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lilasamaaa · 7 months ago

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In the crowd | Carlos Sainz x Reader

Genres | Angst, Hurt/Comfort.

Word count | 3.6K.

Warnings | Alcohol consumption, drugs, mentions of violence.

Summary | Reader's an engineer at Scuderia Ferrari in Maranello. While attending the season's launch party, her drink gets spiked.

Author's Note | Hi all! After the longest time, I've felt the need to come back here for some silly writing. New blog because the last one got cringe. Let me know what you think!

One might think that after two years within the scuderia, the season’s launch parties would make her less uneasy. That after two years of being apart of the engineering team, she would finally be used to attending public gatherings. That after two years, she’d be a natural at walking in the open, feeling the glances slide over her figure. She is stunningly beautiful. Perhaps that's her burden. She doesn't realize it.

When she walks across the paddock or the stands, she knows people are staring at her. She avoids meeting their gazes, feeling embarrassed. She thinks there must be something wrong with her outfit, with her gait. Why else would they stare for so long?

In Maranello, there’s a bakery at the corner of the HQ building where she stops every morning. The cashier always offers her something extra. A coffee. An additional pastry. She finds him polite, very customer-oriented. One morning, as she was freeing her croissant from the paper napkin it was wrapped in, she’d discovered a phone number scrawled in pen ink, with a hastily drawn smiley face. She’d stared at the napkin, perplexed, seated at her desk. He must have made a mistake, she thinks. It must have been meant for the customer before her. The one with the beautiful blonde curls and the Chanel perfume. She didn't call, didn't send a message. She continued to visit the bakery. The cashier never mentioned the number, proving her theory.

Someone brushing past her brings her back to earth. The party is in full swing, and she’s just not. She spots her colleagues bustling around the buffet and the bar, engrossed in lively conversations. While some don't even notice her, others wave their hands, encouraging her to join them. She forces a smiles, returns the wave. Then she tightens her grip around her clutch. Anything to make her feel like she’s in control. To make her forget that the music’s too loud, the lights too vibrant, the air too hot.

She doesn't remember ever feeling comfortable in her body. Years of growing up in an unstable family where love was doled out sparingly do that to a person.

"Hey," comes a familiar voice. She turns her head, her big eyes catching sight of Livio’s, one of her colleagues. "Are you not dancing?" he continues, a drink in hand. His whiskey breath hits her straight on. She discreetly glances at her watch, noting that it's barely nine.

"I haven't had enough to drink for that," she replies, trying to dodge the invitation.

"Let's go get you something then," Livio responds, grabbing her arm and heading towards the bar.

She's noticed that men always do that with her. Not just her colleagues, but people she doesn't know either. She's too kind, too gentle; she never raises her voice. So they grab her by the hips, the arms, the wrists. Anything is an excuse to touch her. She hates it.

"What do you want?" Livio asks.

Nothing, really, but she can't say that.

"Something sweet, please. I don't like strong alcohol," she replies. Livio seems to ponder her question for a second, his mouth pursed.

"I have something for you to try, wait," he continues, signaling to the bartender. "You're going to like it, don't worry."

A few seconds later, a glass of Plymouth is placed in front of her, and she looks up at Livio. Does he think I've never tasted gin in my life? she wonders, puzzled. She would like to refuse the drink, ask for the cherry liqueur she discovered last time indeed. But already, Livio has grabbed her glass and hands it to her with a big smile. "Salute," he exclaims, downing his own glass in one gulp.

Cries and applause suddenly echo in the large reception hall, causing her to turn her head. It takes her a few minutes to understand the reason for this sudden commotion. Until she sees them, a few meters away.

Charles and Carlos.

Her eyes can't seem to tear away from the two pilots making their way through the crowd to a small stage where a microphone is set up. It's tradition : to kick off the season in style, the entire team eagerly awaits the drivers' speeches. Everyone wants to hear their words, their encouragements, their hopes and goals for the season.

A friend once asked her if she knew Charles and Carlos personally. She can't really say yes. That would be a lie. She's exchanged words with each of the athletes before, giving them information about the race, their car, and the expected weather. These exchanges have always been brief and cordial. Professional. Nothing more.

Even though... No, she thinks, lightly shaking her head. That was nothing. But still...

It had happened just before the race in Singapore, last year.

A friend from engineering school had moved there at the beginning of the year, and they had agreed to meet for dinner at a fancy restaurant in the city. It was an opportunity to reminisce about the years spent at Polytechnique, studying (a bit), suffering (a lot), and getting drunk (a whole lot).

She had chosen a long emerald green silk dress, slit up to mid-thigh. The perfect balance between classy and sexy. She had no intention of charming her companion - notoriously attracted to men, anyway - but this meal was the perfect excuse to leave her eternal Ferrari jumpsuits for something more feminine.

In the long corridor leading to the elevator, she'd suddenly felt on a catwalk, letting herself get caught up in the moment and rolling her hips perhaps a tad too exaggeratedly. The person emerging from the corner at the far end of the corridor surprised her, but not enough to disrupt her stride, her heels clicking against the floor.

She had recognized him immediately, of course.

Dressed in a simple fitted black polo and a pair of dark jeans, his eyes had not left hers throughout their crossing. When the two had finally reached the same level, she'd breathed out a small "Good evening, Carlos," suddenly insecure about everything. Her outfit. Her gait. The messy bun revealing her neck. The cleavage leaving no room for a bra and showing the beginning of her breasts.

He had passed her, nodding in acknowledgment, and each had continued on their way. She was certain... No, almost certain, that she had dreamt the words that had followed.

"That's one lucky guy."

Yes, she was almost certain she had dreamt it. Watching the Spaniard in the distance take hold of the microphone and tap it gently to check the connections, she became increasingly convinced. There was no chance that this man, chiseled from marble, could have noticed her. Desired her.

His accent echoes throughout the room, and she instinctively closes her eyes, as if bathed in the gentle sun of Madrid. She's not listening - not really - only catching words here and there. "Truly an honor," "Very impressed by your efforts," "Promising changes." But her mind is elsewhere, between Maranello and Singapore, tethered to the memory that makes her lower abdomen tingle in the sweetest of ways.

"And now, it's time to celebrate!" Carlos says as the room erupts with joy and anticipation.

"Earth to you?" comes a much less pleasant voice than the one that has just quieted down.

"I'm sorry, what?" she says, returning her attention to Livio.

"Oh, wow, you've got to be kidding me. Is it just me, or are you completely absorbed by this guy?" Livio replies, his mouth twisted in a grimace.

"Who?" she asks, genuinely confused.

"Sainz. You were hanging on his every word."

"I just think it's nice that they're giving an encouraging speech. Both of them," she explains, avoiding the Italian's gaze.

"Yeah, okay. Should we get another drink?" he asks, taking hold of her arm again.

She wants to protest. She can still taste the gin at the back of her mouth. It can't have been more than twenty minutes since her first drink. But Livio is already almost dragging her behind him, clearly determined not to let her escape tonight. And once again, that hand locks around her arm. Firm. Not open to discussion. She feels something almost territorial in the gesture, something that strongly displeases her, so she vows to mention it to Livio. Someday. Not tonight.

This time, he doesn't even pretend to care about what she wants to drink, ordering two whiskies straight away. She hates it. The taste, the look, what this alcohol does to her mind and body. But Livio has already slipped two bills to the bartender, and a moment later, the amber liqueur lands in her right hand.

While her drinking companion is already tilting his head back, clearly unaware that this type of alcohol is to be savored and not downed in one go, she observes the glass, intrigued by the few bubbles that are forming on the surface. I had no idea whiskey could do that, she thinks before bringing the liquid to her lips.

A few minutes later, she's managed to shake off Livio by claiming she needed to use the restroom. She crosses paths with Carlos walking in the other direction, maybe three people ahead of her, but he doesn't notice her.

In front of the restroom mirror, touching up her lipstick, her focus changes as she sees a drop of sweat trickle down her temple and slide slowly onto her cheek. I'm rather cold, though, she thinks, almost suppressing a shiver. Her head suddenly feels very light. She blames the alcohol. Putting her lipstick back in her clutch and tucking a strand of hair that threatened to escape from her bun, she pushes the restroom door open again, bracing herself to face the social world once more.

Passing by the buffet, a wave of nausea washes over her, forcing her to stop for a few seconds, leaning against the table and closing her eyes.

"I thought it was you," echoes the sunny accent in her ears. With her eyes still closed, she wishes their new encounter, one that she'd admit she's dreamed about, had happened differently. At a better time. A time when she wasn't battling a fierce urge to throw up.

"Are you okay?" Carlos inquires, raising his hand as if to support her but stopping halfway.

She takes a few seconds to push the unpleasant sensations from her body as far away as possible before lifting her head, opening her eyes, and being rewarded with the exquisite sight of his luscious hair and amber eyes.

"Hi," she manages to utter in a faint voice. "Great speech," she continues, still leaning against the table.

"You look pale," the driver responds, looking concerned.

The words escape her lips before they even reach her brain. She regrets them instantly. Something inside her just give way, like a dam.

"Sorry. I must have looked better in Singapore," she says.

Carlos widens his eyes, surprised, before letting out an awkward laugh.

"Sorry for staring at you like that, that night. You were... Well, you are...," he continues, seeming to search for his words.

She would so love to hear the rest, to know what he was going to say. But dizziness seizes her, and she feels herself tipping against the table. Well, almost, because suddenly, an arm wraps around her waist, pressing her against a chest that, yes, she's also dreamed about several times. But not like this. Not in this state.

"Hey," Carlos says, his voice tinged with worry.

"I'm so sorry, this never happens to me. I must have had one drink too many, I—"

"I saw you at the bar not even ten minutes ago," the Spaniard continues. "No alcohol hits you that fast. Not even shots."

"I'm fine," she says, and the pilot understands that she's saying it not only to reassure him but herself as well. And, as if the words had commanded it, the fog in her mind dissipates a bit. Enough for her to gently detach herself from the pilot, finding her balance on her own two feet again. She'd like to take advantage of this newfound clarity to keep the Spaniard close to her. Him, that she never crosses paths with, whom she never speaks to, and yet who appeals to her so much.

But Charles arrives. He smiles at her, asks if she's okay, if she's enjoying the evening, and oh, "I'll borrow him for a moment, I'm so sorry, sponsors, you know," and oh, once again, she finds herself alone at the buffet, watching the two men walk away, Carlos still watching her as he reluctantly retreats.

"I was beginning to think he'd never leave," Livio says, leaning against the buffet, his hip brushing against hers.

She wants to scream. Oh, how badly she wants to.

Sensing that she's not going to respond, the Italian tries his luck again.

"Should we dance? You seem intoxicated enough, now."

She doesn't even have time to respond before her colleagues guides her onto the dance floor, eagerly pressing his body against hers. His breath, previously tinged with whiskey, now betrays hints of tequila. The guy never has enough, she thinks, twirling reluctantly.

And there it goes again. The nausea, the queasiness. Spinning her around like a puppet doesn't help, she tells herself. She comes to a halt, cutting off Livio's momentum, causing some dancing couples to narrowly avoid colliding with them. Feeling vulnerable, she tries to get away, to seek refuge elsewhere. But her wrist is once again trapped.

"You don't look well. Come on, let's get you some fresh air," Livio says, heading towards one of the large glass doors.

She's often been described as naive by her loved ones. She believes that the whole world means well towards her, never suspects anyone of ill intentions. She would even say about herself that she has no instincts, let alone survival instincts. No sense of danger. Yet, perhaps for the first time in her life, something deep inside her is screaming not to follow the man. Her signals are on alert. Everything is flashing red in her mind. For her, it's a first. So, without thinking, without worrying about offending her colleague, she acts.

"I don't need to go outside," she says, trying to free herself from his grasp. She's sweating. She feels the unpleasant sensation of a thin layer of dampness creeping over her neck, her back, her hands.

