#and also it was just to make arthur more pliant

[dollopole]

“But we need to find you some kind of disguise, you’re too conspicuous in those clothes.”

“Whatever you say, I’m entirely in your hands.”

Okay.

This is their reaction after, btw.

[lovebotomy]

tbh probably as you understood him more you realized he's just not for you. happy merlin is nice but so boring to me personally lololol I need my bitches to be hypocritical mentally ill tunnel visioned and fun fun fun. his journey is extraordinary and I actually dislike most other merlin characters (arthur included, morgana excluded) because of how painstakingly boring they are. I also fluctuate between sympathizing with merlin and laughing at how much he sucks because he brought it all upon himself but it's all love in the end noone else has written fantasy character that's straight out of depressing russian classics.. merlin my beloved

another possible explanation is that you project your own mistakes on him. the apathy you feel is defense mechanism your brain employed to keep you from realizing it. so idk you but are you chronic liar? do you stratergise behind peoples backs? do you have god complex? do you play victim because it's easier than fighting for yourself? do you put your belief in other people too much instead of trusting yourself? are you becoming too assimilated? does your trauma make you pliant? so many possibilities lol he's a mess

Gods but somebody should help me understand why I hate merlin so much, I truly have no idea, and it's not even hatred, it's apathy, it's indifference to anything happening to him...

And I don't understand, I think it's quite simple, I should move on and forget about the show but Idc about show, I want to understand why I'm so disinterested in a character's plight, I used to love.

For some time I thought it was just me hating all the main characters, but I tried analyse my own feelings and, just no, I don't, I love other of my fav main characters, some of them I love too much even. It's just merlin... And I've no idea how this happened.

here's the thing tho, I love happy Merlin, but I hate when it's well "merlin whump" Ig? Idk man and I'm so confused.

[inkyblinders]

Dancing with the Devil

Pairing: Luca Changretta X Reader

Author’s note: So excited to share my first fic on this blog! I’m still trying to figure out the ins and outs of Tumblr as it’s been a hot minute since I’ve last used it, but if you like my writing please repost and follow for more :)

The story (part one of many, hopefully) is set in early Season 4 and is in second-person, but you’re also a character with a name.

And in case you can’t tell...I think Luca Changretta is criminally underrated.

Warnings: Some mild smut.

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

There is a stranger in the Garrison tonight.

He isn’t a shipyard laborer, neither tired nor grimy from the perpetual muck that belongs to Small Heath. In fact, he is more polished and well-dressed than anyone you’ve ever seen, except for perhaps the Shelby brothers who frequent the Garrison.

But this man is no Peaky Blinder.

He leisurely surveys the customers in the pub, eyes obscured by a fedora that slants on his head. An unlit cigarette hangs between thin lips. It’s a halfhearted attempt to blend in, as if he’s doing this as a courtesy but cares not in the slightest if he rouses suspicion.

You are used to breaking up bar fights and mopping up the bloody aftermath, but this man makes you more uneasy than any roughhousing drunkard you’ve dealt with. He is too quiet, his eyes too sly.

“This must be the trouble Tommy was expecting,” you think to yourself.

When he catches your gaze from behind the bar, a hawk-like smile cuts across his face. He winks then, and you flush even as something dangerous spikes in your throat. The whiskey you hold in your hands is just like his. Another prop, another facade.

“Anything else for you then, sir?”

He looks up from beneath the brim of his hat. His face is slyly handsome, with sharp cheekbones and a striking nose you crave to run down lightly with your fingers. Now you understand why he tries to keep himself hidden.

Here is a face that, once seen, would not be soon forgotten.

A tilt of his head, a voice as like raw silk as you shiver.

A tilt of his head, a voice as like raw silk as you shiver.

“Your daddy owns this place?”

So he’s not from Birmingham, after all. Every man within a fifty-mile radius knows who owns the Garrison. They might have never met the man, but they certainly know the name of his younger brother.

“No sir, he doesn’t.” Your voice is carefully polite but clipped, praying it doesn’t betray the pounding of your heart as you watch him take off his hat and run a hand through dark, slicked-back hair. You’ve seen Tommy talk like this with men he mistrusts, and he mistrusts a lot of men. No matter what, you are not volunteering any more information than necessary.

He waits for you to say more, and his smile doesn’t falter when you remain silent. “Well then, signorita, will you tell me who does?”

The Italian. So it is him.

Fuck.

“The Garrison is owned by...a family from these parts. Do you have business with them,” You can’t help but add impulsively, “Signore?”

His dark eyes widen with pleasure at your flippant remark in his own language. He is playing a game, and you are playing along with him.

“What business would I have with Gypsy fucks like them?” He leans forward, “But sweetheart, you on the other hand...”

Working for the Shelbys means minding the pub when Arthur’s gone, and spying for Tommy when he needs intel on whoever he’s feuding with at the time. It’s more serious than simply turning the other cheek when there’s a cutting in the streets. But you are not prepared to face an enemy alone.

Even if he is as charming as the devil.

Even if he wants you, and you want him back.

For the millionth time, you silently curse Tommy for forbidding you from having a gun, a knife, anything to protect yourself while in the pub. You had asked him about it one night, afterwards, and he only replied, “It’s bad for business if a girl like you gets caught with a weapon she can’t handle.”

“Then teach me,” You had retorted, balling up his trousers and chucking it at his head, “You think you can protect me. But what about when you’re gone?”

Tommy had looked up from buttoning his shirt then, his gaze steely and blue. “I have eyes in all of Birmingham. And besides,” He smiled ruefully, “You’re never in danger unless I put you there myself.”

In the pub, the Italian watches your expression. And in a moment of madness, you almost take up his veiled flirtation.

But then there is Tommy. Tommy with his inscrutable blue gaze. Tommy with his whores. And now you are angry at yourself for thinking of him when he was probably fucking some other woman in Camden Town. For business, he would explain, avoiding your eyes.

“What business would you have with a barmaid like me?” A whisper of regret fills you as you turn to leave. You are halfway up the stairs that lead to your room above the pub when you hear a caress of a single word that turns your blood to ice.

“Isabel.”

The Italian is leaning against the banister, eyes drinking in your figure. And now he saunters up the steps. You scamper up the rest of them but he is quicker. In a flash he spins you around, his body snugly against you and the second-floor wall. An arm over your head, caging you with his tall frame.

The intoxicating scent of tobacco and roses fills the crevices between your bodies.

Your eyes flash dangerously as he bends down, daring him to force a kiss. But he only murmurs into the crook of your neck, “Where is Mr. Shelby tonight?”

You answer breathlessly into the shoulder of his freshly-pressed suit, “He could be at the betting shop. Could be with his wife at home. I don’t-- ”

“The other Mr. Shelby, Isabel.”

Maybe he already sent his men after Tommy. Maybe Tommy’s already dead in a ditch, in godforsaken Camden Town. Or maybe, just maybe, this man really doesn’t know where he is, and you are the only person who can tell him.

He has you good and compromised. No one can help you, so you must save yourself. Instincts kick in, your mind feverishly formulating a plan. It won’t be the first time you’ve done something like this, and on Tommy’s orders nonetheless.

Loose lips sink ships, and men are so pliant after a romp in the sheets. Mindful of your mission now, you angle to ask for his secrets, anything you could find out that gives Tommy an advantage.

Only this time, your heart actually catches as you gaze into the mafioso’s lethal eyes.

A pause then, wondering how much you should reveal, and you confess, “Tommy doesn’t tell anyone where he is until he’s already there.” It’s a half-truth—he told you.

“So he’s Tommy to you then?” The man is pleased with your slip of the tongue. You’ve told him a secret he already knows.

“You are his woman.” He caresses your face with the back of his hand, etched with ink. A cross. Rosary beads. And there, a black-palmed hand. Just like the ones he sent the Shelbys.

I want to see where his tattoos lead to.

“You are his woman,” he continues, and something dark and sweet fills his voice as he purrs, “And you are not afraid of me.”

“I’m not giving up Shelby secrets even if you seduce me,” You stifle a whimper as he wedges a leg between your skirts, and you think of nothing except the way you ache for him to come even closer, until there is nothing between you but skin on bare skin.

“Tommy has whores who might give him up for a pound or three. Although,” you smirk, “I won’t tell you where you’d find them, either.”

“Oh sweetheart, didn’t you hear me?” So close you can feel his heartbeat with your fingertips, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

A deathly promise.

“I’ve come for you.”

He slants his mouth, his lips pressing hotly to yours as you surrender to desire. The kiss is swift and hard. The two of you come together, again and again, like lightning and thunder. As he cradles your head with one hand, the other slips underneath your blouse to palm your breast. You arch against the wall. The onyx rings on his hand are cold, and they pucker your nipples as they bite your skin.

Somehow you find your fingers seeking him too. But it’s not enough to touch the exposed skin between the gaps of his buttoned shirt. You want more.

When you pull apart he is panting, lips apart and wet. His once slicked-back hair now mussed, you imagine yours is too. For the first time this evening, his arrogant face is a little shocked, as if the taste of you affected him more deeply than he expected. You unclench your fists from his shirt and slowly take his face into your hands. You draw a line down the bridge of his nose, feeling all its bumps and ridges.

You murmur huskily, “Why did you really come to Birmingham?”

He tilts his head expectantly, and you are lost in his devastating eyes as he replies.

“Pleasure.”

[coinofstone]

Combining 4x12 and 4x13 The Sword in the Stone pts 1 and 2 into one post, no commentary tracks on either episode, unfortunately.

4x12 The Sword in the Stone pt 1

I really don't mean to question any of this homoerotic comedy gold, but why has Arthur got his chainmail on before his pants? Surely chainmail is a post-trouser application?

"No one likes to be called fat, Merlin"

Arthur sitting there moping over Gwen is the biggest self own. "I look for her in the room, and she's not there. Then I remember why." Yea cuz you threw her out you DUMBASS. Sick of TV trying to make me feel sympathy for dudes who played themselves.

Can you hear the music when you see this

Such a great shot. AND a great piece of music too.

Dear reader, you're probably expecting me to make a shit ton of hypnosis jokes, and you know, you're not wrong, but first - there is something pressing that needs to be addressed:

Behold, the most awkward handshake of all time. Eoin is literally going for his bicep instead of his forearm, what even is that?!? And poor Percival, he's got one injured dumbass hanging off him on one arm, and another dumbass trying to shake his other hand like he's never seen an arm before. It looks like he's reaching up into his armpit because of the angle 😂😂 I'm cackling watching this gif loop.

Same energy:

(Gif credit not found)

THIS is why Elyan/Percival is the superior side ship:

Look at that sweet sweet chemistry. I almost always see Percival paired with Leon or Gwaine in fic and I just... how on earth can you pass this up? These two are perfect together. That LOOK Elyan gives him and Percival's giddy face as he looks over at Merlin and Arthur 😍😍😍 it looks better in the video than I can reproduce in gif

Christ, he DOES play the bimbofication well, doesn't he? "Whatever you say I'm entirely in your hands." I feel like at the time that was the line that spawned a million fanfics.

Morgana that is a magic snake, not a pen

Agravaine is so fuckin creepy. I mean I'm glad it took this long for him to go full blown creepazoid but we ALL saw it coming. Even tho he's NOT her uncle it's still gross, he's twice her age and disgusting.

How many brothers did Ygraine have anyway? Tristan I guess we'll never know but why would Agravaine really want his sister's SON dead? Fuckin royals.

Is Arthur listening for woodworm?

Why is Tristan twice Isolde's age

I miss Simpleton Arthur, but at least King Arthur looks good fighting in those tight capris

Arthur's all moody about Agravaine betraying him and Merlin is so supportive. If I were Merlin I would've been dropping "I told you so's" left and right.

What I don't get, is if Merlin knew Gwen has been in Ealdor, why has he never told Arthur this?

Gotta figure the people of Ealdor are not gonna be too happy about their village coming under attack cuz King Arthur is hiding out there. He's not even their king 😂

4x13 The Sword in the Stone part two

It's weird to have what feels like a ending moment ten minutes in

Tristan is such a dick

Won't eating moldy bread just make Gaius sicker

Hey um... how did Arthur get his clothes back? Did he keep a spare set in Ealdor? You know, for all those times he visits Hunith with Merlin? What's that you say, I'm getting fanon confused with canon again? Am I though?

Actual scene from when Merlin was telling Arthur the Bruta coda:

Omgggg the way he looks at Merlin's mouthhhhhhhhh before he goes to try and pull the sword from the stone

This is probably the second most iconic scene in the series, after the round table scene

and yes, I realize I'm going to hell for this but I can't be the only pervert watching this and thinking about how incredibly ... phallic it is.

