#and I was always sure I'd never get it because as i said

[mimipolo]

Something fluffy or domestic with Nam-gyu?

Nam-gyu x reader fluff

Sorry for no upload of Nam-gyu content yesterday, I can only handle writing sm💔💔

Hope you like what I did and ALSO this is not editted so any dumb mistakes mb, ima edit it tmrw

It's cold, so cold. Your hands are buried deep into the feltiness of your jacket lining, desperate to keep your hands at least above freezing.

The sky is beautiful just tinting blue as the moon made its emergence, you appreciate the serene view as cold puffs of air left your lips and you snuggled your head deeper into your hoodie.

Entering your apartment complex and reaching your door after the unfortunately long flight of stairs you're mostly unsurprised to see a bored Nam-gyu loitering nearby. As you approach you call his name, his head perks up as he leans off your door with a grin on his face as he bites his cheeks.

"What are you doing here shouldn't you have work?" you say disapprovingly as you take in his warm attire.

"How cruel you don't wanna see me? I'm off today?"his voice is playfully mocking as he tilts his head towards you.

"I don't remember my apartment becoming your second home Nam."

"You say that but you gave me the keys."

"And where are they?"

He falls silent at your words, you clocked his bullshit and he knew it, he purses his lips and clicks his tongue, he's not about to argue against that. He's already grinning again when you open your apartment with a deflated sigh, happily tailing behind you. He hasn't lost your keys, he just likes to meet you by the door.

Immediately kicking off your shoes the two of you break into the usual routine, he's roaming your cupboards to make a simple snack for the two of you to eat and you make your way to your room to get changed and freshened up after work. You had never the thought it to be weird until you brought one of your friends round and said it was like the two of you were basically married. You had quickly laughed it off but he seemed to happily lean into the idea. He started to jokingly call you his [partner role] but you're not too sure it's a joke anymore knowing him.

You walk out in casual clothes, random enough to wear out the house but comfortable enough to unintentionally sleep in. Nam-gyu is already comfortable on the floor, knees pulled forward slightly as he clicked through potential movies for the night. His head is thrown back against the edge of the couch and the glow of the TV made his features stand out beautifully. You often found yourself admiring his face just because it just screamed meant to be painted, he said you were delusional when you told him. But it was hard not to believe especially with his hair slightly messed up from hiding under a beanie.

You take your appointed seat on the couch, your knees just centimetres from his head, you had asked him before why he always sits on the couch but he always claims it's just more comfortable. He's a floor guy. He's also the guy that leans his head against your leg halfway through the movie and says he's tired(clinical insomniac here).

It's well into the early morning now and you're still sat here on your couch, eventually you got tired of sitting in the same place for so long you decided it'd be more comfortable to lie on your side instead. Your hand is just within reach of his hair which you passively enjoyed threading your fingers through and further ruining it. He never minded though, in fact you'd flatter yourself and say he enjoyed it just as much. The peaceful ambience of your living room is disrupted when he randomly speaks up.

"Ya know I never thought I'd get this far..."

"Huh?" Naturally you're quite confused with this contextless statement.

"I mean this whole non permanent roomie thing we have, I never thought I'd get to have that."

"Why not?"

He sighs a bit as if you were clueless, turning his head slightly so he could face you, a small smile on his face as he gazes up at you, a longing in his eyes you never noticed till now making your own heart sputter. Gently, he takes the wrist of your hand in his hair and holds it to his face, his jaw fitting into the curve of your palm. His fingers are cold but his face is flaring with warmth, causing your own fingers to heat up. You wonder if it's because he's blushing and you wish you could see.

He indulges himself for a moment, savouring the fact you didn't pull away before speaking again, it looked like he wanted to say something else but quickly corrected himself.

"I like being with you, so it's just... weird you don't mind having me around." There's a melancholy sweetness to his words which doesn't sit right in your stomach. What's he trying to say?

"Why would I? You're always on my side."

"Yeah...not all people work like that, but since you're weird you do."

You scoff at his words, gaining a small chuckle for him as he turns around towards you fully, the movie playing now just filler in the background as you try to dissect what he's hiding from you now.

He's still holding your hand to his face, absentmindedly running his thumb over the back of your hand as his gaze rested on your silhouette. He looks deep in thought, not uncommon for Nam-gyu but he'd never held your hand so tenderly as he did so, this isn't just friendship anymore is it?

"Ya know... I think I like being with you."

You're about to roll your eyes that was such a "the sky is blue" sort of take. You both knew how much he cared for you, what you didn't know is that somehow he was able to exceed that limit. But he makes it pretty clear when he presses his lips to your palm so delicately it felt ghostly. Despite that it didn't don't fail to spike your heartrrate. This time when his eyes focus on you they have that slightly teasing look resting behind them, the one you recognised the most.

"I really like being with you [Name]..."

Oh? Oooooh. Now that's something that won't fly over your head, if the countless casual one on one friendly hangouts were anything to go by. He's smirking slightly as he watches your expression change to a more embarrassed one the longer the meaning of his words settle in.

He liked you.

And you'd be a liar if you hadn't said to yourself you'd eventually have to make a move on him, he was the only one in your life to prioritize everything about you before considering himself, despite how selfish he liked to act. So with that you're leaning slightly off the couch, your hand leaving his cheek to tilt his head to meet yours. You stiffle a chuckle when he rushes to his knees. Letting you pull him in as you place a chaste kiss to his lips. You both laugh quietly when he chases that short contact to steal a firmer kiss, his hand resting on your shoulder, lighting up goosebumps on the cold skin.

"I like you too I guess."

"I guess??"

"I've got to keep you humble."

Now it's his turn to scoff as you laugh, your touch is thoughtful as you tuck his outgrown hair behind his ears telling him silently you were only teasing. You smile as he visibly relaxes, now insisting you should start living together already. This guy...give him an inch and he takes a mile, but it's something you've come to like about him, maybe even love.

[mrsshabana]

𝐄𝐦𝐨 𝐆𝐲𝐮𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐨 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

꒦꒷‧₊ Content Gyutaro x genderneutral!reader, fluff ꒦꒷‧₊ Note A gift for @matsukaah based on a beautiful artwork she did ♡

"Is that Gyutaro Shabana?" You said in disbelief as you saw the familiar boy walking around the mall in heavy emo fashion.

Black nails, eyeliner, ripped skinny jeans, studded belts, and combat boots. He looked like he walked straight out of an early 2000s HotTopic ad.

This isn't how you're used to seeing him. No, at school he's usually dawning the same uniform as everyone else and keeps to himself.

He always seemed so shy and quiet that you never would have imagined this was how he dressed outside of class. Though it makes sense—the prestigious Catholic school would never allow such a thing.

Gyutaro only goes full out like this on long breaks, like summer and winter. Mostly because he'd get annoyed painting his nails every weekend just to have to rub it off before school started on Monday.

God, did he hate that school. He's only going because his stupid stepdad is forcing him to. But if it were up to Gyutaro he wouldn't be in school at all. He much rather start a band with his friends.

Not to mention the constant bullying he goes through. You wouldn't know it because you never hung around him that much, but he gets picked on almost daily. His unconventional appearance and his shy personality make him a prime target for bullies.

Sure, you were nice to him when you'd cross paths but it was never enough to make a significant difference or improve his shitty school experience.

So you could say he's shocked when he sees you approaching him at the mall, waving your hands like you two are friends.

"Uh... hey Y/N," he mumbles when you get close.

"Hey Gyutaro! I like your outfit!" You say with a cheery expression that would annoy him if it was on anyone else's face but yours.

His eyes widen like he can't believe you just complimented him, "Th-thanks... I like your shirt. D-Did you get it at HotTopic?" He asks shyly, not used to having casual conversation with someone as cute as you.

You look down as he points to the anime shirt you're wearing, "Oh, yeah I did. How'd you know?"

"I go there all the time, I've seen it before," he smiles softly and moves a strand of hair out of his face, revealing his red cheeks, "Um... they're actually having their semi-annual sale right now. Maybe... I dunno... we could go check it out together?"

"I'd love to," you blush, surprised that he wants to hang out with you, "Lead the way."

After that day you exchanged numbers and he'd always ask you to go shopping with him. You were the only person besides his sister who knew he was emo, so naturally he loved inviting you out with him so he wouldn't be so lonely.

Despite his intimidating appearance, Gyutaro was a sweet guy. Extremely shy, but super sweet.

He'd be too shy to ask you out on proper dates, only asking you to go shopping with him because he didn't want you to think he was weird or to know that he was crushing on you. But to his dismay, Ume told you exactly how her brother felt about you.

Because the first time you came over to their house she said, "Brother won't shut up about you! It's Y/N this and Y/N that! I think he's obsessed with you. Can you guys just kiss or whatever so he'll stop talking about you all the time? It's like getting annoying."

Gyutaro's face turned red with embarrassment and he ran to his room. He can't believe his sister outed him like that in front of his crush! It's taking all of his willpower to hold back his tears. The only thing stopping them from flowing is knowing that it'll ruin his eyeliner if he cries.

"Hey Gyu... can I come in?" you say as you softly knock on his door. You don't get a response so you enter the room anyways to find him sitting on his bed with his hands covering his face.

He can't bear to look at you as he feels you sit beside him, the embarrassment he feels is overwhelming.

Gently wrapping your hands around his wrists, you move his hands away from his face and stare into his watery blue eyes. The amount of shame and fear in his gaze makes your heart ache.

So in a swift movement, you lean forward and kiss his chapped lips. His eyes widen but he doesn't pull away, instead leaning into your embrace as your acceptance feels too good to ignore.

Once you pull away you smile and move his long hair away from his face, "If I knew you liked me as much as I liked you I would have done that a long time ago."

And that's how your relationship with the shy emo boy began.

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

I keep seeing people worship Christian Linke for some shit he’s said and ignore the fact this man is antisemetic and heavily insensitive towards non white and straight characters HE IS NOT YOUR ALLY

I genuinely think people just don't know how much of a shitty person he is. Seriously, that dude was quite possibly the worst person to put in charge of a project like Arcane. Here are just some of things he's said that you should know of:

• Linke said the death of every character in Arcane was a direct result of their own actions : "Every single big beat in the end with our characters, whether it’s a death or not, is a consequence of their choices."

So, I'd like you to explain to me how Vander's death was his fault, because I don't quite remember him agreeing to becoming Warwick. Also, maybe having the three characters portrayed as suicidal in the show (Jinx, Viktor, and Jayce) all die, and go on to say it was just the consequences of their own actions... isn't a good message?

