#unself-conscious

[the-ephemeral-ethereal]

The essence of human experience lay not primarily in the peak experiences, the wedding days and triumphs which stood out in the memory like dates circled in red on old calendars, but, rather, in the unselfish-conscious flow of little things - the weekend afternoon with each member of the family engaged in his or her own pursuit, their crossings and connections casual, dialogues imminently forgettable, but the sum of such hours creating a synergy which was important and eternal.

from Hyperion by Dan Simmons

[hussyknee]

If you aren't reading KJ Charles's books I sincerely do not know what you're doing with your life.

[basicallyanotherwitchesthing]

Hilary Evans - Alternate States of Consciousness: Unself, Otherself, and Superself - Aquarian Press - 1989

[onewomancitadel]

On that note of Hugh Grant, the problem with Bridget Jones is that I find Bridget completely insufferable and I want her to end up with Hugh Grant instead of Mark Darcy, and I don't find Mark Darcy all that charming either. Hugh Grant is not a good translation of Mr. Wickham and overall the whole thing doesn't make much sense for a Pride & Prejudice redux because it lacks the social context which carries it, but that by virtue makes him less of a reprehensible character (like Wickham who is completely inappropriate. Wickham running off with Lizzie's baby sister after trying that stunt with Darcy's baby sister is different from running off with Darcy's fiancée).

But then you would be writing a romance about two insufferable and morally questionable people, and it's not really a romcom anymore. It would've been funnier though.

[kellylor]

Me, watching the last two episodes of Good Omens S2 this weekend: Ok I see why lots of people are upset, but this emotional beat is the middle of my favorite kind of romantic arc and I trust the writers. I feel completely normal about Aziraphale and Crowley.

Also me:

- immediately starts rewatching S1 but only the Aziracrow interactions

- spends two days scrolling through the ineffable husbands tag on tumblr, despite repeatedly claiming not to be interested Fandom Discourse

[naughtybg3confessions]

Love the idea of the Tadfools being so comfortable around each other that sex just becomes another casual camp activity. Shadowheart and Lae'zel's sparring turns into other kinds of 'handling weapons' while Karlach calls out tips. Karlach and Wyll pet and stroke and cuddle a blissed-out Astarion by the fire to help him get used to affectionate intimacy while Gale and Lae'zel discuss Waterdhavian vs githyanki food culture and cook dinner. Gale, Halsin, and Shadowheart compare magic then compare 'magic' while Astarion reads beside them (and occasionally gives snarky commentary). Lae'zel shows Wyll just what a greatsword is like compared to a rapier to an eager Karlach while Gale eagerly explains all he's learned about swordsmanship (theoretically, of course). Karlach heating up water for a DIY hot tub and raising temperatures and passions for some while others just relax and enjoy the company. Gale and Shadowheart having a nice wine while Astarion has a nice Halsin. Just affectionate, unself-conscious sex and intimacy between a bunch of people who know and trust and care about each other more than they've ever trusted anyone else.

[whositmcwhatsit]

Enjoyable Slide to Oblivion

Chapter 13: Promises and Jealousies

AN: I can't stay away from my original baby. Please enjoy a fluffy, smutty, angsty.... thing from me with all my usual ingredients: temper tantrums, allusions to drugs, both baby and 70s Elvis, Elvis smirking, Elvis... elvising.

You might want a refresh, but it's not really necessary Chapter 12

Thanks for @thatbanditqueen for providing vital feedback as always.

Early 1956

Chancy held her breath as she pulled the car up alongside the Cadillac Fleetwood parked on the gravel driveway. She had only been driving a few weeks and her parking was still a work in progress. Navigating near Elvis’ pride and joy just added to the pressure.

“Oh my goodness, we made it!” Alicia gasped, opening the rear door and staggering out dramatically. 

“I wish you’d stop doing that every time we go anywhere!” Chancy snapped, leaning out of the car to change her shoes. 

“I’m just saying what we’re all thinking!”

“Yeah, well, we’re all thinking that you’re a brat!”

“Chancy!” Grandma reproached softly over the top of the car, both her tone and her face suggesting she was disappointed rather than angry, which was always worse. 

“Sorry, Grandma.” 

Alicia skipped across the yard, swinging her arms in that loose-limbed unself-conscious way of a child and Chancy envied her a little. She couldn’t remember ever being that unconcerned and content herself, but then again, she and her sister had had very different lives though they came from the same family. 

Chancy walked with studied casualness alongside Grandma to make sure that she didn’t slip on the wet grass or leaves, trying not to let her know that was what she was doing. 

By the time they had reached the steps up to the porch, the front door was open and Mrs Presley was standing silhouetted in the light with a big warm smile on her face. She commented on how tall Alicia had grown, which was the perfect thing to say since Alicia was the shortest in her class and conscious of it. Over the top of Alicia’s head she gave Chancy a knowing smile and ushered them in. 

In the living room, Mr Presley was dissecting the newspaper on his lap and gave them a brusque nod as they all piled in, shedding their coats. 

“Make yourselves comfortable. Chancy, come help me fetch the drinks?” 

Chancy smiled and shot up from the sofa, following Mrs Presley into the kitchen. 

“Where’s Elvis?”

“Oh, he only woke up not ten minutes ago. You know, I don’t think that boy rests at all when he’s away from home, and it takes a full day just flat out sleeping to catch up. He needs to start taking better care of himself. Here, why don’t you take this lemonade in to him.”

Chancy glanced into the living room where Grandma was sat in silence waiting for Mrs Presley’s return and the only noise that Mr Presley produced was a rustling of the newspaper. Alicia was on the floor playing with Elvis’ dog, Boy, giggling as he excitedly licked at her face. 

Chancy tapped on Elvis’ bedroom door and pushed it open. 

“I’m up! I’m up. I’m… almost up,” came a muffled mumble from within the darkened haze of the bedroom. 

“You liar!” Chancy said playfully, treading cautiously over carelessly discarded shoes, clothes, cases and instruments.

There was a pause and then Elvis sat up slightly, pulling his blanket to his chest like a maiden protecting his virtue.

“Cha-Cha?!” His voice went high and she couldn’t help giggling, enjoying getting the upper hand and surprising him for once.

“Get a lot of girls coming into your bedroom, do you?” she returned, perching on the side of the bed. His hair was sticking out in all directions and he seemed to think of it just as she was noticing, his hand reaching up to cover/smooth it. 

“What are you doing here, what time’s it?” His voice was adorably hoarse and matched his sleep-puffy face and squinting eyes. 

“A little after six.” 

“At night?!” 

Chancy couldn’t help but giggle again at the way his voice cracked and he dropped back onto his pillows in stunned realization that he had slept the whole day away. She slid the glass of lemonade onto his nightstand and watched him grab it and gulp it down thirstily. 

After a few seconds, his legs moved around beneath the blankets and he complained, “Ugh, I have got one hell of a crick in my neck.” She shot him a disapproving look at his language, but it got lost in the murky darkness. “Rub my neck for me, baby.” He rolled onto his front and grabbed her hand, pulling it and dropping it on his shoulder like she wasn’t moving fast enough for his liking. 

Sighing affectionately, Chancy started kneading her thumb into the muscles and tendons that passed down the back of his neck and into his shoulder, trying not to respond to the soft little moans he was making, she knew deliberately, to get her riled up. 

“Ain’t no one can do that the way you can,” he murmured, one hand hanging off the bed and gripping her ankle. 

Chancy had no doubt that he had discovered this through rigorous testing too. They had broken up just after Christmas and the grapevine had been sure to let her know that Elvis was getting over her with just about every girl that crossed his path, on the road, up in New York when he was performing on TV, even at home in Memphis. 

When he showed up at her house after New York, he had claimed that it was all overblown and that every time he had to speak to a girl, the newspapers and magazines turned her into his date, but it wasn’t the papers that had told her friends to tell her that he was ‘plowing through every girl like it was his job.’ His cousin Gene didn’t write for the papers, or much at all as far as Chancy knew.

Ironically, the reason they had broken up was that she had got a Christmas present from a boy in her class; just a little skating figurine that the boy said reminded him of her after they had gone, as a big group from school, roller skating one weekend. When Elvis found out, because Alicia couldn’t keep her big mouth shut, he acted like the ornament was an engagement ring and the big argument had ended with both the figurine and their relationship in pieces. 

It had been their longest break-up yet. They had had little tiffs before, usually something to do with him being away so often, it made both of them suspicious and jealous over the other, but nothing quite like the one at Christmas. It had been the first time that Chancy had not been certain that they would get back together. She had suffered through an unprecedented month of not seeing him, in person at least, since he was just about everywhere she looked on television, magazines, newspapers and almost constantly being played on the radio. 

Then, the night he got back into town, he was at her door as if nothing had ever happened, telling her all about New York and what it was like recording for a big record label like RCA Victor and how he had hardly had any sleep and the food hadn’t tasted right. She had been so glad to see him, so relieved, that she had risked Grandma’s wrath by climbing onto the back of his motorcycle and letting him take her for a ride all the way down to Riverside. 

Without warning, Elvis flipped over onto his back, his neck apparently miraculously healed, and tried to yank her down by pulling hard on her arms. 

“Ow!” she cried, fruitlessly fighting his grip, “too rough! Elvis, stop it!” He abruptly let her go and pulled himself up in a seated position, his pouty, sheepish face clear in the half-light.

With a mournful sigh, he let his head drop forward against her upper arm and she shivered, smiling, as she felt the little kisses he was pushing against her bicep. 

“Sorry,” he murmured in a baby voice, “Just missed my widdle baby so much.”

Before too long, the kisses had moved upwards, over her shoulder and to her neck as his warm hands drew her forward, pulling her down incrementally with patient but determined slowness. 

As was becoming more and more common these days, even with their parents and guardians just outside, Chancy wondered how far she would let this go, if today was the day when she would relent just that slight bit more and they would go all the way. It was the last boundary, the last little piece of herself that she had not given to him, and she was aware that, as the world became more and more enamored with him, threw everything at him, that she would have to keep giving, too, in order to keep hold of him. 

It was taken out of her hands when the bedroom door flew open and the overhead light flickered into stark brightness.

