#IT'S HERE!

[transcendence-au]

★★★ HAPPY 10TH ANNIVERSARY! ★★★

It’s that special time of year, folks–time for our annual TAU ficathon! But, what’s this… we’re turning 10 this year? That’s a milestone if I’ve ever heard one!

To celebrate, we’re going to offer a couple extras this year… we’ve got contests, raffles, and prizes! Here’s a quick peek at what’s going down this eventful birthday of ours:

Fanfic contest (with prizes!)

Fanart contest (with prizes!)

Three raffles!

Alcor charm preorder!

Here’s what the schedule is going to look like:

October 5th: Fanfic and fanart contests open! Alcor charm pre-orders open!

November 2nd: Alcor charm pre-order close + payment deadline

December 14th: Contest submissions close

December 21st: Contest winners and raffle winners announcements

Click the read more to see all the details of these events!

★ Fanfic contest ★

→ Submit your fic to the fanfic contest here! ← 

This time, you can submit your ficathon fic into a contest for some fun prizes!

The winner will receive:

An Alcor charm (free including shipping)

Their fic featured in the “Introduction to TAU” page soon to be unveiled

Art for their fic, drawn by TAU creator Zillychu

Bragging rights! 

Unlike the usual ficathon though, there is a theme all contestants will need to follow. 

☆☆☆ The theme for this contest is: Introduction to TAU! ☆☆☆

This means your fic can be read by anyone who has no prior knowledge of TAU, or even Gravity Falls! It also means you need to give the reader a taste of what TAU is all about – this includes:

Something that explains the Transcendence (or at least shows the reader that the supernatural is now commonplace – this can be achieved anywhere from a single sentence, to a major plot point)

Alcor’s general predicament of being a human-turned-immortal-demon (could be in conversation, or in the general narrative. Does not need to go into detail on the events that lead up to this, but it can!)

At least one familiar or common theme abundant in this AU, which includes but isn’t limited to: 

Family (however it’s defined), friendship, and platonic love

Finding joy amidst grief, hope despite loss

Demonology and eldritch terrors

Supernatural politics and how they fit into the mundane

The existential horror of being a human turned semi-omnipotent immortal demon who must fight the demonic desire for chaos vs. the human desire to pack bond with everything!

A wonderful example of this includes Mod K’s series Bentley & Friends! The story plants you in the center of the TAU world through the eyes of a character named Bentley, and slowly unveils the setting through his perspective. Bentley himself is familiar with a post-Transcendence world and Alcor’s reputation, but only comes to learn the truth about him and Mizar through ensuing shenanigans. 

Another example would be MaryPSue’s Return, Rewind, Rewrite, which starts with an emotional demon summoning, and follows characters who find they're more closely linked to the Transcendence than they expected. Remember: Showcasing the story of TAU through narratives and character interactions is always better than simply giving the reader a summary! 

Please note that there is no word minimum. Longer fics will generally leave a better impression on the mods, but quality will always trump quantity. 

Here’s a list of all the prerequisites for your fic when entering the fanfic contest:

Only one entry per person

Adheres to the contest theme

Only new work created after this announcement post (or within a month if tagged as anniversary content) will be accepted!

Is rated G to M (no explicit sexual content please!)

No word minimum

Is submitted via the Google form by December 14th

OCs are welcome, so long as the theme is met and the story is easily distinguished as TAU-related

If you end up winning the contest, we will reach out to you for your name and address so we can send you your charm!

If you win the contest and you elect not to receive a charm, we will award the free charm to the runner-up.

★ Fanart contest ★

→ Submit your art to the fanart contest here! ← 

Not much of a writer, but still want to join in the festivities? Perhaps you’d like to write and do a little something extra?

Here’s a list of all the prerequisites for entering the fanart contest:

Only one entry per person

ANY art (that isn’t fanfic) is accepted! Illustration, mixed media, animations, emojis, music… if you create it, you can enter it!

Only new work created after this announcement post (or within a month if tagged as anniversary content) will be accepted!

No explicit sexual content

Is submitted via the Google form by December 14th

OCs are welcome, so long as it’s easily distinguished as TAU-related

★ Raffles ★

→ Click here to enter the TAU fan appreciation raffle! ← 

While the mods of the TAU blog will be picking winning contest entries, we’d like everyone participating to have a chance to win a free charm, as well as fans who have created fan content in the past!

There will be a total of 3 raffles:

If you enter the fanfic contest, you will be automatically entered in the fanfic raffle!

If you enter the fanart contest, you will be automatically entered in the fanart raffle!

Yes, that means if you enter both the fanfic and fanart contest, you will be entered twice! If you apply to the TAU fan appreciation raffle, you'll be entered three times!

The TAU fan appreciation raffle is open to everyone who has created at least one piece of fan content in the past! You will need to enter this raffle manually, and share a link to something you created in the past (must be something with a timestamp, like a blog post or AO3 link). 

☆☆☆ If you pre-order a charm and end up winning a raffle, we will refund you on Paypal for the full amount.

☆☆☆ Only one charm will be awarded per person. If you win one raffle, you cannot win in the others. 

★ Alcor charm pre-orders ★

→ Click here to pre-order your Alcor charm! ←

Want to ensure you still get a charm whether or not you win a contest or raffle? Go ahead and pre-order yours!

Price: $15

(includes shipping inside USA, additional shipping fees for international)

Note that since this is something Zilly wants to do in appreciation for the TAU community, the price listed is purely production price. This will cover the cost of the charm, and shipping. If you live outside the USA, we will calculate your shipping separately and disclose this in the Paypal invoice. If the price exceeds your expectations, you are welcome to refuse/cancel the invoice.

Your invoice must be paid by November 2nd! (We need to know how many charms to order!)

The charms will be sent in early January – We will do the contest winners and raffles first, so if you pre-order and then win one of the contests or raffles, your invoice will be canceled and you will be sent a charm at no cost. 

Here’s what you need to do to preorder an Alcor charm:

Fill out the following Google form (You will need to share your Paypal email! Make sure your name and address in your Paypal is correct, as we will be using that to ship your charm)

Wait for us to send you an invoice in Paypal

Complete payment of your Paypal invoice by November 2nd

Estimated delivery date will be January 2025!

★ And now... the true stars of our AU ★

That's everything for this year's celebration! But now, if you'll let me get a little emotional... I'd like to thank the heart and soul of the Transcendence AU:

You.

To all the fans of TAU, new and old. To everyone who spent years active in the fandom, to everyone who even briefly enjoyed TAU content in passing. To everyone who created fanfic and fanart, to those who created music and animated MAPs, to those who organized events and meet-ups, to everyone who reblogged and liked posts made by the TAU blog or any of TAU's wonderful fans.

Thank you. You created this AU. You created something more than an idea. You created a community. Without you, none of this would have been possible.

From the bottom of my little rat heart, I love you all. From all the mods of the TAU blog, we thank you! Here's to another ten wonderful years!

[wikiangela]

I'll take care of you (honey, you'll take care of me too)

bucktommy, chronic pain, domestic fluff

rating: G

words: 10k

summary: Buck's old leg injury flares up on a morning he's spending with his boyfriend.

[read on Ao3]

“So why didn’t you just tell me your leg hurts?” he asks with fond exasperation, pressing his lips to Buck’s forehead, before putting his fingers under Buck’s chin to make him look him in the eyes. Buck does instantly. “I didn’t want you to worry. Usually I can hide it better.” Buck shrugs, feeling his cheeks heat up. It’s so stupid, he doesn’t even know why it was such a big deal to him. “Evan.” Tommy frowns. “Why would you wanna hide it at all?” “I don’t know.” Buck shrugs again, averting his gaze, looking down at where his fingers are fiddling with the corner of the comforter, feeling almost embarrassed and childish now. “I can handle it on my own. It- it doesn’t even hurt that often, or that much. I just- I guess I don’t want to bother anyone. Bother you.”  “Baby.” Tommy says softly, then both of his hands land on Buck’s cheeks, Buck’s eyes instantly, automatically falling on his.

[read on Ao3]

[nico-di-genova]

A Lesson in Braking

AKA: Strollonso College AU, this time with a name! Warnings: Smut, at the very end, so if you don't want to read that bit it's literally the very end bit, just skip that altogether.

Chapter 1

The problem with street racing, Lance thinks, is that it is entirely reliant on the people around you being aware of their surroundings. Which, in a state full of retirees who can barely see past their steering wheels, much less their side mirrors, is an impossibility. So Lance shouldn’t be surprised that he’s almost sideswiped when he’s doing 130 in a 65 by a white Honda Civic with a geriatric behind the wheel. He shouldn’t be, and yet when he swerves back over into the far side of the left lane to avoid being flattened, the bike still nearly goes out from under him anyway.

He fights every instinct not to brake and lock up, to lose it and go sliding across the pavement with only his padded jacket and jeans to protect him.

"Jesus Christ!” comes the panicked, staticky voice through his helmet from the Bluetooth connected to his phone, along with the worried yells of everyone else inside the car.

The red Dodge Charger that was chasing Lance seconds before slows in the lane behind him, gives him enough space that if he does fall he won’t be run over like road kill – he can hear the tires of the muscle car screeching on the pavement, the horns from the traffic behind them. Pato, thankfully, is not an eighty year old with failing eyesight. He is, however, the reason that Lance had been swerving through traffic in the first place.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Pato laughs, deliriously.

Lance’s fingers are shaking around the handlebars of the bike, leather-gloved hands so tight around them that he can feel the tension in his body. He tries to breathe out, and an equally insane laugh escapes him.

“Are you okay?”

“Fuck,” Lance sighs, laughs again, thinks his heart might be beating so fast it’s on the verge of failing, “Y-yeah. I think so.”

“What the fuck?” Pato repeats again.

