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aconflagrationofmyown · 2 years ago

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K-Rations: make me know it, go ahead and show it

a Sarge and lil Mama fic, the long anticipated sequel to D-Rations

The sequel to D-Rations: or the one where Elaine realizes she’s in love with her husband and takes measures to make certain no such silliness as the miscommunication in the last chapter will ever come between them again

Warnings: 18+ smut, free use, adoring objectification of a husband??, overstimulation, lactation kink, slight sub space (male), angry makeup sex, cum feeding, communication issues and LOVE

Coauthored with the inimitable @prompted-wordsmith who’s initial prompt for this months ago launched a thousand ships 💋

Elvis had a very clear memory of being fifteen years old and dragging his heels every inch of the mile and a quarter from school to home one overcast day. Scuffing and meandering his way back to his family’s apartment in the Courts and dawdling on the steps outside, flirtin’ with the girls and begging his cousin Gene to get him a glass of water from inside.

“Get it yourself.” Gene had grumbled, till he caught sight of the shiner underscoring the swelling below one of Elvis’ blazing azure eyes.

Gene was a good fella and got that glass of water for him and brought it to him from the Smithe’s upstairs apartment and thusly Elvis had bought about forty five minutes of extra time before Gladys came out and caught sight of the damage done to her son’s face.

It was hard, Elvis thought then, balancing his understanding of his mama’s dread of any harm coming to him with the very dire need to exert himself or else get run over entirely in the harsh crucible of high school.

He’d been punched, and so he punched right back. And tomorrow would be better for it, ugly bruise marring his face, nonetheless. It was the sort of taking care of business womenfolk just couldn’t quite grasp, and he had felt some fiery exasperation that any reasoning was owed them at all for how a man conducted himself outside the female domain. It wasn’t them getting punched, was it? So why should they object if he punched and got punched? Just a fella taking care of business, best he knew how.

Elvis chafed under the nagging familiarity that trudging home to Elaine this fine European evening brought to mind. He thought of trudging home to mama. No shiner this time, just an arm still warm from being hung on by other women and half-baked good intentions he had no idea how to make her understand.

The cobblestone blocks home from the corner diner had never seemed so short and the crowd of fans to impede him so thin. He oughta be rushing home and assuring Elaine that he missed her and that he was just bein’ gentlemanly and givin’ her a lil breather after all the use he put her to since she got over here. But none of that explained the reason she fled as soon as she caught sight of him—or so Rex had told him. Told him she bolted right away. Elvis had never seen Elaine bolt, and just last week he’d seen her hold her ground like never before with those two harlots, Susan and Doris.

It gave Elvis a horrid, queer sorta feeling it had to do with the waitresses that he’d gotten a lil friendly with. Elaine had never minded before but now felt different and like he was in the wrong somehow. He just didn’t know how and before long he’d be at the front gates and he oughta be delighted he was almost home after such a long day. It’s all he wanted, to go home and be with his little family.

Really, he swore it was, so much so he was heartsick with it. And yet he dawdled like a naughty child outside the perimeter of his own fence, half expecting Elaine to embody Mama, to come out from their Bavarian style home wielding a broom handle and switch his backside for bad behavior, crowd of fans be damned.

He really got a little sick at the way his pulse thumped at that thought and his blood ran south in hardening interest. Wasn’t that the reason for this whole little snafu? The fact he couldn’t think of Elaine in any capacity without wanting her and taking her and wanting and taking and over and over again it went.

Bruised petals and dusty window sills.

What if she’s done with me?—he thought suddenly in a panic—what if she’s done and I blew my last chance to make her love me? They’d gotten into such a nice little patch of domesticity since she’d been here, withdrawals and torrid sex and diaper laden trash cans not withstanding… or maybe that was all crucial to it. He’d felt at home and he felt like she had begun to really feel that way with him and just last week he’d finally heard her lay claim to him. It made him want to dance around like a child and wring his cock out like a teenager. He’d done the latter, then fled from her for days, afraid of how much he was feeling, afraid to ask if she was finally feeling it too.

He’d started leaving a bit early, mumbled excuses of “Don’wanna be late, Laney baby, y’know how rowdy them German girls can get outside,'' hopping into the car quickly so she might not notice how he’d gotten a little wide-eyed and weepy down below at watching her in her apron and heels swish around the kitchen. Elvis had taken up invitations to dinner he’d normally scoff at with the boys, he’d started doing more PT to “get back in shape, gotta make sure I’m right fit to run after the new babes, reckon they’re gonna be trouble wit’ a capital T, Tink,” to explain away the bags under his eyes. Didn’t matter that none of their babies were running much of anywhere. Elvis was certain she didn’t deserve the truth, the truth that he was wringing himself dry in the empty showers on base after sweating and huffing out all the energy he couldn’t put to use on her. That was just it, wasn’t it: he had used her, for his own selfish problems he’d gotten into himself, and now he had to rectify that.

Only now, now he was sure that had been the worst thing he could’ve done. That there was yet another mistake somewhere in there he needed to fix. He imagined her coming and and whooping him, but as the door remained shut and the fans dispersed his stomach felt like lead as he imagined her giving him a haughty silent treatment, one he’d never experienced from her but imagined she’d be damned good at from the way she handled their daddies’ bickering. He wouldn’t be able to handle her mask of politeness towards him, all the while she was probably packing a bag and deciding she was finished with him. And oh, God above!

The very notion of that scenario set him ablaze with ferocity and actually quickened his steps as if he was jogging headlong into the house to dissuade his wife from up and leaving him after their first arguem—no. They hadn’t even had an argument or anything, he realized numbly. They actually hadn’t been talking much. Not this last week. Not with all his early mornings and extra time on base and piddling around town—

He wrenched his key into the lock, already angry at her for something she hadn’t done (it was easier than being angry at himself and more commanding than turning into a blubbering idiot begging her to stay) and threw open the door of his house, ready to have it out. Put her over his knee, remind her she could never take his babies away from him, threaten her with the law. Maybe manage to say he was sorry somewhere in there, too.

Fried chicken. That’s what struck him first, the smell of genuine lard baptized breading wrapped around tender white meat. His knees knocked together at the sentimental potency of it. Every surface in sight was damn near sparkling, and he almost felt guilty for putting his shoes on the doormat.

Silence. That hit next. No babble of babies or the radio, no laughter from Dodger and Elaine gossiping to the staccato chop chop chop of something fresh they were gonna force him to eat. Quiet, except for the click of the stove element coming on and off. It was a clear shot from the front door through to the sitting area and onto the long kitchen and dining room that ran along the back of the house, he could see the whole empty space of it and yet through that panic inducing emptiness he noticed the steam rising from one of the pans. She’d never be so foolish as to leave the stove on while leaving the house. Not unless she was madder than he anticipated and wanted to burn their home down.

He shook his shoulders out at the admiring terror that zapped through him with that thought and gingerly undid his uniform coat. Pegs, his little wife had pegs by the door and there, hung in a row, was the mink coat he’d bought her from a magazine while separated, then there was Jesse’s little coat and Ella’s white one with the pink trim. He turned towards them and hung up his military jacket beside her mink. Mommy and daddy and baby and baby number two’s, all in a row.

There’d be two more before next Christmas, god help them.

Elaine’s voice ringing bright and clear right behind him and just at his ear level, spooked him terribly bad outta his domestic reverie,

“Oh excellent,” she drawled as she observed with cool detachment as he clutched the back of his head that had knocked against a peg in his flail, “Perfect timing, dinner’ll be ready in about an hour or so,”

She informed him of this cheerily. As if he hadn’t been coming home too late for dinner or ought else this past week and hope flared in his heart till she reached out and gripped his army green tie, untucking it from between the buttons, and Elvis would deny the little shudder that went through him at the way the fabric slid past his chest. He didn’t have much time to think on it, anyway, as Elaine started to haul him bodily forward towards the sitting area, using all the strength she had amassed by carrying their children and their carriers and their luggage and their hampers about, using it all against him. “In the meantime,” she went on and he found himself tripping over his boots to keep up and watching the curls at the back of her head bounce, “I find myself in need of my husband’s services.”

Services? His brain doesn't reckon much more than the wonderful happening of being hauled around by his tie like a hound on a leash and the smell of that southern cookin’ in the kitchen. There’s a chaise lounge under the front window in the sitting area to the right of the door and it looks like she’s towing him there and while his brain tries to reconcile her kind tone with her rough hands, his cock certainly picks up on the subtext undergirding the notion of services. He’s afraid he hears himself whine at the tug on his neck and when she throttles him and spins him and drags him to sit down on the chaise his mind has gone fuzzy, he’s so utterly knocked off his moorings. Knocked off his feet, too, in a turn of events—only it’s not a turn, is it, really? When he’d first begged to make her his wife he’d gotten on his knees then, too, and suddenly that whole scene is put into a more lecherous context that only makes his head spin more, makes him slump, limp-limbed, onto the cushions. Services.

“Dinner smells great, Laney,” he began to defend himself, pacify her or just blurt out any ole thing that’ll get him off the hook, out of the cloud in his head. But she gripped his face instead, fingers digging into his cheeks and with a rush of relief he understood that this face looking down on him wasn’t the face of a woman done with him—she was furious, rather.

Furious meant she cared. Furious resembled mama. Mama had cared so damn much, no one had come close until this blazing eyed goddess slapped his face and shook him by his jaw while seething,

“You’re my goddamn husband, Elvis!” shake shake shake, his head knocked back with the vehemence of her passion, cover falling to the cushions and then the floor as he was forced to lay back into his seat with her vehemence, cheek smarting. His heart was soothed by it even as his hair fell into his eyes and his jaw ached, “You aren’t some hunk of meat that other gals get to paw at and lay claim to while you leave me without so much as a word in the mornings or a prayer at night! You hear me?”

She still hadn’t let go of his tie with her other hand. It was strangling him most pleasantly, starched collar chafing, and his voice was wrecked when he tried to agree, “Yes, yes’m I-I-I know…” through the squish of his forcefully pouted lips. He knew and he was aware now where he had gone wrong, though he wondered at her missing him at all, wasn’t everyone eager to get a breather from his presence?

“Haven't I been accommodatin’?” she begged instead and sounded so very hurt even as she drew him out of his pressed slacks with a stern hand, slacks she’d ironed patiently the night before—hard as rock and gushing appreciatively already. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, fumbling for some sort of grip on the edge of the chaise. It seemed almost blasphemous to touch her right now. She’s all a mix of vulnerable and ruthless this evening and his heart pounds in his ears at the sight of this side of her again, a righteous goddess. Unleashed on him, this time. Just as he’d fantasized about a week ago while helping himself with his own fist.

“Yes yes always, baby, always so damn selfless, I had to get away. Had to pace myself.” he swore in a rush, suddenly needing her to understand the devotion welling up in his chest as she paused for the briefest moment in shuffling her crinoline aside.

