#esposita

[vagnercampos]

Amo isso...👉❤️👈 Família #god #familia #filha #esposita (em Santo André, Brazil) https://www.instagram.com/p/CpcZGQAOCPp3qYBnWmqhOYALxjglrMK9Pws87M0/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[beabems]

Grecia y Luis....Luis y Grecia...Grecia y Luis 🤎 Les adverti del spam 🤪🤪😍..y no aún no termina 😏😁 Fotografias: @bemsphotography Asistente: @pattms23 . . . #ContandoTuHistoriaEnImagenes #couple #esposos #esposito #esposita #bemsphotography #beabemsphotography https://www.instagram.com/p/Cnfldn3Oz3h/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[ugh-my-back]

I bet she carves your heart

when she walks onstage

Her empire slowly

becomes your place

[lotties-ashwagandha]

every time i hear a woman speak a different language some remote part of my lesbian brain activates and i go feral

[galilvee]

‘  ¡empiezo yo! yo nunca...  ’  tono es animado en conjunto a una sonrisa. juego que había propuesto para arrancar anécdotas y carcajadas que resonarían en aquel espacio verde, y algunas otras tanto muriendo en el pico de la botella, es vilmente interrumpido. un destello de fuego artificial logra que sus záfiros se pierdan un momento allí, verificando la hora al instante. alguien se había adelantado por un par de minutos.   ‘  están por ser las doce.  ’  musita, con su ceño hundiendose un ápice sin estar muy alegre por la idea. no quería volver con los demás, donde todos se acercaban con el mismo diálogo por la estúpenda fiesta de su familia junto a los park. hasta sus agradecimientos se habían vueltos monotonos.   ‘  hm... ¿deberíamos volver?  ’  musita suavemente, buscando sus miradas.      *   @hyacinthrf​   @fahvruz​. 

[svnmih]

vale, aquella lista no era muy favorable hacia su persona. ' ¿por qué solo nombras lo negativo, aurora? no es justo. ¿recuerdas cuándo... ? ' silencio es contiguo. su mente titubea por encontrar algo bueno. ' y también cuando... ¡ah, ya sé! me ofrecí a pagar tus maquillajes ' la señala con el índice y unas cejas de reproche en alto. era un muy buen punto si no tenían en cuenta que fueron para recomponer el daño que sunmi le hizo a los mismos. ' solo creo que estás exagerando ' tampoco ayudaba tratarla de exagerada ahora mismo. ' vale... déjame empezar con el pie derecho. otra vez '

' rompiste mis cosas, me llamaste cobarde, intentaste robar mis cosas... ' enumera, despacio. ' ¿y ahora pretendes llamarme a mi ladrona? ' inquiere, observándola. aún no sabe qué debería concluir respecto a su compañera. ' empiezo a creer que no debería haber sido amable contigo el día de la fiesta. ' / @svnmih

[solcrz]

“ sabes que las amigas no hacen esto ¿verdad? ” susurra con aquella mínima distancia entre ambas, dejando un par de besos más sobre las comisuras contrarias, sin llegar a los labios. “ en algún momento tendremos que dejar de hacer esto.. pero no será ahora. ¿quieres ir por un poco más de champagne? ” ( privado para @dotsauvr​ )

[autisticlancemcclain]

One Saturday morning, as Keith and Lance descend the stairs on their way to the kitchen — as Keith practically carries a still half-asleep Lance, that is — Marcela whips towards them, points a scolding finger in their direction, and says, “I am tired of checking in on you two at night and seeing my son, sprawling over half the bed, while poor Keith clings to the edge. No more.”

Keith’s heart drops to his toes, pounding all the way down. His ears billow out and then fade slowly, like someone turned the volume down. He feels like a beyblade someone just spun and dropped onto the pavement, dizzy and sharp and sparking, trembling to a stop. For several horrifying moments he’s convinced that this may very well be it, and he’s shocked by his own surprise. He’s usually so prepared for the eventual end of someone’s affection, for the patience to run out, for the boot to kick him on the way out the door. It’s startling to realise how far he’s let his defences drop with the Esposita-McClains.

Dangerous.

But then Keith processes the entirety of her sentence, hears past “I’m tired of” and “Keith” in the same sentence. He sees her narrowed eyes and chiding finger and playful exasperation pointed at Lance’s guilty grin, not at Keith, and he realises she is exasperated by the fact that Lance takes up the whole bed every night Keith sleeps over, not that Keith sleeps over at all.

He unclenches his fist from the hem of Lance’s shirt. He’s not sure if Lance does it on purpose, but he leans farther into Keith, and the pressure helps ground him, helps him breathe again.

“I really don’t mind,” Keith mumbles. He keeps his eyes averted, unwilling to meet her knowing ones. “Lance isn’t that bad.”

Marcela snorts, ruffling his hair as she walks by to set the milk on the table. “Please, Keith. He’s a nightmare to sleep with and he knows it. He had to have those little toddler rails on the sides of his bed until he was seven years old because he kept falling off.”

Lance makes a noise of protest at the embarrassing anecdote. Keith smiles, patting his back slightly.

“He does drool.”

“And kick,” says Lance’s older sister Veronica, ducking into the kitchen to grab an apple. Rachel, his other sister, is right behind her, and she pipes up too.

“He also grinds his teeth!”

“And mutters freaky things. He said he was going to curse me once.”

“Oh, yeah, and there was the deal with the sleeping sitting up!”

“And there was —”

“Alright, girls,” Marcela interrupts, leaning over to hold down the hand Lance has clenched around a fork before he has a chance to launch breakfast at his sisters. She looks to have intervened in the nick of time, which makes Keith smile into his cereal. “Let’s not make your brother homicidal.”

Both girls leave the kitchen snickering. Lance’s face promises revenge. For their sake, Keith hopes they find a way to lock their room door, but somehow he doubts it. A part of him is intrigued about whatever scheme Lance will inevitably rope him into.

“I really am fine, though,” Keith repeats once calm has returned to the morning again. “I once had to sleep in a home that usually had more kids than beds, so Lance’s kicking is a significant improvement from a sleeping bag on the kitchen floor.”

He hadn’t meant for his comment to be upsetting. It wasn’t great, sure, but he’d had a roof over his head and food to eat, and he’d only been there for a couple days. The whole situation was funny in hindsight, hilarity inherent in the absurdity of his neon green sleeping bag next to the magnet-covered fridge, and that’s how he’d meant the comment. A joke.

But Marcela looks horrified, and Lance leans over to rest his head on Keith’s shoulder and wrap their hands together, and Keith realises he’s most definitely made a mistake.

“Kidding,” he tries anyway, but the damage is done. The determination in Marcela’s eyes becomes even more apparent, and she nods twice as if reassuring herself. Keith could kick himself.

“Be ready in twenty minutes,” she says resolutely. “We’re going out.”

———

In twenty minutes they’re in the car. Lance almost has his voice back by then, too, which is great, because Keith feels like he’s going to lose his — he’s expecting a fancy air mattress, really. At most he’s expecting to be delegated to his own space in the pull out couch or something. And even that is more than he ever thought he’d get. It’s not that he doesn’t think he deserves it, or anything like that. He knows that some of his living situations have been less than ideal, in the past few years.

But he…he’s not part of this family. He’s not supposed to be, anyway. He’s someone Lance dragged home someday, someone Lance latched onto and then everyone else seemed to follow his example. Keith knows his current foster family gets a cheque for an amount he’s too afraid to find out every month. He knows the state government pays people to home and house and feed him because no one else will. That’s how it’s been since that’s what it had to be.

He cannot understand what logic has inspired Marcela and Lance and all the Esposita-McClains, really, to home and house and feed him. He doesn’t understand.

He’s not expecting a forty minute drive to Ikea. He doesn’t understand why so much is being extended for him. He’s not expecting the determination in Marcela’s face and the way she holds Keith in one hand and Lance in the other, tightly, as if both are her children, until Lance whines and pulls himself free to come hold Keith’s other hand, as if he’s the commodity.

Keith doesn’t understand.

This is not how things are supposed to go.

This is never how things end up going. Not ever in a million years or even less.

“We should get a bunk bed!” Lance says excitedly, pulling Keith out of his thoughts and in a random direction. Marcela squeezes Keith’s hand once and lets go to allow it, stepping to the side to grab on of the boxy blue shopping carts.

