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agroteraa · 8 days

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I Wanna Be Your Dog

Oliver Quick x f!Reader

My fic masterlist

Summary: Oliver's memories of one of the evenings at Oxford, where you began getting closer. And a night in Saltburn, where you try to be dominant with him.

Actaeon series spin-off, taking place between Artemis and The Wrath of the Stag.

Warnings: smut, dom!Reader, sub!Oliver, switching, oral, penetration sex.

Word Count: 2,8K

It was another spring party at Oxford. All the young people were chatting cheerfully with bottles and glasses in their hands in the slightly dim light of the dormitory's common room. Felix and Oliver were almost lying relaxed on the couch and had been silent for some time.

“Now, can you eenie, meenie India or Annabel, and take one fucking home? Because they look miserable,” Oliver suggested softly.

“Eenie, meenie, miny, moe. Catch a tiger by his toe. If he squeals, let him go. Er..." Felix seemingly forgot the text of the counting-out rhyme, but decided to finish it as soon as possible and make a choice anyway, "You're out, boy scout!"

The choice fell on Annabelle. He happily pecked Oliver on the cheek in gratitude, which made him grin widely. Oliver liked being praised. Especially by those who were important to him. Felix quickly jumped up from the sofa and, lightly slapping the contented girl on the ass, and went off with her upstairs.

“Well, what the fuck, mate? I’ve been chirpsing her for about an hour. I wanted at least a hand job...” the guy Annabelle left said in disappointment.

An hour. What did he know about waiting. How about almost a whole year, mate? Oliver smiled indulgently to himself. And anyway, how shallow that guy thoughts and desires were.

“I know. We all want a fucking handjob, mate. Get yourself a title and a massive fuck off castle.”

That where it was hard to argue. A title and a massive fuck off castle had never harmed anyone in life yet.

"Hey, here I am! And where is Felix?.." you were surprised when you returned from your dorm room and sat back down on the sofa, only this time next to Oliver alone.

"I don't know really," he shrugged, smiling, "I think he’s decided to go have some fun on his own."

"Hmm," you pursed your lips, not really surprised, but still, deep down, a little upset that Felix was acting like that again. You guessed where and why he might have gone, but decided not to focus on that thought right now. Besides, you'd already poured another bottle of your drink into yourself. There was some silence in the air. Before that, you had fun talking to the guys, mostly Felix, and you had never been alone with Oliver for long, especially at parties. You clenched your bottle tightly like a social lifebuoy.

Oliver was even beginning to interest you a little, just a little, but you still had no idea what and how to talk to him in private. He still seemed more like Felix's shadow. But at the same time, being face-to-face for at least a short time, you felt like you had to tell Oliver something meaningful, something deep... as if you should be giving away to him some of your secrets. You were vaguely disturbed by this feeling, as now you were just in the mood for small talk only.

"Um... so… how’s your study going?" you asked, not knowing where else to start a new separate conversation with him besides studying.

"Pretty well," he replied a little awkwardly, embarrassed by your close presence himself. Before that, Felix separated you on the couch, but now he wasn’t a bother anymore. Oliver definitely liked this intimacy, even though he was obviously not used to it yet. But one gets used to the fine things quickly. And Oliver was greedy for all the new truly fine things in his life.

"And yours?"

"Yeah, too," you took a small sip from the bottle, trying not to look him in the eye. At the same time, because you felt awkward and because these blue eyes have been looking at you so piercingly lately, as if they were drilling right into your soul. You couldn't tell if it was embarrassing for you, or if it was some other kind of excitement. Maybe both.

"And what about yours..." Oliver was interrupted by one of Felix's many friends, Chad, who plopped down on the arm of the sofa next to you.

"Hey, Y/N! I finally got to the party on your campus! How are you?"

"Oh, Chad! It's been a long time, it’s like you've disappeared somewhere. Have you really been studying so hard lately?" you both laughed loudly at this very bold assumption of yours. You continued to communicate, actively exchanging the latest news. Over time, you felt guilty a little. You turned to Oliver and smiled at him. He smiled back understandingly. His face visibly saddened when you turned back to the blond guy. He began to examine the empty bottom of his plastic cup, twirling it slightly in his hands. How should he get Y/N's attention? He didn't know. He had to come up with a plan. What would he do, what should he say, so that you…

"Hey, Oliver! Did you have any classes with Mr. Wharton?" you asked with interest, involving him in your conversation. He exhaled a little as he realized that you weren't leaving him in the middle of this party, where he felt like a stranger without Felix and you. You looked at him with a warm smile, and something inside him finally clicked and fell into place.

"Er, yeah... that oddball. He constantly comes up with fruit analogies for everything and even sometimes speaks on their behalf while holding them in hands."

"Ah, have you seen that too?! Y/N, I told you, he's an old weirdo! Only you are attending the wrong classes!" exclaimed Chad, and you all laughed merrily. The conversation was going well, and Oliver was incredibly happy about it. He didn't feel lonely anymore because of you.

But in return, some feelings that he had only vaguely suspected until this moment began to awaken inside him. You didn't stop drinking, and at some point, Chad put his arm around you and started lightly stroking your back. You giggled without giving it much thought, especially under the influence of alcohol. But Oliver saw perfectly well how Chad looked more and more into your eyes, lowering his gaze to your lips and lightly licking his own. It was very subtle, but Quick noticed it all. The way his hand keeps stroking your back, gripping you tighter and tighter. Oliver saw it all perfectly well, because he wanted to be in that place himself.

No, rather, he didn't really want to. He had long imagined your first kiss when you were fully conscious, willing and not under the influence of some alcohol, when you were too much mellow-minded. And he wouldn't let your kiss with Chad happen now, in this state, nor ever.

Sometimes it seemed you and him were very different. He could see through everything, and sometimes it was like you notice none of what you really should. How could you not understand that this Chad wanted to take you upstairs just like Felix did with Annabel?

You were kind and open, maybe even too friendly, oh, Y/N. Oliver was drawn to you like a moth to a fire. You were quite a complete and content person in your own right, and this was very attractive to the many-faced Oliver, who was still struggling to find a place in this life, especially here, in his first year at Oxford.

And it seems that he began to realize that he had found his place next to you. And he wanted to take this place like a guard dog, protecting it and you from all the adversity and guys like Chad.

You didn't forget about Oliver and wanted him to feel fine and less lonely, even hardly knowing him, even having so many friends and acquaintances here, even in the midst of fun of the party. You showed towards him attention and care.

Yeah, he would like to be your dog, he thought now.

Fortunately, you soon got up, freeing yourself from Chad's embrace and going to the bathroom. Great. Oliver had been carefully observing the situation in the common room all this time, so he immediately got up from the sofa and sauntered into the common kitchen, where India was smoking, still slightly displeased that Felix had not chosen her.

"How’s the party? " Oliver asked politely, grabbing a can of beer from the fridge.

India rolled her eyes, twirling a cigarette in her fingers, "What do you need?"

"Me? Nothing. But that guy has been looking at you half the evening without stopping," he nodded towards Chad and winked, "Just saying."

"Isn't he hanging out with Y/N?"

"No, he doesn't sleep with his buddy Felix's old friends. So, the way is clear."

"Oh, are they friends with Felix?" India narrowed her eyes. That was good, she needed some male attention right now, especially from those whom Catton Jr. might become jealous of. Thus, the girl went off towards her chance.

When you had returned to the common room, you saw Chad and India flirting with each other on the couch, and the girl did not let go of her hands off him. Okay. That was unexpected, but okay, it was a student party, after all. You shrugged your shoulders and started thinking about where you could sit now.

"Everyone seems to be having fun with each other tonight," Oliver, who happened to be next to you, shrugged sympathetically. Indeed, everyone around was busy with their own lively conversations, and someone was already far from just "talking".

"To singles?" he offered a playful toast, and you agreed with a grin, "Apparently so!"

"Cheers!" you clinked your drinks, continuing to talk a little more relaxed with each other. So, that how you started getting closer from that evening, and you began getting to know the real Oliver. At least that was what you thought at the time. He looked at you with a shy smile of a complete adoration as you were telling your stories full of joy and tipsy giggling. His eyes were shining like two starry sapphires right now.

If a guard dog wants to protect the peace of its owner and scare away other dogs, then it must inspire fear itself. Maybe sometimes not very intentionally, but instill just a little fear and sense of power even to its own master. Oliver wanted to be a good guard dog.

He would take this place next to you.

* * *

And he took it.

Now he was hovering over you, pinning you between his arms, leaning on your bed in your bedroom in Saltburn. It was the middle of the night, and finally not a single one inhabitant of this house could bother you right now.

Oliver thought all day about how he would continue his way with you at night, along the way remembering the evening of that party in Oxford, where you finally began to get closer. He looked down at you rapturously, biting his lip and breathing heavily, still not believing that all this was really happening. Not just right now, but in general, everything.

His blue eyes were gleaming with utter delight in the dim.

"What else does my sweet Y/N want?" Oliver asked you, recovering his breathing.

He bent lower, and a chain dangled from his neck, swaying slightly. The metal heated by the warmth of your bodies tickled your lips slightly. You lifted your head and gently but firmly catching the chain with your lips.

"Mm-hmm," Quick mumbled with curiosity. You smiled, gritting the chain with your teeth and began to shake it slightly from side to side. He opened his lips excitedly, inhaling sharply.

"Am I your doggie today? Oh, I'm more than willing to be, sweetheart," he said in his deep sexy accent.

He wanted to add "now and always," but didn't. Oliver was afraid that if he showed how willing he was to obey you, he would lose your interest. He was used to changing masks, adapting to different situations and someone's needs. He was an awkward and shy nerd when you first met, and that was largely true, because of his deep core nature and the new posh environment at Oxford. Fortunately, he had successfully joined Felix's company and was able to relax a little. And here in Saltburn, he almost felt like the master of the situation.

If you wished, he would always be that sweet, shy and awkward guy for you, if only you were truly happy about it. But he had learned that he interested and intrigued you mostly when he showed a more powerful, dominant and somewhat even dark part of himself. And that made him really pleased, because you viewed him the way he hoped to be in his own deep wildest dreams.

And yet, he still wanted to be your dog, an obedient dog who would do anything for you. In a sense, he was. And today he decided to demonstrate you that in more obvious way.

"What do you want me to do? I'm all yours," he leaned back next to you, belly up. Oliver smiled playfully. Right now, he was a tiger who had been caught by the toe with his own permission.

Biting your lip, you straddled him, sitting on his thighs. After enjoying this view, you ran your hand from his navel, sliding your fingers up the groove between his prominent muscles. Oliver exhaled sharply. You stopped at his neck, grabbed his chain, and pulled him to you. Now the guy was in a sitting position, he looked at you adoringly while his hands slid over your waist.

Without letting go of one hand from the chain, you slowly rose and began to descend on his cock. Oliver hissed with satisfaction, "Yes, my dear, just like that..."

"I didn't let you talk," you pulled the chain slightly, smiling slightly.

"Oh," he said in surprise, but gladly began to obey you, nodding in agreement.

You began to move slowly on his things, while Oliver's strong hands supported you with ease, guiding you, leaving hot prints on your skin.

His hands were all over you as his lips feverishly kissed everything they could reach. Finally, he reached for your lips, covering them with a hot kiss full of saliva, admiration and arousal.

When you broke the kiss, you said, a little hesitantly, but still firmly enough, "Take your hands off, next time you touch me when I tell you."

Oliver smiled enthusiastically – you learned quickly from his example, apparently. He liked the hint of his own power and dominance reflected on himself now through you.

He obeyed your request, although it was getting harder to fulfill it by every passing minute. He wanted to touch you again, guide your body and push it harder on his hard needy cock. It became unbearable after a while, and he whined a little. He looked at you a little pleadingly, but you nodded no.

