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rowdyluv · 3 months ago

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summary: a requested prompt with trevor, trevor and y/n cuddling up sharing memories of their years together.

warnings: none, absolute pure tooth rooting sweetness, quite literally, “its so fluffy I’m going to die”

word count: 2.8+

notes: request made by @sweetestdesire - “Tell me again how you fell in love with me.” “I literally told you yesterday. “I don’t care, I wanna hear it again. Plus, I love hearing you speak.” - altered slightly but not much

The rare California rain gently fell against her bedroom window, carrying with it the faint echo of wind and the occasional honk of a vehicle. Trevor and Y/n lay snug in her bed, their limbs intertwined in a familiar sense of comfort. The soft rustle of their sheets joined the sounds of the weather that filled the room, a stark contrast to the joyous and thunderous cheers of Ducks fans they had just left behind at the Honda Center, a lingering memory of the game that had just concluded.

Hopefully gone were the ugly memories of watching Trevor’s team lose game after game, the Duck’s were on a hot streak currently winning the last five home games as shutouts.

Y/n's head rested on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, a rapid strumming that was slowly beginning to flow back into normal rhythm.

“I’m sorry we had to spend our 4-year anniversary at my game.” Trevor mumbled, he had apologized already at least twenty times, feeling terrible for not being able to do something for Y/n that day.

“Trevor, truly baby stop, I love going to your games!” She looked up at him, her eyes gleaming with affection. “I got to see you play, and score the game winning goal! I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else in the whole world, plus I am taking any opportunity to show off that I’m the only female who is wearing your last name with meaning.” She grinned a cheeky smile and he just shook his head.

They had met at one of his games, she had been dragged by one of her friends who was a die-hard Ducks fan. At that point in time, Trevor had been playing the not-so best season of his career. He was constantly in the box for silly retaliation calls, starting and finishing fights, he wasn’t scoring like a previous first rounder top prospect should have been. He was trying to keep himself from being distracted by the fans in the stands, so he hadn’t noticed her right away. It was her friend’s enthusiasm that had stood out among the sea of fans drawing his teammates eyes over during warmups.

However, when Trevor cracked and his attention was finally drawn by the way her friend cheered and yelled for his attention, his eyes fell on Y/n instead. The instant connection he thought that they had made, made him feel invincible on the ice that night. Trevor ended up earning himself a hat trick accompanied by two assists for a 5-1 win over the Sharks.

Trevor was determined to find her, after the game. He didn’t spare a single second for the media, he didn’t shower either. He wasn’t risking her leaving. In record time, he slung his gear off and changed into shorts and a t-shirt to make a mad dash out in hopes to find her still sitting in the seats behind the goal.

Luckily for him, she was still there. They ended up talking for hours after that game.

“Do you remember the night we met?” He asked her after being lost in his own memories about it.

Y/n’s eyes lit up, she had told the story to her friends and family a hundred times but hearing it from his perspective was something she never tired of. She nodded eagerly, “I was so nervous, I didn’t know why. Maybe it was because your eyes had this intense look when you were on the ice that night, or maybe it was just because you were so damn hot in your gear, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you.”

Trevor pinched her waist playfully, a smirk playing on his lips. “I looked hot eh?” He teased, his thumb stroking the skin just above her hip bone. She giggled, swatting his hand away playfully.

“Stop it! You know you do.” Her giggle fit died down before she tried to speak again. “So, if we’re starting to share our memories together,” she smiled at him whole fully.

Y/n propped herself up on her elbow, sole purpose to be able to look at him better.

“Remember that night at the beach, when we had our first kiss?” Her voice was soft, a gentle whisper that danced in the air between them, stirring up the butterflies in Trevor’s stomach like it had that very evening as if he was a schoolboy again.

Trevor’s eyes searched hers, the question in her gaze so earnest, so hopeful. He couldn’t help but smile at the memory of the cool sand beneath his feet, the sound of the waves crashing in the background, and the way the moon had painted the horizon in a soft silver light. The night before she made a surprise trip to the Sharks arena to watch him play, unfortunately this game didn’t work out in the Ducks favor. When Trevor received her message post game about being there he turned towards one of Ducks equipment managers giving them directions to go get her.

“The night at the beach, the day after you surprised me by showing up at the game in San Jose?” He said, his voice carrying a hint of surprise. As if he would forget about it.

“Yes, the very one. Where I just showed up and you guys had just lost….but you still took the time to see me or I guess wanted to see me, so you sent someone out to get me.”

“It wasn’t a want after I knew you were there babygirl, I needed to see you. I knew you were going to be my girl after you bought your own $100 plus ticket to come watch me play and you went by yourself. You paid, knowing I could have got you free tickets all so you could surprise me.” Trevor's voice grew softer, the memory bringing a gentle warmth to his words.

He paused for a moment, his gaze drifting to the ceiling as he relived the night.

He had felt a fierce protectiveness over her as she approached the locker room full of raging hormonal men. He had almost immediately wrapped his arms around her, the smell of the generic body wash in the guest showers mingling with her perfume, something sweet and floral. The moment between the two shared in front of the locker rooms was when he had hastily asked her out to the beach later the next day.

Y/n layed back down on her stomach, her chin propped up on his chest, her eyes searching his as she spoke. "The night on the beach when you stopped suddenly when we were walking, I was scared you were bored or something," she confessed, a hint of vulnerability in her tone. She had never admitted it to him before, the small doubt that had lurked in the back of her mind that night.

Trevor stilled his motions before speaking, his eyes focused on hers, "Bored? With you? Not a chance." His voice was gentle, a warm caress that seemed to dispel any lingering shadows of doubt. "I knew right then I wanted to kiss you. I just had a moment of second guessing in case you smacked me or ran away." He laughed slightly as he smiled. “Then you turned back around and the way you looked, looked at me, I didn’t care if you smacked me. It wouldn’t hurt long. And hell, I’m a professional athlete. I'd catch up if you ran.”

Y/n felt her heart swell with affection as she laughed. "You're so dramatic," she said, her voice filled with love and amusement. She reached up and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, her fingertips tracing the line of his cheekbone.

Trevor's smile grew with the soft touch of affection. "Maybe, but it's all true." His voice grew husky, the emotion of the memory thick in the air.

“Hey, Y/n?” He whispered, grabbing her by the waist with both hands lifting her to lay on top of him.

Her eyes searched for him, questioning and curious of the sudden change in position. He didn’t say a word, instead he leaned in and kissed her with a tenderness that could melt an entire ice rink three times over. It was the kind of kiss that made time stand still, where every beat of his heart resonated against her own. A kiss that was sweet and gentle, like a whispered promise of forever. It was a nice and welcomed difference to the passionate, urgent kisses they often shared in the bed they were occupying, but no less powerful in its own right.

When he pulled away, she found herself breathless, a soft blush painting her cheeks. “Trev, what was that for?”

He looked into her eyes, the warmth in his gaze making her feel like she was the only person in the universe. “I just wanted to remind you how much I love you, and that every day, every moment with you, makes me love you even more than I did the last time I said it.” He spoke with such conviction, his words a sweet melody that filled her soul. “I love you more now, than I did when we got home, and I’m sure you’ll give me a reason before tomorrow to love you more than I do right now.”

Y/n’s heart skipped a beat at his declaration, a feeling that was becoming as familiar as the sound of their breath mingling together. She knew she didn’t need the reassurance, but she craved it. She craved to hear his voice tell her that he felt the same way she did. That she wasn’t just some girl he had picked out in the crowd one night who had gotten lucky to get to know him, but the love of his life.

“Trevor.” Y/n whispered, laying her head against his shoulder, still lying on top of him, Trevor’s arms wrapped securely around her waist. “Will you tell me again how you fell in love with me?”

Trevor’s chuckle was a warm rumble under her cheek, a gentle reminder of his presence, and of his affection. “You’re like your little nephew asking for a bedtime story when he stays, you know that?” He said playfully, his eyes crinkling at the corners. But the request from her, nor the little guy, didn’t annoy him.

It was quite the opposite, it reminded him of their earlier days together. Back to when he first told her he loved her, back when she would ask him almost every day just to hear him say it.

He sighs and kisses her forehead before starting his story, his eyes closed as he recounts the moments that had led up to him falling for her. "I was in love with you far before I told you I was," he starts, his voice low and earnest. "Remember that summer when we got lost on our way to the Hughes’ lake house?"

Y/n nods, a smile playing on her lips, "You were so mad at the GPS," she murmurs, the memory bringing a hint of embarrassment to her voice, “thinking that it was wrong, but I had accidentally put the address in wrong. You never showed anger to me once we realized and wouldn’t let me apologize either. You laughed with me, not at me.”

Trevor’s arms tighten around her slightly. That summer had been one of the best of his life. It was the summer he had realized she was more than just the girl who had stolen his attention at the game. She was the girl who was breaking down every wall. Walls that he had no idea existed until she was in his life, because no other girl had ever managed to reach them.

"I was in love with you before I knew I was," he repeats in a caressing whisper. "It was the way you'd laugh at my terrible jokes, the way you not only cheer me on, but the entire team. It’s how even when I was playing like shit, you were still right there by my side. You see me for me I know that if I don’t or can’t play, you’ll still be here. You’re not here for the hockey side of me. It was the way you looked at me in a room full of people, like I was the only person in the room that mattered." His voice grew softer with each word, each memory weaving a tapestry of emotion in the air.

She’s heard the explanation a few hundred times over the four years, each time it fills her with so many emotions that she can’t help but tear up a little. She had never experienced such a love before Trevor, she never wants to experience anyone else’s but his.

“I knew it, when I had to pull over and ask that old man with his pet llama if you could pet it. You were so embarrassed I actually did it but you talked about petting the llama all day.” Trevor laughed remembering that specifically odd encounter.

“I still can’t believe I got to pet a llama because of you, that was pretty amazing.”

The warmth in her voice brought a grin to his face as he leaned further back into the pillows. She was so much more than he had ever hoped for in a partner.

"Every time I saw you, every moment we spent together, it was like you were throwing little glances of light into the darkest parts of me." Trevor's voice grew softer, his eyes still closed as if he could feel the moments more deeply that way. "You had this way of making everything feel right, even when everything was so wrong." He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing, his grip on her waist tightening slightly as the weight of his feelings pressed against his chest.

“The first time I told you that I love you that New Year’s Eve, when I flew back early to surprise you, during our first year together. I was so anxious. I had never felt this way about anyone before. And when I saw your face light up like the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center when you opened the door to your apartment when I knocked, I had to tell you, right then and there. I blurted it out right in your face like the idiot goofball that I am. But whenever you feel so in love with someone the way I do, the kind that makes you want to jump out of airplanes to see if it matches the way they make your heart race or fight your way through the crazy mob of media instead of taking the interviews just to take a chance at meeting them.”

Trevor unwrapped his arms from her waist, only to move his hand to tilt her head to look up at him.

“Y/n, every day since then, that love has only grown and grown until it’s all I can think about, no you’re all I can think about. To the point I know that I want to marry you one day." His voice was steady, filled with certainty that had been growing in his heart for months, waiting for the perfect moment to tell her.

Y/n popped up with renewed energy, elated with the words that fell from his lips. “One day? Why not elope tomorrow? I have been waiting for you to say that for, forever. I don’t need big and fancy, I just need you.” She was beaming at him, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

Trevor shook his head in amazement, his eyes filled with love and amusement. "You're something else, you know that?" He replied, gently stroking her cheek with his thumb. "But no, not tomorrow, I want to do it right. Meaning I am going to ask you, not you ask me. I also know that you do want some type of ceremony, I’ve seen you scroll through Pinterest.” He stroked the side of her cheek with his thumb, wiping away the small tear that had fallen. The smile she wore let him know she wasn’t crying from him saying no. “I have always been one to rush into everything. I want us to take our time and make sure that when we do get married, it's a day neither of us will ever forget."

Her heart fluttered at his words, feeling the love between them grow stronger with each shared memory, and his confession. The room grew quiet once again, their breaths mingling together in a soft dance of contentment.

"I can't wait for that day," she whispered with a yawn taking over her words, her second wind of energy vanishing as quickly as it appeared. "But until then, I'm happy being with you just like this." Her eyes fluttered shut and reopened slowly.

“It’s okay to go to sleep, I will be here tomorrow. I can always talk about whatever it is you have ready to ask me then.” Trevor assured here pressing a kiss to her head from an awkward position. “Close your eyes and go to sleep, babygirl.”

tag list: @thedevilrisen @luke-hughes43

if you would like to be added to the tag list follow the link in the pinned post ♡

#cay writes #tz11 #trevor zegras fic #trevor zegras fluff #trevor zegras imagine #trevor zegras x reader #trevor zegras x y/n #trevor zegras #anaheim ducks #Anaheim Ducks fic #Anaheim Ducks fluff #hockey fics #ducks hockey #soft!trevor zegras

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karatekels · 9 months ago

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KarateKels Story Masterlist

Hi everyone! I’ve decided to (finally) get my act together and make a masterlist post for all the requests/stories I’ve done so far. I’m going first by character, then adding Dark Desires October and TIGmas posts for if you’re looking for a ~vibe~. Links that have a * indicate the presence of smut, for if you just want to get to the good stuff! 😉

(I'll be going through these posts and updating them slowly when I can't bring myself to write, so if you see anything that needs fixing or you want to suggest ways to make this... less of a clusterfuck, please feel free to let me know!)

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Currently Writing:

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1. Cold Outside (a Jack Blaylock x Reader fic for TIGmas #12 - sorry for taking FOREVER, @babylonianqueenie; I'm really struggling to make this good!)

2. Solar Flare (a Jan Valek x OC fic)

Note: I am taking requests, but seeing that some of them are around a year old at this point, note that it may be awhile! I'm not planning on starting any of my own projects or theme-months until I clear out most of what I have, and thank you all for your patience!

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Terry Silver:

(KK3 Terry x Reader) Reader is the older sister of Jessica Andrews and has taken it upon herself to make sure young Daniel LaRusso stays safe after Jessica returns to Ohio. This includes accompanying him to seek out the training offered by Sensei Terry Silver and learning a few moves yourself from the handsome older man. When his true intentions are discovered, you completely cut him off, but he isn’t willing to let you go so easily. (Reader is in her 20s)

Chef’s Kiss: Part 1 | Part 2*

(KK3 Terry x Reader) Reader is dragged to a charity event by her parents where she meets Terry Silver. They discover that they have a mutual acquaintance, Daniel LaRusso, and Reader joins Danny at the dojo as she grows closer to Terry. Wanting to surprise him one day, she catches Terry relishing Daniel’s torture – now Terry has to make her see reason. (Reader is in her 20s)

Deluge: Part 1

(KK3 Terry x Reader) You get stranded in the rain trying to make your way to Terry’s place for Valentine’s Day, but Terry comes to your rescue, professing his love for you and taking you to his home where you belong.

An Honest Man: Part 1 | Part 2* | To be continued…

(KK3 Terry x Reader) You meet Terry at a party and aren’t impressed by his smarmy exterior, making him determined to win you over. Colluding with your easily wooed coworker, he talks you into a date and slowly seduces his way past your timid, untrusting nature.

Payment Plan: Part 1*

(KK3 Terry x Reader) Reader sees Terry training in the Cobra Kai dojo while on her way to work and develops a crush on him. They finally meet face-to-face and Terry invites her inside for a free lesson.

Bath Toy: Part 1*

(KK3 Terry x Reader) Terry takes a business call while playing with you in the bath but is interrupted by you not being able to keep quiet. To make up for the inconvenience, you let him use you underwater while he goes about his business.

Cat & Mouse: Part 1*

(KK3 Terry x Reader) Reader is a rising star at Dynatox and has caught the eye of the boss himself. Despite being the Terry Silver, however, you adamantly reject his advances, forcing him to take more drastic measures to help you see reason. The two of you engage in a game of cat and mouse that culminates the night of a gala celebrating Dynatox’s successes.

Discipline Training: Part 1* | Part 2* | To be continued…

(KK3 Terry x Reader) Terry comes home early from a work trip and catches you touching yourself without his permission. He decides to punish train you in the third 'D': Discipline.

All's Fair: Part 1 | Part 2* | Part 3*

(KK3 Terry x Reader) Reader has been dating Terry for awhile, and he's been patient. When she surprises him with a date at their local funfair, he thinks she'll be willing to finally make their relationship physical. At the top of the ferris wheel, he makes his move. Dubcon.

Unjust Reward:Part 1 | Part 2*

(KK3 Terry x Reader) Daniel warns Reader that Terry is nothing but trouble, and she tries to avoid him, but when she's being chased by a group of men she turns to Terry's dojo for help. He swoops in to save the day, but it turns out he was just saving her for himself. Non-con.

Clear as Mud: Part 1*

(KK3 Terry x Reader) You’ve tried to get Terry to open up about his time in Vietnam on more than one occasion, and while he’s been doing his best to help you understand, he ultimately decides that the best way to help you is to put you through something similar, hunting you in the middle of a forest at sunset.

What You Do To Me: Part 1*

(KK3 Terry x Reader) You and Terry have been together for quite awhile now and he is crazy about you. Before he can tell you that he loves you, he decides to test your loyalty by seeing how you respond to another man trying to seduce you at a gala. Once you pass his test with flying colours, he sneaks away with you to confess his love, and shows you just what it’s like to have his full devotion…

Turtle Doves: Part 1 | Part 2

(KK3 Cobra Husbands - Terry/Reader/John) It’s your first Christmas spent with both Terry and John, and everyone is nervous about what to give the others. While you’re confident in Terry’s (often overwhelming) love for both you and John, as well as your own feelings for both men, you’re still unsure of John’s feelings for you with the spirit of Betsy still a looming presence in everyone’s mind.

Songbird: Part 1*

(Terry through the ages) A series of snippets of Terry and his wife in the 90s, 00s and the present. Reader is a singer at the bar that Terry frequents as he hits rock bottom, and the two of you fall in love. Years later, the return of John Kreese into your husband’s live threatens to tear your marriage apart.

