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omarolluks · 3 months ago

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My Boy Builds Coffins:

this is by no means coherent or complete or worth much of anything necessarily but my mind has been ensnared by that sad and deeply fuckable little vampiric elf...

explicit (18+), 2300 words, edited blearily / blood [mild], allusions to trauma and abuse, masturbation, existentialism below:

“…Shit.” You looked up at him beneath heavy eyelids, but your gaze lacked any type of grogginess. Instead, a frenetic flicker of movement, so quick it gave off a fuzzy distortion of almost-stillness, flooded your eyes. It vibrated with that wild magic he’d seen from you maybe twice before in the midst of battle: woven steadiness cracking into fissures and bursting forth a strangely compelling chaos. As you registered it was him above you, those eyes stilled as if they perceived no threat before them. The realization made his mouth dip even further into dryness and his tongue prickle: you didn’t see him, with bared fangs uninvited above the pulsing arteries of your neck and hand hovering over the light and delicate broken sword tattooed on the center of your throat, as a threat? He was torn between barking out an offended laugh and cowering away in confusion. Your tent felt as if you both had transported to the middle of a primeval forest, surrounded on all sides by stones more lichen than rock and damp undergrowth.

“It’s not what it looks like” burst forth from his mouth to try to dissipate some of the heady air. Fuck his stupid tongue: what else could it possibly be? “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I just needed, well… blood” Perfect, absolutely splendid, entirely assuring Astarion, no directorial notes in the slightest… the voice in his head spat out with bitter derision. He tried not to think of the slick and regally vampiric accent that complimented the words, so different from his own pattern of speech. You were still looking at him, in that way you did, the judgement which should’ve bloomed in your irises absent and instead replaced with cavernous curiosity. It extricated words from his mouth unbidden and less bridled: “I don’t normally feast on people, as animals usually suffice for my lifestyle in the city. But what with all the Illithid kidnappings, brain-eating tadpole harboring, and gallivanting around the wilderness, they simply aren’t… cutting it at the moment” and the depths of those eyes in front of him plunged impossibly further, with a look of what he might call sympathy or concern if he believed someone possible of feeling such things as those for the abject creature he just revealed himself to be. “I hoped that thinking blood would help me be stronger, more capable of fighting and helping the group when needed.” The last sentence wasn’t untrue, but it wasn’t the whole of it. A wall between his mind and his mouth prevented admission of the fact the conversation between the two of you earlier, your vulnerability, had caused a scent so enticing to emanate from your person, like the slow cooking of a meal over a fire made of juniper wood—hot and simmering—flooding him and exacerbating his deep-bellied hunger. Your response carried up toward him, gravelly from exiting the heavy not-quite slumber of elven meditation: “That’s alright, Astarion. But why didn’t you tell… me.” He noted the way you seemed to interrupt yourself from asking why he didn’t tell the group as a whole before responding: “I… well, most people don’t respond with a welcoming invitation to come inside and stay a while, do they? I wanted to be safe, and I wanted you to trust me.” Your eyes widened delicately at the mention of safety and trust, and you responded, “I do. I believe you.” The plainness of your phrasing, complimented by the still-lingering husk of exhaustion in your voice would’ve had him exhaling a sharp breath if he hadn’t spent two-hundred odd years conditioning away indications of weakness. “Thank you,” and his mouth blossomed again with exsanguination. Pushing his luck, he asked: “Do you think you can trust me a little further? I only need a taste, I swear.” It felt like an eternity from when the words left his lips, and your head nodded gently in acquiescence. Anticipation seeped through his extremities: “Well then… let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”

You rolled your strong shoulders back to rest flush against your bedroll, and his eyes drifted momentarily to the way your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. He lowered himself above you, keeping his movement measured and smooth as if he might startle you into realization of what you were offering: open access to your neck and the roiling life barely contained beneath your skin. You blinked steadily and showed no sign of objection, so he maneuvered himself almost perpendicular to your body. His lower half rested away from your flesh, knees and hips hovering above the floor of your tent in an attempt to make you feel less caged. With no rebuke presented, he steeled himself as the tip of his nose grazed the curvature of your throat. Scent and heat drew him inward and his lips retracting without conscious effort to reveal the inhuman point of his fangs. The air pulled tight like the string of a short bow and then snapped. He punctured your flesh and thick rivulets of blood sprung fresh and willing into his mouth. Your eyes fluttered shut and he was grateful; he was unsure he possessed the level of deception he would need to undercut the way his pupils blew black and eyes rolled back into his skull. You inhaled a shaky sigh that he felt flush your blood cool. The moan that rumbled from him was animalistic and he tried to muffle it by further pressing into your neck, an unexpectedly totalizing decision. Gods the fucking taste of you: a branch plucked from a blackberry bush, taken in its entirety from root to tip between his eager lips as his teeth scraped wet soil and wood and greenery and plump fruit into his waiting mouth—peppery and humid and earthy and dry and salty and vegetal and tart and faintly sweet and fuck he wanted to be subsumed by it. Years of rats and bugs and a constant gnawing of a never-quite sated thirst dissipated at the beckoning of your honey-hot blood down his throat. He hadn’t even known he was parched until this moment: it addled his brain with a sensation that could only be described as consumptive. Through the fog of satiation, arousal clawed petulantly to the surface, intermingling with hunger and thirst and he felt himself swell and firm like molten iron reconstituting its hardened shell. The feeling drove him to slake a long pull of blood from you. In the murky cloud of his hedonism, he felt your arms tense under him, seemingly fisting into the earth below in an attempt to brace yourself. Uninvited panic overtook him: what if you pulled away, what if you took this salve from him before he was healed? The thought drove his fangs further into you and a hand flew to his head, wrapping in his curls and tugging firmly. He nearly moaned again, willing the motion to be an invitation rather than revoke. But a second tug and a weakened whimper of his name paired with the stuttering skip of your pulse cut to the core of his thinking mind. The panic reemerged stronger and more insistent: if he drained you now, he would never taste you again.

The release of his mouth from your flesh produced an obscene sound. It caused his cock to twitch violently and he nearly growled with a desire to lunge back to the place he so clearly wasn’t meant to leave. His addled mind produced an uncharacteristically honest tongue: “That was… amazing” voice blissed out and dipping breathily at the end. Sense came back in fits and bursts, and he became acutely aware of the state of him: a sheen of sweat seemed to cover every inch of his skin, his shirt askew and soil stained, and his cock was almost painfully hard resting against the hypersensitive flesh of his lower torso. And then there was you. He could hardly stand to look at you: your eyes closed as if even the faint moonlight might blind you, your soft and moist lips parted with gulping breaths, your dirt coated fingers, and a strange combination of pallor and flush all at once. He stood and angled himself away from your line of sight in case the strength and will to move returned to your eyelids. “Are you alright?” he asked, the low pitch of his voice startling against his ears. A gentle ghost of a smile settled against your pretty mouth, and you gave him another soft nod, lashes still grazing the darkened flesh of your under-eyes: “Fine… I promise.” The rocky whisper, strangely gentle, stuck a chord that seemed to reverberate deep in his core. You still hadn’t opened your eyes, but you seemed to be steadying. He chanced a look over you one more time and the way your body opened up in dazed and relaxed lethargy unbalanced the stability he had regained. He had to leave now or he’d be back at your throat: “As invigorating as you are, I need something more… filling.” You rolled to your side and curled easily in on yourself and the gentle mundanity of the motion pushed one last admission from his usually unwilling mouth. “This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.”

Despite his roguish affinities for silent and undetected retreat, leaving camp without alerting any others was proving almost insurmountable. Every synapse of his brain fired off intense pings of electricity, his pleasure center a lightning rod. Thinking blood heightened his senses, to be sure, but tuning into such sensitivities was another beast entirely. Rather, they all collided in a distracting cacophony: the taste of you on his tongue, your blood roaring in his ears, the lingering feeling of you twitching and letting out soft breaths on his neck, his body more alive than it had felt in centuries. You. By some greater power he found himself in the woods far enough away from camp, surrounded by quiet. He had hoped it would lull him, calm him down enough to hunt; instead, the absence around him exacerbated his sensitivity. He could still smell you on him and he felt the weight of his erection and the phantom of your hands grasping into the ground and into him. Without conscious thought he thrust his own hand into his trousers, hissing at the wrought sensitivity and the eager moisture leaking from his cock. Gods, he couldn’t think straight, sanguine flares of you crackling inside him with undiluted feeling.

In all the events since being abducted, this was the strangest. The heavy cloud of need, of desire, of yearning for fucking release. It made his head spin: he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually wanted. But gods did he want, the coil of him wound tight and eager. He began to stroke his cock, gathering up the liquid that spilled in eager and anticipatory bursts and shuddering violently. The sensation radiated from between his in hips low rolling pulses. This was foreign. He didn’t perform pleasure for his own means or fulfillment. Pleasure was a set of thieves’ tools in his hands, manipulated with assurance and without second thought. It was a weapon and over time it began to harm him more than any target it was directed at. But this was like coming up from air after being numbed in an ice-cold river. The thought of you—with your blood and your hands and your eyes and your breath—wrapped around him like a woolen blanket warmed by a fireplace and he felt… the words alluded him. He simply felt. Tremors ran through his tautly wound musculature, each one thrumming and causing him to twitch. He wanted to run from the feeling. He wanted to run toward it. He was prone from the totality of it all. Gods he had missed this, how was it possible it’d been near two centuries since he felt so alive in his body. And what if it’s taken away, what if it all vanishes and he goes stone cold again, dulled to any sort of… anything. The anxiety of potentially losing this, losing the self he was only just starting to find traces and fragments of, swirled inside him. Amidst shakily drawn breaths, one particularly firm pull on the head of his cock steeled his resolve: if this was all he would get, if he were to awake back in the kennel, the tadpole and the nautilus and your kindness at his knife against your neck a dream, he wanted to have this instant. A stolen moment, pocketed for no one but himself. All he could do was piston his hand aggressively up and down the length of himself: he felt like steel under his pale fingertips. From his tightly pulled base through to the tip, each movement licked him with building and building and building pressure. He worried he might snap. What would be left of him if he did? But gods, his eyes slammed shut as the pressure peaked. Burned on the inside of his eyelids was your face. Open and so very willing. Unafraid of the creature above you and bared without hesitance to his hunger. Twisting near painfully on the head of his dick, he bit out a primal growl and spilled hot across his hands and the forest floor. It was painful. It was delicious. It was nothing. It was everything. After several harsh clenches of his abdominal muscles, he slouched against the cold mossy boulder behind him. His mind and body stilled excepting a few muscles not yet resolved to the vibration of it all. The bliss surrendered to a sort of tired mania: He had broken a rule. He had broken the first rule. Your blood on his tongue was stigmata. And it had made him feel… good. Alive.

#bg3 #bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #tav is coded as feminine in my head but im pretty sure all descriptions are gender neutral #fic

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variousqueerthings · 4 months ago

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omg dude (gn) you got into due south? I've followed you for a long time bc mash, I love it when people I know from other fandoms get into my most beloved stuff <3 check out @ds30below btw if you're interested, it's an anniversary fest I run with a lof of fun stuff etc etc! and have funnnnn it's such a great show!

helloooooooo

yes, a bunch of mutuals have been going wild over it for a hot sec and it was Time!

