#Windy City records

[ancilladei]

[vodkaandsnakes]

On this day, February 27, in Type O Negative history:

Type O Negative play the Aragon Ballroom in Chicago, IL (2000)

[mydearlybeloathed]

── 𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍 𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Long ago, you were cursed to one day sleep for an eternity—unless you’re presented with true love. You thought destiny couldn’t find you on the high seas, but when you're sorely mistaken, it's up to a certain swordsman to get his act together and rescue you from eternal sleep.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: zoro x princess!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 8.4k

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: tw blood, sleeping beauty au, meddling faeries here and there, stubborn swordsmen and lovelorn princesses, no use of Y/N, light angst, major fluff

𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: falling - timothy cole

𝐎𝐏 ��𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝔒𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔞 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢,

a very many years ago, twelve Wise Women from the Isle of Perminion—faeries was a more precise term, but they felt the label struck too much fear into their mortal fellows, and in this economy, faeries need willing clientele—were invited to the presentation of a young princess from an old kingdom. Each bestowed upon her gifts coveted by all. Beauty, grace, love, and the like. 

It was the thirteenth Wise Woman who took it all back.

“You dare not invite me to this celebration of life? Fine. Forget me. But not before I give the princess my own gift. She’ll grow beautiful, wise, and loved, as my fellow Wise Women decreed—but one day she’ll lose all that to the prick of a spinning wheel and fall dead to my power!”

Your life had just begun, and had already gone to shit (forgive such undignified language, unfit for a princess, but really, you felt you deserved some leeway).

The whole of the kingdom knew the witch’s speech by heart, saying a prayer each night in the hope that their princess would be fortunate enough to never cross a spinning wheel in all her life. And from the rail of her tower’s terrace, the princess dreamed of someday joining them. Not in their prayers, but in celebration that even the worst curses are no match for the blessed princess of their kingdom. Blessed, as she once was, before the outrage of Carabose found her.

But that was only the dream of a foolish child.

Foolish dreams. You were cursed not only in the very literal sense but also by the paranoia of your parents, the king and queen of your revered nation. Not a soul outside the castle walls had seen their princess since the day of her introduction—the day you were cursed to one day cross the spindle of a spinning wheel, and die.

Well, not die. Your godmother, Rosalie—the twelfth Wise Woman and the only one that mattered in your opinion—had gifted you a chance at survival. 

“The princess will not die upon pricking the spinning wheel. She shall only sleep till… till she receives a display of true, compassionate, unbridled love.”

It was the first thing Rosalie could think of that would lessen the blow of the witch’s spell. 

And yet despite this security, your parents locked you away, terrified of what would happen to their little princess should she cross that fated hunk of wood. Honestly, it was beyond embarrassing being destined to be bested by a hunk of wood, but that’s just your luck, you supposed.

It was also just your luck that one day when you’d just barely given up all hope of living a fulfilling life, a certain crew of pirates found your kingdom, caused the uproar of the century, and managed to help you escape all in just two days. 

With the wind in your face some months later, it seemed all your dreams of grandeur were coming true; far away from your castle, you sailed the seas with real friends at your side. You never worried about your curse, for why would you ever find a spinning wheel at sea? It was silly to fear the fate set before you. 

Rosalie always told you that destiny cannot be fought, but look at you now, proving her wrong. 

(It’s like you were asking for things to go wrong).

The day was windy and bright, with sparse clouds high above and cool grass underfoot. The Going Merry rest at the docks of the little coastal city, Usopp making repairs in record time. You couldn’t help but wish to go out and explore, taking full advantage of your freedom.

You took Zoro with you, of course. You’d never leave the ship without your loyal guard at your side. 

Zoro. What to say about Zoro? In your opinion, he was probably the love of your life, if he ever got over himself and admitted he loved you too. Either way, you would never picture life without him by your side, even if he brushed off all your teasing advances with a roll of his eyes.

“Here,” you motioned him to your side, feeling warm inside with the familiar bump of his shoulder against yours. You picked up one of the ornate golden rings displayed at the market stall before you, grinning like a devil as you lifted your hand to measure it up against your skin. “What do you think? I prefer silver, but gold would match your earrings.”

Zoro, lovely and clueless Zoro, only tilted his head, aforementioned earrings chiming against one another. “I think it's nice, but why d’ya wanna match?”

By the time you slipped the ring on your fourth finger, he saw where this was going. “Hmm, no reason.” You handed the ring back to the seller and smiled up at Zoro’s perturbed, blushing face. 

“Sorry, you’re just so easy to tease.” He grunted in reply, drawing another smile out of you. Your eyes got all misty, like they always did when you looked at Zoro, and the words escaped your lips before you could stop them. “Go out with me.”

Zoro kept his gaze firmly on the sky, his shoulders far too stiff to be comfortable. “We’re… too busy for stuff like that.”

It all felt like a mildly disappointing routine at this point; you asked, he dodged around giving you an explicit no. Perhaps if he actually got the nerve to deny you, you’d have given up, but Zoro always left you with that small hope that one day his answer might change.

Still, something in you held the strong consideration to give up. Lovelorn and yet hopelessly deep, it was a tempting option. Surely, pursuing someone so adamantly disinterested was a lost cause. But what if, you dared to call back, silencing your doubts.

“C’mon,” you relented. “I need some new fabrics.”

You scooped up his hand and he let you drag him down the street to a little boutique on the corner. The door rang when you entered, and Zoro tried to ignore how your hand still clung to his even as the door clicked shut behind you.

“I wanted to make Nami a new dress,” you said as you beelined for the shelf of various fabrics. “You know, to make up for the one I ripped.”

He didn’t try to pull back, only standing at your side as you skimmed your free hand over a set of pinks. “Still don’t get how you ruined it that badly. It was practically in two pieces.”

“You were there. I was in a tree.”

“But why?”

Your silly smile rose to meet his gentle grin. “Because I wanted to? You could have joined me, but no, you stayed all alone on the ground like a loser.”

“If I was in the tree, who would catch ya’ when you fell like an idiot?”

With a scoff, you let go of his hand and picked up some pink and blue fabric, failing to see him watch you longingly. “Touche.”

Zoro was never sure what to make of you—you were like nothing he’d ever faced before. The day you waltzed into his life and started up your little flirtation game was the day Zoro found his most formidable opponent in the love you shared so willingly.

There was your habit of getting into trouble too—trouble he often dragged you out of—which didn’t help much either.

Zoro thought princesses were meant to be graceful and poised, as Vivi was, but you toppled those expectations at the very foundation. At this point, it wasn’t really a question of if he returned your feelings, but if he was able to voice it. As far as Zoro was concerned, the answer would always be a firm no.

As you started to stack the pink and blue on your arm Zoro reached to take them from you, draping the fabric over his shoulder. He returned your appreciative smile with a slight nod, heart warm at how you doted on him with your eyes alone.

Yeah, it was better this way—you waiting for something that would never happen, and him standing stoic at your side, nothing but a loyal companion.

“Miss.” Your voice, calling to the cashier, broke him from his less-than-happy thoughts. “Have you got any purple?” You swiftly turned back to Zoro with a brief, “Robin said she likes purple.”

The cashier looked up from her book, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I just finished some this morning,” she said with a grin, getting up to lift the gate in the counter and motioning for you to follow her into the back of the shop. “I’ll show you.”

Zoro’s skin prickled as you glided after the cashier, shooting him a smile as you disappeared through the door. He was left standing with the odd sense that something was wrong. 

Maybe it was the way a sudden draft hit his back despite there being no ventilation, or maybe it was the fact that you walked under a ladder earlier just to piss him off. Or, perhaps, it was the flash of green in the cashier’s eyes as she passed by a mirror.

Whatever it was, he stayed put, trusting he would be there to help you the moment you needed him. Zoro was always there when you needed him. Neither he nor you had reason to doubt this fact.

You felt completely at ease as you entered a small, dim room full of messy shelves, half-knit sweaters, and heaps of yarn. “Here,” the cashier pointed to a table at the center of the room. “Is this the shade you had in mind?”

A grin split your face as you felt the fabric, marveling at its softness. It was high-quality stuff, definitely not cheap. But you thought of Robin, who had done so much for you, and felt it was worth the possible loan from Nami.

“It’s perfect,” you replied. “How much?”

“Oh, it’s on the house.”

You startled instantly, eyes darting up to find the cashier absent from your side despite her voice being right in your ear. “Come again?”

“You can have it.” Turning slowly, you found the woman sorting through a surplus fo purple fabrics. “I have plenty.”

A gentle laugh escaped you. “Thank you so much. My friend will love it.”

The cashier swiveled on her heel and leaned against the table, head cocked to the side. Had her eyes always been so vibrant an emerald? They almost seemed to glow. “No, thank you, Your Highness.”

Chills ran up your spine at the formal address, all air expelled from your body as you choked out, “Pardon me?”

Caught up in the green of the woman’s eyes, you didn’t notice a misty tendril swirling up your body till it clouded your vision, directing your captured attention to the corner of the room. There in the shadows was a contraption you’d never seen before, yet you knew its purpose instantly. 

The purple string being woven gave it away. How had you not noticed the spinning wheel before? 

The fabric slipped from your fingers and fell to the floor in a lump. You darted for the door, yet your feet never moved an inch, cemented in place. Was that a tear on your cheek? No, it couldn’t be. You never cried. And yet, a salty streak ran from your eye to your jaw now, as if your body knew what your mind denied: your fate had caught you.

“Stop.” You weren’t sure who you spoke to. Your feet that started to creep toward the spindle? The husk of a woman, possessed by some evil spirit of a bitter sorceress? Destiny herself? Whoever you ordered refused to listen as you closed in on the wheel and raised a steady hand.

A half-lived life flashed before your eyes. A princess sat alone in a room, loneliness her only companion. A girl stood on a ship, tasting freedom for the very first time. A woman stared at a man, knowing this was what love felt like. 

A light pinch shocked your whole body, and you finally broke from the spell to find your index finger pierced into the sharpest of spindles. A cackle echoed from every corner of the room as the cashier collapsed on the spot. 

One thought broke through your slowly fading mind. Traitorous, wobbly feet took you to the door, flinging it open and leaning you against the doorframe. Your heavy eyes ached, Zoro’s voice so far away. You didn’t feel his hands on your arms as you sank to the floor.

Your labored, panicked breathing matched your flickering, terrified eyes. “Spindle.”

And you lay fast asleep in Zoro’s arms a moment later, peace written in your features. Your chest rose and fell gently. Zoro gazed down at the sleeping beauty, uttering your name over and over, practically paralyzed�� Until he noticed the tiny bit of blood dripping from your fingertip, and he looked into the ajar room. A spinning wheel stood right in his line of sight, the wheel creaking as it spun slowly.

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .

You had never told any of your friends about the curse, too embarrassed to do so. Was that a lapse in judgment? Perhaps, but you were too asleep to know.

Now Chopper stood at your side, holding his stethoscope over your heart. He set the scope around his neck a moment later, putting his hooves together nervously. Chopper felt the whole crew staring at his back like a brand. “I think—Well, I think she’s sleeping.”

Luffy had been deathly silent through the whole ordeal, not taking his eyes off you since Zoro carried you back to the ship in a hurry. “Then let’s wake her up.”

Sanji slapped a hand over his mouth before Luffy could start yelling, shoving out a sigh. “We tried that, didn’t we? Marimo shook her for five minutes before we could pry him off her.”

Everyone waited for when the swordsman would quip back his own insult, but the usual pattern was thrown off by a strange silence. Even Sanji looked around, confused to find Zoro nowhere in sight. 

Sanji blinked a few times before he placed his hands on his hips. “Now where the fuck is he?”

From the corner, seated in a chair, one leg crossed over the other, Robin spoke up for the first time all evening. Her thoughtful eyes stared into the space ahead of her. “I saw him leave a moment ago. Said he had to get something.”

Not even a second later did Zoro barge down into the galley. In one hand he held a spinning wheel of all things. In the other, he held a woman’s arm in a vice. 

Nami jumped to her feet, aghast. “Zoro, what—?”

He nearly threw the woman before them all, his brows drawn into an expression of ruthlessness. “Well? What did you do to her?!”

With her eyes wide and breaths short, the woman violently shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean!”

Sanji stepped forth intending to sock Zoro in the face for scaring the woman, when Zoro turned on him and spat, “This woman’s the reason she’s—she’s sick!”

That was all it took for Sanji, somehow still poised, to face the terrified woman now encircled by a crowd of frowning pirates. Sanji grabbed the woman’s arm, not as harshly as Zoro had, but just as firmly. “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing,” she sputtered, gazing over at where you laid limply on the table. “I… I remember her. She wanted purple fabric.”

Zoro nearly had the mind to throttle the woman. “You led her into the back room and minutes later she stumbles out and—and sleeps!” He slammed the spinning wheel on the ground, startling everyone around. “She said spindle. What’s this? Some sort of… torture device?”

The woman did nothing but blink at him. “It’s a spinning wheel.”

“What’s it do?”

“It spins.” Suddenly the woman had the nerve of a warrior, righting herself to face Zoro’s glare. “I don’t know what you think I did, but I didn’t. All I know is I led her to the fabric and…” 

All her words fell short as she stuttered to find them, her brows screwing together. “And I don’t remember. I—I don’t remember what happened.”

Sanji seized her shoulders and leveled her with a look. “I need you to remember, madam. It means that girl’s life or death.”

The woman stood frozen, stunned as she stared into Sanji’s eyes, her cheeks turning a concerning shade of pink. Nami rolled her eyes and promptly shoved him out of the way, snapping in the woman’s face. 

“What do you mean you don’t remember?” Nami asked sharply.

“I mean I don’t remember.” Their captive grew increasingly frustrated, and maybe a bit nervous as well. “I walk that bitch into the back, I black out, and I wake up to this guy dragging me out of my home!”

Just as Zoro gasped (“Bitch, huh?”), Robin stood and slowly made her way toward the spinning wheel, running her hand over the wood and grazing a finger over the sharp needle. Inspecting the spindle close, she found a bit of dried blood there. She hummed, keeping everyone on edge, and went toward your sleeping form, grabbing your hands and turning them over. “Ah-ha…”

Zoro stepped forward, anxious. “What?”

“I think she poked herself on the spindle.” Robin made it sound so simple.

Nami tapped her finger to her nose as she pondered. “But why would that make her… sick?”

“Poison?” Chopper offered at the same time Robin answered, “Magic.”

“We don’t have time for speculation,” Sanji gritted as he fished around his pockets for his lighter, cigarette between his teeth. “Can we test for what poison it could be?”

As Chopper started to ramble about some tests he could run, Zoro stared daggers at the spinning wheel. Now, he wasn’t superstitious, but perhaps he was a little stitious, because the longer he stared at the wheel the more he remembered about what transpired in that shop.

“Why would it be magic?” Zoro asked suddenly, silencing the room. 

All eyes found Robin, who was now sitting on your bedside holding your hand. “She’s a princess, right? The princesses in the stories I’ve read dealt with a lot of bad magic.”

Nami shook her head. “This isn’t a story, Robin.”

The debate went on like that, really going nowhere at all, the cashier woman tentatively slinking away during the rabble and inevitably going forgotten. Luffy ignored them all, approaching you and lifting your hand to inspect as if he’d find some kind of sign in your pierced fingertip. 

And just maybe, he did find something. “Hey, Nami?”

She ran a hand over her face as Sanji and Zoro took jab after jab at one another, the stress of your condition getting to the both of them. “Yeah, Luffy?”

He followed a very excited thought bunny here and there, after princesses and stories until it hopped to a stop in front of a certain royal friend of theirs. You appeared next, smiling like he wished you would now. “Vivi? Yeah, I know her. We go way back.”

“Call Vivi,” he ordered, closing the discussion as he too sat at your side and started to poke at your sides, as if tickling you would be enough to break this spell.

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .

Often, your dreams gave way to the most horrible nightmares, and always, you would find refuge in the realm of day. Until now. No matter where you ran a firm sheet of black blocked you in. Air as frigid as the Arctic enveloped you. No friend in sight, no solace from the cold. 

Finally falling still, you blinked, and you stood in the middle of your tower, back in your kingdom. The high-reaching walls created that familiar dome painted with the long-forgotten stories of your people. The marble floors chilled your bare feet. Your bed leered at you from the far wall, whispers inviting you back into its clutches that would send you spiraling further into this forever sleep.

Panic surged up your chest till you gasped for air, losing your grip quicker than you could keep up with. Laughter taunted you from every corner till you started to scream and shout and call out for anyone to help you. But the door held fast against your pulling and thick briar thorns wrapped all around the balcony. 

Still, you clawed at the spiraling thorns, prying to see through, blistering your palms on their heated stalks. Your whimpers were followed by a loud, echoed roar, a harsh gust of wind cast down from the wings of a soaring lizard you’d only ever dreamed of. 

You whirled around to catch a better view of the creature’s mass, clutching at your heart as those gargantuan claws settled down on the tower of your bedroom. Two nostrils blew smoke that encroached the balcony and the depths of your room. The dragon’s eyes held no mercy as she gazed down with malice. 

This curse played a cruel joke, trapping you within the bars of your own mind, turning your fantasies against you. Your every turn showed you more wonders turned horrors the longer you searched for them; the clouds formed words you wouldn’t dare to repeat, the grass down below burned in confusing patterns, and the voices of those you held dear echoed from somewhere nearby.

Your fretful mother. Your paranoid father. The gossiping handmaidens. The superstitious priest. All lamented your fate, screaming how they knew it was a matter of time before the curse finally found you, tearing into you for ever even dreaming of leaving. You really should have stayed. This wouldn’t have happened if you’d piped down and stayed.

Then it was Luffy, Nami, and Usopp. “Why did you ever ask her to join us?” “Not sure. I thought she was something she wasn’t.” “She’s just a liar.” “A dead weight.” “A curse.”

Robin’s voice pierced her eardrums as your knees hit the ground. Why had she ever given you the time of day? Some sheltered little princess without enough common sense to know a spinning wheel when she saw one. And Chopper, his sweet voice turned sour. How pathetic. Beaten by a piece of wood.

The worst of it all was when his voice broke through all the rest despite how she tried to ignore that rumbling tone she once learned to crave. Zoro’s words were direct and clear. She’s finally gone. God, I was this close to just silencing her stupid mouth myself.

To think he would ever actually love her? How foolish of you.

The walls of your dreams closed in swiftly, caging you in and suffocating your hopes till you were left a husk, floating amidst the torment. 

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .

Vivi had been silent for so long Luffy wondered if she’s gotten distracted and walked off. Nami shuffled closer to the snail transponder. “Vivi?”

“Sorry,” her voice reappeared, a slight crack to it. “I just… you said she pricked a spindle?” Nami hummed in agreement, and Vivi expelled a long sigh. “She’s been asleep since? You can’t wake her?”

“That’s what we said,” Zoro snapped, shutting up at Nami’s sharp glare.