Welcome to Florida, Lance thinks, flashes a shaky thumbs up to Pato behind him just to ensure the man, and his car full of people, know he’s okay – even if he doesn’t quite feel it yet. He didn’t lose the bike, which he figures counts for something.

“That was insane,” Pato continues.

“That was stupid!” Esteban corrects.

Lance eases the bike back up to speed in response, shoots past the Honda Civic that nearly killed him, and flicks the old man hunched behind the wheel off as he goes.

----------

Fort Myers, Lance quickly learns within his first semester at school, is fucking boring. FGCU, pitched to him as an idyllic campus set along the Gulf Coast, is actually in a swamp. And technically, he’s not even in the city of Fort Myers at all, but Estero – a town no one’s heard of but has somehow managed to house some of the wealthiest people Lance has ever encountered, himself included. He feels he can hardly be blamed for racing his motorcycle through the streets during rush hour traffic just to feel something other than the monotony of flat land and the oppressive heat he’s been stuck in for the majority of the past three years, and getting pulled over in the process. His father, who pays for each ticket with a sigh and a roll of his eyes, does not seem to agree.

Which is exactly why he has no plans of telling the man about his near-death experience. Lawrence didn’t even want him to get the bike in the first place, still threatens to seize it with the steady growing pile of tickets. Lance endures the lectures over the phone with the patience bestowed upon him by being a good son, and then hangs up to do burnouts with Pato in the parking lot of their apartment complex. He’s unbothered by near-death at the hands of the old man, but Esteban, when he climbs out the backseat of Pato’s cramped charger, is not.

“You’re insane,” he says, thwacking Lance on the side of his helmet.

Lance, working the strap through the clasp so he can ease the thing off his head, winces, “Ow.”

“Idiot!”

“I was in my lane!” Lance justifies, even if he was nearing 160 km/h in that lane and was definitely exceeding a safe level of speeding. He hates to lose though, especially to Pato, who would hold it over his head at the next mixer. Lance has endured enough ridicule from his frat brothers for all the races he’s lost, he doesn’t want to add Pato’s fraternity to the mix.

Esteban wouldn’t get it, he’s not in a frat at all.

“You were barely in the lane!”

“Close enough.”

“You shouldn’t have a license,” Esteban grumbles, eyes Lance’s bike like it is a sentient being that willfully chose to do twice the speed limit, and not Lance himself that controlled it. Lance can still smell the burning rubber coming off the tires, feel the heat from the engine. It’s familiar to him in the way the sweaty leather smell from his hands when he slides the gloves off is.

He shrugs, “Neither should half the people in this state.”

“It’s true,” Pato chimes in, coming up behind Lance to pat him on the back. His hand thunks against the padding of Lance’s jacket, sends him rocking forward against the bike. “Glad you’re okay, güero.”

“You two especially though,” Esteban grumbles. Lance just thinks he’s still upset he doesn’t have a car of his own to race, despite the fact that Lance has offered his own on multiple occasions. It hardly gets used, because he hates sitting in traffic, and Esteban would probably be doing him a favor by taking it. But money has been a thing between them since freshman year, since it was established that Lance had a lot of it, and Esteban little, and the dorm room they shared became a space where discussions of finances were forbidden – a sentiment that soon reached through their entire friendship. Esteban still lives in the apartment style dorms on campus, Lance now has a luxury one-bedroom in the newest off-campus unit. His car sits in the parking lot more often than it runs and Esteban walks to class.

“If dumbass here keeps getting tickets he might not have to worry about a license at all,” Pato teases, smirks at Lance as Lance runs a hand through his hair to try to dissuade the helmet hair from setting in and pointedly ignores him. He busies himself with unzipping his jacket, rolling his shoulders and stretching enough to ease the lingering tension from his joints. His shirt rides up with the movement.

Esteban looks away, Pato stares, and the freshman he’s let tag along, David, stands awkwardly beside them because he isn’t sure what else to do. Lance smiles at him, tight, forced, equally as unsure. The kid’s lanky, blonde, curly hair nearly gold in the sunset. One of the new pledges, or someone Pato is trying to recruit, because in their small circle Pato is the only one social enough to actually want the job of recruitment chairman.

“Sorry for almost dying in front of you,” he apologizes to the kid.

David shrugs, “It’s cool. You’re not hot in that thing?” He points at Lance’s jacket with a cast wrapped wrist, the black fabric with grey and white accents.

It’s late August now, summer still working its way into fall. Lance was not raised in the heat, returns to Canada during the break between semesters so he doesn’t have to bear the worst of it, so he is distinctly uncomfortable. His shirt is sticking to his skin with sweat, and he can feel tendrils of it working in steady drops down his spine, soaking into the waistband of his jeans, but he’d rather wear the heavy jacket than have to cart it around for the entire time they’re standing ogling at cars. Or rather, Pato ogling, he and Esteban hanging back to talk about dinner plans. He likes cars in that they can get him from one destination to the next, doesn’t care to talk about them outside of that.

“It’s manageable,” he shrugs, tucks his helmet under one arm and starts walking toward the closed off section of the outlets, where cars are already parked and lined-up.

Pato doesn’t suggest Lance leave the gear in his car, despite it being an easy solution, he knows Lance likes the looks it draws. Lance had drunkenly admitted as much one night, when Pato was straddling his lap and kiss his neck because there were no other options. They had grown accustom with becoming each other’s last resort, hooking up in bedrooms of stranger’s houses or in the back of Pato’s car because the number of girls at parties they frequented far outweighed the available, and interested, men. He smirks at Lance over the top of David’s head as they walk toward the row of cars with popped open hoods – a glint of knowing in his far too mischievous eyes.

They’ll probably hook-up later. Unless Esteban finally feels like kissing him, or the freshman stops being a freshman, both of which are likely to happen when hell freezes over.

“Looks heavy,” David says.

“It is.”

Pato’s smirk widens, “He’s used to it.”

“Go look at your stupid cars, man,” Lance rolls his eyes, shoots Pato a warning look.

It’s the Aston Martin that draws Pato’s attention first. Silver, brown leather interior, the type of car Lance’s dad would own – if he doesn’t already. Lance lost track of the collection long ago, lost interest too, much to his dad’s disappointment. Lawrence wanted him to get into racing professionally, which Lance entertained for all of two seconds before he realized just how far his dad wanted him to go. Then it all felt like too much too fast, and Lance realized he was maybe more content hiding in the Florida swamp land for four years instead. Time he is rapidly running out of.

“You didn’t want to race on a track, but you’ll do it in the street,” he can hear his father’s voice chiding. Lance doesn’t know how to explain there’s more freedom in the street racing, less control, and substantially more danger but a higher reward. No one knows him under the helmet either, not in the way they would if his name was tied to a team and a car and all the responsibility that came with it.

David goes with Pato, both of them studying the engine of the car. The owner, thankfully, isn’t around. Lance doubts they’d like the way Pato goes to duck his head in through the driver’s side door.

Lance shoots Esteban a look, “I feel like you should be more into this,” he says, leans over enough to poke the man in the side with an elbow. Esteban is one of the few people in his friend group who is the same height as him. Which was the first thing they’d bonded over, the second was the fact that they both spoke French. Esteban more fluently, but Lance enough that most their conversations were shared in the language.

“Why?” Esteban asks, eyeing the Aston the same way he had Lance’s bike, like it is likely to reach out and bite him. “Do not say because of the engineering.”

“A little because of the engineering?”

“No.” Esteban is the smartest of them, which Lance has known since he first met him and Esteban introduced himself with a handshake which was quickly followed by, ‘majoring in mechanical engineering.’ His golf management major had sounded silly in comparison, had seemed even sillier once Esteban pulled all-nighters to complete homework for math classes that far exceeded Lance’s skill level while Lance was learning the best techniques for watering grass.

Lance failed a class his freshman year, Esteban passed all of his with what appeared to be ease. Then they both got shitfaced on their last night together and snuck onto the trail that ran from the freshman housing to the upperclassman apartments to share a joint. It had been close to midnight, and every sound that came from the surrounding wilderness had them jumping, but it was maybe the thing that had cemented their friendship.

“You know what you want to do with that yet?” Lance asks, because they’re starting their junior year now. Because the future is becoming something tangible, and so discussing what the fuck they’re supposed to do next seems like the correct thing. Lance still has no idea what he wants to do and thinking of it makes the sweat on the back of his neck run cold, makes the jacket he’s sweltering in seem even hotter.

"Not a clue,” Esteban says, which makes Lance feel a little better, “You?”

“Golf, I guess.” Not much else he can do with his degree, and his business minor had only been something added on at his dad’s request. Lance isn’t passionate about either of those things, isn’t sure he’s passionate about anything. He likes racing, likes his bike, likes spending lazy Saturday mornings on the course, or weekday mornings practicing tennis with his coach, and he’s decently good at all of those things but none of them really seem like a passion.

He is becoming increasingly aware that he is running out of time.

“Professional golfer, Lance Stroll,” Esteban says, draws out Lance’s name to really test the sound of it against PGA pro.

Both of them grimace.           

“Maybe not,” Lance amends.

“Could work, maybe.”

“Probably wouldn’t,” Lance isn’t good enough, not for going pro, and he doesn’t plan on putting in the effort to get there for something he cares so little about. “Maybe I’ll just wait for you to secure your fancy engineering job, marry you and live off your paycheck.”

Esteban shoots him a look that reads ‘fuck no’ clear as day.

----------

The sun sets fully somewhere around eight, Lance starts cooling off at the nine p.m. marker. At some point they lose Pato and David, and then Esteban runs into a group from his major, and then it’s just Lance standing in a sea of American sports cars wondering if he should maybe just go home. He’s feigning interest in a Camaro, lime green with black racing stripes, ugly and gaudy, when someone behind him clears their throat.

