#brassy baby

[alphamamalioness]

Hoe is leo handling the pack uwu

AlphaMama: He is going pretty well! ^w^

[ladydelena]

Tamlin Relationship Headcanons (SFW Pt. 1)

I think this is going to be a series because I have too many ideas about this furbaby. I'll update my masterlist as I post more headcanons. Tumblr! This is what you were invented for baby!

—--

Tamlin loves nuzzling you. It really doesn't matter when or where. Leaning against one of the spring forest trees? His arms are braced on either side of you and he’s just gently, intently running his nose along your shoulder, suckling on your exposed throat with his warm, soft lips and edged teeth. Laid down after a picnic where you both indulged on too many of the fermented berries you foraged? He’s gently nipping and nuzzling your chest, burying his face in the warmth of it and almost purring contentedly.

He likes being domestic with you. He craves it so deeply, and if you're even away for a day or two he gets angsty at the hollow feeling that creeps into your shared chambers. He’s definitely away for days at a time as well, attending to Springs borders while you attend to your duties in your territory, but he is a domesticated beastie boy who just wants to hold you and breathe in your scent. He wants to share his life with you and he’s definitely become a bit co-dependant, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

You guys have a system for when his nights start getting too late and he's backed up on paperwork. You’ve found that the two of you work well in silence, and you often read and summarize what comes across his desk, and then he goes over the bulletpoints, often going with the suggestions you leave.  Every once in a while he’ll ask about a suggestion because you guys think so differently, and he genuinely listens- it's led to a lot of positive changes in the court that you’ve implemented together as a pair. The teamwork cuts through the work in no time and the two of you can retire for the night and be together in peace. You even have a shared desk for this exact task, that- well, everyone needs a break from paperwork right? You guys have shared the space in other ways, breaks help the mind work better!

He likes to bite. He has a bit of a possessive streak but he doesn't let insecurity drive him crazy with it. He trusts you and you trust him, but you also like when he’s a bit possessive. You like feeling how much he wants you and needs you near him. Nobody said fae had to adhere to strictly human standards right?

He eats like a warrior but indulges during picnics. His usual meals of lean meats and varied vegetables, the deep red wines, it all keeps his body in shape (cauldron is he always in shape) but during picnics, he loves tasting the little pastries and sweets you bake yourself. He loves feeding them to you even more.

He loves shared baths. He really, really likes when you wash his hair-like, eyes closed and his purring creating ripples on the water. He also knows you love the different fizzing crystals and scented oils and will gather a variety of them from the different territories merchants for you. He also likes plucking whichever rose color he thinks matches the scent and scatters them on the water. The little artsy furbaby- he likes making the evening special like that for the two of you.

He's unabashedly proud of your hobbies. The goofball. He loves the life you bring to the estate and the chaos as well. When you picked up crocheting and made him the lumpiest blanket your first go round? He still uses it to cover the two of you when you lay out in the gardens and read before retiring for the night. The slightly brassy, mismatched cufflinks you made when picking up jewelry making and metalworking? He wears them every day on his uniform. 

You make music together. He plays the fiddle and you both write lyrics and you sing softly and happily, as if in time with the spring breeze itself.

[averytirednerd]

Oh yeah, time for a big rant about Hazbin Hotel!!!

I haven’t really had much of a chance to sit down and write about this since I watched the episodes, so things I say are probably going to reflect what others have said. I’m just writing this to gush about the things I love about some particular songs in HH. 

I didn’t have any big expectations going into the first episode, because I’d mostly heard negative reviews of the show so far. I had heard that the songs, however, were bright spots, so I really looked out for the songs and listened in every time we were graced with one. The characters are truly the best versions of themselves whenever there’s a song going on, even if they aren’t the main focus of the song. It’s amazing to see, especially since my favorite thing about this show is the characters themselves.

My favorites are “Loser, Baby” & “Stayed Gone” and will probably be the main focus of this post because <3333

“Stayed Gone” is sung by Christian Borle (Vox) and Amir Talai (Alastor) and I could not be happier about it. Their voices are amazing here, and my favorite bits of this song are on repeat in my head.

I also love little visuals like the mug Vox has in the talk show format, the scrolling text in the news show format, or Vox’s error message toward the end of their bantering. 

(The scrolling text says: “I’m totally not worried about this guy and neither should you be. I totally wrecked his sh*t last time he tried me.”)

Alastor really gets under Vox’s skin and it makes me kick my feet every time. Their dynamic truly is everything, and I’m so excited we got this song that showcases it perfectly. 

He clearly enjoys it too, what a little jerk.

Speaking of these two, Vox definitely had/has a thing for Al at some point, right? I mean…inviting him to the Vees for a start. Not to mention just the v i b e s. Poor guy though, it’s definitely one-sided.

I love Al’s use of…modern…lingo. Truly a spectacle. That on top of it being a reveal of Al’s rejection to Vox’s offer 💀 I love this man <333

Last thing about this song, promise, but also I love the casual little lore drops and more pieces to the puzzle of the past that we get. Very exciting! Can’t wait to see how everything fits together once we find more pieces.

Okay okay, moving on. “Loser, Baby” is amazing musically as well as visually. 

First things first, I LOVE JAZZ OMG AND IT FITS HUSK’S VIBE AND EVERYTHING SO PERFECTLY???

Keith David’s voice definitely fits Husk in my eyes now, I see it, it works. He’s amazing. Does a fantastic job.

Not to mention Blake Roman’s performance was, of course, incredible as well. 

The big, upbeat, brassy sound in this song is amazing and I’m loving the trumpet in it especially (any fellow trumpet players? no?)

I love everything about this song. The visuals, voices, instrumentals, lyrics, message, all of it!

Husk slowly going from “yeah you kinda suck lmao, but so do I” in order to not make Angel feel like he’s not being genuine, to sneaking in a better message of “we’re not perfect but it’s okay, don’t be so hard on yourself” (and getting Angel to believe/go along with it too!!) is amazing. It’s a perfect example of these characters being the best versions of themselves during musical numbers. 

This song is what solidified Husk as number 2 in my rankings (and I’m sure I’m not the only one). I mean…just look at the way he moves, it’s so silly.

(We’re going to ignore the Videoshop watermarks, okay?)

Overall, I’m loving this show so far despite some obvious issues with pacing n such and an overall rocky start. Especially loving the songs, which I think kinda make the show rn. 

If anyone wants to add anything (because I definitely didn’t cover a whole lot, just surface level stuff because even this took a while to type out) then please feel free to! Also ask me any questions you’ve got for me concerning stuff that has/will happen(ed) in Hazbin Hotel. I love HH discourse!

Thanks to those of you who read all the way through, sorry for such a long post lol <3

[yeyinde]

more john price please. maybe reader is tongue pierced giving him sloppy head? 👀

"Haven't worn one in a while," you wink, cheeky and a little tipsy. Filled with liquid confidence in shades of amber malt that remind you of the taste on his tongue. You lean in close, agarwood tickling your nose. Eyes flash in a mockery of something demure, staid: lashes cresting, babydoll coy and saccharine sweet, over your glossy eyes in the way you know he likes. Your countenance might have been twee, virginal, but the words that seep from your lips are drenched in hedonism: sultry and sybaritic.  "Do you like it, baby?"

⇾warnings: unfettered filth; gendered reader, gendered terminology, female!reader; oral—m!receiving; dom!Price; this is basically just price fucking your throat; reader has a tongue piercing ⇾notes: i am so sorry this took so long. no excuses—but life got away from me for a moment. this has the flavour of sugar daddy Price, and maybe kinda sorta might be a small drabble piece to my sugar!daddy Price fic(s). —i listened to a very specific set of lana songs for this.

"Oh, fuck, love—," his hips lift from the seat of the armchair, forcing more of his spit-slicked cock into your mouth, nearly gagging you. "That's it—just like that—"

You sputter, nose burning at the way he plugs your throat with the blunt, fleshy head of his cock. It bludgeons into the soft lining in the back, pressing taut against the gummy walls that flutter, flexing, around him. His hand is ironclad against your skull, keeping you pliant, open for him. Just for him—

It borders on too much, riding that hazy line between what you can take and what you can't. Your mettle is tested by each inch he forces inside of your esophagus, delicate flesh coloured a mosaic of blue and black as he splits you apart. Your eyes are drenched in tears running down your cheeks as his cock spears your throat, a brackish sea loch, turning you into nothing but a conduit for his pleasure. A receptacle for him.

Really, though: you have no one to blame but yourself.

When you first flicked your tongue out at him, a pretty titanium barbell catching in the soft light of the pub, you thought you broke him. 

Knuckles blanched on the glass tucked inside his palm. The calm lake of his eyes rippled when you rolled the ball across your upper lip, frothing, gyre-intense, and arsenic white.

(It tasted like victory, then. Now it tastes of firth and sea spray.)

His voice was low when he spoke, a brassy rumble that barely fit through the grit of his teeth. "You didn't tell me about this, love."

"Haven't worn one in a while," you winked, cheeky and a little tipsy. Filled with liquid confidence in shades of amber malt that remind you of the taste on his tongue.

You lean in close, agarwood tickling your nose. Eyes flash in a mockery of something demure, staid: lashes cresting, babydoll coy and saccharine sweet, over your glossy eyes in the way you know he likes. Your countenance might have been twee, virginal, but the words that seep from your lips are drenched in hedonism: sultry and sybaritic. 

"Do you like it, baby?"

His knee hits the underside of the table, the noise only just drowning out the groan that drags, crumpled and ruined, out of his throat. Heady chamois chokes the giggle from your chest when he looms over you, hand white-hot on the skin of your thigh, pushing up the hem of the pretty lace dress.

(The one he bought for you.)

You glance up, and the air is smothered out of your lungs. Intense, bonfire-bright.

"We're going home."

Fullstop. A command. No room for arguments. Not that you could make any with the heavy way he stares at you, eyes drifting to your gaping mouth where the metal surprise catches in the glow.

There is a click in your throat when you swallow, heart lurching in your chest. Your belly burns with the smoke from his cigar, and amber malt from his glass. 