Lance brightens even further when she brings over the cart, hopping onto the end of it and gesturing for Keith to do the same. Keith looks at the cart, then at Lance, then at the wheels, then at the total lack of space beside him, and imagines Marcela hitting the tiniest bump as they cram onto the little ledge and then them going flying.

He wisely chooses to walk over and grab the handlebar next to Marcela. She extends her pinky to rest next to Keith, which makes several emotions that he refuses to identify rise up in his throat.

“Let’s maybe consider our other options,” Marcela suggests as she pushes the cart farther. “You remember when we stayed over at your primo’s house when we first moved? You hit the ceiling every single morning because you could never remember that it was there. I don’t think bunk beds are for you, mijo.”

“And the toddler rail thing,” Keith adds. He’d meant it seriously — Lance has genuinely fallen a few times and Keith has had to drag him back up — but Lance huff-laughs in the way that he does when Keith teases him and he’s annoyed that he finds it funny, and Marcela straight up laughs. Keith meets Lance’s eyes and smiles to soften the unintentional dig.

“Fine,” Lance laments, dramatically leaning backwards on the rail. “We’ll just get boring normal beds I guess. Ooooou, we should get some bookshelves! Then Keith has somewhere to put all his nerd things.”

Marcela turns the shopping cart so quickly it screeches and nearly flings Lance right off, speeding towards the shelving area. Keith hurries to keep up.

“Excellent idea, Lancito. Bribing him to stay for longer. You’re so smart.”

Lance preens. Keith looks rapidly between them both, trying to find the joke, but there isn’t one. They, genuinely and truly, want to redesign Lance’s entire room to entice Keith to stay. However much it will cost, and Keith knows it will be a lot, they are doing more than what is reasonable to ensure they (not just Lance! All of them! The household!) can spend more time with Keith.

It’s baffling.

Try as he might, Keith simply cannot find a motive. He watches, gobsmacked, as Lance and Marcela hem and haw their way through the biggest furniture outlet chain in the world, comparing sturdy wooden shelving and colourful bean bag chairs and dorky spaceship themed beds, redesigning a whole room from scratch.

He startles out of his thoughts at Marcela’s beckoning, walking over to the display table she and Lance are illegally sitting at (there is a giant FOR VISUAL DISPLAY ONLY sign on it that they have ignored), half hunched over her cell and a pad of paper. “Keith, rojo, come here. We need you to sketch out the basics of Lance’s room so we know what fits. Marco is measuring the walls and everything right now. Don’t worry about anything that’s already in there, I think we’re taking it all out to paint it anyway. You like blue, right?”

Keith swallows roughly. He does like blue. He’s never painted his own room before.

“Yeah,” he manages, finally squishing down next to Lance on his chair.

Following Marco’s directions, he sketches out the foundations of the bedroom, marking the big window and weirdly narrow door and closet that Lance never uses because he has it piled full of stuff he doesn’t use but can’t bring himself to give away. The sketch is then used as a sort of map as they wander around the outlet, holding it up to various pieces of furniture and assessing how they would fit. It takes Keith some time, but after several hours of Lance’s energy and Marcela’s excitement, Keith starts to get hyped.

“Gasp!“ Lance says out loud, because he is a dork. He reaches a flapping hand over to Keith’s without looking, slapping him on the shoulder several times before finally managing to grip onto his sleeve. “Keith! Keith! Look!”

Keith squints in the direction Lance is emoting at. “A couch,” he says slowly, trying to figure out what warrants the intense excitement.

Honestly, it might be the couch. Lance got super excited about bar stools, earlier, so anything really goes.

“No no, farther!”

Keith squints harder. “The countertops?”

“Farther!”

“The…vases?”

“No! Farther!” Finally Lance gets frustrated enough to step behind Keith, gently pressing his palms to Keith’s cheeks and guiding his head in the right direction. “Now squint really hard and get excited with me.”

Keith tries. He sees grey blobs and says nothing, allowing the silence to speak for him.

“The stuffies, Keith! They’re sharks and hippos! Mama, Keith needs glasses.”

“I know,” she says at the same time that Keith says “No, I don’t.”

They stare at each other for several moments.

“As soon as you’re on the insurance,” she says levelly.

“I will feed them to a creek,” Keith promises.

He has never been this stubborn to Marcela before. He didn’t even mean to. If he had known he was going to say it he would have kept his mouth shut, but the words kind of bubbled out of him. He waits for her eyes to harden, her shoulders to square, for the annoyance to become evident at his insolence.

But she only snorts, leaning over to flick him on the forehead. “I got Marco to wear them. I got Lisa to wear them. I got my mule of a husband to wear them. If you need them, you will not out-stubborn me, toro.”

Keith shrugs. If she’s that hellbent on getting to know him, she’ll learn, he supposes.

By the time the time they break their intense eye contact, they realize that Lance has already wandered off towards the stuffed animals, and hasten to follow him (he gets lost easy). Lance is already halfway into this big bucket, digging for something specific.

“This is for you,” he says when he finally unearths himself, handing a hippo to Keith. “Smaller than the others, like you, and the fluff is a little matted but it’s softer than the others. The shark is for me because it was stuck on the hippo like I’m stuck on you.” He playfully checks Keith’s hip, giggling at his own joke, but Keith’s eyes are totally glued onto the wonky little hippo plushie in his hands. He holds it loosely, afraid of crushing it, and stares intensely at the matted fluff on the one side, the tangled mess of the little poof at the tail. He tries three times to swallow and fails each time, lump in his throat taking up too much space.

“We’re too old for stuffies,” he finally manages. He gives himself away by how tightly he holds the soft things in his hands.

Lance snorts. “Yeah, well, you’re a massive dweeb, so I think we’re fine.”

“I think they’ll be wonderful additions to your room,” Marcela says with finality, and that is that.

———

By the time they make it out of the maze that is Ikea, pack up the car, and set out on the ride home, it’s well after eight thirty. And Keith isn’t a baby, and neither is Lance, and they have a later bed time than that, but…

They’ve been walking around all day. There has been a lot of expended energy.

They’re tired.

Keith remembers being finagled into playing double-o seven with Lance in the back seat. He remembers losing. He remembers poking Lance in the cheek as he yawned just to hear him squawk.

He remembers nothing but the feeling of Lance’s warmth pressed against his, after that, and the seatbelt digging into his neck, and the numbness of his legs. Then he remembers nothing until he felt the familiar bump of the Esposita-McClain driveway, until he cracked open his eyes to see that they were home and closed them quickly again, hoping he wouldn’t be made to get up, still mostly asleep.

“Should we bother setting up the new beds?” comes a whispered voice, deeper and male.

“No, no,” comes another, higher and softer. “They can sleep together for tonight. You take Lancito. I’ll take Keith.”

He is awake enough to feel soft fingers brushing through his hair, then jostling, then heavy breathing beside his ear and the swaying of being carried. He falls fully asleep again against Marcela’s shoulder, leaning his weight onto her fully, forgetting to keep awake for the walk to their room. He stirs slightly again as he’s set down onto something soft, as he feels the familiar tug of Lance’s finger’s against the fabric of his shirt, the sound of his slow breathing.

“Goodnight, estrellitos,” comes the same whispered voice from earlier, and it’s the last thing Keith remembers before he slips away into sleep.

———

other parts in this universe: 1 2 3

[anonymouszephyrus]

Voltron Characters Headcanons, go!

FINALLY! I HAVE.. too many..

