#Sorry this took a while to transcribe

[royalarchivist]

Ramon: so about fit

Pac: [Laughs] Oh yeah, so about Fit – do you want me to tell you everything about Fit? Ok. I don't even know where to begin with! Um, let me think, ok. You know, me and Fit, we started being good friends. I'm not sure if we already took the next step, you know, you know what I'm saying? But we have been getting – getting closer and closer, you know. I don't know how to talk about this, Ramon. I'm a little shy... but, well, nothing 100% I would say, you know? In the meantime, I would say we are probably like, just... good-good friends, I think.

Ramon: Take your time.

Pac: But like– Do I have your blessing? You know, that's important to me, you know. 'Cuz like, you're really attached to Fit, and Fit loves you a lot. So having that blessing from you, it really means the world.

Ramon: if u don't hurt him

Pac: No, not at all!

Ramon: and love him with all ur heart and take care of him, then u have my blessing :D

[ Transcript continued ↓ ]

–

Pac: Oh– that's so cute of you, Ramon. You know, I'm gonna do everything as you said on those signs, you know. That's actually going to be my- my– How can I say? My core, you know? My core, my– I don't know how to say, but my core stuff, you know? I'm going to follow these guidelines and I'm going to do exactly as you said. You know and– thank you, Ramon. That means a lot to me, you know, coming from you. And I hope everything turns out good, you know, and me, you, Fit and Richas can all hang out and having fun.

Ramon: i look forward to ur wedding then

Pac: [Laughs] You know, Ramon– as Fit once said to me, "baby steps!" you know? We are walking on baby steps. Maybe one day, who knows? You know? [He stares at the camera and stammers]

Ramon: walk faster :D

Pac: [Laughs] I'm gonna try my best. You know, in the meantime, we are just walking like this. [He walks super slow] Sometimes we'll go "wooo!" [He speeds up] And then [He makes another noise and walks backward] But I'm going to drink a swiftness potion and do my best to run out of it.

Ramon: thank u Pac :D

[They're interrupted by Fit, who runs up to them and startles Pac]

Fit: Uhh, I hate to break up the conversation, but we've got a raid going on at Tubbo's factory. We got to kill all of these Pillagers.

Pac: Oh, yeah. [To Ramon] Thank you Ramon! Thank you.

#Pactw #FitPac #QSMP #Hideduo #Ramon #December 18 2023 #AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA #SO CUTE... SO DAMN CUTE... #Pac asking Ramon's permission... Pac I didn't think I could adore you more than I already do but you keep surprising me #Sorry this took a while to transcribe

[smallearthboundfindings]

Prince Poo? :0

HECK YEAH BABY, let's go! Um, I mean, of course!

This boy got done kind of dirty by both the plot and the fandom. He is severely underutilized in both departments, so I vow to give him the attention he clearly deserved.

First of all, incredibly obvious comparisons to Aang aside, can you imagine the misery of being nothing more than a child once you get to the bottom of it, but being raised for a very intent purpose? He is literally surrounded by teachers constantly and passing NPCs in Dalaam repeatably note how he doesn't seem to have time for anything else.

This is basically all he does. Train. Be trained. And like his caretakers KNOW he has some kind of destiny, they literally tell him this before being sent off to Summers!

What I think is that Poo has little to no free will of his own when you combine that with being a prince, which obviously adds in even more rules in how he's raised. He has to be conditioned from the start to be a prince AND The Chosen One (tm), which is a lot of pressure on a kid that is what? 14? 15? Not to mention the fact that his parents are never seen. Are they even real? Oh well, question for another day.

To me, going off with the rest of the Chosen Four was his first taste of freedom. Basically ever.

He clearly didn't know how to handle it, still being extremely formal upon first meeting Ness. I mean, introducing himself with "I am the servant of Ness. I will obey Ness". Goodness gracious, this is not how you talk to other kids!

And yet, he clearly has a goofy side. It's subtle, but his growth is shown by drifting away from acting like that. It's when at the very end, when all is said and done. He bids farewell like this:

"Our travels together end here. I must return to Dalaam, and use this experience for the good of my country.

Ness,

Paula,

Jeff...

Let me demonstrate a strange power before I go. I realized this power as a child. PSI Farewell! Now!

I'll see you again someday!"

(btw i love this dialogue... part of the reason why i just transcribed it)

See, he tells a joke! It's probably just PSI Teleport Beta, but he tells a joke! He's got exclamation marks! He warmed up over time, and I think that's so... cool...

I think what happened over time was this. Ness HATED being seen and referred to as 'master'. Kid lacks a single bone in his body to take advantage of the situation. And he was worried for Poo acting that way. After weeks and weeks of telling him to stop, he gradually does.

And along the way, Poo learns what he wants. Who he is. Not by what was chosen for him, but for who he is inside.

He really couldn't have done it without the other three and the journey along the way. And for them, he'll be eternally grateful going back with a greater sense of identity.

#not a finding #ask game #headcanon #prince poo #long post #sorry this took a while nonnie i had to type this yknow #my boy if no one else likes you i will #pu my son #'they weren't lying she sure can post about prince pu earthbound' #transcribing by hand kinda annoying ngl but anything for my boy #'i realized as a child' says the child what a goofball sdkjsjfsk #he thinks hes a man #I AM GOING TO HUG HIM KASJDAKJS #excuse me while i deal with this cuteness aggression over me #now ask about ness for an equally long essay #:DDDD #blorbo posting #eb fans be saying the deepest things about the character with the silliest name tho lol

[shegetsburned]

❝ he’s fucking in sin ❞ w. kento nanami ⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .

.nsfw.

• — content. professor nanami’s been waiting for your return ever since he committed the inconcevable mistake of fucking his student. • — author’s note. a follow up to archeology teacher!nanami. you guys are stuck with him and this au for a while. not sorry. <3

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who wonders where you’ve been. ever since the incident, he hasn’t seen you in his class or in the facility. you had stormed out like a blushing mess, almost ashamed to have let your teacher see you whining and needy under him.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who’s been staying thirty minutes after class every day, hopefully waiting for your potential return but also to prove to himself he isn’t crazy and hasn’t been obsessed for nothing.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who took a look into your file, studying your schedule. he might mention your name once or twice to his colleagues, without any luck. you haven’t been to any of your classes for a whole week.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who has hesitated to call you more than once when he saw your number written under your address in your file. he has it memorized and transcribed in one of his notebooks. he leaves it open on his desk for the whole thirty minutes he’s waiting after class, pondering on the pros and cons of giving you a call. unfortunately for him, he finds far more pros.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who deeply regrets not having stopped you when you stormed out. he should’ve asked you out. he should’ve asked for your number. he should’ve told you how obsessed he is with you.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who finds himself alone at home after an exhausting day. he’s still thinking about these sweet lips of yours and cute pussy he made such good use of. he remembers everything. from your adorable whines to your shy manners. everything about you makes him crazy.

˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who lazily unbuckles his pants, a tired hand slipping under his underwear, reaching for his twitching cock. imagining you losing his mind just like he is makes it so easy.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who still finds the thought of breaking the rules and fucking his student exciting. he pumps his fist, leaning backward into his couch, deep groans followed by even deeper sighs when he visualizes how good you’d look riding him in that same position.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who usually always knows what to do in every situation but has been trapped in an unbearable state for the first time. longing for you had been a torture. it felt as if he had been robbed of someone that belonged to him.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who spoke your name like a desperate plea when he saw you finally walk into his class. he stood up right away. he looked like a mess. he looked tired but his eyes never left yours.

“mister nanami-”

he was quick to correct you. “not for you, no. kento, darling.”

his words were as soft as the last time you had seen him, that’s why you felt so bad telling him the truth and explaining your actions.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who stopped you as soon as you tried to make excuses for yourself. gibberish about being sick and stuck in bed for the whole week. who were you kidding? he saw right through you.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who listened to you when you told him how wrong it was and how it never should’ve happened but could only hear lies hiding a desperate truth.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who reassured you by offering his chair and urging you to take a deep breath before getting any further. you looked stressed and overwhelmed which he had seen as soon as you had stepped through the door.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who locked the door behind you, making sure no one would interrupt your conversation. he needed explanations and nothing would get in the way of spending time with his favourite student.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who knew how he felt about you but wondered how you felt about your teacher. truth is, he was the only man that ever told you how good you did in class. he was the only one who believed in you and encouraged you to study the things you loved most. he was so different than any man you had ever known. he gave you validation.

you craved love from him. you didn’t just love him mentally, you desired him physically. you needed him to love you. but you also knew this was too much to ask from your archeology teacher that had crossed the line by fucking you on his desk one week ago.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who reads you like a book. he knows you’re scared. so scared that you’re just nanami’s shameful and dirty little secret. scared that he won’t reciprocate your delusional feelings.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who would constantly praise and adore you if you gave him the chance. he’d give you all the care and love you’ve always deserved if getting involved with a student wasn’t so dangerous for his career but, most importantly, for your future.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who’s even more infatuated with you than you are with him and struggles to keep his feelings for himself when you bite your lip nervously, fingers twirling with one strand of hair, all ears for his remarks and explanations. you were so different from his other ungrateful students.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who swore to himself he’d take things slow and ask you out before going any further but your pink-tainted cheeks, inviting lips and doll eyes were testing his patience.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who places a hand on your shoulder, slightly leaning forward to calm you down. he pulls the chair towards him and takes a knee, curious hands brushing the side of your naked thighs.

“n-nanami, please..” you can only whisper as he loses control over your captivating scent and hesitating whimpers.

“kento, i said.”

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who asks you to keep talking and explain yourself while his hands run closer to your inner thighs. he has you by the throat again and you’ve forgotten how much you loved the feeling. you want to speak but he has so much power over you.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who invites himself further, humming every time a reasonable argument comes out of your quivering lips, like he carefully listened and understood, but had lost any will to control himself.

you unwillingly push against his shoulders, deep down knowing that what you’re doing is wrong, but your legs are opening on their own as soon as you feel his hands touch your skin. his touch brings back memories and the nasty and dangerous feelings that you had felt during the whole week come flowing back into your mind.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who stops when he feels just the tiny bit of resistance from you. you’re trying to stop yourself from falling deeper into his sweet and comforting embrace and it’s taking all of his strength to understand your struggle and back down to let you breathe.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who can’t help but understand how difficult this situation is for you. it took one whole week off school for you to take a decision and go pay him a visit to explain yourself but all you had accomplished was realizing you were in love with your archeology teacher. a dependent and twisted kind of love.

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who loses his grip on you, a groan of frustration escaping his lips but he looked professional nonetheless. if he wanted you, he would have to find better solutions than to throw himself at your feet.

“i apologize. i don’t know what came over me.”

₊˚ପ⊹ teacher!nanami who saw your deceptive gaze when he stood up and shook his head, disapproving of his own behaviour. you were still shocked by his sudden hunger, and your pussy was pulsating from apprehending pleasure.

“you have to leave.”

and he dared to ask you to leave after waiting thirty minutes after every class to see you, but you could hear restrain in his voice. you knew it was wrong. it was so wrong to entertain this relationship any further but his grasp was tight and you did not want to fight.

“ just call me, please.”

that’s when you stormed out for a second time, with puffy lips and lust in your eyes, promising to come back to his classes if he kept offering you all his love and affection however he wanted to.

© shegetsburned 2024 please do not repost/edit/or claim my writing as your own.

#jjk kento #jjk smut #kento smut #nanami smut #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk nanami #jjk hcs #nanami kento #kento x reader #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami x y/n #nanami x black!reader #nanami x poc!reader #nanami x fem!reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #kento x y/n #nanami kento x reader #jujutsu nanami #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader

[cuubism]

Bookstore cryptid Dream part THREE:

--

Hob squints at his phone, wondering how he possibly managed to set his phone language to-- is that Thai? What? Granted, he'd once set it to Japanese in an extremely ill-fated attempt to learn a new language, only to realize his error the first time he tried to drive somewhere and lost all sense of the nav. And then took three hours trying to figure out how to reset the language. Never again.

So how the fuck did he get it set on another language he can't even transcribe into Google translate to get to Settings?

He sighs, shoving the thing back in his pocket and resigning himself to a phone-less day. Sad, to be thinking of it like that. Once upon a time he could live without a constant internet connection, but no longer, apparently.

Then he gets down to the cafe, and the handwritten menu has been pencilled so badly it's illegible. What are they teaching kids these days if not decent penmanship? He'd have sworn the uni kids he'd hired to man the cafe when he's not there could read.

But he's supposed to open in about five minutes, so he leaves it for now.

The rest of the morning goes reasonably smoothly. Hob makes coffee and sandwiches while one of the hopefully-literate uni kids handles the orders--he finds the repetitive process of espresso-making soothing.

Then Dream comes in, and Hob takes over. It's his cafe, and he'll take the orders from his pretty goth "librarian", thanks.

"Dream," he greets, before Dream can say 'Hob Gadling' in his posh, solemn voice. "You going to let me make you something? Or just delivering another book? Because I'll be honest, I'm not sure I'm ready for another revelatory story from my past yet."

"I will accept coffee, thank you," says Dream, inclining his head. Hob punches it into the machine--he's already decided he's not charging Dream for anything, Dream keeps giving him free books after all--but he's got to keep inventory.

Or he tries to punch it in. The screen is all glitchy and scrambled, the words unintelligible, and he sighs in frustration. Damn thing.

Hob gives up, makes Dream coffee, and when he returns Dream does, of course, have a book for him.

"Simply a recommendation," he says, when Hob looks at it with some trepidation. "I think you might enjoy it."

Hob exchanges the coffee for the book. Looks at the cover. And squints in confusion. "Dream, I'm sorry to tell you this, but I can't read Arabic." Or whatever language. He's pretty sure it's Arabic, but he's not an expert.

Dream, for once, looks flummoxed. "This is an English copy," he says.

Hob opens the cover, wondering if maybe it's a translation inside--but nope, still Arabic. "I'm pretty sure I know English, Dream."

Dream takes the book back. Turns it over. Flips through the pages. Holds it by the spine and shakes it out. Looks at the cover again, then at Hob. "This is English," he says.

What this is is the dumbest conversation Hob's ever had. "Dream. Come on."

"Does it not look like that to you?" Dream asks. When Hob shakes his head, Dream sets his coffee and the book down on the counter and takes Hob's hand, dragging him out into the cafe proper. Hob, stunned, just follows him.

Dream pushes him down into a seat. "Read this," he says, and somehow procures another book, smaller this time, from absolutely nowhere.

Hob looks at it. "This is in French." He does know some French, but not whatever niche topic this is about.

Dream makes a frustrated sound. "Spell it out."

And Hob... tries. But every time he latches on a word, the letters.... change. Somehow.

"What," he says, though it's more of a squeak. "I swear to god I can read."

Dream takes the book back. "It's as I feared." Then, instead of explaining whatever the fuck he means, he asks, "Where do you live?"

"Um." Hob tries not to imagine Dream in his living space. "Upstairs?"

"Come, then." And Dream stands and drags Hob after him to the stairs in the back hall, as if he's the one who lives here and not Hob. He's very determined, and still hasn't explained a bloody thing.

Once Hob's let them in the flat above the cafe, Dream goes straight for the bookcase. It's still a bit of a mess--Hob hasn't entirely moved in--but Dream starts scanning the heaps of books anyway, running his fingers along the spines, flipping them over, restacking them in complicated piles. Hob just watches nervously.

Finally, Dream whirls around, a thin black paperback volume clasped in his hands. "I thought so," he hisses at the book. And then to Hob: "Did you get this recently?"

"Um." Hob thinks back. It's not one from Dream's shop, he still only has the two. "Yeah? Think so. Someone left it downstairs." The cafe has a shelf of borrowable books that people can take as long as they leave one in return.

Dream actually growls at the book. Hob's not sure why. It's just a book of poetry.

"Will you tell me what's going on now?"

"The book I gave you is not in Arabic, Hob Gadling," Dream says. "Nor French. You have been cursed."

Hob has... a lot of scrambly thoughts about that sentence. But the first that comes out is, "By a book?"

Dream nods. "It was planted in your possession by whoever left it downstairs."

"Why? Wait, what does it even do? Make things look like different languages?" Hob really hadn't thought opening a cafe was going to get him put on a magical hit list. Jesus Christ.

"It makes the written word unintelligible to you," says Dream. "Whether via a language you don't speak, or via simple recombination." Hob remembers-- of course. The phone. The menu board. "More a nuisance than a true threat to your person. It was meant to send a message."

Hob sits down heavily on the sofa. Cursed? Seriously? "What the hell kind of message, Dream? If you hadn't noticed, I'm running a cafe, not courting the occult."

