#so gallant and dashing .+*

[broodwoof]

incredibly rare bg3 posting from me, someone who has never touched the game, but

wyll <3

okay that's all

[rexxdjarin]

In case you haven’t remembered lately

Captain Rex is hot.

[potatoattorney]

@memeticallyengineered !!!!!

WOW I CANT BELIEVE CAPCOM JUST LEAKED TGAA 3!!!!!

[chadobi]

I had a little burst of inspiration yesterday, so here you go, dudes 🤍

“Unexpected Company”

Bayverse Michelangelo x Fem!Reader

You smoothed out the fabric of your sundress, the soft yellow skirt swaying with each step as you descended into the lair. Makeup done, hair curled, nails painted—you were fully prepared for a girls’ night with April. Until, of course, she got called out to cover some emergency broadcast, apologizing profusely before dashing out in a whirlwind of heels and stress.

You could’ve just gone home.

But the thought of microwaving leftovers in your apartment and wiping off your lip gloss while watching reruns felt a little…defeated.

Besides, you weren’t far from the lair, and you knew the guys wouldn’t mind the company.

As you stepped into the main living space, the ambient glow of multiple TV screens lit up the room. Mikey was the first to notice you.

And oh, he noticed.

“Whoa—” Michelangelo stood up so fast he nearly knocked over his bowl of popcorn. “Angel in the sewer alert!”

You laughed, rolling your eyes as you walked in. “Hey, Mikey.”

He skated over, slowing to a dramatic stop a few feet in front of you. “Hold up. You’re not April… You’re like… a sun goddess.”

You smirked, twirling a little for show. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Take it, frame it, put it on a wall.” He blinked slowly, still staring. “You, uh… you always dress like this for the sewer, or…?”

You laughed again. “April and I had a girls’ night planned, but she got called in for work. I didn’t feel like going home just yet.”

“Well, thank the pizza gods for that.” He offered a gallant bow. “Mi casa es su casa, señorita sundress.”

You flopped down onto the couch as Mikey plopped beside you, eyes still wide with admiration. “You look amazing,” he added, quieter this time. “Like, actually. I mean it.”

Your cheeks warmed, though you tried to play it off with a smirk. “You’re laying it on thick tonight, Michelangelo.”

“No lies, only vibes,” he grinned. “But seriously—I’m glad you came.”

The sound of a snort came from the hallway. Raph walked past with a towel over his shoulder, side-eyeing you both. “Mikey, quit droolin’.”

Mikey shot back a grin. “Can’t help it. There’s actual sunshine on the couch, bro.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Ignore him.”

“Oh, I always do,” Mikey said. Then he perked up. “You hungry? We’ve got leftover pizza, like… three kinds.”

“Depends,” you said, teasing. “What kinds?”

“Cheese, triple cheese, and… cheese with olives.”

You bit your lip, pretending to consider. “Tempting.”

He leaned closer. “I can microwave it and serve it on a paper plate, all fancy-like. Maybe light a scented candle. We’re talkin’ peak sewer hospitality.”

You laughed so hard you had to clutch your stomach. “Wow. I feel so spoiled.”

A beat of silence passed. Then, in a softer voice, Mikey said, “You know… you’re really pretty when you laugh.”

You blinked, caught off-guard by the sincerity.

He looked away a moment later, scratching the back of his neck. “Sorry. That was probably lame.”

“No,” you said gently, reaching over to brush your fingers against his. “It wasn’t.”

He looked back at you with those wide, earnest eyes—surprised, maybe, but hopeful too.

“You wanna hang out?” he asked. “Like, just us? I got video games, movies… or we could just sit and talk. I mean—only if you want.”

You smiled, nudging his side. “I’d love to.”

The night didn’t go as planned. No face masks or gossip sessions. No wine or chick flicks. But sitting next to Mikey, sharing a lukewarm slice of pizza and laughing at a ridiculous movie with his hand slowly inching closer to yours?

Yeah.

You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

[thatseitagremlin]

digital angels mikimiki and mikemon ^0^!! for my digimon au. yapping below

as is Tradition by now i have to make a digimon au with these fools. shoutout to whoever asked this in the fuit gumy blog btw i love you /p. Yes they are. not necessarily there but you know

despite having infinitely more material to work with i don't know what a tetro digimon au would look like. do i do smth similar to my drdt digimon au, where it's like adventure+survive? do i do something silly like putting them in the canon kg but letting them escape frame 1 via their digimon? do i put them in a Battle Royale? i don't know yet! but here are everyone's partners and Crests (not final) :)

(i assigned crests based on their Most Defining Feature. the same crest may have different interpretations through different characters. i am leaving Zero Elaboration for crests bc of possible spoilers)

-) isono: mikemon (tailmon but orange + angel evolutions. haha digital angel. also nearly identical names); courage -) harada: elecmon (it just feels right + leomon evolutions. You know.); kindness -) chiba: tobucatmon (weird flying cat with unknown potential); courage -) kamimura: blacktailmon uver. (IT JUST FEELS RIGHT but also the first four mons are all cats and that's awesome); love -) hayashi: dobermon (intimidating virus-hunting vaccine mon); friendship -) wada: patamon (sad wet-eyed pathetic beast + angel evolutions, cohesion with isono); light -) sasaki: jazamon (foils with hiroaki, bird+machine rep); integrity -) ojima: terriermon (foils with monomoko, who is a white lopmon here); miracles -) okazaki: reppamon (it just feels right); knowledge -) hama: impmon x (two of them. hama also seems like he would vibe with beelzebumon); integrity -) tsuno: jellymon (TWO OF THEM. they vibe with each other HEAVY); hope -) hiroaki: vorvomon (foils with sasaki AND yanagi bc i'm not sure what else he could have); sincerity -) tamba: floramon (i actually STILL have no goddamn idea but we do need a plant rep and tamba seems like she'd have a bird rep and floramon is Both); friendship -) hasegawa: armadimon (funky animal + deep sea evolutions); knowledge -) watari: candmon (silly spooky fire guy + mage-ish evolutions); love -) yanagi: blucomon (foils with hiroaki + ice dragon that evolves into a Gallant and Dashing Knight); sincerity

if i feel like doing another fullbody somehow tsuno is next

edit: after further consideration im lockign in wada light and tsuno hope. these two crests share some fundamental similarities so i flip-flopped around them for a while but i'm more confident in these!

[whateveriwant]

Dressing the 141 up in a couples Halloween costume

Price

Is initially pretty lukewarm to the idea because he thinks he's too old to dress up for Halloween :(((

But with just the right amount of convincing + puppy dog eyes from you, he'll eventually go along with it

However, he's adamant that he's not going to shave. So you either have to give him a bearded character or resign yourself to seeing a mustachioed fairy

In the end, you think he makes quite a dashing Captain Hook (move over Jason Isaacs, there's a new captain in town)

If it's a party you're dressing up for, he'll go and have a great time (i.e. get absolutely sloshed and terrorize people with the fake hook)

Gaz

Is suuuuuuper into Halloween because it's his favorite holiday

He goes all out every year. Like, all out. Like, we're talking planning 6+ months in advance levels of obsession

In fact, you're not even the one who brings up the idea of doing a couples costume. He does, and he already has a theme in mind: Star Wars

He has a hyper-detailed Han Solo costume ready to go, complete with the blaster and boots and everything (yes, he made it himself, and yes, he's very proud of it)

You'll end up being 45 minutes late to the party because he won't stop taking pictures of you two posing in your outfits

Soap

Isn't opposed to the idea of dressing up, but there's a slight problem… He's already promised someone else that he'll match with them

You're like ??? when he tells you that, but end up chuckling once you learn who said person is: his four year old niece

He's the gallant knight to her glittery princess, and he's planning on taking his role very seriously

But he'll feel bad for leaving you hanging, so he'll run to the store and buy a pair of wings and a tail so you can tag along as a dragon or smth

You'll end up skipping the party so you can go trick-or-treating with them, and have much more fun that way anyway

Ghost

Is by far the least on board with the idea

He vehemently wants nothing to do with it – the party, the dressing up, nada

It'll take so much begging and bartering on your part to get him to finally cave in (the specifics of what you offer him, I'll leave up to your imagination ;))

No matter what costume you choose for him, he's gonna be snarky about it

"How the hell 'm I supposed to see with this bloody triangle on my head?" "It's a pyramid, Si." "Tha's what I said."

