#feel like saying 'just quit your job and strike out on your own!' to people who are frequently not in a position to do that

[pied-piper-pluto]

as a big proponent of Making Your Own Webbed Site For Your Webbed Comic myself, it bothers me how, every time naver webtoon gets caught mistreating specifically its contracted artists, that news gets used as a jumping off point to promote self hosting/reading self hosted comics... it feels like a self-interested distraction from the actual issue of "this company is screwing over people it has contracts with"

[wyvernest]

would you be able to write something about chubby!reader having body issues and thinks she doesn’t deserve miguel because he’s so sculpted and beautiful, but miguel reminds her how perfect she is? (in whatever way you think is best)

i just love reading these types of fics and they really help boost my confidence 🥹

tysm! <3

hope you like it<3

aphrodite

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader

warnings: fluff, established relationship, body dysmorphia

summary: you start feeling self conscious right before your date, and miguel isn't having any of it

translations are at the end

Miguel had finally made time to take you out. You are well aware of the fact that he is a busy man, and had decided against pressuring him to abandon his work overtime.

But tonight was for you. He had planned out the perfect date, from the restaurant, reservations, to the tiniest details; what day would be best in terms of weather, your job, and his duties. 

To say you were overwhelmed with excitement was an understatement. He had always been so caring and considerate, looking for ways to make you feel valued and appreciated even when time itself stood against his efforts. Finding unadulterated joy in asking you out like it was your first time getting closer to each other over and over again, the 'honeymoon phase' spark never once leaving your relationship, contrary to popular belief.

And so here you are, in your shared home, getting ready for yet another date with the most handsome man you've ever seen. 

He's already fully dressed, fixing himself in the mirror. His black suit sits oh-so perfectly on him, hugging the shape of his large back and shoulders, tight enough around his biceps, so that they still bulge through the material when he brings a hand up in his hair to tame some dark strands that had fallen out of place. It accentuates the line of his abdomen, having his large thighs finish off the whole look. 

He stands in front of the bedroom mirror, in his striking royal height, the man that ancient Greeks probably had as a muse when they sculpted the ideals of the male body. His dark, cocoa brown hair is brushed back, silky and soft. His perfectly contoured face is dimly lit by the low, warm bedroom lights, his features prominent: the bridge and line of his nose, squinted piercing eyes along with a downright intimidating set of brows His sharp jaw is held up high while he works with his tie, expert hands skillfully experimenting around an array of various knots, pondering upon which fits best.

He truly is quite the sight, you melt at the tableau before you, holding back a sigh seasoned with nothing but the very heights of being irrevocably enamoured.

His whole presence screams strength and mature dominance, with a hint of incontestable luxury.

Resuming your own outfit, your own body still only adorned in nothing but a pair of panties and a bra, you head to the closet for the one dress you have been imagining yourself in for the whole week since he offered you the invitation. You couldn’t be more excited to finally try it on and admire yourself with it, have people look your way while wearing it, with an arm hooked around the one and only Miguel O’Hara. 

Putting it on and adjusting its stretchy fabric over your curves, your smile starts to fade. This isn’t what it looked like the first time I tried it on, you mentally conclude, and the more you look at it, the more things you wish you hadn’t noticed. You pull at the material, the hem, the sides, the neckline, anything you can think of that maybe, just maybe, could fix it. Panic starts to drip into your nerves, what will you do now if it just won’t look good? Screw it and go out with it anyway, and then feel all eyes on you for the rest of the evening? What will people think when they see you, merely decent, next to him? And otherwise, what other option is there? To pick some other dress that can’t possibly be more appropriate for the occasion, since you had bought this one specifically for the place you’re going, and still not look the part?

Your breathing starts to quicken as you keep fumbling with the textile around your shape, attention half directed to the open wardrobe, scanning every shelf and hanger for a second option. 

Suddenly, the floor creaks, bringing the echo of incoming footsteps. And there he is, standing behind you, hands on your tense shoulders. You almost despise the image before you; his impeccable, calm and stoic image, next to you, discouraged and deeply insecure in evident comparison.

“What were you thinking about just now?” his words river down over the shell of your ear on a hot breath that has shivers shot down your spine.

“Nothing, I’m getting ready”, you cover it up in a sing-song voice, not wanting to dig deeper into letting him know that you don’t deem yourself pretty enough for him, let alone expect him to find you more attractive than you do yourself. Unfortunately, he’s too smart for your little diversion.

“Don’t lie to me.”, his tone serious, voice deep. His eyes rank up and down your body in the mirror, and you feel an acute need to just disappear. “Que guapa.”

He presses a kiss to your temple, and you feel rosy heat rise to your face.

Your mouth speaks before you think.

“Does it look good?”, he senses the hesitancy in your voice.

“Baby, you’d look like a goddess wearing a potato sack.” he speaks matter-of-factly, as if his statement equals water is wet, the honesty in his declaration evident with the speed with which the words left his mouth. You can’t help but let a giggle break through your disconcerted face, surprised with the association.

“What, like Marilyn Monroe?”

“No, mi alma, like you.” He wraps his arms around your middle, pulling you back into his embrace as you look at eachother in the reflection before you. His expression softens, visibly relaxed and happy to have you close to him. 

“These curves, every part of you, I know them as I know myself.” His palms slide over your hips, and all the way back up to your shoulders, effectively chasing away any hint of doubt and worry, cleansing you of anything that isn’t love.

“Eres la mujer de mis sueños.” He bends down, his lips reaching the crook of your neck. “No hay nadie como tú."

You let yourself fall back into his tempting embrace, knowing that he’s exploiting your weakness for him speaking Spanish so low and deep into the vulnerable skin of your pulse point, completely forgetting about the date and the dress. 

“And if you don’t like the dress, I’ll gladly rip it off.” He exhibits his talons as a warning, the curved edges of the claws grazing your bare shoulders intently. “If anything, the dress isn’t good enough to be worn by you.”

translations:

que guapa - how beautiful

mi alma - my soul

eres la mujer de mis sueños - you're the woman of my dreams

no hay nadie como tú - there is no one like you

a/n: again, if any native speakers see anything wrong with my Spanish please let me know🤍

[relaxxattack]

you are so very homestuck knowledgeable. when you have the time and should inspiration strike, please tell all your headcanons about oliveblood trolls.

ooo what a great question! for this one i think first we'd need to break down current stereotypes about olivebloods. there's actually not much that we're given about them tbh

according to the homestuck wiki, which is based on info from both the comic and more dubiously canon things like friendsim and hiveswap, the olive caste's two singular traits seem to be "wild animal" and "romance liker". both of these, obviously, are traits pulled from our wonderful main girl nepeta, who was the singular representation of the olive caste for a long time; alongside her dancestors. which is quite cute, who doesn't love nepeta?

the thing is though that i am one of those nitpicky people who likes to say, "well, hey now, nepeta isn't actually representative of her caste at ALL." in fact, none of the beta trolls are. i honestly feel like it should be assumed that just like the beta kids, the beta trolls are weirdos, and not really the 'norm' in their society.

nepeta lives out in the wilderness very specifically away from society in a way that is remarked on as being unusual even for someone of her color; and she does not even understand what role her caste would have given her in normal society. and i mean... considering aradia tavros and sollux are LOWER than nepeta, it doesn't really make sense for them all to have nicer houses than her unless she's unusual in her situation.

^ nepeta is in fact NOT a good representation of olivebloods.

which means... no, i don't think all olive trolls are romance obsessed wilderness girls, actually, sorry, hiveswap friendsim, i have to shelve you from my alternia analysis for now.

luckily, there ARE other olivebloods in the series!

first of all, the other leijons. unfortunately, none of them are really "good" examples either. meulin is from an entirely different planet, and disciple is from an ancient history perhaps even less representative of "normal" life than nepeta is. all we really get from them is stuff we already knew from nepeta-- the wildness, the relationship interest. with an added fact that both meulins seem to be somewhat bookish.

and so who does that bring us to? the final canonical oliveblood.

that's right.

troll will smith.

troll will smith is canonically an oliveblood. not only that, but he's a famous actor, which means he is basically a "model" for society- for what it looks like once you "have it all made". i would imagine this goes even more for alternia, supposedly a very movie-geared society.

the two troll will smith features that canonically exist on alternia are Fresh Prince and Hitch. in both of these films, will smith plays a character that is self-made and clever, a regular guy who is just skilled. it should also be noted that while a "threshecutioner" is a job with a heavy blueblood populous, greenbloods can also be one, and it's common enough that a show about it wasn't cut by the alternian dictatorship.

so therefore, what traits can we pull that all of these olivebloods (and equius lol) display to us?

olive trolls are lower class, but they're capable of working up through their connections

likely due to this, olive trolls are often clever and self made. they're likely quick-witted and sharp

they're good at their jobs! most olive trolls that are seen in the comic are very good with their respective practices (be it drawing, writing, bookkeeping, or melee fighting)

it's possible that olive trolls have a good intuition, and are fairly in touch with their own instincts. this would explain why some of them seem to fare better in the wild or in fights, and also why they are stereotyped as having a natural inclination for relationships. i think this is also a good transition ground between the impressive physical psionics of the castes lower than olive, and the emotional/mental psionics of the highbloods above them.

so, there we go. these are my olive headcanons! they're not comfortably well off or anything, but they're not wild animals either-- they're hard workers and skilled at what they put their minds to. probably usually working a nine to five and doing their best in life hoping to move up with a good quadrant or promotion. at least, in my headcanon anyway- no need to take this as fact!

[ghouldtime]

I need more neighbor König getting protective over his little neighbor.

I do believe he can get very possessive, though I'm not sure that's the word I'm looking for. But he's lost so much, so many people in his unit and people he had once considered friends. He won't even visit his own mother because he's scared for her safety. Maybe an enemy finds out some way some how about her and takes her as leverage. Now she gets to see colonel konig with his gear and mask and barking orders and not the sweet man she's come to know. How would he react or feel?

Ofc when she realizes it's just him and throws her arms around him

I'm sorry but I'm answering this because this doesn't fall under my characterization of him 😭 I can do the last part maybe one day when I'm not sick and have planned everything out in my mind THOROUGHLY

I know you meant no harm by this either!! This is just a bit of a rambly tangent to describe WHO my König is and why he's that way.

(Also stating that reader in neighbor isn't explicitly a she nor are they little in the same way. I write gender neutral for a reason! They're a grown adult)

Like I know it's just an imagine and possible scenario but for me I just don't really see it happening unless quite literally EVERYTHING went wrong. He's got plan A, plan B, plan C, D, and E. Always be prepared.

But it strikes me as unlikely in happening at all as he is a VERY cautious man and does what he can to remove his identity as König from his residential life. He keeps his gear under lock and key, he doesn't tell personal details of his work, he doesn't want to track ANY of that back. His field life isn't his personal life and he's intent on keeping that separated. Anything that could be used to identify him, he doesn't keep around or its hidden so NO ONE would suspect it.

It would take some absolute major intel and someone working within KorTac itself to follow him like that - even then, dude is a bit paranoid. He's got a security system for a reason, he doesn't wear his mask in public, his body is covered up usually by the long clothes he wears, he's not out socializing - he's just blending in. He's watching cars that pass, he usually keeps curtains drawn or has privacy film, he knows who drives what car and their schedules - so if it's off, he's picking it up.

The way he's protective is in his actions - that's WHY he won't tell details of his work, that's WHY he works hard to ensure personal life doesn't meddle with what his job is, that's WHY he has backup plans. That's WHY he makes sure they get a security system too, if they haven't had one already. That's why he makes sure they're trained in self defense and have at least some form of weapon at the ready, even though they ARE in a safe area. He's protective in the sense of "I'm doing what I can to prevent that aspect of my life from coming into yours" , he's protective in the sense of "I've seen what people are capable of, I've protected myself so I'm protecting you too as much as I can because you matter to me". He's protective in the sense he's caring, he's going out of his way to make sure you're safe.

But he's not going to be protective in the sense of "let me be with you constantly" or "who were you talking to???" or "Why didn't you invite me". Reader is a grown, independent adult and he's aware of that. He's respectful of that and knows they're capable of caring for themselves too. Being IN their life doesn't mean he IS their life. They both operate in their own lives and have their own interests and both, as such, need alone time and time to spend with others too. That's just how to have healthy relationships.

He's very independent himself and having another person around as his friend has taken a significant adjustment period. Honestly, it takes a long time for him to even register that he can go do things with them. He's so used to being on his own that it has to catch up.

And I'm going to say that my König is NEVER possessive towards people. Never. Possessive implies treating them like an object or piece of property, like they're something that's his alone. Possessive means great insecurity in his sense of relationships to the extent where he's manipulating them and monopolizing their lives for his gain.

He's not, because he's a well adjusted adult who has been to therapy throughout his life to manage his own insecurities, especially involving interpersonal relationships. Hell, when he STARTED to even get feelings for neighbor, he brought it up to said therapist just to be sure he's going down the right path. He's built a set of healthy behaviors to cope with unhealthy feelings that may arise.

He gets jealous, especially initially, but once again - he's a grown adult and is capable of handling his own insecurities in a productive way. Everyone is allowed to have more than one person in their lives and a healthy network of relationships matters.

Protective? Yes. Possessive? Absolutely not. He respects independence as he himself is that way. He wants to spend as much time as possible with his neighbor but he realizes that he too needs his own space and time to recharge, and he can't be singularly focused on one person alone. His primary concern is their safety, no matter what they do.

He's lost many comrades and brothers in arms but that's also bound to happen in his line of work. This might sound brutal, but he's desensitized to it to a degree. Losing someone is never easy, but it's expected. The blow will always hurt but when it's always a possibility, it never wanes. He's wary of it and aware of it, and losing any friends he made happened earlier on in the army before his private contracting days. It numbed him too it and set the precedent for his relationships with anyone and is why he's so guarded.

After then, he's not really had many friends. Not that he had many to begin with but he doesn't go out of his way to get close to others. Acquaintances and work buddies? Yes. But friends are a rarity as he's really rather unapproachable. He's there to do his job, he's there to take people down and get paid, he's wary of getting close to ANYONE knowing they can be taken at any moment. He'll work with them, he'll know them, he'll be proud of them - but making friends and forming personal relationships like that in a private military contracting company is a bad idea, when they can easily swap over to the other side if they're offered more pay. He's seen it happen, he knows it's a real possibility.

That's why he picks any personal relationships closely and takes eons to warm up. His social anxiety, as well managed as it is, doesn't make it any easier. He knows what can happen, so he prepares as best as he can. Which INCLUDES being protective and prepared, and planning accordingly. If he's letting anyone into his life, he's already got a game plan for what he'll do.

And no, he DOES visit his mother, as I've stated! As much as his work allows and as much as possible, he does visit. He just doesn't live with or near her. He can easily visit throughout the year when his schedule allows and its sporadic, with no rhyme or reason. He doesn't take repeating cars, he doesn't do anything in a pattern that can be tracked. He's also made sure she's secure in her home too so it's unlikely things will happen, but he won't flat out not communicate with her and not see her at all. He's just smart and careful about it! He can't bare to never see her again.

I'm sorry but my König just doesn't fall under how most people portray him or see him. He's just a guy with his own personal issues. And like the proper guy that he is, he manages them and knows its his responsibility to do such. He's extensively gone to therapy, he's worked on himself, he knows where he stands.

Sure, he's still prone to jealousy and a touch of paranoia, but that doesn't mean he lacks the skills to work through them. He communicates like an adult with whatever he's feeling. Expressing it can be hard but he DOES get it out there and he also heavily respects reader's own autonomy. They're an adult, so is he. He'll protect them and do what he can, he'll care about them, but he will never seek to control them or treat them like something for only HIM to have. He's not and will never be a "they're MINE and NO ONE touches what's mine" - that's just not him to me. I don't write him as a big, broody dommy guy who is growling every sentence or can't handle others talking to someone he likes.

To me, he's just a dude. An introverted guy who likes to sew ridiculous pillows and tend to his garden who is happy in the home he made for himself. He's comfortable with who he is and where he stands. He can communicate properly, knows how to respect boundaries, and likes seeing others who matter to him happy in their lives as they establish a supportive network. Just because he isn't always with them or going with them doesn't mean they can't take care of themselves or he HAS to be there. He's not some ultra possessive dude because he has healthy understandings of boundaries and knows the world doesn't revolve around him and his wants (also he wouldn't WANT them to depend on him and him alone when its very possible he too will die on the field one day). He's not always going to look over your shoulder or instantly treat any other person as a threat.

He's seasoned with the things he's seen and is wary enough to be protective and to do what he knows to prevent what he's seen happen. He's cautious, he's considerate, he's caring - and he's not a cunt about it. Really, he's just perceptive and accepts what can happen so he tries to set up anyone in his life for success to avoid what he's seen and to keep them from harm. He can't always be there, he knows he can't, so ensuring that those around him who he DOES care about have a proper, healthy network of friends around for support and have a game plan for if shit hits the fan (as well as a system to enact it) is his way of showing he cares and can always be with them and help, even if he's long gone or buried six feet under.

[yandere-daze]

I´m back to my Collar x Malice obsession (currently playing the FD) and so I just had to write something for my favorite boy! And since he already shows some yandere tendencies in the game, I decided to run with it. Hope you enjoy <3

gn reader

1.3k words

tw yandere, obsession, possessiveness, jealousy, manipulation, implied stalking, overprotectiveness, brief mentions of violence

General Yandere! Kei Okazaki headcanons

Okazaki strikes me as the type of person who could take an immediate liking to someone when meeting them for the first time but then needs a lot of time for true love to materialize. Or in this case, obsession.

He´s quite fond of you from the very beginning, he likes seeing you smile and enjoys being around you. But the true obsession only starts once you two get to know each other better.

He has been in a lot of relationships before and while he had liked all of his partners, he never felt like he could show them his flaws, he never felt comfortable being true to himself, always hiding away a part of himself in fear of rejection. It´s like that at first with you as well, he only wants to show you his charming and cool side as he wants to make a good impression on you. How would you ever fall for him if you knew about his past and his mental troubles? About his possessiveness and jealousy?

You inadvertently sealed your own fate when you encouraged Okazaki to be honest with himself and that you would accept him for all his flaws. That you wouldn´t turn away from him, no matter what. That you won´t judge him.

How can you say these things and not expect him to become absolutely obsessed with you?

For the first time, he feels this deep connection to someone else, he feels like he can be himself around you, even if it´s scary and difficult. So you wouldn´t mind if he let his obsession with you show, right? If he got clingy and possessive with you. You said you accepted all of him, right?

Okazaki for sure is a protective yandere. He works as a bodyguard so he´s an expert at making sure certain important people are safe. And you most definitely count as a very important person to him!

Whether you´re actually dating or just acquaintances, Okazaki will insist on accompanying you wherever you go so he can "keep you safe". And he´s quite persistent when it comes to this as well, not taking no for an answer and just tagging along anyway with a smile on his face.

It doesn´t even matter if you were planning on meeting up with him or not, he´s somehow always there whenever you go out to wander the streets. How does he always seem to know when you´re about to head out?

In truth, Okazaki keeps tabs on you even when you believe you are alone. Due to all his training, he´s more than capable of staying hidden in the shadows while still keeping a watchful eye on you. Even if you say you need some alone time, he just can´t risk anything happening to you. He´s still shaken up from that incident all these years ago where his inaction caused his coworker to die on the job. He can´t let something like that happen to you, his dearly beloved.

And next to making sure you´re safe from harm he also has to make sure you´re "safe". What does he mean by that? He has to make sure that no other men try to approach you to ask you out. He knows they´re no good for you, so just leave it all to him.

Okazaki has an uncanny ability to swoop in out of the blue whenever a man tries to talk to you, inserting himself in the conversation and making the other person uncomfortable with his unnerving smile and underlying threats. He can be quite scary when he wants to and thus it´s easy for him to scare people off. He also isn´t against using violence to get them to back off, whether it´s punching them or twisting their limbs until they crack, nothing is off-limits. Under no circumstances will he allow anyone else to sweep you off your feet, you´re meant to be with him after all.

Afterwards, he will explain that the person that tried to talk to you was dangerous. There had been warnings going around at work and so he tried defusing the situation immediately. You see what happens when you´re out there without him? Really, you were in luck that he just happened to be around! Maybe ask him to tag along next time again, okay?

Of course, that´s all lies. No such warnings about a suspicious person existed, he just needed a convenient excuse for chasing them away. He can´t let those people possibly get in between the both of you.

Okazaki is also just really really jealous in general. He doesn´t like it when you spend time with others and if you´re dating, then he would directly tell you this, though he tries to word it in a way that sounds more reasonable than "I want you to cut ties with all your friends". He hates seeing you smile and laugh around people who aren´t him, it makes him fear that you might be getting sick of him.

And he can´t have that. He vows to never let go of you. Strangely enough, he will actually tell you this many times (like he does in the game) but you just take it as a bit of cute possessiveness, nothing too concerning. You just don´t know how obsessed he is with you.

He canonically has thought about locking the player up so they´re for his eyes only so a kidnapping would not be completely out of the question I believe, though I do still see it as a last resort, something he would only do if he felt an immediate threat to your relationship or if he was close to snapping. For now, he would much rather use words to try and convince you to spend more and more time together.

It´s normal for a boyfriend to want to spend all of his time with his darling, right? He just loves you so much! He wants to spend every second of every day with you, aren´t you being a bit cruel by depriving him of that? Why do you insist on being with people that aren´t him? Isn´t he enough? Don´t you love him?

He can get quite manipulative if he feels like it will bring results. But also, he just genuinely feels like that. He just can´t fathom it, how can you bear to stay away from him when he feels like he´s being ripped apart every time he has to part from you?

So to no one´s surprise, Okazaki is very clingy, even before a potential relationship. He loves being close to you, wrapping his arms around you or resting his head against you. He also loves holding your hand in public, both as a way to show affection but also to show anyone else that you´re unavailable. He´s also shameless enough to kiss you in public while people are most definitely watching.

Resting his head in your lap while he falls asleep is also another favorite of his. He´s often exhausted from his job as a bodyguard and tends to not get a lot of sleep, so he treasures being so close to you while he gets to rest up. Please run your fingers through his hair too, he will sigh in bliss if you do!

Also very affectionate in the way he talks to you. Once he realizes his feelings for you, he won´t really try to hide that he likes you, perhaps only the extent to which he does. He loves calling you cute pet names, especially if they make you flustered. He loves teasing you, it makes him proud to know that he can have that sort of effect on you.

"You´re so cute when you get flustered. Tell me I´m the only man that gets to see you like this~"

He will truly never let go of you for as long as he lives.

[anhed-nia]

R.O.T.O.R. -- AGAIN!

Even ripoffs can be beautiful.

I am writing about R.O.T.O.R., neither for the first time nor the last, because something new strikes me about this startling movie every time I see it. Its amazing premise, which amply rips off THE TERMINATOR and JUDGE DREDD (but not ROBOCOP, oddly, which began shooting after R.O.T.OR., also in Dallas) provides fertile ground for all sorts of useful interpretation. This time I was most struck by the fact that R.O.T.O.R. is all about jobs and going to work.

The story concerns "police scientist" Captain Coldyron (cold-iron) who has invented the Robotic Officer Tactical Operations Research/Reserve, a T-800 type of android made out of a "self-teaching alloy" that can kick anybody's ass. Coldyron resigns in a huff when his boss conspires with local politicians to rush the lawbot to market, and the project races forward dysfunctionally until R.O.T.O.R. inevitably busts lose and starts killing people for minor mischief. Coldyron hooks up with the robot's coauthor Dr. Steel (female bodybuilder Jayne Smith who is like something out of Crying Freeman, which I mean as the highest compliment) to hunt their creation down and destroy it.

Coldyron is played by Richard Gesswein, who was also created in a lab.

