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baby-yongbok · 2 months

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Remedies

OT8 x Reader

Genre - Comfort WC - 746

Summary - These are ways that I think the boys would help you to get over your mental and/or physical struggles Content Warning - Themes of mental and physical illness/struggles, mention of hospitals, mentions of medications/needles, mentions of food

A/N - I wrote this on my living room floor just now because I’m sick of being sick. I’m sick of being chronically ill, and I needed some comfort, so I thought I’d share it for anyone else who could use some comfort, too. I based these off of my experiences with my illnesses/disabilities. If you can relate then I just wanna say that i see you and you're strong. Keep fighting 💕+ I tried to write this to be gender neutral, I think I nailed it

✧ Masterlist ✧

Hugs from Jisung when your panic attacks have subsided. He whispers sweet praises of “You're okay” and “You're so strong” while he rocks you in his lap. You're still on the floor where he found you. His shirt soaks up every tear and his soft kisses on your forehead bandage every wound. You tell him that he can go, you apologize for causing a commotion, but he just holds you closer.

Laughing with Changbin while he tries to distract you from your symptoms flaring up. He's loud and silly on the couch with you. He's careful not to go overboard, he watches you to make sure that you're still comfortable while he makes silly voices and dances around for you. He's not ready to watch you cry yourself to sleep from the pain but he'll be ready to make you laugh again when you need it most.

Kisses from Chan while you're at your doctor's appointment. Your leg is shaking and he's soothing gentle circles into your back while he kisses your knuckles. He knows that you're scared, he is too. You have no idea what the doctor will say but he knows one thing for sure, no matter what the results are he'll be right by your side. He'll fight with you every single day and he'll kiss the pain away.

Adventures with Hyunjin when he realizes that you're avoiding going outside again. He knows that you get paranoid. He knows that every corner that you turn feels unsafe so he holds your hand. He skips across streets with you and dances on the white lines of the cross walks. He pulls you into shops that you've been too scared to visit yourself and buys you everything that you touch. He molds new memories with you with his bare hands. He'll do it everyday if he has to.

Cooking with Minho when he sees that you've been watching your diet too closely. He's gentle with you. You taste test everything together, he feeds you with silver spoons and kisses your nose with every hesitant swallow. He stands behind you while you stir the contents in the pots and plucks flour at you to see that pretty smile that he loves so much. He feeds you from his fork and he wipes away the mess. He makes it feel like it all goes down easy.

Reading with Seungmin when he comes to visit you in the hospital. He knows that you feel like you're going mad in here. He knows that you want to get up out of bed and walk out of here with him, that's what he wants too. Instead he holds your hand while you rest your head on his shoulder. He reads you each word with a softness that somehow drowns out the beeping of your monitors and the commotion on the other side of the curtain. He transports you to a place where you aren't sick. To a place where it's just you and him.

Cuddling with Jeongin when you feel that dark cloud consuming you again. He knew what was wrong when you let your alarms ring on for the third day in a row. You're huddled under blankets together, unmoving and quiet. His arms circle your waist and he pulls you closer. He weighs you down to reality. He makes you feel something besides the bubbling emptiness in your chest. He hums to you when the tears start to fall. He hums and holds you tighter. He won't let you drift away.

Singing with Felix while he helps you with your medication. There's so many to take that you've been overwhelmed with it all so he puts on a playlist and grabs all your pills. He lays them out and organizes them just how you need them. He uses the TV remote as a microphone, passing it to you when he sees you staring at the medicine littering the tabletop. He has you sing for him when he gives you your injections. He makes them as quick and painless as he can, always joining you for a high note as he sticks the band-aid on for you. He spins and hugs you once you're done for the day. He doesn't have to give you any praise, you can feel the love in his touch. You can hear it in his voice and see it in his actions. He's always going to be there to make it all feel easier.

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postalduderegretsnothing · 26 days

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Random yap about the canonical differences between Demon and P1 Dude

I'm tired of people thinking that Demon and P1 Dude are the same entity/personality/have the same moral conduct. I understand how easy it is for misinformation to spread about old indie games. I am not here to attack anyone. I just wanna shed some light on a few things.

There is a reason that P1 Dude's journal entries sound and look completely different from Demon's. P1 Dude was completely detached from reality and believed he was killing monsters to "save humanity", not innocent people. Yes, P1 Dude was a terrified, anxious, traumatized, psychotic man. Meanwhile, Demon was a cold sadist that enjoys killing and spouting off goofy one liners. They have distinctive personalities.

RWS has stated many times that P1 Dude was an average guy that was really going through it before he "went postal". He was not plotting, planning, or scheming to kill a bunch of people. (He is not like Notim from Hatred.) Quite the opposite. He only purchased a Kevlar vest and armed himself at the point he felt his life was in mortal danger.

He lived in a dangerous area of Paradise in which he heard gunshots and screams after dark every night. When he began to feel genuinely threatened, he purchased a singular gun. (This is all in the lore.) The rest of his weapons are found and collected in-game. He did not begin shooting at anyone until the cops literally came barging into his front yard shooting at him first. While that doesn't justify him going on a killing spree, it is the moment that set off his paranoid delusion fully.

We know from the lore that Paradise is a fucked up place filled with dangerous people. There is something genuinely wrong with Paradise that pushed Dude to this point (even if he likely already had a few screws loose in his brain). The real-world threats he was experiencing amplified the delusion that everyone was out to get him. Chronic stress and trauma can make a person become highly psychotic.

The wrong man in the wrong place at the wrong time makes all the terrifying difference. RWS stated he is an "everyman". He is meant to be related to without condoning what he does. The whole idea behind Postal 1 is that this could happen to anyone in the right circumstances. Anyone can develop psychosis if they experience enough stress.

In P1 Dude's journal entries, he repeatedly stated that he was scared and thought people were trying to kill him. He was straight up visually perceiving the people shooting at him as creatures infected with the "hate plague". Many of the loading screens show what people looked like through his eyes. They have heavily distorted, skeletal, and monstrous faces. On the flip side, Demon's journal entries are quite sadistic, playful, and a bit poetic. Demon speaks completely differently from Dude, aside from a few later journal entries when his sanity slips further. It seems like the delusion is worsening at that point and Demon (if real) is possibly taking over further. It is important to note that Dude never speaks in-game. That is all Demon's voice speaking. RWS confirmed this.

According to RWS, no one else can hear this voice but him. It was deliberately left ambiguous as to whether or not this is an actual demon possessing him, or merely part of his psychotic delusion. Nonetheless, P1 Dude completely lacked agency over Demon's thoughts/behavior. Thus, wholeheartedly blaming P1 Dude as if he was somehow aware of what he was doing during his psychosis is straight up nonsense.

You could say he was like a puppet for Demon/his delusions. To say there is no difference between P1 Dude and Demon is to fundamentally misunderstand how this character was written. He did not know what happened until the end of the game when he realized he was attempting to harm children. That's what made him collapse to the ground in shock and horror. Everything I have stated is 100% canon and can be sourced directly from the original Postal 1 manual, in-game lore, canon information in the game files, RWS' social media accounts where they answer fan questions, and old interviews with the original dev team.

This may be a tough pill for some to swallow, but there are people with psychosis so extreme they are 100% lacking in awareness of their own behavior. That is a real thing that happens to people all the time. There's a lot of ableism and misconceptions about how psychosis works in this fandom. Please don't contribute more stigma toward psychotic people, if you can help it.

With all that being said and done:

Do I think what he did is ok? HELL NO!!! I can deeply empathize with a traumatized psychotic man that thought he was “saving humanity” by killing monsters without condoning his actions. So can you. Severe persecutory delusions are no joke! That's a pretty tragic situation to be on either end of. Imagine thinking you were doing something akin to killing off a zombie outbreak…only to realize you committed absolute atrocities. That's peak psychological horror, my dude. That's raw and real as hell to me.

I am not primarily concerned with P1 Dude's overall sense of morality. My focus is on pointing out the clear moral discrepancies/dilemmas that were deliberately written into the lore. These are moral discussions in the context of Dude's delusional perspective. Obviously, from the player's perspective/morals, his delusion is completely fucked and not logical. It is a delusion, after all. Explanations don't and should never equal justifications. I am not focused on if he is good or evil, as I do not believe in that type of thing. My main focus is with understanding the context of his delusional thoughts and actions. I think people are just people. They're all capable of wonderful and terrible things. I am primarily concerned with the canon lore and ableism toward psychotic/delusional people. People do not choose their delusions or control them, period.

