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fuckyeahdindjarin · 5 months

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Ravel

A Seams Christmas special oneshot | Moodboard

{ Part IV: Notch | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: T

Summary: Joel swings by yours with a little something before Christmas dinner at Tommy and Maria's.

Warnings: Unapologetic fluff and softness, inspired by this ask from @casssiopeia from the beginning of the year, no use of Y/N, very lightly edited

Word count: 2k

Notes: I'm so proud of writing up this little drabble. I've been in such a weird place with my writing, I'm just happy to end the year on a creative high. Obviously, I'm a few days late to Christmas, but better late than never!

There is a voice in my head telling me that this isn't good enough, that it doesn't hold up to what I was writing earlier this year. But I need to rewire my brain. There is no such thing as 'good' or 'bad' when it comes to fanfiction. All fanfiction is good fanfiction. This is our hobby, not our jobs, and we need to be kind to ourselves.

I am posting this at 11:59pm on New Year's Eve. Happy new year y'all, I hope Joel and Pin can bring you some festive cheer ❤️

Joel is this close to have a fucking breakdown.

He would measure out how close this is between his thumb and index finger if they were not currently tangled in webs of yarn, rapidly unravelling from from the bottom of what is supposed to be a sweater.

Your sweater.

The book that Lucy lent him months ago lies on the table before him, the pages yellowed and dogeared, open at the the easiest pattern of the lot to knit - a simple pullover in chunky yarn, in your favourite colour.

Well, it was supposed to be easy, anyway.

Despite Lucy basically holding his hand throughout the whole project, he’s had far less time than anticipated to work on it. Too many nights he finds himself at Tommy and Maria’s, elbow deep in dirty baby’s clothes and diapers, making himself useful for whatever needs to be done around the house.

Even Ellie chips in without being asked, often bringing back food from the canteen and making sure the severely sleep-deprived adults are eating, if not well fed. Joel honestly doesn’t remember how he did it with Sarah as a clueless twenty-something, with an even more clueless younger brother.

As he attempts to free himself from the quagmire of wool, he grimaces at the stiffness all over his body, feeling it especially in his back after sleeping in an armchair all night with a rapidly growing two-month old.

He’s too old for this shit - but there’s no saying no to the little rascal with Tommy’s nose and Maria’s eyes.

The knitting needles clatter to the floor when he jumps at the front door opening and slamming shut, a frustrated fuuuuuuck slipping past his gritted teeth.

Ellie’s voice rings out loud and clear as she scampers up the stairs, getting progressively louder until she’s outside his study. ‘Hey! Did you remember to put the potatoes in the oven? We have to leave for Tommy’s in an hour - dude, what the fuck is happening?’

‘What do you think is happenin’?’ he growls.

Crossing her arms, Ellie leans against the doorframe wearing a far too amused expression. ‘Maria said no gifts.’

Joel rolls his eyes. ‘It’s not for Maria.’

The teenager squints, perplexed, at the bits of wool in his hands. ‘What is that meant to be?’

‘... A sweater.’

Ellie bites her bottom lip, holding in a poorly concealed giggle. ‘I think a sweater is meant to have sleeves.’

‘You think?’

‘Want me to go get Lucy?’

With a heavy sigh, he mutters, ‘Fine.’

At the arch of her half-eyebrow, Joel adds begrudgingly, ‘Please.’

Ellie grins, sneakers skidding on the floorboards as she takes off. ‘Hang in there, old man!’

Despite the cold, his palms are sweaty, sticking to the kraft paper wrapped haphazardly around the even more haphazard package clutched tightly in his right hand.

The night air mists before him in puffs of white as he shuffles a path through the falling snow. His ears are tingling from the cold, and flexing the stiff, frozen tips of his fingers, Joel knows he should’ve worn his gloves. They weren’t in their usual place by the door though, and he was so frazzled that he barely got his shoes tied up before dashing out the door, sending Ellie ahead with the potatoes (that are definitely undercooked) to his brother’s.

Your cottage glows yellow and orange in the darkness, and your stairs no longer creak when he trudges up them, having fixed them just in time before the first snowfall.

He hears your footsteps come from deep within this house when he knocks. Your eyes are wide when your door cracks open tentatively, but then your lips curve into a smile - the smile that he takes with him and keeps him warm when he has to leave Jackson for days-long patrols.

‘What are you doing here?’ you ask, ushering him inside, not batting an eye at the snow he tracks inside. ‘I thought we were meeting at Maria’s.’

Pressing a kiss to your lips, he softens at the way you lift your face towards him to catch it, careful to keep the parcel out of sight behind his back. ‘Yeah, we were, but thought I’d see if you need a hand with anythin’.’

‘Such a gentleman,’ you tease.

A low fire burns in the hearth, the wood he chopped for you in the fall stacked in a tidy pile next to the mantelpiece. Sweeping his eyes across the living space, he spots the book with the cracked spine that he reads when he’s here on the coffee table, next to yours. On the other side of the couch is the Christmas tree that he cut for you, and he watched you dress it up in tinsel and fairylights one night after a quiet dinner and before hot cocoa under thick blankets.

He likes seeing himself at your home. In the things he does for you; in his things, casually scattered around - like they belong in your space.

‘The pies are in the kitchen, could you please put them in a bag?’ you ask. ‘I’ll just grab my coat and we can go.’

‘Sure, sweetheart,’ he answers, waiting until you’ve disappeared into the bedroom before setting down the present under the tree.

He’s leaning against the back of the couch when you pop back in, a few layers deeper than when you left him, the pies nestled safely in a carrier bag by his boots.

‘Shall we?’ you ask brightly.

Joel hesitates, wondering if he should wait until after dinner to tell you about the present. It only takes his eyes darting to the foot of the tree for the briefest moment for you to catch on. The slow smile that stretches your cheeks and lights up your eyes warms him from the inside out.

You cock your head to one side, playing coy. ‘What’s that, Joel?’

He shrugs, feigning cool. ‘Why don’t you go ahead and find out?’

His chest physically swells at the way you dash towards the tree, landing on your knees in uncharacteristic recklessness, the impact only softened by the rug underneath. You cradle the lumpy package to your chest like something precious. ‘You got me a present.’

He settles on the end of the couch next to you, his heart beating harder in his ribcage than he’d like to admit. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, sweetheart.’

You frown at him. ‘Why?’

‘You’ll see, but I wanted to give it to you anyway.’

You open the package carefully, as if it was wrapped in the fancy paper people used to buy at the shop. Joel holds his breath when you peel it away to reveal what’s inside.

He’s far too inside his own head to hear your inhale that sounds a lot like wonder. You pick up the sweater gently, shaking it out, and Joel winces when he sees it in the flicker of the firelight.

Disastrous doesn’t begin to cover it. Lucy managed to connect the sleeves to the shapeless body in a last-ditch salvage attempt, but one is clearly longer than the other. The stitches are untidy, some have obviously caught onto something and pulled loose. Rough around the edges is putting it kindly.

Joel wants to reach out, grab it, chuck it into the fire and let the flames swallow it whole.

Finally, the silence gets the better of him, and he blurts out. ‘I’m sorry.’

You stare at him, stunned. ‘What?’

Under his whiskers, his cheeks flush in embarrassment, and he rambles, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinkin’. You deserve better sweetheart, here, let me -’

You almost lose your balance keeping the sweater out of his reach. ‘Don’t you dare, Joel Miller.’

Confused, he watches you rise to your feet, shucking your outer coat and another layer. ‘What are you doin’?’

Grabbing the sweater, you slide it over your head and thread your arms through the sleeves. The soft knit drapes over your curves, too big over your shoulders and the hem falling unevenly, higher on the right side than the left. One sleeve is long enough to cover half your hand, while the other sits right on the wrist.

And yet.

You’re beaming like you just picked up something at Bloomin’dales or whatever the fuck those department stores were called back then.

‘I love it,’ you declare, no trace of irony in your voice, as hard as he’s trying to find it.

He scoffs in disbelief. ‘C’mon, sweetheart, you’re just sayin’ it -’

You surprise him, grabbing him by the scruff of his collar and dragging him towards you to plant a firm kiss on his lips.

‘I love it,’ you repeat slowly, with conviction, as if willing him to believe you. ‘Thank you.’

He doesn’t quite still, but he smiles and kisses you back. ‘Merry Christmas, sweetheart.’

‘Since we’re doing this -’ you trail off, sliding out of his grip to reach around the back of the tree, pulling out a neatly wrapped gift. ‘This is for you.’

Joel pauses.

For him.

For the longest time, nothing had been for him unless it was soul-crushing grief and pain.

And yet here it is - his name on the tag written in your neat handwriting. Something he can hold in his hands. For him.

His fingers tremble when he reaches out. The package is soft, and the paper crackles under his grip. He all but tears it open, uncaring of the way the wrapping falls to the floor.

A laugh bubbles out of his throat, and you look relieved at his reaction. ‘You like it?’

It’s not quite a Santa hat. It’s a chunky dark red beanie with a white brim folded back, and topped with a white pompom.

‘My ears were so cold walkin’ over. It’s perfect,’ he says, pulling it over the crown of his head. Of course, it fits just right, sliding soft and warm over his ears. He adds with a wink, ‘Y’know what, I might just shimmy down some chimneys after dinner.’

‘As long as you shimmy down mine too,’ you retort, not hearing the euphemism.

Joel quirks an eyebrow at that, one large palm squeezing your backside through the layers. ‘That an open invitation, sweetheart?’

You duck your head, more out of habit than actual shyness, with mischief in your smile. ‘Don’t be so crude, Joel Miller.’

Adjusting his new hat so that it sits comfortably, he points at the pompom and jokes, ‘Shame I can’t wear this on patrols.’

Right on cue, you hold up a finger. ‘Funny you should say that.’

He chuckles when you pull out a second, plain black beanie, as if out of thin air. ‘You really thought of everythin’, sweetheart.’

You shrug playfully. ‘I’m smart like that.’

‘I know you are,’ he smiles.

‘Merry Christmas, Joel.’

His lips find yours again in a slow, lingering kiss that has you leaning into him for more when he pulls back. ‘Thank you. For everythin’.’

You hold his gaze - heavy with meaning, light with joy. It wouldn’t take more than a tilt of the head towards the bedroom to derail your evening plans, and you both know it.

In the end, you’re the one who stays strong. Taking one step back from his warmth, you reach for your coat. ‘We’re late, we should go.’

His eyes widen. ‘Wait - you’re not wearin’ that to dinner are you?’

‘Of course I am,’ you say, buttoning up your coat over the sweater.

‘You don’t have to, sweetheart,’ he almost pleads with you.

You grin, heading for the door, blowing out candles as you go. ‘Too bad, I’m never taking it off.’

Joel shakes his head with a wry huff. ‘Well, I hope not never -’

You have one foot out the door when you suddenly remember. ‘I almost forgot - you left your gloves here last time. They’re in the cupboard by the door.’

Ah, that’s where they went. He opens the drawer and pulls them on, one after the other, the leather, worn smooth with age, creaking as he wraps his fingers around the handles of the carrier bag.

Joel is about to follow you out the door when he pauses over the threshold. Glancing down at the black beanie in his grasp, he reaches up and hooks it on the coat rack, nestled among your clothes.

He hopes that when the time comes for him to wear it for the first time - maybe on a patrol that will take him away from you for a few days - it will smell like you.

