#might as well fly

[micherrim]

I've been thinking, xie lian was already aware of hua cheng, mu qing and feng xin's identities during banyue arc, revealed to hua cheng his awareness to his identity early on but prolonged the two's masquerade, was because he wanted to get back a little bit on his two former friends

[eowynstwin]

Blackbird, Fly - Two

Cowboy Gaz x mail order bride—only, not his. After exchanging letters for half a year with ranching man Hans König, you finally travel out west to marry him. - It becomes clear to you that something is bothering him—perhaps it has something to do with you. - ao3

previous

Kyle Garrick—who instructs you to call him Gaz, explaining it as a nickname—drives you out of town in a two-horse wagon. The countryside is dyed in pastels by the softening light of a just-setting sun, every bit as beautiful as Hans had written when he told you about it.

Like a painting, he said. Everywhere you look could be framed in gold. I wake up every day in this land and thank God I have the fortune to live in it.

Here now, as the wagon rattles down the wheel-carved trail, you understand his words. You feel that if you brushed your fingers against the sky overhead, towering with lavender-bottomed clouds as thick and soft as cotton on the stem, that they might come away smeared in blue and pink and violet. The surrounding landscape is a cornucopia of vibrant greens, rich browns of trees and soil, and clusters of orange, yellow, and white wildflowers.

You keep looking all around you to take it in, jostling your driver beside you, but Gaz seems not to mind. At least, he doesn’t say anything.

You’ve been trying not to feel so aware of his presence, but the endeavor is impossible. He is a solid weight beside you on the driver’s seat, exuding warmth where your shoulders brush against each other, and the earthy, masculine scent of him is inescapable. Every time his elbow or knee or thigh nudges yours during the natural sway and jostle of the wagon ride, you have to keep yourself from leaping out of your skin. Ever since you stepped foot off the train, you’ve felt like a lightning rod set out in anticipation of a storm.

You ascribe it to displaced longing for your husband-to-be. You’d spent the whole journey west imagining how you’d meet, longing for the moment he took you into his arms for the first time. Gaz is a handsome man—it’s only natural that your unfulfilled anticipation would transfer onto him. Especially considering he said you were perfect.

But then said very little after that. He’d seemed—well, not friendly, but at least amicable on the train platform, so you wonder if your manners have offended somehow. He’s spent most of the drive now with his eyes ahead, partly obscured by the brim of his hat. Occasionally he glances at the letters in your hand, but otherwise does not acknowledge you.

After one such glance, your discomfort with the silence becomes too much to bear.

“I read my favorites every night,” you tell him.

If Gaz is surprised when you break the silence, he doesn’t show it. “That so,” he murmurs.

All you have is his profile, very handsome in the light. The line of his mouth is taut.

“I know it’s silly,” you continue nervously—you have a bad habit of rambling when you’re uncomfortable. Adjusting your carpetbag in your lap, you go on, “but you must understand, this is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me. I never expected to marry, you see.”

He grunts.

“Much less to be a mail order bride,” you say. “I always thought I would be an old maid, for lack of available suitors if nothing else. Mama and Daddy thought I ought to learn to read and write, to improve my prospects, but most folks where I’m from don’t care much about all that.”

“I see,” replies Gaz. He still does not look at you.

“Sometimes I think it even made them like me less, like I was putting on airs, being smarter than them.” You realize immediately how arrogant you must sound. “Oh, but I don’t mean any offense! I don’t mean to suggest I have ideas above my station. It’s only just that, I wondered for years and years why no one offered for me, and it was the only thing I could think of. Why would a farmer’s daughter need to read and write? And why would a wife need to, if her duty is to tend to her children and her home? So that must be why no man has ever been very interested in me.”

You realize with horror that words are pouring out of you faster than you can keep up with them. And your driver’s attention has not shifted; his eyes remain on the road.

You look at your lap, face burning. “I’m sorry, I’m just annoying you, Mr. Garrick. I’m sorry.”

Shame grips you, tight and awkward. If you’d wanted to endear yourself to this cowboy at all, you’ve already failed.

