#I don’t know if he’d be able to get up at 9 unless he was interrupted but. knowing him he’s always getting interrupted

[shewhoeatssand]

it’s that time again, time to put Kaneki in the mailbox

[greengoblinswifey]

Symbol of Love— Rafe Cameron x Pogue!Reader

summary— based off sofia and rafe’s cute moment in s4 ep 9 so slight spoilers. rafe is on mission to catch groff and he gives you something to treasure before he leaves.

warnings— spoilers, fluff, mentions of death.

a/n— saw the scene and immediately decided to write this, my heart is melting omg ugh that should be me and him. these new batch of episodes have been such a roller coaster, can’t wait to finish and see how everything plays out <3

Rafe’s hands were tense as walked around the sand, jaw tight as he tried to process what he’d just learned. Chandler Groff had stolen his money, and he boated off the island. You leaned against the tree, eyes wide as you tried to absorb the news. Hollis’ death had hit you harder than you let on, and whispers were circulating that JJ Maybank might have been involved. Nothing felt certain anymore, but what you did know was that Rafe had always been the one constant—until now.

“Okay, but listen,” Rafe said, his voice sharp and urgent. “Unless I catch up with Groff now, that money is long gone.”

“Where is he, Rafe?” you asked, your heart pounding. You didn’t want him to go, especially not alone, but you knew you couldn’t stop him.

“Don’t worry about it,” he muttered, his gaze fixed somewhere past you. “I’ll track him down. I’ll get it all back.” There was a steely resolve in his voice, a familiar determination that reminded you of just how far he would go to keep what was his.

But before he could take off, he turned to you, his eyes softening just and took a deep breath. “I want to say something first.”

You opened your mouth, the confession about Hollis and everything that happened burning on your tongue. “Rafe, I- I need to tell you something too.”

Before you could finish, he startled you by dropping to one knee, pulling out a beautiful ring from his pocket. Your heart skipped a beat, and suddenly you felt like the world was spinning.

He held it up to you, his gaze never leaving yours. “It was my mom’s,” he said softly, his voice breaking just slightly. “Been in my family forever. I know it’s some kook bullshit, but I just- I wanted you to have it before I left. So you’d know this, us- we’re real.”

“Rafe, wait,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I- I did something. It’s about Hollis. There’s more I didn’t tell you—”

He cut you off, shaking his head and cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin. “Don’t. There’s things about me you don’t know. And trust me, they’re way worse than anything you could say. I don’t care what you did, and I don’t care to know.” His voice softened, but his eyes stayed intense. “I want you, and that’s all that matters to me.”

You could barely breathe, tears leaving your eyes and he slipped the ring on your finger, his eyes pleading.

You were crying now, overwhelmed by the depth of his acceptance. You could feel his hands tremble as he slid the ring onto your finger. “Say yes,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “There’s no more pogue bullshit, okay? No more of that. I want you to quit that job and move in with me.”

The weight of his words settled over you like a promise, and you nodded, barely able to find your voice. “Yes, Rafe.”

He smiled, relief flooding his face as he pulled you into a kiss, his hands cradling your face as if you were something fragile he had to hold onto. You kissed him back, fingers curling into his jacket, your tears mixing with his warmth.

When you pulled away, he pressed a key into your palm, closing your fingers over it. “It’s to the house. I’ll be back in a few weeks. Stay there for me, okay? At my—no, our place.”

He brushed a kiss across your forehead, and whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you too.” And with one last look, he turned, walking toward his boat as you watched him go.

The salty breeze whipped around you, and you looked down at the ring, feeling a bittersweet ache settle in your chest. It was beautiful and strange, the symbol of a life you were about to share with him, a life you’d always dreamed of. You traced the ring with your thumb, marveling at its age, its history, a part of him that would stay with you even as he left.

Tears blurred your vision as he boarded the boat, but you stood there, rooted, until he was nothing but a speck on the horizon, clutching the key and the promise he’d left behind.

As you watched Rafe disappear over the horizon, a wave of fear washed over you, heavier than the ocean air around you. You knew how dangerous Groff could be, how far he was willing to go to keep what he’d stolen. And now, Rafe was chasing him down. Your heart twisted, the thought of something happening to him tugging at every corner of your mind. But then you shook yourself, forcing the doubt back. Rafe was tough, stronger than anyone you knew. He could handle himself. He’d be okay.

He’d come back.

You took a deep breath, letting the thought settle over you like a warm blanket. He’d come back, and when he did, you’d spend the rest of your lives together. There would be reward, there would be sunshine after the storm. Your love, this wild, all-consuming love, could survive anything. It had to. Everything was going to be okay.

You glanced down at the ring he’d placed on your finger, feeling its weight, its history pressing against your skin like a quiet promise. Your fingers tightened around the key in your other hand, holding onto it as if it could anchor you to this moment, to him. This key was a piece of him, a piece of your future together, the home you’d share, the life you’d build once he returned.

With one last look out at the horizon, you whispered a silent promise of your own. Then you turned back holding the ring and the key close to your heart, holding onto the hope that soon, he’d be back in your arms.

[makethatelevenrings]

Day 9: Cock Rings w/ Clark Kent

gonna be honest, researching cock ring porn made me question even more than usual if I am a lesbian but I do it for u all so here u go

Kinktober Masterlist

“I don’t want to know how you got this made,” Clark said once he saw it. You shrugged and then, reconsidering, nodded.

“Yeah, you won’t be able to look Bruce in the eye for a while.”

“I just…” He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “How did you even approach him with the idea? No wait, I said I didn’t want to know.”

“Hey Bruce,” you mocked. “Can I borrow some Kryptonian to make a sex toy for my really hot, really submissive alien husband?”

“Please stop talking.” You giggled at his distress and shrugged.

“Who knows? Maybe this will come in handy sooner than you think.”

You and your big mouth.

It was common for enemies to use kryptonite against Clark. Hell, it was their main go-to. But no one had ever used pink kryptonite until today. Bruce struggled to get Clark into the Watchtower medical bay, a place that rarely saw Clark in there unless he was visiting a teammate, and promptly fled before you could ask him anything other than what had knocked Superman out of the battle.

“Okay, baby,” you whispered as you pushed his hands away from your hips. Clark’s heavy, ragged breathing assured you that he was alive but the raspy undertone made your heart race in a way that was entirely different from his. He whined at your denial and you cursed under your breath. If you let him fuck you right now, he’d destroy you. Clark was good at maintaining his strength in his everyday life, including the bed, but with pink kryptonite involved, he had no inhibitions right now.

“Okay. Okay.” Your mind went back to the gag gift that was currently sitting in a lead box in your bag. Fuck. Maybe you were clairvoyant. How did you come up with this shit?

“I’m going to grab something, okay? And when I come back you better be out of that suit and on your knees like the good boy I know you can be. Right?”

Clark whined, his erection straining against his skin tight suit. You brushed your hand over it and grinned as he moaned. He reached for the collar of his suit and you left him to it. Your bag was close by, luckily, and you fished through it until you found the little box.

Turning around, you found Clark kneeling on the ground completely naked with his heavy, long cock hanging between his legs. Big, blue eyes blinked up at you and he had to be painfully hard based on the tears lining his lashes.

“This should help, baby. It’s gonna make you feel better and then I will make you feel so good.”

He whined again, a pathetic sound that made your traitorous cunt throb. Now was not the time to get horny. Not when he needed you to focus.

The kryptonite infused cock ring had been a joke. Clark and you had poked fun at the idea of using sex toys on him, but nothing could faze or restrain the Man of Steel. Until you had gotten drunk with Dinah one night and came up with a brilliant idea that Bruce reluctantly agreed to help make, solely so you could stop saying he owes you for saving his life that one time.

It came in handy now. Despite Clark being hard as hell, you were able to fit the cock ring snugly around the base of his cock. His balls hung heavy over the edge of the metal, but he shuddered in relief at the feeling.

“Does that feel better?” you cooed, stroking your hand through his soft hair. He pushed his head closer to your hand and sighed at your gentle touch. The pink kryptonite effects would wear off in about two to three hours, but the green kryptonite ensured that he wouldn’t hurt you as you helped him out.

You settled yourself onto the ground in front of him, your knees pressed against his, and reached out to grasp his veiny, thick cock in your hand. He was so big that it made your hands look tiny and you always marveled at the fact that you somehow fit him in your mouth, cunt, and ass.

His hips jerked at your touch and then he let his head fall until his forehead pressed against your shoulder. You pressed a delicate kiss to his temple and started a slow, even stroke along his dick as his hips rolled along with the drag of your touch.

“So beautiful, Clark. Once you’re not affected by the kryptonite, I’ll make sure to put this cock ring on you and tease you until you’re begging me. I could probably even spank you and leave a mark for once. Wouldn’t that be nice, right? Seeing you covered in pretty little red marks?”

Clark moaned, wonton and broken and perfect. With one hand cradling his head and the other jerking him off, you kept talking him through it.

“You’re so strong that this ring won’t stop you, but I love knowing I have more power than you right now. I love knowing you trust me to treat you well. You know that I will always take care of you, right?”

He nodded and you kissed his cheek. “That’s my good boy. Let’s see how many times we can get you to come until it wears off.”

[trashogram]

He Chose You (Pt. 6)

Lucifer/Reader: Lucifer wants you to be the Mother of his child. Rated E bc Explicit.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 13.5 | Part 14 | End

((This one fought me so hard, I just wanna get it out there and I’ll proof-read it later I’m sorry.))

The first time didn’t take, as you’d come to learn 3 days post-coitus with the Devil. It had left you bereft, not exactly disappointed but also not certain if you should go out and buy 150% proof alcohol to mark the occasion. 

You settled for enough wine to dull your senses before sending a text with your Hellphone. The fact that inter-dimensional phone lines were possible was simply added to the list of not-even-gonna-think-about-it of things that came with your new reality. 

A blood-curdling shriek from your pocket made you curse as you dove for it. 

“Hey.” 

“Hey-yy!” Lucifer responded cheerfully before clearing his throat. “So it um… it didn’t work?” 

“Unless being pregnant with hellspawn looks and feels exactly like my time of the month, no. It didn’t.” You said. 

He sighed on the other end, air blowing through the receiver and fucking up already poor reception. “Okay. Shit. Well, maybe we can work something else out—”

“I’ll just text you when it’s over and we can try again.” You replied as you leaned back against your headboard. 

“You-you wanna try again?” Lucifer’s surprise made your eyes roll.

“Yeah, just give me a couple days.” You’d felt a wave of fatigue crashing over you.

Suddenly you were boneless, barely able to even hold the phone up to your ear. Lucifer’s hesitant delight barely registered yet you could imagine him behind closed eyelids, smiling crookedly with those ivory fangs. 

“Y-I-uh, ok great! That works for me if it works for you!” He practically shouted. “Do you need anything in the meantime?”

“‘Mmmmffh, a nap.” Lucidity snapped back for a moment as you eyed the phone in your peripheral. “Also please don’t call or text me. I’m gonna throw this thing out the window if I have to hear someone screaming bloody murder one more time.” 

—

Lucifer being startled by the ringing of his Hellphone wasn’t at all peculiar. 

However — 

The sound of a love song, though tinny and compartmentalized to the King of Hell’s coat pocket, made Asmodeus perk up. 

He glanced down to see his diminutive brother rush for the device like his life depended on it. It was easy to feign polite indifference as Lucifer excused himself from the cafe table for a moment, but by the time the King had returned, Asmodeus was leaning forward expectantly. 

“That’s new.” He said. 

