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blgvd · 2 months ago

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AND THEY WERE ROOMATES...

TL;DR - 𝘐𝘯 𝘢 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘐𝘯𝘰 𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘤 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱...𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘢 𝘯𝘰𝘵-𝘴𝘰-𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘦 contents - 𝙄𝙣𝙤 𝙏𝙖𝙠𝙪𝙢𝙖 𝙭 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧, 𝙁𝙚𝙢 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧, 𝙐𝙣𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝘼𝙐, 𝙖𝙡𝙘𝙤𝙝𝙤𝙡 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙂𝙤𝙟𝙤 𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧, 𝙩𝙚𝙚𝙣𝙮 𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙮 𝙗𝙞𝙩 𝙨𝙪𝙜𝙜𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙙 👀 A/N - 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴 𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 !! 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘶𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘥 😋 𝘐 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘵2 𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴🤠

“Ino..?”

“...”

“INO!”

You knocked against Ino’s door, one hand rested on your hip. You could hear the bass of his stereo drown out your desperate knocks. Exhaling sharply, you pulled your phone from the back pocket of your shorts, calling his number and surprisingly hearing his somehow louder ringtone from inside his room

He swiveled in his desk chair, getting up to walk towards the door.

He groaned, twisting the door handle “ we live in the same house why didn’t you just get up and — oh”

You furrowed your brows glaring into his deep auburn eyes, a small curl from the front of your hairline curving with your angered expression

“Go in that bathroom and unclog my drain, I know all of the hair in it is from you” gesturing to Ino’s slightly dampened hair ghosting over his broad shoulders.

“Tch don’t act like you don’t add to it” he remarks, lazily leaning against his door frame

“Your hair is literally longer than mine”

“Barely!” Ino implored, “And it’s not your bathroom is OUR bathroom”

“Whose name is on the lease? Whose name got put down when we got a noise complaint? Whose—”

“Relax, I’ll clean the dumb drain” he pushed past you and into your shared bathroom. You watched him drag his slippers into the bathroom and slam the door behind himself. Living with someone like Ino was far from your bucket list this year, but by some strange and eerie fate, the universe had drawn you two together.

6 months prior, you had posted an ad for a roommate on your university’s forum board. Your previous roommate had received an opportunity to study abroad, leaving you with a two bedroom flat that you (not by any circumstance)could afford on your own. Ino hit you up on the offer and out of reluctant desperation; you obliged.

Not that you had anything against him, you two shared a major and you remembered him always walking into your 9 a.m. class late last semester. You just found it a little odd living with a guy you weren’t dating or related to.

The first few weeks were a bit awkward, but Ino slowly learned your habits and you learned his. Like how he’d always leave random lights on at night, or how you’d always leave empty cups around the house. Once you both got comfortable is when the issues sprouted.

He’d eat your takeout leftovers and the next morning you’d “accidently” spill something on his carpet. When your phone calls would stretch into Ino’s sleep, the next night he’d stay up with his amp turned as high as it could go. He knew that playing his music loud irked you, and whenever the two of you bickered, it was your eardrums that suffered.

Despite the household annoyance matches, you and Ino had a close friendship, you two lived together after all. But ONLY a friendship and nothing more, you weren’t even in the market for anything serious…right?

“Mornin’ ” Ino drawled, pushing brunette strands out of his face

“Hey,” you replied dryly from the couch, watching South Park clips on Youtube

“How’d you sleep?” he asked, sitting across from you in the tattered loveseat you owned, flashing a smirk at you before taking a spoonful of cereal to his mouth. Without looking away from the TV you recalled the events from the previous night.

“Slept like a baby thanks to your colorful gaming commentary..” referring to the cancel worthy statements Ino had been yelling at his monitor screen. He knew you didn’t sleep, he was hoping you wouldn't; as pay-back for making him clean the all mighty sink drain.

“Anyways,” he said stretching his arms over the headrest of the seat, “I’m goin’ to this party later so don’t expect me home”

You turned to him, “You wanna be me soooo bad I swear, I got invited to a party tonight not too far from here,” you paused, “but I’ll still be sure to jingle my keys extra loud when I come back tonight so I don’t get flashed.” adding on with a small giggle

Ino raised an eyebrow at you, “First of all, that's nasty. Second of all, don’t be mad I get invited to better parties than you”. You stood up and turned to go to your room, stopping right behind Ino to dig your slightly pointed nails into his shoulder before quietly leaving the room.

The remainder of the day dragged on and on. But finally, the sun began to set, and you excitedly began getting ready for the party. The invite was on your school’s barstool account, so you weren’t exactly sure about what to wear, but you settled on a denim mini skirt with a baby tee and assorted amounts of unnecessary jewelry.

Ino had left hours before, assuming he was stopping by the gas station to get alcohol; your roommate was known to buy Freshman cheap booze in exchange for party invites.

You softly pushed open the double doors of the well known sorority house that was hosting the rager. Cheap strobe lights hitting your eyes, slightly blinding your vision.

“Hey pretty!” you heard, spinning to your left to see Yuki Tsukumo waving you over. Yuki was the closest thing you had to a sister for the past few years, you both supported each other through thick and thin, draining yourselves to fuel the other; she was your rock.

“Ugh you look stunning gimme’a 360°” you obliged, turning in a small circle to show Yuki the entirety of your outfit.

“You like?”

“No, I love”

The two of you talked and laughed, slightly tipsy. The host of the party, a bubbly sorority girl(most likely drunk out of her mind), gathered everyone’s attention and announced a game of spin the bottle. You shrugged it off, turning back to where Yuki had been sitting, now seeing her strutting over to the huge circle forming. Your friend wasn’t usually the type to participate in games like this, usually calling them “childish” and “a waste of a good party”, but her out of character action clicked once you saw her sit directly across from a guy she had mentioned to you earlier; Choso Kamo. He wasn’t really your type, but Yuki wanted him…bad. You sighed to yourself and plopped down next to Yuki, quickly scanning the circle, seeing a few familiar faces.

Unbeknownst to you, Ino was glaring at you from behind, immediately recognizing you. At first he thought you had followed him, proving your jealousy, but once he saw you mingling with the host he was able to piece together that you were both invited to the same party.

He slid against the wall to the other side of the room, not-so-discreetly looking for your face. Finally making it around to the mini-bar littered with plastic cups, his lips parted slightly; you looked different. To be fair, Ino had only ever seen you in house clothes or casual school clothes. For a while he forgot that you even went out.

He admired the way your face lit up with the dim ceiling lights, the way you rested your intricately manicured hands on your knee, the other hand picking at the patchy carpet floor. Maybe it was the liquor, or the angle you were at, but to Ino, you looked gorgeous. Ethereal at that. His first instinct was to go and join the lively circle, cheers echoing throughout the house as another pair of partygoers kissed. Ino chose to hang back, considering that he’d melt if he got any closer to you.

Your eyes wandered over the decorated living room, growing bored with the game. The bottle had yet to land on you and with such a big circle your turn hadn’t come yet.

“M’gonna grab a drink Yuki”

“Uh-huh” she grabbed your wrist pulling you back down, “isn’t that your roommate over by the bar?”

Spinning your head back towards the kitchen, you noticed his disheveled chestnut hair and lazy slouch; oh that was him alright. You swallowed harshly; what was he doing here? How’d he find you? And why’d he look kinda good…

Your rambling thoughts came to a screeching halt once he turned back around and caught you staring at him. You whipped your neck around fast enough to break it, silently pleading to whatever God was out there, that he hadn’t seen you. But then you realized; at the same time he was trying to stare at you.

Suddenly Yuki cleared her throat, breaking you out of your trance. Her boney fingers held out the bottle to you, motioning for you to spin it. You let out a deep sigh, taking the faded glass bottle and placing it on the trashed floor, gripping its body before flicking your wrist to make it whirl around. While it spun you snuck glances back towards the bar, feeling Ino’s searing stare on your back.

The bottle’s neck came to a stop on a sleazy frat boy, Satoru Gojo to be exact. No one really liked him, and to be frank he was denser than a boulder, but he never failed to get in a girl’s pants. He shot you a smug grin, sticking his hands in his pockets and stalking into the middle of the circle where you now stood, fidgeting with the hem of your skirt.

You took hold of his forearms, starting to regret your decision to play. He leaned forward, connecting his lips with yours, thinking it would only be a light peck on the lips you returned the kiss, puckering your lips ever so slightly. Suddenly he opened his mouth, parting your lips with his tongue, practically eating your face off. Your stomach did a backflip, not in a good way but in a “im-about-to-throw-up” kind of way. He tasted like every kind of liquor in the world, concluding that he’d already had his fair share of drinks and mixers prior to this moment.

Not too far away, Ino was watching everything unfold, his grip on his plastic SOLO cup tightening every second that Gojo’s lips were on yours. You were way too good for him, he thought. Luckily for him, he could tell you weren’t enjoying it, seeing your stomach lightly jerk from the gag you were holding in. When Gojo finally pulled off after a few seconds (that felt like years to Ino), he backed away and basked in the hollers and back slaps from his fraternity brothers. You, on the other hand, backed away and nervously laughed with the cheers from Yuki and your friends.

Once the next person got a hold of the bottle you quickly grabbed your purse, hoping to somehow sneak away from the circle.

“You ok?” Yuki questioned, placing a hand on your shoulder, eyebrows furrowed. You nodded curtly and walked as fast as you could down the hall towards the guest bathroom. Though unbeknownst to you, Ino followed behind. When you made it inside the bathroom you sunk down on your knees in front of the toilet bowl, glossy lips quivering. You dry heaved and coughed before puking up what little you had in your system, everything felt hot and you cringed at how dumb you must've looked kissing him. Suddenly you felt a pair of hands push your bangs out of your face, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

You whined in defeat, “Yuki I already said I’m alright, go back to the party I don’t wanna ruin—”

“M’not Yuki” Ino blurted out, wincing at his forwardness.

You sat straight up, pivoting on your knees to meet his gaze, he was squatting down with his head slightly tilted. He smirked at you, a hand still slightly rubbing your back.

“And I thought I was the lightweight,” he chuckled. Your gaze softened, letting out a breathy giggle. You crossed your legs and sat back against the front of the toilet. Ino flopped down in front of you, with one knee up and leaning back on the peeling bathroom wallpaper.

“What happened to getting invited to better parties than me?” you questioned, twirling your fingers around each other.

“Guess I was wrong, ‘looked like you were having lots of fun a few minutes ago,” he scoffed, “that douche can’t even kiss right”, he thought.

“For your information I wasn’t having fun at all, I know for a fact I looked dumb and now my mouth tastes like dry Twisted Tea,” you slightly shook your head, “I’d give anything to make my brain forget about it”.

Ino leaned closer, a mischievous glint in his auburn eyes. “You’re telling me you’d rather forget about kissing that guy than remember it?” He tilted his head, pretending to be deep in thought. “Sounds like someone needs a better party kiss.”

You raised an eyebrow, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. “What do you mean by ‘better’?”

He shifted slightly, his knee brushing against yours, and for a moment, everything else faded away. “I mean… there are definitely better options than that frat boy.” His gaze lingered on your lips, and the air in the small bathroom felt electric.

Your heart raced, caught between embarrassment and something else—something thrilling. “Are you saying you want to show me how it’s done?”

Ino’s smirk widened, and he shrugged, the casualness of his demeanor almost masking the tension building between you. “Only if you want me to. But I promise it’ll be a lot better than whatever that was.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words hanging in the air. A part of you wanted to laugh it off, to tease him for being bold. But another part—the part that had been quietly longing for something more—pushed you to lean in closer. “You’re so full of yourself, you know that?”

“Yeah, but you’re still here, aren’t you?” He replied, his voice dropping lower. It was a challenge, and you could see the playful determination in his eyes.

In that moment, the playful banter melted away. The space between you felt charged, and you could hear the distant music thumping, but all you could focus on was Ino. The way he looked at you, like he was seeing you for the first time, made your heart race even faster.

“Okay,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Show me.”

Ino’s expression shifted from teasing to something serious, and the weight of the moment settled over you both. He leaned in, closing the distance, and your breath hitched. His hand found the back of your neck, his thumb brushing softly against your skin as he pulled you closer.

The kiss was tentative at first, his lips gently pressing against yours. It felt different—soft and warm, like the world outside had faded away. You melted into him, instinctively leaning into the kiss, deepening it as a rush of warmth flooded through you. This wasn’t just a kiss; it felt like a promise, an unveiling of feelings that had simmered beneath the surface for far too long.

Your hands wandered over his chest, nails scratching at his baggy black tee. Ino leaned back again as you, almost automatically, crawled into his lap to straddle him. His hands grazing over your hips as you cupped his face, the kiss growing sloppy. You pulled away ever so slightly, your lips still brushing against his,

“Wanna get outta here? This bathroom’s kinda cramped.” you suggested, panting slightly. All Ino could do was nod aggressively, eyes wide with shock at what he’d just done. It was as if something took over him, all of his pent up desire spilling out and over the edge. You raised up slowly, grabbing his wrist to shock him out of his trance.

Before he could react he was borderline speeding down the empty road, with your torso leaned partially over the center console, a hand of yours rested on his inner thigh.

#ino takuma #takuma ino #ino x reader #takuma ino x reader #ino takuma x reader #InoTakuma #jjk x reader #jjk x you #ino x you #takuma x you #blgvdwrites #new writers on tumblr #uhohboneralert

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20dollarlolita · 5 months ago

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What are notches and how can I pirate them?

If you've ever used a commercial pattern, there's a good chance you've encountered notches. They're little markings along the edges of your cut pattern pieces, and you use them for identifying the pieces and aligning them with each other.

Notches are important for a lot of things. First of all, sometimes parts are not easy to tell apart from each other, so notches make similar pieces visually distinct. They help you know which parts align, so that you don't accidentally sew something to the wrong edge of a piece. They also allow you to align parts that might not otherwise line up. If you're connecting an inside curve to an outside curve, or you're connecting a gathered piece to a flat piece, or you're connecting two similar pieces made out of different fabrics, notches help you make sure you're lining pieces up.

However, as much as I love using PDF patterns from indie brands, sometimes a small pattern company will, <screams internally> just not use notches.

We add notches to the pattern piece, and not to the fabric, for a few reasons. We cut most garments on the fold, so when you add notches to the pattern piece, the notches will be symmetrical across the garment. It's also easier to manipulate paper without distortion than it is to manipulate fabric.

For many reasons, one being a lack of notches, I started a blouse and had to scrap the entire thing and start over. The fabric that I was working with was relatively fragile, and couldn't stand to be ripped and re-sewn too many times. Since I'm making this again, from a new size of the pattern, I thought I'd take the time to show everyone how I add notches:

The basic technique for this is called "walking a seam." You're going to need a tool to use as a pivot for your pattern, and a surface where you can stab through. Carpet, ironing boards, and big pieces of cardboard all work well for a work surface, and you can use a push pin for your pivoting tool.

To walk a pattern seam, the first thing you need to do is to draw your seam allowance onto each pattern piece. When you walk the seam, you're going to be aligning the actual seam lines, not the edges of the fabric. If your pattern won't tell you what included seam allowance is on every piece, ask for your money back. That's basic information you should always get.

Start at the top of the seam, and stab your little stabby tool through both layers, so that you line one seam line up with the next one. You can now use that point as a pivot to swing either pattern piece around.

It's hard to see what's happening in photos, so here's an illustration.

In this illustration, the red dot represents your pivoting tool. In the top row, you a) place the pivoting tool at the end of both lines, so that they overlap. B) turn one of the lines/pattern pieces. so that the lines overlap. Due to the curves of these lines, it only overlaps for a little bit, before they start curving apart again. Now C) You move your pivoting tool so that it's at the point where the two lines diverge.

