#sometimes when i read books i try to imagine what the writer was thinking when writing scenes

[wutheringmights]

Hey yk what I don’t know if I’ve said this before, but ur like…really unfairly hard on ur own writing?? And oddly that makes me feel better when I see so many mistakes/flaws in my own writing because if YOU see a bunch of flaws in urs, and I never notice them, then maybe others don’t see the flaws in my writing either. does that make sense??

Anyway kudos x 1 million on ctb’s latest chapter!!! I was CACKLINF over this one fr fr 🙏🙏

Thanks! I'm glad you liked the chapter!

Trust me, I try to be as fair to my writing as possible. I feel like my writing only improved when I started reading back what I wrote and finding areas I actively need to improve. I am way more enthusiastic about my writing chops now than I have been in years past.

I think I just fall victim to wishing my writing wasn't mine. To me, a good piece of writing melts away until you can hardly notice the words on the page. If you see the words there, it's because they are used in an interesting way.

Every word I write holds the moment of time when I wrote it. I can go back through anything I wrote and remember every frustration I had picking words, fixing sentence structures, and agonizing over characters.

The prose never melts away. I can see every brick I lay and know exactly why I put it there. I forget sometimes that people can't read my prose like a fortune teller discerning my palm.

#sometimes when i read books i try to imagine what the writer was thinking when writing scenes #and i get overwhelmed by all the little decisions I find #like i just started reading the ballad of songbirds and snakes and the opening scene alone is chalk full of these tiny decisions #it drives me insane thinking about how susanne collins' mind pulled all of it together #me rambling #lu ctb #ask #shoot-i-messed-up

[missmaywemeetagain]

Pink Scarf - Part 20 (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: SEXXXXXXXX. Dom/sub stuff. Angst (as always). Fluff (finally)? Medication/drug use/overdose mentions. Dub con mentions(sort of?). Cussing. Infidelity. Historical inaccuracies in the Vegas timeline. Priscilla doesn't exist in this timeline.  

Rating: Explicit/Mature (NSFW, 18+, so minors Do NOT Interact)        ||     Word Count: 15.2k (CUZ Y'ALL DESERVE IT)

A/N:  🎶And now, the end is near/And so I face the final curtain🎶

Babies, we are at the end. I don't know what to say other than thank you all so very much, thank you for you patience, and I'm gonna miss the hell out of Reader and Elvis and their stupid, mutual pining asses. (I'm not crying, you are!) 😭 Oh, and I highly recommend listening to Without Love (I Have Nothing) (1969) before reading the middle section here. I've included the first takes to the final master version because the first takes are stripped down & give more of the intimate feel I was getting at, but the final master is excellent, so I wanted to give you listening options! It'll really give you an idea of what the moment feels and sounds like! (I'm such a nerd, I know. Also, only Elvis could nail a song like this in a few takes, lord have mercy.)

I will write a short Epilogue sometime soon, so stay tuned! Also, I am very seriously thinking about publishing a physical book of Pink Scarf (and a Kindle version, too) BUT ONLY IF people are wanting and willing to buy it! It would likely include new bonus chapters/material. Please let me know in the comments, asks, or DMs if this is something you want! Like I said, I don't wanna do it if no one wants it, so let me know!

I sincerely hope y'all will stick around for my next projects as I try to get my writing career off the ground. Y'all are the OG's and the best fans a girl could ask for! 💗

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stop her, stop her, stop her…

The words echo in his head, but Elvis is frozen to the spot, watching your back as you walk out the door and possibly out of his life, feeling so raw he fears his heart might liquify and pour out of his mouth. The way you look so angry, more angry than he’s ever seen you, and so disappointed in him—it breaks his goddamn heart. Your vitriol paralyzes him, drying up the words that he can’t seem to tell you.

But he’s done it all for you, every stupid decision he made, he did in the name of love—and of keeping you safe and keeping you sane (you fuckin’ liar, you know that ain’t true, he lambasts himself).

“You screwed with our lives because you could. You and your fucking egomaniacal, insane, manipulative bullshit…” Your words cut like daggers into his skin. He wants those words to be utterly untrue, outright lies, but he knows—he knows—that you are not entirely off base.

And perhaps that’s been the problem all along: he doesn’t truly believe he deserves you. For all the reasons you spit at him and for the fact that he has ruined you in more ways than one.

But the one crucial thing you are dead wrong about is that he didn’t care, that he’d just fucked you and wanted to pretend it never happened. He may be many of the things you said—egotistical, manipulative, stupid for lying to you—but he loves you, more than he has ever been able to express.

If anything, he’s cared too much.

But you are convinced of the opposite and, stupidly, he didn’t tell you any different.

This is the thing that finally gets him moving. His heart thrums in his chest as he races out the door, desperate to catch up to you. He looks around frantically for you, barely processing the confused and pitied looks of the men around him and flies out the main door of the penthouse suite.

“Y/n!” he shouts, hoping he can salvage this because he needs you more than he needs air to breathe.

I love you, I love you, I love you! screams in his mind but not out of his mouth, for reasons he can’t entirely explain. He arrives in the hallway just in time to see the elevator doors close behind you.

He’s too late.

“Fuck!!” he screams, and without thinking turns and plunges his fist into the wall. Plaster and paint flake around the new divot and burning pain radiates up his arm.

He nearly collapses from the way his heart tears in two, the gravity of the situation hitting him all at once. He’s barely slept in days, what with taking care of you in the hospital, being wracked with worry, and then having to come back and give high quality performances as if life was normal. His heart is beating too fast and his limbs feel weak.

Suddenly, everything feels much too heavy.

His legs threaten to give way and he leans against the wall, furious at you for making him feel these things. But he is more furious at himself.

You didn’t even say you were sorry, you stupid fucker, a little voice berates him.

I have nothing to be sorry for, the stubborn part of him, the one driven by his ego, replies.

The inner voice laughs sardonically. You have everything to be sorry for.

“EP!” he hears Jerry’s alarmed voice from far away. But he’s beyond caring.

I’ve lost her, is all he can think as his vision blurs and narrows, After all this, I’ve still lost her.

Jerry rushes to his side, but the despair and fury within Elvis drives him back into the penthouse, causing destruction along the way. He barely registers tearing the rest of his room apart, only knowing that he needs some outlet, some release of these horrible feelings trapped inside of him. To purge himself of the fact that even with all he tried to do to prevent it, his worst fears had still come to pass. Distantly, he’s aware of the breaking glass and the ripping of fabric and the roaring sound coming from his mouth, but everything is unfocused and red in his mind.

Elvis does this until finally his body gives out and he collapses on the bed. As he comes back into himself, his heart is beating so hard and so fast that he’s actually a little afraid he will give himself a heart attack. Trying to steady his breathing, he looks up, and seeing himself in the mirror above the bed, he hardly recognizes the man lying there.

Self-pity descends rapidly. There’s no way she’ll ever love me after this. How could she?

Early in his life, he’d thought June had been his last hope of ever having a woman love him for who he truly is, stripped of fame, warts and all, but he’s long since realized that you are that woman. You are his last chance at having that kind of true love in his life. And now those dreams are dying right in front of him because of his own stupidity.

I’ll always be alone.

And with that thought, he closes his eyes and wishes he were anyone else but Elvis Presley.

*

The commotion outside his bedroom door has Elvis lifting his chin expectantly yet not hopefully. He’s spent the last three hours faking his way through his midnight show trying to push the horrified and angry look on your face out of his mind. Trying to forget that he let you walk out his door.

Needless to say, it wasn’t his best show, though bellowing out his feelings through the music was cathartic in its own way.

He’s not sure why he had frozen like he did. It certainly wasn’t like him to cow-tow in the midst of a fight, but he had promised himself in the hospital that he’d be gentler with you. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing you so completely furious. Maybe it was that you’d finally remembered what happened after so many years, unearthing his deepest, darkest secrets and mirroring them back to him in the worst of ways. Or maybe it was that so many of your words rang with truth, even though you’d misunderstood the core reasons behind his actions.

Either way, he feels like his heart was ripped out of his chest. Part of him yearns to do more self-destructive things, but instead he sits still on the edge of his giant bed, the one you should be in right now, trying to understand just how completely he managed to screw this up.

“Fuck you, Elvis Presley. It would’ve changed everything.”

Your words ring through his head again and again, like a broken record. What did you mean by that exactly? Because the crushed look on your face when you said it made it seem like you had feelings for him back then that if realized would’ve changed your relationship, and that sends a wave of heartache through him so strong that he feels like he might vomit.

“Jerry, I swear to God, if you don’t let me in there, you’ll be sleeping on the couch for the foreseeable future!” He hears Sandy’s voice through the door and closes his eyes, trying to prepare himself for what he thinks is coming.

The door bursts open and he opens his eyes to see Sandy storm in, Jerry looking incredibly apologetic and a bit mortified that he was unable (or unwilling) to stop his wife.

Elvis waves Jerry off. He knows he can’t stop the onslaught. Jerry raises his eyebrows in an, “Are you sure?” way, and Elvis sends him out with a look.

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot, Presley,” Sandy seethes, pointing at him once the door is closed behind her.

“Nice to see you, too, Sandra,” he responds wearily.

“Oh, don’t you ‘Sandra’ me,” she spits, then looks him over carefully, as if really seeing him. She surveys the disaster of the room, which he had completely torn to shreds after you left, then looks back at him. “You look like shit,” she adds matter-of-factly, almost as if she’s glad of it.

He can’t help shooting her a withering glare, but Sandy’s blood is up and does not falter under his gaze like most would.

“How is she?” he finally asks, dreading the answer.

“Well, let’s see…in the last three days her husband beat her up, her life imploded, and she just found out that her lover has been hiding some pretty crucial shit from her for over a decade. She sobbed for two hours straight and has been near catatonic since, so she’s just peachy, Elvis,” Sandy says sarcastically.

“Watch your tone, Sandra,” he warns, feeling his temper threaten.

“No, I don’t think I will, Elvis. Not when y/n is absolutely miserable and you are sitting up here doing nothing about it,” Sandy shoots back.

“This ain’t none of your business,” he says, vexed, standing and pointing a ring-clad finger at her. He likes Sandy, but he sure as hell doesn’t like her calling him out like this, not when he’s already been beating himself up about it.

Sandy laughs wickedly, “You made it my business the moment you let her tell me and started using me as cover for your lies.”

He can’t argue with that. Deflated, he runs his hand over his face. He is utterly miserable.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Sandy says, and this time, her voice is quieter, gentler. “How could you keep something like that a secret for this long?”

He doesn’t want to say and certainly doesn’t want to appear vulnerable, but the ache in him is so bad, he can’t hide it. And he knows for a fact Sandy won’t let this go. Finally, he relents.

“I-I-I was trying to protect her, to protect our friendship… I w-was terrified I’d hurt her, that I’d…taken her against her will, and I-I-I could barely live with myself. I couldn’t burden her with the enormity of what we’d done” he says.

“And what about pushing her and Jack together, all the interfering? How exactly does that line up, E?” Sandy asks pointedly.

Elvis clears his throat and looks down. That is not something he is proud of. He wants to say he didn’t mean for it to go that way, but it would be a lie.

“It wasn’t like that, not at first. By the time I realized how I really felt about her, Jack had already swooped in and asked her out. I had nothin’ to do with it,” he says defensively.

Sandy crosses her arms, not accepting that and waits for him to continue.

“Well, then…then I-I realized she’d be better off with a man who could give her the stability and the family she wanted. I couldn’t be there for her, not the way she deserved. My career was just takin’ off and I—well, hell, it didn’t even matter until that day at Graceland, and I was ready to throw it all out the window when I’d thought she felt the same way about me that I felt for her, but-but then she…the overdose, she didn’t even remember…How was I supposed to explain that to her, Sandra? How? How was I gonna look her in the eyes and tell her she came on to me and we made love on the floor and that it completely changed everything? Who was gonna believe that? You know as well as I that it would’ve ruined her!” he says, his heart pounding, voice quavering, and his blood up.

Sandy looks at him carefully. “You were afraid she didn’t feel the same way. And that she doesn’t now,” she states, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

His head snaps up to look at her, eyes wide and caught like a deer in headlights.

“I had to protect her. And I had to set her up so she’d always be taken care of. And if she was with Jack, I could do that for her, for them. They could be happy. I wanted them to be happy, I-I swear. I thought they’d be happy!” he yells, back off the rails, pacing the room like a caged tiger.“I-I-I could…w-w-well, if she wasn’t with me, at least with him I would always know she was okay, and I could see her and it wouldn’t be some random-ass man that I didn’t know or trust takin’ her away from me forever!”

Sandy stays quiet, her gaze intense and knowing, and just waits for him to continue.

“I-I-I needed her to still be in my life, Sandra. I didn’t know Jack would fall so deep into the hole that he’d throw everything away. I didn’t think he would ever, ever hurt her!”

The words of his confession ring out and then die. Silence sits heavy for a moment.

“Wow. I have to say, that’s some masterful denial there,” Sandy finally says harshly. “Did you really think it was gonna be good for their marriage to take him away for months at a time? To feed him women and drugs and then be like, ‘Ooops! I didn’t know! It’s not my fault!’? Really?” she adds cuttingly, but steadily.

She’s right and he knows it. And she’s pushing him to admit the one thing he’s not sure he can.

He wants to get angry. He wants to scream and throw her out for her audacity. Instead, he just feels a rock in the pit of his stomach, realizing the truth of what she’s getting at:

That he’d knowingly sabotaged your marriage and then, when it was really bad, he’d taken advantage of the situation.

“You need to own up to what you did and apologize, and then you need to tell her what you’re so afraid of, Elvis. I can’t emphasize enough how much she needs to know that you love her,” Sandy continues with conviction.

His mouth pops open and then closes again, wordlessly, at hearing his feelings shared out loud so easily when he’s been harboring them alone for so many years. “You didn’t see how angry she was with me, how betrayed she looked…There’s no way she feels how I do, not after this,” he shakes his head.

Sandy rolls her eyes and mutters something unintelligible under her breath. “Listen, I have a pretty good idea how pissed and betrayed she’s feeling. And I’m not gonna speak for her, but…” she worries her lip a little, “you two of you really need to talk about how you truly feel about each other. Without all the other shit in the way.”

Something in the way she says it gives him hope.

“You need to fix this, Elvis.”

“I-I-I don’t think I can,” he states, defeated.

“Oh, please. We both know you can do anything when you want it bad enough,” she smiles slyly.

Once again, she’s right. “Why are you helping me?” he asks.

“Because I love her, too, and she deserves to be happy. She deserves the best,” she says knowingly, “That and this mess has everyone on pins and needles. We all just wanna fucking relax.”

Maybe she’s right. Maybe he can salvage this. Just not right now. He is too exhausted and things feel too raw.

"Just...wait a little bit," Sandy adds carefully, as if reading his mind. “I think you both need a little breather.”

He nods.

“But don’t wait too long,” she says on her way out the door, her voice warning him of his worst fear: if he waits too long, he will lose her.

The door clicks shut behind her and silence falls once again. He glances at the bottles on the bedside table. As exhausted as he is, he’s still keyed up too much to sleep.

He doesn’t want to rely on the sleeping pills, in fact, he hadn’t needed them at all when you were in his bed, but his body craves them and he doesn’t have the wherewithal to resist at the moment. So, he pops a few down and waits for the drowsy effect to take hold of him.

When he closes his eyes, all he can see is you.

**

You are itching to play, yearning to feel the white and black ivories under your fingertips. It feels like it might be the only thing keeping you sane these past few days—this need to pour your entire heart into something beyond yourself.

Unfortunately for you, the only pianos you know of are in Elvis’ suite, on his stage, and in the rehearsal room. Two of those aren’t even options at this point. It’s bad enough that anywhere you go in the hotel, all you see is his visage, all you hear is his music feeding through the speakers. An ever-constant reminder of how stupid you are to have ever thought you’d be more to him than just a friend.

You can’t seem to escape him.

You are able, with little effort, to convince Sandy to talk Jerry into letting you into the rehearsal space. Both of them keep looking at you with kind yet sad eyes, as they’ve been witness to all your special humiliations these past few weeks. You suppose it’s good that you are not alone with this, but sometimes all you want is to scream bloody murder and get as far away as possible from Vegas, from Jack, from Elvis.

But you can’t go home, not right now. You learned that Elvis sent Jack back to Memphis to “get himself together” and that Red is his babysitter. But that means you can’t go back to Tennessee, not yet. You can’t face him with all this still up in the air.

So, you are stuck in the limbo that is Las Vegas. You have nothing of your own, no money, no way to get home even if you wanted to. You are exactly where you feared you would be: Alone and heartbroken and stuck.

You hadn’t counted on also being beat to hell, both physically and emotionally.

Which is why you are so desperate to get to a piano. It’s the only way you can get these awful feelings out of your system. You just need to lose yourself in music, in creating it.

But when Jerry lets you in to the large rehearsal space, you are not alone. Someone is already at the piano, their back to you, playing a mournful gospel-style ballad. Someone is already leaning into the keys and singing.

I awakened this morning, I was filled with despair All my dreams turned to ashes and gone, oh yeah

You frantically backpedal and look at Jerry in a panic, but he shakes his head only somewhat apologetically and will barely look you in the eyes as he closes the door, shutting you in with the very person you are trying to escape.

Damn him and Sandy both.

As I looked at my life it was barren and bare Without love I've had nothing at all

You lean your forehead against the door and close your eyes, not wanting to turn around and face him. Instead, you breathe shaking breaths and press your palms into the cool door in order

to not to let the intense waves of anger and sadness that are crashing over you drown you.

You’re not even sure that he knows you are here, his voice ricocheting and echoing throughout the large space. He sounds so consumed by the music that your presence may have gone unnoticed. You aren’t sure if you want him to know you are here or not, but either way, you are swept up into the music with him, your soul clamoring for any part of him despite your mind’s warnings.

Without love I've had nothing Without love I've had nothing at all I have conquered the world All but one thing did I have Without love I've had nothing at all

You don’t want to hear him, not at all (liar), but his melodic voice is hypnotizing, drawing you in with its rich baritone and crying tenor notes and possessed vibrato. And whatever headspace he is currently in has his voice sounding absolutely hauntingly beautiful. It makes you shiver. You are forced to listen, to hear the meaning behind the words.