Lucifer looked up wildly, as if he’d been caught snatching aphrodisiacs from Ozzie’s own stores.

       “Huh, wha? What’s new?” He laughed off the embarrassment, re-taking his seat.

Asmodeous sipped from his teacup, clocking the many idiosyncrasies Lucifer displayed.

       He was flustered, still gripping the phone between his claws, and had perched on the edge of his seat so that he could bounce a leg against the ground. 

“Love songs aren’t your usual style, babe.” The Prince spoke casually, but his eyes were bright.

It was delightful to see Lucifer stiffen as soon as he realized what his companion referred to. One of the best about the short King was how easy he was to tease, if you asked the Embodiment of Lust himself. 

        “Didn’t know you were finally getting out there, Louie.” Ozzie teased. “Were you gonna keep it a secret? Even from me?”

“Oh n— out there? Me?! Ha! No!” Lucifer shook his hand fiercely. “I’m not — it’s not like that! We’re not dating! I mean, some might see it like that but a lot of others wouldn’t! She wouldn’t… probably!  It’s, ya see, actually — I — ahem, ah…” 

His embarrassment grew into something stranger, more conflicted and melancholy. The teasing smirk on Asmodeus’s face flattened. 

“It’s complicated.” He finished, looking down at his phone as if it were the sole reason for his sudden misery. 

Ozzie wasn't soft on many (in fact he’d argue that being hard was his speciality) but his brother was one of the few. 

The much larger Sin rested a hand against Lucifer’s back. “You wanna talk about it?”

—

The days that followed blurred together, monotony of aches and pains broken only by an insatiable libido. It was as if the promise of sex after this, however unfulfilling it might be, was the only thing keeping you alive. 

Lucifer’s bizarre consideration held up over that time, surprising you enough that when it was time to give him a ring, you weren’t as dread-filled as you could’ve been. 

        He did, however, arrive in your home via furnace suspiciously quickly upon making contact with you again. His normally pristine suit and and impeccably coiffed hair were ruffled and singed, like he’d made a mad dash to get to you. 

“Hell-Oh!” Lucifer had practically squeaked as you dragged him out by the lapels. 

You’re so pent up that it’s hardly a surprise when you find yourself sitting on his lap, having manhandled the short King onto your couch. 

His cold, smooth skin was still alien, but you powered through the initial aversion to chase after that zing that came with kissing him. It was addictive, even with the fear of being cut by his sharp teeth in the back of your mind. 

Despite yourself, you took a second to break away and breathe. 

Beneath you, Lucifer was positively flushed. His shiny, wet lips were parted in wordless awe, and eyes glazed over in his daze. 

“Fuck.” He croaked. 

You smirked, gripping onto the blond hair that had already been mussed and abused by overeager hands. Pointedly, you slid back and forth on his trembling lap. There was no way to ignore the hardness at his inner thigh. 

—

The first drag of his cock against your walls made you shudder, arching as your head fell back. 

Lucifer whined in his seat, claws digging into the plush of your thighs. The pain heightened the feeling of being stabbed twice, making your lower belly tremble. 

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fffffff —” His cries were so good, you couldn’t stop from grinding down onto him. “You feel so good. So. Good. You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart. I can't.”

“That’s ok.” You slurred, hands coming up to wrap loosely around his neck. “We can work on that.” 

Lucifer opened his mouth, but you were already planting kisses against the corner of lips mouth, his cherry-spotted cheeks, the line of his jaw and the pulse beneath his ear.

—

Your hands were focused on exploring the planes of Lucifer’s chest and shoulders. He wasn’t muscular — or tall, obviously, but the lithe body intertwined with yours was more than easy on the eyes. 

“You can touch.” It was hardly fair that yours were the only hands busy. The ruler of Hell was flat beneath you, artificial light from your bedroom lamp casting shadows on his marble chest. 

Lucifer’s mulberry-dappled lids remained low, highlighting the yellow glow of his eyes. His claws slid up your hips, reverently tracing your frame as you bounced lightly. 

“If you insist, princess.” 

He was more coy after the first few rounds, an easier grin sliding across his face. The trembling touches against your breasts spoke of the still-nervous creature you’d first been introduced to.

—

Daylight was waning again when you found knelt, back pressed against Lucifer’s chest. He fucked into you wildly, teeth pressed into your bare shoulder. 

The thought of him biting into you didn’t sound so frightful anymore. In fact the image set butterflies off in your stomach. 

That and the way he held you close, wrapped vice-like around you like a boa constrictor. 

“No baby, don’t go yet!” When you squirmed, Lucifer nuzzled into the side of your neck, breathing heavy. “Just like this. Please, baby.”

He pleaded into your neck, grip tightening to where you couldn’t breathe. 

— 

“Here.” You guided his hand, settling it between your legs. 

Lucifer’s thrusts had grown shallow and uneven, but hadn’t quite stopped. He seemed entranced, watching as you positioned his thumb over the bundle of nerves just above where you two were joined. 

“Gently. Watch your claws.” You murmured along with your hands-on teaching. 

When you felt he’d gotten the message, you sighed and concentrated on the circular motion against your clit. Lucifer remained attentive, moving clockwise as the pace he’d started before picked up again. 

In moments you tensed, pleasure sparking along your pubic bone. It built up as your eyes closed, head tipped back as you let yourself enjoy the pressure both inside and out. Your hips jerked upward of their own accord, core trembling and cunt spasming. 

Your partner whimpered at the new intensity, which only egged you on. Before you knew it, you two were rocking into a chaotic rhythm. 

With slit eyes, you saw Lucifer looking down at you, flustered yet rapt over your every little response.

“Yeah?” He asked breathlessly. 

You nodded. “Mm-hm.”

It was difficult. You could feel the tension in your belly contracting, the heat and pressure building against your clit. The feeling was mounting to where you couldn’t help your keens, your moans, your whimpers. 

It ended with a choked sigh. You arched from the bed, head falling back as you let your legs tremble and shake around him. The convulsions pulled the Devil in deeper, and the feel of him was enough to make your eyes roll back in your skull beneath fluttering eyelids. Another gush came at the thought of being so full you could feel it in your stomach. 

          Lucifer watched. His face was nearly as red as the apple that adorned his hat, knocked off of your bedside table. He had the expression of someone seeing a falling star for the first time. Stunned, eyes gleaming, unable to comprehend something despite how beautiful it was.  

The former Angel lowered himself to capture your mouth with his own. He pressed luxuriant kisses to your lips, all while his hips stuttered between your thighs until he was humping into you, refusing to separate skin from skin. 

His release was coupled with a heated groan, muffled by the slide of your tongue against his. You were glowing inside out, warmth blooming in your core as you held onto Lucifer tightly. 

— 

The woman had invited you up into her tree. It was a different tree from the last, not bearing any fruit but lush with green needles and strong boughs that wouldn’t break. 

She looks over her shoulder at you cheekily. “Aren’t you glad you decided to join me?”

You playfully scoff and roll your eyes. “You don’t need to be so smug about it.” 

“Oh I think I do.” The blonde tilted in your direction, arms coming to wrap around you. “I won.”

You stay that way, watching the nettles shake in the passing breeze. 

“Everyone loves a winner.” She says at your side.

You frown. “I love you no matter what.” 

The woman sighs. 

“You might not always.” 

—

Light humming woke you from your doze, along with the repeated motion of something against your cheek. 

It wasn’t until you’d opened your eyes that you realized it was Lucifer humming and caressing your cheek tenderly. He was nose(less) to nose with you, seemingly admiring your face slackened with sleep. 

“What’s that from?” You rasped. 

“Hmm?” The King stroked an errant hair behind your ear. 

“It’s a movie.” You continued, repeating the notes in your head. “Right? It’s from a musical…”

“You like musicals?” Lucifer asked, seemingly surprised. Fangs poked out of his close-lipped smile, and he looked goofier than ever before. 

You copied him, helpless to how silly he made everything. “What’s not to like?”

The lightbulb went off. “Oh! Cabaret. That’s where it’s from.” 

“Yeah!” Lucifer moved even closer, the flat of his face pressing against your nose as he nuzzled you for guessing the right answer. “It’s kinda old, isn’t it? How’d you guess?”

“Psh, you think my threshold for pop culture is only as long as the last ten years?” You teased, arm skating down his side so that you could pinch his behind. 

“Hey!”

***

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[the-laughing-lunatic]

uhhhchhdhfhdhd can you maybe do something with the mercs (all 9 if thats cool, but if not then just sniper and medic!!) with a reader that cant sleep so they just. go to their room and ask if they can cuddle with them

(ofc! This was rlly fun to write, I’ll prolly write for all of them later if yall are interested enough :> thx for requesting!)

Medic and Sniper with a reader asking for cuddles (PLATONIC OR ROMANTIC)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── 

☆Sniper☆

He’s a tad confused when you show up to his camper van

I mean, he’d never turn down cuddling you, that’d be bloody stupid of him

“Why you wanna cuddle with me though, mate? I don’t exactly got the most comfortable sleepin’ conditions.”

“Because it’s you, Mick. If you don’t want to, that's fine.”

“Woah, woah, mate you’re twisting my words. I mean, I’d love that. Uh, come in I guess.”

Bro is so awkward omg- 

Does not know how to initiate physical contact at all so he just kind of stands until you lay down on the bed

The bed in his van is already really small so it forces you two to be even closer

He doesn’t really like being super close, but he likes to have an arm around you to have that connection

Kind of guy that needs noise to sleep, he’d be perfectly content to listen to you ramble about anything as he holds you.

Very light sleeper, def gets up in the middle of the night a few times but he’d be very careful not to disturb your sleep

He really does enjoy holding you and would like to do it more, but will absolutely not unless you ask first

In the morning he’ll fix you coffee and fairy bread to be polite

Really wants to do that again but will absolutely not ask you, way too awkward for that

☆Medic☆

You had gone to Medic’s bedroom to ask him if you two could cuddle…but he wasn’t there

You went to his lab next, where he sat hunched over his desk, frantically scribbling away on some papers. “Ohoho! Hello mein fruend, I didn’t notice you. What do you need?”

“I can’t sleep, can we cuddle?”

“If you wish, you may sit here while I work.”

You’d sit in his lap as he continued to write something or other, with one of his arms wrapped around your waist

It was nice for a bit, he’s big and warm, but it was too uncomfortable to actually try to sleep and you were tired

“Mm, Ludwig, when do you actually go to bed?”

“Ahehe, I think around one or two,” he said sheepishly.

“You think?”

“I normally just pass out at my desk.”

“...okay, we’re going to bed now,” you said, getting off his lap and dragging him to his bed

He’d (begrudgingly) come along after a lot of complaining about how he needed to get the work done

He likes having you lay on top of him, it calms him down to feel the weight of you (he def has a weighted blanket on the rare nights he sleeps in his bed)

Traces your skin and absentmindedly talks about where each of your organs are underneath 

He falls asleep very quickly, you have to take his glasses off and place them on the nightstand (mf wears glasses while he sleeps, they’re crooked as hell)

His grip is so tight even as he sleeps though, you wanna move? Ain’t gonna happen anytime soon.

In the morning bro is always awake before you, no matter how early you get up 

If he’s feeling quirky maybe you’ll get breakfast in bed

(He may put caffeine in your food at dinner so you wont be able to sleep and you’ll cuddle him, until you catch him–)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[zosan-secondchances]

The Pirate King of the North: Part 5

Main Themes: Villain Sanji, Alternate Universe, Zosan Ship

Warning: Long post ahead with One Piece spoilers. Contains strong language and explicit content.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12

Bepo

Captain! Captain!