He watched as Elaine’s eyebrow quirked in comprehension, the angry set of her mouth gentling before her body sprang back into action and she dropped down on him with groan-inducing entitlement. He wheezed, realizing there was no cotton chafing at little Elvis—Elaine wasn’t wearing panties.

“That’s why you're bein’ so cold?” she beat on his chest as she began to rock on him and all too late he really believed that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. “You got time for buddies and waitresses but you won’t so much as touch me these last few days. Why? Why?” Her pretty face was twisted into a snarl.

The grip on his tie got mortally tight with each demand as did her pussy around him and he found he was going very fuzzy and he’d like to explain, tried to through a series of whimpers comprising her name and apologies of various coherence. She began to ride him with all the ferocity of a woman, a wife scorned, her own eyes boring into his. It’s all too much, too quick, the furniture creaking below them as he thrusts his hips up into her, meeting her every swivel and grind. Home, he’s home, and his body melts at that comfort, he was already leaking, can hear the squelching as he’s fucked on this proper chaise, her skirts still pressed and curls perfectly pinned, her chest constrained in her bodice. There’s nothing visual for him to latch onto, aside from that fiery stare. It’s as if he’s just there for her, and a whine escapes him as he realizes he’s being used. A whimpering apology of, “‘M sorry baby, ‘m sorry Laney!” falling from his lips, still held captive in her hands.

“Sorry?” Elaine hisses, all flashing teeth and taunting sneer, “I don’t want you just sorry, I want what’s mine, I want you to want me again! I don’t reckon you’re sorry enough, not with the way you seem too distracted by passing floozies in waitress uniforms to come home to us.”

“I am home!” And his own verbal dam breaks since that first time he saw that side of her, right on this very chaise, “Jesus, lil mama, only you get me, only you—’m yours, darlin’, I love you, love ya, won’t let them get handsy no more—Satnin’, my Satnin!”

And that last endearment is what gives Elaine pause, makes her realize that Elvis… her husband…really does love her. This is the first time he’s used that sacred name for anyone else since Lovie—Miss Gladys—died, God rest her soul. She’s in a league of her own in his mind, up there with the angels and the heavenly host. Now Elaine’s numbered among them. She can’t help the clench of her little house, the gasp she lets out, squeezing at Elvis’, her husband’s, her husband who loves her’s, key. She attacks him with little kisses, all over his dreamy, pretty, infuriating face. She leaves little smudges of her lipstick that make something in her chest, that had been wound tight over this whole neglectful business, unwind ever so slightly.

Elvis gasps out as she flutters over his face, dotting him with her adoration and he—he jus’—he can’t hold it in no more. His relief started in the eyes and sizzled down his spine, he started to cum, head tilting back, tears languishing his lash line as he was wrung dry by her yittle cunt.

“No more, no more, I swear!” he promised good behavior and begged for a reprieve from the bouncing clench of her all at once. He reached out with grabby hands, trying to maybe pull her off, pull her up his chest so he might use his mouth—but he was unceremoniously slapped away. She didn’t stop her bouncing, caring not a whit as he whimpered and gasped and twisted his hands into the poor chaise cushions, the same cushions he’d seen her be just as mean to those nasty women on.

“No,” Elaine said, staring down at him with stern good humor as if he was a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, “No, Naughty, you’re gonna sit there all nice and pretty, my own pretty soldier boy, for me, baby. And you’re gonna let me use you, this time.”

Oh, oh Lordy she was a vision as she clenched around his soft cock, lil hole hungry as she worked those thighs he knew were under her dress. Only he couldn’t see, and that extra layer of, of decency when he was being so thoroughly disregarded as anything other than a part of the furniture made something in him drift away. He felt hazy all over, breaths shallow little pants through his mouth, tiny whimpers the only thing he could manage through the tie, the hand on his face, and the feeling of—

“‘M sorry, s’sor-ry, ah! ‘M yours, ‘m yours!” As he felt himself starting to chub up within her. It was agonizing, made him writhe, turn his head away and sob because she wasn’t stopping.

“We share everythin’, Elvis!” she insisted, some portion of this hurt forming in her conciseness, punctuated by her loneliness and isolation, the amount of friendship and companionship she had given up for him.

A faint sheen of sweat painted Elaine’s temples as she did all the work, using the hand on his face to plant on his shoulder for leverage, just as he taught her that first night. Just thinking about it, thinking of how she’d babbled praises at him then—he became fully hard again soon enough, body betraying him, responding to the wet softness surrounding his cock. Even that least clever part of him knew when he was home. He was jerked like a stallion by his reins to look at her again, look at how she’d used the other hand, now, to bury under her dress and play with her lil button. She clenched like a fury around him, staring right into Elvis’ eyes as she ground down, hard, and came herself all over his dress pants and cock, squeezing him raw.

He couldn’t help the extra babble of, “p’ease, mama, p’ease, n’more!”

“You sit there like a good boy, E, you sit there and be good,” Elaine was panting to him, only he was sure that he couldn’t, he wasn’t good, was he? Not after the way she’d slapped him, didn’t deserve her soft praise, he had been bad, so bad—

“‘M not good! S’s-sorry, ‘m not…!” He bucked his hips up into her, wiggling, trying to get her off of him, only Elaine was an experienced rider and remained unphased by his squirming. She was used to wiggly little boys, Jesse being much the same as his father.

“You can be a good boy, baby, you can,” and she was being so mean, so mean, even as she pet at his cheek and neck, smearing slick onto his pulse, using one curled finger to tip his head back and admire the long line of his shining throat and cooed at him. “You jus’ gotta take it, baby.”

“No! No-no-n-no!” Elvis whined, trying again to arrest her movement, stop her working thighs as he felt himself teeter close to that edge again, the sloppy slick-slap as she resumed her pace and slammed down onto his hips, circling her own, driving him into full on crying. His Adam’s apple bobbed with the repetitive swallows as he tried to stop himself from drooling. Tears glittered on his cheeks but all Elaine did was kiss them away, kiss at his slack mouth as he wailed.

“You can yowl like a feral tomcat all ya want, Naughty, you’re not goin’ nowhere,” Elaine panted, picking up her pace again, using one hand to wrench into his hair, sweat-damp and mussed. Elvis came again just as she ground against him harshly, the pain in his scalp triggering his pleasure.

He lost a little time, coming to only to sniffle as he was fed her fingers, sticky with her cum, with his cum that had leaked out around where they were joined, the sharp-salty tang, still trapped under her in the best and worst way.

“You’re mine, Elvis,” Elaine stated then, sitting primly still on his lap, “Before God almighty above, you’re mine first and foremost.”

He nodded, cried out, “Yes, yes’m, yes m-mama, thank you,” like he was taught, the polite little gentleman, grateful for the respite even if she was still keeping him inside her. He could feel the wet stickiness on his trousers, getting a little uncomfortable but not daring to squirm, lest her mercy not last. “I don’t want any more of this abstinence nonsense. I don’t want you running off with some German trollops while you neglect your wife, ya hearin’ me, husband?” Elaine decreed.

“‘M sorry,” Elvis breathed out, reaching for her waist again cautiously. She allowed his hands to settle on her tummy, to palm the growing bump there. She pulled him up by the tie, cradling his head to her bosom, and he nosed at her pretty tits within her dress subconsciously. He—he didn’t know how to ask for what he wanted, not when he felt so small. Was it allowed? Did he do good enough?

“You want somethin’, daddy?” Elaine hummed, and he shuddered at the gentle tone and the scritch of her perfectly manicured nails through his hair and down the back of his neck. They dipped beneath his shirt collar, teased at the knob of his spine.

“I don’—don’ deserve it,” he confessed, coming out of his hiding spot under her chin to look up at her through his lashes, tear-spiked and trembling. “I’ve—been bad.”

“Shh,” Elaine simpered, unbuttoning her house dress and letting the front placard fall, her breasts already leaking from her exertions as she then drew him in, one hand on the back of his head and the other still ever-present on his tie. “You’ve been good to me now, haven’t you, Elvie-baby? We understandin’ each other thorough, now?” She tilted his chin up, tone becoming uncompromising at the last question. He was quick to nod, panting again, sticky trousers forgotten in the face of lip-licking longing.

“I need your words, honey,” Elaine called, drawing his attention back to her pretty face.

“Yes’m, mama, been good, I’ll—I’ll be s’good, for you,” Elvis said, chin quivering, looking bout ready to burst back into tears, face smeared with Elaine’s lipstick and the subtle shine of salt—the evidence of this long-winded kiss and make up.

“Perfect, perfect man.” Elaine murmured, pulling him back, and Elvis immediately latched on, moaning into her nipple as milk gushed into his mouth, dribbled down his chin, getting caught on his tight shirt collar. His lashes tickled her, a little “Hoo—ah!” from the voracious suction of his mouth, so much stronger than her babies’.

“There you go, there’s my pretty husband. My husband, my messy boy,” she crooned into his hair, biting her lip as she clenched around his still-soft member within her. She was sore, hadn’t taken her husband in days because of his own self-sacrificing tendencies, as she understood it, and was revelling now in the openness, the squelch of his seed spilling out of her. She pulled at Elvis’ hair, guiding him to the other nipple, him seemingly not noticing her start to rock gently on him yet again, feeling the slow-building heat come back to her belly. It was nice, this soft, squishy thing inside her—a chastened lil Elvis that soothed the ache while bringing her closer to the edge.

“Shh, baby,” she panted, starting to rock in earnest as she felt him come to life under her, jerking up, wringing at the pooling fabric of her skirt around her hips. He mewled against her breast, no longer really suckling, just open-mouthed smears of what might be kisses as he was so cruelly put to service yet again. Only this time it was better, because the milk smearing his face was hers, the shade of red she wore smudged down his cheekbones, paving the way for the two new twin tracks of tears as she started bouncing in earnest. He made only small little sounds, nuzzling into her like a kitten, bucking up as if he couldn’t help the movement despite the way it made his pretty face twist into pleasure-pain agony.

“One more,” Elaine decided, allowing herself to be greedy as she looked at the clock on the mantlepiece, “You give me one more now, my good boy, my husband, you give me one more spurt from that pretty cock and then I’ll feed ya, feed you up with a good m-meal, hmm? How does that s—ah!—sound?”

“Ma…ma,” was the only response she got, slurred from plump, shiny red lips, like the sweet cherries she might find in the summertime back in Memphis. His head lolled back, the only thing keeping him semi-upright the ironclad grip she had on his tie still. Couldn’t stop herself from kissing him, then, licking into his mouth and tasting her own milk. It was a heady feeling, made her thrust down harder, wanting to leave bruises on his pelvis like he did with her hips. It made all her worries disappear, seeing Elvis like this, so relaxed and accommodating, letting her use him up until he was dry and weeping, looking for all the world like a little boy—her little boy.

