#this is so long

[theaceofarrows]

Jason: You know how you're all always going on about how Dick is the "best, nicest, most responsible older brother"?

Tim: Vaguely

Steph: Sorta

Damian: Tt

Duke: Ehh

Cass: [nods]

Jason: Well, I call bullshit. He wasn't like that almost a decade ago with me. He was an asshole

Dick: [sputters] I'll admit I wasn't completely thrilled about you at first, but name one time I was irresponsible with you

Jason: That time you were teaching me how to use the trapeze while Bruce was out of town, and I fractured my wrist

Dick: Yeah? And I took you to the ER, so what?

Jason: Under occupation on the hospital paperwork you wrote "failed acrobat"

[Everyone bursts into laughter]

Dick: Was I wrong?! You did not get the move down, you failed. I.e. FAILED acrobat

Jason: [turns to everyone and gestures to Dick] See? Ass Hole

#jason todd #dick grayson #tim drake #stephanie brown #duke thomas #damian wayne #cassandra cain #dick and jason #incorrect batfamily quotes #batboys #batfamily #batfam #this is so long #i'm tired

[niuniente]

Death-Head’s Deal story #25 is the longest with 50 pages! Excuse me while I lay down and eat ice-cream sloppily... (＿ ＿*) Z z z 

Kizzie decided to change her ear color so I let her. She’s based on an actress Mamie van Doren and her dress is from Jessica Rabbit. Thank you for my Patreon supporter Effy for coming up with Kizzie’s name!

Tumblr is horrible with long comics so head over to Webtoons to enjoy this update. Also, my inbox is ALWAYS open DHD for messages, asks, thoughts etc.

READ DEATH-HEAD’S DEAL ON WEBTOONS OR TUMBLR

#death heads deal #death-head's deal #niu drawings #alrick #kizzie #I'M SO SORRY ALL USERS HERE #THIS IS SO LONG #BUT I HOPE IT IS WORTH IT

[starfinss]

𝘊𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦 — 𝘑𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘠𝘶𝘢𝘯

𝘍𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘮: Honkai Star Rail

𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: Jing Yuan + Reader

𝘙𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨: NSFW 

𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 9,818

𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: And as you stood there, confused and fuming and utterly scarlet in the face, you decided to do something stupid. Like, really, cosmically stupid. But really, you couldn’t think of anything to do at that moment besides that terribly stupid thing.

Without saying anything, you crossed to his side of the desk, leaning to grab at the front of his clothing and yanking him up to meet your mouth in a kiss, effectively shutting him up and showing just how comfortable you were. 

You had a headache.

You’d had it since you woke up that morning, persisting even after you downed a couple of painkillers, and even still after your first cup of strong tea. And finally, to your chagrin, it only grew worse as you walked to work. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was simple dumb luck. Things like this always seemed to happen to you right before you had something important to do. 

For the umpteenth time, you rubbed at your throbbing temples. On a normal day, you’d call in sick and spend the day at home, and the General wouldn’t mind. He was good like that. But today, you couldn’t afford to bail. Incidents like the Sanctus Medicus debacle came with a lot of red tape, even after all the heavy lifting and clashing of blades was finished. Incident reports, statements, casualty reports, and more bureaucratic nonsense that was of no help to the bereaved families of the fallen Cloud Knights. It was a web of all sorts of complicated, and if you weren’t careful, it was easy to get lost in the nearly endless amount of work to be done, especially as an advisor to the General of the Cloud Knights.

But you had an idea. It had come to you when you were combing through the incident reports; brought about by the footnote left by Jing Yuan regarding those very stragglers of the cult-like group. A solution to capture the remaining disciples of the Sanctus Medicus. Your notes on that were tucked away in the folder in your arms, all ready to be passed off to the General. 

Head still throbbing, you gave your identification to the guards at the door and pushed into the meeting room, taking your seat near the General’s chair. He had yet to arrive, but that was fine with you. It gave you time to review what you were going to say. You placed your folder on the table in front of you, scanning through the lines of text, typed up the night previous, and accompanied by your own notes in the margins. It wasn’t a complicated plan, not as much as you were making it out to be in your own head. It was simple enough, but you were confident it could work. 

The General trusted you. Your strategies had worked before, and you’d been instrumental in helping orchestrate successful battle formations, not to mention that you were responsible for the plan that had stopped a string of robberies in the Central Starskiff Haven, something you’d actually received an award for. You knew Jing Yuan would back you up to the other upper echelons of the Cloud Knights, as he had in the past. 

It wasn’t long before people began to file into the room, and low chatter began as the pain in your head settled behind your eyes, but gradually began to lessen. You thanked the Aeons for that. You also thanked the Aeons that Fu Xuan was the one who called the meeting to order, recounting facts you already knew from the incident report, so you didn’t actually have to follow what she was saying. Tea was passed out, and you took a slow sip of the liquid. It smelled distinctly herbal, and was undoubtedly picked by the General himself. He always had good taste in teas. 

“And that brings me to my next point,” Fu Xuan said, “what are we to do about the remaining members of the Sanctus Medicus who remain in hiding?”

You let yourself prepare what you were going to say, letting a few other people toss ideas around before you raised your hand. When you did, the Master Diviner’s gaze shifted to you, and she nodded, signaling you to speak. Jing Yuan shifted in his seat beside you, leaning on his closed fist, amber eyes expectant. All eyes were on you.

“Yes, what is it?” The Diviner asked. 

“I have a proposal,” you said, and Fu Xuan nodded meaningfully.

“Then let’s hear it.”

Gathering your thoughts, you rose to your feet with a sigh. 

“In the incident report, transcripts were recorded of the firsthand accounts given by the passengers of the Astral Express. Please, if you will, turn to page nine, where Mr Welt Yang’s statement is attached.”

A rustling of paper followed, and once it had quieted, you picked up where you left off. 

“If you see, written in line twelve, Mr Yang recounts an interaction with a captured member of the group. The defeat of Phantylia the Undying was more than likely enough to send the doubters away, but if Mr Yang’s statement is to be believed, even despite their defeat, some of these people still hold a strong degree of loyalty for the Abundance. Which makes them all the more dangerous.”

“I see,” Jing Yuan interjected, clearly interested, “you’re saying that what we have left are the fanatics. The ones most likely to cause problems, yes?”

You nodded. “Yes, correct. I propose we send an agent to infiltrate them. Gather information, cut them off at the root.”

“I’m afraid we tried that,” Qingzu said, “and while we did garner some important information, it was ultimately a failure. Dan Shu escaped, and things ended up escalating to the current level.”

“Yes,” you said, “I’m well aware of that. That was something I advised you on, Miss Qingzu. You approached me for help, if you recall.”

Qingzu folded her hands in her lap, sitting back in her chair. “I do. Your point being?”

“My point being,” you said, “I learned that I needed to reflect on what went wrong, and so I have. And, as it stands, the situation is more dire than it was before. These people have proven themselves to be dangerous, and it is paramount—”

“They were dangerous before,” Qingzu said, “and, it was paramount before. They have always been enemies of the Hunt. If we try to infiltrate again, don’t you think they’d be suspicious?”

“I thought of that,” you said, “which is why I propose we use an ex-member. We have a number of them on record, arrested after the incident, who express resentment towards the group. The Disciples of the Sanctus Medicus bear many strong resemblances to an insular cult, and it would be incredibly useful to have an agent who already knows the ins and outs of such an organization. We’ve done what we can with the information gathered from interrogation, but the fact remains that these fanatics are still out there. We need to utterly destroy whatever is left, and this is the most efficient way to do so.”

“Interesting,” Fu Xuan said, “but there is always the chance of betrayal. How do you account for that?”

You made a rueful face. “Can it not be argued that there is always a chance of betrayal? Though, you could always see the outcome for yourself, Master Diviner. Your divinations are never wrong.”

“What you suggest is reckless,” Qingzu said, “if this ex-member has any sort of loyalty at all left over, it puts us at risk.”

“I accounted for that,” you said, “I propose that—”

“It is simply too risky,” she said, “thank you for your input, though.”

Annoyance flared in your veins, and you tried hard not to let it show on your face. You knew Qingzu well enough to know that she wasn’t shutting you down out of malice, she was simply thinking about efficiency. But she hadn’t let you finish. 

“Wait,” you said, “I said, I accounted for that. If you’ll allow me—”

“Allow me to be clear,” Qingzu said, “you acknowledge the risks, yes?”

You paused. “Of course, but I said that I—”

“You acknowledge that if we take this gamble and it fails, it could put the Cloud Knights at risk, correct? If our infiltrator switches sides, we’ll be left wide open. They will have information about us, the acquisition of which might lead to even bigger problems. Do you acknowledge this?”

Discontent and anger peppered across your thoughts as you shifted where you stood, your words stuck in your throat. You glanced down to where Jing Yuan sat beside you, to take in the expectant, almost nonchalant expression on his face. His eyes met your own, briefly, meaningfully, before he fixed his gaze on Qingzu. 

“Well?” Qingzu said, “do you, or do you not?”

“Yes, I do,” you said, “and that is why we would send that agent in with one of our own. Say this agent is someone new, a recruit for the cause. It would minimize suspicion, and give us some wiggle room if things were to go south. We have one of our own keeping them in line.”

“I see,” Jung Yuan said, “please, elaborate. How would we orchestrate this? How would we pick the candidates for this operation?”

“General,” Qingzu said, “you know that this is—”

But he held up a hand, silencing her. “Let the woman speak. I can see you are interested in what she has to say as well, Lady Fu Xuan.”

“Correct,” Fu Xuan said, “the idea is intriguing, and could very well lead to the eradication of the Disciples of the Sanctus Medicus. But Lady Qingzu’s worry is not unfounded. If the plan is found out, our agents would likely be killed, and we would be left with bereaved families and nothing to show for the loss. If you can assuage both her fears, and my own, then I believe that your strategy is plausible.”

Ah. And you’d been doing so well before. But the second Fu Xuan fixed you with that look, expecting something great, you could feel your confidence draining out through the soles of your shoes. She seemed to have that effect on everyone, though. Despite her small stature, she could be incredibly intimidating. Regardless, you took a deep breath. You could do this. 

“Well,” you said, “I believe that no strategy is without risks. Of course, we’d need to make sure these agents are well briefed and prepared for the operation, so there is little room left for error. We’d need to be careful in our selection process, and I propose that you assist in overseeing this portion of the plan, Master Diviner. That way, you can see for yourself who will be involved and how it will be done. Does that assuage your worry?”

That was a weak answer and you knew it, but you hadn’t accounted for Fu Xuan picking your idea apart like she was. So when her eyes narrowed, you knew she wasn’t satisfied.

“And how exactly will we prepare these operatives?”

You bit your lip. This was the kind of thing, the fine moving parts, that was what you thought about after presenting the actual idea. That did well enough for when you were working with Jing Yuan, and when you presented strategies to others like you were now, he’d often back you up, or at least say something to help you. You looked at him sidelong, and he looked back, as calm and collected as ever. A small, almost bemused smile tugged at his lips, a challenge in his eyes. 

“Do you have an answer for me?” Fu Xuan said, canting her head, expectant, “if you don’t, I am sure the General has something to add.”

“I do,” you said, “I have an answer.”

Fu Xuan shifted in her chair. From her expression, you were beginning to figure that your time was up. “Be that as it may, I’d like to hear what the General is thinking. If you’re really confident in your strategy, send me a draft of it and I will review it in full. Thank you.”

You sank down into your chair again, trying not  to let your embarrassment show on your face. Jing Yuan proposed an idea similar to yours, but involving sneakier tactics, such as tailing known members of the group and such. Fu Xuan seemed much more complimentary of that than she had of yours, clearly satisfied by the lower risk factor.

But you knew yours would work. It would get more answers, and it could spell the demise of what remained of the Disciples of the Sanctus Medicus. 

After the meeting drew itself to a close, you gathered your things, ready to go to the Seat of Divine Foresight to draft up the proposal Fu Xuan asked for. You just hoped she’d actually listen this time. It was as you were circling around the table to go to the door that you heard Jing Yuan call your name, prompting you to turn around, eyebrows raised.

“Walk with me back to the Seat, alright?”

You sighed inwardly. “Yes, General. I was already on my way there.”

“Ah,” he said, smiling, “then it works in both of our favors, doesn’t it?”

He held the door for you as you left the room, and you thanked him politely as he retook his place beside you. You had to walk quickly, the General was a tall man, and his stride was much longer than yours was. It always made you a little breathless, walking alongside him, but then again, most things did when it came to him.

“My idea could work,” you said, and you saw Jing Yuan smile again, thoughtfully.

“Yes,” he said, “it could. I’m confident it could. It was a well thought out plan, as your plans always are.”

You blinked, not expecting the praise, especially not after he’d stayed quiet during the meeting. 

“Huh?”

A soft laugh. “You weren’t finished talking when the Master Diviner cut you off, were you? Lady Fu Xuan is… an intense woman. But she is more open to the ideas of others than you’d expect her to be. She just prefers when a person speaks up about what they’re really thinking.”

You frowned. “So you’re saying you support my plan?”

Jing Yuan pushed open the doors to the Seat of Divine Foresight as you rounded upon them, and as you entered, he gestured for those inside to leave the room, which they did, leaving the two of you alone. 

“Of course I support your plan,” he said, “you know I’ve always respected your inputs, they’ve served me and the Luofu well in the past. But you lack conviction.”

You let his words settle as the two of you crossed the room, making your way to the desk, where you set down the folder you were still carrying.

“How do I lack conviction?” You asked, “I believe firmly in my own ability. I am good at what I do, and you know that, else you wouldn’t have picked me as your advisor. In all the time we’ve worked together, when have I ever lacked conviction in anything I’ve done?”

“That isn’t what I mean,” Jing Yuan said, “I mean in your own ideas. You clearly had more to say to the Master Diviner, but when she stopped you, that was the end of it. You clearly had it thought out, as demonstrated when Miss Qingzu brought up her concerns, but you didn’t fight for it.”

He had a point, but you weren’t about to admit that. You chewed your lip, eyes flicking to where the folder you’d just set down was laying. 

“What are you getting at?” You asked, finally, “that I need to be more confident? I know that. I didn’t account for… several things. I suppose I should have.”

Jing Yuan laughed; a lovely, low sound. “Lady Fu Xuan is something few people can really account for. She’s confident to nearly a fault in her abilities of divination, but even she cannot see every angle of a matter by herself. So she tends to pick apart things that would ordinarily require a bit of a gamble. Experience breeds caution, something that rings especially true with someone like the Master Diviner.”

You snorted. “A little warning would have been nice.”

Another laugh. “My apologies. But really, I was interested in seeing how you’d rise to the challenge. You had a good idea, as I knew you would, and I wanted to see you fight for it.”

Something uncomfortable twisted in your gut, and you turned away from him, studying a spot on the floor. 

“Well, I’m sorry for disappointing you.”

“Disappointing me? Nonsense. You merely need an extra push. Now, would you care for a game of chess?”

You turned back, looking at him quizzically. “Chess? General, I don’t think now is the time.”

He smiled playfully. “There’s always time for a game of chess. Now, I’ve received this exquisite set, a gift from the Nameless on the Astral Express. I was told it was bought in a city called Belobog. I’m very eager to break it in. As we play, we can discuss further.”

Exasperated, you pulled a chair up to the desk, sinking down into it as Jing Yuan set up the board. The set really was lovely, you noted. It was made of carved wood, the pieces and board both showing fine craftsmanship and detail. You turned over the rook in your hands, admiring the way the wood shone gently under the light. 

Jing Yuan chose white, as he usually did when the two of you played chess, and you chose black. He moved first, setting one of his pawns two spaces out from where it was originally, and you followed his example. 

“Chess is much like life, no?” 

You watched his hands, intent, as he moved his pawn forward once more. 

“In some instances,” you said, “strategy is certainly something the two have in common. Or the fact that both require you to think outside the box, especially when figuring out said strategies.”

A good-natured chuckle as you moved a second pawn further, freeing your knight. Jing Yuan moved his own pawn ever closer, but he hadn’t moved any of his more powerful pieces. You narrowed your eyes, trying to figure out what he was planning. 

“There’s that sharp intellect I know so well,” Jing Yuan said, “but you’re missing one thing.”

Leaning forward, you rested your elbow against the desk, propping your chin on your folded hand. 

“And what would that be?”

A smile, playful and knowing. His eyes sparked with mirth. “You know very well what I mean.”

It was your turn to smile, maybe playing a little dumb. “I assure you, I don’t.”

“Let me give you a hint, then,” the General said, eyes fixed on your hands, watching as you shifted your knight out and onto the board, towards his closest pawn, “purpose, focus, planning. All are vital for a successful gambit, am I right?”

You watched as he moved his pawn again. This was surely a trap, for the rook waiting beyond the pawn, poised to take your knight after the pawn was captured. But you doubted Jing Yuan would do something so obvious. You moved your knight away, clearing it from danger. You needed to back up the piece with another one. 

You supposed he was right. Purpose, focus, planning. But there was also sacrifice. Any good plan required gambles, and that rang true on the chessboard as well. You moved your pawn closer to Jing Yuan’s, near ready to capture the piece. Two could play at that game. You could make sacrifices, too.

“Yes,” you said, “but the Master Diviner doesn’t seem to understand it the same way we do. She doesn’t want to take risks.”

Amusement sparked in his golden eyes, electrifying as the air around you. You twisted your fingers around the top of your pawn, adjusting it more squarely into its spot. 

“She is a careful woman. She wants everything to be accounted for. You believe in this strategy, yes? That it could work?”

You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips. “Naturally.”

“Then make her believe that. A firm belief in one's self commands a room. Make her see that you will handle whatever unexpected circumstances befall us.”

“Oh?” You said, heart thrumming in your chest, “me, alone? I’m just one person, General. Won’t you be helping me?”

His smile broadened, turning into a lazy grin, and when he spoke, he echoed your words from before. 

“Naturally.”

That stupid smile sent butterflies into your stomach, their wingbeats gale force strength as they battered against your lungs. It was always like this with him, something unspoken hanging in the air between you, undisturbed by years of friendship, but ever present. So you did what you always did when it reared its ugly head. You stepped aside to leave it ample room to fester. 

“I should be going,” you said, rising from your seat, “we’ll have to finish our game later. I need to finish writing the details I left out for the Master Diviner.”

“You will remain here.”

You blinked. He didn’t say it with any sort of authority, as if he was simply discussing the weather. But the firmness in his eyes told you that it wasn’t up for discussion. 

“Excuse me?” You said, voice much weaker than you’d have liked. 

“You heard me well. I have more to say, if that’s alright with you. Sit. It’s your turn.”

And so you sat.

“Really, it’s just the two of us,” Jing Yuan said, “we can speak with candor. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to discuss the details you did not get to share earlier. Leave nothing out.”

You narrowed your eyes, absently moving your pawn. “Fu Xuan is already backing your strategy, not mine. My conviction in my plan does not change, but if you were this confident in what I had already, why didn’t you speak up?”

“You know why,” Jing Yuan said, “I wanted you to fight for it. We’re only talking in circles, my dear. How will we guarantee the safety of our agents in this operation?”

Your answer was automatic, despite the rush the diminutive sent through your already electrified system.

“There is no definitive way to ensure that nothing goes wrong aside from preventative measures and ample training,” you said, voice as steady as you could keep it, “any way you slice it, it’s always going to be a bit of a gamble. What I’m suggesting is an infiltration. That kind of operation is unpredictable. You know that. In order to avoid problems, we have to be ready for anything.”

A smile. The rook took your pawn, but you expected that. Without blinking, you took the rook with your knight. Jing Yuan’s eyes flashed with excitement, a contagious grin spreading across his face.

“Excellent answer. But tell me, how will we be ready for anything if we don’t even know what that could be?”

You shrugged. “There’s no perfect way to be ready for absolutely everything. We’ll just have to try and account for what is most likely to happen if things go awry.”

“And the unlikely?”

You knew he was testing you, trying to get under your skin. You looked up at his face and away from the chessboard, the nonchalance in his expression utterly infuriating. You tried your best to remain just as nonplussed.

“I mentioned training, didn’t I?” You said, “we have to trust the operatives will know what to do in the unexpected.”

His smile broadened. “Excellent. See, if you were able to say to her what you just said to me, then we’d be getting somewhere.”

You twisted in your seat. “What makes you so sure of that?”

Another easy smile. “Am I wrong to trust the judgment of a trusted friend and advisor, especially when she’s yet to steer me wrong? I value your opinion. You know that.”

“I do,” you said, “and I value yours as well.”

“I’m hardly worthy of such an honor, I’m sure,” Jing Yuan replied, his smile growing, eyes warm.

For some reason, his words sent those aforementioned butterflies present in your stomach shooting through your bloodstream in an intoxicating rush. Shit. Those feelings were back, the complicated ones you tried to run away from earlier. The way he was smiling at you wasn’t helping in the slightest, and mortifyingly, you could feel your cheeks heating up. Why was that of all things flustering you like this? 

Aeons, you had to get out of there. You cleared your throat, expelling any improper or amorous thoughts about your superior from your mind as you straightened in your chair. 

“I really should be going, General,” you said, voice a little louder than you’d have liked, “if you’ll excuse me, I—”

“Is something the matter, _____?”

You blinked, staring at him.

You should have said something intelligent, or something to assuage his worries, but instead, all you managed was; “what?”

You cleared your throat for the second time, smoothing down the fabric of your uniform. 

“Let me rephrase,” you said, “what do you mean? What would make you think something was the matter?”

Jing Yuan leaned back in his chair, almost lazily, eyes remaining fixed on you as he did so. 

“Well,” he said, “you keep trying to excuse yourself, to start. Additionally, your face is very red. Do you feel ill?”

You latched onto that. “I woke up with a headache this morning,” you said, “I’ve been all out of sorts since then, I’m afraid.”

A soft hum, then an understanding nod. “I see,” Jing Yuan said,  do you have any other symptoms?”

You shook your head. “Just a headache.”

That was a total lie, your headache had diminished to nothing more than an annoyance during the meeting, and had vanished altogether in the time you had been talking with Jing Yuan. But he didn’t have to know that. He didn’t have to know that situations like this always made you need to excuse yourself to rethink your entire working relationship with him, or that you often thought about how lovely he looked when he smiled. 

But then, he was leaning across the table, hand outstretched, and he was pressing his palm to your forehead, the skin cool against your own. It did nothing to calm your racing heart, nor the incandescent blush on your face. The butterflies in your stomach were doing an entire floor routine at this point. 

“You do not appear to have a fever,” he said, as he pulled back, “but your face is still very flushed. Are you too warm?”

You tugged at the high collar of your uniform, fingers absently catching on one of the buttons. 

“I suppose it is a little warm in here.”

Another lie. You were actually a little bit cold. Another thing he didn’t have to know. YOu had to change the subject, and fast. 

“Why is it that you value my input so much—”

“Are you embarrassed?”

The question came so suddenly it stunned you for a moment. 

“What would I be embarrassed about?” You finally managed.

“I value your opinion,” he said, “I believe that is what I said that set you out of sorts, yes? The fact that I value your input flusters you? Do you fear that that is all I value? I assure you, I not only treasure your ideas, but your presence as well. You need not feel uncomfortable here, I very much enjoy your company.”