Let's start with the original Red & Blue duo:

KEITH (Aka. He isn't emo, just unique)

- Demisexual Homoromantic (Yes.) - He/Him Pronouns - Full Name Headcanon: Keith's full name is “Keith Akira Kogane” and other languages. However, I like to think that Keith's father (whom I've named: Hyeong-Min, Hyeon by itself means “Virtuous or Worthy” and Min means “Sharp-minded” which I think fits someone who is Keith's dad.) His surname in Japan is Kogane, yes. But in Korea, it would be Kim. As both Kim and Kogane mean “Gold” in Korean and Japanese. This does mean that Keith has a Korean name along with his usual one. I'm choosing to go along with the idea that when Hyeong-min's parents left Korea and moved to Texas, they gave him a Korean name but when Hyeong-min and Krolia had Keith, they chose to gave him multiple names depending where he was. TLDR; (Japanese - Akira Kogane; Korean - Ki-Joo or Ki-Joon Kim/Kogane; Common - Keith Akira Kogane.) - Absolute Literature nerd (He spent a shit long time in that cabin. There's no way Adam or Shiro hadn't found him before and given him books or something to occupy himself.) - I love having him as Japanese-Korean + Half-Galra but he was raised in Texas so he's forgotten a lot of his Korean since no one was there to continuously talk to him in the language like his dad did. Shiro talks Japanese with him so that one is still fine. Keith's been trying to relearn Korean but it's hard since he gets sad (and mad) when thinking about his dad. - He wears eyeliner. Shiro taught him to. - He wears too many rings. And whenever he has to wash his hands, he takes them off, and Lance practically faints every time Keith flexes his hands to ensure his rings are in place. - Despite being touch-repulsed, Keith is so fucking touch-starved it's unreal. - Keith only calls Shiro “Takashi” when he's mad or sad. No in-between. One time he did it was when he was younger, Shiro beat him in Mario Kart and he got so mad, he screamed: "I'm disowning myself from you, Takashi!" and Shiro almost cried. - Keith's Galra side only comes out when he's focused, mad, or extremely flustered about something. Lance teased him to no end one time and his skin started turning purple. - After Allura and Keith had their talk, Allura's been trying to make his little Galra situation better. If she sees him slowly turning purple and becoming anxious about it, she'll turn purple too for the remainder of his ordeal. (And then it becomes a “who wears purple the best”) - Keith loves music, he likes to play the keyboard or piano at times, only problem is that he's a bit tone-deaf (which is surprising considering he actually is pretty good at playing those instruments.) - He is lactose-intolerant, only that he doesn't give a shit and does continuously eat or drink dairy products, it doesn't make him sick though because of his Galra genes... but he does, quite literally, destroy the bathroom.

LANCE (Aka. Too many sad shit)

- Bisexual Disaster (with a hint of internalized homophobia) - He/Him Pronouns - Full Name Headcanon: His real name is Leandro Agustín Nuñez Carmen Esposita-McClain, shortened to Lance McClain. Just like @autisticlancemcclain's headcanon, I love it a lot. (Sorry for the ping, if it did) - All his siblings have acronym names along with their mother. Mervin, headcanon McClain papa's name, is the only one without one. - Lance has central heterochromia, meaning the inner ring of his eyes are brown whilst the rest is blue. Kinda like this:

(This is a picture I got off Google, please don't sue me. And yes, I know it's more orange than brown but I couldn't find a good enough reference to show you all, basically it's just like that except the middle is much darker) - He's constantly terrified he'll forget things from Earth. Like his sense of time, the way colors are, the way the light moves, the moon changing every night, everything. Not just because of you know, Voltron and stuff, but because he has memory issues too. - He accidentally forgot the name of his niece and nephew one time and panicked afterward as he scrambled to think of what they were. Now, he has little notes in his pocket that holds all his family members' names. - Lance is a prodigy at playing music, specifically guitars but he doesn't think he's good after the last time he played in a competition, he got absolutely destroyed and insulted by one of the other sour competitors that he never tried to play a guitar again because everytime he tries to, that memory keeps coming back and it's one of the many reasons he has such low self-esteem. - He thought he was sick the first time he had a crush on a guy from the first week of being in the Garrison (it was Keith) and rang up his mother only to be politely told that he wasn't sick. - Lance often tries to write little poems for Keith because he knows how much he likes literature only to throw it allow or out the airlock when he thinks it isn't good enough. It leads to the first poem Keith received from him being the most romantic and elegantly made poem he's ever read... (and he only got it because Lance forgot where he left it when he was planning on throwing it away again) - Despite being a flirt, Lance cannot handle being flirted with. Keith is surprisingly smooth with his comebacks (it's only when he doesn't try). - Keith sometimes accidentally (or purposefully, depending on the situation) initiates physical affection and it flusters Lance to no end. - He prefers wearing gold because Keith told him one time that it suited him. Aka: Keith's opinion of anything Lance wears is what he sticks to as a fashion choice.

I've got more for the other characters! Stay tune for those. Next up: Pidge & Hunk, the lil' nerd duo!

PART: 2 & 3

[smileflowcr]

Lo tiene como ha soñado desde que Alastair fue elegido para ser el siguiente monarca del Reino del Sol y tuvieron un encuentro amistoso, donde se encaprichó del omega que nunca había estado con un alfa. Silas va rotando sus amantes de tanto en tanto, siendo incapaz de borrar de su cabeza al rubio y la figura que posee, casi moldeado por los mismos dioses. No necesita tocarlo para saber que está mojado por sus acciones, el aroma del slick le hace perder la cabeza y muerde la zona otra vez. “No es una pérdida, ángel, es una gratificante victoria porque obtendrás el premio que está hecho exclusivamente para ti.” Es un maestro con las palabras, seduciendo rápidamente a cualquiera que quiera llevar a su aposentos hasta el amanecer. Una parte de él, la racional, le dice que es primera vez que está tan ansioso por probar a alguien y por otro lado, su parte animal grita que lo domine sin control, que la bestia desatada reclame lo que le pertenece. “Aunque no lo parezca, no soy un Rey que le guste obligar a otros, disfruto más que caigan ante mi toque.” La mano se desliza por la espalda hacia abajo, por la misma abertura que minutos antes Alastair le mostró pero ahora se va directo a su glúteos, apretando la carne, clavando las uñas con cuidado aunque se moría por dejar marcas rojas que durasen días. Un grave gruño sale de su garganta cuando el menor decide actuar sobre su notable erección y él no podía quedarse atrás, el dedo índice sigue la forma de su lencería, empapándose de aquel líquido que le parece más dulce y adictivo que cualquier otro licor. Su boca busca la del rubio en otro beso seductor e intenso, moviendo las caderas para que pueda imaginar mejor la forma y lo grande que es. “Te haré mío, omega, no pensarás en nada y ni querrás del knot de alguien más, me perteneces desde hoy.” Dice sobre los labios ajenos, llevando el humedecido dígito a los propios para degustarlo como tanto ha deseado, era mejor de lo que podía fantasear, frente a sus ojos y que aprecie lo loco que lo vuelve a la vez que la lengua se encarga de no desperdiciar una sola gota. Los iris rojos se oscurecen por la lujuria cuando termina y suelta el agarre con el fin de quitarse la camisa que usa, dejando su torso a descubierto y la marca en el pecho que posee destaca en la pálida piel, esperando que su físico sea un exquisito espectáculo para el omega. “Delicioso, quiero probar directamente, manos contra la pared, mi amor, ¿O prefieres en el suelo y que te tome como un animal?” regresa a la túnica del contrario, sin la paciencia para quitársela como corresponde, rompiendo parte de la tela en la parte superior. Silas frota rápidamente esos lindos botones, deseando escuchar los sonidos más sensuales que tenga. “Usa tus palabras, omega, ruégame.”

