They cannot see, but she does. Myrcella sees.

He pushes off the bed in one smooth motion, and your bloodpusher skips a beat as he takes a step towards you. “Really.” “If, if you’re trying to imply anything lewd—” “Lewd? Seriously? You sound like Zahhak.” Another step. Your voice is too shrill when you ask, “But are you?” He braces one hand against the wall over your shoulder, tilts his head to the side, and smirks in that infuriating, awful way. “What do you think?”

In the game of gay xenochicken there are no losers, which explains why you are currently trying to stick your hands down Sollux's pants.

Zabuza steels himself, breathes out. Remembers he can move, that he can speak, and slowly, carefully slides to his knees. Not a position he would take for anyone else, even Mei if she ever wore the Mizukage's hat, not after a lifetime spent clawing his way up from the streets and into a place of his own power. But—gods are something different. They have to be, or they can't offer miracles, and Zabuza needs that miracle right now. “I was told that you help those seeking justice,” he says.

Wei Ying was sprawled on the floor in front of the oscillating fan when Lan Zhan got home from work.

Jordan’s always been kind of jealous of people with dynamics, like Taylor.

“If you’re really sure,” he starts, and Neil nods along. “I could do it.” “Uh,” Neil says, and suddenly his thin sweats and shirt feel far too hot. “What?” “If you want,” Andrew says, looking Neil straight in the eyes, determination burning Neil up inside. “I could help.” “You would—,” Neil says and Andrew doesn’t even wait for him to finish before nodding. “Why?” “You don’t want your first time to be with some frat boy. Trust me, you don’t,” Andrew says. “If you decide sex isn’t for you, you don’t want that to be your only experience. You need someone who’s good.” Neil swallows heavily. “And that’s… you?”

“No one told me what prayers to recite,” Johnny forces out, trying to summon the well of anger that usually burns within him when he enters the church. “‘Spose they’re not used to trussin’ up somethin’ that can talk back.” Father Simon says nothing, his footsteps echoing out on the stone; growing louder as he approaches. “I can baa for ya if that’d make it more familiar,” he spits, some remnant of himself flaring and he strains his arms, struggling in vain against the ropes binding his wrists. He follows the hem of his robe as he circles him; his keen eyes heavy as they study the sigils on his skin until he finally comes to a stop behind him. He’s not even to see his death. Johnny curses himself as only now does grief come at being denied a final look into his eyes. Even now, you can’t help but chase sin.

Far and away, being an omega is the least interesting thing about Jared.

The wedding’s going to be tonight, presumably so no one involved has time to get cold feet, which gives Geralt just enough time to clean up and get the dirt off his armor and overthink every tiny little detail of this arrangement.