Her feeble resistance is no match for Livio's strength, as he pulls her outside despite her protests. The music is too loud for anyone to hear their altercation. Divided between the buffet, the bar, and the dance floor, no one pays attention to this mismatched couple, to the determined man dragging a struggling woman behind him.

The door closes heavily behind them, stifling the sounds of the party, captured on the other side. It's cold outside, she feels it because her whole body shivers. But she, who was cold just a short while ago, feels like she's boiling. She raises her hand to her forehead, wiping away another bead of sweat that's formed between her eyebrows. What's happening to me? she thinks internally, troubled. Alcohol has never put her in such a state before.

"I'm so glad I ran into you tonight," Livio begins, either oblivious or indifferent to the young woman's condition.

She doesn't respond, feeling her head spinning, leaning against the wall behind her, gasping to try to catch her breath. Trying to control the burning heat that's engulfing her body.

"You look really beautiful tonight. Quite a change from the work overalls, huh!" the man continues.

She's not exactly sure at what moment he slipped between her legs, facing her, just a few centimeters from her face. But he's there, too close, forcing her to turn her head to the side to avoid his gaze - and his alcohol-laden breath.

"I said, you look really beautiful tonight," Livio says. "Are you not going to say anything?"

"What do you expect me to say to that?" she says, jaw clenched.

"Do you find me attractive?" the man asks, meeting her gaze.

The warning signals reappear along with the nausea. She barely has time to push the man away and lean to the side before emptying her stomach inches away from his feet. The naivety stops there. The pieces of the puzzle fall into place, realization hitting her painfully.

"What did you do to me?" she asks, her knees giving way under her weight, sending her crashing to the ground. He sneers, rolling his eyes, as she crawls a few meters, trying to put some distance between them. She's now sitting on the ground, her back to the wall.

"What? What are you talking about?" the Italian replies, offended.

"Did you put something in my drink?" she asks again.

"Come on, now. I've been helping you ever since you said you weren't feeling well. What kind of monster do you think I am?"

For a moment, her colleague's wounded look makes her seriously doubt herself. Maybe it really is just the alcohol, she thinks, trying to calm her racing mind. After all, why would someone deliberately choose to harm her? Why jump to that conclusion? Livio has always been charming. A bit clingy, but charming.

"I'm sorry for implying that. I'm gonna head back inside," she says, trying to stand up.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Livio answers, pushing her back down.

"What? why?" she asks, surprised.

"It wouldn't be very wise to parade in front of your colleagues and superiors in such a poor state," the Italian begins, his tone almost mocking. "It really doesn't give a good impression of you. It's not very professional."

"I haven't done anything, just had a few drinks," she responds, annoyed. "There's nothing wrong with that."

"You're so wasted you can't even stand. At a work event. Do you want to get fired or something?"

She opens her mouth to speak, to defend herself, but no words come out. She can't seem to figure out if Livio is with her or against her anymore. His words are harsh, aggressive, but deep down, the engineer probably isn't wrong. She struggled to secure a position here, at Ferrari. Even though she believes herself to be fairly skilled at her job and puts in long hours, there are hundreds of others doing the same work as her every day. And hundreds more who could replace her if the need arose.

She's not indispensable. She's not even that good at speaking Italian, having always had more ease in English or in French, even though she spends the majority of her evenings reading books in the language. She's just a tiny cog in the machine. She thinks about Carlos, too. What would he think, seeing me stumbling in the middle of the dance floor like a mad woman?

"Let me drive you home," Livio says, extending his hand. "Spare you the embarrassment."

She hadn't realized how tired she was. The offer is rather tempting. Getting back to her apartment, her cat, her bed. Above all, escaping the crowd. Forgetting this evening. Forgetting whatever she thought there was with Carlos, too, while she's at it. As a stronger wave of sleep washes over her, she temporarily closes her eyes.

"Come on," he says. "Let's get you in the car."

After her brain, her legs refuse to cooperate too. Her body barricades itself, trying to keep her firmly sheltered. Losing patience, Livio hoists her up, throwing her over his shoulder. She wants to protest against the position she finds herself in. That's so unladylike. Her last few connected neurons grapple over strange thoughts. I hope nobody sees my underwear, she thinks before her brain disconnects once again.

She's so far gone, yet the next words sound crystal-clear in her ears.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

Sounds like Carlos, she thinks, delirious.

"What does it look like to you? I'm bringing her home. She's wasted," she hears, and she thinks it might be Livio, because she feels his body shaking with each words.

"There's no way I'm letting you leave with her. Put her down."

"Yeah? So you can have your way with her?"

"No, so I can punch you in the fucking face," the accent-thick voice shouts.

She must have passed out for good because she doesn't remember anything else. When she wakes up next, which feels like an eternity later, she's sitting against a wall, this time indoors, wrapped in a golden emergency blanket. There's no more music. Opening one eye, then the next, she's met with Carlos' brown ones. She tries to speak but her mouth feels dry. The Spaniard hands her a glass of water, helping her bring it to her lips.

"I somehow managed to look even worse," she jokes, reminiscing their earlier encounter.

"The paramedics have just arrived. They're going to take you to the hospital for a check-up," he says and she nods.

"Thank you, Carlos," she replies.

"I haven't done the half of what I would have wanted," he says, regret filling his voice.

"What do you mean?"

"This has to be the worst timing ever, but I... I actually wanted to ask you out, before Charles interrupted us and before, well... this," he says, gesturing around them.

He doesn't see it, but hidden under the blanket, she pinches her arm. Hard. Just to make sure she won't wake up a second time. Seeing that nothing changes, she lets out a little laugh.

"If you wanted me to wear that silky green dress, I'm so sorry, but I ruined it in the washer."

"You can wear a garbage bag for all I care," Carlos replies, looking at her fondly. "You'll still stand out in the crowd."

#f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 x reader #formula 1 #f1 imagine #carlos sainz #charles leclerc #formula1 #f1 2024 #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz x you

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delicatebarness · 5 months ago

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the manuscript | chapter eleven

Summary: It seems Dr. Barnes is having a hard time without Miss Spector's attention.

Warnings: Age Gap. (Dr Barnes: late 40s & Reader: early 20s). Infidelity. Explicit Sexual Content. Rough Sex. Emotion Distress. Alcohol Use. Power Dynamics.

Word Count: 1664

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A/N: I couldn't wait for them any longer. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as mine. - B

Each hour dragged by with an agonizing slowness as the weekend stretched out before James. He sat in his home office, fingers drumming on the desk as he glanced down at his phone for what felt like the hundredth time– no new messages, no calls, no emails. With a deep sigh, a knot of worry tightened in his chest.

His mind was clouded by thoughts of you, from the moment, he left Marc’s apartment last night. The way you looked at him with such vulnerability, your troubled expression etched across your features. He hoped you would reach out to him today, even if it was just a brief message to let him know you were okay. Yet, he was deafened by your silence.

He sent a couple of texts, simple and unobtrusive, but you sent no reply. He tried calling, but it went straight to voicemail. He feared drawing unwanted attention if someone else saw the messages causing him to hold off on bombarding you. Sharon hadn’t noticed his distracted state, and even if she did, she would brush off any concern and carry on with her day.

James stayed home most of Saturday and Sunday, pacing his office and running through scenarios in his mind. Should he drive by the apartment, the frat house? Or, call your brother and check in under some pretense? He was aware he had to be careful. Any overt action could arouse suspicion and lead to questions neither of you was prepared to answer.

The scene from Friday night replayed in his mind. The look in your eyes, the way you trembled with confession. He wanted to comfort you and make things right, but he was powerless in your silence.

His frustration began bubbling over by Sunday evening. How could you just disappear without a word? He ran a hand through his hair, he tried to shake off the anger and focus on what he would do when he saw you again. Didn’t you realize how much you meant to him? How much he was worried about you?

As Monday morning came, James sat at his desk early, staring at the door and waiting. A glass of whiskey nursed in his hand as every tick of the clock intensified his emotions. His mind raced with worry and anger, he was furious with you for making him worry, the emotional turmoil you caused him.

Just then, a little over 9 AM, you strolled into his office as if nothing had happened. Carrying two takeout cups of coffee, and a beautiful bright smile on your face. “Good morning, James,” you said cheerfully, setting the cups on his desk. “I brought you your favorite.”

James looked up at you, relief and concern flashed over his expression. A loud scrape against the floor rang through the room as he stood abruptly, slamming his glass down on the desk. “Do you have any idea what you put me through this weekend?” he demanded, his voice low but laced with a genuine worry.

You blinked, taken back by his reaction. “I… I just needed some time,” you stammered, your smile faltering. “I thought it would be best to–”

“To just vanish without a word?” he interrupted, his eyes flashing with anger. “To leave me hanging, not knowing if you were okay?”

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” you said, your voice began to raise in defense. “I just needed to sort out my feelings.”

“How does the smartest woman in this god-damn building, not think?!” James snapped, his frustration boiling over. “You never think about how your actions affect others!”

“That’s not fair!” you shot back, your anger beginning to flare. “You paraded Sharon around in my home, but you can’t handle seeing me in a hallway with Peter?”

His eyes narrowed. “This is different,” he hissed. “Sharon doesn’t mean anything. It’s a facade, and you know that.”

“A facade that cuts me into pieces every time I think about it,” you retorted in a hard whisper. “You expect me to just accept it, while you lose your mind over Peter?”

“It’s not the same,” he insisted, his voice low and intense as he stepped closer. “You agreed to this, knowing what it would be like.”

“And you agreed to care about my feelings,” you whispered furiously. “But, it seems like you only care when it’s convenient for you, Dr. Barnes.”

The tension between you crackled like white noise. And, without another word, you turned on your heel and started for the door. Your coffee cup is long forgotten. Before you could reach for the handle, James grabbed your arm, pulling you back. The sudden movement brought you face-to-face, inches apart, your breaths mingling.

“It aches me not knowing the taste of your lips,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. He reached up, his hand enveloping your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

Your heart pounded in your chest. “Then, why don’t you find out?” you urged, your voice betraying both your longing and defiance.

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze locking with yours. His voice was barely above a whisper as he spoke again. “What if I can’t stop myself?”

You breathed out, your voice tinged with desire and vulnerability. Challenging him to cross the threshold between you. “What if I don’t want you to stop?”

With your faces mere inches apart in that charged moment, James couldn’t resist the pull any longer. His heart thundered in his chest, his lips crashed down on yours with a hunger as he closed the gap between you.

Stunned, the intensity of his kiss sent a shockwave through you. But then, without hesitation, you responded. Your hands found their way to his shoulders, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt.

A fire ignited as the kiss deepened. James pulled you closer and his hands slid down your back, pouring all the pent-up emotions into this singular act of desperation.

His lips moved against yours, an urgency that matched the rapid beating of your heart. You tried to savor the sensation of each other’s lips, the taste of whiskey, the heat that threatened to consume you both.

“I’m sorry,” James murmured hoarsely against your lips. “I shouldn’t have–”

“Don’t apologize,” you whispered against his mouth, interrupting him.

In one swift motion, he lifted you, and your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. He moved with purpose as he pushed you up against the wall of his office. His body pinned yours in place. The pressure against your back made you gasp, the sound being swallowed by James’ fervent kiss.

His hands roamed, one sliding up to cradle your throat, the other gripping your thigh, holding you securely against him.

His eyes burned into yours with intensity. “I need you, Baby Girl,” his voice a low growl.

“Then take me,” you breathed out, your voice trembling with desire.

A fierce hunger took over him, tearing at your clothes, his movements were rough and urgent. And soon, you were bare against him, with his hand everywhere exploring, and claiming as if he needed to memorize every inch of you.

You fumbled with his belt, your hands trembling in between you. You felt the heat of him against you when you finally freed him. He paused for a moment, his eyes locking with yours, seeking permission and assurance.

You nodded with a silent plea in your eyes. “Please, Sergeant,” you whispered.