Second row: You now, using your new pivot point, move one of the lines so that it overlaps the other line. You can now move the pivot point to the spot where the lines start to come apart again. Once you've moved the pivot point, you can rotate the seam lines to once again make them line up.

It makes a little more sense in video form, though GIMP was being uncooperative and not saving this as an animation properly.

Anyway, the point of all of this is that it's an accurate way to make sure that two curved lines are the same length.

Now, if you're walking a seam, and you put a mark at a point in the walk, the mark will be at the same length on both pieces. This is how you use marks to make sure that two pieces line up if they're curved in different directions.

For example, these two pieces are different shapes, but they're the same length. Because fabric is weird and it stretches, if we don't put a mark in the same spot on each piece, when we match them up, we can't know for sure that they're actually meeting up evenly on both spots.

For princess seams like this, I like to do one notch above and one notch below the big curve.

If you're making a pattern to sell to other people, it can be really helpful to look at where notches are supposed to go in modern pattern making convention, and to stick with that. For example, a lot of the time notches are meant to line up with base foundation lines such as bust or natural waist.

If you're just doing this because you got a pattern with no notches and you fucked it up last time, the only thing that matters is that you give yourself help.

You'll see that I have a single notch above the curve, and a triple notch below. This is because on the front, I had a double notch below, and that would look too similar if they were the same number of notches.

Okay, so other pattern making convention here: see how the side back and side front both face the same side? This is technically wrong.

The reason this is wrong is that you should be able to put your pattern together like a puzzle and get half of a garment. Fronts and backs face opposite sides so that you can line them up on the side seam. When I wanted to walk these two pieces so that I could add a notch, I had to turn one upside-down and work on the back. That was really annoying.

Walking patterns is really important for complicated pattern pieces, like this rectangular collar that goes onto a very curved neckline. To ensure that this collar fits correctly, I wanted to add notches on the bottom that would line up with the shoulder seam. To walk that line, I had to place all four of my bodice panels together, so that the collar was all in one place. Again, you can see how half my pieces are wrong side up, and that's just becuase that's how this designer made this pattern.

You'll also notice that, for notches, I clip an actual notch in the pattern paper. I'm using a special hole punch for this, but you can use all kinds of different things. You can just cut a slit in the paper, or use a pen or something to draw in your notch.

Anyway, there's a way to just give yourself a few clues about what's the proper side of things in this crazy world of patterns.

#20dollarlolita #sewing #sewing patterns #notches #it's gottahavenotchesandgrainlines yall

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strawbeerossi · 1 year ago

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Fearless

Pairing: Unsub!Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid

Part Description: Weeks after the incident with Cat and her death, Spencer is left with vivid dreams that make him question his job, his morals, and the path he took to protect the innocent.

Content Warnings: Coarse language, night terrors, mention of masturbation but nothing explicit, unsub!Spencer makes an appearance, violence, death, ambiguous ending.

Word Count: 2.2K

Part one || Part two || Part three

Navigation || Masterlist || Request

Highly anticipated part three and the end of a very brief series. I’m confident it’s gonna leave y’all wanting more for the way I ended it soooo feel free to message/ask for scenarios and one shots regarding Unsub!Spence

Lightning strikes, lighting up the alley where Spencer had doubled over, hands on his knees while he took in a deep breath. Blood splatter was on the side of the abandoned brick building, a body slumped in place.

This wasn’t something that went according to plan, the feeling of rain soaking the suit stained with crimson. He didn’t know what came over him. It was like he was.. He was a shadow of his former self.

He enjoyed pressing the blade of the knife deep within his victim’s neck, the way blood managed to spurt onto his face. It gave him a rush, a hit of adrenaline that was stronger than any drug he could’ve done.

There was an awakening inside of him, a burn deep in his gut that was almost arousing. He didn’t have any erectile issues, so he was curious on how stabbing a man could bring out such animalistic feelings.

The man who made an oath to protect innocence, the man who worked for fifteen goddamn years of his life to rid the world of darkness now falling into a dangerous addiction that not even the BAU would be able to stop.

Spencer’s eyes were popping open, a thin veil of sweat covering his face as he was quickly sitting up on the bed, head tilting to the side to look over at the bright light of the alarm clock.

3 A.M.

His eyes were shifting over in the direction of the body in bed beside him, Y/N’s body stretched out as the moonlight was giving a pale light into the quiet bedroom. Spencer let his hands come up to rub his face tiredly.

Pulling the duvet off of himself, he was quietly getting out of bed. Last thing he needed was to wake his girlfriend up and be at the risk of being questioned. His feet were quietly shuffling on the carpeted floor in efforts to quietly get to the bathroom.

A shower won’t hurt.

These nightmares had been consistent for the past few weeks, ever since the incident with Y/N and Cat. Spencer had killed unsubs before, people who had given him no other choice. They always haunted him, a once young man who was struggling with facing the darkness of his career. As he got older, his empathy and emotions stayed intact.

Until he went to prison.

Prison made him have to survive in whatever means possible. He’d gotten beaten, he watched another inmate who became his friend have his throat slit in front of him, he was even tampering with a batch of drugs he had to distribute. He had to be strong, not show his fear or weakness.

When he found out that Cat was behind the absolute hell he endured, he wanted nothing more than to kill her. He wanted to watch the life drain from her eyes when he choked her to death, to have that smug bitch succumb to his bare hands. He wanted to outsmart her and win this whole game once and for all.

Well, he managed to do that, a bullet to the brain being something that he had to settle for. Instead of seeing her face, instead he was faced with yet another dilemma; Y/N. She was a murderer, darkness looming behind her sweet exterior. She lured men in, using her charm and sex appeal to catch them at their weakest. He’d learned it very early on in their relationship, it being too obvious.

No normal woman disappears at all hours of the night wearing the best clothes and looking like a delicate, beautiful doll. He let her do it, as horrible as it was. He loved her and refused to lose her, no matter what the circumstances would be. Prison was hell, he’d been there. He wouldn’t send the woman who he’d fallen in love with to the wolves. There was a sick part of him that loved it. Loved the idea of her brutality coming out with another man and then her quickly getting cleaned up to come home to him.

As he was recalling the night in question, Spencer sucked in a deep breath as he was turning on the shower head. He still couldn’t believe he’d killed Cat. He thought that it would haunt him, that the whole ordeal was going to be nothing but another bucket of trauma dumped in the bottomless pit in his brain.

However, it awakened something different inside of him. He loved that he killed her, he loved watching her body fall like dead weight, he loved the sight of the blood on his girlfriend's face as she looked at him in pure shock.

There was a low groan that left Spencer’s lips, cock hard at the thoughts of taking care of the one woman who tortured him for years. It took thirty minutes before his thick ropes of cum were going down the shower drain, his sins being washed away for the time being.

After cleaning himself up, it wasn’t long until he was quietly sneaking back into the bedroom. He didn’t bother with clothes, just sliding under the sheets while his gaze was on the alarm clock again.

4:25 A.M.

Insomnia was starting to set in. Six hours worth of sleep isn’t the worst thing.

The movement in the bed had the other body shifting under the sheets, a soft yawn leaving the woman’s lips as she was slowly rolling her body over to face her boyfriend. “Nightmares again?” She asked in a hushed tone, her soft touch bringing him out of his thoughts. “Yeah, you can say that.” He said softly while letting an arm drape around his girlfriend’s smaller frame.

“Mmm, I’m sorry.” She spoke softly, face nuzzling in his chest as her eyes were fluttering shut. She wasn’t aware of his urges and Spencer felt that was best. He’d warned her that he’d kill her himself if he found out she was going back to her old ways, yet here he was developing a thirst for blood that he couldn’t quench.

Spencer was a lot of things but a hypocrite wasn't one of them. At least, he liked to believe that to be the case.

The next few weeks were the same. Although the nightmares got more vivid, his blood lust worsening the itch became more urgent to scratch. He felt like he was losing his mind, the need overshadowing any form of reasoning.

That’s how he found himself here, at a bar. He told Y/N that he was going out with the guys for the night, the idea of sneaking behind her back to do the very thing he chastised her for made him feel a new rush.

Getting caught by the police wouldn’t happen but getting caught by Y/N; That could definitely be a possibility.

After years of being the good guy who caught the notorious serial killers who ruined lives, it was his turn to use every ounce of knowledge he had to avoid getting caught. He knew establishments that didn’t have cameras, even some where you can pay to remain anonymous.

He’d chosen a place where he could keep his anonymity, the woman at the front taking the payment and letting him through, not getting a name nor number. Spencer covered his bases, an oversized hoodie covering his head as he walked into the building. It was a bar, a dimly lit bar that was any murderer’s dream.

He had made it to the bar, ordering a drink for himself as his gaze was scanning over the faces in the bar. It was mostly men and women looking for affairs, there being another building down the street that offered rooms for the night. Now, Spencer couldn’t be seen in the area after they left, so he had his own plan. Tonight was going to be the night.

However, his mouth ran dry when he heard a familiar voice, head snapping over to see his girlfriend at the same bar. What the fuck? Did she learn nothing? Why was she here?

Like Spencer, his girlfriend had urges that needed to be fulfilled. She’d found out about this man in particular from police reports. She stalked him for weeks, learning his routine and secrets. That’s how she landed here tonight.

The couple briefly locked eyes, Y/N’s eyes widening from surprise as she was staring into the familiar honey colored irises. Instead of coming over to profusely apologize, a smirk was pulling onto her lips as she grabbed her drink from the bar while she was leaning over to the unknown man beside her, the two talking quietly amongst one another.

She’d giggle, put her hand on his upper arm, even lean in closer to whisper sweet nothings. There was a burning sensation inside of Spencer. There was jealousy and anger beginning to bubble over the surface. Was she doing this on purpose?

The male was pushing the glass he’d been nursing away as he approached his girlfriend and the man sitting beside her. There was a feeling of power that Spencer felt when he was heading over. “Hey, I noticed you two from across the bar.” He began, that awkward tight lipped smile on his face. “I’m not used to things like this but I was wondering if you two wanted to come with me to the next bar?”

Y/N was playing along, a gasp leaving her lips as she gripped the bicep of the black haired man beside her. “We should! Who doesn’t like making friends?” She asked, an eyebrow raising as she let her tongue run over her lower lip in a slow and deliberate motion.

Spencer wasn’t gonna do what she thought he was going to do. There was no way.

Like the idiot that this guy was, he was shrugging and agreeing to accompany the two to another bar. “It can’t be so bad, right?” He asked as he let an eyebrow raise, a smile on his face.

Oh. If he only knew.

The couple and the unsuspecting victim were heading out of the bar together, the woman letting her arm link with the attractive stranger’s beside her. The night brought a quiet atmosphere, the streets being empty. The side of town they were in wasn’t too sketchy but things happened there plenty of times.

As they were walking past an alley, Y/N and Spencer shared a glance; one where she was almost daring him to make a move. He took up the dare, quickly grabbing the male by his collar before shoving him against the brick wall closest to them. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to blindly trust strangers?” The woman spoke up while shaking her head in faux disappointment. “Sweetheart, you had such a promising chance!” She taunted while glancing up at Spencer, anticipating his next move.

While reaching into her bra, it wasn’t long until the woman was holding up a switchblade. “Are you gonna be a man or do I have to show you how to do this?” She taunted her boyfriend, smirking as his darkened eyes were focused on her. “You better watch your mouth or you’ll be the next one in this position.”

She should've been the one in this position. After all, she corrupted his mind. She made him push himself into being a man that he feared he would become, the woman being the driving influence of all of this stress and all of these violent thoughts.

As the blade was gripped in his hand, his knuckles were turning white. There was a small voice in the back of his mind begging him to be rational, however it was being overshadowed by the feeling of sheer power the moment that the blade punctured the skin.

“Stabbing someone thirty times would actually be quite tiring,” Spencer inferred, balling up his fist as he was hitting his thigh thirty times to emulate the stabbings in the intensity of the story told through the stab wounds. “You’re right. This would have worn anyone out.” Gideon agreed, the sheet being pulled back as they were inspecting the victim in front of them.

“The question is, what pushes someone to violence of this degree?” Elle was asking, her arms crossed as she was combing over any reasoning in her mind.

“We need to figure that out.” Jason stated as he was looking between the two young agents. “What causes a psychotic break?

Trauma. Anguish. Pain.

Fifty stabs and slashes did the trick for Spencer, the knife finally falling out of his hand the minute that the lifeless man was falling like a weight. Did he really just do that?

“Wow, Spence.” Y/N brought him out of his trance as she was bringing a hand up to cover her mouth. “You said that I was brutal but look at-”

She was cut off as her body was being slammed up against the wall behind them, eyes widening. Although before she could plead for her case, she was cut off by a rough kiss, one that was enough to knock the wind out of her entirely. With his bloodied hands falling on he hips, the woman was letting her eyes flutter shut as their kissing got heavier, displaying a dark realization.

Spencer liked it.

As he kept her planted against the brick wall, he pulled from the kiss and let out a huff of air. “We need to go.” He murmured, stopping to pick up the knife he’d previously dropped before grabbing Y/N’s hand. It was only a matter of time before some drunk asshole was stumbling upon the dead body and he’d rather avoid the issue.

Running through the night, the two had intertwined fingers, laughter filling the quiet night air as the realization of their actions had set in.

The world had scarred Spencer for far too long, it was his turn to scar the world back. This was his chance to reclaim his power and strength after many years of having it slowly stripped away from him.

This was the start of his story.

This was his turn to act in self indulgence, to enjoy himself for what he liked.

The best part was?

He’d never get caught.

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dawnoftime22 · 5 months ago

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sensory.

| T.S

Warnings: slight sensory problems, self soothing by wearing accessories (watch, bracelet), and sitting on the floor

Summary: It was a planned date day for you and Taylor, but you had seemed off the entire day, until a realization comes across that you were missing something.

Word Count: 2.7k

Category: fluff, comfort

A/N: I am once more, not a professional, I'm only writing this from my own experience :]

| Started on 29/04/2024, 2:10 PM |

| Finished on 06/07/2024, 11:40 PM |

Main Masterlist | T.S Masterlist

seven days of comfort.

"To be loved is to be cared for."

|——————————— ⸆⸉ ———————————|

Sun streams into the room with the gentle look of the curtain lining, sending light in to illuminate the glass vases that held any flowers, a beautifully mixed bunch given from you to Taylor, or from her to you.

You let out an exhilarated sigh, staring up at the living room ceiling. Your arm hung off the side of the couch, and the other was on your stomach.

As you count the ceiling lights, you feel the air entering your lungs when you take a deep breath in, and you let it out as a slow exhale. Something was off. But you couldn't place on what it was. Yet, no amount of deep breaths could help you relax.

You felt too light. Almost...too free. The wind touching your skin was too cold, but if you covered yourself up with a blanket or jacket, it would be too warm.

Your hand ran over your face, bothered by it all. Even the urge to simply roll over the couch would not fix the problem. Oh well. You definitely did not do that, but you did roll to your side, your eyes searching the entire room.

The tv on the wall was on, playing an animal documentary. It showed videos of orcas, penguins, lions, and toucans. It got you transfixed upon it for a few minutes, but then you had started trailing off your gaze to your hands, or the small patterns on the wood of the coffee table.

You take a look to the windows, but then saw the absolute brightness of them from the sunlight, so you grimaced and squinted your eyes, quickly looking away from it.

The black spots that scattered on your vision from being blinded needed to be blinked away, and you focus on the floor instead, a small huff escaping you.

Once you got your vision back to normal, you were back in reality. It was then, you realized another thing. It was awfully quiet. The space was only filled up by the commentary on the tv, explaining the description and facts of a sea turtle.

Not that you hated it, you just couldn't focus on anything specific, and it frustrated you. You weren't even bored, it was just...like you were floating. In a bad way. Every position you change into on the couch wasn't enough to satisfy a comfortable feeling either.

