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aconflagrationofmyown · 1 year

Text

but then… Gigi

Chapter 2 - An Elvis Presley fanfiction

Thanks: to the little rascals who schemed and kept me pumped the entire time I was whacking my way to fruition on this project: Bri and Elise. And to Birdy and Ally and Christi and all the rest of you darlings who are so dear to me and whose shared love for this man has brought such joy to my life. I hope you enjoy, your feedback means the world to me and there’s nothing I enjoy more than getting to incorporate some of y’all’s schemings and theories into the story itself. So don’t hold back! Xoxo

Caveats are the sign of a insecure author yet here I go…: in this chapter there are highly unflattering references and portrayals of Pricilla Presley and Ginger Alden respectively -they are not necessarily my opinions of them, they are my dramatization of Elvis’ headspace during the summer of ‘77 when many report he was breaking up with his “fiancée” and there was already a substitute picked out to come with him on the impending tour. Y’all can debate those rumors all ya want and I honestly don’t know what to think of them myself, what I do know is that man told his father he was terribly lonely days before he died. And I want to remedy that, so the narrative is unreliable here and it’s in his head. Love at first sight, love that obsesses, love that has a childlike quality to it as presented in this fic is often selfish and even cruel towards the feelings of others. If you’re not fond of Elvis as a flawed, moody bastard of a man on occasion, this fic may not be for you. Cheers.

Warnings: 18+ no actual sex happens but my goodness -it’s sure wanted and thought on so much that sometimes it felt like a fifteen year old boy was hijacking my keyboard -Big daddy was that you?! Apologies for the, uh, crass body descriptions?! Salami will never be the same again…also, use of the word “fat” in the narrative as being thought of oneself, good ole fashioned chauvinism and mild infidelity on Elvis’ part

Chapter 2

“Do ya think it’s too, I dunno, too, too on the nose?”

“E.P., ya have people over here all the time, man.” Charlie murmurs gently from where he sits on the floor, not bothering to look up from the spread out sheet music he’s rustling through. “Why would it be on the nose to do it now, all the sudden?”

“Well I-I-I was thinkin’ maybe havin’ a pool day, maybe that was too forward.” Elvis has been rethinking this since he told George Klein to wrassle up that young bunch again, and specified the pretty young Artemis whose freckles had been covered last he saw her.

“How’s that forward?” Charlie seems genuinely confused and Elvis figures this has got to be one of those times he’s so far in his own head and foggy from pacin’ the pills that he’s not thinkin’ like regular folks.

It’s just that he couldn't take this eager young one turning him down, or shying away from him. It makes him timid in a way he hasn’t been in decades.

“I thought maybe, maybe invitin’ ‘em durin’ the bright light of day would be less, less, ya know, less susp–would raise less eyebrows.” Elvis tries to explain and Charlie really gives it the old college try to understand why his usually very entitled friend is suddenly reverting to teenage levels of strategizing to hang out with some chicks. “But now it seems like it could, could be t-taken wrong.” He’s thinking of Gigi in a swimsuit, he’s thinking of her bouncing through his trophy room headed to the pool like she bounced on the sidewalk, he’s thinking of how knowing Tammy had looked when he’d badgered her for information on her folks. Tammy has him spooked, he supposes, has him second guessing his own motives a little.

“Which nose are we worried about bein’ too ‘on’?” Charlie asks gently, and Elvis hates him for it.

“Ginger’s! And fuck you Charlie you know already, it’s Ginger’s.”

“If it’s Ginger who you’re concerned about being put out by your guests,” Charlie doesn’t bat an eye, “then I suggest you worry about her chin, not her nose. The thing’s huge, bound to be too ‘on’ it no matter what ya do.”

Elvis chuckles weakly out of sheer appreciation for Charlie’s loyalty, “Is that where I been goin’ wrong with that broad all this time? Lordy, I ain’t even tried to sit on that face, what’s she so put out for? Just anticipatin’ me bein’ too on the nose? Didn’t seem to think all that fuckin’ jewelry was too on the nose, coulda bought her one a’those Indian nose ring thingys and I reckon she’d have snatched it oughta my palm fast as anythin’.”

“Some folks are born put out.” Charlie philosophizes and continues rummaging some more in the guitar case, pulling out picks and wadded sheet music.

“I invited them today, they turned me down; they’re busy with somethin’.” Elvis admits softly, because he had tried to put this off for about five hours without her knowledge, then the Bible verse this mornin’ happened to be a little too ‘ the nose’ regarding deceitful intentions and he’d rung her up, been straight up about wantin’ her over.

Ginger said no. Declined. That’s how she put it. She was always havin’ to decline him. Except for his money and his trips. That she had an open sieve of a purse for.

The fact Charlie is as unsurprised by her avoidance as he is, suggests Elvis really is a sucker. He gnaws his cuticles bloody. “I should call it off.” He realizes.

“Yeah, what’s holdin’ ya back?” Charlie doesn’t even sound remotely sympathetic and Elvis thinks maybe he hasn’t been sly about lining up a replacement if even his friends know not to pretend to be sad.

“Her family spooks me.” He admits softly, “I got’a feelin’ about them, like they’re gonna raise a ruckus if I don’t go through with it.”

Charlie looks uncomfortable for the first time in this little gossip session. “Sounds familiar,” he ventures so carefully Elvis immediately knows he’s referring to Cilla and her folks. Referencing the day that won’t be mentioned and the threatened law suits and the getting wrung dry and the whole fuckin’ mess he’d made of what ought’ve been a blessed endeavor. Instead, he married a woman outta compulsion and reaped the seeds of it six years later.

“Reckon you’ve tried this before–pacifyin’ folks.” Charlie sounds scared but whether it’s of his decision or for offering an unasked opinion, Elvis doesn't know. “Reckon you should think about what you want, E. What you want for your life. Hell man, you may be halfway done already, you really doin’ what ya want? Maybe ya are, I'm just sayin’–you’re Elvis Presley! Ain’t anything worse they gonna say about ya than they already have, and nothin’ more tragic than havin’ all you’ve got and not doing what’s good for ya.”

Elvis thinks about the deluge of infamy that’s coming his way in a few months, not a single publisher bending to his coaxing or demands for a retraction of Red and Sonny’s little tattle-tale novella. Bastards. Those disloyal bastards.

Gently ditching a frigid woman back outta his home into her daddy’s paid for and well-furnished house is hardly gonna be the most breaking news. And by that time, ain’t no one gonna wanna come over here for pool parties or game nights or stop him on the street for an autograph. No one’s gonna want him by then, might as well enjoy the company while he can.

“Looks like it’s gonna rain today anyway,” he adds in glum summary.

“So?” Charlie tries to cheer him, “I’m sure the gals have noticed the weather and they’ll bring stuff for it, change of clothes and all that. EP, we’ve never run outta stuff to do here, have we? It’s your home, you don’t gotta perform. Can always make it a movie night or somethin’.”

Watching a movie sat next to Gigi in a skimpy bathing suit cover might be worse than watching her frolic in his pool. Elvis gnaws on his thumbnail and smashes the piano keys. Charlie doesn't even jump from the sudden noise. “What time is it?” he asks Charlie even though he has a wrist watch.

“It’s still before noon,” Charlie looks up at him from his place on the floor pointedly, “they won’t be here for another three hours. George’ll be here maybe a half hour before, since ya asked him.”

Elvis's stomach will be in complete knots by then, he knows it, and his mood will be foul for the pinching pain of it and then sitting out in the baking, humid summer heat under a gray sky that won’t rain will sound like shit. He growls and starts playing that classical piece he was trying to learn last tour.

_____________________________

Gigi’s head already aches from the plastered-high ponytail Tammy hair-sprayed her wavy locks into and she knows her face is coated in far too many layers of makeup for a pool party. It’s not what she would have chosen but she considers it a win to be walking out the door of their apartment in something more decent than the nylon scraps suggested to her as a swimsuit by her friends. It’s one thing to be aided in a little primping by one’s gals who seem hell bent on depositing a buddy into Elvis’s bed, it’s quite another to feel more than a little pimped out.

Gigi has a feeling that half of this hilarity may be selfless giggles over one of their own catching his eye, but the other half is definitely some old style sorority cunning. Whoever the mythic, absent and supposedly current girlfriend of the King is, she’s been earning Tammy’s hatred since grade school. And Gigi has a feeling that she herself is but a gilded instrument of destruction for said girlfriend. It gives her pause. About five seconds worth before she’s clambering into the back of the ride sent for them, trying to keep her swim skirt down so she doesn’t flash Lamar.

Gigi may be a bit jaded from personal loneliness, but she figures it’s free-game to pick up something someone left on the sidewalk. Things that are precious to somebody are tucked in pockets or kept in safes or worn around the neck like a talisman. They never get a chance to end up on the sidewalk.

Precious things aren’t sent off to college with no roadmap and only the weekly phone call or left to rot away in their own sprawling houses utterly bereft of company.

She pulls at her ponytail and determines to have fun. And be a little bold. It’s why she wore a skirt and razor back swim top that is more sporty than seductive–she figures that if she can keep his attention by her behavior, that’ll be the only way she can manage to tolerate it. Too much male assessment turns her into an idiot, the other night proved that, and she’d like to feel free to act in a way that might make him laugh like he had at other folks' charades.

She wants to laugh at these flimsy precautions against Elvis’ legendary hypnotizing capabilities. She just tugs at her skirt bottom and admires the way Tammy’s red swim top has her spilling out like a Bond Girl. She kicks at the duffel bag holding their change of clothes hoping it rains, she loves swimming in the rain. Bike riding in it, too, anything but these ironclad skies that trap the thick air down here but don’t send a refreshing shower. She’s got her face pressed to the Cadillac’s window when the wall whizzes by her view and then the car is turning and there’s Graceland, up on its hill, looking a little somber in the pale afternoon light.

They aren’t dropped off at the front this time, “That’s for guests and the boss himself.” Lamar explains as he pulls around to the side and slots into the humongous garage.

“What’s that make us?” Dinah asks, unabashedly enjoying the way she makes the amiable fella wait for her to adjust her bikini bottoms before stepping out the door he opens for them.

“Friends, silly.” Lamar has seen a thing or two and while coral neon high risers on gleaming chocolate skin might be pretty eye-catching, Dinah’s got more work cut out for than that, if she wants to fluster him.

Which Gigi isn’t sure why anyone would, he’s nice and keeps to himself and is good humored. She gives some frantic thought as to whether she can recall meeting a wife of his or not before she’s being herded with the rest through the sea of vehicles parked in Elvis Presley’s garage and in through the back door.

They’re immediately in the cozy dark upon stepping inside. The cool, crisp air-conditioned breeze cuts through the thick of outside and Gigi feels like she’s finally able to breathe. Next comes the unmistakable smell of burgers and through low lighting and dark painted paneling she realizes they’ve stepped into the kitchen.

There’s an immaculately polished black woman at the sink and leaning next to her, beside a row of sweating sweet teas, is Elvis, making conversation and caught by his guests mid-snicker.

There’s something so strangely mundane about the scene to Gigi that her heart lurches. The domesticity of fresh-cut onions and the comfy slouch of yet another tracksuit–it has a powerful effect on her and she finds herself beaming in gratitude at being invited back. The fact the kitchen is carpeted registers about a minute later as she scuffs her sandaled foot nervously across it, her toes dragging against the plush as she waits for the crowd in front of her, one-by-one hugging their host hello, to thin out enough for her to get at him.

She’s gonna hug him this time, she’s sworn to herself she will.

“What? No Keds? Where’d the Keds go, darlin’?” is what happens instead, Elvis frozen with his arms wide open to hug her and his eyes pinned to her french-tip pedicure like she’s Liberace and done forgot her piano.

“I thought this was a pool day.” She scrambles, and that’s enough for him to drag his eyes up the leggy length of her to meet her own blue ones, still looking like he’s in great consternation over her omission. “Is your pool bottom really that rough?” She teases and is pleased when that wipes the silly pantomime of alarm off his handsome face.

His thick sideburns draw up with his smile, pulling towards his ears like the creases around his eyes and he grins, “No doll, neither my pool or its bottom’s rough. You c’mon through right here, make yourself comfortable. You like burgers, honey?”

“I do!” she replies and obeys the outspread arm that sabotages her intended hug, directing her to the barstools at the counter instead.

“Sit yourself down and I’ll get’chu one.” He assures her earnestly before leaving her side and shuffling around the industrious lady he’d been caught gossiping with.

“I’m Gigi,” she offers to the lady from across the counter, watching as she slides the plates around and sets out the usual condiments in a tidy row.

“Mary darlin’, this is Gigi,” Elvis spins halfway through his trek to the fridge , the quick movement belying his bulk and he throws an arm around Mary’s shoulders while making the introduction as if Gigi hadn’t begun it.

“Lovely to meet you, Mary.” Gigi carries on normally as does Mary herself, warmly shaking her hand over the bun basket.

“Miss Cherry Coke?” Mary’s eyes glimmer mischievously up at her boss who tucks his head shyly in response, “Miss, we’ve got the whole top fridge stocked with the stuff, you give the word and I’ll have a case poolside for ya.”

“Oh, that’s awfully kind,” Gigi splutters, “and not at all necessary I-I can make my own burger too, let me help–”

“Sit down, you’re in my house, I’m makin’ your burger.” Elvis commands and Gigi’s bottom has barely left the barstool before she flops back down with a plop that makes the deflated cushion wheeze. “What’cha like on it, baby?” He asks then, suddenly soft as butter.

Between the pet names and the unlikeliness of Elvis Presley actually making her a burger while wearing an unzipped track suit and a king's ransom worth of rings in his own kitchen, Gigi is liable to forget whether she likes ketchup or frog legs on a burger.

“How do you like it?” She counters as if they’re in some argument and he looks surprised by that before leaning towards her, belly pressed into the counter, explaining in loving detail his preference for the onion/pickle ratio and the importance of cooked meats. The sheer amount of thought and stubborn preference for his food prep that comes out in this explanation takes her by complete surprise, not expecting him to care so much about something so trivial. His music or his career or films maybe, she might not have been so surprised, but he seems very much in love with cheeseburgers and helplessly she murmurs, “I'll have it however you like yours done.”

The moment is interrupted by the loud slurp of Tammy’s straw running out of carbonated beverage at the bottom of her bottle. Gigi had quite forgotten there was anyone else here for a minute. She spends the rest of the wait trying not to be obvious about the way she drools at his elegant hands as they meticulously pile on diced onion and bacon bits, sparkling ruby rings and glinting emeralds the only reds or greens let near the food.

He slides the plate her way, determined not to be shy but hopes she doesn't notice the way he watches her from beneath his lashes as she bites into his creation. Her cheeks bulge from the size of her bite and her puffy lips strain to keep her manners and after a few workings of her jaw he sees her eyes light up with childlike enjoyment, then roll back in her head with an appreciative moan. He chuckles and pushes his glasses back up his sweaty nose.

Damn affection, he’s in love. Oh merciful Jesus, not again.

Out by the pool, a few folks sit beside it with their toes dipping in, sloshing at the crystal clear water while a few brave and stupid souls take to the loungers as if the sky overhead wasn’t implacably slate colored. Tammy had told Gigi not to dunk her head in, to keep her shoulders at least above water or else the makeup would run. Gigi thought maybe the makeup should have been left off altogether but it’s too late now and it looks like no one’s going in all the way anyway, her little perch on the diving board isn’t conspicuous with everyone else staying out. A pool is a pool in Gigi’s mind, sunny weather or not, but she feels like it would be childish to jump in and no one else follow. She feels young enough here, so, demurely, she hangs her legs off the diving board and makes conversation with Mr. Hodge about Elvis’ army days.

Elvis himself is still in the house, something about cigars and Sam coming over. When he comes out the pool house door he has his tracksuit undone and an added navy t-shirt beneath it, swim shorts replacing the tracksuit bottoms and Gigi’s mouth starts to water from…nostalgia…she thinks. Beside him is a terribly tall young guy with a mustache and two kids trailing after them. And then there’s two young women, followed by a mature couple; their parents it would seem by the familial resemblance in the jaw.

“Y’all, this is my friend Sam, and his lil critters.” Elvis announces for the girl’s benefit, “He’s a cop, so don’t y’all go tellin’ him nothin’ ‘bout the charades the other night.” He taps his nose as if they’d gotten up to obscene rituals and Sam just rolls his eyes before shaking hands. “And these here are the Aldens, Mister, Missus, Ginger and Rosemary; this is Tammy and Dinah and Marie and Gigi–” he points out one bathing-suited beauty after another with studied nonchalance.

“Nice to meet y’all.” Gigi gives a wave, wondering if she should get up off the diving board to greet them or take a cue from Elvis's casualness and stay put.

Judging by the Superman-level beams of hatred forming between Tammy and Ginger, she figures it’s best to hunker down next to Charlie Hodge and keep her head down.

It makes her jump when Charlie outs their little haven by piping up with a, “I thought E said y’all were gonna be busy in Nashville today, Ginger.”

It makes Ginger look over at them and while Gigi has done nothing but have her head patted and swallowed down every greasy pound of the burger made for her, she feels like a skank under Ginger’s burning assessment.

“We didn’t wanna miss it.” She replies off-handedly after her inspection and turns back to Elvis who is shuffling her along the patio towards a lounger like she’s some decrepit grandma.

“Here, Ginger dear,” he’s got the same voice on that he uses with interviewers and it makes Ginger scowl and Tammy smirk, “how bout we set ya all up nice and comfy here, there we go. We’ll getcha all set up and you can watch from here, know ya can’t go in, it bein’ your time of the month and all.”

It’s funny how his tone is discreet while his volume is anything but, reaching even Gigi and Hodge at the far end, making the slight man snicker at some inside joke Gigi resigns herself to not get. He sees her confusion.

“Ginger here happens to have her period about ten times a month.” He whispers conspiratorially and Gigi gasps.

“Poor woman!” She winces at the mere concept, “Has nobody found a remedy?”

“Not yet.” Hodge shrugs, “Elvis has paid for her to be seen but no luck yet. Still, doesn’t seem to slow her down much, a hearty sorta girl. Except for pool days and sleep overs.” He adds before sipping his Coke noisily.

Gigi turns crimson at this backstage confession from so polite and circumspect a man as Charlie Hodge. She feels like Tammy may not be the only one trying to maneuver her into his friend’s arms. She sighs; she’d like to end up there, she’d also just like to swim in Graceland’s pool without a load of drama surrounding it.

“Why are we all out here anyway?” Ginger asks loud enough for it to carry to Gigi and Hodge on the diving board, “It’s been cloudy all day and the forecast is rain, if you wanted a pageant I coulda taken you to New York, baby.”

She pats Elvis' shoulder in that curious way that Gigi has noticed non-tactile oriented folks use to try to make connection with touchy folks.

Pat pat pat.

Body entirely angled away, no lingering weight after the pressure, no squeeze at the end, no dip down that broad back–it’s the sorta touch that’s worse, grating even, than nothing at all, in Gigi’s experience. Isolating, lonesome, a mockery of what it ought to be. Her heart slams in her throat like she’s watching some old trauma, and maybe she is, but she feels a compulsion to put the pressure back on, laying hands on the wound, steady and firm and untiring.

It’s stupid. But so is the silence that follows Ginger’s criticism of the weather.

“Don’t have to have the sun out to swim.” Gigi observes cheerily, looking around hopefully for someone to agree, Tammy won’t stop smirking and glancing back and forth like watching a ping pong tournament.

“No, but nobody likes to without it.” Ginger frowns at her in confusion.

“I don’t get why?” Gigi presses, genuinely confused herself. “It’s not like we can tan when we’re up to our necks in water. I’d know, I had a blistered face and pasty legs in June, last year, from a monkey in the middle game that lasted too long." She laughs and Hodge and Elvis glance down at her mentioned legs before they laugh too, maybe just to break the tension that seems to be forming in the humid air.

“You’re just sayin’ that to humor this guy.” Ginger cracks a joke of her own, thumbing at Elvis who sits at the foot of Rosemary’s lounge, looking as absolutely glum as the rest of them feel.

“No, no, I’m not actually.” Gigi’s soft voice insists and in a frustrated little huff over the way everyone’s behaving like kids but not in a fun way, decides to stand up on the diving board, her posture purposeful.