Once I had a sweetheart who loved only me There was nothing, oh that she would not give, oh no

It's unfair, just how good his voice is at making you listen to it, more than just his words alone, making you hear his soul through the sound. You suppose that is his true talent: being able to pour emotion into a song in such a way that it transcends the music itself. With your eyes shut, it threads through your mind, simultaneously lulling you and making you want to weep. You know you are getting a window into his heart by listening, and it is telling you what you want to hear the most but are terrified to accept.

But I was blind to her goodness and I could not see That a heart without love cannot live

Oh god, oh god, oh god, your inner voice cries because you are suddenly and all at once bombarded with memories. His voice strips you bare, cutting through all the anger and fear and heartache, finally let yourself realize what your subconscious has been trying to tell you for a long time.

Echoes from both the near and distant past trigger inside your mind, your head aching with the residuals of the concussion. First, it’s your own voice, calling back to that moment on the lawn so many years ago, telling Elvis about how you knew Jack was the one: He’s there when I need him. He makes me feel special, like the only girl in the world. I know he’ll always take care of me. He is mine and I am his. Sometimes I almost feel like we were made for each other, ya’ know, like we were meant to be…

Without love I've had nothing Without love I've had nothing at all

Then, Elvis’ words flood your mind, flashing from one moment to the next:

“I just want you to be happy, baby. I wanna make you happy.”

“I take care of what’s mine.”

“You were made for me.”

“You belong here with me.”

“It’s meant to be…”

Your heart slams against your ribcage, making it hard to breathe. It’s like he’s been telling you all along, yet you’ve been too blinded by fear and guilt and the sheer impossibility of it all to truly see.

I have conquered the world All but one thing did I have Without love I've had nothing

 At all

The final phrase is nearly a wail in the most beautiful of ways, the last run falling away and leaving a hollow silence in the room.

The memories come quickly now, a barrage of feelings and images: A boy backstage nervous as hell and his smile as you made him laugh. His eyes searching yours oh-so-closely in a diner booth as you tried to get over Ted. His melancholy the night you got engaged. Dancing, no, clinging onto you at the wedding before his world changed completely, and then again that mournful Christmas he’d returned, when you swore that Elvis wanted you more than anything in the world.

It’s the same way he looked when you climbed into his lap and rode him that fateful, forgotten day at Graceland.

His words from the other day, the ones that felt so possessive and manipulative take on different meaning as the puzzle pieces finally click into place, one by one:

“You are all I’ve been able to concentrate on, ya know that? You’re all I fuckin’ think about. I want you. I want you to be with me. Be with me.”

“Baby, you have me, you’ll always have me. You’re mine, and I’m yours, and I’ll take care of you, no matter what happens.”

“Let me take care of you. Let me be your everything.”

“I thought I told you, honey—I always get what I want, and I think I’ve made it quite fuckin’ clear who I want.”

“I need you.”

You are nearly brought to your knees with overwhelm, breathing too fast as you cling to the wall, anything, to ground you.

Then, like a freight train, it finally hits you, finally clicks, the thing he’s still hiding from you.

You suddenly remember the blanket of Elvis’ warmth surrounding you as you turned cold, bleeding out in his arms. The way his crystalline blues were terrified and beautiful and pleading. He rocked you in his arms, begging you not to leave him.

“No, no, no! Oh, God, don’t—please don’t go…”

Your heart stops. And you finally remember.

“…I-I love you, y/n, please, I love you.”

He’s loved you all along.

All of his cagey behavior, his deceit, the manipulations, it wasn’t to mess with you. It wasn’t because he didn’t care. It was because he loves you.

Tears stream freely down your cheeks as you turn around to face him. And as always, he’s right there, right where you need him.

“I…I…” is all you can manage to eek out.

He grabs your tear-stained cheeks in his big hands, his azure eyes deep and soulful, looking at you imploringly, and he whispers, “I love you. I’m in love with you. I love you more than anything in this life. I think I loved you the moment you steamrolled me in the hallway at school.”

Shock courses through you at hearing the words come out of his mouth, right here, in the present. You let out a choked, tearful laugh. It cuts through the anger you still feel and banishes your heartache, letting a swell of warmth overtake you. Despite all your feelings for him, you hadn’t even let yourself truly hope that he could feel the same way about you that you do about him. And to learn he’d felt this way for so long without your knowing…it feels inconceivable.

“I-I-I…and I’m so sorry, y/n.”

Elvis Presley doesn’t apologize. He buys obscenely lavish gifts. He skirts around the subject and gets really nice with those puppy dog eyes, but he doesn’t apologize, so this in itself floors you.

“I-I-I shoulda told you…but I thought…,” he steels himself against the emotions that are so obviously plaguing him before continuing, “that I’d taken advantage of you when you weren’t yourself, that I’d hurt you. I couldn’t live with myself, y/n. The guilt was eatin’ me alive and goddamn if I was gonna subject you to that pain. And I figured God wanted me to take on that burden for you, that there had to be a reason you didn’t remember. You wouldn’t have to face your betrayal of Jack or your regret for bein’ with me. I thought I was protectin’ you, protectin’ us.” He stops there, voice trembling, eyes open and honest, and you know then that while it had been wrong of him to hide this from you, he had truly believed that he was doing what was best for you. As mad as you are, part of you hurts for him because he’d gone through it all alone.

“I knew I couldn’t give you what you deserved, so I went meddlin’ in your life in the selfish need t’keep ya close to me, t’have some part of you as mine,” he rambles, racing through the words, utterly focused on getting out what he needs to say.

“I just needed you in my life. And I-I-I need you now. I needja more than anythin’,” he keeps going, his voice still shaking and the pads of his thumbs caressing your cheeks before trailing down your neck and your arms. You can feel them shaking, too, a sweaty heat emanating from them as he grabs your hands in his. His eyes are stormy and grey and deep with emotion, pulling you in, forcing you to accept his words.

He takes a deep, steadying breath before continuing. “It w-was wrong of me to-to sabotage what you had with Jack. And then to swoop in when you were vulnerable—it’s unforgivable. And if ya can’t forgive me…well, I-I’m gonna hafta understand. But I-I-I hope you do, that you can. I know I ain’t always a good man, y/n. I try to be, but bein’ with me—well, you already know it ain’t easy, the way my life is…” he trails off.

Part of you wants to interrupt him, to shout your love for him to the heavens, but frankly, his words have you speechless. And you know by his demeanor that he needs to get this out.

Tears pool in his eyes as he struggles to go on. “I know it’s been hard on you, all this. And if you can forgive me, if you wanna be with me, I promise I’ll do better t’make this work for ya. You make me a better man, y/n. You keep me on the ground, and God knows I need that more than anythin’,” he chuckles a little at that before his face drops into something much more serious.

“Come back to me, y/n. Please, come back to me. I love you,” he whispers, eyes imploring you. He is so used to demanding, but this he begs of you.

You are outwardly quiet, though your blood rushes in your ears. You want more than anything to concede to him with these revelations, to fall haplessly into his arms, and any other woman might. Honestly, you would have, just a few days ago, but Elvis cannot erase the harm he caused you with these welcome words or soulful singing or puppy dog eyes. You cannot escape the feelings of betrayal that have permeated through you these past few days.

“Elvis, I…I want to trust you again. I really do,” you finally get out, “because…because I love you, too. I think I have for a long, long time.”

Saying the words aloud lifts a weight from your shoulders, making you feel almost lightheaded.  You were so scared to say them, to reveal this hidden part of you, and the way his face lights up in such a hopeful way, it almost makes you start crying again. He squeezes your hands so hard that it hurts. But you have more to say and can’t let this distract you.

“But my mind it—it made me forget. I don’t know exactly why or how. I think I was so afraid that I could never have you, that there was no way you’d ever in a million years have those kinds of feelings for me…I think I had to protect myself,” you explain.

An inner strength you didn’t know you had until this very moment allows you to keep going. You take a deep breath. “Elvis, I want to forgive you, and I want to be with you, I do. But I am exhausted. I am weary. And I am still angry at you, and at Jack, and at myself. I need a little time to figure out what my world is now, without the oppressiveness of Vegas pushing in on me.”

You look up at him, hoping he understands, hoping he is willing to give you what you so desperately need.

He blinks as if coming out of a trance, surprise and confusion and dismay playing out on his features so quickly. You know he expected something different from you, and as much as you want to give it to him immediately, you know you cannot.

“I need to leave Vegas, E. I need space. I want to forgive you, but I need to heal,” you say firmly, looking into his eyes, holding back the sob that wants to break through. You can only hope that he sees and hears the truth in you. “I can’t start a life with you like this, bruised and broken.”

He shakes his head, small at first and then in outright protest. “No, no, baby, please, I need you here. I love you,” he says with a mixture of frustration and pleading and hurt, grabbing your cheeks again.

Tears pool and fall freely now, but you stay resolute, grabbing his wrists. “No, right now you need to be Elvis Presley and finish this engagement strong. You need to show the world that you are back and to spread that joy of music and performing as only you can.”

“None of that matters, baby. No, I need to be with you. I’ll cancel the rest of the performances,” he says, leaning his forehead against yours, fighting you every step of the way.

“The hell you will, Elvis Aron Presley. That’s not what I want, not for me or for you,” you say fervently, pulling away to look at him, bringing your hands to his face this time. “You need this. Seeing you up there…you are more alive now than you’ve been in years. I know how much you love this and your fans—”

“I love you more,” he interrupts, and it both makes your heart soar and breaks it at the same time. You close your eyes briefly to center yourself before looking back at him.

“And I love you. But I need space, and you have to finish this. Once it’s done, once I’ve had time to heal and forgive, then you come back to me, you hear?” you say, unable to keep the emotion from your voice but keeping it resolute all the same.

You watch him struggle. You can see how young he looks all of a sudden and you know he’s afraid you’re abandoning him. You’re afraid, too, but if the two of you have made it this long, you can stand it a while longer. Ultimately, you know if you fall back into him now, you’ll always hold resentment and that will poison you both over time, and you can’t have that.

Elvis closes his eyes and nods once. “Okay,” he whispers, so quietly you can barely hear it. A lone tear streaks down his cheek.

“Okay,” you whisper back.

He kisses you then, so softly, so gently, that you can’t help but lean into it. The chaste kiss is mournful and longing and hopeful all at once. It’s a kiss that is laced with the possibility that it could be the last one. You desperately hope that isn’t true, but only time will tell.

When you both pull away, you can feel the tether between you, the one that has always been there, tighten.

“Will you go to Hillcrest?” he asks, raising his eyes to yours hopefully, but it is more an offer than a question. The house in Beverly Hills is his home away from home.

You consider this and realize, other than going home to your parents (who you don’t quite feel ready to face yet, either), it’s your only option. It’s also a concession that will keep you connected to him, and you are comfortable giving him that. With its gorgeous views and serene setting, it will be a perfect solace.

“Yes,” you respond, and he seems sated by that. “Thank you,” you add quietly, then before you can second guess yourself, you tear yourself gently from his grasp and walk out the door.

Graciously and swiftly, he has Jerry take care of all the arrangements. Sandy is set to join you, and once you are both packed and ready, Jerry takes you to the airport and sees you both off.

Before he leaves, Jerry stops you. “He wanted me to give you this,” he says quietly, then opens your hand and places something soft in it.

Surprised, you look down, and see the familiar pink silk scarf folded there. You haven’t seen it since Jack ripped it from your neck that horrible night. Your fingers close around it. The message is clear: The ball is in your court.

“Send it when you’re ready for him,” Jerry adds with a knowing look.

You nod. You put the scarf in your purse.

Elvis Presley loves me, you think as you sit on the plane, but that feels trite, knowing other women have been able to say the same at some point or another.

Elvis has loved me since we were teenagers. He’s in love with me and has been all this time.

Now that is something that sends a thrill right through you.

You reach into your purse and run the silk between your fingers.

When it’s time, I’ll know.

**

Four Weeks Later

The hot California morning sun beats down on the umbrella that shades you. You had been reading and wanted to get some fresh air, the cold of the air conditioning giving you a bit of a chill in your white sundress but you cannot help but close your eyes drowsily as the heat swallows you like a blanket.

The last month was restorative, to say the least. It had been such a relief to get out of the stifling cacophony of Vegas, and it had allowed your brain to rest and recover from your concussion. Your bruises healed, and Sandy was there to both listen and have a good time when you needed it. You talked and thought through all your memories, working to understand both your reasons and Elvis’ for the way things had gone for your entire relationship.

You hadn’t heard from Elvis, as he was taking your need for space seriously, but Elvis’ lawyer had visited a few times, drawing up divorce papers that surprisingly took you a few days to sign. Not because you didn’t want to, of course, but because you had to fully process all that had happened and what it all meant to you. Sandy sat through your crying and guilt and shame like a champ, supporting you wholeheartedly once you finally picked up the pen and signed away your destructive marriage.

Once the lawyer had called back a week later saying that Jack had signed the papers, you felt like a new woman. Like you could finally start anew. Part of you had expected more of a fight out of Jack, but you did not dwell on the reasons he might have signed so willingly.

Sandy had headed home to Memphis to join Jerry once the Vegas engagement and resulting celebrations were over. You sent the pink scarf with her, with instructions to give it to Elvis only once you called her to do so, once you were finally ready. She’d smirked and rolled her eyes but was happy to do it all the same.

“Whatever I can do to finally get you two idiots on the same page,” she’d said lovingly.

You’d called her last night.

You can’t help but feel nervous. Even though a month was certainly not the longest you two had gone without speaking, this time it felt poignant and heavy in another way entirely. Your thoughts ran away from you at times: What if he’s changed his mind? What if he met someone else in Vegas?

It was possible and even probable that he’d been with other women since you left. You know how he is, and a man like him is not liable to change overnight. But you’ve spent most of your relationship with other people, and he still loved you after all this time, so even if he had been with someone else, you doubted it meant anything at all.

Of course, it still sends a red heat of jealously through you all the same. You push the thought as far away as you can, swinging your legs off the lounge chair, puttering back inside.

The cool air hits you like a wall of ice, and you close the sliding glass door quickly, goosebumps raising on your skin.

“Y/n.”

The familiar drawling baritone freezes you in your tracks. As your eyes adjust to the darkness inside the house, his tall frame becomes apparent across the living room and goosebumps rise over your skin for an entirely different reason than the cool air.

He looks incredible, magnificent even, wearing a silky white button up, the buttons undone at the top to reveal his tan chest, a pair of perfectly tailored black pants flattering him in all the right ways. But most significantly, the pink and black scarf is draped around his neck.

“Elvis,” you whisper, your heart fluttering in your chest.

That tether that you’ve learned has always been subconsciously tying you two together yanks you towards him. Your book drops to the floor and your bare feet run for him before your brain can catch up to you.

He meets you halfway and you throw yourself into his open, waiting arms. Your lips crash together with fervor, thirsty for each other after such a long drought. Soft, sweet, pillowy lips drink you in as your heart races and he pulls you in tighter. His familiar scent and warmth engulf you in such a comforting way that it brings tears to your eyes.

When your kiss finally slows and you both come up for air, you whisper, “You came.”

“Of course, I came.” As if there was ever any doubt.

Elvis pulls you to the couch, cradling you in his lap as he showers you with gentle but intense kisses. The heat between you builds but unlike in Vegas, it is more patient—openly full of love and admiration.

“I missed you,” he says into your mouth, his statuesquely perfect nose nuzzling into yours.

“I missed you, too,” you admit with a smile.

“Good,” he smiles, that lip of his curling up almost shyly.

His lips find your cheek, then placing soft kisses over your nose and eyelids and your forehead, as if committing your bone structure to memory with his mouth. It is unhurried because, for once, you have all the time and privacy in the world. You sigh underneath the reverence of his kisses as they trail down your jaw.

“Baby,” you say, stopping him, “as much as I want to continue this, I have things I need to say before that happens.”

He gives you one last kiss before bringing his attention to you. His gorgeous azure eyes fix in on you in such a way that you feel overwhelmed. It’s amazing to you how, even after all these years, he still has the ability to completely render you speechless with his magnetism and beauty.

“Yes?” he says, steeling himself for what may or may not be coming.

You tear your gaze from him enough to refocus. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and I need you to know that I forgive you, for all of it. I forgive you, and more than anything, I love you. I want to be with you, though I know we need to figure out what that looks like. I mean, if that’s what you still want, of course,” you fumble, looking away, not wanting to make assumptions.

“Oh, it’s very much what I want, lil’ mama,” he purrs happily and seductively, using his pointer finger under your chin to turn your head, bringing his lips once more to yours. Fire blooms in your chest and radiates down into your belly as his tongue dips into your mouth. “I love you. I want you to be with me. Always have, baby.”

“I signed the divorce papers, and so did Jack,” you blurt out, needing to make sure he knows and understands.

Elvis chuckles, the low rumbling vibrating under your hand on his chest. “I know, Satnin,” he drawls, his bedroom eyes sharp underneath the haze of lust you see in them.

“Of course, you do,” you laugh, shaking your head, taking the moment to run your fingers through his coiffed dark hair.

He looks at you deeply, firmly but gently grabbing your chin in his hand. “Let me be your everything,” he whispers. It is somehow both a question and a command.

Your stomach drops, but not out of fear this time. No, it is a tingling anticipation that wafts over you and makes your breath catch. You run your finger over his lips, pulling down on that full bottom one.

“Yes,” you nod. You unfurl from his arms and stand, reaching for his hand.

Elvis looks up at you through those long, dark lashes with something between wonder and eagerness. You pull him off the couch wordlessly, his fingers intertwining with yours as you lead him through the house to the master bedroom.

When you finally arrive, you look up at him almost bashfully. “I was wondering if we could try something new?” you ask. You’d been thinking about this for weeks now, all the different ways you want him, but this one thing had stuck in your mind after all you’d been through.

His eyes sparkle almost gleefully with curiosity and lust. “What’re you thinkin’, baby?” he purrs.

You take a deep breath before speaking. You’re not sure if he’ll go for it, but you figure it won’t hurt to ask. “I want to be in charge,” you finally say, matter-of-factly.

His dazed look at your request quickly turns to interest as his brow furrows with consideration. He doesn’t mull long, however, much to your pleasure, before uttering, “Hmm, why not, baby? Let’s try it.” He smiles coyly before bringing you in for a long kiss.