-Sincerely, someone who has experienced similar delusions.

Edit: I originally wrote this post when I was sick, sleep deprived, and had a hellish headache. I have since tried to elaborate on several points I feel I did not explain in a nuanced enough way, initially.

I have noticed some people quote the Postal Strategy Guide claiming that P1 Dude shot first. That is a fair concern to bring up. This is slight misinformation on the original writer's part. Even if you do absolutely nothing in the game but stand around, the cops shoot first. Paul did not work at RWS, was not a game dev, and did not write the lore. Misconceptions and errors are very common in game strategy guide books from the 90s and early to mid 2000's.

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shakeyloner · 2 months

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Here is a college paper I wrote about BoJack Horseman having BPD for my psychological disorders class about the depictions of mental and mood disorders.

The teacher was an actual clinical psychologist and I got a 100, with the average being an 86% so take that as you will.

A Critique of the Depiction of Borderline Personality Disorder

Of Character “Bojack Horseman” in Netflix’s “Bojack Horseman”

PSYCH-433

By: (You Don’t get to know)

4/3/2024

“BoJack, just stop. You are all the things that are wrong with you. It’s not the alcohol, or the drugs, or any of the shitty things that happened to you in your career, or when you were a kid. It’s you. Alright? It’s you.” (“BoJack Horseman” Episode 310). Although this is something you should never say to someone with any mental illness, it seems to encapsulate what Borderline Personality Disorder and BoJack Horseman’s apparent struggle with it throughout the series. Although an animated“comedy”show about an anthropomorphic horse who was a past star in a 90s sitcom, now living life as a washed-up star may not sound like the greatest representation of Borderline Personality Disorder, throughout the six-season story, we are able to see how BoJack’s relationships can be affected by it, along with items in his past that could have brought it about.

Let’s start with how BoJack fits the DSM description of BPD, and how he might not. The requirements within the DSM require to show 5 (or more) symptoms of 9 presented. These include: Extreme reactions to abandonment, whether real or perceived; a pattern of intense and stormy relationships with family, friends, and loved ones, ranging from idealization to extreme dislike; Impulsive and often dangerous behaviors; Recurring suicidal behaviors or threats, or self harming behavior. Intense and highly changeable moods, Chronic feelings of emptiness; inappropriate or intense anger, and stress-related paranoid thoughts or severe dissociative symptoms. BoJack checks lots of these boxes, so let’s go through each one, and give an example if it applies.

BoJack is incredibly afraid of abandonment. It is shown several times throughout the series that he is scared when people he knows leaves, such as his half-sister Hollyhock, who after trying to distance herself from him tells him that he is forcing himself into her life, as he becomes a professor at the college she attends. However, nothing is more apparent of his fear of abandonment than his relationship with his roommate Todd. He constantly puts him down, as to keep him to stay at his house indefinitely. This is most apparent when Todd presents his Rock-Opera. BoJack, as his friend, tells him, “That was, and I don’t say this lightly, worse than a hundred September 11ths”. However, once the Rock Opera seems like it might be picked up, and Todd might become successful and leave his house, BoJack sabotages Todd’s chances by getting him addicted to a video game he played as a teenager, which makes Todd fail his pitches to possible producers.

BoJack’s stormy relationships are about half of the show and I could likely fill three pages of just this. He has an on-again off-again relationship with his Agent, Princess Carolynn. His relationship with his roommate, Todd, is often broken based on the consequences of his actions, along with those of his friend and ghost-writer Diane. A romantic relationship with a co-star turned rocky when he nearly choked her to death, as she wanted to leave him, and wanted him to stop with substance abuse. Finally, his relationship with what could be considered best friend, Herb Kazzaz, ended with them not speaking for twenty years after Bojack “stabbed him in the back” while not defending him from media heat. Herb was a comedian who helped start BoJack’s successful career, being a writer for the show he starred in, and despite being his best friend, when the media found out that Herb was gay, leading to his removal from the show, BoJack did nothing to stand up for him, because it believed it would affect his professional career.

He has a terrible sense of self, constantly asking himself, “Am I a good person?”, flipping from wanting to be a star and do more shows to rejecting offers, and leaving projects mid-shoot. In season 1, he approaches his friend Diane, asking, “I need you to tell me that I’m a good person. I know that I can be selfish and narcissistic and self-destructive, but underneath all that, deep down, I’m a good person, and I need you to tell me that I’m good, Diane… Tell me, please Diane, tell me that I’m good…”. Along with that, after catching his life-long dream role, of Secretariat, he leaves the film, mid-production to do something else.

His impulsive and dangerous behaviors are one of the most evident. He goes through several “benders” throughout the show, ranging from alcohol to prescription and hard street drugs. He is known as an alcoholic to his friends and even attends rehab (multiple times), which actually lines up with studies. “In men, borderline personality disorder is more likely to co-occur with disorders such as substance abuse” Along with this he has poor spending habits, such as buying a boat, and an entire restaurant when heated.

He has few, though some recurring suicidal behaviors and threats. This is evident through him driving with his eyes closed accelerating on the highway while letting the wheel go, and when he tells a current girlfriend that unless she tells him that she loves him, he’s going to hang himself, albeit in the form of autoerotic asphyxiation. This may be one of the symptoms he shows the least of, however, because although he is depressed throughout much of the show, suicide is never really his answer to it, rather filling his life with drugs and alcohol.

He does have very changeable moods as well. This is often seen through anger, which I will also cover number 8 with this, that he will be fine one minute, then filled with rage the next, such as yelling at someone over muffins in a grocery store, or going on rants when someone puts pressure on him or he doesn’t get what he wants. Very rarely does this turn into physical anger or abuse, most of the time resulting in him taking drugs.

His feelings of emptiness and boredom seem to create tons of his problems. He has the need to fill his life with something, but he doesn’t know what. He sometimes wants to get back into filming shows, but fails to go through with that, and fills his life with whatever he can. He has rewatched his own sitcom several times to deal with this boredom, and his emptiness can be described through his quote, “you’re going to do everything in your power to fill that hole with friends and your career and meaningless sex, but the hole doesn’t get filled. And one day, you’re going to look around and you’re going to realize that everybody loves you, but nobody likes you, and that is the loneliest feeling in the world.” (“Bojack Horseman” 305).

Finally, are stress-related paranoid thoughts or severe dissociative symptoms. This is the entirety of episode 511, “The Show-Stopper”. The entire episode shows BoJack’s inability to discern reality from the TV Show that he is filming. He believes that someone in the real world is out to get him, despite it being a part of the show, and the show continues to flip between parallels of BoJack’s personal life, to the show, highlighting him losing touch with what is real and what is not.

Finally, all of this can be attributed to past trauma and relationship to his parents. His father would constantly avoid him, and when he was around, would verbally abuse him, and was even shown getting him drunk. This is after BoJack walked in on him having an affair with his secretary. Finally, he was very absent from BoJack’s life, reflected in the episode “The View From Halfway Down”. While dreaming about a dinner with important people from his life, his father is absent, and is instead represented by the racehorse “Secretariat”, who BoJack idolized as a child, showing he might have turned to the racehorse as a father figure more than his actual biological father. Even more, his mother, though we aren’t given too much, has also shown BPD symptoms, including heavy drinking, mood swings, and the idea of abandonment, when her mother sort of “left” after receiving a lobotomy. This could point to the biological risk factor of BPD, though his environmental factors are much more readily apparent.

The show, given a whole six seasons, gives great room to show how Bojack Horseman displays Borderline Personality Disorder. Although he is oftentimes depressed, and even empty, I feel the show could more highlight this part of the disorder. It is an animated comedy, it isn’t meant to be a perfect one-to-one, and a person not doing anything doesn’t make for a great show, This could be however because his sadness is often too quickly “resolved” through his anger, or his substance abuse. His self image is also up for scrutiny, because although in the earlier seasons he has a very mixed idea of who he is, he begins to settle down later in the series. Finally, his self-harming behaviors. Although he does self-sabotage through things like drinking and substance abuse, things such as cutting or any others are not as apparent. This is also the case when it comes to suicide, only appearing a handful of times throughout the show. Again, this could be attributed to the fact it’s supposed to be a comedic show, and a whole six seasons about a constantly suicidal person doesn’t sound that entertaining. Overall, given that it’s put into Netflix’s comedy section, “Bojack Horseman” does a great job depicting mental disorders, not just in how they affect a person, but also the people around them.