This was not going the way you envisioned at all. You were a professional for Aeons’ sake. You straightened yourself, rising from your chair, just to put some distance between the two of you, just to catch your breath. What was he doing? It almost felt like…

“You’re teasing me,” you said finally.

You turned when he laughed, your expression a mix of emotions, but he was as cool and collected as ever. It almost made you want to slap him. Or kiss him, Aeons forbid. You shoved that thought to the deepest corner of your mind.

“I was concerned at first,” he said, “though I realized after I felt your forehead that you were not ill. I apologize for my behavior, but I’m afraid I just couldn’t help myself.”

You felt like you were going to burst into flames. “So— what you said, about— huh?”

Another laugh. “I meant every word of that. Come now, lying about such things would be unbecoming. Please, would you sit with me some more? I would very much like to finish our game.”

“No,” you said, “the game can wait. Do you not take me seriously?”

He looked briefly surprised before he answered.

“I take you very seriously, I assure you. I cannot see why you would think I wouldn’t. I apologize if I led you to think otherwise.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Then why tease me?”

“I admit,” he said, “I found your reactions to be… endearing. I did not mean to offend you.”

Your heart sputtered under the new load that had been put upon it like a backfiring starskiff. You’d only ever seen hints of this before, in offhanded compliments and veiled praises, but the General had never been so overt before. Hell, you’d always been certain you were imagining it. But that single revelation brought you to a realization. 

“You weren’t just teasing me,” you said, “you were flirting with me.”

The smile grew, and you could have sworn your heart was beating in your ears. He canted his head, regarding you with a playful gaze as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk in front of him.

“And what if I was?”

You coughed, trying to clear your head as confusing emotions swam laps in your bloodstream. Damn him, making you feel like this. Did he not even realize the impropriety of all of this? Did he just not care? How stupid and blind had you been not to realize this was happening? 

“If you were,” you said, carefully, “then what does that mean, exactly?”

“You’re a smart woman” he rebuffed, “you know what it means.” 

Your brain wasn’t catching up with what he was saying as quickly as you wanted it to, which infuriated you. He was staring at you, waiting for you to say anything at all, and you turned to face him when he said your name. 

Damn it. Damn him. Damn everything. The way he was looking at you, like you put the stars in the sky, it made you feel like every cell in your body was screaming. All these years of pining for someone you thought was so unattainable was an arms reach away all along, and that not only made you feel silly, it made you feel a certain degree of strange, misdirected anger.

And as you stood there, confused and fuming and utterly scarlet in the face, you decided to do something stupid. Like, really, cosmically stupid. But really, you couldn’t think of anything to do at that moment besides that terribly stupid thing. 

“Of course,” he said, mild panic in his voice, “if you’re uncomfortable with this, it will never be spoken of again—”

Without saying anything, you crossed to his side of the desk, leaning to grab at the front of his clothing and yanking him up to meet your mouth in a kiss, effectively shutting him up and showing just how comfortable you were. 

He made a sound of surprise when your mouths met, a sound that snapped you from whatever impulsive haze that had settled over your brain. You were about to yank yourself back and apologize until you were unable to do so anymore, but then his hands found your shoulders, holding you in place, and your own fell from his clothing to catch his cheeks in your palms.

He was much taller than you, something especially evident as he rose to his full height, forcing you to stand on your tip-toes, arms slinging around his neck. His own wound around your waist, as not to let you slip away, his body quickly pulled flush against your own. 

He tasted of herbal tea and almond cookies, warm against your mouth as he deepened the kiss. It was all-consuming and passionate, and you felt Jing Yuan pull back for a mere moment, just once, before diving back in, his teeth grazing your lower lip, sending sparks dancing down your spine. Your actions were rapidly growing frenzied, almost fierce, and you could feel yourself moving, your backside making contact with the desk behind you.

You knew this was moving fast, but you couldn’t even begin to care, not when you ran your hands through his hair, drawing a soft gasp from his lips, feather soft against your own, and especially not when his hands shifted to brace on the desk, effectively caging you in. Kissing him was intense , and almost completely overwhelming. The scent of him engulfed you; orange blossom and sandalwood, as well as something earthy and herbal and him.  

He was the first one to pull back, face tinged pink as he caught his breath, eyes hooded as he watched you through lashes the color of moonlight. Aeons, he was pretty. Too pretty for his own good. Your eyes fixed to his mouth, watching as his tongue darted out, running briefly over his unfairly full lower lip. 

“I see the matter of your comfort isn’t a concern.”

You could only shake your head.

He smiled, and you felt your heartbeat flutter in your chest. 

“If it’s all the same to you,” he said, tucking a lock of your hair behind your ear, “I’d like to do that again.”

You answered him by pulling him into another kiss. 

You could feel his hands on your waist, warm even through the fabric of your uniform. Gooseflesh raised on your skin as he paused, dangerously close to your hips, and your own hands laced into his hair, your fingers combing through thick, silver locks. The action drew a soft, low sound that made your blood sing with energy. It was embarrassing how quickly he got you like this, so pliable and willing, but as he nibbled at your lower lip, any thoughts of embarrassment were ejected from your mind.

His tongue slid along the seam of your lips, and you parted them, allowing him to press it against your own. Your fingers tangled into his hair, catching at the tie that held it back, and you flirted with the idea of undoing it before he was tugging you backward, away from the desk and onto the bench behind him, gathering you into his lap. The buzz of excitement took its place beneath your skin, and you shifted forward, bumping your hips against his. 

You could feel his hands trailing down your body, catching in the bend of your waist, and you wanted so badly to shift down, pressing your bodies flush together, just to see what he would do. Fuck, he’d pulled you into his lap, and the provocativity of such an action only put you more out of sorts than you already were.

Breathless, you broke the kiss, meeting his hooded gaze with your own as you rolled your hips down, and oh, the way his eyes fluttered closed, the way his grip grew tighter on your body, it sent any remaining rational thought you had right out the nearest window.  

You squeezed your thighs around his hips as you pressed yourself down again, and his jaw tightened, fingers pressing into your flesh through the fabric of your uniform. His gaze was dark as he regarded you, amber eyes sweeping across your body, seemingly hungry for what he was seeing. It thrilled you more than you thought it would. Overwhelmed, you dove forward to catch his mouth in another kiss, and he sighed into you, his lips moving languidly against your, almost indulgent as he pressed closer.

He pulled back suddenly, forehead against yours, breath heavy, and you tried to move to catch his mouth with yours again. He allowed you the impulse for a few frenzied seconds before he moved away, and for a horrible moment, you thought you’d done something wrong.

“Is this alright?” He asked, and the way his voice had deepened to a baritone rumble sent your head off into space, “you and I both know the direction this is taking us.”

You did. If you continued at this pace, you knew exactly what would happen. Anyone with common sense would know. This was something out of a dirty fantasy, something you’d shamefully thought of on lonely nights, something out of one of those silly erotic web novels you found yourself reading on boring days off. It was exciting and sexy, and you didn’t want it to stop. Here he was, the object of your pining, of your recently thought to be unrequited affections, asking what you wanted at that moment. Who were you to refuse?

“Yes,” you said, after you’d found your own voice, high and breathy in contrast to his, “I’m okay with this. I want this.”

A soft hum, and you felt your heart jump into your throat as his head dipped, mouth dragging along the bit of your throat left exposed by your uniform. You couldn’t help but gasp, almost embarrassed at your own sensitivity. 

“Aeons, you’re lovely,” he breathed, enraptured, “I am left in awe every day I see you.”

You felt your face warm, your voice lost as he peppered kisses along your jaw. His hands slid down your body to find your thighs, calloused palms pressing against the skin, left exposed by the shorts attached to your uniform. He used the grip to tug you closer, firmly pressing your pelvis against his, an action that caused both of you to gasp aloud. 

He held you in place as he rolled his hips, slow and easy, the friction making you gasp. He was already halfway hard, evident through his trousers, and the thought that you’d been the one to make him that way made intoxicating arousal flood into your bloodstream. 

His fingers caught the buttons at your collar, fumbling to push them through the buttonholes. Once that was done, you reached to the front of your waist to unfasten your belt, which was holding the top of your uniform in place. After it was loose, you slipped the garments from your body, discarding them to the floor.

You barely had time to think before Jing Yuan was exploring the newly exposed parts of you, his mouth latching onto the bend of your shoulder, the column of your throat, the underside of your chin. His hands, warm and calloused against your naked waist, made you shudder, breath leaving your lips in a shaky sigh as his tongue passed over your pulse point. 

You had trouble finding exactly where his armor ended and he began, but you eventually found the buckles necessary to unfasten the thick plating from his body. He helped you with this endeavor, eventually shedding his wrist guards and shirt, as well as the armor at his waist, leaving him bare chested beneath you. 

He was built powerfully, like the Aeons themselves had sculpted him by hand. Muscles rippled under the flat press of your palm, his perfect pale skin only marred by the threads of countless battle scars. Broad, strong shoulders and arms, a well-built chest, all tapering off into a trim waist. You ran your fingers down his body, feeling his muscles tense, quivering, breath catching as your thumb caught the jut of his hip bone, settling into the groove of muscle at his navel. 

His gaze was riveted to your hand as you explored his body, only dropping away when your mouth attached to his neck, teeth grazing his collarbone, making him sigh with shuddering breath. Your fingers mapped their way across his scars, and you absently wondered what the cause of each one was. You kissed the one closest to you, a thick, pale stripe of skin cutting across his left shoulder, ending just above his pectoral. You felt his nose press into your hair, and for a moment, you simply rested your cheek against his shoulder in a little bubble of intimacy that settled so perfectly into your comfort zone that you almost had trouble breaking away. 

“You’re beautiful,” you said, softly, and you heard him chuckle, the sound like a roll of thunder beneath your ear. 

“Oh, my darling,” he whispered, “that word is reserved for you.”

He drew you close and into another fierce kiss, stealing your breath from your lungs, and you could feel his hands on your back as he unfastened your bra, pushing the straps down your shoulders. You took the bra off the rest of the way, dropping it behind you as you rolled your hips against him, an action that caused him to grip at your body, and oh , you could feel him, hardness pressing neatly against your clothed cunt. Teeth clicked together as he rocked his hips, holding you against him, the friction drawing a soft, breathy moan. 

His palm slid along your body, cupping your breast, and when his thumb swiped over your nipple, you let out an embarrassingly loud gasp, burying your face in the crook of his neck as he squeezed the nipple between two fingers. You were so unexpectedly sensitive, just from this alone, a fact that would have embarrassed you if your head wasn’t so full of clouds and fluff and other emptiness, drunk on his touch.

His mouth found your pulse point again, tracing down to your collarbone, then to the valley of your breasts, and your back bowed as his hand smoothed along your spine to rest between your shoulder blades, breath and body shuddering as his lips passed over a nipple. His breath was hot as it misted over your skin, and when his lips finally caught a nipple between them, you let your head fall back, gasping and breathless. 

Jing Yuan’s tongue passed over the sensitive flesh, rolling your nipple beneath it, and he caught your opposite breast in his free hand, gently squeezing, making you whine, soft and low. The pleasure of it all felt like fire beneath your skin, burning you from the inside out, but not one part of you cared, not when he was touching you like that. 

You pushed yourself against him harder, because feeling him through clothing was rapidly becoming not nearly enough, a sentiment he clearly shared from the way you felt him groan against your skin.

“Can I touch you?” He rasped, and you nodded quickly, shifting to unfasten the tie holding your shorts closed, briefly standing to slip them off, as well as your panties, before you were moving back into his lap, completely bare. 

“You’re incredible,” he rumbled, “a goddess. I hope you know that. I am a very lucky man.”

His hand pressed against your hip, making your shift back, and your face flushed in embarrassment as he took in your naked form, gaze famished and punch drunk in love as it roved over you. 

“I want to touch you, too,” you said, and he simply smiled.

“I’m yours to do with as you please.”

His hand slipped from your hip to your thigh, and you shifted your hips back, allowing him room to maneuver as he pressed a broad palm to the apex of your thighs, causing you to gasp, hips unconsciously pressing down. His middle finger ran along the length of your entrance, aided by the soak of your arousal, slow as he pleased, leaving your head full of fog. You pressed your hips down against his hand, lip catching between your teeth as he picked up his pace, free hand gripping your hip to still you as one finger slowly sunk inside of you.

He began to move at an agonizingly slow pace, and you moaned lowly as his finger curled inside of you, hitting a spot that made stars burst across your vision. He touched you in a way that stole your breath from your lungs, and when he added another finger, his name slipped from your lips, soft and pleading.

You reached forward to fumble with the front of his trousers, managing to unsnap and unzip them after a few seconds. He hissed between his teeth as you pushed his underwear down, pulling him free, and shit, you weren’t sure what you’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been this. Jing Yuan wasn’t a small man, so you supposed this shouldn’t have come as a shock, but he was big. He was thick, and long enough to make you nervous, and when you reached forward and wrapped your hand around him, your fingers barely even met.  

His breath hitched sharply when you touched him, and you felt him twitch against your palm, throbbing. When his fingers curled inside of you, you squeezed him, making him cry out. You touched him in slow, even strokes as your hips ground down on his hand, and when his thumb found your clit, you picked up the pace. 

His head fell against the back of the bench as you squeezed his tip, circling your thumb around him, making him groan, low and long, hips bucking into your touch. He was leaking precum, and you used it to aid in your motions, smearing it around the head of his dick, making his own motions falter for a moment.

You wanted him so badly at that moment, as you watched his pretty face twist with pleasure, with need. You could feel your climax building, winding tighter under your skin, driving a high, breathless wine from between your gritted teeth as you ground your hips down harder. When he sped up his pace to aid you, your hips jumped, heartbeat pounding in your ears, and you were grinding down on his hand like a bitch in heat. 

You really weren’t going to last, not when he knew exactly where to touch you, fingers practiced and sure, and fuck, you felt like you were melting into him, fingers slipping from his cock to grip at his shoulders, your ability to focus rapidly draining away. 

Your head dropped back in pleasure as he worked you even closer to your high, allowing him room to latch his mouth onto your throat, surely leaving marks as his teeth dragged against your skin, but you hardly had the wherewithal to even begin to care about that, not as your thoughts and senses devolved into complete delirium. 

With a final press of his thumb, you tumbled over the edge with a broken cry, nails digging into Jing Yuan’s skin as you came. He worked you through it with whispered filth and an unfaltering pace, making you sob with rapture, squirming helplessly as he worked you into overstimulation, dangerously close to a second climax before he pulled away.

You collapsed, boneless and panting against his chest, and he drew you close, mouth hot as it molded to yours, and as you shifted forward, you could feel him, pressed against your bare stomach. 

The friction made him groan, hands on your hips, blunt nails digging into your skin, but you needed more, and you knew he wouldn’t protest giving you just that. 

“How do you want me?” Jing Yuan rasped, “do you want to be on top? It may be more comfortable for you to adjust that way. I’m afraid I don’t have protection, though. That does not tend to be something I keep here in my office.”

“I’m on birth control,” you said, “it will be okay.”

After a moment of consideration, you shifted forward to press yourself against him, an action that earned a breathless groan. He felt hot against you, almost searing, and as you slowly rolled your hips, you felt his grip grow tighter, almost impatient. A spike of arousal shot through you as his jaw tightened, his restraint clearly being tested by your teasing. 

Slowly, you began to sink down. You were met with some resistance, even just the tip was a stretch, and you had to pause for a moment, just to catch your breath, which was escaping your lips in quick bursts. 

“Relax,” he urged, voice low; tone taught and fraying, “breathe. You can take it.”

A quick nod as you tried to do as he said, resting your forehead against his shoulder. You pushed down further, drawing a hushed groan, his hands slipping from your hips to your waist, gently urging you downwards. It took another few moments of adjusting before you were able to take all of him, and you sat there for a few moments, breathless and stuffed completely full. 

His head lolled back against the bench, expression stricken and lips parted, and you pulled him into a kiss, which he returned with vigor. You stayed still as you adjusted to the size, something that clearly wasn’t helping with keeping his restraint in place, evident from the way he was gripping your body, tight enough to bruise. 

Just to test the waters, you shifted forward in a slow, easy grind, and he groaned, long and low and aching. You whined into his mouth, toes curling as you rolled your hips again, just to hear that wonderful sound again. 

His hands drifted back to your hips, squeezing as you moved again, this time lifting yourself halfway up, only to take him again, and he was surely leaving bruises, absolutely holding back, especially as you thrust back down again.

“Tight,” he whispered, “it’s— fuck— it’s so tight.”

That did it for you. You put your hands on his shoulders as you picked up the pace, forcing the breath from your own lungs, rendering him speechless as he watched you, eyes fixed to where the two of you were connected, watching his thick cock disappear inside of you. 

The stretch of him made you feel like your mind had emptied itself out, and you let out a thin, breathy moan as his hips bucked up, stuffing you full as your nails dug into his shoulders. You yanked him into a messy kiss, hands lacing into his hair, and he growled against your mouth, a sound that sent shockwaves down your spine. 

Another tug at his hair, and you were moving, your back suddenly against the desk, chess pieces scattering around you as he rucked your legs up, pulling them against his hips as he pressed close. You cried out, the new angle making the tip of his cock rub just right against spots inside of you that you didn’t even know existed. 

You lifted your hips from the desk to meet him, propping yourself up on bent elbows as he leaned over you to join your lips to his. The pace he set was slow, but the strong impact of each thrust made it impossible for you to think , or to even speak as his hands slid along your thighs to the bend of your knees, holding you in place for him as he fucked you. 

The kiss was broken, and he rested his forehead against yours, just for a spell, before he was drawing back a little, hips pressing forward, and one of his hands was moving between your bodies, clit under his thumb, forcing you to tighten around him, forcing broken gasps from both of you. 

“Deeper,” you found yourself blurting, and he chuckled darkly against your skin.

“If that’s what pleases you.”

Your head fell back in bliss as he changed the angle, the speed picking up as well, and you could do nothing else but gasp his name, sprawling back over the desk as he reduced you to a mess, beginning to wind tighter once more, thighs trembling in his grip.

You were still sensitive from your last climax, something he was undoubtedly aware of as he touched you in all the right places, as his mouth found your breast, tongue passing over your nipple and making your back arch into his touch. It was too much, but also not nearly enough, something that was as oxymoronic as it was maddening. 

Your hands scrambled across the smooth surface of the desk before finally curling around the edge, nails digging into the wood, and you watched Jing Yuan above you with hazy eyes; watched the way his face twisted and pinched in bliss. He was thick and heavy and hot inside of you, and you were not going to last, not like this, not when he was whispering filth and praises and fucking you so deep that you could barely tell where he started and you ended. 

The pressure of his thumb on your clit picked up, and you squirmed in his hold, the back of your head knocking against the surface of the desk underneath it, your eyes squeezing closed, the delirious, desperate feeling that comes before a climax bleeding into your system, threading its way through you, leaving you utterly helpless to its pull. 

You were barely aware of what you were even saying, but you knew his name was on your lips, and you were so close that you could hardly take it, but he wasn’t slowing down, not even as you bucked and squirmed and shook under his touch. 

The edge came quicker than you’d have pleased, and your back bowed up as you came undone, trying and failing to stray quiet as your high washed over you with tidal wave force. You were throbbing around him, squeezing him tight, and you could hear him growling in pleasure, feel him twitch inside of you, only driving you higher as your eyes rolled back behind closed lids, lips parted, cheeks flushed pink. 

But he wasn’t letting up, not even as you squirmed with overstimulation, clamping a hand over your mouth to try and quiet yourself, barely able to handle the continued stimulation. The stretch of him inside of you and the feel of his thumb on your clit was making you feel like you were losing yourself, and if he knew that, he was only encouraging it. 

You wanted him to cum, to feel him lose himself too, to see it on his face as he spilled himself inside of you, just as drunk on bliss as you were. You locked your ankles together behind his body, pushing him deeper, and you got the privilege of listening to him groan.

Your second climax knocked the wind out of you, and it was only then that he was pulling his hand away, fucking you through the aftershocks of the climax, but the base of his cock was rubbing against your oversensitive clit, prolonging your high, and building you towards another one. 

His hand found your hip, holding you down as his pace picked up to something almost punishing as he chased his own climax, and you found yourself scrambling forward to grab onto him, kissing him hard and deep, hips moving with his and making him moan into your mouth, grip tightening on your body as he pushed you back onto your back, one hand flattening on your lower stomach to hold you down as he thrust all the way in, staying close as he rolled his hips in slow, deep rocks that made you feel like you were burning alive, but you could do no more than lay there and take it as he worked you into another dizzying climax.

It hit you with a force that made you scream, forcing you to clamp a hand over your mouth, the tears that had caught in your lashes leaking down your cheeks, and his thrusts were growing uneven, breath unsteady. You felt him shudder, hips twitching, sending jolts of almost painful pleasure through your spent body, making you whine. 

With a low, unrestrained moan, he was thrusting deep as he could go, and you could feel him trembling , grip iron tight on your body as he spilled inside of you, and you pulled him down into a fierce kiss, bucking your hips to work him through his climax. He moaned against your mouth, gasping your name when you deliberately squeezed around him, breaking the kiss to sink his teeth into your shoulder to muffle his unrestrained cries.

You felt him begin to soften inside of you, though he remained close, arms wrapped around your body as you gasped for breath. It was with almost palpable reluctance that he pulled out, and after gathering you into his arms, he was falling back to sit on the bench behind him, chest heaving, eyes closed.

A few moments passed of just laying together before he was moving for a drawer in his desk, and you realized he was reaching for a package of tissues, which he used to wipe your thighs clean, depositing the tissue in the trash can tucked beneath the desk. You grabbed your panties from the floor, tugging them back on before settling beside him once again.

“I didn’t picture that happening for the first time here,” he said, after a few moments of comfortable silence, “though I can’t say I’m complaining.”

Despite everything, you felt your cheeks warm. It was definitely comical that you were blushing at that of all things after he’d just fucked your brains out, but you supposed it couldn’t be helped.

“Where did you picture it?” You asked, settling closer to him, smiling as he wrapped his arms around your body.

“Preferably my bedroom,” he said, “or yours. I wanted to at least take you out first. Call me old fashioned, but I’m quite fond of the act of courtship.”

You smiled. “We can still do that.”

A chuckle. “Yes. You’re quite right.”

For as long as possible (and until you started to get cold), the two of you sat curled up together on the bench before Jing Yuan suggested getting dressed, which didn’t sound like a bad idea. But it wasn’t until you tried to stand that you realized that might be a problem. 

“This is your fault,” you said, as he helped you put your shorts back on, and he smiled, as calm as ever.

“And I’d do it again.”

That, you weren’t ashamed to say, made you blush. From the smirk on his face, that was exactly his intention. You shot him a glare, but it was short lived when he pressed a kiss to your forehead, offering you a hand to help you up.

Your legs were still wobbly, but with his support, you were able to stand. 

“Well, love,” he said, “since we’re doing things in reverse order, how about lunch? We can take the rest of the day off, go back to my home?”

You leaned closer to him, lacing your fingers tight with his. “I’d like that.”