Your heart begins to thump in your chest. You’ve never done this, and you bite your lip, knowing that you have to change your attitude for him to take you seriously. You draw on the strength you’ve gained over these past weeks and take a deep breath to steady yourself.

“On your knees,” you command.

Elvis looks at you with amused surprise at the order. “What?”

“Did I stutter?”

His left eyebrow shoots up so far you think it may try to escape his pretty face and his brilliant blues go wide.

“No, ma’am,” he says, his voice getting breathy and quiet. His eyes don’t leave yours as he slowly sinks, his knees finally touching the floor.

A thrill shoots through you seeing him like this, humbled before you. This man who commands and dominates every room he walks into, brought to his knees for you. You doubt anyone in his adult life has truly had him like this. You relish in the way it makes your heart race in your ribcage.

“Say it again,” you whisper. He seems to know what you mean.

“I love you,” he replies quietly, his eyes open and shining up at you. There is an innocent and boyish quality to them.

With everything that has happened, you have a renewed sense of purpose and confidence which makes you bold.

You lean down and grab his chin in your hand firmly, feeling the light scratch of dark stubble under your fingers.

“Show me,” you command.

He nods furiously in compliance, that look of innocence tempered by sparks of lust in the depths of his oceanic blues. He is more than willing and up for the challenge, and the look sends a shiver of anticipation through you so strong that you can already feel warmth gathering low in your belly. It’s been over a month now since you had him last and each day felt like torture.

Elvis runs his hands up the backs of your calves, caressing your bare legs and resting on the backs of your thighs, his eagerness and yearning evident in his speed. He wants you, too, and he is oh so used to getting what he wants that it gives you pleasure to stop him.

“Uh uh,” you tsk, grabbing his chin again, “you’re gonna take it nice and slow, baby boy, and then maybe, if you’re really good, then you’ll get what you want.” It comes out like a purr, dangerous but alluring, surprising even you. But the look on his face is worth it, the way he nearly crumbles when you call him baby boy, the way his pouty mouth falls open slightly, the way he squirms on his knees, itching to take you but following your lead instead.

“Now, are you gonna be a good boy and do what I tell you?” you coo with an edge of warning. You’ve never in your life have done anything like this before, and you hadn’t planned this, but the control, the power just comes naturally, his responses fueling you forward.

He nods again, unconsciously wetting his plump lips with the tip of his tongue.

“Use your words,” you order.

“Uh-um, y-yeah, yes, I-I-I promise…mama,” he stutters out, picking up your cues and nodding, eyes are wide and becoming more yielding as he begins to submit to you.

Something about the way he does it has that warmth surging in your belly yet again.

“Good,” you say, running your nails up and through his raven locks, scraping his scalp and making his eyes roll back at your touch. You pull back quickly, leaving him a little breathless.

“No hands. Use your mouth,” you order with a smirk.

You watch his Adam’s apple bob with a gulp. “Yes, ma’am,” he replies, faster this time. He’s adapting quickly to your game, and the way he bows down to your feet, kissing the bare skin so softly as he makes his way slowly up your ankle to your calf has a thrill shivering through you. His pillowy lips and the tip of his tongue brush and lick their way up your legs, as he alternates one to the other. The sensation, especially after being deprived of his touch for so long, has you sighing softly, and his eyes roll up to yours, framed deliciously by those impossibly long and dark lashes. The blue of them has darkened with lust, but they remain compliant and eager to please.

That alone has the coil in your belly rapidly tightening, and you feel wetness begin to seep into your panties the closer his mouth comes to the place you want him the most.

Your breathing speeds up with this teasing when he meanders under your dress, peppering kisses along your panty line until his hot breath ghosts over the thin cotton of your panties. It puffs over your clit, and you pull your dress up with one hand to watch. His hands fly up to your ass of their own accord, squeezing and clutching at your panties to bring them down.

Using your other hand, you fist it tightly in his hair, yanking his head back and forcing him to look at you. “What did I say about hands, baby boy? I thought you were gonna be good for mama,” you tsk, shaking your head.

It’s a test. You relish in watching him quell the dominant urges he’s having by biting back a smirk of insolence, his lip sandwiched between his teeth so hard he could break the skin. The fire in his eyes almost dares you until he sees the serious look in your own and you tighten your grip in his hair. He winces a little and you watch him consider his options. You don’t let up during this battle of wills, unyielding and unbreaking of the eye contact that might usually level you.

No, after the last six weeks, this time you are going to get what you want.

Finally, he gets it, letting his arms drop to his sides. His face smooths, that innocence returning, and he submits completely to you.

“Good boy,” you breathe, releasing the grip on his hair and running your thumb over his lush bottom lip. His mouth opens and you push your thumb in, scraping at his teeth, then pushing into the soft warmth of his pink tongue. A low moan escapes him as his eyelashes flutter, and you allow him to suck it in, rolling his tongue over your thumb. A pleasured hum escapes your lips at the sensual sensation, and you feel it tingle straight down into your pussy.

“Try again,” you say, looking down at him, pulling out your thumb. You pull up your dress once more.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispers eagerly, and you see the wheels turning for a moment before he continues. This time, he sits on his hands before he kisses directly over your sensitive nub, wetting the fabric with his tongue before kissing upwards. Then, he snaps the elastic between his teeth and slowly but surely pulls your panties down your legs. Your slick is already evident in the fabric, leaving little trails down your thighs. Gravity takes hold once they reach your knees, and they drop to the floor.

“There’s my clever boy,” you praise him, stepping out of your underwear, running your thumb over his high cheekbone. This causes that signature crooked, boyish smile to spread across his features, reminding you just how incredibly beautiful he is.

And he’s all yours.

As he lathes his tongue back up your thighs, cleaning the slick from them on the way back up to your core, your body shudders with delight and you feel him smiling against your skin. Looking down you see it is not a smirk, but genuine pleasure at making you feel good, and that sends warmth through your chest in addition to the heat rapidly building in your core.

You cannot help the moan of pleasure that escapes you when he finally reaches the apex between your legs and flattens his tongue over your folds. He drags it slowly, deliberately, ending with little flicks on your clit. Heat rolls over you, setting every nerve aflame, and this time when you grab his hair, it is to pull him encouragingly closer into your wet curls.

“Yes, good boy, just like that,” you sigh breathlessly as he begins to shower your pussy with attention, going slowly as you requested. He is soft and persistent, swathing gently through your folds, parting your labia with his tongue before rolling back to your clit. Oh, lord, he is so very versed in this, you remember quickly, as he suckles and presses soft kisses to that most sensitive place.

Your eyes fall shut as you grip his head and shoulder for balance. You cannot help the keening and panting that begins to emanate through you as the coil in your pelvis tightens. Even after only a short amount of time together, he somehow knows exactly how to play you for the most pleasure.

In a daze, your eyes open and you look down at him, his dark hair messy from your hands. That’s when you notice it: he is not touching you with his hands, as promised, but you see how he’s somehow undone his trousers without your knowing. You watch silently for a moment as one of his ring clad hands fondles and tugs at his cock, and it sends a thrill of arousal through you to catch a glimpse of him pleasuring himself like this when he doesn’t know you’re watching. Battling the swell of ecstasy that rockets through you, you curiously watch how his hand slides up and down over his length, pulling at the foreskin that mostly envelops his red tip, how his long thumb glides effortlessly over it, swirling the slick of precum around and over and down. It’s a well-practiced motion and it almost seems unconscious considering the way he is utterly focused on your pussy.

You gasp with pleasure as he massages your clit deftly with his tongue, and coupled with watching him jack off, you feel a desperation for more friction, more of him, building until you realize that it is you who is in control of this moment, not him. With a swell of need you push him back abruptly, his eyes bewildered, and lips shining with your arousal, hand still on his cock, wondering what he did wrong.

“Oh, what a naughty little boy you are. I didn’t say you could touch yourself. I didn’t say you could get yourself off, did I?” you say in a chastising tone.

And, oh god, the bashful look he gives you, dropping his cock, and how his cheeks redden at being caught as he looks down, those lashes fanning out, has you biting back a smile and more heat swelling under your dress.

“No, ma’am,” he says mournfully, shaking his head slightly. And then he’s blinking up at you with those deep blues, waiting for what you are going to do next, what his “punishment” might be, you realize.

“I guess I’m gonna need to teach you a lesson then,” you sigh with exasperation. But his disobeying you only serves to make you more aroused. You put your foot on his chest and push him down and backwards with a low growl. It’s like something primal has come over you, not only your need to dominate him, but also this flaming heat consuming your body and needing his mouth on you more definitively.

“Get on your back,” you demand.

Elvis scrambles backwards quickly and you are grateful for his flexibility as he easily untangles his legs from underneath him and falls back onto the thick shag carpeting. You step over him, sliding your dress up and over your head as you do so, leaving you in only your bra. When you look down, you see his blissed-out eyes wandering over your body with something akin to awe.

You lower yourself down to your knees, straddling his chest, which is already heaving from his arousal. He’s wearing the pink silk scarf, the one from your first night together, and it feels fitting, you think, as you lord over him and unravel it from around his neck. He watches you so intently in any other circumstance you might falter under his gaze, but while blown with lust, you can see by that bashful look in his eyes that he is committed to following your lead here.

“Hands above your head, baby boy,” you coo, running your hands up the underside of his arms, guiding them over his head. “Since you can’t seem to keep from doing naughty things with them, I’ll have to make you stop,” you admonish.

You sit fully on his chest then, feeling as the wetness of your cunt stains the front of his lovely silky shirt, and then you lean over, fully aware that it puts your breasts temptingly over his face. You hear him whimper, knowing he can’t touch you, and you smile as you use the black and pink scarf to tie his wrists together above his head.

You intertwine your fingers with his as you slowly pull back over his body, scooting your hips back as you go until your face is hovering just above his. He’s panting now, little puffs of breath coming from his lips as you ghost your own over his face. Tipping his chin up to try and capture a kiss, you pull back a bit.

“Nuh uh, baby boy. You have work to do first,” you shake your head, kissing the tip of his nose. Then you tempt him by flicking the tip of your tongue over the beautifully perfect cupid’s bow of his upper lip, and he fully whines and squirms under you.

You laugh at that, the fact that you are able to put him in this position, to make him want you enough to be vulnerable and needy like this. Then you become more serious, looking him in the eyes.

“Now use that wicked little mouth of yours to make me come,” you say in a low, sultry, daring tone. “And no touching unless I say so!”

“Y-y-yes, ma’am,” Elvis moans as you maneuver your body up and over his head, bracketing it in with your thighs. Your need for him is quite evident as you lower your already-soaking pussy onto his face and as his pouty mouth kisses your most sensitive areas, you know you are so wound already from this little game of yours that you fear you might come undone too soon.

You’ve never done this before and while part of you is a little worried about the mechanics and fears smothering him, that primal, instinctual part of you starts rocking your hips over his mouth.

“Oh!” you gasp quietly, unable and unwilling to contain the soft moans that his lips and tongue begin drawing out of you as you begin to ride his mouth. When he fully groans against you, the vibrations send a shockwave through your core, nearly snapping that coil inside you already. You steady yourself, finding a comfortable rhythm, and experimentally run your hands up your torso, using them to grope your breasts. You feel him moan again and look down to see him carefully watching you, his eyes blown black.

Sensing how it’s driving him wild, you lift your hips a little to give him air and reach down under the lace of your bra, using the pads of your fingers to lightly drag against the sensitive areola, taunting him and pinching your nipples to attention with a moan of your own.

“Fuckkkk,” he breathes out, the air tickling your labia.

“Language!” you hush him and plant back down on his face. His arms fight to come down and grab you, but between being tied and the way your weight is, he cannot, and groans against you again instead. He works you tirelessly now as you writhe over him and you feel that telltale tightening begin in earnest. You are nearly desperate as his tongue lathes against your folds again and again, dipping in and out of your hole, circling your clit and back again. He eats you expertly, willingly, and you ache for him.

“Good boy, there’s my good baby,” you pant quietly as your heart flutters and your breathing starts to hitch.

But when his tongue slips daringly lower, perhaps accidentally, perhaps not, you careen forward with a shocked gasp as it grazes your other hole.

“Elvis!” you gulp, clasping his hands with your own to steady yourself, stilling your hips. You aren’t quite sure how you feel about that slip yet, only knowing that it’s a place that has been forbidden before now. Your heart pounds so hard you hear the blood in your ears, your body on high alert.

“Hmmm?” is his only response before he tests you again, gently, letting his tongue circle that illicit spot lightly.

“Elvissss…” The moan escapes you before you can stop it because the unfamiliar feeling of his tongue there has your already aroused body teeming with the new sensation and you know you shouldn’t like it, you’re not supposed to like it…

“Yes? You like that mama?” he replies surprisingly bashful, submissively, compared to the sensual dominance that you are used to from him.

“I-I-I’m not sure, baby boy,” you finally stammer out honestly.

You feel him nod underneath you, as if understanding, and he goes back to suckle your clit, making you jump a little and roll your hips. And when his tongue travels back through your swollen folds and he goes a little farther to include that little secret spot, you can’t help but cry out in pleasure this time.

He smiles against you, and you respond by rolling harder on his face, effectively shutting him up. The carnality that flows through you banishes your prudishness and you let him kiss and eat you fully now, from hole to clit, letting the sensations consume you completely.

You fuck his face wildly. You don’t try to stop the keening noises crying from your lips, you just grip his hands for dear life as the coil inside you constricts, your body flooded with fire, desperate for the blast of release his talented mouth promises you. Frantic now, chasing that high, your body tenses over him and he groans loudly into your cunt, his tongue deep inside you, as your thighs squeeze his head.

The peak hits you incredibly hard and you cry out as you shatter above him. White stars flash behind your eyes followed by inky blackness. You can barely breathe for the way it hits you. He continues to lick and suck you through your orgasm, coaxing you, moaning into you in order to continue your pleasure for as long as possible. He devours every drop of your arousal. Shaking and shuddering and oversensitive, you finally scoot your hips back, allowing him to come up for air with his own gasp.

“Did I do good, mama?” he puffs, looking pleased, his face covered in your slick.

“You did perfect, baby boy,” you breathe out, kissing his cheeks, then his swollen lips, tasting your tangy sweetness there. Your body shivers with aftershocks as you come back into yourself, your mind concocting all the ways you want him tonight, all the ways in which you can show him your love and vice versa.

You look down at him, enjoying the sight of pussy-drunk lust on his boyish features, the vulnerability of his hands restrained above his head, the way his bedroom blues dreamily follow your gaze and your lead.

Your need for him feels insatiable. You want to wreck him, ruin him, in the best way possible. Biting your lip you roll your hips into his waist, feeling the cold of his belt sear into your bare core and Elvis’ eyes roll back a little as you drag your nails down over the part of his chest that is exposed above his shirt.

“You gonna continue to be good for mama, baby boy?” you lean down to coo in his ear, scootching your hips back just enough to feel the tip of his rock-hard length through his pants, and you can feel the shudder that ripples through him.

He nods furiously. “Y-yes, mama, oh yes, I’ll be good.”

“I’m so glad, baby,” you whisper, “Mama’s got somethin’ special in store for you.”

Elvis whimpers at that, and you can tell it is taking every ounce of self-control he has to keep from taking you right there and then, but he stays good and still and relatively quiet for you. You kiss down the shell of his ear, nibbling on the perfect lobe, and then you focus your attention on the divot just behind it where his jaw meets his skull. Lapping there for a minute, you take your time as he hums and tenses beneath you, turning his head the opposite direction to give you the access you want. You make your way agonizingly slowly down his neck, using your lips and teeth and tongue in all the ways you’ve learned he likes. By the time you reach his collarbone, he is practically writhing under you.

His breath is beginning to heave and become labored when you start down his tanned chest, the course hair there tickling your lips as you go. One by one, you pop the remaining buttons open, and with each, a pretty little huff escapes his pouting lips. Oh, how beautiful he looks with his cheeks all flushed and his hair mussed, those eyes alternating between peering down at you and looking up to the heavens.

Once again you move your hips back, this time hovering just above the erection raging in his pants. It’s enough that he can feel your heat, but you give him no friction whatsoever, and this is what finally has him bucking his hips up desperately, but you are prepared, dodging well out of the way before he finds any sort of relief.

“Now, now, that’s not how good boys behave,” you tsk at him, earning a huff in response. You use your nails to scratch down his now-exposed treasure trail, your lips following close behind and he fully whines by the time you reach the belt line.

“Please, please, mama,” he mewls at you, raising his head to look at you with begging eyes.

“All in good time,” you muse quietly, shooting him a soft smile.

You take your time with his heavy belt and zipper, causing him to spring forth, his cock hard and veiny, precum already oozing a sticky string between his tip and his abdomen, but you leave him there, untouched. Moving lower, you slowly, deftly, remove one shoe, then the other, doing the same with his socks. Then you pull his pants down his long legs, letting your fingers ghost over his sensitive skin. It’s torture, based on the way he squirms and sighs, and you find yourself full of emotions.

A small part of you relishes in making him squirm after finding out what he’d kept from you all these years, for all the time you may have lost with him because of his self-righteous ego. But a much larger part of you wants this with him, for him, because you know he’s likely not given himself to anyone like this. Not the great Elvis Presley, the man who strives for excellence and control in all things. You cannot imagine him letting just any woman bring him to his knees, tying him up, letting her have her way with him. At least you hope not.

But perhaps that is your own ego talking.

But a sense of unease, jealously perhaps, wafts over you, diminishing your confidence slightly.

“Baby boy?” you hum pensively at him, running your finger softly up the sole of his foot, causing him to jump and giggle a little.

“Yes, mama?” he responds softly, tilting his chin down to look at you.

You frown, worrying your lip a little, wanting to approach this skillfully as not to ruin the mood, but you have to know. Now that the thought is there, you must know.

“Have you ever let anyone else do this? Touch and tease you like this?” you ask, trying to keep your voice sultry and light, running your fingers up the underside of his arm, dragging across the pink silk that binds his wrists.

His brow furrows for a moment as he tries to interpret what’s going on underneath the bravado you’re showing, trying to glean your true meaning, and then his face softens and smooths with realization, his eyes wide and open for you. “Not like this, mama. Just for you. Only you,” he says genuinely, and you know it’s true, that he’s not just giving you lip service within the game you are playing.

