#is that how we're doing it now?

[guqin-and-flute]

Happy Birthday, A-Yao; Part One

[Ao3] [3zun Raise Jingyi AU]

This is the spiritual successor to Your best kept secrets yet to be discovered; a little bit later, a little bit longer, and a little bit worse! :D This whole fic was inspired by madtomedgar (more on that later). This is set a little after what I plan for Chapter 7 in the main fic, so A-Fu is about 6.5. -Explicit- CW: minor self harm ideation, canon typical violence, vague mentions of flashbacks to sexual violence, vague mentions of nonspecific past child abuse, canon typical opinions of sex workers, sex as a grounding technique--as in, he’s probably not in a great place to be doing this but it’s what he wants so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

There are exactly 75 steps leading up to the Pageantry Hall at Koi Tower. 

And for the most part, he doesn’t dwell on this. He is able to put enough versions of himself between the Jin Guangyao of now and what happened to Meng Yao there when he had first seen his father’s home. They are merely stairs, like any of the other countless sets in the whole of Koi Tower--for it is a tower. A tall, grand city reaching for Heaven itself, just as bright, just as golden; a Heaven enough for his mother and him, attainable if you had patience.��

(To climb the steps to Heaven, and be cast back down….)

 He has used the entrance steps plenty of times since that day 13 years ago; he has greeted guests at their peak, even sat upon them patiently when a younger A-Fu had explored what happened when a ball was rolled down. It bounces, as it turns out, a fact that only a child could find delight in. Jin Guangyao had smiled at his awe of simple, predictable rules the adults took for granted. What goes up must come down unless a force acts to keep it aloft, a force like will or wind or magic or birthright.

(It had gained momentum, landing harder and arcing farther, higher. It had rolled to a stop at the bottom. Eventually. Dented. Motionless.)

And so, day to day, the stairs don’t linger on his mind. He is quite practiced at sweeping the heavy brocade curtain of decorum in front of anything unsavory--it's in his blood. Jin excel at presentation. It even works within himself, when he is useful, when he is effective and focused, when he hardly has time to think at all.

But there are times he catches the sharp edge of his father’s temper. When he irritably tosses missives into his face, shoulders him aside, or shouts him from the room.  Slants him a suspicious glance. Bars his gaze from his nieces and nephews. Ignores his presence entirely.

Times when Madam Jin breaks her icy contemptuous disregard of him to insult or seize or slap. Or worse.

(Everything had become worse after Xuanyu was accepted. So much worse.)

Times when the courtiers and guests and even servants hide sneers and snickers when they see this. When the word ‘whoreson’ is whispered just quietly enough to prevent him from reacting. 

But not quiet enough to ignore. 

(Weakness is dangerous, whorehouse or palace. Prey.)

These times, that luxurious curtain, the glittering walls close in like the thickness of summer in his lungs--breathing too wet air, drowning on dry land. When memories stick, raw, unchewed in his throat.

These times, the stairs are more than just stairs. Passing them takes effort. Takes turning his head away or closing his eyes to stave off the creeping vertigo of that drop. 

(His head, his hips, ribs, and shoulder always ache this time of year, every year. He tells himself it’s the colder weather.)

He avoids going near them when this happens, if at all possible. It is not, this time. He must greet guests there as they arrive for his and Zixuan's birthday party. 

Well. Zixuan’s birthday. 

The fact he had the audacity to slide into the world on the same day is an unhappy coincidence, here. It would probably be ignored completely if not for Jin Zixuan and Jiang Yanli’s determination to include him. Every year, he has smiled and accepted their attention with demonstrably flawless grace. Every year, he feels the stitches he has so painstakingly gouged between himself and this Clan creak with strain. He is held here with blood, that watered down portion his veins hold, the very same that has been spilled on those steps, staining the edges of finery crusted shoes and plateware. 

Sometimes, he wonders if Madam Jin means to drain him of the percentage of blood that makes him their problem. If enough is let from him, maybe that portion of him that is Jin will seep out, too, leaving him unable to embarrass them all any longer with his claim. Then, they will be able to send him away to die as nothing and nobody of consequence. 

But even if they bled him dry, they could not take back the name he had wrested from their grip. Desiccated and bloodless, he could go on, a walking corpse--but the name would be his. The promised birthright. It is what he had worked for, fought for his whole life.

(“Trust me, Yaoyao, he’ll be here.”)

Could he somehow indelibly brand himself Jin enough, in their eyes? If it was carved into his flesh, his bones, they could no longer deny it. It would be an inescapable fact.

Is that what it will take? He would do it. No knife is too sharp.

(Strands snapping from his scalp in bright ‘tinks’ of pain, neck aching at the strain against her grip on his hair. “Muqin, please, I’ve--”

A dizzying flash--a second blow against his temple. Something hard, not her hand. He doesn’t know what. “You let that brat run wild and do whatever he wants! Do you mean to make Koi Tower some common inn?! And he still calls you ‘die’! What whore’s trick are you playing on Zewu-jun, now, of all people?! Fucking trash! You’re a stain on this household! An embarrassment!”)

A-Fu.

“Tell your diedie how excited you are,” Er-ge’s amused voice had emanated from the returned messenger butterfly glowing in his palm.

“Diedie, did you know I’m gonna see you for a whooole month this time?! And we’re gonna go and see Lanling and-and go swimming and you promised you’d let me stay up and watch the falling stars next time and--is it time for them, again? And--!” The voice had devolved into a barrage of gleeful clamor. The butterfly sedately fluttered its wings at the memory of his energy.

His son wants to be with him. His son loves him. He is A-Fu's father and A-Fu wants to be with him. This thought should bring him warmth, just like every time A-Ling lights up at his entrance, or A-Qiang fusses to clamber on him when he visits, or Jiang Yanli presses one of the twins into his arms, or Zixuan squeezes his shoulder should.

But lately, there is no warmth inside of him. There is nothing soft. It has been weeks since anything has felt real at all. It's all a play he is at once attending and acting in. 

(He has not visited Zixuan and Yanli’s home in 13 days. He is not sure if it’s on purpose--or whose purpose it would be, his own or theirs. The twins have been teething and fussy. He has been busy, days tumbling by with hardly a minute to sip water. A-Ling waves to him frantically from afar when they catch sight of each other, jumping on tiptoe. “Shushu!” he calls. Because Xuanyu is xiao-shu, now.)

Guests have been arriving for the festivities for days--those of consequence as well as nobodies that were lucky enough to cage an invitation. It’s the Jin heir’s party, after all, highly coveted and planned meticulously for months with Jin Guangyao himself at the helm; organizing all of the accounting and deliveries, the menu, flowers, timing, guest list, entertainment, the room preparations. Everything has been triple checked with redundancies in place; streamlined precision. Flawless and triumphant. It will be perfect. His brother will have the best celebration the cultivation world has ever seen if it kills him.

Huaisang blows in late the night before the banquet officially begins with a gaggle of burly Nie disciples, servants burdened with the luggage and a dozen sturdy Qinghe horses.

And no Mingjue.

…Good. 

(Jin Guangyao finds his fists balled up in his sleeves behind his back.)

