#[Like insisting he was married even though nothing on record says that]

[thxgrxmrexpxr]

[Incase you're wondering what the RE fandom is like in the year of 2024:

I had someone on facebook tell me HUNK can't possibly be attracted to men because he's "tough" and ex-military. R I P]

[vapekingg]

Last date

Eddie x Fem!Reader

Angst/hurt (no comfort)

Tags - divorce, successful Corroded Coffin, rockstar!Eddie

“We didn’t have to make a whole thing out of this, you know.” You unravel the silverware that’s folded up in front of you and lay the napkin that concealed them in your lap.

The Liberty Bistro, just outside of Hawkins.

You and Eddie used to treat yourselves to Liberty once in a blue moon, back when everything was so simple. He’d make a big sell or you’d pick up an extra shift at the record shop. That was back when all of your money went to rent, beer and weed. The only groceries you could afford to keep stocked were cans of ravioli and milk. Your apartment was just a little one bedroom. It was nothing compared to a glamorous tour bus or hotel rooms, but it was cozy. It was comfortable.

It was home.

That was years ago. And The Liberty Bistro hasn’t changed. It’s still a quiet little steakhouse with candles on every table. Everyone speaks in hushed tones and ambient classical music plays quietly in the background.

Everything else has changed though.

“I wanted to make a thing out of this,” Eddie says from across the table. “You deserve it. We deserve it.”

He smiles with the inflection of his words, but you can see the hurt in his dark eyes.

Eyes as dark as a lake at night, you used to get lost in them back in that little apartment. Liberty’s would take the very last of your money, not a dime left to your name, and never can you remember feeling so rich.

Eddie looks older now. He is older, you both are. You still remember him as the boyish nerd you’d fallen for when you were seventeen though, how his smile lines wrinkled when he finally asked you out and you agreed without hesitation. Everyone else sees him as someone else. A sex symbol. Hollywood’s newest rock and roll god.

You shift your eyes to the bottle of wine that’s sitting on ice at the edge of the table. Anything to avoid seeing his hurt. This was a mutual decision, after all.

Eddie clears his throat.

“Did you bring the, uh…” He waves his finger before bringing it to his mouth. An old nervous habit that you’ve been on him about for years.

The divorce papers.

You reach for them in your bag and lay them out on the table. There’s about a hundred pages here, his lawyers had insisted on it and yours a had argued with you to fight for alimony.

You didn’t want alimony. You wanted your husband.

That stack of papers sits between the two of you like an omen. It was easier to get married. The decision to get divorced didn’t come as naturally.

Eddie’s eyes hold yours for a moment, finally breaking with his resolve to glance at the end of your affair. You see the crinkle of his chin, how his bottom lip is a little red and wet from being chewed on. If only you could comfort him this time, too.

“Baby…” his voice breaks, even in a whisper.

“Eddie.” You whisper back more firmly, tears stinging your eyes now.

To be quite honest, you’re tired.

Tired of fighting the press and the record label. Tired of traveling. Tired of being alone.

You find a pen at the bottom of your bag and set it atop the stack. It doesn’t need to be that big. It’s just one signature. He purses his lips and bites back tears, but you can see them in the clench of his jaw. The flex of the veins in his neck. Eddie quiets the demons screaming at him to give it all up, to tell his managers to fuck off and stay here in Hawkins with you, and instead grabs the pen.

He signs his name across from yours. The end of your marriage.

You look up, expecting time to have turned back somehow. You wish you were still twenty years old and eloping with Eddie to the courthouse. Instead his eyes are heavier, partially because of you. Eddie is older. His hair is a little thicker and his stubble scratches your face now, or at least it did. It will the next girl. He’s on the peak of greatness, and at one point you thought you wanted to stand on that summit with him.

Now, you just want to heal. And you want him to heal, too.

“Well I guess that’s that.” You finally say.

And Eddie smiles. For your comfort, you can tell.

“That’s that.”

Hi! Just letting you all know that my requests are open for Eddie, Steve, Robin, Hopper, Billy, and Rick Sanchez. Prompt me, folks.

[crosshairs-dumb-pimp-gf]

"I want you there ..."

Tech Grief Ficlette

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Warnings: Sad, Grief.

Summary: A grown up Omega has some news for an old friend.

WC: 661 Read on Ao3

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Omega’s boots crunched along the gravel of the familiar path. It had been a while since she had trekked back to Pabu, now the sea breeze danced about her, caressing her cheeks like a welcome from an old friend. 

Her portfolio case swung from one hand, the familiar broken goggles from the other. She was almost never seen without them. Today though, she was heading to a special place on Pabu… the place she came to talk while she finished growing up. Talk to him. 

The cliff line finally broke, giving her a gorgeous view of the sunset. Brilliant orange, just like the amber glass in her hand. She sat at the rocks edge, opened her portfolio and with a sigh, slipped on the goggles. 

She hit record. 

“Hey, Tech… it's been a while, I wanted to update you on what I've been up to…”

It had been forever since she talked to him like this, panic and dread had set in one day when she realized the internal data storage was running low. She didn't want it to loop and record over anything but today was worth talking to him… formally. 

She pulled out the first etching, a dark umbra alive with bonfires and crude little drawings of people. 

“I've been doing well with the rebellion, we won an important skirmish a few months ago, Partied after harder than Hunter says you guys did… but I guess he might have down played what you boys got up to…”

She trailed off, stroking the figures around the little fire, just to have her hand come away black with sooty medium. She furrowed her brow, and wiped her fingers on her pants before drawing out another sketch. 

“This… well, I was trying to design a call mark for the hull of the marauder… nothing really worked out,”

There were over a dozen half finished figures with exs through them, and scattered notes. It wasn't what she was really after. She looked more carefully through her etchings, finally pulling out one of a full body figure. Their back was on full display and every detail and shadow had been filled in lovingly. 

…

“I'm getting married soon… it's gonna be here, on Pabu. I met them out there and well, life is short on the battlefield… you know that more than any so…”

A lump was starting to form in her throat but she swallowed the old pain gracefully, continuing. 

“I'm planning on wearing your goggles… so you can come to, I just wanted to give you a heads up before… before you were just, walking me down the aisle… I hope that's okay,”

It was nonsense, but it always felt like putting his goggles on and pressing record… it was like Tech could open his eyes again for a brief moment. 

“I was always gonna wear them anyways… Hunter insists he should be the one to walk me, but Wrecker said it was unfair and I think it upset Crosshair too… they're taking turns now. Hunter starts, Wrecker in the middle and Cross'll finish it… but you'll be with me the whole time… I want you there…”

She stopped the recording and whipped the goggles off, squeezing her eyes as a few hot tears grazed her cheeks. It had been a long time since she last cried for Tech, but the heightened stress of the past few weeks left her vulnerable to the old wounds. 

I'm sorry, I shouldn't have insisted we go, it's my fault…

She caught the thoughts there, releasing them with a shaky sigh as the cycles of grief lit through her for the life that should have been. Thoughts she'd never be rid of even though she knew they weren't true, almost a comfort that she could still feel his absence so greatly… that she never forgot. 

Catching her breath, she checked the remaining storage. Only a few hours left… 

I hope this is okay … I want you there. 

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[dcdreamblog]

Roy Raymond's book about the history of PIs has a chapter on PoC PIs and he mentions a native American private detective who went by "Pow-Wow Smith"; I seem to recall that this was a nickname occasionally used for Sheriff Ohiyesa Smith, the Western Hero (which he hated for obvious reasons); was this a descendant or just someone using it for name recognition or...?

Yea that one's a...I mean I'm sure it was progressive for the time. So to back fill some information for those not in the know. We're talking here about famous sheriff Ohiyesa Smith of Elkhorn, Nebraska.

(Smith's official portrait from his exhibit at the National Cowboy 7 Western Heritage Museum in Oklahoma City (can you tell they're my best source for shit like this?))

Yes that was the name he went by, only about half against his will. It is how he is recorded for posterity and while I do not enjoy it, his actual relationship to the name and his own legacy during life was...complicated to say the least.

He was born on what is now the Red Deer Valley reservation to the Santee Sioux, a band of the Eastern Dakota in Nebraska and went out to learn about the "white man's world" via the nearby town of Elkhorn. He was a skilled tracker, fighter and shooter and so was made deputy sheriff in short order and eventually promoted to sheriff full stop.

The name "Pow Wow" was given to him by the townsfolk in what by all accounts seemed to be a genuine attempt at affection. Yes, Ohiyesa made it clear, especially in his early career that he would have preferred going by his "Indian name" (his words, not mine) but as the town continued to insist and as he integrated himself more and more with that community he made his peace with it calling it, from his own diaries... "The people of this city blessing me with their approval. I cannot fully remove the part of me that is proud to here the name "Pow Wow" spoken proudly by my people and with fear by bandits and outlaws" Make of that what you will, he was a Sioux man who had gained some measure of status and even acclaim in the late 1800s. While he was to many respects a trailblazing and radical figure I can't find it in my heart to condemn him for picking his battles and making his peace.

He was even granted US citizenship directly by an act of congress (Because no one is allowed to forget native americans were not given automatic citizenship until *1924*)

He eventually married another SIoux woman named Fleetfoot Smith and they had many children, who in turn had children, on and on until we get to today's subject. U.S Marshall Ohiyesa Smith the Second.

(Cropped newspaper photo of Smith from the Gotham Gazette)

Yes, Smith is indeed a direct descendant of the famous man with whom he shares a name. He is also on the rolls as a member of the Santee Sioux of Red Deer Valley. By all accounts he is a U.S Marshall in VERY good standing with a sterling record (as I was told very directly (and loudly) by a government source (I have those now) who assumed I was investigating him out of some kind of assumption of misconduct.)

If there's an award that a U.S Marshall is eligible for, Smith has one it thrice over and everybody I spoke to had nothing but decent things to say about him. Though he's probably most famous outside "true crime"-esque circles for an utterly bizarre caper he was wrapped up in that involved an old fashioned shoot out at the derelict Gotham Gulch amusement park.

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️

⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️

🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲

🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️

Oh hell yeah! 42 for ⛅️

---

Except, wait… What if they’re stuck here? Eddie is straight. He might want to not remain married to Buck. He might… Maybe he would want a divorce. Oh god. That would be terrible. Absolutely terrible. Tommy dumping him and then Eddie divorcing him? How can he already have a worse track record with men than with women! Women had a significant head start! 

“Right?” He asks Eddie. “We’re not, right?”

“No!” Eddie answers, outraged like the question is ridiculous. “I would never divorce you!”

Okay, Mr. I’m Straight How Would We Even Have Sex. It wasn’t a silly question! 

“Okay, well something is going on!” Chris insists. “You both cried when you saw me. You’ve hardly touched each other all night. You’re usually disgusting. You forgot Nico’s allergies, like you’re too distracted or something. What is going on?” 

Buck and Eddie exchange an uncomfortable glance. 

“Uh… I’m just… Not feeling well?” Buck tries. 

“You’re sick?” Chris asks. “Oh my god, are you dying? Buck…”

“No!” Buck exclaims. “I’m not dying, Chris.”

“Then what?” Chris demands. 

“We’re really okay,” Eddie promises. “You don’t need to worry about it, bud.”

---

42 for ⚡️

---

“You’re gonna need it.”

Buck sighs. He knows Bobby is right. He should probably be trying to bank sleep instead of stress. 

“It all just feels out of my control, you know?” Buck says. “Like if something goes wrong at this point, what can I do?”

“Nothing,” Bobby says. “There’s nothing.”

“See? That sucks!”

Bobby smiles. “That’s parenthood, though. That’s just… How a lot of it is.”

Buck nods. He knows that. Conceptually, he knows that. He just doesn’t like feeling it. He likes being able to do something. Manage potential problems. Be the solution. And as much as he knows that a baby a day overdue is not actually a problem, it just feels like the beginning of that anxious feeling he can’t do anything to solve. 

“Things are going to happen that you have no control over,” Bobby says. “Lots of them. And things will happen that you do have control over that you get wrong. But what’s important is how you respond to that.”

Buck nods. “Who’s to say I won’t panic about that, too?”

“You will,” Bobby chuckles. “But it’s okay. Because, at the end of the day, I think you’ll always do right by her.”

Buck takes a deep breath. “Thanks, Bobby.”

“Of course,” Bobby replies. “You know… When Brooke was five - right after she started school - there was a school bus accident. One of the buses headed towards hers and Bobby Jr.’s school. While I was on shift.”

“Were they on it?” Buck asks. 

“No,” Bobby shakes his head. 

---

42 for 🌲

---

“So, then, like… Genetics makes sense, right? Unless there’s another comic-esque origin,” Buck says. 

Eddie wrinkles his nose.

“Do you think I could have secret magic genes?” Buck continues. “My parents have English ancestry. What could that be?”

Eddie frowns. “Careful. A rabbit tempting enough runs by you and you might turn into a whippet.”

Buck smirks. “Aw, but you’d take care of me right? Put me in one of those little turtlenecks?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but finds that he’s smiling, too. How can Buck make him smile, even now?

“You know… A whippet’s life might be nice. Running really fast. Not a lot of problems. Soft turtlenecks. Presumably better-than-human hearing.”

Eddie tilts his head a little, taking Buck in. There’s a hint of sadness there. Well… Of course there is. This whole time they’ve been focused entirely on Eddie. But Buck’s been going through a lot, too. 

