kuya's bakeshop

formerly @ahmnicoleee • 23-PH • she/her art tag: #gaye art

[kuyapan]

R34 | “Tell him that he’s lost an heir.”

Fan Fiction post-Chapter 33 of Mimicmage by Lemur Leylamin

The streets of the Drakonyra district were an eyesore, and it didn’t help that there was a risk of poisoning by inhalation around every corner or so. It was a wretched place. Phaedon didn’t know the details of what it was like before his father, but he knew that it was a paradise compared to its current state.

“You don’t need to escort me this far away from the estate, Rene,” he said to the old butler.

“Unfortunately, young master, your father has specifically requested that I do so, at least until you’ve reached the outskirts of the district.”

“And then you’re going to report to him?”

“Regrettably.”

Phaedon took a deep breath. It stung his nose a little bit, and that was the price of the “dynasty” his father wanted to build.

It wasn’t long before the two said their farewells, and while Rene made his way back to the estate, Phaedon was left to contemplate his next move. His father certainly didn’t have the authority to hold him back from participating in the festival, but that didn’t mean he was lacking in resources to physically stop him.

A scowl formed on Phaedon’s lips as he walked away from the district and closer to the center of Artemest. “Just a week before the festival, too,” he muttered. The shelters he passed by were filled to the brim with survivors, and while there were those that put smiles on, they were clearly masks to keep spirits from waning.

The young heir eventually found himself in front of the Kastrionis estate. Its usually guarded premises were short of its men. Perhaps some had gone to help with the Flockmother search party. Maybe others had gone to help the people—an order his own father would never issue if it didn’t aid in his “grand purpose”.

What Phaedon didn’t expect was security thinning further.

A wave of screams reverberated through the air, coming from the direction of one of the nearby shelters. Suddenly, the estate’s defenses were pooled into aid, and though Phaedon would have wanted to stay to gauge the need for more assistance, another conversation caught his attention.

“D’you lock the highlander’s cell?”

“He’ll be fine! He’s basically his own guard. Now, get moving!”

The highlander’s cell? Just a week before the festival didn’t seem like a good time to have his old acquaintance in confinement. Was the archon using his own resources to shackle the man here, too?

-----

The cell was quiet. Its walls and flooring were clean of anything but a few fixtures meant to keep it in a livable condition. The air was stagnant, almost stuffy. Every little sound bounced around, mixing into the low hum of whatever noise the guards left Grits alone for.

He took a deep breath, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. The bed beneath him creaked as he exhaled.

“How long do they plan to keep you here for?” a familiar voice echoed somewhere outside the cell. There was only one thing going through Grits’ mind.

“Is Lady Cynthia doing alright?” There was a hint of desperation in the question despite the half-highlander’s best attempts to sound in control.

“I haven’t seen the carriages of any major Healmage outside, so it’s unlikely that there’s anything to worry about,” Phaedon replied.

Grits let out a sigh of relief. Thank Gods, he thought to himself. There wouldn’t have been a need to even ask the question if he had just protected her. A fucking brute through and through.

“The Relic Festival is in a week,” Phaedon continued, his question still unanswered.

“Do you wanna tell me why you’re here, Phaedon?” Grits finally turned to him. Standing behind the cell bars, the young heir stood in his usual type of leather attire and a cloak. No matter how many fights Phaedon got into, it was like he always had the time to spiffy up before they saw each other again.

“Rumors said the archon had ‘the highlander’ locked up, and I wanted to be sure.” Phaedon sneered, and Grits furrowed his brows. “I don’t know how long I’ll be here for.”

“And the festival?”

“I … I don’t know …”

The heir pushed the cell door open with ease, and Grits let out a disappointed sigh. “They left it open because they didn’t think you’d leave,” the former said as he stepped into the hold. Grits stood up and approached to block his entry further.

“This is meant to be solitary confinement, Phaedon. You’d best be on your way before I force the solitude.”

