#this is yaoi

[azurewrathicflame]

this slime. the avery

[ace-spadespoken]

NO IM NOT NORMAL ABOUT THIS

[mittidikhushboo]

(mitti di khushboo)

Chapter One: even the best laid plans

‘-did not survive contact with-’ Hamza pressed his face into the pillow, burrowing into it as well as he could manage. Waheguru had almost spilled past his lips, caught only by the amount of training to bury any Sikh-isms, Punjabi-isms, or Indian-isms in him he had been subjected to. Training that had worked so well that he had since lost faith in there being any such god up there at all. Faith was something for dead men like Jaskirat. A quote Bansal sir often said, an English quote, lingered at the edge of his memory.

Hamza found that his thoughts had suddenly become like flowing sand; he could not gather them up, compartmentalise and recalibrate. He could only fight the twitching of his own hips. His ears registered idly the loud squelching of their sexes, and Uzair’s moans behind him, shameless and rendered stupid by rut-brain. He would laugh at him, the so-called second in command of the Baloch boys, reduced to another knot headed baran if his thighs were not quaking and and his cervix not so battered that he was half convinced it was going to open. He was drowning in the scent of sandalwood- he was sure that he and the dingy room above Aalam Bhai's juice shop reeked so badly of the baran's lust that even someone standing outside on the stairway could tell.

Lyari was a land where Murphy’s Law was something to be taken into account even when doing something so minor as taking a piss. In the past twenty four hours he had done many questionable things; yet the mission was one of the last things on his mind. In fact, if he was using Bansal Sir’s terminology, his rational thinking was highly compromised. For a moment, he wondered again, how exactly he’d wound up in this position. Then Uzair nosed at his neck, whining, calling his name.

The spoiled, useless baran begging for a kiss (-please Hamze, your face….need it.. dying…) took up his remaining brain capacity. He did not hear the key turn in the lock. 

.....

Jaskirat presented on one particularly muggy, horrible afternoon in September. They had been doing combat training throughout the morning, and had a lecture on basic cryptography immediately after, which was a bad enough combination on its own. But Jaskirat was a man who was going to die soon, and such men lost both the right and the willpower to complain. He had been rather miserable since he woke up that morning, so miserable that he hadn't noticed the strange scent he was emitting. The scent patches he applied in the shower contained it afterwards. What he could not ignore, was the throbbing ache in his temple and his stomach that began to build midway through taking notes. He pursed his lips and tried to squash it down. His neck, which had developed in itch at its base during stretches that had not subsided since, had begun to smart in the same location. He reached his hand to scratch it, not looking away from the board. 

When his nails scraped against his skin, a strange mixture of pain and another confusing sensation shot down his spine. The area was swollen and raised and abnormally sensitive. Suddenly, he felt absolutely horrible.  A noise, miserable and low began in his throat. And then the entire room of fellow trainee agents and the instructor all turned to look at him. His face went pink. "Rangi," said the instructor, "Are you alright?" He tried open his mouth to say something, but found that he was suddenly unable to summon words. Mehdi, who had been sitting behind him, his friend, reached out his hand. "Jaskirat? You smell like a wet dog, is something wrong?"

Somehow, that made made tears well up in his eyes, to his extreme embarrassment.  The instructor, a beta woman in her late fifties, was looking at him in increasing concern. Mehdi got up, but he could not make out what being said around him anymore. A hand was placed on his shoulders, which reduced the severity of the growing pit in his chest, but not by very much. There was a bit of a commotion, after that. People were debating something, speculating what was wrong with him. He heard himself sob in a detached way, as though he was no longer in control of his own body. Mehdi took his hand and him and another man took him to the infirmary.  The infirmary had smelled horribly sanitised and clean. Too clean. The lights were too bright and the bed he was sat down upon too scratchy. The doctor, a female baran with dark eyes and not a hint of warmth in her gaze, informed them that he was just presenting. Abnormally late, but not too abnormal. He wanted to explain that couldn't be be true, that he was a beta, and that he absolutely did not feel like a alpha. Presenting for alphas meant insane horniness and and a bad temper, not this misery that made him want to curl up in a hole and die. 