His thumb notches inside of your thigh. Danger close, as they say. You wonder if he can feel the dewiness staining your skin. 

Price hums low in his throat–a rasping trill that makes you feel like you're a stripped wire. Flayed. Open. Raw. 

His eyes are storm clouds over the sea: a thunderclap in the granite distance. He speaks, a rucked husk over smouldering sandalwood, and your spine tingles with the way his slurred accent curls over the words. 

"And when we get there, love, I want you on your knees," his fingers press into the dampening gusset of your panties, eyes sapphire grey. "And we'll see how much I like it."

Which, of course, turned out to be a lot. 

You pull back, gasping, and wrap your hand around the base of him where he pulses like a heartbeat in your palm. Teary eyes flicker up to him, lashes clumped together, watery from when he'd fisted your hair in his hand and pushed you down to the base. Yeah, take all of me, love. 

His eyes glide to you, lidded and heavy. Price gazes down at you, lips pulled up in a wry smile as he watches you fall to pieces with just his cock buried deep in your throat.

In petulant retaliation, you drag the metal ball across his frenulum; a slow roll that makes his eyelids drop, head falling back with a grunt of liquid sin. 

Suede fills your nose when his hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking the skin below your wet, glossy lip. You lap at his sensitive, flushed tip, eyes fluttering. 

You can't get enough of the way he tastes—clean pine, wet skin, salt. You drink it down like you're parched for him. And you are. His taste rides the line of nicotine and power. It's stupid, really, but think you could stay on your knees for his man as long as he'll have you. Desperate in a selfless way: one that makes you want to hear his smoky growls, the grunts of pleasure, and bask in the briny tang of him in your mouth. 

You pull back, dragging your hand up his aching flesh. Precum beads at the tip. Your mouth waters. 

It's a feast: the way his thick, fat cock glistens from your spit, flushed vermillion; long veins throbbing under your fingers, pulsing through the velvet flesh. The flared, wet mushroom head. The bulge an inch below, a swollen slope that stretches you unexpectedly when he has you on your back, your knees; fat head shoved inside. Then the stretch, the burn, as he pushes the rest of his girth into you. Unending, all the way to the base. Price is stocky. Thick. 

Your jaw aches already. 

His stare burns when you meet it over the leaking tip of him, chin falling on his hairy thigh. Lachrymose eyes wide and wanting. An innocent whore. 

(Just for him. Just the way he likes it.)

He groans when your tongue flicks out, lapping at the base of him, tongue ring rolling over his baby blue vein. 

You breathe in the smell of him—musky, manly: weathered wood, wet earth; loam, humus—and feel your core pulse at the heady scent burning your nose, clotting in your lungs. Your eyes flutter, dimming at the intoxicating miasma of him making your head swim. Your head rolls, cheek flattening on his thigh. The coarse hair tickles your nose. You rub your skin against his, the warmth bleeding into your smarting cheeks. 

His hand falls to your head, thumb brushing over your temple as you lick around the base of him, trailing just the tips of your fingers up and down his hard, twitching length. It's lazy compared to earlier, but you need a moment to breathe. To dilute the hypoxia in your head.

His hand is warm on your skin, like the thigh beneath your cheek. They smell of tobacco, smoke. Your eyes flicker up, catching his sapphire gaze. 

It's a small lull: a moment when you just take him in, feeling the pulse of him under your hands. Gentle, despite the burn in your jaw from how wide you had to stretch it to fit him. The scratchy ache in your throat. It's hushed. His hips flex in your hands, cock bobbing and dribbling prespend as your whispered graze only just barely touches the velvet skin. 

His fingers curl in your hair, eyes shaded in desire. He rasps low, a small breathless rumble spilling from his lips. "Better stop teasing me, love." 

You roll the ring over your bruised lips. "What are you going to do about it?" 

His eyes crease, tight around the corner. A little rumbling breath spilled from his lips. His chest sinks with his exhale. "You won't like to find out." 

It's not a threat. Not really. It's a promise.

There is a slight pressure against your jaw. Your mouth parts, falls open under his wordless command. 

"Good girl—," it's almost a snarl: ashy and brittle. "Keep your mouth open for me, yeah?"

He knocks your hand away from his cock, and curls his long, thick fingers over the girth. 

You soak him in, breathing deeply so as to keep the tang of him inside of your lungs. A whimper falls when he grips himself tight, head blooming vermillion and spilling more milky precum. He holds it there, letting you watch the way his prespend dribbles down the hard length, gathering at the seal of his hand. 

A huff leaves him when he sees your thighs rub together, eyes—dewy and lachrymose—fixed on the fat swell of him. The ticking veins running down the sides. Your saliva and his cum pool at the base, covering his heavy balls in the combined slick. 

It's intense. Blisteringly hot. You want him inside of you, splitting you open, and making you take him all the way to the root. Deep, hard thrusts until you can feel them slap against the seal of your cunt pulled taut around the girth of him. You want him to fill you up until you can taste him in your throat, until your belly bulges with the heft, ballooning from the cum he pours into your womb. 

You want him to use you. Fuck you stupid until you're swollen and full to near bursting—

The breath pops in your throat, sticking to your larynx when he pulls his cock down, the slick head dragging over your cheek. The noise he makes is caustic. It burns through you until you're gasping from the blue heat of him. 

He drags his palm up his length until the head disappears through the seal of his hand. The sound it makes is slick, tacky. Your thighs press together, tighter, desperate, to stem the ache, teeth sinking into the flesh of your tongue until the metal ball scrapes across your gums. 

Price looks at you for a moment, gaze softening in the flushed light of the lamp, and it's there you feel the throb in your belly start to thunder. You shift your knees, searching for friction, a little whimper spills out, quivering with longing. 

Sprawled on the chair, trousers barely pushed down his thick thighs, and with his flushed, wet cock sitting fat and heavy in his palm, he looks like he was carved from smoke, and made just for you. 

His beard twitches. The hand on your jaw tightens just a little. Just enough to bring you back into focus. Your eyes drop again. Obedient. Docile.

"Fuck," the word falls like the crack of a whip. He lifts the fat head of his cock from your tongue, and pushes it against the metal peaking through your flesh. Prespend drenches your upper lip as he rubs his cock over the piercing. "You suck my cock so good, love. You want it bad, don't you?"

You can't speak. Can't think— 

The wet, heavy thud of his cock dropping over your mouth makes your eyes squeeze shut. A whimper drags out of your throat when he does it again, and again. His cock slaps over your panting mouth, stinging your flesh, and making your cunt ache.

"Please—," it's slurred around the weight of him pressing against your mouth. Your eyes open, find his. Pleading. Begging. The words tumble out, broken and needy, from your blistered lips. "Please, baby. I wanna choke on your cock—"

"Fucking hell, love—"

His cock slips over your lips, your ring, and he pushes it down your throat, until the head of his cock hits the gummy, slick wall at the back. You gag. Tears blur your eyes, leaking down the corners. It's not enough to choke you, but it makes your chest tighten, and your head swim. Black dots moult across your vision. Your hands grasp his knees, fingers digging into the rumbled fabric of his trousers. Ground yourself. Breathe through it. Easy, and steady.

Hypoxia isn't enough to stop you from getting his cock as deep into your throat as you can. 

A briny purl slips out from his mouth when you gasp, tears soaking your cheeks. 

His thumb brushes across your cheekbones, smearing the tears that steam down, and catching them on his rough skin. The touch is softer than it has any right to be with him drowning you in the precum that weeps from the tip, spilling down your throat. It's gentle, reverent. The starchy, warm pads of his fingers ask if you're okay if you can take more. Always so considerate.

Your eyes lift, bleary and gritty, and you find him through the haze of smoke billowing out from the end of his cigar. 

There is a burn in the back of your neck, your jaw, but you breathe through the pain that licks at you, and hold his molten gaze, drenched in pleasure at the warm, wet give of your flesh. The pinch between his brow is full of euphoria, but it oscillates now with unease, with that cosseting veneer that makes his hands ease off your body, giving you distance. The very thing you don't want. 

The sight of him—dressed in shades of smoke and tobacco—pools inside of you like a sickness, a fever. He's a rough cut of a man: guttural snarls and resonant growls of displeasure, of anger brimming in the furrow of his brow, but you'd never been touched with such reverent adoration before. The smeared sheen under your eyes, the deep rubescent flush to your cheeks, and the lost haze in your eyes, all make him shudder with barely constrained desire.

He's greedy for you. Hands always on your skin like an addict; desperate for one more pull. One more hit. 

And yet—

Price doesn't take. 

He gives you what you want, always: the searing heat of his hands, the bulk of his body, the brutal snap of his hips sending you into the throes of nirvana, his teeth digging into your neck when you offer it up so prettily for him. But rarely, rarely, does he give into that rapacious hunger that curls like fine smoke in the pits of his eyes. 

You want him to break. Shatter. You want this man to fall apart in your arms, so you can reassemble him again. You want to be crushed under the weight of it with him until the end of him and the beginning of you is a blurry line. A pulverised puddle of sex and sin and the feel of your atoms stripped bare and congeal into one. To feel his flesh moulding to yours. 

The softness in his alder eyes makes you melt, makes you mewl, unable to keep the gale from spilling out. 

You want this. Want him. Want the hickory-scented ashes of his resolve in your hands. Calcined and charred. You want to tuck the smouldering husk of his propriety between your teeth until the charcoaled remains are ground out, and masticated with your effort. You'll see this gruff man shatter. Break. 

Leaning forward, you flash him a look—that pretty one he likes with your lashes fanned over your eyes, half-mast and full of lust, desire for him—and flick your tongue out again, barbell catching in the ochre glow. His hand trembles when you seal your mouth around the thick of him, hollowing your cheeks as you slurp up the mess of prespend and saliva that covers his throbbing length. 

He jerks in your hold, head falling back with a husk of pleasure. Ruin me, you think, molten tongue worshipping him. Wreck me.

He tastes of amber and salt when you swallow him down: heady and musky. You can't get enough of the way he wrenches you open like this, leaving you feeling like a raw wound, a livewire, with just his fat cock sliding down your throat. 