Bepo, Penguin and Shachi tail Law as he stomps through the deck of the ship in a rush.

Bepo

CAPTAIN!!! Is the Pirate King seriously sailing with us?!

Penguin

I don’t think it’s a good idea. Did you see the townsquare? Have you not heard the stories?!

Law

Yes, yes and no. So everyone, stay out of his way. If there’s trouble, don’t deal with it by yourselves. Tell me or the swordsman.

Shachi

But which–

Law

The other, swordsman. Bepo, call everyone in for a briefing in five.

At that, Law vanishes inside the ship, leaving the trio to stand by idly at the doorway.

The three Heart Pirates hear a couple of thuds on the wooden deck. Nervously, they turn in unison to see who it was.

Zoro and Sanji stood by the edge, having just boarded the submarine. The swordsman had his arms crossed, looking at the distant water with his calm demeanor while the blonde waves at the trio with a cheerful smile across his face as a greeting.

The Heart Pirates’ cheeks flush pink. They give Sanji a shy wave in return. The Pirate King's smile clearly has infected them.

Shachi

He doesn't look that bad….

Penguin

Y–yeah…I don't know what the captain was talking about. He's not scary at all.

—

Bepo, Penguin and Shachi are in tears having just learned a small list of Sanji's most recent crimes from Law. The entire Heart Pirates crew sat on the round table in the ship’s galley with their two guests to discuss the mission ahead, but the doctor felt that introductions were in order first.

In truth, Law just wants his people to be extremely cautious of the most dangerous cargo that they’ve ever had on board. He wants to emphasize how serious the situation is so he nabbed Sanji’s file from the Marine base to share its contents to the entire crew.

Sanji sipped his tea calmly, quietly enjoying the conversation about himself, basking in all the attention and reactions that the Heart Pirates are giving him. He soaks it in, feeling smug about having his achievements read out to everyone. 

Zoro sat next to him, finally able to enjoy a bottle of sake for himself. None of the information being relayed by Law is news to him, having been involved in more than half of Sanji’s escapades on the receiving end. He’d been trying to kill the man for more than a couple of decades after all.

Law

Did…did you guys already forget that he just slaughtered all those Marines?

Zoro

You're one to talk, Traffy. You did the same thing when he said he'd help you.

Law

Shut up….

Sanji turns his head towards the doctor. 

Sanji

Did you really? That's a bit funny.

Bepo

But…but Captain, shouldn't he be detained then?

Sanji gives the polar bear an icy glare.

Bepo’s full body of fur stands on end. Penguin, Shachi and himself hug each other tighter, yelling out cries for help.

Law

There's no point. Detaining him is how we lose our ship. The Marines tried to cuff him and now their entrails are all over the place as a consequence. Just keep an eye on him and do what I told you earlier. Report anything suspicious, is that clear?

Heart Pirates

Yes, Captain!

With that, Law proceeds to brief everyone in the room about the plan to follow Corazon’s trail to Skypiea, and that the Pirate King will be assisting them during their journey and the next until they find Corazon or whoever’s behind the letters. The doctor announces that they will have to stop by Sabaody Archipelago first which is the closest place where they can get a decent portable bubble ship, unless they find an alternative way to safely transport people up in the sky that could withstand the terrifying knock up streams that lead up to it. He makes a point to thank Zoro for his insight as to what’s to be expected given that he’d been to the sky island already.

Zoro

Our former navigator should have a decent map drawn of the country already. At least the places where we've been to anyway, which was most of it. If you think that will help, I'll need a long-distant transponder snail to ask her for a copy. And potentially half a million Beri. She doesn't give away stuff for free, even to her own nakama.

Law

What the hell? I don't have that kind of money. Can’t you get a discount if you’re nakama?

Zoro

N–no…if I use that as an excuse she’ll probably just charge me more. Hey Curls, aren’t you king or something? You’d have the dough and some.

Sanji

Do you see large amounts of gold on me? I don’t carry that much treasure around, stupid. Unless you want me to be traced, I’d rather not withdraw Beri from a bank.

Law

We’ll have to do some fundraising in Sabaody then. Penguin, please show Zoro-ya our communications room after this briefing.

Penguin

Yes, Captain.

Law proceeds to lay out the plan, covering the less exciting details like the estimated duration of the voyage, food stock and potential jobs that they can do on the side for Beri. It will inevitably cost them more time than the doctor had anticipated, but they may not have any choice in the matter. He prays that they miraculously run into any one of Sanji’s contacts who just so happen to be carrying his gold around.

Sanji leans slightly towards Zoro and softly speaks so only he can hear him.

Sanji

Your navigator sounds like a smart lady, by the way. And the price is reasonable, given its rarity and how difficult it is to get to the island. The more I learn about your old crew, the more I wish I got to meet them.

Zoro gives a light-hearted chuckle then speaks just as quietly.

Zoro

Well, if you weren't such a murderous bastard, you might have actually gotten along with them.

Sanji

You think so? Do you think that I can meet them one day?

Zoro

Over my dead body.

After the briefing, the Heart Pirates return to their respective duties except for Penguin who waits for Zoro and Sanji at the door as ordered to take them to the communications room so the swordsman can contact his navigator friend.

On their way out, Sanji makes very brief eye contact with a large man that they call Jean Bart, who slightly nods his way, almost to a bow, before walking off in the opposite direction. Zoro makes a mental note of their interaction.

—

The trip to Sabaody Archipelago is going as smoothly as they had hoped, having only done a couple of stops here and there to stock up and stretch their legs. Zoro and Sanji quickly realise that it is absolutely necessary to go on long walks and exercise whenever they can given how often they get stuck indoors so the sub can dive deep in the water to avoid unwanted attention. Then there’s the matter of their sleeping arrangements.

The Polar Tang’s bunk rooms aren’t anything special. They’re small and cramped where the mattresses are contained in boxes similar to that of the Thousand Sunny Go except that it’s welded firmly against the wall instead of being suspended by ropes. Zoro and Sanji shared a room so the swordsman could keep an eye on him. He also insisted that he gets to keep the bottom bunk in case he finds a reason to skewer the curly brows above him for any reason.

Much to Zoro’s surprise, Sanji keeps to himself while in their shared room, only ever tearing his eyes away from the book that he’s reading to ask if he feels like doing an activity together, or to tell him where he wants to go so the swordsman can follow along. He’d even wake him up to make sure he knows where he’s going if he wants to wander around. Aside from that, Zoro notices that Sanji had taken a lot of liking to just quietly watch the view from their round window, especially when they go underwater.

The crew were extremely tense during the first three days of having Sanji on board but by the fifth day, they had invited him over for a game night on one of their few and precious days off. Zoro assumed that the Pirate King had somehow captured their hearts while he’s not looking.

None of the Heart Pirates had any real money in their name so Sanji proposed that they bargain with chores, volunteering to even take a few from each one to make himself useful in the ship while they’re travelling and to even the odds of the play.

Zoro sat at the furthest table in the mess hall, quietly enjoying a tankard of beer to himself while watching their game unfold into a messy havoc of drunken fun. He watches big smiles across everyone’s faces as the Pirate King tosses in another straight flush–his sixth in a row. The victim this time is the poor Clione who apparently has to fold clothes for two weeks.

After seeing the man melt into despair, Sanji opens the palms of his hands, revealing four extra cards that had been hiding in his sleeves. Everyone laughed at Clione, then at Sanji for confessing that he had been swapping cards around to his advantage. This means that the blonde has to take the laundry chore from Clione, and with a longer duration of four weeks for cheating. They joke about keeping the king as a chore boy, even after the mission is finished.

Sanji and the Heart Pirates were like that through the rest of night. It was as though the blonde’s just an ordinary human being who’s trying to have a good time with his friends. Zoro couldn’t help but smile to himself after seeing a particularly hearty grin from Sanji's face. He wonders what about the man that makes his smile so contagious.

Again, to Zoro’s surprise, the Pirate King stays true to his word and begins to spend most of his mornings folding laundry in their shared room. The Heart Pirates have taken to knocking on their door less formally, or just flat out shouting from the other side to ask if their clothes are ready for collection. Penguin had occasionally shown up just after showering, fully naked and exposed, desperately begging for a pair of his underpants because he'd forgotten to take one and a towel earlier. Sanji fusses over him like a mother hen, nagging him to be more organised next time, but proceeds to help the man anyway.

By the seventh day since setting sail, Zoro finds himself helping Sanji do laundry. They fall into a comfortable silence, which he didn’t realise was possible at all. Though sometimes they share a small banter, throw harmless snide comments, or offer to fetch each other stuff from the kitchen. There was no mention of their old life and how for two decades they had tried to relentlessly kill each other. Both are content enough to just focus on the now. It was peaceful and Zoro isn't about to question why and how this was the case.

During the afternoons, Sanji either visits the galley to catch up with whoever Heart Pirates are on break, or wanders to the library to borrow or read more books. The Polar Tang’s library is more of a shared study space but nevertheless, it’s the coziest part of the ship, given how almost every corner of the sub smells metallic or sterilisation chemicals. Most of the time, Zoro and Sanji are the only ones there given how busy everyone else is, except for Bepo who occassionally uses the nearby drafting table to chart their maps. As long as he keeps himself clean and his bottles checked, Zoro is allowed to drink in the room, away from delicate books, while Sanji delves into a variety of different topics like navigation, geography, Devil Fruits, marine life and a particularly cheap looking cooking-for-dummies book.

One lazy day, there was a knock on one of the bookshelves. Zoro and Sanji lift their heads to find Law and Bepo standing by.

Law

Zoro-ya, a word?

Zoro nods then gets up from the couch to approach the man. He notices that Bepo walks up to sit in his place happily. Him and the Pirate King share a book about deep sea fishes together. The swordsman assumes that the mink had been assigned to keep an eye on the blonde while he’s momentarily away.

Law leads him to his office, where he takes a seat then beckons the swordsman to sit at the other side of his desk. Zoro follows.

Law

I don’t think this changes anything with our mission, but I noticed something odd with the mad king’s file that you might find…interesting.

Law places the thick folder that he had stolen from the Marine base on the table–Sanji’s criminal record. Zoro takes it in his hand then flicks through the papers. He’d seen them all already. He’s a slaver who raids his competitors to steal their “stock” instead of acquiring them himself. He specialises in trading, particularly dangerous criminals–pirates and bandits alike–to sell them to bigger, badder, wealthier criminals to do their dirty work. Most of his clients and partners are corrupt politicians or individuals with private armies like Doflamingo who are in constant demand for troops. On top of that, Sanji has an endless list of serious offenses: arson, murder, stealing, a few kidnappings, warfare–the whole lot.

There’s also a simplified version of Zoro’s reports from when he actively sought out the Pirate King–it lists out where their fights had taken place, any surrounding casualties, and the conclusion of their encounter. The swordsman doesn’t particularly remember them to detail at the top of his head, but scanning through the papers relives old headache-inducing memories of their game of cat and mouse. So far they’ve been pretty even with who’s won and who didn’t.

Zoro makes a point to not kill his enemies. So every time he wins their fight, he hands Sanji over to the Marines to lock him out for life. And every time they try to transport him, he breaks out of his chains and leaves evidence of his carnage just like how he did on the island where they picked him up. Some time in the past, he’d somehow survived and killed his way out of Enies Lobby by himself before they could drag him inside the gates, making him the third person to ever break out of initial confinement after Nico Robin and Franky when his old Straw Hat crew went in to rescue them.

Zoro throws the folder back on the table. He shrugs his shoulders.

Zoro

Tell me something I don’t know.

