#if no mood strikes me I just hang out at home

[bluemoonrabbit]

Alright, I think it's time to admit to myself that I don't like to travel. The pressure to do stuff and see a place while having almost unlimited options and no skill at deciding what I want to do day by day means I kinda just shut down.

[preeningpisces]

Nanami NSFW Headcanons

Lemme know if you want me to elaborate/write something about any of these

18+ content below the cut, mdni, implied chubby fem!reader

Enjoy! 💙

☆ Starting controversial agaaaain, but like I said with Toji, I just don’t see him being a hard dom either. This man will never call you a whore, would be offended if you requested he call you a bitch or cumdump—I think he’d be okay with slut, but he wouldn’t say that unless you ask

☆ Very firm about his boundaries, he won’t do anything he doesn’t feel comfortable doing & you won’t be able to change his mind. Very respectful of yours & will never push them

☆ Lowkey loves to be praised & doted on. His ears turn very pink when you tell him how good he’s making you feel, or how big his cock is, or if you tell him his voice is sexy

☆ The fact you find his voice sexy confuses him—he thinks it’s too monotone, and he isn’t exactly the smoothest guy out there with his words. He’s not very talkative in general, and that extends to sex as well. Once you express how much it turns you on, however, he will dirty talk more, and more often as he builds confidence doing it (dirty talk is hard you guys, be patient with him!!!)

☆ Nanami is stiff, and awkward when your sexual relationship begins. He doesn’t have a ton of experience, and his stoic nature can make moments of passion challenging for him. If you’re more experienced, you’ll probably take the lead, and it’s something he’s very thankful for.

☆ If you’re less or equally experienced, he’ll take the lead. He’ll be honest about his own lack of experience, and the two of you will explore uncharted territory together—so sweet

☆ Even during the early stages when he’s awkward his intensity, observant nature, generosity, and thoroughness have an allure of their own

☆ He definitely warms up with time though, so don’t fret. Sex has never been at the forefront of his mind, so he discovers his kinks/preferences through your relationship

☆ As I said before, Nanami is a very generous lover; making you feel good makes him feel good. He’s the type that can come from eating you out, which is especially hot if he’s dressed in those formal clothes of his

☆ He loves toys, uses a vibrator on you almost everytime you have sex. Nanami is a very practical person; the vibrator makes you feel so good, and allows him to put more focus on other ways of pleasing you—why wouldn’t he use it? The notion that some men hate them bc they threaten their egos bewilders him

☆ Your vibrators are basically never dead because Nanami is on TOP of those things; he’s gotta make sure it’s ready for whenever the mood strikes you guys. The days you’re home and he’s at work you’ll occasionally get a ‘is the vibrator on the charger?’ text, reminding you like a parent would their kid about the chicken they’re supposed to thaw LMFAO

☆ Not a tease at all. If you say please he’s gonna do it!! If you tell him you want to be teased in the bedroom he’ll try his best but it doesn’t take much before he relents :/

☆ Breeding kink yes, but I just KNOW he’s a vasectomy man (unless yall decide to pop some kiddos out). He’s just too responsible to be risky, & doesn't want his partner to feel obliged to take on the responsibility of birth control all alone. Perfect man, truly

☆ Nanami loves some good ol’ fashioned missionary—who doesn’t? But he also really enjoys positions where he can just hold you close, and focus on the intimacy of the moment and the physical sensations rather than the visuals. Prone bone, and cuddlefucking are prime examples; when he rests his head in your neck, his free hand squeezing all your softness, he’s in heaven

☆ Nylons, pantyhose, stockings: wear them if you want to get destroyed. If you got thigh-highs that pinch your leg? Hoooooo boy. He’s not typically a biter, but the squishy parts hanging over the stocking will be gnawed on. Just accept they’ll be bruised, you’ll be ok

☆Nanami is very appreciative of lingerie, and does not tear it off, he’ll have you keep them on the whole time

☆ Huuuuge sucker for scents. Perfume, soap, laundry detergent—he appreciates good smells, and once he starts associating certain smells with you they get him going

[johnleeswife]

Mephisto

Pairing : Sylus x reader

Context : Inspire by Sylus “Crow” voice call

Warning : None

It’s been a day ‘Mephisto’ in your home. You don’t know why Sylus sent Mephisto to your house. You are not in danger, not in a difficult situation, and you are surely not in a position to be spied on. But here you and Mephisto are staring at each other silently. “Are you going to be here until Sylus tells you to go?”, Mephisto answers with his crow voice. “Fine… Sylus said I can order you around so… I’m not holding back”, Mephisto seemed taken aback by what you said and made a sad noise.

At first, you make Mephisto do something simple like switch on and off lights, open the curtain in the morning, etc. Then you realize that he can project a small screen, oh boy what a life safer he is. You make him report the weather in the morning before you go to work, showing you the recipe of your current viral food that you try to make and you make him show you a list of current hit songs. Yes, you make him play the songs.

Slowly, you begin liking Mephisto by your side. You won't feel lonely when you come back from work and he make your dream come true to have a pet that you don’t have to worry he’ll die because of your lack of care. He accompanies you during your study, cooking, cleaning, everything. Suddenly he disappears and you start to worry. Then you hear a knock on your door.

It’s Sylus behind the door, you welcome him and invite him inside. “It’s your day off right? Let’s hang out”. You still amaze by how he knows everything about you. “Yes… but Mephisto is missing, we have to find him”

“Don’t worry about him, he is a big boy, he’ll do fine”

“Do you make him go out to mission?”

“No, things get better these days and I don’t need him for the time being”

“I’m starting to worry him”

“He’ll be fine, come on, get dressed and we’ll go out”

You and Sylus heading to a supermarket that surprisingly you always go to. “You need milk, cereal, eggs, and cheese and you're out of softener”. You stop walking and stare at him unbelievably. “What the hell Sylus how do you know all of that?”

“You wouldn’t wanna know sweetie”

“The he-”. You unconsciously raise your voice, making everybody in the store look at you. Sylus just walks down the aisle and smirks at you, leaving you behind.

After that, you two go back to your home. Of course, Sylus is the one who paid everything, you didn’t hold him back too. When you arrive at your home, Sylus starts unpacking the groceries and then puts them in the cupboard like he’s living here. You feel a chill down your spine if you think of it. “I think you have all the ingredients to make that viral food. Do you want to try to make that?” Sylus then asked.

“Oh yeah, I do. Mephisto can you-”, you almost forgot that Mephisto is missing. “Sylus, I still worry about Mephisto. Do you really don’t know where he is? Don’t you have some kind of remote to monitor him?”

Sylus stops whatever he is doing and faces you. “Really now? He’ll be fine. Aren’t you hungry? Come on let me cook you something”. Something strikes Sylus today that he treats you well, you wonder what it is. After Sylus is done cooking, you two eat together in your living room while watching a movie. Your mood doesn’t light up a little, even with Sylus’s cooking.

“I still worry about him Sylus”

“Why are you making a fuss about him now? Didn’t you don’t like him before?”

“Well he’s kinda great company, I didn’t realize that I was lonely until he came”

Sylus places his point finger on his forehead and looks at you. “Do you feel lonely right now? Let me remind you that I was behind him all this time”

You turn around to face him. “But you not him, he doesn’t bark like you”

“You like a submissive man I see. As you wish, I’ll become like one for you” Sylus makes a smirk face and places his head on your lap. You are shocked to see Sylus on your lap, adding that Sylus snuggles his face on your stomach and puts his hand behind your back. Now you can’t move because of him.

Knock sound on your window, you see Mephisto knocking on your window. “Mephisto! Sylus, Mephisto is back!”. As you want to open the window, Sylus’s hand wraps around you tighter. “Sylus, I can’t move”.

“He has his sharing, now let me have mine”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mine…”. You sigh defeated. So childish. Let's just say the rest of the day, Sylus is not letting you go and Mephisto just flying out site your place. You feel sorry for Mephisto.

[javierpena-inatacvest]

For your 500 follower celebration, could I request #5 with Javi? (And if it strikes any inspiration for you, I’d go feral if it involved squirting) You’re so talented and it’s always such a joy to see that you’ve posted!! Thank you for sharing your stories with us 🫶🫶

ANON. PLEASE.

ask and you shall receive 🥵

Again

Summary: After Javi leaves the house looking even more handsome than usual, you can't stop thinking about him all day. Once the two of you are finally alone, he helps to solve your neediness (over and over again).

Word count: 1.8K

Warnings: SMUT (18+), established relationship, oral (f receiving), vaginal fingering, praise kink, squirting!!!

A/N: This prompt made me unwell. That is all.

Can be read as a stand alone or part of the It's Never Too Late series!

Prompt from the 500 Followers Celebration requests!

The way you had been toying with Javi all night had put him in a mood. You weren’t sure what had gotten into you- maybe it was the fact that Javi had just gotten his haircut and he decided to wear your favorite gray suit (the one that made him look so broad, it made it look like the seams of his jacket were hanging on for dear life). Not that Javi didn’t look handsome every damn day, but something about seeing him this particular morning before you left for work had you feeling absolutely feral. 

Your boyfriend looked fucking hot. 

And if those two things weren’t enough, the real cherry on top was that you couldn’t do anything about it until later that night after your weekly dinner at his dad’s. The two of you had met there separately after work, needing to stay late to finish grading some of the book reports your students had just turned in. As you walked in through the front door of the Peña ranch, you kicked off your shoes and made your way to the kitchen to find Javi, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled halfway up his forearms, tie gone, and two more buttons that the usual amount already undone from around his neck, the golden glisten of his tanned chest peeking out through the opening of his shirt. 

“Hey, Hermosa!” He beamed at your presence, pulling you in for a hug and a kiss that he could immediately sense was much more intense than your average after work greeting, especially in front of Chucho. “You have a good day at work, baby?” He smirked, raising an eyebrow at you. 

“Hhhmm?” You responded, not hearing a single word that he had said, astounded that even after working a full day, this man somehow looked hotter than he did this morning. Honestly at this point, you really just hoped you weren’t drooling onto Chucho’s kitchen floor. 

“I asked if you had a good day?” His grin now even bigger, the sneaking suspicion he had in the back of his mind now confirmed by the way you were ogling at him. He leaned back down, wrapping his hand around your waist, dangerously close to your ass, thinking he was going back in for a quick kiss on the cheek. To your delight, or better yet, torture, he nipped at your ear, rasping lowly against your neck.

 “You keep undressing me with your eyes like that, I’m gonna make you cum so many times when we get home, you aren’t gonna be able to walk straight.”

It took everything in you not to audibly moan, his words making you shiver, feeling pathetic at how you could already start to feel the wet patch growing in your underwear from how desperately you needed him. 

“You ready for dinner, kids?” Chucho asked from across the room, finishing setting the table. Thank God his question at least snapped some sense into you, having to physically shake your head to ground yourself back to reality. 

“Looks great, Pops! I’m starving.” He headed over to the table, winking back at you before taking a seat at the table. Jesus Christ, this man was a menace. 

