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aconflagrationofmyown · 2 years

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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.

#reposting for masterlist purposes #since the other links are deactivated #cheers #elvis fanfiction #sarge and lil mama #the beginning #elvis imagine #elvis fanfic #elvis x reader #elvis x you #austin elvis imagine #elvis presley #Elvis x Elaine

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captain-mj · 1 year

Note

I’m asking. Here it is. Ghoap outlander au. I have nothing to offer but my left kidney

Keep your kidney. Ive been shaking and waiting for someone to send me this ask. Real quick though, besides the basics of “modern person gets sent into 1700s Scotland” This won’t follow the show that much. Also, we are IGNORING homophobia. Realistically they were Catholic at the time but i do not care. Chances are there's going to be quite a few historical accuracies (plus I'm planning on making multiple parts because I fucking adore this idea) so just like... little heads up about that

Also, I'm doing this based off og SoapGhost, obviously it doesn't matter much, but I wanted you guys to know :)

Ghost had never believed in... well anything mystical really. He thought it was nonsense. For some people, it was helpful, but it meant nothing to him. Gunpowder held more meaning than a cross. He was a medic in the army for fuck’s sake.

So when he walked into an area he was told was sacred and asked to be careful, he treated it the same way he treated everything else of this nature. That was not to say he was in any way disrespectful, but he didn't treasure it the way his colleagues did. He was a soldier first, person second. The dark stones reached up to the sky, unnerving in their monolith, but they didn’t strike the fear of God into him.

And then, he felt a knife go through him. It aimed for one of his organs. He didn't remember hitting the ground, just knew that he was on it suddenly. Blood filled his mouth and he couldn't breath. Silently, he prepared himself for the next blow. Accepting death was maybe a bit too easy for him.

But he didn't die. He just laid there in a puddle of his own blood. Weird. It hurt a lot more than a regular stab wound but he was alive.

Ghost tried to get up to call for the others but someone's boot landed on his back, pushing him into the ground. The person started to speak, though he didn't understand the language.

"Get off of me." He tried to stand up and then a blade was against his neck. A sword. The person had a fucking sword. Ghost managed to glance up.

The person must be some kind of weirdo fucking larper. They had a mohawk with braids in it and blue swirling tattoos all over their shoulders and chest. As for their clothing... it was traditional. Kilt, furs over their upper half. He was hot but that was besides the point.

The person looked irritated, barking at him in his language again.

Ghost thought it through. "I can't understand you. I'm English?" He hoped the word “English” would mean something to him.

The man made a very upset face when he said English and that wasn’t what Ghost had in mind when he said something. He hissed at him and dug his heel in. Ghost groaned and gritted his teeth, glaring.

Someone spoke from elsewhere and he paused.

The man stepped off of Ghost and made a motion to get up, sword still pointed at him. Ghost got up and went for his gun, only to find the holsters empty. All of them. Even his assault rifle, which he was pretty sure only landed a few inches from his hand, was gone.

What the hell.

He looked up at him cautiously.

The man looked down at him and slowly used the blade to force him to tilt his head back.

His mask. Ghost's eyes widened as he thought about it. The stranger knelt down and went to remove it and Ghost tried to shove him off. Quickly they were surrounded by more men and something blunt hit the back of Ghost's head.

It was hours later when he woke up. He groaned softly and sat up, feeling thin restraints tug at his wrists. They were just thin leather straps, clearly more of a message than to keep him down.

Ghost looked around the room. It wasn't that well furnished, but it was rather cozy. The few pieces of furnishings he could see had clearly been hand carved. That did not mean they weren't well made, just it was clear they weren't machine manufactured.

He slipped from the binds anyway, touching himself to check for injuries. The knife wound had been well stitched and bandaged perfectly. Funnily enough, it looked like the supplies came from his own bag which was next to him on the floor. His shirt had been taken but the blanket had been pulled to his collar, so he had some privacy.

His mask. Fuck. He quickly touched his face, but luckily, his fingers met the soft fabric. They hadn't taken his mask.

Ghost started to get up but someone came in. The same mohawked person from before. They stared at each other before the man set the plate on the dresser.