Lesson Learned: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3*

(CK Terry x Reader) Reader is a student in Cobra Kai’s adult class and you and Sensei Silver are both clearly attracted to one another. After a month of teasing, Terry decides you’ve both waited long enough.

Strike First: Part 1 | Part 2*

(CK Terry x Reader) Reader and Sensei Silver have been eyeing each other during the dojo’s adult class for awhile now. While you never think it would escalate past flirting, Terry has had other plans, luring you to the dojo when no one is around so you two can get to know each other.

Prized Possession: Part 1*

(CK Terry x Reader) You accompany Terry to a charity event for the first time as a couple and he doesn’t appreciate the attention you receive from the other men in attendance. Upon returning home, he needs to make sure that you both know who you belong to.

As I Am: Part 1*

(CK Terry x Reader) You witness Terry and Daniel’s fight in Stingray’s apartment and desperately want him to lose control with you. Upon making you confess your desires, he gives you exactly what you need. Size kink.

A Better Offer: Part 1 | Part 2*

(CK Terry x Reader) You are Daniel’s assistant at the dealership and a close family friend. When Terry drops by to gather information for his schemes, he decides to scoop you up and make Danny-Boy regret his mistreatment of you, giving you a dream opportunity: organizing the charity auction for Eva Garcia. The two of you develop feelings for one another as you work closely together, and as the events of the auction unfold, the tension between you reaches its boiling point.

Legacy: Part 1*

(CK Terry x Reader) Terry has fallen for the most promising student in his adult class, though she remains oblivious. Though he desperately wants to have her for himself, he fears rejection and settles for privately training her just to be close to her and build a legacy. Eventually, he runs out of things to teach her.

(CK Terry x Reader) Reader is visiting LA for a few weeks and accidentally wanders onto the estate of Terry Silver, who immediately falls hard for the young woman. With only a few days to convince her to stay with him, he knows he has to pull out all the stops.

Scream for Me: Part 1 | Part 2*

(CK Terry x Reader) Part of the "Fresh Start" universe! Reader makes the mistake of telling Terry that she can't believe he was ever scary, and certainly isn't that way now. Terry decides to teach her a lesson, hunting her in their own home until she admits that he is still very much something to be feared.

Wrapped in Red: Part 1*

(CK Terry x Reader) Part of the “Fresh Start” universe! You and Terry are invited to a Christmas Eve charity gala by your rival for Terry’s affections, and you’re sick of having to endure her flirting with your man. Surprisingly, Victor has an idea that will make it certain who Terry Silver belongs to.

Eye of the Storm: Part 1* | To be continued…

(CK Terry x Reader) Trapped at the airport on Christmas Eve, Terry grows tired of seeing everyone around him with their families and loved ones, and impulsively decides to start a family of his own. Today. He sets his sights on you to get the job done, with you being none the wiser.

Guided Meditation: Part 1*

(CK Terry x Reader) Terry is fed up with your attitude lately, and decides to help you learn how to channel your pent up frustrations through more enjoyable pursuits... for him, anyway.

Party Favours: Part 1*

(CK Terry x Reader) You really don't want your birthday to be a big deal, but Terry is determined to strike the perfect balance, finding just the right way to spoil you...

The Steadfast Tin Soldier: Part 1*

(Twig Terry x Reader) Terry returns from Vietnam on Christmas Eve, and you are the first and only person he wants to see. After years without so much as a letter, you two try to get to know each other once again.

Cash Ewing (Black Friday/The Kidnapping):

A dark, tragic fic. Reader is a cop who has been working at the same precinct as Cash for awhile, and gets the vibe that something is... off. Trusting her instinct, she follows him to an abandoned building one day and catches him in the act. Unfortunately, he also catches her, and keeps her as a hostage while he tries to figure out his next move. (Takes place before events of the movie)

Person of Interest: Part 1*

You and a friend attend your precinct's Christmas party; the first time you'll be seeing your coworkers since you went undercover almost a year ago. Rather than the happy reunion with your partner and friend Cash, he seems anything but happy to see you. Locked in the basement together, you call Cash out on his BS and finally confront him about his feelings and your own.

Jan Valek (Vampires):

An enemies to lovers fic with Jan Valek. Reader is Jack Crow's daughter and a vamp-hunter-in-training. When Valek attacks the old Catholic school where the Black Cross of Berziers is kept and discovers his nemesis’s daughter, he kidnaps her in hopes of using her to lure him out but finds himself falling for her instead.

Saturnalia: Part 1*

Valek catches your scent on the wind and plans to feed on you, but after a single conversation with you can’t bring himself to commit such an act. Instead, he plans to find you at your friend's Winter Solstice Masquerade to be close to you, even just for the night.

Solar Flare: Part 1 | In Progress...

As vampires become a growing problem and the number of Slayers dwindles, the Catholic Church decides to perform another ‘miracle’, attempting to create a weapon that will be able to find the despicable creatures in any and all shadows that they may hide. Similarly to the botched exorcism of Jan Valek, the experimental ceremony that Rose Hanlon undergoes doesn’t go exactly as intended, and she escapes the city with a set of abilities she doesn’t even understand.

Gus Travis (Black Point):

In Deep Water: Part 1 | Part 2* | Part 3*

A dark non-con with Gus Travis. Reader is an undercover cop who has gotten in with Gus's gang to get the dirt on him and Malcolm’s crime ring. Gus gets wind of your deception and decides to punish you - for lying, for making him fall for you, for everything.

Terry McCain (Excessive Force):

Yule-Tied: Part 1* | To be continued…

You manage to get Terry to swear off work for a whole week to come with you to visit your family in New York City for the holidays. He has (unsurprisingly) charmed his way into everyone’s good books, so you decide to reward him with an early Christmas present when you get back to your hotel room the night before Christmas Eve.

Jack Blaylock (Ulterior Motives):

Coming soon…

The TIGverse (stories with more than one TIG character):

The NSFW Alphabet: Part 1* | Part 2*

A character study for both KK3 Terry and CK Terry. (I want to do more requests like these, so feel free to send in requests for my thoughts/opinions rather than full on stories if you want!)

A Tale of Two Terrys: Part 1* | To be continued…

(KK3 Terry x Reader x CK Terry) You and your husband (CK Terry) are somehow joined in bed by his younger self, who had been wondering how his future would turn out. Initially protective, your husband talks you into letting his younger self have his way with you before joining in himself.

(Terry McCain x Reader x Cash Ewing) You are assigned as Terry McCain’s new partner after his previous partner – Cash Ewing – goes to prison for the crimes he has committed. Cash returns to Chicago years later, after his release and rehabilitation, and while he can’t be a cop anymore, he wants to make amends to those he has disappointed with his actions, most of all his former close friend Terry. Terry isn’t receptive to Cash’s attempts at reconciliation, and warns you to stay away from him, having grown very protective of his “work wife.” But you find something of a kindred spirit in Cash and want to help him get a second chance at life, deciding to do what you can to support the man and bring the two friends back together.

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Themes/Challenges

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Dark Desires October 2023:

Unjust Reward Disorderly Conduct Heirloom Scream for Me All's Fair In Deep Water

TIGmas 2023:

Person of Interest Saturnalia Clear as Mud Eye of the Storm The Steadfast Tin Soldier Wrapped in Red Yule-Tied What You Do To Me Mediation Guided Meditation Turtle Doves (Cobra Husbands) It’s Cold Outside (Jack Blaylock) Coming Soon...

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AMAs (ask me anything):

Just in case you are, for some reason, interested in asking me about things or reading about what other people have asked me! (These are fun and I'm happy to answer pretty much any question you feel like asking!)

AMA1 | AMA2 |

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inlovewithpandora · 1 year ago

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- Instructions -

Pairing: Hobie x fem!pregnant!reader

Request: [ @spidersthetic ] building a new piece of furniture from a flat pack together w Hobie || Ok, so what I was thinking for this was reader is pregnant and they're setting up the nursery and Hobie claims to know how to build the crib without the instructions and she doubts he can but enjoys the show as he struggles so like 10 minutes later, he gives up and asks her to give him the instructions and she tries not to laugh and comforts him a little.

Synopsis: Hobie tries to put together your child’s crib but it doesn’t goes the way he planned in his head.

Content: fluff, established relationship, Hobie trying to avoid instructions at all costs, reader supporting him no matter what, small Miguel diss, Reader being a cutie, cute and fluffy pregnancy fic

Author’s Note: I had fun writing this! This is my first time writing for astv or anything outside of avatar so I hope you all enjoy this!

- Shoutout to @spidersthetic for all her encouraging words and helping me while I’ve been making my transition to writing for astv! If it wasn’t for her sending me prompts/requests I wouldn’t have known what to write!

Word Count: 710

Extra: Requests are closed! || Likes, comments, and reblogs are highly appreciated❤️!

Links: Navigation || Astv Masterlist || Main Masterlist || Taglist

“Hobie, baby, can you please just read the instructions? I’ve been sitting in here with you for half an hour and nothing is done.”

“I told you I don’t need instructions. I got this. Don’t you have faith in your man?” His overconfident smile rises as he walks over and plants a kiss on your forehead to reassure you that he could handle this since in his eyes, it’s a minuscule task.

You shake your head, a chuckle emerging from your lips, knowing that this was going to go the opposite of what Hobie has in mind. “You’re right baby. I’m sorry, you got this!” You give him a wide smile along with two thumbs up to emphasize your support, and settle back to watching him once again attempt to put together your unborn child’s crib.

It’s been ten minutes since his last attempt, and just like you assumed it isn’t going well. However you wouldn’t deny that it was currently your source of entertainment. Hobie has multiple pieces scattered around the nursery; screws, and bolts attached to parts they shouldn’t be. And he looks by all means confused about how to assemble the crib.

As Hobie continues trying to figure out which part goes where, he starts growing frustrated. Each time he puts two pieces together, they don’t fit or the screw doesn’t align properly, which makes him groan as the feeling of aggravation arises a tad more with each passing failure.

You know he’s struggling and that he needs the instructions, but due to his stubbornness being mixed with a sense of determination, he doesn’t give up, at least for about another fifteen minutes.

“Can you pass me the bloody instructions?” He grumbles, hating the fact he has to admit defeat and cave to using someone else’s ideology of how to build a piece of furniture.

Looking at the scowl formed on his lips makes you want to burst with laughter, but you implement all your self-restraint and bury it deep down, knowing that it would only make him feel worse about not being able to complete the task solely on his own.“Here,” you hand him the pamphlet of instructions, “Honey, it’s okay to use the instructions, you know. I heard that Miguel had to use instructions to work the majority of technology in Spider-HQ even though he acts like he knows everything like the back of his hand.” You say in a playful tone, knowing how much Hobie dislikes Miguel and enjoys hearing stories about his screw ups.

“Really? Well, that does make sense. He is almost ancient at this point. I don’t see why he doesn’t retire and live a regular life instead of chasing Miles around Earth-928B like a madman.” He can’t help letting the laugh rise, thinking about how Miles blasted and defeated Miguel in front of everyone.

“Yes! So my point is that it’s okay to use instructions. They're here for a reason, which is to help.” You rub his back gently, hoping this will help lessen his complaints.

“You’re right, I’ll use the instructions.” He opens the pamphlet and begins to correctly assemble the crib, which makes you happy since you’ve been wanting this to finally be completed with the baby just a few months away from arriving.

“See, baby, your daddy is finally getting it done. He just needed a little kick in the pants from mommy.” You giggle softly to yourself as you rub your baby bump and watch Hobie make the final adjustments on the crib.

“How does it look?” He asks, inspecting the fully assembled crib in the corner of the nursery.

“Perfect, Hobie. I knew you could get it done!”

I hope you enjoyed❤️!

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Editor - @justmemyselfandthemoon

Taglist: @inspace1 @number1gal @phoenixx69 @savagemickey03 @soilmayo @gamerxpfighter

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miraculouslbcnreactions · 3 months ago

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While I don’t think the senti-kid story necessarily works if the writers wanted to keep the show focused on kids, I think it would’ve gone over a bit better if it was just Felix who was the senti, rather than also Adrien and Kagami (especially Kagami, she was a complete retcon in that regard).

Picture this:

Gabriel, Emilie, and Natalie find the Miraculous (Butterfly and Peacock) because they have an expensive hobby (archeology/collecting rare items, as wealthy people like to do), not because they need the magic at all. They just heard a rumor of an old Tibetan monastery and wanted to check it out, got lucky in finding the two jewels. The Peacock doesn’t even have to be broken.

We can keep the basics of the backstory shown in Representation- minus the detail of Adrien being made with the Peacock. Gabriel and Emilie conceive Adrien normally, but Colt and Amelie aren’t able to like in canon, so Colt has that same jealous outburst at Gabriel. Because Emilie feels bad for her sister, and Gabriel sees an opportunity to make a deal, they lend, or maybe trade, the Peacock to them to create a child. As in canon, Colt uses it, and his jealousy makes Felix a physical copy of Adrien.

Emilie gets sick for non-magical reasons. (I wouldn’t mind having her use it for funsies and not realizing it was broken, but it’s very obviously cracked, and I can’t imagine at least one of their two kwamis not giving them a warning.) As for what happens to Colt, I’m on the fence about him being alive in present times because that kind of abuse is really heavy, so maybe he just dies for unsaid reasons (though I vote Amelie poisoned him or something).

This version would allow for a really cool contrast between Adrien and Felix’s stories and characters. You have Adrien, a normal human, capable of disobedience, but who bends easily under others and is a people-pleaser. Versus Felix, a senti being magically compelled to obey orders of whoever has his amok, but fights to be free every chance he gets. That contrast would also further Felix’s frustration and jealousy of Adrien, in addition to his own father’s hatred of him and being identical to his cousin, because Felix would kill for Adrien’s free will, but he squanders it. But then there’s also the issue that he’s essentially victim blaming Adrien, not realizing that magic isn’t the only way to force obedience- not to mention ignoring the times that Adrien did stand up for himself (like running away to school). I think that would be a really great discussion of free will, how jealousy can blind you, family conflict (and resolution), and how different kinds of abuse/trauma aren’t automatically better than each other just because they’re opposites (ex: someone with heatstroke shouldn’t be jealous of someone with frostbite. Both suck.) The intensity might be worse for each circumstance (since Felix has magical abuse and physical+verbal abuse), but he would be in the wrong for saying Adrien has it easy.

(I think at this point my ADHD is over-explaining, so I’ll leave it at that lol)

Do you think a route like that would’ve improved the show at all? I’d love to hear your thoughts!

The sentiplot has many issues and one of the big ones is that it's not a great fit for a show where Marinette is the one and only main character. They've given Kagami, Felix, and Adrien this massive weight that begs for them to take center stage for at least a few episodes, but probably a whole season or two. The show isn't going to do that, so it's near impossible to really fix the sentiplot without truly massive changes to canon.

That being said, I think that this idea would have vastly improved the sentiplot in its current form! Right now, the senti thing truly doesn't matter to Adrien's character. His mom could have gotten sick for any random reason and the only meaningful change would be that Gabriel couldn't use the rings to keep Adrienette from kissing that one time. Outside of that, Adrien's status has no meaningful effect on the story. It doesn't even keep him out of the final! He does that on his own! The senti thing is just there for cheap drama.

There's also the issue that the current storyline makes the Agreste's look awful which is clearly not the story's goal. Emilie is supposed to be an angel and Gabriel is supposed to be a grief-stricken man who loves his family. That doesn't fit with the kind of monsters who would make a magical designer slave to be their child and then wear his control rings around as daily accessories. Remember, they picked their freaking wedding rings for his slave collars! Most people wear those every day. The implications are nasty!

It makes way more sense for the Agreste's to have the peacock for more mundane reasons and for Colt to get it somehow. Maybe even have him steal it after he finds out about it to really remove the Ageste's from the perfect slave child issue. This allows for the contrast between Gabriel and Colt that canon so clearly wanted, but failed to write. It also makes Felix's actions towards Adrien make way more sense. It feels like canon Felix hates Adrien and we still don't know why that is.

As nebulous as Felix's character is, he still feels like the kind of character who needs to be tied to something like the sentiplot. It's part of the reason I don't think I can use him in my own stuff. The sentiplot is - or at least should be - such a major, defining thing for him that the only possible way to use him is to keep that plot or to give him a plot about freeing the Kwamis since they're also slaves and his abusive childhood could make him feel a bond with them.

Focusing the sentistruggle on Felix instead of spreading it out to include Adrien and Kagami would also keep the sentistuff from dominating the story. Making the male romantic lead an artificial being without true free will whose creation killed his mother is a massive thing that needs to be the focus of his character for the rest of the story. People are on the edge of their seats waiting for Adrien to learn the truth and want this to be a big plot. I do not think they're going to get that, but they should.

Having a side character be the artificial human allows this to be something that is dealt with and then Felix either leaves or fades into the background once his story is over because his story allowed to have an ending whenever they want it to. That's not true for Adrien. Adrien's ending is happily every after with Marinette and the sentiplot needlessly complicates that plan because it means that Adrien's character is always going to be center stage, making people want the sentiplot to mean something since it's apparently impossible for him to ever be a real boy who has true free will. That's such a massive thing that it begs for Adrien to be the main character, which is an asinine writing choice. I have no idea why they keep giving Adrien all this massive narrative weight. You don't do that if you want the female romantic lead to be the main focus! You do it if you want them to be true costars or if you want the male lead to get the majority of the focus. This is writing 101!

As you said at the top, I'm not sure how well this works for a show aimed at five-year-olds because it's still a pretty heavy stuff, but as a general idea, I'd be down to watch it! I didn't have a ton to add to this one because your pitch was already excellent!

#senti salt #nixthelapin #ml writing salt #ml writing critical #felix deserves better

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itsrlymine · 1 month ago

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I really don’t understand why people are so deadest on convincing themselves and others manifesting and the LOA is a scam?