Although. Maybe he'd like to be courting the occult. If that occult is Dream.

"A message to me," says Dream grimly. "I have enemies."

Hob can't help himself, he bursts out laughing. "You own a bookstore, how do you have enemies?"

"It's a dangerous occupation," Dream says darkly. He sits next to Hob. "I... am sorry. That you were drawn into it. A penalty of being associated with me."

He sounds sad now, not so much about the "enemies", but at the thought that his company might have brought Hob to harm. Hob lays his hand over Dream's where it rests on his knee. "Hey, it's not your fault. And you know, there's still audiobooks."

Dream chuckles. "I can undo the curse," he says. Which is relieving. "And I will destroy this." He sets the poetry book on the coffee table with a look of menace.

"You know, I haven't even read it?" Hob says. "Just the first few pages."

"It is very good," Dream says, to his surprise. "Hence its danger." Then he turns Hob's face towards him with a hand on his chin. Hob goes totally still in surprise. With his other hand, Dream taps his forehead, and a static shock jumps through Hob's body. "There."

A cloud Hob hadn't realized was covering his mind dissipates. "That easy?"

"For me." Dream stands again, swiping up the poetry book. He looks like he's about to leave, and Hob is almost reeling too much to stop him, but he manages to snag Dream's sleeve. "Wait, won't you stay and finish your coffee? And I want to hear about the book that's not actually in Arabic."

Dream gives him a tiny smile. "Very well. For a little while." He tucks the poetry book into the depths of his coat, and Hob doesn't see it again.

Hob shepherds him back downstairs, makes him more coffee as the other's gone cold, and hears all about The Golden Tree, a novel about a modern-day quest inspired by the Holy Grail. And nothing more about curses, though he is rather interested in that, too.

And in Dream. And his strange magic. And his serendipities.

But he figures he'll have time to learn more about that.

Especially if he's intent on courting the occult.

#bookstore cryptid dream #my writing #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling

[fazedlight]

Listening (Rift resolution, with reference to Kara’s article from Batwoman 1x10)

“I appreciate the favor,” Kate said, as Kara turned off her voice recorder. “It’s nice we’re in the same universe now.”

“Definitely,” Kara said, smiling back. She jotted down some final thoughts, before closing her notebook. “It’s a favor to me, too. Andrea will love this story.”

It had been a messy incident. When a local officer, Slam Bradley, had pushed Kate - Batwoman - out of harm’s way, someone had been snapping photos. Once the pictures went viral, the press had a field day, speculating on the nature of Batwoman’s relationship with Slam Bradley… which he had only played up.

It prompted Kate to make the decision for Batwoman to come out as a lesbian - not just to clear the air, but to give hope to the queer kids of Gotham.  “Are you nervous?” Kara asked. “I’d be nervous.”

“Relieved,” Kate said, and Kara thought it was all too fitting of the Paragon of Courage. Kate nodded in Kara’s direction. “Sounds like you’ve thought about doing it. What makes you nervous?”

Kara sighed, looking at her hands.

“Oh,” Kate said. “Your friends don’t know?”

Kara’s brow crinkled. “I- I wanted to come out to them. Years ago.”

“There was someone?” Kate asked.

“It got complicated,” Kara said. “I don’t know if she’s even queer anyway. And then we had a falling out, so…”

“So if you came out, everyone would know what she meant to you.”

Kara nodded. “It took the joy out of it. So I didn’t.”

-----------

Kara sighed as she reached her desk, sloughing off her bag and dropping it in her chair. She would rather be transcribing Kate’s interview and writing her article at home where she could use superspeed - but since Andrea wanted the staff in the office, it seemed Kara was stuck taking the slow route.

Kara tilted her head, tracking a familiar heartbeat down the hall. What’s she doing here?, Kara thought curiously, trying to avoid looking as Lena followed Andrea into a small meeting room. I shouldn’t eavesdrop, I shouldn’t eavesdrop, I shouldn’t eavesdrop…

“Well, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” Lena derided, as Kara tuned in, “But I didn’t come here for this conversation.”

“I’m not offended,” Andrea said, and Kara could hear the grin in her voice. “I’m just amused. Of all the names to call out-”

“Andrea-” 

“- you really fantasize about Kara Danvers fucking you?”

Kara’s head snapped up in time to see Lena’s frame stiffen through the glass walls. Andrea and Lena?, Kara thought, her eyes wide, They were-

“I’m not talking about this here,” Lena said. “Either get to the contract amendment, or I’ll leave.”

“Please, Lena, it’s not like she can hear us.”

Lena shouted my name? Kara thought in a panic, rising quickly to her feet, intent on somehow shutting down the conversation - because if she didn’t, she was going to lose her sanity. She shouted my name, while they were- while they-

Her steps were perhaps slightly too fast, and she accidentally caught Lena’s eye for a moment before she burst in, the brunette looking like she clearly wanted to murder someone. But Andrea was unperturbed by Kara’s arrival. “Sorry to interrupt!” Kara said, knocking on the door as she swung it open.

“Yes, Ms. Danvers?”

“I-” Kara’s mind drew a blank, before the right excuse fell into her head. “I have an exclusive with Batwoman!”

Andrea hummed in interest, and Kara could feel the daggers Lena was glaring into her.

-----------

Lena glanced down at her drink. 

The winter night was cool enough that she should get something warm - even in National City. But the scotch and rage were keeping her warm enough for now, as she stood on her balcony, looking out over the city’s lights. 

She knew she could be spending another night with Andrea if she wanted. Let off some steam. She knew rationally, Kara finding out wasn’t really Andrea’s fault. But Lena was not in a forgiving mood. She was better off alone and rageful.

A familiar double-tap sounded behind her on her balcony, and Lena’s jaw tightened. “Why are you here?” she demanded, without turning.

“I… I found out something that you didn’t want me to know,” Kara said, and Lena could almost hear the blush in her voice.

“If you think that meant anything-”

“I know it doesn’t,” Kara said. “I’m- I’m just here to tell you something I don’t want you to know.”

Lena’s brow furrowed in confusion, as she turned to look at the bashful blonde. Kara looked back curiously, only partially successful at her attempt to hide her regret. “You think that’s fair?” Lena asked. “You get to choose a secret, because you spied on me?”

“No,” Kara said. “But it’s the best I can do.”

Lena left her drink on the balcony, crossing her arms and glaring at the super, her pose haughty and expectant.

Kara swallowed hard. “I’m in love with you.”

Lena’s eyes widened. What the fuck is she talking about?

“For what it’s worth,” Kara said, looking over the balcony instead of at Lena’s face. “I hear it sometimes, around the city. Supergirl’s easy to fantasize about. I know it’s just lust. ”

Kara paused. “I know it doesn’t mean anything to you. But you mean everything to me. If anyone should feel ashamed, it’s me.”

Before Lena could come up with something she could say, Kara was gone.

-----------

Lena tried to ignore it. Tried to pretend that night never happened. Kara doesn’t love me, she told herself. It’s just another lie.

Her anger boiled over one evening, when Kara landed again at Lena’s balcony, just to call her a villain. Lena didn’t sleep that night, tossing and turning and mumbling in disbelief that Kara would have the audacity.

So the next morning, she showed up at Kara’s door. 

Unslept and frazzled, and perhaps not entirely thinking straight when Kara opened the door, Lena marched in and turned, yelling without preamble. “It’s a fucking lie, Kara, you don’t just get to say that!” Lena shouted.

“What do you mean?”

“If you loved me…” Lena panted, as Kara’s eyes widened. “If you loved me, you couldn’t have hurt me like that!”

“I said I loved you,” Kara said, her voice tight with stress. “I never said I was good at loving you.”

Lena hesitated.

“I know I hurt you,” Kara said. “And I’ll never forgive myself for it. Just like I don’t think you’ll forgive yourself if you keep going with what you’re doing.”

“And you told me, to what? Win me over?”

“I already said, I told you because I didn’t want you to feel embarrassed about shouting for Supergirl-”

“I didn’t shout for Supergirl,” Lena growled.

Kara’s eyes widened at the implication, and Lena felt ice run through her veins as she realized what she had done. Without another word, Lena marched back towards the door, and left.

-----------

Is she right?, Lena thought. Will I regret this?

Has working with Lex ever gone well?

Kara was a liar. A liar. The years of deceit, the crocodile tears at the Pulitzer. This could just be another lie in a long list of lies and manipulations. A means of control. But why didn’t it feel that way?

“I said I loved you. I never said I was good at loving you.”

Lena leaned over her kitchen counter, putting her face in her hands. Could it really be that simple?

-----------

Kara tried to control the pounding of her heart as she made her way through the park.

It was a familiar sight, harking back to the day just a few years ago when Lena had made her announcement - that LuthorCorp would be LCorp. That was no longer true on Earth Prime, of course, but the place made Kara smile. It was one of the first places they had met.

She supposed Lena chose it as neutral ground. LuthorCorp, Catco, the DEO, either of their homes - those places all had much more baggage. But it left Kara asking, why? Why did Lena want to meet at all?

She found Lena by heartbeat before she saw her. Lena was sitting on a bench, sipping from a coffee cup, staring ahead at the park. She turned to Kara, though not quite meeting her eyes, nodding as Kara took a seat next to her.

Moments passed in silence.

“I’m not working with Lex anymore,” Lena said. “I messed up.”

“I messed up too,” Kara said. “I don’t want to lie to you anymore.”

Lena nodded, staring at her hands, swallowing harshly. “I want to try again.”

Kara’s eyes widened, before a small smile crossed her face. “I’d like that.”

“Do you think we can?” Lena asked. “Do you think we can fix this?”

“I have hope.”

-----------

One morning, a couple of months later, an article by Lois Lane caught Kate Kane’s eye. The news page featured a smiling Supergirl, standing tall and proud, with an audacious headline. “America’s Power Bisexual? Supergirl Comes Out.”

She got the girl, Kate thought, her lips quirking into a smile. She reached for her phone, sending off a quick text. “Congratulations, Danvers.”

#supercorp #mel writes ficlets

[omegalomania]

someone put the full q&a that fall out boy did the other night on youtube and while i'm going thru it for highlights there's this exchange that was WAY too long to bulletpoint so i'm just transcribing the whole thing here. this was mostly just patrick and pete talking to each other but i need to note that andy was grinning SO big the entire time at the side and it killed me dead.

so, the answer they gave when the band was asked about the song that took the longest to complete on "so much (for) stardust":

patrick: probably this song "heaven, iowa." this is the truth...i hated that song. i wrote it, i sent it to pete [...] i send him everything, 'cause i don't like any of it. but i was like "i don't believe in this one, i don't like it," really far into the production.

pete: really pumped me up to hear this song.

patrick: i'm GETTING there, man!

pete: "got an elevator pitch for you, it's a fuckin terrible song, i hate it. lemme know what you think."

patrick: by the way, this exact type of anecdote is why i didn't talk on stage for like 20 years. remember that? so this is true - sorry, this is a side tangent but very true, we were playing a show with this band "killing tree" and i was the only one that had a microphone, naturally, and so i go "here's, uh, here's a new song..." and i don't know i said something silly like, "it took me like five minutes to write it" and i was being self-deprecating or something, and pete was like "well that's the last time you're talking."

pete: that is NOT actually what happened! you did the harry caray -

patrick: it was something - that was the next show!

pete: oh. the harry caray one...

patrick: that was a different one. so then there was another show, 'cause...i am...wont to do impersonations once in a while and there's a guy from chicago, an old broadcaster in chicago called harry caray, and i just did this harry caray impression and a few people laughed and i was like, "oh, yeah!" and i kept doing it. but the thing. the thing IS. this probably lasted -

pete: "i'm gonna do this impression until everybody stops laughing."

patrick: you're gonna like it! no, but um...so i kept doing it and it was probably only about a minute? it felt like 30. so whatever. anyway, um...the song that took the longest was this song, "heaven, iowa." we'd been working on it, and i wasn't really sure of it. every day we'd go in the studio, i'd ask joe to lay any ideas he had on the verse, any atmospheric guitar or synthesizer or something, and i'd lay down all these ideas, and then there was this moment - we recorded in a studio in seattle, and there was this weird synthesizer that i had and somehow that was it. i landed that and the whole thing came together, and now it's one of my favorite songs on the record. but there's some moments in there where it's just my voice and some other things, there's some sparse moments, and i don't like that a lot. i don't like...it's like hearing your voice on an answering machine.

pete, gesturing at the crowd: ask them if they like it.

[crowd promptly goes apeshit and patrick shakes his head and looks down while pete just fucking smirks at him]

#fall out boy #*making poasts #WHY ARE THEY LIKE THIS. #THIS QUESTION TOOK LIKE 10 MINUTES TO ANSWER CAUSE PATRICK WAS LIKE LET ME TELL A STORY OF ME BEING REALLY BAD AT BEING A FRONTMAN LMAO

[lamemaster]

Love her, not me

Request: Hey I love your writing! Really like your finrod works I love him with an edain reader and I think the potential internal conflict with him about amarie and reader would be so juicy??? "Do I wait for my past elven lover who will be with me for eternity? Or explore this new love with an edain who will leave me eventually." THE DRAMA

Pairing: Finrod x Reader

Genre: Angst and ✨DRAMA✨

AN: This has been coming a long time I am sorry for the delay. I hope you like it anon💕

"Don't be so nice to me, it might get my hopes up." You push away the cup of tea presented in front of you.

Seated next to you Finrod's smile freezes at your words. An awkward but perfectly diplomatic smile settles on his lips. It is unlike the one you have come to love.

The king of Nargothrond clears his throat, his eyes wandering all over the room. Landing anywhere but at you. Perhaps it was too much to even look you in the eye. "It is merely tea between friends. We are still friends are we not?" He asks, his voice meek. It is different from the elf who manages to charm every race on the face of Arda.

"Friends do not cancel meetings to meet up for tea, friends do not insist on meeting alone; devoid of any other company." Your words are sharp. They seem to cut the air laden with tension between you both. "And we Finrod can never just be friends. My heart won't allow that without stringing itself to foolish hope."

 This marked your last chanced meeting with the King of Nargothrond.

Falling for Finrod Felagund was foolish but also foolishly easy. It was easy to forget that the world did not revolve around him. He, who was magnificent compared to any other creature to walk on the face of Arda, was not the center of the world. A presence too perfect that it felt as if Eru himself had taken the pain of shaping every inch of him.

So, yes you fell in love with him. It was inevitable. But you never intended it to be anything more than the burden of your own heart. You were afterall too prideful to confess to him like every other stary-eyed Edain. 

Your entire time was devoted to transcribing the oral legends of your language to his while keeping your eyes from staring at him for too long. But somehow, your eyes met with his smiling ones. A fragment of the moment that you wished to never have happened. 

The sole moment was enough to tug the King of Nargothrond by your side. What started as a conversation about rolling r’s lent itself into debates, evening strolls, sharing books, watching him play a harp, tracing constellations until the stars led your hand into his. And it fit so perfectly. As if it was made to be held by him. 

The path from fingertips to the caress of lips was a slippery slope. It felt too right to cradle his face in your palms and feel his lips on yours. His curls slipped into your fingers settling into your palms softly. 

You were eager. You wanted it more than anything else. Perhaps it was the eagerness of possessing that kind of love, that blinded you. 

But it did not take long for the sweetness of your kiss to turn into the bitterness of the realization. Your love was doomed to perish from its conception. The celebration of Finrod’s reciprocity to your affection was dulled by a growing ache of the truth that he was not yours. You had known it. The King of Nargothrond had a lover waiting back in the blessed lands. 

You pulled away from him. Your hands slipped off from his curls. Your heart had protested every single movement that took you away from him. You ached to be closer despite the abyss of truth between you and him.

However, more painfull the look of horror on Finrod’s face or how he had stormed off leaving you alone. It was a rejection that came with the broken hope of acceptance. 

For weeks you did not see him. Those felt the heaviest of your mortal life. So, you busied yourself in finishing your work during the days and blacked out drunk at night. But even a glimpse of him seemed to evade you. 

Bundling your misery into the fevor of finishing your labor, you stained your hands with ink. There wasn’t much that you could offer him but your absence. Then so be it. Finrod would never have to remember you or the insignificant kiss that centuries could bury into a forgotten memory.

You were ready to give him the present of your absence, until he showed up. Just the sight of him had deluded your mind into thinking perhaps…he too felt something. 

But the Finrod who returned was different. He returned with an oblivion to whatever had transpired between you both. As all your heartache was a construct of your own making. For a fleeting moment you believed it. 

