#they are all RANCID and BEAUTIFUL and i adore them | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

marinas-drafts · 2 years ago

Text

Crawfever 1

Plot: You weren’t the first war widow to indulge in this, and young Elvis wasn’t the first young man who justified it…

SUMMARY: I adore the notion that Elvis Freakin’ Presley himself might have shown up at your doorstep to fix your electrical problems in the early 50’s. The concept that all that untapped charisma and talent and beauty could be found just going about his business, helping housewives with their glitches…well, this came out of the imagining of what one such call might look like. And if it devolved into poorly written Southern Gothic literature, blame Eudora Welty. 🥰. Also, A Streetcar Named Desire may have influenced my artistic choice of copious descriptions of sticky southern summers and the *feelings* they can provoke. This hasn’t been proofread by any eyes except my own exhausted ones.

Note: there were three other parts to this but I lost them with my old blog, alas. You can find them on tumblr still on my main blog. 💋

An Electrician Named Elvis

Summer in Memphis is a sticky, windless, oppressive thing, only relieved by the occasional swim, creaking fans and a chilled beverage held to the throat. The ice box is revered as a savior during these months and those nights the electricity shorts out due to the thunderstorms rolling across the Mississippi are spent in anxious fretting that it would turn on again by morning. But by ten o’clock this morning there’s no such luck, even though the lines have been fixed you’ve been told it’s a problem closer in.

Probably in the house.

Exactly the sort of problem your Billy would have solved himself with no extra cost but the odd washer or wire.

But Billy’s not here so instead you’ve got Crown Electric sending out whoever they deem expendable enough to waste on fixing a housewife’s ice box.

If it’s Marvin they send, you just might flip -you appreciate the man but haven’t any patience for that or him. Not today, not on top of milk going rancid and your baby girl having a pathetic breakfast before school. You can’t mend Marvin’s pants any faster for all that he mows your lawn. The lawn you pay him to mow. The lawn he owns as your landlord anyhow -oh and there’s the sound of the Crown truck coming to a stop on the drive.

You recognize that staring at the ice box won’t do much good so you go to the screen door in time to see a whole lotta leg swing out from the drivers seat.

You’re not sure you’ve ever appreciated a pair of legs so much as you do this blazing morning, and as they stretch out you have an epiphany of sympathy for the wolf whistles you yourself have received on windy days.

This pair goes on for miles, and they’re owned by an eager, doll-faced boy.

Heavens, is this his first job? At least it isn’t Marvin and you won’t be pestered about rent or mending, but wether or not a man who favors pink socks under his drab olive work-suit can fix a problem that’s befuddled many a handyman before him -well, that remains to be seen.

He’s halfway up the drive when he catches sight of you behind the screen door, his face animates and he jogs up the rest of the way. Taking the front steps two at a time.

You push the door open.

In the shade of your doorstep his complexion looks softer than any of your sister’s and you’re greeted by the same expression you see each morning when you wake your young daughter up -a desire to please. The effect is a little unsettling on a grown man, so obviously well proportioned, towering over you and decked out in a rough handyman’s attire.

“They said you’ve got an outage ma’am?”

“Yes, couldn’t fix it with the lines apparently.”

“Probably just the lightening shorted somethin’ out.” He assures you, voice going ever so gentle, like he’s comforting someone deeply bereaved.

Like he’s gonna fix all your troubles by turning the ice box and fans back on.

That won’t cure all your troubles, but it would be a start, a way for you to handle the rest.

“May I come in?” He adds softly when you say nothing.

You’re still standing in the doorway, unconsciously guarding it as you’ve been doing since you got that wretched telegram in ‘44. Nine years ago. Nine years and no one but relatives and Marvin when collecting the rent have crossed the threshold since.

Certainly no long limbed boy with hair as black as Billy’s and the intention of helping you around the house. Fixing the house, rather. No, damn it, just the electricity like it’s his job to do.

Just as Billy would have done if Billy were here.

This ain’t Billy, Billy had an earnest, sweet face and none of this boy’s ripe prettiness. Billy never talked softly either.

“Yeah, yeah, of course, right this way -what’s you’re name?”

“Elvis…Presley, ma’am.”

“Welcome to the oven, Elvis.”

The house has become a swampy inferno and though the windows are open the curtains hang limp, there isn’t a breeze between all these houses packed close together. It’s stifling under the low ceiling and whatever fresh look he had maintained flying down the road in his aired-out truck is melting now.

“Downright nasty in here.” He comments, and then he grins at you as the sweat begins to collect atop his cupid’s bow. “No wonder you’re out of sorts.”

“Yeah that’s gotta be it.” You manage to return the grin, ignoring the insinuation, “And spoilt milk always makes me testy.”

“You kept your ice box closed?”

“Sure have.”

“Then it might be alright. Only been off a few hours, right?”

“Since midnight.”

“Well, then, should be fine.” He’s got that comforting voice going on again and you reckon that either there’s an old soul in that daisy fresh face or else he’s spent most of his young life reassuring somebody. Reassurance flows from him naturally, and for once, you don’t feel like shrugging the comfort off.

And there’s a strange clench in your heart at how long it’s been sense you let someone metaphorically pat your back and tell you everything will turn out right. You’ve got lots of relations and a few friends who busy themselves and you with worrying about how you’re gonna manage to raise your daughter, earn a living and climb far enough out of the fog of widowhood to be considered socially acceptable again. It’s nice that some boy who’s never had his guts ripped open overseas wants to restore your ice box to you and make everything alright again. It’s precious that he thinks that’ll do it.

You’ve been pondering too long and now you’ve got a frog lodged in your throat and it ought to be awkward but he doesn’t look away, he just shyly peaks down at you under copious lashes and smiles encouragingly. “The electrical panel is in one of the bedroom closets, I’m guessin’?”

“In the Master.”

“Alright then.”

You usher him back to the stuffy little room that's glowing orange from the drapes trying to block out the noonday sun.

You’d pulled some clothes out of the closest beforehand to make it easier for him to reach the panel. When you’d done that you were imagining Marvin or man of his stubby frame working on it, but Elvis is unfazed, he just gracefully folds his long limbs into a squat in the tiny cubby and cranes his neck until he level with the panel. He’s got his tool kit balanced on one thigh and he gives you a thumbs up to suggest your presence is no longer needed. He is starting to look as miserably sticky as you feel, his black hair turning somehow darker with sweat.

His lips pucker up as he starts unscrewing a bolt. It’s rather obscene.

“Would you like some lemonade?” You’re offering as you need some yourself.

He looks startled you’re still standing there but after a minute’s hesitation he asks: “is it pipin’ hot?”

You laugh and he immediately looks pleased with himself. Damn, he’s so young. “I’m gonna crack open the ice box” you explain.

His humored look flees and earnest blue eyes go round in protest. “Ma’am I haven’t fixed this yet! I just got in here!”

“I know, silly,” you swat the air at him, “take it as a sign of faith you’ll manage it.”

He grins back, and a man squatting in a sweltering closet oughtn't to look that alluring. You assure yourself it’s just the domesticity of the whole thing. Billy changing a bulb or scrubbing a dish or hanging Christmas lights that one Christmas you had him to yourself -that’s the stuff that made you throw yourself at Billy in the mid afternoon of a balmy work day.

Raven haired young Elvis might work for the electrical company and be earning a commission with each moment of his work day you waste but if you squint a bit, he could be a beautiful boy who wanted to wife you up and give you babies and rub your feet when you’d been on them all day.

Lately you’ve gone out of the habit of assuming someone who looks as fresh as he does would be eyeing up a sweat soaked war widow, but young Mr. Presley had either never been shamed for his lack of subtly or never bothered to hide it because while his looks were tender, they weren’t respectful in the proper sense. You only wished you could see his revering expression as you sauntered away from him back into the kitchen.

The ice box was tolerably cool for having been kept shut. The milk was safe for now but would spoil sooner for the dip in temperature. That waste didn't rankle you as much as it had an hour ago. The thought “that’s alright” actually made it past your lips for the first time in months and you couldn’t help but marvel that you might have lost a bit of your cantankerous streak on the front steps.

With a sudden swoosh and buzz the small pedastol fan on the counter top buzzes back to life and the light in the ice box clicks on.

You whooped “you’ve done it!”

Heavy footfalls came out of the back bedroom and Elvis came into view with a bewildered look on his face: “You haven’t got a A.C. unit ma’am?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Oh you should!” He warmed up to the argument, “They make the air crisper than anything, sucks the river mist right out the air.”

“Not gonna be able to manage that on a war widow’s pension.” You retort nonchalantly, handing him a glass of chilled lemonade which he takes slowly and carefully, eyeing you over the rim.

“So that’s what happened.” He said softly.

“What do you mean?”

“You seem so sad. That’s what started it?”

If he stayed this empathetic for the rest of his life he’d end up burned out and hollow before he hit fifty. He had no business looking out to solve every hurting person’s problems, not when he was so obviously lost himself.

“Three days into the Normandy campaign, at least that’s what they told me.” You've explained your husbands absence many times in the same way, but you aren’t sure you ever had a more sympathetic audience than this boy who is pressing the beaded lemonade glass to his cheek and looking at you like he knows exactly what it’s like to have your sweetheart get burned up by a nazi flamethrower. He doesn’t say a word of comfort on the matter, he doesn’t need to, his eyes show it all and his lips part and he murmurs:

“But he gave you a child?”

“He sure did, bless him. Her name’s June,” your lips quirk up just at the thought of her “my baby girl. She’ll be turning nine, day after tomorrow.”

The sorrow has gone off his face and he looks like he’s scheming now, and somehow that’s the most alarming expression to yet grace his features. He leans in across the kitchen counter, all familiar like, and that’s worse than anything: “Tell me, Mrs. Crawford, yeah, see I caught your name in the directory -but, tell me, does your June like to swim?”

“Loves it almost as much as watermelon.” You know you must look wary, but the last time a man leaned over a bar and eyed you up in this way you ended up married to him. Actually, scratch that. Billy was a darling and a delightful flirt but he didn’t have one ounce of the raw, unconscious danger this boy holds in his pinky finger alone.

“I’ve got a heap of cousins,” he begins quite randomly, “ranging all ages, and we’ve got a watering hole we found just south of town where the trees keep it all cool and the farmer doesn’t mind us so long as we don’t upset the cows. And I’ve got a truck, you see, and I was thinkin’ when you needed to cool off you could come join us. My mama would love to make a picnic out of little June’s birthday, I just know she would. What do you say to that?”

“Mr. Presley, I don’t know you nor your cousins. And I’m sure your mama is real nice but-“

“Right, because I reckon otherwise you get out a lot these days.” You hardly expected that amount of sass coming from his earnest face and it takes you aback.

You try a different route. “Why?”

“Because I’d like to see you smiling and wet from something besides sweat.” It’s a sweet sentiment, if it didn’t come from a man eyeing you up like he has been these past five minutes.

“I don’t know about her birthday,” you give in a little, “my parents always like to be around for it and she likes them to be.”

“Of course, of course” he nods. “And she doesn’t know me.”

“No she doesn’t.” It kills you to turn this down but you aren’t one to go do things your child isn’t interested in in her name.