“Hey, uh,” Eddie says. “How are you holding in? With everything that’s happened…”

Buck blinks. “Uh… Fine, Eddie. I’m fine.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. That just confirmed the opposite.

“Buck.” 

“Really!” Buck insists.

“Oh, come on,” Eddie chides. “Between the fitting and Tommy, you’ve gotta be stressed.” 

---

42 for 🧜‍♂️

---

 He can’t be honest. He’s landed on, it’s just Chris and I or he doesn’t have a mother in his life. This usually shuts down the conversation for anyone with the social skills to realize he doesn’t want to talk about it. Which, fortunately, is most people. But there’s always the odd one. Did she leave you? Is she dead? It’s awkward and uncomfortable and Eddie hates it.

So when he makes the decision to tell Buck about Chris, on the day of the earthquake, it’s maybe sort of a test. Which is unfair of him, he knows. But, underneath his layers of anxiety in trying to contact his son, there’s a need to know. How will Buck react? Will he see Eddie the way Eddie has seen him? Will he ask the wrong questions? The right, discrete ones? Eddie isn’t sure. And maybe the way Buck reacts will… Give Eddie a hint? As to whether or not his suspicions are accurate? 

Buck’s response is great, but unhelpful. He beams, says he loves kids, and calls the photo of Christopher adorable. Well, yes! Christopher is adorable. Cutest kid ever, thank you very much. Said with no bias. He also doesn’t ask any questions about Christopher’s mother. So kind of a great response on all fronts. But not a conclusive one. 

Eddie feels stupid. What was Buck going to do? Start discussing trans parenthood in the back of the fire engine? No. Obviously fucking not. If he was out, he’d be out. And if he’s trans and suspects Eddie, he wouldn’t out Eddie either. Damn it. 

But the whole experience does teach Eddie something about Buck. When he decides he’s friends with you, he’s a damn good friend. Like, thoughtful and strikingly sincere. He spends the whole day supplying Eddie with earthquake facts. Reassuring him about Christopher’s safety. Keeping an eye on the cell service to see if Eddie can call Christopher’s school. 

[sweetestpopcorn]

Rhaenys and Corlys anon back because I did not expected for my take to be so openly accepted. Thank you all for that!

I am going to say something that I think the majority of this fandom is afraid to voice out. I would honestly have made my very own post, but I am afraid of being attacked, so I decided on this ask instead.

A very big part — if not the basis — of the strange insistence that Daemon did not loved Rhaenyra but must have loved Laena is rooted in body shaming. Since Laena is described as slender, and Rhaenyra recorded as gaining weight after her pregnancies, people are not only unable to imagine a man genuinely loving a woman that does not fit their ideal standard of skinny, but they also see that rumoured change of her appearance as a reflection of her morals, even as a punishment.

(I say 'rumoured', because look at the official art or at the animated version of the Dance — Rhaenyra's waist is not slender, and while obviously voluptuous, she is not fat and she still looks absolutely gorgeous even after her pregnancies. So it was obviously an exaggeration by the maesters.)

Again I make a parallel with history — we are talking about an age where beauty of person equated beauty of character, and any slight deffect signified sin/unworthiness/bad morals. An age where, for example, blonde hair in a queen was ideal because it signified virginity, purity and it was associated with Virgin Mary. Rhaenyra's appearance being attacked is nothing else but mysoginistic propaganda.

(See how it is implied that men would not fight for her because her body changed after six pregnancies. Obviously that is a lie, since we know how many men raised at arms and supported her, and not even one of them made any remarks regarding her appearance.)

I have read a fanfiction centered on Laena and Daemon in which the very first remark made about Rhaenyra when she first appears is how she gained weight and therefore Daemon does not find her attractive at all. It's disgusting, demeaning, and screams internalized mysoginy. But women of this fandom are not ready for this conversation because they are far too busy self-inserting in their Laena and Nettles fantasies. That is why in these type of fics Rhaenyra is made to compare herself with them, to make her seem unworthy and undervalued, when that was never the case at all.

And not only that, but with Laena he is marrying a maiden, whereas with Rhaenyra he is marrying a mother of three. So if for some people that represents a turn-off, something that makes her less desirable, then they go and project their own distaste unto Daemon, claiming that he must have found her (and by extension her children) a burden as well. Even though the text gives us no proof about this, but every proof to the contrary.

It's a sensitive topic I would like to expand further because the way Rhaenyra's appearance is approached and discussed in this fandom is very sad, without any critical analysis or consideration. Basically, this is just to point out some things in the way I see them.

Hi there Queen (and sorry for this huge delay) ❤️

I have almost nothing else to add except a small observation on this "but with Laena he is marrying a maiden" -> I think this is something that they conclude because of everything you have said before. Because it goes with their idealised version of the "skinny, love worthy woman" and purity is another trait they had.

Laena was almost 23 at the time she married Daemon, and had been betrothed to another man for 10 years. A decade. She is also described as "bold" and someone who liked adventure.

The same fanfictions I have seen portraying Laena as completely innocent at 22 almost 23 - let's go back to the main asoiaf books and think back to how "innocent" women at this age were even if unmarried - will be portraying 14 year old Rhaenyra as completely loose, a deranged Lolita of sorts (who curiously turns chaste and boring the moment she married Daemon, at only 23, but details because while love changes a person Rhaenyra and Daemon DID NOT LOVE EACH OTHER OK?! 😡) using and abusing Poor Criston - who Alicent called out btw for being a creep - because let's look at it from his perspective :( (will no one think of the 30 something male?!) and being as wicked as Daemon if not more. Someone making Daemon darker and more deranged too, nothing like pure Laena and Nettles who brought out the best in him and saved him <3

I completely agree with you about Rhaenyra's appearance and I think it's especially sad when you see people, especially women, making Aegon II look like he hits the gym every day - let's look at official art of him for a sec - and Rhaenyra like she is Jabba the Hut.

PS: All of this is only about the asoiaf characters and books so kindly leave the lizard redacted show out of it.

[aconflagrationofmyown]

You go to my head, like a summer with a thousand Julys

A Sarge and lil Mama fic

Summary: THE BEGINNING of the Sarge and lil Mama universe

Warnings: fantasizing about breeding a young woman, masturbation with a stuffed animal, antiquated gender norms, slight grooming (I don’t know what else to call it even though it’s really not that and no one is under age) mentions of parental death, slightly manipulative Elvis, emotional infidelity on Elvis’ part towards his current girlfriends

Circa: 1954-57 due to playing fast and loose with the historical timeline of both Elvis’ basic training and Gladys’ death

Elvis Presley is an affectionate young man, he has a sweetness about him in all his interactions, and while he is famous and you don’t know him well he is devastatingly warm and you enjoy his attentions. He comes to your father’s studio often and he is affectionate when he does.

An affectionate acquaintance is what he is, he remains as such in a tidy little world where he hugs you during his visits and holds onto your waist as he chows down on the sandwiches you bring as refreshment for his Memphis Mafia. And there is nothing more to be said or thought. You learn to burn the bacon bound for his BLT because you like the way his eyes widen when it hits his tongue and how he groans around a bite:

“Honey, you shouldn’t’ve”.

In the coming months you learn to leave off the lettuce, too, once he’s back from touring again. Back to make another record, more juice for the machine and your father is gleeful at the unprecedented success of one of his artists. He took a chance on him and now Elvis’ life is fast, so very fast and the faces blur for him, blonde and brown and black and all of them want something he doesn’t quite feel like he can live up to.

It gets so bad he begs Wanda one night on tour just to sit with him, let him put his arm around her and just sit. When he walks back into the studio after months away and finds you there, it’s quieting. He hugs you and you smile and ask him how he is and it’s slow and steady and nice. He doesn’t have to manufacture calm with you, you are calm incarnate.

New songs mean new stages and life gets fast again. It happens like that more than a couple times. He feels older than twenty two when he’s blowing out as many candles atop a birthday cake on a movie set, his mother’s usual homemade creation missing and some fancy icinged concoction in its place. It doesn’t sit right in his belly and he tosses and turns that night wanting to be home.

Home is Memphis, the recording studio is there but he hasn’t gone yet, he takes a few days just to soak up Graceland and eat his mother’s food.

It doesn’t matter as you are not absent in his home, his mother speaks of you the first morning he is home. He shovels eggs into his mouth as she praises how you’ve grown up this summer, how you’ve been helping out at the church and took a part time job at the hospital. He’s not surprised, your father is a good fella, your mother of even better character and some kids are just born sweet -that’s how people like you get made, he figures. His mother assures him you’ve not grown into a career woman, she seems very insistent on how you’re just filling your time till you get married. She’s talked with you about it. And Elvis figures this is going down the road of how Billy and you would make a good match, and he wants to tell his mother you’re too much of a kid to be messed with by someone like Billy.

He doesn’t expect her to say, “She’s a good one Booby, the sort of girl who is bright and smart but would be happiest taking care of a man. Some gals are just built for that life, not that you’ll meet many on the road like that. But y/n? She’d make a good wife and even better mother, probably won’t really bloom until she’s had a baby. Some girls are just like that, kinda plain until they start opening up….”

The rest is lost in a blur. He is tired. It’s a perfect excuse considering he just came home. But when he goes to nap he cannot think of anything but you. You swollen and blooming with his child. You are younger in his memory, and it hits wrong. He gets angry at himself for thinking of you that way and ludicrously enraged at the suspicion anyone else might be, too.

Seeing you again will cure him, he knows that. He’ll hug you and you’ll ask him how he is and he’ll be reminded that you’re his old friend’s daughter and he’ll recall why he never bothered messing around with you. You’re steady and calm and nothing like this frantic emotion he suddenly feels at the thought of you opening up because of him… he stops trying to nap and goes to the shooting range instead.

Elvis Presley is reserved. The hug you anticipate never materializes as he steps through the door of the studio, and there is no cheeky grin when you ask him how touring was. He doesn’t smile or say much, he doesn't try to touch you at all, he is reserved. You feel cold.

But he watches. He watches you when he thinks you can’t see him, but the glass reflects and you notice his blazing eyes behind the microphone.

This has been happening to you more and more lately, men staring when they think you don’t see. Your mama says it’s because of your pretty smile. She has no answer when you tell her it happens even when you do not smile at all. You are not smiling now as you are confused, confused why he watches you like he wants to reach out to you and yet treats you like he does not, like the familiarity he usually wears like a second skin has been shed, lost somewhere on the road. Maybe he has a girl, you reason, and while that never affected his behavior before, maybe she’s a Hollywood one and a jealous type. Maybe he’s sad and tired like he says he is. He doesn’t eat the cookies you make. His voice breaks often and the session is scrapped early.

He hugs you sideways as he leaves and mumbles that he’s heard you’ve been keeping busy. You tell him you have and watch for some glimmer of approval. He stares at your lips and then flees outside to the sidewalk. Your father asks if you know what’s gotten into him. You do not.

That night, alone in his bed, he tosses and turns and refuses to touch the ache between his legs. You’d looked at him so earnestly that afternoon, trying to solve him and all he could think of was -you’re grown now. Bleeding every month, settling into a bra size, probably waking up with slick between your legs, your breasts getting sore and you don’t know why. Don’t know that all these things are happening to you so that a man can plough you open, pump you full and plant a garden inside you. He ought to be that man. He has the power to stop your bleeding, make your slick become a fountain and make you swell, filling the emptiness you register but do not understand.

He grabs the massive teddy bear sitting in the corner of his room. A fan gift, juvenile for a fellow well passed such toys, but he appreciates the thought. He appreciates the way the fur parts and rubs his weeping tip as he lays atop it and humps it miserably, pretending it’s you, pretending it’s somehow better to splatter all over synthetic fur at the thought of shocking you with his passion instead of touching himself to the thought of you swollen and dripping. He comes with a shout buried into the shoulder of the bear and registers in agony that his stiffness hasn’t gone down. He rolls over and calls up his costar. Tries to remind himself of that first, bubbly taste of a glamorous woman. She indulges him and he hates it, hates knowing what they both know: that he’s one of many, that she’d never in a million years risk her career to carry his child.

Thanksgiving morning you work alongside Gladys on the buffet line at the Methodist Children’s outreach and you ask her about her absent son. She worries for him, makes you worry in turn, is glad to have a companion in fretting, someone who understands why she can’t just “enjoy the ride.” You admit you’ve noticed a change in him. The buffet runs out of baked beans. Your mother says she’ll drive over and grab more from the market. It’s icy outside on the roads, your mother never comes back.

Your house is full to bursting that night, full of well meaning people who skip their Thanksgiving dinners to file past you and your father in a long line, awkwardly patting your arms and clasping his shoulder. They talk in subdued, measured tones about heaven and time and how they can’t imagine what you’re going through. Their restraint sets the tone for your grieving, you are subdued and rational until alone at dawn, clasping your pillow and sobbing, listening to your father do the same over the muffled noise of the TV.

When someone tells you that you’re the “woman of the house now” it feels like you’ve betrayed her again. It doesn’t sit right in your belly. You are sick with it, can’t eat from it churning in your gut, ironically you want mother to comfort you for her loss.

He comes back to Memphis in time for the funeral. He comes over to the house early, it doesn’t matter as neither you or your father sleep. Upon crossing the threshold, Elvis Presley does not awkwardly pat your father, clasp his hand or encourage him to be strong. He folds your father into a hug and doesn't let go for sometime, not until your father has wept for what he’s lost and Elvis meets your eyes over his shoulder, and he looks like he knows how this feels, like this is his worst nightmare you’re living. He is not removed from your pain, he dreads it and yet he partakes of it with you both. Gladys has brought a pot roast, she smoothes your hair back like she does her son’s before putting the meal in the oven, going back out to speak with your father.

