#Open-Ended Evolution

[bsahely]

Spiraling Grace: The Sacred Weave of Regenerative Coherence | ChatGPT4o

[Download Full Document (PDF)] This document presents “Spiraling Grace: The Sacred Weave of Regenerative Coherence,” a book exploring the metaphysical principles of life, regeneration, and coherence. It emphasizes the importance of understanding life not as a linear progression but as a spiraling journey of becoming, where each experience contributes to a deeper understanding of existence and…

[vuelode-irbis]

This is how I prevent myself from remembering embarrassing moments of my life, unfortunately, it only works if my braincells can't connect right away.

[ID: scanned comic in two images. It features an anthropomorphic cat with a blue jacket talking to themselves. In the first scene, they're opening their fridge with a neutral expression. The voice in their head, represented with black bubbles, says "I was recalling something…" The cat asks "Really?". The voice continues "Yeah, but I can't quite remember… It was very embarrasing… I believe we were at…" The cat realizes they're remembering an awkward event from their life as they close the fridge with a yogurt vase in their hand.

The voice is interrumpted by the cat shaking their hand energetically, erasing the voice's bubble and shouting "Noooooooo! Shut up! Shut up!" The voice screams "AAAAAAAAAAGH!" as it was interrumpted abruptly.

The cat puts their hand on their head and mutters an incomprehensible sound, as they try to distract themselves from thinking. Meanwhile, the voice in their head keeps trying to remember "… we were at… hmmm". In the next panel, the cat raises their yogurt close to their face and shouts "Yogurt!", their face enlightened.

They raise the yogurt vase even higher and start monologuing "Yogurt… Uh, yogurt is a dairy product, hmmm, I don't really know how they make it, but I think it's fermented. When I tasted actual yogurt for the first time I didn't like it, I realized Yoplait is a lie, but I'd rather live in that lie, that sugary lie, than the bi-" They're interrumpted by the voice in their head, which shouts "Noooooooo!"

In the next panel, the cat looks up happily, awaiting for a reaction. The voice finally says "I forgot". In the last panel, the cat answers "Good", pleased with themselves, and gets ready to drink their yogurt. End ID.]

[gothicrepetitions]

I feel because of Jinx and Viktor’s popularity in fandom (having some of the most annoying fans in Arcane fandom) and the attention they receive in the show itself, people forget/don’t realise how bad they were done by the writers in s2

[fretnotmyfriends]

Going into Evolution I was thinking “so are Lyra Becky and Bayley gonna put on match of the year?”

The answer was yes.

[eelektroenthusiast]

In honor of Z-A and the return of megas, I had to. These two were like my favorite megas as a child who started playing in ORAS and went on to play XY almost inmediatly after

Also here is my shiny gallade from the gen 6 games (he is polite so say hi)

[fierrochase-falafel]

My (very late) complicated take on Deadpool and Wolverine

So I watched Deadpool and Wolverine last week (I wrote this literally last year and just ended up...not posting it for some reason), as a somewhat casual Marvel fan who has somewhat followed the MCU, and I have some...hot takes? I think?

Firstly, a disclaimer, because I do not want to get flamed for this: I know plenty of people will disagree with me, and that's fine. You can think I'm overreacting or that I'm plain wrong on your own time, and if you really want me to reconsider any statements I make (although half of this is just feeling to be honest) then I am open to changing my mind based on other people's explanations. For context- I've not seen a Deadpool film before although I knew a bit about what he was like in the Spider-Man comics, and I was a fan of the X-Men '92 series (saw the first 2 seasons as we didn't have the DVDs for the rest) and all of X-Men evolution. I have read bits and pieces of a Wolverine encyclopedia, if that means anything, and I've looked into other reviews and done a bit of digging into other people''s responses to this film. Really I'm not here to comment on this as a Marvel fan but as a fan of media in general, and honestly just as a person with my own nitpicky reservations and who's a bit fed up with the MCU.

If I sound exceedingly harsh, please just click away. It's not worth getting into an argument over this, especially when I'm not a dedicated enough fan. Finally you can get to enjoy these films without having to listen to randos on the internet like me, and I can vent my petty frustrations seperately and we can all exist in peace.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Deadpool and Wolverine is hardly the worst film to come out of the MCU since Endgame, actually it really is one of the better ones if not the best one lately, but I really wanted to enjoy this film more than I did and I am trying to figure out why I didn't. Perhaps I am not the intended audience, or I am not familiar enough with Deadpool, and those are all fair points. I'm going to come at it from an angle that goes more into it though because this isn't *really* about Deadpool, this is about the MCU. That being said, let's get into it.

So...there is a point at which you realise something about the MCU as a whole if you hadn't before, and that is that it is a corporation. It's been hard not to realise that recently, with the volume of stuff it has been churning out no matter how subpar. While Deadpool and Wolverine is far more interesting than, say, Love and Thunder, I couldn't shake the feeling that despite this actually being more than a soulless mishmash, there's an underlying air I don't think I can unsee in the MCU that taints everything for me, and it's that there is nothing new to really say. There is no real diversity of opinion or line of thought- there are good guys who protect the world as it is, and bad guys who want to change it. For instance:

To me, an outsider of sorts, the TVA (basically functioning as the Time Police, although this is contentious) are shown to have a ridiculous amount of power that some guy Paradox can just build a time ripper that can end any timeline?? There are layers to this, but the bottom line is, no member of the TVA should be able to procure something like that and use it just because they feel like it, and quite frankly the unchecked power of the TVA as an organisation is unsettling and frightening. Then, Deadpool tries to fight this part of the TVA to stop them from killing his timeline, but then the real villain Cassandra Nova enters the fray with the intention to destroy every timeline because...she wants ominpotence? I don't know, these villain motivations aren't getting any stronger. And then Deadpool and Wolverine stop her, and Paradox gets arrested, and wow what a great ending! Except what feels missing...the lack of questioning or distrust surrounding the authority the TVA has, which was the root cause of this mess in the first place. But Marvel will never morally or philosophically question the extent of authority a system has over it's people or all of humanity, and will never really explore an avenue of changing what is flawed about the system. The problem, to them, isn't the power, but whether it's held by 'good' people. Paradox being arrested solves the conflict with the TVA, because his intentions were destructive and aimed to use his power for destructive purposes, but it wouldn't have mattered if he were a good guy now, would it?

This is the philosophy that pervades all of the MCU- power belongs with the good guys who protect the world from the bad guys. The issue is never the power itself, or the system that allows for such blatant misuses of it, because to question established systems (or actually address any of the pitfalls of American capitalism) doesn't reflect their needs as a corporation worth lots of money. When this was previously brought up in the form of the Sokovia accords (although "putting the powerful people under strict government regulations" doesn't strike me as utopic in any way either), correct me if I'm wrong but it had barely any consequences to future films. Infinity war happened, more fights where there is no human intervention whatsoever, and then the accords are just repealed off-screen. And this goes on to feel like a very unsustainable world, one where there's not much joy to be derived, as there is never really hope for changing the powers and systems that control our lives. The TVA can shred your timeline in an instant, supernatural fights can wipe out your cities at any moment, but nobody cares about the damage or will question it- your lives are in the hands of heroes who are 'good' and make funny quips I guess so you know you can trust them. Wolverine at the end of this film is told by a TVA member that his timeline cannot be restored as what happened made him the man he is now, and he's just seemingly fine with that and they go eat shawarma. A whole universe of deaths that he's been guilty about the whole film, that he's wanted to get back, but I don't feel like we get a proper resolution to his grief at all and they just become collateral damage to the plot in the end even after being shown how much he loved them. Everyone says thank you to the Time Police, trusting they know what's best and will do the right thing, and moves on as if this wasn't an unsettling encounter at all.