Gorgeous dividers by @firefly-graphics ❄️

More notes: I hope I will return to the main series in the new year. I've missed these two lovebirds, I hope you enjoyed this little interlude! ❤️

#fuckyeahseams #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fluff #joel miller fic #joel imagine #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x fem!reader #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #goodbye 2023

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endfought · 2 years

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TAG DUMP: VIOLET

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firenati0n · 2 months

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several sentence sunday / last line game / all the challenges <3 :)

hello friends :) apologies for being MIA, things got a little silly (derogatory, unpleasant, painful) in roop land but i wanted to share some words and say THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH for all the tags <3 even if i can't appropriately react at times, i love seeing and reading them. thank you thank you to @cha-melodius @bigassbowlingballhead @wordsofhoneydew @sparklepocalypse @violetbaudelaire-quagmire @eusuntgratie @cricketnationrise @orchidscript @kiwiana-writes @duchessdepolignaca03 @getmehighonmagic @suseagull04 @magicandarchery @oxfordslutphase @myheartalivewrites @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @leaves-of-laurelin @piratefalls @itsmaybitheway @ninzied @futureseaempress @priincebutt @onthewaytosomewhere @welcometololaland @songliili for the tags over the last few days. ily all my beloveds

here's a snip from my actor au i started yesterday lol coming soon :) it's long bc i wanted to make up for the lengthy silence xoxoxo

Alex grabs a piece of chicken with his chopsticks, lets it hover for a second. “So, those love scenes from Benediction—” “Next question.” Henry shovels fried rice into his mouth as if it’ll save him from responding. Doesn’t matter. Alex is patient. He lets Henry chew and swallow before diving right back in. “What was Oliver’s game like, huh? Because, woof. It was clearly working.” Henry’s ears rapidly turn red, first at the tips, then the whole way down. He looks down at his rice, seeking an answer. “It’s called acting, darling. You should try it sometime.” Alex laughs. “Yeah, but there must be a magic button to press.” A chopstick gets waved for emphasis. “No way just acting got all those breathy moans out of you.” Alex looks Henry square in the eye. He's fucking determined, wants an answer desperately. “Help a guy out here, Henry. I gotta perform for the cameras, too.” The pink flush starts to creep down Henry’s face. A wonderful actor, indeed. Henry swallows. “I can assure you, there’s nothing you need to worry about.” Interesting. Alex raises an eyebrow. “Why not?” He asks, curious. Henry takes a breath. Puts his food down. Looks Alex in his eyes, ocean blue eyes meeting deep brown ones. “I’m sure you own a mirror, Alex. Plus, we passed a chemistry read. There are no questions about it. When push comes to shove, we'll be fine.” “But what if I wanted to push a little ahead of schedule? Just us, just in case.” Alex wrings his hands, his throat dangerously close to seizing up. “I've, actually, uh. I've never done this before.”

xoxo roop

+ tags under the cut <3 and open tag as always :)

@anincompletelist @nocoastposts @dumbpeachjuice @tintagel-or-cockleshells @sherryvalli @littlemisskittentoes @tailsbeth-writes @lizzie-bennetdarcy @heybuddy-drabbles @inexplicablymine @onward--upward @celeritas2997 @gayrootvegetable @affectionatelyrs @tinyarmedtrex @14carrotghoul @rmd-writes @cultofsappho @largepeachicedtea @anchoredarchangel @candyspandemonium @whimsymanaged @ships-to-sail @zwiazdziarka @captainjunglegym

#roop writes #several sentence sunday #fic: kissing as practice #actor au #rwrb #rwrb fic #fics

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blueeyedgrlwrites · 2 months

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WIP Wednesday, March 20, 2024

Hey it's Wednesday again, so happy hump day my friends (pun maybe intended, do with it as you will).

Tagged by my pals @kiwiana-writes @anincompletelist @heysweetheart-writes @itsmaybitheway @eusuntgratie and @suseagull04.

I've been working on my @aroyallybigbangrwrb project this week and let's just say @getmehighonmagic is mad at me for it, so now I guess you get to be mad at me too?

"Will you be coming home to change for tonight?" Henry asks as he sits at the table. "What's tonight?" "The foundation's annual fundraising gala." Henry answers, pausing midway through bringing his tea up to sip. Alex's jaw flexes, he sighs heavily, and rests his hands on his waist for a moment before shaking his head. "I have a dinner meeting with Zahra and the other partners I can't get out of tonight, Henry." Henry feels his face getting warm, his mouth pinching into a tight line. He sets his tea back on the table and takes a breath to steady himself, hoping his tone stays even when he speaks. "I told you about the gala weeks ago, Alex, and it's been on the calendar ever since. You know it's always this time of year." "Jesus, Henry." Alex sighs and turns once on the spot, looking down at his feet before resting a hand on top of the counter. Henry doesn't know how Alex is the one that gets to be upset with him in this whole thing. Finally, after a moment Alex looks up at him. "I can come by after the meeting is finished?" Henry swallows thickly, pushing his toast away, no longer hungry, the kitchen walls feeling as though they're closing in on him. "Don't worry. I'll convey your regrets."

Um, I promise it doesn't always hurt?

Anyway, an open tag as always so please tag me if you take it, and some gentle, absolutely no pressure tags to: @getmehighonmagic @bigassbowlingballhead @cactusdragon517 @oxfordslutphase @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @cha-melodius @sparklepocalypse @firenati0n @inexplicablymine @affectionatelyrs @onthewaytosomewhere @onward--upward @sherryvalli @happiness-of-the-pursuit @gayrootvegetable @violetbaudelaire-quagmire @wordsofhoneydew @nocoastposts @myheartalivewrites @three-drink-amy @cricketnationrise @ninzied

#wip wednesday #wip: (the only truth) everything comes back to you #firstprince #first prince #red white & royal blue #alex claremont-diaz #henry fox mountchristen-windsor #henry hanover stuart fox #henry fox #alex x henry #otp: on our own terms #fanfic #my writing

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lunareiitic · 11 months

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CANTO 4 SPOILERS BE WARNED

I think it's really interesting (and clever) that we're a third of the way through Limbus' plot (theoretically. 12/4 = 3 after all) and we've split the focus characters in half based on who is actually growing because of their Canto and who isn't, while also showing multiple narrative ways to show that progression (or lack thereof).

Gregor and Rodya have already done their growing. Gregor's a war veteran whose traumatic past should be long behind him, and his character didn't shift after his Canto. His refusal with regards to the whole Yuri thing wasn't a shocking twist, it was the culmination of years of rejecting the life that his mother made for him.

Rodya rejects the idea that she has to develop as a character entirely. Canto 2 is mostly a celebration of Rodya- she makes her own luck and doesn't require these things like "character growth" and "dynamics". She was a one woman wrecking crew then and she's one now, plans and friends be damned. It's why she's able to reject Sonya's olive branch: he's predicating his entire plan on the idea that Rodya would have learned from the Tax Collector Incident. But she didn't, and she knows that.

Sinclair's Canto 3 marks the first Canto where we're actually examining the failings of a member of the team. Sinclair's immaturity, fawn response and unwillingness to take responsibility did directly lead to all of the bad shit that happened to him. Even if Kromer would have done it anyways, Canto 3 takes Sinclair to task for what he did, but in the end, he can't follow through. It's beautiful and tragic that he needs Demian to bail him out of what should have been his cathartic moment of triumph. Sinclair's growing is actively still happening. Canto 3 is only the beginning.

Which brings us to the most recent Canto and Yi Sang. Yi Sang in hindsight is the perfect character to follow up Canto 3 with because Yi Sang is essentially Sinclair if Demian wasn't around. Yi Sang's narrative is about apathy and passive suicidality- he doesn't care what happens to him because life has lost all meaning to him. Sinclair still has some fight in him, all Yi Sang has is ashes. Or so he thinks. Dongrang and Dongbaek are characters who will never move on from their past, despite what both of them think. Yi Sang, through mirroring them, ends up with the most radical character development we've seen so far: true catharsis. Unlike our three previous characters, Yi Sang's Canto manages to get down to the core of his issues and he's able to understand what he must do to get better and does. He conquers Dongbaek (embodiment of rage) and Dongrang (embodiment of despair) and ascends to a place of healing away from them. This is a very conventional, classic character arc structure seen in fiction since the dawn of time, it's classic because it works. But it feels so refreshing and new here in Limbus Company because we waded through three quagmires of difficult regrets, abuses, and traumas that refuse to be handled so easily. Given that our remaining characters are based on murderers (Hell Screen, The Stranger), self-saboteurs (The Odyssey, Moby Dick, Don Quixote, Faust), and the legacy of racism (Wuthering Heights), I'm betting that Hong Lu's might be our brightest spot moving forward. (But who knows. They could give us another goofy Canto out of nowhere like they did in Canto 2. Limbus Company contains multitudes.)

#limbus company #canto iv spoilers #unrelated but it was also so so so funny that yi sang is canonically some kind of heartthrob for toxic science men like. gay helen of troy #I haven't read dream of red chamber because holy shit its long and in a language I can't read but I know it's much less hardcore than-#-hell screen or the stranger or crime and punishment etc

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brucebocchi · 5 months

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Ranking every new anime I watched in 2023, Pt. 4: #5-1

hey, i just started a ko-fi for my writing and possible other creative outlets. this post will also be available there, so please check it out and consider tipping/donating as i'm currently between jobs. the tumblr version of part 1 can be found here, part 2 here, and part 3 here.

The list is complete! This took a lot of work but I'm over the moon to get this out there. Please consider leaving a tip if you've enjoyed reading.

Here goes, my top five anime of 2023:

5. Zom 100: Bucket List of the Dead

Zom 100’s debut hit like a freight train, especially coming from a brand new studio. It had everything: Visceral satire of Japanese work culture, incredible animation, vibrant colors in unexpected places, clever cinematography, wish fulfillment for everyone who’s ever wanted to Stone Cold their boss, and most importantly: Zombie titties.

The premise is magnetic: When your job makes you feel like a zombie, an actual zombie apocalypse means certain freedom from the grind. Akira Tendo realizes that he can finally use the vacation time he amassed while being exploited and overworked at a legally dodgy black company, so he writes a bucket list of everything he’s ever wanted to do, with all intention of checking off every single line item before succumbing to a zombie bite. He manages to rescue his hunky fuckboy bestie from college, and they embark on a road trip across Japan to finish out the list, along with a beautiful, risk-averse tsundere and a big-tiddy German weeb.

It's a perfectly fine elevator pitch, and a welcome break from the guns-and-grit quagmire the zombie genre has been stuck in for the past two decades, but what makes any good zombie-flecked media resonate is the human element, which Zom 100 delivers expertly. You’re quickly given reason to care for all the characters, their motivations are clear and relatable, and you want to see them survive and live out their dreams. But more importantly, you just want to hang out with them through their hijinks. It even delves into more serious matters, like what we owe our parents as adults, the ways isolation and bitterness can drive people to act out in their worst moments, and even the factors that push abuse victims to stay with and even return to their abusers.

Above all, though, it’s a powerful (if extreme) story of finding joy in the direst circumstances. Akira, Kencho, and Shizuka are all kindhearted, well-meaning people whose situations kept them from what they truly wanted to do with their lives, and there’s something kinda beautiful to be found in them finding a new opportunity during the possible end of the world (Beatrix is a sweetie too, but aside from the whole zombie thing, she’s already exactly where she wants to be). The final arc of the season, in particular, looks you dead in the eye and asks you: If you were suddenly faced with the ultimate freedom, would you use the opportunity to better yourself, improve the lives of others, or do whatever the fuck you want at everyone else’s expense? You may not like the answer at first if you’re honest with yourself, and that’s okay. The world isn’t over, and there’s still time for you to be your best self.

Zom 100, unfortunately, fell prey to a cruel irony in the form of production issues. Bug Films is a new studio made up of a former team from OLM that was responsible for similarly gorgeous projects such as Komi Can’t Communicate and Summer Time Rendering. They clearly saw so much of themselves in Akira's workplace exploitation that they had to swing for the fences here. The firm he works for is named “ZLM” in this adaptation, for fuck’s sake, and he fully destroys his zombie boss in the first episode. But new studio or old, the anime industry is a grind, and Bug had trouble keeping up; animation quality did take a bit of a dip after the stunning first episode, and episodes were frequently delayed as the summer broadcast season wore on and ended without the entire seasonal run making airwaves. Hell, it was impossible to watch the final three episodes until just a few days before I could write this sentence.

For what Bug were able to pull off, though, Zom 100 is outstanding. The paintball-colored blood splatters everywhere are an instantly-iconic look that strike the balance between horror and spectacle. Everything and everyone looks gorgeously faithful to Kotaro Takata’s art, and delivers an appropriately cinematic look that the manga always deserved. I almost don’t know what else to tell you but that this show is a fucking blast.

There’s also a zombie shark. What more could you want?

4. Oshi no Ko

I spent a good chunk of 2023 just assuming Oshi no Ko was going to be a layup for anime of the year. Shortly after moving on from Kaguya-sama, I rushed to binge Aka Akasaka's subsequent manga in time for the anime's feature-length debut. I was taken in by OnK's bonkers premise and sudden dark turn and quickly fell in love with the characters, and my anticipation only grew. I had high expectations for the screen adaptation, but nothing could have prepared me for just how lovingly it all came together. This is as close to a perfect adaptation as you can find, and the same can be said about both the preceding and following entries on this list.

