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cher-rei · 14 days ago

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Hey babe

Your such a good writer please more lamine yamal fics im acc begging there literally none🙏🙏🙏🙏😪

the sitter— lamine yamal [ l.y ]

met you at the right time. this is what it feels like– feels like [gracie abrams]

pairing: lamine yamal x fem!reader

summary: a rushed call from lamine's mother to babysit kenye turns into more than just a regular afternoon

genre(s): toothrotting fluff (have your dentist on standby)

[w.c: 2.8k] masterlist

notes: I wrote this instead of watching the real sociedad match to cope with the fact that we're losing. I got a bit carried away with this one but I hope you like it <33

as you stepped into the familiar house, not even having to ring the doorbell you were greeted with the smell of fresh baked cookies and comfort. you shut the door behind you and easily walked through the familiar hallway.

when she saw you, lamine's mother's shoulders relaxed a heavy amount along with the breath of relief she let out. “my saviour,” she said with a smile and pulled you into a tight hug, her gratitude evident. “I'm so sorry for calling on short notice but I have an emergency— ow!”

she bit her tongue in frustration and looked down to see the toy car that she stepped on, her head spinning at her son's carelessness. “never have kids, you’ll regret it eventually,” she said half-joking and hurriedly led you to the living room where kenye was sitting on the floor, a toy car in his hand while he watched tv.

she didn't even have to call out to him, the second he saw you he was up and in your arms with a toothy grin. “hey, buddy. didn't expect to see me today did you?”

the older woman watched with a smile as you interacted with her son, the moment being cut off by her ringtone. she didn't even bother to look at it and instead grabbed her purse and made a beeline for the front door, yelling out instructions and goodbye's as if you hadn't been doing this for a year already.

“and thank you, sweetheart! I owe you! kenye, behave!”

the door slammed shut, leaving you to the 5 year old's energetic grasp. you quickly settled into your usual routine, skipping the snack part because he had his breakfast already since it was only after 10 am.

you took your usual seat on the carpet with him because he was usually full of energy this early and jittery. so to get it out of his system, you played games with him— built some lego, played with his toys and so on.

an hour had passed and you found yourself trying to make his yogurt seem edible. it was never an issue to get him to eat, all it took was one “hereeee comes the airplane” and he was more than compliant.

“there you go,” you said with a smile and lifted the final spoonful of yogurt to his lips, the boy clapping alone happily when it was finished. “you took that like a champ.”

that didn't last long however and he was starting to grow antsy again, his suffocated whines piercing your ears. it was obvious that he was sick of the house and needed to get out, so without another thought you cleaned him up and took him out to the backyard.

it was any kid's dream back there. a playhouse, jungle gym with a slide, a ball pit and his personal favourite— the mini football net that was more of a self indulgent addition from his older brother.

you'd known lamine for over 3 years now seeing that you attend the same high school but it was a cute coincidence that his mother picked you for the babysitting job. the job wasn't even needed, you were just bored and needed something to do on weekends, there wasn't even a proper answer for how she found you.

as you and kenye played in the sun-drenched backyard, laughter and joy radiated from your every move. the mini football net, a testament to lamine’s passion for the sport, stood like a sentinel awaiting kenye's energetic kicks. your eyes sparkled with delight as you cheered him on.

the air vibrated with the sweet scent of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass, infusing your playtime with an idyllic charm. kenye's giggles echoed throughout the yard, mingling with the chirping of the birds.

meanwhile inside the house, lamine stirred from his sleep, rubbing the remnants of sleep as he descended the stairs to look for his mother. he called for her a good few times but she didn't reply, so naturally he searched the kitchen and her bedroom only to realise that the house was awfully quiet.

she would of said something if she had something planned today, and the tv was still on so someone was definitely home. then he entered the living room, his feet padding on the tiled floor as his eyes adjusted to the light from outside.

with a yawn, he neared the sliding door to check the backyard, but just as he was about to open it his hand froze on the handle. his mind blanked, his immediate reaction to seeing you play with kenye being to hide behind the curtain.

his thoughts were reeling, not expecting you to come over today. in panic, he took one last peep outside which only made his pounding heart thump even louder at the sight of you passing the ball to his brother so effortlessly.

run. that's what he did when he got the clearance, not wasting a second to rush back upstairs and grab his phone and hit the facetime button in the group chat. after 3 rings, hector and pau were on the line with him— their confused faces synced as they watched the boy lock himself in his bathroom and start pacing.

“what happened to ‘hello'?” hector said, judgement evident in his tone but lamine didn't have time to fight his snarky comments.

he propped his phone up against the mirror and rushed to get his toothbrush, his palms sweating against the toothpaste tube.

“bro, are you going to tell us what's going on or is this some type of ‘get ready with me’ gimmick?” pau spoke up finally and put another spoonful of cereal his mouth, quickly getting distracted by the cover on the box and commenting on it.

“she's here. she's not supposed to be here today so I don't know why!” lamine muffled out through his mouth full of toothpaste but his friends got the gist of it. perks of knowing each other for nearly their entire lives.

hector couldn't suppress his laughter, his smile on the screen teasing lamine. “this is even funnier because it's actually never that deep.”

pau joined in on the laughter. “imagine asking why your brother's babysitter is over to babysit,” he snorted. “it's been a year, you're insane.”

lamine finished rinsing his mouth, double checking to see if there was anything in his teeth before splashing cold water on his face. “does it look like i just woke up?” he asked and touched up his hair. “is it giving ‘I just woke up and look this good’ or ‘I freaked out and had a panic attack in my bathroom’?”

his friends went silent, their jaws on the floor at the amount of overthinking that he was doing. he's liked you since he could remember. at first it was simple attraction, and then came the longing to know you more personally, and when he did that's when everything went to shit.

you were beautiful, that's for sure but you had this natural charm that he couldn't get enough of. you made an effort to talk to him, to help him with anything that he needed and your selflessness was barely the tip of the iceberg. family was the most important thing to him, and the fact that his family loved you and treated you as their own had him on his knees.

“it's giving, ‘I can't talk to girls I'm actually interested in'” hector deadpanned and pau was quick to follow.

“I got a better one,” he said in between his laughter. “It's giving, ‘professional winger by night, but professional wreck by day.”

the bathroom echoed with pau and hector’s non-stop laughter, both boys having rolled onto their sides by now while lamine stood with his head in his hands to try and calm himself down.

worst wingmen of the year, he liked to call them. the only advice he got was to breathe and not trip over his own feet. it was pathetic of him to let his attraction towards a girl make him this… messed up? but what was a teenage boy to do?

he put on his game face and made his way downstairs again, a smile tugging at his lips when he saw that you were watching kenye as he played in the ballpit.

when you turned around you saw him there, your heart skipping a beat as he opened the door with a warming smile. it was your turn to take a deep breath. “hey, I didn't know that you were home today,” you greeted cheerfully, you confidence oozing.

“yeah, we got the day off so I took the liberty to sleep in,” he answered a took a seat beside you on the grass to greet his brother who immediately threw one of the plastic balls at him.

laughter tickled at your throat as you watched lamine playfully throw them back at him but kenye took it personally and began hurling them at him. “we're going to have to put a warning sign on him or something,” you joked in between laughter and lamine scoffed.

“the real threat is his ability to kick a ball,” the footballer said with this lips pursed.

you playfully rolled your eyes at his comment. “oh, please, you're just mad because he already has better dribbling skills than you.”

lamine's face was contorted with mock offence, and he leant back on his hands to look at you. “are you talking about the same guy who won the kopa trophy less than 2 weeks ago.”

you couldn't shake off how laid back he looked in that moment. the way he was looking at you with such ease and playfulness made your head spin. “yes, yes I am.” you answered confidently to which he put a hand over his heart.

“you wound me,” he joked. “I'm going to start making you nurse me back to health.”

funny. he was joking. right?

kenye, thrilled by the attention hurled another ball at lamine to which his older brother caught and tossed it back at him with a gloat. “nice try, but we already have the backyard champion sitting next to me right now.”

you smile faltered for a moment. “that's only because you let me win.”

lameye's eyes twinkled as he took notice of your slightly flushed cheeks and he thought that maybe he was doing something right. “you literally crushed me.”

you shook your head at his retort, ready to counter his argument as you put your hands in the air, and swiftly as if it were second nature lamine gently took them into his own to stop you from talking further. “consider my ego bruised, you're just too good,” he joked with a shrug, his hands still holding yours.

it was for a moment that you stopped breathing, unable to function properly until you realised that kenye fell asleep in the ball pit. his light snores took the attention off from your banter and onto his peaceful figure that lamine effortlessly picked up and carried to his room.

when he came downstairs again, the house had gone quiet while you cleaned up kenye’s mess that he eventually helped with. “oh wow, okay mr house husband,” you teased and tossed one of the toys at him, his smile not wavering as he continued to help you in comfortable silence.

after lunch the two of you found yourselves in the backyard again, chatting as per normal while lamine kicked the ball at his feet. he ended up stopping mid sentence to propose an idea that you weren't too eager about. a rematch at what cost? your embarrassment?

unfortunately for you, he was persuasive as hell.

“what do I get if I win?” he shrugged at your question with a knowing smile.

“anything you want, amor.”

you nearly choked on air at the term of endearment that came from literally nowhere. he didn't seem fazed by saying it though so you were almost certain that you heard him wrong and pushed it to the back of your mind and focused on the little tournament in front of you.

the sun was high, the barcelona heat was warm on your skin as you watched lamine ready the ball. the game wasn't supposed to carry on for as long as it did, but both yours and his passionate calls for cheating and distractions played a huge role in the 40 minute rematch.

“okay, this is the last round I swear,” you said with a tired huff which he was more than happy with. the ball was at your feet for a split second before you felt lamine's hands on your waist, holding you close to his chest as he sneakily took the ball and shot it into the back of the net with ease.

you jaw dropped at the utter foulness of the round. “you cheater!” you said in shock and turned to look at him, but he was too busy relishing in his glory to care. he let go of you with a proud laugh and picked the ball up again, giving it one last kick.

“I didn't cheat,” he said through a cheeky smile and took a few steps towards you. “it's a contact sport, so it's fair.”

you rolled your eyes jokingly at his counter, still in disbelief that he'd go that far. but you weren't a spoilt sport so you congratulated him on his win, fair or not and he humbly thanked you.

you turned back with a smile and began heading inside but his hands were on your waist again, the familiar tingle setting your body on fire as he turned you to look at him, the smile on his face making your heart race.

“I'll be taking my prize, thank you,” he said with a boyish grin and let his lips gently brush your cheek, a gentle, fleeting kiss that had your knees weak for a split second.

he craned his neck to look down at you, a blushing mess and he couldn't help but coo even thought he was internally jumping off buildings. “aw, don't get shy on me now.”

you quirked your brow at what you took as a challenge, mild irritation clear in your eyes that were fluttered shut seconds later when your lips met his for what was supposed to be a quick peck.

keywords: supposed to be.

the feeling of your lips on his sent a surge of electricity through his body, and he couldn't waste the opportunity. he dropped the football that was underneath his arm and pulled you in, one hand resting on your cheek and the other on your waist as he relished the taste.

the long-awaited kiss finally came and it was everything that he hoped for and more. the way you melted into him, sent a warmth through his chest that had his head spinning and hoping that you'd never let go.

when you eventually pulled away to catch your breath, your lips tugged up into an amused smile at his lovestruck look and flushed cheeks. “isn't that a better prize?” you joked, your hands still loosely wrapped around his neck.

“I want a rematch, now,” he said immediately after, and pulled you back into the yard, his eagerness getting the best of him because he was not going down like this— “if I win then you have to marry me.”

“what?!”

#cherrei writes #footballer imagine #footballer x reader #football imagine #fanfic #lamine yamal fanfic #lamine yamal x reader #lamine yamal #lamine x reader #fc barcelona x reader #barcelona fc #fc barcelona imagine #barcelona x reader

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basketonthedoorstepofthefbi · 6 months ago

Text

"dance recital" - hotch x mom!reader!

your family attends your daughter's dance recital

1480 words, domestic family fluff

cw: none? unless u hate kids then don't read this xD

a/n: i am looking at requests and actually have a couple of them started! inspiration just struck and i needed dance dad hotch xD plz keep sending requests i love getting them

---------------

Lizzy had been practicing for weeks, at home, in the car on the way to school, even in the waiting room at the dentist’s office. If there was a free moment, she was up on her toes, practicing her dance routine.

When she turned four, she was so excited to sign up for dance class, and now her very first recital is later today. She takes it very seriously, and you attribute that entirely to her hardworking father.

You’re standing in the kitchen, packing the picnic lunch you’ll be sharing as a family after her recital in the park. PB&J, no crusts, for Jack. Even though he’s nearly ten and he should be eating his crusts, you can’t help but to baby him a little. He’s been such a good big brother to Lizzy. You were anxious about that when you were pregnant with her, since Jack was so used to being the only kid. And there would always be the looming presence of Haley and the family he was a part of before you came along.

But Lizzy became the center of Jack’s world when she was born. He’s so doting and always playing with her, from when she was an infant to now.

Nutella and peanut butter sandwich for Lizzy, because she has a sweet tooth just like her mother. Turkey and cheese for you and Aaron. “D’you want mayo, honey?” You call out to wherever Aaron is in the house. He was in the living room just a few minutes ago, but with your two crazy kiddos, he could have ended up anywhere.

“Just the mayo, no honey,” Aaron jokes and nearly makes you jump as he enters the kitchen, padding silently behind you despite being the largest person in the house. Must be that fancy tactical FBI stealth training.

He stops at the counter, leaning against it and facing you. Your eyes meet his and his voice is low when he speaks to you. “You need to make a big deal out of this,” he prefaces, nodding to the doorway. You don’t fully know what he’s talking about, but you understand enough, so you set your butter knife down and turn around to face the doorway. Aaron makes a drumroll on his thigh. “Come on in, kids!”

Jack enters first, in a bright orange t-shirt that is definitely a size too big. Written in blue, puffy fabric paint, no doubt by Jack himself, are the words PROUD BIG BRO. Jack’s also holding Lizzy’s hand, escorting her into the kitchen. She’s in her violet tutu and has her hair up in two haphazardly pulled-back pigtails that could only be described as the work of her father. She’s walking on her tiptoes, with her free hand arched up in a semicircle shape, mimicking all the ballerinas in her books.

You’re beaming, and take the sight in silently for a moment before bursting into uproarious (for one woman) applause. “You guys look so great!” You exclaim, grinning at the kids, and then back at your husband. He’s got this sly look on his face and you want to smooch it off. “When did you make this shirt?” You ask Jack, stepping forward and grabbing his face with both of your hands. You kiss his forehead and ruffle his hair.

“Dad and I did it while you were at the store last night,” Jack explains.

“I love it, baby,” you tell Jack, and he beams. You stroke the apples of his cheeks with your thumbs before releasing him.

Lizzy lets go of her brother’s hand and leaps for you. “My big girl is all dolled up for her first recital,” You lift her up, hugging her close. “Did Daddy do your hair for you?” you ask.

“Yes! He sang our song and I didn’t cry!” she says. You always sing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star to Lizzy while you brush her hair because she’s very tender-headed. It makes your heart soar to learn that Aaron did it, too.

“I’m so proud of you!” You kiss Lizzy’s face all over until she squeals and wriggles to get away. “Why don’t you guys go play in the living room for a little bit, and we’ll get going soon,” you suggest. Jack races Lizzy into the living room, leaving you and Aaron in the kitchen alone.

“You did her hair,” you say as you smirk up at Aaron.

“Yeah, I know. It's not as good as when you do it,” he settles back against the counter and you roll your eyes. He’s holding his palms out, wiggling his digits. “I’ve got sausage fingers, and she cries if you pull the twist-tie too hard. It’s heartbreaking.”

“And you made a shirt with Jack,” you say, ignoring his self-deprecation. Your smirk has turned into a full-force, Category Five Grin.

Aaron realizes what you’re doing as you inch a little closer. He takes your wrist delicately, tugging you toward him, and you kiss his lips three times in succession, each a quick thank-you for all he’s done. “You’re the one driving her to classes twice a week,” Aaron deflects. “And Jack to school, and to soccer practice, and doing all the shopping and-“

“Aaron,” you roll your eyes in warning. You hate when he butters you up like this. You’re just doing your job, just like he is when he’s away on cases.

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop,” he holds his hands up in defense, and you snatch them like they’re precious jewels. You kiss him again, this one longer and lingering.