“Downright angelic,” Elaine gasped, admiring the cut of his cheekbones, the deepening of his flush, if that was possible, as he arched his back and met her downward bounce with a buck up. Wiggly as always. She unbuttoned the bottom of his own shirt, rucking up his undershirt, too, until she could see his own nipples—and she pinched them like he did hers, which made him let loose a whimpering cry and finally jerk hard enough to get her to release his tie for fear of truly choking him. He pulsed within her, hands clenching in a grip round her swollen waist as he gracelessly shoved up into her, once, twice, and she tipped over the edge from his vigor and the picture he made—

His jaw sharp as glass, smeared with her own slick and the white of his cum from when she’d fed him their combined releases, along with the milky cream of her breastmilk. Her lipstick prints nigh on disappeared into the decadently red blush that painted him all the way down to his heaving belly, interrupted by the scrunch of his undershirt at his collarbones and the still-buttoned dress shirt collar, the tie that was so useful flipped up and over his shoulder. His chest, his pecs so nicely defined, topped by frankly temptingly perked nipples. Those pretty blue eyes were neon-bright against the contrast of his flushed face, slack lipped and drooling. He stared at her as if she was something to be worshiped. This—this was hers, her Elvis. Only she would ever get to see this pretty picture, Elaine swore to herself, petting at his chest, flicking at one berry-bright areola. He barely twitched under her, gone quiet and pliant in a way that would worry her if he didn’t look so utterly blissed out. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was on some of them pharmaceuticals, by the glaze in his blown-pupiled eyes.

“Elvis, you with me, baby?” Elaine called, taking his chin in hand. His neck was limp, and all she got at first was an utterly drunken smile up at her, open-mouthed and guileless. It made her want to cradle him back to her chest, protect the utter innocence he exuded as he asked,

“Y’s’m?”

“Hey there, pretty boy.” She wasn’t quite sure where this all had come from, maybe some part of her recognizing the way he’d shuddered on their wedding night at her gentle attentions. Watching him fight and fight and fight his impulse to let himself be taken care of -the forcefully surrendering way he took care of her- took care of her babies, their friends, his fans, the whole goddamn world seemingly needing a piece or a part of him.

Well, he was wrung dry here and now on her chaise lounge, nothing more to give and she petted the tear wet cheek she had so vehemently slapped. This is what she could give him, she could give him a moment of weakness, everyone needs it from time to time. But, still—this had been a lot, and while she was doing mighty fine herself, Elvis was barely coherent and it worried her.

“You ready for some chicken, baby? I made some good, country fried chicken, jus’ for you, been so good for me,” Elaine let herself babble a soft stream of praises and thoughts, gently prying Elvis’ hands off her hips, holding them in one hand to kiss them before she used the other to leverage herself up and off of his soft cock, a wet gush of their combined fluids absolutely soaking him as she did. Another set of words welled up in her throat, three words that she wanted to say to him. But not right now. Not now, but soon.

“Yes’m,” he said, demurely staring up at her as she stood on wobbly feet, crinoline crinkling as she smoothed it out. Elaine was careful to keep one of her hands in his, because she had the feeling that this was not the time to deprive him of contact. Not the time to do anything but be gentle, to assure and coddle.

“You and I are gonna go clean up,” she said, taking another glance at the clock to make sure that yes, she could leave the chicken on its lonesome for a good thirty minutes so she and him could wash up. “C’mon, we made ya so messy, you’re real messy right now, honey.”

“‘M a messy boy,” Elvis giggled, beaming up at her, following her tug like a fawn—all too-long, elegant limbs, and big, shiny eyes. She led him up the stairs, his trousers undone and smeared all down the crotch to his knees with their mess, their hands clutched together as if they’d get lost without some sort of tether. And, as she guided him into the bathroom, gently tugging off his boots and then his pants, his dress shirt and then his undershirt, she had the sneaking suspicion he might just manage to wander somewhere if she wasn’t careful.

She briefly thought of the bath, but no, a washcloth would have to do—the chicken wouldn’t last much longer without her attentions, and she wanted her hard work to go into her man’s belly rather than to the stray dogs outside.

So she ran warm water and wiped him down, leaving his rumpled, stained clothes in the bathroom in favor of guiding him into their bedroom and to the clothes she habitually laid out on the counterpane. Elvis still wore a childish, empty-headed expression, all pretty face and guileless baby blues that made her heart flip. But the chicken—so she asked, carefully, “Baby, can you dress yourself? I gotta check on dinner.”

That was a mistake, a misstep, judging by the way his glistening chest started to heave in a panic and his eyes started to water afresh. “Y’yer leavin’ me?” he slurred out of puffy, shiny lips.

“No, no!” she rushed to get it out, holding onto him again and gently guiding him to sit down on the bed -the bed she’d watched him wring himself out on a week ago- “I’ll stay, I’ll stay.” she repeated, at a loss as to how to comfort him beyond touch and all her ire gone out of her at the sight of his limb shaking terror. She was still new to this, they both were. New and a little lost and they had to keep ahold of each other or they’d float away. Damn the chicken.

That was the problem wasn’t it? They needed to share everything. Solitary children, the both of them, and now they had each other. It made each separation or fissure in their shared experience a doubly worse betrayal because of it. That was Elaine’s chief complaint against him this week, it never was about other women, it was about the separation, the estrangement, the uncoupling.

Helpless, she acted on impulse and sat herself down in his naked lap, curling around him and feeling with heart melting relief his arms encircle her, squeezing her to his chest fiercely.

“T-t-the house was empty.” he stuttered out his explanation, trying to get her to understand what that was like for him -rushing home to make her stay, flinging open the door and not a bit of life to be found in his home.

His version of hell.

“You thought,” she soothed, kissing at his cheek, “but I’ve got chicken on the stove and our babies are with Betsy. I’m here. I’m right here. All that was missin’ was you. And now you’re here, too.”

His shakes subsided a little and he nods, rearing his head back to really look at her and on seeing her clearly, Elvis beams at her, wide and carefree, and it made her heart clench with… with love, to see him like this. To see the sheer trust behind this mindset he’d slipped into, it made her feel like the most special girl in the world. It made her forget any and all Susans and waitresses and other such floozies. They could have the tiny crumbs they snatched from the floor like rats—Elaine was the one with his ring on her finger, who got this. Her husband buries his face in her neck and flutters kisses over her wildly thumping pulse.

She feels like she’s keeping a secret, all of the sudden.

This, this has been coming for a long time. Building slow and steady in Elaine’s heart like the consciousness of a babe growing, first just a suspicion, and then excitement, then visible proof, and then the testing pain of it.

Till at last, a babe she loved ferociously without having ever even met it. This, somewhere along the way, this affection for him had become love, her head left behind and her heart in a full gallop, unrestrained, unreasoned with, undendiable.

“You could crush me with the tiniest word, ya know that?” she realizes it as she says it.

Realizes that’s what love is, giving power over yourself to someone else. It’s why she was so angry, so suddenly lonely, so fiercely protective of her portion of him.

It’s love.

He must’ve felt so lonely, so scared, loving her without a promise of return, there’s no way she could have managed that. He’s brave, her boy, he’s so brave. “I didn’t, I didn’t realize how strong a feelin’ it is.” she whispers, her own voice choked up with tears and Elvis raises his face from her neck abruptly, surfacing quite suddenly from his submissive stupor and looking almost wary in his hopefulness.

“What feelin’?” His voice dipps impossibly lower and it contrasts thrillingly with that boyish face.

“Ya shoulda warned me, you fool.” she blushes and smacks at his neck in embarrassed dallying, “How was I to know? Never been…never been before…”

“What feelin’!” he demands, grabbing her chin and his hand spanned the width of her jaw, one side to the other, paying her back in her own vehement coin.

Her smile grows even under the vice grip of his fingers and red lips part to flash gleaming white teeth and with a little sniffle and a roll of her chocolate drop eyes she huffs, “Love, Elvis, I’ve loved badly ya for a long time now, just didn’t realize it.”

He coulda told her that, coulda told her every little thing she did for him was loving, but she had to know it herself, so he’d let her be. The hand on her jaw spasms as he sucks in a little sob, his lip wobbling before his breath heaves back out in a:

“Oh thank god, oh baby, fuck, I don’t mean tthat I-I-I oh thank Jesus-“ his head thuds back onto her chest and she realizes he’s weeping then, tears and whatnot adding to their previous mess on her undone placard.

“Oh, shh, shh, it’s ok.” she mutters helplessly, holding onto his shoulders and trying to hug the truth deeper into him,

“Say it again.” he near wails into her breasts.

“I. Love. You.” she thumps his back with each statement like she’s burping a baby.

He pulls his head back and looks at her again, double takes, like he’s gonna glare the veracity of her truth outta her. “You’re jus’ sayin’ that casue you’re mad I ain’t no goody two shoes husband. ” he tests, moody and sullen.

Elaine knows this game, she smirks at his transparency, “These ain’t the first girls I’ve caught hangin’ on ya, E,” she reminds him, recalling as she does that Betsy, who she found him sharing an actual bed with while away from her, will be bringing the kids back any minute now, and here they are undressed, “and like I said, I’ve been obligin’ haven’t I?”

“Yeah. Don’t mean ya love me.” he points out.

“I thought we got this point into that fool head of yours while downstairs but I guess you weren’t paying attention.” she tsks, rising from his lap and stripping out of her soaked house dress -much to his confusion and distraction- while going on merrily, “I’m angry this time cause you left me out!” she dictates her point with an elegant finger to his sternum and his eyebrows raise in semi-enlightenment, “I don’t wanna be left out! I’m jealous of you, cause I love you and I’m damn proud that your mine, and you make me happier than I thought I could ever be and ya make me angrier than I-I thought either. Lord I’d do obscene things to keep you lovin me, E, I would. And I’d kill ya ��fore I let you tire of me. If you’ve got lady friends,” she continues in the face of his growing smile, the death threat really warming his southern heart, as she pulls on another dress, “you’ll tell me about them. I’m your wife, you owe me your time and you owe me your vigor and if you’ve got scraps left to give elsewhere, well,” she flips her hair out of the collar and presses her hands primly to her sides, “then I’ll be kept informed of them. They’ll be our little secret, not yours. There ain’t a you and a me, there’s just us. You swore it, Naughty, ya swore it before God.”

“I ‘member.” he nods solemnly from his place on the side of the bed, “But there ain’t anyone else, lil Mama,” his tone is unbearably earnest, “there’s jus’ you.”

Elaine’s heart twinges at that. It’s a truth, she knows, but for how long? She’s been so scared to care about him too much, so sure he’s gonna hurt her eventually. He’d managed to wiggle his way into her heart anyway, and she’s tired of being unconscious of it, this fierce devotion dying to be let out at last.

She lets the statement be, takes it for the promise it is. She’s his wife. “I know.” She assured him.

“If ya love me,” he challenges once more, and she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t a little tired from the emotion and the exertion and the contention, “-get over her and show it.” he taunts as he leans back on the bed, his arms wide open and his body inviting and she knows he knows, knows he gets it.

She tackles him anyway. Knocking the air out of him and tossing him back into the counterpane, letting him roll her under him and thrash atop the outfit she laid out for him. Let’s him kiss her greedily and wantingly and sure, thinks she can feel the difference in him.