“Tell her about the swimmin’ hole, then” he says all easy and confident as he straightens himself up from the counter and chugs the lemonade down, “and I’ll be back day after tomorrow with an extra valve so this don’t happen again. No need for it going off every time the rice fields get some rain.”

You’re clutching your glass to your chest and not even the icy chill against your sticky breast can make your heart stop thumping. “You’ve gotta come back?”

“I suppose I could ask Marvin to come instead.” He shrugs a tad too nonchalant, and looks away from you as he maneuvers around you to place his glass in the sink like the good, house tamed boy that he is. Except you’re very afraid you’ve miscalculated and welcomed a wolf in when you thought you were entertaining a lamb.

“How do you know about Marvin?” You demand.

“I work with him?” He replies hesitantly, brows and lips drawn up and eyes glittering with concern at your tone.

“No, no” you smack him lightly on the bicep and realize your mistake when he breaks out into a dimpled smile, “I meant why did you smirk when you said that he could come instead of you?”

“You’d rather your landlord come by and see your still in the back?” He’s cocky now, a hip jutted out against the cabinets.

“How the hell did you notice that?” You cried out, half laughing, half outraged, “You weren’t back in that bedroom longer than ten minutes.”

“I’s just curious what type of moonshine you were makin’.” He mutters, smirk barely wavering. “I’d never judge nobody for how they make ends meet.”

“Alright, you can come back.”

“Marvin talks about you.” He tosses this piece of information out there real cooly. You nearly get whiplash from how fast he changes direction, “Told me you’re a marvelous woman who takes care of the whole block but won’t let no one take care of her.”

You aren’t sure you’re comforted by the fact his tender smile is still in place. But you’re glad that he doesn’t seem to taste an awkward moment when it smacks him in the face. You find you like talking with him about these long neglected subjects.

“Marvin’s alright.” You concede. “He helps me out plenty. And now there’s you. And I thank you for fixing my fans.”

To prove your point turn from him and rest your elbows on the countertop, leaning to push your face up to the blast of the little pedestal fan, letting your hair fly wildly around you.

Somewhere behind you can hear him chuckle. It sounds alarmingly close. “It’s made my day.” You say, voice distorted by the force of the whirring blades.

That’s when you feel him drape himself over you, his chest a centimeter away from your sticky back and an elegant hand on each side of yours against the counter. His voice warbles just as funny thanks to the fan when he says: “Mrs. Crawford, I’m gonna get you a Chrysler air cooling system, just you wait and see.”

Presumably he’s draped himself over the length of you to get in the direct line of the fan’s breeze, but you doubt there’s any other man at Crown Electric who’d dare act on that impulse as he has.

“Oh are ya now?” You don’t even have to try to sound incredulous. You are incredulous he’d dare do this, that he’d read you so well to know you’re starving for a little closeness in this soggy kitchen. “Well, that’s real sweet of you, Elvis. How on earth are you gonna manage that?”

Why he, a stranger, would buy you such a thing is left unasked. Again, it feels domestic and you want to hold onto that fuzzy feeling for a moment longer. Also, you’re desperately trying to keep still, one tiny shift or move and you’ll brush up against some part of him, and at this point you’re not sure there’s an inch of this man that’s benign. Playing along seems safer than trying to disentangle.

His head dips down and the strands of his hair tickle the tips of your ear as his voice drops low:

“I’m gonna make a lotta money, mama.”

“Oh? Is there any money left in Memphis?”

He giggles then, and he never sounded more boyish than when he did that, his voice bouncing off the tinny fan. “Dunno how I’ll manage but it will involve singin” he takes one hand from the countertop and pats your hip familiarly, and right then any bit of deniability on your part goes out the window because you don’t correct him for it.

“‘Cause we’re so short in singers in Memphis?” You tease instead, wishing you sounded less interested. Less gasping.

“Yeaaaaaah baaaaaaaaby” he hollers above you into the fan, laughing again as it spooks you and you jerk back, right into the lanky breadth of him.

There’s a brief wrestling match after that involving you trying to get away from his lithe limbs as fast as you can and him trying to keep you from toppling over by wrapping his lean arms around your shoulders.

That stills you.

No one’s rested their chin atop your head in nearly a decade, and you could sob in frustration that it’s that little motion of his that makes you hungry and angry all at once.

You coulda had this. You had it for one good year. You could have it again if the whole block wouldn’t gape at the fact you were robbing the damn cradle.

Young Mr. Presley seems to have a taste for housewives pushing towards thirty and you aren't too proud to deny you’ve suddenly grown an attraction for sweet boys who just wanna make life sweeter. You two could write a sweet fiction, however brief.

“I wanna see you happy,” he mutters soft in your ear, “tell me you’ll let me come around again.”

“I’ll tell you what, Elvis,” you place your hands atop his forearms, leaning back, “you come around, meet my June, fix that washer business and I’ll feed ya a good meal while you tell her ‘bout that watering hole.”

“Really?” He’s beaming and you crane your neck back further so you can see it clearly. It’s a sight to be admired. “Day after tomorrow, that’ll work?”

“Yeah it’ll do.” His unabashed joy gives you the upper hand for a moment and you do the safe thing, pulling away and giving him a once over. “Tell me, does that nice mama of yours know you go round putting moves on widows?”

He has the audacity to blush at that, looking down at the floor, abashed for the first time since this shameless encounter. “She worries they’ll be the ones putting the moves on me.” And he rolls his eyes as if that sensible woman were delusional.

“Can’t imagine why.” You say dryly. “Now, you scoot, I’ve got mending to do.”

He wakes up at that, grabbing his tool kit and ducking his head not to hit the low ceiling as he makes his way to the front door. You trail after him enjoying the view of something so virile and alive in your house. Since when have men’s waists been so pretty?

“So, see you day after tomorrow?” He looks more vulnerable outside, not so sultry in the glow of blazing sunlight, and the anticipation of somebody wanting to see you puts a pep in your tone, brightens your face -you can feel it, and see it mirrored in his.

“Yeah,” you lean against the frame, “and after that…”

“Yeah?”

You let him fidget, “after that you’ll show me how you plan on getting me that A.C. Unit.”

He snaps his fingers and points at you, “I’ll bring my guitar then.”

“Oh yes, you’d better.”

He’s halfway back to his truck when he spins around and takes a few steps back towards you, “Say, d’you play anything?”

It’s been awhile and you’re rusty but you reckon you’re about to begin indulging in many long abandoned pastimes so you tell him: “Harmonica.”

“Ah,” he sways back on his feet, going back to his truck only to turn, one foot on the runner boards, looking at you admiringly. “You’ve got the lips for it.”

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

#elvis presley #elvis fanfiction #elvis fanfic #elvis x reader #elvis imagine #elvis #elvis smut #baby elvis #army elvis #elvis presley x reader #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis presely smut

92 notes · View notes

eldritch-spouse · 2 years ago

Note

Good morning!! I’m just thinking about your demons again. I ADORE the new additions. 💕

What kind of traits do demons typically find appealing romantically? Like, I know how to woo these folks for the most part, but what passive traits do they find impressive?

Like, I know they’re diverse and no two people like the same thing. Just wondering about “beauty” standards in the circles (not beauty, we know about beauty, I can’t think of the right word). Like, I assume gluttons would appreciate other big eaters, or good cooks, and concubi can appreciate promiscuity of all sorts, or on the flip side, find purity appealing and/or cute.

(I especially would love to know what pride demons typically find attractive.)

[Thenk you! <:7]

That's a little bit vague, I'm not too sure where to go from here, so I'm kind of going to ramble. Not that it's hard to guess. I'll stray from physical descriptions.

There's a trick to this I'll explain at the end.

Wrath demons tend to romanticize hard-headed bulls who never back down from a challenge, as you might imagine. People who stick by their values and exude determination, not easily swayed. People hardened by time and their environment, who rise from the lowest lows to the highest of platforms with grace and respect.

Others may enjoy someone whose fury is subtle yet extremely well calculated, strategized, flawless. Of course, many of them fetishize murderers, violent miscreants of all kinds, serial killers and the aggressively insane;

Greed demons will naturally flock to anyone who's financially "abundant". People who spend carelessly because they earn carelessly. Though many of them will also keep a sharp eye on stingy people who count everything down to the last penny. Sometimes saving a huge chunk of money by executing a series of cheap and clever exploits is enough to have these demons fanning themselves;

Many other greedy demons have fallen for notorious heist authors, prolific robbers, successful scammers, and all sorts of scummy people;

Gluttons do gravitate towards chefs, big eaters and those who own large chains of food, maybe well-known restaurants or even some brands of snacks that they really like. It varies. Those who are always hungry are obviously picked sooner, followed by those with a variety of eating disorders;

Although not as common, some more well-off gluttons pick partners who are extremely thin or otherwise unable to satiate their hunger due to a less genuine drive to "fix" that, or somehow captivate that person by letting them overindulge;

Envy demons tend to hover around those with great social influence. People that fawn attention, people who can start shit in public and get away with it. Celebrities, moles, those who spread their roots everywhere and have way too many connections. A good ability to adapt socially in short spans of time is also extremely coveted in partners;

Likewise, those at the very bottom of the latter, practically foaming at the mouth with their jealousy, ready to perform the most heinous of acts to attain even a crumb of their desires, are also appealing to these demons. The perfect cup-sized storm ready to burst;

Discussed plenty already, concubi are lovers of shameless sensuality and high-libidos. People who control chunks of the porn industry are highly sought after, those who own sex shops, who design the toys they use and abuse, those who write eroticas or administer large kink communities. Where perverts gather so do they, always ready to pick and pluck their favorite heathens;

Still, the fantasy of purity and corruption is very present in many concubi alike, which is what leads them to infiltrate communities of sexually frustrated people and drive them insane with want. Many go a step further and seek to scandalize people of faith, engaging is rancid displays inside sacred locations because the thrill of getting someone so disciplined to give in makes their heads spin with pleasure;

Sloth demons are into soft-spoken people. Those who live very comforted lives with little to get in the way and all the pleasures they could wish for at the tip of their fingers. Those whose hands are uncalloused because they've never had to work for anything in their lives, who might even take it all for granted;

In stark contrast, many will also seek people who are exhausted in all senses of the word. Who can never seem to get enough rest, who work themselves to the bone, frail and weathered and so chewed up inside, the plight for a break present in those heavy bags under their sunken eyes;

Pride demons covet the image of perfection. Whether or not that immaculate presentation is true or not matters none so long as it appears that way outwardly. They seek someone who can elevate them, someone who usually has others trailing after them, people with titles and so much arrogance it might physically hurt to be near them for long periods of time;

Many are also opportunistic however, willing to pick a partner who is down in the slums, dirty and ridden of all dignity. Someone who can't afford to say no to them, can't leave them, will see them as very center of the universe because what would they be without that demon? Nothing. The truest form of adoration for them, total worship, total dependence.

As you might have already guessed, there's contradictions here. The reason why is simple.

Demons of lower rank will usually choose those who are more true and successful representations/reminders of their sin. Because they have a lot to gain from pairing with them.

Demons of higher rank are already after those who desperately need their services, who covet what the sins can offer. Because people in their service and debt make for good lovers, in their eyes.

Mid rankers are a bit of a toss up.

This is not to say that there aren't exceptions to these tendencies, or that they can't exhibit completely opposite tastes, it's the general rule, the norm so to say.