That might sound pretty action-packed, but in execution R.O.T.O.R. is heavily focused on the drudgery of daily life. Enormous amounts of time are spent walking through parking lots, traversing the atria of hotels, finding parking, being seated in restaurants, and most of all, spending hours and hours at work, making countless phone calls. You have never seen so many people on the phone in a movie in your entire life. There's work phones, home phones, payphones, and even CB radios. At times it feels as if you may never see more than one person on the same set again. On the phones, people say things to each other that have already been said earlier in the movie if not earlier in the same scene, if not earlier in the same monologue. In the scene where Coldyron learns that R.O.T.O.R. has gone rogue, he delivers this incredible screed during one of THREE calls that he makes in a row:

"Its last program was prime directive... Prime directive to our ROTOR unit is judge and execute. It stops felons, judges the crime, and executes sentence. Justice served, COD. You call the Senator and you tell him ROTOR walked through a busload of nuns to get to a jaywalker, with malice towards no one. It won't stop. It wasn't ready. Its brain functions are incomplete. It can't think twice, can't reason, can't change its prime directive. It's like a chainsaw set on frappe..."

It begins to feel as if he will never stop reiterating whatever he (and others) just said, and this is not the only such example.

Most of these calls, like all of the activity in the movie, are focused on jobs. Coldyron calls his girlfriend first thing in the morning to tell her that he is getting ready for work, and to ask her if she is also getting ready to go to work at her own job. He promises that "if you're a good girl and go to work" then he will grill steaks at her house later. When he goes out to buy charcoal for the reward steaks he stumbles upon two creeps robbing the store and trying to take a hostage--a woman who stops the crime with several karate kicks, to whom he says "Hey lady, you want a job?" Meanwhile at the police robot lab, a scientist slaves away while complaining about the impossible new R.O.T.O.R. deadline as the comic relief security bot whines, sighs, and says "One of these days I'm gonna quit this job!" (Later on he actually does) Once R.O.T.O.R. has escaped we meet the Linda Hamilton of this movie (Margaret Trigg), who is having a vicious fight in the car with her fiance because she wants to get a job; the fiance wants to forgo the "barbaric ritual" of the wedding and just be automatically married to a woman who will not embarrass him by getting a job. Finally he concedes, "Elope with me tonight and I'll help you get a job after the honeymoon," but it's too late for all that because he's speeding and about to get killed by R.O.T.O.R.

For extra job-related realism there is workplace harassment in the form of a guy who tries to fuck his colleague by describing ancient execution methods and who calls her a white supremacist for turning him down (he says he's Native American, she says he's not, I don't know the right answer because this is the actor's only credit--and actually he's uncredited for the role, though he is acknowledged for composing the movie's primitive synth soundtrack which I kind of enjoy). It's also worth mentioning that the comedy droid is a real robot with a job, according to iMDB (sadly there is not a wealth of info on this movie):

"Willard the Robot is played by APD2, a robot purchased in 1986 by the police department of the Town of Addison, a northern suburb of Dallas, for $17,750 (approximately $41,000 in 2018 dollars). APD2/Willard performed public relations duties and was tapped to lead the Christmas parade in Addison that year. His contributions to actual law enforcement and his subsequent whereabouts are unknown. "As quoted from 'theoldrobots' website; 'Officer Willi from 1985 - This 21st Century Robotics robot was operated by remote control, showed videos about public safety, and was used in teaching important safety topics such as stranger awareness, traffic safety, and much more..'"

Coldyron is actually a very good prototype of the modern tech mogul who has way too much time on his hands and whose existence is mainly composed of heroic fantasies about himself, whether he is molding the future face of law enforcement, or dicking around on his enormous ranch where he lamely practices his lasso technique on tree stumps before blowing them up with dynamite. At the office he demands "hydrogenated wheat germ and dessicated liver" which boosts his handball game, and I thought, jesus christ I think I've worked for this guy. Coldyron is *I think* the hero of this movie but I'm never sure how much you're really supposed to like him; when his girlfriend sends him out for charcoal so he can cook her reward steaks, he goes to a mini mart and just starts looking for trouble, harassing minorities and flashing his gun. It's like, this is the reason there are loitering laws, but naturally they don't apply when you're a rich cop.

Someone please make these stickers!

The best way to understand R.O.T.O.R. is through the knowledge that director and co-writer Cullen Blaine worked on a variety of popular cartoon shows during what they call "the dark age of animation". First of all, there are scenes in this movie whose aesthetic, humor, and internal logic only begin to make sense if you imagine them taking place in an episode of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles--and actually much if not all of the dialog was dubbed by a whole other cast due to problems with getting the stars back for ADR, creating a whole other layer of literal cartoonishness. But the period in which Cullen Blaine created R.O.T.O.R. and designed many children's shows was dominated by what's called "limited animation" which I almost don't even have to describe. It's all in the name, the goal was to do things as cheaply as possible while turning out dozens of episodes per season. Part of the problem was, as with all things, Ronald Reagan, whose deregulation activities defanged measures to make sure children's programming was not just a steady stream of hard sell marketing. Under Reagan, the requirement for some portion of programs to be educational became so easy to meet and manipulate that animation studios were compelled to crank out zillions of Trojan horse toy ads with glib moral declarations tacked on. (I think I understand this correctly, I'm sure @bogleech has better material on the subject) Animators are a historically abused lot with a sad history of failed strikes, and I'm just extrapolating here, but I bet it's reasonable to guess that R.O.T.O.R. reflects the filmmaker's experiences in the grueling cartoon mines. The brutal sacrifice of quality to speed, the hostile work environments, and the endless, redundant calls and meetings, all smack of a script by someone who has had a very bad job.

"We've all got plenty of time to figure out what this means to each one of us," Coldyron sagely concludes at the end of his misadventure. Obviously I am still working on what it means to me, since this is the fourth or fifth time I've seen this movie and (at least?) the second time I'm writing about it. I will say that while the film I have just described sounds intolerably boring--I mean, a whole movie about rat race drudgery with the fewest and least convincing action sequences ever--but believe me, it is not boring. R.O.T.O.R. is constantly surprising and fascinating, with weirdly vivid imagery and pages and pages of the strangest dialog you will hear anywhere. Just watch the movie and let it shock you. You'll have plenty of time to figure out what it means to you later.

[jinwoowoo]

Untitled- StayC Isa

After busy days of stressful work in the company, you and two of your colleagues decided to go out and have fun at the newly-opened club few blocks away from the office. While it is heavily promoted by influencers known for being party animals, you don't find such fun hanging out in a rowdy dim place with blasting sounds and blinding laser lights.

"Come on, man. There's no harm in dancing with us. There are lots of girls out there waiting for us." One of your colleagues said after you refused to go with them to the dance floor.

"Let him be. We all know how much YN hates dancing because of his stiff body." Your other colleague retorted, making you all laugh. There's no point on going mad at him since he is telling the truth, not that you are offended in any way. He just gave you a pat on the shoulder, grinning "Guard our seats and table, okay?"

You gave them a firm nod and salute as they go out to dance. Watching them from your seat, you can't help but chuckle when the bunch of girls they were talking about and trying to flirt with moved away from them as if they are some kind of people infected by an incurable virus. In the end, your colleagues are separated from the crowd, surrounded by an invisible dome of force that secludes them from the others.

Still laughing at your colleagues' absurd situation, someone suddenly goes to your table and sat on the same couch as yours, giving off a chummy aura that puts your guard down.

"Hi there. Are you drinking alone?" The gorgeous woman asked as you refill your glass with some alcoholic drink you ordered.

Shaking your head, you pointed to your colleagues who are still dancing frantically in their own space. "I'm with those idiots over there. And you?"

"I came here alone to support my friend. He's one of the bartenders of this club. You should try his cocktails, they are great."

"It sounds like you are here to promote your friend." You giggled so thus did the girl. "I'm YN, by the way. And you are?"

"My name is Isa. Nice to meet you, YN." Isa offered her hand which you gladly took and shake.

Isa's beautiful smile under the dim light of the club feels so surreal. It is so magical- the little peace and warmth you could feel in such places like this. Trying to be close and befriend you, Isa scooted closer, occupying the space where your colleagues are sitting before until there was not much space left between the two of you.

You got flustered, especially when you just realized Isa was wearing a denim crop top that shows her plump arms and a matching denim skirt that exposes her thick bare thighs. The sweet relaxing fragrance coming from her intoxicates you more than the alcohol, making you gulp hard after feeling your tongue salivating inside your mouth.

"Did you come here after work? Your job must be stressful to unwind in clubs like this." Isa asked with a little pity, trying to strike up a conversation and break your silent treatment.

"Not really. I'm just here to babysit those two." You replied as you look and scan Isa's body. "They are quite mischievous, you know? A little pain in the ass that frequently makes trouble, more likely when alcohol is involved."

Isa laughed with you and took a spare glass from the table, pouring herself some of the alcohol on the table. Some people would mind if there are strangers trying to take a sip of what they ordered, but since a pretty girl like Isa is there to accompany you against your boredom, you didn't mind. After all, you can say you are treating the beautiful lady with a drink.

"Won't your boyfriend be mad if you hang out in places like this?" You asked nonchalantly, trying to test out some water.

She only shook her head and chuckle, giving you a little slap on the shoulder right after. "I'm single, YN. If I have a boyfriend, I will be having dates with him instead."

"Bullshit." You gasped, acting shocked by her answer. "With that pretty face of yours, it is impossible for you not to be in a relationship."

"I really am! But thanks for calling me pretty though. You are also not bad for yourself, either. Charming, easy to approach, and most importantly, not a douchebag."

"Well, I will take it as a compliment then."

You held your glass and tapped it on Isa's, cheering a little as the barrier between the two of you dissipates. The time passed without you knowing as the conversation with Isa bore fruitfully. Getting to know each other, you learned where and what kind of work she has, even her little hobbies during her free time. Isa also shared her past relationships with you, giving you hindsight of her life.

As the talk deepens, with the slight influence of alcohol, Isa is getting closer and becoming touchy. She frequently leans close to your ear when she whispers her secrets, giving you a little taste of her lips when they touch your skin. She also slaps your arm from your jokes, giggling even if they are that shallow, showing you signs of interest on you.

While talking to her, you can't avoid looking at her wet luscious lips and beautiful face. She sometimes shifts her ass on the seat, adjusting her overlapped legs that make her thighs plumper. You want to touch those thighs only if your mind doesn't stop you.

"Do you want to touch them?" Isa asked between her sentence when she caught you staring at her thighs, catching you off guard. You stuttered as the words you want to say got stuck in your mouth, entangling your tongue. Isa giggled seeing your flustered face and took your hand, placing it above her exposed thighs.

The softness of Isa's plump thighs upon your touch is beyond your imagination. Her skin is so smooth and unblemished, almost comparable to a newborn baby's buttocks. You gave her thighs a firm squeeze, groping the succulent flesh that earned you a moan from her.

"You know your way to touch a woman, YN... You are making me wet..." Isa breathed out as you caress her other thigh, giving it the same attention it deserves.

"It's just pure instinct, Isa. Anyone can do the same if they feel how soft your thighs are." You replied, trying not to brag or take credit for Isa's pleasure.

"You really thought they are soft, YN? Hmm?~ I thought my thighs are firm and hard like this..."

Isa placed her hand on your chest, firmly pressing her palm down to feel your muscles. Good thing you are working out diligently every week to maintain the shape of your lean body for this kind of interaction. You exhaled softly as you feel Isa's fingers unbutton the top buttons of your shirt, gaining herself access to your bare chest and caressing it directly.

"You have a good body, YN... It makes me want to see you naked in bed..." Isa moaned out on your neck, planting her soft lips on your skin right after.

You honestly feel the same. Isa's advancement on your body and touches are arousing you greatly, making you want to pounce and fuck her right away. But, just like before, Isa beats you first again and swiftly straddled on your lap, resting her legs astride your thighs. Leaning her forehead on top of yours, Isa looked at your glistening eyes, staring directly at your disturbed soul with a wide grin on her lips.

"You are so handsome, YN... No matter what happens, I will make sure we will sleep on the same bed tonight" Isa whispered coquettishly.

"Don't worry, Isa... I'm sure that will happen..."

How would you guess that in a place you thought will bore you and waste your precious time, you will find a hot girl who will make your heart beat rapidly? Your chest pounds hard, almost audible as undescribable heat courses throughout your body.

Isa leaned down to kiss you, easily finding your lips to latch with hers under the dim light. Nibbling and sucking, Isa licked your lips and asked them to open. You didn't let her for that long and spread your lips apart, giving her access to slither your tongues together.

Holding Isa by her slim waist, you pulled her closer to your body until you can feel her ample boobs pressing against your hard-beating chest. Isa unbuttoned the rest and open your shirt, completely exposing your upper body to her gentle touch.

Isa then moaned to your lips as she felt your hands from her waist travel down to cup her big butt, groping each cheek firmly with your palms. She lifted her body a little, scooting harder and grinding her hips down to dance on your lap out in the open.

Living in your own world right night, neglecting the loud blasting sounds of EDM music and cheers of the people around, Isa's body rubs her goddess-like body on you, dry humping you. She didn't mind your fervent kisses, even moaning explicitly when you suck her wet tongue. She wrapped her slim arms around your neck, pulling you closer and deeper as she doesn't want you to pull out of the kiss- not that you will part away soon.

Your whole body feels hot, the bulge on your pants aching and begging to be released. Isa is bringing the lust out of you, corrupting your mind to touch her fuck her. Taken over by the heat of the moment, you wrapped your arms around Isa's waist and lifted her, placing her back against the steamy couch you two are sitting on for minutes. Your hand reached between her legs, pushing her wet panty aside to meet her wet hot core. About to push a digit inside her pussy and feel her walls around your finger, Isa held your wrist and chest to stop you, shaking her head calmly.

"Not here, YN... Bring me somewhere else." Isa asked with lust over her eyes.

She's right. You wouldn't want to spend the precious moment of fucking her out in public that may result in ruining the night. You buttoned back your shirt and stood up, feet walking at a fast pace out of the club while holding Isa's hand.

The tension and lust in your body are up to the roof. Isa could feel the same, and she can't stop stealing kisses from you while you are waiting for a damn taxi to arrive. Finally, after waiting for what feels like an eternity, one came by and stopped in front of you. Isa went first and you followed after her.

After giving the driver your home address, Isa goes back straddling your lap, kissing you hungrily while grinding her body on yours. You saw the driver smiling in the mirror and turned the radio on, blasting out some music to cover the lustful noises coming from the back seat.

"Fuck Isa... I'm so horny right now I might not show mercy fucking you..." You moaned as Isa's lips goes down to your jawline and neck, marking you hers already.

"That's the plan, YN... I want you to fuck my brains out until I can't walk for days... Make me stay in your bed and keep making love to me..."

Hearing those words coming out from Isa etched into your mind, reminding yourself not to go easy on her when you two reached your house. You grabbed the hem of Isa's denim skirt and hiked it up, accessing her soft butt once again which you are slowly falling for.

Massaging each cheek gently with your palm, your fingers are exploring around her buttocks until it goes south, touching her wet inner thighs and ruined panty. The feeling of Isa's thick damp thighs and dripping clothed core added more fuel to your lust. You pulled Isa closer to you, aiming your huge boner on her clothed pussy, and let her grind on it, giving each other the taste of what they will expect later on.

After some turn and stops on the road, you finally saw a familiar street near your house when you glanced over the window. Arriving at your house, paying the driver more than the fare for the mild inconvenience, you punched your passcode in and opened the door, pushing Isa inside your house without breaking the kiss.

Strolling blindly into your flat, you soon entered the bedroom where the magic will finally happen. Isa hopped out of her links on your body, getting on her knees right after. As her hands found your belt and unbuckle them, she scooted her fingers against the waist of your pants, tugging them down until your boxer is exposed.

You felt your cock twitch at the sight of Isa's beautiful face worshipping your clothed penis, instinctively pushing your hips forward to hump her face and let her lick the outline forming on the fabric.

As you took off your shirt and jacket, tossing them somewhere in your room, you helped Isa to stand on her feet, turning her around right after. Unzipping the rough crop top, you cursed lowly when you saw Isa's smooth sexy back- so alluring and inviting for a taste.

Isa breathed sexily as you gave her back some wet licks and kisses. Your hands are at her waist, holding her still while she removes her denim skirt, hopping out of the piled clothes underneath her right after.

Pulling her closer, you humped your painful boner on Isa's clothed ass, begging for relief only her body could provide right now. Giggling, Isa pushed your hands off of her waist and turned around, walking backward until she sits down on your bed.

"You got a nice bed, YN. I hope it is sturdy enough not to break when I ride you." Isa complimented, giving you a smirk as her palm invites itself to caress your sheets.

"Don't worry, girl. The only things that will get broken tonight are your holes and mind."

Walking towards Isa and pushing her down to the soft mattress, you spread her legs apart and hover on top of her semi-nude body. Tittering, Isa moaned softly when you leaned to kiss her lips, trailing your lips down to her jawline and neck right after- marking her yours. Your hands pulled her tube bra out of her body and you immediately put one of her jiggling boobs to your mouth as you fondle the other.

Impatiently, Isa whined out and pulled her panty out of her lips, holding on to your boxers right after, and pulled it out to feel your bare throbbing cock between her thighs. You let Isa do what she wants and busy yourself sucking her delicious boobs. Her doughy tits offer the same sweet buttermilk taste, pink small nipples are hard as candy and feel good on your tongue. The fragrance of her nude body is so enticing and addictive like a forbidden drug.

"YN... No foreplay please..." Isa whined but you are far from done playing with her body.

Your wet kisses left a slimy train from the valley of her boobs down to her midriff, tasting the sweat on her smooth tummy and french kissing her belly button. Just feeling how your tongue fucks her navel gives Isa unsatisfying pleasure. She needs it to be done somewhere else, somewhere between her jittery legs.

Good thing for Isa, she didn't have to that long as you are getting impatient as well. Forcing her legs to spread open, Isa's glistening pussy winked at you, heightening your list all over as you see her love honey dripping down to her ass cheeks. Hungry and enchanted, you didn't hesitate to bury your face between her legs and eat Isa's pussy, lapping your thick flat tongue against her pussy lips to savor every drop of essence she release.

"YN~ oh my fucking god... Your tongue feels so good... Keep eating me out like that..." Isa moaned between her words, squirming when she feels her tongue wiggling on her burning core.

Her thick thighs are trying to close out of instinct, trapping your head between the soft heavenly flesh out of the process. You swear if you die getting choked by Isa's thighs right now, you won't have any regrets for how good they feel.

However, you won't die without completing your mission. Carrying her thick legs on your shoulders, putting her calves on your back, you pulled Isa closer and feast on her pussy like a famished bear. You grabbed Isa's hands and intertwined your fingers with hers, locking her thighs in your embrace in the process.

Isa felt good with your skillful tongue play. Darting your tongue inside her pussy, your tongue wiggles inside and licks all sides of her vaginal walls, savoring every fluid you could collect. You seldomly retreat your tongue out of her vagina to lick the dripping fluids on her ass cheeks, sliding your tongue on her inner thighs as well. Though Isa is the type of girl who doesn't enjoy foreplay that much, you proved that you are different from other men she had sex with and she can also feel good about things she hates.

Looking up, your chest swelled in pride to see the red-haired girl writhing with pleasure. You immediately let go of her hands to see what she will do. Isa immediately held the sheets beside her head, gripping hard as she push her hips forward and grind her pussy on your lips and face, squirting her juices a little bit.

Seeing how hard her breathing becomes, moans that are getting sharper and louder every time your tongue fucks her leaking pussy, you didn't have to be told that Isa is near her climax. You wanted to feel how will she cum on your face, fill your mouth with her womanly essence, but you got other plans to make Isa's orgasm exciting.

Immediately after feeling Isa is almost a few licks away from her peak, you released her legs from your shoulders and withdraw your face from her pussy, leaving her orgasm suspended.

"YN? What are you-ahh!~" Isa's whine was cut off when you suddenly spanked her pink pussy, causing her to squirt a little.

"YN! Stop it, it sting-mmh!~" you gave her pussy another slap, giving her a peculiar jolt of pleasure.

You immediately press the base of your pal against her quim, slowly rubbing it in circles. "Should I stop? It seems like you are liking it. Look how pussy squirts while getting spanked."

Mischievously, you traced your fingers on the outline of her crotch, teasing the lips of her vagina before giving her pussy another hard slap. Isa groaned painfully, mixed with pleasure and whines as you kept her hanging.

Isa wanted to cum so bad, to burst out like a dam but her pussy obeys like a dog stopping its movement when it receives punishable slaps from its owner. Rubbing your fingers around her labia and spanking it repeatedly, it didn't take long for Isa's pussy to become red and sore, fully sensitive to even slight touch of your finger. Seeing Isa whining, begging with her tearful eyes, you decided that it is enough and give Isa her wanted to release.

Pushing your pinky down to your palm with the help of your thumb, you straightened up the other fingers of your right hand and plunged it inside Isa's quivering pussy. Overwhelmed, Isa came immediately around your fingers, gushing out a large volume of her girl calm on your hand and arm. You keep pumping your fingers inside her pussy, curling the digits to press her pulsating walls and wrung out more of her slick juices.

After a good minute of release, Isa felt fulfilled and satisfied. You pulled your fingers out of her pussy and suck them, savoring the remnants of her orgasm that coats your finger. After releasing it with a pop, you pushed your drenched fingers inside Isa's mouth, letting her savor what was left of her taste mixed with your saliva.

"Such a good girl, Isa~ you came hard and ruined my sheets." You cooed as you lean close giving her a soft peck on the cheeks and patting her head with your wet hand.

"Shut up... I never know you could be sadistic like this... And you are not even done yet..." Isa panted out as she reached for your hard cock, stroking it gently.

You groaned as you felt Isa's warm hand strokes your dick. Needing your release as well, you took her hand out of your cock and commanded her. "On all fours, baby. I wanna pound you from behind."

Isa turned around and went on all fours as you instructed. Holding the sheets tightly, Isa wiggled her ass seductively, earning her a hard slap from you. Positioning yourself behind Isa, you held her ass and grinded on the valley of her buttocks, probing down and poking her puckered hole with your glans.

"Are you gonna do me anal? I'm still a virgin down there." Worriedly, Isa asked while reaching behind her, stopping your dick from teasing her backdoor hole.

"Not tonight, Isa. As much as I want to take your ass' virginity, I need you to taste my cock where it rightfully belongs"

Holding your dick by its base again, you put your shaft between Isa's thighs and tap the shaft on her pussy, collecting some of her natural lube while fucking her thighs. The redhead girl bit her lips in pleasure, feeling how deep you will be in her when she felt her cocok's tip teasing beneath her navel. Once coated enough, you aimed the head of your cock at Isa's pussy, lancing forward and pushing nonstop until you finally reach her cervix.

"So fucking tight! Your little pussy is clamping hard around me, Isa!" You groaned as you struggle to pull your dick out because of Isa's contracting pussy, eager to feel your whole shaft back inside her.

"You are just big, YN. Mhhh~ I never had such a big dick before!~" Isa mewled cutely, turning into a cat in heat that suits her cute look.

Isa's slick folds are drooling over the huge meat that fills her up. She can feel herself ripping apart, forced to spread to accustom your girth and brace each of your hard thrusts. Feeling the little resistance of her pussy even gives the thrill of the sex, encouraging you to fuck her pussy harder and see how Isa will take you until she totally succumbs to your cock.

"Harder, please!~ YN!~ fuck me harder!" Isa screamed out on every sentence, moaning out mindlessly.

Arouses on every second you spent staying inside Isa's pussy, you are slowly losing control of yourself and want to fuck the redhead girl as hard as you could. You held her by her sexy waist, gripping hard against her flesh as you brace her. Going rougher and fucking her harder, you give Isa short deep thrusts that shake her core from the inside.