This is Elvis knowing he’s loved. He’s magical and sure of himself and confident in a way that boosts her own surety, like they’re feeding each other in a never ending replenishing cycle.

“My yittle baby, my perfect baby, my wifey, silly widdle thang don’t know her own mind.” he mumbles into her hairline as he peppers her face with smooches and she allows it; soaks up the dynamic change as suddenly he’s patronizing and sure of himself even as he’s talking all little and vulnerable.

He’s Elvis.

And he’s kissing her ravenously as if he can persuade her to love him more with each press of his plush lips and each nip of his teeth and lick of his tongue.

“You’ve been cryin’.” he comments as he licks at her cheeks, tasting tears, and his voice sounds surprised as if he himself wasn’t weeping a few minutes ago.

“So were you.” she laughs.

“Nuh uh.” he denies with a shake of his head and she rolls her eyes while his tongue plunges into her mouth once more. Foolish man, stubborn, bashful man that she loves, God help her-

“Yooo hooo!” comes from right outside their door, right in the upstairs hallway and Elvis dives off her onto the other side of their bed before she can even think to suggest it. His naked form lying full prone to the ground, tactically perfect -turns out the army taught him a thing or two, though that butt of his is still sticking up higher than would be preferred in a tactical setting. Elaine stifles the sound of her snicker but he sees her nose wrinkle from it and swears softly at her.

“Betsy, darlin’ just a minute.” Elaine hollers, while patting herself down to make sure she’s not misplaced some important part of herself during all this wrassling. She grabs his clothes from the bed and tosses them down at him, watching bemused as he tries to get them on in his prone position before stepping over to him to bend down and kiss him once more. “I love you.” she reminds.

He turns scarlet under the plunging neckline of his white sweater, “thank ya.” he preens sweetly and she takes a second to admire that, her hand still stroking his soft cheek, before straightening up and going to the door.

Cracking open the door the rest of the way reveals Betsy in her pretty gingham, arms straining to hold up one baby while the other strains her arm to be released for a crawl. “How do ya do it?” she gasps, talking about the children who immediately break lose of her nannying arms, Ella diving straight for her mother’s embraces while Jesse books it on the floor between Elaine’s legs, headed towards Elvis hiding place like he can sniff him out.

Elvis pops up just in time, a little rumpled and askew but thoroughly covered, though his attempt to pick up his son is aborted by the way his legs are still shaking and he wobbles onto the bed with a noisy flail. He feels Jesse pawing at his shin as Elizabeth’s eyes rake over him and he wonders if this is how Elaine felt sitting at lunch with Daddy and Dodger after their wedding night, or at each train stop on the way down fo Fort Hood when he paraded her in front of his adoring fans in between feverish bouts of love making that left her near catatonically used.

He recalls how she looked very well. He remembers his savage smugness at touching up her smudged makeup and displaying her again and again all primped after he wrecked her, wondering if the world could see how claimed she was by the wobble of her painted lip and the wide shock of her perfectly lined eyes.

Look, he’d been saying at each station stop, look at the perfect little thing that lets me love her.

He sees that smugness on Elaine’s face as she waits for Elizabeth to get her breath back as she just stares and stares at Elvis spread out in the bed like he’s grown another head. Betsy looks so shocked by the sight of him he actually looks down to make sure he’s put on pants but all's in order, he must just have “Elaine’s stud” written on his forehead and he blushes at that. He wouldn’t allow it if she didn’t love him. He’s afraid he’s gonna be allowing a lotta shit for the reason. Looking down for his pants reminds him of his baby boy, still clutching his pant leg and he grunts with the effort of heaving himself upright and pulling his little buddy into his lap.

“Hey bubs, how ya been?” he babbles as he tips backwards again, his spin worn out and he realizes he’s terribly weak and very, very hungry. He thinks he can smell buttery soft breading burning downstairs and it makes his mouth water.

“I manage it with help like yours.” Elaine replies, honest and bemused a few seconds late and she almost snaps her fingers in front of Elizabeth’s glazed eyes before the girl finally drags them back from the sight of her languid husband to her own face.

“Oh, n-no problem. Anytime.” Betsy assures again, sweet gal that she is. “Do I need to stay and work on the letters?” she asks it a little hopefully, wringing her now empty hands, and Elaine knows that she’s missed being in this house and around him, around them even, what with Elaine kicking her out for privacy during his withdrawals.

Not many families have a pretty, live-in secretary that the wife tolerates but the Presley’s aren’t most families, and Elaine is accommodating as they’ve just established, and she likes collecting people around her man that she’s certain love him the right sort of way. And if he loves them back, well, it’s a curious thing to her that she doesn’t for once doubt he’s got enough to go around. Her love cup will be overflowing from now on, she has no need to begrudge the droplets that others quench themselves with. She realizes what was missing was her own contribution.

It all settles into place, belonging and longing and having. She loves him.

“No, no need for the letters tonight.” She replies and watches Betsy’s pretty face fall for a brief moment before the girl catches herself, then Elaine adds what she always intended to add- “But stay for dinner, Betsy, so long as it hasn’t burned.”

We hope y’all enjoyed and can’t wait to hear your thoughts, screams and prompts 🌹💋

Taglist (comment if you’d like to be added, dears)

@paradsol000

@eliseinmemphis

@prompted-wordsmith

@ab4eva

@foreverdolly

@powerofelvis

@butlersxbirdy

@crash-and-cure

@elvisabutler

@heartbrake-hotel

@stylespresleyhearted

@thatbanditqueen

@crazymadpassionatelove

@myradiaz

@ash-omalley

@whatstruthgottodowithit

@arianatheangelgirl

@steph-speaks

@burningloverdoll

@angelface-555

@lookingforrainbows

@missmaywemeetagain

@coolgirl462

@kingdomforapony

@18lkpeters

@richardslady121

@from-memphis-with-love

@lillypink

@artlover8992

@pennyroyalcreep

@notstefaniepresley

@ellie-24

@renaissingle

@waiting4brucewayne2adoptme

@presleyenterprise

@marriedtopresley

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therealslimshakespeare · 11 months ago

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Twenty Songs Challenge, written after being so lovingly inducted by the powerhouse that is sweet Mey, @the-ugly-swan . Challenge being to choose twenty favorited songs and write one shots based off of them with any pairing or fandom of my choosing. Being a weirdo and a little burned out in my own created universes beyond the fics already in works, I chose what currently inspired me most, obscure as it is.

Pairing: Henry “Hotspur” Percy and Lady “Kate” Mortimer Percy -early 15th century

Fandom: RPF, Shakespeare? Tom Glynn-Carney’s 5 magnificent minutes of a performance as Hotspur in <The King 2019> the armor alone was amply inspiring. The Hollow Crown fans feel free to imagine whoever, as you like. I love this historical pairing in about any iteration and the plot is drawn from both Shakespeare’s play and real history, the timeline, plot and politics being pretty self explanatory through the incorporated dialogue. NOTE- wordplay ahead with “cur” and “Kerr”, the latter being a Scottish clan holding great enmity with the Percy Family and charged with holding the Scottish side of the border. Also I kept Lady Percy’s name as “Kate” even though it was technically Elizabeth in the records.

Dynamic: a rough northern lord and his too good for him lady -a lady who has, through years of an arranged marriage gone horribly well, come to find his homespun gallantry and blunt ways more than a little intoxicating when knelt before her in amused deference. She could almost find it in herself to be gentle with him -if he hadn’t just started a rebellion whilst away from her at the Capitol.

Dedicated to my wifey @prompted-wordsmith who I did proselytize into the Percy cult one fevered evening with inestimable results, including her contribution of a few choice lines herein.

🕯As it Was ~ Hozier

“There is a roadway, muddy and foxgloved

Never I'd had life enough

My heart is screaming out

And in a few days I would be there, love

Whatever here that's left of me is yours just as it was”

Warnings: 18+ to be safe. a small amount of sexual content, flirtations, a husband and wife touching in public, verbal sparring and talk of making children and use of the word “bred”, swearing, use of the words “cock” and “cunt.”

The sound of hooves in the courtyard rouses Kate from her anxious stupor by the hearth, toilsome grain list forgotten on her lap. The scroll swishes to the floor at her abrupt standing, wafting out of her path as she rushes to the window.

First the clatter of a single, foremost, over-eager rider, followed at a lag by his retinue, skilled riders all and armored as befits the guard of a nobleman. They make such a clatter in the yard when they come in after him. Some petty part of her briefly considers the tactic of staying here in their chambers in protest, a quiet sign of disapproval with his errand, of discontent with his brusque leave taking two weeks agone.

Her Harry would find her anyway, and like it better that she were in their chambers. He would like it well she were so near the bed and like it ill she slighted him in her dutiful welcome -but he would not speak of that. Not one for speaking much, her husband, not on matters that plague her these days, weeks, months. Kate might have it out with him in the old way and slap him about and toss cold quips and get from him little more than the same benign aggravation and good humored laughs between, a couple dozen kisses to her neck and a grapple in the sheets.

That is what talk they would undertake were she to stay up here.

It is that lone, eager, forerunning clatter of his horse that speaks to her, speaks for him. Just as his sword and his reputation and his gruff graciousness has spoken well of him across these northern lands, his eagerness to return to her, to outstrip his men in haste to be back from his fool’s errand and into her embrace -it is all the declaration of devotion she may expect from him. It is the truest form, without jape lacing his tone or tonic of lust clouding his confessions.

Harry Hotspur, as fast to return to his wife as he is to meet a fight.

It is love, of the sort she has grown to be grateful for, and it is that and fear of losing it besides, that rushes her out from their chambers and down the polished steps, out to the great hall and past the giant outer doors, cursing a lousy servant or five and ordering a bath and commissioning supper and refreshments as she goes. The torch flames bend from her flight, a whoosh and a shadow stalking Alnwick Castle’s stone passageways until the gray light of evening pours into her sight from the opened great doors. Squires and stable boys clutter her path but they part as she dashes, nay, only a dignified hasten now, out into the courtyard where nearly all of this fool’s troup have dismounted.

There are doffed helms to the Lady Percy, the jangle of chain mail crinkling with bows and scraps of deference all around them, but she sees only him, with mist dripping on his nose and a face too boyish for the insolence he has returned from discharging.

“Kate.” he utters.

Will ever he say her name lazily? She hopes not, for that alone she will endure the unwarranted cheerfulness with which he greets her on this dire occasion. She has heard it said in anger, in jest and in passion, vows and quips, praise and warning. And now in cheerful pleasure as evening mist soaks her gown and the heavy clunk of her husband's footsteps clang ever near her on the paving stones.

“Lord husband.” she greets, hands folded over her freshly healed womb.

His stride falters and he rocks back on his spurred heels, an arms length away, an embrace so tangible she can see his jaw tick from the watering of his mouth. “Lord husband is it?” he repeats thoughtfully, eyes drifting down to the paving stones for a brief moment as if to recollect some forgotten crime, they flick up soon and in them is jesting scrutiny, “My lady wife rushed all this way, down five corridors and a furlong of Keep only to greet me thus?”