#general tce #vaya-mernda

56 notes · View notes

ichayalovesyou · 3 years ago

Text

TOS in Beloved Retrospect

A GREAT Show that is absolutely canon! But I’m Taking the Rose Colored Glasses Off

Listen, it’s no secret that I absolutely ADORE Star Trek: The Original Series. It’s easily in my tied top 3 with SNW and DS9.

But you know what?

I am so, incredibly SICK of people treating it like a sacred document whenever literally any show that’s set before it does almost any plot point that’s even tangentially related to it.

Let’s take off the holy pedestal for just, two seconds please I am BEGGING you.

Star Trek TOS is an episodic show from the 1960s and the showrunners (including Roddenberry!) had NO IDEA, at all, was going to spawn an absolutely massive, beautiful scifi universe that’s practically a genre unto itself.

Even when they made a second series they tried to get away from TOS with the century time jump! Some creators going so far as to want it to never have existed at all, at least briefly, like, uh, Gene Roddenberry.

I can safely say I and many others are VERY glad TOS never got decanonized, but some facts still remain.

As a result of time, The Original Series is very much limited by when it was made. Such as!

In it’s cultural attitudes to minorities and women, see: the POC and female characters not getting any major plot lines until after TOS.

Literally one of the first things that got disregarded by pretty much all other Star Treks that take place before and after is that women can’t become captains (like wtf was that about?? Oh wait, it was the 60s 🙄). It was literally like, the peak of sexism, and cloaking devices existing before the Romulans showed up that get decanonized the first chance they had (it’s literally been happening since Enterprise and people freak out about invisible ships, every time).

In the fact that because it was exclusively, extremely episodic, every episode was the first time anybody ever saw anything because they had to introduce it to the audience without confusing them and making them turn off the TV or change channels.

Do you know how many times I, a Zillenial who grew up with a mix of episodic/serialized shows, had to suspend my disbelief because if this show was any less episodic the main characters would’ve learned their lesson already from a previous episode or would still be processing the trauma of a previous episode? So many! Watsonian explanations galore!

It was TOS movies that changed the Klingon character design with no explanation. Every time there’s an evil double of Kirk or he gets possessed the crew reacts like it’s never happened to anybody before! Kirk convinces a computer to kill itself like eight times and every time it’s like “oh wow look how smart Kirk is getting a computer to commit die”. Kirk loses his brother, his sister-in-law AND his love interest within the span of two episodes and is totally fine afterward! And you know what? I’m ok with that because I have a brain cell and recognize the show was created before serialized television got even a bit popular!

Third of all technology! Listen I hate all that touchscreen chrome color pallete stuff too! I’m also not, never have been, and never will be a technobabble guy! I’m so happy that the Enterprise is still colorful and has buttons and stuff! But ultimately, TOS was a 1960s conception of 250 years of progress, and it came up a little, even VERY short at times (so do all the other Star Treks, you can’t predict progress with 100% accuracy).

So if the tech is better than say, not much more fancy than a submarine in space, I’m willing to give it a pass. Star Trek has been making up and then immediately forgetting/disregarding some completely world altering technobabble from a single episode or movie since the beginning! The tech is a means of storytelling, and it’s clearly not a limitation because people are always changing or ignoring it! It’s only pure vomitous rancid evil when “NuTrek” does it right?

If you take all three of those HUGE things into account, TOS has, by far, the most tissue paper thin delicate canon of all of Star Trek. Quite frankly I would MUCH rather enjoy exploring the 2200s without walking on incredibly fragile eggshells regarding technobabble details or certain alien encounters.

It’s not like Federation ships have cloaking devices in the 2260s or that the SNW crew is out here fighting off Romulan boarding parties or sipping Meridor with the ruler of the Gorn Hegemony. They’re toeing the line to explore familar concepts in a new format (like serialized short form TV) and like, that’s fine! For crying out loud the Ferengi popped up in an Enterprise episode and most people tend to regard that as funny without ripping their hair out!

Have there been some changes to canon I’m a bit lukewarm about (see, the Gorn being as xenomorph-adjacent and unsympathetic as they were in All Those Who Wander) sure, yes, absolutely! Do I think it obliterates the canon of TOS, in which the Gorn only show up in a single episode with very little and vague lore around them? No!

The Doylist explanation, even if it hurts, is that a lot of meta aspects of TOS are falling out of favor or otherwise obsolete. NOT the stories or the characters for certain, but other fundamental building blocks are frozen in the context they were created in. Trying to adhere to them would severely limit any writer trying to explore that era of Starfleet’s history. So the writers are going to adapt to the spirit if not the precise letter of TOS’s canon.

The Watsonian explanations are numerous, but my favorite interpretation (which you don’t have to like, but maybe it’ll help) is that TOS is still fundementally canon, but the elements that make it inconsistent with other treks or with modern expectations for representation and technology are the result of a “universal translator” sending the truth about our future being translated into a way 1960s audiences could understand. Which is ultimately, kind of what Roddenberry’s desires were in the first place, to show us a better future within the confines of what was then modern TV.

#Star Trek #star trek analysis #meta #Star Trek meta #tos meta #fandom meta #analysis #deep dive #star trek the original series #Star Trek tos #the original series #tos #Star Trek discovery #Star Trek strange new worlds #discovery #strange new worlds #Star Trek disco #snw #Star Trek snw

246 notes · View notes

orionsangel86 · 2 years ago

Note

16 17 and 24 for the Choose Violence asks if you haven't answered them already

Oooh good choices!

16. You can't understand why so many people like this thing (characterisation, trope, headcanon, etc)

One of the reasons I love fantasy is because I adore all things fantastical. The Sandman speaks to my soul with its dark fantasy and magical stories and interesting non human characters. So I have never been able to really understand when fans take those characters and put them into an alternate universe where they are human, with no magic involved, working in cofffee shops or as high school teachers. I'm can't get into these types of fanfic tropes no matter how interesting the premise may be. That being said I applaud anyone who can take a character called "Dream" and "Morpheus" and make him a normal human. I love seeing fans call him "Murphy" and figure out how his spookier and clearly supernatural traits can be converted to weird human traits. I also love how autistic fans find representation in him. I may not be interested in such tropes, but I love that fans are creative enough to transform imo a super difficult character and see beauty in mundane ordinary human life.

17. There should be more of this type of fic/art

LUCIENNE X GAULT PLEEEEAAAAAASSSSE

I love all the creativity in this fandom, i love all the Dreamling fic writers and artists and I am very much one of you with my obsessive Dreamling brain being unrelenting. But I would love to see more of Lucienne and Gault tentatively exploring a new relationship in the Dreaming.

I wish I was a talented artist or could devote more time to attempting fic writing (perhaps I'll attempt some drabbles for different rarer ships but don't hold me to anything. I get huge anxiety with fic writing and put too much pressure on myself).

24. Topic that brings up the most rancid discourse

You know what I'm actually struggling with this one. Sandman fandom has been amazing. I could list a dozen different topics for Supernatural, or Our Flag Means Death, but I honestly haven't seen any actual "discourse" in Sandman fandom (maybe because I quit twitter before I ever got into the fandom so haven't seen what its like over there? Lol).

I know there are people who get annoyed about the popularity of Dreamling - which is fair because its huge, but I think everyone is being really respectful. I did see some comments anticipating that Dreamling shippers may start hating on canonical love interests like Thessaly or Hob's girlfriends Audrey and Gwen. Well Thessaly deserves the hate, but not for being a love interest and hopefully anyone with critical thinking skills would know that. And Hob's gfs arent in the show yet but when they are I'm hoping that fandom won't go all 2014 on them. From what I've experienced so far I doubt they will.

Doing this thing with a positive twist:

#the sandman #ask games #dreamling #dream of the endless #lucienne x gault #fandom

10 notes · View notes

psychedelic-ink · 2 years ago

Text

okay okay OKAY it's no secret that I've been obsessed with these two since the beginning and holy hell Cat you got me hooked-- I LOVE THEM

Marcus doesn’t really know how he feels about New York. He thinks maybe in another life he would hate it; one where he had a family at home waiting for him, someone to share the day-to-day mundane things with after all the superhero crap was put to bed. He probably would have pulled every string in the book to bring along this hypothetical family, and that thought alone takes his mood from sour to rancid.

I loved the way you describe this so so much but it also made me so so heartbroken 😭😭😭 this paragraph truly has a cinematic aspect to it, you know those scenes where something is off and the character just feels it but you only can guess what they're thinking via their expressions? yeah that's this, that subtle feel of something being slightly off (and yes this is an au where he doesn't have a family but still it gave me all the feels)

I adore that the scent of smoke just instantly reminds him of Dieter now god, the hero really is smitten with the actor isn't he 😩😩

Marcus frowns, shaking his head. “That’s not right. Starving yourself to hit some sort of stupid unattainable body image that was set by others.” “Yeah,” Dieter hums, poking Marcus in one of his firm shoulders. “Can’t imagine what that’s like.” The other man blushes and shakes his head. “Mine’s mostly genetics. Which…hearing out loud just makes me sound like an ass.” “Mmm, I actually think your ass could use a bit of work,” Dieter clicks his tongue, eyes drifting around to Marcus’s backside. His blush only darkens, and Dieter can’t help but delight in the reaction.

IM WHEEZING-- their dialogue is perfect, I can just read endless words of them just talking

I loved the interaction between marcus and dieter when Marcus opened up, I don't know how t describe it there is just something so beautiful about their relationship and how they understand each other i wanna hug them 😭😭

“Been too long since someone made you feel this good,” he hums, twisting his wrist lightly each time he strokes up the length of Marcus’s cock, the velvet heat of his skin catching on the other man’s palm. The friction is almost too much, a staggering sort of gasp breaking past his lips as Dieter’s voice continues to coach him through each and every stroke of his hand. “You look so good like this, baby. So good. You can fuck my hand if you want. Go on, use your hips.”

HOW DARE YOU

“Kiss me.” And Dieter does, lips molding to Marcus’s, the tip of his tongue tracing the seam until finally, he parts beneath, another moan for him to swallow.

HOW DARE YOU 2.0.

Okay but that smut was so needy but also so emotional and full of feeling and just UGH-- I love you so much for giving us more of them I'm grateful and I love the kiss me moment, one of my favorite things is a character being pleasured out of their mind and all they want is a kiss to feel more of the other 😩

Thank you so much for sharing and adding more to my hyperfixation lmaodfvd

I Can

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x Marcus Moreno Summary: Dieter and Marcus meet a second time. WC: 4K Warnings: 18+ MDNI Explicit sexual content. Exclusive M/M dynamics. Written in third-person POV, male protagonists, handjob, dry humping, dirty talk, praise kink, a smidge of edging. Mentions of food and drug use. Small angsty moments. AU Marcus Moreno (no wife, no Missy).

A/N: A Saturday night fic drop? Why not? I'm literally just a chaos demon at this point. Big thanks to @writer-wednesday for this prompt and for inspiring me to revisit my boys (and basically create a whole entire universe for them). This is a follow-up to my random little drabble You Can. I have wanted to revisit these boys for so long and when the inspiration struck, I couldn't help but run with it. Thank you to my beloved @jazzelsaur and @magpie-to-the-morning for listening and encouraging every unhinged thought inside my head. The very best of enablers.

