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#and still periodically write when the mood strikes me

bouncybongfairy · 3 months

Note

Hello! Could I request some dark smut with Lip? I can also be more specific if you'd like! No worries if you don't want to write it! Also I just found your blog and love your writing! 💕

Fucked Back Into Reality

Lip Gallagher x Fem Reader

Summary: Your boyfriend Lip, hadn't talked to you in a couple of days. After having several conversations about this reoccuring problem, you decied to give him the cold shoulder. He reminds you why doing this is a riskey game.

Word Count: 2.0k+

TW: Rough Smut, Brat Kink, Masocism.

Ref Account: @kaionyx

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

It’s a bitterly cold day in Chicago’s south side. The type of cold where everyone at school is more concerned about staying warm than fashion. You were walking to school, both your parents left for work before you woke up. The school was too close to home for bus services so walking was really the only option. After trying to get in touch with Lip for the past two days, you were now on strike from being nice to him. You weren’t ignorant, Lip had a lot going on at home which meant his undivided attention was rare. Sometimes you wished he would just shoot you a text like: hey super busy day, love you / shits been crazy, talk to you when i can. Having this conversation in the past, you weren’t going to bother having it again. It surprised you to see Lip sitting on the front steps of the school; early which he never was. You started walking up the steps, he stood up and flicked his cigarette bud into the snow.

“Hey,” he said, you just looked at him and kept walking to your locker.

“Oh come one, you’re ignoring me?” he asked, leaning up against the mental lockers as you emptied your things into the locker.

“Seems familiar doesn’t it,” you say, referencing him not reaching out for the past couple days.

“Yeah but mine was accidental not bratty,” he chuckled. Maybe it was because you haven't eaten or smoked that morning but that comment enraged you. Slamming your locker and walking toward first period, leaving him in the hall.

Just your luck to have chemistry as the first class of the day. The teacher took 20 minutes to calm the class down. Kids play fighting with each other or flirting in the back of the room. Groups of students in their cliques, not paying any mind to the instructions given. You felt bad for the teacher, I'm sure she thought an education career would help so many teens. Only to be placed in one of the most poorly funded schools in the state. You didn’t feel too bad though, it only meant less work for you. Lip liked the fact that you cared about your grades, that you had a plan after highschool. As stupid as Lip was acting, you also liked how smart he was. You complained about it alot but you liked how he didn’t fall for your little tricks and games. He doesn’t chase you, or let you push him over. Most guys were just so emotionally unintelligent, not to mention Lip was more mature when it came to sex. The last couple guys you were with didn’t even talk while you fucked. Didn’t know what foreplay was or understand a woman's body. Lip had a really good understanding of when to be gentle or rough. When he would whisper things in your ear it always felt so natural and smooth. There were times when your stomach would randomly flip when thinking about the nasty things he’d told or done to you. Maybe part of the reason you had some animosity towards Lip was because you had been sexually frustrated. For the past couple weeks you felt like you were practically throwing yourself at him and he wasn’t in the mood. Of course you respected that, you just missed him was all; maybe a specific part of him. At lunch he came up to you from behind and hugged you. Still feeling quite stubborn, you allowed it but acted like you didn’t care.

“You still mad?” he whispers into your ear which makes your skin break out with goosebumps. He slides his hands down from your waist to your hips.

“I know we haven’t talked but I’m here now, let’s ditch for the rest of the day,” he said, pressing his lips against your neck. As much as you wanted to give in and agree, you still wanted to make a point. Pushing his hands away, you grab your backpack and walk away without acknowledging him. If he wanted to brand you as a brat then you’d give him his money's worth.

It was the last period, and everyone was waiting for the bell to ring. Some kids just left when they were ready and the teacher didn’t care. He just sat there, staring with cold dead eyes at his computer. Daren was consistently trying his best to spark conversation with you, all he talked about was how he ran track but he was trying his best. The heaters were blasting inside the school because it was snowing. The classroom windows were wet with condensation which made you feel sticky. Becoming overstimulated you decide to leave early, excusing yourself and walking out. Daren followed you into the hallway,

“Hey I was wondering if you wanted to stay after school and watch me practice? Maybe I can take you out after, or something?” he asks.

“Oh sorry I can't. I actually have a ton of homework so, maybe next time?” you say walking away, happy that you’re avoiding the rush of people flooding out the front gates.

Normally Lip would walk you home but you didn’t see him. Your willpower that was fueling your grudge was weakening. Pulling your phone out of your pocket and seeing if he texted you; he didn’t. Looking back you were feeling silly about your actions because look where they led you. It was really cold, snow sticking to your hair and eyelashes. Once you finally got home, Lip was waiting on the porch which took you by surprise. You went to greet him, this is when you noticed he looked angry. He didn’t even say anything to you, even after opening the door and letting the both of you in.

“How’s Daren?” he asks, once you both get to your bedroom.

“What?” you asked confused.

“Well you talked to him all last period and even after you left,” he said, sitting on your bed and lighting a cig.

“Okay first of all, I only talk to him for like two seconds. He asked me to watch him practice and I said no,” you defend yourself.

“That’s two seconds more than you talked to me today,” he remarked.

“Lip that’s not even fair,” you say, which made him smirk and shake his head as he took a drag.

“Do you even hear yourself? ‘tHat’s nOt fAiR’ whining like a baby who didn’t get their way. Why were you so offended that I called you a brat even though you’re acting just like one,” he said.

“What are you trying to scare me?” you ask while laughing.

“Trying?” he asked rhetorically.

You rolled your eyes and started to change into comfortable clothes. While you were only in your bra and underwear, Lip came behind you and ripped the lace material of the panties. You gasp and go to turn around but he presses you against the closet door. Intertwining his hand into your hair, gripping it so tight strands of hair were being pulled out. His dick was extremely hard and feeling it pressed against your ass immediately excited you. Moving your head slightly so he can start kissing and biting your neck. His breathing was hard and with his chest pressed against your back, you could feel his heartbeat. As he marked your neck, whimpers and moans were escaping your mouth.

“Since you were feeling so brave today let’s hope you keep that energy,” he growled into your ear.

“You gonna try and teach me a lesson?” you asked with a patronizing tone.

He chuckled and led you to the bed by your hair. Your heart was racing, your sexlife was by no means bland however, this was the first time he was this rough. It felt like the two of you were breaking the rules or something. Like discovering new and daunting territories. He reached his hand down and started feeling you through the hole in your panties he made. He let out a moan once he felt how wet you were.

“You are such a fucking slut, good to know being put in your place is all it takes for you to soak your panties,” he said, letting go of your hair.

He sat up onto his knees, instead of fully stripping his clothes, he just pulled his dick out of his zipper. Rubbing the tip against your pussy. Your chest was pressed against the mattress but your ass was pressed against his shaft. You start to rock your hips back and forth against him but he starts spanking his hands against your ass. The pain was so bad it burned, you thought he’d stop after a couple times but he kept going. Wanting to show you were handling the smacks, you try your best to take them without complaint. He was unrelenting and you finally begin to squirm away, which seemed to humor him,

“The more you fight and squirm, the more I wanna fuck you,” he said, running his nails down your now bright red ass.

“Fuck just do it already then,” you whine, in response he spits at your face.

“Cum slut’s don’t speak unless spoken to,” he said, pushing himself into your twitching and leaking pussy.

The feeling was enough to make your eyes roll back. After weeks of Lip blue-balling you, the sensation of being filled by him was pure bliss. He was going at a painfully slow rate, pulling himself fully in and out of you after every thrust. As pleasurable as it was, you’d do anything to get him to speed up. Unable to rock your own hips, you kick your feet a little in protest. This made him laugh and slow down even further. He grabbed your wrists and pressed them against your lower back, taking full control of your body. You were dripping down both thighs and tears pooled in your eyes. You were at your limit with his teasing, tightly clenching around him. He pulled out and flipped you onto your back, feeling too embarrassed to look him in the eye. Tears had stained your cheeks and your hair was in complete disarray from being yanked and pulled. He crawled on top of you and started pushing his tip in and out. You were bucking your hips up, tears coming back as he teased relentlessly.

“You’re sensitive here? Perfect spot to abuse huh?” he asked sarcastically, using one hand to smack his cock against your pussy.

In your own little world, trying to cum with what little friction he was giving you. He finally stops and instead wraps his hands around your neck. Then starts pounding into you, slowly tightening his grip over time. You were feeling dizzy and foggy, letting out a moan every time his length fully pressed into you. He was grunting and groaning, a couple beads of sweat dropping onto the bed from how much he was exerting himself. The closer you got to your orgasm the tighter his grip on your throat became. Your face was bright red and a wheezing sound came out of your mouth with every inhale. He seemed to be hummored by this and started to mock you.

“Can’t breathe? Good,” he chuckled.

The mixture of degradation and the fast paced abuse on your cunt was enough to send you over the edge. Shockwaves of pure pleasure began to ripple throughout your body. Legs trembling and eyes rolling back. He was chasing his own climax, seeing and feeling you cum around his cock was enough for him. Rutting into you with no regard for you, as if you were nothing but a toy for him. Seeing how he turned you into such a slutty mess made him feel feral. It wasn’t until he was fully finished that he removed his hands from your neck. After a small coughing fit, you began to come too. Lip was already up, using his shirt to clean you up. Pulling your hair out of your face and into a messy bun. You were half dead, completely exhausted and worn down. He laid down next to you, rubbing your back and whispering affirmations into your ear. You wrapped your arms around his neck, trying to be as close to him as you could.

“I’m glad I could fuck the attitude out of you,” he said, as you fell asleep.

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girlgenius1111 · 4 months

Text

you don't have to pretend with me

ona x reader -sickfic ish

from a request- the req was for r with chronic pain but i've never experienced that and i didn't want to write it incorrectly, so i changed it to something i have some history with :)

You hadn't had a real period in years, having been on birth control since you were a teenager. It really limited the effects of your horrible symptoms. It was simple- a shot in your ass every three months was something you could handle. However, you'd completely forgotten to get it this time. Normally you planned your next visit at the end of your appointments, but the secretary had been out, so you were supposed to call to schedule the next appointment. It had completely slipped your mind, and by the time your realized your mistake, it was too late, and they told you that you had to wait 3 months from when you were supposed to get it, in order to not mess up the cycle.

It didn't really make much sense to you, but you didn't have a choice. All you could hope was that it wouldn't be as bad as you remembered it. The first month wasn't bad, barely more than what you usually dealt with on the shot. The second month was worse, but still, manageable, especially considering it came during an off week. You were quickly approaching the third month, and you knew it wouldn't be as easy this time.

2 days before you were supposed to get it, you found yourself in a heinous mood. You'd been short with everyone, all day, even Ona. Ona, your girlfriend, who had literally no idea what was going on. It felt ridiculous to you, to complain about what was going on when every other woman dealt with it to. You'd never heard Ona complain about her period, and you didn't want her to think you were weak.

More than that, you weren't sure she'd believe you. In your last relationship, anytime you were sick or in pain, your girlfriend didn't believe you, or told you that you were being dramatic. You didn't really realize how this affected your relationship with Ona, but as you hadn't told her this, she didn't know you'd been hiding almost any sign of weakness from her.

So, you just mumbled something about having an off day when she asked why you were so grumpy. She pretty much left you alone the rest of the day, giving you the space she assumed you wanted. The only time she spoke to you was to come into the living room where you were curled up on the couch, and wish you a goodnight, leaving a soft kiss on your forehead.

-----

You woke up in the middle of the night to the sensation that someone was standing on your abdomen. It had been so long since you'd actually had cramps, you were almost alarmed, until you realized what was going on. You didn't want to get any blood on the bed, nor did you want to wake Ona up for something so trivial, so you quietly padded into the bathroom, changed your pajama shorts, and then headed out into the kitchen in search of some painkillers.

Every step was agony, and you were walking hunched over, as what you could only describe as lightning strikes of pain rippled through from your belly button down to your core whenever you tried to straighten up. You didn't make it to the cabinet you kept the medicine in, instead collapsing into a chair at the kitchen table. As soon as you sat, the zaps of pain were replaced by a continuous ache across your stomach, and around to your back.

You couldn't help the groan you let out, as you twisted uncomfortably in your seat to try to relieve the pain. It didn't work. You knew what would work, but you were absolutely sure you couldn't stand up again and make it to the medicine cabinet. Instead, you put your head in your hands, feeling tears slowly leak out of your eyes. That only made you more frustrated, which in turn made you cry harder, until you were trying to stifle sobs with your hands at the kitchen table, in the dark, at 1am.

-----

Meanwhile, Ona woke to an empty bed. She remembered you climbing in with her after she'd already gone to sleep, waking up just enough to roll into you and smush herself as close as she could. This time, though, your side of the bed was empty and cold, and Ona was disgruntled. Sleepy Ona was a grumpy Ona, something you knew very well, and she squinted her eyes open, looking over at the bathroom door, seeing if you'd just gotten up briefly. The light was off in there, though, and your side of the bed wasn't warm, indicating that you'd been up for at least a couple minutes. Sighing heavily, Ona sat up, intending to wait for you, arms crossed, to return to bed. When she saw no lights were on in the rest of the house, though, she decided to get up and find you.

The only thing she could think was that you'd gone to sleep on the couch, which didn't make any sense. You'd been grumpy yesterday, sure, but you'd gone to bed with her, and allowed her to snuggle up to you, which you wouldn't have done if you were angry. Walking down the hall, heading for the living room, she heard an odd noise in the kitchen.

She changed directions, turning right instead of left, and discovered you, slouched over at the table, crying softly into your hands. Ona was immediately distraught at the idea of you getting up in the middle of the night and leaving your bed to cry by yourself, no matter what the reason, and not waking her.

"Cariño, qué pasó?" she asked, voice raspy with sleep. At her words, your head snapped up, looking at Ona with pain etched clearly across your face. "Amor," she says sympathetically, moving forward to stand by your side.

"Oni, go back to bed," you try, attempting to sound firmer than you felt.

"Not until you tell me what is wrong." Ona replies, actually succeeding in being firm. She brushes a loose strand of hair off your face, then combs her fingers through you hair. You melt at her touch despite yourself, before you hunch over again, another wave of pain shooting through your abdomen; you'd straightened up to much. You whimper quietly, and Ona's hand pulls off of you, worried she'd done something to hurt you. That gets you talking, never wanting Ona to think she's the cause of your pain.

"It's just cramps, Ona, I'm fine," you insist, even as your face scrunches uncomfortably, and you grit your teeth through another jolt. Though confused, seeing as though she'd never known you to have bad cramps, Ona wraps her arms around you without another thought, lifting you easily to carry you back to bed. She may be short, but she prides herself on being strong enough to carry you easily, despite your many objections. "Oni," you whine, yet still, you clutch onto her tightly, resting your head on her shoulder.

"Shh, let's get you back to bed."

Once Ona gently places you back on your side of the bed, she stands back, looking at you with a determined expression. It's almost funny really, the girl standing in front of you, wearing a baggy t-shirt and shorts, wavy hair wild around her head, trying to look stern. Ona couldn't look stern, she wasn't capable. She could only ever look adorable, at least to you.

"What will help you feel better?" She asks.

You bite your lip for a moment, before the pain wins out over your independence. "Paracetamol, please," you murmur.

She nods once. "Anything else?"

You're sure there's something you're forgetting, but it's been so long since you've had cramps like this, and it hurts too bad for you to think straight. "I don't know," you whisper finally, tears spilling over again.

"Okay amor, relax, I will take care of you," the brunette says gently, leaving you with a peck on your forehead. She's only gone for a few minutes, but when she returns, you've curled yourself into a little ball on the edge of the bed, as far from her side as you could get, obviously trying not to bother her. Ridiculous, considering she wasn't going back to sleep until after you did.

She gives you the medicine, handing you a new cold water which you accept gratefully. Then, before you can tell Ona to get back in bed, she leaves the room again. She returns fast this time, holding something in her hands you don't recognize.

The defender doesn't explain, either, even though she notices the questioning look on your face. Instead, she climbs onto the bed behind you, and nudges you out of your ball to lay in between her legs, head resting back on her chest. Still silent, she rolls your shirt up, massaging the skin of your abdomen lightly. Her warm hands feel so good, you let out a sound of relief. Smiling to herself, Ona places the heating pad she brought with her across your abdomen, clicking it on. You soften completely against her, letting out a long sigh.

"Thanks, Oni," you mumble, and she kisses the top of your head in response. She isn't done with you though, patting your arm lightly when your eyes flutter close.

"Do you normally have cramps this bad?" she asks, because the thought of you hiding this from her, like you'd been doing tonight, once a month for the entirety of the time you've been dating, makes her nauseous.

"No," you tell her sleepily, briefly explaining the situation you'd found yourself in. Ona is quiet for a few moments.

"Why didn't you tell me? And why didn't you wake me up tonight?" she wonders, not able to fully hide the hurt in her voice. You're fully awake now, almost reading her mind as you realize what she's worried about; that you don't trust her.

"I didn't think it was a big deal," you say quickly. "And I didn't want to bother you with it, with something that every woman deals with," you justify.

