#as the other was a deactivated link

[aconflagrationofmyown]

Ten Minutes -

A Sarge and lil Mama fic

Summary: Elvis just might get jealous of his children, the stove, the ironing board and anything else that has your attention one hectic morning before he has to go to the Army Base

Warnings: 18+- Pregnant sex, housewife kink, cum dumping, tiny bit of 60’s style degradation, people knowing you’re going back in the house for this?! free use if you squint, dry humping a frozen pea package

Pairings: Army Elvis x wife!reader

Universe: Sarge & lil Mama

Circa 1958

“Lil darlin’, I-I’m sorry but I -not even your pancakes are distraction’ me this mornin.”

You paused, baby spoon of apple sauce half lifted to Ella’s tiny mouth and a wad of sausage stuck in your own cheek, to meet your husband’s glassy eyes. You were startled, not by what he said, but by the fact that since you had last glanced at him he had morphed, his face was now flushed, lips slack and eyes swimming -he looked so close to finishing just sitting here squirming at breakfast that you feel a tingle of shock rip through you at the sight.

Some mornings are nice and intimate, some mornings are rushed but satisfying, few morning are luxurious due to his need to be at the base early, but occasionally there are mornings like this one -where the babies didn’t sleep for you during the night, he didn’t sleep well either and every second of your waking hours this dawn is spent getting him ready for the day and preparing for the horde of relations and fans bound to flood in as soon as he returns this evening. It’s not ideal and you weren’t unaware of his longing looks but after his initial declining of your offer to have you while you changed the babies’ nappies -well, you had assumed he was too tired to want it that much.

But Elvis Presley, for all his raw need and traditional entitlement to your “yittle cunt” was a caring young man, he saw you worked off your feet and the way you were breastfeeding a baby while flipping pancakes and he knew that it was a bad time, all morning it had been a bad time. And he really tried to tell himself he could go one single morning without release. He had broken a pill addiction, he’d sweated it out and gone manic in the nights and still showed up for duty, surely, surely he could leave for once without being buried inside you.

But watching you capably swivel around your duties, swollen belly lush beneath your apron and pair of heels on, breast hanging out of your dress as his clueless child got to suck on those gorgeous nipples of yours, minutes ticking by and his ride to base about to arrive…he had gripped his fork harder and tried not to let it bother him that you seemed fine about being left empty for the morning. He had told you he’d be fine, he ought to have been fine.

But the babies were getting your attention, the stove was getting your attention, hell!- his ironed slacks got your attention but he was left to scarf down pancakes without so much much as a momentary brush of contact. Lack of sleep was making him testy, then testy turned nearly weepy as his deadline drew near.

You looked so soft and nurturing in your little domain that the once small interest his cock took in the proceedings had grown exponentially, watching you lean over the table with your generous bust displayed as you poured him orange juice and flashed him sleepy smiles, asking him about what he had planned for the day -as if he wasn’t struck mute and pussy dumb.

Now the zipper of his slacks was scraping the skin of his retracting

foreskin and he’d take a million sermons from you about the importance of wearing briefs if you would just, -touch him somehow. So he broke, broke down and admitted he couldn’t distract himself enough to prevent him waddling out of here with a flag poll between his legs. So you stared back at him in confusion, trying to decipher his meaning in the half minute allotted you before-

-Just then the sound of a car horn blared outside, his signal to leave, making you both jolt and the friction of it made him whimper, his first thudding against the table causing the babies’ eyes to widen at the sound.

Your eyes scanned from his own glassy ones down beneath the table, to the sizable tent in his khaki pants and you let out a gasp at the way Little Elvis was visibly twitching in fruitless need against his fly, a tiny dark spot forming on the light fabric from his weeping cockhead.

“Oh daddy, you shoulda told me.” you whimpered in sympathy, eyes locking with his burning one’s, apple sauce sliding off the forgotten spoon and down to the table with a splat. “I-it’s time to go, you’ll be late…”

Elvis may be the man of the house, he may have seen to your every want and provision, he may have chosen your haircut and your exercise regimen, but you were commander in chief of mobilizing the troops. If it were not for your punctuality and stern discipline in this regard, the Presley’s would never arrive anywhere within the range of punctuality. He depended on you for this firmness and it was the first true taste of power he gave you in your admittedly imbalanced relationship.

“Oh lord, we gotta get you calmed down!” you wring your hands and his eyes grew wide at your denial of his need and before he could protest, you hopped up from your seat and booked it to the freezer. Pulling out a pack of frozen peas you came back to your astounded man and placed them in his lap, kissing away the hissing cry he let out as the frigid pack landed home on his crotch.

“I’m gonna go out and tell the Major you’ll be in the drive shortly, I’ll buy you time till that little problem calms down, alright?” you were very earnest and grown up right now, kissing his sweaty forehead while holding his chin in your hand and it sunk in for him at that moment that you still craved an escape.

Abashed by the incredulous and almost angry set of his features, you glanced down to his problem and noticed how both his legs bounced beneath his clenched fists, no doubt trying to distract himself but only succeeding at bouncing the veggies against him, adding to the friction.

“Honey,” he said very low and slow, as if trying to impress a fact of life upon, “this ain’t a boo-boo, it ain’t gonna go away like that-“

“I can’t let you be late!” you wailed and his eyes started towards the babies in concern for their witnessing you raise your voice.

“I am not going out there like this-“ he swore, to himself or to you or to the army you didn’t know, but he looked near ready to cry himself, frantic red splashed across his cheeks and throat swallowing thickly.

“I know, I know,” you soothed, glancing towards the door as a more insistent set of blaring came from outside, “just, just try to think about cleaning latrines or diapers or something, Elvis, please! Please, we can’t have you being court martialed over this.”

“It’d be worth it!” he snarls, and you back away from him on instinct, slowly shuffling backwards towards the door to make that obnoxious horn shush, innocent eyes watching as something vicious takes over your husband’s face at your abandonment. As you put a clammy hand on the door handle, signifying your intentions, his lip curls up in cruel derision and you watch horrified as his lithe body undulates off the seat, hips spearing upwards in a calculated pump, the crinkly bag of peas clasped to his crotch. It was obscene and inflammatory and he leers at you cruelly as you fling the front door open, nearly suffocated by the weight of his glare.

“What about the babies?” he hollers after you as you step over the threshold into the early morning sunshine, suddenly outraged and switching tactics at you abandoning your family to stop his commanding officer from walking in on him putting on an unseemly display with a bag of vegetables. -Like you were the villain here.

“They’re strapped into the high chairs, they’ll be fine!” you assure him, trying to keep your voice unaffected by lust and pausing halfway out the door to look back at him, still glowering from his seat at the kitchen table, legs spread wide in the chair, eyes fiery and dark and the front of his pants wet from thawed frost.

Married though you were, your patience taxed though it often was, petulant though he could be, nothing could cloud your appreciation for that sight and the sheer eroticism that glowed from your man when he was revved up. It shimmered around him like an aura of desire and seemed to make his surroundings shrink and tremble from his ravenous energy. You spun away from his hypotonic stare and the suffocating closeness of your little home, shutting the door to block it out before your knees buckled and he got his way.

You swish your way down the short drive to the gate and buzzed it open, allowing the Major and his car to roll on in, a greeting on his tongue and an inquiry as to where his recalcitrant sergeant was.

“He’s coming right out!” you state confidently as he braked near the door, “I’m afraid baby Jesse dumped a bottle in his lap right as you pulled up.” and you laughed gaily as if at a funny memory, and that made the Major laugh too, because you were a pretty woman laughing and it was the polite thing to do.

More polite than unabashedly admiring the way your breasts jiggled from your mirth or how your cheeks seemed flushed and warm, like maybe you’d just been made love to, or embarrassed within an inch of your life. Elvis Presley was a lucky sod and the Major may have envied his younger subordinate but he didn’t dare try anything more than polite chit chat a good four feet apart from you.

It takes all your self possession not to scuff your shoes in a nervous tick as the moments go by and Elvis doesn’t show, his Major eyeing you up and making the most insane small talk all the while, his eyes drifting to the front door.

“Maybe I should go check on him.” you mutter, voice tight in embarrassment and full of nervousness as to what you would find in your kitchen

The Major nods encouragingly and you scamper up the walk and into your house. You haven’t much time to shut the door behind you before you register Elvis’ still sat in his seat and chewing a pancake, it gives you a swooping feeling that whatever is about to occur will be a first in your relationship. You lean back against the door in a slump and take in his cool and powerful demeanor, army jacket still slung over the chairback and tie not fully cinched, and you know for a certainty that somehow you’ve overstepped.

“You scared of me?” he asks, voice low like a rumble and it contrasts with his soft face, such a large voice for so gentle a man. But there is no anger in it, just a demand for truth.

You ponder his question, realising that there were times that you felt anxious around him, a symptom of learning him still while he had studied you for years. But, “No, sir!”, you did not fear him. There was no doubt in your mind that he would never harm you.