Pretend Alleyways Masterlist II Main Masterlist

For any new writing follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications.

----------------

Dieter refuses to spend another meal in some stuffy, overpriced hoity-toity bullshit restaurant. Ever since his plane touched down at JFK he’s been dragged from meeting to table read to some supposed ‘life-changing’ meal and back again. Which, okay, there are worse things in life than a $100 dollar plate of food, but the pretentiousness of it all was starting to eat away at him.

And the problem with the meals in particular is that even if they were somehow able to change the trajectory of his life, there were only so many tiny portions of shaved truffle caviar foie bullshit he could eat.

No. Tonight he needs something else. Cheese, and bread, and beef. Something warm and comforting and covered in just a touch too much grease. Something he can purchase with a 20-dollar bill and bring back to his hotel room to eat while he watches something trashy on television, before downing an edible or two, and jerking himself off until he passed out.

Marissa, thankfully, was a manager who knew when he had hit his limit. She waved him away with only two reminders of his call time for tomorrow and a promise to send a car. Dieter half mumbled his acknowledgment before slipping out of the lobby that housed one of the many studios he had met with that day, turning left and disappearing into the crowded streets of downtown Manhattan.

This was Dieter’s favorite part of the city. Sure, it was too loud. Too busy. Too bright. But hiding in plain sight? That became easy. Even in his most outlandish of outfits he blended in, able to make the walk to his hotel in relative peace.

He passes a myriad of carts on his way, each one smelling better than the last. He’s not sure what he’s craving, but Dieter is positive he’ll know it when he sees it. The sun has completely set by the time he turns the corner, the city lights guiding him towards the Park Hyatt just up ahead. And there, across the street, was a cart, neon signs for gyros and knish calling to him.

The line was only one man deep by the time he jaywalked his way over, the street light shining down like a spotlight, catching the actor’s attention almost immediately. Dieter stops short at the sight of him, the breadth of his shoulders and cut of his jaw enough to drag up a memory that has his toes curling and his belly swooping low. The memory of a frustrated frown shifting into a soft smile, brown eyes wide beneath thick glasses, a kiss that should have lasted a lot longer than it did.

He’s traded the tux from that night in for a black leather jacket and a pair of dark wash jeans, his head bent low, glasses slipping down the slope of his nose. Dieter smiles, stepping in line with a little more bounce in his step, his lips caught between his teeth, his appetite suddenly shifting. It seems he’s finally figured out exactly what it is that he’s been craving.

— — —

There was only one more round of interviews tomorrow, most of them with the entire team. God willing, he could get away with a few quick answers and then nod along as the rest of the Heroics did the heavy lifting.

He was supposed to be out with the team right now. Drinks and dinner that he had (sort of) politely begged off, content with something hot and cheap to eat in the solitude of his hotel room. The smells from the Greek-themed cart had been calling to him since he first walked out of the Hyatt earlier that day and he was intent on stuffing his face full before passing out to the sound of some trashy reality show playing in the background.

He’s just starting to rationalize ordering one of everything, the Heroics Amex card already in the palm of his hand when the flick of a lighter and the smell of a cigarette catch his attention from behind. He wants to frown as the smoke invades his senses, the nasty habit once something that turned his stomach. But now all it does is drudge up a memory, almost 6 months old, but still there at the back of his mind; a dimpled grin and a searing kiss that left him aching.

He breathes in deep, letting the smell fill his lungs, humming at the bitter taste that coats his tongue. If he closes his eyes, he swears can almost feel the warmth of a breath on his neck, a man much too free for Marcus to keep, but who he wanted to anyway.

A loud cough yanks him back to reality, a gentle nudge urging him forward.

“Your turn, Heroic.”

Normally the call out would make his skin crawl, a signal to the beginning of either a very uncomfortable fan encounter or a 20-minute lecture on the interference of government sanctioned vigilantes. But the tone of the man is neither fawning nor judgmental, instead a teasing warmth that almost feels familiar. Marcus turns, an apology on the tip of his tongue and….

“It’s you.”

Dieter Bravo smiles around the cigarette dangling from his lips, all teeth and dimples and Hollywood charm, just as Marcus remembers.

“And it’s you.”

— — —

They end up ordering enough for two small armies, both men overtipping the patient cart owner enough that he promptly starts closing up shop the second they step away with their food. Marcus shrugs, the bag held tight to his chest, compelled to offer an explanation that Dieter didn’t ask for.

“Superhero metabolism.”

“I get it,” Dieter hums, wanting to put the other man at ease. It’s clear he’s wound just a bit too tight, the pressure of whatever responsibilities he carries with him not so much weighing him down as they do hold him up. Dieter thinks, assumes, the joy of being a hero left Marcus Moreno far too long ago, and he wonders if he could help him save just a tiny piece of it. Or at the very least get the man to smile once before they part ways again.

“I’m up for this gladiator thing. I have a feeling once I get back to L.A. it’s going to be all protein shakes and boiled chicken and green-colored juice. Probably best to indulge while I have the chance.”

Marcus frowns, shaking his head. “That’s not right. Starving yourself to hit some sort of stupid unattainable body image that was set by others.”

“Yeah,” Dieter hums, poking Marcus in one of his firm shoulders. “Can’t imagine what that’s like.”

The other man blushes and shakes his head. “Mine’s mostly genetics. Which…hearing out loud just makes me sound like an ass.”

“Mmm, I actually think your ass could use a bit of work,” Dieter clicks his tongue, eyes drifting around to Marcus’s backside.

His blush only darkens, and Dieter can’t help but delight in the reaction. “I’ll be okay, Heroic. All par for the course! Besides, it’s a 6-month shoot in Morocco. It’s been ages since I’ve been back there.”

“Oh, well…if you need help…I mean before you leave. Shit. I’m pretty handy in the gym, I mean,” he stammers out, hands clinging tighter to the greasy brown bag in his hands.

“Do superheroes make house calls?”

Marcus grinds his jaw to the left, his eyes shifting as far from Dieter’s as they can, but the blush remains. “If it’s something important.”

— — —

They’re staying in the same hotel. It shouldn’t surprise Marcus. Honestly, nothing should at this point, serendipitous coincidence managing to bring the two men together again despite all odds. They cross the street side by side, the doorman quick to open the door with a nod and a wave. Their steps echo through a seemingly empty lobby, most of the hotel guests having stepped out, their nights just getting started.

Dieter moves easily, the hand holding his food swinging back and forth in time with his steps. His jaws works effortlessly at the piece of gum he traded with the cigarette he had been puffing at, the tip of it crushed into the side of the hotel perfectly in time with their entrance. Marcus watches from the corner of his eye, admiring the way the other man moves, as if he’s dancing, each movement as fluid as the last.

The actor chatters beside him, an endless barrage of words that would be easy to write off as nonsense but despite that, Marcus finds himself listening with rapt attention. The actor talks about his meetings tomorrow, a chemistry read he hasn’t quite prepared for, an interview with Variety magazine scheduled directly after. Then he talks about the painting he had started before he left L.A. How he hopes the inspiration is still with him when he gets home.

By the time they get on the elevator, their shoulders brushing in the tight space, Marcus knows the type of bike Dieter owns (a 10-speed he likes to ride down to the pier), how he likes his toast (just shy of burnt, butter and jelly), and his plans for the night (food, edible, jerking off).

Marcus had even been caught up in the moment briefly, his own surprise at seeing the other man loosening his tongue just as it had all those months ago. He had stammered and stuttered in a way that he hadn’t since high school. He can’t seem to decide if he should be embarrassed or not, so he settles for quiet instead, only muttering his floor number once the elevator doors slide shut.

Dieter eyes him over his shoulder, the flecks of grey in the scruff of his jaw illuminated in the low light and mirrored walls. He leans closer, just enough to nudge Marcus’s shoulder, his smile slipping into something more tentative, mint and menthol and something sweet hypnotizing the heroic. He can’t help but match the other man’s movement, leaning in and licking his lips, trying to capture the taste on his tongue. Dieter doesn’t miss it, brown eyes flickering to Marcus’s lips and back again.

“Would you like some company?”

— — —

They ultimately decide to go to Dieter’s room, a joke about seeing the Penthouse tilting the actor’s grin to just this side of wolfish. Marcus is instantly drawn to windows, stretching from floor to ceiling, the whole city lit up, a glaring shine just beyond the glass.

“It seems brighter from up here.”

“The lights are so bright but they blind me,” Dieter sings beneath his breath, spreading out the food with careful dedication.

Marcus smiles at the sound of his voice, marveling at the sudden domestic turn his night has taken before placing his attention back on the skyline. Dieter moves around the couch to join him, carrying that same intoxicating smell with him.

“Haven’t you seen it from rooftops?”

Marcus shakes his head, eyes still glued to the sparkling spectacle in front of him. “The world looks too dark from that angle.”

Dark. Or Ugly. Honest. Yeah, Marcus can see everything from the rooftops, but none of it glittered. Not like this. Not like Dieter Bravo.

The tip of a finger, softer than he expected, touches his chin, the pressure light but insistent, impossible to ignore. He turns to find Dieter watching him, brown eyes reflecting the city stars back at Marcus, and he fights the urge to blink and miss what comes next. They move in together, almost close enough but not, and Dieter laughs, a soft chuckle that rumbles in his chest.

It reminds Marcus of that first kiss, so very long ago, down a dark alleyway, both of them pretending, for just a moment. He takes in a breath, a quick pull of air that steadies his nerves, before finally, finally, closing the last of the distance between them.

The kiss is soft at first, a brush of lips and a scrape of stubble. It’s faint, the sweetest shade of something new between the press of their lips, the taste of mint and menthol permeating his senses. Marcus can’t help but take one more, letting his lips linger on Dieter’s, his hands fitting perfectly along the dip of the other man’s hips.

It’s Dieter who deepens it, one palm sliding along the curve of Marcus’s cheek, the other grabbing where his leather jacket hangs open, fingers clenched into the fabric and yanking him closer. It’s the slip of a tongue between his lips that breaks him, a moan parting Marcus’s lips, the sound only encouraging Dieter to continue.

The hand on his hips pushes him back gently, one, two, three steps before they stop. Marcus pulls away to catch his breath but Dieter keeps him close, soothing the pad of his thumb across the flush of his skin.

“I missed you, baby.”

He wants to laugh, to point out it was just one kiss, and how? How could he miss him when he barely even knows him? But the endearment has him dizzy, the roof of his mouth tacky with desire, and all he can do is nod because yes. Of course, Marcus missed him too. What else was there to do but miss him?

He swoops in for another kiss, this time meeting Dieter’s tongue with his own, tasting him full on and groaning into the feeling. The noise seems to startle something awake in the other man, the grip on his cheek growing tight, his own strangled whine rising up the column of his throat.

When the kiss breaks, Dieter leans in, the scratch of his mustache rough where he hums his request in Marcus’s ear. “Can I take you to bed?”

“It’s been a while,” he can’t help but blurt out, pulling back to watch Dieter’s face carefully, preparing himself for the laughter and the teasing. “Almost 2 years.”

Still, Dieter doesn’t say anything, and Marcus can’t help but explain himself just a little bit more. “Most people can’t handle it.”