There's a whole other level of subtext to this. Not just the phallic imagery but Merlin literally leading a doubtful Arthur to this ... performance space in front of a crowd, where Merlin is in full control of what's about to happen - and he guides Arthur through the motions, encouraging and confidence boosting, until Arthur becomes the truest version of his self. I say Merlin is in control but that's not even entirely accurate, he's only in control of releasing the sword from the stone, but that in and of itself is of no consequence; the power in this scene lies with Arthur, in his faith in himself - which is what Merlin is really helping him reclaim; the sword is just metaphor.

But am I supposed to believe that this subtext isn't intentional? Especially immediately after Merlin had Arthur in a trance-like state where he became more pliant and willing to be led?

My god if I were involved in this fandom when this was airing this episode would've made me lose my MIND.

Daaaamn Leon coming on a bit strong there but okay.

Nice to know that Morgana Pendragon, last priestess of the Old Religion, powerful Socereress and current ruler of Camelot, freezes and whimpers in terror at the first glimpse of an unexpected octogenarian in her castle.

I never watched any cast interviews beyond the SDCC panel that was in the S3 extras but I really want to know where that little laugh Old Man Merlin does came from. That little 'heh' is just the greatest thing ever, I'm dying to know if he based that on anyone or anything in particular.

Hey remember in S2 when Morgana got a whole bunch of hairbrushes for her birthday? Bet she wishes she knew where those had got to now.

This brief moment between Gwen and Arthur is actually perfect. Arthur has for so long gone been brooding about how he loves her but he's angry, even though we, the audience, know he has no business blaming her, none of the fucking characters do, including Gwen. But Gwen has also been through a lot, and he's given her zero benefit of doubt the whole time. So watching her march up to him and angrily tell him that she still loves him, then walking away without letting him speak - him, the king, her, leaving the 'tho God knows why since you behave like such an ass' unsaid at the end. It's really a beautiful, perfect moment.

Arthur: what happened to you, Morgana?

Morgana:

We love a mirror corridor fight scene

Percival and Elyan tho 😍😍

"Hold me"

No parallels there, nope, not at all.

Arthur: will you marry me?

The castle staff: christ, not again

Merlin's got himself a new coat for the occasion and everything!

Why is it that Merlin never checked on Aithusa? Never even asked Kilgharrah about her? You'd think he would've felt some kind of obligation, as the last Dragonlord, towards her. Yes I'm going with 'her' don't @ me it's hc.

As per usual, if there's anything worth commenting on in the special features for S4 I will create a separate post.

[flysafepapi]

so much to say pt 7

First part here, it won’t make much sense otherwise.

Second part here

Third part here

Fourth part here

Fifth part here

Sixth part here

Warnings: None.

Pairings: Isaiah/Michael

If you want to be tagged in any new installments, let me know!

tagging: @the-makingsofgreatness​ @pendragonpants​

When he sleeps, which isn’t much these days, he dreams of Michael.

He’s not surprised about it. In his entire life, he’s never missed anyone so much, apart from when his dad went to join the war effort.

The last thing he'd been doing, that he remembers after that last bottle of gin, was laying in their bed, watching Michael reading by the lamplight, even though Michael hated when Isaiah watched him. It never goes further, at least not yet. He hasn't asked why, figures that Michael will tell him about it when he's ready. He's careful to keep his hands above the waist, even though god knows it's tempting to do something when he's got Michael underneath him, relaxed and pliant. It was bad enough when he was older. Now he's back in his younger body, with a younger and more impressionable version of the man he loves.

It's a bad idea, to get between two men with knives, but he reacts before he thinks. Honestly, he'd completely forgotten about Danny's episode that ends in a murder, he just happened to be around when he heard the familiar voice shouting. He can’t fault Danny for panicking when he realises what he’s done, but he also can’t help the way he snaps at him to shut the fuck up, holding a hand to his stomach. The Italian asshole just walks back inside his shop, ignoring everything that’s happening outside the windows, and for a second Isaiah wishes he’d just let it happen. 

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“Hey, look at me. Go get help.”

Danny nods rapidly and hurries off, disappearing around a corner with a wary look back, and Isaiah sinks down to the ground with a bitten-off groan. Closing his eyes isn’t a conscious decision, but the next thing he’s aware of are John and Arthur dragging him into the hospital, shouting for a nurse, and everything hurts. Everything sounds like it’s far away, muffled in his ears when they talk to him, he assumes, before he coughs and it tastes like copper thick on his tongue, then the world fades out again. They must get him to a bed, because he can feel the bandages tight around his middle when he’s alert enough to figure out where he is. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I was in the city, happened to see the trouble.”

“And you didn’t help me? Cold, Henry.” The name is awkward in his mouth, not right, but he refuses to be the one that tells Michael who he really is. Everything is already fucked up, he’s not going to mess that one up too. “Didn’t think I made that much of an impression.”

“Me either.”

Michael doesn’t look at him. He stares out the window instead, not that there’s much there to look at. Just the same dirty city that Isaiah’s known all his life. In his opinion, the village Michael comes from is better, but they’ll have enough arguments about that in a few years. Michael will look at him like he’s insane and laugh, asking him if he hit his head when Michael wasn’t looking, and Isaiah will just grin at him. 

“What did the doctors say?”

“Missed everything vital, you’re lucky.”

“Right, lucky.” 

It hurts to turn his head, for reasons that he’ll figure out later, but he does it anyway and looks at the man sitting in the chair next to the hospital bed they’ve got him in. Michael looks tense. There’s no outward signs, but Isaiah can read the little clues in the way he curls his fingers too tight around the arms of the chair, and blinks too fast. 

“Why are you here?”

“You’re hurt.”

“Look, I appreciate the thought, but you barely know me.”

Not yet, anyway. In a few years, if things go right, he’ll be the person that knows Isaiah better than anyone, including his father. Now, though, he’s just a boy that Isaiah has seemingly met on a trip to get some time alone, though that was just the first time. He’s been back about twice a week for the past three months since then.

“You’re not allowed to die on me. Alright? I forbid it.”

“You forbid it?”

“Yes.”

He almost laughs, but bites it back at the last second, so all he does it a weird huff out his nose. 

“You still haven’t told me why you’re here. Why do you care whether or not I get hurt?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I can’t figure it out.”

“Oh, you can’t figure it out.”

“Stop copying me.” Michael turns and looks at him, for the first time, and he’s angry now but it can’t hide the faint glimmer of tears in his eyes. Not enough to fall, just enough to catch on his eyelashes. “I’m being serious.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you baby, but you don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do.” 

That’s a blatant lie, he’d do anything Michael asked, but the other man doesn’t need to know that. Not when he doesn’t even know he really is. 

“You’re infuriating.”

“I know.”

It’s not a kiss, not really, more of a collision. It’s nothing like the ones he remembers, either. There’s no experience in it, no finesse, just rough movements and clashing teeth. He’ll take it, anyway. It hurts even more to lift his arms than it did to turn his neck, but he pushes the pain away in favour of getting his hands curled in the white shirt Michael’s wearing and pulling him in, sitting up as much as he can at the same time. 

“I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Up this close, all he can see is Michael’s eyes looking into his, practically nose to nose in the dark room. The only light in the room is the dim lamp in the corner, but it’s enough to see by. Enough to see the flush on his boy’s face, at least. 

“I can tell. I can teach you, if you want.” The flush gets darker when he winks, and he has to bring a hand up and feel it, hot underneath the skin. Michael grabs his hand, and if anyone were to walk in and see them, it’d be impossible to hide what’s really happening here.

“I hate you.”

It’s easy enough to read the real meaning underneath the words, mumbled into his lips when he darts forward to kiss him, then again, and again. There’s similarities, between this Michael and the one he remembers, and the aversion to saying what he really feels is still the same. 

“I know.”

“Isaiah?” 

He doesn’t shut his eyes and scream, but it’s extremely tempting, when Michael jumps back like he’s been burned and turns to Tommy standing in the doorway, Danny lurking just behind him with an apologetic look on his face, holding his hat in his hands. 

“Sorry, Isaiah, but he insisted.”

“Fuck.”

[rokutouxei]

he will own me, and i’ll embrace defeat

ikemen vampire: temptation in the dark theodorus van gogh / reader | 2104 | also on ao3 subspace, rope bondage, vampire bites.

mildly explicit. this is half smut, half love song. 

theo likes to do this in front of a mirror.

naked, sometimes. but it’s not a requirement. the clothes give an extra texture—a bit more restraint. mostly, these tinier details, he leaves up to you. he adjusts. that’s not what he’s here for.

you tie your hair into a sleek, high ponytail, watching your reflection in the standing mirror across the bed. the tips of your hair graze gently along your collarbone, a light touch that sends you shuddering. you know there is no reason to be frightened, or even nervous. you listen to your heartbeat—this isn’t fear. this is excitement.

theo enters the room with the ropes in his hands.

you smile at him when you make eye-contact.

he told you once already—that he’s no good with words. he is clumsy, mouth used to the shape of lies told in the interest of keeping his—and other people’s—feelings safe. arthur once said everything theo does is in the name of kindness. he’s never put himself first. he’s always in the background. for the longest time, in his own story, he was a side character with no spoken lines.

until he met you.

you read the dialogue hidden in his hands. you taste the i love you on his lips. you hear the things he’s too afraid would become real if he said them out loud.

you tell him you hear him. that you’d love if it comes out of his mouth, but—it doesn’t have to.

because you know.

“hondje.” his breath is deep. steadying. he settles into his headspace. “how are you?”

“i’m good. ready, actually.”

your nightgown, a pale pastel blue, flutters when he approaches you. he holds you in a moment of tenderness; his arms around you, your arms over each other across his waist. you feel him starting. he presses a stable, gentle kiss on your temple. you smooth the lines on your brow. you turn your head to one side; he nuzzles your pulse, thrumming against the thin skin on your neck.

you take a deep breath, and let go. you let your mind float.

he presses a kiss on your jaw just below your ear. it floods you with warmth. in this unusual mildness, theo sits you gently on the cushion you’d laid out on the floor, in front of the mirror. one arm guides you down. the other firmly grasps the rope. the show has begun.

sometimes you prefer to keep your eyes shut. focus on the metronome beat of your heart, the graze of his hands on your body, the snug grasp of rope along your skin.

today, you want to watch.

theo’s eyes are darkened with lust but are sharp and clear and present. the late afternoon sun casts a deep orange light over the both of you. he kisses your shoulder as he pulls one arm towards your back. you hear the rope, feel it around your wrist. from the mirror, you catch the small smile forming at the edge of his lips. you smile too.

he nuzzles your neck as he pulls the leftover rope, sways you gently—left, then right—you lean in full faith. he strings you in. the rope goes over your breasts; around your torso like that persuasive snake. you watch it slither over your skin, stark against it, and yet looking like it is where it belongs. you think, if it is a sin to love like this, damnation is nothing for bliss. you feel the intricate loops, the sure knots, they begin line down your spine. he presses flush against you, a second layer holding you up, going underneath the swell of your chest. you feel his heart.

you hear his “i love you.” his “thank you for trusting me like this.” his “i promise i won’t hurt you.” his eyes are deep and blue like the ocean.

you lose yourself in his flow. your second wrist is bound now. your chest open and out, nipples visible through the thin cloth of your nightgown. your nails make crescent marks where it scratches your arm as you sigh. you’re held up by rope into an elegant, attractive bow. you look at your reflection, make eye contact with yourself. helpless? vulnerable? maybe. but loved. oh, so loved.

he scoops you up into his arms, effortless in the shift in weight. he never pushes you until you’ve given him the go.

“hey,” he calls out. your name is a gentle flower on his lips. “what about your legs?”

your hands are shaking with eagerness. you nod. yes, you tell him. you pull your legs up, folding yourself at the knees. yes. please.

so he takes you gently, ropes mediating between the two of you again. winding twine, he ties your calves to your thighs. you sit knee apart. you see yourself in the mirror. bared, open. you see him too. the knit in his brow. the beads of sweat. his hands caressing your skin lightly before guiding your binds. wherever the rope touches, he follows it with a kiss. from your thigh—down your knee—to your ankle. the rope holds you together.

the rope holds you both together.

you’re close to tears. you surrender. you love him with your everything, so you surrender.

he stands up from behind you, his warmth leaving you so sudden you shudder against the restraints. he pauses.

“are you okay?”

“yeah,” you rasp.

he nods. “nothing numb?”

you shake your head. he traces a finger over the fabric of your nightgown, along where your breasts are bound, up your neck, to your jaw. he tilts your chin upwards so you face him. you can’t look him straight in the eyes; you know you would break if you did.

“nowhere too tight?”