I'm on episode 3 (not counting the pilot) and I have a lot of initial Thoughts to bring over from the discord onto this illustrious site, so i will use this ask as An Excuse:

Frasier is really introduced as an Archetype of masculinity, which is almost immediately subverted by his being completely without machismo -- his machismo is so in the negative that he goes around and becomes this Ideal of masculinity instead

the fact that his ethos is kindness, but it's not necessarily guileless. it is selfless in that he's not necessarily expecting to get returns on it all the time, but it's also -- to him -- often truly the most effective means to an end: if you're kind to others, people will often become kinder. this can be useful in the shortterm (if you give this kid a nice sandwich and don't threaten him with jail time and help him out a bit, he'll try to help with a case...) and in the longterm (this kid will stay in school and have a better future ahead of him, hopefully)

(i will get to ray btw, need to just get all the frasier thoughts out first)

frasier really embodies autistic swag. he takes things incredibly literally, he follows scripts (in this case, The Mountie Script, and also within that some kinda Code Of Gallantry), he's an incredible people-reader of the "autistic savant" type arguably (except there's more to him so the savant trope doesn't quite hold, which is good), his relationship with his dog Diefenbaker, the fact that although he is nigh-effortlessly kind of charming (because he's clark kent vibes!!! he's charming in a way as if he stepped out of a novel set 100 years ago in which kissing women's hands was the norm) he doesn't really make close friendships easily, because there's an Otherness to him that keeps him at a distance to others (except ray. WE WILL GET TO RAY STAY TUNED)

speaking of Distance, a lot of the aroaceness i've read into him so far (and we're literally only three episodes in!!!) really does feel like his autism is triggered by come-ons in the "this is not in my script!" kind of way. his charm is tripped up by the obvious step of "charming man is charming, I will shoot my shot," it's happened several times and every time he tries to extricate himself in the most awkward way possible. can't go on a date, you see. i have.. a dog. and no phone. um. ok. bye.

lot of thoughts on his hero-worship of his absent father and how much of his script comes from wanting to make his father proud

frasier also tastes things a lot of the time and ray thinks it's gross and i think that's something too. the doctor (doctor who) autism coded

OKAY TIME FOR RAY

he reminds me. of gonzo. he has the same transmasc swag. as gonzo. his shirts. his ties. that fuckn. OVERSIZED SO OVERSIZED MASSIVE STUPID JACKET. he's transmasc swag/fail coded in the same way as gonzo. he is gonzo

ray spends so much time in the beginning admonishing frasier for his consistent kindness to others, and the thing is. The Thing Is. he met frasier and (barring the immediate impression) decided to nearly immediately invite him to a massive family dinner. then he saved him from a bomb and got himself hospitalised. then he followed him to canada to help him. and that's only in the pilot! ray is so kind to frasier constantly. he's such an abrasive man to pretty much everyone except to frasier from day one

when frasier asked him to get a special pass for his wolf and at the end of the episode he did, and frasier was like: "i only asked you once and you got it 🥺" "of course i did, you asked me for it 😍"

just. nigh. constantly. kind. to. him. currently frasier's in hospital because he got stabbed and we had ray running to see him, forcing his way into his room, comforting him, sir you make fun of the way all the girls fall at his feet (and how frasier never notices) I think you are one of the girls!

MY MAN GOT HIM FLOWERS WHILE HE WAS IN HOSPITAL JUST BECAUSE??????? SIR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (he also makes him take aspirin, he's giving real caretaker in this episode)

so far we know less about ray than about frasier, but im glad the show has him be mouthy, sarcastic, pessimistic, but he's not cruel or callous -- arguably he wants frasier in his life in order to challenge him on his cynical worldview, he's nourished and inspired by frasier's approach towards the world as much as everyone else

misc: I really like that the world being presented isn't necessarily kind, but the main characters (ray learning to be softer via frasier) are kind as a response. it's got some Coolness Factor Shorthand stuff going on ofc, but it is fundamentally a story about facing a relatively realistic world with kindness in order to make it better

I'm sad eric schweig was only in the pilot but the main thrust of the show does take place in chicago i guuuuuuuesss. his role in that pilot was great though, a lot of interesting stuff about taking away frasier's rose-coloured lens of the world, and especially canada, but he also gets what's his at the end, so he's not just there to "offer advice" (although there is a bit of that trope for sure, especially as he doesn't seem to have a name). great character, if I write fic where they go to canada he's definitely gonna be in there!

me and @gjdraws were talking about how ray clearly likes spoiling frasier -- he's the one with the money, he gets him the wolf licence, brings him flowers in hospital, carries aspirin for him.... I'm just saying we were robbed of a "ray takes frasier shopping and there's a montage" bit, considering how frasier only has two fuckn outfits in the first few episodes. who took him shopping??? there's no way he went on his own steam. that was ray all the way! private runway show

#due south #im watching due south #im watching tv

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for-hunger · 2 months ago

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More from my Will/Hannibal t4t forcemasc project. H is pretending to be cis at this point. (This is from the like 10% of it that isn't just the most explicit porn possible)

W frowns. “Why do you always call it that?”

“What?”

“My clit. You call it a cock.”

H grins at him, pinches it viciously between two fingers. W yelps, knocks his head back to rest on H’s shoulder. “What a strange, confused little man you are. What could you possibly mean? Your cock is small, of course. It’ll get bigger over the next few months, as you grow. But it gets hard, like mine.” He squeezes the little erection between his fingers, jerks it off a few times, admiring the plump head. “It has a foreskin.” He pushes back the hood with one finger, and W whimpers into the side of his neck at the pressure. “It has an oversensitive head.” H taps on the exposed tip, and W’s legs jump in his lap. H laughs and extricates himself from beneath W, sliding to kneel in front of him. “Shall we see if I can suck it, like any other cock? If you can fuck my mouth with it?”

W comes with his cock on H’s tongue, fucking in and out of his mouth, riding into H’s thumb pressed into his ass.

Later, when H is cooking them a late dinner, W picks up the subject again. He’s making puttanesca with leftover seared tuna, W perched at the kitchen island with a comic book, an old Swamp Thing. H can feel W’s gaze on him, feel him turning the subject in his mind.

When he’s ready, W puts down his comic. “The 'cock' thing.” He puts air quotes on the word.

“Hmm?”

“I guess it’s a little sexy, when you say it like that. But why should you call it something it’s not? It’s delusional, even patronizing.”

“My descriptions of your cock were not only meant to turn you on, W, and they’re certainly not meant to patronize you.” H says, still moving around the kitchen. “As a doctor, I know that gender and sex categories notoriously difficult to define.” He drizzles olive oil in his drained spaghetti to stop it from drying out, tosses it. “I’m sure you’ve experienced the same difficulty. Suppose we say a penis is a human genital with certain characteristics.” He turns off the heat on his sauce. “What if a cis man can’t achieve an erection? What if he can’t ejaculate? What about circumcision? Should we say he does not have a cock, because his cock lacks these certain requirements?”

“This is some Wittgenstein shit, isn’t it?” W says, his brow furrowed. H is pleasantly surprised by his German pronunciation. “The use explains the definition of the word, not the other way around. It’s a nice idea. The problem is the larger world, the system of language and images around these objects. The fact is, when a m- when someone looks at me, they’re going to see a clit, not a cock.”

H steps around the counter to stare at W, trace his fingers down his bare upper arm. W turns in his chair to face him, his knees brushing H’s trousers, but he doesn’t meet his gaze. “If you hadn’t seen every type of dog, you might look at a dog and call it a cat. Does that make that dog a cat?”

W smiles ruefully, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Maybe not to the dog. But he’ll still end up in a cat shelter.”

H raises open palms to the room around him. “But we’re not in a cat shelter, are we? The system of reality on this particular object is you and I, in this room.” He steps closer, between W’s legs. He smooths one hand from the middle of W’s chest down to his briefs.

W studies him. “We define each other, you mean. By looking at each other.”

“Yes. Looking at your lovely cock.” He traces its shape, then rubs it hard through the fabric. W hisses softly through his teeth. “The others you speak of are not seeing you. Why should their impressions, their definitions, come into it?”

#nsft #diary #hannibal #trans will graham #forcemasc #NBS

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feralwritings · 2 months ago

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dissonance

part four

words: 5.7k

It’s so perfect it's stupid, so perfectly tailored to Nancy and Robin as a couple that it's true serendipity that they ended up here, tonight, walking around Vegas together and finding this hidden gem, and there’s a part of it all, something that sticks in Reader’s mind as she runs to them once the ceremony is over, throwing herself into their arms, that despite her hesitancy about this tour, her reservations, her anxiety, that no matter what has happened, or what will, it was worth it to be here, now, with them.

masterpost

taglist: @cam-peggio @mewchiili

Las Vegas

When Eddie sees her and Chrissy power walking through the casino, obviously having come from their rooms, looking perturbed, clad in only their pajamas, he’s immediately worried. They’ve only been here for a few days, the show is this weekend, there is no possible way that something went wrong already.

“Fold,” he says to the dealer at the poker table, and without a second thought to his chips or what may happen to them, he gets up to follow them.

Once he catches up to them, Reader’s bent over her phone, thumbs typing rapidly across the screen as Chrissy watches anxiously. It’s clear that she was interrupted during her skincare routine, with a fluffy headband still on her head and a few streaks of a face mask on her jaw.

“What’s going on?” He asks, and they startle so bad that they nearly jump out of their slippers.

“Jesus Christ!” Reader squeaks, hand flying to press against her chest, “Fuck, warn me next time.”

“Sorry,” He amends quickly, searching her face, “What’s going on, though? You look worried.”

She fixes him with a long look before extricating her phone, showing it to him, “Robin and Nance dropped a pin and told me to come get them, which is, like, really terrifying considering they stopped responding ten minutes ago. So, we’re heading out now.”

Eddie nods, “I’ll go with you-”

Chrissy stiffens, “Oh, you don’t have to do that, I’m sure everything’s fine-”

Eddie looks at her, “I’m not letting you go alone.”

Reader rolls her eyes, “We don’t have time to argue about this. I’ve already called the Uber, it's out front.”

Together, the three of them march out of the casino doors, searching wildly for a black sedan driven by a guy named Tony. The problem is, there’s nothing but black sedans in front of the casino, and so they jog to several in turn before finding Tony, a white guy in his 80s whose car smells like lemons.

One after another, they pile in, Reader squished between Eddie and Chrissy, leaning forward to talk to Tony.

“Hi,” She holds out her phone, “Do you know where this is?”

Tony leans back from the phone, looking at it through the bottom of his bifocals, before having to pull out his readers.

“Oh, yes, I know where that is. Just send the address to the app, I’ll get ya there, Sugar, no problem.”

Reader sighs in relief, typing the info into the app and resting back against the seat, “Okay, thank you so much.”

She’s texting Robin again, all caps lock WHERE ARE YOU ARE YOU OKAY WHAT’S GOING ON and her leg is bouncing so rapidly that the entire car shakes with it. Chrissy’s in conversation with Tony, and Eddie’s looking out of the window, hoping to ascertain any sort of information based solely on landmarks.