Oshi no Ko is an audiovisual feast. Doga Kobo cleaned up Mengo Yokoyari’s character designs just a smidge, but put just the right flourishes on them to make every single cast member instantly iconic. One look at Kana Arima’s eyes will tell you everything you need to know about the level of care put into the visual design of this anime. The performances are on point as well; though many of the main cast members are relative newcomers to the world of seiyuu, you can tell they truly came to understand the characters before they even recorded one line. I’ve already gushed about Rie Takahashi in earlier entries, but her turn as Ai Hoshino is easily one of the best voice performances all year. Takahashi makes a meal out of every single second Ai spends on screen and gives you every reason to care about her as a character.

Showbiz manga in general is obviously missing an audio element, and when an adaptation can expand on that aspect well, it can help turn even middling source material into something transcendent (see also: Rock!, Bocchi the). Music is central to Oshi no Ko, and the OP/ED combination is already iconic; YOASOBI’s “Idol” has had the best worldwide chart performance of any Japanese song ever, and the prolonged intro to Queen Bee’s “Mephisto” became a meme in Japan in the same vein as JJBA’s iconic use of “Roundabout.” Rather than taking manga characters’ word for it that someone is a terrible actor, we actually get to cringe along to an amateur actor’s hammy emoting. We get to see and hear what turned a fictional idol group into a national phenomenon rather than just see cute girls posing on the page. All of this is to say that while Oshi no Ko is an excellent manga, it needed a screen adaptation, and especially one of this quality.

Oshi no Ko deserves every shred of its success. I've never seen an anime make a splash this enormous with just its debut episode, even if it’s kind of cheating to say so because the first episode is almost literally a movie, and if I were to give an award for the best single episode of anime this year, it would be that one, hands down. Adapting the entire first volume into a feature-length debut was the correct move (mostly because it’s a tonal rollercoaster, and the Big Event that defines the entire story wouldn’t have happened until the fourth episode otherwise), and the investment paid dividends. The hype naturally died down a bit as the season wore on and settled into a more consistent tone and rhythm, but it remains an essential anime to 2023.

You may have noticed that I have said very little of what this show is actually about, and that’s by design: If you still don’t know the plot of Oshi no Ko’s first episode by now, I refuse to tell you: you need to go in blind. All I will say is that it is an idol anime that glorifies nothing. If you've read this far and still trust what I have to say about anime, I beg you to just take my word for it. It's an incredibly rewarding experience.

3. Scott Pilgrim Takes Off

There's just something so wonderful about taking in an adaptation of a work you’re already familiar with and knowing, almost instantaneously, that every single person working on it genuinely loved the source material and relished the opportunity to bring it to life. Nearly every single member of the original cast is in the dub (including the ones who went on to be MCU mainstays), Edgar Wright is back on as executive producer, Anamanaguchi reprise their soundtracking duties from the video game, and even Bryan Lee O’Malley himself helped co-write everything.

That last detail is probably the most important thing about this entire production: It’s not exactly a secret that the original Scott Pilgrim comics are very imperfect portrayals of a very imperfect young man. I knew reading them at the time that the comic did not have a great grasp on relationships and the dynamics between men and women, and that was at a time in my life when I myself was pretty terrible with and to women. O'Malley has said that he would only revisit Scott Pilgrim if it was “the right thing” and that he was leery of a straight retelling of a work he has since outgrown.

So instead, we have the Rebuild of Scott Pilgrim, to put it simply. Takes Off is a completely new story that reexamines the Scott Pilgrim comics, movie, and even game without undermining what came before it. This series is not a repudiation of Scott Pilgrim (the character or the franchise)’s flaws, nor is it purely fanservice; it splits the difference perfectly. It’s both more mature and completely self-indulgent. This show so easily could’ve marched to the familiar discourse drumbeat of “Scott isn’t the hero here” or “he’s actually not a good dude,” but it instead focuses on what should always be the second half of that sentence: “But Ramona still sees something in him.”

Yes, Ramona Flowers is effectively the protagonist of a new work that doesn’t even have her name on it, and it tackles some surprisingly necessary questions: What was her responsibility in creating seven evil exes in the first place? What made them evil? Are they even that evil? This series opens up entire worlds of possibilities within the extended cast and gleefully dives into them. Though Takes Off may not flesh out every single character, it does take its time with several of the ones who really did need a little more meat on their narrative bones, and even gives some characters new roles just because it would be fun to see them in new situations.

I still cannot believe they got Science Saru to make this show. “They made a Scott Pilgrim anime” and “They brought back the movie cast” are already good enough fodder for that Vince McMahon meme, but “It’s produced by the motherfuckers who made Devilman Crybaby” had me falling out of my chair. The animation maintains O'Malley's chunky, cartoony character designs and works wonders with line weights and simulated camera effects to give everything a tactile, weighty feel, like it’s somehow (and very appropriately) splitting the difference between a comic, a film, and even a video game. There’s a wide array of visual effects that helps to place all of Scott Pilgrim’s influences further on its sleeve: Dynamic action scenes, camera depth and chromatic aberration, and our beloved pixel art inserts. It looks like every Scott Pilgrim, everywhere, all at once.

The live action film’s cast did a (mostly) great job reprising their roles for animation, and there are some wildly unexpected cameos in there. Voice acting is not quite the same as stage or film acting, but everyone pulls their weight, and dialogue feels far more naturalistic than your average anime dub. Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Ellen Wong and, surprisingly, Chris Evans are outstanding in their respective roles. I’m gonna have to watch this again in Japanese, though. Fairouz Ai as Ramona, Aoi Koga as Knives, and Yuichi Nakamura as Lucas Lee? Sign me the fuck up.

This is not an apology or revision of Scott Pilgrim the character or work, it is a celebration that still acknowledges and improves on the flaws. If you’re a Scott Pilgrim fan who’d been clamoring for a proper cartoon adaptation, Takes Off may not exactly be what you’ve wanted, but it may be what you needed. Chances are pretty good that you’ve grown since the first time since you read, watched, or even played something with Scott Pilgrim’s name on it, and it’s a blessing to say that while the character may not have grown, Scott Pilgrim the franchise finally has.

2. Jujutsu Kaisen, season 2

I’m so glad I picked up JJK this year, if only because I would’ve otherwise been caught in a mudslide of memes I didn’t understand.

Season 2 follows in lockstep with the manga from where season 1 left off, beginning in extended flashback with the Hidden Inventory/Premature Death arc, covering Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto’s high school life and the events that would eventually create the rift between them that came to shape Jujutsu Kaisen’s story. We see very different versions of Gojo and Geto here, much younger and more naive, but only marginally less powerful as they’re sent on an escort mission with the future of the jujutsu world in the balance. Because this is Jujutsu Kaisen, and because Jujutsu Kaisen is for masochists, nothing happens as planned.

We unfortunately do not get the precious slice-of-life hijinks the OP suggests, but if you watched season 1, you should know better by now than to trust an OP. While the initial arc does have its quieter and goofier moments (and some delicious homoerotic subtext), it wastes little time in declaring that this is a new version of the Jujutsu Kaisen anime: Lines are thinner, character models are looser, and action is buckwild. Two of the best fakeouts in the series happen in the span of five minutes. Those unfamiliar with the source material may have wondered for a bit why there needed to be a five-episode prequel arc to start the season, but the pieces would soon fall into place.

And then came Shibuya.

The Shibuya Incident arc was what made Jujutsu Kaisen a must-read in every new issue of Shonen Jump. It reset the status quo for the story and shaped it into something far beyond another “teenagers with special powers go to a school for teenagers with special powers” battle shonen. Needless to say, the hype for its anime adaptation was astronomical.

The Shibuya arc sets the stakes early: Nobody is safe and there may be no happy ending. Triumph is short-lived, and every threat is existential. Everyone who has been in the series up to this point plays a role, and you’re not going to like a lot of what’s needed of them. This arc punches you in the gut, repeatedly, and in between each blow is some of the most intense and innovative action you’ve ever seen. It will hurt, and you will beg for more.

I liked this arc a good amount in the manga, but by the end I was ready for it to be over. I didn’t get the hype around Toji, thought the deaths were cheap, and was so. FUCKING. sick of Mahito. Seeing it in fluid motion onscreen, though, everything just clicked for me and I couldn’t get enough. I fully get now why the girlies have been wetting themselves over Toji; the character modelers were HORNY horny this season. I see now how even the most unceremonious deaths fit into the narrative, or at least one will make perfect sense to me once Gege Akutami and I have a little chat :). And holy hell do I understand now that Mahito is one of the best shonen villains in the history of the medium, that sick bastard. Season 2 was my Rosetta stone for Jujutsu Kaisen; I see it all now. My sixth eye has been opened. Throughout heaven and earth, I alone am the literate one.

JJK’s second season has a markedly different feel from the first from a presentation standpoint, and I feel it’s for the better. Every aspect of the presentation is on point, and I want to call attention to the audio element: The production music, with a heavy focus on jazz piano, is wonderfully unique for the genre, and the voice acting remains top notch. These are banner performances from the likes of Yuichi Nakamura, Kenjiro Tsuda, Takahiro Sakurai, Asami Seto, and Nobunaga Shimazaki, but the performance that defines the Shibuya arc (and by extension the entire season) is Junya Enoki as Yuji Itadori.

Enoki’s been great this year in lead roles in goofy works like KamiKatsu and Girlfriend Girlfriend (not to mention minor roles in Skip and Loafer and the vending machine isekai), so it’s no surprise that he continues to crush it as JJK’s protagonist; Yuji Itadori is a goofy dude. But the Shibuya arc, for as much ground and as many characters as it covers, is ultimately Yuji’s story as he is forced, time and again, to endure the cycle of the “suffering builds character” meme. His peers and mentors in the first season told him repeatedly that the life of a jujutsu sorcerer is a short and unhappy one, and he now has to shoulder that burden for everyone. Enoki nails every single part of a wide spectrum of emotions Yuji is forced to endure over the course of the Shibuya arc, be it determination, naive confusion, or just pure unbridled trauma. If this isn’t the best voice performance of the year, it’s top five at worst.

Like every major battle shonen release in the age of social media, this season has had its detractors. Reviewers at Anime News Network kinda hated the story, but that’s something you take up with Gege Akutami (and get in line behind the manga readers). I've seen people complain about the animation. Which, like. If you don’t like the new visual style, sure, fine, that’s up to personal taste. But if you think this season isn’t well-animated, you just plain don’t know ball. It may not have a cohesive look, but that was the draw for me: Season 1 was good, but at times I felt like it looked a little too rigid, a little too shiny, a little too samey. Season 2, especially the Shibuya arc, looks like everything. Sometimes it looks like an action film, sometimes it looks like Mob Psycho 100, and at points it looks, most crucially, like Akutami’s most iconic panels brought to life, stroke for stroke.

The varying styles weren’t an accident: Nearly each episode had its own director, and those resumes cover top-tier animations like Mob Psycho, Devilman Crybaby, Kill la Kill, Heavenly Delusion, Oshi no Ko, FLCL, even Akira and goddamn Golden Boy. While the episodes don’t look entirely consistent from one to the next, the variance is less jarring and more “holy fuck, what am I going to see next?”. The looser style of animation is what Jujutsu Kaisen always needed; Akutami’s art is very loose and dynamic, and his action panels are borderline inscrutable at times. Season 2 nails the feel of JJK to a degree that its adaptation always needed and lets its directors, storyboarders, and animators run wild. At times, characters will look like they leapt right off the page; others, they will look like something you have never seen before in your life.

It is unfortunately impossible to talk about this season without also bringing up MAPPA’s working conditions, and how animators were frequently overworked against nigh-impossible deadlines. It was an open secret last year as Chainsaw Man aired that MAPPA’s animation schedule was a meat grinder, but that came bubbling to the surface quickly as JJK’s second season aired. Word got out midseason that MAPPA had its animators sign NDAs about their work conditions, but complaints still broke containment and several staffers took to social media to apologize for their work looking incomplete, and some even publicly announced that they are leaving the studio. It is stunning that the finished product looks the way it does under such conditions, and I respect the animators for putting in such incredible work, but something has to give. Several major series suffered from major delays this year, some of which I gave significant praise, but MAPPA is lucky that all of JJK came out on time. I wish I knew what could push them to treat their workers with the dignity and respect (and pay) they deserve, but that’s a conversation that covers much wider ground than just anime.

MAPPA has already announced that the series will continue through the next major arc. While there is quite a bit of it that I would love to see on screen, I can only hope that the animators get to rest. For now, though, we can be proud of what they made under duress, even if some will forever wonder what it would look like if the staff were treated like something a notch above cattle.