“It’s just… I mean, I’ve only heard stories. She only talked about it once, in a letter she wrote to me. That’s the only way we could talk since her parents locked her away—”

“Stories about what, Vivi?” Nami guided the tense princess back as Zoro started to pace back and forth, his hands raking at his hair.

She was silent for two whole seconds, and then, “The curse.”

The whole room fell still.

“They say a dark Wise Woman cursed her when she was baby, so that one day, she would prick her finger on a spinning wheel’s spindle… and die.” She rushed to amend herself, “But then another Wise Woman fixed it. She won’t die, but fall asleep… until someone shows her an act of true, unconditional love.”

For a long while the whole room is held captive by silence, eyes flickering to where you snoozed nearby. Zoro couldn’t look away. The way you looked so peaceful pained him in a way, knowing you were trapped in a place he couldn’t save you from. At least the tiny grin on your face gave him confidence your everlasting dreams were nice.

“How do we do that?” he heard himself asking.

“I—I don’t know. I thought it was a story to justify her isolation—”

“Well, obviously not.”

“Zoro,” Nami’s words cut sharply. “Take a walk.”

“But—”

“Walk.”

He stood with as much noise as he could, knocking his chair back and stomping out of the room. Zoro stopped just at the door to cast a look at you, highly aware of the eyes of everyone on him. His hand closed around the doorframe, his heart tightening, and he left without another word. 

Letting the others see how much he cared for you would just make everything infinitely worse. Zoro couldn’t handle that level of teasing on top of your sickness.

Zoro stepped out onto the deck, now basked in moonlight, and rushed to lean against the railing. His skin felt feverish in contrast to the cold dread coursing through his veins. Why hadn’t you said anything? Sure, he probably wouldn’t have believed you, but maybe… maybe he wouldn’t have let you leave his side so quickly.

And now this? This formidable task would supposedly save you. An act of true love? What could that even mean?

With his eyes on the sky, Zoro let out a shaken sigh. He would tear every one of those stars down if it meant you would be okay. Would that be enough for this curse? Or would he have to take down the moon as well and lay it at your feet?

No… no, certainly nothing he could do would ever be strong enough to save you. For so long he’d put off your advances, too stubborn to face the emotions building up in his heart… Zoro doubted he held the strength to perform such an act, and that notion threatened to crush him. 

He too had read the stories Robin spoke of; stories of princes who swooped in and saved the princess with a kiss. You needed one of them—those princes—and Zoro was far from royalty.

If anything, he was the knight in rusted armor who failed.

But, an idea crept out of the depths of his mind, crawling to the surface till his heart pumped at the possibility. He was no prince, no knight, and no cursebreaker—but Zoro was a hunter.

He burst back into the galley with a crazed look in his eyes. “Vivi?”

Her voice crackled out from the startled snail. “Yes?”

“Where do we find this Wise Woman?”

Not even a day later, the crew set out on the sea once more, a new destination in mind: the secluded island of the so-called wise and elusive faeries. 

Zoro stood at your bedside, too afraid to reach out and take your hand, making a solemn oath.

“I will find a way to save you if it is the last thing I do.”

If only the swordsman would have known—the strongest of magic lies in promises. If only Zoro had the eye to see the tendrils of magic curling around your sleeping body, tightening around you as the curse shivered away from his declaration. Spirits hissed from the corners fo the room and shied away from the mere passion behind his eyes. Somewhere distant a sorceress coiled her fists around nothing as her hold on the slumbering princess slipped through, little by little. Could he have fathomed it, he would have known he held more honor than the mightiest of princes. 

But he couldn’t fathom it, so he failed to notice the magic encircling his heart, seeking out any cracks in his steel-strong pride. There were none to find. The magic had nowhere to go, and until the hunter’s pride wore down, nothing would change. 

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .

Your godmother turned out to be a real bitch, by Zoro’s standards. First off, she was waiting for them on the shore, like a creep. In her witchy get-up, Zoro could have mistaken her for the one he meant to run through with his sword. 

“What’re you supposed to be,” he sneered as she made her way up the gangway, practically making herself on home on the deck. 

She met his glare equally. “I’m your only hope, dear. Now wipe that look off your face. You’ll get stuck like that.”

Rosalie took control of the situation in her stride, heading down to the galley and acting as if she owned the place. Only Nami seemed to be put off by this, standing at Zoro’s side with her arms folded as the rest of the crew gathered around the Wise Woman.

“She was always too stubborn for her own good,” said Rosalie fondly, a tiny grin on her lips. “Luckily for you, Carabose never strays far from the island. It’s the source of our power, and the poor, scaly, greedy thing would just die if she lost her magic.”

The radiant faerie pulled her dark curls forth, scrunching up her angular nose as she thought of the witch to blame for her dear princess’s condition. She sucked in a breath and released it harshly, suddenly appearing much older than before. “I must thank you. My princess deserves so much more, and you managed to give it to her, if only for a little while.”

“You talk as if she’s dead,” Nami grumbled. The look Rosalie gave her then was far less than comforting.

“Well, unless you have a source for true love nearby, she’s as good as it.” Zoro’s hand closed around the hilt of his sword, his eyes slamming shut as that grief washed over him again. Rosalie’s eyes flickered to him, an unnoticeable shine in her eye and a tilt in her lips. 

(Wise Women see much more than the normal eye, and just now Rosalie spotted the remarkable fuchsia tendrils of a very special kind of magic, so rare many thought it mere myth… yet it was swirling around the swordsman’s heart).

She turned to face the crew in their entirety, her expression grave. “Only the caster may raise a curse unless it is broken according to certain parameters. I may be able to deal with Carabose through negotiation. We… have a history.” Rosalie ruffled slightly. “She might have mercy and relinquish the curse herself.”

Zoro scoffed, drawing the faerie’s attention. “And if she doesn’t?”

Rosalie’s eyes flashed. “Then I’ll cut her down and hope that is enough.”

Sanji shook his head, blinking like he was forcing himself to deny Rosalie’s beauty. “And what will we do?”

“You’ll be with me. If Carabose dies and she does not wake… one of you will have to make a sacrifice.” Rosalie assessed them all with cool eyes, reveling in their discomfort, till she cracked a smile and tossed her head back. “I jest, I jest! However, we will need to come up with a display of true love after the deed is done and our princess has not woken.”

Zoro continued to bristle at the faerie’s coolness, grinding his teeth as she floated about the room, mumbling to herself. He dropped his swords on the table with a clang, startling Rosalie. “I can kill the witch myself. Give me ten minutes, and it’ll be done.”

“I know you are desperate to save your friend, Swordsman,” Rosalie simpered. “But you’ll be staying here.”

His blood was boiling at this point. The plan at hand was hardly what he’d had in mind. Zoro shook his head firmly and grasped his composure tightly. “I need to do something.”

“And you will! You’ll be guarding our princess.” Rosalie dared to set a hand on Zoro’s shoulder, making him go all stiff till he caught her steely gaze. “Carabose controls many of the spirits of the island. I wouldn’t put it past her to send one of them to whisk the princess away. You perhaps have the most important job of all.”

Yeah, right. Zoro locked eyes with Nami over the faerie’s shoulder, sharing a silent agreement as he shrugged the woman off. “Nami can stay behind—”

“No.” Rosalie’s grip tightened around his shoulder as the temperature dropped instantly. “You will stay, and Nami will come along.” Her smile felt sinister. “I am Rosalie of the Wise Women, and you are just a man with a sword. I have conquered kingdoms in the name of her parents. What have you done?” 

“I’ll kill the witch,” he said weakly. “And I’ll save her.”

“Kill the witch,” she mocked him. “You mean to tell me that’s an act of true love, swordsman?” Rosalie leaned in close, her voice as soft as wind. “How can you say you love her when you let her go, Roronoa Zoro. Now stay put and don’t make the same mistakes twice.”

She swept away as swiftly as she’d closed in, leaving Zoro breathless and unsteady. Rosalie clapped her hands together and faced Luffy with a grin. “Now, Captain. You understand the plan?”

Luffy looked all around, making eye contact with each of his crewmates, till he found Zoro, who leaned against the wall having some sort of crisis. Words rose up to his tongue, ready to lash out and tear the faerie to bits when he saw it. The tendrils were growing brighter. Slowly, he turned to Rosalie, who met his gaze unblinkingly. “Yeah, I got it.”

Usopp shifted uncomfortably. “Uh, Luffy, I don’t think—”

“I trust her,” he declared, and that was that. Usopp nodded, followed by the reluctant rest. Zoro’s eyes flashed up to meet his captains, unsure about how confident Luffy was, but not willing to ever doubt his friend. 

“Splendid,” Rosalie simpered. “I’ve no doubt Carabose is waiting for us, so we’d do best to keep up our guards.”

As she rounded everyone up and led them out of the galley and off the ship, Nami brought Zoro aside, her brows furrowed. “I don’t like this,” she murmured. “But I trust Luffy.” Zoro grunted as if to agree, his eyes unfocused. Nami gave his shoulder a pat as she passed him. “Just stay with her. Who knows, maybe she’ll know you’re there.”

And Zoro found himself all alone, the ship a deathly quiet he had never witnessed before. He could hear his every breath and feel the rock of the ship. A creak came from somewhere nearby, pinching at a sensitive part of his mind. Zoro took a few weightless, shallow steps down the hall, his hand running against the wall, until he came face to face with the door of your bedroom. 

Too long he stared at the door before he shoved at it, swinging it open wide. Zoro surged inside with so much gusto his muscle memory urged him to reach for his swords, but he’d left them in the galley. Instead, his hand grasped at air whilst he vacantly stared about the room. 

You lay soundlessly atop your bed, hands crossed over your chest like a corpse. Zoro instantly moved to adjust your arms, laying them instead at your sides. There, that was better.

His brows screwed together; where a smile had earlier been gracing your lips, a firm frown now replaced it. Your face contorted, your mind plagued by an enemy Zoro couldn’t fight. Ensuring he didn’t make a sound, Zoro took a knee and drew close to your face, folding his arms on the edge of your bed and resting his head there.

Sweat beaded along your forehead, distress clear on your face. Without thinking Zoro reached to wipe it away with the back of his hand, initiating a kind of intimate contact only you had ever thrust upon him. He shocked himself, frozen with his hand on your cheek before he cleared his throat and returned to his original position.

Hours he stayed like that, eyes dutifully watching over your face, pulse spiking at every sign of distress caught in your features. Your brows pinched together, lips parting as a strangled sigh left you.

Perhaps… Zoro threw caution to the wind and reached for your hand. You didn’t budge, but—and maybe he was seeing things—it looked like your face softened up a little bit. So he stayed just like that, rubbing circles into the back of your hand.

He lifted his gaze to the window, where the sun was beginning to set once again. “Wonder if the others found that witch yet…” They could be fighting for their lives, if Rosalie’s dumb plan fell through. He should be out there. Zoro’s eyes flickered all around the blue sky, worry eating at him, till he finally rose to his feet and dropped your hand. 

“I’ll be back—” Your instant whine had Zoro practically jumping out of his skin and descending back to your side all at once. “I mean, they can probably handle it. I’m still here.”

Your face returned to a state of calm as if you’d never moved at all. He scoffed out a laugh, murmuring fondly, “You little shit.” Again, little shifts in your expression hinted at a nightmare. “What’s goin’ on in there, huh?”

(Your dreams had taken a drastic turn. Dragon fire shot past your head, close enough to singe your eyelashes. The broom you’d taken up as a weapon splintered against the scaly back of your guard. The serpent burned away at the roof of your room, circling like a vulture, taunting echoes slipping off her forked tongue. As your eyes continued to flutter, sleep beckoning like a long-lost friend, you didn’t dare to succumb to the call. Should you sleep, you felt certain you would never, ever wake up. 

Yet, you were so tired. It couldn’t hurt… if you rested your eyes… if only to escape the taunting of his voice. He’s glad you’re good as dead. He never had to deal with your pining ever again. 

Every echo of doubt had you believing that just maybe, it might be true, sending you deeper into this eternal insanity).

“Zoro.”

The swordsman didn’t breathe. He couldn’t. “I’m here.” If his words had any effect on the state of you, it didn’t show. You only rustled sharply, eyes flickering all around behind your eyelids… until you fell deadly still. “Hey now. Don’t slip away just yet.”

Again, he took up your hand, willing you to keep giving him signs that you weren’t too deep into slumber. “An act of true love. Sanji could probably pull one of those out of his ass.” That thought sent him on a tangent, pictures of your effervescent smile flashing across his mind. 

Days ago, he’d been so secure on never revealing his feelings to you. The pair of you would have lived all your lives revolving around one another until you inevitably gave up, and it would be for the best. Right then and there, though, Zoro felt certain if he never looked into your eyes again he would never forgive himself for every time he turned you away. 

“I’ve always wondered,” he whispered. “Why you don’t just go after the lovecook. It’d be a hell of a lot easier than dealing with me.” 

Zoro made himself comfortable, leaning his head on the bed. “If… when you wake up, let’s go do something, like you wanted. You like painting, right? We’ll go painting. I’ll probably offend the very act of art, but maybe you’ll laugh at me, and it’ll be okay. I’ll throw paint in your hair and you’ll punch me, and it’ll be a real good time.”

Nothing. Your chest rose and fell at a concerningly slow pace. “When we get you back… I’ll apologize. For being an idiot.” Had your lips always been so dry? “But you have to wake up to hear it.”

Your condition remained unchanged… save for the stark silence coming from your nose, and the eerie stillness of your chest. Zoro’s gut churned. You were only meant to sleep, so why weren’t you breathing?

(The sleeping beauty dared to lie down, the tower burning all around her, at ease among the encroaching flames).

His hand felt at you heart, his own stuttering at how faint yours was beating. You looked so blank. Not a flaw in your void expression. Zoro, on the verge of pleading to gods he didn’t believe in, again reached for a sword that wasn’t there as a bone-chilling chuckle echoed from every corner. 

“You can’t save her~” sang a ghostly voice, right into his ear. 

Zoro slammed his ear down on his shoulder to rid himself of the shiver running down his spine. Whipping around, he ground his jaw enough to hear the chip in his teeth. “Watch me, witch.”

Her laughter mocked him. “How? You’re no prince. No knight. What’re you going to do, warrior? Kiss her and hope your honor is enough?” Carabose appeared in a misty shadow behind him, surging through his body like a specter, sending him keeling to the floor. “The princess’ soul has long belonged to me. True love doesn’t exist. Rosalie should’ve known that.”

“You’re wrong!” Zoro bellowed, something deep in his heart constricting, building up a fire in his bones. 

“Oh,” the witch hummed darkly. “I’m sure. This isn’t a fairytale, boy. Kisses don’t wake princesses… and simple swordsmen don’t save them.”

The witch’s cackle faded even as he slashed at the air with his arm, wild eyes searching till they landed back on you, unnervingly calm. If Carabose’s intention was to have her spirits discourage Zoro, she fairly succeeded; but she also succeeded in something else—giving him something to prove.  

His shoulders sunk as he just stared, taking in the hopeless sight before him. It was much too late to confess to his sleeping beauty. Even if they did find a way to wake her, who was to say she would still want him? What if some hero swoops in and takes her away?

He would be deserving of that fate, Zoro thinks, his foolishness crashing down on him even as he falls to his knees at your side once more. 

Make a note that Roronoa Zoro doesn’t believe in magic. It’s all make-believe to help children see the good in the world. He knew that full and well, deep in his heart. But something he knew with far greater certainty is that he would do anything to have the chance to love you as you loved him. 

Magic wasn’t real. But what if? Zoro felt silly for daring to think it, but even then his hand reached to cup your cheek. Wasn’t there truth to every story? Kissing princesses didn’t make the world all right. Fairytales don’t come true. 

But the sun was setting on another day with you held down by this curse, and Zoro felt pathetic and weak and he had no other plan at hand. 

“I’m an idiot,” he confessed the obvious. “I never choose what’s easy except when it comes to you. Which made it difficult, which defeated the purpose and—Never mind.” Peaceful despite the circumstances, you never stirred an inch. “Please wake up. Please… Or I’ll look really, really stupid.”

One hand on your cheek, the other bracing himself against the bed, Zoro pressed the most delicate of kisses atop your cold lips, a horrifying shiver shooting through him at how it felt like kissing a corpse. Lingering, he drew back, breath staggered at how nothing happened. You didn’t shoot awake. Not a muscle in your body twitched. Your eyes didn’t move.

“Please,” he mumbled over your lips, his forehead colliding with yours in a desperate plea. “Wake up. Wake up so I can tell you I love you.”

Unseen magic exploded around the room, wrapping around the swordsman and the princess as pride and honor were laid down at the feet of a curse that died with the far-off scream of a thwarted witch.

(The sleeping princess blinked awake, squinting from the blinding light filtering in through the open ceiling. The dragon faded to mist and the fires blew out with a hush. Words the princess had only ever dreamed of hearing echoed down to her ears, and everything went white).

You awoke from the most horrible sleep, your bones and body aching as something like a cold fever washed over you. A shallow breath fizzled out of you right before your lungs brought in as much air as they could take. Eyes flinging open, your surroundings came into focus in an instant, and you found a figure looming over you with the funniest expression.

Zoro’s face was white as a sheet, eyes wide and brows vaulted, his lips parted. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost, and a laugh left you before you could stop it. You smiled with no abandon as Zoro’s hand traced your jaw. “What’s this about?”

And it all came rushing back like a punch to your gut as Zoro’s eyes bore into you. Your lips fell into a shocked gape. “You kissed me?”

“I… uhm…” 

You slowly sat upright, hands in your lap, head tilted as you admired the man before you in a light like never before. “You love me?”

His eyes pinched shut, and you feared he regretted his confession. Perhaps it was a heat-of-the-moment thing. Maybe he didn’t mean it and you’re stupid for ever thinking he might—

“I do.” He looked as breathless as you felt. “I do love you.”

An eternity could have passed and you wouldn’t have known nor cared, all too caught up in etching his face into your memory. Hesitant, you rose to your knees, bed covers shoved aside, and your hands went to cup his face tenderly. “Tell me again.”

Warmth flooded his cheeks as your thumbs ran over his cheekbones, drawing his eyes back to yours every time they dared to flicker away. He melted into you, one hand falling to your waist and the other cupping behind your thigh. “I love you.”

Another smile burst across your face. “I love you too.” You leaned in close, nudging your nose at his cheek. “I’m gonna kiss you.”

Zoro cracked a grin, his eyes fluttering. “Okay.”

“And kiss you.” 

“Fine by me.”

“I’ll never sleep again. I’m only going to kiss you until they pry me off you, my handsome, lovely, cursebreaker swordsman—Mmph!”

His lips cut you off, surging forth to catch you unguarded. Zoro’s arms pulled you in quickly as you pushed in just as firmly, hands raking through his hair. Years you waited and years you longed. Countless nights you laid awake intending to give up come morning, only to fall back into his eyes. 

