#and Dean was jerrys world

[fredandginger64]

Dean showed Jerry affection in the sweetest ways. The people who say Dean hated him, well I don't know what to say. These two loved each more than anything, I'm certain of that.

Dean getting Jerry’s attention

Link 1, Link 2, Link 3, Link 4

[caw4brandon]

We Like, Are Totally Spies

When we think about shows that will appeal to boys. Action is the easiest to relate. Something like; Ben 10, American Dragon Jake Long, Avatar: The Last Airbender, and Justice League will be on the list. It has drama, it has fights and it's cool!

However, there has been a movement in that era where specific cartoon shows aim to get girls into action. Kim Possible, Juniper Lee, My Life as a Teenage Robot, and The Winx Club are perfect examples of such shows.

There is an odd case for more girl-centric shows. Something about the need to balance femininity with action. The show needs to feel like an action that happens to have the main characters be girls. This is where today's topic comes in. We're talking about how;

- How's the Mission, Spies? -

< Totally Spies > by Vincent Chalvon-Demersay and David Michel follows three teens; Sam, Clover and Alex from Beverly Hills living a secret life being Super Spies for WOOHP (World Organization Of Human Protection) under their boss; Jerry Lewis.

Their missions involve travelling the world. Fighting mad scientists and twisted outcasts who seek to dominate the world with style and gadgets that conceal themselves as fashionable equipment.

The trio plays specific archetypes. Sam (green) is the brains, Clover (red) is the fashionista/ boy obsessive and Alex (yellow) is the athlete and occasional nerd. Despite their differences, they share several common interests such as their love for shopping and spy skills of agility, hand-to-hand combat and espionage.

Across six seasons, the girls matured from high school to university students. Confronting the daily struggles of homework, social lives and their petty arch-enemy, Mandy.

As a vibe, < Totally Spies > fully leans into the Beverly Hills lifestyle of fabulous fashion and some familiar pop culture names of that era. The show has a mix of the James Bond type of super spy world filled with dull henchmen, high-tech machines and some tacky villains.

- Time to go to Plan B! -

The episodes are condensed into their own episode. Although there have been some arcs that follow specific villains who have a bit of history with the main characters.

Tim Scam is a former agent who went rogue against WOOHP and Terrence Lewis; twin brother to Jerry and a sore thumb to WOOHP. There also reoccurring allies as well. Brittney (cyan) who joined the team as a trainee, Dean from the three-part series < Evil Promotion Much? > and Blaine a freelance agent who dated Clover.

The conflicts, if we can even call them conflicts at all have aged rather strangely. Some of the villains commit petty crimes like kidnapping celebrities due to jealousy or act extreme. Like being anti-consumerist with the solution of destroying malls.

Yet, some are still relatable to this day such as a kid villain who is mad at his father for being busy as a commentary on how parental neglect can cause warped ideas in a child. Whatever, it's a pre-teen show. Let's not look into it too deeply.

The world of Totally Spies is also interconnected with several other shows; [The Amazing Spiez] and [Martin Mystery].

< Martin Mystery > follows Martin, a paranormal investigator for the Center with Martin's step-sister, Diana Lombard and Java the Caveman. Fighting monsters, urban legends and aliens.

According to a special crossover episode. Martin's boss; M.O.M (Mystery Organization Manager) and Jerry know each other. Likewise, in Amazing Spiez; Jerry is also the boss of the Clark siblings. Lee, Marc, Megan and Tony. Sadly, these shows were short-lived and cancelled.

It does raise an interesting point. Why is Totally Spies more popular? As a guess, I think it's because the chemistry between the characters is a lot more interesting and fun.

The three girls are best of friends and while they sometimes bicker over boys, responsibilities and opinions. They will always put their friendship and mission first above all else. It feels more real, in a superficial way.

That an actual girl would have a girlfriend group this tight-knit and if they ever become a part of something bigger than them. They would do it together.

- Here We Go Again! -

Tacky villains, cute super spy girlfriends and awesome gadgets aside. The show has a few good jokes here and there. Its art style borrows a lot from Anime and its colors are groovy to the eyes.

For a show that was meant to attract girls into action. The show has also garnered a large following from boys as well. I think another secret to the success of < Totally Spies > can also be because of its approach to the subject. Like I said in my introduction.