They took a swab of his scent, which made him cry more, because people he did not know were poking at him somewhere that he didn't want to expose to them. Their grip was could and clinical and everything was too rigid and calculative that he wanted to run away. The nurses ignored his broken sobbing. Tears, a river of them that had sprung from his eyes, floodgates that he had no ability to close were beginning to drown him. His scent filled with more and more discontent but nobody moved to help him.  He began to scratch his own arms from the abject sadness in his chest, but none of the people in white coats did anything. He just wanted to be scented. He just wanted to be scented, that was all. But he was far from home; home no longer existed. He wanted his sisters, he wanted his mother, he wanted his father, he wanted to leave. His elder sister was dead, his Papa was dead, they were all gone, he had no pack anymore, no home, nothing. Not a soul left on this Earth loved him, or even cared about him enough to scent him. He was alone, in a white room with scratchy blankets and nowhere to hide. His nails began to draw blood, but the pain hardly registered. It was all his fault. He was alone, a wretched, cursed, reviled being.

All these people must have hated him, he had thought. But they did not hate him enough to kill him, though he wished they did. He wanted to go home. They tried to give him food. But what was food for a creature that had nothing but death in its veins? He was poisonous, maybe. Or diseased, or ill, something similar. He must have been some sort of aberration. That was why he had been left all alone, that was why he'd been abandoned here in this strange place.  He ached. Jaskirat's insides were made of lava. He burned. His scent was thick in the air, cloying, but nobody came to him. He wished someone would. His body tried to get someone to come, anyone, pumping out more and more of his scent, till his glands were swollen and leaking oil, but his scent must have been so repulsive that not even one person wanted to come near him. His body was doing everything it could to be tempting, to be good, so that someone would want him, but it was of no use. 

He was going to die- this was it. He would be so happy if someone came to save him, but nobody was going to. He already knew that. How had he forgotten?

-"You are his friend, yes?"

It had been an eternity. He was alone, and was growing used to his loneliness. His eyes barely worked anymore. It was all a glowing white blur. Maybe he was already dead. His hands that had been carving bloody lines into themselves, were now wrapped around himself. He stroked them up and down. He wished they were longer, so that they would come around his back, so that he could at least fool himself into thinking he was being held in his last moments. Everything hurt.  It seemed that heavens had given him one final mercy. His hand really must have grown longer, because the suddenly he could feel a palm placed against his back. A heady mix of chemicals shot up his brain, his spine, his everything. All the oxytocin, serotonin and other neurotransmitters he needed to finally go loopy and warm and stop thinking were suddenly there. And then, his heart leapt with joy because there, above him, around him, cradling him, was his older sister. 

Harleen was here. 

His eyes widened, disbelieving. He smiled, incredulous. "Harleen? Didi?" Her hand cupped his cheek. "Oh, Jassi.."

It was okay. Everything was okay. His sister had come. He was safe. He felt the tears start again, but this time he was not afraid or embarrassed. "Didi," he murmured, burying his face into her kameez. Her hand was stroking through his hair. He purred. "Didi, can we go home? So many things happened... you were gone."

She kissed the top of Jaskirat's head. "Oh, Jassi, it was all just a dream, okay? A bad dream."

A bad dream.

.....

If only that was all it had been. A bad dream. Some omegas, he learned, tended to get depressive during their heats. He had that to an extreme. Estrus Dysphoric Disorder, the doctor had called it. All he had heard was defective. The cover they had constructed for him was one of a sahil. They were not going to change that. For the sake of his own mental stability, the doctors themselves had advised Sanyal sir to have him put on heavy duty supressants.  The definitely illegal, cycle-destroying, near sterilizing long term kind.  He had apparently been so inconsolable that two of the newer nurses that had tried to help him had shed their own tears. The nurses had to go to his regiment and ask around for who amongst them were his closest friends, as close as trainees could really afford to be. Mehdi had been excused from the day's remaining programs, and had to hold him in his arms for hours until the doctors were confident that it was safe to sedate him. Mehdi had laughed it off, and apologized for comparing his scent to that of a dog. Jaskirat rolled his eyes at him, but internally it didn't help much. Ultimately, it didn't matter much. Him being an omega was of little operational relevance. He was still functionally a beta. It did not matter whether his scent was pleasing or not. He was basically a beta anyways. Letting someone close enough for them to be feeling him up behind his balls was not a part of the mission. 