All for this. The day your soul knew would come even when your heart was doubting. 

“I love you,” you broke away to say, simply because you could.

And no witch, no curse, no destiny would ever keep you from telling him. 

Giggling at nothing at all, you leaned into him and wrapped him up in your arms, head falling to his shoulder. Your eyes drifted behind him, your whole body freezing at the sight in the corner. “What the fuck is that doing here?”

Zoro nearly broke his neck whipping it around only to choke on a laugh. The spinning wheel sat humbly to the side, purple string still running through it. “Probably was a bad idea to keep it in here.”

“You think!” You lightly flicked his nose and got a little grunt out of him. “Let’s burn it.”

A bonfire awaited the crew as they returned, their egos bruised and spirits low despite their defeat of the Wise Woman Carabose. Every last one of them nearly screamed when they saw you stoking the pillar of fire with the brightest smile on your face, Zoro’s arm round your shoulder.

You teetered this way and that, tossed around as they hugged the life out of you. Laughter came easy and the night drew long, stories of their victory recounted and certain questions about your recovery proposed.

“You needed an act of true love,” Chopper wondered, never straying far from your side as he clung to your arm. “So what happened?”

You weren’t at all subtle in your direct look at Zoro, who coughed and averted his eyes to the suddenly very interesting ground. “Someone got off their high horse and—”

“All right!” Zoro laughed awkwardly. “Cook, where’d you put the extra sake?”

Nami silently awed as she dragged you and Robin aside, begging to know exactly what happened. Somewhere through the night, Usopp looked around, lowering his glass from his lips. “What happened to Rosalie?”

You tripped over nothing at that name. “What? My godmother?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “She helped us find Cara-bitch, or whatever… When did she disappear?”

Everyone took a moment to think, blinking quickly as a single answer was formed: they didn’t know.

“That sounds like her. I just wish I could’ve said hello,” you said. 

Zoro hovered at your side, his hand ghosting over yours. “She was weird anyway.”

“Hey!”

The fire fizzled out somewhere close to dawn, though the celebration seemed far from over. Your eyes felt heavy and your body too, but every time you fell too much into drowsiness, cold terror tore through you. You weren’t joking when you declared you’d never sleep again; the prospect petrified you.

“C’mon,” Zoro muttered when your head fell to his shoulder and shot back up for the sixth time. “You need to rest.”

“I’ve slept enough—”

“That’s not what I said.” Zoro stood and offered you a hand, a gentle smile warming you from the inside out. You shoved your hand into his and started the trek below deck, departure unnoticed.

As you passed your bedroom, you stopped and stared at your bed just three seconds before you bee-lined to Zoro’s door, leading him along behind you. Dazedly, you waltzed around each other, preparing for sleep even as your heart pounded in your head. 

“What if I don’t wake up?” you wondered aloud as Zoro sunk into bed.

His eyes found yours and you swore you fell even deeper. “You will.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I love you.”

That fact was one of the only real things either of you knew, and for now, it was enough. 

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @100520s

[impala-dreamer]

The Beat Of Your Heart

A Supernatural Story

~ Friends become lovers who turn into the darkest evil that one can endure... ~

Dean Winchester x F!Reader; Michael!Dean x F!Reader

8,587 Words

NSFW, Fluff, Cute Banter, Friends To Lovers, There Was Only One Bed!?, All the Sex, Passionate Love, Hope, *record scratch*, Extreme Angst, Violence, NonCon, Torture, Blood, Major Character Death

For @jacklesversebingo “Friends to Enemies to Lovers” square

JacklesBingo Masterlist

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

She wasn’t bound by metal or rope. He hadn’t held her down with force or threatened her obedience with a blade. He had simply invited her to sit in the plush white armchair in front of the large wall of windows and she’d complied. 

As the sky darkened over the Chicago skyline, she sat with a blank expression, utterly frozen by fear. Her legs were crossed at the ankles and she held her hands clasped in her lap. She waited for him to speak, to move, to attack- she had no idea what was coming and it terrified her more than the icy flight he’d taken her on. 

Ripped off her feet in the middle of the street, he’d wrapped an arm around her middle and taken to the skies. The air was frigid; his grip unyielding. She’d hid her face from the cold, cringing into the lapels of his coat, and held on as tightly as she could. 

Minutes? An hour? A Day? She had no idea how long they moved through the clouds, but it was long enough to say a prayer and beg for help. 

There was no answer except his callous laughter in her ear. 

“They’re not coming to save you.” 

Those were the only words he’d spoken before and since. 

Y/N watched as he got comfortable. He took off his cap and carefully shed his coat. The ensemble was strange and only added to the unease in her gut. 

Dean would never wear something so tailored, so proper. 

Michael wore it well. 

He paid her no mind while walking around the posh suite. He hung his coat in the closet and placed his cap on the empty shelf above the rail. He checked his countenance in the mirror and ran a hand through his hair, setting it back in place after the long, windy flight. 

Y/N let her eyes turn to the room. Despite his seeming familiarity with the area, the place seemed untouched. The bed was made with crisp corners and perfect lines. Every fiber of the white carpet was fluffed and in place; every pillow on the couch was plump. The walls were paneled in dark mahogany wood, interspersed with calming muted blue trim and highlights. Prints of black and white cities hung catty corner on the walls by the door, and dual vases of tall white orchids framed the large bed. Everything was in perfect order, fit for a celebrity in residence.

The seating area she occupied held a bar to the left and Michael busied himself there, filling two crystal glasses halfway with scotch. 

He held one up to the window, letting the evening sun shine through. He turned it slowly and a tiny rainbow swept across his cheek. 

She couldn’t take her eyes off of it, or him. 

Michael’s eyes turned to her and narrowed. He rounded the bar and offered her the glass in his right hand. She hesitated but ultimately took it. One last drink for the doomed. 

“I’ve never had a taste for alcohol,” Michael said, settling into the chair opposite her. “But Dean’s… tongue seems to enjoy it.”

She shivered at the name, at the idea that Dean was sitting there but not. That Dean’s voice was speaking to her but not. She raised her glass and mustered up the courage to go down without giving him the satisfaction of seeing her fear. 

“To your health,” she toasted. 

He grinned and lifted his tumbler. “To yours.”

Michael took a delicate sip, but Y/N drank hers down in three hard gulps, hoping the sting would clear her head and the alcohol would steel her nerves. 

“Gluttony… How quaint.”

Michael never seemed to blink. His eyes stayed clear and focused on her face no matter how she reacted or moved. 

“Yeah, well, I was thirsty.” She clung to the glass as if it were the only thing holding her together. Her fingers tensed so tightly over the intricate designs cut into the sides, she wondered if she would bleed. “So, this is your… lair or whatever?”

He laughed gently at the term. “It’s just a room.”

Y/N nodded and looked away as if scanning the decor. “You bring all your victims here?” 

Michael took another drink. “Only the special ones.” 

“I’m special?” Y/N managed an impressed laugh. “Well, at least I got that goin’ for me.” She went to take another sip and remembered she was out of scotch. Holding up the glass, she shook it a bit and nodded towards the bar. “You mind?” 

Michael nodded slowly and Y/N managed to peel herself off the chair and walk on shaky legs to the bar. 

“Do you not think you are special?” he asked, not bothering to look over his shoulder at her. 

“Not at the moment, no.” Y/N unscrewed the bottle and tipped it into her glass. She drank it down quickly and refilled. Drunk was better than feeling the pain of whatever was coming. 

“Dean certainly believed that you were. He… begged me not to harm you.” 

His words stung her deep and she knocked back a third shot. 

“Oh?” 

“He’s… struggling even now.” Michael rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. “He’s screaming… beating his fists… ordering me to set you free.” 

Y/N swallowed back the hurt and guilt. “Yeah, that sounds like Dean.” A fourth pour filled her glass. “He probably won’t stop, so maybe you should just vacate and go about your business in another suit.” 

Michael exhaled sharply and the lights flickered. His hand opened and closed over the arm of the chair, tensing over the fabric in an attempt to calm himself. 

He growled. “Come sit, Y/N.” 

She grabbed the bottle and followed his command. 

Michael set his unfinished scotch on the glass coffee table next to them and sat back, his spine straight, his face a cool mask of authority. 

“You need to contain your… attitude.”  

The sharpness in his voice forced fear to coat her skin. Goosebumps rose on her arms and chest as she sat down, pressing as far into the back of the chair as she could. 

“Hard not to be sassy when you’re on your deathbed.” She hid her shaking hand by gripping the glass and taking a heavy sip. “Kinda wanna go out with a bang.” 

She expected anger to follow, but Michael tipped his head to the side, curiously staring at her. 

“You are special, aren’t you?” He leaned forward a bit, peering deeper into her soul. 

Y/N could feel the prying gaze as if he were methodically peeling back her being layer by layer. A tightness closed around her heart and she held her breath for fear of crying out. 

“Dean was right in that assertion.” Michael dipped his chin and his eyes glowed a faint blue as a trickle of his Grace seeped free. “I have no concept of physical beauty, but… your… soul is quite intriguing. Your mind…” 

The intrusive feeling worked its way up to her head and Y/N felt as if her brain were swelling. A migraine-like throbbing began at her temples and she shut her eyes tight. 

“...Very impressive…” He licked his lips slowly as if tasting her essence. “Not overly intelligent, but you do make up for it in… what do they say? Personality.”

She wanted to snap back with a witty dig, but the pain worsened. His Grace prodded her mind and the throbbing grew worse, spreading across her scalp and localizing between her eyes. The bottle and glass fell to the floor as she grabbed her head. The amber liquid ran free, soaking into the pure white carpet. 

Pain spread like fire through a labyrinth, following the pathways between the gray matter of her brain.  “S-stop!”

Impressed, Michael’s mouth turned up in a half smile, and he dug in deeper. 

“The way your human brains work is so… fascinating.” 

Y/N’s eyes rolled back, unable to focus. She clawed at the sides of her head, desperate to ease the pain or at least divert it. 

“Electrical impulses shoot through every cell, keeping the brain alive… controlling the body… but the real you- your… soul… is in there as well.”

Nausea struck her and Y/N doubled over, dry heaving with her head between her knees. “Please! Stop…”

“What you perceive as ‘You’ is crammed up in the folds and crevices of your physical brain and yet… If I take you away… The brain still functions.” 

She hit the floor with a trembling cry. The vice in her head was tightening and she was sure she’d be gone in less than a minute. 

“So what good is your soul, Y/N?” he asked, falling to one knee and hovering over her. Curled in the fetal position, she had no defenses against his hand, or the Grace he pushed harder into her skull. “What are you if not a heavenly battery?” Michael traced a finger slowly down her cheek and the pain stopped. 

With a gasping breath, she sat up and scrambled away. She coughed hard, blinked to clear her vision, and tried to stand. Her legs were numb, her arms practically useless. “Why are you doing this?” she asked, barely a whisper above her tears. 

Michael spread his hands in a holy gesture. “Because I can. Because it’s slowly killing your lover.”

Her eyes went wide. Tears stung but she refused to look away. “Dean?” 

“Yes.” Michael smiled softly. “He’s fighting me. Clawing at me.” He sighed. “He wants you safe but… I think this is more fun.” 

Her stomach churned. “This is fun for you?” 

He shrugged. “Not really, but it is amusing hearing him beg for your life.” Michael closed his eyes for a moment, listening to Dean plead and threaten. “So sad.” 

Panting, Y/N fell forward onto her hands and knees. She was as close to him as she dared get, and she grit her teeth, hoping Dean could hear her. 

“Fuck. You.” 

Michael laughed. 

“You pathetic excuse for an archangel.” Her body ached but she pushed on, watching the twitch in his jaw as his anger surged. “I’ve met angels. Hell, I fucked one once. But you- you are no angel…” 

Electric blue flashed through his eyes and Michael sucked in a deep breath. “Are you sure you wish to continue?”  

Y/N pushed herself up, rising as he did. “Oh, I am. You distorted, alternate universe, bland Xerox copy of an angel.” She swayed on her feet but defiance kept her upright even as Michael towered over her. “I’m amazed you can even possess Dean, you weak excuse for the Commander of the Holy Hosts.”

Having had enough of her, Michael lifted his left hand and sent Y/N flying back towards the window with a burst of ethereal strength. Her scream echoed through the room, covered only by the sound of glass as it shattered around her. 

Pushed through the window, Y/N felt a moment of pure weightlessness before gravity took hold. Her body was pulled by the ground and she began to plummet the twenty-seven stories to the cement below. 

She held her breath against the rushing wind and the sting of a million shards of glass cutting into her flesh. 

She stared up into the pink dusk of sunset and said goodbye to the world, to Dean, to everything above and below.

“Holy shit!” Y/N doubled over, hands clutching her knees as she panted, amazed and out of breath from the fight. “That was insane.”  

Dean rushed up behind her. His boots came into view and Y/N looked up in time to see him collapse against the Impala’s hood. He leaned back and exhaled heavily. His face was splashed in blood; the left pocket of his green canvas jacket torn by fangs.

She cringed and reached for his pocket. “Did it bite you?”

Swallowing hard, Dean shook his head and reached into the canvas. “No. Just took a chunk out of my damn phone.” He pulled the useless thing out and flashed her the screen. It was punctured by a single hole that shattered the glass in a thick web. 

“Well, it’s… just a screen,” she said hopefully. “They can replace it.”

With an annoyed brow lifted, Dean flipped the device over and showed the three additional holes piercing through the phone.

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

She laughed. 

He rolled his eyes and shoved the ruined cell back into his pocket. “Fucking dogs.” 

Y/N’s initial shock returned and her jaw dropped. “Right? Have you ever seen a pack of demon-possessed dogs before? How- What?”

Dean laughed this time. “I have not.” He scrubbed a hand down his face and pulled away a glob of fur and blood. “Ew.” 

Y/N tried to politely hide the fact that she nearly gagged as he flicked the muck aside. 

“You’ve got a bit…” He pointed at her throat and then gestured to his own, showing her where to search. 

“Oh, come on!” She beat at the side of her neck and smacked the mess away. “So gross!” 

“Could be worse.”

“How?”

Dean looked from her to the house they’d left behind and shrugged. “Yeah, I don’t know.” 

Laughter trickled between them. 

“I’m glad you called,” Dean said offhandedly as his gaze returned to her. “I’d hate to hear through the grapevine that you’d been ripped to shreds by a pack of wild purebreds.” 

Y/N ran a hand over her hair and tugged at her ponytail, tightening the elastic. “I’m so confused. Why purebred poodles? Why?”  

Dean shook his head and bit his lip, just as confused. “Wish I could tell you I understood this shit. I don’t. I just kill it.” 

She let out a heavy breath and lay a hand on her chest. “Fuck, my heart is beating so fast!” Amazed, she took a step closer to Dean. “Feel it-” Taking his hand, she covered her heart. 

He could feel it pounding, racing to restore blood flow to the proper areas while her muscles relaxed. “Damn…” 

He didn’t move to pull back and she didn’t cringe. They stood in the newborn quiet for a moment, just enjoying the fact that they were alive and the problem had been solved. 

When awkward struck hard, Dean smiled shyly and took a step back. 

Y/N coughed a bit under her breath and looked away. 

He cleared his throat.

“So, yeah-” 

“You wanna-”

He froze. “I’m sorry?” 

She laughed. “I was just gonna ask if you wanted to go grab some food. I’m strangely starving.” 

Dean exhaled away a breath of worry and licked his lip. “As long as you’re buyin’ I’m eatin’.” He fished the car keys from his pocket and walked around to the driver’s side. 

“Me?” Y/N followed to the car, yanking open the passenger door with a loud creak of metal on metal. “I saved your life in there, man. I think you owe me.” 

He paused with one foot in the car and squinted over the roof. “Who saved who now?” 

“I saved you,” she said again, hopping in. “That hair-bowed bitch had you by the short an’ curlies before I got to you.” 

The leather crackled under his weight and the door eeked shut. “I had it under control.” 

“Sure you did.”

He turned the key and shot her a look over his shoulder as she settled into the seat. She was sassy and cute, and only slightly annoying. He liked hanging out with her, so he’d give her this one. 

“Well…” The engine roared to life and he cranked it into gear. “Thanks.”   

Y/N rolled down the window and took a breath of fresh air. A smile lit her lips and she sighed happily. He was fun. Annoying and stupid at times, but brave and kind. She liked being around him, so she decided not to push it too far. But a little never hurt anybody. 

“You can thank me with extra cheese.”

Dean laughed. “Deal.”

Y/N woke with a gasping scream, finding herself safe on the plush mattress and not splattered like a bug on the Chicago pavement. 

Michael was nearby, tinkering with something on the dresser by the foot of the bed. 

She cleared her throat and felt each rip her screams had caused. “What happened?” 

Michael turned his head, slowly looking over his shoulder at her. “You were angering me, so I stopped you.” 

Her heart was racing, terror pulsing through her limbs. She sat up against the pillows. “You- You pushed me out of the fucking window!” 

The glass-less window showed her the truth, letting in cold streams of air and the faint sounds of traffic below. 

“I did warn you.” 

The icy air hit her skin and Y/N looked down to see that she was naked. A hundred tiny cuts marred her arms and neck, but they no longer bled. Michael had healed them enough to keep her alive. He’d saved her from being crushed by gravity and concrete, but for what?

Y/N hugged her chest and crossed her legs, hiding her body as best she could. 

“Why did you save me?” she asked, calmer yet trembling. 

Michael turned around and she saw that his clothing had been reduced to a simple white t-shirt and plain white boxers. She shivered at the sight. Dean’s broad shoulders, muscular arms, thick thighs- but it was wrong. So wrong. 

“I wasn’t finished with you,” he replied simply. “I’m not through… examining you.” 

Her stomach flipped. “Examining me?” 

“Studying… observing… experimenting.” 

The word dried her mouth, tugged at her heart, flashed horrific scenes behind her eyes. “What- what are you going to do to me?” 

A bit of metal flashed in his hand as he approached. He held the scalpel tight between two fingers and knelt on the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight and Y/N cowered higher up against the padded headboard.

“I’ve looked into your mind, Y/N.” 

He came closer and fear blurred her vision. 

“I’ve tasted your soul.” 

Unexpectedly, he reached over and set the blade down on the nightstand. Y/N held her breath as he bridged over her body, refusing to sully the memory of Dean’s scent. 

“Now I want to know the rest of you.” 

Her brow furrowed with question but it was soon answered. Michael lay his palm against her cheek and Y/N shivered at the cool touch. Slowly, he dragged his fingers down to grip her chin and lift it upward. 

“I want to know… why Dean thinks you are so… incredible that he’s willing to trade his life… for yours.”

She shook her head. “He wouldn’t.” 

Michael grinned devilishly and pressed his lips to hers. 

The intimacy was torture. 