He greeted you with a warm smile, the same smile that once marked the beginning of your friendship to him. It was as if the pages of time had turned, erasing the chapters of heartache and leaving only the ink of indifference.

"You seem to have been quite occupied in my absence," he remarked, glancing at the scattered parchments and ink-stained hands that bore witness to the agony you had poured into your work.

Your heart, which had dared to hope, now sank like a stone. The weight of his obliviousness pressed upon you, and you realized that the love that had gripped your soul had failed to leave a lasting mark on his memory.

With a forced smile, you replied, "Yes, I've been immersed in my tasks. A distraction, if you will." The bitterness of those words hung in the air, a subtle reminder of the wounds that refused to heal.

He could have fooled you, if not for the foreign distance that loomed between you both. Opting for the seat farthest from you, he did not pour over your work like he always did. He still laughed and rambled passionately about the characters of ancient legends but it was contained. It was King of Nargothrond not Finrod you had to yourself for a second of your life. 

You played along the role he assigned you. A friend, a coworker, nothing more. It was better this way. 

The distancing should have stirred anger within you, should have humiliated your pride, but instead, it became a silent torment that gnawed at your soul. Nights were spent in solitude, your mind spinning with futile thoughts of how to bridge the gap, how to reclaim the love that had slipped through your fingers.

In the quiet moments, when the world slept, your heart wrestled with the demons of longing. You crafted scenarios in your mind, scenarios where the King of Nargothrond melted away, and Finrod, with the sparkle in his eyes and the warmth in his smile, returned to you.

Perhaps his cruelty would have harderened your heart. Stripped you of irrsupressable longing had the slivers of his own desire not slipped into your meeting with him. 

Finrod was subtle in his desperation, a master at concealing the traces of his own desire. A mere mortal might not have detected the nuances, the subtle shifts in his gaze, the hesitation in his voice, or the way his fingers lingered on the pages of your work. But your heart, fueled by its own yearning, became a relentless seeker of any sign, any glimmer of reciprocation.

The unexpected errands, the discussions about tea, the orchestrated crossings of your paths—each encounter with Finrod seemed to hold the promise of something more, yet every meeting left you with the bitter taste of a friendship that refused to evolve.

In a moment of desperate rebellion against the unending cycle of longing and unfulfilled desires, you threw yourself into the arms of a random stranger who happened to approach you during dinner. It was a bold move, driven by the need to sever the invisible threads that bound you to the King of Nargothrond.

You felt his eyes on you, a gaze that had become a constant presence in your life. The decision to embrace the arms of another was not driven by the desire for a new connection but rather a desperate attempt to shake Finrod from his silent yearning. It was a calculated move, a ploy to force him to confront the reality of your actions.

As the stranger engaged you in conversation, you played along, allowing the charade to unfold. Finrod's gaze, once filled with a subtle longing, now bore witness to a scene that shattered the illusion of exclusivity. It was a painful spectacle, a dagger aimed at the heart of a love that had become entangled in a web of unspoken words.

You wrapped your arms around the stranger whose name felt awkward on your tongue. You let the man whisper filth in your ears. Words that could have been loud enough for Finrod to hear. You let his hands roam all over you. And then while you could still feel Finrod’s gaze glaring at you, you led the man to your room. 

You spent the night with him breaking all and every chance of ever attaining love you desired the most. Even as the man held your body, kissed your lips, you could not help but wonder how he, the one you love, would have done it. 

Finrod would have been more gentle, he would have never degraded you with the speech the man used taking you for an easy catch. He would perhaps have held you hand. But you don’t know. You will never know. 

The tears that flow down your face that night are not of pleasure but of sorrow. Even as your body trembles with pleasure, your heart feels nothing but the pain of the hurt you have caused him. 

After kicking out the stranger from your room, you lay back down on the sweat soaked sheets that smelled nothing like what you had once hoped for. 

You made the choice for him. You have surrendered to the fair elleth who waits for your beloved seas apart. The fates have played as they were set to do. He will be happier next to her, you tell yourself. He had to be. 

Someone out of you both had to find joy. It had to be him. 

In the final moments of Finrod's breath, his eyes remained fixed on you. There, right beside him, you kissed his wounds with gentle lips, a tender gesture in the face of impending darkness.

"You are one stubborn elf, Nom," you chuckled, your arms wrapping around him. In this moment, nothing held you back from him. In the passing moments of death, you could love him freely, even if only as a figment in his mind.

“I love you,” he whispered aloud, a confession that resonated through the darkness of Angband. Your kisses paused, surprise flickering in your eyes even within the dream. “I love you so much that I cannot stop. I tried,” tears streaked down his cheeks. “I tried not to love you. I stopped Aegnor, but I myself could not resist. I still love you very much.” Ages worth of grievances and confessions spilled from his lips.

You wiped away his tears with hands that still held the fragrance of ink and paper. “I love you, Finrod. There is no other reason for my existence but to love you,” you spoke, tilting his chin to kiss him once more. “All my actions, all my motivations have been for nothing but you.” He knew it better than anyone.

He had known it, and the knowledge cut deeper than any wound. His inability to act on his feelings had led you to make a choice, a choice to bow to a man you never loved.

Bleeding out on the freezing ground, Finrod, the firstborn of Arafinwe, dreamed not of Valinor, his siblings, his parents on nether shores, or of Amarie as you both had wished. His dreams were of you. In those dreams, Finrod leaned into the warmth of your hands, which seemed to numb his pain and replace it with the thrumming pleasure of your touch. In those dreams, he could finally love you without the constraints of the waking world.

#the silmarillion #silmarillion x reader #finrod x reader #finrod felagund #bro angst #unrequited love #oomph

[tu-sugar-mami]

Hi! I'm wondering if you can write how Alcina would react if she found her dobbelgänger? Someone who looks Identical to her and it would probably be one of her maidens. People probably gossip about it too. I want to see Y/N's reaction to it too so like maybe they are together and they see a maiden pass by who looks exactly like Alcina. Lipstick and everything.

(I didn't see any other requests like this so I said why not request this one cause the idea is so interesting)

-Milkie

Hii!! Thank you so much for sending this 🥰 This sounds interesting, yes! I don't think I've read anything like it before and it's an honour you thought of me for this  ✨✨✨ sorry it took me so long, I got carried away and then didn't know how to finish it 😅 although, I don't really know of this is what you had in mind but I went a bit angsty there. Hope you like it! 💖💖

Words: 1800

Tags: angst, a bit of humour, implied feelings, sad stuff, kinds good ending?

_________________________________________

Being Lady Dimitrescu's personal maid is no easy job, especially since the responsibility of bringing her every wish and/or demand could become slightly complicated. There's only so much you can do with your short legs scurrying around in such a grand castle. 

Despite being almost always busy, you do find some time to enjoy a cup or two of that sweet tea you love so much, and love it even more when you share it with your Lady. 

Climbing up the stairs you somehow manage to balance a tray with the needed assortment of ceramics with a teapot full of very hot water on one hand and a quite heavy stack of important documents on the other. Your focus is split between not dropping the platter and reading the stack of papers in your hands trying to find the listing error in the first page (a job usually reserved for one of the daughters) and you find yourself so enthralled by the task that it's only when you reach the hallway that your focus is interrupted by an approaching figure.

Without raising your gaze from the documents, the corner of your eye catches a glimpse of a familiar face. A smile blossoms in your lips at the passing woman, but confusion settles in you. You're sure the Lady is in her study at this time of the day, but you pay it no mind, surely she has a reason to leave her sacred workspace. 

Turning to the left, you ask for a miracle to help you open the door while your hands are occupied. Luckily, being crafty and resourceful was a requirement in the job description, and with a push of your elbow onto the doorknob you enter the Lady's office.

"Oh, there you are. I need those papers transcribed here."

The voice brings you to a halt as your brain catches on. Wait, didn't the Lady just pass by you at the hall? No, surely you're mistaken… 

Quickly turning towards the hall, half of your body peeking out of the still open door, your eyes inspect the now empty hallway in search of an explanation. 

Now that you recall it, the woman in the hallway was strangely at eye level, unlike your Lady, so perhaps she was only a maid you just didn't see correctly.

Well, it's been some stressful days lately, and you suppose your mind is tired. 

Deciding to think nothing of it, you pour the Lady some tea and prepare yourself for the upcoming ache in your hands (the typewriter makes the job easier, but doesn't mean it's less tedious).

It's around late afternoon when you and The Lady find yourselves strolling through the halls in an attempt to dissipate the headache that the stress has caused on the Matriarch. It's also around that late afternoon that you stumble upon her…

A few moments pass by before you do a double take and your hand shoots towards your Lady's skirt in order to stop her from walking away. 

Alcina isn't thrilled, and if it was any other maid she would have already have them paid for their transgression, but as it's almost a custom now, she only rolls her eyes and turns to see what has you so busy that you can't even speak to properly ask her to sto–

As soon as Alcina turns she sees the reason. She sees her.

An exact copy of the great Lady Dimitrescu is busy dusting one of the giant flower pots in the hall.

She is identical, in every way but the height and skin. How did you not notice her before? You're pretty sure you would have seen the close resemblance right away, unless… The daughters are always the ones in charge of 'welcoming' the new batches of maids that come in every month or so, and knowing them, they don't dwell in appearances unless they find one of the morsels to be especially interesting. Perhaps that's why such a sight slipped right by you. 

You wouldn't believe it if the maid wasn't standing right in front of you. 

She had the same high cheekbones and soft jaw as your Lady, that much is evident, but what catches your attention the most is her eyes. That unique and familiar gaze that brings you comfort and reassurance is present in the maid. She looks younger than the Lady for quite a few years, although you wouldn't be able to pinpoint exactly how many apart. Still, the resemblance is unique, more like a copy rather than an offspring. It seems impossible and yet…

You look to your left in a quick movement, ready to go back and forward only wanting to compare and see for yourself that your mind isn't playing tricks on you, but you stop as soon as you notice your Lady's face.

Alcina's expression is a shocked one, more than you've ever seen her bear before, but you notice something else within that stare. Her eyes become slightly teary, but despite your efforts you can't decipher what the meaning of the unshed tears is. 

And of course, you can't possibly know the turmoil that brews inside her. 

Right in front of Alcina stands the woman she once was, or more like the one she could have been. A version of her without her humanity stripped away, without the marks of betrayal and hurt, without the lines of experimentations and pain. In front of Alcina stands the woman she once saw in the mirror, like a cruel joke, in all her human fragility and ignorance. Almost as if the universe had one last way to mess with her and mock her.

Within Alcina aches the desire to touch, to feel, to have a close glimpse of what she was before, and yet the unspoken fear of the mirage before her disappearing keeps her hand grounded, and with it her body stays unmoving.

The Lady hears, among other drowning sounds, the judging whispers surrounding you three in the hall. Words from the maids that have huddled up at the corner, watching with harpy eyes the scene unfolding in their unwelcome presence. 

For the first time in years, perhaps decades, Alcina Dimitrescu is at a loss of words. She would have never thought that an image of herself would make her feel so vulnerable, so threatened. And perhaps also for the first time, the powerful Matriarch feels…powerless.

Until your touch on her gloved hand brings her back from her stupor, that is, effectively stopping her from spiraling any further. Your hand, tiny in comparison to hers, is the anchor she needs right now. 

Alcina turns to you, and what she finds in your eyes as you look up at her is nothing but pure adoration, as if you have already decided that she is perfect just as she is right now. Almost as if you've just chosen her out of the other more humane and better versions of herself in front of you and the ones to ever exist. The love and affection that had been so obvious to her before but you always put effort in keeping hidden is now shining through, unstopped and undimmed, and Alcina's unbeating heart for a moment feels full of life again.

 

With your hand now in her gentle grasp, she feels like she can breathe again, and with the newfound strength she dares to invite the maid for a chat over tea.

When the moon is already starting to show her presence above in the skies, after some surprisingly nice talk, something across the coffee table catches Alcina's attention.

Alcina only needs to see the mischievous grin on your lips once to feel another incoming headache. You've been her maid for five years already for goodness' sake, she already knows exactly what you're thinking…

…

…..

The Lady doesn't know how you managed to convince her to do this, but she's waiting with you hidden behind a stone pillar just after summoning her daughters 'urgently'. 

It's not long before three buzzing swarms approach, but instead of her mother waiting they find a woman facing away from them sitting on their mother's usual chair. 

Daniela confusedly sniffs the air, and she finds that her mom's perfume comes from the same direction as the woman, but she can also smell the blood pumping and a heart beating. 

"Who are you?" The youngest asks with her hand already reaching for her sickle. 

"Ah, my daughters! I didn't see you there, lovelies." The maid greets with a higher pitch voice, before turning to the girls. You have to give her some credit, it would be impossible for you to not laugh if you were in her place. "Come here my girls, mama has missed you." 

"Mother!?" Bela and Cassandra ask in unison. Her eyes are wide and they're switching their gaze from the woman to each other. 

Behind the pillar you watch the scene unfold, and your Lady's hand soon covers your mouth to prevent you from letting out a chuckle, although when you look up you can see an amused smile on her lips. 

"What happened?" Daniela asks, gesturing wildly at the woman's body. "You look, good? Less tired maybe, a little tiny bit uh…less um… like this?" She raises her hand above her head and shakes her hand slightly.

"Holy Mother Miranda, is that really you Mama?" Cassandra asks, slowly approaching the maid. 

Alcina lets out a silent chuckle and with a stealth you didn't know her capable of, sneaks behind Daniela, the closest daughter.

"She is most certainly not, darling." 

Not unlike a cat, Daniela screams and jumps almost two meters before dissipating in a cloud of flies, before reforming next to Cassandra, her hand pleases over her chest, and if her heart could still beat it would be frantically hammering against her ribcage.

"Holy sh-"

"Daniela, language!" Bela nudges her sister with her shoulder. 

Your laugh resonates in the room, and Alcina briefly looks at you, her eyes as soft as her smile, before returning to the girls. 

"I can't believe they really fell for it." You walk towards the maid and put a relaxed hand on her shoulder. "Sorry we made you do this, let's go get some lemonade girl, you look a bit pale."

After you leave with the maid in tow, Alcina takes her rightful seat and pours herself a cup of wine.

"How come no one bothered to let me know of this guest? I should hope next time you do take time to greet every new maid properly, girls."  

"We will, Mother." Bela says, taking a step forward from her sisters. 

"I know you will." Alcina says gesturing away with her hand, and after her beloved daughters leave, she's left again to ponder about how just much she fucked up by accepting Miranda's gift…

_________________________________________

You can find the rest of my stories in AO3 as Lenchisus

You're welcome to leave your request!! 💖✨

If you love my work you can support me on Kofi

https://ko-fi.com/lenchisus

#request #ask #my fic #re8 #alcina dimitrescu angst #alcina dimitrescu #alcina dimitrescu x female reader #alcina dimitrescu x reader #lady dimitrescu x female reader #lady dimitrescu x reader #lady dimitrescu #resident evil village

[loveroftoomanyfandoms]

Sweet on You, Chapter 5

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Story Summary: HERE

Warnings/Tags: Sugar Daddy!Matt Murdock, Idiots to Lovers, No Age Gap, Alternating PoV, No Use of Y/N 

Word Count: ~2k

A/N: None for this chapter except enjoy!

(Divider by the superb @theradioactivespidergwen !)

Tag List: @danzer8705 @capylore @shouldbestudying41 @atemydadforbreakfast @peachy-flxwr @sleepysleepymom @fishinsuits @milkbummm @lazyxsquirrel @beezusvreeland @caughtthefever @bohemianrhapsody86 @yarrystyleeza @indestructeible @pepperthebi-spy @kezibear

How does Italian sound for tomorrow night? I was thinking Casa Italia over on 51st.

You couldn't help but smile as you noticed the text notification from Matt on your phone. 

He had apparently texted you several hours prior but you had been busy taking notes for Mr. DiStefano during a meeting with an important client most of the morning and had just gotten a second to breathe before having to go pick up lunch for the partners (because God forbid they be willing to pay a few extra bucks for delivery and tip instead of sending you to go fetch it). 

That sounds great, you replied. What time and where did you want to meet?

You put your phone back into your pants pocket and gathered your purse, then stopped by your boss's office. “Excuse me, Mr. DiStefano, I'm heading out to go pick up your lunch.”

Mr. DiStefano nodded. “As soon as you get back I need you to input the payments that came in this morning and bring the checks to the bank since you didn't do it earlier.”

Your eye twitched. The reason you hadn't done the deposit yet was because right after you had signed for the incoming checks and the courier had left you had been called into that 3-hour meeting. As it was, you'd barely had time to lock the envelopes in your top desk drawer and forward the main phone line to voicemail before Mr. DiStefano was exaggeratedly sighing while looking at his watch.

