#constructing intricate rituals which allow you to touch the skin of other fiSH

[prisiidon]

>:) Lionel getting injured on purpose so he can get his abs touched, probably just a light graze but stiLL-

I love how many aggressive angry fighter zora ocs there are...

there needs to be a zora oc fighting tournament because I just KNOW these dudes would fight each other for top fish.

Viri will be on the sidelines ready to heal everyone. And touch strong zora abs.

Kenne also there wondering why her brother is super excited over zora getting knocked around.

[folkgirlhero]

Soooo Chapter 3 of Traditions I Can Trace is now the length of chapters 1 and 2 combined, which is why it won't be done until this weekend BUT here is the first scene to enjoy if anyone out there is waiting!

What Gerry liked best, if he was in the mood to be brutally honest with himself, was when he could get his hands on Mike. He didn’t need much provocation, these last few months, to twist his fingers up in one of Mike’s stuffy collared shirts and shake him or to pin him up against a wall and tower over him, looking down at his smug mouth and the glint in his dark eyes. After the incident with the Buried Leitner, it was all heated kisses and even more heated fights between them, often with one interrupting the other.

“You construct intricate rituals which allow you to touch the skin of other men,” Mike singsonged once, calling him on the habit when Gerry had wrestled him to the ground over something at an estate sale that had turned out to be a (very uncursed) copy of Moby Dick. Gerry had watched Mike pay for his prize and then sneak up to the upper level of the mansion, where he’d presumably gone to look for more books.

And now Gerry had Mike pinned down on the floor of what looked like a library, with a knee on his chest, arms above his head with both wrists clasped in one of Gerry’s hands. They were both breathing heavily and Mike was watching him with that tilted-head, appraising-look thing he did. Asshole.

“Are you really “no homo”-ing me right now?”

“It’s Barbara Kruger; please. Take an art history course, you pleb.” Mike considered a moment. “But also, yes, a bit.”

Gerry pressed his knee harder into Mike’s chest, pushing the air out of his lungs. Mike struggled beneath him, hips thrashing between Gerry’s legs, where he was pinning them down, and Gerry didn’t bother to pretend he didn’t enjoy it. Mike stopped squirming (unfortunately) to narrow his eyes at him. Gerry leaned in close, so their faces were inches apart, letting his voice come out low and husky.

“And deprive you the pleasure of lording your fancy university education over me? Wouldn’t dream of it, babes.” He couldn’t help adding a wink. There was just something about fighting Mike that brought it out in him.

Mike’s lips curled into a smile like a pampered cat stretching out in a shaft of sunlight. And then his fist caught Gerry hard in the ear and Gerry rolled off him with an “oof!”

Mike jumped up and followed the punch with a shift kick in the ribs that knocked Gerry flat with another groan.

“C’mon Crew, you got the book already. You can keep it even; it’s useless.”

“A man can have his fun, can’t he?” Mike’s self-satisfied voice bubbled like popped champagne.

Fair enough, Gerry thought, and pretended to struggle to his feet. He figured Mike wouldn’t resist the chance to get in another hit, and he was right. Mike lunged forward and Gerry dropped to one knee, sweeping the other leg out to knock Mike’s feet out from under him and sending him crashing back to the ground.

Gerry quickly scrambled up and brought his foot down on Mike’s throat, pressing down enough to be uncomfortable, but not enough to hurt. Yet.

“Well?” croaked Mike. “What’s it going to be, petal? Are you going to choke me out or not?”

Gerry could see Mike’s neck working underneath the pressure of his boot, but chose to absolutely not think about it and be very cool and collected instead. He reached out, pulling a decanter off the bar cart positioned on Mike’s other side. He pulled out the stopper and took a sniff: scotch. He tipped his head back more than necessary to drink from it, letting his hair fall down his back and working his throat around a sizable gulp.

Mike rolled his eyes heaven-ward, as if praying for patience. Drama queen.

“You want some?” Gerry asked, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth and giving the decanter a pleasant swirl.

“Gerard Keay, if you fucking pour that on my face, so help m—”

Gerry poured it on his face.