References

Bob-Waksberg, Raphael. (Executive Producer). (2014-2020). BoJack Horseman [TV series]. Torante Television; Netflix.

Borderline personality disorder. (2011). National Institute of Mental Health, U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, National Institutes of Health.

#bojack #bojack horseman #bjh #bpd #college

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escapingrealtiylovinginsanity · 7 months

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Nick Torres: I Told You Not To

My first NCIS attempt. I just started watching season 14 and I LOVE Nick Torres. This is set before he joins the team. Let me know how I did in catching Nick’s character. I’m still learning his personality.

You didn’t know it was possible to be this on edge while simultaneously feeling so fatigued. The fatigue was soul-deep and not something that would be fixed with even the best night's sleep. You felt completely wrung out. It made the hypervigilance that you couldn’t turn off much more unsettling. You have been running for almost two months now. There was the constant fear of being found and killed, or worse. You didn’t have the skill set to be on the run. You didn’t know how to dodge and redirect the dangerous people trying to find you. You didn’t know how to shoot a gun or protect yourself. You were a humanitarian. You came to Argentina to volunteer at an orphanage that doubled as a battered women's shelter.

You were well aware that you did not have the skill set necessary to protect yourself in the situation and it had never occurred to you that you might need to. Helping people without using the correct channels had never come back to bite you in the ass this hard though. Granted it had always been in America where you had the home advantage. When the woman had come and asked you for help escaping her abusive husband with her young son in tow, how were you supposed to know that everyone else had turned her away in fear of the repercussions of a powerful man. A man who ran an underground child sex trafficking ring.

The only thing that stood between you and him was an undercover NCIS agent, Nick Torres. He had saved you after his cover had been blown and had been dragging you around since. The man was paranoid, or so you had thought in the beginning, and on constant vigilance. He was sure of a mole in NCIS and didn’t trust anyone. It left the two of you in this constant state of motion. At first, the ordeal had been frightening, a constant rush of adrenaline. It had now turned into a constant uncomfortable prickle of anxiety and suspicion of everyone and everything. It was chronic mental exhaustion. If it made you feel as bad as you did, you could only wonder how bad it was for Nick.

He was the one who could keep you both alive. You had watched his strange humor which had the desired effect of lightening the mood in difficult and often uncomfortable situations turn into a stoic silence for the last week, maybe two. You weren’t sleeping much but it was nothing compared to him.

You had scoffed when he told you “I don’t sleep” but had soon found it near close to the truth. He barely slept over the last two months, the last few weeks being the worst. When he did drift off it was light and fitful. Every noise or movement woke him, and it would only be after a complete recheck of the area that he would try to sleep again if he chose to even try. Most of the time he would shake himself more awake and persist wherever he was leading you to next.

Nick was a handsome man, but he looked rough, sitting next to you on the commercial bus. His body language read exhaustion as did the dark circles underneath his eyes. They showed prominent even over his dark skin which was starting to take a more yellow jaundice undertone. Not that you were judging. You were sure that you looked like a hot mess express. You had been living in Nick’s oversized clothes and showers weren’t a frequent thing. Your hair had been in a braid for almost a week because you couldn’t stand how greasy it had gotten. Most of it was covered by Nick’s plain black baseball hat that he had forced on your head, bill pulled down low to cover most of your face. He liked you as hidden as possible saying you looked out a ghost in the land of the living. A pale white girl who couldn’t hold a conversation in Spanish in a sea of fast-speaking Latinos. It was rude but you couldn’t disagree.

The bus had just taken off, and Nick was slumped in his seat when a chill went up your spine. You had the eerie feeling of being watched. You knew the drill, no quick movements, you had to make checking your surroundings look natural, causal.

It was easy to spot him the man. He was a few seats behind you and openly staring. It seems too blatant to be one of the men that you have been running from, but your body tenses and you feel the blood start to pump faster through your veins. “Nick,” Your voice is low and tense. It catches his attention, and you can feel him become more alert and sit up straighter next to you. “Do you see that guy a few seats behind us? He is watching us.” Nick did a much more casual job of surveying the surroundings and when he was done, he chuckled before relaxing back into his seat. You furrowed your eyebrows at him in confusion.

“He isn’t watching us,” Nick stated flatly. You give a scoff of disbelief and go to object. You may be getting paranoid, but you can still tell when someone is staring. Nick cuts you off before you can get a handful of words out. “He isn’t watching us. He is watching you.” It takes a moment for the words to process. A soft oh falls from your lips when it finally clicks.

Nick leans into your space, his hand coming up to cup the side of your neck. You exhale in surprise, but the touch is light and not unwelcome. It floods your body with a tingling warmth. “Is he still looking?” You search Nick’s face before looking back at the man. His attention had broken off you and he was now slumped against the wall staring out the window.

“No,” His fingers brushed your cheek lightly catching a strand of hair that had come loose and securing it behind your ear.

“Yeah, most people get uncomfortable with public displays of affection. Just like most men will respect another man when they realize that the girl they are trying to flirt with is taken.” He gives you a long look before glancing down at your chest and whispering, “I told you not to wear that.” He dropped back into his seat.

You made a face at him, you two had gotten into a small argument at the station where you had refused to wear one of his long-sleeved shirts. It was hot and the bus was a hotbox. You had been sweating for days and washing up in the skin hadn’t tackled the problem. You just wanted to be comfortable for your trip. You had snagged a white wife beater out of his bag to put on instead. It was tight in the chest, but it felt much lighter and cooler. Nick had wisely said nothing when you came out in it.

His comment made you look down at the shirt. I was tight and clinging to you like a second skin but the top where it was pulled tightly across your breast you saw the problem. You had been sporting a bright red bra when you left, and it was the only one you had. Because your boobs were so large there was no way of forgoing it. The flimsy white shirt that had been great for the purpose of keeping you cool did nothing to hide your bra’s florescent color nor the outline of its lace. Your cheeks flushed bright in embarrassment. You were a hot mess and gave quite the show.

The two of you rode in silence for a while. Nick's eyes were open just a sliver as he tried to keep himself awake. It was a losing battle. He would start to doze, and his head would slide to the side waking him back up. “We have three hours until the next stop, right?”

“You have to go to the bathroom already?” You glare at him. He had made a point to complain about your need to use the bathroom more frequently than him. “Yeah, about that.” He agreed. You nod in decision and turn to put your back against the corner where your seat meets the wall, your knees turned more toward the center aisle.

“You should get some sleep,” He looks ready to object, “You’ve already checked everyone out on the bus, and I’ll wake you up before we hit our next stop or if anything weird happens.” He still looks hesitant, but his brown eyes have a heavy exhaustion cut deep into their depths. You pat your lap urging him to rest his head. “You’ll sleep better if you lay down.”

“I’ll be okay,” He shimmies against his seat trying to get comfortable. The seats are hard and sleeping upright is uncomfortable in the best of circumstances. Nick is stubborn and even with everything he has done for you doesn’t want to ask for any small favors or comforts you can give him. You grab his shoulder and pull him forward to lay down, even with objections on his lips he allows you to maneuver him to lay with his shoulders and head in your lap. Nick, who had complained one too many times about you getting yourself in trouble by being too selfless chuckled lightly into your thighs as you assured him.

“Don’t worry I’m doing it for purely selfish reasons. If you are sleep-deprived and miss something or get hurt, it will be all over for me.” You tease him, even with the truth of your words ringing in your ears.

Nick is stiff laying in your lap for a few minutes, but it doesn’t take long for him to readjust and get comfortable enough to fall asleep. When he does, he is out cold. His body is a heavyweight against you, and he starts snoring. The physical contact felt nice. You were no stranger to his touch. Nick had been pulling, pushing, leading, and on occasion dragging you around. All of it had a purpose and none felt like real physical contact. The warmth of his body that lay on yours was soothing. You tried not to examine that feeling too thoroughly.

Nick being relaxed enough to sleep made your own anxiety settle slightly. You still made sure to look out the window and be aware of what was going on around you, but it wasn’t as needling. You silently wondered if you two had been feeding off each other's nervous energy for too long. That paired with a lack of sleep made for a volatile combination.