You plastered a fake smile on your face. On top of still needing to do the day's deposit you also had to transcribe the notes you had taken during the meeting while they were still semi-fresh in your mind, return phone calls, forward voicemails, schedule more meetings, and prepare and send the day’s invoices. “Of course, sir.”

You continued down the hall towards Mr. Williams’s office, passing the doorway without stopping when you heard him and Mr. Abbott laughing together in Mr. Abbott’s office.

“...So then she goes -- she goes, ‘oh, okay’ and drinks it anyway!” Mr. Abbott was saying. “Dumb as a box of rocks, but at least she had a nice rack.”

You rolled your eyes before stopping in front of his office. What a tool.  

You knocked on the doorframe. “Excuse me, Mr. Abbott?”

Mr. Abbott paused and looked past Mr. Williams to you. “Yes?”

You fought to keep your smile. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but I'm just letting you both know that I'm going to go pick up your lunches now.”

Mr. Williams, who had also turned towards you once he realized you were in the doorway, nodded. 

Mr. Abbott dug his wallet out of his pocket and handed you a laundry pickup ticket. “While you're out, pick up my dry cleaning for me. Thanks, dollface.”

What you wanted to say was ‘fuck you and your fucking dry cleaning’ but instead you forced yourself to remain calm. “Sure thing, Mr. Abbott. Mr. Williams, do you need anything else while I'm out?”

Mr. Williams glanced at Mr. Abbott briefly before looking back at you and shaking his head. “Not at the moment, no.”

You nodded. “Okay then, I'll be back soon.” 

Your smile dropped as soon as you turned away from the doorway. There goes any chance of me having a lunch break. At least by some miracle all three of the partners had ordered from the same restaurant today so you (probably) wouldn't be late getting back.

You took a deep breath. It'll be fine.You got this.

You made sure that the phone was still forwarding to voicemail then headed out.

You waited until you had gotten down the block a ways before you took your phone out of your pocket, pulled up your contacts, and pressed the dial button.

You put your phone up to your ear as it began to ring.

“Sky’s the Limit Tech Consulting, this is Roxanne,” said the voice on the other end.

You smiled at the sound of Roxy’s voice. She was the little sister you had never had -- despite your 11-year age difference the two of you had grown close over the three and a half years she had worked at DiStefano and Associates. “Hi, Rox.”

Roxy said your name. “Oh my gosh, hi!”

“Is this a bad time?”

“For you? Never. Just give me a second.”

You heard Roxy set the phone down and close her office door. 

She picked the receiver back up. “Okay, I'm back. What's up?”

“I just needed someone to vent to for a minute.”

“Still haven't replaced me and Tab yet, huh?”

You sighed deeply. “No, and it'd be one thing if they'd at least mention advertising your positions, but I haven't even heard a peep. I'm honestly starting to feel like they aren't even going to bother replacing you, because why go through the trouble of replacing the two people they lost when they can save money by just running me ragged instead?”

“I'm so sorry, I feel terrible leaving you by yourself. Maybe I should have stayed there instead of accepting my position here.”

You shook your head. “Nope. Not hearing that. You worked your ass off in order to earn your master's degree so you could get your dream job in Silicon Valley. You didn't know Tabitha was going to get fired 2 days after you left New York or that DiStefano was going to decide that 1 assistant was enough for all 3 of them.”

“Still, I feel bad leaving you to have to deal with all 3 partners by yourself.”

You rolled your eyes. Despite the fact that she had been absolutely useless, it had almost been worth having Tabitha around just to distract Abbott from hitting on and making gross, sexist comments towards you. “Ugh, yeah. Abbott just ordered me to pick up his dry cleaning while I'm out getting the partners lunch today and called me ‘dollface’.” 

“Eww.”

“And DiStefano pulled me into a 3-hour meeting this morning in order to take notes then made a passive-aggressive comment about me not having done the daily bank deposit yet.” You sighed. “At least Williams hasn't sexually harassed or made me feel incompetent yet today, but since the day’s only half over there's still a chance!”

Roxy groaned. “Girl, fuck them. Why don't you just quit?”

You shook your head. “You know I can't, not if I want to eat and keep a roof over my head while trying to help my mom with her hospital bills.”

Roxy hummed. “Speaking of that, how's your other job going? Found you a hot, rich ‘companion’ yet?”

You grinned as you thought about Matt. “Actually, yeah, I have.”

Roxy gasped. “Hey, that's great! So what's his name?”

You bit your lip. Roxy was the only person who knew about your S&S profile -- after all, she was the one who had gotten you to join -- but your contract made it clear that you wouldn't reveal the nature of your relationship with Matt to anyone. “I can't tell you. He wants to be discreet so he had me sign a contract saying that I won't tell anyone about him and me.”

“Ooh, is he a celebrity?”

You huffed out a laugh. “No, he's an attorney.”

“Married?”

“Nope. Or at least, he told me he was totally single.”

“And you believe him?”

You thought about how honest and genuine Matt seemed to be so far. “Yeah. Yeah, I actually do. He doesn't seem to be trying to hide me in particular, just how we really met and what our arrangement consists of.” You paused. “Anyway, it's really new. We met up for coffee on Saturday and had dinner together Monday night. He took me to Okinawa.”

Roxy whistled. “Okinawa? Wow, he must be loaded. When are you seeing him again?”

“Tomorrow night after work, actually. We're going to Casa Italia.” Which was again a very nice restaurant but thankfully wasn't nearl y as expensive as Okinawa.

“Ooh, nice. Fingers crossed that everything works out for you and that he doesn't turn out to be a creep.”

“Thanks. He seems really sweet so far.”

You slowed as you reached the restaurant from which you were picking up lunch. “I gotta run, but thanks for listening.”

“Hey, any time. Let's FaceTime soon, okay?”

“Okay. Bye, Rox.”

“Bye.”

You hung up and repocketed your phone, slightly disappointed when you didn't have another text from Matt waiting for you.

Even though your arrangement was strictly business, he made you feel like you mattered -- which was way more than you could say for DiStefano, Williams, and Abbott.

“Hey, how did the emergency hearing go?” Foggy asked as Matt walked into the office. 

“The judge granted the retrial,” Matt replied with a relieved sigh. “Now we just have to finish reviewing the rest of the evidence to find everything else we need to get Conrad's conviction overturned.”

He’d had to go to court first thing that morning for an emergency hearing -- a new client of theirs who had been wrongfully convicted of first-degree murder in the double shooting of his former fianceé and her then-husband (who had happened to be a U.S. senator) had been scheduled to be transferred from Rikers to a federal penitentiary in three days, but luckily while reviewing the case Matt had discovered a major discrepancy in what the responding officer had testified to on the stand versus what the police report had stated and managed to convince the judge not only to a retrial, but also to delay the transfer so Matt could have access to his client.

Foggy sighed. “You’d have thought that Sanders would've caught that, especially since his trial notes included what Officer Stanton had stated in his initial report.”

Matt shrugged. He had found in his and Foggy's years of law practice that most of the wrongful conviction cases they had taken on (and won) was because some harried public defender had botched their clients’ cases because of overlooked details (or in more than a few cases, just not caring since they weren't getting paid extra for it). “It happens. Either way I'm sure we'll be able to find what we need.”

“Yeah.” Foggy paused. “So hey, how was your date on Monday? Things were so crazy yesterday that I didn't even get to ask you about it.”

Matt smiled. Even though it hadn't actually been a date he had genuinely had a good time with you and was looking forward to your next evening out. “It was good.”

“And? I want details, man!”

“There really aren't many details to share -- she met me over here, we walked to the restaurant, had a nice dinner, then said goodbye and went our separate ways.”

“That’s it?” Foggy sounded disappointed. “Guess that means no second date then.”

Matt grinned and shook his head. “Actually, we made plans for tomorrow night before we left the restaurant.”

He took his phone out of his pocket and turned it back on. “Which reminds me…”

He waited for it to boot up and smiled when his phone announced that you had replied to his earlier text confirming your plans for dinner.

He tapped at his screen and waited as it read off your reply. “ That sounds great. What time and where would you like to meet?”

He tapped the ‘reply’ button. “ Is 7 PM at the restaurant okay with you?” With the retrial being granted, Matt knew that he would be staying late at the office since he needed to prepare.

“That sounds fine,” his phone dictated when you replied a few seconds later. “I'll see you then.”

“At least tell me about her if you're not going to give me specifics about your date,” Foggy said. “What does she do and is she hot?”

Matt chuckled. “She's an office assistant at an architectural firm not far from here and I really wouldn't know if she was hot, but what I do know is that she's nice and that we have a lot in common.”

“So when can we meet her?”

Matt shrugged. He wanted to make sure you were completely comfortable with his and your arrangement before he introduced you to his friends. “I don't know yet. Maybe in a few weeks? Depends on how things progress.”

He shook his head. “Anyway, let's get busy. We've got a trial to prepare for.”

#lotmf writes #Sweet on You Masterlist #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x f!reader #matt murdock x fem!reader #matt murdock x you

[missmaywemeetagain]

Pink Scarf - PART 12! (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: kinda

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

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

TW: Spanking. (If spanking is not your thing, I have marked those parts with ~ at the start and end of them so you can read past them.) Dom!Elvis and dom/sub dynamics. Sex. ANGST. Jealousy. Cussing. Infidelity. Historical inaccuracies in the Vegas timeline. Priscilla doesn't exist in this timeline.  

Rating: Explicit/Mature (NSFW, 18+, so minors Do NOT Interact)        ||     Word Count: 10,660

A/N: We're back, y'all and this part is a MONSTER so you're gonna have to carve out some time (it's what you deserve)! It took on a life of its own, honestly. I really wanted to explore the darker sides of both our Reader and Elvis and their choices. It is important to me in this piece to show that Elvis was a very complex human with very real faults, which can throw some people for a loop if they idealize him or don't know much about him, so be warned.

With that said, the convo between him and Anita in 1961 is real. I transcribed his parts as best I could with the quality of the recording. Hopefully, I did his mood justice in the writing (in terms of how Reader is interpreting it), but if you do choose to listen, I recommend headphones and patience. It's a long one and not a great recording. And once again, depending on your point of view, it shows a not-so-flattering side of EP, so proceed with caution.

Thank you all SO MUCH for your love, patience, and distractions as I've been ill! This community has been so wonderful and it's been amazing getting to know you all better and to be able to share our love of EP in all the ways! 💖

As always, to all my babies, honeys, and lil' mamas supporting me out there, your reactions, reblogs, messages, asks, and comments you've given me have been a blessing beyond expression. I will say I'm a bit self-conscious about this part for a variety of reasons, mainly covid-brain, so be gentle! I'm sorry in advance if it's not up to par.

If you feel so moved, please let me know what you think or how you're feeling (or send me asks)! I think I put everyone on the taglist who requested it, but please let me know if there are any issues or if I missed anyone.

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

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

(I did start cross-posting Pink Scarf to my long-neglected AO3 account (which some of you already discovered!), so if you are so inclined, you can check it out over there, though it's not all updated yet!)

Los Angeles, 1961

Walking down the hallway, you cannot help but be drawn to the perturbed sound of Elvis’ unique cadence from beyond the door of the den. It is cracked open just enough for the sound to come through, which must have been a mistake by whoever left last, probably one of the guys. You had seen Red come from this direction not that long ago.

You’d come out to LA at Elvis’ behest to join them all for a visit while he was filming his latest movie. You were happy to see Jack after so much time apart, and you’d instantly gotten swept back up into the Elvis lifestyle while being here, though it was moderately toned down considering his filming schedule. It was a nice change from what was becoming a bit of a lonely existence at Graceland. It wasn’t that you were alone, per say, it was just that the other wives were having and taking care of their little ones, which was a constant reminder of a life you couldn’t have. You loved spending time them and with the children—they just weren’t your own.

You certainly don’t mean to snoop, you’d only been making your way through the California villa to the bedroom to grab something out of your bag, but your curiosity wins out. You stop just shy of the door, head bowed, ear to the crack, wondering who has Elvis in such a state. Of course, you can only hear one side of the conversation, but you try to piece together as best you can what might be going on. You know you shouldn’t, but you do anyway.

Elvis responds to the person he’s talking to in an exasperated tone, “You know why—you know why I don’t call you anymore? This very reason, right here. This very reason right here…I-I-I-can’t talk to you, hon. You mess with my damn head, man. I-I-can’t count on a decent conversation with ya. Ya start throwin’ up all kinds of shit to me. Look, if I called you e-e-every damn night, you’d start bitchin about something different. You’re just a fuckin’ nag, that’s all, you’re just a nagger that’s all.”

Your eyes widen at that, at how mean he’s getting with whichever one of his women he’s talking to. You have seen his temper firsthand over the years, but not directed at you and you’ve never heard him talk to a woman this way. After knowing him all this time, this side of him shocks you a bit, and you stay rooted to the spot.

“Well, that’s the way I feel about it, a-a-and y-y-y-you don’t have to be that way either. Not to the extent that you are, you don’t have to be that bad,” he says vehemently. “I just know you’re gonna start throwin’ something up to me a-and I ain’t got time to hear it. You turn me the fuck up, you know that?”

And he certainly is turned up, you think. His annoyance and frustration are coming through loud and clear on this end, punctuated by his stutter. The woman must be talking because he pauses before continuing.

“Yes, all the time. I-I-I can’t stand it, I-I can’t stand it, Anita, I swear I can’t stand it. I call you and do right, my ass,” he says, annoyed. “I do, do right! My ass. If I called you e-every night, you’d start that shit.” Elvis starts mocking her in a whining, high pitched voice, “‘Who’d you see today? You g-got a girlfriend, I’m surprised at you, blah blah,’ that bullSHIT!” He spits it out at her, angrily. “Naw, it ain’t no lie. Naw, you bring it up every time I talk to you.”

Your heart races a bit just hearing the confrontation and at the thrill that you shouldn’t be eavesdropping in the first place. Of course, it’s Anita, you think. He’s been seeing her the longest of any of his girlfriends, even through Germany. You are friendly with her, but not very close. Although she is always nice to you, she has an air about her that rubs you the wrong way. Not that you’d ever show it, but she just seems a bit self-important to you, what with her beauty queen titles and flitting up to New York or out to Hollywood for her singing or acting. She is a little too pretty, a little too nice, and sometimes it just feels underhanded.

Or maybe you’re just jealous, a niggling voice in the back of your mind says.

You scoff at that. Jealous of what? Sure, it seemed like she had a glamorous life, what with all the things she did, and how beautiful she is, and being the girlfriend of THE Elvis Presley, but you know better than that. And right now it sure doesn’t seem like you have much to be jealous of, considering the way he’s talking to her. She’s been around four years, and there is still no true commitment from him. At least you have a husband who loves you and you are a permanent fixture in Elvis’ inner circle, giving you a leg up in this situation, you think a little haughtily.

Good god, what is wrong with me? Why am I being so petty?

You don’t have an answer to that.

Obviously, Anita is not happy, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why. Anita’s not dumb, even though she can play that part if needs be. She knows he’s seeing other women, and just because you’re not her biggest fan doesn’t mean she deserves to be treated poorly, by him or anyone else.

The thing is, you realize suddenly, even though he is likely in the wrong, you are still going to take his side in the end because he’s your friend. And that thought surprises you a little bit. But at the same time, there is anger starting to simmer in your chest at his poor behavior, at the way he keeps some of the women in his life hanging, waiting with bated breath to see if they will be the one to win his undying and singular attention.

You, of course, know better. Elvis is needy and fickle and loves being adored by as many women as possible. If there is one thing he’s addicted to, it’s girls. But he would no sooner give up his freedom to love as many of them as possible than he would to give up his career. Not to say that he doesn’t genuinely care for some of them; in fact, he is overly loving and demonstrative in some ways. It’s just that the standards for his love seem different than anyone else’s, and he gets away with things he might not otherwise because of who he is. But in your experience, the girls all figure it out eventually, and it seems like Anita is finally getting there.

It sounds like she is giving Elvis the business about it, which he doesn’t like one little bit.

“Why can’t you be sweet instead of bitchin’ like an old naggin’ ass wife, huh?” you hear him say, a little viciously, your eyes going wide. “I can’t stand that, I can’t stand it. Baby, you’ve got me crazy, you know that? You get worse a-all the damn time, a-and th-th-that’s why I don’t talk to you on the phone.”