He kissed you, slow and gentle, before he led you from the Seat of Divine Foresight, leaving the mess of forgotten chess pieces scattered across the floor, chatting happily about what restaurants he thought you’d like. 

You never did finish that game.

Though, of course, there would be others in the future. 

#jing yuan #fanfiction #my writing #fem!reader #fanfic #smut #female reader #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan x you #jing yuan hsr #jing yuan smut #jing yuan x y/n #n.sfw #this is pure fuckery #this is so lONG #9K WORDS #WHAT #cross posted on ao3 #I did not plagiarize myself #The amounts of chess metaphors in this? Nuts #don’t let this flop #this was a birthday gift for my friend #Ehe happy birthday #honkai star rail #honkai #hsr x reader #hsr jing yuan #x reader #reader insert

[roykentschesthair]

Roy loves to hold hands

Absolutely adores it

It makes him feel close to his partner, let’s him feel connected and soothes his protective instincts when out amongst crowds.

It’s not about whether his partner needs that protection, Roy just needs to provide it and being allowed to hold their hand lets him keep them close and move them when necessary.

Keeley had understood intrinsically what his holding his hand out meant, they hadn’t even needed a conversation about it, she’d just taken his hand or his arm, or both, and stayed close.

He has to chase Jamie anywhere they go

Not just because of his knee, but because Jamie is a butterfly. Socially and in his flitting rapid movements as his mind leaps from one thought to another

Amsterdam had given him a taste, but they’d just been friends then, and barely at that, now, as boyfriends, (they’re keeping it quiet for now, though all the important people know) he’s chasing Jamie so much he debates getting him a leash for outside the bedroom

He can recognize that holding hands in public isn’t keeping anything quiet, but he longs for the feeling of Jamie’s fingers slotted with his, the warmth of his body against his side as they walk and Jamie chatters about whatever that days hyperfixation is.

So he starts holding his hand out. Quietly, never remarking on it, or demanding anything, just waiting to see what Jamie will do.

It takes a few days before Jamie starts handing him things, a flower, his ticket for the movie, and on one memorable occasion a wad of cash to pay for dinner

They’d genuinely fought about that one, Roy is a provider at heart, and he always pays. Always.

Then slowly, carefully, Jamie starts to inch closer when they’re out.

Lingers at Roy’s side a little longer, and then a little longer than that.

He naturally moves to the interior side of the sidewalk now, let’s Roy open doors, pull out chairs, and Roy just steadily holds out his hand, waiting.

Jamie brushes their pinkies together, links them for a moment that nearly stops Roy’s heart before he’s distracted by a window display and then off rambling about a topic Roy didn’t catch, feeling like all his blood rushed to that one finger.

Jamie is never shy when they’re alone, or amongst the team, but out in public, out amongst strangers, he’s skittish.

Roy understands and it’s still infuriating, he’s not as chill about keeping their relationship “quiet” as he once thought

He’s proud of Jamie, that’s his lad, and he wants people to know that they’re together, that Jamie is not in fact up for a quick tumble, and will never be again.

(That ring in his sock drawer feels like a physical weight sometimes, but it’s too soon, he’s going to do this right)

But he’s trying not to pressure, not to move on his own timeline and run over Jamie’s.

So he just holds out his hand and (not so) patiently waits.

It’s after a match, they’d been nearly beaten off the field, pulled a win by the skin of their teeth and they’re all stiff and exhausted as they make their way home.

The crowds are still thick, Jamie still had his muddy kit on, got caught up with Beard and Rojas and just laughingly said he’d shower at home.

Roy is a few steps ahead of him, even though they’re going to the same place, and on a whim holds his hand out behind him.

Jamie locks onto his hand like Mjolnir to Thor, and their fingers lock together with an almost audible click, Roy’s heart nearly leaps from his chest, and Jamie uses the leverage to pull himself to Roy’s side, holding his hand and leaning into him, sweaty and muddy and grinning, and Roy can see the flashes of cameras and the click of phones and he can’t care, because Jamie is holding his hand and grinning up at him like he set the sun, and Roy is absolutely going to break out the bedroom leash when they get home.

Maybe even that ring in his drawer.

#this is so long #and rambling #and again not at all what I set out to post #Roy and Jamie just make me long winded #especially Roy #and yea there’s a bedroom leash #puppy sub Jamie is practically canon #Roy likes to hold hands and dominate his boyfriend until he cries what about it #roy kent #ted lasso #jamie tartt #royjamie #roy x jamie #they’re in love your honor #jamie x roy

[anchoeritic]

toxic/posessive dbf!joel??

"all mine. you're all mine," joel whispered against the slick curve of your jaw, leaving sweet kisses down the side of your neck. his hands were roaming your body freely, touching every square inch of it. a helpless whimper fell from your lips as you felt the warmth of his hand slide down your stomach, reaching for the spot between your thighs. “joel , please. touch me.”

your hands caught his wrist, almost trying to tell him to hurry up and touch you already. your hips slightly bucked off the mattress, meeting your clothed pussy with the hot palm of his hand. he laughed at your attempts to plead for him, keeping his hand over your pussy. "aw, look at how my girl's begging for me just to touch her?" his hand pressed harder against it, the pressure hitting your clit gently.

joel started to move his fingers slowly apart, rubbing you teasingly through the thin fabric of your panties. "you wish it was that easy for me to give in and make you feel good, baby." you know i play fair with you. he said with such confidence, ending his sentence off a slap to your pussy.

you let out a yelp, feeling a stinging sensation on your core. " - and guess what? a little birdie came and told me about you and your little boyfriend, darlin".

you felt like a deer in headlights when you looked right into his ice-cold eyes. someone must've caught you and him out the other day, and told joel. your boyfriend was everything joel despised. young, reckless, and a piece of shit. there was no doubt he would’ve killed him by now if it wasn’t for you standing in between.

but he loved you like a boyfriend should; showered you in kisses, giving you priceless gifts, he was a woman’s dream.

as much as he thinks he knows you, he could never compare to joel miller and you had to swallow the truth like a big girl.

joel knew your soft spots and weaknesses, and he knew how to use it against you. whether his intentions were good or bad, he always got what he wanted by the end of the night, even if it meant he'll have to convince you with ways other than his words.

he knows your thoughts, your love language, everything about you wasn't foreign to him. you were pretty hard to read at first until you naturally fell into the arms of his, hoping to find something that wasn't even close to your boyfriend.

"h-he wanted to talk to me, that’s all.." you stuttered, feeling the palette of your cheeks heating up. his fingers moved around your pussy, running his middle finger through the slit.

he nodded his head with a smirk on his lips, his finger pressed to your clit now, making your legs shake a bit. "are you telling the truth, cupcake..?" he teased you. leaning up from his position, his face was now right in front of yours. “you know it’s not good to lie, baby.”

his breath fanned over your nose as he held himself up with one arm, stopping himself from falling right onto you. “or do i gotta fuck it outta you, sweetheart?" the smirk on his lips remained.

you stayed silent, not wanting to let out any details of your day with steve that'll get you into much bigger trouble. you bit your lip, looking up at him innocently, which he certainly didn't like. the hand against your pussy was quickly brought up to your throat, wrapping itself around it with a tight squeeze. your answer wasn't one that he wanted to hear, or the one he expected. was it so hard for you to be honest? hmm.. his good girl wasn't so perfect after all.

"you wanna stay quiet now, huh? you were begging, pleading for me to touch you and now you have nothing to say?" he snarled, looking at you in shame. “know you fucked him and i know that pretty pussy couldn't finish." his grip on your throat tightening, choking you out harder. "did i give her permission to cum?" he asked you, tilting his head, waiting for an answer from you. barely able to gasp for air, you shook your head "nо"

such simple instructions you still manage to forget." he stifled out a laugh, shaking his head at you. "you're fucking pathetic, sweetheart, running back to the man who'll always be less than me." your eyes well up with tears, the feeling of your heart dropping to the pit of your stomach. his hand was cupping your cheeks now, keeping your head straight. he slapped one of your cheeks lightly, making your tearful eyes fixate to his angry ones.

a small tear slides down your cheek, waiting to be wiped by joel, but only to be laughed at by him. he had no sympathy for you. absolutely none.

"you know you'll always run back to me by the end of the night. you're fuckin' mine."

#this is so long #side eye #dbf!joel #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x reader #the last of us #the last of us smut

[a-dumb-sarcastic-bisexual]

Nimona headcanons cause I love this chaotic little family

I’ve seen a lot of people say Ambrosius is a morning person and Bal is a night owl 

And I have to respectfully disagree 

Will Bal pull some all-nighters in the lab? Absolutely 

But this man is the most early bird coded character I’ve ever seen in my entire life 

When he isn't fully invested in a project he can't stay up past 10 pm

He wakes up at 6 am refreshed and barely needs caffeine 

I’ve also seen a lot of people say he’s a dedicated coffee drinker but something about this man screams “Coffee gives me migraines” 

Ambrosius on the other hand 

That’s an insomniac if I’ve ever seen one 

He’ll get ready for bed around 9 and then stay up til 3 in the morning

Poor babe needs coffee in an IV

He used to wake up really early back in the institute cause he was forced to run a mile every minute he was late to class 

And he’s a heavy sleeper so after the wall came down and he quit being a knight he wouldn't wake up before 1 pm even with Bals help 

And Nimona is just as bad 

Most nights Ambrosius will leave the room because he moves a lot when he can’t sleep and Bal is a light sleeper 

He’ll sit in the living room watching tv while trying to sleep and most of the time Nimona will join him 

Every once and a while Bal will find them laying on top of each other on the couch and will take them back to their respective beds 

And if you’re wondering what their favorite show to watch together is it’s those house-flipping shows 

But not for the reason you think

Most people watch those shows cause they think it’s inspiring 

Ambrosius and Nimona talk about how terrible these people are at their jobs  

They’ll go on hour-long rants about how these people are stripping the houses of everything that made them a home

(Ambrosius is a sentimental bitch and would be a maximalist after leaving the institute prove me wrong)

When Nimona is bored she’ll go into the city disguised as Bal or Ambrosius 

And she’ll fool literally everyone it’s a pretty common occurrence for the boys to be at home and then they hear the other swearing like a damn sailor because there are already news articles about it

The only people she can’t fool are Bal and Ambrosius 

Bal will shut them down almost immediately 

They’ll walk over to Bal and won’t even get a word out before Bal says “Shift back Nim you’re freaking me out”

They always make a big deal out of being caught making big decorations like “I’m getting better and one day I’ll fool you” 

And he’ll hum in agreement but he knows that it doesn’t matter how good he gets or how observant he is he’ll be able to fully copy every little detail 

The details that Bal has spent the past decade and a half remembering  

You know the little things like how he can’t say Bal or Nimona’s names without smiling even when he’s pissed

Or how he scrunches his nose when he laughs 

Ambrosius always acts like Nimona tricked him

He’ll let them get comfortable in the character and then he’ll drop the bomb 

Something small and inconspicuous like “Hey Nim do you want pizza for dinner?” and they’ll excitedly proclaim “Hell yeah pizza!” 

It takes them a second to realize they’ve been played and when they do they never make a big deal about it

They normally just mumble a curse or two and walk away with their tail between their legs (literally)

The first time Nimona tried to trick Ambrosius was when he was having one of those days 

You know the days when even breathing feels like a fucking battle

This was in a really awkward period too

Like right after Nimona and Ambrosius started trusting each other but right before they really started to get to know each other 

But she knew the boys well enough to know if Bal came home to a sad Ambrosius then he’d be in a bad mood for the rest of the day 

And she knows that the only thing that can cure a mopey Ambrosius is Bal 

She walked into the room and started talking to Ambrosius and was kind of surprised and a little bit peeved about how well she was fooling him

Until he said “You can drop the act Nim I know it’s you” 

They kind of just sat in that silence for a minute until Nimona said the first thing that came to her mind 

“You want me to find my sax?” 

Bal shouldn’t have been surprised to find Nimona disguised as him serenading Ambrosius with the worst freestyle jazz he’s ever heard (which is saying something)

He didn’t even say anything he just sat down and cuddled the love of his life while watching their kid try and play the sax while breakdancing

#nimona 2023 #nimona movie #nimona headcanon #nimona #ballister boldheart #ambrosius goldenloin #ballister x ambrosius #goldenheart #those dorks know each other better than they know themselves #I'm fully convinced Bal has spent days counting the freckles and beauty marks on Ambrosius' face #Cause they're sappy like that #Nimona isn't the best at comforting people #it's a real learning curve #especially cause these boys have a sadness that runs crazy deep #I'm sending all of these poor traumatized bubs to therapy #this is so long #I think it’s the longest post I’ve made in a while

[leossmoonn]

dilf | mike schmidt

summary - mike as a dad

warnings / includes - reader is fem. otherwise fluff :D (also there’s so much background and plot like sorry not sorry lol I really like to ramble)

————

if there’s another fnaf movie… mike needs to be a dad. i know that’s not the plot at all and wouldn’t make sense, but i think the box office would benefit from that!

mike is already kind of a dad. he’s been raising abby for a few years now. he wouldn’t consider himself any type of caregiver because well, he thinks he’s quite terrible. and the term ‘brother’ is so much less daunting than ‘dad’. so when you two found out you were pregnant, he felt more fear than excitement. it wasn’t a surprise really. you two hadn’t been using condoms as regularly, but he was more stunned that now he was going to be a father and he was terrified.

regardless of how he felt, he supported you in every way possible during pregnancy. he was literally perfect. dude did the bare minimum and more! every day he would ask what you wanted to eat each day, no matter how weird the cravings were, and he would try his best to honor them. he gave you massages, went on walks with you, talked to the baby, went on doctor appointments with you — he even scheduled extra ones when you weren’t feeling well because he was so scared of you or the baby dying or something.

and after the whole freddy’s pizzeria fiasco — glad you weren’t pregnant during that lmao — he was able to get a job as a sales associate and become a manager with the help of him taking some online college courses. (you definitely helped with convincing him he was good enough to go back). abby was making new friends at her school and even helping you out when you were pregnant: making desserts for you, giving you advice on baby clothes, already making plans with the baby to play house or dress up. things were looking up.

until you give birth.

now, as we mentioned, mikey poo was a little nervous when he found out you were pregnant. and things went so well with your pregnancy, he kind of forgot to think about what it was actually going to be like when the baby was here. he was about to shit his pants fr while you were giving birth. but then they put the baby in your arms and everything just came together for him. cliché to say, i know, but it’s real!!!! and god, when he finally got to hold his baby, he was wrapped around her little finger. (i’d like to think he’s a girl dad — we already kind of see that with abby). she has mike’s big brown eyes and your cute nose. she looks exactly like a mix between the two of you.

for the first few months, mike was more focused on you than the baby. don’t get me wrong! he’s great father, but he just had that mindset that everyone wanted to take care of the baby: your parents, vanessa, even abby, but nobody was taking care of you. (doesn’t that just make your ovaries scream??) so he made it his mission to help you out with everything he could, on top of the baby, which he absolutely didn’t mind. lowk, mike is a house wife.

in the night, you two would trade shifts for the baby. there were times where he knew you were so tired from breastfeeding and just taking care of the baby during the day in general — he had to work full time still to be able to provide for you guys — that he would take full night shifts and let you sleep. it was basically like working at freddy’s so….

when you started going back to work, mike would make sure the laundry was done, house was always clean, each meal was made, abby got to one place or another. of course, he spent as much time taking care of the baby as he did with other things, but you were just under so much stress and he felt as though the best thing he could do for you was take most of the mental load. soon you became accustomed with being a mom and soon your workloads were basically evenly split.

okay enough of the background.

mike loves playing with the baby. sooo crazy, right? lol. he loves doing tummy time with her, playing peek-a-boo, talking in funny voices. he also loved picking out outfits for her, even though he actually has no sense of fashion and you quickly banned him from buying anything in the store. i think his favorite thing to do with his baby girl is making her laugh. ugh! baby laughs are so cute in general, and it just made his whole world. unlike everyone in the world, besides you and sometimes abby, no one really liked mike. well, no one gave him a chance and to be fair, he didn’t really let them. it wasn’t until he met you where we felt complete and whole and happy and not afraid of risks. and it wasn’t until the baby where he felt a true sense of purpose and he was happy with how his life turned out.

his absolute favorite sight in the world is seeing you, abby, and the baby play. the house has never been filled with as much joy as it is when y’all are playing. everyone’s giggling, teasing each other, fawning over the baby. its literally like the perfect family he never got to have :,).

he also absolutely adores you as a mom. he thinks you are the best mom ever. and of course he should think that anyways, but he believes it with his whole being. being a first time mom, you were nervous of course. but in the first month, all you did was berate yourself for not being a good mom and not knowing your baby’s needs, but with mike’s reassurance and time, you gained more and more confidence.

when the baby starts going to daycare, mike is actually terrified. he starts to look for jobs he can do at home because he’s so scared that what happened with garrett is going to happen to his baby. but with multiple background checks, questions, lowk spying, he tries to trust the daycare center you two choose.

random note before i stop talking. mike is a sleepy guy and so is the baby. the two often nap together with the baby on top of his stomach. AH. looks so cute. sometimes his hand is on her head or back, or her little fingers are wrapped around his thumb. you have countless of pictures of them in this one situation. i’d like to think mike doesn’t really sleep when the baby is on his stomach because he’s afraid she’s gonna fall or he will roll over, but he stays as calm and quiet as he can so she can rest.

#this is so long #I have so much more to say #mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt #fnaf #fnaf x reader

[tennant-davids]

Using Neural Filters to colour correct

i’ve had a couple of people ask about how i’ve coloured the pocket dimension scenes so i thought i’d just do a run-through tutorial kind of thing to show it, rather than going through it with everyone separately.

so this is a tutorial for how i made this:

from this:

follow along under the cut:

so just some things to point out before we move on which are essential and could get in the way of this working for you:

you will need adobe photoshop cc - v.22 or above. any versions older than this won’t work. you can find what version you currently have by opening photoshop, clicking ‘help’ on the top toolbar, and selecting ‘about photoshop’. my current version is 23.2.2.

you should know how to make a gif from frames, use timeline and work with the gif as a smart object. if you don’t know what i mean, i’ve tried to explain it briefly below.

using neural filters is resource heavy so expect photoshop to be slow in processing/exporting/saving anything you use them on. it might be worth having other programs closed while you use it if your computer has a lower or mid-range spec.

and so... 

1. make your gif to do this, import your frames, crop, set frame speed etc however you normally would. if you usually make gifs with the animation bar set to ‘frame animation’, you will need to change this so that you can create a smart object. you will need to press the button with the video timeline symbol on your animation bar:

then you should select all your layers (not frames as you shouldn’t see them anymore) and right-click > convert to smart object:

you should leave your animation in timeline mode, but the purpose of the smart object is so you can add smart filters. this is especially good for things like sharpening, any effects you want to add, and of course... neural filters.

2. brighten the image and convert to black and white contrary to what we’re trying to achieve here, you should change the image to black and white and brighten it up so that you have as smooth and plain a base for the filters to apply to. 

i do this by adding a black and white adjustment layer, and clicking ‘auto’ on the properties tab:

you should then add a ‘levels’ adjustment layer and drag the right tab along until it meets the beginning of the histogram. you should also move the left tab along a little bit for some contrast - how far depends on how you want your gif to look:

following this, select the smart object and two adjustment layers > right-click > convert to smart object. you don’t have to do this but i find it helps and it reduces the number of layers you have to work with.

my gif now looks like this: 

3. adding the neural filter now your image is about to change in a huge way. click on filter on the top toolbar and select ‘neural filters’:

from here, you will see this screen and a bunch of current filters and beta filters on the right-hand side. you may have to download them to get them to work. for this, we’re using ‘colorize’ so at least make sure you have that one downloaded and ready to use:

when you turn the ‘colorize’ filter on, after processing (this can take a few seconds), your image now looks like this:

(note: this gif is an exception in how well it turned out first time - the filter has applied evenly minus a couple of issues i’ll go over below. how successful it will be depends on how much movement is in the clip, or how many colours it will need to find, and it sometimes gets confused with dark and light tones. you’ll find most of the time that the gifs will have patches that aren’t coloured, or will have incorrect colour correction that you’ll need to go in frame-by-frame and patch in by hand. the filter does do a lot of heavy lifting though.)

you can then play around with the saturation (i usually reduce it to -10) and the colours similarly to how you would in ‘colour balance’, however it has a more all-over even tone:

the last thing you need to do is select ‘smart filter’ on this drop-down menu:

if you don’t change it to smart filter, the filter will only apply to the frame you can currently see and won’t apply to the whole animation.

my gif now looks like this:

this might be enough for you in which case great news! you get to stop here, apply whatever sharpening and colouring you want, and save as normal!

however, i’m a perfectionist to a fault so i need to do a few more things first...

(note: it’s always worth doing the next step even if you’re happy with the finished product here, just in case you missed a spot)

4. check the filter has applied throughout the whole gif you’ll see that you now have a much more even base to work from and colour your gif as normal, however neural filters aren’t perfect and do leave funny little glitches throughout your gif sometimes. in order to check this, i usually scrub through to see if there are any issues. in this gif, i spotted two.

in these two areas - on the moving gif - i can see the colouring flickering. the filter hasn’t applied the right colour on every frame, or simply hasn’t coloured it at all:

this gif isn’t the worst offender for this, but if you look closely you’ll see it. so...

5. make a new layer and fill in the flickering areas press the ‘new layer’ button:

and now use the ink dropper tool to pick up the colour you want to use, and paint over the area where the colour is flickering - e.g. i used the dropper to pick up the colour from the desert in the background and painted over that area. i also picked up some of the colour from the sky and coloured over the flickering by the storm. i used these brush settings:

when you’ve painted on the colour you want, and as much as you want, set the layer to ‘color’. i also change the opacity to 80% to let some of what’s underneath still come through a little bit, but do what’s best for you and your gif:

my gif now looks like this, with less noticeable flickering:

7. brighten, colour and sharpen however you normally do idk if you have an existing psd or just experiment with adjustment layers, but your gif is now ready to start colouring however you normally would. the neural filter is basically acting as a reset to give you a blank canvas in which to gif as normal. for this gif i started with a ‘hue and saturation’ adjustment layer to change the green background to a more dirt/sand colour as it’s meant to be the desert, and then just played around with my usual combination of adjustments until i came up with the final product! i then sharpen using filter > sharpen > smart sharpen and it should be done.

8. export (save for web) you all know how to do this by now, but be aware that these will load slowly. gifs aren’t the fastest things to save on a good day but with the neural filter applied, they’re particularly slow. this is why i said to do work on the gifs one at a time - don’t have photoshop doing more than it needs to do or it might slow down to a halt.

so after all that, this is the final version of my gif:

tips and tricks

avoid making gifs of moments with a lot of movement - this could be the subject of the gif moving, the background, the wind blowing something around etc. while normal colouring can tolerate these changes, the filter isn’t yet clever enough to work it out and it makes the gifs unsalvageable because you can’t paint over the flickering accurately enough - e.g.:

(p.s. if anyone knows how to get the filter to work on this specific scene you have to tell me lmao it’s been driving me mad...)

try and keep the gifs short - i haven’t made one above 55 frames, i think. that is still quite a lot but it is a challenge to ensure the filter can cope with it. shorter gifs would probably mean a cleaner result.

you have to set the gif to black and white first - the colorize filter is designed to bring black and white photos/videos to life. i tried it over the blue filter directly and it was successful but i had more consistent luck when starting in black and white.

make sure you brighten the gif significantly before applying the filter - it really helps to give a cleaner canvas for the filter to apply to, but it’s not essential if you really don’t want to.

if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ASK. i’m by no means an expert and this is just what i’ve observed from using this feature and the workarounds i’ve found working for me so far, but happy to try and help where i can and happy to take suggestions too! <3

#malex #roswell new mexico #gif tutorial #photoshop tutorial #ps help #allresources #completeresources #itsphotoshop #*laurengifs #*tutorial #this is so long #but i hope it's helpful #i think needing the newer versions of ps is probably what's going to get in the way most but just in case it doesn't... ta-daaa #1k

[levelever]

jonhshi headcanons you say?