But Gaz finally says, “Most men are idiots.” You look at him; he does not look at you. “I’ve only just met you, and I like you fine.”

He says it matter-of-factly, as if no more need saying on the subject. Simple and to the point; an economy of feeling you imagine must be characteristic of men in this part of the country.

Hans was like that too, in his letters. Communicating feeling without dancing around it, with a bluntness that ends up soft in its honesty.

It eases the tension frothing poisonous in your belly. “Thank you,” you say.

You ride in silence for a stretch. A cool breeze catches the free-floating ends of your hair, rustles along in the tall grass by the wayside. The steady thump thump thump of the horse’s hooves, and the creak of tackle and leather, are the only sounds populating the air.

Home was quiet like this, too; the fields stretching endless and green beneath the sky, the silence there so blank and open that birdcall traveled for miles, and the lowing of the family milk cow sounded sometimes like the trumpet of God.

You peek again at Kyle Garrick. There’s a furrow to his brow, the kind a man gets when he’s in a mood and won’t admit it if asked.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, quietly, because he made you feel better about things, and you’ve done little more than whine.

He finally looks at you, the edges of his face lined and glowing in the evening light. Studies you, for a moment. The furrow eases.

“No,” he says, “I’m sorry, Miss. I don’t mean to be short with you. I’m afraid manners are secondary on a ranch, without a good woman nearby to remind about ‘em.”

You give him a small smile. “Have you worked for Hans very long?”

He turns his gaze back to the road. “Six or seven years, now.”

You toy with the clasp of your bag; you’re brimming with questions. “Is he really all that tall?”

“Oh, yes,” Gaz says. “Like a giant.”

“What’s he like?”

Gaz gives a great breath through pursed, full lips. “Fair, I guess. Asks a lot of us—but then most bosses out here will. Worked for his father for a few years before him, too.”

“You must be a good hand then,” you say.

“I work hard,” says Gaz. “That’s all that matters.”

“I’m sure Hans is grateful,” you reply. “He must trust you very much, to send you for me.”

The furrow returns. “He must.”

It becomes clear to you that something is bothering him, and it’s nothing you will resolve between now and when you make it to the ranch. Perhaps it has something to do with you—a new face, an unknown quantity that threatens to knock the balance of his livelihood askew.

You sigh a little. Of course, you should have expected to have to win Hans’ people over. Their loyalty to the late Mrs. König will inevitably be challenged by your arrival.

Neither of you speak again—you decide not to push what little grace Kyle Garrick has given you, and he does not volunteer any more conversation. The rest of the ride is unremarkable, leaving room for anticipation to grow in your stomach; soon the wagon crests the slope of a hill, and your destination comes into view.

Long Mask Ranch sits at the base of a range of mountain foothills, fed and watered emerald green by spring runoff. You’ve been on Hans’ land for a while now; opening up before you is the ranch proper. A collection of buildings form a semicircle around a large corral in the valley: stables, a barn, some cabins, and a large two-story gabled manor, painted white.

The sun sinks further toward the horizon as you approach, painting the world in liquid orange. Figures resolve themselves, people moving tables and chairs around, and on the manor’s front porch, observing the proceedings, stands a tall man in a rancher’s coat and hat.

Lightning suddenly bolts through you. You sit very, very still as Gaz pulls the wagon through a cast iron archway adorned with LMR at the apogee. Your heart thrums in your throat like a picked guitar string. When you finally come to a stop, the man’s head turns to toward you.

At the worst possible moment, shyness grips you. You look around, at anywhere but him, at the house, the corral, the cowboy beside you.

You startle to meet Gaz’s eyes. The expression he wears is a mask of seriousness.

“This is it,” he says.

Your voice leaves your chest trembling. “Thank you, Mr. Garrick.”

“Just Gaz is fine, Miss.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” you reply. Propriety feels like the only solid thing to cling to just now.

He looks away. The line of his mouth tightens. “Of course,” he says.