With a guttural growl, he entered you in one swift, powerful thrust. You gasped with the suddenness, your body arching against his. He set a demanding pace, each thrust rough and deep, pushing you closer to the edge with every movement.

You clung to him, your nails leaving marks as your fingers dug into his shoulders. Pain mingled with the pleasure, intensifying the sensations coursing through you.

“Don’t stop,” you begged him, your voice raw with desperation.

“I won’t,” he growled, his voice shaking.

He brought his hand up to your mouth, silencing your moans as he thrust deeper and harder into you. His eyes stayed locked onto yours. The room filled with the sounds of your passion, each thrust, each gasp, each moan bringing you closer.

His other hand gripped onto your hip bruisingly, fingering digging into your flesh as he pounded into you. “You feel so fucking good,” he snarled, breath hot against your ear.

Your muffled cries only spurred him on, and your every nerve ending, alit with sensations as the roughness of his touch sent shockwaves of pleasure. Your body arched against the wall as the rough texture pressed against your skin.

With a final, powerful thrust, he sent you over the edge. Your body began to convulse against his, the pleasure causing you to cry out his name against his hand. Moments later, he followed with his release echoing in the confines of his office.

For a moment, he stood there, keeping your bodies entwined as you came down from the heights of your passion. His hands lingered on your skin as he gently set you down. His eyes filled with satisfaction, and a lingering hint of concern as he looked at you.

“Are you okay, Baby?” he softly asked, his voice a tender contrast compared to the roughness of moments before.

A small smile played on your lips as you nodded. “Better than okay,” you replied, your voice still breathless.

His lips pressed a soft kiss to your forehead as he pulled you into a gentle embrace. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he murmured.

“You didn’t,” you reassured him, your fingers tracing gentle patterns against his chest. “I wanted this. I wanted you.”

His grip tightened around you, and he sighed. “This is going to change everything.”

“I know,” you whispered, burying your face in his chest. “But, maybe that’s okay.”

The future of your relationships was uncertain. The road ahead is fraught with complications. Yet, in those moments, with his arms around you, you thought anything was possible.

---

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jilyawards · 15 days ago

Note

I think people have legitimate concerns about the awards since every year there seems to be some kind of drama that often results in people leaving the fandom.

The responses to these anons have been passive aggressive and defensive and have only fuelled the flames without taking into account the history of these awards and the ways people have been hurt by them before. You might be new to running the awards, but the awards have a long history that honestly hasn't always been good.

As mods you're hiding behind anonymity, which I understand considering the hate that the mods have received in the past, but it does add to the level of distrust around the awards and if you're so scared of getting hate about a project that you won't put your name to it, isn't that a sign that maybe it's time to let that project go?

It also means I don't feel like I can send you a message that's not anon because I don't know who I'm speaking with and there's no opportunity for open discourse.

We understand people have had issues with how the awards were run in the past - that is an unfortunate fact we inherited when we took ownership of the blog. We can not change the past. We can only operate in the present so we did all we could within our power to make it as fair and fun a process as we possibly could:

We turned the awards blog into a year round thing, we accepted any fic that came in so long as it was Jily. We posted those recs every single month without fail.

We offered the ability to opt out - something that has been used historically - so anyone who wanted to opt out for whatever reason could. We said we didn’t need a reason, we didn’t ask for one because we respect peoples opinions and want to opt out. We even extended the branch to those who opted out last year but hadn’t messaged in this year to say they wanted to opt out again just in case someone forgot.

We offered even more categories for the chance at more opportunities to be named - so that those who write long vs short fics weren’t overshadowed. I will stand and name myself as one of the people running this year if it puts and end to this unnecessary back and forth with an anonymous person or persons. You are welcome to come and DM me.

I Ray, @charmsandtealeaves have been doing my best for this fandom for the better part of the past two years.

I’m sorry if you read our response as passive aggressive. I’ve stated that we wanted to be firm on our stance so you can interpret that as defensive if you want - because of course as one of the people behind the scenes doing all the admin hours I obviously think this venture is worthwhile. I haven’t won an award but I did enjoy the experience of seeing nominations and hyping up my friends. Which is why I stepped up when Ava left. I haven’t been around long enough to know the years of fandom drama and history behind a silly little awards thing, or who has apparent beef with whom - and frankly I don’t care. I’m here to read, write and share Jily fic.

The anon expressed concerns about people’s mental health over not winning. Mental health is a genuine concern and I am a massive advocate for it. However, I still believe if you only exist to create to win one of these awards then you’re creating for the wrong reason. And if you are upset because you weren’t nominated for an award - there is the option to nominate yourself and always has been because nominations are anonymous we don’t release how many times someone was nominated because that doesn’t matter it only takes one - if not being nominated is enough to leave the fandom over it… then I’m sorry but that’s something you personally need to work on and maybe you should start seeing this (being writing fic) for what it is - a hobby done for free and for fun.

I continued the anonymity left by Ava for this exact reason. Because no matter if I say so publicly or not there are going to be people who have strong opinions against the awards and they are entitled to them, and they are entitled not to participate. They are not however, entitled to keep sending messages that we shouldn’t exist because of something that happened years ago and because some don’t think they should exist at all. And I didn’t want that in my personal inbox but also understood that anonymous asks let people ask questions they might be too shy to ask public facing so they stayed on over here.

I’ve been the public face behind a lot of events over the last two years and that hasn’t stopped me getting anonymous messages about how I’m doing it all wrong. Or quite frankly worse ones that were derogatory and personal.

I’ve done what was asked. I addressed the concerns that came in the form of an anonymous ask politely and respectfully given this year’s history. I offered a poll as requested. If you read that response as passive aggressive well… that’s down to your interpretation. I’ve had enough of drama. And from all I’ve seen the drama stems from something I wasn’t even around for and has nothing to do with me, or how the awards have run this year. It has nothing to do with our current existence and the effort I’ve put in this year - both to the Jily awards all year, the gift exchange, Jilytoberfest, every Jilychallenge, Mystery Microfic May, jilymicrofics and the discord.

At the end of the day I’m here writing because I love Jily and I love all the people who come to read and enjoy what I put out too. But I will admit I’m tried of whatever this is.

If you want to, as you say have open discorse, my inbox is there, but I’ve said my piece and I respect their are different opinions but that’s not gonna change the awards being held this year. All posts are tagged so you can block them or this blog if you like. ~ Ray

#jily awards 2024 #asks #anon ask

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that-ari-blogger · 10 months ago

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Who exactly is this about? (I'm Not That Girl)

When you are finding someone to play Elphaba in a production of Wicked, you need someone with range. Not just vocal range, but acting skill. Because they need to be able to perform with the stage presence and anger inherent in Defying Gravity, but they also need to be able to reach the devastating low that is I'm Not That Girl.

To me, I'm Not That Girl is at the core of what Wicked is, and what musicals are in general. It is a combination of singing and acting, and is someone excelling at both.

But, I would like to drive home the queer reading of this story, and try to explain why I think that reading adds to the message and power of the musical.

Let me explain.

SPOILERS AHEAD (Wicked)

I don't think I need to explain why this song hits so unbelievably hard. It's about unrequited love, and its a strength of the satire that is this musical.

Usually in musicals and fairy tales, the love story is fairly uncomplicated, with an extra option thrown in but not really given much depth and the audience doesn't really buy the drama.

Seriously, how many of you shipped Belle and Gastone?

So, this is a song about that love not working out, not because of plot reasons, but because its entirely one sided at this point. To Elphaba's knowledge, and probably the audience's as well, Fiyero loves Galinda, and there's nothing she can do about it.

"Don't wish, don't start Wishing only wounds the heart I wasn't born for the rose and the pearl There's a girl I know He loves her so I'm not that girl"

This is the other side of love, heartbreak.

Elphaba is a relatively rational character. She has been through the ringer and has ended up detached and restricted in her emotions. Now, someone has pushed through her barriers and she doesn't know what to do about it.

This song seems to me like Elphaba wrestling with love as a whole. Don't feel, don't try. It'll hurt too much, it's not worth the pain. So why can't she stop thinking about it?

The term "rose and thorn" sent me down a spiral.

Both Florists' Transworld Delivery and Bloom and Wild gave a ton of meanings for roses that boiled down to "it's romantic."

Pearls meanwhile have a ton of meanings depending on the culture. The blog My Pearl proposed these, most of which did not have anything to do with love at all. According to My Pearl, pearls are commonly associated with purity, innocence, and wisdom. So, not particularly romantic. However, My Pearl did say this:

"[White Pearls] are often seen as symbols of new beginnings and are often used as gifts for special occasions such as weddings and anniversaries."

So, this is a symbol of a happy ending, and Elphaba is essentially saying that she doesn't deserve that because of her birth. In essence, she is convinced that her difference makes her unworthy of happiness, which... if you think this about yourself, please don't. I don't know who you are, but you are worthy of love.

"Every so often we long to steal To the land of what-might-have-been But that doesn't soften the ache we feel When reality sets back in"

My main point for this series on Wicked as a whole has been that it is about dreams and reality colliding, and this verse fits with that. It's Elphaba letting herself imagine and fantasise about a stolen moment with Fiyero. Once again, at this point she has no idea that Fiyero likes her back, so this is purely theoretical.

I have been using the free sheet music from this website for my analysis, and I would like to stress before I continue that I am far from an expert on the actual theory of music here. I can point to which bits go up and down, and can name a few chords, but I can't tell you about the intricate workings of that.

With that said, allow me to attempt some music theory.

The time signature of this song is all over the place, split between 4/4 and 6/8. In other words, sometimes the bars finish earlier, and so the thoughts within continue, pulling you along as you wait for the conclusion.

In this song, the two signatures differentiate that splitting of reality and dreams. For example, the verse below is in 6/8 time:

As Elphaba imagines, she breaks from reality and the verse is really flowy, almost comforting within the song. But then it ceases the second she comes back to reality.

This keeps happening. Elphaba starts in reality, then drifts into dreams and comes crashing back down.

This time, however, the reality of the verse is about Galinda, the barrier between Elphaba and happiness, the wall she stands in her way. Although, it's a little bit odd to talk about a romantic rival in the way that Elphaba does, isn't it?

"Blithe smile, lithe limb She who's winsome, she wins him Gold hair with a gentle curl"

Let's talk about Dolly Parton.

I genuinely had a whole section trying to argue that this song is the Jolene of musical theatre, but then multiple people mentioned it to me in person by that term, and @a-fast-rebloger referred to it as such here on tumblr. So clearly I'm preaching to the converted here.

So instead, I'm going to explain what that means.

First up, the queer coding of Jolene is barely less than explicit, its essentially the one Romeo and Juliet speech that everyone remembers. "Romeo, romeo, am I in love with you?"

But, the song actually has a history with the queer community, with this article by Nadine Hubbs detailing its implications. The song also has covers and rewrites that bring that subtext to the forefront by Nadine Hubbs, Rainaeiry, Annapantsu (@annapantsu), Jessica Rica, and Dolly Parton herself (Although I have not been able to find footage of this), as well as arguably the versions by Lil Nas X and Caleb Hyles.

Rainaeiry has two covers of Jolene on her youtube channel, by the way, and a cover of I'm Not That Girl that I highly recommend.

Jolene is a song about unrequited love and being unable to do anything about it, and the song focuses on the woman who forms the barrier to this love. It is a song about defeat.

"Your beauty is beyond compare With flaming locks of auburn hair Ivory skin and eyes of emerald green Your smile is like a breath of spring Your voice is soft like summer rain And I cannot compete with you Jolene"

Compare that with this:

"Blithe smile, lithe limb She who's winsome, she wins him Gold hair with a gentle curl That's the girl he chose And Heaven knows I'm not that girl"

This is more than just thematic parallels, this is subject overlap, and remember when I mentioned the dreams vs reality theme being expressed by the time signature? Well take a look at the time signature for that verse.

The verse switches halfway through, as Elphaba begins describing her friend, and that dreaminess comes back as she discusses Galinda, but then dissipates when she remembers where she stands.