“just right.” your voice is a thin whisper now. it is your heart that is screaming: i love you, i love you, i love you.

gently, he pulls you towards him with a length of rope like a lead, coming from the knot at the valley of your breasts. you fall gently against his chest with a thump. his warmth again. away from the reflective honesty of the mirror, you close your eyes to listen to the beat of your heart. to his. to your breaths.

you feel his hand make its way to your hair, gently stroking knots out of strands.

his voice is low, but content. “you’re doing so good.”

theo never demands to do this with you—always waits for you to initiate, for you to ask for his firm hands binding you with rope. he knows you. knows how much of a toll this must take on you; the full faith, the vulnerability, the utter helplessness.

but he always seems to forget that you like this too. that your surrender of control is the beginning of a poem that ends with i love you.

that you find love in this act of full giving.

he seems to think that for your forward-facing, headstrong nature, to be forced pliant is nothing less than a cruel restraint.

but you adore the submission; the relinquishment of all that holds you so he can pick you up. the only things keeping you steady: his rope, his strong arms around you.

he can never quite remember that you love breaking apart so he can build you right back up again. that you’re okay with being led if his hands hold the leash.

that you’re ready to be his hondje your whole life left to be lived.

the two of you stay still for a long moment. you don’t know how long you stay like that. could be five minutes, could be five years. what matters is that he has the lead wrapped around his arm and you are connected; he holds you in his arms as if he hasn’t held you for so long. he kisses your neck. you shiver.

his hot breath fans against the flesh at the crook of your neck, and you tilt your head to one side, your pulsing blood underneath for offertory.

“come on, theo,” you goad.

he runs his tongue over the flesh, warming it up, making you shiver. he groans as his fangs extend outwards, its sharp points grazing your skin ever so lightly. you take a deep breath as he angles his mouth to bite.

your blood flows from wound; he sighs at the mouthful so sweet and satisfying. the pain from the bite ebbs quickly, replaced by a thrum of heat that floods your nerves all over. it shoots through you like lightning and then lingers under your skin. you sigh against him, listen to him suck and drink and nurse your wound from where he is. the overwhelming pleasure makes you dizzy. your hands strain where they’re bound. you let out a low moan.

warm in his arms, you feel like you’re floating out in the open ocean, only pushed by the gentle waves of your desire for him, to be with him.

then, slowly, like it’s been forever, he sways you left, and right. refocusing you back to the present. gently unraveling his spell. time, which had seemingly paused in its flow, begins to tick away once more. you open your eyes as he sits you back up on your own legs. he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“bloodlust?” you ask. your voice is hoarse, like you’re drawing it from an old well.

he shakes his head. there’s blood on the corner of his mouth. a pleased shiver runs down your spine. “no. i’m good.”

he’s in a good headspace. steady. you nod your head.

“you?” he asks. holds a hand to your thigh where it’s cinched by rope. “do you…”

“no,” you say. “i’m fine.” you feel calm. maybe too calm. right now you don’t need anything else, just this.

“that’s okay.” he doesn’t sound disappointed, either. there are days where after these he pulls you up like a marionette and tosses you onto the bed where he makes love to you until you are nothing but sweat and love. but there are days like these where just sitting next to each other is the ultimate release. you look forward to both. his voice is level. “are you ready?”

you nod.

and so begins the unraveling, like a much-awaited present. he returns to his original position behind you, your back pressed to his chest like a wall to steady yourself against. you take a deep breath.

hazily, like freshly woken up, you watch your reflections in the mirror. you, looking absolutely content and spent. two pierce marks on your neck you will not want to hide from anyone. theo, whose eyes follow each inch of rope that he untwines. his hands are soothing, warm against the chill of your exposed skin. his fingers trace where your skin has raised red ridges, places the rope has touched, smoothing it gently like easing its hurt.

he rocks you gently again: left, and right. he murmurs words of encouragement against the crook of your neck as your restraints disentangle. when he is done, and the rope surrounds you both like a fairy circle, a dangerous place you’ve both inevitably crossed, your exhaustion makes you feel like you’ve lived a hundred years.

from where your mind has floated off earlier you slowly sink back into reality, the weight returning to your limbs like gravity suddenly affects you again. theo’s arms are welcoming and warm as you collapse into a puddle against him, his name a whisper on your lips.

“how are you?” he asks.

you sigh. “like goo, happy goo,” you say.

he presses a kiss on your forehead. “good.”

you’re still so out of it, focusing solely on his warmth, that you barely notice him shift position. he tucks his arms under your knees, carries you princess-style to the waiting bed. the springs creak with the weight. you let him tuck you under the sheets; he follows, lying down next to you. you turn to him with all the strength you can muster and reach out to his face with two hands.

you share a kiss.

outside, the moon watches over the lamplit streets of france like a celestial chaperone. its silver rays lay a blanket of light over where both your bodies meet. the mirror reflects its moonlight. theo holds you against his chest. face pressed against his collarbone, where you can smell his comforting musk, you look in the mirror and smile. in this embrace you hear theo’s i love you. you hope he hears yours too.

—

title comes from the last line of “on bondage and homoerotic thrills” by hunter burke! read the poem! 

[thecomicsnexus]

Introducing the Firebrand

POLICE COMICS #1 AUGUST 1941 BY JERRY IGER, JACK COLE, FRED GUARDINEER, ARTHUR F. PEDDY, PAUL GUSTAVSON AND REED CRANDALL

SYNOPSIS (FROM DC DATABASE)

Rod Reilly is the bored and wealthy socialite son of steel tycoon "Emerald" Ed Reilly, who decides to fight crime with his servant and friend, "Slugger" Dunn.

A criminal known as Sylvester Cole and his cronies attempt to murder a local steeplejack, but Firebrand swings into action and apprehends them. Unfortunately for Rod, the goons are unwilling to divulge any information to him. Police arrive on the seen, but mistake the masked mystery man as one of the criminals, forcing Rod to flee.

A short time later, Rod attends a war relief function. One of the party guests, Baron von Hanson becomes the unwitting victim of a pickpocket named Dippy Dolan. Rod intercepts Dolan and offers to purchase the wallet from him.

He soon discovers that Baron von Hanson is not a very reputable individual either. He finds the Baron's private vault which contains a fortune in stolen jewels. Changing to Firebrand, Rod fights the thieves and exposes their racket. Von Hanson is then forced into surrendering his ill-gotten gains to the war relief effort.

Eel O'Brian is little more than a small-time thief. Along with his gang of underlings, he breaks into and attempts to rob the Crawford Chemical Works. Police arrive on the scene, but as Eel and the others flee, he is exposed to deadly, toxic acid. He manages to make it outside, but stumbles down unconscious.

When he awakens, Eel finds that his skin is now super-pliant. He can contort his limbs and facial features into any shape he desires. He is inside a small monastery where a kindly monk has chosen to nurse him back to health. The experience has changed more than jut Eel's physiology though. He feels that he has been given a second chance and renounces his former life of crime. Donning a stretchable costume and a pair of goggles, Eel decides to fight crime as the super-hero Plastic Man.

Plastic Man tracks down his old gang and stops them from committing another robbery. He turns them over to the police and returns the stolen loot. The police have no idea that this strange, new hero was once a criminal.

Bill Perkins, aka the Mouthpiece, encounters an adversary known as Peg-Leg Friel who traffics in human smuggling.

U.S. Senator Henry Knight goes out to the demolitions testing site of scientist Doctor Raphael along with his daughter Sandra. Approaching the site, they witness an airplane descend, forcing them off the road. The occupants of the plane, Wenner and Pete, abduct Doctor Raphael.

Intrigued, Sandra Knight changes into her Phantom Lady costume and armed with her trusty Black ray lantern tracks the kidnappers down and rescues Doctor Raphael. The villains try to flee in the swamps, but are killed when they find themselves bogged down in snake-infested quicksand.

Roy Lincoln is a chemist who often collaborates with his father, a demolitions expert, on various experiments. Roy's father develops a chemical known as 27-QRX which is known to have great explosive properties. Nazi agents learn of Lincoln's new chemical and attempt to steal its design so that they can weaponize it, thus giving Nazi Germany an edge over its enemies. The agents raid Lincoln's laboratory and shoot him dead. His son Roy, desperate to safeguard his father's work, drinks the 27-QRX formula. The result of such a rash act, yields bizarre side-effects. Roy Lincoln can cause any item he makes physical contact with to explode. With this new power, he is able to defeat the Nazi assassins.

REVIEW

When you compare this book to other books that came out around the time, there is a noticeable difference in quality (and that is why the publisher was called Quality Comics). The obvious thing to look at would be the art, as it has an “illustrated” style absent from other publications. But the stories are also notoriously different. I think Plastic Man is the one feature (from the ones I reviewed) that stands out the most. His origin sounds too golden age-y but he staying a criminal is a bold move. It also makes me think that while DC was getting funnier and kid friendly, the other publishers were pushing boundaries (some of them for the detriment of the industry).

Firebrand gives a “gay” vibe that had it been true, would have made him a different “Batman/Zorro”. Both Human Bomb and Phantom Lady were pretty much facing the same types of enemies (axis spies), but Human Bomb is just out for revenge. They are all very cold blooded. Except for Plastic Man, who actually has fun with his powers.

In case you are wondering, yes, these characters became DC properties after a few decades, but they were serious competition (Phantom Lady in particular is part of comic-book history, for the wrong reasons).

I give these features a score of 9.

[mtraki]

 Catherine was washing her dish in the basin behind Pearson’s tent, scrubbing as well as she might with the bit of cloth that had been hanging on the side, provided for the purpose.  She’d already done the scraping into the fire-- and indeed, there’d been quite a bit of it to do, as the stew today was somewhat burnt, and she suspected the meat used had been oversalted to cover any hint of rot.  She wondered what benefit it might be to confront their illustrious cook about the issue, or if it might be altogether better to wait until she could go back into town and buy fresher ingredients to bring back to him first.  Doing the first would invite the man’s excuses and gripes, for, though she liked Mister Pearson with his dogged work-ethic and typically optimistic manners well enough, he was guilty at times of passing the blame for his own negligence onto others.  The bigger the mistake, the more likely he was to blame others. Providing evidence against his claims only made him more out-spoken in the grievances against him until he had no recourse but to withdraw into an episode of drunken self-pity, assuring that the camp would have nothing to eat the next day.  However, going out of her way to accomplish the second might be a waste of time and money if he only let those go to spoil as well. She was turning these alternatives over in her mind when she felt someone step close behind her, close enough to feel the heat of their body at her back-- especially when their arm came around beside her, holding another scraped plate where she could see it.

 “Seein’ as yer a lady,” Arthur said quietly, playfulness thick in his tone, like she heard only very rarely, “I was thinkin’ might be best to leave the washing t’you.  What’chu think about that?”

 “I think you’re very mistaken, Mister Morgan,” She told him very primly, looking over her shoulder to lift her nose high while also flashing him a quick wink to let him know she was playing along, “Being a lady, you should be glad I’m doing my own washing.  It’s truly a task below my station.  I hope you’re very grateful for my sacrifices…”

 The corners of his lips curled back into a grin, “Ladies ain’t good for much, it seems, besides causin’ a lotta fuss…”

 “Oh yes,” Catherine answered in her sweetest tone, placing her own scrubbed-clean plate next to the basin to dry and half turning to face the outlaw, batting her long eyelashes innocently and lifting her hands to take his plate, “For instance, I’m sure it would cause quite an awful fuss when I make you wear this plate on your face, Mister Morgan!”

 Chuckling, Arthur lifted the plate further out of her reach instead of handing it to her, even as he replied, “Might be an improvement for it, quite honestly…”

“There you go again,” the lady sighed, ignoring the plate and reaching over her shoulder instead for his stubbled chin, “going on as if there were anything at all wrong with the way you look…”

 He shrugged, but didn’t step away, admittedly charmed by how casually she accepted his nearness, “No use tryin’ to tell stories about it, Miss Schofield, I’ve accepted I ain’t an attractive man…”

 Her pale eyes left off the examination of the scar across the cleft of his chin and raised to meet the blue of his eyes watching her, “You’ve a right to your delusions, I suppose…”

 Scoffing a laugh, he grinned back, “Ugly I am, but deluded I ain’t!”

 “I’ve already told you I don’t allow ugly men to waste my time, Mister Morgan.”

 Shaking his head, Arthur continued grinning, “But you’ll suffer deluded ones?”

 “Usually only until I’ve made them wear their plate…” She smiled back.

 Their gazes held, and they were standing so near each other they hardly noticed the cold around them.  Arthur was all racing heart and clenching guts, and started leaning in before he realized. He didn’t realize, in fact, until he heard a throat clear behind him that almost made him throw his dirty dish.