“Good,” you nod, more moved by this than you want to show right now, your heart swelling with this new knowledge. You kiss him gently and softly on the lips. 

“Do you trust me?” you add more mischievously, your confidence returning.

“Completely,” he nods back.

“Then it’s time to get on the bed, baby boy,” you purr.

He brings his arms down in front of his abdomen, the scarf still taut at his wrists and his shirt open and flowing behind him, and you help him to standing. His eyes sparkle a little with what you think is anticipation. Once to the bed, he snakes his long, beautiful body backwards until he is lying up against the dark pillows.

Your mouth waters at the sight of him lying there, vulnerable and all yours. Getting between his legs, you start at his feet, massaging the ropey muscles with your hands, and alternately kissing your way over the arches, his ankles, and up his calves, up every perfect part of him. You pay attention closely to these spots you’ve never really explored before, listening and watching him carefully. When his breath catches, or he hisses in through his teeth, you know it’s extra sensitive, and of course, when his mouth falls open and his eyes roll back you know you’ve hit the jackpot.

You take your sweet time working up his muscled legs, bringing up and opening his knees to give you more access to what you are finding is the highly sensitive flesh of his inner thighs. Warmth rolls through you when you nip there, very close to his balls and he nearly jumps off the bed.

“Stay still and be good, baby boy,” you purr at him with a sly smile against his leg, and he whines in protest but stills himself. You think it’s high time you give him some well garnered attention to his large, heavy testicles. His musky scent fills your nostrils, setting your biological need for him on fire. You wiggle a little on your knees with anticipation but since you aren’t sure exactly what he likes or what his boundaries are yet, you want to make sure he has an out.

“Baby,” you say seriously, looking into his eyes, “if you really want me to stop, like really, I need you to tell me, okay? Say…” You stop, looking around for inspiration, something he would never say in the heat of the moment, and then your eyes land. Perfect.

“Say ‘pink scarf’ if you really want me to stop baby, okay?” you urge.

Elvis nods, looking excited and also a little concerned at the prospect of what you might do to him to require him to use such a phrase. “Pink scarf, got it,” he breathes.

With that, you feel better, and return your attentions down in between his legs. His cock is hard and buoyant against his pelvis, precum glistening the angry red tip that is peeking out from his lighter foreskin, but that is not what you’re going to focus on, not yet.

Using your thumbs, you apply gentle pressure to the insides of his thighs, massaging slow circles up, up, up, closer to his most sensitive areas. Lying on your stomach between his open legs, you test the waters by running your nails softly over the darkened, wrinkly skin of his ball sac.

He hisses in at that, his lower half tensing as you gently continue, using your thumb, pointer, and middle fingers to explore the area. In his arousal, his balls are pulled up tight to him, but it doesn’t detract from the fact they are still rather large compared to what you’re used to. His breathing becomes more labored as you roll his testes between your fingers, cupping them, then pulling gently.

His hips roll and wiggle. You love the effect you are having on him, the way he responds so readily under your touch, and you wonder if this is what it’s like for him when he plays with you. It sends heat of a different kind rolling through your body each time he jolts or gasps.

Which is exactly what he does when you nuzzle his sac with your nose before flattening your tongue against the seam and licking a long stripe from back to front. His hips rise off the mattress and running your hands over the crease of where his legs meet his torso, you push those famous narrow hips back down to the bed.

“Oh mama, oh mama,” he whispers quietly, almost like a begging prayer, as you continue lathing your tongue back and forth and up and down over his balls. He begins to writhe in earnest, despite your hands holding him, his legs pulling up and boxing you in.

“Be still,” you command, lifting your head, pushing his bent legs back open.

He obeys instantly, looking down at you with wild, shining eyes, nodding almost unconsciously in reply, as if preparing himself for whatever you deem to do next.

You use your hands again, one to push his legs up, tilting him towards you, the other rolling him like dice, before lifting his sac enough to lick the underside completely. Taking inspiration from his playbook, you then flick down over his taint, applying pressure with your tongue, his musky scent consuming you.

He moans long and loud at that, unable to contain himself as you shower this newly found spot with all your attention. As you lick and press and roll, he mewls and begins to shudder. Your heart beats faster against your ribcage at his reactions, how he pants above you, and you wonder what will happen if you press your thumb to that softer spot right above his puckered hole.

So you do. You press that spot over and over and watch him tremble and writhe until he looks damn well possessed.

“Please, oh please, oh GOD!” he cries out and eventually his entire body tenses, hips lifting as though he were coming inside you, and he shudders wildly before falling hard back onto the bed. Heart pounding, you lift your head to see a milky white leak from his tip. It’s not cum in the sense you are used to, but some sort of release nevertheless.

You’re not one hundred percent sure what just happened, but you are pleased you made him feel so good. You watch him lying there, gasping from pleasure, his hands clenching and releasing against their bonds, trying to recover from whatever that was. His face is flushed red, making the blue of his arousal-darkened eyes look almost preternatural, and tears leak, dampening his dark lashes. He looks positively bewildered.

“Good job, baby boy,” you praise him, kissing the inside of his knee.

“Wh-wh-what w-was that, mama?” he gasps, asking.

“That ever happen before?” you respond, curious, instead of answering him.

He shakes his head, his hair flopping as it lolls from side to side.

“Hmm…well, did it feel good, baby?” you ask because you aren’t entirely sure what happened, but you don’t let him know that. You don’t let him know about your own fresh arousal that’s leaking down the sides of your thighs or how your heart is fluttering in your throat at the sight of him such a mess before you. Not yet.

He nods furiously, eyes unfocused.

You smile at the blissed-out look on his face. You crawl up him to give his open lips a little kiss. “Mama’s not done with you yet, baby boy,” you whisper against his lips before pulling back.

His dreamy eyes go wide, but you don’t dwell, instead making haste to kiss down his chest once more, stopping to tongue and scrape his nipples with your teeth, making him jump underneath you once again. You kiss down the flat planes of his belly, detouring to give a little attention to his bound hands, sucking a digit or two into your mouth on the way down.

He fully shivers at that, moaning, sending a thrill of your own down to your toes. His belly is already heaving again with anticipation as you arrive at your next destination. His length bounces as his stomach moves, the milky white having leaked onto his belly, but whatever release he’d had did not affect the hardness of his cock, much to your pleasure.

Your goal here is to worship and tease, rather than the ways you’d had him in your mouth before. The way he’d fucked down into your throat both gently and harshly prior to this was not going to be his experience this time. No, this time is all about giving him a night he’s unlikely to ever forget. It is about claiming him as your own while showering him with love and attention on your terms. You’ve never had that before, not truly, and oh how sweet you are finding it already…

First, all you do is hover over his cock, so closely that he can feel your hot breath against him as you run your open mouth up and down his shaft. He squirms his hips from left to right, his hands fisting, and you can sense how it is taking everything in him not to buck up into you.

“Mamaaaa…need y-you,” he begs.

This makes you smirk coyly.

“Hush, baby,” you admonish him with a furrowed brow, stilling his hips again with your hands. “Be a patient good boy and you’ll get what you need.” Eventually…you think smugly.

He can only manage a whimper in response.

Finally, you place soft, barely there kisses up his shaft, feeling his rapid pulse through the throbbing veins. His foreskin awaits and you kiss gently around it, and it must be very sensitive because he’s fully gasping now, quiet “uh, uh, uhs” escaping his lips. Using only your tongue, you dip it into and under the foreskin, swirling it around the head.

“Oh, oh, no, t-too much, too much, mama!” he half moans-half cries, nearly levitating off the bed, but you don’t stop, instead sucking the tip of him into your mouth and soothing the head with your tongue.

You look up at the man you are in love with, in all his messy ecstasy, as tears stream down the sides of his pretty face, but he does not say the words, only sighing at this little bit of relief you give him. So, you continue, after this moment of reprieve, sending your tongue up and down his shaft, then kissing and tonguing his sensitive tip as though it were a dripping ice cream cone on a hot summer day.

“Please, please, please,” Elvis pants out of that wonderous and full mouth of his. By the time you use your hand to fondle his balls again, he is so fully enraptured, staring up into the mirrors above you, that you’re not sure he’s even on the same plane as you anymore.

God, it has you nearly coming undone yourself to see him like this, bringing him closer and closer to the edge without letting him fall over. You find yourself pressing your thighs together, desperate for your own friction.

His gorgeous eyes flutter down to you as you once again tongue his tip. “B-bein’ good, m-mama, please, needju,” he whimpers, his words slurring together.

“Bein’ so good, baby boy,” you praise him, then you take him fully into your mouth, pumping once, twice, and then you feel his entire body tense and shake.

“F-f-fuuuuckkk,” he groans gutturally, his hips bucking into your throat, coming completely undone nearly instantly. His eyes roll back into his head, beads of sweat mixing with the tears down his face, and the prominent vein in his neck pulses in time with his salty, thick release. It coats your tongue, and you swallow him down readily before gently lathing your tongue over the tip of his sex. He squirms under you, rocked and hypersensitive as you pop off him.

“Thank you, mama,” he whispers, looking so relieved and sex drunk that you are beside yourself now. Every nerve ending inside you is on fire. Before he can soften, you climb onto his lap, lining him up with your entrance and sliding him through your soaking folds and into your heat.

Elvis’ eyes widen in shock and he wiggles his hips down into the mattress as if trying to escape. little “ah ah ah!” puffs come from his lips, like he’s handling a hot potato.

“M-mama, ah, ah! I-I-I can’t,” he shakes his head before slamming it back onto the bed.

“Oh, you can, baby boy, you can, I promise,” you say breathlessly, relishing the feel of him filling you, even though he’s beginning to soften slightly. You roll your hips in his lap. “You’re gonna keep being such a good boy and make me come, right, baby?” you encourage demurely, hooking enough into his ego and his need to please you to keep him going.

All you know is that you need him, need to keep him inside you, to have him fill you up, even if you have to wait.

The noise that comes from him is somewhere between a groan and a growl, his eyes screwing shut for a moment as he tries to compose himself enough to continue. You still, placing your hands on his chest, and wait for his response.

“How about this? You’ve been so good for mama. I’m gonna take this scarf off you and you use those hands to show me some love while we wait,” you say.

That has him opening those glassy, pretty eyes of his and nodding.

“Mama’s gonna keep makin’ you feel real good, don’t you worry now, baby,” you tut at him, untying the knots at his wrists. The silk yields easily. You lean forward on top of his chest and throw it around his neck.

Elvis rolls his wrists a few times then wraps his arms around your back, holding you fast to him while he continues to breathe heavily. The feeling of being draped on him and held in his long arms sends an almost wholesome warmth through your body. Oh, how you missed being close to him like this. It’s almost as if you didn’t know it until this very second, that string that has been pulling you two together for so long finally loosening as you fall unencumbered into each other’s arms.

After a long moment, he calms and his hands start roaming slowly over your back. You can feel the cool of his rings against your fiery skin and it sends shivers through you. You feel starved for him, hence your desperate need to have him inside you and to show him with every fiber of your being that you will be all he ever needs from here on out.

You hum softly, pleased, when his hands find your ass, your hips, and you swivel them. He is soft inside you for the moment, at least, and you feel the sharp intake of breath at your movements, his hands gripping you to keep you still.

Still sensitive, you think.

His hands flutter up and down your sides then, softly enough to make you want more. You can hear his heart pounding in his chest, the rhythm beginning to match yours the longer you stay intertwined. This is what you’ve been missing, needing, all along. Him vulnerable and sated under you. Knowing that you are the only one he truly wants. Knowing that it’s been that way for almost as long as you’ve known him.

“Say it again,” you whisper into his neck, kissing his pulse points.

It only takes him a moment to understand what you are asking.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“Mmmm,” you hum, kissing your way up his strong, angular jaw to his lips. “Again.”

“I love you.” It rumbles in his chest so you can feel it vibrate into yours.

Each time he says it, it dances through you, lighting up all the dark spaces that were so afraid and convinced he would never feel the same.

You kiss his lips, softly at first, then deepening as your own love pours out of you and into him.

His hands are everywhere now, one tangling in your hair, the other snapping the clasp of your bra undone. Your mouths separate just long enough for you to rip off the lace and fling it to the side. The feel of his bare chest against yours makes you feel like you are melting into him. Your mouths are unhurried but intense, tongues exploring, devouring each other whole.

“I love you,” you say into his mouth, voice hushed and reverent.

He pauses for a moment, pulling back just enough for you to get lost in the oceanic depths of his eyes as they gaze at you adoringly, as if memorizing your features. “I’m yours,” he says. Then he pulls you back down to him, his mouth consuming you once more.

You’re not sure how long you lay there, kissing, touching, exploring each other as if it were the first time, but it is long enough that you feel him begin to stiffen inside of you once more, just as you knew he would. Slowly, you begin to rock on top of him, your hands and lips tracing his Apollo-like features. Your fingers rake through his raven hair, damp with sweat from the exertion.

Elvis’ hands cup your face, your neck, tangling through your hair, caressing your breasts. He touches you reverently, though as your passions increase, his hands light streams of fire over your skin wherever they deem to touch. A heated coil tightens again in your belly, more gradually this time, but deep all the same.

The room is quiet, save for the heavy breathing that has synced between the two of you, a hushed feeling that matches the intensity of your lovemaking. His deep gaze threatens to consume you from below as you ride him, and every cell in your body is being called to his.

He fills you in ways no one ever has and as no one ever could. Perhaps he was made just for you, you think, with how perfectly you align. You realize that this is the first time you’ve had him with all your memories intact. Every moment the two of you have had since the beginning now swells between you, a now shared history that makes this moment all the more poignant.

You are lost in the depths of him just as much as he is lost in you. You can see it now, so obviously, and you wonder how you spend so very long without him. Beyond his talent, beyond his gorgeousness, lies that both human yet ethereal man, and he is wonderful and he is flawed, and he is finally yours.

He expertly touches your sensitive bud, sending you careening towards the edge of an abyss that once frightened you. Because of course this was never just about sex, though your brain tried to trick you, making you forget that your love for him started so very long ago. But what terrified you six weeks ago now feels ripe with possibility. What made you feel trapped has now been set free. And as that coil snaps and you fracture above him, it allows your true self to emerge for the first time in a very long time.

“I love you, Elvis,” you breathe, locking eyes with him as you fall, knowing he will be there to catch you.

Your moan of pleasure, his name a whispered prayer on your lips, coupled with the sight of you has him following right behind you, all his years of fear and guilt splintering into pieces along with the most intense orgasm he has ever had.   

“I love you, y/n,” he returns in equal measure.

You collapse into his arms, unaware of the tears on your face until you feel them wetting the pink scarf that somehow remains around his neck. Elvis holds you to him, his fingers twirling the ends of your hair, not just with possessiveness and control, but with unfettered love. There is aways to go between the two of you in your relationship, now that you remember everything that has happened, but you have no doubt that the two of you will figure it all out, together this time.

For the first time in forever, you feel truly at peace.

Finally, you are exactly where you need to be.

With the man you love eternally, who loves you just as much.

Here, with Elvis.

*

Please let me know in the comments/DMs/asks if you are interesting in buying a physical and/or ebook of Pink Scarf (with bonus chapters/material)! 💗🧣💗

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[greenerteacups]

Hi! I am an ardent fan of your writing, and I hope to be as sorted and planned as you some day in my own writing journey.

My question is: you have a keen eye when it comes to planning character personality, dynamics, and such. I've also been wading through your ask replies, and your insights into how you write people and how you make them play off of each other is so wonderful to read. If it's not too personal a q, how did you learn how to write like this? Did you go to school for writing, does it come from years of observing people, do you have reading list recs for "how to write real people and real interactions"?

Thanks! This is a really flattering question. I'll try to answer it honestly, because I wish someone had been brutally honest about this with me when I was a young writer.

I didn't go to school for writing. I started doing it when I was about nine years old. It sucked very badly. I kept writing throughout high school, and it still mostly sucked, but some of it was occasionally interesting. ("Interesting" here does not mean "good," by the way.) I took a break in college, and then came back. I've been writing ever since. Sometimes, I feel good about it. A lot of the time, I don't!

I hate giving this advice, because I remember how it feels to get it, and it's the most uninspiring, boring-ass, dog shit advice you can get, but it's also the only advice that is 100% unequivocally true: you have to write, and specifically, you have to write things that suck.

I do not mean that you should make things that suck on purpose. I mean that you have to sit down and try your absolute hardest to make something good. You have to put in the hours, the elbow grease, the blood, sweat, and tears, and then you have to read it over and accept that it just totally sucks. There is no way around this, and you should be wary of people who tell you there is. There is no trick, no rule, no book you can buy or article you can read, that will make your writing not suck. The best someone else can do is tell you what good writing looks like, and chances are, you knew that anyway — after all, you love to read. You wouldn't be trying to do this if you didn't. And anyone who says they can teach you to write so good it doesn't suck at first is either lying to you, or they have forgotten how they learned to write in the first place.

So the trick is to sit there in the miserable doldrums of Suck, write a ton, and learn to like it. Because this is the phase of your path as an artist when you find what it is you love about writing, and it cannot be the chance to make "good writing." This will be the thing that bears you through and compels you to keep going when your writing is shit, i.e., the very thing that makes you a writer in the first place. So find that, and you've got a good start.

Some people know this, but assume that perseverance as a writer is about trying to get to the point where you don't suck anymore. This is not true, and it is an actively dangerous lie to tell young writers. You are not aiming to feel like your writing doesn't suck. You are aiming to write. You are aiming to have written. Everything else is dust and rust. And of course, you'll find things you like about your pieces, you'll find things you're proud of, you'll learn to love the things you've made. But that little itch of self-criticism, in the back of your brain — the one that cringes when you read a clunky line, or thinks of a better character beat right after it's far too late to change — that's never going away. That's the Writer part of you. Read Kafka, read Dickens, read Tolstoy, you will find diary entries where they lament how absolutely fucking atrocious their writing was, and how angry they are that they can't do better. A good writer hates their sentences because they can always imagine better ones. And the ability to imagine a better sentence is what's going to make you pick up the pen again tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that.

Which is what I mean, and probably what all those other annoying, preachy advice-givers mean, when we say: a good writer is just someone who writes every day. It's that easy, and that hard.