You finish packing your family’s lunch into the cooler. Lizzy’s recital is at a small amphitheater in the park, and after you drop her off with her teacher backstage, you and your boys find a good spot on the green to set up your picnic blanket.

Aaron makes this small grunt when he squats to sit down on the ground and you hold back a snicker. Jack does not read the room and calls him an old man.

You’re giggling as you sit down, Aaron tugging you to sit between his legs. You affectionately run your hand through Jack’s hair a few times before the first class comes up onto the stage.

You watch the first class, and the second, clapping politely. Then, the four-and-five-year-olds are announced, and you are on your feet immediately. You hear a bit of rustling and Jack and Aaron are standing up, too. You grin when you see Lizzy with the other little kids, holding the hands of the boy in front of her and the girl behind her as they all walk in a line.

Their dance is simplistic and whimsical and joyful, set to a light, poppy tune that makes you think of spring. You’re grinning and watching Lizzy float across the stage. She’s not the most graceful, but she hits every move at the right time.

You hear rustling behind you and turn over your shoulder to see Aaron and Jack subtly performing the dance with the class. They’re not moving nearly as dedicatedly as the group on stage, but they’re helping Lizzy from the audience. It’s so sweet you want to cry.

When Lizzy’s group is finished, the three of you on the lawn explode in applause. Aaron wolf-whistles behind you and Jack is cheering, “that’s my sister!”

After the other classes go, you’re allowed to head back and pick up Lizzy. She’s giggling with the other kids in her class, but she freezes and grins like it’s Christmas morning when she sees you.

“Mommy!” she squeals, and runs to you. You lift her up off the ground in a hug and spin her around, before passing her off to Aaron. He does the same thing. “Dizzy! Dizzy!” She’s squealing, and Aaron finally sets her down.

“Dizzy Lizzy, huh?” Aaron teases, running his thumb and his forefinger down one of her pigtails. “You did so good, sweet girl!” He was never the best at baby-talking to Lizzy, but now that she’s a little girl, he speaks to her so excitedly and she always beams when she learns her father is proud of her.

“You got the leap at the right part!” Jack exclaims proudly, and you watch as Lizzy hugs her big brother.

You point out the picnic blanket with the cooler and tell Jack to take Lizzy ahead to it. Jack loves being responsible, so he takes Lizzy by the hand and leads her towards your family’s setup.

Hanging back with Aaron, you look up at him and brush his dark hair off his forehead. “You learned her dance?” you ask with a small smirk on your face.

Aaron’s dark eyes gaze into yours and he wraps an arm around your shoulders, tugging you close to him. “She was doing it every chance she got,” he shrugs, like it’s totally no big deal. “You’re telling me you don’t have it memorized?”

#criminal minds #basketonthedoorstepofthefbi #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner #hotchner #hotchner x reader #hotch #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner fluff #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner x you #domestic hotchner

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calliemity · 10 months ago

Text

Orin Scrivello's Lost Head Prop: A Masterpost

Written and researched by Calliope Avery

Content Warning: Very very mild and low quality special effects gore, implied violence, uncanny valley stuff(?), Orin Scrivello's face.

Little Shop of Horrors (1986) has an unfortunate reputation of leaving a lot of really cool things on the cutting room floor. The most infamous would be the movie's original ending, a beautiful and impressive sequence of puppetry that ended up completely scrapped. However, today we're talking about a prop that never made it into the final movie in any form:

Orin Scrivello's Decapitated Head!!!

Pictured above are the only 2 photos of the prop in its original state that I can find at the moment. The left photo was taken for promotion and advertising purposes, and the right image is actually a Topps trading card! (Which I have a physical copy of, hehe!)

To put it bluntly, I am slightly (very) obsessed with this prop head. There's so much mystery around it, and everything I've managed to dig up both fascinates me and makes me very upset. So much thought and hard creative work was put into the creation of this thing, and it was left completely left out and forgotten! I desperately want more people to be aware of this, so here is my big and (hopefully) well organized masterpost on everything for your learning pleasure. Alright, let's talk about some heads!!!!!!!!!

Forming a Timeline

The earliest mention of the head can be found in an early draft of the movie script, dated February 14th, 1985. There's plenty of concepts in this script that never seemed to get past this draft, but the severed head concept was not one of them. Here, take a look!

source

This section, found on page 66 of the script, not only established the existence of the head, but also establishes the facial expression it will later take on! Clearly, this concept was good enough to be held onto once actual production started, which is good for us! If it wasn't, then this post would be a lot shorter.

Early production of the prop began after the actors were cast, as face molds of Steve Martin were created as bases for the head.

source for the left image - source for the right image

Oooo, check these guys out!!! The left one is made of plaster, and the right one is made of rubber. The website sourcing these images included a quote from Steve Martin about the casting process. Here's the full provided quote:

"These molds were taken of my head for Little Shop of Horrors. It was cast on the lot at Pinewood Studios outside of London, and I got exceedingly claustrophobic during the casting. My entire head was covered with plaster and two straws were placed in my nose for breathing. Argh." - Steve Martin

I unfortunately don't have much information about the crafting process of the prop. I'm currently trying to track down anyone who could've worked on it, but the few people I've managed to contact haven't responded to me yet. So I can't say anything concrete about who worked on it and what went into creating it. The only thing I can assume somewhat confidently is that the creation of the prop happened around the same time as filming for Orin's scenes. It would allow them to make the face molds and also match up Martin's post-mortem Orin face with the facial expression of the prop.

Here's where it starts going downhill. From what I've found, the prop was never filmed with its face toward the camera. In the workprint that I accessed from the Internet Archive, the prop appears for 2 shots, and both of them only show the back of the head. Take a look:

source - timestamp: 1:02:59

[Video description: a low quality, slightly green tinted video depicting a deleted scene from Little Shop of Horrors (1986) where Seymour is feeding the decapitated head of the dentist, Orin Scrivello, to the plant. The video starts with a man in glasses reaching into a garbage can and pulling out a dark-haired decapitated head, holding it upside-down by the fabric on its neck. The head is faced away from the camera, so only the back of its hair is visible. There are vines flailing in the foreground of the shot. The video cuts to a shot of the plant puppet laughing silently. The video cuts again to a shot of the man slowly shuffling forward while dangling the head in front and away from himself. The plant is seen on the left side, still laughing and flailing its vines. Throughout the video, there are brief flashes of light that resemble lightning. The video's audio only consists of thunder noises and an unidentifiable sound that resembles chewing noises. End ID.]

My best guess for this choice is maybe it isn't as convincing when filmed? In the photos it looks really well made and realistic, but perhaps it didn't come across that way during shots. Regardless, the head was still in the film at this point, so that counts for something!

But as you and I both know, those 2 shots were left on the cutting room floor, completely removed from the final product. The prop was left completely unused and unspoken of... except for one instance.

Remember the trading card I mentioned at the beginning? It's a part of a full set of trading cards that were made and distributed by the brand Topps. Back when the movie first came out, you could buy a pack of 5 mystery Little Shop of Horrors themed trading cards, along with a stick of bubblegum. This 44-card set is notable for featuring a lot, and I mean a LOT of images from cut movie scenes. There's photos of the original ending, there's photos from the cut sequence The Meek Shall Inhereit, and of course there's also the card featuring the prop head! However, those 2 sequences would later be rediscovered, cleaned up, and then added into the Director's Cut rerelease of the movie. The prop head wouldn't get this treatment, staying obscured, unknown, and unmentioned.

Fast forward about 30 years. A certain unused movie prop would be offered in an auction, allowing us to not only see high-quality photos of said prop in its current state, but also to allow us to know the exact materials it was made of! Without further ado, I present Orin Scrivello's decapitated head, circa 2018:

source

This absolute freak of a guy was up for auction at the "Profiles in History: Icons and Legends of Hollywood" auction on June 5th, 2018. No one ended up buying it (I would. I need to buy it actually. Please sell it to me.), but the auction gives us some absolutely divine information about the prop, such as what it's made of and its dimensions! Here's a quote from the auction website describing its materials:

"Vintage original hollow cast resin character head painted in realistic flesh tones with brown eyebrows and eyes. The 13 x 8 x 9 in. head has been polyfoam filled for stability. Exhibiting cracks to the crown, which is brittle and with other wear and age. A striking likeness of Steve Martin. In vintage good condition."

How neat! The high-resolution images allow us to see the detailed sculpting of the prop, which is still evident and impressive with its age and missing parts! The creases on the forehead, and around the mouth and eyes, the realistically colored teeth, this was clearly sculpted with a lot of attention to detail. I would've loved to have an image like this back in the prop's prime, back when it still had hair and a fresh coat of paint.

Why was it Scrapped?

This is entirely just me theorizing, but I have a feeling it's for the same reason the original ending got snubbed.

If you take the time to watch the archived workprint, you'll find a lot of cuts and changes were made that changed the tone of the whole finished project. Orin's death and dismemberment scenes got edited down a lot. Shots of him struggling and knocking things down as he falls to the ground got cut, the voiceline where he begs Seymour for help is gone. The shot where Orin's legs jolt when Seymour brings down the axe is gone too.

It's not just Orin-related scenes either! Mushnik no longer cries out for Seymour when being killed and eaten, and that's ignoring how different the scene happens in the stage musical. And obviously, the entire ending got changed so that Audrey and Seymour survive, leading to the cut of the magnificent ending sequence where all the Audrey II's destroy New York. In a way, the film got murdered and gutted of any of its real horror, with attempts to cover up any of the blood they couldn't scrub out.

In the movie's later quest to rebrand as a softer version of itself, it only makes sense that 2 shots of a decapitated head wouldn't make it. The appearance of the dismembered leg made it through, probably because it's less gruesome, but a head is... different. I obviously think it should've been kept it in, along with almost everything they trimmed from the workprint, but alas.

Tldr, they cut the head off of the movie because it wasn't funny enough.

Conclusion

This is where the information I have ends, unfortunately. I do have more research routes I would like to take, but one of them involves desperately contacting random people who I suspect could've been involved (I've tried this, I've gotten no responses from those who I've managed to find an email for), and the other route involves taking a road trip to the actual goddamn Library of Congress, which is not something I can do right now or even in the near future. So this is probably as far as I'm getting!

However! If I find anything new, this post will be updated and/or remade again, depending on how big or little the info is. For now, I think this is good enough to share, and maybe letting people know will encourage others to research this prop as well! It'll probably be easier if it's not just me, y'know.

I'll finish by saying that I think research and preservation of art like this is very important. While it's common for cool artistic things to end up cut from movies, I think preserving that those cool things existed in the first place is something worth doing. Even though this prop head was a very small part of the movie, it's clear a lot went into creating it! I feel bad that I'm not able to credit any person or people for their work, but I hope getting the word out about it will do some justice.

If you've read this whole thing, thank you so much! I appreciate your interest and I thank you for taking the time to read all this. I hope you found it as interesting and fascinating as I do!

Oh, by the way, if this post looks familiar at all, you've probably seen the original version of this post I made awhile ago. I wasn't happy with the formatting of that post, and I ended up making too many discoveries to just continue updating it. I'll keep the original up to preserve it, but reblogs will be off for it, as I want this version to be the one to go around. Thanks!

#i dont usually do this but reblogs are So appreciated #i worked on this for way too long lmao #little shop of horrors #lsoh #little shop of horrors 1986 #orin lsoh #orin scrivello #lsoh orin #orin scrivello dds #steve martin

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think-like-a-poet · 4 months ago

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Only questions

F2! reader x f2! Dennis Hauger x F3! Arthur Leclerc x F3! Ollie Bearman

official video from prema

You smile as the camera crew signals that the camera is rolling. You are standing next to Arthur on one side of a screen, while Dennis and Ollie are on the other side. "Hello everyone, welcome by the 'only questions' prema challenge."

Someone gave Dennis a piece of paper with the instructions of the challenge and he began to read it out loud, Ollie looking over his shoulder. "In this game you are given a scene, and you can only communicate in questions."

"Only questions?" Arthur asked. You giggle as you shake your head. "I think that is what Dennis just said." causing the rest to laugh in respond.

"By the way. Y/N and Arthur are a team and Dennis and I are a team." Ollie points with his fingers as he says all the names. "It is not formula 2 against formula 3."

"I still don't find it fair i got stuck with Arthur." you joked as Arthur let out a fake gasp of being hurt. Dennis and Ollie just laughed at the interaction.

"I am great at this. You should be honored."

As everything was explained to the camera, the first scene was shown. Ollie and Arthur were the first one to play and their scene was 'At the dentist.'

Ollie though for a moment before asking, "Why are you here today?"

Arthur seemed to think about something, but went with, "what about you", a big smirk plastered on his face, causing all of you to roll in laughter.

"Can you answer my question first?"

To which Arthur responded, "Why should I answer your question?" You clapped in your hands as you laughed out again. Maybe Arthur was good in a challenge for once.

"Can you just answer my question. Why are you here today?"

Arthur muffled a laugh as he let out a response "Do you want to know why I am here?"

The team decided to go to the next scene as the whole conversation was just Arthur turning Ollie's question in a question for him. You both moved places, you now standing in front of Dennis.

"What is the scenerio?" You asked, hoping Dennis wouldn't think the game already started and he didn't.

The norwagian looked at the camera confused as he said. "Still the dentist I think?" You and Arthur both point out that he didn't answer in a question and Dennis groaned in response. "No, I thought you just asked them the question. "

After some discussion you both agreed to just stand for an other round. 'Emergency landing on a plane'

"Are we going to die?" Dennis exclaimed as he faked a scared expression on his face. Behind you Arthur laughed at the face, putting one hand on your shoulder.

You crossed your arms in front of your body, "Are you scared of dying?" you tried to hold eye contact with him, hoping he made mistakes in his sentence.

"Can you swim?

You raised your eyebrows"Do you think we need to swim?"

he quickly fired back with "Do you know what we need to do?"

"Is your seat belt fastened?" you make a move of pretending to close your seat belt.

Dennis brain seemed to have an error as he said, " I am dying." you all laughed at the answer and Dennis almost fell to the ground from his own response.

When you all were recovered Arthur looked at the camera and said, "Thank you all for watching."

"We hope you enjoyed it." Ollie added and you all waved 'goodbye' before returning to your laughter.

#f1 #f2 #f2 x reader #formula 2 #formula 1 #dennis hauger #arthur leclerc #ollie bearman #oliver bearman #arthur leclerc x reader #dennis hauger x reader #ollie bearman x reader #prema #dennis hauger x arthur leclerc #prema racing

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ominousvibez · 30 days ago

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ectoberweek 2024, day 1 | graveyard shift

AO3

Victor is a janitor working a late-night shift at Axiom Labs. One night, he encounters Phantom.

A/N: Decided to try an outsider POV for this. Idk, the thought of a janitor working a late night shift kinda just stuck with me. Okay hope you like it xoxo vibez

Victor Hathorne is usually pretty content with his job.

It’s not exactly a fun job, or a particularly exciting job; but it pays the bills, and it pays pretty well. The hours are shit— 10 at night to 6 in the morning—but Axiom Labs makes up for it in generous benefits, including dental!

Victor hadn’t been to the dentist in seven years before snagging this position at Axiom Labs, and it’s a miracle he only had three cavities since.

The work is simple, janitorial duties. With most of the Axiom Lab staff leaving before Victor even arrives for his shift, it leaves most of the building to himself to clean. Four stories, technically, but he doesn’t have access to most of it. There are some higher-ups in the janitorial team that deal with the restricted areas. And they’re a team, of janitors—not something Victor ever imagined being a thing before starting at Axiom—so he’s not technically the only one working late hours, but he’s still usually alone.

Which is fine with him. He brings headphones and an old, busted MP3 player with him to work at night and he listens to music. Occasionally he’s able to find an audiobook to (not-so-legally) download to the MP3, so he isn’t just blaring loud rock/techno music for his entire eight hour shift, and he’s been actually reading books, surprisingly.

It’s a simple, easy job. Something that has helped him get a slightly less shitty apartment and a marginally better life. Not the best job, but it does what it needs to be done.

One night changes that for Victor.

The Head Custodian (what stupidly official name for just their manager) is in their break room already when Victor arrives one night. He’s not late. It’s about nine-forty, the usual time he clocks in, but the appearance of Ravenna Jones is only slightly alarming. Slightly intimidating. He doesn’t interact with her often. She’s usually in her office and doesn’t work the graveyard shift, only staying to eleven or midnight at most.

She’s sat at the table in the breakroom, looking over a clipboard. There’s a lot of numbers and things listed on the papers, but it isn’t something Victor can easily read. Not just with his dyslexia, mind you, but it’s also upside-down to him. Not to mention—not really any of his business.