“Whoa, whoa oh, ok wait, Gigi no!” Hodge takes in her determination a touch too late as those track hardened legs start a bounce on the board that threatens to send him flying like a kid letting go of a see-saw.

The last bounce sends them both, Gigi in a gorgeous tan legged arch into the water with her swim skirt fanning like one of Renoir’s tutus, and Charlie Hodge splatting beside her a split second later, polo shirt soaked and flat on his back.

The spray of their splash dilutes Ginger’s martini and through the haze of her bitchin’ Elvis licks the chlorine drops off his upper lip and lumbers himself up and over to the pool side in time to see her surface.

She’s laughing. Sopping wet and mascara running, entirely in her element now, Gigi’s laughing.

“How’s the bottom baby?” he asks her with a grin, crouching down to her level and desperate for this to be more somehow, for her to be humoring him like Ginger said. He thinks he’ll be done if that’s all, though. He hopes that Gigi just so happens to enjoy burgers the way he makes them and swimming beneath clouds. Like he does.

“Smooth.” she grins back after dragging her eyes away from the spread width of his crotch, something calculated in her eyes soothing the tiny part of him quibbling over her youth. She ain’t a baby, she’s a big tittied young woman. “S’real smooth Mr. Presley.” She's treading water and it makes her voice breathy.

“Well, go touch it f’me baby.” He tells her.

“Why?” she perks up.

“Why?” He repeats, rhetorically, standing up from his crouch and throwing off his tracksuit jacket with all the show he puts into fanning out his capes on stage. It’s too late the little kohl-eyed bambi begins to backpedal in the water, “Cause–CANNONBALL.”

More chlorinated water splashes up Gigi’s nose and into her eyes, making her gasp and wheeze, blinking through a burning film of melting mascara as Elvis Presley surfaces like a leviathan of the deep not even a full two feet away from her. He shakes his hair out of his face and grins at her like a little boy immensely pleased with himself. Jet black hair pushed back and glasses lost in the dive, he looks unbearably soft. Gigi thinks she may have cooed as she tried to clap when he made his appearance.

“C’mere lil one, your eyes’r smartin’, ain’t they?” He swirls his arm out in the water and effortlessly, like scooping up a partner in a tango, hooks his arm around her and draws her closer. Electrified by the beefiness of his arm around her waist, she almost misses when he raises his thumb to his mouth and sucks on it before bringing the spit-slicked digit to her face. Swiping at her under eyes, gently following along the water line, returning the black finger tip back to his pink tongue, then back again to her eyelashes. Again and again until he’s satisfied with the tidying and enough of the goopy cosmetic has been removed for her to make out each individual pore on his godlike face. “There, thas’ more like it,” he examines his work and she sways towards him in the water like she’s been hypnotized, her face still buzzing from the electricity of his touch, “more like a pretty Southern peach, ‘stead of a raccoon.”

“I told Tammy it was silly.” Gigi whispers, the bulk of him so near her blocks out the rest of the world and her voice dips accordingly, feeling intimate.

“Tammy, doll,” he spins round and the motion releases Gigi, she floats beside him bereft and suddenly cold in the pool without his nearness, “sugar, don’t go makin’ this pretty gal look like a rodent when God’s given her plenty on her own.”

“I do not look like a rodent.” Gigi protests through giggles as Tammy slithers into the pool with a shrug, careful to keep her own face out of the water.

“Sweetie, I’m the one lookin’ at ya.” He points out in that fatally parental way and reaches for her neck once more, taking a good grip before he dunks her backwards in the pool, with barely time for her to hold her breath. Bizarre and a bit threatening as the action is, all Gigi can feel is his warm hand again, and the press of rings biting into her throat, the promise of his body that she’s not yet been jostled close enough to feel, but looming ever near her.

“Elvis baby, you’ve lost your glasses.” Ginger is saying when Gigi is finally let back up after her extended baptism and, with a little flail, she regains autonomy from his grip as he lets her go like he’s been burned.

He hadn’t seemed that worried about the glasses before Ginger pointed it out, but his hasty movement away from her makes Gigi think that it concerns him.

“I’ll get ‘em.” She reassures Ginger before wheezing back in a breath and arching into the water, the splash of her little footsies upending the last anyone saw of her for a brief moment until she appeared in the shallow, holding them up triumphantly.

The solitary, slow clap that could be heard belonged to Mrs. Alden.

“Oh shove it where the sun don’t shine, ya big–” Tammy was snapping at the older woman suddenly and Gigi, freshly discombobulated from resurfacing, decided against figuring that one out, the feud going beyond her even at her most mentally capable periods.

“Get in here fools, Ricky, Charlie, Dinah, c’mon.” Elvis was motioning to his fellas, conspicuously ignoring the venom spitting between the ladies, “Sam, you’re gonna be our monkey.” He directed the overly tall cop to the accompanying protests of the pool’s occupants. “Lotta sissies you are, can’t take a challenge head on.” Elvis chided them and the game was on.

For the next half hour Gigi treaded water in the deep end and tried to help Dinah and Ricky get the ball past the unreasonably tall cop in the middle. Trying to smack it into the shallow side where Elvis was waded around waist deep, in the water, T-shirt clinging to the dip of his pecs and adhered to the swell of his belly like a second skin, effortlessly hefting Sam’s young kids up to take a smack at the ball themselves from time to time. Gigi didn’t think there’d ever been a fella as entranced by the sight of bikini clad babes bouncing around in aquatic sports as she was with such effortless masculinity displayed in the good humor of his backyard. Her heart hurt at the sudden gaping hole in the house, in the pool, in his life–his little girl! She should be here, his child should be here.

Before Gigi had known how domestic and serene life could be at Graceland, it had made sense the rockstar probably wouldn’t have full custody of a kid. She’d imagined wild parties and coke tidily lined up on the back of the toilet in the bathroom for convenient snorting, stripper poles in the living room festooned with real live women of the night. But instead, there was just a beautiful, vigorous, sweet man throwing pool parties to any who would come to keep him from being lonesome.

That old feeling of wanting to hold onto him and not let go, make him let go first, came back. Maybe she’d been staring too long, or more likely, maybe Gigi hadn’t noticed half the spray sprinkling them was now raindrops and not pool splash–either way, Ginger and her familial entourage made a rather large to-do about the little shower. Encouraged to go inside they refused, and while slightly miffed by the needless interruption, the pool’s occupants varied their sport to a rather unorthodox version of Marco Polo.

Ricky led the way by closing his eyes and calling out “Marco” to which every girl, with the innate sense of those being hunted, tried to flee in the water from his grabby hands while answering “Polo” in barely audible titters.

Dinah escaped a close call by diving underwater and slithering away while Sam went on the defensive and splashed water at the kid’s nose until he could barely call out “Marco.” Gigi wasn’t as lucky, trapped between the steps and Hodge she was cornered on the third round, helpless to do anything but press against the poolside and answer “Polo” to each one of Ricky’s ever leering calls, closer and closer to her.

“Time out, time out!” Elvis snapped and Ginger peered over her glasses with knowing suspense but Ricky, quite caught up in the game kept swashing forward in the shallow towards Gigi, blindly reaching out for her shoulder only for at the first tiny touch to it, he got slapped upside the head by a very proactive Lamar who wanted to save the kid from a more fatal fate.

“Boss called a time out, idiot.” he grumbled loudly, pulling him away from Gigi’s glistening tan shoulders.

“Yeah, time out!” Tammy faked a sigh of exhaustion even though she’d done little moving through the game, “Can we get some drinks out here? Got any papaya juice left, E?”

“Oh I swear to God!” Ginger’s sunglasses landed on the cushion with a clatter, finally losing all patience with some inside barb thrown her way.

“What?” Tammy asks with far too much innocence.

“You know what!” Ginger snaps.

“Drinks? What?” Tammy scoffs, “I wasn’t asking you to get them, don’t get all huffy at me.”

“The papaya shit–”

“Hey language, ladies.” Charlie tries to intervene.

Elvis knows Tammy is weedling a fight outta Gingersnap and a month ago he might’ve had it in him to play the gentleman and defend his supposed gal, and an hour or two ago he might’ve found it fun to sit back and watch the cat fight, but there’s rain droplets splattering the pool surface and he knows she’s gonna suggest going in and he wants to make everyone else regret this about as much as he is until he sees her face.

Gigi’s.

Looking for all the world like she’s sad and scared this shitty little party is gonna end. Looking to him to keep her playtime going. Up against the pool wall as the rain splatters her freckles, mostly put out that her turn has been cut short because Elvis's jealous streak can’t take Ricky or anyone else touching her besides him but he can’t bring himself to touch her for fear she won’t purr under his hand.

Gigi’s eyes leave Tammy and Ginger’s verbal sparring and seek his own out pleadingly. His command for everyone to shut the fuck up and go inside or else leave his property dies on his lips. Instead he tries to smile back at her, finding it’s been a little while since he played at accommodating anyone, but he’s willing to try for her, to give her back her playtime. She reminds him of his younger self, such a live wire, attuned and vibrating to every emotion. She needs a calming hand, a weighted presence to tether her. Instead he just reminds the squabbling pool’s occupants,

“Gigi’s it.”

And just like that, the decision is made. Ginger can bitch and Tammy can poke and everyone else can go to hell, he’s gonna play in his pool. With Gigi. It’s her turn to play Marco. Those blue eyes dance back to life and she’s smiling so wide he feels like maybe he’s unleashed the sun, fully cheerful and fully lethal all at once.

Her eyes close but her mouth stays wide and smiling and she utters “Marco” with giddy excitement and Charlie gives him a look he knows, a look of a sure-fire backstage hookup but Elvis isn’t sure, not sure this time until she’s weaved through multiple “Polo’s” and is hunting him down with giggling ferocity. And Elvis is fucked, he’s fucked and his heart is beating in wild excitement and panic as she begins to splash towards him and her palms land squarely on the now squishy mounds of his chest.

He used to have such a nice physique. Strapping, some said, maybe never a real ripped fella but fine and toned and lean. But now all he’s got are man tiddies and his cheeks flame hot under the cool splash of water as her hands splay against his soft chest, the contact winding him, grounding him, making him yearn and shrink all at once.

She’s merciless, hands trailing over the dips of his chest and over his shoulders and down to the beginning of his belly, dragging his wet t-shirt across his sensitive skin, patting him down firmly in the way of someone who savors flesh. He thinks he’s found one of his own.

“Hmm, Lamar?” Gigi guesses but the coy lift of her lips tells him it’s a joke. Still he wants to wince.

Gigi hopes he knows she is teasing, she doesn't even think to make it a barb. Lamar is lovely and so is Elvis and she would do and say anything to prolong the contact she has on the wet material of his shirt, wiry chest hairs faintly ticklish beneath the soaked cotton, the heat and the heft and the way his chest is heaving beneath her hands–Gigi is struck with the reminder of how she fantasized about him, about the bulk of him and the sturdiness she’s now mapping out. If only he was shirtless and–there’s a nipple–his breath is ghosting over her face, she’s so close and she’s being shameless, she knows, but he’s lovely. He’s so lovely under her hands, and she can feel the thump thump thump of his heart soaking up her attention and she knows he’s been lonely for this. She hopes he can feel it through her playful hands–

You’re lovely, this has been lovely, thank you for this, can you feel how fond I am?

–she thinks she hears someone sneeze and she thinks she hears talking but it’s his breaths, labored and fast, that she listens to, senses attentive, squeezing at the soft flesh of his bicep. There’s corded muscle beneath the fluff, she barely gets a squeeze in before she’s palpably reminded that it’s Elvis she’s pawing at when he drawls, thick and forced,

“You got a strong enough grip on that honey? Did I not feed ya enough in the house that ya gonna start pulling meat off the bone?”

She pops her eyes open at that, mortified at first except he looks so pleased by her squeezing, more pleased and happy than he’s been all day and it makes her brave.

“Why, it’s Elvis!” She teases in surprise and is comforted by the hot flare of temper she sees in his face as he entertains the brief concept of her groping anyone else like this, “I could eat you up.” She admits lowly, and it feels like a natural thing to say, the sorta oddball shit you say to cute little babies–or to Elvis Presley when he’s soft and firm and giving and impossibly broad beneath your hands.

“Ya watch y’self lil baby or I’ll eat you first.” He responds careless and calm before snapping his teeth at her in a way that both scares her from its sudden shift and sends molten heat down between her legs at its possibilities.

She chooses to squeal and instead of fleeing in the water, takes refuge from his snapping mouth by scurrying behind him in the water and hunkering down from the threat, plastering herslef to his wet back. The grunt he makes when she pulls herself up by his shoulders is that of a middle aged man playing at being put out over being used as a jungle gym, but like most things he does, teeth snapping and grunting and meticulous burger layering, she finds it obscenely attractive and moans a little herself, finally getting a good press on some part of him, even if it’s just his back.

Elvis has quite forgotten anyone or anything else besides the playful little critter plastering her tits to his back and giggling breathy in his ear. He thinks he notices the way the boys resume the game and Dinah tries to revive the sport while he and this minx just float like mama and baby otter on the sidelines. He doesn’t notice much else beside the fact that she’s taken to tidying him like he tidied her, fingernails rubbing his wet sideburns back down and thumbing at his eyebrow when a commotion on the pool deck gains his attention, tearing him away from the lovely yet mortifying ordeal of Gigi humming over the discovery of too much grease in his rain sodden hair.

It appears Mrs. Alden and Ginger are having it out between each other again on the pool patio, without Rosemary as a referee for once, and Elvis would like to ignore it in favor of thinking of something to talk to this sweet girl about except that there’s a slight tussle on the sidelines and before he–or Ginger it seems–can process anything, Ginger herself is being encouragingly shoved into the deep end by her mother.

Upon surfacing, Ginger makes for him like a downed airman would an atole in the vast pacific, whining all the way like she got dumped in acid instead of saline. He’s always been this way with folks, with women and with men, puzzled as to why he tolerates shit for so long when the breath of fresh air is clinging to his back. It’s a free country, Ginger can whine about pool water all she wants, doesn’t mean he’s gotta feel bad that there’s something about the way that twenty year old gal hasn’t got a lick of child left in her that makes his affection for her curdle like spoiled milk. The giggling limpet on his back laughs before registering that Ginger is unlike her, and the pool is causing her distress. Gigi starts to let go of Elvis’ back in an unconscious reaction to aid her, he finds himself trying to clutch her hands to keep her pressed to his back.

They fumble, they clutch, Gigi slips from his back and it’s as if the water has gone freezing to him. The replacement of Ginger hanging off him does nothing to replace that soothing warmth, though he pats Ginger soothingly, wondering if now would be a bad time to tell her it’s over. It was over ever since a while back, but not being able to make it today, then able to make it only to stake her claim, and now this fawning over him -he’s done. It’s over, he starts freezing and suddenly the raindrops aren’t so playful. He hopes to god his gamble won’t leave him burned and alone again.

“Shh. S’alright honey, gimme your hand.” he mumbles as he leads Ginger to the shallow end, to the pool steps and railing while the rest of the pool’s occupants clear out as fast as rats from a sinking ship when the murky pool water shows she’s not bluffing on her period this time.

Ginger gives him a withering look and he thinks he’s gonna get blamed for her mother’s poor choice in house manners when he finds her staring down at his shorts, and maybe the water wasn’t cold enough cause he’s chubbed up and bent to the side beneath the wet fabric, acting up despite the embarrassment of being felt in his whole entirety by Gigi. He clears his throat and finds himself tugging at his pant leg as they toddle off together, not even trying to act like it’s for her–they’d both know better than that. It’s over, it’s past that. It’s over.

Gigi lags behind in the pool and Elvis doesn’t know why until she’s jogged back up to them, almost to the trophy room doors before she’s kneeling in front of Ginger, her lost sandal in her hand. “Here, I got it, ya don’t have to limp all the way back.” Gigi smiles up at her from her crouch, feckless crinkling and eyes guileless and even Ginger doesn't have it in her to be sour in the face of such unstudied kindness.

“Thanks.” Ginger gets out and digs her nails further into Elvis’ forearm as she leans her weight on him to slip the sandal on, acting as if a dunk in the pool left her mortally wounded.

Fast as lightning, he notices Gigi use the towel slung round her shoulder to dab at a trail of blood running down Ginger’s shin, a womanly little comradery to keep her from being embarrassed but Ginger says nothing and moves on, hastily, Elvis attached to her by her talons, and he hardly blames her. Kneeling -Gigi kneeling- isn’t what Little Elvis needs to be thinking about right now.

In the squelching wet walk back into the big house Elvis feels the compulsion to distract from the menstrual cause of the pool’s evacuation -and his offending boner- by making conversation between the two,

“S’alright,” he repeats, “Hodge and I were thinkin’ movie night or Monopoly if it ended up rainin’. And it was bound to, bound to start rainin’.”

As if that was the reason for getting out of the pool -it’s so gentlemanly of him, despite his palpable exasperation with the whole situation, that Gigi falls a little more in love just watching him be nice to another woman.

“Oh I love Monopoly!” Gigi offers with a genuine little skip in her step, fanning out her sporty swimskirt, half distracted as she passes by the glass showcases housing the awards given to him over his career. They glitter harshly under the low ceiling of fluorescent bulbs. It’s oddly tacky for such a wealthy man. It makes them seem more personal, like a fella got a lotta medallions and plaques for being lovely and stashed them in his pool house. “What’s the longest game you’ve ever played?” She asks since the silent trudge is getting oppressive.

“Lordy, back in ‘66 I think we had one last over three weeks.” He reminisces fondly.

“No way.” She swears.

“Yeah, yeah kept the board all set up in the music room.” He assures her. “Reckon our banker was crooked.” He divulges and Gigi giggles.

“We do a lot of reading.” Ginger offers randomly and Gigi perks up at that bit of information politely.

“Oh? What on?”

“Any and all sorts of subjects.” Ginger smiles sweetly, the sorta sweet smile he used to try to earn, now it makes him wanna shake her off his arm.

“I used to enjoy it but I think college is burning me out on books.” Gigi admits.

“That’s right, you’re in college.” Ginger reminds with a significant look in Elvis’ direction.

“First year.” Gigi nods, looking a little shell shocked.

“Whatcha majoring in?” he asks her earnestly and Gigi realizes they’re near the same height, her long limbs finally giving her an advantage as they lock eyes over Ginger’s head.

Embarrassment floods her as she has to admit to this older and unbelievably successful man, “I still haven’t decided.” She is lost and tired and lonely and that is probably why she gets off to the thought of him telling her he’s gonna baby her. Shame scorches her cheeks and he tsks before reaching over Ginger’s shoulder to pat it calm, rings chilling her fevered flesh, “My parents wanted me to go,” she finds herself purging the sentiment under his kindly eyes despite Ginger’s judicious stare, “but now I’m in, the subject -it’s up to me and I- well I don’t know yet.”

Elvis pauses in his swaying gait to relieve Charlie of the duty of holding open the side door into the main house, ushering Ginger in with a flick of his wrist and Gigi follows, limp necked and chastened. “You’re just a baby.” He is suddenly rumbling right in her ear as she passes him, as if picking up the conversation naturally but it makes her shiver in a hard, wanton shake at the sound of his voice so near. It has his eyebrow raising in some suspicion. “That’s a whole lotta weight to put on youth, ain’t no way you know what you’re fit for this soon honey, dontchu fret over it in the least.”

“Really?” She begs and feels his hand leave the door, no longer needing to be held open, and land on her back, smoothing her wet hair down her spine, rings catching and snarling in the waves.

“I mean it, you’re just a lil peanut, ain’t fair to ask ya to figure all that out right this minute.”

The sentiment mimics the mantra of Gigi’s homework meltdowns and four am panic attacks and she beams at him with utter relief, as if him having spoken what her gut tells her makes it gospel truth. She shudders and melts into that hand, covering an entire half of her face it feels, and the rest of her erupts in gooseflesh from the Arctic levels of AC he keeps in his house. She needs to be closer, she needs him to hold a lot more of her—

“We’re going to change before we get pneumonia.” Ginger announces loudly and they both jump, Elvis once again forgetting that there’s others hereabout, and Gigi from the cold shock of Ginger’s icy hand slithering into her own, tugging her to the hall bath. She trips over her own two feet to keep eye contact with him as long as possible, her cheek still glowing from his touch and reveling in the sight of him in the narrow hall with his belly outlined in stark relief by the clinging, wet t-shirt and his tiny shorts that have a little protrusion of their own…she hadn’t noticed it till now, and she wants to whimper, not from Ginger’s implacable grip on her hand but at the sight of that chubby little package pointing at her while tucked behind his inseam. She’s grinning wide and accusatory at him by the time Ginger hauls her around the corner and out of his sight, grinning as if glad that he was as big a pervert as she was, growing impossibly excited just by little touches and sweet banter.