They spend time and effort going around boating about logic and science and prove. As if we’re already at our limit of sciences and there’s nothing new to discover. As if we don’t reach a new word-shattering, breaking advance after every few years. We used to think we couldn’t fly and now we’re traveling to outer space. Leprosy used to be a death sentence. Everything you think is “logic” is just your limiting beliefs, for what we know is so limited in every aspects. Why are people so desperate to understand something using only their own, current knowledge? It’s like using elementary math to understand negative numbers. You know whose discoveries used to be claim as “crazy” and “illogical”? Louis Paster. Albert Einstein. Gregor Mendel. If only those LOA haters are not so immersed in their own misery and instead do a quick google search.

More pathetic than that, when LOA shows people the traditional, step by step way of achieving something, they still try to deny the truth. Yesterday I saw a girl posting her success story in appearance changes and those haters flooding the comment claiming it’s not “manifesting” since she clearly “got plastic surgery!” That puzzles me to no end. Even if she did get work done, wouldn’t she manifest that too? The money for the procedure, the doctors, the successful operation,… People whine and beg for “logic” and when LOA shows them the “logical”, which is actually just their logical, way, they dismiss it entirely.

So you go girl. I’m so grateful the community has people like you to encourage and uplift people. Much love🌷💕💯

You've literally taken the words out of my mouth. It is truly amazing to me how much people would waste their time and energy believing everything outside of them and cry when you tell them to believe in themselves likeeeee? Even us being able to communicate on a platform like this at one point in time would be the most absurd idea every yet here we are! Literally normal asf bc everything is!!!!!

People want to find every excuse i=under the sun to not believe in themselves and I honestly don't even care anymore. You either get it or you "don't" and that's not my problem at alllllll.

I'm thankful I have people like you that enjoy my content. Sometimes I get discouraged and I have to snap right back and remember who tf I am. That I Am to be exact!!!!!

#anon ask #ask #itsrlymine #law of assumption #imagination is reality

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vladajwrites · 2 years ago

Text

Razor’s Edge

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four

Summary; Reader moves to Woodsboro for her senior year of high school. This story take place in the setting of the Scream 4 movie. This story is dedicated to all of the girls living through the current Rory Culkin revival. I love and see you. <3

Also available to be read on AO3 here

It's imperative for me to mention MAJOR trigger warnings for this story; blood, violence, sexual content, alcohol usage, and mentions of abusive situations and suicide. I will add and edit tw's as needed.

WC; 5851

Notes; thank you to everyone who has shown their support so far and taken the time to read my work, you are the ones who truly keep me motivated to write. much much love <33

(Not Beta Read)

You woke the next morning in the same t-shirt you had worn the day before, clinging to your skin from cold sweat. Your pants had been kicked off at some unknown point during the restless night of sleep you had. It was hard to recall the exact time you had eventually passed out on top of your bed.

Your phone was ringing somewhere underneath your pillow, causing your entire head to buzz. You groaned, wiping the sleep from your eyes. Irina’s name flashed on the screen as the caller on the other line. You answered the call, pressing the speaker button before dropping your phone on your chest.

“Hi honey, just wanted to let you know my flight made it into Sacramento.” Irina spoke. The passersby’s in the busy airport nearly muffled her voice.

You picked up your phone again, looking at the time. How late had you slept in? The digital clock read 11:03 am.

“Okay, I’m glad you made it safely.” You were certain your aunt could hear the rasp of your morning voice.

Irina hummed on the other line. “Just give me a call if you need anything while I’m away.”

“Will do, love you.” You replied, clearing your throat before responding.

“I love you too.” Irina replied before ending the call.

You stared up at your ceiling for a moment, thinking over the events of last night.

You couldn’t help but feel horrible for Charlie. Were he and his father close? Was his mother around? Did he have any siblings, relatives he was close with? So many questions seemed to fill your thoughts. Though, you knew they were questions that would more than likely go unanswered. It would be an awful choice, you decided, to bring up this suspected trauma unprompted.

Maybe you could try to divulge more information from your aunt. Based upon her reaction, she must have been relatively close to his father at some point in time. Remembering back to the somber expression your aunt wore last night, you decided against that idea as well.

You thought back on the relationship you had with your own father. He was an objectively miserable man. How would you have reacted, though, if you had lost him under the same circumstances? It would have surely still been devastating to some degree.

You’d keep your newfound information to yourself for the time being. It was the only reasonable option you could think of. You were certain Charlie wouldn’t want you to treat him any differently after finding out about what had happened.

The familiar buzz of your phone’s ringer pulled you momentarily from your running thoughts. You grabbed your phone, pushing yourself up into a sitting position on your bed, your legs crossed closely in front of you.

A message from an unsaved number appeared on the screen. You recognized it almost immediately as being Charlie’s from the group chat the night before. Only he hadn’t messaged both you and Robbie. It was only sent to you.

You sucked in a sharp breath as you unlocked your phone. The message read, “Hey, Robbie wanted me to let you know he woke up feeling sick and won’t be able to make it tonight.”

Your face fell into a frown as you read over the message again, your thumbs hovered over the keyboard as you thought up a response.

Another message from Charlie arrived moments later. “He said he’d take over any revisions if you and I would still be willing to finish the presentation tonight.”

The corner of your lips twitched up into a half smile. Now that you and Charlie were on seemingly good terms again, there shouldn’t be any issue with just the two of you working on this together.

Your fingers unknowingly found themselves twisted through your hair as you typed your response. “Works for me. Same time and place?”

Charlie sent his response almost instantly. “Yeah, sounds good.”

You had quite a bit of time to spare until 7pm rolled around. You went through your weekend routine as usual, cleaning up as you went throughout the home. By 6pm you had showered and pulled yourself mostly together. As you stood in front of your bathroom mirror, running your fingers through your drying hair, a new thought crept into your mind. You couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to run your fingers through Charlie’s mess of hair.

Your skin burned hot as you dropped your hands at your sides. You couldn’t bring yourself to look back up at your own reflection.

You couldn’t shake the thought as you made your way into the kitchen downstairs. You stared blankly into the pantry, your thoughts elsewhere.

Of course, you had always believed there was something charming about Charlie’s character. He was objectively good looking, at least you had thought so. But, thinking back on those few moments you shared alone with him on the porch the night before, there was just something- something about him was strikingly beautiful.

You bit at your lip, squinting your eyes as you pulled your thoughts together. You reminded yourself that the last thing you wanted to do at the moment was become wrapped up in unrequited crushes and feelings similar to the sort. It was just easier on your own. You had come to this conclusion years ago. It was understandably difficult to trust others, impossible to let anybody in.

Just as you were about to shut the pantry door, your eyes caught a glint in the back of the pantry, just behind a bag of sugar. You reached forward, grabbing the bottle in your hands.

You turned over a bottle of red wine, scanning the label quickly.

You hummed to yourself, setting the bottle on the kitchen counter. You stared it down for a moment, tapping your foot against the hardwood flooring.

You had no clue how long it had been stuffed away back there. Surely your aunt wouldn’t miss it too terribly. You glanced up at the clock above the stove which read 6:44pm. A small glass wouldn’t hurt anything, just something to dispel your faltering nerve.

You dug through the kitchen drawers, searching for a bottle opener. Just as you popped the cork, a knock at the front door rang through the home. ‘Shit.’ You steadied yourself, nearly knocking the bottle off the counter.

You thought you would have had at least a few more minutes to yourself. You quickly made your way to the front door, taking a deep breath before turning the handle.

Charlie stood in front of you. One hand buried in his front pocket, the other holding the strap of his backpack over his shoulder. You held the frame of the door, following his line of sight to your bare legs. You felt your face grow hot. You hadn’t realized just how much of your oversized t-shirt covered the small shorts you wore underneath.

You quickly pulled your t-shirt up, holding it against your stomach. “Shorts, promise.” God, why were you acting like this?

Charlie swallowed, looking up to meet your eyes. “Yeah, right.” There was a moment of quiet passed between the two of you. Charlie’s eyes drifted just past you into the entryway.

“Oh, right. Come in.” You pushed the door open further for him. He followed you inside, stepping beside you as you locked the door behind him.

He turned to head towards the living room. Without giving it much thought, you interjected. “We can go up to my room.” You motioned up the stairs, watching as Charlie stopped in his tracks.

“Your room? Your aunt won’t mind?” He asked, raising an eyebrow as he kicked his shoes off.

“Oh no, she wouldn’t mind. She’s out of town this weekend, anyway.” You replied.

Charlie froze for a moment, looking up the stairs past you. He met your eyes again before responding. “Cool, yeah. Your room sounds great.”

You smile down at him, leading him up the staircase.

“Well, this is it,” you shrugged. “Just put your stuff anywhere you’d like.” You finished, motioning around the room.

You picked your bag off the ground and climbed into your bed, moving close to the wall. Charlie placed his stuff on the desk beside your bed before dropping himself into the adjoining chair. You began pulling out your things, watching as he intently did the same. He seemed so incredibly focused on the things in front of him. Neither of you spoke.

As you opened your laptop to access the shared group presentation, Charlie spoke up.

“Okay, I actually went ahead and got everything finished up earlier today.” Your breath got stuck in your chest as you met his eyes. “I figured we could just work on any revisions together.” You could tell from just below your line of sight that he was nervously messing with the corner of a piece of his notebook paper.

“Oh,” you weren’t sure what to say. “Well, thank you. You totally didn’t have to-”

“No, I know. I wanted to.” Charlie interrupted.

You nodded, sucking in your bottom lip. You scanned through the presentation. It really had been finished. It must have taken him hours.

There was an uncomfortable silence, making the air thick and heavy around you. You wished you could think of something else to say. An image of the opened bottle of red wine in the kitchen flashed in your mind.

“Would you like something to drink?” You asked so softly, you couldn’t have been certain you had actually asked it aloud.

Charlie’s eyes snapped up to meet you. Relief almost played itself across his expression. “Yes, please. If it’s not any trouble.” He rubbed his palms flat against the denim against his thighs.

You shot up, crawling out of bed. “Not at all.” You gave him your most reassuring smile.

You rushed downstairs, throwing open the cabinet where you knew Irina kept her best glasses. You grabbed two by the stem and held the bottle in the other hand.

You made your way carefully up the stairs, stopping in the doorway of your bedroom.

Charlie peered behind himself, eyes falling to the bottle in your hand.

“Oh,” he began, “I didn’t realize…”

You suddenly felt incredibly stupid. Did he even drink?

“I’m sorry, I should’ve clarified. I can go and grab some water or something-” You began turning on your heel.

Charlie was quick to rise to his feet. “No, no, this is great.” He carefully took the glasses and bottle from your hands. You inhaled sharply and nodded as his fingers brushed against your own.

You climbed back into bed, watching him fill each glass, respectively. You couldn’t help but notice the way his hand slightly shook as he passed you your glass.

You took a long drink, watching him do the same. It felt so warm in your throat. You sighed, sinking further into the bed. Charlie seemed to relax a bit in his spot as well.

A few minutes passed by in a much more comfortable quietness.

You couldn’t help but become distracted by the man sitting beside you. He just felt so far away. You wished he’d have sat on the bed next to you instead. Every once in a while, you’d feel him glance over at you as you reread the same passage over and over again, still for some reason, unable to comprehend what it said.

You peered up from your notes, watching Charlie slide a scribbled over sticky note that sat stuck to the base of your lamp.

You recognized it immediately, feeling yourself shift awkwardly. It was one of the lists you kept from film club, filled almost entirely with movies that Charlie had mentioned in passing.

“Are these…?” Charlie asked, eyes widening as he made his way down the list.

You rolled over onto your stomach, reaching over to pull the list from Charlie’s hands.

“Mhm,” you nodded. “I’ve almost gotten myself caught up.” You tried your best to conceal the shyness you felt at being found out.

Your heart picked up quickly as he looked you over. There was something about his expression that felt so heavy, it was an unfamiliar sight.

“What’s next on your list?” He asked, picking up the glass you had set down and refilling it alongside his own.

You read over the scratched out mess of your handwriting. “Dawn of the Dead, but the 1978 version. Not the remake, of course.”

A smirk spread across Charlie’s lip, as if he’d taught you well. He held up your glass to take from him. You took it from him slowly, feigning to be worried about spilling a single drop. By this point, your head was already beginning to feel fuzzy. It was a comfortable warmth.

You slipped the note into your backpack, trying to focus once again on the presentation in front of you. It was useless.

Before giving it much thought, you spoke up, “You know, I’ve already rented it.”

Robbie could manage the revisions on his own, right?

“Oh yeah?” Charlie asked, turning in his chair to face you.

“Yeah,” you began, trying to convince yourself that this next question would actually be a good idea. “Would you want to watch it with me?”

“Tonight?” Charlie’s hands were back against the top of his thighs. His eyes flashed between you and the T.V. that was mounted above your dresser on the opposite side of your bedroom.

“If that would be okay with you, I’m honestly not getting much work done over here.” You replied, getting up from the bed.

Charlie cleared his throat before answering. “Yeah, yeah, that sounds cool.”

You smiled over your shoulder at him as you made your way over the DVD player that sat on top of your dresser.

You messed with the CD case, popping it open and inserting the disk. You picked up the remote, waiting until the title screen flashed on the T.V. above you. You noticed the top drawer of the dresser was pulled halfway open; you slid it closed, scolding yourself. It contained the clothing you’d dread any guest seeing. You swore you were always so careful about keeping these things in order.

You flipped your bedroom lights off, dimming the lamp that sat on the desk beside Charlie before finding your place back in bed.

You pressed play, finishing the last of the wine in your glass, before setting the remote and glass on the desk beside you.

A few moments passed by uninterrupted. You looked over at Charlie. He was sitting so unbelievably stiff in the chair, it just seemed so uncomfortable.

“Charlie,” you called out to him. He snapped his eyes to meet your own. “You don’t have to watch the entire movie from my desk.” You half laughed.

He stood quickly, nearly knocking things about your desk. You tried your best to hide your smile as he laid down on top of the mattress; the bed dipped under his weight.

You both kept a fair amount of distance between each other. The movie was well underway. However, you found yourself becoming increasingly more interested in the uneven way Charlie’s chest rose and fell with each breath than what was happening on the screen.

You wished you could just reach over and touch him, move the hair out of his eyes, trace your finger over the arch of his nose.

You could barely take notice of the way your vision had fixated on him as your head grew blurred and warm.

You wished he’d turn and face you, say something. He seemed to be frozen in place, legs and arms held in a way that’d rival a statue. His face was fixated on the T.V., as if he were too nervous to move even an inch. It was so warm. The room felt so warm.

You could barely catch the small glimpses he’d spare towards you from his peripherals. You wish he’d just reach over- your eyes trailed down to his hands resting on his stomach, watching the veins in them roll as his finger flexed and twitched.

You reached up, placing a hand against your face. Your skin was cold to the touch. Why did everything feel so warm?

Your clothing suddenly felt increasingly more suffocating. You were growing desperate for some form of relief. You pulled at the collar of your shirt. Your shorts felt so tight, nearly restricting. You couldn’t explain why you felt so hot. The t-shirt you had on could almost be a dress, anyway, right?

You climbed over Charlie, one hand on either side of his chest. You steadied yourself on the ground, your head thoroughly swimming. You tried your very best to focus forward on the movie. You unbuttoned the waist of your shorts, carefully stepping out of them.

You heard a heavy sigh from behind you; the sound made the hair on your skin raise.

“I’m sorry, moving out of the way. Promise.” You laughed, turning back to face Charlie.

You slid into the bed, finding your spot in the small space between Charlie and the edge of the mattress. Opting not to try to climb over him again in your current state.

Charlie froze in place beside you as you shifted on to your side, trying to find the most comfortable spot between him and the screen. He was warm, so warm. You had just felt as though you were burning up moments ago, but the thought of him moving any further away made your body ache. His warmth was soothing.

You could feel Charlie’s uncertainty as he began to shift away from you in the bed, providing you with more space presumably.

You couldn’t explain why you did what you did next. You reacted without giving it much thought at all. You reached behind you, pulling Charlie’s furthest hand towards you until it rested on top of your hair.

The new position forced him to shift in bed beside you until he was lying on his side as well. His hand flexed under your touch. You wished you could pull him closer.

His fingers stretched throughout your hair and you sighed, feeling your back sink closer to his chest. You could nearly feel his heart pounding against you. Your hand fell to rest on your side.

His other hand shifted, moving into a more comfortable position below your neck. “Is this okay?” He whispered right behind your ear. The feeling of his cool breath sent chills up your spine. You nodded, the words lost from you.

You reached up, tracing the veins wove through his forearm. His fist closed and flexed at your touch. The film, just as the presentation, was now lost on you.

It was just him beside you. The way he smelt, his fingers carefully sliding through your hair and across your cheek, the unsteady beat of his heart against your back. You found yourself sinking further and further into his arms. A heavy sigh slipped from your lips as he pulled through the mess of your hair.

At the sound of your voice, Charlie shifted his weight, wrapping his arm under your neck further to pull you around to face him.

You both seemed surprised at his sudden movement. You were now face to face, just inches apart. The movie murmured faintly off somewhere in the distance.

Even in the dark, his blue eyes were so incredibly clear. You reached up, brushing the hair that had fallen in front of his face away. His eyes flitted between your own eyes and lips. You had never noticed before just how full his own lips were. His lips were tinted a deep red from the cherry wine you had shared. You couldn’t help but imagine how sweet he’d taste.

If you’d just move a bit closer-

Both of his large hands wrapped throughout your hair again in near desperation.

You returned the gesture, pushing your thigh through the middle of his own. Lips crashed against one another.

It was unlike anything you had experienced before. This brash kiss fell into a soft rhythm, gentle exploration as you rocked into one another.

It didn’t take long until the slow movements devolved into a harsh quick pace as you both grew more comfortable in each other’s arms. There was an air of near violence as your tongues wrapped around each other.