It was safe to say that today was truly a first- you had never been so horny eating a plate of tamales, but you guessed there was a first time for everything. One of your hands was practically glued to Javi under the table- running your hand along his leg, tugging at the fabric of his dress pants, slowly creeping your way closer and closer up his thigh, and that wasn’t even taking into account the fact you you had been playing footsies with him from the moment you sat down.  

As you said your goodbyes and thanked Chucho for the dinner (to be fair, he could have burnt it to a crisp and you would have been too distracted to care), and headed back to your cars, you were almost thankful you had to drive separately, because if you hadn’t, there was a strong probability you weren’t making it 10 feet down the driveway before crawling all over Javi. 

You wasted no time running  up the stairs to your apartment, knowing that you had beat Javi home by just a few minutes, stripping yourself naked and hopping yourself into your bed to wait for him. Your heart raced as you heard the door open, Javi making his way directly to the bedroom, following the trail of clothes you had left for him. 

“Oh, fuck me.” He groaned, walking in to find you spread out on the bed waiting for him, practically squirming in the sheets from how badly you needed him. 

“Yeah, that’s the hope.” You raised an eyebrow at him as he crawled over the edge of the bed, gently nudging your knees open to reveal the slick pooling along your thighs. He chuckled to himself as he pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, taking two fingers, barely grazing through your folds, making you whimper. 

“Jesus, hermosa. You’re so fucking wet. Haven’t even touched you yet and you’re fucking soaked. This all from thinking about me, pretty girl?” He mewled, the lust in his eyes growing as he watched you writhe under his touch. 

“Mhmmmmmm.” You moaned, biting down on your lip, shaking your head frantically, unable to string words together to make a coherent sentence. 

“Need you to use your words, baby. Tell me what you need.” He teased, the pressure of his fingers gently pushing against your sex, collecting your arousal, knowing exactly what you needed. 

“I need you Javi, please I need you so bad. I’ve needed you all day, fuck, I want you to fuck me so bad. Please.” You begged, so worked up that Javi was barely touching you and you were already grabbing fistfuls of your bedsheets, trying to find any sort of release. 

“So needy, hermosa…” He tutted, planting a soft kiss on your inner thigh before leaning his body over yours, pressing a hot, wet kiss against your neck, nipping at your pulse point. He grabbed your wrists draped by your sides, bringing them above your head, easily holding them down in place in the width of his large palm. “But sometimes needy girls have to be patient, don’t they? I’ll fuck you, hermosa, don’t you worry, but not until I make you cum as many times as I want first.” The way he growled his words sent a shiver down your spine as he made his way back down your body, kissing every inch of you before finding himself nestled between your legs, face to face with your dripping heat. 

If there was one thing that Javier Peña was, it was that he was a man true to his word. He had already made you cum 3 times with just his tongue alone, and he had no intentions of easing up anytime soon. He had let you come down from your third high, grinning up at your blissed out face, his mustache covered in your slick. Your cunt was aching from clenching around nothing, desperate to have something, anything, fill the throbbing. “Javi pleaseee…” you whimpered, “please, I need you inside me.” 

“Such a good girl, asking so nicely. Give me one more with my fingers and then I’ll let you cum all over my cock. Think you can do that, sweet girl?” 

You nodded feverishly, Javi satisfied with your answer, diving his head back down between your thighs, licking a flat, broad strip against your throbbing bundle of nerves as he pushed his two, thick fingers into your pussy, the fullness making you whimper, reaching down to run your hand through Javi’s hair, tugging at the ends of his dark brown locks. Even after 3 orgasms, Javi was still relentless, lapping you up like a man starved. The way he was licking and sucking at your throbbing bundle of nerves, on top of the width of his digits now pulsing in and out of your heat had you practically sobbing in pleasure, the base already building at the base of your spine, so worked up, you knew it wouldn’t take much to have you falling apart again. Javi licked in long broad strokes before pushing his fingers even deeper, now so far in your heat the base of his knuckles were bumping against your entrance. Without even thrusting his hand in and out, he curled his fingers, stroking against the you g-spot, punching into that soft spongy spot that made the coil start to build in your belly. But something about the way the arousal was beginning to build in you felt different than normal- it was throbbing, intense, a pressure collecting inside your cunt and you couldn’t quite describe, but enough to make you tug hard enough on Javi’s hair for him to lift his head while continuing the pulsing of his fingers. 

He looked up at you, your face a mixture of confusion and pleasure as you fisted at the bedsheets, gulping as you moaned. “Javi… oh shit, fuck, baby what the fuck I feel like I’m gonna cum but I feel like I gonna pee too, fuck, fuck, fuck.” Your words made Javi’s smirk turn into a devilish grin, now taking his free hand, draping it across your stomach, gently pressing the palm of his hand into your pelvis, only intensifying the pressure building inside you, making you gasp, knowing how close you were to your release. 

“It’s okay, pretty girl. Let go for me baby.” You wanted to fight back, tell him to stop out of fear of what you thought was going to happen, but with only a few more thrusts of his fingers, something inside you snapped, pleasure flooding through your body, making you scream Javi’s name as you could feel yourself cuming. But something about the sensation felt different than normal. Your cunt clenched so around his fingers, your orgasm sending shockwaves through your body, practically making you see stars you were cuming so hard. Suddenly, you felt yourself absolutely gush around Javi’s hand as he pulled out, spraying his stomach with your slick, drenching his shirt. You could feel the wetness dripping down your legs as you finally came to after hitting your high, your face now beet red in embarrassment now realizing what you had just done. You buried your face in your hands after seeing how you had soaked his shirt and the sheets below you, unable to even bring yourself to look at Javi, absolutely mortified. 

“Oh, fuck.” He mewled, jaw hanging half open in a boyish grin as he stared down at the mess you had made. 

“Javi… Oh my god… I’m so sorry- I- I didn’t know that was gonna happen, oh Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry, I’ve never done that before, I had no idea-” Your voice was barely above a whisper, practically on the verge of tears as Javi pulled your hands off your face, forcing you to look at the shock and delight on his smirking face. 

“Do it again.” 

Taglist: @cool-iguana @rhoorl @whyjuliaaa @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine@pedrobaby @fatima-marisa@beboldbebravethings @poodlebae @kittenlittle24 @3sriracha @jungchloee @perennialdoll247@prettyinpunk85@partyofone3413@harriedandharassed

[solarmorrigan]

Steve Harrington gives me Beach Boys vibes

Like. Steve's a little neutral on pop; he doesn't hate it, but it's not usually his first choice. But like a lot of kids, his musical exploration begins with his parents' collection

He finds his mom's Beach Boys albums when he's about twelve, a little after they start leaving on longer trips and he starts poking around the house because he's bored and alone. He can sort of remember his mom playing them when he was really young, can remember her dancing around the kitchen and being silly in ways she usually isn't

He starts playing the Beach Boys when his parents are gone, just sometimes, because the songs have a pretty good beat and the lyrics are fun and it makes him feel a little less lonely. He's got one playing one evening when his parents get home earlier than expected; his dad just shoots him a look at tells him to "turn down the damn racket" (which Steve does, quickly) before stalking up to his office, but his mom stands in the living room doorway, just watching him for a moment

It's the first time in a long time he remembers her just sitting down with him, smiling, laughing, listening to the music with him. She tells him about the first time she heard the band on the radio, and about how she'd gone out to buy their album the very next day. She tells him that his dad had called in to the local station more than once to request "Barbara Ann" because he knew it was her favorite (Steve can't imagine his dad doing anything like that, but he guesses his mom would know better than he does). She tells him that when he was little, too little to really remember, he would ask her to play "the surfing song," even though she was pretty sure he had no idea what surfing was

They don't do it again, but Steve holds onto the memory

He keeps playing the albums. He gets them on tape, when he happens to see them, and then he can play them in his car when the mood strikes. He wouldn't call himself a fan, exactly, but he doesn't have a better word for it. He ends up memorizing a lot of the lyrics, and finds that he doesn't mind having that knowledge at all

December of '85, the first holiday season Steve and Robin spend together, Robin is ready to tease Steve mercilessly for not only knowing all the words to "Little Saint Nick," but for singing along with it while standing at the counter of Family Video. In public. Steve takes it with good grace, but he also makes sure she also knows all the words by the end of their shift. They sing it together every time it comes on the overhead speakers after that

(Steve gets the feeling Robin's enjoyment is half ironic, but he doesn't mind. Her joy as she sings is sincere, and that's the important part)

Robin isn't the last convert he manages to induct, either

"Kokomo" comes out in '88, and Eddie wants to hate it. Really he does. It's really not his speed, he doesn't like surf music, but he just - he can't quite bring himself to dislike it. Not when Steve is listening to it on the radio in the kitchen, singing along, dancing around unselfconsciously while he does the dishes (moving his hips in ways Eddie does not want to associate with the Beach Boys)

But of course, the second Steve catches Eddie listening with anything other than disdain, it's all over. He turns all his attention on Eddie, singing to him, trying to beckon him into the kitchen to dance with him while Eddie valiantly tries to hold out against the fucking dork-ass romantic he's been dating for over a year

Steve points him and then curls his fingers in a "come hither" gesture as he croons along with the radio, telling Eddie to "come on, pretty mama," and Eddie has to let his head hang back while he tells Steve "I hate you," just so Steve won't see how hard he's smiling

He does end up dancing, his head resting on Steve's shoulder because he's laughing too hard to hold it up on his own, his eyes watering while Steve continues being ridiculous just for him

(It is absolutely not their song, but many years later, it does end up on Eddie's carefully curated wedding playlist. He disavows all knowledge of how it got there)

[writer-jamie]

| Aphrodite's Spell | Chapter Two |

Summary: Aegon was the definition of fuckboy. He didn't care about people's feelings, fucked with no strings attached and used whoever he wanted. He never got attached. Never made friends. That was until he met you online. You didn't know him, nor his family. You were an innocent his family and their legacy tainted. Someone new. Something new.

Warnings: Talks of alcohol and drugs, some slight smut, angst.

Author's note: Thank you for all the love on the first chapter of this series! I'm feeling extremely motivated to write so I will try and get as many chapters written while i'm in this motivated mood. Can't promise this will last though, but will try my best to keep to regular updates.

Taglist: @neithriddle @sab-falco @prp-butterf1y @deltamoon666 @sewmxx

Link for taglist.

Divider: @fairytopea

You squinted at the bright screen as you sipped on your wine.

EggTarg liked your post.

Who the fuck is called Egg?

You knew all your other likes, mainly your friends or the guys online who followed you to wank over your photos, but this Egg guy is new. You clicked on his profile and there wasn't much to see. His profile picture was the side of her face but you couldn't see much of his features. The thing that stood out was his striking hair.

Blonde. That explains a lot.

Your friends would describe you as a creature of habit. Always went for the blonde boys, smokers, "rat looking" as Lisa would say. You knew what you liked and there was no shame in that. So when you looked at Egg's profile picture and saw the blonde hair, you could have sworn you felt your heartbeat in your clit.