There is an odd case for more girl-centric shows. Something about the need to balance femininity with action. The show needs to feel like an action that happens to have the main characters be girls.

This show is a girl's show. The girls are unapologetic being girly. Doing girl things like shopping, manicure, dating and going on dream vacations but with their secret life as spies. The show balances it out with good action and is still using that girly theme to add to its gadgets.

Heck, some of the gadgets are stuff that I would personally want to have. The Jet Pack backpack, The Wind Tunnel 3000 Tornado Blast Hair Dryer, Lazer lipstick and the Compowder are on my list. Especially with its costume change function.

It's a show that embraces both ends of the spectrum and allows it to show its respective strengths rather than shy away from the themes. With the announcement that this show is going to have a season 7/ soft reboot. It does look promising with several concerns.

But I am hopeful that for a beloved show such as this. The girls will have a proper return and inspire a new generation of girls (and boys) to be < Totally Spies >

[justquicksshot]

I can say this about few people in the world, but Jerry Lewis is officially one of my favorite human beings, for the same reason that he never forgot that sensitive condition of his nature, one that many of us ignore. Because in addition to having been a completely talented man in all his madness, he gave himself totally to that humanitarian aid, to the help of those whose hand was never extended, the childrens.

He was a man who, despite his internal struggles, never tired of teaching us that there would always be a reason to smile again.

Jerry Lewis was more than I can say, I don't know if he thought the same about himself, I just hope that when he left, when his body no longer found the strength to move on, he left calmly, because he knew he did a good job, because he lived, enjoyed, got angry, cried, felt life at the most vivid point, Because he made a difference not only in show business, but in the real world, in a world plagued by tragedy and disease.

And he knew very well that the least suitable to live in this world corroded by evil were children, because Jerry never stopped being a child at heart, an innocent child, scared, eager for love and affection, for a place to belong.

Because he was one of the few who until the end fought for those little beings of joy and innocence, because he never tired of making them laugh, of staying until the early hours of the morning, exhausted with his voice broken, seeking to fulfill a goal to be able to help those children whose destiny had not been more favorable than that of others.

It surprises me that I remember perfectly the day he died, back then I didn't even recognize him, but something in me was stirred sad, until now I can never understand why, and now every anniversary of his death is a year farther from that time when his eyes still shone with that childish mischief that never left him, When his smile was still dazzled, when his eyes were still telling us stories of a better time, when youth followed him and he lived the pinnacle of show business side by side with the love of his life.

Long live Jerry Lewis, because his memory will always be eternal in our hearts. ❤��

💕1926-∞ 💕

[judy1926]

Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis in 1956

[fredandginger64]

I've spent the last 2 hours commenting to so many uninformed people on YouTube who just plain hate Jerry and thought Dean left him because he could not stand him. There's a generic version of their split that so many people believe. It ashame that this is the version that will probably be accepted. But I'll defend Jerry and their relationship forever because it's people like us that care enough to find the truth. All the Dean lovers don't really love him like they say because they won't even do just a little background reading to find the truth. They just simply let people know that Jerry was a horrible person and Dean was a saint, and never did anything wrong in the partnership. How do you respond to such people? I mean I love Dean too but I know he was not what they say he was. Ok I'm done ranting now

[jerrylewis-thekid]

Barbara Sinatra: “One of the best things about my husband was: if something went wrong in your life, boom, he was there. And if you had him on your side, it was like having an army at your disposal. Furthermore, he was on your side if you were right or wrong, and that is something very special in a friend; you don't find that so often.

Gregory Peck and Frank had always been close, and Frank called him Ahab after his character in Moby Dick. When Greg's son Jonathan died, in 1975, Frank was one of the first at his side. He did the same for Dean Martin twelve years later when his son Dino was killed in a plane crash. When Sammy Davis, Jr. lost an eye in a car accident; Frank went to see Sammy in the hospital and then brought him back to Palm Springs to recuperate. Sammy loved Frank, so even though he was depressed, just being with his hero helped get him through that terrible time.

Frank took friendship and loyalty very seriously and believed that true friendship could only be tested in times of need. People just had to get word to him and he'd drop what he was doing and go spend time with them. He'd travel long distances to brighten someone's day, and I went with him to numerous hospitals and homes for retired singers and actors to cheer up old friends. He took me to see Gene Kelly in Santa Monica when he was first sick and to the bedside of John Wayne when he was dying. ‘The Duke’ and Frank had been friends for years and were as close as brothers, even though they were diametrically opposed politically and kidded each other constantly about it.