“You ride?” the person asks, accented and deep and Lance turns to come face to face with a man who looks right at home amidst the crowd of mid-forties dads showing off their hardly impressive rides. Polo, cargo shorts, and a cap sporting some car brand, Lance thinks he looks a lot like the tourists he’d spotted on his brief visit to Orlando last year. He doesn’t look like the sort of guy who would know anything about motorcycles.

“Uh, yeah.” Lance says, shifts the helmet in his hands so he’s got a tighter grip on it. The guy follows the movement, watches Lance’s hand flex, follows the line of his vein up his arm until he reaches Lance’s eyes again.

“What bike?”

Lance swallows, feels a bit like he’s being interrogated with how the guys brown eyes are staring into his.

“Suzuki 650.”

“Your first?”

“Yeah,” the same one he’s had since his freshman year, stored in storage while he’s gone for the summer and then taken back out when he comes back down. It’s reliable, and Lance has other bikes back home, but he likes this one, likes that it feels like he’s worn it in. “It’s custom,” he adds, defensively, can feel this guy sizing him up.

“Yes?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a moment where Lance thinks that might be the end, the guy will decide there’s no further conversation to be had and then be on his way. He isn’t sure if that would be a bad thing or not, is still trying to maintain eye contact and try not to step back any further against the Camaro behind him.

When the guy offers his hand to shake Lance is afraid to take it, knows his free palm is clammy, doesn’t want to give himself away.    

“I’m Fernando.”

“Lance,” he shakes, hopes the guy will assume it’s the heat, not the nerves setting Lance on edge. This is the most eye contact he’s had to maintain since his plane landed back in Florida two weeks ago. It’s unyielding too, like the guy is trying to win a contest Lance hadn’t realized he’d entered.

“Lance,” Fernando says, testing it, “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too. Do you- do you ride?” Fernando seems to have some understanding, looked decently impressed when Lance mentioned his custom ride. And he wasn’t asking about the cars on display, but instead the bike that Lance wasn’t even near.

Finally he looks away, back to the helmet, back to the way Lance is gripping it with a tightening hold. His mouth, which had before been slanted upward into something close to a smile slips a little. Lance watches the movement, categorizes it the way he does every micro expression, because he’s gotten good at reading people over the years and knows hurt when he sees it.

“I used to.”

“Not anymore?”

“Bad knee,” Fernando explains, motions at his right leg. Lance looks down at where the shorts stop just above the joint, can see the faint white lines of scarring amongst leg hair. Surgical incisions, clean and even.

“Oh.”

Fernando doesn’t look that old, not old enough for knee surgery. There’s lines on his face and grey in his beard, but still plenty of color left alongside it. Dark brown stubble and brown hair curling in the humidity beneath his cap. Lance wouldn’t place him above fifty.

“I’m sorry,” he says, for lack of anything better, and because Fernando keeps glancing at Lance’s helmet with something like envy.

“Is okay,” Fernando says with a shrug, smiles sadly.

And maybe it’s because Lance is feeling lonely, abandoned by his friends, or maybe it’s because something in Fernando’s expression is familiar, he offers, “Do you- do you want to see it? My bike?”

----------

“What happened here?” Fernando asks, pointing at the scuffed paint along the right side of the gas tank, finger tracing the slightly dented spot where matte black has given way to exposed metal.

Lance could have gotten it fixed, but he liked that the bike had character, liked that it was a little imperfect. At least he thought he did, now he just feels like a teenager with their first beat-up car driven off the used car lot.

He laughs, embarrassed, palms at the back of his neck as his cheeks warm, “I, uh, I dumped it freshman year.”

Fernando looks up at him, arches an eyebrow, smiles like he knows the feeling. And then he waits for Lance to continue.

“Yeah, it, uh, it was stupid. Or I was stupid. I was driving around the loop on campus, at school, hit a patch of dirt, it just slid out from under me.” It was his first time falling off the bike, only a week after he had gotten it. And because he’d only been going from the main campus to his dorm he hadn’t bothered to wear gloves, or his jacket, ended up with road burn and an arm ran raw and bloody for his stupidity. He still had some scarring, faint, but there.

"Ouch,” Fernando says, still tracing the damaged spot with an index finger.

Lance watches him, swallows, takes the moment where Fernando isn’t looking at him to study the muscles of his arms straining against the cuff of his polo. And then Fernando shoots him a quick glance and he’s darting to look away like he’s been caught. He maybe has been, if the way Fernando smirks is any indication.

Lance blames Pato, the empty spot in the parking lot where his car was a few hours ago, taking the promise of a blowjob in the backseat with him. And leaving Lance standing in the shadows cast by the street lamps and palm trees dotting the lot, beside a man whose name he knows and little else. When Fernando shifts closer, until his weight is pressing against the side of Lance’s right arm, Lance doesn’t pull away. Instead, he lets Fernando get close enough that the smell of him is almost overwhelming, sharp cologne invading his senses.

“So what’s custom?” Fernando asks, snapping Lance back enough that he can focus on the asphalt beneath him and the bike in front of him, enough that he remembers they’re two doors down from a still open Best Buy.

In his mind he is drafting a strongly worded text to Pato, outwardly, he is pointing at all the pieces of the bike that his father had spent a small fortune on and watching Fernando’s impressed expression grow. Fernando doesn’t pull away, Lance doesn’t make space, and when Fernando mentions the Aston Pato had been ogling earlier in the night is his, Lance follows him to it with blatant interest. He pretends to care about the car, up until Fernando asks him if he wants to go for a ride, and he knows he can drop the act.

----------

They end up on the other side of the outlets, tucked beside a dumpster near the Barnes and Noble and an abandoned Asian restaurant. Lance isn’t picky, doesn’t need to be wined and dined, is perfectly okay with grinding against a guy in the backseat of his Aston Martin and letting his sweat soak into the leather. His jacket and helmet have been dumped in the passenger’s seat, his t-shirt pulled over his head and lost somewhere on the floorboard.

Lance is straddling Fernando’s lap, his head bent against the roof of the car, his neck angled just enough that Fernando can get better access to the junction where his jaw meets his carotid. In terms of hook-ups, it’s not his craziest, though Fernando may be the oldest. He didn’t ask for an age, was content enough with Fernando still having color in his hair. And it didn’t much matter once the man got a hand around his cock.

“Fuck,” he pants, grinding down on Fernando’s growing length beneath him before thrusting back up into the warm grip of his hand. His head thunks against the roof with the movement, causing Fernando to laugh, breathy and warm against his neck.

“Come here,” He instructs, pulls down Lance until he’s resting his head against Fernando’s shoulder and curled over. The position severely limits his ability to grind against Fernando, makes it so that he’s the only one deriving any real pleasure from this scenario.

“Is okay,” Fernando says when he tries to voice that, continues to stroke the length of his cock without pause.

Lance bites his bottom lip to muffle a whine. His jeans are the only thing still on him, and just barely, pulled down and pooled around one ankle. Fernando is still fully clothed, obvious bulge in his shorts. Lance feels exposed, raw, so close that he can feel the orgasm building in his stomach.

“I’m close,” he pants, cries almost. It is better than he and Pato’s backseat escapades, better because Fernando smells likes sharp clean cologne and there’s no exercise equipment digging into his back from being pressed into the seats. Better because Fernando twists his wrist a certain way and Lance can’t stop the cry from escaping him.

“Please,” he begs, leans back enough that he can look at Fernando, only to be pulled back in by the nape of his neck – into a bruising kiss that makes him realize he’s maybe never been really kissed before. Fernando tastes how he smells, sharp. When Lance opens his mouth to pant Fernando’s name, it’s the man’s tongue that silences him, licks behind his teeth and explores him like he’s trying to learn the shape of his mouth. Lance lets him, finds he is eager to do so.

Pato doesn’t kiss him, it’s a rule they have, a fragile divide that maintains their friendship. Lance didn’t realize how much he had been missing.

When Fernando pulls away a trail a spit connects them, until it breaks and lands cool and wet against his chin. Lance doesn’t wipe it away, lets it stay there as his eyes flutter open and he’s staring into steady brown, turned dark in the shadows.

“You’re beautiful,” Fernando praises, lips slick with spit and eyes shining with praise, and Lance cums like that. His spine arching, his body tensing, Fernando coaxing him through it until he goes boneless and slack, cum streaked across his stomach and trailing down Fernando’s hand, his arm, dripping onto the leather seats beneath them.

“’m sorry,” he pants, eyes darting to the pearly mess dotting the brown leather, “Your seat.”

Fernando glances at it, uncaring, quickly looks back at Lance and trails a hand down the front of his chest, tracing along the skin as Lance’s chest heaves with the breath he’s trying to regain.  

“Don’t worry,” he says, smiles, the same smile he’d shot Lance’s way back by his bike, the smile that told Lance this would be where they ended up. He trails a hand back up Lance’s chest, his neck, settles against his jaw and traces a thumb along his cheekbone. Lance leans into the touch, finds he doesn’t mind it, finds he maybe wants it to stay for longer than a backseat hookup should. Fernando indulges him, lets him catch his breath before he suggests moving.

Lance slides off of him, falls back onto the seat, tries to maneuver in the cramped space to slide his boxers and jeans back on. Fernando passes him his shirt, pulled from the depths of the floorboard, rumpled and dirty from their shoes catching on the fabric. There’s still cum on his stomach, drying cool, he glances at it, at Fernando.

He’s about to ask if Fernando has a napkin, an old receipt, anything, but all words quickly leave him when Fernando leans down and licks the mess away. His tongue, warm and wet against Lance’s stomach.

“Oh,” Lance chokes, feels Fernando laugh against him.

“Better?” he asks when he’s done, sits up and eyes Lance like he’s asking for a five star review on an uber ride.

Lance nods, mouth slightly agape, eyes wider than he means for them to be. Like a shocked cow, he can hear Pato teasing in his head, his big brown eyes and dumbfounded expression matching that of the creature. He swallows, tries to regain some composure.