You finished the rest of your wine in one big gulp and placed your glass on your oak bedside table. Leaning back into your headboard, you pulled your laptop closer to your chest and began typing.

Direct Message - User EggTarg

Me: You have peaked my interest Egg 🥚

EggTarg: As you have mine...pretty name, pretty face, what’s not to like.

Me: Romanic as well as one of my favourite foods, I think you are a winner.

EggTarg: Winner?

Me: You’ll see...

You couldn’t help laughing from behind your screen, feeling a rush of heat over your body. He sent you a photo. Oh. No guy ever sends you photos, just wants sex or a hookup.

EggTarg: Image attached.

EggTarg: You like what you see?

Me: Well I’m not blind so yeah 🤤

EggTarg: ***-***-**** call me

That was easy. A phone number and a shirtless pic in less than ten minutes. He must be either desperate or horny. You debated picking up the phone and calling him. What if he was a serial killer or a weirdo wanting to eat your body.

Eh anything would be better than going to work in the morning.

***-***-**** added to contacts as Egg.

Calling Egg…

Buzz buzz…buzz buzz…buzz…”Hello?” A man’s voice answered the phone. He sounds Egg like. “Egg? It’s Y/N?” You could almost hear his posture shift as he realised who was on the other end of the phone. “Y/N. You called. Thought you weren’t gonna.” He sounded well educated but there was something about him that seemed off. He definitely sounded hungover. “So how can I help you EggMan?” You smirked down the phone, hearing him chuckle on the other end at the new nickname.

“You fancy hanging out? I don’t do public really well but we can go out for some food or drinks?” He heard you take a deep breath in, realising quickly how strange it sounded that he ‘doesn’t do public’. “I mean I do do public just not great. My family is kinda well known and I never get any peace and quiet when I’m out and-“ The panic in his voice obvious. Great you fucked this up Aegon.

“Egg. Egg it’s ok, I don’t ‘do’ public either. My family has a lot of drama surrounding it and I usually like to go out of town for dates or stay home. Or rent a hotel.” He suddenly felt at ease with your response. “I have a hotel room booked for this evening. Rook’s Nest Hotel. Ever heard of it?” You asked, pulling up your reservation and adding an addition person to the booking. “Meet me in the lobby at 7pm?” You suggested, pausing before clicking the save button on the reservation email.

“See you there. Wear something red.” He said with a smile and hung up the phone. Cheeky cunt. You sent him quick text with a lips emoji before laying back in your bed. “What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?” You asked yourself, running your fingers through your hair.

You adjusted your dress as you sat on the soft leather seat, nursing your red wine as you awaited Egg to show up. You looked down at your phone. 7:08pm. He's only eight minutes late, traffic is probably bad. No traffic isn't bad. He's just late. What if he doesn't show up? What an embarrassment. You debated getting up to leave, looking around seeing many couples drinking in the lobby. You knew almost everyone here by name, the staff and the regulars.

Pepper was one of your favourite bell boys. He always is the first at the door to welcome you. He has worked at the hotel since he was sixteen and he was now thirty two. You used to see him every summer when your parents would take you to the hotel for your first of many family getaways. Your father always tips well, but for Pepper he was the most generous. He saw him like a son figure, after all he only had you and God knows he wishes he had a son. Instead he was stuck with you. Even now, Pepper is the first to take your bags to your room. He never expected a tip like a lot of the other workers. He knows you give tips at the end of the stay. But normally it would be enough of a tip to feed his family for at least four months (until you showed your face again).

Denise was your favourite cleaner. She knew when you were staying and would leave strawberry chocolates on your pillow. She's also been working there since you were young. She must be pushing sixty now and definitely didn't need to work but she worked her whole life and would probably be really bored at home. She was the sweetest lady you had ever met, she felt like a grandma to you. Denise never felt a need to change her posture or attitude when she saw you or your father. She was 100% Denise and you admired her for that. Most people would stand up straighter when your father entered the room, but Denise would continue dusting or hoovering, telling your father to lift his feet or move his ass if he was in the way.

You were snapped out your daydream by Mr Mortez, the hotel manager, who placed his hand on your shoulder gently. "Miss Y/L/N. Can I get Pepper to escort you to your room? I hate to see you sat alone." You smiled sweetly at the gesture. "No thank you. I will be ok." He nodded and turned around, walking back to the reception desk, joining many staff looking at you with worried expressions.

7:28pm.

You pulled out your phone and opened up your messages with Egg.

Me: You are a cunt

The message sent quickly before shoving the phone into your bag, grabbing your wine glass and cardigan before standing up. You walked past many couples who were enjoying each others company. Not looking where you were going you bumped into a figure who was hastily walking through the lobby doors. "Oh God I am so sorry..." You mumbled, grabbing your bag and cardigan off the floor. You rised to your feet and looking the stranger with a soft smile.

"Sorry I'm late." He said with a smile, taking your hand into his and placing a soft kiss to your hand. "Egg?" You looked the man in front of you up and down, making sure this was the same man you arranged to meet mere hours ago. "Aegon. But Egg works too." You relaxed your shoulders and put your hand on his chest, seeing his shirt was now stained red with your wine. "Oh Aegon I'm so sorry! Let me take you to the laundry room and we can wash your shirt." Grabbing his hand and walking him towards the laundry room.

Pepper looked at you with a soft smile, almost checking you were ok. You gave him a reassuring smile in return.

You placed your key card to the doors lock and it opened with a click. Aegon followed you inside, impressed with this hotels facilities. You put your bag and cardigan down on the floor and opened the washer, grabbing the items from the shelves and preparing the stain remover and liquid. "Take off your shirt." You demanded plainly, hopeful this could be sorted soon so you could enjoy your evening.

"At least buy me a drink first." Aegon replied, a smirk spreading across his lips. You shook your head and walked towards him, placing your hands on his chest and began unbuttoning his shirt buttons. His sparce chest hair came into view as you unbuttoned his cream coloured shirt. "Don't push it." You replied. Aegon rested his hands on your hips as you continued to remove his shirt. The shirt came off quickly and just like that the moment was over. You threw the clothing into the machine and set it off.

"Let's hope that comes out. I don't fancy buying you a new shirt." You said with a smirk, walking back over to him and sitting down on the other washing machine.

"Red." Aegon said with a dark expression behind his eyes.

"Yeah. Do you like it?"

"How could I not?" Aegon replied, his hands wandering towards your hips again. You rested your hands on his soft chest. He had small blemishes on his chest as well as a couple birth marks and moles. He looked perfect. Something must be off.

"So what's wrong with you?"

Aegon's face dropped. "What?"

"Well you are literally so perfect, there must be something wrong." Aeon chuckled under his breath, an almost confident chuckle. "Family trauma, dead parent or sibling, abuse in childhood?" He couldn't help laughing at the suggestions.

"All the above." Aegon raised his eyebrows at you. "Does that scare you?"

"Nah, I'm a big girl. I can handle my bad boys."

The bumping of the washing machine was the only noise heard for miles. Almost like the busy hotel outside wasn't there. It was just you and Aegon at that moment. Nobody else mattered. You watched as his chest began to rise and fall quickly as you raised your hands up his chest, past his nipples and to the sides of his neck. You found the back of his hair that rested on the nape of his neck. The blonde locks that lay there were soft. He definitely used conditioner. It felt as if the oxygen in the room had been sucked out as he looked into your eyes with his. Placing your hands on his face, he leaned into your touch. He was touch starved. He loved the feeling you of your touch. He had had sex with plenty of women, sometimes the same booty call over and over again but nobody looked at him the way you did. Nobody looked into his eyes like you did, or genuinely made him laugh the way you did.

Aegon placed his thumb on your bottom lip, pulling it down slightly exposing your lower teeth. You leaned into his touch, wanting him to make the move, but not knowing if he would at this rate.

Also as if he could read your mind, he grabbed the sides of your face and pulled you in close. Lips gently grazing yours softly. He was gentle. You didn't expect that. The softness of the kiss.

Then it got intense. Fast. It was as if you couldn't get enough of each other. Your tongue danced in his mouth, fighting his tongue for dominance. Aegon pulled you closer, almost like he was trying to climb inside your body. He needed you. Gasps and moans were heard in the room. "Aeg..Fuck!" You groaned, running your hands through his hair and pulling him closer. "Don't fucking stop…Jesus." Grabbing his wandering hand and placing it closer to your inner thigh. Aegon didn’t stop. His fingers pushing your black underwear to the side and he slides a finger between your folds. You felt your stomach flip as he played with your wet entrance. “Oh darling so wet for me already? That’s so hot.” That nickname. “Call me that again..” You looked up at Aegon with hooded eyes.

He pushed a finger into your tight hole, a groan leaving your lips. “Darling..”

[babydollmarauders]

luke blurb with 40. “You come here often?” “Well, I work here. So I think I’d have to say ‘yes’.”? maybe reader works at the rink/a local spot the team go to often?

notes: i’m not gonna lie, i definitely got carried away with this one.

my night has been a disaster. if anyone asks, i would have to tell them that i do not recommend working at a bar close to a hockey arena. and if they must, then try not to be scheduled on game nights.

i’ve been yelled at, dropped plates, had my ass slapped by drunk men, had people stiff me on tips, and spilled a beer down the front of a customer after someone knocked into me from behind. i’ve officially given up on my night getting any better, now just counting down the hours until i go home.

i had hoped that my favorite customers would be here tonight, as they always turn my night around; but they usually come in around eleven on game nights, and it’s now eleven-thirty and they’ve still yet to show.

sighing, i sink into the stool behind the hostess stand, letting my head hang forward and drop onto the wooden stand. the bell above the door rings, signifying a new patron, but i can’t get myself to lift my head, just letting out another deep exhale.

“bad night, y/n/n?” the voice is like music to my ears, my mood instantly perking up. i raise my head, a grin spreading across my lips.

“John!” i stand from my stool, my eyes scanning the group of guys. “it’s been an off night, but a lot better now that you guys are here. was starting to think you weren’t gonna show!”

“we would never leave our favorite waitress hanging!” Dawson jokes as i make my way over to their unofficially designated table, the 3 boys following behind me.

“no Jack tonight?” i wonder as they take their seats in the circular booth.

“he’ll catch up with us. he had to wait for the rookie.” Nico tells me and i nod in understanding.

“got it. you guys wanna wait for him or do you want your beers now?” i ask.

“now. now is good.” John affirms, making me chuckle. i nod once more and quickly make my way over to the bar.

“3 beers!” i smile at the bartender and he chuckles as grabs the drinks for me, already knowing who they’re for. i hastily make my way back to the table, dropping off the drinks.

“anything else for now?” i question and Dawson nods.

“three orders of cheese fries.” he holds up three fingers, making me smile.

“you got it. that all?”

“that’s it for now. thanks, y/n/n.” Nico assures me.