- kenshi pinches johnny. a lot. as a joke, as a corrective action when johnny's being odd about something, for no reason at all. it's like the urge to bite, but... pinch.

- in return johnny gets to be a biter. not even just in bed, everywhere (except for around other people). johnny's the type to just give into the urge to gently gnaw on kenshi and kenshi lets him. lovingly.

- johnny is wildly defensive of kenshi. kenshi asked that johnny just not joke about his blindness for a while, and johnny was happy to do so. that also included, apparently, johnny snarling at anyone who DOES make blind jokes at kenshi's expense.

- they're t4t and tism4tism.

- they're also, even though it doesn't have a term yet, both disabled. kenshi being blind obviously, and johnny i actually headcanon as being hypermobile. very hypermobile. and there's really only so much being very very strong can do when you're that hypermobile and your joints are determined to get weird, so johnny probably does have occasional pain flare-up days. they'll stay inside and take care of each other

- or, if the responsibilities that day are unavoidable, johnny will take a cane or crutch with him to town, and kenshi wil tag along, returning the favor of biting anyone who makes a joke at johnny's expense (that johnny obviously isn't okay with)

- kenshi is scary dog privileges

- johnny, when he's the guard, is creepy cat privileges (i made that up but there's no better way to describe it)

- to expand on johnny being hypermobile- no grown-ass man in his late 20s is hitting the splits that fucking easily, painlessly, without prior stretching. he's just death dropping in some of his animations. and i just don't think he has a stretching routine for that. it's his party trick, something he can just *do*.

- kenshi finds johnny's flexibility wildly hot

- (when it's not causing him pain, ofc)

- kenshi's tattoos weren't done himself but at some point johnny unlocks the lore that kenshi apprenticed under one of the tattoo artists in the yakuza, and actually graduated to full artist before he left the yakuza. kenshi is a seasoned tattoo artist

- johnny jokes about opening a flower shop across from him so they can be just like the stories. kenshi doesn't understand the reference.

-they have an actual conversation at one point about the after-- once kenshi has completed his quest, and johnny's career is fully winding down. the plan is to get a flat above a storefront, and turn the storefront into a tattoo shop.

- kenshi wears sleeveless turtleneck compression shirts when working out and johnny fans himself like a victorian maiden every time

- (last one i prommy) johnny once wore a clownish formal outfit to the gala celebrating the success of the ninja mime movie. to this very day, kenshi maintains that one was his favorite outfit johnny's ever worn on the red carpet.

i am going to respond to every single one of these damnit

THE PINCHING/BITING IS SO ACCURATE. like i cannot explain what it is about it but that’s just so them. they do different things but it’s the same concept ghdjdkwkw

YES! johnny is super defensive of kenshi not because he thinks he needs to be, he knows kenshi can hold his own, but because he cares about him too much. i’m sure at first when it was still raw johnny never made any comments but i’m sure it reaches a point where kenshi starts joking about it himself and assures johnny he’s come to terms with it. but if anyone else makes a comment OOOH it’s over for them.

i rlly do love trans headcannons for them. whether it’s t4t or one of them is trans while the other is cis i do not care i eat that up every time. I ALSO FOR SURE SEE TISM4TISM!! johnny has the hyper fixations/knows random facts autism while kenshi has the not really sure how to handle your emotions autism. i think he gets overstimulated too which is also from his other senses being heightened once vision was gone.

I NEVER THOUGHT ABOUT HIM BEING HYPERMOBILE BUT IT MAKES TOTAL SENSE! he’s doing the splits on the battlefield i mean come on?!?!??!? (i saw you mentioned this later on LMFAO see u get it)

yes 100% johnny gets scary dog privileges cause of kenshi. too many fans in his face? kenshi doesn’t even EYES for god’s sake and i’m sure a look in their direction will scare them off at least somewhat. and johnny is for sure creepy cat. it’s like “can i come over and be weird and offputting” literally him.

oh yeah the flexibility while it has its downsides for sure comes in handy sometimes. (in bed) i know kenshi is manhandling him into wild positions and johnny loves it. so does kenshi of course.

I’VE POSTED ABOUT THE FACT THAT I DO THINK KENSHI HAS AN INTEREST IN TATTOOS THAT ARENT HIS OWN! he could definitely tattoo johnny i just know he has steady hands and it would come out so awesome.

kenshi not getting the flowershop thing is so real johnny definitely then went off on a long tangent explaining it. i feel like they could just be grocery shopping and something gets johnny going and he goes off on a long spiel as they’re walking around, i’m sure this is an often occurrence. kenshi loves listening to him talk but again, the heightened senses, he probably does occasionally need to rest his head so he kisses johnny to shut him up LMFAO (and it always works that man is so easily distracted)

TATTOO SHOP DOWNSTAIRS FLOWER SHOP UPSTAIRS!

oh yeah johnny loves the compression shirts for sure kenshi looks good in anything. but he does wild for kenshi in short sleeves. he doesn’t wear them super often to cover up his tattoos but when he does goddamn. johnny feels like the luckiest man in the world.

JOHNNY IN A CLOWN THEMED FORMAL OUTFIT FOR THE NINJA MIME PREMIERE MIGHT JUST BE MY FAVORITE ONE OF THESE LMAO. saved the best for last. johnny for sure wears eccentric and colorful outfits on the red carpet. i mean have you seen his MK skins? this man has style he isn’t playing around.

I HOPE YOU ENJOYED :)

#mortal kombat #johnny cage #kenshi takahashi #mk1 #this is so long #but i love it #that one lois video #thank you whoever you are #!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! #johnshi

[yeyinde]

GAZFEST | fistful of ashes

for Gazfest by @glitterypirateduck

CATEGORY: alternate universe, AU | PROMPT: "I really want to kiss you right now."

"Did you know?" "Of course I knew," he reaches for you, mouth turning downward, bitter and sad, at the way you flinch back, shying from his touch. But he's relentless, and you feel the burn of the sun, of searing stars across the back of your hand when he runs his fingers over your skin. He dips down, wrist to vein to knuckles to— "How could I not?" He inhales long and hard, and takes all the air from the room. "When you're wearing my brother's ring?" 

Warnings: 18+ MATURE | infidelity/cheating (Reader cheats with Gaz, not on him; is married to Gaz's brother for political reasons), inaccurate historical descriptions, religious imagery, slight secret identity; Soap is a terrible wingman; angst; pining & yearning; allusions to smut but no descriptions

Word Count: 15,2k

Entombed between marble monoliths is a secret alcove, a hidden nook. It's a place of refuge when the howling winter winds seem to shake the foundation of the sprawling estate, screaming through the barren hallways. You spend most of your day curled on the day bed pushed against the far wall where the window sits, framed in thin, iron rods. On the opposite sides of clear glass is a stained mosaic depicting the fall of a dragon and the triumph of a king. Dusted in semi-opaque primary colours, it spills a kaleidoscope of beauty on the herringbone floor. 

Its discovery came weeks into your marriage with the eldest Garrick when you wandered down the sprawling halls of your new home, fingers trailing over mahogany walls with evergreen trim, contemplating your new forever. 

Then: a stutter. A gap. Your hands sunk into emptiness, into a vacuum just big enough for your frame to squeeze through on a halted breath. 

Inside this abyss, you found a circular room with a vaulted, domed ceiling of metal, and books shoved in a haphazard pile at the foot of the daybed. 

It smells strongly of toluene—that cloying scent of dust and rotting paper—and something breaks apart inside of your chest at the sight of this place. Cosy and small. An intimate, homey escape in the middle of stifling, oppressive opulence. 

The respite it offers becomes an anchor amid a turbulent storm. A crutch to curl your trembling fingers around, finding purchase in stone. An immovable object. You bury your nails into slate and hold on as tight as you can. 

No one can find you here. 

(You don't even think they bothered to look.)

But—

"Thought I'd find you here, birdy."

—He does. 

He always finds you. 

He. He. 

He introduces him—cheeks rudied and bashful, head dipped in a soft sort of reverence—and tells you that everyone calls him Gaz. You like the way it fits between your teeth. Gaz. It's a small blade you keep tucked in your breast pocket: unassuming and deadly. Gaz. Gaz. 

On the window pane, etched in a child's scribble, is that very same name. Gaz. He shows it to you after he finds you hiding away in the alcove and the shock of a man you don't recognise suddenly squeezing through the gap in the wall abates. 

You run your finger over the indents as he sits with his back against the marble pillar, eyes fixed on the horizon line as the sun dusts his face in a golden glow, and tells you this place used to belong to him. His escape when he was a child. 

Sheepishly rubs his head, then, and admits that he'd missed it more than he thought he would. 

"It's just a room, but—" one shoulder lifts in a tentative shrug. "'dunno. Just—kinda missed the peace of it all, I guess."

"Yeah," you whisper, your breath warm when it passes over your lips. Warm. It makes your heart stutter. "I get that. This place is—"

There are many words that buoy in your mind as you take a moment to run your eyes across the small dome, the well-loved books that line the walls, the marble pillars, the mosaic, the sunset in the distance. It feels otherworldly, in a way. A place etched out on paper and brought to life with a delicate hand. 

You catch his eyes, broken into fragments in the cuts of stained glass, and even through the frosted reflection of the window, warmth bleeds through. The gentle rays of the sun. Apricity. You press your knuckle against the blurry dip of his cheekbone and the frigid winter moulding itself to the outside burns your skin. 

He's different from everyone you've met here. 

Their frigid disposition isn't unlike the icy Chinook raging through the draughty insides of the sprawling palace—a polite indifference at best, a cold dismissal at worst—and the contrast between them and him is a startling one. The man whose domicile you stumbled upon exudes heat; blooming warmth. It fills the barren gaps between your lungs and prickles molten fingers across your pericardium, strumming it like the nimble chords of a harp. It reverberates inside of you. 

(Your heart is a gong. His hands are a mallet.)

The thought, intrusive and unwarranted, makes you jolt. It brings you back to yourself quite suddenly, and you're all too aware of the fact that you're an intruder in his private chambers, his secret home. 

The apology rushes to your tongue, clanging against the back of your teeth, and you breathe it out in a whisper, too afraid of speaking more than a breeze in this sanctuary. They'll find you. Drag you out because it isn't proper to hide in a corner surrounded by books and the heady scent of a man—woodsmoke, charcoal, vetiver; toluene, musk, sun-bleached linen—and make you hide away in your rooms where no one knows you exist, or sit you in the grand hall where everyone pretends that you don't. 

"I, um, don't mean to intrude. I can leave…"

His eyes are warm when you whip around to meet them, lips tugging downward in a harsh, fearful frown. 

He waves you off with a lazy roll of his wrist. "Nah, you can come as much as you like." 

From anyone else, you would have taken it as a banal pleasantry, but there is something about this man that bleeds true. And so, you do. 

Every day you find yourself sitting on the chaise, reading through the array of epics and poems, all still carrying the fingerprints of the child who carved his name into wood. He joins you often enough, taking his spot on the opposite side of yourself, sometimes reading or regaling stories of each blemish and imperfection you come across. The copy of Fall of the House of Usher is waterlogged because he once used it to balance a cup of water on the bed as he reached over to grab his matches; it's readable, he insists, but—

"That bit about the sister. It's all ruined," his brow pinches in a soft contemplation. "But it's probably not that important, anyway."

—The match he struck burned a hole in the side of the bed. He smoked tobacco that he knocked from his father's study and ashed it out on the windowsill, which still bears the scorch mark. 

It's lived in and loved. A haphazard bivouac pitched by a child who grew within the circular walls. Toys tucked into the corner. Children's books stacked at the bottom of the bookshelf, hidden from sight as his taste changed, grew more eclectic and matured. Singed tobacco leaves shoved inside naughty books he snatched from the maid when she wasn't looking. Alcohol stains the rim of an old mug with the faded painting of an old action hero smiling on the side. Childish delight stroking the walls with wonder and excitement to a moody teenager drowning himself in the plights and woes of others, to an adult sitting on the floor and musing fondly about the disarray and the decay. 

You watch it all unfold in a series of memories and soft, little moments that dance across his handsome face—some open, and spoken aloud; others hidden, a secret thing not meant to share (like the panties in the corner you'd found that turned the tips of his ears and the knob of his nose bright red—the maids, he'd stuttered out—and the old bucket hat under the pillow that made his brow pinch in a deep sense of dismay, of loss). 

He was in the war, he tells you one evening, eyes solemn, and brushed with pensiveness. One he never wanted to be in, but he met a man—a warrior, he calls him—and knew, then, that he’d go wherever he went. Following his cause until the bitter end. 

You know the story—how could you not when the bitter end was found the moment you signed your name away on a piece of paper? 

And so, you tell him. 

“I ended it. A trade, you know?”

“I know,” he says, scoffing. “Of course I do. I was there. I was close enough that I could have rescued him, I have—” 

“I’m sorry,” you speak to Gaz but can’t tear your eyes away from the hat clutched between his fists. 

He doesn’t acknowledge your apology, offering a quick shrug instead.

“Are you happy at least?” He asks, and what a strange question it is. Happy. Happy. What is happiness?

You let out a laugh that sounds brittle. Pieces of glass lodged in your throat. “What does it matter?”

It's this admission, and the palpable weight of his loss, of your own, that seems to serve as the catalyst that breaks open the levee between you. Gaz meets you at the door the next morning, ushering you in with a soft, secretive smile that turns his honeycomb eyes a startling amber in the yawning sun. 

He tells you about himself—he was always a rather quiet child but got quite restless in his teenage years; his father was never as proud of him until he said he was joining the war; he hid chocolates and treats in this room to eat later, and you spend an afternoon hunting down them all; he likes the ocean but loves the feeling of sand between his toes even more; he reads a lot, he confesses with a peculiar little flush darkening his cheeks: mostly poetry because it sounds like a song when he whispers it aloud, and you find yourself weaning heat from the sun when he relents to your pestering and finally opens his favourite book and reads it to you. His voice is a guitar strum. A piano pluck. 

It settles between the gap where your lungs hang, curling over moondust bones. It's a heavy thing to carry at first, but the weight feels like an anchor, steady and sure, against the turbulence when he's not around. 

You, in turn, give him pieces of yourself. Cleaving large swaths of your essence, your being, for him to wear over his shoulders like a quilted cloak. 

There are things you don't tell him. Things you keep to yourself because you like the anonymity this little haven affords, and how he treats you like a person and not like a pretty little trinket meant to be sealed away in a glass display case. 

You know that he's keeping things from you, too, like who he is—a guard, you think; a soldier, maybe—because the history he has with this place speaks of intimate familiarity but he owns up to nothing except a name that you don't really believe is his. 

But you think your secret is even bigger, more damning, and you keep it pressed tight to yourself—a putrid little thing made of rot and obligation, one that leaks noxious miasma into the air whenever it's touched. You don't want the stench to permeate the air of your sanctity, the one you share with Gaz, and so you swallow it. Choke yourself on the festering lump until it slides down your esophagus and moulders in your stomach. Far enough away from this place you never want it to touch. 

In between the worry, and the responsibility that makes you curl into yourself, desperately wishing for respite inside the dome with Gaz reading poems to you in secrecy, you find yourself slipping down a precipice with no clear end in sight. A steep slope into an abyss. There is nothing to suspend your fall. 

(You wonder, sometimes, if you even try.)

It should make you feel guilty, but Gaz holds your trembling hand in his and offers up books for you to read together, and suddenly the fall isn't as scary as it once was. 

Suddenly, it feels right to find solace in his touch and feel love bloom in your chest. 

How could it be wrong when he makes you feel as if the world that was once on fire is now just warm? 

On a whim, and filled with the courage of multitudes, you whisper the words threaded in the seams of your heart against the worn pages. Softly, slowly, and then all at once. 

"I love you, Gaz."

His hand shakes. There are stars in his eyes when he blinks. Orion gleams in umber. Sagittarius heaves in sard. He leans close and you smell lightning in the air, ozone and copper, and feel static on your cheeks. Magnetic, he pulls and pulls, and you go, quietly, willingly, and think of white sand bleached by the summer sun. Dancing for Ra with the ocean glinting like crystalline diamonds. Twin footprints in the sand. Love left behind on the shore. 

"Oh, birdy," he breathes, and the words are filled with elation but touched with a deep, unrelenting sense of fear. "Why would you—?"

But he doesn't finish. 

Gaz kisses you and it feels like the hot breath in the desert. All warmth and light, gentleness tinged with sadness. 

Sadness. Sorrow. 

Because you're not meant for him, and you're wearing another's ring.

Gaz doesn't return the next day. 

Or the next.

Winter fades into autumn, and you sit on the bed with your empty chest and your hollow marrow. 

Whenever he's gone, he still wears your quilt. 

And carries your heart in his warm hands. 

The marriage is at the end of November when the ground frosts over with winter's cruel breath, and the air bites your cheeks and stings your lungs. 

You'd have preferred the warmth of summer, when the sun reached the solace, sitting at its zenith and painting the world in lovely shades of bloom and green. Golden in its splendour. 

Idle dreams flicker by as you stand beside the altar, fingers caught in the webbing of your thick gown. Thought filled with a wedding on the sandy shores, with the humid air hugging you from all sides. The scent of the ocean in the back of your throat. The sun kissing your crown, wrapping gentle hands over your shoulders. Embracing you. Holding you. You bow to Ra, to Helios, and suckle on tart dragon fruit and sweet sugar cane. Rest wreathes of sunflowers and bluebonnets at the foot of their temple before dancing in the sand.

You dream of sweaty palms linked together, twin sets of footprints in the sand. The ocean calls out in bliss as you dip yours in the cool waters, and kiss under the fading sun. 

It bursts quite suddenly when a cold hand grabs at your wrist, pulling you from the yonder, the hinterland where you dream of a man with a smile as bright as the sun. You blink away the thought when it twists painfully at your chest. An ache of something that will never happen. Forever a dream.

Impatience seems to linger in the air when you sluggishly bring your trembling hand up, taking the ornate pen—the blessed metal cold and painful to the touch—and clumsily sign your name on the second line. 

It's a hurried thing. The air of celebration is moot; festivities hardly matter when the only point of intrigue is the signature wet ink at the bottom of a parchment paper, claiming your matrimony to the eldest Garrick, firstborn son, and the subsequent peaceful merging of families, dynasties with much to gain from two little rings. 

You barely finish the last letter of your name before they pull the paper away. A jagged trail of ink cuts a line across the bottom, down, down, down. The sight of it fills you with dread—a bad omen, maybe—but they pay it little mind as they swiftly stamp it, sealed and bound in royal wax; unbreakable, now, and permanent, and hurriedly roll it up, tucking it away where it's in the pocket of the officiate. 

It leaves you feeling colder than the Chinook roaring down the mountain. All air in your lungs is sharp shards of crystallised ice. Piercing and painful. Breathing through frostbitten lungs. 

Your husband, Griggs, is a handsome man, you suppose. Classically beautiful with his dark eyes and strong cheekbones. He's tall and stolid. You'd be remiss not to notice his attractiveness, but there's an air of distance, detachment, that seems to permeate over you like a looming storm cloud. He doesn't take your hand in his. Doesn't stroke the back of it with his thumb. There are no airy words of comfort or secretive smiles he can't hide. 

It's transactional. 

The ladies around you cup their hands over their mouths, whispering about how lucky you are to have such a man. But maybe it's the loss of agency, the lack of romance, that makes you sour at the thought of it all. 

How lucky indeed, you think when he turns you to, lips a grim line, and eyes several degrees colder than the ocean at the bottom of the cliff. 

"Right, then," he says, voice carrying the same echo as the barren gallows. "I suppose a kiss is in order? To seal it all?" 

His kiss is just as cold as his words. The dream in your head blurs, turning black as it streaks with tendrils of tar. 

Indeed, you think, breathing shuddering through the bergschrund of your lungs. Indeed, indeed, indeed—

Days bleed into weeks, months. Winter tangles into the seams of your new life, fraught with uncertainty and a deep-rooted despair. 

Your husband is not a cruel man, you know this, but there is an absence that seems to linger between you. An absolute nothingness that permeates the air, thick and stifling. The duties shared in matrimony reek of responsibility and obligation. Checking the boxes of an itinerary to appease everyone else. 

When he isn't in his war room, conduit to a bloody battle that seems to stretch into every crevice and corner of your life, he's weaving the merger (merger, because that's what it is; business first and foremost, romance an afterthought) into a new tapestry to proudly display the alliance of your families. 

Favours gained to everyone, your father had said. Everyone except you, of course, for nothing of this acquisition, this farcical marriage, is of any benefit. It's a new cage, gilded though it may be with the finest gems embedded in bars made of gold. 

Your mantra to get through the empty marriage bed, the isolation in this sprawling mausoleum where the people around you treat you like a tchotchke, a precious artefact meaningful in symbolism only, becomes: it could be worse. 

And it could be. 

Your brothers and sisters were married off to Lords and Counts and Kings who bestow their ownership in fine prints dusted across their neck, the gentle folds of their wrists. Cruelty is the only thing they've come to know after a lifetime spent languishing in a palace by the sea. 

It could come to you, too, and you hold on to that. Cling to it until your knuckles protrude from your skin. It could be worse. 

To avoid thinking of everything, anything, you hide yourself in the vast library, and find solace in the words printed on pages; tales and woes far greater than your own. You ignore it all, and it, in turn, ignores you. 

Left to waste away in a palace that feels as desolate as the moon, and just as familiar, too. 

It could be worse. It could be—

"My brother is returning," Griggs says, hands smoothing down the front of his shirt. There's an air of pride that seems to roll from beneath the small tick in his jaw. "You'll meet him soon. Do look your best, won't you?" 

You murmur your assent, but your head is elsewhere. Still stuck in that room with Gaz whispering poems in your ear. 

"Good." 

He doesn't wait around long. There is no kiss goodbye, and he leaves the room without another glance in your direction. 

The room always feels colder with him in it, but the broad expanse of his back hurrying through the door is just as chilling. 

You don't think he ever wanted to be a husband, but your sympathy, your pity falls short of missing true authenticity. He could have said no. The peace would have still come. The war would have ended. Allied in matrimony was a spectacle for everyone else—a true, unbreakable union; the merging of two powerful lineages—but the point would have been made with a paper, too. 

He condemned you to a life of lovelessness, a tchotchke no one knows how to act around, for the power it gave him. The dictation. 