#by the way a lot of this draws on ideas inspired by 'letters to a young poet' by rainer maria rilke if you're interested #that's a formative text for me as an artist #it won't teach you how to write but it will teach you how to think perhaps #and once you know how to think. well. life is just pretty good #and i can't say the writing gets easier but when life is pretty good i find myself enjoying it a lot more #this word vomit was prompted by the question 'how do you write real people and real interactions' #because that's like — i'm not trying to be pedantic but— #that's kind of just 'how do you write literature'? #because that's all literature is. what are human beings? how do you write a person? how do they interact with each other? #like shoutout to the void if you know for sure how to write real interactions then please for the love of god tell the rest of us #because i think most of all authors in history have just been giving it our best stab #'this is how the world looks for me. is it how the world looks for you?' #so my advice on that score is: try to see how the world looks for you #and then try to share it with me #don't worry about whether it looks the same for me. it won't

[elliespuns]

This question is simple but it’s been swirling around in my head: do you think Ellie is the type to do drugs? God, just thinking about it automatically sends excitement running through my veins lol I know, I’m messed up.

Oh, I probably disappoint you, but I don't really think she is the type. I mean, look at the dork. I know people like to romanticize her like this; I see a lot of posts and art of Ellie smoking or possibly even doing drugs. But, to be honest, I can't see it.

Not saying she would never try it. I can definitely see her trying to smoke cigarettes, for example (because she's already doing weed), but I don't think she'd be a fan of those long-term, let alone drugs. 

There's a possibility that if she lived in the modern world, she'd be prone to trying drugs under peer pressure—that I can only imagine with someone she's really close with—you know, like, "C'mon, try it. There's a first time for everything." and she'd be like, "Ugh, okay. But just this one time." or something like this, and even after that, she'd probably be like, "What is this shit? That's fucking terrible. Why do you do this to yourself?" (once she'd sober up).

I never really understood the appeal of making Ellie reckless (it's the same as when writers portray Ellie as dominant, bossy, and sometimes even violent). I guess it's something that turns people on? But honestly, it's so far from what Ellie is like (or what she would be like) if we had a chance to see her in these scenarios. I just can't see it.

I'm not saying she's a saint or even a buzzkill. All I'm saying is that she's a shy dork who loves comics, superheroes, and space. She would most likely be spending her days reading books, drawing, or hanging out with the few of her closest friends she'd have, watching movies at her or their place. I can't really imagine her partying and doing drugs. Not even in the modern world. 

Ellie is the type of person you could give your child to, and you'd know she'd take care of her or him. You'd trust her with responsibility even when you know she's a firecracker. Be it young or adult Ellie.

I believe that she wouldn't do drugs. Not saying she wouldn't try some mild ones... but to imagine canon Ellie, I say it's a big NO.

#the last of us #tlou #ellie williams #ellie tlou #the last of us game #tlou game #the last of us part 2 #tlou part 2 #elliespuns answers

[batrachised]

Hey, I loved Anne. What LM Montgomery book should I read next?

It's no secret that Anne of Green Gables is far and away LM Montgomery's most famous book. It's the classic; the book you think of when you heard the name LM Montgomery. It's her stereotypical Barbie, if you will. Even if someone has read a book other than Green Gables, it's usually the subsequent books in Anne's series (which is absolutely the right choice). Consequently, diving into the rest of LM Montgomery's work can be overwhelming. There are quite a few series of young women coming into their own, some of which are on Anne's level, and some of which aren't. Even beyond the Emilys and the Pats, there are also books that don't quite fit the mold of Singular Young Heroine Faces Life - The Story Girl features a much broader cast and scope despite its featured heroine Sara.

Because I love LM Montgomery and will talk about her at any point, I wanted to write up a brief summary of her series other than Anne and just try to express their vibes for someone who might be curious as to where to go next. Someone who loves Anne might hate Pat (who, me?), and someone who was tepid on Anne might love Emily. Of course, LM Montgomery is LM Montgomery, so her stories are usually solid regardless - but hey, sometimes you want an eerily witchy story, and sometimes you want a warm and cozy one. Disclaimer that I'm not including LMM's entire canon of work here (ie poems and short stories).

So, with that, let's get started.

Emily of New Moon (3 books)

Did you read the Anne series and think it was a little...Pollyanna-ish? Perhaps you even whipped out that dreaded word, "saccharine." Or maybe you loved it, but you're curious as to what a darker LM Montgomery would be. Say no more. Emily is a gothic, witchy series, with dark undertones of resentment and depression. It's also blatantly autobiographical - like, really, autobiographical - like, LM Montgomery straight up copied passages from her diary into the book autobiographical! The storyline overall does differ from LM Montgomery's life, but Emily dreams of being a writer much like Anne while being much sharper than Anne. It's also more eerie - there are hauntings and second sight events sprinkled throughout the series, along with the aforementioned gothic undertones overall. Yet for all this, it still solidly retains LM Montgomery's flair for cheeky stories and dreamy heroines and embarrassing moments and gentle life lessons. It's a still slice of life; it's just a slice of a darker one.

The Blue Castle (1 book)

Imagine the most generic, trope filled, basic romantic storyline - shy girl gets makeover esque - and then pump it full of LM Montgomery's genius, add in a few screwball twists for the fun of it, and create the most cathartic book ever written. Have a family you can't stand that you just want to tell off sometimes? This book is for you. Want to live that cottagecore life with your soulmate? This book is for you. Daydream of a better life? This book is for you. Love a book with plot twists that you never see coming? Oh boy, this book is for you. This is one of two novels that LM Montgomery writes for adults, and it shows in the material handled. We have unwed mothers, hints at sexual awakenings, sexual harassment, and overall LM Montgomery from an older perspective. The heroine here is 29 at the beginning of the book, an unusual age for an LM Montgomery story to begin. Also, Barney Snaith supremacy. If you loved Gilbert, you'll love Barney too (dare I say perhaps even more). The blue castle is one of LMM's few books where the love interest is one of the main characters too instead of a side plot. It's also a standalone novel, which makes it more accessible in terms of storyline.

Jane of Lantern Hill (1 book)

Lo and behold, another standalone novel! And in my opinion, LM Montgomery's best. Notable for having an actual lion in it (that was based on true events!), Jane of Lantern Hill is a cheerful story of a little girl coming into her own. More practical than the other heroines (Jane is the same girl who dreams of having a potato ricer), Jane stands in a very cozy story that has a parent trap type plot (no trapping involved, but long estranged parents do reunite). It also has one of LM Montgomery's best villains, Jane's Grandmother, who is a chilling example of emotional abuse without any buffoonery or comedy to soften it. If you're looking for a comfort book to read with a cup of tea on a rainy day, this is it. It's not really a romance - romance is the tiniest of plot threads in this - it's a father daughter story bestowed with the typical LM Montgomery magic.

The Story Girl (2 books)

This was LM Montgomery's personal favorite, and it's delightful. It features more of a cast of characters than a main heroine situation, although the main heroine is there, so it's a bit unique in that regard. It's also in first person, and (gasp) that person is a boy. That sets it very apart from her other novels! The Story Girl, as hinted by the name, is very story heavy; it's LM Montgomery telling the story of a crowd of children growing up on PEI, yes, but it's also her delving into fairy tales and urban legends (PEI style) and local history. If you really liked the Hester Gray chapters from Anne, you'll probably like this quite a bit; the novel takes the same sort of delving approach but with a broader focus (we hear stories of princes and stories of neighbors). It also, unlike her other novels, is a memory. Bev, our narrator, is a grown man recounting his childhood - something acknowledged in the first book and emphasized in the second. Without any romance in it (besides of course, in the stories) and with a broader character focus (Sara is our heroine, but she's one of a group, and not the narrator), this novel veers away from the typical tightly focused LM Montgomery coming of age formula. It's group shenanigans rather than a personal journey.

Pat of Silver Bush (2 books)

Ah, Pat. Oh, Pat. I suggest reading these after you read the rest of LM Montgomery's work. Pat is interesting because the narrative tells us one thing, and Pat's actions tell us another. It's a book to read and analyze as an LM Montgomery novel, in my opinion, rather than a book to read to enjoy. It's good - it features one of my favorite LM Montgomery heroes in Jingle - but Pat is frenetic and depressed, to the point the novel's attempted cheerfulness skitters into mania. It's an LM Montgomery that doesn't stick the landing, which makes where it does land all the more interesting. LM Montgomery loves characterizing houses - in this the house is a character to the point where it's almost ominous. It's LM Montgomery but with an unintentional offkey chord that makes for unpleasant reading but fascinating examination.

Rilla of Ingleside (1 book, from Anne's series)

Including this because she's technically a different heroine than Anne - this is a war novel. It's LM Montgomery, but it's also a war novel. It's Anne, and it's a heartbroken Anne. It's also LM Montgomery's magnum opus (at least in my humble opinion). It's gritty in a way all of LM Montgomery's books aren't; it's an account of WWI from a unique perspective of a girl on PEI (and account is the word for it - there's discussion of specific battles and events date by date). The theme of WWI pops up frequently in LM Montgomery's later books, all of them building up to this book - read it and you'll appreciate the beginning Anne books all the more, because you know where they end.

The Blythes are Quoted (1 book, from Anne's series)

Do you really, really want more Anne? You've read all the books multiple times, hunted down the short stories where she's referenced, and you still want more? You're in luck, because this book was published in 2009, over half a century after LM Montgomery died. It's full of short stories that offer glimpses of the Blythes growing up, but it also has stories that take place after WWI, and it has interludes with the Blythe family written in a script format (think reading a play). It's cutting - these are not happy interludes - but it adds a rich dimension to Anne's story, and gives another glimpse at what happened to the characters.

Other

There are a scattering of other novels - Magic for Marigold, A Tangled Web - along with hundreds of short stories. I'd save these for last. These vary wildly in quality and so you're as likely to hit a dud as a diamond in the rough. There are a few incredible short stories that are LM Montgomery at her best, but there's also quite a lot of odd ones that can get downright uncomfortable. Magic for Marigold and A Tangled Web hit the same issues, growing uncomfortably sexist/racist at points. If you are determined to read all of LM Montgomery's work (hey, I've been there), these are solid stories but there are better ones.

#lm montgomery #the blue castle #emily of new moon #aogg #the story girl #the blythes are quoted #pat of silver bush

[jennay]

That's my Spot

An: Just some cute fluff no warnings.

Summary: Jolly and Reader keep running into each other at a local cafe.

If you want to be tagged in Jolly stuff let me know!i

For a week, you had been caught in a silent flirtation. Every day, you would enter the coffee shop, plug in your laptop and phone, and order your usual drink.

He would be there, too, sitting by the cozy fireplace with a book in his hand. He had long, straight hair that fell down the sides of his cheeks and a black sweater with a band logo that gave him a rock star vibe. He always wore sunglasses when he came in but would take them off as soon as he opened his book.

You wondered what color his eyes were and what kind of books he liked to read. You also wondered what his name was and what he did for a living. Was he a student, a writer, a musician, or something else?

Sometimes, your eyes would meet and linger, but neither of you would say anything. You had work to do, and he had his reading. You wanted to talk to him, but you kept telling yourself that he was just a fellow coffee lover and only being friendly because you saw each other so often.

You didn't want to make a fool of yourself by approaching him and finding out he had a girlfriend, or worse, he wasn't interested in you. You were too shy to make the first move and hoped he would do it someday.

Out of the corner of your eye, you admired him. You thought stupid things like, how long did it take to grow his hair that long? Why did he always come in looking like a rock star? Why did he wear sunglasses inside until he started to read? What was his choice of drink, and who reads as much as he does?

You imagined he was a deep thinker, a passionate reader, a mysterious stranger. You wanted to know more about him but didn't know how to start a conversation.

You quietly giggle, hiding your face behind your laptop as you read your emails. The most silly part was he made you think all these things without even saying a word to you. He had a power over you, a magnetic attraction that drew you to him. You felt a flutter in your stomach every time you saw him and a warmth in your cheeks whenever he looked at you.

You stood up, leaving your things unattended; you'd been here so many times you weren't worried about people stealing your things. You'd been going here off and on for over a year. You were addicted to the atmosphere and how the Barista always knew your name. You loved that they could have your order going when they saw you. You mostly loved that you always got your seat by the window to watch everyone walking by; you were curious about their lives even if you'd never know.

"Vanilla Latte?" The Barista asks.

You nod your head, "Of course." You smile, "Can I have it iced today?"

He smiles widely, "Oh?" He questions, "We're switching things up I see. What's the occasion?"

You shrug your shoulders, "I just feel like being spontaneous. Maybe I'm sick." You joke. "That was a bad joke." You nervously laugh, "I don't have covid or anything like that." You take a deep breath, "I'm gonna stand over here in shame now." You shake your head, thoroughly embarrassed by your actions. You wondered if people could tell you didn't get out much. You heard snickering from where your mystery guy sat, but he dug his nose back in his book when you looked over. Cool. You thought you made an ass out of yourself, and people heard it.

The Barista calls your name, and you thank him for your drink. Your cheeks are red as you walk back to your spot; you hide your face in your laptop, never wanting to be seen again. You sip your iced vanilla latte and try to focus on your work, but you can't help stealing glances at him. You wonder if he thinks about you outside this place like you did about him.

You returned to the café, as you did every weekday morning, following your unbreakable routine. Today, you skipped the coffee line. You skipped everything, even though you had planned on treating yourself to a latte as soon as your meeting was over.

You only had about five minutes to set up your laptop and join the online chat. You couldn't afford to be late, even though you desperately craved your caffeine fix.

You froze in your tracks, seeing him sitting at your table. The one by the window, with the power outlet and the cozy cushion. The one that you always occupied, without fail. The one that kept you sane in the midst of your hectic schedule.

You had difficulty adapting to change, and it was about to show. You didn't have time to confront him. You didn't have time to politely ask him to move, not that you would. You were not the type to cause a scene, and you didn't have any claim to the damn spot.

Instead, you settled for the table across from him, feeling panic as you tossed all your belongings on the table and hastily plugged your laptop in. You put your headphones on and press the speak button on your mic. "Yep, I'm ready when you guys are." You said in a rushed tone. "Go ahead whenever you're ready. I'll be in the background and let you know if I hear anything odd on the recording." You assured your coworker.

You tilted your head back, staring at the ceiling. You felt like a fool as you shifted your legs around; you even attempted to put your legs over the chair beside you and lean against the wall while you listened to them talk. You gave up on sitting comfortably. Your eyes met his, and you gave him a small smile, finally noticing that his eyes were a deep shade of brown. "Nope," you said. "It still sounds clear on this end."

You tap your fingers nervously on the table, feeling restless and annoyed by the people standing behind you and everyone who keeps passing you. It was distracting. You couldn't focus on the meeting, which was already boring enough. You wondered why you had to attend this online conference when you could have just watched the recording later. You had no interest in the topic and didn't know anyone else in the virtual room. You felt like you were wasting your time.

You put your hands in your lap and close your eyes, trying to ignore everything as you continue to listen. The speaker droned on and on, using jargon and acronyms that made no sense to you.

You wished you could mute him or, better yet, leave the meeting. But you had to stay because your boss expected you to. You sighed, hoping the session would end soon.

Your eyes snap open when you hear something set on your table. You stare down at the cup in front of you and see him walking back to his table.

You peek over your laptop to see him smile as he sits down again. You smile like a child, thankful for your gift. You mouth thank you to him and take a sip of your coffee; he knows your order.

It shouldn't feel as special as it did, but no one seemed to remember small details about you, and this was new.

He had never done anything like this before. He had never acknowledged you except for the occasional eye contact and nod. He had never spoken to you or even asked your name. He had never shown any sign that he noticed or cared about you.

But now, he had bought you a coffee. He had made a gesture that said he wanted to connect with you. He had made you feel something you hadn't felt in a long time. He had made you happy.

It's not until fifteen minutes later, when you're ending your meeting that you see writing on the cup, not just an order but something he'd written. "Sorry, I took your spot. Come sit with me?" You read the words, and your mouth slightly drops. Was this actually happening? Was he inviting you to join him? Was he interested in you? You bite your lip, hoping he'll be there when the meeting ends.

When the time comes, you take a deep breath, thankful to be done, and you see him still sitting there; this time, he's scrolling on his phone.

You feel excitement and nervousness as you decide to approach him. You quietly pack up your belongings and head towards him. You stop at the table before sitting and say, "Is it still ok if I sit?"

He looks up and smiles, his eyes sparkling. He nods and gestures for you to join him. "Of course, please sit. I've been waiting for you." He says, his voice warm and inviting.

You feel a glow in your chest when he smiles at you. He gently puts his hand out to introduce himself to you. "I'm Joakim, but my friends call me Jolly." He says, his name sounding exotic and charming.

You quickly notice his accent. You extend your hand and feel electricity when he touches it. "I'm y/n…and that's what everyone calls me." You say, trying to sound casual. You laugh nervously. "Thank you for the coffee."

His brown eyes watch you curiously as if he wants to know everything about you. "It's the least I could do for taking your spot." He says, his tone is playful and apologetic.

You shrug and smile. "It's ok, it's not like it has my name on it or anything." You say, pretending to be cool with it. You set your bag next to your feet. "But please don't make me sit over there again." You say, pointing to the noisy and crowded area where you had your meeting. You laugh, hoping he'll laugh with you.

He nods. "I promise I won't. I'll save this spot for you if you want." He says, his eyes twinkling. "Or better yet, why don't you sit with me next time? I'd love to have some company." He says, his voice lowering and his smile turning into a smirk. "You know we could even spend some time outside of the cafe together."

You feel your face heat up and your heart race. You bite your lip and look into his eyes. You see a hint of nervousness and a lot of interest.

You nod and smile back. "I'd like that."

You think this might be the beginning of something extraordinary. You think this is fate.

#jolly karlsson oneshot #jolly karlsson x y/n #jolly karlsson fluff #jolly karlsson x you #jolly karlsson one shot #jolly karlsson fanfiction #jolly karlsson fic #jolly karlsson x reader #bad omens fiction #bad omens fanfiction #bad omens fic

[mybworlds]

Bittersweet

CHAPTER 1

status: ongoing

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: your life is full of 'must'. You live with your overprotective mother who controls every aspect of your life. You have a dream, to write romance novels, but love - real love - you haven't found yet. Your mother has even decided what you must do in your free time: play music. One day, however, when you go to your music teacher's house, you will have an unexpected encounter and from that day on things change…

rating: 18+ explicit (minors, DNI)

Before to start... Hello people, I know there are other two ff that I already started, but I dreamt this new idea for my new ff. So I decided to write it down it. So here we are. If you want to let me know what you think about it I'd be glad to read you.