“i’ll be back with that. if i’m not back by the time he’s here, just have Jack come and find me and i’ll get him his beer.” i tell them before i take off to the kitchen, letting the chefs know their order. while i wait, i drop down onto a seat at the bar, making conversation with the bartender.

“hi.” someone’s sidles up beside me. i turn my head, coming to see a boy addressing the bartender. he appears to be around my age, curly hair, and slightly resembling one of my favorite customers, which makes me furrow my brows as i assess him. “can i get a coke and a beer?”

the bartender nods and gets to work on the drinks, making me roll my eyes at his nonchalance about checking ID’s. it’s always been an issue with him. something he seemingly forgets to do.

the boy turns his head to look at me, catching me scanning him. he smirks, striking another resemblance to my favorite customer.

“hey.” he nods his head once at me.

“hi.” i reply, giving him a smile.

“you come here often?” he asks, making me giggle at his obliviousness.

“well, i work here. so i think i’d have to say ‘yes’.” i tell him. his cheeks turn pink at my words and he lets out an awkward chuckle.

“oh. sorry, it’s my first time here, i didn’t know.” he says, scratching the back of his neck as the bartender returns with his drinks before going to help another customer. “i’m Luke.”

“i’m y/n.” i smirk. “you old enough for that beer, Luke? ‘cause you look about my age, and i know i’m not old enough.”

“oh, the beer isn’t for me. the coke is. the beer is for my brother, who’s twenty-one.” he explains, and i decide to give him the benefit of the doubt, accepting his excuse. however, before i can speak again, my tables order is called.

“okay. you should get that to him then. hopefully i’ll see you again, Luke.” i stand from my seat, walking away towards the order window as he calls out a goodbye.

picking up the tray with three plates of cheese fries, i say my thanks to the chefs before making my way towards the table. my eyes stay locked on the floor, making sure nothing is in my way to trip me like earlier in the night. finally, and safely, arriving to the table, i smile.

“cheese fries for my favorite guys.” i chime, setting the plates on the table.

“thanks, y/n/n!” i look up at the owner of the voice.

“Jacky! you arrived!” i cheer, making him laugh.

“the guys told you i’d be joining, right? just had to wait for my brother.” he tells me.

“your brother?”

“the rookie.” Nico informs me and i nod.

“oh, there he is now!” Jack exclaims, making me turn my head to find him.

“Luke!” i cheer, gaining the attention of said boy.

“oh hey, y/n!” he smiles as he drops into the booth, sliding the beer in his hand over to Jack.

“you guys know each other?” Jack asks, his face scrunched in confusion.

“oh yeah, we go way back.” Luke jokes, making me giggle.

“a whole five minutes, when he hit on me at the bar.” i tell them, making Luke bury his face in his hands as the boys laugh. “aww don’t worry, Luke. i won’t tell them what you said.”

the four others immediately start questioning us, asking what line Luke had used. i laugh at his red face as he answers.

“i asked if she comes here often.” he mumbles, making the others burst out in laughter, quickly chirping him for his lame pickup line and how it backfired.

“hey, y/n/n? can i get another beer?” John asks and i nod, excusing myself to the bar once more. while waiting for the beer from the bartender, i grab a napkin, hastily scribbling on it with a pen.

“here ya go.” i grab the beer from the bartender, clutching the napkin in my other hand, making my way over to the table.

“one beer.” i place the drink in front of John before placing the napkin in front of Luke. “and one napkin.”

“i didn’t- oh.” his sentence dies off as he spots the number sprawled across it. i wink at him as i turn to leave.

“what is it?” i hear Jack ask before he lets out an ‘oooh!’

“little bro got game!” Jack cheers and i peek over my shoulder to see him slap Luke’s shoulder in excitement.

[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

[growmydarling]

So I’ve always been in the skinny side but I’ve fantasized about being fat for a long time, it’s so tantalizing and excites me like nothing else. But anytime I’ve tried to commit to gaining I give up pretty quickly - the discomfort after a stuffing or feeling self conscious being the major factors

Do you have any suggestions how to get over these hurdles?

hi! well, i think pushing yourself to gain rapidly, while sexy, is not totally necessary. let the weight pile on slowly. eat whatever you like and as much as you like- you don't have to stuff yourself to get big. just eat high calorie or super nutrient dense foods regularly. keep snacks close at hand always. you should always have multiple meal options at home in case the mood strikes- ramen, pasta. frozen meals, canned goods and sugary candies last for a long time in the pantry! switch a few of your drinks every day from water to soda, juice, sweet tea, or sugary/creamy coffee. add a milkshake or gainer shake in, too. make hang outs with friends and family meal-focused. add cheese, cream, butter, and condiments to meals. focus on carbs. the weight will be impossible to keep off if you follow these tips! happy gaining!

[vixensbrainrotts]

Happy Birthday, lover — Manjiro <Mikey> Sano

Content: specialty post

Tropes: established relationships, it‘s readers birthday, kind of a continuation of the ‚Committed to you‘ series

Summary: it‘s your birthday! Let‘s see what your darling lover has in store for you once you get home…

Vixen‘s two cents: Hello hello hello! This is a special piece because guess what? It’s @anahryal ‘s b-day!!!! Happy birthday moot, hope you‘re treated well, and all the best for the coming year! Anyway, i was a little unhappy with this, i cant do half as much as i usually can cause im like really sick right now (its stunting all my intelligence) so yeah, sorry if this isn’t up to standard… either way, happy birthday and enjoy!!!

Mikey had never really put much effort into anything, things just had a tendency of coming to him. But for this, for today he had planned in and out, checked up and down to make sure that everything was working out.

In terms of gifts he learned to be resourceful. From checking your perfumes to see which ones you were running low, on to crossing the ethical boundary of snooping into your journal to check the “wanted” list of items you fancied.

He double checked with your best friend for your favorite type of flowers and even attended a Mitsuya-special baking course to personally make you a cake.

It was a struggle and a half to try and time the whole thing right, between grocery store runs to get the supplies and decorations to somehow getting you out the house to hopefully set everything up.

Now he sat at the kitchen counter, completely winded and waiting for your arrival back. He had everything done and dusted, and was just eagerly awaiting your arrival.

When he heard your car pull up into the driveway, he snapped out of little phase and brushed off the dress shirt he had put on earlier, breaking into a quick jog towards the living room where he had set everything up.

There were garlands hung across the room, and the coffee table had been turned into a gift display table. A large bouquet was placed in the center, wrapping paper and gift bags coordinated to match the floral display.

The cake was placed on the formal dining table, two sets of dishes, glasses and utensils set out for the both of you to dine on later.

Mikey’s eyes drifted over everything once more, and widened once they spotted an unlit candle on top of the fire place. That’s right, he had bought a specific candle for today, one he had found when shopping for ingredients for the cake. It caught his eye, and when he gave if a big sniff, the scent didn’t seem too bad either.

With a smile on his face, he grabbed the candle and pulled a lighter from his back pocket. The lighter was yours, he noted, looking down at the pretty pink plastic as he lit the ‘birthday cake’ candle. Fitting.

He heard your keys jingle in the lock and caught himself almost giggling as he made a quick pace to meet you at the door.

“Majiro! I’m home!” You called out, voice rather cheerful (seemingly in a good mood, Mikey said a quick prayer thanks). You turned around to face the door when hanging up your coat, unaware of your darling husband creeping up behind you.

Slowly, Mikey approached and waited for the right moment to strike. “Mikey?” You called again, just about to turn around when a pair of hands were clasped across your face, shrouding your vision.

“AHH!”

Your hands flew to your face, grabbing at those that held your eyes shut, a bit more than derailed as your scrambled to gain recognition. You were about to scream again when your fingers found and felt the very familiar ring that donned the left hand over your face.

“Mikey?” You said, entirely confused as you finger the ring again to confirm your suspicions.

“Hey baby.” His voice mumbled into your ear, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “Manjiro what are you-?” You started, but felt him push you forward to walk, taking baby steps towards what you thought to be the living room.

“Trust me.” He spoke as he guided you towards somewhere within your shared home. “Alright..” you trailed off, now smiling a little unsurely yourself.

You allowed him to push you towards somewhere, giggling a little as he chose this to be a good moment to place tiny little pecks down your neck and nape.

“Mikey shouldn’t you be focusing on where we’re going or-“ you smiled as you held his hands. “Nah don’t worry baby, we’re here anyway.”

In an instant he pulled his hands away to reveal your living room, decked out and dressed to the nines, a cute display set up, just for you. “Happy birthday sweets!”

“Oh my gosh, Jiro…” you turned around to look at him. “You did this all for me?” You looked at the display, seeing the flowers and the gifts all daintily wrapped.

“Yeah… i mean why wouldn’t I? I had the day off anyway, so I figured I should do something sensical, especially cause it’s your special day, right?”

(That’s a lie, he groveled on his knees to one of his coworkers to switch shifts and spent half of his overtime to get today off.)

“Manjiro…” You turned to look at him again, eyes glossing over with emotion. “Thank you…” you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug.

“Anything for you.” He hugs you back and nuzzles into your hair, swaying you lightly from one side to the other. “Now please babes let’s eat the cake, I’ve been resisting it since I got done with it.” He pulled away with a wide grin.

“You made me a cake?!” You gasped in delight as you looked at the beautifully decorated delicacy that sat on the dining table. „Yeah, you dont want to know what i went through to get it right…“ Mikey trailed off remembering the many, many failed attempts at cake that Mitsuya had to coach him through.

„Oh my goodness Mikey… this is, i- thank you so much!“ You preached to him again. „Alright now, how about you open those gifts so that you can thank me more and then eat cake together?“ He had a twinkle in his eye as he pushed you towards the gifts with a hand placed on the small of your back, giving you an encouragement to progress further into the room.

„Open this one first!“ he plucked one of the bags from the display and thrust it in your hands, sitting himself on the couch in neat anticipation. „Alright…“ you smiled at him and pulled the topper paper from the bag, revealing… „Manjiro! How did you know?“ your voice sounded even more cheerful than he had anticipated, and the mini-Mikey inside his head did a celebration dance.

„Well, i know you love those crafty things, especially the knitty gritty things that i cant wrap my head around… You know, i wanted to make you a heart out of those yarns that you always use to decorate that bag, but after trying and failing about a million times, i figured i should leave it to the professionals… also you wouldn‘t shut up about fluffy yarn so…“ he monologued to you as you scanned the insides of the bag, pulling out the colorful yarn.

„And baby, i was thinking, for all my hard work and cause you love me and all such wonderful things that you could maybe, just maybe, and hear me out on this… make me one of those delightful scarves you‘ve been making for all your friends but not me??? Preferably not in pink though, ill take a red one instead.“

You giggled heartily and pulled him into another hug. „Of course i will, it‘s only fair, right? Yarn is like, super expensive so yeah, i wouldn’t mind giving back…“ you smiled at him and pulled away with a quick peck to his cheek, to which he cradled his face with a bashful expression.