Frank and Gene Kelly had been in several films together, and for Anchors Aweigh Gene taught Frank how to dance outside studio hours. Frank called Gene ‘the Irish taskmaster’ but he never forgot that kindness. Thanks to Gene, Frank could really move. He could even jump up in the air and click his heels together, and he loved to do that. He was also a terrific ballroom dancer, which was terribly romantic.

As Burt Lancaster once said, ‘If you say to Frank “I'm having a problem,” then it becomes his problem.’ Frank really had a calling for that

[queen-of-deans-booty]

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1k

Warnings: minor fluff, angst, murder (implied), character death

Summary: One good deed turns into your worst nightmare, one that you can’t stop from coming.

Square Filled: heartbreak (2023) for @spnaubingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

x

Before you can leave the bedroom, Dean pulls you in again and kisses you. He knows exactly what to do to get you to stay, but you promised your friend you’d go shopping with her. You wrap your arms around his neck and allow yourself to get lost in the kiss for exactly five seconds before you pull away.

“I gotta go, Dean,” you giggle.

“Come on, stay. I’ll do that thing you like,” he smirks.

“No. It’s not fair to use sex to hold me here. I’ll only be gone a few hours at most. You’re so clingy,” you laugh and push him off you. “You’ll survive for a few hours. I promise.”

“Okay, fine, but you’re not leaving my bedroom when you get back.”

“Deal,” you chuckle. “If I’m not back by seven, you have my permission to come get me.”

You kiss Dean quickly before leaving the bedroom. Dean won’t let you take his precious car so you opt to take one of the other older ones in the bunker’s garage. They’re all vintage classics that Savy fell in love with when she first saw them. She’ll appreciate you taking the 1955 Ford Thunderbird. Savvy is only in town for a few days on business so you only have a few days to hang with her before she goes back home on the East Coast.

“How are you and Jerry doing?” you ask when you pick her up.

Normally, the drive to the mall is only twenty minutes if you take the main roads and the highway. The weather is nice so you opt to take the back roads which will add another thirty minutes to the ride. Neither of you mind.

“We’re trying for another baby, so that’s exciting.” She already has four kids so you’re surprised she wants to bring another one into the world. “What about you? Any kids for you and Dean?”

“Savy, we’ve only been dating for six months.”

“So? You’re not getting any younger.”

“I don’t want kids, and I don’t think Dean will have an issue with me not wanting kids.” Kids don’t fit into the hunting life. “Plus, we’re taking things at a nice pace. He just asked me to move into the Bunker last week.”

“That must be easier for hunting.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Are you happy, Y/N?”

“Very. Are you happy?”

“I am,” she smiles.

“Good.”

You turn the music up and let the wind blow through your hair as you drive down the desolate road. You turn the corner and see a gray car parked on the side of the road about one hundred yards away. There is a man standing by the car with his hands on his head like he’s stressed about his car situation. You slow down and turn the music off when you approach the man.

“Car trouble?”

“Yeah. My tire is flat, my phone is dead, and I don’t know how to change a tire. I know what you’re thinking. A man doesn’t know how to change a tire? I was never a car man, and no one ever taught me,” he chuckles nervously.

“Do you have a spare?”

“Yeah, in the back.”

“I know how to change a tire. I can help you.”

“You’re a lifesaver. Thank you.”

You pull up in front of the car, and Savy looks at you with concern.

“Are you sure you should be doing this?”

“I’m just changing a tire. It’s fine. Ten minutes tops.” You get out of the car. “Stay here.”

“Thank you for stopping. I would have had to walk home,” the man chuckles. “I’m Peter.”

“Y/N. That’s Savy, and it’s no problem. I’d want someone to stop for me.”

You take the spare from the back and get started on taking the current tire off the car. You have just undone the lugnuts from the rim when your phone rings from your car.

“Dean is calling you.”

“Answer it. Tell him I’ll only be a minute.”

Savy grabs your phone and answers his call.

“Y/N’s phone. How may I help you?”

“Where is Y/N?”

“She’s busy right now. Can I take a message?”

“Just tell her to call me when she can,” Dean says and hangs up. Dean puts his phone down and looks at his brother who is looking at his iPad. “So, you thinking ghost possession?”