He'll stay at the party until he thinks you're satisfied with his attendance, and then he's Irish goodbye-ing it out of there without a second thought

Bonus - Full squad costume

If you're somehow able to convince the whole squad to dress up together, there's only one theme I see them doing: the Hundred Acre Woods

Price would be Kanga because there's no one else that accurately emits that fatherly motherly aura

Gaz would joke that he's going as Roo to accompany Price, but will change it last second and show up as Piglet

Soap would bounce on Tigger before anyone else could claim him (he's sooo Tigger-coded, I can't explain, he just is)

And lastly, for Ghost, I can think of no better fit than the king of brooding himself: Eeyore <3

[yuurei20]

Updated Silver Facts Part 47: Silver and Idia (pt1)

According to Silver, Idia always gets flustered around him: we see them interact in a vignette where Idia compliments Silver’s “totally protagonist dialogue”, saying that he wishes he could say similarly cool things.

Silver encourages him to do so but Idia explains, “It only works when you say it.”

Idia happens upon Silver sleeping in the school’s courtyard and comments, “Wow, he’s seriously handsome. He looks like a prince when he’s sleeping.”

Idia insists he wasn’t watching Silver as he slept and again marvels at Silver’s ability to deliver “the most impassioned caping I’ve ever heard this side of a chat room”, telling Silver he is “so cool.”

Silver says that Idia’s tsum ran away the moment that it saw his face.

In a Glorious Masquerade voice line Idia says, “Silver looks so gallant no matter what he wears. Even this getup makes him look like some noble knight.”

In a parallel Glorious Masquerade voice line Silver says, “Idia mentioned that Fleur City had ‘extrovert energy.’ It's incredible the way he can pick up on things you can't see like that.”

Silver also says that Idia is intelligent, giving the example of Idia being able to concisely summarize what it was that he wanted to say during his birthday interview.

In a birthday vignette Silver says that he hardly ever saw any townsfolk when he was growing up and had no idea what their daily lives were like. Idia responds, “So you didn't have any contact other than your family? I can kinda relate to that.”

Silver invites Idia to join him and Sebek in training but Idia refuses, and again comments on Silver’s “whole dashing prince vibe.”

Silver and Sebek brute force their way into Ignihyde to kidnap Idia to Diasomnia for rehearsals of their Glorious Masquerade performance. Idia says that he will be upgrading their precision security system but

Lilia responds, “When someone tightens their defenses, we have but to increase our offensive force.”

[wyrtig]

(♂susato) so gallant and dashing

[guess-that-ship]

S14 Round 1

A Girl and her Dashing Defense

cw: spoilers

When B is wrongly accused of murdering a foreign student, her closest childhood friend A resolves to defend her and find the true killer. However, A cannot legally serve as B's defense… unless she dons a new identity, just for a day. A first, B doesn't recognize A while she's in disguise, but even after she's told who A is, B cannot stop praising her about how gallant and dashing she is. B is so enamored with A that she almost outs A's true identity several times— thankfully, no one seems to pay much notice to her admirational outbursts. After the true killer is exposed and tries to flee, A and B finish him off with their signature takedown toss!

shining alongside each other

the sun, a boy who lost sight of everything except his dream for stardom. the moon, a boy who had resigned himself to a life of loneliness. that would all change when they were brought together.

a fight between the two broke them apart, but it helped the sun rediscover why he wanted to be a star in the first place. it was to make his sister smile, and he wasn't going to give up on that goal.

despite the moon's stubbornness, the sun eventually managed to persuade the moon to forgive him. and soon enough, the two were closer than ever. inseparable. if the sun was there, the moon was most likely nearby, and vice versa.

the moon helped the sun to rediscover his true desire, the sun helped the moon to find true companions, and they helped each other to shine. the moon may oftentimes tease the sun, and the latter may seem annoyed with him, but truthfully, they're both the happiest they've ever been when with each other.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Oh myyy Scully’s nothing like how I thought he would be, man’s such a charmer 😳 It’s been so fun seeing people draw and write about how their OCs would react to his forwardness so I wanted to ask how you think your own OC would react to him? :>

[Referencing this post!]

I KNOW, RIGHT 💀 He speaks in such a formal way, it’s surprising??? Like he uses -san even for the first year students and other really old fancy verbage… And he’s very friendly (?) right off the bat??? (In my culture, such a thing is unheard of…) Kissing strangers, calling them “my dear”, daydreaming about hand holding??????? IS HE OKAY 😭 cbjdbwosuxosm At the same time, I’m very pleased with how whimsical Skully is, I think he captures the romantic (idealized reality kind of romantic, not love romantic) spirit of Jack Skellington very well.

I think if Miss Raven were to meet Skully (assuming the same manner that Yuu met him), she would at first think she’s dreaming since he speaks and acts similar to those gallant, dashing kind of guys she sometimes pens. What would really set her panicking is the kiss to the back of the hand. That sensation feels very real and is something she fantasizes about thinks of as really embarrassing. Once Miss Raven gets over the initial shock and adjusts to Skully’s eccentric personality, I think they’d actually get along really well! He’s such a dork for Halloween and she’s super into hearing new stories. I’m sure Miss Raven could sit and listen to Skully mouth off about Jack Skellington for hours 😌 Then they can fangirl together—

And then dhjsbsksjso L*ona gets annoyed with her for so easily being taken in by a newcomer… “How gullible can you be, Canary? Is a smiling face and a few sweet words all it takes to get you to wag your tail?” J word stands in the back watching this all go down (hey, free entertainment for him) while egging L*ona on... “Now, now, Leona-san, it’s not our place to interfere with the beginnings of new friendships. Perhaps she simply finds Skully-san’s company more pleasant than ours.

To remark on the other SSRs because I feel like it, Sebek angrily tells them to stop dawdling over nothing of real importance, how dare they waste WAKA-SAMA’s precious time when they should be investigating how to get home! (He actively tries to be a physical barrier between Miss Raven and Skully, who are both giggling about Jack or something.) Jamil has his hands to his temples, knowing that this will be another massive headache to navigate around (but still tries to mediate anyway). His suffering is truly never-ending…

[marinas-drafts]

Honeymoon

A Sky High Lovin’ segment, the swingin’ 60’s

Summary: If weddings are for the bride then it suggests that Honeymoon’s are for the groom -a stupid cliche you had dismissed until your dashing groom proves a little inexorable in his intent to “educate” his new bride on the long Learjet flight to Honolulu

Warnings 18+: (sex, dubious consent) I am about to possibly over exaggerate these cautions but I find it necessary, particularly for anyone who is used to reading my work because this is by far the most dubious consent piece I ever ever written and the theme is entirely narratively sympathetic to entitled husbands and female objectification. So, as it’s me, of course there’s love and tenderness but it’s also got -repeatedly denied requests to stop during sex, innocence kink, possible male enjoyment of a recent virgin’s discomfort, nasty baby talk, worry about a man being unfaithful if you deny him, talks of teaching you how to take him, (possible grooming?!) assumed husbandly entitlement to a wife’s body, archaic views on gender roles… y’all, I ripped off Pricilla and went full Lana Del Rey and glorified breaking a woman into her husbands tastes, like, that’s the theme and it’s reveling in it so, enjoy but heads up 🌷🎀🌷

Repost here from my main: @precious-little-scoundrel

There’s something very salacious in the simple act of walking across the tarmac amidst a swarm of reporters clicking away with their cameras, ready to print the image of your little figure pressed against his side, images for all the world to look at and know what occurred to you last night.

What you two did. How he made you his. On your wedding night.

He made you a woman, his woman and the whole world knows it now. There’s something so damn dirty about this, even -or perhaps because- of how traditional it is. The ring sits with a comforting weight on your finger as he holds your hand, and your belly aches from your husband drawing his pleasure from your virgin body, your thighs trembling as you try your best to keep up with his long strides in your kitten heels. It’s so proper, it’s everything he ever wanted, and it makes your cheeks burn beneath the generous layer of makeup.

He looks painfully handsome and happy this morning, impeccably polished in the bright sunshine and you wonder at his duality. The way he can clean up and regain his proud suavity when last night you had seen him mussed, tremblingly tender and near unhinged in his passion while consummating your union. A dab of pomade, a double breasted jacket and his wife’s little hand in his -he’s utterly in possession of himself now and is the fuckin’ American dream incarnate right in this moment.

He’s very proud as he introduces you to some of the familiar press faces, and very gallant as he guides you up the few steps into the Learjet, broad palm searing your lower back and you wish you two could have remained tangled up in sheets, honeymoon and travel arrangements abandoned indefinitely. Just you and him floating together in a sky of crisp sheets and tangled limbs.