Elvis’ eyes are watery when he approaches you, his freedom of emotion gives you courage to let loose, you sob, you wail and you babble and he cradles your head against his shoulder, swaying you in the middle of your mother’s kitchen as he mutters,

“that’s it, that’s it, you loved her didn’t ya?”

It’s the truest thing anyone has said all day.

He sits you down at the kitchen table and brushes your hair, powders your nose, brings you your black leather heels, holds out your coat for you to slip on. It’s not until years later you realize he must have taken the liberty of rummaging through your room to procure those items. It is odd that it was not his mother who took charge of such things.

At the graveside you are presentable in the manner in which he crafted you, your image is sad and tragic, but dignified and evocative.

Mother is buried in a coffin he bought, six feet under a plot of land he purchased, with a space next to it for your father when his time comes. There is no third space, and once the dirt is heaped over her you wonder where you’ll rest your bones, why he didn’t think to provide you a place in the earth, too. Your father calls him “a good boy” as the wind kicks up and the mourners disperse.

You ride back to the reception at your house, wedged snugly between Elvis and Anita. She hands you a monogrammed hanky in the back seat and it smells like rosewater. She sweetly lets you hold her hand and it’s icy from the cruel November wind while Elvis burns your right side, his arm thrown back behind your head and some thrumming turmoil roiling beneath his flushed skin. You can see the pulse thumping in his neck, above the fuzzy upturned collar of his coat and you instinctively press your free hand to it, trying to calm the flutter. He jolts at your touch and the vessel only pounds harder.

“You sick?” you ask him as your hand feels his sweaty skin. It’s wintertime and everybody at the hospital has come down with bugs and he feels like he’s raging with a fever. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping much either, he gets those same dark circles under his eyes as Gladys. They’ve both got them lately. Death has made you paranoid, you know.

“Nah, m’fine, it’s just from cryin.” he takes your hand down and holds it. Anita let’s go of yours, to open the car door as you arrive.

Whoever made it tradition for the bereaved family to have their house swamped by the community right after burying a loved one must've never known the bone deep desire to curl up and just process it all. Alone. So you stand again for hours and let them file past and it’s all very much the same as the other days and your stomach is in knots but you behave how your mother would’ve wanted, only occasionally sneaking off to the kitchen to load the emptying cheese trays and to just breathe. It goes on for hours, your feet ache and your throat is dry.

You escape back to the chilly sunroom to sit down for a minute and find him there, alone, sat on the wicker sofa and thumbing at one of your mother’s gardening books. If it were anyone else that would feel like a violation but since it’s him, it feels like he’s just trying to get to know her. And you appreciate that.

“Have you eaten, honey?” he asks you and nods at the apron you’ve donned as you just stand there and take him in.

“Uh, no, I’m not hungry.” you wave his frown away.

“Sit down honey, runnin’ yourself ragged like this.” and he pats the small space of cushion beside him as you think about your guests, think about how nice it would be to just relax with someone who values silence, but you can’t, you’ve gotta go back and host, it’s the right thing to do.

Except that his hand encircles your wrist and tugs and you go limply, folding into his side and he shouldn’t feel so warm, so safe, so right -you don’t know him that well. But he wears his heart on his sleeve and it’s bleeding for you and you suppose that puts you two ahead of a lot of so-called friends.

“They can eat sandwiches and make themselves feel compassionate without you hurtin those little feet any longer.” he declares and pulls you into his lap, tipping you back to cradle you like a baby, his hands running down your legs until they meet your ankles and he’s pulling off your heels with finality.

You’ve never had a boy touch you like this, you’ve never pressed your cheek against a hard chest and felt the thump, thump of a masculine heart radiate through your limbs. But he’s so final about it all, and so certain and so at ease you feel foolish for gasping and shuddering at the famillairties he takes as he rubs one hurting arch of your foot and then the other. He’s got an authority about him tonight you’d never noticed before, and you’d as soon question your pastor on a point of doctrine as question Elvis Presley on the propriety of rocking you to sleep, yards away from a substantial amount of Memphis’ most devout population.

Your last thought as you drift off is that you hope Anita understands you're just a kid to him, you hope you’re not shaming your mother on the very night of her funeral by tucking your head into his shoulder and sleeping for the first time since she died. Your stomach unwinds, your breathing evens out and your legs fall apart in your sleep, you dream of plush lips dragging along your forehead. You wake in the morning curled around a pillow, snug in your own bed, rested. Father tells you Elvis carried you up there himself before he left.

“He’s a good boy.” you agree with Father at breakfast.

He hadn’t felt boyish when he’d wrapped you in his arms. And you hadn’t felt girlish either, for all that you had been rocked and petted. Your stomach stays loose and molten for a few more hours before the grief catches up again and the newly empty house plagues you.

That’s why they invite the crowds in after a death, it takes half the city to make up for a single loved one’s absence.

You flee from the haunted space, longer shifts at the hospital and longer hours at the shelters. At night you sit and feed father your mother’s recipes, ask each other about the other’s day as if any of that matters now.

The Memphis division of the March of Dimes Charity approaches you to replace your mother on the board. Hustling you into your new position and entrusting you with the Christmas organizations all before the holiday itself is unheard of and rushed, but it all makes sense once you hear a doner put in a good word for you, requesting you be put in charge. There’s no bigger or quieter doner than Elvis Presley, so when he speaks up and asks for a thing -it happens.

Mere hours before catching a train to New York, he pops in to the event and makes the room shimmer with his presence, he kisses cheeks, chats with everyone and tosses kids who’ve been treated like glass up in the air, making them laugh for the first time in months. He signs ever so many posters and records and casts and he watches you all the while. The way you host and rustle about in your black heels and plaid taffeta crinoline as the function you put on runs like a well oiled machine. It doesn’t feel like a Christmas event without mistletoe or dancing, but it’s still a damn fine shindig, he’ll give ya that. And he notices what he suspected: when you’re busy working those grieving furrows of your brow clear and he finds he can breathe easier.

Before he leaves to catch his night train you get pulled into a photograph with him, poofy skirt crushed against his leg, arms helping balance a massive cake as he holds a kid who seems to think you want to eat globs of frosting off his fingers. You’re not about to deny a five year old boy in crutches so you slurp it off laughingly and the cameras capture Elvis watching that hungrily. The cake, not your pink tongue languorously licking white icing…

You walk him to the door and he leaves you in the warm glow of the charity function surrounded by children and folks you’re making feel welcome as only you can, and he boards the damn train that ships his ass to New York, calling Anita dutifully before slumping into the narrow bed and wringing his cock out to the thought of marrying you and keeping you full of him all your days.

You go on the date with Billy cause you figure it will get your mind off your grief and he tells you he wants one last happy memory before he leaves everything familiar and gets shipped across the world to get killed. Billy is being dramatic, as there’s no war on right now, but the draft is an atrocity all the same and you don’t mind giving Billy one last happy memory. Something in you has been curious about men since that night Elvis forced you to sleep on him by sheer masculine authority alone. You curl around your pillow at night and pretend it’s him, or someone, a man, you think. You pretend it’s a man.

You think it must be missing your mother that’s done this to you, she’d have kept you distracted but without her, and your father a reticent shell of himself, it makes sense you’re lonely and craving some stability, someone to tell you how it’s gonna be.

Billy isn’t exactly that, he can’t even decide on where to take you for this date, it’s up to you to suggest places, finally landing on the drive-in theater. It’s safe but mature enough to be a little thrilling. He doesn’t own a car so you drive in the car Elvis bought you when you became a March of Dimes board member. Father sets a curfew, and you try to soothe your nerves at the notion you might feel a man again tonight, your curiosity peaked and eager.

The theater lot is strangely empty when y’all arrive and you wonder if maybe Billy called in a favor. Halfway through the film you feel Billy’s hand on your thigh and you shudder and respond in kind, just a gentle resting on his own, but this spurs him on, soon he is ignoring the film altogether and fumbling to get under your velvet skirt and that’s a little surprising. You’re processing whether you like this or not when he leans over, pulls down your fur collar and glues his mouth to your neck like a pufferfish to the side of a tank. It’s not very romantic but it makes you flush and it shocks you and you like that. More shocking still is the blinding light that suddenly pierces the nighttime seclusion of your car cab, and there at your window is Elvis Presley wielding a police grade flashlight directly into your eyes, smiling like a shark against the glass.

“How’s it goin kids?” he grins, his breath frosting the frigid glass.

“Elvis, I-I- I’m on a date.” You laugh while stating the obvious.

“I know, I know,” he nods, opening your door and sliding in next to you, gently shoving you till he’s in front of the wheel and you're wedged in the middle, “Bill here told me you were handin out free dates to poor drafted boys, so I’m here for mine.”

“You’ve been drafted, too?” you cry out, Billy quite forgotten, “They’ll not make you with-“

-with his career you mean, but he gives you a pout and nod and that’s that. So is the way his arm slides around you and pulls you closer and you feel like you’re in the middle of a contest you didn’t sign up for. “I’ll miss you boys.” you sigh.

“Aww, you’re sweet honey, ain’t she sweet, Billy? She taste sweet, too?”

Billy mumbles something under his breath about not getting the chance and you realize Elvis has his hand gripping the poor kid’s neck.

“Elvis you're being rude.” you chide meekly.

“Nah, it’s rude to kiss a lady’s neck with so little finesse as Bill was yours, that’s what’s rude.” Elvis declares and you get that feeling again of being unable to question him. You just hush and stay put until the credits roll and he offers Billy a ride home which the kid accepts. He drives your car and you don’t bother protesting when he drops Billy off with a:

“See ya in the barracks, bucko!”

It’s rude and cocky and no one’s ever fought over you before and while you don’t appreciate him interrupting your exploration of a male specimen, it’s rather nice to matter a little to Elvis Presley. It’s heady and makes your heart thump and your legs feel heavy and you wipe your sweaty palms on the velvet of your skirt.

“How’d you know that, that I was there?” you ask him, timid now you’re alone with him and the gentleness he once showed you isn’t present, he is gnawing on his bottom lip, leg not pressing the gas is jiggling like it does before a performance and it attracts your eye by instinct.

He’s wound up and you feel a little suffocated from the warmth rolling off him as he drives you through the dark streets, back to your home. “He asked me to clear the lot out.” he confirms your suspicion, “Then your daddy asked me to look out for ya, make sure all was right and proper.”

You are surprised and a little hurt that your father wouldn’t trust his child who has been as unfailingly upright as yourself on a movie date, more strange still that he’d trust someone as, well -loose might be a unkind word- but someone as loose as Elvis Presley to enforce morality on such a night. “I don’t believe you.” you admit barely above a whisper.

Elvis’ foot slips at your little whisper and he revs over the curb outside your house with a thump, before he curses and backs up, head cranning to look out the rear window and you wanna touch his throat.

He kills the lights and turns to you and you're so ashamed by your craving thoughts you fear he can sniff them like blood in water, figure out that you wanna run your finger down his cheek, that you wanted to touch Billy cause you’ve been curious of him. “Now honey,” he admonishes you in the still dark and it’s all you can do not to shrink against the car door under the weight of his stare, “I don’t wanna have to report to your daddy what I saw in this here cab, so why don’t you tell me why it was you were lettin’ that boy touch on you so. You was leanin in, I saw ya, you was leanin in and you liked it.”

“Elvis,” you plead, face aflame and it makes him twitch in his seat to see you squirm so, “you, Elvis you know I haven’t -this was my first date! I didn’t do nothin wrong. It was exciting, that’s all.”

He looks at you sternly and it makes you angry, you're about to resume a defense when he takes his hand off the wheel to clasp your thigh, higher up than Billy ever dared. “This feel exciting, lil one?”

Your lungs feel crushed and your thigh trembles under his hot palm, “What’re you doin?” you gasp, feeling very, very wrong and near starving for it.

“This feel right to you?” he presses, unrelenting, hand rhythmically squeezing your soft flesh and you can see father’s silhouette in his usual chair by the window, reading and oblivious.

“I said exciting.” you cleared your throat, “And I said it was when Billy did it. And he never went that- that- that high up.”

“Oh nah? Hmm, well, now that I’m there, how’s it feel, honey? Hmm?”

You squeeze your eyes shut after a moment, watching his hand creep higher and nearer to where you feel your heart beat thudding between your legs proving to be a bit much.

“Ain’t right or fittin for Limp Dick Billy to be gettin a quality girl like you excited.” he shakes his head, “Save your bosom heavin for better stuff.”

“Limp Dick -what’s that mean?” you repeat him, bewildered as your world narrows to his lush lips and the searing heat of his hand near that place you’ve grown to notice more and more lately.

“Aww that���s just, that’s nothin, just a bad name we use for fellas whose uh, well, whose hair won’t uh, won’t stand up right.”

“Not everybody can have hair like you, E.” you mumble and watch the way the lamplight makes his rings glitters against the velvet of your skirt.

That’s an admission on your part that he drinks in like a dying man, happy to have some glimmer of superiority in your mind over his fellows, and he rubs his thumb soothingly over your twitching thigh as your skirt folds dip between your legs, highlighting them perfectly. He can see the outline of your little cunt between your pressed thighs and he feels rash, feels like spreading his hand a little further and brushing his pinky there against that place he’s imagined so many times.