The first hour went by in a blur of Nick’s snores and passing scenery out the window. By the middle of the second hour, your ass and legs were getting numb from sitting in the same position for so long. You were trying not to fidget or shift because Nick was getting some real sleep, and you didn’t want to risk waking him. Another fifteen minutes in you couldn’t take it anymore. You set a hand on the middle of his back and started slowly shifting trying to move your leg. You had moved maybe an inch when you felt the slight jolt of movement from Nick. This body was tensed, you could feel the strong muscles in his back flex under your palm.

“It’s okay, we’re still over an hour out.” You whisper to him running your hand down his spine. “I just need to sit a little different.” His half-lidded eyes meet yours as he lifts his body a few inches allowing you to pull your leg up onto the seat. You press your back more directly into the wall rotating the way you were sitting on your butt. He half moves half slides up your stomach as you slide down the wall. He ends up draped across you, his head on your stomach his torso resting in between your thighs. One of his hands smooths up your thigh and stops to rest there as he passes back out.

Your hand still rests on his back. He has a hole in his dark shirt that you fiddle with for something to do. You notice his shirt has ridden up leaving a few inches of tan olive skin showing between it and his pants. The man’s body is all firm muscle. You would have to be blind not to notice how attractive he is, only exacerbated by his cocky attitude and smartass remarks. You try your best to stamp down that thought-examining the way he makes you feel would be a disaster. The only way you want to see him is as a protector. A man who is standing between you and those who want to hurt you. That's all it can be. The rest you know to ignore. You smooth down his shirt where it has bunched around his broad shoulders. You absently continue the motion rubbing his back. His back is a mess of tight knots and muscles.

You spend the rest of the bus ride alternating between loosening the knots and resting your hand on his back and feeling it rise and fall as he breathes. You noticed the man who had been staring at you earlier kept taking quick glances at you. He quickly would avert his gaze if you happened to look his way at the same time.

You see the sign for the first stop five miles out. You rub up Nick’s back, he hasn’t moved at all since he fell back asleep. You don’t want to jerk him out of his sleep like last time, so you set your hand over his on your thigh and squeeze it a few times. You whisper his name and see the flutter of his long dark eyelashes. “We are about five minutes out.” You expect him to immediately sit up and start his causal special agent surveillance mode. What you didn’t expect was him to lay there languidly.

He rolls his neck, and shoulders, and then stretches. You heard a few loud pops, and he groaned in satisfaction. He then rolls onto his back and makes eye contact with you from where he is lying. He has his normal cocky smile back on his lips. The few hours of uninterrupted sleep had done him a lot of good. He seemed to be in much better spirits. You quirked an eyebrow at him in question. “Finalmente encontré tu fuerte (I finally found your forte). You make a fantástica pillow.”

“I’m glad you approve.” You tease sarcastically. He doesn’t move to get up, so you rest your hand on his stomach, the other on the back of the seat. When the bus stops people make their way off. The man from earlier who had been watching you stops by your seat before he exits. He says something in Spanish. You catch none of it, but Nick does and clearly didn’t like it. His body is still relaxed against yours and his tone is teasing with an undercurrent of hard warning as he answers. The only thing you catch is- Entender amigo. Understand friend. The man glares at Nick before storming off the bus. “Do I even want to know?”

“Sólo sabes cómo causar problemas (You just know how to cause trouble).” Nick watched as people started to file onto the bus. You sigh and are about to ask him to translate, silently cursing yourself for opting for ASL in school instead of Spanish. Nick’s gaze turns back to you and looks down at your chest which is now basically at eye level before redirecting up to your eyes. “I told you not to wear that shirt.” He repeats. “The next stop is ours. I squirreled away some of my own money there before I went under. Just in case. You can never be too careful, ya know? How does a hotel room sound for the night?”

You moan in delight at the thought, “Sounds like a hot shower and a real bed. Heaven.” Nick chuckled before readjusting on your lap.

“We have two more hours before our stop. You mind if I catch a little more sleep?”

“Knock yourself out. Apparently, I’m a certified pillow.” You smooth his hair out of his face. It’s supposed to be a teasing gesture, but it ends up being a lingering touch. Soft. Comforting. Affectionate in a way that wasn’t intended. If Nick closes his eyes again and leans into the touch you ignore it. Just like the butterflies that are trying to awaken in your cold traumatized stomach.

I hope you guys enjoyed it! Let me know what you think xoxo

#NCIS #nick torres #nick torres x you #nick torres x reader #nick torres imagine

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sundrop-writes · 10 months

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Miss Nectarine

Donna Troy x Fem!Thick!Reader

Miss Nectarine, jawbreaker sweet.

Summary:

Ever since the old Titans have come 'home', Donna has been swimming in stress and grief over the friend they had lost the last time they lived at the Tower. She unintentionally found the perfect way to combat that grief when she accidentally walked in on you in a very revealing situation.

Donna Troy x Fem!Thick!Reader. Friends to Lovers. Smut. Set during Season 2, Episode 7.

Word Count: 2,600

DC Titans Masterlist | AO3 Link

Detailed warnings and author's notes below the cut.

Warnings: this is such a random fic lmao; this is primarily smut; this fic does feature spoilers for the canon if you haven’t seen the show before and you want to watch it spoiler-free; mentions of Titans!Bruce Wayne’s intense paranoia; mentions of background (past) Dawn/Dick; mentions of canon violence (no in-depth descriptions); mentions of Donna/Garth (but I never outright state in this fic that Donna and Garth were romantic in the past or if they were just friends - I like them better platonically tbh); mentions of Donna’s grief for Garth as a best friend; this uses the ‘caught masturbating’ trope - Donna accidentally walks in on the reader masturbating and all the lustful feelings she has ever felt for the reader come flooding toward the surface; there is no hard dom/sub, but Donna is more dominant and the reader is more submissive to Donna’s orders and whims; the reader uses she/her pronouns and has a vagina; she reader is described as fat/plus sized (through a very loving gaze - Donna is very turned on by her body); accidental voyeurism (Donna watches the reader masturbate for a while); clitoral stimulation (the reader masturbating); the reader calls Donna ‘D’ (because that’s a thing in all my fics now); very clear consent is established before Donna touches the reader; mentions of Donna manhandling the reader slightly (using her superpowered strength, but nothing that would be incredibly unrealistic); oral sex/pussy eating (Donna giving, reader receiving); I believe that’s about it.

A/N: This is named after the recent song Miss Nectarine by Ashnikko, which is about someone struggling with their attraction to women and I fucking love the song so much - the second I heard it, it captured my heart. I highly recommend listening to it. Also, I feel like this fic is not my best work. Idk. I wrote it with a really awesome inspiration in mind (Donna lusting after a thick girl) but I couldn’t really get the writing flow down, and I feel like some parts of it are clunky. But I know that sometimes we should stand behind work that’s not our best, and people still might enjoy reading this. So, here you go!

...

Titans Tower was a place that had a lot of usual features. Things that no other home would ever need.

The large serenity garden in the center of the house that never seemed to bring anyone serenity. (It was likely just there because the Tower had been built for people who were city-dwelling chronic night owls, the type of people who never saw plants in their natural habitats, and needed a simulated one in the middle of their million dollar condo.) The large, state of the art training facility. The medical bay, stocked with all kinds of equipment and medication - including a freezer filled with spare blood, in all of the original Titans blood types. Which is something that would be insanely creepy to any outsiders.

And among the more peculiar security measures: none of the internal doors in the house had locks on them. All the bathroom doors, all the bedroom doors, the doors to the training room - none of them locked.

To a certain extent, Donna understood why.

The place had been designed by the most paranoid man on the planet - at least, that’s what Diana often called Bruce, and Donna had to believe it wasn’t an exaggeration, because Diana didn’t really believe in hyperbole. There were cameras in every single room, endless security protocols to breach the Tower from the outside - most of which Donna likely didn’t even know about. The place had been designed around its own unique, state of the art surveillance system.

So, there being no locks on any of the bathroom doors or bedroom doors was just another… quirk. Something implemented for security purposes without ever considering how inconvenient it would be for a person to actually live with.

It was something implemented with the idea that locks put barriers between the members of a team, and those barriers can create secrets. Secrets cause friction. A team should be one solid unit. That, and it can be dangerous, taking away precious life saving seconds if someone is locked in their bedroom while sick or injured and a door needs to be smashed up in order to get to them.

At least, that’s what Bruce had in mind when designing the place.