Fingers dig into the back of your head as he cants his hips up, thrusting inside the warm, wet cavern of your mouth. Your nose is stuffed, the scent of him clogs the air around you. You can't breathe, but despite the black dots in your vision, you stay put, gasping for air when he allows it. 

It edges into discomfort, but you fight through the strain in your jaw, and take him deeper, and deeper. You don't stop until his knuckles press against your nose, until you can feel his hand slipping away from the base, giving you more room. The coarse, auburn hair tickles your lip. You slide down further, tongue flat against the underside of him, and the blunt nudge of his weeping cock battering against the soft walls of your throat makes you gag, makes you choke. 

You sputter, tears running down your aching cheeks in an unstoppable deluge. Your nose burns, stings, when you breathe in. You cough around him, and he grunts at the way your muscles spasm, squeezing him tight. 

You pull back off the length of him, swallowing thickly. The ragged gasps you take do little to abate the burn in your lungs. 

Tears blur your vision, but you force yourself to open your bleary eyes, staring up at him through damp, clumped lashes. As your sight slowly focuses, the image of him leaning back on the chair, teeth grinding together is enough to make you dizzy.

It's the expression of euphoria that etches itself into the furrow of his brow, the curl of his lips—bared, snarling at the feel of your mouth—and the dangerous narrowing of his eyes that makes you whimper, makes you shake. White-hot pleasure spumes inside of you. 

You want more. Everything.

Your fingers curl around the base of him, little finger nestled in the wry bed of hair. He throbs in your clutch; a glob of prespend breaks free from the puddle pooling on his engorged, mushroomed head, and slides down the length of him. 

It makes your mouth water. It feels a little bit like battling the ferocity of a Chinook. Chafed cheeks, stinging lips all covered with the slickness of your efforts.

You must wear it on your expression, then. Price looks down, and groans, his cock jerking in your hold. His mouth falls open a touch, a huff of pleasure slipping through the seam. 

You shuffle forward, knees aching, and place your tongue against the swell of his cock beneath the slow glide of his prespend trailing down. It drips down, and you catch it, smearing the pearlescent bead over the soft, fleshy tip. The muscles in his thighs twitch when you lift your chin, showing him the droplet gathered there.

"Bloody fucking hell—"

You don't wait for him to continue. You want him broken.

He groans as the gluey, wet walls of your mouth surround him, slurping up the excess saliva that pools in your throat, spilling down your chin. You nearly choke on him, then, when his hips jerk as you lave your tongue across the head of his cock, pressing the bead of your tongue ring into his frenulum again.

His smell envelopes you. Heady and rich. A potent cocktail of salt, smoke, and cured wood that liquefies your self-control. 

Price's hips lift, more of his cock slips down your throat. You tremble when his hand threads through the loose strands of your hair, fingers curling around the locks until he has a fistful gathered at the base of your skull. You know what's coming. Know, even before his hand tightens, and the lash of pain makes your cunt throb. 

It's when you look up at him through misty eyes, lidded and sticky, that he finally crumbles. 

The sound he lets out makes you shiver. A moan cut by the jagged end of a broken bottle; husky and molasses heavy. 

You moan around him again, unabashed, and taken by the sensation of having him fuck your face in shallow, pointed thrusts. His hand tightens in your hair, pilling your pliant mouth closer. 

You love it. The taste, the smell. The inexorable feeling of him using you however he pleases, unleashing something dark and primal that curls around you, wrenched up from the hypoxia of having his cock spear through your esophagus.

There is barely time to brace yourself before his hips buck into you, forcing his cock deeper. The force of his brutal, shallow thrust makes his balls slap across your chin. The forceful gait of his hips increases until he's pounding your throat, groaning deep in his chest.

The noises he makes barely sound human. They drip molten sin, and burn your flesh when he leans over you, eyes sparkling embers in the soft light of the room. 

He stops when you gag around him, hands pressed flat against his thighs. 

"It's good, isn't it?" he husks, eyes tightening when your throat spasms around him, fluttering. Another grunt when you moan, a weak whimper that vibrates over him. He pulls you back, head tipping back with another rasp of pleasure. You squeeze your thighs together to stem the ache. 

Misty-eyed, you stare, transfixed, at the strain in his pale neck: skin pulled taut, veins bulging through his flesh. His Adam's apple rises and falls like a buoy in the middle of a turbulent ocean with each harsh swallow. His cock grinds against your gummy flesh, and you wonder, distantly, if you'd even be able to speak tomorrow. 

"Gonna cum—," it's rucked out of him, hissed low: the sizzle of a cigar on dry flesh. Your cunt throbs, jaw twinges with pain. Spit runs down your chin in rivets, pooling over your bare breasts. You feel battered, and bruised: throat raw and aching. But there is something intense about it, about the way he looks at you, now. The way he handles you. This, you think—thoughts a wisp in the static of your pounding head—and seeped in delirium, is him taking. 

His eyes lift. Sapphire shatters; a crack, a crevasse, a fissure split down the middle. Black pools, desire-thick, and covetous.

Price's mouth drops: the breath that spills from his lips is drenched in bliss. The hand in your hair tightens, fingers knotting through your locks until your skull stings, and tears leak from your babydoll eyes. A torrent down roseate cheeks. 

Broken cerulean falls, catches the cascade of them dripping on the swell of your flushed chest. His feet shift, thighs tensing under your hands, and then he lifts his hips again, sinking his cock all the way to the back of your throat. It's controlled, measured. Inch by inch until he's smothering your nose in the wry bed of auburn that scratches your wet nose. The heady scent of him is intoxicating. Your head swims, dizzy and burning at the sun-warmed moss and rain-soaked granite that clots, congeals around you.

"That's it," he slurs, eyes fixed on you. They tighten around the edges, eclipsed blue: the ocean at night, but his stare doesn't waver from the mess of you over his lap. Pleading, begging. Your gaze turns desperate. "Take it all." 

Liquid pleasure blooms in your core. Your cunt aches at his timbre: a cauterised wound; the hiss of a raging fire doused in water. The muffled whimper you let out makes him twitch against your larynx; a hushed groan falls from his lips. 

He pulses like a heartbeat when he cums; molten liquid spurting down your throat with each rumbling groan he lets out. He holds you there for a moment before slowly, deliberately, pulling your head back until the tip of his cock rests on your tongue, the slit perched against the barbell. He drenches the piercing in the last mouthful that spits out, eyes sharpening at the sight of it covered in his milky cum. 

You know better than to swallow it. Not until you're told. You hold it on your tongue, tastebuds overwhelmed by the salty, ozonic thunderhead tang. You keep it there, in your mouth, like a good girl. Like his good girl, and wait for him to catch his breath. For his eyes to clear from the sea mist that clouds them. It's liquid bliss in shades of blue and sea foam.

His eyes crease, heavy and lidded in pleasure. Pride rears in his languid expression. Good girl lingers in the crevasse you wrought. You shiver, spilling a dollop of his briny release down your chin. 

Price cocks his head, eyes hooded. His thumb catches the drop, staining his skin milky pearlescent.

His voice is a smoky purr when he speaks. It makes tremble, flesh fever-hot, at the stormcloud grey in his gaze.

"Any more secrets you'd like to share, love?" 

[bellysoupset]

"Are you drunk?" Bella asked with a chuckle, raising her eyes from her laptop as Luke stumbled into the living room of their tiny house and pressed his forehead to the open front door.

He hiccupped, raised a hand and then pinched his fingers in a little-bit manner.

Bell snorted, "I don't know if I believe you, Lucas," she looked back at the screen, considering if she should continue her online RPG game or tap out. He had been gone for most of the night and she missed him, but it also felt like a bit of an asshole move-

A loud burp interrupted her thought process and Bella jumped on the couch, startled. She looked up in time to see her husband folding in half, a hand open on his chest and rubbing in circles as he tried to work up another burp.

"Christ, Luke," she laughed, " at least let me hang up the discord call first," Bella typed a quick sorry guys gtg. keep going w/o me and disconnected her headphones, closing her laptop without bothering to shut it down.

In the thirty seconds it took her to do it, Luke had kicked the front door shut and was leaning against it with a hand pressed to his stomach, but a lazy smile stretched on his face, green eyes dark and hazy thanks to the alcohol, his cheeks tinted red.

"Stop giving me those bedroom eyes, Atwood," Bella shook her head fondly, putting away her laptop, "you're looking a little green around the gills."

"Uhhhm, you're no fun," Luke sighed, crossing the distance to the couch and tackling himself over her, pining Bella down. She let out a squeal, squirming under his body, in order to hug him with her arms and legs.

"Yeah yeah yeah," she rolled her eyes fondly and Luke pressed his forehead to her chin and blew out a small burp under his breath, "how did you even manage to get drunk? I thought it was going to be just you and Leo?"

"It was just us," Lucas nodded and his belly, pressed to Bella's thigh thanks to their weird arrangement on the couch, let out a gurgle that she could feel, "then Spence-" he interrupted himself to burp, whole body tensing as the rush of air was expelled, before collapsing back down, "Spencer and Mikey, from the team, showed up so..."

"They goaded you, captain?" Bella teased him lightly, pressing her lips to his temple and causing Luke to let out a groan, his voice muffled by her chest.

"Nooo..."

"No? Please, Lucas, I know you," she scratched his back up and down, "can't have them know former team captain extraordinaire was and still is a lightweight."

"You're so mean to me," Luke whined, letting out another brassy belch and groaning as his belly gurgled in response, "I don't feel good, its all... Yeah, its not good," he pulled back with a frown, moving from the hug in order to sit up and promptly pressing a fist to his mouth to muffle a disgustingly loud burp, which turned wet towards the ending and had him gulping down.

"Luke?" Bella moved up, getting on her knees on the cushions and pushing his dark hair back, "baby?"

"I'm so burpy..." Lucas sighed, letting his head lean back. A gurgly sound went from his belly to his throat, but the burp fizzled out, "I feel gross."

"It's the beer," Bella settled against his side, reaching for her husband's jeans and undoing his fly, giving his belly more space. He was bloated as hell, taut stomach barely going in as she pushed her cold fingers against it, "relax and let me rub it for you..."