Law leans over, then re-opens the folder, navigating to the part where the Marines have compiled copies of slave buyers’ proof of purchases and ownership records. He taps on the detailed breakdown list.

Law

He only sells other criminals.

Zoro

So? He’s still a slaver.

Law

They’re not worth a lot because they’re trouble.

Zoro

But they're plentiful. Plus he’s sold ones with Devil Fruit abilities.

Law

Which still isn’t as much as a fishman, a mermaid or a child by a long shot. They’re worth hundreds of thousands, depending who you talk to.

Zoro

So what’s your point?

Law pulls a small stack of papers from under the pile–a worryingly long list of individuals that were owned by other rival slavers. It’s a rundown of the people that they have on their inventory, referring to them as a sequence of numbers instead of their actual names. It has details of their age, race and gender.

Law

He’s acquired them, but not sold them. They just vanish when he gets a hold of them.

Zoro can feel his temper rising.

Zoro

You think he set them free? What, that he’s one of those doing-the-bad-thing-for-a-good-reason kind of person?

Law

I’m just saying…

Zoro

We don’t know what he does with them. For all we know, he saves the “best” ones for himself. Or he’s killed them.

Law

I suppose…. 

Zoro leans back on his seat, crossing his arms.

Zoro

He got to you too, didn’t he? Now you’re in love with him just like the rest of your crew and we’re barely at our first stop. He must have put the idea in your head somehow that he’s somewhat a decent man.

Law

I’m not saying he is, but I–

Zoro

He’s not. You don’t know him as well as I do. He’s probably just playing nice so he can make friends with you lot then control you somehow.

Law sighs in defeat, then takes a moment to find the right words.

Law

Zoro-ya, there’s usually more a person than meets the eye. You can’t ignore the fact that the World Government likes to hide things and embellish on some to make themselves look like gods. They’ve burnt down libraries and destroyed valuable parts of our history to make that happen. If I were you, I wouldn’t trust everything that the Celestial Dragons says.

And I think, deep inside, you know what I’m talking about. I’ve seen the way you look at him.

Zoro gives Law a deathly glare, as if warning him to choose his next words carefully.

Law stands.

Law

You might want to consider your stance with him by the time we find Corazon.

But just…at least think about what I said about the Celestial Dragons, alright? I really don’t have to care about you. But as the first mate of the Straw Hat pirates, you need to consider what’s best for your crew. He may not do things the conventional way, but I think the Pirate King of the North might be one of the best allies Luffy could have right now. Especially because you wouldn't want him fighting for the other side when the time comes.

Zoro’s brows shoot up.

Zoro

Luffy? What about Luffy needing allies?

Law

Has he not spoken to you?

Zoro

No…I threw all my transponder snails away, remember?

Law sighs.

Law

Luffy plans to take on Kaido.

—

The Polar Tang finally arrives at Sabaody Archipelago. As soon as they dock the submarine in the safest and quietest grove they could find, The Heart Pirates, Zoro and Sanji practically pass out on the green grass on the giant mangroves.

Sanji

Well, fuck my ass and call me Susan. That sun is immaculate and this grass is so soft.

Shachi

I haven't heard of that one before.

Bepo 

Hey! Do you guys hear that?

Everyone listens intently. Bepo's ears twitch as he looks around, changing the angle of his head so he could determine the direction it's coming from.

Bepo

It sounds like a concert!! Or…a game show? Maybe a festival? Do you think we can check it out? I hope Uta is playing!

Penguin

I’d kill to see Soul King live.

Law finally catches up to them. He stands in the middle of the field where everyone sun bathed.

Law

You have a day. By tomorrow I want everyone focused on looking around for jobs and sourcing out a bubble ship that can fit at least ten people. I'll keep watch this round.

Everyone rejoiced at the news. They begin to stand to make most of the day.

Law

Except for you, Pirate King. You have to stay behind. Everyone knows your face, and they have giant snails here that can transmit videos.

Sanji

Hmm….

Zoro

Why did you have to tell him what to do? Now he's going to do the opposite.

Law rolls his eyes then begins to walk away.

Law

It's your job to keep an eye on him. Good luck. Call me on your den-den mushi if you need me. Don't throw it away this time.

Zoro audibly groans. He rolls onto his elbows then pushes himself up.

Zoro

Hey Curls, I’ve been meaning to ask, do you… want… to–?

Zoro looks up and finds that he's by himself in the field. He frantically searches around and sees Sanji and the rest of the Heart Pirates already running as fast as they can towards the city where the distant sounds of loud music blared loudly. Some split into groups and some wander off on their own. 

Zoro

Son of a–WAIT!!!

—

In Sabao Dome, Sanji and a few of the Heart Pirates managed to sneak into the stadium, finding themselves right in the thick of a massive crowd close to the main stage. They’re all feeling young, giddy and especially adventurous after having consumed their fifth drink too quickly. Sanji was able to acquire himself a long hood to cover himself so he could continue his day out without any interruptions from the local Marines.

Sanji

Bepo, hold my beer.

Penguin

YES!!

Shachi 

Do it, do it, do it!

Bepo

I don't know about this…Captain's going to kill us.

Bepo takes Sanji's cup regardless.

—

It took Zoro about two hours to track down the runaway Heart Pirates that had Sanji in tow. He held onto his own hood, trying his best to hide his identity while fighting through the crowd in the stadium as he approached them.

During his struggle, he learns from people’s discussions that the show is an annual event that is currently being recorded and broadcasted live. It's an open auction where any member of the public has a chance to bid and win a date with an eligible bachelor or bachelorette. All their proceeds would go towards charity so it’s always for a good cause. This year, they plan to expand the local school, improve facilities of the public hospital and if they’re lucky, rebuild some of the more run down areas in groves that have abandoned neighbourhoods.

The show presents the last stretch of eligible bachelorettes. The made up women walk through the runway to present themselves and the crowd roars in reaction. Paddles of different colours and numbers flash up in the air as the bidding begins for the first participant. An auctioneer in a fine tuxedo introduces them and begins taking bids, one bachelorette at a time.

By the time they're almost done with the last woman, Zoro finally joins the rest of the crew. They all yelp out in surprise.

Zoro

Oi!!!

Shachi

Ah, shit!

Zoro

Why the hell did you run from me?! And with him!!

Don't you DARE run now!

Bepo stops in his tracks, then turns to bow down apologetically to Zoro.

Bepo

…I'm so sorry…

Penguin and Shachi

SO WEAK!!!

Zoro

So?! Where the hell is he?

Penguin

Uh…

Shachi

He err…

Bepo

Well…

Zoro looked furiously at the other Heart Pirates. They shudder under his eye and hide behind the large polar bear.

The auctioneer slams the hammer several times against the lectern, congratulating a noble located on the second floor for winning the last date available for the show. Suddenly, he starts moving back through the curtains, looking like he was called urgently by someone from backstage.

Bepo

I really hope that means he's changed his mind.

Shachi

But…I kinda really wanted to see him.

Penguin

Me too.

Zoro

What are you on about?

The auctioneer returns to the stage with a wide smile on his face. He declares that he brings exciting news and tells everyone to not leave the stadium no matter what.

The lights go dim, and with a well built anticipation, he reveals the last minute surprise for the people of Sabao Dome, and for everyone watching live.

A spotlight focuses in the middle of the stage.

At the far end of the runway, in the darkness, everyone could see a mysterious figure step out of the curtains. The silhouette moved with grace and confidence, trailing behind a waterfall skirt that complemented the shape’s fluid movements. It walks towards the spotlight, then slows down as it nears the center stage. One agonisingly suspenseful step at a time, long slender legs appear under the light, revealing a lean figure in a long sparkling dress and matching coloured high heels. The figure takes another step, and everyone can see the person’s flat chest that links up to defined shoulder blades and slim but muscular arms. The swordsman can’t help but start to recognise the individual by the visible scars on their skin. The figure puts a hand on a hip, and with the other, flicks one side of their skirt before taking one final step to reveal their identity.

Zoro thinks that he’ll die right there and then–from the sight and from the whole idea of it. His jaw drops involuntarily, and the same goes to the rest of the Heart Pirates standing behind him. 

Sanji opens his eyes behind gold-glittered lids. He runs his tongue across the top of his reddened lips, and slowly trails a splayed hand from his thigh, teasing the crowd with a sight of his skin near his center through slit of his dress, drags his hand to follow his curve up to his chest, then finally he lifts his hair to reveal his long inviting neck to the crowd. He leans slightly on the side where his hand is on his hip, and gives the broadcasting transmission snail a seductive kiss in the air and one of his classic winks. The video footage feeds through all available screens in the area and beyond.

To Zoro’s horror and excitement, the auctioneer announces.

Auctioneer

We proudly present…our final bachelor…THE PIRATE KING OF THE NORTH!!!

The crowd goes nuts. The screaming is so deafening that the swordsman hears ringing behind his ears. Poor Bepo had to push his sensitive ears down to put up with the uproar. They get stuck watching the events unfold in front of them, unable to move like sardines in a can. They feel the crowd push in further from outside as people try to squeeze themselves closer to the stage as the bidding war begins.

Zoro and the Heart Pirates had to risk losing their voices just to hear each other.

Zoro

THE MONEY’S NOT EVEN FOR US! DOES HE KNOW THIS?!

Penguin

HE DOES!! HE SAID HE’LL FISH OUT THE WEALTHIEST PERSON IN SABAODY, GO ON A DATE, THEN STEAL FROM THEM WHEN THEY BRING HIM HOME!

Shachi

BUT NO DATES UNTIL HE SEES THEM PAY THE CHARITY FIRST! THAT WAS THE PLAN!

Bepo

WHAT DID YOU SAY, ZORO?! DO YOU KNOW THAT THAT’S THE KING?! HOW DOES HE WALK LIKE THAT WITH THOSE HEELS, RIGHT?!

Zoro lets out a pained groan and attempts to fight the crowd to get to Sanji quickly. It’s too dangerous for him to use haki, or to simply jump up in the air as he’s afraid of knocking people out given how grossly clustered the dome had become. He barely makes any progress at all. He’d never seen this many people freak out over one man. And of course it had to be him.

Penguin

HEY SHACHI! LOOK I’M BIDDING BUT I DON’T HAVE ANY MONEY! HAH!

Penguin awkwardly waves his coloured paddle up above his head.

Shachi

FOR CHORE BOY? HAH!

Bepo

Captain is going to kill us for real…. I’m sure this time.

The auctioneer starts taking bids, starting at a ridiculously high price of 100,000 Beri. This immediately cuts off half of the public but it doesn’t stop the wealthier citizens raising their paddles, all desperate to have but a few moments of their time with the Pirate King.

Zoro thought he’d hated the man before. Now he wants to personally strangle him in front of everyone. He continues to struggle through the crowd, effectively separating himself from the Heart Pirates.

Penguin

Swordsman! It’s not a good idea to split the party with a crowd this big!!

Zoro ignores the man and trudges on. He needs to drag Sanji’s ass out of there now.

The auctioneer continues to take bids.

300,000…

850,000…

1,100,000…

4,500,000…

The crowd goes quiet. It was an eerie feeling of having gone from extreme loudness down to nothing. Another spotlight shone on the crowd, focusing on a pompous-looking woman who is fanning herself with the bidding paddle, looking mighty proud that no one can top her high bid.

Suddenly, there was a sound of heavy doors opening, followed by a booming voice that filled the air.

Voice

ONE. BILLION. BERRI.

Everyone’s gaze collectively turns towards the source of sound. The spotlight travelled from the pompous woman towards the farthest back area of the stadium.