All these years that you spent together, as friends, as lovers, as a couple, as fiancée’s and now… married… No matter how much time would pass, Manjiro knew that he had found everything he wanted in you, and he‘d be damned to let it go.

[ben243s-transformation-stories]

A harmless prank

Ah, you’ve got to love our educational system. School was canceled because of a teachers strike. They claimed they were striking for better pay, or training or some other such nonsense that was supposed to make out lives as students better. Of course, most of the time actually being in school and learning would have been better than sitting around at home goofing off. But it’s all for the kids. Yeah right.

So anyway, I had nothing better to do with my day than hang out with my friends and get into mischief. Everyone should know it’s never a good idea to leave teenagers unattended for long periods, but my parents didn’t have the luxury of taking off every time the teachers decided to go out on strike

I had just spent the morning with my friends, and was feeling kind of amped up and was in the mood to see what kinds of things I could get away with.

The area of town I lived in was fairly quiet and rural. There weren’t really any good places to go, or even a mall to hang out in, so I found myself lying on my bed tossing a ball in the air while i tried to come up with some kind of plan.

I was never one to get into too much trouble, and generally stuck to the rules. Today, though, something must have been in the air because I was especially restless and ready to see how far I could push my luck.

I couldn’t think of anything else to do, so I decided to have a little fun online and started searching for interesting websites. I scrolled for nearly half an hour before one finally caught my eye.

I’m not entirely sure what drew me to it, but I landed on my city’s government website. I had never really had cause to browse it before, and I was amazed by how many options it had, and the array of things that you could do totally online. Most would have taken the full day to do in person, but could be completed in minuets on the new site.

I couldn’t help but be amazed as I scrolled through the options. I stared to get a seed of an idea forming in my head. I should pick something and fill out the form and see what I could get to happen. At the very least I would waste some bureaucrats time, At best I could maybe cause some huge scene with the police or fire department. A grin spread across my face.

I browsed the site for a while longer, but nothing really met my requirements for my masterplan to cause havoc. Most of the options were fairly mundane and boring. Nothing worthy of my time. Except………

I clicked on the link for their new online pet registration page. Something felt right. This was the page I had been looking for. I decided to set my plan into action, Granted it wasn’t well thought out, but hey what do you expect from a bored 14 year old boy?

I brought up and read through the forms. Nothing too complicated just basic details. it looked straight forward enough. I started entering my real details in the fields, age, height, weight, etc. I even listing my parents as my owners, and uploaded my recent school photo. Under species I checked canine, and chose yellow lab for breed. I decided to list my name as the nickname my parents used for me “Sammy”.

I looked over the completed form and smiled. No way they would accept it, and at least it would waste some poor bureaucrats time reading and deleting it. Oh boy, I am such a reprobate now.

Satisfied that I had done something awesome, I clicked submit. A few seconds later I got an email confirmation that the form had been received. I waited a while to see if I would get some error notice, but nothing came. Oh well, maybe they have a lot of submissions to go through.

I gave up and decided to boot up my playstation and catch up on my games. Before I knew it it was time for dinner. After a good meal and little conversation with my parents I headed to my room to watch tv. Before I knew it, I was drifting off and decided to head to bed.

I forgot all about the form until about a week later. My mom had grabbed the mail and brought it into the dining room to read. I noticed the envelope for the one she was reading was from the city, but I didn’t think anything of it until she looked over at me.

“Samuel Benjamin Waldorf?!?!?! What have you done?” She asked me. You know you’re in trouble when they use your full name. I gave her a quizzical look, not exactly sure what she was talking about.

She turned to my father and started to read the letter out loud. “Thank you for submitting your registration for your dog “Sammy”. It has been approved and ….” She read on for some time and rattled of a bunch of legal jargon I had no hope of understanding. The bottom line was that I was now fully registered and classified as a dog in their system.

And to make matters worse,The letter said my “owners” had Just 72 hours to get me the required vaccines and license or there would be fines and penalties. My parents spent a number of those 72 hours yelling at me for being stupid, and how could I do something like that, all the typical parental things.

Once they had calmed down, they found a customer service number, and celled. The person they talked to tried to be patient and polite with them, but had to keep telling my parents that all registrations were final. Defeated my parents discussed what they should do next.

Since the deadline was looming, and there didn’t seem to be any way to resolve the issue quickly, they decided that I should comply with the mandate.

My mom called the vet, and explained what had happened. After a fairly awkward conversation, on both sides I’m sure, I had an appointment for an exam and shots in the morning. I always hated going to the real doctor, and this wasn’t anymore appealing to me. I tried to get some rest, but I kept tossing and turning.

I must have fallen asleep for at least a few hours, because my mom came into my room, shaking me to wake me up and make sure I was ready in time for the appointment. I was still half in a daze, but I managed to throw some clothes on and make it to the car.

My mom drove me to the vet hospital, which we hadn’t been to since our last cat passed away a few years ago. We went inside, and mom told me to grab a seat while she checked me it.

Mom talked to the receptionist, pointed at me a few times, and was given a clipboard with a stack of forms to fill out. She brought them over to where I was sitting, and sat in the chair next to me.

It seemed like it took her hours to fill out the forms. Every once in a while she would ask me for some detail or other she needed for the form. While she worked I idly look around the office. It hadn’t changed much from the last time we had been here.

When she was finally done, mom took the forms back to the desk and we were led back to an exam room. I was told to disrobe and sit on the examining table. I looked at my mother, and she gave me that look that every kid knows means “don’t you dare argue- just do it.” So i quickly stripped out of my clothes and sat on the table. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything as cold as that exam table in my life.

A few minuets later, the vet came in a greeted us. He looked at me as said “this must be Sammy.” The vet spent a few minuets looking over the forms and talking to my mother. it felt a little strange to have my medical history talked about like I wasn’t in the room, but I guess that was standard practice for a Vet. Most of their patients didn’t talk back.

It wasn’t long before he stared the exam. He poked me and prodded me all over. He examined my ears, eyes, and mouth. I tried to keep my privates covered and maintain some modesty, but it was no use. He drew several vials of blood for tests, and even used a rectal thermometer to get a temperature. I never felt so humiliated in all my life.

Remember when I said the table was the coldest thing I’d ever felt? Well it was nothing compared to the stethoscope. He most have kept that thing in a liquid nitrogen freezer. I drew in a sharp breath when he put it on my skin and could barely handle it while he listened to my breathing and heart beat. He even reached down and palpated my testicles.

When he was done, he told my mother everything looked good, and he would let her know when the blood work came back. He, jokingly i hoped, suggested neutering me.

He then proceeded to fill several large syringes full of various vaccines. When he was done, my mother, worrying about me as she always does, asked the vet to include a microchip. I never liked needles and almost fainted at the sight of them.

Luckily the Vet was skilled, and I barely noticed as he plunged each one into my skin and injected the liquid. The vet grabbed the microchip and inserted it under my skin between my shoulder blades.

The Vet filled in all the forms and gave them to his tech, who took them to be entered into the computer. He told my mom we could head up front in a few minuets and his receptionist would have the proof of vaccinations and microchip forms ready for us. She thanked him, and he left so I could get dressed.

When we got to the front, everything was ready for us. My mom paid the bill and received a stack of forms i would need for my license. They event threw in a puppy kit with some food, treats and other essentials for me.

Mom took me back to the car, and had me sit in the back. Something I hadn’t done since i was little. She said it was where dogs belonged.I was still sore and embarrassed by the whole thing, so I didn’t feel like arguing. I hopped into the back seat and just enjoyed the ride home.

Once we got home, I gave my parents the passwords and login I had used on the city website, and they sat down to submit the forms and paperwork to get my license. I will give the site this, it may have its flaws, but it sure made the process easy. It only took them about 15 minuets to get everything entered.

They were even able to print out a temporary confirmation until the official form and tags arrived.

I was now officially licensed and registered as my parents pet dog. I thought the worst of my problems were over. Even if we couldn’t get the registration reversed, what harm could it do? Just renew the license every few years, and i would be good right?

It turns out it could do a lot of harm. What had started out as a joke was having serious consequences. My dad had gotten a call from the school district while I was at the vet. They informed it that since I was no longer classified as a human, I was not eligible to be enrolled in school.

Apparently my registration had spread through the other databases connected to the city system. Now all of my official records, even my birth certificate listed me as a canine. Not only was I licensed and registered as a dog, I was legally classified as one as well.

We sat around the table and had lunch, then my parents sent me to my room while they had a little “talk”. We all know what that means. I was in some serious trouble. I sat in my room trying to overhear what they were saying, but it was no use.

They talked for quite a while before I heard one of them leave. I glanced out my window and saw Mom heading to her car. I wondered where she might be going. I didn’t want to make my Dad angry, so I sat on my bed and watched tv until he called me down.

“Sammy”, he said, “Seems like you have gotten yourself into quite a predicament. Since you seem to want to be a dog, and now thanks to your little prank, you are one legally, your mother and I have decided that your role in the family should shift to that of the family pet.”

I couldn’t believe what i was hearing. Did he actually expect me to live as a dog? Sure I was one. legally, for now anyway. We could have that fixed right? this seemed a little extreme.

I took a look at my father. Every kid knows when it’s not worth arguing because your just going to lose and make things so much worse for yourself. Begrudgingly I gave in and said “OK, if you think thats best.”

Dad looked pleased and said “Good boy. Now lets get you out of those silly clothes” I started removing my clothes slowly, but Dad came over and pulled them off a little roughly. Then my Mom stepped over carrying a few bags. I recognized them from our local pet store. She pulled out a collar and fastened it around my neck. She then attached an Id tag that read “Sammy” with our address and their names as my owners.

My mom produced a dog bed from the bags and placed it in a corner of the living room. She then pulled out a pair of metal dog bowls, showing me that she had engraved my name on them. She took those into the kitchen and told me I would be fed there as long as I was a dog.

She had also purchased a few other things every dog needs, Some toys, and a variety of flavors of food, along with a few other essentials. I could tell they were serious about this and I would be filing the role of family pet for the foreseeable future.

I spent the next few days getting used to walking on all fours, being naked, using the bathroom outside, and being taken for walks. They even used some youtube videos to help them teach me basic tricks.

I wasn’t allowed to see my friends, play video games, or watch tv. I spent a lot of my time outside exploring the back yard and the little wooded area behind it. I was never one to spend a lot of time outside before, but I was oddly fascinated by every little thing I found.

After about a week, I decided that maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. My parents were spending more time with me, and I enjoyed the attention, and much to my surprise I enjoyed being petted. It was certainly better than going to school.

The more time I spent in the role, the more comfortable I became as a dog. I hardly noticed as my thoughts and behaviors started shifting and becoming more dog like. If my parents noticed, they didn’t say anything.

After about a month, I had fully integrated myself into the role of family pet. I was thinking and acting just like another dog most of the time. This role felt so natural to me now and i decided I wanted to remain my parents dog.

One evening I told my parents that they could stop trying to reverse the registration. Little did I know they had given up weeks ago, and had agreed that they were enjoying having me as a dog, and could see how happy it made me. It was settled. I was now permanently the family pet.