Alastair  percibe  que  Silas  está  en  un  trance  del  cual  no  parece  querer  despertar,  temiendo  que  su  provocación  pudiese  haberle  gatillado  una  especie  de  rut  o  inclusive  un  rut  psicológico  que  no  le  permite  reaccionar  al  dolor,  ni  al  miedo  que  desprendía  su  esencia  entre  todo  el  placer  y  deseos  que  parecían  muy  ocultos  en  su  persona.  Como  el  estratega  que  era,  no  fue  muy  inteligente  midiendo  hasta  donde  podía  empujar  los  limites  del  alfa…  y  los  suyos  propios.  -  —Silas…  —  -su  voz  ha  perdido  fuerza  y  se  nota  en  como  pronuncia  su  nombre  en  un  ronroneo,  sintiendo  un  burbujeo  en  el  vientre  bajo  producto  de  las  palabras  agresivas  que  demostraban  que  lo  deseaba  hasta  el  punto  de  querer  matar,  sus  ojos  dorados  se  mantienen  teñidos  de  azul,  producto  de  su  omega  interior  que  parecía  emocionarse,  sanguinariamente,  con  todo  aquello.  Pelea,  reniega  y  gruñe  cuando  el  otro  lo  toma  del  mentón,  pero  termina  accediendo,  soltando  otro  suave  gemido  cuando  profana  su  oreja  y  comienza  a  susurrar  en  su  oído  todo  tipo  de  palabras  lascivas  que  lo  mojan  más.  Alastair  ha  peleado  tanto  contra  su  naturaleza  como  un  omega,  que  ahora  encuentra  alienígena  la  humedad  que  comenzaba  a  brotar  de  su  centro,  manchando  su  ropa  interior  de  encaje  negro,  deslizándose  por  el  interior  de  sus  muslos  los  cuales  frota  entre  sí,  negando  con  la  cabeza.  -  —No,  nunca  he  tenido  un  alfa  dentro  y  me  niego  a  que  seas  tu  el  primero.  Si  te  dejo  tomarme,  estaría  perdiendo  y  yo  nunca  pierdo  Silas  Chryssomallis  —  -su  orgullo  es  quien  le  ponía  un  a  infinidad  de  barreras  con  respecto  al  otro  alfa,  que,  entre  su  egocentrismo  y  narcicismo,  le  parecía  atractivo  y  conseguí  que  su  omega  despertara  como  ahora.  Saliva  cuando  percibe  la  erección  del  otro  en  el  vientre,  deseando  tocarlo  e  imaginando  como  sería  tenerla  dentro,�� pintando  su  interior  de  blanco  e  inflando  aquel  exquisito  knot  profundo  en  sus  entrañas,  pensando  que  sería  del  tamaño  y  la  forma  correcta  diseñado  solo  para  él.  El  lobo  en  su  interior  reniega  una  vez  más,  obligándolo  a  mirar  al  contrario  directamente  a  los  ojos,  desafiante,  y  sus  colmillos  más  pequeños  que  los  contrarios  lastiman  su  labio  inferior  cuando  lo  muerde.  -  —Oblígame  a  estar  contigo…  —  -pide,  dejando  de  pelear  contra  el  agarre  en  su  muñeca  y  la  zurda  que  estaba  en  el  pecho  del  otro,  desciende  una  vez  más  por  el  torso  hasta  apretar  entre  sus  dedos  la  virilidad  del  más  alto,  sabiendo  que  estaba  completa  y  absolutamente  jodido  si  aquello  iba  a  entrar  en  su  interior.  -  —Solo  de  esa  manera  puedo  estar  en  paz,  sabiendo  que  fuiste  tu  quien  me  sometió  y  no  fui  yo  quien  se  entregó,  que  no  estaba  en  mis  cinco  sentidos  cuando  dormí  contigo…  —  -sus  manos  son  hábiles  cuando  acarician  su  entrepierna,  la  boca  del  omega  que  siempre  lucía  jugosa  y  apetecible,  comienza  a  besar  el  mentón  del  otro,  queriendo  un  beso  nuevo.  No  le  importaba  si  lo  trataba  con  hostilidad  —así  sería  más  creíble  que  fue  tomado  en  contra  de  su  voluntad—  o  empezaba  a  tratarlo  con  la  completa  y  absoluta  devoción  con  la  cual  Silas  deseaba  ser  su  amante  antes  de  aquella  noche.  -  —Hazme  tuyo,  alfa. 

[awwrealmonsters]

Round 2 of the Human/Monster Romance Poll is up on Twitter here: X. 

Thank you everyone who voted in the first round, I’m thrilled at the response. The voting has been shortened this time to 3 days so if you are interested please vote :)

Featured Here

R2-1: Belle and the Beast (Beauty and the Beast) Vs  Hellboy and Liz Sherman (Hellboy)

R2-2: Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood (The Magnus Archives) Vs  Prince Sidon and Link (Zelda: Breath of the Wild)

R2-3: Elisa Esposita and The Amphibian Man (The Shape of Water) Vs  Goliath and Elisa Maza (Gargoyles)

R2-4: Commander Shepard and Garrus Vakarian (Mass Effect) Vs  Roxanne Ritchi and Megamind (Megamind)

R2-5:  Twilight the Demon King and Princess Syalis (Sleepy Princess in the Demon Castle) Vs  Miss Kobayashi and Tohru (Miss Kobayashi’s Dragon Maid)

R2-6:  Sanga and Ashivon (Escape From Divinity Series) Vs  Catra and Adora (She-Ra)

R2-7:  Professor Kasukabe and Haru the Devil (Dorohedoro) Vs  Venom the Symbiote and Eddie Brock (Venom)

R2-8:  Orpheus and Eurydice (Hades Game) Vs  Benjamin Kirby Tennyson and Rook Blonko (Ben 10:Omniverse)

Check out the previous Round Here: X For the names of the non-winners.

[aconflagrationofmyown]

Summary: an episode taking place after “Three Way Script”

Warnings: talks of still born children, suggestions of threesomes, consensual infidelity and polyamory

Notes: gosh I’ve been off here so long and yet I’m still clogged with love notes! How’d i get so lucky? This fandom truly is the sweetest, most gushing and loving imaginable and each of you are dear to me and I miss you all. Europe has seemed to swallow me as I’m over for another month I had not anticipated. That’s ok. It’s that’s great in fact but I’m whooped and tired and missing the chance to make believe with y’all. Here’s a little resurgence in that, thanks for your patience and please, please, please keep spamming me all you want in my inbox and dms as I adore it and it helps me feel included even as I’m a little preoccupied with work right now. Xoxo🌹

Cautions: this was written and not edited a bit, wahooo

Anne’s The Name

Ann-Margret was rather used to being ambushed outside her dressing room by the occasional stray autograph seeker, an entitled producer or five anticipating more, or co-stars looking for a drink after shooting to wind down the chemistry of the day.

As of yet, she’d never been met by a wife.

But there she was, Elaine. Never having met her before didn’t afford Ann even a split second of ignorance. She knew who she was. Mrs. Presley was unmistakable, even when playing at being inconspicuous. Leaning against the stage wall in a somehow more provocatively natural stance than even her husband could manage, those long legs freshly tanned against a pink shift skirt and the elegant length of her -she was slimmer than the papers showed her, what with this baby making hiatus- topped off by chocolate curls getting whipped around her like the studio’s wind tunnel was a paid employee. More deadly still was when the opened door attracted her attention and that pretty pearl adorned neck turned to face Ann, that stunner of a face entirely full of curiosity and maybe…mischief?

Ann was too startled to be certain.

Startled by her sudden appearance, startled by the prettiness of her, startled by the lack of venom anywhere to be found on that compelling face, the lips of which were quirking up in a undeniable smirk of teasing enjoyment. She was enjoying Ann’s dumbfounded, half cocked, partway out the door, frozen in place shock. Somehow this was neither the self sacrificing Saint not irate Madonna that Ann anticipated maybe one day being confronted by.

Instead she was being warmly appraised by heavily fringed eyes that glimmered gold in the late day’s sun. Like her merits for lover or playmate were being gauged. Ann wondered if the rumors were true, if Elvis had really taken a lump of clay and fashioned himself a wife in his own image, more identical and fitting than any rib shaped lady could aspire. That sense of danger and intrigue and knowing that had filled her on meeting Elvis came flooding over Ann again, unable to do more than curiously inspect Elaine as she turns towards her.

“Thumper?” Elaine’s voice is as soft and hopeful as it was coming across the telephone receiver weeks ago, “You are Ann, I believe?” she presses when Ann’s manner can’t play catch up with her overwhelming emotions and she remains frozen, halfway out her open door.

“Ela- Mrs. Presley!” she corrects, wincing at the fumble, utterly unsure now that she’s not being met with open hostility.

“I didn’t mean to startle you!” Elaine straightens up from the wall and click clacks over in her heels to stand opposite Ann, just an arms reach removed from each other and Ann thinks of what a pretty scene they’d make if this were scripted, one red and one brown, a flavor for each taste, matching in height and complimentary in build, facing off in a tunnel. “It’s just I managed to give Esposita the slip and E’s gonna be busy with the studio dubbing and I’m no use at all. I thought I’d wrestle up a friend while I was free.” Elaine’s beaming smile dims the longer Ann stalls for time and etiquette, “Or-or if you’re not free, I understand, I at least wanted to say hello. I’m going to be in the city for a little while and didn’t want to be bumping along into you some day without having sought you out.”