The crowd parts for a man in a white boiler suit and resin bubble over his head. He approaches the stage slowly–not on his feet, but by using a larger man underneath him as a mount. He gives the slave an agonising snap of his whip to make him go forward, pulling the chain that’s secured around his neck painfully.

Zoro

Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuck. Shit.

Zoro tries to squeeze through faster, but the crowd refuses to budge completely with most of them trying to bow down to the new arrival.

A Celestial Dragon is approaching, and Sanji can’t help but smile.

----------

This Sanji likes to look and feel fantastic.

Also, Bepo is love.

[r0semaryt3a]

Hi, could I please request a collective scenario of the Phantom Troupe going on a first date with their s/o?

And if possible them going to choose a pet (arguably the more chaotic the better, but whoever animal works fine) with their s/o?

Thank you ���

Oh absolutely! I’ll admit to it now, these may be a little ooc but still, I love this idea sm. ofc I’m only gonna do Chrollo, Shalnark, Machi, Paku, Feitan and Phinks w the dates (though may return to this at a later date for the others) - p.s this won’t contain spoilers so for that one friend who knows me on here and reads my stuff feel free to read this.

(I’m including Hisoka and Illumi in this because that pet suggestion is perfect!)

Without further ado:

Chrollo

Where you go will just depend on how you know him. You know him from the Troupe? It’s anyone’s guess! Maybe he’ll take you out for the full shabam, maybe you’ll just sit cuddled up: reading. A candle flickering softly beside you as you rest against his chest, his voice echoing through you with every passing page. Your eyes grow groggy and you hear him chuckle, “tired sweetheart?” Your answer doesn’t matter much. You’ll remain where you are. Carefully perched on his lap as you drift off, his fingers playing absentmindedly with your hair. Suddenly, his attention wasn’t really on his book anymore.

Or, maybe you’ll just walk! You know who he is; probably where he came from he sees no reason to put up an act with you. A simple chat will do.

If you know him from one of his many escapades, know the him all dolled up and fake then you’ll probably wind up at a fancy restaurant. He’ll treat you to the works, the full 9*. You’ll be able to indulge in whatever you desire (and hopefully by the end of the night: him. Though his expectations are quite low on that.)

Can’t imagine him being very touchy on a first date, not unless he was properly invested. Like if you knew each other a while and the event wasn’t spontaneous I can imagine him being very cuddly. You’ve agreed to go on a date with him, this will not be the last and he’s certainly going to get what he can out of it.

So, if you’re a target that he’s had his eye on for a while, he’ll put up a gentlemanly front: butter you up. Try his luck as his arm comes to rest against the crook of your back, fingers running small circles agaisnt your hips. You’re practically glued to his side as he looks down at you with that oh so charming smile. Or how he insists on another bottle of wine for you both to share whilst you’re sat at the table, just to watch the way you trip over yourself. Each slurred word sending shivers down his spine. He’ll offer you a hotel in your inebriated state: walking you to your room, keeping you steady. A part of him (an alarmingly large part he notes) wishes to be bold and leave you a souvenir of your night together, the rest of him knows how to play this game. Knows better than that. He’ll leave it be for tonight, no use in moving too fast after all. You’re an investment. One he intends to make worth his while.

Aaaaand if you’re some lucky shmuck: he’ll see how the night goes. Truth be told, he’s using you. You were his pass for whatever caper he happened to be on the night you two met and since then you’ve been simply smitten. He can’t say it’s been a bother, you’re cute by all means considered and don’t impose on his work: so he humoured you. And now, you’re sat face to face as he spins another tale of his grandiose, noble lineage. You were so enthralled in his lies. The night would drag on and before you knew it, a swift peck on the cheek; promise for another and he’d be gone.

In terms of choosing a pet with an S/O Chrollo strikes me as the kind of guy who’d go for a cat. It’s not top docile but not some unruly beast. Plus, there’s the added bonus of letting it wander: it won’t demand attention at every second of the day. Just slink in and slink out every now and then. It’d probably be a stray, he has a tendency to like them more.

If we’re going on terms of expense? Lizards, you’d wind up with a whole bunch of expensive and equally exotic reptiles. A chameleon maybe? Just like him, it can blend into any crowd. A kindred spirit.

Feitan

A date? With him? Really? But why? That’s just a waste of time.

Unlike Chrollo, Feitan doesn’t do outside gigs often and especially doesn’t do anything that would involve getting touchy feely. So, likelihood is you’re a fellow trope member or at least someone who knows him well.

Still. Getting a date with him will be hard.

Obscenely so.

You’ll most likely stay at whatever base the Troupe had made, maybe play a game? Talk?

If he’s feeling up to it he’ll probably steal a fancy Chardonnay and light candles, it’s nothing too special but it’s a nice touch.

If he’s the one to suggest the date however. Oh boy, you best prepare good.

Feitan is an odd soul, he doesn’t really understand that you might not want to start the date with him brutally mangling a chauffeur. But, the rest of the night will certainly make up for that. You won’t be leaving his side: at all, like not once. Don’t even try it. His hand is glued to yours as he drags you through streets. He made an effort tonight, in a suit.

It’s anyone’s guess as to where you’ll wind up, most likely a store you’d expressed interest in, a movie you’d been talking about recently or a restaurant that you liked the food from. Either way it’s free for the both of you.

You may wind up completely alone on a candle lit dinner, flirtatious banter rolling of his tongue in drunken clumps if he loosens up enough (which is a big if)

He’ll bite you at least once throughout the date. Not even because he thought it would be romantic, he just wanted to.

Pet wise? Something small, that he can vary around. Probably a snake or a rodent. He’d say things like “Need violent. Help out.” Then you’ll catch him with his little rat nestled into his hood.

It’s not a pet for the both of you, it’s a pet for him. Which, you don’t really mind afterall it quells his little attachment outbursts

Phinks

Basic. I mean real basic.

He’s nervous as on a first date.

Will talk about himself a lot but he’s not trying to be rude (maybe)

You’ll most likely head out to a restaurant or a movie.

Unlike Feitan, Phinks may actually pay for his meal and the event’s expenses. Give the facade of a normal date and not a robbery.

If you know him from the troupe he probably won’t prioritise keeping up appearances unless you’ve expressed you want a normal night. If you don’t: it’ll be like every teen movie fantasy.

He had protested agaisnt your movie of choice, called it “bland” and talked of there “being so many better options.” But, you swear, with his eyes glued intently on the screen before you; his arm slung over your shoulder, you caught the occasional flicker of a smile.

Pet wise? Dog. This is just a fact, you’re getting a dog. Maybe a Labrador or a Cane Corso? He’s a sucker for loyalty and more than willing to put in the effort of caring for it.

Machi

“A date? But why? We spend enough time together here, don’t we?”

It’s not that she doesn’t want to go on one, she’s just aware that her presence as an on site doctor is important. (And values the money)

She’s perfectly capable of being romantic; this date will show that. When you inevitably get her to cave.

It’ll probably be a cafe, ice cream venue: something small. Unlike the others, she doesn’t try to blow you away with bold or tacky displays. The image will perfectly replicate a domestic scene.

The two of you, sat beside one another on a flimsy outdoor table. You’d ordered milkshakes, similarly to Phinks if you wanted normalcy she’d be more than happy to pay, occasional bouts of small talk drifted between the two of you. Eventually her hand found your own and the small talk fell to teasing, a gentle thumb caressing the back of your hand. “How’s your drink?” The question seemed off in the onslaught of flirtatious remarks, her monotonous front swiftly returning. She hummed at your response. “Want to try some of mine?”

If you refuse, she’ll simply shrug and return to the mismatch mix of small talk and romance.

If you say you do want to however, that’s a different story. She pushes the glass towards you; you lean in -tentatively- to grab it. Nothing much else happens: the flavours meet your tongue and your guard begins to lower. Suddenly, a warmth floods through you, as in a swift motion, Machi planks a kiss on your cheek. It’s nothing big, nothing bold. But, it lasts, a lingering knot in your chest. She’s had the effect she wanted and knows that. It was cute watching you regain composure: keep your guard up, she’ll be testing your reflexes again soon.

Pet wise I’m thinking a scavenger, like a fox or something. She’s not going to get a conventional pet, maybe on your way back home you catch a glimpse of orange? She’s enamoured with the thing in seconds.

Either that or a bird, she’d probably train it to help with her nensticthes. (not that she needs it)

Shalnark

He’s the one to ask you.

The date’s perfect, down to every detail. All tailored to your tastes.

He’s very cuddly during the whole ordeal so best be prepared.

The date itself would consist of a flurry of different activities, all scheduled to fit neatly into whatever time you had. If something were to come up that you seemed particularly fond of, he’d drop the rest. Instead, turning his attention to ensuring you kept on enjoying whatever it was you were both doing.

Shalnark strikes me as the kind of guy to want to go shopping for a date and likely wouldn’t be of shy of this fact. Bringing a small purse (mostly filled with trinkets and not actually money) to elude to his wants.

You’re ending the night with at least 1 set of matching items and him practically glued to you: one arm wrapped around your waste and another occasionally fiddling with loose aspects of your attire, bombarding you with questions: “did you enjoy yourself?” “Ooh, next time we should get XXX.” “Why’d you choose to wear this? Not that I’m complaining, you look stunning, just curious~”

Overall? It’s quite the fruitful experience.

Pet wise: Shalnark doesn’t really care, he’s always wanted to see how well he could look after a fish or rodent of some kind but has also always adored the idea of owning some big, fluffy creature. He’ll most likely wind up looking up pros and cons and running off of that.

Pakunoda

Restaurant date all the way.

Like Shalnark, she’s the one to suggest the idea to you.

She goes all out. And I mean all out. When you first see her, she’s stunning. Hair pristine, brilliant outfit, heels adding to her already towering height.

She’s not shy with compliments, her hand resting in the crook of your arm. Every word is picked with poise, with no doubt on sincerity.

The night is normal all things considered, she’s more than willing to pay and almost bends over backwards to ensure nothing ‘thievish’ happens.

The dinner would be lovely, you can’t help but note the meticulous care placed into every action. The seating giving you just the seclusion she needs to smother you with flirtatious quips. She’s good with her tongue as well, knows every which way, every which syllable to elicit the exact reactions she wants. The night would be one to remember; depending on the status of your relationship, might stay with you a few days longer.

“You like the food, love?” You mumble your response through a mouthful, nodding your head to accentuate your point. This earns a hearty laugh from the woman, “Mhm, I’m glad to hear it.” Her eyes don’t leave your figure for one second. She’d been like that all night, drinking in every aspect of your form, “Have I told you how good you look tonight?” She had, a lot, but the sentiment stood strong nonetheless.

Pet wise? Also a cat. Paku’s just a cat lady I don’t make the rules, probably a long hair. Like a Turkish Angora or Cymric.

Hisoka

Oh boy. Really? I mean, really?

It’s your funeral and I’m not even certain I can say that figuratively.

The date is anyone’s guess. Could be a restaurant or it could be something obscene like rock climbing, rollerblading, go karting. Whatever it is, it won’t be boring.

He’ll pick an activity that forces proximity, you’re going to be close for the whole night. A means of bonding if you will.

Hisoka thrives on attention and watching skill in action, so his ideal date would encompass both of those qualities. On one hand, you’re both pressed up against one another, full reign to do what you’d like (within account of public decency of course) and on the other, you’re showing exceptional stamina and strength in keeping up with him.

No shortage of flirting here folks, every other word will carry some lewd innuendo you’re sure not to miss.