Isa moaned out in pain and pleasure, her hand turning white as she grips on the sheets for her dear life. Soon, you saw her biting into your pillow to drown out her unfiltered moans, which you found hot and sexy.

As you enjoy your sexy time with Isa, fucking her brains out in the process, your phone suddenly buzzed on the nightstand and caught your attention. You tried to shrug it off but the annoying ringtone keeps breaking your focus. Annoyed, you answered the phone and put it on a loudspeaker.

"What?!" You groaned angrily, making the people on the other line pause briefly.

"YN, where are you? We are looking over you at the club and we can't find you." Your colleague asked, a bit worried about your tone.

"Sorry. Something happened and I had to go home early. The tab is on me so you two can go home now."

"Is there something bad that happened? Did we leave you bored?" Your other colleague asked, sensing a little bit of guilt from your sudden disappearance.

You grunted and were about to talk back when all of the sudden, Isa lifted her head and moaned out loud, calling your name. "YN!~ harder!~ stop talking to someone else when you are fucking my pussy!~"

The people behind the other line gasped as they heard an unfamiliar voice moaning sexily. Stopping for a second and stuttering, your friend asked "i-is that-?"

"Yes, it is! Now hung up!~" you impatiently pressed the hang-up button, not letting your colleagues finish the question. Tossing your phone back onto the nightstand, Isa looked at you with a smirk on her face, proud of what she has done.

"You naughty girl~ now my friends know I brought you home and left them to fuck someone." You growled as you held Isa's waist again, pulling her towards you as you slam your hips forward.

"They deserve it~ they are so annoying and interrupting when I'm close again~" Isa breathed out, moaning heavily as she bites back on your pillow.

"You wanna cum again? Then cum~ shower my dick with your delicious cum~"

Sensing that Isa is already near another orgasm, you leaned close to her body until your chest lay flat on her back. Your hands left her waist to roam around her body, one went to her clit and rub it feverishly as the other swept her hair all over to her left shoulder before holding her right hand.

Your hips galloped faster, hips rolled smoothly to make sure Isa could feel your cock surfing in and out of her sore pussy. You licked all over her right cheek so she can find your lips, immediately making out with her as soon as you two kissed. She kept moaning in your mouth while sucking the air out of you, taking whatever she could swallow to keep her body from losing consciousness.

"I'm cumming, YN!~ fuck!~ you're so good!~" Isa gasped as she parted from the kiss.

Feeling the familiar tightness in her stomach, Isa curled up and convulsed as she reached her second orgasm for the night. Her pussy clamped hard around your cock, walls pulsating rapidly as her juices gushed out of her gaping hole. She buried her face in your pillow once more. Screaming on muffled, yet it is still so loud that you can hear her moaning profanities with your name.

As much as you still want to fuck her in a doggy position, watch her ass ripple on every thrust, you pulled out of Isa's sensitive hole and turned her body around, laying her back flat on the bed. Her pussy is still twitching, squirting on your sheet endlessly. Feeling yourself at the limit, you pushed yourself back inside Isa, moving your hips like an animal in need to breed.

"YN! I'm still sensitive!~" Isa whined out as you fuck her pussy mercilessly. You can feel her convulsing in your embrace, hands trying to push you away but you are hugging her tight.

"I know but I'm close. Fuck, you are so good, Isa!~"

Moving your hips like a horny rabbit, you keep drilling Isa's pussy mercilessly, driving deep on each pounding and making sure that your cock is kissing her womb's entrance. Still sensitive and haven't done her orgasm yet, Isa could feel your hot rod expanding further on her tingling walls, threatening her with another orgasm.

Cannot contain your urge to release anymore, you raised your hips one last time before slamming it hard back inside Isa. You clenched your butthole and exploded, cumming hard directly in Isa's womb. Wave after wave of thick potent jizz, you felt your balls getting drained out as you flood Isa's pussy with your load, filling her to the brim until it overflows and the mixed cum seeps out of your connection.

After almost half a minute of cumming, your cock finally went flaccid and slipped out of Isa's creampied pussy. Her fucked gaping hole glistens in bright well, completely swollen with your baby cream oozing out of it.

"Shit... I'm sorry I came inside you without asking..." You panted out as you lay on your side, pulling Isa to lay down on her side as well and face you.

"It's fine. I can buy plan B tomorrow morning." Isa smiled softly and pecked your lips, hugging your sweaty body scoot closer. She drew circles all over your chest using her finger, which you were surprised to work well to calm your breathing

"Are you not mad? I could get you pregnant." You asked dumbly, making Isa pout.

"Yes, I'm sure. Don't worry so much." Isa said as she pushed you down to your back, straddling your hips and grinding her leaking pussy over your erect cock.

"W-what are you doing?" You asked like an idiot again.

"Making the plan B worth it" Isa smirked as she grabbed your cum-coated dick and aim the glans on her pussy, sinking herself to start another round of sex with her on top this time.

-----

The following day after the club incident, your colleagues went to your house to fetch you, starting the normal routine as you all go to work. They rang your doorbell and patiently waited at the front door, only to be surprised that someone else opened it for them.

"Good morning~ you must be YN's colleagues. My name is Isa, nice to meet you two." Isa greeted them with a soft smile.

The two are awed and struck to see her wearing your thin shirt that's over her size, showing a hint of her body figure with no bra on it. Isa didn't even bother covering the huge dark hickeys all over her neck, proving the intensity of last night's sex to them, not like Isa wearing your boxer is already solid evidence.

As you finish wearing your office clothes and taking your briefcase, you headed towards the front door and slapped Isa's big ass, sliding some fingers between her thighs to caress her pussy. Isa gave you a shocked look and stomped her feet, lips in between smiling and pouting as you just touched her in front of your colleagues.

"See you later tonight?" You asked Isa and she nodded.

"Sure. But let's meet at the cafe near your office and sleep at my house this time. We still need to call someone to fix your bed."

You ruffled Isa's hair and giggled, giving her another peck on the lips as if your colleagues. Their jaws just at the words that came out of Isa's mouth, still can't believe that you broke your bed by fucking her. As you bid goodbye to Isa and closed the door, your colleagues flanked your sides and starts nudging you with their elbows, asking questions about Isa and the events last night.

[missmaywemeetagain]

Broken Glass, Chapter 9 💔🥂❤️‍🩹

Eeee! I can't believe it's finally DONE! At nearly a whopping 14k, I truly hope this makes up for me not updating this story since September! 🎉 Many thanks to my darling @ab4eva for finally helping me knock this loose and reminding me I could indeed still write! 💗💋💗

If I'm honest, Broken Glass is one of my favorite stories I've worked on. I know it's quite the slow burn and not nearly as smutty as my other works (...yet), but it really does make my creative heart sing and I'm so in love with these two and their stark vulnerabilities. 🥹

I highly recommend rereading Chapter 8 to refresh your memory, but the TL;DR is we left a jealous, ailing Elvis having just found out Lori's big secret from Sinatra and Sinatra calling Elvis out on feelings he hasn't quite been able to admit to himself until now. 😬

This chapter puts us firmly back in Lori's (rather confused) perspective. Elvis is acting weird, and she is feeling the fear of her past nipping at her heels. She's trying to manage her own emotions and health while chasing after Elvis' moody ass, which is going just as well as you'd expect LOL. And of course we have Welcome Home Elvis with Frank Sinatra! You might want to watch the Elvis portions on the show to fully get in the mood--I hope I did them justice! 🥰

Things will really kick into high gear after this chapter, so this setup is pretty important to what's coming. I really hope you enjoy! You can catch up here using the Broken Glass Masterlist ❤️‍🩹

I can't wait to hear what you think!! 💗

Much Love, 

Madi xoxoxoxo 💗💋

TW: references to SA/threats/abuse, Gianni, dissociation, emotional upheaval, nightmares/violence/blood, period-related misogyny, health issues (fainting, constipation, vomiting, etc.), Elvis being an asshole, Elvis being a damn snack, sooties 😏

Broken Glass Chapter 9

March 24th, 1960

Miami, Florida

“Just hang on, Elvis. Come on, open your eyes for me,” you say, patting his sallow cheek, the concrete biting at your knees where you’ve fallen ungracefully to the ground with him.

Your half a cigarette lies smoking and abandoned a foot away—a bad habit you picked up after needing an excuse to get outside after long, stressful shifts at the hospital. You haven’t smoked much since you left New York, not having much need for it when your current job is almost ornamental most days, except in those private, hidden moments away from the bustle of Elvis’ strange life.

But he’d pushed you to that Lucky Strike, what with his aloof behavior since Nashville and then his ridiculous jealousy over Frank Sinatra having the audacity to speak to you and you having the gall to laugh with him.

“You are. You’re jealous. Why? I’m not your girl, so why—”

“The hell you aren’t.”

Galloping in your chest, your heart betrays your tangled feelings about the way he’d acted, the way he’d said those words as if he thought for a moment you really were his girl. And before, how he’d kissed you so passionately…

The memory is interrupted by Elvis’ low groan, his long eyelashes fluttering open to reveal glassy but stormy ocean eyes, thrusting you back into the present emergency. You don’t particularly like the way he’s clutching his midsection or how wheezy and warm he is, but you can’t do much here, especially when people are starting to gather.

He starts, as if coming back into himself, and surprisingly tries to roll up and off you. “I’m fine,” he gasps, shrugging your hand off his shoulder in an uncharacteristic act of defiance.

You might be more annoyed if you weren’t so worried, but your feelings are beside the point right now. Treat him like any other patient, a voice in your head reminds you.

“You are not fine, and we’re going back to the hotel so I can get a look at you,” you whisper firmly in his ear.

He shoots you a petulant look.

“Unless you want to go to the hospital instead?” you throw at him, with a raised brow. That does the trick. His glare softens a bit and his eyes dart away as though he’s been scolded.

It doesn’t take more than a pointed look from you for Lamar and Joe to haul Elvis carefully to his feet. You may only be Elvis’ girlfriend in their eyes, but they do know you are a nurse with some expertise in these situations. And you can’t help but see concern on their faces.

Elvis clutches his midsection again with a gasping wince. The guys lead him to a bench outside the building.

“Joe, tell someone in charge Elvis isn’t feeling well. Lamar, go get the car, please. We’re leaving.”

Your tone leaves no room for questions, but the three men look at you with surprise. In truth, you are a little surprised yourself. Perhaps it’s your lack of outward panic, the calm surety of many a night on the emergency ward.

You can’t say the same for them, seeing the panic brewing in the eyes of Elvis’ friends. Along with that, none of them are used to taking orders from women, and certainly you haven’t shown much vocal backbone in these last few weeks, yet with hardly a pause, Lamar and Joe scurry off, leaving you with Elvis.

He doesn’t speak to you or try to joke his way out of the pain, which is unusual. Instead, he stares blankly at anywhere but you. A sliver of unease winds its way through your stomach, and while you don’t push him, it’s almost involuntary the way your hand falls on top of his.

There is no reaction at first. Is he trying to ignore you? Could he possibly still be mad about the Sinatra thing? Confusion washes over you at the slight, but then his eyes squint in pain and his hand finally grips yours.

You hold back the breath of relief at the response, and before you can spiral too much more into what ifs, Lamar pulls up with the car. With his help, you get Elvis into the backseat.

The drive to the hotel is mostly silent. Joe tries to crack a joke or two from the front seat, but Elvis’ lack of response beyond painful grimaces quiets the short man with the annoying laugh. Elvis continues to shut you out, his hands clasped around his middle now instead of your hand.

It shouldn’t bother you, but it does.

He’s just distracted by his pain, you reassure yourself.

You spend the ride pushing away questions about his behavior towards you and try to focus on diagnosis and treatment checklists, going through in your head what you have to do once you two are alone. It grounds you.

Once you all arrive, the boys help him out, but he stubbornly pushes them away once they reach the lobby.

“I can get to the elevator by my damn self!” Elvis grumbles, his eyes darting around the open space with concern. He’s nervous, you think, about being mobbed in this condition. You’ve gleaned enough in the past few weeks to understand he always attracts attention and it’s almost impossible for him to say no to his fans, even when he’s in so much pain he can barely stand upright. You are continually amazed by his generosity and selflessness in this regard. It’s one of the most endearing things about him.

Luckily, the lobby isn’t busy, and you make it to the privacy of the elevator avoiding interruption from outsiders. The humid air in the small space feels stifling and heavy with concern, but no one speaks as the elevator lurches upwards.

The relief is palpable when the doors open to the penthouse, and without ceremony you help deposit Elvis on the king-sized bed in the suite.

“Should we call a doctor?” Joe whispers to you as you try to shut him out of the room. The look in his eyes shows real worry for his friend.

“No,” you snap back, wanting to avoid any doctors not already familiar with the complexity of the situation. Joe is taken aback, so you continue more gently, “Not yet, at least. Let me see what I can do, and I’ll let you know.”

You can’t close the door fast enough, finally able to rush to Elvis’ aid in earnest, grabbing your medical bag out of the closet.

“Where does it hurt?” you ask, preparing the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope.

Elvis doesn’t respond, looking sullen. You can’t tell if it’s stubbornness or pain that’s keeping him this way though. But the dull hurt of your near-constant headache coupled with his strange mood has your temper feeling short.

“You smoke,” he says with distaste, avoiding your question.

“What?” Distracted, you count the seconds of his pulse using your watch.

“Girls of mine don’t smoke. I don’t like it,” he adds with a petulant glare.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

“Okay, Elvis, I’ll stop smoking,” you placate, “but you need to tell me what’s going on with your body or I cannot help you.” The command is clear.

He looks up at you then, his eyes churning with pain and something else you don’t have time to piece through right now.

“I feel hot an’ short of breath,” he says quietly, almost clinically. “And…” He hesitates, looking down with embarrassment.

You urge him on with a nod as you squeeze the cuff. “And? What’s going on with your belly?”

He clears his throat with a grimace. “It hurts something fierce. It’s, uh, been awhile since…you know.”

You sigh. Logically, you understand how anyone—any man, especially one in his position—might feel embarrassed talking about their bodily functions with a young woman, but it doesn’t make it any less frustrating that he hides these issues from you when it’s your job to know.

“How long?” you ask.

“I dunno,” he shrugs, his face going flush.

“Alright, then, lay back,” you sigh, popping a thermometer in his mouth. Thankfully, he obeys without a fuss, and you pull his shirt up. It doesn’t take much gentle prodding on his lower belly to determine the issue. In fact, you can see the distention on his normally lean frame. That coupled with his pained whimpers and wincing makes it clear that his chronic constipation is rearing its ugly head.

For a normal and otherwise heathy person, it might not cause the severity of issues you have to contend with now. But Elvis is neither normal nor healthy. His pressure and temp are too high, his asthma is acting up, either from the pain or exertion of singing, and you know he’s not going to like the solution. But if he wants to stay out of the hospital and out of the press, he’ll just have to deal with it.

Despite your headache and frustration with him for not communicating readily with you about anything he should, be it his feelings or his health, you urge him to the bathroom as gently as possible, gathering the materials needed from your bag. The caretaker in you pushes everything else away as you prepare the solution and guide him through the process of what must be done.

He goes from furious to ashamed to resigned rather quickly. You are a little surprised at how readily he becomes vulnerable to you, considering the circumstances. The treatment momentarily strips away whatever inexplicable ire he was holding onto. It feels so intimate the way you both quiet and with how carefully you tend to him, massaging his belly and rubbing his back as the treatment works its magic. And after the relief comes, you run a bath, washing him gently, watching as his handsome face finally relaxes. Never has a man looked so innocent yet so beautifully dangerous. He leans into your comfort, too, and as clinical as your brain wants to make this whole experience, you are a little frightened by the realization of your heart aching not just with him, but for him.

He falls asleep in the warmth of the tub. You don’t wake him, knowing how sleep comes for him so irregularly and infrequently, but you are loathe to leave him alone when he could easily slip under the water. Elvis Presley will not drown in a tub on your watch.

Or at least this is what you tell yourself as you take a moment to catalogue such peaceful and unencumbered beauty, knowing very few get to see him like this.

Your mind finally wanders then, back to the moment in Nashville you’ve tried desperately not to think about, when he sang directly to you in so intimate a way you thought you’d combust from the inside out with feelings and urges you barely understood. Fire and shivers cascade down your spine all at once at the memory of his eyes, heavy lidded and molten, as he sang to you about just how right it would feel to be in his arms. It was so seductive, so real, it felt like he put a spell on you. There were no secrets between you in that tiny studio—only want and need.

In those few minutes, he wanted everything from you, and you had wanted to give it to him.

That is his wonderful talent, though, isn’t it? you think. To make others believe in the words of a song. Perhaps he believed them too, in the moment. It sure felt like it.

But he became so incredibly distant after Nashville, just when you thought you’d gotten closer. It was confusing and exasperating, like he pulled the rug of logic and sense right out from under you. It hurt more than it should have to be shut out by him. He hadn’t been unkind, per say, just aloof and detached.

You purse your fingers over the bridge of your nose, wishing it would ease the dull throbbing in your head. Lack of sleep and routine has done a number on you these past few weeks, though you know it’s keeping up with the façade of a relationship challenging you the most. You’ve slowly been getting better at playing the part of the doting girlfriend, to be sure, but the switching from fake girlfriend to nursemaid and back again is altogether exhausting.

And no matter how much better you get, you aren’t an actress. You aren’t used to pretending to feel something but not actually feeling it. It’s getting harder and harder to decern if these complicated feelings you are starting to have for Elvis are just part of your new job or if they are…real.

You don’t want them to be. They can’t be. Not only would it be unethical, but it’s perilous to think—to hope—he might see you as more. You’re not the type of girl a man like Elvis Presley falls for. And even if you were, a smart, practical girl like you knows better than to get involved with a womanizer like him.

A smart, practical girl like you knows any man is dangerous.

Speaking of danger, as soon as you’d left the safety of Graceland, you’ve felt the creeping unease Gianni or your father could pop out at any moment to steal you away back to New York. They have to know by now who you are with, and you don’t hold any fantasy of them letting you get on with your life without a fight. No, they’ll come for you at some point, you just don’t know when or how, and the more you’re out in the world, the more exposed you feel. Your hypervigilance has you always on edge, and you make sure to stay by Elvis’ side as much as possible in the hope he and his entourage will protect you.

So, yes, you are exhausted. The litany of masks you’re wearing to stay functional are crushing you with their weight, and it is taking more of a toll on you than you are letting on. Perhaps that is why Elvis’ mercurial attitude towards you feels so barbed and painful because, by some strange twist of fate, he is the only one in this world who knows even a fraction of who you really are.

And with that thought, you try not to berate yourself too much for taking a stolen moment to gawk at the ethereal man, this god-like Apollo, naked and asleep in the tub. You are too tired to fight the searing memory of how he kissed you today in front of Frank, so possessive and visceral as he clutched you to him like he never wanted to let you go. The way his tongue, oh Madone, how his tongue had teased your lips to part and how you’d melted in his arms, unable and unwilling to resist his charms. He held you close and all you had wanted in that moment was to be consumed by him, embarrassingly so.

Maybe that was why you’d reacted fervently to his jealousy. It is whiplash, this pendulum of his attentions (or lack thereof), and it embarrasses you how easily you’d caved to his kiss, and in front of Frank Sinatra of all people. But then when you were alone, Elvis reminded you so clearly with his words that it was all a lie, while his body and actions screamed the opposite.

It all felt like too much, then, when he’d tried to put it on you, as if you were the one playing with his emotions. He is an infuriating, obstinate man, and it’s even more infuriating how everyone in his circle allows him to be so. It certainly isn’t fair he can also be so generous and kind and talented and handsome and vulnerable…God, it would be so much easier if he was always a spoiled brat and you could hate him for it.

But it’s not that easy.

He scares you. Not like your father or Gianni, no. Elvis scares you because he—

“You alright, Little Bird?” he croaks from the bath, eyes slits against the light.

It startles you, and you realize your head has been in your hands in lament as you spiral. You straighten, blinking away your lingering, dangerous thoughts.

“Yeah, yes, I’m fine. Just…tired.” It is not a lie, and you hope his own exhaustion keeps him from questioning you further.

“Well, we best get you to bed then, darlin’,” he groans, sitting up and stretching his long arms over his head. “Hand me that towel?”

“Of course,” you breathe, handing him the fuzzy, white towel, then you quickly turn away. You don’t want to leave because he may be unsteady on his feet, and it’s certainly not as though you haven’t seen him totally bare, but you feel your cheeks heat slightly anyway at his nakedness.

I’m only human.

Towel slung low on his narrow hips, you’re glad to follow him into the bedroom and not the other way around, worried the heat of his gaze might flay you open and reveal everything you are trying to hide from him. You don’t have the energy for masks right now.

It seems neither does he. He is docile and pliant as you help him into his silken pajamas and under the covers. You’ve noticed the pattern of him doing this after his episodes, putting himself completely in your capable hands.

As you head back to the bathroom to change and do your own nightly routine, you wonder if he’s ever been this way with anyone else, or if it’s just a special part of him set aside for you.

Stop thinking like that. I am his nurse and nothing more.

You keep a healthy distance between you and him when you climb into the sheets. It doesn’t take long, however, for your exhaustion to take the reins, and you quickly drift off, trying desperately not to think about the beautiful man—no, my patient—who sleeps so close by.

*

“Dolo-res, oh, Dolo-res!” The slithering sound of Gianni’s voice sing-songing your name in the dark sends your heart racing and your stomach dropping. His dress shoes click ominously on the wooden floor of your father’s house, slowly, taunting you. It’s as though he knows exactly where you are and is just biding his time. Finding pleasure in your fear.

You try to be as quiet as a mouse, but your breathing grows more ragged with each laborious step. The floor is working against you, like you are trying to run through water.

“Aye, aye, aye, Dolores,” Sinatra sings, the sound slow and distorted. Frank watches you struggle up the stairs, his head tilting and those famous blues giving you a knowing wink from the hallway beneath you.

“You can’t hide from me, Bella,” Gianni purrs from behind you, his footfalls heavy.

“What a break if I could make Dolores mine, oh, mine,” Frank continues the song as though your world isn’t collapsing in on itself, as if you weren’t running for your life. The lyrics feel all too threatening under the circumstances.

Clawing your way to the landing, a sob catches in your throat. He’s too close. You can smell his awful cologne. It makes your head pound and your stomach roll.

If you crawl your way to your room…you could lock the door. You could be safe.

“Aye, aye, aye, Dolores,” Frank croons from below.

Gianni’s hands are frigid when they clamp on your legs and turn you over.

“No, no, no, no!” you whimper.

“Did you get my gift, Bella?” Gianni smirks, feeling his way up your thighs, up under your skirt.

Looking down at your hand, the engagement ring he gave you shines menacingly, weighing your hand down so much you cannot lift it to defend yourself. You open your mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.

“I was made to serenade Dolores,” the song continues, but it’s no longer Frank’s voice from below. No, it’s deeper, and warm, like velvet. And oh, so familiar.

Elvis.

He’s on the landing behind you as he sings. You crane your neck and see him upside down, towering over you, only a few steps away.

“Elvis, please,” you cry. You aren’t sure if it’s a plea for help or one encouraging him to run. He looks down at you, almost absently, like he sees you but cannot be bothered. Perhaps he does not see you at all.

You aren’t sure what’s worse.

Gianni looks up and growls at Elvis, the whites of his eyes disappearing, turning all the way black. Dark, vicious claws form at the ends of his fingers. He looks like a demonic beast, ready to pounce on his prey.

“I would die to be with my Dolores,” Elvis sings, and you know then it’s over. You close your eyes, not wanting to see Gianni tear Elvis apart just for being near you. You feel the heat of Gianni leap over your prone form, feel Elvis being knocked to the ground with a thud. A roar. Screams. The sounds are sickening and the heat of blood spatters over your face.

“NO!” you sob, uncontrollably. Every breath is tainted with your agony.