Gigi’s not proud but she’ll admit she lost some valuable time staring into space, her mouth watering and her lips pursing at the thought of that little bulge. Staring into space as she waited for first Dinah and then Marie and maybe another to finish with the hall bath under the stairs, staring straight ahead at the paneling thinking about nothing but cock, plain and simple cock beneath a pendulous belly, as if she wasn’t currently occupying a most envied space in one of the most interesting houses in America. The portraits and gilding and artifacts were lost on her, catatonic she just thought of cupping it. She was almost entirely certain that she had been able to make out the fat little head of it beneath his shorts, the cone-like little–

It wasn’t any better in the privacy of the bathroom stripping out of her wet things and trying to rub off the cloying wet to slip into her sundress. Malleable and chilly in that post swim haze that often comes over children and dreamy young twenty years old girls, she meandered out of the bathroom and right into a spitting match.

Ginger Alden had deposited her by the hall bath after dragging her away, only to then leave herself and go upstairs to avail herself of the amenities up there. Only to be gently informed by Sam that those weren’t for her use any longer. Upstairs was for family and intimate circle: boss man said she wasn’t that no more. Boss man himself was in the downstairs room to the side that had once been Gladys’ room, slipping on a comfy tracksuit without the hassle of climbing the stairs, thinking about how Gigi relabeled a baby duckling tucking herself into the hollow of his palm and how he’d like to nuzzle at that fuzzy little head and-

So there was a spitting match going on. It was chiefly between Tammy and Ginger, although Rosemary and Missus added their own hits when the occasion afforded.

“Do your friends not mind you whoring them out for your own personal vendetta, Tammy?” Ginger enunciated very clearly in the front hall, just a few feet from the understairs bathroom.

“I dunno Darlin’, does your mama?” Tammy drawled.

“Where’s her boyfriend hmm? Doesn’t he care she’s throwing herself at another man?”

Gigi cracked open the door and hoped to God maybe the discussion was about Tammy’s house cat and not her.

“She doesn’t have one.”

“Oh great, oh perfect!” Ginger’s bangles rattled as she threw her hands up to the heavens, “Let me guess, she’s a pure as the driven snow virgin too, hmm?”

“If anyone can still be a virgin after getting eye fucked that much in a pool–” Tammy cackles and Gigi winces before slipping out of the bathroom fully and trying to make herself small against the wall.

“Language, young lady!” Mrs. Alden reprimands.

“That’s my fiancé!” Ginger wails, not to her supposed fiancé himself but her rival beauty queen contestant. “She’s all over my fiancé!”

“He sure ain’t all over you for bein’ a fiancé.” Tammy points out without a shred of anxiety over the point, eyeing the damage the pool did to her nails. “Where’s the ring, by the way?”

“Here!” Ginger held up her hand and the massive rock adorning it.

“Nah, I meant like, one he gave ya after that one.” Tammy’s chewing gum smacks with her sentences, “Not the ‘I’m desperately lonely marry me after three weeks and I’ll never mention it again’ ring. I meant like, another one, he’s given you a real promise ring hasn’t he? Oh c’mon he’s gotta, he’s so in looooove! You said so yourself, he’s sooo in loooove he’s gotta be pressin’ you for that date every second and loadin’ your hand up with promise rings. C’mon Ginger, show us, c’mon”

“I'm not above punching you, Tammy Anderson.” Gigi felt in her bones that Ginger meant it and stepped up, trying to gently pry the girls apart in their toe-to-toe verbal sparring just as Elvis issued out of the bedroom clad in a deliciously slouchy baby blue version of the black tracksuit he’d been wearing when they arrived. He looked so soft with his hair drying in tufts and his sideburns too, and the vast expanse of his chest the only cuddly looking thing in this frigid house. The soft tracksuit pants also conformed to every ripple of his steps and jiggle of his obviously unconfined package that was still faintly chubby and Gigi ogles him like he’s the display lollipops in an Ice Cream truck window.

“We have a connection!” Ginger is still protesting to the unfeeling jury that is Tammy’s gum smacking smirk. “A real, soulful connection–”

“–yeah, yeah sure cause reading books on crystals downstairs is a real connection.”

“–you aren’t here for it! you don’t know! We have a soul connection!”

“You sound like you’re talkin’ about someone’s grandpa.” Tammy wheezes, “Like, that’s exactly what some gal who don’t wanna give out talks about, like he’s some ancient little granddaddy and you read him shit while he’s in his rocker–”

“You bi–”

“–because getting treated like a nursing home inmate when he’s in the prime of life has sure gotta help that connection. Lord I’m shocked he hasn’t eloped with you yet, a real keeper.”

Gigi sees Elvis scan the surroundings judiciously before anyone notices he’s entered the main rooms again, clocking everyone’s position and attitude and when they lock eyes over the feuding gal’s heads she can’t help the compulsion she feels to lighten his mood, erase the furrow between his brows. She rolls her eyes over their drama and watches those pillowy cherub lips quirk up in reply.

“I dare you to try to handle what I’ve had to handle with his mood swings and his temper and getting goddamn shot at! I dare ya–”

“Maybe you should take an interest in shootin’ his guns, maybe he won’t point ‘em at you then.” Tammy suggests, “Gigi here’s a pretty good shot, actually. Grew up on her daddy’s big farm.”

Elvis is still smirking at her and she wonders if he is like her, only tiny portions of the conversation actually making it all the way into her ears, too preoccupied with things unsaid to be of any use for public conversation. Watching him walk across the room is only worse, the atmosphere changing as he passes, despite his casual demeanor and bulk he moves with a shocking amount of grace and poise –more than Gigi’s ever noticed another man carry.

“Would y’all like some refreshments?” Mary’s butting into the little squabble with a tray from the kitchen laden with poured up sodas and sweet teas as if anyone needs refreshing in this ice box of a house.

“Cherry Coke? Are you kidding me right now?” Ginger’s voice finally pitches up to near hysteric levels and Mrs. Alden grabs the half empty bottle off the tray to inspect the ingredients as if it’ll give her a recipe for dealing with freckled homewreckers.

“I-I-I didn’t choose it.” Gigi whimpers under Mrs. Alden’s glare, feeling compelled to defend herself under the withering derision.

“Mister Elvis stocked the fridge with ‘em jus’ for her visit.” Mary confirms helpfully with a beaming smile and if Mrs. Alden could turn any more ashen under her pancake makeup than she already is, she’d be positively ghastly.

“Oh shit, oh shit, he’s out!” Ginger suddenly hisses to her mom, catching sight of what Gigi’s been making bambi eyes at for over three minutes already. It’s amazing how efficiently the ladies put on a mask of decorum for Elvis’ benefit, all simpering smiles and polite acceptance of the drinks. Except in the criss-crossing of arms and the passive aggressive pinching of fingers around bottles on the tray, somehow the Cherry Coke tips over and spills its contents down the light, pretty patterned front of Gigi’s gauzy sundress.

Cherry-pink nipples, pebbled from the cold shock of a refrigerated christening, suddenly replaces anyone's objections regarding Cherry Coke. It’s obscene those breasts of hers, large and pendulous but curving upwards with obstinate perkiness as if preening hopefully for a compliment, salam-sized areolas emblazoning a landing strip for a tongue to lave… or maybe that’s just Elvis’ perception. Maybe they’re just Coke-soaked titties and he’s a gentleman so he disengages from his chat with Hodge about film selections and comes up, solicitously cooing which makes those nipples–somehow–perk even more.

“Elvis, don–”

“You did that on purpose!”

“No, she didn’t!”

“No, I didn’t! Why would I wanna do that?”

Gigi really has to focus. This was worse than her attention span on homework. “Come on, let’s be nice.” She begs the girls, succeeding in pushing Tammy and Ginger apart just a little, which also gives Elvis a clear path to her. She’s so humiliated at this point that when she sees his determined gait towards her and compassionate face as he eyes her chest that she goes to him like a child with an owie that needs fixing, utterly sure he has the anecdote.

“Oh darlin, s’alright, we’ll get ya sorted with somethin’ else to wear.” He behaves so familiarly as he comes up to her and tucks her into his side that she melts into the gesture, following his lead as he steers her away from prying eyes as she willingly follows, not processing that they’re nearing the foot of the stairs, “You brought somethin’ else to wear?”

“This was it.” She whispers in defeat because it was supposed to be a swim date and she only brought along something beyond a scrap of fabric to wear–despite Tammy’s protests–because she suspected rain and being housebound.

“S’alright little dolly, I’ll get ya covered again,” he says very gravely and it makes her shiver, “modesty is a virtue, darlin, glad to see ya have it naturally.”

She stalls at the foot of the stairs, suddenly realizing his intention is to take her up there. Her cheeks flame red at the implication of both being invited to his private space for God knows what purpose and being invited while his supposed girlfriend is barred from such spaces. Everything in her being longs for it but suddenly there is a nagging, a real fear she’s doing wrong somehow and that if she gave into this, it would taint what oughta be a blissful first time in the arms of a man she’s fantasized about for years. It isn’t fair and she wants to stamp her feet, instead she feels her eyes pooling with tears and her lip wobbling and that ole cry baby nickname sure proves its mettle as she drags her feet and makes him pause right before the first step.

“Elvis this isn’t–I’m not comfortable with this–I wanna but–” she stares miserably up at the portrait of a young, golden haired version of himself on the landing and vaguely wonders if his sons would look like that, if anyone were to give him one.

“Oh, naw, naw don’t cry lil one, tell me what’s wrong?” his hands flutter over the outline of her shoulders as if he’s unsure if his touch is welcome. She wants to glue them onto her body but instead she glances back at the crowd behind them that aren’t even bothering to act preoccupied. Elvis gets the message loud and clear. “Aww I see,” he mutters, “let’s step right in here then, fix ya up with somethin’ at least. Won’t be nice and girlish like intended,” he sounds like he’s moping a bit but he leads her towards the room he went into to change into his tracksuit, sidestepping their onlookers, “but it’ll keep ya cozy. And ya won’t have to go to no bachelors room alone, keep ya reputation all clean.” He loads Gigi’s clouded concerns with heavy amounts of motivation and moralisms she’s never even considered but she doesn’t care as she savors the feel of his hand on her waist, guiding her to a lavender-shaded room.

On the purple quilt of the solitary bed lies a rumpled tracksuit jacket, the one he’d been wearing when they first arrived and Gigi seizes it lovingly, like a child might a long lost stuffy, holding it to her nose and smelling it. To her relief it’s every bit as musky as she hoped. Maybe that way she can be surrounded by him without making an absolute fool of herself. Elvis watches her bury her tear stained face in his old jacket and has to heave in a breath to steady himself. There’s something akin to the adoring fan about Gigi that unsettles him but coupled with that unique irreverence she showed him in the pool, he could craft something here, from this young girl, something that would fill the slot he needs filled so badly.

She might as well be a child, his own Yisa, her eyes are so vulnerable when she raises her head and meets his, jacket still clutched to her chin.

“Ya can wear it.” He affirms, helpless in the face of it, addicted to the beaming smile that catches and spreads across her face like wildfire at his permission, despite the watery red rimmed evidence of her turmoil. “Use it, put it on, that’s right, be all right. That’s a good girl.” He cups her freckled cheek, making sure to keep his fat gut far away from her and she burrows into his palm again, hungry for touch and he remembers now that her so-called parents are cold fucks who don’t care about the fact their daughter is alone in a room with him. Maybe if they did she would be more carefree. “You scared of me, lil one?” he asks gently, thumbing at a dappled cheekbone and swiping down to those plush lips he wants to acquaint with his own. All in due time. For now, “You scared of me?”

“No sir!” She gasps, terribly pressed to make him understand her conflicting emotions, “I just worry–Ginger! We shouldn’t be–not if she–I don’t know.” She trails off and is back to crying again and it affects him strongly, far more than female tears usually do.

“Listen to me, baby girl,” he tilts her chin up to his face solemnly, his tone and commanding the utmost respect and she listens reverently. “This is my house; I can do as I please in it, and so can my guests. Now, some folks don’t wanna be my guests ‘till they sniff a competitor. What you and I got lil one, it’s pure and it’s good, ya feel it baby?” And Gigi did indeed feel him run those ring clad fingers over her face like a hypnotist, mapping out each feature and dragging her eyelids shut momentarily. She didn’t know what she felt except for starving hunger and utter surrender. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with our connections, and we ain’t gonna let the world tell us otherwise, are we, darlin’?”

Gigi felt his fingers trailing over her lips, pulling the blush bottom one away from her teeth before trailing further down, back to her chin, releasing it with a wet pop. She sucked in a noisy breath and whimpered in her exhale.

“Tell me ya feel it, come on sugar, if ya feel it, let ya daddy know.”

Gigi would have blamed some substance laced into her drink for the way her body reels like a mind controlled little mouse, except that she was wearing said drink and she could recognize what he was doing but was powerless to argue against it. He could have asked for her help to bury a body at this moment and she would have complied. She had long been prepared to be accepted and wanted for being smart, she had no equipping for how to navigate or negotiate with an established man who found her desirable. It sent her reeling. It set her alight.

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmm, whas’ tha’?” he coos, his hand sliding to her throat and squeezing a little.

“I -I feel it, sir. Elvis, I, I feel you.” Gigi gasps, tilting towards him only to find him withdrawing now he has her. Playing at cat and mouse when all she wishes for is to be a willing sacrifice, laid out for a hungry god to devour. “Please I feel you!” she pleads, trying to regain him but something has switched in him, he is confident and commanding–and a little cold as he steps back.

“That’s a good girl.” He commends and she shudders again. “You get dressed, then come on out and I wanna see ya wide eyed and bushy tailed for some fun. Ain’t gonna let the bastards ruin our day, are we?”

“No sir!–I mean, yes sir, to–to the first part–” Gosh, she’s adorable and her breasts are huge and ought to be held.

First things first, he’s gotta kick some asses. He tries to put on his most kindly face before backing out of the room and shutting the door fully again to give her privacy. When he turns around, it’s like the Spanish Inquisition in his own living room.

“E’eryone currently in this house,” Elvis speaks low and measured when he is in the midst of them, his index finger pointing to the hollowed foundations of his home, “is here at my pleasure and ‘cause I invited ‘em to create a lil fun. Anyone who ain’t willin’ or able to aid in that endeavor needs to go right now. I mean it. I don’t want no bullshit today, gonna deal with schedules and tour dates and all that bullshit another time. I want some fun. That’s all I’m askin’ for, e’ryone’s actin’like it’s hard as hell to have a good time. It ain’t. Just don’t be bitches. That goes for men and women.”

And with this admonition, having said his piece and politely ignored the inflammatory presence of the young lady currently stripping out of her soda soaked dress and donning the silky material of his tracksuit jacket.

“Charlie, Ricky,” he addresses them, “one o’vya go an’ grab some tapes, bring ‘em up here and we’ll have a vote on what movie we’re gonna watch.”

Ricky bounds out of sight and down to the basement with an alacrity that Elvis feels proves he has something to make amends for. With this brief interlude of quiet, Elvis sits himself down in his chair and enjoys a bout of smirking eye contact with Mrs. Alden that leaves the estimable lady shaking in an impotent rage across from him, so much so her vibrations rattle the opulent necklace around her neck. One he happens to have bought for her.

Next girl he tries his luck with will be motherless. Or nearly. He’s had it with courtin’ the family and not getting shit thanks in return for it. Well, that ain’t fully true, Linda’s people are good people. He’s reminded of that as Sam sits down next to him and asks if Elvis wants him to run to get some more refreshments. Ice cream, he suggests, and Elvis would have voiced his approbation of the idea if Ricky had not landed back in the room with a hamper full of film reels at the same moment the opposite door opens and out comes Gigi.

Elvis underestimated the length of those legs of hers. His tracksuit jacket just barely covers what he prays to God are swim panties under that thing. As is, there’s miles of track-sculpted and sun-caressed stems on display and they go on and on, all the way down to the pretty little footsies with the French-tip pedicures and–God help him, before this he never noticed the anklet. Suddenly it’s all he can see, that dainty gold chain encircling her delicate bones and graceful sinews the way his hand oughta be if there was any justice left in the world. When he tears his eyes away from the sight all he’s left with is the sight of her, freshly pool scrubbed and clean wearing just his jacket. Or to all appearances, just his jacket.

“That poor girl was cussing me out and praying I die the other night.” Tammy’s voice shakes him, she’s gotten so near without him noticing, lost as he watches Gigi pour over the selections of movies Ricky brought up. With the way she’s bending over he can only be grateful that she’s got her ass facing a wall and her front zipper fully zipped to the chin. Otherwise Ricky would be dead for having such prime seating.

“Not that lil innocent baby.” He disagrees, sure of it even though Tammy seems to be warming up to a business pitch.

“Oh yes she was!” Tammy Anderson insists, “Praying mighty hard for my downfall and in turn askin’ that a ‘daddy’ somebody would ‘give it to her’ good.” She sips noisily on her straw while leaving Elvis to aspirate on his spit.

“Bless me.” he mutters while patting down his pants for a cigar, unable to take his eyes off both Gigi and Sam–the latter to make sure he’s at a good enough distance not to hear this.

“The problem was,” Tammy goes on serenely, “at least as far as I can make it out, the problem was she thought I was getting to stay the night with her childhood hero while she got sent home like a little girl.”

“She is a little girl.”

“Is she though?” Tammy scrunches her nose and Elvis is reminded why he’s not going after this one. Too worldly wise for her own good. “Or just enough?” she adds in a way that makes his cheeks burn.

“I don’t need you helpin’ me feel like a dirty ole man when I ain’t done nothin’ to deserve it, Tammy Anderson. You mind your own garden.”

“Damnation, you’re such a gentleman, Elvis!” she laughs loudly which attracts a glare from Ginger for it, “Using all those lofty metaphors while shamin’ me at the same time. Hell of a talent ya got there, ole man.”

“Tammy, I like you,” Elvis begins gravely and Tammy straightens her spine and her mouth trembles with suppressed mirth which attracts even Gigi’s attention from the far corner, “but I like you from a distance. Don’t tempt me to make that distance a hell of a lot greater, you hard up bleached thicket lil hussy.”

Tammy’s eyes go wide and for a minute it seems she struggles to breathe till peal after peal of raucous laughter greets his cutting remark the way it was intended. She’s pretty when she smiles, Elvis can admit, damn dazzlin’ in the bright white of day but it’s like a shark. His eyes drift back to the bambi his heart is set on and watches with a growing frown as she and Ricky tug at one of the films, neither seeming ready to relinquish it.

“What’s goin on?” Elvis demands in a booming voice that can carry to the far reaches of a stadium and is downright deafening in the closed spaces of his home.

Everyone freezes at it and Gigi looks like she’s just seen God on Mount Sinai from his tone alone, so Elvis endeavors to clear his frown and gestures for Charlie to sort it out. By it he means Ricky. The hell is the kid thinkin’?–Playin’ tug o' war with his damn films? And with a guest! His guest!

No sooner does Charlie walk over to the two young folks before suddenly they are allies, when Gigi relinquishes it to Ricky in her moment of fear, Ricky dodges Hodge and when Hodge pursues, Gigi makes a waving motion behind ole Charlie’s back:

“Ricky, Ricky give it here!” Gigi hollers, hands up and body elongated to catch the boxed-up reel like a football at the end zone. The move flashes a peek of white swimsuit bottoms underneath the inadequate jacket. Elvis groans around his as yet unlit cigar. He’s still ineffectually patting his pockets for a light when Gigi makes the catch and for that split second she’s holding it, Elvis gets a glimpse of the slipcover. And of all the movies she coulda gotten her hands on-

Elvis is up and rushing at her before he can even think about what he’s prepared to do, how far he’ll push this, the only thing he can think of besides the acres of honey toned skin caressed by his jacket, is that sweet little baby Gigi is holding his copy of Deepthroat.