• Linke has declared Viktor as asexual on his own, with the sole purpose of discouraging JayVik shippers : "There is a love. I don't think it's romantic [...]. To me, Viktor was always asexual".

Now, the issue here isn't having an asexual character, its having chosen VIKTOR, one of the most important characters for disabled rep in animation and popular media, to be asexual. I've went on and on about how infantalizing that is to disabled/chronically ill fans, because we NEVER get to be perceived as sexual beings. Having a body that's visibly different from the norm, or limits on certain abilities, turns off people, makes them uncomfortable. That's why you just never see a sexually active or a sex positive disabled character on screen. That's why, in all his "sexy" skins in LoL, Viktor is given a six pack, has no visible marks of illness on his body (scars, fatigue lines), and has no medical brace or crutch.

Viktor was always intended to have a sexual swagger in season 1 ("this isnt my bedroom") and that was EXTREMELY important to a lot of us in the community. I've seen a very similar response from the asexual community as well, who feel like Linke is using their identity and experience as a shield from fan interractions he dislikes, and without actual care for what it means to the characters. Don't fall for rep that isn't actually meant to represent you.

• Linke has directly and openly compared the Zaun and Piltover conflict to the left and right in the United States, and put both sides on equal moral footing : "If you’re asking me whether we were inspired by two sides of one nation who are incapable of even talking to each other anymore at a certain point, yes."

So, I don't think I need to explain how bad this is. Remember that Piltover is the city of wealth and enforcers, and that they've gazed the district of Zaun, dumped chemicals around their water suplies, directed brutal and deadly repressions of civil uprising and protest, offered no financial support to the struggling communities of addicts, disabled people, and orphans, refused Zaun any implication or decisional seat in the city political life, AND THAT'S JUST ON TOP OF MY HEAD. Now, think about what that means with the USA politics comparison, and the idea that they should "just listen to each other". Yeah.

Now, if you know me a bit, you know I live in Canada, so maybe you think this doesn't affect me personally, or that it doesn't affect you because you live outside the US. To that, I want to tell you about a neighbour of mine, who lives on the street parallel to my house, and this truck he owns. The truck has a whole lot of fun stickers and flags on it: the quotes "TRUMP ARREST TRUDEAU" and "CANADIANS FOR TRUMP", the israeli flag, the confederate flag, christian crosses, the blue lives matter flag, and an anti BLM sticker. Now, I'm sure theres more cool things, I've just never gotten close enough to look at the smaller stickers and ornaments because, as a very openly bi arabic woman, I'm scared to death of that man. But maybe I should just hear him out, right?

Tldr, do not think that the state of american politics doesn’t affect the rest of the world.

• Linke has called the people of Zaun and specifically Silco "Svengali", which is an antisemitic name that implies Jewish people are crooks / dirty / thiefs / sexual degenerates. There's a great post on Tumblr that goes more into detail about this (https://www.tumblr.com/endearing-dalliance/769693230696677376/another-blow-against-arcane-anti-semitism?source=share). I'd just like to insist on how bad calling someone "svengali" is. His character was used in many pieces of propaganda in Nazi Germany to picture the "Evil Jew", and to dehumanize Jewish communities by portraying them as ressembling Satan (forked beard, can do unholy hypnosis, targets women...). Linke could have chosen ANY other term to talk about Zaunites, the oppressed community getting gazed by a police state, but he chose that one. That was not an unconscious decision.

I'm a firm believer that it is possible to separate art from artist/studio/company, and to appreciate something while still being aware the person behind it is not a great individual. However, if you're defending all the decisions made in season 2, these are things you HAVE to be aware of.

[joelsrose]

Crybaby

fluff drabble 🥺

It had been months of you going back and forth about getting bangs. Nothing too dramatic—just soft, wispy ones to frame your face. Joel, ever supportive, would pull you into his chest and brush your hair back, smiling. "I'd love you with no hair, baby," he’d say, his voice low and warm as you lay together in bed. The way he said it always made you feel like the most beautiful person in the world.

But today was the day. You were finally sitting in the hairdresser’s chair, heart pounding as the scissors snipped away. The first strands fell, and your stomach flipped. By the end, as you stared at your reflection, you couldn’t hide the rising panic. Shit. Shit. Shit. The bangs didn’t look anything like what you imagined. The hairdresser beamed, waiting for your approval, and you forced a smile so tight your cheeks hurt. "I love it," you lied, because what else could you do? Wish your hair back into place?

Walking home, your sniffles turned into full-blown hiccups as you fought back tears. Why did I do this? By the time you reached the front door, your head was spinning. You shoved it open, dropping your keys on the table without bothering to call out.

"Hey, baby," Joel’s voice rumbled from somewhere—maybe the living room or the kitchen. You didn’t stop to see. Instead, you bolted upstairs, your steps heavy on the wooden stairs.

Joel frowned, setting down whatever he was holding. "The hell?" he muttered under his breath, his brows knitting together. You never came home without greeting him.

With a groan, he pushed himself up, his boots clunking against the floor as he followed. "Baby?" he called out, his voice softening. He checked the bedroom, but it was empty. His eyes flicked to the slightly ajar bathroom door, and he knocked lightly. "You in here?"

"No," you replied, your voice muffled and miserable.

He chuckled, the sound warm and teasing, like he already knew you were being dramatic but didn’t mind one bit. “What’re you doin’, silly girl? Tryin’ to hide from me?”

"Joel, go away," you called back, your voice shaky with unshed tears.

Joel stayed right where he was, leaning against the doorframe, the wood creaking under his weight. "Not comin’ in, don’t worry. Just wanna talk to my girl." His voice softened, rich with concern. "What’s wrong, angel? C’mon, you know you can talk to me."

"I look ugly," you sniffled, voice small and wavering.

A pause. Then, firm and sure, "Not possible." He exhaled like he couldn’t believe you’d even think that. "C’mon, baby, what happened?"

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. "I got my haircut," you finally admitted, the words tumbling out with a shaky sob. "She—she fucked up my bangs."

Joel’s breath hitched, and you could almost hear the frown tugging at his lips. "Oh, sweetheart," he cooed, his voice dripping with tenderness. "Can I see? Please?"

"You won’t like it," you whimpered.

"Darlin’," he said, his tone low and soft, "there’s not a damn thing on this earth that could make me not like lookin’ at you. Open the door for me, baby."

"You have to promise not to laugh," you said, your voice wavering behind the closed bathroom door.

Joel’s voice was steady, warm, and laced with sincerity. "Cross my heart, darlin'. Not a single laugh, I swear."

There was a pause, and then, with a huff, you muttered, "Fine."

The door creaked open, and Joel stepped inside slowly, his movements careful and deliberate, like coaxing a scared puppy. His boots clicked softly against the tiles, and his heart twisted when he saw you—facing away, your hands buried in your face, shoulders trembling just a little.

Joel sat on the edge of the bathtub, his knees brushing against yours. "You gonna face me, pretty girl?" he asked softly, his tone coaxing, like he was talking to something fragile.

You shook your head, your messy hair swaying as you kept your face hidden. "Making this real hard for me," he chuckled, the sound soft, reassuring.

"Joel," you groaned, dragging out his name like a warning, but there was no bite in it, just pure frustration with yourself.

"C’mon, baby," he murmured, his hands reaching for you, warm and steady as they wrapped gently around your forearm. Slowly, he guided you to stand between his legs, "Let me see that pretty face, hmm?"

You hesitated, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. His hands, rough and familiar, slid down to rest on your hips, grounding you. His thumbs rubbed soft circles into your sides, and you couldn’t help but relax, even just a little.

"Slowly now," he whispered, his voice low and sweet, the kind of tone that made your heart flutter no matter how upset you were.

With a shaky exhale, you let your arms drop to your sides, revealing your tear-streaked face and the bangs you’d already convinced yourself were a disaster. Your eyes stayed glued to the floor, bracing for Joel’s reaction, your heart pounding so hard it echoed in your ears.

"Holy shit, honey," Joel drawled, his voice low and soft, but there was something in his tone that made you glance up, even through your nerves.

Your brows furrowed. "What?" you whispered, half-expecting him to laugh.

Joel leaned back slightly, his eyes warm and full of something you couldn’t quite place. He let out a slow whistle, shaking his head in disbelief. "Didn’t know it was possible for my girl to get even prettier."

Your lip quivered as you tried to hold back another wave of tears. "You’re lying," you said weakly, your arms crossing defensively over your chest. "I look ridiculous."

Joel tsked, already reaching for you. His hands found your waist, strong and steady, and before you could protest, he was pulling you into his lap. His broad hands spanned your back, pressing you close as if he could hold your insecurities at bay just by touching you.

"Ridiculously cute," he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. His hand came up to gently tuck your hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering as they traced along the curve of your cheek. "You look like a damn fairy, baby. All delicate and perfect."

You buried your face in his chest, shaking your head as your cheeks flushed. "I don’t," you mumbled, your voice muffled by the soft fabric of his shirt.

Joel’s hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, his thumb stroking small, soothing circles against your scalp. "You do," he insisted, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You’re sittin’ here in my lap, all pretty and pouty, and I don’t think I’ve ever been more in love with you than I am right now."

"Stop," you huffed, your voice half a laugh, half a groan, but Joel just grinned.

"Not a chance," he said, tipping your chin up so he could see your face. His eyes softened as they traced over your features, lingering on your bangs. "These little things?" he teased gently, brushing them aside. "I love ‘em. Make you look sweet. Like you walked straight outta one of those fairytale books Ellie’s always talkin’ about."

You sniffled, the corners of your lips twitching as you fought the urge to smile. "You’re just saying that."

Joel’s brows lifted, his thumb brushing over your cheek. "Baby," he said, his voice dropping to a soft rumble, "when have you ever known me to just say somethin’ I didn’t mean? You’re my girl. My beautiful, stubborn, perfect girl. And I’ll keep tellin’ you until you believe me."

Butterflies erupted in your chest, fluttering so wildly you thought you might float away. Joel didn’t stop there, though. He pulled you even closer, his nose brushing against yours as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your lips, one that left no room for doubt about just how much he adored you.

When he pulled back, his grin was softer now, but no less sure. "Now, how about we grab some dinner, and you let me keep braggin’ about how lucky I am to have you?" His fingers slid up to play with the ends of your bangs, his smirk returning. "Gonna have a real hard time keepin’ my hands off you, though. Fair warning."

You laughed, finally letting yourself melt into him, the last of your doubts fading under the weight of his love. "You’re obsessed with me," you teased, though your voice was soft and warm.

Joel chuckled, pressing another kiss to your forehead. "Damn right, I am. Always will be."