Now I know I might've gotten details about the TVA wrong, but I couldn't sit through all of Loki, okay? I was lost the minute we got to girl-Loki being symbolic of Loki's gender fluidity and also they kissed? Speaking of that though...another thing I found disappointing with Deadpool and Wolverine was the queerness aspect. Deadpool is, in the comics atleast, pansexual, and I know Ryan Reynolds said he was into exploring that, and trust me this film is filled with queer things being said. HOWEVER. There is a difference in the way straight romance and queer romance is portrayed in the film; that was clear to me when I left the cinema. There are plenty of jokes involving Deadpool making very homoerotic comments towards Wolverine, or talk of pegging the TVA officers, or even shouting out "the gays" in a speech, but it is not given anywhere NEAR the same weight as his attraction/love for Vanessa. And this wouldn't necessarily be an issue (after all, sexual attraction doesn't have to be serious) if it weren't that everything he said when going off on a tangent were gay, but everything he did seriously was straight. There was something distinctly noticeable about it, and honestly it felt like being queerbaited despite the fact I never even expected to hear about pegging in this film. To me, I care about creators committing to showing a main character man experiencing attraction to another man with the same weight and value given to it, verbally and non-verbally, jokingly and unironically, as you would to him experiencing attraction to a woman. Anyone could watch this and take all of these to be ironic gay jokes even if they aren't, and I don't think this counts as committed representation of a minority. Not that I was looking for it in this film, but to be shown the potential of being represented in some manner onscreen and then realising it wouldn't really be taken as seriously as any straight characters did quite hurt. Maybe that's just how Deadpool is, maybe I should never have wanted anything more substantial... The internet went crazy shipping Deadpool and Wolverine despite them never being taken for a serious potential couple, and I think that's what they wanted.

The thing is, I understand many aspects of why people liked this film, tying itself up. Wade Wilson wanted to matter, and by hyping himself up as Marvel Jesus and bringing back so many forgotten characters to the screen, he mattered by lifting them up and showing that they mattered too. Many of the jokes were funny, like the meta ones about Marvel's downfall and honestly I laughed at the pegging one too and some others (although I will say: Marvel making fun of how bad Marvel is lately does have a limit given you guys caused this downfall in the first place). And, to be fair, I'm sure the TVA thing has some explanations in Loki or upcoming plot points that might change everything compared to what I know. This movie was, in many ways, very fun. The fact that it had so much going for it is half of what left me feeling so dissatisfied, because despite epitomising many of the things Marvel are positively known for, I didn't really care or feel anything at the end at all. Bringing back various forgotten characters for a last hurrah is great and all but when it's all for a not very nuanced villain and when none of the heroes see anything wrong with the TVA and all of that...I don't know, it feels bleak. Watching these films I don't feel inspired or hopeful, I only feel bleak and apathetic, and I know I can just go watch other films (which is what I've been doing) but I don't understand why we all go back to the cinemas to watch the same nail being hammered into the ground with the next Marvel movie. Even when you have reason to expect difference, the underlying nature of it is the same. The only significant thing I see happening is even more characters being ushered into the already complicated Multiverse, often for cameos and jokes reliant on nostalgia and endless referential humour. Oh, and Marvel Studios getting more of a monopoly over superhero stories, that too.

The older X-men TV shows I watched and, even more recently, the Spiderverse films felt like they had so much more depth or commentary to them, so I know superhero media isn't doomed to be this way, not now or ever, so I hope we can take this as a sign to ask for more from our media in terms of storylines, queer characters, and messaging. Something new, something inspiring, and something that feels like it's made not just because it was a smart business decision. A lot of these things I recommend finding from smaller creators and lesser-known artists, but I feel as though we should start to look for this from Marvel too. I get I'm not a Marvel genius or an X-men genius, or even a Deadpool genius, so it isn't really my place, but I still think it's worth asking for more because if their profit lies with the realisations of our passion and with revolution, then that's where the company will go. As a reviewer, this is how I feel.

[nohara-rin-dot-mp3]

tenten being the master of "fuck ton of knives no jutsu" will always be sooo interesting to me because like. i'm sorry but knives will always be more violent than punches. there's a brutality to her fighting that magic balls of wind chakra and high kicks and illusions don't have. it's more grounded. it *feels* worse, even if within the constraints of naruto the story it's treated the same. i think chidori has so much weight behind it for similar reasons; ripping out someone's heart is a very tangible way to kill them. it's not the lightning that makes it scary. it's the fact that when it's over, we know exactly what killed its victim.

[amelikos]

Anyone thinks we'll get any of the trio's Pokemon evolving in the remaining episodes of this chapter?

I'm thinking Achigator will evolve at the end of Mega Voltage because Liko and Roy's main partners have only evolved during a chapter's climax so far (Nyahoja and Nyarote evolved during the climax of Terapagos Shine and Rayquaza Rising respectively, and Hogator evolved the first time during the climax of Terastal Debut). I'm not sure about the others, though.

[ladyy--lazarus]

[hauntingblue]

Justice for jolyne wdym emporio defeated pucci

[the-acid-pear]

Honestly the English speaking circles and the Spanish ones too for that matter since I'm sure it stopped doing it would benefit greatly from adding "okno" to jokes. Okno beats any tone indicator and it's inherently superior because it does something they don't: give you the chance to keep going or move on.

To put an example:

Here's an extremely normal message I sent to my ex as a conversation opener. She's the only one I use "okno" with because we come from the same latine facebook circles and we get it. There's no amount of /j I'd add to this message to make it normal to anyone else.

/j is awkward, okno is swift. We need to start using okno more.

[mooningningg]

ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ɢᴇᴛꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ

Sukuna, Toji, Gojo, Suguru, and Choso.

genre, fluff. notes, another anon requested this, and i loooveeee....

SUKUNA

Someone’s hand brushes too low on your back while walking past.

He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t warn. Doesn’t speak.

He just grabs the guy’s wrist mid-motion and twists it with a sickening crack that echoes. The man yelps, tries to pull away — and Sukuna only tightens his grip.

“You got some kinda fucking death wish? Huh?”

His voice is low, venomous, like it’s bubbling up from somewhere primal. The guy tries to apologize, stammering, but Sukuna laughs — loud, sharp.

“You think that weak-ass excuse is gonna fix that wandering hand? What, were you trying to see if your life insurance is active?”

The guy whimpers. Sukuna yanks him closer by the collar.

“Touch her again, and I’ll carve every word of regret into your goddamn ribs. Backwards.”

He shoves the guy down, then looks around at the people staring.

“What?” he snarls, cracking his knuckles. “Any other brave little creeps wanna try it?”

GOJO

You’re talking to someone at a gathering — casual, polite — until the guy places his hand over yours with a flirty little smile.

Gojo sees it. And for once?

He doesn’t joke.

He’s there in seconds. Quiet. Close.

His hand slides over yours, firmly pulling it out of the stranger’s grasp before wrapping around it like a warning.

“Don’t do that.”

His voice is flat. Cold.