“Mr. Hathorne?”

His head snaps up as he sets his bag in the locker. He stiffens. “…Yes?”

A million thoughts go through his mind. Is she going to fire me? Am I going to be fired? Did I forget to clean something last night? Sure, he occasionally came in a little buzzed, not like any of the other janitors are much better than Victor. He’s usually the only sober one of the normal staff.

“Alexa James is not going to be in today.” Ravenna starts. “Well, for a while, actually.”

“Is-- is she alright?”

“Yes, she is fine. Maternity leave.”

Oh. Oh! He remembers, faintly, Alexa saying something in passing to him the other night. They’d been successful with IVF treatments a while ago, and her wife was due soon. The baby must have come. “Oh, that’s… Great. Good for them, I mean.”

Ravenna looks up at him from her clipboard, nodding quietly. “Yes. She will be gone for a while, and we will need someone to take over her position temporarily. You’re the only other staff member in our department who can fill in for her while she’s gone.”

“M-Me?” He hadn’t even been there for a whole year yet. The entire situation is very surprising. “I mean, Bill’s been here for years, can’t he…?”

Ravenna shakes her head, pushing her chair back to stand up. As Head Custodian, Ravenna never has to dress in clothes that are meant to get dirty (like Victor), so her pencil skirt and blouse are clean, tidy, and professional, and she brushes off the dust on her skirt. “Bill has a criminal record. I know that Jefferson comes in too high every night for his shift. And Kallie, well…” She shakes her head, trailing off. “Your background check came up the cleanest.”

That’s not surprising. For such a refutable company, Axiom Labs does tend to… take their chances on some people with sketchier backgrounds, mostly for the grunt work like graveyard shift custodian.

Still. It’s a lot more responsibility to be suddenly thrust into.

“Um, I’m, uh, not sure—”

Ravenna pays him no mind, continuing. “George usually arrives about eleven-thirty, according to his time-clocks. He’ll be the one to show you around tonight on B-1. I’ve got a new ID badge for you so you can access the floors you need to. Pay attention with what you do tonight, because George won’t show you anything tomorrow.” She explains, pulling a new ID badge and lanyard out from under the pile of papers on her clipboard. How that worked, Victor really had no idea. “Alexa is on maternity leave for the next eight weeks. If you do well during this time, there may be a permanent position open for you in the meanwhile.” Ravenna finally looks at Victor for the first time, her brown eyes staring directly into his. “That is, if you’re up for it, Mr. Hathorne.”

Up for it. Well—to be honest, it doesn’t feel like Victor’s being given a choice in whether he wants to do this or not. He takes the new ID badge—it’s the same as his current one, but less faded, at least he didn’t have to re-take the picture—and tries to force out a smile. It feels like he bares too many teeth with it. He nods, too. It feels weird and awkward. “Uh, I guess, I guess so.”

“Perfect. And like I said, George usually arrives around eleven-thirty, so in the meanwhile, work on your usual areas.”

Of course. Unfortunate that he doesn’t even get a break for this.

Ravenna makes her way to the door out of the break room, but she stops, her hand resting on the door knob. “Have a great night, Mr. Hathorne. And, oh—I suppose this goes without saying, but that NDA you signed when you first worked with us applies especially so on the basement levels.”

Right, right. It’d made sense that he had to sign an NDA, especially given the fact that Axiom Labs tends to work with experimental technology, but Victor had thought he wouldn’t be dealing with those floors, like, ever. But, somehow, it ends up finding a way to being his problem. Just his luck.

~~~

It’s night three of his new “job”, and it doesn’t feel any less unsettling to swipe his ID in the elevator to get access to the basement floors. Floors. The building was bigger than he was ever told—three different basement floors, specifically for research and development with secret projects and technologies up the wazoo.

Most of it dealing with ghosts.

Victor isn’t a religious man. He’s probably closest to some sort of pantheistic agnostic at this point, after all the ghost nonsense had started the same year he’d dropped out of college and moved back to what was supposed to be just a small city in the middle of nowhere, Ohio. It’d changed a lot, not just with Victor’s own personal beliefs, but the entire city had been literally uprooted and thrown into hell? At some point? He’s not even quite sure what happened, he’d been a little too high that day and also slept through half of it, but apparently the ghost boy, Phantom, had beaten some guy and saved the day.

But it’s safe to say he’s pretty indifferent to ghosts, at this point. They tended to leave most of his life alone, attacking through the city at night while Victor is scrubbing away at floor tiles and bathroom mirrors and chilling (mostly) during the day when he’s sound asleep in his apartment. They tended to stick to the downtown areas more; they’d attacked Axiom Labs before, too, but that had only ever been during the day.

He sighs, listening to the rock music crescendo on his MP3 player as the elevator finally dings for B2. George had gotten off at B1 already, and B2 was Kallie’s area. Now it’s Victor’s area.

It’s a lot more than he’d expected. He still doesn’t have access to all the rooms in the building. A few are locked off with “Authorized Personnel Only” signs in big letters on the door. He’d tried swiping his card through them once, just out of curiosity, but it didn’t work. Whatever. Victor doesn’t want to know what’s going on behind those doors. Possibly clandestine deals with the U.S. Government, those weird people always running around in white suits. Ghost Investigation Ward, or whatever?

Victor wished he didn’t have to care about those idiots but they’re worse than the Fentons. They keep sending people—living, breathing, human people—to the hospital from either their reckless driving or their horrible aims. At least with the Fentons, their inventions didn’t do more than stain clothes or leave nothing worse than a carpet burn, but those government pricks have more powerful weaponry that hurts. Victor remembers when Bill had to call off after he’d been caught in the crossfire of a GIW agent and Phantom on his way home. He was stuck in the hospital for a week, and the government wouldn’t pay him anything.

Taking out his ID again, Victor swipes it at the main janitorial closet on B2. Thanks to the government funding, at least, there’s a cleaning supply closet on every single floor. He doesn’t have to lug his usual mop and bucket setup from his usual floor all the way down to B2. Supplies are neatly color-coded and organized in this closet, and Victor tries to keep up with it as best as he can. Kallie’s incredibly neat and detail-oriented. He doesn’t want to mess with whatever system she’s got going here, especially since Kallie will be back from maternity leave, of all things, and will be a little more stressed than normal as schedules shift and fix themselves.

His MP3 player plays a Humpty Dumpty song next as he grabs a mop and a bucket, looking for the right concoction of chemicals to make the sudsy potion that leaves the floors sparkling clean. He knows what to mix and what not to mix—no accidental mustard gas creation here, folks— but Axiom Labs gets high quality stuff and they want it all used, all the time. Floor polish, soap, sanitation—everything. He grabs the soap first, pouring a bottlecap worth of the fluid before mixing it into the bucket until it starts to sud up. Once it does, it’s pretty easy. He hooks the mop handle under the bucket and rolls it out into the hallway, ready to start his shift.

Halfway through mopping, though, a crash echoes through the hallway, and Victor jumps.

His MP3 player stops working. There’s a fog in the air as he breathes. The temperature plummets, and the light fixtures flicker.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Of course there’s a ghost on his floor. Actually, wait, no, it’s not even his floor, it’s Kallie’s floor, and with how Axiom Labs and the government are working together, why should he even be surprised that a ghost is down here, at this point? Victor groans as he pushes the bucket out from the center of the floor, digging into his pocket for his phone.

Protocol, protocol, protocol…! He remembers the training. B.O.O., or whatever they’d called it. Something cheesy. Back out, organize, and what was that last thing…?

His phone turns on, but there’s no signal. Or Wi-Fi.

Of course.

He’s barely able to pocket his phone before he hears another bang behind him, and a loud curse from around the corner.

Victor freezes. He knows he should get out of there. Ghosts never really meant anything good, in his experience. Especially in a building like this, which was armed with anti-ghost technology developed by Axiom Labs, some by FentonTech, and all paid for with government funds. The building had been incredibly tricked out since the first ghost attack, so Victor didn’t think he really had to worry.

But. But. Curiosity killed the cat, and Victor nervously pokes his head around the corner to see who’s there.

Is that… Phantom?

The ghost is floating a few inches off the ground, one gloved hand sizzling from something. He’s not dressed in his usual garb. His white boot are gone, replaced with steel-toed combat boots, and it looks like a black hoodie was thrown over him to try to hide some of his glow. But with his floating, it’s still obvious he’s a ghost.

“No, Tuck, that didn’t work either.” Phantom says, holding one hand up to his ear. Probably to a phone, or communicator. Hopefully not to a ghost that Victor can’t see. He laughs at something. “Oh, yeah, sure, like an ID card is just going to appear out of the blue for me.”

What is he even doing here?

“I can try to go under, but I bet they’ve made sure to ghost-proof the floors and ceilings of that room, too.” Phantom adds, sighing. He pauses for a beat. “No, you guys wait outside, I don’t want you getting too involved with this. Yeah, I know, but I don’t want your faces plastered on wanted posters all across the city! It’s bad enough with me—" It devolves into an argument.

Phantom is here. That’s not normal. Phantom tends to avoid the Axiom Lab building like the plague. Most ghosts do. Maybe they can sense something that humans can’t. Maybe they just don’t want to deal with the ghost-hunters that are often in the place during the daytime, and they don’t have a use for it. But Phantom is here. Why is that?

Victor does believe Phantom is a good guy. Er, ghost. He died young, too young—even though photos can’t show ghosts that well, this isn’t the first time Victor has seen Phantom in the non-corporeal flesh. The way that baby fat still clings to his cheeks is obvious. Phantom died young. Everyone in Amity Park knows that. Most think he’s trying to do good, at the very least; be the hero for everybody else that he never had. It’s noble.

But Axiom Labs isn’t the bad guy.

… Right?

“Yeah, yeah, Tuck. I get it. Give me some time to think. I might be able to—” Phantom glances around, before he locks eyes with Victor, and stops. “—Um. Lemme get back to you.”

Shit, shit shit. Victor jumps back from the corner. Maybe he didn’t actually see him?

But a cold tap on the shoulder from behind gives it away. Victor tries to hide the shock as best as he can, but he still jumps a bit at Phantom’s sudden appearance behind him. How did you even…?

“Hi! You’re not gonna kill me, right?”

“U-uh, no, I’m just a janitor.” Plus, you’re a ghost, aren’t you already dead? Victor wants to add, but death always seems like an inappropriate topic to discuss with a ghost.

“Great! Good. You’re not going to call any back-up, either, are you?”

“I—um—” If he could, he probably would. But also, it’s just Phantom. And also, he can’t, probably because of Phantom. He does feel himself pale a bit, though, and he nervously pockets his phone again. “N-No.”

Phantom nods, floating back a bit. Victor’s a little jealous of that. He’d love to float whenever he wanted. But he’s quite content with the beat of his heart and his feet on the ground right now.

“Awesome. Cool. Do you have an ID that could get me into the central room, there?”

“I don’t think I have the clearance for it.”

“Hm. One sec.” Phantom taps at his ear again. “Tuck, you still there?”

A beat of silence. Victor can almost hear a response, but it’s too quiet and muffled to make any specific words out.

“Yeah, I got an ID, but it doesn’t have clearance. Can you…? Okay, yeah.” Suddenly, Phantom is holding Victor’s ID. He doesn’t even remember giving it to Victor. “Good now? Cool! Thanks.” Phantom starts floating back into the direction, with Victor’s ID in hand. “Just need to borrow this quickly, concerned citizen!”

“I—I will, uh, need that back—" Victor starts to follow him. There’s an odd, calming aura around Phantom. Or maybe he’s been hypnotized. He doesn’t know. The older folk of Amity Park always say Phantom is manipulating and hypnotizing the younger people. Are they right? Probably not. They can’t even figure out how to print a document properly. But they might have a grain of truth to it.

“Sure, right after—” Phantom swipes Victor’s ID on the card reader. The card reader immediately explodes into flames, which Phantom quickly freezes over. The door does, somehow, slide open. He sheepishly passes Victor’s ID back. “Uh. Sorry. You might need a new one.”

It’s singed. The printed picture of Victor’s face is completely covered in ash and soot, and one corner of it is melted, now.

Victor shakes his head, pocketing it. He watches Phantom enter the center room. It is the one room he’d been the most curious about. No windows to try to peer through, a steel door, state-of-the-art security clearance… What could be hiding there? He opens his mouth, not hesitating to ask his questions. “Phantom, what are you—what are you even doing here?”

Silence. Victor hesitates, before stepping through the doorframe.

There’s a lot of anti-ghost technology scattered about. It definitely looks like a laboratory in there, but more like a mad scientist lab than what Victor had been cleaning on the higher levels. Vials of glowing green liquids lined the walls. Ectoplasm, by the look and smell of it. It’s radioactive, am I even safe to be in here?

With Phantom’s nonchalant attitude in the room, Victor assumes he’ll be okay for now. The ghost has some wild protective instincts over anyone living in Amity Park, which does rarely come in handy sometimes (like the time the town had been taken to hell. Yeah, that thing Victor somehow slept through most of).

“Ah. There you are!” Phantom grabs something from one of the tables gently, pulling the thermos off of his belt loop. It’s a small orb, about the size of his palm, and it’s pulsating with a faint turquoise glow. He uncaps the thermos, and doesn’t even press the button on the side, just sliding the orb into the tube and closing it tightly. “Sorry I took a bit, Ember, I’ll get you back to the zone pronto.”

Ember? Like, the singer?

“Phantom, what…?” Victor trails off, before getting another look at the room. There are vials of ectoplasm, but there’s also a faint trace of it on the walls. Like something had been fought in the room. It had been violent. Eventually subdued, but the glow on the walls, barely visible under the glow of the left-on computer and the ghost in front of him, looked like blood splatters. It’d been violent. Too violent.

And that orb—it’d been the only thing to survive.

Phantom doesn’t respond.

“Phantom?”

“I should go, before you get fired.”

“But wait—what—who was that? What… what happened in here?” Victor might be dyslexic, he might’ve dropped out of college, but he had a deep, sinking feeling in his gut that something was wrong. Very, very wrong. The air felt like it’d been sucked out of the room, and replaced with imprints of what had happened. It was almost… painful.

Eventually, Phantom speaks. “Under the Federal Anti-Ecto Control Acts, any creature found to have traces of ectoplasm in their blood is legally seen as a non-sentient entity that needs to be captured, studied, and destroyed. The Guys in White don’t have any lab set up in Amity, so they take advantage of Axiom during the day.”

Captured.

Studied.

Destroyed.

“Look, uh, mister.” Phantom breaks the silence again. His voice cracks a bit. “I should get going. Um, if anyone asks, I possessed you for this, okay? Then, at least, you won’t get fired for this.” He laughs, nervously. “Thanks for the help, though.”

I didn’t really help much, Victor thought. He hadn’t even really handed Phantom his ID card. But, then again, Victor didn’t really stop him, either.

“S-Sure.” Victor eventually stutters out.

And, just like he’d appeared without warning, Phantom disappeared, leaving Victor alone in the lab with his thoughts.

~~~

His resignation papers were on Ravenna’s desk by the morning.

#ectoberweek2024 #promote: graveyard shift #danny phantom #dp #danny phantom fanfic #dp fanfic #ominous writing #kinda has a lot more OC content than i expected it would #but i think its still fun and develops the world more

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mj-iza-writer · 3 months ago

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I'm going to call this series "MJ is a Whumpee", what better way to get writing experience than to actually get the experience in real life.

Of course not everyone will get to experience everything so why not share it.

So "MJ is a Whumpee" will be updated as regularly as I can. Plus I will explain what a Whumpee might experience and what they may want or need from a Caretaker or even Whumper. Some may even contain a story.

-MJ 💚

Today's (Friday, Aug 16) experience... getting a tooth pulled.

I have had a broken tooth since March 2020. I was starting to see the dentist and getting my dental health back together when covid started. Because of that I canceled my dental cleaning, and right after that my tooth broke, and had been rotting away since then. My dentist wanted to continue fixing my other teeth before any of them could break away, then send me to the oral surgeon to have it pulled.

A few months ago, I went to him because I was in so much pain. He said he believed it was the broke one causing the pain. He gave me the order to get the tooth pulled, but I had to wait for about 50 days still because of the long schedule. I was given antibiotics and painkillers to last.

This is my experience.

For most of this week I was nervous, but I think the excitement of getting it out of my mouth overpowered my nerves.

Appointment morning Friday. I woke up nervous, and the nerves get stronger as the appointment time gets closer, 1pm.