[from-memphis-with-love]

Songbird - Chapter 12 - Return to Sender

Summary: After months of rebuilding her life in Chicago, Valerie is suddenly thrust back into the Elvis vortex when she's summoned for a deposition in his divorce proceedings.

Word count: ~7,800 You can also read this on AO3 here!

Four months. That's how long I'd managed to stay away from anything Elvis-related. Four months of building a new life, of focusing on my students at the community center, of pretending my heart didn't skip every time I heard one of his songs on the radio. 

I was just starting to get my life back on track and then the universe decided to go and fuck it all up. 

It started innocently enough. I was walking home from work, arms full of sheet music and thinking about what to wear on my date with Richard - a perfectly nice, perfectly normal accountant who'd never worn a big ass TCB ring in his life - when I heard someone behind me.

"Excuse me? Miss Pedretti?"

My heart did that stupid little skip it always did when strangers knew my name. These days, that usually meant one thing. I turned slowly, already preparing my "no comment about Elvis" face. But instead of a reporter, I found myself facing a teenage girl with braces and hope in her eyes.

"Could I... could I maybe get your autograph?"

I stared at her. "My autograph?"

She nodded eagerly, holding out a piece of paper. "I saw you perform at Murphy's last week. You sang 'At Last' and it was just... wow. My friends don't believe I found you walking down the street!"

For a moment, I couldn't speak. Someone wanting my autograph. For my singing. Not because I was "that girl who almost married Elvis" or "the Chicago singer who broke up the Presleys." It was almost comical.

"S-sure," I managed, juggling my sheet music to sign her paper. "What's your name?"

"Jenny. I'm learning to sing too. My teacher says I've got potential, but..." She bit her lip. "Well, you know how it is."

I did know. Standing there on a Chicago street corner in March, I remembered being her age, full of dreams and doubt in equal measure. Before Vegas. Before Elvis. Before everything got complicated.

"Keep at it," I told her, handing back the paper. "And come see me at Murphy's again. I'll save you a seat up front."

She beamed like I'd just handed her the moon. As I watched her practically skip away, I couldn't help smiling. Maybe I was finally becoming my own person again.

That feeling lasted exactly three hours.

I was getting ready for my date, trying to decide if the red dress was too much for a simple dinner, when a small avalanche of memories crashed down from my closet shelf. Literally. A jewelry box I'd shoved up there months ago chose that exact moment to commit suicide, spilling its contents across my bedroom closet like broken promises.

And there it was. The little guitar charm he'd given me one night in Vegas, after I'd told him about wanting to learn how to play. Elvis had disappeared for an hour, sending the Memphis Mafia into a panic, only to return with this tiny silver pendant. "Now you got your own li’l six-string," he'd said, fastening it around my neck. "Even if it's just for show."

I picked it up, the silver warm against my palm like it remembered my skin. Almost four months since I'd walked out of Graceland, and still these little pieces of him kept surfacing. Like shells washing up on a beach long after the tide's gone out.

*

The date with Richard was... nice. That's the thing about nice. It's comfortable, predictable, safe. He took me to a little place off Michigan Avenue, held doors open, laughed at all my jokes. His tie was perfectly straight and his conversation was perfectly pleasant. The kind of man my mother would have loved. The kind of man who'd never break furniture when he was angry or pop pills to keep his demons at bay.

"So then the client says, 'But I thought depreciation was just a feeling!'" Richard chuckled into his wine glass.

I forced a smile, pushing my spaghetti around my plate. The guitar charm felt heavy in my purse, where I'd stuffed it after being unable to just leave it on the floor. Like carrying around a piece of lit dynamite.

"Valerie?" Richard's voice pulled me back. "You okay? You seem a million miles away."

"Sorry." I took a sip of water. "Just thinking about tomorrow's lessons. I've got a student who--"

"Oh God." His eyes had fixed on something over my shoulder. "Is that what I think it is?"

I turned. The restaurant's small TV was showing footage I knew too well - Elvis outside Graceland, making his divorce announcement. They'd been replaying it for months now, but this was different. This was new footage.

"Sources say the divorce proceedings have hit a snag," the announcer's voice carried across the quiet restaurant. "Priscilla Presley's lawyers are alleging that the relationship with Chicago singer Valerie Pedretti began before the separation..."

The marinara sauce suddenly looked too much like blood.

"That's you, isn't it?" Richard was staring at me like he'd never seen me before. "I mean, I knew you'd been in Vegas, but I didn't realize... That's really you they're talking about?"

"I should go." I stood up so fast my napkin floated to the floor like a surrender flag. "I'm not feeling well."

"Wait, let me drive you--"

"No." I was already grabbing my purse, already moving. "Thanks for dinner. It was... nice."

The wind hit me like a slap as I burst out of the restaurant. Even after the worst of winter is gone, the Chicago cold takes no prisoners, but I barely felt it. All I could think about was Elvis' face on that TV screen - tired, drawn, but still beautiful enough to stop traffic. Still able to make my heart do that stupid little dance even through a television screen. God damn him.

I walked home in a daze, my heels clicking against the sidewalk in rhythm with my racing thoughts. Three blocks from my apartment, I realized I was humming "Blue Christmas."

"Fucking hell," I muttered, forcing myself to stop.

My apartment felt emptier than usual when I finally made it home. The silence pressed in like a physical thing, broken only by the distant sound of the El and Mrs. Kowalski's cats fighting next door. I kicked off my heels, poured myself a generous glass of orange juice, flopped down on the couch, and tried very hard not to think about anything at all.

The knock came just as I was pouring a second glass.

"Delivery for Valerie Pedretti?" The courier looked about twelve and thoroughly unimpressed by having to work this late.

I signed for the envelope, my stomach already sinking. Legal papers always feel different than regular mail - heavier, somehow. Like they know they're carrying bad news.

Sure enough, the letterhead screamed trouble: HENDERSON, WRIGHT & ASSOCIATES, ATTORNEYS AT LAW - LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA.

"Miss Pedretti," the letter began, "You are hereby summoned to appear for a deposition in the matter of Presley vs. Presley..."

The words swam on the page. Deposition. Testimony. Under oath. Required to appear. April 15th - three weeks away in Los Angeles. The papers even included a first-class plane ticket. Priscilla’s touch, no doubt. Class all the way, that one. Making sure she’d look magnanimous even against a homewrecker like me. 

But first, according to the very detailed instructions, it was suggested I meet with Elvis' attorney in Memphis to "prepare for deposition." Like our relationship was something that could be reduced to sworn statements and legal documents. Like anyone could prepare me for facing Priscilla across a conference table while describing exactly how and when I'd fallen in love with her husband.

Fuuuuck. 

I set the papers down and walked to my window. Chicago spread out below, a maze of lights and shadows. Somewhere out there, Richard was probably still sitting in that restaurant, trying to process how his nice, normal date had turned into a tabloid story. Meanwhile, in Memphis...

The phone rang, making me jump. I already knew who it would be.

"Jesus Christ, how fast does news travel?" I barked without preamble.

"Faster than Elvis after three cups of coffee." Marty Lacker’s voice was warm, familiar, despite not hearing him for months. "You get the papers?"

"Just now." I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. "How bad is it?"

"Well, Crazy’s taking it hard. Been in his room for four days straight, won't talk to nobody except Billy." A pause. "He's clean though. Almost two months now."

My traitorous heart did that stupid little dance again. "Marty..."

"Just thought you should know." His voice softened. "You doing okay?"

"Sure." I watched a couple hurry past below, huddled together against the wind. "I'm great. Just got summoned to testify about the most famous man in music. Probably gonna have to face his wife in a room full of lawyers. Might have to detail every moment of our relationship while the press has a field day. Why wouldn't I be okay?"

"Val–"

"I gotta go." I hung up before he could say anything else.

*

I called the community center first. "Family emergency," I told them, which wasn't exactly a lie. Then I called Deena.

"Three weeks?" She whistled low. "That's a lot of time to think about seeing him again."

"I'm not gonna see him." That was a lie. I started throwing clothes into a suitcase - different clothes this time. Nothing he'd bought me, nothing he'd seen me in. "I'm going to Memphis to meet with his lawyer, prepare for the deposition, and then to LA for the… the actual thing. That's it."

"Uh huh." I could hear her smirking through the phone. "And if you just happen to run into him?"

"I won't." But even as I said it, my hand brushed against that damn guitar charm I still hadn't put away. "Graceland's huge. And anyway, Marty says he's practically living in his room these days. I’m not going upstairs." Another lie. 

"Marty says?" Now she was definitely smirking. "Thought you weren't talking to any of them anymore."

"What do you even wear to a deposition prep?" I changed the subject, holding up dresses like shields. "Something that says 'Yes, I slept with the man but I'm still a respectable witness'?"

"Honey," Deena laughed, "I don't think they make clothes for that."

*

The flight to Memphis felt endless. Maybe because this time I knew what was waiting. No more sneaking in through back doors or hiding from photographers. This time I had actual business. Official paperwork and everything.

Ed Hookstratten's office was exactly what you'd expect from Elvis' longtime attorney and friend. Wood-paneled walls, leather club chairs, and enough tchotchkes to stock a small museum. The man himself was tall, distinguished-looking, with kind eyes behind thick black-rimmed glasses that had probably seen every kind of trouble Elvis could get into.

"Miss Pedretti." He stood as his secretary showed me in. "Thank you for coming. Please, have a seat."

I sat, smoothing my skirt nervously. I'd finally settled on a navy blue suit that made me look older than my years. Professional. Trustworthy. Demure. The kind of gal you'd believe under oath.

"Now then." He settled behind his desk, pulling out a thick folder. "Let's talk about what to expect in Los Angeles. Priscilla's lawyers are... aggressive. They're going to try to paint your relationship with Mr. Presley as something tawdry. Something that began before the separation."

"But it didn't," I started, but he held up a hand.

"I know that. Mr. Presley has been very clear about the timeline. But they're going to try to twist things. They'll ask about Vegas, about when you first met him. They'll want details about every interaction, every moment alone. They'll try to make you nervous, make you slip up."

"Do I..." I swallowed hard. "Do I have to talk about everything? Every detail?"

"Only what's relevant to establishing the timeline." Ed's eyes were kind. "But yes, you'll need to be specific about when certain... developments in your relationship occurred."

My cheeks burned. Great. I'd have to discuss my sex life with Elvis in front of his wife and a room full of lawyers. While under oath.

"There's something else." Ed leaned forward slightly. "Mr. Presley has requested to sit in on our preparation sessions."

The world tilted sideways. "What?"