Meanwhile, Taylor was in the bedroom, getting ready for your date, sincr it was getting nearer to the time you both had planned for. You already got ready after breakfast, so now you were only waiting for her.

One of the cats, Meredith, jumps up to the couch, curling up next to you. You raise your eyebrows curiously and props yourself up in a sitting position using your arm, seeing Benjamin over by the edge of the carpet, perhaps having been asking her to play with him. But Meredith craved some laziness more than playfulness, so she joins you.

Olivia? Olivia was nowhere to be seen, but she could very well possibly be in one of the other rooms, or in the bedroom with Taylor.

You reach out your hand, and the cat's nose goes near it, sniffing it lightly before you were accepted to pet her. The fur was soft. So soft. Now this, this could be something you can do forever without breaking focus, but that could be because it didn't really need any at all.

Since the couch was starting to make your body ache, you decided to switch to sitting down on the floor. Your back goes against the couch, and your legs moved into a comfortable position.

When you've settled yourself down, your hand reaches up to pet Meredith again, but now it was a stretch to reach her. The scottish fold also didn't seem to move from her current position, so you gave up on trying to pet her again.

In your luckiness though, Benjamin came to save you with his black brown-ish ears by padding over to you and flopping on the floor in front of you, his floof of a belly in visible view.

He gratefully took the way your hand gently ran through his soft fur, and he presses his head into your palm when you got closer to it. The action lightened your heart, and you smile softly, for once getting some type of relief from what you seemed to be missing.

As you were caught up with Benjamin and his fluffy body, over in the distance of your bedroom, Taylor had finished getting ready. Her steps were quiet as she went into the living room, in search for you.

Her eyebrows furrowed when she didn't see you on the couch or the kitchen, a little curiosity setting off in her, but just as she set her arms on the back of the couch, she finds you sitting on the floor, your hand in Benjamin's fur.

Finding such a sweet sight had warmed her heart, and her lips raise up as she gazes at you. You didn't know she was there at all, and you were utterly adoring the little cat, your touch gentle as it purred.

Taylor sees the tv being on, the animal documentary still present upon the screen. She blinks and trails her eyes back down to you, the smallest worry swelling in her heart. She knew you mostly only kept it on when you really needed it in the struggle of anxiety, or wanted comfort, but she decides to not question it for now.

The gentle rattle of some keys led you to turn and look behind you. In your vision, appears the blonde you were waiting for. You could see the softness her gaze holds, just the same as the one you held on the cat you're petting, which now had its eyes closed.

"You ready, or do we have to grab Benjamin with us?" Taylor asks, a giggle softly sounding out from her as she pushes herself away from the couch.

A bright smile quickly raises up on your face and you giggled too, moving to stand up, needing to reluctantly leave Benjamin laying on the floor, who was quite possibly descending slowly into a nap.

You bit your lip, taking one last look at Benjamin before going to your girlfriend. "...Buut...can we sneak him into the restaurant?" You ask, making your way to her. Taylor's eyes flicker from Benjamin's sleepy pose, then to you, a smile gracing her lips.

She shook her head gently, "No, baby," she chuckles, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you closer as she looks at the cat once more. "And he'd be more comfortable here."

You hum softly, your gaze lingering, before you bury your face in her shoulder and your arms wrap around her waist in a side hug. The nuzzle she felt was gentle, but it was one for comfort.

She stares down for a moment, unable to see your face. But her expression had faded into a gentle look of concern. A small somber hum from you like that wasn't something she could just ignore.

It couldn't be because of Benjamin, since you were usually fine with having the cats at home unless it was a big trip or vacation. But today was just a date out. And she couldn't help but let her eyes wander on the tv that showed the animals.

There were currently penguins on the screen, sliding across ice and waddling on the snow, and as much as she wanted to look at it or point it out to you, she can feel your pout in her shoulder, and she instinctively wraps her arms around you, looking down at you.

"...Hey...you okay?" she whispers softly just above your ear, her hand rubbing up and down your arm. You fiddle with her shirt, your fingers brushing across the fabric. Taylor's mind takes note of it, and she tilts her head, peeking at your eyes that didn't seem to make eye contact.

You start off in a hushed, quiet tone. "I don't know...I just feel so..." You trail off, trying to find the words to it. But there was not a single word that could describe it. You simply felt off.

Your shoulders tensed and you let out a breath. "I can't describe it." The slump in your stance against her was a clear sign of your defeat at trying to explain. Her eyes soften, and she smiles gently, her hand continuing its soothing motion.

Now, as her eyes trail over your appearance to figure out what was wrong, she starts to notice something. You were indeed missing something. Your hands were empty of any accessories you'd usually wear. Or any part of you, really.

It seems you had gotten entirely too focused on waking up and being on time for the date, that you had completely forgotten to grab your usual things. No wonder you couldn't see why you felt off. You hadn't even realized it yet.

Taylor thinks about it for a moment, but doesn't tell you just yet. Her hand on your arm goes down to your wrist, feeling it to be empty and seeing it being, yes, indeed bare of anything when she pulls back.

She breathes out a chuckle. It was simply a silly situation, but she leans down and kisses the top of your head as you look up at her, confused as to what made her huff out a laugh.

Your wireless headphones; She had seen you charge it last night, and your watch was left on the nightstand. She smiles softly, then led you to the front of the couch, having you sit down.

"Wait here," Taylor says, giving your hand a squeeze before walking off back to the bedroom, leaving you blinking at her vagueness.

You waited patiently, yet curiously, your eyes traveling to the doorway of your bedroom, but the wall was concealing what she was grabbing, so, instead you watched Benjamin sleeping until she came back.

The wooden floorboards of your home gently creaks when Taylor comes back, walking towards you with just a few footsteps, her heart light with love and care.

"Here, love," she said quietly, standing in front of you. In her hands, she reveals that she had brought you your watch, your headphones, and some...friendship bracelets?

She held your items carefully, making sure they don't fall. Your eyes widen in realization at the sight, and her smile grows wider, glad that the problem came to light easily.

"Oh...thank you," you whispered, looking up at her gratefully and grabbing them one by one, wearing your watch first, making sure it was on correctly. Not too loose, but not too tight.

She watches as you slide on the bracelets, and you notice each of them have a different tightness or heaviness to them, so you had a way of choosing which one you wanted on your wrist, or none at all, to which she didn't mind whichever you chose, only wanting you to be comfortable.

When you moved your hand, it made a light and quiet sound of the bracelets hitting each other, and you were in absolute awe, your mouth opening as you look at your wrist in surprise, then to Taylor, who giggled at the sight of you now moving your hand up and down to hear the light clinks. You had tried the bracelets before, but it was only one of them, so it wasn't much of a surprise.

She moves her hand up to the bracelets, hovering right over it as you pause your movements. She looks to you to see you smiling at her, and she continues on with her movement, her finger stretching one of the bracelets slightly, just enough so that the string keeping the beads together was visible, and she shows that you can slide the beads across the string; a small bonus fidget of sort with the accessory.

You, on the other hand gasped again. Taylor pulls her hands away, letting you try it out. The beads did slide across the string when you stretched the bracelet, and would go to whichever side you tilted it to.

Then, the headphones, she helped you by putting your hair back from your ears and placing it on your head. She makes sure it was connected to your phone afterwards, putting on some gentle music. Nothing too loud or upbeat in case it would interfere.

Taylor checks on your face, and sees how its grown brighter, your grounding items being rightfully back to where they belonged. You were adjusting things here and there, but she was happy you were feeling like yourself again.

She also had given you your earphones for a choice, just in case the headphones on your head felt like it was putting too much pressure. Your heart was almost about to burst at the amount of care and thought she gave to you.

"Feeling better?" she asks with a gentle gaze. Her hands were now on your shoulders as she smiles, hoping you can ease back into the world again.

You nodded gently, and relief flows into her that she was right. You always needed something to keep ahold of you, to steady you, and have you grounded for anything that could easily poke your nerves. Which is why you always took them off during nighttime; for the sake of letting go and to melt into being relaxed. But you forgot to put them back on this morning.

You smile back at her, speaking up again for once. "...I love you," you whispered, gently moving to pull her into a slow hug with your arms wrapped around her waist.

She feels the fuzzy loving feeling grow in herself, her arms going up to your shoulders to return the embrace. "I love you, too, sweetheart." She replied back, having just as much softness as you did. Her lips meet the top of your head in a loving kiss, hoping it'll help calm you down further.

"Are you ready to go, or do you wanna stay?" she asks softly, pulling back just slightly to look at you, her eyes searching yours in case you still felt like you needed to relax.

"It's okay if you wanna stay, love." She said quietly, caressing your cheek with the back of her hand. You were about to melt into a pool of puddle right in front of her with her touch and gentle voice.

"Of course, I'm going...its date day..." You say, and Taylor's eyes squeeze in happiness with her smile. You mirror her expression, moving up to kiss her on the cheek.

She smiles even wider and returns the gesture softly, her lips lingering before she gently pulls you up to stand next to her an lead you to the front door.

"Just tell me if you need anything else, okay?" She says, glancing back at you as you follow her. She holds the keys in her hand, ready to lock the front door once you were out and open the car.

"I will, baby," you whisper, your gaze on her gentle as you look at her with pure adoration, your heart full with love for her.

In the car, on the way to the date, You gently play with the bracelets in your passenger seat, seatbelt buckled in and Taylor driving steadily.

Taylor looks over to your side when she could, seeing the movement. She smiles softly, glad they could elicit some kind of comfort for you, especially since one of them was actually given by a fan, and one was made by her.

The date goes on without another problem, only with loving conversations and soft laughter.

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

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radioiaci · 3 months ago

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@a-hazbin-spider ⧐ [alone] or [drugged]? INJURY/HURT ASKS

A night spent in his tower is not altogether unusual. Both his private room and his tower are spaces of safety and privacy - both inaccessible by any other than Niffty who is the singular exception. He expects it to be sometime in the dawn hours when he re-awakens from needed and alcohol-induced sleep, standing to stretch and redirect his gaze out of the large, expansive windows-

To catch a glimpse of Angel Dust who seems to be returning from a night of... whatever he gets up to. Alastor has heard things here and there, but has not bothered to invest more than a cursory consideration as to what the other Sinner spends his time doing. But at the moment, it is less that topic that interests him and more so the fact that it seems as though Angel Dust is grasping onto himself as though he is in pain, hobbling into the front doors to presumably slip inside while the remaining residents are still well within the confines of sleep.

Interesting.

A brief moment is spared in dressing himself appropriately and putting his hair back to rights from its unkempt state before Alastor is slipping into the shadows, using the method of transportation to course through the halls of the hotel and seek out wherever Angel Dust has decided to hole up. One assumes his room, if he's made it that far. But Alastor is not so sure.

He can smell the distinct tang of blood somewhere - and he realizes that there are speckles of it along the carpet. Hard to see, but easy for his own sense of smell to detect.

Temptation draws him closer to where the other sinner is in pursuit of both curiosity and a distinct hunger, his eyes fixated on that light pink expanse of hair when Alastor finally spies him.

"Not being very subtle, leaving a trail to your whereabouts," he says aloud, though the radio demon is kind enough to not shout it out for the remainder of the hotel to hear.

His teasing is mercifully kept just between they two. For now.

#△ on the air △#⨻ answers ⨻#a hazbin spider #[ sorry this got wordy LMAO ]#[ I use these as starter prompts but don't feel obligated to turn it into a thread unless you want to~ ]

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from-memphis-with-love · 21 days ago

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Songbird - Chapter 6 - Nobody's Fool

Summary: In the aftermath of Elvis' last day in his 1969 Vegas residency, Valerie and Elvis get caught in a compromising position. A decision is made, and a plan is formulated. Late at night, Valerie and Elvis almost cross the point of no return.

There are moments when one wakes up, and everything seems okay. That blessed space between sleep and memory, before the brain catches up with your body?

I had about three seconds of that peace before I opened my eyes and saw Elvis' jacket draped over my chair like a question mark.

The gin-stained dress I'd fallen asleep in clung to me like shame. My mouth tasted like I'd been gargling with Dean Martin's martini shaker. And somewhere in the building's guts, that damn dove was cooing its morning commentary.

The Colonel's note lay where I'd dropped it last night: "Meeting tomorrow, 2 PM sharp. Re: Memphis arrangements."

I looked at the clock. 1:07.

"Well, shit."

The phone rang before I could make it to the shower. For a moment, I considered letting it ring. But in Vegas, you learn quick that ignored calls have a way of turning into bigger problems.

"Hello?"

"Val? Thank God." my best friend’s voice carried all the manic energy of a Chicago morning. "I've been trying to reach you for hours! Have you seen the papers?"

I hadn't. Didn't want to.

"Listen, Dee, I can't really talk right now. I have a meeting—"

"About Memphis?"

The question hit like a slap. I sank onto the bed, still wearing last night's mistakes.

"How did you..."

"There's a blind item in the Tribune. 'Which Chicago music teacher has caught the King's eye? Sources say she's trading the Windy City for Graceland...'" Deena paused. "Val? Please tell me this isn't what I think it is."

I practically felt whiplash from how fast the news got out. Through the wall, I could hear the Memphis Mafia stirring - boots on carpet, voices carrying through the International's expensive but thin walls. Red's laugh. Jerry's drawl. The sound of Elvis' world waking up.

"It's exactly what you think it is," I said finally. "And it's going to come out now anyway. His manager’s already planning how to 'handle' it."

The silence on the other end stretched like taffy.

"Holy shit," Deena whispered finally. "Holy actual shit. You and Elvis Presley? All this time? The mystery man you wouldn't tell me about... that was Elvis fucking Presley?"

"Dee—"

"But he's married! To that gorgeous wife who was in all the photos last night, kissing him like—" She stopped. "Oh honey. Those photos. Did you... were you there?"

The memory of that kiss, perfectly timed for the cameras, hit fresh. Elvis's hand on Priscilla's waist. The crowd's approving applause. Ann-Margret's knowing look.

"When I told you to ride that stallion till you break the saddle, I didn't mean steal someone else's horse!" Deena's voice cracked between humor and horror. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Elvis. Actually Elvis."

"I have to go," I said. "Meeting in, like, five minutes. Call me later." I lied.

"Val, wait—"

I hung up. Stood there for a moment, looking at my reflection in the mirror. Last night's mascara made me look like a raccoon who'd lost a bar fight.

Time to face the music. Or in this case, the Colonel.

The Colonel's suite was a shrine to his greatest creation. Elvis stared down at me from every wall - movie posters, concert bills, gold records, photographs spanning from that first Sun Records publicity shot to last night's show. Young Elvis, GI Elvis, Hollywood Elvis, Comeback Elvis, Vegas Elvis. A hundred different versions of the same man, watching our little drama play out beneath their frozen gazes.

The irony wasn't lost on me. We were here to talk about Elvis, but the only Elvis present was made of paper and celluloid.

Red and Sonny flanked the door like bookends. Jerry lounged against a wall between "Love Me Tender" and "Blue Hawaii" posters, trying to look casual and failing. The Colonel himself sat behind a desk (flown in specially) that had probably witnessed a thousand deals, smoking a cigar that put out enough smoke to rival a carnival cotton candy machine.

"Ah, Miss Pedretti." The Colonel's eyes twitched with what might have been amusement. Or annoyance. "Right on time. Coffee?"

"No, thank you." I remained standing, though there was an empty chair positioned precisely in front of his desk - red velvet with gold tassels. The power play was obvious - him elevated, me lower. I wasn't playing. Behind him, a young Elvis smiled down at me. From the very early days. Had there been a girl standing in my spot that day too? Someone else who thought she was different, special?