This is good. He is pleased that Mingjue is not here. His bullheaded lack of tact and ever burning temper is becoming harder and harder to manage. He is now entirely incapable of keeping his lips shut around his disgust and loathing for all things Jin--particularly Jin Guangyao. 

Everything about him seems to enrage Mingjue. Whenever they meet, the man will demand and criticize and needle and sneer and shout and rage and scoff and condescend about everything from his appearance to his parenting choices to Jin Guangshan’s decisions until Jin Guangyao has to excuse himself--courteously, of course, he must always be courteous, lest he ruin everything, lest he overstay his welcome, provoke him, lest he asks for it, lest it’s his fault, always his fault, he’s brought this on himself (why did you do that, what were you thinking, how dare you, “You conniving little bitch, get back here! When I catch you, it will be twice as bad--!”)

This rarely works and Mingjue often follows him out into the hall, harassing and pressing. 

Inescapable. 

(“He’s becoming a bigger thorn in my side than anticipated.” His father’s eyes are far away, narrowed, his fingers drumming in irritation on the arms of his impeccably carved chair. “I’m tired of it. I’m thinking his didi will be far easier to deal with--and it will certainly stop him barking about the watchtowers every chance he gets.”

His stomach drops, tightens. Jin Guangyao is silent. A moment too long. 

“Something the matter? Speak. I would have thought you would leap at the chance to pay him back for your humiliation!” Suspicion under that jovial tone. Warning. “Do you disagree?”

He smiles. “I'm merely considering the options. He is…a challenge, sure enough, fuqin.”

“You’re good at those, aren’t you, Guangyao?”)

Yes, he is relieved Mingjue isn't attending. It is not a disappointment, nor a surprise; he had known he wouldn’t, even before his invitation remained unanswered. He had only sent it out of politeness and politics' sake in the first place. 

(“Happy birthday, A-Yao,” he murmured against his mouth, moustache tickling his top lip.

They were loose and warm together in bed, breathing, calming. Then, Da-ge rolled over to retrieve something from the side table, muscles rippling under his shining skin. Musk, sex, and warmth tickled Meng Yao’s nose. When he returned, he pressed a slender, wickedly beautiful dagger, sheath and all, into his hands. He had to swallow down a strangely elated laugh at the prospect of a man gifting him a knife while naked. The heft of it fit into his palm just as satisfyingly as Mingjue himself had just minutes ago. It didn’t seem to have even occurred to the man that his vulnerable belly and cock lay bare, mere inches away from a blade quickly unsheathed. Trust. 

“Chifeng-zun has the most interesting pillowtalk,” he chuckled to mask his delight. “It’s beautiful.”

“Well, weapons often fit their owners.”) 

 Jin Guangyao can name nearly all of the Nie men from his time in the Unclean Realm--and he only fails to name the rest because they are new. But every one of them eye him as if he’s some manure stuck on the bottom of their shoes. He distantly wonders what tales about him circulate still in the training halls of the Unclean Realm. He can too easily guess.

His smile to all of them is cordial and absolutely faultless. “Welcome to Koi Tower. A valet will be along shortly to show you to your suite and escort you to greet fuqin.”

Huaisang drapes himself over his shoulders like a bereft shawl as he is ushered toward the carpeted stairs. Seeming oblivious to the discontent of his entourage, he complains, “San-geeee, you won’t believe the trip down the mountains in this carriage. Not only does it take forever, but the bumps! My poor--ah, ahem, well, you know. I keep telling Da-ge to invest in smoother roads and stabilization talismans--but you know him. He just harps about using my saber to fly instead.” He squeezes him, jostles. “Hey, you’ve lost more weight! Don’t they feed you, here? Or have you been too busy with the party to--Oh!” Stopping short, he pulls them both to a halt with his grip, marveling. “Would you look at this place!” 

It really is a grand sight. Lanterns line the stairs, bathing them in light, crowning the golden roofs as far as the eye can see, rivaling the stars; bright banners furl with water-like grace through the delicately perfumed air; talisman-encouraged, out-of-season flowers froth over the edges of their polished containers. Everything is spotless and brilliantly gold. 

 “The Jin sure know how to throw a party. This was all you, right? Ahh, of course, it is, I recognized the style! Our festivals really have been lackluster, ever since you stopped organizing them! I miss it!” He sighs, then suddenly clutches his arm with renewed strength. “San-ge, tell me there will be plenty of drinks. Oh, what about that special wine you had? The fruity, sweet one you served last time?” 

Jin Guangyao has to smile. “But of course. I’ll have 2 jugs loaded for your departure as well.”

“Ahhh, how could I have doubted you? You're the best!” Huaisang grins mischievously and tapped his closed fan--one Jin Guangyao had gifted him--against the peony embroidered on his chest, then waggled it in his face. “But you never visit me anymore! You only write and stop by when you're with xiao-Fu!” He looks genuinely put out, even as he pouts outrageously to hide how much he means it. “Makes a body feel unloved!”

Unloved. Jin Guangyao keeps smiling. "I've had so much on my plate. Forgive my neglect, didi. Next time, I'll come up and stay a while with Fufu.”

Huaisang’s answering smile gets shifty, awkward; he’s about to lie, Jin Guangyao recognizes the expression instantly. “Oh! Ah, uh, Da-ge says ‘happy birthday’!” He offers, clearly just having thought to mention his absence.

No, he doesn’t. “Thank you! You may tell him it is much appreciated.” 

A lie for a lie.

(He will send back a letter, thanking Clan Leader Nie--no; Da-ge-- for his birthday well wishes for the Twin Treasures, saying that his presence was sadly missed but, of course, graciously understood. It would drive him mad, his insult ignored, the idea he would wish any Jin well. Maybe it would even enrage him enough to write something back.)

In the gray of pre-dawn, his birthday begins on the rim of a nightmare that only his body remembers, cold terror-sweat standing out on his skin. The days where he wakes with a knife already in his hand are never good ones--(your door is locked and you are alone, your door is locked)--but he will see his son today and that will make it good. It will make him happy.

(When was the last time he had felt anything resembling ‘happy’?)

Bathing takes twice as long as normal to feel truly clean. Aching and bruises cannot be washed away but if every inch of him burns from scrubbing, it feels less immediate. A typical, bearable amount of pain. He is ruthlessly thorough with every crevice--he is going to see Er-ge today. Jin Guangyao will be prepared for whatever he may need of him.

He dresses, layers on impeccable layers of delicately embroidered gold, cream, and green, cinched tight and crisp. Proper, worthy of Jin propriety, but not overly ostentatious. It is a careful game, making sure that he is perceived as staying a step below his brother in all ways. He must not cross the line of making it seem as though he is trying to draw attention away from the heir. The true son.

It's as he turns to pick up his hat that his eye catches on the person in the mirror. While his mind was absent, calculating lists of arrivals, his hands have braided his hair in the Nie style of vice general. 

The face in the mirror is unreadable. 

He rakes his fingers through, unraveling them, then he secures his hair properly before donning his hat.

Image complete, he kneels before his mother’s altar. He straightens the flowers, shines her memorial tablet, and lights 3 new joss sticks. He sits quietly, mind an empty hum as they burn. 

