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missmaywemeetagain · 1 year ago

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Read Paisley Dreams Part 1 🏵 NOW!

Hello, my wonderful darlin’s! (And Happy 1st Bday to Pink Scarf!💗) This week's story is a special request from a dear Sugar Mama regarding Elvis’ sexy yellow shirt from August 6th, 1970 and how it disappeared. It’s coincidence that I happened to be working on it on the anniversary of him wearing it, but I just take that as a good sign from the universe LOL.

This one definitely got away from me, and because of that, I’m splitting it into two parts—consequently, Part 1 is more tension building and not very smutty but I promise Part 2 will have more spice!

Enjoy babies, and let me know what you think!

xoxox, Madi 💗

TW: attempted sexual assault, cussing, ass kicking, protective!e, passing reference to his weight/ed/drug issues, masturbation

Paisley Dreams (Part 1) 🏵💛🔥

August 1970

Elvis has a love-hate relationship with going out on the town, especially when going to his fellow entertainer’s shows. He loves the novelty of it, being able to be out in the world like a (somewhat) normal human being, to be able to interact with people that aren’t necessarily there to see him. He likes that the focus is on someone else for a change, and he loves talking with people who aren’t part of his immediate circle.

What he hates, however, is pulling focus from the people performing. It’s the reason he shows up a little late and gets seated after the lights go down. Contrary to what some idiots may believe, he does not want it to be The Elvis Show all the time. And while he likes being around new people, he doesn’t always enjoy the hobnobbing that is seemingly required with other celebrities, if in attendance. No, he’d rather talk with people he cares about or regular, everyday folks instead of putting on airs for some Hollywood types.

There is also something to the fact that he’s not in 100% control of those situations when things are not revolving around him, and while a little of that is thrilling and breaks through the boredom that can happen in his insular life, it can also be disconcerting. It leaves him a little more jittery than usual, but the stubborn part of him refuses to let it overcome him tonight.

Somedays, he wishes he could be invisible and could mull about as he pleases in obscurity. Problem is, he’s way too used to the attention being him brings, and whether or not he’d admit it to anyone else, it would make him feel mightily insecure if no one at all knew who he was, if not one person came up to say hi or get an autograph. He had a little taste of that with Steve before the ’68 Special, when he’d been told in so many words to get over himself when no one stopped him on the street in front of the studio.

He hadn’t liked it, no siree, despite the freedom and lack of pressure it offered in the moment. No, he was much too used to being Elvis Presley. It is the conundrum of his life, of a fame unlike any other, that leaves him to continually pendulum from being trapped by it on one end and unable to live without it on the other.

Tonight, he fortifies himself for a night that won’t be entirely under his control and heads over to Nancy Sinatra’s show at Caesar’s Palace. Something about the unpredictability makes him feel a little more alive, like something exciting is just waiting for just the right moment to happen and bring him along with it. He much prefers thinking in those terms and not in terms of threats of harm.

Since Nancy is a good friend, he keeps himself rather understated for the evening. He knows he looks sharp in his high-collared, well-tailored chocolate suit, with a paisley yellow shirt underneath. His belt is simple (for him, at least). The outfit does not scream “look at me!” He wants the attention to be on Nancy and not him.

He also refused to bring the whole damn entourage tonight, feeling a little bit smothered by the sea of men he’s cultivated around him. He’d settled for Charlie, Richard, and Felton as his companions for the evening, despite Joe and Red’s protestations. All he wants is a little fun, a little music that isn’t his, and a little break from the pressure of rehearsals for his own engagement that starts in a few days—complete with a movie crew from MGM to film the damn thing.

He likes rising to the challenge of it, but hell, it makes him more nervous than usual. A lot is riding on his ability to deliver a fabulous show, and not only that, but they’ve been filming the rehearsals, too, so he feels like he’s under the microscope even when he normally isn’t. That coupled with learning three times as many songs as usual has his brain feeling fuzzy and him sleeping worse than usual. Nothing a pill (or three) can’t fix, though.

At least it’s all…stimulating. And Lord knows he’s a man that needs stimulation and variety, something that is harder and harder to come by with his life being the way it is.

But tonight isn’t about him. And everything seems to be going according to plan—there’s a little attention on him with fans and photos and such, enough to make him feel good, but most of the focus is elsewhere. It feels like he can breathe a little.

The show is great; he enjoys seeing Nance after, though his heart always does a little flip around her. She’s been a soft spot for him for a long time, and despite his multiple attempts to endear her a little more intimately to him, she’s always kept him mostly on the straight and narrow. He loves her even more for keeping him in check, though he still wouldn’t mind a tousle in the bedroom with her.

And it’s here he finds himself, ruminating pleasantly, if not a bit hopefully, on the past, when the lot of them sneak out through the back kitchens in order to avoid the crush of people out front waiting for a glimpse of him.

He certainly doesn’t expect to come upon some drunken asshole aggressively throwing a young woman up against the wall down the dark alley behind the Palace. His eyes narrow and a surge of adrenaline wafts through him as he tries to figure out what exactly is happening and why. Body standing to attention, he’s grateful his karate training comes in handy in times like these—which is precisely why he keeps up on the craft.

“Don’t think we should get involved, EP,” Richard warns, putting his hand out as if to stop him from moving towards the scuffle, but he bats it away like a fly.

“Come on, you little tart. I know you want it. You know you’re jus’ askin’ for it up there in those skimpy costumes, don’tcha?” the guy slurs at her, groping at her breasts.

Elvis hastens his stride down the alley, blood up, nerves tingling, and ready to kick this guy’s ass for assaulting this poor showgirl.

“Get the fuck off me, creep!” she screams back at the guy, slapping his hand away, and looking more angry than afraid, she stomps on the guy’s foot and knees him hard in the nuts.

Elvis can’t help but cringe, but the guy deserves it. Good on her.

“You bitch!” the asshole shrieks, clutching his groin. Unfortunately, in his pain, or maybe just because he’s that much of a dick, the man yanks down on her flimsy top, ripping it apart and right off her chest, exposing her braless breasts. Then, he lunges for her throat.

With a growl, Elvis takes his last few steps quickly, easily knocking the drunk bastard off his feet with a well-placed kick and sending him sprawling onto the dirty pavement. The guy lands with a groan, shaking his head. Elvis goes down on one knee and pulls him up by the shirt.

“Hey, fuck you, man! This ain’t none of your business—” the guy starts, flailing up at him drunkenly before his eyes go wide and he stops abruptly. “Holy shit, you’re—”

“I’m the guy who’s gonna kick your ass from here to Sunday if ya don’t apologize to this nice young lady and get your ass back to whatever sewer you crawled outta,” Elvis spits out, quick and cutting, his blue eyes flashing with something the man doesn’t want to test. He is self-aware enough to know that his presence is big enough to knock even sober men for a loop, and that’s when he’s not angry.

The guy opens and closes his mouth like a guppy, looking altogether wrecked and muddled by his predicament.

“Boss?” he hears Charlie’s cautioning voice from behind him, and Elvis puts up a hand to tell him he’s got this. There are some things he can do on his own.

“Well?” Elvis asks, turning his attention back to the jerk on the ground, dragging the guy up by his ugly polyester shirt.

“I-I-I—” he stutters, looking bleary eyed from Elvis to the young lady.

Elvis uses the toe of his boot and grinds down slowly on the man’s fingers.

The guy yelps, then sobs, then looks helplessly at Elvis, “Okay! Okay! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“Don’t tell me. Tell her,” Elvis emphasizes, still wanting to make this guy pay. He points up to the young lady, who is standing there frozen against the wall, her arms desperately trying to cover her bared chest.

The man’s eyes narrow, obviously feeling it’s beneath him to apologize to a girl.

“Okay,” Elvis sighs dramatically, easily raising himself from the ground without using his hands, “but don’t say I didn’t warn ya.” He brings his foot back as though he’s gonna kick the man in the gut, and it has the intended effect.

“Alright, alright!” the guy shouts, curling in on himself while holding out his hand to stop Elvis. He begrudgingly looks at the woman. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry!”

“For what exactly?” Elvis asks, raising an eyebrow. He is getting more of a kick out of playing with this drunkard than he should, but he can’t deny he enjoys the pulse of blood through his veins as he gets to be the hero.

“I-I-I’m sorry…for…for touching you a-and ripping your top! I’m sorry!” he cries defeatedly.

“Was that so hard?” Elvis muses. “Now get the hell outta here before I decide I’m bein’ too nice and let my boys have a crack atcha.”

The man gulps and nods, then his legs wheel a bit as he tries to get up too fast and clambers clumsily out of the alleyway.

Adrenaline waning, Elvis turns to the woman, immediately softening his features and his voice—a well-honed skill. “Are you okay, Miss?”

She looks at him like he’s grown two heads. “Yes. No. I’m not sure…I had that under control, you know,” she adds a little bitterly.

“Oh, didja now?” he replies, amused by her fiery response.

She does not look amused as she shrugs her shoulders defiantly, then remembers she’s got no top on. Her green eyes widen to saucers, and she grasps her breasts tighter, succeeding in pushing them together and creating ample cleavage that in any other circumstance would have him looking twice. But this is not the time, and he feels guilty for even glancing at her in this state.

“Shit. I’m an idiot,” he mumbles, realizing how uncomfortable she must be half naked in a dark alley full of men she doesn’t know. He scrambles to unbutton his already half-open yellow paisley shirt the rest of the way, then shrugs out of his jacket, pulling the shirt along with it.

Her mouth parts in what he assumes is disbelief as he becomes as bare as she is from the waist up. It’s vulnerable and disarming in a way he doesn’t initially intend—he more just wants to give her something she can truly cover up with and his jacket only has the one button. He’s not in the habit of running around with his shirt off these days, even though he’s slimmed down for his upcoming performances (because God knows the cameras will add ten pounds whether he likes it or not). Years of being shamed about his weight in one way or another by directors, the Colonel, and the gossip magazines always have him self-conscious, even when he’s slim, which is perhaps why he is so readily understanding of the girl’s current predicament. The August Vegas night is hot, and he feels a tinge cooler now when the air hits the sweat beaded over his skin.

“Here, honey, put this on,” he says and holds the shirt out to her.

Her mirth shifts to guarded thanks, but then she shakes her head and tightens her arms around herself. He realizes that she can’t take the shirt without exposing herself more.

“Oh. Turn around, sweetheart,” he coos at her. “I won’t hurt ya none.” He throws his jacket to Charlie, who is suddenly by his side, and holds his shirt open for her.

She turns cautiously, letting him help her as she slips her shaking arms into the oversized sleeves. “Thanks,” she whispers quietly, and he watches as she fumbles unsuccessfully with the buttons because her hands are trembling so badly.

“Lemme help, darlin’,” he says, reassuringly, “I promise I ain’t gonna look atcha.”

Seemingly frustrated at herself for needing his continued assistance, she relents and turns back to him, her doe eyes brimming with unshed tears.

He does everything in him to not look at her pretty, soft skin, or her legs that go on for days, focusing the best he can on the task of doing up the highest buttons in order to give her some modesty. Of course, his shirts being designed as they are, specifically for him and his open-chested style, there aren’t buttons as high up as there should be. The shirt is already too big on her, so she’s still showing quite a bit of skin, but is certainly better than it her previous nakedness. He looks up at her as if to say sorry, and she just looks away uncomfortably.

Elvis nods, then races to do up the rest of them, needing to kneel before her to get the lowest ones. The act feels very intimate, him half-undressed but dressing her in this prostrated position, and it sends a warmth spreading across his bare chest. He looks up at her, finding her watching him carefully for any impropriety. He is determined not to give her any, but when her intense, tearful green eyes meet his, he feels a bit off-kilter for the way it makes him feel. His heart drops into his stomach like he’s on a roller coaster.

Uh oh. He knows that feeling all too well, and it usually ends with him neck deep in infatuation at the very least and in love at the most.

“All set,” he says, looking down almost bashfully. Clearing his throat, he raises effortlessly up to standing, and Charlie hands him his jacket to put back on.

“Thank you, Mr. Presley,” she says quietly, the edge in her voice gone now that she’s swimming in his yellow shirt and the threat is gone. Her pretty pink lip bottom lip wavers.

Then she bursts into tears.

There is nothing that pulls at his heartstrings quite like a pretty young thing weeping. She’s proven herself anything but helpless but having been through such an ordeal would be frightening regardless.

“Aww, it’s okay, sweetheart, you’re safe now. Let’s get you home,” he says. He suddenly wants nothing more than to swoop her up into the protective cocoon that is his penthouse so no one can ever hurt her again, but he gets the distinct impression that bringing her into a private den full of older men is not the right move in this situation.

Sniffling, she swipes angrily under her stage makeup-smeared eyes as she attempts to get ahold of herself. He recognizes her need to not appear weak, to retain her dignity, so he gives her a minute to collect herself even though he wants to sweep her into his arms and tell her he can make everything alright.

It takes her a moment and he can tell she wants to tell him no, that she can get home on her own, thankyouverymuch, but after closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she finally nods in acceptance.

Something in his heart soars because he likes feeling needed, likes truly helping people, and enjoys the warmhearted feeling it gives him to put others before himself. It is also the least he can do after what she’s been through.

Though it certainly doesn’t hurt that she’s a looker with her long, caramel colored hair, intelligent jade eyes, and showgirl body. He knows he would’ve helped her regardless of all of that but, even so, at 35 he’s still a virile man who can see what is plain in front of his face. And there’s something about her resilience that attracts him beyond her looks. A flash in her eyes that tells him her soul is guarded and complex and beautiful all at once. There’s a hint of darkness he can relate to, one that, combined with all the rest, sends his overly romantic heart into overdrive.

As he, Charlie, Richard, and Felton lead her trembling but head-held-high form to the car, he can’t help but think God put him in the right place at the right time tonight.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asks gently once they are in the car.

“Pepper. My name is Pepper.”

This night is turning out to be incredibly strange, Pepper thinks as she shakily unlocks the door to her apartment. She hates that she can’t seem to stop shivering after the whole ordeal in the alley. No matter how many deep breaths she took in the car, she is still shaking like a leaf and she can’t decide if the fact that Elvis Presley is at her elbow is making it better or worse.

Finally jimmying the door open, she nearly falls inside, feeling all too unsteady in her high heels. Exhausted, it doesn’t help matters that she can’t remember if she ate today, between her waitressing shift at the diner and her showgirl gig at the Palace. She forces herself not to cry the stupid tears that pool stubbornly in her eyes. No, she doesn’t think she ate today and she’s cursing the fact because she’s quickly turning into an embarrassing pile of weepy nonsense, in front of Elvis Presley, no less.

This isn’t like her. She is no damsel in distress. She’s a strong, capable young woman who’s been dealt a bit of a shit hand, but she’s got it under control. She’s always got it under control.

Liar.

Pepper turns in the doorway to say goodnight and thank you to the man who so annoyingly but luckily had her back in that alley. She doesn’t want to think too hard about what could have happened if Elvis hadn’t appeared when he did, like some sort of movie star hero. Unfortunately, the spin towards him makes her dizzy and her wobbly knees start to give way.

“Hey now, little one, let’s get you settled, huh?” Elvis drawls out at her as he puts an arm around her waist and effortlessly ushers her into the apartment. She’s suddenly too exhausted to protest. It’s not often that anyone takes care of her. Honestly, she can’t remember the last time someone did, or the last time there was a man in her apartment.

He deposits her on her secondhand couch and its one of the many things tonight that has her embarrassed. Then again, she wasn’t expecting an incredibly handsome superstar to be gracing the walls of her tiny, dingy apartment.

Elvis stares down at her for a moment and his gaze is heavy and all-encompassing. It’s not what she expects—she’s used to the heated, horny looks she attracts from men—because it’s as if he’s surveying the situation, reading her with an intuitive intelligence she is not prepared for. She knows how to deal with men gawking at her—but treating her kindly with no expectations in return? This is unfamiliar in every way.

He nods to himself, making some sort of decision. His stance, one hip jutted out, hands on his hips and looking off to the side with his pouty lips parted, makes her feel a little funny in her belly.

Or maybe that’s just the hunger talking.

Her pride wants him to go, to not survey her poor existence and pity her. But the rest of her, the weak part of her desperate to have someone take care of her for once, wants him to stay.

Surprisingly, his face is devoid of judgement of her circumstance when his oceanic blue eyes meet hers again. There seems to be only concern and a bit of humor there. This confuses her.

“I’m starvin’,” he declares suddenly. “What would you say to some hamburgers?” His eyes sparkle—actually sparkle—when they look at her for approval.

Her stomach growls and before she can think better of the strangeness of eating hamburgers with Elvis in her crappy apartment, she’s nodding her head furiously.

“Charlie! Hey, man, get us some hamburgers and fries and shakes, will ya?” he tells the tiny guy who seems to be some sort of friend/employee, probably part of his infamous Memphis Mafia she’s read about in magazines.

It comes to her then that the man she’s read about and listened to and watched on screen for years is now in her home, and she is swimming in his yellow shirt. It smells wonderful—a heady, spicy mix of cologne and soap and sweat—and a silly part of her never wants to take it off.

Oh, god, he’s seen my tits, she realizes, her cheeks flushing.

“Hey, lemme get ya somethin’ to drink, honey,” he says, extraordinarily and infuriatingly observant, as he goes to pilfer around her kitchen.

“Oh, I’m just the worst hostess. I can get it,” she murmurs attempting to push herself off the couch.

He stops abruptly and points at her. “Stay.”

Pepper freezes. The command in his deep, drawling baritone is assertive and unarguable, sending a thrilled shiver down her spine that she’s not ready for. Almost as if her body were not her own, she slides back into the sofa.

“Whatchu got in this here ree-frig-er-a-tor?” he says, rummaging around in what she knows is a sad excuse for one. Her schedule hasn’t allowed time for her to go grocery shopping. She can hear him humming a familiar tune as he goes, and there’s something beautifully domestic about the whole thing that she doesn’t feel she deserves. He returns with two cans of Pepsi, popping the tab on hers before handing it to her, then doing his own.

She can’t quite bring herself to look him in the eye. “Thank you,” she says quietly, suddenly parched. She tries to be ladylike about it but can’t help but gulp some of the fizzy cola down as fast as possible. Of course, this all goes awry the moment the carbonation hits her empty stomach, causing an uncontrollable rolling belch to erupt her throat.

“Oh my god!” she gasps, throwing a hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry!” For some reason, this rudeness feels almost more humiliating that her top being ripped off earlier. At least with that, it hadn’t been her fault. This was just bad manners.

Elvis looks at her seriously, blue eyes narrowed as if he might scold her, and she holds her breath, wanting to crawl into a hole and die. Then he starts laughing.

It’s a giggling, hiccupping, musical sound that immediately disarms her in its contagiousness. She can’t help the way her own giggles bubble up. Suddenly, the absolute ridiculousness of this entire night has her doubled over with exhausted, hungry laughter, and he follows right along with her.

They are just starting to get themselves under control when she snorts. Elvis completely loses it and falls apart all over again.

Tears are pouring down her face now, and she’s grateful for this release in this way. It’s better than her weak and frustrated tears from earlier, and as she watches Elvis, she sees just how utterly beautiful, unselfconscious, and almost innocent he seems in his laughter.

She wonders if he laughs often. She hopes so.

Eventually, they are both wiping their faces and the giggle fits are dying down.

“Peppercorn, you are too much,” he smiles, shaking his head with a few lingering chuckles. “Who knew such sounds could come from such a pretty little girl like you?”

Peppercorn? She smiles at the nickname. If anyone else had called her that, she might have their head, but Elvis…well, he can call her anything he wants. Butterflies start rolling in her empty stomach when she realizes he’s called her pretty in such a way that it sounds like an obvious fact and not a come-on. Oh, he’s skilled.

The fact is, it’s almost bashful the way he looks down and then his eyelashes flutter back up to meet hers from the other end of the couch. As if she had called him pretty and not the other way around.

He opens his mouth to speak, and she thinks he just might say something profoundly charming, but his friend Charlie chooses that moment to reemerge with an arm full of food and shakes. And her stomach chooses that moment to growl loud enough for the room to hear, sending Elvis and her back into peals of laughter.

Charlie looks confused, but laughs along anyway, pretending to get the joke as he sets the food down on the rickety second-hand coffee table in front of the sofa. Then, without a word, he makes himself scarce.

Elvis digs right into the bag, taking everything out of it, handing her a wrapped burger and then tearing the bag apart to make a sort of makeshift tray on the table.

“I do have plates, you know,” she says with a lingering chuckle, moving to get up. She’d certainly never seen a man of his caliber of celebrity—probably one of the richest in this town—eat off a greasy paper bag before.

“Don’t you worry yourself. I’m just fine,” he says, unwrapping and taking a giant bite of his hamburger, followed by a handful of fries. “Eat your food, Peppercorn.”

She’s way too hungry to argue. After the burp and the snort, she doesn’t put on too many airs about eating daintily, either.

“Tell me about yourself,” he says in such an earnest way that she cannot stop herself from doing so. As they devour the food, he asks her questions, and she finds herself telling him about how she’d moved here because there wasn’t much work in her small town, about how she sends most of what she makes back to her house-bound mama and little sister.

These are things she doesn’t tell people here, preferring to tell a common tale of wanting the glitz and glamour of being a famous showgirl, instead of sharing that she’s using what God gave her only to support her kin. But by the haunted look in his eyes, it’s as if he knows, like he truly understandswhat it means to keep family at the forefront and tell the world something different. So her mouth keeps moving and she shares too much, but she’s weary and hungry and Elvis Presley is in her damn living room eating burgers like it’s a completely normal occurrence.

“So, you’re tellin’ me what you’re doin’ now ain’t your dream?” he asks.