She remembered the push of Dean’s lips, every line of his chapped skin, the rhythm, the taste. Michael’s kiss was different. There was no swift breath escaping to float across her cheek; no desperate pressure behind it, no hunger. It was clinical, as if Michael had studied a textbook explaining the basic mechanics of the act. 

When he pulled back, he cocked his head and peered down at Y/N as if she had done something wrong. 

“It’s… rather… pointless, isn’t it?” he asked. 

Y/N stiffened and tried to squirm away, but Michael placed a heavy hand on her stomach, halting any movement. 

“What is?” 

“Kissing,” he clarified. “It’s crude and unsanitary.” 

She couldn’t help but laugh under her breath. “If you think that’s unsanitary, you should try oral.” 

His eyes widened with the sparkling idea and Y/N shook her head quickly. 

“No. No. It was… just a joke. You’re so right. Kissing is disgusting. I hate it. I hate kissing.”

“Dean recalls that you enjoyed it.” He bent down again, this time letting his breath coast across her lips. “He has many memories of your body, your… lips… the way you kissed him. He appeared to savor it.”

Again, he kissed her. This time, he drew from the memories he had stolen from his host, and the kiss was warmer, deeper. She shuddered when his tongue pushed through her lips, cringed when he licked the roof of her mouth. She wouldn’t engage, refusing to kiss him back. When he wouldn’t relent, she shoved at his chest and he pulled back, eyes bright with rage. 

“Did you not learn from your skydive earlier?” He grabbed the offending hand and twisted her wrist. The bone cracked and Y/N screamed as he shoved her arm into the pillow by her head. “Do not resist me.” 

Pain splintered up her arm and heat swelled around her wrist. She had felt worse before, but it had never been his hands, never been his face. 

“Please…” 

She cried through a heavy sob but Michael was unmoved by her pain.

Continuing his investigation, Michael licked at her lips once more. His lips trailed across her jaw and settled on her throat. “You will not fight me,” he warned. He pressed his lips against her pulse and closed his eyes, listening to the artery work. “You will submit.”

Y/N’s skin crawled and rebellion raged inside her. Dean wouldn’t want her to lay there helplessly whimpering. He’d tell her to fight no matter what. 

“If you gotta go, go down swinging.”

She took a breath and brought her knee up as fast and hard as she could, jamming it into his crotch. 

The angel fell back, not in pain, but surprise. 

He straightened up and grit his teeth, seething. The lights flickered and Y/N braced herself for whatever punishment she had coming. 

Instead of widespread pain doled out by invisible force, Michael balled his fist and swung at her. Unprepared, Y/N didn’t even attempt to move out of the way, and his knuckles sunk into her cheek. 

Another jolt of pain, another snapped bone. She screamed behind the hand he closed over her mouth. 

Leaning back down, Michael inched close to her face, green eyes twitching over the skin, watching as the blood vessels ruptured and oozed beneath the surface. 

“Miraculous…” 

It wasn’t just the pain, she could handle that. 

It was the way his eyes ticked over her face. The eyes that she loved, now utterly corrupted. 

It was the way his knuckles broke through her bones. The knuckles she had so often kissed, now brought devastation. 

It was the way his face contorted with clinical interest; the way words fell from familiar lips with otherworldly cadence. The voice she had loved her whole life, the lips she had kissed a thousand times, the face she dreamt of every night: it was infected with all the evil that Heaven could produce. 

Sick with pain, but flooded with spirited, dumb courage, Y/N pulled back her lips and sank her teeth into Michael’s palm. 

The punishment was severe. 

Another broken bone, another prodding investigation as the welt blossomed on her nose and her right eye sealed shut.

“You will behave.” 

Out of hope, Y/N agreed. “Yes. I’m- I’m sorry. I’ll behave!” Her voice sounded foreign, so defeated and raspy she barely recognized herself. 

Michael’s eyes glowed a bright, piercing blue. “I know you will.” 

She felt it again, that startling and somehow arousing burst of sensation as his Grace flowed into her. It worked on her instantly: stretching her arms out across the bed and spreading her legs wide. It locked her head in place and pulled her jaw slack. Not a muscle could move by her will, not a sound could be made except the quick, panting breaths that left her lips. 

She was frozen, held captive by his heavenly magic. 

Her eyes filled with tears as he straddled her hips, making himself more comfortable now that she was agreeable. 

The blue faded back to green, but the Grace stayed inside of her, holding her still. Without her resistance, Michael was free to inspect every inch of her body, inside and out. 

He reveled at the length and thickness of her eyelashes, plucking one from each open lid and tested them against each other. 

He pulled her lips further apart and ran his fingers through her mouth, feeling each minuscule bump on her tongue, the cut of each tooth, the strands of muscles lining her throat. 

Horror flashed through her eyes, unable to swallow or gag as he forced his hand deeper down her esophagus. With the passage obstructed, her breathing became heavy and labored. Her heart struggled and Michael counted each tick of the muscle. 

“So… intricate.” His wet fingers traced her collarbone. “So mechanical, every bit of you.” Scooting down, Michael set his sights on her chest. He ran his palm across her right breast and marveled as her nipple hardened at his chilly touch. “Humans truly are works of art…” He toyed with it, pinching and flicking, tugging hard and rolling gently. 

Y/N couldn’t shy away or even close her eyes as his unwanted touch continued. 

Fascinated, Michael swirled his tongue over her nipple. Her skin warmed and he felt the faint increase in temperature. Moving to the left side, he bit down on her tit and watched as blood met the indentation. He groped both breasts, kneading and pinching like he’d seen Dean do in his memories. 

Y/N couldn’t help the automatic flush of her body or the way her pussy throbbed and leaked. She could only pray that he wouldn’t notice, that he wouldn’t understand. 

Michael felt everything. He heard the blood as it rushed to her sex, smelled the arousal, and sensed her heat rise. 

“I have watched humans for eons… but never have I observed a body so… closely.”

Her eyes burned. She screamed inside. 

Michael slid a hand down her body and pressed it flat between her thighs. 

If she could have moved, she would have fought. She would have raged and kicked and thrashed at him. She would have fought until her body gave out and she had no choice but to jump through the broken window. She would have fallen happily. 

His touch was worse than death.

The wetness he touched made his eyes widen and his lips curl into a rapt smile. He dipped his fingers into her cunt, pulling out the warm slick and examining it closely. 

“How… wondrous.” 

Falling down, Michael jabbed his tongue between her folds and lapped at her hole, sucking the wetness and swallowing it down. His angelic mind calculated every molecule, sorting out cells and mapping its creation. As he licked, he saw her pussy respond. Blood filled her clit, making it hard. The skin of her lips darkened. He watched the muscles clench and heard the blood pump. 

“Blood… is everything, isn’t it?” He floated back up to look into her paralyzed face. “It is in every part of you, controlling your muscles, allowing your mind to churn, your cunt to ache. It’s… the perfect fluid.”

Y/N prayed for release. She called to Castiel, to Gabriel, to any and every angel she’d ever met and those whose names she’d only read on the thin pages of her father’s bible. 

Michael wiped a tear from her cheek. “They cannot help you, Y/N.”

She called to Rowena; she screamed for Jack. 

“No one can hear your prayers. You’re with me and I am hidden from all.”    

He held her gaze, listening to her thoughts. In one final, pathetic attempt for help, she cried for Dean. If he was in there, if Michael could see Dean’s memory, then maybe Dean could see through his eyes. 

Help me…

Michael laughed softly and kissed her forehead. “Nice try.” 

Her heart beat against its cage, thrumming faster and harder as she realized there was no end to the torture and no cavalry on its way to save her. 

Distracted by the pounding beat, Michael dropped his hand to her chest, covering her heart. He closed his eyes and felt each thump, heard the valves opening and closing, allowing the sacred wine to flow through. 

“Blood…” he whispered, entranced by the rhythmic palpitations. “Each beat keeping you alive… and for what?”

“I’m so glad you called, Dean. It’s really nice to see you.” 

Her whisper invaded his senses, making him temporarily forget that they were trapped in a closet together with death tiptoeing beyond the door. Dean held his breath when she looked up at him. In the dark, she looked so small and delicate, like a thing he needed to cradle and protect. The light streaming in through the seams of the door struck her face in the most beautiful ways, highlighting the curl of her lashes and the turn of her upper lip. She pressed in closer, simply trying to readjust herself in the cramped space, and Dean found himself against a rock and a soft place. His blood surged south and he had to shake the idea away lest she feel it too. 

He cleared his throat gently and stood up straighter, hoping to give himself an inch or seven. “Yeah, well, you could have ignored the call.”

She let out a faint laugh. “I could have. But then where would we be?” 

“Not hiding in this closet, that’s for sure.” 

Y/N bit her lip and stared up at him as he squirmed. The light was hitting his chin and the long line of his neck. She could see the hint of a scar by his ear and the shadow of a beard creeping up. He looked so big like this. So broad and muscular, safe. She swallowed hard and prayed he couldn’t feel how hot she suddenly was. 

“Jokes aside,” she whispered. “I am glad. I missed you.” 

Her smile was soft and he wanted to press the tips of his fingers to her lips and feel the pull. 

“Me too…” 

Realization struck them both like lightning and for the first time in years, they were on the same page. Attraction hit like a tidal wave and they both jerked back as far as they could, taking to the tiny corners of the dusty old closet in the back of that long hall in that big house on a hill in Tannersville. 

“Um… Dean?” 

He breathed in deeply, instantly regretting it as the sweet perfume of her shampoo flooded his brain and made his mouth water. “Yeah?”

“I was thinking, maybe- I mean if we ever get outta here-”

An inconvenient fact reared its face and broke the moment. The witch they were dealing with threw something against a wall nearby and the closet shook. Her wretched screech echoed through the darkness and Dean jumped, pressing one hand to his ear and the other to his gun.

“How ‘bout we, uh- put a pin in this. Yeah?” 

Y/N winced at the sharp pitch of the witch’s scream and nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Murder first, chat later. Gotcha!”

“Hey, it’s not murder if she’s an evil bitch.”

“Let’s debate semantics later, shall we?” Y/N gripped her blade tight. 

He grinned and reached for the doorknob. “After you…”

“Such a gentleman.” 

“Always.” 

The witch went down with more than a bit of a fight and the friends were too tired later for anything more than a drive-thru burger and a side of aspirin. 

They stuffed their faces with grease and questionable meat; washed it all down with a few warm beers. 

Dean managed to somehow smear ketchup on his ear and Y/N wiped it clear with the only remaining clean napkin. 

Y/N burped so loud that it shook the bed and sent Dean into an impressive fit of laughter.

They took turns showering, and when Y/N was done, she found Dean setting up the couch like a bed, spreading out a spare blanket, and beating a pillow into submission.

She rubbed her hair with the shitty motel towel while watching him. He was down to a single layer of light blue boxers and a tight black tee. His hair was still damp from the shower and spiked up on the top like an early 2000s flashback. She stared a bit too long and was startled when he turned around. 

“Have enough hot water?” he asked. 

Y/N shrugged. “You didn’t quite use all of it. Most. But not all.” 

He grinned and let his eyes fall down her body. She was ready for bed- braless in a purple tank top and loose cotton shorts. She flipped the wet towel onto the floor and Dean realized he was staring too much. 

“You sure you don’t wanna get another room?” she asked, moving over to the bed and tugging the sheet down. “You shouldn’t have to sleep on the couch.” 

A dangerous idea sparked in his brain, but he pushed it away. Sure, he could insist on sharing the bed, but there was a line he was too afraid to cross. They’d been friends for so long, sharing thoughts and dreams over text messages. There had been hundreds of video calls late at night when the world was crashing down around them; casual meet-ups when monsters brought them to the same part of the country. Despite how he felt, she’d never given him a hint, so he kept his feelings to himself. 

If he shared the bed, he knew he’d try something. 

If he tried something, she’d have to respond. 

If she rejected him- well, he wasn’t ready to ruin a friendship over a shitty motel room with only one bed. 

“Nah,” he replied, turning back to the sofa. “I’ve slept on worse.” 

Y/N shrugged as if she didn’t care where he slept, but inside she crumbled a bit. It was dumb to assume he’d want to share a bed with her, but she had hoped he might. Hope wasn’t a bad thing, just an annoying inconvenience that generally left her unsatisfied and listless. Hope kept her dreaming that someday he’d finally recognize the chemistry between them. Dreams made her long for his touch, praying that he’d rush at her, scoop her into his big arms, and kiss her so hard the whole world would fade away. Sure, she could make the first move but rejection was worse than hope.

“Cool.” 

Dean hung his head. “Cool.” 

Sleep was a lofty goal that neither could achieve. 

The alarm clock on the nightstand was buzzing slightly as if electricity was leaking out of it and sizzling in the air. Y/N tried to ignore it, but the irritation kept her from shutting her brain off. 

She rolled onto her left side and tucked the blanket between her legs. In the darkness, she could see Dean stretched out on the sofa. He was facing the door but she could make his perfect profile in the shadows. One hand was tucked beneath his head and the other rested on his stomach. Y/N watched it rise and fall with each breath, wondering what he was dreaming about.

She sighed and he shifted a bit, readjusting his hips. 

Her exhale rang in his ears and Dean chewed his bottom lip as he stared at the ceiling. He’d fallen asleep twice, but each time his imagination pushed him awake. He wasn’t sure if it was a dream or his mind running wild, but he saw Y/N lying in his arms, face shimmering and lips wet. He felt her legs quake as he tasted her sweetness. Each time, he’d wake up with an aching cock and unrequited desire.

He huffed gently and she sat up on her elbow. 

“You up?” she whispered, squinting at his silhouette. 

Dean smiled to himself and waved at her over his head. “Why are you?” 

“Dunno. Brain won’t shut up.” She threw back the blanket and the bed creaked as she swung her legs over the side. “Why are you?” 

“Same.” He scrubbed a hand down his face and scratched at the tiny hairs on his jaw. “You wanna get a dr-”

Y/N was at his side before he knew it, biting her lip innocently as she knelt on the sofa. 

His eyes went wide and he sat up a bit. “Hi.”

She smiled. “Hi.” 

Without asking, she turned and moved to lay down beside him. Dean shifted, pressing himself into the back of the couch to give her room.

“This OK?” she asked, already settling down. 

Dean cleared his throat. “Uh. Yeah…” 

She grabbed his hand and tugged his arm to fit around the curve of her waist. 

“And this?” 

He lay down and curled up behind her. “Yeah.” 

“Good.” 

It took a moment for their bodies to relax, for their brains to interpret the closeness or register the meaning. Y/N nearly kicked herself for taking such a chance, but when she felt Dean relax against her back, she smiled. He pressed his face into her hair and took a breath, nearly moaning when he exhaled. 

Y/N rolled her ass back just an inch, but it was enough to set him on fire. His mind was racing with a thousand imagined scenarios, all ending with her brilliant smile and his name on her lips. His fingers tensed on her stomach and she let out a tiny whimper. 

Slowly, Dean dared to press his cheek against her ear. His hand moved up a fraction of an inch and Y/N dragged a finger across it, caressing his hand and up his arm. 

He kissed her cheek. 

She threaded her fingers into his. 

He breathed hot against her ear. 

She dragged his hand up her stomach, leading him up higher. 

He sucked her earlobe between his lips. 

She shivered and closed his palm over her breast.

He moaned. 

She twisted her neck and found his lips, breaking their friendship with a deep kiss. 

Dean licked into her mouth and his blood boiled, pushing every sensation into hyperdrive. Her lips felt like heaven, her touch was like fire. He palmed her tit, rolled her nipple gently, nibbled on her ear. 

Y/N melted for him. Her body went soft and pliable; her pussy dripped, her breath grew heavy and fast. She could feel how hard he was, pressing into her ass. She snuck a hand between them and rubbed at the tip of his cock. 

Dean hissed and groped her tits a little harder. 

Her fingers snuck into his boxers and she traced a gentle line down his shaft, teasing him. He pinched her nipple hard and her gasping moan filled the room. 

“Fuck, Y/N…”         

Her fingers closed around his thick cock and she arched her back, laying her throat bare for him. 

“You know,” she whispered, “the bed is bigger…” 

Dean turned his wrist and dragged his hand down to her shorts, gently teasing at the elastic hem. “True, but then we wouldn’t be so close.” He kissed her neck.

Her jaw dropped when his warm hand slid down, covering her pussy with light pressure. “Good point.” 

She stroked him slowly as he rubbed her cunt. He licked at her pulse while she caressed his sack. 

When his breath grew hot and fast, Y/N spun around and attacked his lips. She held his face in her hands and pushed every late-night dream, every lonely fantasy into her kiss. She wanted him to feel it. Wanted him to know how long she’d waited to touch him like this; how desperate she’d been to feel his hands on her. 

Dean tried to keep his eyes open, wanting to remember every second and sear it all into his memory, but her lips tugged them closed. Her kiss was so deep, so devastatingly perfect that he couldn’t hold on. His will vanished in a rush of lust and he grabbed at her soft flesh, plucked at her sensitive spots, rolled his hips against her wetness. 

“God, I wanna fuck you so bad,” he groaned, fingers digging into her ass while she bit down on his shoulder. 

Y/N hummed and licked at the bite marks she’d left. “Me too. Fuck, Dean…” 

He pulled her closer and she sat up, straddling his hips as she pulled her tank top off. Dean gripped her hips and stared in awe at her beautiful body writing above him. She rocked down onto him and he had never hated cotton so much. The layers between them prevented his cock from sliding in, but Y/N didn’t seem to mind. She rubbed her slick cunt up and down his shaft, driving them both insane. 

When he couldn’t take it anymore, Dean sat up and wrapped his arm around her back, holding her tight. He tried to stand but stumbled and Y/N laughed softly while fumbling for balance. 

They made it to the bed without injury; shed their clothes without hesitation. 

Dean pushed her onto her back and licked deep into her mouth. She moaned into him and scratched a hand through his hair. Her legs spread wide for him and Dean kissed his way down her body. She held her breath when his lips pressed into the softness of her inner thigh. 

“Always wanted to taste you,” he breathed, running the tip of his middle finger down her slit. 

Y/N’s legs shook and her fingers tensed over his scalp. “Please…” 

Dean smiled and exhaled gently while slipping his finger into her. She was wet and warm and he hummed darkly. 

“So fucking beautiful…” 

His tongue pressed flat over her pussy and then slid inside, swirling around her clit like a spiral that entranced her body and mind. Y/N squirmed against his mouth, held her breath when the pleasure spiked, tugged on his hair. It was as if her dreams were seeping into reality and God was answering every blasphemous prayer. 

Dean was ravenous, licking her hard and pushing his fingers deeper with each thrust of his wrist. He closed his eyes and listened to the hitch of her breath, the exquisite moans she set free. Every pulse of her cunt on his fingers made his cock twitch. Every buck of her hips made him suckle harder. He wanted to drown in her juices, happy to let this be his last act on earth. 