Did her rising breath betray her eagerness? Could he see her in the hall despite his business dismounting?

“Your cheeks are red.” he shows her mercy, some form of it. His form. “But -Lord husband, it is, nevertheless?”

“Unless you would prefer ought else?” she inquires, he had once thought this smile quite chilling, he had admitted after their first babe, now he finds it rousing, he has admitted after their third.

“If it please you.” his shifting stance is noisy, his tabard and sword and still clutched helm a racket of accouterments in the pattering rain.

“I have any number to offer,” she concedes, stepping nearer, a lady’s step, covering one third of the ground between them that he might vanquish in a single stride. Still, he waits. “Knucklehead.” she whispers, her breath a fog and her insult as lost as vapor in the ears of his watching men, her bearing alone must satisfy their curiosity, as must his growing smirk and rising color, “Jackenape.” Another step until each little scar on his face is visible and the little canyons each raindrop make of them. She saw his finger twitching where it grasped his visor “Cur.”

There was the slightest flinch between his brows at that, a furrow that smoothed as his mirthful lips flattened out. “Careful now, lady wife, with words like Kerr* thrown about, my men might think you presumptuous, their lady gone and married to some other, a Scottish laird at that. So sure of my death already, sweet Kate, that you must speak of Kerrs in mine own yard? Ha, ‘pon my word you are qu-“

“Hush!” Her hand, fresh warmed as it was by recent hearthside and rich velvets pressed frimly to his lips, a tingle shooting straight to her toes at touching him at last. He was silent then, only the puff of breath against her fast chilling fingertips. “Tease me not so,” she begged, her own mirth gone out in her eyes, her arch look turned to grief, “not when you are just returned from an errand all but ensuring such an end. It is too cruel, even of you. Handle me kindly, Percy, as you always have, in words this time, if not in embrace.”

He seemed to ponder this before raising that hand not occupied with his helm, clumsy and clad in gauntlet as it was, to her wrist, wrapping the chilled and layered steel round her pale flesh and gently tugging her hand from his lips, only so far as to press it to his cheek instead, their audience of men at arms unheeded. “I betook myself to London,” he enunciated, as if it were their first night all over again and his thick borderland drawl too strong for her courtly ears to decipher, “to remind a king of his debts.”

“And tell me!” she cried fiercely, a choked, barely quieted protest as her hands dug into the wet leather of his jerkin, wrist twisted from the steel grasp, “What errand is that but a fool’s? Have you no fear at all left in this bruised carcass? Do I patch up an animated corpse time and again from your wars only for it never to have soul and feeling and wisdom in it? Do I, Harry? Gone to remind a king? How do you dare such?”

“It is he who has dared too much!” he cried back, loudly where her’s had been choked, a ringing and rebauld defense, worthy of a man who would chastise his monarch in full view of council. “First his debts, and now my son’s land! We did not make children so as to watch like blithe cowards as their birthright is bequeathed out from under our feet -piecemeal!- to a courtly cunt whose only recommendation is his alacrity to pucker and bow.”

Kate glanced about her at the men making show of industry, piddling at harnesses and armaments, walking horses in circles. Her husband's words could be no worse than what he had said to the King’s own face, anyone without stomach to become a rebel would have stayed behind in the Capitol, sensing dissension brewing. Lady Percy could perceive none missing from his number. So, a war it was to be, then.

“So, a new generation of Percys is to play at kingmaking.” she summarized.

“We make no boast of it.” Harry protested in turn.

“No,” said she, “why would you with how poorly your last choice has served you?”

That caused a start from him, a step forward that was neither gallant nor eager but angry as man to man. Kate, still with hands fisted in the crooks of his armor, stepped with him, backwards to his hall. “It is your brother with the better claim.” he showed his plan at last, a slow and conniving admission, one not common for his brash ways and straightforward mind.

Kate gasped at the implication. “Edmund?”

“He was proper heir, all along.”

“Your father-“ she chose her wording carefully, “-did not agree.”

“My father’s preference is not law.”

“It is mistaken for such, often.” Kate smirked in reply. “And Edmund is not suited-“

“-Edmund is not the turd now stealing from his vassals!” her Harry rejoined, his helmet pressed to her chest, “Edmund will do.” he reiterated once more.

Kate stared at his temper, the signs of it in his flaring nose and his wild eyes, the cure was between her thighs but watching mist drops fall from unblinking lashes was sweet prelude indeed. “Edmund,” she replied quietly and in a manner to be heeded, “is not willing or suited, he prefers instead to listen to welsh bards and lay upon the lap of his savage wife.”

Her Harry rolled his eyes at her truth, an admission, or the closest to one, she would ever receive. As if battling some great inner turmoil she watched him purse his lips and heave out a sigh before in a sudden movement the helm was tossed to the ground -much to the scramble and reaction of a half a dozen squires who ran to pick it up from its puddle- and suddenly steel hands were upon her hips, tugging her near to him even as she shied away, her face turned in a pantomime of demureness. “Strange,” he said and his tone suggested he still pondered her report of her brother's amorous preoccupations, “-and her lap so less Devine than mine own wife’s.”

“Then why do you haste from it so often?” she whined, delivering a smack against his belted tabard, right where the lions paraded across his right breast.

“Only a man dying of thirst appreciates that water has a flavor.” he reasoned and Kate allowed the open mouthed kisses that crept down her neck, her face turned stubbornly still to the south wall. The blacksmith's roof will be in need of new thatching soon, before spring. Before war.

She feels stubble against her tender skin, bracketing those pretty lips she once derided him for. No warrior ought to have lips like that, it was not seemly, not when maidens were denied such richness, such fullness, such rosy hue. But there is roughness about his lips and on his jaw as it tucks into the juncture at her shoulder, that show of clavicle her dress allows drawing him in like a siren’s song. He must’ve rode hard the entire way, no inns or refreshment, no shaving or baths, straight to her as from a battlefield. The King’s city is just as loathsome as any field of carnage, but he went to free her brother, to get a ransom, to reclaim their stolen land, to remind a king.

He did it for her, and the babes she gave him.

Kate turns her face from the blacksmith's thatch and raises her hand to his face, tenderly stroking the three days' beard that's grown as he's been on the road, riding hard to get to her. They have backed nearly to the hall’s mouth, the drip of rain off the gutter patters behind her on the threshold, Kate knows he can smell supper and hear the clatter of their children racing to meet him on still chubby legs. How different is the love of home, man to woman, Harry would sooner fight for it and she would cower within. Her thumb swipes at the raindrops making farce of tears upon his cheek.

"Princess," he breathes against her palm as he crushes her into his chest, still half armored and agonized for it as he cannot feel her softness with the cuirass, the leather, the chainmail. There are curves and bosoms and soft flesh he knows too well just on the other side of this awful barrier.

Princess will be her title if his treason succeeds, if her brother wears that cursed crown. “Princess”. It sours her mouth, but it is kind of him to wish it for her.

"You will come back, Harry.” she commands of him, she declares the outcome of this brewing war, “Soaked in the blood of feckless scum, you will come back and put another babe in me. A little prince or princess," she hisses in his ear, and she can tell he freezes at that, her concession to his treason, still as stone in his metal casings.

His eyes are ever so blue as they search hers.

"So I forbid any recklessness, my Lord Husband. Because I want this - " and her hand slips beneath his jerkin and the hem of mail to squeeze his cockstand most assuredly, as assuredly as she was that he would be sporting one for her, gripping it as one might grasp a chalice of wine during a toast "- and the rest of you, in one piece." Harry slumps against her shoulder, panting into the chilled hair and too heavy for her little frame. "Or so help me God." she intones, sharper than any steel he wields. "Swear it, Harry." She gives him another punishing squeeze, and he groans, agonized, as his mouth meets with the softness of her bound bosom, his knees the hardness of the stone cobbles. If she hadn't promised a use for his cock, he'd think she was liable to geld him herself at his presumption to seat and unseat a king, but now that he is out of her grip, for a moment, and looks up at her with such longing he fears his soul has left his chest for hers.

"So help me God." he agrees, it is in providence’s hands, after all, and in Kate’s clasped one’s atop his head.

“Fool.” she says once more as she bends over him, gently pressing a hand to the back of his head, pressing his face to her belly and her chilled fingers to his sopping hair, “It is not my brother these men fight for, nor for me. Not when it is you that calls them to it.”

“For what then?” He mumbles into her womb, hands heavy on her hips, the courtyard’s occupants dispersed into the shadows of the eaves, but a couple dozen peering eyes twinkle towards them in the twilight’s gloom.

“How often have I heard it said here, in this very courtyard.” Kate scoffs, observing the strength knelt so adoringly before her, “Have I dreamed each cry of ‘no prince save he be a Percy?’ Ha, to think they fight for a Mortimer, indeed. Ha!”

Harry staggers to his feet at this poke, it is, as are so many of his Kate’s wounds, half torment, half praise. His blood pounds with the elixir of her acknowledgment of his capability. “It is well then, Kate Mortimer,” he recites, daring now to put his lips very near her own, to nuzzle his strong nose with her hawkish one, to tip a chin and bat an eyelash against her wet cheek, “it is well that you are Percy now yourself, through and through, wed-“ his lips meet hers in a brush she chases after, “-and bred.”

🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯

Hope all five of you who read that enjoyed it. 😆 I know it’s a fragment but as I’m nothing but hyper fixated when some interests resurrects in me, I’ll probably be back with more of them. Drop a note below if you’d like to be on a taglist for such developments.

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spell-cleaver · 2 months ago

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Portrait of an Empire

Flufftober

Day 9: "Don't do that!" - "But..."

“Do not touch that,” Vader said without looking up.

They were seated in the small living room that attached to the throne room, each studying their own matter. Sheev glanced up from Mas Amedda’s report on the new Naboo senator—and smirked when he saw Luke scowl and draw back his small fingers from the lightsaber at Vader’s waist.

“I just wanted to look!” he whined. “It’s harmless!”

“Nothing about a lightsaber is harmless.”

Luke pouted. “But—”

“Your father is correct,” Sheev said mildly, returning his gaze to the datapad. He sensed more than saw Vader glance at him, surprised at the support.

“I just want to see it!”

Sheev raised his eyebrows and locked gazes with Luke. “Your father said that once. Before he lost his limbs.”

Technically, it was true. He remembered young Anakin complaining that Kenobi hadn’t let him train with a lightsaber yet. That had been chronologically prior to Mustafar.

Luke went pale. “What?” he whispered.

Vader, aware that a wordsmith he was not, just nodded gravely rather than break the spell.

“He was very foolish when he lost his limbs,” Sheev continued. “He underestimated the lightsaber”—less true, and Vader was starting to glower at him for bringing it up, but Luke was still transfixed—“and he still pays the price today.” He shook his head. “Do not play with a lightsaber, Luke. You shall regret it.”