Back when all the original Titans had moved into the Tower, knocking became the most easily upheld rule in the household. No matter how much they argued over who did the dishes or complained about certain people making noises at ‘impolite’ hours - above all, it was a sacred practice not to barge past a closed door without asking first.

And as Hank taught them, whenever someone wanted privacy in their room, as a kind of ‘do not disturb’ sign: a sock was to be wrapped around the doorknob as a universal signal that the person inside did not want to be bothered. It was a good old fashioned standby that he had learned while living in a frat house that had shitty, broken bedroom doors with locks that often failed. It came in very handy whenever someone wanted their privacy to masturbate uninterrupted, to unwind and sob without question after a particularly hard mission, or - when Dick and Dawn coupled up - to fuck like rabbits without anyone else barging in on them.

Somehow, being back in the Tower, it was easy to forget that sacred law of knocking. Something about taking a five year hiatus from living in the strangely designed condo and wallowing in the tense emotions that being here brought back to her - Donna was more focused on the stress of Deathstroke and Doctor Light, everything around her old home that reminded her of the dear childhood friend she had lost the last time she was here. Her mind was a mess, and sadly - it was easy to forget about something as simple as knocking.

Over the past few days, her mind had been occupied by far too many things.

Doctor Light’s ‘escape’, and then his strange, untimely death. Deathstroke suddenly showing up again, and the moral conflict of harboring another one of his kids in the Tower. Which was made even worse when she considered that he would be an emanate danger to her - and to everyone else.

All of this stress was topped off, brought to a boiling point when Donna had walked into her room after doing some yoga and meditation with Dawn (trying to calm the rockiness of their minds) and she found a bottle of orange soda on one of the bookshelves. Not just any orange soda - the orange soda.

Her memories of Garth were painful enough - she didn’t need to be reminded of him like this. She wasn’t sure if someone was doing this to fuck with her, or if someone had put it there to try and comfort her. As an attempt at reminding her of the good parts of her past. If that’s what they meant, it wasn’t working.

As soon as she found it, Donna rushed down the hall to your room to confide in you. She simply needed to share this strange occurrence with someone who wasn’t going to jump down her throat with conspiracy theories or brush off her concerns. She needed a shoulder to lean on, maybe cry on. Maybe she needed to reminisce about Garth when she had banned speaking his name since she had re-entered the Tower.

She thought nothing of it when the doorknob to your bedroom turned under her palm with absolutely no resistance.

She found herself standing in your doorway, holding the bottle of warm soda in one hand, staring down at it like it was a bomb about to go off. With her other hand still poised on the lockless doorknob, her mind filled with stale grief over her lost friend - when she heard it.

A soft moan.

Donna’s head shot up toward the noise, mostly an instinct of her training. The sight she was greeted with instantly shifted all of the energy in her body from confused, saddened, and hurt to pure, blinding lust.

You were laying in the middle of the bed, your head propped against several pillows, making you look like a fantasy, purposefully displayed and laid out for her - and you were touching yourself. Your oversized, comfortable shirt was shoved up to sit underneath your chin, revealing your gorgeous tits, bared so perfectly for the eye to consume.

Your lounge shorts with your panties tangled inside them were tossed off to sit around your ankles, clearly in a haste to partake in the act of ‘self care’. (Something different than the calming yoga Donna had been doing to take her mind off things, but just as effective.) This left your wet, wanting pussy out in the open, completely visible for Donna to see, and she even swore that she could smell you - a pungent tang in the air that drove a carnal hunger deep inside her.

The thing was, as much as Donna had acknowledged in the back of her mind that you were attractive, and funny, and cute, and that your strength when facing enemies put an undeniable heat in her gut - she had never truly looked at you with this much lust boiling inside of her. Not until now. Because she had never truly seen you until this moment.

Well, up until this moment - she had seen you as a friend, as a companion, as a fantastic warrior, someone she always wanted by her side. But this was the first time she had seen you as a potential lover. As someone she so badly wanted to fuck.

With you laid bare to her like this, so desperately humping your own fingers and intimately visible, she couldn’t help but to stare.

Two of your fingers worked furiously over your swollen clit while you held a lip between your teeth, clearly trying to hold any noises tight inside of your throat. This was something that made Donna even more desperate to hear your sounds, to hear what kind of moans or whimpers you would make for her.

Your breasts bobbed in the air as your chest heaved - two beautiful mounds with peaked nipples, zagging lines of stretched skin where reality had quaked to prepare for your gorgeous muchness. This caused her eyes to trace down your quivering stomach; her gaze following the smooth rolls of your body that perfectly guided her eye down to the beautifully fat mound of your cunt. Your pussy was dusted with hair that was absolutely dripping with your need - so utterly soaked that you were beginning to form a small stain on the comforter below you.

Perhaps best of all - the wideness of your thighs perfectly framed your clenching hole, clearly so needy and yet untouched as you rubbed sloppy, increasingly loud circles on your clit. It was a space where Donna wanted to slot herself and be smothered by the perfect dimpled thickness of your thighs, wanted to feel the endless warmth there, encasing her in everything that was you and barring out the stresses of the world.

She stood there, frozen in place for too long, simply admiring you.

She still had her hand on the doorknob, standing in the doorway, and with your eyes screwed so tight with pleasure and concentration, she knew that you hadn’t seen her yet.

Part of her wondered if she should approach you. If she should be so bold as to assume that you would want her in your bed.

But when she glanced down again, she saw the orange soda bottle. And something in the back of her mind was reminded of that haunted past. Something that said she was never meant to be happy. Something that told her living in the moment only fucked things up. Everything she had done back then, it was karma, that-

“Donna.”

You said her name like it was the sweetest song.

A soft, delicate moan coming from your lips - not an accusation, not a griped yell for her to get out.

When she looked back at you, your eyes were even tighter with pleasure, your back arched slightly off the bed, displaying your breasts in an even more perfect way. Your fingers worked more furiously on your clit, clearly trying to make yourself cum with even more intent. Your other hand came down to hook under your knee, lifting your leg up in a way that spread your thighs even more. This made Donna breathless at the visible wave of slick that leaked out of you and the way your fingers dug into the fat of your thigh.

It almost made her jealous of the act. She should be the one grabbing your thigh. It made her entirely tempted to charge over there and simply take over.

“Fuck, D.” You sighed breathlessly.

It was clear in her mind: you hadn’t caught her. You were thinking about her as you were getting close.

Donna’s own pussy throbbed between her thighs, and as she clutched around the glass bottle so hard she swore she heard it crack. In that moment, she could almost hear Garth’s voice in her mind. He was chanting, telling her to ‘go for it’. Telling her that the concept of ‘karma’ was bullshit and she had to make her own fate. He would have told her that she was stupid to pass up an opportunity with ‘such a hot babe’. If he was a ghost, supposedly haunting the Tower, he would probably be her wingman in this.

Maybe it was his ghost, with a hand on her back, guiding her toward you. Whatever it was - in that moment, Donna felt the impulsive Atlantean side of her take over.

Or maybe it was the fact that she needed to turn away from all the grief - for the first time since entering the Tower, Donna needed to make herself forget about all the ghosts that haunted the halls. She needed to hold onto something real, something good that was right in front of her - she needed the real, tangible now.

She stepped fully inside your bedroom, shoved the door closed behind her. It was only with that quiet slam that you actually came out of your personal, lustful bubble. There wasn’t enough time for shock to take over as Donna abandoned the mysterious orange soda bottle on your dresser and strided toward the bed with intention and purpose in every single movement. You snapped your legs closed around your own hand, suddenly feeling shy under her ravenous gaze.

“Yes or no?” She asked you firmly.

She placed a knee on the end of the bed, looking at you with heat blooming across her cheeks. Her own chest shifted with puffs of hot breath as the lust rapidly increased her heart rate.

Of course, she would never do anything without your explicit consent.

Even though shock was still barreling through your system, unsure if this was a fantasy or not, perhaps a strange illusion blurring into reality - you managed to squeak out a reply. There was only one possible answer you could think of when she was looking at you like that.

“Yes.”

Donna nodded firmly and then moved onto the bed. Before you could blink, she had hooked both her hands under your knees and, using her enhanced Amazonian strength, she pulled you down the bed toward her. This caused you to let out a sharp squeak - a sound of delighted surprise at the fact that she could move you around so easily. Nobody else that you had been with ever could.