Griggs might have been happier with someone else, but his pride is gluttonous. Ravenous. He needed more, more, to cement himself as an important man, incapable of being usurped. 

The pity you could feel is a saponaceous thing. There, maybe, but unable to be held; too slippery to touch. Each time you think you have a proper grip, you remember that he did this to himself, and he did this to you, and it falls back from where it came. Breaking into shards on the pavement. 

You hate him. Hate yourself a bit more for not running away after Gaz when you had the chance. 

(Too late. Too late.)

They fetch you later, wearing bright smiles on their faces as they talk about the return of the youngest Garrick. A hero, they wink, and you bask in their joviality after months of nothing but frigid indifference. 

"A hero?" You question. 

The lady nods. "He was in the war. I'm sure he'll tell you all about it. It's been so, so long since he's been home."

You tuck the information away with a soft smile. 

"What is his name?"

He stands with his back to you, hands moving as he tells a story to his brother and the men situated around him. You feel the barren space in your chest thud. 

You'd know him anywhere. The cape he wears around his shoulders is made from the fibres of you. In his warm palms sits your heart. 

"His name is Kyle," they say, but you know him as Gaz.

He carries the same aloofness as his brother, an inherited trait, maybe, but where there's distance in the umber druse of Griggs, canyons and unreachable valleys, Gaz's is full of warmth. Flickering campfire in the distance. A gentle sea breeze. Tigers eye. Sard. He burns. 

In spite of it all, you feel yourself unravelling under his heat. 

"Hi," he swallows, and you hear the hitch in his breath. The stutter in his lungs. Those honeyed eyes warm just for you. "I hadn't realised your—" he stumbles, swallows again. You feel heat brush against your cheeks. Warm palms on cool skin. "Your wife, ah, was this beautiful."

It's under his younger brother's acknowledgement that your husband seems to preen; prideful, now, that someone has assured him of your worth. 

"Yes," your husband murmurs, haughty and sure. "Quite the sight, no?" 

"Yeah," Kyle breathes, and his warm breath leaves scorch marks on your cheeks. "Quite."

Griggs folds his pride neatly between his Duchenne smile, and the sight of it makes you want to weep. How could you not notice such blatant similarities between him and the man who snuck around the estate like it belonged to him? 

Wilful ignorance, maybe. 

You look away from them, glueing your eyes to the glossy wood waxed to perfection until all of the roughly hewn mahogany is gone, erased, now just a shadow of itself, and try not to wallow in the loss of it all. 

There was real happiness in that alcove that now fills you with shame. Now poisoned by the rot you choked yourself on to protect him from the gangrenous mass growing inside of you. Shielding him from it all. 

You wonder if he was doing the same, and the words come, rain against moss: soft and soundless, before you can swallow them down, too. 

"Did you know?" 

His hesitancy makes sense now, in hindsight. A lot of things do. The missing pieces to a puzzle you didn't try very hard to solve fit together. 

How could you be so stupid? How could you—

There's a part of you that wonders if this was a ruse set up by your husband to test your—and your family's—loyalty to the Garricks. To wave a man in front of you, one who was patient and kind and much too good to be true, and see how hard you fall. 

But Kyle looks at you in dismay, and the sight of it twisting across the face of the man you love—loved—is almost too much to bear. 

He waits until the soldiers have passed before turning to you with a broken visage of a smile slipping across his face. His eyes are dark. Noculent. 

"Did I know?" 

He laughs but it's hollow. Empty. The vacancy in your chest aches at the hushed pain fracturing spiderwebs of grief over his expression. 

"Of course I knew," he reaches for you, mouth turning downward, bitter and sad, at the way you flinch back, shying from his touch. But he's relentless, and you feel the burn of the sun, of searing stars, across the back of your hand when he runs his fingers over your skin. He dips down, wrist to vein to knuckles to—

Your heart pulses in his hand. Aching. Shattering. 

"How could I not?" He inhales long and hard and takes all the air from the room. "When you're wearing my brother's ring?" 

(The only sound made is the shattering of your heart still clutched in his warm palm.)

To torture yourself for your transgressions—a form of self-flagellation, maybe—you think about what might have happened if you met him first. If the silly pride of the men you're forced to place your faith into had abated long ago, and the one you were gifted to was Gaz. 

You would have married in September when the world was still in a lush, green bloom; summer still clinging to its last vestiges and painting the world in cornstalk yellow and azure blue. 

The heat on your cheeks. The sun scorching your back. A perfect equinox of summer into autumn. Your honeymoon spent under the sheets all winter. It would have been perfect. 

He would have wed you on the shores instead of the cliff. He would have danced in the sand with your hands tangled in his. A mass of atoms merging into one. 

He would have been able to love you the way he wants to, and you would have done the same. 

It's a breathtaking hurt to think about such things. To dream of the life you would have lived and taste the sun on the tip of your tongue only to wake up in an empty bed with a ring on your finger that seems to grow tighter and heavier by the day. 

Agony fills the gap in your chest, but sometimes it feels like it isn't enough, that it should hurt more because as much as it burns, as much as it aches, you always go back to him again. Drawn to his arms: moth to a flame. 

You'll do it all again and again and again. 

At dinner, his hand slides under the table. 

You meet him in the middle, drawn there by a gravitational pull. Orion calling you. Cosmic dust fills your nose; a nebulous gossamer spooling over you in threads of weaving red. 

His hand feels like Gaz's when it folds over yours, and in that, you find home.

When everyone breaks away, wandering back into their fixed places within the sprawling estate on the better side of the war (aided, in large part by your father's considerable contribution in the form of your dowry), he gives you a knowing wink from across the table, an amalgam of cheekiness and subtly, and parts for the evening as well, leaving you to alone in a room much too big for one person. 

And so you go. Follow the familiar footsteps to the alcove where Kyle meets you by the door, palms flat on the frame as he leans in, pushing himself between the marble pillars, and kisses you until you see stars. 

He always pulls away with a smile that looks like it costs him a shard of his soul. And maybe it does. Maybe it chips at yours, too, but nothing matters anymore when his hand drops to your waist and he pulls you into this secret room where nothing exists except you and him. 

"Missed you, Gaz," you whisper, a secret confessional that no one should ever hear. 

But he does, and his smile looks like it pains him. "Me, too, birdy."

It pains you, too, but maybe it should. Maybe it should hurt more because you're certain that there's no room in the great beyond for the person who falls in love with their husband's younger brother. 

Unlearning Gaz to make room for Kyle brings up a strange assortment of emotions from within you. All slipping through the cracks that break apart against your skin, your person; hollow crevasses where you flayed yourself to give pieces to him. 

It's a slow process filled with trepidation, guilt, and uncertainty—

He left you once, after all, and a little part of you fears that he'll do it again. 

It gets harder to sneak away to the alcove with so many eyes on you—on Gaz. Kyle. Wonderstruck and filled with adoration, they follow his every move. Asking questions of his gallantry, of the war. Of the men he saved along the way. 

He's overwhelmed by it all. You know him enough to see through the gossamer of temerity he weaves around himself in golden threads is as much of a farce as the marriage you find yourself locked into. 

Broken people trying desperately to patch up the cracks with duct tape and false hope. 

Still. Still.

Underneath it all, the heavy blanket of lies that saturates the air between you, the glances met in the middle of a crowded room, gentle touches hidden behind marble monoliths, it's still Gaz. The man who whispered Byron's prose in your ear, and laughed at the absurd humour nestled in the fine print from Poe. Argued the semantics of Pliny's lies and painted a beautiful picture in the seams of Homer's epics. Who breathed life into words on paper, and stained your hands with borrowed ink. 

You love him. You love him. 

But you're not allowed to. 

Outside of the shared kiss between towering pillars, he barely touches you. Shunned, maybe, by the ring on your hand. 

You try to hide it, to stifle it down. To play the part of a loving, adoring wife to the man who is barely ever home. 

The alcove is forgotten. A place you pretend you don't know exists. 

It sits on his shoulders just as heavily as it does yours, but what can you do? 

You offer thin smiles and waning glances, hoping that this ache in your chest will dissipate with time—

nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?

—with distance. 

But Kyle's hand brushes yours in corners concealing your sin in thick drapes of tenebrous. Touches gentle and sparse. A tentative reacclimation of your still kindling love. It burns in these small moments, setting fire to the world around you until it's ashes in your palm. Where nothing matters except the heat of his skin on yours. 

"Missed you," he whispers in empty hallways. "Miss you so much, birdy, I can't stand it—"

"So don't," you breathe, silken petals on wrought iron. "Don't, Gaz—"

His responding groan is agony. The groyne splits into halves. 

The sound of it ripens in your barren chest. 

It's a heavy secret to keep, a burden that squeezes uncomfortably between your ribs. There's fear, of course—while the laws are no longer as archaic as they once were, no one would go after Griggs if he discovered this burgeoning affair and decided to kill you. Many would consider it justified. Even without knowing the way your heart beat so brilliantly when Kyle was near, or the feeling of permafrost that covered your flesh whenever Griggs deigned to touch you. 

Your own safety is a caveat to your secrecy, but you can feel the tension between Griggs and Kyle—some heavy, awful thing that rots in the air whenever they're together; and it goes beyond simple jealousy. You'll do whatever you can to protect him. To hold his soul in your palm, and keep it safe from the world that wants to hurt it. So, you swallow it all, and hide—

But one of the guards that came with Kyle, a soldier you think, greets you one morning and with his sharp smirk, shatters the illusion of safety you've constructed around yourself like it was a cheap, glass toy. 

He dips his head, and you blink at the cut of his hair—a mohawk, and quite unusual for this side of the court where there's always an air of propriety and decorum; a stuffy sense of prestige—but the confusion is bit down the middle when he smirks. 

"Don't worry. Yer secrets safe w'me."

"Oh," you murmur. Oh. 

"Does anyone else know?" You ask one evening, eying the way the man with the unusual Mohawk seems to smirk whenever you and Kyle are near. "About us?"

Kyle's easy grin turns sheepish. "Ah, well. My friend—Soap—" you make a face, and he grins. "Don't worry. His parents didn't really name him that. His name is Johnny. We fought together, with Price. He knows, but only because he's so bloody observant. He looks stupid, but he isn't. He's probably the smartest man in the room…"

You let the admission sit in your tongue, tasting the weight of being known, and gauging how it fits between your molars. You'd be able to kiss him freely, to love him openly, wholly. No one would even blink if you leaned over, resting your weary head on his shoulder after a long day in the waning summer sun. A kiss to his cheek would be as natural as the cool indifference etched in the harsh lines of Griggs’ face when he regards you each morning he deigns to join everyone at the table. The guards barely blink when he brushes his fingers over the back of your hand—a facsimile of a happy marriage for the men who watch you just as coldly as he does—and you imagine it's Gaz instead. Where there sits a frigid tundra is instead a lush savannah full of warmth. An oasis heated under the sun. 

A callous touch becomes a kiss. 

You would shy away from his affection, but your heart would thrill with the pleasure of his love. The openness in which he regards you—something to be cherished, worshipped. Your cheeks would burn in a flustered embarrassment as Soap barely tried to hide a jesting leer behind his cup, but it would be no match for the way your heart sang under the solace. 

Something creeps along the edges of your periphery. A phantom sensation that rots you from the inside out, makes you glow green—

Avarice. It takes you a moment to realise what it means, what this strange feeling in your chest is, but—

You're jealous of that person, that fictional you in the fantasy, who has everything in the palm of your hand but still shies away from his touch. 

Stupid. Stupid. It's so silly. So foolish. Your lips tug downward in a sharp, steep frown. 

Kyle watches the flickering emotions pass by, and quickly shakes his head, but how would he know the rotten tangle of contradictions within your heart?

"I trust Soap with my life." His words are sharp with his sincerity, and you know instantly the harshness isn't meant to scold, but to reinforce. He's trying to convince you of the same. You feel it in the sure way he reaches out for you, laying his hands on your shoulder, making you see the truth in his words as he speaks them aloud. "And I trust him with yours, too."

His probity thickens the air. 

"Okay," you say. Okay. You bring your hand up, pressing it against the steady beat of his heart. It's firm, true. You want it to echo in the hollow of your veins forever. "Then I trust him, too."

And, oh, how he smiles, then—

(Avarice. How could that be when you have the brilliance of his grin stretched out in front of you? When Kyle stands before you, the most beautiful kouros you'd ever seen?

That you who shies away from his touch ought to be jealous because in the palm of your hand sits pure happiness.)

The visits to the alcove become a distant memory. Large vacuums of time where you're both missing will undoubtedly raise suspicion, and with Kyle's return, Griggs seems determined to play the role of a dutiful husband. His personal passel of guards follows you around, an ever-watchful shadow. 

"He's not suspicious," Kyle shakes his head when you inquire about this presence. Was it something you've done? But no. "It's something a husband—" the disdain in the word makes you blink, but he leaves no room for you to ask: "—would do. And he's all about appearances. He's doing this because he thinks I'll notice if he doesn't."

With the alcove dashed—mourned over in the evening when you pass it by, fingers slipping sorrowfully into the cold vacuum—he whispers to meet him in the library instead. 

You spend many hours just sitting together, gauging the appropriate distance in the frown that lines the guard's face as he takes you in. All proper and cold. Polite indifference. You yearn to have Soap watch over the two of you instead, but Griggs is firm about his men watching you. 

(Following you.)

You pretend to be two people who have never known the taste of each other's breath, or the way his heart thundered under your palm. His lips on your lashes, smothering you in tentative kisses as he bid you that final farewell as Gaz.

The dance gets easier. 

You lounge on the chaise with a book open on your lap—sonnet sixty-five—and play the dutiful spouse happy to see your husband's younger brother when he wanders in, his own book tucked between his forearm and side. A pantomime of a happy family. 

He sits at a respectable distance after a perfunctory greeting, and opens his own book—Lancelot, le Chevalier de la charrette—and pretends he isn't more invested in meeting your furtive stare than he is at the plight of a lovelorn knight. 

Each meeting seems to triplicate the growing tension that has been there since he fell asleep one afternoon, still moonlighting as Gaz and sleepily turned toward you with eyes made of melted pennies and crushed umber. Soft, molten, and just for you. Just for you. 

"Sorry, birdy," he whispered, voice thick and rough from sleep. "Didn't mean to pass out on you…"

It was then that your heart began to struggle. Frantically pulling and pulling at the ivory prison it was kept inside until it became loose and freed itself from the confines of your ribs—a gnarled, rotting birdcage where it was meant to moulder for an eternity—and lept to him. The permafrost on its flesh melted the closer it got to him, to his touch, his warmth. 

Gaz runs hot. A lavascape. Thermal springs. 

(How could you have ever expected it to stay with you, shivering from the cold, when he soaked up the blistering heat of the sun?)

It's easy to toe the edge of that unseen precipice in these quiet moments. To shuffle closer when the guard watching over you leaves, satisfied that no harm with befall you (and encouraged by Gaz, warrior of the Garrick house, to take a break, to rest); to lean into the space he occupies until the heady scent of him—charred bundles of pine, evergreen, sycamore; the brininess of his sweat—fills your nose until you're lost in a daze, a cloud, where only you and he exist. A microcosm of your own making. 

He lets you rest your head on his shoulder as he reads to you about the perils of his latest book, voice a deep ravine, a fusillade against the palm you lay flat on his chest. 

But the peaceful innocence of a gentle love shatters when he begins the passage. 

Lancelot and Gunivere. 

Everything about it, them, makes you burn. 

His hands tremble, voice cracks. Adultery. Sin. It sucks the air from the room until you struggle to breathe. 

How could they? You ask, the stutter in your voice tangible. How could they?

Gaz presses his nose against your crow and breathes in deep. His whisper curls around your bones. How could they not?

(How indeed.)

Lancelot and Gunivere give in. 

Gaz places his hand on your wrist, eyes burning coals in the fading sunlight, and you find a question in those sweltering depths. A plea. 

They did it, so why not us?

You taste sweet jasmine petals and green cardamom when he leans in, his breath ghosting across your lips, your tongue. 

"Finally—" the word is mangled in his throat, shorn off by a groan when your lips touch his. Tentative and sweet. The slow unfurling of a late summer's morning when the shade is cool, but the sun burns your skin. A languid unfurl. 

When he opens his eyes, a slow, dreamy blink, you're reminded of an old calico you had back home. A lazy beast who was fed a little bit by everyone around it because no one could say no when it would mew up at them with large, glossy eyes. You caught it one morning on your balcony, slumbering next to the picked bones of a fish it must have snatched from the men at the harbour—the ones who always sent him on his way with a little herring or a piece of tuna. It blinked then, slow and full of torpor, much like Gaz right now, before it yawned, paws stretching across cement before it rolled over, soaking up the heat on its round, full belly. 

His likeness to that little beast fills you with longing for home, for the crystalline shores of a port town where everyone smiled at you, and didn't pretend you weren't there. Where you felt safe and happy and—

Gaz kisses you again, and it feels like you're there, standing in the square of the market, surrounded by jovial chatter and old ladies haggling the price of a fatty tuna and a pinching lobster. It's a warm embrace surrounded by familiarity. You lean into him and wonder if he'd leave here with you. If he'd run away back to your home. 

But you'd never ask because he'd never go. He would never betray his family like that just like yours would never accept you back. 

You're content with this. This sin is enough. 

Enough, enough, enough. 

The word becomes a mantra as winter slips deftly into spring. As the ground blooms in swaths of green, and the air turns balmy as the sun awakens from its hibernation. 

Enough, you think when Gaz presses his hands against yours beneath the table, eyes darker than obsidian and streaked with want, green with greed. 

Enough. Enough—

His kisses grow deeper as if he's trying to swallow you whole. To devour every part of you until nothing remains in this earthly realm; until the entirety of you is locked tight inside of him, safe and sound, and just for him. 

He kisses you like he's desperate. Like he's in pain and you're an antidote to his misery. 

(But when he moans so achingly against your lips until the vibrations run through your skin, making them tingle, you feel more like a poison. The catalyst.)

And maybe you are. Maybe every cell in your body is infectious, and he's been syphoning from the noxious sap that pools on your tongue. You, the personification of pestilence dragging him down, rotting him from the inside out. Him, the hapless victim. 

It would make sense, that. You've always been awful—so greedy for him, and wilful in the sins you're willing to commit against your marriage. 

"Fuck, birdy," he pants into the seam of your lips, nose grazing your cheek. 

You're burning. Feverish. 

You want, want, want—

"If we don't stop now," he says at length, fingers knotting into the fabric around your waist. 

Bunched in his fist, it pulls at the hem until just a sliver of your skin is revealed. His thumb brushes the heat of your flesh, then—whether by accident or design, you don't know, but the feeling of him, naked and bare, makes you shake, makes your stomach quiver under his touch.

There have been moments before this when it was just the sateen slide of skin on skin. The prickle of coarse hairs dusting across his forearms. The heat of his flesh searing your fingerprints. You've mapped the ridges and valleys of his face between your palms. Know, quite intimately, the way his cheekbones feel pressed tight to your lifeline. The little flutter of his lashes before he dips his chin, catching the inner knuckle of your thumb between plump lips. 

The stubble around his jaw tickles your hand and your upper lip when he kisses you softly. His nose presses into the skin of your cheek when he bows his head to syphon the air from your lungs. Or the soft push of his lips when he kisses the tip of your nose the weight of his hands on your waist, keeping you close. 

He likes to bring your hand up to the light sometimes, fingers laced together, palms locked in a tango, and charts the way the sun scatters over your flesh. 

You know him. You know Gaz, Kyle. 

But this—

The rough graze of his dry thumb trailing over your belly makes you tremble, and heats you up from the inside out. 

It's too much. It's too much. It's—

You mewl his name. A soft plea. 

Gaz groans like you've gutted him. 

"Oh, fuck, birdy—"

—not enough. 

He kisses you until you’re breathless, stealing small snippets of your soul with each fervid lash of his tongue on yours, chasing the poison leaking from within. 

(Poison, maybe—)

Gaz pulls away from your mouth with a reluctant dip of his chin. A mournful sound spills from his wet, bruised lips, but he doesn't give in and kiss you again. He rests his forehead on yours, and you feel the heat of him bleeding into you. Sweat drips from his hairline, and tickles your skin. You want to glisten in it. To drench yourself in him, wear it like shiny, new skin. The whole world would know then, that you belonged to him. 

(—or sweet nectarean.)

"Can't—," he makes another noise in the back of his throat when his thumb reaches higher, tip skirting the rim of your belly button. Your flesh is damp. Slick with sweat. You feel the fever in your veins, leaking from the cracks in your marrow. "Can't do this, birdy—"

He swallows. You hear the click in his throat like a gunshot cutting through a field. 

(You, the hapless fool, standing right in its trajectory.)

It must show on your face. The suddenness of your dismay, your confusion, because Gaz lifts his hand from where it was clenched tight around the back of the chaise and presses his knuckle against your hairline. A soft rap on your skin. 

Knocking sense into this head of yours, he joked once when you'd jump with fear over each noise made in the hallways. Mind always spinning, looping; weaving knots of spooled anxiety between each synapse.

He does it now, too, and despite yourself—and the anguish notching inside your chest (does he not want to? Does he not want you? After all this time, is he going to change—?)—your burning lips quirked up in a small smile. 

"—m'not gonna change my mind," he's whispering to the fearful, vindictive hisses in the back of your head. His knuckle drags down your temple, trailing up the incline of your cheekbone. Gaz's eyes are cloudy with want when he lifts his chin up, reinforcing his words with a blistering stare. "Just not—not here—not for our first time. You deserve better than a stuffy library." 

Nothing he says reeks of deception. There's nothing hidden beneath the surface that will come and tear you apart later. He's suffering in this just as much as you are. The weight of your combined guilt will surely crush you both one day, but it will be together. Together. And—

You splinter down the middle at his words. 

You reach up, cupping his fist in the palm of your hand. "Yes," you murmur, soft and full of adoration. "I want that, too. I want that for us."

Kyle smiles and you think of a supernova.

With your shared acknowledgement of this, this, and the inevitability of where it's all heading, Kyle seems to grow bolder. Boastful. More wanting. 

His touches linger. His smile seems to grow when you're around. 

"I don't want you to get hurt," you confess, hushed and severe as he peppers kisses down the column of your neck. "I don't know what they'll do to you if we get caught, but—"

He grunts. "We won't."

"Kyle—"

"My brother is the most daft man who's ever lived. You think he'll notice anything at all?" 

This, too, is new, but only just. You know there is animosity between them—covered in a thick layer of propriety and feigned familial affection—and that it doesn't have much to do with you. Not at first, anyway. This grudge they foster spans far beyond your arrival, but you're not oblivious to the way Kyle seems to grow darker, more possessive each morning after you've retired with his brother in tow. 

He kisses you under the shade of a marble pillar when no one is looking as if he's trying to erase the memory of him from your skin. 

He pulls away when you hesitate, brow knotted in a touch of contempt that hardens his words into a mallet. 

"He hasn't even noticed that you don't love him. Do you really think he'll find out about us?"

"That's—"

It's true. He doesn't question you when you disappear for most of the day, making sparse sightings around the estate just to have a story in place in case someone begins to wonder why you and Kyle are always absent at the same time. Not that it matters much, really. No one has. 