She came hard and fast, leaking pleasure onto his tongue. 

Dean pushed back enough to see her face. He kept his hand in place, fucking her through the throbbing orgasm even as she tried to push him away. 

“Dean… please…” 

Her brows creased and her lips pushed out in a pout that nearly broke his heart. He floated up to her, climbing up the mattress and shifting his right thigh between hers. She pressed down on the thick muscle and rocked hard as he kissed her again. She tasted herself on his lips and moaned. 

“You’re amazing…” 

Dean’s heart raced at the whispered praise and he kissed across her jaw and down, lapping at her throat and sucking a tiny mark on her shoulder. She scratched a hand down his back and grabbed his ass, tugging him forward. He fell down, his full weight crushing her into the bed. 

Y/N wrapped herself around him, arms and legs holding on tight. With every bit of strength she could muster, she rolled him onto his back and popped up, sitting on his stomach. 

Wide green eyes fell down her body, soaking in the perfect view. 

With the tables turned, Y/N followed his previous trek, laying kisses down the length of his torso and biting his inner thigh. Dean jumped at the sting and then relaxed into nothingness as she licked the head of his cock. 

She kissed and hummed at the peak of him and a drop of precum zinged her taste buds. Enthused, she took him in until she gagged and then pulled back with tightly sealed lips. 

Dean let out a moan that she’d remember until the day she died. His big hand fit against the top of her head, gently guiding her up and down until he was curling in on himself and fighting to hold back. 

“Fuck, Y/N/N… Ya... ya gotta stop or I’m done…” 

She retreated with a loud pop of her swollen lips and Dean reached for her face. He dragged her up and kissed her hard while rolling her back onto the pillow. 

“Want you, Dean…” 

He hummed and shifted between her legs. “Yeah?” 

She nodded quickly and clung to his broad shoulders. “Yes. So fucking bad…”

He nudged at her cunt, dipping his cock in only an inch. She shuddered and her nails sunk into his arms. 

“You OK?” he asked, watching her eyes flutter and her mouth go slack. 

Again, she nodded; her face washed in frustrated agony. “Please…”

He kissed her gently and then set his arms aside her head. 

When he pushed fully in, they both stopped. Time froze around them and for a long moment, there was nothing else in the world. She could feel him trembling and lay her hand on his cheek. He turned towards her hand and kissed her palm. 

There was no banter, no salacious teasing, no further begging. Dean fucked her slowly, taking his time to wind her pleasure back up to the highest point before they both gave in, breaking in each other’s arms and stealing the air from the rest of the world.  

When his pulse steadied, Dean rolled onto his side and held his head in his hand. He couldn’t stop looking at her, couldn’t stop smiling. 

Y/N felt a wave of shyness as he stared but it was the good kind. She wanted him to keep watching. She reached for his free hand and brought it to her lips, carefully kissing the pads of each finger. 

He sighed happily. “You know… I really think… I mean…” His stomach flipped with nerves and he bit his lip, holding back everything he needed to say.

She laughed gently. “What?” She kissed his middle finger again. 

He took a deep breath. “I think I could really fall for you.” 

A soft smile turned her lips. “I’m pretty sure you already have.” 

His cheeks burned. His soul felt at ease. Dean laid his hand over her heart and felt the steady beat. 

“I’m pretty sure you’re right…”

Y/N felt each swipe of the scalpel, every drop of blood that leaked from the wounds. Locked and awake inside her immoble body, she tried to think of other things, to keep her mind away from the torture. She called up old dreams, sacred poems, and blissful moments with Dean. 

Whenever she drifted, Michael pulled her back. 

He kissed her again and again, breathing more Grace into her body to keep her alive. The deeper he cut, the harder his magic worked. The wounds lay open and he dipped his fingers or tongue inside, learning her flesh, tasting, feeling everything. 

His expression was crazed but childlike. He truly wished to understand everything about her, to figure out why she was so important, why God loved his pathetic creations more than his firstborn sons.

Most of all, he marveled over her heart. He listened closely to the flow of blood, trying different techniques to make it quicken or slow. If he stopped her breathing, her heart would race and then halt. If he cut an artery, it would slowly pump her life force out onto the crisp white sheets, staining the bedding in deep crimson. If he stimulated her sex, it would race and skip, meeting his touch. 

Twice, he’d killed her only to bring her back. He wanted to hear the absolute death of her heart and before kicking it back into motion. 

Y/N remembered every second, felt the pull of his Grace waking her back up. She had long ago given up on prayer, and sank into the pain, letting it consume her soul. She deserved to bleed. She couldn’t save Dean, couldn’t help him in any way. She deserved the torment. 

“Human skin is so… delicate,” Michael mused, running the razor edge down the length of her chest, splitting the flesh wide. “So… easily broken…” Again, he dragged the blade through her, deepening the gash until he saw a peek of white bone. “Like your hearts.”

Y/N screamed as intense pain shot through every bit of her. 

Michael pushed the bleeding meat aside and exposed her ribcage. 

She felt every touch and her vision faded. Consciousness was slipping away and she welcomed the darkness like an old friend. 

“No, no, Y/N,” he whispered, laying a hand on her cheek. “Stay with me.”  

Grace jolted her awake and she cursed him with everything she had. He heard her silent blasphemy and smiled. 

“Don’t you understand? You’re doing a good thing. You’re helping me.” 

Digging into her chest, Michael wrapped two fingers between the fourth rib on each side. 

“You’re teaching me.”

He pulled his hands apart and her sternum splintered. The cage tore open and Y/N felt the terrifying sensation of cool air on her lungs. 

“You’re teaching Dean that I will always win.” 

He ignored her screams and pressed his fingers to her exposed heart, observing the blood pumping from the source.

“No matter how he screams, how he… begs, claws, fights… I will always win.” 

On a whim, Michael shifted to sit between her legs. Watching her heart, he pulled his cock free and tapped her clit with the tip. 

Y/N struggled to break the spell, to move, to scream, but there was no escape. Her fate was sealed. 

“Interesting…” 

The muscle pumped faster. Michael narrowed his gaze on the aorta and slipped his stiff cock into her vagina. Blood moved quicker, the aorta swelled, the beats quickened. He grinned. 

“How exquisite.”

The faster he fucked her, the harder her heart beat. He watched like a scientist, tracking individual blood cells as they moved through her system, rushing through the expansive highway of veins to visit every part of her body. When they returned to the heart, he chose another part to focus on until he had learned all that he could.

There wasn’t much left of her mind, only a fading memory of her first kiss with Dean. That single, exhilarating instance when friends became more, and this vile moment was far, far away. 

Michael knelt between her thighs and straightened up, fully filling Dean’s impressive form. He looked deep into Y/N’s frozen face and felt a surge of pride and understanding. 

“Thank you, Y/N.”

Inside, Dean was fighting. He tore at his cell, screamed and cursed until his throat filled with blood and then started all over again.

Michael leaned close and kissed her lips, retrieving his Grace and setting her free. 

Her shrieks shook the room, but Michael had no pity for her. She was simply a thing to him now. A toy made of cells and air and blood. 

He snapped his fingers and her neck, finally giving her peace. 

Dean had seen every moment, felt his hands digging into her chest cavity, tasted her blood on his lips. 

Insane with grief and enraged beyond what he could truly feel, he let out a surge of strength that tickled Michael’s insides. 

“Calm down, Dean. It’s over.” 

You fucking monster!

“Now, now… Relax.”

I’m going to kill you. I’m going to rip you apart.

Michael wiped the blade clean on the ruined bedsheet and smiled. 

“Good luck.”  

[from-memphis-with-love]

Songbird - Chapter 6 - Nobody's Fool

Summary: In the aftermath of Elvis' last day in his 1969 Vegas residency, Valerie and Elvis get caught in a compromising position. A decision is made, and a plan is formulated. Late at night, Valerie and Elvis almost cross the point of no return.

There are moments when one wakes up, and everything seems okay. That blessed space between sleep and memory, before the brain catches up with your body? 

I had about three seconds of that peace before I opened my eyes and saw Elvis' jacket draped over my chair like a question mark.

The gin-stained dress I'd fallen asleep in clung to me like shame. My mouth tasted like I'd been gargling with Dean Martin's martini shaker. And somewhere in the building's guts, that damn dove was cooing its morning commentary.

The Colonel's note lay where I'd dropped it last night: "Meeting tomorrow, 2 PM sharp. Re: Memphis arrangements."

I looked at the clock. 1:07.

"Well, shit."

The phone rang before I could make it to the shower. For a moment, I considered letting it ring. But in Vegas, you learn quick that ignored calls have a way of turning into bigger problems.

"Hello?"

"Val? Thank God." my best friend’s voice carried all the manic energy of a Chicago morning. "I've been trying to reach you for hours! Have you seen the papers?"

I hadn't. Didn't want to.

"Listen, Dee, I can't really talk right now. I have a meeting—"

"About Memphis?"

The question hit like a slap. I sank onto the bed, still wearing last night's mistakes.

"How did you..."

"There's a blind item in the Tribune. 'Which Chicago music teacher has caught the King's eye? Sources say she's trading the Windy City for Graceland...'" Deena paused. "Val? Please tell me this isn't what I think it is."

I practically felt whiplash from how fast the news got out. Through the wall, I could hear the Memphis Mafia stirring - boots on carpet, voices carrying through the International's expensive but thin walls. Red's laugh. Jerry's drawl. The sound of Elvis' world waking up.

"It's exactly what you think it is," I said finally. "And it's going to come out now anyway. His manager’s already planning how to 'handle' it."

The silence on the other end stretched like taffy.

"Holy shit," Deena whispered finally. "Holy actual shit. You and Elvis Presley? All this time? The mystery man you wouldn't tell me about... that was Elvis fucking Presley?"

"Dee—"

"But he's married! To that gorgeous wife who was in all the photos last night, kissing him like—" She stopped. "Oh honey. Those photos. Did you... were you there?"

The memory of that kiss, perfectly timed for the cameras, hit fresh. Elvis's hand on Priscilla's waist. The crowd's approving applause. Ann-Margret's knowing look.

"When I told you to ride that stallion till you break the saddle, I didn't mean steal someone else's horse!" Deena's voice cracked between humor and horror. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Elvis. Actually Elvis."

"I have to go," I said. "Meeting in, like, five minutes. Call me later." I lied. 

"Val, wait—"

I hung up. Stood there for a moment, looking at my reflection in the mirror. Last night's mascara made me look like a raccoon who'd lost a bar fight.

Time to face the music. Or in this case, the Colonel.

*

The Colonel's suite was a shrine to his greatest creation. Elvis stared down at me from every wall - movie posters, concert bills, gold records, photographs spanning from that first Sun Records publicity shot to last night's show. Young Elvis, GI Elvis, Hollywood Elvis, Comeback Elvis, Vegas Elvis. A hundred different versions of the same man, watching our little drama play out beneath their frozen gazes.

The irony wasn't lost on me. We were here to talk about Elvis, but the only Elvis present was made of paper and celluloid.

Red and Sonny flanked the door like bookends. Jerry lounged against a wall between "Love Me Tender" and "Blue Hawaii" posters, trying to look casual and failing. The Colonel himself sat behind a desk (flown in specially) that had probably witnessed a thousand deals, smoking a cigar that put out enough smoke to rival a carnival cotton candy machine.

"Ah, Miss Pedretti." The Colonel's eyes twitched with what might have been amusement. Or annoyance. "Right on time. Coffee?"

"No, thank you." I remained standing, though there was an empty chair positioned precisely in front of his desk - red velvet with gold tassels. The power play was obvious - him elevated, me lower. I wasn't playing. Behind him, a young Elvis smiled down at me. From the very early days. Had there been a girl standing in my spot that day too? Someone else who thought she was different, special?

“Suit yourself." The Colonel gestured at a stack of newspapers spread across his desk, right beneath a photo of Elvis signing his first RCA contract. His mom and dad were in the photo. Her eyes were sad. My eyes were sad looking at her. "I assume you've seen the morning editions?"

I hadn't, but I could see the headlines from where I stood. ELVIS ENDS VEGAS RUN WITH A KISS. KING AND QUEEN OF ROCK REUNITED. And smaller, in the gossip columns: MYSTERY WOMAN IN ELVIS' INNER CIRCLE?

"The paper’s been particularly... creative with their speculation," the Colonel continued. "Something about a Chicago singer-slash-music teacher?"

A distant coo echoed through the ventilation system. Even Tom's dove was eavesdropping.

"Now," the Colonel leaned forward, his head briefly blocking out Army Elvis's crisp salute in the frame behind him, "we need to discuss how we're going to handle your transition to Memphis. I've taken the liberty of arranging—"

"Where’s Elvis?"

The question landed like a grenade in church. Jerry straightened slightly. Red and Sonny suddenly found the ceiling fascinating - specifically, the spot where a massive photograph showed Elvis and the Colonel shaking hands on that first Vegas contract.

"Mr. Presley is... indisposed." The Colonel's voice could have frosted glass. "Mrs. Presley's flight leaves shortly, and certain... appearances must be maintained."

Of course. The real Elvis was playing the devoted husband one last time, seeing Priscilla off. Probably at this very moment they were posing for photographers at the airport, adding one more perfect image to the collection.

I looked at movie star Elvis smoldering down at me from the "Viva Las Vegas" poster. Had Ann-Margret stood in a room like this too? Had the Colonel tried to manage her the same way?

"As I was saying," the Colonel continued, "I've arranged for a house—"

"No."

His eyebrows climbed toward what was left of his hairline. "I beg your pardon?"

"No thank you?"

The silence that followed could have choked a carnival strongman. A hundred Elvises watched the standoff - jumpsuit Elvis, leather Elvis, clean-cut Elvis, rebel Elvis. All of them waiting to see what happened when someone said no to the Colonel.

"Miss Pedretti." He said it like he was explaining physics to a child. "Perhaps you don't understand how things work in Memphis. Mr. Presley's... companions require certain... accommodations."

"I'm not his companion." The words came out harder than I meant them. "I'm not his anything. I'm just going to Memphis."

The Colonel's laugh had all the warmth of a snake's belly. "My dear girl, nobody 'just' goes to Memphis. Not in Elvis' world." He pushed a folder across the desk, right past a framed photo of Elvis handing him a gold watch. "Now, I've had my people draw up some papers. Simple things - non-disclosure agreements, property arrangements, a modest monthly allow—"

"No." I didn't touch the folder. "I don't want your house or your money or your papers."

"Then what exactly do you want?"

The question hung in the air like smoke. What did I want? Elvis, obviously. But which one? I looked around the room at all his faces. Which one was real? The one who sang hymns with me? The one who kissed his wife for the cameras? The one who...

A knock at the door saved me from answering. Joe stuck his head in, looking harried.

"Colonel? Sorry to interrupt, but we got a situation. Seems Dean Martin's passed out in the fountain again, and he's telling everyone who'll listen about Elvis and the towel incident..."

The Colonel's face went through several interesting color changes. "Christ on a cracker. Red, Sonny - go handle that. Jerry, get the car ready. Mrs. Presley can't be late for her flight." He turned back to me. "This conversation isn't over, Miss Pedretti."

"Yes," I said quietly. "It is."

I walked out before he could respond, passing under the watchful eyes of a dozen paper Elvises. Behind me, I heard Jerry whistle low.

"Girl's got stones," he murmured to someone.

"Girl's got a death wish," came the response.

Maybe they were both right. I glanced back one last time as the door closed. The Colonel sat fuming beneath his gallery of conquests - every image a reminder of his control over Elvis's destiny.

But I wasn't going to be just another picture on his wall.

*

I found Elvis in his suite, standing at the window in an emerald green suit that hung perfectly on his tall, lithe frame. He was watching something in the distance - maybe the desert, maybe nothing. The real thing was somehow both more and less than all those images in the Colonel's room.

Our reflections caught in the window glass - him in that perfect suit, me still wearing yesterday's mascara and this morning's doubts. Despite myself, I let my eyes linger on the picture we made together. We looked good, in a way that had nothing to do with staging or the Colonel's careful arrangements. Where Priscilla was all porcelain perfection and carefully coiffed hair, I was warmer, earthier. My olive skin glowed next to Elvis's golden tan. My long dark hair fell in natural waves, untamed by hairspray and hot rollers. Where Priscilla's baby doll lips seemed perpetually pursed in careful consideration, my wider mouth was made for laughter, for singing, for other things I tried not to think about.

Different kinds of beautiful, maybe. But standing there next to Elvis, I couldn't help but notice how well we fit.

The sound of my heels on the carpet made him turn. His eyes were hidden behind blue-tinted glasses. 

"Heard you had a meeting with the Colonel," he said softly.

"Gee. Word travels fast ‘round here."

His laugh was hollow. "Everything travels fast here. Except time." He glanced at his watch. "Speaking of which..."

"You have to take her to the airport."

"Back to Memphis," he nodded. "At least for now. She'll head back to California soon enough." Something flickered across his face - relief? Regret? "Just needs to..." He trailed off.

"Needs to what?"

"Settle some things. At Graceland." His voice was carefully neutral, but I caught the implication. Priscilla would be there, in Memphis, when I arrived. On her turf. Or what used to be her turf.

"The Colonel had some interesting ideas about my living arrangements," I said, watching our reflections shift as Elvis moved closer.

His jaw tightened. "I told him to leave that alone."

"Did you really think he would?"

"No." He stepped behind me, his hands hovering near my shoulders but not quite touching. In the glass, we looked like a photograph waiting to be taken - the kind the Colonel would never allow. "But I hoped. Kind of like I hope you didn’t mean what you said. About finding your own place."

"I did."

"Even though I really want you to stay with me?"

"Even though."

In the window's reflection, I watched him study the contrast of us - his emerald suit against my rumpled red dress, his calculated (and rare) stillness against my untamed energy. When Priscilla stood next to him, they looked like matching dolls in a shop window. But this... we looked the part of the real couple. With real differences.

He nodded slowly. "You know what she said to me last night? After all the cameras were gone?"

I waited, watching his reflection's lips form the words.

"Said I better not turn you into another version of her." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Like I would even want that." His hands finally landed on my shoulders, warm through the thin fabric. "Look at you. Telling the Colonel no. Standing here looking like... like..."

"Like what?"

"Like the answer to my prayers."

I turned to face him then, breaking the spell of our reflection. Without the glass between us, he was more real, more dangerous. His hands slid down my arms, leaving heat in their wake.

"Elvis—"

A knock at the door made us both jump. Jerry's voice carried through: "Boss? Car's ready."

"Be right there." Elvis' hands tightened briefly on my arms before letting go. When he finally faced me, his eyes were tired behind those blue-tinted glasses. Human. "I have to..."

"I know."

He crossed the space between us in one fluid movement, caught my face between his hands. For a moment, I thought he might kiss me. Instead, he pressed his forehead to mine. He smelled of mint and promises.

