#promances

[throwbackgaylor]

september 26, 2023 | one year ago

the sun released an article about the “clues” that taylor's relationship with travis is fake and how it isn’t the first one

they listed matty healy, tom hiddleston, harry styles, conor kennedy, and john mayer as previous PRomances. they also noted that jake gyllenhaal may have been one as well

[ladyamanda123]

Oh FFS 🤦🏼‍♀️

Everyone going gaga over the mic’d up clip…..

Guys it’s literally created and posted BY the NFL……this wasn’t some random reporter capturing a private moment…..it was an orchestrated PR performance!!

They’ve got it pinned to the top of their TikTok feed, they’ve commented on it to promote more mic’d up coverage. IT IS PR!!!!!! It is staged! It was planned! They KNOW the world is watching and listening! They’re PERFORMING!

[papirouge]

[jennyboom21]

[voxina]

Do you get déjà vu?

How original... 🥱

[scifrey]

NINE-TENTHS

Part Four

My heart jumps into the back of my throat, and I’m halfway off my stool before my brain catches up with what I’m actually seeing. In the light of the overhead lamps, the person’s hair only looks red.

Not him.

"Snacky," I stage-whisper all the same, committed now that I’m on my feet. Mau drops my befouled phone into my hand.

"Colin," Hadi says, grabbing my sleeve before I can head over. 

"The Rules?" I tap my temple.

"The Rules," she agrees, and lets me go.

As I work my way through the crowd, I try to shove away the weird flutter that even thinking I had spotted him caused. It's a stupid thought. There's no way someone like him—upright, posh, snobby—would sit and shoot the shit with the bartender for funsies. 

So why had I been excited when I thought it was him? 

People like him don’t date people like me. 

Do they?

It's just curiosity. It has to be. Because of the access, right?

It would have been the perfect excuse to finally bridge that customer-service gap. Sidle up to him, actually meet in a place where I didn't have other duties to attend to, where I could casually drop the fact that it was my birthday and I wouldn't say no to a celebratory drink.

Actually get a conversation out of him.

Yeah, right.

He never talks to me. I stopped trying to have a conversation with him over a year ago, because he'd always looked like I'd smacked him between the eyes with a wet fish whenever I tried. It seemed kinder to just let him hide behind his newspaper—an honest-to-god paper paper—and stare at me.

And he does stare.

Sometimes I think the staring is the kind you do when you appreciate the look of another person. Sometimes, I think it's some weird split-tongue thing. It's gotta be, ‘cause if he was into me, he would've said something by now, right?

The part of me that’s still a writer sometimes makes up stories about my fussy regular. Why he's here. What he's thinking about. Whether he really sleeps on a pile of gold (if that’s not a speciesist stereotype.) What the no-doubt beautiful maiden he goes home to every night thinks of his morning routine. Or if maybe he’s into something a little more me-shaped.

Oh my god, I am such a romance novel cliché right now. 

Also, dammit Colin. 

Maybe focus on the dude you are actually trying to get between the sheets?

"Hi." I slide onto the bar stool beside the guy.

He's arrogantly fashionable, dressed like he just got off shift at a bank or a law firm, swaggering without standing, if that makes sense. But he's not him. 

It's not this guys' fault he's not him.

"Hi. I couldn't help but overhear it's your birthday. Happy birthday."

"Gee, thanks." I flash him a smile. "Though I think half the bar heard, actually."

It's about half the wattage I can usually manage.

I'm tired. The long train ride, the unexpected surprise... and I remember doing this with Caden. Whom I'd met just like this, in the exactly the same place. Backwards from Caden, brain jumps to Rebekah, and how last year for my birthday we'd done one of those boat cruise dinners at Niagara Falls.

How I'd already had the ring in my pocket, and was worrying more if she'd appreciate the cliche than if she was going to say yes. I definitely should have been worried more about whether she was going to say yes.

And I just…

… I just don't wanna anymore.

"Sorry," I say, before he can offer to buy me a drink, or suggest another way for the two of us to celebrate. "I thought you were someone else. My bad."