By the end you’ll definitely have some marks on you, whether from him or the date itself is 50/50. If it is from the date’s activities however, he’d always be open to remedy that.

“I have to say, I’m quite impressed you know.” The words were hardly audible from your positioning, you were far more focused on keeping yourself upright anyhow. “If I’d have known you were this capable I would’ve suggested another activity.” There’s an underlying threat to his words, yet somehow the compliment (if you could call it that) leaves a pink hue upon your cheeks.

Pets. Hmmm, pets. Hisoka would need something that wouldn’t settle down, wouldn’t rely on routine so most domestic animals are off the table for him. Things that need specific conditions would also be a no. Overall Hisoka needs something that can keep up with his sporadic lifestyle, otherwise he’ll leave it behind. Which really leaves very little options on the table.

But, there’s a chance something might sweep him off his feet and I’d be willing to bet that’d be a spider or reptile of some kind, something that he knows could and would kill him. The thought of snakes and their incapability to love would probably excite him.

Illumi

Boring.

Very, very, very boring.

He does everything he’s meant to and I mean that he tick every little box. There’s no excitement here unless he has a job or someone does something.

And oh boy, you better believe you’re not walking out of there without at least something to show of it.

He is rather gentle with you, if it weren’t for his overall aloof demeanour you may be prone to calling it endearing. Overall, Illumi would be a rather: interesting case. Unless you somehow sparked something in him you’d probably be best holding off on the dates for a while. But hey! You tried right?

Pet wise, why would he need another? He has Mike. It’s a little too much responsibility with how much he moves around, though if he had to chose it’d probably be a rabbit. Why? He couldn’t say, has just always been drawn to them.

This is like my first time writing any of these characters other than Chrollo so I hope I did them justice-

[crowleysgirl67]

Rescuing Romance

Author: @crowleysgirl67

Word Count: 661

Parings/Characters: Reader, Bobby, Buck, Hen, Chim, Maddie, 

Warnings: show warnings, broken bones, 

A/N: Thanks for reading!  

“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”  

“I need fire and rescue and a couple of ambulances to 1515 Vista view court the medical tower. I’m currently hanging upside down by my leg on the twelve floor stairwell.”

“Ok ma’am can you tell me your name?”   

“It’s (Y/N) (Y/L/N). I’m a doctor, we had a patient have a psychotic break. Tried to throw me over the railing. I managed to wedge my leg in the bars. Definitely broke it but at least I'm not dead yet.”

“Ok (Y/N), I’m Maddie. Helps on the way. Where is the patient now?”

“I gave him a sedative right as he got me over the railing. I cant see him exactly but I’m pretty sure he was by the stairs when the sedative took effect. He might be on the landing on the floor below.”

“Alright. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“I don’t think so. I’m sure I’ll find out when the adrenaline stops.” 

“They’re arriving on scene now.”

Maddie stayed on the line with you until they arrived.

“LAFD; How’re you doin ma’am?” 

“Oh ya know, hanging in there.” you heard one of them fail to stifle a laugh “I’m Dr. (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“(Y/N) is it? I’m Bobby, we’re gonna get you out of there.”

“Cool, I’ve been here probably 20 minutes. I feel like a damn bat.”

Another poorly disguised snicker happens above you as Bobby, who you assume is their Captain, gives orders. Soon enough you’re being carefully hauled up and attended to.  

“How’re you doin?” the lovely lady who introduced herself as Hen asked.

“Eh, been better. Got a bit of a headache and my legs killin me. Which is about to get worse ain’t it?” you studied their faces.

“Yeah, sorry we’ve got to set this to be able to splint it properly.” the other one, Chim looked at you apologetically.  

“We can give you something for the pain.” Hen offers.

You shake your head, “No. I don’t take narcotics unless absolutely necessary.”

“So you’re just gonna do this, no pain meds?” the young one, Bobby called him Buck, asks incredulously.   

“Yup” you laid back as Hen stabilized your hips and Chim braced to put your leg back into place.

“Ready? We’ll do this on three.” Chim started.

You nod, “Let’s do it.” you took a deep breath.

Chim pulled on your leg and you ground your nails into the palm of your hand as you released a hiss of air. It hurt like a bitch. They splinted your leg as Buck looked at you wide eyed.

“Say what ya gotta say.” you looked up at him as you relaxed your hand.

“We just set your leg! No pain meds and you didn’t even make a sound!” he stared at you like you had two heads.  

You let out a weak chuckle, “Not my first rodeo.”

They loaded you onto the stretcher while Buck hovered asking all sorts of questions.

“Buck.” Bobby started. “Leave her alone and help with this gear.”

“Right uh sorry Cap.” he grimaced and began to gather gear to take down. 

 “I’m sorry, he can be a little enthusiastic.” Bobby addressed you.

“He’s alright, I don't mind. How's my patient?” 

“He’ll be fine, possible concussion but we’ve already handed him off to the ER downstairs.”

You nodded, “Well thank you for the rescue Captain I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” he nodded. He looked like he wanted to say more but didn’t want to intrude. 

You pulled a card from your pocket and scribbled your number on it before handing it to him, “Give me a call if you want to talk. You look like you do, and we both know you don’t have time while on duty.”

He took the card looking bewildered as you were wheeled away. He looked down at it before stuffing it in his pocket. He did have questions, maybe he’d give you a call after shift. 

[thestralluvr]

Lars Pinfield x reader headcanons part 2

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

his glasses are constantly breaking, lenses falling out, arms breaking, the bridge has literally snapped but he refuses to buy another pair.

avoids cameras like the plague.

a tech geek, he’s revamped a vintage camera.

his favourite movie is Vroom (1988), his favourite character is Ringe.

you’d think he’d own a super cool vintage car then, right? wrong he’s got a total shitbox that’s falling apart at the seams.

like the door is literally held together with duct tape.

his favourite show however, is drag race. his all time favourite queen is definitely jinkx.

cryptid believer, he’s definitely pulled all nighters researching them and comes to you with blood-shot eyes in the morning like “hey y/n did you know-“.

even working in the paranormal field he’s still a skeptic when it comes to hauntings, a fake until proven true kinda guy.

sets your alarms 15 minutes before you have to actually get up in order to get those mandatory cuddles in.

he adores the domestic moments between the two of you, even something as mundane cooking or cleaning together.

not big on pda unless he’s jealous 🤷 if someone’s flirting with you and not getting the hint he’ll wrap his arms around you from behind and kiss your neck, he can be possessive and it’s really hot.

but other than that, it’s usually hand holding, a quick kiss goodbye or hello, maybe an arm wrapped around you or hand on your thigh and legs entwined when working together.

but alone? he’s all over you, he can’t get enough.

his version of borrowing from people is secretly taking it then discretely putting it back when they realise what’s missing, he’d never admit it was him 😭.

poor babe puts a lot of pressure on himself.

he’d never admit if he was struggling with a certain calculation or something wasn’t adding up.

but you know, you can always tell.

so, when the moment arises you quietly ask him to join you for a break outside, 9 times out of 10 he’ll be able to figure out what he was stuck on once you’ve helped him clear his mind.

he’s forever grateful for you, what may seem like little things to you mean the entire world to him.

less sappy, you know that tiktok trend of boyfriends sleeping like they’re dead, got the plague, pharaoh’s curse, clutching their pearls? well that’s him.

his arms crossed over his chest, he’s ready for his coffin.

you’ve had to check if he was breathing a few times 😭.

if you’re american, he definitely mocks your accent.

if you’re not, you both secretly mock others’.

he’s constantly bumping into things, he doesn’t have much luck with corners i’m afraid. but hey, he’s tall with very gangly limbs i don’t blame him.

you’re always there, band aid box in hand with an unimpressed look on your face.

lars pinfield is the LEADER of the sassy man apocalypse.

the sass from this man, you swear you’re getting premature greys!!

in his hipster phase (referring to part 1) he got a septum piercing but he’s had it flipped up since.

the first time you saw it you were so taken aback.

“since when has that been there?!?!”

“uhh 2012?”

i think he’d have an industrial too but that’s just my opinion.

.

.

hopefully this was okay!!! i feel like you can definitely tell i’m australian by my writing 😭

[missmaywemeetagain]

Broken Glass, Chapter 9 💔🥂❤️‍🩹

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much Love, 

Madi xoxoxoxo 💗💋

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

Broken Glass Chapter 9

March 24th, 1960

Miami, Florida

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

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

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

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

“The hell you aren’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

He shoots you a petulant look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It shouldn’t bother you, but it does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How long?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s not that easy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m only human.

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, no, no, no!” you whimper.

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

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

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

Elvis.

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

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

You aren’t sure what’s worse.

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

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

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

It’s all your fault.

Then heavy silence.

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

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

“Mine.”

Then he digs his claws deep into your belly.

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

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

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

Elvis.

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

I’m safe.

Sleep takes you with little fuss.

*

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

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

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

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

Could be that.

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

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

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

Oh, Madone, something happened to Elvis.

Gianni.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s downright disrespectful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How dare he.

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

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

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

Like he planned this.

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

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

Well, two can play at that game.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three, two, one, you count silently.

“Oh, well, I—” you start.

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

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

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

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

Perhaps you imagine the gentle squeeze at your waist.

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

Madone, why am I so emotional today?

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

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

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

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

“I’m sure she—” Elvis starts.

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

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

Maybe that’s a good thing.

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

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

*

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

You were wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

March 26th, 1960

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, Madone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They say the truth will set you free.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not unlike the look on his face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A woman could fall in love with that voice alone.

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

He is stunning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The whole thing is madness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Liar.

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

Maybe too connected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” you hear Charlie call back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Elvis—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why does he have to be so charming?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not now, later.

Protect him, protect him, protect him…

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

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

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

But that wouldn’t make sense.

“Goodnight, Elvis,” you say quietly.

“Goodnight, Lori.”

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart screeches to a stop.

Dio mio…he knows.

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

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

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

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

Oh, God, everyone knows.

They are coming for me.

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

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

Elvis is going to send me back.

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

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

He’s been preparing to let me go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then there is just dark, blissful silence.

*

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Taglist Pt 1

@eliseinmemphis@russian-soft-bitch@tattywood

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

[wannabanauthor]

To the 9-1-1 fans who are worried about Gerrard becoming captain again of the 118, here’s some info from a government employee (not first responder but I’ve seen people retire and people transfer and have that all messed up due to a grievance or complaint):

All of them can petition to have Gerrard removed due to his past bigotry to 2 current members. He will be transferred elsewhere. If Tommy gets in on it and writes an affidavit detailing Gerrard being homophobic at the medal ceremony and Buck being his boyfriend, that could get him moved out of being Buck’s boss. Hen and Chimney could also have cases of not feeling comfortable with a racist supervisor due to past filed complaints. If they have evidence of his picture with the lady who sabotaged Mara’s adoption, they can claim retaliation for getting him ousted in the past. They can pretty much prevent him from coming back. I’ve seen it happen at the city and county levels.

Retirement is a lengthy-ish process before it goes into effect, so Bobby can reverse it. He can also be hired temporarily as a retiree who is still on the job because the vacancy can’t be filled. I’ve seen it happen in LA City, but I don’t know the technical term.

Fun fact: even supervisors have a probation period, unless they’re temporarily assigned to a post due to vacancy that can’t be filled right away. Gerrard burned too many bridges at the 118, so they could sabotage him easily and get him out of there. However, since he’s a supervisor and government employee, it could be lengthy, but if Bobby wants to return, the higher ups would just transfer Gerrard out rather than deal with endless complaints and potential lawsuit if Gerrard gets back to his old tricks.