"Amor, you hurting will always be a big deal to me." Ona insists. "You should have woken me up. Do you... do you not trust me? Did I do something to make you thing I would not take your pain seriously?" the brunette asks, and you wince at the question. This was your problem, not Ona's. Could she not see that?

"No, Oni, of course I trust you. It's... it's not about you." You pause. "I didn't want you to think I was being dramatic or weak."

"Why would I think that? Why would I not believe you when you say you are hurting?"

All she gets is a shrug in response, and she feels you shutting down again. Unwilling to let that happen, she presses you further.

"No, amor, tell me. Did someone make you feel that way? Like you could not be honest about how you were feeling?"

You don't respond for so long that Ona thinks you've fallen asleep, or just aren't going to answer.

"My ex. She used to tell me I was being dramatic when I was sick. She was right though, I was," you rush to justify.

Ona's arms tighten around you slightly, and it reassures you. When she responds, you recognize an angry tone in her voice, but also a protective one.

"That is not what a good girlfriend does. I will never do that. You are allowed to be in pain, and be sick. You are not being dramatic for feeling things. It does not make me think any less of you, and it certainly does not make me think that you are weak." Ona declares.

"Are you sure? I'd understand if you thought I was exaggerating." you say quietly. At this, Ona tilts your chin up and to the side, so she can look into your eyes.

"I found you crying at the kitchen table, you were in so much pain. That is not dramatic, not to me. I am sure." Ona promises, and she feels you relax against her, if only slightly.

"I love you," you say quietly, voice cracking on the last word.

"Te amo mucho, cariño. Mucho mucho." Ona pairs her words with several gentle kisses pressed into the side of your head.

"Ona?"

"Sí?"

"Can I go to sleep or will this light on fire if I don't turn it off," you ask seriously, referring to the heating pad laying across your abdomen. You've never used one before, and you aren't sure what the safety requirements are. Apparently, this is a dumb question, because Ona bursts out laughing, disturbing the quiet murmur of voices you both had been keeping to.

"Sí amor, you can go to sleep. I'll put you out if you light on fire, te prometo," she tells you, still laughing. You roll your eyes slightly before allowing them to flutter shut, even though you know Ona can't see the gesture.

"Wake me up if it starts to hurt again?" she asks, seriousness returning.

"Te prometo," you say, echoing her words for just a second ago. A grin tugs at Ona's lips at your spanish use.

"Bueno. Goodnight my pretty girl," Ona whispers into your hair, her use of an english term of endearment making you blush.

With that, both of you allow yourselves to drift off. You're sure, now, that Ona will not care if you wake her up. Ona is sure that you will wake her up. Or, that she'll wake up if you do, seeing as though you're sprawled on top of her. She doesn't expect perfection, or for you to start coming to her with all your problems right away. She finds that she doesn't mind having to demonstrate her love to you, though. If there's anything she loves to do, it's remind you, everyday, that she loves you unconditionally.

-----

#woso #woso imagine #woso x reader #ona batlle x reader

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missmaywemeetagain · 3 months

Text

Broken Glass, Chapter 9 💔🥂❤️‍🩹

Eeee! I can't believe it's finally DONE! At nearly a whopping 14k, I truly hope this makes up for me not updating this story since September! 🎉 Many thanks to my darling @ab4eva for finally helping me knock this loose and reminding me I could indeed still write! 💗💋💗

If I'm honest, Broken Glass is one of my favorite stories I've worked on. I know it's quite the slow burn and not nearly as smutty as my other works (...yet), but it really does make my creative heart sing and I'm so in love with these two and their stark vulnerabilities. 🥹

I highly recommend rereading Chapter 8 to refresh your memory, but the TL;DR is we left a jealous, ailing Elvis having just found out Lori's big secret from Sinatra and Sinatra calling Elvis out on feelings he hasn't quite been able to admit to himself until now. 😬

This chapter puts us firmly back in Lori's (rather confused) perspective. Elvis is acting weird, and she is feeling the fear of her past nipping at her heels. She's trying to manage her own emotions and health while chasing after Elvis' moody ass, which is going just as well as you'd expect LOL. And of course we have Welcome Home Elvis with Frank Sinatra! You might want to watch the Elvis portions on the show to fully get in the mood--I hope I did them justice! 🥰

Things will really kick into high gear after this chapter, so this setup is pretty important to what's coming. I really hope you enjoy! You can catch up here using the Broken Glass Masterlist ❤️‍🩹

I can't wait to hear what you think!! 💗

Much Love,

Madi xoxoxoxo 💗💋

TW: references to SA/threats/abuse, Gianni, dissociation, emotional upheaval, nightmares/violence/blood, period-related misogyny, health issues (fainting, constipation, vomiting, etc.), Elvis being an asshole, Elvis being a damn snack, sooties 😏

Broken Glass Chapter 9

March 24th, 1960

Miami, Florida

“Just hang on, Elvis. Come on, open your eyes for me,” you say, patting his sallow cheek, the concrete biting at your knees where you’ve fallen ungracefully to the ground with him.

Your half a cigarette lies smoking and abandoned a foot away—a bad habit you picked up after needing an excuse to get outside after long, stressful shifts at the hospital. You haven’t smoked much since you left New York, not having much need for it when your current job is almost ornamental most days, except in those private, hidden moments away from the bustle of Elvis’ strange life.

But he’d pushed you to that Lucky Strike, what with his aloof behavior since Nashville and then his ridiculous jealousy over Frank Sinatra having the audacity to speak to you and you having the gall to laugh with him.

“You are. You’re jealous. Why? I’m not your girl, so why—”

“The hell you aren’t.”

Galloping in your chest, your heart betrays your tangled feelings about the way he’d acted, the way he’d said those words as if he thought for a moment you really were his girl. And before, how he’d kissed you so passionately…

The memory is interrupted by Elvis’ low groan, his long eyelashes fluttering open to reveal glassy but stormy ocean eyes, thrusting you back into the present emergency. You don’t particularly like the way he’s clutching his midsection or how wheezy and warm he is, but you can’t do much here, especially when people are starting to gather.

He starts, as if coming back into himself, and surprisingly tries to roll up and off you. “I’m fine,” he gasps, shrugging your hand off his shoulder in an uncharacteristic act of defiance.

You might be more annoyed if you weren’t so worried, but your feelings are beside the point right now. Treat him like any other patient, a voice in your head reminds you.

“You are not fine, and we’re going back to the hotel so I can get a look at you,” you whisper firmly in his ear.

He shoots you a petulant look.

“Unless you want to go to the hospital instead?” you throw at him, with a raised brow. That does the trick. His glare softens a bit and his eyes dart away as though he’s been scolded.

It doesn’t take more than a pointed look from you for Lamar and Joe to haul Elvis carefully to his feet. You may only be Elvis’ girlfriend in their eyes, but they do know you are a nurse with some expertise in these situations. And you can’t help but see concern on their faces.

Elvis clutches his midsection again with a gasping wince. The guys lead him to a bench outside the building.

“Joe, tell someone in charge Elvis isn’t feeling well. Lamar, go get the car, please. We’re leaving.”

Your tone leaves no room for questions, but the three men look at you with surprise. In truth, you are a little surprised yourself. Perhaps it’s your lack of outward panic, the calm surety of many a night on the emergency ward.

You can’t say the same for them, seeing the panic brewing in the eyes of Elvis’ friends. Along with that, none of them are used to taking orders from women, and certainly you haven’t shown much vocal backbone in these last few weeks, yet with hardly a pause, Lamar and Joe scurry off, leaving you with Elvis.

He doesn’t speak to you or try to joke his way out of the pain, which is unusual. Instead, he stares blankly at anywhere but you. A sliver of unease winds its way through your stomach, and while you don’t push him, it’s almost involuntary the way your hand falls on top of his.

There is no reaction at first. Is he trying to ignore you? Could he possibly still be mad about the Sinatra thing? Confusion washes over you at the slight, but then his eyes squint in pain and his hand finally grips yours.

You hold back the breath of relief at the response, and before you can spiral too much more into what ifs, Lamar pulls up with the car. With his help, you get Elvis into the backseat.

The drive to the hotel is mostly silent. Joe tries to crack a joke or two from the front seat, but Elvis’ lack of response beyond painful grimaces quiets the short man with the annoying laugh. Elvis continues to shut you out, his hands clasped around his middle now instead of your hand.

It shouldn’t bother you, but it does.

He’s just distracted by his pain, you reassure yourself.

You spend the ride pushing away questions about his behavior towards you and try to focus on diagnosis and treatment checklists, going through in your head what you have to do once you two are alone. It grounds you.

Once you all arrive, the boys help him out, but he stubbornly pushes them away once they reach the lobby.

“I can get to the elevator by my damn self!” Elvis grumbles, his eyes darting around the open space with concern. He’s nervous, you think, about being mobbed in this condition. You’ve gleaned enough in the past few weeks to understand he always attracts attention and it’s almost impossible for him to say no to his fans, even when he’s in so much pain he can barely stand upright. You are continually amazed by his generosity and selflessness in this regard. It’s one of the most endearing things about him.

Luckily, the lobby isn’t busy, and you make it to the privacy of the elevator avoiding interruption from outsiders. The humid air in the small space feels stifling and heavy with concern, but no one speaks as the elevator lurches upwards.

The relief is palpable when the doors open to the penthouse, and without ceremony you help deposit Elvis on the king-sized bed in the suite.

“Should we call a doctor?” Joe whispers to you as you try to shut him out of the room. The look in his eyes shows real worry for his friend.

“No,” you snap back, wanting to avoid any doctors not already familiar with the complexity of the situation. Joe is taken aback, so you continue more gently, “Not yet, at least. Let me see what I can do, and I’ll let you know.”

You can’t close the door fast enough, finally able to rush to Elvis’ aid in earnest, grabbing your medical bag out of the closet.

“Where does it hurt?” you ask, preparing the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope.

Elvis doesn’t respond, looking sullen. You can’t tell if it’s stubbornness or pain that’s keeping him this way though. But the dull hurt of your near-constant headache coupled with his strange mood has your temper feeling short.

“You smoke,” he says with distaste, avoiding your question.

“What?” Distracted, you count the seconds of his pulse using your watch.

“Girls of mine don’t smoke. I don’t like it,” he adds with a petulant glare.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

“Okay, Elvis, I’ll stop smoking,” you placate, “but you need to tell me what’s going on with your body or I cannot help you.” The command is clear.

He looks up at you then, his eyes churning with pain and something else you don’t have time to piece through right now.

“I feel hot an’ short of breath,” he says quietly, almost clinically. “And…” He hesitates, looking down with embarrassment.

You urge him on with a nod as you squeeze the cuff. “And? What’s going on with your belly?”

He clears his throat with a grimace. “It hurts something fierce. It’s, uh, been awhile since…you know.”

You sigh. Logically, you understand how anyone—any man, especially one in his position—might feel embarrassed talking about their bodily functions with a young woman, but it doesn’t make it any less frustrating that he hides these issues from you when it’s your job to know.

“How long?” you ask.

“I dunno,” he shrugs, his face going flush.

“Alright, then, lay back,” you sigh, popping a thermometer in his mouth. Thankfully, he obeys without a fuss, and you pull his shirt up. It doesn’t take much gentle prodding on his lower belly to determine the issue. In fact, you can see the distention on his normally lean frame. That coupled with his pained whimpers and wincing makes it clear that his chronic constipation is rearing its ugly head.

For a normal and otherwise heathy person, it might not cause the severity of issues you have to contend with now. But Elvis is neither normal nor healthy. His pressure and temp are too high, his asthma is acting up, either from the pain or exertion of singing, and you know he’s not going to like the solution. But if he wants to stay out of the hospital and out of the press, he’ll just have to deal with it.

Despite your headache and frustration with him for not communicating readily with you about anything he should, be it his feelings or his health, you urge him to the bathroom as gently as possible, gathering the materials needed from your bag. The caretaker in you pushes everything else away as you prepare the solution and guide him through the process of what must be done.

He goes from furious to ashamed to resigned rather quickly. You are a little surprised at how readily he becomes vulnerable to you, considering the circumstances. The treatment momentarily strips away whatever inexplicable ire he was holding onto. It feels so intimate the way you both quiet and with how carefully you tend to him, massaging his belly and rubbing his back as the treatment works its magic. And after the relief comes, you run a bath, washing him gently, watching as his handsome face finally relaxes. Never has a man looked so innocent yet so beautifully dangerous. He leans into your comfort, too, and as clinical as your brain wants to make this whole experience, you are a little frightened by the realization of your heart aching not just with him, but for him.

He falls asleep in the warmth of the tub. You don’t wake him, knowing how sleep comes for him so irregularly and infrequently, but you are loathe to leave him alone when he could easily slip under the water. Elvis Presley will not drown in a tub on your watch.

Or at least this is what you tell yourself as you take a moment to catalogue such peaceful and unencumbered beauty, knowing very few get to see him like this.

Your mind finally wanders then, back to the moment in Nashville you’ve tried desperately not to think about, when he sang directly to you in so intimate a way you thought you’d combust from the inside out with feelings and urges you barely understood. Fire and shivers cascade down your spine all at once at the memory of his eyes, heavy lidded and molten, as he sang to you about just how right it would feel to be in his arms. It was so seductive, so real, it felt like he put a spell on you. There were no secrets between you in that tiny studio—only want and need.

In those few minutes, he wanted everything from you, and you had wanted to give it to him.

That is his wonderful talent, though, isn’t it? you think. To make others believe in the words of a song. Perhaps he believed them too, in the moment. It sure felt like it.

But he became so incredibly distant after Nashville, just when you thought you’d gotten closer. It was confusing and exasperating, like he pulled the rug of logic and sense right out from under you. It hurt more than it should have to be shut out by him. He hadn’t been unkind, per say, just aloof and detached.

You purse your fingers over the bridge of your nose, wishing it would ease the dull throbbing in your head. Lack of sleep and routine has done a number on you these past few weeks, though you know it’s keeping up with the façade of a relationship challenging you the most. You’ve slowly been getting better at playing the part of the doting girlfriend, to be sure, but the switching from fake girlfriend to nursemaid and back again is altogether exhausting.

And no matter how much better you get, you aren’t an actress. You aren’t used to pretending to feel something but not actually feeling it. It’s getting harder and harder to decern if these complicated feelings you are starting to have for Elvis are just part of your new job or if they are…real.

You don’t want them to be. They can’t be. Not only would it be unethical, but it’s perilous to think—to hope—he might see you as more. You’re not the type of girl a man like Elvis Presley falls for. And even if you were, a smart, practical girl like you knows better than to get involved with a womanizer like him.

A smart, practical girl like you knows any man is dangerous.

Speaking of danger, as soon as you’d left the safety of Graceland, you’ve felt the creeping unease Gianni or your father could pop out at any moment to steal you away back to New York. They have to know by now who you are with, and you don’t hold any fantasy of them letting you get on with your life without a fight. No, they’ll come for you at some point, you just don’t know when or how, and the more you’re out in the world, the more exposed you feel. Your hypervigilance has you always on edge, and you make sure to stay by Elvis’ side as much as possible in the hope he and his entourage will protect you.

So, yes, you are exhausted. The litany of masks you’re wearing to stay functional are crushing you with their weight, and it is taking more of a toll on you than you are letting on. Perhaps that is why Elvis’ mercurial attitude towards you feels so barbed and painful because, by some strange twist of fate, he is the only one in this world who knows even a fraction of who you really are.

And with that thought, you try not to berate yourself too much for taking a stolen moment to gawk at the ethereal man, this god-like Apollo, naked and asleep in the tub. You are too tired to fight the searing memory of how he kissed you today in front of Frank, so possessive and visceral as he clutched you to him like he never wanted to let you go. The way his tongue, oh Madone, how his tongue had teased your lips to part and how you’d melted in his arms, unable and unwilling to resist his charms. He held you close and all you had wanted in that moment was to be consumed by him, embarrassingly so.

Maybe that was why you’d reacted fervently to his jealousy. It is whiplash, this pendulum of his attentions (or lack thereof), and it embarrasses you how easily you’d caved to his kiss, and in front of Frank Sinatra of all people. But then when you were alone, Elvis reminded you so clearly with his words that it was all a lie, while his body and actions screamed the opposite.

It all felt like too much, then, when he’d tried to put it on you, as if you were the one playing with his emotions. He is an infuriating, obstinate man, and it’s even more infuriating how everyone in his circle allows him to be so. It certainly isn’t fair he can also be so generous and kind and talented and handsome and vulnerable…God, it would be so much easier if he was always a spoiled brat and you could hate him for it.

But it’s not that easy.

He scares you. Not like your father or Gianni, no. Elvis scares you because he—

“You alright, Little Bird?” he croaks from the bath, eyes slits against the light.

It startles you, and you realize your head has been in your hands in lament as you spiral. You straighten, blinking away your lingering, dangerous thoughts.

“Yeah, yes, I’m fine. Just…tired.” It is not a lie, and you hope his own exhaustion keeps him from questioning you further.