The photographers crowd in after you, soaking up the shy way you cuddle in close as he tucks you into his side, sympathetic to your own desire to be alone but too happy to begrudge anyone a glimpse at his little prize. Uhem, bride. The amount of satisfaction he finds in you is palatable to all here, his arm around you holds you close and grounds you even as his face splitting grin proclaims that you were a tight but obedient fit last night.

Your eyes burn you’re blushing so hard and that makes him grin harder and it’s pavlovian that smile, you can’t help but grin back, harder and crinklier than his and that stokes his joy further and soon y’all are giggling over memories the photographers will never be privy to. Those are yours, frantic and tender and aching.

Even the ever hungry photographers are glutted by the loved up display you give them, and soon they are departing and the plane door is shut. Then it’s goodbye America, off to Honolulu.

The tiny jet crew and the couple of boys from his paired down entourage settle into their seats as the jet roars down the runway and lifts off, effortless, soaring and sleek. Beside him you are restless, shifting and jittery on the leather seat, though he is gratified to see the demure way you cross your ankles and the ladylike poise of your spine even surrounded by the comparative privacy. His perfect southern Belle, whose every thought and action and word is to reflect well upon him and keep his name from disrepute, he couldn’t have chosen better. Your mouthwatering submission last night proved it.

You squirm again. Maintaining the modest coverage of your pretty little shift dress, the one accented with navy bows that coordinate with his suit, requires you to keep your upper thighs pressed together tightly, squeezing the bruise of your freshly opened little flower as it pulses distractingly, as if in flustered shock at its sudden required usage. Throbbing, sticky and hot.

“What’s my lil lady doin all that fidgetin for, hmm?” he asks you, tone solicitous but his eyes glint, “Plush leather seats not soft enough for my baby’s bottom?”

You startle and blush, just as he knew you would, and it’s adorable really, the way you can still be bashful after months of foolin and despite the recent intimacy of the night before. And it’s downright precious that you are so sore and achy after he had been so painstakingly gentle when he took you. You had no clue how sweet he’d been, the amount of self sacrifice he had shown in his languid slide and shallow thrusts, tender kisses and gentle grip. Resolutely holding back the absolute wreckage he could unleash on your poor, widdle unsuspecting cunt.

“Just excited.” your body vibrates as you shake your arms to highlight your explanation, gesturing to the wide blue sky out your window and the decadent interior of the jet.

He grins down at you and kisses your cheek, reaching for the seatbelt fastened at your lower belly and he flicks it open with his thumb, the heat of his hand branding you like an iron for the brief contact. “Lemme show ya round then, baby.”

He folds your hand in his again and weaves you down the aisle between the padded seats and towards the back of the plane, the occasional stray crew member meekly ducking towards the cockpit. You two pass the music lounge with its built-in piano and electric fireplace, then the kitchenette with its circular bar and spherical burst of lights coming out of the wall like cascading planets, back towards the little bedroom. You marvel at the designs, the colors, the unabashed wealth of it all floating thousands of feet above solid earth.

Happy and giddy you tuck into his side and he holds you close, arm snug around your waist, satisfied to show his little wife all he has to offer her.

“Y'know,” he serves as your guide, supplying details and anecdotes, most of which you already know but would listen to, enraptured a thousand times to keep him free and easy with his conversation, “Frank n' i didn't really get along when i first started out. ‘Said my music was brutal n' ugly. But we get along now. met 'im in person right after i met you. Reckon' ya rubbed off on me 'cause now we're good friends n’he lent us this jet to defile as we saw fit." his tongue pokes between his teeth, amused at himself and you find there is something cutely self-deceptive about his rare fits of humble bragging. “He’s got a mirror down here, nice big ole Broadway style vanity with it, bright lights n’low counter.” you’re far back into the plane now, he holds back a dividing curtain and you step into the little hallway dressing room right in front of the inauspicious bedroom door, “Frank uses this setup to primp before goin down the ramp to meet fans or shovin off for the next concert, reckon it’ll serve for the lesson I wanna show ya.”

Curious as to his plan, you look to him, both his image reflected in the huge, bare bulbed mirror and his own dear face beside you, more than a little pleased to see what a striking couple you make in the reflection, with his tailored suit and your chic smock, an IT couple without a doubt. It makes you feel pretty, wanted, a little proud maybe. That you won out of all those other hopeful girls. He sees your pleased expression in the mirror, the way your hip cocks and your expression morphs to your best kittenish smile. You’re preening. You think you’ve made it, think you’re at the summit of what life can offer and he may be partial but he thinks you wear smugness rather cutely. Makes him wanna shake ya up, rumple you a little, remind you who gave you all this. That your new image and importance and identity are due to being Mrs Presley.

He scoots up behind you, wrapping his arms around your belly and pulling you close to him, his chin settles atop your head. “Likin what you see?” he asks slyly, staring at the reflected image that will be on every magazine and newspaper tomorrow, the King of Rock n Roll and his perfect little darling who thinks she’s a woman now that she took cock once.

He runs his hands along your body, broad palms gathering then smoothing out puckers and rolls in the fabric of your dress as he follows the curve of you, breast to thigh and back up, then back down, further this time. He squats a little behind you and his clever fingers hook in your hem line and begin to draw it up, little by little exposing more and more leg in the mirror.

“Oh, no I-“ your hand flys to the apex of your thighs, pressing the fabric against you and keeping a covering there as his gathering has pulled your dress nearly to your little secret place, “what are you doin Elvis?” you ask, a little unsure and bashful of him exposing you in this somewhat public place, even if the crew is nowhere to be seen and the curtain is drawn.

It’s obscene to rumple up the perfect couple, all the starch and pomade that make Elvis Presley and his new bride the envy of the world. And it’s worrying. He does not know you omitted underwear today, the feeling of the fabric chafing and holding in the heat of your tender pussy too much to bear while maintaining a proper face on the tarmac.

“Gonna show ya somethin,” he repeats, eyebrow quirked at your “no” and the nervous way you are almost cupping the last few inches of your dress over your private parts.

He keeps ahold of the fabric he’s gathered up so far and takes to running his knuckles up your side soothingly again, till he notices there’s no band or catch on your hips as he glides up.

“You hidin somethin from me, honey?” he asks, already knowing the answer and the reason for your flaming cheeks, “Keepin secrets from your husband already, denyin him his right?” he tuts and your pretty coal rimmed eyes fly open in denial as you shake your head and pull your hand away. “That's more like it.” He nods approvingly, and ever the showman he waits a minute, building the suspense as his hands continue to map out your clothed body as your breathing quickens. In the mirror both your eyes zero in on the barely hidden triangle between your legs. Then with a flourish and flick of his wrist he swoops the hem up and a rush of cold air hits your exposed pussy. You slump into him and await his verdict. “Darlin, what’s this?“ he asks you gravely, his eyes very dark in the mirror and there you are, pristine up top and entirely bare below, it’s -vulgar. Vulgar and salacious with a fully suited man behind you shaking his head in disappointment that you’d be so careless on your first day as Mrs Presley, risking flashing the photographers or the flight crew because you were too delicate to stand a little fabric. He expects more of you, and he knows you know that.

You mix your explanation with your apology, looking like an eager to please little foal on shaky legs, and he accepts it with another tut and a hum as he rolls your dress up methodically until its bulk is beneath your armpits. The shame you feel in being so exposed is your own fault, your own doing, you know that.

If you’d obeyed you would currently have some demure scrap of silk covering you in the full glare of the showbiz mirror. But now you are bare to his blazing eyes. Your handsome new husband inspects you closely in the mirror, his ringed fingers trailing over your hips and over your belly, swooping up your ribs and tickling the underside of your breasts. Back down he goes, hands gliding and palms warm and broad, spanning much of your abdomen in his reach, down and down till he is petting your mound. Your arms dangle listlessly at your sides, entirely unsure what your part in this is, except to submit to whatever he wishes.

“You say your lil pussy is tenda, hmm?” he understands your motive now, and coos solicitously over your discomfort, even as he smirks at the notion you’re sore from that pathetically gentle love making. It snaps something primal deep inside him, or at least, he thinks that’s what made the decision for him, the decision to enlighten you that last night may have been real nice, but it weren’t typical. He can’t have a wimpy wife, he knows you’re made of tougher stuff, just needs to be coaxed out of you. “A little discomfort ain’t no reason for ya to risk showin the world Mrs. Presley’s goods, is it?” he observes and you nod in abashed agreement.