She placed both her hands on your inner thighs and spread your legs open like you were a book that held all the answers to life’s most demanding questions. She was glad that her hair had already been up in a low bun, because it was out of her way as she held your legs open with impressive force and dove in.

Years of unrealized lust for you came rushing out of her, concentrated on the tip of her tongue. Feelings that she had been holding back through intense, well-trained self discipline began to pour out the minute that her tongue met your mound. It was a demonstration of her sheer power painted in front of you as she flicked her tongue over your needy clit, fucking you hard and fast. She couldn’t help but to moan loudly at your taste. Sweet like a nectarine.

“Fuck!”

You moaned out, unable to take your eyes off the sight of such a gorgeous, goddess-like woman between your thighs. Your mind almost unbelieving that it was real - barely able to comprehend how perfect she looked with her pretty pink lips pressed against your cunt and her tongue working in hard, fast circles as she fucked you in such an utterly demanding way.

“Oh my god, Donna!”

Your muscles quaked with the effort, but you were unable to move even an inch to shut your legs around the intense, overwhelming stimulation that she provided. Heat shot through your body from that one point - from that beautiful place where her lips were sealed onto your cunt.

Donna felt the spasming of your legs, felt the heat pouring off you in waves, and she reached over with one hand and worked two fingers inside of you. This was entirely easy with how slick you were, open and ready for her. You moaned sharply and your face was twisted into a gorgeous pinch of pleasure when she glanced up at you through her lashes.

There was just one more thing that she wanted.

She popped off your clit with a filthy wet noise, causing you to whimper.

“Cum for me,” She demanded sharply.

You couldn’t help but to follow the order.

When you fell apart underneath her touch, you couldn’t contain your screams. Everyone in the Tower heard you.

...

If you enjoyed this fic, check out my DC Titans Masterlist for more of my other fics!! And please consider reblogging and commenting on this fic to tell me what you liked about it.

#sundrop writes #donna troy #donna troy x reader #donna troy x fem!reader #donna troy fanfiction #dc titans #dc fanfiction #titans x reader #titans fanfiction

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rokhal · 5 months

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Resident Evil 7 Biohazard whatever is an amazing portrait of the impact of methamphetamine in the rural US. Everything from the textures to the design of the environment to the story itself.

I guess, as an American, I should be used to living in a media panopticon where everyone knows how we talk and what our houses look like, but the Baker estate is not like a movie set or an influencer's home. There's real clutter, the kind that accumulates when you haven't moved cross-country in over ten years and your kids have grown up: kennels for cats who've lived and died, tool boxes, riding mowers, plastic bags full of plastic bags, pool toys. The age of the house shows, not just in the dated wallpaper and cupboards, but in the glimpses we get through the crumbling walls of construction techniques that have been obsolete for eighty years. The pegboard as wallboard. The cludged-together, homeowner-grade repairs of railings and staircases. The immersion is total. This could be any rural home I've ever visited whose owners lost the battle against entropy.

Houses on cheap land can get big. Real big. The Bakers appear to have inherited a plantation house, but there's a lot more on the property. It's perfectly normal to build a mother-in-law apartment and park a trailer in your backyard when you've got the land. Code inspector? What code inspector? You don't need no stinkin' permits. You're not gonna sell, and if you do, the buyer can figure out what they want to do with your wobbly deck.

You own the house and you've got no neighbors to complain about their property values. If you've got money, you trick out your garage. Get a lift. Get a hoist. Fuck it, dig an oil pit. You can do it! That's your man shed. Build some racks out of hog panel and hang all your tools in some haphazard arrangement that makes sense only to you. You've got to be your own mechanic if you want to keep your vehicles running.

Then there's the Baker family themselves. They were nice. Normal. Probably voted for Trump, but so did everyone they know. Of course they'd take pity on a nice white woman and a little girl begging for shelter, they're not animals. Jack was ex-military and pushy; Marguerite was socialized to stand by him whether or not he treated her well; Lucas was an amoral genius who couldn't make it in the real world; Zoe was at least prepared to fly the nest but either she'd tried and had to retreat, or she hadn't quite gotten up the nerve.

By the time we meet them, Jack and Marguerite are caricatures of themselves. Violent, paranoid, impulsive, irrational, moody. They can barely even function. Marguerite's kitchen is swarming with cockroaches and flies, and Jack's outbursts destroy the furniture and walls of the home that he was once proud of. The areas where Jack and Marguerite live are heaped with garbage bags, dimly lit, and filthy.

Every time we meet Lucas, he's wired as hell. Lucas seems hyperfunctional, constructing his elaborate traps and escape rooms, except he can't make the details come together. He lines the walls of his areas with white plastic sheeting, but the mold creeps through the seams anyway. He doesn't bother to change the codes on his padlocks. He toys with Ethan and banks on Ethan being too dumb to shove a bomb through a conveniently placed hole in the wall.

Zoe can still be reasoned with, but we see her fears in her diary. We see the tinfoil taped over her window to block the light.

Lucas, Jack, and Marguerite exhibit behavioral changes consistent with early, chronic, and long-term methamphetamine abuse. Their house bears the same marks of frenetic remodeling, ambitious yet ill-conceived design choices, repetitive behaviors, and neglect that scar so many homes occupied by meth addicts.

Meth is like other drugs in that it rewires the brain to promote drug-seeking behavior, but it also over time causes the brain to atrophy. Signs resembling dementia or schizophrenia eventually occur, accompanied by cognitive decline, and much of this is permanent. It becomes harder for the user to fight back against their dependency (against Eveline) the longer they use the drug (the deeper Eveline's mold works into their bodies).

This is an American horror story, it's a familiar American horror story, and it's a love letter to our country from Japan that seems to me to say, "We're so sorry about what you're going through. Here, shoot some mold-monsters about it."

#re7 #resident evil 7 #meta #my meta #tw drugs

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matttgirlies · 4 months

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Matt & Me Final🎀

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

a story heavily based on Priscilla Presley’s Book “Elvis & Me” based in the 1950’s - 1970’s.

fem! reader x singer! matt

disclaimer!! - in no way am i saying matt would ever support or do these kind of things, for the sake of the book certain unethical things do happen at times.

warnings - get some tissues..

y/nn = your nickname for any confusion🩷

Chapter 24

In time, it became evident that he was letting his health go. His behavior at times was deliberately self-destructive. On a few occasions he’d say, “I’ll never make it much beyond forty.” We’ve all made such statements, but with Matt the thought was deep-seated and chronic. Mary Lou had died at forty-two and, like Mary Lou, he wanted to go before his father, sensing that he himself couldn’t bear another loss.

From time to time, I’d hear that he had checked into the hospital. Concerned, I’d call, asking, “Are you all right?”

“Sure,” he’d say, laughing a little to show me it was all a big joke. “I just need a little rest, Sattnin.” Then I realized he’d gone to the hospital for the same reason he had during his Army days. It was his way of taking a little rest; he needed to get out of Graceland and away from all the pressures.

By 1976 everyone was becoming alarmed over his mental state as well as his physical appearance. His face was bloated, his body unnaturally heavy. The more people tried to talk to him about this, the more insistent he became that everything was all right.

The Colonel was even concerned about Matt’s actions while onstage. Matt started forgetting lyrics and resorting to sheet music. He was acting erratic by ignoring the audience and playing to the band. A few shows were canceled and no one could predict whether or not he’d appear onstage.

In the absence of any significant professional challenge, Matt created his own real-life dramas. His fascination with guns was now an obsession. He became paranoid over death threats, and from his association with the Boston local police, he had access to lists of local drug pushers. He felt he personally should get them off the streets. Phoning me late one evening, he said, “y/nn, you have anyone you want taken care of? Strictly top secret.”

The style, grace, and pride that for the past eight years had been the hallmark of a Sturniolo live performance now bordered on self-parody. Frustrated with the lack of challenge of each passing show, Matt resorted to sheer flamboyance, symbolized by his costumes, each more elaborate than the one before, loaded with an overabundance of fake stones, studs, and fringes. There were voluminous capes and cumbersome belts to match. He was performing in garb that added thirty-five pounds to his weight. It was as if he were determined to upstage himself instead of relying on his raw talent.