“Well, we best get you to bed then, darlin’,” he groans, sitting up and stretching his long arms over his head. “Hand me that towel?”

“Of course,” you breathe, handing him the fuzzy, white towel, then you quickly turn away. You don’t want to leave because he may be unsteady on his feet, and it’s certainly not as though you haven’t seen him totally bare, but you feel your cheeks heat slightly anyway at his nakedness.

I’m only human.

Towel slung low on his narrow hips, you’re glad to follow him into the bedroom and not the other way around, worried the heat of his gaze might flay you open and reveal everything you are trying to hide from him. You don’t have the energy for masks right now.

It seems neither does he. He is docile and pliant as you help him into his silken pajamas and under the covers. You’ve noticed the pattern of him doing this after his episodes, putting himself completely in your capable hands.

As you head back to the bathroom to change and do your own nightly routine, you wonder if he’s ever been this way with anyone else, or if it’s just a special part of him set aside for you.

Stop thinking like that. I am his nurse and nothing more.

You keep a healthy distance between you and him when you climb into the sheets. It doesn’t take long, however, for your exhaustion to take the reins, and you quickly drift off, trying desperately not to think about the beautiful man—no, my patient—who sleeps so close by.

“Dolo-res, oh, Dolo-res!” The slithering sound of Gianni’s voice sing-songing your name in the dark sends your heart racing and your stomach dropping. His dress shoes click ominously on the wooden floor of your father’s house, slowly, taunting you. It’s as though he knows exactly where you are and is just biding his time. Finding pleasure in your fear.

You try to be as quiet as a mouse, but your breathing grows more ragged with each laborious step. The floor is working against you, like you are trying to run through water.

“Aye, aye, aye, Dolores,” Sinatra sings, the sound slow and distorted. Frank watches you struggle up the stairs, his head tilting and those famous blues giving you a knowing wink from the hallway beneath you.

“You can’t hide from me, Bella,” Gianni purrs from behind you, his footfalls heavy.

“What a break if I could make Dolores mine, oh, mine,” Frank continues the song as though your world isn’t collapsing in on itself, as if you weren’t running for your life. The lyrics feel all too threatening under the circumstances.

Clawing your way to the landing, a sob catches in your throat. He’s too close. You can smell his awful cologne. It makes your head pound and your stomach roll.

If you crawl your way to your room…you could lock the door. You could be safe.

“Aye, aye, aye, Dolores,” Frank croons from below.

Gianni’s hands are frigid when they clamp on your legs and turn you over.

“No, no, no, no!” you whimper.

“Did you get my gift, Bella?” Gianni smirks, feeling his way up your thighs, up under your skirt.

Looking down at your hand, the engagement ring he gave you shines menacingly, weighing your hand down so much you cannot lift it to defend yourself. You open your mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.

“I was made to serenade Dolores,” the song continues, but it’s no longer Frank’s voice from below. No, it’s deeper, and warm, like velvet. And oh, so familiar.

Elvis.

He’s on the landing behind you as he sings. You crane your neck and see him upside down, towering over you, only a few steps away.

“Elvis, please,” you cry. You aren’t sure if it’s a plea for help or one encouraging him to run. He looks down at you, almost absently, like he sees you but cannot be bothered. Perhaps he does not see you at all.

You aren’t sure what’s worse.

Gianni looks up and growls at Elvis, the whites of his eyes disappearing, turning all the way black. Dark, vicious claws form at the ends of his fingers. He looks like a demonic beast, ready to pounce on his prey.

“I would die to be with my Dolores,” Elvis sings, and you know then it’s over. You close your eyes, not wanting to see Gianni tear Elvis apart just for being near you. You feel the heat of Gianni leap over your prone form, feel Elvis being knocked to the ground with a thud. A roar. Screams. The sounds are sickening and the heat of blood spatters over your face.

“NO!” you sob, uncontrollably. Every breath is tainted with your agony.

It’s all your fault.

Then heavy silence.

Your chest heaves with the speed of your panicked breathing and you sense Gianni crawling back over you. You open your eyes, even though you don’t want to.

“What a break if I could make Dolores mine, oh, mine,” Gianni sings quietly, finishing the song, his face and hands stained crimson with Elvis’ blood. He smiles at you, a terrifying white gash amongst the red.

“Mine.”

Then he digs his claws deep into your belly.

You shudder awake, breathing hard enough to know it is another nightmare that wakes you. The sheen of sweat across your brow, the throbbing at your temples reminds you that you are alive, awake, and when you open your eyes, they meet the darkness of the hotel suite. Your cheeks are damp with tears and your hand flies to your abdomen to make sure Gianni’s claws are not deep inside you.

Much to your shock, there is a hand already there, large and splayed across your belly, but completely unthreatening. No, almost comforting. It knocks away the dream, this hand, as you try to puzzle through why it is there, who it belongs to, and why you aren’t afraid. You hold your breath.

A moment passes. You take stock of the rest of you: the queasiness of your stomach subsiding some, the solid warmth pressed against your back, your legs tucked but feet tangled amongst the sheets and another set of feet.

Elvis.

And you wonder if you are still dreaming because of the way his arms hold you tight. You wait for the panic to come as a result of the embrace, but it never does. Your heart skips then slows, beat by beat as you sink into calm, protected warmth, lulled by his slow breathing against your back.

I’m safe.

Sleep takes you with little fuss.

Your eyes flutter open. The room is dark, thanks to the heavy blackout curtains Elvis requested, but one look at the clock tells you it’s morning and past time to get up. A shiver rolls through you, which is strange despite the arctic levels he keeps any room he sleeps in because he usually a furnace next to you. But your body already knows what your eyes quickly confirm: Elvis is gone. Not in the bed, or the suite, or in the darkened bathroom.

Puzzled, you sit up and flip on the lamp. Your memory is hazy. Blinking, you vaguely remember a nightmare involving Gianni, but blissfully cannot remember specifics. There is something else you are missing, though, something important, just outside the reach of your memory. A comfort maybe? It doesn’t make any sense. Unease settles over you as you rise, your hand falling unconsciously over your abdomen.

Elvis’ absence bothers you, though you can’t put a finger on why. Perhaps it’s just the lingering dreams you can’t quite remember that have you anxious.

Or maybe it’s because in less than a month, your entire life has been upended and changed irrevocably.

Could be that.

After a glance at the time, you rise and hasten to get ready, knowing you are running late. Elvis will need to be at rehearsal soon. The rush is a good distraction from your muddled thoughts.

When you exit into the rest of the suite, ready to go, it’s much, much too quiet. Your skin prickles at the absence of Elvis and the usual boisterousness of the group of men you’ve become used to being around all the time and the relative safety they provide.

Something is wrong, and a tendril of fear of being alone and exposed winds up your spine.

Oh, Madone, something happened to Elvis.

Gianni.

It’s then that Cliff exits the kitchenette with a cup of coffee and you jump, startled, hand flying to your chest as you suck in a breath.

“Oh, hey, Lori,” he says. “You’re finally up.”

“Madre di Dio, you scared me!” you gasp, trying not to let the panic leech into your voice too much. “Where is everyone? Where’s Elvis?”

“Oh, they went ahead to the studio. I stayed back to drive you, if you still want to go.” He says it with pity, like you’re one of Elvis’ paramours that can just be dismissed on a whim, and frankly, he seems a little put out by this assignment.

“He did what?” Red lines your vision quite suddenly, anger washing away the worry you’d felt only a moment ago. Elvis is not supposed to be without you. It’s the reason you’re even here. He knows it.

And he just left you. Alone. Without a word.

Cliff backpedals instantly, sensing your indignation, looking very uncomfortable. “Oh, I…um…I think he just thought you were tired? And wanted to let you sleep?”

“Oh, I bet he did,” you mutter under your breath. Then you grab your purse and beeline for the door. “Let’s go, Cliff.”

He scrambles behind out you, following you to the elevator. At first, he nervously prattles on about the weather, trying to make small talk, but finally gives up once he realizes your piercing glare isn’t going anywhere.

You tell yourself you’re angry because Elvis has put himself in danger by not having you with him, but you are smart enough to know it’s more than that. He’s treated you like any other woman when you are not.

It’s downright disrespectful.

Furthermore, it put you at risk. Without the safety of Elvis’ protective and insular group, you are exposed. Gianni or your father would have no trouble at all disposing of Cliff and dragging you back to New York, before Elvis even knew what happened.

Because you haven’t told him, a small voice reminds you.

It makes you sick to think of. Your pounding headache is back, and you feel a bit carsick with the intense Florida sun beating down as Cliff drives you to the studio.

Your frustration and fear have you out of the car before he has barely parked. Heels click-clacking on the concrete and Cliff struggling to keep up, you show your special pass to the doorman. You hate the way the man examines your pass as though it were fake, giving you a once over. Cliff nods at the man before he finally lets you both through, and you huff at the slight.

This isn’t like you. Before Elvis, you would have meekly stepped to the side and let Cliff lead, content to fade into the woodwork. Happy, even. Maybe Elvis’ hotheadedness is rubbing off on you because the swell of rage you feel is like nothing you’ve felt before.

Fuming, you finally reach the studio and then stop short at what you see, sending Cliff almost running into you.

Elvis looks the picture of health, none of the pain or vulnerability you’d seen last night anywhere to be seen. In fact, he has a pretty girl on either side of him, both tittering and blushing as he smiles his famous quirky smile at them in turn. Flirting.

Your nails dig into your clutch and your body goes rigid. It shouldn’t, but it makes your blood boil with betrayal.

How dare he.

It’s a stupid thought, and one you try to shake off as soon as it comes. He’s not your boyfriend. God knows he’s flirted—and done much more—with other girls around you before, and it didn’t bother you then. Not really.

But maybe it’s because he laid into you so hard yesterday about Sinatra and your supposed flirtation and about keeping up appearances and his damned jealousy, and yet here he is, blatantly disregarding all of it. Because of double standards and whatever other petty reasons he has for acting so strange with you since Nashville.

Your eyes burn into him and with the little sixth sense of his, he notices. His eyes darken and hit yours intentionally, and there’s not even a hint of surprise or regret in them. Just an infuriating quirk of a brow before the girls steal his attention again.

Like he planned this.

You grind your teeth, forcing yourself to take a breath instead of doing something stupid like slapping that smile right off his pretty face. No, you’ve got to be professional about this. You seethe, trying to reel in all these senseless emotions suddenly swirling out of control in your mind.

For whatever reason, he’s trying to get under your skin. Maybe he thinks he’s teaching you a lesson about yesterday. About Frank. About the smoking. Who knows what else.

Well, two can play at that game.

You breathe in, out, in again, forcing your shoulders to relax, forcing yourself back into your clinical mode. God knows between the last few weeks, your upbringing, and your nurse’s training, you’ve learned how to deal with difficult people.

Elvis Presley has severely underestimated you if he thinks you’ll fold over this.

In another highly uncharacteristic move, you school your features into a relaxed smile as you walk towards him and the girls. You know he senses you even though he’s barely looking, but instead of confronting him or slinking into the shadows, you clip right past him and head towards the other famous men in the room.

His eyes are burning holes into your back as Frank and Sammy Davis Jr. notice your approach. You appreciate the fact that the two men smile so warmly at you, and not at all dismissively. It was a gamble, as you easily could’ve been rejected by them, too, but your gamble seems to have paid off.

“And who is this pretty young thing?” Sammy asks charmingly, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips. You don’t even have to pretend to blush under the scrutiny of both titans.

“Oh, this is the delightful Miss Dolores,” Frank says, “Elvis’ girl.”

“Ah, I knew that kid had good taste,” Sammy smiles.

“We weren’t sure if you were joining us today,” Frank says, looking not so casually behind you.

Three, two, one, you count silently.

“Oh, well, I—” you start.

“There you are, darlin’! Wanted to let you sleep in after such a long day yesterday,” Elvis says, smoothly sidling in beside you and planting a kiss to your temple.

You hide your smile at your presumption coming true and at the suggestive nature of his comment. A dismissive “Mmhmm,” is all you give him back, though. You don’t even look at him.

“You know, my mother was a huge fan of you both,” you gush instead to the other men in front of you, ignoring Elvis. “She passed years ago, but any time I hear That Old Black Magic or Birth of the Blues, I can’t help but think of her.”

It’s not a lie, nor is the sudden swell of emotion you have at the thought of your mother listening and singing along to those tunes while she made supper. You sniffle and let out a little laugh.

Perhaps you imagine the gentle squeeze at your waist.

“Look at me, getting all flustered,” you say, waving away your tears.

Madone, why am I so emotional today?

“Oh, we’re just honored to be a part of your memories like that, honey,” Sammy says kindly, and you feel Elvis stiffen beside you at the endearment.

“Frank, Elvis, we’re ready for the Love Me Tender/Witchcraftrun-through,” George, the very serious production assistant, interrupts.

Elvis starts directing you away. “Okay, then, baby, why don’t you—”

“Oh, I’d love to hear more about your mother, if you want to share,” Sammy says to you. “Don’t worry, Elvis, she’ll be safe with me.” He winks, reaching for your hand.

“I’m sure she—” Elvis starts.

“Well, how could I refuse the great Sammy Davis Jr.?” you interrupt, a little coyly. Part of you wonders when you became so bold as to flirt so shamelessly with men like this.

You aren’t feeling much like your old self these days.

Maybe that’s a good thing.

Tension ripples off Elvis and you honestly couldn’t have planned it better.

You can tell Elvis doesn’t want to offend Sammy as he hems and haws a bit too long. “Sure, sure, of course. I’ll come find ya after,” he finally gets out, a tad flippantly, and you don’t miss the amusement in Frank’s sparkling blue eyes as he leads Elvis away.

If you thought that would be the end of it, you were sorely mistaken. Your pleasure at winning the battle distracts you momentarily, making you think you’ve taught the man a lesson by giving him a taste of his own medicine.

You were wrong.

Instead, Elvis has doubled down on his nonchalant dismissal of you, barely even acknowledging your presence. Suddenly, there are more girls around than before and all of them seemed more than happy to be on the arm of the all-too-handsome singer, even if only for a moment.

You realize fleetingly he’d been true to his word in keeping the girls away before now because of your perceived relationship. But not anymore.

His message seems clear, even though you still don’t understand the reason behind it: You are easily replaced.

If you were actually his girlfriend, maybe that would be true. For a second, you feel the sting of his rejection as if you were just some poor girl fawning over him.

But the reality is much more complicated. Much worse is the dread pooling in your stomach at the thought of being fired and having to fend for yourself against the wolves nipping at your heels. As much as you don’t trust the Colonel, you don’t imagine he’d cast you aside so easily considering everything you know and the pains it would take to bring another nurse into the fold. And Elvis is smart enough to know it. It is a bit of a salve to the fear churning in your belly.

No, what Elvis is doing seems like some sort of strange tantrum, like he’s hurt and sending you a message the only way he knows how. What it truly could be, you have no idea, but having a slew of younger brothers, you understand that sometimes boys just need to wear themselves out with their nonsense. Doesn’t make it any less frustrating or humiliating for you, but you’ve been through worse than an adult man being immature and unable to communicate his feelings.

You almost wish his health was struggling a bit more because it would force him to engage with you. As it stands, he is the picture of health right now and he is only listening to you out of the necessity of keeping up appearances or when you have the gall to talk to another man.

It stings more than you want it to. More than it should.

It’s easy to blame it on the ever-growing fatigue you can’t seem to shake and on the fact you have less experience dealing with these kinds of relationships than most girls your age. It’s not as if you have a lot to compare it to, or even any girlfriends or relatives you talk to in order to help you try and understand what is wrong with him.

A deep loneliness sinks down over you suddenly, threatening to drown you in the overwhelming realization that you truly have only yourself to keep you steady. The worst part is Elvis is the only one who has any understanding of you at all, and for whatever reason, he is shutting you out. You force back the tears trying to spring to your eyes, swallowing your grief and resignation.

Instead of giving him the satisfaction of seeing you mope as he entertains the girls the other guys have procured for the evening, you smile and keep up pleasantries for as long as you can before retiring to the bedroom to read. Not that you are able to, as the words keep swimming in your vision and you stay on the same page for much too long. Finally, you close your eyes against the emotional tide and your persistent headache, and it’s not until Elvis comes to bed that you stir again.

You don’t open your eyes, however, though you can feel him looking at you. His gaze burns through you, making your heart race. There’s a long moment of silence before he finally undresses, gets in the bed, and turns out the light.

March 26th, 1960

The studio is vibrating with energy. Not only are the people involved in the show bustling about, but the audience, packed full of young women, is tittering so much that you can feel it in your bones.

Surprisingly, Charlie came out and grabbed you after Elvis’ appearance in the opening. Elvis looked smart in the dress uniform he’d been so glad to be rid of those first days you’d met. While he’d been nicer to you today in general, you are unsure why he wants you backstage after the way he’d shooed you out before the show started. But there are thirty more minutes before his performance, and you are suddenly concerned he’s not doing as well as he made himself out to be.