"Wait for me?" he whispered. "I'll be back after..."

"After you play the dutiful husband one last time?"

His hands tightened slightly. "That ain’t fair."

"None of this is fair." 

I could be detached. I could deal with the casual dalliances and the pills, as long as it didn’t get out of hand. But Priscilla’s presence somehow still made my stomach queasy. I think it was the title. Wife had a certain ring to it. A certain authority, an outward declaration. I wanted that role. 

"No." He pulled back, slipped his glasses into place. Just like that, he was Elvis Presley again. "But it's what we've got."

The door opened and Red stuck his head in. "Boss? Mrs. Presley's ready."

Elvis straightened his jacket, checked his reflection one last time. Perfect again. Camera-ready. But just before he turned away, I caught him looking at our reflection once more - that impossible, imperfect picture of what could be.

"See you when I get back?" he asked.

I thought about all those images in the Colonel's room. All those different versions of Elvis, frozen in time. Which one would come back to me?

"Yeah," I said. "I'll be here."

He paused at the door, looking back. For a second, I could see him wanting to say something more. Then Jerry appeared with a reminder about airport traffic, and the moment was gone.

I watched from the window as they loaded into the waiting cars - Elvis in the lead car with Priscilla, the Memphis Mafia spread through the others like an honor guard. Even from so many floors up, I could see the photographers waiting. One last photo op of the perfect couple before reality set in.

*

I stayed at the window long after the cars disappeared, watching Vegas shimmer in the morning heat. Behind me, Elvis's suite felt different without him in it - bigger, emptier, more obviously a stage set than a home. His books were still scattered around, they hadn’t been packed up yet. A half-empty glass of water sat on the bedside table, aspirin dissolving forgotten at the bottom.

The phone rang, making me jump. Probably the Colonel, ready for round two.

But it was Lamar's voice that came through the line. "Valerie? You might want to come down to the lobby."

"Why?"

"Press got wind of something. They're asking about a Chicago music teacher."

My stomach dropped. "How many?"

"Enough." He paused. "Bring sunglasses. And maybe a scarf."

The lobby had transformed into a circus since I'd passed through it earlier. Photographers clustered around the entrance like hungry wolves, their cameras ready. Someone had leaked something. It didn't matter now.

What mattered was protecting Elvis.

I thought about Ann-Margret, about how she'd lost him partly because she'd talked to the press. About how fiercely he guarded his private world, even while living in the spotlight. About how trust, once broken, never quite mended the same way.

The Colonel stood near the reception desk, watching me with calculating eyes. For once, we wanted the same thing - to control this story. Just for very different reasons.

"Miss Pedretti." His voice carried across the lobby. "A word?"

Every head turned. I felt the cameras swivel, seeking their new target. Someone whispered "That's her." Another voice: "The teacher." A third: “I heard she’s a bar singer.”

I touched the scarf at my throat - one of Elvis's, smelling faintly of his cologne. Beneath it, my pulse hammered against my neck.

I had two choices: run back to the elevator, or face this head-on. But there was really only one choice. Because whatever happened next, I wouldn't be the one to betray Elvis's trust.

I dropped the scarf and sunglasses in my purse - hiding would only make it worse - and walked through the lobby like I had every right to be there. Like I was exactly what I'd tell them I was: a music teacher and a studio session musician (okay, so I stretched the truth a little) who'd found herself in an extraordinary situation, nothing more.

The cameras went crazy, questions flying like bullets: "Miss Pedretti, what's your relationship with Elvis?" 

"Are you moving to Memphis?" 

"What about Mrs. Presley?"

I stopped, turned, met their hungry gazes with a calm I didn't feel. When I spoke, my voice was steady.

"Mr. Presley has been very kind to a fellow musician. We share an interest in rhythm and blues. And gospel." A truth, if not the whole truth. "Beyond that, I don't discuss my friendships. If you have questions about Mr. Presley, I suggest you speak to his management."

The Colonel's eyebrows rose slightly - surprise? approval? - as I walked past him toward the exit. The cameras kept firing, but I didn't stop again.

I'd protected what mattered. Everything else was just noise.

*

A short while later, the Colonel caught up with me at the elevator on my walk back from lunch. "Interesting performance this afternoon."

"Not a performance."

"No?" His mustache twitched. "Could've fooled me. Very neat, very clean. 'Fellow musician.' 'Gospel music.' Almost like you'd rehearsed it."

The elevator doors opened. I stepped in, but he caught the door before it could close.

"Maybe," he said slowly, "we got off on the wrong foot this morning."

"Maybe."

"A girl who knows how to handle the press... that's valuable." He studied me with new interest. "Very valuable. Perhaps we could discuss those arrangements again—"

"No." But I softened it with a small smile. "Though I do appreciate the offer, Mr. Parker."

The doors started to close. This time he let them.

Back in my room, the phone was ringing again. Deena, probably, having had time to stew on it all. But when I picked up, it was Jerry.

"Boss wanted you to know he saw what you did down there earlier. Says to tell you..." 

Word traveled fast in this crew. I filed that bit of information away for later use. 

He paused, and could hear him smiling somehow. He was choosing his words carefully, aware of who might be listening. "Says you did good."

My throat tightened. "He's still at the airport?"

"On his way back, I think. Photographers were everywhere, of course." Jerry's voice dropped lower. "Listen, about Memphis..." I heard other voices behind him. “Listen, I’ll call you back.”

*

Lamar materialized at my door. "Boss is here. Wants you to meet him out back. Service entrance. Less cameras."

Less cameras, but not no cameras. There were always cameras now.

I found Elvis leaning against his Cadillac in the service alley, still in that perfect green suit but somehow looking more rumpled. His glasses were off, and his eyes were red-rimmed. The pills had worn off again. I made a mental note to watch his use a little more carefully. Just in case.

"Hey," he said softly.

"How was the airport?"

"Like a damn circus." He rubbed his face. "We played it perfect, of course. Always do. All smiles and waves, right up until she got on that plane." He paused. "Heard you had your own circus down here."

"Nothing I couldn't handle."

"Yeah." Something flickered in his expression. "Jerry told me what you said. About the gospel music."

"It's true, isn't it? We do share an interest."

"That all we share?"

The question hung between us like smoke. I thought about all those photographers, hungry for any hint of scandal. About the Colonel's calculating eyes. About Priscilla, perfect to the last moment.

"That's all they need to know," I said finally.

He studied me for a long moment, then pushed off from the car. In two strides he was there, his hands framing my face like he had in the suite. But this time he didn't stop.

The kiss was different than any we'd shared before - desperate, almost angry. Like he was trying to prove something. To me, to himself, to the whole damn world. His hands slid into my hair, messing it up.

When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard.

"Inside," he muttered. "Now."

But before we could move, a flash went off at the end of the alley.

"Shit." Elvis turned, putting himself between me and the photographer. "Red! Sonny!"

The Memphis Mafia materialized from nowhere, intercepting the photographer who was already running. But we all knew it was too late.

Elvis's hands were shaking worse now. "Val, I—"

"Don't." I straightened my hair, tried to calm my racing heart. "We knew this would happen eventually."

"The Colonel's gonna—"

"Let me handle the Colonel."

He laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. "Handle the Colonel? Baby, nobody handles the Colonel."

"I dunno.” I giggled like I knew something Elvis didn’t. “I kinda think he’s starting to like me.”

Another flash, this one from a different angle. Elvis swore under his breath.

"Get inside," he said. "I'll deal with this."

"Elvis—"

"Please." His voice cracked slightly. "Just... let me fix this. I can fix this."

But as I watched him stride toward the gathering photographers, all controlled power and perfect posture again, I wondered which version of "fixed" we were about to get.

*

Back in the hotel, everything moved fast. The Memphis Mafia scattered like pool balls after a break, each man with his own mission. Jerry was on the phone with newspapers, his voice smooth as silk: "No comment at this time." Red had the photographer's camera - though we all knew there had to be more photos out there. Lamar was coordinating with hotel security to lock down the service entrances. Sonny and Marty were watching the elevators on our floor.

And somewhere, the Colonel was planning.

I made it to the elevator before he found me.

"Inside." He didn't wait for my response, just steered me into the car with surprising strength for a man his age. The doors closed on us, and he hit the button for his floor.

"Mr. Parker—"

"Not one word." His voice was deadly quiet. "Not until we're in my office." So much for him starting to like me. 

The elevator seemed to crawl. Somewhere above us, that damn dove cooed - even it knew we were in trouble.

His office felt different now. All those Elvis images on the walls weren't just pictures anymore - they were warnings. See what I built? See what I can destroy?

"Sit."

This time, I sat.

"Now then." He lit a cigar with deliberate calm. "Let's discuss what happens next."

"Nothing happens next. It was just a kiss."

His laugh could have stripped paint. "Just a kiss? With a married man? In broad daylight? After you so carefully told those reporters you were 'just friends'?" He blew a perfect smoke ring. "No, my dear. This is what happens next: You're going to take a generous settlement and disappear. Back to Chicago, preferably. We'll spin it as a brief friendship, nothing more. Elvis was being kind to a fellow musician, just like you said. End of story."

"No." 

"No?" His eyebrows climbed. "Perhaps you didn't understand. This isn't a negotiation."

"You're right." I met his gaze. "It's not. Because there's nothing to negotiate. I’m not disappearing unless—"

"Then let me be clearer." He leaned forward. "Elvis Presley is more than a man. He's an industry. An empire. And that empire is built on certain... understandings. With his public. With his wife."

"His wife who lives in California?"

His mustache twitched. "A temporary arrangement."

"Like I'm supposed to be? Another 'temporary arrangement'?"

"Now you're beginning to understand."

“I’ll only go away if Elvis wants me to. I’d like to hear it from him, please.”

As if on cue, the phone on his desk rang. He answered it, listened, then held it out to me.

"For you. It's Elvis." His smile hadn't wavered. "He's going to tell you he's fixed everything. That there's a plan. A story we're going to tell." He paused. "The question is: are you going to play along?"

I took the phone, my hand steady despite everything.

"Elvis?"

"Baby, listen..." His voice was tight. "I know what to do. But you're not going to like it."

Behind his desk, the Colonel watched me like a snake watching a mouse. Some choices, I was learning, weren't really choices at all. But how you played them - that was everything.

"The story's simple," Elvis said, his voice tight with something between exhaustion and resignation. "You're my new backup singer. Been rehearsing in secret. That's why you're coming to Memphis. Professional opportunity, nothing more."

​​I watched the Colonel's satisfied smile grow behind his cigar smoke. Of course this was his idea - neat, clean, controllable. A story that would explain everything while revealing nothing.

"The kiss..." Elvis continued.

"Was gratitude," I finished, seeing the shape of it. "Excitement over the opportunity. A momentary celebration caught at an unfortunate angle."

"Yeah." He sounded tired. So tired. "Colonel's already got the contracts drawn up. Real ones, not just for show. You'll actually have to..."

"Sing backup?" I almost laughed. "Elvis, I've been singing my whole life."

"Yeah, but this is different. This is..."

"Playing a part?"

The silence on the line spoke volumes.

"It's a good solution," the Colonel cut in, clearly having heard every word on his extension. "Clean. Professional. Gives you a legitimate reason to be in Memphis, access to Graceland for rehearsals, everything you want. Just with... proper boundaries."

Proper boundaries. Right. Like the ones he'd established for all those other girls, the ones whose pictures didn't make it onto his wall of fame.

"There's one condition," Elvis said suddenly. "My condition, not the Colonel's."

I waited.

"You keep your own place. Like you wanted. No arrangements, no settlements. You do this as a professional, not as..."

Not as what? His mistress? His kept woman? Another Ann-Margret who got too close to the sun?

"Okay," I said.

The Colonel's eyebrows rose slightly. He'd expected more fight, more negotiation. But he didn't understand - I wasn't negotiating. I was playing chess.

"Just like that?" Elvis sounded surprised too.

"Just like that." I kept my voice level, professional. "When do we start rehearsals?"

What followed was a blur of activity. Contracts appeared as if by magic - the Colonel had probably had them ready since that first elevator ride. Throughout it all, I signed where I was told, smiled when expected, played the part of the grateful unknown singer getting her big break. 

Statements were prepared for the press. A schedule materialized for rehearsals, appearances, recordings. Something flickered in the old man’s eyes - recognition, maybe. Of what, I wasn't sure yet. 

It was late afternoon by the time everything was "handled." The photos from the alley had mysteriously vanished, though we all knew copies existed somewhere. The press had their official story. Even that damn dove seemed to have finally found somewhere else to roost.

"Perhaps," the Colonel said softly, "I underestimated you."

I smiled and headed back to my room.

*

Packing shouldn't have been hard. I hadn't brought much to Vegas in the first place. But somehow my belongings had multiplied, scattered across the suite like evidence of a life I hadn't planned on living.

"You'll want to pack light," Jerry said from the doorway. He'd appeared with coffee and what he called "Memphis wisdom," though I suspected he just didn't want me to be alone after the alley incident. "Graceland's got its own weather system. Nothing you bring is gonna make sense there anyway."

"Helpful, Jer. Real helpful." I held up two dresses - one Elvis had sent up last week, one I'd brought from Chicago. The difference in quality was almost embarrassing.

"Take both," he advised. "You'll need the fancy one for show, the real one to feel like yourself." He paused. "That's the trick, you know. For when everything else gets crazy."

I folded both dresses carefully, thinking about Elvis's books scattered across my bed, their margins filled with his handwritten notes. Questions, observations, searches for meaning in scientific formulas and ancient wisdom. I'd been packing them when Jerry arrived.

"Speaking of crazy," Red's voice came from the hall, "wait'll you meet the Memphis ladies." He joined Jerry in the doorway, looking oddly formal. "Got a whole briefing prepared for you about that."

"A briefing?"

"Those women are sharks in southern belle clothing," he said seriously. "Especially the ones who've had their eye on Elvis since high school. They're gonna hate you on principle."

"Thanks for the pep talk, Red."

"Just trying to prepare you." But his eyes were kind. "Though something tells me you can handle them just fine."

I picked up Elvis's jacket from the chair - the one I'd been wearing this morning when everything changed. His cologne still clung to it faintly, mixing with the gin stains from last night's party. Had that really been less than 24 hours ago?

"Leave the jacket," Jerry said quietly. "Trust me on that one."

Before I could respond, Lamar appeared behind Red and Jerry, making the doorway look like a Memphis Mafia convention.

"Y'all telling stories about Memphis?" He squeezed past them into the room. "Let me tell you about Elvis's first day at Graceland. There he is, king of the world, right? And he can't figure out how to work the dang intercom system. Kept accidentally broadcasting everything to the whole house. And I mean everything." He winked. "Including some very private conversations with very private guests, if you know what I mean."

"Lamar," Jerry warned.

"What? She should know what she's getting into! Place is like a funhouse sometimes. Secret passages, hidden doors, two-way windows - Elvis had them put in during renovations. Says it's for security, but really he just likes playing hide and seek."

I tried to picture it - Elvis Presley, the king of rock and roll, playing hide and seek in his mansion. What would he need a two-way window for? Yet, somehow it wasn't hard to imagine at all.

The phone rang, making us all jump. The Memphis Mafia exchanged glances.

"That'll be your pal again," Jerry said. "She's called four times."

I stared at the phone. "How do you know?"

"We know everything, honey." Red smiled. "Part of the job."

I picked up the receiver. Sure enough: "Val? Finally! I've been trying to call you back all day!"

The Memphis Mafia made themselves scarce, but not before Jerry mouthed "be careful" and tapped his ear - reminding me that in Vegas, walls had ears and phones had extensions.

"Dee." I cut her off, gentle but firm. "I need you to listen very carefully. Can you do that?"

A pause. Then, quieter: "Yeah."

"I can't tell you everything. Not yet. But I need you to trust me when I say that what's in those papers... it's not the whole story. And I need you to not tell anyone anything beyond what's already out there. Can you do that for me?"

The silence stretched so long I thought we'd been disconnected. Finally: "This is really serious, isn't it?"

"Yeah." I twisted the phone cord around my finger. "It really is."

"But you're okay? You're being careful?"

I thought about the Colonel's offer, about Elvis's message through Jerry, about all the delicate threads I was trying to navigate.

"I'm trying to be."

"Val, a backup singer? Really? That's the story they're going with?"

I started folding a sweater, phone cradled against my shoulder. "That's the truth they're going with."

She caught the emphasis. "Oh. Oh." A pause. "So we're not talking about the real truth yet?"

"Not yet."

Another pause. Then: "Okay. But Valerie?"

"Yeah?"

"When you can tell me... when it's safe... you'll tell me everything?"

"Everything I can," I promised. "Just... not yet."

After I hung up, I found Elvis's books again. Opening one at random, I found a passage underlined: "The truth is rarely pure and never simple." In the margin, his handwriting asked: "But what if you're living multiple truths?"

*

A knock at the door made me look up. Elvis stood there, looking somehow both perfect and wrecked. His hair was immaculate but his eyes were tired behind his glasses.

"Hey," he said softly. He took in the scene - the half-packed suitcases, the scattered books, his jacket still draped over the chair.

"Need help packing?"

"I’m almost done. Just trying to figure out what belongs in Memphis and what should stay in Vegas."

He understood the real question. Moving into the room, he picked up one of his books. "Take ‘em all," he said. "We can read them together at Graceland. When things are... quiet."

"Does it get quiet there?"

"Sometimes. Late at night, or early morning. When everyone else is asleep." He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb my packing. "It's different than here. Better in some ways, harder in others."

"Because of Priscilla?"

"Because of everything." He rubbed his face. "You know she redecorated the whole place when we got married? Made it exactly what she thought it should be."

"Nothing wrong with that, Elvis. That’s what women do." I chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.

"Yeah but now it's like living in a museum sometimes. Even the air feels..." He trailed off.

"Curated?"

"Yeah." He looked at me then, really looked at me. "That's what I love about you, you know? You always find the right words."

"That why you kissed me? In the alley?"

His hands tightened on the book he was holding. "I kissed you because I couldn't not kiss you anymore."

The air between us felt electric, dangerous.

"Baby—"

"I know." He stood up abruptly. "I know we can't. Not now. Not with everything..." He gestured vaguely. "But in Memphis. When things settle… God, Valley Cat, I can’t wait to…”

A knock at the door interrupted whatever he might have said next. Joe stuck his head in.

"Boss? Car's ready whenever you are. And the Colonel wants—"

"Tell the Colonel I'll be there when I'm there." For once, Elvis's voice held an edge of real authority. I liked it.

Joe disappeared. Elvis turned back to me.

"I have to go. More appearances, more pictures, more..." He shrugged. "You know."

"I know."

He moved to the door, then stopped. "The backup singer story... I'm sorry about that. I know it's not what you wanted."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not. But it's what we've got." He smiled slightly. "For now."