They were roughly the same height, but Ghost was sure he could fight him off if needed. However, he was injured and the man brought food.

"English?" He said slowly, like he was feeling out the word. Ghost had a feeling it wasn't his native language. His thick scottish accent grated on the words.

"Yes... Speak it?" Ghost held his wound.

"Vaguely. Soap."

Ghost blinked, a little taken back. "Soap?"

Soap pointed at himself and nodded before pointing at Ghost.

"Ghost." He didn't want to tell him his real name. "What do you speak?"

"Gaelic."

"Don't speak that..." Ghost backed up and tried to joke.

Soap smiled and held out the food. It looked simple. Meat, potatoes, almost laughably what you'd expect from a Scottish person. "Eat."

Ghost reached out slowly and took it from him. The plate felt funny under his hands. He held it to himself, but Soap wasn't leaving.

Ghost decided to try to get some information. "Where am I?"

"Highlands."

"Here with a lot of people?" Maybe if there weren't too many, he could fight his way out. Or maybe just escape silently.

"Dozens. Better you stay here." Soap reached out and Ghost backed up, pressing against the wall. He pulled his hand back though it still lingered in the air.

Ghost slowly pulled his mask up and started to eat. He was starving. It tasted pretty good. His sunglasses were gone and the candle lighting of the room made Soap look otherworldly. A angel. He quickly glanced away again.

“You’re injured. Shouldn’t be out of bed.” Soap chided him, his head tilting slightly. He waited though until Ghost was done eating, hand reaching out for the plate. Once it was set to the side, Soap grabbed him, wrestling him back down.

Ghost fought back, trying to get away from him, but Soap had the advantage of not being fucking stabbed. He ended up straddling him to the bed as he retied him, this time much more securely.

Ghost tensed, feeling Soap’s weight on him. Panic filled his mind until it overflowed and he was kicking and thrashing. He didn’t make a sound, but he didn’t really need to.

Soap grabbed his face. “Breath.” It was a command and Ghost found himself following it. “Good.” He took a deep breath for Ghost to mirror and soon, his head was slightly clearer.

“Don’t touch me.” Ghost managed to spit out.

Soap nodded and got off of him. “Stay down, yes?”

Ghost glared and Soap put his hand firmly in his chest. “Won’t have to touch you if you stay down. Now. Stay. Down.”

Slowly, Ghost nodded.

“Good boy.” Soap grinned and Ghost felt heat rush to his face. He patted him gently and left Ghost alone again.

Ghost started to plan how he would escape.

#cod #cod mw2 #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare ii #soap call of duty #johnny soap mactavish #soapghost #ghostsoap #simon ghost riley #simon riley

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boundinparchment · 1 year

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Dream a Little Dream of Me - XXXVIII

Celestia had a cruel sense of humor. He knew this, even before his days as a student. But to be given a soulmate? Now, when he openly blasphemed against the cursed island in the sky? He would outlive you and the dreadful fated bond that haunted your shared dreams. There was little point in this. He could at least put a Vision to good use. People were nothing but disappointments. He had no use for you. Until you pulled the bow across your instrument and awoke a part of him long buried by self-hatred and arrogance. Soulmate AU; Il Dottore/Female reader w/ established personality and backstory. Slow burn. Lore and world speculation and interpretation within; follows canon story where possible. On AO3 here.

So far, your combat trials were some of the most impressive sessions he’d seen in a while.

You weren’t perfect. Far from it. Your aim needed work. You had a hard time leveraging the claymore properly. Such things only came with time, when one knew the weight and balance of a weapon as well as they knew themselves.

A second shining blade made itself known with the first, pure Geo energy so refined that it passed for diamond. Pantalone would be jealous, certainly. In the first few trials, he speculated that your abilities mirrored his own, in that his claymore became unnecessary and he could freely wield his Cryo needles without a hand on his weapon.

He was half-right. You required the claymore in order to retain the Geo swords, however. You had to direct the Geo energy somehow and despite the lack of familiarity with your powers, you moved as if you knew exactly what you were doing. If he counted just right, it always seemed as though you were following a very specific rhythm when landing your blows. Your claymore’s swing was accompanied by the lightest enhancement of a particular pitch, depending on how you swung it.