“Do you- do you want me to-“ he motions at Fernando’s cock, the bulge still there.

Fernando shakes his head, “No, you will get me next time, yes?”

Lance chokes again, “Next time?”

“Unless no?”

Back propped against the door, handle digging into his back, legs spread out before him like he’s forgotten how to make them work, Lance shakes his head.

“No! No, I mean, yes. Yes. Yes to next time,” his hands fumble for his phone in his pocket, and then he’s holding it out to Fernando like a demand. Fuck Pato. Fuck his backseat. Fuck shitty blowjobs when they’re both too drunk to swallow properly. He’s beginning to see the appeal of this Aston Martin now.

Fernando laughs again, warm, endeared. It’s slow and drawn out and all the things that Lance isn’t. It’s easy in all the ways Lance isn’t.  

Lance kisses him when Fernando drops him back off at his bike, leaned over the console, and tastes himself on Fernando’s tongue.

“Drive safe,” Fernando says.

Lance does the speed limit the whole way home.

[kcrabb88]

Even Legends Must Answer to An Empire.

Every Sailor Must Answer to the Sea.

Sailing by Gemini's Star is out TODAY!

You can grab your copy here!

The original version of this project came to me after, of all things, a dream, back in 2015. It morphed from a fic to an original work, and now, nine years after I listened to Hoist the Colors on repeat for a while and suddenly went OH when a scene landed in my head, here we are with the whole trilogy out in the world. This story is, as Danso would put it, about carving out a sunrise. It's about staking your claim for joy and hope and identity and dignity in the face of impossible power. It's about atonement and forging family. It's about living with and living past the people and the things that hurt you. Always, there is light to reach for. Also there are some PRETTY cool swordfights. I'm so, so excited to have this third book out in the world. Thank you to everyone around here (especially the Les Mis fandom) who have encouraged me for so long, to @prosodi for creating these gorgeous, gorgeous covers, and most especially to @librarianladyx who has been my biggest fan and helped me through every panic over whether these books would see the light of day <3

Come to Nassau, and show me who you are.

[merrycrisis-if]

Merry Crisis Chapter 4: Boxing day

Hi all, the early release to the chapter on ko-fi is out now! Whoop!!

As always, thanks so much for your support, love you guys and can't wait to hear what you guys think! ❤️

More on the chapter and what you can expect here.

The chapter is ~55k words, bringing Merry Crisis to a total of 152k words!

Head over to my ko-fi to support me if you like :)

There will be some bugs and errors still, I think, but do send them in and I will work to push out updates/bug fixes when I get home from my trip on Monday.

[ginnyw-potter-archive]

Spilt Blood

Word count: 41K Rating: Explicit Tags: Regency AU, Arranged/Forced Marriage, spouse to lovers Updates weekly!

Ginny was raised by her great-aunt Lady Muriel so she could marry well. Ginny always thought she would get a choice but she ended up standing across from a man she had never met. During their wedding night she discovers the whipping scars caused by his cruel family. They are determined to void the agreement he had with his family. There is the need for an heir, and Harry’s reluctance to make one. Ginny navigates this new life as she gets to know her husband. Regency AU

Chapter 8: Flesh and blood (full chapter on AO3)

He did not look away from her once. He closed the door with his elbow and she heard the soft click. He did not have to tell her what was about to happen, she could tell in the way his gaze wouldn’t tear away from her, the way his lips were slightly parted as if he was nearly panting. It was the way his lips had already connected to hers before her feet touched the floor.

He kissed her with clear intent and she followed his lead. Her whole body was singing, rejoicing in his touch. She arched her body into his and got an approving hum against her lips. She revelled in the fact that he wasn’t holding back anymore. His arms pulled around her as he kissed her neck, leaving soft open-mouthed kisses. His gaze was loving and comforting, his pupils dark with arousal for her at last.

He had already seen, must have already seen something when he walked in on her moments before, so she wasn’t too afraid as she stepped back. She pulled the shirt up slowly and he watched without hesitation.

[itsmeimcathy]

Destroyed by Ye Xiwu's death after jumping off the tower, Tantai Jin manages to turn back time - returning to a couple of months before his wedding to the Ye Third Lady in the Shen Kingdom. However, the past isn't quite as Tantai Jin remembered it. And if his memories aren't to be trusted, then how is he supposed to change his fate? And to make matters worse, meddling with powers beyond his comprehension seems to have released a dangerous entity into the world - or, well, into his nightmares.

Happy 1st Anniversary for those who celebrate ♥

[hereidinathoreauwrites]

Chapters: 7/10: This Can Only End Tragically

Fandom: Barbie (Movie 2023) Rating: Mature

“I want to do something for her.” Gloria admits.

Apparently, that hadn’t been what Sasha had been anticipating. “Oh?” Her other eyebrow shoots up. “Why?”

“T-to thank her for her help at the hospital.” That’s innocent enough. Gloria teases the edge of her bathrobe. “Do you…know what she might appreciate?”

Sasha thinks for a moment. “She likes books.” She suggests, somewhat deadpan.

Gloria sighs. “Yeah I…kinda figured.”

“And I think her favorite flowers are daffodils. Make of that what you will.”

Now it’s Gloria’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “O-kay…?”

Sasha nods, getting that mischievous look on her face. “And I think a nice dinner and some wine wouldn’t go unappreciated…”

“W-well, I don’t know if I’m going that far…” Gloria sputters, certain her cheeks are crimson. She cant tell if Sasha is being serious or not. Either way, she doesn’t like it.

“Mom,” Sasha’s admonishment is uncharacteristically serious for her. She taps Gloria’s leg with the tip of her crutch, the closest to a reassuring hug she’s going to get. “Stop over thinking it. Barbie’s easily won over. She will love whatever you do for her.”

Gloria’s not so sure of that anymore.

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Margot Robbie's Barbie/Gloria (Barbie 2023), Margot Robbie's Barbie & Sasha (Barbie 2023), Gloria & Sasha (Barbie 2023) Characters: Margot Robbie's Barbie (Barbie 2023), Gloria (Barbie 2023), Sasha (Barbie 2023), El Esposo de Gloria (Barbie 2023), Ruth Handler (Barbie 2023), Ryan Gosling's Ken (Barbie 2023) Additional Tags: Divorced Gloria (Barbie 2023), El Esposo de Gloria exists and he's awful, This Barbie is a Teacher!, A Hot Teacher, This Gloria is Horny, References to classic literature because my expensive education has to be used for something, Lots of Sex, From Sex to Love, eventually, Lots of Shenanigans first Summary:

All she wanted was some casual, low-stakes sex with a hot woman. It’s totally not Gloria’s fault that her partner of choice is also her daughter Sasha’s drop-dead gorgeous English teacher. It’s just an unfortunate turn of events when she’s recently divorced and just realizing she has the WORST teacher fetish imaginable.

A single revenge hookup has a cascade of unintended consequences for one Gloria Esperada.

[landwriter]

Oaths | Dream/Hob | 51K | Explicit | Ongoing Ch.10: Oaths of Darkness and Light (4K)

Falling In Love, Magical Realism, Dream is a Beautiful Fey Creature and Hob is a Handsome Bandit, Protective Hob Gadling, Protective Dream of the Endless, Historical References, Scotland, Middle English, Border Reiving, Adventure & Romance, Fairy Tale Retellings, Alternate Universe - Historical/Medieval/Fairy Tale, finding beauty in hard times, Oaths & Vows, Curses, Outdoor Sex, First Time Blowjobs, Frottage, Anal, Kissing in the Rain, really a lot of banging, Hair Braiding, Dirty Talk, Ballads, Duty, Friendship/Love, Mutual Pining, Miscommunication, Canon Echoes, Self-Denial, Repression, Tenderness, Confessions, Bathing/Washing, Strangers to Lovers, Lovers to Friends, Friends to Idiots, BAMF Hob Gadling, (absolutely fucking feral Hob Gadling), unhinged words and deeds, or: a man and a fey walk into a meadow and they're both equally insane

He moved hidden through the mirk and moonless night. He had no need of torch or light. Rain had patiently gathered, and under the cover of darkness, finally rushed forth, announcing itself upon alder and birchleaf. Hob was glad for it. Within himself, he felt a forge. Desperate, consuming flame licked beneath his skin. His heart was a hammer in his throat. He was fevered with hope, and all he could do was follow the Ettrick upstream, to Miles Cross, to Dream. Only when he arrived before the stone bridge did the agitation in his heart settle at last. He moved into the shadowed gorse, and waited. It was easier than he thought; easier than being in Aikwood as though he were not tethered by his smarting heart to this spot where Dream would appear; easier even than making the journey of less than hour with the strange animal fears that something would stop him from arriving here. He waited, as the rain exhausted itself the night became quiet again. He waited, and thought of Dream, these last two days, alone. With no one to give him advice, no one to wish him well, no one to clasp his arms. With no one to tell. With nothing to do but hope Hob might be true to his word. Hob wished he could reassure him, even now. Wished that he was as fey a creature as they, that he might send sign on bended wing to his love. An owl or sweet nightingale, calling into the night in a tongue only Dream would understand: He loves you. He waits. He loves you. He waits.

And as surely as the Ettrick Water ran, surely as the day did fall and break, did Hob with a certain heart his journey make. Or: the wyrm-ening.

[Read on AO3]

[incaseofart]

The Weight Of Masks

Through a complex set of circumstances, American Aura Clarke is put into a position that requires them to agree to an arranged marriage with Ainosuke Shindo, uprooting their entire life and moving to Japan. With the both of them so proficient at masking their feelings, how long will it take before they truly get to know each other? Will this marriage of convenience become one of love? Rated E for sexual content in some chapters.