Luke stopped reaching for Vader’s saber and backed away. The crackle of Vader’s vocoder may have been a laugh.

“What about you?” Luke asked.

“Hm?”

“Was it a lightsaber that made you look ugly?”

Sheev’s gaze stayed, unseeing, on what he was meant to be reading. “Pardon me?”

Luke seemed to have realised he’d been a bit rude. He shuffled his feet and averted his gaze as he said. “Well… other people don’t look like you�� Even the really old ones like Trakin.”

“Tarkin,” Sheev corrected.

“Yeah. He’s ugly, but he doesn’t do it as well as you. No one does.”

Was that supposed to be a compliment? Sheev wasn’t sure. Luke had cried the first time he saw a normal looking Human being, having only been cared for by Sheev, Vader, and Sith acolytes like Vaneé, and droids before…

“Your grandfather,” Vader said, “was playing with lightning, rather than a lightsaber.”

Luke’s eyes went wide. “There was a storm?”

“You could say that.” Vader looked sideways at Sheev. He could feel his smiling under that mask.

“The ability to produce lightning is a very useful one,” Sheev attempted. He might as well take the chance to proselytise. “When you are older, I can teach you—”

“No!” Luke said hurriedly. Then: “Thank you.” He shuddered. “I don’t wanna be ugly.”

Sheev stared at Vader. That was definitely a laugh.

“All things come with risks, my boy,” he tried with a smile. “You can do nothing truly great without risking yourself.”

Luke considered this. “So I can play with the lightsaber?”

“No—!”

#luke skywalker #darth vader #sheev palpatine #random words on a page #my writing #for darkness shows the stars #portrait of an empire #flufftober2024

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shady-ratt · 4 months ago

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Day 9 of asking my friend JRWI Prime Defenders related questions till he watches it

Question - Who’s your favourite npc

Options - Le Frog, Tide, Mark, Wordsmith or Lightspeed

Answer - Tide

Extra - “ STOP HES UGLY “ (I kept spamming dakota cole gifs 😓)

Progress - I’m making a slideshow to introduce him to the characters

He immediately called me gay after i expressed my love for Tide 😕😕

(if anyone wants to suggest questions go for it :D I’ll give you credit if i use it ofc <3)

#just roll with it prime defenders #jrwi prime defenders #Asking my friend JRWI Prime Defenders related questions till he watches it.

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honest-moth-of-silver-grove · 3 months ago

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helloo, never done a match up but recently been very obsessed w bg3 so im curious.

its a little hard describing myself since im not so good with words but id say im anxious/awkward but quickly warm up when someone speaks to me. i love teasing my partner and joking with them in a flirty way. my love language is def words of affirmation. my mbti is intp. ive been called very chill & easy to get along with & just someone who will want to listen & help people. although if someone just saw me on the street theyd assume im very reserved & keep to myself. i dont have the best upbringing and definitely had to persevere my way through life & def had a "dark" path i was heading down but now im at a very good place. the only thing that still really affects me is my anxiety and my constant need for reassurance lol. im very gay so i would prefer to be matched with a woman but id also like to see the male match up as well! poly only:)

A/N: Oh my gosh the bg3 obsession is so real though!! Because you wanted to see both your Male and Female answers (being open to a poly interpretation), for you my Anxious/Awkward INTP Anon, I’m thinking Shadowheart (Female) and Halsin (Male) would be your best bets.

Shadowheart would be a great match for you! Similar to you, she’s not the quickest to speak, preferring to hang back and observe before commenting. However she is quite the wordsmith, and loves teasing her partner with witty banter as well as the occasional suggestive quip.

Shadowheart may want everyone to think she doesn’t need help or guidance but in reality she’s actually quite insecure and needy, which means she greatly understands your love language of words of affirmation. She’ll remind you as many times as you ask, how she truly feels about you and hopes that you do the same for her.

As an INTP, you share some similarities to Shadowheart’s ISTJ, although there are a few notable differences. Whereas you are less of a teacher’s pet, Shadowheart is quite by the book. She places an emphasis on following orders, and doing what is expected of her. This may cause some friction, but its actually for the best as your free nature can help untether her from any unhealthy binds or relationships in her life.

Shadowheart is fairly easy going compared to the other companions. She’d rather watch from a distance than jump right into the fray of a social event. The two of you can linger at the refreshments table together drinking wine and gossiping about the fashion choices of those around you.

Depending on how her path goes, Shadowheart may also have just found herself steering away from a darkened path. If she becomes a follower of Selune, she’ll view her days worshiping Shar as a mark on her honor and her soul. At the same time, if she becomes a Dark Justicer for Shar, she will view her short period of doubt as a mark on her honor. Either way, Shadowheart knows what it’s like to be headed down the wrong path, and she will hold no grudges against you for it.

Shadowheart doesn’t suffer from generalized anxiety but she does have a few fears, wolves being amongst them. She does her best to reassure you of your safety, always taking the time to remind you that she is here for you, as you are the woman she loves, and she would move hell and earth for you.

In a poly relationship (with Halsin, for example), I can see Shadowheart being a little bit more passive aggressive with her banter/word play. Her choice to be coy rears its ugly head every time she feels neglected. Just be sure to include her in your threesome a bit more and everything will go back to normal.

Halsin would also be a great choice for you! (If you were attracted to men). Hell, even if you’re not, I don’t think that would stop Halsin from shooting his shot, at least once.He’s lived a long time, he knows it’s better to put yourself out there than risk missing out on a true love.

Halsin doesn’t mind if you’re not great with words, he’d rather his actions speak for himself and others anyway. He’s a very physically attuned person, being a Druid afterall, and as a result, he’s adept at reading body language. Of course being the enormous lover (ahem slut) he is, he lives for your flirty teasing! He’s also a master at getting people flustered. It becomes a competition between you two, who can say the raunchiest thing to make the other person crack first. If you’re in a poly relationship with him and Shadowheart at this point, she, surprisingly, ends up winning this competition, saying things to make you and Halsin blush (and cause a nun to have a heart attack). She’s the undefeated champion really.

His ENFJ is a good balance to your INTP. He’s an empathetic enough person to be able to understand your need to think things through logically, without getting hurt in the process. And as an extrovert, he can help you navigate social aspects- especially ones where you feel awkward or out of place.

Halsin understands having to overcome darkness, as he was burdened with the task of solving the Shadow Curse and saving the shadow lands. He has done several things he is not proud of. (It’s actually interesting, in a scrapped storyline for Halsin early-access had him as the one who dealt the killing blow to Isobel, killing her, and unintentionally sparking the Shadow Curse as it was Ketheric’s grief over the death of his daughter that pushed him over the edge.) Halsin does not know if he is worthy of your forgiveness, but he will welcome it nonetheless. He will always remind you how much you mean to him, not only to quell your anxiety but because he truly cares about you that much.

In a poly relationship with Shadowheart and Halsin, I see you getting all the attention and reassurance you could ever ask for. Shadowheart and Halsin may butt heads occasionally, especially if Shadowheart still worships Shar. (And I mean it would take A LOT to get Halsin back on board with a Shar-worshiping Shadowheart for a life partner.) But for the most part, you’d make up a very witty, naughty little trio.

A/N 2.0: Ahhh, sorry it took forever to post this. I’ve actually had this mostly done like a month ago but I didn’t want to share it until I could look it over and make sure it sounds right. I hope you liked it, and it was worth the wait. <3

#bg3 x reader #bg3 imagine #shadowheart x reader #halsin x reader #bg3 matchup #bg3 matchups #bg3 imagines #matchups #bg3

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lyceana · 5 months ago

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I felt true, visceral fear today after I returned from work and discovered that my Huion monitor tablet wouldn't connect to my laptop. I knew that bitch was all powered up and screaming but blue-balling me with only pitch-black darkness.

I shut off and restarted my laptop 5 fucking times, rammed the usb cables in and out of my laptop's usb ports, in and out... I never thought that an expensive device - wasted for just watching funny cat videos and enabling me to draw the shapely but scaly butt of Voldemort - could be violated. Learned a life lesson here: any hole can be stuffed, you just need some imagination y'all.

Fuck tentacles, ugly men & weird-ass creatures with gigantic horse dicks - give me sub laptops/pcs getting dominated by their puny usb cable daddies!

I digress. So, I turned on my 2nd laptop which is on life-support - it never asked to be an accessory to producing hardcore incest material between Tom and his hot daddy Riddle sr, btw. But, like come on! What's better than one hot, mentally maladjusted Tom Riddle? Two of course! Think about the delicious angst, the hurt/comfort, the abandonment issues, the forbidden attraction, uugh...

Why are there so few tomcest (sr) fics? It's unfair, I'm fucking starving, eh. I mean, Riddle sr is the goddamn blueprint for gratuitously hot Voldemort! Where's pathetic, blushy, snot-nosed and puffy-eyed Tom Riddle sr??? The internet lied to me! I thought you only needed two hot dudes who didn't even have to meet each other to make sweet, sweet looove to each other... there's even incest and murder for extra seasoning!

I'm begging the ao3 wordsmith gods who kin Tom Riddle/Voldemort to open their hearts to Tomcest sr T_T) We all love pathetic men in tears and Voldemort would never allow himself to show such vulnerability but that's what we have his da for... Voldy could vicariously experience such a display of helplessness through Riddle sr! And tbh, I seriously need more beautiful works of art featuring my favourite basket case twink (dub-) non-con-ing his papa into some father/son bonding. I'm going cold turkey here!

I digress again. So, I plugged my Huion into my 2nd laptop and behold! That fucker finally connected and mirrored the laptop display, thank fucking god! Little shit was playing hard to get but it still lives! Whoop, whoop!

Thank Voldy's perky ass, I wasn't forced to make a human connection with an underpaid yet bored employee at the Huion support centre. I had that tablet for 4 years and we experienced the deepest depths of human depravity together - I cried bitter tears, cursed it for reflecting my shitty art skills - my inability to draw hot men bedtime wrestling. But, we also experienced joy together when I succeeded. That fucker made me feel like an art god when it reflected how I envisioned the smut to be. I'm not ready to end this toxic relationship, I thought I'd be.

I was all 'yeah, I'm sooo stage 4 already! I only need the Huion employee to gaslight me into buying their newest, shiny model to reach stage 5!' I'm 30, a grandma according to annoying (affectionate) internet youngsters. My body can't handle eating only instant ramen for 4 months anymore. My roaring 20s are a bygone era and for once I choose to practice some self-care, to love myself even!