He kissed your breasts again, but in response he got "Do not touch at all."

"Only I can now," with these words, you ruffled his hair and pressed harder against his shoulders. He groaned at the inability to touch you at all, it was a new sensation, or rather, its absence.

You grabbed his hair, and he put his head closer, burying it in your hand. It was the only chance to touch you in any way. Oliver closed his eyes and inhaled noisily through his nose. He didn't even mind if you squeezed his hair even harder, hell, maybe even poked his face into the sheet, where he would inhale the scent of your arousal. If you had forced him to lick it off, he would have willingly obeyed, as long as you continued to press his face to the bed, clutching his dark curls. He even imagined doing the same with the bathtub you were lying in lately. In his bathroom. This thought turned Oliver on even more.

Degrading him, talking him down, pulling his hair or chain harshly - he would not always like to be in this role, but he would like to give you that opportunity from time to time. If only you'd asked. And even if you hadn't asked. Because it was you. And because he was like that.

Reaching the peak almost at the same time, you dug your nails into his back deeply, which made Oliver's eyes darken slightly and starry at the same time. With a pleased moan, you released your grip and sank down onto the pillows. But that wasn't all of it, and you decided to play the role given to you to the very end.

Clutching his soft dark hair, you moved his head to your thighs. He looked back at you with hazy from own rapture eyes.

"Please," you said softly, still not being able to be dominant enough. But this sweetness and dissimilarity from his own, even in a situation where you could and should do it, but asking instead, drove Oliver crazy to his limit. He attacked you with a growl, delivering all the pleasure he could possibly give to you that night.

* * *

Oliver was lying with his arms around your lower back, his head resting on your stomach. Quick looked faithfully into your eyes. His face reflected the moonlight of the deep quiet night that was now in Saltburn.

You stroked and scratched him behind the ear, he rubbed his nose contentedly against your smooth belly skin.

"Is my mistress happy?"

"Yes," you laughed, starting to play softly with his hair.

"Then I am happy too," he said, closing his eyes and rubbing his cheek against your soft belly, "Now and always."

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aconflagrationofmyown · 11 months

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

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@landmermaid12

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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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the-al-chemist · 10 months

Text

Another Day

A/N: July’s prompt for @hp-12monthsofmagic is “Surprise…”, and this story contains a fairly big one. I’ll let Charlie tell you about it… Warnings: two minor swear word, one of which barely counts as a swear. Tagging: @fantasywriter19 and @toads-in-my-pockets, who I think may particularly enjoy this little story.

The sun was high in the sky, making the autumn leaves on the ground glow in shades of gold as Charlie arrived in the front garden of the Burrow. From inside the house, the sounds of laughter and clattering pots and pans could be heard as he crunched his way across the yard to the front porch, still dizzy from his Portkey.

He knocked on the front door and was greeted by his mother, who immediately smothered him in an almost rib-breakingly tight hug.

“Bloody hell, Mum. It’s like you’ve not seen me in six months, not six weeks!”

“Well, six weeks is a long time when I had gotten used to you being around all the time,” Mrs Weasley replied. “It’s just lovely to have you home, dear.”

Charlie’s mother let him go, looking almost expectantly behind him before sighing deeply.

“What’s the matter?” Charlie asked her.

“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. I thought that maybe… Oh, never mind. Come on inside, dear.”

Shaking his head despairingly, Charlie followed his mother inside the house. It didn’t look quite the same as it had when he was growing up, but it still felt like home, a fact he was grateful for, given the state the house had been in at the end of the war. The Death Eaters had completely ransacked the house and destroyed parts of it; it had taken Charlie and his brother Percy the best part of a year to fully restore it to its former unglorified glory.

In the living room was Percy himself, along with Charlie’s other two eldest brothers and their father. Charlie hugged each of them in turn, finishing with his older brother, Bill.

“Where’s Fleur?” Charlie asked him, looking around himself as if his sister-in-law might suddenly appear out of nowhere - which, in fairness, she could.

“She went for some air,” replied Bill, smiling broadly. “She’s out in the back garden watching Harry and Ginny teach Teddy to ride a broom.”

“Right. And the others?”

“Ron and Hermione should be here any minute now, and knowing Artemis, she will be here ten minutes late.”

“Of course. Why break the habit of a lifetime?” Charlie said, raising his eyebrows knowingly. “I’ll go and show my face outside.”

In the back garden, Fleur Weasley was sitting on a deck chair with a glass of water, watching Charlie’s sister Ginny and her boyfriend holding a blue-haired toddler upright on a broomstick. At the sight of her brother, Ginny left Harry and Teddy to their flying lesson and ran across the grass towards him.

“Did you come here alone?” she demanded, without even saying hello first.

“It’s nice to see you too, Gin.”

“Yeah, whatever. Answer the question.”

“Uh, yes. Why?”

“Oh, mum was getting all excited. She got it into her head that you were bringing a girl home as a surprise.”

Charlie blinked. “Why would she think that?”

“Because Mum just loves marrying people off, doesn’t she?” Ginny laughed. “And because you only ever usually come home when it’s a special occasion.”

Ginny had a point, Charlie had to admit that. When he had first left home at eighteen, he struggled to afford Portkeys, and always found himself feeling more homesick returning to Romania after visiting his family. Going home infrequently had become somewhat of a habit, but after the war ended and he moved back to Romania following a year’s sabbatical, his priorities had changed. He had visited more often in the last five months, but it just so happened that his visits had coincided with big events: Ginny’s graduation, George’s shop re-opening, Ron’s engagement. This was the first time he had come home without there being some sort of occasion, the first time that it was just another day in the life of the Weasley family.

“Anyway,” Ginny continued, apparently not noticing the somewhat guilty conscience of her brother, “Mum started putting twos together, you know what she’s like.”

“She does like putting twos together.”

“So, you definitely haven’t brought a girl home, then?”

Charlie looked one way and then the other, before holding his hands aloft and shrugging his shoulders.

“Mum will be disappointed,” Ginny laughed, and Fleur smirked into her glass of water.

“I expect zat she will cope,” she said wryly.

From inside the house, Molly called that dinner was ready, and the whole family made their way towards the kitchen. Charlie ducked under a platter of roast potatoes making its own way to the table in order to greet the latecomers: his youngest brother Ron and his fiancée, and Charlie’s best friend from school, Artemis Hexley.

“Trust you to arrive just in time for food,” he muttered to her as he pulled her into a hug. “Though you could’ve at least brushed your hair.”

“Oh, piss off,” Artemis prodded Charlie in the ribs and wriggled out from his arms. “How was your journey here, anyway?”

“Not too bad.”

“The grannies of Ottery St Catchpole all survived you apparating, then?”

“You know, that joke stopped being funny about eight years ago.”

“To you, maybe.”

Artemis grinned wickedly and made her way to the table, Charlie following behind her. As the plates of food were passed around and the kitchen was filled with the sound of lively conversation, he realised how much he had missed moments like this. This was exactly what he had wanted for his visit home.

When the chatter at the dinner table reached a natural lull, Charlie cleared his throat quietly. Before he could say anything to fill the gap, however, Bill rose to his feet.

“I didn’t realise there were going to be speeches,” said George, through a mouthful of food.

“I’ll be quick, I promise,” Bill laughed sheepishly. “It’s just that while everyone is here, I - well, Fleur and I - wanted to tell you all something.” He placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder and smiled at her so widely he looked as if he might burst from happiness, before telling the rest of the family: “We are going to have a baby.”

Suddenly, the kitchen was filled with even more noise and movement than before. Molly and Arthur Weasley rose from their seats to embrace their oldest son and daughter-in-law, Molly making high-pitched noises and crying. Percy congratulated them heartily, and Artemis dropped her fork on the floor in surprise.

Charlie bent down to pick it up and handed it back to her, their eyes meeting as the fork exchanged hands. She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows, and he gave her an almost imperceptible shrug in response.

Just like that, the day now belonged to Bill, Fleur, and their unborn child. The talk at the dinner table had turned to babies, to names and dates and sleeping arrangements. Even after dinner ended, the discussion continued, with Charlie’s mother rushing to find the family albums to find photos of her own seven babies for everyone to look at, an ordeal Charlie managed to escape by offering to clean up after dinner.

“Can I just grab a glass for Fleur?” Bill asked him, once everyone else had retired to the sitting room.

“Of course you can,” Charlie ducked out of the way of a cupboard to allow Bill to summon a glass from it. He chuckled to himself and shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re going to be a dad.”

“Neither can I.”

“You must be so happy.”

“I am,” said Bill, still smiling. “Terrified, but happy.”

“It’ll be alright. You’ll be a great dad.”

“Thanks, Charlie.”

“I mean it,” Charlie held his hand out to Bill. “Congratulations, mate.”

The two brothers shook hands before wrapping their free arms around each other’s shoulders.

“I’m just glad you decided to come back this weekend,” Bill said. “We didn’t want some people finding out before others, and you know how hard it is to get everyone in one place when it’s not for something specific.”

“Hm, yeah.” Charlie nodded, aware that Artemis had just entered the room and pulled a face that made it hard for him not to laugh. “Tough, that.”

“I mean it, thank you. Anyway, better give this to Fleur. Sorry, Artemis, didn’t realise you were behind me.”

“Don’t worry, I’m fine.” Artemis paused before briefly hugging Bill around the waist. “Congratulations, by the way.”

She watched Bill carry Fleur’s glass out of the room, before leaning back against the kitchen table and watching the dishes wash and dry themselves at the sink.

“You didn’t fancy looking at the photos of baby Bill in the bath, then?” asked Charlie.

“Not really. I lived with him for half of last year, if I wanted to see his knob I’d have had plenty of opportunities to do so.”

Charlie laughed and used his wand to direct the clean plates into the cupboard before joining Artemis on the edge of the table.

“So much for it just being another boring, regular day at the Burrow,” she muttered quietly, rolling her eyes.

“I never said it would be boring,” replied Charlie, his voice also lowered. He sighed. “That’s the thing about big families. There’s always something going on with someone. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“Honest?”

Artemis turned her face towards Charlie, holding his gaze.

“Yeah,” she said, completely honestly. “If anything, it’s kind of funny. You had this brilliant plan set out for weeks, and Bill swoops in at the last minute with the exact same idea.”

“Well, they say great minds think alike,” Charlie grinned. “You think that’s funny, you should hear what Mum and Ginny said.”

“What was that?”

“They thought I might be bringing home a girlfriend this weekend.”

“Did they really?” Artemis smirked. “That’s brilliant. What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“No, I just went like this,” Charlie held his hands up slightly and shrugged his shoulders. Artemis blinked at him. “What? It works every time.”

Artemis burst out laughing, using one hand to stifle the sound of her giggles as Charlie shushed her through his own.

“We can’t now, can we?” she whispered, once the two of them had composed themselves.

“Not really, no.”

“That would be unfair.”

“It would,” said Charlie. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s just good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back. I missed you.”

“You too.”

Charlie cast a glance over his shoulder at the door before wrapping his arm around Artemis.

“So, now what?” she asked, reaching across him to take his free hand, her fingers walking over his like the rungs of a ladder.

“We let them have their day today, and then we will just have to make a new plan so we can have our turn another day.”

“And that’s when we’ll tell them about” - Artemis’ eyes flicked from Charlie’s right hand in her lap to his left on her shoulder - “us?”

With another look back at the door, Charlie pulled her closer to him, kissed her hairline, and rested his chin on the top of her head.

“Yeah. That’s when we’ll tell them about us.”