1. Frieren: Beyond Journey's End

Fucking hell. This is why I watch anime.

I was curious about this one because a couple major anitubers I watch had reviewed the manga and were effusive in their praise. I knew the anime adaptation was on the way, so I decided to hold off on reading and see what the anime would be like, and with Keiichiro Saito (director of Bocchi the Rock! and key animator for Oshi no Ko’s instantly-iconic OP) at the helm, my excitement was piqued. That guy turned a B-minus 4-koma into an innovative hit comedy, so what can he do with a beloved source material and the backing of a legacy studio like Madhouse?

I've had so much to say about Frieren since the premiere, and I still have so much to say now, but to talk about what I love about this show is to talk about everything about this show. When the first four episodes dropped, I described it as “Mushoku Tensei without the baggage,” and I stand by that. There were multiple points throughout Frieren’s first cour where I'd nearly forgotten that I wasn't watching Mushoku Tensei. Every single element is on point: The animation is fluid and expressive, backdrops are consistently gorgeous, voice performances are quickly memorable, and the music is evocative and instantly iconic. This is, plainly, one of the most beautiful pieces of television I have ever seen on nearly every level, be it visually, sonically, or thematically.

The initial four-episode debut was a masterclass in establishing the setting, building emotional investment into the characters, and slowly but deliberately laying out the premise of the season to come. The titular Frieren is an elf mage who, for a very brief decade of her millennium-long life, lent her skills to an adventuring party to slay the Demon King. Though she helped save the world, she was never one for stuff like adulation or socializing, so she breaks away from the group to continue her hobby of collecting various spells and arcana. She regroups with them after 50 years, having kept in contact with none of them, only to find them older and frailer. The party’s leader, the hero Himmel, passes away shortly thereafter, and Frieren breaks down at his funeral, having realized exactly too late how important he was to her and that she’d never really bothered to get to know him as a person.

Some time later, she’s called by the surviving human member of the party, Heiter, under the guise of translating an old text, but soon realizes that he duped her into helping train the young orphan girl he adopted, Fern, as a mage. Upon Heiter’s death, Frieren and Fern head out together, carrying out odd jobs and retracing Frieren’s steps from the journey that changed her more than she realized. They soon learn from the other surviving member of the party, Eisen, that (ooh) heaven is, in fact, a place on earth, and that Frieren may be able to properly pay Himmel his final respects in person. In order to do so, they must make a trip to the north, past the Demon King’s castle. The story of Beyond Journey’s End is, quite literally, a nostalgia trip.

Frieren's story is one of grief and regret, but also how we can use those emotions as a way of moving forward rather than looking backward. Her history is a long one and her memories seemingly everlasting, but she uses them to pave the road ahead of her rather than let them shackle her to the past. This is best exemplified by Fern herself, as well as the other companion they pick up the way in Eisen’s former trainee, Stark. Frieren can carry on the legacies of Heiter and Eisen by helping their young wards grow into the capable young adults they’re meant to be, while Himmel’s legacy lives on in the memories of the towns and villages he helped save along Frieren’s new path, and most importantly, in Frieren herself.

The degree to which Himmel truly mattered to Frieren becomes more apparent to her as the story goes on, and it becomes more evident in her actions. Himmel was a gentle, selfless (if self-aggrandizing) man who was every last bit the hero the modern world believes him to be. With every statue of him she cleans, every flower she plants in his name, every core memory that returns to her, we are watching Frieren become more and more like him in real time. You would expect a thousand-year-old woman to be pretty set in her ways, but we see her holding off on old, bad behaviors because of how Himmel would react to them back then. As Fern and Stark grow into young adults, we see her beginning to treat them the same way Himmel treated her. Frieren doesn’t realize it until later in the season, but it’s apparent to us early on that Himmel well and truly loved her, and I feel that it’s dawning on her that she loved him too and didn’t recognize it. That is tragic in and of itself (this show absolutely is a tearjerker at times and I will cop to getting misty-eyed as I write this), but there is something beautiful, well beyond my grasp, in being able to honor the memory and carry out the legacy of a loved one in how you treat those around you. I don’t think anything could have made Himmel prouder.

Frieren herself is a really goddamn good character too (and expertly voiced by Atsumi Tanezaki, best known for voicing Anya Forger in Spy x Family). Though she is portrayed as quiet and uncaring for the early part of the story, it’s been really delightful to watch her open up, and above all, inadvertently reveal that she’s actually just Really Fucking Weird. For as self-assured and put together as she always seems on the surface, it was great to learn that she’s just an enormous slob (she just like me fr), and any outward expressions of smugness or her offbeat sense of humor are always a joy. “Deeply weird person trying to act normal” is always fun, and there’s just something so consistently delightful about seeing someone so typically calm and intelligent get caught in a mimic chest every single time.

I still can’t get over how fucking good this show looks. Beyond Journey’s End features some of the most intricate, loving animation I’ve seen for stuff as simple as someone putting on a jacket. Action scenes are few and far between, but not a single frame is wasted when shit pops off. Not everyone is as detailed as possible at all times, and they don’t need to be, but everyone looks incredible when they need to be. It’s well above my pay grade to accurately say so, but this show could be a lesson in proper animation budgeting. I could go on and on and on, but I’ve written nearly eighteen thousand words about anime, so I’ll wrap it up.

The debut season of Frieren will continue into 2024, and if the quality remains a constant, it could very well be one of the best anime of next year too. It has remained as MyAnimeList’s top-rated anime ever for its entire run, warding off the legion of Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood fans. Frieren deserves it. I say with no hyperbole that this is one of the most perfectly realized things I’ve ever seen on television. This is an essential watch for anyone who likes fantasy anime, anime in general, or fantasy in general.

#anime reviews

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randomfoggytiger · 2 months

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X-Files: An Avoidance Shared by Two

Was reading this beautiful post and had some thoughts.

**Note**: Will ghost edit later~

In light of the Attachment styles posited by @agent-troi, it makes sense why Scully and Mulder developed their unspoken so early on.

If Mulder is Anxious-Avoidant, then it makes sense why he sidesteps voicing his needs and especially his wants, fearing rejection from his support system (parents, girlfriends, friends, partners, etc.)

If Scully is Secure-Avoidant, then it makes sense why she is able to balance a strong sense of self with the need for reciprocal affection and an inability to show her "weakness" or reliance on another person.

But because she's an intelligent woman, Scully would've realized Mulder communicates more efficiently with his hands and eye contact than with his words. Physical touch doesn't seem to be a problem from as early on as the Pilot; but keeping close proximity to her partner in strained moments that crack her "strength" is more of a challenge (ex. Irresistible, Memento Mori, Elegy, A Christmas Carol, Emily, etc.)

Despite Mulder being her priority since Tooms, it took Scully seven years to resolve her avoidant issues, making peace with her ability to pick the right choice (a fear stemming back to the rabbit she'd rescued and accidentally killed) and truly embracing life for what it was.

And because he's an intelligent man, Mulder would've realized Scully needs to hear reciprocal affection from time to time (or else, like you said, she jumps to Never Again and FTF and All Things conclusions.) Most of his compliments early on were spoken to the wind (E.B.E.'s "I think it's remotely plausible someone might think you're hot") or to other people (Irresistible "pretty woman" and Syzygy's "rigid in a wonderful way", etc.) Never Again was the shakeup that caused Mulder to start making more advances towards Scully (as opposed to Home's rapid withdrawal when she angled his banter more seriously) progressing from "I knew you would tell me if I was making a mistake" to "You're my one in five billion" to "You kept me honest, made me a whole person" to, finally, "You are my constant, my touchstone."

Despite Scully being his priority since One Breath, it took Mulder four years to realize he could lose Scully and begin to dig deep and work hard to prove that he not only wanted but needed her. The real change happened over six years in-- "another life, another world"-- and culminated in an act of impulsive courage that led to their no-excuses-left-to-give kiss in Millennium.

(And isn't it interesting that both of their psychological pivots happened after getting a glimpse of what their life "could have been", i.e. Amor Fati and All Things respectively?)

Lastly, I think both of them recognized the Avoidant nature of the other: Scully had patience when Mulder ran off to the next big mystery instead of wanting a "normal" life with her (The Jersey Devil, bits in War of the Coprophages, Quagmire, Home, Detour, Dreamland, Arcadia, etc.); and Mulder didn't expect but learned to understand whenever Scully pushed him out of her personal walls (the slow build from Beyond the Sea to Never Again, Leonard Betts, Memento Mori, Elegy, Gethsemane, Emily, etc.)

(Sidenote: This dynamic would be yet another layer to their behavior in Never Again: Scully needed affirmation; but Mulder, having never seen or expected this side from her, thought she was gearing up to abandon him. By the end it's all cleared up... but neither is content with their separate but parallel awakenings (my thoughts on the script here, in-depth meta here, and in-depth Typing post here.)

Conclusion?

Not much at this point, but I think the confident takeaway would be that-- really-- Mulder and Scully grew into their own with each other.

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

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cricketnationrise · 1 month

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some sentence sunday 24.4

is this thing still on?

i have a lull at work which means i have time AND brain space for actual words to get written! so pls enjoy this extra bit from my big bang fic that i'm sooooo close to finishing and really excited about. thanks everyone for the tags today and the last month, you're all below the cut bc there are so many people that have tagged me its overwhelming (affectionate).

Nora assumes that there is actual football being played based on the level of noise around her, but she’s fully focused on June and the rest of the cheerleaders for the first half of the game. The part of her brain that’s always on wonders if there’s an equation that could predict what routine June or the cheer coach will call the squad to do next. She knows there are some routines for defense and some for offense, three options for when the team scores, some more general pep and tumbling ones, and a specific routine they use whenever the marching band plays the fight song, plus a halftime routine. There’s bound to be some way to track the statistics of each and build a predictive model that’s relatively accurate, but Nora would need more data, like a lot more. She’d also need, unfortunately, a much more in-depth knowledge of football, which she absolutely refuses to engage in. So while the math likely checks out, Nora isn’t going to be the one to do it. Alex keeps her from dying of boredom for the rest of the game, happy to snark with her about the other team (she’s not dumb enough to talk shit about her own team while smack dab in the middle of the bleachers), make up fake names for all the fancy football plays, and generally treat the marching band like their own personal karaoke machine, belting out the lyrics of everything from Carry On My Wayward Son and All I Do Is Win to Seven Nation Army and Tequila and every song in between. She even gets into the spirit of the whole thing enough to dance like a maniac when the drumline goes ape-shit at the end of the third quarter. She catches the pleased disbelief on June’s face when they make eye contact over fancy flying drumsticks and tumbling cheerleaders and tries not to blush in response. In fact, Nora’s almost won over to the idea of sporting events in general and football in the specific for the atmosphere alone by the time the game ends. So it’s even more fucking annoying when Evan goes and ruins it.

sincerely, thank you for the tags while i've been drowning in sets and stage effects and scenery strikes and six day/ten hour weeks for the last month i saw them and appreciated! it was a delight seeing all your wip wednesdays and sentence sundays and last lines - definitely helped keep me sane!