“Elvis,” you whisper into the silent cab, “what’re you doing?”

That’s a question for the ages and one he hasn’t got a clean answer for. “Tryin to make you excited.” he admits.

“Why?” you puzzle and you’ve heard that this is why he’s called trouble. It isn’t fitting for the sexes to know too much about each other, and Elvis knows too much about women, that’s the talk anyways.

The motion of his thumb against your thigh makes you agree, he knows a little too much and you know too little.

“Tell me,” he leans in further and you feel trapped and your heart is bounding from being the object of his droopy eyed assessment, “does this feel like doin nothin?” he demands and then he’s pressing a fluttery kiss to your pulsing throat and the catch of your breath is audible in the small space.

“Don’t.” you beg, confused and wanting it to never end.

“Why not?” his breath chills the damp little spot where he pressed his kiss.

“You’ve got a girl.” you protest.

“Thought you said this weren’t nothin.” he growls.

“Alright maybe it is.” You squirm away from his touches until your back is pressed against the glovebox. “I-I don’t know. I just - I don’t think you should be doing this with me.”

“Alright then.” he smirks, “You'd best not give me reason to tell your father bout any future such nothin’s with boys, alright honey?”

“If you stop behavin in a way that would make Miss Gladys inclined to whoop you, then I will.” you fire back and he thinks he’s in love. Cause you’re right, his mama would be livid at him flustering you and trying you out without making it honest. Your supreme capabilities in social matters, mixed with your utter dumbness in regards to the slick sliding down your legs with each swipe of his thumb against velvet, makes him nearly primal in his wants.

“Deal.” he smiles, “I’ll be gone away to basic training soon, anyhow,” and he notices your little frown at that, “won’t be here to bother you or protect ya, either way. So you’d best just swear off men, ya hear me? Just for a little while till I can come back and vet ‘em.”

“You’ll be gone in the army for a couple years!” you protest his sentencing you to a nunnery.

“Yeah, yeah, and your eggs will keep a couple more years.” he laughs at what must’ve been a good joke that you missed while you were occupied trying to breathe after he patted your lower belly and got out of the car to hand you out by curfew.

On the front porch he tells your daddy a version of the truth. A version that paints you as quite blameless, himself in a starring role of protector and Billy as a no good kid who ain’t quality enough to be hanging out with nice girls like yourself. You are forbidden from seeing Billy again, Elvis is commended, your father goes upstairs to bed and leaves you alone with a young man whose lingering fingers and bitten lips make you lightheaded -you think maybe Elvis has the right idea, your father is blind as a bat when it comes to threats.

Not that Elvis is a threat, he just lounges against the kitchen counter and watches you put up dishes like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“You don’t think Anita would mind you hanging around like this?” You ask him after his lip licking stare gets a little too heavy and you feel somewhat dizzy from being so closely watched by a guy who you know doesn't mean anything by it.

It’s just Elvis’ way of things, he makes people feel and it’s not his fault.

You’ve tried to not blame him for that building feeling you get when he’s around, the one like your lower belly is made of molten lead. That’s a physical abnormality, not his fault in the slightest.

You just do worry about how people might see this, seeing him walking home from your house late at night. You've heard the older ladies on the board whispering about you and how you haven’t got a protector, how your father can’t see what’s right in front of him. You presume they mean about Billy and his straying hands or the old donor who tried to tug you into a closet with him. Elvis is just trying to fill in the slack your father’s grief has left. Anyone with eyes could tell he’s just looking out for you. He had to be pulled off the old doner before he murdered him after he heard. It’s only that you notice Anita has turned a little cold towards you, and mama always said to be careful about letting a taken man take too much interest in ya. And Elvis does seem very interested in something about you, maybe just cause people stare and he thinks it’s rude, thinks getting pulled into closets is ungallant. He does plenty of his own staring, though.

“What about Anita?” his head snaps up and he takes his eyes off your shiny little leather belt to ask you to repeat yourself.

Something about having his focus back on your face makes you feel dumb about your worries and you change the question slightly. “Y’all gonna get married?” you ask instead.

“I dunno.”

“But with you going into the army, what’s gonna happen, what’ve you two sorted out?” you press, scooting him to the side so you can put a dish away behind him.

“She says she’ll wait for me.” he replies, sounding like her faithfulness is an imposition and you get a little mad for her, “she’s always tryin to nail things down I-I-I’ve told her, I just d-d-dunno.”

“She’s been very accommodating of you, Elvis.” you plead her case the way your mother used to plead yours to your father about dance lessons.

“Yeah, sure, sure.” he agrees dryly, leaning on the counter again and staring at his feet, “Gonna put a pause on her damn career and everything, least for a year or two. Big whoop. Who's gonna take care of the babies once she goes back to work, that’s what I wanna know. No children of mine’s gonna get raised by some passel ‘a mamies like a bunch of Wall Street brats while their mother is off kissin men for a living.`` By the end of this tirade his voice is close to a shout and you think he’s shockingly worked up over a rather hypocritical grievance.

But it makes sense, “Guess a career woman isn’t the best mother.” you agree tentatively and his eyes shoot up to your face. You’ve no more dishes to dry and your hands hang uselessly by your side.

“Oh hell, look at us ruinin our evening over her,” he shakes himself, “don’t mind her she’s just being an ole biddy about it all.”

“With some reason!” you laugh, “ And the point could be made that you’re actin a bit like an ass.”

“Oh hell not you, too!”

“It’s not nice to lead a gal on like that -or two in the case of Dixie and June- and then get mad at her when you decide she isn’t what you want after all!”

“Didn’t realize you were so invested in my private life.” he sneers.

“I’m not. But the Evening Herald is.”

“Don’t let the papers turn ya onto a nagging puss, lil girl, doesn't suit your sweet temper.”

“I’m not turnin into anything, just stating facts.” you murmur and clasp your hands before you anxiously. You swear you can feel the heat coming off of him, anger you presume, “And I’m a little tired.” you add sheepishly.

“Course you are.” he murmurs, visage smoothing like magic and he comes up to you, cradling your face in his hands as you back away and bump into the stove, “Been a big day and a lotta new feelin’s, hmm?”

“Yes.” you gasp, your chest hot and his hands are so large and warm and it’s like he blocks out the rest of the world full of his girls and your father and what’s right or wrong, cradling your cheeks with his thumbs running along your cheekbones, “You gonna be good and do what I asked ya?”

Your mind is so fixated on the plump curve of his bottom lip that you surface with a frantic splutter, trying to recall what he’s referencing.

“You gonna lay off the datin’ till I get back, yeah?” he reminds you helpfully as his fingers work the back of your neck to jello, your core pulsing in a strangely distracting response as he tells you how it’s gonna be, gives the very direction you’ve been craving.

“Yes, yeah.” you breathe and your voice sounds like those gals on the screen when they’re overcome by romance, but here is none that you can find, just Elvis looking out for you and patiently bearing with your stupid naïveté when it comes to boys. He’ll make sure you land the right one, start house with a fella who’ll give you security and direction. It’s just your loneliness with father being so mellow that has you going on stupid dates with boring boys. Elvis is right. You admit it to him.

He smiles in response and it looks like the kind he gives before he punches someone in his films. It’s a promise.

You shiver against the stove and grip the dish towel hanging from the handle.

“And you’ll let me know if anybody is botherin, ya while i'm gone, right?” he rewards your obedience with the promise of security, just like all those knights in fairytales.

Women obey and men provide, it’s the natural way of things and your heart swoops at the first taste of a married dynamic. You feel like you should offer him some favor, some reward for giving you his defense. You’ve heard stories about girls who feel the way you do, who get overcome by gratitude to a fella before getting married and they are ruined. You grip the dish towel harder, unsure of what motion you might make which would ruin you, what touch it is that seals your fate, puts a baby in a girl before it’s time. It can’t be a hug, surely not just a kiss, but you wouldn’t know as you’ve never dared. You’ll wait for Elvis to come back and make sure the fella you date and marry won’t get you in trouble in any of these ways. It’s complicated and confusing being a woman, and since that night of the funeral he seems to have taken the place of your mother, and you trust him in this.

“I’ll let you know.” you swear earnestly.

He kisses your cheek gently in response. Just a dry peck. That must not be the ruinous action in question, he wouldn’t do anything to tarnish you. It’s Elvis.

Elvis is a sullen but brave boy as he boards the army bus to ship him down south where it’s more Mexico than truly civilized but the world just calls it Texas. Or that’s what you hear from Gladys. You were not there to see him off, why should you be? You are busy and you have sworn off men and there’s a great deal to do in those dismal post holiday weeks. You do not pine for distractions, you don't have much energy to lie awake at night for long and rehearse the way his hand felt on your thigh, or his lips against your throat, or his fingers grazing the little swell of your belly where your womb is housed. These are passing, fitful and frantic thoughts, that pass through your mind before sleep takes you.

And Elvis is much the same, basic training is unkind, even to a man whose performances required much stamina. He crawls into his bunk and collapses most nights, staring with hooded eyes, at the newspaper clipping of you licking that damn icing, the picture he’s shown his new army buddies while announcing to them proudly “that’s ma girl, no, no, not the sort to fool with. The one I’m gonna have carrying my babies. Soon.”

Soon.

It’s a waste in the meantime, the way he spews his seed over the panties he stole from your room that morning he dressed you for the funeral, it’s a waste of precious fuel— fuel for his dream as it impotently coats and drips from the silk and makes him angry that he can’t find it in him to tamp down that restless heart of his, just settle down. Marry you already. Be a little respectable— sounds relaxing, sounds satisfactory. Sounds like something the Colonel would love for this whole “new image.”

That sours it all and he rolls over in his bunk with the sodden scrap of silk that no longer smells of you but of him and his wasted desire.

Soon, he tells himself, soon. After a little while.

It’s tragic really, the way we postpone snagging those things we know we want, the ones our gut lurches for, our soul craves as our conscience whispers “just do it.” Put off because life is too exciting to tone down, fun and girls are in abundance, and time seems very plentiful until it runs out in a great big whoosh of sand from the hour glass, taking with it those steady, stable, sure things we’ve counted on being there for an endless little while. Like your Mother. Just gone, and the universe doesn't pause to acknowledge your world is fractured, for everyone else it’s just tomorrow. Tomorrow is here and they’re not.

The shock of it jolts you, the regret nags you, the grief strips you back down to the bare bones of what you want and need. Elvis only knows one other person who he thinks gets how this feels as his train hurdles homeward to a coffin and a future that doesn't make any sense. Mama should have gotten to see him out of the army, gotten to see him do more, hit thirty, marry. Mama shoulda been able to meet those grandbabies she’d pestered him about but he put off for tomorrow.

Tomorrow is a bitter pill and he wants to spit it out, start over, refashion it just so. No more regrets, no more fighting his gut. He’d like to dig a shallow grave for a little while, fold himself into it and just rest a minute, learn to forgive his stupid ambition, catch a break. Wake up some thawed spring morning to the sight of you beside him in the daffodil covered earth, find the reason in your eyes that makes him choose to live again.

Still, he finds it in a little fur trimmed peacoat standing and waiting forlornly for him at the station.

You’re not a girlfriend, you’re not a fan, you’re just someone who lost their mama too, somebody who knows there’s not much to say, just a hug there on the crowded platform and “she was the reason for everything you ever did, wasn’t she?”

Was. She was. Now is about what is.

[tanoraqui]

Trick or Treat! Something Silmarillion?

In the early Third Age when Turgon has returned to life and he and Elenwë and Finrod & Amarië are finally fulfilling their long-held plan of having children at the same time, that they might grow up close as siblings like Finrod and Turgon had, Idril and Tuor say, "Hey, we could also do that! We always meant to have more than one child, and there's nothing actually stopping us!"

So they do. Now, there actually is something stopping them a little - the bearing of Elvish or half-Elvish children is more...metaphysically participatory? than that of Men (or Dwarves, etc). For both parents. Tuor had done it once and been fine, but that was in his native land, and even with Ulmo's guardianship and life on Tol Eressëa, which was fairly mild in terms of blessing-intensity, at roughly 3,500 years of age, his fëa is now worn a little thin.

But their daughter is born hearty and whole, and if Tuor is abed for a few weeks with weariness, well, he's back on his feet soon, and Idril is more than strong enough to bear a single mother's spiritual burden now that the babe is born. Indeed, she insists. Unequivocally.

Moriwen ("dark-crowned maiden") is named for her grandmother Rian and the dark brown hair she inherited from her (to no small amusement to many, given that her parents were both very blond). Her hair never quite achieves the natural luster of Elvish locks - instead, it easily gets tangled, bedraggled, and encrusted with sea-salt like her father's.

She grows up on Tol Eressëa at a nearly Elvish pace, because that feels most natural to her, and chooses to live and die (or not) as an Elf. All her friends and family are Elves (or as close as one semi-retired prophet of the sea can be) so why should she wish to be otherwise?

(The Choice is natural to all first-generation half-bloods, though after that, majority-genetics determines it unequivocally, and mortality wins in a coincidentally 50/50 balance...unless complicated by Maiaran blood, see: the heirs of Lúthien. That extends the Choice for a couple more generations, though mortality is still a heavy draw. Usually. Several Valar very quietly wish those guys would stop reproducing because tbh it's freaking them out.)