No offence pls, if you dislike it go away :)

Thanks @vase-of-lilies for the banner

You always dreamed of doing something special, of being the person who would make a difference in the world….

So you hoped.

You hoped to become a great writer of romance novels, and you hoped to instill hope in the hearts of young people not to give up in the face of love and the possible obstacles that may arise.

But not all dreams come true.

In fact, you ended up working in a small bar on the outskirts of your town, surrounded by the many stories of the many diners who populate the place during the daytime or evening hours--depending on the shifts. These stories are the most different, and cannot help but feed your wild imagination.

In the evening, when you are not on shift, you write dozens and dozens of stories on your computer: some are shorts, some are very long and have happy endings, some less. It depends on your mood and how you imagine certain events you've witnessed or heard will end.

"I'm home!"

Your mother has just returned from a nearly seventy-two-hour shift at the hospital, she works in emergency medicine, and - since your father died (or at least she always said) - when she's not at home, you have to do everything, housework and bar work, grocery shopping, paying bills.

"Hi, Mom."

You absentmindedly greet her by putting down your computer glasses and crinkling your eyes in exhaustion.

"Did you buy groceries?"

The usual string of questions starts, to which you always answer with a distracted yes. You are almost 30 years old, but sometimes you feel like you are 40s or even 50s. Sometimes you think you would just like to enjoy youth, to be carefree, light-hearted, you would like to be free even to make mistakes, and instead you feel caged in this life. In a life where the only rule is you must.

"So you're okay with that?" your mother suddenly asks, making you get your feet back on the ground.

"What?" you ask confused.

"You might even listen to me for once!" blurts out Mom.

"I just got distracted for a second!" you exclaim trying to catch up.

Mom snorts, "I asked you if you were free tomorrow for your guitar lesson."

Ah yes, the exhilarating guitar lessons!

Mom, ever since Dad left (but she always said it was as if he was dead), has demanded that you take piano lessons first and guitar lessons later, like your father. You can't understand your mother, sometimes she seems to hate your father, sometimes she doesn't.

About love, you've always wanted it to be forever. Maybe it's just some romantic bullshit you always watched in movies or read in books, but you want to believe that there really exists out there for you, someone who is willing to love you for a lifetime. Too bad you haven't found anyone so far who is willing to love you the same way you love, to want you the way you want!

Going back to your guitar lessons, your teacher is a bit of a peculiar guy, a bit of a loner, a lover of many things and one opposed to the other. He's -- you don't know exactly how to define him. You've never been able to decipher him. He seems gruff, but at the same time he has a good side and probably deep down sweet.

Very deep down.

"Yes, don't worry." Mom, ever since he left, has become overprotective in some ways with you, has demanded to control you even though you are not so young anymore, wants to know what you read, what you see, what you do. It may seem normal, perhaps, for a mom to try to get to know what her child does, but not the way she does. If you are evasive for one reason for another, she becomes a hound, suffocating almost. Once she even demanded to read a chat you created with friends fearing that you might be in touch with a man much older than you, and instead she found herself a chat where you were exchanging sometimes funny and sometimes even private messages with some of your close friends from school, which even embarrassed you, but mom justified herself by saying she was doing it for you. She even banned you from driving for fear that you might have a car accident! You have a driver's license, but your mother won't even let you drive around town. She always has to be the one to drive you. These manias of hers are suffocating!

"Good. Do you have money to pay for it?" she asks you.

"Yes, don't worry," you reply, going to prepare dinner.

"We have to be very punctual or I'll be late for the hospital," she informs you.

"Do you have another night?" you ask her "It will be the fifth time in a month! But didn't there used to be shifts once even in the hospital?" you ask again as you prepare some pasta.

"Yes, but -- you know, there are only a few of us and then there are even more emergencies than usual."

You follow your mother with your eyes as you see her typing on her cell phone. Your mother sometimes looks like the young woman and you look like the mom.

What an unfair life!

The next day your life flows as usual, you get up very early, make coffee bringing it also to your mother, go to shower, get dressed and go to work.

At the café there is the usual hustle and bustle, who wants coffee, who wants a croissant, who wants a slice of pizza, who wants something else. You don't have a moment to yourself. Only when it's almost lunchtime now, you stop and go to the back of the store to eat your sandwich and smoke. Yes, you smoke. The only real transgression in your life. If your mother found out she would probably kill you, but you don't care smoking makes you feel good and maybe it makes you feel good because it's a decision you made, not because it was forced on you.

You rub one temple and look toward the road covered with a hint of snow. You wonder what you would have been doing by now if you had not been there with your mother, if maybe you were busy in college or maybe in pursuing some master's degree, you wonder who you might have been if you had dared to live your life to the fullest.

In the afternoon, your mother - after making sure you are dressed appropriately, that you have sheet music and whatnot - drops you off in front of your teacher's building.

The latter lives on the top of seven floors, it's practically a penthouse, it's beautiful place. Being with him -- a little less so.

When you knock, you are about to greet him, but a completely different man from your teacher appears in front of you. He is tall, much taller than your teacher and you, curly brown hair, dark eyes, a look that is at first grim, then curious, defined jaw line and curved nose. He is perhaps 40 years old.

You stand open-mouthed, thinking you had the wrong house for a moment, then realizing it's the right address.

"I was looking for Mr. Miller," you say.

"In person." he replies.

"Tommy Miller," you say.

"I'm his brother." he says again.

You are about to say something, but he is the one who interrupts you by asking if you are his student and calling your name, you nod in confusion.

"My brother had to leave yesterday morning. He told me you were coming and to wait for you to let you know." he clarifies by placing his hands on his hips.

He is incredibly muscular; you have never seen a man like him. He hits you right away.

"I see. Then -- I'll go." ready to leave.

You make to turn your back to him "Did Mommy tell you not to talk to strangers?" he asks making you turn back to him "I saw you get out of your mother's car." he adds noticing your confused look.

"What did you say?" you ask in annoyance.

You see him smirking and cross his arms "Are you afraid the big bad wolf will eat you?"

You wrinkle your forehead "First, I don't even know who you are." you say moving a couple of steps closer to him "And second…"

"Joel." he introduces himself by extending his hand.

"You're creepy -- Joel," you say looking first at his hand and then at his face.

"You, on the other hand, are shy." he notes looking at you and running his gaze over your figure. No one has ever looked at you like this. Making your skin warmed. "Yes, you are a shy little one." he adds, smiling and making wrinkles appear on the sides of his eyes.

"Your brother is definitely nicer," you say.

Lie. Tommy has always been very much on his own.

He just bends his head to the side, "Funny, people always told me I'm the nice one of the Miller brothers."

Gotcha.

"Well, maybe they never really knew you!"

"And you in less than a minute figured out who am I?" he asks, leaving you speechless.

No, you know very well that you cannot judge anyone in less than a minute. If someone had judged you in less than a minute they probably would have dismissed you as an ordinary young woman, lacking dreams of her own, trivial.

Perhaps the same thing applies to the man in front of you, Joel Miller.

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel tlou #joel miller hbo #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #the last of us hbo #joel miller self insert #the last of us #joel fic #the last of us fanfiction #joel the last of us #pedro pascal #pedro pascal as joel miller #smut #joel x f!reader #joel x female reader #joel x you #dom!joel #dom!joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller angst #bittersweet ff

[bonefall]

Now that you've said it, I think that might actually be one of the big issues with Warriors. A refusal to commit to the story-that's-being-written, instead of the story-that-was-planned. Things can take unexpected turns, and you end up losing out on a lot if you force the story to stay exactly on course.

Literally, in my own current (non-wc) writing project, I had a character outright reject his entire redemption arc. He went from "realizes how badly he's fucked up, has a breakdown about it, and eventually picks up the pieces and starts moving forward trying to be better" to "realizes he was never going to be able to achieve his goal, has a breakdown about it and refuses to reevaluate his actions, and dies still despising the people he was cruel to." I hadn't expected that outcome, and I spent at least a week trying to bend him back into place, but I realized that things would start to break if I did that.

Like. Imagine if the writing team just took what they actually had and ran with it instead of insisting that what they had intended (however much they actually do plan this shit lmao) is exactly the same as what's on the page when it's not. So much of the plot (especially DotC lol) could have been so much better if they'd just followed the path where it lead instead of bending the narrative awkwardly to fit whatever they wanted.

I think a major reason for it is probably the ghostwriting setup they have. TPB was able to have the mind-twisting Scourge situation at the very end because there was, essentially, one writer in charge of the story. They could just DO something wild if they wanted to.

But nowadays, like, one person writes each book and they don't even have time to read the previous one before making the next. So you get series like DOTC which have egregious continuity errors between books. Sometimes even the very NEXT book will forget something huge, like how Blazing Star completely forgot that Thunder and Clear Sky never actually faced off in the First Battle.

So they could never change course. It's a relay race. Each person has their own stretch to run, they don't really see in front or in back of them.

It's a shame, but a big reason why personal passion projects are more flexible and good to keep in mind as a comparison.

#bone babble

[mejcinta]

how do you imagine heleana aegon’s first night as husband and wife?

in contrast to many good fanfic writers, I always felt like heleana was waiting and ready. Whereas aegon couldnt do it and he cried on her boobs and they fall asleep like that. I think this feeling came up to me when Aegon was trying to taunt Jace and if he can do the act, heleana was laughing in background to that while studying the beetle aegon had gifted her

YOU ARE SO CLEVER!!!!

No, because the other day I was just thinking of the fact that alcohol makes Aegon 'soft'. He yelps for his brother on Driftmark like a kicked dog when he's over the limt. He's a stuttering, bumbling, sniffing mess when Alicent confronts him in his room as an adult.

Aegon copes using alcohol, and then when alcohol gets the best of him he lets out the most vulnerable parts of him...or in some cases the worst.

I can totally imagine him being a whimpering mess on his wedding day and just asking Helaena to hold him on their wedding night. The two of them were victims of a system they have no power to change. They don't love each other romantically, but they don't hate each other either.

Dare I say, because of the disarming effect alcohol has on Aegon, it's probable that he was able to vent his true feelings about Otto and Alicent to Helaena and they sort of started bonding with that...only for Aegon to wake up sober and completely blank to what he blabbed to her in his drunken state.

He equips Helaena with knowledge about him through his drinking then gets super upset that she can read him like a book.

I think this is why Helaena doesn't mind Aegon too much. He is her brother and now she knows him in and out from their weird conversations. This attachment they have developed could be what drove them to have sex sometimes, like some sort of trauma bonding.

I bet it took some time for them to finally go through with their duty and do the deed. And after Helaena bore Aegon twins, I think her dedicated love and care for them softened Aegon more toward her and made him see her as more than just his baby sister. I think their marital bond strengthened just a bit more with the arrival of the kids, and he spent more time with Helaena as a result.

Targaryen culture is just fucked up like that. But they're siblings in the end and naturally care about each other in a way.

Of course all this is assuming they don't turn Aegon into Bad Dad™ and Most Evil Obligatory Husband™ in comparison to DAEMON of all people.

#answered #evabluepark888 #hotd headcanon #Targaryen Weirdness #aegon ii targaryen #helaena targaryen #helaegon #aegon ii × helaena

[slushiepizza]

I just read your 'The Pursuit of Catharsis' and I'M NOT OK BUT IN A GOOD WAY!!!

And because I'm a sucker for angst... I wanna twist the knife in Guy's heart a bit more ❤️

Imagine if Guy - with his name now in the spotlight, his career at its peak and yet he's so miserable to the point of suicidal because of the cheating, of the scandal and the divorce - saw Honey on a random street on night.

Looking just as perfect as the day he lost them.

Looking like they're untouched by time.

Because after losing Guy and working themselves up to be the best version of themselves, to have the healthiest mental and emotional health in their lives, Honey becomes someone else's...

Treasure.

YES, IT'S EXACTLY WHO YOU THINK HE IS!

ANYWAY, THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME! GOOD BYE!

link to the fic

Thanks for reading and enjoying the fic!!! I'm using this opportunity to discuss the Divorced!AU lmao

warning : discussions of suicidal behavior, mental health issues, substance abuse

i. honey being treasure

ough..... that's a really sad idea but now I'm more focused on something specific in this scenario. If Honey later became Treasure, there's the implication that they weren't doing as well as they hoped they were because as mentioned by Porter, 'your friends suck'. And they now have a semi-toxic circle of friends.

I like that, I think. That no matter how hard they try and how far they've come since the divorce- there's always the ghost of it that they couldn't get rid of and managed to sneak away into their life.

ii. Guy's misery and cheating

Hm, about Guy being miserable to the point of suicidal...I do think that he was already like that before he cheated and when he and Honey were still married but had problems. That was sort of my take on his reasoning behind why he cheated actually.

He was just someone who couldn't cope with fame while at the same time craving it severely. He spent all of his time working and tried to remedy his lack of effort into maintaining his relationship with Honey with lavish gifts. He struggled with substance abuse- mainly alcohol but sometimes others- because he refused to realize that he had nothing else to live for now that he's at the top.

When he and Honey's fights got really bad, he'd go on a bender. He'd go for one night stands mostly, and they all have traits that are reminiscent of Honey's. They weren't on speaking terms when he missed their anniversary for the sake of going abroad. And Guy has this feeling that whatever they're dealing with- they won't be able to come back from this. He'd imagine the people and sex workers he'd spend the night with was Honey he was laying with, as and under the blur and haze of the stupor he was in, they might as well be. When people found out about him cheating, the world moves on. He's a Hollywood writer, of course it wouldn't be something people blink an eye at. His career wouldn't take a hit at all.

iii. honey's aftermath

After they got divorced, Honey would move away from Dahlia and live in a small town where they can escape Guy's name and fame. They'd heal but they severely missed someone who used to be their best friend.

Life in the small town was idyllic and had the community they needed to heal. Honey started work as a cargo truck driver, finding comfort in long winding roads in between states. They don't quite care about the cities or fame or success anymore- it's sullied by how things used to be and how Guy turned out.

At a local bookstore new, freshly packaged books was displayed front and center- and it had Guy's name on it. It stated that it was a bestseller and that it's from "American Horror Sensation, Guy". They shrug and tried to feel glad that he got what he wanted. Oh well. The two of them were different people now from the college kids that shared a home, unrecognizable from who they used to be.

They remembered what they used to tell him when he had writer's block and needed the extra push: "Dude! You're good at this. If you ever get published, I'd definitely everything you write."

"Really, everything?"

"Everything. I really do like the way you write."

They buy the copy anyway, unfortunately.

#redacted audio #redacted asmr #redacted guy #slushieanswers #sweet asks

[secretlystephaniebrown]

On Superman and Kindness

One cannot begin talking about comic books without talking about Superman. 

It is simply a fact of things: it all begins with a man, and a car, and a cape. 

Well, perhaps it begins earlier. Perhaps it begins with two men, leaning over a drafting board, talking about the possibilities.

But in truth, it all starts there, with Superman, and the men who created him. 

When you’re a comic book nerd, you learn very quickly that people have Opinions, with capital letters, about Superman. So often, you will hear people decry him as overpowered, as boring, as cliche and cheesy, as “too nice,” or, in one interesting instance, as inspiring “daddy issues.” 

But I always argue that to dislike Superman is to miss the point. 

Not that there aren’t plenty of reasons to dislike a character; there are always reasons to dislike something. They can be petty and specific or broad and philosophical. Some people just don’t like superheroes; arguing that they are defenders of the status quo, and teach us about violence-based solutions to problems. Some people don’t like Superman specifically because they think he was rude to a different fictional character in one specific issue of a comic that they and three other people have read. 

When it comes to comic books and their fans, you can easily encounter both opinions, and sometimes they’re even in the same person. 

I can’t address those issues. Maybe they’re right, and the superhero genre is an inherently outdated genre in a leftist utopia, in a world without prisons and police. And they certainly might be right that Superman was rude to other characters; Superman in the 1960s and 1970s went through a time period which was known as “Superdickery,” a time period where shenanigans, gaslighting, and cruel pranks ran amok. 

But I can talk about the other things. 

As for Superman being boring and invincible, I tend to wave it off. Superman is physically invincible, but good writers have known for years that in many ways, it just makes him more vulnerable. He is bulletproof, but his family (mostly) is not. He is fireproof, but what about the ordinary people all around him? There are villains who can meet him at his own level, and there are a thousand tasks at every moment that only a Superman can meet, and wonderful writers for over eighty years now have told this story well. 

The cliche… well, he created the genre. He gets to be a cliche. Seinfeld is unfunny, and Superman, wearing a uniform inspired by Jewish circus strongmen, is the only original idea in the field, and the rest are derivative and in conversation with him. Like it or not, all others who follow are, in some way, always going to be compared to him. Sure, one might say the later variations did it better, but he will always be the cliche for the others to innovate out of and put a fresh spin on. 

And now, to the heart of the matter. 

Superman is too nice. 

You’re wrong. 

A part of this argument will always rile me up. A part of it is born out of the way that the argument is the sort of thing that Lex Luthor himself would make. Why would someone who is bulletproof and can bend steel, who can fly and see through walls and blast things with his laser eyes, be kind? For so many people, it seems, they cannot imagine having those abilities and not abusing them. From the perverted teenage boy who wishes he could see into the woman’s locker room to the angry nerd on the internet wishing death on all the girls who have ever slighted him, many people cannot imagine having that kind of power and using it to help. 

Maybe I’m an optimist. 

But I love to think that they’re wrong. 

That is, to me, the heart of the superhero genre. This idea that someone, given great power, chooses great responsibility. To choose to use the gifts that you have been given, and try to build a better world, a better tomorrow. To try and use their trauma to better the present, so that no one else will suffer like they have suffered. 

And of course Superman would choose that kindness. 

He exists because of it. 

It is well-trod ground, perhaps, that Superman is not a Christ allegory, despite what the movies make him out to be. Jor-El did not “so love the world that he gave his only son.” Kal-El, Clark Kent, he is not Jesus Christ. 