Chapter 1 - Jetplane

[anartificialsatellite]

:)

[theprinceofmycologia]

Ghost pipe - Monotropa uniflora

I made this post about Monotropa uniflora to kick off the spooky season! While this post is not about a type of fungus, I could not resist writing about it. Besides its ghostly (lack of) colour, its dried out seed heads also look akin to pumpkins, which is just awesome!

Monotropa uniflora or ghost pipe does not contain chlorophyll (which gives most plants a green colour) and forms symbiotic relationships with fungi.

Description

The plant is waxy white with some black flecks, but some specimens have been described as having a pale pink colour and verey rarely having a deep red colour. The white variants have black flecks on their stems.

The ghost pipe ranges in height from 5 to 30 centimeters, sheathed with highly reduced leaves 5 to 10 millimetres long, which look akin to scales. These structures are small, thin, translucent and do not have petioles but instead extend in out of the stem.

The stem bears a single flower, which is 10 to 20 millimetres long, with 3 to 8 translucent petals, 10 to 12 stamens and a single pistil. The fruit, an oval capsule-like structure, grows and becomes upright when the seeds mature. After reaching maturity the stem and capsule look dark brown or black with a brittle texture.

The seeds of M. uniflora are small, ranging between 0.6 to 0.8 millimetres long. Once the plant has been pollinated, the seeds are pushed through the petals in a tiny slit and dispersed by the wind.

Unlike most plants, it is white and does not contain chlorophyll. Instead of generating food using the energy from sunlight a.k.a photosynthesizing, it is parasitic, and more specifically a mycoheterotroph. Most fungi are mycorrhizal and through the fungal web of mycorrhizae, M. uniflora roots ultimately tap food from where the host fungi are connected to the photosynthetic trees. The roots of this plant are covered in hairs called cystidia, which allow easy attachment to fungi hyphae. Its hosts are in the Russulaceae family.

Distribution and genetics

M. uniflora is found in three general distribution areas: Asia, North America, and Central and northern South America. DNA analysis has shown that these three populations are genetically distinct from one another. The species has 48 chromosomes.

Ecology

M. uniflora as a mycoheterotrophic plant asscociates with a small range of fungal hosts, all of them members of Russulaceae. It is often found growing neer beech trees in clumps of two or more with its fungal source nearby. Since it is not dependent on sunlight to grow, it can grow in very dark environments like in the understory of dense forests.

It flowers from early summer to early autumn, often a few days after rainfall.

The flowers of the ghost pipe are frequented by various species of bees and flies, most commonly bumblebees. By crawling into the flower for pollen, bumblebees play a role as an important pollen dispersal agent.

References:

1.

2.

https://www.fs.usda.gov/wildflowers/beauty/mycotrophic/monotropa_uniflora.shtml

Images:

1.

2.

Mutuals

@squidsandthings

@fungus-gnats

@fairy-tales-of-yesterday

@flamingears

@lameotello

@lovelyalicorn

@writingraccoon

@edukincon

@emmakapla

[littleragondin]

15 Day BL Challenge

The full challenge can be found here!

☆*:.｡. Day 15: 5 Bestest besties .｡.:*☆

Oh yes, let’s give it up for friendship! I do love a good friendship, nearly as much as siblings (but just nearly). Thailand I'd say is especially good at that game I feel like. Alright, here's my list!

- Pharm, Team, and Manaow in Until We Meet Again. They are so sweet the three of them, they love and care for each other, and their friendship while new-ish feels so solid and serene, I love them.

- Yamada Koharu from Kabe Koji. I honestly don’t think he could make it without her, she’s always here for him even when he can’t realize it properly. She is a fantastic friend to him all along. Also she is brilliant and hilarious and I love her.

- The two friend groups in Secret Crush on You, really. Especially our group of creative little weirdos, but I love how the two groups have each other’s back, and how they merge too. They’re really sweet and they all love each other which makes me weak in the knee.

- My boy Katori from Takara kun to Amagi kun. He didn’t make it in the Best Boy list (a shame), but he is definitely deserving of a place in this list! He’s always there to help those two (and heavens know they do need a nudge), he always look out for Amagi, and he is just so funny. (my boy is suffering)

- And because we started this game with some OG, I will end it with some OG and go with Yiwha from Together With Me! (the whole group gets it, but I'll put the focus on her). She is just that great, she was probably my favorite character of the show actually. She's just a bestest bestie TM.

And with that we finish the whole challenge! Thank you @negrowhat it was such a fun one =3 (I saw you mention you were planning a GL/QL one, I can't wait ^^)

[not-poignant]

February 2024 - Update Schedule

February chapter update schedule:

(Tier+ = This tier or any higher, as every higher tier accesses all rewards in lower cost tiers)

-

Thursday 1st - Underline the Black 78

Sunday 4th - Constellations 03/06 (AO3 & Patreon + Ream - Gary&Efnisien Tier+)

Sunday 11th - A Stain that Won't Dissolve 31

Tuesday 13th - Underline the Blue 10/13 (AO3 & Patreon + Ream - Augus&Gwyn Tier+)

Thursday 15th - Underline the Black 79 

Sunday 18th - Underline the Blue 11 

Tuesday 20th - Birthday Spotlight - The Raven Prince

Thursday 22nd - Underline the Black 80

Sunday 25th - A Stain that Won't Dissolve 32

Tuesday 27th - The Nascent Diplomat 41/42 (AO3 & Patreon + Ream - Augus & Gwyn Tier+)

Tuesday 27th - Birthday Spotlight - Ash Glashtyn

Thursday 29th - Underline the Black 81

-

After a quiet January, we're back in a regular schedule this February! There's a Sunday-Sunday break in posting early on, but as you can see, everything is very much back to normal! 

The birthday spotlights are continuing, with both the Raven Prince and Ash Glashtyn getting some love this month! :D 

We're continuing on with Underline the Blue in the early access, but I'm hoping to rotate in Underline the Gold soon as well. 

~

Stories with updates as yet undetermined: Palmarosa 

Most chapters go up between 6-7pm GMT+8 (or  the time that you’re already used to me putting chapters up, lol). For  those who are anxious to know when chapters are updating, hopefully this  helps! If there’s ever an emergency, or a scheduling issue (like a  surprise family dinner) I generally put up stories a day early and not late.

[missmaywemeetagain]

Broken Glass Chapter 7 💔🥂❤️‍🩹

A/N: And we're back, babies!! ❤️‍🩹 Thank you for being so patient and also thanks to those of you who've checked out and joined my new Patreon already--y'all are the bee's knees and I'm so so grateful for your support!! (Head's up--There's a lot of great extras coming on Patreon soon related to Pink Scarf, the Scarf Universe, and other new series!💗)

If you didn't get in on the early access on Patreon, here's the next installment for Dolores and Elvis! I really wanted to show how vulnerable Lori is feeling while trying to navigate her first night at Graceland and how Elvis responds to that, especially after Chapter 6. Let's just say you are in for a big dose of hurt/comfort...🥰

As always, thank you so much my darlin's for your support on here and other platforms as I work on growing as a professional writer! I couldn't do it without you! ❤️ While I currently am posting in various places, I may be streamlining things in the future towards Patreon and (*hint hint*) my future website. 🎉 (Don't worry though--many stories will still be free!!)

TW: panic/anxiety, shame, allusions to previous sexual assault, nightmare-related violence/blood, vomit, references to previous sexual activities, lots of hurt/comfort! Mature 18+

Everything is wrong.

You watch helplessly as Elvis stands bravely before an enemy army that stretches so far into the distance that the soldiers meld together into one dark entity. He is alone, with shoulders squared and chest puffed out defiantly, but you can see that his chest is heaving too quickly.

He can’t breathe, yet he needs to fight.

You scream his name. The sound is swallowed and dies before it can reach him. That horrible army advances, and heart dropping, you break out into run. Every part of your body screams for him as you try to get to there, but it’s as if you are slogging through mud in slow motion.

“I have to help him…have to help him! SOMEBODY HELP HIM!” your mind cries helplessly.

The horde descends.

Elvis disappears as they heap on top of him. The sound of them tearing him to pieces is too much to bear.

You gasp, swallowing air that doesn’t seem to reach your lungs. Sorrow aches through you with such force you feel as though you’re going to split in two.

No, no, no, no…

Your stomach cramps as though you’ve been punched there. You double over with pain, squeezing your eyes shut as if that will make it all go away.

Everything is wrong.

When you open your eyes again, you’re back in your bedroom, in New York, but it’s as it was when you were a child, your dolls and toys and petal pink bedsheets on display. When it used to be home and not a dreary husk with four walls.

Elvis barrels through the door as though running from something, still in his green army uniform. He slams the door behind him, turning the lock.

“Thank god, you’re alive!” you gasp, but he doesn’t take notice of your words. He’s too busy searching the room for something.

“Elvis. Elvis! What are you looking for?”

“We have to go, Little Bird.” He’s struggling to breathe again, you can tell. The hope you feel from seeing him alive dissipates as your heart starts to pound with dread.

“Go? Go where? Why?” He doesn’t stop. “Elvis, you need to rest!”

“But they’re coming.” His blue eyes lock onto yours with such intensity your reply catches in your throat.

“Who? Who’s coming?” is what you try to say, but you can’t get it out before the door bursts inward, splinters of wood fracturing around you.

Gianni appears, sauntering in too casually, his eyes black and depthless as obsidian. “Oh, Bella, Bella, Bella,” he tsks venomously, his mouth spreading into a hideous grin. All his teeth are razor sharp and pointed, glistening scarlet with blood. “You’ve been a naughty little fidanzata.” He steps closer.

Horror courses through your veins. You recoil and stumble backwards and your heart begins to race incredibly fast. You try to speak, to scream, anything that might get Gianni to leave, but your panting breaths prevent anything from getting out.