 “Some of us,” Miss Grimshaw groused, “would just like to get on with washing the dishes…”

 The heat flushing through his throat was almost as humiliating as getting caught out like this.  Arthur could only hope something too obvious wasn’t on his face, “Oh… I… excuse me, Miss Grimshaw…” 

 He was jittery the rest of the night, something restless crawling under his skin, making him give every shadow a second glance when he wasn’t giving Miss Schofield too-long looks that were probably also too obvious.  There was something so irritatingly embarrassing about the state he was in-- it’d been      years     since he’d been worked up like this!  Not since…

 Well…

 His stomach turned over, and Arthur couldn’t be sure whether it was whatever had been wrong with the stew or the mix of emotions storming inside him.  Why was he being such a fool about this? What fantasy land was he pretending in that anything good could come of pursuing this thing with the lady?

 If he really cared for her, then he wouldn’t force her to suffer him.  How many times did he have to learn the hard way…?

 But then she turned her head, and her pale gaze met his in the firelight, and everything twisting around inside him silenced.  The only disturbance in the sudden, overpowering calm, was his pounding heart--worn and trampled, though it was-- that had abruptly jumped into his throat.

 The moment stretched, a rope pulled taut between them, the silence within him widening into a deafening roar, until he was sure either something in the world would give way under the tension, or else he would simply explode.

 He didn’t realize he was shivering until Catherine gestured with a casual and graceful flick of her wrist and extended a finger toward the wagon on the very edge of the firelight, tilting her head that direction.  A clear and intentional signal. If anybody else saw and understood, nobody moved when she stood to go that way.

 Nobody except Arthur, who went immediately.

 He went, circling the wagon into the deep shadows, away from the heat and light of the rest of camp.   He found the darker shadow of her silhouette there, and the self-doubt and misgivings did not catch him until his calloused hand gripped the top of the wagon bed next to her and he’d leaned close enough to feel her breath pool on his face.  Then it grabbed him in a stranglehold as his eyes were able to make out the curves of her face, the pale column of her throat as her head tipped back, as if to meet him. Her full lips barely parted...

 She was so beautiful.  What in the world made him think he had the right to waste her time like this?  What in the world did he think he had to offer her?

 Nothing.  He could give her nothing but trouble and disappointment.

 And yet…

 … And yet she was so inviting.  She didn’t move at all, but he could feel her beckoning him, pulling at him with her pliant stillness.  Promising to fill the cavern she’d carved out of him the moment she’d come into camp all those months ago…

 With a shuddering, rushed exhale, Arthur slowly leaned down to close the distance, feeling the bite of the rough wood in his hand as he held on tight, fully expecting the ground to fall away beneath him like a gallows platform--

 “Catherine!” Karen bellowed, coming around the corner of the wagon, “Tell this loud-mouth what a fool he is before I take a hammer to his empty head!”

 Sean was chortling in tow, as usual, “Aw, now, oi know already ye dunnae mean it like ‘at-- Tell ‘er how we know it, Miss Cat!”

 Anger snarled through Arthur’s chest, mixed with frustration and humiliation.  He wanted to throw hands at the impudent younger man.

‘Miss Cat’.  Since when had he nicknamed her?  What gave him the right?

 But he said and did nothing, and the two newcomers seemed to slowly realize they had intruded on something they shouldn’t have.

 Arthur knew Sean was going to say something, and that when he did, that he was going to hit him, and maybe keep hitting him…

 Fortunately, Catherine didn’t seem to be affected by the same power that held him frozen there like a statue, and she ducked under his arm, her voice unflustered, “What seems to be the matter…?”

 “I-uh… were we interru--”

 “-- You said you needed something, Karen?”

 She led them away.  Arthur stood alone in the dark, still holding onto the side of the wagon, trying to gather up his composure and convince his blood to lose its heat and stop pooling below his waist.  The last thing he needed now was attempting to answer uncomfortable questions.

 Early morning found Catherine, as usual, up before the sun and most of the rest of the camp, warming her hands at the fire.  Her thoughts were on the day ahead and how she might best spend her time. The weather, though cool, held mild, so a long ride would remain pleasant if she left soon.  But where to? Any good leads would be in Blackwater these days, but Arthur had convinced both Hosea and Dutch that the big town wasn’t safe for her any longer, now that her father was sending hired hunters to ask questions.

 Her striking looks, though one of her greatest weapons, had ever been one of her greatest hindrances.  She could go nowhere anonymously for long. That hadn’t been an issue out here while she’d maintained the story that she was here with her father’s blessing.  Now that word might be circulating that this wasn’t the case, and that money was to be had for her apprehension, the men were concerned about her protections.

 It chafed every inch of her.

 … Maybe she could convince Arthur to take her into town?  Surely he would accept that she’d be safe with him…

 And here he was coming now, rubbing the side of his neck and looking rather sheepish for some reason.  He couldn’t meet her eyes, but she could tell by his stride that he was very purposefully coming to see her.  After all, his hands were empty of his tin cup for coffee.

 “Good morning, Arthur.”

 “Mornin’...” He seemed distracted, glancing around.

 It took Catherine a breath or so to realize he was checking to see if they were alone.  With a light laugh, she reached to touch his arm. He took hold of her hand instead, holding it and looking her in the face at last.

 She was sure to smile, “You seem a bit preoccupied this morning… Troubling dreams?”

 “Somethin’ like that…” Was his vague, mumbled response. “How’re you?”

 His hand was warm and solid.  Catherine found she rather liked the way it fit with hers just now…

 She liked better the way his body language shifted when she stepped a little nearer-- he appeared to both straighten and bend toward her, all of his attention focused, and his powerful frame attempting to block out the rest of the world away from her.  He was not attempting to command her attention in kind, only framing her purposes. It was all very encouraging…

 “Actually, I was just wondering if I might rely upon your escorting me into town today?”

 He frowned, and she considered the spot just under the corner of his mouth, where she could press a kiss and make the frown disappear.   It was foolproof, even on a man as dedicatedly taciturn as Mister Arthur Morgan could be, “Into town? I ain’t sure that’s a good idea…”

 “I need information, Mister Morgan.  I won’t get it hiding here. We both know I’ll be perfectly safe with you.  We’ll be discreet.”

 He snorted, but his expression softened while his gaze dropped to their clasped hands, his thumb brushing fondly against her knuckles, “... Might be able to pick you up some gloves for the winter…”

 Catherine felt the blush heat her face and opened her mouth to try and form some kind of protest, but then the big outlaw released her and turned on his heel.  She watched him hurry off, all in a fluster.

 “... Good morning…?” Abigail furrowed her brow, watching him go a moment before looking at Catherine, “... He knows none of us mind, don’t he?”

 “I couldn’t tell you what he’s thinking…” The lady laughed quietly. “Good morning, in any case…”

 “Didn’t mean to interrupt--”

 “--It’s fine, Abigail--”

 “--but… you weren’t gettin’ any privacy around the coffee in any case.”

 “I suppose not for long, anyway.”

 He didn’t get to take her into town.  In fact, it was almost a week before he saw her again, as Dutch had him ride out with Bill, Javier, and the Callander brothers to rob a train out by Armadillo, in Cholla Springs.

 By the time they got back, all five of them were exhausted, and it was already dark, with winter chill chasing them to the fires.  After seeing to Slim’s needs, Arthur just wanted his bed.

 Well.  No...

 His thoughts had been distracted the entire trip.  His sleep was plagued by dreams as well as nightmares.  Foolish yearnings of the flesh combated with his deeper, perhaps      more foolish     hopes, and the lingering shades in his past, giving him no rest.

 In a way, they were almost worse than the nightmares after…

 … At least those had only woken him in the night with a start.  These would wake him in the night with a start, or a mess in his trousers.  Or both at once.  No lack of awkward embarrassment when Miss Schofield was involved, it seemed.

 That didn’t change how he wanted to see her...

 He just needed a little sleep first.  He could worry about Miss Schofield after that.

 Some time later, Arthur woke abruptly as something pressed against his sleeping form under the wool blanket.  Even before his eyes were fully opened, he was reaching for the revolver kept on the bedside table when the nights were too cool to go without a blanket.  A pair of hands caught his though, and it was then he noticed that the lantern was lit.

 “Apologies,” She whispered, “It’s just me.”

 She was sitting on the bed beside him, wrapped in the coat he’d bought her, her long dark hair in a simple plait over her shoulder-- like he’d never seen it before-- a small smile on her full lips, and the lantern light glowing in her pale eyes.

 When he did nothing but remain frozen, staring at her, she looked to the side, her smile turning a bit wry as she tugged his hand away from the table and the gun, and toward herself instead.

 “I didn’t mean to startle you.  Honestly, I’m not sure why I thought it wouldn’t startle you… my coming while you were asleep, uninvited…” Shrugging her shoulders helplessly, she looked at him and said, “... But I wanted to see you.”

 Arthru blinked at her, and answered, “This is a dream, again.”

 She laughed, quietly, using one of her hands to muffle it further, and she grinned behind her fingers as he lifted his hand to cup her face, “Have you been dreaming of me, Mister Morgan?”

 “No.” He lied, knowing she’d likely see through it, but unwilling to expose himself that way.  In the meantime, the smooth, soft warmth of her cheek and brush of her silky hair along the back of his hand felt real enough.  Was this real, then? What was she doing here in his tent-- in his bed-- at this godforsaken hour?

 “That’s probably for the best…” She replied with another quiet laugh, “I wouldn’t wish to learn I was as disruptive to your sleeping hours as I’m told I am your waking ones.”

 “People talkin’ again, are they?”

 “Always.”

 He grimaced, “...Best mind myself, then.  Who knows who’ll walk up wantin’ to oggle an’ jape…”

 “It’s been difficult to get a moment alone, hasn’t it?” He watched her lower her eyes, her smile turning somewhat more sly and inwardly amused.  Thinking she meant that they were, in fact, not alone now, Arthur started to drop his hand away from her face. She caught him with her own, her touch gentle, and her eyes rose to meet his again.

 Their gaze held in the lantern light, Arthur’s heart racing again, this time not from the shock of an impromptu awakening.  Her smile never changed, nor did her gaze waver, but Catherine started moving. Her hand over his urged his touch down under the curve of her jaw, to the side of her neck and column of her throat.  Smooth, soft skin, throbbing with heat and life, the whisper of her hair across the back of his hand.

 He gulped around the sudden dryness in his throat as she directed his coarse fingertips across the graceful arch of her collarbone, realizing she'd come to him perhaps not as fully dressed as he'd assumed under the coat.  Heat and tension pooled between his hips, and he buckled inside as she encouraged him further down her body.   Instead he came up, pulling his hand away and anchoring it at the side of her neck to pull them together, suddenly desperate for the taste of her.

 Before his mouth could reach hers, though, he caught a glimpse of someone at the entrance of his tent, and froze.

 In his peripheral, he saw Catherine blink, and though she made no sound, he could feel her give a long sigh when she noticed his attention beyond her.

 “...I was gonna let you sleep,” Dutch was saying, holding up both hands defensively, “but seein’ as you’re awake already… Micah’s got something.  Something big. Something he’s sure will do more than just get us through the winter…”

[raechelpapaya]

[[ Granblue Fantasy: Lucio ]]

[[ Notes: fem reader. Explicit ]]

—-

“Ahh! Captain! Look out!”

You had just finished collecting today’s laundry with Lucio, ready to take the freshly cleaned sheets inside when you hear Arthur’s voice call out to you.

You see globs of paint flying in your direction before a burst of light emits at your side and you’re tugged against Lucio’s warm body. His arm wraps around your body and his beautiful white wings sprout before you and wrap around the two of you.

His wings are warm and soft and it’s a pleasant feeling to be held so close to him.

His wings shift before you and he slowly lowers his wings, the sunlight hitting your face again.

“Sorry, Captain!” Arthur and Mordred run over. They’re both dressed out of their usual Feendrache uniforms but there’s paint splatters all over their face, clothes, and hair. Vane comes up behind them, an apologetic look on his face. He’s also dressed in a simple tee, paint splatters mark his shirt and face as well. “We… We thought you were someone else…” Arthur trails off with a guilty expression.

You smile a bit. You can’t be too mad at him when he makes an expression similar to that of a kicked puppy.

You definitely can’t be mad when you see Mordred and Vane have similar expressions on their faces as well.

“Who were you expecting?” You ask instead.

“Percy…” Vane answers in place of his young chickadees. “Sorry, Captain. We’re supposed to be painting banners for an upcoming event back in town and… we ended up playing a game instead,” Vane says guiltily, rubbing the back of his neck.

You manage a small smile. “Well, that’s fine but…” you look to Lucio. His beautiful, pure white wings has been splattered with paint — reds, blues, oranges stain his wings.