Also, have you met government employees? We are some of the pettiest folk around, and we document everything when it comes to fellow employees we don’t like. It’d still take awhile, but Gerrard would be forced into being nice. Otherwise, he’d get hit with a lawsuit and grievance. Even if he’s not immediately removed from his post, he’d be suspended for some time and not able to work with the people who filed against him.

And finally, word spreads in government work. Bad supervisors/employees will end up with a reputation government agency-wide because people transfer/promote between departments and divisions, and locations often, and they talk. I guarantee that Gerrard has done bad things at other stations that have been documented, so there’s a history to go along with any future complaints the 118 will have.

Oh, one more last point, the 118 could pull a stunt similar to what happened in The Closer tv show. When the detectives heard their supervisor might face consequences for some of her actions, they all signed letters saying they would quit if anything happened to her. It rendered the complaints against their supervisor useless since an empty department looks worse than a few higher ups with grudges.

So worry not, the writers have many real life avenues to choose from to put into next season’s storyline to get rid of Gerrard.

Feel free to add more info about government employees in LA or correct me where I said something wrong.

[changingplumbob]

Foster Household: Chapter 9, Part 5

CW: Mental Health Struggles - Guide to content warnings

Carson got home late from prom so treated himself to a sleep in. Before he got in to the swing of the day he decided to give downstairs an extra vacuum. There was no guarantee that Ariadne would come visit, or that she would come inside the house if she came over, but it was the safest thing to do. If he didn’t she might make a social bunny post about how he lived in a tip that he’d never live down. No, surely she wouldn’t? Best be safe though.

After polishing off breakfast he decided to give Onyx a call, they were normally up by now practicing cheer or playing with their horse.

Onyx: Sup mate

Carson: Hey! Remind me, did we have homework for science?

Onyx: A bit, stuff from the textbook. Shouldn’t take you long though, it’s multi choice with like one proper written question

Carson: Okay so I should be able to do that tonight

Onyx: Why? You got plans for the day

Carson: I might... I’ll call you later

Onyx: No problem, I'm homebound all day

Hanging up he knew there was no more avoiding. He sent Ariadne a message. She had accepted his social bunny request, he wouldn't have sent it if she hadn't suggested it herself though. He didn't want to come on too strong.

Her texts indicated she’d love to come check out the beaches and Carson excitedly got in his swimwear. He looked in his mirror before heading downstairs and decided to throw a tank shirt on as well. He had some confidence but not enough to quite go shirtless with the girl he was crushing on. Ariadne arrived just before lunch ready to hit the beaches.

Ariadne: You okay?

Carson: Yeah, just wondering which direction to head

Harvey: Ariadne would you like to see some of our family photos while you’re here

Carson: No dad, we’re leaving!

Ariadne giggled as Carson made a beeline for the backdoor.

Outside they had good weather, Carson was happy the rain had stayed away for the day.

Ariadne: So...

Carson: So...

Ariadne: Uh... is there like a spot you like most

Carson: It’s all pretty nice but if we head down this hill there’s a pretty good clean bit

Ariadne: *nervously* After you

As they walked Carson tried to think of something to say but all he could think was that Ariadne looked really cute.

Ariadne: Have you always lived here then

Carson: Oh no. I was born in Willow Creek actually. After my mum had me she decided to get a full time artist job and that gave us enough to move here. My dad... well he earns good money but it’s just a fishing gig

Ariadne: You forget, my dads may be loaded but I didn’t grow up with much. At least your dad has a job, you can be proud of that

Carson: You are too sweet

Ariadne: *blushes* Shut up

Carson: Shall we go swimming then

Ariadne: I don’t know. Are there sharks?

Carson: Sometimes but not usually close to the shore. If any come up we can just punch them on the nose

Ariadne: *giggling* That is not a thing. The poor sharks might just want friends

Carson: Fine, any come up and I’ll hug them while you swim away. Come on

Carson grabbed her hands to lead her to the water, hoping they weren’t as sweaty as they seemed. She smiled and he hoped he’d done the right thing. Once they were in the water he let go so they could swim, happy he’d pushed himself to try that.

In the water they mucked around, splashing each other and swimming in circles. They shared tales of their school teachers and the various gossip around sims they both knew. Time carried on and Carson knew he should end it, he had scouts, but surely the troop could manage without him for an afternoon. Unless of course they were hit by a meteor. But if that was going to happen then it was good he wasn’t there or he’d die to.

Ariadne: Are you sure those glasses are fine for in the water

Carson: Yeah they’ve got this coating that bounces the water right off. I can see how good you look, don’t worry *blows kiss*

Ariadne laughed and Carson hoped it was with happiness rather than her thinking he was embarrassing himself. She sighed wistfully and turned to float on her back for a while.

Ariadne: I suppose I won’t see much of you at school this week

Carson: I mean... I know we’re in different years but I’ll still be around. If you want to see me that is. Can we go to the shore for a minute, I want to give you something before you have to go home

Ariadne: Can I have a hint

Carson: Just open it and see

Ariadne: It’s a shark isn’t it

Carson: *laughs* Just open the box

Inside the box was a Tulip Shell that Carson had found the past week and he was happy to see Ariadne smile at the sight of it.

Carson: It’s the most flawless one I’ve found. Normally they get chipped on like diving gear and stuff

Ariadne: It’s lovely. Are you sure you want to give it to me?

Carson: It should be with someone just as pretty

Ariadne: *blushing* Thanks. Oh shoot the time, I better get back home

Carson: Wait, um... selfie first?

Ariadne: *laughing* Twist my arm

Carson lifted up his phone for the shot, unable to ignore the tightening in his chest when Ariadne snaked her arm around him to get in the picture properly. After she left he sat on the beach for a while, closing his eyes and playing the time back in his mind.

Previous ... Next

[awkwardtickleetoo]

im thinking george likes rougher tickles - light ones still work but he likes it being so much he has no choice but to try his hardest to escape.

sapnap likes light tickles - they make him feel floaty and rough ones are so embarrassing (i get the feeling hed get too warm during them)

dream can (and does) deal with both - he just wants to be good for his ler and has made himself see the good in each type of tickle so he can put up with them. what ever means hes a good boy. also, hes difficult to pin so has to work extra hard on staying still when only one person is destroying him, no matter how intense :3

ugh YES this is literally exactly what we think too!!!! (we being me and mushie lmao i just realized that’s probably not as obvious as i thought)

i got carried away so continued under the cut LMAO

he would legit die before admitting it but george would LOVEEEEE rough tickles, for exactly why you said. he likes being able to fully lose himself in the tickles, to have a reason to fight back even tho he doesn’t want it to stop, bc he could never ever just sit back and take it unless he physically has no other choice. he’s just too embarrassed about how ticklish he is and how much he enjoys it (even if he KNOWS there’s nothing to be embarrassed about), and even if he was completely shameless, it’s like. physically impossible for him not to squirm. it’s just coded into his brain. he’s a little squirmy worm he can’t help it.

so he likes when a ler is rough with him, throws him around a little bit and holds him down and makes him regret ever meeting them, with some gentle stuff mixed in so he still feels loved and safe and taken care of. it’s easiest for him to enjoy it that way– even if it took dream and sapnap a few times to get used to him sounding like he was being tortured and still continuing through it. those were some awkward conversations.

on the other hand, sapnap much, much prefers his tickles a little bit lighter. don’t get him wrong, the rough ones are definitely fun every so often, especially if the mood is still playful and he able to still let loose all the same, but he really just doesn’t have the stamina or energy that george has when it comes to stuff like that. the rough tickles take him out FAST, and he much prefers to enjoy the softer tickles for a longer amount of time then feel like he’s dying after like 2 minutes of tickling. and you’re absolutely right about him getting too warm, he’d get overstimulated from it, he doesn’t like when he feels too hot or overwhelmed and the rough tickles would definitely do that if they went on for too long :((

not only that, he also loves when a ler makes him not want/need to fight back. bc he’s so hot headed and strong willed, it’s always his first instinct to curse and argue and deny deny deny, so a ler being extra soft with him and taking extra time to make his head all fuzzy and floaty, specifically to make him giggly and pliant, just. reeeeally gets to him. especially if they call him sweet names and whisper pretty words to him, he just eats that shit up. it makes him feel so sweet and warm (in a good way) and tiny and he loves it

dream is definitely a little bit of both, like 1000%. even tho some days he might need/want just one and not really be in the mood for the other, he’s fully content with either form of tickling like 9 times out of 10. he tends to like a mix of both, the combination of the two always keeping him on his toes and wondering what comes next, and he’s always been awful with anticipation (he loves it).

and you are absolutely right– the most important thing to him is being a good boy, a well behaved angel, more than anything else. as long as he’s still enjoying himself, and he knows his ler is proud of him, and they’re having as good of a time as he is, that’s all that matters to him.

and you’re especially right about him being hard to pin– sometimes it frustrates him, because sometimes he really does want someone to just pin him down and tickle him silly, but most times he’s content to experiment with his ler and find new ways to make him equally as helpless as he would be if he was as easy to pin as george or sapnap. there are ways around it, and he is always happy to find them; and, hey, no one ever said he can’t have multiple lers to take him down, right? right <3

[leonardalphachurch]

How do you see the timeline of rvb? Here's how I see it. 3 years of freelancer flashbacks, then after a year season 1, then after 3 months seasons 2 3 4 5, then after 18 months season 6, then after a month seasons 7 8, then after a month seasons 9 10, then after 6 months season 11, then after a month season 12, then after a month season 13, then after 10 months season 15, then after a year seasons 16 17. So between start of freelancer and end of 17 there's been 8 years. Thoughts?

i have a problem in that i want there to be a more substantial period of time between the moi crash and out of mind but i don’t want there to be that much time between the moi crash and season 1. but, like you said, season 4 (and therefore oom) happens a couple of months after season 1. the idea of york only bumming around for about a year just feels so wrong to me… like if i had it my way he’d have been chilling with delta for like 5? at least 3. because like. i feel like blood gulch should be a thing where so much happens in such a short period of time that it’s so so impactful to the characters (especially tucker who i’m ngl i kinda base the timeline around what works best for his character arc to me) but like… gah. i think a big part of the problem is that the pfl flashback arc just has a completely incomprehensible timeline. how much time takes place between scenes? man i’m getting myself worked up about 9 and 10 again lol. like if they didn’t retcon it, if alpha was just being stored at sidewinder for a while we could make that a longer period of time… like i guess he still could be but. hey like. why didn’t the meta just go. take alpha at the end of 10. like. he was right there. what was the… what was stopping him. could you. it get alpha out unless he wanted it? is that why tex left him? i don’t know man. i hate that they were in a spaceship. 9 and 10 feel so like. dreamlike? ephemeral? nothing feels grounded. i guess it does work as them being memories. they feel like memories. disconnected sequences of important events.

what were we talking about. oh right the timeline. yeah yours works. we give 2-3 months between 6 and 7 since season 6 is 1 year after the war and the season 7 trailer says it’s 1.25 years after the war. and season 6 is probably like a couple weeks to a month? did you know valhalla and high ground (the place church was) have to be like. incredibly close to each other. because wash gets south’s recovery beacon and is able to get to her from valhalla to high ground before the meta is able to kill her. that’s so fucked up. tex literally crashed like 30 minutes from where church was. ugh. anyway we give around 3 months between 8 and 9/10. one month just feels too short for them to run from the law, find new bases, have blues establish some kind of routine wrt wash, and then have carolina show up and then do a whole adventure to find and break into the unsc storage facility to save epsilon. but i don’t know if it’s a full 6 months to season 11… maybe like 4? there’s some amount of legal bureaucratic nonsense they have to deal with, and they are on chorus for an amount of time before we meet them in season 11… 6 months just feels a bit too long for tucker and wash’s dynamic if that makes sense? like they’re clearly closer than they were in 10 but there’s still a wall there and even if wash is being kind of a bitch i still feel like. that amount of time of just chilling together would change tuckers time a little bit from the “all i have is you” thing… like if we say there’s ~three months worth of legal bs to deal with and then ~a month of crashing on chorus and establishing themselves at the crash site like. that to me feels like the amount of time that would establish wash and tuckers relationship to where it is. though i guess you also do have much less time after season 8 so they presumably have zero relationship development to you during that time. which i don’t think doesn’t make sense we don’t exactly see them interacting during 10. oh i definitely put a few months between 12 and 13 though. like they seem really established there, and the space pirates are like. genuinely kind of losing at this point. which is why locus and felix go recruit the prisoner ship. the others i’m less sure on but i do think there’s a larger timeskip than a month there. maybe even between 11 and 12 too but i won’t die on that hill. and then obviously the 15-17 timeskips are actually told to us lol

wow i fucking. rambled huh. tl;dr decent timeline. i actively disagree with the amount of time between 6-7 and 12-13 but everything else is small discrepancies i won’t die to defend. well i won’t die to defend any of this. it doesn’t matter that much.