“Elvis, your mama says that you need to get your behind out of bed or you’ll be sorry!” Alicia announced. “Say, why are you two sitting in the dark?”

“Anyone else in your family wanting to march into my bedroom tonight?” Elvis commented, dropping back onto the pillows with an air of exasperation. “Grammy ain’t waiting in the hall, is she?”

“No, but she is in the living room, so keep your voice down!” Chancy whispered. “Alicia, get out!”

“Hey!” Elvis grabbed hold of the back of her skirt as she stood to steer her sister out of the room. “Don’t run off!”

“You need to get dressed!”

“I think I need help!” he returned, pouting cutely. 

“Okay, I’ll send in Grandma,” she replied, giggling when she was hit on the back by a pillow as she walked out the door. 

Not much later, Elvis was sat between Chancy and his mother on the couch, drinking his third glass of lemonade and telling Grandma about life on the road. Chancy had to give him credit, he was note perfect, playing down the mischief that he got up to, and instead talking about the interesting and/or famous people he had met on the Hayride, and the pretty country he had driven through. 

“Can’t tell you how glad I am to get home though,” he pronounced, his jiggling left leg nudging into Chancy even as he was patting her and his mother’s knees. “Don’t think I had anything worth eating in nearly two weeks!”

“You know, Chancy’s been so busy these last couple of weeks too. Haven’t hardly seen her!” Grandma said, airily shaking her head. Elvis’ eyes sharpened and he leant forward in his seat. 

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh my yes, one of the families at church, the Barkers, their home burned down just last month and they lost everything, Lord help them. The church have been fundraising to give them a little something, help them get back on their feet. Chancy here helped put on a dance. She organized everything, and in just two weeks too.”

Chancy felt uncomfortable as everyone looked at her with a variety of expressions on their faces. It was sweet of Grandma to give her all the credit, but the truth was that she had just called up all her pals on the usual committees and all the girls pitched in. Margie and Barb were just the tops at talking reluctant, cantankerous adults into submitting to their will with the sheer force of their enthusiasm and, once they managed to get a number of local businesses to sponsor the event in exchange for advertising and the chance to put up sidings, it had all come together. 

Chancy had come up with the idea, but after that she preferred to be the cheerleader, the secretary, making sure everyone was where they were supposed to be and at the right time, ensuring the budgets were balanced and everyone knew when to show up to decorate the school gym. She could create a color-coded notebook like nobody else.

“I was just saying to Vernon the other day, wasn’t I, Vernon- Vernon! Wasn’t I? I said Chancy hasn’t been coming around here so much these past couple of weeks. I thought you were busy with school, but you were doing all that work, honey, and for that poor family? What a sweet little girl you are!”

Warmth spread through Chancy at Mrs Presley’s pronouncement. She had a way of talking and smiling at you that made you feel like you were being hugged, much like her son, except he wasn’t looking like he wanted to hug her very much right then. 

“Wasn’t that clever and sweet of Chancy, Elvis, to do that?” Mrs Presley prompted, after Mr Presley had glanced up and given a vaguely disinterested, lopsided smile and nod. 

“Yeah, yeah, she’s real clever and sweet, Mama,” Elvis murmured, not looking at Chancy. 

When Chancy volunteered to help Mrs Presley dish up dinner, Elvis followed, leaning in the kitchen doorway while he watched them perform what was by now a familiar dance routine. 

Chancy could feel him behind her even when he didn’t say anything, could feel the weight of his thoughts and emotions almost as if they began in her. She could even feel him working up to say something, but before he did, Mrs Presley scolded him for hovering and sent him off to the table with a basket of rolls. 

“I just can’t stop thinking about that poor family,” she confided to Chancy as she plated up the chicken. “No one was hurt, were they?”

“No, Ma’am, they all got out okay,” Chancy reassured her. “They’re moving into a new apartment at the end of the month, and I heard Mrs Barker telling Grandma that the Lord sure does work in mysterious ways, because they would’ve never been in the position to live in a place so fine before.”

“And that’s down to you,” Mrs Presley said, patting her arm. 

“Oh no…” Chancy demurred, feeling awkward but not wanting to lose that look of pride in Mrs Presley’s eyes when she looked at her.

She whirled around to bring the corn to the table and almost smacked into Elvis’ chest. He silently grabbed her arm and drew her into an alcove by the bedroom doors.

“You didn’t say nothing about no dance when I called you,” he whispered fiercely.

“Didn’t I? Maybe you didn’t call when it was happening. It was so last minute.” She saw by the way he ground his back teeth that he got the underlying jab. 

“I called plenty enough for you to say something. I-It just gets me to thinking that there’s maybe other things you ain’t telling me.” 

Chancy took a surreptitious peek into the kitchen to see that she hadn’t been missed and then pressed up onto her tiptoes and kissed him to try and defuse the situation. He didn’t pull away but he didn’t respond either. 

“Who took you?”

“Huh?”

“To the dance, who was your date?”

“Nobody, I was helping out.” He shook his head and went to walk away and she grabbed his arm, still trying to balance the dish of corn. “We went as a group, a big group of us.” He let himself be pulled back into the alcove and she shoved the dish onto a side table so she could press up on him. 

“Who took you home?” 

“Margie and her date. I was a lonesome wallflower the whole night, don’t worry.” 

“Baby, you know that ain’t what I want,” he murmured, gripping her waist with his fingers. “I just- I gotta make the most of this while I can. Ain’t no telling how long it’s gonna last, you know that.” He stroked her side with his thumb as he spoke. “Just… be patient, honey, and remember what you promised me.” He was leaning back against the wall, his head slightly tilted back as he looked down at her, all heavy-lidded eyes and full lips. She couldn’t remember anything right then. 

“There’s my corn!” Mrs Presley snatched the dish off the table and gave them both a leveling look. “Let’s go sit at the table, huh, and remember why we’re all here?” She cuffed Elvis’ shoulder as he jerked upright and followed Chancy. 

Awkward and sheepish, they shuffled into the dining room where everyone else was already seated and looking at them expectantly.

Why they were all here finally came up as they were eating. It felt like most of the evening had been tiptoeing around the shape of it, no one quite willing to touch on it, but leave it to Alicia to bulldoze her way right through it like someone who had never had anything fragile to look after. 

“You know, Aunt Rose said that I might be allowed to get a kitten when we go to visit, but only if I take care of it,” she informed the table after getting caught trying to hide food to give to Boy. 

“Well, she said ‘might’,” Grandma reminded her quietly, taking a dainty bite of greens. 

“Chancy said she wouldn’t go even if she was allowed to get an elephant.”

Chancy winced as she closed her eyes and felt her body heat up several hundred degrees. She just kept chewing the same piece of chicken, feeling as though she would never be able to swallow it down. 

“That also remains to be seen,” Grandma commented primly. She had a way of seeming small and delicate and also as rigid and resilient as iron. 

“Well, if it helps, Grammy, I promise I wouldn’t let her get an elephant,” Elvis put in, giving her that winsome, impossible not to love boyish look. 

“I sure appreciate that, son,” Grandma replied, smiling in spite of herself, “but I’m more concerned with making sure she’s still attending school and giving her attention to her studies.”

“I told you I would,” Chancy said softly. She looked to Mrs Presley since they had talked about this, about how they would handle this so many times. 

“Mrs White, you know that schooling is just as important to us. We made sure that Elvis graduated before anything else and we’d do the same with Chancy, I can promise you that. We all know she’s a smart girl.” 

Chancy nodded slightly like a director pleased with how the lead had recited the script. She turned back to her grandmother.

“I understand that, Gladys,” Grandma nodded. “And I’ve always appreciated how much you and your family care for Chancy. It’s just that… I promised her mother that I would raise her, that I would take care of both girls the best I could. And leaving her behind, even if it is for a little while, it just doesn’t sit right, not at all.”

Chancy forced the overly chewed chicken down and she could almost feel it drop into her tense stomach. She looked at Elvis and, though he had been following the exchange between the two women closely, it seemed he felt the prod of her gaze as his eyes dropped to her face and his expression softened.

“Grammy, I can promise you that I love Chancy and-and I would never do nothing- anything- to spoil her or ruin all the hard work you’ve done raising her up so well. It’s- It’s because you done such a good job that I love her so much!” 

Chancy had been scrutinizing and scoring the exchange like she was a judge, deducting points for the bad grammar, which she knew made Grandma curl up like a snail on salt, and adding points for earnestness. It took a beat for her to actually hear the meaning of the words and she coloured a little, her eyes welling slightly. 

“And if I stay here while you’re taking care of Uncle Stan then I can keep going to school every day instead of getting and sending all my assignments in the mail. I’m so close to graduation, after all.” 

As soon as she said the words, Chancy wanted to swallow them back up, because that left the door open to Grandma laying down the law about what happened after graduation, when she no longer had the tie of school, when she should have been thinking about her future. Luckily, faced with their three pleading expressions, Grandma wasn’t exactly thinking her clearest. 

After dinner, Mrs Presley shooed them out of the house with conspiratorial excitement. Elvis obeyed without hesitation, but Chancy wavered, leading Mrs Presley to give her a firm peck on the cheek and push her off out of the door. 

“Go on, babies, let the grown ups talk now!” She spoke with such a sense of control and determination that Chancy’s stomach finally eased a little. Mrs Presley would take care of it, iron out those final little wrinkles that Grandma kept rucking into their plans, and Chancy would be able to stay instead of being dragged off deep into the backwoods of Mississippi with Grandma to help take care of Uncle Stan after his big operation. 

They had to bribe Alicia to stay behind, Elvis asking her, all furrowed brow and bottom lip, if she wouldn’t mind taking Boy for a walk and looking after him until they got back. The Presleys outmaneuvered the Crawfords so completely that evening that Chancy should have had more of a sense of foreboding and outrage about it, but it wasn’t until much later that she realized that she had already switched teams, that she had been the first victim. 

“You think your mama can do it?” Chancy asked, as Elvis slid his arm along the seat behind her and turned to reverse out of the drive. “Grandma can be real stubborn.” 