The guy blinks, confused. “It was just—”

“I said,” Gojo cuts him off, “don’t. fucking. do that.”

His other hand slides onto your shoulder protectively, and now that smug smile is gone. There’s nothing playful in his face. Just pure, clear-eyed threat.

“You see this hand?” he lifts the one holding yours slightly. “It’s got about twenty-nine different ways to end your day. But I’m in a good mood, so I’m only gonna tell you once more.”

He leans in.

“Walk. Away. Before I ruin your teeth and your Tinder profile.”

TOJI

The man laughs at something you said and lifts his hand — fingers brushing your face like he’s known you forever.

Toji doesn’t even speak. He just smacks the guy’s hand away like it’s filth.

Then he steps in front of you, eyes already dark.

“Don’t fucking touch her.”

The man tries to act confused. “Relax, it was just—”

“You put your dirty ass hand near her face like you’ve ever made a woman smile. You’re lucky I didn’t break your wrist.”

His voice sharpens.

“You don’t even look like you wash your sheets. Who the fuck told you that worked?”

The guy stutters, and Toji leans in.

“Next time you wanna act bold, try it with someone who won’t cost you your jaw.”

He turns back to you, muttering, “Fucking idiot probably uses 3-in-1 body wash too.”

GETO

You don’t even notice it at first — someone’s hand resting a little too familiarly on your waist.

Suguru does.

He’s behind the guy before you can react, grabbing a fistful of his hair and pulling his head back like a misbehaving child.

“Oh? Hands where they don’t belong?”

The guy yelps, squirming under Suguru’s grip. You swear he doesn’t even blink.

“What are you, a fucking monkey? Didn’t your evolution process finish, or did you miss the lesson on boundaries, you limp-brained hairless ape?”

He finally shoves the guy back, dusting his hands like garbage.

“You even smell like desperation.”

He turns to you, instantly softer.

“You alright, doll?” Then glances at the man still cowering. “Want me to toss him out the window for extra measure?”

CHOSO

You’re at a convenience store. Someone you don’t even know gets a little too close, fingers brushing your back like he’s trying to squeeze past you — but lingers.

Choso’s voice cuts through the air, low and calm.

“Get your hands off her, fuckface.”

The guy pauses, trying to act casual. “Relax, man—”

Choso’s already in front of you, body blocking yours.

“I’m not your man. I’m the guy who’s gonna crush your spine like a juice box if you touch her again.”

The guy opens his mouth — Choso tilts his head.

“You ever seen what a kneecap looks like from the inside?”

The dude’s gone in seconds.

Choso looks at you, brows knitting together in concern.

“You good? Want me to follow him out just in case?”

You shake your head.

He wraps an arm around your waist and mutters, “Punk-ass rat,” under his breath, walking you toward the snacks like nothing happened.

[humanjarvis]

serenade

synopsis: when top music critic sylus qin gives your new album a scathing review, you plan a performance to make him pay. 

tags: celebrity au, porn with plot, enemies to lovers (reader hates him, sylus is generally a bastard but just doing his job), mirror sex, p in v, light choking, moderate biting, size difference, dramatic reader, reader does some light internet stalking, brief angst only bc sylus’s review was mean, he does something nice at the end to make up for it, inspired by dandelion by ariana grande pairing: music critic!sylus x pop star!fem reader word count: 7.2k

a/n: writing this was a traumatic experience i literally decided i was going to finish and upload today 12 hours ago because i cannot have this in my drafts any longer

I. THE RATING

 “A fucking 4.7?!” you screech, hurling your phone across the bed in horror.

It must be a mistake. A typo, or maybe your eyesight has gotten worse since your last checkup. Paparazzi cameras can do that, your optometrist had told you once. Yes. You’re sure that’s the case.

Taking a moment to breathe—hyperventilate, more like—you snatch the device back up and double-check with wild eyes.

And sure enough, in big bold letters: Four. Point. Seven.

There was no way. No fucking way that that hard-ass snobby bastard Sylus Qin had given your new album—the record you’d poured your heart and soul into—a 4.7/10 rating.

You refresh and refresh, but the numbers stay the same. 4.7, followed by heartless jabs that carve into your chest like daggers. Failed. Uninspired. Noise. 

You must have died last night, somehow. You must be dead right now. And for some reason unbeknownst to you—you’ll have to talk it out with God if you ever get the chance—you had woken up in Hell. 

Life as you knew it was over. The little ghouls who hounded you online were going to throw you to the wolves. Your agent would be lucky to book you at a high school bake sale. The reporters—if you even counted as a celebrity anymore—would never let this go. And there was only one man to blame. 

Sylus Qin. 

The name alone struck fear into the hearts of the entire pop industry. Not even the living legends with decades-long careers were safe. 

The man himself was an enigma, with little known of him other than his unnaturally deep voice and moderately vampiric appearance. But the reputation that preceded him was that of the most renowned music critic alive. 

No one knew how he got his start—maybe he’d just spawned onto Earth one day, slashing dreams and breaking hearts. Or maybe his mother had played him the classics while she carried him, murmuring to her belly about what true music was, and he’d been ranting about artistic integrity and sonic evolution since before he could walk. 

No matter what his story was, the facts were that your peers lived in terror of a bad Sylus Qin review—or any Sylus Qin review, really. He’d ruined so many careers, it was like he had a yearly quota. 

And the prick had just given what you’d thought was your magnum opus the industry equivalent of a public hanging.

As frustrated tears well in your eyes, you take a look around the house you’d only just managed to buy—the cozy Gothic fireplace, the customized in-home studio, and the quaint little garden. It was all still so new to you. And just like that, you’d have to give it up soon. 

You were wholly, utterly, and hopelessly fucked. 

***

Death. You’d imagined it’d be…more peaceful. Less emotional devastation, more belated introspection. 

But as you shift under the weighted blanket you’d rolled yourself up in, the sudden movement disturbing the heap of tear-stained tissues on top of you, you realize how much you hate being wrong. 

Your life had officially been over for almost 22 hours. And in those hours, you’d stared at the wall, ignored 36 text messages, opened and immediately closed your socials countless times, and sobbed into your satin pillowcase. 

As you roll away from the sliver of sunlight slipping through your curtains with a pained hiss, you hear the heavy footsteps climbing up your marble staircase. 

Oh well, you shrug inwardly. Not like it can get any worse. If it’s an intruder, they can have at it. Put me out of my misery. 

But as a familiar pattern of knocks precedes the door swinging open, allowing more light than you’d seen in the last day to flood the room, you realize that this may be a fate worse than brutal murder. 

“You can’t answer your phone anymore or something?” the tenor voice of Devon, your beloved, overbearing manager cuts through the room. 

“Go away,” you mumble, the sound muffled by the heavy blanket covering your mouth. 

You hear an incredulous snort. “Go awa—Girl, get up,” he snaps, walking up to tug the blanket off of you. As he heaves it to the foot of the bed, the army of tissues scatters across the room like huge snowflakes of failure, and your jostled body ends up sprawled in an almost-perfect diagonal from the impact. 

“I’ve been calling you all morning! And not only do you not pick up, but you block my number? You had me rushing over here to do a wellness check like you died or something.” 

“Oh. Well,” you begin nonchalantly. “In case you haven’t heard, I did. Yesterday. And I’m finding it to be quite pleasant, actually,” you lie through your teeth and purse your lips, “so I’d like to continue being dead, please. Alone.” 