"Mmm'kay," he mumbled, spreading out his legs and immediately letting out a huge burp as Bella pressed the heel of her hand against the side of his tummy, starting to rub it. He chuckled at the end of the sudden burp, rubbing his chest, "sorry, wow- Sorry."

Bella only snorted, moving to rest her legs on top of his and continuing the belly rub, "you'd think by now you'd realize that beer always messes with you, Lu..."

"Ugh," he gulped down, turning his head and blowing out a low, breathy burp, "I know, I know... But we were having so much fun..."

She rolled her eyes, drumming her fingers lightly against his bloated stomach and hearing the thump-thump it made, clearly filled with air, "how were the guys, anyway?"

"They're doing great," Lucas shrugged, smiling, "Mikey is running a veterinarian clinic and Spencer works for a bank, don't ask me what he does but he seemed happy."

She grinned, "did Leo tell them about the wedding?"

Lucas nodded, then moved Bell's hand to his lower belly and groaned as she pressed on it, "Leo was always everyone's favorite, I think he'll end up inviting most of the te-" he interrupted himself with another harsh, loud wet burp and grimaced, smacking his lips, "team... Ugh, hold on, baby-" he pushed Bella's hands away from his stomach and wrapped an arm around it, squeezing and bringing up an sequence of burps, each one wetter than the previous one.

Bella raised her eyebrows, planting a hand on his back and rubbing it up and down as he leaned forward, "those don't sound good, baby..."

"Just... Full," he cupped his mouth as another belch slipped up, sounding all frothy, "fuck..." Luke fell back against the couch with a sigh, "that helped a little..."

"Wanna head to bed?" Bella petted the hair on his nape, the dark chocolate waves that ended into swooping c's, blushing as he turned his head and kissed the inside of her wrist, nodding, "okay, up you go-" her voice strained as he jumped up and tried to pull him with.

Lucas smiled at the fact, before grabbing her arm and allowing her to pull him up, groaning when the movement caused his overly full belly to slosh, "oh gross... Hold on a sec-" he braced against the couch's arm and Bella took a step back.

"Please don't puke on the carp-"

A loud, huge burp answered her, then Luke let out a heavy sigh, "oof, needed that!" his voice was suddenly much cheery, making her laugh.

"Probably a record for you," she wrapped an arm behind his back, pulling him closer and walking them to the bedroom, "feeling better?"

"Not queasy anymore," he nodded, throwing an arm around her shoulders and hugging Bella closer.

[aconflagrationofmyown]

but then…Gigi

a future forward one shot, circa 1979

Snuggle me Tender

Trust me I laughed and cringed every bit as hard as you over that title but after the strain of pushing this mushiness out of my brain in under twelve hours I haven’t got any sensible titles left in me, ok?

Requested: Yes / No

Warnings: next to none? complete fluff and no rancidity for once, just Big Daddy Elvis with a very young baby and a very young wife and tour life and mentions of his health concerns…so much baby talk which I do not apologize for, if you’ve never done it I suggest you do, it adds years to your life. To quote Alex Turner: “I’ve been feelin’ foolish, you should try it.”

Word count: 2,884 is my version of a blurb, ok?

Notes: this is dedicated to my baby Bri whose devastating prompts lead to this whole Gigi endeavor and whose sweetness lightens up my life

Blaring horns end the set with its iconic flourish, their brassy notes echoing in his ears as he exits. It was a good show, a lively audience and Ronnie kept the rhythm together this time and even the sound system was decent for such a packed out stadium. Elvis is satisfied as he takes his final farewell of the sea of glossy, enamored faces, the frenzied send off of their ovation thudding into his veins so thickly he thinks his pulse will jump straight outta his wrists.

He flicks his writs irritably and hooks his thumbs into his belt, hoisting it just that little bit from where his exertions made it creep down and down and ever down, keeping it where it’s not pinching him as he lets the boys hustle him off the stage and into the back hallways in a well worn maneuver. The clapping and roar of the crowd is still deafening and he’s still attuned to it, vibrating like a leaf and the shake, rattle and roll of it pounds along with his chest and more worrisome still is the way his vision flickers with it, like some damn techno scene. But it’s just the fluorescents, and this interminable hallway leading to his dressing room.

And to his girls.

He takes a deep breath and tries to begin the effort of steadying himself just a little before foisting himself on them. It’s easier, so much easier, with them here, but his blood pressure still skyrockets each time he performs and it doesn’t seem like there’s a pill or a regimen out there to prevent it. It might be the death of him one day and awhile back he might have flippantly hoped so.

Now he’s got his girls to live for

and he tries his hardest to moderate himself, to temper himself in between to be the man he wants so badly to learn he is, not just the icon he’s perceived to be. Every step takes him closer to the anecdote and he breathes easier, hiking his belt higher so he can really gulp in those belly expanding breaths and he feels Charlie patting his back, his boys murmuring in an affirmative babble that it was a good show.

Elvis knows it was. He doesn’t need them to tell him. There’s only one persons opinion he gives a shit about right now and she’s probably conked out asleep or at the tit. Both of which sound like damn good options to mimic, in Elvis’ opinion.

Little Miss Erin Love Presley.

She’s become his life and between her and Gigi and Yissa he is bombarded with the insistence that he is wanted to the point that he’s gradually had to assume that, well…that he is -wanted, that is.

He’s wanted. Not just needed.

And so he allows them to fret over his pulse and he agrees to less stimulants when possible and he endeavors to be a more cheerful bastard despite the persistent urge to bite heads off most days.

Ricky jogs ahead of him, opens the door that Sam’s been standing in front of and ushers Elvis inside hurriedly before closing the door behind him, leaving him alone with his little family. Nearly blinded by the change in lighting, Elvis staggers towards where he knows there's a couch in the gloomy dressing room Gigi so considerately dimmed for his sake.

“You were magnificent, daddy!” her soft praise registers more profoundly than all the applause out there and Elvis sinks into the couch utterly spent, yet entirely satisfied.

“Thanks darlin’.” He murmurs with his head tilted back, winded and a thousand miles away but he’s trying to come back down. His hand reaches out for her hip and the give of her soft flesh tethers him to earth.

Gigi doesn’t skip a beat before she’s bending down and unclamping the large buckle from his belly single-handedly with practiced ease, delighting in the relieved groan Elvis lets out as she removes the heavy ornament. She swings it away from him only to replace it with the soft weight of their baby girl.

“I’ll get your medicines, you hold tight.” Gigi soothes, her hand lovingly pushing his hair back from off his damp forehead before she bends to kiss it and he chases her wearily for a taste of her lips which she presses to his ardently before pulling away to go find his pills.

Baby girl is perched on his belly in her tiny sequined onesie, balancing like a Pilates teacher on a ball, her wobbly little neck doing its utmost to stay straight and fix him with her appealing stare. It’s devastatingly effective when paired with her pitifully frustrated little squeaks.

Elvis knows what Lovey wants and a few months ago he might’ve been appalled at the notion of it despite being an utter sap for his daughter. It had seemed too gross to subject her to the post-show sweat and musk that cling to him in moments like these. But like her mommy, the little girl wouldn’t take less than the deepest of intimacies and so he has learned that Lovey will continue her fussing until she feels the warmth of his skin beneath her.

The tiny wrist golden chain around her wrist jangles as she tries to pull herself up the ornate expanse of his jumpsuit front, clawing determinedly up the exquisite sundial motif towards the heaving expanse of his sweaty chest. ‘Return if found’ her bracelet reads and Elvis smirks at the notion of her being put down long enough by either of her parents to be misplaced.

“Hey cuddle bug, hey how’s it goin’, hmm?” he coos to her and finds his voice is fried and gravelly.

Without having to even reach he finds Gigi pressing a plastic cup into his hand that he ravenously accepts along with blood pressure regulators she presses into his palm, small and round and white. He throws them back with exhausted gusto and his baby nearly wobbles backwards in her arc to follow his movements with her big ole baby head.

They made a pretty baby, he and Gigi, how could they not? -but even the prettiest of babies have bowling balls for heads compared to the rest of their body and it still tickles Elvis immensely. He wheezes a laugh into the last of the water while catching her head with his other hand and crushes the cup with something bordering a burp and a groan.

Lovey’s bright little eyes expand just a fraction more at the vibrations against her belly. “ ‘scuse me, miss.” he teases, eyes still wavering blearily as he tries to focus on Gigi rummaging for something at the far end of the dim room. The water makes him feel at least partially alive again and he runs his hand beneath his nose to catch the sweat and what all that is collecting atop his lip.

Heaving in a big breath he feels his hands calm their shakes enough he looks down at Lovey’s valiant attempts to reach the apex of his unzipped suit, clammy baby hands snagging the hair on his belly and tugging. He’s gonna have bald patches down there at this rate, he’s told Gigi this and she just lathers more hippy oil on him and says he’ll be alright -so he guesses he will be.

“Look at you baby, so strong, yes you is, fightin’ gravity like a champ, got yo’self halfway up the sun, yes you has. Want daddy to help ya? Hmm? Yeah? You want a kiss, don’t ya? Me too, I want kisses from my bestest girl.”

He hooks his thumbs beneath the giving flesh of Lovey’s armpits and pulls the floppy length of her higher till she’s balanced on his broad chest, in between his gaping jumpsuit front, watching as she crows and grins the minute she feels his tacky skin beneath her palms. The swell of his belly keeps her high up and her little elbows dig into his soft chest, it’s a well worn ritual to spend her “belly time” on his chest, fascinated by her daddy’s face. It holds her interest more than any gaudy toy or tv show ever could.

Elvis pats her bottom gently with his ringed hand, careful not to pinch her delicate thighs as Lovey kicks and shudders in delight at getting her way. She’s a little masochist, his baby, she drools and coos even as she grips significant portions of his chest hair and tugs in glee as if it’s her own personal shag carpeting to aid her towards scooting up that last little bit needed for her to kiss him on the chin.