#harry potter fanfiction #hpff #charlie weasley #bill weasley #fleur delacour #weasley family #artemis hexley #molly weasley #ginny weasley #arthur weasley #george weasley #golden era fic #hphm fic #hogwarts mystery #charlie weasley x mc

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tsarisfanfiction · 17 days

Text

Not Til Sunrise

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Teen Genre: Angst/Family Characters: Apollo, Will Two children missing, and an order that stops him going after them. TOApril day 8 - Moonlight's Reflection, although this ran a little way away from the prompt, whoops. This is set in an AU where Apollo landed in camp, and Will claimed his service - if this sounds familiar, it's because I did another snippet of this sort of thing back in 2022, called Order-Bound.

“Apollo, no! Stop!”

The order settled over Apollo like a thick blanket on a midsummer’s day, too warm and constricting as he froze in place, arm outstretched towards the forest.

“Will,” he growled, unable to even turn his head – although whether that was due to the order or his own desperate emotions, he refused to consider. “Let. Me. Go.” It wasn’t like earlier, when there had been injuries to treat and his son had a duty that he would never abandon. Now, everyone was treated, everyone would live, and there were still missing demigods.

Two more missing demigods, his children, and the fact that Will, of all people, was holding him back, was unfathomable. He knew Will was as desperate as he was to find and rescue Austin and Kayla from the clutches of the forest and whatever had ensnared them in the middle of a camp-sanctioned activity, so why was his son stopping him?

“No,” Will said, his voice perfectly even. Too even. “It’s too dangerous.” Apollo felt him rest a hand on his arm. “Come on, Apollo.”

Apollo had no choice but to follow his son – his master – away from the edge of the forest, but Will’s feet betrayed his reluctance, and Apollo was desperate.

“If they-” he started, before his brain caught up with his mouth and he realised what, exactly, he’d been able to say to his son. “If they’re hurt-” he corrected, but Will was either too smart or was already thinking the same thing, because he didn’t let Apollo’s slip pass.

“If they die, it’s on me,” he said, and his voice was still too, too even. “I know. But I’m not losing you, either.”

There was nothing Apollo could say to that.

The rest of their reluctant walk back to cabin seven was in silence as the sun finished setting and twilight settled in. Above their heads, Artemis took to the sky in her chariot.

“Will,” Apollo demanded, begged. His son just shook his head.

“Not tonight,” he said. “You can’t enter the forest until sunrise.”

The fresh order snarled around him like vines – or a snake, but Apollo much preferred the imagery of the former, given the current state of Delphi. That was more than enough ensnaring serpent, if you asked him.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t see Will’s logic – his children rather famously did better in the sun than at night, and it made sense to assume the same held true for Apollo himself, in his current mortal meatsack. The problem was that he had two children out there, in danger, after dark.

“Dibs on the bathroom,” Will said, too lacklustre to be anything other than habit, and he ducked inside the room in question immediately, leaving Apollo standing in the middle of the cabin, feeling helpless.

He hated it.

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand Will’s fear – Will had lost so many siblings, and several of them after dark – but he also didn’t understand why his son was able to stand aside with more siblings in danger in the dark. Surely Will wasn’t placing his pathetic father’s safety above that of his younger siblings’?

Apollo’s memory was not pin sharp any more, and he hated that, but he still thought he remembered Will well enough to know that that wasn’t like his son. And yet Will had done it, ordered Apollo outside of the forest until dawn, which was far too many hours away, given it was scarcely a month past midwinter and the sun had only just set.

Will hadn’t ordered him to stay in the cabin, though. He’d made that oversight, and if Apollo wasn’t allowed to go in the forest, then he was going to sit vigil outside it, instead. He half-heartedly snatched a book about him from Will’s bookshelf, barely glancing at it, as he fled the cabin. No doubt Will would come looking for him, but he’d be tired now that the sun was fully set, and maybe Apollo could at least convince him to let him stay keeping his vigil overnight.

In his haste, he didn’t notice the silence from the bathroom.

He didn’t bother searching for a comfortable place to sit – he didn’t deserve to be comfortable as he waited the night out, knowing that his children were in there, in an unknown condition with no guarantee of survival until dawn. Instead, he threw himself down on the cold, hard ground and simply stared into the darkness, cursing his mortal eyesight.

Why did mortal eyes just stop being able to see things properly in the dark? Apollo felt blind, and that was not an experience he had ever wanted to endure. All his feeble, mortal eyes could make out was the light swaying of the trees in the nighttime breeze, the shadow of the clouds passing past Artemis’ chariot causing darker patches to run across the ground, periodically cutting him off from his sister’s light entirely.

It was cold, too. Human skin raised in weird-feeling pimples, the minute hairs sticking up on end, and at another time Apollo might have found it fascinating to experience, but right then it was just another deserved discomfort in aid of keeping him awake all night, staring into the depths of the trees for any sign, any sign at all, that his children had escaped and were making their way back.

Austin and Kayla were resourceful. They could do it, he was certain.

He had to be certain, because the other choices were far less, well. Certain. Apollo couldn’t entertain them, because if they did, then that meant there was a chance it wasn’t certain.

If they died-

Movement caught his eye, a flicker of something in the corner of his eyes. A silhouette, and then another. Two of them, walking side by side, although it was more of a desperate run, and Apollo was on his feet immediately, hurtling his way towards them because-

He stumbled over his feet and his face became suddenly and intimately acquainted with the cold, hard January ground. His nose ached in protest, joining his aching ribs and assortment of other bruises his mortal body had acquired in its brief existence, but he ignored it as he pushed his way back to his feet, staggering and almost collapsing again before he finally managed to stagger to his feet again.

The moonlight bleached everything in silver, even the all-black shadow of the son of Hades – although silver always looked good with black, so the shimmer in Nico’s hair made him look alive. It did not have the same effect on blond.

Will looked washed out and faded in the faint light of the moon, monochrome in all the wrong ways, sick and pale instead of healthy and hale. He was more like a wraith than a living soul, and Apollo’s heart twisted.

“Will!” he shouted, tripping over his own feet again but somehow keeping his balance enough to not face-plant the ground a second time, instead staggering and stumbling forwards until the momentum from the near-fall finally exhausted itself and he was able to gain some control over the rhythm of his legs. “Will!”

His son’s head whipped around, faded blond waves swaying with the moment, and his eyes widened. They were faded, too, silver instead of blue and looking like the moon had taken up residence in his irises.

“Apollo?” he exclaimed, shaking his head several times as if to clear it. “No, no.”

“Will, what are you doing?” Apollo demanded, feet finding a small pebble, this time, to trip over. His son was already past the treeline, and as Apollo reached it he slammed to a stop, as though an invisible brick wall had formed in front of him.

Not until sunrise. The order held firm, even as Apollo pounded at empty air.

“I can’t lose you,” Will said, and there were many emotions shining through the silver of his eyes, “and I can’t lose them. I’m sorry, Apollo, but I have to do this. They’re my responsibility.”

“They’re my children!” Apollo shrieked. “You’re my child!” He threw himself at the trees again, using the entirety of his mortal body’s strength and momentum to try and force his way in, towards Will and Nico and their obvious intent to go into the woods alone, at night.

The order stood firm.

“I know,” Will said, and mortal hearts weren’t supposed to physically break but the pain in Apollo’s chest couldn’t be anything else, as his son continued. “That’s why.”

“Will-”

“I’ll see you in the morning, Apollo,” his son carried on, as though he hadn’t heard Apollo sobbing out his name in despair. It was said with conviction, but no promise. “I’ll bring them back.”

He and Nico faded into the darkness of the trees, disappearing from Apollo’s pathetic, blind, mortal sight even with the silver highlights from Artemis’ chariot kissing their hair.

“No!” Apollo screamed, throwing himself at the unrelenting order again. “WILL!”

#trials of apollo #trials of apollo fanfiction #riordanverse #riordanverse fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #toapril #toapril 2024 #pjo apollo #will solace #nico di angelo

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a1307s · 4 months

Text

Companion #2

(Bart Allen)

[Art is not mine! Credit to battysketches]

Requested by: Feketealkony16

Keys:

Y/N: Your Name

Word Count: 5,760

Warnings and/or Pre-Notes:

None

——————————————————————

My companion and I have been spending a lot of time together over the past couple of weeks. We have a nice routine that makes me calm. I like knowing what is going to happen, and with Bart, I always know when stuff is going to happen and how it's going to happen.

However, recently Bart has insisted on sleeping in my bed with me at night. I'm not sure why but he keeps asking me, so I finally said yes last night. It's weird waking up with him in my bed. I'm not sure what to do. Usually, I get up and shower before breakfast, and then Bart makes us pancakes. Am I supposed to do that today too?

I shift in bed so I'm sitting against the board in the front. Bart stirs a bit, rolling over so his head is buried between my thigh and the bedding. He stays still for a second before shifting again, his head staying in place but his arm resting against my hips. For whatever reason, Bart has started touching me a lot. He seems to like touching my hips, but again, I'm not sure why.

Usually, I don't like people other than Conner touching me. I do like Bart touching me too though. I like the little sparks that bounce off of him when he's excited. I did end up asking Artemis about the electric sparks and she said Wally does it too when he gets really happy. She also said that Wally doesn't know it's happening because he's used to electricity running threw him so it's hard for him to tell when it's being transferred to something or someone else. I'm pretty sure it's the same for my companion.

Once again, Bart shifts, this time he props himself up so I can see his face, but his arm stays put. When his eyes blink open, sparks start bouncing off of him and colliding against my hips. He is happy, good. "G'morning," He mumbles, a sleepy smile on his face as he looks up at me.

"Good morning," I say back, turning my head away from him. My chest always feels tight when Bart smiles at me. I asked Batgirl about it, and she said it sounds like I have a crush on Bart. I don't know what a crush is, but she explained it as me liking him. Of course, I like him, he's my companion. If I didn't like him, he wouldn't be my companion. Duh.

"Y/N," Bart whines, tightening his hold on me as he buries his head between my hip and his arm. "Look at me!" I obey, turning back to him. His head pokes out as he keeps it rested on us. His smile widens, the sleepiness draining from his face. "Good morning, Mamas."

That is new. I don't know if it's good new. It makes me tingle, but not the tingling I get from the electricity leaving Bart, it's a different tingle. "Good morning," I repeat, once again turning away from him. I think it's a good tingle. It makes me feel like I want my companion to touch me more.

As if he can read my mind, Bart wraps his other arm behind my back, tugging me some so more of himself is on top of my lap. His head is shifted to my other leg, his heart being pressed into my thigh as he lays across me. Recently, when I get overwhelmed - that's the new word Black Canary taught me last week; she says it explains me getting upset about the lights and my emotions - I've been listening to Bart's heartbeat instead of Conner's.

"Why won't you look at me?" He asks, his hands rubbing my hips as he cuddles himself up on my legs. He reminds me of a cat doing this. Sometimes Garfield will transfer into a cat and lay on me, so I'll pet him.

"You make my chest hurt when I look at you too long," I mumble, glancing down at him.

"Oh," He murmurs, his face scrunched up in confusion. "What do you mean it hurts?"

I scan around my room, trying to find anything other than him to look at. "I don't know... it just... feels tight sometimes."

"Oh," Bart repeats, his tone a lot happier this time. "My chest does that too. Usually when you laugh." Maybe Bart likes me too. I hope so or else I'd be a bad companion. Am I a bad companion to Bart? I hope not. I want to make him happy.

"What are you thinking about?" He asks, his hands no longer rubbing my bones and instead gently pushing the hem of my pajama shirt up. A small sliver of my skin shows, which seems to be holding Bart's attention as he pushes his fingertips into it. I don't think I like that, but I do like the feeling of the sparks against a new part of my skin.

"I don't know what to do," I murmur, watching Bart as he watches his fingers roll over my skin. Maybe I do like it, and it's just making me nervous because it's new.

I don't like new things and there's a lot of them happening right now. Bart sleeping in my bed all night, Bart waking up in my bed this morning, and now Bart touching my bare stomach. He's slept in my bed before because we've taken naps together, but he usually spends the night in his bed. Since we've taken naps before, we've woken up in each other's beds, but our naps are usually only an hour or so and never after eight at night. He's also touched me in a lot of places: my arms, my thighs, my back, and even my stomach. The only bare skin he's ever touched is my hands, arms, and face though.