“I think if anyone can, Mama can,” he nodded, winking at her. “Grammy ain’t coldhearted, she knows how much we love each other.” His breath hitched as he laughed softly. “And how you can’t live without me.” 

“If that was true I’d be dead a hundred times over!” she retorted. It took a minute for Elvis to respond, a tiny battle where she watched him decide whether to snap back or let it go. He finally chose the latter and hit her with a peck to the temple. 

“Prettiest ghost I ever saw.” 

As was happening more and more often, they were not alone for long, and pretty soon they had gathered up some of Elvis’ friends and were cruising the streets, sniping and poking at each other playfully. Red had a girl with him too, so when they stopped for drinks and snacks, Arthur was sent in to fetch them. 

“Soooo rich and famous and we’re sitting here getting Krystals,” remarked Red’s date, emerging from beneath him with her lipstick smeared across her cheek in the back seat. “How much money do you even make anyway?” 

Even with his face buried in the crook of her neck, Chancy could imagine Elvis’ expression as he tensed against her. He hated bad manners, especially in girls, and while he wanted everyone to know how well he was doing, talking specifics really made him uncomfortable. The girl had already made cracks about the car, wanting to know how much he paid for it, and had also remarked that Elvis was wearing flashier jewelry than his own girlfriend, implying he was cheap. 

“Hey, cool it, would ya?” Red muttered, grabbing the girl and pushing her back against the seat so he could mess up her lipstick and clothes some more.    

It was too late, that little switch inside Elvis that turned him from the sweet, polite, silly boy to the crazy, reckless, and wild one had already been flicked. Chancy could feel it, her senses keenly attuned, and she was now just waiting to see how it announced itself. He glanced up from nibbling her shoulder and saw Arthur heading towards them with the sack of food. 

With what might have outwardly looked like a playful grin, Elvis started the engine and pulled off just as Arthur reached out to grab the door handle. Arthur being Arthur, none the wiser, hurried after them. Elvis made the car squeak to a stop, let Arthur grab the handle and then jerked forward. He did it a couple more times until, finally, breathless, bewildered and slightly annoyed, the boy dropped into the car, still diligently hoisting the sack. 

“Gimme that,” Elvis snapped, snatching it out of his hands just as Red and as his date reached for it too. 

With his jaw clenched so tightly that you could hear his teeth cracking, Elvis emptied the sack out of his car window, then yanked the car into reverse and shot back, before driving over all the contents, letting his tires spin, and then flying out of the parking lot like a flash. 

“Now no sonovabitch is eatin’!” he raged. 

Seconds later, he was pulling up alongside the sidewalk, the poor Cadillac bouncing to a premature stop, and Chancy having to throw out her hands to brace herself against the dashboard. Red was already telling his date to get her things together like a man trying to help his wife prepare for an oncoming hurricane. So, when Elvis yelled for either the girl or both of them to ‘get fuck out’, he was ready to bundle her out instantly. Red barely pushed the door shut behind them before Elvis took off again. 

Chancy turned her head, watching through the rear window as the girl stumbled over the sidewalk trying to gather her purse and her jacket, looking shell shocked. Chancy caught Arthur’s eye and he gestured in confusion for an explanation, but she shook her head very slightly.  

After a tense few minutes, Elvis pulled over near an abandoned lot and jumped out of the car, pacing back and forth, his outstretched fingers clenching and unclenching. Chancy slid out after him and Arthur had the good sense to stay where he was. 

“Why’d she have to ruin everything like that?!” he cried, gesturing so wildly that Chancy took a step back just in case. “We were having a good time, weren’t no call for her to start in with her bullshit!” He wrinkled his nose and gave an impression that sounded like a cross between Mickey Mouse and Droopy:

“How much money do you make, Elvis? Why you gotta wear so much jewelry, Elvis? Why you eating burgers, Elvis? Shoulda shoved those burgers right up her-” Chancy finally took the chance and grabbed his arm as he passed her, almost getting yanked along for the ride. 

As he turned to storm back the other way, he wrapped his arms around her in a bear hug and marched her right up against the wall of a darkened store, pressing in tight. She was rubbing his back as he pressed into her front, soothing him like a colicky baby, feeling his tense muscles beginning to unlock. He rested his forehead against her shoulder and she heard him take some deep breaths, trying to calm himself. They were on the home straight now, she just had to keep on rubbing and murmuring, pressing her lips against his fluttering pulse. 

He shuffled forward, his hips tilting against her stomach where she could feel that he was riled up all over. His thighs squeezed her leg between them and he finally just slumped, the dark, demonic rage flushed out of him. Now, he scooped her jaw between his hands and was kissing her as if trying to wash out the taste of his temper with the taste of her. 

“Baby’s all better now,” she said softly, submitting to the baby talk in a way she only ever did to soothe him after an episode like this. He exhaled into the kiss and nodded, pushing his forehead against hers. 

“Sorry,” he murmured in a breath. “He’s sorry.” 

“I know.” She felt him gripping her fingers and, when he stepped back, she glimpsed his diamond pinky ring on her finger. Her stomach lurched at the sight of it on her left ring finger, but she knew he hadn’t really been thinking about that. “Honey, you don’t have to-” 

“And that’s why I did it.” He shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably, finding it hard to carry what he had done in the past twenty minutes. It was always the same, after. “C’mon Cha Cha, we gotta go.” 

“Where are we going?” she asked, though she already knew.

“Well, we can’t just leave ‘em on the street.” 

The switch flipped back, the other Elvis held the door open for Chancy to slide in and then joined her, pulling her hand onto his thigh as he started the car. 

“Hey, you doing alright back there, Arturo?” he commented with exaggerated good humor, sounding the all-clear. Arthur nodded and sat up, his face bright again. 

“Yeah, sure thing!” 

And they were back on the road. 

Red was by himself, traipsing along the sidewalk by the time they caught up to him. Elvis leaned on the horn and when Red turned and squinted into the headlights, he didn't look surprised to see who it was. 

“There you are, man!” Elvis called out of the window. “Knew I’d find ya, could make out that hair from five miles down the road!”

Back on Getwell, Elvis pulled up next to Grandma’s old Ford and fixed a faraway stare at the house with its glowing windows. Chancy sat beside him, arranging her hands on her lap so that she looked like a genteel Southern lady, mainly to stop herself from stroking the creases that ran from his nose and the corner of his mouth, tickling a smile out of him. 

“You know, if your mama hasn’t convinced Grandma, I’m gonna walk all the way back from Mississippi,” she said finally. “When my shoes wear out, I’ll just carry on walking barefoot.”

“You ain’t leaving,” he said in a low voice. In spite of how quietly he had spoken, the ferocity was deafening. He looked down at her hands folded so primly and picked up her left, frowning over it pensively. 

“You can have it back, I-” He gave a fierce shake of the head and she stopped. 

“What if it was real?” he said, his words flowing slowly like a lazy river. “W-what if we just drove on down there tonight and… I mean, you’re nearly eighteen, ain’t nobody that could stop us!”

“They’d kill us!” Chancy breathed, even as her chest was swelling with excitement. “We’d be married and dead in a day. They would take turns: Grandma, then your mama, your daddy, Grandma Minnie… Uncle Stan when he’s feeling better…” 

For a moment, they tilted on a knife point, the desire to do it, to lie about her age and get themselves a marriage license, tie themselves together so that they didn’t have to bend and scrape and beg for anyone’s permission to be together again versus the fear of the no doubt terrible consequences. 

Chancy wouldn’t have to worry whether the photos she saw were really fans or the easy girls that threw themselves at Elvis when he was on the road. She could go with him, get away from rules and babysitting and dusty textbooks about dusty subjects. 

The fire dampened in Elvis’ eyes before she felt it gutter and extinguish within her. She knew what he was about to say before the words pierced their excited bubble. 

“Colonel says that if I get married right now, it’ll be over.” He swallowed, hitting his long thumbs against the top of the steering wheel. “All of this-” He flapped his hand at nothing in particular, but she took it to mean the comfortable one-family house he was renting, the car, the bills paid on time. “All of it, just gone.”

Chancy nodded, feeling her throat tighten and her eyes prickle over losing an idea that hadn’t been hers to begin with, that she had not even considered until he put it out there. 

“I’ll wait,” she croaked, clutching her fingers together until they turned white. “You know I’ll wait.” She started to slide the ring from her finger, but he grabbed her hand, his own fingers damp and shaking. 

“Whenever you get to worrying or thinking that I don’t love you, Cha Cha, I want you to look at it and remember that you are my perfect little baby, ain’t nobody more perfect for me than you. And one day you’re going to be my wife.” He kissed her hard, like he could will the words into truth with the force of his lips smashing against hers. He sighed and shook his head. “And if Mama hasn’t changed Grammy’s mind, then we’re just gonna forget all of that and find a damn courthouse. Colonel or no Colonel.” 

Chancy laughed, unspent tears spilling from the corners of her eyes, and felt the weight of the ring as she lifted her hand to wipe them away. 

That night, she had to make a thousand promises to her Grandma, promises to go to school daily, even if she was sick, even if she was run over by a bus on the way; promises to be a good girl and not do anything that could sully her reputation or diminish herself in anyone’s eyes; promises to always heed the Presleys just as she did her grandmother; promises to call whenever she could…

“You’re only going for a few weeks!” Chancy said with a laugh. “We’ll all be back home before we know it!” Grandma just looked at her for a long time, her eyes uncharacteristically hazy, until Chancy had to start touching her face and shifting in her seat. She had known what was really happening, even if Chancy had been too young and stupid to see it. 

“I promise.”

Mid 1973

The white Stutz shot across the intersection, which was thankfully clear, forcing the cavalcade of cars behind to do the same to keep up. Chancy winced at the distant sounds of horns as someone in the back encountered traffic. 

“A microphone, godfuckingdammit? Who steals a motherfucking microphone?!” Elvis seethed, gripping the wheel with white knuckles, glaring out from beneath his wide brimmed hat. “And fucking how’d they do it? Twenty sonsofbitches on payroll and not one of ‘em sees a goddamn thing!” 

The silence from Charlie and David in the back seat was a wall built for their own protection, and his, knowing that whatever was said would just make things worse. 