Every birthday, no matter what, she would always manage to buy him something new--a rare treat. He remembered every one, all twelve gifts she had given him, from a tiny wooden toy to an armful of cultivation manuals to new boots. She had always gotten them a warm, fresh dessert. And she would gather him in under her cheek, and tell him how lucky she was to have him. When he had to leave the room for her to work, she would kiss his forehead, her hands holding his cheeks as if he were something precious.

(On his 13th birthday, she was too sick to get out of bed. They argued--as much as they ever argued--as her shaking hands had pushed the meager silver at him. “Go and get yourself something, Yaoyao, I mean it,” she insisted. “I was going to anyway.”

He folded his hands around her thin wrist, staying them. “A-niang, this should be used for medicine--”

“No, I saved this for your birthday especially! Don’t you dare go and spend it on that! I’ll-I’ll be so upset with you!”

There were tears in her round eyes, huge in her gaunt, beloved face.

Reluctantly, he relented, for her sake more than anything. He shoved it deep into his pockets with sweaty hands clenched around them, so they didn’t clink together, so no one heard. The Madam was so angry with his mother’s performance lately that she took every last scrap of her money--he had to dash to the apothecary immediately after payment to have any for medicine. 

This was a furtive birthday outing, not a triumphant one, just down the road to the first food cart he saw, desperate to fulfill his mission so he could get back to her. The prize was a handful of little red bean cakes--and the change he had hidden away in his boot; medicine money. She didn't even bother to scold him for not taking more time. 

Together, curled up on her bed, they savored them together. “Next year,” she whispered from where she lay her head on his shoulder, exhausted just from having to sit up to eat. “Next year…we’ll celebrate…with your father. In Lanling.” 

She died 7 months later, during the rains of autumn.)

When there is nothing left but the ends of the smoldering sticks in the sand, he stands. 

Forcing down breakfast that clumps like glue in his throat, he reviews again and again the list of final things to check and recheck for Zixuan’s party. Part of him knows exactly when he must be here, what he must do there. The exact moments of beginning a task, then the ending, then moving on to the next. It is all arrayed in perfect formation in his head. He knows it must be, because he remembers arranging it, sees himself executing them calmly from afar. But details are blurry from here. Words flow from his throat, his lips and teeth moving in perfect synchrony; servants thrum like a hive of bees at his orders; the machinery of the day turns perfectly. 

If one were to hold a knife to his throat, demanding to know the specifics of what was said, surely some part of him would be able to provide them. Surely. 

Standing before his father in his glittering office, he bows, explaining what is ready and what still needs doing.

“I don’t have time for these things today, Guangyao,” his father waves an impatient hand without looking up from the letter he reads, frowning. “Just make it done.”

Jin Guangyao bows, promising that it will be. Leaves. 

It’s nearly time for Er-ge and A-Fu to arrive. Outside, it is chill and pearly beneath the clouds. He clasps his hands behind his back, worrying at his captured thumb. The lip of the stairs is far enough away that he cannot see the bottom of them.

When Jiang Yanli’s voice calls his name from behind him and he turns his head, pain shoots from his shoulder up to his jaw (stupid, nonsensical.) He ignores it. She’s wafting across the courtyard in a cloud of shimmering gold-peach fabric and children; A-Qiang hefted onto her ample hip, chubby and bundled against the cold; A-Ling swinging from one hand, and Mo Xuanyu clinging close to her other side. They are all grinning at him and he can feel his face smiling back--automatic, unconscious.

Xuanyu breaks from his place beside Yanli. He bounds up to him with the clumsy eagerness of a puppy not quite grown into its own feet, face shining. “Happy birthday, gege!” 

Jin Guangyao thanks him. The boy seems to have grown another inch in all directions since he last saw him mere weeks ago, before he had engulfed himself in the throes of banquet planning. Jiang Yanli and the kitchens must be feeding him well. This is good, considering how emaciated and bruised he had been when he had come to them. 

Seeing him is like swallowing acid. 

He is a kind boy, timid and sweet. He glows at any hint of praise, clearly starving for affection. He calls him 'gege', follows him like a lost duckling when he sees him. 

And there is still a part of him that hates him. 

Hates what he means, today of all days, because Mo Xuanyu is an insult. A punishment. A reminder that Jin Guangyao is one in a crowd of potential bastards that were clearly never meant to set foot in these halls at all.

Xuanyu came to Koi Tower late last summer, when Fufu had just turned 6, a terrified ghost of a child. The day was warm. Zixuan and Jin Guangyao were about to part ways outside the Pageantry Hall, each to his own plans when a servant hurried up. There was a boy at the front gate making outrageous claims, he said. He would have sent him away, he said, but he knew that Young Master Jin and Young Mistress Jin have a soft spot for helping urchin children--Jin Guangyao suspects that they remind Jiang Yanli of her dead and disgraced shidi.

At their shared request, he was brought to them. As he climbed those stairs, each one bringing closer the familiar nose, the undeniably Jin set of his eyes into sharper focus. Jin Guangyao stood frozen, unable to speak as the boy’s explanation was stammered out. 

His mother dead, his living situation untenable; he was beaten, tortured by his mother’s family. And yet, a ray of hope; his mother had left him with a token from his father, proof of what she had told him, all those years….

A pearl, woven onto a tassel.

(How many does his father have made? Does he give them out, still? Perhaps that’s why he never seems to remember who exactly has them.)

And Zixuan stepped forward, took Xuanyu’s shoulders, spoke to him so warmly. Accepting him instantly. Xuanyu welled up with tears of relief, joy.

(Had Jin Guangyao been that pathetically obvious?)

Are you still?

Zixuan had turned and looked to him, eyes searching, face so transparently hopeful for praise--and so Jin Guangyao nodded, agreed, of course he should be here, of course he belonged--a Jin, like them. Naturally.

Privately, later,  Zixuan had confided in him, admitted to worrying about convincing their father, and even more dubiously, his mother. But he had done it, somehow. He had settled Mo Xuanyu among this opulent garden of peonies without much more than a petal-rustle of disapproval. (In the boy's direction, that is.)

 And Jin Guangyao had never hated his elder brother more in his life. 

The golden boy, heir apparent to the mighty Jin Clan. Anything, anything he wanted and he would have it, without hesitation, without question, no matter the consequence. And Jin Guangyao was beaten by the golden boy's mother for daring to be a half-blood whoreson and want. 

Surely they make amusing pets, these bastards of his father. Strays Zixuan and Young Madam Jin can collect and charitably dote on until they grow bored. 

Oh, Jin Guangyao is ready for it. He knows it is coming. This is why he is anchoring himself so deeply, embedding into the cold, golden infrastructure of this place that they will have to tear him out organ by organ if they want him gone.

At the top of the stairs, the rest of the Jin-Jiang cadre crashes in on him in a wave of sound, the same well wishing as Xuanyu. He is enveloped as Yanli folds him into a one armed hug and A-Ling clings to his arm. A-Qiang leans from her hip to plaster himself to Jin Guangyao’s other side, shouting, “Shushu a birfday!” into his ear.