She can’t help but choke a little at that. “Um, no,” she says, wiping sauce off her lip with a finger. “Waitressing all day and being eyed-up all night is not my dream. It’s a means to an end. And I’m happy to do it.”

“For your family.”

“Yes, for my family.”

“And what about you, honey? What’s your dream?” He says it in such a perfunctory way that it takes her aback. It’s a question no one’s ever bothered to ask her.

“I…I don’t know,” she says, looking away from his curious, reading stare.

“Mmm, not sure that’s true, baby. Ev’rybody’s got a dream,” he says. “Hell, I was just a poor boy drivin’ a truck ‘fore all this took off. Could barely sing in front of anyone but there was this…this thinginside me I can’t explain, pushin’ me forward in spite of it all.”

“Really?” she says, shocked at this revelation. She didn’t know those things about him, and they make him seem more human and all the more unique all at once.

He nods. “So, what’s your dream?” he says, looking at her with a curious expectation she can’t deny.

She gulps down a mouthful of burger. “Okay, well, this is probably stupid, but I’ve always liked numbers.”

“Numbers?” he questions, confused.

“Yeah, I like solving problems. Making everything add up. Numbers are…calm, predictable, I guess. I’m sure that sounds strange, a showgirl telling you she likes math. Most men…well, they think it’s weird,” she rambles, feeling her face get hot.

He shakes his head. “Naw, it just weren’t what I was expectin’, is all. Usually pretty girls like you, they…” he trails off, not needing to finish the sentence to get the point across, “but I like that you’re different. Special.” He looks at her with a sort of pride, like he’s discovered some treasure in her she can’t see in herself.

This sends a wave of appreciation over her that she isn’t prepared for, and she smiles broadly. “So, I suppose my dream is to work with numbers. Money, maybe? I guess I’ve never really let myself think that far into it. I haven’t been able to, with everything else…That must sound silly,” she says, feeling too exposed all the sudden.

“Not at all, honey,” he reassures her, finishing off his burger and fries. She gets caught up in looking at his full, pouty lips covered in grease and has the inappropriate urge to touch them. Blinking, she looks away, hoping he didn’t catch her staring.

“Sorry I’m talking too much. I usually don’t tell people...I don’t…I’m not one to…” She hides the floundering embarrassment of both her circumstance and her attraction behind the last loud slurp of her milkshake.

“Naw, Peppercorn, don’t go bein’ ashamed of doin’ what it takes to take care of your family or about havin’ dreams for yourself. We’re more alike than you think, darlin’,” he says, wiping his hands on the paper napkins from the bag.

She quirks her eyebrow at him.

He sighs, as though he’s been holding a weight on his shoulders. “I’m know I’m lucky. My dream came true and’s put me in a position that most don’t ever get to. I’ve spent a long time makin’ sure my people are taken care of, and I love to be able to do it, but I also know it can be…” he trails off, a look of guilt flashing over his features as he waves his hand in the air.

All she can do is nod at this confession. He doesn’t need to finish for her to know exactly what he means. Burdensome. Difficult. Soul-sucking.

He shakes himself off, whistling lowly, a shy smile curving up on his face.

Pepper’s heart starts pounding in her chest partially because he’s trusted her with this knowledge of himself and she’s trusted him with her own. The vulnerability of that is strange and somewhat uncomfortable to sit with. But it pounds also because she realizes with chagrin the meal is over and she doesn’t know what he expects of her next.

Despite her job, she does not have a habit of spending the night with men she’s just met, but Elvis is not just any man. There have only been a handful of boyfriends, half of which were back at home, and certainly none recently with what little free time she has. She’s no prude but she’s not exactly experienced, either. And one-night stands are not her thing.

He has been nothing but a gentleman this whole night and didn’t even ogle her when her top had been ripped. There was no reason to even think that he wanted such a thing from her, yet there is tension building in the air that she doesn’t know what to do with. Maybe it’s because when she looks at him in his well-cut suit with no shirt underneath (shivering at the fact it’s because it’s on her) and sees the sweaty tuft of chest hair that is exposed against his tan skin, something deeply primal rises in her and she wants more than anything to feel it beneath her hands.

Pepper blinks and quickly looks away. She knows what it’s like to be eyed up and down by the opposite sex and thinks it’s a little strange that they share that in common, too. Making him uncomfortable is the last thing she wants to do but now she is not sure what to do with her eyes and finds herself staring at a tear in the fabric of the sofa instead.

Elvis coughs, and she can’t help but look up at him then. Getting caught in those endless, sparkling eyes, mere feet from her, she wonders how in the hell the world is supposed to go back to normal after tonight. How she is supposed to go back to working her multiple soul-sucking jobs, to try to forget the way he is looking at her now, like she is actually something special? That she matters enough to save her in a back alley and is worth him literally giving her the shirt off his back?

Her body betrays her, then, a huge yawn escaping her mouth of its own accord. It reminds her it has been an extraordinarily long day and that she has the monotony of another tomorrow, despite everything that has happened in the last few hours.

“I think it’s time for me to go and let you get some rest, little one,” he says quietly, that little smile of his pulling at his mouth in a way that makes her think he doesn’t want to leave but will anyway because that is the kind of man he really is—not some sex-crazed superstar locked in an ivory tower that the magazines might try and make him out to be. He stands and makes for the door.

Jumping up abruptly, Pepper follows him to the door. She is not ready for this to end. She is not ready for this to be the last time she ever sees Elvis Presley. But she is also realistic and practical. Her life is no fairy tale, nor does she need a prince to save her, as tempting as it all may seem in the moment.

“T-thank you…for earlier. As much as I’m loathe to admit it, I don’t want to think about what might have happened if you hadn’t come along,” she says quietly, feeling utterly caught in his blue-eyed gaze. “And thanks for the food, too. I’m feeling much better.”

There is a twinkle in his eye. “I’m glad I could be there for you when you needed it, Peppercorn,” he says with such kindness that she thinks she might cry.

Silence sits heavily between them and she can’t seem to tear her eyes away from his. He finally turns to go, hand on the knob, and she moves closer to hold the door, but suddenly he pauses and turns back. She nearly runs into him. This close, she can feel the heat radiating off his body and it scares her how much she craves the comfort of it.

“My show o-opens this w-week,” he says, stammering endearingly. “I’d like you to be there.”

Her heart jumps into her throat and her limbs feel tingly. “I would love to,” she gushes but then reality hits her and her face falls, “but I have to work. I-I can’t afford to lose my job. I’m so sorry.” She wants to cry, but that would be even worse than rejecting his offer. Don’t be a baby.

Pepper thinks she might imagine it, but Elvis seems defeated, too, for a split second before he smiles knowingly. “Well, we’ll see what happens, honey. The universe works in mysterious ways, don’t it?”

Cocking her head to the side, she wonders what he means by this, but she is too disappointed to try to piece it out now. She is also distracted by his bare chest rising and falling so close, the scent of him permeating her senses. The air in the room feels thick and hot, despite the whirring of the air conditioner in the window. He starts to turn again towards the door.

I don’t want him to go.

“Wait!” she shouts, a little too loudly for the proximity and he jumps a bit. “Your shirt—let me get changed real quick and I can give you back your shirt,” she rambles out, making for her bedroom.

His hand encompasses her small wrist, his firm touch branding her in such a pleasurable way that she gasps. He turns her back around to face him, bringing her closer towards him. She goes willingly, too enthralled by the nearness of him to keep her distance. She’s usually better than this, keeping a safe distance from the wiles of men, but she has never felt the pull of someone so strongly. It’s like he’s magnetized. And he’s succeeded in making her feel safe and valued in a way she’s not used to, leaving her rather defenseless against his charms.

“Don’t bother, sweetheart. It looks better on you anyway,” he says, his lips curling up into a grin that melts her heart into a pile of goo. He runs his fingers along and down the tall collar of the shirt, and the action, while innocent, sends a glorious heat into her belly.

“Oh,” is all she can manage to get out, her tongue tied into knots. She desperately doesn’t want this to end. She considers asking him to stay, but both courage and words fail her.

His eyes scan her face and then he brushes her long hair back over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Peppercorn, I have a feeling we’ll be seeing more of each other soon,” he says, as if reading her mind, as if he doesn’t want this to end either.

She nods, as if this makes all the sense in the world. It sets her heart galloping. She feels like it is about to beat out of her body when his long finger tilts her chin up to him, and he leans in and kisses her ever-so-gently on the cheek.

Her breath catches at the feel of his soft lips on her skin. It is somehow chaste yet incredibly erotic all at the same time. As a long-neglected warmth pools between her legs, a giddiness that washes over her that makes her feel like a schoolgirl.

Elvis lingers perhaps a moment too long before pulling back. “Goodnight, honey,” he whispers, then turns and leaves.

“Goodnight, Elvis,” she manages to squeak out before he disappears into darkness.

Once he’s out of sight, Pepper closes and locks the door, befuddled and hopeful and confused all at once. Her forehead lands on the wood as she closes her eyes, trying to reconcile this whole night with some semblance of reality.

He surprised her, truly, in his ability to be so down to earth. She is astonished (though perhaps she shouldn’t be) that he seems so complex, and she can’t help feeling connected to him because of all the small ways they are unpredictably alike. There is a part of her that very much wants to believe him when he said they would see each other again, but she knows her life isn’t build on wishes and dreams. It never has been, and she doesn’t expect that will change anytime soon, despite the bizarre fact that she can still smell the lingering scent of Elvis’ cologne in her living room.

Just be glad you had any time with him at all, she tells herself to try and manage her expectations. It would take a miracle for us to cross paths again.

Suddenly exhausted, she floats through her bedtime routine in a daze. But her doubts about the future don’t stop her from sleeping in his shirt, though, savoring the lingering scent of him on her skin and in her bed. And the feel of his lips on her cheek replays in her mind over and over as she reaches into her already damp panties to relive the ache he’s left her with. It doesn’t take much to bring her over the edge—imagining his sweet, pouty lips on her and his long fingers deep inside her does the trick—before she arches up with a strangled cry, clenching around nothing but a fantasy.

Breathing hard and barely sated, she collapses into the bed, wishing she’d been bold enough to invite him in with her. Refusing to wallow in regret, she finally manages to drift off to sleep with the unrealistically hopeful thought that his knowing smile means she’ll get to see him again someday soon, just as he promised.

Era One-Shot

A/N: This one has been sitting in my drafts unfinished for quite a while. Sweet Symphony started as a special request for '68 Special era Elvis from my Get to Know Me Gala way back in March! I also included the prompt, "Do it again, please." Nothing like a good two-fer!

A professional violinist Reader gets a little more than she bargains for after rehearsal for Elvis Presley's '68 Special...

Mature 18+ || Word count: 9.2k

TW: Sexxx in various forms, fluff, cussing, dubious use of a piano

For my most patient baby, @savedrebelcreation 💗

(If you want to get stories like this early, come join my Patreon!)

GIF by seredelgi

Sweet Symphony

A ’68 Special Era Request

You’re early. Too early, in fact, but your mother always said, “If you’re on time, you’re late,” so it goes to reason that for such an important job, you find yourself clicking your heels into the rehearsal room a full hour before it’s set to start.

The only reason they allowed you in this early is that your brother-in-law, Billy, is the one in charge of this portion of the production rehearsal, arranging the music for Elvis Presley’s television special due out in December. He had been tasked, rather last minute, to take over the musical arrangements. When your sister called on Billy’s behalf, saying he desperately needed a professional violinist to fill in for the one who’d been suddenly struck with a bout of appendicitis, you were a little confused at first. Why in the world would Elvis Presley need a violinist? had been the first thought in your head, but a job is a job, and you figure a television special of this magnitude wouldn’t hurt your classical resume.

Sure, why not? you’d thought, then packed up your violin and got a ticket for the next plane out to LA. If nothing else, I’ll get some sun.

Since your plane arrived late, you made the executive decision to go straight to the studio rather than chance the traffic by checking into your hotel first. Which is how you find yourself in the near-dark rehearsal space before anyone else has even thought to arrive, violin and suitcase in tow. At least you’ll get a chance to look over the score Billy just handed you before anyone else arrives, you think, finding a chair and settling in to unpack and prepare your instrument.

So focused are you that you don’t really register the door opening and then latching closed. You figure it is just Billy, who had been frantically going over sheet music up in the booth. When the piano begins to play, softly, you nearly jump out of your skin with surprise, having been so lost in sight reading and humming your part that you were oblivious to the presence of another in the room.

“Oh my god!” you gasp in surprise, managing to knock the loose pages of the score off the music stand as your hand flies up to your chest. “Damnit,” you mutter under your breath, scurrying to pick up the pages and put them back in order.

“I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to startle ya,” you hear a gentle voice drawl out from the darkness.

“Oh, no, I just wasn’t expecting anyone in here so early and I was so caught up in…” you taper off, furrowing your brow and trying to get your sheet music situated.

“Here, lemme help you with that,” the voice says, kneeling to pick up loose pages.

“Oh, thank…” your voice hitches when you look down at the man holding up more music that had fluttered away across the floor.

It’s the sparkling sapphire blue eyes that catch you first, framed in criminally long, dark lashes, blinking up at you from where he’s kneeling on the floor next to your chair. They are utterly mesmerizing in the way they search your face apologetically. Your voice dies in your suddenly dry throat, and so mesmerized are you with those eyes that it takes you much too long to take in the rest of him.

That’s when you realize that the man with the pretty eyes on his knees near your feet is the one and only Elvis Presley.

“…you. Thank you,” you manage to finish, gingerly taking the pages from his grasp.

Elvis smiles up at you so bashfully, so charmingly, that it takes your breath away.

It doesn’t hit you until this very moment that you are playing for the Elvis Presley. Between everything happening so quickly and you assuming you wouldn’t get to meet the man himself, you just hadn’t considered the magnitude of the job.

You’d just hit your teenage years when Elvis came into his stardom, the timing perfect for swooning over the Southern boy with the rebellious good looks and the completely unique sound. But your parents had been strict and conservative, opting for your upbringing to be filled with learning and playing classical music, so the only chance you’d had to listen to Elvis was when you went to your girlfriend’s house. There you could swoon over him unimpeded, but it was more vicarious than anything else. And by the time you were old enough to properly swoon to your heart’s content, you were so busy with your music degree that it hadn’t really crossed your mind to ogle over Elvis.

To be quite honest, you had become a bit of a music snob at that point, so Elvis wasn’t really on your radar, though you had been impressed by his reworked English version of O Solo Mio. His It’s Now or Never had been a massive hit, and he had amazed you with his vocal talent, which you were convinced was wasted on silly pop songs. Needless to say, Elvis and his music had been off your radar for a long, long time.

You certainly hadn’t realized the man had only gotten more attractive as time went on. Magazine pictures and even his movies (which you hadn’t cared to watch since the beginning of the decade) don’t do him justice, which is saying something since you’d never once seen the man look anything less than handsome. But those damn eyes pop against his tanned skin and raven hair, and that curved-lip smile has butterflies flying in your stomach like a schoolgirl.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asks quietly, still kneeling at your feet.

“My name? Oh, um, my name is y/n,” you stammer out. You could kick yourself for how gobsmacked you sound, a grown professional woman nearly forgetting her own name in the presence of an attractive man. But the thing is he isn’t just attractive—he’s ethereal.

“Well, hello there, y/n. I’m Elvis,” he says, as if he were just some regular Joe and not one of the most famous men alive. “What do you play?” He motions to your music.

“Uh, violin. Well, and piano, but violin professionally,” you reply, unable to take your eyes off him.

His eyes light up at this. “I play piano, too,” he says, with such a little boy quality that you can’t help but smile.

“Oh?” This surprises you quite a bit since he is so synonymous with the birth of rock and roll and you’d only ever seen him with an acoustic guitar.

“Yeah, a lotta people don’t know that, but between you and me, I like playin’ piano more,” he says, with a wink. Elvis stands up from his crouch with little effort, so lithely that you equate it to a dancer. Your eyes follow up, up, up his lean frame, and you try not to notice just how well his tailored outfit fits him.

He walks back towards the piano he came from, and you blush when you catch yourself staring at his backside, like some sort of lecherous creep. Quickly turning your attention back to the pages of music in your lap, you force yourself to try and make sense of page numbers, shuffling them back into order.

“Do you know this one?” Elvis suddenly asks, shocking you by playing the opening notes of a well-known Beethoven piece.

“Yeah, I mean, yes. I do,” you respond, still stumbling over your words. “That’s Moonlight Sonata.”

“What happens after this part?” he asks, playing the beginning again. The question seems quite honest, still having that curious, young quality about it. Before you think better of it, you’re walking over to the piano.

“May I?” you say, standing near the bench. Music is your language. You’ve always been better with an instrument at your fingertips than with your words. It makes you feel bolder, so when Elvis only scoots over instead of yielding the bench, it doesn’t stop you from perching next to him.

It only takes a second for the movement to come back to you and you place your hands on the keys, letting them speak for you. You’ve done your share of teaching, so it doesn’t take but a moment to fall into that role. You just try not to think too hard on that fact that it’s Elvis Presley that you’re teaching.

He’s nodding along, eyes focused solely on your hands. So close to him, you can feel the way the music affects his body. It’s something you can relate to.

You stop yourself from speeding too far ahead in the music and pull your hands away from the keys. “Is that…do you want me to go again, or do you want to try it?” you ask.

“Do it again. Please?” he asks watching your hands with incredible focus.

You do, trying to keep it simple and without too much flourish.

“Okay, so it’s like this then?” he says after you finish, and as his long, slender fingers glide across the keys, you realize they are musician’s fingers. They may be dripping with jewels that are likely more expensive than your apartment, but they are quite perfect for the kind of instruments he plays. It strikes you he was made to do this.

You recognize then that Elvis is truly a musician and not just a performer. The way he concentrates, learning and adapting quickly as you show him more of the song, only by ear and sight, amazes you.

It's through the music that you begin to calm. Talking one musician to another is much more manageable than considering the magnitude of the person you’re speaking with. Frankly, you are completely amazed by how incredibly gentle and disarming the man is.

When the door opens again, both of you are consumed enough in the music that it doesn’t faze you much.

“Oh, hey Elvis! Just the man I needed to see. I hope y/n isn’t bothering you,” Billy says, in a teasing tone only a family member could produce.

“Hello to you, too, Billy,” you say, a bit annoyed at the interruption and at feeling put in your place as if you were still a child.

“Oh, no, not at all. She’s a great teacher,” Elvis grins, bumping your shoulder. “You two…know each other?” he then asks, his smile faltering in the slightest as he looks from you to Billy. The question is innocent enough, but the way he says it gives you pause and your heart flips.

“Since she was practically in diapers. She’s my sister-in-law,” Billy says.

“Twelve isn’t in diapers, Billy,” you scoff at him, then turn to Elvis. “He’s married to my older sister yet has never hesitated to treat me like a baby. Lucky me.”

“Aw, you know I only put up with you because you’re too talented for your own good,” Billy ribs, making to muss your hair.

You duck swiftly out of the way, bumping into Elvis in the process. “Oh, sorry!” you breath out.

Elvis just chuckles at the two of you, looking pleased as punch, though you’re not exactly sure why.

“I think what you meant to say is, ‘Thank you for dropping everything to fly across the country last minute to help me, dearest sister-in-law,’” you throw at Billy, batting your lashes.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure I’ll never hear the end of it. Now, skedaddle. I need to talk to Elvis,” Billy shoos you.

You suppress the urge to stomp your foot and pout, but you realize you really should act more professional than you are. Settling for a huff at Billy, you turn to Elvis. “It was nice to meet you,” you say, all the spunkiness you had towards Billy deflating into shyness the moment you look into those dark blue eyes again.

“Oh, I have no doubt we’ll be talkin’ again soon, honey, and thank you for the lesson,” Elvis drawls softly.

His words send a cascade of shivers through your limbs. You feel heady as you stand from the bench, shooting a familial glare Billy’s way, noticing the frown on his face as you do so. God, even with you being 27, Billy had the ability to make you feel like a scolded younger sister.

You force yourself not to look back as you head to your chair. Be a professional. Just because Elvis is handsome doesn’t mean he’s not the man you’re ultimately working for. Busying yourself with rearranging your music, you hear Billy usher Elvis out and up into the booth.

Well, that’s that, you think, rosining your bow, and you get to practicing.

You’ve been at your share of long rehearsals, but you will admit this one is both long and intense. The music Billy has arranged—this “Guitar Man” medley of some of Elvis’ songs—isn’t difficult music to play, per say, but you can now sense an underlying importance around this entire operation. Part of it is the barely held back frantic look in Billy’s eyes, and knowing him as you do, for him to be this frazzled means there’s a lot on the line. However, it’s when Elvis comes back, much later, to run through the medley with the orchestra, that you realize you can sense it in him, too. It’s well-hidden, to be sure, when the man introduces himself and shakes hands with the members of the orchestra, and you probably wouldn’t even have noticed if it weren’t for the relaxed way he’d been with you earlier in the day, but it’s an undercurrent all the same. Then, they send him into the booth to do his thing.

And, boy, does he. You’ve worked your share of Broadway musicals and operas, but you’ve never seen a man completely give himself over to the work in just a rehearsal quite the way Elvis does with this medley. It’s like he’s singing for his life. By the time it’s all through, Elvis exits the booth, dripping with sweat, exhausted but exuberant. His eyes sparkle and his body hums, some part of him tapping or jiggling or wiggling every moment, as though the music had become electricity in his veins.

You try not to stare as you slowly put away your bow, your violin, collecting your music from the black stand. You try not to, but you keep stealing glances because not only does he look enticing, but it’s also more that you connect with the feelings he seems to be having. The way the music can just take over and become something else inside you, as if you are the conduit to something much bigger than yourself. This you understand. And you’d never imagined a sensation like Elvis Presley would feel the music that way, too. Perhaps this is the secret to his massive success.