“I knew I made a fucking mistake agreeing to record in that shithole. Only reason the place is still standing is ‘cause the rats and the roaches are working together to hold up the damn walls. Fucking broken down, dirty-” He was thumping the hard rim of the steering wheel with his knuckles to emphasise each word. 

“Good to stay in Memphis though,” Charlie remarked blithely from the backseat. “Better than hauling our asses out to Nashville.” 

It was far too soon, Elvis was not ready for the bright side yet and Charlie was about three drinks too far in to gauge it right. 

“Fuck Memphis!” Elvis bellowed. “And fuck recording too! If RCA wanna sue me for breach of contract, they can go right ahead! Ungrateful motherfuckers, how many records have I sold for them over the years?!”

It had been a trying night. Chancy was very quickly discovering that working all day and being with Elvis at night was not a feasible plan. Really it had been sheer wishful thinking from the beginning. 

The day before, she had wished so many clients a good evening before eleven thirty in the morning that her assistant Lynette had started to worry she was having a medical episode. And when she yawned one too many times in the studio, Elvis had cut the session short without recording a thing and stormed back home, though not to let her sleep. No, he decided that what she was lacking was excitement, so he, Red, Sonny and Dave had put on a karate demonstration for everyone that featured disarming an assailant using a gun with live ammunition. He noted triumphantly that she didn’t yawn once through that. 

And then on to tonight, where he had taken almost three hours to dress, calling up various people to discuss different matters with them in his dressing room like he was an executive taking meetings. 

Chancy had waited in the bedroom at first, trying not to doze off in all her finery, but eventually wandered downstairs and visited with Grandma Minnie, who regaled her with all the old stories about Elvis as a sweet, thoughtful little boy as if she had not heard them before. Some of them had changed over the years since Chancy had first heard them, turning almost into parables: ‘Elvis helps the old man across the road’, ‘Elvis gives all his toys to the poor’, ‘Elvis heals the sick by bringing them a glass of water’. 

The absurdity, of the stories but never Grandma Minnie’s devotion to her grandson, was even more apparent when Elvis tapped on the door and appeared swathed in a Superfly outfit that made him look like he was taking a break from making a cocaine deal that would get him out of the ghetto and set him up for life in order to record some records. 

“Now that is an outfit!” Chancy pronounced, reaching over and rubbing the velvet fedora as Elvis leant down to greet his grandmother. She had to bite down hard to stop herself questioning the fur coat in a Memphis summer, because she knew he would either get upset or go and find a matching cape to let her know what he thought of her advice. 

“Well, I figure if I can’t wear it now…” 

Chancy nodded and smiled, hoping that the guys at Stax would take the clumsy homage as earnestly as it was intended. She doubted Elvis would notice either way, his voice was soft and slow and his movements slightly out of time or sync; he was using more than the thick fur coat to insulate him from what had increasingly become more of a chore over the years. 

“Okay, Dodger, I gotta go to work,” he announced, giving the fragile-looking lady an uncharacteristically gentle kiss on the cheek and rubbing her arms. 

As he drew back up, his eyes fell on Chancy and narrowed. She had a moment of dread that he might ask her to go put on the white fur he had bought while they were on tour and quickly decided she would just fake a faint. Drop right there on the carpet.  

“What’s wrong with your neck?” he asked sharply, peering down his nose, his eyes looking almost black. 

“My neck?” Chancy put her hand to her throat, quickly trying to catch up. Grandma Minnie rolled her eyes indulgently and gave Elvis’ hand on her shoulder a little tap. 

“Yeah, c’m’ere a second.”  She approached tentatively, knowing it was just as likely that he would pretend to throttle her than fix whatever problem he had spotted. When she felt a cold weight unravel and slide down her chest, she slumped a little with relief before she examined what it was. She lifted the pendant and tried to make sense of the lettering picked out in diamonds. It wasn’t difficult. 

“Elvis,” she read slowly. 

“Yes, sweetheart?” he replied dryly. She fixed him with a look of affectionate irritation. 

“Thank you, I’d been trying to work up the courage to ask you to remind me of your name, but it seemed a little awkward after so long.” 

He glanced at his grandmother, her presence muting whatever reply he had originally intended. 

“You can give it back if you’re gonna-”

“No, no, it’s beautiful, honey, thank you!” She gave him a hasty kiss and made a big show of letting Grandma have a closer look. She pronounced it ‘very fine’ and then made a comment about them being a good looking couple that had them both shuffling their feet and fighting embarrassed smiles like they were in Junior High. 

“Yeah, she ain’t bad to look at,” Elvis mumbled, clearing his throat. “C’mon Ugly, we gotta get going.” He snorted as she swatted his back, waving goodbye to Grandma Minnie as she followed him out of the room. 

When they got to the studio, the long jamming and joking session started as everyone warmed up. Chancy recognised a few of the session musicians from a previous life, but she was a little distracted by the way that Kathy was giving her furtive looks even as she seemed engrossed in working out her parts with Mary Greene and the Holladay sisters. 

When Chancy had got back from work earlier that day, everyone had been down by the pool as Elvis was working on his tan for Las Vegas. Chancy had wandered out there after changing out of her office wear and found Elvis and Kathy on adjacent sun loungers, heads close together as everyone splashed and laughed and joked around them. Apparently they were discussing weighty spiritual matters, but Chancy had the distinct feeling of intruding on something personal, serious. It made her return to the house soon after, ostensibly because she was hot and in need of a refreshing shower, but also to rinse away the bitter feeling in her gut. 

Why ask her to come and stay, encourage her to burn herself out working all day and playing all night when he already had someone else much more available and in tune with him right there?! It was just… rude. Yeah, that was it. It was poor manners, that’s all. And greedy. 

The faint prickle of offended sensibilities and definitely not jealousy still plagued her as she watched the band and singers preparing for their first take. There was nothing better for making you feel left out and superfluous than being the only non-performer during a performance. Even Hamburger James got to carry a towel. 

Too soon, she regretted that reflection as Elvis wandered over to where she was sitting and plopped his hat on her coiffed head, wiping his damp, sweaty hair off his forehead. Great, now she was useful. 

A little while later, Elvis was back, still teasing one of the musicians as he swigged water from the bottle and wiped his face with the towel he had taken from James. He dropped his discarded big gold, bejeweled bracelet in her lap before his hand cupped her chin and he deposited a quick kiss on her mouth, then he returned to the microphone. 

This happened several more times, until she was laden with a jacket, hat, towel, various pieces of jewelry and was diligently copying out some lyrics from the sheet music. It was only when she approached with her sheet of handwritten lyrics just in time to see Elvis giving Charlie a sharp shake of the head as he proffered him a printed version that she finally realized what was going on. 

“Here you go, Boss,” she said, smiling softly. Elvis squinted at the words slightly, before nodding with satisfaction. 

“Thank you, baby. Don’t understand why all this poetry keeps slipping outta my mind.” He shook his head. “Next song we’re doing is ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ to a bossa nova beat. Gonna storm the fuckin’ charts with that sumbitch.” 

Laughter choked Chancy as she tried to fight it down and when he saw her, eyes watering and face red, and biting hard on her lip, he laughed a little too and some of the sharpness of his frustration was dulled. Audience appreciation always soothed what ailed him. 

“We ready?” Felton’s voice buzzed in from the booth. 

“Uh, yeah,” said Elvis, waving the sheet that Chancy had passed him. “Forget my damn name half the time, man… Oh no, there it is.” He tapped the pendant on Chancy’s chest, lips twisted into an ironic smirk.  

They broke for a coffee break around one am, which Chancy assumed gave some of the musicians the chance to try and sober up a little. She felt a little drunk too trying to walk on the sloping floors. 

Marty was explaining, as if they couldn’t tell from the front facade, that it was because the place used to be a movie theater and they had just torn out the seats and moved in the equipment.

“Wish it was still a damn movie theater,” Elvis intoned, returning from posing for photos with the session musicians. He wandered off again to talk to the Stamps and Lamar remarked under his breath:

“He keeps on the way he’s going, in a couple of hours we could tell him he’s at the movies and he’ll believe us.” 

Chancy frowned, hating the bite in Lamar’s tone, but also recognising the concern and truth in there too.

Loud laughter rolled in from over by Elvis and the quartet. Towering JD could always be counted on to give Elvis the validating big grin and rumbling laughter he was reaching for, but even he was looking a little bemused. 

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Chancy murmured under her breath. She felt responsible, though logically she knew it was not her responsibility and certainly not her job to run interference and defend a grown man from himself. Didn’t stop the feeling though. 

“Well, you can lead a horse to water…” Lamar remarked with a sigh. “But try it with Elvis Presley and he’s gonna tell you to go fuck yourself.”

It was when everyone reconvened after the break that everyone realized Elvis’ personal mic was missing and suddenly they were pulling towards the gates of Graceland without slowing down. 

Luckily, someone had called ahead and the gates were already open, though a couple of the fans had to scurry out of the way as the Stutz bounced slightly against the curve of the slope and raced towards the back of the house. 

After they jolted to a stop, Chancy reached down to grab the purse at her feet, but when she sat back up, the driver’s door was open and the seat empty. 

“Where’d he go?” she asked Charlie and David in the back, and they gestured towards the house. She trailed after him in the path of devastation, walking through the returning guys, who were standing around, wondering what Elvis had in mind for them next (Please, not another karate demonstration!)

In the kitchen, the staff were hurriedly preparing iced water and discussing whether Elvis needed anything to eat. 

Chancy climbed the stairs, almost tripping over the purple velvet hat sitting on a step about halfway up. On the landing was the fur coat, which she snatched up and tucked over her arm. 

She idly wondered if he would be naked at the end of this trail and whether she should have let the maid go up first for fun. 

“Elvis? Wh-” She tripped over a boot and almost toppled head first through the door into the bedroom. “Dammit!”

Elvis’s explosive laugh was both infuriating and a relief. She glared at him laying on the bed, sadly still wearing most of his clothes, and threw the hat and then the coat at him. She was gearing up to pitch the boot when he hastily rolled away and scrambled down the other side of the bed, leaving a (no doubt loaded) handgun behind on the mattress.