"He feels it's important. To show support." Ed's voice was carefully neutral. "Of course, if you're not comfortable..."

"When?" The word came out embarrassingly breathy.

"He's actually waiting in the conference room now."

My heart stopped, then started again double-time. "Now?"

"Only if you're ready." Ed stood. "We can do this another day if you prefer."

I thought about it, really thought about it. I could walk out right now. Get back on a plane to Chicago. Let Elvis fight his own battles for once. Who cares if they held me in contempt of court? 

But then I remembered his face on that TV screen. Remembered Marty saying he was clean. Two months clean. Remembered how my heart did those stupid little traitorous flips every time someone uttered his name. 

"Okay." I blurted out before I could regret it, barely standing on shaking legs. "Let's do this."

Ed led me down a hallway that felt miles long. Each step brought me closer to a moment I'd both dreaded and longed for. Almost four months of radio silence, and now...

The conference room door opened.

The first thing that hit me was his cologne - that same spicy scent that used to linger on my skin. Then I saw him, and my knees nearly gave out.

He was leaning against the conference table in a charcoal suit that had to be new - the cut was perfect, highlighting shoulders that seemed broader than I remembered. The jacket was open, revealing a crisp white shirt and a thin black paisley scarf. His hair was different too - styled but not overdone, letting those natural waves I used to love running my fingers through show. But it was his face that stopped my heart. Clear eyes, sharp jawline, that intensity I remembered but this time without the pill-haze that used to soften his edges. He looked devastating. He looked amazing.

He looked every inch the nightmare I'd been trying to forget.

"Miss Pedretti." His voice was pure business, but I caught how his fingers tightened on the table edge. "Thank you for coming."

I croaked something that might have been "Of course" and sank into the chair Ed so graciously pulled out for me. As far from Elvis as possible, but still close enough to notice he'd lost weight - all of it muscle now. No more hint of puffiness from the pills. Just lean strength wrapped in expensive wool. 

God damn him.

"Let's begin with the timeline," Ed said, spreading papers across the table. "Miss Pedretti, when exactly did you and Mr. Presley first meet?"

I focused on Ed, on my notes, on anything but the way Elvis's presence seemed to fill the room like smoke and suck the air right out of me. "July 1969. At the International Hotel in Vegas. I was there to audition for Frank Sinatra's show."

"And the nature of your relationship at such time?"

"Just... friendly." My voice caught as Elvis shifted, his ring catching the light. New rings, I noticed. Different from the ones he used to wear. "We didn't become... involved until much later."

"Be specific about dates," Ed pressed. "They'll want exact timing."

I could feel Elvis watching me, could practically taste the tension rolling off him. But his face remained carefully blank as I detailed our early encounters, our growing closeness, that first kiss. Professional. Detached. Like we were discussing someone else's life entirely.

Only his hands gave him away - those beautiful fingers drumming against his thigh in a rhythm I still heard in my dreams. A tell I'd learned to read months ago, back when I knew every mood, every gesture, every unspoken thing.

"And the first time you were intimate?"

My cheeks burned. In my peripheral vision, I saw Elvis go very still.

"September 3rd," I said quietly. "At my apartment. We... it was..."

"Just the date is fine," Ed cut in smoothly. "They'll want to establish it was well after the separation papers were signed."

I risked a glance at Elvis then. Bad idea. His eyes met mine for just a second, but it was enough. Enough to see he was remembering too; that night of dim lights and whispered promises, his hands on my skin, the way he'd looked at me like I was everything...

"Let's take a break," Ed suggested. "Coffee?"

I fled to the bathroom, needing space, needing air. In the mirror, my reflection looked exactly like I felt. Wrecked. My carefully applied lipstick was bitten away, my cheeks flushed, my eyes too bright. So much for trying to forget him. One look had undone everything.

When I returned to the conference room, Elvis had relocated to the far end of the table. His jacket was off now, shirt sleeves rolled up, and I had to stop myself from staring at his forearms. Had they always been that tanned? That strong? He was studying some papers intently, but the muscle jumping in his jaw told me he knew exactly when I walked in.

Ed's secretary had brought coffee - good coffee, not the burnt studio sludge I remembered from our late-night recording sessions. I wrapped my hands around the mug like a shield.

"Now then," Ed continued, "let's discuss the living arrangements. Priscilla's lawyers will likely focus on your time at Graceland."

"I had my own apartment," I said quickly. Maybe too quickly. "In East Memphis."

"That's good. They'll want to establish you weren't living at Graceland full-time." Ed made some notes. "Though they may ask about overnight stays."

Elvis's pen scratched against paper, the sound sharp in the quiet room. I forced myself to breathe normally, to ignore how his shirt pulled across his shoulders as he wrote. Had he been working out? He looked like he'd been working out.

"There were... some nights," I admitted. "But always discreet. Always after..."

"After Priscilla had already gone back to California," Elvis finished. His voice was controlled, professional, but something in the way he said her name made my stomach clench. “Where she’s lived for the past - oh, two or three years.”

"Exactly." Ed nodded. "Now, about the Christmas incident--"

"Do we have to get into that?" The words burst out before I could stop them. In my peripheral vision, I saw Elvis' head snap up.

"They'll ask about it." Ed's voice was gentle. "It was widely reported that you left Memphis rather... abruptly. Right before Priscilla was expected to return."

"Because I thought..." I stopped, swallowed hard. "I was under the impression that..."

"That I was taking her back." Elvis's voice was very quiet. When I dared to look at him, his eyes were fixed on his coffee cup. "But I wasn't. I was trying to tell her in person about filing the papers. Trying to do the right thing. For once."

The right thing. Like that made up for the months of silence after. Like that explained why he hadn't come after me, hadn't called, hadn't...

"Miss Pedretti?" Ed's voice pulled me back. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." Suddenly, my stomach hurt. I took a sip of coffee, nearly burning my tongue. "What else do they need to know?"

The questions continued - endless, specific, humiliating. Yes, I knew he was married when we met. No, nothing happened until after Vegas. Yes, I was aware of his... history with other women. No, I never expected or received any financial support.

Through it all, Elvis sat like a statue, only his hands betraying him. They kept moving - adjusting his tie, running through his hair, drumming that maddening rhythm on the table. Once, he got up to pace by the window, and the sunlight caught him just right. The sight of him outlined against the reddening sky, strong and clear-eyed and more beautiful than ever, nearly undid me completely.

"I think that covers the major points," Ed said finally. "We'll meet again tomorrow to go over–"

"Actually," Elvis cut in. He glanced at me for just a second. "I’ve got some studio time booked."

My heart squeezed. I pictured us being together in the recording booth, making beautiful harmonies.

"Day after tomorrow then," Ed said. "Same time?"

I nodded, already gathering my things, needing to escape before I did something stupid like cry. Or beg him to explain that agonizing silence. Or ask him if he still thought about that night in the rain, when he'd...

"Valerie."

I froze at the door, his voice hitting me like a physical touch.

"Thank you," he said softly. "For doing this. For... everything."

I didn't turn around. Couldn't. "Sure. Whatever helps."

The hallway felt miles long as I walked away, my heels clicking against marble in rhythm with my hammering heart. Behind me, I could have sworn I heard him say something else, but I kept walking. Some doors, once closed, should probably stay that way. Even if they held everything I ever wanted on the other side.

*

The Memphis humidity hit me like a wet blanket as I left Ed's office. March here felt like June anywhere else - the air thick with the heft of memories I'd been trying to outrun. I'd forgotten how this city got under your skin, how it made everything feel more intense somehow.

I'd booked a room at the Peabody this time, not trusting myself anywhere closer to Graceland. The hotel was exactly as grand as I remembered - all marble floors and crystal chandeliers, those famous ducks still doing their daily parade through the lobby. But it felt different now. I felt different.

"Messages for you, Miss Pedretti," the desk clerk said as I passed. Three pink slips, all from the same person.

Sophie: "Heard you were in town. Dinner?" 

Sophie: "Don't you dare hide in that fancy hotel room." 

Sophie: "Getting takeout from Rendezvous. Bringing the crew. Be there at 7. No arguments."

I smiled despite myself. Trust Sophie to know exactly what I needed.

She showed up right on time with Mary, Ginger, and Donna, their arms full of ribs and coleslaw, faces full of questions they were too polite to ask. At least at first.

"So," Ginger said finally, watching me pick at my food. "How'd it go?"

"Oh, you know." I took a long sip of orange soda. "Just had to discuss my sex life with Elvis in front of his lawyer while the man himself sat there looking like every fantasy I've ever had, only better. No big deal."

Mary nearly choked on her ribs. "Better?"

"God, Mary." I flopped back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. "He's… different. Like someone turned up all his colors or something. And that suit..." I groaned. "That damn suit should be illegal in at least forty states."

"You know he’s been living at the studio,” Sophie added.

My heart did that stupid little flip it always did when anyone mentioned what he was up to.

"He looks happy," I said finally. "Healthy. Like he's finally..."

"Finally what?"

"Himself." I sat up, reaching for a rib. I was happy for him, truly. But so very sad for myself. "And I'm stupid for even noticing. For even caring. He had four months to call, to explain about Christmas, to... to anything. But he didn't."

Sophie was quiet for a long moment. "Maybe he couldn't."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just... there's things you don't know. About after you left." She picked up a napkin, started shredding it carefully. "He was bad, Val. Real bad. The Colonel had to cancel so many meetings. Jerry says they nearly lost him a couple times."

The coleslaw turned sour in my stomach. "What?"

"Then one day, about two months ago, he just... stopped. Everything. Pills, booze, all of it. Started getting real serious about things." She looked at me carefully. It hadn’t occurred to me that she’d even known about the pulls, much less discuss them openly. How much of a cocoon was I living in?

"Don't." I stood up, needing to move. "Don't try to make this into something it's not. He's getting divorced because Priscilla wants to live in California. Because their marriage has been over for years. It has nothing to do with..."

"With the fact that he's recording your favorite songs?" Donna’s voice was gentle. "The ones you used to sing together late at night? Don’t think we weren’t listening."

I stared out the window. Far ahead I could see Beale street spread out like a carpet of lights, and somewhere out there, Elvis was in his studio, singing songs he loved. Songs I used to sing. My throat felt tight.

"I can't," I whispered. "I can't do this again. Can't let myself hope that maybe this time..."

"Then don't." Sophie stood, came to stand beside me in her motherly way. "Just... be here. Do what you came to do. And maybe..."

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe this time you'll both be ready for it."

*

The whiskey burned going down. I never really drank but tonight felt like a whiskey kind of night. The first glass had made my hands stop shaking. The second was just starting to blur the edges when the phone rang.