For once, I was about to make an adult decision and... wait. To save up the money - to accept that I'll be a temporary full-time traditional wannabe weird-ass hentai artist with a shitty phone camera... but thank god I don't have to! My beloved tablet still works and I can be a part-time traditional but mainly digital wannabe weird-ass hentai artist with a shitty phone camera! Yeah, this is how my day went. Love y'all ~ mwaaah

Shameless self-promo plug but I think you should at least look at the smut scenes to see the appeal of tomcest (sr)~ I also need some validation for providing my tears as lube for their narcissistic coupling You can read Philautia here: AO3

#laptop dominated by usb cables #don't question it #where's my Korean drama about a digital artist who has a meltdown and has to contact customer service #rugged customer service employee gaslighting artist-chan into buying a new expensive pen tablet #experiencing a meltdown while trying to resuscitate my abusive huion kamvas pro 20 #don't worry~ we're still in a toxic relationship #don't think that huion will appreciate the unintended promo tho #too passionate about toxic but hot father & son bonding #digressing into an essay about why voldemort and his hot daddy should fuck #2k+ word essay about the 5 stages of grief: tomcest style

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lauvra · 2 months ago

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I'm gagged creatively whenever there's shit floating around my head that I cannot or do not want to express; some truth I'm denying or ignoring or talking ways around. Frankly, it annoys me this comes from true compassion. I don't want to dive in headlong; don't want to dip my toes in. There are symbols on my computer keys I'm incensed to have to press down upon, yet I've typed every single one within this sentence alone. Were those letters removed from our alphabet overnight, my name would sound like; UR, which isn't particularly elegant, but does sound a lot like my natural response to the situation. I’m angry that my words were not received, believed, heeded, respected, but I’ll never be angry enough to fight about it. Every wordsmith learns eventually that people come to each experience as they are, not as things are. There’s only so much that even the most precise verbiage can serve to do. I will say, I'm losing the ability to look lightly upon a past with each last-ditch attempt on behalf of another to clutch at its threads; careful, you'll braid something ugly with it. Long ago I’d undraped that ill-fit cloth with respect but returning it to these hands with their new skin will not be taken with such grace. My eyes are not anew, my heart remembers still and I perceive that old flag -- waved many times before -- as only a fabric to further stain. There's no amount of time heroic enough to make me forget and it would require far more than a fucking exorcism to prevent me being a cold hard bitch when the time calls for it. Tell it on the mountain if you must, to anyone who'll listen, oh, she's an unforgiving cunt. Meek is a bygone era; over, the dagger at my throat is no longer my own nature -- and I don't particularly give a shit who inherits the Earth.

#me #word

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oikasugayama · 8 months ago

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ok why is mad at the whole "Hurry up and go you damn fool" or whatever scene with akutgawa? I don't get it😭

TL;DR: In the manga the scene had a kindness that was replaced with harshness in the anime!!

Akutagawa has been growing a lot as a character because he has to work with Atsushi, and this moment specifically shows him making the selfless decision to save Atsushi's life by giving his own.

In the manga when he dies, he smiles in a way that implies this is sad but was his only option, and he tells Atsushi to go, does not yell. He tells him to go. Atsushi is completely stunned by Akutagawa's selflessness and kindness in that moment, because he normally sees Akutagawa as a bad, mean, evil guy. Atsushi's view is challenged by Akutagawa's willingness to sacrifice himself for not only Atsushi's sake, but for the sake of the greater good. It's unexpected. It's powerful. It's genuine. And it's kind.

Buuuut in the anime, partly because Studio Bones draws Akutagawa ugly as fuck, not only was all the soft, gentle kindness and genuineness taken out of the scene, but they also made Akutagawa yell and say something harsh to fit their narrative of how Akutagawa is. Which is NOT how manga-Akutagawa was in that scene. So people, myself included, are disgruntled that this beautiful gesture of enemies-to-doomed-friends(/lovers if you ship them) was just turned into another rough tough rumblin' boys fighting scene.

I'm mostly mad that Bones keeps making Akutagawa look ugly. He's so fucking pretty, just draw him better 😠

Here's my analysis of the exact verbage, as a writer, editor, wordsmith, literary analyst, etc.:

"You damn fool." (Said almost fondly, as if Akutagawa can't believe Atsushi is actually shocked for his sake. Atsushi is being a fool. He's panicking. He still doesn't know he can trust Akutagawa. He still doesn't realize how important he is and why it has to be him to survive and keep going.) "Hurry up and go." (Said while smiling. He's saying Don't wait for me. I'm doing this for you. You'll be fine.")

"You fool. Get out of here!" (Said quickly, spit out at Atsushi, very little emotion. Calling him stupid father than said fondly. Telling him to go away as if Akutagawa is going to hold Fukuchi off even though he's dying. The friendship dynamic just isn't here. Bones is still running with "Akutagawa=Mafia=Bad but Atsushi=ADA=Good" even tho the manga definitely explores characters as being more complex than that.

There's my two cents!! Thanks for asking, I hope this helps!!

#ask answered #anon #sskk #Atsushi #akutagawa

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lifesarchive · 11 months ago

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UGLIES by SCOTT WESTERFELD (A REVIST)

quickly: a new friend wakes a teenage girl up to the not-so-pretty world she is living in (new face, who dis! / pretty privilege / mandatory plastic surgery / pranks and tricks as a lifestyle / journeys over the river and through the woods / solar powered hoverboards / dehydrated foodstuffs / engineered plastic and nanotech glues / ecofriendly totalitarianism / the deep deep state / underground facilities / government programming / citizen deprogramming / backstabbing the backstabbers).

Rereading since originally reading it back in 2007. First book of 2024!

Vintage clothing is cool, but what will we do when our entire society and way of life becomes vintage? What if, in an effort to rid society of its ills (war, illness, violence, etc.) we developed a medical procedure that made everyone the same and dulled our sensibilities? Scott Westerfeld isn’t a master wordsmith with a poet’s pen, but that’s not what we came here for anyway. We came for the well-constructed futuristic dystopian universe jam-packed with unimaginable avant-garde technology and the social dilemmas that erupt when humanity and technology collide. There are hoverboards that work by magnetism, medical procedures that can regrow all the skin on your body and reshape your entire bone structure, and surveillance so precise it practically knows what you are thinking.

At the center of all of this is Tally, a fifteen-year-old girl who wants exactly what everyone else in her world has been programmed to want: to be pretty. While she is awaiting the government-facilitated procedure that will make her “the standard” and initiate her into young adult society, she meets a new friend who is also nearing the time of her pretty procedure. Her new friend is a radical, transfixed by the idea of a land faraway called “The Smoke”, where many of the Uglies have been escaping to evade the overseeing technological eyes of their government… a government so secret that some don’t believe it even exists. As Tally is exposed to life outside The Cities, she becomes the focal point of a massive movement of rebellion. This was a fun, wild hoverboard ride through a very futuristic world that felt very grounded in today’s times.

★ ★ ★ ★

more thoughts: SPOILERS!

Thoughts are italicized, spoilers are not:

Some personal context… I originally read the entire Uglies trilogy one summer in 2007. I had a boxed set that included UGLIES, PRETTIES, and SPECIALS. EXTRAS hadn’t come out yet, and I’ve never read it. I vividly remember the 3 book set with the high-fashion editorial style covers. My original copies were lost in what I call “The Flood”, which took a great number of pieces in my literary collection to a moldy watery grave. I found a pic of them on Amazon though.

These covers are SO MUCH better than the current blank generic covers they have in stores and libraries. I plan on rereading the entire series and finshing with a first read of the last book, EXTRAS.

This book made me feel like it was 2007 again, and that I could throw this book down at any moment, step outside, and find my friends waiting for me to go along on one of our adventures playing in the woods that connected our backyards.

The book starts with Tally pulling a trick by sneaking into the highly monitored New Pretty Town to visit an old friend. Tally is a young, simple, coming-of-age girl who thinks just like everyone around her… life is useless until you turn 16 and the government turns you pretty, and then life is great. Until 16, nothing matters and no one takes you seriously. Uglies, as people are lovingly called pre-operation, are expected to be wild, uncontrollable, trouble-making good for nothings. This is why all of their pranks are referred to as ugly tricks, or simply tricks. When you’re a pretty, you don’t have time for such trickery.

The Uglies live in dorms that are bland and interchangeable. The Pretties live in a glamorous city within a city, where life is a party with a formal dress code. Then eventually Pretties undergo a second operation to become a “Middle Pretty” where they move out to the suburbs to have “Littlies”, before turning into “Crumblies” and are moved further to the edges of society. Of course, all this turns out to be well-thought-out propoganda

Tally makes a new friend, Shay, after her old best friend Peris reaches Pretty age and undergoes the operation. He moves to New Pretty Town immediately after, as is customary, leaving Ugly life behind. After busting into New Pretty Town to see how much Peris has changed, she decides it is best to just wait until she has her own operation to see him again. Her time spent with the rebellious and adventurous Shay increases.

Shay teaches Tally how to hack her hoverboard, sneak out of The City, and tells her about The Smoke. A place where people live as ‘Uglies’ by choice, opting out of having the operation to become pretty. Shay teaches Tally the way to the rusting city ruins where Uglies meet up to find the mysterious David who will someday lead those willing to make the journey to The Smoke.

Tally can’t comprehend life lived as an Ugly, and doesn’t understand why anyone would want to forgo the operation to become Pretty. This is why she can’t tell Shay YES, when Shay asks Tally to run away to the smoke with her before her operation. Tally ends up making the journey anyway, alone, after she is manipulated by Special Circumstances (a secret underground division of the government) into betraying her friend and everyone at The Smoke.

Life in The Smoke opens her eyes to the real world that has been hidden from her. Her desire to be pretty wanes, and disappears after bonding with the other residents. She falls in love with David and plans to stay. After accidentally triggering the tracking device given to her by Special Circumstances, Tally leads SC directly to The Smoke. It is swiftly destroyed and all the Smokies are detained. (Cue big breakout scene where Tally escapes custody, tracks down the detainees, and frees them.)

After all the hell she’s raised, Tally ends up developing a plan to help right some of her wrongs, but you’ll have to make it through to the end to see what that may be.

The rest is for you to read on your own!

I’ve read some of the reviews on Goodreads that criticize Tally’s character as being too vain, dumb, selfish, etc. This makes me wonder if the readers with those opinions understood the circumstances of the world that Tally was a part of. Everyone was vain, dumb, and selfish. No one wanted to look under the veneer of their society because there was no reason to. Everything was taken care of. The people in this world were programmed to think that the past was a monstrous barbaric place and that all the world’s problems were solved by the development of ’the Cities’ and the Pretty operation.

I’ve also read some reviews that criticize the fact that Tally’s love interest David is what inspires her to make her big decision to leave the cities for good. I think that is a poor summarization of this character’s journey. After having to make the long journey to The Smoke by herself, Tally endured a process of disillusionment that separated her from her life in The City. She had gone from a place where everything was planned, every move was monitored, and the threat of world catastrophe was linked to how ugly or pretty citizens were. She had never been in real danger until she made her journey to The Smoke. She had never met anyone older than 16 who was not “pretty” until she arrived at the camp, The Smoke. David was just one of the reasons she made her decisions, not the sole reason. In fact, Tally’s journey begins and ends with her trying to save her girl-friend Shay.