Now, I am a Whumpee without a Caretaker, I have people that will help me when I need it, but most of this I am doing on my own.

I am shaking during my drive to the oral surgeon.

Go in and get checked in. Sit in the waiting room and try to relax knowing everything would be alright.

Warning: I will be going into detail about the extraction here. I have a cut off as I will be explaining the process, and I know that could gross or squick some out.

There will be a story under here as well.

I get sat down and talk with the dental surgeon, then sign some paperwork.

I received the shots to numb, and I waited for 10-15 min for the numbing to fully take affect.

The surgeon finally comes in and makes sure I am numb before they get started.

I am given a spacer to keep my mouth open, and gauze is put their as well.

As the dentist starts to work, a third person comes from above my head and says, "I am going to support your neck and head". I then feel hands around my throat and chin, not to choke, but they do have some pressure here.

Even while getting my tooth pulled I'm thinking about Whumpee and what would happen with someone holding their throat while two other people are pulling a tooth out. Like flashbacks, PTSD, crying, past trauma. You can really add some nightmare fuel here.

So I can feel pressure as they are shaking my head. Pulling the tooth, moving it back and forth.

The sounds.... Oof, I cringed. Just imagine the sound of a tooth getting pulled from your jawbone and skin. It sounds like shredding and wet.... ugh. Then it is right there by your ear, just 🤢

The oral surgeon tells me that I will hear the sound of the dental drill like at the dental office. It's almost louder though.

It's sensory overload, taste, sound, people in your mouth.

I know I moaned a few times. I couldn't feel anything, but I was imagining how painful it would have been.

She then went into stitching... now I can't feel anything going on, but I could only imagine what that felt like without numbing.

I had to bite down on gauze for around an hour during my drive home on my own. I needed to go to the pharmacy first to get medicine. I bought myself a gift for being so brave though.

Story time... though I do not have a caretaker, I will be giving Whumpee one in this story, because I love my Caretakers.

Caretaker made a small breakfast for Whumpee. They said they weren't really hungry, but Caretaker wanted them to have something in them for later.

Whumpee slowly picked away at the breakfast.

Caretaker watched as Whumpee's shakiness made it hard to function.

"It's okay to be nervous", Caretaker patted Whumpee's shoulder gently, "it's a new experience."

"I think my excitement is making me less nervous, but I'm so scared still", Whumpee admitted.

"I'm glad you're excited. You've come a long way. I'm glad your dentist said it was time to get this done now", Caretaker smiled as they cleared the table, "we will leave in about an hour, the paperwork is done. But they need to scan a few things before the appointment."

Whumpee nodded.

Later on, Caretaker was reviewing Whumpee's records to make sure they had everything in order. They were going to a new place to have the tooth removed.

"I can't believe you've had all of these visits already", Caretaker reminisced, "we are finally getting somewhere."

"Whumpee if you would, please brush your teeth", Caretaker called.

"Okay", Caretaker heard Whumpee get up from the couch and head to the bathroom.

Caretaker thought back to the timid patient they had taken in only two years prior.

Whumpee had come out of a long term hostage situation. They had a lot of medical needs, but their dental was a big issue.

Caretaker had to take them in every couple of months to have their teeth checked and cleaned. This broken tooth had been watched closely and it was causing major pain now. So the dentist said it was time.

Whumpee was finally taken back and sat down.

After consulting with the dentist and Whumpee getting a full run down on everything that would be done they decided to start numbing Whumpee's mouth.

The dentist left for a few minutes while the numbing took affect.

"You heard the part about an assistant holding your neck", Caretaker reminded Whumpee.

Whumpee nodded, "I don't really know how I'm going to feel about that, but I know it needs to be done."

Caretaker nodded, "I will be right here with you, and I will react as we have practiced in the past for when you have an episode."

Whumpee nodded again.

When everyone came into the room Caretaker went over what would happen if Whumpee had a flashback or anything of the sort. Then explained to them what steps they would need to take to keep Whumpee safe.

Once agreed upon, everyone got into place.

Whumpee moaned while the dentist harshly wiggled the tooth.

"I know you are feeling pressure, but is there any pain" the doctor stopped for a moment."

"Nu-uh", Whumpee mumbled.

Caretaker stayed down at Whumpee's feet and gently squeezed their toes. They had done this multiple times during Whumpee's appointments.

Whumpee said it helped them be able to focus and know they were not alone.

The tooth was finally out and everything was set. Whumpee just needed to rest for a few minutes before they could get up.

They smiled weakly when Caretaker came around.

"I am so proud of you", Caretaker gently ran their hand through Whumpee's hair and straightened a few snarls, "you did so good."

"Thankyou", Whumpee tried to talk with a giant piece of gauze in their mouth, "they said I can keep the tooth."

"Yes I heard them. I know you wanted to keep it", Caretaker smiled, "when you feel ready we can head to the pharmacy and go home."

"I think I feel alright", Whumpee started to sit up.

Caretaker laughed at Whumpee during their drive. Whumpee sat in the passenger seat poking their cheek.

"It's so numb", Whumpee poked at their cheek a few more times, "I don't know if I like it, it feels weird."

"Yes I don't much enjoy getting numbed myself", Caretaker agreed.

"So what else are we doing today?", Whumpee looked around.

"Well we are going to the pharmacy to get your medicine the dentist sent out, and you may pick out something for doing so well", Caretaker smiled as Whumpee's eyes lit up, "then we are going home so you can rest."

Whumpee nodded, "may I pick out a toy or maybe a coloring book?"

"Yes, you can pick out anything you like", Caretaker nodded.

"I wonder if I'm to old to be wanting toys though", Whumpee frowned.

"No one is ever too old to enjoy toys", Caretaker frowned, "adults can enjoy toys just as much as anyone else."

Whumpee now sat in the living room happily looking at the item they had chosen.

"How are you feeling?", Caretaker peaked in at them, "is the numbing waring off yet?"

"I think it is a little now", Whumpee felt their cheek.

"Okay, let's get that medicine in you, and I have a surprise for you as well", Caretaker smiled.

"A-a surprise?", Whumpee's eyes lit up.

"I'll be right back", Caretaker turned.

Caretaker came back with a huge grin and a container with Whumpee's meds.

"What is the surprise?", Whumpee eagerly took the medicine.

"Just a few minutes more, and I'll bring it out for you", Caretaker chuckled.

Whumpee set their item to the side and watched the doorway for Caretaker to come back in.

"Alright Whumpee", Caretaker came in carrying two plates, "I stayed up late making this for you, so I hope you enjoy."

"Is that your jello?", Whumpee's eyes sparkled, "you haven't made that in so long."

"Since your last major procedure.... I feel like it's a bit of a tradition now to have jello after you have something major done. This will also be easy for you to eat."

Whumpee looked excitedly at the plate they were holding. This jello was almost a comfort treat for them. It was the first treat Caretaker had made for them when they first came to live with them.

Whumpee had to have a several surgeries around their mouth and jaw so they were very limited. The jello became a sweet treat that Caretaker made them multiple times.

Caretaker sat down across from them.

"I, of course, have to have some as well", Caretaker smiled as they remembered eating the jello with Whumpee after the procedures. This way, Whumpee could enjoy it with someone else.

Whumpee quickly scooped some into their spoon, then jiggled it a little as they lifted it to their mouth.

They giggled happily at the familiar safe flavor.

"This brings back so many memories", Whumpee smiled as they scooped up more, "it taste so yummy."

"I'm glad you like it. There was a while when you ate this daily after meals... I'm surprised you didn't get sick of it", Caretaker laughed as Whumpee played with the treat.

"The one food that it is okay to play with", Whumpee giggled again.

"Yes, but I do need to put a small damper on things", Caretaker sighed, "I would like you to take a small nap after eating this. You used up a lot of energy with your nervousness and stress. Plus it will let your body have time to heal. Are we okay with that plan?"

Whumpee looked up and nodded, "I do feel a little tired."

"I can imagine", Caretaker smiled.

Caretaker sat across from Whumpee while they slept. They were organizing Whumpee's care chart.

"Such a brave soul, everything you went through. I'm so proud of you", Caretaker smiled as they set the book aside, "it's an honor taking care of you."

Notes from the last day.... movement of my mouth is limited, and I am very sore. 🥲

Yes, I absolutely kept my tooth that was pulled out. I also ate blue raspberry jello that night as well.-MJ 🦷

Taglist. As always please let me know if you want to be added or taken off of the list. It's not a problem at all.

@villainsandheroes @the-beasts-have-arrived

@sacredwrath @porschethemermaid

@monarchthefirst @generic-whumperz

@bloodyandfrightened @freefallingup13

@notpeppermint @cyborg0109

@idontreallyexistyet @painfulplots

@whumpbump @everythingsscary

@skittles-the-whumpee @expressionless-fr

@theforeverdyingperson @legendarydelusiongoatee

@candleshopmenace @whumpanthems

@lavndvrr @ivymyers

@starfields08000 @a-living-canvas

@lumpofsand @watermeezer

@indigoviolet311 @whumpy-mountains

@3-2-whump @risk606

@electrons2006 @paperprinxe

@whumprince @kaz-of-crows

@mis-graves @decaffeinatedtimetraveler94

@sausages-things @clevah-girlboss

@isikedmyself878 @daffyduckcommittedtaxfraud

@valravnthefrenchie

#whump community #real life experiences #writer experience #tw dental #mj is a whumpee #whump stuff #whump writing #whump ideas #whump scenario #whump

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willowworkswithwords · 1 year ago

Text

Good Morning Coffee – Seth Avett

Steve just couldn’t get a break, could he?

This customer was ridiculous, truly. They were gonna run out of sugar at the rate he was going, and they were a coffee shop. They ordered enough sugar to supply a whole neighborhood’s worth of sugar.

It was like each week he changed his order just so, adding a touch more or “oh yes please add whipped cream to that” (as if they hadn’t learned the first time that he absolutely needed whipped cream, even that one time he got a black coffee. Which, to be fair, made it not a black coffee).

Steve got the impression he was a funny guy, for all Robin laughed and laughed each time he came to the window. He made Steve wish they were the kind of coffee shop to ask for people’s names, or wish, for just a fleeting second once or twice a day, that he could hear well enough to actually take orders through the headset. And, damn him, this guy only came in during the morning rush and only through the drive thru. Steve didn’t really know anything about him, besides a guess at outrageous dentist bills and a glimpse or two of dark, curly hair piled in a high bun.

So Steve just made this man’s coffee around eight o’clock every morning, and wondered.

- - -

“Steve, you’re squinting.”

“Shut up Robin, I’m fine.”

“Have you taken your meds yet?”

Steve turned his back to her, eyes focused on the screen. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Robin cross her arms.

“Steve, my beautiful friend. Take your medication.”

“Rob, really, I’m ok—”

Bells.

Steve turned around with a smile, launching into his spiel before he’d even fully turned around. And when he did, the words died in his mouth.

“Hello welcome to Groovy Gary’s—”

Dark curly hair. Silver rings. It was the sugar guy. He was. Wow. He was something else. He had tattoos, his outfit all black, piercings and bracelets and and and—

Reboot, Harrington, stop staring.

“Hi!”

Too chipper, Steve. Robin smothered a laugh from where she was covering the window, and Steve wanted to melt into the sticky floor.

“Hey there.” A shit-eating grin spread across his face and Steve was only sort of annoyed by it.

“How can I help you?”

Act natural Harrington, act natural. He tried to lean against the counter and put his hand directly into the cup of stopper sticks. Sugar-guy saw. Shit he definitely saw. Steve cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows.

“I was coming in for a coffee.”

Steve bit the inside of his cheek to keep from rolling his eyes.

“A coffee? I don’t know, we might be low, I’ll have to ask Robin if we have any in stock.”

A shit-eating grin.

“You remember my order?”

“How do you know it’s me making it?”

Sugar-guy glances around behind the counter. It’s only Steve and Robin, as it’s almost always only Steve and Robin. Except on—

“Except on Thursdays. That grumpy guy makes mine on Thursdays.”

Steve laughs.

“Keith.”

“He hates me.” His voice is full of despair, and Steve laughs again.

“Wow, what are you gonna do? You’re not every baristas favorite customer.”

“Am I your favorite customer?”

Steve pretends to think, tapping his finger against his chin.

“Well man, you never get the same thing in a row, but your variations are definitely interesting.”

“You know my variations?”

Sugar-guy is looking at Steve up through his lashes, hair pulled across his mouth, barely hiding the grin.

“Do you only eat sugar?”

Another laugh.

“Hey, I order black coffee sometimes.”

“Dude, you order it with whipped cream. That’s not black coffee.”

A car horn blares outside the drive-thru window. Robin comes up on Steve’s right.

“Sorry to interrupt, but Steve, it’s Mrs. Click. She’s spitting mad already, which I don’t how that’s possible because it looks like she just rolled out of bed. They wrong side of the bed, maybe.”

“Oh Jesus, ok.” He turns to sugar-guy.

“Hey, I’m sorry, I never got your order.”

“Oh, nothing for me today. Got something for you.”

Steve tilts his head and automatically takes the things Eddie holds over the counter. With a wink Steve barely catches, sugar-guy’s walking out the door. Steve looks down at the…napkin? The folded napkin. He unfolds it.

Eddie Munson 432-9090

Steve doesn’t stop smiling all day.

#this has been in my docs #for a hot minute #and i decided to finish it #it makes me smile #and i hope it makes you smile too #cuteness #steddie #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #the song link is a youtube link #for those who don't have spotify #eddie's number is completely random #robin buckley #wingman robin buckley #willow writes #willow talks

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ceilingfan5 · 1 year ago

Note

taz musical theater au, please :O??? -ise (currently listening to broadway Anastasia and going buckwild again /lh)

"So," Kravitz says, the door closing behind him dramatically. He doesn't put his bag down like he usually does. Instead he looks stiff and frustrated and confused. And cute. Still painfully fucking cute, as always. "I was surprised to see you at the casting call today."

"Why? You've been talking about it since I moved in last month." Taako kicks his feet off the edge of the couch and keeps pretending to read the magazine he stole from the dentist yesterday, as revenge for having to be there. It's months old, but some of the recipes are still interesting.

Kravitz makes a face like he is trying, with all his might, not to telegraph how confused and frustrated he is. Too bad. Consider that code morsed, buckaroo. Tappity tap tap, you've betrayed how you feel. Better luck when the telephone gets invented.

"It's just," he says. "I did not think you were interested in musicals. Or this musical, specifically. Or being in the musical that I am running, and taking very seriously, by the way."

"Did I do a bad job in my audition?" Taako audibly turns a sleek page, and pretends to be interested in Cheez-it encrusted lamb nuggets. "You don't have to give me a call back if I'm not right for the part."

"No," Kravitz sighs, shaking his head. He clutches his bag close, like it will be a weapon against the great unknown of Taako's mysterious motives. "You were–amazing. I was afraid we weren't going to have a villain this round. You- Taako- " Kravitz walks over and grips the back of the couch. Taako looks So Very Incredibly Casually up at him, smirking. "You absolutely bodied your audition."

"Cool," Taako says, like it doesn't matter at all. Like, oh, chips were on sale? That's nice, maybe we'll make some dip. Maybe not. "I thought there was uh, a process for letting people know they're in."

"There is!" Kravitz stresses. "But we live together. Taako, we live together, I've known you for almost two months now, I've been talking about this musical all summer, and I've never heard you sing! What- I didn't know you even knew where the playhouse was!"

"Google maps," Taako provides helpfully. He closes his magazine thoughtfully. Maybe tomorrow he will get some Cheez-its. Lamb nuggets can't be that bad, can they?

"That's not my question!" Kravitz looks, get this, confused and frustrated. It's hard not to laugh right at him.

"What is your question?" Picture of innocence. Stock photo of a sky-blue day. Motives? What motives?

"Why did you try out for my musical??"

"Bored. Sounded fun," Taako says with a shrug.

"Are you interested in musicals??" Kravitz looks like the unhingedness of this line of interrogation is dawning on him a little late.

"Who isn't?"

"Taako!" That grip on the couch is so tight. Fuck, he's gorgeous. Maybe a little dim, though.

"Kravitz!" Taako grins. "Did you not want me there? Is there a problem? I thought this roommate thing was going okay."

"It-" Kravitz throws his hands in the air and huffs. "You're allowed to be there!"

"Oh good," Taako says, playing as stupid as he can manage with a straight face. "Not gonna get arrested today. Probably."