“Cease fire!” he yelled, waving a hand above the mattress. 

“No way, this is-” Chancy stopped when the maid brought in Elvis’ water as if it was a perfectly normal situation to walk into. She even paused to ask Chancy if she wanted something to drink and to tell Elvis that Pauline the cook wanted to know whether he wanted something to eat, all while Chancy stood there holding a boot above her head.  

After she left, closing the door behind her, Chancy and Elvis looked at one another and started laughing. Hers was more out of relief than anything else. She had been preparing herself during the car journey for a sleepless night of cooing and placating and soothing to the best of her abilities. This abrupt switch was not unprecedented, but the frequency with which he could swing from one extreme to the other had definitely increased lately. 

With his hands raised, and a naughty smirk on his lips, he cautiously climbed back on the bed and she gestured wordlessly to the gun. 

“I’ll move it if you ditch your weapon,” he countered, twitching an eyebrow, showing that he had definitely learnt his skills of negotiation from the Colonel Parker school of nonsense and befuddlement.  

With a pout that telegraphed her misgivings, Chancy dropped the boot and Elvis grabbed the gun and shoved it onto his nightstand like it was a discarded book. 

“There we go,” he said in a sing-song voice, reaching out and tugging her closer by the waist. “You know, baby, that I’m a lover not a fighter.” He folded her backwards onto the bed, cradling her as her legs tucked up beneath her. 

His kiss was like a warm blanket, easing her tension and warming her from the inside out. Whatever he wanted to invoke in her, he knew exactly what to do to achieve it. Chancy didn’t even know if he understood the amount of power he had and the way that she had fought to make sure no man ever came close to attaining it over her again.   

“That’s not what I saw with Red and all those guys last night.. Yesterday?” She ran her palms over his shoulders and down his chest, marveling at the way touching him had almost the same effect on her as kissing him. 

“Well, honey, a man’s gotta be both sometimes, you know.” He moved the pendant aside and trailed his fingers across her chest, his nails sending a wave of goosebumps across her skin. “Gotta take care of my baby, keep her safe… and keep her happy.” 

“I’m sure you do,” she murmured, gripping a handful of hair at the nape of his neck as he leant down to press his hot, breathy mouth against her tingling skin, but he abruptly pulled short as he registered her words. 

“And what in the hell’s that s’posed to mean?” 

Struck slightly dumb by having him pressed against her, Chancy blinked and scrambled to regain control of the strings that controlled her mind and body. 

“You make me happy?” The moment the words were out of her mouth, he looked disgusted, his lip curling in disdain.  

“Naw, that ain’t what you meant with that sneaky-ass, snide little comment. If you got something you wanna say, just fucking say it. Just say it..” He braced his arm by the side of her head, but didn’t pull away, pressing in on her, forcing her to yield both mentally and physically. 

“I didn’t mean anything, Elvis, I’m tired and it came out wrong.” She made a half-hearted attempt to pull away from him. 

“I’m tired, I’m tired,” he intoned in his high-pitched impersonation of her. “This ain’t about you being tired, honey. You keep trying to play it off like you’re some kind of modern woman who’s just in it for the kicks, that you don’t care, but I know you. I know you, Cha-Cha, all the way deep down.” He tapped at her breastbone. “You know what’s happening just as much as I do.” 

“Oh really, and what is that?” She resisted the urge to reach up and rub the sting on her chest, panting slightly under the weight of him. His stormy expression broke into a slow smile at her defensive tone, her discomfort, her utter confirmation of everything he was saying. 

Instead of words alone, which had never been his favorite way to communicate, he let his slow, careful hands give an answer as he reached over and drew the straps of her dress down from her shoulders. 

Not even Elvis Presley could make clambering back onto his knees look cool and graceful, but she still let him take her hands and pull her up too so that he could draw down the zipper of her dress with infuriating slowness. She watched him blink, eyelashes fluttering as he focused intensely on getting the silk to slide down into a pool at her bent knees. She hadn’t been wearing a bra and her skin pebbled in the open air, nipples peaking and tingling. She reached up to touch… something, and opted for him, fingers grappling for purchase on the tiny buttons of his shirt, fingertips slipping inside and brushing against coarse hair. 

He let her work, his face unreadable as he flicked his tongue against his pillowy lower lip, until finally she reached the bottom of the shirt and she tugged it off over his shoulders, nowhere close to as gently and sensually as he had removed her dress. His cheekbones brimmed as his mouth twisted into a wry smile. 

“Can I keep my arms, honey, I need ‘em.” 

Chancy responded with her mouth, gasping a moan as she pressed her lips into his, slipping and sliding her tongue against his; she was his. Her hands flexed against the warm skin of his chest, tickled by the hair as she followed it down over the soft curve of his stomach to the waistband of his pants tucked underneath. 

Just as she managed to unhook them, he surged forward, sucking at her neck, and she half-laughed and half-squawked as she toppled backwards. She reached for him, but he just withdrew with a mischievous smile, grabbing her foot and yanking her leg straight as she tried to shake him off. 

“Hey, quit,” he intoned sharply, like she was one of his horses getting restless. His stern look faded as he studied her foot, running his thumb along the arch meditatively and repetitively until she felt a strange warmth starting to pool in her lower belly, tendrils of excitement creeping down the inside of her thighs. 

Slow enough that it was almost cruel, he lifted her foot and kissed the top and then the inside of her ankle, his kisses leaving warm, wet patches that felt icy cold in the conditioned air. It took all of her self-control to stay still as his lips and tongue took a long, scenic route up her calf and behind her knee. Every twitch that gave her away felt like a point lost in this battle of theirs, this parrying of wills, the dance around the truth.  

When he gave out a sigh that almost sounded like a moan and pressed his hot cheek against the inside of her cool thigh, it felt like a victory, even though the depths of her ached and flooded with fierce, heated anticipation.  

“What a way to go,” he murmured to himself in answer to whatever thoughts were swirling around behind that vulnerable and hungry expression he was wearing. She started as she felt him nip at the soft, thin skin at the top of her inner thigh and she curled upwards, her hands scooping around his face, to pull him away, to push him down, to claw and slap at him, or everything all at once. 

Elvis’ face as he awkwardly obeyed and climbed up so that he was poised over her, was so needy that it almost looked pained. His mouth slightly open and his brow knitted, he gave her a wet, sloppy kiss even as he was shoving down his pants. Their mingled breaths were rasping and fast and she snatched the opportunity to wriggle down, kissing a path along his side, making him twitch and then still as she reached the crease at his hip. It was all she could not to rut against the mattress as she salivated and moved fast, ready for his firm hand to push her back. It never came, and the musky, salty sweetness of his cock filled her mouth and made her hum a moan of recognition and delight. 

Who was winning this battle now? She wasn’t sure, she only knew that she was delirious to be playing. Elvis was arched above her, his face wreathed in shadow as he watched her mouth work, his breathing light and panting, interspersed by little whines from the back of his throat. As her lips tingled and grew numb and she struggled to get enough air through her nose, he began to twitch and jerk forward, just a little.  

“My turn,” he muttered breathily, not even sounding like himself as he drew back and grappled with her arms, pulling her up towards him. He didn't even manage a kiss before he was ripping down her underwear and burying himself inside her. She couldn’t tell if he was trembling or it was her, or the both of them, as he paused, trying to adjust to the way she gripped him in her warm, wet embrace. 

Showing, as ever, that rhythm came naturally to him, he thrust deeper and knocked the air from her as she clung to his shoulders, keeping a steady, unrelenting pace.

Chancy rested her forehead on his shoulder and squeezed her eyes closed. She could hear herself breathing, then moaning, the sounds refining into words:

“Please, please, Elvis, please.” She was signaling defeat, a joyful, emphatic and ecstatic defeat in this fight of theirs. She wasn’t indifferent, or cool, or realistic. No, stripped back like this, she was still that desperate, hungry, besotted seventeen year old, ready to offer herself up to any pain, any suffering, for the chance to feel this way. 

With a guttural groan, he stuttered and spilled into her. She felt him pulsing within her and her nerve-endings exploded with a surge of pleasure that was almost painful. He relaxed down on her, burying his sweaty face in the crook of her neck and she felt herself sinking into the mattress, breathing in the heady scent of them together. Tonight, at least, she had what she had always wanted. 

Chancy waited for him to say something, to make one of his silly little comments or tease her for her neediness, but he was still and quiet. She knew what he was waiting for her to say, the final act of submission. 

“I know what’s happening,” she whispered, before clearing her throat and repeating herself. 

With a grimace, he peeled himself away from her shoulder and lifted his head so that he could see her face. There was not even a hint of a smirk on his face, it made it easier. 

“I’m in love with you.” It sounded so stupid, redundant and repetitive. The teenager in her rolled her eyes like it was obvious, like it was easy to say. The adult Chancy felt like she was tearing out parts of herself to admit it. Like she was handing him that gun and helping him aim. 

“Aw, honey,” he said finally, when she had started to feel cold spidery legs of embarrassment in her stomach, “we’re in love with each other. Don’t you know little us is just crazy for each other? Ain’t no stopping it now.” 

She nodded, watching a happy smile spread slowly across his face, transforming it into radiance the way it always did. 

“I love you,” she said, wondering if it would feel less like the words were ripping out from her chest the more she said it. “I love you, uh…” She lifted the pendant she was still wearing and pretended to read the diamonds. “Oh yeah, Elvis, that’s it.”

Jutting his jaw and clenching his teeth in a playful show of rage, he placed his whole hand over her face and pushed her back down onto the pillows. His hot breath played against her ear as he murmured:

“I love you too, baby.”

Just hours later, bleary-eyed and barely awake, Chancy stumbled in the direction of her car, having left Elvis submerged deep within a sea of medicated slumber. She watched Mr Presley get out of his car, about to head into the kitchen for his usual pre-work cup of coffee, when he went round to the trunk and pulled out a small bundle of wires and a small, silver microphone. 

“Elvis, you sneaky bastard,” she murmured to herself, chuckling a little against her will.  