You really, really should leave and get your nose out of his business, but it’s like you’re incapable of getting your feet to move. You’re mad at him for speaking this way to her, even though she likely IS nagging, you know it’s for good reason. She is right. He wants to have his cake and eat it, too, and he does not like being called out on it.

You hear him backtracking now, almost wearily telling her how much he loves her, over and over. The man doth protest too much. And the way his stutter pops up now, it sounds more like a child covering a fib than agitation. But you hate to assume.

“I told ya that I’m in love with ya. I-I-I-I-I-if I—if I—if I didn’t love you, I tell ya, I wouldn’t waste my time with you. I don’t have to,” he rebounds bluntly, harshly, then recovers quickly, “Well, I-I look forward to being with you, and I-I think about you a lot. But because I don’t call you three or four times a damn week, you say to me ‘Why don’t you…?’” His nastiness gets the better of him again, as he starts to mock her, but then he stops, his frustration evident. “Aw, HELL. I tell ya how I felt aboutcha, you oughta know how I feel. I mean, three long years, w-we’ve been battling this back and forth this same thing. You know I love you, darlin’.”

It all sounds rather unconvincing to you, as he seems to bounce so quickly from one emotion to the other. Maybe he believes it, you think, but you don’t think she’s buying it, not by the way he continues to reassure her, nearly pleading in some moments, and calling her pet names before that indignant tone returns to his voice. Even from out here, you can feel just how hard he’s trying to be patient, trying to placate her, with the many declarations of his love.

Silence falls for a moment, and you wonder what she must be saying to him, whether she’s falling for this or if she’s just as disbelieving as you are. You think she might be coming around based on how his voice changes yet again, how he’s both gentle and matter of fact, then his tone becomes almost boyish and sad.

Suddenly, you hear footsteps coming down the hall towards you. In a complete panic, you nearly jump out of your skin before looking around frantically for an escape. Desperate, you fling yourself into the room across the hall, but in your excitement, the door slams behind you.

Your hand pops to cover your mouth, as if this action alone will have kept anyone from hearing the door.

There is silence for a moment before you hear Elvis shouting, muffled, “Cliff? Cliff!”

Your heart thunders in your chest as you chastise yourself for being so damn stupid as to be eavesdropping on Elvis of all people, then you say a silent prayer that no one finds you as you hear more footsteps and another door slam. The footsteps head away, and with shaking breaths, you slowly open the door to find the hallway empty once more.

You tell yourself you are gonna skedaddle right out of there and go on with your business, but then you hear Elvis lay into her yet again:

“I-I-I love you very much a-and q-quit-quit-quit bitching and nagging me so much. I get so mad, I could break your neck.” That takes you aback, the way he just throws the phrase at her before going back to imitating her meanly, “’I can’t help it, I can’t help it! I can’t help it!’” W--w-w-w-what are you gonna do when I’m nuts and in an asylum?” Then he mumbles something you can’t understand but you hear him chuckle before he sighs big and loudly.

He's telling her he loves her but in a way that makes it obvious that he wants off the phone. She’s not having it based on the silence from his end.

Then he’s back to talking real nice and low to her, seemingly contrite and sorry, his stutter emphasizing it all. The stutter gives him away, you think, though you aren’t sure if it’s more agitation at her or that he’s feeling guilty. Perhaps it’s both.

“Well, m-maybe I’m not doing my part right now, but I mean give me a chance, you know. Just give me a chance. Don’t-don’t-don’t worry, j-j-just give me a chance, I-I, it’ll all come out in the long run. Okay? Take my word for it, hon, I wouldn’t lie to you. I love you, Anita.” A pause and then he giggles, “I’ll enjoy it. I love you very much darlin’. I do, Anita, I do…w-w-w-why would I lie to you, baby? I-i-if i-i-i if I’m l-l-l-lying…” he says, his stutter so bad now it’s hard to understand anything he’s saying.

You internally scoff at this. He’s been lying to her for years. But part of you wonders if he truly believes it will all turn out for them in the future. He is something of an idealist, after all. Maybe he really does fear losing her. Maybe that stutter is betraying his nerves rather than his guilt.

You aren’t sure how you feel about the prospect of him actually settling down, especially with Anita. For one, you don’t think it’s in his nature, but two, something about him doing it turns your stomach. You can’t pinpoint why, exactly, but the idea of him being married with little ones running about Graceland makes you want to scream.

You quickly push that thought out of your head, convincing yourself that your broiling frustration at him has more to do with his treatment of Anita than anything else. If he loves her and needs her so much, maybe he should just tell her the truth. You continue to listen in as he talks baby talk to her and emphasizes just how much he really will call her more, and then you hear him yawn.

“Hell, I’m tired. Oh, yeah. You do? You do? Well don’t sound so damn serious. How much you love me? How much you love me? Maybe? Baby? I love you. I love you. I wish, I wish, I wish I was with you,” he says, weary and tired of the conversation. There are long moments of silence, and you wonder what she is saying or if she’s hung up on him.

“I gotta go. There ain’t no party, I just gotta go. I’ll talk to ya later. I will. Don’t throw up more ideas…” He starts that terrible imitating of her again, “’I can’t! I can’t help that!’ I could slap your face right off.” He laughs through the rest now, and you know him well enough to know he’s being an asshole, provoking her. You can practically hear her shouting through the receiver, she’s yelling so loud.

“I think you’ve lost your damn mind. Yeah, ya have,” he says gently, quiet but cutting. Then he continues to chuckle, seemingly finding her agitation amusing. “Well…we’ll see. I’ll talk to ya later. Okay? Okay? Take care honey, be patient. Alright. Take it easy. Bye.” You hear the receiver click as he finally hangs up the phone.

You’re fuming now, a bit off the rails considering none of this has anything to do with you, and you know it. The gall of him to behave that way when he knows he’s in the wrong, that he is lying to her. For god’s sake, he is having a party right now and there are girls here that you know were invited by him for a particular purpose, and he’s over here telling Anita how tired he is and how crazy she is when she is right all along.

The now-small logical part of your brain is screaming at you to leave and to get your nose out of his business before you do something stupid, but instead you listen to Elvis as he lets out a huge sigh that ends in a frustrated growl.

“Who in the hell is out there lurking in the hallway?” you hear him shout out of nowhere.

Shit.

Your heart pounds, knowing you are caught, and you are mad enough that you refuse to run away. You take a deep breath instead, pushing the door open slowly.

Elvis looks up through his dark lashes from behind the huge mahogany desk, his hands steepled and his jaw set. Surprise flashes over his features when he lays eyes on you, his left eyebrow shooting up, but his eyes quickly return to a steely blue, hardening.

“How much did you hear?” There’s no preamble, no beating around the bush, no charming quip.

You consider lying for a moment. “Enough,” you finally say, knowing lying would be futile—he knows you well enough to see through your deceit. You are angry enough at him for it to show on your face.

“Hmmm. Mmm hmm,” he tuts, seemingly disappointed in you, his anger still simmering just below the surface. “What the fuck were you thinkin’, listening to my private conversation?” It comes out frighteningly low and biting.

You open your mouth to speak, but before anything gets out, he’s yelling, “What is it with the goddamn women in my life sticking their noses where they don’t belong?!” You cannot help but flinch at his outburst, even as angry as you are.

Elvis gets up so fast and so violently the rolling chair he’s sitting in flies backwards, hitting the bookshelf behind him. Rounding the desk, he advances on you, and you stumble, countering by stepping back. With his dark hair and flashing eyes, his features both soft and severe all at once, his natural beauty is intimidating.

Already angered by his conversation with Anita, he is teetering right on the edge of fury, on that blinding temper of his. Which is why you have no idea what comes over you next.

“So, how’s Anita?” you ask sardonically. A small part of you is hoping that your sarcasm will deescalate the situation. It does not. More likely, for whatever reason, you have this urge to push him right over the edge. He’s never turned his temper on you before, and his temper can be blindingly terrible, yet still you persist.

“Don’t be insolent. It doesn’t become you, y/n,” he seethes, his soulful eyes now a churning, hard, steely blue, like the northern Atlantic during a storm.

You continue anyway, “You should just tell her, E. She obviously suspects what you’re doing, wouldn’t it just be easier—"

“I didn’t ask for your fuckin’ opinion!” he shouts at you. Your heart begins to pound in your ears, along with the ringing of his voice, but you are stubborn as hell and pissed off, too, so despite all the warning bells, you keep going.

“You’re right, you didn’t, but I’m telling you anyway as your friend and as a woman who knows—and more so because no one else will dare to call you on it—” you shoot at him, trembling with anger, “Being cheated on and then being lied to and made to feel crazy about it when you know something is wrong is awful. That’s why she’s nagging you all the time. You are making her feel crazy. You should either tell her or leave her, Elvis, but this isn’t right.” You let out a breath, your body hot with anger and you are surprised at your boldness.

“Aw, hell, y/n, you gonna be bitchin’ and naggin’ now, too, huh?” he barks, his eyes flashing.

More words, ones you didn’t expect to speak, come rolling off your tongue. “Why are you hanging on to her if you are just gonna constantly screw around behind her back? How can you really love her and do that to her? You have to know after all this time that she wants you to marry her, but I think we both know that’s not going to happen, is it? What exactly is the point of all this, then, Elvis?”

You expect him to scream at you again and you brace for it. But instead, he steps closer, cornering you. Anger is rolling off him in waves but now it’s tempered by something else, too. Something heavy and thick that starts to suck the air from the room as his deep eyes lock onto yours, unwavering.

“Why y/n, you sound almost jealous.” It comes out smooth, too smooth, with a dark chuckle as he takes one more bold step into you. Your back hits the wall, breath catching at the insinuation.

“W-what? No,” you eek out defensively, in a voice far too high for your liking. You feel your cheeks flush. You know objectively what he’s trying to do, distract and deflect blame for his situation off him and onto you. It’s manipulative but effective because you are flustered beyond repair now.

And maybe because there’s a little truth to it, that small voice from earlier adds. Though you have no idea how Elvis may have pulled that deep thought, one that you barely acknowledged yourself, from the deep recesses of your brain.

Faltering under the pressure of his gaze and the closeness of his lean body practically pressing up against yours, you try to skirt around him.

He slams his hand onto the wall next to your head and you wince as his arm blocks you in. You’re breathing hard now, feeling something between shock and fear and exhilaration as his beautiful face comes too close to yours, forcing you to turn back to him.

Elvis will not be ignored.

“I’m not sure I believe you, baby,” he purrs. “Why else would you be snooping into my private romantic business?” His nose almost grazes your face, tantalizing, the scent of his Old Spice filling your nostrils, consuming you. You realize you’ve never been this close to him, not like this.

Maybe there’s a good reason for that.

Your heart drops into your stomach, but you roll your eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” you respond, glaring at him. It sounds almost convincing.

Elvis chuckles meanly, not believing you, his lip curling into a grin, but the smile doesn’t meet his eyes. He’s a panther stalking his prey, and you have come crashing into the jungle, demanding his attention. 

His wrath is laced with something fervently sexual, and anything sexual coming from Elvis is ten times what it might be from another man. It’s intoxicating in the worst way possible, clouding your thoughts, distracting you from your frustration at his behavior. It’s as though, over time, he’s learned to wield his charismatic essence and his sexual energy into a weapon, one which he is now turning on you.

You realize you are in way over your head, but you’ve left yourself no room to backpedal out of this.

Elvis’ icy eyes roam over your face. For a moment you think he might close the gap between you two and press those pillowy lips to yours. For a moment you allow yourself to wonder if they feel as soft as they look, if they taste as sweet as you imagine.

What would he do if it were you that closed the gap? Would he be shocked out of his rage and pull away? Or would he kiss you back? Would you want him to?

Guilt washes over you, a cold shock, in response to these thoughts. What in the hell is wrong with me today?

But right now, cornered as you are, you feel like you might do almost anything to get out of this intense limbo he has you trapped in. You decide to call him out and see what happens.

“Oh, please, Elvis. Does this bull work on all the girls?” you hum almost nonchalantly, even though your heart is galloping, but it has the desired effect. He bites his tongue and shakes his head, leaning back from you. “What, you think you can just try and beguile me, of all people, and I’ll forget about what a jerk you’re being?”

“That’s not—,” he begins, through gritted teeth.

“Oh, shut it,” you interrupt, even more mad now after calling him out on his bad behavior for the second time. “I have half a mind to call Anita up myself after the stunt you just pulled!”

“The hell you will!” Elvis growls, eyes heated, yanking you by the arm towards the desk. “I’ll teach you what happens when you stick your nose where it don’t belong.”

~

You yelp in surprise as he pulls you over. It all happens so fast; you barely resist because your brain doesn’t comprehend what’s happening until he’s planted himself on top of the desk and bends you over his knee.

“Elvis, what are you…?” you yell. He cannot be serious, there is no way he will—

The first smack hits your backside hard. You choke in shock, not just at the sting but at his audacity. You are frozen, speechless, until you realize he’s aiming to do it again. You try to wriggle off his leg, flailing your arms for purchase, but he is much stronger than you. His arm clamps down on your back, holding you fast.

“Elvis!” you shriek at him, “Don’t you even think about—!” The second smack lands harder than the first, on the other cheek, and you squeal, kicking your legs.

“You gonna stay outta my business, y/n?” he asks.

“Goddamnit, Elvis!” you hiss, trying to glare back at him, but he holds you fast.  

“Takin’ that as a ‘no’,” he muses, and you can hear the smirk in his voice as he brings down his hand again. You yelp again, then grit your teeth. He’s not going easy on you, though you are absolutely sure he’s not anywhere at full strength, either. He’s not truly trying to hurt you. While your dress is softening some of the blow, it still smarts, sending your eyes watering.

You are livid, but much to your shock, you are also finding yourself exhilarated, stimulated. Your heart races and you have no idea what’s gotten into you. It’s like everything you’ve done in the last thirty minutes—poking your nose in where it didn’t belong, becoming so angry at him, pushing all of his buttons on purpose—was some strange way to get here. Not that you knew, not at all, that this would be your punishment, but it was almost as if you were crying out for his attentions all along.

This realization stuns you into stillness, and you barely register him talking to you again.

“I can do this all day, y/n, until you tell me what I need to hear,” he says in a sing-song voice. He’s enjoying it, his anger still there, but no longer at the forefront of his intent. No, now he is entirely focused on getting you to cry uncle.

You are stubborn and silent, though still reeling with confusion from your realizations of what got you here, slung over Elvis Presley’s knee, and that you, too, might be enjoying this, but in all the wrong ways. When his hand slaps your ass this time, you bite back the sound that wants to come forth, because it is no longer one of shock. Never in a thousand years do want to admit that you are relishing the feel of his hand on you like this, that the sting is having the opposite effect of what he wants or what either of you expects. It is wrong in so many ways.

Your lack of response must confuse him because you feel him hesitate in the slightest. You are unsure what comes over you, other than the impulse that you don’t actually want him to stop, which means he definitely should stop, but you can’t let him know why and instead it all comes out jumbled. The intended, “Elvis, please don’t!—Stop!” somehow (perhaps a little less than subconsciously) turns into a breathless, pleading for him to continue, “Elvis, please…don’t…stop.”

And though you feel his leg tense under you slightly, the only outward indication that he takes it any other way, he indeed does not stop. You squirm at the last second, realizing your mistake. And when his hand lands this time, fingers splayed wide, he hits decidedly lower and more centered than before. There is no way to know if it is purposeful or accidental, not that it matters in this moment because you cannot help the way your fingers dig into his thigh and the embarrassing moan that escapes your lips when he slaps your center along with your ass.

There is no denying what that sound meant. There’s no way to play it off or pretend it didn’t happen. You are fully aroused and completely mortified.

And Elvis knows it. You know he does by the way he stills, how his other hand clenches your dress at your waist, how you can feel his chest heaving along with your own in the thick, heavy silence that comes after.

For a moment, you wonder if he will push, if he’ll try to continue under the guise of this insane game, and a shameful part of you almost wants him to, wants to see how far you’ll both go, but that thought is fleeting.

~

He releases you, and you scurry off his lap as though he is on fire. And he might as well be with that tell-tale twinkle burning in his crystalline eyes, which are no longer stormy with anger but brimming with amusement and surprise and curiosity and heat. Then, as if he can’t help it, those pink lips pull up into a wide, cheeky smile, his tongue peeking out between his teeth and the tip touches his top lip. The look is somewhere between bashful and positively sinful.

You smooth your dress frantically with your hands, your face burning. Flustered beyond repair, you swipe at your watering eyes, feeling the heat scorch through your body. You are so utterly embarrassed that you could cry. Neither of you speaks at first (what in god’s name can you say??), but Elvis starts to giggle—giggle—that hiccupping little laugh of his that you know will spiral into a fit if he really gets going.