Your combat abilities weren’t the only thing subject to musical structures. Silence that prevailed too long was filled with humming, sometimes fragmented until you found the right note and flow. Occasionally, the repetition set his teeth on edge. But when he addressed it and your head snapped up from the book you were reading (probably something left behind by a stray assistant), he realized from your expression that you had no idea you were doing it.

Music was as much a part of you as machines were for him. He lived and breathed moving parts and systems and the perfection with which they operated; no doubt, music was as precious to you as your own blood, something he knew but never saw in practice, not even in your dream-shares. Then again, you’d had a proper outlet for such energies and now all of that desire had nowhere to go.

Zandik looked down at the work table in front of him, the surface littered with parts and wires and drawings. Omega was handling everything with Akademiya, as expected, which left him with time to look over the schematics for weapons manufacturing. Easy work, really. Boring work.

He’d given the plans all but five minutes of his time before he found himself examining the cello neck again. You’d handed it over but not without several questions, all of which were understandable. This remnant was precious to you, even if it only seemed like a chunk of carved and varnished wood to him.

You…directed…your elemental energy…almost as if you were conducting…

Something you’d never done, as far as he was aware. If you had, it was an experience you did not impart to him in any way.

What if…

Ah, such a thing would be simple enough. A receiver on both objects, intended for long distance, sensitive enough to acknowledge even the smallest nuance in motion. He’d attempted something similar before he’d learned how to control his claymore without such interference. The Akasha modifications were a more taxing option and he’d paid the price for it heavily before finding a more efficient solution.

A tool like this might make it easier for you to wield; better still, it might make you more sure in your strikes, confident in your abilities.

As for the other problem…

Zandik sifted through a few stray notes on the table. He’d had to go by memory for the shape and the size, and it would require far more research, but this posed its own set of problems.

Wood would, of course, be best. He could hear Sandrone and Pantalone criticizing his prototype based on the material alone, let alone the notion of construction. It would be more efficient to trust another in this particular area. But the urge to create something unique, something no one else would ever be able to recreate, sat in his very joints and made his muscles itchy.

So many of his advancements were attributed to others, his contributions pushed aside because of his moniker of outcast .

But this?

A cello so clear and radiant that it would only be rivaled by the Tsaritsa herself (and maybe not even then). The material didn’t carry sound well on its own but an amplifier and a transmitter were easy additions. It wouldn’t be possible to start until he returned to Snezhnaya. Hard enough to keep you from spotting anything you shouldn’t as it was.

He heard a soft groan from the small lounge chair nearby and looked up to find you stretching, your nose still buried in whatever novel you’d found to occupy your mind. Although your eyes had yet to leave the page, you were poised to get up, flex, find something else to do.

Case in point.

Zandik placed the instrument neck down and smoothly shuffled the various pages in front of him just as you came up beside him.

“Don’t stop on my account, Zandik.”

“There’s little to be done right now that cannot wait until I have proper facilities.”

“You heard a composition meant for you way too early; the piece you overheard was far from finished. I always enjoy hearing you sort out ideas, what you’re working on…”

You were shrewd; you would still be in Omega’s dreamcycle if you weren’t. Hiding this from you wouldn’t be viable forever.

Especially when you looked at him like that . Earnest, curious, encouraging and genuine in every aspect of it, despite everything you’d endured.

He could deal with politicians looking out for their own self-interest. He could deal with the other Harbingers just as vicious in their ambitions as they were towards one another. The dreams had been nothing more than another experiment and he never anticipated they would truly result in you . Finding you had been a happy coincidence, a pet project, an outcome he considered but never anticipated.

The plea at the end of your words had been slight, easy to miss if he were anyone else. In your defense, you had little to occupy you for the moment and he was, for all intents and purposes, your only other connection for the moment.

That, too, would change upon your arrival to Snezhnaya.

A caged bird would never sing and he knew better than anyone what it meant to have the freedom required for creation.