Mike sputtered on it, then roared and clawed at Gerry’s leg, digging his fingers under the cuff of Gerry’s jeans to draw blood. Gerry swore he kept his nails sharp for this exact purpose. Gerry pressed his boot down harder against Mike’s neck and Mike glared at him, looking like a half-drowned cat. It was hilarious.

Then his expression shifted. He tilted his head and arched his body up, infinitesimally, towards Gerry.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing here?” he wheezed. Gerard lifted his boot a centimeter.

“Oh, please, tell me,” Gerry scoffed. “What am I doing here?”

“Living out one of your fantasies, of course. You love seeing me like this. Humiliated. Wet. Getting stepped on by those big fuck me boots of yours.”

Gerry thought really hard about keeping the blush out of his face, but Mike’s leer told him it’d been pointless.

“Oh yeah, well—” Gerry started and then broke off in a yell, when Mike grabbed the heel and toe of his boot with each hand, gave a hard press up, and then rolled, taking Gerry’s foot with him. Gerry crashed back to the ground, half on top of Mike.

A clumsy wrestling match ensued. Gerry pulled Mike’s hair so sharply he got a howl out of him, Mike jabbed Gerry in the eye, Gerry got Mike’s arm in a twist he’d been sure would dislocate his shoulder, Mike punched Gerry’s nose so hard he thought it was probably broken again. The whole time it was all hot breath on each other’s faces and bodies twisting against one another and the thrill of adrenaline thrumming swift and heavy through their veins. Gerry knew it was fucked up, but he didn’t have it in him to hate it.

It ended, somehow, with Gerry lying face down, with Mike straddling his back, pinning his hands behind his neck.

Mike let out a low, luxurious chuckle and stuck his hand in Gerry’s pocket, quick as anything, to fish out his cigarettes.

“You know these things’ll kill you, right?”

Gerry groaned, letting his forehead drop to the ground. “You are the most obnoxious person I have ever met.”

“Gerard. I’m touched.”

Gerry was staring at an eyeful of ugly carpet, but he could picture the theatrical hand gesture Mike was most definitely doing: wrist delicately broken, fingertips grazing his own chest, eyes cast upward.

He figured that would be Mike’s exit line and dutifully played his part by lying resigned on the ground, but then he felt a shooting pain as his arm was twisted up his back.

“What the fuck??” he yelled, but his shout was cut off by Mike’s mouth covering his own, followed by Mike’s fingers scraping Gerry’s hair off his face and tugging it back hard, giving Mike room to deepen the kiss.

Gerry let out a very different groan as his stomach gave a wild swoop and Mike licked into his mouth. Gerry’s eyes darted wildly, body trapped beneath Mike’s hips and his twisted arm and pulled hair and, more than anything else, Mike’s mouth, sticking him in place like a moth pinned to a board. Another few seconds of Mike’s hot breath and sharp teeth and another stinging pull of Gerry’s hair, and then Mike was gone, his echoing laughter bouncing down the hallway.

Gerry let his head fall face back down into the hideous carpet, with a ragged exhale blowing his hair up in a poof.

So. Yeah. It was a lot of that. Had been for months now.

And it wasn’t that Gerry felt differently about Mike, exactly. He still thought he was an idiot and reckless and dangerous. But he was also unreasonably sexy about it, and Gerry was sick of pretending he wasn’t.

What’s more (and worse, Gerry constantly reminded himself), he kept going back to that scene in Mike’s flat. The one with the Buried, that is (not that he hadn’t spent plenty of time reliving the events that came after it in private).

The fear he felt at the sight of Mike lying on the floor, unconscious and helpless, at the mercy of a terrifying creature that the mere mention of sent Mike into a flurry of rage… he couldn’t stop thinking about it. And, yeah, sure, he cared about people. Mary had made it clear what a flaw that was his whole life, and so he’d clung to it, desperately, like he did with any clear dichotomy between the two of them. So maybe it was just that, a general desire for another human to be safe, to be free from the influence of the Entities.

Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. For all that their fights could be playful and flirtatious at times, sometimes Mike got such a look of desperation, of fear, that Gerry was taken aback. He had never stopped seeing himself in Mike, never stopped viewing him as trapped, running from something.

Gerry sighed. He knew it was all in his head. Just a need for connection, for understanding. He needed to get over it. It was going to be the death of him one of these days.