He dismounts the wagon in one smooth motion, boots hitting the packed earth hard. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the tall man start his way over to you. Gaz rounds the back of the wagon, and you give your bag to him once he’s at your side. He offers his hand to help you down.

You’re dazed as you take it, lightheaded as suddenly the present moment becomes very, very real. It’s warm, his hand; rough in all the places you expect a cowboy’s hand to be. Yet there’s something soft in the way your palms meet, how the dips and contours align with each other and fit together. You’re shaking very hard as you ease your way from the seat, gripping him tightly until your feet meet the ground, and his grip circles yours with a solidness to it in a way unlike any man has ever held you.

You meet his eyes again when he hands you your bag. Gaz gives your hand a squeeze, averts his gaze, and lets you go.

“There she is!” an accented voice announces.

You pull your gaze from Kyle Garrick and the mystery of his tension with you, and turn to face your intended husband.

Hans König has loomed large in your imagination for half a year. He’d described to you what he looked like, of course, as best he could, but you find as you look upon his face that no written word can convey what it means to meet for the first time the man you will marry. You’d fallen in love with someone formless, absent, but inscribed in other ways with enough distinction to nurture your tender feelings.

Looking upon him now, though…his appearance offers nothing to that distinction. He’s neither ugly nor handsome. As he comes to stand before you, you think he rather looks like every other middle-aged man you’ve met in your short life, although certainly much taller. You meet his eyes—pale blue, as he’d related—and the rush of love you’d expected to feel, once you knew who he was, simply does not come.

This man is a stranger to you.

You reprimand yourself immediately. He isn’t a stranger. You’ve known him for six months. His face is simply not one you have attached any love to yet; the measure of his character is contained in the stack of paper in your hands. In the promises he made to you to make your quietest dreams come true.

So you smile the way you’d dreamed you would—like watching the sun crest the horizon after a long night of darkness, seeing the bounty of the near future coming toward you. Summoning joy by making room for it to exist.

“Hello, Hans,” you say, “it’s me.”

Hans König steps forward. He looms over you truly, now, eclipsing your vision. “It is you, indeed.”

Without another word, right there in front of Gaz, Hans grips your shoulders, bends down, and kisses you on the mouth.

Your brows shoot upward. It’s the first time anyone has ever kissed you. His lips are…hard, and motionless against yours. Almost perfunctory. You are so shocked he’s done it that you don’t think to respond, and then as suddenly as it happened, it’s over. He pulls away, pats your shoulders with a little smile, and then looks at Gaz.

“Get that wagon put away and then go help the others,” says Hans to the cowboy, slinging one arm around your shoulder.

Your brows lift further. Is that all he has to say to him, for delivering you safe and sound?

Gaz doesn’t seem to share your feelings. “Yes, sir,” is all he says, even and toneless.

But he looks between you and his employer for more than just the span of a heartbeat. Eyes going from him, to you, to the arm around your shoulders. Then he meets your gaze, expression stony.

If Gaz is wary of your presence here��if you’re going to win him over—the best time to start is now. “Thank you very much for seeing me here safely,” you say. “I was so glad of your company, Mr. Garrick.”

To your dismay, his expression only tightens. Gaz looks at Hans again, then back at you.

“You’re welcome, Miss,” he says.

Then he climbs back into the wagon, gives the reins a snap, and drives away.

-

next

a/n: fun fact, the ranch and neighboring town are based off Valentine and Emerald Ranch from rdr2 :) the ranch layout is more like Pronghorn Ranch however.

[trchrswtrs]

I had a dream about Sebek and a fly.

Sebek was going about his normal business, when he noticed a fly sitting on his hand. He casually brushed the fly off, before lifting his gaze to resume his duties. However, out of the corner of his vision, he caught sight of the fly, back on his hand. He swatted at it again. But somehow, it remained where it was. He shook his hand, twisted it about, swiped at it multiple times but no matter how hard he tried to get rid of it, the fly remained on his hand. Growing increasingly frustrated, he even tried to crush the fly in his hand. But the fly still remained. He couldn't help but let out a cry of anger and upset as tears began to stream down his face, for he was desperate to be rid of this fly. This fly that would not release its hold on him. This fly that clung to the back of his mind every second of the day. And there was nothing he could do but despair.