“Lil’ Lo’, don’t ya worry now, it’s all gonna be okay,” Elvis says in his lilting Southern drawl, turning to you. His sparkling blue eyes make you believe him, if only just for a moment. You get caught in his stare, in his crooked, endearing smile. He grabs your hand and squeezes it comfortingly. You notice instantly that he is much too warm, fever making his eyes glassy. Concern floods you, ratcheting up your fear.

“Oh, how noble the little king is!” Gianni laughs—a vicious sound that grates on your nerves—before it dies abruptly in that hideous mouth and he continues, “But you belong to me, Bella, no matter how far you try to run. I made sure of that.” His brutal grin spreads.

“No,” you whisper, shaking violently, your terror threatening to consume you. Only Elvis’ hot hand in yours somewhat grounds you.

Gianni advances, and suddenly your father appears behind him with several other goons. The room becomes unbearably claustrophobic, the air heavy and sour.

Elvis pulls you behind him, shielding you with his long frame. You can’t help but peek around him to see Gianni and your father getting closer.

“My love, we know you are only good for one thing, and this mook,” Gianni says, pointing at Elvis, “knows it, too. He wants it, same as the rest.”

“That’s not true!” you cry out, finally finding your voice.

“Isn’t it?” Gianni purrs.

You press yourself into the blazing, sweaty heat of Elvis’ broad back, wanting to disappear, desperately wanting not to believe such a thing. Doubt creeps in when the image of him between Anita’s bare thighs, his pupils blown and laden with arousal, flashes through you. How he looked at you so intensely and his body seized, and you knew, despite your inexperience, that something wildly inappropriate had occurred. He’s included you in something—a sinful pleasure—you shouldn’t be a part of.

You want to be disgusted, appalled, afraid even, by what it might mean, and yet…

Yet it sends fiery heat coiling down low in your belly instead.

As if reading your thoughts, your father spits out, “Puttana. Donnaccia. You filthy little sullied slut.”

“Aren’t you just?” Gianni agrees silkily, as if remembering what it was like between your legs, ripping away the innocence that was not his to take.

Bile rises in your throat, and you push back from Elvis, hitting the wall behind you. Icy cold shame washes over you. Shivering uncontrollably, you want to run. You want to hide. You don’t want Elvis to see what you are. But you are frozen.

Elvis doesn’t look at you, however. Instead, he erupts into a roaring fury, running at Gianni and your father like a bull. The force of it should knock Gianni over, but like some supernatural being, he doesn’t budge.

You watch in horror as Gianni grips Elvis by the shoulder, pulls him in close, and rips his throat out with those glistening fangs.

The sound of grief that explodes from you is unrecognizable. The metallic tang of fresh blood pierces the air. You watch as Elvis’ eyes widen in shock, then roll back into his head. As he starts to slump, your father catches him, driving a knife deep into his abdomen.

“No, no, no, NO!” you scream, needing to get to Elvis, needing to save him. But you can’t move, no matter how hard you thrash and try.

“Dolores,” Elvis sputters, coughing up blood as he falls to the floor. The fact that he uses your given name sends another kind of ache punching through your chest.

Then Gianni has reached you, pressing you against the wall, his stinking breath cloying as he whispers mockingly in your ear, “Poor Bella. It’s all your fault. If only you’d stayed where you belong…”

“No, I’m sorry, please, I-I-I…it’s not—,” you hiccup, gasping for breath as Gianni’s hand closes around your throat. His other hand presses hard into your belly, moving down slowly. Nausea rolls over you.

“I’ll always be with you,” Gianni whispers into your mouth, his hand cupping the mound between your legs, “whether you like it or not.”

Choking and gasping, you wake with a start. Your eyes fly open, and your hands clutch at your neck desperately. When satisfied you aren’t being strangled, your place your hand over your thundering heart, forcing yourself to take in slower, more measured breaths.

It takes a long, panicked moment to figure out where you are and find your bearings in the dark room. Frazzled and dazed, your stomach churns, thinking you are still trapped in your old room, not laid out on a luxurious mattress with satin sheets.

Where…?

In Elvis’ bed. Next to him.

Your head turns rapidly, and it’s only when you feel the weight of him so close and hear the quiet wheezing of his breath beside you, that you realize he’s alive and not bleeding out on the floor. The relief only lasts a moment, though, as you picture Gianni’s bloody teeth and hear his words echo in your head:

“I’ll always be with you, whether you like it or not.”

Your stomach rolls violently, and throwing the covers aside, you stumble through the dark and unfamiliar space and into the ensuite bathroom. Flinging on the light, you barely make it to the toilet it time. Acidic bile burns on its way up and out, but at least it distracts you from the lingering phantom smell of blood that still permeates through you.

You purge the memory of Gianni and your father out of you, again and again. Even once your stomach is long emptied, you dry heave viciously, a part of you hoping that this will make you feel untouched again. Clean. Undamaged. Guiltless. Worthy.

“Lil’ Bird?” Elvis’ voice is gravelly with sleep, dreamy yet concerned as he stands behind you.

You sob in relief at the sound of his famous lilt, a definitive reminder that you didn’t get him killed. You would feel more mortified at the state he’s caught you in except your body keeps trying to expel your demons through your mouth, so all your energy and attention goes back to clutching the sides of the toilet.

“Oh, honey,” he drawls sleepily, dropping to his knees on the carpet next to you. His hand falls heavy and warm on your back, and you want to flinch away but another heave shakes your body.

Instead of being disgusted, Elvis gathers your hair up in his hand, his fingers brushing and catching in the long, dark strands, pulling it out of the way of your sick.

It’s unclear whether it is this kindness, your embarrassment, or your sickness that has tears streaming down your cheeks. Your weakness feels untenable—it’s you who should be taking care of him, not the other way around—but here you are, vulnerable as can be with Elvis cooing quietly into your ear.

You aren’t sure how long you sit there, huddled over the toilet, your dry heaving eventually turning into wracking sobs. Everything from the past week seems to hit you all at once. Your entire life has been upended in a multitude of ways and your valiant effort to keep it stoically inside has been ripped apart.

“Come’ere darlin’,” Elvis says gently, pulling your shivering form into his warm embrace.

You stiffen at the contact, your mind flooding on how it’s not right because he’s your patient and he should be relying on you to take care of him instead of whatever this is. You must be murmuring it aloud, however, because then he’s answering back:

“Hush, lil’ girl, lemme take care of ya.”

Elvis moves, sitting with his back against the vanity cabinets now, drawing you up and into his lap. Boneless, you let him, any semblance of fight drained out of you and flushed down the toilet.

Tired.

You are so, so tired of being strong and stoic, of pretending not to be terrified, of blaming yourself for everything that has happened to bring you to this moment. And here you are, in the most unlikely of places, being lulled into submission by a man you hardly know, yet somehow know better than any other man in your life. Inconceivably, you feel safe in this strange embrace, and perhaps that is why you can’t stop the hiccupping sobs escaping you or the tears pouring down your cheeks. The unfairness and cruelty in your world threaten to break you apart.

But you are safe, at least for the moment, in the arms of the most famous man on the planet, who seems nothing but kind and generous and gentle.

He doesn’t have to be. He shouldn’t be—I don’t deserve it—yet he is.

You bury your head into his shoulder, the satiny silk of his pajama top clutched fiercely in your hand as if it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality, an anchor keeping you moored in the churning ocean of your mind, of your past. You cling harder as images of your father’s violence and Gianni’s assault crash over you, threatening to drown you.

The more you cry, the tighter Elvis seems to hold you. You vaguely register that his gentle words have turned into a low, crooning lullaby, the reverberations in his chest pacifying your trembling form.

It’s so beautiful and lilting, a light and soothing sound meant for picturesque moments. Has his voice always been this lovely? Or had it changed and matured in his time across the ocean? Regardless, it pulls your focus away from your fears, and you finally begin to relax. Though by the exhaustion you feel coupled with a strange sense of calm, you wonder if it is numbness that you are succumbing to.

Elvis stops abruptly, jolting you out of your stupor. This sudden change of focus has his hand trailing feather-light over the bare skin of your thigh. You hadn’t realized the hem of your nightgown had creeped up towards your hips. Your heart begins to thump against your ribcage at the contact, not understanding why he’s touching you so intimately. Panic edges its way back in, held at bay by the kindness he’s showed you up until now.

Before embarrassment and your instinct to cover yourself in modesty even has a chance to settle, your eyes follow his up your legs.

His whole body goes taut. “Who did this to you?” he asks, voice lower than you’ve heard it before. He says it in such a measured, eerily calm manner that you immediately know the tone is only for your benefit and not because he’s feeling in any way calm.

The kerthunk of your heart sinking into your stomach makes it obvious what he’s asking without you having to look, but you do anyway, even though you’ve spent the last week avoiding looking at all costs.

Your thighs resemble a macabre rainbow, the purplish-blue giving way to a mottled yellow-green. You fumble for a reasonable excuse—lord knows you’ve become skilled at them over the years—but these bruises were different. Gianni had not been gentle with you, as evidenced by his greedy handprints leaving horrific reminders deep into your flesh, too far up your thighs to be proper.

If your stomach wasn’t already empty, you think you might have vomited again, right there in Elvis’ lap, but as it stands, you manage to swallow the lingering bile back down your throat. But you cannot get the words out to make him understand, so you settle for shaking your head vigorously, as if to say, I swear this wasn’t my fault. I’m not that kind of girl. My innocence is intact. This isn’t your problem.

But the look in Elvis’ deep eyes is not one of judgement or disappointment—instead, they burn with unfettered protectiveness, something you have never experienced from anyone other than your mother.

“Dolores, who did this to you?” The question is insistent and firm this time. The use of your full name and not one of his endearments makes it clear how serious he is.

Shame blooms across your cheeks and you give into the urge to bury your head back into his shoulder, trying to hide away and pretend this isn’t happening. No one was ever supposed to know. You feel yourself wanting to slip far away. Unfortunately for you, Elvis counters your move, lifting your chin with his index finger so you cannot escape his question.