There wasn’t much noise or sunlight coming into the cell. All it had was a small window towards its side that let in a single streak of sunlight, very gently irradiating the empty concrete wall at the back end of the room.

“I want you to leave,” Grits snarled when Phaedon didn’t move. “That didn’t seem like the case during the last festival.” At that, the half-highlander shook his head and sneered.

“Oh, please, if you’d trained a little harder, we’d all have been relieved to see you go.”

“And if you’d done your duty to Cynthia this year, you’d have gotten the cha—”

“You don’t get to tell me about doing my duty to anyone.” Grits forcefully stuck a finger into Phaedon’s chest, causing the man to step back. “Congratulations on being there when Lady Cynthia needed defending during the attack, but you weren’t there in any other moment she needed someone. You think any of this is easy for me? Like I have this whole Kastrionis affair ‘crystal clear’?” Though his head tilted and eyes widened in mockery, his words were sharp.

“You’re one to talk when you have such a great relationship with Lord Lysandros.” At that, Phaedon grabbed the half-highlander’s wrist. “Don’t start,” he said sternly. Without missing a beat, he lifted his foot and push-kicked Grits to the wall. There was a small break in the concrete.

“I don’t need to hear from anyone about my situation. You of all people should know I’m not happy to be here, right?” Phaedon’s question was rhetorical, although Grits knew the answer to it.

The young heir stepped closer, and Grits began to take a defensive stance. Even before he could secure his footing, however, the heir swept him by the feet, causing him to fall backwards against the wall. Phaedon squatted down to meet the half-highlander’s gaze, arms on knees, and for the first time since he got here, sunrays struck and illuminated his eyes. There was anger in them.

A hand flew from the cold concrete, grabbing at Phaedon's collar and pulling him closer. Mere inches away from Grits' face, Phaedon stared at him with wide eyes. A harsh breath left his sneering lips.

Phaedon merely blinked. Perhaps that was his second mistake, the first being attacking a half-highlander. Phaedon was deft with a sword, and he was well-informed of the fact that Grits was as well—though one could only hazard what a man was capable of when stripped of his weapons.

And Grits was no more a man than he was an orc.

A sliver of tanned skin glowed under the meager ray of sunshine, throwing into sharp relief the jagged scars on Grits’ face. Some matched his complexion. Others were darker and ghastlier as they crept closer to his lips. Perhaps they had not healed as well.

"What happens next, Lord?" The title was spat with venom. Any lesser man would have flinched. Phaedon was far from that. "Pray tell, how does a man raised as refined as yourself find joy in bickering with th—"

Phaedon lowered his knees, bone meeting concrete, and straddled the half-highlander. His arms encased Grits' head, and with a sudden wave of inexplicable moxie, he closed what little gap remained between their bodies and let his lips fall on Grits.

An array of emotions shone in Grits' eyes in quick passes, and Phaedon watched as his brows furrowed and gaze narrowed. Skepticism was the last response Phaedon expected, and it vexed him to no small extent.

A beat passed. Grits moved his hand from Phaedon's collar to his throat, fingers digging into the column of his neck. The young heir grunted in surprise. A callous demand sat at the edge of his tongue, for Grits to remove his hand, but it was his body that spoke for him.

He grinded on the half-orc's torso as if he were nothing but a depraved reprobate who thought with his lower half. Indignant, he swiftly pulled himself away. Grits, however, was faster—following his movements and pinning Phaedon's thighs to his sides.

"Let me go," Phaedon ordered, though without much conviction. All lectures of manners and social conduct had left him. He couldn't even maintain eye contact, gaze attached to the half-orc's mouth.

As if Phaedon hadn't spoken, Grits said through clenched teeth, "Do it again."

"Pray. Tell." Phaedon's tone carried a vindictive edge, looking down the slope of his nose at Grits' sharp, awaiting gaze. There was emphasis in each word. "Why. Should. I?"

With a harsh tug by the bend of Phaedon's knees, Grits repositioned the heir by the cradle of his hips—aligning his torso right underneath the man he should have pushed away but could not. The man he should not have allowed within a hairsbreadth of himself but decided against it despite. The man he should push to his knees, and it would be no daunting task, but he could not force himself to do it.