Almost all the other musicians have packed and left by now. You tell yourself you’re stalling so you can say goodnight to Billy before hailing a cab and finally checking into your hotel by midnight. You are exhausted, after a day of traveling and frenetic rehearsal, yet you are buzzing with the excitement only music seems to bring you. And you can’t help that the part of you that feels that way is being drawn towards Elvis like a magnet.

When Elvis catches your less-than-sly stare, a million-dollar smile spreads over his face and your heart flip-flops in your chest so hard it takes your breath away. Caught, you quickly and conspicuously look up and away, as though that will save the burning embarrassment on your cheeks. Suddenly, all you can think of is how fast you can get out of here, and you finish packing up like a fire has been lit under you. You scurry towards the door, hoping to escape before making a fool of yourself further.

“Hey, Miss Moonlight,” Elvis says, fingers light on your arm, stopping you before you reach the door, “whaddya say you join us back at my place for a little get together?”

The nickname would usually make you roll your eyes, but coming from him so sweetly, you balk under the attention. It distracts you so much that it takes a full second to realize that he’s just invited you to his place.

“I…uh, it’s been a long day. I-I haven’t even checked into my hotel yet,” you stammer, the excuse so unconvincing you might laugh if you weren’t so befuddled and nervous that Elvis is asking you…well, you’re not exactly sure what he’s asking you.

He quirks a perfect raven brow at you. When he steps in closer, you can feel the heat radiating off him.

“Well, I can have Joe swing you by your hotel before headin’ over, if you’d like, though there’s plenty of space at the house. We can set up a room for ya…s’probably more comfortable than a hotel,” Elvis drawls quietly in your ear.

You’ve never heard a man make a pass so naturally in your life, so much so that you almost hesitate to believe it is one. His low voice and the open suggestiveness spear straight into your core, threatening to melt you into a puddle on the spot.

In any other circumstance, you would laugh in a man’s face for suggesting such a thing. Generally shy, reserved, and cerebral, you’re certainly not the kind of woman who just spends the night at a strange man’s place. But this isn’t any other circumstance. This is Elvis Presley asking you to stay the night with him.

And maybe he does just mean it casually—a “hey, come party with us and you can sleep on the couch”—but at the moment, your body doesn’t know the difference. Your inner pragmatist begins listing off all the ways this is a terrible idea, but the only thing that cuts through the noise is the regret you know you’ll feel if you don’t accept this invitation.

“Um…well, okay. I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose, of course,” you manage to breathe back.

His lip curves up into an almost bashful smile. “Oh, Moonlight, you couldn’t be an imposition if you tried. Plus, you hafta show me how to play the rest of that piece,” he says, running a calloused fingertip down your pointer finger.

You can’t help the shudder that runs through you or the way your heart catches in your throat. “Well, how could I possibly refuse?” you finally get out.

“Fantastic! Hey, Joe, this is my new friend, y/n,” he says enthusiastically, calling over the shorter man. “She’s gonna be joining us tonight.”

Joe seems kind enough, albeit barely looks or speaks to you after the main introductions. Before you know it, you, your violin, and your suitcase are packed into the back of what you assume is a ridiculously expensive vehicle. Elvis slides in behind you, and you, now sandwiched between him and the car door, think you ought to feel apprehensive about the situation, but all your attention is fixed on how Elvis’ side is pressed up against yours. The heat radiates off him, bleeding into you, his leg bouncing so quickly that you think he might need to get out and run laps. He makes conversation, asking about how you came to be a musician and you uncharacteristically and nervously start rambling about yourself. You’ve got to give him credit for the way he nods and hums, truly seeming to listen to you even though your mouth is running almost uncontrollably.

By the time you arrive at the house, you feel as if you’ve told Elvis your life story and you abruptly shutter your mouth closed. God, I am such an idiot. Way to play it cool, y/n, you berate yourself.

Elvis kindly helps you out of the car, walking you toward the house as Joe follows with your violin and suitcase in tow. The way your heart pounds against your ribcage threatens to do you in—it’s all suddenly become very real that Elvis Presley is leading you into his house where you are going to surreptitiously spend the night. His hand is guiding you so gently at the small of your back, but the heat of it blazes through you.

Oh, get a grip! The man has probably touched thousands of women, you’re no different. You’re not special.

Realizing you’re holding your breath, you force yourself to take in air as inconspicuously as possible.

“You don’t gotta be nervous, baby,” he says, a cheeky little smile gracing those luscious lips of his.

“Sorry, I…this just isn’t where I thought I’d be at the end of this very long day,” you chuckle.

“Well, let’s make you at home then.” His smile turns reassuring and warm.

He spends the next hour getting you comfortable and fed, having the most amazing ability to relax your normally nervous nature without hardly trying. You can’t help but feel butterflies in your stomach at the way he seems to be continuously touching you—the press of his leg, an arm around your shoulders, the graze of a finger against yours—in a familiar way, even though you’ve known him less than a day. If it were anyone else, you would have leapt off the couch and run for the hills.

What surprises you the most is that you aren’t uncomfortable at all. Excited and nervous, yes. But you don’t feel preyed upon or anything of the sort. Frankly, you are trying not to get ahead of yourself about what the rest of the night might bring.

An impromptu jam session with his old bandmates has you feeling even more surreal. If someone had told you yesterday that you would get a private concert with Elvis Presley and his former band, you would have laughed at them. You find yourself unable to take your eyes off him and how he seems to get completely lost in the music, and you right along with him. His gritty baritone combined with the sensual way he tackles each song has warmth pooling in your belly. Despite the cranked-up air conditioning, you find yourself sweating and parched, especially in the moments he smiles in your direction.

You aren’t sure how much time passes, only that you feel the heady exhaustion of being up too long coupled with an uncharacteristic hungry adrenaline running through your veins. When the jam session ends, you are both disappointed and exhilarated for what might come next.

Don’t get your hopes up, you remind yourself. This night has been amazing no matter what happens next.

“Did you enjoy that, Moonlight?” he leans over and whispers in your ear. It tickles you and sends a shiver down your spine.

You nod. “Oh, yes.” It comes out more breathless than you’d like.

You feel him smile against your cheek. “Are you up for teaching me more of that sonata, honey?” he asks. It’s an innocent enough request but you can’t tell exactly what his motivations are, though for the first time in your life, you’re not sure it matters.

“Of course,” you say quietly, starting for the piano in the corner of the living space.

His warm hand catches yours, and you look back, surprised, as he shakes his head and pulls you in the opposite direction.

Your heart threatens to beat out of your ribcage as he leads you down the hall and into what you assume is his private suite. It’s not until he closes the door and you realize that you are utterly alone with him that you feel a glimmer of trepidation.

It must read on your face because he jumps in to reassure you. “Oh, honey, I just want to get to know you better, away from the rest of them. I’d never hurt you or make you do anything you didn’t want to do. Honestly, I don’t want the other guys ribbing me…they don’t go for the classical stuff,” he says quietly, looking away, and you think there might be a little pink rising on his cheeks.

His sincerity is palpable, and you certainly never expected him to be bashful about playing classical music. There’s a softness to him now, almost a shyness, that wasn’t present moments ago around all his entourage. It is like a yearning for one-on-one connection, and this part of him melts all your reservations and tugs at your heartstrings.

“Well, I do…go for the classical stuff, I mean,” you say quietly. You smile and squeeze his hand reassuringly as his deep blue eyes find yours again.

He looks giddy as he leads you to the second piano in the house, a baby grand in the far corner of the large suite. You sit down, opening the lid, and he slides in beside you. The heat of him rolls around you, the smell of his cologne and a day’s worth of sweat combining into an alluring combination that perks up your senses.

“Show me what you remember,” you say, and he starts to play, long, nimble fingers gliding gracefully over the keys. It amazes you that he committed everything you showed him earlier to memory so fast and so accurately. Something about it tightens a coil low in your belly. Unsure whether it’s your attraction to him physically or musically that has you so aroused, you swallow hard as he finishes abruptly.

You shake it off as best you can as you show him more of the movement, hoping the music might quell the buzzing in your veins. You go through it a few times, getting a little lost in the notes, as you tend to do. It only serves to stoke the fire in you when he picks up what you’ve shown him so quickly.

He finishes a phrase, and you move to show him the next, but his hand suddenly covers yours. Surprised, you look over at him to find his oceanic eyes searching your face so intimately that warmth blooms across your chest and your breath catches in the silence.

Slowly, Elvis leans over, cups your cheek gently, and kisses you. It’s almost chaste the way his incredibly soft lips press into yours and your surprise is so great that by the time you register what is happening, he is already pulling away.

His eyes open slowly, those lashes fluttering along with the fluttering in your heart and belly. Shock has you outwardly frozen but it’s as if he lit every one of your nerve endings on fire with the touch of his lips.

He must register your surprise as hesitance because his gaze changes to something akin to apologetic.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare ya. I shouldn’t’ve—”

Before he can get the rest of that sentence out, your body miraculously obeys you and you unfreeze. Boldly cupping his jaw with both hands, you pull him back to you and plant your lips on his.

It surprises both of you, and it’s a second before either of you relaxes into the kiss. This permission is all it takes, however, and then his mouth is languidly searching yours and his arms are wrapping around you to pull you close. Soft, short kisses alternate with longer more passionate ones, and you feel utterly spellbound by him, every inch of your body aware and alert to his.

Never in your life have you been kissed so well or so thoroughly. It’s as if the music in his soul must find a physical outlet, and the way he explores and opens you up to him is like him playing a new instrument. When his tongue rolls softly against your lower lip, you can’t suppress the low moan that comes out of you, causing you to open your mouth. He accepts the invitation readily, expertly, and the wet plushness of his tongue slowly begins exploring.

The warmth that sparkles and blooms across your chest travels lower still, sparking fires as it goes, until you feel your pulse throbbing between your legs. It’s nearly unbearable the way he stokes you without hardly trying. You’ve never felt so aroused so quickly or so completely.

Your eagerness is impossible to contain, your fingers buried in that luxuriously soft hair at the base of his neck, your body rolling towards his of its own accord, as if magnetized. You follow his rhythm, meeting his music with your own.

When he pulls back to trail kisses down your jaw, you are left breathless and clutching the lapels of his half-unbuttoned shirt. The nuzzle of his nose on your cheek as he finds and licks the tender spot behind your ear leaves you gasping. Pleased, he does it again and your entire body shudders.

Every inch of you yearns to be consumed by him. It’s never felt like this, not with any man you’ve been with. Those were fumbling amateurs playing one handed melodies in comparison to the symphony Elvis is invoking. While he is leading and in control, you sense as much eagerness from him as there is in you. It’s reassuring and flattering all at once.

There is an embarrassing amount of slick between your legs already, soaking the cotton of your panties and leaving you clenching your thighs together in search of friction. He must notice this as he kisses down your throat and across your décolletage because then he’s looking up at you for permission with those pink, swollen lips and dreamy bedroom eyes.

It’s unspoken, but you nod and he continues his sweet journey, one hand deftly unzipping the back of your dress while his lips follow gravity as it slips down your arms and reveals your chest. Pushing the fabric off and to your waist, his hand is then hot against your bare stomach. He hums in approval when his mouth finds the swell of your breasts that spill from your simple, beige bra.

A low whine escapes you. His apt response is to thumb your nipple to attention through the thin satin before lapping at the bud with his tongue. The result is a jolt of electricity shooting straight into your core, sending you clutching his neck and writhing against him. Expertly, he undoes the clasp in the back and abandons your bra to the floor in what must be a well-practiced motion based on the speed of it.

Goosebumps rise across your now fully exposed flesh, both from the cool air in the room and the way his fingers brush so lightly over your breasts. He seems pleased with the way your nipples stand at attention under his heated gaze. You don’t have the wherewithal to feel your usual self-consciousness; instead, the sight of his pupils blown black with arousal has you shivering with nothing but anticipation.

The combination of the way his tongue darts between his lips as he lightly pinches the hardened buds has you begging for more. “Please,” you moan and that’s all it takes before he’s lathing his tongue over and around the sensitive nubs, palming the fullness of your breasts. You can hardly stand it, how everything he does makes your body sing and want to scream his praises.

A quizzical look crosses your features though when he stops his ministrations and slides to his knees on the carpet on his side of the bench. For a second you are worried something you’ve done something to hurt or displease him, but when he beckons you towards him at the end of the bench with such arousal in his eyes it nearly knocks you over, you obey without a thought.

Elvis scoots you forward and kisses your belly, sending a new wave of tingles over you. He removes one of your low-heeled pumps and then the other, ghosting kisses along your ankles before running his large hands up the smoothness of your pantyhose, pushing your dress up with them. As if under a spell, you can’t help the way your legs fall open for him when his thumbs drag up the insides of your thighs. The little coy smirk that graces that beautiful face when he feels the damp that has soaked through to the gusset of your hose has your cheeks flushing and your lips parting.

You can’t bring yourself to be too embarrassed at how wet you are because the pleased look on his face at the discovery makes you feel like you’ve won the lottery. He pulls on the waistband, forcing you to lift your hips, before gently rolling the hose down your legs until they are off and discarded on the floor.

What you don’t expect is how he begins peppering soft kisses up your now bare calves, at the inside of your knees, and then up your inner thighs.

A swell of panic hits the farther up he goes, and you jerk up, unsure of what exactly he’s meaning to do. The men you’d been with in the past had been rather direct about the whole thing—once the clothes were off, they buried their pecker inside you and thrust above you, all with varying levels of success in getting you off as they did so.

But not a single one had kissed up your thighs and spread them open with a hungry and expectant look like the one Elvis had now.

Looking down at him, confused, you ask, “What are you doing?” in a voice that is a little too apprehensive for your liking, but you need to know.

He cocks his head at you a moment, as if trying to determine your level of seriousness. Then his eyes shine with understanding and in that low, Southern drawl of his says the downright naughtiest thing you’ve ever had a man say to you: “You ain’t never had a man take good care of your kitty before, have ya? Give her all the love and attention she deserves?” He runs a fingertip lightly over the wet cotton at your center and you shiver.

He can’t possibly mean what you think he means.

You must be gaping because he rises on his knees and catches your lips with his own before breathing, “Close that pretty mouth baby or you’re liable to catch flies up in there.”

You are speechless, unable to form words, but the question is written all over your face.

He leans back on his knees with a contemplative smile. “That sweet little kitty of yours ain’t never been eaten, has she, baby?”

Oh my god.

It’s all you can do to bite back a moan and shake your head at him.

He looks positively gleeful about this development, his shining eyes taking on a whole new level of arousal. Then he seems to notice your trepidation and reigns himself in.

“That okay with you, baby?” he asks.

You had never even considered it an option before, or that a man might like to do such a thing. Maybe he’s teasing you? Suddenly you feel very conscious of the mechanics of the act and breathlessly mumble, “You don’t…you’re sure?”

“Oh, I am.” The smile of anticipation on his face seems to echo the sentiment.

The enticing thought of that beautiful mouth of his being down there on you outweighs your uncertainty and prudishness. You nod your head. “O-Okay.”

You’ve never seen a man look so thrilled at the thought of being between your legs as Elvis Presley is. “Don’tcha worry, I’m gonna take real good care of ya,” he says comfortingly. “You just lie back and relax and let me make you feel good, honey.” Then he places a kiss just under the waistband of your panties and you let out a little sigh.

The piano bench feels slightly warm on you bare back as you lay down. Elvis, grabbing under your thighs, pulls you to the edge, and your heart resumes its pounding. You truly can’t believe any of this is about to happen and steel yourself for him to rip off your underwear and go to town.

But he doesn’t.

No, he takes his time warming you up, as if he’s trying to get you used to the idea. He kisses down one hip then trails down the panty line. You tense the closer he gets to your core but then he only ghosts a breath over it before jumping to the other leg and kisses up the crease on that side. The ticklish sensation is almost too much to bear as he works his way up to the waistband again.

You are panting by the time his mouth is grazing from your belly button downwards, pressing into the soft curls beneath the fabric. He stops just short of that forbidden little spot where your aching clit resides, and you push up on your elbows to shoot him a look.

A grin spreads over his features, his eyes narrowed like a crocodile’s and full of desire and he watches you intently as he finally places a light kiss over that sensitive little button.

The sensation is nothing like anything you’ve felt before and the whole scene has your body flaming white hot. You don’t recognize the low mewl that erupts from your lips and the only thing keeping you from throwing your head back is the way his eyes are locked on yours, as if feeding off your reaction. Then he uses his perfect nose to nuzzle into it before placing a firmer kiss there.

“Elvissss,” you whine, unable to keep from throwing your head back this time.

“You like that, baby? I barely even started,” he speaks, his hot breath puffing over the slicked core of your panties. He kisses down, down until over your entrance, where he then tongues the fabric, pressing it up and into you.

“Honey, you’ve done soaked right through,” he murmurs.

You’re not sure if he’s speaking to you or directly to your pussy. You’re not sure you care for the way you moan, the way your body shudders and writhes, suddenly starving for anything he’s willing to give.

“Lemme see how pretty she is,” he says, and God, if his filthy yet somehow sweet words aren’t stroking you in such a way that you wonder if you could come from his lilting voice alone. He pulls your underwear to the side, finally baring yourself to him, and he whistles.

“Just lovely, and all weepy for me, too,” he says, voice thick with lust now.

The anticipation has your heart racing and your fingers clawing at the wooden bench with a whimper.

“Okay, baby, I hear ya,” he murmurs kindly, then hooks his fingers in the sides of your panties and finally slides them down and off your legs. Then his hands are pushing them apart and his tongue is lightly skimming up your folds.

You gasp at the soft and silky feeling, unready even despite his preparations. When he circles your clit and then kisses it, bare this time, you are so aroused you’re afraid you might weep. But the teasing is done, and he tests you expertly. His tongue flattens and takes in the full breadth of you, licking a stripe up your pussy that sends your hips rolling.

He seems to gauge every reaction carefully, giving equal and alternating attention to every piece of you. Nipping, suckling, and kissing your swollen clit into submission and just when you think that heated coil in your belly might snap you in two, he moves down and kisses through your folds. When he laps at the arousal dripping from your tight little hole, tongues it, and then plunges it inside of you, you find yourself screaming out his name.

You can feel him smile and hum at your response, the vibrations adding entirely new sensations to the slew of new sensations you are feeling. He thumbs at your clit as he laps at your hole, and you think you might hyperventilate with how fast you’re breathing and how hot you feel.

So completely attuned to you, he pulls back and gives you a break, despite your whimpering protests. His full lips are swollen pink and slick down to his chin with you, and when his lip curls up into a knowing but almost bashful smile, you think this might be the eighth wonder of the world.

“You alright? I’m doin’ okay?” he asks, his left eyebrow quirking.

You giggle, almost drunkenly even though you’re entirely sober, because the question is so absurd but sweet of him. “Yes, yes, yes,” you say, words slurring.

“Okay, good,” he says, nodding. Then he rises on up on his knees and commands you forward with a come-hither motion so deft and quick, it has you drooling.

You are powerless to resist and push your dazed self to your elbows on the bench. He meets you halfway, kissing you deeply, lewdly letting you taste the tang of yourself on his lips. Distracted as you are by his wandering mouth, you aren’t ready for the way he slides two of those perfectly long musician’s fingers up through your silky folds and deep into your wet heat.

A shocked gasp quickly turns into a moan that he swallows with another kiss. He begins ever-so-slowly pumping those fingers into you and the rough pad of his thumb circles that sensitive bundle of nerves at the hood of your sex.

“Goddamn, you’re so perfect, so tight,” he breathes into your mouth.

You can’t stop the shiver that ripples through you. “I-It’s been a-awhile,” you pant. You can’t help but look down and watch the way he works you.

“Don’t you worry, baby. I gotchu,” he purrs, then curves his fingers just so and the pleasure that courses through you has you crying out.

Your brain is fuzzy, with only one thing on its mind. Luckily, Elvis seems to be reading it because he smiles that coy smile and returns those full lips of his to your clit.

For a moment you think you might die from the intensity of the sensations he’s procuring from you. Seems an awful lot like God gave him long fingers and a full mouth not only for music, you think. Though the way he’s playing you right now and the noises he’s coaxing out of you makes it seem like a whole different type of song he’s expert at.

The way he traces and flicks and suckles your clit, coupled with the obscene sounds coming from the way he’s fingering your pussy has you writhing on the bench and gripping his beautiful hair in your hands.

More, more, more, is the only thought left.

He hums against you with one last kiss and a wildly accurate thrust and curve of his fingers. The coil inside you explodes, then white-hot, full-body shudders violently overtake you as you silently scream and hold onto him for dear life as to not fly away into the stratosphere.

Your orgasm is utterly mind altering and earth shattering.

“Good job, lil’ girl,” Elvis coos, soothing you through the aftershocks with a lathing tongue.

You can’t think straight enough to respond, only whimpering from the empty feeling when he removes his fingers, then gasping again when he laps at the arousal pouring out of your core.

It’s all too much, and, overstimulated, you whine and clench and pull at him.

He sits up again, between your legs, looking mighty pleased with himself. “Come ‘ere, darlin’,” he says, pulling you up by your arms and sliding you onto his lap. Boneless and naked (save for the dress bunched in a ring around your waist), your legs fall open, easily straddling his hips. Your hands grip at his shirt and you bury your head into his neck, still dizzy with release.

He holds you steady. “Didja like that? Your kitty all happy and purrin’ now?” he whispers in your ear, sending a new set of shivers down your spine. All you can manage is a pleased hum and a nod. You kiss his neck, tasting salt on his tanned skin.

A soft moan escapes his lips at that. Suddenly, you become quite aware of the hardness in his slacks, pressing up near your swollen folds. The embers of your arousal have not died, and you kiss his neck again while slowly rolling your hips into his.