My parents packed up all my human belongings and put them into storage, and hey converted my old bedroom into an office. I was kind of sad about that, but I hadn’t been using it. I had been sleeping exclusively on the dog bed in the living room for weeks now.

Over the next few weeks, something amazing happened. I’m not sure how to explain it, but my body started to change. I began to notice my fingernails turning black and getting longer. My fingers started to shorten, and I developed pads on my hands and feet.

I showed my parents what was happening to me, but they didn’t seem concerned in the slightest. They said I was being silly and told me to go play.

The changes made it so much easier for me to walk around on all four. Soon instead of using my knees I was on my hands and feet. Each night I was eager to head to bed so I could see what changes would happen over night.

The next morning I noticed some new changes. I had started to grow in some yellow fuzz over my body, and my ears seemed to be getting longer. My privates changed shape and attached them selves to my stomach in some kind of sheath.

Over the next couple of days, my fur grew in fully to cover my body, and my ears were long enough to flop over, and had moved up a little on my head. Next I noticed a nub of a tail protruding from my spine. My nose also started turning black.

It wasn’t long before I had a full tail that I could swish around when I was happy. I also developed a full muzzle. I caught a glimpse of my self in the mirror, and marveled at how much I looked like a dog. Some of the proportions were wrong, but It was unmistakable. I was becoming the yellow lab I had registered myself as.

One night I tried to sleep but I couldn’t get comfortable. I kept tossing and turning all night, until finally I felt kind of a snap as my ribcage and other bones shifted and made their final changes.

When I awoke in the morning, I made my way to the mirror only to see a fully transformed yellow lab where a human boy had been not that long ago. I stared at my reflection just long enough to watch my eyes fade from blue to brown and the transformation ended.

I was now fully a dog. I was so happy that i raced to find my parents. It wasn’t hard, my new nose was flooding me with all kinds of information. When I walked into the kitchen, my parents stopped what they were doing and looked me up and down. They looked very happy, and said “Good boy, Sammy”

They seemed to think all this was normal, and that I had always been their dog. Hadn’t i though? I was having trouble remembering that i used to be anything other than their pet.

Oh well, it didn’t matter. I was a good boy. I could feel the memories and thoughts of my former life slowly fading away like melting icebergs, but I didn’t care. I knew I was their faithful dog and that was all that was important.

A little later, my former parents attached a leash to my collar and took me for a walk. I loved the explosion of input from my new senses and the feeling of the grass on my feet.

We spent the day playing fetch and going to the dog park. I was loving life. Of course it wasn’t all fun and games. I still had to go to school. Obedience school that is. I was top of the class and learned each new trick quickly.

The other downside is that my former parents decided to neuter me. Oh well. I wasn’t going to be out dating much anyway. And it was for my own good they told me. Sure I believe that one. It wasn’t so bad except for that cone I had to wear. I swear the other dogs were laughing at me.

I never did find out exactly why I transformed, or even why I registered in the first place. Maybe it was the universe trying to fix a mistake. Maybe it was a sinister AI the city has that can somehow manipulate people. Now I’m starting to sound like a conspiracy theory.

Ah well it really doesn’t matter, I am much happier this way than I ever was as a teenage boy, and my parents seem really happy to have me as their pet.

[draculasfavoritewife]

Miguel O'Hara x Reader Headcanons

Summary: How you and Miguel found yourselves in a situationship of sorts.

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x fem!Spider!Reader

Warnings: Miguel gets angry when he's worried (it's a canon event guys). A very sultry kiss and implied smut towards the end. Me using far too many of the adjectives at my disposal just to describe this man and all the things he makes me feel.

I went and saw Across the Spiderverse TWICE in a week while it was in my hometown, and immediately started drafting fic for this goddamn gorgeous problem of a man 🔥 He just gave me too much to work with and I may or may not have spent entire months watching every single compilation I could find for "scientific inspiration". For my headcanon purposes, reader is a spider-hero as well, but I left her pretty vague on purpose -- feel free to fill in her costume/powers/skill set with your own spidersona :)

*Spanish translations at the end! (I am fairly bilingual, but if I made a lil mistake here or there do forgive me)

• He would say he had no idea when or how it started -- you, on the other hand, were taken by him from the first time he gave you his whole "canon" spiel.

• How could you not be? He towered above you, body chiseled like a Greek God, angular face equal parts weary and arrogant.

• And that voice -- rich and smooth as a silky black coffee -- it would be safe to say you were pretty smitten right away.

• To his surprise, you worked your way into his inner circle fairly quickly for a new recruit. Although you definitely had your own opinions, you knew when and how to push his boundaries and when he wasn't in the mood for it.

• Soon he trusted you to handle yourself with minimal supervision from him -- and maybe that trust was the beginnings of it for him. Because even though he recognized your competence, he still found himself continually assigning you to his personal strike squad, not to look after you, but because you somehow didn't annoy the hell out of him.

• Which comes in handy for everyone else after a while, because soon that translates over to you soothing the proverbial beast when he's biting the heads off of the more sensitive Spiders.

"How could you be so STUPID -- !"

"Okay, Miguel, I think they got the point."

"But they -- !"

"I know. They know. It's okay, let's all just take a breath."

"¡Ay coño! Nadie me oye. Todos son idiotas."

But he does back off, and does take a breath, and everyone else stares at you like you're the second coming of Christ.

• Your fascination and admiration for the intense head of the Society soon turns to a genuine enjoyment of his company. He's not much of a conversationalist, but you're okay with silence, and sometimes you just...end up keeping him company in the monitor tower after missions and he just...lets you.

• You soon notice the ungodly hours he keeps and start leaving him an empanada and a black coffee at the end of the day when you leave -- you know how dangerous he gets when hangry and undercaffeinated.

• It's a bit strange for him at first (someone is actually choosing his company over the bombastic personalities of the other spiders?) but Miguel soon gets used to you hanging around, and the hairs on the back of his neck finally stop bristling at having a fellow person in the room.

• One thing he absolutely can't figure out is why the scent of fear never radiates from you, even when you witness his occasional equipment-trashing tantrums. But he somehow doesn't quite mind that he can't intimidate you.

• He would strongly deny he ever gave you favorite treatment, but some of the others do realize he's not QUITE as hard on you when you challenge his decisions.

• Sometimes you check on him late at night before you go home; you can tell when he hasn't slept in a couple days by the way his shoulders hunch and how often he pinches the bridge of his nose against an oncoming headache (though sometimes that's just from dealing with Peter (x100) for too long).

• And that turns into you staying in late to keep him company while he swipes through screens upon screens of things that require his personal attention.

• That's how you end up finally seeing the videos of him and his little girl; he probably forgot you were there and her loss hit him all over again and before he knew it you had seen what he was like once, when the lines on his handsome face were from smiling so widely instead of losing sleep over the fate of all of reality.

• Neither of you really address it for a long time, but you know, and he knows you do, and there's this weird comfort that settles between the two of you after that.

• He already knows your story of course, and your canon events, but when the pair of you finally start talking during those late nights you share the little details, and you have the feeling that he wants to care about the small things, he just can't with the much larger picture he has to handle.

• It's little things that make it past his unbreakable outer walls -- the fleeting brush of your hand across his back as you pass behind him, the way you can hold eye contact with him longer than anyone else, the seemingly flippant way you blow him a kiss every so often when he sends you off to go make yourself useful elsewhere. Casual things, but he notices.

• And you want to tell him you're in love with him, but have a feeling he doesn't want to hear those words, because once they're out in the air, it means you both can't sidestep it anymore, so you don't.

• After a particularly rough mission, he's angry and you're shaken up, and he doesn't mean to react the way he does, but he takes it out on you, scolding you for what almost happened, and you fire right back because you're emotional, and the two of you end up raising your voices and everyone else just kind of...leaves the room.

• Then silence.

• You and Miguel are breathing hard, staring at each other. And something fragile takes root in the empty space between you.

• "Could you do me a favor and maybe not get yourself shocking killed?!" he growls at last, and there's a raw edge to it you haven't heard before.

• You laugh brokenly. "What do you really care, O'Hara? There's literally hundreds of Spiders here; I think you'd be okay."

• "¡Coño! How can you be so blind?!" He's snarling now, full lips pulled back and sharp teeth on display. "I thought we were on the same page for once."

• You're totally unprepared for when he grabs your shoulders and forces you to look up, right at him. "I can't lose someone else."

• He's so close, and his angry mouth has softened. And maybe you've lost your mind, but he's already angry, so what do you have to lose, really? At least that's what you tell yourself as you take the plunge and lean in.

• And to your surprise, he not only meets your lips, he kisses you back with matching fire, and what was supposed to be a simple, singular impulse turns into an unexpectedly heavy ongoing process -- fingers raking through hair, bodies pressing together, hotly whispering things neither of you remembers.

• And then as quickly as it happened, it's over, and you're on opposite sides of the room again like sulking cats, and he sends you home.

• You don't talk about the incident for weeks. Life goes on.

• But then one night, he offers to take you home when you both stay behind late, and at your door he apologizes for his lapse in professionalism, and you admit you...didn't mind. At all. He doesn't seem in a hurry to leave, and wanting to distract him from his work for at least a little while, you invite him in.

• And somehow what was supposed to be a sweet goodbye-and-thank-you kiss a couple hours later turned into exploring touches and murmured questions and agreements and how damn good his arms feel locked around your body; and when the sun filters in through your window in the morning he's long gone but your skin still smells like him and you realize that actually happened.

• You assume it's a one-time thing. People make mistakes, after all, no hard feelings.

• Bur when Miguel holds you back after a mission several days later and wants to make absolutely sure that the other night didn't make things uncomfortable between you, you go out on a limb and admit to him that you really enjoyed it.

• And he has to take some time and process that.

• But eventually he shows up at your place late one night again, and it starts to become a bit of a regular thing. So much so that you give him the spare key to your apartment and he starts to leave some of his clothes there sometimes. You love wearing his shirts, because they're enormous as hell on you, and you sleep in his clothes whenever you can't have his skin against yours.

• (For his part, he also likes when you wear his shirts, because then your throat, shoulders, and thighs are that much easier to get at.)

• And life goes on.

¡Ay coño! = (Expletive)

Nadie me oye = No one listens to/hears me

Todos son idiotas = They're all idiots

[wof-reworked]

dragon religion is an idea i think that is rlly awesome. i hope tui goes over it in the guide, anyway. if u have any specific religion ideas / hcs for dragons.. would they have jobs ?? like dragon priests orrrr idk tbh. sorry if this question is annoying im obsessed w the idea of dragons having religion and religion-based jobs

Originally I had like. a whole "series" of like. ideas for each tribe's religion and mythology, but in the interest of actually replying I'll do like. quick bullet points here and I'll try to fill in more later on ^^;;.