“S-Sorry,” Arthur murmurs and bows his head apologetically. Mordred follows suit.

Lucio gives them a smile. “That’s quite alright. I’m just glad the Captain wasn’t hurt,” he says as he directs his smile to you.

You return the smile and look back to Arthur and Mordred, the latter frowning at Arthur. “See? This is what you get when you just throw paint around without thinking,” Mordred scolds Arthur.

Arthur straightens, looking to Mordred. “You’re pitting the blame on me? You threw paint too, Mordred!”

“Only because you were blocking my way and I couldn’t see past you. I assumed you found Percival and the others—“

“Hey!” Vane gently taps the young chickadees on top of their heads. “No fighting. We’re all at fault here,” he scolds them.

Arthur and Mordred rub the top of their heads, frowning.

“Ah! I hear Vane!” You hear Siegfried’s voice behind you. Before you can even turn around, Lucio has already gathered you in his arms, his wings fanning out around you again.

Lucio lowers his wings and you look to Vane who had made himself a human shield for his two chickadees after tucking them behind him. You look behind you to see Siegfried with a bucket of paint half emptied in his hand and Lucio’s other set of wings dripping with green paint. It’s even splattered to his hair and on his clothes.

“Siegfried!” Lancelot and Percival scold as they round the corner.

“You can’t just throw paint anywhere!” Percival scolds and shakes his head.

“Sorry. I was so caught up in the moment,” Siegfried says.

You look around. You and the laundry you and Lucio had collected had been spared from the paint, but Lucio himself and the floors and walls around you aren’t so lucky.

You huff and look to the dragon knights and the young chickadees. “You guys need to clean up this mess,” you scold them. “All of you.”

“Yes, Captain,” they all reply at the same time.

“No more paint war, either! I don’t want anyone else to get caught in the crossfire,” You say and send a sympathetic look to Lucio. He only gives you a kind smile in return.

“Yes, Captain.”

You sigh. “Now, please,” you say and the boys quickly disperse to get cleaning supplies. You look back to Lucio and gently close your hand around his wrist. “Sorry about that. Let’s get you cleaned up, Lucio,” you say.

A pleasant laugh leaves his lips. “That’s quite alright, Captain. Thank you,” he says and lets you lead him away.

You take him to your quarters and instruct him to remove his shirt and armor while you go fetch some warm water and some clean towelettes. You return to your room in mere minutes with a basin of warm water and several towelettes in your hand and find shirtless Lucio sitting patiently on a single stool in your room, his hands folded in his lap.

He greets you with a smile as you close the door behind you. “Welcome back, Captain,” he greets and you can’t help but smile.

“I’m back,” you reply automatically. You cross the room and position yourself behind him. You set the basin on the nearby table and squeeze water out of a wet towelette.

“Oh? I can clean my wings myself, Captain,” Lucio says, half looking at you over his shoulder.

You smile at him. “It’s okay, Lucio. You’re the one who protected me from the paint, so it’s only fair that I help clean up the mess, right?”

“I see.” He nods and turns to face forward again. “Then I’ll be in your care, Captain.”

Your smile grows and you begin cleaning the paint out of his hair first. Your fingers brush against his scalp, thread through his hair, as you wipe the wet towelette over his hair to remove the paint. You work gently, slowly, cleaning up his hair as best as you can.

“Captain?” Lucio speaks up.

“Mm?” You hum in return. You move down to his wings.

“I suppose this event turned out to be a blessing of sorts. I did want to develop a more personal relationship with you,” he admits and your cheeks warm. He chuckles — the sound so pleasant in your ears. “And I can start that with this interaction. I’m very happy,” he says.

You exchange your towelette for a fresh one. You wet it and ring out the excess water. You laugh a bit. “Well, I’m glad. If you ever want to spend your free time with me, you’re always more than welcome to just ask,” you say as you proceed to clean his wings.

“Oh? I’m glad—“ he stops short as your towelette rubs over his feathers. You watch his back stiffen slightly and he sits a little straighter.

“Lucio?” You speak gently.

He nearly jumps when you call to him. “Oh? Um… it’s nothing. Please proceed,” he tells you.

You nod and do just that. You clean out all the paint as gently as possible, beginning with the feathers on the farthest part of his wings and working your way inward toward his back.

Lucio stiffens as you work. Every now and then he almost seems to shy away from your touch. The quietest sounds leave his lips only for him to attempt to cover it up by coughing. His wings flutter every now and then as you clean his wings, caress his feathers, and the muscles in his back flutter.

You’d seen this before.

Only once in the one time that Sandalphon had let you groom his wings. He left a frazzled and flustered mess, specifically keeping his back to you when he left.

It wasn’t hard to piece two and two together.

It was quite adorable, these primal’s flustered reactions.

You clean the innermost part of Lucio’s wings, the parts closest to his back, and lean in. “Lucio,” you whisper behind his ear.

He arches, a trembling moan spilling past his lips. He slaps his hand over his mouth and looks to you, his face bright red.

“Pl-Please forgive me, C-Captain,” he stammers out, pulling his trembling hand away from his mouth enough to speak. “To-To make such an indecent noise in front of you—“ he stammers, unable to meet your eyes.

“It’s okay, Lucio,” you quietly assure him, giving him a gentle smile. “You don’t need to be embarrassed. I’ve seen this before with Sandalphon,” you tell him.

He looks to you then. “With… Sandalphon?” His brows furrow together.

“He didn’t let me finish cleaning his wings but it wasn’t hard to figure it out why” you say. The red that stains Lucio’s cheeks is so adorable and you can’t help but smile. “I’d rather be touching your wings, Lucio,” you say to him.

He looks to you, wide-eyed, but his cheeks still red. “Then… Then it’s okay? It’s okay if this is what I meant when I say I wanted to develop a personal relationship with you? That I want you to… be with me?” He asks as he swivels around on the stool to face you.

There’s a vulnerability in his eyes but you reach up to cup his cheek. He leans into your touch immediately.

“It’s very okay, Lucio,” you whisper.

“I’ve grown so fond of you, Captain,” he confesses quietly. “I know I shouldn’t be swayed by such emotions — such emotions that can start wars and turmoil but… “ he trails off.

You stroke his cheek with your thumb. “It’s okay, Lucio. You should be able to do what makes you happy too,” you tell him. Your smile widens as he meets your gaze. “You hold such a special place in my heart, Lucio,” you confess.

He smiles — so warm and full of light and, yet, so shy. “As do you, Captain.” He rests his forehead against yours. “I’m in your care, Captain,” he whispers.

You tilt your head up to kiss him. His lips so soft, so pliant, as he lets you lead. He’s content to hold your hands in his so you kiss him, lick the seam of his lips, or nibble on his bottom lip — all to draw out the cutest noises from him.

Both your clothes and his are discarded to the floor. You’ve moved to your bed where he sits beneath you and you straddle his hips. You alternate between kissing him or letting him rest his head against your shoulder as you reach over his shoulder to stroke his wings, each of your tender touches drawing out a quivering moan from his lips. You finger yourself with your other hand, readying yourself, as your own quiet moans leave your lips.

His hands tremble against your skin and alternate between resting on your hips, your waist, or skimming across your breasts with shy touches.

Lucio initiates a few kisses himself — perhaps out of a desperation to feel you, touch you. He’s clumsy and doesn’t quite get the rhythm but you help him along and guide him with a few praises here and there. He whispers confessions of love against your lips, and when you’ve readied yourself, you guide him to lay on his back.

“It’s not uncomfortable for you, is it?” You ask, eyeing his wings that lay spread out beneath him.

He shakes his head. His breaths are heavy and his cheeks are flushed red as he looks up at you through half lidded eyes. You smile and bend down to kiss him. He cups your face in his hands before you gently peel his hands from your face, interlacing your fingers.

“I’m going to start now, okay?” You whisper as you position yourself over his hips, careful not to rest your knees on his wings. “Just let me know if it gets to be too much for you,” you say.

Lucio nods and you adjust yourself again. You release one hand to reach for his erection. Your fingers brush against the sensitive skin and he gasps, a meek whine spills past his lips. He bucks his hips upward at your touch and you close your fingers around him, guiding him to your entrance. You look to him again and he nods and you slowly lower yourself onto him.

You hum with pleasure as the head of his erection enters you. A moan spills past Lucio’s lips and he bites down on his lip. His free hand rises to his face and he presses the back of his hand against his mouth as a few quiet noises continue to spill past his sealed lips.

You lower yourself slowly, inch by inch, and Lucio trembles beneath you. He turns his head to the side, his face bright red, and he whispers your name off his lips.

“You’re doing so well, Lucio,” you praise and he mewls, arching.

He’s buried in you completely now and he pants beneath you, his arm draped over his face.

You carefully bend forward to kiss his collarbones. “Does it feel good, Lucio?” You whisper against his skin.

He nods.

“I’m glad,” you say and straighten yourself back up. “Are you ready? I’m going to start moving now,” you tell him and he nods again.

You lift off his hips and a shaky moan leaves Lucio’s lips. He squeezes his arm over his mouth, but his muffled moans still fill your ears. You rise until just the head of his erection is left within you and you lower yourself back down.

Lucio gasps, your name is said somewhere between his moans. The muscles in his abdomen flutter as he fills you once again. You set a slow rhythm to get him adjusted and his body trembles beneath you. He pants your name, squeezes your hand, and turns his head to the side. His hand clamps over his mouth and his eyes are shut tight, his face flushed red.

“You’re doing so well,” you praise again and reach down to stroke his wings.

He gasps and his hand moves away from his mouth to grip the pillow beneath him. He moans your name as he arches beneath you, his body trembling.

Your name spills off his lips like a mantra as you swivel your hips against his. He pants and shakes, his face bright red, as he gasps your name and squeezes your hand. You bend over and kiss him, swallow his moans as you continue to stroke his wings with a tender touch.

Your hips meet his and you stroke his wings one last time as he arches, his moans and heavy breaths muffled against your lips. He trembles beneath you, whining against your lips, as he climaxes. He holds your close, his hips bucking, as his wings furl around you both, encasing you in its softness.

He trembles as he lowers himself and melts against the sheets. A whine leaves his lips as his large wings disappear in a burst of light, only to be left with his small wings.

You smile and kiss his cheek, brush his hair from his face with a tender touch. “You did so well, Lucio,” you praise. “I love you so much,” you whisper softly.

You move to lift yourself off Lucio but he squeezes your hand. “Please. Let me stay joined with you like this for a little longer…” he requests as he tries to catch his breath.

“Okay.” You instead shuffle to lay beside him on the bed. You hug him close to you and he nuzzles himself against your skin. He presses his face against the crook of your neck, his breathing beginning to even out. You pull the covers over the both of you and run your fingers through Lucio’s hair as he falls asleep within your arms.

[senlinyu]

Okay some Manacled questions and comments and I might be reading very much into all of this. They kinda go in order of the chapters hehehe: 1. Who had been snooping under H’s bed? Just Kreacher cleaning or something more? 2. D mentioned his wand changed. What does wandlore tell us about D’s new wand? 3. How was Kingsley able to still support the order monetarily when everyone was running out of money? Hermione was suspicious, but was is answered?

4. D can’t kill Voldemort with his dark mark in place, but theoretically can D still target horcruxes? Is destroying those the same as trying to kill Voldemort? 5. Theory: if someone else needs to cast death blow-it makes sense that H will. She has D’s training and no dark mark. 6. The area near the Whitecroft river felt magical at one point to H because she saw reeds and felt warmer. Did D do this for H’s rock tower? Also, how did D find H when she was drunk in the river? Wards? 7. Why did D take away all the furniture in the shack after D and H kissed? 8. “If I succeed- you’ll use me to control Malfoy the same was you’re able to use Harry to control me.” We haven’t seen Kingsley do it yet- but still super sad to know it’ll happen and D can’t control it. 9. Theory: Malfoy dunked an arrow in the Manticore venom vial he saved for a “rainy day” and used it to get the horcrux. 10. Dark Beings allied with V because he promised them Muggle Europe. The war is stalled because V is dying. Is the situation in Romania because of the dark creature unrest? 11. Did H use what happened to Arthur Weasley’s brain to lock away parts of her memories? Or are the two completely unrelated? I think she’ll learn the exact curse from Lucius and unravel it and make one for herself.

1)

2: it was mainly a detail to build into the HP world. Draco’s original wand was a reasonably pliant, unicorn hair, which doesn’t turn to the Dark Arts easily. So giving Draco a dragon heartstring wand that was less yielding was just intended to be a small indication that he had changed in fundamental ways from the person he had been.