"What do you mean you don't know what to do?" He asks, pushing my shirt up a little more as his fingers slide over my sides, right above my hips. His eyes stay attached to his fingers as if it takes a lot of focusing to touch my skin. Maybe it does. I've only touched the same skin he's touched on me; well before today anyway. I don't see why it would take so much focus though.

"Well, usually I'm in the shower by now, but I'm not. I'm still in bed, with you touching me."

Bart's fingers stop moving, staying put on my side as he looks up at me. I make myself look down, focusing on his eyes as I try to breathe the tightness out of my chest. It's not the tightness I'm used to having around Bart. It's the tightness I would get after I knew I failed a test. "Do you not like me touching you?"

I think about it for a minute, like Canary has told me to do. She's told me just because I feel uneasy about something doesn't mean I don't enjoy it. It just means I'm worried about what is going to happen. "It makes me worry," I finally answer, looking away from Bart again. My breathing hasn't helped with my lungs.

"About what?" He asks, sliding soft circles into me. I can still feel his eyes on the side of my face, which doesn't help my thinking.

"Why you're touching me. If you want me to touch you. If you expect anything from me because you're touching me."

Bart stays silent, the only sounds filling my ears being his heart and lungs, along with the soft sound of our skin running against each other. "Well, I'm touching you because I like how you feel... That sounds creepy," he falls quiet again, spacing out a bit. "I'm touching you because it's how I show and how I feel that someone cares. I would like you to touch me back, but you never have to do anything you don't want to when I'm around. If you don't want to touch me, then don't, I won't be mad."

I roll his words over for a bit before looking down at him. "Where would you like me to touch you?" Hopefully, it's somewhere okay, like his hair. I really want to touch his hair.

"A few places. You can touch me wherever you're comfortable touching. I won't be mad no matter what you decide." Once again, I roll the words over in my head. Does he think that I think he's mad? I slowly move my hands to his head, letting them rest for a beat before I slide my hands through his locks. They're soft against my fingers, causing waves of calmness to start to sprout.

We sit like this for a while, Bart rolling circles into different parts of my stomach, and me playing with his hair. I start trying to braid it, like I've seen M'gann do to Cassie's hair, but Bart's hair isn't long enough to make a good braid.

After a bit, Bart shifts, sitting up in bed across from me. "I'm going to take a shower," he starts, tilting his head some as he looks over my face. "Do you want to take a shower with me?"

"No," I yap out, panic quickly eating away at the calmness that was previously present.

"Okay, you don't have to," he says softly as he slowly reaches his hand towards me. I stay still, petrified with fear despite his present smile that usually makes my chest tight, not fearful. His hand is gentle as he places it against my cheek, his thumb gently sliding against my skin. For whatever reason, this is another thing Bart likes to do.

"Please go away," the fear pushes out of me before I can stop it. I don't like this, I don't like him touching me, and I don't like Bart anymore. He's a scary companion. He's going to hurt me.

Bart's smile drops a bit, but is still present, and still scary. "Okay," he says softly, dropping his touch from me before sliding off my bed. I stay put as I watch him walk into the bathroom.

Once the door is shut behind him, I shoot up from bed and make my way out of my room. I do not feel happy, I do not feel nice, I do not feel good. All of can think about is my pod and Luther and pain.

I need to find Birdman so he can call Canary. I need to talk to her. I do not like feeling scared, and I really don't like feeling scared of Bart. He's my companion, he's supposed to make me feel good, feel loved, feel safe, someone I'm supposed to trust. I do not feel any of that. I feel scared of him, scared of him seeing me. Why would he want to see me like that? Why would he want to take a shower with me? Does he want to hurt me? What test did I fail?

My mind is a fog, my breathing feeling labored, and my nervous shaking as I race into the living room. I can hear Conner trying to get my attention, but I ignore him. "Nightwing?" I call, walking up to the team leader who's tucked into a corner of the kitchen. I tug on the arm of his shirt, pulling his attention down to me with a soft hum. "We need to go on a walk."

————————————

Canary is sitting across from me, her body language open and her pen and pad ready to write down what I say. I open my mouth again to try and explain this morning but once again, nothing comes out. "Take your time, Y/N, the league knows I'm not on call, so we have all day to figure this out," her words are soft, like always.

I like Canary, she is nice, and patient, and helps me with all my thoughts and feelings. When I first started talking with her, she told me she used to and still does help Conner - and other heroes - with the same thing so it's okay that I ask for her help.

"Bart keeps asking to sleep in my bed at night," I finally push out, shifting my gaze around the room. Even though it feels nice to talk to her and I feel safe with Canary, it still feels overwhelming to talk about stuff sometimes.

"Yes, we talked about it at our last session, do you remember what you said about it?"

I think about it for a moment, trying to remember. "I said that I don't know how I feel about it." Canary stays quiet, her eyes soft as she looks at me. "He asked again last night, and I said yes."

"Why did you say yes? Did you want to say yes, or did you say yes so he'd stop asking?"

I think about it for a moment, trying to relive the moment and the emotions I had during the discussion with Bart. "I felt... happy when he asked. I thought it would be nice. I like our naps so I figured it would just be a really long nap. That's why I said yes. I like it when I go to sleep next to Bart, it makes me feel... like I'm important to him. Does that make sense?"

"Yes, it makes sense," Canary says, bringing some relief to me as she scribbles in her notes. "How was it? Before bed? When you were getting ready to sleep and when you laid down for the night?"

Once again, I think about it, trying to relive the memory. "I was already ready for bed when Bart showed up. We watched a movie - it was about some talking cars - and we sat next to each other, with Bart's arm around my hips. He keeps touching my hips. Why is he doing that?"

"I'm not hundred percent sure because I'm not Bart. Why do you think he does it?" I hate when she does this. When she makes it obvious she knows the answer but won't tell me what the answer is. It's supposed to 'encourage my thoughts and feelings to get to find the answer' which is stupid. If I knew the answer I wouldn't have asked the question.

"I don't know."

"I think you do, you're just scared of the answer." Maybe Canary isn't as nice as I thought.

I think over the question for a while, nothing but space in between Canary and me. "Well, today Bart said he likes how I feel, and then said he sounded creepy so he changed his answer to something about showing care and being shown it, I don't know."

Once again, the older hero stays silent, scribbling away at her notes. "Repeat that." This is really stupid.

"Bart said he likes how-"

"Not that part, the last part." Why did I ask to talk to Canary? This is a waste of time.

"His answer was something about showing care and feeling cared for," I repeat, my anger bubbling with my words.

"Again," she orders, not helping the growing frustration.

"Bart said he likes touching me because it's how he shows he cares and how he feels that he is cared about - oh..." Maybe Canary isn't stupid, and maybe I don't like the answer. Why would Bart care about me? I know he's supposed to since he's my companion and all, but other than supposedly having to, why does he?

There's a soft smile on her face as she looks at me. "See? You did know the answer, you just needed help putting the pieces together. What was the rest of the night like?"

"I don't know. We laid down after the movie and went to sleep."

"Was Bart touching you when you went to sleep?"

Why does that matter? "Yes, he had his arms around my hips and back like he did this morning."

"Why do you think he did that?"

I think about it for a moment. "Because... he was showing he cares...?"

Canary hums a yes as she nods in agreement. "People feel cared for in different ways. Some people - like Robin - feel cared for when people get them stuff like coffee, love letters, or even something as simple as a rock. Other people - like Bart - feel cared for when they're touched like hugs, kisses, and holding hands. Most of the time people show they care in the same way they feel cared for."

"Are those the only ways to feel cared for? I don't like any of those things."

Canary smiles softly again, before speaking. "There are five love languages. The two we already talked about are called receiving gifts and physical touch. There are acts of service like Batgirl helping Nightwing with paperwork. Words of affirmation is another one, stuff like being told you're doing good-"

"Ew," I say before I can stop myself. "I hate when Nightwing and Conner do that."

Canary nods, propping her head up with her arm. "Your love language is quality time. Stuff like napping with Bart or sitting with him when he plays his video games." I nod, the same way Canary does, as I roll her words around my head. I feel bad for thinking she was stupid, she's smart. "So, the time before sleeping was good, how was the actual sleeping?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, my confusion washing away all the understanding I had a second ago. I think this is why I don't like talking to Canary sometimes. She's good at making stuff make sense, and then ruining it the next time she asks a question.

"Did you sleep through the night?"

"Oh, I woke up a few times. I'd panic for a while before I realized it was Bart."

Back to silence, sounds of breathing and Canary's pen filling the space between us once again. "How'd this morning go?" She finally asks, being the one to break the silence again.

"I woke up confused."

"Because Bart was there?"

"Yes and no," I answer, getting a head tilt from the lady across from me. That usually means I answered in a way she wasn't prepared for. "I was happy to see Bart when I woke up and I did finally remember he was supposed to be there but I didn't know what to do. I didn't know if I should stick to my routine or not because waking up with him in my bed isn't part of my normal schedule."

"You don't do very well with change," She says softly like she does every time we discuss a change in my life.

"I know," I answer shortly, like always. "He ended up waking up shortly after and kept touching me again."

"Did you not like him touching you?"

"I didn't mind him touching me for most of it."

"And for the rest of it?"

I go silent again, replaying this morning in my head, trying to remember my thoughts and feelings in the moment. "Bart just... touched me differently I guess."

"Try rewording that." Occasionally Canary will say this, usually when she needs more context or doesn't understand what I'm saying.

"Bart... lifted my shirt. Not like a lot! Just a little bit, and kept touching my skin on my stomach and sides and I don't know," I rush out with a heavy tone, using my hands to model how much skin was showing. "It wasn't a lot," I repeat, a lot softer this time.

"Does it matter whether it was a little or a lot?"

Yes, it does. Why wouldn't it? "Different things happen depending on how much clothing is off. If it's a little bit it's just a check up and if it's a lot I get hurt."

Canary falls silent, pen still and her heart beats a bit faster. Maybe I shouldn't have said that. "Is that what happened when you were with Luther?" Her voice is a little uneven, but I'm surprised. Anytime we talk about how Luther used to hurt me her heartbeat picks up.

"Ya, it did. Do you think Bart would hurt me?"

Again, silence from the lady across from me, but her pen is at work this time and her heart is back to normal. "No one can be hundred percent sure someone else won't hurt anyone, but I do believe Bart wouldn't ever hurt you."

"Why?"

Silence. More silence, and then... some more silence. I hate how long Canary takes to answer my questions. "Has Conner talked to you about having a boyfriend or girlfriend?"

That's not an answer, that's another question. I think Canary just likes to make me angry. "He said I can love whoever I want to love, girlfriend or boyfriend."

She hums, no pen marks this time. "Do you know what a boyfriend or girlfriend is?" I shake my head no. I don't know what one is or the use of one. "A boyfriend or girlfriend is a lot like a friend. Do you know what a friend is?"

"A friend is someone you care about and trust and spend time with."

Another hum and another nod. "A boyfriend or girlfriend is kind of like that. A lot of the time, they start as friends or companions in your case, before a deeper relationship develops."

"I still don't see a difference."

"Well with a boyfriend or girlfriend, you tend to be more... physical. You do things like kiss among other things that you wouldn't do with a friend. Unlike a friend, you only have one and there's stuff you only do with them. Oh, and a boyfriend is a test run for a husband."

"What's a husband?"

"Let's save that discussion for after we get the boyfriend-girlfriend thing down."

"What's a girlfriend?" I ask finally, it's been three months since the first time I heard of it. The question has sat in my head ever since.

"Same as a boyfriend but it's a girl instead of a boy." Oh, that's simple. It makes me feel dumb for not figuring that out on my own. "Nightwing tells me you were having a panic attack when you came to find him."