[maudiemoods]

I told myself I wouldn't but my hand slipped

I was rewatching Steven universe and couldn't help myself aararraar

No full au djjwjd just doodles and ideas djsjjdsj

After leaving home world, they both change their appearance. Idk to what exactly because that last doodle is just casual wear but they definitely have a set outfit they like. Moon's hair changes into a shaggy cut! He likes a more scrappy look. He keeps his hat of course jejsjsj

[dumbledorathexplora]

Some moar ‼️‼️😩

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

The girls are plottinggggg

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[stealingpotatoes]

luke and biggs… thoughts?

many thoughts + it means luke has a type

[solargeist]

in grian’s episode 50 they entered version 1.7.1, and grian’s series ends at episode 51. phantoms weren’t added until 1.13, which ironically came out like a month after he ended evo, i just don’t think they made it that far.

oh man, I like to think he learns abt them with the Watchers since they bring about updates, he gets to see them before players.

she’s gonna send it after him

[underwhelmingalchemist]

The fact that maia arson crimew, the trans catgirl therian who leaked the 2019 TSA no fly list and posted it online, has a link on its pastel pink uwu aesthetic website to her own Wikipedia entry that contains hyperlinks to the articles for 'United States grand jury' and 'criminal charges' is purely iconic.

No notes maia. You're doing great

[aethernoise]

Strong are they who roam.

[aratilightwood]

[puppyeared]

i feel like im not making any sense but does anyone else feel like there are stories that let u run with them and ones that spell everything out for you

[slavhew]

daily affirmations: im the shit

[scarletfasinera]

I hate when people are like "I already didn't like xyz so it's not difficult for me to boycott it unlike those loser customers that actually Liked the thing which I could never understand bc I was never a customer uwu" bc like. That literally isn't boycotting lmao. That is just Never Being A Customer In The First Place, which means nothing actually.

Boycotts are primarily about applying pressure (or completely making it impossible to operate) via financial/commercial/economic impact. AKA it's about money and capital.

If you already weren't spending money on a product/franchise/company, then you were already never part of their sales data, and you just doing nothing & making absolutely no change to your daily life and just continuing to not be part of their sales data as normal, has literally no material impact. You were already never a factor. The people who WERE customers & WERE part of the sales data & ARE withdrawing their money from those sales figures actually ARE making a material impact.

"Supporting" something isn't about vibes or thoughts or feelings or you telling your best friend how much you like a thing, "support" in a meaningful sense is specifically material. It is financial. Refusing to continue supporting something means taking the money you were previously spending on it & putting it elsewhere. If you were never spending money, you were never supporting it, and therefore it doesn't make any difference if you continue to not support it. Boycotting is something CUSTOMERS and CONSUMERS do.

SO STOP FUCKING BRAGGING ABOUT IT & STOP MAKING FUN OF PEOPLE WHO ACTUALLY ARE BOYCOTTING FOR "EVER LIKING XYZ TO BEGIN WITH" & STOP SPREADING THIS FALSE IDEA OF HOW BOYCOTTING WORKS LMAO sorry for capslocking I remembered I was annoyed

I just hate this low-morale mean-spirited bullshit some people do in the notifs on boycotting info posts where they arbitrarily moralize about something they just don't understand so they can pat themselves on the back for doing literally literally nothing AND inadvertently spreading misinfo in the process. Be quiet. Go do something that matters. There are plenty of posts going around, including from Palestinians themselves, with lists of references for how to help Palestine & other similar causes for people currently in crisis, please please do something For Real instead of boasting online about your fandom superiority complex as if it means anything.