“Lil girl!” he growls at her and the way her eyes fly wide as saucers makes him think she’s actually terrified of him right before she breaks into a grin and spins on her heel, headed out the room on those track hardened legs.

He chases, ‘cause of course–what else was there to do?

“Lil girl, you give that here!” he feels the disadvantages of his bulk in this hot pursuit but it’s been awhile since the last tour and his knees have recovered in the time off and it ain’t so bad, he’s still flexible and he’s still got stamina for all that his joints feel like they got hot coals in them most times. Every painful jog is worth it for the happy shrieks she lets out as he lumbers behind her, intent on a takedown.

She’s barely gotten to the foyer and stalls for a brief moment to contemplate taking sanctuary in the kitchen or music room when suddenly she feels the jolting contact of his hands on her waist. It’s fast and grabbing and not a light touch, she’s being gripped and tugged and squeezed by those large, hot, unyielding hands before being spun and tackled to the ground.

Soft carpet and his hand cradles her head, keeping the landing from being too harsh. But even if she’d snapped her neck, Gigi would still be acutely conscious of the feel of him, all of him, so much of him, thrumming with such potent aliveness atop her that she feels herself catch fire at it, her own pulse syncing with his, heightened instantly. It’s brief, horribly brief, that instant of complete contact with his entire weight smothering her, but it’s intoxicating for life. He’s sweaty, even in this freezing house and after so little exertion, he’s sweaty and warm and he smells both so wonderfully clean and manly at the same time she wants to moan. Maybe she does, she isn’t sure, all she knows is that she does fuss, like a clingy baby, she fusses at the way he immediately props his top half up and away from her.

It makes him pause.

Unable to express anything right now except that she will be heartbroken if he pulls away, that it would be worse than those stupid little love pats Ginger gives him if he acts cold now that she’s felt his warmth, felt what he can offer her. Shelter, stability, satisfaction.

She takes advantage of his pause to wrap her legs up and around his hips, caging him in, defiantly attached.

“Don’t leave me now.” She begs softly, unable to keep up with the game of it all. If she wanted that uncertainty she could just go home.

“Oh, Gigi.” He whispers, sounding almost heartbroken, seeing in her vulnerable eyes and clingy neediness a glimpse of his old self.

Flashes of memories and rejections flood his mind, dashing home from school to find she moved, dashing back from tour to find her dancing with another man, invited back to her place just to get shoved into a glass coffee table and breaking the thing with his poor back, finding her fuckin’ the man he paid to teach her how to defend herself… he’s tired, but he remembers how it used to feel, how it used to nearly strangle him, all that youthful hope.

The film reel slips from her nerveless hand, no longer the subject of interest anymore, and she brings it to his face instead, stroking his cheek with all the lingering fondness of someone who wouldn’t rather do anything else at this moment. Elvis wishes he had such restraint, his breath puffs heavily as he tries to keep it contained and not gasp and huff atop her like some lumbering oaf, trying to keep his fat gut up away from the beauteous length of her, but she winds her arms about his neck and tugs him down despite his playful protests and stiff necked obstinance.

If she wants a kiss, she can fight for it, same as the girls at his concerts.

She can feel him slowly bending to her will, hunched over her in an attempt to keep from smothering her and she isn’t having it. She’s not a small or frail little thing, she’s an athlete and she uses it to her advantage, interlocking her legs around his waist and registering with searing satisfaction that his interest for her is dangling heavy and drippy in the silky hammock of his tracksuit pants.

Her sharp smile could rival Tammy’s at this confirmation and with a pounding heart Gigi cranes her head off the carpet and leans, closer and closer to him till her eyes go cross eyed focusing on the cupid's bow of his pouty lips and she can feel the hot puff of his breaths on her lips and–

–the rascal ducks his head to the side at the last minute and burrows that marshmallow mouth in her neck before blowing raspberries into the ticklish skin there.

As if his sending her home, his coddling of her in the pool and his distance in the bedroom had not made her feel like an absolute child, this last bit truly did. To the point where the endearing aspect of his blowing on her neck was lost in the heartbreaking need for assurance. Bucking and writhing beneath his tickles she gasped and begged and thrashed while never once letting go of her hold on his hips with her legs, keeping him near, his belly heavy and solid on top of her butterfly-filled one.

“Darlin’, stop buckin’ like that, ain’t decent.” He took a break from this torture to remonstrate as if he wasn’t to blame.

“Then kiss me.” She breathes out a challenge.

Now it happened that around this time, Jerry Schilling found himself free of commitments to Brian and his Beach Boys and, finding himself in Memphis, decided to call on an old friend and benefactor. Despite what his boss often insisted, Jerry was not an idiot, and so as he opened the front door to Graceland on this gloomy and sticky summer day he came equipped for any and all moods–his muscular arms bulging out of his thin t-shirt under the strain of carrying numerous, loaded bags of steaming Barbecue from Elvis’ favorite local pit.

Jerry Schilling had walked in on many a scene in the course of his run with Elvis Presley, temper tantrums and ecstatic jubilees and the unforgettable instance where a certain chimp was beating off against a poor gals shin much to the drunk audience’s amusement, the air thick with hooting and hollering and cigar smoke–and female shame.

But nothing, nothing had been quite as bizarre as what he saw this day when stepping into the foyer ready for anything–or so he thought. What he didn’t prepare for was the sight of his usually rather decorous boss laying atop a leggy young thing, grappling and necking her like a teenager, and getting it back in spades, which was a little more shocking considering his recent state. Whoever was under him was a moaner and more surprising still was the fact Elvis wasn’t shutting her up, or even getting up off the floor since–and here’s where it got bizarre–they weren’t remotely alone in the place. Or even the room.

Although, unlike that ill fated and depraved chimp, the two horndogs swapping spit on the floor don’t have much of a captivated audience, though Jerry bets they were captivated or at least attentive to the floor shenanigans at one point. That was before the fighting and clawing and kicking and scratching and screaming and–holy shit, Ginger and a bleach blonde are clawing at each other like they’re in for blood, Mrs. Alden beating the gal with her purse in defense of her daughter while Dodger smokes her pipe on the couch keeping Mr. Alden captive by her side with a death glare through the smokey haze of tobacco. Sam Thompson remains wringing his mouth, standing unsure beside Charlie and Ricky who can’t seem to believe what’s going on down on the foyer floor at Jerry’s feet.

It would seem Ginger’s out, and Miss Leggy is in. And Jerry suddenly feels the weight of the barbecue and the whole world pulling on his shoulders as he goes to aid Rosemary in pulling the girls apart, figuring that’s probably the one thing he can do here and not get his head bitten off by Elvis for it.

It’s easier said than done what with Mrs Alden’s purse pummeling the blonde, Ginger’s last vestiges of despairing pain and the blonde’s shockingly strong core when he grabs her from the back and tries to haul her up and away. Blondie kicks at Ginger’s face one last time and succeeds at landing a blow to the nose by the time Jerry staggers back with her somewhat restrained, feeling like he’s cradling a mountain lion to his chest. She’s shredding his forearms with her acrylics and, unsatisfied with the bloody damage she’s done, this little hottie grabs at the bags still hanging from his arms and begins to throw sticky, juicy, red globs of smoked meat at her grade school nesmises.

“Let me at her, ya goddamn sunnuvabitch!” Tammy screams, head butting him to try to make him let her go–and Jerry finds himself feeling a little funny, like the feeling his folks told him to look for when ‘the one’ wandered into his life looking like sunshine and smelling like a spring day washline and holding daisies. Except that ‘the one’ is a dangerous bottle blonde with a foul mouth and his skin cells under her fingernails.

God moves in mysterious ways.

Speaking of, no sooner has he gripped this chick right enough to preserve some flesh on his arm when he hears Elvis voice booming:

“Enough with the goddamn food! For fucks sake, Tammy! Enough! Ginger put that down or so help me–”

Everyone may want to kill each other in this room but no one, absolutely no one, wants to see Elvis grab a gun. And so, just like that, utter quiet and peace is restored.

He looks quite impressive for a man in a tented tracksuit and ruffled hair, a man who just got off the floor with a grunt and creak of his knees, no doubt. But that don’t matter now, none of those human things apply when The King is pissed. And holy shit, Jerry thinks he’s rarely seen him so angry–it’s that chilly blue suppressed sorta fury that freaks the boys out more than the hotel room trashing fits of red rage.

“Jerrah, the hell’s goin’ on throwin’ food in ma house?”

Jerry looks down at the blonde in his arms and his shredded forearms hoping Elvis will maybe take pity. Unlikely. And so he man’s up with, “Sorry boss, so sorry, we’ll get it cleaned up ‘fore ya know it-“

“Goddamn right y’all will.” Elvis seethes and Jerry sees the pretty young thing he had under him shrink behind him in the foyer at this glimpse of his wrath. As if sensing her movement with those eyes in the back of his head that only Elvis Presley seems blessed with, the boss man pulls himself together with all the haughty showmanship that only he can possess and holds his finger up as if to freeze everyone in their current position before turning around to his little sweetie.

“Baby girl, I want you to go outside an’ get in the passenger seat of the Stutz, a’right?” Elvis directs and underlying it is the explanation that the ugly work of throwing out her predecessor ain’t for her pretty eyes to witness or sweet lil ears to hear. “Lamar’s probably still eatin’ in the kitchen, ya can get the keys from him.”

A whimper sounds from behind him, and it’s Ginger’s. The genuine pain of the sound makes Gigi waiver, a pained look of sympathy and torn intentions flashing across her face. Then his ringed hand cups her fresh young cheek and it seals her fate, submissive as a lamb she melts into that touch, and her eyes drift back to his. They’re so sure, those burning sapphire eyes of his, so sure of where her future is and so intense in their intention for it. Someone who looks so beautiful can’t be as cruel as he feels capable of, surely? Surely.

Jerry watches Gigi’s bare feet patter to the kitchen, looking like a kid shuffling to time out in their dad’s jacket. He can’t think on it for too long because as soon as Elvis hears the suction of the back door opening and closing he turns around to the mosh pit that his living room had become.

“When I get back,” he's addressing those of his boys present–they know he is– and Jerry considers himself one of them still, “I expect this mess,” he gesticulates to the spattered food and his once intended in-laws with a single, bejeweled, disdainful finger, “tidied up.”

It’s not until he too has disappeared out back amidst deathly quiet in the living room that Jerry realizes he’s still holding Tammy Anderson. Not that he can think on it for long. Not when he has a PR nightmare sized mess to clean up.

Hopefully Elvis’s drive is worth it.

Taglist: (let me know if you’d like to be added)

@prompted-wordsmith

@parodsal000

@ab4eva

@stylespresleyhearted

@presleyenterprise

@kendralavon7

@coolgirl462

@colahola

@lillypink

@stephthestallion

@vintageshanny

@landmermaid12

@ashtag2887

@notstefaniepresley

@butlersluvbot

@steph-speaks

@eliseinmemphis

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@ellie-24

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@richardslady121

@lilycherries123

@18lkpeters

@xenaspace3-blog

@lil-mamas-obsessions

@father-of-2cats

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raes-writing-space · 2 months

Text

My Comfort Characters + Comfort Prompts!

Alright! Since it's Spring Break I'm going to try and get some writing done with some of my comfort characters. They might be short prompts (unless I get really into them) but I'll try and post at least one story a day, maybe even two if I have the time!

SOME OF THESE WILL HAVE MATURE THEMES AND MENTIONS OF TRAUMA. TW: SA Mention in one of Matthew's Prompts.

Here is the characters with the prompts that I'll be going for (some based off of my own experiences but put in a way that others can relate to.):

Dick Grayson/Nightwing - Being Touch Starved/Wanting A Hug (General Comfort) Sometimes being a hero is taxing, and when your body is trained to handle blow after blow... sometimes a hug is enough to make you release a lot of feelings you didn't know you were even holding in. Dick Grayson notices your change in demeanor, and just does a simple act of giving you a long hug and telling you it's going to be okay.

Tadashi Hamada - Academic Burnout Comfort After doing your best in your academics, you still feel like you're falling behind or just on the wrong academic path in general. Tadashi helps comfort reader that if they want to take a break and rethink things, it's totally okay.

Matthew Anderson - Having To Grow Up Too Fast/Lack of Childhood Comfort After having to take care and deal with so many traumatic things at a young age, it's made you feel like an adult, even when you weren't. Now that you are an adult, looking back and realizing you couldn't just be a kid and have a normal childhood really upsets you. Matthew comforts the character and shows them that while it might not be the same, it's still possible to just act like a kid and heal your inner child.

AND (TW: SA Mention) Matthew Anderson - Respecting Boundaries Comfort You and Matthew have been dating for awhile. However, you're finding a hard time telling him about your past experience with being sexually assaulted. When Matthew starts noticing that you're starting to distance yourself from him before things start to heat up, he asks if you're okay and comfortable with him. When you tell him the truth, he comforts you and tells you that he will always love you regardless if you want to have sex or not.

Yuji Itadori - Perfectionist Tendencies Leading To Self-Esteem Issues Comfort You've been wanting to become an jujutsu sorcerer and help people your whole life, but you hold yourself to a different standard. After making a tiny mistake (which does not feel tiny to you at all) you start to doubt that you'll ever be good enough. Yuji comforts the reader and tells them that we can't all be perfect all the time, that we need to forgive ourselves from time to time, and we can only strive to do our best.

Obey Me! Satan - Learning Disability/Gifted Child Burnout Comfort You used to be great with academics when you were younger, and maybe in some subjects you still are just as good. But now that you're older and in a completely new academic environment, no one but Satan sees how you struggle to study, and stress yourself out to the point of crying when the words on the page seem to get jumbled up and not make sense to you. Satan helps you take a break, then helps make the studying process a little bit easier.

Ruggie Bucchi - Not Knowing When To Take A Break Comfort You're the type of person who is so used to being tasked with everything. Cleaning, cooking, studying, and caring for others, but that means you tend to forget to take care of yourself a lot. After feeling overwhelmed by the tasks you have to do, you make yourself on the verge of being sick because you can't seem to just pause anything. Ruggie helps the reader by forcing them to sit down before they collpase, and helps share the load with the reader and shows that it's possible to let other people take care of them too.

Cove Holden - Struggling With Things Changing Comfort Takes place around Step 3, when all of your friends and family are taking about their plans for the future, you start to realize what that exactly means. The feelings hit you all at once that things aren't going to be the same anymore, and while you're happy for your friends and family, the change still scares you. Cove reminds you that no matter what happens, he will always be there for you through everything, and that while things are changing, some things will always stay the same.

#Comfort Characters Comfort Prompts #dick grayson x reader #tadashi hamada x reader #cove holden x reader #matthew anderson x reader #obey me satan x reader #ruggie bucchi x reader #yuji itadori x reader #update

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seijorhi · 4 months

Note

Hey Rhi 👋

It’s been established that I’m completely obsessed with your fic “Means to an End” and I was wondering if you could PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE just spare me a couple more crumbs!!!!! Whether it’s just a couple of backstory ideas that didn’t make it into the fic, outtakes, lil fun facts, more info on the twins and readers highschool drama, or more info on Atsumu and Ames relationship, LITERALLY ANYTHING.

At this point I’m starving 😔, you could throw me a bone and I would die happy.

OBVIOUSLY I don’t want to force you or anything, if you’re not comfortable with doing any of those things, or if I overstepped a boundary, than I’m sorry and I understand. I wouldn’t be at all booty hurt.

This is just me being desperate, delusional, and annoying 😭. ( I was going to ask some questions but my mind is blanking for some reason 😃)

With that being said, hope you keep your mental and physical health 🆙. And in case nobody’s told you this today, we love and support you babe ☆*:.｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆

-🌫️🌬️

nonnie do not let it be said that i leave y'all to starve

atsumu's not usually the grateful type.

some might argue that he should be. the talent he's been blessed with, the opportunities that came with it – but what none of those whiny little piss-ants seem to understand is that those things weren't given to him. he worked for them. hours on the court, practicing with samu, competing against him. drills, endless fucking drills, running til he puked, set after set after set, serve after serve after serve until he was practically fuckin' flawless.

he won't be grateful for his teammates, or his coaches, not even for samu. they worked their asses off to get where they are, too, and samu– samu's his other half. a part of him. it'd be like being grateful for his right foot or grateful for his lungs.

you certainly didn't trip and just fall into their laps – onto your knees, pretty mouth begrudgingly parted – back then, either. never let it be said that he and osamu half ass these things.

but as the girl behind the counter lays out her tray, glittering, shiny – expensive – pieces splayed out to show him, atsumu decides that maybe he has to rethink that.

because he is grateful, really.

ame might as well be a gift, wrapped in ribbon and fucking lace, delivered right into his hands. his sweet, eager to please, idiot girlfriend. atsumu grins, hardly listening to the sales assistant prattle on about the collection – but to his credit, he pretends, throwing in a nod and thoughtful hum every now and then.

'just get her a decent looking fake, s'not like she's gonna know,' samu had said. 'why waste the money?' the why bother goes unsaid.

osamu's not wrong, exactly. he isn't in love with ame, some days he can't stand her. she's fucking annoying at the best of times. ame's not the end goal here – more of a means to that end – but he's not gonna sit and pretend he's not kinda looking forward to breaking her heart and kicking her to the kerb.

but if ame's been good for one thing – if he's grateful to her for anything – it's that she making all this so damn easy.

always chattering, giggling, smiling, bulldozing over your worries and fears. not that you told her the full truth. he doubts that even she'd be able to overlook that, but you told her enough that would've raised some serious red flags with anyone else.

not ame. not his girlfriend. your best friend, supposedly.

what's there to worry about? he and samu, they've grown up since high school, matured, lost that mean streak of theirs. she's so in love with the idea of him that she can't even imagine the atsumu you're intimately familiar with.

he almost died laughing when, at dinner the other night, she'd bashfully admitted to wanting to play a little matchmaker with you and osamu over the weekend. like he and samu haven't already seen you naked, fucked you – claimed you as theirs in every way that counts.

and sure, you've always been easy enough to manipulate to where they want you. even without ame this reprieve of yours was only ever gonna be a temporary thing – til they got their shit together, at least – but fuck it all if she wasn't going out of her way to make it a nice, smooth transition.

he glances up at the sales girl, a grin already taking shape. 'the earrings.' he says, jabbing a finger at the diamonds, 'i'll take 'em.'

she deserves something nice, considering he's just so damn grateful for her help in all of this.

#but also #do not expect this on the reg #i had a thought and i ran with it #this brain is a temperamental piece of equipment #gotta hit it with a spanner just right before it clicks on and starts spewing stuff out #it is now firmly tapped out #fhdjkslfdjs #fic asks #means to an end #-🌫️🌬️ anon

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yyutsuu · 10 months

Note

hi! your imagine was amazing, thank you so much for answering. i hope you don’t mind but may i request a mycroft x reader again but with some angst, where they have a really bad argument? they can break up or reconcile - it’s up to you!

Argument -Mycroft Holmes x GN Reader-

———

!! Angst with comfort !!

Gender Neutral reader

!! TW !! : Argument and smoking/nicotine mentions

Romantic relationship

———

Word count: 1098 words

A/n: (I have returned !!) I chose to have a happy ending, I hope you’re fine with that ! I also have no idea what the argument should be about, so I did not specify it, I hope you also do not mind that

This is serving as such a good distraction from the suffocating air in this plane 😭😭

———

It was a rainy day, both on the inside and out. You are laying on a relaxing and comfortable bed, the one that you and Mycroft shared. Usually, the two of you would be resting together, but last night was contradictive. Mycroft did not return home, he had most likely been staying in his office for the night.

You knew clearly what was the cause of this, during the night before yesterday, the two of you had an argument, not pleasant at all. “I despise you.” His words hurt like a excruciating stab wound, engraved onto your brain, haunting you.

The curtains were not open, but a faint luminescence emits still from them. The silence filling the air is harmonized by the rain, softly tapping at your window. At first, the tapping was simply background music, but now it seemed to become louder and louder, driving you to the brink of insanity as you hid under the warm blanket.

