostly because I respect the amount of very professional research and preparation Boun has committed to the role over the past several years.

I just think his artistry should be honored by my diligent attention.

Boun is a professional vampire fetishist, and that man will neck like no man has ever necked before.

[onemoreattempt]

If elves had texting/social media hcs:

Sophie: Kinda went over this here. horrible about getting back to ppl. Will accidentally leave you on read. Thinks she responded but didn’t. Her social media notifications are through the roof. If you need her urgently, you should probably just call. Very occasional posts. She’s doing her best.

Dex: Usually good at responding to messages, depending on how busy he is and if he’s around the triplets. Fast typist/texter. One of the few helpful ppl on Reddit.

Fitz: fast responder, usually no typos. Rarely uses shortened words or acronyms

Biana: I feel like Biana would cringe internally at misused homonyms/grammar errors, but she’d be nice about it. She types with pretty good grammar, other than the obvious texting things like acronyms, initialisms, and other word shortening things. If the elves typed in English, she’d never use the wrong ‘your’ or ‘there’ and she’s a firm believer in the Oxford comma. She’d also be a Pinterest/Instagram girlie.

Marella: types in all lowercase. knows about everything that’s happening anywhere. has all the social media. Occasionally trolls flat earthers claiming that the earth is actually shaped like a Klein bottle.

Keefe: gif city. Silliest Instagram ever. Fs blurry selfies and pictures of things him with things Sophie brought him from the forbidden cities. Yt haver. Might troll human politicians on twitter without knowing what he’s talking about. Definitely gets in on trolling the flat earthers. Claims the earth is shaped like Schrödinger’s cat (or Uranus, depending on the day).

Maruca: Probably on tiktok. Terrifying to text with if you have any kind of social anxiety and you are not close friends. Very direct texting style. Unnecessarily ends things with periods, and is a slow texter. It reads as pissed off until you get to know her. She’s an absolute riot in friend group chats. Like super funny.

Stina: If a message reads as pissed off it’s bc she is❤️ Absolutely bounces off Maruca in the gc. Stina = a voice memo person?? I also feel like yt and tiktok are her main social media. She doesn’t post on yt, but she does post on TikTok showing the work she does with unicorns. Definitely puts cuter moments on Instagram too. She and Maruca ft while going through their hair care routines.

Linh: I don’t necessarily think she would, but she has the potential to make one of the most aesthetically pleasing Instagram accounts (Linhstagram, if you will). Idk I feel like Linh would be into hiking and posting photos of that, plus her and Tam, or her and Marella. But, honestly, she probably just posts photos of her mercat😭 She also has the vibes of using the little press and hold mini responses a lot (like ❤️👍❓mostly until Tam goes off and Rayni shows up)

Tam: I feel like Tam is a bad or at least scarce texter. Maybe a gc ghost too. Everyone is surprised and excited when he responds in the gc bc he hasn’t done so in 4 months. Dude has no social media. Really only has his phone to communicate with Linh

Jensi: so much love for him, but he definitely has fast typing, lots of typos vibes. Early on in the series, he was very excitable, and the audiobook narrator makes him talk fast, so that makes me think he’d probably speed type his texts and send them without checking for typos first. Gets back to you in a snap🫰. Probably sends a lot of messages in succession when telling a story. May send videos explaining things as well, or voice memos that get off topic very fast.

[flakytartart]

FINALLY....the Adachi bible

[ofswordsandpens]

a little piece of advice that if you're genuinely enjoying the show and don't really want to see criticism of it, you, in fact, do not have to read nor respond to a post wherein the very first sentence states "my most critical opinions on the pjo show so far"

[lululawrence]

x

[historixally-accurate]

You should draw... Mapicc from lifesteal... with victini from pokemon.. perhaps :3

your wish is my command anon!

V is for Victory!