This is a love song by Elphaba, about Galinda. It's about how Elphaba isn't deserving, how she isn't pretty, how she isn't chosen. And who does she associate with those traits, but Galinda.

And here is where my reading comes in, finally. I read both of these witches as either biromantic or bisexual, probably both. Galinda for reasons I will get to in a later post, but Elphaba because of this song.

This song to me, is a true love triangle. Elphaba is desperately in love with both Fiyero and Galinda, but she can't reconcile those feelings, and she can see that they both seem to make each other happy, and she doesn't want to break that for either of them. This is a song about defeat.

I keep separating the line "I'm not that girl" from the rest of the verses, and I've been doing that for a reason. The line gets separated by the music as a melodic outlier.

Every part of the song rises and falls. I'm not sure what this is technically called musically, but it's like a ramp or a ski jump. The notes lower slowly, then raise sharply and drop off even more so, as seen above. This matches the song as a whole, which rises and falls in the same way. But consider the following:

This is the only line in the entire song that only descends. It is a line of resignation, as the reality weighs down on our protagonist. Once again, this is a song about someone who does not feel like she deserves love from either Fiyero or Galinda, because of how she was born.

And I will say this again: If you feel like Elphaba here, that you are undeserving of affection, then you are wrong. Everyone is worthy of love, even you.

Final Thoughts

The correct term for this song is "heart wrenching".

While it isn't my favourite in the musical, you will just have to wait and see for that, it is definitely up there, and is one of the few numbers in all of musical theatre that I would classify as a perfect song.

Also, I would not be able to forgive myself if I wrote this post and didn't mention that Steffan Hughes' rendition of I'm Not That Girl is genuinely the most emotionally resonant video on YouTube and it needs more attention than it has.

Next week, I will be looking at One Short Day, so stick around if that interests you.

Previous - Next

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mostlycorrectdipandpip · 4 months ago

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Let's talk about dnptwt

Ok, I created this little shit-posting blog to connect with other phannies and get back into this comfy little fandom. Along with this, I started connecting with dnptwt on my main account. I don't like getting involved in drama, especially when it revolves around blatant racisim, homophobia, transphobia, genocide sympathizers, etc, but I feel like it needs to be said here. I am only going to speak on this once, but if you have questions on my experience or just want to call me out, feel free to message or anonymously inbox me, that is your right as I am posting this openly and publicly.

Dnptwt is NOT a safe place. I genuinely believe that the internet is not a safe place. I wish that it was because access to the internet has become so common and widespread. People can connect on so many levels and share their experiences, but EVERYONE can do it. Republican, democrat, gay, straight, conversative, liberal. EVERYONE. But, over the last few months, dnptwt has become so negative and toxic. Every day someone is being called out for their behavior and, many times, the calling out is warranted. They have said or done something that they need to be called out on. It's the aftermath and the snowballing afterwards that has gotten out of hand.

I am a very positive person. I believe that everyone, at anytime in their lives, can learn and grow and change. We are constantly learning new things and having new experiences. When people say something hateful or negative or they participate in something bad or that you don't agree with, you have every right to call them out on it. Point out the hateful and negative behavior, but just because someone does or says something doesn't mean that they are irredeemable. Spitting hateful rhetoric and being hateful towards people is the exact kind of thing that we want to stop and correct. So when you call someone out for something, call them out and see if they take the initiative to learn or change before you start an unyielding bullying campaign against them. You can choose how you react to that person, if you believe them, and if you want to continue to interact with them. That is your right as a social media user. But to start a campaign where you tell everyone that someone is disgusting and irredeemable before giving them a chance to reflect, relearn, and respond is absolutely crazy.

At the end of the day, what I am trying to say is that in order for people to grow, they need to learn. In order for someone to genuinely apologize, they need to learn what they have done wrong and find it in themselves to change, but this isn't something that someone can do overnight. And it isn't something someone can do while they are being attacked from all sides. Sometimes all it takes is for someone to say how they feel and why it makes them feel that way for someone to realize that they have made a mistake.

I'll call myself out for y'all to get what I mean. I grew up in a very conservative household. I grew up in a household that sprayed hateful rhetoric and had terribly homophobic and racist beliefs. It wasn't until someone in middle school called me out for it. It wasn't nice or sugar coated, just a direct interaction. I dealt with some fallout for sure, but over the rest of that year, I took the opportunity to learn and change how I acted, how I talked, and how I spoke to my classmates and I was able to repair alot of burned bridges and become a more well rounded person.

I fear everyday that the hate I used to spread and the negativity I once had will come back to bite me. I would have to answer for those actions, and I would, and I would have to prove to people that I have changed (and I have). But with the kind of environment that dnptwt has become, I would be shunned, shamed, categorized and irredeemable, and tossed to the side without being able to reflect, relearn, and respond.

This environment is unacceptable. And it is something that I will no longer be taking part in. Give people the space to be wrong, to fail, and to make right.

Just getting this out has helped me feel a little bit better, am I am sure that this will end up on dnptwt and I'll get doused in their hate and vitriol, but to stand silent and watch more and more people who just need some time to get educated and learn would have made me feel so bad. I'm taking some time to reflect on my own actions and time spent on twitter, learn about ways that I can better use my time and energy, and will respond again if I feel it necessary, but I think I've said my piece.

#dan and phil #phil lester #amazingphil #daniel howell #dan howell #danandphilgames #danisnotonfire #dnpgames #philip lester #dnpg #phan #phantwt #dnptwt #twitter #phannies

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slithymomerath · 1 year ago

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Another post about TransTape

I decided to stop reblogging the same thread because it was getting really long and just make a new post. Here’s the original. (I should mention that I identify as a trans man now!)

I’ve been using TransTape for about 2.5 months now. Every time I apply it, I do it slightly better. I’ve understretched it (final result: hm, looks like tape on a breast), overstretched it (final result: it’s slowly tearing my skin open over a period of days, awesome (don’t worry, it wasn’t that bad, I’m mostly just being dramatic. Also while it was on there it looked awesome, super flat. Beauty is pain)), and every type of doing it wrong in between. I was reading this blog by a trans man and he mentioned that he used TransTape for years and continuously found better and better methods, and I think that’s going to end up true for me too. However, I’ve gotten good enough at the moment that this has become my primary binding method. This is how my application looks nowadays:

As compared to me in a sports bra and a binder, respectively:

Pretty good, right? And all the same benefits I’ve talked about before: extremely comfortable, no rib squeezing, can leave it on for multiple days, can sleep in it, having bare shoulders/back. It doesn’t really itch noticeably anymore. And the application in that pic isn’t overstretched, it’s perfectly comfortable. It’s my favorite application so far.

Some more notes I’ve ended up with:

- When you’re applying the tape, don’t think of it as “I’m using the tape to pull my chest into place”, think of it as “I’m using my hand to pull my chest into place and then using the tape to secure it”. Still stretch the tape while you’re using it to secure your chest, but take your tensionless anchor parts on both ends very seriously. Made a huge difference for me, way less overstretching and way better results.

- Recently I’ve stopped doing the alternate methods discussed in my previous post and gone back to the original way they show in the videos. I think pulling your chest to the side is more impactful than pulling it up in the overall look of it, and whatever you do first will have a greater impact. The biggest reason I didn’t want to go horizontal first was that my vertical piece would pull on my skin and make a wrinkle of it that folded over my horizontal piece and that was super uncomfortable, but turns out that’s just a symptom of overstretching/not taking the anchor part seriously enough and making sure it’s attached with no tension to both your skin and a small part of the previous tape.

- I tried the medium size instead of the large. I think if I was going for optimal results it (or even small size) would be best, because I can use three total pieces of tape and get another bite at the apple of pulling my chest to where I want it. However, I’m more going for comfort/not a giant hassle putting it on, so I prefer my two pieces of large tape at the moment.

Random thoughts:

- I love that I can take my shirt off if it’s hot or during sexy time and feel like a shirtless guy, not a person with a mildly uncomfortable article of clothing still on. This is enhanced by the fact that the nude color is a pretty good match for my skin.

- I have an appointment about HRT in Aug, so I’m really hoping it’ll cause my chest to deflate a bit and then my binding will be even more rad!

Feel free to message me with any questions about my experience :)

#trans man #trans masc #transman #transmasc #transmasculine #trans tape #transtape #tape binding #transtape binding #trans tape binding #chest binding #campost

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cheesy-che · 2 months ago

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Messages from my inbox about people in need. Please visit their blog and help how you can. No donation is too small. 🇵🇸 Feel free to share and reblog!

#FreePalestine

@familygazaamal asked:

Hello dear, I am talking to you about my suffering and the suffering of my children. I have not met or seen my children for more than a year because I am in Egypt for treatment, and my children in Gaza are going through difficult and desperate conditions. They are unable to obtain the basic necessities of life. Who brings them water and food in light of the difficult conditions and high prices there. I also have a strong fear of losing them. Please help by donating. If you cannot help, please share. There is news about the opening of the Rafah crossing this month, which is the only opportunity through which I can meet them. Please helpVerified by @gazavetters, my verified number in the list is (#55) ~ @mahrahpalestine asked:

Hello dear,,,,My name is Marah from Gaza. Computer engineering student. I hope you are well . 🇵🇸

I write to you with a heart full of hope and faith, and I ask for your urgent help. My family is in great danger due to the war, and I am running a fundraising campaign to save them. My father and mother suffer from diabetes and high blood pressure. Help me secure them

Please, any donation makes a difference in our lives, and every reblog helps reach as many people as possible. 🍉

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for any help you can provide. ~ @anas12a asked:

Hello ,our family is facing incredibly difficult times due to the ongoing war in Gaza 💔. Our dreams and future have been shattered, leaving us feeling lost and without purpose. Anas and Ahmad have launched a GoFundMe campaign to help them escape Gaza, continue their education, and support our family.

Making a small donation or sharing the campaign would mean the world to us. Link: https://gofund.me/8eb29f87

Thank you so much for your kindness and support 💖

With gratitude, Anas & Ahmed Family Vetted by @90-ghost & by association ~

@mohammedayyads-blog asked:

‎‏I am mohammed ayyad of Gazans, living in very difficult conditions because of the war that the Gaza Strip is under. Since the outbreak of the war on the seventh of October we have been evacuating .

‎‏Then the journey of suffering and separation began,because my children were separated and evacuated from our home without covering or clothes. From here they became infected with diseases, and what increased our fatigue was the constant upbringing due to the different areas in which we were displaced, as we were displaced 9 times, and this was very expensive, the last of which was the 9th of this August from Hamad Town. In addition to that, we have lived in the summer season in a tent that did not exceed three meters, closed with nylon, so it is like an agricultural greenhouse atmosphere. It is very hot. All in all, we live difficult days that no human beings can afford. We use direct donation including what they can or share links fully so people can know our tragedy and pain. Remember a small contribution can make a difference in the lives of many children who are dealing with their health condition all. Leave their details and make them happy with your generous contribution. ~ @mohammed5alwadiya asked:

Hi 🌟, I hope you’re doing well. We’ve raised very little so far to support me and my family during these challenging times due to the conflict in Gaza. We’re still working to reach our goal and would greatly appreciate your help. 🙏 If you can’t donate, could you please share or reblog my pinned post? Your support in spreading the word would mean a lot to us. 💪 Pinned post here.

Donation link: https://gofund.me/f751a38a

Thank you so much for your kindness and support! ❤️ ~ @emanabosedo asked:

Hello,🙏I hope you're well. I’m reaching out to ask if you could help by sharing and reblogging my story. I've faced many hardships, and your support and the spread of my story could greatly impact my life and help me through these tough times.