Ann wondered if Elvis asked her to come, if Ann and her inventive ways to have sex without having sex wasn’t quite cutting it and he had caved and called the wife. Or if Elaine had heard Ann’s voice over the telephone and gathered from the whole sleepwalking debacle that it was high time to reel him and his affairs in. Or maybe the colonel had seen the papers, Heda Hopper’s column in particular stating that Elvis was taking a shine to his red headed mirror, and sent the wife down for damage control. The only thing is, Ann was sure that the Colonel was thick as thieves with Hedda, much to Elaine’s distress no doubt, and he loved every bit of publicity that Elvis’ wayward eyes could drum up.

Family men didn’t sell, after all. Ann had certainly played her part in his playboy reconstruction with convincing aplomb.

“Sweetie, are you alright?” Elaine’s voice cuts through the fog of Ann’s concerns and suddenly she’s able to find her voice as she starts to tip over,

“No, I-I’m a little dizzy.” Ann admits, just as Elaine’s arms and a wall barely manage to keep her from face planting on the cement.

-I’m a little dizzy and I love your husband and you’re here to distract him and I’m awful aren't I?! but I couldn’t help it, if you love him as much as you say you’ll understand I couldn’t help it, I can’t help loving him-

“Woah, woah, have you eaten?” Elaine asks solicitously as she keeps Ann standing upright against the wall by an iron grip around her waist and under her arm. Anne winces at what she knows is the tacky feel of her sticky underarm pit cradled by Elaine Presley’s perfectly manicured hand. Why did she have to wear a yellow shift dress today of all days? She can feel Elaine’s fingers rubbing at the tassel on the waist, soothing her the same way Elvis does. By touch, gentle in a way that belies the ease with which she holds her upright. The woman is terribly strong for looking so delicate and there’s suddenly a great deal of logic to Elvis’ starry eyed submissiveness regarding his doll faced wife -Elaine is imposing when she gets her hands on you.

Embarrassment floods Ann next, blushing hot and dewy at being caught so weak in front of a woman the world would say she’s wronged. Heat replaces the cold and clammy dizziness of before and she struggles upright against the wall, getting her feet to work for her, stamping the heels a little to get a strong footing. Elaine doesn't budge in her grip on her, still looking concerned and gentle -god, she’s as comfortable with closeness as he is.

“Matter of fact I have neglected eating.” Ann chuckles weakly, puffing at the hair that’s fallen over her forehead and into her eyes, Elaine swipes it away when the directed huff proves ineffective against hairspray laden locks. “It’s been so hot and -and we had a dance scene, kept having to repeat it and -and so many takes. I got a little nauseous from the heat. I forgot to have lunch.”

“You’re probably dehydrated, poor thing.” Elaine tsks, “Makes folks sick and then they don’t want what they actually need. Happens to the kids on the beach all the time, it’s like bargaining with Castro trying to get Jesse out of the ocean to hydrate.” Ann finds herself chuckling at the mental image of this familial anecdote before she realizes she is chuckling at stories about Elvis’ kids. Should she say her condolences for Joe now? Should she even admit she knows as much as she does? “We should get some meat in you. Water, too.” Elaine decides her course for her, “Do you wanna go back in there to rest for a minute?” she points at the dressing room Ann just exited, “Or we can make a dash for my car and find ourselves a bite?”

What either of these options unspokenly state is that Ann will be spending her evening with Elaine, one way or another. If she’s gonna get throttled for being an adulteress she'd rather it be in a drive-in-diner and not some stuffy back-lot dressing room.

“I think I can manage the dash.” she answers agreeably because that’s what Elaine seems to illicit in her -agreeableness.

And as she finds herself tugged by the hand across the mostly empty parking lot, Ann wonders where that ornery streak she’s made her fame on has gone to. Maybe it’s the dehydration that has tuckered her out. Maybe it’s how Elaine acts like she’s her mother in a way that not even her own mother could make so charming.

Elaine is going to get her burgers and water and make her head less fuzzy. It’s been such a while since anyone met her needs so eagerly that Ann finds herself giggling as they race across the wavering hot asphalt, their heels echoing like clopping tattletales and Ann thinks it’s such a lark right as she tips over the convertible caddy’s door into the plush leather passenger seat.

The convertible is pink, because Elvis bought it for his wife and didn’t bother to ask her what her favored color would be, it was just understood that Mrs. Presley would like a pink Cadillac.

Ann is positive that’s how it went, she doesn’t even need to ask Elaine for the story as Elaine cranks the engine up while flipping the visor forward to tip out a pair of cat-eye shades in what strikes Ann as a strangely masculine getsure of proficiency. It makes Ann want to fan herself at the subtext of this woman having hung around Elvis Presley long enough to have picked up his impossibly cool mannerisms by osmosis.

That right there is intimacy. That right there is bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. That��s a wife.

Ann doesn't know what to do with the rush of appreciation she feels towards what ought to be a nemesis as this cool gal who shields her knowing brown eyes behind tortoise rimmed glasses and flicks on the radios right as a crowd of studio workers begins to swamp the strange duo in their flashy ride.

The song choice by the DJ is downright unfortunate. Surrounded as they are by photographing fans and coworkers, there is nothing for them to do after Elaine’s manicured finger flicks the switch and the mournful rockabilly of Runaround Sue blasts as a ironically perfect soundtrack for the missus taking the side chick out for burgers.

Elaine’s gutsy laugh of recognition at the intro wailing “woaaaah woaaaah woaaaah” tells Ann she appreciates the irony just as much but the woman just waves at the crowd and revs the motor in a fake threat of running over a few studio heartthrobs who are draped over her caddy front trying to get a closer shot.

“If I change it now they’ll read into it more.” Elaine remarks to Ann out the side of her unwavering smile and Ann thinks that’s a talent she wants to learn, damned useful looking like you’re grinning while making conversation.

-‘ask any man that she ever knew, he’ll say keep away from a runaround sue, oh yeah, woaaaaaah”-

Elaine’s french tipped fingers thump out a corresponding rhythm on the pink lacquered steering wheel while surveying the mess of attraction they’ve brought down on themselves in the sweltering parking lot before playfully reaching for the wipers and flicking on the spray with bemused cruelty.

It’s strangely attractive, this distanced bemusement of hers and it fills Ann with notions of thanking Elaine for being a little nasty, something she never felt before for another soul. Suddenly those idiots who degrade themselves and get off in it make a little more sense as she watches the young bucks scramble off of Elaine’s shiny hood with soaked shirts and tented trousers.

“Sorry fellas, y’all were lookin’ overheated.” Elaine quips before the rest of the verbal sparring gets lost in the revv of the engine and they’re peeling out of the studio lot in a move that even Elvis would have found satisfyingly risky.

As it is, Ann lays her burning head back on the white leather seat and enjoys the feeling of the wind whipping her hair off her forehead as Elaine speeds them down Las Vegas roads that don’t tolerate a 75 mile an hour pace most times.

-“well I shoulda known it from the very start, that girl would leave me with a broken heart-“

The strip is truly lovely in the daylight and there’s a charm to it when viewed in the blur of a fast car and the veil of chocolate curls whipping around red painted lips.

“Was- that- did- did Robert Redford just wave you through his red light?” Ann splutters in disbelief at a lightning fast interaction at a four way stop that has Elaine’s head swiveling dangerously and a shark-like grin taking over her face.

“I think he did.” she replies with a guilty giggle and Ann wonders when the last time this woman got to be naughty without it being smothered right out of her the next second by a unfathomably possessive husband.

“A real good looking fella in the bright of day.” she ventures.

“He’s very blonde.” Elaine rejoins and Ann can’t help but laugh at that, at her partiality for dark haired men.

“Yes of course, you like yours so black they’re nearly blue.”

Elaine manages to swivel into their parking space in the drive-in diner with easy grace, the same sorta slide and swivel Ann imagines she’d use to scoot her body into a restaurant booth. “You’re forgetting who applies his hair dye.” she says with faux gravity that has Ann faltering for a moment until she sees her smirking, “And Jack’s not darkening up despite everyone’s predictions. I’m only saying that Redford is -“ Elaine doesn’t finish, she just shrugs and pulls the gear to park.

Noticing a star’s ride at first glance, an eager young waitress in her short skirt and rollerblades flys over and Elaine handles her and the order of five cheeseburgers and as many shakes with the same cooing authority she handled Ann with against the wall.