After he left, I continued packing. The books went in first - all of them, even the ones I hadn't read yet. Then the dresses, both fancy and plain. But the jacket... Jerry was right. The jacket stayed behind.

The sun was setting over Vegas, painting the desert in shades of pink and gold. From my window, I could see photographers still lingering near the hotel entrance. Four weeks ago, I'd stood at this same window, watching Elvis's world from the outside. Now I was part of it, for better or worse.

A familiar coo made me look up. That damn dove was perched on my windowsill, looking remarkably pleased with itself.

"You're not coming to Memphis," I told it firmly.

It just cooed again, like it knew something I didn't.

Maybe it did.

*

I was deep in dreamless sleep when the knock came. So faint I almost missed it. For a moment I thought it was part of the dream, until it came again. Soft, uncertain, not like Elvis's usual confident rap.

When I opened the door, he was leaning against the frame, pajama shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes unfocused behind his glasses. His hair, usually perfect, fell across his forehead in a way that made him look impossibly young.

"Hey songbird," he slurred slightly. "Can I... can I come in?"

I hesitated. I'd never seen him this far gone before.

He swayed a little, caught himself. "Please?" His voice cracked on the word. "Just need... need somewhere quiet. Need you."

Something in my chest twisted at the naked vulnerability in his voice. I stepped aside to let him in. He made it three steps before stumbling. I caught him, guided him to the nearest chair.

"Everything's spinning," he mumbled, letting his head fall back. "Doctor Nick gave me something new. Said it would help with the... with the..." He gestured vaguely at his head. "But it's not... I can't..."

"Shh," I smoothed his hair back from his forehead. "It's okay."

"No." He caught my hand, pressed it to his cheek. "Not okay."

He pulled me down onto his lap, hands clumsy but insistent as they found the zipper of my nightgown. "Need you," he mumbled against my neck. "Been needing you so long..."

For a moment, I let myself feel it - the weight of him, the heat of his mouth, everything I'd been dreaming about since that first elevator ride. But his hands were shaking so badly he couldn't manage the zipper. His words slurred together as he tried to kiss me and missed.

"Not like this," I said softly, catching his hands. "Not when you're not yourself."

"But I am myself," he insisted, eyes struggling to focus. "Love you. I love you."

My heart stopped. "Elvis, you're not—"

"No." He pressed his forehead to mine, suddenly intense. "This is right. I love you. Been trying not to but I do."

His voice broke on the last word and suddenly he was crying - silent tears sliding down his perfect face. Without thinking, I gathered him to me, cradling his head against my chest. He curled into me like a child, all that powerful frame somehow becoming small and lost.

"It's okay," I whispered, rocking him slowly. "I've got you."

I held him like that for what felt like hours, studying his face in the dim light. The thick fan of his lashes wet with tears. The vulnerable curve of his mouth. The slight tremor in his jaw that betrayed how hard he was fighting for control.

Something shifted in my chest - a fierce protectiveness mixing with a love so deep it almost scared me. I wanted to be needed by him. Wanted to be the one who could hold him like this, who could see him at his most vulnerable and love him more for it, not less.

"M'sorry," he mumbled eventually. "Didn't mean to... to fall apart like that."

"Don't be sorry." I wiped his cheeks gently. "Ever."

He caught my hand, pressed a clumsy kiss to my palm. "Still coming to Memphis? Even after seeing me like this?"

"Especially after seeing you like this."

We made our slow way to his suite, him leaning heavily on my shoulder. The halls were empty - the Memphis Mafia mysteriously absent. Maybe they knew to give him this privacy. This moment of absolute vulnerability.

At his door, he turned to me. For a second, his eyes cleared.

"Meant it," he said softly. "About loving you."

"I know." I touched his cheek. "But tell me again tomorrow when you're you."

"Promise you'll still be here tomorrow?"

"Promise."

I waited until his door closed before letting out the breath I'd been holding. The empty hallway suddenly felt very long, very quiet. We'd have to talk about the pills eventually. About limits and boundaries and all the things that could go wrong. But not tonight.

Tonight, I just wanted to remember the weight of him in my arms. The trust it took for him to let me see him like this. The way my heart had cracked and mended and grown when he'd said he loved me, even through the chemical haze.

Because somewhere between that first elevator ride and this moment, between Vegas glamour and raw need, I'd fallen completely, irrevocably in love with him. Not Elvis Presley the star, but this complicated, brilliant, troubled man who read numerology and cried in my arms and trusted me to get him home safe.

I wasn't going anywhere.

*

Morning came too soon. The hotel staff who'd barely noticed me four weeks ago now watched my every move, their eyes following me with a mix of curiosity and calculation. The maids whispered in corners. The bellhops suddenly knew my name. Even the woman who'd cleaned my room every day, Marie, looked at me differently as she helped pack my final items.

"You take care," she said softly, folding my last dress. "It's not like Vegas there."

The front desk clerk who'd checked me in that first day - Brenda, still blizzard-cold - handed me my final bill with a knowing smile. "So. Backup singer?"

I just smiled, remembering how she'd dismissed me a month ago. How I'd been nobody then - just another hopeful in a city full of them. Now I was somebody. Or at least, I was somebody's somebody.

Elvis had left earlier, his departure orchestrated by the Colonel down to the last detail. Priscilla was already in Memphis, preparing Graceland. I would fly commercial, arrive hours after them. Keep up appearances. Play the part.

I wasn't to go near Graceland, not yet. Not while Priscilla was there. The Colonel had made that crystal clear - I was to find an apartment far away from Graceland until... until what? Until Priscilla left? Until some arbitrary waiting period passed? Until the scandal died down? I felt caught in limbo, neither here nor there.

My stomach churned with guilt as I thought about her. How must she feel, knowing her husband's... what was I exactly? Mistress seemed too tawdry, girlfriend too simple for whatever this complex thing between Elvis and me was becoming. But whatever I was, I was coming to her town, into her world. Sure, Elvis swore their marriage was over, that she had her own life in California now. But she was still his wife. Still the woman whose home I was effectively invading, even if I wouldn't be living under her roof.

My cheeks burned with shame. Part of me wanted to do right by her - maybe even eventually talk to her, explain... what? That I loved her husband? That I couldn't help myself? That I believed him when he said they were done?

But another part of me bristled at feeling guilty at all. If they really were separated, if she really was building a new life in California, why shouldn't I be with Elvis? Why shouldn't I take this chance with him?

I made a mental note to find out the truth about their marriage - not from Elvis, whose view was complicated by pills and promises, but from someone who would know. Maybe Jerry. Maybe Red. Someone who could tell me if divorce was really on the horizon or if I was just another chapter in Elvis' story of extramarital adventures.

The press lingered outside despite the early hour, their cameras ready. I spotted the one who'd caught us in the alley - he had the decency to look slightly ashamed when our eyes met.

Red appeared at my elbow as I headed for the cab. "Ready?"

"No."

He laughed. "Nobody ever is."

Looking up at the International's gleaming façade, I remembered that first day. How overwhelming it had all seemed. How impossible. I'd been so naive then, thinking talent and determination were enough. Now I knew better. Now I knew about pills and promises, about public faces and private truths, about loving someone so completely that even their broken pieces felt precious.

A familiar coo made me look up one last time. That damn dove sat on the hotel awning, watching my departure like it had watched everything else.

"Still here?" I called up to it.

Red followed my gaze. "Tom's trying to catch it, you know. Says it's his responsibility."

"Tell him to let it be." I smiled. "Some things aren't meant to be caught."

The cab pulled up. Red loaded my bags while I took one last look at the Strip, already shimmering in the heat. Somewhere up there was the elevator where it all began. The suite where Elvis had cried in my arms last night. The lobby where I'd first heard him laugh.

"Miss?" The driver was waiting.

I slid into the back seat, letting Vegas fall away behind me. In a few hours, I'd be in Memphis. In Graceland. In Elvis's world for real.

The morning sun caught my reflection in the cab window. I looked different somehow. Older, maybe. Or just... more. More aware. More certain. More myself.

"Airport," I told the driver. Then, softer, more to myself than anyone: "Time to see what Memphis has in store."

As we pulled away, I could have sworn I heard one last coo from above. A goodbye, maybe. Or a warning.

Either way, there was no turning back now.

Taglist: @whositmcwhatsit  @ellie-24  @arrolyn1114 @missmaywemeetagain  @be-my-ally  @vintageshanny  @prompted-wordsmith @precious-little-scoundrel @peskybedtime @lookingforrainbows @austinbutlersgirl67@lala1267 @thatbanditqueen @dontcrydaddy @lovingdilfs @elvispresleygf @plasticfantasticl0ver @ab4eva @presleysweetheart @chasingwildflowers @elvispresleywife @uh-all-shook-up @xxquinnxx @edgeofrealitys-blog@velvetprvsley @woundmetender @avengen @richardslady121 @presleyhearted @kendralavon7 @18lkpeters@lookingforrainbows @elvisalltheway101 @sissylittlefeather  @atleastpleasetelephone @eliseinmemphis@tacozebra051 @thetaoofzoe @peskybedtime @shakerattlescroll @crash-and-cure @ccab @i-r-i-n-a-a @devilsflowerr@dirtyelvisfant4sy @elvislittleone @foreverdolly @getyourpresleyfix@gayforelvis @headfullofpresley @h0unds-of-h3ll @hipshakingkingcreole @p0lksaladannie @doll-elvis @tacozebra051 @richardslady121 @jaqueline19997 @myradiaz@livelaughelvis @deke-rivers-1957 @jhoneybees @atleastpleasetelephone @eapep @elvispresleywife @that-hotdog @landlockedmermaid77 @sissylittlefeather @kawaiiwitchy

[shock]

"Don't just play—do something!", Jack Abele, 01.21.24.

This is a companion piece to the collage I made about moving into the first place that felt like my home back in '21 (shown below). They have matching frames and are displayed together above our dining table! This second piece is a reflection on how my relationship to "home" has evolved since then, especially after proposing to my now fiancé last month. I'm really proud of it!

Text transcript:

FOR YOUR EYES ONLY

In the cold, thin clouds of interstellar space, written in the precise message of starlight:

What made you so interested in fireflies?

Imagine that they propel the environment into play: they STAND OUT, add color, chaos, curves moving behind and below, inside, outward along feedback loops, perplexing positive panic persuaded to make another form of animal art.

Love is a Many-Splendored Thing, a beautiful structure, flamboyantly scuzzy, sassy, a full bouquet of many wild ideas — a dazzling interplay between lightness and unclarity, trying things out, fancy, whimsical records looped with webs, half-truth surface textures composed of swirls within swirls, a performance of information, scene-setting details with many impressive, more tongue-in-cheek, unforeseeable aspects relatively stable and evolving at the same time.

Distinctly transitional.

The trouble with love is it's hard to describe in simple and consistent words. Beyond the jolting familiarity of self-similar, self-referential tessellating hues, the little comedy-drama fictions... you see openness, possibilities toward change; our very existence together antidote to the dull grind of the paradox that we live every moment in an indifferent universe yet having so much fun with friends, local communities, places, faces, even muddy bog holes.

Music! A Tribe Called Quest, The Beastie Boys, The Breeders, Nick Cave, Nine Inch Nails, Soundgarden, Santana and Crosby, Stills, and Nash, mud-caked at Woodstock, picking up Space Age scrap, cutting collaged paper, playing with magical little lights, heretically evolving in this meaningless, magnificent place fine-tuned just right to allow for life, love, and grunge to exist nevertheless.

Maybe what keeps me here, making art, is how beautiful it is for optimism to become the first expression of hope despite danger amid the disparate depth of our universe created by chaos.

Movement characterizes my "youthful, dynamic" journey, escapes to infinite other places somewhere else, afraid of considering complicated survival long-term, wherein risk is worth the reward. But something about your windy city reminded me what strange, cascading effects the fingers of two hands form together, intersect one another, interfere with fate, interlace like light radiating rays woven, at certain points, into dynamic singularities.

Mutualism is a happy hybrid of symmetry and chaos — a relationship, it's like the entire forest is blinking in sync.

Just as the fun is to make up a great story, the writer in me calls this piece, "Don't just play— do something!"

This time around, living offers a profound pivot from playing a game. Today we confront as animals, we're not far from dogs, domesticated punks at heart, manifold.

I am humbled, exhilarated, afraid yet strangely calm and clear "On Bended Knee"

(The term ground seems inapt.)

...Nor is it possible to describe...

The closest feeling to being the world itself? It is to have loved someone so much that you wanted to spend the rest of your lifetime with them, with each other.

We're writing a book. Adding a stroke of paint and words to illustrate what we became, a bright third dimension that can be seen from space to meet the generations to come, to simulate the uncountable whimsies they could achieve.

The mind already knows before the key touches the lock.

To watch firefly swarms with a mangy mutt.

That must be quite a sight to see.

BECAUSE THEY EXIST

NOWHERE ELSE ON EARTH.

[follow-up-news]

Dry and unseasonably warm conditions in the Northeast have plunged much of the region into drought, fueling wildfires in New Jersey, Connecticut and Massachusetts. October ended as one of the driest months on record in the U.S., according to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. The Northeast, in particular, saw scant precipitation. Cities such as Philadelphia; Newark, New Jersey; Wilmington, Delaware; and Norfolk, Virginia, recorded no rain at all in October, according to the Southeast Regional Climate Center, which collects precipitation data from more than 1,400 weather stations across the country. Several cities, including Philadelphia and Washington, D.C., set new records for the number of consecutive October days without any measurable rainfall. “This is a region that we don’t typically associate with drought,” said Benjamin Cook, an adjunct research scientist at the Lamont-Doherty Earth Observatory in Palisades, New York. “To have such persistent periods of really intense drought conditions is not very common.”

[rjzimmerman]

Ladies and Gentlemen, the Northeast Is Burning. (New York Times)

Excerpt from this New York Times story:

The smoke around New York City is back. But don’t blame Canada.

In Vancouver, British Columbia, where I’ve lived for 25 years, we used to blame California and Washington for our occasionally smoky skies. Then in the summer of 2015, Vancouver’s air turned Martian orange, just as the air on the East Coast did last year. Only this time, the fires were ours. It wasn’t just a bad year; something fundamental had changed. Since then, almost every summer has brought red suns at midday, health advisories, broken heat records, anxiety and, when fires get close, real fear: Our old house is a tinderbox. Where would we go?

Red flag warnings in New England indicating fire weather — that is, hot, dry, windy conditions — have been issued repeatedly since late October. These warnings are common in the West, but they are extremely rare in the Northeast, where I grew up and where my base line was established, my notion of what normal weather is. And I can tell you: This isn’t normal. Back in the 1970s, the idea of wildfires along the I-95 corridor in November was simply inconceivable.

This fall, more than 500 wildfires have ignited in New Jersey alone. And in the past two weeks, in parts of Connecticut and Pennsylvania where developments end and wild lands begin, known as the wildland-urban interface, fires have been threatening homes, too. New York City’s fire department responded to 271 brush fires across the five boroughs just in the first two weeks of November. A 5,000-acre fire has been burning for more than a week on the New York-New Jersey border, prompting voluntary evacuation orders on Saturday, after the fire broke through containment lines.

Last month a firefighter was killed and two more were injured by a vehicle while fighting a wildfire in Berlin, Conn. On Nov. 9 an 18-year-old New York State employee was killed fighting a fire in Sterling Forest State Park. Wildfire fighters getting killed? Maybe in Colorado or California. But in the Northeast, hardly ever.

Two weeks ago, a newspaper reporter from Provincetown, Mass., called me. Could the pitch pine and scrub oak forests of Cape Cod burn like the Western forests I described in my book “Fire Weather”?

“Yes,” I told him. “Maybe not in the past, but now they can.”

It felt strange, almost traitorous, to say that, because I’ve been going to the cape since I was a child. I know the smell of those pine needles in summer, the soft crunch of the cones underfoot. The idea of those trees burning never occurred to me before this year.

We are being reminded the hard way that we share this world. Smoke knows no boundaries, and neither does fire. It’s not a Southern problem or a Western problem; it’s our shared reality. This is not just a “bad year.” Globally, 2023 was the hottest year in recorded history, and that record is already being broken. This year is on track to be not only one of the driest autumns in U.S. history since records have been kept but also the first full year in which global temperatures rose 1.5 degrees Celsius (2.7 degrees Fahrenheit) above preindustrial levels. That doesn’t sound like much, but when this kind of elevated heat is prolonged, it stresses natural systems, killing marine creatures and making forests and grasslands more flammable.

[rorirevolutions]

World Building Pt.4: Actual 'world' building

So obviously we know that most of the towns and cities in the shows don’t really exist. However, some of them have stated specific regions and states where they are set such as Mighty Med taking place in Philadelphia, PA. As for the others such as Swellview I did a little sleuthing to figure out roughly where each of these take place based on little things mentioned in canon and weather patterns.

The Lab Rats home of Mission Creek is another easy one because they at one point it is stated that it’s in California. I’m not stopping there though, personally I believe it takes place in SoCal near Orange County. Which given the climate it would make sense that the Bionic Island is just off the coast in Baja California. This would also mean that Tasha and Leo, assuming they arn’t transplants, would use SoCal slang. However, I don’t believe the trio would necessarily have Cali accents. Maybe Bree would to fit in more, but after living so long detached from society I believe that Adam having only really heard Donald for the longest time would share his accent for the most part and Chase probably dosen’t have a definable accent. He has a computer in his brain and access to every bit of slang/inflection that has ever been recorded. So he probably dosen’t speak with much of one. He might have picked up more Cali slang and gestures from his time with Leo, but I doubt he uses them unless specifically talking to Tasha or Leo. 

It isn’t ever brought up were Centium City resides, but based on the fact that it appears a lot colder and is the home town of both the Davenport brothers and Principle Perry. I believe that Centium City is in the state New Jersey. Perry has a lot of stereotypical qualities(I apologize to anyone from NJ, I’ve never been and all I have is media for examples) that kinda makes me think that she would be from there. Also could you please imagine Perry, Donald, and Douglas with Jersey accents. Incredible. I think that the brothers have probably lost a good bit of there accents from time away, but whenever they are near each other or are particularly emotional the accents come out in full force. Otherwise Donald probably dosen’t have a  very definable accent due to all his traveling and working with a wide array of people, and Douglas probably has nothing but different bits of mixed up slang due to his colorful environment.

Henry Danger/Danger Force were a bit difficult until I rewatched the Game Shakers x Henry Danger crossover special. While discussing places to go Kenzie brings up Swellview and states that its in ‘The Heart of America’. While many states can try to claim that they are the heart of the country, the only one that is usually agreed upon is Kansas. Climate wise it also makes sense as swellview has shown to be rather windy and Kansas in right within Tornado Alley. This means that Swellviews hilariously named neighboring towns also take place in Kansas. All the characters (with the exception of Schwoz) would also use more Kansan slang as all of them have stated to have lived in the area their whole lives. Which leads me to bring up Dystopia where the original Danger Crew moved to after S5. All we know about Dystopia is that its really dangerous and kinda nearby as Henry seems willing to get there without the use of Miles’s powers. Now for this I looked up where the most dangerous cities in America were and I’m so sorry Missouri but you guys have several cities in the top 10 list. It is also right next-door to Kansas. 