Thank you so much for your understanding and generosity.🙏♥️ ~ @bilalassadabedrou asked:

Hello everyone🙏🤝🫶👋👋

The youngest child in my family passed away under bombardment and destruction in Gaza💔💔💔💔😭😢😓. In light of this tragedy, I ask you to donate to save what is left of my family, or at least publish the link on your pages to help us gather the necessary support. May God have mercy on those we lost, and may God help us all in these difficult times🤍💌💌. This is the Tumblr link This is the donation link ~ @hayanahed asked:

Hi, I hope you're doing well. ❤️ I'm writing to you with a heavy heart and an urgent request for help. My family is in a very danger situation due to the ongoing war, and I've launched a GoFundMe campaign to save them. 😢 Could you please share my campaign post from my profile? Each share could be a lifeline for my family. 🙏 Feel free to share it in any other social media platform if you would like. Our campaign has been verified by operation olive branch, and is entry number 26 on their spreadsheet. From the bottom of my heart I want to thank you in advance for all of your support and kindness.

#freepalestine #no donation is too small #free gaza #justice for palestinians

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tokkibbang00 · 2 years ago

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WHY CAN'T WE BE FRIENDS? - C. YEONJUN (TEASER)

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS, DO NOT INTERACT. UNEDITED.

synopsis: Being caught in a series of scandals and controversies, Yeonjun's company has had enough of his attitude problems and finally decides to send him off to university. Despite his arguments towards management, he has no choice but to follow them or else he can kiss his modeling career goodbye. You're a fashion major attending university. You'd think you'd be delighted hearing the news about a famous model coming into your department, but as soon as you were seated beside him in one of your classes, you'd soon come to realize that you absolutely hated his guts

rating: (n)sfw

pairing: model!choi yeonjun x fashion major!afab reader

genre: college!au, enemies to lovers!au, kinda angsty, reader and yeonjun are idiots.

warnings: cursing, yeonjun's kind of an asshole at first, mentions of alcohol, suggestive, (will add more when the full story is posted)

a/n: i was originally planning on posting my han jisung fic first but i got so excited about this one that i knew that i just had to post this. i was also writing a part 2 of a certain fic, but that's a conversation for some other time 👀 I'm currently working on 3-5 fics but I'm also taking in requests!! Feel free to message me or Dm me~ Enjoy the teaser and watch out for the full fic in a week or two 💙

teaser posted: 05-18-23

MODEL CHOI YEONJUN RUMORED TO BE DATING WORLD-STAR IDOL HUH YUNJIN... AND MODEL JEON SOMI?

CHOI YEONJUN SEEN BAR HOPPING THREE NIGHTS IN A ROW IN ITAEWON

CHOI YEONJUN'S EXPLOSIVE EPISODE ON PAPARAZZIS. READ HERE !!!

BAD HABITS AND BAD ATTITUDE? INSIDER WHO WORKED WITH CHOI YEONJUN SPILLS IT ALL!!

Seungjin's eyebrows meet at the middle as his forehead starts showing lines and wrinkles, obvious dissatisfaction etched on his face. His fingers were rubbing his temples out of frustration while he continued to read article after article about their oh-so-beloved model, Choi Yeonjun.

The CEO sat at the end of the table, his back leaning on the chair while he reads along with Seungjin on his iPad.

Every article has been stating one common issue— Yeonjun's superiority complex and attitude problems.

The company already knew about this... issue, before the articles came to surface and has warned the young man every time.

He never listened.

Now here they are, reaping the consequences of the man's actions. They did all that they can to scold him, reprimand him, and even cover for him. Nothing ever stopped Yeonjun.

At the other end of the table, Yeonjun had his legs up on top of the meeting table and his back resting on the chair. His fingers brush his slicked back hair, making strands fall down his face.

The only sound you'd hear around the room was his loud chewing from his gum and his pen tapping.

The CEO, Shihyuk, let out a sigh, placing his iPad down. His elbows were perched on top of the table as he rested his chin on his hands that was clasped together.

“Yeonjun, I'm guessing you know why we've called you and Seungjin here today... Right?”

The young man raised an eyebrow, a small smirk forming on his face. He puts his feet back down on the floor and copied Shihyuk's posture on the table.

“I don't know Sir Bang. You tell me.” Yeonjun teased, “I've been nothing but the perfect role model as far as I can see!” He said sarcastically.

Shihyuk wasn't phased by him at all. A stern look remained on his face as he continues the conversation.

“We have been thinking of ways to better your reputation.”

“Oh? Do enlighten me, please.” Yeonjun held himself back from rolling his eyes. He has heard things like these more than a hundred times already. “It's not like most of those articles are fake and heavily fabricated.”

He was confident that his company would cover for him or would keep shut.

On the contrary, Shihyuk and the PR team has seen the increase of negative articles towards the model. They knew that keeping quiet or finding a cover up will not work anymore.

Shihyuk cleared his throat, a small smile creeping on his face. It was his turn to be smug.

“We have decided to send you to University.”

Every ounce of confidence that was evident on Yeonjun's face immediately disappeared. His eyebrows immediately furrow while his jaw prominently clenching.

“What. The. Fuck.”

TBC.

NOTE: Characters presented do not represent anyone mentioned in the story. This is a work of fiction and is not real.

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elliespuns · 10 months ago

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What is your perspective on tlou2 being inspired by the Israel-Palestine conflict? It didn't register with me at first but I've gotten too attached to the characters by the time that I discovered it and it is genuinely disappointing HOWEVER I have separated their narratives from the political dimension of the game by just focusing solely on the individual emotional journeys that each of the characters go through and I never really bought the games myself first hand except get them second hand but is it still wrong to adore the characters?

Not happy about it. I mean, who would be?

I wasn't aware of it at first either; it just didn't click, and then I started seeing the rumors, and well, it all made sense. I am disappointed. Not at all for Neil Druckmann, though. I don't really care about him (except for his amazing mind, where he created Ellie and Joel, the only fictional characters that I've got to love so much). What I am disappointed in more is that almost everyone thinks that once you continue to love this game, you support the evil too. Which is not how I feel about it.

But then again, does even my opinion matter? I've already got a lot of anon messages throwing hate on me for managing a blog about TLOU and supporting the evil. And I sit here and wonder... where did I ever say that I supported the bad side of the conflict? I don't think I ever did. Why? Because I don't talk about politics on this blog. This blog has been made to share love with all TLOU lovers, not to support Neil Druckmann or anyone else's political views or to even share about politics in general.

People are quick to judge. They go and preach to stand with Palestine and then go hate on the people who chose to stay quiet. People should realize that individuals managing fandom blogs and not sharing politics doesn't automatically mean that they support the evil. We (bloggers) have our own personal lives out of our blogs and our own personal accounts. Many of us are posting about the conflict on our personal social media. People should think about this before making bloggers feel like shit for managing silly blogs where they don't want to discuss what can be discussed elsewhere.

I have a deep bond with this game; I had it a long time ago before any of this was happening (everyone knows I will always prefer the first game over the second). This is not something I can just throw away. I have memories connected to it, feelings, emotions... it's not like I can tell myself 'fuck the game' now just because of the news I got. I guess it's easy for others when the bond is not so strong, but this game has been in a better part of my life for so long, and believe it or not... when I think about how Ellie and Joel make me happy, I don't have fucking Druckmann in mind or any of his political views.

I will never mix my admiration for this project with politics. Me not agreeing with Neil Druckmann's political views won't change the fact that I've already fallen in love with this game years ago. I am not loving Druckmann; I am loving something he once created. That is a big difference. Especially if you've already loved the game before the conflict.

I say, unless you're actively supporting the propaganda and throwing your money at it, you are not hurting anybody. You, being emotionally connected to the story of this propaganda's project or its characters won't really change a thing. Not for good, yes, but not for bad either.

Anyway, this is my opinion. I think people should stop judging those who are not sharing politics on their fandom blogs because they never know what these people share on their personal accounts. We are here to enjoy things that are free; love and joy for fictional characters we've adored for too long.

Sorry, I got a bit carried away. This is probably the only post about politics I'll share, so this needed to be said.

Anyway, you don't need to feel bad for loving the characters. You are not doing anything wrong. I think every one of us who still loves TLOU to this day is able to detach from the fact of who's behind the games. We're here for Ellie and Joel. They don't care about Druckmann either.elliespuns answers

#the last of us #tlou #ellie williams #ellie tlou #joel miller #joel tlou #ellie and joel #the last of us game #tlou game #the last of us part 2 #tlou part 2 #i stand with palestine #elliespuns answers

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missmaywemeetagain · 2 years ago

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Pink Scarf - Part 19 (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: kinda

(Read more here--Pink Scarf Series Masterlist!)

Prompt: You are part of Elvis Presley's coveted inner circle, and the currently-disgruntled wife of one of the members of Elvis' famous entourage, the Memphis Mafia. After Elvis' dynamite first performance in Vegas, you find yourself in deep water when his magnetism finally gets to you after all these years. [ Fem!Reader ]

TW: References to sex. Continued ANGST. Medication/drug use/overdose mentions. Dub con mentions(sort of?). Cussing. Infidelity. Historical inaccuracies in the Vegas timeline. Priscilla doesn't exist in this timeline.

Rating: Explicit/Mature (NSFW, 18+, so minors Do NOT Interact) || Word Count: 8.1k

A/N: Thank you for your patience, my beautiful lil mamas, Part 19 is finally here! We are back in Reader's headspace, and lordy, oh lordy, it's A LOT...just remember, I DID warn and promise y'all pain before a happy ending. And the end is coming soon. 😭 I know, babies, I know. 💖

If you so desire, you should now have the ability to tip my blog or different chapters in the story! Some of you have been asking about this, and of course, no one is obligated to do so! If you do choose to tip, thank you so much! I've never had anyone want to pay for my work before, so this is a big step towards my romance novelist dreams. 💜

I am so FREAKIN' GRATEFUL for every single one of you babies, honeys, and lil' mamas supporting me out there, YOU ARE EXTRAORDINARY! I didn't in a million years expect this kind of support and response for Pink Scarf, and your reactions, reblogs, messages, asks, and comments you've given me have been a blessing beyond expression. You all are the best community a writer could ask for! Thank you so much for your support. I am loving getting to know y'all better! I love every single reaction and comment and ask, and I'm sorry if I don't get back to them all as soon as I'd like but know that I love you all and am so excited to be making new friends! And a big "Hey, Y'all!" to our friends from Elvis Twitter, Elvis Discord, and Elvis Instagram--I see and appreciate you coming over to join us! 👀💋

If you feel so moved, please let me know what you think or how you're feeling (or send me asks)! I think I put everyone on the taglist who requested it, but please let me know if there are any issues or if I missed anyone. There seem to be some issues with tagging that I can't seem to fix, so please know I'm not leaving you out intentionally! Also, if you comment on a previous part that you want to be tagged, I might not always see it, so feel free to message me if I miss you!

I imagined this with Elvis in mind, but Austin!Elvis works here, too, whatever floats your boat!

Apologies in advance if there are any grammatical errors or TW that I didn't catch.

(I did start cross-posting Pink Scarf to my AO3 account, as well as my NEW Wattpad account. so if you are so inclined, you can check it out/support me over there with kudos and votes and whatnot!)

Silence.

For the first time in over a week, you aren’t bombarded with images of the past or worries for the future as your subconscious desperately tries to guide you places you are not ready to go to yet. As you stir awake, you feel somewhat rested, peaceful almost. Your eyes flutter open and even though the room is dim, you still squint and hiss at the light that pierces through your eyes and seems to rocket through your head like a spear. You can’t help but groan a little at the pain behind your eyes.

The room is not familiar, however, which sets you on edge, that peacefulness of good sleep draining from you quickly. Frantically, you try to puzzle out where you are and how you got here but thinking sends a wave of nausea through you that you can’t ignore. You groan again at the feeling and crack your eyes open the slightest bit.