Taglist:

@richardslady121 , @dkayfixates , @fallinlovewithurlove , @notstefaniepresley , @heartbrake-hotel , @freudianslumber , @bbrtt777, @18lkpeters , @prompted-wordsmith , @literally-just-elvis-fics , @eliseinmemphis, @lookingforrainbows , @stylespresleyhearted , @amydarcimarie , @returntopresley , @savedrebelcreation, @lettersfromvenus , @littlehoneyposts , @joshuntildawn13 , @i-r-i-n-a-a , @from-memphis-with-love , @ellie-24 , @be-my-ally , @vintageshanny

[eyesofshinigami]

It Ain't About the Pitch

Rating: G

CW: None

Tags: Established relationship, fluff

Prompt: For @shares-a-vest "Love is tolerating your partner's terrible singing"

WC: 826

Written for Day 26 of @steddielovemonth

There were many, many things that Steve was good at. Eddie should know, as he’s become the foremost expert on all things Steve Harrington. So, he would be able to easily wax poetic about how good of a cook Steve is, how great he is in bed. He could also tell you how Steve seems to remember things about people that no one else does, or his uncanny knack for knowing where stuff is, even at other people’s houses. 

There are so many wonderful things that Steve is good at. Just…

Singing isn’t one of them. 

Dancing? Steve’s got that down pat. He’s got moves that could make your momma blush and Eddie is a weak, weak man for his boyfriend shaking his hips like that. But singing… Steve’s about as tone deaf as they come. 

That doesn’t stop him from singing his heart out, and Eddie has to admire that about him. Like right now, with Steve prancing around their kitchen in a pair of sweatpants and one of Eddie’s old band tees, warbling along with George Micheal’s new song about having faith while he’s flipping pancakes like a pro.

“Eddie, man… I think we need to tell him,” Dustin says, breaking Eddie out of his Steve-induced coma. “How can you stand that? He sounds like a cat that’s had its tail rocked on too many times!”

Dustin isn’t wrong, exactly, but Eddie shakes his head. “Leave him alone, Henderson. He’s having fun.” 

While it is an absolute assault on his senses, Steve’s lack of pitch and his incredible love of pop music, Eddie loves him like this. Unself-conscious and free, dancing and singing like he hasn’t got a care in the world. Eddie knows that even now, Steve feels like he needs to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s always ready to jump head first into a problem, to stand between those he loves and the world like he’s got something to prove. So, to see him wiggling his hips and singing “Faith” off-key? Yeah, Eddie wouldn’t trade that for the world. 

Dustin whines. “He’s killing me. And George Micheal? Come on!”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “There’s the door, Henderson. No one’s keeping you here. Hell, if you leave, that means I can convince Steve to give me a private dance right there in the kitchen!” 

It has the intended effect, making Dustin groan even louder. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes, the kids know how this works now. “Gross, I don’t even want to think about you two bumping uglies where Steve makes my pancakes.”

“There aren’t going to be any pancakes if you don’t stop griping,” Steve calls out in a sing-song voice, still wiggling his hips. “What’s got you all bent out of shape this time?”

“Your-”

Eddie clasps a hand over Dustin’s mouth and glares at him. “What isn’t Henderson griping about, baby? Don’t you worry, I’ll set him straight.” 

Steve just shrugs and goes back to making pancakes, tapping his foot as the song shifts to something else. Eddie vaguely recognizes it, but Steve is yell-singing about how heaven is a place on Earth. It’s terrible. It’s awful. It’s the best thing he’s ever seen in his life.

“I swear to god, Henderson, if you make him upset because he can’t sing, I will end you and every single character you roll in any of my games,” Eddie hisses through clenched teeth. 

He hears a snort from behind him, turning to see Steve standing behind the two of them with an amused grin on his face. “You don’t have to spare my feelings, I know I sound awful.” 

Eddie releases Dustin and pulls Steve into a hug. He’s got a smear of batter on his face but he’s smiling so sweetly, soft in the way that makes Eddie melt on the inside. “Awful is a really strong word. I’m just happy you’re happy, baby. I’d listen to you caterwaul all day and night if it makes you smile like that.”

A pretty pink blush breaks out over Steve’s cheeks. It kind of makes Eddie wish he had kicked Dustin out when he had the chance. “Such a sweet talker you are,” Steve teases, closing the distance to bring their lips together in a sweet kiss that’s just a little bit dirty. 

“Ugh, man, go back to singing, Steve, I can’t take this anymore. This is the last time I stay over after a movie night.”

They break apart and Steve throws his dish towel at Dustin. “And this will be the last time I make you pancakes, you ungrateful little shit. Even though I got- oh shit! Eddie! I know this one!” Steve starts dancing in Eddie’s arms, crooning along with whatever song has just come on the radio. He gets Eddie dancing too, and Dustin even reluctantly starts shimmying along with the beat. 

Yeah, who needs perfect pitch when he’s got this right here?

[horrorshow]

The attraction and shared isolation of the siblings locates the work as operating in the tradition of Wuthering Heights, which Finney describes as an example of ‘the siblings-as-soulmates configuration’ […] in terms of the protagonists’ common status as outsiders and their incestuous love that transcends the values of the society that rejects them and the event of death itself. [...]

The consequences of denying the incestuous element of Catherine and Heathcliff ’s relationship are a denial of their love and a reduction of it to a pathological egotism. When, for example, Thormählen states that ‘I have avoided referring to the bond between Catherine and Heathcliff as “love” … because the nature of their passions fits no description of the concepts known to me’, she disregards the established conventions of Gothic and Romantic incest in which the representation of their love is, in part, grounded. — J. Diplacidi, Gothic incest: Gender, sexuality and transgression

Cathy and Heathcliff reach in death what they possessed in this world when they were unself-conscious children, and did not know of their separateness. They reach peace not through obedient acceptance of isolation, but through the final exhaustion of all their forces in the attempt to reach union in this life. Their heroism is, in Georges Bataille’s phrase, an “approbation of life to the point of death.” — J. Hillis Miller, The Disappearance of God: Five Nineteenth Century Writers

SUPERNATURAL + WUTHERING HEIGHTS for @wincestwednesdays prompt: American Gothic (pt 2: Endings)

[tycarstairs]

most sickening parallel i’ve noticed so far is this scene from lord of shadows:

“Ty!” Livvy called. “Ty, get down from there!”

Ty was busy climbing one of the largest rocks, expertly finding handholds and footholds. He hauled himself up to the top, totally unself-conscious, arms out to keep his balance.

“He’s a really good climber,” said Livvy. “It used to freak me out when we were younger. He didn’t have any kind of realistic sense of when he was in danger or wasn’t. I thought he was going to fall off the rocks at Leo Carillo and smash in his head. But Jules went with him everywhere and Diana showed him how, and he learned.”

paired with this scene from qoaad:

“Do they—young man, what are you doing? Get down from there!”

“Oh, by the Angel,” Diana whispered.

Ty was climbing up the side of his sister’s pyre. It didn’t look easy—the wood had been piled up for maximum-efficiency burning, not for clambering, but he was finding handholds and footholds anyway.

Julian Blackthorn was already running, shoving past the Inquisitor—who squawked indignantly—and leaping for the pyre. He began to climb after his brother.

like 😭😭😭 livvy being the one yelling for him to get down because she’s afraid he’s gonna get hurt in los, and she’s telling kit how julian was with him everywhere.

and then the inquisitor being the one yelling for him to get down when he goes to get to livvy’s body in qoaad and julian still going with him

[radical-revolution]

"The transforming light of awareness brushes aside your scheming, self-seeking ego to give Nature full rein to bring about the kind of change that she produces in the rose: artless, graceful, unself-conscious, wholesome, untainted by inner conflict."

Anthony de Mello

[prokopetz]

Do you have any recommendations for TTRPGs that emulate JRPGs well, or have a very JRPG-like setting? I find the unself-conscious mixing of fantasy, sci-fi, and steampunk elements that's commonplace in JRPGs very appealing, as well as the inventive combat and advancement mechanics (for reference I am playing the first Trails in the Sky game right now and I am enjoying it very much).

You've got several distinct questions there, though you may not realise it, and I'm going to tackle them in order.

First, with respect to emulating JRPGs and JRPG-like settings at the tabletop, it's hard to go wrong with, well, actual tabletop JRPGs. While English localisations of Japanese tabletop roleplaying games are admittedly thin on the ground, there are a few of them out there, including official translations of Double Cross, Golden Sky Stories, Ryuutama – Natural Fantasy Roleplay, Shinobigami, and Tenra Bansho Zero, as well as the odd partial fan-translation, of which Meikyuu Kingdom and Nechronica are probably the most notable. (No direct links to the latter two because fan-translation is technically piracy, though I'm sure you can chase them down on your own if sufficiently inclined!) There are a lot of cultural assumptions about what an RPG is and how it ought to work that aren't going to come across in an Anglophone author's attempt at genre emulation, so you'd be well served to go straight to the source.

(I vaguely recall that there are also a couple of Japanese indie RPG authors self-publishing their works in English via itch.io, though it’s late and names escape me at the moment – if anyone reading this can point us in the right direction, please do!)

Second, with respect to emulating the steampunk science-fantasy settings that Western fandoms often associate with JRPGs (though they're far from universal within the genre – their apparent prevalence is more a reflection of what gets localised than of the genre as a whole), the above-cited Tenra Bansho Zero will give you that in spades, though it's also one of the most rules-heavy entries on that list. If you have a specific desire to play in a game where the party consists of a cursed samurai, a child mecha pilot, a Shinto MiB, an oni Jedi knight, and Robocop, that it'll do.

If you'd prefer something less crunch-heavy, or more American-style in its game design approach, you might alternatively have a look at Anima Prime. It's not a localised title, but its lighter and more familiar approach may be an easier sell for your group than dropping Tenra Bansho Zero's seven hundred page rulebook on them. Aesthetically, it sits somewhere near the RWBY-meets-Final Fantasy XIII intersection.