"Wait, you don't have to--"

"Sorry for wasting your time."

I slink back to the table.

"Not into you?" Mauli asks.

"Not up for it." 

"Up for it," Mauli snickers, and I pinch them hard on the shoulder.

I leave at closing time, after a few beers too many, frustrated and manhandling Mauli into one of the cheap cabs that prowl St. Paul street for desperate fares. Dike had headed off with one of the ladies hours ago, and Hadi had bailed before I came back from the bar.

Happy birthday to me, I think morosely as I trudge home. 

Alone.

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[voxina]

Naturalmente adesso hanno cambiato l'articolo, e ora cliccando sul link si legge la versione corretta. Peccato che our screenshots work faster!

Non solo. Ho notato che anche il sito di People Magazine ha riportanto la notizia, facendo praticamente un copia e incolla del comunicato stampa che evidentemente gli è stato mandato. Niente di strano, anzi. È una prassi del tutto normale e consolidata che gli addetti stampa/i team di PR spediscano un unico c.s. alle agenzie e ai vari organi di stampa. A maggior ragione se entrambe le persone sono dei nomi più o meno noti, e il loro fidanzamento può servire a far loro pubblicità (mutual promo con minimo sforzo). E la notizia del suddetto fidanzamento è un facile aggancio per promuovere i rispettivi progetti futuri; infatti negli articoli viene dato molto più spazio a questo, rispetto al fidanzamento vero e proprio (promo, promo, promo...).

Sta poi al giornalista che riceve il comunicato stampa estrapolarne un articolo. Purtroppo ormai non lo fa quasi mai nessuno, limitandosi a un più veloce (e professionalmente "pigro") copia & incolla, senza preoccuparsi di fare una verifica di quanto ricevuto, prima di pubblicare il pezzo.

[Tra l'altro People, mentre sto scrivendo questo post, non ha ancora rettificato.]

Tuttavia ciò che trovo divertente -o, meglio, indicatore di quanto tutto ciò sia ridicolo- è che, essendo il comunicato stampa spedito dai loro team (vale a dire fonti ufficiali), tutto ciò non può essere una svista, bensì una scelta comunicativa fatta di proposito.

Louis has been danielled, e non è un caso.

Louis was danielled

I literally just said the same thing to @blackandwhlteaesthetlc

x

[throwbackgaylor]

september 26, 2023 | one year ago

michael rubin of fanatics tweeted, “@tkelce never thought your dating life would be what drove your jersey sales 😂😂😂,” with an article reporting they spiked nearly 400% after taylor attended a chiefs game

[ladyamanda123]

Know what I DON’T do when my boyfriend and I are long distance and he flies across the world to be with me……take him to the same tourist spot I visited the day before.

Know what I DO in a PR relationship….take my pap walk to a location my team and I are familiar with to control the exposure and the narrative.

Just saying…..

🎶 Privacy sign on the door

And on my page and on the whole world

Romance is not dead if you keep it just yours

[kwyw]

So according to the interview:

- TK can't shut up about Taylor, even though she "hates" him flapping his mouth about their relationship. (I see some seeds being down.)

- Travis sells himself hard as a sweet, sensitive guy, but even his friends don't know the real him, and Taylor is still trying to figure it out. (I smell an escape strategy.)

- Scott Swift arranged all of this. Like we suspected.

- Travis was a celebrity in Kansas City and a complete nobody outside it, before the promance. Slice it any way you want - Taylor made him famous, is the message here. (Can we say C-L-O-U-T C-H-A-S-E-R? All together now, come on, kids! Spelling is fun!)

- Travis lacks direction and has no idea what to do when his football career expires. He's just throwing whatever at the wall to see what sticks. He needs money. He thinks about money a lot, while driving around town in his half a million dollar customized car. It's not at all obnoxious.

- Travis has no problem telling Taylor's security guards to step down so he can take charge and feel like the man . . . but he can't assert himself against a friend who talked smack about him on a podcast, or argue his worth to the employers who underpay him.