“Alright.” he nods, face schooled into neutral pensiveness, “Then dontchu ever run from me again, lil girl. My woman doesn't run from me, am I understood?” he didn’t need to raise his voice to make you, and plenty braver men than you, shudder and nod obediently. “Here’s how this is gonna go,” he eyes the way you clutch your skirt hem in your hands, balling it up nervously and exposing your knees while at it, “you’re gonna go out there and tell the Major I’ll be driving myself. And he’s not to object, you’re to convince him, and then you’re gonna come back inside where you belong and take care of my ‘lil problem’. Ya hearin’ me, mama?”

“I hear ya, daddy.” you whisper, knees knocking briefly just from anticipation and he doesn't fail to notice it, palms the thawed pack over himself while giving you the first genuine grin you’ve seen all morning.

“Go’on now.” he points to the door like you’re a puppy and swallowing thickly around a numb tongue you do as you’re told, you go out again and tell the Major that your husband has suddenly grown an affinity for taking a cab through the German streets to base. That he’ll make up the ten minutes that may put him behind. You offer no excuse, there’s none to give, your flaming face probably says it all. You distract yourself from his scrutiny by the sight of that old busybody neighbor watching your interaction through her binoculars. The Major is concerned that he’s done something to offend and the moments tick by and you grow more and more weary standing in the drive dumbly shrugging off his questions as you feel the babies kicking inside you and your own slick starting to slide down you leg, your well trained kitty already preparing for your husband the second he said he was gonna have you.

The front door swings open causing you both surprise and a very smiley and smarmy Elvis comes to provide reinforcements, just in his pants and shirt, good mornin’ing the Major as you watch his body buzz imperceptibly.

“Where’s the other parts of your uniform, Sergeant Presley?” the Major asks him with amused patience.

“My cover is in the dryer, sir, just ten minutes’all it’ll need.”

“You put a hat in the dryer?”

“Yessir.” he grins whitely, loping his arm around your waist and tugging you closer to him, hand splayed on your lower belly and it’s like he might as well be fingering you, your pussy contracts and jolts so strongly at his touch. “Baby Ella spilled her juice on it.” and he makes a little motion of benevolent exasperation as if to say: babies, who can tame ‘em?

“Mrs. Presley said it was your pants.” the Major wasn’t a stupid man and he liked Elvis well enough to make life a little hard for him.

“Did she now?” your husband exclaimed, “Aww well, no, no uh, it was the hat, alright, she gets a lil fuzzy headed sometimes sir, don’t ya, sweetheart?.”

“Yes Elvis.” you felt like you were spiraling somewhere high in the deep blue yonder with the feel of him pressed against you and his fingertips rubbing suggestive circles on your hipbone.

“Sergeant Presley.” the Major is grave.

“Yessir?”

“Hats are meant to get wet.”

Elvis shuffles behind you a little as he adjusts his grip on your waist and you are certain it is to hide the front of pants. “Yessir, course sir, but, but it’s also ma jacket, sir.”

“Oh no, your jacket!” the Major's face gleams with sympathy, “No soldier should ever have to wear a wet jacket. General Paton said so himself once.”

There is a pause and a eyeing up between the two men over your little head, Elvis now entirely behind you and his chin digging into the top of your scalp as he rests it on your head. You train your eyes at the upstairs window of your neighbors house and the watching figure in it.

“How long will this jacket take to dry?” the Major broke first.

“Fifteen minutes, sir, checked the dial right before I came out.”

“Sure you did.” the Major smiled, “Which means with all this chit chat there’ll only be about five left, am I correct?”

“Ten, sir.”

“Eight.”

Elvis shifts behind you again, “Wearin’ a damp jacket is poor recompense for a fella who bought ya an extra pair of fatigues last month-“ your husband never brought up his own generosity and so to do so suggested he was in dire straits.

“Alright, alright, ten minutes!” the Major throws his hands up and jerks open the car door, seating himself inside, “I’ll be waiting” he adds pointedly as your husband barely manages a salute before shuffling you in front of him back to the door posthaste, hands full of your belly and breast.

“Wave to Mrs. Meyer, lil’, don’t forget your manners, I’ve got my hands full.” Elvis giggles behind you and you wave to her and her binoculars while sticking your tongue out just as he pushes you back over the threshold.

The door clicks behind you both and he sighs at having ten minutes alone with the exaggerated curve of your spine and the feel of your lush bum against his cock -while you survey the mess of apple sauce and sweet potatoes the babies have flung at each other while in your absence, it’s on the walls and maybe the carpet and you’ll have to scrub it before anyone comes over and -and you’re being spun and backed against the entryway wall before you can take another step. He towers over you, hands engulfing your shoulders and thumbs meeting at the base of your throat, and the natural respect he elicits as your husband is magnified by the uniform. The causal dominance that pervades his every action is unbearably strong and you both feel the shudder that rips through you, a slight smirk taking over his face at the effect he has on his little wife.

“Now, we got nine and a half minutes, lil mama,” he nuzzles his nose against yours and his thumbs rub up the column of your throat, “and you best not waste it by making your daddy extract an apology from ya. You better give it willin’ and quick.”

“What’d I do?” you whimper, confused and needy, spreading your legs to accommodate him as he crowds you, trying to trap a meaty thigh between them so you can grind.

“You called poor, achey lil Elvis a problem.” he reminds you, pulling away from you and denying you friction as he undoes the plain army belt from around his elegant waist.

Tears prick your eyes as you realize your good intentions were mistaken for reluctance and you’re quick to gasp out, “I’m so sorry daddy, I didn’t mean it that way, just trying to help!”

He hums as he pulls out his cock, the engorged and vibrant length of it looking particularly lewd sticking out of his drab and pressed uniform, “Don’t need to apologize to daddy, lil mama, I knows what you intended and I appreciate ya,” he murmurs real solem and you wait intently for instructions on how to make this right, “But lil Elvis here needs a kiss for bein’ treated like a damn owie when all he’s ever done to you is fill ya up and rub ya real nice. He gets reeealll weepy and small when you’re mean to him.”

You bend so fast to penitently kiss the goey head of his uncut cock that he has to stumble back a bit to give you room. He cries out as your lips smooch his dripping head and he winds his hand in your hair and yanks you off desperately, pressing you to the wall again and devouring your tacky lips with his own. He pulls away from you panting and wild, looking very boyish again now he’s convinced of your own fever, and without a second thought he grips the front of your dress and rips the fastened placket open, buttons flying everywhere. He groans down at the sight of you in heels with your pantyless cunt exposed, a sign of your obedience to his house rules.

“Turn round now,” his voice is gentle but gone beyond rough as he maneuvers you to lean and face the wall, hands splayed against the dry wall and back arched by instinct, “we ain’t got much time, and while it would serve ya right if I left you clenchin’ round nothin I can’t ever be cruel to the likes of you Mrs Presley, so you best be ready for me.”

“Please, daddy, I’m ready.” you lay your burning cheek against the cool drywall, feeling him flip up the scrap of skirt still left, and you watch out of the corner of your eye as the babies knock the remaining food off their trays.

“Spread those pretty legs, mama.” the toe of his show nudges your instep and you arch and spread further, readying for the burning plunge of his entry.

What you get instead is a resoundingly loud spank against the sopping wet oasis between your legs and it hits just right, pain and pleasure enough for you to shudder and gush through your folds and down your legs to his immense delight.

“Now that’s for being a hypocrite.” he crows and he is suddenly prying something between your stiff fingers and the wall, you realise in a daze it’s his watch. “You count the minutes out to me, alright?” he commands, splaying the hand wet from your cunt across your belly as he does indeed push inside you this time, and it makes you spasm, barely able to hold yourself upright from the feel of him pushing through the fluttering aftershocks of your petite orgasm. The squelch is deafening in the quiet house and it’s all the assurance he needed, his tone cocky as he bottoms out,

“Actin’ like I’m a damn imposition when you’ve got a ‘lil problem’ yourself. And I do mean little, this tiny pussy is a greedy little menace, make no mistake.” he sets a hard and deep pace that is meant to make him burst in under eight minutes, and you take it like he’s taught you to, with deep breaths and moans and a constant irrepressible clenching of your vaginal walls, “Hell, baby, you’re gushin’ so bad I can hardly stay in, why, the Major was liable to smell ya you’re so oiled.”

“I-I-I wanted you!” you wail in protest through the rough smacking of his hips against your butt, “I really did. I-I always do, I-I just d-didn’t want it to reflect badly on you.”

“I know, I know, real sweet of ya.,” he coos in your ear, hot breath tickling your neck as he grunts and huffs from exertion, “But peas baby? Really?”

“I didn’t know-“

“You’d don’t know much of nothin’ but how to take cock.” he chuckles at your answering whine, his large hands wandering ceaselessly over your wobbling curves.

Your legs start to give out from the overstimulation, having hit your peak too soon and now being subjected to a merciless battering of your sweet spot, you mewl out the passing minutes and claw at the wall. Your obvious desperation sends a thrill through him, egging him on through his burning thighs to give you all he’s got before the clock runs out.