I stared at it, watching it rattle against the nightstand like it was trying to escape. I wasn’t expecting a call, but I knew. The same way I always knew when it came to him.

"Hello?" My voice came out steady. Thank God for Jack Daniel's.

Silence. Just breathing. Then: "This is harder than I thought it would be."

My heart seized. His voice was different. Rougher, like he'd been in the studio all day. Or like maybe he'd been doing a lot of thinking too.

"Don't." I took another sip, letting the burn ground me. "Just... don't."

"Valley—"

"I can't do this with you right now." My fingers tightened on the glass. I pressed it to my forehead and sighed. "Tomorrow's gonna be hard enough without..."

"I know." He sounded tired. Human. That was always the most dangerous version of him. "Just wanted to hear your voice."

"Well, you heard it." The words came out sharper than I meant them to. Or maybe exactly as sharp as I meant them to. "Goodnight, Elvis."

"Wait—"

I hung up. My hands were shaking again.

The phone rang again immediately. I let it ring five times before unplugging it.

Later that night, my reflection stared back at me from the bathroom mirror - cheeks flushed from whiskey and something else, eyes too bright. Looking at myself, I could almost understand what he'd seen in me. Almost.

I finished my drink in one swallow and didn't let myself pour another. Tomorrow would be brutal enough without a hangover.

*

Morning hit me like a fever dream - all golden light and sticky heat, the kind of day that makes promises it can't keep. I spent too long getting ready, trying on and discarding outfits like armor. Finally settled on a cream-colored dress that made my skin glow and my dark hair look somehow deliberate instead of wild. Professional enough for a lawyer's office, but also...

"Stop it," I told my reflection. "Just stop."

Ed's secretary showed me into the conference room first this time. I was early, needing to compose myself before...

"Morning."

I froze. Elvis was already there, leaning against the window frame in a light gray silk shirt that made his eyes look impossibly blue. No scarf today, just a few open buttons that showed the gold chain I remembered all too well. He looked like he hadn't slept. Join the club.

"You're early," I managed, proud of how steady my voice sounded.

"Couldn't sleep." His eyes met mine in the window's reflection. 

Last night's phone call hung between us like smoke. I busied myself with my notes, trying not to notice how the morning light caught his profile, how his hands kept moving restlessly, how he seemed to take up all the oxygen in the room just by existing.

"About that–" he started.

"Don't." I gripped my pen tighter. "Please."

"Good morning!" Ed swept in, saving me from whatever Elvis had been about to say. "Shall we begin? We need to discuss the more... delicate aspects of the timeline today." I thanked my lucky stars that Colonel Parker had chosen to sit in the waiting room today.

Even with that small consolation, my stomach still dropped. The delicate aspects. Like how exactly we'd gone from stolen kisses to shared beds. Like when exactly I'd gone from being his backup singer to his...

"Actually," Elvis' voice was rough, "maybe I should step out for this part."

"No." The word surprised us both. "Stay. They're going to ask about all of it in LA anyway. Might as well..." I swallowed hard. "Might as well get it all out now."

His eyes met mine, dark with something that made my pulse jump. For a moment, I saw everything there - remembered heat, old promises, new regrets. Then he nodded once and took his seat.

"Very well," Ed opened his folder. "Let's discuss September third."

"September third." My voice sounded far away. "Elvis had finally come up to my apartment. We'd been... there had been moments before. Almost moments. But that night..."

I could feel Elvis's eyes on me, knew he was remembering too. The way he'd shown up at my apartment door, lean and hungry. How he'd stood there on my carpet, looking at me like a man who'd finally stopped running from something. From everything.

"Be specific about the timing," Ed pressed. "Priscilla's lawyers will want to establish--"

"It was late," I cut in. "After ten. We'd been recording all day, then I'd gone to dinner with some of the session singers. He came by after, said he wanted to talk about the arrangements we'd been working on. But..."

Elvis shifted in his chair. His knuckles were white where he gripped his pen.

"And then?"

God. How could I possibly describe it? The way the air had changed between us as he stood in my tiny living room. The easy conversation that had turned into something else entirely. How we'd gone from discussing music to... to everything.

"We..." I stopped, started again. "It wasn't planned. We were just talking, and then suddenly we weren't talking anymore, and..."

"I understand this is difficult," Ed said carefully, "but for legal purposes, we need to establish that nothing physical occurred before the separation papers were signed. Priscilla's lawyers will try to suggest otherwise."

"Nothing happened before the separation," I said firmly, though my voice shook slightly. "That night was the first time. And after... after that, we agreed it couldn't happen again. Not until Priscilla had gone back to California."

In my peripheral vision, I saw Elvis' hand tighten on his pen. He was staring straight ahead now, jaw clenched, but I could feel the tension radiating off him.

"And you maintained that agreement?" Ed asked.

"Yes." The word felt like glass in my throat. "Until she left. We both... we knew it had to be that way."

Ed made some notes. "And when the relationship resumed?"

"Approximately three weeks later." My voice was barely a whisper now. "After Priscilla had gone home to California. And I saw the papers in the drawer.. they were signed months before that.”

"Miss Ped–Valerie." Elvis's voice was strangled. When I dared to look at him, his face was tight with barely controlled emotion. "You don't have to-"

"Yes, I do." I turned back to Ed. "They're gonna ask all this in Los Angeles anyway, aren't they? About every detail, every moment?"

"They'll try," Ed admitted. "They'll want to establish a pattern of behavior. But you don't need to share anything... intimate. Just the timeline."

"September 23rd," I said quietly. "That's when we... when things changed. Well, we - you know - for the second time. And yes, I'm sure of the date. Yes, it was after she left. And no, we never..." I swallowed hard. "It was never about hurting anyone. We tried so hard not to..."

"I think that's sufficient," Ed said gently, closing his folder. "We'll take a break and--"

"No." Elvis stood abruptly, his chair scraping back. "We're done. All of it. She's not doing this anymore today."

"Elvis--" Ed started.

"I said we're done." His voice had that edge I remembered, the one that meant he was about to lose control of something. Of everything. "Give us a minute?"

Ed closed the door behind him, leaving us in a silence broken only by the soft hum of the air conditioning. Elvis stood at the window, hands in his pockets, looking out at Memphis like he was seeing it for the first time.

"You didn't have to stop the prep," I said finally. "I can handle it."

"Can you?" He turned, and something in his face made my chest tight. Not the old dramatic Elvis - just a man who looked tired. "Because I'm not sure I can. Sitting here, listening to all of it laid out like... like it was just dates on a calendar."

"That's all they need," I said. "Just the timeline."

"Is it?" He leaned against the window frame. "Because it feels like they're trying to turn this into some cheap scandal."

"Wasn’t it?" The words came out before I could stop them. "The backup singer and the married star?"

"No." His voice was quiet but firm. "We were never that. You know we weren't."

I did know. That was the hell of it.

"I’m clean," he said suddenly. "Two months now."

"I heard." I studied my hands. 

"Should've done it sooner. Should've..." He stopped, started again. "Should've done a lotta shit sooner."

The simplicity of that admission hit harder than any dramatic declaration could have. This was the Elvis I remembered - the real one, underneath all the showmanship and easy smiles. The one who could break your heart just by being honest.

"Why didn't you call?" I asked finally. "After Christmas, after... everything."

"Honestly?" He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. "I was a mess. Needed to get my head straight first. Figure out who I was without..." He gestured vaguely at himself, and I knew he meant without the pills, without the haze he'd lived in for so long.

We stood in silence for a moment, the weight of missed opportunities and wasted time settling between us like dust.

"We should get back to it," I said, gesturing toward the paperwork on the table. "Finish the prep."

Elvis nodded, straightening himself. Just like that, the mask slipped back into place. Professional. Distant. Like we hadn't just cracked open something we couldn't quite close again.

The next two weeks stretched like molasses. More prep sessions, more carefully worded statements, more moments of trying not to look at each other across conference tables. Memphis watched us like a soap opera, every coffee shop and beauty parlor buzzing with theories about why I was back in town.

"Ignore them," Sophie advised over sandwiches one afternoon. "They'll talk no matter what you do."

"Easy for you to say." I pushed my coleslaw around my plate. "You're not the one getting death stares at the grocery store."

"No, but I did see Mrs. Milton organizing another prayer circle for your soul." She grinned. "Though this time some of the younger girls told her to stuff it. Times are changing, even in Memphis."

The flight to LA loomed closer. I decided neither to use the tickets Priscilla so graciously provided nor to fly out with Elvis and the boys. Instead, Ed had arranged everything just for me - flight, hotel reservations, a car to meet me at LAX. The Colonel's influence, making sure everything looked respectable. Like I was a legitimate witness, not some little homewrecking hussy being dragged into court. 

The night before we left, my phone rang.

"You packed?" Red's voice was gruff with concern.

"Almost." I stared at my open suitcase. "What do you even wear to get grilled by your... by Elvis' wife's lawyers?"

"Ex-wife," he corrected gently. "And wear whatever makes you feel strong. You're gonna need it."

He wasn't wrong. LAX hit like an uppercut - all sunshine and palm trees and reporters who somehow knew exactly which flight to watch for. The flashbulbs started before I even hit baggage claim.

"Miss Pedretti! How long were you and Elvis–" 

"Is it true that–" 

"What do you say to accusations–"

Ed's promised car materialized like magic, whisking me away to a hotel that probably cost more than my rent. The suite was bigger than the first floor at school.

"Remember," Ed said as we did one final prep session that evening, "just stick to the facts. Don't let them bait you into emotional responses."

Easier said than done when you're about to face the woman whose husband you... No. Not husband. Not anymore. The papers made that clear, even if my guilt hadn't quite caught up to reality.

*

The deposition room felt like a tomb. Everything was cream-colored and sterile, from the walls to the conference table that stretched like a barrier between two worlds. I was early - or so I thought.

She was already there.

Priscilla sat at the far end, a vision in cream Chanel tweed that probably cost more than my first car. Even now, the sight of her hit like a left hook. She was just as beautiful as that night at the International - all delicate features and perfect posture, making me feel large and ungainly in my navy suit that suddenly seemed cheap and ill-fitting.

They say men "cheat down," but looking at her, I felt it in my bones. What could Elvis possibly have seen in me when he had this porcelain doll at home? I was all wrong angles and wild curls that the humidity had already started to revolt against. Too fleshy, too loud, too... everything she wasn't.

Her eyes met mine across the room - cool, assessing, like she was cataloging every flaw. I forced myself to hold her gaze even as my stomach churned.

The Colonel arrived just before the attorneys, settling into a chair near the back of the room like a spider watching its web. His presence felt like another weight pressing down.