Finally, with respect to emulating the combat of The Legend of Heroes: Trails in the Sky specifically, that’s a tough one – I don’t think any Japanese tabletop RPGs with proper grid-based tactical combat have workable English localisations at the moment, even taking fan-translations into account. In terms of non-localised games, I’d probably go with something like Valor; it’s basically an anime-themed Dungeons & Dragons 4th Edition clone, but then, most games that focus tightly on grid-based tactical combat are to varying degrees these days – D&D4E is extremely good at what it does, the protestations of certain vocal grognards who don’t approve of what it does notwithstanding.

[be-my-ally]

Splashing Around Ch. 2.

Chapter one can be found here.

So hello, welcome back to my lil cute, OC inspired a lot by Arlene (but also by my 50s dreams) cute kissing haven. I have to apologise for how short this is - it was taking me forever to finish the next section, so I've decided to break up what was one loooong chapter into two teeny tiny ones so his draft notice, army el, arguments and more kissing (basically all the good stuff I can't wait to share) to come very very soon!!!! 

I am, for those waiting on smut, cooking up a few things but I've been very, very, very, busy the past few weeks and can barely think about like, making a cup of tea, let alone putting words together in a way that makes sense so hang tight, it's coming.

wc: 3k.

sorry it's so short & so late - I think I've been promising *something* for like a month now, @whositmcwhatsit @thatbanditqueen, @ellie-24 @vintageshanny @missmaywemeetagain @from-memphis-with-love but hey, here's something! I'm hoping it'll set me off writing and posting again.

shirtless elvis 1957 inspo pic:

c. July 16th - August/September 1957.

Elvis grabs a covered plate from the kitchen island, still dripping wet, before whisking it up the staircase to the side, depositing them both in his bedroom. Louise hadn’t been up this way yet, she’d briefly been shown around when he’d wanted to show off to her and the other girls; they’d all ended up piled onto his bed, stroking his hair and talking, but somehow the intimacy of going up these stairs, with him alone, made her feel like it was her first time witnessing this private space. 

“Right, it’s uh,” He looks up and down at where she’s dripping onto the carpet, “probably for the  best if you go on through there again.” He points through to the dressing room, “there’s uh, there’s towels and uhh, soap and all of them things in the bathroom there if you want a shower or anything.” 

The storm crackles outside, but in the cushioned sound of the bedroom and dressing room it's almost impossible to tell, and Louise quickly busies herself, uncertain of how long Elvis would be preoccupied, and not wanting to keep him waiting. She does, however, take a little longer in the shower than she usually would - marvelling at the amount of hot water available that meant both of them could shower at the same time.

She’s carefully trying to roll her hair in her fingers, concentrating on her reflection in the mirror,  when Elvis pokes his head in, sidling around the door until she waves him in fully. She immediately regrets it, realising she’s only half-dressed, sat in her underwear and her blouse on but unbuttoned. 

“Oh - uh, Elvis! I’m not, quite, um ready for yo-” She watches him as he looks her over, he’s barely dressed himself, pants slung low on his hips, unbuttoned, and shirtless - but he’s entirely unself-conscious, holding the plate out to her, unlike the blush spreading across her body. She cringes a little, skittish, and he snaps himself out of it when he notices her nerves. He frowns, looking her over, and Louise feels the panic suddenly rising - is she not what he expected? He saw her in her swimsuit earlier…but it just feels different somehow now - maybe now, fresh-faced, she’s just not pretty enough? But he makes no comment on her body other than an attempt to ease her mind. 

“Thought I told you girls to settle, ain’t no-one gonna do anything you don’t want, sweetheart - won’t touch ya, I swear it.” She swallows, she hadn’t been scared quite in that way, but she would be lying if she said his words hadn’t reassured her. Louise nods, slowly, uncertain of what to say next, but Elvis takes care of it - striding over to place the plate on the dressing table, whisking the cover off the top. “There’s cookies there. Help yourself, I’ve already had a dozen waitin’ for you to get outta the shower.” 

“Oh! uh, I didn’t mean to keep you, I mean you could’ve just called - I didn’t mean to take -” She panics all over again, and he holds his hands up in an attempt to calm her,  

“No, no, honey, re-lax, just meant I was waiting for you to be done s’all.” He shakes his head,  “I promised you a blow-dry didn’t I?” He twists a strand of her hair in his fingers, “... how about I do yours and you do mine?” 

“Uh, yeah,” She swallows, “yeah that works.” 

His deft hands style her hair, but the whole time she can hardly breathe feeling his fingers against her scalp, finger-combing and gently twirling and twisting the strands of hair into some semblance of a do. She can’t take her eyes off of him in the mirror, a look of complete concentration on his face; almost a pout, with a slight furrow of his brow and his lips pushing forward as he focuses on his actions. 

The dryer prevents all attempts at conversation - which is lucky, because she wasn’t sure she’d be able to pay attention to a word he said, too focussed on trying to memorise the feel of his rings catching on a tangle - the tug somehow not feeling the same as when she brushes it, the sting making her shift in her seat, a dizzying feeling flooding through her body. 

“There.” Elvis finishes with the blow-dryer, fluffing her hair like she’s at the salon, looking back at her in the mirror. Miraculously, for all the ridiculous ways he was twisting and turning to do it, he’s managed to achieve a fairly respectable blow-out. “There we are. Now, look how pretty you look. Oughta do it for you everyday - could be my new career.” He puffs out his chest, clearly proud of himself and Louise laughs, 

“Hmm, I’m not sure all the other girls in the world would be pleased with that.” 

“Well I ain’t worried ‘bout any of them other girls, only you, baby.” He’s looking a little bashful, folding his arms across his bare chest. She can’t stop the blush, or the grin, from overtaking her face. She takes a second to respond, struggling to think of a reply, something that would make him feel as giddy as she does, when she’s suddenly knocked half off of the bench. Elvis sat down, bumping her with his hip. “Ok, my turn!” Louise obediently hops up, smiling at his playfulness, 

“Uh, ok - but I gotta warn you,” She nervously brings her hands up to touch his still-damp hair, it’s darker wet, but she can see where the dirty blonde is starting to shimmer through, “I haven’t ever dried a boy’s hair before, so, I might not do it very well and -” 

“You’ll do fine, doll,” He shakes his head at her, 

“Well, you might have to direct me,” His own smile grows wider, as if he’d expected she did this every weekend, and the knowledge that it was all new to her pleased him. 

“S’ok honey, I trust you.” She does her best, fingers pulling gently to hold the hair this way and that, as he constantly wiggles around in the chair; but she can’t help but get a little distracted by his expression in the mirror. By the way he seems to be practising posing, as if unaware she’s watching the whole time. His pouty lips going from a half-smile to a scowl to a lip raised in quick succession.

Louise thinks back to it, sat with her legs across Elvis’, on his new couch that he had been oh-so-proud to show off a week or so ago, of how lucky she was to be chosen like this, to be able to have thread her fingers through his hair, or watch him carefully comb it into place after it was dry; to be so close to him that she could see the acne across his neck, the remnants of a shaving rash on his lower jaw. How many girls could say they’d gotten to do this? But with that thought comes the sobering reality that it has to end at some point, and she’d rather not outstay her welcome…it’s probably time for him to get ready for dinner, or for entertaining whoever he’d invited tonight. 

“I’ve had a lovely day…thank you Elvis, it’s been really special…” She’s inching around the subject, she doesn’t want to leave, or for Elvis to say it’s time for her to go, but if he is she wants it to be from her prompting. She wants him to like her, desperately so, but she’s seen enough to know that she also doesn’t want to act too desperate, she wants to seem cool, and older than her years make her, mature about it all - aloof. She’s not though, and the relief she feels when he responds, 

“You ain’t thinkin’ about leavin’ me now are you?” while tucking her further under his arm and against his chest, is immeasurable. She’s safely cocooned against his torso, his freshly showered scent; shaving lotion, laundry detergent, and underneath it all him, the smell of all of it, along with the sound of the rumble of his voice in his chest, his heartbeat all mingling to solidify this memory in her head. Louise knows she won’t ever be able to smell any of the scents again, or hear another’s rumble or heart without picturing this moment in her mind. 

She spends the rest of the evening with his hand on her, on her thigh, her arm, her stomach - curled together and whispering to each other.  Even when some of the boys stop by - albeit briefly, no-one seems to be staying for dinner - he has a hand on her at all times, and no-one seems to blink twice at it. His lack of awareness of personal space, or perhaps of his lack of care about public physical affection completely understood. So, none of them question, even if Louise wasn’t Anita, why she was curled in his lap all evening, 

The other girls hadn’t materialised, some girls had, but not the girls. and Louise worried that it was intentional - that he was ashamed of her or something - was she meant to keep the day a secret? Worse to her than being kept a secret though was the thought that he might not consider her secret-worthy, and the fear that he might laugh her off is enough for her to keep her mouth shut from questioning him. So that night when she leaves, finally, long past midnight, despite her desire to, she doesn’t wait the last few hours until daylight and immediately call them, doesn’t get asked to be dropped off at Frances’ house, or stand beneath Heidi’s window waiting to be let in before crawling into bed with her - girl talk until the sun comes up. She wants to - god she wants to, wants to shout about it - wants to tell everyone that she’s just been on an honest-to-god date with Elvis Presley, that she’d kissed him. With tongues! But despite this desire, she’s almost too nervous to burst the bubble, the special bubble where only she knows; instead having to content herself with whispering the story to the stuffed bear tucked under her pillow - she’s much too old for him to be sat out in the open - or recounting it in as much detail as she dared to her journal.