(Lies, lies, lies...) He continued with his life like nothing had happened, like a good asset. All that changed was that he had to pop a pill every other morning. All in all, he felt like a miserable, tired puppy that someone had tied to the railway tracks, but that was par for the course. Sanyal Sir wanted him to be his Sher, and Jaskirat did his best to live like that was enough. He was not long for this world anyhow. Jaskirat Singh Rangi was soon to begin the process of dying. Soon, that part of him would really be with his sister and father again, waiting, peaceful, happy and safe. His sister and mother would be cared for. It had to be enough.  It began, really, when Mehdi died. He was not informed of that timeline, but one morning Mehdi was gone and a man with no name was standing in his place. The man who used to be his friend hugged him, and scented him with his wrist, and Jaskirat realized that it was Mehdi's way of saying goodbye from beyond the grave. Him and his fellow agent saw little of each other. Soon, he had gone, having entered the jungle. His turn to enter the stage, he realized, was coming soon.

..... One day, Jaskirat was taken aside. He was led to a call command room in the Delhi facility. Bansal Sir and Sanyal Sir were present in person. Bansal Sir called his house's landline. Jasleen picked up. Hearing her voice, the smooth, soft cadence of it, made a whine bubble low in his throat that he had to swallow down. He was satisfied that neither of his superiors seemed to notice it. With that, assured that his remaining family would be cared for, he was supposed to die without any regrets.

Jaskirat, as he went to sleep for the last time that night, found that he still had many. 

.....

The man called Hamza Ali Mazari was born facing the wrong side of the bed. His mood was frankly horrible, but he was not in a position to complain. He got out of bed and dressed with efficiency. He did not comb his hair. He recollected everything his file contained. He went rechecked his 'gear'. His suppressants, the diary, his mental filing cabinet. Everything was in order. He waited for his debrief. Paid attention to his debrief.  Got into a taxi to the Delhi Airport. 

Delhi was a city in eternal motion. Everyone, from the chai-wala to the kothi bangle-wala had somewhere to be urgently at all hours of the day. The air was filled with the scent of money, poverty, cigarettes and fresh flowers. The taxi had no functional AC. He kept the window rolled down. He saw a man in a well made suit argue with a auto driver over his fare. A woman in a faded saree buying flowers, smiling. Dogs barking, children laughing. Then tall buildings, hotels with grand walkways, huge bungalows and foreign shops. He took it in passively. This was possibly the last he would ever see of India. The land he had once been ready to die for, that Jaskirat had died for.  India, the land of contradiction, of joy and sorrow, of love and hatred, of unity and apathy. The land where a boy you grew up with could find it in himself to rape your sister. The land where great men, much greater than him, shed blood sweat and tears for freedom. The Delhi air was humid. Perhaps it was getting to him. 

Chennai... Heathrow... Kabul. He boarded from Terminal 4, Gate 3. He was seated next to an old Afghani man his grandson. Their conversation bored him. He closed his eyes, and settled into an aware, non-sleep. Two hours later, he found himself in a new city, with a new name, and a crucial mission.

.....

Jaskirat Singh Rangi's last rites took place in an insignificant hotel room in Kabul. The sounds of the city were unfamiliar. Pathankot had been a quiet town. It had taken him a long time to get used to the sounds of Delhi, but he knew the heartbeat of that city now. He could recognise it, breathe with it. Kabul was new, terrifying, grating, but also freeing. Here, the phantom of Jaskirat and his many tragedies could not touch him so easily.  Hamza pulled out his old passport and the picture of his khandan from his coat pocket, and gave them one last long look. The boy in the picture was smiling- his life had not yet been devastated. His Papa and his Ma, his Jasleen and his Harleen. They were suspended in time forever, captured in the picture, frozen. They existed only in the past. He took his lighter and set his past self aflame, and tossed his burning remains into the trashcan.

Jaskirat Singh Rangi was truly gone. He was all that was left. The next morning, he would catch a ride with some truck drivers. He would hitchhike through the desert, and finally cross the border with a fake CNIC card that currently sat heavy in another pocket.

But right now, he would do none of that. He would do nothing at all. Hamza Ali Mazari was meant to observe first. He took off his sunglasses, set them on the nightstand and lay down, listening to gears of Kabul's engine turn.

[mariecurie-nikolteslarmylovers]

CEDLOCKAHHHHH My beautiful YAOIFUL CEDLOCK

Close ups btw

Ignore how ahh the last two are, I was just trying to figure out how to draw them

[bo-ulder-pusher]

> gayboy plays his first mmo rpg > immediately falls for The Soup Boy > went exactly as i expected it.png

[bluerazberry99]

quick thumbnail/doodle i drew the other day in like 10 minutes maybe i’ll render this at some point?? idk but anyways they are a married couple and they always act like this

hhhhfgsv

[3foldbullets]

Alfred and his little mini vileblood boyfriend