“Little problem” he mimics your own voice mockingly in your ear, but it’s huffy as he’s getting worn down too, “little problem. A-a-anything about t-t-this feel little, sweetheart?” he jams himself in deep as you howl, bent at the waist and scratching the paint, head hung between your shoulders as you try to endure the horrifyingly delicious ordeal.

“Elvis, Elvis, Elvis,” you chant, eyes going fuzzy as you stare down at your shoes.

“Almost, honey, almost,” he whines himself, arm coming around your chest and hauling you upright against him, like his own little doll as he mouths at your cheek and ruts up inside you desperately. “Bein’ so good, so good for me, good lil wife like always. Don’t make ‘em like you no more, I got a keeper and, oh Lord Jesus help me I can’t breath, goddamn baby, I -uh, uh uh, huh, uh,”

You throw your arm back and grip his ass, pulling him deep and the drag of him makes you jolt, “C’mon daddy, show me I did good, give me that cream, gonna be raw without it.”

He sounds like he’s choking, burning hand squeezing your bare breast so hard a little milk dribbles out over his knuckles and he bucks up into you deep, so deep and it’s the most blissful feeling being the cause of this complete loss of control on his part as you feel the soothing splatter of his cum paint your walls.

He staggers back into the opposite wall with you still limply impaled, your heels scuffing the floor, and you both pant, his cheek smushed against yours and his hands cradling your full belly. “How’s that now?” he wheezes and you grin at his need to keep the upper hand after the pathetic amount of mewling he just let out, “You all full’n happy now, hmm?”

You nod shyly and take a hand from your belly and guide him down to your dripping foldings and you both hum at the heat coming from the poor abused petals. “Swirl it around daddy,” you remind him, “I’ll get all bruised if you don’t spread it around, ‘member what you taught me?”

“Mhmm, yeah, gotta spread it round, that’s right.” he swirls his exiting spend around your puffy cunt and he gives your little bud one last pat with his broad palm before pulling his cock out fully and picking your boneless body up in his arms.

He lays you on the couch tenderly, eyeing the torn dress falling off your ripe figure, and his heart swells at your sweet acceptance of him, the way you look content and knowing lying there wrecked and oozing. A building little cry from the high chairs snaps him out of his daze, reminding him of the ticking clock and the rest of the world outside of your warm eyes. He bends down and kisses you firmly, a quick but unmistakable show of thanks.

“I’ll get her.” you tell him, making to haul your jellied self off the couch.

“No, no stay, I’ll bring ‘em to ya.” he pushes your shoulder back down softly, trying to wrestle his pant fly closed as he makes his way towards the babies.

“There’s an extra pair of pressed trousers hanging in the laundry room.” you murmur through your tingly haze at the sight of his drenched slacks.

He gives you a grin of his own and shucks off the ruined pants halfway across the kitchen, hobbling with them to the adjoining laundry room, warbling to Ella which predictably makes her hush her crying for a brief moment to watch him pass in infantile astonishment.

“How’m I doin’ mama?” you hear him holler over the sound of the kitchen faucet running, he having stripped the babies of their sweet potato covered onesies and chosen to carry them at arms length to the sink, one by one, and hosing them off there.

“Thirty four seconds, Sarge.”

He appears over the back of the couch, a wet and naked baby in each elbow crook, his shirt sticking to his chest from their dampness, and you laugh at the hopelessness of the Major believing any of your excuses. “Here’s the lil critters.” he plops them on your exposed chest and you clutch them to you as they start to root around for a nipple, never satisfied.

He tugs on his jacket and cinches his tie, smoothing his hair back, hat clutched in his hand and he looks so very presentable striding over to you while you’re here in disarray, covered in children, cum and fabric scraps.

He pauses beside the couch to survey the pile of humans he loves, “Never seen’a prettier sight in all my life.” he whispers earnestly and you know he means it, all teasing gone.

You stretch your hand out to give him his watch back and his fingers linger over yours as he takes, and it thrills you like it’s the first time. “See ya later, soldier.” you whisper against his lips as a car horn blares outside.

[swiftcast-selene]

another artfight attack, olarin's stunning Otto!

[the-oracle-of-the-lost]

my desire to change my url vs the fear of not being recognized with a new url vs the fact that would mean having to update all of the index links i've made on this blog.

[kadoodles-on-ao3]

Artist: berrywizard (Deactivated) Source: Reddit Archives: Reddit Repost | Image

[anti-transphobia]

I do feel bad having a lot of reblogs centering around transmasc issues specifically and not more posts about transfem and nonbinary people, but unfortunately, repulsive lateral violence is the current discourse, which means that a lot of posts made about those issues are said BECAUSE "who is actually the most oppressed" is the current topic of discussion. So even posts that seem normal or even agreeable have language you have to look suspiciously at and when you check op you do in fact find that those posts about transmisogyny are because they got mad trans men are speaking up about the violence they face.

It's very similar to how ace discourse was. Completely normal seeming posts, in the context of a really bad couple of years where saying you're ace/aro publicly even once led to getting anon hate, were actually criticisms of the idea that other people face hardships. Hell, though people scoffed at it when I said it, even completely unrelated FANDOM posts could be clocked as being made by someone whose current fixation is hating on aspec people by the way they keysmashed. Because it wasn't just a discourse, but like a fandom, and fandoms follow quirks and trends and I could read it in a keysmash easily, check their blogs, confirm I was right, and block.

Anyway my point being that the issues, general and more specific, faced by non-transmasc trans people INCLUDING those issues caused by other trans ppl is EXTREMELY important to me, however I just unfortunately don't see a lot of people talking about it in good faith. And hell, me talking about my experiences about how afab trans people have harassed, sexually assaulted, misgendered, body shamed me, and leveraged their agab specifically to harm and exclude me for not being like them is something that I can't talk about without worry of it coming off as "trans men are evil". That's just the current culture. A reasonable worry of a post sounding like thinly veiled transphobia is silencing victims of the thing these transmasc oppression deniers claim to hate.

Anyway I definitely do reblog good posts like that when I see em but I'm really not on Tumblr much anymore

[thelooniemoonie]

Man. I'm only now realizing I havent...updated any of my art stuff in a while huh?

[cxtastroph]

chincho for your dash

link to model used

[veshialles]

do you ever find out someone you've never even met has you blocked like. girl what did i do??

[badolmen]

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Match Me Monday

Ten Dollar Tuesdays

[aconflagrationofmyown]

You go to my head, like a summer with a thousand Julys

A Sarge and lil Mama fic

Summary: THE BEGINNING of the Sarge and lil Mama universe

Warnings: fantasizing about breeding a young woman, masturbation with a stuffed animal, antiquated gender norms, slight grooming (I don’t know what else to call it even though it’s really not that and no one is under age) mentions of parental death, slightly manipulative Elvis, emotional infidelity on Elvis’ part towards his current girlfriends

Circa: 1954-57 due to playing fast and loose with the historical timeline of both Elvis’ basic training and Gladys’ death

Elvis Presley is an affectionate young man, he has a sweetness about him in all his interactions, and while he is famous and you don’t know him well he is devastatingly warm and you enjoy his attentions. He comes to your father’s studio often and he is affectionate when he does.

An affectionate acquaintance is what he is, he remains as such in a tidy little world where he hugs you during his visits and holds onto your waist as he chows down on the sandwiches you bring as refreshment for his Memphis Mafia. And there is nothing more to be said or thought. You learn to burn the bacon bound for his BLT because you like the way his eyes widen when it hits his tongue and how he groans around a bite:

“Honey, you shouldn’t’ve”.

In the coming months you learn to leave off the lettuce, too, once he’s back from touring again. Back to make another record, more juice for the machine and your father is gleeful at the unprecedented success of one of his artists. He took a chance on him and now Elvis’ life is fast, so very fast and the faces blur for him, blonde and brown and black and all of them want something he doesn’t quite feel like he can live up to.

It gets so bad he begs Wanda one night on tour just to sit with him, let him put his arm around her and just sit. When he walks back into the studio after months away and finds you there, it’s quieting. He hugs you and you smile and ask him how he is and it’s slow and steady and nice. He doesn’t have to manufacture calm with you, you are calm incarnate.

New songs mean new stages and life gets fast again. It happens like that more than a couple times. He feels older than twenty two when he’s blowing out as many candles atop a birthday cake on a movie set, his mother’s usual homemade creation missing and some fancy icinged concoction in its place. It doesn’t sit right in his belly and he tosses and turns that night wanting to be home.

Home is Memphis, the recording studio is there but he hasn’t gone yet, he takes a few days just to soak up Graceland and eat his mother’s food.

It doesn’t matter as you are not absent in his home, his mother speaks of you the first morning he is home. He shovels eggs into his mouth as she praises how you’ve grown up this summer, how you’ve been helping out at the church and took a part time job at the hospital. He’s not surprised, your father is a good fella, your mother of even better character and some kids are just born sweet -that’s how people like you get made, he figures. His mother assures him you’ve not grown into a career woman, she seems very insistent on how you’re just filling your time till you get married. She’s talked with you about it. And Elvis figures this is going down the road of how Billy and you would make a good match, and he wants to tell his mother you’re too much of a kid to be messed with by someone like Billy.