Like HD/DF the Thundermans home of Hiddenville doesn’t have a named state. It also appears to have a fairly neutral environment. Initially I was thinking of Tennessee but all things considered there’s a distinct lack of countryisms (I know not all Tennessee is county music and farm life but it still dosen’t quit fit). Then I was thinking Washington due to the ‘Land of 1,000 parks’ bit(According to google Seattle, WA has 874 parks), but theres a lack of mountain ranges. However, it’s the closest I’ve got to a real answer so I’m sticking to it until I find more evidence. Even if Hiddenville is in Washington, I don’t think any of the Thundermans(with maybe the exception of Chloe) would have any slang or dialect from there. The family transplanted more than likely from a different state to go into hiding. Given that Metroberg is basically the Capitol of all USA Supers, I think it would probably also be in Virginia nearby D.C. Meaning the family would have similar accents and mannerisms to Virginians. At least in the beginning, later on the kids probably adopt the slang of those nearby.

Finally Villains of Valley View. It’s already mentioned in the show that Valley View is in Texas, but like the Thundermans the Madden family is also transplanted and on the run/in hiding. While it’s never truly stated where they came from we can infer from some details. Eva has a very noticeable British accent so she probably moved to the US as a young adult. I don’t know what it is but for some reason Vic gives me NorCal vibes specifically Sacramento, CA. I have no clue why but he does. I imagine that after they unofficially wed(they couldn’t legally get married as wanted criminals) Vic and Eva moved to the Bay Area where they did some villainy and started their family. I don’t have a name for the town/city where they grew up yet, but I am absolutely accepting suggestions.

[darkmaga-returns]

Totally Wasted Wind Power

Bloomberg reports UK Is Paying £1 Billion to Waste a Record Amount of Wind Power

Burgeoning capacity and blustery weather should have driven huge growth in output in 2024. But the grid can’t cope, forcing the operator to pay wind farms to turn off, a cost ultimately borne by consumers. It’s a situation that puts at risk plans to decarbonize the network by 2030 and makes it harder to cut bills. Crucial to the net zero grid target is a massive build-out of renewable power, particularly from wind. Britain has boosted its offshore fleet by 50% in the past five years and is set to double it in the next five, Bloomberg data show. But the grid hasn’t expanded at the same pace. As a result, the operator is increasingly paying wind farms, particularly those in Scotland, not to run. So far this year, the UK has spent more than £1 billion ($1.3 billion) in “congestion costs” to turn off plants that can’t deliver electricity because of grid constraints, and switch on others. Last month for example, when Storm Bert swept across the UK, some of its newest and biggest wind parks were still. Scotland’s £3 billion Seagreen project, owned by SSE Plc and TotalEnergies SE, was shut off. SSE’s Viking development on the Shetland Islands was also closed. Wind vs Gas UK generators usually sell output in advance on the wholesale market. But those transactions don’t take into account the physical limitations of balancing supply and demand in real time. To keep the lights on, the operator steps in, paying some plants to turn off and others that are closer to demand centers to fire up. Often, this means shutting off a far-flung wind farm and starting up a gas-fed plant that’s closer to a city.

[thisweekinfandomhistory]

Helloooo, Chicago! This very special bonus episode was recorded LIVE at FanExpo Chicago '23 on the Creator Stage, and we're so excited to get to share it with you all! To celebrate and thank FXC for inviting us to perform, we decided to honor the Windy City and give a brief overview of a few fannish events in a fandom that owes it all to the Chi: due South. The heartwarming tale of a Canadian Mountie, a deaf wolfdog, some ghosts, and two gentlemen named Ray, due South is one of the hardiest fandoms of the '90s and boy, howdy, was its drama nutty, eh? From the Religious War of '96 to the still-ongoing Ray Wars, due South fans have seen, said, and done it all. And we salute them here, at the first episode we've gotten to record in the same room. Enjoy! (The normal episode for this week is coming soon! COVID is delaying its release, boo.)

This Week In Fandom History is a fandom-centric podcast that tells you… what happened this week in fandom history!

[randomvarious]

Today's compilation:

Freezone 3/5 1996 Deep House / Downtempo / Trip Hop

Really living up to my own name here with something a little bit random today: a mid-90s 12-inch from an ambient and chill series called Freezone that was released by Belgian label SSR. Originally launched in 1994, Freezone ended up spawning seven total volumes that explored the bounds of ambient music—as well as the many adjacent and hybrid genres that it combined itself with too—and did so with nothing but exclusive tracks that were contributed by some of electronic and alternative music's biggest names.

So this little four-song record here represents a slice of Freezone's third installment, which was subtitled as Horizontal Dancing. Issued in multiple formats, Horizontal Dancing could be acquired as either a double-disc, a quintuple-vinyl, or, sort of oddly, as five separate 12-inches that made up that quintuple-vinyl version itself, all of which could be purchased individually. And, well, today I have one of those separate 12-inches for you all—the third one 😅.

Now, obviously, there are two sides to this record, but in my estimation, one of them is great and the other one is good. And the great one is the A-side, which consists of a sweet banger from Chicago deep house legend Glenn Underground and a spacious downtempo and trip hop wanderer from short-lived UK duo 2 Player.

Glenn Underground's track is called "Tribe of Benjamin," and while it takes a little bit of time to really start to find its footing, when it eventually does, it's pretty fantastic. You kinda feel like Glenn's decided to settle on this little plateau in the early going with a somewhat meager combination of these little stabby string synths, a phat and fuzzy bassline, and a popping bit of percussion that smacks of this little piece from Andrea True Connection's disco classic, "More, More, More"—which would then later be sampled by Canadian alternative rap group Len for their all-time summer classic, "Steal My Sunshine"—but what you're not ready for is all the breathy flute that unexpectedly comes and cinches it all together 😌. And then following that section, the song proceeds to flow and grow into a fuller track, allowing for some chilly keyboard chords and squealy strings to be added into the mix as well. Sleekly premium mid-90s Windy City deep house groove there 👍.

And then for that 2 Player joint, we have "Arizona," an excellently chill and Middle Eastern-tinted vibe with blowing wind, rattling rattlesnake tails, and a whole lot of varied synth work that more or less speaks to the expertise of both of the duo's own members. In '95, they debuted with a 12-inch on UK electronic powerhouse Ninja Tune, then in' 96, they made this exclusive for Freezone 3, and since then, Daniel Pemberton has gone on to become a renowned composer for film, TV, and videogames, with his biggest claims to fame being his scorings of Spider-Man: Into the Spider-verse, its sequel, and Ocean's 8; and Jon Tye would further grow his own leftfield electronic label, Lo Recordings, which has been able to boast a catalog that consists of Aphex Twin, Susumu Yokota, Squarepusher, Red Snapper, Fischerspooner, Blur, Grimes, Luke Vibert, Jean Jacques Perrey, Rothko, Four Tet, and Thurston Moore 😯. Quite a varied set of talented folks there!

So a couple dope and exclusive 90s electronic gems on this Belgian 12-inch that happens to form one-fifth of a much larger compilation. Like I said, the flipside of this record is good too—a solid deep house cut from Matthew Herbert aka Doctor Rockit aka Wishmountain and a downtempo/ambient tune from longtime Scottish trip hopper Howie B.—but I don't think that either of those offerings are really as enjoyable as what's on the A-side here.

Highlights:

Glenn Underground - "Tribe of Benjamin" 2 Player - "Arizona"

[asterdeer]

richard's relationship with money is so interesting to me despite/because of how vague and nonspecific it is in canon. which only makes sense because the show isn't interested in richard's backstory at ALL and, it being an audio medium, it can't exactly give many context clues like wardrobe/style or what his apartment/house looks like. but it's like......... he doesn't have interests, he dabbles in money-making activities. i am practically forced to assume that his mention of being good at pool also = a side hustle. his estranged dad up and left him a house and a paid ride to college. at this point he's way better off than he's ever been -- after 18 years of living with two separate conmen and a mother who doesn't care about him in mediocre apartments, he's suddenly on his own with his future out in front of him, and....... he STILL takes very risky grade-changing jobs for money? like he bypasses getting a regular college job and goes straight to petty crime? and apparently "far worse" crimes??? it's such an interesting balance between craving the security of Having Money and being pathologically unable to get it in a "normal" "safe" way. he doesn't even do anything with it in canon, he just GETS it. he isn't even buying lucy's drinks himself!!!! obviously even richard has bills to pay (which is. very funny to me. sorry that i think 19-year-old college era richard is the funniest person to ever exist, gremlin who's only ever lived in an apartment with his mother, sister, and mother's rotating cast of boyfriends, suddenly has a whole ass house dumped in his lap on his 18th birthday in exchange for his whole ass father's wholesale abandonment of him, has to figure out how to pay utility bills on his own, maybe thinks about getting a barista job or whatever kids did in the 80s, record shop clerk job?? and then nopes past it and picks "exploiting a child genius" as a career path instead. what a fucking legend. i also think he murdered people for money a couple times but that's just me) sorry i've lost the plot of this post thinking about campbell county community college computers richard. imagine being the people at the 5 Cs in charge of hiring STUDENT COUNSELORS and seeing richard maxwell strut into his interview and thinking "yes this 18-year-old suspiciously home-owning kid who talks like a john hughes movie antagonist and is currently his kid sister's very much illegal guardian is the perfect fit for our emotionally and socially fragile 11-year-old resident genius. what could go wrong" and then they have to pay for nicholas adamsworth's therapy sessions for the next 5 years because richard maxwell was what could go wrong. fuck. "waylaid in the windy city" maybe be my personal favorite richard but pre- and mid-"eugene's dilemma" richard is definitely the weirdest and funniest

[barry-j-blupjeans]

Day Three - Myth

There’s something incredibly disconcerting about being able to see your own breath when you breathe out. For someone like Lup, it was always a reminder of where she came from. Cold, windy nights on the street with Taako, hidden in the back alleys of a city that never really went dark, unless you knew where to look. The chill was part of the reason they had moved away. Starting a fresh life somewhere warm had always been the goal.

It didn’t get cold out here. Even in the winter, the lowest it would drop would be the mid-forties. Lup hadn’t seen natural ice in years.

But here she was.

To be completely honest, being a YouTuber wasn’t the hot shit that it was made out to be. To be even more honest, Lup and Taako often put their lives in major jeopardy with the cryptid hunting videos. They had never actually gotten any solid evidence that the cryptids they were looking for existed, but that’s what video editing was for. Instead, the danger came from being out in places like the woods she was in now. Far enough away from town to lose even the shittiest of wifi, deep enough into nature that no one would know where to find her.

They took a lot of measures to make sure they never got separated. And now Lup was out in the woods by herself, with her way too expensive camera and a sweater not heavy enough for the chill that had settled over the area.

And the camera wasn’t even working. It had been static all night, but now it had dissolved into straight nothingness. There was nothing Lup could do to get the view back in focus, or back at all. Maybe if she hadn’t been so focused on it, she would have felt colder. Maybe she would have watched her step more carefully.

Maybe-

There was a flash of red from her left. Lup staggered slightly, then stopped walking. She aimed the camera towards it, just in case. If she was about to get murdered or some shit, then at least they’d have video evidence.

And she’d not be going down without a fight, thanks to the obsessive amount of pocket knives Magnus had given her. They had gotten her out of more than one shitty situation before and she could do it again.

The temperature seemed to drop lower. Just being able to see her breathe was something, but now the cold was starting to seep into her lips and fingers.

Logically, she should stay put. She hadn’t strayed far from where she lost track of Taako. Or Taako lost track of her, or whatever. But there was a dread creeping up her throat that had started with the static and increased with the chill. If it came down to fight or flight, she couldn’t exactly choose the latter and leave Taako behind.

And it was only when the screen of her camera cracked into shards that Lup realized. Oh.

Fuck.

Despite doing this for several years, they never really encountered a cryptid before. Like, duh. It’s not like they exist. If the Mothman was real, someone deffo would have gotten that guy on camera. If Bigfoot was out there somewhere, he’d probably be trying to buy some fuckin’ Air Jordans or something. If the Red Robe existed, then he would have been recorded already. The flimsy excuse of him “breaking cameras” was supposed to have been a convenient sidestep.

But here she was. Cameraless, freezing, and stuck staring at the red, hooded figure emerging from the trees.

He was fucking terrifying. Where there should have been a face beneath his hood, there was a curling ball of static that dripped down his chest. What could have been hands looked more like inky black claws, curved and pointed, much like the dozens of pocket knives Lup had on her. Past his knees, the robe began to fade away, leaving a wisp behind him, tangled up in static and empty air.

It was horrifying. But when he spoke—

When he spoke, Lup figured that the most awful part of it all was the ache in her chest.

“Lup,” he said, in what might have been some sort of twisted joy or disbelief. “Lup, you came back.”

Fight or flight, baby. And Lup was all out of flight.

She pulled the pocket knife out of her sleeve.

[the-kiss-museum-news]

dressed to kill tour RKO orpheum theater davenport iowa 07-20-75 (two shows) the KISS museum news - the editors desk opening act: journey attendance: 4,763 (combined) capacity: 2,803 promotions: windy city productions

klassik kiss

KISS Facts: Both shows were recorded for the Alive! album. During "Let Me Go, Rock N Roll" at one of the shows, Gene yelled "C'mon Quad City!". This ended up appearing on the record and is the only direct reference to a city on the entire album.

📸 edward przydzial - ecpi

[jazzandother-blog]

ANITA O'DAY, ANITA (1956)

LIsten ´´ANITA´´ here

The Jezebel Who Inaugurated Verve

The Backstory When L.A.-born jazz impresario Norman Granz announced plans to start a new pop-oriented label named Verve on Christmas Eve of 1955, the buzz was all about the artist that Granz had signed before the announcement. She was a respected female jazz singer whom Granz had lured away from Decca Records where her career had plateaued. In February of 1956, Granz took out a full-page ad in Billboard proclaiming: 'VERVE RECORDS: WE GOT ELLA!'

Granz hired Buddy Bregman, a 24-year-old wunderkind arranger from Chicago, to oversee Verve's recording sessions. Bregman found only one problem: Other than Ella Fitzgerald, who had yet to record anything for the label, they had no other artists. Granz suggested Bregman tap the roster of artists at his two money-losing jazz labels, Clef and Norgran. "I found no one who was pure enough to do pop, so I looked for crossovers—obviously vocalists", Bregman remembered in 2011. "I went over the jazz artists on the jazz labels and I saw a lady who had gone to my high school and had an infamous reputation, Anita O'Day".

Anita O'Day was one of the least likely choices for Verve's first official LP. She was a relic of the Big Band days who had made her name singing with Gene Krupa's orchestra. But O'Day did not think of herself as a jazz singer; she thought of her voice as an instrument equal with any other, even insisting on wearing the same uniforms as the all-male bands she sang with. ("Anita O'Day is a woman", one jazz writer sniffed, "but for many years, Anita was unwilling to admit it".) She had come up hardscrabble during the Great Depression and had an attendant personality: direct, unvarnished, and often baffling. She held her own with the bands she sang with when it came to musical prowess—and wild behavior (she had been drinking in Windy City saloons since she was sixteen). Her sense of timing and phrasing was innate—she could literally replace any instrument in a brass line—and her singing soon took on the individualistic qualities of bebop while she developed a widely publicized heroin addiction. It earned her the nickname she would despise: "The Jezebel of Jazz".

By the early 1950s, O'Day had amassed long rap sheet and was eventually thrown into Terminal Island, where she suffered a nervous breakdown. Her career wrecked, she was playing strip dives in El Segundo and living with her drummer John Poole in Long Beach when Bregman went to see her at a club on Hollywood Boulevard. He was not impressed. "I hated her singing... but she did a whole set with her back to the audience. I thought, wow, that is so weird. I never even thought it had anything to do with drugs". Bregman, who did not smoke or drink, spent an awkward night with O'Day and Poole trying to work out a pop repertoire with such an out-of-the-box singer. "Her piano keys had no white ivory on them and when we rehearsed 'Honeysuckle Rose,' she asked if I could play more in the cracks. That stopped me. So I actually moved my fingers a little to the left and she nodded like 'That's what I meant".

Bregman was intrigued, but Granz was dubious. "She never sold over 3,000 albums in her life," he cautioned. "If you do better than that, it's a miracle". Bregman thought about it and decided, "Okay, I'll take a chance on O'Day". As O'Day herself wrote in her graphically honest 1981 autobiography High Times Hard Times, "Those seven words put me back in the business".

Why You Should Listen Anita (Verve #2000), recorded in three days in December 1955 in the old Capitol Studios building on Melrose Avenue, remains a masterpiece of self-reinvention. The cover, a murky and melancholy hand-tinted picture of O'Day perched on a rock, head resting in the crook of a tree, says it all: A matured woman had emerged from oblivion and was reintroducing herself, scars and all. From the crisp opening salvo of Bregman's horn section on Cole Porter's "You're The Top" to the near-classical leanings of the 1931 ballad "Beautiful Love", O'Day's grainy, bittersweet delivery is a perfect foil for Bregman's lush, buttery arrangements. L.A. studio vets like bassist Joe Mondragon, harpist Corky Hale and guitarist Barney Kessel round out the stellar cast of players.

The Aftermath According to Bregman, Anita sold 385,000 copies in the first six months after its release. "As news about Anita, spread, everybody started welcoming me back", O'Day remembered. "The Los Angeles disc jockeys promoted Anita as the album of the week. Variety, until then not one of my big boosters, was converted. Cash Box put my picture on the cover and Metronome welcomed me back in an editorial". The New York Daily News called her "perhaps the most high-styled jazz singer in action today". For his part, Bregman later crowed that the album "made me a star".

O'Day's Verve years, although plagued by her continuing addictions, were arguably her finest hour. She revealed a talent for finding quirky or obscure material on subsequent albums like Pick Yourself Up (also with Bregman), Travelin' Light and All the Sad Young Men. (The latter is practically a concept album of overlooked composers). In 1958, despite being "high as a kite" (her words), O'Day knocked the socks off of a sleepy afternoon crowd at the Newport Jazz Festival with her deconstruction of the standards "Tea for Two" and "Sweet Georgia Brown". Her appearance was filmed for the 1960 documentary Jazz on A Summer's Day, and the release of that film further completed her triumphant return and achievement of a new respectability as a unique jazz stylist.

Anita O'Day died in Los Angeles on November 23, 2006. Her memorial was at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery chapel, where Bregman recalled: "Her manager at the end of the service passed the CD out to all and said: This was her favorite album she ever made´´.

Source: Los Angeles magazine / writer Matthew Duersten