Besides, he liked their current reality better than any possibility—not that he would ever tell a living soul of any of that.

"Enough, Phaedon," he started, "I don’t find any enjoyment in repeating myself."

"You don’t seem like you enjoy anything at all."

Grits grunted, a rough sound rumbling from his chest. His hands traveled from Phaedon's knees to the curve of his hips, reminding him of where he was seated. It appeared comfortably so as well despite the acrimony dripping from his every word.

A lapse in judgment could only explain what Grits did next. Clouded by his personal aggravations—that surely must be it—he crashed his mouth against Phaedon's, lips moving in a manner that belied his experience.

Phaedon was torn between exasperation and a deep-seated pleasure that he would rather not dissect.

He tried to take the lead, yet whenever he began to steer them in a momentum he wanted, the vise on his throat would tighten, only to relax when he would yield.

His hands pushed against Grits' wide chest, impossibly hard and sculpted under his palms, to no avail. Phaedon needed to pull away before his lungs collapsed from a lack of air. He nipped at Grits' bottom lip, not enough to draw blood but enough to throw him off-kilter. Grits only responded in a masculine groan ending on a breathless note—a nonsensical plea. For what, even Grits did not know.

In a moment of sheer desperation, Phaedon's hands enclosed around Grits' thickset neck, fingers barely touching. Adding pressure, he felt the half-orc's heartbeat against his palm. It was beating as hard as his own, if not more thunderous, as if it was trying to escape the half-highlander’s body.

Grits finally took pause, withdrawing with a noise of annoyance. "What is it now?"

Phaedon regarded the man—eyes at half-mast, coarse skin underneath his palm warmer now, and lips glistening with a mixture of their spittle. But what shocked Phaedon were not any of those but his unfazed expression.

"What do you think?" Phaedon began to remove himself from Grits' lap.

He didn't get far before his back met the wall, legs barely keeping himself upright as Grits towered over him, crowding him at the very spot where he pushed the half-orc.

Braced palms on either side of Phaedon's head, thumbs grazing the tips of his ears, wrists next to his neck—a ruddy shade from his grip, Grits looked down on the smaller man with a barely-there glint of mirth in his sharp eyes.

Phaedon was easy to manhandle when he thought he had the upper hand. Just because a man was laid supine underneath you, with less knowledge of the art of romance than you would expect, does not mean he'd lost all wit.

But Grits was on precarious grounds. Shoulders hiked near his ears. Uneven breaths. Tension bracketing his sinewy form, muscles so tight they threatened to tear his peasant’s attire.

With all the patience Grits could muster, he bit out, "Caught your breath?"

"You brute—"

"Careful." Grits lowered himself close to Phaedon, head tilted to the side. It was not lost on him how it seemed as if he were fitting pieces of a puzzle. "You don’t seem to understand how unwise it'd be to keep aggravating me."

"Like you aren't on my nerves?" Hands clasped around the neckline of Grits’ shirt, Phaedon pulled him closer. “You kiss like you fight—” Phaedon drew closer, “Sloppy.”

They stared—sneered—at one another, much less conviction behind their malice. Both recognized the shadows that lied beneath their anger; it mirrored their own in ways they did not expect and hated to have witnessed.

Grits was unlike Phaedon; Phaedon could not have been further removed from the likes of Grits. Yet, they hurt and yearned all the same.

And if there was one thing they had in common right now, in that barely-lit confinement cell, it was the desperate need for a distraction.

With a pained grunt, Grits crashed his mouth onto Phaedon’s, moving just as hurried and wild as before. This time, Phaedon did not try to take control. He let himself be as wanton and unrestrained as Grits. He let himself be imperfect and relentless.

Lips moved in an uncoordinated manner over each other, and Phaedon would have recoiled if it weren’t for the suffocating fervor in which Grits consumed him whole. He made him forget himself—how terrifyingly freeing.