He doesn’t expect her to say, “She’s a good one Booby, the sort of girl who is bright and smart but would be happiest taking care of a man. Some gals are just built for that life, not that you’ll meet many on the road like that. But y/n? She’d make a good wife and even better mother, probably won’t really bloom until she’s had a baby. Some girls are just like that, kinda plain until they start opening up….”

The rest is lost in a blur. He is tired. It’s a perfect excuse considering he just came home. But when he goes to nap he cannot think of anything but you. You swollen and blooming with his child. You are younger in his memory, and it hits wrong. He gets angry at himself for thinking of you that way and ludicrously enraged at the suspicion anyone else might be, too.

Seeing you again will cure him, he knows that. He’ll hug you and you’ll ask him how he is and he’ll be reminded that you’re his old friend’s daughter and he’ll recall why he never bothered messing around with you. You’re steady and calm and nothing like this frantic emotion he suddenly feels at the thought of you opening up because of him… he stops trying to nap and goes to the shooting range instead.

Elvis Presley is reserved. The hug you anticipate never materializes as he steps through the door of the studio, and there is no cheeky grin when you ask him how touring was. He doesn’t smile or say much, he doesn't try to touch you at all, he is reserved. You feel cold.

But he watches. He watches you when he thinks you can’t see him, but the glass reflects and you notice his blazing eyes behind the microphone.

This has been happening to you more and more lately, men staring when they think you don’t see. Your mama says it’s because of your pretty smile. She has no answer when you tell her it happens even when you do not smile at all. You are not smiling now as you are confused, confused why he watches you like he wants to reach out to you and yet treats you like he does not, like the familiarity he usually wears like a second skin has been shed, lost somewhere on the road. Maybe he has a girl, you reason, and while that never affected his behavior before, maybe she’s a Hollywood one and a jealous type. Maybe he’s sad and tired like he says he is. He doesn’t eat the cookies you make. His voice breaks often and the session is scrapped early.

He hugs you sideways as he leaves and mumbles that he’s heard you’ve been keeping busy. You tell him you have and watch for some glimmer of approval. He stares at your lips and then flees outside to the sidewalk. Your father asks if you know what’s gotten into him. You do not.

That night, alone in his bed, he tosses and turns and refuses to touch the ache between his legs. You’d looked at him so earnestly that afternoon, trying to solve him and all he could think of was -you’re grown now. Bleeding every month, settling into a bra size, probably waking up with slick between your legs, your breasts getting sore and you don’t know why. Don’t know that all these things are happening to you so that a man can plough you open, pump you full and plant a garden inside you. He ought to be that man. He has the power to stop your bleeding, make your slick become a fountain and make you swell, filling the emptiness you register but do not understand.

He grabs the massive teddy bear sitting in the corner of his room. A fan gift, juvenile for a fellow well passed such toys, but he appreciates the thought. He appreciates the way the fur parts and rubs his weeping tip as he lays atop it and humps it miserably, pretending it’s you, pretending it’s somehow better to splatter all over synthetic fur at the thought of shocking you with his passion instead of touching himself to the thought of you swollen and dripping. He comes with a shout buried into the shoulder of the bear and registers in agony that his stiffness hasn’t gone down. He rolls over and calls up his costar. Tries to remind himself of that first, bubbly taste of a glamorous woman. She indulges him and he hates it, hates knowing what they both know: that he’s one of many, that she’d never in a million years risk her career to carry his child.

Thanksgiving morning you work alongside Gladys on the buffet line at the Methodist Children’s outreach and you ask her about her absent son. She worries for him, makes you worry in turn, is glad to have a companion in fretting, someone who understands why she can’t just “enjoy the ride.” You admit you’ve noticed a change in him. The buffet runs out of baked beans. Your mother says she’ll drive over and grab more from the market. It’s icy outside on the roads, your mother never comes back.

Your house is full to bursting that night, full of well meaning people who skip their Thanksgiving dinners to file past you and your father in a long line, awkwardly patting your arms and clasping his shoulder. They talk in subdued, measured tones about heaven and time and how they can’t imagine what you’re going through. Their restraint sets the tone for your grieving, you are subdued and rational until alone at dawn, clasping your pillow and sobbing, listening to your father do the same over the muffled noise of the TV.

When someone tells you that you’re the “woman of the house now” it feels like you’ve betrayed her again. It doesn’t sit right in your belly. You are sick with it, can’t eat from it churning in your gut, ironically you want mother to comfort you for her loss.

He comes back to Memphis in time for the funeral. He comes over to the house early, it doesn’t matter as neither you or your father sleep. Upon crossing the threshold, Elvis Presley does not awkwardly pat your father, clasp his hand or encourage him to be strong. He folds your father into a hug and doesn't let go for sometime, not until your father has wept for what he’s lost and Elvis meets your eyes over his shoulder, and he looks like he knows how this feels, like this is his worst nightmare you’re living. He is not removed from your pain, he dreads it and yet he partakes of it with you both. Gladys has brought a pot roast, she smoothes your hair back like she does her son’s before putting the meal in the oven, going back out to speak with your father.

Elvis’ eyes are watery when he approaches you, his freedom of emotion gives you courage to let loose, you sob, you wail and you babble and he cradles your head against his shoulder, swaying you in the middle of your mother’s kitchen as he mutters,

“that’s it, that’s it, you loved her didn’t ya?”

It’s the truest thing anyone has said all day.

He sits you down at the kitchen table and brushes your hair, powders your nose, brings you your black leather heels, holds out your coat for you to slip on. It’s not until years later you realize he must have taken the liberty of rummaging through your room to procure those items. It is odd that it was not his mother who took charge of such things.

At the graveside you are presentable in the manner in which he crafted you, your image is sad and tragic, but dignified and evocative.

Mother is buried in a coffin he bought, six feet under a plot of land he purchased, with a space next to it for your father when his time comes. There is no third space, and once the dirt is heaped over her you wonder where you’ll rest your bones, why he didn’t think to provide you a place in the earth, too. Your father calls him “a good boy” as the wind kicks up and the mourners disperse.

You ride back to the reception at your house, wedged snugly between Elvis and Anita. She hands you a monogrammed hanky in the back seat and it smells like rosewater. She sweetly lets you hold her hand and it’s icy from the cruel November wind while Elvis burns your right side, his arm thrown back behind your head and some thrumming turmoil roiling beneath his flushed skin. You can see the pulse thumping in his neck, above the fuzzy upturned collar of his coat and you instinctively press your free hand to it, trying to calm the flutter. He jolts at your touch and the vessel only pounds harder.

“You sick?” you ask him as your hand feels his sweaty skin. It’s wintertime and everybody at the hospital has come down with bugs and he feels like he’s raging with a fever. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping much either, he gets those same dark circles under his eyes as Gladys. They’ve both got them lately. Death has made you paranoid, you know.

“Nah, m’fine, it’s just from cryin.” he takes your hand down and holds it. Anita let’s go of yours, to open the car door as you arrive.

Whoever made it tradition for the bereaved family to have their house swamped by the community right after burying a loved one must've never known the bone deep desire to curl up and just process it all. Alone. So you stand again for hours and let them file past and it’s all very much the same as the other days and your stomach is in knots but you behave how your mother would’ve wanted, only occasionally sneaking off to the kitchen to load the emptying cheese trays and to just breathe. It goes on for hours, your feet ache and your throat is dry.

You escape back to the chilly sunroom to sit down for a minute and find him there, alone, sat on the wicker sofa and thumbing at one of your mother’s gardening books. If it were anyone else that would feel like a violation but since it’s him, it feels like he’s just trying to get to know her. And you appreciate that.

“Have you eaten, honey?” he asks you and nods at the apron you’ve donned as you just stand there and take him in.

“Uh, no, I’m not hungry.” you wave his frown away.

“Sit down honey, runnin’ yourself ragged like this.” and he pats the small space of cushion beside him as you think about your guests, think about how nice it would be to just relax with someone who values silence, but you can’t, you’ve gotta go back and host, it’s the right thing to do.

Except that his hand encircles your wrist and tugs and you go limply, folding into his side and he shouldn’t feel so warm, so safe, so right -you don’t know him that well. But he wears his heart on his sleeve and it’s bleeding for you and you suppose that puts you two ahead of a lot of so-called friends.

“They can eat sandwiches and make themselves feel compassionate without you hurtin those little feet any longer.” he declares and pulls you into his lap, tipping you back to cradle you like a baby, his hands running down your legs until they meet your ankles and he’s pulling off your heels with finality.

You’ve never had a boy touch you like this, you’ve never pressed your cheek against a hard chest and felt the thump, thump of a masculine heart radiate through your limbs. But he’s so final about it all, and so certain and so at ease you feel foolish for gasping and shuddering at the famillairties he takes as he rubs one hurting arch of your foot and then the other. He’s got an authority about him tonight you’d never noticed before, and you’d as soon question your pastor on a point of doctrine as question Elvis Presley on the propriety of rocking you to sleep, yards away from a substantial amount of Memphis’ most devout population.