I have like. a lot of abstract feelings n concepts because I've always found it interesting how,,, little religion there is in wof at all. There's barely even really "magic", with only really animuses. wof's characters are occasionally superstitious, but all their superstition is based in like- historical events, like Darkstalker or Queen Oasis's murder, and not like. magic. so I want to keep some of that true because I think it's really fitting for a setting of dragons (who have historically usually *been* the gods, rather than the worshippers !!!) and it's also a rare opportunity to like. get into society without religion (this is a hostile zone for the great ice dragon, I'm sorry I Do Not Care About You and your One Off Mention, God Bless)

ANYWAY. Posting this under the cut bc it's kind of massive, read at ur own risk lol (cw for talk of death/funeral rites but that's really it)

Skywings:

Skywings for me have always been the clearest as like. focusing on historic figures as "saints" (though ik that's a pretty christian concept and word, just hang in there I prommy it goes places)

Point being- I've written about it before here, but for Skywings, the sky is alive and holy in its own right. They view it as the foundation of life and believe themselves (and all dragons, though the other tribes abandoned their way of living) as children of it, originally like birds.

It has some slight. monarchist overtures to it with how the sky itself is like an omnipresent parent, and its moods and shifting currents can be seen as a reflection of Skywing culture. When the sky is angry and casting out its children, there is a lesson that needs to be learned, and it is the collective punishment of all Skywings until the problem is fixed.

But past that, Skywings who achieve remarkable things can be recognized as local guardians and figures of protection- when Skywings die, they return to the sky in the form of clouds. Some Skywings also believe birds to be reincarnated Skywings, especially the spirits of those who rebuke the sky and strike off on their own (which is not an inherently bad thing, but a symbol of independence in its most neutral)

Some Skywing patrons I was thinking of were: the patron of duty- the first Skywing soldier, the patron of children/joy- the first kitemaker, the patron of guardians/parents- the lamplighter, and the patron of Skywing excellence/patriotism- the stormchaser.

Miners who die in Skywing tunnels also achieve something akin to a martyr status- spirits of those who bravely sacrificed their time in the sky to keep the caverns safe and protect those who would follow them. Not one patron, but the collective protection of spirits trapped underneath the ground

Sandwings

Sandwings are similar, but different: where Skywings have patrons who have been given a certain holy power, Sandwings have two kinds of spirits: the family spirits and folk heroes

I swear to god I wrote a Sandwing headcanon post, but I genuinely can't find it at all I don't know where it went. FOUND IT WHILE LOOKING FOR MY ICEWINGS POSTS. READ IT HERE. anyway tho starting with house/family spirits: Sandwings tend towards multigenerational homes, moreso than many other tribes, and remembering your family becomes increasingly important when there's so many of you

Most Sandwing houses keep a small shrine or altar for their dead relatives and their family history- some households have patron animals or spirits that they invoke for a little extra boost of fortune but these aren't like family crests as much as your family's,,, collective mythos

The Sandwing creation myth involves the First Sandwing tricking each animal into giving them a piece of themselves- the stinger and venom from scorpions, the quickness and wit of jackals, the resilience and scales of the lizards, and finally just snatching the wings and size from dragonbite vipers who used to rule the desert, who were reduced to their small snake status and have hated every Sandwing since. So if you want to pay special homage to your family being intelligent, the jackal might be your patron

This creation myth varies WILDLY- it can include many different animals or different exact retellings on what the original Sandwing tricked the animals into giving them, so patrons can vary and can be very house-specific

(I have a little draft, somewhere, of Thorn teaching Qibli her family history post-adoption/rescue and it being one of the moments that Qibli really starts to view her as family and not just the next Cobra)

Sandwing folk heroes are also super varied- I subscribe to Sandwings having a heavy oral storytelling tradition and general,,, art culture, so I'm not gonna write every single possible story you could tell with Sandwing folk heroes, but most of them embody those original Sandwing virtues- resilience, intelligence, and quick adaptability to come out on top

Mudwings

Mudwings already have their own dedicated post !!! yippeeeeee !!!! you can read it right over here :>

Mudwings are also big big oral storytellers but unlike Sandwings the gods are a more active part of these stories and the focus is rarely on individual Mudwings as much as the dynamics of the gods' dynamic as a sibling troupe.

Rarely,,, "worshipped" in the way Skywings will venerate their patrons or Sandwings will maintain their shrines, but passively appealed to and celebrated as like. the broadest encapsulation of what it is to be a Mudwing- the way they're moved by the seasons and their families moreso than anything else

Icewings

I wrote more lists originally about Icewing superstitions, which are right here, and I stand by basically all of that. I don't really know how to incorporate gods into that but I think a lot of Icewing superstition is just. vague cultural paranoia about Things Out There

Icewings have the strongest death beliefs/rituals out of any of the tribes imo- Icewing bodies need to be properly buried or the souls don't get to return to the soil, and become stuck on the ice.

Icewing funerals depend on if you live inland or on the coast- burials at sea are common for Icewings on the coast to allow the body to be taken by the water and allowed to disperse that way (though only when the ice isn't frozen over, as otherwise it may become trapped), and Icewings inland prefer open-air/sky burials that allow the body to decompose in nature.

Winter deaths are seen as bad luck, and are given extra caution and work (which also ties into Winter's role as a black sheep in the family- it's a bit of a dark name to give your child, especially as the youngest/least wanted heir of the family)

Great Ice Dragon,,,, I have no ideas for, I imagine just the source of all Icewings and their father who ensures that, despite it all, they can survive.

Seawings

least religious lets goooooooo

Seawings are just. straight up vibing. They're the most down to earth about being alive in the sense they're just animals like everything else (though they still have their own mixed feelings about dolphins from canon)

Seawings do put a lot of stock into destiny and fate though- almost as much as Nightwings, and they have a healthy stargazing culture and track the changing of seasons and time through the stars more than anything else.

Some Seawings think of themselves as fallen stars- scales still glowing from their core of starlight. Seawings who die return to the sky and come back in the form of comets, it's especially good luck to be born under a meteor shower.

Another common superstition is a Seawing's personal star- this can be as serious as knowing exactly where it is in the sky, or as lax as pointing to one and declaring it yours. This is the star that determins your destiny and is your personal guardian, you can look to it for good luck (plus if you pick right it can be a neat way to teach your children how to navigate).

Seawings LOVE tall-tales though. Almost everyone has a story of the time they 10000% saw A Sea Monster or a dolphin spoke to them in riddles, etc etc. Half the words out of a Seawing sailor's mouth are lies, and the other half are exagerrated beyond all reason (except of course,,, for the ones that are true)

This drives other tribes insane btw, especially the more devout ones like Skywings and Icewings. How are you going to make that shit up every time pls be serious for one moment (never)

Nightwings

The other least religious, but this time for complicated cultural reasons of. well. volcano.

Nightwings love science until they don't, essentially. Everything has a reason except the things we don't understand which are mysteries from beyond the pale that we just have to hope will one day become clear.

TL;DR: SO MANY GHOSTS. EVERYTHING IS HAUNTED.

Nightwings are like the closest to a lot of real world agnosticism- it could be real, but we just don't know yet. Lots of ghost sightings though and subtle signals from the universe. It's a bit of a collective coping mechanism for the loss of their powers + the amount of dragons, like Fatespeaker, who were born under the full moons but without a clear sky and thus only left with confusing powers.

(slaps the side of the canon Nightwing art) These bad boys can fit so much victorian ghost fear in them <3

Mastermind has and 100% would again drink absinthe to perform a seance to Nightwing seers of the past, prove me wrong

I think in older Nightwing mythology, there would have been lots of smaller gods and domains- complicated webs of connected esoteric spirits who each vied for power over the material world through their domains and contact with dragons.

The heart of it all is the Moons though- the three sisters of chance/luck, destiny/death, and soul. Something akin to the three fates but each in collaboration with each other over life.

In ye really olden days, some sects thought these spirits worked through scavengers. These guys are pretty broadly considered a strange cult though, and the history is scant at best.

Clearsight and Darkstalker would've grown up aware of these gods but given special privilege due to their powers- mostly as people exempt from the gods due to their connection to the moons as something surpassing the petty whims of spirits. Priests and priestesses would be preferred as powerless, as a clear head is needed to communicate with the gods fully.

Rainwings

Souls !! lots of souls !! Rainwings believe everything has a beating pulse and could be slash is alive in their own unique way.

The Rainwing gods are serpents- wingless but capable of moving through the trees as though they were flying, their scales a constant mass of brilliant colors. Names and identities are a WIP for me, bear with me as I flesh out these guys ;U;

Rainwings are big storytellers as well, and tend to create their own ideas and religions, in a sense. Being a puppeteer and performer especially is the closest to being a priest that a Rainwing can get- by embodying other things you are essentially changing your soul to align with them

Rainwings also aren't. super religious as much as just committed each to their own truth over a collective myth or story. Each Rainwing builds their own unique sense of mythology from the rainforest.

No gods no masters only fruit >:3c

I have some wips for each of these, some of them fics, some of them elaborations and continued myths, but I hope y'all enjoy them !!! All feedback welcome, as always.

[youaretwicemine]

It was unseasonably warm for May in London, but the stone castle retained a dank chill. I was quite put out. My advisors were conspiring against me, the monarchs of Europe sent presents and over-zealous notes, courting me only to line their hell-deep silk-satin pockets, and on top of all this, I had a toothache. The royal physician’s assistant—an upstart of a lad, blathering on about some new research he’d done—had suggested under his breath that I eat an orange, but the boy was clearly mad. Cold, nasty, puckery fruits full of pips, oranges.

A sharp rap sounded on the chamber door, and a courtier with a ruff whose enormous diameter surpassed his small stature entered and bowed. If he was shocked by the sour look on his Queen’s face (I was still thinking about oranges), he hid it well. “Your Grace, we have received pressing news regarding your royal cousin, Mary Queen of Scots. She has crossed Solway Firth and been taken into custody by local officials. Moreover, she has requested an audience with Your Majesty as soon as may be.” He waited expectantly for a reply. Moraines ‘pon them all. I am NOT in the mood. “Marlowe, place it upon my to-do list.” “Your…Y-yes, Your Grace,” he stammered in mild perplexity. “Am I to notify the messengers…” the words trailed into silence. Fool. “Nay. You are dismissed, Marlowe.” Reveling a little in his awkwardness, I fixed the unfortunate man such a glare that he scuttled out upon the spot, nearly overbalancing when his ruff collided with the narrow chamber doorway. God’s teeth, I’m in a foul temper today. This reflection did not bother me; the best strategies often strike at such times. I drummed my nails on the desk and returned to answering letters.