“Well, the witnesses claim to see black goo coming out of the victims’ ears before they killed themselves.”

“Yeah, ghost possession. We’ll leave in an hour. We’ll pick up Y/N on the way.” Forty-five minutes later, Dean enters the man cave to grab something when he sees you sitting on the couch staring at the TV that’s turned to the news. “I thought you’d be gone for a few hours. When did you get in?”

“A few minutes ago.”

“Oh, well, Sam found a case a few states away. He’s thinking ghost possession. You in?” You don’t answer and continue to look at the TV. “Are you okay?”

“Look what’s on the news.”

Dean walks closer to you and pays attention to the news reporter.

“While on a car chase, authorities discovered a 2003 gray Honda Civic abandoned on the side of the road. When authorities looked closer, there were signs of a struggle. We’re not clear as to what may have taken place, but they found two women’s purses on the ground. It is presumed that two women are missing, but their identities remain a mystery as of right now. Back to you, Sam.”

The news coverage changes to another news reporter who is already on the scene.

“Yes, Jill, what happened here is a tragedy. Local authorities are doing everything they can to locate the two women, hopefully alive.” Shouts from the officers can be heard, and Sam looks behind him to see what is going on. “This just in, I think they found a body.” Sam turns back to the camera. “I am unsure if they are able to identify the body. When we have more information, you’ll be the first to know. Back to you, Jill.”

“Wow, that’s so sad,” Dean says.

You look at Dean with unshed tears in your eyes.

“I’m at the bottom of Waconda Lake.”

“What?”

“Who are you talking to?” Sam asks when he pops his head in. Suddenly, you mist away, and realization dawns on Dean’s face. His knees buckle and he has to sit down before he crumbles to the ground. “Dude, you okay?”

“I think Y/N’s dead.”

x

Want to be tagged? Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[wilwheaton]

Jerry Dean McLain first bet on former president Donald Trump’s Truth Social two years ago, buying into the Trump company’s planned merger partner, Digital World Acquisition, at $90 a share. Over time, as the price changed, he kept buying, amassing hundreds of shares for $25,000 — pretty much his “whole nest egg,” he said.

Truth Social investing is about faith in Trump, not business fundametals - The Washington Post

Jerry is idiot is 71 years-old and Jerry the idiot says “I know good and well it’s in Trump’s hands, and he’s got plans. I have no doubt it’s going to explode sometime.“

Oh, Jerry. It’s going to explode, just not in the way you think. Get ready to die in poverty, buddy!

[darrysfav]

50s-60s songs that remind me of the outsiders characters

Ponyboy Curtis

House Of The Rising Sun - The Animals

For What It’s Worth - Buffalo Springfield

Sherry - Frank Valli & The Four Seasons

The End of the World - Skeeter Davis

Sodapop Curtis

If I Can Dream - Elvis Presley

I Only Have Eyes for You - The Flamingos

Somethin’ Stupid - Frank Sinatra , Nancy Sinatra

Ain’t That A Shame - Fats Domino

Darry Curtis

Proud Mary - Creedence Clearwater Revival

A Change Is Gonna Come - Sam Cooke

A Well Respected Man - The Kinks

Sixteen Tons - Tennessee Ernie Ford

Two - Bit Matthew’s

A Boy Named Sue - Johnny Cash

Born To Be Wild - Steppenwolf

I Get Around - The Beach Boys

Wild One - Jerry Lee Lewis

Steve Randle

Ramble On - Led Zeppelin

Folsom Prison Blues - Johnny Cash

I’m A Man - Bo Diddley

Reet Petite - Jackie Wilson

Johnny Cade

For What’s Worth - Buffalo Springfield

House Of The Rising Sun - The Animals

The Weight - The Band

Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood - The Animals

Dallas Winston

Sympathy For The Devil - The Rolling Stones

Voodoo Child - Jimi Hendrix

In the Ghetto - Elvis Presley

Hey Joe - Jimi Hendrix

Cherry Valance

Everybody Loves Somebody - Dean Martin

Sherry - Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons

Strangers In The Night - Frank Sinatra

You Don’t Own Me - Lesley Gore

A/N - This shit was so stressful 😭😭 but I think this pretty good 👍🏼

[jhoneybees]

Little Precious.