No one will, he promised. Not a single fucking person here likes the bastard. Do you think they'll rat us out? Run to my older brother and tell on me?

You acquiesce, but it sits in your stomach like a stone. 

"I've been reading something," he tells his brother at dinner, eyes dancing with derision over veal. "About Lancelot and Gunivere." 

You tense in your chair, knuckles whitening from the grip you have on your fork. That statement alone feels like a confession. 

But your husband doesn't even spare you a glance. "Really? Sounds—stuffy." 

"It's really good," Gaz grins at you, wide and sharp—a mouthful of fanged teeth—and you feel the heat spume in your belly. "You should read it sometime."

"I think I'll pass." He reaches for the glass of wine with a muted shake of his head. He'll be busy all night, he murmurs—much too busy for silly books.

Beneath the thick oak table, you kick Gaz in his shin, lips turning down in askance. A silent admonishment that doesn't quite reach your eyes. 

He doesn't stop grinning.

"I really want to kiss you right now." 

The words are a heated whisper that barely catches on the towering stelae concealing you both from prying eyes. 

It's wrong, you know. Heinous in the way that these sorts of affairs usually are. Wrongness emanates from your coupling, sinfully detestable; it calls upon illicit evils and conjures images of damnation and dread from the pit of your stomach, but—

"Yes," you breathe, heart sitting heavy in your throat. "God, yes. Please, Gaz—"

When he presses his lips to yours, it feels like coming home. It feels right. Like the shape of them were made to fit the curve of yours. 

How could it be wrong when it feels like this? When you can taste nirvana in his gentle breath, feel the burn of heaven on your skin when he touches you tenderly. 

It can't be wrong. It can't be—

Kyle lays you down on the daybed made of silk and dark pine, and touches places that feel like they were made to bear his fingerprints, to carry his mark.

There's a quiet reverence in the way he seeks you out, learning new arning the new flesh bared to his eager gaze, his wanting hands. A soft propitiation. Each stroke of his fingers on your body is painted in adoration, love, until you’re covered in the hues he makes of you. A pastiche in shades of love, passion. It seeps into the crevasses, and the valleys; floods your pores and burrows into your bloodstream. 

You colour so prettily under him. 

And he, a painter, an artist, pulls back in the fading light from the waning sun and admires his masterpiece. 

“You’re so fuckin’ perfect,” he rasps, nearly choking on the words as they claw their way out of his chest. “I could stay like this forever. Wake up to the sight for the rest of my life.”

It sounds more like a promise than it does a wish, and your heart aches for him, for you. For this moment that ought to be hung from the walls for all to see, to know, but instead is tucked inside a corner, hidden behind walls. You want to scream aloud how much you revere him, and love him, but the precariousness of it all dampens your voice. Dousing water on an incipient flame that hasn’t even had the chance to bloom. 

“Oh, Kyle—” Grief scorches his name until it’s charred, leaving stains of soot and ash between your teeth. 

He bends down, stealing the sorrow from your tongue. “Just for now, birdy, just for a minute—” 

He takes your hand in his—tender and bleeding warmth—and lifts it high above your head until your knuckles graze the pine of your headboard before he settles over you, broad shoulders blocking out the dying sunset until all you can see, all you can feel, is him. 

“This is just for us. Just for us—” Kyle swallows the anguish so it doesn’t hurt you anymore. “Let’s just pretend for a moment?”

And you do. 

“If I could steal you away from him, I would.”

It’s a balmy confession into your crown as he holds you tight. The steady beat of his heart is a testament to the truth in his words, and you long to burrow inside his chest, to fold yourself between the gaps in his ribs, and stay there for as long as he’ll let you. 

(And if it’s forever, you will merge into his bones until you’re suffused into his marrow.)

“I’d take you away right now.”

You think of that cat without an owner. The one who sleeps on any balcony that’s kissed by the sun and eats fatty tuna by the sea. It’s homeless but that doesn’t matter: it was never meant to be trapped inside where the sun cannot caress the soft spot between his ears, or tickle his chin. 

Sometimes he lounges on the top of the seawall, batting lazily at the waves, and you’ve always thought that was the meaning of freedom. To do whatever he pleased, to go whenever he wanted. To brush his body against the ankles of passersby, enjoying brief comfort in the arms of a stranger before wandering off to pester the tabby who mewled at him from behind thick glass.

Living that life blinks by, coloured in shades of flaxen and azure; warm honey, melted gold. Glittering pennies by the shore. Sand between your toes. Hot pavement burning your feet.

A little house—white stucco and royal blue trim—by the sea; living there in perpetuity with him. 

You think about asking, then. Voicing this little sapling aloud, nurturing it into growth. To make it real. To escape with him, and run until you find another alcove hidden between marble; a place just for the two of you. 

But you don’t. The words sour in your throat. 

It isn’t that he’ll say no that keeps the words at bay, but the fear that he’ll say yes. 

You’ll do whatever you can to protect him—even at the expense of yourself. Your happiness. 

(You’re content with this. This is enough.)

“Sounds lovely,” you whisper into his skin. “Maybe one day…”

And you tell him about that place. The cat that reminds you of him. The white house near the shore with a rickety pier you used to stand on for hours, just gazing out at the sea. 

He pulls you closer. "We'll go there. Just the two of us."

This—your consummation—breaks everything open. 

The feverish desire that bloomed turns rapacious—a near-constant ache from within that feels unquenchable even when you're still burning from the phantom whisper of Kyle's touch. 

That little taste was just a morsel. It whets the palette of the beast that resides in your soul, but it's ravenous. Starved. It wants and wants—unslaked with just a simple touch. 

You're not alone in this devastating agony, this heedless need. Gaz must feel it, too, because those soft, tender kisses turn biting and aggressive; possessiveness seems to bleed into the space where his body isn't touching yours. He rushes out the guard the moment you walk into the library, clumsy in his haste to finally be alone with you. To explore the charted valleys of your body and marvel at the way they seem to fit his peaks perfectly. 

("Made for me," he breathes against your collarbones. "Just like I was made for you.")

The broken levee is shattered at your feet. In the sudden rush of water, you become clumsy. Jaded with apathy when you're not in his arms, and careless with your passion. 

The book lay discarded on the table when Gaz slides his hand up your knee. 

"Again?" 

Your name comes out in a needy huff. "And again. And again. And—"

Sometimes, in Kyle's arms, you seem to forget that you're married. That his brother waits for you to finish combing your hair before he climbs into bed, murmuring soft nothings about the world around you, and how it all fits. 

He's quite taken with philosophy, you find, gazing at yourself in the mirror. It's startling to see how much you've changed since you first were told of this whole affair—the war, marriage, and how that single piece of paper, and this heavy ring, would be the cause to end it all. You were a sunken shell of yourself. Hollow, empty. 

But your cheeks are fuller now. The corners of your eyes creased with laugh lines. Your lips were redder from the kiss Gaz snatched before you were whisked away. 

You look different. Sunkissed. That cosy home on the cove, white stucco and royal blue, buoys in your mind again. With the sure set of your shoulders, and the ghost of a smile still whispering across your lips, you know that this is the closest you've ever come to being the first set of footprints in the sand. 

You almost reach for it. 

Let me go—

"And Price is alive, I suppose, so that complicates things."

His reflection waves a flippant hand when you dart to him, half visible in the corner of the mirror. 

"What—?"

Price. That name sounds familiar—

My captain, he whispers, tapping out a skewed rhythm on his bent knee. The hat dangles from the tip of his finger, but despite the almost careless disregard he shows for the item, you know it'll never touch the floor. Was a good man, but stone cold when he needed to be. Willing to do all the shite we couldn't. Respected him a lot, you know? Looked up to Price… 

"He's been imprisoned by Makarov for the last three years. Prisoner of war." He shrugs like it means nothing, but you suppose to him, a man whose signature is on tonnes of death certificates made in limbo during the war, it would be. "A right nightmare."

"Are you—? Have you told G—your brother?"

He scoffs. "No. The last thing I need is for him to run off and try to free him. Bad enough the Mactavishs' have heard whispers and haven't stopped pestering since then."

He moves closer until he's situated behind you, and for a moment you're startled by the sight of him. In the fading twilight, he looks striking. Where Gaz seems to glow in daybreak, illuminated by the coruscating sun and creating an almost breathtaking sfumato of copper, umber, warm gold, amber, and raw honey, his brother, by contrast, is suited for dusk. It casts shadows beneath his lashes, under his cheekbones, in a chiaroscuro. 

The contrast between them is unmissable—Gaz is made of starlight, and meant for sunrise and sunsets; and his brother for moonlight, for overcast days in Autumn—and it bludgeons into you, a mallet to your chest. 

The impact breaks everything into pieces, everything you thought you held firm. Guilt puddles to the surface, and overflows in a great deluge until you're swallowed down, falling into the abyss. 

You can't think about it. 

"Gaz will be furious if he finds out you kept this from him."

"Gaz?" He repeats, head tilting to the side. In the reflection, your eyes widen. "You call him Gaz? You're both rather close, aren't you?"

Your heart leaps to your throat, thudding painfully with each panicked thought that races through your mind, a cacophony of does he know? and when did he find out? 

Gaz called him daft. Oblivious now that the power of ruling over the court was in his hands. In many ways, it's true—his visits have been infrequent, sparse; and when he was there, his mind seemed miles away. It made the guilt churning in your stomach settle when he'd pass on a message that he wouldn't be retiring for the evening in your shared suit, but would be busy with other things. His absence was a notable gap in the estate, and without him there, you'd slipped so easily into Gaz. Fanning the flames that burned so brightly in the alcove all those months ago. 

He wasn't around enough to witness anything, and you've always been so careful. Hiding behind pillars, and sneaking into empty rooms. Evading the prying eyes of your appointed guard and the passel of workers who drifted around the halls as they needed. No one saw anything except the carefully curated picture of stumbling upon each other in the library where you both went to read, and you're sure that any reports he might have gotten would attest to this. 

It abates some of the panic, but there's a keenness in his narrowed eyes that makes you bluster. He knows you're not—in love with him, and so, your hesitation around him should be obvious. Normal. Nothing has changed except sometimes you catch yourself frowning at his back, desperately trying to pretend you weren't wishing he was Gaz when he rolled over in your shared bed. And maybe you pay more attention to Gaz at dinner instead of him, but how could he glean anything from that when his mind was elsewhere the entire time? When his circuit of advisors whispered in his ear and drew his attention away? It's normal. All of it. Everything you and Kyle have ever done in public is perfect chase, acceptable. 

You swallow thickly and his eyes drop to the smooth column of your throat, buoying in the reflection. There's something there in crushed amber, something knowing and horrid. It curdles your stomach, twisting in knots that keep looping over itself in tight tangles. 

"No more so than most."

His narrowed eyes slide across the unblemished skin of your neck, and pause on the soft patch of flesh beneath your jaw. Your heart seizes. The phantom graze of Kyle's fanged canines brims. He's grown rather fond of burying his face into the column of your throat, nipping along your sensitive neck. That place in particular he often peppers a series of soft kisses to before suckling on a patch of skin, drawing it between his lips, his teeth. 

But it's unmarked. 

Kyle knew his brother would be home tonight. It's untouched for that reason. And yet, he lingers there. Watchful. Keen. Is that suspicion in his eyes or has he always carried dark ravines in those drusy depths? 

You swallow again. An excuse—you need—

But he speaks before any form in the roaring tangle of your thoughts, and his tone is—upbraided. You burn. Shame, maybe. But no more guilt. Just—

Fear. Panic. 

"Mm, I suppose so."

The next morning, he presses a kiss to your numb lips when he wakes. It's soft. Chaste, almost. There's something sweet about it—but it's cloying. Saccharine. It rots your teeth. 

Thoughts begin to loop inside your head, weaving messy tangles as they arc high above before battering into the soft ceiling. There's a sense of chaos to them; unfettered terror. They push and push against the walls but there's no escape from their domed prison. They slip past, but they're sluggish even in their fright as if moving through thick molasses. Syrupy. Soporific.

But as he stands from the bed, and turns to you with a cold smile, one tangles around the tips of your fingers in a muted panic, seeking comfort from your own hand: 

He knows. 

He must because Griggs waits for you—an uncharacteristic move that only serves to reinforce the fear curdling, sour and acrid, in the pit of your stomach because he never stays, never lingers—and gives you no time to tell Kyle anything. About Price, about his brother and the poorly kept secret. 

You wonder when he must have figured it out as you comb through your wet hair, gazing vacantly at the etiolated spectre in the mirror. Was it when Kyle had you against the marble pillar? Mewling his name out in a scorching benediction to the night as he held you tighter than ever before, whispering hymns into the sweat-slicked heat of your neck? Or in the library when he spread your thighs apart, locking your knees on his shoulders, and took you to nirvana with just his mouth. 

Or maybe it was all of it. Each gentle touch, and press of his lips painted you in a mosaic of colour for everyone to see, to know. Every stain is a testament to the devotion echoing inside your heart for a man who is not your husband. 

Your face, once full and lustrous, falls sallow, clouding with determination. 

You'll save the man who makes you burn—no matter the cost. 

Despite the watchful eye he keeps on you, locked to his side, a prisoner in your own home, Gaz finds out about Price. 

Whispers, maybe, through the halls. The guards. Whatever the reason for the leak, you can see the way it makes his older brother burn with barely concealed fury. How dare they speak when he told them not to? 

It's matched by Gaz's own anger when he storms into the dining hall, eyes blazing with vigour. His wrath makes them darken to smouldering coal, and guncotton. You can almost smell the acrid burn of salt peate in the air. 

He seems to stutter in his march at the sight of you sitting so close to his brother, an unusual discovery, and you know the growing crease between his brows is in response to that, to the scant space between his arm and yours. You long to reach out, to tell him he knows, run, but the words are swallowed when Griggs drops his hand to your wrist, silencing you. 

Kyle takes in the sight with a steep tug of his lips, a flash of teeth, but he says nothing about it. Can't, you know. Can't because it isn't isn't his place. 

Instead, he seethes, and turns to Griggs with his nostrils flaring. "Price is alive?" 

Griggs tuts. "How did you find out?"

"That doesn't matter. When are we going after him?"

It’s cut down with a swift shake of his brother’s head. “We're not. It’s too reckless. We’ll end up back in war with Makarov, and I’m not going to allow—”

“So we just leave him there—?!”

A nod comes and you’ve never felt anything colder, more callous than that.

“Unbelievable! You’re just going to let him rot?”

“We’ll negotiate, but if it goes nowhere—”

“The MacTavishs won’t settle for this. Soap and Ghost won't, either.”

Griggs leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “Well, they have little say in the matter, don’t they?”

"Are you serious?" 

He nods, and Kyle bears his teeth in disgust. "Price's predicament is of his own doing, not ours—"

"His own—?!" Rage turns his words caustic. Fury paints them charcoal black. "Some fuckin' leader you are! You've got a kingdom falling into disarray and a spouse that doesn't love you, so what do you know?" He scoffs, skewering his glare at the way Griggs' hand rests over your wrist. "War hero, they called you, but all I see is a fool. A coward. He was twice the man you'll ever be."

Kyle looks to you, then, nostrils flaring in his fiery anger, his hurt, but he waits. He waits for you. 

This is it. That moment he spoke of—steal you from right under his nose—and there's hope blooming in the fibres of your chest at his proposal. Run with me, his eyes scream, beseeching you. Run with me now. Leave this place. We'll make do on our own. 

Your mouth opens, but Griggs digs his fingers into your wrist. A warning. Griggs' grip is tight. Paralysing. You can't move. Can't—

The betrayal flashes across Kyle's face as he realises you're not going, you're not moving, and it rips through your core like the serrated edge of a white-hot knife, tearing your flesh into scraps, into pieces. They hang from your ruined flesh in drapes of agony, but nothing hurts more than the anguish on his face when his fist closes around the mournful brag of your heart in his palm. 

Keep it, you think. Keep it safe. It's always been yours. Always, always—

"Careful, brother," his tone is low, a rough scrape that cuts through the stifling heat of Kyle's trembling fury. It chills you. "That might get you in trouble one day, to speak so ill of your future king."

"That's what it's about, isn't it?" He spits. "Playing nice with Makarov so you get to be king? While Price fucking rots?! I'm not going to let you do this—"

"And who did this in the first place, Kyle?" He turns to you with a coy tilt of his chin. "Did he ever tell you?" At your confused expression, he seems to scoff. "Of course not. They're always the righteous ones, aren't they? Who do you think caused this war between Makarov? Who prodded the beast when he wasn't supposed to?"

Price is a bit… bloodthirsty when he sets his mind to something. Hard-headed. He'd have stopped at nothing to get Makarov—

"That's—" Kyle's eyes cut to you. "That's not—"

"Was it not you? Not Price? Did you not go and meddle where you shouldn't have, and cause this all to happen? Tell me I'm lying, Kyle."

"You bastard," he seethes, but he doesn't refute his claims. 

Your stomach plummets. This war was the reason you were made to leave your home, the sandy shores and the fat, lazy cat. The reason you had to marry Griggs. 

Your eyes burn with unshed tears. No, no. "Tell me that isn't true—"

"Oh? Had he not told you?" Griggs coos. "Did you know that you were supposed to marry him?"

I should have been here. I should have been—

You couldn't have stopped it, Kyle. 

…yeah. Yeah, I—

"Yes, you were meant to marry Kyle all along but he was too busy running around the countryside chasing after ghosts to be wed." He leans down, whispering mockingly in your ear until it burns. "A shame, isn't it? That you could have been his all along."

No, no, no—

He says your name, but it's strangled in his throat. "That's not—I didn't know—I had to–to find Price—"

His question is at the forefront of your mind. Mocking, now. Cruel. Are you happy at least? And, oh, how painful it is to have your heart cloven in two. 

There's a part you have to play to ensure Kyle's safety. A facade you must wear. The dutiful spouse does not leave their husband's side. 

And so, you sit. You stay, and you break into pieces when Gaz's shoulders shake with the weight of his grief, of yours, and he turns his back to you. 

It can't go on like this. It can't. 

Griggs strokes your pulse with the flat of his thumb. "Good choice."

Outside the dining hall, you can hear Kyle calling out to the men around him, ordering them into action. His voice is a powerful weapon, and he wields it with cutting precision, slicing down any question of his authority, his goal. 

You wonder what Griggs thinks about his men being tethered so tightly to Kyle, more loyal to him than their own eventual King. 

You wonder, too, if this was why he didn't show up to wed you. How cruel. How—

"What did he mean by that?" He asks, glancing down at the ring on your hand. "A spouse that doesn't love you. What does love have to do with anything?"

And you break. 

"It's a bit important, isn't it?" You snarl. "But you knew—you knew—"

For the first time since you've met him, he cracks a small smile, and the sight nearly cloves your heart in two. 

It's misery. It's resignation. 

"I can't relinquish you from this contract, you know I can't. The moment I do, I yield the power to keep Makarov away from my family. If you get caught, you'll be punished. Kyle will, too. Adultery used to be ground for execution but—" his smile, then, is an ugly, gnarled thing. "How am I meant to kill the brother I'm doing all of this to protect? How could I possibly become King with my younger brother's blood on my hands? But you… I can't be a foolish wittol."

"So, what will you do?"

He moves closer, arms folding over his chest. "Kyle is smart. Pragmatic. But when it comes to that man, well…" he offers a wan smile. "He's quite reckless. He'll go after him, of course. But I can't have that. I'll send him away."

"Where?"

"North, maybe. Send him on a merry chase through the countryside while I negotiate with Makarov."

"Gaz would never go. He's too smart. He'll see through it."

"I've never seen my brother so happy before…" There's a touch of wistfulness in his voice. A hint of regret, maybe. But when it looks at you, all you see is nothing. A frigid wasteland. "And I guess that's because of you, isn't it? So, you'll send him away. You'll tell him to go. And he will because it's you."

"No. No—"

"You will. You know you will, because accidents happen, don't they?" His smile is vicious. The threat, the implication, curls around your throat. "And we wouldn't want that, would we?"

Griggs is far more cunning than you could have ever imagined. 

"His hubris was your undoing," he murmurs, smoothing out the collar of your shirt. "Lancelot, le Chevalier de la charrette. He thinks I'm an ignorant fool, and always has because my idea of valour is much less—" his lips twitch. "Bloody than his. Or the Barbarians he sides with. You see, we never really got along much these days. I always thought Price should have been thrown in prison where he belongs for the stunt he pulled. The only reason he wasn't—well, Makarov got there first, didn't he?"

"You hate him this much?"

"He nearly got my brother killed," he says, but you know there's more to it. "And he killed Barkov. Caused a massive uproar in Urzikstan. You know they supported my rise to the throne? It was quite a nightmare to have to pick up the pieces and make excuses as to why it was covered up. Foolish, the lot of them. And that Riley—"

"I don't know him—" 

"Of course," he cuts you off with a wave of his hand. "It doesn't matter. You're going to send Kyle away. You're going to tell him you hate him, you never want to see him again. You wish he was dead. All those dramatic things, yes? And then he'll leave. He'll go with his guard under the careful orders of General Shepherd and Graves."

The names are meaningless to you—maybe you heard them in passing a long time ago, but they don't register any sense of familiarity, and you tuck them away with little more than a numbed nod. 

"Good. Now do what you're told, and we'll pretend this little—ah, affliction—never happened."

It did, you want to scream. It happened. It was real. It was. 

But in spite of your conviction, the unignorable weight of Kyle's involvement in this—in ripping you away from your home and into the cold embrace of a man you don't know, couldn't ever come to love—splits your resolve, and funnels the same anguish he tried to hard to swallow down into your heart. 

Griggs has you wait for Kyle near the entrance hall, standing bereft of comfort and numbed in the antechamber as he assembles his soldiers in the symposium down the hall. 

You haven't seen him since he stormed out, and it feels as if you've been gutted and hollowed out. A trojan horse meant to mislead and deceive. Caught in a political game of euchre between two brothers you have a tangible relationship with. You know which side you're on, who you'll always pick in the end, but still. 

It stands out again just how guileful Griggs is, and how deep those roots go. The unveiling truth of Gaz's involvement in the war is meant to shatter the relationship between you into pieces he can exploit. The betrayal sets everything up for him—pawns to his victory—and you're meant to lash out, to hate Gaz for this slight against you. A tool to inveigle him to the opposite side of where Makarov is while Griggs continues to play games behind the scenes. Master puppeteer. He'll play Makarov, too. Entice him with a treaty. 

The dominoes are stacked for him: you get to Gaz, sending him on his way. Griggs plays Makarov and gets rid of Price. He's crowned King, and you—

Somehow your affair will leak. A guard who saw, who was threatened into secrecy. He'll come forward once the throne is assured, and admit to what he witnessed. With Kyle in purgatory chasing ghosts, there is nothing in the way to stop you from being cast to the gallows. 

Adultery is more lenient now, he'd said, but you're not stupid. The time you had alone in the library was spent pouring over laws and loopholes. It might be outlawed in your kingdom, too barbaric, but here? It's antediluvian but still legal. 

You'll be convicted in court. His hands tied by the archaic legal system, all he can do is mourn your loss as you're sent away. Woe is him, the heartbroken fool. 

He'll change it after. He would have to, wouldn't he? In memory of you. 