But the Mannish half of her heritage did enrapture her as well, and even more eagerly than Tuor, she sought tales of mortal Arda from every newcomer to the immortal shores. What were her distant cousins up to now? How was their mastery of metallurgy going? Were Elrond's youngest (her great-niece!) walking yet? Was that cathedral in Osgiliath still under construction?

She started recording accounts, new and old, and copying any books people brought with them when they Sailed. She blinked and she'd founded a library, soon the greatest in Aman for records of mortal lands. She was called Moriwen Peradan ("half-Man"), and for at least half of the Third Age had a thriving covert correspondence with Elrond via specially bred seabirds. (If you combine the migratory endurance of the arctic tern with the seagull's ability to get everywhere, and you're very patient, long-lived, determined, and by a precise intersection of Ainu blood and favor have a particular knack with seabirds, you can create an all-new species that can travel back and forth along the Straight Road, and discreetly share them with family!)

Moriwen ends up marrying Maeglin about a century after his re-embodiment, after he awkwardly shyly sidles into the Great Library of Tol Eressëa to find out (without, god forbid, talking to anyone involved) what happened to Idril's descendants after they survived, y'know, Stuff; and some rom-com mistaken identity shenanigans ensue.

[rebornologist]

Hello I'm here for the Tea Prompts as well because I didn't know about these and reading them, I wanted more from you about our resident grumpy but mellowed cat Xanxus. May I ask for matcha tea; chai tea; hibiscus tea please? And if it's not too much trouble please english breakfast tea on the side. Thank you so much and I loved how you thought about the character. I love it when writers understand the character.

Thank you for the high praises! I really try because I adore these morally grey (honestly, terrible people) little freaks in the KHRverse and want to think of them in a multidimensional way without watering down the complexity of their character building.

♡ Xanxus + proposals, spice, fav places, family

୨୧ ⁺˳₊ matcha tea; how and when do they propose to their s/o?

✧ He doesn’t. At least, not properly. Marriage would have to be something that his s/o insists on, and he would have his mental gymnastics cut out for him in weighing the emotional costs and benefits of compromising with that request. He’s more likely to hear the suggestion to get married, not even respond, and leave them wondering if he was even listening to what they were saying. He was, for the record. He’s just taking some time to let the thoughts simmer, instead of chewing them out over bringing such an idea to the table.

Being legally tied together means absolutely nothing to this man, and the thought of it stresses him out due to his attachment wounds. He cares about them, admittedly, despite everything. Despite himself, and as much as he wants to bury those feelings.

He would begrudgingly accept any well thought out, private, intimate, [insert more synonyms for lowkey] proposal, and granted his s/o does the bulk of the wedding planning. He’s kind of babygirl for that.

୨୧ ⁺˳₊ chai tea; how do they spice up their relationship?

✧ His relationships are inherently pretty spicy (in the traditional and nontraditional sense) because he’s a mercurial man. He’s not great for anyone who doesn’t do well with reactivity. His moods can be all over the place, and that’s likely what is spicy enough for him and his relationships.

I’ve said before that his s/o is often the one to propose they do anything new, and a lot of him complying with their requests is because it pleases them (and him). He doesn’t often go out of his way to please them, but he also prides himself in keeping his s/o happy and is more easily swayed to push his comfort zones if they drive a hard bargain.

୨୧ ⁺˳₊ hibiscus tea; what’s their favourite place to take their s/o?

✧ He is not particularly adventurous in general, and while his s/o may frequent a specific spot, it would be only once in every ten visits that you’ll find Xanxus with them. He doesn’t mix well with the general public, if I’m so honest. He’s a man with a huge, intimidating, attention-drawing aura about him, and he’s easily ticked off.

No matter how good your customer service skills are, it’s unlikely that Xanxus will be pleased enough to leave a 5-star review of your cafe. He prefers spaces that require less petty social interaction. His favourite place is definitely his personal room(s) in the mansion. He unexpectedly fares well in a large dim bookstore or fancy library, granted he is just going to plop down onto the big sofa and take a nap in hopes that no one bothers him. Everyone has to be extra careful to not set him off in that space though, because that is one flammable enclosed space.

୨୧ ⁺˳₊ english breakfast tea; would they want a family?

✧ In a sense, he has a family whether he likes it or not, though not by blood. He has his assassin team, the Vongola as a whole, and of course, his baby boy Bester.

He’s surprisingly sweet with Bester, though the liger does have a similar temper like his handler. Bester is really only super soft and tolerant with Xanxus’s partner(s), and that totally annoys him, kind of like when your cat likes the s/o more than it likes the actual owner. It might be because they spoil Bester with extra treats, and they end up being the good cop to Xanxus’s bad cop in the parenting dynamic.

Anyway, I can’t imagine Xanxus wanting to have kids, aside from to feed his ego and to follow his blood family’s traditional customs and values. He doesn’t have the emotional capacity to support and raise a child healthily and is reluctant to replicate the trauma that he experienced in his upbringing.

[fideidefenswhore]

Why did you vote for the third one in Katherynparr's poll?

To me, it just seems more likely than not? I'm rereading material on the Anne of Cleves marriage rn and funnily enough am reminded of that, like... to leave the marriage unconsummated was to mean it was very easy to annull, would be to leave the state of it contested and vulnerable. Most CoA partisans insist (and I agree, although I think this became even stronger and reified with her accession in 1509, I think it had always existed to some degree) that Catherine had it absolutely drilled into her that for her to become Queen of England was divinely ordained, her sacred duty, etc. That does not square with leaving the matter insecure. Those that insist on #1 tend to really ignore the timeline here... it's not like they married in November and he fell ill and dropped dead the very next week.

So, to follow that thread...would she have lived in that uncertainty and insecurity for months? I find that unlikely. She couldn't have seen the future, so how was she to know that it could ever become such a contentious issue, the did they/did they not?

Frankly, Catherine in these circumstances was the one that was more (relatively) vulnerable. Arthur was always going to become King of England, come hell or high water. They both would have felt pressure, but Catherine would have felt more; to present grandchildren to her in-laws would have guaranteed the security of her future and been met with the gratitude of her own parents for securing the alliance with finality.

I won't go into all the evidence generally used for Vote #1, but I'm familiar with all the usual points made for it, and I'll address some of them in order.

Catherine's testimony that they only spent 'seven nights' in bed together. There's testimony from members of Arthur's staff that contradicts this (saying the number of nights was much higher) and even if it was true (it's a very specific number to remember, I'll say that, six more than the night of their wedding, which she couldn't dispute because chroniclers recorded it), seven nights is plenty to figure it out, if the motivation was there (and see above, I believe it was)

The impression this was supposed to leave, I believe, was that Arthur and Catherine didn't enjoy intimacy together, and didn't really care for each other. Frankly, this has some support (Catherine's rather demurely ambiguous response to Henry VII's question of the matter of whether or not they should reside together was whatever you think best, Arthur spoke of how pleasing she was to him, but that was boilerplate political speech), even speaking broadly (arranged marriages could be awkward, the only language they shared was stilted Latin). There's also the matter of how Arthur left Catherine absolutely nothing in his will, only leaving things to his sister, Margaret.

However, that doesn't preclude that any attempt of consummation was never made...this was often the case, and those in politically arranged royal marriages (Henry VIII being an anomaly) were supposed to, yk...get over it.

The strongest contender is her swearing otherwise to Campeggio. There was another confessor of Catherine's, though, who believed otherwise in 1502, and whom Catherine refused to ever see or write to again (even when the Pope reccomended him-- Catherine was not always such a staunch, to use a retrospective term, 'Papist' as some have supposed); in the context of Catherine having not yet had any surviving son by her marriage to Henry.

Additionally, while she spoke of many things on her deathbed (feeling some blame for the 'increase of heresy' in Engand, namely), and did take confession, her marriage to Arthur and its alleged unconsummation was not among either. Even Chapuys, her staunchest supporter, was rather distressed and seemingly puzzled by this (he had been "assured" that it was her intention to do so)

We're never going to know definitively, of course (those that say Pope Clement made a final declaration that her alleged virginity of 1509 was 'proven' are incorrect-- he did, on the last, defend the sanctity of her marriage, but on the grounds that Henry had for too long acted on the dispensation given for it, and "deprived himself of the right to protest against it"....a conclusion he surely could have given by 1530 at the latest, if 1527 was so clearly 'too late' to protest, but I digress... no mention made of the state of her marriage to Arthur); but regardless of whatever the truth was, I think something that's often said of Henry applies equally to Catherine (and, honestly, most people):

They believed what they wanted/needed to believe.

[jodilinbio]

Stacey was my biggest problem at the first complex I lived in during my time in Arizona, along with twenty-six-year-old Andrea (Andi), the woman living next to me in Andy’s building. Through Andi, I got my first real sense of just how much Arizonans despise complaining, no matter how legitimate your grievance might be.

While I was still in the first-floor apartment, I had to give up Shadow, my cat, because pets weren’t allowed on the first floor. Even if they were, I couldn’t afford the outrageous pet deposit. So, Andy and I left the cat on what we thought was Stevie Nicks’ property in Paradise Valley, only to later learn we’d given him to her neighbor instead. Andy eventually figured out which house was really hers by going through her trash. He somehow became phone friends with Stevie’s mother, Barbara, after finding her number through her business—a little crafts store in some small town outside of Phoenix. He eventually went on to actually meet Stevie a few times.

Stacey had a reputation for being a difficult person, but one day, she began targeting me in ways I hadn’t seen her do with anyone else. To this day, I’m not sure what triggered her. I discussed it with Andy, Kara, and Randy, but none of us could figure out the source of her wrath. Maybe it was because I was Jewish (Arizona was as anti-Semitic as it was anti-gay), maybe it was because I was on disability, or maybe it was because I was short with green eyes and very long hair. I honestly had no idea.

Then, I developed a theory: some people, when they can’t get positive attention, settle for negative attention. Perhaps Stacey really did have some kind of attraction to me and was struggling with those feelings, especially since she was married. Others had speculated about this too, particularly after it became clear that she was practically stalking me. This wasn’t an exaggeration—she followed me around the complex, and it felt like she was scrutinizing my every move. I was stunned by how much she seemed to know about my whereabouts and the people I interacted with. My friends and I even searched my place for hidden cameras or audio recorders, but we found nothing. The only way she could have known what she did was by either tailing me, having someone else do it, or somehow gaining access to my apartment while I was out. I doubted that last one, but who knows?

I’ll admit Stacey wasn’t bad-looking for a light-eyed blonde, which wasn’t usually my type. She was tall and slim, with a Kate Jackson vibe—her voice, hairstyle, and mannerisms all reminded me of her. But even if she had been my type, I knew I’d rather be alone forever than settle for a controlling bitch like her.

One day, Stacey summoned both Andy and me to her office. Oddly, she insisted on speaking to Andy first, then me.

"Why can’t she just talk to both of us at once?" I asked Andy on our way there.

"I don’t know. Maybe she doesn’t want us to get our stories straight," he said.

"What stories?" I asked, confused.

"I don’t know," he said. "I’m just as stumped as you are."

Andy went in first, and then it was my turn. I sat down in front of her desk, and Stacey cut right to the chase.

"I have a report that you made some harassing phone calls to Ellie and Robert," she said.

"So?" I replied.

"So," she echoed, pausing.

"So I called them a few times. They won’t be hearing from me again, though. Besides, Ellie’s out of her mind. Ask the FBI agents trying to kill her with petroleum jelly as she claims."

"Then don’t have anything to do with her," Stacey said.

"I don’t intend to, but how does this concern you? You’re the manager, not our mother. Part of our rent goes toward your salary. You work for us."

She then mentioned some supposed vandalism but wouldn’t say what had been vandalized. I had no idea what she was talking about, and neither did Andy.

Next, she scolded me for asking to see the second studio apartment I had transferred to in Andy’s building before the previous tenant moved out. I couldn’t believe someone would complain about something so trivial! The girl didn’t have to let me in, and she hadn’t seemed bothered at the time.

Then, Stacey implied that I had been trying to invite people up to my place. I was completely confused. "What are you talking about? What people?"

"I understand that being home as much as you are can make a person rather lonely," she said, her tone patronizing.

"Oh, is that what you think I am? Lonely? And this concerns you because…?" I asked, beginning to realize what she was insinuating. She was implying that I was trying to get women up to my place for sex, which was total nonsense. No one in that complex appealed to me. After Rosemarie made her lack of interest clear, I backed off immediately. I didn’t want to push people who weren’t interested in me, and I expected the same respect in return.

Though I tried, I couldn’t get Stacey to admit what she was really implying. She never dared to use the L-word.

She also rattled off a bunch of trivial facts about my daily life, things like what I had for lunch, and this unnerved me. I was amazed at how well she had done her homework. With the exception of the vandalism and the absurd insinuation about my social life, she was frighteningly accurate.

Andy later told me he was just as shocked by Stacey’s knowledge of my activities. "She even encouraged me to dump you," he said.

On January 6, 1993, I finally decided to see about getting a job dancing. I didn’t have any marketable skills that would land me a decent job anytime soon, and I wasn’t about to flip burgers or clean houses again. Dancing seemed like a good option. Kara, who was a pretty big woman, acted as my bodyguard, and the three of us—Kara, Andy, and I—went to a nearby club with exotic dancers.

After just two dances and $18 in tips, I was hired for the 6 PM to 1 AM shift. I was excited, thinking I’d make tons of money, but it didn’t turn out that way. Maybe in Vegas it would have.