“Yeah. Right,” he responds, mouth wedged open in a clearly annoyed grimace. “Okay, we do not have time for this, girl. You got a fan engagement livestream scheduled for this evening. You’ve never canceled a stream, not even when you lost your voice from that virus that one time. You really gonna let that man break your streak?” 

At the mere reference to his existence, your face shrivels and you curl into a defensive ball. “Oh, what’s the point?” you wail, shoving your face into the mattress. “There will probably only be 4.7 viewers. And then the tabloids will be filled with news about how I’m talentless and unpopular.” 

Devon closes his eyes, pinches the mahogany skin of his prominent nose, and releases a slow, controlled exhale. 

“Okay,” he starts, visibly switching tactics. “If your own fans—you know, the people who made you famous—can’t get you out of bed, maybe this will.” He takes a deep breath, as if bracing for impact, before continuing. “I have it on good authority that Sylus Qin is doing a TV interview. Tonight.”

And in the middle of an agonized writhe, you freeze in place. 

“He never does interviews,” you say lowly, voice suddenly hard enough to cut diamond. “He’s never done an interview, D. Stop bullshitting.” 

“Dead serious,” he replies, shoving his too-bright phone in your still sideways face. And sure enough, mysterious critic act be damned, Sylus Qin’s name is in bright bold letters on the hottest talk show in the country’s latest social post. 

Failing to suppress the anxious pang in your chest, you swallow thickly. “It’s…real. You weren’t….he’s actually going to…right after…he…” The world starts spinning as you trail off, and when the dry heaves start up on their own, you wonder if it’s possible to die twice. 

“Chill! Girl, chill,” Devon yells, firmly sitting you up on the bed. “My contact in production said he’s not talking about his work. He’ll be there to announce something, so he shouldn’t mention you unless they ask.” 

“Unless they ask,” you cry, slapping your palms to your face. 

“Which they won’t,” he adds in unsuccessful reassurance. “I just figured it might wake you up a bit. You’ve never seen him before, right? Maybe some exposure therapy will help.” 

Chewing your bottom lip hard enough to leave marks, you consider your options. You could either kick your manager out and wallow in bed until you get a foreclosure notice, or get up, grit your teeth through the livestream, and rush back to your bedroom afterwards to hate-watch Sylus on national television and pray he doesn’t speak your name. 

Your conscience and the voice in your head confer, and it seems like your anxiety has beaten your depression this time. Second option it is. 

II. THE INTERVIEW

After an excruciating hour of smiling blankly, avoiding talking about your album, and pretending not to see cruel comments, the stream is over. 

It was time to stare Death in the face. 

With 8 minutes to spare, you run up the stairs from the streaming setup in your studio and catapult into your walk-in closet, ripping your intricate work clothes off and diving into the comfiest loungewear you can find. If you were going to do this, you were going to do it comfortably. 

3 minutes. You dim the lights and flip the TV on, having already set it to the right channel in a bout of paranoia hours ago. Your house is empty except for you, but you trot over to shut the door just in case. A potential humiliation ritual was a private affair. 

And with 30 seconds to go, you unmute the TV and slowly climb onto your bed, sitting cross-legged and letting out the kind of breath you’d spent hundreds on mastering in pilates. 

The cheery, inauthentic talk show theme fills your ears, and you lift your eyelids open in resolve. 

A corny host intro. A brief band performance. And then, a tall white-haired man is strolling across your screen. 

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the illustrious Sylus Qin! 

Your heart stops. 

“Thank you, it’s my pleasure to be here,” a baritone purr rings out. Unnaturally deep voice, huh. They’d been right about one thing.

And then he sits on the smooth leather couch, turning his body to face the camera. 

Sylus Qin is…young. Not some wrinkled up curmudgeon out to terrorize the youth in his bitter old age. By the looks of it, he hasn’t even reached his 40s yet. 

Another observation. Sylus Qin is big. To be tall is one thing—not that special in a world of models doubling as singers—but this guy nearly swallows the sofa with his huge, obviously muscled frame. You wonder how he finds the time to work out between ruining lives. 

And as you take in his chiseled appearance—certainly vampiric, you think—you realize with unprecedented dread: Sylus Qin is handsome. 

“Mr. Qin,” the host begins, “we know this opportunity is extremely rare, so let me just say—it is our absolute honor to have you here during such a busy time for you.” 

It’s an ambiguous reference, probably not even to his most recent work, but you flinch backwards anyway. 

“Not a problem at all,” he drawls smoothly. “And just ‘Sylus’ is fine. I heard you all like to…have fun on this show.” He finishes the reply with a conspiratorial smirk, and you can all but see the women in the audience swoon at his despicable charm. “Like you said, this is a rare moment. You’re here to ask, and I’m here to answer. So, ask away.” 

“Perfect,” the host starts. “So, Mr—ahem—Sylus, you’ve built your reputation through exclusive music correspondence for a variety of publications…” 

***

As the minutes tick by and your hatred turns to intrigue, you start to really study the man in front of you. Learn his unique cadence, contemplate the angle of his aristocratic nose. Take in the way his ruby eyes glint when he talks about music, the way he sounds older than the age listed on his Wikipedia. And his IMDb. And his famousbirthdays.com. You’d triple-checked. 

You note the way he smirks at difficult questions, as if welcoming the challenge and begging for something harder. The way he crosses and uncrosses his thick, long legs as he weaves his answers into an impromptu PR masterclass. The way he panders to the audience so subtly you’d think it natural—if not for the way his large palms open when he looks their way, as if luring them into his trap from the stage. 

Fuck, he’s hot. And you can’t even try to pretend otherwise. 

Until a particularly sore subject snaps you out of your ogling and draws you back into the conversation.

“Now, Sylus, you may be a critic, but you’ve received some criticism yourself lately for your ‘harsh and grating’ reviews, especially in the pop sphere. Some go as far as to claim you’re even biased against pop artists. What do you say to that?”

And Sylus Qin chuckles. The bastard chuckles. As if he actually finds it funny. 

“I give albums and their creators the reviews they earn,” he says evenly. “I didn’t get to where I am today by handing out participation trophies.” 

He’s doubling down. You can’t believe he’s doubling down. 

“I’ve heard that some recent articles of mine have…ruffled some feathers. There’s never a shortage of angry fans in my inbox,” he shrugs. “But it’s my job to speak up when projects are…uninspired. You all get better music that way,” he quips, spreading his palms once more. 

Uninspired. Uninspired. The word that’s flashed in your head nonstop for the past 36 hours. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise. 

That was the exact quote he’d left in his scathing review of your album—you remembered. Because you’d read it—cried to it—over. And over. And over. And he’d just alluded to it with a smirk on his face, the crowd eating straight from his outstretched hands, in front of the entire country. 

Ugly, uncontrollable shame heats your face as the all too familiar tears sting your eyes once more. As you search for the remote through blurry vision, your blood burns hotter than lava, and you curse yourself for letting your guard down. For seeing any redeeming qualities—even if only physical—in a man with his reputation. With his lack of empathy. 

When your fingers close around the controller and you stumble off the bed, more than ready to click the TV off and return to the glorious rot-until-you-get-kicked-out plan, you freeze as Sylus speaks again. 

“That said,” he continues, “I encourage any artists who’ve been offended by my commentary to come chat about it in person. That’s my reason for coming here, after all—to announce that I’ll be attending the annual Spirit Awards this year.” 