A calloused thumb dug into Phaedon’s chin, coaxing his mouth open. He fought Grits’ silent demand at first, holding out to test the man’s determination. Grits, seeing through his thoughtless impudence, pushed Phaedon’s feet apart with a swift sweep of his ankle. Phaedon gasped, and the half-highlander swallowed the sound as if it were his lifeline.

Grits pushed his tongue into the man’s mouth, a sound akin to an animal more than anything emanating from his chest. Heavy, corded arms snaked around Phaedon’s waist, pulling him flush against the half-highlander’s front, the smaller man struggling on his toes.

Losing his footing, Phaedon unintentionally pulled away. Grits was quick to palm the back of his head and follow his mouth, slamming Phaedon back on the wall and pressing his larger body against his.

Phaedon’s nose scrunched at the tightness of his leathers. Grits rode the thin line between releasing Phaedon to adjust himself or keep his hold on the man.

Driven by their blinding need, they grinded their pelvises against each other’s, bulge grazing the other man’s whenever their hips dipped and rolled. The sound of leather brushing against cotton and the wet smacks of their mouths created an obscene harmony that bounced off the concrete walls—enveloping them in their own gentle sin. It was a minute slight amongst their tome of offenses yet the one that would haunt them for as long as they breathed, for as long as they denied themselves.

Of the truth. Of each other.

Limbs were tangled, grunts and moans were sung and shared in the same breath. It took effort for both to keep themselves vertical when all they wanted was the floor and nothing else between them.

Phaedon, in a moment of reprieve granted by Grits, dared his hands to venture lower. And lower. Until his fingertips brushed the cincture of Grits’ britches. He teased the hem just as he teased the half-orc with the licking of his lips. Though Phaedon considered him now more of an earthly man than anything his lineage proved.

Grits, untangling his arms from Phaedon’s body, roamed his leather clad figure with greedy hands, exploring the curves and dips, taking note of where the straps were and where the knots were tightest. As Phaedon continued to tease him, fingers dipping agonizingly slow, Grits busied himself with unlacing strings, starting from the bottom.

The half-highlander tensed at the tender intrusion near his groin, a deep crease forming between his brows. Before the mental probing began, he was stripped of Phaedon’s warmth. Eyes shooting open, he watched as the shorter man studied his tusk.

His nose flared at the sight. He readied himself for yet another squabble, the words right at the tip of his tongue—

Phaedon planted a kiss on the tip of the ivory then licked the spot while looking at him dead in the eye.

The wall crumbled beneath the pressure of Grits’ forceful shove. Cleared of their lustful haze, indescribable fury ignited in Phaedon’s eyes.

In quick succession, he brought his knee up, separating their bodies, and planted his sole on Grits’ chest. He pushed with all his might, sending the half-highlander stumbling across the cell.

A second of heaving, exchanging looks of bitter indignation.

Then, Phaedon leapt from his crater on the wall, meeting Grits in a cruel brawl of unrestrained strikes.

Phaedon took hits from Grits’ bare fists. The latter clenched his teeth at every blow Phaedon managed to land: on his jaw, the side of his ribcage, right in his abdomen.

The cell trembled from their sheer strength. The hum outside had quieted amidst their dance, and the guards on-duty finally returned. It took four of them to break up the fight; three held back an angry half-highlander while Phaedon pushed at the remaining keeper.

“If you’re gonna keep me here, put me in another cell,” he spat, “I couldn’t give a rat’s ass what my father says. Put me in another cell, or tell him that he’s lost an heir.”

With that, the guard reluctantly shackled his wrists and ankles. Grits watched as Phaedon avoided his gaze, letting the metal bite against his skin, hands hauling him out of the room.

For a moment, he looked up. “If I end up not leaving this place because of you again, you’ll regret it.” Phaedon spat at Grits’ feet and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

---

Huge thanks to the author behind [email protected] for letting me commission her for the spicy parts! She captured my carckship in a way I could never ✨

I wish the author of Mimicmage would stop getting attacked by gorillas so often.