“Suit yourself." The Colonel gestured at a stack of newspapers spread across his desk, right beneath a photo of Elvis signing his first RCA contract. His mom and dad were in the photo. Her eyes were sad. My eyes were sad looking at her. "I assume you've seen the morning editions?"

I hadn't, but I could see the headlines from where I stood. ELVIS ENDS VEGAS RUN WITH A KISS. KING AND QUEEN OF ROCK REUNITED. And smaller, in the gossip columns: MYSTERY WOMAN IN ELVIS' INNER CIRCLE?

"The paper’s been particularly... creative with their speculation," the Colonel continued. "Something about a Chicago singer-slash-music teacher?"

A distant coo echoed through the ventilation system. Even Tom's dove was eavesdropping.

"Now," the Colonel leaned forward, his head briefly blocking out Army Elvis's crisp salute in the frame behind him, "we need to discuss how we're going to handle your transition to Memphis. I've taken the liberty of arranging—"

"Where’s Elvis?"

The question landed like a grenade in church. Jerry straightened slightly. Red and Sonny suddenly found the ceiling fascinating - specifically, the spot where a massive photograph showed Elvis and the Colonel shaking hands on that first Vegas contract.

"Mr. Presley is... indisposed." The Colonel's voice could have frosted glass. "Mrs. Presley's flight leaves shortly, and certain... appearances must be maintained."

Of course. The real Elvis was playing the devoted husband one last time, seeing Priscilla off. Probably at this very moment they were posing for photographers at the airport, adding one more perfect image to the collection.

I looked at movie star Elvis smoldering down at me from the "Viva Las Vegas" poster. Had Ann-Margret stood in a room like this too? Had the Colonel tried to manage her the same way?

"As I was saying," the Colonel continued, "I've arranged for a house—"

"No."

His eyebrows climbed toward what was left of his hairline. "I beg your pardon?"

"No thank you?"

The silence that followed could have choked a carnival strongman. A hundred Elvises watched the standoff - jumpsuit Elvis, leather Elvis, clean-cut Elvis, rebel Elvis. All of them waiting to see what happened when someone said no to the Colonel.

"Miss Pedretti." He said it like he was explaining physics to a child. "Perhaps you don't understand how things work in Memphis. Mr. Presley's... companions require certain... accommodations."

"I'm not his companion." The words came out harder than I meant them. "I'm not his anything. I'm just going to Memphis."

The Colonel's laugh had all the warmth of a snake's belly. "My dear girl, nobody 'just' goes to Memphis. Not in Elvis' world." He pushed a folder across the desk, right past a framed photo of Elvis handing him a gold watch. "Now, I've had my people draw up some papers. Simple things - non-disclosure agreements, property arrangements, a modest monthly allow—"

"No." I didn't touch the folder. "I don't want your house or your money or your papers."

"Then what exactly do you want?"

The question hung in the air like smoke. What did I want? Elvis, obviously. But which one? I looked around the room at all his faces. Which one was real? The one who sang hymns with me? The one who kissed his wife for the cameras? The one who...

A knock at the door saved me from answering. Joe stuck his head in, looking harried.

"Colonel? Sorry to interrupt, but we got a situation. Seems Dean Martin's passed out in the fountain again, and he's telling everyone who'll listen about Elvis and the towel incident..."

The Colonel's face went through several interesting color changes. "Christ on a cracker. Red, Sonny - go handle that. Jerry, get the car ready. Mrs. Presley can't be late for her flight." He turned back to me. "This conversation isn't over, Miss Pedretti."

"Yes," I said quietly. "It is."

I walked out before he could respond, passing under the watchful eyes of a dozen paper Elvises. Behind me, I heard Jerry whistle low.

"Girl's got stones," he murmured to someone.

"Girl's got a death wish," came the response.

Maybe they were both right. I glanced back one last time as the door closed. The Colonel sat fuming beneath his gallery of conquests - every image a reminder of his control over Elvis's destiny.

But I wasn't going to be just another picture on his wall.

I found Elvis in his suite, standing at the window in an emerald green suit that hung perfectly on his tall, lithe frame. He was watching something in the distance - maybe the desert, maybe nothing. The real thing was somehow both more and less than all those images in the Colonel's room.

Our reflections caught in the window glass - him in that perfect suit, me still wearing yesterday's mascara and this morning's doubts. Despite myself, I let my eyes linger on the picture we made together. We looked good, in a way that had nothing to do with staging or the Colonel's careful arrangements. Where Priscilla was all porcelain perfection and carefully coiffed hair, I was warmer, earthier. My olive skin glowed next to Elvis's golden tan. My long dark hair fell in natural waves, untamed by hairspray and hot rollers. Where Priscilla's baby doll lips seemed perpetually pursed in careful consideration, my wider mouth was made for laughter, for singing, for other things I tried not to think about.

Different kinds of beautiful, maybe. But standing there next to Elvis, I couldn't help but notice how well we fit.

The sound of my heels on the carpet made him turn. His eyes were hidden behind blue-tinted glasses.

"Heard you had a meeting with the Colonel," he said softly.

"Gee. Word travels fast ‘round here."

His laugh was hollow. "Everything travels fast here. Except time." He glanced at his watch. "Speaking of which..."

"You have to take her to the airport."

"Back to Memphis," he nodded. "At least for now. She'll head back to California soon enough." Something flickered across his face - relief? Regret? "Just needs to..." He trailed off.

"Needs to what?"

"Settle some things. At Graceland." His voice was carefully neutral, but I caught the implication. Priscilla would be there, in Memphis, when I arrived. On her turf. Or what used to be her turf.

"The Colonel had some interesting ideas about my living arrangements," I said, watching our reflections shift as Elvis moved closer.

His jaw tightened. "I told him to leave that alone."

"Did you really think he would?"

"No." He stepped behind me, his hands hovering near my shoulders but not quite touching. In the glass, we looked like a photograph waiting to be taken - the kind the Colonel would never allow. "But I hoped. Kind of like I hope you didn’t mean what you said. About finding your own place."

"I did."

"Even though I really want you to stay with me?"

"Even though."

In the window's reflection, I watched him study the contrast of us - his emerald suit against my rumpled red dress, his calculated (and rare) stillness against my untamed energy. When Priscilla stood next to him, they looked like matching dolls in a shop window. But this... we looked the part of the real couple. With real differences.

He nodded slowly. "You know what she said to me last night? After all the cameras were gone?"

I waited, watching his reflection's lips form the words.

"Said I better not turn you into another version of her." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Like I would even want that." His hands finally landed on my shoulders, warm through the thin fabric. "Look at you. Telling the Colonel no. Standing here looking like... like..."

"Like what?"

"Like the answer to my prayers."

I turned to face him then, breaking the spell of our reflection. Without the glass between us, he was more real, more dangerous. His hands slid down my arms, leaving heat in their wake.

"Elvis—"

A knock at the door made us both jump. Jerry's voice carried through: "Boss? Car's ready."

"Be right there." Elvis' hands tightened briefly on my arms before letting go. When he finally faced me, his eyes were tired behind those blue-tinted glasses. Human. "I have to..."

"I know."

He crossed the space between us in one fluid movement, caught my face between his hands. For a moment, I thought he might kiss me. Instead, he pressed his forehead to mine. He smelled of mint and promises.

"Wait for me?" he whispered. "I'll be back after..."

"After you play the dutiful husband one last time?"

His hands tightened slightly. "That ain’t fair."

"None of this is fair."

I could be detached. I could deal with the casual dalliances and the pills, as long as it didn’t get out of hand. But Priscilla’s presence somehow still made my stomach queasy. I think it was the title. Wife had a certain ring to it. A certain authority, an outward declaration. I wanted that role.

"No." He pulled back, slipped his glasses into place. Just like that, he was Elvis Presley again. "But it's what we've got."

The door opened and Red stuck his head in. "Boss? Mrs. Presley's ready."

Elvis straightened his jacket, checked his reflection one last time. Perfect again. Camera-ready. But just before he turned away, I caught him looking at our reflection once more - that impossible, imperfect picture of what could be.

"See you when I get back?" he asked.

I thought about all those images in the Colonel's room. All those different versions of Elvis, frozen in time. Which one would come back to me?

"Yeah," I said. "I'll be here."

He paused at the door, looking back. For a second, I could see him wanting to say something more. Then Jerry appeared with a reminder about airport traffic, and the moment was gone.

I watched from the window as they loaded into the waiting cars - Elvis in the lead car with Priscilla, the Memphis Mafia spread through the others like an honor guard. Even from so many floors up, I could see the photographers waiting. One last photo op of the perfect couple before reality set in.

I stayed at the window long after the cars disappeared, watching Vegas shimmer in the morning heat. Behind me, Elvis's suite felt different without him in it - bigger, emptier, more obviously a stage set than a home. His books were still scattered around, they hadn’t been packed up yet. A half-empty glass of water sat on the bedside table, aspirin dissolving forgotten at the bottom.

The phone rang, making me jump. Probably the Colonel, ready for round two.

But it was Lamar's voice that came through the line. "Valerie? You might want to come down to the lobby."

"Why?"

"Press got wind of something. They're asking about a Chicago music teacher."

My stomach dropped. "How many?"

"Enough." He paused. "Bring sunglasses. And maybe a scarf."

The lobby had transformed into a circus since I'd passed through it earlier. Photographers clustered around the entrance like hungry wolves, their cameras ready. Someone had leaked something. It didn't matter now.

What mattered was protecting Elvis.

I thought about Ann-Margret, about how she'd lost him partly because she'd talked to the press. About how fiercely he guarded his private world, even while living in the spotlight. About how trust, once broken, never quite mended the same way.

The Colonel stood near the reception desk, watching me with calculating eyes. For once, we wanted the same thing - to control this story. Just for very different reasons.

"Miss Pedretti." His voice carried across the lobby. "A word?"

Every head turned. I felt the cameras swivel, seeking their new target. Someone whispered "That's her." Another voice: "The teacher." A third: “I heard she’s a bar singer.”

I touched the scarf at my throat - one of Elvis's, smelling faintly of his cologne. Beneath it, my pulse hammered against my neck.

I had two choices: run back to the elevator, or face this head-on. But there was really only one choice. Because whatever happened next, I wouldn't be the one to betray Elvis's trust.

I dropped the scarf and sunglasses in my purse - hiding would only make it worse - and walked through the lobby like I had every right to be there. Like I was exactly what I'd tell them I was: a music teacher and a studio session musician (okay, so I stretched the truth a little) who'd found herself in an extraordinary situation, nothing more.

The cameras went crazy, questions flying like bullets: "Miss Pedretti, what's your relationship with Elvis?"

"Are you moving to Memphis?"

"What about Mrs. Presley?"

I stopped, turned, met their hungry gazes with a calm I didn't feel. When I spoke, my voice was steady.

"Mr. Presley has been very kind to a fellow musician. We share an interest in rhythm and blues. And gospel." A truth, if not the whole truth. "Beyond that, I don't discuss my friendships. If you have questions about Mr. Presley, I suggest you speak to his management."

The Colonel's eyebrows rose slightly - surprise? approval? - as I walked past him toward the exit. The cameras kept firing, but I didn't stop again.

I'd protected what mattered. Everything else was just noise.

A short while later, the Colonel caught up with me at the elevator on my walk back from lunch. "Interesting performance this afternoon."

"Not a performance."

"No?" His mustache twitched. "Could've fooled me. Very neat, very clean. 'Fellow musician.' 'Gospel music.' Almost like you'd rehearsed it."

The elevator doors opened. I stepped in, but he caught the door before it could close.

"Maybe," he said slowly, "we got off on the wrong foot this morning."

"Maybe."

"A girl who knows how to handle the press... that's valuable." He studied me with new interest. "Very valuable. Perhaps we could discuss those arrangements again—"

"No." But I softened it with a small smile. "Though I do appreciate the offer, Mr. Parker."

The doors started to close. This time he let them.

Back in my room, the phone was ringing again. Deena, probably, having had time to stew on it all. But when I picked up, it was Jerry.

"Boss wanted you to know he saw what you did down there earlier. Says to tell you..."

Word traveled fast in this crew. I filed that bit of information away for later use.

He paused, and could hear him smiling somehow. He was choosing his words carefully, aware of who might be listening. "Says you did good."

My throat tightened. "He's still at the airport?"

"On his way back, I think. Photographers were everywhere, of course." Jerry's voice dropped lower. "Listen, about Memphis..." I heard other voices behind him. “Listen, I’ll call you back.”

Lamar materialized at my door. "Boss is here. Wants you to meet him out back. Service entrance. Less cameras."

Less cameras, but not no cameras. There were always cameras now.

I found Elvis leaning against his Cadillac in the service alley, still in that perfect green suit but somehow looking more rumpled. His glasses were off, and his eyes were red-rimmed. The pills had worn off again. I made a mental note to watch his use a little more carefully. Just in case.

"Hey," he said softly.

"How was the airport?"

"Like a damn circus." He rubbed his face. "We played it perfect, of course. Always do. All smiles and waves, right up until she got on that plane." He paused. "Heard you had your own circus down here."

"Nothing I couldn't handle."

"Yeah." Something flickered in his expression. "Jerry told me what you said. About the gospel music."

"It's true, isn't it? We do share an interest."

"That all we share?"

The question hung between us like smoke. I thought about all those photographers, hungry for any hint of scandal. About the Colonel's calculating eyes. About Priscilla, perfect to the last moment.

"That's all they need to know," I said finally.

He studied me for a long moment, then pushed off from the car. In two strides he was there, his hands framing my face like he had in the suite. But this time he didn't stop.

The kiss was different than any we'd shared before - desperate, almost angry. Like he was trying to prove something. To me, to himself, to the whole damn world. His hands slid into my hair, messing it up.

When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard.

"Inside," he muttered. "Now."

But before we could move, a flash went off at the end of the alley.

"Shit." Elvis turned, putting himself between me and the photographer. "Red! Sonny!"

The Memphis Mafia materialized from nowhere, intercepting the photographer who was already running. But we all knew it was too late.

Elvis's hands were shaking worse now. "Val, I—"

"Don't." I straightened my hair, tried to calm my racing heart. "We knew this would happen eventually."

"The Colonel's gonna—"

"Let me handle the Colonel."

He laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. "Handle the Colonel? Baby, nobody handles the Colonel."

"I dunno.” I giggled like I knew something Elvis didn’t. “I kinda think he’s starting to like me.”

Another flash, this one from a different angle. Elvis swore under his breath.

"Get inside," he said. "I'll deal with this."

"Elvis—"

"Please." His voice cracked slightly. "Just... let me fix this. I can fix this."

But as I watched him stride toward the gathering photographers, all controlled power and perfect posture again, I wondered which version of "fixed" we were about to get.

Back in the hotel, everything moved fast. The Memphis Mafia scattered like pool balls after a break, each man with his own mission. Jerry was on the phone with newspapers, his voice smooth as silk: "No comment at this time." Red had the photographer's camera - though we all knew there had to be more photos out there. Lamar was coordinating with hotel security to lock down the service entrances. Sonny and Marty were watching the elevators on our floor.

And somewhere, the Colonel was planning.

I made it to the elevator before he found me.

"Inside." He didn't wait for my response, just steered me into the car with surprising strength for a man his age. The doors closed on us, and he hit the button for his floor.

"Mr. Parker—"

"Not one word." His voice was deadly quiet. "Not until we're in my office." So much for him starting to like me.

The elevator seemed to crawl. Somewhere above us, that damn dove cooed - even it knew we were in trouble.

His office felt different now. All those Elvis images on the walls weren't just pictures anymore - they were warnings. See what I built? See what I can destroy?

"Sit."

This time, I sat.

"Now then." He lit a cigar with deliberate calm. "Let's discuss what happens next."

"Nothing happens next. It was just a kiss."