Groaning, he tightens his arms around you, holding you to him. You nip at the throbbing pulse point on his neck and are reminded just how talented and famous these hips of his are when he rolls them back into you in response. He’s rock hard, straining against his zipper, the tip of him bumping against your sensitive clit. You moan and find his rhythm, feeling the wetness between your thighs start to soak through the fabric of his slacks, creating a delicious friction.

Elvis pants heavily in your ear, murmuring curses and praises as he grinds into you. At this rate, you think he might come in his pants, which just won’t do. Not with the way your pussy is buzzing, and that coil is tightening again in your belly. No, you need him inside you. You need him to fill you.

You use what little returning strength you have and rise on your knees, away from his needy cock. The man actually pouts, his lower lip jutting out with a desperate little whine and it is so alluring you almost forget what you’re trying to do. You place a finger over his lips to quiet him, then set to the task of trying to undo his lavish belt and zipper.

Once he understands, he races to help, making much quicker work of the whole thing and finally his cock springs free. It’s quite long, and the deep pink tip peeking out of his silky foreskin is already shiny and weeping with precum. Of its own accord, your finger slides over his slit, circling the slick tip and spreading the wetness gathered there. He hisses. You bring your finger to your mouth, tasting the salty musk of him.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, his hand palming his length. He gives it a pointed tug, then another, his lips falling open as he watches you.

He’s gorgeous in every way and it’s almost intimidating the way he looks at you with such open and vulnerable lust. You can’t bring yourself hold back or tease any longer, needing desperately to give him all of you, to give him what he needs. Hovering over him, you help line him up, then slowly descend onto his cock.

You are plenty wet—he’s seen to that—but even still, the stretch of him burns. It’s been too long since a man has been inside you like this and he is much longer than you anticipated.

A quiet, “Oh, oh, oh,” is all you manage to puff out as you bob slightly up and down, taking a little bit more of him with each tiny pump. He presses gentle kisses everywhere he can reach and murmurs encouraging praises with each inch that you conquer.

By the time you settle on the hilt of him, snug in his lap, you’re both groaning. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders because you are so full of him you don’t know what to do. You’ve never been so gorged and the pressure is a little frightening.

“Snug as a bug in a rug,” he slurs happily, letting you adjust around him. “Little Elvis likes you lots and lots, baby. S’like you were made just for him.”

“Little Elvis? H-He’s not so little,” you say with wide eyes, then giggle a little, which causes you to gasp from the tightness below and how it makes you clench even harder around him.

He groans. “If ya keep doing that, he’s not gonna last very long, darlin’.”

You try to move, but in this position and after that orgasm, you feel weak and a little like he’s spearing you in two. You’re almost too full, and the angle is not quite right. You wiggle in his lap, your brow furrowed, as your arms grow tighter around his neck. A low whine escapes your throat.

He notices your distress. Petting your hair, he babytalks at you, which under other circumstances might be strange for a grown man, but it comes so naturally to him somehow it both comforts and arouses you, “Oh, shh, shh, baby, s’okay. He’s a widdle much for ya, ain’t he? Sometimes he gets too ‘cited and gets ahead of ‘imself. But he’s gonna take real good care of ya, I promise.”

And with that, he gingerly shifts sideways, leans forward, and lays you down on the plush carpet under the piano. The movement has him sliding partially out of you, giving you some relief from the bursting sensation, and you let out a breath you hadn’t known you were holding. Your body relaxes.

He looks so gorgeous above you, with his raven hair falling in his eyes and a soft, bashful smile gracing his lips. You can’t help but smile back at him.

“That better?” he asks.

You nod.

Leaning down, he nuzzles your nose, then places soft kisses on your mouth. He coaxes you back to him, the heat building between you with each deepening kiss. So focused on the rolling of his tongue against yours, you don’t even realize he’s pressing deeper into you until he’s nestled almost completely, but much more comfortably between your legs.

You sigh contentedly into his mouth. The pressure still has you feeling full, but in a delicious, silky way this time as you finally relax around him. He rolls his hips smoothly, the strokes slow and deliberate, in time with the movement of his lips. Each stroke is better than the last as your increased arousal combined with his own slickens your inner walls.

“There she is,” he moans quietly into the crook of your neck.

That feeling is back, a chant of want, want, want running through your brain as the tension and fire in your belly begin to grow once more. When he bottoms out this time, your punctuated, “Ah!” is from pleasure and not discomfort. He’s managing to hit places inside you that you didn’t know existed.

You writhe under him, starting to meet his thrusts with your own, trying as you might to find that perfect spot he keeps slipping past. If only you had the right leverage…

It comes to you once you’ve hitched your legs up around his svelte waist. You lift your hips and plant your bare feet against the grainy wooden underside of the piano, meeting his next thrust with your leveraged one. It sends him deeper, driving into that little spot just perfectly. You keen.

“Oh, goddamn,” he moans along with you.

Each thrust seems deeper than the last with your legs pressing up like this. They shake from the exertion, but it’s worth every ounce of effort for the way you feel driven into the earth by his cock. Sweat drips off his face and onto yours as he showers your body with pleasure you didn’t know existed.

He thumbs your clit, timed perfectly with the piston of his hips, and you can barely breathe at the sensation. Gasping, your entire body shudders of its own accord as you hurtle towards another release.

“I…I…I…” is all you can seem to manage as your second climax starts to crest, and he grunts with effort above you, his eyes glassy with unbridled desire.

He mutters a string sweet filth that only fuels you forward, slurring and panting, “Oh, fuck, yes…such a good yittle kitty…good girl for me…look atchu taking ‘im so deep…never been s’deep…Jesus, I can see ‘im in your belly.”

You both look at the swell of your abdomen on the next thrust and this time he holds you flush against him so you can see the tip of Little Elvis bulge out the slightest bit. The moan you let out is obscene. Holding you at the waist, he doesn’t let your hips down, instead running the palm of his hand over the protrusion while he flicks your clit furiously. Then he presses down at the same time he thrusts as hard and as deep as possible.

Your climax hits so hard and so fast that it knocks the breath out of you, leaving you gasping his name, “Elvis, Elvis, Elvis!” Flaming white stars flash behind your eyelids as you flutter and clench around his length. Molten fire spreads from your core outward. You shudder and claw at him, at the bottom of the piano, at anything that will keep you tethered to reality while the rest of you shatters into a million pieces beneath him.

“Good girl, s’good fo’me,” he praises you through it, losing himself to you as you come apart.

You feel his hips start to stutter into you again because a primal need has him beyond the point of waiting any longer. Somehow, through shivering aftershocks, you have the wherewithal to force your eyes open, even as the rest of your body goes slack. He looks like Adonis in the throes of passion, his full and swollen lips falling open. In one fell swoop, he drops your hips and pulls his considerable length from you, his knowing hand pumping his slick-covered cock with expert precision.

Watching him come is a marvel and you make yourself commit this moment to memory, knowing it will fuel your arousal for years to come. He tenses above you, those sapphire eyes fluttering closed. Shivering tension ripples over him with a choked cry and through gritted teeth. Thick and warm white ropes erupt and splatter over your torso and you moan along with him. Then his eyes pop open pointedly as he watches himself cover you with his seed. The poignant, dramatic end of a brilliant symphony.

“F-fuck,” he pants, finishing off with another shiver. Exhausted, he catches himself just before crushing you with his weight, instead pressing his sweaty brow into yours. Your hot, heavy breaths mingle as you both try to come back down to Earth. He nuzzles his nose into yours before kissing your cheeks and your mouth.

Eventually, you find your words. “That was…incredible,” you say breathlessly, with no exaggeration.

He pulls back to look at you, with a goofy, pleased grin. “I told you I’d take care of you, Moonlight. And boy oh boy, was that a neat trick with the piano there…that part of your classical trainin’?” he says, blowing a lock of hair out of his eyes.

“Putting that college degree to good use,” you say with a giggle.

His eyes go wide and then he laughs—a musical, beautiful, contagious sound—which fills your heart up in a way you don’t quite understand.

He crawls back and helps you out from under the piano. Your back is rubbed raw from the carpet, which he kisses gently with apology, but you barely feel the sting. You are too dazed and relaxed to worry about much of anything.

When he helps clean you up and pulls you into his big bed, slotting you in next to him, you want to savor every minute. How he smells delicious and masculine, how the heat of his long body envelops your own—you want to remember everything.

Exhausted, you fall fast asleep, sated and cared for, knowing that you’ll never, ever be the same.

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bundrops-n-fluffytops · 1 year ago

Text

Welcome Home Agere Fic - Baby’s Instinct

Characters: Little!Wally Darling, CG! Poppy Partridge, CG!Missy McBee (OC), CG! Eddie Dear, CG! Barnaby B. Beagle

Chapters: 1-4(?)

Setting: Poppy’s Barn (living room, kitchen), Missy’s Hive (restaurant, upstairs apartment), Eddie’s Post Office (front desk, upstairs apartment), Barnaby’s Dog House (living room, bathroom, guest bedroom)

Premise: Just the various little things that Wally calls his caregivers.

Author’s Note: Ok two things: One, this might be my biggest writing project yet. I’m planning on going with four chapters PLUS an oc, so I’m really getting dynamic with my interactions. Hopefully, this works out in my favor, lol

Wish me luck!!

—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—

Chapter 1: POPPY

The smell of Poppy’s kitchen always filled Wally with joy, but oh so much hunger.

The titular painter had been babysat by his feathered fellow for the day, and she had decided to bake him a special treat, for he had been very polite and well-mannered to her. He cleaned his toys, went to sleep on nap time, and even said please and thank you. Behavior like this was to be rewarded properly.

Wally sat eagerly in front of the oven, watching as his reward grew from the heat. Poppy had promised to make him these apple cinnamon muffins if he was polite - one of his favorites- so he made sure he was on his best behavior possible. Thankfully, even if it took some proper puppy-eyes to convince her fully, his manners got him the reward he desperately wanted.

Wally practically bounced on his knees as he pressed against the glass of the oven, giggling excitedly as he did. Poppy had dressed him in the cutest red and yellow onesie, and even gave him a matching hat just to add to the cuteness. Seeing him this giddy in his getup was an adorable sight to behold for the feathered mother.

“Muffin, muffin, I wan’ muffin!”, Wally excitedly said while tapping on the glass frantically. Poppy chuckled, gently running a wing against the waving hand. “I know dear, but you must be patient, you know? It needs to take a little longer to be perfect, okay?”

Wally nodded, still staring intensely at the muffins. Poppy shook her head admirably, a low chuckle and hum as she sat beside her giggling baby.

Soon time went by, and a resounding ‘ding!’ rang through the kitchen. Wally practically sprang into his feet, jumping and waving his hands in excitement.

“They done they done!!”, he yelled giddily, “take ‘em out!” Poppy nodded, reaching for her oven mitts and sliding them on her wings carefully. She waved her baby away from the hot oven and opened the door, the hot air hitting her like a brick. She moved the hot wire rack towards her to grab the muffin tin… until she saw a tiny yellow hand reach forward.

“Wally, NO-“ she shouted, but it was too late. He had touched the tin.

“OWIE-“ he wailed, immediately retracting his hand from the tin and holding it close. Tears began to bead at the corners of his eyes, his hand burnt slightly and shaking. Poppy immediately pulled the tin from the oven, closing the oven shut and ripping off her mitts. She quickly moved towards the sniffling baby, and cradled the burnt hand in hers.

“Oh honey,” she cooed worriedly, “you know you shouldn’t touch hot metal!” She bent and twisted the hand gently to see if the damage was severe, afraid of how burnt her baby was. He sniffled, wiping his free hand underneath his runny nose and teary eyes.

“I sorry, m’ just wann’ed th’ muffins…” he whimpered, his voice wavering heavily and hiccuping loudly. Poppy frowned deeply, planting a quick chaste smooch on the top of his head before picking him up. She rested him cradled on her wing, his burnt hand still being held by the other.

She walked to the sink and ran the faucet of refreshing cold water, checking to make sure it was cold enough. She then led Wally’s injured hand towards the water, and let it run over his burn and cool it down. The pain subsided soon after, and Wally retracted his hand from the water then.

“Are you feeling better, baby?” Poppy asked Wally. He nodded, his earlier distress a thing in the past.

“You must be more careful around hot things like that, sweetie! You got really hurt! Promise me you won’t do that again, will you?” Wally guiltily averted his eyes, then nodded. Poppy pulled him into a tight embrace, him going limp in her presence.

Poppy then began to carry him towards the living room, where her blanketed nest sat. It was a huge room filled with just about anything, but mostly with a large tv, a pantry, a large coffee table with a complimentary coffee maker, and a large hay and pillow-covered couch. It was a space built for everyone, and it fit everyone perfectly.

She carefully laid Wally down comfortably on the nest, the pillows cushioning him from the itchy hay. She patted his head with her wing, then turned to go back to the kitchen. “I’m going to go back and get the muffins, alright dear?”

Wally’s initial excitement for the muffins returned, his smile returning and his hands now clapping once more. He watched as Poppy carefully removed each muffin from the tin and placed them onto a large plate, before grabbing two smaller plates and placing one of the muffins onto each plate.

She then went her way towards the once more excited baby, the plates in her wings. Once she got to the nest, she handed Wally one of the plates, and sat beside her with her own.

“Now, the muffin here is really hot, okay?” Poppy warned the excitable boy, “It just came from the oven and needs a bit to cool. Can you blow on it to cool it off, honey?” Wally quickly nodded before turning back to his plate. He pursed his lips into an O shape and blew harshly at the hot muffin, earning a giggle from Poppy.

Once he figured the muffin was cooled off fully, he carefully held the muffin and took a big blink from the side.

The muffin was light and fluffy, with the occasional crunch from the bits of apple stuck inside. It smelled amazing, the cinnamon sugar creating a sweet and aromatic scent, and the apples bringing the flavors together without overwhelming the muffin.

Wally was quite literally on cloud nine, munching away at the delicious confection. Poppy smiled, biting carefully herself at her own muffin, making sure no crumbs got stuck to the hay beneath her.

“Now, Wally,” she started, “what do we say when we’re given something?” Wally wiped his sleeve messily against his mouth, swallowing any chunks of muffin down to talk properly.

“F’ank you, mama.”

Poppy’s heart skipped a beat at the sudden nickname.

He…he called her mama.

Mama.

That’s her, that’s mama.

She cleared her throat, trying to fight the urge to scoop him up and kiss him all over his face.

“You’re welcome, baby,” she said, patting her baby on his head. He smiled, leaning into the touch and cuddling beside her, still munching on the muffin.

His mama was always there, they both knew it.

—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—

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hebimoonlightwrites · 2 years ago

Note

#Hebi100Special inukai and shogo (separately), Hate/Angry sex and Against a Wall. powerful ⁄⁠(⁠⁄⁠ ⁠⁄⁠•⁠⁄⁠-⁠⁄⁠•⁠⁄⁠ ⁠⁄⁠)⁠⁄

Writer's corner: Hi!! Another NSFW! wow- you guys really enjoy the way I write them- I'm glad! Congrats dor being the 6th request I got! Unluckily you didn't get any surprise, sweetheart, but don't worry. If they will be appreciated, I promise I'll do even one for you!♥ Hope you'll enjoy what I've written for now :3 if not, let me know so I can improve myself! Enjoy~ I made it gn!, hope it's fine!

Warnings: NSFW (MINORS, DO NOT INTERACT, PLEASE) (also sorry if it could sound a little bit dirty to someone of you!!- :'D)

⋆𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖⋆ 𝐈𝐧𝐮𝐤𝐚𝐢 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐠𝐨 (#𝐇𝐞𝐛𝐢𝟏𝟎𝟎𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥)

⋆Interesting...

⋆Very interesting!...

⋆Inukai could seem harmless...

⋆Oh well.. At first!

⋆We all know who Inukai is actually.

⋆When his dark side takes over, Inukai becomes totally another person.

⋆And I feel like it'd be his dark side to block s/o, smirking and staring at their eyes.

⋆It would be his dark side to provoke and sex s/o very hard.

⋆If they like it rough, then they will be soon satisfied~

⋆Especially if he came back home after an hard day at the prison.

⋆He'd be quite tired but also angry and pissed off.

⋆S/o would approach him, feeling that he's not fine at all and wanting to make him relax or simply comfort him.

⋆Inukai would try to move them away, because he knows that his dark side couldn't treat them well.

⋆"Please, s/o.. Don't... I don't know if he..."

⋆After a while, though, s/o would see Inukai changing completely, his eyes becoming red, his smirk and his voice deeper than before.

⋆That's when he would grab their arm and block them, roughly and suddenly, making them placing their cheek against the wall.

⋆S/o would gasp in surprise.

⋆"Babe..- it hurts-..", they would say because of the grab.

⋆"There's still time to get hurt, babe!", he would answer, wrapping his left hand around their body, fondling them and touching their butt.

⋆Without hesitating, Inukai would start kissing and biting s/o's neck, keeping whispering dirty things to their ear.

⋆"You're my slut, aren't you?~ Does it feel good?~ Now you'll learn a lesson!~"

⋆Soon Inukai would tear s/o's clothes and look at their body, licking his own lips with his dirty look.

⋆He'd lick and kiss his nipples, even playing with them with his thumbs.

⋆Until he'd decide to pull their hair.

⋆"Kneel down, slut!!"

⋆That's when he'd start to take off his own pants, licking his own lips.

⋆After that he'd force s/o to do oral.

⋆In short, Inukai would be very active and leading.

⋆He'd be the one to decide the right moment to pull their hair and fuck them from behind.

⋆Their bodies would be all sweat while in the background s/o would try not to cry.

⋆Inukai wouldn't care if it hurts or not.

⋆"What's wrong, s/o?... Are you crying?... Aw... 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧? 𝐎𝐫 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞?~"

⋆Shogo is so cute and adorable!!

⋆He's always so kind-hearted with people and always cares about his fellows Visty.

⋆So it'd very difficult to imagine him being so hard and rough with his s/o in bed..

⋆Oh well..

⋆Maybe for most of yours~

⋆Your dear Hebi knows Shogo could be dirty too~

⋆I don't know why, but I imagine him being quite similar to Allen.

⋆Allen is hard to imagine in bed too, because he's adorable and also introverted.

⋆So imagine Shogo being in front of his fans with Visty and near his own s/o.

⋆Nobody can really imagine how that bright smile of his turns into a dirty smirk when in bed, letting his s/o riding him.

⋆S/o wearing a turtleneck to hide some bites that sweet guy gave them.

⋆But let's start from the beginning.

⋆Shogo had never felt anything like that..

⋆He had never felt that desire to fuck them so hard when he helped them not to fall and grab their arm.

⋆"S/o!! Be careful, babe!"

⋆Shogo would find himself very close to s/o, who'd have their own back against the wall, facing him.

⋆Their chest moving due to their breath..

⋆Their scent and their mouth slightly open because of the heavy breath..

⋆Shogo would feel strange and without thinking he'd put his own lips on s/o's ones, starting exploring their body, and pulling them closer to his own.

⋆He'd let himself go, brought by the desire to own them.

⋆He would whisper in their ears how horny they made him.

⋆"Babe... you're so sexy... damn, I don't know what you did to me...~!"

⋆Shogo would bite their neck slowly and romantically until he'd decide that they both need more friction.

⋆That's when everything would become harder and rougher.

⋆It'd be in climax:

⋆He'd start romantically but end it roughly.

⋆His hands exploring their body, undressing them and kneeling down.

⋆He'd be the one to do oral, to satisfy them.

⋆"You taste so sweet--..!"

⋆Our dear boi would fondle s/o's butt and pick them up, opening their legs.

⋆That's how the game would start becoming more interesting~

⋆Their sweat bodies would move against each other, wedging in roughly, in background their moans.

⋆"Babe... Are you okay?... Heh.. 𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐲~!"

©hebimoonlightwrites_tumblr Please, do not copy my contents nor repost it without my permission.

#paradox live #paralive #paradox live headcanons #paradox live headcanon #paralive mc #paradox live mc #paradox live gokuluck #gokuluck #inukai yuto #yuto inukai #paradox live visty #visty #shogo yamato #yamato shogo #paralive visty #paralive gokuluck

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madmarchhare · 2 years ago

Text

The Monk and the Traveller snippet Pt.4

This is the fourth part of the snippet of my story set in 1908 Japan. I hope you like it, and if anyone has any information on how the Turkana hunt(I didn't have any good information on hand so I just presumed tactics revolving around stalking, spears and general regional tactics. Please correct me if my assumptions were wrong). I hope you all enjoy it, though it is a bit long.

Cherry walked down the street, bustling with people in the late hours of the evening when cities came alive, gas light shining in rambling patterns across his path. He was in a rather large settlement, more of a town than a city, just north of the city of Akita, the capital of the prefecture of the same name. He’d arrived shortly before, having left the mountains and forest for the coastline town. His face was sterner than usual, nervous about something, yet also seeming to not know what to be nervous about. As he walked he was blanketed by the rambunctious yells of off-the-clock workers from inns, recusants, gambling dens and even simple street corners. The sweet smells of confectionaries and alcohol drifted along on the noise night air, accompanied by the smell of cooking pork and fired fish. And yet he wore a grimace on his face, doddering along with a nervous aimlessness between the crashing waves of crowds. He passed people of various ages, though far more men than women, in various mismatched dress, either in western costumes, traditional clothing or some amalgam of the two.

Some people bowed to him as he continued on, placing their hands together in prayer. He quickly fabricated a pious smile on his face in return, bowing to them thankfully. This ironically made a few drunkards scramble to hide their condition from the monk, that or they believed they were hallucinating and called it a night. He was intending to stop here for the night, then continue on to Akita. That is if he could find somewhere to stay for the night. He had been given some money in a previous town he had visited, having conducted a funeral ceremony and been paid despite his own protests. It was also the town he was going towards after he left Collier. Though, unusually to the monk, it was supposed to be a two days walk from where he had left Collier and yet he had made it in one night.