“Das it, das it almost there, gonna give daddy a kissy? Gonna gimme kissies? I wan’ ‘em so bad, yes I do!” Elvis pickers his lips and she strains every ounce of her little self to grab ahold of his sideburns. It’s all over then, Lovey is triumphant in her grip, a pack of wild horses can’t tear anythin’ that baby has once she’s grabbed ahold of it. With a gurgly little crow she scoots herself up till she’s able to devour his chin.

She’s quite coordinated when preening her angelic little face up to receive a kiss but upon dishing them out she goes about it like a starved man would a set of pork ribs, open mouthed and with the goal to slobber as much as possible on the recipient. Elvis can’t bear to turn her away ever and in his after-show state of permanent dampness he doesn’t even think twice as a sloppy, gummy and fervent baby adds to the sweat rolling down his throat.

“Fank you.” he murmurs, tilting his head to facilitate her attack, “Fank you so much, ooh, I love your kisses, ya know that? Favorite kisses in the world, yes ‘dey are! Better than any of those out there, Mhmm, way better. Yes, yes better gimmer another -aww thank ya!”

Gigi watches from the side as she finishes her breast pumping by the dimmed vanity as Elvis puckers his cherub lips and pecks at their baby’s matching glossy pink pair. In this moment with their bobbing heads and tender coos and the nearly identical soft forms of them both slouching in their matching jumpsuits -they could be twins. The thought makes her smile and right in this moment there’s a belonging she feels so strongly and richly that her eyes burn with it.

“I thought it went pretty well, mhmm, what’d ya think about the new song, hmm?” he always does this, consults Lovey’s side-of-stage perspective on his show and he swears to Gigi that her feedback is essential for the success of what has been a certainly well received comeback tour. “Yeah I thought so too, ‘could tinker with those background vocals but the bass was tight. Yeah, yeah man, I know, I told ‘em, but they don’t listen, no dey don’t! I know! I know I told ‘em! Can ya believe that, Lovey? Oh well.”

With each of his heavy breaths and remonstrances Elvis’ chest heaves and sends Lovey tilting further and further up to his face till she’s careening alarmingly into the crease of his neck, wedged between it and the couch back. The tip of her tiny body makes Elvis die laughing with a fit of those genuine, hiccuping laughs that their baby loves to mimic until they both end up dry coughing from their mirthful wheezes. He gets them both situated again, Lovey firmly back on the safe expanse of his tacky chest with his hands criss crossed over her tiny back. One of his hands can span the entire width of her little ribcage and folded over each other as his hands are now, they looks like a bejeweled turtle shell sheltering their Lovey’s delicate back.

Gigi packs up her kit and rummages through her sack for Elvis’ glasses before they’re needed for the camera-flash-lit trek back to the hotel.

Lovey lets out a vigorous yawn, suddenly utterly tuckered out from watching her daddy perform and waiting up to kiss him backstage. It catches Elvis’ attention and yet again he’s amazed by the fact he feels even remotely weary himself, like he’s able to tap into his girl’s calmer systems and regulate his own just a little to match them. Not so much a family as a trinity of souls so intertwined they’ve long since lost where one ends and the other begins.

“You sleepy, hmm?” Elvis hums to her and strokes over her head soothingly, “How bout we go back to that nice hotel then, we can eat somethin’ and yer mommy’ll call up Yissa to say goodnight. How’s that sound, hmm?”

Lovey rubs her face into his chest to emphasize how much she needs this sleep plan to be enacted speedily, the tired rub backfiring as his chest hairs tickle her sensitive little nose. Without fail it makes her sneeze violently and afterwards she’ll gaze up him dazedly as if asking for explanation as to her own bodily functions.

“Hutchooo, bwess you.” he thumbs at her sloberdy chin. “Dat was a big one, wasn’t it? Mhmm, daddy’s sorry he’s so fuzzy. Don’t got that problem when ya snugglin’ wif mommy, do ya? Nu-uh, smooth as marble, that pretty girl, ain’t she? Mhmm.” he ponders Gigi’s loveliness with a dreamy look of appreciation and his baby resignedly lays her head in the sweaty thatch of chest hair, wadding it away from her face with a tiny fist, Elvis stares over her head at Gigi who he knows has been playing at being busy to let him wind down.

They share a knowing little smile and Gigi shoves off from her perch on the vanity and clip clops over to him in her strappy heels, bending at the waist and offering him a lovely view down the neck of her dress as she gently fits his tinted glasses on his face. “There, all set.” she murmurs fondly while fiddling with his hair, dabbing at the mess of sweat and drool that the now sleeping baby has left in her wake.

Ricky cracks open the heavy metal door with great care but it’s not enough care to please Elvis who barks

“Gently, for God’s sake, there’s a baby sleepin’ in here!”

and Gigi smirks as she herself gets manhandled by her new husband to sit beside his bulky manspread, for no other reason perhaps than to keep her ass pointed away from Ricky. Gigi suspects that Elvis likes to bark at his traumatized entourage just because he enjoys getting to cite the baby’s needs. He has a baby again, and it’s turned him into more of a bear than a man on this tour. That thought makes Gigi sigh dreamily and she lays her head on Elvis’ shoulder and watches as Lovey’s sleeping breaths stay even and calm despite his outburst, utterly secure in her daddy’s love.

Gigi gets her thigh patted in recognition and she shudders as always from that promising touch, feeling how torn he is between winding down or thrumming off into the astral sphere. Only once they’re in the hotel and snug in the white sheets with Yissa on the phone will she know which way the night will go.

“Car’s all set.” Jerry quietly delivers the message that Ricky fled before he could finish delivering.

“Thanks man.” Elvis nods and after exchanging a look with Gigi asks her, “Ya ready, baby girl?”

“Yes.” she nods and gives him her arm as an aid to heft himself out of his burrow in the couch, his one arm still occupied cradling Lovey to his chest.

Gigi helps him drape his coat around his shoulders, flapping around him like one of his capes, allowing him to pull it over Lovey’s face in the ensuing glare of the photographer’s flashes as they speed down the hallways and into the parking lot, hand in hand.

Lovey is used to the racket, the screams and the pounding of an audience a natural backtrack to her young life. Nevertheless, Elvis moves gingerly, stays calculated in his movements lest he jostle her as he follows Gigi into the car, scooting into his seat as methodically as possible, his exhausted thighs quivering from this last ounce of endurance demanded of them. He succeeds though, Lovey still snoozing and drooling onto his chest by the time the Limo door shuts and they’re off in a streak of light and motion against the night sky.

He can feel Gigi slip her smaller hand into his own on the seat between them, tugging until he surfaces from his trance and turns his face towards her with a relieved sigh to find her always there beside him when he needs it.

“You alright, daddy?” she checks in with him and he watches as her features, so lovingly crafted by a generous God to make her appear young enough to be his baby much less have one herself, are gently lit by the occasional street lamp glowing into their speeding haven.

“Yeah darlin.” Elvis rumbles from deep in his chest, rubbing the back of his knuckles against her soft cheek, watching as Gigi leans into his affections as eagerly as that first night they met, “Never been better. I mean it, gonna need to make this the order of business. You and Lovey waitin’ for me, end of show -I could go on forever like this.”

TAGLIST: (drop a comment below if you’d like to be tagged in all installments for this universe)

@prompted-wordsmith

@parodsal000

@ab4eva

@stylespresleyhearted

@presleyenterprise

@kendralavon7

@coolgirl462

@colahola

@lillypink

@stephthestallion

@vintageshanny

@landmermaid12

@ashtag2887

@notstefaniepresley

@butlersluvbot

@steph-speaks

@eliseinmemphis

@lookingforrainbows

@dkayfixates

@ellie-24

@memphisflash1935-1977

@marriedtopresley

@powerofelvis

@thatbanditqueen

@elvisabutler

@butlersxbirdy

@heartbrake-hotel

@fav-fanficssss

@austinbutlersbaby

@freudianslumber

@kxnnxy

@kingdomforapony

@be-my-ally

@crazymadpassionatelove

@that-hotdog

@missmaywemeetagain

@fallinlovewithurlove

@richardslady121

@lilycherries123

@18lkpeters

@xenaspace3-blog

@lil-mamas-obsessions

@father-of-2cats

[pokemon-my-beloved]

Hassel: Brassie and I are having a baby.

Arven: That's gre-

Hassel, slamming adoption papers on the table: It's you, sign here.

[paradoxlemonade]

Like a Flower in Bloom; chapter 3/3

Fic summary: Doc Monster is a many things: he's a tinkerer, a college graduate, a creeper hybrid, and a husband to his wonderful spouse, Ren. Most importantly, he is a father. And he would do anything to make his trans daughter Scarlet happy. Even if it means becoming a Buttercup Scout troop leader and herding a trio of middle school girls.

Chapter summary: Doc makes contact with the parents and the first troop meeting is held.

This is my @mcytblraufest fic, made in collaboration with my artist @watchmewhirl and beta-read my @raivaughn. You can find the masterpost for the art here.

Warnings: Grian's parents are doing their best but they're not the greatest (brief scene, nothing serious happens)

Ao3: Here!

First ; Previous

---

Scarlet gets Doc the phone numbers for Mumbo and Grian’s parents the next day and he’s able to reach out to them about the new troop. Mumbo’s dad already knows what he’s talking about and is excited that his daughter wants to try new things.

“She’s always been really shy, you know?” Xisuma Void says. “I’m glad your daughter reached out.” Doc can’t help but agree. The running joke among their family is that she collects introverted people like baseball cards, since she decides she likes someone and then doesn’t quit until they agree the two of them are friends. She takes after Ren in that regard, who hasn’t known an ounce of shame in his life.

Xisuma is personable to talk to and the call goes well.

Grian’s parents are another story. 

When they pick up, they don’t have the slightest clue what he’s talking about when he brings up the new Buttercup Scout troop that his daughter was starting and invited Grian to. He’s put on speaker phone so both of them can listen at the same time.

Mr. Vigil Penumbra makes an unsure sound. “And you say that your daughter—Scarlet, was it?—wants Grian to be a part of her troop?” He’s asked for clarification a few times, as if something about what Doc said is hard to believe.

Nevertheless: “Yes, that’s right. They met at school, and Scarlet put the offer out.”

“And how did you get our number?” he asks. 