A man, first crouched in the uncomfortable looking chair he’s perched in, sits up ramrod straight at your movements. Despite the dark circles around his eyes, he’s a vision to behold. You know without a doubt he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever laid eyes on, what with his high cheekbones, lusciously pouty lips, and chiseled jaw covered in what looks to be a day’s worth of dark stubble. Raven hair frames his face, thick sideburns curling at his ears and locks haphazard on his forehead. And those eyes, dear lord, those impossibly long, dark lashes rim his eyes. His eyes, which feel as deep and dark blue as the ocean itself, cut through the fog in your head, widening and looking over you with care and concern.

You know those soulful, familiar eyes anywhere.

Elvis.

You blink and the world starts to snap into focus. Through the pain and nausea, you take in your surroundings. The uncomfortable bed you’re in. The IV in your arm. The dreary paint on the walls. The smell of antiseptic.

The hospital. You are in the hospital.

This must be why Elvis looks positively distraught, his large hand now frantically grasping at yours on the bed. You swear he is shaking, steadied only once he touches you and a wave of relief falls over his handsome yet worried features.

“Y/n. Oh thank God, y/n,” he murmurs. “Are you okay? How do you feel? What do you remember?” he barrages you with questions that you aren’t sure you have the answers to yet, especially with the way your head is pounding so distractingly. For some reason, the whole scene suddenly strikes you as silly, what with the most famous man in the world looking at you so damn seriously. You can’t help yourself.

“Who…who are you?” you croak out quietly, your unused voice cracking.

The look on his face is priceless as he rolls through shock, terror, and dismay all at once. His face falls dramatically then and there is no way you can keep up the pretense because the little boy look that comes over him is just too much.

“Gotcha,” you chuckle, cracking a smile that suddenly makes your face feel like it’s on fire and making you regret your smile instantly.

“You little minx,” he growls, a relieved grin spreading over his face before he sees the pain on your face. “You’re hurtin’. Goddammit, I should’ve killed him…” he mutters heatedly under his breath.

It takes more than a moment to process what he is saying and connect that with the burning tightness of the left side of your face. You bring your hand up slowly, gingerly touching the unfamiliar swollen, hot flesh of your cheek. You can’t help but hiss at the painful sensation that runs over you when you do so.

You close your eyes, feeling Elvis’ heavy but comforting hand squeeze yours.

What in the hell happened?

Reaching back in your memory, you attempt to piece together why you are here, why you are in so much pain. Dread fills your heart as flashes of memory come at you:

Jack accosting you in the bathroom.

Losing his mind at seeing the hickies on your breast.

Him dragging you out and humiliating you in front of everyone.

Then…then…

Oh, god.

Jack did this. He hit you.

Your head falls back, and you cover your eyes with your free hand. A wave of shock, then a wave of deep sadness overcomes you. Hot tears spring to your eyes and spill down your cheeks and you don’t attempt to stop them. The salt of them stings the abrasions on your face.

How could he? How could he?

Sobs wrack your body, each one a pulse of pain through your head, shooting red-hot through you. You knew, you knew deep down it was over, but you never expected it to come to this. You never thought Jack had it in him to truly hurt you. But you are lying in a hospital bed, living proof that the man you once loved was truly gone.

And it feels devastating, yet also strangely relieving, in a way you could’ve never imagined.

“Oh, Satnin, baby. Oh, I’m so, so sorry,” Elvis whispers at you, clutching your hand, his concern evident but unsure.

The wave of devastation crashes over you, both the physical and psychic pain nearly unbearable as it throbs in your head. You feel utterly raw. Humiliated. Gutted. Guilty. Relieved. Furious.

The sudden image of slapping Jack’s face as he knelt bloody on the floor resonates through you, the sting still evident in your palm.

Elvis had almost killed Jack, blinded by a protective rage, you now remember. You’d stopped him.

Part of you wishes you hadn’t.

It all feels quite unreal yet simultaneously overwhelming, all these flashes of memory hitting you in rapid succession. And you know there are more troubling memories waiting in the wings, ready to knock you off your feet once again. You can sense them lingering at the edges of your mind, somehow closer than they have ever been but still just out of reach.

All at once you don’t feel strong enough to bear them.

Everybody knows, you suddenly realize. Your affair with Elvis was now out there for everyone to see, for everyone to judge. You open your tear-filled eyes to look at the beautiful man before you, the one you love so much it feels as though it might destroy you, because god knows you haven’t forgotten that. You cannot bring yourself to regret being with him, no matter if it led you to be here, broken and battered in a hospital bed in Las Vegas.

But something is not right. Something besides the obvious. And it’s right there, just out of view.

Your head hurts too much to dwell on it, however.

“I’m gonna take care of you baby,” Elvis finally says after what you realize is too many moments of silence. “Don’t you worry about a thing. I won’t let him hurt you ever again.”

The way he says it so softly and with such righteous conviction strikes something within you. The clasp of his hand on yours is almost too tight, the look on his face both filled with remorse and determination. You know what he says is true—he will not leave you to face this alone.

Despite this, the uncomfortable elephant in the room lingers: you would not be here if not for Elvis, and you both know it.

But with the pain in your body and the ache in your heart, that is not a mountain you can begin to climb yet. There are too many unanswered questions that you need to figure out and this is not the time or place. So, you let Elvis hold your hand with that mournful look in his churning eyes and you try to heal.

“Watch your step, watch your step!” Elvis supports you gingerly, his strong arm holding you at the waist, as if just walking will shatter you into a thousand pieces.

“E, I’m okay. I promise I can walk on my own. It’s just one step,” you say, trying to keep the annoyance out of your tone. He’s been hovering as much as possible for the past two days you’ve been under observation at the hospital, only leaving when absolutely necessary to do his two shows a night. He sent the hospital staff into a tizzy with demands for your care while still managing to be charming and effusive to all the employees in a way that only he could get away with.

You’re not sure that he’s slept in the past few days, as he seems obsessed with making sure you are alright. Your pleas for him to go back to the hotel and get some rest fell on deaf ears. Hopefully, now that you’ll be in the hotel, he will relax a little.

While your face is healing, it is still covered in a nasty bruise, which you are reminded of every time Elvis looks at you because the wince that passes over his features, while nearly imperceptible to others, is quite evident to you. It serves to remind you how you got here and how he seemingly thinks him controlling everything about your recovery is going to somehow put you back together and make everything how it was before.

But it’s not like it was before.

Not with the looks that the Mafia are giving you. You can sense their pity, their judgement, their fear. Because Elvis having a known affair with you threatens them all. What if it was their wife or girlfriend? What if Elvis turns on them the way he turned on Jack? Jack was their friend, too. It’s written all over their faces. And you can tell they’ve been put on best behavior because more than usual they defer to Elvis, and they are suddenly wildly uncomfortable around you, even though you’ve been part of the group for years.

You can’t help but feel like the king’s consort. The mistress. The usurper.

The only exceptions are Jerry and Sandy, of course. And Charlie, in his usual Charlie way, has been kind and endearing. But the rest are quiet. Too quiet.

You don’t know what’s happened to Jack. You also haven’t seen Red, though you can’t say you’re upset about it. The few times you tried to ask Elvis, he brushed you off, saying you didn’t need to worry about such things while you’re trying to recover.

All of it has you unsettled. You knew there would be consequences, of course you did, but you didn’t expect it to be this strange.

Thankfully, your headaches are becoming less frequent, but when they do come, they are intense and debilitating, and weirdly, each one brings a host of images and fractured memories that you must try to make sense of. The doctor said this should hopefully get better as your brain heals from the concussion. A full recovery, he said, but it might take some time. Elvis takes this to mean you need constant care, and honestly you don’t have the energy to argue with the man about it right now, so you let him escort you into his bedroom suite as though you are frail and fragile.

“There you go, Satnin, all set,” he says, fluffing the mountain of pillows behind you, and then he gently takes off each of your shoes. You lean back with a sigh, suddenly grateful for the comfort of his huge bed in his penthouse suite because that hospital bed was truly terrible.

“Maybe you wanna to get into your pajamas?” he suggests. “I had all your things brought up, but I also went ahead and bought you some things, since I know you hadn’t planned on being here this long, and—” he rambles. The look on his face is almost childlike in his need to please you, to take care of you. It is quite the adjustment after spending a week basking in his masculine sexual dominance. You aren’t complaining at this change in him; in fact, it reminds you of when you first met, of those early years. It’s just giving you a bit of whiplash.

“It’s okay, honey, I’m fine for now,” you interrupt, trying to keep your tone light. Bringing your hand up, you pinch the bridge of your nose as another headache threatens. Overly attuned to you, Elvis grabs one of your feet and starts rubbing, using his strong hands to knead deep into the sole of your foot.

The hurts-so-good feeling has you groaning and your head falling back onto the pillows.

“That feel good, mama?” he drawls quietly.

All you can do is nod and hum in response. You’re certain if this had happened a few days ago, that statement, this action, would be laced with a fierce sexual energy. You imagine that it would last only a minute before he pounced and worked you into a state of pleasurable bliss. That latent desire is still there—you can sense it—but with everything that has happened, it takes a backseat to your pain.

This both saddens you and makes you feel grateful. You covet your sexual relationship with him, as it is the definitive thing you know he wants and needs from you. You know this for sure, and with your ever-present uncertainty about the rest of your relationship, it makes you feel off-kilter to not be able to share that with him. However, his commitment to being by your side despite the lack of sex, has been somewhat reassuring. You desperately hope it’s not just a sense of guilt that keeps him here with you.

You sigh, your eyes falling shut, and relish in the feel of his hands on you in such a comforting way as he treats one foot, then the other, to this intimate treatment. But he is uncharacteristically quiet.

He practically has you in a stupor by the time he finishes with the second foot, managing to stave off your impending headache. Opening your eyes, you catch him looking at you, those deep blues of his taking on a darker hue in the dim lighting. You can see the wheels turning, the way his hand flexes and releases over his tailored pants, how he worries his bottom lip with his teeth.

“What is it, E?” you ask gently, almost afraid it might spook him.

“I-I-I…can I hold you?” he stutters, changing tactics midway to get the sentence out, betraying his nerves.

“Of course, baby,” you respond quietly.

“I-I just don’t want to hurt you,” he says, crawling up the comforter to lie next to you. “Are ya sure you’re okay?”

“Yes,” you say, as he curls into you, his arm coming over you.

All at once, you are flooded with memory. Your teenage bedroom. Your single bed. Elvis nestling close into your side, his cheeks still salty with tears. The way your heart races at his proximity and the way his touch, though innocent, burns through you like wildfire. His breath warm on your neck, tickling your bare skin.

He shows up on your doorstep such a mess, coming to you, of all people. You don’t quite understand it. (You’re still not sure you understand it—why it’s you, of all people, at that point in his life, that he’d chosen to come to.)

You fall into caring for him so easily, like it is second nature to run your fingers through his hair and massage his back as he cries in your lap, even though you’ve never touched him like this, so intimately, before. When he asks to stay, those bedroom eyes of his begging, your heart leaps in a way you are ashamed of. Your entire body feels on fire, flustering you as you consider the implications, consider just how badly you do want him to stay, and if it’s worth it to see where this might go.

It only gets worse when you find him stripped down to his underwear, waiting for you innocently in your bedroom, a place no man has stayed before. Your heart stops in your chest at the sight of him sitting there, exhausted and emotionally spent. Before you take him into your bed, he’s so good in reassuring you he would never hurt you, that he won’t touch you like that. Of course, he wouldn’t; you know this. But your trepidation isn’t because you are afraid he’ll take advantage of you—it is because part of you wants him to.

The memory makes you blush furiously. Yet another important moment you had buried so deep that remembering it now makes it feel like it just happened.

After the initial tension of him being curled so close into you wanes, you relax and let your mind wander to places it shouldn’t go. Oh, how you relish in the softness of his skin against yours, the musky scent and heat of him surrounding you as he holds on to you through the night. You wake up multiple times, thinking you must be dreaming that Elvis is in your bed, but are pleasantly surprised to really find him there, his warm, lean, young body pressing into yours in various ways. The moonlight through the window lets you see just how innocently beautiful and vulnerable he is like this, like some kind of angel not of this world, his long lashes falling over his cheeks. You feel grateful to see him this way, tucking the moment away in your mind. Despite the rollercoaster of hormones coursing through you, you’ve never felt so safe before, not with Ted, not with any man.