Zandik turned and reached a gloved hand to brush your neck as he leaned down to whisper a teasing, “I don’t think so,” against your skin.

He heard your breath hitch but you didn’t pull away, didn’t move, and he longed to bury his nose in your hair. You smelled of sweetness, of summer flowers, undercut by sensations that dreams could never capture. He steadied himself with his other hand on the table and swallowed as you moved your head slightly towards him, cheeks brushing before you looked at him out of the corner of your eye. His heart shuddered.

What if…

The distance to be crossed was negligible, so miniscule that neither he nor you needed to lean before your lips met. He willed his heart rate to slow, not that it would listen, your lips soft and warm.

It was over as quickly as it began. His lips tingled and then burned, his breaths short but steady. You had yet to move, to pull away, your hands seeking amongst the straps and ornaments of his coat. He could not bring himself to step away, not yet.

Zandik pressed the lightest of kisses to the corner of your jaw, just below your ear, where your pulse seemed to be thrumming.

Everything was a delicate balance and while he never minded exploring opportunities, this was…precarious.

The sigh that escaped your lips was the closest sound to bliss he’d ever heard in his presence; the flip in his gut was unsettling, too unlike a moment of piloting a Ruin Golem, and yet he felt as if he would endure that sensation eternally if you…

Zandik caught the slightest movement out of the corner of his eye, the doors to the workshop open a fraction and a boot just barely through the doorway. He flicked his eyes up to find Omega, mask off, ruin core spinning, hesitating . For once, the Segment was acutely aware of itself, its place.

Nothing from the Segment network, no attempt to communicate.

The Segment retreated, its boot disappearing from the doorway before the doors closed silently.

He felt your hands against his chest, seemingly smoothing out his lapels, tracing the decorative edges of his coat. Eternity in all of a minute.

Oh, how he wished he could preserve this.

#dottore #il dottore #il dottore x reader #dottore x reader #dottore x female reader #il dottore x female reader #genshin impact reader insert #soulmate au #yes i changed the summary and yes i should fix it retroactively #will I? debatable #dottore/female reader #il dottore/female reader #dottore/reader #il dottore/reader

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ramenwithbroccoli · 5 months

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finally introducing the other character who also occupies a part of my brain:

Meet Giewont!

while the creator of it, Maria Leszczyńska, originally intended to make a war machine, she struggled a lot with finding resources then. however, with her and her family's life deeply affected by both world wars, the idea never left her mind. inspired by utopian idea of glass houses from a novel "the spring to come" ¹, she created her machine from glass. it would be cheap to make, yet durable, available as help to those in need, able to do hard work in times when it was needed - but if fragile peace was in danger again, it could fight alongside other soldiers. as if to set that role of protector in stone, she named it Giewont ². to test her creation, she gifed it to her brother Andrzej, who owned a small farm near the seaside.

Giewont worked as much as four men, not needing to be paid or fed like people would. it was a perfect solution for everybody, the new industrial revolution. that was, until about half a year into her work, glass started to shatter. it turned out not to be as durable as the utopian story made it to be, especially in contact with rough farm tools. small cracks also started to appear after they worked outside in winter, with low temperatures on the outside and hot steam circulating inside. with her fingers and edges getting sharper every day, Giewont was forbidden from taking care of animals anymore, as she would injure them. she was given the only task with no way to injure others - they recieved a showel fully made from metal and was ordered to dig. she did as she was told, even though the work put strain on her already-falling-apart fingers.

but when one day, when returning home, she noticed daughter of Andrzej, Aniela, swimming too far away from the shore and having trouble coming back, long forgotten wire snapped into its place as she jumped into the water to save her. while Giewont did bring her back home, carrying her in their arms, the girl had severe cuts on her body from coming in contact with robot's sharp hands. furious with his sister creation, Andrzej took it outside, desperate to destroy it. blinded by anger, he didn't even notice the storm gathering over the horizon

Andrzej took the metal showel and struck Giewont on the side on their head, then again, until her body fell and crumbled to pieces. He covered it with sand and raised his hands to deal the final blow.

that's when the lightning struck.