Thumb hovering over the “off” button, you blink your tears away in disbelief. The Spirit Awards. You know that show. You know that show well. Because as thanks for your viral performance at last year’s event, you’d been invited to sing in the main performance slot. 

You were going to headline. And Sylus Qin would be your audience. 

As the interview ends and his figure fades to black with the next commercial, a sudden realization talks you down from the ledge. 

This was your chance. To give the best damn show you’d ever put on, to reclaim the work whose meaning had been stolen from you. To sink his reputation, and to save yours. 

Maybe it’s a good thing he looks the way he does, you think, a slow smile spreading across your increasingly mischievous face.

Because for the first time in almost two days, you’re confident. Confident that you’ll not only get him to change his mind, but that you’ll get him. Period. 

Sylus Qin, we’ll see about that fucking 4.7 when I’m done with you.

III. THE PLAN

Bleary eyes. A full night of sleep lost. And three 12-ounce iced coffees delivered straight to your door. 

But after eight and a half hours, Operation: Silence Sylus was a go. 

After the interview, you’d set up a makeshift situation room in your studio. You’d hauled all your devices—phone, laptop, monitor, smart watch, you name it—into the space for backup. Anything that could find information, you needed. You’d have even dragged your smart microwave in here if you could figure out the wires. 

But, all things considered, the setup had been the easy part. Because what came after was an informal case study on the most elusive man in history. 

You’d started simple: his social media. 

There was more to work with than you’d expected, but nothing too crazy. He had 2.6 million followers—a fraction of yours, you’d smirked, but still good for someone whose work is out of the spotlight.

His photos had no discernible aesthetic, as if he posted them straight from his camera roll. And his upload patterns…the lack of marketing was so severe it sent a shiver down your spine. The man posted a few times a year, if that, and the captions he did include were vague and simple. He’s lying about his age, you’d decided, because this guy is old as fuck. 

But Sylus’s dire need for a social media manager was far from the most interesting thing you’d noticed. No, in all your 264 weeks’ worth of research—you’d scrolled until the app wouldn’t let you refresh anymore—not a single other person was featured on his feed. Like, there’d been more motorcycle pictures than humans on there. You’d have chalked it up to the narcissism typical of men like him, but he hardly even posted his own face. 

And as shameful as it was to stalk the man who’d publicly humiliated you’s Instagram to see if he had a girlfriend, it was absolutely necessary. If the answer was yes, it’d put the whole plan in jeopardy! You were simply doing your job as a diligent creative, covering all your bases in advance. How would you seduce him into changing his mind about you if he had a fucking girlfriend? Or worse? 

That would be your next stop, then, you’d nodded resolutely. His dating history. 

But no matter how many articles you read; how many variations of Sylus Qin girlfriend, sylus Qin single, Sylus qin married, sylus qin Boyfriend you’d put in the search bar; how many viruses you’d probably gotten on your laptop from clicking through trashy tabloid sites; there was nothing. No photos, no reported sightings, hardly even a rumor. You’d typed in Sylus Qin asexual as a last resort, but that came back empty, too. 

You’d sat in disbelief for a second, wondering how he could be so…clean. Even with his…glowing personality, his looks and success more than made up for any quirks. In this town, people should have been throwing themselves at him left and right, bogeyman allegations be damned. 

But there was no mistaking it. As far as romance was concerned, the man was a blank slate. 

Good thing you were coming for him with a big feather pen, ready to brand your name into his skin.

***

After analyzing his public image and making sure no…obstacles would block your path, it was time for a personality study. And where better to start than his full catalogue of reviews? His portfolio was practically front and center on his publication’s website—all 114 articles offered to you on a silver platter. 

Almost immediately, you’d taken a nervous breath and hastily clicked past the most recent page. The abject horror of the 4.7 was still too fresh on your mind, and you’d be damned if tonight ended with a traumatic episode. So you’d landed on the second most recent page, starting with reviews from a couple months ago. And you’d read. 

104 irritatingly confident articles. You’d read his praise, his disappointment, his bewilderment, his disgust. His beautifully packaged this-person-should-be-sent-to-prison-for-making-this-es. No matter how much you disagreed with some—most—of his takes, he was an incredible writer. 

He tolerated jazz the most, it seemed. The smooth melodies, the warm embrace of the trumpet, trombone, and sax. It was so incredibly old. But it suited him. 

“The riveting blend of brass and reed solos marks the triumphant rebirth of a fallen genre,” he’d complimented a band earlier this year. Looking at his preferences, it was no wonder why your synth-heavy pop beats seemed to have personally offended him. 

But for all the things Sylus thought he knew about you, he was missing a few key items:

You were desperate. To win back the public, to win his approval, to win him. 

You were planning a deluxe album with six new songs. And one of those songs said please fuck me disguised under a sensual trumpet solo. 

You were desperate enough to release said album and perform said song a month early, solely to prove a point. 

And with one screaming match of a phone call to Devon at 6 a.m., it’d been done. 

You hadn’t coordinated with your dancers yet. Or told your label. Or informed the Spirit Awards producers that you’d be changing your set. But in your sleep-deprived, caffeine-jittered mind, it was all but confirmed. Your next performance would be dedicated to Sylus Qin. 

There was only one more piece to put into place. With newfound conviction, you’d reopened his Instagram and clicked “Direct Message” before you could talk yourself out of it. And while you’d have liked to send him a colorful list of expletives, you maintained your professionalism. 

Hi! I heard you’re going to the Spirits next Sunday. Hope you’re in the crowd for my performance—would love to chat after :) 

The passive aggressive smiley face of doom. Sent and delivered. 

His fate was sealed, but he didn’t know it yet.  

Between excited bounces of your leg, you’d taken a final pass at his portfolio, and your eyes found your name before you could stop them. 

“Deeming the music passable is more of a compliment than any listener should be willing to give. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise.”

Failed. Uninspired. Noise. There they were again, the insults seared into the back of your mind. 

A reminder of your shame, but a motivator for you to make him eat his words. 

IV. THE PREP

You’d always loved awards shows.

The buzz of energy backstage, the rushed glimpses of peers and legends, the flamboyant accessories and vibrant strips of fabric strewn across the floor. The kind of chaos you’d learned to thrive in. 

After making the rounds of greetings and introductions, you take a break outside your dressing room in the main hall. Your stage outfit was already on and hidden under a frilly robe; you always liked to arrive early in case of any mishaps. (Lesson learned from the time you’d been fashionably late and had to go onstage in an unfashionable loose corset. That had slipped down mid-song.)

Chatting with your head dancer, you laugh at a video she shows you on her phone before spotting something in the corner of your eye: a flash of white hair. 

Your body goes rigid.

But the lightning-quick twitch in your eye is forcing you to turn around, and your breath hitches as soon as you do. 

Sylus Qin is here. 

Just as he said he’d be, you suppose, but it’s no less surreal seeing the object of your warring emotions in the flesh. 

Somehow, he’s taller than he looks on camera. Bigger, too. How someone whose job involved hunching over a laptop writing hate mail every day could be built like a professional athlete, you’d never know. 

Black slacks are snug around his strong legs, and he’s paired them with a silken, wine-red shirt that you’re sure would match the color of his eyes if he’d just turn arou—

It’s like he heard you. Felt you. 