It’s all your fault.

Then heavy silence.

Your chest heaves with the speed of your panicked breathing and you sense Gianni crawling back over you. You open your eyes, even though you don’t want to.

“What a break if I could make Dolores mine, oh, mine,” Gianni sings quietly, finishing the song, his face and hands stained crimson with Elvis’ blood. He smiles at you, a terrifying white gash amongst the red.

“Mine.”

Then he digs his claws deep into your belly.

You shudder awake, breathing hard enough to know it is another nightmare that wakes you. The sheen of sweat across your brow, the throbbing at your temples reminds you that you are alive, awake, and when you open your eyes, they meet the darkness of the hotel suite. Your cheeks are damp with tears and your hand flies to your abdomen to make sure Gianni’s claws are not deep inside you.

Much to your shock, there is a hand already there, large and splayed across your belly, but completely unthreatening. No, almost comforting. It knocks away the dream, this hand, as you try to puzzle through why it is there, who it belongs to, and why you aren’t afraid. You hold your breath.

A moment passes. You take stock of the rest of you: the queasiness of your stomach subsiding some, the solid warmth pressed against your back, your legs tucked but feet tangled amongst the sheets and another set of feet.

Elvis.

And you wonder if you are still dreaming because of the way his arms hold you tight. You wait for the panic to come as a result of the embrace, but it never does. Your heart skips then slows, beat by beat as you sink into calm, protected warmth, lulled by his slow breathing against your back.

I’m safe.

Sleep takes you with little fuss.

*

Your eyes flutter open. The room is dark, thanks to the heavy blackout curtains Elvis requested, but one look at the clock tells you it’s morning and past time to get up. A shiver rolls through you, which is strange despite the arctic levels he keeps any room he sleeps in because he usually a furnace next to you. But your body already knows what your eyes quickly confirm: Elvis is gone. Not in the bed, or the suite, or in the darkened bathroom.

Puzzled, you sit up and flip on the lamp. Your memory is hazy. Blinking, you vaguely remember a nightmare involving Gianni, but blissfully cannot remember specifics. There is something else you are missing, though, something important, just outside the reach of your memory. A comfort maybe? It doesn’t make any sense. Unease settles over you as you rise, your hand falling unconsciously over your abdomen.

Elvis’ absence bothers you, though you can’t put a finger on why. Perhaps it’s just the lingering dreams you can’t quite remember that have you anxious.

Or maybe it’s because in less than a month, your entire life has been upended and changed irrevocably.

Could be that.

After a glance at the time, you rise and hasten to get ready, knowing you are running late. Elvis will need to be at rehearsal soon. The rush is a good distraction from your muddled thoughts.

When you exit into the rest of the suite, ready to go, it’s much, much too quiet. Your skin prickles at the absence of Elvis and the usual boisterousness of the group of men you’ve become used to being around all the time and the relative safety they provide.

Something is wrong, and a tendril of fear of being alone and exposed winds up your spine.

Oh, Madone, something happened to Elvis.

Gianni.

It’s then that Cliff exits the kitchenette with a cup of coffee and you jump, startled, hand flying to your chest as you suck in a breath.

“Oh, hey, Lori,” he says. “You’re finally up.”

“Madre di Dio, you scared me!” you gasp, trying not to let the panic leech into your voice too much. “Where is everyone? Where’s Elvis?”

“Oh, they went ahead to the studio. I stayed back to drive you, if you still want to go.” He says it with pity, like you’re one of Elvis’ paramours that can just be dismissed on a whim, and frankly, he seems a little put out by this assignment.

“He did what?” Red lines your vision quite suddenly, anger washing away the worry you’d felt only a moment ago. Elvis is not supposed to be without you. It’s the reason you’re even here. He knows it.

And he just left you. Alone. Without a word.

Cliff backpedals instantly, sensing your indignation, looking very uncomfortable. “Oh, I…um…I think he just thought you were tired? And wanted to let you sleep?”

“Oh, I bet he did,” you mutter under your breath. Then you grab your purse and beeline for the door. “Let’s go, Cliff.”

He scrambles behind out you, following you to the elevator. At first, he nervously prattles on about the weather, trying to make small talk, but finally gives up once he realizes your piercing glare isn’t going anywhere.

You tell yourself you’re angry because Elvis has put himself in danger by not having you with him, but you are smart enough to know it’s more than that. He’s treated you like any other woman when you are not.

It’s downright disrespectful.

Furthermore, it put you at risk. Without the safety of Elvis’ protective and insular group, you are exposed. Gianni or your father would have no trouble at all disposing of Cliff and dragging you back to New York, before Elvis even knew what happened.

Because you haven’t told him, a small voice reminds you.

It makes you sick to think of. Your pounding headache is back, and you feel a bit carsick with the intense Florida sun beating down as Cliff drives you to the studio.

Your frustration and fear have you out of the car before he has barely parked. Heels click-clacking on the concrete and Cliff struggling to keep up, you show your special pass to the doorman. You hate the way the man examines your pass as though it were fake, giving you a once over. Cliff nods at the man before he finally lets you both through, and you huff at the slight.

This isn’t like you. Before Elvis, you would have meekly stepped to the side and let Cliff lead, content to fade into the woodwork. Happy, even. Maybe Elvis’ hotheadedness is rubbing off on you because the swell of rage you feel is like nothing you’ve felt before.

Fuming, you finally reach the studio and then stop short at what you see, sending Cliff almost running into you.

Elvis looks the picture of health, none of the pain or vulnerability you’d seen last night anywhere to be seen. In fact, he has a pretty girl on either side of him, both tittering and blushing as he smiles his famous quirky smile at them in turn. Flirting.

Your nails dig into your clutch and your body goes rigid. It shouldn’t, but it makes your blood boil with betrayal.

How dare he.

It’s a stupid thought, and one you try to shake off as soon as it comes. He’s not your boyfriend. God knows he’s flirted—and done much more—with other girls around you before, and it didn’t bother you then. Not really.

But maybe it’s because he laid into you so hard yesterday about Sinatra and your supposed flirtation and about keeping up appearances and his damned jealousy, and yet here he is, blatantly disregarding all of it. Because of double standards and whatever other petty reasons he has for acting so strange with you since Nashville.

Your eyes burn into him and with the little sixth sense of his, he notices. His eyes darken and hit yours intentionally, and there’s not even a hint of surprise or regret in them. Just an infuriating quirk of a brow before the girls steal his attention again.

Like he planned this.

You grind your teeth, forcing yourself to take a breath instead of doing something stupid like slapping that smile right off his pretty face. No, you’ve got to be professional about this. You seethe, trying to reel in all these senseless emotions suddenly swirling out of control in your mind.

For whatever reason, he’s trying to get under your skin. Maybe he thinks he’s teaching you a lesson about yesterday. About Frank. About the smoking. Who knows what else.

Well, two can play at that game.

You breathe in, out, in again, forcing your shoulders to relax, forcing yourself back into your clinical mode. God knows between the last few weeks, your upbringing, and your nurse’s training, you’ve learned how to deal with difficult people.

Elvis Presley has severely underestimated you if he thinks you’ll fold over this.

In another highly uncharacteristic move, you school your features into a relaxed smile as you walk towards him and the girls. You know he senses you even though he’s barely looking, but instead of confronting him or slinking into the shadows, you clip right past him and head towards the other famous men in the room.

His eyes are burning holes into your back as Frank and Sammy Davis Jr. notice your approach. You appreciate the fact that the two men smile so warmly at you, and not at all dismissively. It was a gamble, as you easily could’ve been rejected by them, too, but your gamble seems to have paid off.

“And who is this pretty young thing?” Sammy asks charmingly, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips. You don’t even have to pretend to blush under the scrutiny of both titans.

“Oh, this is the delightful Miss Dolores,” Frank says, “Elvis’ girl.”

“Ah, I knew that kid had good taste,” Sammy smiles.

“We weren’t sure if you were joining us today,” Frank says, looking not so casually behind you.

Three, two, one, you count silently.

“Oh, well, I—” you start.

“There you are, darlin’! Wanted to let you sleep in after such a long day yesterday,” Elvis says, smoothly sidling in beside you and planting a kiss to your temple.

You hide your smile at your presumption coming true and at the suggestive nature of his comment. A dismissive “Mmhmm,” is all you give him back, though. You don’t even look at him.

“You know, my mother was a huge fan of you both,” you gush instead to the other men in front of you, ignoring Elvis. “She passed years ago, but any time I hear That Old Black Magic or Birth of the Blues, I can’t help but think of her.”

It’s not a lie, nor is the sudden swell of emotion you have at the thought of your mother listening and singing along to those tunes while she made supper. You sniffle and let out a little laugh.

Perhaps you imagine the gentle squeeze at your waist.

“Look at me, getting all flustered,” you say, waving away your tears.

Madone, why am I so emotional today?

“Oh, we’re just honored to be a part of your memories like that, honey,” Sammy says kindly, and you feel Elvis stiffen beside you at the endearment.

“Frank, Elvis, we’re ready for the Love Me Tender/Witchcraftrun-through,” George, the very serious production assistant, interrupts.

Elvis starts directing you away. “Okay, then, baby, why don’t you—”

“Oh, I’d love to hear more about your mother, if you want to share,” Sammy says to you. “Don’t worry, Elvis, she’ll be safe with me.” He winks, reaching for your hand.

“I’m sure she—” Elvis starts.

“Well, how could I refuse the great Sammy Davis Jr.?” you interrupt, a little coyly. Part of you wonders when you became so bold as to flirt so shamelessly with men like this.

You aren’t feeling much like your old self these days.

Maybe that’s a good thing.

Tension ripples off Elvis and you honestly couldn’t have planned it better.

You can tell Elvis doesn’t want to offend Sammy as he hems and haws a bit too long. “Sure, sure, of course. I’ll come find ya after,” he finally gets out, a tad flippantly, and you don’t miss the amusement in Frank’s sparkling blue eyes as he leads Elvis away.

*

If you thought that would be the end of it, you were sorely mistaken. Your pleasure at winning the battle distracts you momentarily, making you think you’ve taught the man a lesson by giving him a taste of his own medicine.

You were wrong.

Instead, Elvis has doubled down on his nonchalant dismissal of you, barely even acknowledging your presence. Suddenly, there are more girls around than before and all of them seemed more than happy to be on the arm of the all-too-handsome singer, even if only for a moment.

You realize fleetingly he’d been true to his word in keeping the girls away before now because of your perceived relationship. But not anymore.

His message seems clear, even though you still don’t understand the reason behind it: You are easily replaced.

If you were actually his girlfriend, maybe that would be true. For a second, you feel the sting of his rejection as if you were just some poor girl fawning over him.

But the reality is much more complicated. Much worse is the dread pooling in your stomach at the thought of being fired and having to fend for yourself against the wolves nipping at your heels. As much as you don’t trust the Colonel, you don’t imagine he’d cast you aside so easily considering everything you know and the pains it would take to bring another nurse into the fold. And Elvis is smart enough to know it. It is a bit of a salve to the fear churning in your belly.

No, what Elvis is doing seems like some sort of strange tantrum, like he’s hurt and sending you a message the only way he knows how. What it truly could be, you have no idea, but having a slew of younger brothers, you understand that sometimes boys just need to wear themselves out with their nonsense. Doesn’t make it any less frustrating or humiliating for you, but you’ve been through worse than an adult man being immature and unable to communicate his feelings.

You almost wish his health was struggling a bit more because it would force him to engage with you. As it stands, he is the picture of health right now and he is only listening to you out of the necessity of keeping up appearances or when you have the gall to talk to another man.

It stings more than you want it to. More than it should.

It’s easy to blame it on the ever-growing fatigue you can’t seem to shake and on the fact you have less experience dealing with these kinds of relationships than most girls your age. It’s not as if you have a lot to compare it to, or even any girlfriends or relatives you talk to in order to help you try and understand what is wrong with him.

A deep loneliness sinks down over you suddenly, threatening to drown you in the overwhelming realization that you truly have only yourself to keep you steady. The worst part is Elvis is the only one who has any understanding of you at all, and for whatever reason, he is shutting you out. You force back the tears trying to spring to your eyes, swallowing your grief and resignation.

Instead of giving him the satisfaction of seeing you mope as he entertains the girls the other guys have procured for the evening, you smile and keep up pleasantries for as long as you can before retiring to the bedroom to read. Not that you are able to, as the words keep swimming in your vision and you stay on the same page for much too long. Finally, you close your eyes against the emotional tide and your persistent headache, and it’s not until Elvis comes to bed that you stir again.

You don’t open your eyes, however, though you can feel him looking at you. His gaze burns through you, making your heart race. There’s a long moment of silence before he finally undresses, gets in the bed, and turns out the light.

*

March 26th, 1960

The studio is vibrating with energy. Not only are the people involved in the show bustling about, but the audience, packed full of young women, is tittering so much that you can feel it in your bones.

Surprisingly, Charlie came out and grabbed you after Elvis’ appearance in the opening. Elvis looked smart in the dress uniform he’d been so glad to be rid of those first days you’d met. While he’d been nicer to you today in general, you are unsure why he wants you backstage after the way he’d shooed you out before the show started. But there are thirty more minutes before his performance, and you are suddenly concerned he’s not doing as well as he made himself out to be.

You make your way back into the dressing room, trying to offset your own nerves. You slept terribly, thinking too much about your future, mulling over every worst-case scenario again and again in your head. But the moment you enter the dressing room, it all goes out the window.

Elvis turns around when the door opens, an absolute vision in a black tuxedo that does everything to show off his long frame. Everything.There’s no helping the sharp intake of breath you try to swallow and the way your feet stick to the floor as you take him in from top to bottom. He is the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome.

His dark hair is swooped back on the sides, but styled tall and soft in the front, adding the appearance of at least three inches to his height and highlighting his long, chiseled jaw. His artfully applied makeup is subtle and does everything to show off his deep blue bedroom eyes.

Eyes that just happen to be swallowing you whole. A wave of heat washes over your entire body. You feel suspended in time and know you are gawking, but despite having spent over three weeks solid with the man, enduring every quirk and his maddening mood swings, you hadn’t been prepared to see him at his best.

Oh, Madone.

He has you locked down with his gaze, and while every professional bone in your body screams at you to be normal, it’s impossible. Every reason you’d been furious with him for the past week is forgotten in the blink of an eye. It’s as if it is suddenly dawning on you why Elvis Presley is who he is and that you’ve been working for him all this time without really realizing it.

“A-alright, everybody out. I need to talk to my Little Bird alone,” he drawls, but the command is crystal clear, sending all the boys filing out behind you. His nickname for you has never sounded so utterly sinful coming out of his mouth before. Your heart thuds in your chest and you hope to God Elvis cannot hear it or see the flush on your cheeks.

The door clicks shut, and Elvis sighs audibly in what seems like relief, his shoulders sagging a bit, and as he deflates, it breaks whatever strange spell he had on you. He adjusts his cufflinks nervously, then shakes his hands at his sides, bouncing on his toes, like he’s trying to expel the nerves out his limbs.

“Are you okay?” you ask, finally able to speak again.

“O-oh, honey, I-I-I-I’m so damn scared, I feel like my heart’s ‘bout ready to fly right o-o-outta my chest,” he stutters, looking at you as though you can provide him some relief. “S’like I can’t breathe.”

This kicks you into gear, the need to make sure he is healthy enough to perform washing away the awe at the handsome figure he cuts.

“You’re okay, just take off your jacket and sit down,” you guide him gently. He doesn’t fight you at all, but you can see the way he trembles with anxiety. The change in him seems strange to you considering the easy ego he’s been coasting on for weeks.

Maybe he’s been such a jerk because he’s been nervous, you think suddenly. As quick as it comes, you push it back out again, wanting to focus on his care.

You don’t have all your things, but you take his pulse, which is noticeably racing, and his breathing seems fast but not wheezing.

“I-I-I’m not dying, am I? W-w-what i-if I-I go o-out there and p-pass out in front of—” He is stuttering so much, it’s hard to understand what he’s saying, but his fear is clear: he’s terrified he’s going to mess up this critical piece of his comeback in front of the world and some of the greatest performers out there.

“Elvis,” you say gently, grabbing his hands in yours and stilling them. Once his fearful, wide eyes find yours, you continue, “You’re going to be just fine. You aren’t going to die out there, I promise. Now, take a deep breath with me.” You inhale deeply, hold, and then exhale nice and long, then do it again until he’s matching you.

In, out, in, out, again and again.

The breathing has just as much effect on you as it does him. The energy in the room calms substantially, your fears and his dissipating a little more with each breath.

You’re not quite sure how long you sit there with him, his hands dwarfing yours, but when he opens his eyes and meets yours, you can all at once see every iteration of Elvis Presley coexisting in harmony: the playful boy, the charming but humble superstar, the fiery and moody young man. He is both the most human you’ve ever seen him, yet the most ethereal in the same breath. The vulnerability and complexity astound you speechless once again.

“You are magic, Little Bird,” he says softly, eyes tracking over your face. Your heart skips a beat, then two. You’re in freefall for a few seconds before you can tear your eyes away from him enough to regain your wits.

When you look back at him, his face is a handsome mask, giving little away. Perhaps it’s just him preparing to perform, locking some of himself away. But something tells you there is more to it than that.

His thumbs trace up and down, sweeping between your thumbs and pointer fingers in the same rhythm as your breath. Somehow it grounds you while still making you feel a bit dizzy. He says you are magic, but he is the one enchanting you and all at once you want to tell him everything. Every single thing weighing on your mind. All your fears. The feelings you are starting to have for him that terrify you. How you see him. How you’ve deceived him to protect him. To protect yourself. It’s not the right time, it never is, but it’s like he’s drawing it out of you with his caress. You can’t bear for him to go cold on you again, not when he’s your only glimmer of hope.

They say the truth will set you free.

The words start to tumble out of their own accord, “Elvis, I need to tell you—”

A sharp rap at the door interrupts your confession before it even starts, and your heart catches in your throat.

“Places, Mr. Presley!” George yells through the door.

“Thank you!” he yells back. His eyes shine with something hopeful behind them when he turns his attention back to you, almost expectant. “Save that thought, honey.”

It’s all you can do to nod, tamping down on the adrenaline pouring through your veins. He leaps up, releasing your hands, severing the connection you hadn’t realized until right now you needed so much. Pulling his jacket on, he adjusts, and you stop him, craving the sense of intimacy that is slipping through your fingers like a sieve. You step up to him, straightening and smoothing the velvet lapels of his jacket. Your hands linger a moment too long near the button and you look at them, unable to stop the heat on your cheeks or to look up into Elvis’ eyes.

“Wish me luck, baby?” he says playfully, but with an edge of need you force yourself to ignore. He squeezes your hands, encouraging you to raise your head. You school your features into something calmer than what you feel.

“You don’t need it. You’ll be amazing and they’ll love you. They already do,” you say. It comes out much more breathless than you’d like, and you look everywhere but in his eyes.

The air gets heavy, crushing all sensibility, and you can’t help your eyes darting up then. His full lips part the slightest bit, his body leaning forward enough to make your breath catch. Suddenly every one of your nerves is on fire, crawling under your skin, something new and forbidden winding its way into your belly.

He’s only ever kissed you in a performative way, playing to an audience, but this, this is different. The way those sapphire eyes drink you in is much too much. You’re drowning in them, wondering how different it will be if he kisses you and not pretend-girlfriend you. He is so close you can smell the now-familiar, delicious waft of his cologne and feel the heat of his breath on your face.

Oh, Madone, we can’t. The thought stabs through your head with a panic, straightening your spine like a ramrod, and Elvis is nothing if not observant. So expertly does he change course you doubt he had any other intention than to press his open mouth to your cheek. The soft feeling has you sighing, but you aren’t sure if it’s in relief or disappointment.

Not unlike the look on his face.

Stepping back breaks the tension in the air enough for you to recover what is left of your wits. You smooth the front of your dress. “Would you like me in the audience or backstage?” You hope it comes out more professional than you feel.

“Needja out front. Wanna be able to see your pretty face unable to take your eyes off me,” he jokes, oozing charm, but his twitching hands and serious eyes belie his nervousness.

“Oh, we’ll see.” You roll your eyes, playing into what he seems to need in this moment from you, though your heart is still galloping enough that you feel breathless. You barely register opening the door and walking back out to your seat in the audience, feeling the roll of anxiety in your stomach, both for his performance and for what you almost let happen in the dressing room.

Before you can spiral too far into beating yourself up, Frank is up introducing Elvis. The girls in the studio go so wild, they sound possessed, chants of “We want Elvis!” devolving into shrieking. You resist the urge to stick your fingers in your ears to protect your eardrums.

But then Elvis, in all his breathtaking beauty, is ambling downstage, managing to be cool, casual, and charming, but also bashful, like he didn’t expect this reaction. And it’s not a put on.

He didn’t think they’d still love him, you realize.

The way he bites his lip, then runs his tongue over his teeth before erupting into an almost embarrassed grin makes your heart flutter at its sweetness because you know just how scared he is. His skill, however, is that no one else does.

He turns to signal the band and the first bars of Fame and Fortune come in. The man who turns around to sing is someone much different than the bashful boy of just a second ago. The sultry look he throws the audience takes your breath away, but as he waits to come in, he can’t totally hold the pose, that lip of his curling up and his tongue trying to banish it in the name of being serious. The girls scream in response, eating it up, and you can’t say you blame them. He looks up to the sky, perhaps saying a silent prayer, to regain his composure before he opens his mouth to sing.

Now, in the last few weeks, you’ve become well acquainted with his gifted voice, but it is not until this very moment you understand the scope of his talent. The spell that he casts over the room feels nearly as intimate as the one he had with you in the dressing room just minutes ago. The nervousness you know is there is so artfully maneuvered that it opens him to the audience rather than pushing them away. Few other stars would get away with smiling and laughing at the reaction of their audience in the middle of their ballad but when he does it, you feel it down to your toes.

Or maybe it’s the how his voice is like silk in your ears, a contradiction of impressively light but warm and rich. The honeyed timbre winds its way down your spine, right into the core of you. It’s not just in your body but your soul, too. The hair on your arms stands straight up, a visceral reaction proving his effect on you isn’t in your imagination.

A woman could fall in love with that voice alone.

Despite the way you want to fight the hold of his performance and its battle in your mind with the man you’re getting to know, it is quite impossible. You get utterly sucked into the tide of Elvis Presley.

He is stunning.

You can’t help the way your mouth drops open and your palms begin to sweat. There is brilliance in every move and sound he makes, and you’re amazed at his ability to include everyone in the room, from the camera, the band and backup singers, to how those bedroom eyes scan the entirety of the audience in one breath. You feel like you’ve been struck by lightning every time they catch yours.

If you weren’t so dumbstruck, you might chastise yourself for feeling so carried away, but it’s hard not to feel like he’s sharing something important with you right now—an essential part of his soul, this thing he was obviously born to do. It brings tears to your eyes.

As the song winds down, you and the rest of the audience mourn its end. But in the split second he bows his head and bites his lip, you see the utter relief that fills him at the realization that he’s still got it. Then the upbeat lilt of Stuck on You comes in and he’s immediately reinvigorated.

He knows he has you all now, and it’s as if suddenly his body remembers everything that made him a star. Sure, it’s toned down some for his new adult image, but those unique movements are still there. He’s playful and energized in a way you’ve never seen him before. It’s not just in his long limbs (which you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from) but also in his voice. Flirtatious and silly, he wraps you all around his snapping fingers.

The girls are going crazy and rightly so: you find yourself having to bite down on your lip to keep from squealing with them. A bead of sweat runs down your spine and you cross and uncross your legs to try and stave off the total, uncontrolled insanity you are feeling trying to reconcile this Elvis with the one you sleep in the same bed with, the one you care for when he’s so ill he can barely function.