He is, instead, Moses in the bullrushes. He is a metaphor, instead, for Jewish survival. 

Superman was not sent to us to save us from ourselves. He was sent to us to save him. 

His parents sent him out into the great unknown in desperate hopes that their son would live, even though they would not. He came here, in need, vulnerable. He landed, in all the places in all the world, not in an ocean or a government laboratory, but in a field, in Kansas. 

And he was found, and he was adopted, and he was loved. 

Ma and Pa Kent found him, and they chose him, and they showed him kindness and taught him strong values. They taught him the best version of Americana; a tight knit community that opens their arms to outsiders, hard work without bitterness, generosity without repayment. 

Of course Superman is kind. Kindness is what saved him. 

And you can find it corny, you can find it unrealistic, and maybe you can even make genuine arguments against the kind of work that he does. 

But by Kirby, let Superman be kind. Let me believe that a man can fly. Let me believe in the version of tomorrow that he sees for us. 

#Clark Kent #Superman #DC #Steph Reads Comics #Steph Speaks #Despite Everything: Comics #this is an idea I've been scribbling down for the past while: a series of mini-essays about comics. we'll see how it goes. #but it's fun writing anyways

[thana-topsy]

Hello! I hope this isn't too much of a loaded question, but do you have any general tips for writing? I'd like to give fanfic writing a shot at some point.

Not at all! I'm always happy to talk shop about writing! As far as general tips go, there are some things that I think everyone could benefit from, so I'll try to condense my opinions and suggestions into A Numbered List. (We'll limit it to 5 suggestions for now).

Read Actively I mean this in the sense of really chewing on whatever it is you're reading. Dig into the meat of That One Paragraph and look for things you enjoy, things that tickle your brain. I'll give an example from something I read recently, which is our lovely @kookaburra1701's newest story "Aristeia" "They crested the final hillock; Mor Khazgur dominated the shallow valley below. When she had been younger, Borgakh had often imagined the longhouse was a lazy cat asleep on a bright green rug, curled up against the rocks of the Druadach Mountains. When the stronghold’s goats were pastured in the glade, they played the role of mice scurrying about under the cat’s nose." I was just ENAMORED by this passage. The whimsy, the rhythm of some the repeating consonants -- stronghold's goats, glade -- and just the imagery it drummed up, reminding me of those fanciful imaginings of my own childhood. So don't just read a lot, but read actively. Read works that inspire you, authors that impress you, and subject matter that's similar to the type of stuff you want to be writing. And think about why you like the things your like, and draw that inspiration into your own writing. Imitate your heroes until you're no longer imitating and it's just how you write.

Accept Constructive Criticism This one is always a challenge in the beginning. The Ego is a powerful little devil, and it'll try to confuse you. It'll tell you that your value is tied to the words on the page. But I'm here to tell you that YOU are NOT the words on the page. Take an objective stance on your prose and your plot. Everyone starts somewhere and (hopefully) nobody ever stops learning or improving. NOTE: Notice I said constructive criticism. This does not mean you should let people tear your work into shreds in bad faith. Listen to people who want to see you improve and also find joy in the craft of writing.

Read Your Writing Out Loud This is kind of self-explanatory. You'll get a really good feel for your own rhythm and flow VERY easily this way. And you'll catch almost any mistakes right away.

Cut All Unnecessary Words This is getting into the technical side of things, but why not? One of the first books I read on the craft of writing (whose title unfortunately escapes my mind at the moment) contained this advice, and it is STILL something I struggle with. Obviously, when you have a character with a specific voice, sometimes they get flowery in their internal speech and observations. I'll use Aiden as an example: "The fort loomed over them, massive and severe. Aiden attempted to judge the architecture and found he wasn’t quite sure what race or nation could have possibly built it. Or when it was built, for that matter. Second era, perhaps? The design seemed more Breton than Nord: austere, angular, and formal. But so close to the Velothi mountains, it could have been Imperial."  I bolded words that don't actually add anything of value to the descriptions here. We lose nothing by cutting them out. But they're how Aiden thinks about the world around him. So I keep them to give shape to his internal processing. I'd say to try to write without these kinds of flavor words first, then start adding them in. Learn the rules before you break them, or break the habit before it becomes the ONLY way you write.

Write Every Day This one is tough in the beginning, but it's so crucial to becoming a better writer. WRITE. EVERY. DAY. Even if it's just 200 words, do it. Make it your little morning ritual or evening wind-down. Pick a time that's just for you and your words. Close all your tabs, put your phone on silent, and just write. Be alone with the world that you are trying to create. And soon enough, you'll find that you can't go a day without writing something. And what a joy that is.

That's my list! I hope you found these tips useful! I also recommend reading books on the craft of writing, too.

Best of luck on your journey! You have infinite possibilities before you.

#topsy's asks #writing meta #writing advice #on writing #fanfiction #fanfic meta

[knullanon]

REDO: Symbiotes being assholes

ok so I noticed a few of you guys wanted a part 4 to that symbiote series, the one that ended off with Anti-Venom getting reader, and another for the one of playing uno with toxin. but after reading both, I realized I cannot just let them be written like that. I think I've become a better writer since then, and tbf it's almost been like. 2 years since then. so I've decided to re-write both of them! probably next week will either be another of this series or of the toxin one, but either way I wanted to give another chance at them because they bring so many happy memories but also. I can't stand to read the things I used to write lol. so here's the first part to the symbiotes being assholes series, but a re-written version!

summary: after eddie takes you from your comfortable life with your family, you can say that you absolutely hate him and his stupid symbiote. but after a realization, you begin to think that your original decision was wrong.

words: 4286

warnings: talk of murder, kidnapping, stolkhome syndrome, cussing, lmk if I missed any!

The walls were an ugly tan, it was uglier than your own room when you left it. The ceiling was one of those popcorn ceilings, the windows were somehow tinted brown, and the floorboards creaked whenever you stepped somewhere in your room.

You hated it. You wanted to say you disliked it, as negativity was everywhere in this apartment, but you hated it. You hated the smell, you hated the look, even the damn traffic outside. 

And you certainly hated the man who brought you here.

Eddie Brock, he was a reporter and journalist on certain violent crimes, however, after losing his job when he went snooping somewhere he definitely wasn’t supposed to, he has had to resort to his own jobs, and finding different opportunities himself. 

And most importantly, you hated him. He left you in the apartment for hours on end, with nothing to do, besides maybe turn on the TV, and watch the same channels over and over again. 

The only thing that kept you sane in this hole they called an “apartment” was, surprisingly, his books. He had tons, and tons of books. Mostly collectors or true crime books. You didn’t really care for them before, but they’ve gained a new appreciation from you. 

Everyday, you would read the books, sometimes switching in between different ones, and trying to figure out the pieces yourself, even if the answer was given to you. 

Other times, you would feel a little dumb when you read them, as you couldn’t figure it out within the first few chapters. It was hard for you to not just flip to the ending of it and read those pages with those books.

Whenever he left, you would grab one or two, and hide yourself in your room. Sometimes, if the day was less cloudy than usual, you would sit in front of the living room couch and read them there. 

Going through the pages, reading every word, plot twist, and analyzing every character. With your favorites, you would re-imagine the stories with yourself in them. You would begin to think you’re crazy sometimes, thinking like this.

But you didn’t care. You had long learned that no one was in your mind, reading your thoughts. It was just you. Alone. 

Sometimes you would stare outside, through the dirty window, and wonder to yourself what would you do if you got the opportunity to go outside again. You could go downtown, there was that little cafe you and your friends would visit. There was the city park, while dirty, you remember what the grass felt like when you would run around barefoot. Oh, and the movies! Your family liked to watch any latest movie, as it was a fun outing for all of you. 

And then, it would get too overwhelming. Those nights always made you cry. 

Of course, you would never tell him. Or Venom. Besides, even if you did, they were always out. With some exceptions, they would leave around noon and come back at 8 or 9 in the evening. 

This was also the reason why they would be present for the first few hours you would be awake. Everyday with them was almost a routine. They would gently wake you up, let you get dressed, eat your breakfast that they made for you, brush your teeth and hair, and then you would be with them until they left.

Sometimes they would just talk absently to you, like they didn’t expect you to answer. Other times, they would ask you questions about what you wanted, what you liked, and just try to have basic conversations. 

Of course, you never really participated. At least, you tried not to. Your spite and anger were stronger than your fear, and you would glare at them whenever they tried to talk to you. 

They would keep trying, however. Every day was a new topic, or sometimes they would bring up a previous talk to try and engage you. However, nothing was as bad as when they decided to get physical. 

While you were relieved their anger wasn’t as present as yours (if they even had any towards you), they would force you to cuddle with them. Even if you tried to push away, you realized that fighting against a big man with a bigger alien was not a good idea. So, you would just let them sit there and hold you, never letting go. 

Eventually, they would let go, and you would try not to show how eager you were to get out of their hold. 

You remember one time, it was late at night, and they had had a bad day. Something about some weird guy making them mad, if you recalled. They had just grabbed you and hugged you on the couch. 

While you were uncomfortable at first, you started to feel yourself relax for the first time since you were taken. You felt your shoulders drop, your jaw unclenched. It almost felt like going into a warm bath on a chilly night. It was… pleasant. 

You had closed your eyes, ready to fall asleep when you heard their small chuckle. Your eyes never shot open as quickly as then, and yet, you found yourself wanting to go back to sleep. 

Unbelievable! You screamed to yourself, trying to rationalize with yourself: this isn’t right.

But unfortunately, you didn’t win that night. You had told yourself, it’s only one night, it won’t kill me, even as your morality was sitting in the back of your mind, even as it was screaming at you to get up and go, you didn’t listen.

It was too comfortable, it was too cozy, you didn’t want to leave. The thought hit you before you went to sleep. 

You didn’t want to leave.

---

The first slap in the face was the fact that you stopped checking the date every day. It was just something you remembered, before you realized why it was so important. 

How long has it been? 3 months? 4? You tried to remember the date you were taken. It was a Wednesday, right? Or was it a Thursday?

Eddie had started to let you watch the TV with him. Mainly just news channels, as he would give a basic summary of what he would have to do that day. This morning, he had made you eggs and hashbrowns. He had apologized for the little amount of food he had, as he still had to go to the store. You had a little laugh to yourself, “I don’t really care, your food usually tastes good.”

He gave you a small smile, “Well, so long as Venom doesn’t cook anything.”

“I make great food! I don’t even need this food, I can eat both of you!”

You and Eddie laughed with each other, before he gave you his mini summary of what his day was going to be.

“... so apparently, they think her mom is behind all of it, but they aren’t sure.”

“Hasn’t she been found, though?”

“Yes, but apparently the whole time they kept her in a sealed room and when they would enter, they would wear masks over their face.”

“Damn. That doesn’t sound easy to find out.”

Eddie was trying to find his sweater, and you had opted to help him find it. The bedroom, living room, even the bathroom, you couldn’t find it. 

“Well, it might be easier to figure out than finding my damn jacket.” You had given him a small chuckle, before Venom suddenly jumped in. “I can be the sweater!”

Before either of you could respond, he wrapped himself onto Eddie, giving him an almost jet black jacket, the same as his other one. Just, of course, this time it was Venom.

Eddie walked back to the kitchen, before returning, this time with his little bag he carried his stuff in.

“I’m gonna be a little late today, they all live in the upper state. Hopefully, since I’m leaving early, I’ll be earlier than expected, but we still have leftovers from yesterday's dinner, too.”

You picked up your plate, and went to grab his. “Don’t worry, I won’t starve.”

“Good. If you wanted me too, I could grab something from the way home?”

You thought about the idea of your favorite takeout, your mouth watering at the image in your mind. “That would be great, actually. Thank you.”

He unlocked the front door, before he turned to meet your eye. “Remember, late day today. I’ll be back this evening, though.”

And with that he closed the door.

You brought the plates and dishes to the sink, cleaning off any little bits left, and then set them out to dry on the little rack you had on the counter.

When putting down the last plate, you realized that that was probably the most you’ve ever talked with them. You also realized you weren’t angry at all towards him.

---

Every day you were becoming more and more compliant with your situation. You were hiding it, almost as good as your sadness from the nights you would think about the outside. Actually, you hadn’t even wondered about your family for a while. Or your friends, or your favorite places. 

And it was starting to scare you. Really scare you.

You had tried to make yourself wonder about your previous life, but then, all the negatives popped up. The work of school, your own actual work you would attend, your doubts in your friends' trust. 

It was weird for you to think about. Every time you wandered back to those memories, something negative would pop up. Even when you thought of the more positive memories. The cafe you remembered when your friends forgot about the meetup and didn’t even show up. The park has always been dirty, you just didn’t remember it. And the movies were really only for your parents, never to take into consideration on what you wanted.

You tried to go back to when you hated the place, to when you would cry yourself to sleep and wonder if you were ever able to leave.

It was harder and harder to go back to that mindset. 

Today was another day you just decided to go with it. You were too tired to fight against your exhaustion of wondering what you should feel, so you would just act normally in front of them. 

Today was another early-late day for him.

“This time, I don’t think I’ll be able to get anything from a restaurant, sorry.”

“That’s fine with me, I think I can make dinner myself tonight. How about stir fry?”

He walked past you, putting on his shoes at the door. “That sounds great. You can make it early, I can just reheat it.”

You smiled, gathering up the dishes you had left on the table. 

“Oh, hey, by the way.”

You stopped and looked at him. “You haven’t had anyone come to knock on the doors lately, right?”

You shook your head, “No, the last time someone knocked on the door was around 3 weeks ago? Can’t remember.”

He hummed, “Well, if someone does, and you can’t see anyone through the viewport, don’t answer the door.”

Laughing, you put the glasses in the sink. “What, is some serial killer going to knock on the door waiting for me to answer?”

There wasn’t anything from the doorway. You turned around, confused, only to almost jump. His face was worried. Like he had just seen a ghost. 

“Don’t answer the door. In fact, don’t even make a noise if someone does.”

Your heart started to quicken, not only from what he was saying, but also because of the sudden switch in mood. 

“Oh… ok.” You awkwardly shuffled around, trying to get the rest of the plates without meeting his gaze.

“Alright.” he sighed, turning back to the door. “I’ll be back this evening. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” the door closed and you could hear the lock turning, before you heard his footsteps towards the stairs. 

Walking back to the living room, you decided to yourself the dishes could wait. You wanted a nap. You absentmindedly thought of what he said. Why was he so worried about the knocking? Was there a news story that scared him? He had told you sometimes, with stories that were too graphic, he would wonder about if someone like that was going to go after him or you.

Well, he seemed alright when you both said bye-

You said you loved him.

---

That afternoon, instead of doing anything you were planning on doing, you had a mini mental talk with yourself.

You had to decide what you wanted. No, you had to decide if you wanted this or your old life back. This was getting out of hand. 

First, you let yourself relax around them, then you started being friendly with them, and now you're acting just as they want you to: to be a good kid who does what they're told and doesn’t make a fuss. 

You even said you loved him! Like a real family…

Did you want that? No. No, not at all. You wanted your old family, your old friends. But, this was so much more comfortable. I mean, no job, no worries, you used to think about all the worries you would have when you graduated your college, now the most you worry about is what you will have for food that night!

Is it that bad? The thoughts in your head clashed together, and you soon realized that it had been a few hours since they left. 6:04. Had you really been thinking about it this long?

You wanted to tell yourself you’d get over it, that it was going to just pass, but the more thoughts rushed into your head. This is not something that can just pass as easily as a test, this has to be a conscious decision.

But you couldn’t do it. You realized you had far too many indecisive thoughts and feelings at that moment. Everything you had been thinking about was solely based on your situation. You turned on the TV to try and get some static, barely listening to the reporter, who was spouting off some weather reports for the next day.

“-and breaking from Michelle here, we have more info on the Midtown Murders.”

What?

Turning up the volume, you listened. “Well, police haven’t said who their suspect is, but they believe that whoever is responsible is still loose. Reports say that the killer walks around the evenings from 6 in the evening all the way to 5 in the morning. I mean, really, can all we do is wait for them to kill us all?”

“Well, while the city council has asked the city for a curfew time from the evenings to the mornings, they have been very lenient on what they want. However, what we can tell is that-”

Knock knock.

Startling yourself, you jumped for the remote, putting the TV on mute. You listened again, and before you could convince yourself it wasn’t anyone, you heard it again. 

It was almost like a loud boom. But it was just someone at the door. 

Quietly, you sneaked up to the door. It felt so weird. It shouldn’t be this scary. It was just someone at the door! You looked through the peephole, hoping to see someone there.

To your relief, there was someone you recognized. The apartment owner, Roger, if you remember correctly. 

“Eddie? Are you there?”

Straightening up, you said, “No, he’s not here at the moment.”

“Who- oh. Uh, when will he be home?” He said. 

“Around 10 probably.”

“10?! I- Alright, I’ll just come back tomorrow. Would you let him know that?”

“Yeah, I will.” You relaxed your shoulders, and let out a sigh you didn’t even know you were holding. 

“Well thank you anyway.” You heard his footsteps go away from the door, when you suddenly remembered your whole decision talk. 

This could be your chance! You haven’t talked to anyone besides Eddie and Venom since… Well, it felt like forever!

“Wait!” While you instantly regretted it, the rational part of your mind pushed away your embarrassment. 

He seemingly stopped in the middle of the hallway. “What?”

You stood silently for a moment. Should you? You knew he had the keys to the apartment. He could get you out. You could be free. 

“Did you, uh, need something?” You didn’t realize he had walked a little closer back thinking you were going to say something.

“Uh.” Should I? Turning outside the window, you saw the almost beautiful city, glowing and gleaming, even if it was a tinted window. 

“Could you open the door for me?I lost the extra set of keys we had, and he changed the lock so it could only be opened with a key.”

You heard sputtering, before, “He did WHAT? He didn’t even tell me!”

While you thought he would drag into you, you heard the door lock open. “Well, I’ll see if I have a spare, but you have to be more careful with these things, you know. They’re not cheap.”

Getting out of your trance with the lights, you quickly replied, “Thank you, I’m sure I’ll find it before you get a spare, though.”

He grumbled something, “Well, don’t count on me for one if you can’t find it.”

And with that, he walked off. 