They’re about a mile off the strip when the ride comes to an end, Tony stopping the car near some nondescript curb.

Eddie sees it first, and the knot in his chest dissipates entirely.

“Oh, my God,” He laughs, the neon lights from the building reflecting off of his face, bathing it in hues of rainbow.

“What?” Reader asks, leaning across him to look out of the window. She sees it too, she lets her head fall against the window, closing her eyes and shaking with relief.

It’s a chapel.

Robin and Nancy are standing in the ornate walkway, holding hands and giggling madly as everyone disembarks the car.

“Surprise!” Robin giggles, “Sorry, but we wanted it to be a surprise so we couldn’t give you much information-”

“You bitches,” Reader sighs, throwing her arms around them both, “I thought you guys were being kidnapped or trafficked or held hostage or something.”

Chrissy has joined the hug, and all four girls have descended into giggles and conversation, while Eddie stands awkwardly off to the side, waiting to be noticed. Tony hasn’t even left yet, his window is rolled down and he’s watching the entire exchange rather warmly.

Robin finally spots Eddie, and raises an eyebrow, “Oh, hi.”

Eddie waves, and Reader glances over her shoulder, “It’s cool, he came with us to be the macho protective man of the situation in case shit was going south.”

Nancy snorts, “The more the merrier. The rest of the guys can come, if you want. We should probably get our money’s worth, since we…spent a lot of it.”

“How much?” Chrissy asks, glancing at the chapel. It’s not huge but isn’t too little, a nice little area for outdoor weddings off to the side of the building, several rows of chairs on either side of the aisle. The building itself is decked out in pride decor, various gay icons etched in colorful chalk on the brick that faces towards the street.

“Well, we sprung for the deluxe package,” Robin says, whipping out a little pamphlet and explaining the various amenities to everyone.

Eddie’s already texted the rest of the boys and Steve, but soon enough Chrissy’s got him by the hand and is tugging him inside with everyone else.

He’s really the only guest that’s dressed appropriately, black blazer over top of a black mesh top, his black nice jeans and his nicest pair of boots, the Panaroot Dunes that he spent several pretty pennies on when he last went shopping with the band’s stylist.

This fact becomes obvious in a second when Chrissy and Reader look at each other, horrorstruck.

Chrissy could pass - she’s in a silk nighty that flares out prettily around her thighs, but it’s white, and despite Robin and Nancy’s repeated assurances that Chrissy can indeed wear white to their wedding, she emphatically disagrees.

Reader, however, is really in the shit, flannel pajama shorts and an old band tee, fluffy slippers, hair a complete mess.

Hearing this commotion, several drag queens descend upon them.

“Come on, baby,” Tina Turner says to Reader, taking her hand and leading her to somewhere in the back, “We’ll get ya fixed up.”

Cher takes Chrissy’s hand and whisks her away as well, leaving Eddie standing with Robin and Nancy.

“So,” Eddie tries hesitantly, “Getting hitched, huh?”

Things are still a touch awkward. Eddie’s going to have to earn their trust and respect, something that he’s been needing more and more, not really sure as to why.

Nancy smiles at Robin affectionately, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, “Yeah, we’ve been together forever, figured that now was as good a time as any.”

Robin nods, “Plus, we were just walking and saw this place and it just…felt right?”

Nancy nods, waving the rest of Corroded Coffin over as they walk into the chapel.

They’ve cleaned up reasonably well on such short notice, though Eddie cringes to think about the state of their hotel rooms when they return, knowing that the ‘nice clothes’ were at the bottom of everyone’s suitcases. Joey’s gone all out, dressed in his tux, complete with his bowtie, taking Eddie’s instruction of ‘meet us here and dress nice’ a little too seriously. Gareth’s shed his usual flannel for a white button up and his dress pants, and Jeff’s tying his tie as he walks in.

“So,” Gareth glances all around the room, vague interest on his face, “What’s happening?”

Eddie jerks a thumb over his shoulder at Nancy and Robin, who are in the process of doing some paperwork, pom-poms swaying to and fro on top of their pens, “They’re getting married.”

“Oh shit!” Joey exclaims, before clapping a hand over his mouth, “Wait, am I allowed to swear? Is this holy ground?”

“I don’t think they care, dude. If it was truly holy ground each one of us would’ve burst into flames the second we crossed the threshold, on account of our various sins.”

Joey nods, “Gay,” he points to himself, “Whore,” he points at Eddie, “Crypto-bro,” he points at Jeff, “Short.” He points at Gareth, who smacks him on the back of the head, even if he has to stand on tiptoe to do it.

Just as Eddie’s about to retort, he feels a gentle tap on his shoulder, and turns.

At first, he’s face to face with a pair of huge fake breasts - actual fake breasts - he can just barely see the seam of the chest piece where it’s blended into the queen’s skin, and he adjusts his gaze, tilting his head back to look into her face.

Dolly Parton stares down at him, “Excuse me, darlin’,” She says, in what is a very close impression of Dolly’s voice, though the accent drops away for a half second when the queen’s eyes widen underneath her lashes, and a distinctly New Jersey accent slips out as she says “Jesus Christ, you’re gorgeous-” She clears her throat, adopting Dolly’s twang once more, “I need your jacket.”

“Why?” Eddie asks, but he’s already shucking it off and handing it to her.

“I just need it,” She says again, dropping Dolly’s accent again. She takes it and scurries away, heels clicking against the floor as she does, muttering something about oh my god he’s so hot I’m going to die.

Eddie smiles to himself, glancing towards where Nancy and Robin were, but they’re gone too, so he supposes that they went to change as well.

A few more minutes pass in comfortable silence, the buzz of the chapel around them, music playing from somewhere.

Then, Eddie hears a smattering of female voices, and turns.

Chrissy’s coming down the hallway to the left, hair in loose waves, all remnants of the face mask gone. She’s in a pink baby doll dress, sleeves puffing out around her shoulders. She looks incredibly adorable, and a quick glance in Gareth’s direction tells Eddie all he needs to know about what he’d been suspecting since San Diego.

Reader is not far behind, and it’s Eddie’s turn to blush.

She’s got his blazer on, unbuttoned, with nothing underneath, a wide strip of her chest and tummy exposed. She’s wearing a pair of tight black leather slacks that cling to her like a second skin, smoothing along the contours of her body in a way that makes his mouth water.

He can’t speak. Can’t think.

There’s a delicate silver body chain glittering between the insides of her breasts, which are tucked apart underneath the blazer. Her hair is in a low, slicked back ponytail, and it makes the angles of her face all sharp and with the smoky wings of black eyeliner, she looks almost cat-like, regal, her eyes shining beneath her lashes as she looks up at him.

“This okay? Dolly came back with this and they all thought that it looked pretty good?”

Eddie just stares, because that’s all he can do, and she cocks an eyebrow at him, “I mean, I can find something else if you want your jacket back-”

“No,” Eddie squeaks, clearing his throat to rid his voice of that noise that just came out of it, “No, don’t, it’s fine. You look good.”

She nods slowly, still looking confused, and seems as though she’s about to say something, but as she opens her mouth, they’re beckoned by a drag queen in front of a pair of double doors, and they all hurry to take their seats. By sheer coincidence, Eddie and Reader end up next to one another.

Robin’s standing at the altar, decked out in a poorly fitted imitation of an old mobster suit. It’s too big in certain ways, and the very tips of her fingers poke out from the sleeves of the jacket. The dress shirt underneath fits, the tie is a bit too loose and the slacks lead down to a set of shiny Doc Martens, which is the only part of the ensemble that actually belongs to her. Regardless of the fit, she looks good, radiant in a way that brides usually are, all anxiety wiping from her face the moment the music starts, the lights dim, and the guests (all seven of them, including Tony) are instructed to stand.

They turn their attention towards the back of the aisle, where Nancy is standing, clad in a white flapper dress.

Reader giggles a little, the last minute outfit coordination has done the job and everyone starts to laugh along with her, at the sweetness of it all, and at the speed and accuracy of which Robin and Nancy were able to pull this all together.

Eddie can’t quite place the song that Nancy’s walking down the aisle to, too busy watching the adoring, tearful expression on Reader’s face as she watches Nancy. She’s got her hands clasped in front of her mouth, covering her trembling lips, and as Eddie stares, a single, glistening tear courses its way down her cheek.

Without thinking, he reaches up to brush it away.

The feeling of love in the air has clearly had an effect on her, all manner of vitriol gone as she looks up at him and smiles, bumping his shoulder with hers when they’re instructed to sit down.

The music dims, and so do the lights, and a door behind the ornate altar splits open, and everyone watches in fascination (and maybe a little bit of fear) as fog billows through it, backlit by a blue-white light from beyond the door. Then, a shadow steps into the fog, and Eddie thinks he can tell, by the spiky hair, the general silhouette, who it might be.

There’s a sharp whine of an electric guitar that comes through the speakers, and a drag queen dressed as Joan Jett steps into the light, the fog billowing around her, licking up the curves of her body and twisting around the spikes in her hair.

Everyone starts nudging each other, excited laughter moving through the guests as Robin and Nancy barely keep it together on the altar, Robin is staring up at Joan, starstruck and Nancy is giggling wildly behind her hands.

Joan spreads her arms wide, and begins the ceremony.

It all dissolves into a party after that, Steve shows up fashionably to congratulate the girls, dances with Chrissy and Reader and Joey, and generally seems happier than he has this whole tour. He doesn’t fold into himself at all, sinking into the shadows like he does these days.

He’s dancing with Reader again, hands wound around her waist as she looks up at him, analytical, “Are you okay?”

He studies her for a moment before shrugging, “Yeah. I’m fine.”

She narrows her eyes at him, not in a knowing way but in a genuinely suspicious way, “You’ve just- you’re not-”

She struggles to find the words for a few moments, “You hear rumors, you hear stories in this industry, and I guess you’re not what I expected.”

He purses his lips, eyebrow cocking, “Oh, I can’t wait to hear the rest of this.”

She laughs, rolling her eyes, “There’s stories about how…involved you are, with the tours. How much you go out and you have fun… I think this is the first time that we’ve all been together on an outing, and I just wonder…is it because of me? Because of what happened between Daisy Chain and Corroded Coffin?”

Steve’s eyes grow wide, and he becomes instantly apologetic, pulling her into a hug, “No! No, it’s not you at all. You or Eddie, you’re both fine, it’s just-”

He pulls back, looking into her face again, “It’s just…I guess some things change over time. People change. I can’t party the way I used to, I guess.”

Reader nods, “I understand. It can get overstimulating.”

Steve nods, and heaves a deep sigh, “You have no idea.”

Robin and Nancy cut in shortly after that, and it’s a blur of laughter, lots of hugging, queens half out of drag as everyone sinks sleepily onto couches and chairs around the three am mark as Dolly hands out Tylenol and mini bottles of water.

They don’t mean to crash out, all arguing about who’s going to order the uber to get them back to the hotel, but one pair of eyes closes, then another, then another, and soon the chapel has a pile of rockstars sleeping on top of each other. Nancy and Robin are curled around each other on a loveseat, Chrissy has dozed off on Gareth’s shoulder as his head lolls onto the back of the couch, Joey and Jeff are spooning, Eddie’s head is in Steve’s lap and Reader has her cheek smushed against Eddie’s chest, with Steve’s hand draped across the whole of her face, so when the sun shines through the window a few hours later and burns into her eyelids, she sputters and flaps wildly at her face until his hand is gone, and tries to sit up but finds that she can’t.