You make your way back into the dressing room, trying to offset your own nerves. You slept terribly, thinking too much about your future, mulling over every worst-case scenario again and again in your head. But the moment you enter the dressing room, it all goes out the window.

Elvis turns around when the door opens, an absolute vision in a black tuxedo that does everything to show off his long frame. Everything.There’s no helping the sharp intake of breath you try to swallow and the way your feet stick to the floor as you take him in from top to bottom. He is the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome.

His dark hair is swooped back on the sides, but styled tall and soft in the front, adding the appearance of at least three inches to his height and highlighting his long, chiseled jaw. His artfully applied makeup is subtle and does everything to show off his deep blue bedroom eyes.

Eyes that just happen to be swallowing you whole. A wave of heat washes over your entire body. You feel suspended in time and know you are gawking, but despite having spent over three weeks solid with the man, enduring every quirk and his maddening mood swings, you hadn’t been prepared to see him at his best.

Oh, Madone.

He has you locked down with his gaze, and while every professional bone in your body screams at you to be normal, it’s impossible. Every reason you’d been furious with him for the past week is forgotten in the blink of an eye. It’s as if it is suddenly dawning on you why Elvis Presley is who he is and that you’ve been working for him all this time without really realizing it.

“A-alright, everybody out. I need to talk to my Little Bird alone,” he drawls, but the command is crystal clear, sending all the boys filing out behind you. His nickname for you has never sounded so utterly sinful coming out of his mouth before. Your heart thuds in your chest and you hope to God Elvis cannot hear it or see the flush on your cheeks.

The door clicks shut, and Elvis sighs audibly in what seems like relief, his shoulders sagging a bit, and as he deflates, it breaks whatever strange spell he had on you. He adjusts his cufflinks nervously, then shakes his hands at his sides, bouncing on his toes, like he’s trying to expel the nerves out his limbs.

“Are you okay?” you ask, finally able to speak again.

“O-oh, honey, I-I-I-I’m so damn scared, I feel like my heart’s ‘bout ready to fly right o-o-outta my chest,” he stutters, looking at you as though you can provide him some relief. “S’like I can’t breathe.”

This kicks you into gear, the need to make sure he is healthy enough to perform washing away the awe at the handsome figure he cuts.

“You’re okay, just take off your jacket and sit down,” you guide him gently. He doesn’t fight you at all, but you can see the way he trembles with anxiety. The change in him seems strange to you considering the easy ego he’s been coasting on for weeks.

Maybe he’s been such a jerk because he’s been nervous, you think suddenly. As quick as it comes, you push it back out again, wanting to focus on his care.

You don’t have all your things, but you take his pulse, which is noticeably racing, and his breathing seems fast but not wheezing.

“I-I-I’m not dying, am I? W-w-what i-if I-I go o-out there and p-pass out in front of—” He is stuttering so much, it’s hard to understand what he’s saying, but his fear is clear: he’s terrified he’s going to mess up this critical piece of his comeback in front of the world and some of the greatest performers out there.

“Elvis,” you say gently, grabbing his hands in yours and stilling them. Once his fearful, wide eyes find yours, you continue, “You’re going to be just fine. You aren’t going to die out there, I promise. Now, take a deep breath with me.” You inhale deeply, hold, and then exhale nice and long, then do it again until he’s matching you.

In, out, in, out, again and again.

The breathing has just as much effect on you as it does him. The energy in the room calms substantially, your fears and his dissipating a little more with each breath.

You’re not quite sure how long you sit there with him, his hands dwarfing yours, but when he opens his eyes and meets yours, you can all at once see every iteration of Elvis Presley coexisting in harmony: the playful boy, the charming but humble superstar, the fiery and moody young man. He is both the most human you’ve ever seen him, yet the most ethereal in the same breath. The vulnerability and complexity astound you speechless once again.

“You are magic, Little Bird,” he says softly, eyes tracking over your face. Your heart skips a beat, then two. You’re in freefall for a few seconds before you can tear your eyes away from him enough to regain your wits.

When you look back at him, his face is a handsome mask, giving little away. Perhaps it’s just him preparing to perform, locking some of himself away. But something tells you there is more to it than that.

His thumbs trace up and down, sweeping between your thumbs and pointer fingers in the same rhythm as your breath. Somehow it grounds you while still making you feel a bit dizzy. He says you are magic, but he is the one enchanting you and all at once you want to tell him everything. Every single thing weighing on your mind. All your fears. The feelings you are starting to have for him that terrify you. How you see him. How you’ve deceived him to protect him. To protect yourself. It’s not the right time, it never is, but it’s like he’s drawing it out of you with his caress. You can’t bear for him to go cold on you again, not when he’s your only glimmer of hope.

They say the truth will set you free.

The words start to tumble out of their own accord, “Elvis, I need to tell you—”

A sharp rap at the door interrupts your confession before it even starts, and your heart catches in your throat.

“Places, Mr. Presley!” George yells through the door.

“Thank you!” he yells back. His eyes shine with something hopeful behind them when he turns his attention back to you, almost expectant. “Save that thought, honey.”

It’s all you can do to nod, tamping down on the adrenaline pouring through your veins. He leaps up, releasing your hands, severing the connection you hadn’t realized until right now you needed so much. Pulling his jacket on, he adjusts, and you stop him, craving the sense of intimacy that is slipping through your fingers like a sieve. You step up to him, straightening and smoothing the velvet lapels of his jacket. Your hands linger a moment too long near the button and you look at them, unable to stop the heat on your cheeks or to look up into Elvis’ eyes.

“Wish me luck, baby?” he says playfully, but with an edge of need you force yourself to ignore. He squeezes your hands, encouraging you to raise your head. You school your features into something calmer than what you feel.

“You don’t need it. You’ll be amazing and they’ll love you. They already do,” you say. It comes out much more breathless than you’d like, and you look everywhere but in his eyes.

The air gets heavy, crushing all sensibility, and you can’t help your eyes darting up then. His full lips part the slightest bit, his body leaning forward enough to make your breath catch. Suddenly every one of your nerves is on fire, crawling under your skin, something new and forbidden winding its way into your belly.

He’s only ever kissed you in a performative way, playing to an audience, but this, this is different. The way those sapphire eyes drink you in is much too much. You’re drowning in them, wondering how different it will be if he kisses you and not pretend-girlfriend you. He is so close you can smell the now-familiar, delicious waft of his cologne and feel the heat of his breath on your face.

Oh, Madone, we can’t. The thought stabs through your head with a panic, straightening your spine like a ramrod, and Elvis is nothing if not observant. So expertly does he change course you doubt he had any other intention than to press his open mouth to your cheek. The soft feeling has you sighing, but you aren’t sure if it’s in relief or disappointment.

Not unlike the look on his face.

Stepping back breaks the tension in the air enough for you to recover what is left of your wits. You smooth the front of your dress. “Would you like me in the audience or backstage?” You hope it comes out more professional than you feel.

“Needja out front. Wanna be able to see your pretty face unable to take your eyes off me,” he jokes, oozing charm, but his twitching hands and serious eyes belie his nervousness.

“Oh, we’ll see.” You roll your eyes, playing into what he seems to need in this moment from you, though your heart is still galloping enough that you feel breathless. You barely register opening the door and walking back out to your seat in the audience, feeling the roll of anxiety in your stomach, both for his performance and for what you almost let happen in the dressing room.

Before you can spiral too far into beating yourself up, Frank is up introducing Elvis. The girls in the studio go so wild, they sound possessed, chants of “We want Elvis!” devolving into shrieking. You resist the urge to stick your fingers in your ears to protect your eardrums.

But then Elvis, in all his breathtaking beauty, is ambling downstage, managing to be cool, casual, and charming, but also bashful, like he didn’t expect this reaction. And it’s not a put on.

He didn’t think they’d still love him, you realize.

The way he bites his lip, then runs his tongue over his teeth before erupting into an almost embarrassed grin makes your heart flutter at its sweetness because you know just how scared he is. His skill, however, is that no one else does.

He turns to signal the band and the first bars of Fame and Fortune come in. The man who turns around to sing is someone much different than the bashful boy of just a second ago. The sultry look he throws the audience takes your breath away, but as he waits to come in, he can’t totally hold the pose, that lip of his curling up and his tongue trying to banish it in the name of being serious. The girls scream in response, eating it up, and you can’t say you blame them. He looks up to the sky, perhaps saying a silent prayer, to regain his composure before he opens his mouth to sing.

Now, in the last few weeks, you’ve become well acquainted with his gifted voice, but it is not until this very moment you understand the scope of his talent. The spell that he casts over the room feels nearly as intimate as the one he had with you in the dressing room just minutes ago. The nervousness you know is there is so artfully maneuvered that it opens him to the audience rather than pushing them away. Few other stars would get away with smiling and laughing at the reaction of their audience in the middle of their ballad but when he does it, you feel it down to your toes.

Or maybe it’s the how his voice is like silk in your ears, a contradiction of impressively light but warm and rich. The honeyed timbre winds its way down your spine, right into the core of you. It’s not just in your body but your soul, too. The hair on your arms stands straight up, a visceral reaction proving his effect on you isn’t in your imagination.

A woman could fall in love with that voice alone.

Despite the way you want to fight the hold of his performance and its battle in your mind with the man you’re getting to know, it is quite impossible. You get utterly sucked into the tide of Elvis Presley.

He is stunning.

You can’t help the way your mouth drops open and your palms begin to sweat. There is brilliance in every move and sound he makes, and you’re amazed at his ability to include everyone in the room, from the camera, the band and backup singers, to how those bedroom eyes scan the entirety of the audience in one breath. You feel like you’ve been struck by lightning every time they catch yours.

If you weren’t so dumbstruck, you might chastise yourself for feeling so carried away, but it’s hard not to feel like he’s sharing something important with you right now—an essential part of his soul, this thing he was obviously born to do. It brings tears to your eyes.

As the song winds down, you and the rest of the audience mourn its end. But in the split second he bows his head and bites his lip, you see the utter relief that fills him at the realization that he’s still got it. Then the upbeat lilt of Stuck on You comes in and he’s immediately reinvigorated.

He knows he has you all now, and it’s as if suddenly his body remembers everything that made him a star. Sure, it’s toned down some for his new adult image, but those unique movements are still there. He’s playful and energized in a way you’ve never seen him before. It’s not just in his long limbs (which you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from) but also in his voice. Flirtatious and silly, he wraps you all around his snapping fingers.

The girls are going crazy and rightly so: you find yourself having to bite down on your lip to keep from squealing with them. A bead of sweat runs down your spine and you cross and uncross your legs to try and stave off the total, uncontrolled insanity you are feeling trying to reconcile this Elvis with the one you sleep in the same bed with, the one you care for when he’s so ill he can barely function.

Nothing about this is remotely helping the feelings for him you know are brewing under the surface. It’s like being dragged under by a riptide—you can’t fight it, not now, and you just have to give yourself over to the current.

But one thing is for certain: there is nothing sane about any of this.

You can see even Frank is off kilter because when he comes out for the duet, this cool-as-a-cucumber, wildly talented star in his own right is stumbling over his lines. The man is struggling to maintain his dominance as the host and the elder, more refined performer. Sensing what you think is his competitive edge, you watch Frank rebound for control as best he can, but even he has got to know Elvis is in a class of his own. He’s upstaging Frank without even trying.

Part of you knows you are witnessing history in the making. You can hardly believe it. A month ago, you were living an entirely different life. You certainly didn’t care much for Elvis in the beginning, and now you want nothing more than to stay in his orbit. It’s strange to feel so starstruck around him.

The whole thing is madness.

You are still buzzing and a bit dazed when Charlie pulls you backstage. The prideful, overly logical part of your brain wants you to calm yourself before you see Elvis, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a big head around you, but the giddy girl in you doesn’t care. That silly little girl eats up the grin spreading across Elvis’ face and falls straight into his open arms. He hugs you tight, like he means it. It feels real and not for the benefit of all those around you thinking you’re the adoring girlfriend congratulating him on his triumph. The way he squeezes you and presses his lips to your temple feels special and just for you.

“What didja think, Little Bird?” he whispers in your ear.

“Oh, well, the guys did great, and Nancy was lovely,” you hear yourself teasing.

The playful, possessive little growl he makes and the way his fingers press into your ribcage has you fighting unsuccessfully to suppress the shudder of excitement running through you. You curl your toes in your heels trying to absorb the heady feeling it leaves you with to get yourself right enough to speak again.

“Well, I’m a bit loathe to admit it, but you were wonderful,” you finally say, looking up at him and placing your hand on his chest. His heart thumps wildly under your palm and under any other circumstance you might be concerned, but you let it be. This is his moment.

“Better than Ricky Nelson?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow at you.

“Hmm, marginally,” you tut, trying to keep a straight face.

“’Marginally’, huh? I’ll show you marginal!” he laughs. And then he buries his head in your neck, his hot breath and soft lips pebbling your skin and setting your body aflame. You don’t recognize the gasping giggles erupting from you like a schoolgirl.

It’s all for show it’s all for show it’s all for show…a voice in your head viciously reminds you.

“Okay, okay!” you laugh breathlessly, trying to still his ministrations. “I will concede that you, Elvis Presley, are a very talented man.”

“Oooh, am I now?” He wiggles his brows suggestively, sending another wash of heat over your body.

Your mouth pops open, but before you can think to respond, someone cuts in. “Hey, Presley, quit making googly eyes at your girl and get over here!”

Elvis responds by doing the silly little thing he does with his eyes that makes all the girls scream and you can’t help but laugh.

The moment he walks away, taking his warm essence with him, you find yourself deflate a little. It sobers you quickly and the letdown of the entire experience has you unexpectedly emotional. Without his warmth and light, you feel cold and unprotected and alone.

Sneaking away to the restroom, you lock yourself in with shaking hands. Oh, God, what is wrong with me? you think as the tears well and then escape in rivulets down your cheeks. You swipe at them, fighting what you fear is happening but cannot quite admit to yourself.

You refuse to be like every other woman, falling over your own feet for Elvis. Desperate for any sliver of attention, living for his small touches and knowing gazes. Blinded by his talent and fame.

You are not that girl. Breathing in and out, trying to calm yourself, you remember he is just a flesh-and-blood man, and you cannot give another man the power to hurt you again. He is your employer, your patient, and nothing more.

Liar.

Pushing those treacherous thoughts away, you switch tacks. You need to protect him from the storm you know is coming but your survival instincts are doing everything possible to keep you safe, and Elvis might be the only person who can do that. Telling him about Gianni and your background risks his rejection. Your heart aches at the idea of him letting you go, and not just because of your safety. There’s no way you can tell him the truth about you now, not when he’s flying so high, not when for the first time in weeks you finally feel connected with him again.

Maybe too connected.

No, you’ll just have to wait until the right time. You can’t spoil this for him. Talk of Gianni and your father would destroy this goodness, and you can’t let them destroy anything else.

Forcing yourself to put it on the back burner, you paste on a smile and play the devoted girlfriend for the rest of the evening. Every little touch is like tinder catching flame under your skin—his hand around your waist, thumb grazing so near your breast, his fingers interlocking with yours—and the sparkle in his eyes makes your heart dance against your ribcage. It’s easy to believe he truly cares and that he’s yours.

He's a better actor than they give him credit for.

For once, you let yourself lean into it, pretending he wants you. You are swept up into his joy and relief and affection. It’s an addictive and glorious drug. By the time you both stumble exhausted into the bedroom of the suite, your cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

Your body hums a little from the glass of champagne you allowed yourself, mind buzzing with the excitement of the day and from your proximity to the man of the hour. Elvis seems to be much in the same boat, riding high and energized as he takes off his jacket, throwing it over the chair in the corner. The tiny tie was lost long ago when he unbuttoned his top buttons at the studio and sweat glistens in the divot between his collarbones as he begins rolling up his sleeves. You were unaware until this very moment how attractive forearms could be.

Suddenly your mouth feels very dry. You lick your lips, watching his every movement.

Elvis looks up quickly, catching your undivided attention, and his lip quirks in a slow smirk that is both sinful and self-conscious. His eyes flash with a heat that makes your toes curl into the soles your shoes and your pulse flutter wildly.

Oh, no. No. I will not get flustered by Elvis.

Cheeks heating, you look away and focus every ounce of attention you have on undoing the straps on your heels.

Elvis starts to hum a song you don’t immediately recognize, the sound vibrating and warm and sultry. Like a siren’s song, it threatens to hypnotize you. It distracts you enough that you fumble with the stubborn clasp on your heel, unable to wrench the leather free of the buckle. You let out a huff.

“Here. Lemme help, baby,” he says, more a soft command than an offer, the sound wrapping around you like velvet. He kneels before you, placing your foot on his knee, his long, nimble fingers working the strap free. If you hadn’t already been holding your breath, the way he gently massages the crease the strap left on your ankle through your stockings might have caused you to gasp.

“How’d I never notice these pretty lil’ sooties?” he coos, rubbing his thumb into the sore arch of your foot.

You bite back the moan threatening to slip free due to the sensation, but it escapes anyway, as a tiny whimper instead. Perhaps you imagine the way the apples of his cheeks go pink at the sound. Either way, you feel like you are about to come apart at the seams.