3: Hermione was only involved in the unsavory aspects of the Order’s survival that Moody and Kingsley had to include her in. I imagine there was probably a fair bit of stealing and exploiting Muggles and the Muggle world in order to feed an army, even with the utilization of Gamp’s Law.

4: I imagine it as being primarily a restriction on using magic to attack Voldemort. Draco could hypothetically try to attack Voldemort with a sword, but it would be a bit of a suicide mission.

5:

6: That is mostly just a mythology allusion invoking Hermione’s parallels with Isis. And Draco found her because she looked like she was on the verge of a mental breakdown so he followed her into Whitecroft.

7: the furniture wasn’t removed until after Hermione was attacked by the vampire.

8: Yes. That sounds very sad.

9:

10: Hhhhmmmm.

11: They’re unrelated aside from the fact they both involve forms of memory loss. But Hermione’s is based in a form of occlumency, it’s her magic, which is why the fetal magic can corrode and unlock it.

[lokiyan-blog]

Dear Ms. Mannion (2/?)

She had just finished setting the table when Patrick strolled in, a burst of frenetic energy as he hung up his coat, set down his case, and swept his wife up in a quick kiss. Apparently, Mrs. Danning's birth went well.

“A strong lunged boy. Both mother and child are strong as horses. We were all worried for nothing after all.”

“It's better to be worried and relieved than under-prepared and panicked. Now go wash up, please, before our son starves.” He kissed her lightly again, did as he was told, and reappeared at the table sans tie with the top button of his shirt undone. He tugged gently at Shelagh's apron springs and hung it on the hook.

“I'm pleased for Mrs. Danning. She puts up a strong front but I know she was worried about her age and even if she never said it, we all knew she wanted a boy. She had already sewn on blue trimming on the baby's nightdress.”

Conversation went as it always did with a meander down an article in The Lancet and an anecdote of how Trixie had awkwardly attempted to ask him for a “man's opinion” of her latest courter. Finally, Timothy rolled his eyes and interrupted yet another fanciful account of Sister Monica Joan's never-ending font of eccentric quotes. “Are you really going to call that man, mum?”

His boy so very rarely interrupted that Patrick started before turning to his wife, who had frozen with her fork a hair's breath away from her lips. She swallowed visibly and returned the fork to the plate before responding, “I haven't quite decided yet. Perhaps.”

“What man?” Patrick Turner was not a jealous man by nature. Not only did he trust his wife completely as her work brought her in contact with every manner of man, but everyone in Poplar knew his family and Tim's memory was still strong and clear in his young age. He rarely referred to anyone as anything other than their proper name. That compounded with the strange reactions – Shelagh's sudden nervousness and Tim's uncharacteristically abrasive tone toward his mother – sent a shiver down Patrick's spine.

“We ran into him while we were walking back from the shops today. He called himself Arthur and shook my hand. He said he was an old friend of mum's but mum looked like she had seen a ghost.”

Shelagh shook her head with a soft smile. “I was just shocked, Timothy. He is just someone from a long time ago. Last time I saw him, he must have been about your age.”

“Were you really friends then?” Patrick was thankful that his son was curious, for he could ask these questions without feeling as though he was prodding at a past he was never meant to know. Shelagh spoke so rarely about her life before the order and he never wished to push. Though they've come to an understanding about his old demons, the scarred over tissue was still raw and tender.

“We were. His father and my father were close friends and they worked together so his mother would watch us after school until they came home. He was more like a brother, really.” Patrick covered Shelagh's hand on the table for all the things she didn't have to say, that her own mother had passed away and she had spent many hours alone as an only child.

“He didn't seem like a brother. And he called you Shelagh Mannion.”

“Well, it's been many years. His father took another job when we were younger and I suppose we lost touch. Perhaps I will call, just to see how old Mrs. Stewart is doing. She was always so kind to me.”

“That sounds like a splendid idea. If he and his family were important to you, I'd like to meet him as well. Perhaps you should invite him to supper.” His tone was light, but Patrick could feel the lump in the back of his throat slowly expanding to choke him. Shelagh's tense nod did nothing to reassure him and he speared a bite of asparagus to wash it down.

In bed that night, Patrick turned to look at his wife. Not for the first time, he noticed the difference between the two of them, the most apparent being their age. He and Marianne had had Timothy later in life when he was well into his thirties. He had been resigned to being a bachelor doctor for life when his first wife pulled the rug out from under him and made him fall madly in love. He never expected it to happen again near ten years later.  

In the moonlight, Shelagh's face glowed an opalescent blue, smooth and unlined. Her lips were a becoming shade of pink in contrast and her long lashes cast an elegant shadow on the tops of her cheek. Though she was strong and capable in the daylight, her competencies in organization, midwifery, and nursing well known throughout their little corner of the world, she felt so delicate at times that he was afraid he would break her. He sometimes felt a complete oaf when standing beside her, unkempt, weary, and dwarfing her small frame.

Yet he loved it. He loved watching her swim in his coat when he places it on her delicate shoulders to keep off the chilled night air. He loved when she learned into him, her head fitting snugly in the crook of shoulder so that his nose could breathe in the warm scent of her shampoo lingering at the top of her head. He loved being able to lift her off her feet and place her gently on the bed as though she were a feather. He loved making love to her and covering her soft, pliant body with his own bulking mass of trembling need.

He was acutely aware that he was the only man she ever had, a fact he was sometimes embarrassed to be proud of. But he couldn't help but wonder at times if he had been selfish in his proposal so soon after she left the order. He was so certain and she had given every indication that she, too, felt the same, but she had also spent ten years in near isolation from the mere idea of the company of men. She was hardly Shelagh Mannion for a week before he asked her to renounce that name and become Shelagh Turner. She had burrowed herself into his life so nicely that he rarely questioned it. Shelagh Mannion was a woman who only existed for a season; Shelagh Turner was her true calling.

Yet she was Shelagh Mannion for years before she became Sister Bernadette. The few pieces she had given him about that part of her life barely formed the edge of this puzzle made of thousands of unique memories and experiences. They made up who she was – the way she spoke, the way she walked.

And now a man from that identity-forming part of her life has reappeared like a long awaited prince. A man her own age and, by Tim's own description, handsome and well off. He pulled her closer and, in her sleep, she nuzzled her nose against his shoulder. What would he ever do without her?

[joie-university-rp]

Dear MONTGOMERY PRESCOTT,

It is with great pleasure we invite you admission to Joie University! Welcome to the Thunderclap family!

-

Congratulations, RY! Please be sure to check the New Members’ Checklist and send in your character’s account within 24 hours from now. We cannot wait to see all that you will bring to this roleplay! We love you already!

Application:

OOC INFORMATION:

Name/Alias; pronouns: Ry

Age, Timezone: 26 EST

Activity, short explanation: you know me

Ships: Mont/male

Anti-Ships: Mont/female

Triggers: we cool

Preferred photo for Character’s ID (please give a link):

https://images.app.goo.gl/Z1xWamCdhj5dyzZ67

Anything else: hello yes we knew i couldn’t resist

IC INFORMATION:

Full Name (First, Middle, Last): Montgomery Jason Prescott aka “Monty”

FC: Noel Fisher

Age/Year at University: First Year Grad student, age 22

Birth date: March 13 1996

Hometown: St. Louis, Missouri

Gender/Pronouns: Cis-Male; he/him/his

Sexuality: Homosexual

Major(s): Physics

Minor(s): Engineering

Housing request: Beiste Dorm, single suite.

Extracurriculars: Science Club, (Can robotics club be a thing because he would love that)

Greek Life Affiliation: none

CHARACTER PROFILE:

History:

Monty is short for Montgomery and you can bet Julia and Sean were high as kites when they named their son. Being from a stereotypical bad neighborhood Monty was laughed at for his so-called hipster name, kids would make fun of him saying his parents were trying to sell him off to the young families moving in who were trying to gentrify the neighborhood. Other than that he was just like the other kids, always fighting to survive.

Most were resigned to a life in that place, but not Monty, not when he realized he was smart as a whip and figured out he had a chance to get out of there. When he was young he didn’t know what to do with his intelligence, for the most part he would hide it, skipping class and getting involved with bad people.

The main source of income for the family was drug deals ran by his father and Monty was expected to help out from the age of 12. He became used to banging down doors for late payments all too quickly. From then on he wasn’t ever opposed to use violence to get what he wanted. But he was also an expert manipulator because he could talk circles around most of the goons he had to deal with. Soon his father had Mont making the deals with the higher ups to get them a better deal and make more profit.

Mont was too smart to tell anyone about his sexuality. He knew coming out to his family would lead down a bad road for him. But his younger sibling was different. Like Monty, Niko was smarter than their older brothers and also had a secret. In the end they shared their secrets with each other and grew closer for it. Monty quickly figured out how to skim money off the top of their fathers profits in his illegal dealings and gave it to Niko because Testosterone wasn’t easy to get hold of in the trade and surgery wasn’t cheep when you had no insurance.

Monty spent most of his free time in an abandoned apartment building reading anything he could get his hands on until he found a passion for physics. Once Monty figured out he could use his brains to get to college and that a degree would get him out of this place that kept him down trodden he began to teach himself; it wasn’t like any of his teachers or his parents expected him to get more than an 8th grade education so he knew they would be no help.

Monty was able to use his powers of manipulation to get his brothers to do more of the leg work for their farther and he barely lifted a finger past the age of 16, his natural intelligence made him haughty and arrogant.

Connection fill for Schuyler Pillsbury Schuester:

Monty was called upon by the professors who organised Joie Radio to speak about the upcoming National Physics Day which happened to be during orientation and Schuyler PS happened to be the one interviewing him.

His overconfidence followed Monty to Joie where he found Schuyler. Schuyler was attractive to Monty because he seemed keen to prove himself and do a little rule breaking. He was the perfect target. In college Monty wasn’t quite the hot shot he had been in his home and he needed a way to let out his frustrations and prove he could still be top dog. All it took were the right words and the right gestures and the younger man was wrapped around his little finger.

After Schuy found Monty cheating the older boy didn’t bother with trying to win him back. He had a line of boys around the block begging to be his next love, to be more than the mistress, already so well trained it took little effort to get them where he wanted them but he would never admit part of him did miss the redhead; he was just so pliant and well behaved.

Monty has never known love, he has never loved anyone or been loved in return. The way his conquests loved him wasn’t real, it was something he made them feel, and his family certainly didn’t love each other.

Monty is now a Grad student and found Schuy still at Joie Radio where he had been persuaded to give an interview because he had won the Junior Arthur L. Schawlow Prize in Laser Science. Schuy coincidentally happens to be covering the show that day.

[ajokeformur-ray]

Your tears crash around me // Arthur x Jess // soft comfort.

Summary: Everything, everything, is a mess. One big huge mess that you can’t navigate your way through. You’re just so upset and so tired, worn out and so sick of crying, and it’s all Arthur can do to just be there for you. He loves you so much, and he loves you even harder this day than he ever has before, just to see you through to brighter days. They’re coming if you just hold on; he’s got your hand in his and he’ll walk with you into that light. It’s the very least you deserve.

A/N: For @fleckledlemonade​, an absolute angel who deserves the world. Arthur, Clarissa and I and many others love you for precisely who you are, darling, please don’t ever forget it. We love you and we’re here for you. I hope that this comforts you even a little bit. <333 You. Are. Enough. Darling, for all that you already are. You are enough.

Warnings + features of this piece: severe insecurities + feelings of heaviness/sadness, mentions of BPD (I did a lot of research into this angel so I truly hope it’s at least a little accurate to you - if it isn’t please tell me and I’ll make some changes to whatever you need), crying, and swearing. Even with the option to filter myself with the backspace key do I still swear like a sailor lmao sorry not sorry.

Word count: 2, 982.

“Jess? Je~ss?” Arthur’s soft rasp called out to you as he stood at the front door, peeling off his beloved and well worn mustard yellow hoodie and hanging it up on the coat rack before he toed off his shoes and lined them up neatly against the wall, tossed his key in the bowl on the cabinet and ran a hand through his slightly greasy locks. His strong, dark brows were creased in concern as he called out to you again and again, wondering why you weren’t skidding around the corner in your adorable fluffy socks to greet him at the door the way that you usually did every evening when he finally came home. “Jess, angel? Are you home? She should be...” The last three words were muttered to himself as he started to investigate, slight shards of concern stabbing at his heart.

You could hear the gentle padding of his socked feet as he made his way across the apartment, his romantic brown curls bouncing against his upper shoulders as his cocked head turned this way and that looking for you. Listening for you. Watching for you as concern and worry grew even stronger within him, spreading thickly through his veins. Oh, but you had never before refused to greet him at the door. He knew you were home, though. Arthur knew your schedule as well as he knew his own, inhumane were the hours that the both of you pulled - well over the national average work week despite the meagre paychecks which the two of you were forced to survive on - and rarer still were the days in which the two of you could spend fully uninterrupted quality time together.