The attorneys filed in like well-dressed vultures. Priscilla's lead counsel, Andrew Marshall, looked exactly like you'd expect. Silver-haired, sharp-featured, with eyes that had probably never smiled in their life. His team arranged themselves around him like a pack of wolves circling prey.

Elvis arrived last, flanked by Ed Hookstratten and his team. He looked devastating in a charcoal suit I'd never seen before. Our eyes met briefly before he took his seat, and something in his expression made my heart stumble.

"Please state your name for the record," the court reporter began.

"Valerie Marie Pedretti."

"And your occupation, Miss Pedretti?" Marshall's tone was almost friendly.

"I'm a singer and music teacher."

"How long have you been performing professionally?"

This wasn't so bad. Just basic background questions. I felt myself relax slightly. "About eight years. I started teaching music while still in college."

"And how did you come to be in Las Vegas in July 1969?"

"I was there to audition for Frank Sinatra's show at the International."

"Successful audition?"

"No, sir."

"But you stayed in Vegas anyway?"

"I had other opportunities." The words came easily. These were simple facts, nothing to fear.

"Yes, quite fortunate how those opportunities presented themselves." Marshall's tone shifted slightly. "Tell me about the elevator, Miss Pedretti."

"Objection to form," Ed cut in. "Vague question."

"I'll rephrase." Marshall's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Please describe your first encounter with Mr. Presley."

I recited the story we'd rehearsed. "We met in an elevator at the International. Brief conversation. Professional."

"Professional." Marshall tested the word like wine. "And after that?"

"Mr. Presley offered me a position as a backup singer."

"Just like that? No audition? No formal process?"

I felt the first hint of danger. "I had to prove myself in the studio."

"Of course." Marshall shuffled some papers. "And these late-night recording sessions... always strictly professional?"

"Yes." My voice was steady, but my hands had started to shake under the table.

"Even the night of August 31st?"

"We were working on arrangements—"

"Until 4 AM?" His smile sharpened. "With no other singers present?"

The room suddenly felt smaller. Across the table, Elvis shifted in his chair.

"Miss Pedretti," Marshall continued, his tone deceptively light, "let's discuss the gifts."

"Objection," Ed started, but Marshall waved him off.

"Simply establishing the nature of their relationship."

"The jewelry, the clothes..." Marshall consulted his notes. "Quite generous for a professional relationship."

Something in me snapped. "Is accepting a gift from a friend against the law, Mr. Marshall?"

The room went very still. I caught myself too late, remembering Ed's warnings about staying calm. Across the table, Elvis's lips twitched slightly.

"Friends." Marshall's voice hardened. "Is that what you call it? These 'friendly' gifts worth thousands of dollars? This 'friendly' apartment in Memphis?"

"I paid my own rent," I said quietly, trying to recover my composure.

"With money earned from your suddenly flourishing career? Amazing how doors opened once you became Mr. Presley's... friend."

Each word felt like another cut. I forced myself to breathe steadily, to remember Ed's coaching. Don't let them bait you.

"Let's discuss Christmas, Miss Pedretti." Marshall's voice took on a new edge. "The night you fled Memphis rather... dramatically."

"I left because I believed Mrs. Presley was returning home." The rehearsed line felt hollow now.

"And why would that concern you? If, as you claim, nothing inappropriate had occurred?"

"I wanted to be respectful of their marriage."

"Respectful?" Marshall's laugh was soft, cruel. "Is that what you call your behavior in this photograph?"

He slid a manila envelope across the table. Inside were photos from Vegas - innocent moments made to look sordid. Elvis and I at the piano. Walking in the garden. Leaving the studio late at night.

"Quite cozy for a 'professional' relationship, wouldn't you say?"

I couldn't speak. Each photo felt like another nail in the coffin of everything beautiful we'd shared. Every moment twisted into something… cheap.

"But this," Marshall produced another photo with theatrical timing, "this is my personal favorite."

My heart stopped. There it was in glossy black and white. Elvis and me outside the service entrance. The kiss that had started everything falling apart. The one Red thought he'd contained.

From the back of the room, I caught the Colonel's slight smile. He'd known. Of course he'd known.

"Perhaps you can explain this particular... professional interaction?" Marshall's voice dripped with false concern.

Hot tears pricked at my eyes but I wouldn't let them fall. Wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"This was taken after the separation papers were signed," I managed.

"But before they were filed," Marshall countered. "While Mr. Presley was still very much married to my client." He turned to directly address Priscilla. "I'm sorry you have to see this, Mrs. Presley."

Across the table, Elvis made a sound low in his throat - the kind of sound a wounded animal might make. His hands were clenched so tight his rings must have been cutting into his skin.

"The timing of this photograph," Marshall continued, "suggests a rather different story than the one you've been telling. Phone records show calls to your apartment at all hours. Staff reports intimate dinners. And now this... very convincing evidence of a relationship that clearly began long before any legal separation."

The implication hung in the air like smoke. I sat perfectly still as Marshall systematically destroyed every beautiful memory, every tender moment, every time Elvis had looked at me like I was his salvation.

"In fact," Marshall pressed, "isn't it true that your relationship with Mr. Presley was instrumental in the breakdown of his marriage?"

"No," I whispered, but the word had no power anymore. Not with that photo staring up at me, damning in its simple truth.

"I think we need a break." Ed's voice cut through the fog of humiliation.

I stood on trembling legs, my dignity in shreds but my spine still straight. As I made my way to the door, I caught Priscilla watching me. Something flickered across her perfect features - not quite sympathy, but understanding maybe. She knew what it cost to love him. What it cost to lose him.

Behind me, I heard chairs scraping; Elvis trying to follow, probably, and his lawyers holding him back. The Colonel's voice, low and firm: "Let her go, boy. This is how it has to be."

Even through the tears that threatened to fall, I held my head high. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing me break. Not Marshall, not Priscilla, not even the Colonel with his calculated chess moves. But inside, something had shattered. The last remnants of whatever fairy tale I'd been telling myself about loving Elvis Presley.

In the bathroom, I pressed my forehead against the cool mirror and watched my tears finally fall. They'd been playing us all along. The Colonel, Marshall, maybe even Priscilla - they'd had that photo in their pocket like a silver bullet with my name on it. Just waiting for the right moment to pull the trigger.

The worst part? It was such a beautiful photo. Even in black and white, you could see it - the way Elvis held me, the way my hand curled into his jacket, the perfect capture of a moment when love felt bigger than consequences. Now it was just evidence. Another nail in the coffin on our relationship. 

I could never, ever go back to him. 

I wiped my eyes, fixed my makeup with shaking hands. There were still hours of this to get through. More questions, more photos maybe, more carefully aimed arrows meant to make me bleed. 

*

Thankfully, the bathroom was all marble and soft lighting. The kind designed to flatter even the most tear-stained of faces. I white-knuckled the edge of the sink, watching water drip from my chin. My legs felt like two dangling noodles. 

The door opened. In the mirror, I saw her enter - still perfect, still pristine in her cream Chanel. But something was different now. A slight tremor in her hand as she reached for her purse. The way she wouldn't quite look at her own reflection.

Without a word, without even looking at me, Priscilla placed a tissue on the counter beside my hand. The gesture was neither kind nor cruel. Just acknowledgment, maybe, of another woman trying not to cry in a fancy bathroom.

Jesus Christ. 

I was being comforted by Elvis Presley's wife. The same woman whose marriage I'd helped destroy was wordlessly offering me tissues while I tried not to ruin my mascara. The absurdity of it made me want to laugh, but I was afraid if I started, it would turn into something else entirely.

I took the Kleenex, carefully dabbing under my eyes. We stood there in silence, two women doing the familiar dance of fixing makeup that couldn't really fix anything. The surreal intimacy of it all made my chest tight. In another life, another universe, we might have been friends. We'd have so much in common; the way he looked at us when we were too naive to know better, how it felt to be the center of his world until something else caught his attention, what it cost to love someone who belonged to everyone and no one at all.

"My attorneys that photo for months," she said softly, reapplying her lipstick with practiced precision. "They were waiting for the right moment."

Our eyes met in the mirror. For just a moment, I saw something flicker across her perfect features, not sympathy exactly, but recognition. And that was somehow worse than if she'd been cruel. Because she understood. More than anyone else on earth, she understood exactly what it felt like to be caught in Elvis's orbit, to be torn apart by his gravity.

Her kindness felt like another kind of punishment - because how fucked up was it that the woman who had every right to hate me was the only one who really knew what this felt like?

She capped her lipstick with a precise click. Checked her hair one last time. Then she was gone, the door closing behind her with barely a sound.

I wiped my eyes, straightened my shoulders. There were still hours of deposition ahead. More questions, more photos maybe, more carefully concocted accusations to make me crumple. But at least now I understood - this wasn't really about me or Priscilla anymore. This was just what happened when you loved a man who would always love being Elvis Presley more than he could ever love any of us. @whositmcwhatsit  @ellie-24  @arrolyn1114 @missmaywemeetagain  @be-my-ally  @vintageshanny  @prompted-wordsmith @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 @therealslimshakespeare @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 @eapep @iloveelvisss @argangelbornxoxo

[isa-ghost]

God, it's no fucking wonder Ghosties get so defensive of him whenever people get too heated about his rp characters and stuff.

I've had plenty of spats with Ghosties who have gotten a bit too toxic about that kinda stuff (let's not even get into what Purgatory did to all of us Bolas & Soulfire watchers, or the current TRSMP stuff......). I'm sure even now I have some blocked and I just dr who on my blocklist is a Ghostie that maybe deserves a second chance. But Jesus Christ, ever since QSMP's fall from grace I've gained so much sympathy for Bad, and I understand why you guys get so vicious now. Even if I still condemn it and wish those who Do get way too mean would step back and realize they're mad about friends playing Minecraft.

Like I can be aggravated by the aggression without blaming y'all for it, if that makes sense? Some Ghosties do 100% need to chill the fuck out, but there are plenty of people who attack y'all and Bad to an unreasonably degree that also need to chill the fuck out too. I wish more people recognized it's a two way street, and realized where a lot of this defensiveness comes from. Bad and his community have put up with this kinda shit for going on 5 years, maybe even longer.

Even 1-2 years ago I was openly posting Bbh crit for a couple reasons, but I don't think I'd say I ever genuinely hated him? I'd like to think the crits were really fair of me, and even if things I've said have been emotionally charged, I've never said like. Fuck that guy, hope he dies, or whatever, y'know? It's always been genuine and nuanced at its core, as I try to be with all the discourse I weigh in on.