@kiwiana-writes @celeritas2997 @cha-melodius @rockyroadkylers @inexplicablymine

@hgejfmw-hgejhsf @cactusdragon517 @violetbaudelaire-quagmire @magicandarchery @leaves-of-laurelin

@itsmaybitheway @indestructibleheart @tailsbeth-writes @porcelainmortal @anincompletelist

@firenati0n @three-drink-amy @adreamareads @wordsofhoneydew @14carrotghoul

@sherryvalli @ships-to-sail @xthelastknownsurvivorx @affectionatelyrs @rmd-writes

@suseagull04 @iboatedhere @onthewaytosomewhere @getmehighonmagic @heysweetheart-writes

@happiness-of-the-pursuit @tintagel-or-cockleshells

and tagging: @sparklepocalypse @dumbpeachjuice @missanniewhimsy @the-lincyclopedia @montrealmadison

@cheesecurdsgravyandfries @everwitch-magiks @anchoredarchangel @smc-27 @clottedcreamfudge

@orchidscript

plus an open tag if anyone needs/want the excuse to post as well

-💜🦗

#cricket writes #some sentence sunday #rwrb #a royally big bang #junora #pov nora holleran #can we tell i used to be in marching band?#plus my brother was on the drumline #so i've got OPINIONS

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californiaispurple · 1 year

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WOEVEMBER DAY 6: THE UNFORTUNATE GENERATION

[Image description: Two images of Duncan Quagmire and Isadora Quagmire sleeping on a circle. The first image has Isadora sleeping upside down on the right, while Duncan is laying 'upright' on the left. He has curly hair and a content smile on his face, wearing a cardigan and turtleneck with socks. Next to him, the words 'What are friends for?' is written in big cursive, alongside a little drawing of a notepad. The next image is the same image as the first, but flipped and rotated until Isadora is the one upright while Duncan is upside down. She has the same curly hair as him and seems to be snoring. She is wearing a skirt, sweatshirt, and tennis shoes with knee-high socks. Next to her, the words 'don't worry baudelaires, don't be in disgrace, the quagmire triplets are on the case!' are written in cursive, with a little illustration of a pencil underneath it. End description.]

for @asouefanworkevent 's lovely lovely event! i love scrolling through everyone's contributions

anyhow, isadora and duncan!

arguably first true peers of the baudelaires, and who we hold out hope throughout the entire series that maybe, at least, they'll survive

ahaha...

at first i was going to draw them and 'the great unknown' together, but then just settled on them takin a lil nap

+ extra cuties as a treat

#...it was at this point where i realized i totally could've thrown quigley in there and it still would worked for the whole circular thing #a h #just assume he got up for a quick glass of water #the quagmires #isadora quagmire #duncan quagmire #a series of unfortunate events #asoue #woevember #the unfortunate generation

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aconflagrationofmyown · 9 months

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A Whole Man is Hard to Find -chapter sixteen

Notes: my many thanks to my friends and my readers, all of you so dear and good to me, for the support and ideas and interest that you’ve continued for this story. It’s so dear to my heart and it’s plot and heart has become more clear yet sprawling than I could ever have imagined when I first began. Thanks for your patience, I intend to see this through. Your feedback means the world to me

Warnings: 18+, all the canon and period typical warnings apply, although this chapter is far softer than most of the previous, still the current themes remain as does smut

Last chapter link since it was ages ago when I last updated

Just once, Rosey would like to have woken before him, the singular time she had was fueled by panic when she found him not breathing after that night spent in Helena. Just once she’d like to roll over and find him asleep beside her, a perfect face to study and to adore as he did her own most mornings.

Just once would be nice but she could hardly blame herself on this occasion, coming out of the stupor of sleep felt similar to being hauled out of a quagmire, soupy and thickheaded with leaded limbs and a pounding heart too strong to be ignored and to sluggish to be of use. It was dismal waking up this morning except for the feel of him cradling the side of her face in one of his large, work worn hands, shaking her head upon the pillow with more and more emphatic jerks. His hand was warm and large enough to span the height of her skull, his calloused thumb had anchored itself on her cheek and she got a powerful yearning to suck on it before coffee or orange juice even entered her thoughts. But he was tapping her cheek with it and shaking her head,

“C’mon now, I don’t pay ya to sleep, I’d like to stay too but lord knows it's gonna be dawn a’fore ya know it, c’mon now, I didn’t give ya that much for pity’s sake, you just open those pretty lil eyes f’me, babydoll….”

It was worth keeping them closed with her neck lax and her legs inert just to hear him babble to her, every bit as patient and teasing and inexorable as when he knew her to be conscious. A consistent man in all his dealings with her, even though he was consistent only in his mercurialness.

Rosey realized that this morning she had not startled awake, nor did she play asleep in order to gauge her surroundings, those were the behaviors of a hunted thing. This morning she lay abed with the feel of her naked beloved stretched beside her and half atop her as he thumbed at her face, jostled her bruised breasts and squeezed her neck to coax her to awaken. She lay unresponsive in order to savor it, nothing more complicated in her heart than that. Just playing at it a little longer as he jostled and sweet talked to her, nearly breaking her act with a unbidden smile at that strange behavior of his to chat to one anatomical part of her and then another, the sidetracked weighing of assets so unstudied and boyish it tickled her worse than his breath on her nipples.

It was delicious to feel him so near and so gentle and so large and warm and eager for her company. She could melt back into this bed for a few centuries at least with such attentions being lavished on her. Or maybe it was all due to that metal taste that still clung to her mouth.

What did you do to me, you scoundrel? -she thought with drowsy ire.

Suddenly his babble made more sense, but drawing from his lack alarm she assumed there was no real danger of her being drugged beyond capacity and he seemed neither to regret nor blame it for her inertia and so she chose to follow his example.

Comfortable and secure she might be in her morning rituals with him but there was still the matter of deciding which battles were worth fighting each morning. Each day could have an allotment of two to three spats, depending on size and significance, and Rosey found that his blithe use of tonics might be concerning but it was hardly so significant a battle to waste her fights this early in the day. She had a feeling that she would need each of her favors and each of her fights on this trip and she shouldn’t start spending them like a spendthrift.

The thought exhausted her once more and she burrowed further into her pillow and the dip of the ratty cot mattress that buckled under their combined weight. It was simple here, laying beside him, it was simple.

“I saw that sliver of eyeball, you can’t fool me, you’re awake, c’mon now. Never have met someone who liked sleepin’ so damn much…” his grumbles had no heat to them and Rosey thought that was a rich sentiment coming from a man who’d blown his boat’s roof off in his exhausted state and temperamental need for a nap.

“If you felt what I feel at this moment you’d never wanna leave this bed.” she mumbled, eyes still screwed shut and savoring that last unconscious moment where only her skin and her ears told her he was spread atop her, smooth and heated, weighted and anticipatory.

“Bed? More like a plank with some cotton on it.” he bitched in reply and suddenly she realized that the bright sunlight streaming through his shutters that she’d been squinting her eyes to keep out was not there to pierce the gloom. Rosey’s eyes fluttered open suddenly at that, all safety having flown from her breast at the familiar surroundings being gone but then it occurred to her, they were down in the hold, with the horses and the boilers and Cal and the gator door, and in this tiny cubby of a room there with no windows to tell her the time of day. “Shh, shh.” he soothed into her ear, somehow attuned to her calculations and concerns. “We’re down in the hold, ‘member?” he prodded, gravelly and gentle in her ear and he turned her face with his hand, the better to pepper her cheek with sloppy, lazy, scruffy kisses.

“I’d forgotten where we were.” she admitted in a scratchy voice although she had been right in her assumptions about his posture, he was indeed lying half atop her and half on that sliver of cot not occupied by her body, between her and the wall, propped up on one forearm with the other hand massaging her scalp into hypotonic complaisance. Above them still swung the dimly glowing gaslamp, creaking and unsteady as a lantern on a barn beam, and Rosey’s blood ran cold at the realization they’d never doused it while they slumbered. The hay bales stored not ten feet away came helpfully to mind and her body shivered, the cold dread of memories wrestling with the delicious scritches of his morning stubble against her throat.

He’d never watched as folks were burned alive in the distance, caught in a frenzied conflagration, the shrieks of barn animals and humans indistinguishable in their agony. She’d never wish it on her worst enemy, and yet she wished she could impress upon him how badly she wanted to make certain the lights were doused each night. It was a bad habit of his she had noticed and while the steady gas lamp fixtures of upstairs gave her some comfort, these creaky lanterns terrified her down below. The Captain might not understand but he’d be willing she was sure of it -and almost as soon as she thought it she realized she’d been a fool. He very likely had seen what she had, he’d been to war after all. He’d been to sea, and that’s how they kill you there, drowning or burning or slow decay are the trifecta of ways to die. Sometimes she forgot he’d had a life between picking cotton and showboating on the Mississippi. He’d fought a war between, and nothing was spoken of it except for the bulletproof shutters in his room. There was so much she didn’t know about him, a strange thing to admit about someone who made her feel safer than anything else in all her life. How’d he get taken prisoner anyway? Was there fire then?

“We never doused the light.” she decided to voice that observation and that alone, hoping he’d pick up on her tone.

“Yeah, damn foolish, m’sorry.” He paused in his nuzzling to wait for her to add a condemnation of the heavy slumber he’d put them both into but it never came, she could feel him relax as the moments of silence ticked by after his initial bracing for her nagging. It confirmed her decision to let the subject lie for the time being. “Won’t happen again, I swear, darlin’.” his voice was rich and deep in her ear as he relaxed again and the promise of another time, of his agreeing to be down here with her whenever he could, soothed all else and she turned her face to press a kiss of her own to his cheek.

He was still here, after her lies and her prudery and her demands, he was still here, in the dark of an early morning, trying to please her. He was a wonder, that’s what he was, a wonder of a fathomless heart, deep and uncharted in its capability for love. It made her own heart swell in gratitude and she returned his nuzzles and pecks with ferocity, kneading the shoulder nearest her and trying to pour out her gratitude through her touches.

“Honey, honey dear, y-you’re cryin’.” he pointed out with soft concern before she even registered her own emotions had carried her so far.

“Just happy.” she swore, really trying to just enjoy the feel of him thumbing at her tear tracks and looking down on her so tenderly her heart could burst from it, “Just very happy you’re still here with me.” that was the meat of the matter, she figured, it’s what she could define as best she could, “Just grateful.” she supposed, because this was more than transient joy, she wanted to jump up and thank someone for him, worship someone for being so good and faithful and forgiving to her. It was an entirely new emotion and it made her eyes weep even as the rest of her remained calm and lulled by his touch.

She saw that look of barely restrained adoration mirrored in his own beautiful face as he hovered above her. “Let’s go thank the Lord for another day together.” Elvis suggested eagerly and she should have guessed that was coming, that this new emotion was an old one for him, one he poured out to a God that Rosey had never been convinced was all that merciful. Not until she’d met him. Not until she’d tasted a bit of it through Elvis’ love.

“Yes, let’s.” she laid in bed for a moment longer, not that she didn’t wish to match his vigor but it was rather more delightful to lay at that vantage point and watch him boyish and pretty above her, digging about the small room for clothing and refreshments, bare as god had made him. He bent in half with ease to pet a sleeping Sweet Pea on her velvet cushion under the rickety chair before dressing himself with that pleased precision of a man well aware of the impact of a good appearance.

Rosey found something to be thankful for in the sight. As she did with his chosen wardrobe that was in no way the fashionable dandy of the past months but instead a working man’s attire, worn leather overcoat and buffed out denim trousers, even his shirt a homespun butternut. Only his kerchief, lazily looped around and hanging limply against his unshaven throat spoke of some wealth and elevated taste, bright orange and shiny in the gaslight.

“Now there’s the man who bought me.” she observed, the difference between “Captain” and Showboating Peacock glaringly obvious now she thought back.

He just gave her a bashful grin of acknowledgment of his fashion amendments, “I oughta get Cal sorted, too. Dress the part if he’s gonna try his hand at bein’ crew. Last thing we need is one of those horse soldiers mistakin’ someone for a goddamn fairy.”

“You’re worried for him.” she realized and the way he spooked when she said it aloud told her it resonated even as he was quick to deny it.

“Nah, nah just, just want him -want him -I don’t want nothin’ to take him unawares.” he decided upon his motivation after much stuttering and a fidgety hand jangling his watch chain in his trouser pocket.

“Does the presence of so many soldiers concern you?” she figured she’d ask and he looked at her with surprised exasperation, as if he couldn’t believe she hadn’t understood all his complaints about the cavalry coming aboard. Untill he saw her true meaning in her face.

It was odd still, and he wasn’t convinced it wasn’t a little wrong too, to confide such things in a woman. T’weren’t right to be talked about aloud no matter what, no matter what she’d heard Scotty say just the night before. “Not much.” he replied truthfully after some fight with his conscience as to wether or not he meant it, but it was the truth by the time he managed to say it, “Not much, reckon it’ll be like ole times in the navy, buncha fellas shootin’ the shit waitin’ to get from one place to the next. Harmless. I’m good at that.” he pondered aloud and then at her inquiring expression explained a little bashfully, “Fosterin’ camaraderie.” he smiled, “That’s what captain Phillips said. Said I was good at that and I must be -one time I got a sing along goin’ in the Memphis jail while waiting for the sentencin’. That’s where I met Jerrah, actually.”

“Of course it was.” she marveled and he turned pink and cleared his throat self consciously.

“Nah, m’not worried.” He reaffirmed, “Hell, they’re likely all splendid fellas, s’just that it -it only takes one bad sort.” those blue eyes took a journey before focusing back on the wood paneling, Elvis then laughed as if something funny had occurred to him, “Hellish bein’ a father, ain’t it? I mean, look at me turnin’ all fretful and shit. Daddy never acted like this.” he scoffed at himself but Rosey hardly thought Vernon Presley a stellar example to follow.