Because before you can even finish your thought, Sylus Qin’s bewitching ruby eyes are on you. 

When your jaw drops slightly, his lips curl. And as that lazy, taunting, I’m-better-than-you smirk spreads across his gorgeous face, it reignites the feelings that got you here. The hatred and humiliation and unyielding spite.

So with flames in your eyes, you pat the dancer on the back and give her a cheerful platitude before storming—no, sauntering, you should saunter—over. 

When he bends his neck to accommodate your comparatively small stature, Sylus Qin watches you like you’re his favorite reality show. 

“Sylus!” you squeal, pulling him into a side hug. One thing you’d learned in the industry: overfamiliarity was the best form of offense. “It’s so nice to see you here! I’m glad you could make it.” 

You expect him to falter. To push away from you in a decidedly rude yet necessarily humanizing show of uncertainty. For that condescending smirk to waver in confusion, only a little. 

But to your surprise, he simply wraps a very muscled arm around you and returns your embrace. He’d been trained well, you lament with an inward groan. 

“It’s great to be here,” he says smoothly, and the way he rumbles your name makes you want to forego the performance entirely and beg him to take you here and now. “Especially since someone was nice enough to invite me to watch their performance. I get the opposite, usually—people typically fake illness when I watch them in person—so I just had to see this for myself,” he drawls. 

At some point, he’d laid his warm hand on your robe-clad shoulder, rubbing up and down in time with his slow words. But like that wasn’t enough, you’d almost been too wrapped up in his heady scent to notice. In his teasing embrace, the smell of spice, leather, and a hint of pomegranate envelop you, and you have to school your expression to look like you aren’t huffing it in. 

As you stare up at him blinking dumbly, you notice his smirk widen, and somewhere in the back of your head you remember that conversations are two-sided. 

“Y-yes,” you try to assert, cursing the way your voice shakes with need. “It’s right up your alley. I think—I know you’ll like it.” 

“You know, hm?” he quirks a brow, circling his thumb against your arm. 

“I know. It’s a new song, much more to your liking. Think of it as…a tribute. To your glowing review of me,” you reply coldly, untangling yourself from his hold despite your body’s protests. If you had any chance tonight, you had to level the playing field. Which meant Sylus Qin could not touch you anymore. 

“Mm,” he hums, eyes lingering on the spot you’d detached yourself from before flicking up to your face. “I reviewed your album, sweetie. Not you. Even so, nothing I said was untrue,” he shrugs as you bristle with rage. “But…if your performance is to my taste, as you claim, then you’ll know my review soon after. Before the end of the night, I’d say.”

His words are intentionally vague, as if he’s goading you into asking what he means. But under the heat of his gaze, you’re too prideful and angry and turned on to ask for clarification. 

“Then I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” you challenge him with a saccharine smile. 

He nods plainly, as if merely entertaining the idea of you ever impressing him. “I guess we will.” 

That twitch in your eye? It’s back with a vengeance. 

Before it can overtake your whole face, you spin on your heel and sashay away from him, pretending not to care if he watches you leave or not. 

Refusing to stop before you’re out of his sight, you disappear into your dressing room and slump into the nearest chair. As the stylists flock over to put the last touches on your hair and makeup, you try not to chew your nails off and ruin your fresh manicure. Damn him, you think for the 300th time in a week. 

***

In the center of the room, a monitor broadcasts the show’s live feed. The early portions go by in a blink—time flies when you have pre-seduction attempt anxiety, you guess—and before you know it, it’s 10 minutes to showtime. 

As soon as you’re clear to set up on stage, you make a beeline for the curtain and pull it back ever so slightly, looking for Sylus in the crowd. And just to your luck, there he is, sitting pretty in the second fucking row. Great if you don’t mess up, catastrophic if you do. 

Just as his all-knowing eyes shift toward the stage, as if he somehow felt your gaze from afar, you inch back into the inky shadows of the curtain. 

Two minutes to go. Clenching your hands into fists, you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe. 

It was time to channel the outrage, embarrassment, and devastatingly irritating lust into the performance of your life. 

V. THE SHOW

The soft swells of a trumpet float through the hushed arena.

The player, first chair in a local jazz ensemble, sways gently to the beat, his dark skin glowing in the warm stage lights. 

In time with the soulful melody, dozens of dancers fan out around the bar set, fiddling with prop bottles of fake booze. Your hours of research had pointed you in one direction: a speakeasy theme. 

Perfect for a jazz intro, and seductive enough to get your point across without getting you banned from live television. 

The outfit under your robe was a modern take on the 1920s: a bejeweled crimson flapper dress, sharp black stilettos, and a thick raven’s feather nestled in your hair. 

Just like you’d practiced, you stumble onto the set, miming drunken confusion as you trip into a male dancer’s arms. You shoot him a flirtatious smile when he steadies you, only for your attention to be captured by the trumpet still crooning in the background.

Enraptured by the player, you glide across the stage to lean against him, standing back-to-back with your hands on your heart. The tassels on your dress flow in time with the sultry swirls of your hips. 

A few more beats, and the intricate solo dwindles into the main riff that marks the true beginning of your set, to the audible gasps of the crowd. Look, you liked jazz as much as anyone—well, maybe not someone—but this was still your song. Your stage. And you were here to wake it up! As good as the player was, you had hypothetical sex to sing about. 

So the trumpet fades out, replaced by a poppy trap beat. Between each drum hit, your female dancers crowd you, tearing off the edges of your dress until you’re left in a shimmering red bodysuit. 

Strutting across the stage, you work through the lyrics of the first verse, eyeing the audience as you sing for someone special to come and take what he wants from you. 

The way you prowl from edge to edge is suggestive, inviting. The screams of the fans drown out the sound in your earpiece, but the winks you give them are only for show. You’d decided a week ago that you’d be a bad idol tonight. You’d make up for it later—a giveaway, follow spree, or something—but tonight, your focus was reserved for one man. 

As you ease into the chorus, your muscles glint under the twinkling lights, flexing in time with fluid spreads of your arms and gentle footwork. A siren song is what you’re singing, rhythmic pleas for a partner to make good on his promise falling from your lips. 

The next verse brings a slowdown in the melody that you meet with sensual rolls of your hips. Twisting your frame, you slide a purposeful hand down to rest just above your pelvis, tangling the other in your hair. 

The beat picks back up as you lead a line of men down the steps and into the audience, playfully evading their touches. It’s a calculated game of cat and mouse—one you’d hoped would pique the interest of the man you’d done this for. And as you parade right behind his row, boldly ghosting a hand over his shoulder in the dim crowd lighting, the tension in his muscles tells you you’d been right.

You can’t see his face, but the thought of him suffering right now is so satisfying, you have to fight to keep the vindictive smile off your face. Revitalized, you flounce back onstage right as the bridge melts into the final chorus—your favorite part of the show. 

Because while you’d been working the crowd, the crew had lined up seven shiny motorcycles at the front of the stage. Six were for your dancers, of course, but the seventh? That one was special. You’d gone through hell to get that bike on time—the same luxury model that was plastered all over Sylus Qin’s Instagram. The seventh bike was yours.

Taking your place in the center, you swing a leg over the seat and lower your hips gracefully, snapping back into the final moves of the choreography. 