Nothing about this is remotely helping the feelings for him you know are brewing under the surface. It’s like being dragged under by a riptide—you can’t fight it, not now, and you just have to give yourself over to the current.

But one thing is for certain: there is nothing sane about any of this.

You can see even Frank is off kilter because when he comes out for the duet, this cool-as-a-cucumber, wildly talented star in his own right is stumbling over his lines. The man is struggling to maintain his dominance as the host and the elder, more refined performer. Sensing what you think is his competitive edge, you watch Frank rebound for control as best he can, but even he has got to know Elvis is in a class of his own. He’s upstaging Frank without even trying.

Part of you knows you are witnessing history in the making. You can hardly believe it. A month ago, you were living an entirely different life. You certainly didn’t care much for Elvis in the beginning, and now you want nothing more than to stay in his orbit. It’s strange to feel so starstruck around him.

The whole thing is madness.

You are still buzzing and a bit dazed when Charlie pulls you backstage. The prideful, overly logical part of your brain wants you to calm yourself before you see Elvis, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a big head around you, but the giddy girl in you doesn’t care. That silly little girl eats up the grin spreading across Elvis’ face and falls straight into his open arms. He hugs you tight, like he means it. It feels real and not for the benefit of all those around you thinking you’re the adoring girlfriend congratulating him on his triumph. The way he squeezes you and presses his lips to your temple feels special and just for you.

“What didja think, Little Bird?” he whispers in your ear.

“Oh, well, the guys did great, and Nancy was lovely,” you hear yourself teasing.

The playful, possessive little growl he makes and the way his fingers press into your ribcage has you fighting unsuccessfully to suppress the shudder of excitement running through you. You curl your toes in your heels trying to absorb the heady feeling it leaves you with to get yourself right enough to speak again.

“Well, I’m a bit loathe to admit it, but you were wonderful,” you finally say, looking up at him and placing your hand on his chest. His heart thumps wildly under your palm and under any other circumstance you might be concerned, but you let it be. This is his moment.

“Better than Ricky Nelson?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow at you.

“Hmm, marginally,” you tut, trying to keep a straight face.

“’Marginally’, huh? I’ll show you marginal!” he laughs. And then he buries his head in your neck, his hot breath and soft lips pebbling your skin and setting your body aflame. You don’t recognize the gasping giggles erupting from you like a schoolgirl.

It’s all for show it’s all for show it’s all for show…a voice in your head viciously reminds you.

“Okay, okay!” you laugh breathlessly, trying to still his ministrations. “I will concede that you, Elvis Presley, are a very talented man.”

“Oooh, am I now?” He wiggles his brows suggestively, sending another wash of heat over your body.

Your mouth pops open, but before you can think to respond, someone cuts in. “Hey, Presley, quit making googly eyes at your girl and get over here!”

Elvis responds by doing the silly little thing he does with his eyes that makes all the girls scream and you can’t help but laugh.

The moment he walks away, taking his warm essence with him, you find yourself deflate a little. It sobers you quickly and the letdown of the entire experience has you unexpectedly emotional. Without his warmth and light, you feel cold and unprotected and alone.

Sneaking away to the restroom, you lock yourself in with shaking hands. Oh, God, what is wrong with me? you think as the tears well and then escape in rivulets down your cheeks. You swipe at them, fighting what you fear is happening but cannot quite admit to yourself.

You refuse to be like every other woman, falling over your own feet for Elvis. Desperate for any sliver of attention, living for his small touches and knowing gazes. Blinded by his talent and fame.

You are not that girl. Breathing in and out, trying to calm yourself, you remember he is just a flesh-and-blood man, and you cannot give another man the power to hurt you again. He is your employer, your patient, and nothing more.

Liar.

Pushing those treacherous thoughts away, you switch tacks. You need to protect him from the storm you know is coming but your survival instincts are doing everything possible to keep you safe, and Elvis might be the only person who can do that. Telling him about Gianni and your background risks his rejection. Your heart aches at the idea of him letting you go, and not just because of your safety. There’s no way you can tell him the truth about you now, not when he’s flying so high, not when for the first time in weeks you finally feel connected with him again.

Maybe too connected.

No, you’ll just have to wait until the right time. You can’t spoil this for him. Talk of Gianni and your father would destroy this goodness, and you can’t let them destroy anything else.

Forcing yourself to put it on the back burner, you paste on a smile and play the devoted girlfriend for the rest of the evening. Every little touch is like tinder catching flame under your skin—his hand around your waist, thumb grazing so near your breast, his fingers interlocking with yours—and the sparkle in his eyes makes your heart dance against your ribcage. It’s easy to believe he truly cares and that he’s yours.

He's a better actor than they give him credit for.

For once, you let yourself lean into it, pretending he wants you. You are swept up into his joy and relief and affection. It’s an addictive and glorious drug. By the time you both stumble exhausted into the bedroom of the suite, your cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

Your body hums a little from the glass of champagne you allowed yourself, mind buzzing with the excitement of the day and from your proximity to the man of the hour. Elvis seems to be much in the same boat, riding high and energized as he takes off his jacket, throwing it over the chair in the corner. The tiny tie was lost long ago when he unbuttoned his top buttons at the studio and sweat glistens in the divot between his collarbones as he begins rolling up his sleeves. You were unaware until this very moment how attractive forearms could be.

Suddenly your mouth feels very dry. You lick your lips, watching his every movement.

Elvis looks up quickly, catching your undivided attention, and his lip quirks in a slow smirk that is both sinful and self-conscious. His eyes flash with a heat that makes your toes curl into the soles your shoes and your pulse flutter wildly.

Oh, no. No. I will not get flustered by Elvis.

Cheeks heating, you look away and focus every ounce of attention you have on undoing the straps on your heels.

Elvis starts to hum a song you don’t immediately recognize, the sound vibrating and warm and sultry. Like a siren’s song, it threatens to hypnotize you. It distracts you enough that you fumble with the stubborn clasp on your heel, unable to wrench the leather free of the buckle. You let out a huff.

“Here. Lemme help, baby,” he says, more a soft command than an offer, the sound wrapping around you like velvet. He kneels before you, placing your foot on his knee, his long, nimble fingers working the strap free. If you hadn’t already been holding your breath, the way he gently massages the crease the strap left on your ankle through your stockings might have caused you to gasp.

“How’d I never notice these pretty lil’ sooties?” he coos, rubbing his thumb into the sore arch of your foot.

You bite back the moan threatening to slip free due to the sensation, but it escapes anyway, as a tiny whimper instead. Perhaps you imagine the way the apples of his cheeks go pink at the sound. Either way, you feel like you are about to come apart at the seams.

He makes slow work of massaging your foot and then placing it back down. You suck in a breath, just as he grabs the other and repeats the action of freeing then massaging it.

“Elvis,” you gasp much too breathlessly. You want to melt into the sensation, but the rest of your body feels like it’s on fire, a molten pit growing in your belly that you can’t seem to stop. You should push him away, you know you should, because this is too much, too intimate, but you can’t seem to will yourself to do so.

“Hmm?” he replies innocently, as if he truly has no idea what he has reduced you to. His hand squeezes down your foot until he reaches your toes. “Oh, honey, why ain’t these perfect lil’ piggies painted?” he asks, near scandalized.

The question throws you. “I…I’ve never seen the need,” you stutter out. “It’s not as though anyone would see them and being on my feet all day in the ward would just ruin them…”

His brows furrow. “Not even with your girlfriends? Or for a day at the beach?” he asks, genuinely confused as to why a young lady would never paint her toenails.

Your heart aches acutely all the sudden. The words fall out of your mouth before you can stop them: “I didn’t have many friends like that. Or time to spend with them. I was busy raising my brothers and then I left for nursing school….”

“Oh.” He says it so softly and full of compassion you nearly want to cry. Then, his demeanor shifts. “Well, all that changes now, Little Bird.” He gives your feet one last pat and then smoothly lifts himself off his knees, going towards the door.

“What?” you ask, confused. This man has your head spinning.

He flings the door open. “Hey, Charlie! Charlie!” he yells into the penthouse.

“Yeah?” you hear Charlie call back.

“I need you to get some nail polish. Pink is best, but red’ll do.”

You hear a long pause, then a shuffle. “Ummm, where am I gonna find polish in the middle of the night, EP?”

Elvis sighs. “Use yer brain, buddy. You tellin’ me none of those girls out there has any polish on ‘em? I have faith you can figure it out.” Then he shuts the door with a grin.

Dumbfounded, you gape at him. “You can’t be serious, Elvis. It’s late and we need to get some rest…I don’t particularly want to paint my toenails right now. And truth be told, I’m not very good at it,” you say, feeling panicked by the whole idea. The idea of him watching you trying and failing to paint your toes makes you squirm.

He just grins. “Good thing I ain’t tired, then, baby! You can relax and I’ll take care of it. Go get in your jammies.”

Your brain feels broken. He can’t possibly be suggesting what you think he is. Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

“Close that purty mouth—you look like a big ol’ guppy over ‘dere,” he laughs, his accent seeming stronger than usual. “Now, go on—get ready for bed,” he orders, pulling you off the bed.

“Elvis—”

“Nope, don’ wanna hear it, honey! Go!”

Which is how you find yourself in the bathroom, changing into the modest but silky, white, button up pajamas Elvis bought for you on your shopping spree a few weeks ago and doing your nightly routine with a flock of very baffled butterflies in your stomach. You are also a little afraid for the state of your toes by the time this is all said and done.

And yet, Elvis manages to surprise you again, not only with the fact that Charlie was indeed able to get his hands on pearly pink nail polish at this hour, but with his ability to paint nails. It’s more than adorable the way he concentrates on getting it right, tongue caught between his teeth, even sticking cotton between your toes to keep them apart. Usually, you would hate having someone touch your feet, but he’s so gentle about it and you are so distracted by how unbelievable the situation is and how a dark lock of hair falls imperfectly over his forehead as he bends over your toes that you can’t bring yourself to tell him no.

As always, time seems to warp with him, and it’s so late it’s early. You find yourself yawning, wiggling your freshly pink toenails in a state of strangely pleased disbelief.

“You like ‘em, Little Bird?” he asks, eyes shining with an unexpected need of approval.

“Yes, they are lovely. If this singing thing doesn’t work out, you could open a salon. The girls would go crazy,” you joke.

He bows his head with a bashful smile, then looks up at you through those long lashes and you feel like the bed has dropped out from under you.

“Naw, this is only for the special lil’ nurses who hafta put up with me every day. No one else.” His eyes twinkle, lighting your body with electricity.

Why does he have to be so charming?

Part of you wants to scream at him to stop being so nice to you. If he knew what trouble you were, what you’ve brought to his doorstep, he’d never be looking at you like this or treating you with such care.

No one since your mother has treated you with such care.

Tears threaten to spring to your eyes, and you push your feelings as far away as you can, as fast as you can.

“Speaking of,” you say, clearing your throat, “I should take your vitals before you sleep.”

Elvis looks confused and maybe a little hurt at your abrupt subject change but recovers quickly enough. “Aww, come on, Little Bird, not tonight. I feel fine, I swear it.”

But you need your armor, and your job gives you that. It gives you space from these stupidly complicated feelings you are having. “Grab my bag and we can prove it.”

Elvis sighs, but does what you say, quiet as you take his temperature, blood pressure, and pulse. When you finish, surprise fills you.

Elvis looks concerned. “What is it? Everythin’ okay? I’m tired, sure, but I feel—”

“No, I know,” you interrupt, “your numbers are good. Apparently a wildly successful comeback performance coupled with giving a late-night pedicure was just the right medicine.” You can’t help but smile at him.

He looks at you wide eyed, then gives you a blinding smile. “Or maybe you’re just that good for me, darlin’.”

Your heart flips in your chest, beating in your throat, but you refuse to let it show on your face. “Sure, mister. Quit your flirting and get in the bed,” you say firmly, only realizing your mistake when he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“To sleep! Go to sleep, Elvis!” you say, rolling your eyes. You cover the blush on your face by turning over to flip off the lamp on your nightstand.

His hiccupping laugh makes you smile in the dark when he slides into the bed next to you. You are acutely aware of the heat of him, and though he doesn’t touch you, you can’t help but sense that he wants to as his chuckles die down to silence.

After a pregnant pause, he speaks again, quiet but direct.

“Was there something you wanted to tell me, honey? From earlier when we got interrupted?”

Your heart trips, then races with both surprise and fear. Thank God he can’t see your face because you are battling the onslaught of thoughts spiraling in your mind.

He won’t understand. He’ll kick you out on the street.

No, don’t keep lying to him. He deserves the truth.

Not now, later.

Protect him, protect him, protect him…

It’s the vision of Gianni ripping out Elvis’ throat that makes the decision for you.

“No, it was nothing,” you whisper shakily, clutching the sheets in your hands.

“Oh,” he says, almost blankly, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say he sounded upset.

But that wouldn’t make sense.

“Goodnight, Elvis,” you say quietly.

“Goodnight, Lori.”

Your stomach drops at how he uses your actual name, all the warmth from earlier gone from his voice. As tired as you are, shame and regret churn in your stomach—a stew of nausea that won’t seem to abate, even after you eventually drift off to sleep.

*

Three more days you spend in Florida, each one bringing even more maddening behavior from Elvis. Somehow, when you weren’t looking, a switch flipped yet again. He’s rapidly vacillating between moody and sullen to downright cold and cutting.

He keeps you close, to be sure, while going water skiing and taking long drives and cavorting with his friends, but the sweet, compassionate closeness from the night of filming the special is nowhere to be found. You feel like an accessory he strapped to his wrist, desperately trying to make sure he doesn’t run himself ragged with all the “fun” he is having. He doesn’t even attempt to hide the flirting and the inappropriate jokes and jabs not fit for mixed company. No, he does it with you at his side, like he’s trying to make a point.

Even the Colonel is distressed, confronting Elvis about spending too much and making the return trip to Memphis one by bus instead of train as some sort of power move to wrangle the star. Elvis just laughs it off, and in what seems to be true Elvis fashion, he seems to spend more rather than less just to stick it to the Colonel. All of it put together reminds you of the adolescent behavior of your younger brothers.

It’s exhausting, running after this moody man-child who acts like you hung the moon one minute and in the next ignores you. You remind him until you are blue in the face that he must rest and have some semblance of a normal routine when he can, instead of running himself into the ground by overindulging in nearly every sense of the word. The man seems to have no concept of the word “moderation” and as annoyed as you are, you are more worried this will lead to another, more serious episode.

It's easy to blame him for the near-constant headaches and exhaustion ailing you. Having to pretend to go along with his antics as his girlfriend while also having to babysit him as his nurse is continuing to run you ragged. Not to mention the emotional upheaval of trying to piece out your own feelings for him and manage your lingering fear about Gianni at the same time.

The worst, however, is the lack of playfulness Elvis had with you coupled with the brooding silence he shoves between you in your very few moments alone. Nothing reminds you more you are just his nurse. The rest, whatever it was, seems a folly concocted by your addled imagination.

You can’t shake the feeling of being punished for some unknown offense. Maybe it is just your guilt brewing under the surface, trying to make sense of this man. It’s hard to break the habit of feeling like no matter what you do and how good you are at your job, you are somehow still a burden to the men in your life.

But it isn’t just that. Every stunning smile or touch he gives another woman fees barbed and has your blood boiling, even though it shouldn’t. Every sly remark about being “tied down” he makes to the guys makes your skin crawl. Worse yet, he starts poking fun at you any chance he gets, edging more into mean spirited with each jab, and even his friends shoot you apologetic looks by the end of the trip.

And yet another full day with them all, coupled with Elvis’ ire, all the stupid jokes, and the rampant gas that all the men seem to have, this time trapped on a smelly chartered bus, has you feeling claustrophobic and ready to throw yourself out the window. It’s unusual for you to feel so bothered by such things—you grew up in a houseful of men after all. You learned early on to keep your feelings to yourself, especially to keep off your father’s radar. Patience for rowdy men has historically been one of your greatest virtues, but Elvis has you digging your nails into your knees and biting your tongue more than once as the bus slowly ambles towards Memphis.

He's just an unruly patient—don’t take it personally, you chant to yourself all the way home. You try, you do, but your stomach ties in more knots with each passing mile and with the memory of feeling cared for by him contradicting everything he’s lobbing at you.

By the time you arrive back at Graceland, you are ruing all your life decisions. Despite reminding yourself of how, logically, you are safer and more secure here than you’ve ever been in your life, you’ve reached your limit of patience with Elvis and his entourage for the day. Maybe the week. Or the month.

Oh, Madone, how am I supposed to do this for the unforeseen future if I can’t make it a month with this man?

At least here you can safely put some space between you. You fly off the bus as soon as the door opens.

“Hey! Hey, where do you think you’re goin’?” he yells from behind you.

Why do you care? is what you want to say, but you swallow the urge instead.

You keep walking down the driveway, away from the house, pretending you don’t hear him. Nothing good can come from you answering him right now, not when you are feeling so on edge. Besides that, it’s hard to think with the throbbing behind your eyes and the slight carsickness rolling in your stomach from being on the bus all day.

“Lori, stop! Goddammit, Dolores, where. Are. You. Goin’?” he shouts, punctuating each word, your name rolling off his tongue like an admonishment. You stop in your tracks. It infuriates you he deems to use your given name like you’re the one who has done something wrong, like it’s your behavior that’s been so poor.

“Away from you!” you shout back at him, unable to keep your frustration locked in any longer.

Your heart sinks, immediately knowing you’ve overstepped but annoyed enough not to quit while you’re ahead. You start walking again, hurrying away as if you can still escape this whole situation.

The chorus of men chuckling and “oooh”ing at Elvis as they amble off the bus does not help matters.

“What the hell did you just say?” he growls low, his large strides hard on the pavement as they try to catch up with your smaller ones. “Hey, don’t walk away from me when I’m talkin’ to ya!”

“Leave me alone, Elvis! It’s obvious you’ve wanted me out of your hair for weeks, so go! Do whatever it is you need to do to get whatever this is out of your system,” you snap, still stomping forward, pulling your coat tight around your middle as you try to reacclimate to the early spring chill in the air. “Go…get laid or something,” you mutter, surprised at your own crassness.

“Hey! Stop bein’ such a b-bitch and stop walkin’ away from me!” he roars, grabbing your upper arm to pull you around.

You gasp as his rough touch lances through you, sending a lightning bolt of fear down to your toes. “Get your hands off me!” you hiss, violently yanking away from his grasp. Your heart knocks unpleasantly in your chest, faster and faster as your breath heaves. Part of you wants to run away as fast as you can, but you are frozen in place.

He’s not Gianni, a soft voice whispers. He won’t hurt you.

You want to believe it, you really do, but the fact is you barely know this man. You’ve wanted to believe so badly he is warm and caring, you’ve wanted to trust him because there is no one else you can, but your hopes don’t make it true.

Seeing your distress, something besides anger flashes in Elvis’ eyes and he quickly drops his arm from you.

All your pent-up fury washes over you then and you lash out uncharacteristically. “And don’t you dare call me a bitch when you’ve been acting the way you have,” you spit back at him.

He shutters his look of shock at your outburst so quickly you barely see it before flames darken his eyes again. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. You’re just crazy.” It’s cutting but it’s obvious you struck a nerve.

Blood rushes in your ears, your heart pounding and your head throbbing with a hundred emotions threatening to tear you apart.

You’ve never felt so bold or off the rails before, but the words fly out of you with little thought of the consequences as you point your finger at him. “Listen to me, Elvis Presley: I’m not Anita or one of your sycophantic girlfriends you can play your silly little hot-and-cold mind games with. I’m not crazy. I’m here to do a job. And instead of letting me, you are making it hard every step of the way. For days you’ve been sulking around like a child who hasn’t gotten his way instead of communicating like an adult what is wrong!”

Elvis’ eyes go wide as he reels back like you’ve slapped him in the face. Then his brow furrows, eyes blazing before locking you out once more.

“Oh, you’d know all about mind games, wouldn’t ya, honey?” he says coldly, advancing on you. “Why communicate w-w-when y-you can just pretend it’s not happenin’ and run away? I’m sure your fee-an-cè and his mafia buddies would have a lot to say about that, now, huh?”

Your heart screeches to a stop.

Dio mio…he knows.

“Elvis…” you breathe out, and then you can’t seem to breathe in again. Your shock is eclipsed by the fact somehow Elvis knows your secret. Everything else is forgotten. All your panicked mind can think of is how Gianni or your father somehow got to Elvis and they must be here, now, to take you back to New York.

An involuntary shudder overtakes you as you whisper, “How?”

“Oh, your good friend Sinatra told me the w-w-whole damn East Coast of mobsters is pissed o-off. Called you some mafia princess Helen of Troy and told me to cut you loose, if I-I-I knew w-what w-was good for me,” Elvis barrels on, his handsome face dark and storming with anger.

“What?” It’s so breathless, you aren’t sure you said it aloud. Frank knew? Of course.

Oh, God, everyone knows.

They are coming for me.

The acid in your stomach bubbles, and if it weren’t empty, the contents would be spilled over Elvis’ expensive shoes.

“I-It w-was humiliatin’, not knowin’ what the hell he was talkin’ about! But you wanna know the worst of it, Lori? That I gave you every chance to tell me and you still didn’t. You lied. I thought…” Elvis keeps speaking, his low voice angry and hurt, but suddenly it sounds like he’s in a wind tunnel. All your focus turns inward, though you are vaguely aware that you are shaking like a leaf.

Elvis is going to send me back.

And he has every right. He’s got to protect himself. You were selfish and brought this to his doorstep and didn’t even have the courtesy to warn him. Then he had to go and hear it from Frank of all people.

It was no wonder he’s been acting so strange.

He’s been preparing to let me go.

Your chest constricts and your heart aches. It feels like betrayal, though you know it’s not. You are the one who betrayed him, not the other way around. You’d thought maybe Elvis was different, he’d shown you such compassion at your worst moments, but that was before he knew what you’d dragged him into. And you are a horrible for doing it. Maybe you deserve the hell you know Gianni will put you through.

There is no stopping the tears from pouring down your cheeks.

“I-I’m so, so sorry,” you sob, now a hiccupping, shivering mess.

Gianni’s obsidian eyes and horrific smile when he sees you again flash in your mind. “Hello, Bella…”

Oh, Madone, I can’t go back, I can’t. He’ll kill me. Or worse…

The air in your lungs seems to evaporate, leaving you gasping and dizzy. That weightless space, the one you go to when you can’t bear to feel anymore, awaits you, but you can’t seem to reach it because Elvis is grabbing your shoulders, the anger gone from his eyes and replaced with concern. But he is tethering you to reality when all you want to do is disappear. And you can’t help but feel like you’ve damned him.

Your stomach churns once more and you lose the battle, heaving bile off to the side and onto the pavement. It steals what little strength and air you have left, and the edges of your vision bleed black, like the shadow of Gianni is finally here to take you away.

I’m sorry, is the only thought left when your knees buckle and your body crumbles into Elvis’ arms.

Then there is just dark, blissful silence.