His laugh could have stripped paint. "Just a kiss? With a married man? In broad daylight? After you so carefully told those reporters you were 'just friends'?" He blew a perfect smoke ring. "No, my dear. This is what happens next: You're going to take a generous settlement and disappear. Back to Chicago, preferably. We'll spin it as a brief friendship, nothing more. Elvis was being kind to a fellow musician, just like you said. End of story."

"No."

"No?" His eyebrows climbed. "Perhaps you didn't understand. This isn't a negotiation."

"You're right." I met his gaze. "It's not. Because there's nothing to negotiate. I’m not disappearing unless—"

"Then let me be clearer." He leaned forward. "Elvis Presley is more than a man. He's an industry. An empire. And that empire is built on certain... understandings. With his public. With his wife."

"His wife who lives in California?"

His mustache twitched. "A temporary arrangement."

"Like I'm supposed to be? Another 'temporary arrangement'?"

"Now you're beginning to understand."

“I’ll only go away if Elvis wants me to. I’d like to hear it from him, please.”

As if on cue, the phone on his desk rang. He answered it, listened, then held it out to me.

"For you. It's Elvis." His smile hadn't wavered. "He's going to tell you he's fixed everything. That there's a plan. A story we're going to tell." He paused. "The question is: are you going to play along?"

I took the phone, my hand steady despite everything.

"Elvis?"

"Baby, listen..." His voice was tight. "I know what to do. But you're not going to like it."

Behind his desk, the Colonel watched me like a snake watching a mouse. Some choices, I was learning, weren't really choices at all. But how you played them - that was everything.

"The story's simple," Elvis said, his voice tight with something between exhaustion and resignation. "You're my new backup singer. Been rehearsing in secret. That's why you're coming to Memphis. Professional opportunity, nothing more."

I watched the Colonel's satisfied smile grow behind his cigar smoke. Of course this was his idea - neat, clean, controllable. A story that would explain everything while revealing nothing.

"The kiss..." Elvis continued.

"Was gratitude," I finished, seeing the shape of it. "Excitement over the opportunity. A momentary celebration caught at an unfortunate angle."

"Yeah." He sounded tired. So tired. "Colonel's already got the contracts drawn up. Real ones, not just for show. You'll actually have to..."

"Sing backup?" I almost laughed. "Elvis, I've been singing my whole life."

"Yeah, but this is different. This is..."

"Playing a part?"

The silence on the line spoke volumes.

"It's a good solution," the Colonel cut in, clearly having heard every word on his extension. "Clean. Professional. Gives you a legitimate reason to be in Memphis, access to Graceland for rehearsals, everything you want. Just with... proper boundaries."

Proper boundaries. Right. Like the ones he'd established for all those other girls, the ones whose pictures didn't make it onto his wall of fame.

"There's one condition," Elvis said suddenly. "My condition, not the Colonel's."

I waited.

"You keep your own place. Like you wanted. No arrangements, no settlements. You do this as a professional, not as..."

Not as what? His mistress? His kept woman? Another Ann-Margret who got too close to the sun?

"Okay," I said.

The Colonel's eyebrows rose slightly. He'd expected more fight, more negotiation. But he didn't understand - I wasn't negotiating. I was playing chess.

"Just like that?" Elvis sounded surprised too.

"Just like that." I kept my voice level, professional. "When do we start rehearsals?"

What followed was a blur of activity. Contracts appeared as if by magic - the Colonel had probably had them ready since that first elevator ride. Throughout it all, I signed where I was told, smiled when expected, played the part of the grateful unknown singer getting her big break.

Statements were prepared for the press. A schedule materialized for rehearsals, appearances, recordings. Something flickered in the old man’s eyes - recognition, maybe. Of what, I wasn't sure yet.

It was late afternoon by the time everything was "handled." The photos from the alley had mysteriously vanished, though we all knew copies existed somewhere. The press had their official story. Even that damn dove seemed to have finally found somewhere else to roost.

"Perhaps," the Colonel said softly, "I underestimated you."

I smiled and headed back to my room.

Packing shouldn't have been hard. I hadn't brought much to Vegas in the first place. But somehow my belongings had multiplied, scattered across the suite like evidence of a life I hadn't planned on living.

"You'll want to pack light," Jerry said from the doorway. He'd appeared with coffee and what he called "Memphis wisdom," though I suspected he just didn't want me to be alone after the alley incident. "Graceland's got its own weather system. Nothing you bring is gonna make sense there anyway."

"Helpful, Jer. Real helpful." I held up two dresses - one Elvis had sent up last week, one I'd brought from Chicago. The difference in quality was almost embarrassing.

"Take both," he advised. "You'll need the fancy one for show, the real one to feel like yourself." He paused. "That's the trick, you know. For when everything else gets crazy."

I folded both dresses carefully, thinking about Elvis's books scattered across my bed, their margins filled with his handwritten notes. Questions, observations, searches for meaning in scientific formulas and ancient wisdom. I'd been packing them when Jerry arrived.

"Speaking of crazy," Red's voice came from the hall, "wait'll you meet the Memphis ladies." He joined Jerry in the doorway, looking oddly formal. "Got a whole briefing prepared for you about that."

"A briefing?"

"Those women are sharks in southern belle clothing," he said seriously. "Especially the ones who've had their eye on Elvis since high school. They're gonna hate you on principle."

"Thanks for the pep talk, Red."

"Just trying to prepare you." But his eyes were kind. "Though something tells me you can handle them just fine."

I picked up Elvis's jacket from the chair - the one I'd been wearing this morning when everything changed. His cologne still clung to it faintly, mixing with the gin stains from last night's party. Had that really been less than 24 hours ago?

"Leave the jacket," Jerry said quietly. "Trust me on that one."

Before I could respond, Lamar appeared behind Red and Jerry, making the doorway look like a Memphis Mafia convention.

"Y'all telling stories about Memphis?" He squeezed past them into the room. "Let me tell you about Elvis's first day at Graceland. There he is, king of the world, right? And he can't figure out how to work the dang intercom system. Kept accidentally broadcasting everything to the whole house. And I mean everything." He winked. "Including some very private conversations with very private guests, if you know what I mean."

"Lamar," Jerry warned.

"What? She should know what she's getting into! Place is like a funhouse sometimes. Secret passages, hidden doors, two-way windows - Elvis had them put in during renovations. Says it's for security, but really he just likes playing hide and seek."

I tried to picture it - Elvis Presley, the king of rock and roll, playing hide and seek in his mansion. What would he need a two-way window for? Yet, somehow it wasn't hard to imagine at all.

The phone rang, making us all jump. The Memphis Mafia exchanged glances.

"That'll be your pal again," Jerry said. "She's called four times."

I stared at the phone. "How do you know?"

"We know everything, honey." Red smiled. "Part of the job."

I picked up the receiver. Sure enough: "Val? Finally! I've been trying to call you back all day!"

The Memphis Mafia made themselves scarce, but not before Jerry mouthed "be careful" and tapped his ear - reminding me that in Vegas, walls had ears and phones had extensions.

"Dee." I cut her off, gentle but firm. "I need you to listen very carefully. Can you do that?"

A pause. Then, quieter: "Yeah."

"I can't tell you everything. Not yet. But I need you to trust me when I say that what's in those papers... it's not the whole story. And I need you to not tell anyone anything beyond what's already out there. Can you do that for me?"

The silence stretched so long I thought we'd been disconnected. Finally: "This is really serious, isn't it?"

"Yeah." I twisted the phone cord around my finger. "It really is."

"But you're okay? You're being careful?"

I thought about the Colonel's offer, about Elvis's message through Jerry, about all the delicate threads I was trying to navigate.

"I'm trying to be."

"Val, a backup singer? Really? That's the story they're going with?"

I started folding a sweater, phone cradled against my shoulder. "That's the truth they're going with."

She caught the emphasis. "Oh. Oh." A pause. "So we're not talking about the real truth yet?"

"Not yet."

Another pause. Then: "Okay. But Valerie?"

"Yeah?"

"When you can tell me... when it's safe... you'll tell me everything?"

"Everything I can," I promised. "Just... not yet."

After I hung up, I found Elvis's books again. Opening one at random, I found a passage underlined: "The truth is rarely pure and never simple." In the margin, his handwriting asked: "But what if you're living multiple truths?"

A knock at the door made me look up. Elvis stood there, looking somehow both perfect and wrecked. His hair was immaculate but his eyes were tired behind his glasses.

"Hey," he said softly. He took in the scene - the half-packed suitcases, the scattered books, his jacket still draped over the chair.

"Need help packing?"

"I’m almost done. Just trying to figure out what belongs in Memphis and what should stay in Vegas."

He understood the real question. Moving into the room, he picked up one of his books. "Take ‘em all," he said. "We can read them together at Graceland. When things are... quiet."

"Does it get quiet there?"

"Sometimes. Late at night, or early morning. When everyone else is asleep." He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb my packing. "It's different than here. Better in some ways, harder in others."

"Because of Priscilla?"

"Because of everything." He rubbed his face. "You know she redecorated the whole place when we got married? Made it exactly what she thought it should be."

"Nothing wrong with that, Elvis. That’s what women do." I chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.

"Yeah but now it's like living in a museum sometimes. Even the air feels..." He trailed off.

"Curated?"

"Yeah." He looked at me then, really looked at me. "That's what I love about you, you know? You always find the right words."

"That why you kissed me? In the alley?"

His hands tightened on the book he was holding. "I kissed you because I couldn't not kiss you anymore."

The air between us felt electric, dangerous.

"Baby—"

"I know." He stood up abruptly. "I know we can't. Not now. Not with everything..." He gestured vaguely. "But in Memphis. When things settle… God, Valley Cat, I can’t wait to…”

A knock at the door interrupted whatever he might have said next. Joe stuck his head in.

"Boss? Car's ready whenever you are. And the Colonel wants—"

"Tell the Colonel I'll be there when I'm there." For once, Elvis's voice held an edge of real authority. I liked it.

Joe disappeared. Elvis turned back to me.

"I have to go. More appearances, more pictures, more..." He shrugged. "You know."

"I know."

He moved to the door, then stopped. "The backup singer story... I'm sorry about that. I know it's not what you wanted."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not. But it's what we've got." He smiled slightly. "For now."

After he left, I continued packing. The books went in first - all of them, even the ones I hadn't read yet. Then the dresses, both fancy and plain. But the jacket... Jerry was right. The jacket stayed behind.

The sun was setting over Vegas, painting the desert in shades of pink and gold. From my window, I could see photographers still lingering near the hotel entrance. Four weeks ago, I'd stood at this same window, watching Elvis's world from the outside. Now I was part of it, for better or worse.

A familiar coo made me look up. That damn dove was perched on my windowsill, looking remarkably pleased with itself.

"You're not coming to Memphis," I told it firmly.

It just cooed again, like it knew something I didn't.

Maybe it did.

I was deep in dreamless sleep when the knock came. So faint I almost missed it. For a moment I thought it was part of the dream, until it came again. Soft, uncertain, not like Elvis's usual confident rap.

When I opened the door, he was leaning against the frame, pajama shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes unfocused behind his glasses. His hair, usually perfect, fell across his forehead in a way that made him look impossibly young.

"Hey songbird," he slurred slightly. "Can I... can I come in?"

I hesitated. I'd never seen him this far gone before.

He swayed a little, caught himself. "Please?" His voice cracked on the word. "Just need... need somewhere quiet. Need you."

Something in my chest twisted at the naked vulnerability in his voice. I stepped aside to let him in. He made it three steps before stumbling. I caught him, guided him to the nearest chair.

"Everything's spinning," he mumbled, letting his head fall back. "Doctor Nick gave me something new. Said it would help with the... with the..." He gestured vaguely at his head. "But it's not... I can't..."

"Shh," I smoothed his hair back from his forehead. "It's okay."

"No." He caught my hand, pressed it to his cheek. "Not okay."

He pulled me down onto his lap, hands clumsy but insistent as they found the zipper of my nightgown. "Need you," he mumbled against my neck. "Been needing you so long..."

For a moment, I let myself feel it - the weight of him, the heat of his mouth, everything I'd been dreaming about since that first elevator ride. But his hands were shaking so badly he couldn't manage the zipper. His words slurred together as he tried to kiss me and missed.

"Not like this," I said softly, catching his hands. "Not when you're not yourself."

"But I am myself," he insisted, eyes struggling to focus. "Love you. I love you."

My heart stopped. "Elvis, you're not—"

"No." He pressed his forehead to mine, suddenly intense. "This is right. I love you. Been trying not to but I do."

His voice broke on the last word and suddenly he was crying - silent tears sliding down his perfect face. Without thinking, I gathered him to me, cradling his head against my chest. He curled into me like a child, all that powerful frame somehow becoming small and lost.

"It's okay," I whispered, rocking him slowly. "I've got you."

I held him like that for what felt like hours, studying his face in the dim light. The thick fan of his lashes wet with tears. The vulnerable curve of his mouth. The slight tremor in his jaw that betrayed how hard he was fighting for control.

Something shifted in my chest - a fierce protectiveness mixing with a love so deep it almost scared me. I wanted to be needed by him. Wanted to be the one who could hold him like this, who could see him at his most vulnerable and love him more for it, not less.

"M'sorry," he mumbled eventually. "Didn't mean to... to fall apart like that."

"Don't be sorry." I wiped his cheeks gently. "Ever."

He caught my hand, pressed a clumsy kiss to my palm. "Still coming to Memphis? Even after seeing me like this?"

"Especially after seeing you like this."

We made our slow way to his suite, him leaning heavily on my shoulder. The halls were empty - the Memphis Mafia mysteriously absent. Maybe they knew to give him this privacy. This moment of absolute vulnerability.

At his door, he turned to me. For a second, his eyes cleared.

"Meant it," he said softly. "About loving you."

"I know." I touched his cheek. "But tell me again tomorrow when you're you."

"Promise you'll still be here tomorrow?"

"Promise."

I waited until his door closed before letting out the breath I'd been holding. The empty hallway suddenly felt very long, very quiet. We'd have to talk about the pills eventually. About limits and boundaries and all the things that could go wrong. But not tonight.

Tonight, I just wanted to remember the weight of him in my arms. The trust it took for him to let me see him like this. The way my heart had cracked and mended and grown when he'd said he loved me, even through the chemical haze.

Because somewhere between that first elevator ride and this moment, between Vegas glamour and raw need, I'd fallen completely, irrevocably in love with him. Not Elvis Presley the star, but this complicated, brilliant, troubled man who read numerology and cried in my arms and trusted me to get him home safe.

I wasn't going anywhere.

Morning came too soon. The hotel staff who'd barely noticed me four weeks ago now watched my every move, their eyes following me with a mix of curiosity and calculation. The maids whispered in corners. The bellhops suddenly knew my name. Even the woman who'd cleaned my room every day, Marie, looked at me differently as she helped pack my final items.

"You take care," she said softly, folding my last dress. "It's not like Vegas there."

The front desk clerk who'd checked me in that first day - Brenda, still blizzard-cold - handed me my final bill with a knowing smile. "So. Backup singer?"

I just smiled, remembering how she'd dismissed me a month ago. How I'd been nobody then - just another hopeful in a city full of them. Now I was somebody. Or at least, I was somebody's somebody.

Elvis had left earlier, his departure orchestrated by the Colonel down to the last detail. Priscilla was already in Memphis, preparing Graceland. I would fly commercial, arrive hours after them. Keep up appearances. Play the part.

I wasn't to go near Graceland, not yet. Not while Priscilla was there. The Colonel had made that crystal clear - I was to find an apartment far away from Graceland until... until what? Until Priscilla left? Until some arbitrary waiting period passed? Until the scandal died down? I felt caught in limbo, neither here nor there.