You needed more of him, needed to be impossibly closer in any way you could. Sensing this, Charlie wrapped his arms around you, pulling you on top to straddle his waist.

You sat back, smiling down at him as he unintentionally bucked his hips up closer to you. It was wonderful seeing the state he was in. You knew you were in just about the same shape.

You were quick to meet his lips again. He held you steadily against himself, continuing to rock himself against you.

Your hands hazily fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. You needed to feel more of his skin against you. The barrier of clothing that separated you from him made you miserable.

Once the last button was popped, he sat up in bed. Pulling you up with him, his arm clung around your waist. He shrugged the shirt off of himself, throwing it on the ground. You were quick to bring your lips to his again, running your hands up his now bare stomach. He was impossibly toned, felt hard to the touch.

“Fuck.” He groaned against your lips as your hips rolled against him. You could feel him getting hard below you. A blush crept up your skin. The sound of his voice like this built up an indiscernible feeling inside of you. You wanted to hear him make that sound again.

His hands were quick to find themselves under your t-shirt, his thumb brushed against the outer lace of your bra. He reached behind you, fumbling with the clasp. You leaned your head against his, smiling softly as he gazed at you in wonder.

You reached behind yourself, helping him with his work uncertain work. You slid the bra off yourself, throwing it next to Charlie’s discarded shirt. You grabbed the hem of your t-shirt and pulled it swiftly over your head.

You could hear Charlie’s breath audibly stuck in his throat as his eyes darted wildly across your body. The full weight of this situation nearly hit you at once. You brought your arms shyly across your chest. You had never been in front of a man this way.

You could barely meet his eyes. He was quick to pull you back in to kiss him. “God, you’re so fucking perfect.” He whispered against you as he kissed your forehead. Your arms melted down to your side as his hands traced the curve of your waist.

You could feel his hands shake as he cupped your breasts, his fingers softly grazed against your nipples. You sighed, pulling him closer to you. That frenzied feeling returned in full force.

You needed impossibly more of him. He was quick to act, laying you back down on the bed. He hovered over you, eyes burning into your nearly naked body in front of him.

His right hand reached down, fumbling with his buckle. You watched intently as his hand slipped underneath the waistband of his boxers to adjust himself. Your eyes fluttered back as you traced your fingers mindlessly over the defined v-line that led further down his hips. He shook at your touch.

His lips found themselves trailing kisses down your neck and chest. He was so gentle with you. Painfully gentle. Your hands wove through his hair, arching up into him as his pace quickened. He slid further down the bed, wrapping his arms around both of your legs, holding them open to kiss down your thighs.

You were practically already coming undone below him. He’d come so close to the spot you wanted him to be. Every time he’d pull back away, you’d whine in frustration. He’d hum back against you in response.

You couldn’t handle the pressure building up inside you anymore. Your right hand traced slowly underneath the lace of your panties. You stopped just before slipping through your folds, looking up to meet Charlie’s eyes. His expression seemed nearly pained, completely desperate.

“I don’t know- I’ve never…” Charlie could barely get the words out from between his lips. Even in the dim lighting, you could tell he was flustered, embarrassed at his own lack of experience. It was reassuring to you though, you had practically no experience with all of this either. It was sweet, how shy he seemed at that moment.

“It’s okay. I’ll show you.” You gave him a reassuring smile before carefully intertwining your fingers with his own. He followed suit, hooking his free hand around your panties before sliding them off you. Your desperation for him drowned out any insecurity you could have possibly felt with him above you in that state you were in.

You brought his fingers against you, sighing into him as he carefully let you guide him in slow circles against your clit. The knot deep inside you only grew as he became increasingly comfortable. Your hands dropped to his shoulders as he became familiar with the pace and direction you wanted.

His free arm wrapped around your back, gripping your sides with bruising force as you started to writhe below him. His head dipped beside your ear, “Please, please let me taste you.” He practically begged.

You could only nod, sucking in a sharp breath as his fingers moved faster, losing their rhythm.

He was quick to shift his weight as he sat up for a moment, pulling off his constricting jeans and socks, leaving him nearly entirely exposed. You groaned at the sight of him in front of you. He was so damningly beautiful. Your vision flitted down to the large impression in his boxers, your eyes widened at the size of him.

Before you could process this discovery, he was kneeling on the bed in front of you again. One arm snaked around your thigh as you propped yourself on your elbows to watch him make his way through his.

He kissed just above your clit, eyes looking up at you for approval.

“Please Charlie,” you urged him on.

His lips were against your most sensitive spot immediately. You cried out, screwing your eyes shut. Nothing had ever been so perfect as this. He kissed against you a few more times before deciding to explore you with his tongue, “Fuck, it’s so good.” He groaned against you, speaking more to himself than you.

The vibration of his deepening voice sent shockwaves throughout your body. Your eyes and legs involuntarily worked to screw shut. Charlie acted quick, pushing your thighs back apart with a painful grip. You were sure you’d have his finger prints bruised into your skin the next morning. ‘Good’ you thought to yourself.

You could tell he was trying his best to emulate the motion you had shown him with your fingers with his tongue. It was maddening, completely perfect.

“Fuck baby, you’re doing so well.” The words spilled mindlessly out of you. He groaned as you rolled your hips against him. Your eyes trailed down his chest. His right hand found its way inside his boxers. He was palming at himself as if he were in pain. You wanted to be the one to relieve him.

The sight of him pleasing himself as he worked you over was enough to nearly send you crashing blindly over the edge. You could barely get the next words out of you, “Don’t, don’t touch yourself.” You were trying to keep it all together as he whined against you, following your demands.

“Fuck Charlie, I’m going to…” you said between broken moans.

He pulled away for a moment, his entire expression darkened. It could’ve easily been terrifying in any other context, you noted to yourself. The fingers that had just been wrapped around your thigh found themselves quickly against your entrance. Your eyes widened as you connected with his gaze, realizing his intentions. You’d do anything to have him inside of you.

He kissed your lips. You sucked the taste of yourself off of him, dragging his bottom lip between your teeth. His middle and ring dove forward inside of you. His other hand came up quickly to muffle your screams.

“Shit, you’re so tight.” His chest shuddered at his own words. A tear rolled down your face as he talked you through it. “So wet for me.”

His free hand pressed down against your lower stomach. The additional pressure was the last push you needed. Your whole nervous system seemed to snap as his fingers fucked you through your high. You could barely hear his praise as your ears rang out with incredulous force. You were sobbing out his name, vision white and spotted at the blinding pleasure.

He pulled out of you carefully, slowly letting you come back to yourself for a moment before diving his tongue back against you.

You writhed up against the footboard. It was too much, too overstimulating. Your hands pulled at his hair to push him away. He grabbed both your wrists with one hand, holding you in place below him. You were babbling, stuck between ‘It’s too much’ and ‘please don’t stop.’

Within a matter of moments, you were coming undone again against his face. Your mind was shattered, your body a wreck under his touch.

He fell back against the headboard, catching his breath as he watched you ride out your high.

As soon as you could partially catch your breath again, you sat up, watching him shift uncomfortably from his pressing erection.

It was his turn to be taken care of. You crawled your way up to rest between his thighs. His eyes darted across your face, as if he were trying to read your thoughts.

You couldn’t hide your smile as you leaned into him. You kissed him slowly, licking across his lips. Your lips slowly made their way down his chest as your fingers grazed across the fabric against his cock. He whimpered above you at the pressure. The sound made your stomach clench. You’d give anything to hear it again.

He slid further down the bed as your lips trailed kisses and shallow bites marks further down his stomach.

Once you could tell he was in a more comfortable position, you hooked your fingers into the waistline of boxers. He lifted his hips, helping you pull them down his thighs before discarding them on the ground below.

You sat back on your heels, mouth agape at the sight in front of you. You could do little to hide your shock at the uncovered size of him.

You glanced up at him, willing yourself to put on a face that feigned at least a hint of experience. He smirked down at you, as if he could tell exactly what thoughts were passing through your mind.

“You don’t have to…” he muttered, eyes still full of adoration for you.

Before giving him the opportunity to finish his sentence, you wrapped your fingers against the base of his cock. You could feel him pulse under your touch. His next words were stuck and gone in his chest.

You held his gaze as your hand carefully twisted its way up to the tip of his cock. You gathered his precum on your fingers and circled it around the length of him. His mouth fell open as his stomach flexed under you.

“Does that feel good?” You asked softly.

He bit his lip, nodding his head yes. You were quick to pick up your pace at his approval.

His hands were desperate, switching between grabbing at the bedsheets and headboard and any of your skin he could get ahold of. Stunning whimpers and pleas spilled out of him as you found the motion and speed he needed.

You pulled away for a moment, moving yourself further down the bed. You held him still in one hand again as you kissed a trail down from his navel. Your eyes met with his as your lips hovered above the tip of his cock. You gathered spit on the tip of your tongue and let it fall slowly onto him. He cursed a string of expletives, his eyes rolling back into his head as you took him into your mouth.

You thought carefully over each motion, keeping your teeth back, hollowing out your cheeks. The sensation was entirely new, but the way he began to convulse below you let you know you were doing something right. You wanted nothing more than to make him feel the same way he had made you.

His hands wrapped almost painfully through your hair as he bucked further and further down your throat. You tried your best to relax, allowing him to take the space he wanted.

Your throat burned, tears and spit covered your face and chest. You wouldn’t have possibly wanted it any other way.

You were both becoming increasingly sloppy and starved in your movements. His right hand grabbed at your throat, pulling your face up to meet his eyes. You stilled, letting him fuck your throat as he pleased. It didn’t take long before his movements stilled and stuttered.

You felt him pulse in your mouth; you were flooded with his release, warmth coated your throat and tongue. The taste and sight above you made your entire body shudder. It was heavenly. You felt truly blessed to be the cause of it all. You could vaguely make out your name being spilled from between his lips.

His chest heaved as you carefully pulled away from him, his cock falling against his stomach.

You caught his eyes again, making a show to swallow what he had given to you. He pulled you into himself, kissing all over your face until you were laughing in his arms.

You dropped into the bed beside him, watching him shift his weight and stand. He scanned the room before spotting the bath towel that hung beside your bedroom door. He made quick work of cleaning the two of you up, tracing kisses across you as he did so.

Your nerves were all shot. Your entire being was exhausted and heavy.

He dropped the towel next to the discarded pile of clothing that had accumulated on your bedroom floor. Charlie slid back in bed beside you, lifting the disheveled duvet over you both. He pulled you up onto his chest. You sighed as he swept the hair out of your face.

You were in a complete haze, halfway into a deep sleep.

“Thank you,” Charlie whispered above you.

You hummed, reaching up to kiss under his jaw. “Thank you.” You replied, pulling a sore a leg over his thighs, resting your head back down against him.

The movie’s title screen music played on repeat in the background; you couldn’t be the least bit bothered to turn it off.

#charlie walker #charlie walker fanfic #charlie walker fanfiction #charlie walker x reader #charlie walker x y/n #scream 4 fanfic #charlie walker smut #ghost face fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #scream fanfic #scream fanfiction #rory culkin fanfic #rory culkin fanfiction

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siconetribal · 7 months ago

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Beyond the Bookshelves (3)

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Warnings: Obnoxious coworkers, what is the proper ettiquette when emailing princes, teasing Captain

Summary: You're a Resource Management Specialist at S.H.I.E.L.D. normally referred to as “The Librarian”. You've been assigned the nightmarish task of digitizing all the physical resources currently owned by the agency, with a few new computers and one extra helper.

A/N: Please comment/like/reblog. If you'd like to be tagged moving forward, please let me know!

The lovely banners used in this fic are from @cafekitsune.

If you’re new to the story, please check out the master post for the rest of the chapters.

The meeting was as boring as the fallen prince expected it to be, but he hardly showed his disdain for his time being wasted. Cabinet meetings and audiences with nobility and dignitaries were expected and mandatory for royals. In his opinion, a majority of them were hardly worth the time and could be easily sorted out with logic, but politics hardly worked that way. It was fickle, changing at the whim of whomever is more powerful. And though at times it was fun to see how the spoiled nobles would squabble over the most ridiculous things, the majority of it was always dull.

To think I once found such a thing mesmerizing as a young boy, wanting to follow my father everywhere and prove myself useful to him. A moment to shine, to step out of the immense shadow casted by my brother. The corners of his lips tugged downwards at the miasma of memories that began to stir. He knew the ledge was a precarious one and a single thought could have him plummeting to the depths and ensnare him.

“Do you have any questions?” The agent looked at the members of the group one by one, hesitating and nearly jumping over Loki to avoid eye contact.

“Agent Pruyn, was it?” He watched the man who was addressing them flinch at the call of his name. “Would it not be wiser for me to be the one who distracts them? I am able to change my image to look like anyone. I would merely need some footage of the person I am to imitate to better play the role. You will also be able to monitor my movements since I will be in the banquet hall as opposed to behind the scenes searching through the office.” Minimal footage of me in questionable places is best. Who knows what someone might do as an act of vengeance.

“No, this is the best plan of action. Hawkeye is better suited for that portion of the mission and needs support while Black Widow distracts the target.” Agent Pruyn cleared his throat. The lack of negative reaction from the others seemed to embolden him a little bit. “Also, are you implying that she can't handle it? Black Widow is the best undercover agent we have. She's successfully infiltrated hundreds of places while you've only failed at discretion.” He scoffed.

There it was. The bias and condescending tone, the twisting of his words, and the lack of support. Such insolence made his blood boil to the point of physically punishing the fool, but he kept his reactions in check with a blank expression. Silently, he changed the way they perceived him to look identical to the infamous fiery haired operative who was sitting with them. Everyone in the room stared at him in wide eyed shock, looking at him and her to see if there was a difference.

“Well isn't that a neat little trick.” Natasha was the first to break the silence. “Certainly beats needing to put on that holographic skin.” She leaned in closer, trying to find some flaw.

“Stare all you like, you won’t be able to tell the difference unless I let you.” He said in her voice.

“If he’s so good at keeping up an appearance, why not just swap them? Nat and I are equally able to get in and out without issues if there’s a good enough diversion.” Clint shrugged, though he was impressed at how perfectly Loki copied her.

“I don’t have an issue with that change, I’m the one who can break into the computer system they have. It’s better if I’m with Clint.” Natasha agreed, Loki shifting back to himself.

“So, we’re in agreement. I will be the one to keep the group busy and the both of you will gather the necessary information. As I stated, I’ll require footage and data on the individual I’ll be impersonating.” He turned his attention back to Agent Pruyn who seemed rather cross with the change to his plan but said nothing since the other two Avengers were agreeing with Loki.

“We’ll need to adjust the timeline of the operation then. Everything was set up for this plan, we’ll need to adjust and see if there’s another gathering we can infiltrate.”

“You say this person of interest has possible ties to this Hydra organization, correct? Why don’t we get ourselves invited to his home or wherever you think he is housing the necessary information? Why must we wait for some large gathering outside somewhere else?” Loki questioned.

“We can’t just waltz into his home unannounced.” Agent Pruyn scoffed. “Do you think he just calls people over for tea time? This isn’t one of your royal games, Loki.” The condescending tone was back once more with a sense of triumph. This was hardly enough to anger the prince, but he was not so lenient to let it slide for a second time.

“Who said anything about tea?” He looked at the agent with raised eyebrows. “I wasn’t aware you had the time for such frivolous plans. I must disappoint you, my plans do not allot time for such.” Agent Pruyn grit his teeth and glared at the insouciant attitude the Asgardian was speaking with to him. A few of the other members of the meeting snickered at the calm retort, looking away to avoid the ire of the presenter. “This target has questionable connections and has a proclivity to feign a charitable appearance through auctions. We need to approach him as someone equally shady who wishes to either wash their hands of some item or trade an item to someone else and obtain the money under the guise of donating to said charity. We simply need to choose someone from his connections or create someone completely new.”

“That,” Natasha was the first to speak, coincidentally cutting Pruyn off, “is an excellent idea. If we came as someone new, trying to make a name for themself, they’ll be more likely to accept us if we come with an item of great value. Loki can play the part of the client and I can easily play the part of his assistant as needed to keep up the facade. Once we’re invited in, I can get Clint inside and we can get the information we need while the auction is going on.”

“Until the auction takes place, we can build a relationship with him and others. We can record all the conversations and pick up on any codes they use to discuss the secret dealings!” A female agent chimed in soon after, realizing an extra benefit to this plan.

“This makes it a much longer plan than anticipated though, we’ll have to resubmit the plan to our lead agent and to Director Fury.” A male agent pointed out.

“Sounds like it’s a necessary delay if it’s going to be more fruitful than the original operation. I guess Thor wasn’t exaggerating when he boasted about how strategic you are.” Clint slightly nodded his head in approval. “Redraft the plan and submit it, we’ll see what Fury says before moving forward.”

“We’ll schedule our next meeting after that.” Natasha nodded, standing from her seat. The others followed her actions and the meeting came to an end with a very irate Pruyn glaring at the back of Loki’s head. A small smirk of satisfaction tugged at the Asgardians lips as he walked down the halls, feeling lighter at proving himself as worthy to be on the team.

Y/N stared at the screen of her computer, willing it to fill the empty body of the email that was addressed to the two Avengers she was allowed to work with. Glancing at the time, she groaned audibly and turned her chair around so her back was to the screen.

Three hours, I’ve been staring at this blasted computer screen for three hours! Why do I need to message them!? Wasn’t Agent Hill supposed to coordinate this? Why is everything suddenly dumped on me from start to finish? This is ridiculous! Next they’ll want me to manage their schedules and make sure they have time to complete their missions and assist in my never ending task! I am not some over glorified secretary, I am the head of the Resource Management department, the director of it! I attend all the ridiculous morning meetings, check-ins, and any other waste of time meeting that could have easily been an email instead while managing all centers that contain our resources, digital and physical! She pushed herself out of the chair and paced in the space she had behind the desk. “When am I supposed to even meet with them when both are due to be deployed this week!” She threw her hands in the air as she shouted into the empty office. Defeated, she slumped back into her seat and turned to face the computer once more.