She’d been sent home with the promise that he’d take her out for dinner the following night - but there’s a call about a change of plans; they’re all going to the cinema instead, Loving You was on the agenda,  and she arrives at Graceland that evening just in time for everyone to be piling into their cars, just barely making it in time for Elvis to smile at her, looking handsome as ever, captain’s hat on his head again and grab her wrist, pulling her into the back of his Cadillac with him. Louise tries her best to enjoy it as she might have done in the past, but she’s so worried about how to behave - if anyone can tell, worried about the other girls’ reaction; is she going to turn into some sort of social pariah? Ruin her chances for friends over a boy? Even if that boy were the only thing any of them truly had in common? And if that boy wasn’t just a boy, but a man, and Elvis at that. She can’t work out if it being Elvis makes it better or worse, so she sits there, primly, worrying her cuticles with her nails and her lips with her teeth. She watches as a tiny well of blood starts to form from where she’d pulled the skin a bit too hard and a bit too far - right to the quick, and she jumps as he covers her hand with his, pulling it out of her lap and onto his. He tuts at her, pulling out a handkerchief to rub at it, 

“Look at the mess you’ve made of that, stop picking at yerself darling. You’ll be sore for days.” She cringes, the desire is only made stronger by his holding of her hand, the worry that the others in the car might notice. They were sitting right there. But she complies, and is eventually soothed by the repetitive motion of his thumb on her palm. He lets go as they pull in, clambering out of the car almost before it’s even fully parked, seemingly anxious to get into the closed theatre. She tries not to be too disappointed at watching him run off with the boys without her, instead waiting for the other girls to climb out of the other cars, joining them in their excited giggling and chatting as they go in. Louise again has to remind herself to act normally, to join in their gossiping about how lucky she was, how excited they were for the film, and pretend she wasn’t a little upset watching him sit three rows ahead of them all. 

By the time the film is over they don’t bother staying for the double feature that had been set up for them, Elvis whisking the group away with the suggestion that even though it was dark out, it was still hot, and did they want to go for a splash in the pool? The night continues in that manner, Louise being seemingly steadfastly ignored, although she succeeds some of the time to forget about it. 

She’s not fretting in the shadows, she was just… taking a minute. He’d paid her no attention in the theatre, and the past half hour had been spent pretending not to be eavesdropping into the boys’ conversation, discussing Anita, singing their praises for her - as much as Elvis would allow - for her figure and face, and very briefly - her personality, before moving onto other girls; who from Hollywood they all wished Elvis would invite over, say, did you hear about that Venetia Stevenson girl coming in a couple of weeks? So on her way back out from the bathroom Louise felt like she was entitled to spend a moment or two in the shadowy corner by the back door. Taking a deep breath as she tried to remind herself not to compare, that maybe they spoke about them like that when they weren’t around. That sure, Anita might be a tiny little thing, but even she probably had to breathe in to button up her skirt - even if it was a smaller size. That, if nothing else, she wasn’t here with them all. 

She wouldn’t deny having had a good time, the film was wonderful, and the night as jolly as any, but still, she couldn’t help but wonder what had gone on that he’d decided to ignore her completely. She’s just getting to the point where she’s ready to return, a smile plastered on her face when suddenly, from the door, an arm reached out and pulled her back against the open door frame. Tugging her against someone’s warm body. She relaxes as soon as she recognises the smell and feel of him and he laughs as she stumbles against him, hands gripping both of her arms. He leans down, pressing a kiss to her cheek, open-mouthed, breathing on her as much as kissing her, before trailing his lips to meet hers. One of the boys shouts for Elvis, something about fireworks, and the next second he’s gone, barely a grin at her dazed expression, before he’s running off again. She can hear the way that the boys tease him about the lipstick smeared across his face, and his tight-lipped response. It makes her smile to herself, the way she has to try and catch her breath, still hidden in her shadowy corner, but no longer feeling invisible. And, though she wishes he’d pull her onto his lap or kiss her in front of everyone, she figures maybe it’s ok to keep it just for herself for the moment too. 

She doesn’t get the chance to see him alone again for a while, there are parties, and gatherings, and then he’s gone again - off on tour and to California for a long couple of months. Louise really tries to accept it all, even though the pictures appearing in the papers, and some of the stories that get relayed back (although never directly by Elvis) makes her heart hurt. It’s difficult, when he seems to look so happy in them, and so do the girls surrounding him - and who is she to judge another girl for feeling herself glow just by standing next to him. A little of his light reflecting onto them. 

One particularly brutal evening, after he’d promised to call but never did, she can’t help but cry into her pillow. This is why he goes for girls like Anita, ones that are a year or two older, they can cope with it. Louise shakes her head to herself - she can cope with it, she’s sure. She can deal. She can be mature, and deal with him out and about and kissing other girls. If Anita can, she can. Accept him inviting the starlets over, that’s fine, they’re only the toy of the moment, and eventually they have to go back to their own glitzy lives. They’re not like her, they don’t have an open invitation to his bedroom or to sit with his mother. But then, they do get private calls with him, and she knows Anita’s been telling anyone who’ll listen about the “just darling notes” he sends her.  Louise doesn’t get notes, sometimes he doesn’t even refer to her by name; simply just as part of the ‘girls’ he seems to always want to talk to as a group - all of them crowded around the receiver at Heidi’s house or Graceland. But then, rarely, sometimes, he slips into the conversation a little check-in, “How’s my lil’ Lou? Bein’ good for me doll?” and it makes Frances look at her in a calculating way, but her heart stutters every-time, every-time she responds

“Of course Elvis! Just waiting for you to come home. I can’t wait to see you.” He never replies the same way, it’s either

“Ah, who could miss this ol’ ugly mug,” or worst of all, “Uh-huh, looking forward to seeing the whole gang again soon.” On one occasion though, it was “Of course, honey, I’ll be seeing you re-eal soon,” and that was enough to give her hope all over again.

[ashleshares]

Spoilers for The Raven King

To Adam’s surprise, he heard Ronan laugh, too, a real thing, unself-conscious, kind.

When he saw the spacious longing in Declan’s face, he realized how much Declan had missed by growing up neither dreamer nor dreamt. This had never been his home. The Lynches had never tried to make it Declan’s home.

The fearsome anticipation of recalling the memory was worse than the memory itself, because it would go on for as long as Adam resisted it.

Matthew, unchanging and ebullient like the happy dream that he was.

I feel sorry for Declan, and Ronan and Adam and Matthew...

[lingeringmirth]

BOOBIES!

written for ‘top’, the ay prompt of @steddiemicrofic wc: 510 | rated: m | tags: female steve harrington, thirsting eddie munson, robin being so done, a poor tube-top used for nefarios purposes | cw: none

A/N: I actually have no idea how popular tube-tops actually were in the 80's, but this idea wouldn't leave my head.

Eddie's thirsting contained under the cut, unlike Stephanie's breasts.

-

Stephanie Harrington is wearing a tube-top and Eddie is not equipped to handle it.

He’s thought, erring heavily to his detriment, that he’s finally gotten over his crush. Yet, it’s now the summer of 1986 and he’s survived a mob and Vecna, but it’ll be Stephanie who’ll be the death of him. He is just a man after all.

Her scars are in full view and she’s not at all self-conscious about them, not in the way Eddie is over his own. She’s also softened a bit, allowed herself to indulge. Her breasts have never looked better… or more likely to pop out from her tube-top, the fabric holding on for dear life.

Eddie hopes he’s there when they do and feels only a bit ashamed over it.

The worst thing about it all is that Stephanie knows exactly what effect it has on him. But she hasn’t said anything. It’s just all long glances, sighs and leaning juuuuust a bit too far forward, showing off her cleavage, the tops of her full breasts aching for freedom, biting her lip.

She even goes as far as eat ice cream messily, letting it melt and trail down her forearm, then, seemingly clumsily raising it up and licking it off her wrist and… dropping most of it onto her front.

’Whoopsie! I’m so clumsy!’

She’s affecting an innocent air, like she’s a ditzy teenager, not a hardened monster-fighter-veteran who bears her battle scars unself-consciously and looks insanely hot while doing so.

Eddie sees Robin putting her face in her hands and muttering to herself behind Steve. He thinks he hears her say ’Unbelievable! Still no game.’

He disagrees with the latter.

Stephanie’s been eating vanilla ice-cream with sprinkles and the way it’s melting in her cleavage, saturating her yellow top, making her nipples grow hard makes it look like she’s been…

Their eyes meet as she looks up, two fingers in her mouth, like she’s been licking them clean even when they both know she hasn’t and Eddie’s instantly hard and…

He grabs her by the arm and starts dragging he back into his van, the back has pillows and he’s just a man, not a saint, not in the presence of those breasts in that top.

They don’t even make it to the van when it finally gives up the ghost and Stephanie’s beautiful full breasts pop out. They’re beautiful. Eddie wants to put his face between them. They haven’t even kissed, or talked about their mutual attraction and all he wants it to kiss those breasts all over, suffocate under them.

He does, presses her back against the shade-side of the van and bends down to press a kiss first to one, then the other, while Stephanie has her fingers in his hair and isn’t pushing him away, rather draws him closer.

But they’re out in public and someone could come at any moment, so they tumble inside the van, which is stifling hot, but has a prone surface they can indulge themselves on, which is just what they do.

[copperbadge]

What ever happened with the huge glass window apartments? Did people stop being naked for all to see?

So, on the one hand, there was never an acknowledgement of the message I was sending by the admittedly somewhat sidelong method of changing my router name to "Your windows aren't tinted". I don't know how he could have, really, so there's that. Eventually I changed it back, because I thought it might be creeping out other neighbors.

On the other hand, he has only been naked one time since the original post, at least that I've noticed. So perhaps he did realize -- although if he did, he is remarkably unself-conscious, as he never draws his blinds. Captain Underpants, who lives below him, still cooks in his underpants sometimes, but I'm accustomed to that.

I got a lot of comments on the original post of like "In New York we just ignore our neighbors" and "Why are you looking through his windows" by people who from their tumblr bios I suspect would take a markedly different approach if they understood that my neighbors have a toddler who can also see into his apartment. (Think of the children.)

In any case I'm not looking into my across-the-way neighbors' windows constantly, but it is impossible not to occasionally see into them unless I keep MY blinds completely closed, which I'm not willing to do because I bought this place in part for its amazing natural light. I have four eight-foot windows, between thirty and fifty inches wide, all of which look directly from my living room where I, you know, do my living, into the combined living room and kitchen of his apartment. I see him whether I want to or not. I'm not especially offended by his dick, mind you, I just don't think he knows it's on display. So even if he continues to have Naked Breakfast occasionally I'm not bothered on my own behalf. It's less a problem than a mild amusement whenever I encounter it.

Also Captain Underpants is a fellow soccer fan so it's nice to occasionally see his giant television showing the same game I'm watching. :D