*

Thank you for reading and supporting my work!! As always, likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated if you enjoyed what you read! 💗

Taglist Pt 1

@eliseinmemphis@russian-soft-bitch@tattywood

@sassanoe@thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle@carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23

 @littlebitofgreen@paigevis@bugg06@xhannahbananax03@artlover8992

@18lkpeters@frozenhuntress67@girlblogger2002@kendralavon7@misspresley

@be-my-ally @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen @powerofelvis @from-memphis-with-love

 @precious-lil-scoundrel @stylespresleyhearted @prompted-wordsmith @crash-and-cure @elvisgf @lookingforrainbows @fic-over-cannon @godlypresley @ab4eva @whatstruthgottodowithit @elvisabutler @amydarcimarie@idontwanttoputanything @callieselvisobsessed @captainamerica1235-blog  @xenaspace3-blog 

@simplyamberj@claire-elvisgirl@everythingelvispresley@louisejoy86@deniseinmn @madelynpresley

[heavenlyfay3]

Movie Night

By Sawyer-Summary:You and Jean are roommates and decide to watch a movie together

warning:Smut 18+ oral m receiving

jean × female reader

a/n:this was off the top of my head😁that’s why it’s so short and there will not be a part 2 hope you enjoy!⭐️

You and Jean really don't talk much with you both having busy schedules working and hanging out with separate friends or just spending time alone. After getting your own apartment and realizing you would need some help with rent and bills you interviewed multiple people before Jean came along he was perfect everything you needed in a roommate he was nice, cleaned up after himself, and didn't make to much noise most importantly, he was very nice to look at especially late at night when you would go to the kitchen to get a snack and he would be fresh out the shower with a towel hanging loosely off his hips showing his toned abs and the V on his abdomen seeing it always made you feel things it would happen so often you swear he was doing it just so you could stare as he walked to his room.

It was 10:00 pm and you were in your room bored out of your mind until you finally decided to watch a movie on the couch in the living room..

you walk out of you room to see Jean already sitting on the couch wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a white tee looking for something to watch on Netflix.

"Hey Jean couldn't sleep?" you say looking at him

"Uh i wasn't exactly trying….just wanted to find something to watch." he says surprised at your presence but not startled

"Yea?.did you find anything?" you ask as you sit beside him just a little too close but not too much

"not really...i think i'll just put in my favorite movie is that ok?"he asks not wanting to ruin your night "yea sure i was probably gonna do the same and fall asleep on the couch anyway"

He puts on a movie called "Vacation" (which is not on Netflix but i digress)

"This is your favorite movie?" you ask genuinely surprised "Yea why did you ask like that?...it's hilarious." Jean asked a little offended

"No i know it's just i wasn't expecting a movie like this to be your favorite!" you say chuckling "what kind of movies do you think i watch?” Jean asks

"I don't know Actions movies or something like, the mission impossible movies definitely not this" you say defending your laughter

"yea there not my thing i love comedies and quit laughing!"

"Sorry" you say still chuckling but starting to focus on the movie

About 30 mins go by while your watching the movie and the part where Chris Hemsworth walks in the bedroom comes on and tension starts to grow between the two of you and you start to realize how close you guys are. Your thighs are touching and his arm is resting on the couch cushions behind you and you start to smell his cologne it smells like vanilla, basil and mint, sweet but kind of manly it was surrounding you.you start to tense up and Jean notices

"You okay?" Jean asks placing his hand on your shoulder

"Yea...I'm fine!"

After the movie ended you two just ended up talking about anything and everything then the topic of sex came up what he's done, what you've done, what he hasn't done, what you haven't done facing each other on the couch with your knee touching his thigh

Then he says one of the most shocking things you thought could come out of his mouth "Wait.what?.. you've never had a blow job?" you asked appalled

"No, I haven't, would stop acting so surprised"

“Well I am Jean I mean look at you”

"I haven't had sex as much as people think I'm, not a man whore you know"

"yea that's even harder to believe"

you feel a strike of confidence realizing you've given about 4 blow jobs and they have been very well received "Well you know Jean there's nothing wrong with being a little inexperienced," you say with a sly smirk across your face placing your hand on his thigh

"Really?" he asks giving you the same energy " Yea I mean I'm pretty experienced myself and you won't have to do anything but enjoy yourself,” you say moving to your knees and kneeling right in front of him with your hands moving up and down his thighs

He spreads his legs for you to get between them and looks at you while biting his bottom lip the sight alone makes you wet "You, sure Princess?" he says looking you in the eyes. you nod your head at him

"Use your words baby" he says in a sultry tone "Yes I'm sure" you say pulling down his pajamas bottoms and boxers. Before you can take the off fully his already hard cock springs free and the sight is mouth-watering

You grab onto his throbbing cock with one hand with the other on his thigh and immediately start to please him with one slow and sloppy lick from his base up to his tip. He takes a soft deep breath as you do so. You then continue to put half of his length in your mouth and tightening your jaws around it while moving your head back and forth with your tongue swirling around his tip.

You hear a soft moan come from his lips as you felt the muscles in his thigh tighten. You pull his dick out of your mouth for a second to spit on it then you continue to suck it like you were before, but this time you used both hands to stroke it as you sucked it. Making him moan louder. You could taste a bit of precum in your mouth that motivated you to go faster and tighten your jaws more even though they were a bit tired.

But hearing how much he enjoyed it was like music to your ears. He threw his head back and grabbed your hair then started to push your head down farther making you gag a bit.

By this point you could feel his tip touching the back of your throat. As you kept moving your head back and his legs began to shake as he groaned “Y-Y/n im about to cum.”

Him saying that made you go faster than you did before and using as much of your spit as you could. He thrusted his hips a bit as you did so making it sloppier. You tightened both your hands around his fat cock and twisted it as it was still in your mouth.

Then with one last long moan he released all his cum into your mouth, completely covering your tongue. You lick up every last drop and swallow it after also licking your fingertips like you would after finishing a delicious meal.

He watched as you did and said “Fuck baby you did so good.” he grabbed your cheeks and gave your a kiss of approval

[thephantomcasebook]

Your posts about Olivia Cooke really opened my eyes, I went on a deep dive to see some stuff. and seeing her talk about alicent and everything it just seems like she's talking out of her ass. I read the other day about Sara Hess talking about a convo with her and Cooke speaking about how Olivia has her own "head canons" for alicent and rhaenrya.

Like just about how alicents mother found out that young alicent and rhaenrya were kissing and making out? That just rubbed me the wrong way. Like two girls kissing I don't give a shit? Love who you want but when your a grown woman, in your thirties talking about children making out? That's disgusting the way she plan out says that. I was wondering your other opinions on that whole mess she's got going on.

Look ...

I've said my piece about Olivia Cooke over the years. I think she's a really good actress. I just watched "The Secret of Crickley Hall" and I liked it quite a bit, and I got really attached to Nancy because Cooke was so good. I've liked her since "Bates Motel" and knew even before trying House of the Dragon Season 1 that I was probably going to like her as Alicent - though I was already predisposed because I already liked both Alicent and Criston as characters before the show. She has this uncanny ability to make you attached, strongly, to the characters she plays.

When she's on screen you can't help but love her.

In the end, my problem is not personal to Olivia Cooke, it to actors and Actresses in general, especially toward actors and actresses of a certain age group - mostly late millennial people. I think they're vapid, empty headed, morons, who say creepy and weird shit, cause, they're surrounded by creepy weird people and caught up in social bubbles that don't exist in reality.

Cooke is just one actress among many of our generation who lack empathy and believe less in inhabiting a character and their life and more stripping the character so that they can feel more comfortable in their skin by making them more like the actor/actress. It's naked narcissism, the easiest to spot from anyone who knows how to analyze personalities and performances. And while Olivia Cooke is very - VERY - good playing Alicent, she'll never get past herself, because, Cooke wants to play Alicent the way Cooke wants rather than how Alicent should be played as an established character.

Cooke's naked misandry and bullshit angry bimbo feminism got in the way of Alicent being played consistently.

Alicent should not be angry with the people around her, she should not be hitting and yelling at the people close to her. Criston Cole is her closest and most trusted friend, confidant, and partner in all things - more so than Rhaenyra ever was. When Criston Cole was named Hand of the King, Alicent should not be berating or trying to humiliate Criston cause he took her daddy's job. When Criston got named Hand of the King, it should've been played that Criston AND Alicent got named Hand of the King because they're partners and they do everything together. Criston was Alicent's in to regaining power because there's no one who knows Criston better and who Criston trusts more than Alicent. Any writer would've written with the actor's full support that Alicent would be living in Criston's lap, co-ruling and plotting with him. Not berating him and throwing childish temper tantrums.

It shouldn't have been Otto and Alicent trying to control Aegon and the Green Council. It should've been Otto versus Alicent and Criston in a power struggle as it was in the book. When Aemond and Criston were plotting in Aemon's apartments, Alicent should've been in the room with them. The Crownland Campaign should've been Aemond, Criston, and Alicent's brainchild together ... as it was in the book.

Now, you might say that this is a writing a problem. And it is to a large extant. But Olivia Cooke is not exempt from blame. The actors - because of the strike - had a lot more say in the development of the characters this season - which is big mistake. And while some actors had great instincts, such as Matt Smith and Tom Glynn-Carney. Olivia Cooke chose and championed to play the angry and embittered - Alicent hates all these warmongering men - angle. Several actors spoke up to fix their characters and pushed back against the writing to make their characters better - Tom Glynn-Carney being the golden example. But Olivia Cooke did not, in fact she made Alicent worse.

This is because Cooke relishes in Misandrists power fantasies in which she gets her rocks off belittling and dismissing men. She has made no secret about it, and has run her mouth more than once about it in interviews for not just House of the Dragon but other projects in the past.

There was even a scene that Sara Hess wrote about Alicent dismissing Criston before the dinner 1x08 with a cold and snotty attitude like he was a dog. And it was cut because GRRM and another producer felt that it was incredibly disrespectful to Criston's character and was completely out of character for Alicent to ever treat Criston Cole that way. But Cooke later came out and said that she was really annoyed they cut it and spoke candidly about enjoying treating men that way. She also spent a lot of time in Season 1 at premieres bashing men as a whole, to a nauseating, unfunny, degree.

With that context, and other examples of the like, the assassination of Alicent as a character in Season 2, really starts to take shape. Yes, a lot of it was Sara Hess with Condal's dumb ass never saying no. But a lot of the path leading to Alicent betraying Criston and her sons comes from Olivia Cooke's misandrist bimbo feminism.

Any actor, in their right mind, would immediately push back and argue how dumb and out of nowhere Alicent's betrayal comes from. Any actor would know their character and the source material enough to say "Yeah, there's no way Alicent would do that to her sons, her brother, and the man she's loved since she was 14-years-old". Other actors on this fucking show pushed back and fought to keep uncharacteristic writing from ruining their characters - Tom Glynn-Carney gate kept Aegon fiercely behind the scenes.

The reason that Cooke didn't push back or tried to maintain Alicent's character is because the idea of Alicent betraying her family to join Rhaenyra is something that Cooke wants and agrees with politically. She did it for the ops, not for the character. Cooke got a hard-on at the idea of betraying men to join team girl-boss, "cause Like Girl Power and shit!" and not once did she give a flying fuck about the integrity of the character she was playing. Because, fuck it, she's on team feminism!

Like I said, my issues with Olivia Cooke is not personal, she is a symptom of a narcissistic rot of the profession in general in which actresses no longer play a character but play out wish fulfillment and power fantasies, and if a character is "Problematic" than they change them to suit their personal preferences.

Cooke could and would play a flawless Alicent if she was kept in line by an iron fist of a competent and experienced showrunner and producer that would curb her selfish bad habits and demand a little more professionalism from her.

[queen-of-deans-booty]

The Executioner's Song: Part One

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.6k

Warnings: canon angst and violence, extra angst

Summary: As the newly formed Scarlet Witch, you're not letting anyone get in your way to true power, not even Dean. The power you feel is like no other, and not even Cain is a match for you. Sure is cute to watch him try, though.

Season Ten Masterlist

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. I love seeing any and all comments <3

x

You sit at your small table in the back of the bar sipping on your fourth drink of the morning. The best thing about your condition is you can drink as much as you want whenever you want. You get a slight buzz but nothing like being blackout drunk. The only people left in the bar are the ones who fell asleep in it last night and the day drinkers. There are a few stragglers coming in for a quick bite but it's mostly bar drunks and bad attitude.

There is a couple on the far side of the bar that seems to be in a bit of an argument. The woman came storming in to find her husband or boyfriend or whoever was still at the bar drinking. You can't hear what they're saying but you can't imagine it's good. So glad you're not in her shoes anymore.

A much younger girl is near their table after just coming out of the bathroom. His eyes wander in her direction and you smirk knowingly. He doesn't check the girl out because he knows it'll piss his woman off. So you make him. His eyes shine bright red for a second as you take over his mind from across the bar.

He completely turns and checks the woman out, causing an outcry from his significant other. She hits him in the shoulder and he punches her in the face. Patrons from all around come to her rescue but you're not letting them leave here without a black eye or two. As soon as the first punch is given, a fight breaks out. It doesn't matter if someone has beef with another person or not, they're fighting.

You smirk and continue to sip your drink, soaking in all the chaos you're creating. Having magic again is the best thing to ever happen to you--the kind of magic that is limitless. Chaos magic. And you don't even have to lift a finger to use it. You thrive off chaos; it's what the Mark craves. You're just doing your job and feeding it with negative energy.

You close your eyes and bask in the feeling of pure power. There is nothing that can spoil your good mood.

"Y/N!"

Okay, maybe one thing can. You open your eyes and see Dean harshly pulling you out of your trance. Every patron stops fighting and looks around in confusion.

"Way to ruin a good time," you roll your eyes.

"When you left the Bunker, this isn't what I thought you'd be doing."

"What did you think I'd do? Stay behind with you two losers? I got my magic back, and the last thing I want is to spend it on the likes of you."

"Magic or not, soul or not, you can't go around hurting people like this."

"Or else what?" you challenge.

"Or else Sam and I will hunt you down and kill you just like we do with any monster."

You nod like you're in agreement but you feel quite the opposite of that. You down the rest of your drink and grab the steak knife that's lying on your small napkin. You twirl it once before slamming it down on the back of Dean's hand. He gasps in pain but tries to hide it from everyone else. You grab his collar and pull him close to you.

"That's strike one. I'm going to do whatever I want wherever I want with whoever I want. If you want to try and stop me, then I'm going to remind you just how little you are compared to me. Do not get in my way or I can promise you, you won't like what happens if you do."

You leave cash on the table for your drinks and step away from the table. Dean yanks the knife out of his hand, thankful you didn't hit his bones.

"What about my hand?"

You turn and start walking backward toward the door.

"Get your angel to fix it. I'm sure he's around here somewhere."

The Mark is burning but it's not because of what you did to those people inside the bar or Dean. The one who created you is calling for you. Cain is somewhere around here give or take a few hundred miles and he wants you to find him. The funny thing is, you want to find him so you can kill him. There is so much more you can do with your magic that you couldn't do before, and he's the perfect person to try your new tricks on.

Your magic is pulling you all the way to Texas where Cain was last seen. He took out one of the inmates, Tommy Tolliver, at the state prison, and the guards thought it was weird since all the doors and windows were locked. If you can track where this prison inmate went, you'll find Cain. The guards weren't too happy to see a stranger demanding to be let in but with a simple mind trick, you walked through the front doors with no problem.

You find the warden crouching down in Tommy's cell looking at a drop of blood Cain left behind for you to find.

"Warden Skiff?"

"Who are you?" he asks.

"The woman you're going to comply with. Tell me everything you know about what happened here," you say and flash your eyes red.

"Yeah. Welcome to death row. Have a look. The night Tolliver disappeared, our little ship was running as tight as ever, and I got documentation to prove it."

"Do you stand by what the press is saying about a locked cell, no security breach, and no guard misconduct?"

"Which press? Mainstream media is calling for my head, saying I was grossly incompetent. The tabloids are saying it's magic, that Tommy pulled off some dark miracle to escape."

"Are you saying you believe that?" you ask.

"I'm saying there was some kind of magician on the block last night but it wasn't Tommy."

"Great," someone mutters behind you.

You turn to see Sam and Dean in their Fed suits while you're wearing a dark red shirt, black skinny jeans, a dark leather jacket, and black fingerless gloves. You look nothing like a federal agent, so they're wondering how the hell you got in here in the first place. You look down and see Dean's hand is all healed.

"You two are?" the warden asks.

"Agents Hetfield and Ulrich. We spoke on the phone. I see you've met our other agent."

"He was being very helpful," you smirk.

"Yes, as I was telling her, it may seem like there had been a magician here but it's not the one you might think. Follow me."

The warden walks off first but Dean grabs your elbow to keep you behind so they can scold you.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"The same as you."

"You're here to look into the mysterious disappearance of an inmate?"

"Sure. We'll go with that."

You yank your arm out of Dean's grasp and follow the warden into the surveillance room where the cameras are located. He plays the footage of what happened right before Tommy vanished from his cell.

"This is right before Tolliver vanished."

The camera goes dark before turning back on. Tommy is gone when they turn back on. The Mark is tingling with anticipation because you know exactly who caused this. There is something moving in the darkness, and it's not the Easter Bunny.

"Is that one of the guards?" Sam asks.

"Nope, and I don't know who he is, how he got in, or how he and Tolliver got out."

"Can you zoom in on that?"

Dean can feel it, too. He knows exactly who that is.

"Can and have. It's too dark to make out much of anything."

"Do it." The warden does. "Freeze it and blow it up." He does and Dean stiffens in recognition. "Thank you for your time. We'll be in touch if we need anything else."

They traveled in the Impala while you walked, so you hitched a ride to the nearest pull-off area that just so happened to have a food truck by it. Dean is getting some food and calling someone while Sam looks into why Cain wanted to take Tommy in the first place.

"Damn it, Cas is still not answering," Dean sighs and sits across from Sam with a tray of food.

"Great. I have been looking into Tommy Tolliver, seeing if I can figure out why Cain went to the trouble of springing him. I'm still pretty unclear about it all. I did find this blotter out of Orlando about his dad, Leon Tolliver. Like father, like son. He's a convicted felon, fresh warrant for an assault charge, but he's gone missing and hasn't been seen in a week."

"You think the two are connected?"

"I mean, the police just assumed he fled the warrant, but if Cain took Tommy, it might not be a coincidence."

"What, Cain's got a vendetta against the entire family?"

"Maybe."

Dean's phone rings and he sighs in relief at who is calling.

"It's Cas." He puts him on speakerphone. "Hey, where are you at?"

"Illinois."

"Well, we got a lead. Cain abducted a Texas death row inmate named Tommy Tolliver."

"He's dead."

"How do you know?"

"Call it an educated guess. Cain has been very busy."

"Okay, where are you? We'll come to you," Dean says.

"I'll call you back."

"Well, I don't know about you, but I'm jumping on this ride with you," you say.

"Help me understand something," Dean says. "You flee the Bunker to go to a bar and torment other people only to hitch rides to Texas for an inmate you have no interest in saving?"

"I never cared about Tommy, Dean. I'm surprised you couldn't feel it. Cain is calling us. I'm just following the trail. So, when are we going to leave?"

"Why are you coming with us? You made it perfectly clear you want nothing to do with us."

"I think it's time to meet Daddy again, don't you?"

Both brothers groan in disgust.

"Don't call him that."

"Why? He's hot," you shrug. "We should get going. Illinois is a long drive."

"Cas said he'll call back."

"You trust him to get shit done? What are you able to do in the Bunker that you can't do out here?"

"She has a point," Sam says.

"I know," Dean rolls his eyes in annoyance.

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[feybeasts]

Bit of advice for y’all from someone who learned this all too late.

Learn to be kind when someone commits a minor faux pas. If someone is too forward or makes you uncomfortable or says something that comes off as rude, if they make a mistake or do something that is… wrong but a product of ignorance, not malice, don’t just… drop the hammer on them. People don’t learn that way, and while it’s not your job to educate strangers, sometimes just a gentle correction will well and truly end it then and there.

Online, it feels like we’re all too quick to jump to wanting to destroy people, drive them away from our sight if they wrong us, and while the block button exists for a reason and should be applied judiciously, vindictiveness sets in so often, people get dogpiled, absolutely crushed, and I truly feel we have so little understanding of what that can DO to a person who, genuinely, could have been having a bad day or said something out of ignorance.

I’m not calling for everyone to be all hold-hands-and-sing buddy-buddy, that bird don’t fly, and real, honest malice exists out there, but always being on the defensive, always feeling like if someone slights you, you need to CRUSH them, it… takes a toll.

I spent a lot of my years, even years of recovery, feeling this… deep, hot rage at the back of my mind, always ready to strike out at people who wronged me, to just stamp out a problem before anyone could hurt me again. And you know what that made me?

Angry. Bitter. Tired.

It’s only now, looking back, that I feel like some part of the person I am now is… scorched, almost. Hollowed out by flames and fury, reduced somewhat. I try to be a kinder person, I feel I just don’t get up in arms about little things anymore, but all those years of anger, they took a part of me away that I’ll never get back. An energy, a vigor, something I can’t quite place.

A lot of you are young- you still have time to let go, to find peace within yourselves and to ground yourself in what is real and what you can love. Please- for your own sakes- try to nurture that part of you. Don’t feed the flames if you can help it.

Keep yourself warm, folks. But don’t burn down the person you are.

[rainbow-nerdss]

Definition

Written for @augustwritingchallenge day 25 (Joker Prompt): Role Reversal Buddie, 2.8k Read on AO3

or: 5 times people get Buck's role in Chris's life wrong, and 1 time they set the record straight

1: 

It starts on a night in December, after Buck tagged along with Eddie when he was bringing Chris to see Santa Claus. 

“You two have an adorable son,” the elf says to Buck, after Chris is done, refusing to say what he wished for but laughing when Eddie picks him up and carries him off.

Buck doesn’t correct her. She’s doing her job, and she’s being nice, and there’s no point in making the situation awkward by pointing out the mistake. 

He can’t blame her for making the assumption, either — they’re two adults, together. taking a kid out to see Santa. They’d been sitting pretty close together by the fountain, and Buck knows he’s been looking at Chris like a proud parent even though he’s not one.

It’s like a whiplash, though, going from talking to Eddie about Shannon’s place as Chris’s parent, her place in both of their lives, to someone assuming Buck is the one in that place. It makes him uncomfortable, but at the same time… there’s a longing there, for that to be true someday. Not with Eddie and Chris, but with someone.

He rejoins Eddie and Chris, and he doesn’t tell them, either. But he keeps that little mistake, and the warmth it sparked in his chest, and he holds onto it. 

He doesn’t know why, not for a long time, but that one little sentence sticks with him.

2: 

It’s years later, and Maddie’s just announced her pregnancy to the whole team. Eddie already knows, Buck’s excitement at the news making it impossible for him not to spill. They’re at a barbecue in Bobby and Athena’s back yard, and everyone toasts the happy couple.

Bobby turns to Buck, once the initial round of cheers and congratulations for the parents-to-be. “So you’re gonna be an uncle, huh? How’s it feeling?”

Eddie sips his beer, smiling to himself. Buck’s spoken about anything else since he heard the news, so Eddie’s pretty sure he knows the answer.

“Well, he’s already an uncle, right?” Ravi interrupts. Eddie frowns at him, and Buck looks as confused as he feels. 

“What do you mean?” he asks.

Ravi looks between the two of them. “I mean, not by blood, sure, but like…” He gestures over to Christopher, playing with Denny on the ipad.

Eddie feels himself grimace. Something about it strikes him as wrong. Buck’s an important part of Chris’s life, but uncle? He thinks of his own tíos, how they’d come to visit every now and again, spend most of the time talking to his parents and talking to him just long enough to establish how he was doing in school, and whether or not he had a girlfriend. 

He knows Buck won’t be like that with Maddie’s kid, but it still feels…. different.

Eddie doesn’t know how to respond to it, honestly. "Buck isn’t—that's not..." But what can he say? That's not how it is. That’s not enough to describe Buck’s importance in Chris’s life.

Eddie looks back at Buck, and sees matching confusion on his face. “Chris doesn’t call me his uncle,” he says, as though the idea has never even occurred to him. Eddie smiles at him, and Buck smiles back, and there’s a mutual understanding there.

Buck’s not Chris’s uncle. He’s… Well, he’s something else — something Eddie’s not quite ready to name yet, but there’s a piece of paper in a lawyer’s office to attest to it.

3: 

Chris is not feeling good. His head is spinning, his stomach churning, and he feels both hot and cold at the same time. 