- He doesn't seem to understand Taylor's popularity, thinking a Hollywood reporter will need the concept of the Eras Tour explained to him. Huh? That's not being "a Swiftie" - that's proving how little attention he pays to her as an artist. It comes across like he only knows the most basic, surface level things about her career. 1989 was a smash hit, the Eras Tour is huge right now, Taylor is known for her emotionally-resonant break-up songs. Maybe his team wrote him out a little primer. Taylor 101.

- I did enjoy the comedy of Blank Space being his favorite song though. Someone somewhere is having fun with all of this.

- Everyone who falls into this man's orbit is struck by a sudden desire to write fanfiction about his relationship with Taylor Swift. It's uncanny. She's probably at his home right now! Tapping her toes impatiently while a home cooked apple pie cools on the window sill! Sure, Jan.

- Stalking Taylor's jet has gone mainstream, apparently. Major publications are just openly admitting they track it to guess where she is. So respectful. Let's just put this in a magazine for millions of readers and normalize it. Why the heck not? What could go wrong? No wonder she cut the wings off the damn jet five years ago

- Travis may be the most cornball of all Taylor's beards. "Wish on a star and you might manifest dating Taylor Swift into being!" I need someone to drag Karlie to the nearest observatory and get her wishing, stat 😂

The main takeaway: this was hilarious, and sure was illuminating 🤭

[jennyboom21]

/limit

[voxina]

La maggior parte delle faide tra celebrità, non importa quanto reali possano sembrare, sono magistralmente orchestrate dal team di Pubbliche Relazioni allo scopo fondamentale di far fare ai loro clienti più soldi e fargli guadagnare ancora più fama.

Dai battibecchi in TV (pensiamo per esempio alle " animate discussioni" tra i giudici di programmi come X Factor e simili) fino ai litigi più accesi, si tratta sempre di una delle più classiche ed elementari strategie PR. Il tutto per attirare l'attenzione del pubblico, suscitare la sua curiosità e aumentare di conseguenza il social engagement.

Il risultato? Tanta pubblicità gratuita per le celebrità in questione. E così due wannabe star di serie D diventano per qualche tempo rilevanti e finiscono per conquistare qualche titolo di giornale. Chi l'avrebbe mai detto, vero? How convenient...

Ora però mi sorge un dubbio. Adesso che Danielle ha danielled Louis, come pensano di spiegare il baby mama drama? No perché, a questo punto, sorto un dubbio ne spuntano altri.

Se Louis e Danielle non sono mai stati insieme, come ieri hanno suggerito (*confermato) diversi media , allora anche la faida tra Briana e Danielle era tutta una montatura. Stavano tutti recitando una parte e i tabloid hanno sempre mentito (sapendo di mentire). Anche questo scioccante, vero?!

[mafaldaknows]

Taken by a PRofessional PRotographer? 📸💥

Isn’t it PRomantic? 😜🤪😏😉

Kylie and Timothée taking a photo together at the US Open🫶

[scifrey]

NINE-TENTHS

Part Six

I get all of the gear flicked on, checking water levels and pulling the wands out of the sanitizer, then grind the first pot for the perc. As the espresso machine chugs its way to wakefulness, I peer into garbage cans and inspect tables. The till is all counted out neatly, with a post-it note reminding me to buy a roll of quarters stuck to the crisp purple stack of tens. 

Obviously Min-soo closed last night, ‘cause she always kills it.

In the dark kitchen, I crank the industrial oven up as high as it will go to pre-warm, scoop dough from the huge bowl Min-soo made last night onto trays, and climb the ladder to dump a burlap sack of fresh beans into the massive stainless steel bean roaster in pride of place in the corner of the kitchen. 

In my back pocket, my phone starts playing a punk version of You're the Cream in My Coffee. Shit. That's my alarm to start the second batch of scones. Dammit. I don't have time to let the oven preheat properly. I shove the tray in.

Then it’s back out to the front, where he is sitting primly in his corner, eyes on his newspaper. 