It sends Ann back to fidgeting, even more so when the girl takes off to plug in the order and Elaine turns the full weight of those perfectly lined eyes back at her and flicks up her sun glasses into her hair to study her closer. It lasts long enough that a blush burns Ann’s face and Elaine herself wonders if Elvis enjoys this girl’s charming unawareness of her own appeal.

Seemingly satisfied with her inspection for now, Elaine turns back in her seat and tilts the rear view mirror downwards to inspect the damage the wind did to her curls and upon catching sight of her face mutters,

“That man…” in a resigned drawl while dabbing away at a smudge of red lipstick out of her lip lines that could’ve only come about by a rather impassioned smooch. Ann figures Redford is not the man in question this time.

It makes Ann feel funny, the thought of having woken up in Elvis’ bed this morning and between then and seeing him again he’s already necked his wife. Necked her thoroughly by the looks of that finger fluffed hair. Anne recalls reading an article in the Whisper about Elaine’s perpetual state of tousled hair and bitten lips, a constant innuendo to what happens to the woman the minute the curtain drops on her picture perfect, wholesome and southern, utterly above reproach little family life. Elaine gets mauled by Elvis Presley, that’s what happens. Elvis who can play the gentleman all he wants during the mating dance but in the act itself promises nothing less than a full, thorough, beastly claiming of his woman.

“Wanna go in?” His wife is asking and it shouldn’t jar Ann as much as it does but she’s so lost in her head that it spooks her all the same and she ends up nodding mindlessly, trying to think about optics and failing to see how this could be anything but tragic for herself. “Alright but use the door handle this time, it’s got one.” Elaine snarks with a pretty little snarl of those red lips and Ann bashfully opens the caddy door properly this time instead of spilling over the side like a tomboy.

She’s still learning how to be what Hollywood wants her to be. Shedding her wholesome girl next door image for a sex kitten verve that hasn’t been entirely unnatural. But it takes a bit of balance as even sex kittens need some glamor, some poise and grace, even as they’re promisingly feral. It’s like tousled curls that hint at obscene amounts of public fuckery without being remotely indecent in itself. She watches Elaine swing open the diner door and wait with charming annoyance at Ann’s preoccupied dawdling. Being billed the “female Elvis” brought about the challenge of having to figure out what Elvis’ appeal even consisted of.

Getting to know the man…intimately…hadn’t made that any clearer. There was a mystique about him that she feared her own shy and frank nature could never manage to do more than a cheap imitation of. Now she was beginning to fear half of his appeal was the promise of his capability that was shown in Elaine Presley’s every move and smirk.

Asking his exquisitely poised and deliciously no-nonsense wife about it didn’t seem a smart move. Recovering from tripping over the curb like an awkward preteen, Ann ducks her head appreciatively for Elaine still holding the damn door open and slips inside the checkered diner.

It was teeth chattering cold in the leather booths after the heat of the ride and both Ann and Elaine found themselves shrinking from settling back into their seats, leaned forward instead with elbows on the table in a cozy pose but no topic of conversation to break the ice as they hovered in such close proximity.

“I thought this would be easier.” Elaine finally let out with a little huff and Ann couldn’t be sure if she was annoyed at her or the situation. “I thought we'd have a lot to talk about.” she explained with a hint of sadness that bewilders Ann. In response to her nonplussed face Elaine went on, “Why, you know…about…lord, our interests! Which as I hear of it consist of many of mine, motorcycles and dancing, my husband of course, and thumb sucking -to name a few.”

Ann inhaled her shake at the mention of that particular sex act, utterly unmoored at the notion he’d told his wife the actual detail. The fact the wife would tell it back.

Elaine was smiling at her coughing fit.

“He’s got such pretty fingers.” she commiserates without pausing in the assault as Ann wheezes

in a vanilla tinged breath, “It’s ingenious really, he said it worked a little too well.”

It had, that’s true, though Ann had never expected Elvis to leave her flat and call his wife up and tell her about how his young costar had cajoled him into rubbing himself to completion as she sucked his thumb in a pantomime of both fallatio and abstinence. Ann had never felt so filthy as she had when she’d watched a married man spew over his knuckles as he hooked his other thumb into her cheek at the same time, leaving her with a knowing smile, happy to keep her revved up and hungry for him for days after until he finally caved and-

“Makes me wanna try it.” Elaine’s voice cuts through the fog and Ann is faced yet again with the fact that this woman seems to wanna chat about her husband's technical infidelity like two girls at a sleepover. She’s still waiting for the seething possessiveness and or vicious cutting down to size.

“Thank you for the flowers, that was -that was much too kind.” Ann gets it out, burdened in a way she hadn’t been before the bizarre need to be liked by Elaine Presley had taken root.

“Thanks for being good to him.” Elaine replies without missing a beat but in so low and earnest a tone it seems to warm the entire diner and the leather feels cozy.

“I’m so sorry about Joe.” Ann blurts with hoarse earnestness because the grief of it is choking her as she watches this woman dazzle and smile her way through a cataclysmic tragedy, the size of which has Elvis Presley himself trying to sleep walk to his death to end the pain of it.

An emotion, something very cold initially and then frighteningly intense, almost a little ugly in its horrifying struggle flits across, then threatens to crumple, Elaine’s poised features and Ann suddenly wishes her tongue had been cut out, she oughta be locked up and never let out in polite society again. She watches helplessly as Elaine’s mouth firms into a hard line even as her eyes grow wide and wild and begin glittering madly with what Ann realizes, almost too late, are unshed tears -and then those perfectly manicured hands fly up to hide a deluge of grief that melts that serene facade.

“I-I’m so sorry, I just -I just had to say it.” Ann hears herself whimpering out condolences and excuses and her hands fumble over the linoleum table top in a helpless gesture as Elaine’s hands are too busy shielding her famous face from the entire diner’s occupants as her shoulders shake in a terrible rhythm that is peculiar to stifled sobbing. “I’m just so horribly sorry for you, for both of you, all of you. And everybody goes on like it didn’t happen but I- I can’t imagine how awful that is, the ignoring of it. I-I didn’t think before I said anything I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Elaine.”

Ann watches as the sobs seem to slow, and then they still, and eventually, this young woman leans forward again and rests her elbows on the table, face still hidden by her hands, one of which boasts that stupendously gaudy wedding band. Realizing there’s one thing she can mend, Ann reaches into her purse and digs out a hanky before pressing it against Elaine’s knuckles in a silent plea for her to use it.

It’s like witchcraft the way her face is entirely composed once those hands drop and the damp and smudged hanky is balled into her dainty fist. She’s looking straight past Ann at her surroundings, clocking her audience and even twisting a little in her seat to make certain no one’s overly enthralled by her lapse in perfection, it’s exhausting watching this haunted look of hunted excellence by, Ann can’t even imagine what it’s like living it. Suddenly Ann’s hands are being gripped and the woman’s fingers are burning hot and clammy and her eyes are boring into her own, seemingly satisfied that they are still anonymous enough for a little show of emotion and Elaine is murmuring in a husky whisper,

“Thank you, Thumper -you see, nobody talks about her. I-I -there’s no one I can talk to…about her.”

The fact that her own husband can’t even manage it but had to find a stranger to spill to instead strikes Ann with a fathomless guilt for taking that from Elaine, but it’s not as if she had elicited it! He came to Ann himself and what he spoke of she couldn't control. Still, actually getting to see the cracks in his wife’s soul from the loneliness of her grief is a different thing entirely and she is moved to make amends.

“You can always talk to me -if it helps.” she whispers and Elaine gives her a wincing smile.

“I don’t think anything will help.” Elaine replies with a moodiness that is both entirely understandable, if a little off putting in just how severe it is. And, forever the barometer of moods, as if sensing Ann’s unease with her glumness, Elaine perks up in a nauseatingly convincing display of cheer. “It’s just -I think that after Mrs. Kennedy lost her baby and all that sadness, the people just don’t have it in them to find much -interest, in the sad parts. They need happiness and, and courage from us.”

Elaine’s biting her lip in a vain attempt to make it stop wobbling and Ann wishes she could smack the American public for insisting these women, one the wife of the President and the other of the King, hold up a perfect little Camelot for them to read about every Sunday. It’s real lives, real lives grieving and straining and trying their best, real infants dying and golden couples struggling to regain intimacy beyond the midnight sobbing cuddle sessions that have taken the place of making love.