Hey lovelies!!! Here's a cute little fic, just getting back into the groove now so for the ones waiting on requests, thank you so so much for waiting, I will get to them very soon😭🫂

The song in the fic:

Characters: Early!70s X innocent!reader

Warnings/triggers: scolding, crying, slight name calling, mostly fluff though :)

Tags: @atleastpleasetelephone @theelvisprincess @i-r-i-n-a-a @thelonelyheart @polksaladava @hooked-on-elvis

_____________________________________________

Sniffling quietly, a trembling hand wiping under your nose and gripping at the fabric of your dress. You hiccup out a little sob.

You've upset Elvis, the man you love, the man who cares for you, the man who said to not go out of Graceland’s grounds without him and the man who scolded you for doing just that.

You just wanted to buy him a gift, a pretty ring that was displayed in a shop's window. Just wanted to bring a smile to his face but you being mobbed by fans only brought a furious frown.

Jerry was there, you weren't alone. You thought that would be enough protection but clearly you thought wrong and Elvis had to make sure that sunk into your skull.

__

“How many times have I told ya?” He growled.

“Didn't wanna listen to me, huh?”

“Don't need me ta keep you safe anymore. Go out there and be taken away by god knows who.” His anger filled eyes piercing through your poor little heart making it tremble.

“Silly damn girl.”

__

You know he was trying to make you realise that he's right, he's always right, you were scared when those fans swarmed you.

You didn't know any better.

And now, you're crying, alone in his bedroom.

Pitifully crying on the edge of the huge bed. Hitching and hiccuping hurting your sore throat, your wilting heart pitter patters in your chest. You try your best to wipe away the tears blurring your vision but it's no use, your terrifying thoughts have taken over your brain.

“Baby…”

What if he's leaving you?

“Darlin'.”

What if he doesn't love you anymore? What if he's kicking you out?

“Honey.”

What if he-

“Sweetheart.” Your gaze rushes up to the sound, kneeling in front of you on the floor. Blue eyes that were once filled with daggers now watch you with softness as little whimpers and cries leave your parted lips, the sight of his small smile growing on his face makes you suddenly burst into a waterfall of tears.

Your heart just can't take all of this all at once.

“Oh honey…” His large hands gently reach up to touch your face, prying your hands away to hold them when you try to hide and his thumbs stroke your knuckles, in a gentle, loving way. A way that he knows you love.

“I-I-I’m so s-sorry, E-Elvis. I-I didnt mean- I-” Your words come out muddled, your cracking little voice, not knowing what to do with itself. You’re overwhelmed.

He scolded you but…

“Aw my little angel…” He coos, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear as your body jolts with hiccups and sniffles.

…now comforting you.

“C’mere.” Pulling your frame into his strong embrace, Elvis sits himself up on the bed with you, rubbing his hand on the side of your waist and pushing your legs in to wrap around and be pressed against his body as much as possible as you sit in his lap, his other hand goes to hold your head, guiding it to rest on his shoulder.

You grip onto his shirt, hiding the rest of your head with a raised shoulder wanting to be protected from all the bad things of this world, your poor racing heart hammering in your chest as your eyes close, feeling his warmth surround you.

“I should be the one apologising… That wasn’t right fer me to yell at ya, aye?” He says in a low rumble. Pressing his lips to the top of your head as another small hiccup emits. “Ah jus’ got worried. Didn’t want ta see my baby get hurt. I’m sorry.”

“M-Mhm…” You respond quietly, playing with the collar of his low cut shirt you can feel your cheeks warm from him moving a little to get a better look at you. Delicately holding your chin up with his thumb and fingers.

“You’re still my good little girl?” He smiles hopefully, eyes admiring yours lovingly as his other arm tightens around your figure. Wiping the last of your tears with his thumb whilst you nod and take a deep breath.

Giving you a kiss on the forehead followed with a hum and tiny squeeze, he murmurs into your ear, his deep honey voice sending you up into the clouds. “That’s good.”

“Wouldn't know what to do if I didn't have my little princess…She fills my life with love and so much happiness…” He hums.

“She turned my life into pink.” Making you giggle knowing your favourite colour is pink. “There's my baby.”

~

When you press me to your heart

I'm in a world apart

A world where roses bloom

And when you speak angels sing from above

Everyday words seem to turn into love songs

Give your heart and soul to me

And life will always be

"La vie en rose"

~

"Little Precious..."