My stomach churned with guilt as I thought about her. How must she feel, knowing her husband's... what was I exactly? Mistress seemed too tawdry, girlfriend too simple for whatever this complex thing between Elvis and me was becoming. But whatever I was, I was coming to her town, into her world. Sure, Elvis swore their marriage was over, that she had her own life in California now. But she was still his wife. Still the woman whose home I was effectively invading, even if I wouldn't be living under her roof.

My cheeks burned with shame. Part of me wanted to do right by her - maybe even eventually talk to her, explain... what? That I loved her husband? That I couldn't help myself? That I believed him when he said they were done?

But another part of me bristled at feeling guilty at all. If they really were separated, if she really was building a new life in California, why shouldn't I be with Elvis? Why shouldn't I take this chance with him?

I made a mental note to find out the truth about their marriage - not from Elvis, whose view was complicated by pills and promises, but from someone who would know. Maybe Jerry. Maybe Red. Someone who could tell me if divorce was really on the horizon or if I was just another chapter in Elvis' story of extramarital adventures.

The press lingered outside despite the early hour, their cameras ready. I spotted the one who'd caught us in the alley - he had the decency to look slightly ashamed when our eyes met.

Red appeared at my elbow as I headed for the cab. "Ready?"

"No."

He laughed. "Nobody ever is."

Looking up at the International's gleaming façade, I remembered that first day. How overwhelming it had all seemed. How impossible. I'd been so naive then, thinking talent and determination were enough. Now I knew better. Now I knew about pills and promises, about public faces and private truths, about loving someone so completely that even their broken pieces felt precious.

A familiar coo made me look up one last time. That damn dove sat on the hotel awning, watching my departure like it had watched everything else.

"Still here?" I called up to it.

Red followed my gaze. "Tom's trying to catch it, you know. Says it's his responsibility."

"Tell him to let it be." I smiled. "Some things aren't meant to be caught."

The cab pulled up. Red loaded my bags while I took one last look at the Strip, already shimmering in the heat. Somewhere up there was the elevator where it all began. The suite where Elvis had cried in my arms last night. The lobby where I'd first heard him laugh.

"Miss?" The driver was waiting.

I slid into the back seat, letting Vegas fall away behind me. In a few hours, I'd be in Memphis. In Graceland. In Elvis's world for real.

The morning sun caught my reflection in the cab window. I looked different somehow. Older, maybe. Or just... more. More aware. More certain. More myself.

"Airport," I told the driver. Then, softer, more to myself than anyone: "Time to see what Memphis has in store."

As we pulled away, I could have sworn I heard one last coo from above. A goodbye, maybe. Or a warning.

Either way, there was no turning back now.

Taglist: @whositmcwhatsit @ellie-24 @arrolyn1114 @missmaywemeetagain @be-my-ally @vintageshanny @prompted-wordsmith @precious-little-scoundrel @peskybedtime @lookingforrainbows @austinbutlersgirl67@lala1267 @thatbanditqueen @dontcrydaddy @lovingdilfs @elvispresleygf @plasticfantasticl0ver @ab4eva @presleysweetheart @chasingwildflowers @elvispresleywife @uh-all-shook-up @xxquinnxx @edgeofrealitys-blog@velvetprvsley @woundmetender @avengen @richardslady121 @presleyhearted @kendralavon7 @18lkpeters@lookingforrainbows @elvisalltheway101 @sissylittlefeather @atleastpleasetelephone @eliseinmemphis@tacozebra051 @thetaoofzoe @peskybedtime @shakerattlescroll @crash-and-cure @ccab @i-r-i-n-a-a @devilsflowerr@dirtyelvisfant4sy @elvislittleone @foreverdolly @getyourpresleyfix@gayforelvis @headfullofpresley @h0unds-of-h3ll @hipshakingkingcreole @p0lksaladannie @doll-elvis @tacozebra051 @richardslady121 @jaqueline19997 @myradiaz@livelaughelvis @deke-rivers-1957 @jhoneybees @atleastpleasetelephone @eapep @elvispresleywife @that-hotdog @landlockedmermaid77 @sissylittlefeather @kawaiiwitchy

#elvis presley #elvis #elvis fans #elvis fanfic #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis fanfiction #elvis presley fic #elvis presley fanfic #elvis fic #elvis x oc #songbird 1969

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kingsofsteam · 2 years ago

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#tips to repair carpet delamination #carpet repair and re-stretching services

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thus-spoke-lo · 1 year ago

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expanding on this silly thought from earlier. mildly suggestive. self-ship coded kinda.

“You have to stop doing that.”

You stare up at Doflamingo, who hovers above you, looking as impossibly tall as ever from your spot on the floor. His hands sit on his hips, his head cocked to one side, looking down at you both perplexed and amused—a familiar combination of emotions he holds towards you.

“Doing what?” you ask, stretching your arms above your head, groaning as your tendons re-align and your shirt slips above your waist, exposing your stomach.

“That.” He nudges you in the side with the toe of his loafer, the tip sinking into the soft flesh of your bare midriff. “Lounging on the carpet whenever you see fit.”

“What?” You playfully slap at his ankle until he retracts his foot. “It’s floor time.”

Doflamingo inhales loudly and exhales even louder; despite the exaggerated display, you can swear the corners of his mouth twitch as he hides the beginning of a smile. You exasperate him for reasons he cannot even begin to process, yet something about your behavior is charming enough that he tolerates it. Perhaps it’s the myriad of other ways that you do, in fact, manage to please him that leaves him amenable to your more peculiar habits, but whatever the reason, you know as long as you don’t push your luck, you can get away with murder—or at least, floor time.

“I don’t care what you call it, you’re in my way,” he grumbles, kneeling down in front of you and sitting back on his heels. Even like this, he still towers over you. “I’m going to end up stepping on you.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Not in the fun way, pet,” he sighs, shaking his head and glancing down over the top of his sunglasses.

“But I need floor time.”

“And I need to not have you underfoot all the time.”

“Why?” You sit up on your elbows, pouting in a manner that will either get you your way or get you bound and strung up in some sort of punishment—you’ll gladly accept either option. “You already call me ‘pet,’ just think of me like a housecat.”

He smirks and reaches down to stroke your leg, long fingers trailing up your ankle, drifting over your calf, settling on your thigh before squeezing it just hard enough to make you yelp. “If I wanted a housecat, I would have one.”

“You do have one,” you beam. “It’s me. I’m the housecat.”

“Is that so?” He drops to his hands and knees, crawling over you until he engulfs you, caging you in on either side with muscled forearms. “Then perhaps I should be calling you ‘kitten,’ hm?”

You swallow, suddenly feeling as though you’ve lost a game you didn’t intend to play. “If you want to.”

“Oh, if I want to?” Doflamingo chuckles and strokes your cheek with the back of his hand. “But you’re the one insisting on acting like it. Aren’t you, kitten?”

You nod, leaning into his touch; he’s warm, growing warmer with every moment he holds himself over you, his intent clearer as his hand moves down your body and his teeth gain purchase in your neck, biting his way down to your shoulders, his long tongue soothing the sore spots he leaves along your tender skin.

“No more floor time for now,” he growls, his hand sinking into the plush of your hip.

You blink at him slowly, playing coy, as if you weren’t suddenly filled with an urgent and aching need. “No?”

“No.” He runs the tip of his tongue along your lower lip, grinning wickedly, letting you lay there in silence with only the sound of his quickening breath and your own racing pulse echoing in yours ears. He stands and stares down at you for a moment, admiring the pitiful little thing that cowers beneath him, before scooping you up in his arms; you suspect he would’ve rather picked you up by the scruff of the neck like the unruly pet you are. “I think it’s play time for my little kitty cat. Let’s see how sharp your claws really are.”

#lo writes #loflamingo #doflamingo x reader

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wheatnoodle · 1 year ago

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“robin, i have a secr’t t’ tell you.”

it’s only 10 o’clock but here they are, drunk in steve’s living room. steve’s laying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling with glossy eyes and an amused smile on his lips.

robin is sitting upside down on the couch, head dangling over the cushion and legs tossed over the back. she makes the move to sit up slowly, giving her brain a chance to re-center. she blinks slowly at him. “what’s your secret?” she yawns and stretches her arms over her head.

steve seems to contemplate speaking any further. another swig from the bottle of, honestly, cheap vodka they picked up loosens his lips enough.

“i keep…keep watchin’ indiana jones. th’ second one,” he mumbles, turning his face to squish his cheek into the carpet.

it surprises a laugh out of her and she’s quick to slap a hand over her mouth at the wounded expression that takes over her face. “sorry, sorry. um…why’s that like…a problem? it’s a good movie.”

“the problem, bobbie,” steve rolls onto his back again to look at her, “‘s that i don’t know if it’s actually a good movie. i’ll say i watch it f’r the…the plot, but i don’ have a clue what happens in it. all i know…is harris’n ford…loses like a chunk of his shirt at some point.”

that seems to catch her attention as robin’s suddenly leaning over him, her hair failing into his face. her eyes dart all over his face, searching for some kind of a joke. steve holds her gaze steady, but she can hear how his breathing has gone shaky. like he’s nervous. nervous? around her? that hurts a bit more than she wants to admit.

“so what you’re saying…is that the reason you’re rackin’ up late fees on the second indiana jones movie of all movies, is to stare at harrison ford’s tits?” robin’s smirking down at him and it makes his face burn even though he’s laughing in relief.

“you have zero room to judge me for my taste! the amount of times we have watched the breakfast club-“

“you never complained! now that i think, you were drooling over bender-“

“bobbie no!”

their giggles die down and robin slips off the couch, landing herself right on top of him. steve groans as she knocks the wind out of him, earning another snort from her. she lays her head down on his chest, worming an arm underneath his back.

“so…boys too?” she says softly but it sounds so loud in the room. he hesitates, eyes trained on the ceiling.

“yeah…boys too…” steve ultimately says. it’s only when robin wipes her thumb on his cheek that he realizes he’s been crying. he chuckles dryly and grabs at her hand.

“thank you for telling me.” steve can hear the smile in her voice. she gives his hand a firm, reassuring squeeze. he returns it immediately.

“thank you for not making a big deal out of it.”

she hums in response before propping her chin up to look at him.

“so…any boy crushes i should know about?”

#and then they talk about eddie when he drinks more #stranger things #steve harrington #robin buckley #stobin fic #stobin #platonic soulmates stobin #platonic stobin #steve and robin #bisexual steve harrington #steve thinks harrison ford is hot #and he is #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfic #robin buckley fic #robin buckley fanfic #stranger things fic

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lifeofpriya · 2 months ago

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Stolen Slice of Time - Jack Draper

[gif credit goes to @pyotrkochetkov]

a/n: this fic was inspired by the convos I've had with both @2manytabsopen and @pyotrkochetkov about Jack's scruffy look and how we all are here for it. besties, this one is for y'all ❤️🫶🏼

summary: why have just a cozy night in when you can add a little zest to the evening too....

"Your hair's getting so long, babe," you quietly murmur, running your fingers through the soft, brown strands that cascade down Jack's neck. "And the scruff is really suiting you."

Jack, lounging comfortably in a worn-out t-shirt and sweatpants, flashes a grin in your direction. "You think so?"

You nod, watching as Jack's eyes light up with a hint of shyness. The room is dimly lit, only the flicker of the TV providing a soft glow. The faint scent of pine from the candle on the mantle fills the air, mixing with the faint aroma of the takeout dinner you both ordered. Raindrops tap-dance on the windows, casting shifting shadows on the plush carpet. The quiet evening stretches out before you, a welcome reprieve from the chaos of your respective careers.

"I find it quite charming, actually," you admit, tracing the line of his jaw with your thumb. His cheeks flush a bit, and he leans into your touch, eyes closing. The warmth of his skin under your fingertips is a stark contrast to the coolness of the evening.

Laying your head on his chest, you slightly lifted the left sleeve of Jack's shirt to expose the muscular arm beneath, tracing his lightning bolt tattoo with your index finger. The thump of his heartbeat syncs with the rhythm of the rain outside, a gentle reminder of life's steady pulse amidst the calmness of the moment.

Jack's hand comes up to cover yours, stilling your movement. He opens his eyes to look into yours, a silent question hanging between you both.

You smile and give his hand a squeeze, feeling his thumb stroke the back of your palm. "Just enjoying the quiet," you explain, voice barely above a whisper.

Jack nods, understanding. His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer. The fabric of his shirt is warm and slightly damp from his earlier workout. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest with each breath he takes. His eyes refocus on the TV, but you know his mind is elsewhere.

"I know the last few weeks haven't been easy for you," you say, the words barely louder than the patter of the rain. "With you losing the semifinal at the US Open and then the Davis Cup…it's been tough, but I'm proud of you."

Jack's expression softens, and he looks down at you, his eyes filled with a silent gratitude. "Thanks, it means a lot," he says, his voice rumbling in his chest. His hand moves to your shoulder, gently squeezing in response.

"You're going to get back to winning, I know it," you reassure him, pressing a kiss to the warm skin of his neck. His pulse flutters beneath your lips, and you feel his body relax a fraction.

Jack's hand comes up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his eyes searching yours. "I hope so," he murmurs, his voice a blend of hope and vulnerability.

Your hand finds its way back to Jack's hair, gently playing with the ends as you sit up a little to look at him. "You know what some of my favorite things about you are?" you ask, a teasing smile playing on your lips.

Jack raises an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "What?"

You lean closer, your voice a warm whisper. "Your dedication to your craft, the way you light up when you talk about it. Your resilience in the face of setbacks. And of course," you add with a smirk, "how incredibly cute you are when you're all sweaty and focused on the court."

Jack laughs, the sound deep and genuine, a rare moment of carefree abandon. "Cute, huh?" He playfully pokes your side, making you giggle.

You nod, your smile never fading. "Seriously though, I've never seen anyone work as hard as you. And you know what else?"

Jack tilts his head slightly, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. "What?"

"Your humility," you reply, leaning in to kiss him gently. "You're so talented, but you never let it get to your head."

Jack's smile turns a shade more serious as he looks at you. "Thanks for being there, for understanding what this all means to me," he says, his voice a gentle rumble. His arms tighten around you, and you can feel the tension in his muscles start to ease.

"Always," you promise, resting your head back on his chest. The TV drones on in the background, but the real show is the steady beat of his heart, a comforting lullaby that seems to sync with the rain's rhythm.

"On second thought, maybe I should shave," Jack says, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "You know, clean up a bit before the next tournament."

"Don't you even dare think about it, Draper," you laugh, swatting at his arm. "I like the rugged look. Besides, it's not like you're not clean-shaven all the time."

Jack chuckles, his chest rumbling under your ear. "Fine, but only because you like it," he says, nuzzling into your hair. The warmth from his breath sends a shiver down your spine.

The TV's volume lowers as one of you reaches for the remote, the sports commentary fading into a gentle background hum. The rain outside seems to match the tempo of your conversation, a soothing rhythm that fills the quiet spaces between words.

As you trace the outline of the lightning bolt tattoo once more, Jack's eyes follow the movement of your hand, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. You both sit in companionable silence, the only sound being the rain outside.

"We haven't really had a chance to experience Tokyo, have we?" you muse, watching the droplets slide down the window.

Jack nods, his gaze drifting to the city lights beyond the rain. "No, not really. Just the hotel and the tennis courts."

You sit up, energy sparking in your eyes. "Let's do something about that."

Jack looks at you, surprise and excitement fighting for dominance on his face. "Now?"

"Yeah, why not?" You say, a hint of challenge in your tone. "We're in one of the most amazing cities in the world. We can't just stay cooped up in here all night."

Jack's eyes widen, and he sits up, his body language shifting from relaxed to eager. "But it's pouring out there."

You shrug, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. "So what? It's not like we'll melt."