Eddie’s arms are wrapped around her, tightly enough that it would definitely rouse him if she moved. She is able to lift her head to look around, confusion muddling its way to the surface through her gnarly hangover, blinking rapidly to clear her vision, and as her surroundings swim into focus, she becomes aware of many things, all at once.

One, her cheek kinda hurts, and when she raises the hand that’s pinned between hers and Eddie’s chests, she feels the impression of the mesh from his top is pressed into the flesh there. Two, there’s coffee brewing somewhere, and three, she’s not in her hotel room.

The panic dissipates as soon as it starts, as soon as her eyes land on Nancy and Robin and the memories start rushing back like rapidly flipping through a stack of polaroids, a hand at the small of her waist as she dips back, hair slipping past her shoulders and cascading into open air, the hand that holds hers against her chest tightening when she’s pulled back up, her eyes meeting a pair of onyx ones, soft, curly black hair framing them before she’s twirled, back to his chest as he sings softly along with the music against the shell of her ear.

Aching feet from the high heeled boots that are still strapped to her, peals of laughter and the taste of cheap champagne bubbling across her taste buds, strawberry lip gloss sticky and shiny on her cheek, being tossed over a tall shoulder, feet kicking wildly as laughter burns through her, fingers scraping bluntly across the starchy fabric of a suit jacket that needs to be washed, the glow of a cigarette in the inky blue night before her lips slot around the dent made in the filter made by his lips, the inhale throwing an orange flash across her face that his eyes track with a hunger that sends goosebumps careening across her flesh.

She squeezes her eyes shut against the onslaught of memories, tries and fails to push down the swell of affection in her chest when she remembers whose arms she’s in.

Skillfully, she maneuvers herself off of him, slipping from underneath his arms and crawling off of the couch, stepping over the bodies before her feet hit open floor, looking around the quiet chapel, looking hide or hair or leather or fur of one of the queens that were here last night.

She finds a little kitchen, with a man sitting quietly at a wooden table, sipping green tea and reading a newspaper. He’s bald, small silver earrings hanging delicately from his lobes, remnants of makeup still on his face, black on his waterline and a distinct red stain on his plump lips.

He looks up when she pads in, smiling gently at her, “Hi.”

“Hi,” she croaks, “I’m so sorry we fell asleep here - this is a chapel and not a hotel, and I’m totally willing to pay extra for us and our -”

He holds up a hand, “It’s fine, sweetie, we don’t mind. We’re just glad y’all had fun.”

She nods, arms folding around herself, she’s a bit cold without the warmth of Eddie around her, and she sighs, “Thanks, we’re probably still gonna cut y’all a check, for, ya know, room and board.”

He shrugs noncommittally, a warm smile crossing his face before he stands and pours her a cup of tea, glancing at her over his shoulder, “How do you take it?”

“Couple spoons of sugar. Honey, usually, but I dunno if you have it.”

He produces a jar of it from somewhere, and she watches as it drips into the cup, twirling and melting into the heat.

“Thanks,” She says as she takes a sip, sore throat soothed by the herbs, and she closes her eyes, sighing through her nose.

Everyone stirs soon after that, voices traveling down the hall in search of her, before they’re all crowding around the doorway, eight pairs of eyes looking at her apologetically, and she remembers in an instant that they have a show tonight.

The clock on the microwave reads just past nine, and so they say their goodbyes, a stack of Instax pictures being shoved into their hands, blown out and blurry, Steve and Reader both writing individual checks, and soon, they’re back in the oppressive heat of Las Vegas, squinting against the harsh sunlight as they pile into a couple of Ubers.

On the drive back to the casino, it’s quiet, everyone too sleepy and too nauseous to talk too much, and she becomes aware of the pile of pictures still clutched in one of her hands, and she slowly starts to sort through them, Robin and Nancy in one hand, everyone else in the other, and she finds one that makes her heart stop in her chest, and as she stares a little longer, her throat feels like it's closing.

Eddie’s got her in his arms, chin hooked over her shoulder as his hands rest on top of hers where they cross over her stomach. Their figures are blurry from the motion, but this is concrete evidence that the clearest memory she has from last night actually happened, and it wasn’t some fantasy her sleep-addled brain had concocted while she slept in his arms, breathing in the scent of his cologne, in deep, slow, consuming breaths. She stows it away from the prying eyes of others and tries to justify it in her mind.

She was drunk. He was drunk, they were drunk and so she can sit here, look pretty and pretend it never happened. Unless he remembers it too, which is a looming possibility that casts her into a chilly shadow. It’s not like anything more happened, but the tenderness of it is what gets her, something that she’s not used to, something that is so foreign that her body, once cognisant, completely rejects.

It was the setting, she thinks, the setting. A wedding, a declaration of love between two people that seeped across the floor like water and brushed the toes of everyone there, a contagion that is affecting no one else but maybe Chrissy and Gareth, but that’s for another day.

She rests her forehead against the cool window, the air conditioning blowing directly on her face from a vent above, and she breathes away the feelings until she feels numb again, until her toes are securely on baseline.

***

The arena glitters at her as she laughs into the microphone, “So,” she says, lips brushing against the mesh, “Something pretty cool happened last night.”

She can hear Robin laughing from upstage as a photo flashes across the screens on either side of the stage, poorly taken from an iPhone camera, but nevertheless showing the moment that Nancy and Robin had sealed their union with a kiss, a corny graphic of pink bubble letters announcing their marriage glinting at the bottom of the screen.

“So, in honor of this most special occasion,” Reader grins at Nancy, “I’m going to perform the first song that Nancy ever learned to play, which, well…you’ll see.”

She switches guitars with Danny, who takes her electric and gives her the acoustic, and as Robin descends from her platform to stand next to Nancy, arms twisting around each other as Gareth takes Robin’s place at the drums, and Eddie is slinging Nancy’s bass around his shoulders, with Joey, Jeff and Steve coming out to spectate, to raucous applause from the crowd.

She tunes the strings a bit, and then is plucking out a tune on the strings that no one seems to recognize at first, but as soon as she’s sidling up to the microphone and crooning out the first few lyrics, Nancy claps a hand over her mouth.

“Please baby, can't you see, my mind’s a burning hell. I’ve got razors a rippin’ and tearin’ and strippin’ my heart apart as well.”

As people start to recognize and sing along, she can feel the vibration of the bass in her feet and takes a glance over at Eddie, teeth worrying into his bottom lip as he plucks out the bassline, shining rings catching the stage lights every so often and blinding her as she watches, and it’s with a great effort that she tears her eyes away, eyes landing back on Nancy and Robin as she moves into the second verse. She’s split in two, hyper aware of Eddie moving on the stage next to her, hyper aware of Nancy and Robin in front of her, glowing, laughing faces and when she focuses solely on them, the ache eases, but it comes right back around when the final chorus comes.

“It’s only fear that makes you run, the demons that you’re hiding from,” She sings, eyes meeting Eddie’s for a half second before she’s turning away again, strumming out a flourish on the acoustic as the song concludes.

She feels a bit breathless as Danny comes back out to give her the electric, and she turns to find Eddie’s eyes on hers as he presses a chaste kiss to both Robin and Nancy’s cheeks, quietly congratulating them before waving to the crowd as he exits stage right.

***

Syrupy air fills her lungs with each breath. She meanders through the crowd, sweating glass in one hand, the other hanging limply at her side.

Her head feels light on her shoulders, her constantly stiff muscles finally relaxing a little bit. She moves to the music, slowly, allowing herself to move with the ebb and flow of the crowd.

She’s drunk enough not to care about the way her head is starting to hurt, how her eardrums rattle from the impact of the bass. She closes her eyes against the multicolored lights, tilting her head upward towards the ceiling.

She doesn’t know where her bandmates are. She doesn’t really know where she is, entirely. She knows she’s in Vegas, she knows she’s at a club, with the pounding music and the many bodies pressed up against her, but the finer details fall away.

When she opens her eyes, her vision tunnels to a familiar face. Eddie, standing some ten feet away, hands on a girl's hips as she presses her back against his chest, blissed out expression lolling along the contours of his shoulder as he bends to press his face into the sweaty column of her neck.

There’s a strip of skin exposed just above her belly button, and that’s where Eddie’s hands lay, perilously close to several places where she might want him later.

Something stirs within Reader. It’s not jealousy, it’s fascination. As she watches, she can’t quite figure out why she can’t look away. There is a tiny tinge of envy, but she doesn’t know who it’s for - Eddie, or the girl.

She’s beautiful, curvy, dark skin absorbing the lights and turning them rich against her body. Her hair is auburn, a soft curly cloud that haloes the fine contours of her face, her full lips shining with gloss, her slender hand coming up to run through Eddie’s hair as he presses closer.

The stark contrast of her deep brown skin against his pale, tattooed visage is something that makes the whole scene even harder to look away from, his hands flexing against the flesh of her waist, his nose pressed against her cheek as he says something into her ear.

Reader would have gladly stood there, swaying a little on her feet as she watched them, but soon, there was another body pressing against hers and she was whisked away, hands on her hips, breasts that brush against hers, strong hands and broad shoulders, a confusing mix of bodies, of people, of skin, until minutes or hours pass and she finds herself face to face, chest to chest, with Eddie.

It doesn’t immediately register. How could it? She’s spent an indeterminate amount of time with hands that aren’t his holding hers, eyes that aren’t his looking down into her face, lips that aren’t his pressing into the shell of her ear, the side of her neck, against her own, moving clumsily and fervently, in and out of beat with the music, in and out of waves of needless, misplaced desire.

She sobers a little, taking in his appearance. About three different shades of lipstick are smeared across his mouth, his hair is an absolute mess, half up, half down, curly ringlets dissipating from the sweat, eyes dark, so dark, so-

The glass in her hand is dripping with condensation, the drink gone and the ice almost gone with it, so there’s no use in her holding it anymore. Yet she clings, the coolness, the smoothness of the glass and the steady weight of it in her palm, because it’s really the only thing she’s sure of.

Everything else swirls around her. She’s far too drunk, and there’s a distant ping in the back of her head about this, and all at once, under Eddie’s gaze, in the muggy air of the club, she wants to go back to the hotel.

She mumbles something of the sort, the music too loud, swallowing her words, but Eddie seems to understand anyway, plucking the glass from her hand and setting it who knows where, before replacing it with his cold fingers, and by the hand, he leads her out of the club and back onto the strip.

September in Vegas doesn’t adhere to typical fall weather, so it’s still oppressively warm, but she sucks in lungfuls of the fresh air as Eddie leads her back to the hotel. The grip on her hand is so gentle, barely there, but for each of his long strides she has to take a couple, so soon enough, she’s tugging him back beside her.

So, he falls into step next to her, allowing her to wind her arms around his bicep, her head slumping sleepily onto his shoulder. He ignores the heat that rises to his cheeks, looking down at her fondly. To anyone else, they’d look like a normal couple in Vegas, maybe a tad too drunk, but in love all the same.