"Panic attack?" I echo, confused about this and still confused about the whole boyfriend thing. I don't like feeling confused, it makes me angry and reminds me how little I know about the world because of Luther.

"Yes, it's when it's hard to breathe and you feel very scared, and it's hard to think straight because of your emotions. All you think about is your fear and what's causing it." Ya, I definitely had a panic attack earlier. "What happened right before you felt like that?"

I stay quiet, mentally going over the event. I know what happened. I remember all of this morning. I don't know why it makes me so scared. It shouldn't be scary for Bart to want my clothes off, right? Maybe it should be.

"Bart... he asked me to... he wanted to take a shower together," I stumble out, struggling on how to form my sentence.

"And that made you feel scared?"

I nod, propping my arms on my knees before burying my face into my hands. "Why would that make me feel scared? Why would it cause a panic attack?"

Like always, I have to wait for Canary to finish her writing and thoughts before she answers. From between my fingers, I watch as she leans forward, sitting in a similar pose to me. "I think that the idea of being without clothes around someone scares you because it reminds you of the things Luther has done to you. I also think that Bart believes he's your boyfriend. Have you two talked about that? Or kissed? Or anything else that you haven't done with another member of the team?"

The first half of Canary's speech makes sense. I understand that, I remember the fear I felt, the fear that before today, Luther was the only one to make me feel. The second half... not so much. Why would Bart think he's my boyfriend? We haven't kissed or anything else. We do things together, we spend time together, and we take naps.

"We haven't kissed and we haven't talked about him being my boyfriend. We hold hands but I do that with Conner as well. We take naps together too but again I do that with Conner."

"It's different with Conner. There's stuff you do and say with family that you wouldn't do with a friend." That doesn't make any sense either. My head hurts from all this thinking and I'm getting angry. I have more questions than answers. This isn't helping.

"People are confusing," I mumble, rubbing my face before sitting up straight.

Canary stays put, giving me another soft smile. I'm really starting to not like it when she smiles at me. "How about we stop for the day, ya? I'll come back and we can talk again tomorrow."

"What do I do about Bart?" I ask as she stands up and starts collecting her things.

It takes a second - like usual - for Canary to answer. "I think you should have a serious talk with him. See if he thinks he's your boyfriend. See if you want him to be your boyfriend. If you're happy with the talk, have another sleepover. If you're not, stay away from him today and we'll look into and talk about finding you another friend."

I don't want another friend. I want Bart. I want to keep him all to myself. For a long time, if not forever. Maybe I shouldn't want to keep him. Maybe that's me being possessive like Wolf gets about Conner and me. Conner always yells at Wolf about it so it has to be a bad thing, right? I need to find Bart and talk to him. Maybe he'll help my thoughts. Hopefully, he'll help my thoughts. As long as he doesn't make them worse.

————————————

My head is scattered when I walk back into my room. After my session with Canary, I went on a walk and then continued to walk, for two hours. Instead of helping, it just messed up my thoughts more. Canary didn't help, she just made me more confused.

Like earlier today, Conner calls for me as I walk through the living room. Once again, I ignore him. Conner tries to help with my thoughts but usually, he just confuses me or gets angry because he doesn't understand either.

A bit of relief runs through my veins when I swing my bedroom door open, but it's soon washed away. Laid out on my bed is my red-tinted companion, who instantly sits up when he hears the door open. "Y/N," he calls, jumping to his feet. "Are you okay? Nightwing said you had a panic attack. Did I cause it? What happened? Where have you been? Did I upset you? Did-"

"Please be quiet," I murmur, looking at my shoes as I try to push down my feelings. I'm upset that I made Bart worry, I'm upset that I can't control my fear, and I'm upset that Bart won't be quiet so I can answer his questions.

Surprisingly, Bart does silence. I can feel his eyes digging into me as I focus on my shoelaces. One... two... three... four... five... six... seven... eight... nine... ten... Maybe taking deep breaths and counting does help. "I am fine. I did have a panic attack, but it's fine. You did but didn't cause it. A lot has happened today. I was with Nightwing and then Canary and then I went on a walk. You did but didn't, once again."

"How did I both cause and not cause your panic attack? How did I cause and not cause you to be upset?" I glance at Bart, his face scrunched up and his eyes are pink. I decide to focus on the wall behind him instead. I don't like knowing I caused him to cry.

"You... I didn't... I don't like new and there was a lot of new this morning." My words stick in my throat a few times before I manage to get them out.

"I don't understand."

I sigh, glancing at his face again. His eyes are teary, making my heart feel like it's being squeezed. I don't want him upset, I want him happy, I'm supposed to make him happy. "I... liked you waking up in my bed. It feels... it makes me feel important."

"You are important. Very important to me, actually." Maybe my thoughts aren't always wrong. Why am I so important though? I don't do anything to be important. I definitely don't do anything to be important to Bart.

"The..." I stop for a second, running my fingers under my shirt. "That was fine. It was okay, but it made me a bit scared. Then you... kept touching me and... it makes me scared. Really, really scared." Bart steps forward a bit before stopping, causing himself to stand in an awkward half-leaning forward, half-staying put pose. "And... and then you asked to take a shower together and... all I could think about was you wanting to hurt me, about Luther hurting me."

Bart knows a lot about my time with Luther. He doesn't know the details like Canary and Conner do, but he knows about the tests, about the chocolate, about the hurting. He doesn't know about the on and off clothes, so I don't think it's fair that I'm upset with him. It's not fair for me to have a panic attack because of it. It's not fair that I make it seem like his fault.

"I didn't... I'm sorry," he mumbles, fixing himself so he finishes his step forward.

"It's not your fault. Luther hurt me, not you. It's not your fault. I just... I can't say no."

Bart takes slow steps forward, stopping right in front of me. His cheeks are wet. I made him cry. I don't want to make him cry. "I am sorry I kept touching you. I should have stopped when you told me you were worried. I know you... struggle with new things so I shouldn't have pushed anything new onto you this morning. I'm sorry."

His words feel nice. They make me feel calm. Silence envelopes us, it's not the usual gentle silence though, it's a heavy silence. "Do you think you're my boyfriend?"

Bart tilts his head some, his eyebrows pressing together in confusion. "Yes? Why are you asking? Do you not think I'm your boyfriend?"

Why would I think he's my boyfriend? I don't even know what a boyfriend is. Even with Canary's explanation, I'm still confused. "Canary told me that she thinks that you think you're my boyfriend. At the end of our session, she said to talk to you and see what you think and see if I want you to be my boyfriend. She also said if I'm happy with our talk to have another sleepover and if I'm unhappy to stop talking to you, which made me angry."

"I... have a lot of questions," Bart mumbles, confusion deeper on his face. "First, do you not know what a boyfriend is?"

"Not really. Canary said it was someone you are more physical with, and you kiss them, and you only have one, and something about a husband."

"Okay," he says, blinking his eyes a few times. "Um... a boyfriend is someone you love a lot. You do kiss them too and you do... other things that aren't important right now. It's someone you want to spend the rest of your life loving." Oh, that makes a lot more sense than what Canary said. "Why were you upset when Canary said to stop talking to me?"

Bart is dumb, and unlike Canary, he is actually dumb. "Because you're important. You're my companion. I want to keep you forever and I don't want anyone else to have you." Bart smiles at this but I'm not sure why. "But Conner yells at Wolf for being possessive so I don't think I'm supposed to feel like that."

Bart's smile gets bigger as he lets out an airy laugh. "Conner yells at Wolf because he growls when people get too close to you and when Conner spars. That's completely different from what you're feeling. You don't growl at people or threaten to hurt them if they talk or come near me." Oh... that makes a lot of sense.

"So, you're my boyfriend?"

"Do you want me to be your boyfriend?"

"Yes," I say, nodding in agreement to my statement.

"Do you actually want to spend the rest of your life with me or are you scared to say no?"

"I actually want to spend my life with you." It makes me sad even thinking about someone else getting to have Bart. He's supposed to be my companion.

Once again, Bart's smile grows as he looks at me. "Good, because I want to be your boyfriend."

"So, you're my boyfriend."

"So, I'm your boyfriend." The word sounds weird but nice.

"I still don't know what the difference between a boyfriend and a friend is though."

"We'll figure it out together, okay?" He says, slowly moving closer. "And we'll move slowly so you don't get scared again, and I'll start asking before I touch you, okay? Does that sound good?"

"Yes, it sounds very good. I'm sorry for upsetting you."

Bart goes to put his hands on my hips but freezes with them hovering over me. "Can I touch you?" I nod yes. "Do you actually want me to touch you or are you scared to tell me no right now?"

"I actually want you to touch me."

Once the words are out, Bart's hands are present on my hips, once again rubbing soft circles into me, over my clothes this time. "You don't need to be sorry. I scared you. I pushed too hard this morning. I should have talked to you instead of assuming you were okay with me touching you. I shouldn't have assumed I was your boyfriend. From now on we will talk about stuff more, okay? Maybe we can talk to Canary about doing couples therapy so we can work on making this work, ya?"

"Ya, I like that idea."

"I like that idea too." I have a boyfriend. Bart is my boyfriend. I get to keep Bart forever.

———————————————————————

#bart allen #impulse #bart allen oneshot #impulse oneshot #young justice #young justice oneshot #young justice x reader #bart allen x reader #impulse x reader

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eridanidreams · 4 months

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Snippet Sunday

Tagging: @bearlytolerant, @silurisanguine, @aro-pancake, @fangbangerghoul, @atonalginger, @aislingdmdt, @fshenkoescape, @ninjaofnaps, @lisa-and-shadow, @a-cosmic-elf, @thatsgoodsquishy0, @hockeydemon42, @fomagranfalloon@violenceandviolets, and @artemis-crimson

Enjoy this little NYE snippet!

from stars through my fingers like grains of sand

Cait stopped outside Reliant, looking up at the sign like she wanted to be anywhere else. Cora stepped up next to her and took her hand. "It's just Reliant. Dad took me here when I broke my leg. Dr. Manning's really nice, so you don't have to be scared."

"I'm glad you like him," Cait said softly. "That helps some."

"You know all sorts of medical stuff, so why are you worried?" Cora looked up at Cait, gently swinging their arms as they waited.

"Um. That's a long story." Cait rubbed the side of her face. "When I was a little girl, some bad people experimented on me. You know what genesplicing is, right?"

Cora nodded enthusiastically. "Uh-huh! It's used for all sorts of things!"

"Well, they were genesplicing me with non-human DNA. I don't know what." Cait spoke very quietly, so only Cora could hear. "And it hurt a lot. And they did other things that makes it very hard for me to talk about it, or get help about it."

"Is that when you got your eyes?" Cora asked quietly. "And why you can't eat chocolate?" Dad had warned her never to have chocolate around Cait because it would make her sick. "That's just the worst."

Cait looked like she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Yes, that's when I got my eyes. And probably why I can't eat chocolate, and you're right. That is the worst." Cait made a little face that made Cora giggle. "The worst." While Cait was talking, Cora opened the clinic door and tugged Cait through it. "We think they wanted to keep me away from doctors who might find out about what they did. And your dad thinks that maybe there's a way for the doctor here to help fix that." Cait rubbed her eyes, finally noticing where she was. "Clever Cora," she murmured, sitting awkwardly in the nearest seat.

"Yup!" Cora said cheerfully. "You stay there, I'll get the doctor for you!"

She actually didn't have to; Dr. Manning came out of the back. "Well, if it isn't little Miss Cora Coe. How's the leg?"

Cora bounced up on one foot and did a little spin. "Just fine, see! We're here for Captain Cait. Dad said she should talk to you." Cora leaned in and said in a loud whisper, "Cait's scared of doctors so I'm helping her."