Doc pinches the bridge of his nose. Never has he been so glad to be having a conversation over the phone instead of face to face. “I asked Scarlet to ask Grian for it, and then Scarlet passed it along to me. I’m still in the process of getting certified, so it’ll be about two weeks before we can start scheduling meetings. I just wanted to reach out to verify your interest and let you know what supplies you’ll need to get beforehand.”

Vigil chuckles, mostly to himself. “Ah, I’ll need to ask if Grian still has all her things, or if she got rid of them after her last troop.” He holds the phone away from himself and clears his throat. “Grian! Can you come downstairs?”

There’s a response of some kind that’s too far away for Doc to make out, and then the quiet knock of footsteps down wooden stairs. “Yeah, what’s up?” a girl, presumably Grian, asks. Her lilting voice is high in her throat, brassy but soft on the edges, and lightly accented. The question comes out stilted.

Vigil clicks his tongue. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Could you say that again?” There’s a dryness to his tone, one that tightens the nerves on the back of Doc’s neck.

“Uh.” Grian coughs. “Yes, father; what do you need?”

“You still have all that Buttercup Scout stuff?”

“I do, yeah. I said I would only burn it if Mumbo told me she’s no longer interested in scouting, remember? She’s planning to join, too.”

Mrs. Iris Penumbra takes the opportunity to join the conversation. “Thank you, dear, but don’t talk back. Why don’t you go get a glass of water from the kitchen, since hydration is—”

“—healthy, and you can’t talk back if you’re drinking a glass of water,” Grian finishes the sentence alongside Iris with all the enthusiasm of a root canal. “Yes, mother.” There’s some more footsteps as she fully descends the stairs.

“Thank you, baby. Love you.”

“Love you too.” Now she sounds further away.

A lightly muffled Iris, a little quieter than before, makes the offhand comment to her husband, “I’m somewhat surprised anyone asked her; she’s not exactly the friendliest girl around.”

Doc winces at the bluntness. There’s a good chance Grian is still within earshot.

Vigil hums in thought, but doesn’t offer any comment on the topic. “It’ll be good for her to socialize with someone other than just Mumbo.”

With that, Doc is finally able to regain their attention and steer the conversation back towards the new scout troop.

In the end, Xisuma, Iris, and Vigil agree that having their daughters join a brand new Buttercup Scout troop run by someone who’s still in the process of getting certified is a grand idea. Tuesdays are unavailable since Scarlet has physical therapy those days, and earlier he learned that Fridays don’t work for Mumbo since that’s the standing date she and Xisuma go to see her Uncle Exiona. The other days of the week seem open, for all three of them, so they pick Thursday as their day for new troop meetings.

***

A few weeks later, the date selected for the first meeting rolls around.

It’s hosted at their house, since they’re hardly a big enough troop to warrant asking the community center, library, or local church to sponsor them (Scarlet was mildly peeved that they weren’t going anywhere to make it feel more “official,” but agreed once Doc pointed out that the couches in the family room were much more comfortable than folding chairs). She’s practically vibrating as she flitters between the button maker Doc is setting up on the coffee table and the front door, already tired of waiting for her new troop members to arrive.

The button maker is an old thing from his and Ren’s college days. It’s practically a relic at this point, but it still works just like it used to. (He’d checked.) Making their buttons during a meeting seemed like a good way to break the ice. No way is he going to have a bunch of middle schoolers trying to make cookies like Symmetry’s troop, not without an idea of how messy the other two are.

He tightens the final bolt as Scarlet gears up to take another trip to the door. Before she can even stand, Ren reaches over and scoops her off the couch, making her shriek in surprise. “I’m starting to wonder if your feet are on fire, since you’re having an awfully hard time sitting still, baby,” he teases.

“Nooooo!” she whines, giggling despite herself. “Put me down, they’re going to be here any minute!”

Doc laughs heartily at the two of them, but his gaze does flicker to the clock hanging on the wall. He and the other parents agreed to start the meeting at seven, and 7:01 just ticked by. It’s nothing he needs to be worried about yet, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t worried anyways.

Ren sways back and forth with Scarlet in his arms. “Hm, tell me why I should set my little princess down?”

“Um… Because you love me?”

He bonks his forehead against hers. “I think that makes me want to hold you just a little bit longer, actually.”

Scarlet scrunches up her face and goes to respond, but the doorbell rings before she can speak. Her eyes widen. “That’s why! They’re here!” She resumes her wiggling with full force until Ren frees her and she rushes over to the door. Her shoulder clips the wall on the way and Doc calls out a “Be careful!”, but she’s hardly paying attention to him.

Doc stands with a stretch, popping his knee joints, and follows after her. He turns the corner into the entryway just as she's opening the door. 

Waiting on the porch are the girls from Scarlet’s phone, Mumbo and Grian, as well as a tall, long-limbed man wearing a vintage band shirt with the sleeves cut off and a chain necklace. Grian and Mumbo have matching uniform sashes, though Grian went the extra mile and also has the beret. (They elected to get Scarlet the vest since they were worried about the sash falling off her shoulders and her struggling to adjust it when she's using her crutches.)

Scarlet is quick to usher them inside with happy words and exchanges of fist bumps. Ren gives Doc a thumbs-up, so he turns back to talk to the parent.

The man smiles and shakes his hand. “Hello! I'm glad to see that we’re in the right place.” Ah, Doc recognizes that voice; this is Xisuma, Mumbo’s father.

“As am I. Scarlet has been really looking forward to this troop meeting. You're welcome to stick around, of course, though I am curious—” His gaze flickers between Xisuma and the empty space behind him where there's only the door. “—Did you carpool? I was expecting to meet Grian's parents as well.”

Xisuma makes a face, but he's quick to smooth it back out. “Yes, well, something came up for them at work. And since I would be driving this direction anyways, they asked if I could help. I couldn't just leave Grian without a way to get herself here or back.”

Doc nods in understanding. “I see. Regardless, I'm glad to have you and your daughter here today, and Grian as well.” He walks back towards the rest of the house, Xisuma following so he can see his daughter’s first Buttercup Scout meeting (“and to keep an eye on Grian,” he added in a hushed voice.) The thought is nice, but it’s hardly a necessity.

Ren has corralled the girls into sitting on the couch together in front of the button machine, where the three of them joke together in unsubtle cacophony. His tail is wagging behind him and he gives Doc another thumbs-up. Xisuma nods and takes a seat on the armchair off to the side.

Doc claps his hands together to capture the room’s attention, and the group conversation slowly peters out. “Welcome,” he says, “to the first official meeting of Buttercup Scout troop M77. Today we’re going to be going over our goals for the troop and making your first official scout buttons.”

Grian unpins the large button on the top of her sash, presumably from her old troop, and limply holds it up. “Don’t most troops go to an official scout store for the button ceremony?” She props up her head on her hand. 

“That’s true, yes, but take a look at the design.” He points at it and she lowers it to get a better look at the screening, which was a simple outline of the flower in black with a yellow fill. Mumbo and Scarlet lean in to look as well. “It’s nice, but the picture is just printed on—lots of other girls have a button identical to that one. If you make your own, then no one else will have one like yours.”

Grian thinks on that for a moment before nodding and shoving the button in her pocket, seemingly mollified for the moment.

Mumbo tilts her head in thought. “Can we—are we drawing these, or…?”

Doc smiles and kneels down next to the coffee table. He slides a tub out from the small shelf attached to the underside and brandishes it for the group. It’s full of markers, colored pencils, and other art supplies from when Scarlet was younger. “Take a circle of paper from the pile next to the machine”—Scarlet reaches over to snag a few and hand them to the other girls—“and draw the design you want for your button!”

They go back to chattering amongst themselves as they draw, and Doc breathes a sigh of relief. So far, so good. Having three parents present for as many girls was definitely overkill, but he knew his Scarlet very well, and apparently Grian had a bit of a reputation. What precisely for, Doc couldn’t be certain, but it was bound to be exciting, a headache, or both.

It's not long before Ren takes the opportunity to walk around the backside of the couch and observe their work. He hums in appreciation as he does. “I like the cat face, Scarlet!” he says to her, and she beams at the praise. Doc should’ve guessed that’s what she’d make; it isn’t as if she’s been obsessed with cats since she was five, or anything like that.

Ren steps to the side to look at Mumbo’s pin, but she curls over it the second his shadow falls over her. “Don’t look at it! It’s not ready, and it’s bad, and!” She shakes her head, eyes scrunched shut. “You can look, but only once it's done.”

Ren softly agrees before she can work herself into a tizzy and leaves her to it. His expression once he gets a look at the button Grian is making has quite the strong resemblance to the face he made when he was shown that blood can be used as a substitute for eggs in baking—mostly off-put, a little confused, and just interested enough not to look away. He blinks a few times. “Er… Are you sure that's what you want to put on your Buttercup button, Grian? It's a little bit. Violent.”

Grian glares at him. “Yes.”

Xisuma murmurs under his breath, “Goodness me, not already,” and goes to stand up, but Doc gestures for him to stay seated with a flick of his wrist.

He instead ambles over with a practiced casualness, looking between his husband and all 4’11” of angry tween girl in his family room. “What seems to be the problem?” By this point, both Mumbo and Scarlet have drifted away from their own projects and keep stealing glances while trying not to look overly nosy.

Grian scoffs and holds up the paper she was working on. “I’m just sketching the design for my button. The handbook says that you can put whatever you want on a Buttercup button, and I want to draw this.”

Ah. Hm.

Really, the amount of detail she's managed to work in with just off-brand colored pencils is impressive. The shape language and clear design on the rabbit’s organs are notable, and the knife’s texture stands out well from the fur.

The handbook’s blithe statement of ‘whatever you want’ is almost certainly meant to be followed up by an unspoken ‘within reason and good sense, of course.’  Bunny viscera isn't exactly a part of the family-friendly Buttercup Scout image.

And Grian is staring him down, eyes daring him to tell her no.

Doc reaches forward and takes the drawing, telegraphing his movement enough for her to snatch the paper back if she desires. She doesn't, and he puts on airs of inspecting it closer.

“Do you draw often?” He asks.

She shifts a bit and crosses her arms. “Sometimes.”