Except they’re not in love. The only reason she’s even acting this way is because she’s drunk and overstimulated, both things sapping her of her usual spunk and all of her energy. Even so, Eddie revels in the moment, knowing that it’ll be the last.

When they get back to the casino they’re staying in, she flinches a little from the loud noise in the confined space, so he leads her to the elevators.

“Where’s your room?” He asks her, waiting to press the button on the elevator.

“305,” She tells him through a yawn.

He presses the corresponding button on the elevator. The doors slide to a close, and she suddenly seems to become very aware of her body and what it’s doing. She pulls her arms away from his and stands as straight as she can, though she sways a bit with the movement of the elevator.

Eddie wonders why she keeps doing that. Pulling away from him, constantly. On stage in Phoenix, in the green room in Santa Fe, even on the road, when both buses were at the rest stop and when he’d brush against her accidentally in the aisles of a convenience store, not even trying to be in her space. He’d think it was something else, something he did, something genuinely wrong but he would find her looking at him, the performative distaste falling from her face for a moment, replaced by something he can’t decipher, can’t name.

It’s driving him crazy. How unreadable she is. How she’s okay with him near one moment and then is shrinking away the next, like she’s trying to not exist too much, or too loudly.

The elevator door opens and she starts through it, fishing in her pocket for the room key. He knows that she shares this room with Chrissy, having given the bigger one to the newlyweds, and despite knowing that the journey from the elevator to her room won’t be treacherous, he follows her anyway, bending to catch her when she slumps against the wall.

“‘M fine,” She mutters, standing a little straighter, checking all of her pockets for the key, “Just can’t find this damn key.”

Eventually, she finds it in her bra, holding it triumphantly over her head as she starts towards her room again.

He knows that she’ll be okay, yet he falls into step next to her, until the silver numbers 305 glitter at him from her hotel room door.

She’s halfway inside before she turns, looking up at him. Her eyes are impossibly soft, and somehow he knows it’s not from the liquor. She runs a nervous hand through her hair, a tick that she’s picked up from being around him, before she steps back over the threshold to stand on tiptoe and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Thanks,” She says, face lingering in front of his for half a second before she disappears behind the door, leaving him leaning into open air, arm braced against the door frame, staring at silver numbers.

#Eddie munson x reader #oh this one was so fun to write yall #my fic: dissonance #bandfic #Eddie munson x you #eddie munson x female reader #if you can't tell by the everything about this chapter I am deeply bisexual and love queer culture with my entire soul #but this was so fucking fun to write UGH I wish it was a movie or a show #the next chapter...yall...hoo...boy....#reader is fighting against every natural instinct contained in her body if you can't tell #she wants to like him SO BAD DUDE #and he's already down bad crying at the gym teenage petulance fuck it if I can't have her type beat

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slightlyartist · 3 months ago

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I have a dumb story from my Aussie childhood that feels way too Backle not to share. When I was lil, maybe three or four, my family went to this lil zoo sanctuary thing where you could handfeed the kangaroos. NOT A PETTING ZOO DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME. My mum looked away for two seconds to focus on my brother, looked back, and was terrified to find me laying down and cuddling on a big buck kangaroo's stomach. Straight up having a snuggle with an animal known for disembowling people with their kicks and drowning dogs for a laugh. She very calmly asked me to SLOWLY come back over and I kept insisting that the roo was so soft and fluffy as she extricated me from the mostly-wild animal.

Anyway Backle would take a nap on the (non-mechanical) Gobblewonker send tweet.

Hey quick question are you Backle in real life because HE WOULD TOTALLY DO THAT. Backle is the type who would pet animals who SHOULD NOT be pet, and would also kiss really ugly and possibly venomous fish <3

AND YES, he would love to meet the Gobblewonker, he was very disappointed when he discovered it was McGucket's invention but he still has hopes that he'll be a real Gobblewonker (he has no idea the real thing is still in that lake, Tate insisted it was all just crazy stories from McGucket)!!

#judtalks #gravity falls backle

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eirinstiva · 3 months ago

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“These dreamer types do live, don’t they?”

What ho!!! Bertie is still suffering a hungover.

In the stress of my emotions, I had clean forgotten about having taken Gussie’s interests in hand. It altered things. One can’t give the raspberry to a client. I mean, you didn’t find Sherlock Holmes refusing to see clients just because he had been out late the night before at Doctor Watson’s birthday party.

But Holmes has Watson to bicker a bit and be a drama queen, just read the first chapter of The Valley of Fear (I'm doing that at Letters from Watson). Well, you have Jeeves at your side, but roasting Jeeves' mind is impossible.

After a pick-me-up from Jeeves (that concoction with egg yolk, red pepper, Worcester sauce...) Bertie feels ready to help Gussie.

However, too late to worry about that now. Tell me of Gussie. How did he make out at the fancy-dress ball?” “He did not arrive at the fancy-dress ball, sir.”

So Gussie forgot the invitation, his keys, his wallet, arrived to a different place and scared a cabman...

“That is the policy which appears to have commended itself to Mr. Fink-Nottle. He darted rapidly away, and the cabman, endeavouring to detain him, snatched at his overcoat. Mr. Fink-Nottle contrived to extricate himself from the coat, and it would seem that his appearance in the masquerade costume beneath it came as something of a shock to the cabman. Mr. Fink-Nottle informs me that he heard a species of whistling gasp, and, looking round, observed the man crouching against the railings with his hands over his face. Mr. Fink-Nottle thinks he was praying. No doubt an uneducated, superstitious fellow, sir. Possibly a drinker.”

Now this cover makes a lot of sense!

Thanks, Sippy, for helping a devil in distress <3

The fact that Gussie is so... unique (?) that even Bertie, the we-Woosters-always-help-a-friend-in-distress Wooster wants to give up means that this really could be a lost cause, but sometimes Bertie is fueled by spite and he doesn't want to give up his fashion choices and that's enough to continue with this problem.

Sir, I suggest to give up and ask Jeeves for help.

Pip-pip!

#letters regarding jeeves #jeeves and wooster #reginald jeeves #gussie fink nottle #bertie wooster #bertram wooster #right ho jeeves #letters in the underground

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bodybeyondstories · 1 year ago

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Just ignore it - 2

David schemes with his friend Lee over how to deal with whatever or whoever is bringing about these big booty changes. Things heat up, in the waking and unconscious worlds, and David finally confronts Logan (and his new friend).

1 (Previous) | 3 (Next)

“I can only imagine the teaching reviews at the end of the semester. ‘Dr. Palmer had great hands-on pedagogy but a reality-warper gave a bunch of us comically fat asses and he said to just be chill about it.’”

“Well we’ve both seen worse,” said Lee, nursing a gin and tonic across from me.

Lee was my closest friend and colleague at the Center, he specialized more in the ‘lab’ side of things. A few times a week, we would do happy hour at a gay bar a comfortable distance from campus, allegedly to strategize around whatever problems we were currently trying to solve but mostly just to vent over a few rounds of overly strong and suspiciously cheap drinks.

I had changed into some stretchy leisure shorts that looked painted on over the hemispheres of my ass cheeks, hoping they could handle any ‘aftershocks’ of growth that may arise. Still thinking about the incident during class, I wondered who else may have noted and identified it as such. While I felt bad for not having alerted my students yet, word getting out or someone taking action would not help the situation. At least not until I had more info.

Noah was a creative writing MFA whose skinny arms and svelte torso flared out into jiggly, wide hips. He had seemed to be adjusting himself to sit up straighter at first, but I surmised that it was actually his butt inflating enough to lift him up in his seat. As class ended, he had trouble extricating himself from his desk, his ballooning backside drawing more than a few stares as it nearly sent him off balance. Blake, by contrast, was one of the forest guys, a rectangle of muscle and one of the leg day enthusiast types that I mentioned earlier. Hiis khaki shorts, already stuffed to capacity, split along the side seams as his glutes and quads expanded with muscle, thankfully not reaching catastrophic failure. He definitely noticed, but didn’t seem to mention it, at least not during class, instead opting to power walk his way out of the room right after we wrapped up, his squat butt bouncing ludicrously in his shorts.

“The thing is,” I began, “shifting the threads of time and genetics to retcon someone into a fantastical, juicy derriere is a delicate process. It takes a lot of training, precision, and skill. But matter manipulation in real time? It’s powerful, brute force, carefully controlled chaos magic. And this guy can not only do both, but he’s getting clumsy. This is worrying, right?”

��It’s exciting!” exclaimed Lee. “Imagine the implications if we could study this, it would push the Center’s research agenda years forward.” He adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose, focusing on the space between his hands as if trying to materialize a slideshow. “And yes, yes, we should be very concerned,” he added, noticing my stern look. “But you have to admit, right now it just seems like this guy’s staying in the realm of erotic fantasy.”

“Yeah, but until when? Then what does he move on to? And how long is this going to continue?” I asked, grabbing a handful of my left butt cheek.

“Hmm, you said you’re the most serious case, right? I mean, the others who have been changed are still within the realm of possibility?”

“They’re starting to push at the edges,” I said, rolling my eyes in frustration. “They’ve noticed but I don’t think they’ve noticed. See for yourself,” I added, nodding towards the door.

As if on cue, Blake walked in and sat at the bar, drawing surreptitious glances and outright stares. And who could blame them with those globes of muscle perched on top of a barstool, spilling out of a pair of workout shorts which were pulled taut against his tree trunk quads. I guessed he had actually gone to the gym after class by the looks of the sweat running down his back to his deep ass crack. I couldn’t imagine the show he must’ve put on doing deadlifts with that recently enhanced posterior. Were the magical changes just visible, or could he lift more? What could I squat with this wagon? Maybe not the most pressing questions, but ones that needed answers nonetheless.

“Okay, well, not not inside the realm of possibility,” said Lee, looking visibly pained to avert his gaze back to me, maybe remembering that my bubble booty was somehow even better.

We went through our respective repertoires of spells, spirits, and metaphysical conceptual formations, and nothing seemed to quite make sense for the situation. While we don’t usually talk shop this deeply after hours, this was a pernicious problem with no easy solution, and if I didn’t address it soon, the higher ups would inevitably catch wind of it and step in. And who knows where that would lead. As we talked, things began heating up at our little corner booth. Partially because of the subject matter and partially because with my recent changes, I was rendered acutely horny easily and often. I could feel a deep, yawning need gathering around my pelvis, a yearning. I was practically squirming in my seat, feeling a growing vortex of hunger. Eventually, Lee finally broke the tension.

“Do you feel that, too?” he asked. Any magic sensitive person in the establishment could probably tell that my hole needed a good thrashing, but I really keep forgetting that Lee’s senses are often more sharply attuned than mine.

“I thought you’d never ask,” I said, and before you knew it we were closing out and heading back to my place.

Lee could barely keep his hands off my bubble butt as we speed walked through the crisp night air. We almost caused a scene on the way up to my apartment as he stopped me on the stairs, bending me over slightly to bury his face in my crack, his hands gripping the flesh of my cheeks like he might fall off the face of the earth. When we made it to my bedroom, I turned around and held his eager hands at his sides, taking a moment to relish in his hungry, impatient gaze as I towered over him before leaning in for an indulgent kiss, our tongues urgently searching each other’s mouths.