Like even during peak Purgatory when tensions between us Bolas watchers and Soulfire watchers (esp Ghosties, given Bbh did most of the work sending Bolas into manic hysteria) were UNBEARABLE and I was genuinely frustrated by things, I still didn't hate him. I actually have a post that TO THIS DAY gets notes thanking Bad for being a little shitgoblin the way he was because it gave us Bolas watchers such a weirdly special and chaotic thing that a lot of us still hold dear, even despite the boiling hatred we have for Purgatory and all the bullshit it caused as a whole.

And in the wake of everything between DSMP and QSMP, I don't think I could ever hate him now. Hearing things from Ghosties and even non-Ghosties is just solidifying that further. When the eggs were in and out of hiatus in 2024, and then Shade & Lumi left the team, I felt so fucking awful that Bad had to watch everyone else get their kids back while he had to "make do" with basically all the other eggs instead of his own (I know he was an honorary Richas parent and all that, but you get what I mean.) And then he lost Richas too. I'd argue he was the one holding out the hardest for QSMP to work itself out, and it just. Didn't. He got burnt by it all so fucking hard, I've felt terrible for him ever since.

I may not really watch him, and I may still get frustrated by his rp characters at times, but I don't hold anything against him. Especially because I see what a good person he is overall, and I've never forgotten how much shit he's had to put up with, even from some of my faves.

Bad puts his heart and soul into EVERYTHING he does, he has patience levels I couldn't even dream to have myself, and the lengths he goes for people he cares about are astronomical. And that's just what we know he's done, while everything he's done behind the scenes is implied. I think sometimes he's straight up too nice and forgiving for his own good, but that takes strength in itself in a way.

As he moves further and further away from the Dteam, I feel much more confident in standing up for him (the association was the main reason I've kept my distance). Same goes for the Ghosties who are cool and capable of talking about tension in a civil way.

So long as y'all are chill like that, I have your backs. I totally understand why you guys can get so prickly, and to a certain degree you guys deserve to be.

I wouldn't call myself a Ghostie exactly but I've been around since 2020 and I think we need to talk in detail about how Bad has been legitimately used and abused by the Dr*m Team. Especially now that he's making more noticeable moves to get the hell away from them.

Given I'm just on the outskirts of his community, my only starting points are their weird obsession with constantly threatening and joking about harming his dog (like during Jackboxes back in the day), and giving him 0 credit or acknowledgement for hosting the DSMP server.

But there is so so so so so so much more and I want this post to be a sounding board for the hardcore Ghosties who are sick of watching their guy get treated like shit constantly.

Go ahead and use this post to air them out, guys.

[starlightsuffered]

Trainer Paul (p 1)

Info - soft dom Paul, innocent reader, inexperienced reader, imbalanced power dynamic, voyeurism desired, casual relationship, Paul teaching reader sex moves, hand job, licking cum off body, paul instructing reader in sex, using voice to make someone cum , reader with praise kink, slight size kink, crying in frustration, no refractory period

"There you go baby, work it, you're so good," he praised me and the butterflies in my stomach were so dizzy they crashed into one another and fell. I was addicted to Paul's praise. He made me so heady, because he was usually so stingy with compliments.

"Trained Paul, am I doing well for you? Is my technique alright?" I asked loyally. He'd been given a group of ten trainees. As far as I knew I was the only one he took this sort of interest in. I adored it. The danger of someone finding how he was dallying with his student. The way he pushed me so hard in class, only to spoil me afterward.

"Make sure it's positioned correctly," he commanded and just as he was in lessons, he always knew what was best.

"Towards your chest," I said knowledgeably as I angled his cock towards his body. We were still in the training room, both of us stark naked, with the door closed but not locked. The possibility of being caught drove both of our sex drives wild. I could hear my mother's words in my ears instructing me to make sure Trainer Paul liked me. I was sure he found me at least a bit favorable after all the things I'd let him teach me.

"Such a good girl, you work it so well, it's big isn't it, but you do it so well," he encouraged me.

"It is so big Paul," I whimpered as I looked at the pulsing cock in my hand.

"Such tiny hands, but you know how to pump a cock don't you dear? You know what to do to make your trainer cum," he blessed me. I bit my lip.

"Paul, sorry Trainer," I said, correcting myself with a shake of my head.

"You can call me Paul," he allowed.

"Paul, I'm wet," I whined.

"Okay, then please try what we've been working on in private," he urged. I took a deep breath.

"Paul, cum!" I tried to use the voice. He didn't shoot and I slumped.

"No, darling, it's okay, you'll get it one day," he said gently. I angrily wiped away a frustrated tear. I went hard on his cock, working it desperately.

"Oh good girl," he wailed, head falling back. I moved closer between his legs and pumped even faster.

"Oh baby!" He called and he began to spurt all over his lean chest and torso.

"You know your job when you get me messy," he said darkly. I nodded dutifully. I began to lap all the cum I could from his chest. His breathing was labored as I licked off every bit of his essence from him.

"Good girl," he gasped and grabbed my face, kissing me fiercely. For some reason, his lips got me the wettest of all. Knowing he'd be intimate with me in this way, enough to kiss me, I loved it.

"Okay, on my cock, come on," he urged me. In our lessons he always talked so sternly, but when we finished and he called me for our private training he was so gentle and coaxing.

"Yes Paul," I agreed. I'd hardly known anything before him. He had taught me so much and I loved it.

"Spell my name, just like that, P, oh you're doing so well, A, good girl," he said as I moved slowly on his cock.

"And and U, just like I taught you, L, well done princess, now bounce that's your next order," he said with bright smile.

"Paul," I asked through a whimper, he always stretched me out amazingly well.

"Yeah?"

"Do I make you feel good?" I asked desperately. He was never wild with me, or desperate. He was always in control. Sometimes I wanted him to be out of control with passion.

"Do I cum in you every time?" He asked darkly.

"Yes," I answered truthfully.

"There's your answer," he said simply.

"I like it when you cum in me," I said and pressed my body against him.

"Needy darling, we did have our private lessons five times yesterday, but you still seem a bit desperate."

"I never get enough of you Paul," I said. "I know you have your duties, but I wish I could sit on your cock more often."

"My sweet innocent girl, hardly knew anything about cock until Paul came along. It's new, of course you need it all the time. You'll be satiated soon and forget all about me and find some handsome boy on the planet."

"Never!" I said desperately, eyes wide with worry. I began to ride him faster and harder.

"I'll never forget your cock, don't make me!" I felt like I could cry.

"I'm not going to make you darling," he chuckled. "It'll just happen. I know I'm set for an arranged marriage with someone I don't have much time for. You deserve time and I'm much too busy. I have to leave for Arakis soon anyhow."

"I'll miss you," I said as I desperately kissed him. His hands moved down my body, feeling up my ass and my bare breasts. He moaned happily into the kiss as I rode him. He sounded content, but I certainly wasn't! He was fine with whatever he got from me, but I was desperate for more more more of him. Perhaps if I could impress him he would not be so quick to dismiss me.

"You feel lovely darling," he said, so smug, so level.

"Cum!" I tried.

"You don't need to-"

"Cum!" I said against desperately.

"Sweetness," he said, caressing my cheeks like I was a child trying too hard at something I couldn't do. No! I would impress him. I wanted Paul, and I would have him come undone in a way he literally couldn't control.

"CUM HARDER THAN YOU EVER HAVE!" It was instant! He scream and rutted up inside me so hard it almost hurt. He was flooding me with cum. It just kept spewing and spewing out of his cock. I came next because he looked so desperate, I was making the great Paul Atredies whimper and spout cum. I was so so breathless and proud of myself as I rode out my orgasm on his immensely stiff cock.

We panted as we came down and creamy cum was seeping out of me and down onto his balls. He had cum so much. I noticed he was glaring a bit. He hadn't liked not setting the pace and being totally in charge.

"You'll be coming back here later after I've finished with some duties," he growled.

"Of course Trainer Paul," I smirked.

[cooldeermagazine]

🩷

Yandere × Overthink!Darling

I knew I love you since I had my eyes on you and I know right then and there I must have you since that moment-

So you don't love me. You are in love with my looks...

Of course I love you, and your looks is just a bonus point.

• • • • •

I love you, Darling and I just love how obedient you are, it's one of my favorite traits I love about you.

So you only love me cause of my obedience...

Don't you start twisting my words now, my love...

• • • • •

So you don't love me...you love the thrilled to chasing me...you love the feeling of excitement playing with me. What will happen if you start seeing other better toys for you to play with?

First, I love you. Second, you're not my toy, you're my partner, okay? Third, no one is better than you. Fourth-

[Proceed to list a never ending reasons why. ->Insert Darling sitting for hours and is awkward hearing Yandere corny words]

• • • • •

You know...I've always wanted to start a family like how my parents have, like those in movies or books...and I'm unsuccessful to find a partner like the one I dream of...I was losing hope that time and I guess there's truly a God who answers my prayer and you came into the picture. Ah, I still remember the day we first met- anyways, after getting to know you...I just knew that you would be the one who'll complete everything. The last piece of my puzzle-

[Oh h-ll nah, not those weird words again!] Stop right there. You're basically telling me you don't love me-

I do love you, why else would I go to these length just have you-

You love the idea of me fitting to be your perfect partner-

Darling, let me finish my story first-

Give me back to my parents. I don't want to be here! To play whatever role you have in your mind-

How would you understand if you wouldn't let me finish first-

No, thank you. I've heard enough- hmpp!?

You will listen until the end. And I hope you understand- No, I'll make you understand

Hmmpp!

• • • • •

So you only love me because I'm polite?

I love you. And I love how you can still be polite despite the situation you're in. It's two different thing, Darling.

Your manipulation won't work at me of I'm aware, Sir.

Okay, first of all-

• • • • •

Hmm...I just love how small you are compare to me...I love how warm you are...I love how huggable you are...mm...I could cuddle with you all day.

But what if I'm the same size(/height) as you are? What if I'm not warm? What if I'm opposite of all the traits you said you love about me? What if-

Shh... that's enough, dear. Of course I'd still love you.

But you wouldn't know that. And I'm sure of it. If I'm not all of the things you claim to love about me, you wouldn't even look my way-

Enough. Are you doubting my love for you, again?

No, I'm just-mhmmp!?