Your last thought as you drift off is that you hope Anita understands you're just a kid to him, you hope you’re not shaming your mother on the very night of her funeral by tucking your head into his shoulder and sleeping for the first time since she died. Your stomach unwinds, your breathing evens out and your legs fall apart in your sleep, you dream of plush lips dragging along your forehead. You wake in the morning curled around a pillow, snug in your own bed, rested. Father tells you Elvis carried you up there himself before he left.

“He’s a good boy.” you agree with Father at breakfast.

He hadn’t felt boyish when he’d wrapped you in his arms. And you hadn’t felt girlish either, for all that you had been rocked and petted. Your stomach stays loose and molten for a few more hours before the grief catches up again and the newly empty house plagues you.

That’s why they invite the crowds in after a death, it takes half the city to make up for a single loved one’s absence.

You flee from the haunted space, longer shifts at the hospital and longer hours at the shelters. At night you sit and feed father your mother’s recipes, ask each other about the other’s day as if any of that matters now.

The Memphis division of the March of Dimes Charity approaches you to replace your mother on the board. Hustling you into your new position and entrusting you with the Christmas organizations all before the holiday itself is unheard of and rushed, but it all makes sense once you hear a doner put in a good word for you, requesting you be put in charge. There’s no bigger or quieter doner than Elvis Presley, so when he speaks up and asks for a thing -it happens.

Mere hours before catching a train to New York, he pops in to the event and makes the room shimmer with his presence, he kisses cheeks, chats with everyone and tosses kids who’ve been treated like glass up in the air, making them laugh for the first time in months. He signs ever so many posters and records and casts and he watches you all the while. The way you host and rustle about in your black heels and plaid taffeta crinoline as the function you put on runs like a well oiled machine. It doesn’t feel like a Christmas event without mistletoe or dancing, but it’s still a damn fine shindig, he’ll give ya that. And he notices what he suspected: when you’re busy working those grieving furrows of your brow clear and he finds he can breathe easier.

Before he leaves to catch his night train you get pulled into a photograph with him, poofy skirt crushed against his leg, arms helping balance a massive cake as he holds a kid who seems to think you want to eat globs of frosting off his fingers. You’re not about to deny a five year old boy in crutches so you slurp it off laughingly and the cameras capture Elvis watching that hungrily. The cake, not your pink tongue languorously licking white icing…

You walk him to the door and he leaves you in the warm glow of the charity function surrounded by children and folks you’re making feel welcome as only you can, and he boards the damn train that ships his ass to New York, calling Anita dutifully before slumping into the narrow bed and wringing his cock out to the thought of marrying you and keeping you full of him all your days.

You go on the date with Billy cause you figure it will get your mind off your grief and he tells you he wants one last happy memory before he leaves everything familiar and gets shipped across the world to get killed. Billy is being dramatic, as there’s no war on right now, but the draft is an atrocity all the same and you don’t mind giving Billy one last happy memory. Something in you has been curious about men since that night Elvis forced you to sleep on him by sheer masculine authority alone. You curl around your pillow at night and pretend it’s him, or someone, a man, you think. You pretend it’s a man.

You think it must be missing your mother that’s done this to you, she’d have kept you distracted but without her, and your father a reticent shell of himself, it makes sense you’re lonely and craving some stability, someone to tell you how it’s gonna be.

Billy isn’t exactly that, he can’t even decide on where to take you for this date, it’s up to you to suggest places, finally landing on the drive-in theater. It’s safe but mature enough to be a little thrilling. He doesn’t own a car so you drive in the car Elvis bought you when you became a March of Dimes board member. Father sets a curfew, and you try to soothe your nerves at the notion you might feel a man again tonight, your curiosity peaked and eager.

The theater lot is strangely empty when y’all arrive and you wonder if maybe Billy called in a favor. Halfway through the film you feel Billy’s hand on your thigh and you shudder and respond in kind, just a gentle resting on his own, but this spurs him on, soon he is ignoring the film altogether and fumbling to get under your velvet skirt and that’s a little surprising. You’re processing whether you like this or not when he leans over, pulls down your fur collar and glues his mouth to your neck like a pufferfish to the side of a tank. It’s not very romantic but it makes you flush and it shocks you and you like that. More shocking still is the blinding light that suddenly pierces the nighttime seclusion of your car cab, and there at your window is Elvis Presley wielding a police grade flashlight directly into your eyes, smiling like a shark against the glass.

“How’s it goin kids?” he grins, his breath frosting the frigid glass.

“Elvis, I-I- I’m on a date.” You laugh while stating the obvious.

“I know, I know,” he nods, opening your door and sliding in next to you, gently shoving you till he’s in front of the wheel and you're wedged in the middle, “Bill here told me you were handin out free dates to poor drafted boys, so I’m here for mine.”

“You’ve been drafted, too?” you cry out, Billy quite forgotten, “They’ll not make you with-“

-with his career you mean, but he gives you a pout and nod and that’s that. So is the way his arm slides around you and pulls you closer and you feel like you’re in the middle of a contest you didn’t sign up for. “I’ll miss you boys.” you sigh.

“Aww, you’re sweet honey, ain’t she sweet, Billy? She taste sweet, too?”

Billy mumbles something under his breath about not getting the chance and you realize Elvis has his hand gripping the poor kid’s neck.

“Elvis you're being rude.” you chide meekly.

“Nah, it’s rude to kiss a lady’s neck with so little finesse as Bill was yours, that’s what’s rude.” Elvis declares and you get that feeling again of being unable to question him. You just hush and stay put until the credits roll and he offers Billy a ride home which the kid accepts. He drives your car and you don’t bother protesting when he drops Billy off with a:

“See ya in the barracks, bucko!”

It’s rude and cocky and no one’s ever fought over you before and while you don’t appreciate him interrupting your exploration of a male specimen, it’s rather nice to matter a little to Elvis Presley. It’s heady and makes your heart thump and your legs feel heavy and you wipe your sweaty palms on the velvet of your skirt.

“How’d you know that, that I was there?” you ask him, timid now you’re alone with him and the gentleness he once showed you isn’t present, he is gnawing on his bottom lip, leg not pressing the gas is jiggling like it does before a performance and it attracts your eye by instinct.

He’s wound up and you feel a little suffocated from the warmth rolling off him as he drives you through the dark streets, back to your home. “He asked me to clear the lot out.” he confirms your suspicion, “Then your daddy asked me to look out for ya, make sure all was right and proper.”

You are surprised and a little hurt that your father wouldn’t trust his child who has been as unfailingly upright as yourself on a movie date, more strange still that he’d trust someone as, well -loose might be a unkind word- but someone as loose as Elvis Presley to enforce morality on such a night. “I don’t believe you.” you admit barely above a whisper.

Elvis’ foot slips at your little whisper and he revs over the curb outside your house with a thump, before he curses and backs up, head cranning to look out the rear window and you wanna touch his throat.

He kills the lights and turns to you and you're so ashamed by your craving thoughts you fear he can sniff them like blood in water, figure out that you wanna run your finger down his cheek, that you wanted to touch Billy cause you’ve been curious of him. “Now honey,” he admonishes you in the still dark and it’s all you can do not to shrink against the car door under the weight of his stare, “I don’t wanna have to report to your daddy what I saw in this here cab, so why don’t you tell me why it was you were lettin’ that boy touch on you so. You was leanin in, I saw ya, you was leanin in and you liked it.”

“Elvis,” you plead, face aflame and it makes him twitch in his seat to see you squirm so, “you, Elvis you know I haven’t -this was my first date! I didn’t do nothin wrong. It was exciting, that’s all.”

He looks at you sternly and it makes you angry, you're about to resume a defense when he takes his hand off the wheel to clasp your thigh, higher up than Billy ever dared. “This feel exciting, lil one?”

Your lungs feel crushed and your thigh trembles under his hot palm, “What’re you doin?” you gasp, feeling very, very wrong and near starving for it.

“This feel right to you?” he presses, unrelenting, hand rhythmically squeezing your soft flesh and you can see father’s silhouette in his usual chair by the window, reading and oblivious.

“I said exciting.” you cleared your throat, “And I said it was when Billy did it. And he never went that- that- that high up.”

“Oh nah? Hmm, well, now that I’m there, how’s it feel, honey? Hmm?”

You squeeze your eyes shut after a moment, watching his hand creep higher and nearer to where you feel your heart beat thudding between your legs proving to be a bit much.

“Ain’t right or fittin for Limp Dick Billy to be gettin a quality girl like you excited.” he shakes his head, “Save your bosom heavin for better stuff.”

“Limp Dick -what’s that mean?” you repeat him, bewildered as your world narrows to his lush lips and the searing heat of his hand near that place you’ve grown to notice more and more lately.

“Aww that’s just, that’s nothin, just a bad name we use for fellas whose uh, well, whose hair won’t uh, won’t stand up right.”