Or an accident, perhaps. 

They do happen after all.

You suppose you have a choice here—or, rather, a test. Prove your devotion to Griggs and maybe he'll spare you. The implication of it hung so heavy in the air when he'd fixed the ring on your hand, and said—

With this, the whole kingdom could be ours.

Ours. All that power—

You hear footsteps and chatter before the door creaks, swinging open with a loud bang. It seems to shake the walls, and you brace yourself to face him again.

"Birdy—"

Hearing his voice makes you tremble. 

Gaz stands in the foyer, eyes widening at the sight of you. Prettied up in linen and lace. Made beautiful for him in the eyes of a man who thought he knew what Kyle wanted.

But it sits too heavily on your shoulders, and the weight of it all makes Kyle frown. 

"What—?"

"I've come to—"

He cuts you off with a shake of his head. "I can't—I have to do this—"

He stands, rigid and sure. Immovable in his decision. Beside him, Soap looks just as determined. Just as grim. 

It knocks against a tender spot inside your chest, and you think about the anger he'll feel after all of this, when he leaves and realises that Price is a placeholder for Griggs’ ascension to the throne. A peace offering to Makarov. 

He reaches out to you, but the action is full of hesitation, uncertainty. There's so much unsaid between you, so much rot putrefying at your feet. 

So much could have been different, and there's a small part of you that still seeks to blame him for it. All the whispered confessions, the heavy weight of your guilt—none of it might have happened if only he—

Gave up his dreams. 

A new shame is born from that awful, ugly thought. The reverence in his voice when he spoke of the man, the guilt that lashed at your sternum when he confessed in your arms about leaving him behind. 

I'll never forgive myself for it, birdy. I had to keep looking. I had to. 

Hindsight bleeds around the edges, tainting each memory with the gruesome truth nestled in his words. He kept so much from you, and the unignorable knowledge of it pools deep in your marrow, painting every moment with an ugly stain of envy, blackening it with anger. 

Were you ever a choice? Or were you—

An accident. 

A throwaway in the grand scheme of it all, easily passed off to the next available suitor. Unwanted. Unneeded. 

Until it suited him best. 

And you want to scream. To rage at him. To split your anger, your betrayal into shards and throw them at his chest. Daggers of fury, of heartbreak meant to maim, to hurt. You want him to feel the same anguish inside your veins, dragging festering blood to your pathetic heart that still sings for him, still yearns.

Under it all, a bigger part of you still understands why—why he did it, how he could. Kyle didn't know you when he made his choice, and you're sure that he's suffering for it just as much as you are. 

"I know this is something you have to do," you murmur, but your words are stilted. Mechanical. "And you—you should go."

It seems to throw them both. Soap looks pensive as he stands, rigid and faithful by Kyle's side. His hand lowers to his sword, and you're almost taken by the sight of his intuition; the way it flickers across his features is almost indescribable under the honeyed glow of the lanterns. 

He knows something is wrong. Tastes it in the air. 

Kyle, blinded by the sight of you, doesn't yet. And you know, then, what you must do. 

"Birdy—?"

"It's what you have to do, isn't it?" 

There's so much between you. A thundercloud looms overhead, threatening a downpour. You ignore it all—a conversation for another time, maybe (hopefully)—and move forward, gathering them into your arms. 

Hugging Kyle openly is unusual for you, but embracing Soap stands out. You feel Kyle tense in your arms. 

"Birdy…"

"Don't trust Graves," you whisper into his chest. "Or Shepherd."

"...what?"

"He knows. About us—"

"Birdy—" he tries to pull again, but you cling to him. 

"Don't. Don't. I know—I know this is something you have to do. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. I'll be okay. Just—Makarov isn't where you think he is."

"That slimy, fucking—"

It's Soap who keeps Kyle from lashing out with a firm hand on his shoulder, and a pointed glance. "Yer sure?" 

You pull back with a muted nod, too aware of the guards standing just outside of the hall. Out of earshot, but still. Still. Much too close for comfort. 

"He told me so himself. Just don't—do what you need to, but don't let on, yeah?"

"Steamin' bloody Jesus… the whole fuckin' court is corrupt."

Soap looks startled, unmoored by the devastating blow you dealt to them. The betrayal, the treachery by their own men, their own commander, seems to dig deep into him. It hurts. You can see lashing across his face, the pain of it too deep for him to remain impassive. He buckles, but he doesn't break. It's tucked back into neutrality with a nod that feels like it meant more for himself than for you. 

But Kyle still looks wrathful—the picture of ferocious betrayal, hatred, and you think about Griggs and his own version of love in that instance. They wear their fury in the clench of their jaw, the furrow of their brow. It turns their eyes to lavascapes, melted pennies. Liquid gold. It drips from the drusy peaks of his iris, raking rivers of red through moonstone. 

Kyle comes back to himself, but worry paints his face a shade of grey. "Come with us."

"He'll know. I can't."

He waves. "You have to—"

But even as he says it, you both know it can't happen. Despite it all, you're safer with Griggs than you would be on the battlefield. You'd be a liability at best, and he needs to keep up the facade of loyalty to Griggs, to Graves and Shepherd, so that they can save Price. 

It's you or him. An ultimatum he's already been faced with before. 

Your smile is brittle. "Gaz…"

But he knows. He knows.

The careful visage of a determined warrior crumbles, leaving the shattered remains of a man, unsure and fearful, behind. It breaks you into pieces. One that drops over his shoulders like falling ash. 

He catches them in his fist, and holds tight. 

His voice is agony when he speaks. Broken timbre, charred wood, but he plays his role, now. 

He must. 

"I'll come back for you, birdy."

And you do, too. 

"I'll wander along the beach—" you breathe, forcing every ounce of longing, regret, heartache, and love into the words. A promise, an oath. You'll wait for him forever. 

"And I'll find you by the footprints in the sand."

"You might be right, birdy—"

You hum, and then:

"Why birdy?"

The hazy mirage of Gaz inverted in the foggy window, streaked with rivulets of rain, seems to blink as if started by your question. 

"Oh, uh… well," he clears his throat, a touch sheepish as he looks past your shoulder to the grimy window you stand in front of. "I saw you when I snuck home—here. When I, uh, when I snuck here."

"And you thought I was a bird?"

He moves in the reflection, taking careful steps to the edge of the daybed where you sit with your legs crossed, knees pressed against the wall, and your elbows resting on the ledge. Gazing, listlessly almost, at the rain-soaked world just beyond the thin glass. 

"Yeah, kinda. You might have been sitting just like this, but when I looked up, I just saw your face. With your arm like this—" he reaches over, grasping your left hand in his warm palm before pulling it up and tucking your knuckles under your chin. "Yeah, just like that, I think."

"And this made you think of a bird?" Your brow raises in the murky window. "Really?"

"From the outside, yeah. You looked—" his hand falters on your wrist, freezing in place. He swallows thickly, and you trace the bob of his prominent Adam's apple with a feverish fascination. He clears his throat before he speaks, eyes downcast. Lost in thought, maybe. "You looked like a trapped bird. A little birdy. Thought you were an owl or somethin' that got locked inside. I felt so bloody horrible—I couldn't remember the last time I'd been here. Thought you might have been starving—"

"But you found me."

His chin lifts. The weight of his stare paralyses you. "Yeah. I did." 

"Not a trapped bird, though."

"Birdy," he swallows again, and consternation gnarls across his brow. "You—fuck. I just—if I wasn't so much of a—"

"Gaz." You bring your hand up to his, trapping his palm against your skin before he can pull it away. "I'm fine. I'm better now that I have you."

But it doesn't abate his sorrow. Anguish collapses across his face. "Birdy, I'm so—fuck—"

You don't know why the thought of a trapped bird makes him so achingly sad, but the weight of his grief makes you mourn his loss alongside him. 

"It's fine. I'm fine." You kiss his palm. "As long as I have you, I'm fine."

"You can't mean that."

"I do. Always. And sometimes…" You fluster a little, heart racing in your chest. It beats so sharply against the fragile rings of your ribcage, that you wonder if a bird isn't trapped inside there, too. Longing to be free. "Sometimes I wish it was you."

"It will be," he promises, hushed and fervid. An oath for the walls to hear. Meant only for the room that watched him grow, that lead him to you. "I'll take you away from here. Somewhere far away—"

"Somewhere warm."

"The beach, then. The desert. I'll take you to the Sahara and we'll live with the birds and lions. So far away from anyone that could hurt you, birdy. It'll just be me and you."

"Sounds lovely." 

"I'll take you across the sea. I'll buy a boat. We could stay there forever at sea. Little, tiny spots in the great ocean. No one will ever find us." He bends down, pressing his lips to you temple. His eyes are embers: they burn with his conviction. "We'll forget what it feels like to be on land. We'll forget how to walk—"

"Maybe a house," you whisper. White stucco that absorbs the sun. Blue trim—as blue as the coruscating ocean. A fat cat, too. "By the sea."

"Yes. Yes," he breathes. His arm wraps around your chest, holding you close. "Just wait for me, birdy. Wait for me—"

"Gaz," you laugh. "Don't be silly. I'll wait for you forever. You can find me by the sea."

He shivers. "I really want to kiss you right now."

"What are you waiting for?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing—"

Credits: “Dante Swoons before the Soaring Souls of Paolo and Francesca, Virgil at his Side,” by Henry Fuseli (c. 1818)  / Madonna della Pietà (1498–1499) / Canto V (verses 121–123) of the Inferno from La Divina Commedia (ca. 1310–14) / Fitzwilliam Museum domed entrance ceiling / the Rising Sun by John Donne / The Cathedral by Auguste Rodin / Sonnet 40 by William Shakespeare / Cupid and Psyche by Antonio Canova (1808) / A Glimpse by Walt Whitman / 'La notte' by Hendrik Christian Andersen / Recreation by Audra Lorde / Unknown sculpture / Lancelot: The Knight of the Cart by Chrétien de Troyes

#this is so pretentious but HELLO!!!! IT'S ME #this is probably so big its unrebloggable sry #gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick x you #kyle garrick x you #gaz x you #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick x reader #this is so long #so angsty #gazfest #i'm also not super sold with the pics idk i thought the statues would be ok but like ughhh i hate seeing white hands in reader insert fics #and i don't think this is any different #i might change it

[soulfulazrael]

Why me not likey Stolitz and how I decide to write it

In light of recent news that the Full Moon episode will come in this lifetime and will be most definitely HEAVILY Stolitz centric I decided to make a post about what I do not like about this ship (I know, revolutionary) and how I prefer to write it and how I would prefer for it to be written in the show itself... Okay. I am not 100% honest here. Part of the reason why decided to write cringey post about a ship in a disappointing cartoon is this:

THE REASON KIDS ARE TOLD TO NOT TO TALK TO STRANGERS IS BECAUSE OF PEOPLE LIKE YOU! (Yes, Filthy Frank reference. I am not in fact saying they are some predator, I just think they are cringey enough to warrant a reference to good old days when you pointed and laughed at this shit. Do not harass them. Fuck you if you do.).

Okay. Let's get to the ship. Careful... This is going to be long. Filled with annoyance and frustartion boiling over due to collective brain damage I get whenever I see Stolitz shippers talk like teenagers in heat. Enjoy this cancer.

Stolitz has LOTS of issues. Mainly, the writing. Which is atrocious on it. And the worst part about the writing? It didn't have to be this way. Because to me all of the issues with it are amplified by how much of a missed opportunity it is. But let's not lose track. Basically the writing on it is pretty much a standard Disney fare of first sight love which already puts us in a very VERY bad position. This Ars Goetia, one of the most powerful immortal demons is all over this one Imp because they saw them once as a child as they tried to make balloon animals and saw them smile on a line. Riveting. The whole childhood thing already kills A LOT of my interest here. It's so transparent what they are doing that this is just embarrassing. It's manipulative as all Hell (yes, yes, I said Hell, get it out of your system) and adds fuck all to this relationship besides the amount of cheese to make everyone in the world lactose intolerant. And you use this kind of plot for an ARS GOETIA from HELL. WHY!? Why do this? I know it is subversive, but it is so goddamn stupid.

And the stupidest part about it is what this garbage takes away. Because, due to this DAMN ship Ars Goetia are not different in ANY way to normal Hellborn. At all. They just have magic and look like furry avian Habsburgs. All of them are almost indistinguishable from normal Hellborn aside from us being told they are royalty and them having magic. They age the same way as Imps, Hounds and Humans do and if you want to give the "HELL YEARS" excuse, let me remind it would mean in a year time in this show we would have to go to sci-fi and there would be constant wall of bodies falling from the sky every day.

Basically this robs Ars Goetia of being truly unique. They have no unique culture, they have barely any different personalities, they are just bird people. And it's a shame because woes of immortality could be explored here in VERY interesting ways and much of that could have been applied to Stolas as well which I will delve into later. All you need to know for now is that this already puts a SOLID hit to worldbuilding of this setting and makes all the more boring.

Which is what this relationship is at this point. BORING. It's boring now because now it is very clear what direction it will all go in as both Blitzo and Stolas are just pushed as this perfect for each other pair where most amount of conflict is simply "Will they? Or Wont they?" Oh Gee! I wonder what the answer is about this relationship with a character you admitted to change because you found the pairing cute. Golly Gee. I am so anxious to find out. It is simply a waste. There is NO meaningful conflict left here besides them just finding out they are perfect for one another and then beating all those meanies that are in their way and the most meaningful conflict will probably be about forcing Octavia to see how GOOD Blitzo is and how it is okay for Stolas to do what he does... I may or may not have some prior knowledges btw, but I wont say anything. All you need to know is that I want to die.

Which brings us to the most insulting in my opinion issue with both Stolas and Blitzo (O is not silent you gremlin). NOTHING is allowed to be their fault. NOTHING. Every time something seems like they fucked up is immediately forgiven, revealed to NOT be their fault or is swept conveniently under the rug under the guise of "it's just a comic relief bit" or "it's just filler". I genuinely hate that. Both Stolas and Blitzo are awful and flawed people and it would be NICE if this show LEANED INTO THAT. Because that is interesting, but instead this show wants you to root for them by making you forget they are flawed, awful people. Where everyone against them is the evil one or a friend that needs to forgive them and see how hurt THEY are. That is infuriating because it makes both of them a goddamn chore to watch as they are facing no consequences or accountability for any action they did. There is no nuance there. They are just nice people who at most have issues with communication and like to swear, have sex and cry (which doesn't make them deep). I must say Blitzo has SOME interesting conflict to him, but it's beaten down by how much this show tries to make him into some ultra cool badass who is never really in the wrong despite him acting like a complete twat. Which makes me feel like the writing team genuinely thinks like Daffy here at the end:

And I know this is set in Hell, but it means Jack when you try to make people believe your "asshole" characters are not them. You do not embrace it. You just try to have a cake and eat it too and Viv, you need to go on a diet with how much it happens in both of your shows.

In this topic I think user named crooked-wasteland made a better case than I ever could about the way this show tries to absolve Blitzo at least. Linke here: https://www.tumblr.com/crooked-wasteland/735943916971524096/the-anti-bojack-anti-intellectualism-and-the?source=share

It's a good read that delves nicely into why Blitzo's conflicts end up being so shallow. Also adding to that post. Think about it. Barbie is made up to be the child killer, drug dealer and someone who *gasp* doesn't forgive little pure Blitzy who just wants to reconcile. It's clear who's side this show wants you to be on. Again. NO nuance. Just telling you what to think.

And then there is the side characters in this "conflict" where most characters are basically just props. Loona? Prop to make Blitzo look better. Octavia? Stolas needs some conflict, let's throw her dumb ass in (HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW STARS APPEAR AT NIGHT!? Your family's entire shtick is astrology!!). Stella? Oh she is just evil and stupid. Andrealphus? He is just evil, but actually smart! (actually no, he is also as dumb as a stump, but he speaks like he is not so I guess he is not supposed to be, but something did not pan out too well). Paimon. Boring shithead we saw a million times already and yet another shitty dad, because relationship issues and daddy issues are two things Viv apparently knows. A good video about it I have below:

TL;DR this ship brings down SO MANY characters down the drain just to make these two look as good as possible. Where nothing is their fault and the most amount of conflict is them realizing how perfect they are for one another and convincing others of that fact I guess. And the worst part is that there has been hints of good writing for it in Season 1 at least in Ozzie's before this series decided to just quickly throw that into the garbage can.

Your best episode and you try to minimize impact it had as much as possible... I am so confused about this direction. Just... WHY!? Now for what I would prefer...

First what I think should have been done. I think this show should have leaned in more into Stolas being an Ars Goetia. An immortal, few hundred years old Ars Goetia. Because that already provides this story with a lot of possibly interesting conflict. Because this one fact would make Stolas all the more complicated as he would already be out of reach in terms of judging him by our own mortal standards. A creature that is few hundred years old that felt empty and bored over so much time of pure stagnancy that finds some semblance of joy and pleasure in the arms of an imp it would not even look at in any other way. A creature that because of it's immortality revels in such new experiences to feel a semblance of anything at all. Where it's purpose is lost to it and instead this demon takes joy in every bit of pleasurable experience that it can latch onto, but in doing so he hurts A LOT of people around him, like his own daughter and while he likes to say he cares for her he still inheritly still wants to feel alive as he is never allowed to.

That already gives Stolas on his own a lot of interesting conflict. He is still understandable in his pursuit of joy and happiness and excitement, but also showing the hedonism and pure selfishness in this pursuit. Where he throws all he has on the wind all for the sake of seeking something good for himself. Is it wrong? Is it correct? No idea. What do you think? That is the thing this series should do. ASK questions. Not answer them! Treat your audience like adults who can make up their own mind which is something this show simply doesn't do which infuriates me on a deep level.

And Blitzo. Lean in, into him being a greedy piece of garbage that gets his just comeuppance when he decides to latch himself onto this noble due to his own greed. Make it his faults that get him into this position and make him stay in it. And maybe if he does start to feel something for this demon as this other one may as well, maybe delve into WHY both of them are attracted to one another. As Blitzo could be attracted to power his position gives him and Stolas to the freedom he receives by being with Blitzo. Both of them loving more the ideas each one allows them to know instead of the people they really are and maybe have the conflict be about first them discovering those growing feelings, but then discovering what they are really pointed towards.

And there is no need to make Stella innocent either as she could be also another extreme adding to the misery, but not because of any inherited evil nature that wants her to hurt Stolas for LOLS, but instead is another victim of the immortality and status all Goetias have. Where it is almost impossible to not be on some level broken in mind.

And in this conflict it could be Octavia who is the anchor for both. A piece of normalcy as she did not live for so long and so is the most human piece in that place.

Some ideas here. And here is how I write it. Because me personally I choose to write it as Blitzo and Stolas both being attracted not to each other, but to what the other gives them. Stolas being forever frustrated about the position he never asked for giving him no freedom where he finds this one Imp that allows him to revel in his deepest and darkest desires and Blitzo being someone who deeply regrets his own decisions, but is too deep to pull out without losing all that he has gained and so pushes Stolas to be worse so he can keep profiting off of him.

Stella in this scenario is not a innocent soul either as in my version she is far more cold, distant and is obsessed with order and subjugation of others in order to elevate the status of her family which she actually cares about, but in a way that feels cruel and demanding. A contrast to Stolas who is a pure hedonist who while seeks joy and happiness where he doesn't have to be afraid is still a monster who's idea of happiness is indulging in most depraved acts without having to care for anyone.

And anchor there being Octavia who both of them care about, but is still hurt by both as both of them find it hard to look at the world in the way that is different from what they were taught and accepted through hundreds of years of their lives. Where many terrible events shaped their lives into those two extremes that have way of existing with one another without the risk of them both destroying one another as Stella wants Stolas gone for tarnishing their reputation and putting their family at risk while Stolas hates Stella for always pulling him with his leash he had to live with all his life. And Octavia through all of this has to find her own way to become someone better. Where she needs to find a path where she can possibly not lose either one and come out of this as someone better.

This is what I would prefer. A conflict where no side is really good, all of them are deeply flawed, complicated and very hard to pin as to which one is good or not. Where it is up to those in the audience as to what to think of this conflict. In another post here I made (like first one and this is second) I linked that fic so I will just say the name.

Song for the Quiet Bird. Stella/Moxxie ship fic. Yeah, I know. If you find it interesting check it out. And no. I do not say Stolitz should be written as I would want it to be. I just say this ship needs more nuance, more interesting characterization, more chemistry and interesting ideas. It needs to be less... cartoony than it is right now because so far it just feels like a dumb telenovela.

Okay... That was... a lot. I definitely did not cover everything I think of Stolitz. I have too much chaos in my head and I feel dizzy after typing all of this shait. Agree with me or not. It doesn't matter. If you read this that means you got very far into my incoherent rambling and I thank you for it no matter what you take from it.

I am just a human disaster with weird goddamn obsessions. Sorry for this being so chaotic. It's a reactionary piece of dumbassery from me. Maybe I will some day post something more coherent. If anyone cares. For now... Take care. Canon Stolitz is shit. At least for me. Disagree? Feel free to! Agreed? Sweet... Leave a comment if you have something to add to this... thing. I always enjoy that. If anyone gets this far.

#helluva boss #helluva boss criticism #helluva boss critical #helluva boss critique #stolitz #stolitz critical #helluva boss rewrite #This is so long #What am I doing with my life? #God above help me #Grant me strength for I am losing it at Warp Speed #Waste of time #Youtube

[radiohead-spiderman]

Lily and Petunia have such an interesting and complex relationship and there aren’t enough fics that delve into that.

From what we know from canon, the two were relatively close before Lily’s magic was discovered. We can assume that Petunia’s resentment ramped up when Snape and Lily started to become friends, which was partially because she just didn’t like him and thought he was a weird but if you look at it from a child’s perspective it paints it in a different light, children are easily possessive of things and people, siblings especially, sisters especially.

Her resentment was furthered with their parents treatment of the two. Petunia was the eldest sister, between the two she was the less remarkable, from what we know and can assume from canon, Lily was the golden child, when she received her Hogwarts letter and their parents reacted positively and from what we’re told in the books, ecstatically even, which furthered her resentment even more when she even wrote to Dumbledore asking if she could go to Hogwarts too, but he had told her, though kindly, that because she was a muggle she could not.

Petunia lashed out the only way she knew how to, with resentment and envy, which makes sense really.

If Petunia was already envious of her sister, and their parents put Lily on an even higher pedestal after they found out she was a witch, adding Dumbledore’s words about Petunia not be able to go because she was a “muggle”, then it’d make sense that Petunia would resent Lily, to make her a “freak” in her eyes.

Petunia’s jealousy and resentment came from many things with Lily’s odd abilities, with Lily spending time with Snape, with Lily discovering she was a witch and their parents praising her for that, with Lily’s acceptance into Hogwarts and Petunia’s rejection from it, with pureblood James Potter.

That’s not to say that Lily is at fault or that she didn’t care, we KNOW Lily loved her sister. We can safely assume that she wrote to Petunia throughout Hogwarts, her letters probably getting more scarce as they grew and Petunia had stopped responding, but Lily still sent Petunia a letter when she gave birth to Harry, she still felt that her sister was important enough to her to send a letter announcing Harry’s arrival.