Dr. Manning looked over at Cait. "Miss Coe here has a point. You don't look good at all. So why don't you come on back and we'll see what we can do. Will Cora be staying with you during the exam?"

"Yes!" Cora exclaimed, while at the same time Cait said, "No."

Dr. Manning chuckled. "That's fine, then, Miss Coe can wait in my office." He gestured them back, pointing Cait toward the small exam room, and Cora toward the equally small office. Cora frowned as the doctor closed the door on her. This was not part of the plan!

#sunday snippet #sam coe #caitlyn lynch #eridani writes #fanfic #starfield #sam coe x spacefarer #coemancer #stars through my fingers like grains of sand #cora coe

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twoidiotwriters1 · 5 months

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Daughter of Olympus (Leo Valdez xFem!Oc)

A/N: I'll see y'all in a few weeks! -Danny Words: 1,944 Series' Masterlist Previous Chapter /Book II Listen to: 'The Exit' -by Conan Gray

XLIII: It Got Too Fluffy, I Had to Do Something About That

Monsters are vanishing left and right. After Typhon vanishes away, Lady Artemis and Apollo help us strike down a couple more creatures, not to mention Tyson and his buddies are also stomping enemies like they're made of clay.

A blast of golden light comes from the sky, and we all stop to stare. The gods around us, all except Hades, go up to Olympus at once.

"Did we win?" Jake Mason asks behind me.

I realize we've run out of monsters, and everything is deadly quiet except for a few mortals' panicky screams in the distance.

"It's done," Hades announces. "Olympus stands."

I drop Almighty out of pure shock. "My brother..."

The top of the Empire State turns blue all of a sudden, there is only one kid insane enough to ask Zeus to do that.

"She said what?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters 'cause she's supposed to be your second in command and she's disrespecting you!" Leo insists heatedly.

"It doesn't matter," Ara repeats calmly. "This was just an argument, we'll make peace once I'm back."

"But..." he almost asks 'What if we don't come back?', but asking that is never an option, so he changes the subject. "I don't want you to leave this place sad, this is your home."

"My home is with my parents and Percy," Ara corrects him stubbornly, then pokes his cheek. "And you. As long as I'm with you, I'll be okay."

Leo softens at her words. "Alright. Let's go rescue your brother from Camp Stuck-up."

"I heard that!" Jason steps onto the deck with his backpack over one shoulder. "Don't go saying that once we get there, Leo. Be nice."

"I'm nice!" Leo puts his arm around Ara's shoulders. "But my girl needs me on her side right now."

Ara looks over the ship's rail, they're on top of the cliff where Bunker Nine is hidden, and she's meditating on whether it's a good idea to look for Lily or not. Their arguments wash away as soon as something bigger happens, so she's not too worried.

The next hour is a blur, while Hades helps us rebuild the city, Mrs O'Leary walks past us with Chiron on her back.

"Ara Jackson," he says my name as if he were talking to a badly behaved pet. "In the future, review your plans with me before you risk your life in such a reckless manner."

Mrs O'Leary shakes off a bit of dirt, making him wince.

"We can talk later, go to camp," I say gently.

Hades walks up to us after Chiron leaves.

"Well, Jackson," he eyes my appearance. "Now is your time to come through with your part of our agreement."

I stare at him, not sure of what to say. He glances at Nico and the boy steps forward, looking anxious. "We should check on the others," he suggests.

"You're a good warrior, Ghost King," I nudge his arm as we walk together. "If I hadn't promised Lily the position, you'd be a good second in command."

He makes a face as if he can't think of anything more horrid than following my orders forever.

When we enter Olympus, people cheer for us. Percy goes out of his way to find me and holds me, after getting my mom's blessing, my forehead can reach his shoulder perfectly.

"Pretending to be Achilles? Are you kidding me?! That was insane!"

"And I haven't pulled my craziest stunt yet," I mumble against his shoulder.

Percy moves away and frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Ready to go?" Piper and Coach Hedge arrive with all of their stuff.

Ara holds tightly onto the railing. Lily didn't come to say goodbye, she left Ara's cloak inside Ara's cabin in the ship, along with her tattered T-Rex. That's how she operates, Ara knows that.

She pulls out the dagger her friend forgot in her room that same afternoon, Ara brought it as a good luck charm.

"Annabeth's ready?" The girl eyes the blade, deep in thought.

"Yes," Leo hums, moving to the control board.

"Let's go, then," Ara sighs, trying not to sound worried.

Lily gets called by Hades right after Annabeth becomes the architect of Olympus, he tells her there are too many corners that he doesn't want to leave unattended in the Underworld, and many souls to recover after this war, so Lily must work with Daedalus to make the Underworld safer and Tartarus harder to reach.

Percy could've become a god if he wanted to, but he turned it down. In exchange, he asks for the Gods to care for their children, to treat every camper with respect, no matter who their parents are. I think that's sweet.

"Arae Jackson."

It isn't Hades the one who calls me forward, it's Ares. I can't help the way I glance back at my friends in confusion. The god snorts. "Why are you surprised? You've been calling to me for a whole year."

I frown. "Lord?"

"We've all been listening, like you asked," Mr D says. "Isn't this what you wanted?"

What surprises me the most is that instead of passing out, I feel braver. Blame it on the Aphrodite in me, but I thrive on the spotlight.

"Yes," I look at Zeus. "With your permission, then... I'd like to plead my case." The god's face is impossible to read, but I carry on anyway. "I offer myself as your next child of Olympus."

Demeter scoffs. "Why would we choose you?"

"Cause I want it," I reply cynically.

"Young lady," Poseidon speaks. "We haven't seen that kind of hero in centuries. What makes you think you're up to the task?"

"Well, what makes you think I'm not?"

"You're an Aphrodite!" Ares laughs. When my mother glares at him, he clears his throat. "I mean, it doesn't seem like it would be the calling for someone of your kind."

"I've fought plenty," I continue. "I've learned a lot and I want to keep our world safe. I also have this..."

I show them Almighty. Hephaestus shifts on his chair uncomfortably and looks away; Zeus frowns, but next to him, Hera gets excited with the revelation.

"Pantodynamos!" She beams.

"How do we know she didn't steal it?"

"I saw her in action," Hades says. "This half-blood tricked a whole army into believing she was Achilles, our last son of Olympus, and they believed it because she did a good job."

"A child of Olympus must be familiar with their armies," Athena nods in agreement. "And she's spent years learning all the crafts, has she not? She can fight, build, and knows how to lead."

"I say we give her a try," Mr D shrugs. "We can strike her out of existence if she's lousy."

"She has my full support," Hades announces. "And my vote."

Zeus glares at his brother, but then Hera speaks. "Mine too."

"Me three," Mr. D hums, he's already lost interest and seems eager to leave the throne room.

"I gave her my blessing," my mother smiles. "She has my vote and my trust."

"Mine too," Hephaestus grumbles. "That was a neat trick you pulled with my son's creations, I'd like to see more of that."

"I vote in favor," Artemis eyes me with interest. "Would've made a fine hunter, but if this is her choice..."

"I never forget a fan," Apollo winks at me. "She's got my approval."

"Well, I helped her kill a Hyperborean..." Ares ponders. "So I guess I vote in favor too."

"She has my vote," says Hermes.

"Fine," Poseidon gives in, briefly glancing at Percy. "She shall have her chance."

Percy steps forward but Annabeth stops him. It catches my eye and I look back at them, my brother doesn't understand what being a child of Olympus ensues, but he's visibly worried. Annabeth's staring at me like she can't believe this is happening, and Thalia's shaking her head, knowing the deed is done.

Lily keeps her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes fixed on the floor, Nico's the only one who doesn't look anxious or angry, perhaps he wants me to succeed, cause that would mean he also can.

"Arae Jackson, kneel before the council," Zeus says at last.

I do what he asks me right away, holding tightly to the hilt of my sword.

"The gods are granting you the greatest honor," he says. "Do not waste it."

"You'll be the General of our armies," Athena continues. "You're allowed to deny or authorize quests as you deem it proper, and you shall join them if you think it's necessary."

"If we call, you must answer. We will grant blessings only when you truly need them," Zeus continues. "Choose wisely, we cannot grant you all twelve."

"Lastly," Hades smiles coldly. "You cannot favor your former godly parent over the rest of us. From now on, you are the daughter of Olympus."

"Do you conform to these rules?" Zeus asks.

"I do."

Every god in the room lowers their weapons and scepters to the ground, golden lines travel through the marble surface and climb up my body healing my bruises, cuts, and scars.

"Stand."

I hold onto Almighty as I get up and notice the purple cape around my shoulders, a gold pin shaped in the form of an omega keeping it in place. I also feel something on my head, and when I reach up, I discover it's a crown of gold laurels.

Zeus looks far from happy. "You may go."

I put my sword on the sheath that's hanging over my hips, and I keep my head up as I walk away without turning my back on them.

I think of the friends I lost, of how lonely they must've felt in their last moments. I think of all the lives it could save to have someone who shows up when we need them. A hero who doesn't think we're inconsequential and who by magical binding, can't turn their back on us.

I remember when the monsters thought I was Achilles.

I'm just like him now.

"You should take a nap," Annabeth suggests. "You have to look your best once we arrive."

Ara raises a brow. "I didn't come here to look pretty."

Annabeth shakes her head. "A child of Olympus is above everyone else, Ara. The Romans won't like that."

Ara feels her stomach twisting in knots, but she smiles despite it. "Won't be nice to discover a Greek is their commander, huh?"

"You'll have to assert your position, and for that, you need to look strong," Annabeth squeezes her shoulder. "Sleep, I'll call if we need you."

The girl makes her way to the cabins. As she goes she spots Leo moving from one side to the other on the control board, but she leaves him alone, they all need to focus on themselves.

Jason helped her practice the wolf glare all Romans have, and he's taught her the way the legions work, but just like Annabeth, he's warned her they'll show resistance to admitting she's their superior.

Ara has faced worse crowds, so she thinks it'll be fine. Becoming a daughter of Olympus didn't keep her loved ones out of danger, but at least no one can keep her out of the fight now, and she's going to become whatever she must to secure their victory over Gaea.

The girl falls asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow, but she doesn't get a demigod dream this time. When she opens her eyes, she's no longer on the ship.

"Ara," Aphrodite looms over her, eyes just as serious as the rest of her expression. "We need to talk about your curse."

I don't understand why my friends are acting this way, but they aren't upset because I wasted their time, they're angry because I've given mine up. Ambition blinds me from the one thing the others can see.

I didn't care at first, I was fifteen years old yet my name would be written in our history books. No one was going to be able to put out my fire for a very long time.

I wish they had.

Book II ->

Taglist.

@siriuslysirius1107 @ask-giggles1303 @ash-the-hoarder @im-planning-something-look @bandshirts-andbooks @coolninjapaper @thewaterlily @whenisthefall @1randomcomic @you-bloody-shank @sunflowergraves @owlalex44 @taylordaughter @typicalsolangelolover @writingmia @espressopatronum454 @slytherinnqueen @orbitingpolaris @obxstiles

#twoidiots writing #pjo fanfic #pjo hoo toa #pjo fandom #percy jackson and the olympians #leo valdez x oc #leo valdez fanfic #doo

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the-jarvy-party · 1 year

Text

PEACE AND WAR

chapter two (masterlist found HERE)

simon “ghost” riley x (fem) reader

lowercase intended // warnings : cursing, gore, normal cod stuff

wc : 1.4k

also, as i play the campaign myself. i realized how some of my things aren’t accurate. please excuse that. and thank you all for 100 followers!!

“good job last weekend… boys.” laswell sits down at the head of the table. “gaz and price will now be stationed in amsterdam, alejandro is staying in mexico until further notice.” she grabs the folder that was on the table and walks out of the room.

everywhere you go, everything is so fast paced and you really have to think before you speak.

gaz and captain price sigh and get up out of their seats.