Or felt so aroused. That terrified you, you think, as the wave of feeling crashes over you in the present. You want him with an intensity that shocks you to your core. But he is your friend, for god’s sake, and he’d come to you upset and trusted you to help him, and here you are, suddenly lusting after him like every other girl on the planet. Oh, yes, you are so very ashamed of yourself, for the dirty thoughts you’re thinking.

But, oh, how you imagine him waking to kiss you passionately, willing him to touch you everywhere, wanting him to run his long, calloused fingers up under your nightgown and into your panties. Thinking that, in an instant, he could easily slide between your legs, and you would let him. You’ll gladly give yourself to him right this minute if he wants you. You screw your eyes shut, trying unsuccessfully to block out the image of him slowly entering you, joining with you, rocking you into submission, into ecstasy.

Back then, those thoughts were more dangerous than anything, especially when the man in question was in your bed already, holding you close. It was a different time, and at nineteen, you were young and bound by propriety, and yet, in that moment, you hadn’t cared about that part.

But it is Elvis. Your dear friend. He doesn’t think of you that way. He’s on the brink of stardom and already has half the country fawning over him, with girlfriends in every town. You know this, logically. You know this, but for the first time, you allow yourself to think that maybe there is more to the two of you than just friendship. That maybe there is a reason he’d come to you in his hour of need.

A wave of heartache rolls through you as you recall that next morning. You blearily wake up from your fitfully aroused but somehow comforting slumber to him pulling you close, pressing the front of his body into the back of yours. The heat of him permeates through the thin cotton of your nightgown, which is quite a pleasing sensation in the cold of this late-winter morning. You sigh and wiggle back into him instinctually, before you can think too much on it, just needing to be closer to him. But then he jumps out of the bed in a flash, as if you were on fire, scurrying to clothe himself, and then he practically leaps out the window to get away from you.

He didn’t want you. Of course, he didn’t want you. He probably regrets the whole thing, with the way he leaves you lying there. He is Elvis Presley, after all. Your friend, but nothing more. You’d been foolish to think it anything more.

His abrupt absence leaves you cold, tears welling in your eyes, yearning for something you know you could never have from him (or so you’d thought, at the time). You pull the covers over your head, the scent of him on your sheets enveloping you. The grease he used in his hair left a stain on your pillow, but you don’t care in the slightest because it is something tangible, something that lets you know him holding you through the night had been real and not a dream.

Now it hits you suddenly that—oh, god—that was the day Jack had asked you out for the first time. You’d been sad all day, trying to push Elvis out of your mind and Jack had shown up at the diner, suddenly quite brazen in his attraction to you. While you weren’t entirely surprised, as the two of you had been dancing around each other for some time, the timing of it helped bring you out of your funk, reminding you that in the real world, a good man like Jack wanted you.

You’d quickly accepted because you liked Jack and there was no reason not to.

Elvis Presley was just your friend, after all.

Now you realize that in that short 24-hour period, the trajectory of your entire life changed. Maybe you’d fallen into Jack’s arms so quickly because Elvis’ rejection had upset you more than you wanted to admit. It had been easier and more realistic to date Jack, and it had taken your mind off the unwanted thoughts you had for Elvis.

Oh, no.

The intense discovery of this long-hidden memory and the emotions to go with it rocket through your skull with a shooting pain, causing you to hiss. Tears flood your eyes, from both the ache in your heart and the pain in your head.

“Baby, you okay? What can I do?” Elvis shoots his head up, noticing your distress, looking you over carefully.

You can’t explain, not now. “Bad headache,” you breathe out instead. “Can you get my medicine?” You didn’t want to take pain meds if you could help it, but in this moment, everything, pain and otherwise, is too overwhelming and you think maybe you just need some sleep.

So, you take the pill he gives you gratefully. You try not to think about how the way he looks at you now has that same boyish quality it had all those years ago when you’d taken him into your bed and into your arms, and he’d left you cold.

It’s okay, you think. He’s here now, taking care of me. He wants me now, even if he didn’t then.

And with that, you drift aimlessly away into welcome darkness.

Everything is fuzzy, the dull ache in your head muddling the flashes that are floating to the surface in your dreams.

You kiss Elvis’ forehead, the tears on his baby-faced cheeks, his pouting, full lips. You can taste the salt of his tears on your tongue.

Not Elvis now, you think, Elvis a long, long time ago.

But that doesn’t make sense. You didn’t kiss Elvis until two weeks ago.

He’s so sad, though, so alone. He needs you, he needs you, he needs you…

And you need him.

But it’s wrong, all wrong. And so right, all at once. Your body tingles through the ache in your head as you ever-so-gently press your lips to his. You’ve wondered for so long what he tastes like.

Soft and sweet, like marshmallows.

His bright blue eyes widen with shock.

“Y/n, baby, you don’t want this…” he whispers. The words echo and swirl around you.

He’s right, isn’t he? You can’t want this. You shouldn’t. Of course not…

You’re so angry, so sad, and he’s so beautiful.

Elvis. Your Elvis.

No, he’s not, he’s not, he’s not.

He belongs to no one. He belongs to the world.

Need pulses through you, a need so deep it brings you to your knees. It cuts through the pain in your head. It singes through your heart.

It’s unbearable.

It burns through you, from the inside out.

Those eyes, deep as the ocean, rimmed in black, plunder your soul. You ride the swell of the waves in them as they rise higher and higher and higher until they shatter underneath you.

The fall is blissful and terrifying, all at once, but Elvis is with you the whole way.

Free falling through the abyss, you are scared. It’s never-ending. You don’t know when you’ll hit bottom, and the anticipation of it runs like ice through your veins.

Guilt. Shame. That ache in your chest.

And then you hit bottom.

Your eyes pop open with a shuddering gasp. Gripping the sheets for dear life, you frantically try to piece out where you are, that you are not falling anymore.

Just a dream. Just a crazy, medication induced dream, you pray, seeing that you are in the darkened suite in Elvis’ penthouse.

But the unease remains, lurking more visibly now in the corners of your mind, trying to tell you something you don’t want to hear. Something you don’t want to see.

The door to the bedroom slowly opens and you jump, a hand flying over your chest in surprise. Elvis strides in quietly, clad in his white gi jumpsuit, sweat pouring over him. He must have just finished a show.

You had been asleep a while.

You are still amazed at how his presence fills a room, even when it’s just you here, even when there is no one to impress. He looks gorgeous and you know he’s riding the post-show high by the way his eyes sparkle and by the flush of his cheeks.

“You’re awake, baby. How’re ya feeling?” he asks, gliding over to you on those long legs of his.

You are still reeling from the dream. You shake your head, trying to clear that feeling of dread, of falling, and as he sits on the bed next to you, you are sucked into those oceanic eyes once again.

Your heart races.

“Are you okay?” He looks concerned, brushing your sweaty locks off your forehead, thumb grazing your cheek.

“Are you okay? he whispers, his thumb grazing your cheek. You sit still in his lap, saying nothing and can feel him begin to soften inside of you, the wetness of spent arousal leaking down your thighs under your dress…

The flash of memory hits you hard, because it was then, not now. Triggered by the same gesture, the same man, but it was a different time. He looked so young…

But that’s impossible. Impossible. The first time you had sex with Elvis was less than two weeks ago.

Your heart thunders in your chest because suddenly you don’t think that’s true.

You kiss Elvis’ forehead, kiss the tears on his baby-faced cheeks, and then, with a strange boldness, you kiss his pouting, full lips. You can taste the salt of his tears on your tongue.

His pants scratch at your bare thighs as you straddle his narrow hips. His tongue explores your mouth, sending searing heat through you. Boldly, you rock in his lap, feeling him grow underneath you.

You need him, oh, god, how you need him.

The flashes aren’t complete, but they are real. You are suddenly so sure that they are, and you don’t understand, not at all. You look at Elvis now, wild-eyed, silently seeking answers. How? How?

His long fingers are cold as they part your wet folds, and he pushes one, then another deep into your heat while his thumb massages that ever-sensitive bundle of nerves at the front. It stings at first, this surprising intrusion, but he’s gentle, letting you adjust around him, letting you decide when to move.

Your breath is coming fast now, and Elvis looks more than concerned.

“Satnin, what’s happenin’? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he says, eyes searching you.

You screw your eyes shut. This can’t be real. It can’t be.

You sink down on him slowly, the tightness of your canal stretching around his considerable size as you try to take him all in. It’s easier now, after he prepped you with his fingers, and the discomfort wanes quickly as you bottom out. He’s hitting places inside you that you didn’t know existed until this very moment.

Elvis looks utterly ethereal as you begin to ride him, his mouth open and pink, his freshly dyed raven hair falling in his eyes. Everything about him looks carved out by the gods, and his eyes drink you in in a way that strips you bare, right to the heart of you. He looks at you as though you hung the moon and the stars.

Those eyes are now looking at you in a panic.

He brings you to the brink easily and you crest the wave hard, your orgasm fracturing you into a thousand pieces as you fall. You’d never felt this way before, not with Ted, not with Jack, not even with yourself. The pleasure of it rips through you and he follows quickly, a warm, sticky heat pulsing deep as you cling to each other for dear life.

Oh. Oh god…

It was real. You know it now. You are more sure of it now than you’ve ever been.

Graceland, you realize suddenly, when he took you to see Graceland for the first time. That’s where it happened. Nineteen-fucking-fifty-seven.

Elvis and you had sex, a long, long time ago. And he kept it from you. Pretended it never even happened.

You push away from him and stagger off the bed in daze, flooded with so many emotions and sensations at once that you don’t know how to react. Dizzy, you sway a bit on your feet.

Flashes keep hitting you as you move. Waking in the hospital, not knowing how you’d gotten there. Elvis, worried at your bedside. The pills. The accidental overdose.

You think you might be sick.

“What the hell is happenin’? You’re scarin’ me. Talk to me, baby,” Elvis says from behind you. He feels so far away, but that deep seeded need to flee him is rolling through you and you walk unsteadily forward, though you aren’t sure exactly where you are trying to go.

Oh, he must have been so relieved when you didn’t remember anything about that night. That he didn’t have to take back what he’d—you’d—done. That it didn’t completely derail his friendship with you or Jack. That he got to keep being Elvis without any repercussions.

Twelve years. Over a decade built on lies and half-truths and pretending.

Tears are streaming down your burning cheeks now. You feel humiliated. Shocked at both yourself and at him. You’d cheated on Jack, with Elvis. It didn’t matter that Jack had cheated first. You’d had feelings for Elvis all the way back then, feelings you acted on in a moment of vulnerability for both of you. He’d been devastated about June, scared about his fame. You’d wanted to comfort him, but you had also wanted to prove to yourself that if a man like Elvis Presley could want you, then of course Jack should.

You’d thrown yourself at him. He didn’t stop you. And then he lied to you about it all.

If you’d have remembered…Christ, the repercussions would’ve been life altering.

Elvis grabs you then, in the present, his hot, long, ring-clad fingers circling your arm, pulling you back towards him.

And it is then that your anguish fully turns to anger. After everything that has happened these past two weeks, these past fourteen years…Suddenly, that sense of betrayal, your seeming lack of control of anything in your life, all the fear of the past, present, and future, pushes you to the brink. You feel done being at the mercy of the universe, done at being at the mercy of the lies and whims of men.

“Take your fucking hand off me, Elvis,” you hiss, venom in your glare.

You watch as his brilliant blue eyes widen in surprise, and with that, he releases you.

“Is this all a game to you?” you ask pointedly, voice shaking under the weight of your simmering fury.