“Happy birthday, A-Yao! A-Xuan says happy birthday as well, but fuqin called him in to talk about something. We should see him later, though!”

Ah. Yes, that makes sense; of course his father didn’t have time to talk--he needed to speak to Zixuan, the son that matters.

(There are days when Zixuan's clumsy kindness and Jiang Yanli’s smile and Xuanyu's adoration burn and he wishes for the most vile things to befall them, because they have befallen him and it's not fair.)

(How dare you want to matter.)

Jin Guangyao draws back, thanks them all warmly with a wide smile. Maybe Zixuan even had sent along such well wishes. Jiang Yanli would have said as much either way, lying for tact’s sake, as Huaisang had. He wishes they wouldn’t.

He lets her clasp his hand, beaming. “I feel like we’ve hardly seen you for weeks, now, A-Yao! Everything’s been so bus.! Remember; lunch with just us before the party!”

“I helped cook!” Xuanyu announces shyly, gaze hopeful, and A-Ling pipes up with a, “I helped, too!” 

Jiang Yanli gently bops each of their noses in turn with her finger, and agrees, fondly, “Yes, you were both wonderful peelers and choppers!” 

Jin Guangyao makes sure that he is properly impressed and appreciative, and both boys glow with a smug pride, trading looks. 

A-Qiang squirms and whines to be held by Jin Guangyao, arms outstretched, and so he takes him when Yanli offers. He is bigger, heavier than he remembers--children grow so fast. Then, Yanli cranes her neck around, making the yellow stones of her dangling earrings sway and spin. “Aren’t they arriving by boat this time? We can’t see them from back here!” She links the arm not holding A-Qiang through hers. “Let’s move up.”

Needle-tingles crawl up his neck and through his scalp as he obliges. The world yawns out before them. He doesn’t want to see the bottom and he must fight the urge to automatically dig in his heels. (Absurd.)

He stands and waits and smiles and nods and chats. He plays and coos dutifully. A-Qiang wriggles with joy. Dizziness swirls at the base of his skull. He gives the toddler back. A-Ling swings from his hand and A-Yu hovers close at his other elbow--both chatter to and over each other. They are excited to see Fufu, excited that there is a party, excited that the older brother’s are having such a fancy birthday.

His entire back prickles with the knowledge that they are close enough to knock him off balance.

“Are you alright?”

He assures Yanli that he is.

“You’re very quiet.”

He is simply tired.

“Poor A-Yao, all this planning! You’ve done such an amazing job. A-Xuan has been so grateful for your work.”

He is glad.

“Don’t worry; soon, you will be able to rest.”

Of course. That will be good.

“They’re here!” A-Ling shouts, voice rising in excitement.

 Figures, far below, in white and blue, are entering through the huge golden gates. The Lan. The shortest by far darts forward, mounting the stairs at a run. Jin Guangyao’s palms are clammy inside his fists as the Jin around him move forward in a wave, swaying him. A-Ling and A-Yu begin leaping down to meet him as Yanli laughs, reminding them to go slowly. She follows them, picking her way down the steps carefully, hem lifted. A-Qiang is balanced on her hip, wriggling again.

The thready voice finally drifts up, a shout from far away; “A-Liiiiing! Yu-shuuu!”

Move. Move. 

You fucking coward, move.

He steps forward. Again. 

…Again.

His foot hovers out over open air and his stomach plummets, as if he were not stepping onto the next stair, but instead suspended far, far above the ground with nothing to stop him. Nothing to catch his weight but emptiness. 

A pressure is squeezing up his back, spreading through his ribs to his shoulder. It might be pain, but he is too far away to feel it.

He takes another step down. And another. And another. Something creeps at the edges of his awareness, a distorted half-memory--the nightmare from last night. Here, on this stair, but it had been Mingjue at the top, snarling, and Baxia swinging, biting into--

The landing is flat, solid under his feet (15). A-Ling and A-Yu continue to thunder down further. Yanli says something, laughing, and he agrees automatically with a smile. His ribs, head, elbow, and shoulder are pulsing with that not-quite pain.

Fufu has made it to the first landing from the bottom (15) with Er-ge not far behind. A noisy, senseless reunion he can’t parse occurs. Er-ge allows the jumble of happy children to tug on his sleeves and chatter happily up at him as he smiles benignly. Then, he looks up to JIn Guangyao, smile turning quizzical, wondering.

Jin Guangyao smiles back and cannot move forward. It seems to be enough, however, because he continues up, his gentle face the focus, an anchor.

(15. 15. 5, 4, 3, 2--)

He bows. Er-ge completes their ritual, catching his arms, staying him. (Unless a force acts against it to keep it aloft…) It’s a choice. A proof of belonging. 

 “Happy birthday, A-Yao,” he murmurs into the brief circle of their arms, the nearly safe space they create together. 

Yes, the ground is solid beneath his feet.

And it’s a good thing because FuFu canons directly into him not one moment later, shouting, “Diedie!” at the top of his lungs. 

(Don’t. That jolt of unease, of distant panic seizes him--the other Lan are at the bottom of the stairs, they can hear, they are right there, I begged you not to-- ) A-Fu attempts to climb him, pulling, hopping. When he kneels down, his son wraps his arms too tight around his neck, shoving his cheek too hard against his own, knocking his hat off kilter. Even as Er-ge warns him to be gentler, Jin Guangyao holds him back just as hard. Allows himself to be his Yellow-Father, in that huddled hug.

It very nearly makes him real for the first time that day.

Foremost is etiquette, however. Er-ge must lead the rest of the Lan disciples that have accompanied him to go and greet Jin Guangshan. Going back up is somewhat easier. (Er-ge steadies him with a covert hand at his elbow, especially as FuFu has the other hand held hostage.) After all the children funnel excitedly after Yanli to prepare for their lunch, and the rest of the Lan are being led to their suite, there is a moment alone. In a quiet, unseen side room in a back hall, behind a closed and locked door, they dare to greet each other properly.

 Jin Guangyao buries his face in Er-ge’s collar, his fingers tangling up into his hair and the tails of his headband behind his back. It is not an accident. The length of silk is smooth and cool. Er-ge surrounds him in return, warm and firm.

"You feel like you’ve lost weight, my love," Er-ge murmurs into the crown of his head, breath warming the gauze of his hat.

He makes some noise of acknowledgement without truly answering, squeezing just that much tighter.

Er-ge doesn’t ask if he’s alright. He doesn’t ask how his day is going. Soft lips find his temple, his ear. He tilts his head and lets Er-ge love him. Let’s someone in this whole empty world love him right where he is, gentle and full and warm and real and--

He pulls back and smiles as if he hadn’t just clung to him like a drowning man. Er-ge sees and knows, because that’s what Er-ge does. He lifts his hands to Jin Guangyao’s face, tracing light, invisible lines with the edges of his thumbs under his eyes, watching him with an expression of aware apology. Like it’s somehow Er-ge’s doing, to fix or break the unfortunate mistake of his birth.

No matter. He will not let anything ruin this visit--especially not himself. Blinking slowly, he purposefully lets the tension out of his shoulders and reminds them both that they have matters to attend to.