Petunia’s resentment even caused her to marry Vernon because he was everything that Lily was not. He was a boring regular man with a boring regular life. (Which we learn from this part in the books below)

“Mrs Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be.”

However, even with all that envy and resentment, Lily was still her sister, we see this when Vernon and Marge are laughing about Lily being a bitch and Petunia isn’t, we see this when Petunia tells Harry that he didn’t just lose a mother that night but she lost a sister(it’s in the movies explicitly so not book canon but it’s still a thing to note)

Petunia treated Harry the way she did because he was attached to the wizarding world and her sister, yeah Harry was a wizard but he was also the spitting image of James, Petunia must have resented him that much more because Harry was the embodiment of the two things that took away her sister, magic and James Potter. More over, Voldemort killed Lily to get to Harry, Lily died for Harry, it’s not an insane thing to think that that added even more to Petunia’s disdain.

Harry was the embodiment of everything that took Lily away from Petunia, magic, James Potter and the very reason her sister was dead. In Petunia’s mind at least.

To add Petunia treated Harry horrifically and no this isn’t an excuse for her inexcusable gross actions, but an unnecessary long look into the reasoning for it.

#character analysis #character study #this is so bad #harry potter #lily evans #petunia dursley #petunia evans #the dursleys #james potter #anti jkr #I tried to make this as canon as possible #marauders #golden trio #sorry #this is so long #jily #marauders era #my mother proofread this #dare I say this is a Petunia character study?? #I dare #this better not flop #I will cry guys #thank you to the two people who wants to see this I’ve never done a character study before lol #hopefully this is good but idk

[biggameplayertrentaa]

https://www.tumblr.com/biggameplayertrentaa/739517110876864512/everyone-up-in-arms-about-the-tea-on-judelets

What tea? What happened😭

there’s a football blog on here that post tea on several popular players like pedri, jude, and I even saw gavi in there (yes i’ve lurked, I live for this shit y’all; I can’t mind my business).

anyways, some tea has emerged about Jude’s family life and his sexual habits and people are clutching their pearls like Judith had publicly vowed to sustain from any form of sexual intercourse. I personally think, part of it is the ‘fandoms’ (r we that?) age and a hint of jealousy. There is nothing wrong with feeling some type of way (I get it like that my man fr), but people are sending this girl hate for just being a messenger.

and lowkey…as a certified messy bitch who loves drama, i’m on a sports gossip forum and there are some consistencies between what is said on there and what the blog has posted. this is not to say I will put it on my life that these things are true, but i’ve been on this site since 2019 and the sources have rarely been wrong.

either way, we all have to remember that despite how we may feel, we don’t personally know this man. he gives us only what he wants us to see and knows that having a squeaky clean and beloved public image can lead to success that can extended past football. Jude lowkey is HIM right now and it doesn’t help that he’s both charming and attractive.

#this is so long #so sorry #jude:) #jude bellingham #pls don’t ask for the forum #i’m afraid a lot of y’all wouldn’t be able to handle it #the tea isn’t even all that either #he’s a typical 20 year old #who needs me to put it on him

[biggestqiblifan]

Ruins of Gorlan scene

Anyone going to talk about how Halt dead-ass jumped off Abelard to go comfort Will? This scene needs to be talked about more often.

Alright, here I go with another ranting/tangent.

When we had the boar scene, Will proved the reason why he was a ranger's apprentice. Even though he was going to flipping die, he still fought, he accepted it and went to protect the one guy that had made his life in the Ward a miserable existence, bullied him all ward his life. It sucks that that isn't mentioned more, but anyways, when the first boar came out, Halt neutralized it and basically did nothing.

But then, the second boar came on out, Halt not only killed it, but went to comfort Will. Not giving a fig about what others thought, especially about his tough-guy appearance. He let Will cry into him.

Now, I don't think people get how important physical connection is to a child. Growing up will strangers and adults who don't understand you like your parents would've, if they had been alive, the only touch and hugs that I think the ward kids would've gotten was from each-other. But it's not the same as having an adult hug and support you.

Imagine how comforting it must've been for Will to get that. And Halt too. This scene shows how close Halt already felt to Will, he doesn't connect or comfort anyone like he does with Will. This helped further their father/son relationship. Awesome. But, what did Halt get out of it?

For Halt to rush over like that, imagine how scared he must've felt. Also, not only was it the raw fear of Will dying, but I like to think that Halt was terrified that he'd fail Will's parents.

Also, Halt has been living on his own for several years. And, Ferris had been the favorite, so Halt must've been ignored at sometimes. So this connection was good for both of them.

I mean, when Will went off, Halt felt like he had no purpose. He was just mopin' around, missing his son.

So, this is where we first see Dad Halt. I don't think that the other Battleschool peps comforted Horace the same way Halt did. Halt just dropped everything and ran to protect his boy.

Gotta love that.

Halt would do anything to keep Will from harm. As proven over and over.

How proud do y'all think Halt was of Will after he got over the attack of nearly losing Will. I swear he had a heart-attack.

#ranger’s apprentice #dad halt #halt o'carrick #will treaty #horace altman #ward kids #growing up at the ward #ruins of gorlan #boar-fight scene #halt hugs #halt loves his son #help #there is so much more I want to say #this is so long #brain dead

[mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess]

Not A-Yuan approved

Warnings: some suggestive content (think lime level on the citrus scale, maybe with a lemon slice or two).

Ficlet for this post

Tag requests list: @aplaceofnonsense ; @littletalimagpie ; @tremendousmasculinity ; @lilapplesheadcannons

Thank you all for your interest in my idea and I hope you enjoy this piece!

1.

The incessant, loud beeping of his phone alarm had Wei Ying ripped from his pleasant dream world, a curse escaping his lips as he reached towards his nighstand and blindly swiped at the screen to turn it off, eyes still closed.

With silence once again undisturbed, he was just about ready to fall back asleep and bask into the 10 or 15 more minutes his alarm would allow him before going off again - but his ears picked up on a soft huff and he suddenly became aware of an additional weight in the bed next to him.

Keeping one eye closed, Wei Ying cracked the other open, his eyelid barely giving way for light to enter his vision. "Lan Zhan...?"

"Mn. I'm here."

Sleepiness left Wei Ying faster than it ever did as he realized his husband had finally returned from his week-long business trip, and his loneliness (and dry spell) would finally come to an end.

"You're really here!" Wei Ying exclaimed with happiness and excitement as he all but jumped on top of Lan Zhan, alternating between leaving kisses everywhere on his face and hugging him tight enough for his breath to stutter a bit. "I missed you so so sooo much, I thought I was going to die! When did you get here?"

"Just now. I took the first flight back home after brother and I finished the project."

Wei Ying hadn't even noticed Lan Zhan was still in his office clothes, but suddenly his eyes travelled down his body to see a tight blue shirt, a white tie and a matching pair of pants still on him.

Wei Ying had seen his husband in this many times before, but in the early morning light and with how difficult his absence had been, Wei Ying couldn't help finding Lan Zhan impossibly sexy in that outfit, everything so well-tailored and fitting in all the right places on the all too familiar but still incredibly attractive frame of his beloved.

"Have I ever told you how good you look in this?" Wei Ying asked, flirtatiously playing with the end of Lan Zhan's tie, where he'd placed a pin with his family's emblem.

Lan Zhan let his hands travel up Wei Ying's upper thighs and slide underneath his long sleep shirt. He couldn't help an appreciative squeeze to the plush of Wei Ying's ass. He'd missed it immensely.

"Anyway, no matter how ravishing you look dressed like this, vice president Lan, I know for a fact you'd look much better without it~"

That was all it took for Lan Zhan's thin patience (and high libido) to snap, easily switching positions to have Wei Ying pinned underneath him, swallowing any of his protests in a searing, passionate kiss. He hadn't realized how desperate he had been to feel and to taste his Wei Ying again until he felt Wei Ying moan and hungrily return the kiss, wrapping his arms around Lan Zhan's neck and his legs around his torso.

Their hips met briefly as their tongues moved against each other and the contact ripped a surprised moan from them both, the pleasure electrifying. They repeated the movement, again and again, growing desperate with it, with the need for more - more pleasure, more of each other.

Never breaking their kiss, Lan Zhan unceremoniously lifted Wei Ying's shirt as high as it would go with one hand and he reached to unbutton his pants with the other as he teased at Wei Ying's nipples. Meanwhile, Wei Ying barely managed to pull his boxers off one leg and rip some buttons of Lan Zhan's shirt in an attempt to rid of it...

...when the alarm went off again, loud and mechanical and so fucking disruptive.

"Turn it off." Lan Zhan all but growled in Wei Ying's ear as he hastily reached for the bottle of lube they kept in a nightstand drawer. Like hell was he going to let an alarm interrupt him from getting laid after a long week of nothing but old men, meetings and unfulfilling masturbatory bouts.

Wei Ying had a bit of trouble reaching his phone in his lust-addled mind and the sound was so impossibly annoying that Lan Zhan could almost imagine himself throwing the damn thing out the window so he wouldn't have to hear it again - but Wei Ying finally managed to make the alarm stop and they both sighed with relief at the renewed silence and the fact that, thankfully, it hadn't woken their son up.

They had to be quick (not that either of them were patient enough at that point to make it last anyway) - the reason why Wei Ying had set up an alarm in the first place was to help A-Yuan get ready for school. It wasn't late yet and it wouldn't hurt to let the boy sleep an extra 20 minutes - Wei Ying would stop by a McDonald's and get him nuggets for lunch and they'd still make it in time to school.

With renewed vigor, the two lovers resumed their passionate kiss as Lan Zhan reached between Wei Ying's ass cheeks to-

"Baba! Are you awake yet? We have to be early today!" Came A-Yuan's voice from the other end of the hallway, loud and very much awake, his little steps paddling uncomfortably close to the halfway open door.

Wei Ying and Lan Zhan shared a panicked-pained look and separated exactly a second before A-Yuan all but burst through the door.

"Baba! If you don't wake up, I'm going to miss the-"

His eyes landed on Lan Zhan and he seemed to have forgotten he was upset with his baba for sleeping in, running to hug his other dad with an excited shout.

"You're home!! I thought you wouldn't come back anymore!!"

Lan Zhan picked the boy up and gave him a forehead kiss. "Good morning. Of course I'm back, why would I ever want to leave?"

"I don't know, adults are kind of weird. One of my classmates said that dads sometimes go to get milk and never come back so..."

Lan Zhan couldn't help a small laugh. Wei Ying had sneakily managed to put his underwear back on underneath the blanket and finally joined in the conversation.

"A-Die didn't go to get milk, though."

"So you're awake!"

And A-Yuan jumped from one dad to another.

"Come on, we have to go in early, I have to present my project on the solar system today and you said you'd help me set it up in class!"

And A-Yuan all but dragged Wei Ying out of bed, mumbling about whatever he could have been doing so up late last night not to wake up on time like everyone else.

Lan Zhan sighed, overcome with love for his family and sadness for his dick.

Nothing a cold shower couldn't fix, right?

2.

A-Yuan always took a nap after school ended for the day. It wasn't long, something between 45 minutes and an hour - the activities of the day exhausted him and some rest after eating a warm meal helped him regain enough energy for homework and playing afterwards.

Incidentally, it wasn't just A-Yuan looking forward to nap time that day. Wei Ying had been busy with errands the whole time the boy was in school and Lan Zhan was catching up on the sleep he lost due to jet lag and travelling at night - so they never managed to continue their morning activities whilst the house was empty.

Thankfully, A-Yuan slept like the dead once he managed to fall asleep, so once he was tucked into bed and visibly asleep, his two dads almost crashed into one another racing to the bedroom.

They closed the door this time, a sign that they were not to be disturbed, and they were back into the position from before, with Lan Zhan beginning to slowly work Wei Ying open as they kissed their breaths away.

Once Lan Zhan was satisfied enough with the way Wei Ying moaned for him to hurry and to just put it in already, why are you being so mean to me, i thought you loved me- he lined himself up to his husband's entrance and was almost giddy with the prospect of getting to be inside him again-

When there was a knock on the door.

It startled them both so much that Lan Zhan honest to god fell off the bed.

"Baba, A-die, can I come in?"

"No!" They both shouted in unison, as Lan Zhan clumsily fished through the pile of clothes on the floor for some pants for himself and Wei Ying to put on.

"Why not? It's important!"

"A moment!" Wei Ying replied as he quickly put the lube and the restraints Lan Zhan was about to tie him up with away.

Once everything looked innocent enough, Lan Zhan opened the door to let A-Yuan in. "What's wrong?"

"I forgot my pencil case at school!"

For a split second, Lan Zhan and Wei Ying shared a frustrated "i can't believe this is why we had to stop again" look, but A-Yuan couldn't understand such nuances and began sniffling.

"Please don't be mad at me! I really didn't mean to, I just let Jingyi borrow my eraser and I forgot it on his desk and then I hurried to leave and-"

Lan Zhan patted his head. "It's fine. We will get it tomorrow. I will talk to your teacher to keep it away until then."

"Go back to sleep, A-Yuan. You had a long day today." Wei Ying added, his heart squeezing a bit at seeing his baby upset. "A pencil case is replaceable anyway, nothing to cry over, okay?"

"Okay... but can I nap with you guys today?"

Lan Zhan could only hope his face didn't give any of his 'no, go to your room, i really want to fuck your dad right now and you can't be here' thoughts. "What brought this on?"

"I don't know..." and he pulled the big, wet, puppy dog eyes, "I just feel a bit lonely I guess..."

And so A-Yuan happily nestled between his parents, happy and safe, as they shared dejected horny looks.

Fate really wasn't on their side that day.

3.

Wei Ying stirred into the sauce a few times, the contents giving off a pleasant aroma as they began simmering. He added meat pieces and vegetables to the pot, mixing them in and turning up the heat a few notches before moving on to wash the dishes in the sink.

Wei Ying felt Lan Zhan come up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist. "What are you cooking?"

"Something I found on a mommy blog. I have no idea what it's called but it sounded amazing so I decided to try it!"

"Mn."

Lan Zhan latched his lips onto the skin between Wei Ying's neck and shoulder, biting lightly into it.

"Lan Zhan."

"Mn?"

"You can't do this to me right now."

Lan Zhan let his hands inconspicuously slide under Wei Ying's apron and below the waistband of his pants. "Do what?"

Wei Ying would have responded if he didn't have to immediately slap a hand over his mouth so he wouldn't moan out loud. A-Yuan was doing his homework in his room and who knows what would have happened if he heard...

"Lan Zhan..."

He was undeterred, stroking Wei Ying slowly as he trailed a line of his kisses from the nape of his neck to the tip of his ear. "Yes?"

"Ah, you know we can't..."

"Why not?"

"Because - ah!"

Lan Zhan had pinched softly at the sensitive skin of one of Wei Ying's thighs with his free hand.

"Can't you wait until - until Wen Ning gets here?"

"Can you?"

"Fuck - ah, not with what you're doing to me right now, no, but he should be here any moment now so I really don't think it's going to be so hard-"

"It is hard."

"Lan Zhan, this really isn't the time to be a smart ass, get a hold of yourself for a minute!"

He didn't falter, instead increasing the speed of his strokes in that way he knew Wei Ying liked most. "I'd rather get a hold of you-"

"Baba!"

Lan Zhan huffed a very frustrated (and hot, if you asked Wei Ying) "Fuck, not again..." before letting go of his husband and taking over the dish washing. There was nothing less sexual than scraping leftovers off plates and he needed to get his mind off all the things he was desperate to do to Wei Ying but for some reason was not allowed to do that day.

Were the heavens finally punishing him for being overly lustful? Was he being put into horny jail to atone for his horny crimes? And couldn't they have waited until he got a few rounds in with Wei Ying before locking him up? It really had been a whole week, was there no mercy left in gods' hearts?!

"What is it, A-Yuan?"

"This exercise makes no sense! I can't do it at all! And it's the last one too!"

Wei Ying tried to focus on the first grade math textbook presented to him but his mind was still swimming with endorphines and perversions, so it took him a bit longer to understand what he had to do in the first place.

"Here is how I tried to do it."

Wei Ying looked over the paper A-Yuan attached to the textbook, then at the requirements of the exercise, and frowned.

"I don't see any mistakes..."

"But the result isn't right! It should be 4, but I got 7!"

"Lan Zhan, come take a look at this. Is there any way for the result to be 7?"

Lan Zhan looked over the exercise carefully, hands still dripping with dish soap. "No. Absolutely not."

"That's what I thought too! A-Yuan did it right, see?"

"Mn. It could be a printing mistake. A-Yuan, show your teacher your work tomorrow and see what she thinks."

"Okay! Then this mean's homework's done!"

"Just in time, uncle Ning texted me he'll be here in a few minutes to pick you up. Did you take all the toys and games you need?"

"Yes! I'll beat auntie Qing at Monopoly this time for sure!"

Wei Ying could only laugh. "Auntie Qing has never lost at Monopoly, not even I ever managed to beat her!"

"Yeah but you're bad at Monopoly. Jingyi says you have to be rich to be good at Monopoly and you're not!"

"What a little-"

The doorbell rang before Wei Ying finished his sentence and A-Yuan ran to open it. "Uncle Ning!"

A-Yuan wasn't the only one happy to see him.

"Go wait for me in the car, A-Yuan. I got you some cotton candy."

Lan Zhan handed three large shopping bags of food and various supplies to Wen Ning. "This should be enough for one night."

"Thank you for taking him on such short notice, Wen Ning." Wei Ying said as he handed Wen Ning an extra shopping bag of his and Wen Qing's favorite sweets and liquor. "We love him but we really need some alone time right now."

Wen Ning tried very hard not to think about what that meant. "It's okay, Qing-jie misses A-Yuan anyway. Call me when you want him back home and, uh, have a good... time- night. Have a good night!"

"Oh, we will, thanks again!"

The door barely closed before the good night started to be had.

Wen Ning could only hope that the smell of burnt food that emanated from the kitchen would not result in a house fire.

4.

Wen Qing handed A-Yuan a big cup of hot chocolate with a bunny shaped marshmallow on top. Wen Ning had just finished putting the board game away and they were getting ready to watch a Ghibli movie on the couch.

"Say, A-Yuan, do you know what privacy is?" Wen Qing asked as she waited for Wen Ning to set up the movie.

"Yeah, it's when someone wants to be alone."

"Everyone needs privacy, you know?" Wen Ning intervened. "Even your parents."

A-Yuan sipped his hot chocolate judgementally. "What do they need privacy for? I don't want a sibling right now."

Wen Ning looked to his sister for support. She was busy trying not to choke on the piece of candy she'd just eaten.

"A-Yuan, your parents can't... make siblings just like that..." Wen Ning tried, hoping the redness of his cheeks could be dismissed as caused by the hot chocolate.

"Baba says he gave birth to me, I'm pretty sure they can. Uncle Ning, do you really not know where babies come from?"

He could only wish he didn't.

#mdzs #mo dao zu shi #wangxian #writing attempts #this is so LONG #idk how it happened im sorry #i had a lot of fun writing it tho #i hope its fun to read too

[faytelumos]

Bestie when you have the energy, we need to discuss established bruharvey where Bruce, even if he's like the richest mf in the world, is widely known to be two-face's sugar baby

The funny thing is, they're still enemies in the field? But at home? Bruce tends to Harvey's mild wounds and listens to his complaining abt batman like. Yes honey he is a menace and yes I do know you could've taken him and no I won't leave you for him i promise

And as Batman AND bruce, our boy has to save his ass everytime. Imagine kidnapping Harvey and his kept man husband wipes the floor with you bc you interrupted family night sjsjsjs

Okay, okay, okay, so several thoughts:

Two-Face is a crime lord, and Harvey is smart as hell. Together, they'll make a formidable empire within and outside of Gotham.

With all of the different types of cash flow Two-Face has set up and the grade-A hierarchy he undoubtedly set up to keep things running in his absence, Two-Face is going to be very rich. More than rich enough to have a sugar baby pre-loaded with SpoiledRotten.exe

Is it icky for Bruce to accept gifts from blood money? Probably. Does he love Harvey and ache for the feeling of being taken care of to contrast the constant and obsessive impulse to be in control of a situation?

Yes.

I think you're absolutely right and Bruce and Harvey knows each other much, much better than they know a lot of other people. There's a level of intimacy in their kind of long-lasting relationship (regardless of the nature of that relationship at any given time) that is simply so rare. They're entangled, and it reaches so far back for both of them.

[Idea: Bruce and Harvey are reincarnated together again and again.]

I'm a firm believer that Bruce is a sub because he is constantly holding onto absolutely every string and situation he can find and it is exhausting to live like that. In his best and most relaxed frame of mind he wants someone to take care of him, and I think Two-Face specifically would jump at the chance.

Maybe this is just me projecting or whatever, but I think Two-Face is confused by the way of the world. No situation is ever certain, you can never be sure of an outcome given all of the wild variables of life, and it's scary. He wants things to get done, he needs things to happen, and even when you're following the systems and the rules and the paths that shit is supposed to get better through, nothing! Works! Out!

But Bruce…. Bruce is constant. Bruce is there always, in one way or another. Even when he's so mad, even when Two-Face has fucked up royally, Bruce is still there. And Two-Face isn't sure of a whole lot, but he sure that he wants Bruce to be good and safe.

Two-Face would love to take care of Bruce because even if he messes up (which he won't because Bruce is precious and he's going to take good care of him), Bruce will always give him another chance. Two-Face is just trying to do the best he can and Bruce always knows that and Two-Face wants to pay him back for that faith, for that loyalty, for keeping him sane in this disgusting mess of a world.

So Bruce the Sugar Baby is something that both of them would gravitate towards.

Two-Face and Bruce is borderline domestic; Two-Face is sharp lines and rough edges and hands that hold too hard, but he wants to be soft for Bruce. And it works because Bruce doesn't always know what soft is, and Two-Face is so deliberate and mindful that it feels the same.

But it can be very different when Two-Face and Batman are in the room together.

Batman doesn't want to be taken care of and he can't give up control of a situation. It may seem petty, but Two-Face hates dealing with Bruce with that stupid cowl on his face because he is just the worst.

I don't think Two-Face and Batman get along nearly as well because they're both in their dominant head-spaces. Two-Face is trying to control the situation to protect Harvey, and Batman is trying to control the situation to protect Gotham, and because of the difference of scope of these goals, they butt heads.

However!

When people Bruce loves are in trouble, he goes a little feral. Gotham fades in the background, and he'll do whatever it takes to get his people out.

And Two-Face, I can imagine, is a little tickled by this.

Like, no, he doesn't need Bats' help, thank you very much. He doesn't need to be rescued, he's perfectly capable, he could have gotten out of it himself. But damn does he look good clearing the room. He'll let himself get snatched up (as long as there's no real danger to Harv) to get a nice view of that action.

Yes, Bats, he could have gotten out of those binds at any time. No, he will not be repeating this position later in the privacy of their own home.

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#TwoBats #BruHarvey #Bruce Wayne #Harvey Dent #Two Face #can I ax you something? #this is SO LONG #I hope this displays correctly my page is being buggy on mobile #thank you for coming to my TED Talk #sorry I took like an hour break in between writing this and I hope you can't tell #I hope this feeds you well bestie