---

It was another hour before you finally faced the door again. Originally, your mind didn’t even want to face it, too scared of the planning and thoughts that rushed to your head. But you soon realized that it was too stupid to hide in your room, so you walked back outside. 

You didn’t even sit at the couch, you just plopped yourself in front of the door. You were trying to reason with yourself, with one side telling you to make a run for it, while the other saying to wait, that you needed to think about this.

What is there to think about? You’ve been thinking this whole day! In fact, you haven’t even had anything to eat or drink, you haven’t done any chores, you’ve just been sitting on the damn couch and pondering on what your decision was going to be!

And that got your mind going. What’s gonna happen when Eddie comes back home to you having not done anything all day, you haven’t made any dinner, you haven’t even eaten or taken care of yourself yet, and to top it all off, the door was open. 

You wouldn’t be able to make an excuse. There would be no excuses. He would find out. He would get mad. What would he do? Would he finally let go of all the anger? Every single time you cussed at him, that you yelled at him, hell even when you were in your no talking phase: is he going to remember all of that and actually attack you?

You didn’t even realize you had grabbed some random bag you found and filled it with clothes and snacks. You didn’t have much to bring, really: 

Standing at the door, with the bag in your hand, you were about to start crying. 

Do it! Your mind screamed. Get out of here before he comes back!

But he’ll find you! The other part yelled. He’s gonna be so mad, and everything that you’ve worked for will be gone!

You looked back to the window, the whole thing that you could theoretically say started this whole mess. It didn’t look so pretty now. In fact, it looked ugly. There were no stars, there were no pretty colors in the sky: just black, with the city lights peaking out. 

But you didn’t want it to look pretty: it looked like freedom. It looked like the outside. You could almost feel the ground beneath you, the smell, even if it wasn’t that great. 

You could see your family again. 

Turning back to the door, your mind screamed in all directions. Don’t leave! Why do you want to be in some prison for the rest of your time? You’ll be safe here! You’re only gonna rot in here! Who’s gonna love you outside, anyway?

Do you really want to spend the rest of your life tucked away?

You turned the knob of the door, and quickly rushed outside, thinking someone was going to grab you and drag you back inside. You stayed still for a moment. There was nothing. No one was there. Just you, and your pacing heart. You wanted to cry. 

Looking at the time, it was only 7:30. You had at least 2 hours before he even got home. 

I mean, if you really regret it, you can just return right back on time, right?

You didn’t need any more motivation. You closed the door and ran down the hall.

---

You don’t know how long you’ve been running for. After you got out of the apartment, you ran all the way down the street, ignoring anything and everything in your way. But after what felt like eternity, and after your lungs started to burn until you couldn’t take it, you sat down at some random city bench. 

You were out. You were free. You didn’t know what to do, either. You had just been running for, what, the past 10 minutes?

You sat there for a good while before your mind finally caught up to you.

What could you do? Did you want to go back? You could theoretically ask someone for help, get back to your family…

Right? Because that’s the reason you left. You want to get away from Eddie, from Venom, it doesn't matter how much your heart hurts, or how your feelings hurt, you have to get away. 

Resting your head in your hands, you silently screamed to yourself. You didn’t know whether you should jump for joy or if you should collapse sobbing to yourself. 

God, you thought, everything is against me…

“Are you lost?”

Shooting up, you turned to the owner of the voice, which revealed some middle aged looking guy. He had red hair, and was pretty skinny. 

“Uh, no.” You sat back down, embarrassed you were so startled by a guy you should have already seen. “No, I’m just… resting.”

“Hmm.” he walked closer, and while your instincts told you to walk away, you were too tired. You wanted to cry and scream at the same time, and you really wanted to go to sleep.

“Sorry, you just seemed like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

You would’ve laughed at the irony if you weren’t simultaneously scared and sad. “Yeah, yeah, I’m… just tired.”

He sat down on the bench with you, albeit on the other side. You both sat in a semi comfortable silence, with him just staring off into the distance, like he didn’t even realize you were there, while you were going through the five stages of grief all at once.

“Are you from here?” 

Getting your shit together, you said “Uh, yeah, I am.”

“That’s nice. What’s your name?”

“______.” 

He hummed, and it went back to silence for a minute. Then, he asked, “Do you know someone by the name Eddie Brock?”

You stiffened. What? “Excuse me?”

“Eddie Brock.” He repeated, turning to you. “You know, famed journalist and reporter, was into discovering true crime cases, decided to go behind his wife’s back and look up secret info that spiraled his career downward, but now he just does job to job?”

You quickly sobered yourself, and while thinking of what to say, he stood up abruptly. 

“I know you do, don’t worry. I was just wondering how you knew him.”

You quickly realized how fucked you actually were. This guy was skinny, which probably meant he could run faster than you. There wasn’t anyone around, which was great for your whole mental breakdown, it wasn’t good for being alone with some random guy.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Before you could even think, his face almost morphed into one similar to Venom. But this time, it was blood red, and he wore a smile on his face that stretched ear to ear. 

“Oh, but I know you do!”

You didn’t even need to think about the different options you had then, you just ran. 

Of course, it didn’t do you much good, as you were picked up within a matter of seconds, and tossed into the air like some toy.

“I know you know what I know!” He sang in a sing-song voice, grabbing you by the waist. You realized he was perched on top of a street light. You realized he had doubled in size and went from some skinny man to a huge symbiote, almost bigger than Venom.

“I can smell him all over you, y’know! There’s no need to lie!” 

Looking down, you couldn’t even say anything as it felt like you were going to be dropped at any second, only focusing on your balance in his hand. Trying to pry his hand open wasn’t working at all as he laughed.

“Well, unfortunately for you, you’re gonna have to deal with me now!”

You felt yourself getting thrown over his shoulder and your head beginning to get a headache. Your whole body lurched from one side to the other, and you realized you were in the air. 

“We’re gonna love you!”

As you felt the wind rushing in your face, the smells of the city around you, and your heartbeat pounding in your ears, you comically thought that all of this could have been avoided if you just listened to your feelings.

~~~~

#yandere eddie brock #yandere eddie brock x reader #yandere eddie brock imagine #yandere venom #yandere venom x reader #yandere venom imagine #yandere marvel #yandere marvel x reader #yandere marvel imagine #yandere cletus kasady x reader #yandere cletus kasady #yandere cletus casady imagine #yandere platonic

[13eyond13]

Hello, new Death Note fan here. First, thanks so much for this blog of yours. Because it came out 10+ years ago, I'm afraid will hard to find any active DN acc until I came to your blog. I understand more about Death Note's characters and story thanks to you...💐

I just start DN anime and manga last year (I know it's so late), because many people said in reviews that DN is not that good and mostly overrated. After finishing it, I think, how wrong that opinion was....

Do you mind if I ask some questions :

- Is Beyond Birthday became like that because of A's suicide?

- I read somewhere that Death Note (especially L and Light's relationship) is subtext mlm like Hannibal NBC & Merlin BBC, do you agree?

- One of my friend is DN fan since 2008, and every time she watched (more than 100x) L's death, she still cried. And coping it with read L/Light fics, are you like that too?

- "L and Light are both ace and aromantic", do you agree?

- Until the end, does L figure out it was Light = Kira the whole time?

- If Mello and Near work together from the start, can Light got captured more early?

- If Light were female, do you think L/Light ship will be more common?

- Until now, have you found any couple (canon or non canon) from any media (books, tv series, movies, anime/manga, etc) that the dynamics remind you of L/Light?

- "If Ryuk were an ikemen, than Light/Ryuk ship will be more popular than Light/L", do you agree?

- Do you prefer L as top or bottom or switch with Light? Why?

- In what moments that you start ship Light with L?

Sorry for my long ask (got too excited) feel free to answer whichever you want to. Thanks @13eyond13 ....

Hi! Aw, thanks for the kind words, and I'm so glad my blog is still helping new fans out that way somehow! 😊

Let me try to quickly answer your questions here (sorry if the answers aren't very in-depth, I don't have a computer with me currently and I'm just replying to you with my phone)

- Did Beyond Birthday become like that because of A's suicide?

This is not something that is commented on directly in the novel, so it's up to fan interpretation and headcanons for that! There is only one sentence about A, and we actually don't even know if A and B knew each other or interacted with each other in any way:

Personally I DO think it's fun to imagine it's part of B's past that he and A did know each other and that it did affect him somehow, but I'm not sure if his character was actually written with that notion in mind.

- I read somewhere that Death Note (especially L and Light's relationship) is subtext mlm like Hannibal NBC & Merlin BBC, do you agree?

I think you can definitely easily read homoerotic subtext into their relationship, but I also believe most of it was not really intentionally put there by the manga creators Ohba and Obata. I think SOMETIMES there were deliberate suggestive jokes and whatnot in the manga that indicated there was some level of awareness that things between them could be seen as suggestive – like when Matsuda is questioning them only sharing their cell phone numbers with each other, and when Misa questions L's orientation whenever he handcuffs himself to Light. That doesn't mean that reading them or their relationship in a shippy way isn't valid or legitimate or interesting to do! Just that I dont think it was written with the writer knowingly going into things like "ohoho time to slyly queerbait the audience!" or something. I think Hannibal's creators were extremely deliberate with everything homoerotic that goes on between Will and Hannibal for example, but I think it happened a bit more unintentionally in Death Note originally.

- One of my friend is DN fan since 2008, and every time she watched (more than 100x)  L's death, she still cried. And coping it with read L/Light fics, are you like that too?

Haha oh wow 100x! I'm not like that personally because I had L's death spoiled for me by a comment I saw on the very first episode of the anime, so I knew it was coming! I was still really upset about it of course, he IS my fave. But actually Light's death in the anime gets a stronger emotional reaction from me than L's. I think I only ever cried during Death Note at that part where Light is thinking about his younger innocent self while he's wounded and running away, something about it gets me every time... And yes, I definitely wanted to read a lot of fics to resolve all my messy feelings about the two of them afterwards!

- "L and Light are both ace and aromantic", do you agree?

I can see why people might see them that way, though it's not my personal headcanon for them! It's one of those things people can decide for themselves rather than something I think there is an objectively "correct" answer about, really.

- Until the end, does L figure out it was Light  = Kira the whole time?

I'm not 100% sure if I'm understanding your question correctly. But I think L is always something like "PRETTY DARN SURE" Light is Kira, though he also knows he needs to have the concrete proof to back that certainty of his up. He DOES know it without a doubt once he actually has his heart attack and sees the look on Light's face in the manga, though! He thinks something like "I knew it! I wasn't wrong..." before his eyes close. Which in some way is maybe a small comfort, to know that he was able to solve this ultimate mystery for himself and know he was definitely correct about it before he died.

- If Mello and Near had worked together from the start, could Light have been captured more early?

A very good question! I unfortunately feel a bit too rusty on my successor arc plot stuff to know how to answer this one well, but I do think that Near and Mello made a very effective team whenever they collaborated, for sure.

- If Light were female, do you think L/Light ship will be more common?

I don't know if it would be more COMMON necessarily, but perhaps it would just have a slightly different sort of fanbase and legacy as a ship? I think a lot of people kinda like, and have always liked, how gay it is though? and I don't know if that really hurt the ship's popularity so much as maybe increased it even. But I'm definitely not an expert on this stuff or anything, hahaha

- Until now, have you found any couple (canon or non canon) from any media (books, tv series, movies, anime/manga, etc) that the dynamics remind you of L/Light?

Not exactly like it, no! It's quite unique to me in many ways. MAYBE the closest thing I can think of right now is NBC Hannibal, simply because of the unresolved tension and morbid dark humour and constant innuendo and cop/criminal investigative sort of stuff going on between them? But I think canon Hannigram was darker in some ways than I find canon Lawlight to be, and the parallels aren't exact by any means...

- "If Ryuk were an ikemen, than Light/Ryuk ship will be more popular than Light/L", do you agree?

Hahaha, I feel like it would be more popular as a ship than it currently is, but I'm not sure it would eclipse Lawlight! I feel it's hard to beat the antagonistic chemistry L and Light have simply due to how their roles are set up in the story as the detective and the criminal and whatnot.

- Do you prefer L as top or bottom or switch with Light? Why?

I prefer it when they take turns in fics and don't stick rigidly to one thing or the other! I think maybe because it seems realistic to me that they'd want to experiment that way with each other, and also because I just find it more interesting to read smut if they're doing stuff in a variety of ways.

- In what moments that you start ship Light with L?

I think I basically immediately felt a strong tension and chemistry between them. But I was introduced to things via the anime, and the rain scene definitely seemed extremely shippy to me and like "there's no way they weren't into each other" hahah. I think the rain scene was the main reason I went looking for shippy content about them afterwards. But I find that the manga is actually shippier to me than the anime sometimes, even though that rain scene isn't in it. Maybe because to me it feels a bit more like they're mentally and emotionally on the same page about things more often in the manga, and both seem pretty aware of the sly mind games they're playing with each other the whole time. And Light stays very fixated on and oddly reverent towards L after his death in the manga as well, which ultimately remains probably the shippiest thing about them in canon to me...

#ask #anon #p

[cherienymphe]

If you were ever to get in a relationship do you think you’d still write smut? and would you tell your s/o? I see quite a few fanfic writers on here that still write even when they’re married/ in a relationship and I personally don’t think there is anything wrong with it but if I were a smut writer in a relationship I don’t think I would write anymore, but that’s only bc when I’m in a relationship and in love I genuinely have no celeb crushes. when I was with my ex I hadn’t even cared to read fanfics while with him but as soon as we broke up I started up again and it had nothing to do with me thinking it’s wrong to read smut while in a relationship (bc I don’t think it is), I just had no interest in doing so

I can respect that but personally I don't see why not. Celeb crushes and fictional crushes kind of aren't the same. Even still, do you really think if you got another boyfriend he wouldn't still go crazy for Angelina Jolie in Mr and Mrs Smith? Or Black Widow if y'all put on some Marvel movie?

With that being said, I'm ngl I have a hard time fully understanding what writing and reading has to do with a relationship. I'm not going to stop reading romance novels just because I have a partner. It's a book and there are lots of fics that are just as long (if not longer) and as well written (sometimes better) than some books. My fictional crushes aren't really meant to be the equivalent of a replacement. Not saying that they are for you but a partner is real and Rafe Cameron or Satoru Gojo is not. I don't think my irl relationships would have any effect on how I view a character and vice versa

Also my writing also serves a purpose as an outlet for my fantasies or traumas I want to work through. I can't imagine going up to my boyfriend and showing him smells like teen spirit and trying my best to convince him to act that out with me just to make me feel better. I'd rather write it or read it

#asks

[winterwhisperz-blog]

Okay okay okay okay so so so so

I’ve never rlly does these before but I am in dire need of more Kuras content so 😇

I apologize if these are dumb, or have been done before- I consume a lot of media and also can’t remember what I have had for breakfast so I might accidentally repeat stuff I’ve seen.

ALR

HERE WE GO

Are u ready…

please sound more enthusiastic, I need you to go: YEAHHHH LES GOOO

Ahem ahem

We’ll work on it.

Kuras x Mc headcanons

Warnings: None? Unless you’re like me and swoon so easily you accidentally hit ur head on your writer’s desk. There’s a price to pay by being too dramatic you know.

KURAS WEARING HIS GLASSES WHILE READING A BOOK TO YOU.

Imagine, you’ve had a really rough day, you’re overwhelmed, exhausted, your head is pulsing with an incoming headache—

—and you walk through the door and Kuras turns to you with a small smile, opening his mouth to greet u before he takes in your condition. INSTANTLY, he gets some tea going, a hot bath, some comfy pajamas, and after all that, he sits down, golden glasses resting atop his nose, book in hand. He pats his lap and while you rest your head down while he reads to u iN THE MOST CALMING LOW VOICE. Mwah mwah, perfection. Thank you Angel husbando.

And before you completely drift off into dream land, you feel the soft, plushy feel of his lips on your forehead that shoos the headache away.

AHHHHHHHH

ALRIGHT MOVING ON

You know that lore that’s like…’if ur left(or right?) ear rings, an Angel is trying to talk to you?

That happens to u every time Kuras is desperately wanting to speak with you but he’s either too busy, or you’re too busy to chat at the moment.

And when he falls for u, it starts happening way more frequently. Like, you’re taking a sip of your coffee or tea or whatever, and suddenly your ear goes EEEEEEEEEEEEE

Dang that was funky

But then it happens again when you’re at work, when you’re talking with one of the other LI or friends, when you’re picking up dinner, WHEN YOU’RE TRYING TO FRICKIN SLEEP >:0

It gets to be such a bother that you HAHAH, actually go see Kuras about it. You walk in like, ‘Kuras, my man, can u please check up on my ear, it’s been buzzing nonstop.’

And after some questions, he starts to realize…oh dang, has he really been thinking about you that much? Dang, what a simp he has become. That’s his true monster form all along. A massive, mullet haired simp.

He does find a way to help you. Though he still thinks about u just as much.

OKAY OKAY NEXT ONE

Is it just me or does Kuras seem like a guy that constantly radiates warmth. Like his hands? Always warm like he’s been holding a hot cup of tea. His hugs??? Just like being wrapped up in a blanket right outta the dryer(drier?).

I feel like if you easily get cold, he does the thing cold handed people do and sometimes just surprises u by putting his warm palm on the back of your neck.

ALSO ALSO ALSO- if you’re strolling with him during either a cold rainstorm, or when it’s winter and snowing—you say something like- “My nose feels like it’s going to freeze and fall off ):” and you’re right, it’s gotten so cold you’ve now become Rudolph. Your cheeks are pretty red too.

NOT TO FEAR

Kuras will then gently brush your hair out of your face before planting a warm little smooch on the tip of your nose and then a BUNCH of kisses across your cheeks. Warmth blooms across your entire body and BOOM. Problem solved.

Because you’re probably also blushing now too.

He also rushes you home faster too- YOU ARENT GETTING A COLD ON HIS WATCH ):<

FOR THE LAST HEADCANON—or rather, this is just an artistic vision…

Kuras with Miku style pigtails.

OKAY WE’RE DONE

I hope you enjoyed those, and that they’ve haven’t been done already. I just love my tall Angel husband and hope he gets more content.

Anyway, I hope you have a rlly good day and drink perfectly cold water and find something that makes you happy. 😙

#touchstarved game #touchstarved x reader #touchstarved kuras #virtual novel #im a simp #anduaretoo