She did not want to wait until their return, she needed it done now so that while they were gone she could have the computers and scanners set up and be ready to start as soon as they returned. Straightening up her posture, she pulled the keyboard forward and quickly began to type a brief email stating she was approached by Agent Hill and wanted to set up a short meeting in person to introduce herself and better understand how to properly utilize their assistance and time. She also added that the both of them are available tomorrow after lunch for a brief period of time. Rereading her email over and over again, she made sure there was no error before finally hitting the send. Now she had to wait for a response. Thankfully, the chime signaling the door opening was a great distraction, letting her escape the panic while waiting for a response.

“Good afternoon, how may I help you?” She happily greeted the person as she stepped out of her office. “Oh, Captain Rogers, how are you?”

“Good afternoon Y/N, I’m doing well. How are you doing?” He smiled, giving her a slight nod.

“Could do with less work, but that’s not going to change anytime soon.” She tiredly chuckled.

“I don’t know how you handle your work at all. I wouldn’t know the first thing to do with a fourth of what’s here. They’ve got the right gal for the job here.” He patted her on the back. “Which is an expertise I’ll be needing at the moment. I’ll be going out on a mission with Thor and Tony to a fairly remote area with indigenous people. Thor will be a great asset with his AllSpeak, but I’d like to get some insight on the culture.”

“Oh, so no “An American Girl” books this time around? Or the “Hardy Boys”?” She curled her lips inward to keep from laughing as she watched the famous Captain America clear his throat and turn away to hide the hints of a blush that were creeping up onto his cheeks.

“No, not this time. But maybe when I come back you can suggest something for me to read?”

“I would love to, I’ll think up a small list and let you see which you’d like to start with. So, back to your mission, where are you going and do you know the group you’ll be interacting with?” She clapped and rubbed her hands together, eager to be of assistance. “Let’s head to the front desk while you tell me so I can pull up what we have for you.” Nodding his head, he delved into the details of the mission that were necessary, Y/N never asking for more information than necessary as she pulled up anything relevant and jotted it down on a sheet of paper. “Ok, follow me!” She walked back around just as the chime signaled someone else coming in. “Good afternoon, if you need my assistance I will be with you shortly. Please wait at the desk.” She turned to smile at the newcomer only to see the raven haired prince. Oh, good thing I put the book on the table already. “Follow me, Captain Rogers.”

“Y/N, you can just call me Steve. I think we’ve known each other long enough to drop formalities.”

“Captain Rogers, so bold and scandalous!” She gasped. “What would your fangirls think?!”

“Please don’t remind me of those.” He sighed heavily and gave her a stern look. “And I insist you call me Steve, we’re friends.” He flashed her that famous hero smile.

“Alright, alright, Steve it is.” She turned into an aisle and began to skim the codes, pulling out books which were taken from her by the gentleman super soldier beside her. Once everything was pulled, the two went to the nearest table.

“This is great, thank you, Y/N.”

“Anytime Capt-,” she stopped at the pointed look he gave her. “Steve. If you need anything, just give a holler. I’ll come help you.”

“We’re in the library, I don’t think hollering is a good idea.” He chuckled.

“Who’s going to stop us, the librarian? Oh wait, that’s me!” She grinned, earning an eye roll from him before he turned his attention to the books he had as she made her way back to the front desk.

Tags: @vbecker10 @huntress-artemiss@softestqueeen @thegodofnotknowing @princess-ofthe-pages @firedrakegirl@rcailleachcola @cabingrlandrandomcrap @lotrefcp @lwtannie @kats72 @jainaeatsstars @mssjsg7 @tom-hlover @kneelingformyloki

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mrsstruggle · 6 months ago

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The Beast of War - Chapter 1 // Teen Wolf x Marvel AU

This is the second part of the Shadow Wolf Series. Read The Lost Child First if you haven't!

Series Summary: In the aftermath of discovering her true identity and reuniting with her long-lost family, Y/N Stilinski finds herself adjusting to a new chapter of her life in Beacon Hills. With her brother and his friends in their senior year at High School, the town faces a fresh new threat. Y/N must navigate the complexities of her new life while confronting the looming threat that threatens to hurt her and the people she loves.

Warnings: Language, Mentions of Death/Injury/Grief/Torture, Possible Grammar Mistakes (please let me know if there is anything else)

Series Pairings: Derek Hale x Reader, Stiles Stilinski x Malia Tate (for now), Steve Rodgers x Bucky Barnes, Bruce Banner x Natasha Romanoff, Vision x Wanda Maximoff

Words: 4.5k

Note: I am aware this is late! Please don't hate me!

Additional Note: While this is a Teen Wolf x Marvel AU, not everything is true to the shows/movies/comics. I had to change things for the story.

One Last Note: Y/N was adopted by Tony Stark and Pepper Potts. I did this so more people can see themselves in this story.

***I do not own Teen Wolf or Marvel or any related characters. This is a work of fanfiction and is meant for entertainment purposes only.***

Masterlist

The Beast of War Masterlist

The Lost Child Masterlist

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

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“Are you going to keep secretly writing notes about me or ask me that question you’ve been too afraid to ask?” Y/N questions, her eyes never leaving the computer where she is tying in the new patient information. She is currently six hours into her ten-hour shift.

The boy sitting on the exam table freezes. His thumbs stop typing in his notes app as he looks at Y/N in surprise. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, “Mhm, sure. This is the fifth time you’ve been in this week, but you always seem to leave with nothing wrong. You either have hypochondria or you’ve kept coming back until I was your nurse.”

“Maybe the previous nurses and doctors didn’t do a good job and sent me home without properly helping me.” He picks at the bottom of his shirt in a nervous habit.

“The first time you came in was for pink eye, which has been noted that you didn’t have that. The second time was for a rash on your arm that you didn’t have.” Y/N says, looking over his previous visit notes, “The third time was a bump on your knee that turned out to be your kneecap. The fourth time was for a broken wrist that turned out to be broken or even sprained. Now you’re here due to flu-like symptoms, but your vitals are all good and there is currently no indication of you being sick.”

He forces out a fake cough, “Are you sure about that?”

Y/N turns to look at him, “I’m sure. You do know this is an emergency room, right? We have actual patients that need help, and we are short staffed. We don’t need some kid coming in trying to meet the Stark girl to get a good photo for his Instagram or whatever.”

“First of all, I’m not a kid—we’re the same age. Second, this isn’t for my Instagram, this is for my criminology class.” He says, dropping his act. He knew there was no point in tripling down on his lies.

“Well, your parents must have a lot of money or some really good insurance for you to be able to show up here five different times.”

“Something like that.”

Y/N looks him up and down, contemplating what she should do. She should just send him home, but she’s worried he will keep showing up until he gets what he wants. “The school year just started, why do you need to speak with me for your criminology class now?”

“Our first assignment is to do a paper on a famous crime. What’s more famous than the kidnapping of Tony Stark’s daughter?”

“I can think of several.” Y/N lets out a sigh, turning her body to fully face him, “You get five questions. If I don’t want to answer one, then it’s still going to count as one of your questions. After that, you have to leave and also promise not to come back here unless you have an actual emergency.”

He smiles in victory, turning his phone back on, “Do you mind if I record this so I can type out your answers later?”

“Sure.”

He opens the Voice Memos app on his phone, hits the record button, and holds it up between Y/N and himself. “Okay, first question, I am aware that the Avengers are currently relocating to a little outside of Beacon Hills, but have you been back to the other Avengers compound or the place you lived while with them?”

“No, I have not been back.”

He opens his mouth to ask her to elaborate but decides against it in case she counts that as a question. “Second question, what was your initial reaction when you discovered the truth?”

Y/N pauses as she thinks of an answer. For safety reasons, when they announced who she was, they changed the story of how it happened. Instead of telling the public she was re-kidnapped by Hydra, they told them about Bucky discovering the photo of her in Derek’s auto shop. It’s part of the reason some people like to show up there.

To the public’s knowledge, Hydra kidnapped her in hopes of raising her to be their soldier before she was able to escape on her own when they left her unattended outside. She was then found by a friend of Talia Stilinski and adopted by the Stilinski’s. To the public’s knowledge, Pepper didn’t hand her over to Hydra, she was never experimented on, she has no powers, and she didn’t know about the Avengers because she was too young—not because her memories were blocked.

“Mostly confusion. It’s not every day that someone shows up and claims to be your other family. Now I’m just waiting for my biological family to do the same thing.” Y/N jokes.

“Third question, I know thanks to photos online that you spend some time with your brother, Peter, but have you spent any time with your sister, Morgan?”

Y/N debates on whether she wants to answer the question or not. The answer is no, she hasn’t spent any time with her sister, nor has she met her. She has nothing against Morgan, and she doesn’t blame her for Pepper’s actions, but she’s not sure if Morgan feels the same way. According to Peter, she is close with her mother, and her relationship with Tony is strained due to his shortcomings as a father to her.

Y/N is unsure if Morgan blames her for those shortcomings. It’s because of Tony’s obsession with finding her that caused him to neglect to be a good father for Morgan. It’s because of his resentment and anger toward Pepper’s nonchalance at Y/N being gone and her happiness toward the new baby that caused him to leave Pepper in the first place. It’s because of his grief of losing her that caused him to be unable to hold her until she was three years old.

It wasn’t until Morgan became a teenager did Tony start to step up as her father. He still isn’t perfect, and he can never make up for her younger years, but he is a lot better. Y/N adds Tony and Peter moving to Beacon Hills as another reason for Morgan to be justified to hate her.

Y/N knows that if Derek or Peter knew her thoughts about Morgan, they would tell her that she can’t blame herself for Tony’s mistakes. The choices Tony made were his own, not hers. Right now, she’s told Peter and Tony that the decision to meet, form a relationship, or anything is fully up to Morgan. She doesn’t want to cause any upheaval in Morgan’s life by inserting herself into it. If Morgan wants Y/N in her life, then she will be. If she doesn’t want anything to do with her, that’s okay. If she wants to meet her once and then never again, Y/N will do that too.

She does however know—thanks to Peter—that Morgan has decided that she prefers a private life away from the spotlight. While Peter attends all charity and public events in the Stark name, Morgan likes to stay home away from the crowds and paparazzi. She even keeps away from social media, so she doesn’t see anything about herself or her family.

“Um, I’m going to pass on that question. Morgan is a minor and prefers to stay out of the press. I don’t feel comfortable talking about whatever relationship I may or may not have with her. That’s private and it will stay that way.” Y/N answers. “You have two questions left.”

The guy huffs in frustration, “Fine. Fourth question, what are your thoughts on the theories and videos people were making after it was first brought to the public’s attention that you’re Y/N Stark?”

“I think the best word to describe I how felt, and still feel, about the things people were saying is disappointment. I’m disappointed in how people were, and still are, talking about my family. Honestly, I don’t really care what people say about me,” That’s a lie but she isn’t going to correct herself, “but I am disappointed in the way people talked about my family and the people I love.”

He nods his head in understanding, “Okay, last question, do you plan on changing your name back to Stark?”

No, she doesn’t. To be honest, it’s not even a thought that has crossed her mind. Scott asked her about it once when he saw her driver’s license and her only thought was that she hopes Derek proposes before Tony asks so she has an excuse that won’t hurt his feelings.

“Maybe, I guess we’ll see,” Y/N says instead. “Now, you can be on your way, and I’ll make sure to let the front desk know I refuse to see you if you come back with anything less than a life-threatening injury. Hopefully, that will keep you away and make you reconsider faking injuries and illnesses, and taking a room away from someone who actually needs it.”

He hits the stop button before turning off his phone and thanking her for answering his questions. He follows her out of the room and rushes out of the building to start working on his paper.

“What’s that about?” Melissa asks, watching the boy run out of the hospital.

Y/N rolls her eyes and sighs, “Just another person who wanted to interview me. I humored him for a few questions before I told him to not come back unless he’s dying.” She hands Melissa the boy’s file that’s in her hand. “Can you put a note in his file to let the others know I won’t see him if he comes back unless necessary?”

“That’s like the fourth one this month,” Melissa laughs in disbelief.

“What can I say, I’m famous,” Y/N winks at her. She and Melissa both know how much she hates the amount of attention she’s gotten since Kate exposed her. At one point in her life, she dreamed of being a star that everyone loved and was extremely famous. Now she wishes she could go back to being a nobody.

“When do you get off today?”

“I have about four hours left and then I’m out of here. I’ve got to go home a prepare myself for family dinner.” Y/N says, grabbing a new patient’s clipboard.

“I heard Stiles telling Scott about that. Is this the first dinner with all of you together?”

“Yep, and I’m already regretting it.”

Melissa lets out a laugh, “I’m sure it will be fine, and if it isn’t, you can tell me all about it tomorrow.”

“I actually have the next two days off, so it will be a few days until I can give you a play-by-play.” With her working so many shifts to make up for her unintended long absence, she decided she needed two days to take a break. She’s exhausted and just wants to sleep in for a day.

“I can’t wait.”

---

“Hey! Where’s Stiles?” Y/N asks as she greets her dad. He’s the first one to arrive for dinner and she expected Stiles to be with him.

“He said that he could drive himself here, so I drove here straight after work.” The sheriff replies, pulling Y/N into a big hug.

“Okay, well, the others should be here soon if you want to go ahead and sit at the table, or I can turn the TV on, and you can sit in the living room and wait.”

“Where’s Derek?” He questions.

“In here!” Derek calls out from the kitchen.

The sheriff follows Y/N into the kitchen to see Derek checking on the rolls in the oven. “How are you, Derek?”

“I’m good, sir. How are you?” Derek asks, shaking Noah’s hand in greeting.

“Well, I’m still here so I guess I’m good.”

“Dad, why don’t you sit down, and I’ll help Derek finish up,” Y/N says, gesturing her hand toward their dining table. She moves to help Derek when there’s a knock on the front door. “Never mind.”

Walking toward the front door, she can hear two heartbeats on the other side. Opening the door, Tony and Peter are now standing in front of her, “Hey. Thanks for coming.” She hugs them both as they enter the loft.

They had a few conversations after taking down Kate and the hunters, but they are still a little awkward around each other. Y/N and Peter not so much, but she isn’t sure how to navigate a relationship with Tony. She doesn’t want to come off as she doesn’t care about him, but she also needs time to get used to having another dad.

With Peter it’s different. They’re close in age and they have the shared trauma from Hydra. She also feels like she talking to Stiles most of the time.

Y/N shuts the door behind them, she leads them into the kitchen. She pulls out her phone to text Stiles as they greet Derek and Noah. Tony and Peter sit down at the table, and she helps Derek bring the food over.

She looks down at her phone when it vibrates in her hand, “Stiles says he’s a bit caught up and that we should start without him. He’ll be a bit late.”

“What’s he caught up with?” Derek asks, sitting at the head of the table next to Noah and Y/N.

“He didn’t say.” She hopes it’s just something to do with school and not supernatural-related.

“So, Derek, when are you going to start working on your old house?” Peter asks Derek. Y/N has told him a bit about Derek’s plans, but she hasn’t told him everything.

“Um, soon. I’m waiting until after I hire someone to help out at the shop.” Derek replies. A few people have applied to the open position, but two of them ended up being Avengers fans who faked their resumes.

“You know who would probably be interested in the position, Barnes,” Tony says. “He would know what to do and he’s been looking for a job.”

Bucky hasn’t applied to any yet, but he has a few saved. He’d been thinking about taking a step back from the Avengers for a bit. After seeing the files and the videos of what happened to Y/N, they seemed to trigger some bad memories that he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about. He’s also had several nightmares about what they could’ve possibly done to Y/N if she wasn’t rescued when she was.

Derek shares a small look with Y/N as if to ask for help with what he should say, “Yeah, I could send him the listing to see if he’s interested, or it’s on our website too. At least, that’s what Lydia told me.”

Y/N shrugs her shoulders a little when Derek looks back at her. She’s not going to tell Derek whether he should hire him or not, or even give Bucky a chance. It’s Derek’s business so that decision is completely up to him.

Tony opens his mouth to say something else, but Y/N decides to interrupt him. She’s sure Tony is about to say something that he thinks will be helpful for Derek, and she knows Derek probably doesn’t care to hear it. Derek likes doing things his way and he doesn’t always love people injecting their opinions. “So, Dad, is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

Y/N ignores the longing look in Tony’s eyes as she speaks to the other man who raised her.

“Uh, not to my knowledge, no.” Sheriff Stilinski doesn’t know what she’s talking about. The tone in her voice says he should, but he can’t think of anything.

“Really?” Y/N looks down at his left ring finger where his wedding ring used to be.

“Right, I may or may not have a date tomorrow night.”

“Good for you,” Derek says proudly, patting him on the back. They haven’t always seen eye-to-eye, but he and the sheriff have grown closer after he started dating Y/N. It was rough at first, but they started to get along after the sheriff saw how well Derek took care of Y/N after she was attacked one night by a hunter. They bonded that night as Y/N rested. It’s why Derek knows that the sheriff going on a date is a big deal for him.

“Who’s it with?” Y/N asks with a teasing smile.

“It’s with someone you know,” Noah says, keeping it vague.

“Well, it’s not with Melissa because she would’ve told me. But you also didn’t tell me until now. Oh my god, you’re date’s with Melissa.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Deaton?”

“It’s with a woman.”

“Well, who else do I know that’s at an appropriate age for you to date?” Y/N mutters mostly to herself.

Tony and Peter silently eat their food and watch the conversation with amused smiles on their faces. They like seeing Y/N with a smile on her face. It’s a lot better than what she looked like when dealing with Hydra, the hunters, and Derek getting shot with an arrow.

“It’s Lydia’s mom,” Derek states.

Noah looks at him a little shocked. He didn’t expect Derek to guess correctly or even chime in. “How’d you know?”