“Mn,” Er-ge agrees, easily, the way he does. “I will see you again at lunch. Later….” he leaves it open, hanging in the air.

(Falling.) 

Jin Guangyao agrees. Later. Now, he must greet more guests from his place at the top of the stairs. 

That drop has something of a physical pull, fastened somewhere in his gut.

Numb fog swallows him back up more fully. He is a complacent passenger to his own talents and the laws that govern reason--action to reaction; order from chaos. He is good at what he does. Nothing is out of place. No one could take issue. He stays at the top of the stairs. 

He stays.

Cultivators parade past, glittering.

Minshan approaches with his small, yet respectable entourage, beaming at him as they bow. Jin Guangyao has no idea the pleasantries they exchange after Minshan wishes him a happy birthday. It seems to be enough.

It is time to attend lunch.

The meal goes well enough, he thinks. It’s a whirl of chaos and noise that washes over him, familiar and jarring at once. There is joyful shouting, joyful scolding, a few tears that are not so joyful. After the time away, all the children are practically overwhelming. Surely he keeps afloat well enough, smiling, talking, being enough. Though Er-ge keeps glancing sideways at him. Underneath the table, he folds his hand around Jin Guangyao’s wrist and squeezes, gently.

Zixuan arrives late, apologizing. He looks every inch a festive Jin; gold and silver robes rich with half a dozen fine and shining layers, hair threaded with thin chains. His belt glitters with a new jade ornament he can’t recall ever having seen him wear before. Ah. Gifts.

The Jin heir settles into the seat across from Jin Guangyao, beside his wife and kisses her cheek. “Happy birthday, didi,” Zixuan adds, smile frustratingly, stupidly earnest. 

He, of course, returns the pleasantry.

It is all warm, though from a distance. A hearth fire on the horizon. Too far away.

(This should make him happy. The children’s antics, the closeness. But there’s nothing. He is hollow. Why can’t he just be happy?)

When they rise, the servants spiriting away dishes and the nannies rounding up children, Zixuan appears beside him and squeezes his arm. His expression is serious. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around much lately.”

Jin Guangyao graciously points out that he has also been absent.

“I know, but…I try to make time for family. We need to have you by more. The children miss you.” 

Jin Guangyao…agrees. He misses them too. (And he does. Achingly so. He knows it. Where has it gone?)

Zixuan frowns, peering closer. “A-Yao, are you alright?”

Of course he is. 

His brother does not look convinced in the least. “Didi, I know you, something’s not--”

Yanli appears in the doorway, asking something. Zixuan pulls himself away, still frowning back at him. Jin Guangyao smiles in reassurance.

As he returns to his room, servants swarm anxiously, peppering him with questions; When? Where? Who? Shall I? Should I? Will you? Later, there, him, yes, no, of course. 

Er-ge finds him poring over the latest seating chart--2 petty lords have feuded since last he wrote this and they are too near each other; he will not have drunken brawls mar his brother’s celebration. 

“I must speak to Lianfang-zun,” Er-ge cuts in, exquisitely timed between the breath and question of the harried maidservant. “Please excuse us and inquire about this later.”

They do not look assured, but obediently part before him; a shoal of bright fish, fleeing. Er-ge sedately follows them to the door, one hand tucked behind his back. Then, when they have all filed out, he locks it and activates the silencing talismans with a hum of promise.

Alone together at last.

(Here is where relief should seep in. Here is where anticipatory arousal should begin tingling pleasantly in his center, heat pooling in his groin. Here is where he should rise and smile and reach and want. There is a frustration mounting, somewhere. Can he feel? Is he still here, somewhere, buried, corpse-cold, corpse-still, unresponsive?)

Jin Guangyao finds his head in his hands, elbows on his desk. Er-ge’s light footsteps tread around, then a hand soothes down his back, warm and spanning wide. When Jin Guangyao sits back, closer to him, arms slide around him from behind and he rests their temples together. “A-Yao. Are you well?”

He is.

“You seem…very distant. And you hardly ate. I’m worried about you.”

There is no answer for that. His mouth is empty of words and so he remains silent. His birthday is never easy, but this time, it is some strange, unending hell. And he doesn’t know why.

He squeezes tighter and asks, quieter, "Have I upset you?"

What? Of course not, he could never be upset with Er-ge. 

“Is there something I can do? What do you need from me? I am yours alone until the banquet at nightfall. We have time.”

Yes. They have time. 

A hand against his cheek, turning him, meeting his gaze. Er-ge’s eyebrows are pinched, mouth grim. But his eyes are so soft--sweet and warm and beautiful. 

(Father never seemed to meet his eyes. Madam Jin hated them; whore’s eyes, she called them.)

“What do you need, A-Yao?” he murmurs. “What can I do? Anything.”

The kindest, most gentle man.

("It's your birthday, Yaoyao, if you could have anything in the world, what would it be?")

Er-ge is ready to be tender and slow, he can tell; to massage or play music or simply hold him, love him, soothe him. But it’s all still so maddeningly far away. He can’t. He will not feel it. A desperate frustration is rising beneath the weight of numb detachment. He wants to claw out of his skin. He needs without knowing what he needs. 

He needs everything to stop. He needs more. He needs to cut out this blankness, dig up the unhelpful corpse that’s piloting him and burn it, banish it.

Usually he’s careful about having sex with Xichen when he has obvious bruises, but it’s his birthday. It’s his birthday and he wants.

 It’s his birthday and he needs. 

When Er-ge visits, he is always attentive and flexible, asking Er-ge whether he wants his hands or his mouth or his body, whether he wants to take or be taken. But now, he needs the warmth of him against and inside of him as desperately as air.

All at once, twisting around in Er-ge’s hold, he curls his fists into the crisp front of his spotless Lan robes and yanks him down against his mouth. It surprises a hungry groan out of him, and Er-ge braces against the desk as Jin Guangyao devours his mouth, kisses him like a starving dog stripping a bone. He can almost feel it. Something is stirring in his gut. Er-ge moves with him, against him, effortlessly, breathlessly, but it’s too gentle, too nice. 

(Make me feel something. Love me. Hurt me.) Jin Guangyao needs him to fuck him.

Hard.

And he does. 

After the whirl of clothing and groping it takes to be naked, Er-ge bears him down into the bed on his hands and knees, fucking into him hard and fast, almost brutal as he snaps his hips. Yes, yes, yes. Jin Guangyao hadn’t let him wait for him to adjust. He rocks back, increasing the impact, filling the room and himself. He can hear himself praising, urging, begging for him not to stop, even though Er-ge shows no sign of slowing. The friction, the burn pounds through him, only tangentially related to pleasure, and therefore so much more bearable. He is going to ache for days. Good. 

(“You won't be able to sit rig ht for a week,” Da-ge would purr into his ear with a grin when he asked him to move faster, go harder. He had shuddered with the wanting. He had been rewarded for his daring with the fulfillment of that promise. )

His throat locks. The words die. He curls away from this mem ory, shrinking down until his face is buried into his arms, chest nearly touching the mattress. The only thing that escapes his throat is the breath punching out with each thrust. What is the matter with you? Why are you ruining this now, with Er-ge, of all people?