Yeah, I'm a basic bitch and prefer coffee that's more sugar and froth than bean juice, but there’s something so good about fresh-brewed black coffee first thing in the morning. That's art in its own right, my loves. I interrupt the drip machine to pour myself a mug, and I take one selfish minute to revel in a perfect sip.

But what is usually a soft symphony of my mornings is instead a self-inflicted agony. The plink of coffee into the carafe, the hiss of the espresso machine, the hum and clunk of the bean-roster in action, all punctuated by the crisp rustle of his newspaper? Agony.

A year ago, I would use this quiet time to work on my thesis. Before that, it would have been an essay, or a lab, or something else I’d procrastinated. Now, I have nothing to work on. Nothing to do but this. Nowhere to go but here. No career, no demand, no drive, just… 

Me. 

And him. 

And the stretching, hissing, clunking, dripping silence. 

 "Ugh, get your ass in gear, you embarrassment," I mutter to myself.

"Beg pardon?" he asks, voice raised politely.

Shit. 

"I said, uh, the espresso machine is warmed up. Caffe tobio?" 

"Please." He crosses his legs. There's a flash of turquoise at his ankle. I only catch it for a second, but it looks like he's wearing socks with cartoon dragons on them. Huh, okay… that’s more playful than I expected him to be. 

"Coming right up."

"I appreciate it. And you are well?" he says, which is the longest string of words I've ever heard out of him. Shame.

"Yeah." I turn to the machine, tapping out a careful twenty-seven seconds with the toe of my chucks, timing as the espresso fills the demitasse. So I'm completely in my head, and totally not expecting it when his voice comes from somewhere much too close, just over my left shoulder. 

"Oversleeping could be the sympto—" 

"Gah!" I shout, and Christ no, the wand in my hand goes flying up, up, sprinkling boiling-hot grounds like freaking pixie dust. 

He ducks and snaps the newspaper over his head as they rain down. The sharp clatter of the wand hitting the tile makes us both wince. We stare across the counter at one another, eyes wide, with what I assume are matching shocked expressions.

"Are you—" he starts again and I hold out a hand to stop him. 

"I'm fine." 

"I've never known you to—" 

"Shit, you're chatty today," Maybe that came out cattier than it should have. He flinches, stung. A glob of espresso grounds plops off his shoulder and splats on the tile floor. "Sorry, sorry! That came out wrong. I'm not… I'm not having a good morning." 

"My apologies," he murmurs mournfully, and aw, no. 

"I'll make you another one," I say quickly. "On the house. Just… sit, and I'll—" 

"Perhaps I should go." He lowers his paper and flicks grounds off the toe of his shoe. Oh, shit, are they expensive? Am I going to have to pay for, I dunno, shoe dry cleaning? 

"No, please." That lurch in my stomach again, and it's only because a morning that has started terribly (and has only gotten worse) would really become awful if he wasn’t sitting in the sunlight, glimmering and reading.

It would be just wrong.

"If you are ill, you ought to be taking care of yourself first. Don't you have a colleague who could cover—" 

"I got a new alarm clock, I didn't wake up, it’s fine, it doesn’t matter."

"It does to me." He crunches the ruined paper in his hands, flexing and twisting. "In fact, I, er, perhaps it is time I confessed that… I smell something burning." 

"You smell burning?" I swig another mouthful of coffee from the mug I'd left by the till, and take a deep breath to calm myself. Wait. "I smell it, too." 

His eyes flick to the door behind me, slit pupils dilating. "The kitchen." 

"The scones!" I squawk and spin on the spot. I slip in spilled espresso, toppling sideways. Before I can hit the ground, he lunges across the countertop, catching my arm in a grip that's stronger than I think he realizes. It also prickles. 

Trying to get my stupid feet under me, I catch the barest flash of red scale and black, long-tipped nails. Then his hand is back to perfectly pale peach, fussily manicured, and human. 

I shrug him off and push through the door. I shouldn't have gasped, that was a stupid thing to do when the air is heavy with smoke. But I do, and jerk to a stop, folding double, coughing. He runs into me. I nearly topple. That prickling grip pulls me upright again. 