“i’ll see you guys.” gaz waves to us and walks out, captain price following behind him.

“see you!”

ghost sits down in the chair next to me, then scoots towards me.

“we have eyes on a target.” he whispers to me, and i look over at him. he had his mask pulled up to the bridge of his nose.

“oh.. um.. i- whe- y- where?” i feel my face get red and he smirks.

“here let me put them in for you.” he was practically on top of me and i had to resist the urge to scream. a profile of a wanted criminal popped up, he was in al mazrah.

the same place where ghorbrani was (literally) blown up.

“there’s no way.” i lean back into my chair.

“there is, laswell let soap and i know that within a few months we’re gonna get him.”

i nod and look over at him, our faces were inches away from one another. he notices that i was staring at his lips and moved away.

“wait, is that why they’re stationing people?”

“yeah, you’re stationed with soap and i. laswell said others would be coming as well.” he leans back in the chair and taps his fingers on my desk. “you just sit here and do work all day?” he looks back at me.

“no.. i don’t just to work. i watch hulu.” i close the tab on the monitor.

“you use.. government property to watch that?” he gets closer to me, and tries to type something in. his left arm was across my chest reaching the mouse.

“um” i mumble and he looks up at me.

“oh, sorry.” he looks up and gets off of me.

“how are my bestest of buddies?” soap runs into the room and puts his arms around ghost and i.

“well, we’re running profiles.. so good i guess?” i look up at soap. he squeezes ghost and i and we hit foreheads. “fu- cmon soap.” i groan.

“sorry that i’m a lover!” soap huffs and grabs a chair, sitting in the middle of ghost and i. “ah, is he the du-“

“yep.” ghost cuts him off with an annoyed tone.

“i can never tell if you’re sarcastic or not under that mask, just take it off.” soap starts pleading and ghost wasn’t having it.

“soap, just stop asking he isn’t gonna do it.” i start typing and looking up occasionally at the monitor.

“what if i just rip it off?”

“i’ll bite you, soap. stop.” ghost swats soaps hands away.

“you should take the mask off, ghost.” i turn my head to the left and the two stop arguing.

“it’s 2-1, you have to now.” soap puts up his arms in defense and ghost rolls his eyes.

“no.” ghost was persistent and soap over dramatically sighs.

“artemis, help?” soap puts his head on my shoulder and i look down at him.

“i’m working.” i hear ghost chuckle, “what?” i look over at him.

“work is you watching shitty american tv.”

“like your shows are better.” i fold my arms over one another and soap starts laughing.

“okay, take one and pass it down.” graves passes the papers to me and i grab one. it goes around the table before shepard takes the last one.

“as some of you may know,” graves clears his throat. “we have eyes on the next leader for al-qatala.”

i read over the paper, it was literally a sentence.

‘capture hassan.’

“wait, you wasted ink to print something you could’ve just said?” i put the paper down and shepard holds in a laugh.

“well.. yes. but it’s important.” graves rolls his eyes. “you shouldn’t be talking to a superior like that, it warrants a punishment.” graves puts his hands on the table and gets close to my face.

“graves, she’s a rookie.” ghost pulls my chair towards him.

“i can easily station you somewhere else if you can’t handle this.” graves rolls his eyes and goes back up to the front of the room. “rookies don’t usually get the most important tasks.”

“just get on with the damn meeting, graves. stop arguing.” shepard slightly raises his voice.

“okay, within the next few months we’re going to be flying to al mazra with the US marines. laswell said this is a capture or kill situation.” graves was serious, and the atmosphere in the room became dark.

ghost and soap were ready, shepard seemed excited for this mission. but i was extremely nervous. i couldn’t fathom killing people to get only one person.

october 26th, 2022 (5 months since finding out about hassan)

“ready?” soap grabs my shoulder and we walk into the safe house. we’d be here until they give us the go ahead to leave.

“yep.” i sigh and grab my bag. soap grabs the key out of his pocket, aggressively trying to unlock it before ghost whips the door open.

“you need to address you’re here using the code word.” ghost shuts the door.

“fuck, uhhh… artemis check under that rock.” soap points to the rock in the garden, it had a small red dot on the top of it.

i go and lift it up, checking the bottom. there was a cover and i popped it open, i grab the piece of paper that was rolled up.

soap knocks on the door and ghost slightly opens it. “we love ghost.” soap sighs and ghosts opens the door fully.

“great to see you. take your shoes off at the door, put your bags upstairs.” ghost moves out of the way.

“fancy.. is this like…” i move my hands around. “lived in house?”

“used to be.” soap looks over and sees a box tv.

“it’s not that old, soap. shut up.” shepard rolls his eyes and takes his shoes off.

"it kinda is..." i mumble and set my gear down on the couch in the meantime.

october 27, 2022 (one day until capture or kill)

"if we're gonna get this son of a bitch, we're gonna have to stay sharp. especially you," shepard looks over at me. "rookies usually aren't as up to the task are you are."

"anything to stop terrorism." my voice was slightly laced with sarcasm, the cia didn't do anything to stop foreign and domestic terrorism - how could five people stop it?

"atta girl." shepard gets up to put his plate in the sink.

"don't call me girl, general." i lean back in my chair and ghost chuckles.

october 28, 2022

i was getting my uniform on and looked over at the desk next to me, ghosts mask was on it.

“uh, ghost?” i walk to the bathroom, mask in hand, across the hall, he opens the door and looks down at me. “y- you left your- do you shower with it on?”

“that’s my back up.” he grabs it from my hands. “thanks for being so concerned.” his eyes narrow, he was smiling.

“you’re welcome, i gotta get my gear on… now-“

“well, i don’t want to keep you waiting, doll. go on.” he closes the door and i feel my face heat up.

i was in bravo, with soap, ghost, shepard, graves and a few others - meaning that we’d take over the first two buildings while the marines took the furthest one.

“artemis can you help me with the helmet?” soap had his hands full, so i grab the helmet and secure it to his head.

“you know,” i grab my helmet and put it on my head. “for a country that uses most of its budget on military, there should be better helmets..” i strap the helmet on my head and soap scoffs.

“scotland has better ones.” he knocks on it. “we should be going now, though.”

soap helps me up on the back of the truck, “is this an actual war or-“

“wait,” soap looks at me with wide eyes and watches ghost start walking towards the truck. “it’s ghost!” he whispers and hits my shoulder before jumping out.

he puts his hand out for me and i take it.

“let’s get ourselves a win, yeah, l.t.?” he punches ghosts shoulder. “save ya a seat, sir.”

"fucking hell..." ghost mumbles and I look up at him, rolling my eyes before following soap to the helicopter.

11.19.22 // peace and war, chapter two

#macs multi fandom tag #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mw22 #cod mwii #cod modern warfare #cod #cod spoilers #mwii #enemies ish to lovers

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miryum · 2 years

Text

We’re blinding ourselves- Greek Mythology AU (Newt x Reader)

Requested by the lovely @the-bibliophile-public-library

Warnings: Light swearing, some angst with a happy ending, and idiots in love

Just as a reminder, there are the characters: Zeus is Ava Paige, Hera is Janson, Athena is Teresa, Ares is Gally, Poseidon is Thomas, Artemis is Sonya, Apollo is Harriet, Aphrodite is Minho, Hermes is Reader, Hesita is Newt, Demeter is Jorge, Persephone is Brenda, and Hades is Alby.

“I don’t like this.” Y/n muttered to Brenda. “He keeps refusing my desires to court him! Why doesn’t he want me to court him?! I’m a great courter! I’ve courted many a person!”

“Is that the problem?” Brenda side-eyed her friend. “He feels as if he’s just another one of the group. Also, there’s that small matter of him committing to virginity?”

“Yeah.” Y/n sighed and put her hands on her hips. “That is a small problem.”

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, and I know you’re to dismiss it,” Brenda said, as they watched Newt on the other side of the room, “but is it possible you could… let this go?”

“I understand that he’s nervous about all the other people I’ve courted,” Y/n continued, not listening to Brenda, “but they were hundreds of years ago! He’s the only one I’ve been fixated on for… at least one hundred and seventy years! Except Alexander. He was cute. But he was still fifty years ago! Seriously,” she turned to Brenda, “I think Newt’s different. I haven’t felt this deeply for someone in my entire existence. I think I might really like him, Brenda. Even love him.”

“This is Newt we’re talking about, am I correct? The same Newt who is quiet, motherly, and a self-proclaimed virgin? Who loves to go down and talk to the mortals? Why do you admire him?” The pair watched as Newt smiled to himself, watching his fire grow.

Y/n scoffed. “That’s what I love about him! He’s kind and thoughtful. He loves everyone and takes care of them. Yet puts his foot down when he needs to and gets crap done.”

“Could it also be the fact that he’s the one person who doesn’t want you to court him? That he’s unattainable?” Brenda asked, lifting a brow.

“Maybe.” Y/n grumbled.

“I think you need to let him go.” Brenda said, “Find a random mortal to take your mind off Newt. It’ll do you good and get past your infatuation with him.”

“It’s not an infatuation!” Y/n argued, “I have real feelings for him.”

“Like Minho struck you himself?” Brenda asked sarcastically.

“Yes!” Y/n ignored the sarcasm. “But fine,” she sighed, “I’ll go find a lowly mortal to chase until my ‘infatuation’ goes away.” Y/n stuck out her tongue at her friend before her sandals’ wings popped open and flew her down the mountain.

“Sonya, Newt.” Brenda approached the hearth, greeting both gods. Sonya was sitting by the boy, chatting with him. The two were close, almost acting like brother and sister.

“Hello Brenda.” Both gods said. Newt lifted a hand in a wave, the flames flickering around it.

“And what is the pair of you talking about?” Brenda sat on a bench next to them. She and Sonya shared a glance.

“Talking about Newt’s forbidden love for Y/n.” Sonya bluntly said.

“What?!” Newt cried, “No! I don’t lov- like Y/n! I am a virgin god! I don’t have idiotic feelings for anyone!”

“That seemed awfully defensive of you.” Sonya commented. Newt’s fire flared up and Sonya laughed.

“Why have you been refusing Y/n advances at courting?” Brenda tilted her head. Sonya looked interested in the answer as well.

“I am a virgin god.” Newt said frankly, looking proud of himself.

“It’s interesting that you didn’t say the reason was because you don’t like her back.” Sonya accused quietly, hiding behind her hand. Brenda snorted.

Newt was offended. “I never- I was…” He stuttered, trailing off.

“Perhaps you should go down to Earth and relax as a mortal for a while?” Sonya suggested, “You always like that, don’t you? Pretend to be another person and clear your worries.”

“I might like that.” Newt said before Brenda could protest. He nodded, stood, and walked off.

Brenda squeaked out a high-pitched noise and turned, aghast, to Sonya. “What?” Sonya asked, confused.

“I just sent Y/n down to Earth as well.”

“Ooh…” Sonya inhaled sharply. “Well, Earth is a large place. What may the chances be that they run into one another?”

“Hopefully slim to none.”

Y/n walked among the streets of Sparta, not feeling free at all. Even though there were many handsome young men and women, all who looked at her with interest, her mind couldn’t leave Newt. She kicked up dirt, staring at the ground. While Y/n loved Earth, sometimes she wished she could just whip out her winged sandals and soar above everyone.

“Excuse me?” A voice behind her caught her attention. Y/n turned around to see a young gentleman behind her. “Oh,” the young man frowned, “sorry, you looked like someone I knew.”

Y/n got that a lot on her time on Earth. She didn’t like to change her appearance much, other than the shape and colour of a few features, so a lot of mortals thought they recognized her from her statues in the temples.

“It’s okay.” She said, “I get that a lot.”

“I’m Paul.” The young man stuck out his hand and Y/n shook it. He had dark brown curly hair and brilliant green eyes. He smiled warmly at her and Y/n couldn’t help but feel deja-vu.