His memory was foggy from the drink Collier had given him, so he just assumed he had either found a shortcut, or had lost a few days to the drink, despite not being all that tired. Regardless, he had some money, so he would find a place to rest for the night and try and calm his thoughts.

He was looking around for just that, having walked a decent way further into town, when he heard a familiar voice yelling from a shop. It was an open gambling den it seemed, gambling tables and game boards scattered about the room. And at one, towering the others at his table even when sitting down, was Collier. He was wearing a whitish kimono covered in red poppies, a flower unusual to the monk, a vertically collared white shirt on underneath bound in a simple pinkish tie. He sat in a relaxed manner, smiling at the other men at his table and chatting with them occasionally as he held his cards in one hand. Cherry tried to rush past, not having the energy to deal with the man, nor wanting to drag him into his own worries. He seemed to have the talent to seamlessly intrude upon people.

But in the end it was fruitless.

“Wait… Cherry, my dear fellow is that you?!” Collier called out, leaning his head out of the gambling den. Cherry tried to keep walking but he called out again, “are you well?”

“Yes, I’m just trying to find somewhere cheap to stay for the night,” Cherry replied dismissively, trying to brush past the interaction.

“Really, oh one second… Oh, Cherry, my friend, Ma-San here knows a good place!” Collier called, gesturing to one of his gambling opponents, an older man, leaning back to wave at the monk, now having glanced back to look at them.

“I’ll be more than happy to show you after we finish this game! Come sit with us for the moment,” Ma called, a wide smile on his face. He looked at them with a dower expression, quickly weight the outcome in his head. The simple rationality of quickly finding a room struggling against an innate, petty desire to not spend time with Collier. In the end, the latter lost out.

He turned around and walked over to the den. It was open, shōji[1] partitioning the open spaces that looked over the street, intricately painted patterns adorning the insides as if it were a temple. He stepped onto the patio, his wooden sandals clacking on the hardwood planks of the raised section, removing them before stepping on the tatami mats of the building.

There were four men, including Collier, all sat around a somewhat small wooden table that was raised slightly from the mat. It was covered in hanafuda cards and irregular piles of money assembled from loose coins and paper notes. The other players, along with Ma and Collier, looked up at Cherry as he entered, one smiling with a mouth shirt of two teeth, while the other simply gave an acknowledging nod. Cherry sat down slightly away from them, keeping his back straight and his legs folded under him. “Would you care to join…?” The smiling man asked, unsure of the question though likely knowing he would be refused.

“No thank you, I don’t gamble,” Cherry replied shortly, a level expression his face.

“Of course you don’t,” The fourth man grumbled, picking up a card from the deck and placing it on the table, Ma chuckling at him as he came up bust.

“Ah, cheer up Nanaga-Kun, don’t be so dull,” the older man declared mockingly, the younger man glaring up at him furiously. Nanaga was about the same age of Cherry in appearance, his black hair done in a pomaded parting, leaving him with a forehead creased in a frown. His eyes were narrow, beetle black eyes dowerly staring at his hand, a narrow nose shoved between them. He was dressed in western styled dress, bar form a yukata robe he wore over his shirt, a pair of black western style trousers matching the robe. Ma was the oldest of the players, his face temped by wrinkles around a warm, if innocently wicked, smile. He wore a more casual kimono compared to Collier, a pair of wire frame glasses resting in a dint on his crooked nose. The toothless man, whose name Cherry had not heard, was dressed the most casually out of all of them, his robes slipping off his sloped shoulders and smelling strongly of sea salt and sake.

“Anyway,” Ma declared, absentmindedly playing his cards and matching a few cards, Cherry assuming they were playing Koi-Koi[2]. “You were telling us about one of your trips to Africa,” Ma continued, an interest expression on his face, suggesting he was the one who invited Collier to tell the story.

“Ah, right… Where was I?” Collier asked, mostly to himself as he took his turn. “Koi-Koi… Oh, right I was the Sudan at the time, I was intending to travel down through Kenya into Tanzinika, a part of German East Africa. I travelled most of it down a ferry ship that was going up the Nile, the most beautiful views. Golden expanses of sand that stretched out for eternities after the lush green banks of that glorious river!” Collier described with an energized look on his face, the hand ending as he did. Ma seemed the most interested. “But, after I left the Nile I hired a camel and some provisions from an Abyssinian[3] to ride south. I ended up waylaid midway through Kenya, partially out of my own curiosity, as I had encountered a tribe of Turkana[4], one of the various indigenous peoples of Kenya,” he paused for a moment to take a breath as he lost a hand, Cherry watching plain faced despite his enjoyment at the travellers poor luck.

“And while I stayed with them for a while, going with them for hunts for a couple of months. But, the one that will probably interest you the most was one time when I was out with two of their hunters, Ekadeli and Hussein. We were mainly hunting Impala, a type of antelope similar to your deer here though noticeably bigger. Anyway, while we were hunting, I had my rifle, the other two men had spears, they preferred them you see, we were going after this small herd of Impala. What we had decided was that Hussein and Ekadeli would throw their spears at the lead and rearmost of the group, and I would either finish those two off or pick out as many as I could. It went quite well at first, we got both of the ones they had speared, and I managed to pick off one that was fleeing,” Collier described, Ma increasingly absorbed by his narrative, the other two even showing visible interest.

“But, while they both went to start [carving them], I stayed in the brush, picking up my spent cartridge cases. Then, I heard the brush rustle next to. I turned around, expecting to see one of the kids from the village that might have followed us or some small animal, when a lion leapt at me!” he cried energetically, Ma and the smiling man staring at Collier fascinated. “I managed to grab its forelegs before they split my head open, though it dam near broke by arms, sending to my knees as I tried to doge out of the way of its snapping mouth. I must have screamed louder than thunder for the other two, for one thing they could hear me over that things roars. I was desperately holding the thing at bay, barely managing when they came and speared it. Saved my life they did. I made sure they knew it as well,”

“You wrestled with a lion then Collier-San?!” Ma asked fascinated, excitement clear on his face.

“A young one. Sickly at that, its fur mangy and thin, likely ran out of the pride. If it had been any bigger or healthier… you might as well be chatting with a Dullahan!”[5] Collier erupted, guffawing wildly. Both Cherry and Nanaga regarded Collier sceptically, not quite believing his story, while the toothless man just laughed along with Colliers joke, not understanding it in the slightest, but enjoying the laugh nonetheless. Collier calmed down as they continued the game, adjusting his tie and shifting the lions’ claw tie clip at its middle.

“Well then, for my story why don’t I tell you about a time me and Nanaga-Chan were little?” the smiling man inquired, though not that he was leaving his tale up for debate. In response Nanaga twitched and glared hard at the other man, a severe expression on his face.

“Don’t you dare Uchite!” he growled out, Uchite meeting his fierce expression with an evil smirk.

Uchite placed his elbow on the table and leant his chin in his palm as he splayed his chards just in front of his chin. “You see, when we were younger,” he began Nanaga lunging at him but easily being held back by the other man, “Naga-Chan looked a lot more girly than he does now. His ne-san even used to dress him up every so often,” he continued, his friend glaring at him with a feral snarl, twisted further by embarrassment as his cheeks flushed red. Collier regarded the pair with an interested expression, pulling out a cigar from his kimono and offering one to Ma, who accepted it with a polite thanks, the other two far to distracted to care. And he knew Cherry didn’t smoke. “So, one time, this wealthy merchant comes through with his son,” he continued, ignoring the roaring protests of his companion, “and this son spots Naga-Chan, and follows him for the whole day, showering them with compliments… So, when they day is over and he’s being called back by his dad the son says, in the sincerest voice possible. ‘Will you marry me when we get older?’” Ma erupted laughing at this, throwing his head back with his blustering laughter, Collier chuckling slightly while smiling at the other man, a note of sympathy along with clear relish at the same time. Cherry managed to suppress a small laugh himself, trying to remain aloof.

“Alright hand over! I’m going, good day to you all!” he blurted furiously, snapping to his feet and storming off, the flap of his robes rustling the cards as he stormed past other playing either cards or various board or dice games.

“Ah, Naga-Chan don’t be like that!” Uchite chortled out, rising to his feet slower, “ah, seems like we’ll be going now Ma-San,” he said to Ma bowing slightly, the old man nodded back, unbothered. Uchite rose back up and strode of after his friend, “you have to admit it was a good story, come back I’ll buy you a drink,” he called out into the dimming night as he went.

“Will they be alright?” Collier asked concernedly, leaning over to Ma. He smiled at his recent acquaintance.

“Don’t worry they’ll have a tussle in some alley then Uchite-Kun will treat him to drinks and then they’ll drag each other home,” he explained simply, taking a drag of his cigar. Cherry regarded the pair as they strode off into the night-time streets, shouting and arguing loud enough to be heard across the whole town. He offered them a prayer, doubting either would be uninjured before the next sunrise. “Regardless,” Ma declared, pulling in all of his winnings from the table and standing up, a previously unseen bottle of raw sake in one hand, “the hand is over. I promised I’d take you to a cheap place so follow me,” he declared proudly. Cherry nodded respectfully to the man, also rising to his feet while Collier remained where he was.

“Aren’t you going to follow us?” Cherry asked, a bite slipping through with his words, more than he actually intended.

“Hm? Ah, no, I was going to go back myself. I’ve spent enough money for the whole night,”

“Lost you mean,” Ma quipped as the foreigner rose to his feet, adjusting his kimono. He shot him a look, squinting one eye at him before smiling a disgruntled sort of smile.

“That I do. Anyway, I wish you both a lovely evening, t was lovely to see you again Cherry and I hope to see you again, Ma-san. Zàijiàn![6]” he called, Cherry not understanding his goodbye.

“Zàijiàn,” Ma called back calmly, smiling at the man as he then turned to the monk, who was looking at him with a curious expression. He smiled to him, a drunk sort of smile and then turned to walk the opposite way down the street, taking a deep swing from the bottle in his clutch. “Means ‘goodbye’, by the way,” he declared as Cherry followed him, using his staff like a walking cane.

“Oh, I see…” Cherry replied, now understanding what was said, but not why they said it in that language. “How did he find you then?” Cherry asked curiously, deciding to get his mind off it. Partially though from disliking the sound of someone drinking in silence. It unsettled him.

“You act as if he hunted me!” Ma laughed, clear alcohol dribbling from his lip slightly before he wiped it with his sleeve.

“I feel that’s an accurate way to describe how he finds people,” Cherry chided, his target sneezing loudly further down the street. Ma took a long drag of his cigar then tossed it aside, having finished it far faster than collier and allowed pinkish smoke to fume from his mouth before taking another swing of sake. The light gaslight glinted off his glasses as he stood still for a moment, wreathed in a boa of smoke and orange-yellow light.

“Ahh… Thas’ better,” he growled out pleasurably, smacking his lips together as the monk watched him, a slight judgemental look coming with the gaze. He glanced over to his walking charge, seemingly having forgotten he was guiding him rather then just chatting and bowed slightly, putting a hand to the back of his head as he did, “ah monk-san, sorry, sorry. You see, I received a blessing from our local Kami[7], but in exchange I have to indulge in vices in their place! It’s such a burden you see, the strength it gave me was incredibly you see, made me one of the strongest men in five villages,” he yelled, now walking forward again, his voice darting between a deep, low voice to a joyous yell. “But now, oh, how I wilt away now, having to drink and gamble!” he announced, thrusting his arms up into the air, a ten yen note flying out of his sleeve as he did, which he deftly caught. “So, of course you’ll forgive me, yes?” he added, leaning close to Cherry, one hand held in front of his face in a mock Buddhist prayer.

Cherry regarded him cooly, “right, of course,” he responded in a deadpan tone, stepping forward past the man to try and lead him forward again. “I can perform an exorcism if you want,” he growled flatly, glaring hard at the man, tucking his hands into his sleeves as he waited on the senior.

“Ah, your too kind, I don’t think you can exorcize a god,” he replied in a sing-song voice as he now properly began to lead the monk forward.

“I don’t think a god can make you guzzle down sake like that. Unless the local god is a Uwabami[8],” he commented, only making Ma laugh more.

“Oh, that would be far more useful! We’d get free sake everyday!” he yelled excitedly laughing thunderously to the sky as he walked, bystanders in the street seemingly used to the sight and the noise, though were somewhat surprised by him being joined by a holy man of any description. Bar from a funeral procession. The pair continued through the town, falling mostly to silence, as Cherry was not exactly chatty. The town was a scenic place, buildings stuck half-way between western styles and traditional houses surrounded by packed sod streets. As they continued Ma was tossed a few greetings from various acquaintances, along with a few jibes and curses just the same. Most gave respectful nods to Cherry, though a good amount brush past with uninterested expressions, not paying the monk and mind.

After a while, they came to a smallish inn close to the coast, wedged between a dilapidated shop and a bar. It was painted in garish colours as if someone had sneezed buckets of paint onto the buildings façade, leaving bare only the paper of shōji screens and a wide fusama[9] at the front. As Ma brought Cherry over a woman stepped through the door. She was wearing a deep red floral patterned kimono with long, wide sleeves with pressed floral patters in darker red on the cloth. She wore a golden coloured obi[10] around her waist, a whitish hagoromo[11] hung from her neck and twisted slightly around one arm. She was average height, her black hair tossed up in a loose bun held by a hair pin. Her face was place, dashed with makeup, with dignified features in an exited smile.

“Ah, Ma-Kun! I haven’t seen you in ages!” the woman called, her voice dripping with a tone like milk and honey. She stepped forward to the pair as they approached. “If you’re here about that matter, I’m sure we can deal with it another time. It’s late after all,” she continued in a sultry tone, hanging off him as she spoke quietly into his ear, Cherry turning away silently, his lips pressed hard together.

“Ah, don’t worry about that, that’s not what I’m here for. No, I wanted to ask if you had a room open for this young man here,” grabbing Cherry by the shoulder and pulling him over as he asked. The woman seemed to slacken at that, now leaning on the older man with a relaxed posture, pressing her weight on him rather than hanging off as she wore a more casual expression.

“Say that sooner then. I put on the full act for nothing,” she snapped, pushing off of Ma and looking at the Cherry. She looked at him with a stern expression before offering a deep bow and a prayer, which Cherry quickly reciprocated. She straightened herself back up then again eyed Cherry up and down. “It’s eight yen for a night, cash first,” she delivered brusquely, her face wearing a bored expression.

Cherry pulled the money, a single note along with some coins, and placed them into the woman’s hand, which she quickly gripped and tucked into the chest of her kimono. She nodded at the money and beckoned them both to follow after her as she walked into the entrance of her inn. The floor was covered in raw planks, old varnish masking the wood, the room smelling of sage and incense. As she walked forward, her footsteps were completely silent on the wood, yet the boards squeaked underfoot for the other two, though Ma less so.

There was a young teenager at the counter, dressed in a military style uniform with a bowl cut and dead fish-like eyes. He glanced over to the woman, his face lighting up as he spotted Ma, a wide, unsettling smile splitting his face. “Ma-Senpai![12]” he declared, leaning forward from the counter. “How are you? I haven’t seen you in ages!” he reiterated, earnestly as he observed the older man with glowing exultation.

Ma himself looked at the young man with a warm, yet irritated expression, an ambivalent smile crossing his lips as he nodded to the boy. “I’m well, as always. How about you, have you been helping your sister?” he inquired in a pleasant tone, the sister in question continuing on towards the stairs at the rear of the room.

“Yes, Senpai!” the young man reported, standing to attention as one of Ma’s hands twitched behind his back.

“I’ll just do your room then you can come up,” the woman addressed to Cherry in a dull tone, then disappearing up the stairs.

“So, what have you been doing recently Senpai?” the young man entreated again, a fascinated expression on his face.

Ma didn’t have much time to respond before they heard the young man’s sister yell down from the stairs. “Ego! Come and help me with this quickly,” she snapped, grunting as she seemed to be lifting something.

“Coming nee-san! See you in a bit Senpai!”

“I’ve told you not to call me Senpai!” the man finally snapped as the young man continued away unabashed by the older man’s demand. Ma grumbled slightly but then sighed. Both Cherry and Ma were left in the small lobby, the later moving over to the open door to enjoy the fresh air.

They both stood in silent for a moment before Cherry broke it. “You didn’t answer my question earlier?”

“Huh?”

“How did Collier get you?”

“Oh, that,” Ma replied, laughing as he did, “I was just talking about China in that den and he mentioned he’d also been. We struck a conversation after that and played a few games together before picking up the other two tykes,” he explained off-handily.

“I see,” Cherry replied, his expression not revealing much about his thoughts.

“As you asked, how did you meet Collier-San?” Mas asked, taking a deep swig of his sake between beats of speaking.

“… Nothing particularly interesting, he just found me on a random path,” Cherry retorted, not wanting to say much.

“Oh come now, there must be more to it than that. You made such a fuss about how he seemed to hunt me down, your encounter must have been a bit more adventurous than that!” he retorted laughing long. Cherry remained silent, not responded despite prodding from the Ma. After a moment, he realised Cherry wasn’t going to give up the details, not that there was much left to tell, and harumphed to himself.

“…If you insist on talking, why not tell me why you got so angry at Ego-Kun for calling you Senpai?” Cherry grumbled out after a moment.

“Oh, that… Well, I was soldier when I was younger,” Ma replied snappily, seemingly trying to brush the admittance out of his mouth like a rodent from a grain silo. “And Ego wants to be one. So, he started to call me senpai when he heard me mention it one night…” he trailed off, seeming to fall into a daze. Cherry looked at he older man with a natural expression, like a cat examining something unusual. He was curious on some level, that was the simple answer. The man was interesting, though he reminded him of someone who he disliked. He was curious how he interacted with Collier and those around him, and those in the small place he had brought him too.

Not that he would ask the questions even if he got a chance. “Well, in any case, my parts done. I brought you to a good place as I said!” he declared boldly, corking his bottle to punctuate his sentence.

“Yes, thank you,” Cherry replied, reaching into his sleeve to give him something for the troubles.

“Ah, no, no I don’t need anything,” Ma dismissed, wafting his hand at the money. “If you want to give me anything… A prayer would be best,” he added sombrely, glancing at the ground as he moved to go. Cherry regarded the man with a slightly surprised expression, before nodding and smiling at him with a warm, cat-like smile. He bowed to the old man as he left.

“Zàijiàn, Neko-Chan!” Ma called wickedly as he left, guffawing as he left, leaving Cherry with a flustered and infuriated expression at the nickname. He was already a ways away before Cherry could respond, zigzagging down the street as his liquor pulled him this way or that. Like a snake through an overgrown common.

“Hi, Monk-Sama, your room’s ready,” the propriatress called from the stairs.

Cherry turned around, and walked over. “Thank you…” Cherry responded trailing off when he came to the unknown of her name, holding his sandals in one hand.

“Wanima,” she gave her family name brusquely, not seeming to be bothered in giving it out.

“Thank you Wanima-San,” Cherry continued The woman turned and ascended back up the stairs into the landing above. Ego was carrying a bungle of cloth and other items in a round wooden bucket down the landing, away from Cherry’s room as the elder Wanima led him too it. As Cherry was lead he noticed a great number of cats watching him from various points in the hall, particularly from small windows and holes. Wanima seemed to notice him looking at them and decided to provide an answer.

“They tend to come here for fish from the bay or whatever food they get handed, then they sleep on our roof for some reason. They won’t bother you too much, most leave come morning,” she delivered dully, opening the door to his room. It was small, a futon laid on the left side with a small side table barely three inches from it with a dinked and disused tea, marks from sake glasses clear on the table. But, it wasn’t stuffy, smelling of freshly aired cloth and ancient sage. The opposite head of the room was made from a shōji screen, allowing in a slight glow from the barely lit street outside. Cherry stepped in and made a looked around again, appraising the room. Not that he actually cared much for the condition currently.

“I assume it’s to your liking,” Wanima blurted out sarcastically, leaning on the doorframe while smoking from a kenka kiseru[13], breathing out a light cloud of silver smoke.

“Yes, thank you for your hospitality,” Cherry responded honestly, flashing his Cheshire cat smile at her. She was looked at the man with a blank expression, pleasantly surprised in some respects, but still disinterred.

“Well, enjoy your stay Neko-Sama,” she announced as she turned to leave.

“Neko-Sama?!” Cherry repeated in a bewildered tone.

Wanima peaked her head back in still with her bored, somewhat disinterred expression. “Yeah, that’s your name isn’t it,” she replied, in now way meaning it as a question.

“No, why ever did you think that?!” Cherry asked in an irate tone.

“Well, I heard Ma-Kun call you that, and I assumed,” she responded, not quite bothering to fill in the blanks herself, “but I suppose that was just another one of his annoying little ‘pet names’,” she concluded, sighing before rolling her eyes back to look at her tenant. “What is your actual name then?” she inquired, more from circumstance than a burning interest.

“…Nekomata,” Cherry eventually wrestled out of his mouth, embarrassedly as the woman looked down at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, Nekomata-Sama, I hope you enjoy your night with us. The water in the pot should be hot, just use the tea leaves next to it,” she instructed dismissively before exiting, leaving the scent of sweet tabaco and perfume behind in her stead. Cherry slid the door shut, resting his staff against the wall beside it and placing his sandals on the floor next to it. He sat down on his futon, facing the small table in front of it and made himself a cup of tea. He brought the black drink up to his mouth, taking a moment to breath in the heat before taking a sip. He near immediately balked, slamming the drink back down as he coughed, shivering slightly. “Pfft, eugh! Why is that so fucking bitter!” he shouted, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

[1] Literally meaning ‘moving screens’, they are a standard in Japanese structures consisting of a wooden frame with translucent paper, allowing light to shine through. Often used as windows or exterior walls.