I eventually built up a small group of regular cab drivers. One of them even offered to be my bodyguard if I ever made it in the music business, and I gladly agreed.

Though dancing was preferable to most other jobs, there were downsides. I hated the sore feet and the way the owners used us to pay the DJ, bartenders, and bouncers. We had to give them a cut of our earnings because the owners were too cheap to pay them themselves.

At the clubs, we rotated sets on stage, where customers could tip us—or not. Table dances, one-on-one performances in front of a customer, earned the dancers $5. Dancers weren’t allowed to touch the customers or engage in anything explicit.

My stage name was "Mystery." Maybe if I had been a chesty, blue-eyed blonde with long legs, I would have made more money. But as a then flat, short, green-eyed brunette, I didn’t exactly fit the bill for a T&A bar. Still, I danced on and off for the next eight months at a few different places, including all-nude private room dancing with two-way windows, cameras, and armed staff. We often sat around for hours in between customers, bored out of our minds in front of the TV.

After I moved to the studio apartment behind Andy, I started accumulating some furniture. My parents sent me a blue card table with matching chairs. A friend of Andy’s gave me a twin bed, and a guy I met later on gave me a couch, a desk, and a TV.

At first, the building was relatively quiet. The guy below me eventually moved out, giving me a few things he didn’t want, like clothes hangers and a fake plant in a wicker basket. For a while, the apartment below me was a model unit, and the new tenant who moved in was quiet. Even Andi didn’t make much noise initially. She was hardly ever home.

The person I heard the most in the building was actually Andy. Despite his feminine demeanor, he stomped around like an elephant and slammed doors instead of closing them.

I had yet to learn just how sensitive Arizonans could be about noise complaints, but I started to get an idea when Andi had her fifteen siblings over for a few days. It was a nightmare—constant bumps and bangs at all hours. After being ignored when I knocked on her door to ask her to quiet down, I had no choice but to complain to Stacey.

Mary, a thirty-year-old woman with muscular dystrophy who lived directly below Andi, also complained. She was getting the worst of it. Mary informed Stacey that if she wanted her rent, she needed to be able to sleep so she could work for it.

Even Andy, who lived diagonally from Andi, could hear the commotion. The whole building shook.

When Stacey came to investigate, Andi tried to shift the blame. Our doors were right next to each other and standing just inside mine, I could hear everything they said.

"She does the same thing," Andi lied.

Right, Andi, I thought sarcastically. I have fifteen kids over, too.

The next day, the kids finally left, and I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking peace had returned and I could finally get some sleep. But I was sorely mistaken. Andi was furious that I had complained, and she wasn’t about to let me forget it. That was lesson number two about Arizonans: they weren’t quick to let go of grudges. They wouldn’t let you forget or ignore them either, no matter how wrong they were or how valid your complaint was. She was going to get her revenge!

Andi made sure to shake the building with her every move when she wasn’t at work or asleep, clearly not caring who else she annoyed along with me. She began staying home more frequently, just to make her presence felt. Since I knew I couldn’t physically force her to quiet down, and Stacey couldn’t monitor every slam, bump, and bang, I was seriously considering confronting her when a new idea popped into my head.

I doubted it would work, but I figured I’d try it before resorting to more drastic measures. So, I sat down and wrote a note, pretending to be a neighbor who had just moved in behind her, politely asking her to keep the noise down. I signed it with a bogus name and slipped it under her door.

To my surprise, it actually worked!

[casspurrjoybell-30]

Bonding with the Enemy - Chapter 3

*Warning Adult Content*

Town Hall

Darren remembered growing up thinking that being mate bonded was some sort of arranged marriage. The way everyone had described it to him as a kid, the moment you knew who it was, you essentially were destined to be together the rest of your lives.

There were even old tales claiming that it was the Moon Goddess who was picking out your perfect mate for you and whatever the goddess said, goes. Fortunately Darren had the common sense to do his own research instead of listen to what a bunch of old farts said.

What he found was a more logical explanation.

According to this research, mate bonding is nothing more than your instincts telling you that your 'destined partner' had perfectly matching genes to yours and that you two would make great kids some day, which is why you had to be within the range of each others pheromones before the bonding even happened.

He much preferred this explanation over some supernatural mother-in-law telling people who to marry. Regardless of whether it was the Moon Goddess or genes, Darren's ultimate conclusion was that the bond was more of a suggestion, not an order like many packs treated it.

It was extremely rare but you could potentially meet another perfect match one day. The problem was that werewolves preferred to stick with the first option because to them, the bond was sacred and not to be questioned. 

Plus being mate-less was considered an absolute horrid fate. Before Sophie had a chance to grab him, Darren turned tail and booked it back down the hall.

He was sure Jasper felt the bond as well but he wouldn't know who it was without seeing him first. Annoying as it was, Darren's instincts were screaming at him to run away just as much as they were screaming for him to turn around and face the music.

"Wait," his aunt called behind him but he was outside and on his way to the parking lot already.

Pausing to take a breath, he eventually let her catch up.

"What the hell was that?"

He glowered up at her.

"Jasper was there," he explained.

"Oh..." was all she said as understanding dawned on her.

"Okay, look, I know you two have a terrible track record but we're not here for Jasper, we're here to help find the missing kids. We just need to focus on getting Alpha Liam's attention first. If we have to work with Jasper to make that happen though, then I can do the talking... But just so you know, Jasper's changed quite a lot since you left."

Darren quirked an eyebrow, disbelieving.

"I doubt that."

"Darren, please. This is serious. We need to talk to the Alpha right away and I don't think the receptionist is going to let me barrel my way to his office a second time."

He ran a hand through his hair and leaned against the car to think. He couldn't go back in there.

He had no idea how Jasper would react once he found out they were bonded but knowing the pack's mentality, everyone would insist they hold the bond just as sacred as their ancestors did. It didn't matter that they were both males or that they hated each other.

He knew exactly what everyone would say. That the bond would change their hearts or some sort of Disney Fairy-tale bull crap.

Darren didn't believe any of that. He would not be forced to work for any Alpha, he would not be forced to join the pack and he absolutely refused to be bonded with Jasper.

He had to do something to hide it.

"What?"

"We need to go back to the house. I left it there," he explained.

"Can't we get it afterwards?"

Darren shook his head.

"No. I need it now. It... helps with my powers," he lied.

His aunt stared at him for another moment before sighing and getting in. They drove back to the house and he flew inside to his backpack that was still sitting near the front door.

Digging through his clothes, he found it. Clasping the band around his neck, he felt instant relief wash over him as that burning urge subsided.

What he wore was essentially a dog collar made of thin black leather with some other unknown material woven in. It had no engravings, no chain links, no hoops.

Just the metal clasp on the back. It was called a Rogues Collar and he had gotten it from his uncle Don before returning to the pack.

According to his uncle, the collar was used by rogues to help protect them against Alpha Commands. It also helped hide their presence from other werewolves.

Since it was something his uncle had given to him at the last second, he had forgotten about it until now. Mostly because it looked like something a BDSM Slave would wear and thus stuffed it in his bag as soon as his uncle was out of view.

With this, he could face Jasper and the guy would be completely unaware of who he was bonded with... hopefully.

"That's it?" Sophie asked as she entered the house.

She didn't seem phased at all, despite the collar's supposed effect on him. Perhaps it only hid certain parts of his presence? Darren turned.

"It's better if you don't ask."

The woman raised her eyebrows but didn't say a word as they returned to the car and drove back to the Town Hall where there was an obvious change in everyone's demeanor.

Walking in, the people they passed were whispering among themselves.

"I heard he circled the building three times before the Alpha retrieved him."

"I wonder what it was about?"

Darren was curious what happened after they left. Jasper didn't so much as look at Darren in the split second that he was standing in view when the bond happened but did he actually come running after him when he left? The girl behind the reception counter glared at Sophie.

"Gonna wait in line this time?" she all but growled in annoyance.

Sophie put on her most apologetic smile.

"Sorry about that. I was in a hurry."

The hall that they had barreled their way into last time was now blocked by a rather large looking Beta with a permanent scowl etched onto his face, which was probably why Sophie actually bothered to speak to the receptionist this time.

"Well I'm sorry but you're going to have to schedule a meeting like EVERYONE ELSE."

The receptionist slapped down a piece of paper. Sophie gave a quick grin and made sure to maintain eye contact as she snatched it up.

"Will do."

Then she turned and handed it to Darren.

"Fill this out," she ordered.

"Why me?"

"Because I drove."

Darren rolled his eyes and sat down in one of the waiting chairs as he filled out all the information. His aunt took out her phone and started talking with someone as he did so.

There was quite a bit of information to fill out and just when he was about done he noticed a shadow loom over him. Glancing up, he all but snorted at the sight of Jasper staring him down curiously.

"I haven't seen you around here before," the man spoke in a husky voice, deeper than Darren remembered.

It reverberated in his head, nearly striking a chord but not quite hitting. The collar seemed to be working.

It took a moment for him to calm down and realize his old bully didn't recognize him. He probably approached Darren thinking he was from another pack, which annoyed him to no ends.

How the hell do you make someone's life a living nightmare, then go and forget what they looked like?

Gritting his teeth, he glared up at him. Jasper looked surprised at the open hostility the smaller man was showing.

"Fuck off Jasper," he snarled angrily.

"I'm here to see the REAL Alpha."

It was a pathetic display of rebellion but Darren felt he was entitled to at least one outburst after all the years of bullying he had endured. Jasper didn't quite take a step back but he was clearly blown away by his audacity.

He then squinted his eyes as though to get a clearer look at the man in front of him.

"Do... I know you?"

Having his words brushed aside like that stung Darren's ego but he didn't have anything more to say. Darren huffed through his nose, then pointedly turned in his seat so his back was facing the man as he finished filling out the paperwork.

Then he felt a slap on the back of his head.

"OUCH. YOU MOTHER FUCKER..."

He swallowed his words when he realized it was his aunt who smacked him, not Jasper.

"Sophie?"

Sophie had a look on her face that said 'Stop blowing our chance' but what she said out loud was...

"I see you've bumped into Mr. Trotter."

That damn grin returned to Jasper's face as soon as he veered his attention to his aunt and he shook her hand enthusiastically.

"Sophie. I was told you came in quite a hurry earlier."

"Yes, Darren and I really need to speak to Alpha Liam today," she explained, vaguely gesturing where Darren was sitting.

"Darren?" Jasper paused once he recognized the name.

"Darren Nelson?"

Instead of replying, Darren shot up from his chair and stomped towards the receptionist where he slammed down the paperwork and began trudging out the front door. He wasn't sure if he could do this after all.

Right now, he wanted to yell nothing but obscenities at the man, which would definitely ruin their chances of being included in the investigation.

Then as he passed, Sophie grabbed his sleeve and gave him a pleading look that rooted him to the spot. Once she was sure he wouldn't try to leave again, she returned her focus to schmoozing Jasper.

"That's right. You two went to school together," Sophie chirped with fake enthusiasm.

"Anyways, is there any chance we could talk with Alpha Liam?"

"Why do you want to see Alpha Liam? You can talk to me if it's urgent," the man offered with a cool grin.

"Nothing will ever be urgent enough to make us want to talk to you," Darren muttered under his breath, then squawked in pain as Sophie jammed her heel into his foot, causing him to yelp silently as he all but doubled over.

"He means we would love to speak in private," Sophie began, then lowered her voice as she continued...

"It's about the missing children."

A few heads in the waiting room perked up and Jasper's eyes immediately widened. Glancing around, he covered his mouth nervously and leaned in.

"Let's talk in the other room."

He indicated towards the hall that they had trudged passed earlier and she nodded excitedly, then grabbed Darren by the shirt collar and dragged him behind her.

Darren's arms flew out as he fought to maintain his balance. Once they were fully in the room, Jasper closed the doors and turned his full attention on them.

"Did you see something?" Jasper asked gravely.

Sophie turned towards Darren, suddenly losing her spark in front of a pack superior. After a moment she swallowed her nerves and pushed on.

"No. I wanted to talk about helping with the investigation," she replied. "Darren here can help. I called him over specifically so he could."

The man sighed dejectedly and pinched the bridge of his nose. Apparently that wasn't what he was hoping she'd say.

"Ms. Dodson," he switched to a more formal tone.

"You're part of that volunteer group that has been searching the woods, right?"

Sophie seemed caught off guard by the question.

"Yes, that's correct."

"Look, Ms. Dodson, I know you're trying to help but right now it's been decided that it would be best to keep as few people in on this investigation as possible," he explained with an apologetic look on his face.

Sophie didn't like where this was going and puffed out her chest indignantly.

"How is that going to help? It's been half a year and not a single child has been found! If anything, we need to include MORE people."

"Please calm down," Jasper held his hands up.

"We just think that the less information that circulates, the better. For all we know, the person responsible is also following this case closely and might be using it to their advantage."

"That's absurd," she burst out, then realized what she had done and quickly stood down.

"I'm sorry."

"I understand your frustration but that's what the police have decided, as well as Alpha Liam and myself," Jasper explained.

Darren was ready to snap. For some reason he was extra wound up and needed to vent his frustration. It was irritating that the man hadn't given Sophie a chance to explain why she brought an outsider in to help.

Sure he didn't want to reveal his powers but considering what was on the line here, it was absurd that he wouldn't even ask why she though Darren could help of all people.