“No it isn’t,” your tone is fervent and you are so eager to make amends, “I’m sorry Elvis, I wasn’t thinking, I’ll do better.”

“I expect you to.” he says, not unkindly but you gulp and nod anyway, unmoored by his effortless authority. “Now, let’s see about this lil owie, hmm? Spread your legs for me, c’mon wider, that’s a good girl.”

You moan as his hand engulfs you’re throbbing heat, cupping the wounded little place and pressing it firm but gently with his palm. He can feel the thud of your heartbeat down there and the sticky proof of your excitement at just being near him. There’s heat pouring out from you too, a lotta heat. Half of it arousal no doubt, but it’s angry down there like a woman gets during her menses. Puffy and sweltering against his palm.

It’s gonna feel indescribably good around his cock.

“Now we’ve opened ya up,” he explains softly in your ear, “she’s gonna get all fussy down there if she’s left empty for too long.”

You meet his eyes in the mirror with a worried look, unconvinced that emptiness is at all the cause of your discomfort. You feel like something got rearranged down there and needs to be left to mend itself in peace. Preferably in a hot bubble bath. The one luxury this floating palace doesn't have.

“You trust me, don’t ya?” he asks your fretful expression proddingly, “Don’t want ya to close back up all th’way. Go too long and then we’d be starting from scratch each time, you understand baby?”

That does make sense. You swallow your fear and shake your head agreeably. Why shouldn’t you?

He was so tender last night, so romantic and gentle and chivalrous. He had kissed away all your fear and worry into the fluffy bed, sending you careening into bliss and flinging you up to the stars before gently pressing in when you least expected it. It had hurt then, sure, a little pinch and an uncomfortably full feeling he helped soothe by tilting your hips with a courteous pillow beneath them.

Making love had been nice, unexpectedly nice.

And better yet had been the sight of your gorgeous groom, shaking in effort to hold back his vigor as he worked himself in and out above you, gentle and kind, slowly losing a grip on his decorum and letting out sounds of pleasure and praise. There had almost been a whine on his lips as he stalled suddenly and clung to your shoulders and spilled inside you, cementing your union. It had made you feel gloriously happy, and a little smug to see him come undone from the feeling of being inside you.

He earned your trust.

“I understand.” you assure him, the little kisses he is pressing to your neck making you brave. You’d like to see him come undone again. If that means he has to go inside you again then you’ll accept that. Maybe he was right last night, maybe it’ll be even better today.

“That’s my good baby.” he praises you, pleased and handsome over your shoulder, “Gonna turn you into the best little wife the world has ever seen.” he starts to drag his fingers through your bruised petals and you make a ugly little grimace at the soreness before seeing how unpretty it looks in the mirror, consciously changing your expression to demure acceptance. The shiny pink of your lipstick highlights the baby doll serenity of your gentle smile.

“Take me to bed, please, Elvis.” you try to play along with him, desperate to show him your excitement and desire to please.

“Aww now, we’re not goin’ to bed this time, darlin, we’re gonna have a lil lesson so you ain’t in the dark bout marital duties and all that.”

You stiffen in his arms, confused and wary. He keeps nuzzling at your cheek and neck. You had anticipated that there might be adventurous trysts once married, sure. He had proven himself fond of messing with you outside the bedroom during your courtship, fingers playing with you under tables and in hotel elevators. You had prepared for him gently making love to you on a picnic blanket under a Hawaiian moon. Maybe in the tub, or heavens -perhaps the kitchen if he was ravenous. But you’re concerned now that you haven’t grasped his entitlement fully, you’re still trying to understand what he means by “lesson” and why he led you to this vanity. You have a shaky feeling that your embarrassment at being flashed in front of the mirror is about to pale in comparison to what he has planned.

His hand goes from petting your sticky folds to rubbing and swirling, calloused fingertips worrying your bud till you’re nearly keening in enjoyment. He hasn’t looked you in the eyes in a minutes. You keep watching his face as his expression goes from intent to hungry, watching himself fiddling down there with your pink petals as he gets you primed. Primed for the two insistent fingers that plunge into you with no warning. It’s easier this time, having had a coke bottle up there, even just once, did the trick, his fingers meeting far less resistance than last night. He’s made his mark, claimed ya and stretched ya. Never the same again.

His movements burn for you, tugging and persistent as they are and you wince, can’t help it with the way his elegant digits are caressing your sore walls at a foreignly fast pace. You hope that maybe not looking at the rough act will ease your discomfort, like looking away from the needle poke when giving blood helps you keep from getting queasy. The sounds though, wet and squelching, are unmistakable despite the hum of the jet's engines. You watch his face, hoping he’ll look up and meet your eyes, but he’s transfixed by the sight in the mirror of his fingers disappearing into you.

“Gimme your hands, baby.” his sudden instruction startles you as you had flown far away in your mind, trying to reconcile the conflicting amounts of embarrassment and arousal you feel under his heated scrutiny. Who knew married life would cause such a upheaval inside?

“Yes sir.” you present them palms up, and he jerks his chin,

“Now baby, listen, you’re gonna replace my hands while I get myself ready, alright, gonna keep my progress for us. C’mon, hand on each side, pull your lips apart, gonna spread your snatch nice n wide so you can really see the mechanics of the thang. The act.”

The act? What act - you figured if this was going to happen to you at the vanity he would spin you around and set you on the counter, take you kindly as you sat. He had licked you in a movie set bathroom like that one time. Your brain scrambles in confusion and panic, supplying the only familiar acts and positions you’ve tried so far. A man can’t take a woman standing, he can’t, it wouldn’t fit, or at least, it wouldn’t be nice, surely and he wouldn’t be anything but nice-

“Now,” he’s speaking up again, “squeeze your arms a lil, gotta keep your dress nice and clear of the exhibit, ok?” he snickers at the way your dress is bunched beneath your underarms.

You make a respectful noise of acknowledgment, too nervous to say more. Your folds are puffy and slippery beneath your numb fingers as you pull your labia apart like he instructed. This feels new, keeping clothes on while being intimate. It feels…irreverent and dirty somehow. Just like standing here, your whole reflection lit brilliantly and his eyes still glued to that place between your legs.

You watch him pull away from behind you and start to methodically undo the buttons of his double breasted suit jacket, sliding it off his lean arms and folding it carefully over a towel rack, “Ya see, darlin,” he explains, as he undoes his cuff buttons and starts to roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt, “it's only proper you know what it looks like when we're joined together. I’ve got no desire to keep ya in the dark bout somethin God says is a good thing. This isn't the olden days, I don't mind having an enlightened sorta gal. So long as you don’t turn into the bra-burning sort of enlightened.”

He meets your eyes then as he gives you a look from under his lashes, admonishing you to stay away from such nonsensical, feministic, man-hating company as his deft fingers pop open the button of his slacks and he pulls himself out, weeping, thick and ready. You had no idea he was already so fully excited, your legs begin to tremble anew. He looks larger like this, somehow, all poshly dressed and admirably sauve in the mirror as his cock juts out of his tailored slacks, a single indecorous vulgarity marring his pristine Ken Doll image.

You flush red hot at the sight of him

lazily pumping himself as he saunters back to you, his hand yanking and pulling to chub himself up and then a thumb swirling around the uncut tip. He’s leaking and messy already, a profusion of precum wetting his hand and you give a silent prayer of thanks that at least he will add to the slick, hopefully ease the slide.

He doesn’t waste time with romance, he takes his place again behind you and this time you feel him sliding between your cheeks and then your legs, the feel of his open fly and belt against your bare butt. Due to your obediently spread lips, it’s perfectly visible when he slides through your folds and pokes out the other side, a pink, blunt, oozing cockhead playing peek-a-boo in your garden. He bumps your clit again and again with it until you are huffily shivering in his arms.

“Elvis are you really gonna-“ you can’t bear the suspense of it, you have to ask him his intentions, if he really means to make love to you standing up.

“-really gonna fuck my new wife in front of this state of the art mirror?” he laughs, thinking he knows what your quibble is, “Goddamn right I am, be a crime to not avail ourselves of the experience.”

He punctuates his enunciated vocabulary with rough thrusts against your bud that have you shaking and coming…just a little. Just enough for him to be sure you’re ready to take him.

“Fuck me?” you repeat in a panicked whisper, “B-b-but I’m your wife, Elvis!” you object, wounded.