Marcus hates to say it. Hates the way it sounds and feels and tastes, the words bitter and biting on his own ears. The harsh, unrelenting truth that what he is will always be overwhelming for those that dare to love him. That the painful responsibilities that were forced upon by the realities of his genetics will always be the barrier around his heart. Most days it was easy enough to ignore, and in the time since had last felt another’s touch, Marcus had found a way to cope, where loneliness was just another weight he would bear in order to do what was right.

Dieter nods, eyes wide and frown small, an equal mix of understanding and pity marked across his features, as if to say ‘yeah, people can be assholes.’

And then he actually says it. “Assholes.”

There’s another kiss and then another, their bodies moving slowly back towards the couch. Dieter's fingers are skilled, pushing and pulling, Marcus’s leather coat hitting the ground seconds before his own. Those same fingers find their way beneath his shirt, mapping the planes of his stomach, the quiver of muscle chasing Dieter’s touch.

Marcus can only cling to the other man, refusing to part from their kiss for more than a second, breath traded back and forth, the only oxygen he ever needed between Dieter’s lips. His touch is insistent, smoothing at his heated skin, fingers digging into the flesh, the almost bite of his nails leaving Marcus gasping high and bright into their kiss. His glasses are pulled off somewhere in the fray, finding a home on the floor behind them.

“The …t-the bed?”

“Figured I’d take it easy on you,” Dieter grins in time with Marcus’s knees bending around the couch cushions.

They fall down together, Dieter immediately crowding into Marcus, his large hand palming where he strains beneath his jeans while he takes care to kiss each and every freckle scattered across Marcus’s. His hips buck immediately, even the gentle touch enough to send him lurching. Dieter is quick to soothe him, teeth nipping at his ear as he coos sweetly, the press of his hand only growing more insistent.

“Patience, baby. We have time.”

There it is again. That little endearment. Sweet and small, and so so much that Marcus can only moan, head falling into the crook of Dieter’s neck. Somewhere above him there is a chuckle, the sound vibrating from one man to the other, and Marcus can only hold on tighter as Dieter tugs at the zipper of his jeans. His breath hitches as the sound of it echoes inside his head, and he feels Dieter pause, only the brush of his thumb on the head of his leaking cock ground them to this moment.

Later, Dieter will confess, sweat cooling on Marcus’s temple, the actor's lips kissing the slick of it away, that he was watching him carefully at that moment. Desperate to see him fall apart, anxious to know if he needed to pull back. It’s then that they promise to say it. Always say it. Exactly what they need and what they want.

Secrets have never done either man any good.

Marcus leans into the light touch, awkward and needy, lips fusing to the curve of Dieter’s neck. There’s the musk of his cologne, something earthy and real clinging to his senses, mixing with the smell of smoke that always seems to burn around the other man’s edges. Marcus is ravenous for him, marking him with a bruising kiss, the steady chant of mine, mine, I wish he was mine thumping inside his chest.

Dieter doesn’t falter, pulling Marcus’s aching length from the confines of his jeans, a loose grip around the base as he continues to stroke the tip softly, gathering the bead of precum with the pad of his thumb. It’s more intimate than he expected, reputations always proceeding those in the limelight. Marcus should have known better, the camera always giving away more falsehoods than beautiful truths.

“Eager, aren’t we?” Dieter teases, not an ounce of cruelty in the words. Another kiss is gifted to Marcus’s neck, the drag of Dieter’s tongue follows, his own groan pouring out of him. “I’m gonna make you feel so good. I promise.”

The effect of his words is maddening, and Marcus takes care to muffle his whine into Dieter’s neck, teeth and tongue still working along the salt of his skin. The actor is only encouraged by this, continuing to purr little drops of filthy encouragement into his ear as he starts to stroke Marcus from base to tip.

“You look so good like this, baby. So good. You can fuck my hand if you want. Go on, use your hips.”

The prompt is all Marcus needs, his hips canting up to meet Dieter’s touch. His fingers dig in hard, one hand finding purchase on Dieter’s forearm, the other wrapped around the curve of his shoulder. He anchors himself to the other man, fucking up into his fist faster and faster and faster still.

“Feel good? Hmm?” Dieter asks, the hook of his nose pressed into Marcus’s temple, lips teasing the swell of his cheek. “Fucking someone else’s hand instead of your own?”

Marcus stutters out a ‘yes’ the word lost between his cries of pleasure. Dieter continues to indulge in the noises, each one helping to shift the weight of his touch, the grip around Marcus’s cock soft then hard, the pressure building faster than he can take in breaths. He tilts his head, eyes searching frantically, a desperate plea tumbling from his lips and hanging thick in the air between them.

“Kiss me.”

And Dieter does, lips molding to Marcus’s, the tip of his tongue tracing the seam until finally, he parts beneath, another moan for him to swallow. All the while, his pace is consistent, up and down, faster then slower then faster again. It’s indulgent, the way Dieter touches him, relishing in each pulse, every sound, and Marcus loses track of how long it’s really been. The pleasure is blinding, keeping him tethered to the edge of the cliff, release blissfully out of reach.

“Bet you look so pretty, all cock dumb, hmm? I’d love to see that,” Dieter teases and Marcus agrees, can only agree, something ragged taking over his sensibilities.

He continues to move with the other man, rising up into the open air, hips awkwardly meeting each and every caress of his hand. Dieter moves with the same freedom he had in the hotel lobby, his own hips grinding up and down, the length of his cock hard and pulsating where it presses into Marcus’s side. Their kisses only grow more wild, just a sloppy press of lips, off-centered and well-intentioned, as they both work closer and closer to the crest of arousal.

Dieter remains focused, his own pleasure secondary to that of the Heroic’s. The kiss breaks just in time for something white hot to settle at the base of Marcus’s spine, everything grows tight and bright and so so sweet. Teeth scrape along his jaw, the tip of a tongue soothing the same path, Dieter’s words coaxing him up to the top of the hill.

“You’re close, baby. So close. Go on, you can let go. I’m right here.”

It’s all Marcus needs, the last of his strength giving out as everything burns, thick ropes of white cum spilling out of him. Dieter hums, using his seed to smooth out his strokes, and continues to whisper little bits of praise into Marcus’s ear.

“I know. I know, baby. You’re doing so good. Tell me if it’s too much.”

It is. It is too much, the way Dieter keeps stroking his cock, half hard and still dribbling drops of cum around the curl of his fist. But Marcus refuses to stop him, leaning into the painful overstimulation until the tips of his fingers go numb, his moans breaking out into sobs, tears tracking down his cheeks to mix with his sweat. Dieter decides for them both then, his hand finally slowing, giving Marcus a chance to adjust to the light touch before pulling away for good, the palm of his hand sliding a sticky trail up his cheek.

It should feel filthy, Marcus’s own cum pressed into his skin while Dieter grinds his cum soaked pants into the dip of his hips. But even now, Marcus can feel his cock twitch in interest, the moment so very decadent and dirty and leaving him hungry for more. Dieter grins, licking his lips, clearly agreeing with whatever look that is crossing Marcus’s features, swooping in for one more kiss, this one there and gone, a fleeting breath of him that leaves him whining.

But Dieter doesn’t go far, his hand smoothing up to push back an errant curl, brown eyes impossibly deep, and he takes his time to kiss away each and every tear. When he pulls away, it’s only to whisper a quiet promise. “I can.”

Marcus tilts his head, his confusion unspoken, the haze of his orgasm still gripping tight to his senses. Dieter takes it in stride, his smile growing, confident and cocky with how dumb he’s rendered the heroic.

“I can handle it,” he clarifies, dragging his hand down to rest his thumb where Marcus’s lips part, the faintest taste of himself waiting there. “Can you?”

And all Marcus can do is nod. Because. Yes. Of course. Of course, he can. What other answer is there?

----------------

Pretend Alleyways Masterlist II Main Masterlist

For any new writing follow @radiowallet-writes and turn on notifications.

Dedications:

To my dearest, my wonderful enablers @jazzelsaur and @magpie-to-the-morning who have listened to me talk about these boys ALL. WEEK. Literally, every random thought I had about Dieter and Marcus, together or separate, was blasted into their DM's. I have become a woman possessed. The best friends a girl could ask for in these trying fandom times. Thank you both, for loving me and my boys.

#sil reads fanfic #Dieter Bravo x Marcus Moreno #the bubble fic #male on male #we can be heroes fic #pedro pascal characters #Pretend Alleyways #Marcus Moreno #Dieter Bravo

144 notes · View notes

tobesoalive · 4 years ago

Text

lover’s carvings (Josh Kiszka x Reader)

hello this is my first actual fic on here! I’m completely obsessed with Joshua Kiszka and Greta Van Fleet in general so if there's any fic ideas y’all have about them, don’t hesitate to request! anyways hope you enjoy this tooth rotting fluff

The hairs stand up on the back of your neck as they are hit by Josh's hot breath. It’s enough to make your eyes flutter open, you aren’t annoyed though, there really is no other place on earth you’d rather be. You lay there for a while, your body only covered partially by the cotton sheets. The sun gleaming in from the window basked the room in light and warmth, the sounds of birds singing making you think you could actually be in heaven. Josh always insisted on sleeping with the windows open, preferring the sounds of nature to lull him to sleep.

For almost two years you’ve been falling asleep in his arms, waking up only to be met with his golden eyes. It’s funny to think that when you first met he wanted nothing to do with you. He thought you were cute of course, but he only wanted to be friends who fucked when he was in town. His plans were thrown out the window though when he actually got to know you, the two of you went together so perfectly, like the moon and the stars. That was what was so beautiful about your relationship. It wasn’t flashy and fake, it came naturally. You didn’t need to be constantly gawking over each other to know how much you loved each other. PDA was not needed for the rest of the world to see how intertwined your souls were. Of course like all couples you had your ups and downs, but you valued your relationship too much to let any arguments ruin it. It was a privilege to find your other half, and you both knew it and thanked your lucky stars everyday.

Fingers interlacing, you started to press soft kisses to the back of his hand, letting go only to flip yourself around and face your beautiful sleeping boy. Deciding you can’t wait any longer, you pick up where you left off by peppering your lips up his neck, over his adam’s apple, up his jawline and to the tip of his nose, his adorable little nose. As his eyes fluttered open you took a moment to appreciate the little things about his appearance, his long eyelashes, his rosy apple cheeks with the tiny acne scars that he absolutely hated but you always told him were beautiful. Everything about him was more than you could have ever hoped for in a partner.

Finally he was seeming to wake up, he let out a large yawn and stretched his arms.

“Sometimes I'm convinced that you were someone’s lazy house cat in a past life.”

“Well good morning to you too” he responds with a light chuckle and a rasp in his voice.

He pulled you in for a kiss and wrapped his arm around your shoulders, sighing as your lips parted.

“Do you enjoy my rancid morning breath?” he asks sarcastically.

“Almost as much as a love your drunk post-vomit breath”

“Okay you didn’t need to go there”

“Sorry I still can’t forgive you for what happened at Danny’s the other night” you told him with a smile.

“Oh c’mon you know you love me even when you’re holding back my hair while I puke up 20 or so beers”

What can you say, you truly do love him, and you always will, come rain or shine, morning breath or puke.

“Hm I just wish there was SOMETHING you could do to make it up to me”

“Something like this?” his teases as he flips you two so he's now on top of you, cupping your cheeks in his hands, trailing kisses up your neck.