Mumbo snorts and leans over. “Sometimes. Gri, you've filled three entire textbooks since the end of winter break.” Grian hisses and swats at her shoulder, though Mumbo just laughs in response.

Doc clears his throat and Grian snaps back into him. “I can tell you've been practicing; you're very good at this.”

“Mhm.” She doesn't sound impressed. “But…? There's always a but when people talk like that.”  She's still awaiting some specific reaction.

Doc just shrugs and hands the drawing back to her. “I’ll definitely help you make this one, but I'd prefer if you made another to be your official Buttercup button. I'm just worried that I'll get in trouble if you wear that while in uniform, since I'm your troop leader.”

Grian's face twists in confusion, though Scarlet’s eyebrows have shot up—she knows this technique well enough from her own upbringing, and she also knows well enough not to interrupt .

“...You're not telling me I have to throw this one out?” She's tense, like her unconscious mind can't decide whether or not to defensively raise her shoulders, or to completely unwind. Her gaze flickers between what she's been working on and Doc’s steady expression. “I can still make this one?”

“Sure, why not?”

For a moment, Grian doesn't have anything to say to that. 

At once, her off-kilter confusion is packed away into an uncertain, projected nonchalance. She leans forward and selects another sheet as if that has been her plan the entire time. “Whatever. I'm gonna draw my Minecraft skin.”

Mumbo perks up. “Wait, we can do that?” She crumples up her first paper and darts forward for another. “That's a much better idea!”

Scarlet bounces in her seat a little bit. “Let’s all do it! So then our buttons will match!”

Grian waves the two of them off. “I don't care; you guys can do whatever you want.” Despite that, there's a ghost of a smile threatening to break her mask of indifference.

Doc smiles at Ren (who easily returns it) in satisfaction and strolls back over to Xisuma. He raises one eyebrow in inquiry.

Xisuma’s wide eyes dart over to the rambunctious trio and back. He nods.

There's still the button ceremony, passing out number patches for their uniforms, selecting future goal events, and the closing ceremony left until the meeting is over, but in that moment, the controlled chaos is the perfect state for the meeting to be in.

As the meeting closes, Scarlet has made two buttons and two new friends. Doc couldn’t be more proud.

***

A few months later…

Doc claps his hands together and the girls fall silent. Three sets of wide, expectant eyes stare back at him. He smiles at his scouts. “Welcome back to another Buttercup Scout meeting, everyone!” With a finger held up for emphasis, he asks them, “Now scouts, who knows what we will be doing today?”

Grian smirks with self-satisfaction and casually offers, “Violating the Geneva Conventions?”

Mumbo and Scarlet giggle to each other before giving him an innocent look.

“Tax fraud?” Mumbo asks.

“Arson?” Scarlet chimes in.

Doc gasps in mock horror, hand pressed to his chest. “What?! No. No no no no, no!” The fake suggestions are a part of the routine at this point—Grian started it, Scarlet picked it up almost immediately, and Mumbo joined in a little bit later once she felt comfortable. He makes a noise like he’s considering their ideas. “Well, maybe tomorrow, but not now.”

They chorus whines of disappointment (Grian acts like she’s especially offended) and Doc continues, “Today we are going to work hard, earn some badges, and—”

Ren chooses that moment to bound back into the room. He throws his arms around the scouts in a quick hug. “And let’s sell some cookies, dudes!”

The group cheers, even anxious Mumbo, even temperamental Grian, and Scarlet is right in the middle of a group of people that care about her.

She got exactly what she wanted from the Buttercup Scouts.

Doc couldn’t be happier.

[buckymorelikefuckme]

Thinking about being enlisted to refresh Jake’s frosted tips. Well, when you met, they looked like frosted tips, but he had to explain to you that he actually just bleached his entire head to blonde and let it grow out, but you kinda like the two-tone hair, so he lets you give it a whirl with one of those terrible highlight caps. It’s fun and a blast for the two of you, but if it turns out all lopsided and wonky, he’s just gonna give you a brush and the bleach to go full blonde again. It’ll grow out in no time.

“Should I get some toner?” you fret, glancing at his reflection in the mirror where he’s already looking back at you with a calm, amused smile on his face.

“Baby,” he starts, his voice gentle and sweet, “it’s fine, yeah? It’s just hair. Weren’t we having fun before?”

You frown and run your fingers through his now brassy, blond hair. “Yeah,” you admit reluctantly. “But I did a terrible job! If I go get toner it’ll make it less yellow.”

He shift on the stool where he’s sitting, reaching around you to pull you closer, his other hand smoothing up the side of your waist. “It could’ve turned pink and I wouldn’t have cared. I just enjoyed the time we spent doing this together.”

Your pout smooths out a bit. “Pink,” you echo quietly, imagining it as you continue playing with his hair.

“Uh oh,” he teases. “Have I given you an idea?”

“Maybe,” you reply, dragging it out playfully, giggling when he starts to tickle you.

He doesn’t let you dye it pink (this time), but you do get toner and purple shampoo, which helps tremendously. He makes sure to ooh and ahh over it after it’s been washed and dried, posing dramatically and making silly faces just to see you smile.

[schmergo]

You know what nobody talks about? The awkwardness of not knowing how to react as an audience member at a musical after an extremely impressive performance of a song with disturbing subject matter. For instance, when a character sings a song that ends in their death, you don't know if your enthusiasm will sound like 'sending the performer off with gratitude' or 'boy am I glad that loser died!'

Like, I recently saw a musical full of real emotional whiplash. It begins with a big splashy opening number featuring the entire company and big brassy harmonies, and after that, the whole audience was like "WOOOO!" So it established the environment as one where you "WOOOO!" after an impressive performance.

Then a few songs later, this one incredibly gifted actress sings a haunting ballad about BURYING A BABY ALIVE. This was the best performance of the night in my opinion. When the song was over, you could hear a pin drop.

Nobody wanted to be the one to be like, "WOOOO! YEAH! YOU BURY THAT BABY!" You could feel the discomfort in the air. Obviously we didn't want her virtuoso to go unacknowledged, but 'WOOO!' implies a kind of levity and fun, carefree attitude at best that just wasn't gonna work here. Like, we've all heard this exchange at concerts and comedy shows: "Hey folks, how you all feeling tonight?" "WOOOO!" With 'wooo' implying, "I'm having a delightful time and am in a great mood!" as opposed to, "I've been emotionally devastated and had my heart stomped all over by this gut-wrenchingly raw portrayal of the darkest human impulses!"

And heaven forbid you be the ONE person that goes "WOOOO!" and ruins the emotional impact for everyone.

So instead I applauded extravagantly and with an intense face like that gif of Citizen Kane.

[jev-urisk]

OC Deep Dive Tag ✨

@the-golden-comet may be a pirate-wrangler, but I'm the one who keeps stealing their tag games. 🏴‍☠️

Oh y'all know I'm starting with Kazimier from 🌐7 Circles🌐

I am however adding a cut bc some of this is pretty spoiler-y. 🙊

Phobias: Hemophobia (his own blood, specifically), medical needles. People whose lust tastes of sadism.

Other fears: IVs, feeling not in control, being drugged, being poisoned, getting cut/stabbed, healthy fear of death. Fear of falling in love.

Pet peeves: Naivety, 'baby-talking', clingy people, sometimes even having sex is a peeve.

3 items in their bedroom: Something to lounge on like a chaise, garish clothing, a lot of rope.

First thing they notice in a person: The sound of their voice/how they pronounce things, the way their face moves as they talk.

Scale of 1 to 10, how high is their pain tolerance?: Hmmm...4.

Do they go into fight or flight mode when under pressure? Freeze, followed by fight, flight, fawn (fakely), or fuck.

Do they have a big family/are they a family person?: Does being in a gang at age 10 count as being adopted into a family? Could be a family person if he let himself care about people like that.

What animal represents them? A cat. So particular, weirdly hyperfocused sometimes, likes toying with vermin, can't tell if he'll roll with you giving him attention or try to claw you.

What is a smell they dislike? Cleaning solution

Broken any bones? Maybe, he's almost 300 so it would be a miracle if he hadn't yet.

How would a stranger describe them? Each stranger would describe a completely different person. Kazimier is a shapeshifter. If a stranger somehow saw his 'neutral' form, they'd say he looks fuckin' weird. Horns, green hair, mis-matched eyes of red and green, strange red markings on his cheeks, fangs, black claws, dressed like an 80s rockstar and has this crooked smirk on his face... the fuck?

Night owl or a morning bird? Night? The place he comes from, Du'Preve, barely has a day and night, it's always pretty dark.

A flavor they hate and a flavor they love? Hates sadism, loves desperation. (Kaz is an incubus, and you can discern those feelings from the taste of their lust)

Any hobbies? Sewing (very helpful for a shapeshifter), games like chess, billiards, darts, clue- anything that keeps his mind engaged. Also enjoys doing other people's makeup/make-overs but does this very rarely and is a dictator during the process.

Boom, surprise birthday party! How do they react to surprises? He's already thinking about how much he's going to make everyone suffer. Flip a coin as to whether he shuts it down immediately or plays along up until people get hurt. There is one (1) spontaneous asexual vampire gal who could get away with doing this.

Do they like to wear jewelry? Yeah, and he owns a lot of it.

Neat or messy handwriting? Neater than you'd expect, large unabashed spacing and snarky loops.

The two emotions they feel the most? Fear and curiosity.

Favorite fabric? Hahhahahahaa.. yeah it's cashmere.

What kind of accent do they have? New York-ish, like Baccano. The quality of his voice is not unlike Todd Haberkorn's normal speaking voice, brassy, abrasive, animated, wry and snarkish.

Taggames list: @katenewmanwrites @smellyrottentrees @wyked-ao3 @lychhiker-writes @fortunatetragedy @cowboybrunch @zackprincebooks @urbiggestfan-01 @quillswriting +Open Tag! (No pressure tho!)

[undercat-overdog]

Third and fourth episodes worse than the first two. Thoughts in no particular order.