"What can I do to—" he starts, but the fire alarm cuts him off.

"I forgot to turn down the goddamn oven!" 

"I'll get it." He reaches out with his free hand. It's covered in deep red scales, his fingertips ending in delicately curved claws. 

Holy crap.

He's dexterous, able to work the knob, then swing down the oven door. Black smoke, oily with burning fats, cascades into our faces. I cover my mouth and nose with the edge of my Henley, eyes burning. 

"Oven mitts!" I warn. 

"Not necessary!" He's got the tray balanced in his claws. "Where should I—?" 

And that's when the fire suppression system kicks in. 

It lets out a sharp, high whistle that startles him so badly the claws of the hand holding my arm spasm. They go right through my shirt and into flesh. 

I holler. 

Five things happen at once. 

First, he drops the tray of scones. It clatters off the tile, sending burnt pucks of dough into the air. One smacks into my leg, and two pelt him as we dance away. 

Second, he yanks his claws out of my arm, blood on the tips, and freaking hell, it stings. 

Third, white foam pours from the pipes that ring the kitchen ceiling, coating every surface in a bitter-tasting cloud. Including us.

Fourth, the guy makes a sort of gurgling belch noise, then a sharp bony click accompanied by a spark that looks exactly like the kind you get from a lighter. 

Fifth, he spits fire. 

Right into the corner. Where the giant custom bean roaster is. The drum is perforated, and the beans inside it immediately go up in flames. They're so hot they burn blue. The steel drum starts to goddamn melt.

"Coc y gath," he gasps in horror, dithering on the spot.

"Holy shit," I say, clamping my hand down over the punctures in my arm.

"I'm terribly sorry!" he shouts over the sound of the alarm and the hiss of the foam deflating around us. "I didn't mean to—I was startled!" 

The urgency of the situation suddenly hits home, fire crawling up the wall toward the ceiling, and I scream: "Put it out!" 

"What do you want me to do? Suck it back up?" he shouts back, all his cool calm evaporating in the heat of the inferno. "I'm a dragon, not a fire extinguisher!" 

Well. 

Fuck this meet-cute straight to hell, then.

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[starsurface]

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

Regressor Bi-Han w/ CG Liu Kang (Fic)

WARNING: Mention of body horror!!!! Not much but some!!

A Lin Kuei did his missions with seriousness and honor.

Do the job, do it good, do it right, do it fast.

And the Grandmaster was no exception to this code.

"Thank you for accompanying me," Liu Kang tried to smile as they walked. "I know you have greater things to do."

"We're clearing out Shang Tsung's laboratory. We've relocated the . . . people who were already inside," Liu Kang re-explained. Bi-Han struggled not to roll his eyes. "It's more collecting his paperwork and notes. They're important, and we need to get to them before he thinks about coming back."

". . . Is that all?" Bi-Han held back a sigh. He could be doing important Grandmaster work. Instead he

And on the verge of slipping too, Liu Kang truly did hate him.

Well, he didn't hate him, Bi-Han knew this. He also knew that Liu Kang could have requested anyone for the job. But he had specifically requested for him. Why? It wasn't that he didn't like Liu Kang . . . Kinda. He made the Lin Kuei soft, weak.

But Liu Kang was also a childhood friend. Bi-Han saw him around the temple much growing up, speaking with important matters with his Father and Mother. Saw him help train Kuai Liang with his promancy.

He wouldn't say he hated Liu Kang. If anything, his company was enjoyable. If he needed Liu Kang to shut up so that he could think, the God would. If he needed deeper or clearer explanations, Liu Kang didn't look at him like he was stupid or unfitting of Grandmaster. The elders did, but Liu Kang set them in their place more times than Bi-Han could count.

He gave him friendship with an open hand.

And gods did Bi-Han hate it sometimes.

But in other words, Liu Kang wanted someone who didn't respect him as a God. Who didn't worship the ground he walked on.

And didn't talk his ears off the entire walk to an unexciting, potentially dangerous trip.