Arthur didn’t have to look very far, for his ears, which were naturally strained listening out for any mere hint of you in the cramped but homely apartment, picked up almost instantly on the tiniest, most heartbreaking sniffle he had ever heard, and immediately did he make a sharp right to turn into the hallway which led to the bathroom and the bedroom; the two most important rooms in the apartment adjacent to each other.

“Jess? Honey?” With the second knuckle of his right index finger did Arthur knock exactly once, the sound quiet but loud enough to alert you to his close proximity before he fully pushed the door open; it had been ajar and Arthur had known that to mean that you wanted him to find you. He had known that you weren’t okay before you had even left for work this morning, but you had been insistent on going in and so he had reluctantly kept his mouth shut, grudgingly accepting that, just like him, your job had to be more important to you than your mental health. Clearly did you need a small piece of unspoken reassurance that you were a wanted force in Arthur’s life; that he loved you and that he needed you just as much as you needed, no, craved him. 

As the door’s journey was stopped by the paper thin and water damaged bedroom wall, you came fully into sight for Arthur and if the sniffle you had made had broken his heart, well, then now it was shattered as he saw your gorgeous expressive blue eyes, which were intensely rimmed with red that spoke of just how many tears you had cried in an amount of time which was unknown to you, so outside of yourself and so painfully but wrongly aware were you of your toxic, poisonous thoughts, but also did your painfully rimmed eyes speak of the waves of emotion which were crashing over you presently. The roiling waters of your chaotic mind were such that you were threatened with the prospect of going under, of drowning, and with a proverbial hand did Arthur quite intent to shove his strong, scarred and prominently veined hand underneath the waters of your psyche and pull you, pull his Jess, out.

Arthur would bring you home to yourself, to him, this night if it was the last thing he ever did. And by fuck, when he decided upon a course of action would nothing be able to stop him. You would do the same for him in a heartbeat, of this was he sure, and you had before, a multitude of times. 

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” Arthur was apologising not only for whatever had happened to you, though he quite suspected that you were the cause of your own grief, but also for the intense level of emotional pain which had stolen you away from yourself and also from him - to Arthur were you more important than even his own self. Long ago had he given up on himself, but you were still so young, you were thirteen years younger than him at the tender age of twenty two, and you were still so innocent despite all that you had ever been through, despite all that you were going through. “I’m so sorry. Let me - come here, sweetheart.”

Despite his words inviting you to him, Arthur approached the bed and sat down beside you, his arm settling over your plush shoulders as he pulled you into the side of his body. His tender gesture, quiet rasping voice and the sight of his green oceans swimming in nothing but sympathy and gentleness, warm as the summer, tipped you right over the precipice in your tired mind, upon which you were clinging to by your very fingertips, and from your throat did the most violent sob rip; the noise startling you and it only made you cry harder, if such a thing was possible. Oh, but you were so sick of crying. It was all you had done today and your eyes were so sore and damn it, you just wanted to use this time to love upon Arthur and for your eyes to roam all over his face, to map out every crevice, every wrinkle, every laughter line and to memorise all of the open pores and minor imperfections of his face, which to you only made him even more beautiful than he already was. 

You just wanted to use this scant, precious time to memorise every plane of Arthur’s face, but you were frustrated with yourself because you were crying so hard that you couldn’t see Arthur. You could feel him but you couldn’t see him and indeed did another loud and violent sob rip from your chest, hurting your throat on its way out as hot and heavy tears made up of so much sadness and sorrow poured down your face, ruining your bright and eccentric makeup and leaving sticky tracks of mascara on your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, shshsh,” The gentle rumbling of Arthur’s low and soothing shushing vibrated from deep within his chest and you leaned further into his body so that you could fully appreciate the acoustics from the source; so musical was Arthur’s soul that it impacted his every move; like a symphony was his heartbeat, his breaths the accompaniment. “It’s okay, darling. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“No,” You whined, sniffling loudly and wiping your nose on the back of your hand. “It's not okay. It's not.” You didn't care about the way you knew you looked; so close and so emotionally intertwined were you and your clown that you had seen each other at your absolute worst and your absolute best; this was nothing, you knew. Arthur was more concerned about what was going on inside your mind and less about the fact that you had wiped your nose with your bare hand. Even so, and mostly out of care for you, did Arthur lean away from you, the side of you which had been pressed against him suddenly left feeling impossibly cold and empty, so that he could grab the box of tissues which rested on your bedside table, and hand you one.

Instead of settling back against your side did Arthur wrap an arm around your waist, tugging you easily with the strength that you knew he had deep within him, so malnourished and yet so strong was he, onto his lap, your plush thighs seated atop his. Arthur kept that arm around your waist and with his other hand did he slowly, gently, wipe your tears away with practised ease, his thumbs rough yet somehow still soft in the way that they caressed the dark bags underneath your light eyes.

His dark brows were creased in the middle, the lines on his forehead deepened by his express concern for you, and you reached out with a hand to smooth out those lines before you fitted your warm palm to the curve of Arthur’s cheek, your own thumb mimicking his own’s previous actions.

In this moment were you both using touch to ground the other, and though you felt so inadequate, so bad and so not enough of anything, did you suddenly feel as though you were enough; if not for yourself, then for Arthur.

“Talk to me, angel. Tell me everything, and please don’t lie to me.” At your clear and obvious hesitation did Arthur use his hold around your waist to pull you closer to him so that he could claim your lips with his own, his mouth soft and pliant against yours as he naturally allowed for you to take the lead. He trusted you in this, as in everything, to keep him safe. To protect him from himself in the way that he was desperately trying so hard to do the same for you. As he pulled away did Arthur whisper a sincere, “Please.” against your lips, his breath washing coolly over your face. It was that final plea that made your uncertain mind up for you, and like a proverbial dam did all of your worries, fears, insecurities, anxieties, nightmares and neuroses come pouring out of you like a tap left to run, the waters in the sink of your mind positively overflowing and spilling out onto the floor despite all of Arthur’s precautions.

“I’m just not good enough, Arthur.” Your voice, though it was quiet in volume, was certain in tone, and the way you so easily dismissed who you were at your very core shook Arthur right down to his, and you felt him stiffen beneath you as his green eyes pinned you in place atop his lap.

“What? How can you - how can you say that, Jess?”

You shrugged. “Easily. I just did.” At the sheer look of unadulterated rage on Arthur’s face did you tone down the bite within your words, the venom with which you spat out all of the self-hatred, and you took a deep breath in... out... and tried again. “I just... I’m not enough. I’m not tattooed enough, I’m not pretty enough, I’m not thin enough, I’m not a good enough friend, I’m not a good enough partner for you, I’m just... I’m not enough.” You bowed your head in grief, your final sentence as to your feelings whispered in a tiny voice as if you dared not speak what you perceived to be your truth too loudly. You didn’t want to shake the very foundations of your relationship with Arthur by speaking your feelings too loudly, even as your shoulders shook with all of your sobbing, while the weight of the pressure which you had placed, perhaps subconsciously, upon your shoulders came crashing down and you tripped out; falling down and freaking out, unable to discern left from right, up from down... All you could do was cry. 

You hated having BPD; you hated how you could go from feeling okay, feeling more than okay, in fact, and then in less than a minute were you at a lower point than rock bottom; for at least at rock bottom could you still go up. No one ever understood just how lonely it could be, the way that so often did you feel like it was you and then the world, two separate realities which lived side by side but not together. Arthur did his best to understand, you knew, and even if he couldn’t quite work out what had caused your mood to flip or even if nothing had, he was still there for you, time and time and time again. At all hours of the day and the night was Arthur awake, so chronic was his insomnia, and so you were well within your rights to wake him up for things that you needed or wanted to hear. Hell, even if you just wanted a cuddle but he was laying wrong were you allowed to wake him up. Arthur lived for you, he was everything that he could possibly be for you, and though most often did it exhaust him to meet everyone’s needs and expectations other than his own, for you was he quite simply energised.

Arthur needed to be needed, he yearned to be loved, and over and over again did you provide him with silent and verbal reassurances that he was all of those things and more. 

Sometimes, though, you were the one who needed reassurance that the thoughts in your head weren't true, that you were loved and cherished and cared for and treasured for being exactly who you were, right here and right fucking now, and Arthur had never been the one to turn you away. He would rather die, this you were both painfully aware of, than knowingly make you think that he didn't love you for even a second. Even on his darkest days did he quite do his best to love you as fiercely as he was capable of.

A gentle finger lightly touched the underside of your chin and pressed lightly upwards, tipping your face up towards Arthur. Intense green eyes met the most beautiful blue as slightly chapped thin lips descended upon your own, effectively ceasing your sobbing. Your breaths were ragged, your heartbeat irregular and your emotions in a constant spin, but Arthur wasn't about to give in or to give up on you. He kissed you slowly, languidly, as if he was trying to commit everything about this moment – your lips against his, your bare skin against his, your warmth and the weight of you atop him and the soft, freshly laundered scent of the floral duvet beneath your joined bodies – to his memory.

As he pulled away, Arthur kept his face so close to yours that his nose brushed against your own, the light contact causing delicious tingles to spread up from the tip of your nose to the bridge, and a small, sad smile came to your lips. Arthur touched the corner of your mouth gently with his index finger. “There she is.” He smiled sadly and tipped his head upwards so that he could press a slow, tender kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin as he took the time to just breathe you in. As he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes wide open, did he make sure to keep his eyes on yours. For every time you looked away did his gaze chase yours until you realised that you needed to look at him, to really look and to listen. “I would never and will never want you to be any different than you are right here and  right now, Jess. I know it can seem like it's not real, but it is. You. Are. Enough.” Arthur's tone was dark as he carefully enunciated the final three words, his eyes daring you with a single look to challenge him.

Tears once more steadily dripped down your face and you shook your head. Not in disbelief, but in an abundance of pain, and Arthur picked up on this change immediately as with a soft sympathetic coo did he wrap both of his arms solidly around you, his hands rubbing up and down your back in firm, soothing motions as he rocked you from side to side gently, his lips pursing to feather kisses anywhere and everywhere that he could reach, so desperate to leave minute traces of his love on you was he.

“Yes,” Arthur murmured, the word falling from his lips like a prayer as he said it over and over again between kisses, making sure that you knew just how serious he was being. “Yes, yes, yes. You are beautiful,” Kiss, “And kind” Kiss, “Compassionate,” Kiss, “Intelligent,” Kiss, “Loving,” Two kisses, because it was such an important point that it had to be said twice by the man who was so hopelessly devoted to you that he could never love another and would never love again should anything ever happen to you, “A great – no, a wonderful friend,” Kiss, “The bestest, most special girlfriend,” Kiss kiss kiss, for this was his most significant point yet that his lips were almost bruising against your skin, “Enough.” Lips seized yours and his tongue darted out from between his lips to coax your own into a slow dance, his hands tight upon your back as Arthur poured every ounce of his love for you into this one kiss, which left you quite breathless and uncertain even of your own name.

It was what you deserved.

You weren't okay, you really weren't, and perhaps you wouldn't be for quite some time, but that was okay. You had Arthur and Arthur had you, and come rain or shine, hell or high water, would you stay by each other's side. Arthur would relight your candle with his own should yours ever flicker, dim or otherwise completely go out, for a flame shared is not dwindled but instead strengthened; the warmth far more available to spread outwards; casting light even in the darkest of places.

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[punsandfuturekingsmen-archive]

Frenzy (Kiss Meme)

@frenzys-furnace due to this

This would also be one of the easiest kisses to give. Because where everyone else there were questions, uncertainties.... he knew where he stood with Frenzy. He cared about him deeply, but Frenzy was his friend, wanted nothing more than that. And honestly? He was fine with that. It took a lot of pressure off, to know he could tease, could flirt, and it wouldn't be taken as more than platonic. It was fun banter between them, and he didn't expect anything more than playful banter right back. He felt-- close, but somehow safe and protected by the platonic aspect of their relationship.

Whichhhhh meant if he teased Frenzy a little, or was a terrible little shit, it didn't have to mean anything either. He was safe because it wouldn't to Frenzy. And that gave him free and most diabolical rein.

So Arthur made his entrance by kicking down the door. He stood there, in actual formal clothes, a dark tux with a gold tie just on the verge of tacky. His hair was brushed if still spiked and unruly, and he had a little sunflower tucked against his lapel.

"Summer's Sun!" Arthur called, like the prince might call for his Rapunzel at the base of her tower. "Please show thineself! Without you in my sights I am trapped in eternal winter, never to know the warm embrace of your light! Without it I may just wither and die, frozen by the tears that spill in your absence~!"