General note: I have seen people say that RoP needed more time to develop and that studio pressures to make it faster paced hurt the show. No, what RoP needed was less time and ideally fewer storylines. Desperately need an editor. And no, this isn't a complaint about slow pacing. Its problem there is that pacing is inconsistent.

Other general note: the show has a major problem with timelines, both in its internal narration and how it fits with Tolkien canon. There are a bunch of third age elements popping up (Kings of Men burying their dead in the Barrowdowns? What Kings of Men!), but there are internal problems too, especially the disconnect between Isildur and Numenor (was Isildur in suspended animation for the time it took for Elendil to go from Mordor to the coast and then for not-Brego to travel all that way back?) There's no sense of time or distance.

Things I liked:

The spider fight at the beginning was fun! Nonsensical but very fun. Loved the gleaming spider eggs.

I like the evil Istar and his evil minions, even if the main minion dude stole his mask from General Grievous. I'm also really into the desert setting! It's new and unique.

Some of the set design is very nice. Numenor's is so pretty and I liked Tom's house, especially the star map on the ceiling.

I hope they're going for a romance with Isildur and what's-her-name. It's shallow but cute. If we must have a dead mother, I like how it was drowning and not childbirth or illness, especially in Numenor (though why the angst, Isildur, isn't the sea is always right?) I was meh on a lot of that storyline, but Isildur's cute and so is his horsemance.

Things I didn't like or were neutral on:

A minor sin, but I cannot get over how bad makeup is and has consistently been from the beginning. This time it's Saubranatar and the blond elf OC: their foundation is not the same shade as their skin and goes horribly with the wigs (blond elf OC desperately needs some purple conditioner, very brassy). At least in Bombadil they finally found a character for whom blush overload is appropriate.

Reallllly not a fan of the prosthetics either, especially with the new hobbits.

Still hate the hobbit storyline and now I have more to hate with it, in Bombadil.

I kinda wonder if they've gone to the longer hair because of all the backlash to the short hair lol.

The hobbits are looking for the promised land of Suzat? First, wtf. Second, Westron the language will not exist for a couple thousand years!

Why is we're-not-saying-he's-Gandalf the only character who has been naked so far? More than once!

Is a shot of orc baby the reason people wrote articles about how rop added morally complexity and greyness? Lol.

The Numenorean storyline is incoherent and terminally stupid. I realize that last season didn't leave them a great foundation: still terminally stupid. Why didn't the eagle talk? I do think Pharazon in particular has potential, but he's way underdeveloped.

What the hell is Theo's vest thing? They've moved into a (ruined) settlement and have running water, they no longer need to muck farm! Also I would like if the evil helmet haired kid never comes back. Cannot express how little I care about him or his and Arondir's stepdad angst. He and Isildur sure are monster magnets though.

Speaking of monsters, it felt like an rpg where the DM kept rolling for random monster encounters. In two episodes, we got spiders, Sarlacc creature, Eagles, Ent and Entwife, angry person-eating tree, barrowwights, I'm sure I'm missing something. Just randomly take shit and throw it in, doesn't matter if it fits, fans like references! It's pandering filler that doesn't advance the storyline.

Can we stop it with the PJ movie callbacks? I'm resigned to never getting away from his aesthetics, but all the recreations of different shots. I guess they took the Barrowwight look from Pirates of the Caribbean and not PJ?

We know she's an Entwife and not an Ent because she has flowers.

Lmao that is so much metal to make Rings and the mithril lump is not big. Is it homeopathic mithril? And for a show named after Rings, they sure don't spend a lot of time on them.

I have very little good to say about Celebrimbor and that storyline but it's a character and place I'm deeply invested in so I'll leave that be. On a couple neutral notes, Charles Edwards' acting is better than last season (where I was very not impressed) and I'm curious what they'll do with Elrond's antipathy towards the Three, given that he'll later end up bearing one.

The end credits song at the end of episode 4 was hilariously incongruent.

[giggly-squiggily]

TickleTober Day 22 ~Ticklish Kiss~ (Pokemon Scarlet and Violet)

“Wait, wait! Wait- you hahaven’t sahhahaved!”

“I’ll shave later. First I want a kiss!”

There were few people who knew about Hassel’s morning facial hair. He shaved his face so cleanly you’d think it’d be impossible for him to grow anything beyond peach fuzz. Alas- the Elite Four’s face fur came in stubbly and impressively thick- giving him a proper 5 o’clock shadow that even Kofu would be jealous of.

Of the two of them, he was the true early bird- so wake up kisses for Brassius were always given post his morning routine. Today though, he was feeling rather needy and forgo’d it for cuddles.

That- and he may have been feeling a bit cheeky also.

“Gohohooho cleheheahn up fihihihirst! It tihihihiickles!” The smaller man cried, gently shoving at Hassel’s shoulders as his husband buried his face into his neck, stubble scratching away. “Hahahhahahas pleahahhahahahse!”

“What’s this? Brassie- do you really mean you won’t kiss me?” Hassel mock gasped, putting on his best pout before mock whimpering. “Oh Brassie! My heart is broken!” He dropped his head dramatically against his chest, “crying” as he buried it into the open part of his sleep shirt. Brassius let out a wheeze of mirth, his squirming intensifying as he laughed beneath him. “Braaaassie!”

“Aheahhahahahahahahahaha! Hahhahahas, yoohoohohohou mehehehehenache! Gehahahhahaa, fihihihihine, fihihihihne! Ihiihih’ll kihiihihihiss you!” At the cry, Hassel reappeared, eyes shining. “Yohohou’re a teheherror.”

“But do you mean it? Will you give this old heart of mine the love it desires from you?” Hassel crooned, the words warming Brassius’ already hot face further. With a soft snort, he reached out, pulling Hassel close before capturing his lips in a sweet kiss.

When they pulled away, they were slightly flushed, Hassel’s heart racing within his chest like a baby fletchling. “Happy now?”

Hassel smiled, leaning in for another-

A hand came over his mouth, gray eyes narrowed. “After you shave.”

Fair enough.

[m0ckest]

Carmen Prisma has risen far in her young life, culminating so far in her internship at the San Myshuno newspaper — secured with zero office experience. She's as equally unconcerned about future obstacles as she is about the feelings of any Sim-shaped hurdles who get in her way. This is the start of Such Colorful Lives.

next →

Transcript:

Great +2 Sleeping Like a Baby (From Sense of Security) How Carmen Prisma sleeps knowing that her blonde isn't brassy, there's no one out cheating on her, and she's the most promising intern at SanMy Times. 8 hours

[ask-good-cop-bad-cop]

Robot Headcanons

AJ:

* Most robots get to choose their own names upon gaining sentience. AJ's was given to him by GCBC. It's short for "Adam Junior".

* AJ is a very adventurous sort with a tendency to test limits and push boundaries. This accounts for about 75% of his headbutting with Frank.

* AJ loves to help others and do what he can to make someone happy. When GCBC announced they would no longer be hunting Master Builders and would instead be helping to rebuild the city, AJ was all for it.

* AJ is very much the sort who would sneak stray animals into the Tower.

* He has a habit of cracking jokes or otherwise making light of a tense or serious situation. This accounts for the other 25% of his headbutting with Frank.

* AJ's activation day is March 4. He is 7 years old.

Frank:

* Frank is a very by-the-books sort and prefers to treat serious situations in a serious manner. AJ's rule-bending and tendency towards levity drives him up the wall.

* He is very dependable and level-headed. There is very little that can ruffle his feathers.

* Frank prefers to express his caring and affection through making sure his siblings are safe and accounted for. He takes this job very seriously.

* Frank's activation day is August 17. He is 9 years old.

Ace:

* Ace is pretty laid-back and loves to chat. Especially about his "baby" (an Airbus H225).

* He is a pilot who has flown various types of aircraft, mostly dropships. His favorite to fly are helicopters. He's very skilled and he knows it.

* His left hand was crushed beyond repair in a crash. The only spare parts GCBC had at the time had discolored plating from a mix-up during manufacturing, so it's more of a brassy color.

* His activation day is January 8. He'll be 4 years old soon.

General Robot Trivia:

* The robots have a sense of touch. Most of their frames can only register pressure and heat or cold, but the palms of their hands and fingertips are every bit as sensitive as a human's and can pick out a variety of textures. They tend to get touchy-feely because of this.

* They also have a sense of smell, much better than a human's. They can detect things a human would never pick up on.

* While all robots were programmed with loyalty first and foremost to Business, the SwatBots have all developed a stronger sense of loyalty to their Chiefs. If GCBC were ever to leave Octan, they would follow in a heartbeat.

* The robots have a type of super-secure short range Wi-Fi they use to communicate with each other. Good Cop has jokingly referred to it as them having a "hive mind", and honestly, it does seem to function that way when they're all in close enough range to each other.

[broadwaydivastournament]

Christine and Bebe: The Altos' Lament

Audra McDonald vs. Christine Baranski Bebe Neuwirth vs. Bernadette Peters

In continuing to prove everyone is connected to everyone, Bebe and Christine have long-standing ties that bind in both the stage and screen communities. In addition to Bebe's guest appearances on The Good Fight, led by Christine Baranski (more on that later):

Another Frasier guest stars who squared off against Kelsey Grammar, Christine as Dr. Nora Fairchild appeared as a one-off character with her own KALC radio show. It goes about as well as you'd expect. And of course, two-time Emmy winner Bebe Neuwirth was and is the inimitable Dr. Lilith Sternin (my beloved). They do not cross paths, but I, for one, think they would have gotten on like a house on fire.

In 1997, Bebe and Christine were joined by Ann Reinking in a big brassy Broadway tribute to the legendary Lauren Bacall. Christine and her defined collarbone, began the evening with "Welcome to the Theatre" from Applause, a musical adaptation of All About Eve. Bebe, in a gown she would re-wear for her 2013 album, followed hot on her heels with "Broadway Baby."

It is a gift to have this clip of Christine, Bebe, and the late Annie Reinking in a trio for the ages. Three triple-threat actor's actors who didn't need to belt to the rafters to delight and astound. Remember the days when they let altos be altos?

(There's also the Chicago connection of Christine playing Mary Sunshine in the movie, but the movie and I have problems, so we're just going to move along.)