Jack looks at you, then back at the rain-soaked street, and sighs dramatically. "Alright, you've twisted my arm."

You both laugh and jump up from the couch, the sudden movement sending a rush of cold air through the room as you disrupt the warmth of your cocoon. The excitement of the impromptu adventure fills the air, pushing away the lingering shadows of his recent defeats.

Jack grabs a black hoodie and pulls it over his head, the material stretching over his broad shoulders. You watch, amused, as he searches for his sneakers under the coffee table. "Do you think we should take an umbrella?" he asks, holding up the collar of his hoodie.

"Where's the fun in that?" you reply, already feeling the thrill of the surprise outing. You slip into your own shoes, a pair of well-worn boots that have seen their fair share of adventures. The rain is a gentle crescendo against the windows, a siren's call to the night beyond.

Jack's smile widens, and he nods, the light in his eyes mirroring your own. "You're right, let's live a little." He grabs your hand, pulling you towards the door, his grip firm and reassuring.

The hallway outside the hotel room is quiet, the plush carpet muffling the sound of your footsteps. The elevator doors slide open with a gentle ding, and you both step in, the sudden enclosed space feeling electric with anticipation. The descent to the lobby is swift and silent, the only sound the soft hum of the elevator's mechanical workings.

Stepping out into the lobby, the warmth and dryness of the hotel are replaced by the cool, damp embrace of the Tokyo night. You both pause for a moment, the sound of rain a steady drumbeat against the pavement outside. The hotel's doorman offers an umbrella with a knowing smile, but you decline with a laugh, pulling Jack out into the rain.

The droplets are cold and surprisingly large, splashing against your skin and soaking through your clothes in seconds. You run down the street, hand in hand, the world around you a blur of neon lights and shimmering wet surfaces. The rain seems to cleanse the city, washing away the day's bustle and leaving only the vibrant nightlife in its wake.

Jack's laugh echoes through the narrow streets as you dodge puddles and rush through the rain. His eyes are bright, and his cheeks are flushed with excitement, the stress of the last few weeks momentarily forgotten. The feeling of his hand in yours is electric, a connection that grounds you both in the here and now.

You spot a cozy ramen shop tucked between two buildings, the steamy windows beckoning you with the promise of warmth. You tug at his arm, pointing towards it. "Let's get something to eat," you shout over the rain.

Jack's eyes light up, and you both sprint the remaining distance, laughing as you're enveloped by the warm, spicy aroma of the restaurant. The door chimes merrily as you shake the water from your clothes, the sound mingling with the low murmur of conversation and the clatter of bowls and chopsticks.

Inside, the atmosphere is inviting. The walls are lined with wooden panels, and a row of colorful lanterns casts a warm glow over the counter. The chef nods in greeting, his apron dotted with the evening's culinary endeavors. You slide onto the stools, the vinyl sticking slightly to your wet legs.

"Two shoyu ramens, please," Jack says to the server, his British accent a charming contrast to the local dialect. The server nods and scribbles something on a pad before disappearing into the kitchen's steamy embrace.

You both watch the rain from the warm sanctuary of the ramen shop, the droplets racing each other down the windows, creating a blurry mosaic of the streets outside. The air is thick with the smell of umami, and you can feel the heat from the kitchen seep into your bones, chasing away the chill.

Jack turns to you, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "I can't remember the last time I just… did something like this," he says, his voice barely audible over the sizzle of the woks and the pitter-patter of rain.

You lean in, whispering, "That's what I'm here for. To remind you to live in the moment."

Jack's smile is a warm embrace, his hand finding yours again on the counter. The minutes tick by as you both watch the rain, the occasional giggle escaping when a particularly large droplet splashes against the glass. The anticipation for the warm bowls of noodles is palpable, a delightful hunger gnawing at your stomachs.

The chef slides two steaming bowls in front of you, the broth's aroma wafting up to tickle your nostrils. You both lean in, inhaling deeply before taking your first slurp. The rich flavors dance on your tongue, a symphony of salty, sweet, and umami notes. You watch as Jack's expression morphs from curiosity to pure bliss, the warmth of the ramen spreading through his body, a stark contrast to the cold rain outside.

As you eat, the conversation flows freely, bouncing from shared memories of past travels to the quirks of your favorite movies. You laugh, the sound mingling with the sizzle of the kitchen and the patter of the rain, creating a symphony of joy and comfort. The warmth of the food and the coziness of the little restaurant wrap around you like a blanket, a brief but welcomed reprieve from the world's expectations and pressures.

Jack wipes a stray noodle from the corner of your mouth, his touch gentle and playful. "You had a little something there," he teases.

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks heat up. "Thanks," you murmur, taking another slurp. The rain outside seems to be letting up a bit, the tempo of the drops slowing to a lazy rhythm.

Jack leans in closer, his voice low and intimate. "This… this is exactly what I needed tonight." He pauses, a rare moment of vulnerability passing over his features. "I've been so caught up in the game, I've forgotten how to just… be."

You smile warmly at him, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "You're more than just a tennis player, you know," you say, your voice gentle but firm. "You're Jack Draper, the man I fell in love with, and this is just one part of who you are."

Jack's eyes search yours, finding comfort in the sincerity of your words. "I know," he whispers, his grip tightening around your hand. "But sometimes it's hard to remember that."

You lean over, placing your chin on his shoulder, your eyes never leaving his. "I'm here to remind you," you murmur, your breath warm against his skin.

Jack's eyes hold yours for a moment before he nods, a soft smile playing on his lips. "You always do," he says, his voice filled with affection.

As you finish your ramens, the rain outside turns into a gentle pitter-patter, the intensity of the storm giving way to a calmer evening. You both pay the bill, the chef bowing in appreciation as you leave a generous tip. The cool air outside feels refreshing on your flushed cheeks as you step out onto the now-deserted street.

The neon lights reflect off the wet pavement, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the surfaces. The city seems to breathe a sigh of relief, the rain having washed away the day's grime and stress. Hand in hand, you and Jack wander aimlessly, the cobblestone streets guiding you through a maze of alleys and side streets. The air is alive with the sound of distant laughter and the occasional honk of a car.

You stumble upon a small park, the trees whispering secrets to each other in the cool evening air. The rain has transformed the area into a tranquil oasis, the puddles shimmering like mirrors in the soft glow of the streetlamps. "Let's sit for a bit?" you suggest, leading him to a wooden bench under a large, leafy canopy.

Jack nods, and you both settle down, the rain-soaked bench cool against your backs. The air is filled with the scent of wet earth and blooming flowers, a stark contrast to the sterile hotel room. He pulls you closer, sharing his body heat, and you lean into him, feeling his heartbeat under your cheek. The rain taps a gentle rhythm on the leaves above, creating a soothing melody that seems to sync with your own pulse.

You sit in silence for a while, the city's noises a distant backdrop to the intimate moment. The rain slows to a drizzle, leaving a misty veil over the park that makes everything seem more mysterious, more romantic.

Jack sighs contentedly, his eyes closed as he soaks in the peacefulness. "You know, I've never felt more alive than when I'm with you," he says, his voice a low rumble in the quiet night.

You lift your head to look at him, the warmth of his body seeping into you. "That's because you're finally letting yourself live," you reply, a knowing smile playing on your lips.

Jack's eyes open, meeting yours with a look of understanding. "You're probably right," he murmurs, leaning in to kiss you softly. The rain has dampened your hair, leaving it in soft waves around your face, and the coolness of the night air makes his skin feel like a warm embrace.

You both sit for a while longer, watching the rain's final whispers kiss the ground, before deciding to make your way back to the hotel. The streets are empty now, the city tucked in for the night, and the only sounds are the echoes of distant footsteps and the occasional splash of water as a car passes by. The dampness clings to you both, but the chill is forgotten in the warmth of your shared experience.

As you enter the hotel lobby, the contrast of the dry, warm air feels almost alien after the freshness of the outside world. You shake the water from your clothes, droplets flying like glitter in the lobby's soft light. The concierge gives you a knowing smile, and you can't help but feel a little like two kids who've snuck out past their bedtime.

The elevator ride back up to the room is quiet, the only sound the faint drip-drip of water from your clothes. You lean against Jack, the warmth of his body a comforting presence. His arm is around your shoulders, and you can feel his heart beating in time with yours, the excitement of the spontaneous adventure lingering in the air.

When the doors slide open, you step into the dry, warm embrace of the hallway, the rain-soaked world of the city outside a distant memory. Inside the room, the cocoon of your earlier sanctuary awaits, the scent of the pine candle now mingling with the faint aroma of damp clothes.

Jack walks over to the windows and pulls the curtains aside, revealing the now calm night outside. The rain has left a glossy sheen on the buildings, and the city lights sparkle like jewels scattered across velvet. He turns back to you, a look of wonder in his eyes. "Thanks for this," he says, his voice sincere. "It's exactly what I needed."

You smile, standing up from the couch to join him. The warmth of his body is a stark contrast to the chill that lingers on your skin from the rain. You wrap your arms around his waist, leaning your head against his back, and together you watch the city breathe its nighttime sighs. The moment feels intimate and perfect, a stolen slice of time just for the two of you.

#jack draper #jack draper imagine #jack draper imagines #jack draper fic #jack draper fics #jack draper x reader #tennis imagine #tennis imagines #tennis fic #tennis fics

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moralesmilesanhour · 1 year ago

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Miles G Warm-Up Drabble

Summary: Just a little writing exercise that I did three days ago with Miles G based on the prompt: 'Describe your character's nighttime routine.' (or something like that) wc: 476 Enjoy!

Miles kicked off his sneakers and leaned on his bedroom door to shut it. Hands no longer clawed, he stretched his fingers out. His knuckles ached.

The boy peeled off his leather jacket and made a face at the smell of sweat that wafted beneath his nose as he did so. He made a beeline for the shower before it stuck to him for too long.

Miles looked into the mirror for the first time in several weeks.

He averted his gaze from his own eyes, for fear of seeing that people’s observations were correct (he didn’t get enough sleep, he didn’t get enough sun, he looked just like his father). Instead, he moved up to his hairline and clucked his tongue at the dandruff that dusted it.

Right. “Wash day”, as he’d heard his classmates call it.

Calloused fingers began to impatiently unravel the ends of the two long cornrows. The clean sections that were supposed to have distinguished them were now overtaken by frizz. Miles huffed and ripped at every knot. The sooner he took the braids out, the sooner he could get away from the mirror. In a few minutes the plaits were gone, leaving in their wake a mass of greasy coils both loose and tight. The little thunder cloud he’d created floated just above his shoulders. Already exhausted, he didn’t care to section it before turning on the shower head.

Being the only other person in the house with a significant head of hair, Miles shrugged and reached for his mother’s shampoo and conditioner. He enjoyed the smell: fruity, and something a bit like dish soap. After taking great pains to scrub (more like scratch) his scalp, he grabbed the hard bar of white soap and a coarse wash rag to slough the day off of his skin; the sweat, but the gunpowder as well.

Miles carefully stepped out onto the mat and immediately put on the pair of socks that he had taken with him out of habit. He was bothered by the rough texture of the carpet beneath his bare feet. As if some invisible shot clock was counting down over his head, he pulled an old sweatshirt on, and threw on basketball shorts that he no longer had any use for.

The cold air of the empty hallway hit him once he exited the bathroom, as well as a realization: he had absolutely no idea what to do with his hair. Miles’ inventory was little more than a durag and a hair band from his mother. To hell with it. He’d ask Rio in the morning.

Upon re-entering his bedroom, Miles haphazardly tied his hair back into a puff and somehow managed to get the durag to lay flat over it. With a sigh of relief, sleep took him before his head even hit the pillow.

#miles morales #earth 42 miles morales #miles g morales #spiderman across the spiderverse #miles morales fic #moralesanhour #atsvplatonic #atsvgen

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canarydarity · 4 months ago

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(desert duo titanic (1997) au be upon ye. 4330 words. ao3) ((check tags for content warnings))

The most attractive part of the idea, Grian had thought, was that nobody would know what had happened to him. Not his mother, not his fiance, not a single socialite on this godforsaken boat—and then they’d wake up to find their lives would go on business as usual regardless. There would still be teas and luncheons to attend, they’d still dress for dinner—though in customary mourning black for at least a few months, if only to keep up appearances—and have the same dozen mindless conversations about things that would never really matter, and better yet, Grian wouldn’t have to be there for any of it.

The air was nice up here, chilling but in a pleasant way. That was a good thought. It soothed the rush he’d felt on his way over, the panic of needing to get away fast and the train of thought that kept saying do it now before they follow.

He didn’t remember the last time he was allowed to just take a breath; he didn’t remember the last time he was allowed to do anything without threat of penalization.

Even this, he knew, was a punishable offense. He could certainly never expect freedom nor even an inch of space to spare if he failed. And if his mother’s god was to be believed, success, too, was a crime befitting discipline. Grian had since decided he’d rather take his chances on an eternity in hell than a lifetime in his family house.

Unlike the air, the ice-cold bone-piercing sting that was the metal railing sticking to his skin was the kind of cold that was so intense it, ironically, burned, and it did wonders to keep him firmly in his brain. It connected to each of his palms like a stubborn leech, like it was, in some roundabout way, telling him to not let go. But what were leeches good for if not bloodletting, and Grian had long since been bled dry—disconnect the only thing left to do.

He peeled each of his hands off the railing one at a time, slowly, wincing at the pull of his skin and the carpet-burn like feeling of its breaking free. But he only opened and closed the palm of each hand a few times to restore feeling and heat before wrapping around the railing once more.

He looked down. You know, he almost couldn't see the water at all.

The darkness of night in the middle of the ocean bore nothing to reflect off of the water's surface, and the promise of emptiness for miles and miles and miles below was all too clear. He could only find where sky and sea met if he were really trying hard, and he’d found he didn't much care to do that. Grian kind of liked the idea of a vast black expanse stretching out before him, imagined himself letting go and not falling quickly down but just floating off into that tricky void.

He leaned forward, letting his arms pull taut, forming some weird triangle between where they connected to the railing, the socket of his shoulder, and where his feet were planted on the small lip of the ship's deck. He could do it—he could. He could let go.

He could.

Slowly, the skin of his hands worked to refreeze, fusing him once more to the boat's railing. Oddly, he focused in on the toe of his left shoe where he seems to have scuffed it against something in his haste to get here fast. He thought about how Mumbo was going to have to buff that out later and then re-shine them all over again, even though he did it before he dressed Grian for dinner and also sometime last night, joking about how Grian probably stubbed his toe on purpose just to spite him, and Grian had giggled and promised he’d be more careful to spare Mumbo’s poor hands. And then his mind recoiled, immediately, intensely, at the thought.

There would be no shoes for Mumbo to buff and shine.

On instinct, his arms reeled him if only slightly back in, his right eye involuntarily tightened into a cringe. Grian shook his head, firm, trying to work back to worse thoughts, something else, something more fitting. No Mumbo—for where Grian currently was, Mumbo was firmly off limits.

When that didn’t work, he shut his eyes tight and let out a harsh, determined deep breath; felt his brow furrow in concentration, his lips set into a thin stern line. He forced his arms to let him lean fully back out, more of his body over open water than ship.

And then, from behind, someone called, “don’t do it.”

Grian startled, looked back over his shoulder at the stranger ready to shout something like well then don’t startle me the next time, what is wrong with you, but found instead on instinct what came out was, “Get away from me. Do not come any closer—don’t.”

The man, who’d been nearly within arms length, hand reaching out like he’d been ready to grab for Grian’s wrist, paused immediately.

He didn’t know what the man was taking from Grian’s expression—if the look on his face was more anger and annoyance, disbelief at his interruption, or alarm and a frantic sort of unease. He was certainly getting nothing of the stranger besides prolonged eye contact and the sense that calculations were being run.