Bonus PhaeGrits:

[dying-suffering-french-stalkers]

everyone say in the tags what their current custom discord status is

[fishtrouts]

She might be a tiny bit insecure about it.

It only recently started snowing here in my usually cold, baltic country lol! Winter was particulary late this year, so this comic was a coping mechanism because it has become one of my favourite seasons :D I'm just uncomfortably hot any other time!!

[jellolegos]

Butch werewolf vi x femme vampire cait?

[taffybuns]

[kuyapan]

This was my first ever exposure to Wicked, and I hold it in my heart

[leyfin]

sobbing and crying at the woman who stole a meth addicted kitten from her dealer and then she and the kitten got clean together

[leyfin]

thats love baby!!

[styro-sometimes]

TUMBLR STORY TIME.

I volunteer for my local shelter and when the weather's good, we do a free vaccine clinic every Friday. Free distemper, free rabies, cats and dogs. We hand out free food from the pet pantry, we give people leashes and collars, we do whatever we can to keep people's animals at home and healthy. Every animal that can stay home and be fed and be vaccinated is an animal that we can keep out of the shelter.

We get all kinds of folks, sometimes we even get backyard breeders but we don't do any judgment, because we want people to come and get their dogs vaccinated, because one parvo case costs $7000+ and the whole year of Parvo vaccines for hundreds of dogs costs less. It's just harm reduction, everything we do is harm reduction.

So anyway, this one day this woman comes up to the vax clinic and she is high as fuckin' hell, just obliterated fucked up, smoking a joint in line, and she has this TINY pibble puppy with her, maaaaybe four weeks old. This thing is so fuckin tiny and wormy and lethargic, and she's like, "Hey I heard I can get her shots." and we're like, oh fuck this puppy is gonna die. Like straight up, we were all like, fuck that dog is gonna die. So we gave her wormer, we gave the first distemper shot, and I put together a whole care package: wormer to take home, puppy milk replacer, puppy wet food, a leash, a harness, some blankets, toys, we gave her instructions on how to get the puppy eating food, and we told her to come back in 3 weeks for the follow up vaccine. And we were all like, well fuck, that puppy's gonna die, goddamnit, that's so fucked up. But you know, we did our best, and we hoped we'd see her again.

And in three weeks, you guys, she showed up. And she was still high, but like, half-high this time. Smoking a cigartte in line but like, could focus, could ask and answer questions. And she'd taught that tiny puppy how to SIT and had her walking on a leash. We found out that it took her three buses to get to the clinic, and she told us all about how she got the puppy eating right, got her stool solid, she was taking her on walks... The puppy looked so good, you guys. I almost cried, it was so big. Really happy puppy. At the end of the visit, we were like, ok, see you in three more weeks for the next distemper.

So three weeks later, she shows up, and she's sober, and she told us, "You know, I was really fucked up the day I bought that puppy, I wasn't sure I was going to live, and I bought that puppy and she was too young, and I didn't know what I was doing but y'all were so nice to me, and you helped me so much, and I knew that I had to give this puppy the best life I could, so I moved back in with my grandma, and I'm getting clean, and I'm on methadone, and I'm going to rehab next week, and when I get back, I'll come back and visit you guys again."

So I just wanna say. Sometimes it's hard to find a reason to get clean for yourself. Sometimes you gotta do it for a little critter that depends on you.

[lastoneout]

[kuyapan]

drawing of me drawing with my phone drawn on my phone

[kuyapan]

[kuyapan]

My nose just starts bleeding on its own sometimes. Tonight was the first time it happened while I was in the bathroom and had access to a mirror, and it looked cooler than I thought it would. I decided to do a MS Paint x mouse doodle to cement it into my memory.

[plumbo-gummite]

it always always makes me laugh to swap definite and indefinite articles

[plumbo-gummite]

Ugh it's so hot today, I'm sweating like the pig

[plumbo-gummite]

W-woah there! You scared a bejesus out of me!