“I was thinking something more along the lines of cooking breakfast, but I guess this will work too.”

You pull him up to connect your lips and you can feel him grin into the kiss.

The birds are still singing, and you couldn’t imagine a more perfect heaven.

#josh kiszka #josh kiszka imagine #josh kiszka smut #greta van fleet #greta van fic #greta van fleet fan fiction #sam kiszka #sam kiszka imagine #jake kiszka imagine #jake kiszka #Danny Wagner imagine #danny wagner #peaceful army

180 notes · View notes

alucardownsmyass · 4 years ago

Text

Discussion #1

SPOILERS BELOW ‼️

"I still see the same spirited young woman I met fifty years ago, Your Majesty. In fact, to my eyes, time has made you even more beautiful, Your Highness."

▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄

so fucking precious. they were the only two people within that room during this moment and no one else mattered. i loved their bond in this scene, and the way he sighs calmly when her fingers wrap around his face — almost as if he was saying "finally." he's such a charmer with his words, and so incredibly sweet for still finding the beauty in olden flesh, reassuring elizabeth that she had absolutely nothing to worry about regarding her appearance.

same thing could be said about the moment he returns thirty years later, telling integra that he saw nothing wrong with her when her hair was fading gray and her skin crinkling. he most likely felt passionate about her even greater, especially after witnessing her eyepatch, adoring her ability to withstand a life-changing blemish all the while he was absent. ( i always admired how integra took that bullet from major like it was NOTHING. one of the baddest bitches in anime hands down. ) and the moment when he addresses walter, calling him and his new vampiric body ugly and telling him that he looked much better before he committed his betrayal.

this made me create a headcanon that alu always finds the beauty inside of his significant other's insecurities, no matter they be wrinkles, stretch marks, cellulite, acne, love handles, scars, etc. basically all things that society's standards deem hideous as if they aren't natural or humanly. alucard appreciates humanity and its attributes to an extent, so i don't see him being bothered whatsoever over someone else's physical self-doubts or self-hatreds. i imagine him instead taking the time to remove his glove just to gently trace over and feel his partner's stretch marks and/or scars, telling them, "You worry so much over how you look, but to me, my dear, these are the very features that make you who you are, and you dare be ashamed of it," referring to their individuality and uniqueness. this is quite similiar to what he tells the Queen, right? because that is the kind of person he is deep down. he's so respectful and mature when it comes to matters concerning those he cares about.

this is personally why he's my main comfort character as well, because i have my own insecurities ( we all do ) and the fact that he finds beauty in something that many do not, i feel so much better about not only myself, but loving this man in general lmao. he definitely has his own insecurities, being that he views himself as nothing more than a monster, not only because almost all of the enemies he encounters are literally throwing that into his face 24/7, but that he regrets his past decision on becoming one. this also leads me into creating another headcanon where he adores receiving assurance from his partner. telling him occasionally here and there that he's handsome or beautiful in their eyes, though he may refuse to believe it more often than not, would let him know that not everyone cowers in fear at his mere presence and finds him to be this disgusting, rancid beast. he would feel accepted. welcomed, for once.

and that's another thing; he's just such an appreciative character. for example, in ova 10 when he feels himself disappearing after absorbing schrödinger, he begins to reminisce his previous death as he looks on and admires the sun — the sun is a symbolic piece in this entire series to me, because it represents what he turned his back on during his time as a human, officially declaring him a creature of the night. you would think that he ( a vampire ) no longer cares for the sun, and he even claimed to hate it and its light, but towards his final words, he states, "And each time I think . . . how lovely that sunlight, which I forsook so many centuries ago . . ." which affirms that he still finds beauty in the earth's nature and in life itself despite what he is and what he's been through. that is another example of his humanity prying through his well-believed "monstrosity."

hirano did an absolutely amazing job in fabricating his ambiguity and behaviors. this version of dracula is unlike most of any version's psychology and morals. i could go on and on all day conversing the depths of alu's mindset and his view on humans in particular, but i'll save them for more future discussions!

▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄

[ also. i understand that him and the queen have simply a close friendship and that he praises anyone's growth into old age regardless, but i also love to think that he was lowkey flirting with her here LMAO. like his expression in the picture below. i would internally melt if he looked at me like this, oh my lord. there is something about the look in his eyes that is so titillating. ]

#alucard #alucard hellsing #anime #hellsing #hellsing alucard #hellsing ultimate #kouta hirano #hellsing anime #hellsing ova #integra hellsing #walter c dornez #hellsing headcanons #headcanon #vampire

391 notes · View notes

parkerlyn · 4 years ago

Note

How would the ROs feel about an MC that’s always complimenting them in a genuine manner, even for the smallest of things?

Ahhhh somft 🥺 Haven’t done one of these in ages so please forgive the rust on these drabbles askdjfkd (still working on the art prompts slowly in the background)

Written in the early dating phase, thank you for the ask! ❤️

The Healer: "You're amazing."

The Healer laughs, bright and clear, while they bring their hand down from the shelf. "I think I'm just tall in this case."

"Tall and amazing."

“Yeah, alright.” A chuckle echoes through their chest as they hand you the jar with a smile.

Cool glass greets your fingers, but when you try to open the preserved fruits you’re met with the unbreakable hold of the sealed lid. The metal slides under your grip at another attempt, still not budging, the only evidence of your effort in the pain at your palm.

You sigh and hand it back to them, and they twist it open with an infuriatingly quick 'pop' before handing it back to you.

“Tall and amazing and the best jam jar opener,” you state matter-of-factly as you happily take the jar back. The syrupy sweet smell of honey and peaches accompanies another round of the Healer’s laughter.

“You did most of the work,” they say in assurance before a mischievous smile works its way over their mouth. “But are there any other small things you want done? I’m starting to get used to this string of compliments and I’m kind of curious how many you can remember in a row.”

Leaning the jar against your lips, you hum. “You don’t have to do anything, I can make that list on my own.”

A quirked eyebrow joins in from the Healer as they let you mull over your thoughts.

“Tall and amazing and the best jam jar opener, the best Healer, the best hugger-” They laugh. “-the most genuine, most gorgeous, the best laugh and eyes-haver-” They snort at your phrasing but the eyes in question narrow over their rising cheeks, smile spreading wider as they hold their hand up.

“Okay, yes, thank you, my ego is never coming back down, going to be grinning for days,” they babble back and hold their hand out for you to take as they lean against the counter. With a step forward, you gently place the jar on the wood surface before letting your fingers smooth over their outstretched palm, hands turning downward to intertwine together while you take another step closer.

True to their statement, the smile never leaves, and they bring their free hand up to brush a thumb over your cheek and down the soft skin by your ear.

“My turn to shower you with compliments about all the things I like about you?”

Your eyes close against the touch. “Do tell.”

A soft exhale follows their thumb as they turn your head to the side.

“Actually, maybe I can show you.”

The Sage: When you remark on how wonderful they are, there’s the briefest widening around their hazel eyes as the glow from their face fades. But it morphs instantly into a polite and measured “Thank you” while they carefully close their book. Formal and stilted, but not uncomfortable.

It takes a few more trips of you hovering around the Archival Library to observe that this is their default. Mask on, manners sharp, neutral in all ways, in case the compliments have an ulterior moment.

There’s a pang of sadness in the realization.

A sudden determination carries into your steps, your previous reasons (or excuses) for being in the Library all but forgotten as you march your way to where you last saw the Sage. They hear you coming first, tilting their head upward and letting an excited smile slip through their professionalism.

“Oh! I didn’t know you were still-”

“You’re amazing.”

They gape, blinking, mouth trying to lure a response from their throat.

You continue before they can refasten their formality.

“And lovely, and stunning, and more brilliant than all the stars in the sky.”

With your added barrage of compliments, their mask seems unable to be placed properly, and they slowly reshelve the book in their hands with their face turned. It takes an awfully long time, you notice, their hand tapping the top of the book’s spine once it’s settled, with a few more pats down its length for good measure despite the already snug fit.

When even they realize that shuffling their fingers over the book is redundant at this point, they let their wrist fall and tap a quick rhythm against the bookshelves.

“I’m not sure I can hold a candle to you but-”

They let it loose now. The delight, the happiness, the quiet exhilaration at your words. They almost raise a hand to their mouth to try and stifle the soft smile, but decide to let it shine outward as their eyes crinkle into a blissful, serene joy.

Instead of trying to restrain their expression, they wrap their fingers around your hand, pulling you closer and a few steps farther between the corridor of volumes. You let them lead you, let them turn and raise your hand to their lips, let them place a fleeting, secretive kiss against your knuckles before dark hazel meets your eyes.

It comes as a whisper. No caution or apprehension. All tenderness and adoration.

“Thank you.”

Oisein: You can’t help the out-of-place comment, admiring Oisein’s glowing freckles as they scrunch up their nose over a particularly stubborn scuff on one of their leather bracers.

They look to you as the sweet words slip out. At first with an almost fearful shock, until they compose themselves with a breath and an arched brow.

“Alright then, what’re you after?”

“What?”

A smirk twists the corner of their mouth, eyes narrowing and darkened. “Complimenting me while I’m making the most unattractive face I can muster over some rancid bracers? What is it, yours need fixing? You break something? Piss off the Magesmith again?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t take that job from you."

“Good. I’d be devastated.” Oisein gives an exaggerated ‘phew’ with a swipe of their hand over their forehead, light laughter quickly following. Jokes aside, they lay the bracer down and fold their arms. “But really, what’s this about?"

You lift your face from your palm, the weight easing from your elbow on the table. “Nothing. I just wanted to tell you that you looked beautiful.”

After a hesitant pause, they make the same face from before, face twisting and freckles shifting on their cheeks as they scratch below an antler. Flickering light spasms through their pointed ears and down their neck, and they curse under their breath. Hands fly to cover their exposed markings, glowing gleefully regardless of their permission.

Their voice comes out a murmur.

“Should’ve grabbed my earring, I can usually hide that, damned things...” they trail off before taking a few steps toward you, that familiar smirk starting to curl through their lips. “Maybe I just need some practice?”

You lean back into your palm and feel the corner of your mouth lifting to match their expression while they close the gap between you, step by fluid step. Lavender eyes bore into yours as they settle their weight against the table, lifting a knuckle to trace from the base of your ear, along your jawline, down below your chin.

A slight pressure raises your face as they lean forward with a whisper on their tongue.

“Tell me again.”

Despite the many chances they have, nothing seems to be able to mute the light cascading from their skin.

The Magesmith: They scoff at your compliment, brushing it aside with the soot from their work, and go back to fumbling with the bits of metal in front of them.

You frown. "I mean it."

Their eyes flash between red and pink. "You don't have to do that."

“What?”

“Do the-” they wave the small tweezers in their hands in your general direction and sigh. “-the thing. You don’t have to always compliment me or do the cutesy talk and-”

“Can I not just compliment you?”

“No.”

The frown pulls further at your mouth. “Why not?”

A sigh sags through their shoulders as they put the tools down and run a hand through their hair. Auburn loosens from the hold of their headband and covers their eyes before their fingers pinch together at the bridge of their nose. Their lips press into a thin line, jaw set, fingers sliding down the side of their face to scratch softly at their chin before they wrap their hands around their neck.