You decide to finally let go of the comforting embrace of your blanket which is as soft as a feather. You begin to sit up against the chilly bed frame. Your eyes are slightly swollen from the tears of last night mixed with the fact how you did not get the recommended amount of sleep, no, way less than that.

You simply sit there, blankly staring down the thin strips of light that had succeeded in escaped the cover of the gloomy curtains. You slowly and painfully recall the recent events, fatigue weighing down on you as you do.

It was presumptively one of the worst fights you’ve ever had with Mycroft, not psychical, but equally painful. You sat on your soft bed, rethinking the whole conversation over and over again, recalling every single tiny detail as if it only happened seconds ago.

By the time you realized you should perhaps head out for a breather, hours had passed since you sat up, the rain had died down. Getting out of bed was not difficult, you were wide awake ages ago. The very moment you step out from your blanket, the icy cold air bites at your skin.

After getting dressed and brushing your teeth you head straight outside, forgetting about breakfast entirely. It wasn’t too early in the morning, you stuff your house keys into your pocket, the sound of steady footsteps arising from your shoes. The air was particularly nice, cool and fresh, just what you needed.

The grass was damp, water droplets still resting on the emerald leaves that sprout from the earthy dirt. Every wave of sound was automatically blocked out by your ears, granting you the calmness you had wished for. The frown painted on your face, at long last, disappeared.

It was late in the evening when you finally returned home. During your stroll you had purchased some delectable food at a befitting bakery and had a cup of warm coffee.

You approach the front door to your and Mycroft’s shared house. By the amount of times you saw the door, you could tell when someone entered after you left. After you left the door, it had been unlocked from the outside and then locked from the inside. You stood there, slowly extending a hand to unlock the door, puzzled at who could and would enter.

It appeared you forgot about him, you had forgotten about Mycroft for a good couple of hours. “Mycroft…” You mutter, your memory finally refreshes as you unconsciously say his name. Your hand movements stop entirely, freezing up on the spot.

Your heart races, you don’t quite know what to do, open the door or stay out for longer? You knew deep down, the argument did not result into hate for Mycroft, you had said some pretty hurtful things too, but you just didn’t know at all what to do to fix the relationship.

You take a deep breath and place the keys into the keyhole, turning them as your ear takes in the sound of a familiar click. With your shaking hands, you turn the door handle and push the door open.

You look around and observe the room, Mycroft was most certainly present in the area, his once shiny shoes sitting near the front door accompanied with the difference in placement of a chair at the dining table proved that. After taking off your shoes and carefully placing them next to the door you walk around.

He was not in any room, not sitting on any furniture, you had searched most rooms. It was until you plopped yourself down on the couch you felt a small breeze graze your skin, it was coming from the sliding glass doors to the balcony along with a faint smell of nicotine.

You approach the balcony doors, brushing the silky curtains to the side, revealing the sight of Mycroft standing on the balcony. His back was turned to you but you could spot the smoke forming from each drag of the cigarette he made. It is without a doubt, you were not happy at all with Mycroft’s actions, he had promised he would avoid smoking a while ago, keeping his promise until now.

You slide open the glass door, Mycroft immediately puts out the cigarette on an ashtray and turns around to face you, as if nothing occurred at all a second ago. As he turns to face you, you can observe and notice that his lips are quite dry, the cigarette he had clearly wasn’t his first in a while. In addition to that there are very visible eye bags, he wasn’t getting enough sleep.

The moment the two of your eyes met, tears spill from Mycroft’s eyes, he had evidently been holding it in for quite a while. He walks towards you and holds you in a tight embrace. “Please, just allow me to do this for a while,” Mycroft whispers. You are caught off guard by this.

After some time you both head inside and make some tea. Eventually, the two of you talk about the matter and came to an agreement. Mycroft had also promised he would try his best to avoid turning to nicotine no matter what happens.

The following night was better than every other one you experienced, the two of you holding each other in an embrace while sleeping peacefully under the familiar warm blanket. The aftertaste of the argument entirely washed away. The both of you finally being able to receive sleep, the rain had begun again, but this time it was in forms of soft and calming taps on the window.

———

-yyutsuu on Tumblr and Wattpad-

!! Please refrain from reposting my work without permission !!

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eijiroukiriot · 6 months

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why do you see bkg as trans?

i've had this ask sitting in my drafts since like august BECAUSE i knew if i did the question justice it was gonna get VERY long and pretty personal - if i'm gonna talk about it then i gotta talk about it in all earnest. and you've given me the floor to talk about it. so!!

at first i had these typed out as two separate points but i think they go a lot more hand-in-hand than that, so to start - when i think about my own gender and why i can't bring myself to identify fully with womanhood a lot of it is because there's something that feels so free about masculinity. mostly just like because of womanhood on a societal level a lot of my experience as a girl forever has been "you need to think about how your existence makes other people feel. you really need to present yourself in a way that's pleasant for other people. the way you look, the way you talk, the way you conduct yourself - people are entitled to having a say in all that. and if any of that isn't living up to the way it's supposed to be, then that's a fault of yours." here's a vent post i made when i was 17:

which is mostly really superficial examples of the suffocating expectation of girlhood but it's also so blatantly about bkg. in the moment my thought process was more like "i'm so deeply unsatisfied with so many parts of being a girl, it sounds like there'd be so many less people to answer to if i were a boy" but it's funny reading back on it bc it's like "dude are you just talking about bkg". but then who's a better example of choosing to stomp through life exactly as loud and rude as he wants to be without answering to anyone than bakugou katsuki!! honest about his thoughts in any case!! free to speak as bluntly and rudely as he wants!! never putting up with shit that makes him feel unlike himself!! walks with big wide steps and wears stupid baggy clothes and doesn't care what people have to say about it and doesn't feel worse if they do disagree. grins crazy blasting himself through the air. fights with big windup swings and shouts all the while. huge huge presence and so unafraid to assert it. named himself great・explosion・murder・god dynamight. i think i project a big sense of defiance onto bkg's character because everything he is just feels so defiant to me. there's just a lot that i admire about boyhood and bkg feels like the embodiment of it to me

and then you've got bkg himself, who like- isn't even fulfilling the "doesn't feel worse about himself if he is genuinely not the greatest or kindest" part of it!! bkg's character is so centered around figuring out who he is and like navigating through the mortifying ordeal of existing and not actually liking the person you are and trying to figure out where to go from there- he really thinks he has so much to prove...both in the sense that he DOES want to project this big image and also that he really can't cut himself a break. and then he freaks out when he's not becoming the person he wants to be and picks a fight with deku over it and totally breaks down and picks himself back up and forces himself to seriously rewire the entire view of himself and others that he's had his entire life - he's 16 - and goes to all this teeth-clenching effort to be a better person and has highs and lows and wears himself raw and then comes back to life. well the quality of the later part of his arc is very debatable. but his character is so about just figuring out who he is and kind of failing at it a lot of the time. and then eventually figuring it out and getting confident and stable in it. he makes friends who rib on him because they know he's got a good heart under it all, and moreover he lets them. he gets good at shouting something back and carrying on. you see the amount of conscious thinking it takes him to take some of those steps - rethinking his relationship with deku, the god am i really fucking doing this scoff before he gives kirishima back the money - but a lot of it is just steady growth. growing up. genuinely getting more comfortable and more okay with himself over time. but there's also all these little failures along the way because he's just a kid figuring it out, and also genuinely this anger towards the world for not understanding it when he does assert himself (sports festival....where deku also specifically notes that he knows he's not as confident as he wants to be!)

i haven't really closely reread bnha in a sec so a lot of this is probably a lot of projecting (i know it's undeniably influenced by the picture of bkg i have in my head) and i probably also didn't really clarify anything, because in the end everything bakugou is feels very trans to me. "the image you have of bkg katsuki in your head can actually be so personal" etc. digging into my archives i found this post from years back where i described basically the same stuff about bkg being a teen figuring himself out and saying "so yeah he's trans" without being able to hit it more on the head. kirishima is my favorite most special boy of all time, and i love him in so many ways, but bkg is my cringefail stinky teen boy in w the unshatterable determination to actually go MAKE himself the person he wants to be, no matter how many missteps he makes on the way there. it brings me a lot of comfort to imagine him being a self-made man as a part of the because gender is so confusing and questioning can be so intense. i'm 23 and i'm typing all this about an anime boy so i hope it's evident what a soul-bearingly honest answer this is bc otherwise oh haha embarrassing. but yeah i love that kid. i hope every little victory and day where his voice sounds good to him and glance of his top scars in the mirror feels like one of the high points on the journey

#bc i'm teaching in japan now right? trying every day to be a version of myself that i enjoy and that can bring good to the world etc #and i never...almost NEVER talk about my hero academia. with anyone #like a year ago in a jet dnd group i was telling a friend abt how i don't talk about bnha in class #and i said something about how like putting kirishima in a slideshow of mine would be like 'bearing a deep dark part of my soul'#and she was like. what? how? it's my hero academia #i agree. i also think i should be more like 'my hero academia is a show i like. i like bkg bc he's cool'#it really is just very important to me after all this time #anyway this is a lottttt a lot of personal rambling for a blog that i don't take as good care of as i should #but i couldn't give half an answer #ty for giving me a chance to talk about this and if you are seeing this i hope you're having a nice fall!!!#to anyone reading this i hope you're having a nice fall #asks

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kitsoa · 20 days

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Since becoming a partial/full-time mute with my diagnosis, I keep thinking maybe I'll gain better habits about interjecting literally anything that comes to my mind during casual conversation. But nahhhh I'm pretty sure it's making me worse. I can feel myself vibrate with tangible thoughts as my siblings are musing about shit. I'll type it in my speech reading app but it takes too long. And then I have to type preemptively knowing I'm gonna lose the context of my comment. Positively maddening.

It's hard for me to express my support or feel like an attentive and positive friend. I've already had to clarify to a friend of mine that I'm not harboring any hostile feelings. I'm pretty good at communicating that usually. My ASL lessons have paused a little as I prioritize just isolating myself instead of the temptation of just being with people. I have to mentally prepare before social situations cause I have to condition myself to be cognizant of my choices. It's not good to isolate, but like, it's probably where I am most comfortable right now.

My recovery timeframe has extended significantly since my recent check up. I hit the 2 month mark on Monday and I will have a follow up with the same prescription of tasks in another 2 months. If surgery is brought up, I have zero clue how I'm going to begin the next teaching year under the restrictions of surgery recovery which is remarkably more unforgiving than what I'm doing now. I'm only grateful that I'm hitting the summer break soon. I hate that I'm not working, but I'm actually opening up painting commissions to help my situation out. My greatest worry is that this won't be enough.

Some pros right now is that I'm losing weight with all this rest and strict diet, though it's occurred to me I've got some nutrients deficiencies since I was exhausted shopping at a super market with my mom. Haa. The free time away from work, though ending very soon, has been the biggest weight off my shoulders and it has me rethinking how I commit myself to things.

Emotionally I've been struggling with the lack of singing. I was told not to listen to music that much to help with this but I can't really follow that. I just want to sing. And sing loud. And sing joyfully. And sing with my friends and strangers alike. It makes me so happy to just use my voice frequently and casually. I visited the church I work at for the first time in many weeks and it was pleasant to see people and they missed me, but sitting in the congregation with the damn hymnal unable to sing just rubbed salt in the wounds. I don't think I'll be going again at least for a few weeks.

This is probably where I'm most honest about this journey as I have so many faces to upkeep on Facebook. I can't imagine telling all my acquaintances the bad news that this effort is not paying off as much. What started as a silly musing about being a little adhd chatterbox turned into an entire update haha. I got this...

#personal stuff #mute #voice recovery journey #recovery journey

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hairrington · 2 years

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Fighting with Fire

Summary: Life has been too hectic to start a relationship, so you're not looking for anything serious. When a fellow bar patron you remember from high school named Steve Harrington re-enters your life, it makes you rethink things.

In which Steve pines/pains for female reader even though she warns him that she's not looking for a relationship. Takes place in S4, P1. CW: substance use, lime. Requested by anon. Based on "Love on the Brain" by Rihanna. Gif credit: raquelsgifs.

Hawkins' best bar is The Stingray. And that's because, and only because, everyone knows they don't check ID's. Everything else about it kind of sucks.

You'd been to the establishment a few times in high school, but it became a go-to spot since you entered sophomore year in college.

The college is two hours away from your hometown of Hawkins - you visit home every two or three weeks, but even though your time at the house is limited now, you still need breaks from your parents. Especially with the way this year is going.

So you come to the dodgy but usually peaceful Stingray, order a beer, listen to the rock playing on the speakers, and give yourself a chance to think, outside of your tiny dorm and outside of your family home. Even with the bar's limited drink choice and sticky floors, it's better than nothing.

It’s Friday night of Spring Break, and instead of partying up at college, you’re burnt out, nursing a beer at the bar. You look down at your drink, turning the glass in your hands as it rests on the counter.

Sophomore year has hit you like a truck. First year was hard enough, but now your classes have gotten ten times more challenging, your new roommate is a nightmare, and you feel like your body has forgotten how to have fun. On top of all that, you keep a happy face around your family so they won't worry about how stressed out you really are.

Here, at The Stingray, you don’t have to pretend. You can just exist. And even though the light beer will do nothing to change your mood or state of mind, it's the experience that calms you down.

Down the bar, a row of seats away, Steve Harrington is sipping on a ginger-ale. It's not because he doesn't want alcohol. It's because he never knows when he's going to have to spring into action. This past week has been a whirlwind. Before this week, life had gotten back to normal after the Starcourt fire, even with some of the group gone to California. His days were predictable.

Not anymore. A creature they'd all called Vecna had caused grotesque murders in Hawkins, reestablishing the citizens' belief in a town-wide curse. He'd just watched Max almost get taken away from them, got attacked by demobats, and gotten some seriously mixed messages from his ex, Nancy.

He, said ex, Robin, and Eddie had just safely escaped the Upside Down via a gate in Eddie's trailer a few hours ago, and he desperately needs time to decompress. So he went home, took a shower, reapplied clean bandages, and made his way over here to finally be alone.

But when he notices you across the bar, sitting in a stool and staring down at your drink, he knows you look familiar.

Steve runs through his memories, then finally settles on what he's been looking for: he knows you from his twelfth grade history class. And you're even prettier than he remembers.

Steve came here to relax - and what better way to do that than to flirt with a pretty girl? Taking his glass of ginger-ale, and hoping you don't notice he's drinking a fizzy soda meant to relieve upset tummies, he slides in the stool kitty-corner from you.

When Steve approaches you, your instinct is to get annoyed. This is your time to be alone. But when you see the familiar handsome face, your knee-jerk reaction is to smile.

"I know you," he says, his voice smooth. You want to play it cool - of course you know him, too. It's Steve Harrington. Good-looking, charming, everybody-likes-him Steve Harrington. You won't give him the satisfaction of showing you remember him, though.

"From school?" you ask, playing clueless.

"Yeah. Steve," he says, unfazed. "You were in my history class."

After giving him your name, you think back to that class you hadn't thought about in two years.

"That class was brutal," you say, remembering the amount of essays you were assigned. It was nothing compared to the ones you were in now - but you didn't want to give him a sob story. At least not this soon into the conversation.

"I think I finished with a C," Steve recalls, ruffling his hair, suddenly self-conscious as you look at him.

"I can't even remember," you say. "Feels like ages ago."

"What are you up to now?" Steve asks. He's hopeful you're like him - still stuck in Hawkins, working a dead-end job.

"I go to State," you answer. Steve swallows hard, dreading having to answer when it's his turn. "Visiting home now and this is where I come to just... take a break from everything."

"Oh," Steve says as embarrassment pangs his chest. "Shit, I don't mean to bother you-"

"You aren't," you answer truthfully and maybe a little to eagerly. He gives you a heart-stopping smile. Yup, he somehow got even hotter since high school.

"So, you're taking a break," he says. "Stressed?"

"Only when I'm awake," you answer. It makes Steve chuckle. He knows about that, too.

"What are you studying?"

You tell him your major and start to vent a bit - about your schedule, your due dates, your lack of sleep. Afterwards, you sigh. So much for no sob story.

"Sorry to unload like that," you say. Steve doesn't care - you're cute and you're talking to him. He's happy.

"In a weird way, it's refreshing," Steve tells you. "I keep hearing about how awesome college is. It gets old."

You smirk, surmising that he must be either working or just living off his parents' dime. You remember that he was wealthy in high school. Probably still is.

"It's not all it's cracked up to be, trust me," you admit. You take a slow pull of your beer.

"You come down often?" Steve asks.

"Maybe twice a month, give or take," you answer. "Although it's been scary around here lately. My parents are one more news story from packing up and moving out of here."

Steve nods, looking down into the bubbles of his drink, thinking back to all he'd seen today. The news stories don't even begin to cover what's really happening in Hawkins.

"I keep hearing stuff about the town being cursed," Steve says. "Makes you wonder why bad things keep hitting us." He doesn't wonder. He knows why. But he's not about to tell a girl at a bar that monsters exist and he fights them sometimes.

"So, how do you spend your time in this terrifying place?" you ask, half-joking.

"I work down at the video store," Steve tells you, eager to change the subject. You, however, are not.

"Do you get to watch movies at work?" you ask with an adorable smile.

"We're not allowed to, but we do when it's slow," he says. This earns another smile from you. "Just finished that Ferris Bueller one."

"That's a good one," you say. "But high school is never like the movies, is it?"

"No shitty history classes, for one," Steve says with a tilt of his head. You laugh, resting your chin in your hands, thinking Steve Harrington could be the perfect distraction.

You spend the next hour talking about movies, music, and where people from high school are now. Steve lives up to the reputation he always had - he's charming and confident and admittedly cool - but he surprises you with his kindness and what a good listener he is. You didn't come here looking for a hook-up, but you think you just found one.

Your beer is long finished and you would've left by now, but the conversation is too good to abandon. The bar, however, starts to get more packed and it gets harder to hear each other.

You compensate by speaking louder and getting closer, which gives you a chance to see up close why Steve was always known for his good looks, when finally you get impatient.

"It's loud in here," you tell him, frustrated enough by the noise to just suggest what you've been thinking about for the past while. "My car's just outside. You wanna just hang out there?"

Steve doesn't need to be asked twice. As he follows you out of the bar, he realizes he hasn't thought about the mess of the Upside Down for over an hour now. You're interesting, sweet, and best of all, fun. He needs fun.

When the two of you settle into the car, parked along the side of the building, there is no more noise to distract you. You look at each other with mirrored smiles. God, he's handsome.

"My ears are still ringing," Steve jokes, mainly just to say something.

"I'm usually out of there by this time," you say. You look at your watch - it's well past 11:00. "I never asked you what you were doing there."

"Same as you," he says. "Needed a breather."

He hopes you don't follow up - thankfully you're too eager to kiss him to do so.

When you lean forward, Steve closes the distance quickly, meeting your lips with his.

Fingers tangle in hair and find their way under shirts, and a few minutes in, you pull back, breathing quickly, to give him a disclaimer you doubt he needs.

"I'm not looking for anything serious, okay?" you say.

"Fine by me," Steve says, eager to get back to kissing you. It's intoxicating for him. He'd been on dates recently, but he hadn't felt connected to anyone like this in a very long time.

He wonders to himself if he even felt connected to Nancy like he does to you after just one conversation.

The windows fog as you two continue to make out, and when it starts to get heated, Steve kissing your neck, lips sucking, you lightly moan.

"This is as far as I take it in a car," you tell him breathily. "And I don't have a place we can go."

"I do," he says, then steels and pulls back. "Shit. I don't." His parents, usually away, are actually home. Just his luck.

You look at each other, knowing what this means. You sigh, grabbing your purse to fish out a pen, and take his palm, realizing just how big his hands are. You ink your phone number onto his skin.

"Call me when you do," you say with a giggle. "I should be getting home."

Steve is dejected. He was having an amazing time with you. But he just smirks, giving you a parting kiss on the cheek, and heads towards his own car, alone.

---

The next night, you're poring over an unbelievably boring textbook in your old bedroom when you hear the phone ring. You let your mom or dad pick it up, but when your mom shouts up the stairs that it's for you, you pick up the receiver resting on your desk.

"Hello?"

"So, you didn't give me a fake number," Steve says on the other end.