The blaring of a miserably out-of-tune trumpet drowned the quiet scratching of quill on paper. Rolling my eyes a little, I strode to the door and threw it open. “The Royal Cook to see Your Grace,” announced a page with an obnoxiously genuine smile. Various cooks and attendants entered as I moved back to accommodate them all, and a deluge of bowing ensued. “What is it, Francis?” “Well, Your Grace,” he began. I shall spare you the next half-hour—endless questions about each and every detail of the upcoming feast, down to which candlesticks to use for which table. Why should I care? I had important business to delay attending to! The rest of the day saw my temper growing shorter and my to-do list growing longer. Normally I relished the duties of reigning, the constant mental and social challenge, the decisions to be made. It was like playing a game of chess, but with lives at stake. How terribly thrilling. Yet today every request seemed insufferable, every demand absurd. Your Grace, we have found poachers in your royal forests. Hang them. The Royal Ambassador of King Philip II of Spain to see Her Royal Majesty, Queen Elizabeth of England. I entertained him as briefly as I dared. And so on and on, till day’s end neared and I would have been exhausted if I weren’t taking care to remain mad as a hornet.

My last audience of the evening was one I had looked forward to all week. I was receiving Sir Francis Drake, home in England at last after a long voyage. Francis was an excellent captain—and a better pirate, for his exploits often lined the British treasury at the expense of Spain’s insufferable King Philip. A bitter taste filled my mouth at the thought of that peeving wretch. Ignorant excuse for a monarch! courting indeed! I’d sooner marry a stable-boy! Shoving him out of my mind, I tried to set myself to enjoy the banquet.

Over dinner, Francis detailed his latest adventures to the entertainment and amazement of us all. I laughed, ate heartily, and relaxed a bit from the foulness of the day. Just as he was reaching the climax of an enthralling tale (never mind that his own glories therein may have been somewhat exaggerated), the cacophonous trumpets honked once more, announcing a befrilled emissary. He started to introduce himself and only got as far as “…representative of King Philip, Your Gra-“ before I was out of my chair. “Moraines heaped upon thee, sir!” This time the words were spoken aloud before I could help myself. All my previous irritability returned, and I forgot good sense and etiquette. “Fops! Bloodsuckers! Dandies feigning friendship! All day long I’ve been pulled hither and yon by fiends like you—no more! Out! Out! And let me eat my dinner in PEACE! Would that I were a buffalo! At least then I might dine on hay unhindered by heads of state!” I didn’t remember my voice could be so loud, but now it thundered out like cannon fire, echoing from every hard surface. Stepping forward towards the astonished dignitary, I tangled in my long skirts—usually managed with such care and precision—and toppled headlong—

—and awoke on the floor of my bedchamber with bruises on both elbows. My feet had tangled in my sheets, and I had tumbled out of bed. A dream and no more! I recalled my ludicrous conduct and burst out laughing. My lady’s maid bustled in and beheld the Queen of England crying tears of hilarity into the floorboards. “Y-your Highness, are you quite all right? I heard a thump and then a shriek and I…” “Jane, answer me one question: am I a buffalo?” Bewildering people was fun. I should try it more. Poor Jane looked at me, now thoroughly convinced a madwoman wore the English crown. “Why…no, Your Highness. You are our Queen.” “Good,” I said firmly. “I never liked hay, anyway.”

[swifty-fox]

Okay, so I'm rereading the chapter of KFAK in which they're at the party (when a new chapter uploads I'll reread other parts as well) and it's interesting trying to parse what's going through John's head in this chapter. Is he envious of Gale, for knowing who he is and what he wants and being able to compartmentalize all of it behind a facade that he gets to share with someone who also knows who *she* is and what she wants? John mentioned being annoyed with his mother clearly being impatient for him to find a wife and he's making a show of flirting with women all while struggling with his feelings for Gale and his realization that Gale has feelings for him, and is maybe confused and frustrated with how Gale's able to bury all of it and find a convenient lavender arrangement with a woman who understands and accepts him? When I first read this chapter I read it as John resenting Gale for leaving him behind and calling him a coward and was shocked, but if it's him not knowing how else to vent his frustration that Gale seems to be so cool and composed over everything he's repressed then it was still a hurtful thing to say but seems more in line with him and what we find out about him later. Sorry for the ramble I just kind of went, "ooOOh!" when looking back at it.

There's a lot of scenes I want to explore from John's POV in the sequel fic, especially those times where he and Gale are apart!

But yeah John definitely can hold his feelings and motivations very close to his heart when he wants to, which is a direct contrast to how he is with everything else, which is what throws Gale off a bit. he isn't used to not being able to read John and that's why he also starts pulling away. He's confused and hurt and questioning himself

I think at that point John is still considering his own sexuality only in the VAGUEST of terms, if it all. He understands that things feel wrong, that he's feeling 'broken' but chalks it more up to what he went through in the war (which is not entirely incorrect. He IS traumatized)

I do think he's looking at Gale with a very 'minemineminemine' mindset, especially when James is hanging off him and that kinda shocks him. He's hurt at not being chosen over a hookup but also what do you expect John is he going to just sit there faithfully like a dog for you to get your rocks off? His feelings aren't logical, he understands this, but he lashes out anyways. And maybe there is some small part of him that does resent Gale for getting out and him not. Especially considering what he now went through to protect Gale. Is it fair of him to feel that way? Not necessarily but is it understandable? Sure. He may not even realize he feels that way and that's part of the problem.

These boys don't have therapy!!

But I can say, John did not even sleep with Eunice. They got a little hot and heavy but when it came time to perform he choked. Blamed it on too much to drink but ultimately they ended up just talking about nothing much in particular before the sound of the fight interrupted them.

I think John's just...in a bad fucking mindset that day. If we look at the timeline, he spends most of the morning trying to be sober. He fails at that which is gonna lead to some self-resentment. paired with Gale poking fun at him about it, even if it's smoothed over. That's strike one on his bad mood.

Then he goes out with his mother and like he said, was having girls thrown at him. He feels like his mom is trying to force him to be fixed and better and normal. Not even in a sexuality sense per se, but just 'i have seen manmade horrors beyond any of these girls comprehension how am I supposed to marry them and love them and put that whole part of me aside' How is he expected to come home from war and pretend to not be damaged. GOSH John if only you had a FATHER you could talk to about that who KNOWS FIRSTHAND.

Third thing is seeing Gale with James and having Feelings about it. It's them arguing in the car. it's Gale's PALPABLE disappointment in him for drinking again. So he lashes out at Gale. He's only human. But yes some of it is "how are you so calm, how are you so composed how are you so put together all the time do you ever feel anything?"

meanwhile we know Gale feels so much all the fucking time he just doesn't know how to let it out

sorry this got so long LOL

[imaginejamesandsirius]

I was hoping you can write one with tooth rotting fluff. Maybe about Sirius being insecure because of his messed up home life and James making it his mission to shower him with hugs and praises 🥰

"You're the best person in the world," James says, very seriously, drink in one hand and the other gripping Sirius's shoulder. "You're- blimey, you're the best. Like, out of the entire population on this planet, if one person had to be picked as the best, it would be you."

"I'm not sure you have all the information to properly make that claim," he laughs, causing James to frown.

"No, I'm right."

"Sure about that, are you?" 

"Yes, because I've met you! You're awesome. You're so smart, everything you say should be written down for posperi- postert- we should write it all down so we can remember it because it's all right. And you-"

Lily tunes him out as he extols Sirius's virtues and turns to Peter and Remus-- both of whom, she notes, don't look like they've been listening to this from the start. "Is James always like this when he's drunk? Going on and on about how wonderful he thinks Sirius is?"

"Yes," they both say.

"Though, hang on a second," Remus adds. He shifts in his chair to turn towards her. "'When he's drunk' makes it sound like Prongs only does this when he's drunk."

"Mm, yeah, not true. He does this a lot," Peter says.

"Any time he's tired."

"Any time he's in a really good mood."

"Any time Sirius frowns for more than two seconds."

"Okay," Lily interjects when it looks like they'll continue, "I get the picture." Bloody hell. Peter and Remus had to be exaggerating at least a little bit-- otherwise she would've noticed sooner-- but for them to so easily complain about James talking about it, it had to be a more regular occurrence than she originally thought. She wants to pay attention to the drinking game some sixth years are playing like she was doing before James caught her attention, but when she turns to the group, her eyes drift back towards the pair.

James has been talking the entire time-- topic unchanged-- and he's now got an arm around Sirius instead of facing him. The hand holding his drink is curled into Sirius's chest as well, like he needs the extra point of contact to drive his point home.

Sirius is listening with an indulgent smile on his face. This strikes Lily as egotistical, and she frowns.

Remus catches her expression and guesses (incorrectly) what it's over. "If you're waiting for James to be done so you can talk to him, you're going to be waiting a long time."

"Ha, yeah."

*

James rests his chin on Sirius's shoulder and slips his arms around him at the same time. "You want to talk about it?" he asks quietly, aware of their dormmates on the other side of the room.

"Nothing to talk about," Sirius mutters-- a blatant lie.

"Mhm."

He's still glaring at the wall like it's done him wrong.

"You have me, you know that?" James whispers. "No matter what happens or what you do, you're stuck with me." He turns his face into Sirius's hair and inhales deeply. "You couldn't get rid of me if you tried."

"I figured, what with you acting like a bloody barnacle." He doesn't look happy but the glare is gone. Mission accomplished.

*

"Sirius!" James calls, barreling into his friend. He's so happy to see him that he lifts him off his feet, making Sirius laugh. "I missed you so much."

"It's been two hours," Lily says, rolling her eyes.

"Two hours too long, don't you know that, Evans?" Sirius says as he's set back down. "These sodding meetings of yours are killing our friendship."

James gasps theatrically, turning to Lily with wide eyes. "Maybe we can take him with us next time."

"No."

"But I need him! He keeps my brain working."

Sirius nods in agreement, but Lily rolls her eyes. She knows by now that it's useless to argue or try to find any logical reason why that's a bad idea, so she just says, "No," again as she walks up the staircase to the girls' dormitories.

*

"I know I joke a lot, but you know that I think you're great, yeah?" James asks.

Sirius glances over at him, but James's eyes are trained at the sky stretching out above them. They're laying on the Quidditch Pitch, looking at the stars. Ostensibly they came out here to drink; there's a bottle of firewhiskey beside them, but neither have reached for it. They haven't said much of importance tonight, which makes the question feel sudden.

"Like, I make a big production of it and shout it to the world like I'm teasing you, but it's the truth." James rolls his head to the side and meets Sirius's eyes. His hazel eyes are warm, flecked with bits of brown, and Sirius could drown in them, he's sure. He moves his hand, sliding his palm against Sirius's and squeezing. "I'd rather be with you than anyone else."

It feels ridiculous, sometimes, when James talks like this. He means it. He means it in a way Sirius can't wrap his head around. Every good thing he says about Sirius, he believes like it's a fact of life.

This time, Sirius smiles at him and says, "I know." Then, grin widening, he adds, "And I mean it what I say about you, too. Best bloke the world has ever seen."

James laughs. It curls his body a little, and he rolls onto his side to move with it. His hand is still holding Sirius's, and he uses the other to cup his cheek. "Imagine what our wedding vows will sound like."

"Everyone will leave the room before you're done talking about why you want to marry me."

"They can try," James says, his eyes glinting. "I'll ward the doors. No one leaves without my say-so."