When they don't respond, you continue.

"I'm not just doing a thing because I feel like I have to, if that’s what you’re thinking," you start quietly. "And I have it on good authority that I'm just stating facts when it comes to how incredible you are."

Another scoff sounds at your conclusion, though this one seems tinged with another emotion. Worry settles in your gut when you read the disgust on their face until you realize it's something else.

Embarrassment.

And a swirl of color that reaches the tips of their ears.

You grin.

"You're sure you don't-"

"Don't say it. You don’t have to- ugh," The response is curt as they turn away, reaching to busy their hands with their tools again, hiding their eyes and twisting something in their arm.

But the vibrant smile that breaks through tells you all you need to know.

#drabbles #drabble #ro asks #compliments #romance #interactive fiction #interactive novel #the nameless #tnif #the healer #the sage #oisein #the magesmith #look ma an attempt at writing #aksjdhdksjd #fluff

257 notes · View notes

obeymehasinfluncedmythoughts · 4 years ago

Text

Brothers With a Crafty Poly!MC

And I mean like, arts and crafts! Because I think that a good chunk of us are creative people. With creativity comes mess though 😅. Speaking of creativity, I made some strawberry barrettes. I have two sets to sell, but one single for me, and tbh I love themmmmmmmmmm.

This kinda includes my artistic s/o ask, but kinda doesn't. Basically anything at Micheals lmao

Lucifer

The mess and supplies are most likely what bothers him.

Like, he actively encourages hobbies, but when people begin trailing supplies throughout the house (thread, sequins, glitter ((thanks Diavolo)), and little strings of hot glue), the demon becomes absolutely annoyed.

This stuff is okay in it's designated space, and honestly he doesn't mind the occasional trail of glitter that somehow got stuck to you in some way, but all the time drives him crazy.

I mean it's to the point where he's always got something stuck to him.

(^^which is pretty unavoidable, if he hangs around you often. Get him a lint brush, that might shut him up)

He does enjoy watching you work though. Seeing you dedicate your time to something other then school and his brothers is extremely heart-warming.

He isn't afraid to criticize your work. However, there's always some recommendation to follow. Except when it comes to things he's never seen done before like resin art. Then he'll just be pretty straight forward, and might not even tell you what he thinks you did wrong because even he doesn't know.

Especially likes hobbies that include scrapbooking, embroidery, and glass art.

Mammon

He's basically like a kid bothering his parent when you do your crafty stuff.

Like he either wants to be apart of your crafts.

Mammon also digs through your things all the time, so if you have valuable craft supplies, hide them!

Tends to spill things all the time. Expect to find him covered in glitter at least twice.

He does, probably, make something from your supplies. There's no telling how it turns out. He's going to be very proud of it though, and depending on how his brothers react, you can make or break his self-confidence for the rest of the day.

(Mammon, sweetie, I love what you made, but please don't use my sewing scissors on craft paper ever again)

Mammon likes to lay his head on your lap when you do things. Puppy dog man.

Likes hobbies that include; Jewelry making, basically anything shiny, and sculpting

Leviathan

He's going to take FULL advantage of your creativity space lmao.

Loves to do things with you, by himself, watch you do them, ext.

Really enjoys taking stickers and putting them on you lmao.

Will probably try anything once.

(^He likes the idea of having something no one has. Limited edition is kinda his thing after all. But, wood carving/burning and knitting don't ever agree with him)

You'll probably wake up one day to find some weird, intricate craft project started in the middle the night. He might leave notes telling you not to move the project, or to please add X/Y/Z so it's a bit more stable.

Also he just buys random craft supplies that you don't even know the name to.

Likes hobbies that include; Sewing, resin art, and polymer clay.

Satan

Oh my goodness this many loves to buy fucking YARN.

I don't know if it's just the cat man in him, or if it's because he especially enjoy knitting/crochet crafts, but he buys yarn for your supplies all the time.

And it's always the weird stuff too. Like the yarn with pompoms, or something in that neon green he seems to adore, or whatever else he finds that catches his eye.

(Honestly, everything that catches his eye is scary)

He also really enjoys watching embroidery.

Idk something about all the parts coming together to form a beautiful picture really makes him relax.

Tbh you could honestly make him anything for a gift and he'd be happy you put time and effort into something!

(Best gift Idea off the top of my head is one of those little hads with cat ears lmao.)

Likes hobbies that include; Knitting/crocheting, paper craft, and embroidery

Asmodeus

Asmo is either going to treat your space one of two ways.

He'll be your best craft partner, buying little charms and stuff for the two of you to use on the things you'll end up doing. He always cleans up after himself, and makes sure to replace whatever he uses.

Or he's the worst and never cleans up after himself, and takes without ever giving back lmao.

Either way he's still always going to be up there with you, doing something to bedazzle his life.

(Remember the phone case convo? Yeah, that's basically this situation all over again...just with EVERYTHING.)

He kinda does the Levi thing too where he makes stuff and just leaves it there over night, but you'll always know what he's doing, because Asmodeus always brags about his skillful hands.

Likes hobbies that include; soap making, resin art, and sewing. Basically Levi without the extra weeb

Beelzebub

Y'know how the stereotypical TV dad is always like "Wow, amazing" whenever their child does something?

That's pretty much Beel.

(I kinda relate him to my dad lmao. I show him something and the response is always "Wow babe, that's amazing! Have you ever thought of taking classes in that?". Like, I'm not saying beel is dad energy, but I'm saying he has that same support for his partner. He wants them to commit and be happy with whatever they do.)

He is pretty bad about getting crumbs on your workspace though.

Likes to sit you in his lap when you're working so he can watch you do you're thing. It's not exactly the best thing for most projects, but it is pretty cute.

He's really aggressive about treating your injuries lmao.

Likes hobbies that include; Most candy/cake decoration, polymer clay, and miniatures (!!!! He really likes miniatures !!!!!)

Belphegor

Most crafts are loud, stink, and give him a headache. Like really.

Who knew that glass cutting made such screechy noises? That sewing machines could be so violent? How wood burning and hot glue smell rancid?

Ugh. He avoids your crafty space like the plague.

It's a bad napping area, and tbh, it's probably the most annoying place in the house for him when he's not sleeping anyways.

(My boy needs Q U I E T)

He will take advantage of the fruits of your labors though.

He likes fluffy sweaters, blankets of all kind, and those pretty glass decorations you put in the window to catch light.

Pillows are fun, heated rice packs are too, and anything that smells good is great in his book. Honestly just as easy to make something for him as Satan tbh.

Likes hobbies that include; Knitting/crocheting, quilting, and candle making. He might burn the house down with that lastone though

#obey me #obey me!#obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me mammon #obey me lucifer #obey me x mc #obey me belphegor #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #poly obey me #obey me x reader

233 notes · View notes

magicman111 · 4 years ago

Text

A Moth to a Flame - Chapter Two

One month later

Sasha joylessly toyed with the Music Box, opening its lid like a yawning mouth.

Who’d have thunk it? She wondered to herself. This tacky little thing could cause so much calamity?

How ludicrously out of place she looked curled up on King Andrias’ enormous throne, almost like the little girl playing pretend in the driver’s seat of her parents’ car. You’d be forgiven for not knowing she’d just led the swiftest, easiest toppling of a government in this world’s history.

Big blue dummy locked up? Check. The city’s army surrendered? Check. Their toad army less than an hour away? Check. Dimension-skipping Macguffin firmly in their position? Double Check.

Not a bad day’s work for a 13-year-old.

Marcy’s oversized sparrow was tethered to the armrest by his leg. A prize she’d taken for herself so she could cruise around her new kingdom in style. She saw to it he wasn’t under any duress, and the fact he was neck deep in an industrial sized bag of bird feed told her he was plenty comfortable.

Sasha managed a tiny smile as she reached out to run her fingers through the thickness of his coat. She dunked her hand in the bag and offered him an open palm of seeds; he eyed for a moment or two before gingerly pecking at the mound.

Thank Frog no one was around to hear the ‘d’aww’ escape her lips.

Her grandmother was the one she had to thank for her secret admiration of birds. Old lady had been a birdwatcher who ‘treated’ her to regular weekend trips into the forest when she was younger. This was long before her discovery of malls and arcades. Sasha wouldn’t dare admit it to even herself back then, but the ones they spotted together on those dewy spring mornings were beautiful to behold in their natural habitat.

Herons may now be forever ruined for her, but Joe—she thought that was his name—was a mighty impressive specimen. Poor guy somehow found the strength to carry all seven of them to Newtopia, only to nosedive into the moat at the end of the flight.

Definitely had nothing to do with her asking Marcy if she could take the reins in the last stretch. She and Anne were kind enough not to draw attention to it, same as they did the day at summer camp when they discovered her crying into her pillow. They were awesome enough to go along with her story that it was only allergies. She knew she had a true pair of girlfriends that morning.

Thinking about them only soured her mood afresh. She sprinkled the rest of the feed back into the bag and slumped against the backrest, arms petulantly crossed.

Here she was in the crowning moment of her young life and she couldn’t have been more miserable.

Maybe because her friends should have been here to share in this, but no, they had to go and act all noble. What else should she have expected? She always was the only one in the group with the guts. Anne had to be dragged kicking and screaming to ditch school and join her and Marcy in celebrating her birthday. Was it any wonder she had to keep taking control of the situation?

More likely... it was because deep down she knew she didn’t really want this. She certainly believed she did after they dropped that gloryhound newt general down a waterfall and when they successfully rallied the Toad Lords after retrieving Barrel’s Warhammer. Things only started getting complicated when they needed free tickets into Newtopia in the form of her friends.

She hadn’t counted on realising just how much she missed her clumsy, klutzy Marcy. Neither how effectively she and Anne were still able to work together as a team in spite of all the unpleasantness that had transpired between them during their time here, of which there was plenty. The fact that Anne actively encouraged her in taking down that molten toad monster was the rancid cherry atop the sludge sundae. For a while back there, it looked like they might really turn a corner and start afresh. All three of them could have gone home like none of this ever happened. Except by then it was already too late.

What recourse did she have when the Plantars invited them for the world’s most awkward dinner party or when they brought the house down at the Battle of the Bands? Tell Grime and all the toads who’d invested their manpower and futures in her that sorry, she was getting cold feet? There was only one grizzly way that would end both for her and Grime and the best scenario she could imagine involved heads on pikes.

... It didn’t matter anymore. Her friends had picked their path, she’d picked hers. As her mom always said, ‘You make your bed, you lie in it’. Funny how in her short life, she’d heard that line far too many times already.

Once she figured out how the Box worked, she’d send both Anne and Marcy on their merry way and they’d never have to see each other ever again.

Everyone would get what they want.

Good thing then she’d sent her soldiers to ransack Marcy’s room for all her research about Anne’s fateful birthday gift. Girl was a pack rat. She kept notes for every exam and project they were assigned back home. The less said about her laptop jammed with files of anime fanfiction and theories the better.

Plus, it was a good way to try and distract herself.

They came back into the throne room hauling burlap sacks full of parchments and emptied their contents at Sasha’s feet.

Daaang, girl, you've been in the zone.

She scattered them over her lap and the ample free space on the seat. They actually weren’t that hard to follow; colour coordinated with plenty of cutesy kawaii diagrams. Trademark Marbles.