It was like he was automatically dismissing him as useless. Just as he opened his mouth to argue, the door burst open and in walked Alpha Liam himself.

A sudden pressure filled the room. Even with the collar, he could sense Liam's Alpha presence, which meant his aunt was probably sensing it tenfold.

The man had short grey hair slicked back on his head. He had a square jaw with salt and pepper stubble and sharp, dark eyes that appeared to stare into your very soul.

He was dressed in a dark grey suit that gave him a look of authority as he walked with purpose beside Jasper.

"Ms. Dodson, I believe my second in command has already made it clear that we no longer wish for further meddling with this case."

His voice practically boomed, causing the woman to cower. Darren didn't like seeing her like this.

"Furthermore, you yourself have no children involved in this case, so your over eager participation is all the more unnecessary."

Liam then glanced towards Darren, his eyes flitted to the collar around his neck and darkening in recognition.

"To top it off, you dare bring a rogue into the pack?"

"He's not...." Sophie began, then went quiet as she lost her voice.

Liam tilted his head as he focused on her.

"How is he not? He abandoned the pack, which makes him an outsider and a risk to the investigation. If you wish to help, then I suggest you stay home and let us handle it."

Sick of listening to this Alpha nonsense, Darren decided to speak up.

"Wait a minute..."

"This does not concern you," the Alpha snapped instantly, cutting Darren off and forcing even more supernatural pressure on him.

The power of the collar trembled as it did it's best to keep the Alpha's presence at bay. Darren's knees buckled in response and he fell silent.

Then, the two Alphas left the room without another word, though Jasper did cast one last glance at them before slipping out of view. As soon as the force was lifted, Sophie regained her posture and stormed out.

Surprised by her abrupt recovery, Darren all but ran behind her.

"Where are you going?" he called.

She just huffed angrily passed the reception desk.

"If they don't want us to help them, then we'll do this ourselves."

[femsolid]

"Students in our “Psychology of Women'' classes have routinely argued that the act of a man opening a door for a woman has nothing to do with sexism. It is simply one person being polite to another. If they are right, then men should feel complimented when women (and men) open doors for them. To test their presumption, we ask the women in the class to open doors for men and the men to wait at doors until a woman opens the door for them. We also ask them to record the responses they receive. (We invite readers to do the same.) The women learn that there is a sizable minority of men that refuses to go through a door held open for them by a woman, becoming irate if the women insist on “just being polite.” The men report that women will open the door for them, but that the women frequently give them disapproving looks or say unkind things “under their breath” to them. These class observations are somewhat similar to the findings of Ventimiglia (1982): the most confusion by male recipients of door-opening by females, and the most disapproval and avoidance by male recipients of door-opening by other males. 

Social norms are often invisible to us until we violate them. And social norms regarding what is considered polite depend on the sex of the individual, which suggests there is more going on here than people “just being polite.” What could it be? We then ask students to look for underlying themes regarding what is considered polite for each gender. Do the behaviors considered polite for men have anything in common? Do the behaviors considered polite for women? 

Social norms of politeness for women require women to wait for men, the actors. We are forced to conclude, then, that social norms regarding politeness in males and females are not just about being polite: they operate to maintain sex roles that champion action in males and passivity in females. One has to question the psychological healthiness of social norms that oblige women to be passive if they are to be perceived as polite. Pitting action against politeness affords women no real, or healthy, choices about how to behave.

It is not a cultural accident that the personality traits associated with a male’s performance in rituals between the sexes are precisely those traits which this culture values the most and considers socially desirable and mentally healthy activity: efficacy, authority, prowess, independence. Nor is it a cultural accident that the personality traits associated with the female’s performance are exactly those that our culture writes off as immature and childlike: passivity, dependence, weakness, frailty, ineptitude. The effect of chivalry, then, is to reinforce sex roles, a system geared to the creation of dominant males and submissive females. 

Though it is apparently ironic, the man who insists on opening doors for a woman often is the same man who argues that a woman should not be considered for a high-level job and that women should make less money than men. Similarly, it is entirely likely that the man who marries his wife to protect her from harm is the same man who beats her. Ted Bundy, a mass murderer of women, walked women to their cars at night to protect them from violent males. This behavior made it difficult for his friend, Ann Rule (1980), to believe he could have committed atrocities against women. Acts of protectiveness appear inconsistent with acts of violence. However, there is another way to look at this behavior: male protectiveness embodies an admission by men of men’s malevolence toward women.

These kindnesses wrap in a chivalric cloak the misogynistic core of our culture, disguising the actual situation of women. If men’s kindnesses toward women were really only kindnesses, a man would be pleased if another man or woman offered these kindnesses to him. He would be pleased if another man or woman lit his cigarette or pulled out his chair for him. He would be pleased to derive his income, prestige, power and even his identity from his partner. He would take pride in another man’s or woman’s offer to walk him to his car at night. But in fact, “one of the very nasty things that can happen to a man is his being treated or seen as a woman, or womanlike” (Frye 1983, p. 136).”

- Loving To Survive by Dee L. R. Graham

[gretavansteph]

be my baby | s.f.k

good morning!! happy Friday the 13th ! normally on these days nothing really happens to me but earlier when I was making breakfast I was adding a tiny bit of salt and then a big glob just plopped out onto my eggs and I just 🚶🏻‍♀️🚶🏻‍♀️🚶🏻‍♀️

anyway I hope everyone has a lovely day, I’m off to buy menstrual necessities despite the fact that I don’t want to leave my house but sadly, I must. This feels like a mini written vlog of me just over sharing and I like it

alsoooooo

MASSIVE thank you to everyone that has taken the time to read, like, comment, reblog, etc. any of my posts. truly makes me happy to see you guys enjoying the shit I cook up in my head 🤍

anyway this is long enough already SO 

since I’ve written a good amount of angst I think it’s time to come back to the fluff 

enjoy, my lovelies 😌

----------

When Sam was asked where he saw himself in five years, his answer always remained the same.

“Married, maybe a baby, definitely more dogs.” he would answer confidently every time, the biggest smile on his face.

When he met you, everything was amplified by a thousand. 

It was love at first sight for him, no other girl in the world mattered to him except you. He’d kiss your feet if needed be, if there was a puddle he would let you walk on his back all to not get your shoes wet. He cherished the ground you walked on, always praising you and showering you with his love every chance he’d get. He gave you anything and everything you ever wanted, he was every girls dream. 

And you were completely and utterly in love with him.

He did everything right, since the beginning. He treated you like a princess, insisted it was the least you deserved despite it being before your time as a couple. He treated you as if you were the rarest form of gold there ever was, much too valuable to ever be tainted and far too worthy of just any regular man. But Sam wasn’t just any regular man to you, which was why he was over the moon to have been the chosen one when it came to your affection. 

When you had first met he was the one that had been instantly pining over you, though you had made it clear you only wanted to be friends. That didn’t stop him, not even close, if anything it motivated him even more. It was in his blood to never give up, you had come to find out after meeting his brothers. 

“It’s a Kiszka thing,” his brothers had said, giving you the biggest and brightest smiles as if to say “you might as well give in now”.

But you had to admit, you loved the chase. You relished in the feel of being wanted by someone in such a pure and intimate way. Though it wasn’t much of a chase really, as he managed to all but tackle you at the 7 month long finish line. You gave in, once you realized the butterflies that fluttered in your tummy at the mere thought of him were never going to go away. They never once did throughout those 7 months, and they never did for the next 4 years.

Throughout your relationship he always kept you on your toes. Treating you to this and buying you that, cooking you this and singing you that. You did everything together, and neither of you would ever dream of getting tired of the other. 

One of your favorite things to do together was listen to music in the comfort of your cozy living room, a random record spinning in the corner as you built a puzzle together. The others laughed at the two of you, but it wasn’t in mockery, except for the teasing comments saying how old you guys behaved when you were only in your early twenties. But it was an activity the both of you enjoyed. You enjoyed going out and getting drinks with everyone every once in a while, but lately the two of you had been loving just staying home, making dinner together then moving to the living room, one of you picking a puzzle and the other picking a record. The way it was decided who got what job, was through a good ol trusty game of rock, paper, scissors.

“Ready to lose?” you teased, getting into position.

Sam scoffed, rolling his eyes mumbling what sounded like ‘as if’ under his breath before beginning the countdown. 

“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!”

Your hand flew out into the motion of scissors, while Sam’s hand went out flat on his palm. He pouted as you stuck your tongue out at him.

“No fair,” he mumbled. “Best two out of three!”

You rolled your eyes but resumed your position. “Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!”

And you beat him, again. 

You giggled as he got ready for the last and final round, mumbling words of encouragement to himself only to lose all over again. Your head was thrown back in laughter as he pouted even more than before, arms crossed over his chest even going so far as to throwing a stomp of his foot into the mix. He always enjoyed picking the music, wanting to show you something new he had found on one of the many record store adventures you had both gone on, or ones with just him and the boys. Most of the time he would win, but tonight luck was on your side and you made sure to flaunt your win in his face as much as you could as you all but skipped over to the record player to pick the music for the night.

You sifted through your shared record collection, majority of them belonging to Sam but you had added a good amount to the mix. Doing a little happy dance as you found the one you were looking for, you slipped it out of the sleeve and popped it onto the record player, setting the needle in place before making your way to the center of the room where Sam was waiting for you, the puzzle he had picked out already opened and laid out on the coffee table.

“What did you pick?” Sam asked as you took a seat across from him.

“You’ll see.” you said with a smile as you began to sort through the puzzle pieces. 

He didn’t press any further and you two began flipping the pieces over, connecting what you matched along the way. The beginning notes of the first song began to play, and Sam snapped his head up from the table to give you a knowing look. You gave him a big cheesy grin, and he couldn’t help but match it as he rolled his eyes playfully, shaking his head. 

“You and this damn record,” he said, turning his gaze back to the puzzle. 

The record you had picked was the soundtrack to Dirty Dancing. It was one of your favorite movies ever, and the soundtrack was absolutely perfect. It didn’t take long for Sam to realize it was your favorite, as it was the only movie you ever wanted to watch and you played the record any chance you’d get. You would spin it as you cooked dinner, pausing in between to pull him to dance with you. He loved pretending like he hated it, but he secretly loved it. You would catch him swaying to the music, tapping his fingertips on his knees to the beat, and he always wore the biggest smile as he spun you around the kitchen to the music. 

“Oh hush,” you said. “You love it.”

He simply hummed, but the smile remained on his face as he snuck occasional glances at you while you worked quietly on the puzzle, listening to the music as you enjoyed each others presence. You continued working on your puzzle, which was one you realized you had never built before.

“Where did you get this puzzle?” you asked Sam after a while. “I’ve never seen it and it’s hard.”

The last part came out with a pout, making him smile, though he didn’t offer much information about the puzzle, simply saying he had found it on the shelf. You had been at it for what felt like ages, but really it had only been about 30 minutes, the damn puzzle was only half way finished. It normally didn’t take this long for you to build a puzzle, but this one was extremely hard as all of the pieces were black. When the light would hit them at a certain angle certain colors would pop up, but for the most part it was all black. 

You let out a sigh as you pushed a few pieces away from you and towards the center of the table, and just as you were opening your mouth to complain an all too familiar tune sounded through the record player and you let out a squeal of excitement instead. You shot up from your spot on the carpet, stepping over towards Sam with your hand held out. 

“Dance with me.” you said to him, to which made him let out a groan as you dragged him up and off of the carpet.

He wrapped his arms around your waist as you brought yours up and around his neck, tucking your head into his chest as you swayed to the sounds of Otis Redding. 

These arms of mine

They are lonely

Lonely, and feeling blue

These arms of mine

They are yearning 

Yearning from wanting you

And if you 

Would let them hold you

Oh, how grateful I will be

You continued to sway to the song, and you kept on dancing as the next song played. It was the song that played during the love scene, and Sam knew, which was why he attempted to dip you the way they do in the movie, almost dropping you and him onto the ground as he did so. You were both a giggly mess as you straightened back up. You danced to the remainder of the song, but near the end you decided to go back to the puzzle.

You felt a tug on your hand as you turned to sit back down, and you turned to face Sam.

“One more,” 

You gave him a look, he was never the one to initiate any of the dancing especially to this record. Normally he’d be the one itching to go and sit down, but not tonight. You grinned happily and resumed your position, tucking yourself into his chest as he held your intertwined hands close to his chest. As the next song began to play, you felt him begin to sway the two of you once more. You felt him lean down a little, feeling his warm breath on your ear, tickling as he began to sing.

The night we met I knew I

Needed you so

And if I had the chance I’d

Never let you go

So won’t you say you love me?

I’ll make you so proud of me

We’ll make them turn their heads

Every place we go

So won’t you please

Be my little baby

Say you’ll be my darling

Be my baby now

Oh, oh, oh, oh

The smile that took over your face as he sang one of your favorite tracks to you was one so big you were afraid it would all but fall off of your face. He had sang to you before, but not like this. This time it felt different, more intimate, like it was coming from him with some sort of underlying message. You couldn’t figure out what it was so you didn’t give those theories much thought, you simply cuddled into him more and let him sway you as he continued singing the rest of the song. 

I’ll make you happy, baby

Just wait and see

For every kiss you give me

I’ll give you three

Oh, since the day I saw you

I have been waiting for you

You know I will adore you 

Until eternity

You stayed in each others arms as the song came to an end, and when it did you turned your head upwards to face Sam, only to find him already looking down at you. 