The thought clamps his teeth shut. No. No, he will do this right. Raising his eyes, he locks onto the graceful filigree on his headboard, tries to separate this deadening in his mind so his body can arch and writhe and be good again, the way Er-ge deserves. He knows how to do this.

Sudden emptiness chokes a yelp out of him as Er-ge pulls back, pulls out. The hands on his hips drag him further down the bed, (good, yes, no tenderness here), rolling him over. Above him, Er-ge’s flushed face is intent, his gaze focused on him, gauging as he presses back into him. Searching. They both hiss at the raw pressure of it, the new, closer depth. The intimacy of eyes on him is unbearable. Jin Guangyao pulls him down, clutches him close, leaving no space whatsoever as he urges him on with his heels; he can’t bear those warm eyes seeing the hollowness in him. 

 Heat stings his back against the bed, his thighs and ass where Er-ge’s hips meet him, promising bruises (new, clean, given from wanting, he cares enough to leave something of himself behind, to give him what he wants.) The pleasure is there, sneaking, swelling. Yes. He buries his face in the fall of Er-ge’s hair, loose from their haste to fall into his bed. When he mouths at his neck, his skin tastes of salt, smells of hot sandalwood and musky arousal. When he goes to Er-ge’s collarbone and bites along it, rakes his tongue over the flesh caught between his teeth, sucks hard and squeezes himself around Er-ge’s cock at the same time, it earns him a shocked, guttural moan that rattles through his lips. He is good at this, too. Good for something. (“Good for one thing--”)

He wants Er-ge to remember him long after he's left. He wants him to feel it when his clothes brush against the marks, when he bathes. It will leave a bruise Mingjue will see if they have sex in the next few days--unless Xichen heals it.

 Jin Guangyao knows he won't. 

(You won't be rid of me that easily. You cannot forget me, you cannot throw me out if I'm buried in him. If he’s buried in me. I will haunt the both of you.)

He wishes he could leave love bruises where everyone could see, along that perfect jaw, down his neck. Wishes he mattered that much, that what they were when they were alone together could ever matter that much. 

(“What whore’s trick are you trying on Zewu-jun, now, of all people?!”)

Breath stutters, catches. 

( Of all people.)

His eyes lock on the trail of red blooming ovals, the indents of his teeth. ( Of all people. ) Stained. Tainted. One of the pure Jades of the Lan. A Clan Leader.

( You greedy whore. )

He swallows, hard.

“A-Yao?” Er-ge pants, hips slowing, starting to pull back, to try to look down at him.

He’s ruining it. He promised he wouldn’t. He won’t. ( Please don't leave me. ) He’s alright. Nothing is wrong. Er-ge is so good to him. Please. 

He wants this. He can feel it all, now; his body. Pounding, blood heavy and eager. Hot--not frozen, not numb. Alive and aroused. His cock is stiff between them, aching. He needs this.

(Selfish. )

Please. Please. He’s sure.

Er-ge’s implacable thrusts stop altogether and he pushes himself up onto his arms above him, leaving--Er-ge, please-- “Shhh, A-Yao, I’m not going anywhere, I promise,”--he hooks Jin Guangyao’s knees over his arms and comes close again, folding him in half, curling him up tight to drive deeper still.

Stars explode, shooting up his spine, electric as Er-ge nails that knot of pleasure dead on again and again and, oh , it was good before but now it’s too deep, too fast, too good, too much; perfect. His hands fly up to brace against the headboard, that filigree biting into his palm, forcing him back down into the deep, heavy, punching thrusts that have his eyes rolling. Er-ge fills him all the way up to his throat, snakes a hand down to take Jin Guangyao’s cock in hand and jerk him roughly, timed with his thrusts.

And he doesn’t stop. His hips and hand are fluid and fast and unrelenting and Jin Guangyao loves him because he doesn’t stop, and he doesn’t stop, and he doesn’t--

“Yes, A-Yao,” Er-ge croons breathlessly against his temple, the strain squeezing his voice, “so good for me,” as a flood, a swell, a crash tears through him and he comes, hard, with a gasping shudder ripped from deep in his gut, raking out of his throat. Helpless. Er-ge moans raggedly against his skin, slows his breakneck thrusts, but does not stop, working him mercilessly through his orgasm, the way he knows he loves.

But he doesn’t follow him over that edge. 

His head is reeling as he pants, tiny black stars dancing across his vision in time to his racing pulse. No, no, I’m not good. Dizzy, drowning, and so, so raw, he despairs. He’s failed. He’s failed to do well, failed to please him, to make him come, failed-- 

Er-ge kisses at his ear, gasping, “Do you need to stop? Take a breath?”

Automatically, all his limbs clamp back like iron around him, pinning him close. ( He could break free so easily. Break you.) He needs more, needs the too much, needs it to ache. He will fall off the earth if Er-ge stops fucking him, now. Drowning in sensation is the only way to take him out of his head entirely and he needs to be all raw nerve, to keep feeling . But...if Er-ge needs to--

“Do you want me to?”

The breath tickling over his ear makes him shudder. It’s alright if he needs--

“Yes? No? Love, I’m not--” 

He’s slowing, pulling back again . The red singing of his movement is abating and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t --

“No,” A-Yao grates. “More. Please. Please keep going.”

Every eloquence is gone. Decorum, civility. Bare. Flayed. 

Disgusting.

“Oh,” Er-ge breathes reverently, settling back onto him, into him. “ Good, A-Yao. You’ve been so good, telling me what you need. Letting me take care of you. Pleasure you.”

The praise melts him, bleeds into the zaps and tingles and it aches like he's been beaten. 

( How dare you love me like it’s easy? Something in him screams. Do you know how much simpler this would be if I were just unloveable? How much more sense it would all make, how much easier to swallow and bear?)

Instead of returning to fucking him hard once more, Er-ge unfolds him. His palms sliding down his thighs to cradle his ribs, now, weighing him down, A-Yao’s legs locked over his back. Now, he rolls his hips in slow, lush circles as he kisses down his throat with the warmth and lavish sweetness of dripping honey. “Can I make love to you now?” he asks softly, lips-breath-words hot in the hollow under his ear. “Slowly?”

( How dare you love me like I’m not disgusting and wrong? How dare you love me like I deserve it?)

The swell of sore pleasure--and fear --breaks from him in a weak, pitiful sound he doesn’t mean to make. It cracks him open in intestine vulnerability so ugly he isn’t sure how Er-ge can stand to keep touching him.

(Don’t do this to me. Don’t make it seem easy.)

“A-Yao?”

Defeated, because his Er-ge is so honest, so gentle and earnest and kind, A-Yao closes his eyes and nods. Because he does want that. (He wants to not want that. It would make everything so much easier.) 

There is a brief moment where Er-ge peels away, sits back on his heels, tugged from A-Yao’s body (which makes him want to cry and it’s so, so stupid) and deftly ties back his fall of sex-mussed hair to the nape of his neck. When he leans over to the side table, the shadows slide over the lantern-bronzed planes and valleys of his form like art, like a miracle.