and the man fell to the ground, dead.

the sand melted from the heat around Giewont, filling the empty spaces and connecting the pieces back together. raising from their shallow grave, with body more rigid than what she was used to, she took her shovel and decided to bury the man, with what respect they had left for him. that was, after she dealt the final blow herself.

although miraculous, the lightning didn't return her to the previous state of being. their motions were stiff and some parts of theirs got lost forever among the sands of the beach. the part of her head where the first blow was dealt never worked properly again, rendering Giewont deaf in one ear (or whatever was left from it). however it did some good as well, as it widened the space around her mouth, finally making them able to talk - even if it was simillar to a whistle. determined to help people but with a body that kept hurting everyone around her, Giewont set off into the world, trying to find a home and piece herself together, leaving parts herself and a dead body behind.

footnotes below the cut:

1. "During one pause in their journey, the elder Baryka tells Cezary of an entrepreneur who, along Poland’s Baltic coast, devised an ingenious method for manufacturing durable glass from the vast reserves of pristine sands that had lain for eons beneath coastal peat fields. By a massive Rube Goldberg-type arrangement of channels and a creative method for harnessing the westerly winds (the storytelling here is a literary engineering feat in itself), an incursion of the sea provides power for converting the extracted sand into glass. From this vitreous wonder substance, prefabricated houses of glass are built inexpensively. The houses are strong as steel, hygienic, and easy to heat in winter and keep cool in summer. Whole villages are built with houses of brightly colored glass. Life becomes less of a struggle for mere existence, more civilized, and without the need to toil incessantly. People eat less meat or no meat at all, and begin to revere farm animals as sacred beings. For the reader, the digression serves to freshen the mental palate. For Cezary, however, the story is altogether beguiling, raising the utopian prospect of a more wonderful life, reunited with a homeland that might have been his to begin with and a father he has just rediscovered" - via neh.gov

wow thanks for skimming through footnotes as well! as a reward, here's the first ever design of both Janka and Giewont (which proves they were both created around the same time :] )

2. "Those knights had been in a deep sleep for hundreds of years and they only would wake up if it is time to fight on a great battle. When this day comes, the earth will move, there will be thunders that would shake the sky, many trees will fall and break, and there would be noises when the Border Mountains will break. On that moment the knights will take their horses and they will gallop to fight for Poland once again." - the legend of the sleeping knights

a lot had changed since that time :]

#i hope it wasn't too long :')#sorry if tge drawings vary in between them i kind of drew them in way different times #AND BTW i know all of them have cracks but yellow cracks were supposed to apper after they got almost killed #i just never did the drawing of original giewont. huh #me when i try nkt to give my oc a backstory the lenght of do you love the colors of the sky post -> 😰😰#OH AND ALSO she doesn't have to be purple. thats just what i went with because of my pens but. shes glass #they can be blue. they can be green. they can be yellow or rainbow or whatever. she can be see through. so if i draw her again and the colo #is different don't yell at me alright? the cracks stay yellow tho #spg fanbot #<- i mean. technically it is the same case as with janka but im even less sure now. can remive the tag at request #oc #original character #giewont spg #<- gotta remember to put spg there or mountain fans of tumblr will come for my blood #welcome to the family giewont :D

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seppasolution11 · 11 days

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Comprehensive Overview of Pet Blowing Machine Manufacturer: Seppa Solutions

Seppa Solutions is a leading manufacturer of high-quality PET blowing machine, a crucial component of PET bottle manufacturing in industries like beverages, pharmaceuticals, and personal care. Their machines are energy-efficient, consuming less energy than traditional PET-blowing machines, making them environmentally friendly and cost-effective. Seppa Solutions offers customizable solutions for specific production requirements, including mold designs, bottle shapes, and production speeds. Their PET-blowing machines feature advanced heating systems, high-speed production capabilities, precision control, multi-cavity blow molding, and a user-friendly interface. Investing in Seppa Solutions PET-blowing machines offers numerous benefits, including reduced production costs, consistent product quality, environmental sustainability, and long-term durability.