With a flourish, I whipped his shirt off, revealing his trim torso and hairy chest. While I thought he was about to return the favor, he instead spun me around, looping his thumbs into the waistband of my overstuffed shorts and beginning to pull. What began as an over-dramatic act became a real struggle as he started to put some elbow grease into it, fighting to peel the fabric over my monster booty. Eventually I joined in, willing my shorts over the curve of my ass and ignoring the small pops of fabric tearing. Aftershocks, I said to myself sarcastically. When the pants finally came off, he let out a sigh of disbelief, caressing my glutes with something like reverence, before pushing me onto the bed and burying his face all the way down to my waiting hole.

He was an expert ass eater and was sending me into waves of pleasure, but I needed something else. Something deeper. Reaching into the nightstand I pulled out a dildo of blended blues and greens that had to be no less than fifteen inches. A toy that, at least in this timeline, I was very familiar with. And apparently so was he. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, at least in this version of events. Lee, ever the reliable friend, had come through on a regular basis to help scratch my unrelenting itch. After we lubed up the toy, I began working it farther and farther inside of me as I got to work on Lee’s juicy cock, which would have been impressive had it not paled in comparison to my recent enhancements.

Afterward, Lee cuddled into my chest as I lay on my side, tracing lazy figure eights across his back and planting small kisses on his forehead.

“I guess whatever this is has its perks,” I offered with a wry smile, reveling in the afterglow of yet another powerful orgasm.

Lee perked up at this, that familiar look on his face reminding me that the gears are always turning. “That might be it, actually,” he said. “Like these erotic changes might not be a byproduct or any sort of trickery. They might themselves be the point. They might be leading to some sort of goal.”

“A goal for what?” I asked, imagining everything from a bubble butted harem to world domination.

“That’s the question,” said Lee, pursing his lips in thought. “More research is still needed on this, but extra-dimensional beings don’t really move through or perceive spacetime in anything resembling the way we do. So all they need is a conduit in this dimension to work through. Either way,” he continued, giving my ass an indulgent caress, “this thing really is something else. Just excellent work. And even if it might be a curse doesn’t mean you can't still treat it like a blessing.”

—

That night I had a dream that may have offered some clues. Being trained in lucid dreaming is one of the introductory facets of this work, and it can be an effective tool for receiving and processing sensitive information as well as exploring things hidden in your personal corner of the astral plane. But it was especially useful as a liminal space in which one could encounter beings on the edges of our realm, like our primary suspect.

I was walking into the paranormal artifacts collection, the archive that Logan works in, hoping no one was there yet because I had finally figured out the delicate matter of confronting Logan about the situation, and needed to make sure the meeting was one-on-one. What my strategy was was unclear, but in the dream I felt confident. As I approached the entryway, I noticed that the double doors had been removed, yet something else seemed off. My eyes were level with the top of the frame, which was disorienting enough, but as I ducked my head through I realized that I was already in a full crouch. In fact, I was crawling through the entryway on hands and knees, my shoulders bumping lightly against the edges of the frame. Thankfully, it was just Logan in the collection, standing over a table of ancient tomes, scrolls, and even a hologram, all arranged around some object that I couldn’t look directly at. He glanced toward me with chromatic rainbow pattern glasses, a noted difference from his usual look, but otherwise nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

He looked…lonely? No, solitary, he was missing something. I was about to call to him, but was stopped in my tracks by someone holding me back, gripping my waist to keep me from progressing farther into the room. I initially registered this as a warning or some sort of invisible barrier, but when I turned around, I didn’t see anything or anyone. I tried again, still stuck by some unknown force. With mild annoyance, I realized that not only did my hips and butt take up the entire doorway, they were too big to fit through. As I continued trying to squeeze the flesh of my colossal backside into the room, I could hear the frame audibly straining, but still had no luck.

Then came a familiar force pushing from behind. What felt like massive hands were digging into the underside of my glutes, eagerly kneading and squeezing my cheeks to massage them through. As I glanced back at Logan, still patiently watching, I realized why he seemed so alone. Whatever power had been seeping into my life wasn’t doing it through him in this instance, it was right behind me. I guess in the liminal dreamspace, this being had less need of a human gateway. With a final shove, I cleared the doorway, my giant form tumbling into the room, trying to get my bearings without starting a chain reaction by knocking over shelves and shelves of magical artifacts. Before I could get a clear look at whatever, whoever that was behind me, I felt those hands again, parting my ass cheeks and slipping in a tongue that felt nothing short of massive, even at these proportions. As they hungrily tossed my salad I was driven to higher and higher levels of ecstasy, my body following suit by expanding with every wave of pleasure. Getting back through the door frame was a lost cause as I became more worried about the approaching ceiling, my gargantuan hands and feet pushing aside bookcases, tables, and crates of identified ephemera as I grew relentlessly, looming over Logan as he tried to move his carefully arranged spread out of the way, eventually giving up and staring at the sight of my behemoth cock rising taller than his entire body, pulsing with the coming release–before I lazily woke up in the early morning sun.

I really felt like with more time I could’ve gotten some answers, if not for the loud creak of Lee padding his huge feet to the bathroom to relieve himself. He had an earlier day than I did, so whenever he stayed over, I just had to deal with the hustle and bustle while still bleary eyed and emerging from a REM cycle. While he’s one of few people who would fully believe me if I told him I was just being eaten out by an ancient deity–and would feel especially bad for waking me–I had left the world of dreams with a sufficient amount of useful data. How could I even complain? I thought, as Lee re-entered the room, shooting me a sleepy wink as he ducked his head back through the doorway, absentmindedly petting the semisoft schlong that swung back and forth around his knees. He’s really the only one who can satisfy me, it’s like we’re made for each–

Ah. Interesting. While this was definitely the body I ‘remembered,’ and definitely the dick that had brought unending pleasure like few else could, I had a sneaking suspicion that this was not his form last night. At least not in this timeline. All you need is a conduit, his words echoed in my head. Whatever this being was had managed to link me and Logan through the astral plane, using me as a temporary conduit for its erotic power. And the results were towering next to my bed, stretching almost to the ceiling, all long graceful lines and sinewy muscle, trying to finagle a beautiful, golden brown, unbelievably long dick into some chinos.

—

Slowly becoming the manifestation of someone’s wildly fantastical wet dream didn’t mean I still didn’t have work to do. After another go round with my favorite silicone monster cock–the best I could do following Lee’s departure–I threw together a quick breakfast and hauled my big butt to the office, settling into a morning of paperwork and emails that I had been neglecting in light of this recent case.

Before long, I could feel the pressure building down below, and tried less and less effectively to stay focused and get some work done, convincing myself that once I found a good stopping point, I could run to the bathroom, whip out my extra long dick, and suck myself off as a late morning pick me up. The feeling was similar to the phenomenon during class, a rolling crescendo of erotic energy in desperate need of release. Except it just kept building, the pressure getting more and more intense, like some deep gravitational presence moving closer and closer. Then in walks Logan, placing himself slowly, carefully in the chair opposite my desk.

“I…need your help,” he said.

I decided to play it cool. I had surmised that Logan wasn’t fully aware that he–or more accurately his dick–was the source of all this foolishness, but if he was coming to that realization, I had to handle the situation with care.

“Yeah, what’s wrong?” I asked with genuine concern, though I was fairly certain he also had a dream of me growing to monstrous proportions and having my salad tossed by a higher dimensional being.

“I don’t quite know how to explain it, but I think you might be able to offer some clarification. There’s something I need you to see,” he said, pulling out what looked like a polished stone phallus with glittery lavender streaks, and a few cracks here and there. It looked to be about eight inches tall standing upright, the base composed of two concave bowls that resembled, of course, a ballsack.

“We received this at the museum before the start of the semester. It was lost in the mix of boxes of stuff from a smaller archive that had shut down recently–budget cuts, ya know, and there weren’t many details to go on. So it seemed like some sort of ancient fertility artifact and I was doing some analysis to get an idea of where and when it came from and there was this…energy that I could feel around it, like it was calling to me, and…well…”

Don’t tell me, I thought with an internal groan.

“I, um…” he continued.

“You fucked the ancient dildo, didn’t you?” I asked, figuring it would be easier if we just cut to the chase.

He lowered his head slightly in affirmation, his cheeks reddening in embarrassment.

“You fucked the ancient dildo,” I repeated, pinching the bridge of my nose with two fingers, “and now you’re cursed by some fertility god or related deity or supernatural being.”

“...Yeah.”

“One whose name we don’t know.”

“Correct.”

“Who may have been hidden in that thing for millennia until very recently.”

“Very likely.”

“And who is now, through you, trying to run amok.”

“Mmhm.”

“Okay. Alright. At least we’ve figured that out.”

“I was really hoping you could help me,” Logan jumped in, his voice rising in pitch, “I don’t know how to control it and it’s so strong. And I’m sorry for the changes to everyone, but it keeps like, demanding to be released, but I don’t really know what it’s saying and with what it already did to my boyfriend–”

“Hey,” I interjected, my voice becoming slow and deliberate. As Logan was talking, his hand wandered to the artifact sitting on my desk, touching it absentmindedly, and being this close I could feel this being trying to ooze their way into the plane of our existence. As Logan got more visibly worried, I felt my bubble butt pushing against the arms of my chair, my feet and legs slowly lengthening, my shoulders stretching wider as my torso extended, my clothes becoming snug. Meanwhile, Logan’s adorable twinkish visage became more acute, the bouncing curls of his hair increasing in volume, his lips plumping amongst his scruff, his body shrinking slightly as an astounding bulge in his pants lengthened even further.

“Deep breaths,” I continued. “Deep, deep breaths. We got this, you’re in the right place.”

He relaxed his grip on the artifact as I took his hands in mine, intentionally ignoring the fact that my mitts looked massive compared to his. We were reaching that energetic threshold, but I was confident that I could handle it.

“What changes do you remember?” I asked. “With you specifically.”

“Well,” he started, “my boyfriend always liked being the bigger one in the relationship, and I…think that before I found this I was around average height, but I’m not sure. But I’m pretty sure I’ve shrunk several inches, which he’s loved, and he can’t keep his hands off my butt, he keeps commenting on how perky it is. And then there’s…this.”

With a sigh of resignation, he rose from his chair and dropped his pants in one swift motion. He wasn’t wearing underwear, because what would even be the point with a schlong that came straight from someone’s hyperdick fantasy. Revealed to the air, his cock felt like a metaphysical locus of energy in the room, a gravity well pulling everything toward it as it stretched over my desk, and, before I could intervene, dropped a thick glob of precum into one of the bowls of the artifact.

I felt a heavy pulse of energy reverberate through the room which would probably have been felt over this whole section of campus. While this power was too ancient for our contemporary defenses, it likely set off alarms with every magic sensitive person in the area.

“What…was that?” he asked.

“You gave it an offering,” I said, staring intently at the artifact for any changes on any plane that I had access to.

“Is that bad?”

“It’s not good,” I responded curtly.

The dissipation of that energetic burst wasn’t followed by a feeling of relief, but dreadful anticipation. My stomach sank as I imagined the ocean flowing away from the beach before a tsunami. Whatever being this was was on its way, and it was tired of dealing with Logan as a conduit.