“W-what?” he says, shaking his head. “Baby, I can’t emphasize enough that I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“You lied to me. You’ve been lying to me for years,” you throw at him. A fueled rage clouds your judgement. You are quickly becoming unhinged and near irrational, but you are unable to stop it, almost like you are possessed, out of your mind, and watching your unusual behavior from afar. It’s as though a part of you wants to blow all of this up and you are powerless to stop this destructive side of yourself.

Elvis throws his hands up in surrender and begins to turn away. “That concussion has you bein’ all crazy, honey. I don’t even know—”

“That day at Graceland, right before you bought it. When I accidentally took too many pills for my headache. You know the one, don’t you?” you interrupt scathingly.

He stops and looks back at you, that pretty brow furrowing, and you think you can sense his panic truly brewing now. “I-I-I thought ya didn’t remember nothin’ about that afternoon.”

“Oh, I didn’t.” You think now you do, but you have to be sure. “You were awfully upset that day because of June, weren’t you? Going on and on about how you’d never know if a women would truly love you. And, come to think of it, you never did tell me how it was that I fell asleep,” you add, turning the knife with both curiosity and fervor, glaring at him.

His eyes truly widen now, his pouty mouth popping open and then shuttering closed again, his pallor turning pale.

And there you have your answer. You are not supposed to know this. He’d told you about June all over again after you’d left the hospital because you hadn’t remembered him telling you at Graceland. But he definitely hadn’t told you again about his insecurity of not knowing if a woman would love him for who he really is.

It’s all true.

That realization is horrible and vindicating and almost relieving all at once. You weren’t wrong when that voice in your head was telling you he was keeping something important from you. You weren’t crazy. And you even think this isn’t all he’s been hiding, but you can’t go there now. It’s too heavy a punch to the gut, and all you see is red.

A frantic, small voice in your head tries to remind you that you should consider Elvis’ feelings about that day, how he was vulnerable and frightened when he couldn’t wake you, and that your concussion has you not in your right mind and missing pieces of all this, but your rage kicks those thoughts aside and you plow forward anyway. You have too many unanswered questions.

“We had sex, Elvis. In 1957! How could you…how dare you then pretend it never happened! How could you not tell me?!” you scream at him, in a way that is utterly unlike the passive and quiet woman you’d become over the years. The woman who had learned to cower instead of speaking up for herself. The stubbornness and fire from your youth flares, driving you forward recklessly. It hurts your head to do it, but you can’t help it.

Elvis just stands there, staring, silent, using that well-honed talent of his to make his beautiful, godlike face an unreadable mask. It kills you inside, but you wait, unwilling to let him off the hook. But he still does not speak.

“Did it even mean anything to you?” you then ask quietly, tears prickling your eyes again, “Or was I just another notch on your bedpost?”

He blinks slowly and presses his lips together, and your heart sinks because you can’t tell if being with him so intimately meant anything to him at all. You should be able to tell, but you can’t, not when he’s shutting you out like this. And that deepest fear being realized both destroys you and pisses you off even more.

Finally, Elvis breaks his silence, voice low and measured and too careful for him, like he’s reciting lines in a movie, “It wasn’t…You were high. Your judgement was impaired. I was mortified...” He trails off, looking away. Then he pauses, taking a deep breath before challenging you with his intense eyes, “And would tellin’ you have changed anythin’?”

You choke at that and shake your head as you turn away from him. The words linger in the air, and you are irate at them, at him. They whirl within you, stabbing you in their coldness. He was mortified by being with you. Good god. The wound of that cracks through you like ice shattering.

You know deep down you didn’t sleep with him because you were accidentally high. You are certain of it. It wasn’t just about getting back at Jack, or just about feeling attractive and desired. No, it was so much more than that. After remembering what you have, you know you’d given yourself to Elvis willingly, medication or no, doing something you’d sworn after Ted that you wouldn’t do again until marriage.

He presses you on this, this thing you can’t believe he’s asking. “Would it’ve? You were with Jack, you loved Jack. And I’d just gotten home and was leavin’ again just as fast. What would’ve it changed, y/n, other than to make things awkward between us and ruin our friendship? Other than to ruin what you had with Jack?” Elvis asks from behind you, his gravelly voice strained.

You’re shaking now, your whole being quaking with physical and emotional toil, another headache slamming down upon you. Yes, you’d loved Jack, you truly had. And you know you’ve fallen in love with Elvis these past few weeks. But all of this craziness—these revelations, these secrets, these memories—are finally confirming something your mind has been trying to tell you lately about all those years ago, something you suspected and feared, but didn’t want to admit:

You have been in love with Elvis since the beginning. You had loved him then just as you love him now. And if you had remembered that, if he’d wanted it, if he had asked you, at any point, you think would’ve dropped everything for him.

Even if it would’ve ruined you both.

A bile of panic rises in your throat because, besides the times you truly can’t remember because you’d literally been dying, there had been all those other moments throughout the years where you’d pushed down your love for him. Important pieces of your life that you’d just forgotten, sometimes right away, in order to spare yourself the pain of this realization, the pain of Elvis’ rejection.

Maybe it started in the diner when he comforted you after Ted broke your heart, or maybe it began even earlier because god knows you can’t trust yourself or your memory. In fact, you are quite sure that there are still things he’s keeping from you, pivotal things you still don’t remember and it’s maddening. But after the diner, it feels like every moment you repressed is a missing piece to the puzzle of your life and reminder of how everything has gone so completely wrong.

Oh, and isn’t it rich that you are laying into him about keeping this naughty little tryst from you when you’ve been conveniently forgetting all these crucial moments of your relationship over your lifetime, a logical voice in the back of your head hurls at you.

Fuck you, you throw back, dread seeping through you.

And now your deepest fears are confirmed—Elvis hadn’t wanted you, not like that. He was mortified by it, in fact. He had a taste of you in a moment of weakness, because he’s just a man after all, and got lucky when you didn’t remember. Thinking better of it, he kept it all to himself. All these years, he’d lied by omission. And for some goddamned reason, he’d swung back around to you after all this time, destroying your life as you knew it in the process.

You spin back around to face him. Nausea rolls in your stomach because, suddenly, you’re not sure you know the man in front of you at all.

“Fuck you, Elvis Presley. It would’ve changed everything,” you say vehemently, honestly, leveling him with your stare.

And it looks like you just slapped him by the way he recoils.

You can’t stop yourself from digging deeper, too angry to care, “But I’m sure that’s not what you wanted, since you were so quick to decide that I didn’t need to know, so fucking cocksure that you didn’t even deem to ask what I wanted. No, you just got laid and got lucky and moved right on to the next girl.”

“Th-that’s not—“ he sputters, those azure eyes a little frantic.

“Isn’t it, though, Elvis? Isn’t that exactly what happened? We fucked and you decided it was a bad idea, so you didn’t bother to tell me when I couldn’t remember myself. Who cares what I thought, right?! Then you went on with your life as though nothing happened.”

As if it hadn’t mattered at all, as though you hadn’t mattered enough to bother. You can’t bring yourself to say that part, though, as the icy pain of saying the rest out loud like this sends more tears pouring down your cheeks, despite your anger wanting to keep them at bay.

As if the rest isn’t bad enough, another thought hits you sideways, “My god, you even pushed Jack to marry me, didn’t you?” You look at him incredulously, remembering how Jack had joked about it after he’d proposed. The words ache through you as you say them, as you realize the implications of that. Yet another one of your deepest fears confirmed.

Elvis looks stricken as he backs up to the bed and sinks down on the edge, putting his head in his hands.

“I-I-I w-was no good for you,” he mumbles.

“You don’t get to decide that, Elvis! You took those choices away from me!” you cry at him.

You watch as he holds his tongue, as his body stiffens at your words. His jaw clenches and his breathing changes. You know the signs by now, but you don’t care. You don’t care that he’s getting ready to explode and that it’s you pushing him over the edge. You want him over the edge. You want him to care enough to be mad about it.

“And what? Did you finally decide after twelve years that maybe you did like my pussy after all, so you decided to come back for more?” you spit at him nastily, driving him right over the threshold.

“I was protecting you!” Elvis bellows, leaping to his feet, face red with anger. His eyes darken and flash in a way that might have caused you to pause before, but not today, not after this.

You don’t let up. “Protecting me from what exactly? A bad marriage? A man that doesn’t love me?” you laugh haughtily at the irony.

He doesn’t elaborate, just bites his tongue in frustration and glowers at you, pulling himself back.

Then, another sinking realization drags you under. “Good lord—you had your hands in my relationship with Jack every step of the way. From day fucking one. You pushed us onto each other, a-a-and then you took him away from me, over and over again. The women Jack ‘dated’…Jesus, that was when he went to Vegas to see you that first time, wasn’t it? Of course. I should’ve known that’s when he started fucking other women. Because of you,” you point at him, more fury boiling in your stomach as you ramble.

God, was it all lies and subterfuge? Every fucking thing in your life related to these men?

Elvis stands there, jaw gritted so hard he might crack his veneers, his hands fisted at his sides, his leg going a million miles an hour. But you don’t stop.

“And then you came back home to find me upset, pretended like you didn’t know why, and then you fucked me?” The memories come to you too quickly, too painfully, fractured moments flashing in your aching head, weaving back together what you’d lost for so long, fueling your pain, fueling you forward. “And that was just the beginning. You sucked Jack and me both into your world, then played with our lives because…why? Why, E?” you demand.

Still, he says nothing, eyes fierce and his body vibrating with energy, letting you continue your verbal assault.

Your heart is going so fast you fear it’s going to explode, but you continue anyway, knowing that this isn’t like you, that perhaps this isn’t truly what you want. I love him, don’t I? But you are so mad, so exhausted from feeling like a plaything in the lives of the men around you, that you can’t stop. They’ve treated you as if you have no agency of your own. As if you were nothing without them. And you are done.

You shake your head. “You screwed with our lives because you could. You and your fucking egomaniacal, insane, manipulative bullshit. Nobody can be happy unless the King is happy, right? What the fuck is wrong with you?” you hiss, beside yourself with anger at him, on what he’d done to your life. In this moment, your love for him is entirely consumed by your rage, as your addled and bruised brain tries to piece together just how screwed up this entire situation is.

Elvis roars then and sweeps everything off the nightstand, sending things shattering and flying to the floor. You do your best not to wince at the outburst, unwilling to let him shake you. Then, he looks at you, like a caught, caged beast, his chest heaving and eyes dangerous. But he isn’t blacked out, and you know it because you can see the gears working in his head. You can see that the emotion in his face is not anger alone. There is a deep pain there and it confuses you.

Dread settles into a knot in your stomach because suddenly you can’t shake that terrible feeling that you are still missing something vital here, something both Elvis and your traitorous brain are keeping from you, but your head is pounding and your blood is up and you can’t think straight.

You stand toe-to-toe, staring at each other, chests heaving in the heavy silence.

He breaks first, but with an almost frightening level of clarity that you don’t expect after his outburst. “Fine. Y-you w-w-wanna make me th-the-the villain in this story, then fine, I-I’m th-the fucking villain, honey. I-I-I always w-was,” he stutters wildly, cutting, his stormy eyes narrowing like a crocodile as he levels you with them.

He doesn’t deny any of it. He doesn’t even defend himself anymore.

You don’t know what to do with that.

All you know is you hurt. Everything aches, inside and out. You feel like an absolute fool. You are infuriated with him and maybe even more furious at yourself. Then, your heart breaks, sending a wave of sorrow flooding through your chest and down your limbs.

Everything with Jack was bad.

Somehow, this is worse.

It feels like your entire world has been pulled from underneath your feet. The devastation you felt about Jack feels like nothing now compared to Elvis’ betrayal, and the weight of both together is crushing you from all angles.

There is no escape. You can’t breathe.

Somehow, you’ve lost them both. Or maybe you never really had either of them to begin with.

You silly, stupid girl. I tried to warn you.

You manage to hold back the sob that threatens to break you.

Wordlessly, you nod, clench your fists, then turn and walk out.

Elvis doesn’t stop you.

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