I won’t go into too much more detail about the story. It was just a fun read, an adventure, a journey, all those things. So glad to have re-read it, and so glad it held up after all these years. There are plenty of high-speed chases, thrilling escapes, and ingenious hi-jinks to keep you turning the page. And if you’re a tumblr kid like me, there are loads of nostalgia in reading this book again all these years later. It’s wild to think that this never made it to the big screen or as a series on someone’s streaming service.

#uglies #scott westerfeld #4 stars #book review #fiction #sci fi thriller #review #books & libraries #currently reading #booklr #booklover #booksbooksbooks #bookworm #literature #reviews #2024 #book trilogy

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swanmaids · 2 years ago

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the ever so classic legolas x gimli for the ask game ⭐️🧚🌿 if that’s already done then perhaps éowyn x faramir, a lot of people have interesting opinions about that one :D

oh YOU KNOW :')

Ship It

What made you ship it?

I have eyes and reading comprehension and a brain and a heart no but for real, like, all their on-page interactions - including the ones I didn't catch on my first read! "yet you comfort me" "i shall not come to fangorn alone" "the tree is glad of the fire" "where you go i will go" "you would die before your stroke fell"....there's so many great moments. And as a side note, I think Legolas' skill with words is a little underrated- Gimli is an excellent wordsmith to be sure, but Legolas has some great romantic lines here too!

What are your favorite things about the ship?

The anti-tragedy nature of it all! The privacy the narrative grants them! The Yavanna/Aule parallels! Also, superficial af but the aesthetic is so perfect and L/G shippers really WON by having so many wonderful artists on board (hi @matrose and @carlandrea !)

Is there an unpopular opinion you have on your ship?

It's really not as enemies-to-lovers as it's sometimes made out to be! They never hated each other and they didn't bicker that badly...also gigolas is an ugly ship name and gimleaf is superior.

#ask game #gimleaf #thank you!

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therealslimshakespeare · 11 months ago

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Rules: In a new post, post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

Thank you for the tag, @prompted-wordsmith & @whatstruthgottodowithit I’ve got way too many WIPs but at I love the idea of being asked about them! Whew yes please.

• You Can’t’ Hurry Love

• Percy

•Eighteen/DO IT

•A Darker Shade of Blue

• High Infidelity

• Devil’s Lettuce

• Both Sides Now 2

• Sweet Ophelia

• Picking up the pieces

•Debra Brain Herpes lord help me (named by @elvisabutler) 🥰

•Half as Beautiful, too

• Regarding Lafayette

oh lord ok here goes, no pressure peoples. @starryschoolgirl @steph-speaks @foreverdoll @babylovepresley @elvisabutler @ab4eva @arabellasleopardcoat @artlover8992 @the-ugly-swan @h0unds-of-h3ll @ooihcnoiwlerh @ladyyennefer

#tumblr tag games #fanfiction

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homiesondaweb · 1 year ago

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Okay I can't stop thinking about Hobie's siblings and childhood on my head now. So y'all gonna get these OC's and headcanons. I can't draw worth a damn so yall gonna get some face claims I pulled off Pinterest lol.

Starting wit the oldest of the siblings,

Hudson and Hendricks

Left: Hudson Right: Hendricks

While they both are talented with tinkering and such, in the shop Hendricks is the mechanic while Hudson is the technician. They both battle over who has more of an influence on Hobie. (Surprise! Its equal lol)

Hudson is a big flirt while Hendricks is an introvert.

They help put in on the rent once they establish the Shop and (may or may not) have rigged the utilities in their neighborhood so that most community places and homes have free electricity and gas.

The shop is always bumping Cymande, Gil Scott-Heron, and Mandrill

Can't keep away from Jamaican girls to save they life

They are shotgun older brothers. They will mob and grill anybody that shows interest in their little siblings (ESPECIALLY HARLEY, curse of being the baby sister)

Hudson taught Hobie how to take things apart and problem solve to fit them back together. Hendricks taught him how to play with circuits and to hack/program electronics.

The three of them would spend hours a week welding or smoldering shit together.

Their default looks are mostly their natural looks save for Hudson having yellow and orange highlights and tones. Hendricks usually has purple and blue highlights and tones.

Henry

Fits the quiet, sensitive artist stereotype to a tee. Can draw and sew but once Ma got him into film photography and he's been hooked ever since.

Is a fruit fiend. LOVES pies, cobblers, jello, fruity or sour candy. Fuck money, pay him in a ripe mango or some lemon drops yo.

1000% a Mama's boy, lol.

Despite being nearly mute with how precious he is about his words, is a HUGE social butterfly and the most networked out of his siblings besides Harley.

Spends a lot of time at the canal with the rest of the "destitute artists societal leeches" as the PM and Brit News call them. It's when he meets his partner Rembrandt and learns that love is the only label one should abide by.

His camera is his gun, the streets and his warrants for arrest know him as The Moor after the PM runs a censorship campaign and suddenly most art depicting Black, brown, and non-British people was censored with ugly Black cut outs. He first photo flyer protest was adding Othello back to paintings of his play. Newspapers called it "Return of the Moor." So he snagged it for the sake of irony.

He's a people watcher, he sees the art in everybody. Like tinkering with machines, he likes learning how people behave and tick. He learns how to be a soft influence once he sees that is the most effective way to help others and investigate ideals/intention and see if they're genuine. He teaches this skill to Hobie. It wasn't uncommon to find Hobie piggy backed on Henry as they lap the parks, whispering in Kreyòl ayisyen about their observations of the world.

His default look makes him appear reddish with bold black lines due to the amount of time he spends on his dark room developing photos or he is covered on scraps of Renaissance art/script.

Harley

Harley found her first guitar after hiding during a Symbiote raid on an underground concert. She stepped on it when she finally escaped from her spot. The stum was perfect, made a pile of symbiote goop explode. She took it home and got to work perfecting her sound.

She is the people's champ, LOVES meeting new people and networking. Is bold in her care for others. Always down to help the lil man. This has made her very adept at languages and communications. If you need a debater, advocate, negotiator, wordsmith having her on your side is the best choice. In a different life most definitely would have been a lawyer.

The entire family knows she is Pa's favorite and she is very much a daddy's girl lol.

Before it was bombed by the PM she and Hobie were regulars at the library. The two shared a love for reading, Harley makes sure all her brothers are book smart because you never know when you need some knowledge.

She is the designated family hairstylist even their parents. While doing Hobie's hair she would sit her guitar in his lap and guide him in learning how to play. She never had a fuss about him snagging it to play unless she needed it for practice. You can pay her on cassettes or vinyls records. Is a Betty Davis STAN.

Can only grow vegetables. The only flower or regular plant that doesn't die within a week of her possession is an orchid because it is a stick on dirt for half the year. She started the community garden after reading a banned book on the importance of nutrition to recovery from sicknesses

Here and her band led many youth heavy protests be it marching, pop up-concerts, vandalizing, or taking over a news station or council meetings full of Oscorp puppets and gained notoriety for it. When music wasn't enough, when words weren't enough, and every resource she could produce was nothing. Harley was never afraid to fight. She never claimed to be, but she is very much Hobie's hero.

Her default look has a lot of bold and swooped lines with sepia filters and graffitied sold English styled literature quotes and newspaper clippings cut outs. Her hair accessories are usually her pops of bright colors.

This is my theory piece on astv Hobie's Backstory.

Despite the whole Punk lifestyle, living on a repurposed canal boat, minor rock star status, and having active warrants out for both his civilian and Spidey persona thing he's got going on. Hobie had a pretty normal childhood for a bit.

His Pa managed the local radio stations and his Ma was a lead writer for the newspaper. Hobie found himself the baby out of 5 siblings and their 4 bedroom flat was just a bit too small for the 7 people family but it was great.

The neighborhood was always lively with community get-togethers, music rattled the bricks and the air was always savory with smell of jerk. Hobie used to eat himself sick with coconut candy and orange cake every weekend. He liked going to 'school' which meant being crammed into Ms. Ngozi and Ms. Freedman's flat with the other neighborhood kids then being taught from books Ms. Freedman had smuggled in when she partnered with Ms. Ngozi. Reading, writing, history, debate, arithmetic, ethics, journalism, all kinds of science but Ngozi loved when Hobie would take a machine apart and remake it.

His eldest siblings by about 12 years, twin brothers Hudson and Hector ran the 'Shop'. If you needed something fixed within their 6 block neighborhood you took it there. Cars, big appliances, medical equipment, radios, tvs, his brothers could fix it all. They'd fix it good, cheap or free and in a timely manner. (And they greatly encouraged their Little Bart brother to tinker)

Next was is other older brother, Henry. He was only 9 years older than him. A photographer and worked under their mother getting dynamic shots for any article she posted. He introduced Hobie to a lot of artists and taught him how to observe the world around him. How to sneak in and out of it.

Then there was his only sister, Harley. She was closest in age to him, only 5 years older. She was a badass on the guitar and even slicker at the mouth. She debated anyone under a table and had a right hook to back it up. You never would have pegged her to be the one to run the community garden. Not with her self-done piercings, bleach painted jackets, head fully of bantu knots and black lipstick. But she did, she taught Hobie everything to know about growing orchids and tomatoes.

Life was good. Despite the rising police violence, cost of living, and the fumes of Oscorp rising. 11 year old Hobie didn't know it to be anything else.

Then, he turns 12. Ma and Henry don't come home.

He's 12 and the Ngozi-Freedman homeschool is raided. He never sees them again but Harley fills her stage trunk with their books and records.

He's 12. Someone reported the shop and President Osborne new "certificate enforcement" squad torches the building. Hudson gets away but the Symbiotes bail out Hector to them and he only has one arm.

He's 12. The government has taken over the radio station, firing Pa. The house becomes cramped with the equipment Pa had smuggled out. Hudson shows back up and he's as ghost as Hector.

He's 12 and half his friends are just faces on murals and the other half is sick from the water. The garden is sabotaged and the city fines Harley (how the fuck do you fine a 17 year old?)

And there's a protest. Pa has taken over the radios in the city and rallies the people, he repeats Ma articles over and over informing the people about the propaganda, the contamination, the disappeared people, the injustice. He repeats them and repeated them as the twins litter the city with flyers using Henry's photos of the truth.

And there's a protest.

There's hundred of protests of all sizes, all over.

There's a riot.

There's riots.

There's fire and panic and Symbiotes spill into the neighborhood like oil and-

Hobie turns 13, it's just him and Harley.

Hobie turns 14, it's just him and Harley's guitar.

Hobie is 15, he's just some punk kid bit by a radioactive spider while trying to find shelter from a Symbiote raid. He uses this to his advantage.

He turns 16 and instead of blowing out birthday candles he's smashing Harley's guitar through a fascist dictator head with his fellow super powered punks. (He can't think of a better wish)

He's 17 and Miguel makes a mistake in showing up to his dimension with an offer to join his 'society'.

#hobie brown headcanons #original character #Hobie Brown's siblings #Hobie Brown #spider punk #spiderman into the spiderverse headcanons #spiderman into the spiderverse #spiderman across the spiderverse #hobie brown #spiderman across the verse #spidersona #black punk

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