“Uh, Marie.” Y/n chose the first name that came to mind.

“Very nice to meet you, Marie. What brings you to Sparta?” Paul asked, gesturing for her to continue walking.

“And how do you conclude I’m not a native?”

“The way you hold yourself. You seem to be looking for something.” Paul swept a hand to the citizens. “They all have a purpose. You’re simply wandering the streets.”

“A keen eye.” Y/n complimented, “You deduced correctly. I’m not from Sparta. I’m here to… take a vacation you could say. My life is very busy and my mind always turning. I was hoping to take some of that stress away.”

“What is your mind turning about?” Paul asked.

“That’s quite personal, don’t you think, Paul?” Y/n asked, thoughts wandering to Newt.

“Pardon my intrusion.” Paul chuckled.

“And what about you? You don’t seem like a citizen of Sparta.” Y/n turned to look at the young man walking beside her.

“I’m not. Same as you, I’ve come to get away from my home. There was this… girl.” Paul sighed, seeming a bit wistful.

“A girl?” Y/n raised an eyebrow. “Oh, do tell.”

** Newt had come down to Earth, just as Sonya suggested. Even though he was less than hopeful it would work, Newt had indeed found his mind off the subject of Y/n. He had met a lovely mortal girl, by the name of Marie. She wasn’t from Sparta, as Newt had learned, and she was hesitant about her home and past. Not that Newt minded; after all, he was secretive about his home on Mt. Olympus as well.

Marie seemed familiar in an odd way. Her demeanour seemed sad and melancholy, but Newt was sure there was more underneath the surface. He had originally thought she was Y/n, off to run deliveries to demigods or something other, but it had turned out not to be. He had told his name was Paul, as to not scare her away with his celestial being.

“Back at home,” Newt hesitantly said, “I’ve forbidden myself to marry.”

“Why?” Marie frowned, confused.

“I’ve never found interest in it.” Newt shrugged, hands clasped behind his back. “But then a girl came along. She was amazing. The life of the party and every boy wanted her. She was always working, however. Never got a break. Though, I guess that was because of her parents and boss. The problem was two things: one, she had many relationships throughout the years and I never felt good enough for her. Two, I had sworn myself a virgin. It’s wrong and against myself to feel those feelings for her, but I can’t help it. I can’t tell her, can I? I would be breaking my vow and making a fool of myself.”

Marie paused, then said, “Well, does she like you back? Does she want you to court her?”

Newt huffed a laugh. “That’s the terrible irony of it. She’s expressed her love for me many times. She’s been wanting to court me herself. I’ve refused on account that I’m a virgin, and I don’t want to be another one among the masses. I want to mean something to her.”

Marie said, “This sounds like a problem one of my friends is having.”

“And what did they do about it? I would love some suggestions.”

Marie sighed. “They ran away from it. And although they might’ve never forgiven themselves, they did find someone else. They felt content and happy with that person.”

“But did they feel the love and passion you’re supposed to feel in a relationship?”

Marie looked at him, lips slightly turned in a smile. “They have yet to find out.”

Just then, a loud clap of thunder struck the air and rain started falling. Newt saw this as Ava’s reminder to hurry back to Mt. Olympus. “I have to go.” He said quickly, “I’m sorry.”

“As do I.” Marie started to hurry away.

“Wait!” Newt called back to her, “Can I see you again? I enjoyed our talk. And I would love to hear what happens to your friend.”

“Uh…” Marie glanced at the now dark sky. “Perhaps, I think so. In a week? Same place and time?”

Newt grinned. “I can’t wait.”

Both Y/n and Newt had infrequented Mt. Olympus in the past months. All of the gods had noticed changes in both of them. Y/n had worked less and seemed more cheerful and relaxed overall. She had been seen taking a nap, something that she’d never been able to do, due to her schedule. Newt had started humming to himself while tending the fire and had engaged in the gods’ councils more often. He was speaking up for himself, showing off his opinions.

Sonya, Brenda, and Minho had been seen huddled together, whispering and shooting glances every which way. The trio was hell-bent on getting the two gods together. Sonya, although respecting his wishes as a virgin, saw how he loved Y/n- no matter his oath. Brenda, albeit seeing many of Y/n’s other lovers, somehow knew this one was different. Y/n had been right; she hadn’t been with anyone in a very long time just because of Newt. Minho, not caring that Newt was a virgin, was desperate to push them together; he was the god of love and wanted to see some between some of his best friends.

“As much as I love that Newt’s in love,” Minho sighed, “I hate that it’s not with Y/n!”

“We should be happy for them.” Sonya said.

“Be realistic,” Brenda cut in, “they both are in love with mortals. What happens when their mortals die?”

“They’ll be heartbroken.” Sonya said.

“And single!” Minho gasped, “Then they could be together!”

“In fifty years!” Brenda protested, “I don’t know. How long do mortals live?”

Sonya ignored her, “These humans are good for them. If you haven’t noticed, Newt’s been much more outgoing and extroverted. Y/n’s taking breaks for once and is finally getting her mind off Newt. It’s bringing out the best in them.”

“Yeah,” Minho whined, “but they’re not together! I don’t like it! As the god of love, I would like to think I have final say over these things.”

“You can’t force someone to love someone else.”

“That’s literally my job description!”

“Look,” Sonya gazed down at Earth, “how happy Newt is with his mortal.”

The three gods watched as a different-looking Newt lazily walked along with Marie. The two were laughing over something he had said.

“No,” Brenda corrected, “that’s Y/n with her mortal. See?” The gods peered down to see the deities forms shimmering in human bodies. Y/n and Newt walked together down a street in Sparta, not knowing it was the other they were talking to.

“Wait.” Minho chuckled dryly, “Are you saying that Y/n and Newt are each others’ mortals, yet they don’t know it? Y/n doesn’t know that Paul is Newt, and Newt doesn’t know that Y/n is Marie?”

His question was met with silence. The gods stared down at Earth, mouths agape and eyes wide.

“Fuck….”

“Newt, we need to talk.” Minho sashayed up to his friend, sitting down next to the hearth. He, Sonya, and Brenda had decided that bluntness was the best way to go. If they tried to cushion Newt’s fall, maybe the fall wouldn’t be as long.

“Yes?” Newt looked up at the trio.

“We’ve noticed you falling for a mortal, Marie.” Minho started. Newt instantly protested.

“I am not in love! Especially not with a mortal and I am a vir-”

“Shut it with the virgin god crap.” Minho cut him off, “You love Marie and Y/n. Stop denying you love Y/n. But there is one small problem. Y/n and Marie are the same person.”

“What?” Newt’s mouth fell open. “No. That’s not possible.”

“It is,” Sonya intervened. “You’ve just been ignoring the godly aura coming off of Marie. You’ve been pulling the wool over your own eyes, forcing it to be knotted up tight. You’ve known it was Y/n all along.”

“No, I didn’t!” Newt’s fire grew along with his voice. “And why didn’t you tell me sooner?! I could’ve spared my heart!”

“So you do love her!” Minho crowed.

“Not the time.” Brenda hissed, snacking his shoulder.

“I- I won’t. I’ll pretend she’s not. I promise she won’t know the difference!” Newt tried to negotiate. “I mean, I can’t be in love with Y/n. I’ve been rejecting her since… forever. I couldn’t do that to her- or Marie. Why do I feel terrible? How did Y/n never figure it out?”

“Same as you,” Sonya took one of his hands, patting it reassuringly. “She wanted to love Paul so she could forget Newt. The problem is, her scheme unintentionally got her closer to Newt. As did your scheme.”

“I just can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner.”

“The heart sees what’s invisible to the eye.” Sonya smiled.

“The heart wants what it wants.” Minho inputted, smirking.

“The heart has reasons that reason does not know.” Brenda added coyly.

After a minute where Newt was lost in his head, lines coming together and strings untangling, pieces lining up and the scale of Justice weighing its turn, he spoke. “Alright,” he said. “I love Y/n. I see that now.” His eyes flickered up. “Have you told her about… me and Paul?”

“No.”

“Good. I want to be the one to tell her.”

Newt knew where he would find Y/n. She would be in her room, resting from a day of deliveries. He knocked on her door. “Y/n?”

“Come in.” Newt entered the room to find Y/n sitting on her bed, reading a scroll with a lazy smile on her face. “Oh, hi Newt.”

“Hi.” Newt sat down. “Can we talk?”

“Uh, sure. But make it quick. I have a meeting I need to get to.” Y/n glanced out the window at the Sun, which was really just Harriet flying across the world.

“With Paul?” Newt guessed, knowing full well that they had planned to meet up today.

“How did you know?” Y/n looked accusingly at him. “I haven’t told anyone about him- much less his name.”

Newt sighed. “This is going to sound crazy,” he began, “but Paul isn’t who you think he is.” He paused and looked at Y/n. She was glaring at him with something between scepticism and hesitance. “I’m Paul.”

“What?” She laughed, as if she didn’t believe him. The wings from her sandals sprouted, starting to whiz all over the place. Y/n patted at them until they stopped. “No, you’re not.”

“I am, and I can prove it.” Newt’s form shifted until he was an exact replica of Paul. He stared at Y/n with eyes that didn’t look like his, but emotion that was identical to the mortal’s. Y/n hated to admit it, but standing before her was her Paul. But her Paul was Newt.

“No. You’re lying,” Y/n said, standing and backing up from him. Newt changed back into his true, godly form. “This is all some cruel, evil joke on me. I would expect something from me, but you, Newt? I’m the trickster here, not you! I’ve finally moved on from you and accepted your boundaries which I probably should’ve done from the beginning, but I was so enamoured by you that I didn’t care. And after all of that, when I finally lent my heart to another, you come in here just to mess it up and claim that you’re my love.”

“But I am!” Newt cried. He seemed distraught, but quickly took a deep breath. He didn’t believe it at first either. “Please. I didn’t know that you were Marie.” Y/n flinched at the name. “But Minho, Sonya, and Brenda made me see it. We were blinding ourselves, Y/n. We didn’t want to see each other.”

“But I loved you.” Tears came to the goddess’ eyes. “And then I finally found myself in another. Why can’t we just ignore that?”

“Because I love you!” Newt shouted. He inhaled shakily, almost wanting to retract the words that were suspended in the air. They seemed to float there, neither one wanting them to fizz out. “I love you.” Newt said again. He sniffed, running a hand down his face to try and kill the tears that were forming. “I really do. And I wanted to ignore it, but everyday it just kept getting stronger. All the things you did just made me love you more. A- And maybe that’s why I love Marie. Because you’re her. Because I got to see the raw, true you. I’ve never wanted to love. I wanted to shield myself from the heartbreak I saw every single day, but I couldn’t. Love happened anyway. It’s inevitable. And I’m so glad it is. Because I get to love you. I know you’re confused and hurt right now, but I hope that you can look past that for one second and see your true feelings so I know if I’m going to be the happiest anyone has ever been, or the most miserable.”

Deafening silence filled the room. Newt waited and waited for Y/n to say something, but she was lost in her thoughts. After what felt like an eternity, Newt nodded and turned. “Come find me once you make a decision.”

“Wait.” Y/n’s voice cut like glass. Newt looked back at her, bracing. “I love you too.” Y/n smiled a tear-stained smile. “I can’t make as big of a declaration as you can, but I hope you know that through all the uncertainty and doubt, my feelings are still there. And maybe, at some point, those feelings were for Paul, but you’re him, right?” Newt nodded, grinning brilliantly. “I guess I love you.” Y/n stated.

Newt enveloped her in a hug. Y/n laughed lightly and hugged him back. “Really?” Newt whispered, “You truly love me?”

“Yes.”

“Then can I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

In the throne room, Minho gasped and breathed out, “It’s happening!”

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