No money in the world is worth such a forced display of perfection in the face of such aloneness.

“You should worry about what you need right now.” Ann tells her what she told her husband the other night.

“Ah.” Elaine clicks her tongue doubtfully, “That’s all real well but I dunno what I need. But you -are you what Elvis needs? Hmm?”

Suddenly Ann wants to bolt again, throat tight and heart skipping a beat, “I-I don’t know.”

“How old are ya?” she asks like that is a natural progression in the conversation, as if Elaine is going to be the judge of wether it is beneficial for her husband to 69 his co-star in order to forget about his dead child.

“I’m twenty two.” It feels like a confession under that earnest eyed review.

“Lord.” Elaine bites off the head of a fry and Ann wishes she was a lil soaked potato crisp herself, that bemused meanness simmering to Elaine’s smooth surface again and turning Ann into a hot mess under her nylons. “And do you wanna get married, Miss Margret? You want kids and all that? Or is it the stage life for you?”

“No, I-I’d like kids, and I’d like to marry.” she insists, “Just not now -and not Elvis, of course not Elvis!”

“Well that’s good.” Elaine drawls sardonically, “Cause he’s taken and happy to be so.”

“Yes! Yes he loves you so much.” it’s a sort of masochism for Ann to admit that yet somehow she finds she doesn’t mind it.

“I know.” is all Elaine replies with, utterly unimpressed.

“So,” Ann finds this ordeal unbearable enough she might as well ask what’s been burdening her, “why did you wanna meet with me? Is- is he through with me?” The full scale of her own unease finally surfaces and she realizes she’s got cause to suspect Elaine of more than just being jealous. “Did he send you to do it? To break it off me with me?” she can’t help the way her voice raises in outrage, it may be misplaced but her love is not false and she doesn’t deserve this, he oughta man up and do his own dirty work.

Elaine doesn’t reply for a few beats that have Ann wringing her hands around her sweaty milk shake in suspense, curious as to why the woman doesn't take the easy route and admit it, crow over her -once again the straying husband has returned to her.

“This film has only got a couple of weeks left.” Elaine says instead in so measured a tone it slices Ann to the heart quicker than any boast, “But no, no he hasn’t sent me to do anything. I’m no one’s errand boy.”

“Of course not.” Ann mumbles in apology.

“But he has-“ Elaine’s mouth twists in distress over wording and every delay hurts Ann just a little more from suspense, “-Elvis has recommenced his interest in me.” that’s a positively hilarious way to say he banged his wife and not the side piece this afternoon and Ann hates her for her delicacy, and all the pain and complications it hides, “And the thing of it is, I’ve already noticed a waning of his preoccupation with you and -I’m just an observer. It’s what I do, I watch him and then I act on what he’s gonna do or what he’s gonna want. And, Ann, can I call ya Ann? Ann, I -I think he’s gonna try to move on from ya, when the movie wraps, like he’s moved on from the others.”

Ann bites at her straw and prays her jimmying leg beneath the table isn’t painfully obvious.

“I don’t want that.” Elaine states suddenly and Ann lets go of the poor, abused straw.

“What?”

“You’re not just some other gal, Thumper.” she rolls her eyes -fondly, unless Ann is greatly mistaken. “But I think he’d treat ya like one for me. I do think it’s what he intends to do. It’s -he said as much this afternoon…during.”

Ann’s cheeks flame hot from mortification and anger, but from something else too. An electric shock zapping through her at the unintended imagining of Elvis talking about her while buried inside of Elaine. To be thought of, spoken of, made a part of that dynamic…Ann is going to hell for the way it makes her clench and breath in like a panting racehorse.

“Well that’s all -settled for you, isn’t it.” she can’t help but try her hand at being a little mean herself. It comes out petulant and she winces at the pettiness of it.

“Yes.” Elaine doesn't bother with false remorse over her surety in her husband’s return, “Which means all that’s left is to help sort you.”

“Sort me?“ Ann isn’t above mud wrestling a fellow gal on the diner floor.

“Thumper, darling,” Elaine sighs gently while her eyes stray behind Ann’s head at some gathering fans behind them, “this industry crafts an image for its stars like suits for models. What they’ve got for ya right now sure is flattering, but make no mistake, they’ll be happy to discard you and your new suit whenever it no longer makes folks gossip. I’d like us to last a lot longer than all that.” her eyes focus back on Ann’s and a sad smile lights up her face, “I think we’ve got it in us to.”

“Who’s us?”

Elaine seems to take time to consider that before answering, “The trio of us.”

Ann remains wary, it’s altogether too easy to want her to mean what she can’t possibly have intended. “Us?”

“Yeah, us.” Elaine grins, “Or at least, I think that Thumper and Naughty and Tink could manage something. Even if the adults can’t.”

It’s wicked that smile of hers and awfully persuasive, like she’s figured something out. And maybe she has, that throat closing fear that Ann was a replacement suddenly allayed by the jimmying legged beauty who acts so brave while having the ill luck of having a soulmate in a married man.

Ann’s no replacement for Elaine.

She’s Elvis’ mirror and his double and a fondness blooms in Elaine’s heart for her at that realization, along with a healthy dose of exasperation that always seems to linger when in Elvis’ presence.

“So, will you let me sort you?” she presses the young woman and doesn’t miss the way she swallows hard in the same way Elvis does when Elaine starts bossing.

Interesting.

“Arrange a little something for us that’ll outlast those hooligans at MGM? You gotta think about what you want, Ann, they’ll get ya on the treadmill and never turn the damn thing down when you burn out unless ya make them. I’d have thought you’d have learnt that these past few weeks.”

Ann knows she’s referring to Elvis and his insomnia, his hollow eyed spouting of the newest script and his mechanical jiving while his soul atrophies from grief suppressed. Ann knows there’s a damned dead end at the end of loving him too thoroughly. Too exclusively. But God! -he made her feel important. That’s all a little silly now that she’s looking at his wife with those love kiss abrasions adorning her throat and a diamond weighing down her finger.

Ann wants Elvis. Ann also wants whatever it is Elaine’s got and if she ever wants to really get that, she's gonna have to let Elaine’s husband go and find herself one of her own. “Alright.” she whispers, smudging the linoleum table top with her wrist, “I mean -I would like to remain friends. Very much.”

“We can do better than just that. But it’s a start.” Elaine clicks her tongue in a strangely cocksure way that has Ann melting as she watches as if in slow motion as Elaine’s hand comes up to her face, a manicured finger swiping at the corner of Ann’s lip before bringing the vanilla frosted finger to her own mouth and sucking nonchalantly.

Already sorting her out and Ann complies with rapt attention and a shudder. “I had the good sense to leave Jack behind for this little visit.” she admits cheerily, as if making breezy conversation and Ann realizes the crowd behind her shoulder have moved in closer, “Which means we could have a dinner party, us three, and there’d be no chaperone to set a curfew.”

Mrs. Presley wiggles her eyebrows in a way that suggests they won’t be watching movies late into the night and Ann’s heart threatens to gallop away from her at the thought of it.

Someone from the crowd asks for an autograph.

Preoccupied, Ann accidentally writes “thumper” on the bottom of a fresh Polaroid depicting her and Elaine peeling out of the studio lot.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

I hope y’all enjoyed, after such a long pause I’d be astounded if any of y’all were still invested in this but I swear that while I may not be as prolific in the next few months, my gargantuan plot for this universe and others are still alive in my brain. Love y’all 😘 if you wanna be added to the taglist please comment below

@paradsol000

@eliseinmemphis

@prompted-wordsmith

@ab4eva

@foreverdolly

@powerofelvis

@butlersxbirdy

@crash-and-cure

@elvisabutler

@heartbrake-hotel

@stylespresleyhearted

@thatbanditqueen

@crazymadpassionatelove

@myradiaz

@ash-omalley

@whatstruthgottadowithit

@arianatheangelgirl

@steph-speaks

@burningloverdoll

@angelface-555

@lookingforrainbows

@missmaywemeetagain

@coolgirl462

@kingdomforapony

@18lkpeters

@richardslady121

@from-memphis-with-love

@lillypink

@artlover8992

@pennyroyalcreep

@notstefaniepresley

@ellie-24

@renaissingle

@waiting4brucewayne2adoptme

@presleyenterprise

@marriedtopresley

@ashtag2887

@dkayfixates

[ugh-my-back]

excuse me, miss

[linlvsdan]

Para mi bello amor:

Seguramente cuando leas esta carta es porque ya estás cumpliendo tus 18 años, tu legalidad ha llegado. 💗

¿Cómo puedo empezar esta carta de cumpleaños? Tal vez diciéndote ¡Feliz cumpleaños, mi amor! Quiero decir, ¿Por qué mejor no escribir algo lindo para la cumpleañera? Han pasado 18 años en los cuales aprendiste ciertas cosas de cómo puede ser la vida contigo, hiciste amigos, reíste, lloraste y amaste en estos 18 años. Puede que en estos momentos tengas muchas emociones juntas porque cumplir 18 años parece ser una edad más seria; déjame decirte que no debe ser así, mi cielo.