There were times in his final year that he would be criticized on how he related to his audience. Some people observed that he joked around with his band too much and left his songs unfinished. Once Matt even complained from the stage about “bad management” at the hotel, citing a certain employee at the Hilton who was being fired. The following day Colonel William asked Matt to stick to his own business—entertaining—and let the hotel handle its help. James tended to take Matt’s side on this as on every issue, but the Colonel had a right to be concerned.

One of the guys actually told Matt he was beginning to look more like a Liberace act in the hope that Matt would take the hint and come to his senses and rely on just his talent. But from the beginning Matt had insisted: “I just want to read positive reviews. I don’t want to hear any negativity.” As a teenager he’d been shielded by Mary Lou from criticism. When she’d filled her albums and scrapbooks, she’d used only the favorable clippings. If he hadn’t been so sheltered, he might have had a better perspective on his career. At least he’d have been aware of what was being written about him and possibly used some of the comments constructively.

No matter what he did, his fans still cheered him on. They were faithful to him through good performances and bad, and eventually their love was the only real gratification he received. They endorsed everything he did. Maybe as long as he was getting their cheers, he thought he was doing fine. But in fact Colonel William was right when he told Matt that he’d better get himself straightened out or his whole career would go down the drain.

His personal life was not helping the situation. He was seeing Ginger Alden, who was twenty years his junior, and the difference in their ages was becoming more and more of a problem. He’d say, “I’m tired of raising kids. I don’t have the patience to go through it all over again.” There were conflicts—many. Ginger did not like touring, one-night stands. She was close to her family and didn’t want to leave them. Matt tried bringing half her family with them, but that only created other problems. “She spends more time with her sister and mother than she does with me,” he complained.

In discussing his dilemma, I asked, “Do you think you can really live with just one woman?”

“Yes,” he answered. “Now more than ever. I know I’ve done some stupid things, but the stupidest was not realizing what I had until I lost it. I want my family back.”

I wondered if there was some way we could make it work. “Maybe it was just too early in life for us, Sattnin,” I said. “Maybe one day there will be a time for us.”

“Yeah,” Matt laughed. “When I’m seventy and you’re sixty. We’ll both be so old we’ll look really silly, racing around in golf carts.”

In April 1977 Matt fell ill and had to cancel his tour and return home to Graceland. Charlotte and I were there visiting Dodger. He called me up to his room. He did not look himself; his face and body were bloated. He was wearing pajamas, which he seemed to prefer these days when at home. He held Cheiro’s Book of Numbers and told me there was something he wanted me to read. His curiosity for answers had not abated. He was still searching for his purpose in life, still feeling he had not found his calling. If he had found a cause to espouse, whether a drugless society or world peace, he would have had the role he sought in life. His generosity was evidence of this part of his nature—his legendary penchant for giving, even to the countless people he didn’t know.

But he never found a crusade to pull him out of his cloistered world, a discipline strong enough to counter his escape into drugs. That night he read to me, searching for answers, just as he had done the year before and the year before that and the years before that.

It was August 16, 1977, overcast and dreary, not a typical Southern California day. When I walked outside, there was a stillness, an unnatural calm in the air that I have not experienced since. I almost went back into the house, unable to shake my uneasiness. I had a meeting that morning and by noon I was racing to meet my sister Michelle. On my way into Hollywood I noticed the atmosphere had not changed. It still seemed unusually silent and depressing and it had begun to drizzle. As I drove down Melrose Avenue, I saw Michelle standing on the corner, a look of concern on her face. “y/nn, I just got a call from Dad,” she said as I pulled up. “Nate’s been trying to reach you. It’s something about Matt in the hospital.” Nate Doe was Matt’s road manager and right-hand man. I froze. If he was trying to reach me, something must be terribly wrong. I told Michelle to take her car and quickly follow me home. the hospital all year; there were times when he wasn’t even sick that he’d check in for a rest, to get away from pressures, or just out of boredom. It had never been anything too serious.

I thought about our daughter, Charlotte, who was visiting Matt at Graceland and was supposed to come home that very day. Oh God, I prayed. Please let everything be all right. Don’t let anything happen, please, dear God.

I ran every red light and nearly hit a dozen cars. At last, I reached home, and as I swerved down the driveway, I could hear the phone ringing from inside the house. Please don’t hang up, I prayed, jumping out of the car and running toward the door. “I’m coming,” I yelled. I tried to get my key in the lock, but my hand wouldn’t stop shaking. Finally I got into the house, grabbed the receiver, and yelled, “Hello, hello?”

All I could hear was the hum of a longdistance line, then a stricken, faint voice, “y/nn. It’s Nate.”

“What’s happened, Nate?”

“It’s Matt.”

“Oh, my God. Don’t tell me.”

“y/nn, he’s dead.”

“Nate, don’t tell me that. Please!”

“We’ve lost him.”

“No. NO!” I begged him to take back his words. Instead, he was silent. “We’ve lost him—” His voice broke and we both began to cry. “Nate, where’s Charlotte?” I asked.

“She’s okay. She’s with Grandma.”

“Thank God. Nate, send a plane for me, please. And hurry. I want to come home.”

As I hung up, Michelle and Mother, who had just arrived, embraced me and we cried in each other’s arms. Within minutes the phone rang again. For a moment I hoped for a miracle; they were calling me back to tell me that Matt was still alive, that it was all right, that it had all been a bad dream.

But there were no miracles. “Mommy, Mommy,” Charlotte was saying. “Something’s happened to Daddy.” “I know, Baby,” I whispered. “I’ll be there soon. I’m waiting for the plane now.”

“Everybody’s crying, Mommy.”

I felt helpless. What could I say to her? I couldn’t even find words to comfort myself. I feared what she would be hearing. She didn’t yet know that he had died. All I kept saying over and over was, “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Try to stay in Grandma’s room, away from everyone.” In the background I could hear a grief-stricken James moaning in agony. “My son’s gone. Dear God, I’ve lost my son.”

Fortunately a child’s innocence provides its own protection. Death was not yet a reality to her. She said she’d go out and play with Laura, her friend.

I hung up and walked around in a daze, still numb with shock. The news hit the media instantly. My phones did not stop ringing, with friends trying to cope with the shock, members of the family grasping for explanations, and the press demanding statements. I locked myself in the bedroom and left instructions that I would not speak to anyone, that I wanted to be alone. In fact, I wanted to die. Love is very deceiving. Though we were divorced, Matt was still an essential part of my life. Over the last years we’d become good friends, admitting the mistakes we’d made in the past and just beginning to laugh at our shortcomings. I could not face the reality that I would never see him alive again. He had always been there for me. I depended on him, just as he depended on me. We had a bond: We’d become closer and had more understanding and patience for each other than in our married life. We had even talked of one day . . . And now he was gone. I remembered our last phone conversation, just a few days before. His mood had been good as he talked about the twelve-day tour he was about to begin. He even laughed when he told me that, as usual, the Colonel had papered the first city they were scheduled to hit with his posters and that his records were being played constantly in advance of his arrival.

“Good old Colonel,” Matt had said. “We’ve come a long way. He’s still puttin’ out that same old stuff. It’s a wonder people are still buying it.”

I loved hearing Matt laugh, something he had been doing less and less. Just days before that last call, I’d heard that his spirits were down and he was contemplating breaking up with Ginger Alden, his girlfriend. I knew him well enough to realize that this was not an easy move for him to make. If only I’d known that would be the last time I’d talk to him, I’d have said so much more: things I wanted to say and never had, things I’d held inside me for so many years because the timing was always wrong.

He had been a part of my life for eighteen years. When we met, I had just turned fourteen. The first six months I spent with him were filled with tenderness and affection. Blinded by love, I saw none of his faults or weaknesses. He was to become the passion of my life.

He taught me everything: how to dress, how to walk, how to apply makeup and wear my hair, how to behave, how to return love his way. Over the years he became my father, husband, and very nearly God. Now he was gone and I felt more alone and afraid than ever in my life.

The hours went by slowly before Matt’s private plane, the Charlotte Grace, arrived. Behind closed doors I sat and waited, remembering our life together—the joy, the pain, the sadness, and the triumphs—from the very first time I heard his name.

We boarded the Charlotte Grace around nine o’clock that evening, just my parents, Michelle, Jerry Schilling, Amber Doe, and a few close friends. At first, I just sat alone, in despair. Then I went to the back of the plane, to Matt’s bedroom. I lay there, unable to believe that Matt was really dead.