“Not everybody can have hair like you, E.” you mumble and watch the way the lamplight makes his rings glitters against the velvet of your skirt.

That’s an admission on your part that he drinks in like a dying man, happy to have some glimmer of superiority in your mind over his fellows, and he rubs his thumb soothingly over your twitching thigh as your skirt folds dip between your legs, highlighting them perfectly. He can see the outline of your little cunt between your pressed thighs and he feels rash, feels like spreading his hand a little further and brushing his pinky there against that place he’s imagined so many times.

“Elvis,” you whisper into the silent cab, “what’re you doing?”

That’s a question for the ages and one he hasn’t got a clean answer for. “Tryin to make you excited.” he admits.

“Why?” you puzzle and you’ve heard that this is why he’s called trouble. It isn’t fitting for the sexes to know too much about each other, and Elvis knows too much about women, that’s the talk anyways.

The motion of his thumb against your thigh makes you agree, he knows a little too much and you know too little.

“Tell me,” he leans in further and you feel trapped and your heart is bounding from being the object of his droopy eyed assessment, “does this feel like doin nothin?” he demands and then he’s pressing a fluttery kiss to your pulsing throat and the catch of your breath is audible in the small space.

“Don’t.” you beg, confused and wanting it to never end.

“Why not?” his breath chills the damp little spot where he pressed his kiss.

“You’ve got a girl.” you protest.

“Thought you said this weren’t nothin.” he growls.

“Alright maybe it is.” You squirm away from his touches until your back is pressed against the glovebox. “I-I don’t know. I just - I don’t think you should be doing this with me.”

“Alright then.” he smirks, “You'd best not give me reason to tell your father bout any future such nothin’s with boys, alright honey?”

“If you stop behavin in a way that would make Miss Gladys inclined to whoop you, then I will.” you fire back and he thinks he’s in love. Cause you’re right, his mama would be livid at him flustering you and trying you out without making it honest. Your supreme capabilities in social matters, mixed with your utter dumbness in regards to the slick sliding down your legs with each swipe of his thumb against velvet, makes him nearly primal in his wants.

“Deal.” he smiles, “I’ll be gone away to basic training soon, anyhow,” and he notices your little frown at that, “won’t be here to bother you or protect ya, either way. So you’d best just swear off men, ya hear me? Just for a little while till I can come back and vet ‘em.”

“You’ll be gone in the army for a couple years!” you protest his sentencing you to a nunnery.

“Yeah, yeah, and your eggs will keep a couple more years.” he laughs at what must’ve been a good joke that you missed while you were occupied trying to breathe after he patted your lower belly and got out of the car to hand you out by curfew.

On the front porch he tells your daddy a version of the truth. A version that paints you as quite blameless, himself in a starring role of protector and Billy as a no good kid who ain’t quality enough to be hanging out with nice girls like yourself. You are forbidden from seeing Billy again, Elvis is commended, your father goes upstairs to bed and leaves you alone with a young man whose lingering fingers and bitten lips make you lightheaded -you think maybe Elvis has the right idea, your father is blind as a bat when it comes to threats.

Not that Elvis is a threat, he just lounges against the kitchen counter and watches you put up dishes like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“You don’t think Anita would mind you hanging around like this?” You ask him after his lip licking stare gets a little too heavy and you feel somewhat dizzy from being so closely watched by a guy who you know doesn't mean anything by it.

It’s just Elvis’ way of things, he makes people feel and it’s not his fault.

You’ve tried to not blame him for that building feeling you get when he’s around, the one like your lower belly is made of molten lead. That’s a physical abnormality, not his fault in the slightest.

You just do worry about how people might see this, seeing him walking home from your house late at night. You've heard the older ladies on the board whispering about you and how you haven’t got a protector, how your father can’t see what’s right in front of him. You presume they mean about Billy and his straying hands or the old donor who tried to tug you into a closet with him. Elvis is just trying to fill in the slack your father’s grief has left. Anyone with eyes could tell he’s just looking out for you. He had to be pulled off the old doner before he murdered him after he heard. It’s only that you notice Anita has turned a little cold towards you, and mama always said to be careful about letting a taken man take too much interest in ya. And Elvis does seem very interested in something about you, maybe just cause people stare and he thinks it’s rude, thinks getting pulled into closets is ungallant. He does plenty of his own staring, though.

“What about Anita?” his head snaps up and he takes his eyes off your shiny little leather belt to ask you to repeat yourself.

Something about having his focus back on your face makes you feel dumb about your worries and you change the question slightly. “Y’all gonna get married?” you ask instead.

“I dunno.”

“But with you going into the army, what’s gonna happen, what’ve you two sorted out?” you press, scooting him to the side so you can put a dish away behind him.

“She says she’ll wait for me.” he replies, sounding like her faithfulness is an imposition and you get a little mad for her, “she’s always tryin to nail things down I-I-I’ve told her, I just d-d-dunno.”

“She’s been very accommodating of you, Elvis.” you plead her case the way your mother used to plead yours to your father about dance lessons.

“Yeah, sure, sure.” he agrees dryly, leaning on the counter again and staring at his feet, “Gonna put a pause on her damn career and everything, least for a year or two. Big whoop. Who's gonna take care of the babies once she goes back to work, that’s what I wanna know. No children of mine’s gonna get raised by some passel ‘a mamies like a bunch of Wall Street brats while their mother is off kissin men for a living.`` By the end of this tirade his voice is close to a shout and you think he’s shockingly worked up over a rather hypocritical grievance.

But it makes sense, “Guess a career woman isn’t the best mother.” you agree tentatively and his eyes shoot up to your face. You’ve no more dishes to dry and your hands hang uselessly by your side.

“Oh hell, look at us ruinin our evening over her,” he shakes himself, “don’t mind her she’s just being an ole biddy about it all.”

“With some reason!” you laugh, “ And the point could be made that you’re actin a bit like an ass.”

“Oh hell not you, too!”

“It’s not nice to lead a gal on like that -or two in the case of Dixie and June- and then get mad at her when you decide she isn’t what you want after all!”

“Didn’t realize you were so invested in my private life.” he sneers.

“I’m not. But the Evening Herald is.”

“Don’t let the papers turn ya onto a nagging puss, lil girl, doesn't suit your sweet temper.”

“I’m not turnin into anything, just stating facts.” you murmur and clasp your hands before you anxiously. You swear you can feel the heat coming off of him, anger you presume, “And I’m a little tired.” you add sheepishly.

“Course you are.” he murmurs, visage smoothing like magic and he comes up to you, cradling your face in his hands as you back away and bump into the stove, “Been a big day and a lotta new feelin’s, hmm?”

“Yes.” you gasp, your chest hot and his hands are so large and warm and it’s like he blocks out the rest of the world full of his girls and your father and what’s right or wrong, cradling your cheeks with his thumbs running along your cheekbones, “You gonna be good and do what I asked ya?”

Your mind is so fixated on the plump curve of his bottom lip that you surface with a frantic splutter, trying to recall what he’s referencing.

“You gonna lay off the datin’ till I get back, yeah?” he reminds you helpfully as his fingers work the back of your neck to jello, your core pulsing in a strangely distracting response as he tells you how it’s gonna be, gives the very direction you’ve been craving.

“Yes, yeah.” you breathe and your voice sounds like those gals on the screen when they’re overcome by romance, but here is none that you can find, just Elvis looking out for you and patiently bearing with your stupid naïveté when it comes to boys. He’ll make sure you land the right one, start house with a fella who’ll give you security and direction. It’s just your loneliness with father being so mellow that has you going on stupid dates with boring boys. Elvis is right. You admit it to him.

He smiles in response and it looks like the kind he gives before he punches someone in his films. It’s a promise.

You shiver against the stove and grip the dish towel hanging from the handle.

“And you’ll let me know if anybody is botherin, ya while i'm gone, right?” he rewards your obedience with the promise of security, just like all those knights in fairytales.

Women obey and men provide, it’s the natural way of things and your heart swoops at the first taste of a married dynamic. You feel like you should offer him some favor, some reward for giving you his defense. You’ve heard stories about girls who feel the way you do, who get overcome by gratitude to a fella before getting married and they are ruined. You grip the dish towel harder, unsure of what motion you might make which would ruin you, what touch it is that seals your fate, puts a baby in a girl before it’s time. It can’t be a hug, surely not just a kiss, but you wouldn’t know as you’ve never dared. You’ll wait for Elvis to come back and make sure the fella you date and marry won’t get you in trouble in any of these ways. It’s complicated and confusing being a woman, and since that night of the funeral he seems to have taken the place of your mother, and you trust him in this.

“I’ll let you know.” you swear earnestly.

He kisses your cheek gently in response. Just a dry peck. That must not be the ruinous action in question, he wouldn’t do anything to tarnish you. It’s Elvis.