 He returns, hand glistening from fingers to palm to massage more oil into their joining. It stings from the earlier roughness, especially where the head of him presses back against his entrance, blunt, searingly hot, and anticipatory. But when Er-ge slowly slides back into him, the ragged burn from before is eased somewhat. He is still raw and painfully sensitive inside and the entire back side of him, knees to shoulders, throbs in time with his heartbeat; the sweet promise of bruises. 

But now, together, their movement is deep and slow and smooth. Complete and unending. Filled so utterly and completely with each rock, his spent cock pressed between their bellies. The friction on it between them is almost unbearable, even slick with his spend. 

( You’re disgusting. ) 

It's almost perfect. Almost quiet. It’s almost just this. Together.

He wishes he felt guilty for being so selfish, but right now, all he wants is for Er-ge to fuck him forever, like this. To feel this wanted, always. To just be this. 

( Like a whore? )

Er-ge is murmuring into his skin, wherever he can reach; “A-Yao is so kind. So good. So attentive.” He’s kissing between sentences, gentle, slow presses against his cheeks, his throat, his lips--a complimentary counterpoint to the roll of his hips. “I'm so glad you came into this world today. I’m so lucky to have you. Everyone is.”

Heat--grief--prickles in A-Yao’s throat, more real than anything he's felt today and he's too tired to stop tears from seeping from under his eyelids and down his temples. Er-ge kisses them away--because he knows, because he can take care of it, just for now. His breath shudders.

(How does he know? How does he always know what he needs?)

Softer, warmer, less electric pleasure blooms slower, higher, edged in aching and too muchness. It makes ragged scraps of sound start escaping his lips, unauthorized. Moaning, breathless grunts, gasping….

( Idiot. You know how to be quiet, to be good--)

“Yes, sweetheart--oh. There you go,” Er-ge purrs into the shell of his ear. “I want to hear you.” 

They shouldn’t feel so good, these words. Shouldn’t make him feel so warm. 

All of it--the murmurs and tiny hitched moans of Er-ge in his ear, the searing tears, the way his weight anchors him to here and now, warm and sweating, skin sticking and feeling --edges him closer and closer to a second, deeper fall. And it strikes him, muzzily, that Er-ge’s trying to make him come again. Before him.

He tries to slur; “Er-ge, y’don’t have to--”

“Shhh-shhh, A-Yao--come for me.”

And because no part of him has ever been able to deny this man anything, it boils through him, a licking flame deep in his pelvis, up through his gut, curling his toes and squeezing the whole of him in the inescapable fist of pleasure. His throat fights to breathe, to swallow, to scream, to be silent all at once. The sound that escapes him instead is thin and gulping--a faint ringing drowns it out. 

It ebbs, surges, ebbs. His fingers tingle (he can feel them), his eartips burning (he can feel them), his cheeks prickle with tear tracks. He’s buzzing and thrumming and zinging when he turns his face, presses it into Er-ge’s damp temple, breathes hot over his ear and rasps, “I want you. To come. Inside me.”

He doesn't always, sometimes can't stand the feeling or the clean up, but today….

(Mine.)

A harsh, broken sound-- want, yes, mine --breaks from Er-ge and he groans, “Oh gods, oh-- ah-- !” He’s curled tight as a bow over him, face buried in his neck, speeding up, driving deeper.

A-Yao wishes he could see his face but can’t bear to pull him back.

Er-ge comes with a choked moan stifled in A-Yao’s neck and heavy, jerky thrusts,shivering. Perfect. Then, he slumps, melts down onto him. Hot and heavy and right as they gasp against each other, the only noise in the ringing silence of the room. When A-Yao opens his eyes again (when had he closed them?), he sees that, at some point, he had sunk his nails into Er-ge’s back, raking skinned lines over his shoulder blades. A few prickle with bright blood. He soothes the skin next to them with a shaky palm, panting, “I’m sorry, I--”

“Shhh, it's alright, it's good,” Er-ge whispers back into the joining of his neck and shoulder, heart thundering against A-Yao’s ribs.

Then, he shoulders up onto one elbow above him, hand coming up to thumb away the tears that just won’t stop leaking from the corners of A-Yao’s eyes and back into his hairline. “Shhh,” he murmurs again, gaze soft, cheeks and lips deeply flushed and gleaming. “Shhh, my good boy.”

A-Yao’s eyes close again under this heavy, sweet weight, like being buried in carmel, warm and smooth and lovely. Lovely. A love almost like sleep. Restful. 

Golden and right. Velvet. 

He startles back awake from his doze, blinking. He is empty and the grounding weight of Er-ge is gone, leaving him with the feeling of floating inches above the bed, comfortable, buttery, and stinging. Just beside him, still gloriously naked and radiating warmth, Er-ge smiles down at him, folding a damp cloth. A breath of cool left on Jin Guangyao’s belly, temples, and groin means he has not missed too much time if it's still drying. 

“A-Yao?”

“Mnn.” At this muzzy, contented noise, Er-ge’s eyes crinkle further.

He stretches like a cat and sidles over to half-drape over Jin Guangyao’s hips, chin resting on his belly as his hands nestle under the small of his back like soft, warm burrowing things. After shifting around until all their curves fit together comfortably, every ridge of them right, Er-ge asks, “Was it good?” 

Jin Guangyao trails the backs of his fingers over his forehead as he drinks him in; naked and glowing with his hair in sweaty disarray, head tilted and eyes hopeful, Er-ge is the most gorgeous thing he has ever seen. “Perfect.”

“What you needed?”

“Mm, exactly that.”

Er-ge’s smile goes broader, pleased with the praise, and he nuzzles into his bare stomach heaving a contented sigh. “Do you feel better, love?” he murmurs into his skin, quieter, his thumb shifting beneath them in a soothing rhythm.

Jin Guangyao’s hand slides up to stroke his hair, now, trailing gentle nails over his scalp. “I do.” And he does. He’s made of something, now. He’s real again. 

“Good. I was worried. You got so quiet all of a sudden.”

Damn. ( Selfish. Obvious. Stupid.) “I'm sorry--”

Er-ge shakes his head then raises it, resting his chin on him once more to meet his gaze. “Don't be. You don't need to pretend with me, A-Yao. I was…I was worried it was too much. Or that I had hurt you. Or that you had…gone away.”

“It….” The stupor of sex and his own inability to understand what precisely is wrong with him stoppers his words. “It wasn’t you. It’s alright. I’m alright.”

Silence as Er-ge’s dark eyes search him. Shrewd but polite, that gaze. He can see through so much more than he should, straight through to the viscera of him. No one can see him like Xichen can. Before him, no one noticed when he was just his skin and smile and words. No one noticed when a husk stood in his place. Er-ge always saw when there was a crack in what he needed to be. “ Had you gone away?”

Jin Guangyao sighs, jostling Er-ge’s head up and down, still stroking his hair, his cheeks, his brow. “I don’t know. Not by the end. I’m…I’ve felt….It’s nothing. Truly. I’m sorry I worried you.” 