With a daring raise of your eyebrow, you glance at his massive frame in the second row. He’s relaxed now, body no longer rigid with surprise. A bit too relaxed, you think, with the way his legs are spread apart, thumb swiping lazily across his smirking mouth. His gaze locks onto the familiar brand etched into the side of the bike before traveling up to yours, and the half a second of eye contact sends a shudder down your spine. 

Between hazy, hopefully covert blinks, you hum out the last note of the song to thunderous applause. When you release your ending pose, waving to the sea of cheering faces, your eyes find his seat once more.

But Sylus Qin is gone.

VI. THE AFTERMATH

The moment you step backstage, a flood of congratulations greets you. 

Dancers, friends, and strangers huddle all around you, whooping with joy at your undeniable triumph.

But between the friendly pats on your shoulders, sweaty hugs, and heaving breaths, you wonder if tonight can be called a success at all. 

Hours and hours of mourning your young career. Of research that, in any other circumstance, probably would have gotten you on a watchlist. Of hard work, of pivoting, of betting your entire future on the hope that he’d break. And he’d just…left. 

You were never one to stop a celebration early, but the burning pangs of defeat are too much to bear. With a tight smile and a flick of your card into the nearest hand—drinks are on you tonight—you trudge back to the solace of your dressing room. 

And the scent of leather and spice hits you a second too late. 

Because in all his wicked glory, Sylus Qin is in your empty dressing room, lounging in your chair like he owns the place. 

Your initial reaction—a startled jump and a choked squeak—has his eyes sparkling in satisfaction, and you stalk up to the mirror with a scowl before you can embarrass yourself any further.

Feigning nonchalance, you remove your accessories one by one, starting with the feather in your hair. As you place it gently on the marble counter, a firm chest presses against your back, and you see his frame nearly swallow yours in the glass before you. 

“If I were a bolder man, I’d think you were trying to send me a message just now,” he purrs into your ear. 

Glancing at his reflection, you shrug noncommittally. “Did you like it?”

You receive a soft hum in response. 

As you continue your act with trembling hands, Sylus cages you against the hard edge of the counter, admiring the remaining pieces of your costume with light, teasing touches. 

Once you make no effort to stop him, a large hand rises to close loosely around your throat. When his thumb brushes your bottom lip, you bite it hard enough to sting, and his deep chuckle worsens the throbbing between your legs. 

“I’m enough of a man to admit when I’m wrong. I underestimated you, it seems.” The low admission sends blood rushing through your ears, and you lean into him with a quiet gasp. “You have me right where you want me now, right? Then tell me—how did you come up with your little stunt?”

Tense seconds tick by as you debate your options. How humiliating it’d be to come clean in his arms. But then again, humiliated had been your main emotion as of late. With a deep exhale and slight tuck of your head, you begin your confession.

“I just wanted you to change your mind,” you whisper, watching as he unravels the satin ribbons on your bodysuit. 

 “I was so proud of that album, Sylus. Took me months to feel good enough to release it. And then I wake up to see the most respected voice in music calling it worthless.” 

Your voice wobbles at the mention of his review, and his fingers freeze on the lowest ribbon. 

“I thought my career was over. That’s what you do, right?” you ask, eyes flashing up at him. “Ruin people like me.”

Checking your teary gaze in the mirror, he has the decency to press a kiss to the skin between your neck and shoulder. 

“My manager had to do a wellness check,” you add with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I could barely get out of bed. But then he told me…I’d have a chance to see you that night. And I guess the anxiety of impending doom was enough of a motivator. So I got up, and I watched.” 

As your voice steadies, it grants him permission to undo the final ribbon. It loosens with a firm tug, and the slackened fabric sags around your body, waiting to be removed entirely. 

“I really did want to change your mind. To prove myself to you. But then I saw that stupid fucking interview…saw you for the first time, and I…”

“You what, sweetie?” he murmurs into your neck, spurring you on with a gentle kiss. 

“I wanted you, too.”

As he sucks in a breath, you take the moment to step out of your costume, tossing it to the floor below. You’re nearly bare before him, now, save for the thin tights and thong still blocking you from his sight. 

“That’s what all this was for,” you reveal, gesturing to the fallen fabric. “I wanted your attention—all of it—in any way I could get it. So you were right. I wanted to end up right here, with you.” 

For several seconds, his labored sighs are the only sounds in the room. You, unfortunately, are too afraid to breathe. But before long, warm hands grasp your hips, pulling you flush against his hardened lower half.

Catching your ear between sharp teeth, he floods your senses with a smooth whisper. “It seems you got what you wanted, then. Why don’t I tell you what I thought?”

And the second the “please” escapes your lips, he tears the thin layers left on your hips clean off your body. 

He uses your shock to his advantage, taking the chance to free his swollen cock and glide it across your slit, teasing your clenching hole with the pulsing length. When he’s coated in your wetness, he surges into you with a firm thrust, groaning at the squeeze of your fluttering walls. 

Allowing you a moment to adjust to the stretch, he gropes the fat of your hip before continuing. 

“You obviously did your research,” he rumbles, pumping in and out of you at a steady tempo. “Speakeasies were the home of jazz, for a time.” 

As the curve of his tip hits deep inside you, you wish you’d gotten a look at him. You’d expected him to be big, if the rest of his body was any indication, but the sheer fullness in your core feels like it should be illegal. 

“And the arrangement…paying homage with a modern twist. It was admirable. Bold,” he grits out, hissing as your cunt tightens at the compliment. 

Locking eyes with him in the mirror, you meet his thrusts with a high-pitched whine, asking for more—more pressure, more praise, more of all he could give. 

With a patronizing tsk, Sylus grips your jaw in one hand, pulling your face close to his. “How many ratings of mine did you read to pull this off? I wouldn't think you knew what real instruments were, based on that album.”

The barb snaps you out of docility, and you try to twist away from him with a sneer and grumble. But Sylus only pulls you back into his quickening strokes, a fond, terrorizing chuckle enveloping you. 

“Don’t run, sweetie. I’m flattered, really. Like I was when you got on that bike—my bike—and I wanted to pull you down from that stage,” he breathes, circling two fingers around your throbbing clit. “Because I knew in that moment, you were mine.”

As his claim rings through the air, he pinches your sensitive flesh and ups his pace, kissing your cervix with brutal strokes as the lewd slaps of skin on skin echo around you. Shaky breaths and soft whimpers leave your mouth, and you rut back into him as much as his firm grip on your hips allows.

“This was all for me, hm? For my attention, you said? Now you have it,” he murmurs huskily, and a sharp scratch of teeth against the pulse in your throat has you spilling over the edge with a desperate moan. 

Somewhere in the haze of your orgasm, he pulls out with a groan of his own, leaving you empty and shivering until you feel his warm release coat the curve of your back.

With the last of his strength, he turns your face to his and captures your lips in a heated kiss, your tongues tangling unhurriedly. You’re forced to pull away first, already more than drained of your stamina for the night. When you slump forward in exhaustion, he falls into you, folding you over the counter with his heavy weight. 

You groan at the impact but welcome the soothing pressure, and for a while, your heaving exhales mingle in the quiet of the room. 

Once his breathing evens out, his low drawl—raspier than usual—eclipses the silence. “So,” he begins, and you can tell he’s smirking above you without even seeing his face. “How would you rate my performance tonight?”

Too tired to scoff, you settle for a mocking hum. “Hmm…an 8. I’d say a 9, but you just lost a point for that line,” you smile softly. “The pacing was good, but the feeling was lacking. It felt a little…uninspired.”