He makes slow work of massaging your foot and then placing it back down. You suck in a breath, just as he grabs the other and repeats the action of freeing then massaging it.

“Elvis,” you gasp much too breathlessly. You want to melt into the sensation, but the rest of your body feels like it’s on fire, a molten pit growing in your belly that you can’t seem to stop. You should push him away, you know you should, because this is too much, too intimate, but you can’t seem to will yourself to do so.

“Hmm?” he replies innocently, as if he truly has no idea what he has reduced you to. His hand squeezes down your foot until he reaches your toes. “Oh, honey, why ain’t these perfect lil’ piggies painted?” he asks, near scandalized.

The question throws you. “I…I’ve never seen the need,” you stutter out. “It’s not as though anyone would see them and being on my feet all day in the ward would just ruin them…”

His brows furrow. “Not even with your girlfriends? Or for a day at the beach?” he asks, genuinely confused as to why a young lady would never paint her toenails.

Your heart aches acutely all the sudden. The words fall out of your mouth before you can stop them: “I didn’t have many friends like that. Or time to spend with them. I was busy raising my brothers and then I left for nursing school….”

“Oh.” He says it so softly and full of compassion you nearly want to cry. Then, his demeanor shifts. “Well, all that changes now, Little Bird.” He gives your feet one last pat and then smoothly lifts himself off his knees, going towards the door.

“What?” you ask, confused. This man has your head spinning.

He flings the door open. “Hey, Charlie! Charlie!” he yells into the penthouse.

“Yeah?” you hear Charlie call back.

“I need you to get some nail polish. Pink is best, but red’ll do.”

You hear a long pause, then a shuffle. “Ummm, where am I gonna find polish in the middle of the night, EP?”

Elvis sighs. “Use yer brain, buddy. You tellin’ me none of those girls out there has any polish on ‘em? I have faith you can figure it out.” Then he shuts the door with a grin.

Dumbfounded, you gape at him. “You can’t be serious, Elvis. It’s late and we need to get some rest…I don’t particularly want to paint my toenails right now. And truth be told, I’m not very good at it,” you say, feeling panicked by the whole idea. The idea of him watching you trying and failing to paint your toes makes you squirm.

He just grins. “Good thing I ain’t tired, then, baby! You can relax and I’ll take care of it. Go get in your jammies.”

Your brain feels broken. He can’t possibly be suggesting what you think he is. Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

“Close that purty mouth—you look like a big ol’ guppy over ‘dere,” he laughs, his accent seeming stronger than usual. “Now, go on—get ready for bed,” he orders, pulling you off the bed.

“Elvis—”

“Nope, don’ wanna hear it, honey! Go!”

Which is how you find yourself in the bathroom, changing into the modest but silky, white, button up pajamas Elvis bought for you on your shopping spree a few weeks ago and doing your nightly routine with a flock of very baffled butterflies in your stomach. You are also a little afraid for the state of your toes by the time this is all said and done.

And yet, Elvis manages to surprise you again, not only with the fact that Charlie was indeed able to get his hands on pearly pink nail polish at this hour, but with his ability to paint nails. It’s more than adorable the way he concentrates on getting it right, tongue caught between his teeth, even sticking cotton between your toes to keep them apart. Usually, you would hate having someone touch your feet, but he’s so gentle about it and you are so distracted by how unbelievable the situation is and how a dark lock of hair falls imperfectly over his forehead as he bends over your toes that you can’t bring yourself to tell him no.

As always, time seems to warp with him, and it’s so late it’s early. You find yourself yawning, wiggling your freshly pink toenails in a state of strangely pleased disbelief.

“You like ‘em, Little Bird?” he asks, eyes shining with an unexpected need of approval.

“Yes, they are lovely. If this singing thing doesn’t work out, you could open a salon. The girls would go crazy,” you joke.

He bows his head with a bashful smile, then looks up at you through those long lashes and you feel like the bed has dropped out from under you.

“Naw, this is only for the special lil’ nurses who hafta put up with me every day. No one else.” His eyes twinkle, lighting your body with electricity.

Why does he have to be so charming?

Part of you wants to scream at him to stop being so nice to you. If he knew what trouble you were, what you’ve brought to his doorstep, he’d never be looking at you like this or treating you with such care.

No one since your mother has treated you with such care.

Tears threaten to spring to your eyes, and you push your feelings as far away as you can, as fast as you can.

“Speaking of,” you say, clearing your throat, “I should take your vitals before you sleep.”

Elvis looks confused and maybe a little hurt at your abrupt subject change but recovers quickly enough. “Aww, come on, Little Bird, not tonight. I feel fine, I swear it.”

But you need your armor, and your job gives you that. It gives you space from these stupidly complicated feelings you are having. “Grab my bag and we can prove it.”

Elvis sighs, but does what you say, quiet as you take his temperature, blood pressure, and pulse. When you finish, surprise fills you.

Elvis looks concerned. “What is it? Everythin’ okay? I’m tired, sure, but I feel—”

“No, I know,” you interrupt, “your numbers are good. Apparently a wildly successful comeback performance coupled with giving a late-night pedicure was just the right medicine.” You can’t help but smile at him.

He looks at you wide eyed, then gives you a blinding smile. “Or maybe you’re just that good for me, darlin’.”

Your heart flips in your chest, beating in your throat, but you refuse to let it show on your face. “Sure, mister. Quit your flirting and get in the bed,” you say firmly, only realizing your mistake when he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“To sleep! Go to sleep, Elvis!” you say, rolling your eyes. You cover the blush on your face by turning over to flip off the lamp on your nightstand.

His hiccupping laugh makes you smile in the dark when he slides into the bed next to you. You are acutely aware of the heat of him, and though he doesn’t touch you, you can’t help but sense that he wants to as his chuckles die down to silence.

After a pregnant pause, he speaks again, quiet but direct.

“Was there something you wanted to tell me, honey? From earlier when we got interrupted?”

Your heart trips, then races with both surprise and fear. Thank God he can’t see your face because you are battling the onslaught of thoughts spiraling in your mind.

He won’t understand. He’ll kick you out on the street.

No, don’t keep lying to him. He deserves the truth.

Not now, later.

Protect him, protect him, protect him…

It’s the vision of Gianni ripping out Elvis’ throat that makes the decision for you.

“No, it was nothing,” you whisper shakily, clutching the sheets in your hands.

“Oh,” he says, almost blankly, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say he sounded upset.

But that wouldn’t make sense.

“Goodnight, Elvis,” you say quietly.

“Goodnight, Lori.”

Your stomach drops at how he uses your actual name, all the warmth from earlier gone from his voice. As tired as you are, shame and regret churn in your stomach—a stew of nausea that won’t seem to abate, even after you eventually drift off to sleep.

Three more days you spend in Florida, each one bringing even more maddening behavior from Elvis. Somehow, when you weren’t looking, a switch flipped yet again. He’s rapidly vacillating between moody and sullen to downright cold and cutting.

He keeps you close, to be sure, while going water skiing and taking long drives and cavorting with his friends, but the sweet, compassionate closeness from the night of filming the special is nowhere to be found. You feel like an accessory he strapped to his wrist, desperately trying to make sure he doesn’t run himself ragged with all the “fun” he is having. He doesn’t even attempt to hide the flirting and the inappropriate jokes and jabs not fit for mixed company. No, he does it with you at his side, like he’s trying to make a point.

Even the Colonel is distressed, confronting Elvis about spending too much and making the return trip to Memphis one by bus instead of train as some sort of power move to wrangle the star. Elvis just laughs it off, and in what seems to be true Elvis fashion, he seems to spend more rather than less just to stick it to the Colonel. All of it put together reminds you of the adolescent behavior of your younger brothers.

It’s exhausting, running after this moody man-child who acts like you hung the moon one minute and in the next ignores you. You remind him until you are blue in the face that he must rest and have some semblance of a normal routine when he can, instead of running himself into the ground by overindulging in nearly every sense of the word. The man seems to have no concept of the word “moderation” and as annoyed as you are, you are more worried this will lead to another, more serious episode.

It's easy to blame him for the near-constant headaches and exhaustion ailing you. Having to pretend to go along with his antics as his girlfriend while also having to babysit him as his nurse is continuing to run you ragged. Not to mention the emotional upheaval of trying to piece out your own feelings for him and manage your lingering fear about Gianni at the same time.

The worst, however, is the lack of playfulness Elvis had with you coupled with the brooding silence he shoves between you in your very few moments alone. Nothing reminds you more you are just his nurse. The rest, whatever it was, seems a folly concocted by your addled imagination.

You can’t shake the feeling of being punished for some unknown offense. Maybe it is just your guilt brewing under the surface, trying to make sense of this man. It’s hard to break the habit of feeling like no matter what you do and how good you are at your job, you are somehow still a burden to the men in your life.

But it isn’t just that. Every stunning smile or touch he gives another woman fees barbed and has your blood boiling, even though it shouldn’t. Every sly remark about being “tied down” he makes to the guys makes your skin crawl. Worse yet, he starts poking fun at you any chance he gets, edging more into mean spirited with each jab, and even his friends shoot you apologetic looks by the end of the trip.

And yet another full day with them all, coupled with Elvis’ ire, all the stupid jokes, and the rampant gas that all the men seem to have, this time trapped on a smelly chartered bus, has you feeling claustrophobic and ready to throw yourself out the window. It’s unusual for you to feel so bothered by such things—you grew up in a houseful of men after all. You learned early on to keep your feelings to yourself, especially to keep off your father’s radar. Patience for rowdy men has historically been one of your greatest virtues, but Elvis has you digging your nails into your knees and biting your tongue more than once as the bus slowly ambles towards Memphis.

He's just an unruly patient—don’t take it personally, you chant to yourself all the way home. You try, you do, but your stomach ties in more knots with each passing mile and with the memory of feeling cared for by him contradicting everything he’s lobbing at you.

By the time you arrive back at Graceland, you are ruing all your life decisions. Despite reminding yourself of how, logically, you are safer and more secure here than you’ve ever been in your life, you’ve reached your limit of patience with Elvis and his entourage for the day. Maybe the week. Or the month.

Oh, Madone, how am I supposed to do this for the unforeseen future if I can’t make it a month with this man?

At least here you can safely put some space between you. You fly off the bus as soon as the door opens.

“Hey! Hey, where do you think you’re goin’?” he yells from behind you.

Why do you care? is what you want to say, but you swallow the urge instead.

You keep walking down the driveway, away from the house, pretending you don’t hear him. Nothing good can come from you answering him right now, not when you are feeling so on edge. Besides that, it’s hard to think with the throbbing behind your eyes and the slight carsickness rolling in your stomach from being on the bus all day.

“Lori, stop! Goddammit, Dolores, where. Are. You. Goin’?” he shouts, punctuating each word, your name rolling off his tongue like an admonishment. You stop in your tracks. It infuriates you he deems to use your given name like you’re the one who has done something wrong, like it’s your behavior that’s been so poor.

“Away from you!” you shout back at him, unable to keep your frustration locked in any longer.

Your heart sinks, immediately knowing you’ve overstepped but annoyed enough not to quit while you’re ahead. You start walking again, hurrying away as if you can still escape this whole situation.

The chorus of men chuckling and “oooh”ing at Elvis as they amble off the bus does not help matters.

“What the hell did you just say?” he growls low, his large strides hard on the pavement as they try to catch up with your smaller ones. “Hey, don’t walk away from me when I’m talkin’ to ya!”

“Leave me alone, Elvis! It’s obvious you’ve wanted me out of your hair for weeks, so go! Do whatever it is you need to do to get whatever this is out of your system,” you snap, still stomping forward, pulling your coat tight around your middle as you try to reacclimate to the early spring chill in the air. “Go…get laid or something,” you mutter, surprised at your own crassness.

“Hey! Stop bein’ such a b-bitch and stop walkin’ away from me!” he roars, grabbing your upper arm to pull you around.

You gasp as his rough touch lances through you, sending a lightning bolt of fear down to your toes. “Get your hands off me!” you hiss, violently yanking away from his grasp. Your heart knocks unpleasantly in your chest, faster and faster as your breath heaves. Part of you wants to run away as fast as you can, but you are frozen in place.

He’s not Gianni, a soft voice whispers. He won’t hurt you.

You want to believe it, you really do, but the fact is you barely know this man. You’ve wanted to believe so badly he is warm and caring, you’ve wanted to trust him because there is no one else you can, but your hopes don’t make it true.

Seeing your distress, something besides anger flashes in Elvis’ eyes and he quickly drops his arm from you.

All your pent-up fury washes over you then and you lash out uncharacteristically. “And don’t you dare call me a bitch when you’ve been acting the way you have,” you spit back at him.

He shutters his look of shock at your outburst so quickly you barely see it before flames darken his eyes again. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. You’re just crazy.” It’s cutting but it’s obvious you struck a nerve.

Blood rushes in your ears, your heart pounding and your head throbbing with a hundred emotions threatening to tear you apart.

You’ve never felt so bold or off the rails before, but the words fly out of you with little thought of the consequences as you point your finger at him. “Listen to me, Elvis Presley: I’m not Anita or one of your sycophantic girlfriends you can play your silly little hot-and-cold mind games with. I’m not crazy. I’m here to do a job. And instead of letting me, you are making it hard every step of the way. For days you’ve been sulking around like a child who hasn’t gotten his way instead of communicating like an adult what is wrong!”

Elvis’ eyes go wide as he reels back like you’ve slapped him in the face. Then his brow furrows, eyes blazing before locking you out once more.

“Oh, you’d know all about mind games, wouldn’t ya, honey?” he says coldly, advancing on you. “Why communicate w-w-when y-you can just pretend it’s not happenin’ and run away? I’m sure your fee-an-cè and his mafia buddies would have a lot to say about that, now, huh?”

Your heart screeches to a stop.

Dio mio…he knows.

“Elvis…” you breathe out, and then you can’t seem to breathe in again. Your shock is eclipsed by the fact somehow Elvis knows your secret. Everything else is forgotten. All your panicked mind can think of is how Gianni or your father somehow got to Elvis and they must be here, now, to take you back to New York.

An involuntary shudder overtakes you as you whisper, “How?”

“Oh, your good friend Sinatra told me the w-w-whole damn East Coast of mobsters is pissed o-off. Called you some mafia princess Helen of Troy and told me to cut you loose, if I-I-I knew w-what w-was good for me,” Elvis barrels on, his handsome face dark and storming with anger.

“What?” It’s so breathless, you aren’t sure you said it aloud. Frank knew? Of course.

Oh, God, everyone knows.

They are coming for me.

The acid in your stomach bubbles, and if it weren’t empty, the contents would be spilled over Elvis’ expensive shoes.

“I-It w-was humiliatin’, not knowin’ what the hell he was talkin’ about! But you wanna know the worst of it, Lori? That I gave you every chance to tell me and you still didn’t. You lied. I thought…” Elvis keeps speaking, his low voice angry and hurt, but suddenly it sounds like he’s in a wind tunnel. All your focus turns inward, though you are vaguely aware that you are shaking like a leaf.

Elvis is going to send me back.

And he has every right. He’s got to protect himself. You were selfish and brought this to his doorstep and didn’t even have the courtesy to warn him. Then he had to go and hear it from Frank of all people.

It was no wonder he’s been acting so strange.

He’s been preparing to let me go.

Your chest constricts and your heart aches. It feels like betrayal, though you know it’s not. You are the one who betrayed him, not the other way around. You’d thought maybe Elvis was different, he’d shown you such compassion at your worst moments, but that was before he knew what you’d dragged him into. And you are a horrible for doing it. Maybe you deserve the hell you know Gianni will put you through.

There is no stopping the tears from pouring down your cheeks.

“I-I’m so, so sorry,” you sob, now a hiccupping, shivering mess.

Gianni’s obsidian eyes and horrific smile when he sees you again flash in your mind. “Hello, Bella…”

Oh, Madone, I can’t go back, I can’t. He’ll kill me. Or worse…

The air in your lungs seems to evaporate, leaving you gasping and dizzy. That weightless space, the one you go to when you can’t bear to feel anymore, awaits you, but you can’t seem to reach it because Elvis is grabbing your shoulders, the anger gone from his eyes and replaced with concern. But he is tethering you to reality when all you want to do is disappear. And you can’t help but feel like you’ve damned him.

Your stomach churns once more and you lose the battle, heaving bile off to the side and onto the pavement. It steals what little strength and air you have left, and the edges of your vision bleed black, like the shadow of Gianni is finally here to take you away.

I’m sorry, is the only thought left when your knees buckle and your body crumbles into Elvis’ arms.

Then there is just dark, blissful silence.