The violent remnants of your nightmare make it clear that you can’t tell Elvis about Gianni or your father. They are much too dangerous. You stomach turns again at the thought of Elvis getting hurt because of you. You’ve already, unbeknownst to him, put him at risk. But you must tell him something, anything to stop the intense emotions churning in his eyes. His gaze threatens to swallow you whole.

“A very dangerous man,” you rasp out, finally acquiescing something. Your eyes settle in your lap—anywhere but looking into the pools of his eyes.

He is quiet, and you can feel the weight of his stare examining your body in search of answers, taking in the pieces of you—the scars, the bruises—that you are so used to hiding under your clothes and resigned exterior. You can’t help but squirm under the scrutiny but have no energy to climb out of his embrace to hide your shame away. It’s too late for that anyway, and you are so very tired.

After taking you in fully, you feel the press in the air of all the questions he wants to ask but doesn’t. Instead, he purses those full lips of his together in a line and nods solemnly, making some decision you are not privy to.

“Is he why you wanted to leave New York so fast? Why you said yes to this?” he asks quietly.

You close your eyes, and for the first time in your life, you yearn to unload your burden. It’s as though you are just realizing how utterly exhausting it’s been keeping everything locked up tight, building and keeping the walls around yourself secure. And none of it makes sense, this fact that it is Elvis knocking a hole straight through to the truth.

Your lip trembles. “Mmm hmm…” you manage before pausing, “b-but he’s n-not the o-only man I n-needed t-to get away from.” The chattering of your teeth has your admission stuttered and fumbling, but the crushing weight that has been on your shoulders lifts slightly with what little you’ve given him.

Elvis’ hands clench and release your nightgown, his jaw ticking as if he is holding himself back from an eruption of emotion. You are completely baffled by how concerned and protective he appears. This man who you barely know. This man who is in your care, not the other way around.

The rumbling growl which comes out of him is so low you might not have registered it except that by being so close to him, it reverberates through you.

“Nobody’s gonna touch you like that ever again. You hear me, Little Bird?” he says firmly, cupping your cheek to make you look at him and see how genuine he is. “Not while I’m around.”

This time when your heart plummets, it’s not out of fear. No, it’s more like the drop of a roller coaster on Coney Island or one of the elevators in the Empire State Building: a momentary loss of control followed by giddy excitement. It is joined by a wash of warmth over your chilled skin, and you are suddenly hyperaware of every single place his furnace of a body touches your own. The rolling of your stomach settles, your trembling beginning to ebb. The logic you so pride yourself on has been totally circumvented by your basest needs to be held, nurtured, and cared for, for once.

It's selfish. But your disorientation and Elvis’ ability to disarm you has you relishing in his warmth, his gentleness. You don’t flinch from his touch. Curling into him, a quiet sob escapes your lips at the feeling of being protected for the first time in a very long time.

Elvis wraps his arms around you carefully, as though knowing the fragility of your soul. Eventually, you relax, your exhaustion taking over fully, and your vision blurs and dims.

*

The first thing you register is how warm and cozy you are. It’s so very different from the cold you usually experience when waking up. You are cocooned so pleasantly and snuggle into the feeling, wondering if perhaps you are dreaming. How else would you feel like this, as alone as you are?

It’s not until that warm cocoon shifts and sighs around you that your eyes pop open. Your heart skips a beat.

Oh, God, where am I?

Panicked disorientation cuts through the comfort you’d been enveloped in, sharpening your focus, and it only takes a moment for you to remember you are at Graceland. With Elvis Presley. In his bedroom.

You blink the gritty sand of sleep from your eyes as a flash of memory comes from the night before: Elvis, between Anita’s legs. Their argument. His roaring tantrum and its aftermath.

Swallowing, you are quickly reminded by the sting that the night didn’t end there. You shiver at the thought of your horrible nightmare and the subsequent retching in the bathroom. Then Elvis found you, gotten on the floor with you, and held you…

Oh, Madone…I’m in his bed.

But it’s when you register that your comforting cocoon is Elvis holding you under the covers, that you are curled into his side, that shock and embarrassment washes over you.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

The surprising thing is that fear is perhaps the one thing you are not feeling. What if I went far away like I do sometimes and didn’t remember him taking advantage of me? But taking stock of yourself, you are sure he hasn’t done anything to harm you. No, he feels so different…like safety. His gentleness from the middle of the night floods back to you, causing an ache in your heart you do not entirely understand.

The rise and fall of his breath is evident to you now by how his ribs expand against your curled up hands. It’s almost hypnotic coupled with the sound of his breathing. But that seems a little labored, and his body is an oven, reminding you of his fever last night.

This situation is beyond improper, your logical mind butts in, knowing you should get out of this compromising situation as quickly as possible, preferably before he wakes. But another part of you relishes in it and wants to lie here in his protective embrace for as long as possible. You take a deep breath, committing this feeling to memory, even though you know you shouldn’t.

As your head clears, the panic from last night dissipating, you realize you cannot let this go any further, as innocent as it may seem now. You need to move.

He is your patient, Lori. Get a grip.

Well, and my boyfriend in public, technically.

You roll your eyes at yourself, resisting the urge to tear yourself from his grasp and leap out of the bed as though he is on fire. No, you don’t want to wake him, to be a burden on him, you think as shame slithers back into your thoughts. The things he knows about you now, those things he guessed and you confirmed…oh, lord, what he must think of you. How he must pity you.

That bite of shame is what finally has you extricating yourself as slowly as possible, rolling and sliding your way out of his arms. You think this one thing has gone right when you manage to swing upright at the edge of the bed, but the moment you start to rise, feet sliding towards the floor, a warm hand catches your wrist, startling you.

“Where ya goin’, lil’ Bird?” Elvis croaks, voice heavy with sleep, eyes barely open to slits. “You okay?”

Your heart flutters. “I-I’m fine,” you whisper quietly, the humiliation and intimacy of last night hot in your veins. “You can go back to sleep.”

His dazed eyes drift closed and you think maybe you’ve gotten away with it, but then they pop open like he’s startled himself awake. Head shaking once, twice, he mumbles, “Mmm, can’t. Not without you…”

You freeze, the fluttering of your heart cascading down into your stomach.

He’s half asleep. He doesn’t realize what he’s saying.

Rapidly, the events from last night rush back to you. It’s as if you both crossed over some precipice of trust when you each saw the other in your worst moments.

Oh, he knows so much about you now that you never, ever planned to tell him.

In your state last night, you didn’t consider the repercussions of this new trust and familiarity. You’ve never felt intimate with a man emotionally and certainly not physically. You’d never had the occasion or confidence to do so.

For Elvis to want you to come to bed so he can sleep soundly feels profoundly personal, and yet, from what you felt moments ago wrapped in his arms, you think you might understand it just a little bit. And that flusters you in a way you’ve never felt before.

“I have to use the bathroom,” you eek out. A non-committal answer.

“Okay, baby…jus’ come right back,” he murmurs, blinking his glassy eyes slowly.

You scurry off, thinking about how him doubling down about it means it’s not a fluke that he wants you near him. A strange little shiver rolls through you as you take care of your business, a little disturbed and distracted by this illogical pull you feel towards him.

I shouldn’t feel this way, but…

But maybe you can use it to your advantage. Maybe he will listen to you now if he trusts you and feels connected to you. Perhaps this is the best way you can help him, even if it is unconventional.

And manipulative.

You try not to think about that or how it makes you feel when he looks at you a certain way. The truth of the matter is, if you focus on him, you can’t think too hard on yourself.

Steeling yourself in the mirror gives you pause. You look terrible—gaunt with little red freckles littering your cheeks and jaw from all the broken blood vessels caused by heaving your guts out last night. Your deep-set eyes are even darker than usual, almost as though you have two black eyes to match the horrible, mottled bruises on your thighs. The sight makes you shudder.

Well, even if Elvis found you attractive in the first place (and that’s a big if), your current state is sure to change his mind and eliminate any awkwardness in that regard. In fact, looking as terrible as you do will probably help the situation. Maybe he’ll follow your directions out of pity.

Sighing audibly, you steady yourself and head back into the freezing, darkened bedroom. A part of you hopes that maybe he’s fallen back asleep so you can avoid any awkwardness.

“What took ya so long? Sure you’re okay?” he probes sleepily, but it seems to come from a place of concern. Flipping on the lamp on the nightstand, he furrows his brow and lifts his head up as if to inspect you. This continued protectiveness takes you aback.

“Yes, I’m alright, I promise.” The truth is you are far from alright but have no energy to untangle that now. Instead, you turn the question back to him: “How are you feeling? How’s your breathing?” You sit on the edge of the bed, using your wrist to feel his clammy forehead.

Elvis pulls on your other arm, gently, but enough to cause you to topple over next to him as he moves you where he wants you. When you stiffen, he seems to realize he’s overstepped and takes his hands off you.

“I-I-I’m sorry, honey. I-I din’t mean ta—I just thought—” he stutters, “but w-we both just seem ta feel better together…”

A little voice in the back of your head reminds you his comfort felt awfully nice last night when you fell apart. Forcing yourself to breathe evenly, you consider his words—there is truth to them and you know it—and you wonder again if this is how you get him to do what you ask more often.

Trying not to freeze, you settle on a bit of honesty. “I know, b-but this is new for me, Elvis. I’m not used to…, and…and…” you trail off, finding it hard to get the words out now that you need to say them aloud. Propriety and shame have you flailing in the strangeness of the situation.

He scoots over, pulling you gently down to face him, like two girls sharing secrets at a sleepover. “Of course, honey. I-I w-wasn’t thinkin’,” he says as if reading your mind, “Is this okay?”