"Ah, crap, I meant to," you say. "Muscle memory, though."

Steve lowly chuckles on the other end and it sends butterflies raging in your stomach.

"I got the place to myself," Steve tells you. Admittedly, Steve was elated when his parents left to go over to friends'. He knew they always stayed pretty late and it gave him the perfect opportunity to call the girl who'd be on his mind all day.

"Tonight?" you ask.

"Yeah," he says. "We should be good until around midnight. Maybe later." Excited, you ask for Steve's address and start getting ready right away.

When you pull up to Steve's street, you realize he must have said "the place" because "house" would have been inaccurate. It's a damn mansion.

When he opens the door, he's standing under warm lighting instead of the patchy bar lightbulbs and dark car you'd seen him in. You realize just how bright his smile is, how hazel his eyes are.

"Hey," he says casually. In reality, he's nervous as hell.

"Hi." You step in.

"Did you eat? I could order a pizza," he says.

"I had dinner," you say. He shuts the door behind you.

"Okay, cool," he says. "I got some movies if you want to watch something."

"Sure," you say, knowing over five minutes of whatever film you pick will not be viewed.

Sure enough, you're making out on the couch in a matter of minutes, picking up right where you left off. Steve is good with his lips and even better with his hands, and you revel in the pleasure he gives you.

He asks you your expectations, and when you tell him you don't want to go all the way but do want to get pretty close to it, Steve is more than happy. You two fool around and both of you think you click so well that it feels like you'd done it before - but neither of you mention that to each other.

Shortly after, you're back in the conditions you were in when you first arrived, but much more relaxed. With Steve lying on the couch and you propped up next to him, he looks down at you, running his fingers up and down your arm.

"That was fun," he says, making you giggle.

"I like fun," you reply.

"Me, too," Steve says. "I'm glad I bothered you last night."

"You didn't," you says with a laugh. "You actually took my mind off a lot. And that's hard to do."

"Same for me," he says.

"I know this defeats the purpose," you say. You look up at him, trying to focus on his next words and not on how he smells like the sexiest combination of cologne and hairspray. "But what were you trying to take your mind off of?"

He can't answer honestly, but he can get close.

"Hawkins and all the crazy shit going on," Steve says. "I care about a lot of people around here. I don't want them to get hurt."

Steve thinks about Robin, Dustin, the rest of the kids. You stop for a moment to take his words in.

"That is way more noble than my whining about college," you say. "And now I feel like a brat." Steve laughs, throwing his head back as he puts a warm hand on your shoulder.

"You heading back tomorrow?" he asks.

"Yeah," you say. "Got a group presentation Monday. Then an exam on Wednesday. See, this is why I can't have a boyfriend. I barely have a minute to myself."

You chuckle, but hope you've made yourself clear.

"What's your dorm phone number? So I can call you if your roommate ever stops hogging the phone." You laugh, surprised he remembers that detail from your rant the night before.

"I'll just call you when I'm back in town," you say. It's worrying. Steve calling you back at campus may get into boyfriend territory - territory you just stated that you do not want to travel.

Your answer stings, but Steve tells himself to drill a very important fact into his head before he gets too excited: you're not interested in a relationship. You just said so.

"When will that be?" he asks, immediately regretting the words. That might be too needy.

"Probably in a couple of weeks," you answer. You hope this man isn't getting too attached. You have zero capacity for a boyfriend right now.

"Cool," Steve tries to say smoothly. The two of you restart the movie and don't talk about who should call whom again.

---

The following Wednesday, you get a call from your mother reminding you about your cousin's birthday party that Saturday. A party you completely forgot about. You sigh to yourself, already dreading the drive.

You had meant to ask your best friend from Hawkins to come with you - but she was booked solid at her part-time job that weekend.

You think of Steve. Sweet, charming, fun Steve.

You hesitate before calling him, concerned he'll see this as more than it is - it's just a no-strings attached date. But you figure it's fine.

When Steve answers the phone and realizes it's you, his heart begins to race. It feels traitorous almost - you've said twice now that you're not looking for a boyfriend.

"Sure, that sounds fun," Steve says after you tell him the details.

"You sure?" you say. "Again, this is a tenth birthday party."

Steve laughs. He doesn't want to say it, but he thinks going anywhere with you would be fun.

***

When Saturday rolls around, Steve puts extra attention into how he looks. As he fixes his hairstyle in the mirror, he wonders if he's handsome enough, you'll change your mind on not wanting a boyfriend.

He knows it's ridiculous, and at this point, he's only torturing himself by hanging out with you, but he's never been very good at taking a balanced approach.

Everything has been going wrong - Vecna still hadn't been defeated and the group was just as confused about who he was since everything started. He needed something to take his mind off of things.

You had given him the address, and when knocks on the door and a woman he doesn't know answers, he asks for your name. The house is already a circus - children are screaming and adults are running around - but when the stranger who opened the door points to you, Steve's stomach goes numb.

"Hey!" you say sweetly, walking up to him. He's surprised when you wrap your arms around him, loving the smell of your perfume. "Thank you for coming. My aunt is insane. I need a friend. And a drink."

Steve gives you a forced smile at the word "friend." He's been able to casually date before and have relationships that are solely focused on the physical stuff, but it's never been this hard for him to know it's not going anywhere.

"Turns out they only have apple juice," you say.

"You're telling me there's no booze at this kids' party?"

"I was shocked, too," you joke. He laughs. You take a moment to notice just how nice his smile is.

The very aunt you were just talking about paces by, stopping to intrude as usual.

"You make a very cute couple," you aunt says.

"Again, we're just cute friends," you answer with a shake of your head. "But thank you."

She starts talking with Steve, and he's just as charming as ever, making conversation and asking all the right questions. He's be a great boyfriend in another world for another girl, but not here and not now.

You're inseparable the whole party, and you find out Steve is pretty good with kids. He looks to you a few times to translate what your toddler cousins are saying, but that's really the only support he needs.

After presents and cake, you give Steve a squeeze on the arm and smile.

"You did me a huge favor coming today," you tell him. He gazes into your eyes, unable to comprehend just how beautiful you are.

"It was fun," he says.

"You're just being nice."

"Am not."

"Are you free tonight?" you ask. After a full day of being charmed by Steve, you're eager to be alone with him with less clothes separating you.

"Yes," he answers without thinking.

***

That evening, your parents turn in early, and feeling like you're in high school again, you sneak a boy up to your room.

Steve seems pretty experienced with climbing through windows. This isn't surprising.

You immediately pull him towards you, meeting his lips and hoping he has the same thing in mind as you. He does.

Afterwards, you're lying in your bed with him, his arm wrapped around you, your cheek resting on his warm chest. It was amazing - just as you expected. You trace your fingers down Steve's abdomen, getting amused when he lightly jerks away.

"Ticklish?" you whisper.

"That's private," he says. You stifle a laugh not to wake your parents up. You look up at him, eyes travelling over his face.

"What happened here?" you ask. You had noticed the scar on his jaw before, but didn't want to ask. But Steve was intriguing. And he didn't seem closed off at all.

He can't be honest. He can't tell you it was a Russian soldier pummeling him for information. And if he did, he'd have to make sure you're sticking around. You've made it clear you're not.

"You know that fire that happened at the mall?" he asks. Your heart sinks. "It wasn't easy getting out."

Steve wonders if you can feel his increased heart-rate.

"Oh, my God," you say. "You were there?"

Steve nods, looking into your stunning eyes. He tells himself he better not be falling in love.

"Steve, that's insane," you say, resting your cheek back down on his chest. "I'm so glad you're okay."

If this is how you act with friends, Steve can only daydream about what a good girlfriend you'd be.

He stays until 3 am, whisper-talking with you for hours about anything and everything. Parting from you leaves a hole in his chest. As he quietly makes his way to his car parked down the street, he realizes he's too into you to walk away from this unscathed.

***

Tuesday morning, Steve is driving to work with Robin in the passenger seat. His mind is consumed by you.

He knows if he told you about the reality of his life - the fact that the Upside Down exists and that he's fought monsters both human and unhuman - you'd give him that supportive, caring look he's gotten so used to.

"...to figure it out. What do you think?" Robin asks.

"What?" Steve asks.

"You weren't listening to a word, were you?" she mutters.

"I'm..." Steve sighs. "It's a girl."

"When isn't it?" Robin scoffs.

"This time is different," Steve says. And it is. His recent girl problems seemed so surface-level now. He’s in love with you and he knows continuing to see you will just be torture.

But he knows he'll keep coming back for more.

***

It'd been a full week since you talked to Steve. That night in your bedroom was amazing - but it was very intimate. Romantic. Relationship territory.

Life has been too rough for you to worry about having a boyfriend. You felt you could hardly be your own person, let alone a girlfriend.

But when you've had one of the worst days of your life, you find you'd rather call him than be alone. Your roommate is visiting family a state away, so you call him that Saturday evening to come over.

Steve knows he's being an idiot saying yes, but he agrees to drive all the way up to you, two whole hours, just to kiss and touch you the way he'd only do with a girlfriend, with a girl who is looking for nothing serious with him at all.

He appears at the door with your favorite fast food and a big smile on his face.

"How did you know my favorite?" you ask, sort of amazed.

"I have a memory?" Steve answers with a sweet smile.

You invite him in and eat dinner with him. Steve steals glances of the posters and photos up on your side of the room as you sit at your desk together.

He asks questions about the photos and you answer them, telling Steve who the friends and family captured in the polaroids are. He recognizes some of the people from your cousin's birthday party, and it makes your heart warm with endearment.

"Why was today so bad?" Steve asks. You had vaguely told him on the phone that it was a rough one, but never went into it.

Steve listens as you tell him about the stress of your classes and how you're not sure you'll pass this year. You look so troubled, so stressed, and he wants so badly to take the pain away for you.

When you begin to cry, he pulls you in. Your face is nuzzled in his neck and you smell his familiar, comforting aroma. He lets you cry - just cry - and when you pull away, you see he looks heartbroken.

"I'm sorry," you sniffle.

"Don't be," he says. "I'm here for you."

"Why?" you laugh, wondering what it is about you that keeps him around.

"Because you're... great," he tells you. Perfect is too intense to say, he thinks.

"You drove two hours just to hear me cry and you're not even my boyfriend," you say. The last part comes out harsh. You didn't mean it to.

"What's with the constant reminders?" he asks. Steve's features harden. He knew he'd get hurt.

"I didn't mean..." you sigh. "I thought it was fine with you."

"It was, but..." Steve runs a hand through his hair. "It feels like we do all the relationship stuff without the titles."

"Why are the titles important?" you ask.

"They just are," he answers, frustrated. You're angry. The first night, he told you he was okay with this situation. As if he can read your mind, he speaks again.

"When we met, I didn't know this is what would happen," he says. "But you're right. I'm not your boyfriend."

Yet he's falling for you, tripping into a trap he thought he wouldn't trip into.

You take a deep breath in. You feel like he's seconds away from leaving. You sit across from each other, you on your bed and he on your desk chair in your quiet dorm room. Steve is undeniably the sweetest man you've ever known. But you fear that you can't give him what he wants.

"I'm a shitty girlfriend," you say. "You've seen what a mess my life is right now. I'd do nothing but stress you out."

"The only thing stressing me out is how you don't want to be with me and I can't figure out why."

"I just told you. I suck at relationships."

"So that's an excuse to never try?" he says.

You swallow hard and gaze down at your lap.

"You want me to try?" you ask.

"Obviously!" he exclaims. You meet Steve's hazel eyes and chew on your bottom lip. He's worth it. He's so worth it.

"I'm gonna suck at this," you warn him. His heart blooms at your words.

"Gonna?" he repeats. He smiles widely at you and you smile back. Steve is worth the risk. You know that now. You just wish you saw it sooner.

"You wanna do this?" you ask. "Really?"

"Really," he repeats. Steve kisses you deeply and it feels more vulnerable than all the other kisses you had shared.

You're gonna do this. If anyone is worth the risk, it's Steve Harrington. As he kisses you, he thinks the same about you.

---

Taglist: @calpurniatypes; @rexorangecouny; @slashersluttt; @baker151910; @ultrunning; @prettyboisteveharrington: @sunflowersturn; @mychemicalsleep; @milkiane; @alicetweven; @daenerystheradnotmad

#fic #steve harrington imagine #steve x reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fan fic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things imagine #steve and reader #steve and y/n #steve harrington and reader #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagines

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gurugirl · 2 years

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The Tiffany Club Part 19

Summary: Camille thinks Harry is with another woman, but her knee jerk reaction has consequences, and Harry has a decision to make

Warning: Angst, mentions of disordered eating/thinking

Part 18*

Part 19 - Camille

Everything I do I second guess in my life. My parents instilled in me that kind of thinking. It’s gone with me my whole life. I never feel fully confident when making a choice. I always have in the back of my mind that I made the wrong one, that the other shoe will drop at any moment. My major in school - still rethink that every day. My life choices, moving away from home and to the big city – was that a good idea? The milkshake I inhaled with all that fat – is that gonna go directly to my thighs? Not believing in God anymore and disagreeing with my parents – what if Jesus returns after all and I’m doomed to hell? Taking the job at Tiffany’s – could this also damn my eternal soul? Leaving the job at Tiffany’s – was it wise to throw away solid income? Moving in with Harry – will he just break my heart and leave me for someone else?

The only decision I’ve ever made that I felt secure in was adopting Barry. With that in my mind, and checked into a hotel close to the airport, I booked a flight back to New York City for the following day. There was no way I could stay here in London. Harry was clearly with another woman, who was calling him Daddy. It broke my heart, shattered all over the floor and crushed underfoot. I was supposed to be his girl, not anyone else, but just hearing another woman say it to him and so clearly for me to hear? Was he trying to get me to hear it?

Having me leave was probably exactly what he wanted. This was his plan all along. I blocked Harry’s number, not quite ready to hear from him. I needed to wallow and feel the misery of my bad decisions. I knew better than to fall in love and give myself over to Harry the way I did. I’d go back to New York, get Barry and my things, leave the key for Harry to find and then figure out where I would go. Did I want to go back to Tiffany’s? Where would I stay in the meantime? Everything I worked so hard for was down the drain. This was my fear and it all has just come true.

After very little sleep, the following morning I get a taxi to the airport. The airport is only a ten minute drive away, luckily.

Sitting at the terminal, waiting for the plane to begin boarding I start thinking of all the decisions I’ve made that led me to where I am. I sigh and try to hold in my tears. I'm wondering what Harry did last night. Was he with that other woman? Did he take her back to his flat hoping I left? Or did he fuck her in a hotel room and was surprised when he got back to his flat and I was gone. My mind was unkind and I was feeling awful about everything.

I also had the sad reality of my jeans not quite fitting as well as they normally did this morning. All the food I’ve been eating, and that Harry insisted I eat, I regret. I hate the way I feel and the way I look. I hate myself for falling for Harry’s lies. I try to calm myself but there’s no use in it. I sling my bag over my back and I’m thankful I checked my suitcase as I pace around close to the gate. I left all the stuff Harry bought me at his flat. He had bought me a bunch of cute clothes, scarves, some jewelry, a purse… I can’t be bought, though. All of the expensive purchases he wasted his money on, I never wanted to look at the things he bought me again.

I took a deep breath and hear my phone ding with a text message. I look at the screen and it’s a text from Richard.

From Richard: Harry told me you left. Are you okay? I told him I’d reach out to you since he can’t get ahold of you. P.S. Barry and I are snuggled together on the guest bed right now – still early here.

I breathe out a curse from my lips as I read over the text. I wonder if I should inform Richard I’m coming back or wait until I’m a safe distance from London before letting him know. Out of respect for his time, and because Richard has been so very kind and helpful to me, I text him back to let him know my plans, which I’m positive he’ll relay to Harry. Not that Harry will care.

To Richard: Yes, I’m fine. I’ll be back to New York City and will come get Barry around 3 this afternoon. Thank you, Richard.

I don’t hear back from Richard right away. I continue pacing and work hard to suppress my thoughts about Harry being with another woman. I’m failing miserably, though. Nothing is okay in my world. The only thing holding me together is knowing that I’ll get to see Barry in about 8 hours.

The gate attendant begins making an announcement, so I make my way back to the area to be present for boarding. The announcement is difficult to hear at first, but once I’m back near the boarding area I hear the attendant repeat.

“Once again passengers for United Flight 170 to LaGuardia, we have been informed of a small cabin light malfunction and our engineers have been notified. I will update everyone soon about our delayed flight time once I know more. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

I am convinced I’ve been punked. This couldn’t be happening. Now I’m stuck at the London airport for a little longer. Hopefully the cabin light issue could be repaired quickly so I can get on the fucking flight and get out of here.

I decide to take a seat for a bit and breathe slowly. I needed to calm my nerves and I didn’t know what I could do. My skin was crawling and I felt like I was going to just burst and die right here in front of everyone.

Unlocking in my phone I log into my email and know there will be nothing to see. I begin to draft an email to my boss at Tiffany’s to see if she would be so kind to let me come back. I went back and forth with how to say it, deleting some lines and overthinking everything. Was I telling her too much? I didn’t need her to know all the details. She probably cared but not enough to know the full story. I deleted a line and then started over.

As I closed my eyes for a moment to get my dumb brain to calm itself and think of the best way to ask for my job back I hear my name being called and my heart leaps up into my mouth. I turn my head to see the man as he’s stalking toward me with a scowl. I put my phone into my bag and stand up to move away from everyone. Anger began to tip out of me and my calm demeanor moments before gone. I begin shaking with rage as I march up to him.

“Leave me alone!” I speak loudly, but not in a shout to draw too much attention. I’m seeing red and the way he’s looking at me, he seems just as angry.

He grabs my elbow and pulls me with him toward an open area and then he turns and speaks to me, his face is red and his hair a tangled mess on his head, “No, fuck you, Camille! What the fuck is this? Huh? You just leave? What am I to you that you felt this was necessary?”

“You with some other wom…” my shaky voice cut off at Harry’s louder, deeper voice.

“NO! That was NOT what happened. She was some drunk woman who followed me. And you! How dare you leave me. You don’t get to just leave me like that. Without fucking even listening or talking to me!”

I couldn’t help it when my tears began to finally fall. I shook my head and looked down and began to back away from him. I didn’t like the way he was talking to me, nor how he placed the blame on me when I heard the other woman call him Daddy.

I put my hand up and pointed it to his chest, “I heard her. She called you… are you fucking someone else?”

Harry ran his hands through his hair and laughed incredulously, he sounded devious, “I’m so fucking angry with you right now, Camille. Fuck you have no idea!”

I looked around and we had a small audience. Most people were minding their own business but there were those who were probably making sure our argument didn’t escalate further.

I tried to speak again, to tell Harry to leave and let me go but this time before I even opened my mouth I saw his eyes soften as he looked over my face and noticed my tears. He reached both of his hands out to me and pulled me into him.

I tired to stiffen under his hold but the bag I was carrying fell to floor as Harry wrapped his arms around me. He spoke into my hair, “You have got to learn how to trust, Camille. Trust yourself, and the decisions you make for once.” He stood upright and released one of his arms from around me and grabbed my chin to bring my face up to look at him, “Trust me! I’ve watched you put yourself through this bullshit back and forth in your head and you’ve got to stop it, Camille! You know I wouldn’t do that to you! Why can’t you trust me?”

I couldn’t stop the tears and I didn’t intend to make it something that softened Harry so much but it did. He shook his head and with both hands wiped my cheeks and I could see he was fighting his own tears.

“I heard her, Harry. Everything I was so scared of happening… where is she now?”

Harry frowned and shook his head, “I don’t know where she is. As soon as you hung up I hailed a taxi back to my flat last night. If you can’t trust me and believe me when stupid bullshit happens then there’s never going to be hope for us. I’m telling you, nothing happened with anyone last night. I have no interest in anyone, but you.”

“But why would she call you Daddy when I was on the phone with you? Did she think it was funny? Were you telling her that’s what I call you? Was it a joke? Because I can’t understand how you can have some random woman calling you Daddy while you’re on the phone with me. Explain it to me so I can understand.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and stood back. Harry closed his eyes and looked up at the ceiling and then back down to me, “She’s a colleague. Someone who flirts with me from time to time. She’d had a lot to drink last night and she came and sought me out as I was in the men’s bathroom. I didn’t realize she was following me and I certainly didn’t expect her to call me that. I swear, on everything, that’s the honest truth.”