“Your dad will be here soon, okay, honey?” Nurse Rodriguez tells him, after hanging up the phone. “You just sit tight and let me know if anything changes.”

He’s in the nurse’s office, staring bleary-eyed at the linoleum floor. The pattern swims around as his vision blurs, and he hugs the little basin Nurse Rodriguez had given him close, feeling more like he was gonna need it with every passing second.

“I’m here for Christopher Diaz?” 

He hears a familiar voice outside the room, and it makes him relax, just knowing he’ll be home soon, able to curl up in bed or on the couch, watch TV and be taken care of.

“Mr. Diaz!” Nurse Rodriguez says, in her overly-friendly voice, and Chris laughs, lurching his stomach and making him feel so much worse.

“Uh, I’m not… I’m Buck—Evan Buckley, I mean, I should be…?”

Nurse Rodriguez backtracks, apologizing. “Oh! I am so sorry, Mr. Buckley, I see you on the emergency contact list. If you’d just sign here?”

Chris loses track of the conversation outside, focusing instead on his breathing until Nurse Rodriguez comes back in and escorts him out to Buck. Buck wraps an arm around him and helps him out to the car, then sets him up with blankets and a bucket on the couch, and serves up chicken noodle soup when Chris is able to stomach food.

He lets Chris curl into his side to take a nap, warm and comfortable, like he’s a little kid again, and he stays there even after Chris goes to bed, even after his dad gets home and comes in to check on him.

4:

Buck knocks on Hen's door, and is immediately met with an armful of sleepy infant as she passes the baby over to him. He takes it in stride, adjusting her in his arms so she's comfortable and following Hen inside. 

"Everything okay?" He asks, once they're in the kitchen, surrounded by dirty mixing bowls and flour dusting every surface.

"There's a bake sale at the school tomorrow, and someone forgot to mention it until about an hour ago." She raises her voice on the word someone, pointedly glaring out to where Denny is doing his homework in the next room.

"I said I was sorry!" Denny calls back, and Hen grumbles but Buck can see there's no real resentment there.

"That's rough," Buck commiserates. "I take it we're not going to see that movie tonight, then?"

Hen shakes her head. "Sorry, man. I gotta take care of this. I do not trust Karen with baking supplies." Hen makes a face. "Granted, I'm also not spectacular at it but…"

Buck laughs. "I can help out," he offers. "I've got a great recipe for cupcakes?"

Hen makes a face. "Are you sure? You wouldn't know it, Buck, but those PTA moms are so picky about what you bring and whether it's good enough for their precious little babies—"

Buck snorts, gently settling the baby in her rocker. She fusses a little, but calms down after a moment or two. He gets the recipe up on his phone. "Oh, trust me—I know."

Hen looks confused, so he elaborates with an amused smile. "What, you think Eddie Diaz does all that stuff? I'll never forget the look on Carter's mom's face when my cookies outsold hers at the last bake sale at Chris's school." Buck chuckles to himself, then starts gathering ingredients. 

"Huh, I'm sorry. I guess I just assumed—I mean, he's got his aunt, and Carla…" Hen trails off with a shrug and falls into place next to Buck, reading the recipe and pointing him to the right cupboards to find what he needs.

"They do some, when we've got work or something, but…" Buck falters. He wants to say something like "That's different," or "They're not his parents," but... neither is Buck, is he? He remembers the elf from all those years ago, how he hadn't corrected her. The feeling of wanting that. 

At the time, he’d thought the want was just for a family of his own, a partner, a kid. Now, though… those lines aren’t as clear anymore.

"I like to help out," is all he says, and then switches on the mixer, effectively shutting off conversation.

5: 

Eddie's had a few drinks. Buck's at work, and Chris has been coerced into going with Pepa to visit Eddie's parents for the weekend. Eddie had been supposed to go too, but he doesn't feel too guilty about playing up his injuries as an excuse not to join them. He did feel slightly bad that his parents hadn't let them off the hook entirely, insisting on taking Chris off his hands.

Chris had dragged his feet about it, but Eddie knows he's stubborn enough to stay behind if he really wants to — he likes getting to see his older cousins, and while he doesn’t want to live with them, he does like visiting his grandparents, too — if only because they spoil him rotten.

Buck hadn't wanted to leave Eddie alone tonight, not after he'd been injured on the bridge — no more than a dislocated shoulder and a few bruised ribs in the end, nothing compared to Chimney, to Bobby even Hen, but it was enough to get him signed off work for a fortnight. Things had been sketchy for a few minutes there, and for a moment, Eddie had feared… but then there was Buck, opening the doors, pulling him out by one arm.

It hurts like a bitch, but he's fine. Still, when Buck insisted on calling in Carla to keep him company tonight, Eddie didn't point out that was exactly what Buck had been so against Maddie doing for him after the lightning. He doesn't mind the company, especially since he hates being home alone at night.

Besides, Carla doesn't treat him like an invalid. She brings a bottle of some fruity gin, and Eddie orders from the nice Thai place, and they just hang out, catching up on all of the grown-up stuff they rarely get to talk about when they’re busy discussing Chris.

Still, they're halfway through the gin when Carla brings it up. "Buck said he was scared he lost you for a second there."

Eddie shrugs, then winces. He's not sure how much of the wince is because it tugged at his shoulder, and how much is the reminder. "Honestly, for a second, I was worried too. But Buck got me out." Like he always does, Eddie doesn't say. He'd come so close to telling Buck, then. Telling him everything, how he felt for him.

"You know, this house is weird without Chris in it," Carla slurs her words, just as tipsy as he is.. For a moment, Eddie thinks the subject has been changed, until she continues. "If anything does happen to you, there's no way in hell I'm letting your parents drag Chris to Texas for good. I'm gonna fight to keep that boy here, and I know Buck'll do the same."

Eddie laughs, realizing that he hadn't told her about his will. He hadn't told anyone, really, other than Pepa, Abuela and Buck. He'd known at the time it was a big deal, that people might get the wrong impression if he told them.

Turns out, it would have been the right impression after all.

"That won't be necessary," he tells her, after draining his glass.

"I know, I know — you're fine, you aren't going anywhere anytime soon."

"No, that's —well, yes, that too, but also—" Eddie gets up, gestures for her glass too, then pours them both a fresh drink. "My folks wouldn't get Chris, if anything happens. I have a will, so…" he shrugs, sitting back down and sliding Carla's glass over. "Buck's gonna look after him. If I can't anymore. Prob'ly still have to fight, but it's on paper, it's… official."

Carla hums, watching him carefully. "And Buck knows this?" she asks.

Eddie nods. "Told him after… after the shooting."

The last time Buck took Eddie’s hand, pulling him from danger, dragging him to safety.

Carla sighs, shaking her head. She looks at him like she's seeing something new, like this is the last piece in a puzzle she's been working on for years. "Why haven't either of you made a move yet?"

Eddie chokes on his drink, and she pushes a dishcloth across the table for him to mop himself up. Once he's composed himself, he meets her eye.

"Honestly?" He asks. "I can't speak for Buck, but… I'm sort of starting to wonder the same thing."

+1:

Chris is honestly tired of everyone making assumptions about Buck's place in his life. It's been clear to Chris himself for a long time—probably longer than Buck himself has known. The problem is, they've never said it out loud.

That's going to change today.

A month ago, Chris got home from Texas to find his dad and Buck making out in the kitchen.

He'd run to wash out his eyes, but then they say him down,  and the three of them had talked it out together, and he's happy for them. Happy they’ve finally started being honest with themselves, with him, and with each other.

And now, it's Christopher's turn to do the same.

He's not as good as Buck at making pancakes, but he can do French toast pretty well, so he makes enough for the three of them and sets it on the table. It's a little overcooked, but he doesn't think they'll mind. 

Then he knocks on their bedroom door—because Buck may still be paying rent on his apartment for now, but he basically lives with them already. Chris likes that, likes having Buck around even more than before.

He disappears back to the kitchen before they can get to the door, calling them down when he hears Buck ask after him in a sleepy voice.

"Oh my god," his dad says, taking in the sight of the food on the table when both of them shuffle in. "This is… you made this yourself?"

"It's Father's Day, dad. I wanted to treat you."

Chris accepts the tearful hug with only minimal complaints, part of the gift.

Once they're both seated, he goes back to his room, returning with the real present.

"Carla helped with these," he explains, suddenly nervous. "I designed them, and then she sent them off to be made with the money from my allowance, um…"

Chris hands over the one on top first, putting it in front of his dad. Buck chews on his French toast, eyeing the package curiously while Eddie opens it.

Inside is a plaque, printed to look like a dictionary entry. It's cheesy as hell, but if Chris knows his dad, he'll eat it up. 

It reads:

Dad (n): a firefighter with a terrible sense of humor, someone who drinks too much coffee and spends too much time on his hair. See also: Father

Just as Chris predicted, Eddie's eyes grow wet, and he reaches out for another hug, which Chris indulges again.

"What's the other one?" Buck asks.

Chris takes a deep breath. This is it, he tells himself, and he hands the second package to Buck.

Buck looks at it, then up at Chris in confusion, waiting for him to nod before opening it with slow, careful movements — it's so unlike Buck, who always tears into the wrapping paper on his birthday presents, that Chris almost wants to laugh. He doesn't, though. This is serious, after all.

Buck stares down at the plaque, the same style as the first, with a different message.

This one reads:

Buck (n): A firefighter with a terrible sense of humor, the maker of the best pancakes, someone who knows way too many random facts. See also: Father.

"Chris…" Buck's voice is soft, and he looks to be at a loss for words, so Chris speaks instead. He practiced what he’s going to say here, to make his meaning absolutely clear.

"I know I only ever call you Buck," he says, "but that's just because calling both of you dad would be confusing, and pops is Bobby." Chris laughs, thinking of the time he'd spent on his own in his room, thinking of different words for dad he could call Buck, none of them fitting until he realized why. "But… Buck means the same thing as those other names to me, and it has ever since the pier. Since you saved me. You're my Buck. And I'm your son."

Chris is bright red by the end of his speech, he doesn't think he's said that much uninterrupted to his parents in a long time, and they're both just… staring at him.

Chris initiates the hug this time, throwing himself into Buck's arms. Later, he'll claim it was just so he didn't have to see the sappy looks on their faces, but he buries his face in Buck's shoulder, feels Buck's arms around his back, and he knows without a doubt that he's safe there.

His dad joins the hug too after a moment, sandwiching Chris in the middle in a way that should be uncomfortable, but Chris smiles to himself anyway.

The two plaques hang side by side on the wall of the living room, for everyone who visits to see, clearing up any and all confusion in the matter.

Buck is Christopher's dad, nothing more, and nothing less.

[nohoney]

us series! reader who rolls over to touya in bed to ask for morning sex but he pushes you to keigo instead to get the job done

warnings: smut, a lil bit of praise and lil bit of degradation, brief choking, just the teeniest hint of fluff if you squint your eyes

Touya can vaguely recall your little whiny voice when you rolled over to him while it was still early in the morning. He knows that you were snuggling up to him and pressing little kisses to his cheek, whispering something lowly that he couldn’t quite comprehend in his still sleepy mind. All he felt was your hand on his thigh before it started feeling up his morning wood. And normally he’d be for it but this morning he’s not in the mood. It feels like it’s too early because there isn’t even any sun coming through the curtains yet.

He pushes your hand off and just mutters, “Fuck Kei instead, baby.”

There was a little huff from you but no complaint any further than that.

How exactly how much time passed, he doesn’t remember. Just only that he could hear you whining lowly at one point. At first it sounded a little suppressed but gradually became just a bit louder, coupled with dreamy sighs from you and muffled groans as well.

When Touya opens his eyes, he’s laying on his side to the sight of you sitting on Keigo’s face.

Sleepy eyes take in the sight of you, one of Keigo’s hands leisurely resting on your thigh while the other cups your breast. You’re leaning back slightly, rolling your hips and moaning softly as you’re eaten out. Seems like you’re pretty lost in how good you feel and Touya can’t say he’s that much surprised; Keigo is quite the munch. Touya just enjoys what he sees quietly at first, the sleepiness slowly leaving him and his cock getting hard underneath his pajama pants. He’s rested quite comfortably on his favorite pillow as he watches his favorite people just enjoy themselves.

Your head falls back and the dreamiest sigh parts from your lips. One of your hands comes to hold Keigo’s in such an intimate way that fascinates Touya. He gazes more at how your hand fits so cutely against Keigo’s before it moves to start petting at your own clit. It’s sweet how your head lolls and when your eyes open, you and him lock eyes together. “Mornin’… g’morning…”

“Good morning doll.” Touya mumbles, sitting up and stretching his back first. The stretch feels good in his spine and it feels like a good way to start off his morning. He has to greet you with a morning kiss first though. Above all else, morning kisses should always be one of the first things to do upon waking up. Your gaze follows as he stands on his knees, delicately sliding a hand on the nape of your neck and firmly kisses you.

He doesn’t linger though and pulls back to look down at Keigo.

“Look at you… pussy drunk in the morning.” Touya chuckles and Keigo barely responds with a groan. His eyes are drawn down to the tent in his underwear, straining against the fabric. Knowing how he is, Keigo can cum from just eating you out alone but he’s not interested in watching that this morning. “C’mon, the two of you get to fucking already. I wanna watch.”

He lays back in his spot on the bed to make himself comfortable. You almost seem reluctant to get off Keigo’s face but you listen to Touya regardless. Your slick is wiped off the back of Keigo’s hand and he helps in taking off his own underwear before it’s tossed away somewhere on the floor. And Touya watches, he watches how that pretty cunt of yours sinks down onto your blond boyfriend’s cock and a small gasp is let out. There’s a small whisper of a curse as you seem to tease him, not quite taking him all the way as if you’re being coy.

Touya is quick to swat his hand at your ass and tuts, “I said get to fucking.”

You whine from the strike but you don’t disobey. You slam your pussy down onto Keigo’s cock and a strangled whisper of ‘baby’ leaves his lips. The two of you are in sync with one another, you meet Keigo’s thrusts as you bounce down onto him. Touya can hear the wet pat pat pat sounds every time your skin slaps against each other. You’re cumming on his dick so easily this morning, he can just tell. You cum a little more easily in the mornings and when you cum fast, sometimes Keigo does too. And yet when he watches and observes a little further, he doesn’t see the usual scrunch of Keigo’s face when he’s trying to hold back from cumming.

He looks about as leisurely as you do and he realizes-

“You two already fucked.”

You pause on bouncing on Keigo’s cock, catching your breath but lazily circling your hips. The two of you lace hands together and look to Touya. “Yeah,” you confirm, “already did.”

“When?”

“I dunno… like at two or three in the morning?” Keigo casually answers, “Just went to the couch so we wouldn’t bug you.”

Touya nonchalantly hums but doesn’t have any further comment. He just nods his head as a signal for you and Keigo to keep going. So he watches fondly from his spot, his dick swelling in his pants but choosing not to touch himself. His heart thrums in his chest to see engrossed in morning sex. Keigo probably stuffed you full earlier and his dick jumps at the thought of how it was probably easy to slide right onto Keigo’s cock for a second time this morning. Touya just fucking loves how you get fucked open first before he gets his turn.

Fucking you while you were tight first was always fun but Touya just loves the feeling of fucking you after Keigo has had his turn.

You’re about to drop down your body on top of Keigo, probably whine into his neck and tell him to get on top or something. But he stops you with a call of your name to ask, “Did you ride Kei earlier?” You answer with a shake of your head and a tiny little no. “Then you put in the work, keep riding his dick until he cums.”

Even though you let out a petulant whine, you adhere to Touya’s command. You follow and listen like the good girl he praises you to be and your head swims in the praise when Keigo adds in his own sweet words too. Keep going, keep going baby. You’re a good girl, fuck yourself until you—oh baby you’re cumming? You are so sweet, that’s all you need to hear and you just fall apart huh?

It’s the way you start to get so desperate that’s the best part of watching. You want to hear more, you try to earn more sweet words because you adore the praise. But just right on the other side of loving praise is also—

Oh you’re tired? Be a good little slut, come the fuck on! You’re slowing down, no one said to slow down… oh are you gonna cry? No fucking complaints or you get nothing, understand?

And it leaves you almost dizzy and it’s what Touya enjoys too. When you’re in that subspace and all you can do is feel and hear everything that only involves them. No thoughts, only just that instinct in your head to keep reaching that peak of pleasure that they are in charge of. And when Touya looks over to Keigo, now he’s looks desperate too and he fights the urge to fuck his hips up into you. “Keep going, songbird! Fuck—I’m almost there! Fuck fuck fuck, I’m gonna fucking cum!”

That’s when Touya sits up too fast for you to react and reaches his hand out to you. You gasp in surprise when his hand comes at your throat to choke you. And when he does, you cum hard. The smallest little wheeze exits your lips and you look so lovesick as you cum around Keigo who in turn cums for a second time in the morning. He groans, his eyes watching the intimate display of affection that is Touya keeping his gaze as you brain goes stupid from an orgasm. You wait patiently to for Touya’s hand to relax, your eyes shining with affection as you revel in the way Keigo’s cock twitches in you.

“Lift your hips up, let his cock slip out of you.”

His hand drops from your throat and he watches how fucking obscene it is when Keigo’s cock smacks against his stomach when you lift yourself off him. His dick is covered in your cream and when he left you, your pussy drools with all of the cum that he had just spent inside you. And Touya doesn’t believe in waste so he gathers it on his fingers, fingers ghosting over Keigo’s sensitive dick that makes both of the boys groan, and he gently pushes two fingers inside you.

It’s so warm inside you and his fingers slid inside so easily. Touya curls them a little and you whine his name. Slowly you’re coming down from the high and you regain yourself again. And when he pulls out, his fingers are glossy from cum, both yours and Keigo’s. It’s so delicate and gossamer as he stares at the proof of your ecstasy. He holds out one finger for you to taste and you lick it clean.

And then he has his turn with the other, humming at the taste of you and Keigo together.

“Good girl.” Touya gifts you with your favorite words that makes you swoon. You fall into Keigo’s arms to catch your breath, cuddling close to him and muttering thank you against his collarbone. He knows that the thank you was for both of them.

[blowflyfag]

WORLD WRESTLING ENTERTAINMENT/FEDERATION MAGAZINE: OCTOBER 2011

THE CULT OF CM PUNK

“All it took for The Straight Edge Superstar to turn the world upside-down and ignite the WWE Universe was one microphone. HEre we’ve given the “Voice of the Voiceless” another soapbox to explore his many issues with WWE management, his epic match at WWE Money In The Bank, his fellow Superstars who deserve a better shot, and what, if anything, is going to change now that he’ back for good. 

By JOHN MIHALY PHOTOGRAPHY BY PER BERNAL, DIGITAL IMAGING BY ERIC HEINTZ

[The Second City Saint reveals his cult of personality, and shows off his new T-shirt and WWE Championship during his unexpected return to WWE a week after leaving with the title (Raw, 7/25/11).]

In your estimation, what do you feel is wrong with WWE right now, and what would you do to change it?

What’s wrong with WWE right now is that there isn’t enough youth. Most of the ideas are old. They worked in The Attitude Era or in the ‘80s-and I'm not necessarily saying that they’re bad or they’re wrong-but they need updating, they need tweaking. There needs to be some young minds spinning the webs, so to speak. I’m sick of seeing people who are excellent wrestlers get passed over for people who have abs or who were good-string linemen in a European football league. I think there are a lot of people who, on their own terms, have made their own personas and perfected their craft simply out of love for what they do. They’re not trying to be bodybuilders or football players who fail miserably and then call their uncle or their dad and say, “Hey, I’ll give that wrestling thing a shot because I suck at everything else.”

Why do you think it’s such a strike against guys who-like yourself-are fans but aren't from a sports or bodybuilding background?

Now, this is complete speculation. I can't even tell you what somebody else is thinking. I can only say what I think works. And I'm not going to be right 100 percent of the time just like they're not going to be. Somewhere along the way I think we lost the Midas touch. This whole thing became uncool. I think people who love it aren’t going to go do something else  if they get fired. Like Colt Cabana. He’s a perfect example. He is a wrestler. If he gets hired and it doesn’t work out, he’s wrestling somewhere else the next day. He’s not trying to shoehorn himself into an accounting job. He’s a wrestler. He’s always going to be here. So I just think if you love wresting sometimes-maybe-you’re punished. You’re placed last in line. The attitude is: You’re always going to be here,  maybe we can use you later if we need you, but right now we’re going to use this guy because he was good at college football, and he didn’t quite make it in the NFL.

Another one of your gripes is how the WWE Championship looks. How would you redesign the title? What is the definitive look of that particular championship for you?

Oh god. How long is this interview? Honestly, I think old Dwayne used to have a cute little blue cow on his title or something. Then, of course, Stone Cold had the Smoking Skull title. I don't know. I think I could Straight Edge the hell out of that thing. A couple of “X”’s might make it look good. Make it look like a title should look like, and not make it look like some sort of weird, rapper bling. I feel the definitive look, though, is what I like to call “Bret Hart’s Title.” I think everyone likes to call it the “Winged Eagle Title.”That’s a little bit redundant. I’m pretty sure most eagles have wings. That’s the one that always sticks out in my mind.

This anger with your job has been festering for a while. Was there one moment backstage when you felt that you’d had enough?

I can name one off the top of my head. How about main-eventing a pay-per-view as the World Heavyweight Champion against Undertaker and then, a few months later, being in a dark match against R-Truth at WWE TLC? That’s pretty ignorant in my mind. This is the problem. We do this too many times to too many of the Superstars. It’s a start-stop kind of thing. The company likes to spotlight certain people. Like, “This week, Kofi’s cool,” and then, the next week, “We changed our minds-we like Dolph this week.” It flip-flops back and forth ad nauseam, and the next thing you know, the people couldn’t give a crap about either guy.

When did the powers that be really begin to take your leaving WWE seriously?

I told them probably a year out. They would say, “Hey, how about we talk about your contract?” And I would just say, “No, I don’t really feel like it.” And they would say, “Ok, back off. Punk’s crabby and temperamental.” We’ll get him next week.” And the next week it would be, “Hey let’s talk about it.” And then maybe eight or 10 months out, it was, “Hey, I really want to sit down. We really need to sign you a new deal.” And that’s when I straight up said, “No, I’m not interested.”

[CM Punk perches on the top rope to hear out The Chairman’s final contract offer (Raw, 7/11/11).]

Take us back to your title match at WWE Money In The Bank. What did you do differently that day knowing that could have been your last day on the job?

I don’t think I did anything different that day. I’m a man of my word. I wasn’t going to skip out on my contract earlier. I was going to let it run out. These to do, and I was going to let it run out. These are the terms. I agreed to and the dates I agreed to do, and I was definitely going to finish up. But I think I talked so much about everything and everybody that all eyes were on me and it created a high-pressure situation. Thankfully, I thrive very well in those situations. I’d say I pulled it off. All this stuff i talk about, about ebony the best in the world, I certainly proved it that night. The match went near the 35-minute mark But i wrestled for 93 minutes one time back in 2002 or 2003 in a Two-Out-Of-Three Falls Match.

You mentioned on the Bill Simmons B.S. Report podcast that you had made the decision to come back and resign at WWE Money In The Bank. Do you think your decision was at all clouded a little bit too much by all the emotion going on that day?

I can definitely put it aside. I can be a robot if I need to be. Resigning was something that was on my mind day -in and day-out whether I was at the gym or sleeping. I was dreaming about it, I was really trying to figure out what was the best decision for the company as a whole. I love what we do. I ‘m not going to get along with everybody I work with. I’m certainly not going to agree with everything all the time, But at the end of the day, I want everybody’s voice to be heard. I want this place to succeed. So I had to weigh my options. 

[The conquering hometown hero wins his first WWE Championship (To add to his three World Heavyweight Titles) at WWE Money In The Bank (7/17/11).]