Es increíble lo rápido que pasó el tiempo; te conocí cuando recién tenías casi dos meses de cumplir 16 años y ahora estoy aquí felicitándote por cumplir la mayoría de edad. Deja de crecer, mi bonita. 🙁💞

Probablemente la carta perderá sentido con cada palabra; lo único que no puede perder es el amor que contiene en cada párrafo.

6574 días han pasado desde que nació el amor de mi vida, nació la chica más bonita, hermosa, bella, linda, guapa, perfecta, preciosa, magnífica y atractiva.

¿Qué debería mencionar sobre mi bella cumpleañera? Tal vez lo que me gusta de ella o lo que deseo con ella.

Iniciaré con lo que me gusta de ti, mi bonita bebé.

1-¿He dicho lo mucho que me encantan tus ojos? Me gustan demasiado esas dos perlitas con destellos de brillos y colores mágicos; algo que te hace única son esos hermosos ojitos de muñeca que tienes. Quiero verlos toda la vida.

2- Tu sentido del humor; algo que me agradó cuando te conocí fue lo graciosa que eras esa noche, la manera en la que puedes causar felicidad y alegría a las personas es única.

3- Tu forma de pensar, de querer y de amar. Creo que nunca había conocido a una persona que pueda demostrar su amor y empatía al máximo.

4- Tu corazón de oro; ese corazón tan lindo que tienes; uno que guarda recuerdos emociones y sentimientos. Un corazón que puede tener solo mi bonita novia.

5- Tu cuerpo; estoy enamorada de tu bonita figura.

Ahora bien ¿debería escribir lo que deseo hacer contigo?

Han pasado varios meses desde que nuestra relación se volvió demasiado larga, donde nuestro amor siguió aumentando con el paso del tiempo. Deberíamos seguir formalizando nuestra relación ¿no? Hablo de que tal vez en un futuro logremos estar juntas físicamente, un futuro donde estemos ambas firmando nuestros papeles que nos convertirán en una linda pareja de espositas. Quiero un futuro contigo, quiero vivir esa vida contigo; no me veo abrazando, besando o despertando con otra persona que no seas tú; te necesito demasiado. Eres la única mujer que se ha vuelto dueña de mi alma y de mí corazón.

Quiero tomarte de la mano, acariciar tu cabello y tu rostro, poder besarte y decirte “Feliz cumpleaños, amor mío”. Estoy segura que en cualquier momento podré hacerlo, podré estar contigo. 💗

Tal vez en otras líneas o universos nosotras dos estamos juntas celebrando tu cumpleaños de distintas formas, tal vez en alguna línea tú no seas alérgica a las florecitas y nos encontramos corriendo en algún campo de tulipanes como una pareja de enamoradas. Tal vez en otra línea estamos en una fiesta celebrando tu cumpleaños, tal vez en otra línea estoy pidiéndote matrimonio como regalo de cumpleaños. Solo tal vez…

Te amé ayer, te amo hoy y te amaré los próximos días; estoy demasiado enamorada de mi cumpleañera.

Danna Paulina Juárez Rodríguez, tal vez no pueda hacerlo físicamente pero ¿me dejas casarme contigo? Prometo cuidarte, amarte y respetarte cada día de mi vida.

Espero que me alcance el tiempo/vida para seguir celebrando más cumpleaños junto a mi ángel.

Feliz cumpleaños, amor de mi vida. 💗

Ce n’était pas dans mon oreille que vous avez chuchoté, mais dans mon cœur. Ce n’était pas mes lèvres vous avez embrassé, mais mon âme. – Judy Garland

[ophidion]

might as well be the one

chapter 1: la conejita y el lobo || chapter 2: la esposita y el líder

Fandom: Spider-Verse Fanfiction Pairing: Miguel O'Hara / Rating: E Chapter: 2 of 3 Word Count: 15,147

read on ao3

OR: Gwen thinks Miguel is taking her to church like a good Catholic father.

(Fortunately for the groom, Nueva York has a bit of a language barrier. Unfortunately for the bride, she only has two options: get sent back to her father or make Earth-928's Miguel O'Hara a Daddy.)

--------

“Would you like to know who doesn’t exist in this universe?” his nose is inches from hers, his face arranged in a primal imitation of a smile.

(Gwen had a quick wit, a toolbelt of gadgets, and superhuman strength. She knew she was nobody’s meat. Despite her slight build, Spider-Ghost was clever enough to outfox a plethora of villains.

She had forgotten little red predators could easily become prey under a wolf’s sharp teeth.)

“… Me?” her breath rattles.

“She does now.” And then, Gwen remembers the documents she’d given the priest.

[amiguiz]

Entre otras cosas, este año me propuse cuidar mejor al Codelo. Estoy aprendiendo de mi mamá que el cuidado no resta, sólo suma, es una doble tenaza, un regalo navideño que no puedes esperar para dar, win win, es como recomendar amigos en las apps y que te abonen 20 pesos: tú ganas y yo gano también. La que cuida, se cuida, y así.

(¡Cómo me puso triste que mi mamá dijera que ya no puede cuidar!).

Sucede que es difícil conciliar las múltiples capas de adoctrinamiento patriarcal, antipatriarcal, postpatriarcal con el impulso genuino de dar calor, de entibiarnos juntos. Porque, por un lado, yo no voy una esposita que se queda en casa lavando platos. Pero sí soy una esposita. Y sí lavo platos. Tons, ¿qué? ¿Los lavo mal? ¿Los lavo bien pero no me caso?

Dice bell hooks que el patriarcado ha privado a los hombres del privilegio de cuidar. La ternura, la dulzura, el afecto físico, el apapacho, todas esas acciones, que son gozosas, se las ha arrebatado. (Me pregunto si en sus investigaciones, bell hooks se habrá topado con el concepto de apapacho).

Mientras cenamos el guiso que él preparó, le cuento a Codelo de bell hooks y me dice: Siento que yo no crecí bajo un modelo patriarcal.

(Y yo me quedo así de: ah chis, ¿se puede crecer bajo un modelo distinto?).

(Pienso: pero es tu hermana quien cuida a tu papá. Pienso: y tú apenas antier aprendiste a cocinar).

(Pienso, pero no lo digo, o no lo digo así, lo suavizo porque, como dije, estoy cuidando, y cuidar es también, a veces, abandonar la belicosidad).

Aprendo de mi mamá y de cómo cuida no sólo el contenido, sino también las formas. En eso es novelista, como yo, y en muchas otras cosas. Envuelve los suéteres en papel china, con un listoncito. No permite que haya envases de plástico en la mesa de comer. Me prepara mi cenita, así le dice: cenita...

(Me detengo aquí porque todavía no estoy escribiendo sobre eso).

Pero, entonces, si yo no quiero que el patriarcado me arrebate aquello que él mismo me había asignado en un inicio: el monopolio del cuidado, pero tampoco quiero que una maniobra de aikido me devuelva al punto de partida al cerrar los 360 grados... ¿qué? ¡Los platos se me están acumulando!

Tengo que leer más a bell hooks.

Por lo mientras hoy le preparé a Codelo un sándwich con los ingredientes que a él le gustan y que recién compró anoche, no con los que comenzaban a apestar el refri.

Este año voy a ser más generosa, ya no voy a ser pichicatera. No temeré más a las fauces del patriarcado. Estableceré mi propio pacto. Patriarcala, así se llama.