"Taako-"

"I mean you never know," Taako adds conversationally. "Always good to be prepared."

"Are you going to take this seriously??"

"Course," Taako says, and shrugs.

"You're not just doing it to fuck with me??" Kravitz. Darling. Really? Your first guess is that he's being mean, and not trying to follow you to a second location because he doesn't want to miss out on his Kravitz time? Sabotage, and not ooey-gooey crush the likes of which an adult ought not have to suffer?? Has Taako been Too Subtle?

"Why would I do that?" Taako tosses the magazine onto the side table. The two of them watch the whole pile of shit slide slowly onto the floor. Sheet music and snacks and playbooks and photos and maybe the lost remote go all over in slow motion. Taako looks back at Kravitz. Kravitz looks pinched. Calzone of a dude here. Dumpling, even. What's in your pocket, guy? What savory morsels are you withholding?

"I don't know," he says, after a long, painful moment. "But I'm going to find out." And he turns and marches toward his room.

Wuh oh. Maybe they got two very different messages on what this story is about. Should he say something?

Then again…Taako doesn't mind an enemies to lovers plot. Not one bit.

#taz #taakitz #tazb #the adventure zone #the adventure zone balance #fan5fics #taz balance #taakitz fic #thank you!!#clearing out my inbox

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theworldoffostering · 7 months ago

Text

You guys, I feel like I’m drowning. These past three weeks have felt unmanageable to me. Like, I don’t know how to keep going.

I’m walking alongside (trying the best I know how) the older girls as one navigates this break up and the other tries to transition to college. We got DD a car, but it still needs a few repairs. She was here all afternoon today working on it with DH.

I am waiting for the updated version of Ms. 6’s IEP to hit my inbox to send it off to the school. I am also working on her housing contract. Then I think I can step back for a few weeks. Still trying to figure out what’s going on with graduation. Her mom is back to letting her go to it and maybe allow her to stay for dinner, but it’s Memorial Day weekend and I don’t want to put a deposit down for a dinner somewhere only to have her not be allowed to attend at the last minute. I also don’t want to disappoint her. I’m unsure of how to proceed, so I’m just sort of frozen.

DS takes his civics test next week. You have to pass in order to graduate high school. He has prepared and seems like he will do well. He’s also pole vaulting and doing well at that for being a novice and having very little practice time due to the crummy weather we’ve been having.

Work is a lot right now. It’s to be expected due to the time of year. I can almost see the light at the end of the tunnel, but it’s a lot to slog through.

DH was verbally offered a job this week as a special education teacher. He is supposed to return to school to get his teaching certification in about a week, and is waiting for a letter of intent via email from the potential employer. It’s a lot. We are trying to manage the financial aid piece and we are up against a super tight deadline right now. His interview for the job was virtual, so he’s heading to the school next week to actually tour it and meet his potential coworkers. In the spirit of living in a small town, one of the women he used to live who was in live with him (for real)—the housing situation was work related—works at the school. She has legit not spoken to myself or DH since he and I got engaged so that seems like it will be super awkward (although she is also married now and has kids).

DH is finally seeing a decent therapist and between the therapist and neuropsych eval he had done during fall, it is apparent he is super depressed. Depressed is apparently his baseline and super depressed happens quite a bit. It is helpful to have it identified, but wow, it is a lot to live with. I am really struggling as his wife because he cannot do much and is not really emotionally available 90% of the time. He’s so inwardly focused, that he cannot focus on me, the kids, relationships, stuff that needs to be done, etc. I’m drowning and he cannot take on any of the workload. It sucks.

My endocrin had me take b12 supplements the last three months and my level actually decreased. I’m starting up with b12 injections next week. My TSH is also super, super low which means I’m hyperhyroid and should be losing weight, but I’m gaining which also sucks.

My endocrin is out of network for me which means my injections will be out of network. I have ZERO out of network benefits. The whole healthcare system is atrocious. I refuse to go back to the three endocrins I saw before I connected with my current one. They were all terrible, but in network. I need a super expensive full body scan but I for sure cannot pay for that out of pocket, so I’m waiting to see if my GP will prescribe it when I see him in June.

My crown also broke this week and when the dentist looked at it, I had worn a hole clear through the middle. He said it was due to grinding/stress. I wear a mouth guard religiously at night, so it’s happening during the day. :-/ Cue more medical bills. They glued my current one back on and can’t get me in to work on repair until June. I almost cried when trying to schedule with them because I just cannot even do all of this any more. (It also hurt wicked bad last time they fixed it so I’m somewhat terrified to return.)

That’s my list of complaints/brain dump. There’s more, but I need to wrap up some grading and get dinner going. I miss a life that was easier and less complicated.

#adulting #complaining

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letmeridethatstaff · 4 months ago

Text

The Truman and (Y/N) Show

Chapter 4: Travelers Beware

Word count: 4.3 K

Relationship: Truman Burbank x Reader

Disclaimer: this is all parody. I do not own the Truman show nor do I claim it. Do not repost. Do not translate and repost.

Warnings:

- baby talk of course

- lies

- their life is a television show from birth so ya know

- water aka ocean and fire

- uhhhh idk if I miss some tell me

Not edited and written like weeks apart.

———————

Truman and (Y/N) ended up sleeping in for the day. They made coffee and put their plan into action. After Angela left they did their normal routine, with a small difference. If they really were being watched then the running water of a shower would drown out their whispers. In the shower they planned. Pack a suitcase in the morning and rush to the travel agency after breakfast.

Going into the agency they both noticed posters of multiple disasters: TRAVELERS BEWARE! TERRORISTS, DISEASE, etc. another with lightning shooting through a plane mid flight- IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU!

Truman and (Y/N) sat down in front of the desk. Eventually a lady comes out with a napkin around her neck. “I’m sorry to keep you!” Truman stands up as a gentleman would do- as he was raised to do.

“Oh it’s okay!” Truman quells her.

“How can I help?” She sits down and removes the napkin.

“We would like to book a flight to Fiji, please.” (Y/N) chimed. The lady starts typing away at the computer.

“When would you like to leave?” Truman picks up his suitcase tapping the side.

“Today.” She nods and goes back to typing. The computer beeps a few times, and Truman perches his arms onto the desk. His chin resting on his hand. She starts shaking her head.

“I’m sorry I don’t have anything for at least a month.” She turns to the both of them.

“A month?!” (Y/N) exasperated.

“I’m afraid it’s the busy season.” Truman scoffs.

“Do you want to book the flight?” She points to the computer.

“It doesn’t matter. We’ll make other arrangements. ‘Kay?” (Y/n) smiles to the lady. Truman and her get up to leave.

Their backup: the bus station.

The conductor yells: “LAST CALL FOR CHICAGO! ALL ABOARD!” As Truman was getting the tickets she waved down the bus conductor. The bus director blows his whistle. Truman finally got the tickets,”Thank you!”, and they raced off to the bus.

“Windy City, here we come!” Truman tells the bus conductor as he hands him their tickets. They get aboard. As they get aboard a little girl peeks out behind a seat.

“Mom isn’t that-“

“Shhh sweetie face the front.”

(Y/N) and Truman make it to their seats. The bus starts to sound horrendously loud with gears grinding onto one another. After a few attempts of starting the bus a loud hissing sound comes from the engine along with smoke of some sort.

“Everybody off. We’ve got a problem.” The bus director climbs aboard to tell them. Immediately everyone gets up. Either for their luggage or to leave. No one complains. Everyone files off the bus while Truman and (Y/N) stay.

“I’m sorry you two.” The bus driver seemed put down by the events. He then gets off the bus.

The scene cuts to audience members.

AM 1: “Why are they trying to go to Chicago?”

AM 2: “Well you see Truman’s dad was from Chicago, wasn’t he?”

AM 1: “No. his dentist was from Pensacola. His father was from Des Moines.”

AM 2: “B-but how come they want to go to Chicago?”

AM 3: “Their not going to Chicago. Their not going anywhere.” She shakes her head, “They won’t let them.”

The scene changes to the next morning. (Y/N) heads outside to see Truman still sitting in his car after not going to work.

“Truman?” She asks hesitant, “you okay?” Their neighbor and Pluto the Dalmatian was staring at them- as if they were also concerned.

“Get in.” He gestures with his fingers. She climbs into the passenger seat.

“What is it?”

“Look-“ he shows the rear view mirror. They wait, “I predict in just a moment we will see a lady on a red bike, then a man with flowers, and then a Volkswagen Beetle with a dented fender.” She waits and watches with him. It happens- a lady on a red bike, a man with flowers, the beetle with a dented fender.

“M-maybe it’s just an uh routine?” She was nervous and worried trying to call herself, picking her cuticles. Truman gently grasps her hands to stop her.

“Maybe OR- their walking the block. They just go around and around and around.” Truman started acting funny. She had it.

“Get out-“ she quipped.

“What-“ he was shocked. They never had a tongue with one another.

“Switch seats with me- now.” She started to climb into the drivers seat.

“Okay okay- OW!” A muffled sorry came through.

“Let’s go- now- let’s go to Fiji.” He starts laughing and so does she. His more hysterical and hers more nervous. She buckles up and so does he. She slams the gas and they back out. She starts driving in circles around the round about.

“Let’s forget Fiji!” Truman yells. “Can’t drive to Fiji!”

“ATLANTIC CITY!!!” She spins out towards a random road. Suddenly multiple cars and a truck stop them.

“Blocked at every turn.” She taps her thumb on the steering wheel.

“Beautifully synchronized, don’t you agree?” They look at each other- they know.

“Ya know what we should head home.”

“Agreed.” She speeds backwards towards to round about. “ACTUALLY-“ Truman pips up, “let go to New Orleans, party c’tay!” Truman sticks out his tongue and shakes his head back and forth- a goof- she smiles. Turning down the same road and the traffic is completely cleared.

“Like magic, wouldn’t you agree dear?”

“Absolutely, my love.”

Fuck. Why did they have to live on an island.

“We can turn back.” Truman tells her. The bridge loomed in front of them. The windows were rolled down, making the sound of the lapping waves all the more present.

“Absolutely not. My fears not as bad as yours…” they looked at each other. “Close your eyes.” She asks Truman. She starts speeding over the bridge, swerving slightly- “WE’RE OVER THE BRIDGE!” She exclaims happily. Truman laughs cheering with excitement and relief.

A warning sign on the road: FOREST FIRE WARNING

“Truman what about the sign!”

“Pull over I’ll drive! Don’t worry, I think it’s just an exaggeration!” She pulls over and they switch seats. As they keep racing down the road- a fire wall appears.

“Exaggerating?! That’s a literal wall of fire!!” He keeps pushing the gas and drives through the wall. Smoke fills the cabin of the car.

“Shit! Truman we have to be on fire!”

“It’s okay! It’s okay! It’s just smoke!” The smoke starts to disapate, “You okay?”

“Yes!” She coughs out.

“Wanna do it again?!” He laughs.

“No!” She laughs and smacks his arm.

A while later down the road.

“How do you think everyone will take this?” (Y/N) asks knowing that if this really was real life and not a show- her family (and Angela) would be worried sick.

“I don’t know but I do know I’m glad we don’t have a pet- let alone a kid.”

“Agreed.” A siren started to blare.

“What now?” Truman sighed. (Y/N) started biting her nails. He grasped her hand with one of his and kissed the back of it. She took a breath. They arrived at a scene of a nuclear plant being blockaded by the police.

Truman has the windows rolled down, “Back up! Back up!” An officer yelled at them. A speaker blared about a Red Alert, “There’s been a leakage at the power plant.”

“Is there anyway around?”

“Whole areas being evacuated.”

“Well good luck and thanks for the help.” (Y/N) pipped up.

“You’re welcome, (Y/N)!” The officer saluted and walked away.

She nor Truman said their names.

“(Y/N).” Truman whispers to himself with a dawning realization. He swiftly, discreetly unbuckles himself and (Y/N). They rush out of the car and into the woods.

“Hold my hand!” Truman shouts, they grasp each other's hand. Almost as if to say they have each other. That they aren’t crazy.

People in hazmat suites started to chase them in the woods. The perfect woods, in perfect rows. Truman found a stick and started swinging it at the people. Truman was tackled to the ground. “Truman!”

“Thank you for bringing them back officers.” Sam, (Y/N)’s mother, had been called to watch them. Unknown who called them- the police most likely- or…others.

“Next time, we’ll have to file charges.”

“I understand.” She nods to them, “Thanks again, good night.” She closes the front door. She stocks her way over to Truman and (Y/N) in the kitchen. (Y/N) was holding an ice pack to Truman’s head from where he was tackled.

“I swear I’m fine.” He whispers. She shakes her head at him.

“Fine,” she whispers, shaking her head. She reached up and kisses his forehead. Sam walks over to the counter and stands in front of them both.

“Let me get you some help,” Sam gently whispered. “You are not well.” A moment passed before (Y/N) asks.

“Mom, why do you want me to have kids? You can’t stand Truman.” She’s exhausted, he knows, everyone knows their in-laws hate their spouses.

“That’s not true!” Sam exclaims almost offended. She turns around briefly. Turning back to them with a cocoa tin in hand and a large smile. “Why don’t you let me fix you some of this new Mococoa drink? All natural cocoa beans from the upper slopes of Mount Nicaragua- no artificial sweeteners!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” (Y/N) exasperated, she looks around. “Who you talking to?!”

“I’ve tasted other cocoas. This is the best!” Her mother was nervous- for some reason. She never really acted like a mom growing up. More like…a playmate. Babysitter almost.

(Y/N) stands up, “What the hell does this have to do with anything?” She’s walking towards Sam. “Tell me what’s happening!” She shouts. Truman stands up.

“You’re having a nervous breakdown, that's what!” (Y/N) scoffs as her mom backs up from her approaching form.

“What the hell mom!”

“(Y/N) you’re scaring me!” Sam grabs the dicer that can peel, dice, and chop.

“Hey hey! Don’t point that thing at her.” Truman stands in front of (Y/N).

“Alright enough you need to leave!”

“Fine! But don’t come crawling back to me when you need a babysitter!” Sam states. But ever so faintly just barely at a whisper, such unprofessional conditions.

That was the final straw. She broke. Sobbing Truman held her- her whole life a lie- or maybe she was lying to herself. But if that’s the case how did Truman experience the same things?

A few moments later Marlon showed up at the door. He had heard what happened and wanted to check on them both. (Y/N) was curled up against Truman with her puffy eyes. They had talked about their childhood with one another. How Marlon got pneumonia because (Y/N) wanted to play North Pole and camp outside. How Truman and him would cheat off each others tests- right together and wrong together.

The scene on the tv cuts to Cristoff- “…but, well, the point is I’d gladly walk in front of traffic for you two.”

The scene changes back to Marlon and the Burbanks. “…well the point is I’d gladly walk into traffic for you two.”

Back to Cristoff: “And the last thing I’d ever do is lie to you. Either of you.”

Marlon’s back on screen, “And the last thing that I would ever do…is lie to you. I mean think about it, if everybody is in on it.” He starts to get choked up. “I’d have to be in on it too.” He takes a sip of the beers he brought. “I’m not in on it because…there is no “it”…You both were right about something though.”

“What’s that?” Truman’s whispers.

“The thing that started all this…” he gets up and goes outside. They follow him. In the fog there stands a figure. A familiar one.

“Yep. I found him for you, Truman. That’s why I came by tonight.” He tsked, “I’m sure he’s got quite a story to tell.” The camera pans closer to Truman’s face. “Go to him.” Marion whispers placing his hand on Truman’s shoulder. The figure walks closer to them.

The scene goes back to Cristoff. “Easy on the fog. Stand-by light post cam.” A second passes, “Post cam.”

The scene changes to Truman. Marlon has wrapped his arm around (Y/N)’s shoulder as they watch Truman. He gets closer to his father.

Back to Cristoff. “Button cam three.” The scene is now through a button cam hidden on the cardigan. It’s Truman.

The tv shows audience members holding one another.

“I never stopped believing.” Truman tells his father.

More audience members are shown: this time a pair of older ladies. With a Truman pillow and (Y/N) mugs.

Christof returns on screen, “And wide curb cam eight.” The scene is now from the curb- a fully body wide shot from the side of Truman and Kirk.

“My son! Oh!” His father embraces him. (Y/N) is shown leaning on Marlon’s shoulder and sniffling.

Christof and a crew member appear on screen. “Move in for a close-up?” They suggest.

“N-n-no no…” his hand is raised while the other holds a pen. “Move back and…fade up music.” The music swells from the live piano player. “And now go in close!”