[2] A Japanese card game played using hanafuda card sets. Played by matching laid cards with those in your hand or those picked up from the draw pile. A player can attempt to double their points by saying they will play on. This is done by calling ‘Koi-Koi’, roughly, ‘come on’. This move has its risks however

[3] An old name for the Empire of Ethiopia in the late 19th and early 20th centaury.

[4] A Nilotic[Indigenous to the Nile valley] people native to Turkana County in Northwest Kenya. A semi-arid region, and are mainly semi-nomadic pastoralists.

[5] A ghost or mythical creature commonly described as a humanoid carrying their own severed head.

[6] (再見) Traditional Mandarin for ‘Goodbye’

[7] Deities, divinities, spirits, phenomena that are venerated in Shinto religion. Worshiped at local shrines to either regional or local god, possibly even one of national standing and veneration.

[8] A snake yokai that loves sake and can spit it from their mouths.

[9] Similar to shoji screens but made with opaque paper and more commonly used as internal divider walls.

[10] The sash around the midriff of a kimono that is similar to a belt.

[11] A thin silk scarf worn in Japan, that is commonly worn in depictions of Japanese gods or legends.

[12] A Japanese honorific used to refer to ones senior colleges in school, a workplace or profession. The inverse of this, referring to ones juniors, being ‘kōhai’.

[13] A variant of a kiseru, a Japanese smoking pipe. A kenka kiseru or ‘fighting pipe’ is usually 12” to 18” long and made of cast iron or brass they were commonly used by those on the fringes of society to double as a weapon as well as an instrument to smoke. Kiseru smoked as finely shredded tabaco called kizami.

@thewormsheep @ninety-s-kid @mimigoey @truegoist @httpghostface @psycho-zom-atic @jemimacatclover @sleepy-gry

@yami-shakai @shandzii @shark-smuggler @youkaigakkou-tl

@the-messenger-hawk @theriu

#writeblr #writing #writblr #writers and poets #fiction #japan #i'm not japanese #so please excuse innacura #cies #HMAD

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solitaryseadragon · 2 months ago

Text

"Oh, which poor unfortunate soul shall I help today..?"

"Shibusawa Tatsuhiko is the name, and for a reasonable price, I can give you whatever your poor heart desires. Most call me a sea witch, but I personally prefer to be called a generous soul willing to help others."

He smiles and stifles a chuckle, swimming around the polished cauldron in the middle of his cove, its striking ruby tail coiling around it.

"So dear, what does your poor soul wish for, if you tell me, I might just give you it for the rather fair price of your magic. Oh please, don't give me that look, it takes so much out of me granting wishes every day.."

Shibusawa tilts his head and looks down at his client with a piercing garnet gaze. It really did live up to his reputation as a "sea dragon."

"Oh~? You agree? Well that's splendid then. I just need you to sign this contract here and it'll be a deal."

Shibusawa is the resident sea witch who grants the merfolk any wishes they want in exchange for a bit of their signature magic. He's a selfish mer who hoards all treasures he finds whenever he goes out on rare excursions outside of his cove.

He's known as a Sea Dragon for this reason, an insult used to describe greedy and rather intimidating merfolk who spend their time in their homes with an unfathomable amount of treasures.

Shibusawa goes by the pronouns he/it and has long white hair with various jewels and beads braided in it, matching the way his ruby-red tail has diamonds and other jewels tucked in between the scales.

It looks rather young for being called a "witch" but lives up to his reputation by providing others with anything they wish in exchange for magic.

This particular AU of him was based on Ursula and Azul Ashengrotto from Twisted Wonderland.

Links :

{ Headcanons }

{ Playlist }

{ Sirenverse Masterlist }

{ Anon List }

MORE TO BE ADDED

Angst Posts:

[ Angst 001 ]

[ Angst 002 ]

AU Posts :

[ Alone Again AU 001 ]

Tags:

Sirensawa speaks to bubbles 🫧 (answering anons)

The sea dragon speaks! 🌊 (IC posts)

Sad Sirensawa moments 🥀 (IC angst posts

Sirensawa Mod speaks 📖 (OOC Posts)

My pretty amethyst.. 🪻(IC interactions with @sinfulocean )

My gorgeous amber.. 🪷 (IC interactions with @seasongsandsuicide )

Fighting over a jewel 💢 (IC interactions with @fishing-for-ideals )

A fellow treasure-hunter 💎 (IC interactions with @singingendlesslyintothevoid )

Conversation between witches 🧪 (IC interactions with @rose-veiled-witch )

MORE TO BE ADDED

OOC blog is @asillyprettything hope you all like him

Tag list : @juniper-bunch

Original idea by @dreamsicle262 , altered by @vinnncentias

#shibusawa tatsuhiko #siren au #bsd #bungo stray dogs #bsd siren au

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 8 months ago

Note

Dear Crowley, I heard this dashing and very intelligent fox beastman is looking for a job. He used to work as a manager at a popular theme park, so he probably has a ton of experience! Maybe he'd make a great addition to the staff?

The way I choked laughing when I read this interaction 🤡

I decided to structure this interaction like a job interview between Crowley and Fellow (facilitated, of course, by the Reader/Prefect's written recommendation). I thought it would be funnier this way! (Note: Fellow is definitely sugarcoating, glossing over, outright lying, and laying it on thick in some of his responses, but since this is framed mainly from Crowley's perspective, these inconsistencies are not pointed out.)

Enter; An Unkindness of Ravens.

This is the one recommended for the open teaching position?

Crowley eyed the man standing before him. He was beastman, as per the Prefect's description, with a pair of red fox ears and a fluffy tail.

A crimson-lined violet jacket, half a cape tossed over one shoulder, was secured over an olive vest and a snug waist. Golden embellishments and starry badges dangled from his lapels, and the same sparkles studded his top hat. Fun patterns cut into diamond windows raced up his dark green trousers. His long legs were crowned by knee-length spats, and he held an elegant cane topped with a fox in his gloved hands.

His look was professional yet playful.

The candidate was handsome—no doubt about that—and the keen gleam to his eyes implied a sharpness, a pointed wit, about him.

A horrible thought occurred to Crowley: He's not more dashing and intelligent than me, is he? No, no, it simply cannot be done! There’s no one fairer than I!

The headmaster brushed off his concerns, vanity placated, and cleared his throat.

"Let's see here... You are Fellow Honest, correct?" Crowley referred his provided resume. It was handwritten and contained a number of spelling and grammatical errors.

"That's my name! Don't wear it out," the beastman chirped with a wink and the twirl of his cane. "Fellow Honest, at your service."

“Please tell me about yourself, Mr. Honest.”

“Well! Not much to say, I’m afraid. I’m just a wanderer down on his luck, lookin’ to find his way in the world. I saw your job posting and thought I should shoot my shot.”

“I see on your resume that your last position was as a theme park manager…? Why the sudden shift in career, if I may ask?”

"You see, I've always been a lad of big hopes and dreams. I went into the entertainment industry wanting to spread that positivity to others.

"My park used to attract quite a few families and their children, so I came to know the kids quiiite well! They'd tell me stories of their school days, talk about the things they'd want to become in the future. So full of imagination and wonder. I realized I wanted to be a part of that process. Teaching them, guiding them... so they can be the best adults they can be!"

Fellow chuckled—it slid off his tongue easily, as though his laugh was slick with honey. "I thought I'd be the one inspiring them. Turns out, the kids were the ones to light a fire under my tail."

"My, what a stirring story!" Crowley cried out. "I can tell that your passion for working with children is true~

“Now then, why Night Raven College? There are any number of schools you could apply to if you wish to lend your assistance to the youth."

"It's true. I thought to start my own school before this," he confessed, "but Night Raven College called to me. Its graduates are influential, the school's reach immense, and the headmaster most magnanimous... I figured if I wanted to make an impact, this was the place to do that."

Fellow hesitated.

"... And, as one bright young boy once told me, Night Raven College is a place where everyone and anyone is welcome. Even someone from as humble a background as myself can fit in here."

Crowley found himself nodding along with his narrative. The shower of praise was making him feel flattered and floaty—and the more Fellow talked, the more the headmaster felt himself leaning into his words.

But the interview questions. They were not through yet.

The thought slowly sobered Crowley up. His resolution returned, duty and honor-bound to pick the most qualified candidate for the job.

No time for fun and games, not now.

"How would you describe your own magical capabilities? As you know, NRC is an establishment meant for training tomorrow's mages. To that end, many of our tenured professors boast a strong history of magic themselves."

"Ah, that." Fellow’s smile was wry, playing off the anxious little tug at his cravat. “That is…”

“Answer the question, Mr. Honest.”

“Dire, Dire, Dire—may I call you that?” He paused, but failed to grant enough time for a response. Fellow moved fast, talked fast—his cane spinning fast, fast, fast. “I’ll be the first to admit my magical might isn’t on the same level as that of your colleagues.”

Crowley frowned. “Then I’m afraid we cannot proceed with the interview. It would be rather challenging for the students to learn from a teacher who has yet to master magic themselves...”

Fellow’s face fell. “You’ve already made up your mind?”

“I apologize, but this discussion is over.”

“H-HOLD IT!!” he protested, his polite facade dropping. Anger and upset flared on Fellow’s vulpine features. “Where do you get off, cutting me out the very moment I mention…”

Crowley’s expression hardened, the grip on his staff tightening. “Oh dear, it looks as though this interview is headed south.”

Dark power roiled up from within him. The binds on his strength, snapping. Fellow whimpered like a fox backed into a corner by a larger predator.

“A-Ahahahah… Please forgive my outburst, sir~” he simpered, sinking back into his seat. “I-I’d still like the chance to explain myself, oh-so-generous headmaster!!”

“You may,” Crowley replied. His face was almost entirely shrouded by the shadow of his mask. His expression, unreadable.

“You’re right. I… I don’t have a lot of magic to spare. But…!! Even if that’s true about me, I don’t want the students to think like that, judging their own worth based on what an institution says is desired or not.” Fellow’s fingers curled into shaking fists in his lap. “In an ideal world… everyone can pursue their dreams without discrimination, without being told they’re not enough.”

“The final question for you,” Crowley announced grimly. “How do you plan to instruct if you cannot lead by example? How will you instill the lessons and values of Night Raven College?”

“Magic isn’t everything,” Fellow fired back passionately. “It doesn’t matter how much magic history they can recite or how many fancy spells they know.

“What’s most important to me… is that the students find enjoyment in what they learn and can make use of it. That’s how I’d teach them. Practically, and in a way that allows them to laugh and enjoy life for the fun that it’s supposed to be.”

“Hmmm.”

Crowley stared him carefully, like a crow nestled amid the tree branches. Watching, listening.

For the first time, he felt as though he was witnessing the true Fellow Honest.

His interviewee heaved a deep, dramatic sigh, a hand running through his hair. He barked out a bitter laugh.

“I get it, you bigwigs never want to hear what us little guys have to say. I’ll see myself out. It was a waste of my time to try this again. I knew I should have struck out on my own."

Fellow headed for the exit, stomping unhappily, his violet cape trailing behind him. From the other side of the door, a small cat boy in oversized clothes peered in.

“C’mon, Giddie,” Fellow snapped, “we’re done here.”

The child obediently followed. He stumbled in boots that were untied and far too large for him. Still, the concern in his young face did not waver.

Crowley’s eyes followed them until their figures vanished out of sight—but the applicant lingered in his mind. He returned to Fellow’s handwritten resume, mind wandering to the answers the beastman had offered. Different answers, but nonetheless ardent ones.

“… Interesting,” Crowley mused, his lips pulling back into a smile. “Most interesting.”

He's an applicant to consider.

#twst #twisted wonderland #Dire Crowley #Fellow Honest #twst interactions #twisted wonderland interactions #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #Two Ravens at the Writing Desk #stage in playful land spoilers #Ernesto Foulworth #Gino

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the-dream-team · 4 years ago

Note

hi dylan! i've seen you around a lot but never interacted with your posts before (a tragic error) so i wanted to remedy that by saying that 'July' was very beautiful and utterly perfect!

P.S. I've heard some mumblings about Shirtless James May 👀👀 here is my formal request for you to participate 😂

Oh my gosh, hi! I’ve definitely seen your username around, so it’s lovely to finally say hello :) That’s so sweet, I’m glad you liked July- it was very fun to write! And you know what else was fun to write? This ridiculous one shot for Shirtless JP May, dedicated you, @sunshine-marauders <3

Three Times Lily Evans Did NOT Want to See James Potter Shirtless and One Time She Most Certainly Did

***

“Mr. Potter, please put your trousers back on, my boy!”

“Sir, I would, but there’s just no way of telling if this potion might be poisonous, and I’d rather play it safe.”

Lily’s eyes narrowed as she shrugged off her own robes, now covered head to toe in acidic slime from the Dungbomb that had just exploded in her and Sev’s cauldron. The purple liquid smelled something foul, but there was nothing poisonous about what was once a perfectly brewed Sleeping Draught. James Potter knew that, but he’d stripped down to his pants regardless.

“Really, Professor Slughorn, I don’t mind,” Potter continued while he sauntered back to his own workstation, bare chest puffed out as though he wasn’t practically nude in the middle of the damn classroom. His display garnered a collection of giggles from around the dungeons and a wolf whistle from Remus. “And who am I to deny my fellow third years of this view?”

Lily scoffed. She couldn’t speak for her classmates, but she knew her own view consisted of scrawny limbs, knobbly knees, and the most insufferable smirk known to wizardkind. And when he turned to her with fingers running through his hair and an infuriatingly pointed look in her direction, Lily balled her hands into fists, nails digging into her palms to keep herself from reaching out to smack that stupid grin and those lopsided glasses clean off his face.

***

“There’d better be a good explanation for this, Potter.”

“It kills me, Evans, because there is an excellent explanation for our current predicament- one that I think you’d find admirable and impressive- but unfortunately we’re sworn to secrecy, so you’ll just have to assign us detentions and continue on with your rounds for the night.”

Lily turned, exasperated, to Remus, whose Prefect’s badge looked awfully heavy on his robes that night. He didn’t meet her eye, instead focusing on his three naked friends standing before them in the middle of the first floor corridor. Well, mostly naked. Each of the fifth year Gryffindor boys held strategically placed Shrivelfig leaves to cover their most intimate areas, but only Peter looked as though that protection was a matter of life or death. Sirius stood as casually as he always did, completely unphased to find himself caught clothesless in the middle of the night, and James somehow looked more confident than usual (if that was even possible) with his chest on full display. He seemed to be strategically flexing every Quidditch-trained muscle as he grinned down at her with that pointed look she’d become far too familiar with. She spent every last drop of concentration keeping her eyes locked on James’ face to avoid any potential… drifting.

“Did you have any luck?” said Remus after a moment. Lily whipped around in shocked betrayal. He couldn’t possibly approve of this behaviour?

“Not this time,” Sirius responded, “but I got bloody close. Don’t think having clothes makes a difference, but it was worth trying.”

“I’d say we should be on track to making it work before the end of the month,” added James, his crooked grin turning into a proper smile.

Remus’ eyes sparkled. “Holy shit, that’s brilliant.”

Lily let out a frustrated grunt before turning on her heel to storm away from the disrobed boys and her fellow Prefect, upset that Remus wouldn’t take their duties seriously, but thankful to be out of sight from James’ sharp gaze, finally able to let the blush she’d been desperately fighting back escape across her cheeks.

***

“I’m sorry, Evans, but I don’t make the rules. You’ve got to lose an article of clothing or else you’ll have to forfeit.”

“That’s bollocks, Black, you literally came up with the idea for Strip Exploding Snap this evening.”

The sixth years were circled up around the Common Room’s fireplace, loose socks and sweaters littering the floor, a half-empty bottle of stolen Firewhisky passing around from hand to hand. If it weren’t for Mary’s ridiculous crush on Sirius, Lily would never have found herself anywhere near this kind of event, but she’d decided to be a good friend, and now she was down to an undershirt and knickers. It was unclear whether her face burned red from the whiskey or the nerves.

“Look, Evans,” Sirius continued with an air of indifference, “if you’re not going to participate, you can just put your cards back in the pile-”

“I’ll do it for her!” James nearly shouted as he jumped up from his seat, swaying slightly. His eyes as glossy as the crooked glasses falling down his nose. He reached for the collar of his white t-shirt, grabbing hold to pull it over his head, but a competitive rush propelled Lily to her feet.

“No!” she protested before the shirt could make its way too far up James’ stomach. He froze in place, peering over the fabric at her in confusion. “You can’t just play for me, Potter, that’s not fair. I want to win on my own.”

“Really, Evans, I don’t mind,” laughed James, finally following through to remove the shirt completely. His glasses came off in the process, stuck in the fabric, and Lily nearly choked as her mouth went dry at the full sight of him, broader and fuller than she’d remembered. Had she ever seen him without his glasses before? His face as naked as his torso? She needed another drink.

“I’m not going to let you cheat,” she said, actually stomping her foot in the process. And to prove the dedication to her claims, she stripped down to her bra and sent James her most determined, pointed stare. His glasses made their way back to his face so fast, he nearly poked his eye out. “Now, put your shirt back on, Potter, or I’ll come over there and do it myself.”

“That’s not the threat you think it is, Evans,” he breathed, nearly choking on his words.

Lily thought her leaping heart must be horribly visible through her exposed skin.

“Do you both need the rest of us to leave?” chimed in Sirius, throwing Lily from her rapidly spiraling thoughts.

She immediately sat back down, throwing James his shirt in the process, desperately trying to contain the butterflies threatening to escape through her throat. His shirt never made it back over his head and the rest of the night no longer passed in minutes, but instead in glances stolen from across the room.

***

“Whatever is the problem, Miss Evans, my dear?”

“Sir, I accidentally spilled an entire vial of Mermaid venom all over Potter. It’s burned straight through his robes and I’m worried it might be serious. Do you mind if I leave to take him to Madam Pomfrey’s?”

Professor Slughorn fumbled out a concerned response, granting his blessing, and Lily spared no time grabbing James by the wrist to drag him out of the classroom and through the dungeons. His eyes were wide as he studied the golden liquid eating through the fabric of his sweater. “Is this poisonous?” he asked, fingers fumbling with his deteriorating uniform.

Lily spun around with emerald fire behind her eyes. “It is,” she responded, stopping him in his tracks as they turned a corner. “So we ought to play it safe and get these off you.”

She watched his eyes flash with sudden realization before she pulled off his sweater and made quick work of the buttons on his shirt.

The knowing grin that broke out across James’ face sent waves of elation through her heart, radiating out to find him again and pull him down to her. Their mouths met with smiling lips and heavy sighs, eager to reconnect after what felt like ages apart, but in reality, couldn’t have been more than an hour.

“What did I do to deserve this?” James asked through jagged breaths as he grabbed for the door handle to the nearest broom closet, dragging Lily in after him by the waist.

“You gave me that look,” she said, laughing slightly as she moved her hands up his warm skin to comb through his tousled hair. “That bloody pointed look you get that drives me crazy.” She kissed him and he deepened it before pausing.

“Wait. You poisoned me because I looked at you?”

“I spilled poison on you because I wanted to get your shirt off.”

He beamed, his smile brightening the dim, crowded cupboard as he brought his hands up to hold her face. “Well, in that case, who am I to deny you this view?”

She scoffed. Then kissed him again.

#shirtless james potter may #i wasn't going to participate to this extent #but you asked so nicely!#<3 #jily fic #jily #james potter #lily evans #one shot #shirtless jp may

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mefiman · 3 years ago

Text

Hamato Family’s First Visit to the Hidden City

Story request by @rottmntrulesall. Hope you enjoy the story, bud! ^^

"C'mon, everyone! Hurry up!" Michelangelo's impatience was obvious in his excitement. He and his siblings were finally going to show their dad's relatives for the first time to the Hidden City for two reasons; one: to view the many wonders of the other world and two: to have a formal, proper meeting with Draxum's parents. The latter part had instilled some unease into the Hamato siblings, especially Saki who was wary about stepping foot into a mysterious world and was about to see for himself the father and mother of the "monster" who altered his younger brother many years ago.

"Are you sure this place is safe?" Hamato Kenji asked. Raphael glanced at his uncle, understanding his uncle's concerns. "We've been there a lot, Uncle Kenji! We did encounter a few dangers there before but other than that, the people there don't usually attack humans unless provoked." Raph assured his uncle.

"There are a lot of places to visit like the many resorts and spas if you want to have a massage and ooh, Señor Hueso's Run of the Mill Pizza where they make one of the best pizzas! I know the manager of that place, we're amigos~" Leonardo took the chance to quip in.

"I can't wait to see Grandpa Mons again! Wait till you guys meet him yourselves, he's the nicest, sweetest grandpa you'll ever meet! He's still as strong as he's gentle!" Mikey said happily.

"I wonder if Grandma Chemia has some wicked new inventions to show me!" Donatello exclaimed.

"This would be my first time seeing my grandparents, Arachne..." Ariadne whispered to her best friend, Arachne.

"You've never seen them before?" Her friend asked.

"Once when I was a baby... I haven't seen them for years." The yokai femme told Arachne.

"Alright, kids, you've shown us all that you're excited to bring us to visit the Hidden City, Mikey, can you open the portal now?" Splinter asked.

"Sure, Dad!" Mikey got to work quickly.

Draxum felt a tinge of anxiety inside himself. He could not recall the last time he visited his creators ever since he moved out of home to pursue his alchemy researching, away from his parents' constant arguments, half of which is about their preferred methods of raising him. It was a surprise how those two still manage to live under the same roof despite their obvious clashing personalities. He guessed that they tolerated each other just for his sake. His parents had never produced any more offspring after him and one of Arachne’s parents...