We had to act fast and I had an idea. A completely unhinged one, but the only one I could maintain amidst the torrent of hormones, pent up jizz, and the deep hunger of my hole.

The erotic is a powerful force, one that with training and knowhow, can be a useful facet of any mage’s skillset. But more importantly, orgasms are, for lack of a better term, portals. Brief openings between dimensions, moments of energetic possibility. Whoever this being was, they were coming, and I had a sneaking suspicion that they were powerful enough to enter our world through brute force, a tear in the fabric of reality that could have ramifications far beyond ripped pants seams and donkey dicks. But if I opened a door in a controlled way I could set the terms of engagement and minimize destruction. I hoped.

“I know this is less than professional, but I need you to fuck me,” I said. “This curse seemingly works through erotic energy and orgasms are powerful focal points. If you fuck me, I may be able to redirect it, at least temporarily.”

Logan didn’t have to be told twice. His member looked ridiculous on his slight frame, still leaking precum as it rose fully to attention, defying gravity as it bobbed in the air between us. I briefly wondered how I was going to take all that before realizing it looked mighty familiar, very much like a certain dildo of slightly smaller size, but very similar shape, even with that curve. Of course, I thought.

Logan didn’t waste time, and soon I found myself bent over my own desk, my monumental bubble butt arched in the air as Logan’s mushroom head slowly pushed my hole wider and wider before slipping in.

Logan slid in and out with agonizing slowness, his prodigious cock working its way farther and farther with each stroke, the pleasure of his thrusts simply unreal. He had seemingly lost the capacity for words, his hands gripping the flesh of my fat ass as he was lost in cosmic orgasmic pleasure. Getting inch after inch of his dick into me could only be accomplished with magical assistance, yet I was still filled to the brim, feeling his mammoth cock pulsing against my walls with every one of his heartbeats. His precum mixed with sweat produced a loud squelch with every thrust, and as more and more of him entered me, I was rendered speechless by this never ending, all encompassing cock, in disbelief that there could possibly be more. It felt like a fantasy, because in a sense it was.

Finally, somehow, he bottomed out, and as I felt his pubes press against my overstretched hole, I took my chance, positioning my own cock over the second small bowl of the artifact as a glob of precum slid up my long shaft and oozed out, dropping into place. Although no sound was made on this plane of existence, I sensed something like a bell tolling in the far off distance, as if the circuit had been completed, and Logan’s dick pumped up as he began shooting volleys of cum deep inside of me, my own dick following suit.

As we were brought over the edge of oblivion, time slowed to a crawl, and through my other sight I could finally see the being that had been causing all this trouble, straining against the threads of our reality and oozing through with chaotic, erotic possibility.

But orgasms are a portal. And I opened the door, pushing aside the beaded curtains of our world to meet our new–and very old–guest. Usually, in situations like these, one might whip out some sort of binding or banishment spell, but this was a being of deep magic, old magic, and it would burn even the best of us to a crisp. So there were no tricks or complicated grammars here, just my outstretched hand, fingers splayed and palm up. An invitation to a being who hadn’t yet figured out how to communicate in any recognizable modern language, apparently opting to manifest through erotic fantasy. And a recognition in return.

—

The sun was much lower in the sky when I came to, painting the sky from my window in the streaks of pink and purple of waning afternoon.

Logan had fallen back into the chair and passed out, visibly exhausted yet also relieved, the mushroom head of his soft dick drooling as it hung just over the chair’s edge. As he realized I had finally regained consciousness, he leaned forward to plant a tender kiss on my right cheek in thanks, letting out an overdramatic Oof as I fell back into his lap.

“Let me know if you need help explaining this to your boyfriend,” I said.

“He’s open minded, I think he’ll get it. It’s not my first time encountering a magical artifact.”

After we awkwardly cleaned up and got dressed–I really was enjoying the skirt look– Logan turned to me and said, “Thanks so much for this. I guess I’ll…see you next week.”

“No problem,” I replied. “It’s literally my job, and the skirts are admittedly a nice touch. I’ll see about taking care of this before getting it back to the archive,” I added, gingerly placing the artifact in a drawer of my desk.

It was a partial truth. What Logan had thought to be a curse was actually a collaborator, and it had found someone more capable to play with. In the recesses of the metaphysical plane of my mind, I felt a newcomer making themself comfortable, finally finding the words to express themself in this world.

I’m not a linguist, but it sounded something like…Let’s have some fun.

#male tf #ass growth #butt growth #dick growth #growth #Just Ignore It

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cricketnationrise · 2 years ago

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Hello hello! Could I get 11:11, the white house, and June for your ficlet fest? Thank youuu ❤️

Of course! I went with a missing moment from canon from the line: "...giving him the same strange look she gave him over coffee the morning after Henry snuck into his room." Hope you enjoy! 💜

want your own ficlet? rules here.

❤️🤍💙❤️🤍💙

white house, 11:11am

June wakes up the morning after the State Dinner a little hungover and supremely comfortable. It’s one part her bed, and one part Nora’s arm slung around her waist, pulling her close in the night. Nora had been almost manic last night after the dinner wrapped, loathe to go back to her apartment in Columbia Heights. June let herself be pulled into Nora’s energy and they’d stayed up way too late watching old episodes of Drag Race and talking about anything and everything.

June would dearly love to close her eyes and go back to sleep, but the sun is falling right across her pillow and she really has to pee. She’s as careful as possible extricating herself from Nora’s hold, trying not to wake her, but Nora pulls tighter and grumbles something unintelligible yet undeniably (and adorably) pissed off into June’s neck.

“Sorry – gotta pee,” June says quietly.

Nora doesn’t open her eyes but does relax her hold – slightly. June slips free and makes her way to the bathroom. She feels more human when she’s done – less like the sludge found at the bottom of a protein shake – and washes her face for good measure. Back in her room, Nora is asleep again, curled up in the covers, clutching June’s pillow close. June can’t help but stare at her best friend looking so at home in June’s bed. There’s a thrill somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach, but June pushes it down. Tells herself firmly that it’s the hangover.

She needs coffee.

June leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind her, and heads to the Residence kitchen in search of the life-giving liquid. Unsurprisingly, Alex is there already. What is surprising is that he isn’t slumped over the island groaning in pain like a particularly dramatic and whiny table runner. Instead, he’s texting furiously – his cinnamon-scented coffee still full and obviously untouched beside him.

Something about the sight is strange. Alex is always in motion, mind always racing to the next thing, the next step in the plan, always wanting to be doing. But right now, aside from his thumbs typing away, he’s still – not even a foot jiggling to disturb the aura of serenity. He looks cozy in sweats, his curly hair even more of a riot than they normally are in the mornings. If June had to guess, she’d say her brother looks settled, content to just be in a way she hasn’t seen him since before Ellen ran for President – before the divorce even.

The smile tugging at his mouth throws her for the biggest loop, actually. It’s not his media smile – all teasing and straight teeth. It's not the smile he flashes to staffers and their own mother occasionally. She’s seen all-too-often since New Year’s – the I-have-to-grin-and-bear-it-because-I’ll-drown-otherwise one that makes June want to burn the world down for him.

This smile is small, quiet even, almost as though he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. June hasn’t ever seen her brother smile like that – like he’s so fucking astonishingly pleased with his life he can’t contain it.

Alex eventually puts his phone down to stretch and catches sight of June in the doorway.

“Mornin’, Bug. Coffee’s fresh if you want.” He must have done more talking at the State Dinner than June had noticed – his voice is all raspy. June doesn’t move, still staring at how at home he looks in his own skin. It’s such a dramatic difference even from the night before where he’d literally been bouncing anxiously on his toes in the handshake line.

“June? You awake? You’re givin’ me a weird look.”

She shakes herself mentally, gives him a rueful smile. “Apparently not fully awake yet, Nora and I were up late talking after the dinner.”

“All the more reason for coffee then,” he teases. His phone buzzes again and Alex’s attention is redirected to it in the blink of an eye. Whatever the text is, it has Alex snorting in laughter and responding as quickly as he can. She leans against the counter and watches him over the lip of her own coffee cup. Something changed for him last night; something for the better.

“Oh hey,” Alex’s voice startles her out of her thoughts. “Eleven-eleven, make a wish, June.”

She smiles at him and closes her eyes, wishing hard that whatever is making her brother so happy lasts for a long time.

#cricket writes #ficlet fest 3 #rwrb #june claremont diaz #ficlet #14carrotghoul

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thousand-winters · 11 months ago

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How do you think Darius and Eberwolf met?

HELLO, HI, I LOVE THIS QUESTION (I also just remembered I have a wip of that I completely forgot about oops)

See, I find very sweet the possibility that they might have met when they were both children, even if that meant they drifted apart at some point and then reunited, but most of the time I headcanon that they met at the coven.

Despite Eberwolf becoming a Coven Head, I feel like they might have faced some prejudice because it doesn't seem like demons truly hold an equal position in society on the Boiling Isles, other than the bipedal demons, but that's still just one of three types of what seems to be an incredibly abundant race in the demon realm. Now, of course Eber has to be a bipedal demon, he can do magic and, well, he's bipedal, but he does look a lot more beastly than other bipedal demons, so I think there's a good possibility that he's part bipedal, part beast demon, which wouldn't give him a very good standing.

He's powerful, however, and bringing him in as a Coven Head is probably good for an image of "anyone can become a Coven Head" if Belos was going for the publicity angle, though mostly I imagine he must have cared about him being powerful since the Head Witches were the catalysts for the draining spell. We know how the rest of the Coven heads were though, and I don't think they particularly cared for being kind even to one of their peers.

So here's what I'm getting at: Because of all of that and the fact that Eberwolf doesn't speak the "common" language on the Isles, I think to a certain point no one was bothering with them too much, with a general attitude at the castle being like "ah, let someone else deal with that beast", more passive aggressive that straight up rude. Now, I doubt Darius was even interested on them at the beginning, too busy trying to figure out what had happened to his mentor, or being a little bit depressed, or both. He would have learned by this point that connections at the castle are a big no-no anyway.

But "he doesn't give me the time of day" is still better than "he sees me as lesser" so I like to think Eber latched onto that and kinda went "oh, it's too late, you're never getting rid of me now", and no matter how irritated Darius seemed to be, he was still irritated because of Eber's behavior, not because of his nature, so Eber was delighted 😭

I tend to think that there's scarce people who can truly understand Eberwolf, most of them getting by with written messages or rough signing, and Darius learned out of spite just so he could retort properly and then they kinda ended up being stuck together for missions because hey, why not send the one guy who can handle the Beastkeeping Head Witch? And Darius didn't even want to be friendly but now he's stuck with them and uh, oh, overtime he started getting fond of them. It was very much mutual, and once they found out they both had rebel tendencies? Oh, it was for life.

Nobody asked for this but take a fragment of the wip I mentioned at the beginning to see if I can somehow gather motivation from this to actually finish it:

“This is no beast,” He states through gritted teeth, even if the extremely pleased and sharp smile the small furry demon is sending in his direction makes him want to take back his assessment. The scouts that are still there, watching the spectacle with what Darius guesses must be stunned expressions behind their masks. If they put as much effort on their jobs as they do on staring at him, they could have avoided this whole thing, but he’d rather extricate himself from this situation as swiftly as possible than waste his time by scolding them. “But Head Witch Eberwolf-” “-is right here," He cuts them off, watching with little amusement how they turn their heads so fast behind them that he's fairly sure at least one of them has some extra vertebrae on the neck to make for that ease of movement. "The demon you just pushed at me," He clarifies. The scouts stop moving so abruptly that Darius wonders if they were somehow petrified without him realizing. And with all their clothes staying intact instead of turning to stone alongside them. It’s impressive really, though not enough to lessen his irritation.