Bi-Han knew that when Liu Kang said people, he was being generous in his description. Not all were lucky as Syzoth. Not even Syzoth was as lucky as he tried to lead on.

But if they were just collecting his book? Books? They should be done with this quickly. And then he could go home, hide in his room, and probably take a nap.

The elders had been so mean all week, he was tired of their crap. He was tired of his workload. He didn't even want to be here.

Liu Kang sort of made up for it though.

"Yes, that is all," Liu Kang nodded, opening the door to Shang Tsung's laboratory. "It's practically already cleared, we're just double-checking."

The job was simple, easy.

. . . Too easy.

"You just didn't wish to go alone," Bi-Han said.

Liu Kang didn't reply as he walked into the old laboratory.

Bi-Han grumbled something before following.

The laboratory was practically wiped clean on the top floor. Bi-Han was lucky that he wasn't checking the prisons, he was sure just the sight would cause him to slip then and there.

The only things that really remained were some desk bolted down. But Liu Kang and Bi-Han began to search everywhere they could.

It wasn't until he did a double take at the floor that he saw a book.

Hidden. Or, more likely, fallen in between the cracks between the table and the wall. It was a tight squeeze, but Bi-Han was able to get it out.

"Lord Liu Kang! I have found-"

Bi-Han opened the book, and the front page itself was just horrifying.

Body mutilation, extreme body mutilation. Stuff only Havik could do.

Bi-Han gagged at the sight, slamming the book shut as he stumbled back.

In his stumble, he fell flat on the floor.

Bi-Han shakely pointed to the book. Normally he wasn't this affected by those types of pictures. He had grown up with that kind of stuff. He should be fine, why wasn't he fine?

Why did he have to feel so scared? Why was his body all shakey? Why wasn't he able to just brush it off.

Liu Kang rushed to his side, checking Bi-Han for any injuries. He was thankful that Bi-Han had just stumbled. Even he didn't want to look through the book later.

"THank goodness your okay," Liu Kang stood up, holding his hand out. "The notebooks are . . . something else entirely. They're- Bi-Han? Are you alright?"

Liu Kang knelt back to Bi-Han's height, watching as Bi-Han took shallow breaths, trying to control his breathing. Trying not to cry.

In all the years he knew Bi-Han, he could only count on one hand, maybe two, of the times he's seen the boy cry.

Bi-Han was shaking too, it was something Liu Kang had barely ever seen.

He gently grabbed BI-Han's hands, wanting to help ground him. His movements were slow, and gave Bi-Han enough time to pull away or yell at him.

But instead, Bi-Han grabbed his hands, tackling himself into Liu Kang's arms.

While it surprised the God, he squeezed Bi-Han in a firm hug.

And Bi-Han allowed himself to try and slip just a bit.

But instead, he just dropped.

And with his drop, he began to heavily sob.

"It was-!"

"I know," Liu Kang shushed him, rocking him gently.

"And it-!"

"I know," Liu Kang cut him off. "Don't think of such things, they've all gone bye bye. Someone so small should have never had those types of pictures. You're okay, you're all alright."

Liu Kang continued to rock Bi-Han, holding him firmly as he continued to whisper to him. Bi-Han hadn't felt this fuzzy in so long. He hadn't regressed in weeks, continuing to push it off to do this or do that. And everyone was trying to boss him around or try to 'help' him with his work. He was done. 

He was small, vulnerable, and scared. 

He was scared. 

He hadn't felt this amount of fear in so long. What was he scared of? The pictures? or the fact he was sobbing in Liu Kang's arms? Or the fact that Liu Kang knew he regressed? How did he even know? Did Tomas or Kuai Liang tell him? Sareena wouldn't betray him like this.

"Let's get you back home, alright?" Liu Kang whispered, standing up, carrying Bi-Han in a princess-style hold. Bi-Han didn't protest much, hiding in Liu Kang's shoulder.

Liu Kang made a portal, sliding the book inside before walking in himself. He slide the book under Bi-Han's bed, keeping that in memory so he'll be able to receive it later. Right now, Bi-Han was his main concern.