"Hey, are you okay, Dad?" A female voice asked him. Draxum jolted from his pondering to find that his daughter, Poison Ivy asking him out of concern. He just gave a small smile as he ran his clawed hands over her helmet. "Am fine, just thinking about your grandparents." He assured her. He marveled how Ivy much had grown from the last time he scientifically created her with his and Lou Jitsu's DNAs; she being so tiny as a developed newborn infant growing in a liquid chamber to a young lady around the boys' ages. From what he knew later on, Splinter raised her along with the Turtles. Ivy had lived her life at first as a normal human teenager until her yokai genes started appearing. The initial discovery of her origins did shake her world but over time, she had learnt to accept and use them to assist her brothers in their adventures. She was intelligent like Draxum and his mother with his father's gentle, mature nature as well as Splinter/Lou's sassiness. She loved to study on botany and coincidently, her powers involved using vines and summoning plant like monsters at will. She recently revealed her sexuality preference as a lesbian and had a girlfriend who is a fellow classmate and witch trainee/apprentice in disguise. Both her creators and siblings were happy for her. As of now, she was cradling her younger sister, Venus de Milo was giggling and squealing as April, Ariadne and Arachne cooed and tickled her belly.

The group watched Mikey draw a symbol on the wall at an alley. Once the symbol was drawn, an open portal revealed. The Hamato siblings' mouths went ajar, not believing what they just saw. "if you think that's mind blowing, you haven't seen nothing yet!" Mikey grinned. His three other brothers and the three girls each took hold of one of their Hamato uncles and aunts's hands. The moment they all jumped into that portal, they found themselves staring at a massive part of a what seemed to be a huge city. The sky above was unlike Earth's skies; instead it was orange with some brown. The architecture of the buildings there were monster shaped with some tall, castle like structures far away from the city. There were a lot of people of all shapes, sizes, colors and appearances walking, running, passing by each other, buying their needs or doing their usual business trades. The Turtle family allowed their Hamato relatives to take in their first view around them. Saki's eyes were bulging out of his sockets, he could not believe for his life what he was seeing. Anthropomorphic, mostly consisting of animal, everyday objects, monstrous and supernatural like individuals roamed every part of the streets around him, he felt as if he was having a strange dream that defied logic! Nori on the other hand, looked right and left, taking in interesting sights that captured her attention. Underneath a calm façade, Kenji was freaking out internally at the new, foreign view. Hiroki was squealing in delight similar to a child had just discovered a world made of toys and sweets. Her twin, Hikari was a bit calmer than his sister, feeling a thrill of danger running through his veins. Last but not least, the youngest Hamato sibling, Mei's stance looked poker face yet she looked around to see if there were any Gothic like people that she can interact with. The Turtles and the girls grinned, seeing the reactions of the others.

"What do you think? Surreal, huh?" They ask.

"Amazing.."

"Fascinating..."

"I can't believe what I'm seeing..."

"Someone please tell me that I'm dreaming..." Saki mumbled, still not believing.

"No, you're not," Draxum replied, going straight to the point with an indifferent expression. "May we please hurry to my parents' house, I bet they're waiting for our arrival..."

"Oh yeah!" Mikey clapped both his hands once. "Lead the way, Draxy!"

Draxum sighed as he took the lead of the group. Along the way, there were a few whispers around and behind Draxum coming from the city people but Splinter and Ivy took hold of both his hands and gave a comforting, assuring squeeze, making him feel better. Ariadne gave her uncle a comforting hand on to his shoulder. They were soon out of the main city square to a further distance into the woods. They had to climb up a hill for a while until they reached a big mansion residing there.

"We are here at last. My childhood home..." Draxum said, looking at the grassy, serene valley below, reminiscing the times where he as a little one ran galloping around the field, cartwheeling with glee among the flowers and his sire teaching him the basics on how to defend himself the predator way. Both father and son spend their days in the early years, sparring with each other...

"Draxum, my son!" The former alchemist warrior villain snapped out of his memories to find himself being engulfed into the arms of none other than his dear, loving old father, Monsrage who brought his only son into a crushing bear hug which knocked the wind out of his lungs. "How have you been, my little baby boy? It's rare that you visit us but it's so wonderful to see you bring your family along! How delightful!" the older yokai gushed, his bushy tail wagging with unlimited enthusiasm like an excited puppy. Monsrage was rather huge and muscular with perked up, pointy ears, silky straight black hair unchanged through time and a fairly long beard to match. Like Draxum before, he wore a battle mask. He had a significant dark upperlip. His body had different shades of blue just like his son, Draxum when he was armored. Monsrage's eyes were the same like Draxum's. His feet in particular, was a noticeable difference. Unlike his wife and son, his feet were shaped like a lion's paws, fitting for him coming from a predator species.

"Father, it's great to see you... but can you please let go now? I can't breathe..." Draxum choked out, being smothered by his sire's busty chest. Monsrage immediately loosened his grip, apologizing profusely while checking to see if he had accidently broken any of his son's bones. Draxum shook his head, smiling a little. His sire had never changed all these years, still a concerned worrywart. And he bet his mother had not either...

Chemia on the other hand, was greeting the rest of the visitors with feverish energy. She was a redhead with shades of pink for her skin colour and her ears, long and drooped. Her eyes had a little twinkle in them, a part of her eccentric personality and plump, red lips. Like her husband, she wore a mask. Donnie, April, Arachne and Ivy were given a whirlwind hug the moment they came in front of her. Monsrage went back to the mansion with his son to give the new visitors, the Hamatos, April, and Arachne a warm greeting as well as welcome his beloved grandchildren with his signature bear hug and proceed to pepper their faces with smooches which they were delighted to have especially Mikey, Ariadne, Ivy and Venus. Monsrage and Chemia ushered them all into their humble abode. The Hamatos were initially skeptical about meeting Draxum's family but they were soon warmed up to them. Later on, the mansion was filled with guffaws of laughter as Monsrage showed them all baby pictures of his son which embarrased the poor warrior scientist. Donnie, April and Ivy were treated to Grandma Chemia's latest creations. Monsrage himself had a blast, playing with Venus and sparring with the Turtles and the girls. Arachne was delighted to meet her grandparents as a young adolescent, telling them about her achievements, adventures and that her own parents are doing well. The Hamatos became comfortable talking with Draxum's parents over some snack delicacies. Overall, everyone had a wonderful time at the Hidden City.

I had fun writing this! Was tiring but oh so worth it.

The Hamato siblings (minus Lou/Splinter) and Venus de Milo belong to @rottmntrulesall while Ariadne and Arachne are the OCs of @mikeykawaii/@mikey-ho. Monsrage, Chemia and Poison Ivy along with the mention of the witch girlfriend belong to me, @mefiman. I hope you don’t mind me incorporating your girls into this story, @mikeykawaii but I’ve been dying to add them in, especially Ari meeting her grandparents! ^^

#rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt #tmnt #my art #ocs #baronjitsu #a teeny bit mentioned

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mistaeq · 3 years ago

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kira yoshikage - beyond the touch of a hand

tw // none i think ?? just know it's kira, there are hands.

dora's note: kira yoshikage work because why not ehehe,,, i'mma leave this here,,, i hope what i wrote is understandable, i was inspired for something like this ^^

word count: 1.4k

taglist: @fragolaaaaaaa @outofthiszawarudo @sky1mercy @cheemerthejojofreak @berryvalentine @yandere-lovebites [if you wanna be removed or added, all it requires is a dm or an ask !!]

you always seemed to love your job. it was a simple one, nothing odd ever happened, the shifts were always the same, your fellow co-workers kinda boring. the only reason why you seemed to be in a good mood everytime, was because from the cash register you were usually assigned to, you could see the best sight you could wish for. thanks to the nametag he carried on his jacket, you had learnt his name was kira yoshikage.

he was one of the stockers, and you could see him dash in the aisles, organizing the shelves in the best way possible. the two of you had never talked to each other, and you weren't even sure he had ever spoken to anyone. he seemed to highly dislike getting his time stolen and his schedule to be ruined by any kind of accident or interaction. you had seen him though, multiple times, eyeing customers' hands, above all women. could it be a fetish of his? in any case, he seemed to do nothing wrong but watching.

but sometimes, he waved at you. and he had never done it, to any of the cashiers. your mind wandered, thinking he could be interested in you as well, but the truth was, that the fact that you were carrying gloves at work, pissed him off. the co-workers in your shift were all gloveless, but you usually did carry them to protect your hands. at the end of the day, a cashier touches hundreds of items each day. yoshikage wanted to see your hands, so much it hurt. you were beautiful, in any visible part of you, and he thought, your hands would have definitely been the same.

much to your surprise, so, the man that looked unreachable and strict, was the first one who asked you out. it started with a couple lunch breaks spent together, but every single time, you seemed to have gloves that matched your needs. this led to yoshikage being unavoidably focused of something else, being your hands not available. your smile, for example. the way you always asked him about his plans in order to get everything done within the time he was offering. the way you started calling him by his name and let him do the same to you. he could definitely say, after several dates and meetings, that your hands had been almost forgotten. he still hoped he could see them soon, but not that eagerly as he used to before.

little could he imagine, he would have seen them in the worst moment possible. all of a sudden, you stopped texting him, and stopped showing up at the kame yu store.

you weren't one to behave like that, yoshikage knew it enough, at this point. that man, that strict man, whose schedule and plans were as unbreakable as diamond, noticed something was up, when the first thought he had was paying you a visit at your house directly, therefore sacrificing his plans for the day, and leaving the kame yu store earlier. no stand attack, nor magic or sorcery, he was putting someone before himself. he had never looked at someone and got interested in anything beyond their hands, so something felt incredibly off to him. more like... unusual. he didn't know what was up, all he knew was that half an hour before the end of his usual shift, he was rushing under the rain, on foot, all the way to your house. he had never been there before, but you happened to tell him the address once, and he never forgot.

his need to know what happening to you, was stronger than his need to finish his shift, get home and rest. why had he even asked you out in the first place? ah, yeah. your hands. but the way you lovingly fixed his nametag that day was better. the way he realized he wasn't escaping his schedule for you, was better, because he understood you had become part of it. you were part of his life now. to think it was all because of a pair of gloves. and what was beyond it. these were the thoughts that were filling his mind as he knocked at your door, and seriously thought of breaking it down with killer queen, when it took you too long to open it.

"yoshikage?" your weak voice met his ears, as you moved aside to let him in. the man as soaking wet because of the rain. your nose was red, your eyes were puffy, but you were smiling. there had been plenty of storms in morioh cho, and one of them caused you to go through a high fever that kept you in bed for almost four days. not to mention, something - or someone - had hurt your leg really bad. blood had come out of the wound, and walking was just a challenge for you. this was why, it took you a lot of time to open the door. "oh, thank you for worrying for me... you're such a dear man."

your heart was bumping in your chest, butterflies all in your stomach, he had come to check on you because he cared. he had gone through the rain without an umbrella, on foot, leaving the kame yu store earlier than usual. you decided to show him your affection too, taking his jacket and putting it in the dryer. for a matter of respect, you couldn't push yourself to washing many other clothes of his. the two of you talked for hours, as you told him of the fever, and above all, about the leg wound. until your words and movements came to a halt. you covered your mouth with your hand. your bare hand. kira wished he could get a closer look to it, kiss it, maybe brush it on his cheek. but... "yoshikage, you have one, too..."

"what do you mean, y/n...?" the blonde man turned around, but all that was there, was just killer queen, who he had let out just in case. he always did, when he went to places he'd never been to. but he never knew about you being a stand user. you could see it? "could your leg wound possibly be..." he murmured, as he thought of the arrow. but decided not to think too much about it. what really caught his attention, was that you were sticking your hand out for killer queen to take. you were curious, and happy to be seeing yoshikage's soul so close to you. but knowing how used the stand was to stealing hands by killing the owners, it was no good at all, to him. it was a matter of a second, yoshikage took your hand instead. he protected you, as if it could be the last thing he would have ever done in his life.

yours was a soft hand. so pleasing to touch.

touching it felt intense. he didn't want to cut it off of you. he didn't have the desire to kill you. he didn't get any... boners. it was a brand new sensation, and you sat down, letting him do his thing as you understood that might have meant something to him. no matter your fever, he seemed okay with how close you were to each other. he didn't care about the fact that he had your hand in his, rather about the fact that he was one of the few people who had been so close to you to see your hands. they looked beautiful. and slowly, as if he wanted to savor the moment in every step of it, he kissed it. once, twice. and your heart skipped a beat. once, twice. everything before it seemed to happen so quickly, yet now everything was in slow motion.

"i wonder what's going on inside your head. it's fascinating." you murmured, as he moved your hand to brush it against his cheek. "you are so mysterious and look so unreachable, you made me feel special since the first time you chose to wave your hand at me and at me only." you moved your thumb up and down, willingly caressing him yourself. "you almost know everything about me. but there's still too much i want to ask you."

kira's hands were trembling a little, as he kept the contact with yours. oh, it was intense. "there's not much, going on inside my head." yoshikage murmured, slowly closing his eyes in absolute bliss.

"my heart just now learnt what's really beyond the touch of a hand."

#riri writes🦉#jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo no kimyou na bouken #jojo part four #diamond is unbreakable #kira yoshikage #kira x reader #jjba fic

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joyfulhopelox · 3 years ago

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Red Gardenia

Pairing: Park Jimin x reader (non-idol!au, ballet!au)

Genre: fluff

Warnings: none

Word count: 7k (she the biggest one yet)

rating: pg

Summary: As a minor ballet dancer in the corps du ballet, suddenly thrown into the limelight you are struggling to cope with the pressure, but when a secret admirer with a love for gardenias comes forth you realise that you may actually be able to do it

Copyrights @joyfulhopelox for both the work and the banner

I want to throw the massivest thank you to my beta the amazing and talented @rosietae she's been the rock that supported this foundation and prevented it from crumbling. I had 2 breakdowns and a couple of identity crises when I wrote this one and her help has been a major pick me up. She made this from a withering bud into a fully bloomed flower and I can't express my thanks to her enough!

This is part 2 of my Love Blossom series and the 3/25 square for the @bangtanwritingbingo event (square: Park Jimin)

As always please leave feedback and/or talk to me as i love to hear from you! Enjoy <3

Entrée

A grand pas de deux usually begins with an entrée (literally "entrance"), which serves as a short prelude to and also unequivocally denotes the beginning of the dance suite.

You could do this, you could do this. You could definitely do this. The mantra had been in your head for the past few days. You’d hoped that the psychology articles about daily affirmations you read would work, but it proved to be more difficult than you thought.

Instead you felt like you wasted 10 minutes of your practice time, to stupidly look at yourself in the mirror. For those 10 minutes you kept telling yourself that you were able to dance as the main act in the show your ballet school had signed you up for. Maybe you were not doing it right; probably because you disconnected from those positive affirmations very often. So indeed, those 10 minutes were a waste of time.

Your mouth would say ‘you can do it’ but your brain would instantly doubt you, doubt your skills. You were always a dancer in the background and no one ever complimented your dancing more than necessary. How could you believe in yourself when, for years that’s all that it had been? Was all that doubt supposed to disappear just because all of a sudden you were called by your ballet master informing you of the big role change? You had been specifically picked to dance with one of the most prominent ballet dancers that your school had produced: none other than Park Jimin himself.

Everyone knew of him. He travelled abroad multiple times to be the star of a lot of performances. From New York, to Moscow, to Hong Kong, everyone had seen him in at least one performance. This, as well as the fact that you were a couple of years his junior, and in the corps du ballet instead of a soloist, had made it impossible for you to catch more than a glimpse of him around the school. But of course you had heard of him and his stellar performance. Everyone in your school had, but very few actually had the chance to interact with him. He seemed to have a small group of friends that he mostly spent his time with, but no one else seemed to have gotten the chance to get close to him, which instantly made him a snob in your eyes. He probably had the personality of Narcissus himself. Always so high up his own, it made it difficult for him to get the reality check from the people down below. No matter how much your friends berated you for thinking this way, you were certain you were right.

So imagine your surprise when you were told you had been picked for a pas de deux and he was to be your partner. Surprised was a very mild word for how you really felt. Astonished, perplexed? Those two seemed more appropriate. Not only had you been picked to perform on the stage outside of your usual group but you had the famous wonder boy Jimin as your partner.

For the first few days your friends would only see and hear your excited smile and squeals. You had been waiting so long for this opportunity to come by and now you finally had the chance to prove yourself. No one even threw a second glance at the dancers in the corps du ballet. As a group, you were all there to tie in the loose ends that the soloists and main dancers could not. You were the background of a painting. Without it, the painting was incomplete, but no one observed it in detail. It was not as if you were thinking ill of your fellow dancers, but you had promised yourself and your parents when you chose ballet as your profession that you would make it big. You would stand on that stage and perform as a soloist, in the light, the piece de resistance. And so you worked hard to be noticed. Asking extra questions during lessons, making sure you did the movements perfectly. Staying after hours in the abandoned studio to practice until your feet hurt and bled,having to ice your muscles every night, going home late and heading back out early, the tears, the criticism. It didn’t matter to you. You had a dream. And now, all that hard work seemed to pay off. You would be there on that stage in the limelight.

Soon enough though, reality set in after the second meeting you had with the ballet master. You realised the pressure of not only having to be a main performer, but also standing on the stage with the pride of your school. Your demeanor instantly changed. Instead of exaltation, you were filled with dread and anxiety.

Heading to your locker,you grabbed your gym bag, ready for another hour of basic ballet techniques before you met up with your friends.

“Hey, Y/N, the artistic director is looking for you” they motioned to the general direction of where the offices were.

“After class?” you inquired and they nodded at you.

You gulp, what if they are going to pull you away from the show? You don’t let that thought fester in your head for too long because a red flower taped to your locker caught your attention.

“Oooooh, I see they’re at it again” your friend teased, lightly nudging you with their elbow. You smiled softly to yourself and gently peeled off the tape.

A red gardenia, secret love. Whoever had been harbouring these feelings for you, had been doing it for almost 3 months. They had yet to confess their feelings to you. At the beginning you thought it was a scam and scoffed at the flower, throwing it away whilst telling your friends your opinion of ‘poor jokes like these’. A few weeks after that the flowers kept coming in. You finally accepted that it was not a prank, and someone was expressing their genuine admiration and love for you, when one day along with the gardenia a note waited for your attention.

‘Please accept my feelings’ that was it, no name and no indication of who it may be. But it did make you realise that this person was real, and you instantly felt ashamed of the flowers that you had thrown away until then. Had they noticed you doing that? You hoped not. If they had come out and admitted who they were, you would’ve apologised to their face about your insensitivity.

Without responding to your friend’s playful teasing, you gently put the flower behind your ear and turned around. “Let’s get going, or we’ll be late.”

Unbeknownst to you, a couple of lockers down, a boy with hair the colour of sand smiled fondly to himself, watching your form retreat.

Adagio 1

The adagio or adage (meaning "slowly") part of a grand pas de deux features graceful and elaborate partnering by the dancing pair. In the adagio, the ballerina performs elegant, often slow and sustained movements while the danseur supports her.

“Y/N, thank you for coming to see me before class” your ballet master said, motioning for you to take a seat. “Now, I have told you about the performance, but seeing as things are settling and the performance schedule of Swan Lake will be ending soon, I need to update you on yours.” All you could do was sit in silence and nod once in a while, trying to not look like an excited mess and potentially ruin your chances. After all, a ballerina had to have poise and grace, and if you ruined that image, the role could have been handed over to someone else easily.

Shuffling some papers on her desk, she fished a thick folder out of them and stuck it out for you to take.

“Is this the full schedule for the performance?” your voice wavered, seeing the enormity of the folder reminded you of the enormity of the situation. You were about to perform as a main dancer. No more the quiet mouse dancing in the back or the even worse placement of being a backup for a performance.

“Ah, no dear, this is just the contract. As you know, you will be working with our school’s pride, Park Jimin.” You tried your hardest to keep a neutral face and not scoff at that. Of course the teacher would be shoving Park Jimin’s greatness into your face. “And because he is an international dancer, we cannot afford to have him exposed to any potential issues that may arise if anything were to happen.” Her tight lipped smile stopped you from inquiring what she thought may go wrong, so instead you resigned with a nod of your head. Your friends would listen to your rant later, there was no need to explode in your teacher’s office.

After that encounter, which ended up with you not only being insulted as a ‘minor’ figure in the school as opposed to the illustrious Jimin, but also having to lug a contract as big as a dictionary.

“Who needs a contract as big as this? Who does he think he is? International star my foot” you huffed as you struggled to carry the said atrocity and your gym bag down the hall. “I mean, international dancer but also how much trouble does he get into to need so much coverage for his ass? I get it, his ass is big enough to need a hefty contract….!”

Your friends, who’d tried to warn you beforehand of the situation you ended up up stumbling in, gasped. You were not paying attention to where you were headed and oh so ungracefully smacked your head into someone’s shoulder. “Oh, I’m sorry” not looking up, you bent down to pick the gym bag that fell off your shoulder on impact.

“It’s ok” a soft voice responded and you swear you can hear angels sing in your ear. You quickly glanced up, the gym bag long forgotten by now. You wanted to put a face to the melodious voice. And so the dream ended and the angel choir broke up. No longer apologetic, your face instantly dropped. It did not matter you have never interacted with him before and that for a first time meeting you were being incredibly rude. Not when the voice belonged to the one and only aforementioned Park Jimin.

“Oh, it’s you”

Smiling brightly at you he nodded, “it is me”.