“So you just have women calling you Daddy without knowing it’s sort of your thing? Did she just take a wild guess?” I felt like I was going crazy and having Harry swear that he didn’t do anything was confusing me. I wanted to believe him but my gut always told me to run at any sign of trouble. I wasn’t quite equipped to work through all my problems with better emotional intelligence.

Harry sighed and I watched him look down to his boots and then look at me with apology in his eyes, “She called the other night and I answered. When we were at the kitchen table and you were on my lap. Do you remember the call, while we were having sex?”

I did recall it. I remember I was on his lap and his dick was inside of me when he answered a work call. I nod.

“Yeah, well, when I thought I hung up, it turns out I did not and she heard you calling me Daddy. My colleague, overhead us. And so last night, she was three sheets to the wind, completely smashed and she heard that I was talking to you and… I don’t know exactly why she thought it was a good idea, but she was not in her right mind so I don’t think I can really explain why she did it, other than she heard us.”

I shook my head and squeezed my brows together, “Why didn’t you tell me that someone overheard us? And… so… the woman who called you, who you answered the call for while we were in the middle of having sex, heard us. Then last night flirted with you, followed you, and then called you Daddy when you were in the men’s bathroom?” None of this sounded good.

Harry clenched his jaw and shook his with heavy sigh, “Yes. I know how it sounds but… that’s what happened. She’s a bit of a flirt and… that’s it.” He shrugged his shoulders, his eyes on me, pleading for my understanding.

“I don’t know, Harry. I’ve been proven to be a bad judge of character time and time again. I want to believe you. But… I just…” I put my hands over my face closed my eyes to breathe. I couldn’t think.

“If I’d have done anything, Camille, I wouldn’t be here right now. I would be hiding with my tail between my legs. But the last thing I ever want is to do anything to hurt you. I’m in love with you. Does that not mean anything to you? I would never… Never!”

Harry was getting emotional again. I could see his hands shaking and his chest heaving. He put his hands on my shoulders and gently shook me, “You have to believe me. You’re everything I want. I want nothing to do with anyone else. No one is like you, Camille. No one!”

Suddenly Harry’s eyebrows shot up and he grunted as he dug into his coat pocket and pulled his phone out, “Here…” he fiddled with his phone, going into what looked like an email app. He scrolled down and then opened up the screen, turning it for me to see.

I read slowly, wiping the tears from my eyes.

Subject: Cindy Lauesen – Complaint & Dismissal

I regret to inform you that Senior Executive, Ms. Lauesen harassed me and caused a disturbance at the investor celebration last night. I am promptly releasing her of her duties at our firm and she will no longer be employed at Styles Capital. I ask that when she arrives to the office, please notify her of her dismissal and remove her building badge and keys. She may take fifteen minutes to pack her things before being escorted off the premises. I will follow up with required documentation at your first request.

Thank you,

Mr. Styles

I look up to Harry and hand him his phone back. My first, snap-judgement is that he’s covering and that this email is a fake. But then I look at his face and he’s waiting on my response to him.

"This is an email I sent at like, three o'clock this morning when I was beside myself for worry with you. Our HR person will take care of having Cindy fired and there are others that were there last night who can corroborate my story as well. I just need you to trust me and learn to feel secure with me, with yourself."

He’s right. I need to learn to trust myself and feel secure in my decisions. I made my decision when I moved in with him and when I left the club. I chose him and he hasn’t given me any reason to doubt him.

I take a deep breath and shut my eyes, “I’m sorry.” I whisper and then look up into his eyes, “You’re right. I have to learn how to deal with things in a healthier way. I’m just so scared that everything is too good to be true and I feel like running at the first sign of an issue.”

Harry stands for a moment, unmoving, and without expression. It has me worried. That maybe he’s not forgiven me for my immaturity. For running from him. For making him worry. I reach my hand out to hold onto his and I step forward and run my hand over his torso and then fall into his body, wrapping both arms around him, “I’m sorry.”

When he finally lifts his arms to wrap around me I begin to sob uncontrollably, not something I wanted to do but for some reason cannot seem to stop. He hugs me tightly to his chest and I feel him squeeze. We just stand together, holding one another for a few minutes. I can tell just by his arms around me and the way he’s got me against his body that he’s not planning on letting me leave. That even if he’s still angry with me, he’s forgiven me.

I look up to him when I realize something, “Did you book a ticket on the same flight?”

Harry shook his head and a weak smile came his face, “No. I booked a different flight to LaGuardia leaving in about,” he looks at his watch, “forty five minutes from now. It was the only way I could get into the international terminal before your flight, which is fully booked and was already supposed to boarding by the time I arrived. But man did I get lucky when I saw you sitting there still. I thought I’d be too late and then I’d have to get on that other flight and go after you that way. Which I was totally prepared to do. For you.”

I shook my head and looked back at the people sitting and still waiting for the plane before turning back to look at Harry, “Cabin light malfunction.” You smile.

“Thank god for malfunctions. Do you still want to go back to New York tonight? Or do you want to go back to my flat and finish off the rest of our London trip? “Harry put his hands over my neck and moved my hair behind my ears.

“Do you want me around still? I feel kind of bad and I spent all this money on the ticket and now you had spend money on a ticket… what… what do you want, Harry?” I shake my head at how my knee jerk reaction caused all of this drama.

“I would like us to go back to my flat and we can finish off our London trip. We can get credits for our flights, hopefully. But if not, well, thousands of dollars to the airlines. Maybe I can write it off, like a donation.” Harry chuckles and I just smile at him.

“Are you sure, Harry?” I bite my lip and keep my eyes on him.

“Yes. In fact, I’m not going to give you a choice. You and I have some things to discuss and you’re coming with me.”

I raise my brows, “Things to discuss? Like what we just discussed?”

Harry nods, “Yes. And we need to decide what kind of punishment you’ll be getting. Kind of a naughty thing to do to me. And I'm still super pissed at you. Like, very, very upset. And I know I didn’t do anything to deserve what you did. So, we’ll be going back to my flat.”

I gulp and nod. Of course, “What do I do about my suitcase? I’ve checked it already.”

Harry lifts his head and looks toward where the gate agent is and he drags me with him as we both approach he agent.

Harry not only persuades the gate agent to help with getting credits towards future flights for both of our current flights that he cancelled, but he also has them put in to have my suitcase returned to his flat by tomorrow afternoon.

Leaving the airport with Harry felt surreal in a way. This morning when I woke up, I didn’t think things would turn out like this. I didn’t foresee a minor flight delay, turning into Harry just catching me before I could leave, and then finally having him sweep me away back to his flat.

But here we are, hand in hand and meeting Harry’s driver. I keep myself attached to his side and even on the drive back to Harry’s I won’t let go. And Harry doesn’t seem to mind, his own arm around me as he keeps ducking down to kiss my head.

"Text Richard back, tell him you're staying." Harry said.

I look up to Harry, "Did he tell you I was at the airport?"

Harry scoffed, "Of course he did. I owe him one for reaching out to you and asking. I called him all out of sorts, woke him up from sleep. He didn't answer the first few times because he was sleeping, in fact."

Texting Richard back, I told him it was a false alarm and that I'd still be staying in London.

"Now apologize to him." Harry watched over my shoulder as I texted. Before hitting send I added in an apology and then the message was sent.

Harry reached down and grabbed my phone, removing it from my hand. I looked up at him with confusion as Harry put my cellphone into his coat pocket.

"Why did you take my phone, Harry?"

Harry looked down at me with a grin, "You're grounded. You don't get to have a cellphone until I'm ready to let you have it back."

I laugh, "Grounded?"

Harry's grin is gone from his face as he takes my chin in his hand, "That's what I said. You're not having your cellphone back until I'm ready to give it back to you. This will just be part of your punishment little girl. You have no idea what you've got in store for you when we get back."

Part 20*

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Xoxo

#harry styles writing #ceo!harry #harry styles fan fiction #sugardaddy!harry #harry styles #harry fic #harry styles fanfic #ceo harry

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quaddmgd · 1 year

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So I managed to finish that little fic I've been talking about. It's not much, but hey, it's my first since 5 years!

As always, Elegy belongs to @oranzuwu! Thank you for helping me get her dialogue right and proofreading this multiple times for me! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU

This fic is a continuation to a post Halcyon made, so make sure to read it first! There's an entire synopsis there!

I might drop it on AO3 when I set it up eventually.

Fic under the cut!

MERCURY

As the door opened, I saw Elegy sitting on the bed, our new bed, possibly for a few days, leaning against the wall. Usually she greets me with a warm smile, but this time I could only see concern. "How are you feeling?" she asked, slightly leaning in my direction. "Better now, thanks. Doc is a cool guy." I responded with a smile, adding "Thank you, for being there for me. I would end up in a hole if it wasn't for you." As she glanced at me, her pretty black eyes filled with care. "What are you talking about? I'd never leave you there." she assured me, as if she knew exactly what's on my mind. It made sense; apart from Misty, she's the only person that fully knows why I parted ways with my family. "Doc left you some clothes and booze, behind you, on the chair. I could fix us some drinks, if you’d like. I know I would." I smiled briefly and broke our eye contact.

"Sure, but first, I could really use a shower." I moaned in sudden pain while trying to hand-comb my hair with the injured arm. Judging by the change in her raccoon eyes, she took notice, but tried to continue: "Well, help yourself, if you're brave enough. Greasy as fuck, looks like someone flatlined there." She made me chuckle. "I'm sure I've seen worse when I was on the road." After taking the clothes from the chair, I turned towards the bathroom. The automatic door was there, but it was visibly broken. I couldn't move it in either direction. Seeing only half of her face from where I was standing now, I noticed the break in the eye contact. Visibly embarrassed, she looked away, muttering under her breath: "Oh yeah, the door's kinda not working." "Great..." I sighed.

"Shout if you need help with anything."

She had no way of knowing, but she made me smile, even though I'd never let her help me in this state. That being said, I'd love to have her there, at this moment.

The shower allowed me to rethink what happened that night. Blood from the gunshot wound on my arm, flowing with water beneath my feet, made me realize that I was lucky... and that something might've happened to Elegy. Feeling light-headed, I leaned against a cold shower wall and began sliding along. On the ground, I hugged my legs, feeling the warmth of tears building up in my eyes. I knew that thinking about it wouldn't change a thing, but here I was. What mattered was that we were both safe, mostly unharmed, and no one knew where we were. "The moment we leave this shithole, it's a soft reboot." I kept repeating to myself, preparing to get up and finish washing; and so I did, after a minute or two, somehow.

"If you need any help with the bandage, let me know!" her lively voice from behind the wall greeted me, after I left the shower, still trying to fend off the idea of calling her here to see what happens. "Don't worry, I'm good at this myself." I replied. She sounded much less tense than before. I could imagine she wanted us to just relax and keep our minds off what happened.

It was so hot today that I decided to dry up in nothing but underwear. Going back to Elegy, I met with her fond smile, covered by a slightly wiped purple lipstick. I returned it, wondering if she really eyed me up and down right now. "There's a drink with a name of a really brave girl on it." she remarked, pointing at a nightstand, beside which I was supposed to sleep tonight. "Thanks, I need it." I sat on the bed, beside her, and leaned on the same wall.

The raccoon looked me in the eyes and took a deep breath. "I'll keep in touch with guys in the city, we'll know when it's safe to come back. Try to not worry, ok?" "So we're really stuck here for now?" I asked hopelessly, not happy to sleep in a muggy, rundown motel room, filled with a metallic smell of an unknown source. "Mhm." she smiled nervously, looking down on her legs before gazing into my eyes and smiling, as if she just came up with an idea that would drastically improve our look on this situation; "But look, on the other side, we're outta the city, just the way you like. I'll take care of you and make sure you recover asap. Until then, we can sleep all day and order pizza!" I shaked my head, unable to help but smile a bit. I felt the need to snuggle up to her, but I couldn't bring myself to just openly hug her. The anxiety won again. Enjoying my glass of whiskey with coke, I leaned on her, placing my head on her shoulder. It was all I could do, but it was enough.

I was very grateful, not only for what she did today, but for being an awesome person all around. The thought of meeting someone so friendly and trustworthy in this god-forsaken city never would've crossed my mind, yet here we were. The inseparable duo, ever since she found me in the Afterlife, and convinced me that we need each other in order to complete our tasks. But I always struggled with showing emotions, especially since it's not like we know each other for that long.

I eventually let out "Thank you, for everything." to which she took a sip from her glass and smiled. "Don't mention it, C, really. Like I said-" As something on my stomach got her attention, her smile suddenly disappeared. "Something wrong?" I asked, checking myself for any wounds. It was weird. I knew I wasn't shot anywhere else, but what I mistook as shock at the time, made me doubt myself. She started moving her index finger across the scar on my stomach; "You weren't joking... that it's not your first time." I didn't know if I should tell her to stop. It felt weird, tingly, but her gestures were full of care... concern. I didn't understand what was going on. "Uhh... Yeah, I've... been shot before." were the only words I managed to gawk out.

“And you’ve been worse.” As she was busy examining my scars, moving on to the one above my bust, I locked my eyes on her beautiful face. I was scared of screwing up our friendship, but I couldn't resist touching her. I delicately stroked her cheek. That's when she looked me in the eyes for about three seconds, pulled me by my shoulders, and suddenly kissed me. The warmth of her lips intoxicated me. She stopped to say, her voice quiet and tender: "Please take care of yourself, I can't afford to lose you." after which I returned the kiss, feeling both happiness and fear that I'll do something wrong and lose her.

#cyberpunk 2077 #shippy saturday #otp: nothing's gonna hurt you baby #oc: crystal hartley #oc: elegy yukimura #vanilla photo mode #text.qd #screen.qd #crystal without any makeup!!!

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misosick · 2 years

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dirty little secret - the way they feel inside | bang chan

pairing: bang chan x reader, ??? x reader

genre: uni!au, predebut/idol!au, manager!reader, slow burn

chapter warnings: felix cries :((( that’s abt it

word count: 1k-ish

author notes: big sad w this chapter :( not only the content but this is also the last chapter i had pre written prior to starting to post it! everything from here on out is purely my stream of consciousness

taglist: @idunnomanmynamewastaken @freyaniobe @jellyglly @stepout-09-15 @moremilkforkags (send me an ask if you would like to be added!)

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After going out for coffee with Felix, you got stuck into some work to distract yourself. There were a few emails needing to be sent, a few documents to sign off on, but you couldn’t focus. Your conversation with Felix replayed in your mind in high definition. You had really told him everything he didn’t need to know about his best friend. He said he wouldn’t, but would Felix tell Chan what you said? How would Chan react? Would he go back to hating you? You decided working from home for the day probably wasn’t a bad idea, so you pack up what you need and head back to your apartment, flicking Chan a text on the way out. He was rather disappointed when he came to your office to talk to you to find it empty, until he finally checked his phone.

When you entered the JYP building the next day, you couldn’t understand why but the atmosphere had changed. Both Chan and Felix were avoiding you like the plague, and the rest of the boys were giggling like schoolgirls whenever they saw you. You brush it off, there is just too much to do and the sooner you got it done, the sooner you could rest.

That worked for the first few days, until you realised that you hadn’t spoken to Felix since your coffee date, and you swear the last time you had heard from Chan was just before that. Not to mention the conversation you had with Jisung over the weekend. You pull Felix to the side during dance practice, bringing him into your office.

“Felix, what’s going on? Are you okay? You’ve been a bit distracted in practice, are you getting sick?” You raise your hand to place it on his forehead only to have it swatted away, leaving you wide eyed.

“I’m fine! Why would you think I’m getting sick, noona, nothing’s wrong!” Felix almost spits out his response, which raises your suspicion. He only acts like this if he’s hiding something.

“Felix, what have you done now? Did you break something? Did you break someone? Am I on damage control?” You tilt your head in worry.

“Yes- no- um- nothing’s out of the ordinary! Absolutely nothing is happening! At all! Especially between me and Chan hyung!” Felix knows he’s in for it when you straighten your spine, and your facial expression returns to neutral. He probably hasn’t been this nervous since the survival show.

“Felix, let’s sit down, hm? You can tell me anything at all, but I need to know what you’ve done so I can fix it.” You gesture to the chair in front of your desk before taking yours behind it. He perches on the edge of the chair with his hands in his lap, and it takes one slightly pointed look from you for him to break.

“Okay! Okay, I may have told Chan that I know about your history and that you don’t like him back and about your crush on Jisung but hear me out, he pulled me out of practice and forced me to tell him. Oh my god, it was so scary, he yelled at me and everything! He never raises his voice!” You could hear the fear in his voice. He’d done the one thing you had asked him not to do. It was bad enough that Jisung knew about your crush on him, but Chan knew too?

Your conversation with Jisung replayed in your head; just as you’d started to accept you still had feelings for Chan, and had started to rethink a relationship with him, Felix had told him he had no chance. What the hell were you meant to do?

“Felix… I’m not mad at you. A little frustrated? Sure, but I’m not angry. Good god…” You run a hand through your hair, letting your head fall in between your forearms. You take a moment to process everything before continuing.

“This is definitely not how I expected today to go, but I guess I don’t have a choice now. The conversation I had with Jisung makes so much more sense now… okay…” Another breath escapes your lips as you straighten up again and take a sip of the cup of tea sitting next to you. The hole you’d dug yourself just go that much deeper.

“I’m so sorry, noona, I really didn’t mean to.” Guilt is written all over Felix’s face, his eyes beginning to fill with tears. You get out from behind the desk and pull him to his feet, wrapping your arms around his waist. The muffled sobs in your shoulder let on how he’s feeling, and you rub his back softly.

“Hey, hey, hey, I’m not mad, okay? It happens, I know what he’s like. I’ll sort it out, don’t worry. You’re all good.” You softly speak into his ear. You let a few tears slip from your own eyes, wiping them quickly as he cries. You stay like that for a while, until he pulls away and wipes away the last of his tears, still sniffling a bit.

“What are you going to do?” You can’t help but chuckle at the hope in his face, before turning around and scribbling on a scrap piece of paper. You fold it and hold it out to Felix.

“You’re going to go clean yourself up and give this to him. He should be in his studio. Knock first, if he lets you in, tell him this is from me. If he doesn’t, slip it under the door, he’ll notice it eventually, and for the love of God and all things holy, do not let the boys catch you.” You smile, lifting a hand to rub Felix’s shoulder.

“Got it! Thank you for not being mad at me.” He smiles back, laughing a little as he skips out of your office.

“Anytime, mate, be careful!” You shout down the hall before returning to the work sitting on your laptop. Your heart is thumping, and all you can hope is that the note gets delivered safely.

Chris, I just spoke to Felix; he told me everything. Don’t worry, I’m not mad at him, I could never be angry with him. Tell him as much, he really needs it. There’s a lot we need to talk about. You know where to find me, I’ll be here until 7pm. Y/N

#chris bang #skz #stray kids #stray kids fluff #stray kids angst #skz fluff #skz angst #stray kids x reader #bang chan x reader #bang chan fluff #bang chan angst #bang chan #dirty little secret

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skepticalarrie · 8 months

Note

Hey hi, how are you?? I have recently seen your love life update on my dashboard and I hope it’s going good. I want your input/opinion on something in same background.

So there’s this guy from my office but he’s in a different team. We resenting bonded over Friday fun activity in office and he texted me. We started talking about everything. Then we met up and he brought his girl best friend with him to meet him. He didn’t let me know before. But that girl was sweet and we had fun and once the lunch is completed, we went novel shopping. Since I had few to buy. Then the next time we meet was at the office and not for once does he look my way or say hi to me. I usually say hello/hi to everyone in the office I know and I did the same with him. He responded with a bland hello. Then I too ignored it. Today he was sitting in the lounge and I was passing by and I smiled at him. He looked at me so awkwardly that I was rethinking my decision to smile at him. We also sometimes have a char via phone call at random times of the day but not everyday.

I don’t have feelings for him not I will ever have. I am damn sure of that. I want to know why he’s doing this kind of behaviour but when I think of it, it seems so silly and stupid. I intend to ask him eventually but not right away.

Can you share your thoughts on this?