“Your mama did.” was all she added, sat on the bed in her most demure frock and watching the spectacle of his emotions like a play, and that reminder was enough for them both to share a look of understanding.

“I’m glad for the break from preformin’ and schmoozin’.” he suddenly went on in a burst of candor directed at the door frame, “S’just a little, a little -reminiscent, I’sppose.” and with that heavy admittance mumbled so inconsequentially, the subject was closed for the time being and worship was engaged in for the next hour, amidst the ruins of the rearranged hold and with the remaining dwindled crew.

“What am I to do while you’re up above all day?” Rosey asked him the question burdening her as they made their way back to the little room, to deposit her therin before he went up above and met the General who’d be taking over his boat for the foreseeable future.

“I dunno cricket, whatever ladies do when we menfolk let ‘em alone.”

“I’ve never had time for being a lady before.” she felt like whimpering it, so strongly did she dislike the idea of peace and boredom, it was foreign and suggested time to reflect and she wished for nothing less.

“Etta used to practice witchcraft in betwee- when I let her alone.” He offered helpfully.

Rosey, ever thirsty for any divulged scrap as to his past perked up, “In between what?”

“You know what.” he scowled at her, unable to understand such an open lack of jealousy.

“She ever use witchcraft on you?”

“God, I hope not.” he seemed to actually ponder it for a moment which suggested he wasn’t positive she hadn’t.

Rosey stood in the doorway of the little room and glared at the cramped space and windowless walls and piled boxes. “I just might take it up.” she pretended to seeth.

“Do that, if it pleases ya.” he snarked unapologetically, “But you ain’t comin’ above decks. That’s final.”

Rosey felt secure enough in his affections after all his doting this morning to huff a little and throw herself upon their cot like a petulant child. -Or a fine lady, face first in the unmade sheets, the picture of desolation.

“Now what’s this?” his sigh morphed into a giggle the longer she lay there.

“I’m being a fine lady.” came from the pillows.

“Ohh, s’that right? Pardon me ma’am, didn’t recognize the signs with your backside exposed like that.”

Rosey’s face jerked up from the bedding and craned behind her to realize her skirts had flown up indecorously in her playful fit. She set it to rights with a genuine blush and a frantic patting of her backside that made him envy her little hand.

“Aww hell, I was enjoyin’ that.” he fussed, lounging against the doorway and looking so very masculine in this new garb -or was it old?- that a shot of respectful appreciation for his size and strength shot through her as if they were strangers again. “Maybe you’ll be back at bein’ a lady when I come back.” his leer suggested something of a game and she swallowed in panicked excitement.

“I’ll always be a lady,” she replied in measured correction, “just as you’ll always be a mudborn hick no matter your clothes…captain.”

She saw him blink. Twice, thrice, half a dozen times, and then that long tanned throat worked up and down with a thick swallow. His hand twitched beside his thigh and that little friend of hers, tucked down the left side of his pant leg perked. Rosey held her breath in hopes she’d succeeded, hoping he’d give in for just a minute and do something to her before he went above. Insulting him in play was a gamble but it had worked physically, all that was left was for his mind to bend as well.

Elvis knew she wasn’t being mean, not really, not in earnest now that he knew she was made of the same bog-sodden earth as him. If Miss Beaumont had said it he’d have felt like striking her -but she didn’t, it was Cricket playing and if he could just drown out the echo chamber in his mind of other women, other clients, other folks who had eagerly wanted to be coupled with something they thought lower than themselves: well then he’d have been able to finish this game he himself started right here and now. But it weren’t fair to fuck sweet Rosey with a thousand other voices in his head, it wasn’t his fault he responded to jeers; that had once been a craft for him. And that’s all there was to it.

“This ‘mudborn hick’ owns your ass.” he teased instead, feeling secure enough in her security to remind her of the 2,000 greenbacks spent on her infuriating self.

“You make very little use of me for such an investment.” she whispered so softly an average man wouldn’t catch it.

“Oh Ho! Careful what you wish for, lil girl.”he warned with a wagging finger and a thunderbolt of a grin before turning on his heel and jogging up the three flights of stairs from the hold onto the top deck.

It was still cold as balls outside on deck. Figured, with winter setting in but sometimes one could harbor hope that autumn would last longer than a couple of weeks. Captain Presley tried to console himself with recent recollections of horseback rides in the golden sun and balmy nights on the wheel deck with that crisp autumn breeze slicing the muggy river air. Fall was short but it was prettiest on the river, and he’d have to recall that and count his blessings on e the river turned into a goddamn ice block before December even hit. He was torn from these reflections by a troop of cavalry men dismounting at the foot of the gangway and clomping their way up it to meet him, booted and spurred with a peculiar display of red kerchiefs poking out their dark blue uniforms. The sight of Yankees still made his fists curl after all these years, it took a studied nonchalance to neither fight or flee at the sight of government men.

“Gentleman.” he greeted with a tip of his hat, there were less than ten of them and the one wearing the most distinguished insignia looked peculiarly familiar-“General?-“

“-Sherman.” the officer provided stoically but with the aspect of a man expecting recognition.

“No shi-eeet.” Elvis balked with a chortle of disbelief, staring at the man who single handedly fucked the South up the ass back in ‘64…metaphorically of course. Arson was the real weapon.

“Let me guess, I burned your house awhile back.” General Sherman had a dry sorta charm to him, Elvis had to admit, even when making light of war crimes.

Elvis could appreciate such humor, though he feared a certain little girl of his would recall such war crimes more personally and object to harboring so ignominious a man. Couldn’t get helped. “Nah, reckon my shack was one of the few ya spared. You’da had a real lark in Tennessee pullin’ that shit, wood’s so wet half the time you can’t burn a place unless you powdered it with turpentine beforehand.”

“Yes, well, blame God for drought if you want to.”

“That what decides a just war, sir?” the Captain perused with amusement, “Draught?”

“You a religious man?”

“Of a sort.”

“Then you tell me.”

“Now you’re off for more of the same?”

“Orders are orders. Law and order is the same anywhere, south or west.”

“D’you read orders to burn a buncha Lakota, General, like the rest of us read the paper over eggs?”

“Something like that.” General Sherman was probably smiling though it looked more like a gash across his weathered face.

“Right, well, I told them I ain’t a transport but they wouldn’t hear otherwise.” Captain Presley explained, “I’ll do my best to get y’all boys up there, you have your men behave and keep from harassin’ my staff and I’ll drop y’all off quick like, and we’ll have no issues. Straight up the river and drop, simple, shouldn’t take more than two weeks.”

“We’re not goin’ upriver, young man.” General Sherman adjusted the toothpick he had cradled in the corner of his straight mouth like most would a cigar, “You’ll be taking us up the Missouri. We’re going west till we get to the Dakotas. I’ve got no time to waste waiting on railroads to be patched up from Saint Paul’s westward. We’ve got a river. We’ve got a captain. We’ll do it the old way. Those are your orders, Captain Presley. We depart at noon.”

“Now hang on!” Elvis flung out his hand, “I ain’t ever been off onto the Missouri, see, there’s Mississippi captains and then there’s tributary captains and I ain’t one. Hell sir, they got special flatboats for the Missouri it’s so damn shallow and fickle, we’ll run aground in this lug. She’s built for a mighty river, I can get you to Saint Paul’s but we won’t make it a hundred miles down the Missouri ‘fore we hit a sandbank, tear my hill to shreds. I’m tellin ya sir.”

“And I’m telling you, captain, orders are orders.”

“You want an inexperienced pilot to take a boat too big down a river too small to get to some fuckin’ territories nobody cares about ‘cause you don’t trust trains? Have I got that right?”

“Yes, and I’d like to leave by noon. No time to waste.” The general was still smiling that grimace of a smile, “I imagine you’ve made the adjustments for billeting my men?”

“Yeah, yeah I have.” Elvis nodded with his pretty mouth twisted in a impotent snarl.

“By noon then, captain.” The general tipped his own hat and moved forward through the glass doors into ballroom, decamping inside on the abandoned billiard tables, turning them into desks.

“General Fuckin’ Sherman.” Elvis grumbled and after a moment of disconsolate rage for his burnt country and his inconvenienced self, resigned himself to the unchangeable and, seeking comfort and knowledge, found himself hustling back down below to Rosey, bent on satisfying a craving he felt coming on.

He needed maps of the west. And he needed…her, he supposed. So he went right back down to her.

Rosey was still abed when he came in, lying on her back with her frock’s skirts crumpled around her and her legs crossed as she held a book up for perusal. Morton’s Guide for Nautical Engineering. He hadn’t unearthed that dull tome out of his trunks since the war.

She perked up when he opened the door, like a prisoner when their meal arrives, and he strode straight up to stand over her after closing it behind him.

“Still layin’ here?” he observed, petting the hair off her forehead.

“As I was told to.” she replied accusingly.

“Mm, obedient little investment.” He teased, stealing a kiss that she nipped into a little too much for his taste.

He was no longer in the mood for banter and wanted more. Cunt, to be honest.

The juicy, fragile, pungent perfection of hers might wipe out the memory of his orders for ten minutes or more and he wanted that. “Came down here to make use of ya, as you offered.” he tried to jest.

“Is this what I am to do?” she bemoaned playfully, “Languish in ennui until you choose to come and make use of your purchase? What a life. Beetles have more independence.”

“If that elevates the experience for ya, go right ahead, consider yourself a purchase. Or a beetle. Now let me at ya.” he knelt down at the edge of the little cot and grabbing her hips pulled her round till she was crumpled against the wall in a petulant slump with her bum hanging off the cot and legs flung over his shoulders. “I’ve just been told by general Fuckin’ Sherman himself that I gotta take him all the way to the dakotas.” he elaborated on his peckishness as he hiked up her skirts and parted her pantaloon split, “Just like Clemens suspected, n’I hate it. It’s bullshit -oooh god are you always so wet? just born soppin’? I’m not complaining I jus-“

“THE general sherman?” Rosey rose right up from her slump and dug at her skirts to uncover his face as he licked at her damp thighs, his day old stubble chafing her a little.

“Yup.”

“No!”

“Yeah.”

“No, not that bastard! Elvis you can’t!-“

“Honey, there ain’t no can or can’t, just orders. It’s just orders. Now spread your legs, I’m cramped in here.”

“But he’s-“

“Just be thankful he’s not on his way to burn your house. Somebody else’s nightmare this time. C’mon now I can’t get to ya like that.” he was near whining right now and hated himself for it. So he barked, “Spread ‘em, girl!”

“Oh, sorry. There.”

“Mmm, better.”

“That bastard.” she mused again. “I just might, dunno, but if I ran into him I just might- ow!!”

Elvis had bitten her little rosebud before returning to the lazy, aimless licking he was indulging in before. “No murder.” he mumbled into her wetness and went back to it.

Rosey leant back on her hands and anchored her heels to his shoulders, puzzling at this mood of his, serene in some aspects but utterly without context or prefix. Like he’d just come down for this. Like it was some tradition she ought to know about. Like worship service or the dinner bell. Something about his sweet entitlement to bury his face in her most vulnerable parts turned her belly to goo. She had not anticipated him being back down here in the hold for hours yet and even then there had been this imposed chastity of sorts between them.

Now there was…this.

This tasting of her like one would partake of a nap or a tonic, something more restorative rather than erotic. He was crouched to reach her on the low cot and his back bent beneath his leather jacket and the room was growing warm, her breathing and temperature not unaffected by the lavishing of his tongue. His hands lay listlessly beside her thighs as if he wanted all sensation to be directed through his face and she sat herself fully against the wall so that she might free her own hands from her weight and entwine them with his.

She could feel his cheeks bunch in a smile against her slick.

He squeezed her hands again and again and she took to watching his methodical enjoyment of it, his slurping tongue making some progress on her for all that she was taken by surprise. Some slick had gone up to his brow bone, so thoroughly had he burrowed, and his eyelashes clumped together with her dew.

“I’m sorry about your boat.” she murmured, rubbing her heel against his ribs in a gesture she intended as soothing.