His soft and plush features were enough to intimidate you. Not that he looked fierce, not by a long shot. It was the opposite, he looked so innocent it almost made you regret ever thinking he was a stuck up brat. Round cheeks, plump lips and eyes that reflected his bright smile, he looked handsome. His sand coloured hair and the blue contacts made him look princely handsome. And you hated it. “Are you Y/N by any chance?” you pondered whether or not you should have responded to him, but your friends made that decision for you before you could utter a word.

“Yes she is” they nudged you to say something. You shrugged, trying to look nonchalant.

“Yes, hi….” you trailed off. You were not close enough for you to be calling him by his name before he even got the chance to introduce himself properly to you. “Jimin” he filled you in, offering you his hand to shake. Having little faith in you and your ability to be polite, your friends nudged you again in a silent warning to not push his hand away. You had to admit the thought had crossed your mind for a couple of seconds, but your parents had not raised you that way. Glaring at the offered hand, you grabbed it in a firm shake.

Jimin faltered a bit, your intense grimace making him think he was an inconvenience. “Well, uh, nice to meet you” you glanced at him, catching the shy look he was giving you before letting go of your hand and stepping aside. “I will not keep you any longer, I will see you later” He hurriedly retreated to his friends, who were on the side waiting for him. You observed the scene silently for a few seconds whilst chewing on your bottom lip. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as you made him out to be. But when two of his friends laughed and patted his back in a congratulatory way, you instantly changed your mind.

Variation-Him

Upon completion of the adagio, the dancers separate and each dancer, in turn, takes center stage and performs a variation (1)

To say you had stopped thinking about the pretentious Park Jimin and the encounter you had would be a total lie. How could you, when you were meant to start practicing for your duet in a few days?

Not only that, but from someone who you’d barely see around the school, he turned into someone who would not leave your eyesight. Not by choice, though you would admit sometimes you would seek his form after hearing his laughter nearby. In your defence, he had a very light and airy voice, one that was instantly recognisable and so your traitorous eyes would be drawn to the sound.

Moreover, the way you treated him at the time, as well as the knowledge that you would be performing a pas de deux together, made it impossible for your peers not to gossip. And so, your name and his were strung together and uttered by everyone that would pass by you.

“It is becoming kind of annoying now,” you muttered angrily to your friends. They had tried their best to keep you level headed during the period but they were finding it more and more difficult to try to reason with you.

“Look Y/N, you are getting to perform on stage, with a great dancer” your friend raised their hand up and covered your mouth with it when you instantly tried to protest. “Nuh-uh, as much as you have a personal vendetta against him, you have to admit he is a great performer. This school does not pick talentless people'' you sighed, they were right. He was a good performer, but you were not ready to admit that yet. Not when that would have given him more rights to be prideful about it. Pushing your friends’ hand away, you whined, “He may be a great dancer, but that puts even more pressure on me to be good, otherwise any chance I may have had at a career as a main performer is gone!”

“Hey, you will be just fine! You got picked for a reason!” your friend tried to encourage you but you could only smile sadly at them, finding it hard to believe it. “Plus, your admirer seems to think so too” your friend smiled smugly at you.

Rolling your eyes at them you scoffed, “what, am I supposed to believe the words of someone who can’t even come out clean with who they are? All I know is that they could be someone who has no clue what they are talking about. I mean, they are confessing their love for me. I wouldn’t call that good taste.”

“Maybe you should,” the voice you had come to know very well over the past few weeks spoke from behind you. Confusedly, you turn around “huh?” did he happen to know something about it? Could it be him? Giving you a once over, Jimin cleared his throat. “Maybe you should, you know, hurry up. Our first practice starts in less than 10 minutes. Don’t know about you, but I would like to warm up before anything” his soft smile faltered when you glared at him. You couldn’t help it, spending so much time hating a made up version of him in your head made it impossible for you to warm up to the real version. And his last comment did grate your nerves, was he implying that you weren’t able to manage your time effectively?

You didn’t miss the slight hurt in his eyes as he passed by you, and against your better judgement your heart twinged. Saying a quick goodbye to your friends, you rushed down the corridor to catch up to him.

“Hey, Jimin” he didn’t stop. Not because he couldn’t hear you, but because the slightly panicked look on his face was not something he wanted you to witness. He had almost given himself away, but he couldn’t stand hearing you talk about his admiration and yourself in that way anymore. He tried to play it off as reminding you of the time, but then you gave him that look, a look that told him you really did not want anything to do with him. At that thought, he felt his heart drop to his stomach faster than he could say pas de chat.

“Jimin wait” he did not want to wait, but he listened to you. Why? Because even if you seemed to hate him with a passion, he would do anything for you.

You thought you had not met before, and in a way Jimin supposed you hadn’t. Not in person at least. But he was there when you had your performance for the entrance exam. To say he was entranced from the very beginning was an understatement. His eyes didn’t leave your form. Every pirouette, every arabesque, glissade, plie... you moved like silk in the wind: smooth, seamless, weightless. When your performance was finished, his heart felt weightless and completely enamoured.

He tried to talk to you after, but you disappeared as quickly as you had done your jete. All he was left with was your name from the application form and the hope that you would succeed in entering so he could see you again.

Bringing himself back to the present, he didn’t turn to face you, and you could not bring yourself to apologise, as the words got stuck in your throat. Instead, you walked a few steps ahead of him and stopped. Doing a silly turn on pointe you gave him an unsure smile, “you coming?”

Variation-Her

In general, the variations are intended to showcase spectacular, acrobatic leaps and turns, as well as the skills and athleticism of the individual dancers.

“Now, Y/N, what did I tell you? This has to be all allegro! Quick, quick, quick!” Your director clapped his hands as if to make a point of what quick meant. You nodded, your breath coming out in heavy pants. Having been practicing all the brisees and pas de chat for a good four hours, you were already tired. Your limbs felt like they were made of lead and your breath came out in shallow rasps.

“Once more” You bit your lip as you tried not to glare at them. You barely got a break and it was just the first week. You had a lot more weeks to perfect it. Indeed, it was not perfect and your insistence on not being closer to Jimin during the partnered moves made it even more awkward. The dance was just not flowing as it should have. Flower Festival in Genzano was a classical pas de deux performance, with rapt moves expressing the happiness and flirtation between two young lovers.

Yours portrayed more of a tragedy between two lovers than the blossoming of love between them. Your movements were adagio instead of alegro, and the swiftness of the intended movements were rough and unsure. Frustrated couldn’t even begin to explain how you were feeling.

Jimin, had yet to utter a word during this time , and in a way you were grateful. You didn’t think you could stand it if he’d opened his mouth to boast about his skills. His moves were graceful, quick, resembling a lark hopping through the grass. He had a lightness of movement that made you realise why he was called the wonder boy of the school. Looking as if he was as light as a feather, he breezed through his variation with ease.

“Y/N, come on, up up up!” the director clapped their hands impatiently. “Your variation from the beginning” gesturing you to get off the floor they restarted the musical accompaniment. Huffing in distress you quickly got on your feet, a sharp pain shooting up your calf. Grimacing you tried to get into position, but with the music being way ahead of your start you fumbled around to get into the right position. It only took a wrong turn of your ankle during a quicker brise for your whole leg to cramp causing you to fall into a heap on the floor.

“What are you doing? Up! From the beginning, you can’t be lazing around. Look at Jimin, he’s done his perfectly. You can’t be sullying his name like this.” Trying your hardest to hide the tears of pain and humiliation out of your eyes, you slowly got on your knees in an attempt to get off the floor.

“Uhm, maybe it would be better if we took a small break?” for the first time since you’ve started Jimin spoke up. Shooting him a stubborn scowl you pushed yourself up with great effort. Stumbling a bit from the pain in your leg you refused to give up. “No, I can do this”

“Y/N, look at you” he slowly approached you as if you were going to strike like an injured animal. And maybe that is how he viewed you. Weak and easily hurt by your lack of talent and professionalism. Before you could retort, the artistic director abruptly stopped the music.

“Yes, Y/N, look at you. You’re stiff and uncoordinated. You’re making the proverbial bull in a chinashop look like a ballerina. How can I let you perform next to Jimin? He’s an international star and he has a reputation to maintain. You’re doing your best to sully that” hurtful tears started pooling in your eyes. Maybe you should just withdraw now. Clearly, no one thought you were good enough. As if to confirm your unspoken thoughts, they carried on, “you were not my first choice by any chance. But you were asked for, specifically, so I had to comply. Please don’t treat this like you do with the corps du ballet.”

You tried your best to reign in your tears, you could not expose your feelings like that. One wrong move and they could’ve removed you from the performance.

“Sir, I think it is best we stop here for the day” Jimin suggested. Who was he to ask for such a thing? How dare he ask the artistic director to stop for the day, as if they would listen to him. “I, uh, forgot i have another meeting in half an hour and it’s best if I don’t miss it” you glanced at the two, a heavy feeling settling into your stomach when you observed the change in the director’s demeanour. Grovelling, he assured Jimin that you’d stop there for the day, flourishing his respect and admiration for how hardworking he was. With a last disappointed glance at you and a scoff, they exited the studio.

It was just you and Jimin left, the silence deafening. Pretending to be busy with tying your pointe shoes, you refused to glance at him. You felt disgraced and belittled. Even though you were aware that Jimin had said nothing against you or your performance, you couldn’t help but channel all your hurt into your behaviour towards him.

“You ok? You should go get that checked” finally gathering the courage to address you, Jimin crouched down to have a look at your leg. You retracted it instantly before his hand could touch you.

“I’m fine, don’t be late for your meeting” you snapped at him.

He observed you in silence for a few moments, and you didn’t know if it was the look on his face which screamed pity to you, his concern for your wellbeing, or the humiliation that you have faced because of him, but your anger levels increased exponentially.

“Look, you don’t need to pity me, I’m fine, just go and show the world your greatness and stop bothering with the likes of me” you huffed. “I’m clearly not good enough and need to improve” your voice softened. You knew you were angry at yourself and not at him. He’d been nothing but kind to you from the first moment you have spoken. Maybe that was why you were taking it all out on him. He was always close to perfect. And it irked you.

“I’m not pitying you. In fact, I admire you a lot.” His confession made you snap out of your thoughts and look at him in disbelief. His cheeks were tinted red and you couldn’t help but think of how cute he looked when he was bashful like that.

“You don’t mean that,” you whispered. “Why would you mean that?”

The silence that ensued, along with the uncertain look on his face, made you think that he would finally admit his joke and tell you that he didn’t mean it. He was him, and you were you. The thought made your heart ache.

“Why do you hate me so much?” he finally asked, and you were once again taken aback, not expecting the change in subject.

“I— don’t. You irritate me, but I don’t hate you,” at your words his expression instantly changed to confusion and a slither of hurt flashed across his face. You hurried to explain yourself, “look you are perfect, everyone clearly loves you, you are nice and everyone flocks around you like bees to honey. And it annoys me. But that is my shortcoming, and not your fault so forget I said that” you sat up quickly, the pain in your leg making it difficult. But a warm hand grabbed your forearm. You wanted to shake it off since you did not want his help, but the heat and support it provided was exactly what you needed. And in that moment you realised that, just like everyone else, you had fallen for him and his charms. He was definitely not what you wanted. What you wanted was to be able to perform to the best of your abilities, to stand on that stage proudly next to him. But what you actually needed was him, his soft words, and his sweet gestures that somehow managed to lift you up and nurse your pride, if only by a bit.

With that realisation, fear and determination gripped your heart. “You should go to your meeting” you nod towards the door. “I’ll be fine” seeing that he was prepared to protest, you added quietly, “please, I would like to be alone right now.”

With a heavy heart, Jimin let go of your arm and retracted slowly. Your words hurt, but they also gave him hope that he may actually stand a chance at becoming your rock. And for now that was all he wanted from you.

“Please rest and get that checked” He said, before he turned around and looked at you wistfully one last time, “I don’t really have a meeting to go to, but i will leave if you want me to”

His exit was swift and graceful, but his heart was heavy and uncertain. How could he make it better for you? How could he convince you to trust in your skills more? Suddenly, he got an idea and he prayed that it would work. It was a shot in the dark, but it was the only one he had.

Adagio 2

A few days after that, you were by your locker once again, with a red gardenia in your hands. With a letter grasped between your fingers, you decided you would read it later as you saw your partner approaching. You hadn’t practiced together since that day, left on your own with the artistic director to practice your variation. The first time you entered the studio and realised that Jimin would not be joining you had made you nervous.

As much as you’d tried to ignore it, it strengthened the realisation that you did need him. In such a short amount of time, he made it so that you saw him as comfort and protection. His soft demeanour and worried glances melted your resolve to loathe him. You were ready to admit you were wrong about him, but you did not get the chance to until now.

Approaching you, he smiled unsurely. You looked a lot better and a lot more rested. He only hoped that having a separate chat with the artistic director gave you a small break in his absence. Sparing a short glance at the flower and letter in your hand he tried his best to hide his smile. Instead he motioned to it as nonchalantly as he could, “Secret admirer?”

With the flower in your hand, forgotten at the sight of him, you quickly rushed to hide it behind your back. “Uhm, none of your business” your cheeks were dusted in pink, making him smile at you fully, his eyes crinkling in amusement. “You ready for today? We’re practicing the duet together”

“Ah, so you will be part of this one then?” You tried to make it seem like you didn’t care as to where he had disappeared in the last few days as you subtly prodded him for more information. Quickly catching onto your scheme, he smirked.

“Did you miss me?”

You scoffed, “Not by a long shot wonder boy. Let's go or we’ll be late, don’t know about you but I would like to warm up first” You turned around and started walking away from him, completely missing the lovestruck Jimin you left in your wake.

“Huh” he whispered to himself. You'd rendered him speechless once again.

Hours of practice later, everything went down better than the first time you’d worked together, as you had all the movements down to a ‘T’. Unfortunately, you were so focused on getting the technicalities right that you forgot about the freedom of the movement that went with the dance. You were stiff once again, and lacked the passion that the female lead should portray.

“No, no, no, Y/N. Once more from the top” the artistic director shooks their head in disapproval. You could feel frustration bubbling up threatening to spill in the form of tears once again. Before that could happen, Jimin instantly called for a small break, under the excuse that he needed to readjust his pointe shoes. He motioned for you to sit down next to him, and you shakily and reluctantly took a seat next to him on the floor. You couldn’t even look at him, let alone address him. Once again doubt started creeping in your thoughts.

“You need to relax more. Feel the steps, don’t think the steps” he whispered to you. Without giving you a chance to respond, he quickly got up and the artistic director immediately rushed to start the music again. You had no choice but to get into position, his words still swimming inside your mind. Feel the steps.

You tried, you swore you did. But somehow, it wasn’t working. By the time it got to the adagio, which was less slow and more of a petite allegro, with smaller and quicker movements, you were ready to give up. You felt as though you were made of wood. When it came to the partnered planche, all you did was stiffly raise your left leg to the back with your arms behind you, waiting for Jimin to grab them.

Improvising, he gripped you from the waist to support your planche, instead of grabbing just your hands from behind your back. He brought himself as close to you as he could, his warmth enveloping all of your senses. Luckily this planche was on flat— your foot planted firmly on the ground, rather than on pointe—otherwise you would’ve lost your footing and toppled over on the floor. He smelled good. Funnily enough, he smelled like gardenias in the warmth of the sun. For a second you couldn’t breathe, forgetting entirely where you were. All you could focus on was his gentle grip on your waist and his breath in your ear as he whispered, “focus on me”

As if he’d muttered a magic word, your guard fell down. All your insecurities melted away at his touch. Your brain was filled with the thought of him and as soon as you came down to pirouette in his arms, he was all you could see. Today he wasn’t wearing contacts, offering you an unobstructed view into his chocolate coloured eyes. His smile was soft and encouraging and his hands around you were strong and supportive. He was silently attempting to tell you that he had you, that you could trust him. There was something else hidden there deep in his eyes, however. As you stared at him for a second longer, trying to decipher what it was, something in you shifted. But the next move didn’t wait for either of you, so you quickly moved away from his arms and into the next position.

This time though, things were different. You feltl it in your movements. The uncertainty and stiffness was long gone. You both moved as one, even with your individual variations, you both came back together as if an unknown string was connecting the two of you.

As the end of the last note on the track rang out into the studio, so did the dream of two young lovers. Both you and Jimin finished returning to the first position in tandem, as if you were one. The two of you panted for different reasons. You, from the effort and the thrill of the closeness that you’ve both experienced. Him from performing without breathing, as his heart threatened to burst at having you so close to him. The performance gave him a snippet of what it would be like for him to be your real lover. And it was intoxicating.

The satisfied smile that the director gave you told you that you’d done it. You finally let go, and it was all thanks to Jimin. Excitedly, you turned your head to beam at him. The admiration in his eyes caused warmth to pool in your stomach. You finally saw the invisible string that tied you both together during the duet. It was affection.

Coda

A Coda is a classical ballet term that refers to the finale of a group of dancers and more often, the finale of a pas de deux.

No one spoke of what had transpired between you and Jimin that day. Completely ignoring your admittance, as well as his confession, you tried your best to act professionally. Practicing both together and apart made the days blend together. In that time you attempted to ignore the feelings that were threatening your performance (and your sanity). There was no time for any of that. You had a dream and this was your only chance to grasp it.

For weeks on end, all you did was practice, completely missing out on sleep and any social activities that your friends partook in. You avoided any social interaction that stepped over the small ‘Talk’ line. And you most definitely avoided your partner outside of your practice sessions. Whenever you would see him come from the opposite end of the corridor, you would quickly turn around and pretend you were looking for something in your gym bag. Sometimes, if you were lucky enough, you’d quickly veer to go towards the toilets. You made sure that there was no chance for the two of you to speak outside of the performance, afraid that you would blurt something out that you’d have rather kept to yourself.

The only interaction you had, if you could call it that, was with your secret admirer. And by interaction, you meant smiling at the flower he’d tape to your locker. Oddly though, for the past few weeks they would leave little notes taped next to the flower. From encouraging messages such as ‘You can do it’ to longer ones that spoke highly of your performances and your capability as a dancer. They were never consistent in length or content, but were always signed off the same way: ‘Forever yours, your secret admirer’

Weeks had passed, and with each day your confidence grew alongside your feelings for your partner. Even with little verbal interaction between the two of you, you were dancers. You did not need words to convey messages, and you certainly didn’t need words to convey feelings. Each time you would reach the finale of the dance you were breathless and dazed, craving for more.

More had to wait though. This was it, the first day of the show. You were nervous to say the least, but having worked so hard, day and night, and with the knowledge that no matter what Jimin was there to support you, you were as ready as you’d ever be.

Thinking about it, from someone you thought was a narcissist to someone you’d viewed as a rock, Jimin had managed to ground you and lift you up at the same time. You’d fallen so hard and fast for him, that you didn't even know what hit you. However, at the thought that there was still a secret admirer that had silently cheered you on, and the fact that Jimin was still a more professional dancer than you were, he probably made each one of his partners fall for him quickly. That was enough to dampen the fire in your heart. You would carry on with this performance and prove yourself to everyone. Prove that you deserved a spot on that stage as a main dancer. Show everyone that you deserved the spot standing next to Jimin, even if it was only as his dance partner.

“Hey, Y/N” your friends greeted as you were putting on the make up for the performance. “Are you nervous?” One of them asked as they all crowded around you.

Laughing, another one of your friends responded, “why would she? I bet she’s smug, now that she’s been favoured by the top star of our school. She clearly caught his eye from the beginning if she’s been personally requested by him” your friends' words left you confused, so you turned around to face them.

“What do you mean?”

They looked at each other warily. “You mean you haven’t heard?” They asked you and you shook your head, left even more confused. “The other day someone heard the artistic director discussing how they didn’t think that you’d pull through, but you did and that Jimin was correct in requesting you as his partner for the performance. Apparently…” they would have said more if not for the appearance of said man at your door. Quickly they wished you good luck and exited the room leaving the two of you alone. He looked dashing in his white shirt and tights. The shirt was made of a silky material to allow freedom of movement and the top buttons were undone, exposing his defined collarbones and the white of his skin. It was tantalizing enough to make you swallow thickly.

However, the words of your friends still buzzed in your head, and you didn’t have the time to ask him if it was true. You were both hurried by your ballet master towards the entrance to the stage. It was time.

In the last few minutes before you were supposed to exit and show the world what both of you had worked for, you expected to be nervous, yet you felt strangely calm. Taking advantage of the stillness around you, you stole a glance to your right. Jimin looked tense, more tense than you had seen him before, and you couldn’t help but wonder if it was because of the performance or because he suspected what you were about to ask him.

“Is it true?” You whispered, not holding back. You needed one last piece of information before the puzzle was complete. And you wanted him to freely offer you that piece.

His jaw muscles twitched, and you could see his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed. The silence between you two was even more deafening. It was as if the dancers that pitter-pattered around you, or the people chatting in the audience, did not reach the bubble around the two of you. The string that connected the two of you before, was shortening in length until there were mere inches between you two.

“You made it up to this stage on your own” He whispered, “There is nothing else bringing you up here but yourself. You may think I’m irritating, but in reality, you hate me.” He prevented you from responding by grabbing your hand. His hands were warm, while yours were clammy. “You can’t say hateful things about yourself and claim that you don’t hate me. If you hate yourself, you hate me. If you belittle yourself, you belittle me. So please don’t do that anymore. If you care even a little…” He didn’t continue, he couldn’t. He was on the verge of tears. You could hear it in his voice.

What he implied didn’t go unnoticed by you, and you were more than ready to surrender. But you needed one more thing. “And the flowers?”

Instead of offering you a straight up response he raises his right hand, the one that was hidden from you until now.

You let out a short breath. The puzzle was complete. In his hand stood a lone red gardenia. His secret love.

Well, not so secret anymore.

“Do you trust me?” He asked with a smile.

Smiling back at him with all the love you could muster, you intertwined your fingers together.

“Yes, yes I do.”

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