“Don’t you…don’t you dare laugh at me, Elvis Presley!” you sputter and stamp like a child, pointing at him, but his face is going red now and he’s starting to lose it.

“I’m-I’m n-n-not! I just c-can’t…” he stutters before he erupts into full blown belly laughs.

“Oh, my god,” you cry, bringing your hands to your face. You are both livid at him and mortified at yourself, but the situation is completely ridiculous and his laughter becomes contagious. “I swear to god, this isn’t funny!” you wail, fighting back your own laughter.

This just sends him into fresh peal of laughing, and he doubles over.

You finally break down, laughing, too. “Shut up!” you yell, but all the sting is out of it with your own giggles. “This is all your fault!”

“MY fault?!” he cries, trying to catch his breath, tears leaking from his eyes.

You don’t have an answer to that. You know it’s very much on both of you, especially you.

Finally, the laughter starts to die down and you both are wiping at your eyes and catching your breath. Silence starts to hang heavy again, but you break it with ferocity.

“Let’s just pretend that none of this ever happened, okay? I’ll forget everything I heard, and you’ll forget…the rest of it, and we’ll never, ever speak of this again,” you say seriously, with conviction. “Deal?”

As absurd as the whole situation is, you both know there are very real consequences, for both of you, if any of what’s transpired leaves this room. The problem is you know he can be terrible at keeping secrets; however, there is no way for him to tell yours without exposing himself. You can see him work through this now that he is calmed down, his blue eyes regarding you carefully.

You force yourself to remain steady under his intense gaze, trying your best to ignore the way your body wants to involuntarily respond to him all the sudden. You need him to know how serious you are because if this somehow got back to Jack, or to anyone at all, you would be humiliated at best and divorced at worse.

Maybe that’s a little dramatic, you think, but it wouldn’t be good for anyone. But it lights enough panic in you to get your head on straight.

“I’m serious, Elvis. Not a word from either of us,” you reiterate, as Elvis’ face has become unreadable. Your body still feels hot and you will your heart to slow, praying that he’ll give you the answer you need so you can get the hell out of here.

After what feels like an eternity, he finally nods, “Not a peep.” He purses his lips and mimes locking them and throwing away the key. You want to roll your eyes, but instead breathe a sigh of relief. You turn, quick on your heel to leave, needing as far away as possible from this whole situation. Far away from him.

“Y/n?” he calls out from behind you as you reach for the door.

Your heart drops into your stomach and you brace yourself for a quip. You turn, not expecting to see the apologetic look on his face that you do. It’s almost childlike in its sincerity, his eyes big and mournful.

“I-I’m sorry I lost my temper. I-I-I shouldn’t have put my hands on you like that,” he says, playing with his ring nervously.

Your jaw nearly drops to the floor. An apology is not at all what you were expecting. You blink a couple of times, your whirlwind of emotions calming for a moment.

“Thank you, E. And I’m sorry for sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. It really is none of my business,” you add, cheeks warming again as you look down, feeling embarrassed for all the reasons, feeling exposed under his gaze.

“Naw, baby, you’re just callin’ it as you see it. You’ve never pulled punches with me, and I don’t expect you to start now,” he replies, lip curling up in a smile.

You nod. “Even so, I’ll do my best to refrain from spying on you in the future.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay.” You turn and leave before he has a chance to stop you again. Hurrying to the bedroom you are sharing with Jack, you lock yourself in, lean back on the door, and slide to the floor with your head in your hands.

What in god’s name came over you? Why would you do such a thing? And why in the hell did you like it when he touched you like that? Panic and guilt run through your veins like ice. You push all the thoughts away, as deep and as far as they will go.

Not a word. Pretend this never happened. Nothing is wrong if it never happened.

You repeat it in your head until it sticks.

*

Carrying the black folder with your sheet music, you take a deep breath and take a seat on the stage behind the curtains that hide the backstage from the audience. You’ve never been backstage for one of his shows, and it is bustling with musicians. Your job tonight is to follow along with the Sweet Inspirations and see if you can find your footing in the music while the show is happening. With the volume on stage, no one should be able to hear you from out front.

Nerves flow through you, nevertheless. It’s been a crazy three days with the vocal coach, who has assured you that, yes, you have the capability to do this and are “a natural,” but that you need to work through your stage fright. You’re not sure if it is her idea or Elvis’ to put you backstage during a performance, but here you are, your heart pounding as though you were going on stage with the rest of them.

In those three days, you haven’t seen Elvis alone, either. This has made you incredibly uneasy for a variety of reasons. Part of you is glad because you feel like your head is clearer about the whole affair, that you have some semblance of control, that if you want to end it (and you should) that you can.

However, another part of you craves his attention, missing him desperately, worried that he’s gotten what he wants from you and now is moving on. You keep thinking about how if he’s not spending his nights with you who might be keeping his bed warm instead. This fear is beginning to wreak havoc and is at odds with your logical thoughts. You know you need to get over it, to get over him, that all of this is just for fun anyways. It’s just sex. Nothing other than that was ever promised. He’s free to do what he wants with who he wants.

It's not as though you haven’t seen him, though, it just hasn’t been alone. Between your lessons, his schedule, and Jack seemingly looming everywhere, it’s been hard to steal any time away. As soon as you told Jack you were staying, that Elvis was offering you a job as part of the show, you couldn’t quite get a read on how he felt about it. Jack seemed surprised, a little annoyed, and wary when you told him. You were sure he wouldn’t want you around anymore, but instead he has been more attentive than usual, which has also thrown you for a loop. You don’t know if he suspects something might be going on, but he hasn’t been off cavorting until all hours of the night anymore, instead staying with the guys at the after party every night in Elvis’ suite.

In any case, all you and E have had are a couple of fleeting, longing looks and the occasional touch, which is maddening. He did come to one of your lessons, but remained professional in front of the coach, only giving you a quick peck on the cheek and left a lingering hand at your waist, burning through your dress and threatening to set you aflame right there and then.

During the after parties, where the gang, plus a lucky group of fans (usually pretty, young things), would come up and join you all. You smiled your way through the gatherings trying to appear as normal as possible as the girls flirted endlessly with Elvis, and he flirted back at them. Not to mention the way Jack would look at the girls, too. The whole situation was becoming untenable.

Thank god for Sandy, who always seemed to be there when you needed her, with a squeeze of a hand or a bump of your shoulder, stealing away with you to the bathroom when it all became too much.

But, lucky for you, you at least had a distraction of learning all the music for the show, hence why you are here now, amongst the fervent energy that is building backstage. The Sweet Inspirations just finished their set, and now everyone is waiting on the man of the hour.

You finally see him round the corner, clad in his black herringbone suit, the one you find impeccably flattering on him. He looks gorgeous but is vibrating with nervous energy and seems like he could be sick at any moment, his eyes focused on something only he can see. Involuntarily, you rise out of your chair in his presence, wanting to go to him, to comfort him, but you stop yourself. It isn’t your place, and you don’t want to distract him or possibly make his nerves worse.

Much to your surprise, Elvis seems to sense you, turning to you, and his cobalt eyes light up when they meet yours. He switches gears, much to the surprise of some of the guys, and walks towards you. They don’t follow, which you are glad for. You meet him, desperately wanting to pull him in for a kiss, but everyone seems to be watching. His eyes travel over your face, needy under the fear he’s experiencing.

“You’re here,” he says gratefully, as though it is a surprise that you actually showed up.

“I’m here,” you reply. “How are you feeling?”

“Nervous. But better now,” he says, those big blue eyes blinking at you with an almost shy smile.

“Me, too,” you laugh. God, you want to touch him so badly, it’s like an itch you can’t scratch.

“I miss you,” he whispers, and it nearly breaks your heart with the way it makes it swell in your chest.

“I miss you, too,” you nod breathlessly, “and we’ll talk later, but right now, you need to go out there and kick some ass, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nods, taking a deep breath, puffing his cheeks and letting it out slowly. He reaches out and grabs your hand, squeezing it tight, his huge rings cold against your skin. Then he turns abruptly, heads off, and cues the band to start.

Your heart is pounding in your chest. Seeing that side of him, so needy and small, is such a contrast to how larger than life he is as he walks on that stage. It reminds you so much of the young man he once was, so different from the cocky, self-assured man he can be today.

Then the show starts in earnest and you sit back down, realizing you have a job to do and can’t just moon over him the entire show. You do your best to follow the music, humming along, quietly finding the high harmonies to the songs you feel like you’ve heard a million times but are now experiencing differently because you are listening for other things.

You do notice that some of his jokes are falling flat and that the audience isn’t responding as enthusiastically as they could be. Elvis fights for their attention, being the consummate performer that he is, and you can tell he’s a bit ruffled by it.

By the end of the show, you’ve been swept up in the music and it feels like no time has passed, your nerves long forgotten. It’s an amazing feeling, really, as the crowd applauds and the curtain falls and everyone bustles with after-show energy. Even though you weren’t officially on stage, you still feel swept up in the high of it all and it’s invigorating.

Elvis, of course, is soaked with sweat, breathless as the swarm descends with compliments, though he doesn’t smile or seem to believe them even though he nods through them. You know he is a perfectionist in his own right and by his demeanor, he seems agitated by how the performance went. His eyes find yours only briefly, guarded, before he is hustled away. You hide your disappointment in collecting your music and instead focus your energy on conversing with some of the musicians as they pack up their instruments. The mood feels sour, dampened, as Elvis’ displeasure radiates even after he leaves. Your emotions are tumultuous, as you feel neglected, and you are glad when you see Sandy waiting for you so you can go up to the penthouse together.

“How’d it go?” she practically bounces. “How nervous were you?”

“Pretty nervous at first, but after the first song, I just kinda got swept up in the music. It was pretty remarkable, actually,” you reply. “Though E didn’t seem very happy with the show.”

She pulls you along, through the curtains and out into the hallway. “And how is…everything else?” she intones with a knowing look.

You sigh, shifting your music folder to the other arm, looking down. You hurry her along, away from prying ears. “He came up to me before the show and told me he missed me,” you whisper.

“Oooh, really? That’s good, right? Sometimes a man needs to know what he’s missing to really appreciate it,” she muses. “Do you miss him, too?”

“I don’t want to! But as soon as he was there in front of me, I felt like I was gonna come out of my skin to get to him. I’m just…having all these feelings I don’t know what to do with, San,” you fluster. “Every time I think I have a handle on it, something happens to remind me that I’m completely off the rails.”

“You’re not ‘completely off the rails’, y/n. You’ve just got it bad,” she says almost nonchalantly.

“Ugh! I’m desperate to see him alone, and seeing him but not being able to touch him or to do anything that might give us away is hard. Not to mention, all these girls hanging all over him is making me crazy, and Jack seems to be everywhere under foot all the sudden, which is even more maddening. Oh, I need to end this. I can’t keep doing this,” you whine.

“Listen to me, we are just gonna go upstairs and hang out with everyone just like normal, okay? And we’ll try to get you two alone at some point. I’ll talk to Jerry, okay?” Sandy says, grabbing you by the shoulders. “I’ve got your back.”

“Thanks, babe,” you sigh. “I’m fine, really.”’

Sandy side-eyes you as you both head up to the top floor.

The guys have procured yet another gaggle of women and a few men to join the party tonight. Jack has planted himself next to you, uncharacteristically putting his arm around you. Surprised, you try not to stiffen, reminding yourself that this is your husband and it’s totally normal for him to put his arm around you, but it feels more possessive than affectionate. Or maybe you are just imagining it.

You busy yourself making small talk as you all wait for Elvis to appear. When he does, freshly washed, the smell wafts over you, reminding you of your most recent escapades in the shower. You flush a little at that, hiding your face by taking a drink.

Elvis glances at you only momentarily as he enters. He seems a little off, you think, a little edgy, as he commands the room and finds a seat amongst the girls. Your jaw tenses as they fawn and fall all over him, and he flirts back as though he can’t help it. This makes you insane to watch for the third night in a row. All you can think about is his hands on someone else the way you want them to be on you.

And the more you want Elvis’ hands on you, you instead get Jack’s, which seem to be gripping you at all times in some way. Over your shoulder, on your knee, on your hand…you’re trapped in this tortuous hellscape where you would do anything to get him to stop touching you, but you can’t, you can’t without it giving yourself away.

You are equally trapped as you watch your lover give his attention to everyone but you. Every time Elvis laughs or smiles or his eyes sparkle flirtatiously, or if he touches one of them or when they touch him, you want to launch right out of your chair at him.

He wants them, you think. That’s why he hasn’t seen you the last few days. He’s been with other women.

The thought drips like poison into your heart, twisting it, filling you with anger and sadness.

Why would he want you when he can have any pretty young thing? No one wants you. No one chooses you. It drips again, icy and brutal.

All of it goes on for what feels like an eternity, and you want to scream, to cry, to escape, but you’ve made this bed and now are being forced to lie in it. It’s your punishment for all your misdeeds, you think. But your stomach is rolling with an ever-growing fury at Jack, at Elvis, at those girls, at yourself, and you start to squirm in your seat.

Finally, your jealousy gets the better of you. If Elvis won’t pay attention to you, then you’ll find someone else who will. It makes the most sense that it’s your husband, of course, who is already strangely attached to you tonight, so you bite your tongue and force yourself to return his affections instead of shirking from them. You lean into him, you put your hands on him, on his chest, his arm, his leg. You pretend it was like it was years ago, when you still both wanted each other more than anything. You throw yourself into the act because it takes your mind off the women across the room.

Jack is surprised, you can tell, but he’s not too far gone into the bottle and soon is returning your affections, pecking at your cheek and neck. After a while, when he whispers in your ear that he wants you, part of you is exhilarated, powerful, because finally your husband wants you again.

It’s in that moment when Elvis’ eyes find yours for only the second time since you’ve been here, those intense blues locking on as Jack’s breath tickles your ear. Elvis’ gaze darkens dangerously, and you watch his jaw clench as he watches you and Jack. And when Jack takes your hand, pulling you off the couch, you feel Elvis’ eyes burning holes into your back.

Finally, is all you can think. Finally, the men in your life are paying attention.

You are so wrapped up in this game, in your anger and your jealousy, that when Jack yanks you into the bathroom and locks the door behind him, you aren’t even upset about it. You want to be disgusted at him (and you are—you still hate him for what he’s put you through), but in this moment, he only has eyes for you and that’s all you want right now, even if it is misguided. Even if the love isn’t there like it’s supposed to be.

When he kisses you with his whisky-tinged breath, it almost feels like he cares. When he gropes you and touches your body in the places he thinks he knows will turn you on, you pretend that it does. You let yourself get swept into a fantasy, into the act, because at least it’s something to chase away all the terrible things you’ve done and all the terrible thoughts in your head.

When you grab at the straining erection in his pants, the heat of him burning into your palm, and hear his gasping moans in your ear, you feel powerful. As you sink to your knees, you relish the look of lust and surprise in your husband’s eyes, and it’s enough to keep you going, even though part of you is appalled. You take him into your mouth, closing your eyes, wishing he was someone else. Jack twists his hand in your hair as he leans against the counter, slack jawed, and you know this won’t take long. It makes it bearable. You’ve known him long enough to know exactly what to do: how to lick, where to touch, the noises you need to make. And you relish in the control you have as he comes undone in record time.

Jack is still gasping for breath when you stand, spitting what he left in your mouth in the sink and washing your mouth out. He grabs at your ass, panting, “Jesus, treasure, what’s got into you? That was fuckin’ hot.”

You shrug coyly at him in the mirror. “I gotta pee, sweetie,” you say, shooing him out, wanting him away from you. More than anything, you want to be alone to simmer in your anger and revulsion.

“Mmm, okay. Thanks, babe,” he hums, still obviously refracting, drunk on you rather than whisky for once. He kisses your cheek sloppily before zipping up and heading out. It doesn’t escape you that he didn’t even make an attempt to get you off. Not that he could, but it figures.

You look at yourself in the mirror, hair askew and cheeks red, eyes blazing. This is the woman I’ve become, you think bitterly. I’m either fucking my lover with my husband in the next room, or I’m sucking off my husband with my lover in the next room.

It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. You don’t recognize yourself anymore. You ache for Elvis, but you cover it with anger and jealousy and fear. You hate Jack for what he’s done to you, yet you fall into him and use him the first chance you get.

Rooting around in the drawers, you find some toothpaste and swish it around in your mouth, hoping, wanting to get the taste of Jack, the taste of your own bitterness out. You wash your hands and comb your hair, wondering if this was enough, if you can go back out there at watch Elvis with those women and not die a little inside.