[saltygilmores]

Thoughts While Watching Gilmore Girls-Episode 3x9, Deep Fried Korean Thanksgiving, Part II

LOOK OUT BEHIND YOU! NINJA MARIANO ATTACK! The Pea Soup Vomit coat makes its triumphant return (and possibly its last appearance?) In the spirit of Thanksgiving, perhaps he will return it to the Savlation Army reject dumpster from whence it came, to beclothe another down on his luck Victorian orphan.

It's never too early for some good old fashioned public macking.

Rory Gilmore, World Class Public Macking Self Saboteur: But but but...what about Dean?! If anyone wonders why I often go weeks without updating these things (and I'm sure this is something that keeps you all awake at night)... I've been stuck writing this piece for over two weeks because I plum ran out of new and novel ways to complain about this idiot in the red coat's continued preoccupation with Dean. Like, how many times can I say I want to smack her over the head with a rolled up newspaper like a disobedient dog? You're killing me here girl.

Rory, you're a dumbass. And also you're frigid. In the spirit of Thanksgiving, you should put out and let Jess stuff you. One of your legs is Thanskgiving and the other leg is Christmas and you should let him spend time between the holidays. I know having to look at the pea-soup-vomit coat is probably putting a damper on your libido, but you can take it off of him, I promise he won't mind. He's quite touch starved, that boy.

You wish, pal. Seeing as there's no high speed internet, premium cable porn, or dirty magazines to be found anywhere in Stars Hollow, a little street show might provide some tittilation to the sexually constipated residents of The Hollow. R: Yeah, you know, in the the street...with people watching... J: Go on...

Wow, this screen shot is a real beaut. Look at this gorgeous curly man. Someone should give me a gold medal in pressing the little button on the browser extension that takes screen shots for me, an award that is both real and possible to achieve. Shout out to GoFullPage. Why is his collar popped up so damn high? Is he trying to protect his neck from vampires?

R: We shouldn't flaunt it. J: But I want to flaunt it. R: It doesn't feel right. J: He's a big boy, Rory. It's not the first time a couple has broken up. R:It is for us. J: This is insane. Edit: Thank you @ernestonlysayslovelythings for reminding me that Rory is claiming she doesn't know how to manage her first breakup when Dean The Clod had actually dumped her twice by this point. She should maybe go and eat two beach pails of Ben and Jerry's ice cream over it again if the wound is still that raw.

WHAT doesn't feel right, Rory? Kissing your own boyfriend? Not that I'm unhappy you kinda sabotaged your relationship with Dean in order to get with Jess, but you did kinda sabotage your relationship with Dean to get with Jess. Now that you have him you're treating him like a collectible beanie baby, puttng him under glass and refusing to remove his little tag. Take him out. Play with him. Rough him up a little. Bring him to show and tell. Put him through the wash. For goodness sake.

Narrator: And they would never experience a single moment of comfort together ever.

By the time Millennials like me and Jess and Rory here are old enough to qualify for social security, there will be nothing left. So, yeah, never.

Me, outloud: Girl you are demented. Oh Rory, I don't know what you're so worked up about. I mean, what's Dean gonna do if he sees his ex girlfriend kissing someone else? Stalk her new boyfriend in an alleyway late at night and call him The Glad Man? Pshaw.

Narrator: Things did not get better over time. In fact, they got much, much worse.

ARRRRGH.

[usuallythebadguy]

Seeking RP or collaborative fanficing!

Looking for RP partners/new pals, SFW/NSFW/Evolving, Short/Long term, play by post or chat form. These are my favourite worlds and characters to play AS or AGAINST. Of course, I'm open to many other characters also. I have no hard limits, can play dominantly or submissively as any oc and am adaptable to any ideas, concepts or pairings.

I have plenty of plot ideas, but I'm just as excited about catering to yours. Likewise, as much as I love canon pairings, I also love OCs and will happily romance or befriend your characters of any kind.