#darius deamonne #eberwolf the huntsman #the owl house #toh

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freddiemercurylegendabovelegends · 1 year ago

Text

November 21st, 1975 - Queen Story!

'A Night At The Opera' released in the UK

🔸“Bohemian Rhapsody was totally insane, we never stopped laughing. It was basically a joke, but a successful joke.”

- Roy Thomas Baker, Producer

Queen's fourth and probably best known album, was recorded in England between August and November 1975. Such was the complexity of the compositions that no less than six different studios were employed, with the band members often recording various parts simultaneously in order to work most efficiently and get through it all. The sessions were long and gruelling and spanned four long months. Once again the band produced the album with trusted collaborators, Roy Thomas Baker and Mike Stone, and what emerged was a genuine triumph on all levels, meticulously pieced together to make the best possible album. A Night At The Opera would propel Queen on to the world stage on a mammoth scale and establish them as a major international force. Though it was never in any doubt within the band, it proved that Seven Seas Of Rhye and Killer Queen were not fleeting hits from another glam-type British wannabe band; Queen were here to stay and Bohemian Rhapsody and A Night At The Opera would confirm it for those in any doubt.

It is a matter of public record that a very great deal hinged upon the success or failure of this album. Had it failed, it is entirely feasible the band would not have survived and Queen may well have ended there and then. Despite having two top ten albums under their belt, and significant international hits with Seven Seas and Killer Queen, and sell-out shows all around Britain, the band was in serious financial difficulty by the start of 1975. Recording and relentless touring for three solid years had still not yielded anything like what the band were due, and, to add insult to injury, Roger, John, Brian and Freddie were still struggling to get by on the minimal wage from Trident, to whom they were signed. Enter the story at this point, Jim Beach, the lawyer who would eventually negotiate Queen's release from Trident's grasp and from the deal that had so far afforded such little reward for the band. It would be some years before the band formerly parted company with Trident. Eventually Queen were extricated from their deal and left to make A Night At The Opera without distraction or financial pressure. So, with a clean slate and blank canvas on which to create, the much relieved Queen, along with stalwarts Roy Thomas Baker and Mike Stone, committed the next quarter of a year to the meticulous and all-consuming craft of honing the album that Brian would later refer to as ‘Queen's Sgt Peppers’.

The album cover was given a simple but lavish treatment, with Freddie's original crest design updated and coloured and placed centre of the album cover. The LP gatefold complimented the style, with the lyrics printed over two sides of the inside cover, and for the first time the inner sleeve was in colour and featured live photos from Queen’s most recent tour.

A Night At The Opera is a wonderfully rich and diverse gathering of carefully constructed and, some might say, unlikely compositions from all four band members. Every track is strong and every moment from beginning to end is beautifully recorded. The late lamented Mike Stone (engineer), who sadly passed away in 2002, once again played an integral part in achieving the sound of this album. Opera spans all kinds of musical styles and genres and veers off at tangents as unlikely the album title itself.

Aside from the well known material, also on this album is to be found Freddie's exquisite Love Of My Life, rumoured to have been inspired by his long time girlfriend of the time Mary Austin.

A Night At The Opera was finally finished in early November of 1975 and released to worldwide critical acclaim later that month on the 21st. It very quickly became Queen's first No 1 album, and also their first to achieve Platinum sales status. It went top 5 in the USA and achieved Gold status there, helped in no small part by extensive tours of North America and Canada earlier in the year.

Singles from this album: Bohemian Rhapsody / You’re My Best Friend / Death On Two Legs (on Queen’s First EP)

(source: queenonline.com)

Pic: 'A Night At The Opera' – EMI - HOLLAND (2005) ~ 30th Anniversary Edition

#freddie mercury #queen band #london #zanzibar #legend #queen #brian may #john deacon #freddiebulsara #roger taylor #1975 #a night at tbe opera album #a night at the opera tour #queen invite you to a night at the opera #thomas baker

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dzamie-oc · 1 year ago

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Voretober 24 - Harvest

Length: 1400 words Vore type: F/M, oral vore Fandom: None (Kahudra) Other info: unwilling prey, kobold/rabbit, feral prey, digestion Summary: A garden during harvest season is a great place to find a meal! A rabbit knows this, and unfortunately, doesn't consider that may be more universal than he'd like.

On the outskirts of Dilmar City, a garden's plants grew heavy with vegetables. The garden was, of course, guarded by a fence. Easily ten feet high, a wooden frame bounded a shimmering, magical barrier, designed to completely but harmlessly repel any fox, deer, and possibly even a bear.

But not, William thought as his paws pushed through the layer of grass from below, a bunny. A little more digging, and the exit - now entrance - to his hole was wide enough to fit whatever he could drag back with him, as well as his soon-to-be-bulkier body. Extrication, however, could wait: he had a feast fit for a whole warren for him to peruse and enjoy. William shook off some dirt and began to hop through the rows of plants.

Cabbage, onions, some spinach, pumpkins… William slowed his pace at the line of carrot leaves poking out of the ground. Just before he could start digging, however, his ears perked up at a sound: the voice of a yellow and orange kobold using a magic staff like a walking stick, grumbling to herself.

"Stupid superstitious humans. 'Magic corrupts the crops' my scaly tail." She bent down, hefted a pumpkin thice William's size, and placed it on a nearby cart before biting down on the stem to sever it and spitting out the part stuck in her mouth. "Bleh. Tastes like food's food. I don't know what that elf sees in this job besides a worse paycheck than-"

William froze when one bright yellow eye focused on him. Slowly, smoothly, the lizard turned to face the bunny. He tensed, preparing to run straight back to his hole; fangs that pointy and sharp, and mention of "food's food" set his fur on end. But maybe she hadn't actually seen him, or maybe she'd-

The kobold took a deep breath, glanced left and right, then laid down on the cart, letting one arm and the lower half of her legs and tail hang down. "Ah, hell, every carrot you eat is one I don't have to pull up." She laughed, and adjusted her head to avoid laying on her horns. "But lucky you that this is some human's field and not my dragon's."

After waiting several seconds for her to move again, and her failing to do so (save for a lazy twitch of her tail), William took a cautious hop up to the carrot. Then sunk his claws into the dirt. Then did so again, digging faster as the kobold continued to do absolutely nothing about it. Before long, the carrot was out of the ground and, nibble by nibble, vanishing into him. Not even the leaves were spared.

Emboldened by this odd lack of action, the bunny moved to the next carrot. It came up faster, partly from his confidence, but also because it was truly scrawny. Still, food is food, and its size meant it simply disappeared faster. After wiping some dirt from his mouth with a paw, he saw a set of leaves he was certain belonged to a truly delicious specimen, a little closer to the cart. The kobold was completely still, and possibly asleep. So, William took one hop, then another, and started to dig.

Suddenly, a sharp pain jolted through his ears! A strong pressure held them together, then lifted him up by them, until he stared the kobold, now smiling, right in the eyes. William struggled, wiggled, and kicked at the air, but her grip around his ears was far too firm to drop free. A thoughtful look replaced her cold smile, and for a moment, the bunny dared to hope she'd changed her mind.

"Let's see…" she muttered, drawing her staff closer to William with her other hand, "probably don't need much mana into this one. I do want it to end quickly, after all."

The staff tapped William's head, and he heard a firm command: "Sleep." He shook his head, trying to both ignore and use the pain to fight it. Seconds passed, but he remained awake - though his normally strong legs felt like heavy weights dangling from him; he tried to kick again, but felt them barely twitch. To his horror, the kobold noticed this, and bared her fangs in a wicked grin. "Perfect," she purred.

Without getting up from her resting position, she simply lifted him over her head and opened her jaws wide; William could only stare down at the perilous, pink expanse, framed by deadly-sharp fangs and framing an even deadlier dark throat entrance. Her breath was warm and soft against his fur as she lowered him, and once again William had to fight to stay awake. One blink later, and her breath surrounded him, full of unfamiliar but instinctively dangerous scents, yet the gentle, warm pressure of her throat around his hind legs made a powerful argument in favor of giving in to slumber.

The pressure around his ears vanished as the new, lighter one crept up his midsection, threatening his forelegs as well. His ears, sore from the kobold's grip, folded back against his head and back, and then, with a loud clack, she snapped her jaws shut, surrounding him in darkness. An even louder GULP sent a shot of energy coursing through his body, and he kicked as hard as he could against the walls of her throat… which, in his sleepy state, wasn't very hard at all. Her gullet's embrace climbed to his neck, and then wrapped around his head.

The predatory lizard swallowed once more, and irresistible muscles shoved William deeper into her body; his hindpaws slid into a more open yet definitely more deadly chamber, followed soon by his hips, his belly, and the rest of him. His fur was matted down with drool and other juices. Completely cleaned of dirt, he had no doubt, but the thought that the kobold's stomach would soon clean him off of his bones…

Sheer terror, or perhaps her spell wearing off, threw some fight back into him. With newfound strength, he thumped his hindpaws down as hard as he could, as though trying to jump in his confined space. Though muffled by the flesh around him, he heard a surprised "woah!" from his captor, and then William's surrounding's rotated as the kobold sat up. This did little to dissuade the bunny, who simply kept kicking her stomach walls. She growled, and a new pressure from outside pushed against him, as though she could simply force him to be still and accept his fate. William, of course, did his best to not do that, and kept at his assault.

The kobold's stomach rumbled, and what little space he had to ready his kicks was taken from him in a large belch - at least, from the small bunny's perspective. William tried to kick more, but with her stomach pressing in on him even closer than before, he couldn't manage much power behind them. Not that the constant, cloying massage all around him wasn't trying to finish what her earlier sleep spell had nearly done. William could barely focus on much else besides staying awake and continuing to thrash - not even kicking - when the scaly predator jostled him around more hopping off the cart.

"Welp, that's enough of a rest. Boring human job or not, I have my pride as a diligent kobold," she said to herself, and to her unwilling eavesdropper. Between her steady crouching and lifting, the darkness around him, the increasingly stale air, and her stomach constantly kneading acids into his fur, it wasn't long before William succumbed, closing his eyes for the last time.

Rinta gave a grunt of effort as she hoisted the last pumpkin onto the cart. Her stomach grumbled around the gradually diminishing heap of rabbit meat and fur stewing inside. The kobold gave her belly an appreciative pat, and it responded by sending up another burp. She grinned to herself; the free live food did make up for the very un-adventurer-like manner of the job, she supposed. She crouched down and started on the line of carrots, quietly hoping that the tasty, squirmy bunny hadn't been the extent of ther farm's pest problem.

#v/ore #v.ore #vorefic #voretober #kobold #bunny #furry #anthro #furry pred #kobold pred #feral prey #unwilling prey #digestion #ocs #oc: rinta #kahudra #text #writing #writers on tumblr

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