[almayver]

...dude

[angeart]

hhau vex arc part I bonus: mating marks, vexes, and not being enough

a small ramble [860 words] about that one time kane talked to grian about mating marks. this is early on, once grian is growing more comfortable in the vex commune, enough to tentatively spend time with others, but far from him feeling understood or accepted. back when kane still doesn’t understand a thing about avians. (he’s trying. in his own ways.) 

the topic of mating marks comes up because, well, grian has one! he has a bite from scar, and now thanks to nico and kane (and them having matching marks from each other), he understands what it really is. and once they learn he has one too— well. that shows that scar really means it with his little avian! he's serious about him! but... it bothers kane.

and he speaks up about it, mostly just baffled. he's not trying to be mean or anything!

he makes a thoughtless comment to grian—when scar isn't around—about how he wouldn't want to not have a mating mark if his partner had one. he just finds it weird! placing a lot of importance on that level of trust that lets you bite and be bitten.

he continues digging the hole underneath grian's feet by asking, "is it unrequited or something?" he doesn't understand it at all, and in his confusion, struggling with the idea itself, he tacks on: "i'd think my mate doesn't love me if he didn't want to mark me."

because that's how it works with vexes! the bite marks are mutual, and intimate, and they play into their instincts, both ways! kane considers them integral for a mated vex pair, and some other vexes around echo this sentiment.

scar has a feather earring from grian, which is an avian mating ritual, but it's one that doesn't translate to other vexes. they have no idea about things like that! it doesn't make sense to them!

so when grian stammers that he gave scar a feather, nobody takes it seriously. kane doesn't get the gravity of that action at all, and anyway, scar isn't an avian!

kane insists that a feather isn't going to cut it with a vex. he tries to encourage grian to just bite, his advice coming from a place of good intentions. he's seen scar and grian interact plenty by now—including that one time grian jumped in harm's way to defend scar—and he really wants this to work out for them! he's well-meaning!

but grian can't do that. (regardless of some memories we're not going to mention here <3) he doesn't have fangs to smoothly pierce skin and leave a mark like that; doesn't even have the drive, doesn't want to hurt scar in any way.

he stresses about it plenty, though. it worms its way inside his head and now he's Worried about being a failure and a bad partner! because— well, he will always fail scar in this regard, won't he? (that's a thought that terrifies him to no end.)

he can't give him a mating mark. he'll never satisfy that instinct.

scar is honestly perfectly happy with how things are; he treasures the feather immensely and understands what it means. but grian's mind still spirals about this, nitpicks and pokes and prods until it feels wretched and awful.

because sure, scar is happy enough with the feather, but isn't that just a compromise? his vex instincts are a separate thing, and this doesn't touch them at all. it doesn't satisfy them.

and scar's doing so much for grian and his avian instincts! he tries to get high places for them, and helps making nests. he's careful around his wings, and on a rare occasion, preens them with so much gentle care. he tries to coo back when grian makes bird noises, even if it's a bit silly and awkward. basically, he caters to grian's instincts at every step, and... scar needs vex things, doesn't he?

he needs vex things, and grian can't bridge that gap and provide.

no matter how many avian things scar gives him, grian can't give anything back.

grian doesn't really know how to articulate all this. he just gets very upset and stressed, thinking he's doing things wrong, and scar will always be left with some innate longing for more.

but, even though scar spent time learning more deeply about his vex side at the commune, these things were never something he's needed. he went his whole life not knowing anything about vexes. now he knows, and he still wants to be just scar, first and foremost.

of course grian and scar settle this, eventually. they have a broken mess of a talk, and then a couple more, just to really drive the point home. scar understands the avian mating ritual for what it is, the way grian understands what the bite mark on his neck is. and it's enough! they don't need anything more! scar can't exactly give grian a feather either, so what?

as long as the two of them know what they have and are happy with it, who cares what the others think?

there’s one point in particular that scar makes, when grian expresses worrying about not being enough for scar’s vex instincts. softly, he reminds him that he gave grian that mark long before he had any idea it was a vex ritual. 

it was a them thing first and foremost, before it was anything else.

(and he’d like a bruised ring from a hickey just as much as a bite. he’s a smitten fool.)