[borealing]

obsessed with this

[shesarainbeaux-deactivated20221]

seduces u with evil tricks like caring about u and wanting to hear about ur day

[deafmic]

a couple weeks ago, someone called and left a message on my team's phone at work. this was a phone number that he should not have been able to find and which isn't actually manned. we are an IT team and have the number to keep our team zoom account. so no one picks it up, but every time someone leaves a message, everyone on the team gets an email with the transposed text.

this man left a 7 minute long message with my tech team about how he wanted a job in our sales department.

in it, he called himself a savage no less than 12 times. he spent most of the 7 minutes talking about how well he closes deals and sells. he left this message over the weekend. in it, he said the words "i'm a beast, i'm a killer" multiple times, which i now can't seem to get out of my vocabulary. i say it literally every day and i can't explain it because it's like a personal meme.

my team actually found this message so fucking funny that we immediately found the sales team recruiter and got him over there. we all dearly hope that he gets hired so we can meet him. he's like a celebrity to us. he's a beast. a killer even.

[sexygaywizard]

Does ADHD ever feel to you like a semi-physical sensation. I legit like. When I'm trying to get work done and my attention span is it's limit and I just CAN NOT do work anymore I feel a sort of tension within my body. idk. some sort of inner vibration. Not like, just tapping your foot or shaking your leg but something deeper than that. Anyways I need to write an essay but I CANNOT focus, my body is screaming at me to do something else, I need to go eat lunch

[sexygaywizard]

omg yes it's this exactly, perfect description. Like I'm pressing down on the gas but the car is not in gear so it's just going "VVVRRRRRR"

[fandomsandfeminism]

Honestly, I wouldn't be shocked if part of that feeling (and oh yes, I KNOW that feeling) really *is* physical- a big part of ADHD is dopamine dysregulation. If we're low on dopamine, our body really REALLY needs more- its a mood stabilizer, it's a neurotransmitter that helps different regions if the brain communicate, it even is involved in the motor control pathways. It does *so many things* in the body beyond just "feels good" - it's the oil in the machine that keeps a lot of body systems moving smoothly.

If you're low on dopamine and the task ahead of you isn't a likely source of getting more (because our dopamine release systems are a fucking skinner box half the time with adhd)- like, if you told that had a real noticeable affect on the body beyond just your mood? Yeah, that makes sense.

[sen-thebootbimbo]

My butch and I are both lesbians. We are, neither of us, men.

But I call him my boyfriend. I call him my boytoy, my boy, sir, Mr., guy. Cause this language makes him happy. It supports his gender and expression, and it makes him happy.

Butches of all flavors and types have been using he/him pronouns and masculine language forever. Butches have been called boy, guy, boyfriend. Butches have used "traditionally masculine" names like Mitch, Ed, Mac, Joe.

Cause guess what?

Language is fake! It's all made up! If it makes you happy, use it! Wanna call yourself "boy," even if you're not a man? Do it! Wanna be called "boyfriend," even if you're not a guy? Go for it!

[anti-terf-posts]

official anti terf post

[thesituation]

i don’t think mordecai and rigby were ever gay for each other but i do think many times rigby would be like dude if i was a girl would you want to fuck me and mordecai is like dude that’s weird. no. and rigby is all bent out of shape about it and in the middle of the night when they’re both trying to sleep he’s like why wouldn’t you fuck me if i was a girl. i’m cute right? or am i ugly and that’s why i’m single… and mordecai is like fine whatever i’d fuck girl you. stop bringing it up now. & the next day rigby is like fuck off muscle man i’m not ugly mordecai said he’d fuck girl me & then a portal opens to an alternate dimension where they’re genderbent like that adventure time episode and the voice of god is like mordecai you must make good on your word. fuck girl rigby.

[parkchanwoohoo]

Found another idiotic accounting mistake from my predecessor that I have to fix and I was like "WILL THE SPECTER OF THAT MAN'S INCOMPETENCE EVER CEASE TO HAUNT ME" and my coworker was like "Why do you talk like that"