“I didn’t, but I do now.” Derek sends a triumph wink toward Y/N. She’s a little surprised he’s showing this side of himself with Tony and Peter here. With strangers, and sometimes the pack, he prefers to only let them see him as the tall, broody guy who doesn’t have many feelings.

“Just don’t tell Stiles. I haven’t told him I’m going on a date yet either.” He looks pointedly toward Y/N.

“Fine. My lips are sealed.” Y/N pretends to zip her lips for added effect. “What about you Peter? How’s MJ?”

The last time Peter had talked to her about MJ he wasn’t sure about the direction of their relationship. He loves her, but she’s still in college going for her master’s and he’s moving to Beacon Hills to be closer to his sister. They hadn’t decided if they wanted to try long-distance, have Peter go back and forth, or if they should call it quits for now.

Y/N told him that she shouldn’t be the reason his relationship with MJ should change. He just replies that he thought she was dead for several years and has missed out on being in her life, so he doesn’t plan on missing anymore.

“She’s good. We still haven’t decided what we’re going to do yet.” Peter replies, keeping his eyes down on the food on his plate to avoid looking at her.

“How has it been at the hospital? Are people still showing up and harassing you?” Tony asks, turning the attention away from Peter because he can feel he doesn’t want to talk about MJ.

“Yeah, we had a guy come in today asking me questions. It’s the fifth time he’s been in this week.” Y/N rolls her eyes in annoyance.

Tony frowns at her answer. He offered her a job to work with the Avengers in their medical wing to avoid the crazy press and fans and to spend more time with her, but she declined. She likes her job, and she likes that she can help her brother and friends by having her job.

“He’s been in five times?” Derek questions, his tone on the protective side.

“Yeah, he’s some college guy who wanted to interview me for some school project.”

“College guy?” “Didn’t the school year just start?” Derek and Peter question at the same time.

“He said it was for a paper for his criminology class. I let him ask me a few questions and then told the front desk not to let him back unless he’s dying.”

“What questions did he ask you?” Peter asks.

“Like ‘how did I react when I found out’ and ‘how did I feel about the videos people were making about me.’ I gave him five questions and only answered the ones I wanted to.” Y/N shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I only did it so that he’d stop wasting the staff’s time with his fake injuries and illnesses.”

“Has Stiles told you if he’s on his way?” Noah asks, changing the subject.

Y/N checks her phone and sees that Stiles hasn’t texted her, “Nope, but you know how he gets. He probably lost track of time, or he’s still caught up in whatever he’s doing.”

The table goes quiet, and everyone continues eating. No one knows what to say. This isn’t the first dinner they’ve had together, but they all typically end in silence. They do some polite small talk in the beginning—mostly everyone only speaking to Y/N—then finish their food in silence.

Derek takes his and Y/N’s empty plates to the sink when they're done. Y/N packs up some of the leftovers for her dad to take home.

“I should go. I’ve got a long shift in the morning.” Noah says. He pats Derek on the shoulder as a goodbye. He takes the leftovers from Y/N’s hands and follows her to the front door. “I’m assuming you’re going to show up to the station before my date tomorrow.”

“You know me so well.” Y/N smiles, hugging him goodbye. “See you tomorrow. Love you.”

“Love you too.” He closes the door behind himself as he leaves. Y/N turns to Tony and Peter who are ready to leave as well.

“Thanks for having us over. Dinner was good.” Tony says, putting his jacket back on that he took off while eating.

“Thanks for coming,” Y/N says, hugging them both goodbye. “My schedule is starting to slow down so I’ll let you know when I’m free for us to do something.” She notices Tony perk up at the thought of spending more time with her.

She waves at them goodbye before closing and locking the loft door. Sighing in exhaustion, she turns to see Derek standing and staring at her with a familiar lovestruck look in his eyes.

“I feel like I could sleep for a week,” Y/N says, slowly walking over to him.

Derek wraps his arms around her when she reaches him, “Well, I’ve done the dishes, so how about we go upstairs, take a nice hot bath, and then get you to bed?”

“Keep saying things like that and I’ll get on one knee right now and ask you to marry me.”

“I prefer when you get on both knees.”

Y/N scoffs at his joke, “Just take me upstairs to a bath. If you treat me right, maybe the bath could turn into something more.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Derek says. Y/N lets out a laugh when Derek wraps his arms around her thighs and picks her up, carrying her upstairs.

---

Y/N slowly opens her eyes to see Derek asleep next to her. She smiles a little at how cute he looks when he’s asleep. Turning to the clock on her bedside table, she notices that it’s almost midnight. She’s only been asleep for a little over an hour and she’s not sure what woke her up. As she turns back to Derek, their bedroom door flies open.

“Y/N?” Stiles calls out from the doorway.

“What the fuck Stiles?” Y/N groans, clamping her eyes shut when he flicks on the bedroom light. She can feel Derek waking up next to her. “Why the fuck are you here so late?”

Stiles walks into the room and sits on the bed next to Y/N, “I feel like I’m going crazy and you’re the only one that believes me.” Y/N can smell that he reeks of anxiety.

“Go home,” Derek groans, wraps an arm around Y/N’s waist, and pulls her in closer to him, pushing his face into the back of her neck to try and hide from the light.

Y/N sighs, using her hands to block the ceiling light, “You can tell me what’s going on after you turn off the light.”

Stiles huffs in frustration but gets up and turns off the light before sitting back on the bed, “There’s something off about Theo but no one believes me. Scott thinks I should give him the benefit of the doubt and that, even if he is bad, everyone is savable.”

“Does some of this have to do with why you didn’t show up to dinner?”

“Sorry about that. Me and Liam followed him around to see what he’d do.”

“And what did he do?”

“We may have followed him to the bridge near where his sister was found.” Stiles mumbles, fiddling with the drawstrings on his hoodie.

“He could’ve noticed you following him and put on a ‘good guy’ act,” Y/N says, trying to think of something that would support Stiles’ theory.

“Don’t encourage him,” Derek mumbles sleepily behind her.

“I broke into the administration office and found the transfer form his dad signed and compared it to a speeding ticket he signed eight years ago. The signatures are completely different.” Stiles says. He knows he’s right about Theo and he doesn’t get why Scott doesn’t believe him.

“Okay, I believe you. Look, I’m exhausted so how about we get some sleep and talk about this some more later? You’ve got school tomorrow, so you need some sleep too.” Y/N says as gently as she can. She doesn’t want him to feel like she doesn’t believe him either, but she might fall back asleep any minute now. “You know you are welcome to the guest room. It’s practically yours now anyway.”

“Can I sleep in here tonight?” Stiles asks shyly.

“No,” Derek answers quickly.

“Not like in your bed, but like can I drag the guest room’s mattress in here and sleep on it on the floor?”

Even in the dark, Y/N can see the vulnerability in his eyes, “Yes, you can sleep in here.” Stiles smiles and runs out of the room toward the guest room.

“You should’ve said no,” Derek groans.

“He’s worried about his friends and senior year has been giving him a lot of anxiety after asking Dad about his high school buddies.”

“How has that given him so much anxiety that he stinks of it?”

“Dad told him that he no longer speaks to any of his friends from high school and he’s scared him and his friends will end up the same way.”

Derek sighs, “Fine, but him staying in here is a one-time thing.”

Y/N starts to reply when Stiles comes back into the room, pulling the guest bedroom mattress behind him with one hand and his pillows and blankets in the other. He puts the mattress against the wall that faces Y/N’s side of the bed.

He puts his pillows down on the mattress before laying down and wrapping his blankets around himself, “Okay, goodnight. Don’t do anything gross since I’m here.”

Y/N rolls her eyes at his last sentence, “Goodnight Stiles.”

As she starts to drift back off to sleep, she hears Stiles speak again, “Y/N?”

“What?”

“Did you notice that Dad stopped wearing his ring?”

“Yeah,” Y/N replies gently.

“Do you think he’s met someone?”

“You’d have to ask him that.” She would’ve responded with yes, but she promised her dad earlier that she wouldn’t tell Stiles because he wanted to be the one to do it.

“I just want him to be happy,” Stiles says, staring up at the ceiling.

“Me too.”

There’s a moment of silence before Stiles says, “I miss Mom.”

“Me too.”

“Okay, goodnight,” Stiles rolls over to his side to face the wall.

“Goodnight,” Y/N pushes herself back into Derek’s loose embrace. After Stiles laid out the mattress, he was out like a light. She starts to drift off again when Stiles interrupts her again.

“Hey Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for believing me.”

“Always.”

---

@xxemmarldxx @esposadomd @ladyjenjay @ts1mp0ne @misshale21

@n1ght5h4d3-24 @xoxoloverb

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doctor-hopper · 3 months ago

Note

I'm really tempted to comb through his lines about luck and write meta on it, because even off the top of my head, looking only at DR2/Dangan Island content, it's like

His FTEs frame bad luck as being part of good luck: bad thing leads into something good enough to compensate

But he has at least one Dangan Island line where he anticipates something bad after experiencing something good

And interestingly considers nothing much happening to him to be bad luck in Dangan Island's ending, even though he had a good time, which warrants some unpacking (my current hypothesis is it's because his impending death is making him desperate to make his life meaningful, not 'waste' his remaining time)

Not all of his examples fall neatly into his luck cycle model, especially not the FTE version where the events are connected. The diagnosis and HPA admission were separate-ass events, in DI's ending he expected his convo with Hinata to go well because of the aforementioned general '''bad''' luck too, the events of chapter 5 are hard to sort into the model, some DI interactions make it sound like he just has extreme outcomes sometimes (eg. he'd win capture the flag first try every single time), etc etc.

I have a feeling at least some of the way he talks about his luck is copium, especially in his FTEs since he really had to focus on the idea of bad -> good in the killing game. But as you say, he could have been intentionally oversimplifying... and if he actually thought the cycle worked both ways, saying he lives in fear of bad things every time something good randomly happens might've veered too close to genuine vulnerability. Which he avoided (by his standards anyway- I think he lacked awareness of how bad the kidnapping + plane stories were) until the final FTE.

Either way, I definitely need to scrutinise his lines more :'D

A ton of good points! Komaeda’s luck is fascinating and nowhere near as clear-cut as he originally makes it sound. Fics where he tries to “game the system” and finally gain some sort of control over his luck are interesting—but honestly, I feel like he’s already been trying to do that for as long as he’s lived. And he exercises an impressive amount of power under those restraints! But…also.

As for anticipating something bad after experiencing something good, I do think the way Komaeda portrays the order of events is just what he tells himself and/or Hinata. In reality, good and bad luck are two sides of the same coin to him—the real important part isn’t the order, it’s that nothing good can happen without something bad happening too. Everything has a price. Luck is a zero-sum game.

(He touches on this again in 2.5 when he says there’s “a fixed amount of luck in the world” and so he’s content to suffer the bad luck for everyone else’s benefit. In the dream-world sim, the luck he experiences is apparently “ideal”, but it still has to exist. There still has to be an Omelas child of sorts. Komaeda would just rather it be himself.)

As for good being caused by bad vs. just following it, it definitely happens both ways and he’s definitely contradicted himself. Beyond that, even, there are cases in the game where it’s not totally clear what sort of cycle is involved in the luck he experiences. In 2-1, he draws the short straw simply because he wanted to. Was the bad…offscreen? Was it the killing game itself? Would “being forced to clean” actually count as bad luck even if he wanted it? Was it then followed by the good luck of finding the secret passage? People hypothesize that his luck works differently in the simulation according to his own belief, which would complicate things even more, but I’m sort of back-and-forth on that theory. There are arguably examples of luck working the way Komaeda claims it does in DR2, also—such as getting the Despair Disease the worst out of anyone thanks to his compromised immune system, but being able to discover in the hospital that Tsumiki was the culprit. ending up in the hospital but meeting a lovey-dovey nurse GONE WRONG

I’ve always read the Island Mode ending as copium myself. I do definitely think he was hoping for a chance to die meaningfully on the island, and I guess in his mind that could be bad luck, but it doesn’t really fit his model. The way he tries to nudge Hinata into agreeing it’s bad luck, the scene reads to me like he just needs to believe it’s bad luck so he can solemnly ask Hinata to be his friend. (And I think it’s notable that in the word he uses for friend here is 友達 tomodachi, which in this context could be understood as more of a personal friend—everywhere else, he’s used the word 仲間 nakama, comrades, to refer to the whole class as a unit.) And remember, being loved by someone is another way that Komaeda’s death could have meaning—so even if he didn’t end up in the climactic situation he was expecting, perhaps he’s realized there’s another way to get what he wants. :’)

But, yeah, what decides if something is good or bad luck for Komaeda though? I think even that’s not always clear to him.

I’ve heard the view that it “gives him what he immediately wants while taking away what is subconsciously valuable to him” (from TheAmityElf, I think) which is interesting, especially to play with as a writing tool, but not ultimately convincing. Some events could be loosely mapped to that pattern, but others contradict it a bit—you can’t tell me he just wanted money, and he did actively try to turn down his invitation to Hope’s Peak.

Which is now also making me think: Since the diagnoses and the invitation weren’t directly related, do you think he even connected them in his mind at first? What if he didn’t, and so he was afraid that by going to Hope’s Peak he would be invoking even more bad luck yet to come?

One more interesting dimension of his luck to think about is whether it hurts others vs. himself. In 2.5 it only hurts Komaeda, but that’s not quite the direct opposite of his real luck, because his real luck gave him cancer and dementia! However, it also does seem to be proactive in protecting him from actual death in both 2.5 and the rest of canon.

I’ll conclude this reply with this…relevant blackout poetry (blackout infographic?) I made years ago and which you suddenly reminded me of, lmao.

Silly coda: This is why Komaeda’s favorite word is eucatastrophe.

(…How lucky, then, that people say “Komaeda, eucatastrophe!” to him all the time!)

#nagito komaeda #komaeda lore #text #komahina #language #translation #ask #it is not a coincidence that the infographic was about Kurt Vonnegut’s theory of story structures #i’ve been thinking a lot about luck too as a sort of meta thing #a ‘story-enforcing’ or ‘canon-enforcing’ or ‘plot-enforcing’ force.#luck as an avatar of the dr universe and its very fabric and rules.#luck is fictionalizing. it follows the laws of plot and conflict #Komaeda comes off as very slightly meta aware because of all that luck has taught him

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11queensupreme11 · 2 months ago

Note

You don’t have to answer this question if you’re not comfortable, however I saw you discussing a bit about the election. Based on your response I figured you were anti-Trump. I will admit I am right leaning (not extremely but leaning) and I will agree that I am not pro-Trump. However I am also not pro-Kamala. I wanted to know your view on both candidates, pros and cons if you’re comfortable with that! For me I wasn’t able to vote this year but I will be able to vote next election (my birthday is after November 5th). But coming from a leaning republican here’s my pros and cons

Trump cons

-he’s very extreme in republican beliefs

-doesn’t support the LGBTQ (I am not apart of the community so I don’t know much on this controversy but I have heard from my friends in the community that he’s against it)

-very sensitive about his rally’s

-his multiple charges against him (though it can be noted that the time the charges came out was during a crucial time in his run for presidency so it could have been a plan to try and make him look bad, I’m not sure how many allegations actually were proven true or false)

-foreign involvement (he tends to get involved with other nations)

Trump pros

-very good at fixing the economy (when he was president it was one of the few time my family, a middle class family, actually was making excess money, we actually saved up enough to finally buy a home and my dad didn’t have to work 2 jobs and my mom worked night shifts to make ends meet. A lot more people got employed under his presidency)

-less foreign conflict (when Trump was president last time there was a lot less rumors of wars and wars going on since Trump was very firm with foreign involvement but we already are in some foreign conflict)

-immigration (I am Mexican, my mother was an illegal immigrant, but I do have to slightly agree that we need stricter boarder control. I’ve heard stories about the Cartels and them chasing people from Mexico and into the US and that’s terrifying)

Kamala cons

-controversy (Kamala has also had her share of controversy. She had ads about legalizing weed and showed mainly black people in the ad. Also she may be, I can’t confirm but I’ve heard it from others, that she is related to a past slave owners. Kamala was also voted in my the Democratic Party and not the people. Biden was the candidate that people wanted for the Democratic Party till he dropped out the. The Democratic Party put Kamala Harris as the new candidate. She had run against Biden to be the candidate before he dropped out and lost so she didn’t originally have the people’s support. Ect.)

-extremely left (I see being extremely left and extremely right as big problems)

-“middle class” (a lot of Kamala’s speeches were about helping the middle class yet in her actual speeches the middle class she described was the lower-upper class, not the true middle class)

-economic growth (currently under democratic leadership the economy hasn’t been good)

Kamala pros

-she’s very pro-environment and that’s a problem that has needed fixing for a while

-she isn’t against the LGBTQ

I’m curious to hear your response since it’s by hearing and talking to others without hate or prejudice that we can expand our own thinking and see things from new perspectives. I always wonder how media can manipulate perception so much, how two people can consume similar media from different sources but form 2 different opinions. I love your works and thanks for reading this!

Sincerely, me, a Mexican-Hawaiian girl

everything you put under trump's pros is completely false and further proof as to why misinformation is such a huge problem so lemme address your points one by one

"very good at fixing the economy"

firstly, when trump reigned it was under obama's economy. this is actually a pretty common thing for new presidents to inherit the economy of the previous administration (obama was president and had bush's economy, trump was president and had obama's economy, and etc.). their job is to either continue building that economy (if it was a good one) or rebuild it if it sucked.

when a president is elected, the economy doesn't just restart to zero and the new guy has to begin a new economy. no, they inherit it from the previous administration and they either inherit successes or deficits and they get to continue building it or destroying it

(the "president" being mentioned is trump btw)

source: here. other sources if you wanna check out: 1

and speaking of economy, here's what things are gonna look like once trump goes back into office with his stupid tariffs idea that people stupidly thought was a GOOD thing:

(also, i love how they CONVENIENTLY decided to publish this AFTER the elections...)