Elvis is a sullen but brave boy as he boards the army bus to ship him down south where it’s more Mexico than truly civilized but the world just calls it Texas. Or that’s what you hear from Gladys. You were not there to see him off, why should you be? You are busy and you have sworn off men and there’s a great deal to do in those dismal post holiday weeks. You do not pine for distractions, you don't have much energy to lie awake at night for long and rehearse the way his hand felt on your thigh, or his lips against your throat, or his fingers grazing the little swell of your belly where your womb is housed. These are passing, fitful and frantic thoughts, that pass through your mind before sleep takes you.

And Elvis is much the same, basic training is unkind, even to a man whose performances required much stamina. He crawls into his bunk and collapses most nights, staring with hooded eyes, at the newspaper clipping of you licking that damn icing, the picture he’s shown his new army buddies while announcing to them proudly “that’s ma girl, no, no, not the sort to fool with. The one I’m gonna have carrying my babies. Soon.”

Soon.

It’s a waste in the meantime, the way he spews his seed over the panties he stole from your room that morning he dressed you for the funeral, it’s a waste of precious fuel— fuel for his dream as it impotently coats and drips from the silk and makes him angry that he can’t find it in him to tamp down that restless heart of his, just settle down. Marry you already. Be a little respectable— sounds relaxing, sounds satisfactory. Sounds like something the Colonel would love for this whole “new image.”

That sours it all and he rolls over in his bunk with the sodden scrap of silk that no longer smells of you but of him and his wasted desire.

Soon, he tells himself, soon. After a little while.

It’s tragic really, the way we postpone snagging those things we know we want, the ones our gut lurches for, our soul craves as our conscience whispers “just do it.” Put off because life is too exciting to tone down, fun and girls are in abundance, and time seems very plentiful until it runs out in a great big whoosh of sand from the hour glass, taking with it those steady, stable, sure things we’ve counted on being there for an endless little while. Like your Mother. Just gone, and the universe doesn't pause to acknowledge your world is fractured, for everyone else it’s just tomorrow. Tomorrow is here and they’re not.

The shock of it jolts you, the regret nags you, the grief strips you back down to the bare bones of what you want and need. Elvis only knows one other person who he thinks gets how this feels as his train hurdles homeward to a coffin and a future that doesn't make any sense. Mama should have gotten to see him out of the army, gotten to see him do more, hit thirty, marry. Mama shoulda been able to meet those grandbabies she’d pestered him about but he put off for tomorrow.

Tomorrow is a bitter pill and he wants to spit it out, start over, refashion it just so. No more regrets, no more fighting his gut. He’d like to dig a shallow grave for a little while, fold himself into it and just rest a minute, learn to forgive his stupid ambition, catch a break. Wake up some thawed spring morning to the sight of you beside him in the daffodil covered earth, find the reason in your eyes that makes him choose to live again.

Still, he finds it in a little fur trimmed peacoat standing and waiting forlornly for him at the station.

You’re not a girlfriend, you’re not a fan, you’re just someone who lost their mama too, somebody who knows there’s not much to say, just a hug there on the crowded platform and “she was the reason for everything you ever did, wasn’t she?”

Was. She was. Now is about what is.

[smthscoming]

@respairs ➪ response to this; final post below

"hey, what the—" spinning on his heel as a cool hand plucked his phone out of his grasp, nicky almost swung at her before remembering where he was, the instinct coming before the realisation. his arms dropped like weights to his sides as he stared at alba, trying to read the emotion foreign to her face. she was never like this. "you just... you just do your best." he wasn't the most eloquent, everyone knew that. but he felt very strongly about things, and that much was evident even as he struggled to find the words. "we don't know what we're gonna find. but at least we're tryin'. you know? someone... someone owes them that much."

[identifying-planes-in-posts]

Fundraisers that have reached out to me:

@aliandmanarpal Fundraiser Link Verified by association

@mhammedmosa37 Fundraiser Link Vetted (#316)

@salem-baker Fundraiser Link Verified by 90-ghost

@heba-baker Fundraiser Link Shared by 90-ghost

@aiamaher Fundraiser Link (not yet vetted)

@asmaayyad Fundraiser Link Shared by 90-ghost

@ahmaad860 Fundraiser Link Shared by 90-ghost

@familygazaamal Fundraiser Link Shared by 90-ghost

@mohmoud-j Fundraiser Link Verified by association

@mohammedsh88 Fundraiser Link (not yet vetted)

@salwameq20 Fundraiser Link (not yet vetted)

@ahmadwaleed55 Fundraiser Link Vetted (#167)

@sondos220 Fundraiser Link (not yet vetted)

@anasbasilps Fundraiser Link Shared by 90-ghost

@abedallhferwanagaza Fundraiser Link Associated with @olaferwana1

@tahreer-199 Fundraiser Link Shared by 90-ghost

@keensaladbanana Fundraiser Link Associated with another campaign shared by 90-ghost

@hanaa-yousef Fundraiser Link Vetted (#246)

@hashem1979 Fundraiser Link (not yet vetted)

@falestine-yousef Fundraiser Link Vetted (#246)

@safaa18mero Fundraiser Link Shared by 90-ghost

@dodoomar12345 Fundraiser Link Link#2 Shared by 90-ghost

@drfarhatblog Fundraiser Link Vetted (#248)

@mohammedayyads-blog (old account got deactivated) Fundraiser Link Verified by bilal-salah0

@aseelo680 Fundraiser Link Shared by fairuzfan

@ameerakhaled Fundraiser Link (not yet vetted)

@lamahourani7 Fundraiser Link Verified by association

@rasmi-gaza Fundraiser Link Vetted (#175)

@ehabayyad23 Fundraiser Link (not yet vetted)

@ahmedhellis22 Fundraiser Link (not yet vetted)

@mohammednasers-blog Fundraiser Link (not yet vetted)

@d-imtthal Fundraiser Link (not yet vetted)

@ranin3344 Fundraiser Link Shared by 90-ghost (Raneen's old tumblr account but same gofundme)

@shadowyavenuetaco Fundraiser Link (not yet vetted)

@ehabayyad23 Fundraiser Link (not yet vetted)

@moneerraed Fundraiser Link (not yet vetted)

@atalah-mohammed Fundraiser Link Shared by 90-ghost

@yosefresh Fundraiser Link (not yet vetted)

@fatma--gaza Fundraiser Link Shared by northgazaupdates

@enghanalulu Fundraiser Link Verified by 90-ghost

@majedgaza1 Fundraiser Link (not yet vetted)

@ahmed79ss Fundraiser Link Shared by 90-ghost

@ghadak24 Fundraiser Link (not yet vetted)

@mohiy-gaza Fundraiser Link Verified by ana-bananya and 90-ghost

@tahseenkhazen Fundraiser Link Verified by olagaza, another vetted campaign

@basel1995s Fundraiser Link Vetted (#214)

@mones1998gaza Fundraiser Link (not yet vetted)

@ezzaldeens-blog Fundraiser Link (not yet vetted)

@yousefjehad3 Fundraiser Link Vetted (#255)

@olagaza Fundraiser Link Vetted (#205)

@samarsh97 Fundraiser Link Shared by 90-ghost

@hayanahed Fundraiser Link Vetted (#26 and #249)

Ashraf Alanqar Fundraiser Link Vetted by 90-ghost

@alhabil Fundraiser Link Shared by 90-gost

@bshaeromars-blog Fundraiser Link Shared by nebulsi

Abdallah Alanqar Fundraiser Link Vetted (#174)

@eyadeyadsblog Fundraiser Link Shared by northgazaupdates and 90-ghost

@hmzamahamed3 Fundraiser link Vetted (#176)

Donate eSIMs

Disclaimer: I am not a vetter, I am simply sharing campaigns that are vetted by others or likely to be legitimate based on reverse image search. Please let me know if any info is outdated so I can fix it.

[greenwire]

Zero comments on that recipe and the entire recipe itself was taken down. Oh dear.

Black Sesame Milk

[walks-the-ages]

OP deactivated, and some of the links were broken/marked unsafe by Firefox, so here's a new compilation post of Leslie Feinburg's (She/her, ze/hir) novels and essays on being transgender:

Stone Butch Blues official free source directly from Author's website:

Stone Butch Blues, backup on the webarchive:

Transgender Liberation: A movement whose time has come, on the web archive:

Transgender Warriors: Making History from Joan of Arc to Dennis Rodman, on the web archive:

Lavender and Red, PDF essay collection:

Drag King Dreams, on the web archive:

(Also, if anyone ever tells you that the protagonist of Stone Butch Blues ""ends up with a man""........ they're transmisogynistic jackass TERFs who are straight up lying)

Please also check out your local public libraries for these books and see if they carry them, to help support public libraries! If you have a library card already you can checkout Libby and Overdrive to see if your public library carries it as an ebook that you can checkout :)

EDIT: another not included on the orignal masterpost-- Trans Liberation: Beyond Pink or blue !

annnnnd in light of the web archive losing it's court case, here's a backup of both PDFs and generated epubs a friend made:

5/26/2023: hello! I am adding on yet another book of queer history, this time the autobiography of Karl Baer, a Jewish, intersex trans man who was born in 1884! Please signal boost this version, and remember to check the notes whenever this crosses your dash for any new updates :)

6/24/2023:

Two links to share!