Thank you for reading and supporting my work!! As always, likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated if you enjoyed what you read! 💗

Taglist Pt 1

@eliseinmemphis@russian-soft-bitch@tattywood

@sassanoe@thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle@carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23

@littlebitofgreen@paigevis@bugg06@xhannahbananax03@artlover8992

@18lkpeters@frozenhuntress67@girlblogger2002@kendralavon7@misspresley

@be-my-ally @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen @powerofelvis @from-memphis-with-love

@precious-lil-scoundrel @stylespresleyhearted @prompted-wordsmith @crash-and-cure @elvisgf @lookingforrainbows @fic-over-cannon @godlypresley @ab4eva @whatstruthgottodowithit @elvisabutler @amydarcimarie@idontwanttoputanything @callieselvisobsessed @captainamerica1235-blog @xenaspace3-blog

@simplyamberj@claire-elvisgirl@everythingelvispresley@louisejoy86@deniseinmn @madelynpresley

#broken glass #broken glass ch 9 #elvis presley #elvis #elvis presley x reader #elvis x reader #elvis fanfic #elvis fanfiction #if you’re looking for trouble #you came to the right place #elvis smut #elvis x oc #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis x dolores #elvis presley x oc #elvis 1960 #frank sinatra #italian mafia #1960

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v3nusxsky · 1 year

Text

Hold on| H&c

*Authors note~ this little idea was not leaving my head as I was battling with my requests. I am writing them guys it's just when an idea strikes you have to run with it Yano? I want to get the best versions I written that I possibly can. I appreciate how Patient you all are with me*

Trigger warnings~ stabbing angst etc

Prompt~ raven goes wrong. R gets hurt and Larissa fears she'll lose her lover.

☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾

The Raven dance was single handedly the best event of the school year. The students were abuzz with plans of what to wear, themes and even ways to ask their partner of choice to attend with them. Even the students of Jericho high knew of the yearly event so it wasn't a surprise when the noted the students of Nevermore walking through the town to find outfits. Relations between Outcasts and Normies were still incredibly strained despite all the work you knew Larissa was trying to do.

The weekend before the dance you had to make a simple run into the town to choose a last minute outfit, as Larissa had asked you to attend the dance with you as her girlfriend but under the pretence of you chaperoning the dance. She had even promised you a private dance in her quarters. Unbeknownst to the rest of the school you and Larissa practically lived in her quarters, your relationship strictly kept between the two of you for the time being. It was not because either of you was ashamed of the other, no it was simply because you were basking in the glow of the honeymoon period. So you wanted to find something deliciously sinful for the end of the night alongside a dress that would drive your girlfriend wild.

You knew exactly what type of dress that you wanted to get. You knew that a floor length, tight fitting emerald dress would would highlight your eyes. You found the perfect dress and took a few teasing photos to send of to your girlfriend. You decided to stop by the Weathervane to grab your usual and Larissa's before returning to Nevermore.

The day of the dance came around rather quickly and so far there had been no issues or problems with any students or any staff involved. It was set to be a complete success even with the arrival of Wednesday Addams you couldn't see this going wrong. Admittedly, the arrival of Wednesday had caused your girlfriend to be overwhelmed and stressed most nights, which resulted in many interestingly satisfying nights shared between you both.

The venue was absolutely stunning as always, your girlfriend definitely had an eye for the finer things in life and this demonstrated that perfectly. Her attention to detail was astounding. The students were equally as impressed with the magical decorations and the event seemed to flow perfectly. Yourself and Larissa had even managed to sneak a few shared moments together in the corners of darkness. Fleeting kisses or longing touches as you past each other, teasing for what lay ahead.

Yes, it was simply one magical night and you couldn't be prouder of the success your girlfriend was having. That was all well and good until it came to the last dance of the night, even with Wednesday Addams in attendance nothing had strayed from the plan. In fact she had spent most of the night extremely well behaved following Enid Sinclair around. That's why it was a complete shock to you what followed. It's crazy how some peoples small minded actions could destroy what was a perfect night.

The last song of the night was "Hayloft, Mother Mother" what ironically set the mood for what was to come. As the song progressed and the lyrics "whatever happened to the hayloft? Burnt to the ground and what about pop? My baby's got a gun" Rang out through the hall as a group of some Normie teens brush in, clothed in all black and masks that hid their faces. Instantly screams of panic we're battling the music to be the loudest. Nevermore students frantically trying to run from the three new arrivals while Wednesday Addams just remained frozen in the middle of the dance floor. It was as if it was all in slow motion for you. The three teens circled Wednesday and all withdrew weapons from their pockets. It was then you knew what would happen.

You immediately jumped in front of Wednesday feeling the bullet piercing through layers of skin tissue and even muscle of your abdomen. The pain being fought off be adrenaline. Wednesday maybe the cause of the stress for your girlfriend but she was a student none the less and that meant you'd do anything to ensure her safety. Even if it meant comprising your own. The three teens seemingly disappeared after shooting you. You spared a glance back to see a shocked Wednesday and a distraught Larissa. But they all looked unharmed. Adrenaline was wearing off now the threat was gone and the pain quickly encasing all of your senses, every muscle every nerve buzzing with it. You collapsed backwards grunting in pain as it nudged the bullet in your abdomen. The sharp intense pain stole consciousness from your body.

When you came too you immediately noticed your lover above you, hands pressing on your shoulders to keep you pressed into the ground and still. She would turn away from you and wince as another set of hands worked on your abdomen removing the pieces of shrapnel from you. Larissa's face displayed the concern and guilt she felt. You let out a gut wrenching sob as every small piece of shrapnel was plucked from your wound and placed onto the ground with a plunk. Your sobs had Larissa screwing her eyes shut and inhaling sharply knowing you were in pain and she couldn't help, instead she was holding you still subjecting you to the pain. Despite how necessary it was didn't mean it made her feel any better holding her lover down as you attempted to wither in pain below her. She spared you a glance and saw your red tear soaked face as you began to shake and moan in pain.

"Just keep looking at me darling. That's it. Let me see those pretty eyes my love. I know it hurts darling but Marilyn is almost done and then you can sleep for as long as you desire y/n. Just keep those pretty eyes on me and focus on my voice okay? Stay with me love" she pleaded with you to follow her instructions and you were trying. It was Marilyn taking the pieces of the bullet from your skin. And she was here with you. Comforting you. Loving you. You nodded weakly, pulling your plump bottom lip in between your teeth sinking your teeth in it as tears streamed from your tightly squeezed shut eyes.

Her praises were ever flowing and that's what kept you going despite the immense pain you were in. You did your very best to follow her words, in the end all you could do is scream out for her, your love, to make this all go away. Whimpering at the pain pleading with her to make Marilyn stop. She couldn't do that so settled for reassurance. Clearly after tonight you're relationship would be common knowledge but in this moment you couldn't care less. You were in pain and you wanted your Rissy. Soon enough Marilyn was bandaging you up and helping Larissa carefully move you. Originally Marilyn had planned to move you to your quarters until a worried glance was shot her way by Larissa. Soon enough you were placed in warm soft sheets that smelled of your girlfriend. Not the sexy night you had planned but everyone was safe and that was all you cared for.

Word count~ 1314

#fanfic #larissa weems #wednesday netflix #gwendoline christie #larissa x you #larissa x reader #larissa weems x reader #principle weems #principleweemsxreader

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sayhelloanimalfriends · 1 year

Text

i saw my dude @sodom-hussein (hi i like your blog so much it is good and so fun and keeps me scrolling) RB this post that was like “I compared today to 1930s germany and the results aren’t good”

and then OP proceeds to just make a bunch of very vague and unmeasurable statements like

‘we are about to die horribly in concentration camps because

antisemitism is increasing

LGBT discrimination is increasing

ableism is increasing

indigenous people are continually threatened etc etc’

The post doesn’t have any facts or information to back any of these claims as true, but it doesn’t need it. because it’s using the same kind of rhetoric that Fox News uses with its users. Fox News doesn’t have to prove something is true if it *feels* true.

and firstly if you go find the post and compare it to my wording of that first statement, you’ll see that i’m sensationalizing a little bit

and secondly, i have love for OP and i have love Sodom-hussein both because i am confident they only want to inform with the goal of changing our world for the better.

BUT I believe that these kinds of posts are not helpful, and while my wording was sensationalizing it wasn’t doing so all that much because of what the post is implying. The post’s intent it seems is to strike fear and terror into the hearts of those most vulnerable in society.

So if you are still reading I would like to use a bit of bad news to maybe ease the fears that many of us are having about the state of our world. Let me explain:

There exists a theory of social organization called Social Dominance Theory which was constructed by Jim Sidanius (oh my god i just found out he died in 2021 ☹️ what a legend) and Felicia Pratto. These two psychologists took behavioral sciences and combined them with historical record of societal hegemony to explain why and how humans seem to organize our societies unfairly.

I won’t go into the minutiae of the theory, but my main point of bringing it into this conversation is that according to their writings, when humans define categories on which to base discrimination (such as race, sexual orientation, cultural/religious identity, etc) these categories remain as subjugated for VERY VERY long periods of time.

This part is the bad news but stay with me.

What i mean to say is that as a gay man, I will probably always be discriminated against in our society. That is just the way these things seem to play out. Now, within my particular place in society things may improve or worsen. But there isn’t really any realistic hope of full liberation. And apparently, also according to social dominance theory, even if gay people WERE to be liberated, a new arbitrary category of discrimination would just take its place.

So how can we use this information to cope with our world?

Well the reality is that you may need time to grieve this truth. But once you are done grieving, you can look at our world and realize that nothing is changing. Everything is staying the exact same.

Just yesterday youtuber Matt Baume released a video about Ellen coming out on TV and it was literally all the same shit as what we’re hearing now. Conservatives feigning disgust and fear for what it means to acknowledge the existence of lesbians. Censorship. Blah blah blah. That was 25 years ago but it could easily be today.

So when you are able to accept that society has fixed you at a disadvantage that is permanent, you are more immune to the kind of brain-numbing effects of fear and terror.

And that’s what I really want you all to do.

I want you to Think Critically. I want you to Think Clearly. And when you’re scared shitless you can’t think at your max capacity.

Because yeah I mean shit is scary. But panicking isn’t going to help anyone. It’s just going to ruin your mood and make it harder for us to organize.

We’ve been dealt a shit hand. But we’ve got each other. We’re not alone. And we’re smart! We can figure out how to protect each other and ourselves. We are resilient. There’s no reason to be terrified. There is every reason to be brave. Bravery, courage, determination. These will help us more than fear in the days to come.

Anyway check out social dominance theory it’s really cool. RIP Jim Sidanius. Your work changed my life man.

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rreskk · 1 year

Note

Could you make a sub Trevor jealous? Plis, Love your writing. ¡Thanks!,

⁠✿⁠ ⁠♡

A/N: This is my fucking shit. HELL YEAH!

Summary: You always held a certain strength. Trevor finds enjoyment in it... More than he should have.

TW: Suggestive content (sexual)

You were so sure of yourself. So shyly confident. Without working for it, you genuinely caught his eye. Trying to study you so well was difficult for him. Trevor wants you to give in, but whenever he looks into your eyes, he finds himself weak… Inferior… Submissive.

You were receiving exotic looks from other men in the bar and you could feel Trevor tense up almost immediately. While he is so wild and untamed, he is unusually quiet when observing his surroundings, eyeing up those who has desire to talk to you alone. You had done nothing wrong. You had ignored the occasional remarks from drunk men yet Trevor has the audacity to bring down your mood with his pettiness.

Trevor’s fingers brushed past yours, pulling you aside from the bar as he sheltered you both in a cold and dark cupboard. His face scrunched in a disgusted look. His eyes beading with tensity into your… Fascinating ones. You already knew what he was going to say and held eye contact for him to speak, but no words followed through.

“Why did you take me here?” You concluded after a minutes silence.

He glanced to the door he locked you in and found himself unable to explain his feelings. The wheels in his heads were spinning at a fast pace, you could see it from his eyes.

Trevor shook his head. “Why do they always talk to you?” He demanded with concrete curiosity.

“They talk like that to any girl who walks in.” You deadpanned, urging him to drop the subject and hopefully move on with his life.

He felt conflicted for a heated second. One of his hands stayed tangled with yours, the other one in a tight fist, a gesture he does when experiencing periods of anger.

“I don’t like it,” He’d admit. “They can’t see that you are mine.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I’m yours?”

Trevor opened his mouth but you held up a finger.

“Let’s get one thing straight. You don’t own me. I don’t own you. Okay?” You bitterly said. “I have a life of my own. While I am devoted to you, and only you, that doesn’t give you the right to restrict my freedom.”

He huffed out a small laugh, almost in disbelief. “You… You do some crazy shit to me and I do not appreciate that.”

“I have to repeat myself a lot, Trevor.” You calmly said, noticing he’s beginning to disengage with you already.

A small hum left his throat. It was faint enough but you still heard it.

“I love it more every time.” He randomly voiced.

You raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“How you talk to me.”

It was dimly lit in the cupboard and you watched Trevor bit his lip as he detached his hand from yours. You hadn’t said anything after his confession and he grew impatient, staring deeply in your eyes before he spoke again.

“Why don’t you hit me… Huh. I know you want to sometimes and-“ He laughed. “Babe, I’d fuckin’ love you to.”

Trevor reached for your lonely hand and gently placed it against his cheek before he gave you one last longing look.

“Strike me. I deserve it.”

Butterflies dominated your stomach. You were flustered and grew frustrated with the feeling. The moment you obeyed his wish, your hand went flying to his face and he stumbled back with a hasty groan.

He limped forward and held his cheek as his groan turned into a cackle. Trevor’s loudness echoed throughout the cupboard, edging the tension to becoming more intoxicating and heated.

“Fuck me,” He panted. “You are a powerful woman.”

You held your tongue before approaching him. Trevor’s chin balanced on your index finger and he gave you a hungry grin. His eyes revealed depths to his desires. He looked needy, he looked flustered, he looked absolutely submissive in your control.

“Tell me you only love me.” He whispered.

You leaned forward and hovered your lips against his wet ones.

“I love you, and only you.”

#trevor philips x reader #trevor philips/reader #trevor philips #grand theft auto #grand theft 5 #grand theft auto 5 #trevor philips fanfiction

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alectoperdita · 8 months

Note

Not really an ask, just sending you some appreciation! 💜

I just wanted to say: omg I love your work! 💕

I just happened to come across a post for "A Striking Match" on here and then read it on A03 and loved it! I then read "Two monsters walk into the club"...and then Audience participation not required" (which btw, if you ever update this I will be forever grateful but I understand if you don't since it's been some time) and now I'm currently reading"In bed with the mob" and am looking forward to reading all of the other ones!

I have a confession to make, anon. I held onto this ask for as long as I have so I could periodically go back and easily find it in my inbox and read it as a little pick-me-up. So thank you for sending these kind words to me. You have no idea how encouraging this is.

I hope you enjoyed the fics you have and will read. (And I'm always open to talking about the specifics of the fics if anyone wants to hear about them.) I'm always delighted to be reminded of "Two monsters" and periodically think I would love to write more fantastical kinky smut for those two. As for "Audience," I have been poking at it again recently. Half of the next chapter was done, and I'm trying to nudge myself into just finishing it. Because I do want to work on it more. I still love that story and dynamic! It's fun! No promises of when (because my mood is sadly not dependable/manageable these days) though, but hopefully before the end of this year.

#replies #anonymous #I was also thinking about stopping posting fic links on tumblr but if they actually get to someone new i'll keep doing it for a bit longer #my wips #posts that make me :)#times like this i wish i had a beta or two and maybe i could move faster #but that might just be wishful thinking~~

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tippenfunkaport · 15 days

Text

WIPs Status Update

I am fairly confident no one cares what I am up to, but I haven't done one of these in ages so I figured I should.

In Progress Fanfic

Outlaws of the Whispering Woods

This fic is on temporary hiatus because I'm working on finishing it as part of the @wipbigbang. Participation in that event means I can't update that fic again until the posting period starts on September 8th BUT that once that posting period begins, I should have both art for the new chapter as well as regular updates through November until the fic is done which should be exciting.

That said, there is still like 60k ish to go in that story so if it looks like I'm not going to be able to get it all done in time, I might swap it out for the Chipped Glimmer fic which has also been languishing in WIP hell because it's shorter and easier for me to get done on time. I'd prefer to use the event as a kick in the pants to finish OotWW, though, so we'll see.

Prince Glowyn the Fourth

This fic is 100% complete at last, I just have one chapter left to post and will be doing that sometime within the next week.

Going There

Just about four years after I started it, Going There is finally done as well! (Literally just finished it today!) "Done" in this case means I finally rewrote the back end and filled in the missing connecty bits I never wrote the first time so everything's written, it's just going to take me an unknown quantity of time to edit and post each of the chapters. But less time than rewriting it all took so I expect those last few updates to come fairly regularly once I get them started.

Coming Home

I have always said that I wanted to wait to continue this fic until Going There was done so now that I have finally finished it, the sequel can get my attention more regularly again. That said, with everything going on with the WIP Bang, posting the rest of Going There, running the Big Bang and posting my own Bang fic (plus, like, all the other IRL stuff i have to do this summer), I really don't anticipate getting it updated anytime before the fall at the earliest and even then who knows.

Also, because this is my last in-progress canon fic I'm not in a huge rush to get it out there, I'd rather take my time with it, so I'm fine with that timeline. It'll get updated when it gets updated.