"less foreign conflict"

💀💀💀

idek HOW you got that info and i'm even more confused as to why you put "foreign involvement" in the cons above that, and yet switched up to say this.... but anyway there are SOOOO MANY sources from articles, interviews, videos, HIS OWN TWEETS, that clearly prove otherwise but here's a nice lil tiktok that managed to compile a good bunch of it:

"immigration"

this part killed me especially since you also mentioned that your mom wasn't here legally BUT i noticed that you said "was" as in past tense, so i'm hoping she somehow found a way to fix that

you want strict immigration control because you heard stories about the cartel chasing people here... but i don't see why you have an issue with that? the cartel is dangerous af, OF COURSE people would want to flee to protect themselves and their families? but you say you want stricter immigration and border control??? are you worried about the cartel coming here or are you saying you think the ones fleeing are dangerous?

kinda confused ^ but regardless, trump doesn't want "stricter" border control for the safety of the people, he just wants you all gone cuz he's racist af and so are his rabid worshippers 💀

also, did you forget he had kids in cages, forcefully separated from their families with no way to get back to them and had those kids FORCED TO GO TO COURT? (sources: 1, 2, 3, 4) or the time his insanely strict immigration restrictions caused the amount of drowning migrants to increase (source: 1)

he and his team are working their asses off to get started on their little denaturalization project (forcefully revoking US citizenship) 💀

from the loving words of michael davis, trump's chief legal defender:

"We're gonna deport a lot of people, 10 million people and growing - anchor babies [that's YOU anon, since you said your mom was an illegal immigrant], their parents, their grandparents. We're gonna put kids in cages. It's gonna be glorious."

ALSO!!!

for list of cons for trump you forgot to add:

has 34 felonies

is a rapist

incited an insurrection

shrugged off the possible lynching of his vice president (mike pence) during said insurrection

his abortion ban led to the preventable deaths of thousands of women and now that he's back, the numbers will increase

got impeached twice

got thousands killed because of how he didn't even bother to handle the COVID pandemic

also caused a lot of asian americans to be harmed because of his racist comments about them during said pandemic

caused haitian immigrants to be harmed because of his stupid "they're eating the cats! they're eating the dogs!" comments

he's a racist, a rapist, a misogynist, a sexist, a narcissist, a habitual liar, and has no idea on how to actually run a presidency

and many many more

since we're on the topic of misinformation, here's this:

this here shows how powerful misinformation is for the trump administration. a lot of the people who voted for him did it solely to be cruel yes, but there's also some people who just genuinely didn't do ANY research and foolishly voted against everyone's interests including their own

the people who believed the misinformation voted for trump, the people who knew the truth voted for kamala, and some of the misinformation is actually VERY similar to the things you just mentioned

"violent crime rates are at a near all-time highs in most major american cities" FALSE, but trump voters thought it was true

"inflation in the US has declined over the last year and is near historic averages" TRUE, but trump voters thought it was false (this says "last year", implying under biden's rule, so trump voters believe that inflation did not decline under biden's economy when it actually did)

"the US stock market is at or near all-time highs" TRUE, but trump voters thought it was false

"over the last few months, unauthorized border crossings at the US-Mexico border are at or near the lowest level in the last few years" TRUE, but trump voters believed it to be false.

#👸🏻| asks #👸🏻| rambles

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its-time-to-write · 1 year ago

Text

Hi y’all! This is my last unprompted angsty fic for a little! Gonna go back to our usually scheduled hijinks that are sitting in my request pile, I wanted to do this one first. I write all these as a way to deal with things that happen in my own life, whether it’s stressing about school and work, stupid romance, great romance, family, health, whatever, and I wanted to say (yet again) thank you for all the support. Sometimes I still can’t believe that you all like what I write but hey, there ya go

It’s funny, because my most popular fics are the ones that have been written directly out of my actual life. The ones that start out hard-to-deal-with, or with real, palpable heartbreak. The endings are often different because real life isn’t guaranteed a happy ending, but I’m allowed to take the past and see what it would be like if things went differently.

My characterization of Jamie is based on the only person I’ve ever really loved, which is why I can write his voice so clearly. I first watched Ted Lasso and was surprised at how similar they were, stupid hair and all. A lot of these fics are my way of archiving our story and immortalizing parts of it, as well as reminding myself that the love was there. It didn’t last and it wasn’t supposed to, but it was there.

Now, what’s real and what’s fiction? I’ll leave that up to you to decide, but I will say that it’s more than you might think and less than you might hope for.

So if you read this current fic and think, “huh, that was a really specific premise,” well I got news for you! It is. I’m in the first part of my journey on this, the early stages, and this story is not the way I want things to go for me. But I’m hoping that by creating a good ending out of a rough beginning, I can better face whatever lies ahead for me whether I approach it on my own two feet or with the assistance of some really sick wheels.

Anyway, enjoy this or skip it, it won’t hurt my feelings!

how to love being alive

Jamie’s at training when he gets the call. He barely registers the words on the other side when he’s cursing something awful, enough to make Roy Kent blush, and saying something about an emergency before speeding out the door. He pauses for a moment to look up an address in his phone, then he’s tearing out of the parking lot in a manner that puts Colin to shame.

To summarize, he’s not acting like himself.

He pulls up to a chiropractor of all places and the girl at the front desk must be able to tell who he’s here for because she just points to a door down the hall. Jamie’s pretty sure he’s never moved this quick in his life and wonders if this could translate to the pitch. Sure he’s fast, but he could always be faster.

He bursts through the door to see you borderline catatonic, staring at the floor while a doctor pats your arm. She looks at Jamie and says, “Let’s chat for a minute outside,” before he has a chance to say a single thing. Jamie can’t tear his eyes away from you as the doctor leads him out and shuts the door.

“Thought emergency contacts were for like, hospitals and shit,” he says.

The chiropractor shakes her head. Jamie notes that her name tag says “Dr. Hadley,” and has a vague memory of you mentioning her a few months ago.

God, it feels like a lifetime ago.

“We’re not confident she’s in a fit state to get herself home,” Dr. Hadley says. “Her headspace is a little messed up, which is to be expected. Usually people come to these types of appointments with some moral support.”

Jamie asks, “What kinds of appointments?” and Dr. Hadley tilts her head at him.

“You are Mr. Tartt, aren’t you?” she asks and Jamie just scoffs because he can’t decide between responding obviously, or telling her no, he’s not Mr. Tartt, that’s his father. He’s just Jamie.

Dr. Hadley knows who he is because she doesn’t live in a hole in the ground, so she doesn’t ask for identification. She takes his scoff as permission to keep talking, so she says, “She’s here for her MRI results. We’ve been in the process of treating a protrusion on her spine.”

Jamie is positive everyone in this office must think he’s on drugs because Dr. Hadley is talking like he’s supposed to know this, but for the life of him he knows you’d never said a thing.

“Your girlfriend has been in a severe amount of pain over the last few months, and we’ve finally been able to see the extent of the problem. Apparently she thought it would just go away, but it never did. So now she’s here with us.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Jamie says automatically. Because it’s true, innit? You’re not. You’ve been broken up for a month because he couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t take the irritation at attending his matches and the tossing and turning in bed at night and the fact that you were wound so tight that you’d snap at the most minor offenses.

You hadn’t been surprised when Jamie said he couldn’t do it anymore, it’s over, and at the time he had wished that you’d shown just a tiny sliver of emotion. After all, a year and two months is a long time to be with someone for you to coldly slide him his key and then turn away as though he were a stranger.

He could have sworn there was a glimmer of tears in your eyes, but they’d looked that way for a bit now so maybe it was just allergies. There’s no reason for you to have been in the verge of tears for the entire month before the breakup, right?

Right.

But he can’t think about that now because Dr. Hadley is frowning at him in a way that so comically reminds him of Roy’s sister that he has to bite back a laugh.

Everything’s all twisted.

“I certainly hope your split was amicable,” Dr. Hadley says. “You’re the only one listed as her emergency contact. She needs someone to get her home safely.”

“Right,” says Jamie. “Yes. Fuck. Right. Um, what exactly is wrong with her?”

Dr. Hadley shakes her head. “That’s her personal information to share with you at her prerogative. And we should probably go see her, I’m sure she doesn’t want to be alone for long.”

Jamie snorts at that. This doctor doesn’t know you at all. If you’ve received any type of bad news the last thing you want is people hanging around.

Jamie used to pride himself on being the only one you’d let into the bad-new bubble.

You don’t count with those other people, you’d said once while wrapped around Jamie so tight he thought he’d have to call Ted to bring a crowbar. You said, I don’t have to pretend around you. I don’t ever get tired of you.

Jamie bitterly thinks that that statement turned out to be a lie, but he shakes it off because you’ve only been separated a month, and apparently he’s still your emergency contact for a doctor he didn’t know you had been seeing and fuck if you didn’t look like the most pitiful thing he’d ever seen. He’ll pretend it’s ok for as long as it takes to get you home and comfortable, and then he’s calling this office to get his number switched off.

So he follows Dr. Hadley back into the room as she softly says your name in order to break whatever trance has you studying the carpet like your final exam is in ten minutes.

You can barely look at her as she whispers something about going home and being gentle, to which you nod and finally look at Jamie.

He wonders if you recognize him, because the stare you have is so vacant that you might as well be looking at a stranger.

“Is she on drugs?” he asks because it looks like you’re on drugs.

Dr. Hadley shakes her head and holds out her arm to help you up. “No, she’s just in a lot of pain. And emotional distress. It’s a killer combo, and she’ll need extra gentle handling for a while. No sitting for too long, no bending, no lifting. There’s a back support at the front desk for you to take.”

Jamie thinks he hears something pointed in the way Dr. Hadley says, extra gentle. What, like he doesn’t know how bad an injury can take you out? He’s in the Premier League for fuck’s sake. He knows how to deal with a strained muscle.

Dr. Hadley transfers your arm over to Jamie’s so smoothly that he barely understands what’s happening as she ushers you both out the door, thrusting a small foam roll into Jamie’s free hand.

“For lumbar support,” she says. “Won’t help much, but it’s better than nothing.”

Jamie’s pretty sure he’s said thanks as you climb in the car and then he’s in the drivers seat and it’s dead quiet.

“Right,” he says to the silence. “What the fuck.”

You’re picking at your nails something fierce. Jamie has to fight the urge to take your hand in his. A month of separation is not long enough for this shit.

“Can you just drive?” you ask in a broken voice. “I don’t want to be sitting for longer than I have to.”

There’s a new pitch in your voice, one Jamie’s never heard before, so he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t turn on the radio or a playlist or a podcast or anything, just drives in silence. He knows if it’s quiet long enough, you’ll talk.

He’s the opposite. He doesn’t need time to crack wide open, just a kind touch or a soft glance and he’s an open book. He was always shocked how early into your relationship you’d figured that out. A soft, “What’s on your mind, Jaim?” and he was unloading about whatever stress or fear he had.

He’s two minutes away from your flat when you break the silence. “I have gradual onset paralysis,” you say in a voice devoid of emotion. “‘Gradual onset’ means it happens over time. Paralysis means, well…paralysis.”

Jamie can hear what you’re saying and he understands it, but what catches him is the way you’re like nothing more than a hollow body. Not cracking a joke, not picking a fight. Just- empty.

Jamie says a long and drawn out “Fuuuckk,” because what else can you say? It’s not really his business to comfort you or to pry, except he’s the one the doctor called, so he allows himself one question.

“How did it happen?”

Last he knew, you were healthy as a horse.

“Two disks in my spine popped,” you reply, still in that same awful emotionless voice. “They’re not really sure how, could’ve been any number of things. Anyway, it got into my nerves. And my spinal cord. And it’s messing things up and it’s only going to get worse. The scans were to see if they could operate, because sometimes you can remove the shards. Or whatever it is. But I guess they can’t, because if they tried I’d definitely be paralyzed. So all I can do now is be in pain and wait for my legs to shut down.”

Jamie doesn’t know how to respond to any of that but he’s saved from thinking of an adequate response because he’s at your flat.

It was smart of you not to sell it when you’d moved in with Jamie. He wonders if you knew the breakup was inevitable.

He hops out and opens the door like a gentleman, offering his hand like he’s some Mr. Darcy-type shit, except you had both agreed that Roy was Mr. Darcy and he was Bingley. So it doesn’t fit at all except as soon as you’re done clutching his hand so you can get out without unnecessary pain, his hand flexes itself like he’s in that damn movie.

It wasn’t even a conscious choice, just a thing his hand decided to do, and he definitely thinks he’s going to have to talk to Ted about this. Or maybe Sam. Sam knows shit and is good at empathy. Maybe he’ll know what to say when your ex-girlfriend tells you she’s not going to walk ever again.

Jamie follows you to the door as you fiddle with the lock and push it open with a sigh. For a moment he doesn’t know if he should go inside, but it smells like honey and cinnamon because it’s the beginning of fall and he thinks that he should at least make sure you’ll be alright.

He notices you’re moving weird. All stiff, like. You’re trying to get an icepack out of the freezer but you can’t maneuver in a way that’s comfortable so Jamie grabs it and hands it to you.

You mumble, “Thanks,” and Jamie catches a glimpse of the perpetual glimmer in your eye.

“D’you need me to call someone?” he asks. “I can get Keeley down here. Or fucking… Ted. Or Colin.” He doesn’t say Sam, because he needs Sam. He can’t talk to Sam if he’s here with you.

You shake your head. Jamie wonders if it hurts to talk, but he remembers how much you hate the sound of your voice when you’re crying.

You take a slow, shallow breath to collect yourself. “I’m ok,” you finally say. “Not much anyone can do, and you’ve got training. I- I didn’t know they’d call you. I still have to switch your number with someone else. I’m probably going to ask Keeley since my family’s still far away.”

“Right,” Jamie says. Not much else to say. Except-

“You were seeing that bone doctor when we were together, and you didn’t fucking say anything?”

It’s accusatory and he knows it, but he can’t for the life of him say it kinder. Ted’s always on about communication and shit, and that is not communication.

You shuffle over to the couch and use it to help you lay face down in the floor. The icepack is precariously balanced on the small of your back.

“Didn’t know how to tell you,” comes your muffled voice. “Least, I figured out how to tell you too late. What was I gonna say, ‘Sorry I’ve been a complete bitch to you for four weeks, I’ve got shit floating around in my spine that makes me hurt so bad I want to die?’ Sounds fucking stupid.”

Jamie wants to say, Swear jar because it’s a long-standing joke, but he catches the words right before they reach the tip of his tongue.

“You could’ve said something,” he replies instead. “Chronic pain’s shit. It’s really shit and it makes you act like shit to the people you care about. It’s not an excuse, but it’s a reason.” As the words are coming out of his mouth, Jamie is reminded of a time when the roles were reversed, and you were giving him the “excuse versus reason,” speech.

You’d said, You’re dad’s an abusive prick, Jamie. Makes sense that you’d have a lot of negative emotions.

Fuck, if only you’d said something sooner. Maybe this would be something that you’d be cracking jokes about, or Jamie would be holding your hand, or he’d be laying right next to you as he runs his fingers through your hair.

But your muscles spasm so that thought gets banished as you bite on your forearm in an effort not to yell.

“Fucking hell,” Jamie says. “I don’t think you’re sorted on your own. I’m calling Ted.”

He walks to the other room so he can pretend he can’t hear your protests.

—

Ted leaves training to Roy, Beard, and Nate. What’s the point in having four coaches if one of ‘em can’t leave for family emergencies?

Sure, you’re not actually family, but that’s Ted for you. He doesn’t do casual friendships.

Jamie is out the door like a shot as soon as Ted knocks with a “Sorry, coach,” that Ted barely has a chance to wave off.

Ted doesn’t say much once he’s inside, just rambles on about training and Kansas and Henry. He’s clattering around in your kitchen and you can’t find it in yourself to care what he’s doing so you just keep laying on the floor, willing your back to stop hurting.

Finally, he comes over and sets down a smoothie in a short glass with a straw.

“It’s so you can drink it without moving,” he explains.

“I don’t think I can do this,” you say more to the couch legs than to Ted.

He sighs from where he’s crouched down next to you. “You don’t really have a choice, darlin’. You have to do this. The question is, are you gonna go through it alone?”

You shrug as best as you’re able.

“Wrong answer,” says Ted, standing up. “You’ve got a whole crew of people here who are gonna root for you and support you with whatever you need. All you got to do is ask, sweetheart.”

Ah, fuck, you’re crying again and Ted can definitely tell because your shoulders are shaking. He’s pretty sure you’d want to save face so he stands up and says, “Beard’s coming over after training. Says he wants to figure out how to modify your house for a wheelchair or something. Thought I’d make us all dinner so we’re not so hangry when he mentions taking an ax to anything.”

The mental image of Coach Beard chopping down your stairs is enough to make you smile a little through your tears.

—

Waiting is really shitty. Like, really shitty. Every day is the same thing: tingly legs, shooting pains, phantom cramps. The worst was when Dani and Richard were over and you stood up to get something from the fridge, and your legs decided at that moment to lose feeling. You panicked with your arms held out for balance as you swayed back and forth for a moment, willing your feet to fucking move. They did, but not before Dani and Richard were on you in a flash, ready to catch you if you fell.

“Well that was weird,” you joke in an effort to cut the tension. They laugh, but you still catch their worried glance.

“You do not have to put on a brave face for us,” Dani says. “If you want to joke, we will joke. But if you want to cry, we will cry too.”

“You can cry,” Richard says, “I will just pour more wine.”

You laugh. There’s been a steady stream of Greyhounds at your flat for the last week and a half. Everyone and their mother (quite literally) has come by to see you. Your own parents were coming in a week to stay indefinitely while you sorted things out.