Mmm~...There! And here's more~

No, don't, I'm okay now-

• • • • •

Advance sorry for wrong grammar. English is not my first language. I hope that this is understandable enough 🩷

[darlenicy]

i got covid. me, the most careful person who always wears a mask on the train 😷 fck

[blackcatxmagic]

That was a question that Dimi got a lot, but the truth was it didn't have such an easy answer. "I don't really know for sure," Dimi answered honestly. "It wasn't like there was one defining moment when I knew that was it for me. But I remember always being so fascinated in photographs, just the feelings that they could evoke, even without context, and the way it could be different for everyone. It's...I guess like all art in the sense that it is a representation of yourself, but it's not necessarily reflected back in the same way in the people who see it, and I like that. I like that it's different, and I like being able to make people feel things just by showing them the world." As he said this, Dimi sighed, shaking his head. "That probably didn't make much sense." It did to him though.

"Yeah, we do, though I didn't exactly learn by example," Dimi replied before realizing what he'd said. "Uh...I just mean...well my parents weren't terrible or anything, they were just never around. They had a lot of friends, so they worked or went out most of the time. I was pretty much raised by a nanny, and I knew when I became a dad that I wouldn't be the same way. I don't want Ozma to doubt my love for her." That was something Dimi had always wondered: did his parents truly love him, or had they only had a kid on a whim or by accident or because they felt like they were supposed to do it? He could ask, but Dimi knew he wouldn't get the truth.

Nodding, Dimi agreed, "Yeah, I know you're right, but I'm worried about how she'll handle it. She's been through so much since her mom left." Although Dimi tried to talk to Ozma about that, she never wanted to, and he worried that she thought it was her fault that Angelica had left them. Dimi could tell Ozma it wasn't because of her - and God knows he had, many times before - but he couldn't make his daughter believe it. Laughing, Dimi nodded and once more agreed with Joe, "That's the truth, and it's terrifying. On the one hand, I want to protect her from everything, but on the other, I want her to learn to be strong, and she won't do that if I never let her experience hardship. Parenting is about the most stressful thing there is, am I right?"

"Charming?" Dimi asked, smiling at Joe. He definitely didn't hate hearing that. "Well thank you," he went on, not wanting to make too much of the moment. "I guess you're just easy to talk to. And I feel like we have some things in common too. If our kids were closer in age, I'd suggest a play date or something." The waitress came back to refill his coffee, and once she left, Dimi asked, "Will you let me buy your breakfast? I just appreciate you talking to me. I haven't really gotten to know too many people since moving here."

.

Joe nodded thoughtfully. People who dedicated themselves to doing exactly what they felt was their life's calling rather interested him: they seemed to have a good idea of who they were and what to devote themselves to. "When did you know photography was your thing?"

Leaning back on his chair, Joe took a deep breath and thought for a moment. "Well, one has a duty to their kids. I can remember being that young, needing guidance. And I'd say it's sort of fun, too, seeing who they end up being. Sure, you have some say in shaping them, in forming who they are; but a lot comes from their own choices, and what they want to become." It was evident, Joe saw more of Reba in Boris than of himself. They had her energy, her passion, her enthusiasm... And yet there was so much about them that was a complete surprise.

"They won't change. Not if they're good kids," Joe said simply after a sip of his coffee. "And if they do turn on Ozma, well, she's better off without them. The real matter would be how she deals with it... Boris had a hard time managing when the bullying started." The beatings were bad, sure, but at least his kid defended themself. What was the most difficult was how they would isolate and refuse any help or comforting. They would lock themself up in their bedroom and spend hours on their own, sometimes even refusing to eat with the family. It took a while for Joe to find out it wasn't out of a lack of trust or love for their parents, as much as it was of a general avoidance of having to answer questions and face what bothered them head-on. "There's only so much you can do, in any case," Joe sighed. "Just be there for her, and make sure she knows you're willing to help her in any way you can." He didn't consider himself a particularly exemplary father, but if anything he could tell Dimi was of any help, he would certainly offer a hand and some advice.

Because Joe was comfortable with being on his own; but Dimi's conversation was nice, and he liked having him around. He liked meeting someone knew for a change. So why did he say these things? "Why do you put yourself down like that? You're a perfectly charming person," Joe said with a little curious frown. "And I've told you already it's okay, you don't need to worry."

[skunkes]

the bad: i have been raised without much warmth from my parents in childhood, but also pressured to conform to familial authority, doubt myself always, and value familial connections above all else (<- failed at this, and feel guilt about it.)

but also in experiencing this i have been so isolated from the entire rest of the world and others, that it will be nearly impossible to create my own "family" -> find safety and comfort in anybody else once my family is Gone. despite dis i find it really difficult to break away from the familiar, disobey and disappoint, because, well, why are my wishes more important than anybody else's. why would I cause upset and distress in anybody, and exert so much effort into my doubt filled half decisions, for my meaningless little Wishes. being away would also mean less time with these people who I'll never see again once they're gone. being raised this way is definitely paying off for those who did so.

the good: yaaaay adjacent inspiration for writing talon lore

[hatterofthelabyrinth]

if Halloween can´t be celebrated there, then what do they celebrated there or is there no celebration? (i hope you understand my english, i speak spanish)

There isn't any sort of celebration as far as I know of? I've passed houses and Lerkrims of people hosting parties and the like, but that's the closest I've seen. But no, I don't think anyone does holidays here. If they do, I haven't seen anyone celebrate it. Hey, maybe that'll be something someone can do. Set up a haunted house year round. Randomly go decorate. Make a halloween costume just for the sake of it. Seems like fun to me.

[loverboybrightsideghost]

"reblog for something lgbt to happen to you" at this point i'd be grateful if something straight happened to me

[iwanttobepersephone]

One time I smiled at a stranger in the Ren Faire after I bought something from them and they told me "Oh, I love your teeth!" (Two of my canines poke out of the top of my gums, above the rest of my teeth) and I told my mom and she looked at me with pity and shook her head and told me they didn't mean it, but the thing about my teeth is that when I smile they're the first thing you notice, they're front and center, and they're the most distinctly me thing about my face, and now that I'm thinking about all that again I can't help but wonder

Do you think my smile's pretty, momma?

[aesethewitch]

When I was a kid, we moved into a house that had a huge lilac tree out front. It was mostly rotten, and it needed to be taken down before it fell. It took a while, but eventually, it was gone.

Mostly. A couple years later, little lilac babies popped out of the ground in its place. My mom was determined to get rid of them, because she'd planted a beautiful flower garden there, and the lilac trees would overshadow and kill the whole garden. I insisted on saving at least a few saplings. She said fine, but I had to dig them out and put them in pots myself.

So, I did. I spent days digging little lilac bushes out of the ground and putting them into pots. Some couldn't be saved, but some could. When all was said and done, I had five brand-new lilac saplings. Seven or eight years old, and it was my absolute pride and joy.

Three died due to sun scorching, severe drought that no amount of watering could save, and perhaps just being moved from their place in the ground. But two survived, and I was awfully proud of them! I'd go out and talk to them every single day. I watered them by hand and made sure they were fertilized properly. I learned all about their favored environments, and I was determined to make sure they lived.

One of my mom's friends saw what I was doing with the lilacs. She asked if she could have one to put in her backyard, and I agreed on the condition that she take very, very good care of it.

It's now fucking enormous. I'm talking ten feet tall and bursting with beautiful purple flowers every spring. My mom still gets updates each year as they start to bloom, which she forwards to me. And all I can think is, "That's my friend! Thriving some twenty years on, there it is."

The other tree nearly died, too. It lived in a pot for far, far too long. I wanted to plant it somewhere in my parents' yard, but my mom was reluctant. Eventually, we agreed to put it in the far back garden. It grew okay for many years, despite the shade, but in all these years, it's never bloomed.

Last year, the massive tree casting massive shadows over the lilac and the garden cracked in half and fell. It tumbled into the garden, crushing part of the nearby shed and destroying a few plants beneath it.

It missed my lilac by inches.

The clean-up is long done. The rest of the tree has been cut down, and my lilac has full sunlight for the first time in fifteen years. It won't bloom this year, I know. But it's got new shoots up. It's taller than ever. I spent half an hour a few weeks ago praising it for surviving all this time, dreaming about its future and telling it how I believe it'll become the tall beauty it's always been meant to be.

I think next year, I'll see flowers.

[medicinemane]

Anyway, hope you're all doing well

I just... I haven't slept and also I've got like... 2-4 days of tumblr to catch up on... mostly to make sure I don't lose anything I want to keep requeuing

In many ways I'm probably doing better than I have been in a long time... maybe ever, but... I've got zero focus, I can barely watch youtube videos, I certainly can't play games... I can't get myself to clean... I don't know man

It's like... it's like my mind's empty except for some thick clear goopy sludge... it's like being over at a strange house sat alone in a big room waiting for people to come back... not wanting to touch anything so you just sit there staring and feeling out of sorts, except it's just constant in my own house in my own room... just saw Bart flop down in front of my door and realized I'm so out of it I forgot I had cats

It's like I'm living every moment in the moment, but not in a peaceful way, in a I'm untethered from reality and trying to figure out plans or how to deal with getting everything sorted out is just kinda painful kinda way

Then my mood... well... I kinda have no mood. I'm fucking numb if I'm honest. I have flavor opinions like "I'm worthless and should kill myself", but I actually don't even feel depressed right now, I feel nothing

I don't see much point to my future even if everything goes great, and I would like to kill myself, but I have zero interest in even considering it right now even though I have everything I need around if I just stand up and take a single step

So... much as it probably sounds like I'm just pure in the trash right now, I'm actually in many ways probably doing better than I ever have before... I'm just also real messed up right now at the same time

I don't feel hopeful, I never feel hopeful, but I do feel like I can maybe guide shit into a good position, it's just once again I figure that even if I do everything I want to with being able to help other people out and stuff, I'll still just kinda end up alone in a crowd

You know... funny thing is I'm thinking "the fuck is even the point I wanted to make?", and I realize... my point was actually that I'm doing pretty good and not to worry... not sure how well I'm selling it, but it's true

I hesitate to assign anything to myself, my stance on me and anything I can't conclusively say tends to be no comment... but if I were looking at someone else describing what I'm feeling in my position, I might be inclined to say burnout... months of having to be on and clean and manage everything and... all that... well it's one explanation, who knows if it's correct

Anyway though, I'm good, don't worry, know I do appreciate you all and wish I had more brain power to say more to more people... it's just maybe kinda sad that this is my version of doing good... the fuck is wrong with me if I wake up everyday feeling like I've been beaten with clubs... and for me this is kinda peak... what's that say about my baseline?

Doesn't matter, only thing to do is keep moving forward

Guess insomnia paired with not really being able to think, like words just kinda pop out with no planning... guess it makes me ramble real bad, this was supposed to be like one or two paragraphs being positive

It's a Beautiful World