Hi, dear. Yeah, it does seem a little silly on his part. But maybe he likes you and he gets shy because of it?! I don’t know, I think work relationships/friendships can be tricky sometimes. So, for me, I get along great with people from work, but when I hang out with someone completely outside that context, the line between “work friends” and “personal friends” is blurred, and it can get weird especially if you’re not super close at the office. So maybe he’s trying to figure that out as well.

But honestly, it seems to me like there’s some sort of crush going on there. Personally, I wouldn’t discuss this with him in a serious manner, that would be weird, but I would definitely make some sort of joke about it, just to break the tension?! And also low-key make sure you’re communicating clearly you’re not interested in that way, so then maybe he can relax around you.

#ask

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yasminsqueendom · 9 months

Text

8. Change Takes Time, and We Don't Have Any

WC: 4433

TW: None

Erik walked into his condo feeling frustrated. Micky hadn’t hit his phone all day, and that made him feel stupid. Had he been wrong to start opening up to her the way that he did? Maybe she really wasn’t ready to be in his life. Maybe she had reconsidered his offer. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her that I love her.

He realized he was staring out the same window again, and decided to sit on his couch. He could still smell her there, so he went to his room instead. Should I call her? Vulnerability was very unusual for him. His family couldn’t even break through his walls as a kid. Somehow, Micky melted his icy ass and had him questioning parts of his life that he never considered. Several thoughts kept swimming around in his head. Does she love me back? Did I fuck up too many times? This shit never bothered me with any other women. Why does she have me like this? Should I just cut ties and let her go? Nigga stop being so paranoid! Sitting on his bed, staring at nothing wasn’t helping, he needed to get up and do something.

The sun was almost down, but that wouldn’t stop him from jogging around the park one time. Monsters in the dark weren’t a threat to him. I’m way more dangerous. He found himself thinking about Clarence again. He’d seen on the news that Ms. Clarita Hayworth had reported him missing. Since Clarence was Black, the news had brought up previous sexual assault charges against him. There were short clips of his grandmother saying that he was a “good boy” despite the fact that he wasn’t invited to any family functions because he was “a little strange.” People always made excuses for things that should be dealt with harshly. Especially, if the nigga was family. He’d seen the same bullshit in the news any time a Black celebrity got in trouble, unless it was a woman. Erik was disgusted.

He finished changing out of his work clothes, deciding on jogging the three blocks to the park. He never needed music. When Erik exercised, his mind naturally went silent without prompting. Just like when there was an important mission to be done. He could think and react still, but it was in a detached way. His body wouldn’t even register pain the same way. After a short stretch to loosen his muscles, he hopped up and down a couple times, then began his run.

Ten minutes later, he was rethinking the lie he’d told Micky about the new scar on his left arm. Should I keep the truth from her? She’s understanding, but there is only so much I can throw on her shoulders. It was a hard thing to reconcile with. He’d gotten into this life because he was full of rage as a child. Then, he’d seen Wakanda, and it had made him even more furious than before. Staying there made him feel so much disgust for how isolated that place was from everywhere else. Yes, T’Challa did what he could, but he was only one man, and his morals stood between him, and following through on the mission.

Erik’s responsibility as a Prince of Wakanda was to revisit the places that his cousin could not. Bad guys around the world were perfectly aware of how busy heroes could be. They knew the chances of being caught again were slim, especially not right after a recent bust. So, they went back about building their illegal enterprises slowly and more carefully. That’s where Erik got involved. He just killed as many as he could, leaving only the weak ones who would run poor operations. Occasionally, they would find a new leader, but he’d set up his own system of war dogs to monitor as much activity as they could. His special forces, that he proudly renamed Bloodhounds, were allowed to be more active in ways that War Dogs could not. War Dogs mostly just observed and didn’t act. Useful in some cases but not in the way that I need. The Bloodhounds would fight if they found it necessary. It was his proudest achievement.

Erik’s mind continued to wander while he jogged. He thought back on the day his uncle, former King of Wakanda, had come to get him. He’d been out of school for a year, learning life on the streets. His father had taught him to fight, so he’d picked up a reputation for being fierce. Puberty hadn’t made him tall yet, so he’d picked up the name “Lil Kill.” It had bothered him a lot at the time, but it stuck until he hit his growth spurt when it was shortened to Kill. He was sitting in a jail cell, not for the first time, when a big dude in a catsuit showed up and sliced his way through the bars. That was the second most shocking day of Erik’s life. The first being the discovery of his father’s body in their apartment.

Bzzz bzzz. He checked his phone. Call me. Speaking of family, his Auntie was texting him. It was rare that she would message him unless she was being nosey or had something important to tell him. He hoped this wasn't an emergency.

Erik sighed. His relationship with his Aunt Ramonda was complicated. While they technically shared no blood, she’d taken over most of Erik’s care. Ramonda took one look at the angry boy and saw what he needed in that moment: a mother. His “Auntie” was the only one who could scold him and actually make him feel bad about the shit that he did. However, when Erik ran away one too many times, she began to pull away from him, feeling like he might be beyond help.

Erik found it hard to talk to her sometimes because he felt like he let her down. She was never rude, but her over-politeness made him uncomfortable. It was hard for him to explain his need to do what he did to anyone, sometimes even T’Challa. The stain of his father’s murder by T’Chaka sat heavy on the family, making it hard for all those who were old enough to remember him to deal with each other. It made Erik grateful that Shuri was so young when it happened. She adored him in ways that no other member of the family could.

Erik finally gathered up the nerve to make the call. “Hey Auntie.”

“Hello, Erik. How are you doing?” He always loved the velvety sound of her voice. It caressed his ears and brought a smile to his face despite his nerves.

“I’m doing good. How are you?” Even if it was an emergency, his Aunt required this formality from him. It was almost comical when he thought about it. Shuri would still be running her mouth about her reason for calling, not giving him the chance to speak until she ran out of breath.

“I’m doing well.” There was a hesitant pause. “Have you heard from your cousin T’Challa recently?”

“No, ma’am. It’s been about a month. You probably would have seen him last.” Erik looked around himself at the park. It was dark, so he would only make himself more visible if he used his kimoyo beads out here. “Let me get back to my place and I will call you there.”

“Please do, Erik. It’s important.”

Now, he was nervous. Despite her formalities, Erik could hear the nerves in her voice. Something was going on and it involved T’Challa. She wouldn’t call him like this unless it was serious.

He began his jog back home. Micky probably won’t like this. I don’t like it either.

Micky went back and forth about whether or not she should call her mom. The lady had pissed her off so bad, she really wanted to stay away for a long time. At the same time, it felt weird being cut off from all forms of support except for Erik. He was likely to be getting a new mission soon, which meant that Micky would be alone again, and most likely would end up right back in the mix with her rude ass relatives.

Just call the old lady. Micky dialed up her mother’s number, breathing deeply to calm her racing heart. When it went to voicemail, she almost fainted from relief. I wonder what she’s doing. She almost never misses my call. Deciding it wasn’t something to panic over, Micky went back to filling out job applications.

Some time later, after sending off writing samples to multiple blogs and sites that discussed interesting topics and current events locally, Micky turned off her laptop and flopped back on her futon cushion. Erik better be quick about replacing my shit. He has way more money than me. Speaking of him, it was time to apologize for her shenanigans. Micky dialed him up.

“Hello.” He answered almost immediately. Alright then.

“Hey, Erik. I know it’s a little on the late side, and you had work earlier.”

“You know none of that shit matters, ma. Wassup?”

“I’m sorry for cutting up earlier. I know you have your reasons for keeping some things secret. It’s only been a few days. It’s not an excuse, but I got other things going on and…”

“I know. It ain’t a thing, babygirl. I left you alone because I figured you needed a minute. We cool.”

“You sure?” It seemed like this was too easy. There had to be more. Surely, he wanted to yell a little bit.

“I’m sure. We need to have a talk, though. Where are you?”

“I’m at home. You want me to meet you somewhere?” Anything to get out of the house for a little bit. It was late, but surely somewhere was open in the city.

“Yeah. Maggiano’s in 20 minutes?” Damn, no time to get cute.

“Ummm ok. Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll see you there.”

After a quick hoe bath and some lip gloss, Micky was ready to go. Maggiano’s was a little hood pizza store that had space for people to sit, and it was quiet. One of their first dates was here, and the feeling of nostalgia made Micky long for how things were in the beginning. She spotted Erik’s truck outside of the pizza store, and parked behind it. He was already sitting inside with a large order of hot wings and fries. There was an empty cup for her to choose her own drink. Most of the other details were lost on her as she focused on Erik. He had on workout gear like the other day, basketball shorts and such. His shirt had long sleeves this time, though.

“What you staring at?” He noticed her wandering eyes.

“Uh, nothing. Sorry, I’ve been moving around all day. I’m tired.” Not entirely a lie.

“Sit down.” Now, Micky felt her instincts kicking in. Usually, a hug or kiss would have followed his teasing. Why was he being so distant now?

“Oh. Yes, sir.” She planted herself in the dingy booth across from him. It never ceased to amaze her that this fine specimen of a man enjoyed eating at some of the unhealthiest places. Everything about this place screamed “HEALTH VIOLATION” but he loved it here. They’d come here multiple times while they were dating before.

“We need to talk.” Micky’s heart fluttered a little. She couldn’t decide how to feel about this. Erik knew she had anxiety, so he shouldn’t be using open phrases like that.

“Please just say it. You’re leaving again, aren’t you?” Unwanted tears made her vision blurry. Her mind told her that she was overreacting, but her emotions weren’t in her control anymore.

“Babygirl, please don’t cry.” Concern wrinkled his brow. “It’s about my family. My cousin is missing. They need me there now. I have to help find him.”

Micky’s emotions were all over the place. His cousin is missing? He’s leaving me? His family needs him. Shuri needs him. But I need him, too. “Alright. Yeah, you should be with your family. I understand that completely. I will miss you, though.” She meant every word, even if it tore her to pieces inside.

“I’m glad that you understand. But I don’t want to leave you here alone. I know you got a lot of shit going on with your family.”

“I’ll live with it. I been doing that for 25 years. I’ll be okay.” At least, Micky hoped so.

“You shouldn’t have to deal with all that bullshit, though. Listen, I had an idea.” He looked at her hopefully. Micky nerves were a wreck and she was trying not to snap at his incomplete phrasing. She needed him to just say what he wanted from her, rather than saying that he wanted something.

“Please, just come out with everything. Stop leaving it open. My anxiety can’t take all that.” This was driving her insane.

“Okay, damn. Here’s the deal. I want you to live at my place while I’m gone.

Well, then. “I….uh….don’t really know how to respond to that.”

“I’m not gonna have time to get you a new futon. I’ve been so busy with work and everything. I would rather just have you live there. Shit, somebody has to use the space. I don’t have anyone here, but you.”

Micky felt a weird mix of feelings. She had a lease at her current place, so she would have to break it if she moved. There was also the fact that Erik probably didn’t want Rufus tearing shit up in his place. The biggest problem was that Micky was currently unemployed, so how she would afford anything there was beyond her. Another thought occurred to her while she went over the possibility of living with Erik.

“What did you do with that review that I wrote about Minxie’s?” She thought about it periodically throughout the day, but was more worried about making sure that she apologized to him for snapping before.

“That’s not what we’re discussing at the moment.”

“I know, Erik!”

He sighed in poorly contained frustration. “I can show you that when we get back to my place.” He glanced away. “Or yours.”

“As in, my current place?”

“Tell me what you wanna do? I’ll go with it either way.”

“I still have a lease.”

“I’ll buy it out. My condo is paid for. You wouldn’t have to worry about anything like that.”

“Your cousin is missing?” Now, more details were starting to filter through her first wave of shock.

“Yes.”

“And you’re worried about me having a place to stay.”

“My family is sending transportation for me within the next two hours.”

“Well, that’s fast.”

“None faster. Not on Earth, anyway.”

“Not….on….Earth.” Micky felt panic starting to rise in her chest again. She focused on her feet, the way they were placed on the ground. She needed to be aware of her physical self so she didn’t get caught up in her emotions. She concentrated on wiggling her toes, flexing her calf muscles, tensing and releasing her core. This went on until she felt her spirit settle a bit.

“Better?” Erik waited patiently as ever for Micky to get herself under control. Micky nodded that she was okay. “You can refuse the offer if you want. It was just an option that would benefit both of us. Someone would be keeping up my place while I’m gone, and you would have less expenses to worry about.”

“True. I just don’t know what to say.”

“Keep my keys. If you decide to move in, you’ll already be that much closer.”

“But what about the people who own the building? What will they say about me just showing up randomly?”

“My family owns the building.”

Micky wasn’t sure if she heard him correctly. “Your family…..?”

“They own it.” Erik’s gaze was intense as he fought to get her to understand how serious he was. “I’m leaving in less than two hours, babygirl. That’s a fact. How long I’ll be away is undetermined. I have to find out what happened to my cousin. But, I need to make sure you’ll be alright while I’m gone. Don’t tell anyone about my place. Let it be somewhere you can go where no one will ever bother you. Don’t bring anyone there. Do you understand?”

Micky nodded slowly at him. This was a little too much for her. Erik was leaving, and giving her a condo at the same time. There was nothing normal about this conversation.

“Eat.” It was a quiet command and she obeyed it without further comment. Every time I get a handle on my feelings about him, things change again. Why couldn’t I have dated a normal man? Why did I respond to his text the other day? I knew I should have blocked his number.

Micky finished off the last of the wings, eyeballing the fries as she realized she hadn’t eaten the entire day. Erik pushed the plate toward her as an invitation, one she accepted with enthusiasm. When she finished, she felt less lightheaded. Erik was polite enough not to stare while she ate, but his eyes were focused on her intently, now. “We should go back to my place.” He said after a few moments. I need to show you something."

Erik was fully aware that Micky was having a hard time processing all her emotions. Life had been unkind to her these last few days, but she was going to have to push through it. He needed her to be alright, but his reasons for giving her his place to stay at went deeper than that. If T’Challa was compromised, then so was Erik. Their organizations worked in tandem, and only they had full access. That meant that a lot of things would be changing fast. Had someone spilled on them? This was going to be tough, but she was strong enough to take it.

Back at his place, he handed her a parking pass to keep inside her glove box whenever she entered the garage. It was keyed to her alone. She already has his key card for the door, but he wanted her to have the access codes to change the information should the card get lost. He’d also had a set of kimoyo beads made for her, but he wouldn’t have time to teach her the basics of how to use them in case of emergency. Those would have to be typed up.

He’d already put Shuri to work getting a secure phone for her to use. The number wouldn’t change, but it wouldn’t be hacked easily as long as she was careful. Shuri would also be securing a laptop for Micky. Any person that he cared about needed to be protected, and that included Micky.

As Erik explained all of this to Micky, he could see that much of it wasn’t sinking in just yet. He’d typed up basic instructions to help her later when reality set in. He was pissed that he didn’t have the time to go over everything in great detail with her. By the time he was finished, another hour had passed, and they had maybe forty minutes left with each other.

“Listen.” She looked up at him. “I love you, and I’m saying all this shit because I want you to be okay.”

“I know.” She looked so sad, but not broken. There was more of a look of resignation on her face, as though she had already accepted how fucked up everything was. “Show me what you did with the stuff I sent you.”

It took him a moment to understand what she was referring to. “You mean the video?”

“What video?” That got her attention.

He pulled out his phone and loaded it up. It was at an awkward angle, but there was Kelly’s greasy ass face in all its ugly ass glory counting money as a very courteous Erik asked for her attention multiple times. It was a short clip, but it was damning enough, and by now would be on several sites that carried customer reviews of stores.

Micky gasped as she looked up at him. Several seconds ticked by before she spoke. "Petty Wap." A hesitant smile curled the corner of her mouth. "You really did this?"

“Yeah. It’s really small. I been thinking about making some other things happen, too.”

“Like what?” She looked concerned, but curious.

Should I do it? Should I tell her how badly I wanted to put sugar in Kelly’s gas tank? Should I tell her my other thoughts about Kelly? “I thought about a lot of things. Sugar in the gas tank. Or even sending a more direct message, but I didn’t want her trying to retaliate against you when I wasn’t around.”

Micky thought about his words for a moment. “Sugar in the gas tank is actually a cool idea. I just don’t want her children to be without transport. If that bitch was single, I’d even go with you when you did it so I can learn.”

Erik was shocked. He stared at Micky for a solid 10 seconds before he was able to speak again. “You think that shit is cool, huh?” He felt himself getting hard at the thought. “You feel like cutting up a little bit?”

“I feel like setting up boundaries and making sure there are consequences when people don’t listen.” She said it so smoothly, but there was no joke in her voice. She meant that shit.

“Okay, babygirl. Remember you said that shit for when I get back.” If I get back.

She looked sad again. “Okay, Daddy.”

“Aht Aht. I don’t have enough time to play with you tonight. I gotta go in…” He checked his phone time. “...15 minutes.”

She sighed. “Alright. So, do we just sit here and wait, then?”

“Nah, I wanna tell you something else. I wasn’t born in Wakanda, but all my family is there.” There was only fifteen minutes to get it all out. “My father was murdered when I was young. My mother’s been gone so long I don’t remember what she looked like. Several years after my father’s death, my uncle came and found me, offering me a place in his home in the African nation of Wakanda. He was the king there, and as his brother’s son, that made me prince. I started working for him at a young age, since I could never listen to anyone else. He was killed by a high level fence, called Klaw. My cousin is king now. Shuri is a princess. There’s not enough time to tell you anything else, but I will tell you when I get back. I promise. If I come back, I’ll take all my time telling you anything you want to know about me.” There it was.

“So, that’s why you have all this shit?” Micky looked around the living room.

“No, my family owns the building, but I work for my shit. Just like you.” He wasn’t sure how to feel about her reaction.

“I believe you. You can’t sit still too long to let someone else take care of you.” She smiled at him slyly.

“Kiss me, babygirl. I gotta go.” He reached across the couch and pulled her towards him. She squealed at the sudden loss of balance, eventually settling in his arms. Her lips were so soft, and slightly spicy from the hot wings. It didn’t bother him. He wanted this moment to last forever, and nothing mattered as much as the feeling of her body against his. Erik wanted to savor the taste of her for as long as he could. Micky matched his enthusiasm, gripping the back of his head to deepen the kiss.

At the precise moment that Erik was about to throw caution to the wind and strip both of them down, he felt his wrist vibrate. Fuck. Of course he would be cockblocked by the goddamn Dora Milaje. It was time to be a prince. He felt himself going cold as he pulled away from Micky.

“It’s time for me to go, babygirl.” It was hard to focus on her face right now. The tears she was fighting back were so close to falling, and he hated more than anything that he was the reason for them.

“Be safe. Come back, okay?”

He nodded to avoid the need to speak again. He wrapped her in his arms one last time before heading out the door. He never bothered packing, since his transport would be well stocked with anything he needed. On his way up to the roof, he felt his heart freeze solid. T’Challa didn’t need Erik right now, he needed Killmonger. And that’s exactly who was coming to save his sorry ass.

Micky felt hollow. He’d walked out of her life again, and now that she knew the severity of the situation, it felt like maybe he wouldn’t make it back. She began to wonder why she’d asked so many questions before. Maybe not knowing was better than this.

Who the fuck am I kidding? This has been one the wildest rides of my life and well worth it. I’m a different person than just a few days ago, and have access to so much more now.

And it was true. Micky was more confident, more assertive, more inspired than she had ever been. Even with Erik gone, she knew she would ultimately be alright. It would be lonely, unless she decided to date someone else, but she could handle that. That wasn’t unusual for her at all. She had a lot of hard decisions to make in a relatively short amount of time, but she would make them. Rufus was probably staring at his food bowl, angry at the world because he could see the bottom of it. There was also the matter of her family for her to deal with, but that could wait until she figured out where she wanted to live. And who the fuck wouldn’t want to live here?

But there was also the issue of whether or not Erik would still want her when he got back, and if she could live with him leaving for long periods of time. I suppose this would be a good test of whether or not I can make this work. There was much to do and little time to do it.

“I’ll get it done, though.” She spoke out loud to herself.

#erik killmonger #fanfiction #black fic #black writer #where there's smoke #black women in fiction #black fiction #yasminsqueendom

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