He always had a sneaking suspicion that Bi-Han regressed. He knew Kuai Liang and Tomas regressed. He knew Bi-Han took care of them. But sometimes when Tomas was small, he'd call Bi-Han 'Bi-Bi', and Bi-Han would become tense and try to quickly excuse himself. One time he tried to see Bi-Han one night, only to find Sareena making a bowl of goldish and mac and cheese. Neither of them spoke of that night.

Had he known Bi-Han was so close to dropping, he would have never had asked him to accompany him.

Liu Kang tried to sit Bi-Han on his bed, but Bi-Han continued to cry, holding onto him tightly. So instead, he held Bi-Han, shifting him to his hip so he could pace around, bouncing the boy.

It took a while, a very long while, until Bi-Han calmed down enough to soft cries and sniffles. At some point he had thrown his mask off. Putting a hand over his mouth and nose to try to silence his crying. Normally he didn't cry loudly, but he couldn't help it right now.

"Stop, you won't be able to breathe like that," Liu Kang worried, gently prying Bi-Han's hand off his mouth. Bi-Han began to suck on his thumb instead. "Do you have a paci?"

A paci? That was funny. He was grandmaster, he couldn't have a pacifier. What if someone found it? How was he going to explain it?

But goodness did he want one. He wanted one so badly. Before he completely gave up on the idea, he use to dream of a custom one. Probably baby blue and white, he liked blue. Maybe a bear on it, that would be cute.

Bi-Han shook his head and Liu Kang nodded. He couldn't lecture Bi-Han for sucking his thumb when it was all he really had for comfort.

"'Oor," Bi-Han mumbled, giving a small point to his door. He didn't like the fact it wasn't locked. SOmeone could easily walk inside. He couldn't have that, he just couldn't.

"Do you want the door locked?" Liu Kang asked, receiving a weak nod. "Alright, I'll shut the door."

Liu Kang realized how small Bi-Han had slipped, he couldn't be more than a few years old. Liu Kang was lucky that he had experiences watching littles this young, both for negative and positive reasons. 

Like times were Raiden had slipped extremely young after a long day of training, happy to be in his Dada's arms. 

Or where Syzoth would run and cling to him for sanctuary, sobbing and babbling for Dada to protect him.

Bi-Han suddenly gave a soft whine, making grabby hands for the bed.

Liu Kang sat on it, letting Bi-Han sit on his lap. Resting his head on the God's shoulder and sucking his thumb. He seemed better, not as freaked out.

If anything, he seemed sleepy. Very sleepy.

"Is it ni ni time?" Liu Kang asked softly. Bi-Han hiccuped and shook his head. "No? My my, that's a problem then. What do you want to do, Snowflake? You wanna just sit here and cuddle?"

Bi-Han made grabby hands for his bookshelf. Liu Kang carried him over and Bi-Han struggled to get an incredibly thick book out. Liu Kang helped him grab it, but Bi-Han had almost a death grip on the book.

Bi-Han liked this book. It was a safe book, not a scary book like Liu Kang's book was.

It was also one of the only comfort regression objects he had.

An easy excuse too, it was a gift from his mother long, long ago.

"A book full of nursery rhymes?" Liu Kang smiled, sitting back on the bed, letting Bi-Han practically lay on top of him so he was comfy. "Do you have a favorite one? Or a request?"

Bi-Han whined at Liu Kang's questions, running his finger over the content page. He was tired of Liu Kang being silly. He just wanted his stories.

Liu Kang nodded and pulled Bi-Han close to him. He expected at any time to be pushed away. But instead, Bi-Han accepted his warmth.

Bi-Han fell asleep somewhat halfway through the third rhyme. Poor thing was struggling so badly to keep his eyes open.

He gently put the book on Bi-Han's nightstand, but made to attempts to get up.

He had a hunch that when Bi-Han woke up, the poor baby was most likely going to still be small.

And the hissy fit or freak out afterwards was something he needed to be there to help with.

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3