You nod. There is such a disarming way about him that even in your apprehension at his closeness, you begin to relax. He curls his warm hands up around your icy cold ones. It soothes you more than you anticipate.

“How are you feeling, really?” you ask softly. Your current physical closeness has your words coming out more familiar and informal than you’ve been with him before. You figure after the events of last night, you can let go of some of the harsh professionalism that had been trained into you the past four and a half years.

Elvis shrugs, seemingly nonchalant, which is telling. “I’m tired,” he concedes, quickly adding, “You must be tired, too, after…being sick.” He seems to choose the words carefully.

It’s a sort of bargaining chip, you realize—his attempt at an “If I have to rest, so do you.” It’s a bit flipped from the ultimatum you’d given him on the train, and may be a dangerous precedent to set, but this is the closest you’ve gotten him to rest by his own volition since you met him.

The thing is you are bone tired after a week of trauma and rapid adjustment to a completely new and hectic way of life. And as much as he drove you crazy at first with what you had assumed was arrogance and entitlement, he has now, inexplicably, become someone you might confide in.

But your stubborn nature and need for self-protection balks at this. Your shame makes you want to hide away from him. Yet you are beginning to understand that Elvis, while surrounded by people, lives a very lonely, isolated existence and seems to yearn for connection.

Maybe we aren’t so different, he and I.

“I am rather exhausted,” you finally relent, knowing if you lie he will see through it, through you, in that strange way of his. You don’t want to jeopardize your progress with him.

His eyes are darker than usual, looking at you with what you can only explain as tenderness. “Ya need to rest, honey. I-I-I know I been runnin’ ya ragged.”

“I can only rest if you do,” you point out.

He nods. His head is so close to yours that the action nearly causes his head to bump into yours. Apparently unable to resist the urge to touch and fawn, he brushes a lock of your haphazard hair back behind your ear.

“Okay, lil’ Lo, I’ll rest.”

It is music to your ears.

“That means staying in bed actually resting, not ‘resting’ while working or at a party,” you warn playfully because you’ve learned he responds better to this type of request.

“Well, what if I need ta use the bathroom?” he jokes.

“Hmmm…I suppose I’ll allow it,” you say, managing a small, almost flirtatious smile.

Oh, Madone, who am I becoming?

“I need to take your vitals and give you your medicine,” you add quickly before he can respond, forcing yourself to be logical and practical rather than borderline swooning.

It’s then that your stomach growls so loudly it’s impossible to deny.

“Lord, woman, we better get some food in ya!” he laughs, rolling over and grabbing the receiver on the nightstand.

When he shifts, you shiver, yearning for his body heat again. It’s just because he keeps the room frigid, you tell yourself. He orders food to be brought up, but doesn’t ask you what you want, which bothers you a little, though you suppose he’s used to doing things his way, especially in his own home.

You use the distraction to get up and retrieve your medical bag. You know between the insane travel, the publicity schedule, his romp with Anita, and then his massive outburst that he must be running on empty. It worries you how he runs himself into the ground, and you know you need to find a better way than this quid pro quo to make sure he’s resting regularly and taking breaks.

If you don’t, this job will be much more difficult than you anticipated. You worry his condition will worsen rapidly at this rate. A heaviness settles on your heart at the thought.

It doesn’t make you feel any better when his vitals show he hasn’t improved much from last night. His blood pressure is a little better since he’s not worked up, but it’s not where it should be, and his temperature is only down a degree. No wonder he’s so warm.

Looking at him closely, you see that his eyes are rimmed black like yours and glassy, his fatigue showing through his moments of playfulness and concern for you.

“You know, you don’t have to pretend with me, Elvis.” It slips out quietly before you can think better of it, your eyes flitting down to meet his briefly.

The tired haze in his eyes clears and he blinks, as if trying to comprehend what you are saying.

“What I mean is I know you have to pretend you are alright with almost everyone else in your life. It must be very tiring.” Yet another similarity between you. “But you don’t have to do it with me.”

“I…” he pauses, looking down, not sure how to process that information. It’s like he never considered that he could drop the façade. That realization makes your heart ache for him.

Something significant shifts within you. Elvis knows more about you now than anyone you’ve known your whole life. And you know the world’s most famous singer’s biggest secret. Both of you are going to have to accept it and learn to trust one another, as out of character as it may be for you to do so.

Boldly, you take a move from his book, grabbing his chiseled chin and pulling it up to make him look at you. His eyes widen in surprise and compliance.

“Elvis, I am here for you and you only. You don’t owe me any sort of excuses about how you are doing in order to make me feel better. But you do owe me honesty about how you are truly feeling so I can help you. And that means doing what I tell you to do in terms of your health,” you say in a steady, firm voice.

The sudden pliable submissiveness in his heavy-lidded eyes surprises you somewhat. You expected more of a fight. He blinks slowly, and the intensity of his open and needy gaze sends a bolt of electricity through you.

“Right now you need to eat, take your medicine, and get back into bed to rest. Understand?” you continue. It’s not unkind, but there is a slight edge to your voice that indicates you mean it.

“Yes, ma’am,” Elvis responds sincerely and quietly, nodding.

You release his chin but keep your eyes fixed to his, your heart pounding for reasons you don’t want to consider. Something unspoken passes between you, creating a molten heat deep in your belly. There is an element of control you seem have over him in these private moments that you don’t quite understand yet. It makes you feel safe and grounded…and powerful.

It also makes you want to scoop him up in your arms and comfort him as he did with you the night before.

You know you’re in trouble because your normal boundaries that keep people at a distance have been skirted expertly by him. But it’s a give and take. The more you open up to him, the more willing he is to listen to you and do what you ask.

If you want to save his life, and in turn your own, you’ll need to do whatever it takes to keep Elvis well and happy. And if that means you have got to let him in a little, so be it, you decide, because your safety relies on him now. You have no other plan if this goes south.

It’s all rather terrifying.

Breakfast comes with a knock on the door, interrupting the moment. Ravenous, you see that everything you could possibly want is brought in and placed on a side table near the door. Your eyes widen. It’s enough to feed the whole house.

“I-I didn’t know what you wanted, so I just had Alberta make a bit of everythin’,” he says sheepishly.

“Oh. Well, thank you, that’s very kind of you,” you say, unable to take your eyes off the spread. Your mouth waters at the sweet smell of maple syrup and perfectly golden pancakes, and you can’t help but be a little shocked by the mountain of burnt-to-a-crisp bacon that sits next to it.

He gives you a boyish smile, stands, and hands you a plate, which you gladly take and gingerly fill with food.

Settling back on the bed, both of you eat quietly and for the first time, it is not uncomfortable. Maybe it’s the informal setting without the entourage that does it. Perhaps it is the mutual fatigue, hunger, or the newfound trust between you two. For whatever reason, it takes a little more weight off your shoulders.

Finishing up, you move to get up and place your plate on the tray by the door, but Elvis’ hand catches your wrist and pulls you back.

“Wait. You have a little syrup…” he starts, pointing to the corner where his lips meet.

“Oh, thank you,” you say, a flush bourgeoning across your chest. You swipe the corner of your mouth with your napkin, then look at him expectantly.

“Mmm…no,” he says, eyes glimmering in the dim light, “Here.”

His tongue licks a stripe up the pad of his thumb. Before you can think fast enough to move away, he leans in and his dampened thumb wipes slowly over the sticky crease, removing the syrup from the corner of your mouth.

Frozen, your heart throbs so hard in your chest, you are afraid he might hear it, but he is too busy bringing his thumb back to his mouth and sucking it clean of the sweetness that moments ago graced your lips.

Oh, Madone.

The fever does not quell the unabashedly open look he gives you. How a man can all at once look as innocent as a lamb while at the same time exuding such raw sexuality, you’ll never know. It’s not as if he’s meaning to make a pass, yet a swell of tension rolls between you all the same. You force yourself to breathe, to blink, to do anything that will break the spell he seems to have on you.

Blood blooms like fire across your cheeks. You stand quickly and busy yourself as though nothing has happened, taking both plates away, silently ordering your heart to settle.

He is your patient, Lori.

You are grateful for being able to turn away as you prepare his medicines, combinations of vitamins and antibiotics that need a full stomach. It allows time for your face to cool and your body to become your own again. When you turn back to him, he sits at the edge of the bed, waiting for you. The sleepy look on his face has returned, those bedroom eyes low, docile, and submissive. He looks far away, you think, as if caught in deep thought.

You step in front of him. Boldly, before you can think better of it, you use one finger to tilt up his chin to look at you. He blinks up at you dreamily while one hand absently plays with the hem of your nightgown. It’s intimate and endearing.

“Time for your medicine, Elvis,” you say, pouring the pills into one of his hands. You watch as he throws them into his mouth, then you hand him a glass of water to swallow them down.

In a moment of déjà vu, you realize you are lightyears away from the annoyance you felt for him back in the hospital, doing nearly the same thing. It’s strange. It hasn’t been that long, but time has a funny way of warping in Elvis Presley’s world. Despite your efforts to keep him at arm’s length, he’s managed to worm his way past your defenses. It’ll take some doing for you to keep him well and following the doctor’s orders, but you think this newfound closeness will help your efforts.

As long as I keep my wits about me.

When you both lay down to go back to sleep, the terror that gripped you back in New York and slashed through your dreams in the night feels far away. As you get comfortable on your side of the bed, Elvis intertwines his long fingers in yours. Your normal impulse to pull away doesn’t interfere. No, he is dutifully respecting your space, so you give him this concession. You can’t tell if it’s him needing the assurance of your presence, or him assuring you of his.

Maybe it’s both.

Either way, as the haze of sleep finds you again, a fleeting thought drifts in your mind:

I’ve never been safer than I am right now.

The thought floats away again before you have time to think on it. The comforting weight of Elvis’ hand grounds you to him and sleep consumes you once again.

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