“We’re gonna die goin’ out there.” he pulled away to declare in a bored tone of resignation, disentangling one hand to plunge his fingers into her tight channel without warning, jostling her cunt impatiently like trying to get the last drops from an empty keg. It made Rosey yelp in pain and shock at the demanding pleasure it sent through her, “Or else we’ll die on the way back. Nobody just fucks off to the Dakotas and comes back all dandy. Otherwise the tables would be full of insufferable idiots tellin’ bout their lil adventure.”

“You’ve come back from worse.” she pacified him even as she hissed at his rough handfucking and tried, and failed, to slow his frenzied forearm with her halting little hand. He was a man determined and after a couple dozen jabs of his coupled fingers he struck the spot he’d found before and her abdomen dommed in response, clenching violently.

“There's a reason I haven’t gone out west.” he shook his head as he continued, mercilessly bored with this part compared to the oral aspect, “Got no curiosity about gettin’ scalped and now I gotta go buy me some maps before we leave at noon. It’s bullshi-Ah, Ah Ah there we go, that’s it c’mon, coat my hand baby, wanna have to wring my sleeve out after this, c’mon, spew. Gimme something real to taste. Give it to me, that’s it, that’s it, don’t push my hand away I ain’t done, I say when we’re done -I want somethin’ to taste, you gimme somethin’.”

“Please god please enoug— ELVIS!”

“Alright, alright, calm down, I’ll clean ya up, don’t gotta be so cross about it.”

Rosey panted and pressed her palm to her poor womb to still its last, frantic clenches of pleasure, feeling like she had gotten spanked from the inside by a couple of calloused fingertips, so roughly and hard had she come undone. Contented with the gush of satisfaction she had let out for him, Captain Presley ducked his head again and resumed his leisurely supping, smacking and licking at her sensitive petals while contentedly grasping hold of her hand again with his now sticky fingers. She spread her legs wide and tried to breathe, tried to let him have this -whatever this was. His eyes were closed again and he had that peaceful look on his face that she’d happily kill to ensure, all the more willing was she to sit there with legs cramping and hold his hand while he got his fix.

Unused to him engaging in this activity without the use of his talented hands, she found herself spreading her legs as much as possible to help him burrow his face deeper and received a happy hum in acknowledgment, bucking up to meet his licks since it seemed to please him. When he had thoroughly slurped her down and coated his face with her essence he seemed to finally fatigue after awhile, or else accomplished what he wanted, and he stayed knelt there with his cheek against her tacky thigh and his breath coming out in slow drafts.

“I’ve never seen you reach for a map.” she realized, keeping her tone soft and running her thumb along his knuckles soothingly, “Not even for going far north.”

“Cause we were goin’ vertical, damn it.” he knew she would know his tone wasn’t meant to hurt her, if he could hurt general Sherman with his tone he’d do it and in the meantime he growled it into the thick plushness of a good woman’s thigh. “I know the damn Mississippi like the freckles on your face, could lick ‘em blindfolded and have navigated this wild ole stream when blind drunk and - well, I know it. Never even been on the goddamn Missouri. Nothin’ but a fuckin’ piss trickle of a river that oughta be called a creek ‘cept the rapids get so bad in a couple places they’ve killed enough folks so it gets called it a river. Politics, Nothin’ but river politics. Shit shit shit.”

Rosey regretted working him up from the soothed daze of his unorthodox snack. “Shh, shh please just, let me take care of you?” she pleaded, running her hand down his chest as far as she could reach with him laying fast first in her lap.

“I’m calm, I’m calm.”

“No I meant- let me taste you.” she puzzled that he didn't get it.

“Oh.” he raised his face up from the swampy delight of that little oasis and smiled softly at her flushed face, still a little surprised, maybe even doubtful, that she enjoyed pleasuring him that way. “I-I don’t need it, sweetheart, and we haven’t got the time. We’ve gotta go to the bookstore, get those maps.”

“But- but it’s not fair, me gettin’ treated so sweet and you left without tending to.”

“But I got what I wanted.”

“You didn’t get any relief.” She pressed and tried again to reach somewhere lower than his belly.

“I got to lick cunt,” he laughed at her shocked expression, “that’s exactly what I wanted and thanks for that, my sweet lil possession. Now does my baby-honey-pie-sweet-cakes wanna get outta her widdle prison and buy some maps w’me or is hers gonna lay here and sulk?”

“I’m coming with you!” she bounded out of the bed at lightening speed to find her boots and clutched at her belly as she did so, “Lord you rubbed right though me, Elvis! Feels like someone knifed me in there!”

“How the hell can you be sore from some lickin’?” he scoffed, rolling his eyes as he stood up himself, wiping his shiny face off in the elbow crook of his jacket.

“It was all that jabbing you did with your fingers!” she accused in a low moan, mimicking the jackknifing motion of his wrist as she wobbled back to the cot to lace up her boots.

“Couple fingers up there and you act like you done had a child.” he shook his head at her and gripped a pale leg and hauled it up to his waist so that he might help her shove on a boot.

“You were very rough!”

“You weren’t cummin’ fast enough.”

“Wh- it was very rough.”

“You sure acted like you didn’t mind it, we’ll have to change the sheets you soiled yourself so much.”

“Cause you made me!”

“Sure did.” he sucked on his bottom lip in smug remincience.

“I’m just sayin’ you were mighty rough about it and that’s why I’m sore.” she patiently repeated while standing up and smoothing out her skirts.

“Uhuh, alright,” he opened the rickety door for her like a true gentleman before adding with calculated roguishness, “well if a couple fingers got ya bitchin’ bout soreness you can kiss goodbye to any goddamn consummation.”

“Oh Elvis, no!” she cried aghast, wheeling around to face him, pleading like her life depended on it and he nearly lost it at the woe so clearly stamped on her face at the threat of never getting bedded. “Please I-“

“I’m a damn sight thicker than that, and you’re obviously a delicate lil flower that can’t even take a puff of breath witho-“

“Oh Elvis please, it’s not so bad, I swear I was just kidding!” she begged him all the way to the sequestered stables where poor Beans and the other crew’s horses had been corralled.

“I dunno, you were awful adamant that I was rough.” he bit down his laughs and kept on as he went about saddling good, patient, silent Beans.

“You were -I’m sure it was transient. Just in the moment I-“ Rosey cast about the place for a better excuse, “It was just at the moment I was a little surprised. I’m fine now, entirely fine! See!” And she hopped about as if that was proof of anything.

“If you think that was rough, lil girl, you’ll go join your grandmother in the great beyond on a day when I’m really hungry.”

“I-I- didn’t mean it, Elvis, I’ve already said that.” Rosey went so far as to lay her hand beggingly on his arm as he tightened the saddle’s girth and he nearly wheezed from holding in his laugh. “Please, please I’ll not complain,” she dropped her voice significantly as Charlie passed close by and another worker shifting the feed sacks, still she was desperate enough to keep on even in this low tone, “I can take you, I’m sure of it. All of you, to the very root, I will. I promise I’ll not even wince!”

“Hell woman,” Elvis cut his palm on the buckle upon hearing that promise so beggingly whispered, hot and submissive in his ear, yet he straightened up and pretended to chide her as he turned to her and picked her up to sit her on top of Beans, looking up at her with consternation, “where’s all that decorum gone to? Hellfire, to think if you -YOU!- beggin’ for cock in public. What would your mama say? What would my mama say?”

Too late she realized he had been goading her into this little display of infatuated wantonness.

“Ooooh I could kick you, Elvis Presley!” she cried out in the prettiest little rage he’d ever seen. “Evil, evil man.”

Fully laughing now Elvis backed away from her one legged kicks as he bent double to indulge in one of his belly clutching fits of amusement. Still snickering he mounted up behind her and she could hear how much he’d been crying in merriment from the stuffiness of his nose when he said next,

“Oh honey you shoulda seen how earnest you looked, like the mama pleadin’ for her baby’s life from King Solomon in the good book.”

“Yes well, if given the chance I’ll not plead a damn thing for you in future-“ she couldn’t think of anything quite humiliating enough to punish him with so she left it ambiguous as Elvis, still wheezing behind her, steered Beans out the low gator door and down onto the wharf that abutted the boat’s lower levels.

St Louis in the daylight was less impressive than it had been the previous evenings she’d been out amongst its street and citizens, in the bright light it was lines of brick houses with patched streets and a desperate prevention towards something more than trading post. St Louis had its judges and its lawyers and its haberdashers and they proclaimed themselves loudly as if begging to be recognized as a real and realized city, like a flat chested girl swearing at ripe maturity. They had book shops too, and second only to the saloon and tailor -alright that made it a third,- Captain Presley was a frequenter of Kinsley’s Books at the corner of Monroe and Market streets. St Louis might also pride itself on being a big, ill organized mess of a city and it was a goodly ride from the docks to the shop.

“Whadda ya think of St Louie?” he asked her, jarring her out of her reverie of trying to soak in her last minutes of freedom and finding them ironically dull.

“It’s nothing like New Orleans.” she ventured.

“Well, no,” he laughed, “but that ain’t it’s fault. No comparison there.”

“I prefer Memphis.” she decided.

“What’s it like now?” he asked in a tone so forcefully neutral it made her cringe at his pain. “-Memphis.” he said it like the homesick.

“Memphis is -busy, in a martial law sorta way.”

“Still?”

“Three months ago, still was.”

“Ah.”

“Why’d you leave?” she asked him and after hearing Elvis grunt as if hurt she’d forgotten Scotty’s confession last night, she quickly amended: “Why’d you join the navy? During the war, I mean. Thought you always wanted to be in the cavalry. You loved horses so, I thought you’d have gone for that.”

“Too poor to own a horse.” he reminded.

“Then why not join the local boys, for soldiering? You’d have kept been nearby.”

Near her, she meant, near his mama, near that child he’d thought he’d begotten -and he knew it.

“I built a damn submarine in old Beaumont’s cornfield, Cricket.” he huffed, “They thought me a whiz. Sank of course, but it worked for a couple missions. Ever after that they wouldn’t keep me on land. Shame, really.”

“Hold up,” she tried to crane her neck to look him in the face as Bean’s gait jostled them, “you built a submarine in a cornfield?”

“Yeah.”

“And it worked?”

“Yeah for a few runs.”

“Wh- why? Oh good Lord, you’re full of surprises, sir!”

“Yankee gunboats were shellin’ the hell outta us, the confederacy had all the ships sent to protect Vicksburg, just let Memphis get wrecked, I’d had enough.”

“Simple as that.” she marveled, “Elvis Presley got tired of his ears hurting so he built a submarine. In a cornfield.”

“I guess you were too young to recall, Mama hadn't slept in a month, kids were dyin’ , just starvin’ from their nerves bein’ shredded” he muttered, “you yourself were a lil scarecrow. I’d always been quick with those engineering books. T’weren’t hard.”

“Ha.” she scoffed in admiration, “And what do you mean by a few runs? Runs down the Mississippi? Did you actually launch the thing?”

“Yeah, me and Scotty and Bill and a couple others.”

“That’s horrifying.”

“You’ve no idea, felt like getting nailed into a metal coffin when they screwed us in.”

“Well did it do any good?”

“We took down an ironclad. It blew us to hell, too. But we sank some Yankees.”

“Oh hurrah, that’s marvelous.” Rosey cheered, entirely forgetting the war was quite over, “Please be sure to tell General Sherman this story over cards. No wonder they wanted you for the navy!”

“I was sixteen, Rosey. The hell was I gonna do for the navy?”

“Elvis!”

“Well, really! I was an engineer if anything, all I did was putter around in a lil tube in a river and they thought I was a sailor. Broke mama's heart takin’ me away.”

“Oh, yes, it did, didn’t it.”

“Yeah it did.”

“Mine, too.” she whispered.

“Mine three.” he shrugged and poked her side.

Maddy’s heart, perhaps the most obvious and endangered of any, was conspicuously unuttered. Rosey wasn’t sure she found that soothing or ominous, had he forgotten or did he simply neglect his attachment so as not to imperil their own, current, precarious arrangement?

“Is this what you were tryin’ to learn? Reading my old books?” he asked with amusement.

“I was just trying to get a taste for what you like.”

“Oh well, that one ain’t for pleasure, doll.” he sounded quite droll, “Put the dullest man to sleep. You know what I like, we’ve been readin’ enough together.”

“We’ve completed one book.”

“So? I liked it. Dicken’s is-a-helluva writer.”

“So you like novels?”

“So what if do!”

“I’m just asking!”

“Yeah, I like novels. How bout you then, hmm?”

“I haven’t had the time.” she confessed, “Being a fine lady, as you called it, kept me shockingly busy morning till night at a plow or else the accounts.”