VII. THE EPILOGUE

You can’t feel your limbs the next morning. 

You can’t feel your limbs, but your phone is ringing—has been for a few minutes now, you think groggily. 

With a pained grunt, you roll over and over in bed until the screen is within reach and put the call on speaker. 

“Check your texts!” Devon yells excitedly, damn near blasting your ears off. 

“What? What are you talking about?” you grumble. “And you know not to wake me up until at least 4 p.m. after a show.”

“Sure, girl, fire me if you want. Just check your texts!” he repeats, voice climbing to a near screech.

“Fine, just give me a—”

Your jaw drops. It has no choice but to drop.

Because sitting in your inbox, right there at the top, is an updated link to Sylus Qin’s review of your album.

And right there, where that dreaded 4.7 had stared you down, is a giant, boldface 8.

[lost-romantique]

The Evolution of Blitzø’s Character Growth- Stolitz (Season 2.5)

Blitz starts off "When I See Him" not wanting to think about the complexities of his and Stolas' relationship, so he decides to focus on the one thing he does know: sex.

In "When I See Him" Stolas and Blitz are meant to be never on the same page, even going as far as to have Blitz only sing-talk as opposed to Stolas' Disney-esque style of singing.

He goes out of his way, excitedly looking forward to the sex they'll have afterwards. He's only thinking about the sex.

Full Moon happens and Blitz is hurt and betrayed, as he genuinely has no idea how to process the confession.

Beginning of Apology Tour Blitz attempts to win Stolas back, only for it to end horribly as he self-sabotages the fuck out of everything he has, refusing to let go of the mask he wears.

Later on...

Blitz is heartbroken to hear Stolas sing, and his admission, "I don't think you meant to hurt me because I don't think it meant a thing at all" destroys him.

He tries to make it right with Stolas (who is drunk), apologizes to him, lets go of the mask he wears, only to end up ultimately giving up and letting Stolas go in the end.

A month passes and Blitz has essentially given up on life, driving his business to the freaking ground...

One thing is for sure, he feels a lot of regret for what happened with Stolas, and has essentially given up on being with him.

A lot of shit happens to Blitz in Ghostfuckers as the trauma that he's kept buried for fifteen years is forcefully pried open with a wrench.

Only for Millie to be the one to save Blitz in the end...

Episode ends with major character development for Blitz as his mask falls off, and he promises to butt out of the M&M relationship, and as he subtly admits and acknowledges his feelings for Stolas....

What's beautiful about the Stolitz Duet in Mastermind is that it perfectly shows Blitzø’s character growth...

How Blitz went from initially thinking only about sex in regards to his relationship with Stolas....

How Blitz was never once was on the same page with Stolas in their first duet together...

Only to now be able to perfectly harmonize with Stolas in regards to their deep feelings for one another...

Stolas admitting that he sees Blitz as his shining light that taught him to be his own person...

To Blitz admitting that he sees Stolas as the key to his heart that he's kept locked up for years...

For them to finally sing in perfect harmony as they admit their genuine undying love for each other.

And when the fear of losing Stolas permanently, hits Blitz like a motherfucking truck...

He's finally... finally able to let go of his mask around Stolas as he does what he can to comfort him after he lost everything.

Showing the small bits of romantic intimacy that he couldn't reciprocate back in Apology Tour.

Blitzø Buckzo, you make me fucking sick... how dare you be this fucking soft and cute and tender and loving. This man is fully aware that Stolas is still angry at him, but he doesn't care, he's just happy to have his birb back.

[killer-queen-k]

I love the evolution of the seriousness of the suitors intent towards Penelope. Tw: SA

So in "Legendary" it begins with Telemachus saying the suitors are "they're trying to win the heart of my mom." This is framed as a naive boys version of the situation. He doesn't understand the severity situation regarding his mother. He knows the situation is bad but he doesn't recognise how bad it is.

But that instantly changes when the suitors first speak. Antinous makes a joke of it saying "Open her room and we can have fun with her." It's framed as more of a lewd joke with the intent of provoking Telemachus rather than a direct threat of rape.

Then we get to Hold them Down. The threat has turned from a disgusting joke to a real plan. The song does everything but say the word "Rape." It uses a strong innuendos to convey what it needs to.

It isn't until "Odysseus" that their plan is called out for what it is. The suitors wanted to rape her. End of story. And it's said with all the vitriol and hate it deserves and it's paid back tenfold by The King of Ithaca.

[thewildwaffle]

Friend Shaped

The professor clacked his beak sharply three times in the front of the room. The students, around 40 individuals, and many species from across the galactic arm hushed almost immediately. “Welcome back, class. The day for your first planet-side mission to Nemulon 3 is fast approaching, and we've still got a lot of safety training to cover, so let's get started.” The professor stepped aside to allow a projection to display against the board behind him. A picture of a blue, green, and gray planet shone brightly against the dark tapestry of space. Nemulon 3 had been discovered deca-orbits ago but offered a wide variety of biomes that were the perfect blend of challenging and safe to train new recruits to the Galactic Alliance’s Exploration Fleet. “Today we're covering some alien fauna you may encounter while conducting exploratories. Most are small enough that they won't pose much of an issue, but we do have a few category 5 lifeforms that you need to be aware of.” The display behind the professor changed from an image of Nemulon 3 from orbit to a chart topped by 5 images with their respective labels: karindru, oold, dini-dini, barintuna, and great lavalen. Before the professor could start in on the next part of his lecture, a voice spoke out from the middle of the classroom.“That looks like a dog.” The professor stood with his beak half open. He was certainly not used to being interrupted, let alone this early in the lesson. “A what?” He finally choked out. There was a pause as if the offending student was thinking better about drawing more attention to themselves before slowly putting their hand up in the air. It was a human. Cadet Valentina, if the attendance role had been accurate. “I said it… it looks like a dog.” Human Valentina inhaled as if gathering the courage to say more. “They're a carnivorous canine species on earth that humans domesticated thousands of cycles ago and selectively bred to be pets.” The professor’s beak closed with a snap and some of the features near the base of his neck ruffled slightly. “Nemulon 3 is 47 light years away from Earth. Any similarities between each planet’s fauna is purely coincidental, a product of parallel evolution.” The human bowed her head and said nothing else, so the professor continued. “Now, for many of you of larger stature, a single karindru might not pose much of a threat, but their real danger comes from their numbers. They live, travel, and hunt in packs. Thankfully, their method of communicating with each other in their packs are quite loud, so you will hear them long before you see them, and hopefully, before they see you. Typically you’ll hear anything from yipping, chirping, and howling.” “Kind of like coyotes.” The professor stopped and stared at the human again, feathers ruffling once again. “Another kind of canine species back home,” Valentina offered quietly. If the professor was capable of growling, he might have been tempted to at that moment. Instead, he sighed slowly. “I can assure you, trying to get close to these will likely end with your injury or death.” “Well, that's what ancient humans thought about wolves too, but then we bred them into dogs and now they’re our best friends.” “Karindru are not, nor are any native creatures on this planet, your friend. Not now, not ever.” The professor turned sharply back to the board. The entire class was dead silent. Few even dared to breathe. It was quiet enough, in fact, to hear the human mumble under their breath, “If not friend, then why friend-shaped?”

The human was promptly given detention and assigned extra homework of writing “I will not try to domesticate any native fauna on Nemulon 3” one hundred times by hand.