I love playing morally ambiguous bad guys and crazies but can be a perfect angel when needed. I'm nonbinary and in my thirties. While not necessary, would love to rp with people my age. Like mentioned, sfw and nsfw rps are fine! I have no hard limits, but am respectful of my rp partners! Also, potentially interested in doing fanfics with others, cuz that's cool too. I especially love slow burn long term rp <3

Arcane: Silco, Victor, Sevika, Singed, Vi, Jynx Deathnote: L, Light, Mastuda, Mikami, Mass Effect: Mordin, Jack, Wrex, Jaal Skyrim: Cicero, Derkeethus, Veezara, Lucian, Vicente Dragon Age: Cole, Varric, Sten, Josephine, Merrill Baldur’s Gate: Astarion, Abdirak, Kar'niss, Lae'zel, Karlach, Gale Steven Universe: Jasper Detroit Become Human: Connor, Hank, Inside Job: Rand, Reagan Hannibal TV Series: Will, Hannibal She Ra: Hordak, Entrapta, Scorpia Horizon Zero Dawn: Aloy, Erand, Kotallo, Nil Encanto: Bruno, Camilo Kipo: Jamack, Kipo, Hugo Simpsons: Flanders, Smithers, Bob, Skinner Rick & Morty: Rick, Morty, Jerry, Summer, Beth MLP: Discord, Queen Chrysalis Avatar: Zuco, Lin Beifong, Soka Harry Potter: Snape, Fallout: Cooper Howard, Norm, Lucy, Farcry: Joseph Seed, Supernatural: Castiel, Sam, Dean Snow Piercer: Melanie, Bess The Witcher: Geralt, Yennefer, Jaskier Vikings: Ragnar, Athelstan, Lagertha Stardew: Shane, Linus, Sebastian

[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

[valleydean]

Chapter 11 [Read Here]

CHAMPION Part III of Heavyweight a deancas boxing au by valleydean (emmbrancsxx0) read from the beginning | playlist

SUMMARY: Brooklyn, 1933. Dean Winchester, the number one contender, trains to become the next Heavyweight Champion of the World, and this time he won't let anything get in his way. Title holder Castiel Novak has second thoughts about retiring, especially when someone from his past arrives in New York and asks for his help. Meanwhile, a new contender rises to fame and threatens to complicate both of Dean and Cas' ambitions - and their relationship.

CHAPTER PREVIEW:

“As you can see from this graph, our sponsors’ stocks are up an average of 30 percent from where they were prior to the start of the tour,” said the man in the fine suit. He used a metal pointer to indicate a green arrow on the current poster standing on the tripod. Crowley had introduced him at the beginning of the meeting, but Castiel had already forgotten his job title—and his name. Jerry? Jervis? It didn’t matter. Castiel just wanted this presentation to end.

Then again, being bored out of his mind inside a conference room in the NBA’s office was preferable to thinking about Dean or Anna. Castiel had thought himself in circles into the small hours of the previous night as he’d tossed and turned in Jack’s room.

Anna shouldn’t have lied to him, but he understood her reasoning and her fears. In many ways, he understood Dean’s fears, too. But he didn’t understand Dean’s lies. Dean had been irritatingly vocal of his mistrust of Anna, but he’d made Castiel believe that mistrust was subsiding. He’d blindsided him yesterday, put him in a horrible position between his sister and his partner. Just as Anna had predicted he would.

Castiel didn’t want to think about it at all. But as he stared blankly at the distant Hudson Bay twinkling between the skyscrapers outside and half-listened to the dull drone of the presentation, he found himself having to constantly reel his thoughts back from that very topic.

It didn’t help that the heat was cranked too high in the office and it was lulling him to sleep.

Crowley’s assistant suddenly appeared over his shoulder to refill his coffee mug. Castiel blinked rapidly, realizing his thoughts and consciousness had drifted again. He glanced up at her, but she’d already stepped backward to resume her place along the wall. She placed the carafe on a small table and picked up her notepad and pen to continue taking notes.

Toward the front of the table, Crowley sat with his elbow propped up on the arm of his chair and his fingers supporting his temple. Gabriel was across from Castiel, swiveling his chair side-to-side, munching on the bonbons that had been offered to them at the start of the meeting and generally ignoring his own notepad. The only “note” Castiel saw written on it was at the very top:

Crowley’s a dick.

It was difficult to argue with that assessment. However, Castiel didn’t have a mind for stocks and business, so he’d been relying on Gabriel paying attention.

It was lucky that Michael seemed attentive enough for the rest of them. He was sitting back in his chair, which was turned to face the presentation at the head of the room, and twirling his pen between his hands as he listened.