He gets confused, stalling with his hand as he lines himself up with your freshly excavated entrance, “Whadda ya mean, honey?” he asks kindly, reaching around to tilt your chin towards him, but you sense that there’s an impatient edge to it.

You tearfully explain to him how your mother and other women have told you very explicitly you that men don’t fuck their wives. They make love to them. You are very adamant regarding it, and he ought to know better.

“Why baby, that’s the single greatest pile of horseshit I’ve ever heard.” he declares in fond amusement, smooching your tear stained cheek and resuming his rutting through your folds, “You gonna trust some ole ninnies over your husband? Baby, I gave ya a real nice wedding night cause I love ya and you’re my special girl and I thought it your due, but I ain’t gonna be saddled with a wife who can’t meet my needs when I need a quick fuck, ya hear me? Case in point is now, my dick’s about to fall off from all this chit chat.”

You suppose there’s a great deal about marriage that is far more complicated than movies and books and Sunday potlucks led you to believe. It’s hard balancing how to please your husband as you ought with retaining some dignity that will make him respect you. You can’t imagine Elvis ever not respecting you, it’s too ingrained in him and what he wants isn’t to humiliate you, it’s what he needs to be satisfied. And you so badly want to keep him satisfied, you know deep down you’d do unspeakable things to keep his attention on you, perhaps that is where your shame comes from. It’s less about his expectations and more about the fact you’d throw away all your mother’s teachings before causing him to go elsewhere for comfort and acceptance.

You turn your head to him and pucker your lips for a kiss of acquiesce, which he obliges. His hand is still firm on your jaw as he deepens it, and it’s heady and passionate and loving and -he’s breaching you suddenly. A squat and flex and tilt of his hips and then he’s snagged your hole and he is pressing up and up and up and you whine into his mouth as his foreskin rolls back in your canal, an extra friction against your raw walls.

“Elvis!” you beg, breath caught in your throat at the burning sting of him as your hand flies up to clutch at his arm, secure around your hips, “its it’s-” you flounder with a word to adequately describe the delicious pain of it as he goes deeper.

He mouths messy and moaning at your neck and you can feel his belly shaking against your lower back, his cock twitching at the feeling of getting dipped in your silky channel. It makes you cringe in discomfort.

“You’re so goddamn perfect and warm as anythin,” he praises in a slur of kisses and moans as he flexes up and up.

The farther in he goes the more it loses any snuggly quality and instead feels rather like getting slowly impaled. You shift your stance in front of the mirror, legs spreading of their own accord and eyes squeezed shut in concentration at just trying to breathe. It goes on forever and you start to try to go up on your tip toes, to get away from it, from him, to lessen the fullness and the deepness of his assault somehow. He persists. You try to scramble up him, leveraging your weight on his forearm till your little feet are nearly off the jet floor.

His answering chuckle vibrates your back, “Looks like you’re tryin to learn how to levitate, honey.”

You scramble harder in a vain attempt to get taller, to elongate your poor vagina somehow, to keep him shallow

“T-that’s all I can take, Elvis” you try to tell him when he’s only over half in.

It's an honest declaration, to your hyperventilating self he feels impossibly big and certainly every bit as deep as it felt last night when he took you discreetly beneath the sheets in the good ole fashioned missionary position.

Your eyes widen as he doesn’t stop, just goes on and on and on, as your breaths get more panicked, shallower with each inhale, on the verge of a panic attack until he stalls and starts to pet your belly and kiss your cheek in an effort to bring you back down. “Breathe babydoll, breathe for me. Calm down, satnin, you took this all last night. you can do it again, I knows ya can.”

You've long ago started to whimper when he didn’t listen, half in pain and half in fear that he isn’t stopping, that he isn’t being as nice as he was last night. Why isn’t he stopping? oh why, why, “I can’t, I think I’m not made for it.” you wail as you writhe helpless in his arms, a pounding ache between your legs and a strange flutter in your chest.

“No, no, don’t say that baby, please don’t say that, you’re perfect baby, just perfect.” he pleads a little frantic, rubbing his lips along your cheekbone to collect your tears, “Only need a lil breakin in is all, this won’t always be so rough. I’ll fix ya honey, I’ll make it better. Don’t you go objectin’ to the heavenly proportions God gave ya, or what he gave me neither. We were made for each other.”

Hearing the tender worry in his voice soothes you, even more than his comforting touches, knowing he isn’t indifferent to your struggle, he just wants what’s best for you as any good teacher would. You take a breath, a large breath and it feels like it made him sink deeper somehow. You bite back a sob.

“You can do it.” he says in your ear, his voice shaky from how badly he needs to be moving inside you, “Please baby, let me in, I’m hurtin’ real bad, if you could just see lil elvis you’d feel so bad for the poor guy. Let him in, you can take it, let him in, let him in his lil house. That’s it, that’s it just a little bit more.”

The man lied. There was nothing “little” about the more he gives you when he bucks up that last bit and buries himself fully inside, balls snug against your butt.

“Oh, i’hurts.” you moan, tears leaking through your clenched eyes, smearing your immaculate cat eye. “hurts -I-I can’t, Elvis.”

“You can.” he declares firmly, trying so hard to stay in control, to gather the last shreds of his gentlemanliness, “More like -you *are* doing it. Look, come on. Baby! I said look! Open those eyes and watch how well you’ve taken me.”

You pry your clumping lashes apart and slowly your eyes drag from the reflection of your faces pressed together, down to your breasts where his hand is crushing a velvet bow in his grip, down your belly to to his forearm barred around your hips. Down to that place where you join.

“Where’d lil Elvis go, hmm?” He teases like you’re playing hide and seek, and you let out a watery laugh, rolling your eyes at his babying tone, “Where'd he go, darlin? Oh, there he is,” he pulls out a tiny bit so the pink veiny length of him peaks out from between your lips, “there he is -wait where’d he go?”

“Elvis. Stop. Stop, that’s so dumb.” you beg through your sniffling giggles, the fiery stretch of him temporarily forgotten.

He laughs at your embarrassment and pulls out further this time, then snaps his hips back up to the hilt of him, drawing a pained cry from you “Who’s my bestest girl, hmm? who’s that? Shhh, shhh, Das you ain’t it? Look at’chue, doin so well. I need ya to stand straight baby, let those heels touch down. I mean it, plant your feet, don’t cry about it, no reason to cry, you gotta relax.”

You’ve heard him use the same tone of voice when helping Red’s puppy get a burr out of its paw. Pitifully you obey him, planting your feet and it feels like you’re riding a telephone pole, the way he’s stiff and unyielding, deep inside you, plumbing the depths of your belly.

“That’s more like it.” he hums in throaty appreciation of the snug fit of you, “Alright now, ‘member the job I gave ya?” he reminds gently as he starts to thrust slow and deep, watching as your face crumples in grief, “Hold yourself open baby, it’s very important you watch this, I need ya to understand you’re perfect for this, gotta let go of ma arm, c’mon now.” he pries your grip from his forearm and brings your hand back down to your puffy heat, “Spread yo’self.” his accent deepens as your body struggles to take him, clenching around him in an effort to expel him, and only serving to make him moan in bliss. “Look a’that.” he marvels, sounding utterly worshipful of the way the glistening pink length of him slowly comes into view, then slowly disappears -absorbed inside you, your painfully stretched little hole fluttering hopelessly at each dragging inch of him.

“It still really hurts.” you observe childishly through gritted teeth, your pained body fighting the fuzzy headed arousal you feel while watching the obscene display of him sliding in and out of you for a few languid grinds.

“That’s cause you’re so tense, loosen up baby, -actually, here.” he shuffles you forward and you make a reckless sound of disgruntlement at the feel of him shifting inside you with each baby step, “Here, knee up here.” he hooks his hand beneath your knee and props it up on the counter, somehow making this worse and better all at once with the new angle.

“Ow, oh god, you said it would get better.” you accuse, biting your lip in savage self reprimand after it. Foolish girl, to risk making him unhappy and frustrated, stoking his wandering eye.

“It will, dammit, it will. I'm gonna need you to hang in there and play with your lil button till it does, alright? Bout to burst back here with all this startin and stoppin.”

“Ok.” you whisper, feeling a little more steady with the firm counter beneath your knee, opened up a little for the intrusion of him.

He pats your hips and presses an appreciative kiss behind your ear, nearly drunk off your sweet little struggle to be good for him. It makes his heart soar and fills him with wild wants, makes him reckless, and a little mean somehow, like crushing rose petals to gain the scent.