He has not convinced him, he knows--can see the doubt in his expression--but he lets him free of his gaze. The pull of truth released, disquiet and shameful shortcomings released to sink back down into invisibility. A kindness. He is always kind, his Er-ge. Instead, he now pulls a hand free from beneath them and circles the border of a purple-browning bruise shadowing Jin Guangyao’s ribs with a gentle fingertip. A silent question, a gentle sympathy for pain now passed.

( “Get out of my sight, you vile little pissant.”)

He ignores the jolt (he knew he might see it) and offers him the lie of a sleepy smile. “Nighthunting.” 

Er-ge tilts his head and kisses around it with soft, lingering lips and Jin Guangyao lets him, hand cradling the back of his head. He can feel himself fully, from the tips of his toes to the roots of his scalp. Er-ge travels, kissing around on his belly and chest, dragging his lips, slower and slower. Trails of love over his skin. It’s hypnotic; the press, the puffs of his breath, the warmth, the whisper of chill when he moves on, and on…and on….

Then, dimly, Jin Guangyao realizes he's stopped. A charming, purr-like-snore is emanating from near his navel and it makes a smile stretch his lips, real and unorchestrated. He can't fall asleep, not with the banquet so soon…but maybe he can close his eyes for just this moment….

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

My Great Grandma who loved her babies very much

Reference that I used for the face!

[charbies]

"i'm literally the priest's favorite sacrificial lamb because i am so docile and sweet and i hold very still when they put the rope around my neck and i trot along so happily while they lead me to the altar and they do not even have to tie me down because i lie so very still and only bleat once or twice in my lovely lamb voice and when the knife comes down it cuts through me like butter and i offer no resistance and i bleed so prettily all over my new white wool and my guts all unspool like the most beautiful shining yarn and my eyes are animal and dumb and hold no accusation and every time i die i come right back as another little lamb because the priest loves me so so much and he always chooses me for the sacrifice every time and he always places one hand on my small and twitching nose to calm me while he lifts the knife and he doesn't do it for the other lambs only me because i'm his favorite"

[rocketbirdie]

face value

[plesiosaurys]

getting emotional over footage of an amateur scuba diver interacting with a coelacanth. they are hunted by large deepwater predators, and here comes a large creature bearing the brightest lights it's ever seen, making strange noises, but it does not shy away. it hovers, calmly, as the diver reaches out and trails a hand down its back. im strongly against the anthropomorphizing of real life animals but the stupid emotional part of me loudly insists this is because it recognizes us, the alternating movements of its four paired limbs matching the diver's four paired limbs, & it is thinking, "hello, cousins, we missed you these 66 million years, it's so good to see you again. welcome back, welcome home."

[naturecalls111]

unorthodox murder mystery

[egophiliac]

So I was doing some math, and I THINK Skully is almost as tall as Malleus without his horns

I think the main reference to his height is Epel being surprised they're the same age because he's taller than Sebek, yes? which I find interesting, considering Jade and Malleus -- two of the tallest guys in the main cast -- are also there. and, since I've never been one to not think waaaay too much about the absolute stupidest minutiae about fictional characters, I see two possibilities:

one is that Epel is extremely good at eyeballing heights (I actually do feel like he could be? like. I'd believe he can estimate someone's height fairly accurately by calculating based on the life stages of an apple tree, or how many apples tall they are, or something else apple-related like that.) and Scully does, perhaps, fall into that narrow margin between Sebek and Jade in height.

OR two, out of the three certified Tall Guys there, Sebek is Epel's main frame of reference because he's the only one he's had any real interaction with for, let's be fair, pretty obvious reasons.

SO in conclusion, we still have no concrete answers and will probably have to wait until next year when we get his card profile, alas alas. 😔

[vaguely-concerned]

the strength it must have taken for illario to not immediately go full 'lmao since when have you even had a kiss hello lucanis' sibling violence mode during the café talk. inspirational. rook and lucanis really were doing all that right in front of his salad huh

[words-writ-in-starlight]

listen I expected literally Nothing from the D&D movie okay, like I can't make it clear enough that I expected the most soulless money grab with a good cgi budget imaginable, I went in having already gone through every stage of grief and landed on acceptance and LISTEN

I fucking CRIED during this dumb RPG movie. it wasn't just "not terrible" it was objectively good with a clever plot and compelling characters and sincere emotional beats. this movie loves D&D so fucking much and it NAILS the "a bunch of goobers try to be cool and accidentally discover The Power Of Friendship And Also Great Violence" classic D&D party vibe. their barbarian's last name is fucking Kilgore and my entire family cried in the theater.

I hope they make twelve of these motherfuckers.

[xxplastic-cubexx]

oh boy 2AM !!!!!!

[bigfatbreak]

In canon, a kwami's power must be used through a human wielding a miraculous, otherwise it'll have unforeseen consequences. So, in your AU, does Imago stealing Marinette's agonies cause any sort of trouble?

honestly the biggest unforeseen consequence is that this dude is around and being himself

no but for real, there should be a hypermassive consequence for a kwami unfettered peeking their head in, but there's not because of shit we'll get into later.

just consider it like this for the time being: now that Marinette is a sage and is capable of communing with the gods, she as a living being can be used as that intermediate conduit for power instead of the miraculous gems. If it was Tikki, for example, using her power raw with sage!Marinette, Mari would be able to access the power of creation or be swayed by it - however, it would put a massive strain on her, as she's not a miraculous but still capable of acting as that pipeline.

The reason Marinette has no ill effects from Imago, however, is because Imago is playing with a catch 22. Their purpose was to take agony away from Marinette, so even the exhaustion of accessing the unfettered power of a god was something he stole from her, so it seems like zero consequences have been had. In truth Imago is now SO tired holy moly and they DO NOT LIKE IT LMAO

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Another year has passed, and with it the opportunity to reflect back on all that has happened. While my growth was not as dramatic as last year, I can still see lots of positive change.

I'll never have enough ways to say thank you for all the love and support you have given me this year. On to 2025!

(2023 summary here!)

[lucabyte]

Taking pride in One's own appearance.

[yuwuta]

fwb with katsuki feels like an snl skit like you’ve got to be joking with him if you propose that after you two have fucked. hooking up with the boy you’ve known since you were five and then asking to keep it casual between you two is insane. he could bite you, he could threaten to tell shoto (who would pinch you), he could lace your hands together and threaten to drag you both out into heavy traffic if you don’t go out with him, he could just say “get real?” and then proceed to take a nap on top of you for the next four hours, he could flick you on the forehead, he might even cry, he could threaten to tell izuku (who would kick him), he could squish your cheeks between his palms and tell you to stop spewing nonsense, he could threaten to tell his mom (who would pinch the both of you by your ears), he could scream, he probably will bite actually. it doesn’t matter it all ends in him “talking some sense into ya since i clearly fucked your brains out” while he makes you dinner and you agree to go out on a real date tomorrow

[copia]

"It. Is. Going great, now. Innit."

PAPA EMERITUS IV and SISTER IMPERATOR in RITE HERE RITE NOW (with ASHLEY MCBRIDE and KEVIN "JESUS" KAUFMANN)

[sysig]

my 2nd request !! The skeleton brothers wearing matching pajamas :D

Day 13 - The Friendship Brothers