They say  a man’s refrigerator is a window into his soul. When you Tweeted a photo of the WWE Championship inside your fridge the night you won, we couldn’t help but notice that there was a jar of peanut butter in there. Isn’t peanut butter meant to be stored at room temperature?

Is it? Why? I'm not saying we have to end the interview now, but here’s a good wrap-up for you: WWE has stored their peanut butter at room temperature for over 30 years; I'm putting it in the refrigerator now. It’s time for a damn change. I don’t eat my peanut butter like everybody else, I suppose. I don’t spread it on anything, because I try to stay away from bread and all that, so if I’m eating peanut butter, i take a spoonful of it, and i eat it like ice cream. It tastes better a little frozen. 

Another thing we noticed is that you used the “W” word a lot in your tirades these last weeks. How much do you dislike saying “sports-entertainment”?

I don’t hate it as much as you would think, but I really do think it’s ridiculous when you’re not allowed to say “wrestling.” At the end of the day, that’s what goes on in that ring. That ring is our stage. What we do on that stage is we wrestle. I’m not playing grab-ass. I’m out there fighting to win. Wins and losses mean something. Wrestling happens to be damn entertaining.

So is it weird to call yourself a “Superstar” as opposed to a wrestler?

I don’t think it’s weird. I think we’re all Superstars. Absolutely. I don’t think there’s anybody else who can be called that. Would you call Brad Pitt a Superstar? Do I think Brad Pitt can do what we do? Absolutely not! Brad Pitt gets scripts and lines to study months ahead of time and he has a very controlled setting in which he looks the best he possibly can. He has makeup on, there’s lighting, there’s people doing the sound and everything. We go out there on live TV every Monday night and kill it. That’s where the entertainment part comes in. It’s more entertaining than a Brad Pitt movie. There are no retakes, you know? There’s no Take 1, Take 2–”I screwed that up, let me do it again.” IF we screw up, we screw up. That’s the entertaining part. 

Entertaining was your baseball analogy equating John Cena to the Yankees-which caused him to punch you. But let’s follow that analogy a bit further. Earlier this century, your Chicago Cubs and the Boston Red Sox were quite similar. Then the Red Sox were quite the equivalent of baseball’s nouveau riche, effectively placing that franchise and fan base in line with the Yankees. Won’t the same thing happen to the Cubs when they win? And what about you? If you continue to win, wont you in turn become what you hate?

Possibly. We’ll have to wait and see. Is the same thing going to happen to me? It’s quite possible. That’s life, though. I really think it depends on the person. Am I going to change? Absolutely not. I'm not changing anything. Will the WWE Universe maybe get sick of me? I think the people get sick of anything if it's shoved down their throat. I think free-thinking people like variety, and they like change. There’s no reason why multiple people can’t be marketed correctly and in everybody’s face constantly so there’s a choice. 

[Punk ruffles the feathers (and tie) of new COO Triple H (Raw, 8/1/11), and hopes for a retro design akin to, in his words, “Bret Hart’s Title” (above left).]

One thing you did change is your entrance music, to Living Colour’s “Cult of Personality.” Did you consider anything else?

No, that was the one. It was a throwback to my Indie days, but it also just fit. I have tremendous guts, I’d like to say, and it was just a gut feeling that this was the right thing to do, to change my music now. Did I like my old song? Absolutely. Was it recognizable? Sure, I had it for five years. Was it time for a change? Was it a risky thing? Yes and yes. But ultimately, I think it was the right move. I haven't been able to get the song out of my head since last Monday. It’s a song that came out in 1989, when I was on my little league team, and now it just jumped into the iTunes Top 200. That’s powerful. That should speak volumes to the WWE management. They should say, “Holy crap, this kid has the power to do something like that. Let’s see what else he can do.”

What’s really different now that you’re back? What are we going to see that’s not status quo?

I don’t want to ruin any surprises, but i will tell you that when the Ramones were voted into the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame. This is, after all, the establishment that shunned the entire band for its entire career, and he wanted nothing to do with it. He was extremely adamant that, “No, you don’t get the privilege of having the Ramones in your little club.” My good friend, Lars Frederickson [of the band Rancid], got on the phone and said, “Marky, listen to me. You almost have responsibility to the underground to accept this award and be in the Hall of Fame to show that you are as big as the Beatles, you’re as good as Led Zeppelin, all these mainstream bands that the Ramones maybe never got credit on the same level as.” And that’s kind of how I feel about WWE right now. I’m a guy who, for all intents and purposes, never should have even made it to WWE. Then I had roadblock after roadblock thrown in my way. Not only did I get past those roadblock thrown in my way. Not only did I get past those roadblocks, I did it while flipping off the people who put up those roadblocks. I feel I have a responsibility to the younger wrestlers on the roster, the ones that aren't signed yet, and the future of wrestling as a whole, to help make this place better, and to change this place. I certainly can't change it by sitting on my couch in Chicago.

[chigirisprincess]

Good Luck Babe! - Chapter 2: Your Best Laid Plans.

— Aizawa Shōta

⊹ Details. 18+ minors dni, fem!reader (she/her pronouns used to refer to reader), sfw, reader has anxiety, mentions of past situationships ;), reader has lore, plot building, teacher talk. ⊹ Run time. 4.0k ⊹ Note. This is mostly plot progression, next chapter will be make exciting! Enjoy :3

❝Unpacking isn't always easy, at least the U.A dorms were nice.❞

previous part || masterlist || next part

The U.A dormitories were infinitely nicer than your university accommodations. The realisation strikes you before you’ve made your way across the green expanse of the newly built quad. It bristles your feathers and adds yet another reason why privately funded academies were far from your wheelhouse of experience. The Miyagi University of Education was a fine school, it had a small number of students which meant one on one time with their professors, and was built in the late 19th century making the campus as picturesque as a university could be. Sure, the accommodations were a bit dated especially in comparison to a brand new, state of the art building, but you couldn’t complain. Your university years were enjoyable, you wouldn’t trade those memories for anything.

And, Sendai was a lovely city. Costal, filled with enough greenery to never make you miss the quaint rural town you were raised in. There were a plethora of museums and cultural sites that kept you busy and when your close friend worked as an apprentice curator, affordable year round passes were suddenly far more accessible.

Friend, almost boyfriend. Situationship. You chuckle to yourself with a shake of your head. Almost something, almost, nothing. It was maddening when you were stuck within the pit, uncertainty wearing at you. Now, it just seemed silly. 

The lines were still blurred on where exactly your relationship stood. Not that the semantics mattered much when you moved nearly four hours away to a new city, with new people, and a new job. You hadn’t seen him in two months, not since you moved into Musutafu for work and he refused to answer any text messages you’d sent. Not that you cared, that chapter of your life was firmly shut and left in the past– in Sendai– and he was still a close friend, at least that’s what you liked to believe, and would until he said otherwise. Not that he would say otherwise. Still, he was a good friend to have even if he didn’t see you as a friend, or was pissy that you never made a move to clearly define what you were. It’s not like he did either.

Almost, he was an almost. 

You had a lot of those in your history books. Paramours who weren’t quite lovers but you could hardly call them a friend. Always feeling too attached to simply name them as a friend. Women who’s friendship was so intense you couldn’t call it anything other than something akin to love. An almost something that you were scared to commit to. Your heart locked firmly behind the fortress of your rib cage when you wished it could be freely given.

You think that’s why you took this job.

Aside from the clear résumé booster this would be, the pay, and the perks, and the fact that you’d be stupid not to take the job, it was a far leap from your comfort zone. Sendai was the safe choice for university, it was only an hour train ride from your family’s home, a handful of upperclassmen had already been in attendance and offered to shepherd you into this new era. Most weekends were spent back at home until you made a few friends. Even those came with a caveat and a safety net. Mister situationship with the spiky blonde hair and glasses was your lab partner and subsequently became the gateway to the group of friends you'd made. You didn’t dare to branch out on your own, beyond them.

You took the easy way out. If asked you’d say that made you sensible. Your elementary school teachers would agree. They all thought you to be well beyond your years, an old soul trapped behind a pair of chubby cheeks. Never one to act out or step beyond your comfort zone. Your assignments were predictably perfect and drawn directly from your wheelhouse of interests. Your arguments were well polished and you possessed an arsenal of peer reviewed resources that you shuffled around based on your topic of choice.

As a child the adults in your life fussed over you, shirking their misplaced dreams on your frail shoulders. A little leader in your own right, keeping your stuffed animals and friends in line. They told you that you’d make a great teacher, your voice was gentle and your touch was always soft. That or a mother. As if it were the middle ages and that’s all you could amount to.

But, you were predictable. 

You stayed the course they mapped out for you. Too scared for anything bigger. The figs that branched out beyond you had long since rotted and died, taking with it, whatever other paths and aspirations you might’ve filled your life with. 

And, in some fruitless attempt to extend beyond their expectations, you left home and took this job. In most lights it still existed within the realm of your comfort zone but in some it pushed you.

You decided, your one saving grace of the day was that you packed lightly and still managed to scarcely fill out your apartment. Though it may not have been half as fancy as the U.A accommodations, you learned from your university dorm that you probably didn’t need as much as you thought you did. Clearing out your apartment took an hour and the commute back to U.A only about thirty minutes. Foot traffic was much lighter now that the morning rush had subsided. It helped that you’d spent the last two months living out of your suitcase. The apartment was temporary, a placeholder until you found something closer to the school. Though you stupidly never thought to consider that you’d be expected to reside on campus grounds.

Perhaps you were a child like Aizawa accused. Your brain gnawed on his words, playing them on loop until it accepted it as fact. Wearing boots too big for your feet, your naivety glaring. Obvious to everyone but you. 

It was an easy fix. Pessimism was your middle name, though, you preferred to call it realistic. You would wise up in no time. Gather your bearings, plant your roots, and never stumble over the shock of the unknown again. Prove to them, to you, to anyone else who thought to question you, that you were meant to be here. Then, maybe you wouldn’t feel so sick with insecurity even as you tossed your things into your new lodgings.

Shōta stands with his back pressed against the wall outside of class 1-A when Yamada pops out of the classroom. Kayama would be there soon for modern hero art history, Shōta decided then that he’d prefer to keep whatever schemes Nezu was cooking up to himself. He scoffs to himself as he replays the conversation he has with you.

Concerned.

The ministry of education was concerned? Now? Of course they were. Shōta wasn’t stupid, he saw the uptick of distrust growing between the general public and the ministry– it went hand in hand with the near constant criticism that floated across the gaggle of paparazzi that sat outside the school gates everyday. They questioned the ethics behind U.A as an institute, wrote think pieces and created conspiracy theories to work out every move they made as if to catch the school in some lie. It was as exhausting as it was hypocritical. Shōta laughed at the mere thought. The general public had no problem fawning over his class during the sports festival, marvelling at just how powerful they had to be to stand against the League of Villains all on their own.

But sure, now there was a problem. It was serious now that a student had been kidnapped.

Stuffing his hand into his pocket, Shōta grabs the small plastic bottle of eye drops he keeps handy. His eyes sting with irritation, if that was even possible. His unkempt bangs slide away from his forehead when he tilts his head back, widening his eyes for a few drops of temporary relief.

“Hey” Hizashi calls, popping his head out of the classroom door, “Who was that you were talking to? Your students sure had a lot of questions but I didn’t have many answers”

“Irrelevant,” Shōta snips.

“Hm?”

There’s a stack of workbooks tucked in the crook of his elbow, the covers worn and the colours faded. The class must have finished their latest grammar unit. He tilts his head down, his bright orange glasses slip down the slope of his nose to reveal his inquisitive yellow eyes. He peers at Shōta with interest.

“I said, she’s irrelevant,” he repeats, with a frown, “At least to you.”

Hizashi chortles, “Oh? So what, only you get a special little helper?” he quips, with a smile, “Iida said she introduced herself to the class and Nezu was with her, it seemed like she was supposed to be there.”

Shōta hums, pushing off from the wall and away from his classroom, “Seems to me you’re pretty well informed already, Mic.”

“Eh, not anymore than your students.”

His laughter bounces down the hall as he bounds after Shōta, only pausing to adjust the stack of workbooks under his arm.

“C’mon, Shōta, spill!” He says, throwing his free arm over his shoulder, “No one’s losing their job are they?”

The teasing lilt dies quickly, “Right?” Hizashi asks, concern drips from his tongue. Concern for Shōta. He’s getting sick of it.

“She’s from the ministry of ed,” Shōta huffs.

There’d been concern after Bakugō had been kidnapped. Selfish ones. Some worried their positions were up for debate, others wondered if alumni and sponsors would pull funding. Of course, there was always the concern for bad publicity. This entire school year was bad for publicity. Not that it mattered. Bored, nameless nobodies on internet forums always had something to criticise even when the academic year was perfect, when U.A graduates continually climbed the ranks, opened their own agencies, and continued to keep Japan safe. Whatever concern they had now was purely bureaucratic to save their own skin.

“Oh?” Hizashi raises an eyebrow.

They share a look, “Apparently they’ve begun to worry,” he explains, thinking back to what you said. How much did you believe in the lines you’d been fed? Did you create them?

No. You seemed earnest, young enough that your naïvity was genuine and you were likely just a piece for them to move about the board as they saw fit. You couldn’t be complicit in whatever cover up scheme Nezu had allowed into the building. Your flighty, nervous demeanour told him as much. He was worried he might burst into tears if his voice dared to sharpen any further. The way you wilted like a sad, delicate flower beneath the uncomfortable heat of the sun reminded him of a few past students. The ones he expelled for being too soft and too thoughtful. The ones who weren’t cut from the right cloth, they’d never be able to hack it as a hero without that reckless drive most had. 

You were like them but somehow even more fragile. Even with the tenacity and sheer stupidity you had.

“About?” Hizashi questions, his eyebrow quirking upward.

“Our teaching capabilities,” Shōta shrugs, jabbing his thumb into the up bottom once they reach the elevators.

Hizashi leans against the wall, hitching his leg upward, “What does that mean?” His scrunches up in annoyance, “It’s deceptively vague.”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

The ride up the elevator is quiet. Hizashi keeps his lips pursed in a fine line while Shōta scowls in contemplative silence.

Concern?

If they were concerned they’d help implement mental health services for all students at U.A. He’s petitioned them relentlessly for years, they had the funding, Nezu was onboard but there was far too much red tape to navigate through and each thread led back to the ministry. Instead they wanted to throw you to the wolves. A peppy, fresh faced, anxiety riddled university graduate who had yet to experience much of the real world. You sparkled in the way most did before they got a taste of how monotonous their dream careers were. 

“I heard the minister of education is planning on campaigning for Prime Minister,” Hizashi comments, stepping toward the now open elevator doors.

Shōta clicks his tongue, “Hm, how convenient.”

“It could be worse.”

“How so?” He raises a brow to Hizashi.

“The hero commission and the ministry could be breathing down our necks,” he shrugs his shoulders, “I’m sure she’s harmless and her presence is merely a formality, a box to check to appease antsy civilians and overzealous journalists.”

“Right.”

Shōta gives Hizashi a tight, strained smile as the elevator door shuts between them.

A formality. 

That’s what you were. He didn’t often feel uneasy, but none of this sat right with him. His stomach churned at the thought of you. The same looming feeling of dread sat like a pit in his stomach most days when he stared directly into the bright eyed, determined faces of his students. You held the same look, though it was shrouded with an obvious nervousness that you couldn’t shake. Still, your dreams had yet to be jaded by the cruelties of this world, much like his students. It made him uneasy. They at least understood the gravity of their reality, he wasn’t sure you did.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Shōta sighed to himself.

He was growing soft in his age. That’s why he didn’t fight you. It had to be why.

Sauntering down the hall to his office, Shōta wonders if he made the right decision.

Aizawa finds an hour after the final bell has rung. The sun has dipped low in the afternoon sky, painting your lodgings a warm, comforting yellow. The walls are bare and the decor is sparse. Only a few polaroid pictures, a calendar and your two degrees occupy the space. It feels oddly big, too big for just you but there’s nothing else to cram in the nooks and crannies to make your new home a little less lonesome.

It’s a relief to see Aizawa’s tired face on the other side of your door. He’d offer you a reprieve from the anxious thoughts that relentlessly ping pong around your skull.

“Hi!” You chirp, opening up the door, offering him a nervous smile, “Did you want to come in?”

He hoarsely grumbles out something resembling a, “Yes”, pushing past you before you’ve fully moved out of the way. His eyes scan his surroundings, you suppose he’s taking in the little decorations you’ve set about the place but you struggle to follow his gaze from where it’s hidden beneath his fringe. You suppose it’s a learned trait. After a bit of googling, you found that his quirk was aptly named erasure and  manifested through his eyes. 

Aizawa settles on your sofa, his legs spread as he rests his elbows on his thighs.

“Did you uhm, want something to drink?”

All you had was a nearly empty tin of instant coffee and a box of tea that expired two years ago. You hoped he’d say no, so you didn’t have to go through the mortifying ordeal of scrounging something you. Your parents raised you to be hospitable when you opened your home to guests. So, you couldn’t help but ask.

He dismisses you with a wave of his hand, “Thank you but, I’m fine,” he says, resting his chin on his interlocked fingers.

“Okay!”

Scratching the back of your head, you flounder around the living space. The armchair was piled high with your winter coats and the only other space to sit was next to him. 

“I don’t bite,” he mutters, peering up at you.

You shift nervously from foot to foot, reminding yourself that he’s a pro hero– despite his tired disposition. He was likely trained to read body language. It wasn’t that you were easy to read but that he read others easily. There was no need to feel nervous, he wasn’t doing it purposely and you probably weren’t giving anything away. Shuffling closer to the sofa, you sit as close to the arm as you could without making your discomfort obvious.

“You’ve settled in?”

Nodding you nervously bite your lip, “I pack light so it wasn’t much work.”

Aizawa hums. His arm brushes against yours. You can feel how his chest rumbles as he speaks.

“Good,” he says, pausing for a moment, “Then, I trust you have the time to elaborate on why you’re here?”

A small sound of agreement passes your raw, bitten lips, “I sure can!” You smile, hoping the pep in your voice disguises the panic, “Uhm, well the ministry of education was worried that the repeated villain attacks and lack of consistent curriculum was negatively impacting their development.”

 You wrack your brain trying to remember what exactly their email outlined but all that comes up is the excitement you felt. The picture in your mind is hazy, the details sparse but you remember most of the key points they had. They’d stuck out to you and seemed reasonable enough once you started digging into the files they sent you.

“I think it’s fairly obvious that being the target of villain attacks would have adverse effects,” you state as if he didn’t see that for himself, “However in addition to the unique mode of learning employed by each teacher here, there has been concern that the lack of consistency is what’s causing their markedly low grades.”

Aizawa scoffs, staring at you in disbelief, “Their grades are fine, I would know.”

“Their grades are still above average; however, compared to their entrance exam marks and results from the previous year's standardised tests, the class's average has dropped by 5%,” you explain, pressing a finger to the tip of your chin, “I have the data sheets, I can show them to you if you want.”

Initially you hadn’t been concerned when looking over their most recent examination marks. They had done exceptionally well with material that far surpassed the curriculum expectations set in the prefecture, however the decline was clear. You presumed the several areas in which they hadn’t done as well in, had been lessons interrupted by villain attacks. It wasn’t their fault, and if anything they were still on track but still, you couldn’t help but worry.

“If they're above the country's average, I don’t see the issue.”

Narrowing your eyes at him, you sigh “Well there’s a clear pattern that indicates an issue that needs to be addressed,” a frustrated puff of air passes your lips, “These kids are meant to be above average, sure that’s why they’re here, however their emotional well being and emotional needs should also be met instead of being ignored because they’re so special!”

Clearing your throat, you sink deeper into your sofa’s cushion, cheeks warmed to the touch. Your voice had raised several octaves, progressively getting louder as you prattled. You’d always been passionate about mental health, but you didn’t know you were this passionate. Aizawa watches you, there's something in his eyes, you can’t name it. Not yet. You don’t know him well enough. He gestures for you to continue on with his hand.

 “It’s evidentially contributing to a class-wide decline,” you conclude, fiddling with your fingers, “It’s not your fault! I tried asking Principal Nezu about U.A’s guidance counsellor and mental health resources and apparently neither exist.”

He nods, seemingly knowing it all too well,“How do you propose we fix that then?”

“This isn’t something that’s cut and dry, I need to spend some time with your students, get to know them, and hear from them where they’re needing support.”

Aizawa laughs. He laughs at you, throwing his head back and letting out a full bellied laugh. You’re stunned to silence, blinking, half in disbelief and half in shock. His laugh was nice, rich even. Oddly befitting for a man like him, but still unexpected. At first glance you wouldn’t have expected from him. Though, you’re unsure what you had expected of Aizawa. He was nothing like the glamorous, larger than life pro heroes you grew up watching on television. Aizawa was far more relaxed, his dress casual, and seemed to proudly wear the dark circles that lined his tired eyes. It made him approachable, the lack of lustre and branding around the elusive Eraserhead. 

You liked that about him.

“Is something funny?” You asked with a quirk of your brow.

“It’s just rather amusing that you think any of them will ask for help,” he states, leaning back into the sofa, “Have you ever heard of a hero's pride?”

“Well, it’s a good thing they’re not heroes, they’re teenagers,” you hum, clasping your hands together.

“Try telling them that and see how well that goes.”

A joke, you think he was making a joke,“I’m well aware they think they’re more grown up than they actually are,” you felt the same at that age, you’re sure the responsibility of herodom only intensified it,“They kinda are compared to their middle school peers at the very least.”

Aizawa snorts, “Something like that,” he agrees with a shake of his head.

His gaze catches yours for a moment, it’s held for a few short seconds before you anxiously look away. Letting out a forced cough, you train your eyes on the television that sits across the room. 

“So I was thinking it would be a good idea if I could have a copy of your students' syllabus for each course they're taking?” You blurt, eager to continue the conversation forward.

“What?”

“The syllabus?” You repeat, “You know, the document that outlines their course expectations, assignments, and schedule for the semester?”

He scratches his chin, rubbing the stubble, “We don’t have those,” Aizawa says with a frown, “Is that standard practice?”

“Ah, mostly in University but many secondary schools are beginning to use them,” you explain, “It helps give students an idea of their semester beforehand.”

“It’s the beginning of the semester,” Aizawa comments, his lips pursed.

“That it is.”

Shrugging his shoulders, his eyes slide over to you, “We could make up a syllabus,” he suggests, “If you think that it’d be a worthwhile endeavour.”

“I think it is,” you sit a little straighter, a grin overtaking your lips, “Students seem to respond well when they feel prepared rather than blindsided, I can send you one of the research articles I’ve read!”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Giving your knee a pat, Aizawa offers you a strained smile.

You have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from asking if he was sure. Aizawa didn’t strike you as a man who did anything he wasn’t sure of. Your overly eager, zealous attitude could be a bit much. You didn’t want to come off any stronger than you already did. Whatever impression that you’d made to him likely wasn’t one you’d want to stick around for too long.

“Well, that sounds like a plan!”

“So, tomorrow you’ll observe my class,” he proposes, “We can regroup in the evening, if it should suit you?”

You find yourself nodding before he’s finished speaking, “Oh for sure!” You grin, clapping your hands on your thighs, “I can do that!”

Aizawa rises from your sofa with a small grunt, stretching out his spine before he turns to you, “I’ll see you then.”

Nodding in agreement, you watch as he walks out of your front door. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, flopping back onto the sofa as soon as the door clicks shut behind him. Tomorrow would be the big day then, the day you stepped into adulthood and kickstarted your career. Your stomach churned at the realisation. You’d spent the better part of two weeks preparing for this day, meticulously rehearsing what you’d say, how you’d say it, what you’d wear, and how you’d part your hair. 

You’d have to do it all again, tomorrow. This time, without any of your planning.

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