“Then why’re your bitchin’ bout having a month long lie-in? I’d do anything for that.” he teased.

“It’s far less enjoyable alone in the bed.” she realized it as she said it, cupping her hand to her mouth in sudden bashfulness.

As usual such modesty had a fond effect on him and he rested his chin on her shoulder cozily as Bean’s gait rocked them in the saddle, “It’s new f’me too, baby.” he whispered like he was scared to realize it himself and only confessed it to put her at ease.

Kinsley’s Books sold far more than just books and in the dim ,dusty and charming maze of the place Rosey could have found maps and stationary and inks and chalks and stamps and pressed flowers to her heart's content. It was perhaps more thrilling than having herself outfitted at the finest of lady’s emporiums.

She was running her hand admiringly over a rhinoceros skull when she heard Elvis strike up a conversation and a voice she knew take up the banter.

“You were right Clemens,” Elvis was saying and, peering through a gap in the books, Rosey spied the wizened old journalist of yesterday’s courthouse wedding -Samuel Clemens, “my orders were for the Dakota’s. All the way, it’s the Missouri for us. You sure you still want that damned adventure? Hell of a risk for a lark and some newsprint.”

“Somehow I feel the story will be worth it with you cast in a leading role.” Clemens replied with dry affection.

“No sirree I’ll be strictly captaining.” Elvis protested any ambitions toward excitement, “And poorly at that.”

“Ah, the river’s not so bad. Not with what you're used to.”

“But that’s the difference,” the captain became grave, “it’s entirely a matter of used to a’not. I ain’t used to it and I- lord I pause before sharin’ this but- well, you’re still a pilot ain’t ya? Got your license still?”

“I do.” Mr. Clemens drug out his syllables in the way those fearing entrapment do.

“Then -look I’m beggin’ ya, I ain’t joshin’ -I’m beggin’ ya to take it off me, hmm?”

“Flattered but -no.”

“You won’t do it or you’re scared too?” Elvis sneered but there was no venom in it.

“Frankly terrified of how dull it would be to let you off the hook.” Clemens chuckled, “Why’re you so scared yourself?”

“I-I dunno.”

“That hogwash, ‘course you know. Tell me, son.”

“Well,” it was the Captain’s turn to draw it out, “you’re a river man…”

“Mhmm.”

“So I can -I can sound off my rocker and you’ll, you’ll under- you’ll not fault me?”

“Course not.” Clemens grunted, “Tell me you’re scared of the mermaids in the muddy Missouri and I’ll find you credible but just don’t tell me you don’t have designs on ‘em, cause know you would.”

Elvis whooped a laugh before settling into his confession with more ease than before, “You know how it is sir, rivers, they give ya what you put into ‘em. I been good and I was respectful -even in my wildest days I was respectful- of the old mississippi and she’s been good to me when she’s dashed other, she’s been good to me and I been good to her and I- makes me damn uneasy goin’ onto another river I ain’t ever paid respects to and doin’ it to carry men up her so they can commit slaughter. If that river don’t claim my boat it’ll be -it’ll be a mercy of God, that’s what. Divine intervention and nothin’ short.”

Mr. Clemens hummed contemplatively and then gave a shrug as he himself saw the merits of this argument. “Have you got a choice?” he asked the million dollar question.

“None at all.” The captain bemoaned.

“Well then,” Clemens smiled, “I suggest you bring along a good map, the best brandy you can get your hands on, a generous woman to soothe you and a writer to tell the tale. Haven’t you heard? The author never dies in the tragedy”

“I’ve got all but the map.” Rosey could see that Elvis was grinning then, before she had to duck as he caught sight of her spying.

It was Mr. Clemens who sought her out as she weaves her way deeper into the shop.

“You searching for something in particular?” he asked her, and it was the genuine interest in his tone that placated her once more into trusting him. He seemed to have the same effect on Elvis and for once she was not wary or spiteful of what must’ve been a decent judgment of human character. She had never before seen it used so benevolently.

“I was looking for a gift.”

“Oh? Found it?” he smiled at her little lost expression. There was a gentle timidity about her when she felt herself out of her element that suited her so well it Clemens sympathetic to Captain Presley’s ravenous admiration for his fleshy little creature.

“No, I am torn.” she admitted and after seeing the inviting sparkle in his eye went on in a low voice, “I wished to find something to alleviate the captain's preoccupations between shifts. He likes to read, he likes me to read to hi- well, he likes it and so much so he hasn’t any books left that he hasn’t read. He likes novels.” she tried to relay this as if she hadn’t learned it herself within that hour.

“Novels, hmm?” Clemens pondered, “And you? Do you like them? Or are you more of a woman of prose?”

“I- we read Charles Dickens together, it was my first.”

“First?-“

“First novel, sir.” the young lady was more scarlet than cream at this admission and he found such furious frustration with her perceived inadequacy most endearing.

“Yes, well, those worn hands haven’t been holding books, now have they, my dear?” and he said it so admiringly, he who was an author and man of letters, that Rosey’s heart melted with his acceptance of her circumstances.

“I’d take your recommendation most gratefully, sir.” she hinted.

“Tragedy or adventure?”

“Oh nothing too maudlin, I don’t think we could take it just now.“ She laughed merrily as if over a good joke but Clemens was sure that it was truer than either would like to believe. “Adventure, preferably with some ingenious margin for error. If I’ve learned one thing it’s that he’s made for the impossible.”

“In that case,” Mr. Clemens gently steered her by the shoulders till she was staring at a glossy row of gold embossed titles on shiny green leather, “it’s something of Mr. Verne’s you’re after. Hell, he’s insisting we can go to the moon or ‘least camp out in the bowels of earth in his novels. Makes a trip to the Dakotas look tame.”

“That should do it.” Rosey mumbled, still a little enamored with the sleek bindings and ominous titles: Journey to the Center of the Earth, 2,000 Leagues Under the Sea, From Earth to the Moon, Around the World in 80 Days.

The titles alone suggested a reality so outlandish and daring that she felt dizzy by it, the horizons of Memphis expanding somewhere far far far more brave that she would have imagined. Was this the thrill Elvis felt tinkering around with such inventions as he had made?

Rosey made her purchase and parted from Mr. Clemens with a meek smile of thanks. Elvis found her pondering the selection of Penny Dreadful’s whose titles were equally promising as Verne’s but in an entirely sordid sort of way.

“Bandit and the Countess” may have been conservative in name but in illustration it was not, boasting a cover piece depicting a young woman in the throes of ravishment by a swarthy rogue of dark features and rich lips. For one glaring moment Rosey saw how she herself, her situation and her captivity, might be perceived by others. A pang of sympathy for Elvis’ precautions regarding their being seen together struck her. It was a wicked book and she snapped the book closed guiltily at his tap on her shoulder.

He had his left eyebrow up in judgment of her taste before recalling why he had sought her out in the first place:

“Rosey darlin’, there’s reporters out front, got wind of me bein’ here and they won’t leave without givin’ ‘em a word. We can’t have the colonel seein’ you’re still with me, least not ‘till we are well on our way. You understand.”

Smiling bitterly in recent enlightenment, she agreed nonetheless. “I understand.”

“I propose you go out the back, take Beans yourself and get straight on back to the boat now, they won’t know ya, you just get on back. I’ll get a coach or else walk. I could use to walk.”

“Right right right,” Rosey soothed and stood a’tiptoes to kiss his cheek, he leant sideways to aid her in this attempt, “straight back to the boat I shall go, and down I will go and down I will stay and -you’ll come see me, when you need to rest, you’ll come down too?”

“I will.” he promised, “I’m gonna try’n get us through the Missouri’s mouth a’least hy nightfall. I’ll be late.” but he didn’t mean it as an excuse. He’d promised.

Beans was no testy young stallion, seasoned and more than a little used to being holed up, he enjoyed the change of rider and pace and gave Rosey little grief over being in charge instead of his beloved master. The fact she let him go at full canter through the streets of St Louis and back onto the dock may have helped his mood. He was huffing and puffing as much as his red cheeked and glimmering eyed rider by the time Charlie grabbed the bridle and made them slow, six feet deep inside the hold.

“Foolish child.” he cried without any real heat, shaking his head as if she reminded him of someone.

There were soldiers down there, billeting their own horses and working with the crew on accommodating them all. She hadn't expected that, doubted Elvis had either or else he might’ve cautioned her.

As it was there was nothing to do but dismount and toss Cal the reins with a word of thanks before slinking away down the narrow hall to squirrel herself away in their inner room with his trunks and his books. She thought she might try to find something to wrap her little present in, an old shirt or some lace. She was pondering this and angry at herself for not thinking to buy parchment when she laid hold of the door knob and turned it.

No one was supposed to be within but when she went to open the door, it felt obstructed and while at first she thought maybe a trunk had fallen before it, or in their hasty departure some coat was caught in the jam, the startled, rustling noise behind suggested an occupant. One who was as surprised and panicked to be found inside as Rosey was to discover them. Crouching down to grab her pistol from her boot, Rosey slowly turned the knob again, imperceptibly until it was fully unlatched and then threw her weight against the old oak as forcefully as possible, conquering the latch. The door flew open.

Down the barrel of her pistol Rosey saw the manically glaring, disfigured beauty of Ada Overton’s onyx eyes, and her arms buried a full two feet in the captain's trunks.

Rummaging.

And not for jewels or watches, as the many discarded items of the same would suggest. Not for books as they were discarded with not a care for bindings. Not for letters as the few ribboned starches he kept were not addressed to her, Rosey has snooped enough to know that. No, something else that Rosey had either not found as yet, or else did not as yet know enough to consider important. That dreadful feeling of dread that had been so put to flight today returned and it wasn’t just those hideous eyes turning cold and acknowledging in the face of Rosey’s glare, it was that familiar terror that Captain Presley had a lot more to tell her than he’d ever want to. With her own lies put to rest, it seemed like his own remaining ones were all the more burdensome in the light stepped happiness of her honesty. Aida Overton, from what she could tell, was some remaining and hideous portal to a time she should not pry into, yet it seemed to her starved curiosity that she deserved to know a bit of the times and particulars that might yet sink them all on their return. These long hours to be spent in the hold might prove not be so boring after all.

With this in mind Rosey chose to ask, “What is it you're after, Miss Aida?” over the metallic click of pulling back the pistol’s hammer.

The boat’s bell rang a quarter to noon.

Historical Note: as stated before, the only fun for this AU to take place in the 1870’s is if I bend the timeline and cram in as many 1870’s happenings as pleases me. So as a result we’ve got Tina Turner as a boat Captain and General William Sherman committing crimes against indigenous people in the Dakotas instead of Kansas. Don’t learn your history from here, though I’d be happy to clarify the fudges. ;) Also, Samuel Clemens’ (pen name Mark Twain) authoring has been pushed back as well for reasons later revealed in the narrative. He’s just a journalist as of yet in this story.

One more thing. A boy from North Carolina did indeed build a prototype submarine in a cornfield to defend his hometown during the civil war. And yes, it worked. For a bit. And if that ain’t 1800’s style superhero/comic book material then I dunno what is

Hope y’all enjoyed! I seem to have lost my Whole Man taglist and so I did the unthinkable this time and used Sarge’s as there’s a lot of overlap. If you’d like to be tagged specifically in this one or omitted from it, please pop a note down below.

@paradsol000

@eliseinmemphis

@prompted-wordsmith

@ab4eva

@foreverdolly

@powerofelvis

@butlersxbirdy

@crash-and-cure

@elvisabutler

@heartbrake-hotel

@stylespresleyhearted

@thatbanditqueen

@crazymadpassionatelove

@myradiaz

@ash-omalley

@whatstruthgottadowithit

@arianatheangelgirl

@steph-speaks

@burningloverdoll

@angelface-555

@lookingforrainbows

@missmaywemeetagain

@coolgirl462

@kingdomforapony

@18lkpeters

@richardslady121

@from-memphis-with-love

@lillypink

@artlover8992

@pennyroyalcreep

@notstefaniepresley

@ellie-24

@renaissingle

@waiting4brucewayne2adoptme

@presleyenterprise

@marriedtopresley

@ashtag2887

@dkayfixates

@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

@returntopresley

#elvis fanfiction #elvis presley #elvis x reader #elvis the pelvis #elvis one shot #elvisaaronpresley #elvis x oc #elvis history #elvis imagine #mine #elvis fanfic #a whole man is hard to find

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