Truman’s father speaks, “All those years wasted! I’ll make it up to you son. I swear it.” Their still in an embrace. The camera zooms in to Truman’s smiling face above his fathers shoulder.

“Dad.” Truman cries. The crew starts to cheer. So does everyone else- the rest of the world- the audience members.

“Bravo!” Cries a crew member.

“That was a really great experience.” Everyone gives congratulations to Cristoff.

The scene changes to Sylvia. Sitting in the floor before her television. She watches Truman and (Y/N) share a cup of Mococoa- an ad plays below it as they drink. Sylvia’s face contorts with anger. More anger for the way he— Christoff— manipulates them.

The scene then shows a sort of replay or recap of The Truman and (Y/N) show- how it came to be. The picture of the two of them drinking coco is put in the upper right part of the screen.

Announcer: 1.7 billion were there for his birth, and later 2.3 billion for hers. “A star is born” flashes on the screen across baby photos. Over 200+ countries tuned in for their first steps. The world stood still as (Y/N) had her first kiss. As they grew so did the technology. An entire human life recorded on an intricate network of hidden cameras. A clip of Truman and (Y/N) through their neighbors trash can is shown. Broadcasted live and unedited 24 hours a day, 7 days a week to an audience around the globe. Coming to you now form Seahaven Island enclosed in the largest studio ever constructed- the scene zooms out to show the scale of the dome as it lives right above the Hollywood sign in LA- along with the Great Wall of China, one of only two man made structures visible from space. Now in its 30th great year it’s The Truman and (Y/N) Show!

Interviewer: “What a week it’s been. I don’t know about you— I was on pins and needles the entire time.”

The scene shows someone taking a bath with the television set up right next to it. The scene then changes back to the interviewer, Mike.

Interviewer: “Hello and good evening. I’m your host Mike Michaelson and welcome to Tru-(Y/N)-Talk our forum for issues growing out of the show a rare and exclusive interview with the shows conceived and creator. So, come with us now as we go live to the lunar room. On the 221st floor of the Omni Cam Echosphere. This is where we’ll find the world’s greatest Televisionary-“ the camera zooms into the moon to show Cristoff. “The designer and architect of the world within a world that is Seahaven Island—Christof.”

Mike: “Before we begin, I’d like to thank you on behalf of our audience for granting this exclusive interview. We know how demanding your schedule is- and we know how jealously you guard your privacy. This, sir, is indeed an honor.”

Christof: “Don’t mention it.” He sits down.

Mike: “Well, the catalyst for the recent dramatic events on the show has been Truman’s father. Kirk— and his attempts to infiltrate the show, but before we get into that. I think it’s worth noting that this is not the first time someone from the outside has attempted to reach both (Y/N) and Truman, is it?”

The scene changes to show (Y/N) and Truman spending the holidays together. Both of their families gathered watching the young (Y/N) and young Truman open presents.

Christof: “We have had close calls in the past…” A man pops out of a large present. Shouting: “(Y/N)! Truman! It’s television! Yes!” Their mothers pick them up and carry them out and their fathers wrestle the intruder. “I did it! I’m on the Truman and (Y/N) show!”

The scene changed once again, this time it shows Truman at the newsstand. A parachuter is coming down behind him in the background.

Mike: “But there’s never been anything to compare with this most recent breach in security— the first intruder to be a former cast member…” the parachuter has a sign taped to the front of his chest: TRUMAN YOU ARE ON TV! The scene changes back to Christof.

Christof: “A dead one at that.”

Mike: “Gotta say, writing Kirk back in— Masterstroke.”

Christof: “Since Kirk started this crisis in Truman’s life— and by association (Y/N)’s — I came to the conclusion that only he could end it.”

The scene shows (Y/N) and Truman as toddlers—about 5– at the beach. Their family started to shout at them as they reached the top of the rocky seashore. Kirk and her father- Neil- were yelling at them: “Truman! Truman! (Y/N)! No!” Neil hopped the fence and started racing for them.

“That’s off limits sweetheart.”, of course this peeked both of the young minds.

“Why dad what’s over there?” (Y/N) questioned. Everyone at the beach was staring at them— it was their normal.

“Nothing. It’s dangerous. That’s all.” Kirk chimed in. Kirk started climbing the rocks to get them down. “You’ve got to know your limitations you two.” He picked them both up and brought them down.

Mike: “But let’s remind viewers exactly why dad—Kirk— was written out in the first place.” The scene shows young Truman and (Y/N) staring out into the ocean.

Christof: “As Truman and (Y/N) grew up, we were forced to manufacture ways to keep them on the island.”

The scene shows a pre-teen Truman. “I’d like to be an explorer like the Great Magellan!” Informed the teacher. The teacher pulled down a map.

“Oh you’re too late. There’s really nothing left to explore.”

Christof: “For (Y/N) it was easier to dissuade her from wanting to leave. She didn’t want to be an explorer like Truman— she wanted to be an artists.”

The scene shows pre-teen (Y/N) and Truman at a pier. (Y/N) with her painting supplies and Truman with his binoculars. A dog was snarling and barking at them making them pause and leave.

Christof: “Finally, I came up with Kirk’s drowning.”

Mike: “Most effective.” He praised.

Christof: “Truman— and by association— (Y/N) as well have been terrified of the water ever since.” The scene shows pre-teen Truman and (Y/N) watch Kirk “drown” in front of them. Truman was bawling his eyes out— (Y/N) going numb but holding onto Truman like a lifeline. “When Kirk read the synopsis for the Death at the Sea episode he was disappointed to say the least.” What the kids don’t see is Kirk being rescued by a scuba diver and given oxygen. “I’m sure that’s what caused him to break back on to the set.” The scene returns to Christof and Mike.

Mike: “But how do you intend to explain his 22-year absence?”

Christof: “Amnesia.” Mike scoffs slightly.

Mike: “Brilliant. Let’s take some viewer phone calls: Charlotte, North Carolina, you’re on with Christof.”

Caller: “Uh, yeah, hi, Christof. I was wondering how many cameras you got in that town?”

Christof: “Somewhere in the vicinity of 5,000.”

Caller: “Woah, that’s a lot of cameras.” The scene zooms in on Christof’s face.

Christof: “Remember, we started with just two.” The image shows two ultrasound cameras— one of Truman and the other (Y/N). “They were curious from birth. Truman was premature by two weeks— (Y/N) was late by a week— Truman acted as if he couldn’t wait to get started.”

Mike: “and of course his eagerness to leave his mother’s womb was the very reason why he was one of the multiple baby boys chosen.”

Christof: “Yes, in competition with five other unwanted pregnancies. The casting of a show determined by an air date. Truman was the baby boy who arrived on cue.”

Mike: “(Y/N) of course was late, as she is in life.” Christof slightly chuckes.

Christof: “Ah yes, as for (Y/N) we didn’t want to add her until a year later once we knew that the general public would take well to seeing a show like this.”

Mike: “and incidentally, I believe both were the very first babies ever to be adopted by a corporation?”

Christof: “That’s correct.”

Mike: “The show, uh, has generated enormous revenues now equivalent to the gross national product of a small country.”

Christof: “People forget it takes the population of an entire country to keep the show running.”

Mike: “mhmm. Since the show on 24- hours a day without commercial interruption, uh- all those staggering revenues are generated by product placement or (Y/N)’s paintings.”

Christof: “That’s partially true. (Y/N) generates her own income. When she sells a painting she keeps that money, not the studio. However, everything on the show is for sale. From the actor’s wardrobe, food products, to the very homes they live in.”

Mike: “Uh and all of it available in the Truman and (Y/N) catalog. Operators are standing by. Christof, let me ask you: why do you think Truman and (Y/N) have never come close to discovering the true nature of their world until now?”

Christof: “We accept the reality of the world with which we are presented. It’s as simple as that”

Mike: “The Hague for Christof. Hello? The Hague?” There’s static and The Hague hangs up. “All right, we’ve lost that call. Let’s go to Hollywood, California. You’re on Tru-(Y/N) Talk.”

Caller: “Hi, Christof. I’d just like to say one thing: you’re a liar and a manipulator and what you’ve done to them is sick!”

Christof: “Well, we remember this voice, don’t we? How could we forget?” The scene shows that the caller is actually Sylvia.

Mike: “uh let’s go to another call.” Christof interrupts him, “No, no no. It’s fine Mike. I love to reminisce with former members of the cast. Sylvia…as you announced so melodramatically to the world you think because you persuaded (Y/N) to find Truman once— that you know what’s right for her? For him? You really think you’re in a position to judge them?”

Sylvia: “what right do you have to take a baby— two babies— a-a-and to turn their lives into some sort of mockery? Don’t you ever feel guilty?” Christof shakes his head.

Christof: “I have given them a chance to live normal lives. The world… the place you live in is the sick place. Seahaven’s the way the world should be.”

Sylvia: “They're not performers. Their prisoners. Look at them! Look at what you’ve done to them!”

Christof: “They can leave at any time. If his was more than just a vague ambition. If he— and she— were absolutely determined to discover the truth there’s no way we could prevent them. I think what distresses you really, caller, is that ultimately they prefer— as you call it— their cell. Mostly (Y/N) prefers it.”

Sylvia: “That’s where your wrong. You’re so wrong! She’ll prove you wrong.” Sylvia hangs up the call.

Mike: “Well, aside from the heated comments of a very vocal minority it’s been an overwhelmingly positive experience.”

Christof: “Yes. For Truman’s and (Y/N) and for the viewing of the public.”

Mike: “Well, Christof, I can’t thank you enough for giving so generously of your time tonight. I think it’s safe to say now that this crisis is behind us and that Truman and (Y/N) are back to their old selves. We can look forward to some exciting new developments?”

Christof: “Well, Mike, the big news is that Sam— (Y/N)’s mom, will be leaving Neil. A possible new love interest for Neil may be introduced. (Y/N) as an adult will have to navigate what it’s like to be a step-daughter as an adult.” The scene shows Sylvia staring at the little video picture in the top right corner. Showing (Y/N) and Truman eating cereal. She gently touches the picture of the two of them.

Christof: “I am also determined that the first ever live on television, conception will take place. Whether that be (Y/N)’s doctors having to fib a little about her needing to get off birth control o-or setting the mood who knows.” Mike chuckles.

Mike: “Well, another television milestone straight ahead. You heard it here first. It has been a singular honor and pleasure, sir. Christof, thank you.”

Christof: “Thank you, Mike.”

The scene shows an audience memeber has fallen asleep in their tub.

Then it shows both Truman and (Y/N) cuddled together sleeping. A large screen is showing this into the studio of Christof’s. Christof gently touches the screen. As if he was patting their heads to say goodnight.

#truman show #x reader #truman burbank x reader #the truman show

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from-memphis-with-love · 23 days ago

Text

Songbird - Chapter 4 - Push and Pull

Summary: Valerie starts to question her place in Elvis' life after hearing some sage - if not utterly depressing - advice from a Las Vegas veteran. Later, Elvis shows his jealous side and they come to an understanding.

The phone never rang.

In Vegas, silence feels different than anywhere else. Maybe it's because the city itself never truly quiets – there's always the distant chime of slot machines, the hum of air conditioning pushing back against the desert heat, the muffled thunder of jets bringing another load of dreamers to the Strip. Or maybe it's because Vegas operates on its own clock, where three AM is peak hours and noon might as well be midnight.

I spent that morning staring at the phone like a jilted teenager, willing it to spring to life with Elvis's voice on the other end. Every time someone walked past my door, my heart did a little jump-skip-hop routine that would've put his famous moves to shame. But the hours crawled by with nothing but silence and the distant ding of elevator doors.

The International hadn't started feeling like home yet, even after nearly a week. My suite was bigger than my entire Chicago apartment, all cream and gold with windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. The view was pure Vegas – neon signs fighting with the sun, palm trees that looked like they'd been shipped in from a movie set, and everywhere that particular sparkle that made you forget the desert was waiting just beyond the city limits, patient as death.

By noon, I'd worn a path in the thick carpet between the bed and window. My reflection caught my eye – hair wild from running my fingers through it, lipstick slightly smeared from nervous lip-biting. I looked like what I was: a fool waiting for a married man to call.

The suite's mirror was unforgiving in the harsh desert sunlight. Three weeks in Vegas had already changed me – my clothes were more expensive, my makeup more carefully applied, my whole being somehow more polished. But underneath it all, I was still that girl from Chicago, still dreaming of something bigger. The irony wasn't lost on me: I'd found something bigger, all right, but at what cost?

The thing about being involved with Elvis Presley that nobody tells you is how much time you spend waiting. Waiting for phone calls, waiting for shows to end, waiting to see which version of him you'll get today – the superstar, the philosopher, the boy from Tupelo, or someone else entirely. The tabloids never mentioned that part.

The International had its own rhythm, I'd learned. Mornings belonged to the cleaning staff and tired gamblers. Afternoons were for rehearsals and sound checks, the distant thrum of music floating through the hallways like a ghost. But evenings – evenings belonged to Elvis. His energy seemed to electrify the whole building, from the lobby where fans lingered hoping for a glimpse, to the top floor where his suite sprawled like a kingdom in the sky.

The phone finally rang at six sharp. I nearly broke my neck getting to it.

"Hello?" I tried to sound easy. Like I had not spent the day measuring time between rings that never came.

"Val? It's Joe." Elvis's right-hand man sounded like a dentist with bad news. Behind him there was noise - voices, music, the chaos that followed Elvis everywhere. "Listen, about dinner tonight..."

My stomach dropped faster than a wooden rollercoaster. "Yes?"

"The boss says he has to cancel. Unexpected guests." Joe cleared his throat. "He'll call when he can."

The line went dead before I could respond. I sat there holding the receiver, listening to the dial tone like it might suddenly change its mind and give me better news.

Unexpected guests. The words echoed in my head like a bad jukebox record stuck on repeat. Who were these mysterious guests that had Elvis canceling our plans? Was Priscilla in town? The Colonel? Someone else entirely? In the week I'd been here, I'd learned that "unexpected guests" could mean anything from record executives to karate instructors to spiritual advisors claiming they could teach Elvis to levitate.

I changed into my swimsuit – the new one Elvis had sent up yesterday, a white number that probably cost more than my old car. The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I was, wearing his gifts while he was entertaining "unexpected guests." The price tag was still attached, the numbers making me dizzy. Back home, I'd worked a whole month to afford my last swimsuit.

The International's pool was a miracle of modern engineering, a kidney-shaped oasis surrounded by palm trees that had no business surviving in the desert. The water was always the perfect temperature, the towels always pristinely white, the service always impeccable. Like everything else in Vegas, it was an illusion maintained through sheer force of will and unlimited resources.

I found a lounger partially hidden behind a concrete planter and settled in to perfect the art of not looking like I was looking at his suite windows. The afternoon sun beat down like a hammer, but I barely felt it. My eyes kept drifting upwards, where I knew his rooms sprawled across the corner of the building. Was he up there right now? Was she?

From this angle, I could see the subtle changes in the curtains that meant someone was moving around up there. Every flutter made my heart jump. Earlier in the week, I'd learned that Elvis's suite had its own pool – a private oasis where he could swim without the public's eyes on him. He'd invited me up there twice, both times after his late show when the desert night had cooled enough to make the water inviting. But today, that little private pool might as well have been on the moon.

"Sugar, you keep craning your neck like that, you're gonna need a chiropractor."

I startled so hard I nearly fell off my lounger. A woman who had to be pushing fifty stood there, though she wore her age like a well-tailored dress. Her red hair was styled in a perfect bouffant, and her black swimsuit looked painted on. Everything about her screamed old Vegas – the kind of woman who'd seen it all and lived to tell about it. Diamond rings glittered on her fingers, catching the sun like miniature stars.

"I wasn't..." I started, then stopped. Who was I kidding? "That obvious, huh?"

"Only to someone who's been watching girls watch those windows for longer than you've been alive." She stuck out a perfectly manicured hand. "I'm Ruby."

I shook it, noting the size of the rock on her ring finger. The diamond was the size of a small planet, the kind of stone that had its own gravitational pull. "Valerie."

"I know." Her smile was knowing but not unkind. "Word gets around. You're Elvis's girl."

The label stung like chlorine in an open cut. "I wouldn't say that."

"Honey, in this town, you're either somebody's girl or you're nobody at all." Ruby settled onto the lounger next to mine like we were old friends, her movements graceful despite the skintight swimsuit. A heavy gold anklet caught the light as she crossed her legs. "And trust me – being Elvis's girl is about as somebody as it gets."