Someone made an Epub version of Memoirs of a Man's Maiden Years, which you can find Here , as a more accessible version than a pdf of a scanned book if you're like me and need larger text size for reading--

And from another post I reblogged earlier today, I discovered the existence of "TransSisters: the Journal of Transsexual Feminism", which has 10 issues from 1993-1995, and includes multiple interviews with Leslie Feinburg and other queer feminists / activists of the 90s!

Here's a link to all 10 issues of TransSisters, plus a 1996 "look back at" by one of the writers after the journal ended, you can find all 10 issues on the Internet Archive Here !

------

8/28/2023:

"Bi Any Other Name: Bisexual People Speak Out", can be found on the web archive Here, for the 25th Anniversary Edition from 2015,

and also Here, for the original 1991 version.

Each of the above can be borrowed for one hour at a time as long as a copy is available :D

This is a living post that receives sporadic updates on the original, if you are seeing this on your dash, click Here to see the latest version of the post to make sure you're reblogging the most up to date one :)

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

October, 25th 2023:

"I began to dawdle over breakfast during shift changes, asking both waitresses questions. After weeks of inquiries, they invited me to a demonstration, outside Kleinhan's Music Hall, protesting the Israeli war against Egypt and Syria. I was particularly interested in that protest. The state of Israel had been declared shortly before my birth. In Hebrew school I was taught "Palestine was a land without peo-ple, for a people without a land." That phrase haunted me as a child. I pictured ears with no one in them, and movies projected on screens in empty theaters. When I checked a map of that region of the Middle East in my school geography textbook, it was labeled Palestine, not Israel. Yet when I asked my grandmother who the Palestinians were, she told me there were no such people. The puzzle had been solved for me in my adolescence. I developed a strong friendship with a Lebanese teenager, who explained to me that the Palestinian people had been driven off their land by Zionist settlers, like the Native peoples in the United States. I studied and thought a great deal about all she told me. From that point on I staunchly opposed Zionist ideology and the occupation of Palestine. So I wanted to go to the protest. However, I feared the demonstration, no matter how justified, would be tainted by anti-Semitism. But I was so angered by the actions of the Israeli government and military, that I went to the event to check it out for myself. That evening, I arrived at Kleinhan's before the protest began. Cops in uniforms and plainclothes surrounded the music hall. I waited impatiently for the protesters to arrive. Suddenly, all the media swarmed down the street. I ran after them. Coming over the hill was a long column of people moving toward Kleinhan's. The woman who led the march and spoke to reporters proudly told them she was Jewish! Others held signs and banners aloft that read: "Arab Land for Arab People!" and "Smash Anti-Semitism!" Now those were two slogans I could get behind! I wanted to know who these people were and where they had been all my life! Hours later I followed the group back to their headquarters. Orange banners tacked up on the walls expressed solidarity with the Attica prisoners and the Vietnamese. One banner particularly haunted me. It read: Stop the War Against Black America, which made me realize that it wasn't just distant wars that needed opposing. Yet although I worked with two members of this organization, I felt nervous that night. These people were communists, Marxists! Yet I found it easy to get into discussions with them. I met waitresses, factory workers, secretaries, and truck drivers. And I decided they were some of the most principled people I had ever met..." Transgender Warriors (1996) Leslie Feinberg

[sloanevictor]

THIS IS THE OLD POST, THE NEW ONE IS HERE

I want to bring attention to Nedaa's stagnating fundraising campaign. She and her two elderly parents need money for food, shelter, and medication. Good food, good shelter, and I can't stress this enough, good medication. The IOF's genocidal campaign and destruction has forced them from a gentle and suitable home to a makeshift tent under bombardment as their health deteriorates, especially her father's.

She has raised £8,382 of her £25,000 goal as of August 30th Palestine Daylight Time (PSDT).

Her fundraiser is in slot 111 (column A number 107) of the Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundraiser List.

This is her latest post, made August 24th 11:35pm PSDT:

Like many Palestinians she has had to make multiple tumblr accounts like @/nedaakhaled (deactivated), @nedaapales, @nedaagaza, and @nedaapalestine (these are just the ones that I know of), but each account always links to the same verified GoFundMe. You can see she doesn't post frequently, just two or three times a month, barely scratching the surface of the horrors of the genocide.

You should donate to make sure her family can evacuate and survive. You could even put the 88x31 button with the link to Nedaa's fundraiser in your pinned post, your Neocities or other indie-web-hosted site, even a forum signature. The least you can do is share this post as well as the posts she makes herself.

@feluka @commissions4aid-international

[pinayelf-archive]

Palestinian fundraisers to donate to 2

First list of fundraisers

Third list of fundraisers

Fourth list of fundraisers

Hello all, here are some Palestinians who have currently reached out to me to share their fundraisers. I put together all posts in one so I can boost them all daily.

Please take a moment to read their stories, share and donate if you can.

Some conversions for Swedish krona (SEK) as some GFMs use it: $1USD = 10.36 SEK $1CAD = 7.61 SEK €1 = 11.43 SEK

@mohammedjama77 | GFM Link | Vetted here (#93)

@emanshaaban | GFM Link | Vetted here (#31)

@aliandmanarpal | GFM Link | Vetted here (#22)

@mohamednaser1995 | GFM Link | Vetted here

@ahlam-hilles | GFM Link

Note: Unvetted, but reverse image search comes back clean

@gaza-love100 | GFM Link

Note: Unvetted, but reverse image search comes back clean

@sondos220 | GFM Link | Vetted here

Note: New GFM Link

@lendaabdalhadi | GFM Link | Vetted here (#85)

@islamqazal | GFM Link

Note: Some of the images are from other sources (news sites), but the actual photo of the children comes back clean in reverse image search

@technicallycoldnerd | GFM Link

Note: Unvetted, but reverse image search comes back clean

@ahlam910 | GFM Link | Vetted here (#73)

@oday-alanqar1 | GFM Link | Vetted here (#261)

Note: Oday and her family had a previous campaign that had been vetted, but was set up wrong and GFM ended up refunding everyone the donation. This is them restarting the fundraiser, please help them out. More info in the blog link.

@moomensblog | GFM Link

Note: Unvetted, but reverse image search comes back clean

@moh266 | GFM Link | Vetted here

@yousefhasan55 | GFM Link

Note: Unvetted, but reverse image search comes back clean

@zainsami | GFM Link

Note: Unvetted, but reverse image search comes back clean

@haithem-2 | GFM Link | Vetted here

@aboodalqedra-2 | GFM Link | Vetted here

@hamza-gaza | GFM Link | Vetted by association

@anas--basil | GFM Link | Vetted here

@ahmed--basil | GFM Link | Vetted here

@emanfamily3 | GFM Link | Vetted by assocation

@shadyfamily | GFM Link | Vetted here (#44)

@amirashawikh | GFM Link | Vetted here

@aiamaher | GFM Link

Note: Unvetted, but reverse image search comes back clean

@ameertaimsalama1 | GFM Link | Vetted here

Note: The blog shared by 90-ghost is a different blog by the same family, and is also the same GFM

@ayahoftheday & @islamgazaaccount3 | GFM Link | Verified here

Note: Ayah is not the owner of the GFM, but is helping share Islam's GFM

@abdalsalm | GFM Link | Vetted here (#4)

@familyetaf1234567 | GFM Link | Vetted here (#88)

Note: Unvetted, but reverse image search comes back clean

@mhammedmosa | GFM Link | Vetted here

@nasserakar3 | GFM Link | Vetted by association

@osama-family | GFM Link | Vetted here (#12)

@ahmedomar3 | GFM Link | Vetted by association

@lama-122 & @farahh2003 | GFM Link | Vetted here (#310)

@mahmoudayyad | GFM Link | Vetted here

@ashraffamily | GFM Link | Vetted here (#74)

@kareman2221 | GFM Link | Vetted here

Note: The blog shared by 90-ghost is another blog of the family's, but it's the same family and the same GFM

@kareem-family2 | GFM Link | Vetted here (#276)

@safaa18mero | GFM Link | Vetted here

Note: The blog in 90-ghost's link is a former blog of Safaa's that was deactivated, but the GFM is the same

@ahmedhells-blog | GFM Link | Vetted here

Note: The blog in 90-ghost's link is Ahmed's old blog, but it's the same GFM

@noorabd-1992 | GFM Link | Vetted/vetted by association

Note: Noor's old blog was reblogged by 90-ghost, but Tumblr terminated the old blog along with 90-ghost's reblog

@mohammedswierh2 | GFM Link

Note: Unvetted, but reverse image search comes back clean

@yasermohammad | GFM Link | Vetted here

Note: The blog in 90-ghost's link is another blog, but is the same GFM

@eman-zaqout | GFM Link | Vetted here

Note: The blog shared by 90-ghost is a previous blog of Eman's that was terminated by tumblr, but it is the same GFM

@aseelo680 | GFM Link | Vetted here

@mohammedaldeeb | GFM Link | Vetted here (#212)