Area First Ones

In my head, this is episodic and while i have five chapters written, I have some things I want to add in between so it's not as simple as just cleaning and posting those. So basically, this one will be one of those fics I update when I update here and there with no set timeline other than my whims.

Coming Soon!

My Big Bang fic is called Horse Girl Everyone and it's the long awaited Riding School AU!

That one is going to be longgggg and basically never-ending and episodic (seriously, we're over 50k words and while Catradora have been circling each other for chapters Glimmer and Bow literally only just met and you KNOW how I feel about Glimbow). I was hoping to write enough in advance that I could do some kind of regular update schedule at the start but because I'm also running the Bang and having some annoying medical stuff going on, I think that's not happening.

I've written a ton in advance, don't get me wrong, I just don't see myself having time to revise it all and post weekly with everything else going on. But we'll see!

Anything else?

Well, yeah, lots of stuff but it's not fandom related so I can't tell you about it. ;-) Though maaaaybe I might have the chance for some of you to help me beta some of my original stuff in the near future if you're willing so keep an eye out for that.

I'm trying to have less things in progress at once so, though I have other fanfic projects in various states of completion, I'm purposely not going to even think about posting any other multi-chaps until GT and OotWW are done.

One shots and shorts? Yeah, I'll be throwing those up randomly as the mood strikes, you know how I roll. I'm eyeing up the Domaystic 2024 prompts to see which ones call to me right now.

So I have other stuff planned for later but I'm not even going to tease it because we'll see how everything shakes out.

This year has actually been absolutely horrible health wise but weirdly productive writing wise so it's been a mixed bag but at least nice to get some stuff done!

#fic update

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ashes-writing · 2 years

Note

I know you have thots on Billy Loomis and I would like to know what they are (headcanon request; you can go spicy if you like 🔥) 😜

AHHH OMG I LOVE YOU FOR THIS THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH. But like also.. I wanna warn you now, this one got kind of.. well.. dark. Spicy, yes.. But also, dark. So, please feel free to skip out if anything I mention in the warnings is a hard no.

Again, thank you! Thank you from the bottom of my black little heart! I actually had fun playing around with this, despite the fact that it does get a little darker than most of the things I've written. Again.. If after reading the warning section you feel like this isn't for you, please don't feel like you're obligated to read.

This is not meant for minors, so minors, don't you fucking dare. Also if you're not into somnophilia, mentions of blood (period sex / blood kink), corruption kink / deflowering kink, vague hints of obsessive / possessive tendencies, pain kink, body fluids, biting / marking, voyeurism, mentions of possessiveness that might lend to m*rder choking / asphyxiation and spit you are not going to wanna read any further.

Tag List; Uh.. see, what happened was that there's nobody on my tag list for horror movies and stuff, and given the nature of what I laid out here, I uh.. Kinda felt like it was safer not to tag anybody without asking. But.. If you'd like to be on my tag list, please, by all means... Click the link below.

Other Stuff; tag list doc || pinned - my rules / fandoms and some, not all of the characters i write for || requests ; open - headcanons only please and thanks.

I do not consent to my work being reposted/rewritten and posted elsewhere.

✯ Bisexual af. Billy Loomis is bisexual af. I strongly believe that Billy and Stu had a little something going on behind the scenes. Or that if they didn’t, he at very least had entertained the idea and maybe even certain fantasies about his best friend Stu. He’s also still kind of dealing with / struggling with the fact that he is attracted to men and women, so yeah… Just putting that out there. This is something I've come to firmly believe about him. He's bisexual but he isn't quite comfortable knowing so. There are just certain things he does, there's a certain way he and Stu act together in some scenes of the movie that in the back of my mind always kind of made me think... Hmmm. There has to be more between these two idiots.

✯ Corruption / deflowering kink. I say this because the proof is right there in the movie with the way he lords it over Sydney that they either did or nearly hooked up. I feel like if he knew you were offering up your virginity it would absolutely make him go feral. The question is, after reading the rest of this little list… Do you really want him to? Because it’s… a little bit of a wild ride.

✯ Relentless with the teasing. R E L E N T L E S S. Also doesn’t care where you happen to be when it’s started bc he knows it’ll be finished. Whether it’s in a private corner of wherever you happen to be at the moment the mood strikes, the backseat of his car / your car, your room when he sneaks in at night.

✯ Somnophilia. If he knew you were down for letting him ‘use you’ while you’re sleeping and he’s laying there having gotten himself all good and worked up watching you toss and turn or the little sounds you make, oh my god. Ugh.. He’d be all over doing it in a heartbeat.

✯ His jealous streak, oh my god. Listen, this man is absolutely possessive / territorial af. We won’t talk about what he’ll do to the other person he feels is competition -another story for another day bc unaliving / murder and that’s not what you asked for and I’m trying to keep this lighter? Anyway..- Let me just say this. When he gets you somewhere private, he’s going to show you exactly who you belong to. You will be covered in handprints, bites, hickies, you name it. And he’ll keep going until your legs are shaking and you can’t form a coherent thought. The more you beg him to stop and let you recover the more he’ll insist you have ‘one more’ in you and persuade you to keep going for him. The jealous streak takes over and he’s only worried about one thing… How many times you scream for him and not the other person - who he’s either already dealt with privately in a gruesome way or will deal with privately and in a gruesome way - .. So.. Possessive as fuck.

✯ The possessive streak extends to protecting the shit out of you too. If he were to catch someone slipping something into your drink (I knowwww this isn’t dirty and you wanted my thots but I can’t resist, okay? I cannnnt.) he would not wait to address it privately, he’d start a fucking brawl right then and there that would inevitably end with Billy making them drink the spiked substance.

✯ Do.Not.Play. with this man. His anger is scary as hell and knows no bounds. I feel like this needs to be said despite the nature of the ask. Don’t pursue him because you think you want a bad boy because if you fuck around, you will find out. If he catches feelings, he gets way attached. And he’ll stop at nothing to keep you to himself. It’s a bit on the obsessive side and honestly, you should be worried. So please, for the love of God and all that’s holy just don’t play with him if you’re not prepared for the intensity he brings to the table.

✯ Okay, I’m done with the maternal warnings I feel I need to give you precious babes about this man, let’s get back to it… Billy Loomis loves pain. He loves to give/dish it out BUT… he loves to receive it most of all. So if you were to say… Take over… Bite him, slap him in the heat of the moment, pull his hair really hard, scratch hard enough to almost draw blood to the surface of his skin, holy shit. He’ll be putty in your hands.

✯ If he’s caught in the act he’s not stopping because he gets off on being watched. And if he finds out you’re into it too? Oh my goddddd.

✯ He is very charming. Very persuasive. The kind of guy who will smoothly talk you out of your clothes before you even realize that he’s done it. He’ll get you agreeing to God only knows what before you realize it, oh my god.

✯ Despite all of the above he would never ever take advantage of you against your will. He’ll only do exactly what he knows you want / can handle. It’s hard to restrain himself sometimes but he manages. Barely, but I digress. Consent is huge for him, as is trust. (For example, the way he reacted when Sydney rightfully suspected him of the murders, ya know.. He walked away angry and hurt). So.. if you guys do get up to any one of his numerous kinks, he will tell you to come up with a stop word and if you say it, everything comes to a grinding halt.

✯ He teeters on the fine line of being a switch. He’s dominant for the most part but he does possess sub tendencies on occasion. No mistakes made, he’s primarily dominant but, but.. It’s mostly out of habit/expectation and a slight huge discomfort at not being in control / handling the side of himself that wants to take it like a good little boy. SO… if you really want him to be putty in your hands, take control once in a while.

✯ Thinks it’s sexy to spit in his partner’s mouth. Will only do it if you’re into it or it’s something you want.

✯ Has a secret stash of Polaroids in his room of you/his partner of choice in various states of orgasmic bliss, all fucked out and practically drooling and they’re like trophies to him. Nobody is allowed to see/touch them but him and he uses them often to ahem… Take care of things on his own when the need arises.

✯ For all the ladies out there - vagina owners or otherwise.. Period sex. That is all. The guy isn’t afraid of a little blood, I mean… C’mon.

✯ Speaking of blood. He has a bit of a blood kink.

✯ Loves the idea of erotic asphyxiation. Loves the sensation of cumming while something’s on his throat and cutting his breath even shorter.

✯ Speaking of choking… The space between his thumb and index finger should bear the tattoo “Your throat here” because the guy fucking loves to choke in the heat of the moment. But again, only if you’re into it.

✯ Surprisingly, he’s very very good at aftercare. Very gentle, especially if this isn’t just a one time thing between you two. Will hold you, help you get dressed / take shower with you, etc.

✯ Very into the way certain body fluids look splashed across certain parts of your body. Absolutely fucking loves it. Also likes the way you/his partners moan when he pushes his fingers into their mouth after he’s done using them on you/his partners. Probably has a photo or two of this in his little trophy box.

✯ Dirty talk, oh my god. And the man is absolutely the filthiest at it.

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dotwavrider · 1 year

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Janurary 1st, 2023.

I know I'm late to post anything relating to new years but I wanted to show some of my shitty and overly emotional writing off. Please enjoy

January 1st, 2023

I spent New Year’s Eve playing Namco's 1998 racing game Ridge Racer Type 4 on a Playstation 1 emulator.

The game’s real good, you should definitely check it out if you get the chance. Even if you don’t like racing games. It’s got one of the best soundtracks I’ve ever heard in a video game period. I mean, Move Me ALONE is probably better than most video game soundtracks. The gameplay’s also incredible. It’s difficult but not unfair, it doesn’t hold your hand but you always feel like you have shot at victory; that’s a tough balance to strike. The aesthetic’s dope too, it’s got that new millennium flair that I always find to be super novel in video games. That’s why I chose to play the game on New Year’s actually; the final track of the grand prix finds you on a 6 lap race in Los Angeles counting down from New Year’s Eve 1999 to the year 2000. So I guess it felt appropriate.

As I was playing through the Grand Prix, unlocking faster cars, slowly gaining the support of my manager Yazaki, racing through the beautiful set of courses R4 has to offer, a phrase kept popping in my head.

“If I can envision what’s in front of me, I know I can still win”

Every time I was just outside of qualifying range with little time before I finished the final lap, I thought that to myself. Every time I got a bad start and stayed in 8th place for the whole first lap, I thought to myself. Every time I hit the brake too late on a turn and lost a decent placing, I thought that to myself. That if I could just see the car to beat in front of me, I would know I could still find a way to get ahead of it, and all the other cars I needed to get ahead of in order to qualify.

I had this same thought when I was in second place on the 6th lap final of the track, Shooting Hoops in Los Angeles, at 11:59 on December 31st, 1999. Kimara Lovelace’s vocals on the soundtrack are booming through my Sony wired headphones. My heart starts pumping just a little faster. Without realizing it, I begin to tap my feet. I hit the brakes on the final turn, hoping not to move into the offroad and get slowed down, and hoping not to brake too much and lose speed for the final stretch. I grip the handles of my Dualshock 4 controller tight. I finish the turn. I’m still in first place, and as I reach the end begin to think about something else

I’ve felt kind of down about life for a lot of the past month or so. After winter break started, I found myself feeling more isolated than I have in a while. I didn’t talk to a lot of my friends, and I’ve barely talked to anyone I know outside my family in person. What’s frustrating is that I knew that the winter season had already been affecting my mood negatively; seeing that stick around during the one time I should be freed from that sort of baggage, it felt really awful.

The holidays didn’t help either. I have the worst habit of feeling depressed on Christmas and other days and occasions where most people are having a good time. I know I’m not alone in this, and it wasn’t always this way for me, but that’s the way it was this year.

And, I’ve been thinking alot about the future, and how scared of it I am. I’m scared that the way I feel about my life won’t change as grow older. Scared that I won’t be able to find a place where I feel safe, and that my life has meaning. And I’m scared that that fear will paralyze me into not living a life I enjoy. I’m scared that when I look back on the time I spent alive, I’ll be truly, deeply, sad. A phrase keeps popping up in my head

“I’m less scared of change than I am of things staying the same”

I spend a lot of time with my own thoughts. In fact I’ve been spending almost every moment of almost every day inside, a lot of that being in the same room, looking at the same monitor, connected to the computer with the Duckstation PS1 emulator and the Ridge Racer Type 4 .bin file.

I didn’t end up winning that race, I lost my first placing right before I got to the finish line. Shooting Hoops took me 3 tries in total; you’d be surprised at how difficult such a simple track layout is. But when I did finish it, and watched the ending text scroll, I was struck by the following line

“A man can change as long as he lives.”

You see, in R4, you can pick one of four teams to represent you for the Grand Prix, and for each path you get to see your manager go on a unique and satisfying character arc throughout the course of your playthrough. For this run I chose the Japan team, led by Yazaki, and his story is about how he learns to get over the loss of his racing partner and closest friend, Giuliano. The line in the ending scroll is what Yazaki says to his late friend after you’ve won the tournament, citing that you, the player, helped remind him of that truth.

I’m still scared of the future, near and far. I’m scared that by the end of 2023, I won’t feel like I’ve changed to be more like the person I want to be. I’m scared that I’ll still feel a lot of the same ways I do right now, alone, hopeless, and desperately tired. But what I know now, more than I’ve ever known, is that I can change, even if that change isn’t a straight line, and even if I won’t always realize it. And that life is easier to bear when you embrace that.

#ridge racer #racing game #video games #playstation 1 #new year #new years eve #new year 2023

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freshlybakedspiderbread · 1 year

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was tagged by @rn0na-lizard to do a thing, I appreciate it...!

rules: tag nine people you want to get to know better!

favourite colour: When I was little and for a long time since, I had decided my favourite colour was red, but now I could never say any one colour takes precedence for me over anything else. Every one conveys a sort of different mood or association that I might be feeling more or less at any given time...

But for just what it comes to what I wear, I feel like I’ve been wanting to lean more towards colours that are ‘both subdued and striking’ so like a dark blue or dark green 🤔🌈 There’s this overly expensive green blouse I’ve been eyeing for a long time...

currently reading: I... haven’t read an actual ‘novel’ novel in any language in so many years. I’m so uneducated! 💀 If there’s anything I should be reading right now, its the road rules manual to prepare for my next driving test next month. (I will probably just try to wing it anyway though)

last song: last night on a whim i ended up listening to most of perfect cherry blossom’s soundtrack. doll judgement ~ the girl who played with people’s shapes still rules by the way!!

something that’s not touhou or a touhou doujin song though... one was In Sympathy by Depeche Mode? I dunno anything about this band but this song was reblogged on someone’s tumblr, i gave it one listen and decided to add to my list of things i’ll just listen to regularly to pass time on spotify (I have a lot of these kinds of songs)🎵

last movie: its been a long while too so i’m not sure... When it comes to watcing things in the theater, I think it might have been spiderverse, which i liked but i think i never want to actually physically go to the theater again.

since then i also through other secret means 🤫 watched the last spider-man movie on my computer with my mother.

last series: As in the last tv show? I think it was the bocchi the rock anime, which i liked and have been listening to the songs on spotify too...

Oh, but since finishing that show, i (also on a whim) been rewatching season 1 of elementary (skimming the parts that don’t interest me). That’s one of the shows I watched once a long while ago and will just periodically go back to like its comfort food or something.

sweet, savoury or spicy: um, i thought ‘savoury’ just means a nice ‘full’ taste that envelopes your mouth, so it can coincide fine with either sweet or spicy? either way my answer depends I guess... If I’m having lunch or dinner, i’d probably prefer spicy over sweet. If i’m just snacking during whatever time, i’d prefer sweet.

tea or coffee: tea! I’ve tried a few different flavours and haven’t found a strong preference for any one type of tea yet, but they’ve all been nice. In contrast, I’ve had coffee i think just once in my life and didn’t care for it at all 😑☕

currently working on: improving myself, an eternal project... Every now and then I think to myself that once i accomplsh some arbitrary thing, that’ll be the first step that allows me to change my whole self around. Never quite works out that way!!

for a less abstract answer, I’ve writing touhou fanfiction as usual. Currently working on what I had hoped would be a really quick and simple thing where i just write out backstory ideas i had for Byakuren and Shou that I’d get done in just a few days < I thought this back in the middle of december and haven’t touched it in weeks. Maybe tomorrow... (< I’ve thought ‘maybe tomorrow’ for many days in a row now)

tagging:

uahgh. I’ve always felt odd about tagging people in these kind of things, because wouldnt it be awkward if i did that but they don’t really wanna... I’ll say that if anyone does this because they see my post here, then i’d be happy if you tagged me so i could see o_0!