I wanted to protest, to say I wasn't "Elvis's girl" or anybody's girl but my own. That I was a singer in my own right, that I'd come to Vegas to audition for Sinatra, that I hadn't planned any of this. Instead, I found myself asking, "So whose girl are you?"

"Carl's." She held up her left hand, letting that massive diamond catch the sun. The stone threw rainbow prisms across the concrete. "He owns three casinos and a piece of the Strip. But between you and me?" She leaned closer, voice dropping to a stage whisper. Her perfume was exquisite, something French that probably cost a pretty penny. "The ring's just for show. His wife's got the real claim."

My cheeks burned. "Oh."

"Don't look so scandalized, hon. That's just how it goes in Vegas." Ruby lit a cigarette with practiced elegance, the gold lighter making a satisfying snap. "The wives stay home with their dignity and their diamonds, and we get the fun parts." She studied my face with eyes that had seen too much. The mascara around them was perfect, not a smudge despite the heat. "But you're new to this, aren't you? Still got that fresh-off-the-bus shine."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who's been around the block a few hundred times." She blew a perfect smoke ring. The gesture was pure Hollywood, like something Lauren Bacall would do. "Let me guess – he's different with you? Shows you his sensitive side? Makes you feel like you're the only girl who really understands him?"

Each word felt like a papercut. "You don't know him."

"Honey, I was playing this game when you were still in pigtails. Men like him? They're all the same when you strip away the shine." She patted my hand with motherly concern. Her nails were the exact shade of red as her hair. "The only difference is, yours happens to be famous."

Ruby took another long drag of her cigarette, watching the smoke curl up into the desert air. A plane passed overhead, so low I could make out the airline logo. Another load of dreamers coming to try their luck. "You know what the funny thing is? I used to be you. Years ago, I was just like you. Sitting in some out-of-the-way restaurant and waiting."

That got my attention. "You and Elvis...?"

She laughed, rich and deep. "Oh God, no. I'm talking about Johnny Roselli. Big shot with the mob back then." Her eyes went distant, seeing something beyond the pool, beyond the present. "He used to give me all the lines. Used to tell me I was different from all the other girls. Special. Used to read me poetry, if you can believe it. Ha! Johnny Roselli, who'd ordered more hits than I've had hot dinners, reading me Keats by candlelight."

"What happened?"

"Same thing that always happens, sweetheart. The wife showed up." Ruby's lips curved in a bitter smile. The lipstick was perfect, not a smear despite the cigarette. "Caught us in bed together. Instead of raising hell like I expected, she just looked at me with these tired eyes and said, 'Honey, you can keep him. I've got the house, the cars, and the bank accounts.'"

I swallowed hard. "And did you? Keep him?"

"For a while." She shrugged, elegant even in defeat. "Then one day I realized I was just keeping his bed warm until the next young thing came along. That's how it goes with men like that – they burn through women like cigarettes, always chasing that first sweet drag."

My throat felt tight. "Elvis isn't like that."

"No?" Ruby's eyebrow arched. "Then why are you down here by the pool instead of up in that suite?"

I didn't have an answer for that.

"Look." Ruby crushed out her cigarette with precise movements. "I'm not trying to rain on your parade. Maybe Elvis is different. Maybe you're the one who's gonna tame him, make him leave his wife, ride off into the sunset." Her eyes softened. "But baby girl, I've been watching this show longer than you've been alive, and it always ends the same way."

"How's that?"

"With some pretty young thing sitting by this pool, watching those windows, wondering why he doesn't call anymore." She stood, adjusting her swimsuit with practiced grace. "Just remember something – in this town, there's wives and there's girls. The wives get the houses and the bank accounts. The girls?" She gestured at herself, at the pool, at the whole glittering facade of Vegas. "We get the stories."

I watched her walk away, her heels clicking against the concrete, her movements still showgirl-perfect despite the years. Her words settled in my stomach like lead weights. Part of me wanted to run after her, to demand more details, more warnings, more of whatever bitter wisdom she'd gleaned from her years in this neon paradise. But a bigger part of me wanted to pretend I'd never heard any of it.

That night, sleep wouldn't come. I lay in my too-big bed, watching the Strip's lights paint patterns on my ceiling, thinking about Ruby's words. About wives and girls, about stories and bank accounts, about men who burn through women like cigarettes.

But the next day, something changed.

Elvis called early, his voice rough with sleep or maybe pills. "Come up," he said. "Want to show you something."

I found him in his suite, surrounded by books. They were everywhere – spread across the coffee table, stacked on the floor, balanced precariously on the arm of the sofa. He sat cross-legged in the middle of it all, still in his robe, hair curling naturally at his temples.

"Look at this," he said without preamble, holding up a book about ancient Egyptian medicine. "They had brain surgery techniques we're just now figuring out. Three thousand years ago, Val. Can you believe that?"

And just like that, I started seeing a different side of him. Over the next few days, then weeks, a pattern emerged. After his shows, when the adrenaline was still coursing through him, he'd read to me from whatever had captured his interest – quantum physics, philosophy, religion. His mind was hungry for everything, consuming knowledge like others might take pills.

Speaking of pills... I noticed them more now, but differently. Not just as something he took, but as part of the machinery that kept Elvis Presley running. Uppers for the shows, downers for sleep, something in between for the rest. Dr. Nick came like a pharmaceutical Santa Claus. His black bag held rainbow promises.

"Just to keep the edge off," Elvis would say. But his hands shook until he took them.

The good days were like something out of a dream. One afternoon, he taught me to float in his private pool, his hands steady under my back as I learned to trust the water. Another night, he spent hours showing me some new chord progressions on his guitar, patient as a schoolteacher even when my fingers fumbled.

"That's it, baby," he'd say, his voice warm with encouragement. "You're getting it."

But there were darker moments too. I watched him snap at Red over some minor security issue, his voice going sharp as a razor. "Goddamn it, don't you know how to do your job?" The pills swung his moods like a pendulum. Brilliant then distant. Warm then cold.

The conversation that shattered my carefully constructed understanding of Elvis happened at the International's service bar – the one where staff gathered after their shifts. I'd gone looking for Joe to discuss dinner plans, but instead found myself frozen behind a pillar, listening to two cocktail waitresses who'd clearly just finished their shifts.

“I still can't believe it happened," the blonde one was saying, stirring her drink. Her name tag read 'Mandy.' "I mean, it's ELVIS."

"When?" Her friend – Kelly, according to her name tag – was practically vibrating with excitement "I need every detail. And don't leave anything out."

"Two nights ago. After the late show." Mandy's voice went low but not low enough. "You know how he sends that guy Red down sometimes? For girls?"

My stomach lurched. Two nights ago. When he'd canceled our plans because of "exhaustion."

"Jenny got the same invitation last week," Kelly said. "Said he was weird."

"Weird how?"

"Well," Kelly glanced around conspiratorially, "she said he was kind of rough. Distracted. Like his mind was somewhere else entirely. Kept asking her to..." She whispered something I couldn't hear, but Mandy's eyes went wide.

"No way! With me, he was so sweet. Like, not at all what you'd expect from someone famous." Mandy took a long sip of her drink. She liked having an audience. "He asked if I wanted to see his book collection, if you can believe it. Has all these books about spirituality and UFOs..." She snickered, rolling her eyes. "I mean, who knew Elvis was such a nerd?"

My chest tightened painfully. Those books weren't just possessions – they were his sanctuary. I'd spent hours with him, curled up on his suite's sofa, listening to him talk about all sorts of things with such genuine wonder in his voice. The way these women were laughing about it, treating his deepest interests like some quirky punchline... it made me sick.

"Eugh, forget the books," Kelly feigned dry heaving. "What was it like?"

"Gentle. Really gentle. He kept asking if I was okay. Called me 'baby' in that voice."

“The stage voice?”

"Exactly. And his hands..." Mandy fanned herself. "God, those hands."

"And?" Kelly moved her eyebrows. "You know. Is he...?"

"The jumpsuit doesn't lie." Mandy giggled. "But it wasn't just that. He was there. Really there. Like I was the only girl in the world."

Each word cut deeper. I had seen that focus. Had felt special because of it. Now I knew how many others had felt the same.

"Did he finish?" Kelly whispered.

"Kelly!"

"Everyone wants to know if Elvis Presley can perform."

"Trust me." Mandy smiled big. "Everything works fine. Multiple times fine."

"Will you see him again?"

"Probably not. I'm no dummy. I know there are others." Mandy shrugged. "But for that one night..."

"Did he give you anything?"

"No. But who cares? The story alone is worth it."

They dissolved into giggles, and something in me shattered. It wasn't just jealousy – though God knows that burned through me like acid. It was deeper than that. They were taking his most private moments, his vulnerabilities, his secrets, and turning them into cheap entertainment. The way they spoke about him, like he was some carnival attraction instead of a human being... my heart broke for him. My stomach roiled, and I felt a deep swell of protectiveness rising in my chest. It took everything I had not to tell them off.

I couldn't take another second.

Joe would have to wait. I ran to the elevator, jabbing the button repeatedly as tears began to blur my vision. Tears came. In the mirrored walls I saw myself: mascara ran black. Lipstick smeared where I had pressed my hand against my mouth. I looked like all the other girls who had cried over Elvis Presley. But they did not understand. They could not understand.

In my room, I ran a bath so hot it turned my skin angry pink, as if I could somehow scald away what I'd heard. The steam rose around me as I hugged my knees to my chest, trying to make sense of it all. Ruby's words echoed in my head: "The wives get the houses and bank accounts. The girls get the stories."

As I sat there, watching the water ripple with my shuddering breaths, something shifted inside me. The raw hurt began to crystallize into something else – understanding, maybe. Or resignation. This was who he was. Who he had to be. Elvis Presley was not just a man. He was something else. He was a need that lived in thousands of women's hearts.

Later, I sat by the window watching the Strip come alive with neon. Maybe loving Elvis meant accepting all of it – the public and private, the saint and sinner, the man and the myth. Maybe it meant understanding that his body belonged to the world in some way, just like his voice did.

But his heart... that was a different matter entirely. And the real question wasn't whether he slept with other women. The real question was why he hadn't slept with me.

The answer came three nights later, at one of Elvis's infamous suite parties. The night was winding down, most of the guests gone, leaving just the inner circle sprawled across various pieces of furniture. Elvis had disappeared into his bedroom with a headache – or more likely, to take whatever pills Dr. Nick had prescribed for headaches.

I was out on the balcony, watching the Strip's neon battle the stars, when Jerry stumbled out for some air. He was one of the youngest of the Memphis Mafia, closer to my age, and the champagne had clearly hit him hard.

"You're different, you know that?" he said, slumping against the railing.

"Different how?"

"From the other girls. The ones he..." Jerry hiccupped, waving his hand vaguely. "You know."

"The ones he sleeps with?" The words came out sharper than I intended, the conversation from the bar still raw in my mind.

"See, that's just it." Jerry turned to face me, swaying slightly. "He doesn't. Not with you."

"What?"

"Boss has rules. Things he won't do." The words slurred together. "Joe says - shit, I'm not supposed to tell you this - Joe says when boss really likes a girl, when he really cares? He waits. Says it has to be..." He squinted, trying to remember. "Special. Real. Not just a Vegas thing."

My heart moved strange. "Jer-"

"Makes sense, right?" He nodded and almost fell. "Can't make love to someone you might actually love. Too scary. Might make it real."

"Who might make what real?" Joe's voice came from the doorway, sharp with warning.

Jerry went white. "I was just-"

"Getting water and going to bed." Joe took Jerry's arm. He moved him inside. But he looked at me first. The look said sorry. It said something else too. Maybe understanding.

I stayed on the balcony, letting the warm night air wash over me as I processed this new information. Below, a group of women were entering the hotel, probably hoping to catch one of Elvis’ shows.I thought about Mandy. About Ruby by the pool. About all the women who had shared Elvis's bed but maybe never had his heart.

The door opened behind me. Joe had returned, carrying a bottle of something amber.

"Jerry talks too much when he drinks," Joe said. He handed me a glass. "But he isn't wrong."

"About?"

"The boss." Joe leaned on the rail. He looked at the city. "He's built walls. The girls, the shows, the whole Elvis Presley thing - it's armor. Keeps people back."

I took a sip of what turned out to be very good bourbon. "And the ones he lets get close?"

"Those scare him most." Joe looked at me sideways. "Never seen him like this. The way he talks about you. The way he lights up. The way he holds back."

"Because he wants it special?" The skepticism came through.

"Because he wants it true." Joe finished his drink. "Truth isn't something Elvis Presley gets much of."

We stood in silence for a moment, letting the distant sound of slot machines and traffic wash over us. Finally, Joe spoke again.

"Look, what Jer said... the boss wouldn't want—"

"I know." I managed a smile. "Don't worry. I'm good at keeping secrets."

"Yeah," Joe said softly. "I bet you are."

When I finally went back to my room that night, I found myself looking at my reflection differently. Not as one of Elvis' girls, not as a conquest or a groupie or whatever Mandy and her friend were. But maybe as something scarier – someone who might actually matter.

The next morning, Elvis called early. His voice had a hint of mischief..

"Come up," he said. "Want to show you something."

I found him in his suite's sitting room, surrounded by books as usual. He was still in his robe, hair curling naturally at his temples, reading glasses perched on his nose – a detail his public never saw. The morning sun caught the gold JB monogram on his pocket, a reminder of how even his aliases got the royal treatment.

"Look at this," he said without preamble, holding up a book. "Did you know the ancient Egyptians had a whole ceremony just for feeding the soul? Not the body – the soul."

But something had shifted in how I saw him. Knowing what I knew now – about Mandy, about his rules, about what it meant when he didn't take a woman to bed – I noticed things differently. The way he kept a careful distance between us on the sofa. How his hand would find mine, then retreat. The constant dance of advance and withdrawal, like he was fighting himself.

"You're thinking real loud over there," he said. He did not look up.

"Just wondering something."

"Mm?"

"Why me?"

That made him look up. Those impossibly blue eyes hit mine. "What do you mean?"

"Why am I different?" I tried to keep my voice casual. "From the other girls who come up here."

His face went still. For a moment I thought he would hide behind the Elvis smile. Instead he took off his glasses.

"Because you see me," he said finally.

"You mean the guy who reads about Egyptian souls at eleven in the morning?"

"I mean the one who's scared to death of how much he wants you."

The words hung there. My heart did that familiar jump-skip-hop.

"Elvis—"

"Don't." He stood abruptly, started pacing. "Don't make me talk about it. Please."

I watched him move, all that nervous energy seeking escape. The sunlight caught the tremor in his hands – time for his morning pills soon. But he was fighting it, I realized. Trying to stay clear, at least for this moment.

"You know about the others," he said suddenly. "Don't you?"

"Yes."

"And you're still here."

"Yes."

He stopped pacing, looked at me like I was a puzzle he couldn't solve. "Why?"

I thought about Mandy's giggles, about Ruby's warnings, about Jerry’s drunken revelations. About all the pieces of Elvis Presley that different people got to see.

"Because I want all of you," I said, cursing myself internally. "The good and the bad. The public and private. The pills and the prayers. The other women and the lonely nights. All of it."

He moved then, crossed the room in three long strides, and pulled me up into a kiss that felt like drowning. His hands framed my face like I was something precious, something that might break. Or maybe something that might break him.

When he pulled back, his breathing was ragged. "Val—"

"I know," I whispered. "Not yet."

The relief in his eyes made my chest ache. He pressed his forehead to mine, just breathing.

"Stay," he murmured. "Just... stay here with me. We can read about Egyptian souls."

So I did. We spent the morning on his sofa, my head in his lap while he read aloud, his free hand playing with my hair. Every now and then he'd stop to share a thought, to make connections between ancient wisdom and modern life. His mind worked like that – always linking things, seeing patterns.

Dr. Nick came by around one with his little black bag of rainbow solutions. I pretended not to notice how Elvis' hands steadied after whatever he took. Just like I pretended not to notice the women who came up to his shows at night, the ones who looked at him like he was salvation in a jumpsuit.

Because now I understood – those women got Elvis Presley, the fantasy, the one-night story they'd tell forever. But I got this: quiet mornings with books, philosophical discussions at 3 AM, the man behind the myth who was terrified of being truly seen. The man with the full bellied laugh and the heart of gold. And yes, the man with his occasional demons.

The Tom Jones situation started innocently enough, though in Vegas, nothing stays innocent for long. He was performing at the Landmark's Crown Room, just down the Strip from the International. The Landmark itself was newer than our hotel, its tower shaped like a space needle. Vegas trying again to stab the sky.