You wonder if it’s easier to lose control of your legs slowly or all at once? On the one hand, you at least have notice. But on the other hand, the long, drawn-out waiting feels like slow torture. Every day you wake up from restless sleep and experimentally wiggle your toes. Every day, you check off one more box on your mental calendar as you count down to a date that doesn’t even properly exist.

The only person who hasn’t visited is Jamie. You don’t blame him, though. Keeley’s come round almost every single day and has been successfully switched to your emergency contact. She’s the one you’re calling as soon as you discover you can’t move.

You’re pretty sure it’s getting closer. Your legs fall asleep more frequently and things are all numb. It’s like you know you’re in pain, but it’s not quite registering with your nerves.

It fucking sucks.

—

You don’t believe in intuition like spirits and all that, but you believe in it in that your brain can pick up things that you couldn’t if you were actually trying.

That’s why you’re pretty sure this is it.

Walking is pretty much a no-go right now, so you stiff-leg yourself to the couch and sprawl out as comfortably as you can.

You call Keeley, and she’s over in no time.

“Hi babes,” she says as soon as she’s through the door, “Can I call Rebecca for girls’s night?”

“Sure,” you say, “Might as well live it up.”

Keeley replies, “Great! She’ll be here in ten minutes,” and you laugh, really actually laugh, because of course Keeley’s already called her.

Rebecca swoops in all smiles and no sympathy which is great because if one more person pushes their lower lip out at you, you’re going to scream. She’s brought drinks and Keeley’s pulling out snacks and you’re going to talk and giggle until you fall asleep, ready for what the morning has.

“Is Shandy making a move on that one player?” Rebecca asks Keeley from the couch.

“Nah,” Keeley calls back, “He said he wasn’t interested right now. Still hung up, I think.”

“What player?” you ask. You know what Shandy’s like, and you feel for the poor guy.

Rebecca and Keeley are silent before Keeley says, “You wouldn’t know him.”

“Bullshit,” you reply. “I know everyone on that team and I know you haven’t signed anyone new recently. Is it Colin?”

Rebecca shakes her head and gives Keeley a look. Keeley shrugs. “You’re the one who brought it up, babes.”

Rebecca turns to you. “It’s Jamie,” she says. “She’s been trying to bag him ever since Zava showed up.”

You shake your head. “She’s not right for him. He deserves someone better than that.”

Keeley’s back from the kitchen and scrutinizing your expression. “And what exactly do you mean by better?” she asks.

You laugh. “Oh no, not me. I wasn’t talking about me. No, I’m not- he needs someone different. Like, I don’t know, Roy’s sister, maybe? She’s great and a doctor to boot. Very caring too.”

“You’re caring,” Keeley says slowly, “And anyway, Molly doesn’t like him like that. They’re just friends.”

“Hang on, are you putting yourself in the same bracket as Shandy?” Rebecca interjects.

You shrug. “I was a complete bitch the last month we were together. There’s no excuse for it. I’m just surprised he lasted as long as he did.”

“You were in fucking pain!” Keeley exclaims. “You said you weren’t sleeping and everything fucking hurt and you couldn’t even think straight.”

You grab a handful of candy from a bowl. “Keels, I appreciate the sentiment, but I majorly fucked it. Like, there’s no going back. So he can date whoever he wants as long as it’s not fucking Shandy. Can we please, please move on?”

Rebecca’s eyes are narrowed but they both acquiesce. “Keeley, what about your love life? I’m sure it’s boring as usual.”

Keeley shrieks and smacks her with a pillow. “Fuck off,” she replies. “I’ll have you know it’s going very well…”

—

You were right. You wake up still on the couch tangled in Keeley’s arms, and the standard toe-wiggle just… doesn’t happen. It’s quiet, the early morning type, the kind where the sunlight isn’t so harsh and birds are chirping softly and all of Richmond hasn’t quite got up to begin their day.

As you look at your unmoving toes, the first thing you feel is a rush of relief. The waiting’s over, you think.

You look over to the wheelchair that’s been leaning patiently against the wall all this time. Here’s the first day of forever. You’re in no rush for it to start, so you let Keeley’s little snores and Rebecca’s heavy breathing lull you back to sleep.

—

It’s definitely a learning curve. And it’s frustrating. And if one more person catches you crying out of sheer rage, you’re going to start throwing things. But like Ted said, you don’t really have a choice.

Your mom said, “The only way out is through,” then grinned at the murderous glare you shot her way. She opened her phone and pulled up a picture of you, age three. “Same lovely expression as always,” she remarks cheerfully. That cracks your frown. You always were a funny kid.

It takes a while to figure out how to get places. Keeley (the absolute angel) volunteered, but she’s busy with the PR firm and quite frankly, a little too delicate to help you into a car. You made the mistake of saying this exactly one time and because subject to a rant about how she’s “not weak, just PETITE FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!”

Roy had punctuated her argument with a couple “That’s fucking right, babe"s all while rolling his eyes behind her back. It made you giggle.

The general consensus was that at any given reasonable hour (or unreasonable if you’re Richard or Bumbercatch) a Greyhound or coach would be able to get you where you’re needed. And today, that place is Nelson Road.

“How often does Jamie come visit?” Jan Maas asks, straightforward as ever.

“Um, never,” you reply. “We broke up, remember?”

“Right,” agrees Jan Maas. “We all know that, I just assumed you had gotten back together.”

You laugh. How absurd. “And why on earth would you assume that?”

“Because he talks about you all the time,” comes his prompt reply.

Huh. That’s interesting. You haven’t received so much as a single emoji from Jamie, but hadn’t thought a thing of it. But this, this is strange. This does not fit into your idea of how broken up people act.

“Weird,” you say. “Wonder what the fuck that’s about.”

Jan Maas shrugs and moves to lift you from the car.

—

It’s weird to be at Nelson Road, number one because it’s been FOREVER, number two because you’re eye-level with all sorts of things you’d never noticed before (ahem, part of the wall Roy kicked that no one cared to patch up), and number three because the last time you were here, it was as Jamie Tartt’s girlfriend.

Jan holds open the door as you roll in, ready to face whatever lies in wait.

It turns out whatever is a very excited Ted and Beard as well as a neutral Roy who present you a coaching jacket and a whistle.

“You’re coaching with us today because that little rat bastard Nate went to the dark side,” Beard says.

You remark, “Tell us how you really feel,” earning a snort from Roy and a chuckle from Trent Crimm.

“Oh yeah,” Ted says, “this is Trent. He’s writing a book.”

“Cool,” you say, “but you do know I know jack shit about coaching?”

Beard shrugs. “Neither do we. Worked out pretty well so far.” That earns another snort from Roy.

“Right,” you say. “Well, I guess I’m up for anything.”

“You mean ‘down,’” says Ted. “Oh I’m sorry, is it too soon?”

“Never,” you reply. “It’s never too soon to make trauma-related puns and this world, it’s either laugh or cry. So fuck it, I’m going to laugh.”

“Fuck yes,” grunts Roy before turning on his heel to yell at the team to GET THE FUCK ON THE PITCH YOU LITTLE PRICKS!

—

You don’t do much except sit there and watch as the coaches yell and point and run drills. It’s a chore to remind yourself not to check out Jamie’s butt as he runs by so you start thinking not yours, not yours, like a mental mantra.

He’s not looking at you so you won’t look at him and you’re sure it won’t be a problem because there are so many people to look at and talk to, except lunch rolls around (haha) and you sit at the head of a table and Jamie’s on the bench right next to you. So. There goes the no eye-contact plan.

You take exactly two bites of your sandwich before thinking fuck this and pushing yourself back so you can roll away. You can just take the elevator to see Becca.

You’ve made it a good way down the hall when you hear Jamie calling your name while saying, “Wait,” so you move a little faster.

But it’s still new and you’re painfully reminded that arms are not legs so he catches you with ease.

“The fuck are you running away for?” he asks, and you want to point out that technically, you weren’t running. Metaphorically though, he’d be right.

“I’m not running,” you reply. “I was just going to see Rebecca.”

“Bullshit,” he says. “I know you, and that was running. Is it because of me?”

“No,” you say, and you realize how much you’ve been looking up today. Your fucking neck needs a break so you rub it and look straight ahead, past Jamie at a life-size decal of O’Brien on the opposite wall.

“Why would I be running away from you? You’re not- I’m the shitty ex in this situation. I’m the one who fucked things up, Jamie, so… you don’t have to like, pretend that it’s your problem. I actually think it would be better if you were just mad and avoided me instead of whatever the hell is currently happening.”

Jamie rubs his jaw. He should be exasperated, he should, but instead the gears in his mind are turning. A few words stick out to him and then it’s like the final puzzle piece has clicked into place.

“Hang on,” he says slowly. “Hold the fuck up. Did you mess things up on purpose?”

The moment the words are out of his mouth he wants to take them back and apologize, because there’s no way they’re actually true, except you have a look on your face that can only be described as guilty.

“Fuuckkk,” Jamie breathes out and you hurriedly interject, “It wasn’t intentional! At least, not at first. It started because I was irritable because I hurt a lot, and then I convinced myself that I was faking it so I got mad at myself for being a little liar. And then I couldn’t sleep because I hurt so bad and everything was making me uncomfortable so I started snapping at you. I noticed it pretty quick so I figured I’d get the pain checked out and sorted because I didn’t think pulled muscles were supposed to last this long. And it turned out that it wasn’t a pulled muscle but some of my disks were all weird, and then one day in between physical therapy and the chiropractor, I fell on my back and jostled everything wrong and it fucking popped.”

Jamie thinks he knows exactly when that was. He remembers you saying something about falling while walking to your car after work and him asking if you needed ice. It was at the tail end of things, and he’d taken your stiffness figuratively as opposed to literally. Like, you were acting all cold because you hated him, not because you couldn’t move.

“So,” you continue, “I just leaned into it. I mean, Dr. Hadley was only one of my doctors, but she’s the one who told me I- you know, could end up like this. She said if things popped and it got into my spinal cord or fluid or whatever and they couldn’t get it out, it was only a matter of time before it messed everything up. They only way to stop it at that point would be to not move so either way, I end up stuck.”

You half-sob, half-laugh. “I didn’t know how to tell you and I could tell you were already annoyed with me so I just decided to let it happen. You’re better off without me, anyway. I hate asking for help and I hate when people give me empathetic looks or what-fucking-ever, and I was going to have to ask you for a lot of help. You don’t even fucking have time for that, Jamie.”

Jamie is at a loss for words, and you’ve run out of things to say.

You stare at each other in the hallway by the elevator, breathing heavily. You’ve both triggered each other’s fight-or-flight response, and it seems you’re both down for a fight.

“Right,” Jamie says finally, “ok, yeah, ok. You didn’t tell me because you didn’t want me to have to deal with this?”

You nod.

“Right,” he says again. “That’s fucked up.”

You don’t respond and he looks at you closely. “You know that’s fucked up, yeah?”

You shrug.

“Jesus, babe.” Jamie runs his hands through his hair. He’s going to have to fix his headbands. “Alright,” he says yet again, “look. Dr. Sharon and me- we talk. And, you’re supposed to be able to talk to people about shit like this. Like, me playing football isn’t supposed to mean I don’t have time for the people I love. And if you’re feeling that way or if you’re hurting, you have to tell me so I don’t think you’re being all pissed off because you hate me. That’s the whole point of love, babe. You take care of each other’s shit.”

“Jamie, I can’t get places easily anymore. I can’t drive and I can’t go up steps. I will never be able to storm the pitch to kiss you or walk with you in Brazil. I get mad really easily because everything’s so fucking frustrating and I just want to punch something.” You shake your head. “You don’t deserve any of that. You need someone who can be there for you and isn’t a total pill to be around.”

“Are you fucking trying to push me away?” he asks.

“Yes!” you exclaim. “Obviously!”

“Well fucking don’t. You almost had me the first time, but good luck getting rid of me now.”

“Fine!”

“For fuck’s sake, just kiss,” groans Will, walking by with an armful of laundry.

“Fuck off, William!” you both say in unison and then Jamie’s on one knee, eye-level with you and brushing a thumb across your chin.

“Fucking hell, love,” he breathes. “You have to remember that you can talk to me, yeah? Just promise you’ll remember.”

You nod, unable to speak.

“Good,” he says. “We’re giving this another go. And if you can’t kiss me on the pitch, might as well do it here, yeah?”

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt x y/n #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt #ted lasso

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barrenclan · 1 year ago

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I think overarching plot is relatively easy to come up with, but how do you come up with smaller more filler-like events for your stories, like the plum-bee spats and corm training with egret? I’m having some trouble filling in the flesh of my own story, and was wondering if you had any insight.

Oh boy, real softball questions! Haha, but I can try to give you an answer for these.

I think the best way I can explain the first question is how I wrote PATFW, since it was much more heavily structured than my other comic (and more recent).

So, I started with the premise, the characters, and the general arcs I wanted each of them to go through. The premise helped me to establish the guidelines of this world, what kind of tone I would have for the story - moody and mysterious, so I knew that comedy would not be as frequent and characters might often take a turn towards more realistic drama.

The arcs of each character came with understanding what I wanted to do with them - do I want this person to get better, or get worse? Will they be a force of antagonism, or a side character, will they live or die? What point am I trying to get across with this character? Those kind of questions helped me know how they would interact with each other as well, so for instance a character like Daffodilpaw being friendly and cheerful, with her arc, would interact a specific way with dramatic and egotistical Beeface, for her arc. (Sorry I can't be more specific, but the comic's not done yet.)

Once you have a strong understanding these things - tone and characters - it's not too hard to let the story percolate in your mind. There's nothing wrong with just letting ideas float around in the back of your brain, instead of trying to force them all out right away. I actually wrote the ending of PATFW a couple months after I had started the comic, because the characters naturally led me to that conclusion. Here's an example of what I'm talking about with tone and characters leading to a small interaction that I hadn't previously planned like you asked about:

I have Rainhaze, and Ranger. Rainhaze is kind and brave, but currently very lost. Ranger is sadistic and enjoys feeling in control. So, I need a plot reason for Ranger to have not found BarrenClan. Well, Rainhaze being self-sacrificial, told him that BarrenClan all died and he's the last survivor. When Ranger finds out, it makes him feel tricked - he doesn't like that, so he threatens to kill Rainhaze. Rainhaze is self-sacrificial, as previously mentioned, and is now showing some suicidal tendencies, so he doesn't care if Ranger kills him. But Ranger then refuses to do so, having regained control, and twists the knife by letting him live while feeling suicidal. That's a pretty grim scene, which fits with the tone of the story well.

There you go - that's an interaction I hadn't plotted out the story with, but I was able to come to naturally by understanding the characters, the way their arcs are moving, and the tone of the story.

For this question, it's a little more tricky. The sad, honest answer is that there is no reliable way to do this. That's kind of how the Internet works. Unless you pay money to advertise, I suppose, you can't push a button that says "popularity points" and have it spit out readers. And sadly, sometimes movement only comes after you grind away, day after day, and don't give up. Here's a few things that might help, though.

Use multiple platforms. It's simple, but the more places you post, the more eyes you'll catch. Different websites/apps have different readerbases, too - Webtoons, ComicFury, Instagram, DeviantArt, Tumblr, Hiveworks, and others all have varying levels of attention and algorithims, and work that you have to do to keep up with an audience. Find whatever feels right for you and focus on one or two, but keep the others in your periphery.

Be consistent. People are more likely to actually keep up with a comic that updates every single week, rather than that posts a page or two and then ghosts for a month. Cough, cough, maybe you'll say - but I always set out with this comic to be a side project, and posting asks like this helps me continue to engage with an audience even when I'm not completing issues.

DON'T CARE! I know that seems like counterproductive advice, but seriously; you have to be okay with the fact that you might not get any attention. If you make a comic with the set goal of being popular, or even just worry about having readers, you're going to make yourself miserable. Obviously having attention is more fun, and more motivating, I won't deny that. But you need to be just as happy making a comic for 3 people than 3000 to make something you're proud of and not burn out in the process. If you're making something earnest, fun, interesting, passionate - people will come eventually.

#ask #anon #advice

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missmaywemeetagain · 11 months ago

Text

Broken Glass, Chapter 9 💔🥂❤️‍🩹

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much Love,

Madi xoxoxoxo 💗💋

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

Broken Glass Chapter 9

March 24th, 1960

Miami, Florida

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

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

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

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

“The hell you aren’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

He shoots you a petulant look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It shouldn’t bother you, but it does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How long?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s not that easy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m only human.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, no, no, no!” you whimper.

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

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

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

Elvis.

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

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

You aren’t sure what’s worse.

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

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

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

It’s all your fault.

Then heavy silence.

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

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

“Mine.”

Then he digs his claws deep into your belly.

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

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

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

Elvis.

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

I’m safe.

Sleep takes you with little fuss.

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

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

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

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

Could be that.

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

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

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

Oh, Madone, something happened to Elvis.

Gianni.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s downright disrespectful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How dare he.

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

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

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

Like he planned this.

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

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

Well, two can play at that game.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three, two, one, you count silently.

“Oh, well, I—” you start.

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

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

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

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

Perhaps you imagine the gentle squeeze at your waist.

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

Madone, why am I so emotional today?

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

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

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

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

“I’m sure she—” Elvis starts.

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

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

Maybe that’s a good thing.

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

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

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

You were wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

March 26th, 1960

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, Madone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They say the truth will set you free.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not unlike the look on his face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A woman could fall in love with that voice alone.

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

He is stunning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The whole thing is madness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Liar.

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

Maybe too connected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” you hear Charlie call back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Elvis—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why does he have to be so charming?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not now, later.

Protect him, protect him, protect him…

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

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

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

But that wouldn’t make sense.

“Goodnight, Elvis,” you say quietly.

“Goodnight, Lori.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart screeches to a stop.

Dio mio…he knows.

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

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

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

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

Oh, God, everyone knows.

They are coming for me.

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

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

Elvis is going to send me back.

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

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

He’s been preparing to let me go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then there is just dark, blissful silence.

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

Taglist Pt 1

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

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