[sparkbugs]

Thinking bout Chip Jrwi

This has spiraled from ramblings to character analysis to whatever it has turned into. I rewatched episodes too JUST to make sure I had the right information and plot points in mind cause I want to make sure I’m not making a fool of myself in front of all of Jrwiblr.. ANYWAYS! This is a lengthy read. Total words being 1318 under the cut. Yeah, I’d say the hyperfixation is hyperfixating for sure. Chip Jrwi you are my blorbo atm and you mean everything to me <3

Do you guys think that before they went to the Black Sea, before they left Canella, before they left the town of Zero that Chip looked at his crew, his friends, and his family and wondered if he should stop? Yeah, he lost his old family years ago, and he wanted to do everything in his power to bring them back, to do something about it that his 9-year-old self couldn’t. But do you ever stop and think that maybe he’s realized that he has a family now, a new one and that he’s afraid to lose it to the Black Sea as well? But they’ve come so far now, they found Drey and Finn, hell Finn had been with them the entire time!! They’ve come so far now, and they’re expecting him to want to keep going, to find Arlin, and maybe even some of the other crew they lost as well. I think about it a lot, maybe too much at this point.

Back in the Feywild when Chip could’ve reached out to anyone, he could’ve talked with Arlin again, but he didn’t. He didn’t because he saw something in his nightmares in Liquidis while being cured of his curse. He saw Arlin, covered and surrounded by this black ichor, and he talked to him again. He saw Arlin, the man who took him in when he had nowhere to go, and he had looked at him with so much rage and hatred.. and he had attacked Chip. This would honestly terrify me if I were in Chip’s place. The person who showed me all the care in the world suddenly turned and attacked me? And saying that this has happened before? In a nightmare situation that felt so real, Chip knew it was real… I’d be terrified to find him if he thinks I’m gonna kill him, he’d be fighting for his life too, I’m sure. The Black Sea has affected Arlin too, I don’t think they’ll be able to convince him that they aren’t going to kill him unless somehow Drey and Finn can get through to him, but it seems highly unlikely. 

I think if Chip feels this way at all, maybe not like all I’ve written exactly, I think he feels immensely guilty. He doesn’t want Arlin to be trapped in the hole in the sea, but he’s also immensely terrified as to what he’s going to find once he gets to him. He doesn’t want the person he’s looked up to for so long, the person he’s risked his and his friends' lives for, to hate him. But I also feel that somewhere in his heart (or lack of one), Chip doesn’t blame Arlin for hating him, cause he’s starting to hate himself for getting his new family dragged down into this hole in the sea as well.

Yes, they all chose to come with him to the Black Sea, but if anything happens to them, Chip will forever blame himself for it. Hell, he lost his heart and he has no one other than himself to blame. Jay almost lost her leg (did she? They haven’t made it clear if she did) and I feel that Chip blames himself for that too. Yes, they helped save everyone on the island, but Gods is Chip scared he’s going to lose his family again. Being on this ocean reminds him of when he was just a scared little kid, but now he can do something about it. He’s trying but he’s still so fucking scared. 

Speaking of his heart- he’s trying to hold onto himself. He’s an undead now, and by meta the mechanics of it are roughhhhh. I rambled a bit on another post about one of my characters named Amani, an opal Tiefling whom Chip is starting to remind me of- not exactly but they both have had their hearts taken!! Doing the checks to see if he loses a part of himself terrifies me each and every time and I know there’s going to be more, we can only hope the dice are in Bizly’s favor as we do not know when Chip will be able to get his heart back. It could be months from now, years maybe. I dread the session they head back to Zero and Chip is still undead. I dread Chip reuniting with Ollie. I don’t think Chip wants Ollie to see him that way, he can hide it with the bandana as much as he wants, but the stench of rotten flesh will give it away. Ollie told him to come back alive! Chip wasn’t able to keep that promise. It kills me to think that Chip dies at 19. Yeah he wasn’t a kid, but he was still so young- yeah he might come back once getting his heart but how much of his humanity will he have lost? How much life experience would he have gained in this undead state? He hasn’t even had the time to grieve the loss of himself with everything that's been going on, and I am really hoping with the next episode of Riptide we get to see some of his thoughts on being undead. Yes, he’s made jokes about it! But I feel he still hasn’t fully processed it all and once he finally does it's going to be PAINFUL. 

He’s grown so much from this journey with Jay and Gillion, he was using them at the start, to get back his family. I mean I could be wrong here, but it certainly feels like it at the start of everything anyway. Along the way though, he started opening up a bit and he realized that while sailing and learning about the whereabouts of his family he’s lost, he’s made a new family. And it’s become precious to him. It shows how he has grown during the fights he had with Gillion, the first fight they had dealing with Chip lying and pranking him, wounding Gill’s pride. They resolved it after communicating and getting to know each other better. The second fight was initiated by Chip himself because he knew he was in the wrong and that he had hurt his friend by keeping the fact that Edyn was working with the Navy a secret. He remembered how much lying had hurt Gill, and as much as he didn’t want to tell him at the time, he wanted to protect Gillion from the truth of his sister potentially doing something dangerous behind his and his friends' backs. There hadn’t been much time in between Gillion escaping the pearl and the time that he found out about Edyn, and Chip had tried not to think about it but those damned bracelets (WHICH I WISH THEY WOULD USE MORE?? WHERE DID THEY GO-) outed him on those thoughts. He stayed up ALL NIGHT just to build the arena, just to show Gillion he was sorry and that he needed to fix it, he wanted to fix things between them both. He goes on and on about how Gillion’s actions helped him change for the better, about how he cares about him, and that he never meant to hurt him. Of course, this ends in them battling again, them starting the fight and Jay ending it like the girlboss she is, but this battle was never out of malice or anger, it is light-hearted and fun, and it shows that they’ve all grown stronger together. 

I love Chip Jrwi, I am so happy that he got a second third chance at a family- He deserves it and the world. I totally will be coming back to this at some point but this is all I have to say for now! Feel free to reply/reblog to this with ur thoughts, or even send me an ask bout it cause I would love to continue talking about this boy!

[shadamyheadcanons]

Who do you think is phisically stronger? Amy or Shadow? I know Shadow is very powerfull with all his Chaos Attacks but what if they have a sparing match with no powers outside the strength of their muscles? I think Amy can keep up with him, maybe even better than Sonic

(I have another ask similar to this, but I’m tackling them separately because the other one is An Undertaking.)

In a strictly physical fight, I’d give the edge to Shadow. Super speed is an absurdly broken ability. Amy’s strong as hell, but strength doesn’t matter if you can’t land a hit. Just ask Knuckles:

Sonic X episode 56 [source]

We have actually seen Shadow and Amy fight before if you count the Archie comics, and it didn’t end well for Amy.

Archie Sonic Universe issue 22, page 20 [source]

Ouch :(

In his defense, she did strike first 11 pages earlier, and he probably wasn’t in any hurry to get clobbered again. Still not his finest moment, but at least he had the decency to look regretful afterward:

And Shadow. SHADOW.

Archie Sonic Universe issue 22, page 21 [source]

That’s not how you carry your future wife, dammit! She’s not a sack of potatoes! Even Sonic’s better at this. Someone teach this boy some manners. And I guess it runs in the family, too, because Silver isn’t much better:

IDW Sonic issue 59, page 6 [source]

How did Blaze wind up upside-down?! He’s carrying Amy just fine! 

Anyway, while it’s true that Shadow used his Chaos powers in that Archie fight, I don’t even think it would’ve made a difference if he didn’t. He’s just too fast. He wasn’t even teleporting when he grabbed her hammer.

Amy’s way more of a threat these days, but she’s leveled up in power, not speed. She still needs help to get anywhere in a hurry:

IDW Sonic issue 2, page 15 [source]

So unless we’re assuming all of Shadow’s speed comes from Chaos energy, which is a stretch, she couldn’t land a hit on him. And while we’re at it, summoning a giant hammer out of thin air is probably Chaos energy, too, and she’s not getting anywhere without the hammer.

Oddly enough, I actually think she’d have a better chance if they were allowed to use Chaos powers. This post is evidence enough. In short: she counters his Chaos Spears with Storming Heart, she can stop time longer than he can, AND she needs only half the rings he does to pull it off. Rose Typhoon matches Chaos Blast, too.

Most importantly, though, she can turn invisible to render Chaos Control useless. Shadow relies heavily on teleportation to control the battlefield and take enemies off guard, as shown above, but you can’t sneak up on something you can’t find, no matter how fast you are. Anyone who’s played Sonic Heroes knows that when you turn invisible as Espio, your teammates will awkwardly freeze in place until you’re visible again because they don’t know where you are. If you try it in a team battle, your opponent will just start running around in circles, as if they’re a frightened rabbit stuck on a loop of “WHAT DO I DO, WHAT DO I DO, WHAT DO I DO--” And guess what? Shadow is no exception! Proof:

It’s literally just this:

Gaze upon your precious Ultimate Lifeform now. Useless! For shame! Are you not entertained?! And it’s not just bad AI from an old game that proves this. Shadow relies heavily on being able to see his foes. He consistently struggles against trickery. That’s how Infinite got the jump on him.

Amy can’t stay invisible as long as Espio can, but she wouldn’t have to. She’d have plenty of time to take Shadow by surprise. With modern!Amy’s obscenely high damage output, she’d demolish him before he could even think of striking back.

Amy in 2009:

Archie Sonic Universe issue 22, page 9 [source]

Amy now:

IDW issue 2, page 7 [source]

Sonic Frontiers Prologue: Convergence, page 4 [source]

IDW Sonic issue 58, pages 19-20 [source]

He’d probably think it was beautiful...if he lived.

So there you have it. Sonic and Shadow ultimately just stalemate each other, but if Amy were given access to all her OP abilities--ALL of them--and a little luck, I think she could potentially take Shadow out. It also helps that she never really uses her more broken skills. He’s never seen her invisibility, for example. If he takes the same approach he took in Archie, he wouldn’t start out fighting at full strength like he does against someone like Sonic. Say what you like about the Archie fight, but he was fairly merciful--for him, at least--toward Amy. If he tried that now, it would be over before he even knew what he was up against.

Will it ever happen in canon? Nah, but that’s what this blog is for!