Whatever conclusion was come to, after a moment the stranger shook his head a little and jostled the hand he hadn’t pulled back towards him, almost like he was reaffirming its placement (as if either of them could forget).

“Just give me your hand, it’ll be alright, promise. I’ll pull you back over!”

Grian tried to shuffle to the side but there was really nowhere to go; the skin of his hands was once again firmly cemented to the cold metal, and to his right at the very center of the ship's stern was a flagpole.

“No,” he hissed, “I told you to back off. Stay back or I’ll—” Grian looked away from the stranger, felt in his throat that he must’ve been shouting to drown out the sound of the water coming back together after having been split by the large steamer, the propellers that were somewhere under the surface. He swallowed but the air had dried all the spit from his mouth, doing nothing to soothe the ache. “I’ll let go.”

But the proposition was slipping from him, his peaceful nothing getting further away like it’d jumped a few minutes ago and was bobbing somewhere in the boat's wake, Grian failing to follow. The more time passed, the more Grian felt like he’d missed his chance—and the more urgent he felt to prove this was what he’d really wanted after all, even as uncertainty over the fact grew.

“No you won’t.”

Grian’s head snapped up, blinking in surprise, the need to process the audacity in the statement delaying the understanding of what had been said. He turned his head, glaring over his shoulder at the stranger, who, for his part, looked entirely too sure of himself and relaxed, hands in his pockets now and shoulders paused in a shrug.

“What do you mean no I won’t—you don’t know me. Don’t you try to tell me what I will or won’t do!”

Usually that was a sure fire way to convince Grian to do whatever it was he’d been instructed against. Mumbo knew that well, quick to follow up instructions with a don’t even think about it and reasoning why whatever he was considering was probably a terrible awful idea. But none of the usual fire infected him—spite at the statement had grown just fine, but follow through was different here than in situations of the usual kind. The stranger seemed to understand that. Grian frowned at him harder, teeth grinding together.

“I just think that if you were going to, you would’ve done it already.”

“Well you’re distracting me.”

“That’s kind of the point.”

The stranger's lips made the kind of smirk that turned down instead of up, a gentle tease that was so out of place for the location and the night and the situation as a whole. Grian’s own mouth hung open a little in shock of it all, his brain failing to produce whatever response was supposed to be offered. Under it all somewhere, he felt embarrassed, and that offense fueled the frustration.

“Go away,” he said, not opening his mouth enough to separate his teeth, head trying to turn away, needing to focus his attention elsewhere, desperate for the feeling that he’d followed all the way to the ship's stern to come back, losing hope that it would.

“No can do, unfortunately.” Hands in his pockets, the stranger waltzed a step or two forward, and Grian tried his best to lean away despite no move being made towards him and distance kept; all he did was bend at the waist, peek over the railing into the cold deep blackness. “Well, looks like if I can’t get you to come back over, I’m just going to have to join you.”

“What?!” His breath puffed out ahead of him with the shriek, clouding his view momentarily, and Grian closed his eyes and shook his head like that’d restore his vision, or maybe jog some sense into the scene. “Are you insane!?”

The man was studying the railings, the slight curvature to the metal as it wound along the backside of the boat, his hand on his chin like there was a required technique other than stepping over one leg at a time. He stood up straight and rubbed his hands together, brought them to his mouth and breathed some warm air into them; then, inexplicably, he stopped to shrug off his coat.

His coat tossed in a heap on the deck, he hoisted up onto the bottom rung of the railing and threw one leg over the top, hands clinging to what he could, and at that Grian could watch no longer.

“No, stop—stop.”

Their eyes met, and, to the strangers credit, he looked remarkably calm. The eye contact said more what’s the holdup than oh, thank god; his eyebrows were raised, his face paused waiting for whatever Grian was going to say next—all the composure of circumstances much more normal, situations where the consequences were far less severe. It would’ve worried Grian badly had he not also seen the way the stranger gripped the railing tightly, fingers turning colorless by use of force; the way his posture had gotten less lax by the second, casual hard to maintain.

Something about it put things into perspective—Grian’s own breath picked up, his eyes growing wider by the second and the urge to not blink a bunch, rapidly, like in some odd number he’d find himself elsewhere, safer, getting harder to ignore. The dreadful realization of what have I done was familiar, but so was the stubborn pride that said bury it now before someone else finds out.

In more comfortable circumstances, Grian would be willing to buckle down and insist that whatever it was was precisely what he meant to do—no matter how ridiculous. He didn’t have to break eye contact and remind himself of the view to know that wasn’t an option here—not unless he meant it, not unless he was going over.

His torso began to tremble a little; the upper half, his chest, his shoulders. He couldn’t tell if it was the cold or the fear.

“What are you doing?” It came out quieter than he meant it to.

“Gotta be prepared to go in after you if you’re really doing it, don’t I?”

“You’ll be killed.”

“You don’t know that,” one of his shoulders went up in an approximation of a shrug—or as much of one as he could do considering his position and the need to not let go. “Besides, I'm a good swimmer!”

Grian did actually, that was sort of the point of him being here. He couldn't tell if the stranger was grossly underestimating the danger or betting it all on the biggest bluff he’d ever heard—some combination of both.

“Though, personally, I could do without the cold—I am not looking forward to that water. But it’s no matter! I am a gentleman, afterall.”

Carefully, he returned to movement, began the motion of swinging his second leg over the top rail, but Grian risked the removal of one hand to reach out and stop him, the skin of his palm delicate and raw ripping once again from the cold metal, the sound of its separation sickly as it permeated the air.

The burn of it felt good, the feel of it like a kind of tether—another thing tying him to the deck and making sure he stayed there.

He was supposed to say something, his hand gripping the thin cotton of the shirt on a stranger’s arm, its material rough against his already irritated palm, but, even here, Grian didn’t know how to give in and go back.

The stranger spoke instead, unphased enough Grian could almost believe he hadn’t jumped in to save Grian from failing to do so himself—could choose to believe it, if he wanted.

“I guess I’m sort of hoping you’ll let me off the hook.”

It was hard to look elsewhere; like Grian’s hand on the railing—like his hand on the stranger—the eye contact was just another lifeline, something else that was doing what it could to hold him firmly in place. Of course, besides that fact, there was nothing else to look at; the sky and the sea were black black black. It was the stranger or nothing, and Grian was surprised and frightened to discover where his allegiance was seeming to lie.

Because Grian could never just lose—not even when he didn’t want to win—he said, “you’re crazy,” a half-formed deflection that was mostly stolen by the wind, quieter than he should’ve said it to ensure he was heard over the commotion.

The stranger leaned towards him, his face in some sort of wishy-washy wince, like he knew he was about to push his luck but couldn’t quite help himself anyway. “Says the guy hanging off the back of a ship. With all due respect, of course,” he tacked on at the end, taking in Grian’s stature, his clothes and altogether demeanor.

Grian tried to swallow again and found his throat still dry as a bone. He choked at his first attempt of saying, “You first, I’ll follow.”

The stranger nodded and made quick work of throwing his leg back over the railing, pausing only for a pointed glance at Grian’s hand, where he realized he’d have to let go of the stranger’s shirt for him to be able to complete the action. With nowhere else to put it, Grian wrapped it once again around the railing, finding himself much more frightened about the prospect of doing so than he’d been when he climbed over, the inch or so of metal not nearly enough to make him feel secure anymore.

Grian’s eyes trailed over his shoulder, tried to keep the stranger in his sights and tried not to panic when he couldn’t. The darkness had gone from comforting to alarming, the nothingness from welcoming to just that—nothing, and at the sea Grian could no longer look. The urgency was beginning to return, but in a manner unexpected. He needed suddenly more than anything to be back on the deck, his feet firmly planted on the wood, that man-made and temporary replacement for land.

Though unseen, the sound of the collision of water upon the ship persisted, almost enough to cover that of the stranger shuffling behind him, and on top of the lack of a sightline Grian’s nerves latched onto the idea that he could just be gone; leave Grian there to suffer the consequences of his actions, give him just enough sense to realize this idea was idiotic before sending him over regardless—rich bastard probably deserved it. What did Grian have to be miserable about, anyway?

But like a life preserver on a line, that hand, the same one as before, reached out to him once more, coming back into Grian’s focus from his peripheral. It was like they’d started the whole scene started over, like a director had made them take things from the top. His hand trembling, trepidation in every part of the movement, Grian brought his right arm across his body and around to meet the stranger’s, the warmth of it scalding against Grian’s white-cold palm. Slowly, and not without help, he was turned back around.

The stranger’s eyes were green.

“What’s your name?”

A chill racked Grian’s spine, the wind off the water beating against his back somehow worse than when he’d been facing it, the sight of the whole ship ahead of him—definitive proof that he was the person furthest to the stern out of anyone, passengers and crew and all—horrifying; he couldn’t imagine anything worse than if he went now, not falling into the black but falling away from the ship, nothing to do but watch it leave him behind. He was definitely passing his chill to the stranger, sharing the tremor between the two of them like splitting a piece of cake for dessert.

Grian wanted to ask why it mattered. He said, “Grian,” instead.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m Scar.”

Stripped of any excuse to hide it at this point and worn thin by the fear that’d been eating away at him by his own hand and without his knowledge, he near breathlessly whined, “just get me out of here, please.”

The stranger nodded and squeezed his hands. “Can do.”

Grian would never give control to an entity such as fate by believing in it, so he wouldn’t say that he’d tempted it by hanging where he was for so long, but he’d clearly tempted something—the darkness itself, perhaps—or at the very least pushed his luck to some limit, enough that he’d used it all up in his climbing over the first time and however long he’d stalled on the railing, enough so that, when it came time to reverse the action and climb back to safety, his dress shoe, slick against the metal, moist from the sea air, failed to find purchase and caused him to slip.

He was falling—and then he wasn’t; with nothing beneath it to catch on, Grian’s foot was pulled down towards the sea by the strongarm of gravity, and where one went the other quickly followed, but a shout had barely ripped free from Grian’s throat before a mean tug upwards from his shoulder contested the force heading down.

Scar, one hand still in Grian’s, the other wrapped tightly enough around his forearm that it hurt, stood with his middle braced against the railing. His green eyes were wide. His shoes shrieked against the deck where he tried to lean backwards to gain better leverage, take any small step away and pull with all his might, but he got little to nowhere.

“Grian!” He shouted, “Grian, you’re going to have to pull yourself up!”

His shouting was distant, the frantic look on his face—the gritted teeth and strewn from effort bunch to his cheeks—came from Grian’s vision to his brain separated, scattered; like he’d looked at them through frosted, mosaic glass. The hand that wasn’t being held half-heartedly reached to find the railing closest—the second rung from the bottom—but rather than grip it with force he could do nothing but get his fingers to curl around it.

There was a part of him that would rather let go than risk failure in trying to pull himself up—that would rather die by his own choice than by something as stupid and ridiculous as hubris taking it upon itself to finish a suicide attempt he’d come to his senses in time to abandon. But, stubbornly prideful as Grian was, he hated giving up more than he hated to lose.

He forced his mind to come back to himself—if not because he had to do something, then because Scar had not stopped doing something; seconds had passed with Grian as good as deadweight off the back of the ship, nearly unresponsive, and Scar had not ceased in trying to pull him up, even as his calls went unanswered.

“C’mon, Grian,” Scar grit out, to himself more than to Grian it sounded, and Grian felt his hand tighten around the railing. He gave one small, experimental tug. His eyes met Scar’s.

“I’ve got you,” Scar said, as much of a nod as he could give without forgoing concentration. The confidence he’d worn the entire conversation hadn’t gone anywhere, the situation growing from concerning to dire doing nothing to damper his surety that he had this, and Grian wanted badly to believe that he did. “I’ve got you—I’m not going to let you go. Pull yourself up, that’s it.”

It took more strength than he’d ever really had the need to use to heave himself up enough to risk the jump to the next bar, and the entirety of his arm burned with the effort, the strain from the tugging on his shoulder from above only compiling. But where he did it once, he convinced himself he could do it again—needed himself to do it again, and with something between a grunt and some kind of yell he managed to leap another railing higher, climbing the back of the ship like some sort of pirate of legend.

His feet re-found purchase on the deck, then the bottom-most rail as, finally within better reach, Scar let go of his forearm and wrapped his arm around Grian’s back, and between Grian’s crazed flurry of stepping up and up again and Scar’s lifting and leaning backwards, they reached a point where they were both more over boat than open water, and then tipped even further passed that until they collapsed backwards onto the deck.

The first of safety Grian saw was the stars. There were more stars over the ocean than there were in the city.

The sky looked a lot less empty now that Grian was looking up and not out, his back against something solid. He wondered if they’d been there the whole time and he just hadn’t looked for them. For the first time since he’d boarded the ship, he took a minute just to stare.

His throat burned with each time it sucked air into his lungs and it burned as he hurled it back out, overexertion and adrenaline both fighting for some kind of control within him.

The hand under him stretched and wiggled its fingers, pulled itself free, and Grian immediately lurched the other way himself, turning to look at Scar on instinct but making sure to avert his eyes.

The stranger named Scar had a smile on his face that threatened laughter, but Grian couldn’t imagine that anything was funny. He pulled at the collar of his thin cotton shirt, but it fell back to where it’d began after, the fabric nowhere near expensive nor stiff enough to listen to his direction, and the suspenders over it were frayed and the elastic of them showing signs of having been stretched out, but he had the look of a storybook hero about him regardless; never a doubt the dragon would end up slain and the damsel recused. The confidence that had been reassuring when he’d needed it to be grated against Grian now, reeking instead of an I told you so.

But Scar turned his smile on Grian and leaned towards him like he was gonna bop their shoulders together without actually completing the movement. And all he said was, “Let’s not do that again.”

Grian frowned at him and stood up, making a fruitless effort to soothe the wrinkles on his dinner tails. He sighed when it wasn’t working and dropped his hand, trying not to look directly at Scar, still smiling up at him from where he lounged on the deck.

The click of a door opening pierced the—until this moment—blessed anonymity of the entire scene, and Grian stood up straighter and looked at it on instinct only to find Mumbo. That meant dinner was over, everyone heading back to the suite—Mumbo must’ve been sent to find him. He relaxed immediately and then winced as he remembered why he was there to begin with. Grian weighed his battles and then turned back to Scar, on purpose this time, hoping any shame Mumbo might’ve caught on his face would be attributed to this and nothing else.

“Let’s not,” Grian agreed, and then his mouth stuck open against his permission on the idea of adding a thank you. It wasn’t lost on him that Scar had saved his life; it also wasn’t lost on him that he was the reason that Scar had had to do so at all—he wasn’t sure where that left them. He wasn’t sure a thank you was appropriate; he wasn’t sure what else could be.

Scar sat up more but stayed sitting on the deck, drawing his knees half the way to his chest and dangling his arms off of them. Whatever weird glamor of generosity and sincerity that had befallen Grian, it seemed Scar remained immune, his cool still intact.

Where Grian continued to falter, Scar said, “It was nice to meet you, Grian.”

It made another time Scar had caught Grian out and chosen to cover for him rather than call the point. They’d only known each other for a few minutes, but Grian felt like he’d racked up quite an amount of debt. With nothing conceivably to do about it at the moment—with Mumbo to his back and his family expecting his return and a newfound and unusual weight to every breath that he took—Grian returned indoors. After so long outside, the bright lights of the ship's interior were blinding.

#cw suicidal ideation #cw suicidal thoughts #hey did you guys know im sooooooo normal about the hit 1997 movie titanic #maybe it we all ask reeeeeaaallly nicely birdie will reply to this post with art 🤔🤔🤔🤔 /nf /nf /nf /lhj <33 #worm writes #titanic au #desert duo #grian #goodtimeswithscar #gtws #scarian #desert duo fic #scarian fic

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