Knock, knock.

The insistent rap on the door startles the hell out of you and you jump. “One second!” you shout with one last look in the mirror. You open the door quickly, not wanting to keep whoever is waiting, and walk out.

And you run smack into Elvis’ chest. You don’t even need to look up to know it’s him—at this point you know his physique and his scent anywhere. A little yelp escapes your lips, and you feel the heat, the anger rolling off him in waves. You gulp, raising your eyes to his and they are as hard and dark as you’ve ever seen them. Your heart jumps into your throat as he grabs you by the arm and yanks you across the hall, throwing you into his bedroom and slamming the door behind so hard that the wall shakes.

You stumble for a second in your heels but recover quickly, turning to face him. Elvis is furious, in that terrifying way you’ve seen before, nearly blacked out with rage. You can see him barely holding on, gripping to a sliver of sanity as he faces you, chest heaving.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doin’?” he seethes, his hands fisted and jaw clenching and unclenching, black hair tumbling over his forehead.

Your heart sprints in your chest and you unconsciously step backwards before you catch yourself and stop, lifting your chin at him. “I don’t know what you mean,” you say almost haughtily.

“The fuck you don’t,” he says, advancing on you. You scurry back again, putting the large couch in between the two of you. “You think I didn’t notice the way he was all over you and how you were all over him out there for everyone to see?? You think I didn’t know what was goin’ on when you left?? You think I didn’t see his fuckin’ face comin’ back into the room, grinnin’ like an idiot?!” he screams, grabbing a bottle of water off the coffee table and hurling into the wall.

You flinch as the bottle explodes, glass tinkling down to the floor. “Elvis, stop it! Calm down, everyone can hear you!” you hiss, trying to knock some sense into him, but he’s way beyond that.

“I don’t give a shit!” he yells. “How could you fuckin’ do that?” The rage and the hurt you see in his blacked-out eyes is more than you ever expected and tugs at your heart. But you are still furious in your own right, furious at him for this display, furious at the whole situation.

“How could I do what, E? What? Be with my husband? My husband? Or have you forgotten since the stunt you pulled the other day in the bathroom that I have one?” you throw back at him, “That I have to go back to my room every night to him, pretending like everything is fine? Did you forget that?”

You’re not even sure if he hears you with how gone he is. He rounds the couch, coming for you. Scrambling back, you find that you have nowhere to go, your back is against the wall. Reaching you, he grabs your face in his large hands, his intense eyes drilling into you. “I don’t ever want to see you looking at another man, touching another man. I’m a really jealous motherfucker, y/n. And I don’t ever, ever, ever want you to be with another man, I don’t care who he is. I want to know that you’re mine and all mine,” he heaves.

“Are you kidding me?” you say, wrenching out of his grasp. “How can you demand that of me when you know it’s not possible? I have to keep up the pretense of my marriage! And you think I don’t know that you’ve been with other women? It’s been three days, Elvis, I’m not an idiot!” He looks at you with a mix of dumbfounded innocence and rage. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Maybe it was the girl in your lap just now or the one kissing you that gave it away!”

Elvis growls, shaking his head, staring down at you with those endless eyes. “You’re just fuckin’ jealous. You’re so jealous you went and fucked your husband in my bathroom to get my attention, is that it?” He slams his hand on the wall next to your head, but you refuse to react.

You know you shouldn’t say it, but he’s right and you know it. You did do it to get his attention, and now you have it. “No, baby, I didn’t fuck him. I just sucked him off and spit him out,” you say demurely, cutting, batting your eyes at him, knowing and not caring how awful you’re being.

The way his eyes widen betrays his shock, but he covers it quickly as they narrow. You wonder for a moment if you should be truly afraid because you have pushed him too far, but you almost don’t care. Part of you wants him to feel all of this, a fraction of the tumultuousness that you’ve been feeling for the last week.

“Hmmm…,” he hums, then clicks his mouth. His eyes are black and blazing as they pass over your body. This stillness is almost more frightening than the shouting. You shiver, trembling, but it’s just as much from your own anger as from his, and you can feel the fury laced with something else entirely. You refuse to back down or look away.

~

“You goddamn fuckin’ little brat,” Elvis finally snarls and yanks you with him to the couch. He slams down and pulls you over his knees, and suddenly, a memory from a long time ago flashes in your brain, one you had entirely pushed out of your mind. You choke on it as it floods back to you, knowing he must remember, too, knowing that everything is quite different this time around.

You gasp when Elvis pulls up your dress and yanks down your panties, the cold air of the room hitting your most sensitive areas. “Elvis! Elvis, don’t you dare, don’t you even--!” you shriek, writhing in his lap, not knowing if your words are protests or encouragements at this point.

When his open palm slaps your ass, the sound reverberates through the suite, the sting radiating down your thighs and sending water into your eyes. You gasp again, more from surprise than anything. Surprise that while it smarts, it doesn’t feel bad.

“Elvis,” you breathe out, wriggling in his lap.

He holds you to him. “Oh, don’t you ‘Elvis’ me. You’ve been an obstinate, naughty lil’ brat, and I ain’t havin’ it,” he says through gritted teeth before bringing his hand biting down onto the other cheek.

You hold back your cry, digging your nails into his thigh instead, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a big reaction. Beyond the sting, you feel heat gathering in your belly, but you don’t want him to know that either.

“Seems ya need a lesson or two about how to behave, now don’tcha, you naughty lil’ girl?” he seethes, laced with a sneer. He brings down his hand again, and this time you can’t hold back the sound that emanates from your throat, a whiny moan.

“Ah, that’s what I thought,” Elvis purrs wickedly, rubbing your stinging skin with his fingers. You are completely at his mercy now, your frustrations unravelling under his touch. You buck in his lap, needing more, needing him to ease your toxic thoughts.

“Hmm, you like rilin’ me up? Like gettin’ me all worked up and jealous, huh?” He smacks your ass again, this time his fingers grazing your core. You moan fully now, unable and unwilling to contain it, tears running down your face, your heat building in the most confounding of ways.

“Answer me—didja pull that lil’ stunt on purpose, baby?” he asks, his hand reverberating on you again.

“Y-yes,” you breathe out.

“Yes, what?” he pushes, palming your ass, leaning down towards your ear, his breath hot.

It takes you a second in your haze to piece together what exactly Elvis wants, and once you do, it sends a delectable shiver down your spine. Once again, he never ceases to amaze you in how he can bring out pleasure in you that you never knew you craved or needed.

“Yes, Daddy,” you whine.

You hear him choke back a groan at that and next to your arm, you feel a twitch in his pants. You can’t help but smile.

“You wanted my attention, and now you’re gettin’ it, honey. Is that what you want?” he says, heat leeching from his voice.

“Yes, Daddy,” you breathe again.

He brings his hand down one more time with a grunt, and you cry out in pleasure and pain, ass raw but you are somehow feeling a release that you didn’t know you needed.

~

“Look at you, baby,” Elvis says, somewhere between pride and surprise, running a finger through your folds, which unbeknownst to you are dripping wet. You bite your lip at the contact, sucking a breath in. You want him to touch you, but instead he pulls you up to face him. You hiss at the feeling of your raw ass hitting the backs of your heels as you kneel on the sofa.

He takes your chin in his hand, forcing you to look at him, tears staining your cheeks. “I need ya to look at me, honey,” he orders. You do. His eyes are still dark, but his fury has been tempered by lust.

“You been waitin’ eight long years for me to do that, haven’t ya?” he murmurs. Of course, he remembers exactly how long it’s been.

Your heart flutters and you nod, admitting to yourself that it may have crossed your mind once or twice, in your most secret moments.

“Ain’t nobody else touched you like that, baby?” The way he asks it is almost laced with hope, hope that this is something of you that only he gets to have.

“Never,” you whisper, shaking your head, his hand still gripping your chin.

“Only me, huh? Good girl,” he says, pleased. He lets go of your chin, wiping the tears off your face with his thumb. Then he looks in your eyes.

“I need you to be truthful with me now, baby, yeah? Don’t just tell me what you think I want to hear. Do you want me to keep bein’ rough with ya? Are ya likin’ that? Because if you don’t, I’m gonna stop,” he asks, voice real low.

You appreciate him pausing long enough to ask you and you consider him for a moment, though it doesn’t take long. “Yes, I like it,” you say, surprising yourself with the truth of it.

That dark look flashes over Elvis’ face again, and it sends a thrill right through you.

“Okay, but you tell me if you need me to stop, promise?”

“Promise.”

“Good, cuz I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson yet and I’m still fuckin’ pissed,” he growls. Your heart plummets into your belly with excitement as you watch the sweetness drain from his eyes, replaced by his fervent anger from earlier.

And you smile.

**

Taglist:

@atombombbibunny @yesimwriting @uselessbutinteresting @mirandastuckinthe80s @dark-as-love

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@jazmin2211  @kvcssghbjbcd @coldonexx @dudinhahoff @whatstruthgottodowithit @tiredbuthappy  @amiets2  @saintmagx

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@liaaacantwrite @kittenlittle24 @kaitaesupremacy @butler-trouble @eliseinmemphis @russian-soft-bitch  @tattywood 

@sassanoe 

Reblogs, likes, comments + feedback are extremely appreciated! Please help support your content creators!

#Pink Scarf #elvis #elvis presley #elvis presley x reader #elvis x reader #if you’re looking for trouble #you came to the right place #elvis 2022 #elvis movie #austin butler elvis #austin butler #austin!elvis x reader #austin!elvis smut #austin!elvis imagine #austin!elvis x y/n #elvis presley imagine #elvis smut #elvis presley smut #elvis x y/n #elvis imagine #elvis fic #elvis presley fic

[justarandomlambblog]

Coffeeshop/teacher AU...

Sorry my handwriting is horrible that's just how it is and it is 2 am I am too tired to transcribe rn but I will make a more legible version later

Info about the AU under the cut

Mystic's Coffee House is run by a mysterious person, Mystic. That's it, just Mystic. Stage name? Maybe. They're a very popular, high-status coffee shop, and Narinder is essentially the manager at this point.

Narinder, who was disowned by his family at only 17 years old following a huge fight/accident, began working at Mystic just a year or two after. He never finished high school and was homeless at the time, and Mystic took one look at him and decided, yeah, that looks like an employee right there. Is Mystic aware that Narinder is a Bishop, a very famous, very rich family that has so many brands and trademarks under their name that they may as well own half the country? Probably, Mystic knows Narinder's real name after all. But his nametag simply says;

Nari.

Nari is a single father by technicality only; Forneus is a very good friend that he met a bit after being disowned and kicked out, and in the beginning they mistook fondness/kindness as attraction and had a brief relationship. They mutually decided that they only loved each other as friends, but the twins Aym and Baal were born shortly after they broke up, and while they have a very healthy coparenting relationship, Forneus is often away on business trips as she runs a shop all her own. Narinder took over primary custody. Aym and Baal have Forneus' surname, and do not hold the Bishop name (a choice Narinder insisted on).

Aym and Baal are now seven years old and entering the second grade, and their teacher is Mz. Lamb, whose first name is... mysteriously missing. Lamb is a regular at Mystic's and has a huge puppy-crush on Narinder (they think he's cute), though Narinder only knows them as "the weird sheep who tried to ask for my number as soon as they saw me." Everything kinda changes after Aym and Baal enter Lamb's class, as Lamb realizes Narinder bears a striking resemblance to the rambunctious twins and strikes up a conversation about them, and Narinder will NOT pass up a chance to talk about his children.

And thus a friendship is born, which will very quickly snowball into something more.

Lamb believes in living life to the fullest and expresses themself however they feel, they'll go from suits and ties to hoodies to off-shoulder shirts to dresses and they will THRIVE with it. This is their life philosophy; live life to the fullest, and go to the Beyond without regrets. Live enough for your lost loved ones, too.

Narinder and Lamb both know sign language, Narinder bc he grew up using it to communicate with family, Lamb bc after an... accident they were unable to speak for several years. Lamb still has "mute days" and Nari signs as he speaks, a habit he hasn't broken in the ~10 years since he was disowned.

Ummmm I can't think of anything else it's way too late/early but that is the gist of it (without getting into the Bishops themselves). Also they end up getting married, and Aym and Baal 1000% take credit for getting them together.

"Hey pops, remember how dad rejected you when you first met?" "Hey Aym, remember when you dropped the ring and it rolled down the vent in the middle of our wedding." "... I was ten-"

#cult of the lamb #Justa Arts #narinder #the lamb cotl #cotl au #CoffeeShop AU #Narilamb

[cowgurrrl]

yay you‘re an aries, too 💕

ugh i‘ve gotta write my term paper and i‘m sooo annoyed because i really hate one of the the authors whose work i‘m analyzing (it‘s about 16th century art literature) but i gotta do it because i‘m only two assignments away from my masters thesis and i‘m sooo exhausted ;_;

okay sorry for the rant. i was just wondering if maybeee you‘d like to write a cute lil’ drabble or hc about joel supporting a reader that’s struggling with their assignment for uni? >_<

anyhow, love you & your writing. keep up the good work & take care of yourself 💕

Congratulations on your master’s thesis!! You’re going to do amazing things! I took this in a little more of preoutbreak!Joel hc so I hope you enjoy 💓

Joel as your study buddy headcanons

Pairing: preoutbreak!Joel Miller x fem!reader

Author’s note: the lovely Joel “fractions” Miller gif is by @loregifs also I am slowly working through requests!! Thank you for sending me so many fun ones! 🫶

Warnings: school stress, fluff!!

I don’t think Joel would’ve gone to college and if he did, I don’t think he would’ve finished it out because of Sarah but when he meets you while you’re in the midst of your grad courses, he’s in awe of your work ethic and determination

He likes to look over your shoulder when you're transcribing notes or reading for class

Definitely would stop by campus to have lunch with you if he had a job nearby

One time Sarah had an early release day on the same day Joel had a rural site forty five minutes away so you picked her up and had to take her to lecture with you

She loved every minute of it. She liked roaming the campus and listening to your professor, even if she didn’t fully understand what she was talking about, and asked you a million different questions about college

Will literally listen to you ramble about the newest thing you’re learning because he likes seeing you get so excited/engaged

When finals roll around, he’s not quite sure what he can do to help the blanket-covered, ink-stained, stressed heap of grad student in his living room but he’ll occasionally walk by and kiss your temple, saying praises into your skin

“You’re so smart.” “You can do this.” “D’you need anything?” “You’re gonna do great.” “I love you.”

He’d definitely be the type of guy who would cut up fruit and wordlessly leave it on the table in front of you with a glass of water

When you’re crying because of the stress, deadlines, readings, he’s always there to soothe your anxiety and offer you a break

Sometimes you two will sit and watch some mindless reality show or talk to Sarah about her day or go for a drive, pointing out the wildflowers on the side of the highway. He’ll do anything to get your mind to reset so you can come back to your studying

He’d help you run through your flashcards so you can study but not before trying to make a stripping game out of it

“Joel, I need to pass!” “That’s why it’s effective!”

When you eventually do pass all your finals, he takes you and Sarah out to dinner and tells the waiter about how smart his girlfriend is when the poor guy asks if you’re celebrating anything

Joel takes any opportunity to gush about you

When you graduate, he makes the BIGGEST DEAL

He’s the loudest person at graduation and showers you with flowers, kisses, and attention. You and Sarah just laugh at his theatrics but love him for it anyways

He would definitely splurge and buy you the nice frame for your diploma and you very quickly tell him he doesn’t have to because they’re so expensive but he just kisses you to shut you up

“I wanted to. ‘M proud of you and I want everyone to know,” he mumbles against you. “Besides, when you make me a trophy husband, it’ll balance out.”

#the last of us #joel miller fluff #joel miller x female reader #joel miller headcanon #joel miller the last of us #joel miller x reader #joel miller drabble #tlou requests #preoutbreak! joel miller

[fandomshatepeopleofcolor]

ok so I’m gonna overexplain my thoughts on the goncharov meme now @moonlitlex​  I’m sorry for not replying on the original post but this is gonna get long. here’s the original post you replied on

https://www.tumblr.com/fandomshatepeopleofcolor/719488461894221824/honestly-im-glad-people-are-finally-shutting-up?source=share

I’m gonna try to keep this neat and tidy but this might take me a while I’m largely including lots of links because I don’t have the spoons to transcribe this sorry followers.

ok so lets begin with the crux of my complaint, that being Goncharov over took black panther: wf in popularity on tumblr for White reasons. I say this for 2 reasons.