I'd mentioned casually to Joe that I'd never seen Tom perform. After three weeks of watching Elvis's world from the inside, I was curious about how other stars navigated the Vegas circus. It seemed safe enough – just another night of research for my ongoing study of entertainment anthropology, as I'd started thinking of it.

"You should go," Joe said. He checked Elvis's schedule. "Boss has dinner with hotel executives tonight. Paradise Properties people." He looked up. "Tom's good people. I'll call over. Get you a table up front."

I shouldn't have gone. Should have remembered that in Vegas, gossip travels faster than light, bouncing from casino to casino like a pinball made of whispers. But after weeks of watching Elvis perform, of seeing how he handled his public persona, I was curious about how another star managed the same dance.

The Crown Room was smaller than the International's showroom, more intimate. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow patterns across white tablecloths, and the stage was close enough to see the performers' expressions without the need for binoculars. The maitre d' led me to a prime table. Joe’s doing. A waiter appeared immediately with champagne "courtesy of Mr. Jones."

I studied the room with my newly developed eye for Vegas dynamics. The wealthy couples in their jewels and dinner jackets, the casino regulars with their sharp eyes and sharper suits, the inevitable scattering of beautiful women dining alone – all of them arranging themselves in the complex hierarchy of a Vegas showroom.

Tom's voice filled the space like warm brandy when he started singing. He worked the room differently than Elvis did. Where Elvis was all controlled sexuality and dangerous charm, Tom was pure joy – a man who genuinely seemed to love what he was doing. During "It's Not Unusual," he caught my eye and winked.

The anthropologist in me noted how similar yet different it was from Elvis's stage moves, filed it away for later analysis.

Near the end of his set, he told a story about first meeting Elvis in '65 at Paramount Studios in Los Angeles. "There I was, this boy from Wales, and in walks Elvis Presley himself," Tom said, his voice rich with remembered awe. "And you know what the first thing he said to me was? He started singing 'With These Hands' – one of my songs! Knew all the words, he did."

The audience ate it up – everyone loves a story about the King – but I was struck by how the anecdote showed a different Elvis than the one the public usually saw. My Elvis, the one who remembered details. Who paid attention. Who loved what he loved without shame.

When the show ended, one of Tom's people appeared at my table. A sleek man in a sharp suit who introduced himself as Mark.

"Mr. Jones would love it if you'd join him for a drink," he said. "He's friends with Elvis, and we've heard so much about you."

That should have been my first warning. We've heard so much about you. In Vegas, being noticed means being talked about, and being talked about means trouble.

But three weeks of watching Elvis's world, of understanding the complex dance of power and celebrity in this town, had made me bolder. More secure, maybe. After all, I was the one who knew Elvis's real laugh, who'd seen him without his armor of rings and necklaces, who knew how he liked his bacon cooked (extremely crispy, thank you very much).

The private lounge was dark wood and leather. London club, not Vegas flash. Tom Jones in person was different than his stage persona. Smaller somehow, but with an energy that made the room feel electric. He greeted me in that rich Welsh accent, ordering whiskey for himself and asking what I'd like.

"Just a tonic water with lemon, thanks."

"Elvis tells me you're a singer," he said, settling into a leather armchair. Up close, his chest hair seemed to have its own zip code. "He mentioned you're from Chicago," Tom continued, studying me with genuine interest. "Said you've got quite a voice."

That surprised me – the idea of Elvis talking about me to other performers. "Nothing as glamorous as all this," I said. "Just playing dive bars, really."

"Ah, but that's where the real music happens, isn't it?" Tom leaned forward. "You know, first time I met Elvis, I was nervous as hell. This was '65, at Paramount. I'd just done a screen test, was sitting in the commissary feeling sorry for myself because it hadn't gone well. In walks Elvis Presley himself."

"You mentioned that story on stage," I said.

"That was the public version." He smiled. "The real version... well, I was so starstruck I nearly choked on my coffee. But Elvis, he just sat down like we were old mates. Started talking about music, about growing up poor, about how strange Hollywood felt sometimes. Real normal things, you know? Not the usual showbiz chat."

I did know.

As Tom shared stories about Elvis, I found myself relaxing. He had a way of making you feel like an old friend, and his genuine affection for Elvis was obvious in every anecdote.

"He's different than people expect," I said carefully, after Tom finished a story about Elvis sending him birthday gifts three years running.

"That he is. Bright as hell, for one thing. Most people don't know that about him." Tom studied me over his whiskey. "But you do, don't you?"

Before I could answer, one of the waitresses appeared. She was young, blonde, exactly the type both men on stage would flirt with. But her eyes were all business. "Mr. Jones? Elvis Presley is here."

The air in the room shifted subtly. Tom set down his whiskey. "Well, send him in! Haven't seen him properly in ages."

The door opened, and my heart stuttered in my chest. Elvis stood in the threshold, a vision in an oxblood dinner suit that made his shoulders look impossibly broad, the fabric catching the low light like liquid garnets. His hair was still perfectly coiffed despite the late hour, black as midnight and gleaming, though a single rebellious strand had broken free to curl against his forehead. The crisp white shirt beneath the suit practically glowed against his tanned skin, and his gold TCB necklace caught the light as he breathed.

Red and Sonny flanked him like sentries in their matching black suits, their faces carefully blank, but I barely registered them. All I could see was Elvis – the controlled set of his jaw, the slight flare of his nostrils, the way his signet rings caught the light as his fingers flexed almost imperceptibly at his sides. His expression was a masterpiece of restraint, but I'd learned to read the tiny tells that betrayed his real emotions: the slight tightening around his eyes, the almost invisible tension in his upper lip, the way his chest rose and fell just a fraction too quickly.

My body reacted to his presence before my mind could catch up. My mouth went dry, and I felt heat bloom across my chest and up my neck. I shifted in my seat, hyper-aware of how close I was sitting to Tom, of the half-empty drinks on the table between us, of how this must look. The tonic water I'd drunk earlier turned sour in my stomach.

"Well, what do we have here?" His voice was warm honey, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes as he took in the scene – me sitting close to Tom, the intimate lighting, the half-empty drinks between us.

"Elvis!" Tom stood, extending his hand with genuine pleasure. "Brother, we were just talking about you!"

"That so?" Elvis's smile was perfectly crafted as he crossed the room, taking Tom's hand in a friendly grip. "All good things, I hope?" The question had steel under silk.

"The best," Tom assured him. "Was just telling Valerie about Paramount in '65."

"Ah, the commissary story." Elvis settled into the chair between us with fluid grace, accepting a Gatorade from the waitress. His eyes found mine, holding them a beat too long. "You seem to be making quite the evening of it, baby. First the show, now a private audience?"

There was nothing accusatory in his tone – he was too skilled at this game for that – but I felt the weight of the question. My cheeks warmed. "Joe mentioned Tom was performing..."

"Did he now?" Elvis's laugh was genuine enough that only someone who knew him well would catch the slight strain. "Seems like Joe's been mighty helpful tonight. Makes me wonder if I should give him a raise." He turned to Tom, all easy charm. "She's something else, isn't she? Sharp as a tack. Always watching, always learning."

Tom nodded enthusiastically. "We were just discussing music, actually. Valerie was telling me about Chicago—"

"The dive bars," Elvis interrupted smoothly, his eyes never leaving my face. "Quite a jump, isn't it, baby? From those little clubs to private meetings with stars?" The question hung in the air.

"Elvis," I started, but he waved it away with a casual gesture.

He waved it away. "Just curious, darlin'. About what brings a girl like you here." His smile stayed gentle. His eyes stayed hard. "When she knows I'm having dinner with executives. When she knows how people talk in this town."

Tom shifted uncomfortably, picking up on the undercurrents. "Elvis, mate, this was all very innocent—"

"Oh, I'm sure it was," Elvis agreed readily, but his fingers tapped a restless rhythm on his armrest. "Tom's always been a gentleman. Haven't you, Tom?" He turned those blue eyes on his friend. "Always so careful with other people's... interests."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Tom cleared his throat. "Maybe I should—"

"No, no," Elvis said, still maintaining that perfect social smile. "Stay. Tell me more about what you and my girl have been discussing. I'm fascinated to hear what insights she's been sharing about me."

I felt heat creep up my neck. "Elvis, we were just—"

"Talking?" His voice was soft. "Everyone's always just talking in Vegas, baby. That's what makes it so interesting, don't you think? All these conversations happening behind closed doors..."

The fear finally showed itself then – not in anger, but in the way his hand trembled slightly as he lifted his drink, in the tightness around his mouth. I saw it clearly: his terror of losing something real, something that belonged just to him.

"I should go," Tom said quietly, reading the room. "Early show tomorrow."

Elvis stood with him, all Southern courtesy now. "Always good to see you, Tom. Give my best to Linda."

After Tom left, Elvis turned to me, and for the first time, I saw the hurt beneath his perfect control. "You want to tell me what you're really doing here?"

The drive back to the International was torture. Elvis stared straight ahead, his knuckles white on the steering wheel of his latest Cadillac. I could feel the anger radiating off him in waves. Red and Sonny followed in another car, their headlights steady in the rearview mirror.

"You know," he finally said, his voice soft, "there are easier ways to hurt me than this."

"You didn't have to do that," I finally said. "Tom was being nice."

"Tom's always nice," Elvis said flatly. "Everybody in this town is nice. Right up until they take what they want."

"Is that what you think happened? That he was trying to take something from you?"

His jaw worked. "I think everybody wants something from me. Thought you were different."

The words hit like a slap. "I am different."

"Are you?" He finally looked at me, and the pain in his eyes made my chest ache. "Then why'd you need a private show from him?"

I didn't have an answer. Not one he'd believe, anyway.

The Strip stretched out before us like a river of neon, but neither of us was seeing it. The silence in the car was thick enough to choke on.

"Elvis—"

"Don't." His voice was tight. "Just... give me a minute."

But I was done giving him minutes. Done being understanding. The anger that had been building since hearing Mandy's story, compressed under layers of anthropological observation, suddenly burst free.

"No," I said. "No more minutes. No more silence. You want to tell me what that caveman display was really about?"

His head snapped toward me. "Caveman display?"

"You practically dragged me out of there by my hair! In front of everyone—"

"Everyone?" He barked out a laugh. "You mean in front of Tom Jones? In front of the man you were getting so cozy with—"

"Oh, that's rich coming from you." I was almost shouting now. "How many women have you gotten 'cozy' with this month? Should we ask Mandy from cocktails? Or maybe Jenny?"

Elvis went still. "What did you say?"

"You heard me. Mandy. Pretty blonde. Loves to talk about her night with Elvis Presley. About how sweet you were. How gentle. How everything works juuuust fiiiine." My voice got high and hard. "Multiple times fine, she said."

"Val—"

"Let me finish. Here's what I can't figure out. You'll fuck some random waitress but won't touch me. You'll give half of Vegas a piece of you, but treat me like glass. You'll throw a fit if I drink with a man I don't want, but you push me away when I want to make love. So what is it? What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing's wrong with you!" Now he was shouting too. "That's the whole damn problem!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means those other women don't matter!" His fist slammed against the steering wheel. "It means they're not real! They get what they want – a night with Elvis Presley, a story to tell their friends. And I get..." He ran a shaking hand through his hair. "I get to feel something. Anything. For just a little while."

"And what do I get?" My voice cracked. "To sit in my room knowing you're with them? To listen to them brag about it in bars?"

"You get the real me!" He turned to face me fully, eyes wild. "The mess, the pills, the insomnia, the fear – you get all of it. And I get to wonder every damn day when you're going to realize it's not enough. When you're going to want the ELVISthey all come for."

"I don't want that guy!" The words echoed in the garage. "I want you. The man who reads numerology books and eats hamburgers at 2 am. Who knows more about ancient Egypt than my college professors. Who's so fucking scared of being open and honest with someone that he hides behind pills and women and that goddamn Elvis Presley smile!"

"You think I'm hiding?" His laugh was ugly. "You want real? Fine. I'm terrified of you. Terrified of how much I want you. Terrified that if I let myself have you – really have you – I won't be able to do this anymore. To be what everyone needs me to be."

"So instead you fuck cocktail waitresses?"

"Yes!" He slammed his hands against the wheel. "Once in a while I just need a little different stimulation! Different company . . . that’s all! That doesn’t mean I’m falling in love with anybody else! That doesn’t mean jack shit! I start feeling stifled when I can’t have a little interaction in the outside world! Because with them it's just sex, but with you..." He broke off, breathing hard.

"With me what?" I asked quietly.

"With you, it would mean something. Everything." His hands were shaking badly now. I watched him reach into his pocket, probably for pills, then stop himself. "You think it's easy? You think I know how to turn it off? Everyone wants a piece of Elvis. The Colonel, the fans, the girls – they all want something."

"I want you, you idiot!" The words hung in the air between us. "Not the jumpsuit or the voice or the legend. You. The man who reads about parallel universes because this one feels too heavy sometimes. The man who's sitting in this car right now, shaking because he needs his pills but is trying not to take them in front of me."

Elvis made a sound like I'd punched him. "Val—"

"Back in Chicago," I said softly, "I teach music at this little community center in Rogers Park. Three nights a week. Kids who couldn't afford regular lessons. There's this one girl, Maria... couldn't carry a tune when she started. Now she's getting ready for her first recital."

"You never told me that."

"You never asked." I met his eyes. "Maybe someday I'll have to give it up because of... all this. But for now, I need to keep that part of myself. Need to be more than just your girl."

"And Priscilla?" I asked after a moment. "Where does she fit in all this?"

Elvis leaned back in his seat, suddenly looking exhausted. "We were so young when we met. She was just a kid, really. And I... I thought I knew what love was supposed to look like."

"Do you still love her?"

"I'll always love her." His honesty surprised me. "But we don't... we're not in love anymore. Haven't been for a while. She's dating someone in California. Makes her happy, I think. Real happy, not the kind we've been pretending at."

"And that doesn't make you angry?"

"Should it? We've both been pretending so long, maybe it's a relief to finally be honest." He turned back to me. "That's what scares me about you, Val. You make me want to be honest. Really honest. Not just about Cilla, but about everything."

"Is that such a bad thing?"

"It is when you've built your whole life on being what other people need you to be."

We sat in silence for a moment, the garage's fluorescent lights humming overhead.

"My residency's almost up," he said finally. "Five more shows. Come back to Memphis with me."

I looked at him closely. Past the dinner jacket and carefully styled hair, past both the star and the scared boy, to the lonely man underneath it all.

"If I do," I said carefully, "things have to be different. I wear what I buy with my own money. I live where I choose to live. I keep teaching. I'm not trying to change you, Elvis. The pills, the women – that's part of who you are right now. Part of what you need to be Elvis Presley. But I need you not to try to change me either."

"You'd really be okay with... with all of it?" His voice cracked slightly.

"I'd rather have you honest than perfect. The question is, can you handle me being honest with you?"

His thumb traced circles on my wrist. "Everyone's always trying to control a piece of me. And here you are, saying the only way to keep me is to not try to keep me at all."

"Because the moment you try to someone in a cage – even a gold one – is the moment you lose them."

Something shifted in his eyes then, but I caught the flicker of his need to possess, to control, quickly hidden but unmistakable. Like he was already thinking about how to keep me while pretending not to try.

He pulled me to him suddenly, kissed me with a desperate tenderness that made my chest ache. When he pulled back, his eyes were darker but clearer than I'd seen them in a while.

"Five more shows," he said. "Then Memphis."

"Then Memphis," I agreed. "On my terms."

"On your terms," he echoed, and I could hear in his voice both the sincere desire to mean it and the subtle undertone that suggested he was already thinking of ways around it.

The spell broke when his tremors got worse. I watched him reach for the pill bottle in his pocket, no longer trying to hide it. That was new, at least – this small honesty between us.

"You should get some rest," I said, watching him dry-swallow two tablets. "Early show tomorrow."

"Come up?" When he saw my expression, he added quickly, "Just to sleep."

"Not tonight," I said gently. "I think we both need to sit with everything we just said."

As I walked to the elevator, I could feel him watching me. Could almost hear the gears turning in his mind, trying to figure out how to give me freedom while keeping me safe. How to let me be myself while still being Elvis Presley, who needed to control his world to survive in it.

The elevator doors opened, and I stepped in. Just before they closed, I caught one last glimpse of him in the Cadillac – his head bowed, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, looking both more real and more lonely than any man surrounded by admirers had a right to.

Five more shows.

Then Memphis.

Then reality.

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