He waited with a vibrating patience for his 'love' to enter. He could tell it was him by the sound of heels on the ground. Lament always floated. Frenzy walked to hear himself, and the sound brought a smile to his face.

"There you are my darling sun, ever more radiant since my last departure." He gave a bow so low with flourish of his hand. "The gods smile on me, to give me one more moment to bask in your radiant light. Though in this meeting, there is some gravitas. Those abominable faeries have cursed me with a gift! And it is indeed both at once. By their rules I must kiss you, my love, or else I will have failed to follow through with their dare, and who knows what hell might be wrought upon us all. So please, I beseech you, darling Summer Sun, to allow me this tender affection, a kiss upon your perfect, sun-kissed lips."

There's a hint of a frown on Frenzy's face, but it smooths away the longer he spoke. Frenzy responded with as much drama in his voice as Arthur had, a movement of his hands lighting the sconces with a light that softened every shadow with warmth. "My winter's knight, the days may have grown longer, but without your presence in my threshold they were cold and dire. Nothing could fill my souls yearning, just the sound of your lovely voice was able to break that condition haunting my very being."

When the dare registers, all pretense and play is dropped. Frenzy's face is always the skull he prefers, but the scowl is audible in his tone. "The fucking grey shits...You okay otherwise? What was their wording exactly? Like hell I am letting them force you to do this! Did they say you have to kiss me on the lips? If not..." He feels the pressure along his prosthetic as Frenzy's hand grabs it. He brings it up to his mouth and places a kiss on his knuckles.

There was no hesitation, and that makes him warm. His fingers twitch against Frenzy's own. His own banter softens to something real. "They didn't say how. And no, it's not a threat. It was just a dare, but I'm a fan of follow-through, my dear." The jovial tone returns a moment. His hand reaches up, curling against Frenzy's cheek. It is stiff, but warm. It makes his chest swell even if he swallows the feeling. "I'm not being forced to do this. It was just a dare, I promise."

His smile is back on, wide and warm and aimed at Frenzy. He wants to reflect the sun that Frenzy is to him, so he can see just a little of his own warmth. "So....can I be silly this time? Can I kiss you how I want to?"

There's a long pause. He's not sure what Frenzy is thinking, but he can see each thought be turned over in his mind, the way his face shifts as each new one occurred to him. Some found it impossible to read a skull, he supposed. But he could feel the emotions shift, could see even the smallest change on bone. It fascinated him to watch, so much so that sometimes he forgot he was watching Frenzy consider his request, not just watching him to see how many ways his face could shift and change.

At last there's a huff. "I am still not pleased at what they put you through, but I am game, little yellow." A hand rests on his cheek. It is pliant like skin, but warm not in the way the living are. It's more like a sunbeam resting against his face. Frenzy's skull is firm against his own brow. It's warm too, and butterflies break out of the chrysalis in his chest. He feels...safe. He's safe.

It doesn't need to be romantic to be worth everything.

Frenzy continues. "Well, then, my winter's knight, my protector from the harshness of the cold, I am in your hands. Do with me as you please. I am yours."

The words further warmed him. He was sure his face was flushed now, under that delicate touch. The hand still on Frenzy's face shifts, so his thumb brushes beneath one of his eye sockets. He leans right back against Frenzy's affection, head pressing to Frenzy's in a long breath of silence.

His gaze went to Frenzy's own through his lashes. "Could you put on your face, my sun? Though my time here shall be short-lived, for I still wage battle to protect our home, I wish to look upon you in both forms. And perhaps if you are truly mine, I will let our lips meet in tender embrace to satisfy these conditions laid before us. I can think of no one better I would rather be warmed by than your delicate touch. And I can think of no better way to touch you than with my lips brushing yours." His fingers stroked against the curves of Frenzy's skull, eyes soft and smile tender.

He knew Frenzy would never admit it, but he could see the way he was relishing the touch. It almost made him laugh to see the way he winked, and one did escape when after a flash of arid, red flames he could see Frenzy, human with his naturally dark skin, but with the line of his skull on his face. There was a teasing glint to his eyes.

"Thought you said you want to see both." He can see the way Frenzy beams in his playful way. Then more dry heat, and he's-- Lewis. Lewis but red, in a way he hasn't often seen Frenzy take. Frenzy asks him if it's better in the tone he uses for their banter. He takes a knee.

It's strange looking down at Frenzy. It makes him smile to see the way he commits to this, knowing it's what Arthur asked for. "I am but a mere man. In your warm hands, shaped by work, I shall find my salvation and on your lips I shall find my way back to a prayer."

"Darling Sun, you are wondrous in every way to me, no matter the face you wear, because all of them belong to you."

"But my winter's knight, you bring out my best faces. They are only for you."

He shakes his head, smile still on, and taps at Frenzy's cheek before releasing it. This wouldn't work. He wanted to leave Frenzy-- speechless. He knew what he'd do if Frenzy didn't stop him midway. He'd always listen to Frenzy, play or not. It was one of the few things he could give him. To always have control. To always be heard.

He tugged as his arm. "Stand up, my beloved Frenzy. I have another plan to bring you down to my level so that I may give you what we both desire so deeply." Arthur's mouth was a sly grin.

It makes an eyebrow raise on Frenzy's face, but he bows and complies, returning to his towering height. Arthur ignores the way his breath flutters alongside his heart, at the low and gentle way he speaks. It isn't real, but he feels it in the moment. In the way Frenzy matches his grin. "Whatever your heart desires, I will provide." He continues the earlier bit now. He brings out Frenzy's best face? well--

"I will bring out every face, because I feel elation with every new facet of you I am so privileged to gaze upon."

His hand gingerly places on Frenzy's stomach, so Frenzy can see it, see what's he's doing, before sliding the grip to Frenzy's hips and then around to his back. Like he might hold him in a low hug. He moves slow. Frenzy deserves the right to stop him. He quietly crosses every finger he won't find a place that hurts him, because doing so would be the last thing he'd ever want.

Frenzy speaks until he registers the touch. "There is a joke to be made there, my winter's knight. But your..." He stops. The look on his face and the emotions in the air are confused. He feels something complicated and excited and worried all at once. It's heady, dizzying. His hand doesn't go under his shirt, but he feels a spike as his fingers pass over his chest at a certain part. But Frenzy does not stop him.

The trust makes him want to cry.

Instead he keeps the silence, reveling in the feeling of shock and warmth. It feels electric, this moment.

"Uhm?" Frenzy sounds off-kiiter, but he steps closer, and Arthur smiles.

His hand splays against Frenzy's back where he holds him, and relief spills out in his smile he's sure, when Frenzy allows him to continue. His eyes look up at him before he starts to lean forward, to move forward too. The movement makes Frenzy lean backwards into his waiting hand. It is almost achingly slow, but with each shift Frenzy is moved into a dip. He is held firm and steady by the hand against his back.

For a moment, Arthur's face is apologetic. He feels it too, knowing that maybe this might be a lot of trust he's asking for. Tilting him back is what he'd planned for sweeping his red ghost off his feet, but keeping him suspended... it felt like there was no time to waste. He didn't want to change the memories by holding off too long.

At least Frenzy sees to be at a loss for words. His gaze is intense and wide and the feelings from him are too rapid and all over the place to parse. He doesn't try to, because sitting and thinking might mean Frenzy thinks about the position. It wouldn't be for fun or play if Frenzy remembered falling backwards or something that took the lightheartedness from this.

But he can feel a burning curiosity, a warmth overwhelming. So he takes his hand with the one not holding him up, and he kisses the open palm in his hand. He lets Frenzy's hand rest on his shoulder for balance, and leans forward, one hand framing one of his angular cheeks.

"There is one of the two I must give." He says, eyes half lidded and voice husky as if filled to the brim with desire. It almost makes him want to smile, to laugh, but he doesn't want to break character until he makes Frenzy blue-screen. Or laugh. Or smile. He just wants Frenzy to feel half the joy he feels holding him.

Platonically, of course.

"Are you ready for the second one, my darling Summer Sun?"

God, his face was so adorably red. So so platonically red. His smile wavered before it bloomed in full and it stole his heart away again, just as it did every time Frenzy smiled. "I am always ready for you, my light in the darkest winter's night."

"Good." He was afraid to say anything else. Afraid he'd break the spell on them both. A spell that let him get this far, to terrorize Frenzy just as much as he might melt him.

That singular word was all the warning Frenzy received, before Arthur's hand moved up, curling fingers at his ear and the first wisps of his hair. His mouth moved forward, as his thumb shifted up, and almost perfectly timed, his thumb covered Frenzy's lips, so that his lips pressed to it instead.

A kiss was a kiss, after all. By way of the rules, a theater kiss filled the requirements just as well.

He'd practiced for this, and he was proud almost, of how smooth he'd managed his transition. He was more proud when he felt a nip to his thumb, teeth from Frenzy in a sharp protest to his trickery. It made him bubbly, giddy in a way that was far too intense to stay in his chest. His heart danced. He smiled into the stage-kiss. He can feel the annoyed petulance from Frenzy and it makes him chuckle, a stifled laugh against his thumb.

He pulls back, and Frenzy's mouth opens. Or it may have intended to, from the way his expression changed. Something likely teasing or pouting about his little trick. He would have happily answered with a response any other time.

But today, when his thumb moves, his lips crash back in. They take it's place when the trick has made Frenzy believe that was all he'd get, so the surprise hits that much harder. He would worry, but Frenzy had given him permission.

Well. He worried anyways. But then Frenzy's hand squeeze him, pull him closer, and he nearly melts. Frenzy kisses him back he's so in character but got it's warm and electric and he feels his eyes well with emotion and his lips tingle against Frenzy's. He tastes like home and woodsmoke and cinnamon and paprika and a hundred other spices blended to perfection. He wants to take more.

But he won't. He won't because Frenzy is his friend. No matter how much he fits him, he's not his to take. He's one of his best friends. The one who kissed his hand over and over even as it shattered him, telling him he wasn't alone, making promises he shouldn't. Frenzy who put him on the counter and covered him with icing while he slathered it back on him, laughing until there was nothing left for the cake. Frenzy who complained about anime with him, and who grumbled over his back until Arthur let him give him a room. Frenzy who launched through a house to keep him from crashing to the ground and saved his life.

His best friend.

The same one who said that wasn't what he wanted.

He wanted more, but he won't take it. It doesn't ache in a painful way. There's yearning, but god everything he has with him is worth it. It's all worth it.

With the smallest amount of reluctance, he pulls from the chaste kiss. He finds a grin again, even as he parted slowly. Frenzy is so in character his lips chase him for a moment and it makes his face hot. But that's buried in all the other feelings blossoming inside him. He licks his lips, and his words are whispers only Frenzy would hear, even if someone else stood inches away.

"I only needed two. But I hope you don't mind if that last one was for me. I love you, my Summer's Sun." He hovered over him, stoking his cheek, watching him with an intense expression.

For a moment there's silence.

"Huh?!", Frenzy blinks, an expression of utter dumbfoundedness playing across his features.

A slight grin cracks him, and he ends in a laugh at the look on his face. Oh shit! he got him so good holy shit--

He laughs, laughs hard and heavy. He almost wants to kiss him again to make it last longer, but for now it was play, and another might be real, something he couldn't hide. He needed to respect Frenzy, love him the way he deserved to be loved, exactly as he wanted.

Instead of pursuing those seeking lips and capturing them, he nuzzles at Frenzy's hairline, thumb brushing over his cheek. "You need a moment, mi hermosa rosa~?" There's a teasing lilt to the way he says it, even as his face erupts with color at the thought of their embrace moments prior. A second, softer and breathless laugh is placed against red strands.

He feels as much as he hears Frenzy grunt. Then he shivers with his whole body as sparks strike him once more like they had in the kiss. Frenzy's face is in his neck. He's groaning in exasperation. "Please, gods, spare me! Dipshit, you have won whatever game you were playing..."

It all feels the way it should and it makes him laugh, even as his face burns bright as the sun he calls his Frenzy.

"M-maybe it was gay chicken like we always play, and this time I lost but worse." He chuckles again and nuzzles him more. He doesn't want to let go of him yet, but he does, using his grip to pull him back up.

He'd never let go off Lewis and let him drop even a single foot to the floor. He was careful that Frenzy was standing before releasing him. Then he took his hands and looked up at him. "Thank you. My Summer's Sun. For humoring me."

The emotions were still tight in his chest, unburied as they were and exposed. They rimmed his eyes and laced his smile with fluttering wings and all he could do was squeeze his hands.

"I owe you one, Frenfren." He promises, equally soft as his thanks, before quickly leaving to sort everything in his chest and bury the rest in the soil.