1)  goncharov existed as a meme since 2020 but didn’t overtake tumblr until November 2022.

proof:

so you may notice from the wiki article that Goncharov is attributed to Scorsese

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goncharov_(meme)

why  does Scorsese mean anything? and what does that have to do with black panther 2?  well back in 2019 scorsese said that “marvel movies are not cinema“  source: https://www.theguardian.com/film/2019/oct/04/martin-scorsese-says-marvel-movies-are-not-cinema

what was going on in 2019 for the mcu?  avengers 3 and 4 had just come out and it was the biggest thing that had ever happened in the movies. also... black panther the first movie had made history in being the first mcu movie to be nominated in a category other than technical at the oscars and other award shows https://envelope.latimes.com/awards/titles/black-panther/  too.  

so martin scorsese isn’t just against some of the mcu or superhero movies in general (you will remember that heath ledger won the oscar for the dark knight). no he’s against Marvel specifically. and just at the moment that Marvel films were becoming more diverse than ever before. ok I’m not gonna keep harping on how groundbreaking that black panther which features an afrofuturist country in the biggest franchise in the world with a nearly all black cast won so much acclaim.  

this brings to the second issue I have with goncharov

2) goncharov was largely billed as having great slash ships (homoeroticism if you will). but like the rest of Scorsese’s actual works the cast was all white.  there was no interracial ships to be fawned over there was indeed no poc actors cast in this fake film.  but see this is the key thing in november 2022, in the 3 years that had passed between scorsese first comments on the lack of artistry in marvel films several things had happened to the mcu

which brings me to point number 3: the diversity of mcu films had basically expanded on every single phase 4 film.  the whitest film of the phase 4 was black widow but that was directed by a white woman and featured a cast filled with white women. the next whitest movie was spiderman no way home and that still had a diverse supporting cast in ned and MJ.  the third whitest film was doctor strange 2 which was still directed by a Jewish man Sam Raimi. the next whitest film was thor 4 with a Jewish/Maori man Taika directing it and Tessa as King of Asgard, Valkyrie

that leaves Shang-Chi, Eternals, Black panther 2.

All films that centered people of color all films directed by people of color and at least eternals and bp2 both had queer rep. thor 4 had canon trans rep.

like this era of marvel were referred to as “the flop era“ or “the MSheU“ precisely because it was so different from the original 2 phases.  there was intense hate for the diversity and scope of the mcu phase 4 that couldnt be explained by any other fact than the diversity inherent in mcu phase 4.

anyways bp:wf had at its center Black Women, and brown indigenous man as the villain.  but you couldn’t load tumblr without running into like 2 goncharov posts within the first page of your dash. nothing about the artistry of bp:wf tho.

anyways I’m tired and more than a little cranky.

mod ali

#goncharov #black panther 2 #martin scorsese #mcu #marvel #tumblr #unreality

[thana-topsy]

Liminal Bridges [Excerpt]

I've made some changes to Liminal Bridges while writing new content/gearing up to start posting again! I've always been the type of fic writer that flat-out refuses to go back and change/edit/re-write things I've already published. HOWEVER. The way the plot is progressing, there were a few things I wanted to tweak in earlier chapters. Namely.... I wanted to add J'zargo into the story. Here's what a couple of scenes from Chapter 7 now look like, featuring my favorite pyromaniac:

--

The classroom was surprisingly full when Neloth pushed through the door and walked to the head of the room. The soft murmur of conversation died immediately as all eyes tracked him with a mixture of nervousness and anticipation. 

“Whatever you think you know about the school of Mysticism, I want you to forget it.” He let the book in his arm fall heavily against the desk. “With the blessed collapse of the Mages Guild, the study of Mysticism has become more and more scant, very rarely leaving the halls of the Psijics on the isle of Artaeum. However, the Telvanni have known and utilized the practices of Mysticism for millennia.” 

He opened the book. There was a soft, collective noise of scrolls being unfurled and ink pot lids being flipped open. 

“First, the thing you must understand above all else is that to study Mysticism is to open your mind to the inherent paradox of reality. It is not for the faint of heart, nor for the weak willed. My intent is not to lead any of you into madness, though it is always a possibility. Now…” Neloth heard someone in the front row of the class audibly swallow. “What types of spells and rituals fall under the category of Mysticism?” He looked out at the class expectantly. 

Silence followed. 

“Sometimes, I ask questions that aren’t meant to be answered, but this one is. So speak up and don’t waste my time.”

“Absorption spells.” The answer came from a Khajiit who sat in the center of the room. He was familiar—the one who had gone toe-to-toe with Neloth in his first lecture on Destruction magic over a year ago.

“Correct. What else?” 

“Teleportation,” the Khajiit answered again. 

“Correct, again. Are you the speaker for the class?” He shrugged and leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “J’zargo seems to be the only one to have answers.”

“Very observant. What else?” Neloth asked him directly this time.

“Soul trapping.”

“What else?” 

J’zargo opened his mouth, then paused, faltering. He looked to one of his classmates beside him, then back to Neloth. “Divination?” 

“Correct.” A slow smile spread across Neloth’s face. “But why?”

“Eh…” The Khajiit’s cool demeanor was gone, replaced with nervous doubt. “This one… does not know.” 

“Then this is where we shall start for today. I do hope the rest of you were writing all this down while your classmate carried your dead weight.” There was a flurry of movement as quills frantically scratched across parchment. 

“We’ll begin with the principles of Mysticism.” 

—

“Master Neloth, I had a question regarding the assignment.” 

The first week of classes had come and gone with relative ease. Neloth had only held two lecture-heavy classes and sent all of his students off to do a significant amount of reading before the next session. It was really quite simple. There was nothing to question. 

“What might that be?” he asked, only half paying attention as he copied his most recent research into his journal.

 “Will we need to know all of Sotha Sil’s lessons on Artaeum for the exam, or are there like… certain terms to memorize?”

Neloth paused in his writing, slowly looking up from his journal. The student, a shaggy-looking Breton boy, took a nervous step backwards. 

”I’m sorry. Were you expecting me to compose a vocabulary list?” 

The student shook his head, dark brown hair falling into his eyes. “No, sir, I just meant—” 

“You just meant ‘are there any shortcuts I can take’? Is that right?” 

“No, I—”

“For the exam, you and you alone, will be required to transcribe from memory the entirety of 3rd of Sun's Dawn, 2920. Any future inane questions will result in more assignments.” Neloth pointed at the door with the tip of his quill. “Out.”  

The boy opened his mouth, sucked in a breath, held it, then quickly ducked his head and strode towards the exit. Neloth went back to copying. It took him a long moment to realize there was someone else still standing in the room. He set his quill down with a loud sigh. “Yes? What else?” 

“This one also has a question, but not about the assignment.” It was the know-it-all Khajiit from class. He had a muscular build beneath his mage’s robes, the fur around his muzzle carefully coiffed into a ridiculous little mustache that framed his mouth. “J’zargo can wait until class, if you’d prefer.” 

“You’re already here and you’re already bothering me. So you might as well waste my time now as opposed to later.” 

The Khajiit smirked, shuffling through his scrolls. “J’zargo simply wanted clarification. You said that Mysticism and The Old Way were used interchangeably by the Psijics. But while ‘The Old Way’ can refer to Mysticism, Mysticism does not necessarily refer to The Old Way, yes?”

“Correct. Because one is a religious philosophy, while the other is a theoretical school of magic.” 

“This one is simply confused by what separates the two.” 

“Did you read Tetronius Lor’s treatise on Mysticism?” 

“Yes, which is why J’zargo is confused.” 

Neloth rubbed at his temples with a sigh, but the question was intelligent enough. Worthy of answering, at least. “The Old Way refers specifically to the practices of the Psijics on Artaeum. They use meditation, thought exercises, and riddles to better connect with what they believe to be the purest form of magicka. The study of Mysticism is far less spiritual, at least as far as House Telvanni is concerned. It’s more of a science than a religion— identifying patterns and working with cause and effect, direct action and reaction. It is something that can be mapped and traced. Experiments can be performed and repeated with reliable results.” 

The Khajiit nodded, looking thoughtful. “Forgive, but are these not the same thing?” 

“Hardly,” Neloth scoffed then paused. “But explain your reasoning.”

“Well, meditation and riddles… This is just another way of identifying patterns, yes? Thought exercises are psychological. Scientific, as you said. So it feels, to this one at least, like it is just splitting whiskers based on pomp and circumstance— one group refusing to be associated with the other.” He tilted his head curiously. “J’zargo thinks it counterproductive to say they are two different things instead of considering them as a whole.”  

Neloth pursed his lips. “J’zargo, was it?”     

“That is this one’s name, yes.”

“Well, J’zargo.” Neloth smiled thinly. “In addition to your reading assignment, I’d like you to write a short essay on the similarities and differences concerning the religious and secular practices of Mysticism.”

J’zargo’s eyes glittered mischievously. “Are you punishing this one for asking questions?” 

“Do you feel punished?” Neloth asked as he leaned back in his chair. J’zargo shook his head. Neloth nodded. “Good. The Arcanaeum should have a copy of Concerning the Psijic Order as well as Origin of the Mages Guild. Those are the main resources you need.” 

“Thank you, Master Neloth.” 

Neloth pointed to the door with the feather end of his quill. “Out.” 

#topsy writes #neloth #master neloth #j'zargo #college of winterhold #professor neloth #skyrim #skyrim fanfiction #elder scrolls #writeblr #fanfiction #I just think he's neat okay #and I want him to play a bigger role later on in the story

[owlboyarchive]

Interview

So after I heard news of the Owlboy fandub, I was intrigued. I had the opportunity to interview the person who set it all up, @allthedavesallofthem , which is transcribed here. Minor edits were made, but only on my half for misspellings and grammar. Thank you to the voice actors involved with the dub as well as those who set it up, it's amazing to see other fans of Owlboy do such amazing things. Of course, a big thanks to @dpadstudio for making the game itself. The dub can be found at @unofficialowlboydub

Sorry for the preamble, here's the interview. Q is Question (and Qwerty) and A is for the person who set up the dub who I tagged up above.

Q: How long have you been a fan of Owlboy?

A: A friend of mine told me about the game when I was in college, I think it was the year after the game came out when I actually first played it, so about 2017. I was immediately charmed by it. The gameplay was simple yet engaging, and I found the ending incredibly touching.

Q: What led you to undertaking the dubbing project?

A: This is actually my second time attempting this dub. Before I had first played the game, I had also been involved in an amateur voice acting project that attempted to dub the webcomic Homestuck. I had occasionally considered the idea of starting a fandub project of my own, though I had no idea what would be a good thing to actually dub. I didn't really think about it for a while, but after finishing Owlboy, I had really wanted to do something creative around it, and I had remembered the idea of creating a voice acting project again, and I decided I had to do it. I created a casting call and actually ended up releasing two episodes, but I had no experience in managing a project and a chaotic schedule as a college student, so it fell to the back burner and finally fizzled out when I found that my game recording footage had been corrupted after getting a new PC. I didn't think much about voice acting or Owlboy for several more years, but last summer, I was looking for a new hobby to get into, and I remembered how much fun I had with amateur voice projects in the past, so I took an online voice acting 101 class, and it reinvigorated my interest in the hobby. I looked back to when I did the original attempt at the dub, and felt that I could do it better this time, so I decided to restart the project.

Q: What was the hardest part of setting up this dubbing project?

A: The hardest part is definitely coordination. There are a lot of different things that need to come together, and making sure that it all happens smoothly and at the right times takes a lot of work. Game recording, script transcribing, video editing, managing a cast of voice actors, audio editing, and more all have to come together at the right time and work together in the right way.

Q: How many more episodes do you have in the works until the project ends, and do you think you'll do another Owlboy related project (not necessarily a dub) in the future?

A: I'm not actually sure how many episodes are left before the end of the game... I recorded about 16 hours of footage for the game, and I aim for somewhere between 20 and 30 minutes per episode, but I also end up cutting out footage where there isn't much going on, such as long sections of just moving from one place to another or backtracking. My best guess is maybe around 20 episodes? We'll have to see once I finish sequencing all of the raw game footage. I don't think I'm going to want to run another voice acting project myself for a long time - after Owlboy, I want to return more to focusing on being a voice actor over directing projects. As far as another Owlboy project in general? I have no idea. I don't really have anything in mind at the moment, but who knows?

Q: Do you have a rough time frame for the end of the dubbing project? Like, when all loose ends are tied up, nothing left to do but post the video.

A: The current pace I'm targeting is about 3 weeks per episode. If there ends up being 20 episodes and that pace holds up, I would expect the dub to finish in early-to-mid 2025.

Q: Will you dub everything first and then put the lines in, or do you record lines as needed?

A: It's currently a "work-as-we-go" approach. It probably would've been more efficient had I structured it differently and got all of the video recording done, then the editing, then the scriptwriting, then the line submission and audio editing, but I know that without having some tangible results earlier on, it would be harder for me to keep myself motivated to finish.

Q: I understand. I think that's all the questions I had involving the inner workings of the fandub. I have two questions left, but do you want to clarify anything before we move on?

A: I just want to publicly thank the voice actors working with me on the project. All of you have been amazing, and there's no way this project ever happens without all of your efforts.

Q: Here's the last two questions. I saved the 'best' for last. Who is your favorite character from the game, and what scene or moment do you look forward to dubbing most?

A: Favorite character? That's tough. I keep switching between Geddy and Alphonse as I think about it, but I think I'll go with Alphonse. All of the other pirates are these cold, unfeeling killing machines, but on the other hand, Alphonse just has dreams of becoming a stage actor! He can still handle himself in a fight, and his musket blast is extremely handy. Out of the characters that aren't party members, I also really like Solus and his arc as well.

A: I think the scene I'm looking forward to the most is probably the ending sequence, post-final boss. In particular, the interaction with Asio at the end almost had me in tears when I first played. That one's gonna hit hard, I think.

Q: Thank you for answering my questions! That's all I have. Do you have any questions or concerns for me involving anything?

A: Thank you for interviewing me! I don't think I have anything else. I'm always inspired when I see people being passionate about things I've made.

That's it! Once again, a big thank you to the creators of Owlboy, D-pad Studios, to all the voice actors involved with the project, and the guy who set the dub up, who I tagged up above at @/allthedavesallofthem. None of this could be done without you! I'm really looking forward to the next part of the dubbing project.

#owlboy #interview #big thanks #discussion post

[alea-says]

Season 4, episode 7 thoughts...

I'm sorry - did Steve really just open the door to a baby with a sign saying 'it's a girl! Congratulations!'???

Cos I've read that fic before!

Okay. Mary teasing him is just the kind of sibling thing. Yes. That's beautiful.

Also, please tell I'm gonna get Steve holding that baby.

Danny: Okay, the way i see it. Mary didn't adopt that baby, you did.

How is this real? Danny is like, your kid now, Steve, because we can't send her back to the orphanage... so obv the answer is she's now Steve's kid.

And now Mary is sick.

Yes! Steve has the baby!

Also, Danny's laughter is wonderful.

Oh, poor Chin.

At least Steve's not taking the baby with them on the investigation.

And now they're at the zoo.

And now Steve's holding the baby! Oh and he's smiling. This is beautiful

Danny has to interrupt and check Steve's paying attention (obviously either he needs to know he still some if Steve's attention or, like me, he's enjoying the sight of Steve with a baby for too much)

And now Steve is giving the baby to Danny!!!

Oh, Steve, you are trying not to have to change a diaper or admit you don't know how.

Steve and Danny discussing the care of the baby 😍

What?!

Danny is telling baby Joan a story!! 😍😍😍

About a handsome prince. And a mean ogre. Oh dear. Danny is totally telling her about him and Steve.

And his car.

Danny holding the baby. 😍

Steve: You know what, if you're gonna hold the baby in the sun, okay, just ask me and I'll put a sun hat on her.

(Which he proceeds to do while Danny is still holding the baby)

Okay, but Steve took the baby with him and now he's at the zoo with no baby. Where is she?

(Also, just gotta say - the person leaking info is gonna be the transcriber, not Kennedy. He's too obvious.)

And now Danny. Like me, wants to check up on Joan. Reminding Steve to give her her bottle.

Danny: you're texting Max right now, aren't you

Steve: no. I'm not. *as he's texting max*

Danny: you're a terrible liar

Yes! I was right about the transcriber.

But also, how dare she?

And they give the baby back to Mary.

Mary (to Steve): Oh admit it, you had a little bit of fun. I just saw you.

Danny: I definitely had a lot of fun.

Me too, Danny, me too.

#hawaii 5 0 #hawaii five 0 #h50 #episode thoughts #mcdanno #why are big strong men holding babies so hot?