Jerry, if that was his name, lifted the poster and folded it back to reveal… another chart. Castiel imagined marching to the front of the room and slamming the man’s face into the wall. He had no idea how many more of these charts he could bear to sit through.

“According to our projections, our sponsorships will double next year, returning to 72 percent of what they had been prior to fiscal year 1930. We’ll break even for the first time since the crash.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Jervis,” Crowley said, perking up a little. He swiveled his chair around to face Michael and Gabriel, signaling that was the end of the presentation. Thank God.

Jervis sat down at the table.

Crowley said, “To put all this in layman’s terms: the more tickets we sell at events, the more investments the sponsors make in us, the more money we make. Money draws in new talent, and on and on we go. It’s a good model, a circular model—one that’s been, let’s say, difficult to execute in recent years. That is, of course, since the tour.”

“Fascinating,” Michael answered flatly. “But I assume you haven’t called us in to discuss the NBA’s financial strategy.”

“More so, your team’s part in it,” Crowley said. He gestured to the slides. “All this profit is thanks to Castiel’s tour. It’s good for us, good for the economy, and good for—” He pointed his finger at Michael. “So. I’d like to discuss a future in which we all continue benefiting from this mutual back scratching.”

“A future?” Michael queried.

All thoughts of Dean and Anna promptly fell from Castiel’s mind. His rapid heartbeat replaced the ennui and sleepiness he’d been experiencing.

His eyes found Gabriel, who also seemed more alert than he had been a moment ago. If praying had ever worked for Castiel, he might have started doing it at that very moment.

[fredandginger64]

Colgate Comedy Hour February 4, 1951

🛌😉

Something funny is going on in this sketch. As Dean starts to take off his tie, Jerry is looking at him and says, *I'm too tired to get undressed*, then he says, *wait a minute, I'm gonna get under the covers. It's cold here*

It seems likely that the censors told them that they could not get undressed and get in bed together. After all, husband and wife couldn't even do that in the 50s.

And then there's these two photos of rehearsals for the sketch. Jerry has no pants and Dean is without a shirt.

It appears Jerry gave the censors only half of their demands because when he said "I don't care" he was telling the censors just that. He got in bed with Dean anyway on the actual broadcast. Jerry not only pushed the boundaries, he tore them down!

[jerrylewis-thekid]

The Clown "White" and the Clown "Red"

The circus has created two distinct types of clowns: the "white" and the "red". They form a symbiotic couple. The red clown – the one with the red nose (known as “Augustus”) – represents awkwardness, ridiculousness, failure, disorganization, transgression, anarchy, emotionality, the child, the belly. Its opposite, the white clown, stands for order, rules, authority, norms, discipline, rationality, parenting, the head. Their relationship is nothing more than the externalization of the inner conflicts of the human being, expressed in the configuration of two separate figures. The first is elegance, grace, harmony, intelligence, lucidity, which are moralistically proposed as the ideal situations, the only ones, the indisputable divinities. Here, therefore, the negative aspect of the matter immediately appears: because the white clown, in this way becomes the Mother, the Pope, the Master, the Artist, the Beautiful, in short, what must be done. Then the augustus, who would be fascinated by these perfections if they were not flaunted with such rigour, revolts. He sees that the "sequins" are shining: however the arrogance with which they present themselves makes them unattainable. The august rebels against such perfection, gets drunk, rolls over, on the ground and soul, therefore, a perpetual contestation. This is, therefore, the struggle between the superb cult of reason (which arrives at an overbearingly proposed aestheticism) and instinct, the freedom of instinct. The white clown and the august are mastery and the child, the mother and the naughty son; finally, one could say: the angel with the flaming sword and the sinner. In short, they are two psychological attitudes of man: the upward thrust and the downward thrust, divided, separate.

The two figures embody a myth that is basically each of us: the reconciliation of opposites, the uniqueness of being. The soreness that exists in the continuous war between the white clown and the august is not due to the music or something similar but to the circumstance that a fact presents itself before our eyes concerning our inability to reconcile the two figures. In fact, the more you want to force the augustus to play the violin, the more he will fart with the trombones. Again: the white clown will pretend that the august is elegant. But the more this request is made with authority, the more the other will be reduced to being ragged, awkward, dusty. It is the perfect fable for an education that intends to propose life in idealized, abstract terms. @kingdc2017 @jerrylevitch @starryyide @felinesetmilktea