“Now, I know I made love to ya last night, darlin,” he pets the bulge of his cock in your belly and you shudder in anticipation, “cause that’s what weddin nights are for, but now you’re a wife proper you gotta learn how to take cock without so much whinin and clingin, alright? Made ya a woman, didn’t I? so do me proud, act it.”

With this emboldening commission he presses one more kiss to your neck before pulling out before driving in, hard. And then he does it again, and again and again at a pace you’ve seen him maintain on stage but never, never imagined him using with you, against you, it feels like.

You shriek and your knee slides further apart with the violent rocking, trying with terrible desperation to find solace and feminine satisfaction in the guttural groans and huffed out praises your husband vents as he takes what he needs, flaming eyes glued to the mirror and the place where he plunders you.

You are really trying, it just hurts so damn much.

You know you’re lucky, you cling to that even as he spears your cervix again and again with gusto that suggests your panicked clenching is the best damn thing he’s ever felt in his life. You’ve heard from other women, older women trying to counsel you, prepare you for what lay ahead, that some husbands didn’t even bother trying to make sure their wives were slick enough. That the dry drag and burn of a man can make the stretch truly unbearable. It keeps you grateful that the lewd sounds now causing you to blush are testament to the flood of slick down there. It keeps you grateful meek even as you wail and smear your makeup with your gasped out shock.

He should slow down, he should moderate his thrusts, cherish his wife. He can see you’re struggling and panting and crying and somehow it’s all just a drug to him, the gorgeous little dolly he crafted so perfectly this morning looking utterly overwhelmed and defiled by his cock. It’s enough to make a man lose his bearings and forget his mama’s teachings on how to treat a lady.

The beast won’t be tamed. And so Elvis Presley begins to babble a stream of apologies as he exerts all the energy of his able body in fucking his young wife, like the deeper and harder he goes the more likely his lil swimmers will have the chance of making themselves a nice comfy home in your sweet womb:

“oh goddamn baby I’d stop if I could, but yer squeezing me like a vice and I just…I just can’t stop baby, be good, be good, don’t cry on me, be good for your husband, baby. You’ll get used to it, we’ll train your pussy baby, just gotta get through these early stages. Early stages and it’s, it’s normal, just a lil skittish is all, ain’t no way god made me want you this bad just for you to be cold. Ain’t no way, I can feel it when you’re dancin to my music, you want it deep, you crave it deep, you were born hungry. Oh goddamn, yes, yes, fuck yes, baby, I’m sorry I’m sorry, yes, keep squeezing me like that …….”

It is not talent on your part, this clenching that has him snarling in rapture with his eyes rolling back in his skull, it’s pure creature instinct, whether trying to expel him, bring him deeper or milk him fast so this agony will end, you don’t know. All you know is that his force is terrifying and you’ve never seen something quite as erotic as the pristinely polished beauty of his face morphing into ravenous determination.

Your panic flares one last time, unwilling to allow yourself to coast into enjoyment of this filthy usage without a fight. “Please, Elvis please -enough!” you gasp, even as something seems to have shifted inside you, a tilt or a nudge, whatever it is, it’s a spark of something dangerous.

“Listen here now,” he pants in frustration, one of his hands leaving your hip to fly down to your clit and rub it viciously, “i don’t have a particular hankerin to pin you down over the tabletop, face down ass up, and make this marriage work but I will if I have to. So be a good girl n’ quit all your whinin, show me some of that grit you show when I’m teachin ya on the mats. Don’t wanna make me do nothin rash, but I ain’t gon’ have my honeymoon ruined cause my wife is insistent on bein’ an obstinate lil’ brat!” his voice his shaking with effort, “now, open ya self up!”

It spooks you, this inexorable side of him, white hot lightening ripping through your nerves. Suddenly you’re alite. Scientists might be quick to give credit to the clever little rhythm his thumb strummed over your clit but till the day you die you will swear it was instinctive obedience that had you spasming and then gushing, suddenly relaxing and drawing him in, pliant and eager. Subdued at last.

“Aww baby, oh baby that’s it, oh thank fuck,” he gasps in relief as he feels the change, “I’ve gotchu, you know I gotchu always, gonna help ya get over that damn hill, gonna drop ya off that cliff gentle like.”

His movements are not gentle, if anything they speed up, but his hands cradle you, his mouth caresses you and he places his own knee beside your own, glued together everywhere except for the snap of his pelvis. There is a razor's edge here, in the sensations his body is drawing from yours, and it is an edge upon which you wobble, tipping now towards pleasure, then pain, then back again to pleasure. It confuses and overwhelms you, makes you moan and keen and beg like an animal in heat, the jet crew and all your ladylike deportment forgotten.

“Oh dear god Elvis, I- oh, oh, please don’t stop!” you’re suddenly shouting in a shocked beg, something irreversible building and this isn’t your standard *nice job buddy that was swell* orgasm approaching, it’s one of the *well done sir, I think I just died there for a minute* variety. It’s shaking, and thrumming and burning up your entire body, suddenly making lyrics to his well worn songs take on an entirely new meaning.

“Lordy mama, tryin to let the whole plane know I’ve broken ya in at last?” he teases, finding it heavenly the way you move with him now in an easy give and take, the smacking of your bum against him and the happy slack of your mouth driving him to madness.

Gone is the suave man of myth and envy, here is an animal instead, mounting and mauling and claiming you with ferocious devotion and you take it like a jerking rag doll, whining in need where you were once whimpering. He’s proud of you. If he had breath to laugh he would at the way you suddenly look dazedly disbelieving in the mirror right before your body seizes up and pleasure annihilates all your senses.

Your legs give out and you slump, having only the vaguest awareness of the fact he’s beginning to grunt and cry out himself, using you like a writhing receptacle, coming unglued behind you as you begin to melt on him like butter. There ain’t much thought or chivalry to the way he grabs at you, a hand beneath each knee and folds you in half, split open in front of the mirror as he ruts every last drop of satisfaction into you. He hears himself hollering as if through a tunnel, something that the fight crew, if asked, would paraphrase as being “oh goddamn, you are more perfect than anything.”

You are numb and pounding down there, the last frantic usage of your pussy an ordeal you endure with cock dumb acceptance. The way his face draws up and crumples shortly after, and then slacks in bliss -it is the single most violently arousing thing you’ve ever witnessed. Feeble as your energy is, you feel a surge of feminine pride at the way he mumbles and moans and finally shakes to a stop.

“That’s it, oh you’re so beautiful.” you moan, watching as his hair falls into his bleary, slow blinking eyes as he comes back to the surface, “And you’re mine.” you sigh, content.

“Mhmm, yours.” he coos, jostling you a little on his cock and he snuggles closer somehow, you think you feel his seed start to dribble out despite the sizable stopper inside you, “Well, bless your heart darling, I’ve got ya folded like a camp chair. Ha!” he gently folds your legs back down, pulling out of you with painstaking gentleness on the way down, “That weren’t very gentlemanly of me, was it?” he teases.

You sway dangerously once placed on your own two feet and you don’t even have the chance to fall, he never lets go before he realizes what’s needed. He picks you up and sets you on the counter, you pool back against the mirror, boneless and debauched, legs stuck bow legged from such a long ride and a vividly puffy pussy leaking his seed onto the counter. He tucks himself back in with still shaking hands. He won’t be fully back down to earth till Honolulu’s runway, he thinks. Just in time to carry you off the plane. And begin it all over again.

Married life, he could get used to this.

“It was perfect, you’re perfect.” you slur earnestly as he returns to you and unzips your dress, hauling it over your teased you hair, baring you fully as you sit on the counter, kicking feet thumping against the cabinets in your patten leather heels

“Nah…perfect -that would be you, Mrs Presley.” he kisses you deeply, before taking you in his arms bridal style and carries you into the bedroom, conscious but uncaring that you’re leaking all over his pristine shirt sleeve.

This next part oughta involve washcloths or wet wipes. But that would require leaving your sweet arms and facing a jet crew that just heard him railing his tender young bride.

Yeah, he’ll just use his mouth.