#pet blowing machine #pet bottle blowing machine #automatic pet bottle blowing machine #bottle blowing machine #pet bottle making machine #pet making machine #pet bottle blow machine #pet blowing machine manufacturer in india #automatic pet blowing machine

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waterplant24 · 1 month

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Water Treatment Plants: Ensuring Clean Water for Every Industry

Introduction

Water treatment plants play a crucial role in ensuring that the water we consume and use in various industries is safe, clean, and fit for purpose. From drinking water to industrial processes, the quality of water directly impacts health, safety, and efficiency. This article explores the different types of water treatment plants and their specific roles in various industries.

Mineral Water Plant

Mineral Water Plant is designed to purify water and infuse it with essential minerals, making it safe and healthy for consumption. The process involves several stages, including filtration, reverse osmosis, UV treatment, and ozonation. These plants are essential in producing bottled water, which is widely consumed around the world. The purity of the water is maintained through rigorous quality checks, ensuring that the final product is free from contaminants.

Juice Production Plant

Juice production plants are specialized facilities where fruit juices are extracted, processed, and packaged for distribution. The process begins with the selection of fresh fruits, which are then washed, peeled, and juiced. The juice is pasteurized to kill any harmful bacteria, and additives like vitamins and minerals may be included to enhance its nutritional value. Finally, the juice is filled into bottles or cartons using advanced filling machines, ensuring that it remains fresh and flavorful.

Soft Drink Plant

Soft drink plants are complex facilities that produce carbonated beverages enjoyed by millions. The production process starts with water purification, followed by the mixing of various ingredients, including sweeteners, flavorings, and carbon dioxide. The mixture is then chilled, carbonated, and filled into bottles or cans. These plants are equipped with state-of-the-art machinery that ensures consistency, quality, and safety in every bottle.

PET Bottle Plant

PET bottles are ubiquitous in the beverage industry due to their durability, lightweight, and recyclability. PET bottle plant is where these bottles are manufactured. The process involves the use of preforms, which are heated and blown into the desired bottle shape using blow molding machines. These bottles are then used to package a wide range of beverages, from water to soft drinks, providing a convenient and safe packaging solution.

Commercial RO Plant

Commercial Reverse Osmosis (RO) plants are designed to purify water on a larger scale, suitable for commercial establishments such as hotels, restaurants, and offices. These plants use a multi-stage filtration process, including sediment filtration, activated carbon filtration, and reverse osmosis, to remove impurities and contaminants from water. The result is clean, safe water that meets the needs of businesses and their customers.

Industrial RO Plant

Industrial RO plants are similar to commercial RO plants but are designed to handle much larger volumes of water. These plants are used in industries such as pharmaceuticals, food and beverage, and chemical manufacturing, where water purity is critical. Industrial RO plants are highly efficient, capable of removing up to 99% of dissolved salts, bacteria, and other impurities, ensuring that the water used in industrial processes is of the highest quality.

Water Softener

Water softeners are essential in areas where water hardness is a problem. Hard water contains high levels of calcium and magnesium, which can cause scale buildup in pipes and reduce the efficiency of appliances. A water softener works by exchanging these minerals with sodium or potassium ions, effectively "softening" the water. This process extends the life of appliances, reduces energy costs, and improves the overall quality of the water.

Carbonated Soft Drink Filling Machine

The filling process for carbonated soft drinks is a delicate one, requiring precise control over pressure and temperature. Carbonated soft drink filling machines are designed to handle this process with efficiency and accuracy. These machines fill bottles or cans with the carbonated beverage, ensuring that the carbonation level is maintained and the drink remains fresh. Different types of filling machines are available, including volumetric and gravity filling machines, each suited to specific production needs.

Juice Bottle Filling Machine

Juice bottle filling machines are used to fill bottles with juice in a hygienic and efficient manner. These machines are designed to handle different types of juices, including those with pulp or other particulates. The filling process is carefully controlled to prevent spillage and contamination, ensuring that the juice retains its quality and freshness from the production line to the consumer.