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abishekmuses · 2 months

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Facing the Music

For years, I've harboured envy, resentment, pride and slothfulness. I'm not a christian or anything - don't know why this is taking that form - but I want to roll with it. I've been having a pretty intense time of it recently - For years, I've felt like I've been stuck. Years. Today, I even thought that maybe I've never really felt well-adjusted throughout my entire adult life - that's a scary thought. I don't know if it's true though - how can I know? I've not been in other people's heads. Anyway, about a month ago I decided to take my writing more seriously - you see, I'd spent most of my life wanting to be a doctor - wanting's the key word here - I just wanted it. Wanted it - said I wanted it anyway and thought I wanted it. I realised that I'm not in control of my life and was getting swept away with events and the changes in mood/perspective that they brought about only to find myself in pretty much the same place again after months or maybe even years. There was this sense of "now or never" - I felt like like if I didn't do something radical, I'd keep getting sidetracked by the crosswinds of life - so I decided to go on a 3 month period of silence. I'd still play badminton and to make sure it didn't get unnecessarily weird, I'd speak minimally to my mates there. Likewise on the odd occasion that i'd need to buy something, I'd speak sparingly. (although the idea was to keep this to a bare minimum) And, I'd still speak to my boss. (which is not often anyway)

I was also going off social media (which at this point was just whatsapp and telegram) and youtube. No music either. I also switched off my phone.

I'd been on a "high" wave of sorts - the past few months had felt pretty "flow-y" - There was this sense of positivity in me that was reasonably stable and it felt like this was the right time to do something like this. In the beginning it was all hunky dory - I felt good about myself and got into this "everything's gonna be so great" kind of a mindset that I tend to get into - a high-energy, high-optimism and high-creativity. (I have been thinking if I'm actually bipolar; Not a fun thought)

I had a lot of time; I had a lot of clarity and energy; Good stuff flowing - great all through! Gradually, the fears and icky emotions started to surface.

"Hey! I'm equipped for this stuff now - I've done a bunch of sadhana - plus I know that doing these kinds of things hasten the processing of negative emotions - this is totally par for the course - let's just keep going towards these emotions and just let them go! That'll do the trick!" I felt good about my odds against these dastardly old nemeses of mine. I even wrote a post on this selfsame blog about how much of a game changer this "letting go" thing was. Just sitting with emotions and watching them leave. Managed to finish reading the book "letting go" by David R Hawkins btw. Great read. A book straight out of the heart - and a heart full of love and compassion at that. Highly recommend.

Anyway, been letting out a lot of emotions - been crying practically every single day. But today was something else. It was the motherlode - fear, insecurity, guilt, heartbreak, anxiety, shame - all the negative emotions you can think of - rolled up into one ginormous feeling of pressure and "oh fuck the walls are closing in on me".

At some point, I remembered Richard Rudd's words from the Gene Keys (another book I highly recommend having at home and reading every now and then when the inspiration strikes; It's a prophetic piece of writing and the book has an almost oracle like quality to it) saying that one just has to accept and feel one's fear - that's all it takes.

But it was pretty non-stop. The onslaught of panic and fear just wouldn't abate - I was worried about losing my job; I was worried about ending up broke; all sorts of stuff. But somehow I was able to remind myself that what I was actually afraid of was continuing to feel the way i was feeling in that moment.

The suffocating emotional pressure was the problem - not some hypothetical scenario where i'd lose my job and be broke. I realised that a situation where my inner state wasn't one of stress/fear and I lose my job, wouldn't be such a bad situation after all - I guess what i'm trying to say is i remembered something crucial through that intense negative state - that the real problem is just the state itself. The fears about a certain situation coming to pass in life is just a projection of that internal state.

To make matters worse, I'd woken up thinking about my ex today. I felt a lot of old memories coming up - of me cheating on her - me being a reckless addict in general who caused a lot of damage with his inability to control his impulses; Guilt emerged. Sadness emerged; Desperation ensued. She was on my mind a lot today and I guess that's why I googled her name - Found her website, IG etc - saw that she was upto a lot of cool stuff with her life - she'd been writing (incredibly well) and seemed to have started some kind of service where she was helping people release their inner pain and find lightness. My instant response was one of constriction - A lot of fear, anxiety, insecurity and inadequacy came up. Old patterns of such feelings were recognised. I went for a walk and kind of reckoned with myself for a bit - "hey this is not who you are - are you really upset that she's doing well?" the answer came back that I'm not but I did feel terrified about my own prospects. Felt this feeling a lot of us are familiar with which goes along the lines of "why am I such a fuck up? Why did I waste so much of my life? yada yada" Now you see why I'd mentioned earlier about wanting to do more with writing - now that I saw my ex writing and doing so well with it - I was like "fuck I'm late even to this and I'm not sure i'm even at this level yet - blah blah blah - self-defeating rhetoric. Classic insecurity and fear.

At some point while I was swimming in stress and anxiety, I stumbled on one of her blog posts where I found that her best friend, Julia, a girl that I'd spent quite some time with (she's about my age) had just died! That piece of news was a real shocker and did quite the number on me! I bawled my eyes out and just couldn't hold it.

I was like "to heck with the silence - I'm gonna go tell my parents that I love them and hug them - which I did; I didn't want to go through my period of silence out of some misplaced sense of pride/propriety only to face that feeling of "oh fuck I never got to tell them how i felt!"

I hugged them, cried to them and wrote some stuff to them. For what it's worth, the verbal silence is still intact. Kept crying non-stop. At some point, after hugging my parents and soaking in their love, I couldn't help but feel a profound sense of gratitude for life - that I was even alive. Some of the things I was worried about even hours ago felt churlish. To think that I was thinking things like "fuck I'm 30! Is it too late to pursue my dream of becoming a doctor?" - Man that chick I smoked weed with is dead now! fucking dead!

That really knocked some perspective into me. Even being broke isn't nearly the same ballpark of a problem as being dead. Fuck. That news really knocked the wind out of my sails for a bit. But it also showed me that I was holding back a lot with unnecessary worrying. I felt an inner loosening - a relaxation - a coming back to life.

I got on my motorcycle and went for a ride through my town. I fell in love with everything my eyes saw. I felt reborn.

Let's see where we go! But for now, I love you all and I love this beautiful world we live in for all its fuck ups and dramas and heartaches - I love being alive!

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souljournaler · 1 year

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some journaling

my brain said "you better give me stimulation 24/7 or else im gonna start thinkin" and i looked at my brain in all its "electric meat reacting to a Full Moon conjunct retrograde Mars in Gemini" and i decided it's time to sit down and do some free-form journaling

oh my gods i just switched over to the legacy editor to write this and it’s night-and-day for how much better this works, lmao. anyway

yeah so this full moon was so aggressive that i started my period the second she hit 100% visibility.

PMS lasted what feels like a lot longer than usual, and i had cramps for days before i saw blood. the yoozh: sense of doom, squidward-style anxiety about the future, compelling sense of impatience, self-loathing for needing to rest, a little bit of task overwhelm, general tiredness

it doesn’t help that it’s been super overcast these past few days. ive literally gone from taking my observations every day to completely forgetting for days in a row. there is a HUGE weather system coming thru these next few days and so i imagine the air pressure is gonna be fluctuating wildly, so it’s no wonder i feel like shit

maybe it’s just because i feel like shit already but it feels like a bunch of important breaking points are being reached at once. labor strikes in nursing, academia, and coal, and hopefully the rail and air workers will join them soon. it seems like my prediction that “we’ll get a general strike whether we plan one or not” is coming true, just simply because working conditions are getting so much worse for so many industries that theyre all deciding they wont tolerate it anymore. though also, im sure a general strike is being planned, it just wont be called that, it won’t have spokespeople, and it won’t be under the name of any one organization

sometimes i get frustrated that i need to take time to rest when i feel crappy. i know that if i work through the crappy feeling, it just pushes the crappy feeling to Later and compounds with however crappy i was already gonna feel Later. so i have to deal with my crappy feelings in the present, when they come up, as they come up, or i eventually hit a breaking point and put myself out for weeks or months. it’s just frustrating because i procrastinated to do some things i needed to do with a consistent pace, but now i feel crappy enough to not be able to do much of anything, especially not the things i needed to do earlier

blegh. i guess i’m still practicing at pacing things well for myself. it doesnt help that the whole outside world goes at its own pace that is MUCH faster and more demanding than my internal pace

ive been talking to my peers about how ive been feeling frustrated that i amn’t who or how i want to be yet-- i still have to go thru that process of learning the new and cool shiny life lessons that i will pick up like a funky little crow and stick onto my sense of self, but right now i have that feeling like i just got a very cool new one of them bags that has the pin display on the front, but i only have like two pins and one of them is rusty from how long ive had it and i do not often have money to buy new pins for the display

the new shower feels really nice, at least. i didnt realize how much of a mood improvement it would be to simply have a nicer-looking shower, but there ya have it. also i definitely think that once i’m able to build my own bath/shower room, it will have a lot more color. and some plants. maybe even a lot of plants

i had a bunch of dreams last night about needing to get ready for something suddenly, like having to pack up after an event, or pack up to leave for traveling, or clean up a room with a lot of trash, and it was so stressful each time that dream me was like “fuck this, i am literally dreaming, cya” and woke up. i made sure to tidy up my space a little once i woke up lmao, especially after seeing a post from Unfuck Your Habitat like “are YOU living in a depression den?” and i was like “ugh fine, ok, fuck, you got me, yes im living in a depression den”

also, my partner is leaving for a trip in just a couple of days, and will be gone for a week. im already pre-grieving how much i’m gonna miss him. he always brightens any space he’s in. i wish i had a community that made it so i dont have to rely on him for so much of my in-person social interaction.

ive noticed that ive been staying up later so i can sleep through the time when he’s not here and maximize conscious cuddle time while he’s asleep

damn, that’s kinda sad now that i type it out like that. i wonder if that’s how kaede feels being the only cat here.

damn... sometimes i just need to cry when i feel lonely. it doesnt help solve anything, but it can be soothing to just let those sad chemicals go and take the time to breathe and remember that it’s okay to feel lonely. i miss my sisters. i miss my sibling. i miss parents i didnt get to have. i miss friends. im so tired of deciding not to be friends. im grateful for the people who stick around, but i feel sad that theyre so few and far-between

i guess the loneliness has a lot to do with the impatience for the future. i dont want to feel lonely anymore. i dont want the people i miss to feel lonely. i want my community to be closer together. having the server has been life-saving for some of us (it’s really lived up to its name) but tbh i would really like for all of us to be able to get together in the same place

anyway i’m starting to get distracted so i’m gonna go ahead and wrap this up. might write more later as i feel like it

cya l8r,

Sol

#journal #rambling sol

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statticscribbles · 2 years

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Fixed Dawn

Summary: Twilight, Jasper Hale/Reader, Jasper and you get stuck in the same situation as Bella and Edward

”Y/N, you alright?”

“Yeah fine, why?” You look up from where you’re cuddled on the couch; it’s snowing outside and you’re happy to be huddled under the blankets away from the cold.

“You sure?”

“Yeah; I told you it’s just my period.”

“You’ve never thrown up before on it..”

“I know but I do get nauseous; it was only a matter of time until it actually happened and I ate the wrong thing.” Jasper doesn’t look convinced and you roll your eyes.

“Fine I’ll take the stupid pregnancy test; we were careful though; used protection and everything; unless you’re telling me vampires are just like apparently superhuman when it comes to knocking up girls.” You laugh a little and Jasper isn’t scowling but he doesn’t look happy.

“You know what’s going to happen right?”

“Yeah; if I’m pregnant I have to drink blood and be on bed rest and get a c-section; minus the blood that’s something that happens with regular human pregnancies. Which isn’t going to happen anyways cause I’m not pregnant.”

“Well fuck.” Jasper would laugh if it wasn’t for the sudden spike in nerves from both of you.

“So you want to tell your dad?”

“Yeah; Uh, just going to…”

“Jasper I can’t believe you knocked up.. Oh hello, I’m Peter; this is Charlotte; we’re Jasper’s friends”

“You called your friends??”

“Yeah; how am I supposed to call Carlisle if I have no idea how I should tell him.”

“So you want to use them to practice on?”

“Yeah; plus I wanted them to meet you, figure it would be a little easier pre-pregnancy.”

“Because everyone is going to make me stay in bed?”

“Well yes; but also because if you think I’m letting anyone that could harm you within striking range you should think a little longer.”

“I doubt Peter and Charlotte would attack me.”

“I know they wouldn’t but I’d rather not risk it.”

“Alight, fine.”

“Call your family.”

“No..”

“I’ll call Rose…”

“Y/N no; we tell her last.”

“We do?”

“Well you want her to be the godmother right?”

“Me, wanting my best friend, and your adopted sister to be the godmother to your child? And here I thought Edward was the mind reader.” You playfully hold your hands up and Jasper narrows his eyes at your smug smile.

“What?”

“I just realized, you’ll be able to feel my mood swings.” You laugh when horror crosses Jasper's face.

You make it back to your city, nervous about telling your family. Jasper is convinced that you shouldn’t; that they could fake your death; maybe his as well, and say you never came home from the trip.

You cringe how easy it is to fake your death; you and Jasper went on a hike and just never came home. Which is partly true; you’re both still at the vacation home, Carlisle has moved up as has Rosalie; both are easily able to take time off from college and work.

You grimace a little when Rosalie pushes the cup towards you.

“Come on; I did try to find a lid, but we’re all out.”

“Okay, fine.” You still grimace no matter how much your body and baby are screaming in thanks. You hadn’t lost much weight; but enough that Carlise had decided you needed to double up on your blood intake. Which is what Rosalie was pushing you to drink.

”Y/N you okay?”

“Same as always; just tired.”

“Not nervous?”

“A little.” You know there’s no point in lying to him; you’re worried; not that Carlisle won’t do his job, not that Jasper won’t be a good dad; but that you won’t be a good mom for your child. A half vampire, means half that you won’t understand. Carlisle had said he was happy to change you; you were already dead to everyone in your family; but you were still unsure.

You wanted to give your kid the best chance and you were worried that the time it would take the bite to affect you, you’d miss out on too much of their growth; so for now, at least until it could be explained you were going to remain human. Which presents a whole new set of challenges, one the Cullens, your new family, are happy to help with.

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galvanizedfriend · 2 years

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Klaroline Fic: Vice & Virtue [6/6]

Summary: As the second son of a Duke, Klaus Mikaelson has the means and all the time in the world to indulge in every manner of wild activity with very little respect for the regiment of polite society. That is until his brother decides he's had enough of his vulgar ways and gives him an ultimatum. Caroline Forbes is a young debutante in search of true love and adventure. Except her aunt wishes for her to marry a somber Viscount who's already buried three wives. When their paths cross, they realize they might yet strike a deal that could satisfy their relatives and benefit them both.

[AH Regency!AU inspired by Bridgerton and a dozen other period novels I have been reading lately.]

Chapter 6: The Rake Who Loved Me ✨

"Sir, you have a visitor."

"No," Klaus says, candid and unaffected, not bothering to veer his attention away from his latest work.

It's ridiculous he’s even required to state the obvious out loud at all, seeing as he hasn't welcomed visitors for a fortnight now. He thought he'd made it clear his doors were closed to callers for the foreseeable future when he stopped shaving or getting dressed and started speaking in incoherent grunts. The fact he thrashed half his studio three times out of sheer frustration in the last week alone should've been the final clue into his hostile state of mind, if there was still any cause for doubt. Greta's supposed to know how to read his moods better than this.

"Too late, I'm afraid."

This time it's not his maid who speaks. The mere sound of the male voice makes Niklaus bristle with revulsion, his blood heating up to a boil in the space of a second.

He pulls so hard on the ink-stained rag in his hands it tears.

"I told him you weren't seeing anyone, sir, but he insisted." The emphasis on the last word tells him everything he needs to know. By insisted she means Elijah didn’t wait for a formal invitation, just barged in, as per usual.

One would think that the duke would've learned a thing or two about boundaries after that punch. One would have widely underestimated his hubris.

"I'm not entertaining today," Klaus states firmly, taking a step back to inspect his painting. It 's… awful. Rage usually fuels the best of Klaus' creations, but lately it has been all perspiration and no inspiration. His muse has joined hands with the last of his social skills and forsaken him. His creative mind is just a giant black hole filled with cholera these days. It's been a pain to live inside his head - all darkness and no vision. "Come back some other time," he adds. "Or better yet, never."

Read the full chapter here

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At last! ✨ Can't believe I have finally made it to the finish line with my silly Bridgerton/Regency AU. It's been a crazy ride, and I just want to thank everyone who's been reading, commenting and sending me the loveliest messages about this fic for all of your amazing support. It has meant the world to me and given me back some of my enthusiasm to write. ❤️

A super, super special thank you to @definedareasofuncertainty, who had to put up with me freaking out about this finale, and patiently answered all my questions and read over this chapter multiple times in spite of her extremely busy schedule just to reassure me that it was ok. ❤️

Also thank you to @diaz-eddie for letting me use the stunning, stunning moodboard that has accompanied this story a few times!

As always, your comments, kudos, reblogs and messages means everything to me and are so welcome! I really hope you guys enjoy the finale! ☺️ Thanks so much for reading!

#klaroline #klaroline fanfiction #klaroline fic #kc fanfiction #kc fic #kcfic #klarolinefic #kc fandom #klaus x caroline #klaroline shippers club #yokan writes #v&v #regency!au

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