Apparently, it worked a lot like those puzzle boxes Marcy got as gifts from relatives in Hong Kong. All it took was knowing the right sequence of buttons and zip! You can go wherever you want in the cosmos. Just a matter of finding the code for Earth.

‘I’m done listening to you!

I’m done trusting you!’

Sasha scowled, trying to push the thoughts to the back of her mind where they belonged. She shuffled through a couple more pages until she found the one titled in glittery green and blue lettering, ‘HOME’.

Bingo.

‘You’re a horrible person!’

Ignore. Ignore.

Now all she had to do was jot it down on her palm and—

‘AND I AM DONE. BEING. FRIENDS WITH YOU!!’

She stopped. Her shoulders drooped. Then she just threw the page down on the floor and sunk into her seat further than she thought physically possible.

She normally didn’t consider herself that thin skinned a person, but man, that one hurt.

Traces of bitter tears creeped into her eyes.

What am I even doing anymore?

The sound of footsteps on crumpling paper and someone clearing their throat snapped her out of her self-pitying torpor. She fluttered her eyes dry to see Grime standing there awkwardly among the discarded parchments.

The diminutive, one-eyed former Toad Lord was hiding something behind his back. He actually looked pretty embarrassed about it too, which for a battle hardened war vet like Grime was actually kinda adorable in Sasha’s eyes.

“I, uhh, got you something,” he said, whipping out a long rectangular present wrapped in green paper and topped with a luscious red bow. “Had it made especially for this day.”

Now if there was one thing Sasha Waybright couldn’t say no to, it was a gift, especially from a trusted friend. They were the ultimate distraction from the blues and she couldn’t have been sitting upright and tearing into this one any quicker.

“Whaaat? Grimesy, you didn’t!” What she had pulled from the ravaged packaging wielded aloft her head made her gasp. “How’d you know I wanted to duel wield?!”

It was a brand new heron sword. An exquisite green second shortsword that would compliment Ol’ Pink perfectly.

She stared proudly into the smooth steel surface, admiring the craftsmanship. When she noticed the girl staring right back at her, however, her smirk vanished in an instant. The captain of the cheerleaders, the scarred swordswoman, the conqueror of Newtopia, whatever angle she looked at it, she didn’t like what she saw. Unbelievable as it may sound, even the joy of an awesome gift like this was not enough to make everything better.

“What’s the matter? You don’t like it? Oh dang it!” Grime slammed his forehead. “I didn’t get a gift receipt!”

“No no, it’s just...” Sasha weighed the blade against her ungloved palm. Talking about these kinds of things was never easy for her. “What if Anne’s right? What if I am a horrible person?”

Grime popped up like a whack-a-mole behind the armrest. “Who cares what she thinks?” he scoffed. “You and I are in charge now, and we get to do whatever we want!”

“That’s the thing... I’m not sure what I want anymore,” she admitted wearily.

For all his years of training at the finest academies, his brutal combat in the colosseum and tactical expertise earned through a lifetime of military service as his forebears before him, this one had Grime stumped. Needless to say, talking about one’s emotions wasn't exactly encouraged during their upbringing in toad culture, so naturally it wasn’t one of his strong suits. Just one of the many things he and Sasha had in common.

“Huh.”

Still, he was a pretty fast thinker and came up with a fairly good idea on the spot.

“Why don’t you help me redecorate this place?” he suggested, resting his hand on her shoulder. “Take your mind off it. Cuz this right here...” He gestured to the cluttered mess in which she’d surrounded herself. “This is definitely not—I’m sorry, can I help you?!”

Both of them turned their heads when it became impossible to ignore Joe’s cone-shaped beak lightly nipping at Grime’s cheek.

“He probably thinks your warts are seeds.”

“For the love of—I knew he was eyeing me up on the ride here! There! Get lost!” Grime scooped up a fistful of feed and flung it over the marble floor, but the winged beast persisted with pecking his face. “Stop it! MY HEAD IS NOT A FEEDER!!”

It took an exceptional effort of willpower for Sasha not to laugh at the sight of her old man being preyed upon by the family pet.

Wow, she thought. Her old man? Was that how she saw Grimesy now? Seriously?

Perhaps up to a point. Okay, considering the options she had for parental figures back home, it wasn’t exactly the highest bar to pass, but it still meant something. Anything.

Who would have guessed this would be how they’d end up, especially given how they started off with her as his prisoner? Sure, it may have taken her helping him and the whole tower not getting turned into heron feed for her to be upgraded to his lieutenant, but they really had come a long way since then. There was a lot more honor and heart to the cranky old toad than she first thought, back when she wrote him off just as another blowhard with power. Now he genuinely considered her his equal both as a friend and comrade in arms. For Sasha, the feeling was mutual. A first for her.

When all was said and done, who else did she have left besides him and vice versa?

What the heck? Let’s tear this place up.

Untethering Joe, she whistled a tweet-tweet and gave the rope a gentle tug to encourage him to follow on their ‘indoor walkies’.

A cursory surveillance of the throne room told her there was a lot of work to be done. If this toad regime was to last a thousand years, the correct decor was an important first step. Thankfully for them, she knew a thing or two about fashion. For starters, there were way too many soft blues and purples. Rust red from top to bottom! She preferred keeping the stained glass windows, but they’d need entirely new designs. Hers truly would naturally feature in most of them, one showcasing her and Grime caving that narwhal worm’s head in with the Warhammer being an absolute must. The snakes coiling the stone pillars weren’t a bad touch, if just a bit too elegant for the whole ‘proud warrior race’ vibe they were going for, but she could still work with them. Now as for the throne, they were gonna have to replace it with something much more imposing. There was that super violent dragon show she and her parents used to watch that had the huge throne made out of swords. She was sure she had a picture somewhere on her phone to use as a reference.

“I’m sorry, what the heck is this?!”

Sasha could only denounce what they were gawking at as the single biggest affrontement to tasteful decorating known to man or amphibian. Yes, worse than inflatable furniture, carpeted bathrooms, beaded curtains, glass block bathroom windows, ‘live, laugh, love’ quotes on walls, rustic hearts, mason jars and nautical accessories all combined under the same inland roof.

Tapestries had their rightful place in a palace’s interior design, but the one sweeping across a section of wall depicting a gentle hearted Andrias sitting down by a lake, surrounded by flowers and lilypads was nothing short of vomit-inducing. Gathered at his feet and scooped up in his protective arms were his wide-eyed, childlike subjects. Even the fish and a lobster were surfacing to bask in their king’s magnanimity. Here the oversized salamander was truly the loving patriarch of everything the light touched. The mawkish display could only be topped off with a rainbow streaking across the sky.

Grime felt his stomach roile. If he ever needed an example to demonstrate the difference between kitschy and downright tacky, this was it.

“Y-y-y-yikes!” he gagged. “This thing’s gotta go!”

Sasha didn’t need a second invite. Besides, what else was Joe going to use to line his nest?

A joint effort tore the offensive piece from its place and it tumbled to the floor in a heap.

Dead silence fell over the room.

Hidden beneath the tapestry was... a mural. Including such a decoration in a throne room was hardly surprising, yet it was what it contained that shocked both the human and toad, so much so that they had to take a moment to recover.

“Woah,” they gasped at once, before starting to analyse what they saw.

The mural was a chaotic collection of nightmarish images painted on a night blue wall. Wild red flames spewing out hordes of beasts and the wreckage of buildings. Mountains of skulls and bones belonging to frogs, toads and newts alike. A flying... spaceship? A castle? Whatever it was meant to be, it firied a white beam up at what was unmistakably the Music Box. Pink, green and blue lightning bolts crackled out of the Box. Mesmerising orange gemstones or, more terrifyingly, eyes leaped off the wall and burned themselves into their minds. The frightening focal point of this one-way ticket to the school therapist’s office? Rising out of the middle of the inferno was the silhouette of a red-eyed, goliath-sized beast, its claws reaching up covetously towards the Box that hung right above its crowned head.

It may as well have been lifted straight from the tattered dream journal of a madfrog.

Any ideas of redecorating the throne room were long gone. Even the revolution they were spearheading suddenly seemed millions of miles away in the face of what they’d just stumbled upon.

Peering her eyes slightly, Sasha was the first to put a face to the shadowy leviathan, and when she did, she had to swallow her heart back down into her chest.

“Is that the king?” she asked, mystified. “With the music box?”

Sweat ran down the side of Grime’s nonplussed face. “If it is… it’s a really good thing we stopped him.”

Neither of them said it aloud, but both understood the situation at once. All this time they thought they’d been playing flipwart while the king played bog jump. Oh, how wrong they’d been. It was beyond anything that even the Toad Lords discussed. They knew that they had to reconvene with them as soon as the armies had reached the gate.

She took a couple steps closer to reexamine the mural more thoroughly, missed details emerging now that the initial shock began to wear off. Circuit board markings—the same inside her dad’s outdated computer when she foolishly dared Marcy if she could take it apart—worked their way around the images, serving as some type of frame. Odd choice for a world that didn’t even have steam engines yet. She also picked up the three small geometric figures standing atop the Box’s lid. An artist she was not, but they looked pretty human-like in design.

But humans did not exist in Amphibia. The three of them were the first of their kind to ever set foot in this dimension.

Weren’t they?

Alarm bells were ringing louder than ever before. This Andrias guy had been playing Anne and Marcy for his own ends this whole time, all to get his mitts on the Music Box! What did he plan to do with it? Right now, she still couldn’t say, but it was all bad. Outside of a kickin’ rock band, fire and skulls together were never a good thing!

Even Joe’s feathers were puffing up anxiously against her back. Not turning away from the mural, she raised her hand and patted his risen crest.

“I know, big guy. I don’t like it either.”

Grime’s voice rang urgently in her ears, “Lieutenant! Get over here, quick!!”

Sasha had spun on her heels and sprinted down the room to find Grime standing the wreckage of what used to be a display of armour. He’d evidently acted on a hunch while she’d been preoccupied. Judging by his thunderstruck expression, he’d just discovered something far worse.

“What is iooooh boy!”

This new second mural reminded Sasha a lot of Egyptian hieroglyphs. If there was any room for doubt about the technicolor stick guys, there was none here. Standing tall against an indigo backdrop in a neat row were the outlines of human beings; long gangly appendages, stumpy noses and everything. Some were wearing hooded capes, others were decked out in suits of armour. The couple in the middle looked particularly regal. No prizes for guessing the little wooden box they were holding in their hands, cementing their authority as if it were the globus cruciger.

Faded inscriptions were engraved along the bottom. They were written in a more archaic amphibian dialect, but being a toad of higher education, Grime was able to give translating them a decent shot.

These great beings of magic and might

Travelled from beyond to serve the night

Bow before these children of man

Or know the wrath of the—

“... Wu Clan?” He cocked his one good eye up at her. “Iiiii’m not getting it.”

There it was. Floodlights flashed in Sasha’s head. All colour drained from her face. A million and one thoughts were now firing across her brain at once, threatening to send her into cerebral shutdown.

It was at that moment she knew she’d been played. They all had. She didn’t know whether to be absolutely furious, betrayed or impressed.

Why that conniving, devious little—

That's when they heard the BOOM outside the window.

43 notes · View notes