Hope y’all enjoyed. This is a repost from my (currently censored) main blog @precious-little-scoundrel and in turn it’s a repost from the original written over a year ago on my deleted OG Elvis blog@aconflagrationofmyown I want to start collecting my fics here in case anything happens with my main. Xoxo

[tanaleth]

so gallant. so dashing😳🌸

[whimsical-kitty2]

Suppressed Desire

Childhood friends to lovers series with Count Alexei Vronsky

Chapter 1

Word Count: 3k

Next Chapter

You would always recall the memories of your childhood with a certain fondness. At first glance, there wasn't anything particular or unique and unusual about your youth. You grew up in an average aristocratic family. You had a decent upbringing, but nothing more. Except him - Count Alexei Vronsky. He has been your best friend since the very beginning, and quite frankly, you are unable to recall a time in your life you spent without knowing him. He fills you with great gratitude, since if it hadn't been for him, your youth wouldn't have been as exciting as you saw it. You had other friends, sure, but since your family and his have always been close, he's a person who has barely left your side. Picnics, lunches, dinners, holidays, excursions, family gatherings, you name it! The two of you have always been together, seeing each other grow up through your youngest years, your adolescence, and now, you're entering into adulthood. He's no longer the immature boy you used to sneak out of formal events with. Rather, he's blossomed into a dashing twenty-two-year-old man with a prospering military career. The same goes for you, as you have too transformed from your carefree young self into a twenty-year-old respectable lady. Time has led you two down different paths. You no longer bathe in each other's presence as frequently as you used to. Still, you both maintain the same affections you shared all throughout your lives, despite your time spent apart growing larger and larger.

When his family learned that you, a girl, were born, they were ecstatic at the sheer prospect of their son being married off to the daughter of their closest acquaintances. That said, they never uttered so much as a word in front of either you or him about their intentions. Alexei had never been interested in marrying, and that fact did not change with the passing of time. His parents gave up any efforts in persuading him to tie the knot with somebody in the near future. You, on the other hand, had barely a choice in the matter, and so at each ball you attended, you'd be occupied with your suitors. Those men, despite being gallant and humorous, did not spark much interest in you, and despite your tiresome efforts to focus and be present in each moment you spend with them, you would find that your thoughts always drift back to Alexei. You definitely missed his presence beside you.

The sheen of stars litters the evening sky as the last rays of sunshine disappear and make way for the night to come. You are at yet another ball. You've lost count of how many you have already attended this month. The excitement you experienced in the past when such an event was nearing is a seldom felt sensation nowadays, as the banality of each attendance sets in. Despite that, today's ball is one you looked forward to because you were informed that Count Vronsky was also among the list of guests. As he progressed with his military career, he found himself spending less and less time at social gatherings, or even in his hometown, the capital of the Empire, in general. The last time you recall being alongside him was when his family had been over for dinner a month or so ago.

Right now, you are standing on the side of the ballroom alone. Behind you sits one of the columns that are positioned on the sides. If you were to go in between them, you would be led to the staircase. You wear a dark blue silk dress with puffy sleeves. Your corset hugs your waist tightly, accentuating the features of your body. A delicate pearl necklace laces your neck while white silk gloves cover the skin of your hands all the way to your elbows. Those same hands you hold in front of you, your right pointer finger tapping impatiently against your other hand. Your gaze is wandering around the ballroom, looking for somebody. You don't realize it, but your eyebrows have begun to furrow in frustration.

Thankfully, you had to experience only a few more moments of this dullness that had overcome your being, as soon enough you sense somebody's gentle touch running along your back. Normally, you'd be startled by the unexpected gesture, yet it is soft and familiar enough for you to just sigh and turn around calmly. Alexei's eyes bore into yours with a certain intensity while you feel amused by his behavior. His hand slides off of your back, and he kneels down in front of you, grabbing one of your hands and placing his lips on its back. His gaze is glued to yours as he does so.

"Bonsoir, ma chère. Dis-moi, pourquoi es-tu toute seule? Où sont tes prétendants ?" (Good evening, my dear. Tell me, why are you all alone? Where are your suitors?) He enquires as he rises up again. His French is immaculate and quite telling of his aristocratic upbringing, though you can catch the subtlety of his Russian pronunciation. You grin at his overly polite attitude, which you immediately recognize as sarcasm.

"Ils doivent être en retard." (They must be late.)

He rises to his feet again, "Alors je suppose que je dois assumer le rôle de votre animateur pour cette splendide soirée !" (Then I suppose I must take up the role of your entertainer for this splendid evening!) His exclaim provokes the escaping of a delighted scoff from your lips, as if he was already in that role he spoke of - and indeed he was!

"Alyousha!" You grin as you transition from your earlier ironic politeness to the usual fondness you regarded your companion with. Your arms stretch out and envelop him in your embrace. He chuckles, the sound being low and the air that escaped his mouth being ticklish since he placed his chin on your shoulder and right next to your ear. His own arms would follow your example and wrap themselves around your back. Perhaps it would be more appropriate to switch the verbs used and state that you had your arms wrapped around him and his own enveloping your frame instead. Having grown into a real man, he stood a whole head taller than you, while his physique was fit, courtesy of his active lifestyle in the military and outside of it. So while your arms were placed against his back, his could be more properly described as almost shielding your body. Though you had long gotten used to the sensation of his bigger stature, you can't help but recall fondly your prepubescent years when you were still the taller one between the both of you. At that time, he looked almost scrawny, which is quite the distinction from his current appearance.

"Would it be egotistical of me to assume you were expecting me just a moment ago?" He questions, his words being gently whispered into the shell of your ear.

"Perhaps it would be so, though that does not mean your suspicion is incorrect," you reply once you pull back from him and reluctantly return your arms to your sides for the sake of propriety. He does the same but stares at you with a cocky smirk.

"Well, isn't that endearing?" He remarks rhetorically. Just as he's about to utter something else, he notices your gaze drifting to the side as another man's voice calls out your name. The guy in question is a suitor of yours.

"I have been looking for you all evening, but I suppose you've been busy!" He begins gleefully, though when his gaze briefly settles on Alexei, you could almost sense the disdain hidden behind the mask of a charismatic gentleman he has on. In actuality, he couldn't find you until now because you were purposefully avoiding him and the rest of your suitors. "I wished to ask you to share your first dance of the evening with me, but I assume I am already late on that occasion," he continues while maintaining his friendly grin.

Your mouth hangs open as you prepare to reply to him and explain the situation, but Alexei is quick to forestall you.

"Vous auriez raison," (You would be correct), he switches back to French as he shoots out a quick and formal answer to your suitor instead of you. His blue eyes appear icy as he continues staring at him expectantly, waiting for him to abandon you both once more.

"But I'm sure, my lady, that you can reserve your second dance for me," the suitor turns to you again.

"J'ai peur de lui prendre du temps alors aussi." (I'm afraid I will occupy her time then as well.)

"Vraiment?" (Is that so?) His eyebrows furrow unconsciously as the mask of politeness gets chipped away by the sudden surge of displeasure, caused by Alexei's words.

"En effet," (Indeed) Alexei states as a matter-of-factly.

That cause the gentleman to bow in front of you before wishing you a wonderful evening and walking away. A self-satisfied smile makes its way on the face of your dear friend.

"Alyousha, your interjection was unnecessary. I can speak for myself!" You narrow your eyelids.

"I'm aware of that, dearest. However, I'm also confident that you're pleased to have him off of your back in such a quick and easy manner, no?" He speaks in Russian again, clearly being at ease now that it's just the two of you again.

"You may be right, but that does not excuse your insolent behavior!"

"Insolent is a rather big word to use in such a simple situation. I'd argue that I was respectful enough not to tell him straight that his presence wasn't wanted."

"You call that respectful?"

"It seems our interpretations of words vary! Now, I would much prefer it if you stopped thinking of him and focused on catching up with me instead," he diverts. As if to aid him, the orchestra for the balls begins to play a waltz. He takes the chance to wrap him arm around your waist and pull you toward the dance floor. "Now come along! Your first dance is reserved for me, remember?" He references the earlier situation with his tone being playful.

You have grown accustomed to his behavior by now, and so you push away the irksome feeling and gulp back the bad taste he left you with. He had always been a blunt and arrogant person, and those qualities of his shine through, especially when he feels that his interests may be threatened.

You place your right hand on his shoulder while allowing your left one to be held by him. He sways with you across the ballroom, your movements being practiced and graceful. His eyes never leave yours. It's as if he is trying to make sure you're not actually offended, and you can tell that by the teasing glint his assured gaze holds. He twirls you around, allowing himself to let go of your hand in favor of the tender dance his fingertips begin on your waist. Once back in his firm grasp, you break the silence that had been instilled between the both of you since the beginning of the waltz.

"So... You were absent because of some business involving the military again."

"True."

"Care to share more about your last month then?"

"Were my letters to you not detailed enough? I recall writing you a few pages."

"Surely, a whole month can't be summarized in a few pages."

He laughs.