Water Bottle Filling Machine

Water bottle filling machines are critical in the production of bottled water. These machines are designed to fill bottles with purified water quickly and accurately, minimizing waste and ensuring consistent quality. Modern water bottle filling machines are highly automated, reducing the need for manual labor and increasing production efficiency. These machines are also equipped with sensors and controls to monitor the filling process and detect any issues in real-time.

Automatic and Semi-Automatic Blow Moulding Machine

Blow molding is a process used to create hollow plastic containers, such as bottles. Automatic blow molding machinesand semi-automatic blow molding machines are used in this process to shape plastic preforms into bottles. Automatic machines offer higher efficiency and consistency, while semi-automatic machines provide more flexibility and control. Both types of machines are essential in the production of PET bottles, contributing to the packaging needs of the beverage industry.

BOPP Labeling Machine

BOPP (Biaxially Oriented Polypropylene) labels are widely used in the packaging industry due to their durability, clarity, and resistance to moisture. BOPP labeling machines apply these labels to bottles, cans, and other containers with precision and speed. These machines are designed to handle high-speed production lines, ensuring that labels are applied consistently and accurately, enhancing the appearance and shelf appeal of the products.

Sticker Labeling Machine

Sticker labeling machines are versatile machines used to apply stickers or labels to a wide range of products. These machines can handle different shapes and sizes of containers, making them ideal for various industries, including food and beverage, pharmaceuticals, and cosmetics. The technology behind sticker labeling machines ensures that labels are applied smoothly and securely, enhancing the overall presentation of the product.

Sleeve Applicator

A sleeve applicator is a machine used to apply shrink sleeves or labels to containers. These sleeves are then heat-shrunk to fit tightly around the container, providing a tamper-evident seal and a 360-degree label. Sleeve applicators are commonly used in the beverage industry, where they help enhance the visual appeal of products and provide additional space for branding and information.

Automatic and Semi-Automatic Shrink Wrapping Machine

Shrink wrapping is a packaging process where a plastic film is wrapped around a product and then heat-shrunk to create a tight seal. Automatic and semi-automatic shrink wrapping machines are used in this process to package products quickly and efficiently. Automatic machines are ideal for high-volume production lines, while semi-automatic machines offer more flexibility for smaller operations. Both types of machines are essential in protecting products during transportation and storage.

Jar Washing Machine

Jar washing machines are used to clean jars before they are filled with products such as jams, sauces, or beverages. These machines use a combination of water, detergent, and mechanical agitation to remove dirt, residues, and contaminants from the jars. The clean jars are then ready for filling, ensuring that the final product is safe and free from any contaminants.

Water Pouch Filling Machine

Water pouch filling machines are used to fill pouches with purified water, providing a convenient and cost-effective packaging solution. These machines are commonly used in areas where bottled water is not practical or affordable. The pouches are filled, sealed, and packaged in one continuous process, ensuring that the water remains clean and safe for consumption.

Auto Batch Coding Machine

Auto batch coding machines are used to print batch numbers, expiration dates, and other important information on products. These machines are essential in ensuring product traceability and compliance with regulatory requirements. The codes are printed clearly and accurately, providing vital information to consumers and enabling manufacturers to track products through the supply chain.

Water ATM

A Water ATM is a kiosk or vending machine that dispenses clean drinking water to the public. These machines are particularly useful in areas where access to clean water is limited. Users can purchase water at an affordable price, making it accessible to a wider population. Water ATMs are a significant innovation in providing safe drinking water to communities and reducing the reliance on bottled water.

Water Chiller

Water chillers are used to cool water for various industrial processes. These machines remove heat from water, lowering its temperature to the desired level. Water chillers are commonly used in industries such as food and beverage, pharmaceuticals, and manufacturing, where precise temperature control is essential. Different types of water chillers are available, including air-cooled and water-cooled models, each suited to specific applications.

Conclusion

Water treatment plants and related machinery play a vital role in ensuring that water used in various industries is clean, safe, and suitable for its intended purpose. From mineral water production to industrial processes, the quality of water directly impacts the success and efficiency of operations. As technology continues to evolve, we can expect further advancements in water treatment and packaging solutions, helping to meet the growing demands of consumers and industries alike.

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