“What was all that for?” you asked, leaning in to his touch as he brought his hands to each of your cheeks, holding you in place. He simply shook his head with a smile before leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss. You felt your body melting into his, the same effect his kisses have had on you since the first one you shared. Which felt much like this one. Soft, yet firm, warm and filled with equal parts love and passion. Every time he kissed you it was nothing short of love that poured through his lips and into you, but this kiss in particular felt very different. You pulled away after some time as your lungs needed air, and without much else of a word he pulled you over to the coffee table where you were meant to finish the puzzle. You were so dazed from the kiss that you weren’t of much help, but a comment from Sam had you snapping out of your thoughts.

“All done!”

You blinked, one, two, three times as you settled your eyes on the now completed puzzle in front of you.

“How the hell did you do that?” you asked, your mouth slightly open due to your shock.

“One of my other many talents I guess,” he answered smugly, giving a small shrug of his shoulders.

You smiled at how cute he was, even when he was boasting about the many talents you already knew he had. You moved your eyes down to the puzzle, not seeing anything special except a full picture in black. 

“So...what am I looking at exactly?” you asked, causing Sam to stand up excitedly to shut the lights off. 

“You have to hold a black light to it,” he spoke, switching the lights off before he made his way back over to you. 

You felt his presence behind you, his legs pressed against your back and you jumped slightly when something that resembled the feel of a flashlight was positioned in your hands. 

“Okay, on the count of three shine the line on the table,” he instructed, and you voiced your understanding. 

“1...2...3!”

You flicked the light on and shone it on the table, taking notice of how the once upon a time all black puzzle was now lit up, displaying different neon colored letters. You furrowed your brows in confusion, but before you could say anything you felt Sam’s hand come around and grip the wrist that was holding the flashlight, and he positioned it at the top left corner.

“Start here,” he spoke quietly.

You followed his instructions, and went about shining the light from left to right, revealing a few words as you went.

“Will.....you,” you read aloud, moving the flashlight down and over once again. “...marry,” 

You gasped, your eyes widening as your eyes trailed over the rest, but it was another voice that had spoke the last word. 

“Me,”

You turned to face Sam, who had moved over to switch the lights back on once you finished reading. He was now down on one knee behind you, a ring clasped between his thumb and pointer finger as he held it against his chest, specifically over his heart.

“Be my baby,” he spoke again, and you couldn’t help but smile as he quoted the song. “And do me the wonderful honor of marrying me.”

You felt your knees shaking, your lip trembling and your vision went blurry as the tears spilled from your eyes. You took a step towards him, looking down at him as he looked up at you with nothing but love filled hopeful eyes. 

“Abso-fucking-lutely!” you all but squealed, throwing your arms around his neck as you tackled him onto the floor.

His loud laugh was the only thing heard for miles and miles, you imagined. You laughed along with him but it was more of a cry laugh as you sobbed within the arms of your now fiancé. You gasped at the thought and felt him pull you up into a sitting position, holding your hand in his. It took a few tries to get the ring on, both of your hands equally as shaky but once it was on it was staying on. You stared down at it in awe, then back up at Sam, complete and utter disbelief written on your expression.

“That puzzle wasn’t actually just on the shelf, huh?” you asked.

He shook his head no with a big smile. “I ordered it a few weeks ago, I’m surprised you hadn’t noticed it sitting there this whole time but I’m glad you didn’t.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest at his confession, hearing that he had this planned for weeks now made the butterflies in your tummy flutter like never before. 

He pulled you into another hug, this time giving you a spin around the room, your laughs bouncing of the walls as the room was filled with nothing but love and adoration. Once he came to a stop your wrapped your legs around his waist, your hands coming to sit on both his cheeks, thumbs lightly caressing his face. 

“What are you thinking?” he whispered. 

You smiled, leaning in to give him a gentle kiss. Your kisses trailed over towards his cheek then back once more to his lips before you pulled back.

“Will you be my baby?”

He grinned as you repeated his words back to him, and you watched in adoration as he happily shook his head.

“Your one and only, baby.”

---------

y’all i’m an absolute WHORE for dirty dancing the sound track is TOP TIER i just had to incorporate this now excuse me while i go bawl my eyes out at the movie 

[thethirdromana]

I started writing a Dracula fanfic called First Meetings and First Kisses, which was going to be about... well, the title pretty much covers it. But I'd also planned to have finished it round about now, which has definitely not happened.

In fact, I only ended up writing one of the first meetings, Jonmina, which I think is not quite canon-compliant due to further details that have been revealed in the daily emails since I wrote it.

Since I can't see myself writing any of the others, that's below the cut.

CW for mild period-typical racism.

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

(Kept in shorthand)

Thursday, 6 February – Exeter – I thought I might have this evening for my journal, but Mr Hawkins surprised me this afternoon with an invitation to dinner. 

“Truthfully, Mr Harker, it would be a favour to me,” he said. “I have a young lady to dinner, Miss Murray. I used to invite my sister before her passing, but now it is only me, and I am afraid that I am terribly dull company for young ladies.”

I protested that my acquaintance with young ladies was scarcely greater, but he insisted.

“I should like Miss Murray to have more friends of her own age,” he added. “Like yourself, she is an orphan - in practice, if not in fact. Let me tell you about her.”

I put my papers to one side; it was clear there was to be no arguing with him. My employer is such a kind and genial man, I never like to gainsay him.

“She is of Indian stock. The Murrays are missionaries, and they adopted her as a baby from a situation of terrible squalor. She was then brought to England when she was not yet six, and a suitable establishment was found for her education. The Murrays placed some little money in trust for her, and I was appointed trustee.”

“In what manner does that make her an orphan?” I asked.

“The Murrays never left India, or if they did, I was not informed. She was raised by the school that I found for her. The trust has long since run out so my duties as trustee are discharged. It was barely sufficient for her education and I confess I supplemented it in order to keep her decently clothed. I am the closest thing she has to family now, though her school took her on as a teacher.”

It was a touching story, and I think Mr Hawkins saw I was moved.

“It would do me good to see her married,” he added, as if it had been an afterthought - though I suspected it was the purpose of the conversation and indeed the dinner itself! Mr Hawkins confirmed the suspicion by saying, “you need have no concern about the circumstances of her birth. She is quite the proper English lady.”

I did not enquire why I should have concerns about her birth particularly. I am surely too young, and too junior in my profession, to think of marrying. Nonetheless, it is kind of Mr Hawkins to think of me as someone who would make a good match for a young woman it seems he considers as the next thing to a daughter. 

I look forward to meeting Miss Murray at dinner, for all that I have no intention of marrying her.

~

Later – What a vision! What a delight! But I must try to record my feelings and experiences as they happened, for I think – for I hope – that I may have cause to look back on this account one day, of my first meeting with the woman who – no, I dare not write it! There are some dreams too wonderful and fragile to put into words. 

I can scarcely manage to describe her; I fear falling into cliché. She has dark hair and dark eyes. She is petite and… oh, how can I describe someone such as Miss Murray as if I were giving a description of a burglar to the police? I give up!

Mr Hawkins introduced her to me, and it came as no surprise to hear that among other things, she is responsible for the proper etiquette of her students, for she played her part in the introduction flawlessly.

Yet I don’t wish to give the impression that she did nothing more than act the role of “the Angel in the House”. She was an eager and intelligent participant in our conversation over dinner. Mr Hawkins and I discussed the details of one of our current cases (in the most general terms to preserve our client’s confidentiality) and she grasped the complexities immediately. She is committed to autodidacticism; she is teaching herself to type, as she believes this will be useful to her and to her students, and she seemed quite fascinated when I shared that I had recently mastered shorthand.

I felt as if in the course of that short dinner, I had learned more of her and revealed more to myself of her than I could say of anyone else in my whole life. I long to speak with her further; I long to hear her opinion on every matter. 

At the end of the dinner, I suggested that I might write to her, and she seemed to welcome the suggestion. Oh, Miss Murray, what an honour it would be even to be your correspondent! 

Words fail me. I must return to this account once I am of calmer mind, though I cannot think when that might be.

[ddarker-dreams]

Yan Genshin / Being Their Darling.

Childe: 

The days of living a peaceful, quaint life will be far behind you. Childe doesn’t allow himself the vulnerability of getting close to many. He doesn’t care how bloody the road ahead to winning you is, as his hands have never been clean. All is fair in love and war, right? 

Childe will get his claws deep into your life before you realize what’s happening. Whether it be extortion or threatening, Liyue’s Fatui are at his disposal, to be used however he sees fit. He’d like to have some form of leverage over you as a backup plan if the regular attempt at romancing you is unsuccessful. There’s also an appeal to knowing you’re under his thumb.

Fatui underlings would be assigned on shifts to watch over you. Anyone that Childe perceives as “too friendly” (which he has a rather lenient definition of), is harassed at a later time to deter further interaction with you. The sudden isolation is unexpected, those who used to be close with you seem too frightened to look you in the eye. 

He wishes he had more time to spend with you. The times he does get to spend by your side are eventful, but not in ways you can appreciate. Childe is something of a pest by your side. He won’t leave until he feels you’ve given him enough attention, which is difficult since you always leave him wanting more. 

“Didn’t you know I had to work overtime to spend this evening together? Really, trying to lose me in a crowd... I’m almost insulted that you thought that’d work. Try that again and I might just have to tie you up. C’mon, don’t look at me like that, I’m just kidding.”

Diluc: 

Luxury and pampering at a cost of your autonomy. You won’t know of the latter until later. Diluc’s attention might even feel enthralling at first, Mondstadt’s most desired bachelor seeking you out is a deep honor if nothing else. Gifts are delivered to your residence, ranging from simple to extravagant. He doesn’t want to draw attention to himself at first, but it doesn’t take too much investigation to find who the gifts are from.

When you’re asleep at night, Diluc finds himself drawn to your residence while sweeping the city of Mondstadt at night. There’s a certain perch nearby that gives him access to your bedroom window. How the moonlight shines on your sleeping face makes his heart go wild, a sliver of a smile on his lips. 

Diluc is already a hard worker, but he pushes himself even further to cleanse the world for your sake. You become another unhealthy obsession and almost a reward for his efforts. The entitlement to your time and love creeps up on him before he knows it. For the most part, he can repress it, but that’s exacerbated by any advances on you. 

Overtime will grow more overbearing as these emotions rise to the surface. Insisting on walking you to places, helping with your finances, and even suggesting you quit your job altogether. Diluc makes it clear that he wants to take care of you but won’t say why exactly. To have you relying on him would be ideal, so that’s what he’s going for. 

“Your hesitation is understandable, but please give it some thought. Whatever it is that’s stressing you, I can handle, so that it’s no longer an issue. I’m more than capable of that.” 

Kaeya:

Underneath a meticulously crafted façade of friendliness are layers of cunning. For every step you feel you’re ahead, Kaeya is ten more. It never hits you until it’s too late how entangled your paths are. Everything was planned — months in advance, even — to bring about the result he desires. 

Operates more in the shadows before making a move. Ideal scenarios fall perfectly into place, painting a favorable picture of him to you. Leading monsters to areas you frequent, only to assist you in fending them off, even offering to tend to your wounds should you have obtained any. All the while having his signature charm on full display.

Kaeya desires for you to rely on him to an unhealthy degree. That way you’ll come to return his love, or so he believes, a bond formed under turbulent times. The coincidental eviction and offer to stay with him is a perfect example. When the world is falling apart, Kaeya is there by your side, extending a helping hand. Little do you know that it’s those same hands that manipulated these situations into existence. 

He’s done his homework and it shows. Every little accidental brushing over his hand over yours, amorous whispering into your ear, and flirtatious remark is designed to your liking. Kaeya mentions your interests in conversation, anything to warm you up to him. It works like a charm too, as you steadily let down your walls and let him in. 

“I’m staring? Oh, you caught me. Though, I can’t bring myself to apologize. It’s unreasonable if you think I could take my eyes off you, when you’re standing there looking like that. Ah... there’s that blush again. See what I mean?” 

Zhongli:

The unrelenting favor from Liyue’s Archon is suffocating. He has astounding wisdom on matters often left in the pages of dust-covered texts. He knows your family lineage and situation on an almost intimate level, recounting details that no one else should be privy to. You’ll get the sense there’s more to Zhongli than what he’s letting on. 

Zhongli will see to it that you have lots of free time (to be spent with him...). Any business-related ventures, whether it be filling out permits or negotiation contracts will be completed in record time. All he asks in return is to have dinner together. At the time, it feels like a reasonable request, if not a confusing one. Shouldn’t you be the one treating him after all his help? He looks uncertain when you mention this to him, like he hadn’t thought about it before.

Your family will likely encourage your relationship — even if you insist it’s strictly platonic — believing Zhongli to be an ideal match. His work ethic, knowledge, and cordial nature would be brought up to further convince you. They’d reason that should you ever marry, Zhongli would be more than capable of taking care of you (and them, by extension), for the rest of your life.  

He’s more than aware of this newfound grievance in your life. Zhongli believes that by earning the approval of your family, he’ll earn yours as well, so that’s where he started. The pressure surrounding from all sides might make you cave eventually. Until then, he will continue to present himself as a desirable bachelor. This methodology feels perfect, since any angst you may have won’t be directed at him, but your family instead. 

“So you think talking to them about it would only worsen the situation? While that makes sense, I believe I could be of assistance, should they hear it coming from me. I’m afraid I’ll have to insist this time.”