I remembered the jokes Matt used to make about dying. He’d say, “It’d really take something for me to leave this earth.” Yet he wore a chain around his neck that had both a cross and a Star of David on it. He would joke about it, saying he wanted to be covered in all areas, just in case.

He’d had a fear of flying, but he never showed it. Matt never showed any of his fears. He felt he had a responsibility to make everyone else feel secure. So he gave the impression he was self-assured, because he didn’t want to let any of us down.

I thought of a time when we were on a flight home from Los Angeles. There was a lot of turbulence, and the plane was shaking badly. Everyone on board was frightened. Everyone but Matt. When I looked at him, he was smiling, and then he took my hand.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’re gonna make it.” Suddenly, I felt safe. There was a certainty about Matt. If he said it was going to be, then it was going to be that way.

The trip seemed endless. By the time we reached Boston, I was numb. We were ushered into a waiting limousine, to avoid the crush of photographers. Then we sped off to Graceland, where we were met by frantic, disbelieving faces: relatives and close friends, the maids—the same people who had been around us for so many years. I had spent most of my life with these people and seeing them now was devastating.

Most of Matt’s close family—James, Grandma, her daughters, Delta and Nash, and others—congregated in Grandma’s room, while his friends, and the guys who worked for him, were mostly gathered in the den. Everyone else seemed to just be walking in and out of the rooms, silent and solemn, glancing around in disbelief.

Charlotte was outside on the lawn, with a friend, riding around on the golf cart that her father had given her. At first I was amazed that she was able to play at a time like this, but when I talked to her, I realized that the full impact of what happened hadn’t hit her yet. She’d seen the paramedics rushing Matt away, and he was still at the hospital when I’d arrived, so Charlotte was confused.

“Is it true?” she asked. “Is my daddy really gone?”

Again, I was really at a loss for words. She was our child. It was difficult enough for me to believe and confront Matt’s death myself. I just didn’t know how to tell her that she would never see her daddy again.

I nodded, then took her into my arms. We hugged and then she ran out and started riding around in her golf cart again. But now I was glad she could play. I knew it was her way of avoiding reality.

The night seemed endless. Several of us sat around the dining room table talking, and it was then that I learned the circumstances of Matt’s death. I was told that Matt had played racquetball with his cousin, Billy Smith, until four o’clock that morning, while Billy’s wife, Jo, and Matt’s girlfriend, Ginger, watched them. Then they all presumably retired for the night. But as Ginger slept, Matt stayed up to read. He called down to his Aunt Delta for some ice water and said he was having a hard time sleeping.

Matt was still reading when Ginger woke up at nine o’clock that morning, and then she went back to sleep until about 1 p.m. When she awoke, Matt was not in bed. She found him lying face down on his bathroom floor.

Ginger called downstairs, and Al Strada and Nate Doe came running up. After calling the paramedics, Nate gave Matt CPR until they arrived. As the paramedics were leaving to rush Matt to the hospital, his personal physician, “Dr. Joe,” arrived and rode in the ambulance, working on Matt all the way to Baptist Memorial. There the staff tried for another half an hour to revive Matt, but it was all futile. He was pronounced dead on arrival of heart failure. James then requested an autopsy. The body was taken to the Boston Funeral Home to be prepared for viewing in Graceland the following day.

As I sat listening to the events leading up to Matt’s last hours, I became more and more disturbed. There were so many questions. Matt was seldom left alone for any length of time.

Suddenly I knew I had to be alone. I went upstairs to Matt’s private suite, where we had spent so much of our life together. The rooms were more orderly than I’d expected. Many of his personal belongings were gone; his nightstand was bare of books.

I went into his dressing room and it was as if I could sense his living presence—his own unique scent filled the room. It was an eerie sensation.

From the dining room window I could see thousands of people out on Matt Sturniolo Boulevard waiting for the hearse that would bring his body back to Graceland. His music filled the air as radio stations throughout the nation paid tribute to the King.

Soon the casket was placed in the entrance hall and opened for viewing. I sat in Grandma’s room most of that afternoon as thousands of mourners from all over the world passed by, paying their last respects. Many wept; some men and women even fainted. Others lingered at the casket, refusing to believe it was him. He was truly loved, admired, and respected.

I waited for the right moment for Lisa and me to say goodbye. It was late that evening, and Matt had already been moved to the living room where the funeral was to be held. It was quiet; everyone had left. Together we stood over him, emotional. “You look so peaceful, Sattnin, so rested. I know you’ll find happiness and all the answers there.” Then I joked, “Just don’t cause any trouble at the Pearly Gates.” Charlotte took my hand and we placed a sterling silver bracelet depicting a mother and child’s clasped hands on his right wrist. “We’ll miss you.” I knew my life would never be the same.

Colonel came to the funeral wearing his usual baseball hat, shirt, and slacks. He disguised his emotions as best he could. Matt had been like his own son. From the old school, the Colonel was considered a coldhearted businessman, but in truth he had stayed faithful and loyal to Matt, even when his career began to slip. This day he asked James to sign a contract extending his position as Matt’s manager. He was already planning ways to keep Matt’s name before the public. He acted quickly, fearful that with Matt gone, James would be too distraught to handle correctly the many proposals and propositions that would be in the offing. James signed.

At the service, Charlotte and I sat with James and his new fiancée, Sandy Miller, Dodger, Delta, Patsy, my parents, Michelle, and the rest of the family. George Hamilton was there. Julia Ernst attended with her husband, Roger Smith. Julia expressed her sympathy so sincerely I felt a genuine bond with her.

J.D. and the Stamps Quartet sang Matt’s favorite gospel songs. James had chosen the preacher, a man who hardly knew Matt and spoke mostly of his generosity. Matt would probably have laughed and told his dad, “Couldn’t you have got a comedian or something?” Matt would not have wanted us to grieve.

After the service we drove to the cemetery, Charlotte and I riding with James and Sandy. It was three miles away and for the whole three miles both sides of the street were lined with mourners, and at the cemetery there were thousands more. The pallbearers—Jerry Schilling, Nate Doe, George Klein, Steven Wright, Billy Smith, Charlie Hodge, Dr. Joe, and Gene Smith—carried the casket to the marble mausoleum where Matt was finally laid to rest. There we held a short ceremony and, one by one, walked to the coffin, kissed or touched it, and spoke a few words of farewell. Shortly after, for security reasons, he was moved to Graceland in the meditation garden, his final resting place.

Before Charlotte and I returned to L.A., James called me to his office. He was overwhelmed with grief. Did I know anything that would help him to understand why his son had died? He never fully accepted it, and I believed his pain led to his own death, just as Grandma later never recovered from James’s death.

When Charlotte and I returned home I was torn, trying to decide what was best for her. Many conflicting stories were coming out in the national publications and I knew these could have a lasting negative effect on her memory of her father. I decided to send her to summer camp. There she could be protected from radio, TV, and newspapers and could be with her many friends, including Debbie and Cindy, Nate and Amber’s children.

By the time she returned, I’d already made plans with Michelle for a long trip to Europe. Anything to get away from the constant reminders that filled the media.

Matt’s death made me much more aware of my own mortality and that of the people I loved. I realized I’d better start sharing a lot more with the people that I cared about, and every moment that I had with my child or my parents became more precious.

I learned from Matt, often—sadly—from his mistakes. I learned that having too many people around can sap your energies. I learned the price of trying to make everyone happy. Matt would bestow gifts on some, making others jealous, often creating rivalries and anxieties within the group. I learned to confront people, and to face issues—two steps Matt had avoided.

I learned to take charge of my life. Matt had been so young when he became a star that he was never able to handle the power and money that accompanied his fame. In many ways, he was a victim, destroyed by the very people who catered to his every want and need. He was a victim, too, of his image. His public wanted him to be perfect while the press mercilessly exaggerated his faults. He never had the chance to be human, to grow up to be a mature adult, to experience the world outside his artificial cocoon.

When Matt Sturniolo died, a little of our own lives was taken from each of us who knew and loved Matt Sturniolo, who shared in his music, his films, who followed his career. His passion was entertaining his friends and fans. His audience was his true love. And the love Matt and I shared was a deep and abiding one.

He was, and remains, the greatest influence in my life.

Excerpt from: "Elvis and Me" by Priscilla Beaulieu Presley. Scribd. This material may be protected by copyright.

a/n - sad endings actually kill me. i cried multiple times. thank you so much for all the love & support on this story i really enjoyed it. let me know what kind of writing you would like to see next🎀

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