"I saved for you only the most interesting parts. The technical details would bore you to death."

"I'm sure you'll manage to make it interesting for me. You have a way with words!"

"As much as I'm flattered, I was serious. Not to mention, it would be unbecoming of me to bring up such a topic when I'm conversing with a lady."

You stare at him blankly, and he laughs again.

"In all seriousness though," he continues, "there's only so much I can let on to the public about our country's diplomatic affairs. You, however, haven't been too expressive in your letters to me. May I enquire about your past month?"

"It was uneventful to put it simply. My parents have insisted I attend social gatherings almost every single day. I can't catch a break because they're too worried that I have not taken a liking to any one of my suitors yet, so I've been frequenting the theatres and the opera houses."

"Being a guest to multiple events doesn't sound uneventful," he remarks sarcastically. "I was under the impression you enjoyed watching plays."

"I do, but I can't even spectate in peace without one of my suitors being in my box and talking my ear off through the whole experience!"

"Such poor theatre etiquette!" He chuckles. "I take it you seek excitement?"

"You could put it that way."

The waltz ends almost on que, and the two of you stand in place in the middle of the dance floor motionless. Both of your pairs of hands remain on each other.

"Ditch this silly ball and run away with me," he states blankly. You can't describe that sentence as a suggestion, as it sounded almost commanding. All traces of playfulness leave his expression as his eyes bore into yours.

"Pardon me?"

"Ditch this silly ball and run away with me," he repeats verbatim while sounding even more insistent.

"Are you out of your mind!?" You let go of him and take a step back. He brings his hands in front of himself and holds them there.

"I can't see why you'd oppose. We used to this all the time as kids."

"We're no longer children!"

"Your point is..?" He raises his eyebrows and tilts his head toward you as if to imply that his absurd proposal shouldn't be a shock to you.

"My point is that if our parents catch us, or in fact, anyone for that matter, we'll receive more than a plain scolding!"

"If that's your only concern, my dear, I can assure you that I'll be there to protect your honor."

"I don't find this funny."

"I wasn't joking," he smiles at you cheekily.

You scoff in annoyance.

"Have you any idea what people may think of me when they find out I ran from this ball to be with you!?"

"What's so wrong with me?" He teases.

"You're a-" A man. You were going to say that he was a man. You cut yourself off because despite knowing that your words were true, and that the public would assume only the most indecent of all scenarios, you wouldn't dare imply that an explicitly intimate encounter between you two was a possibility. You found it absurd that something like that would even cross your mind as you were all too familiar with the nature of your relationship with Alexei, and in your head he'd find the thought as  equally laughable as you did. Bringing it up aloud would only serve to embarrass you in front of him. Who knows? Perhaps he may take it the wrong way and suppose that you secretly wish to be in such an inappropriate situation with him? You must not give out any hints that could serve to the detriment of your friendship! It's not like you actually view him as anything more than your best friend anyway!

His calculating eyes can practically see the countless thoughts running through your head in those few seconds it takes for him to reply.

"I see your point," he smiles softly.

"Don't take it the wrong way."

"I won't. My offer remains."

"Alyoushinka..."

"What's with the frown? I know you dream of being reminded of the good old days when you and I would abandon the balls our parents dragged us to."

"It's not the same anymore."

"Why can't it be? The only person stopping you is yourself," he continues. His attempts at convincing you are unwavering. "Just think about it. We'll go for a ride in the forest nearby on that favorite trail of yours..."

"But what will they think of me..!?"

"I told you I'd guard your honor in case of a mishap," he moves his hands and holds them behind his back. Your silence points to your contemplation, and he leans toward you. "So? What will it be?"

You stare at him blankly before you sigh and reluctantly agree. "I'll do it, but only because you're my best friend and I trust you, and if this goes wrong, you shall take the blame, so do you get it?" You spit out the words quickly.

 "Very well!" He chuckles. He reaches out and offers you his hand. "Shall we then?"

You place your hand in his and allow him to lead you. You step outside and walk down the alley in the manor's garden. After passing by some other guests who are also taking a stroll, he takes a sharp turn and heads toward the stables with you. You both manage to reach them undisturbed by anyone. He finds his mare Frou Frou and sets your hand down as he approaches her. He begins to caress her coat slowly and gently, running his fingers down her muzzle.

"Come. She has missed you..." He coos softly as he presses his forehead against the horse and closes his eyes.

"I doubt she even remembers me in the first place. She's a horse," you move toward her and caress her mane. Frou Frou turns toward you and nickers, signaling she's happy to see you. Alexei shoots you a side glance.

"See?"

You look at his smug smile but ultimately ignore him in favor of hugging her neck.

"She's a cutie," you smile against her. Meanwhile, Alexei goes to fetch her saddle, and he prepares her for a ride.

"She's ready now," he speaks as he tugs you toward him.

You follow his lead and accept his help when climbing up the horse's back. He jumps up and sits behind you with his chest pressed against your back. His hands cage your sides as he grips the reigns. You keep your hold on the horn of the saddle as he drives Frou Frou outside of the stables.

[sorceresssundries]

In celebration of my anti-Bongle agenda, which I am promoting today, please accept a writing excerpt where dashing young Wyllyam Ravengard pushes the fucker into a lake.

I don't like to toot my own little horn, but truly this is the Wyll content Larian should have considered for his character.

The atmosphere at the inn is bright, and despite the curse being far from lifted, there is an air of sweet celebration as loved ones are reunited and the small seed of hope for Ketheric’s demise starts to bloom into something more substantial.

As you watch the rescued individuals make their way into the inn, drawn to the comforts of the kitchen and bar, your attention is set on one particular gnome who stands out amidst the crowd. Drenched from head to toe and clearly disgruntled, he storms past you with a scowl etched upon his features, his shoulders tense with frustration. Before you can react, he barges past you with a forceful shove, muttering foul curses under his breath. His demeanour is unmistakably hostile.

“Did he fall off the boat?” you ask Wyll, a little concerned for the gnome’s wellbeing.

“Kind of” Wyll said, with a wickedness you weren’t used to hearing from him. You narrow your eyes in suspicion, and he gives a haughty little smirk.

“He was berating the Tieflings, calling them weak and helpless, said if it were up to him he would have left them there to rot. So… I may have slipped and ‘accidentally’ knocked him into the water.”

“Wyllyam Ravengard!” You put a hand to your chest in dramatic surprise. “The Blade of Frontiers! I am shocked! Where is the gallant protector of the innocent and my stalwart moral compass?”

“Oh, he’s still here somewhere. Hiding beneath the horns.” He taps his horns with his finger, and there is a sparkle in his good eye.

“Don’t worry, I pulled him out eventually, despite Astarion’s protests.”

“Sounded like he deserved it.”

“Yes.” Wyll held himself straight, with all the noble posture he could manage, and nodded wisely “He’s a total cunt that Wulbren Bongle.”

The shock of Wyll’s colourful language sparks your uninhibited laughter, and the sound echoes through the warm confines of the inn like a burst of sunlight through storm clouds.

You feel relief that beneath the curses and anxieties, joy and hopefulness hadn’t abandoned you - they were just waiting for patient rediscovery. Turns out, laughter was just a wet gnome away.

[justzamb]

Starting a little series where I draw all the Veilguard companions! Here’s our dashing, monster hunting Grey Warden, Davrin.

Dont know much about him yet, but forget-me-nots felt right for a gallant hero doomed to give their life for their cause (unless…?). I get a mix of Arthurian and Romantic (as in the era) vibes from him too.

Anyway, this series is to force me to get art to a finished state rather than giving up partway through. Simple poses and composition so I can focus on colors, execution, and confidence. Hope you like this one (and future ones)!

[sternsalcove]

My Most Esteemed Readers,

Whispers abound that our noble stags, those dashing creatures of the wild, take great pleasure in pursuing their fair maidens, employing all manner of charming tactics to entice them into their embrace. One does wonder-could a certain cornering in a tight spot truly sway even the most resistant of hearts? Ah, it seems so for two fortunate Gryffindors.

A delicate Lily and a gallant Stag... will their budding romance dazzle the entire ton?

Yours in delightful intrigue, Stern.

( @prongspotter-s & @miss-lily-evans-potter )

( @blacksheepoftheblackfamily , @w-o-r-m-t-a-i-l , @bellatrix-carina-black , @cissa-swans , @marlz-mckinnon , @fartybartyjunior , @moony-lupin-rjl , @bitterandbruisedsev , @sunshine-and-rosiers , @hestia-farida-jones )