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crash-and-cure · 1 year

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Wait for Me (Yandere!Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Summary: Tupelo’s favorite son is on his way home to all the expected pomp and circumstance befitting a returning King.

A/N: This is very much inspired by Hadestown and I may or may not blend all the character together so that both Elvis and reader have aspects from all of them. Technically I’m cheating I will admit by combining these two (-, -) requests into one story but I thought it would work well. Not me trying to Posit how WW2 affected the floriculture industry all for a fanfic. But this is apparently how I marry my two hyperfixations of 2022: Hadestown and Elvis. A+ to anyone that can find all the references to both Hadestown and the greek mythos in the story.

Warnings: Yandere!Elvis so expect themes of obsessive, manipulative, and delusional behavior. Kidnapping. Kinda of a stochholme syndrome going on through the later half. Blood and a bit of child abuse depicted (arguably this child deserved it). Emotional Manipulation throughout. Isolation. Touch-starved reader. Innocent reader. Explicit sexual content depicted that includes Penetrative sex (m/f), oral sex (f. and m. recieving), vaginal fingering and handjobs. Outsider POV for the first bit. Probably more that I am blanking on. Excessive use of “Honeybee” and “Rosebud” as a nickname for the reader. Please do not interact if you are under 18.

Word Count: 21k (seriously somebody stop me)

My Masterlist

Dreams are sweet, Until they’re not

Men are kind, Until they aren’t

Flowers bloom, Until they rot, And fall apart

Flowers, Hadestown

Demi has never feared a single man in her life.

Men have done her wrong. Men have humiliated her. Men have even hurt her. But she does not fear them.

That’s how she lived for years, drifting from place to place, belonging to no one as no one belonged to her, unattached and untethered as the wind. Working odd jobs to get by until the next town, but there was a perpetual emptiness in this existence of hers that left her feeling hollow.

And then her sweet little daughter was born and she found something that bound her to this world fully. She knew who the father was, but none of that mattered to her, because her daughter was no man’s, she was hers. He wasn’t good for much, but getting roughly ten acres of land in exchange for never having to deal with either him or his wife again was one of the sweetest deals she had ever heard.

Living on a farm was never where she pictured herself ending up, let alone working and later inheriting a farm that only grew flowers, but Gail, the old caretaker of the land, was a literal godsend in those early days. Gail had that same look in her eyes as someone else who had been wronged by a man, and this kindred spirit would end up more or less adopting Demi as her own.

Her daughter is by far the most beautiful thing to have ever existed, born the first day of spring all balled up fists and shrill cries complete with a scrunched up face.

She was perfect.

Demi made a promise to that tiny creature that night, to never know hunger, to be surrounded by only the most beautiful things the world has to offer, to never be unloved for as long as she should live, and most importantly to never let the world hurt her the same way she was hurt. All of these rather lofty promises to make, but she was determined to keep them.

Those early days were painfully idyllic, caring for flowers, selling the cuttings, all the while her daughter was strapped to her chest. It admittedly did a number on her back, but it was all worth it to remind her what she works for. She doesn’t think there will ever be a day in which she forgets the first time her daughter's tiny hands reached out for a white rose, and just the utter serenity that overcame her in that moment. There is no doubt in her mind that this is where the both of them were meant to be.

As the years passed their little family grew as Demi collected other wayward women, some came and went, others stuck around so long her daughter started calling them her Aunties. Even a war happened a world away, and the farm had to shift focus to making food rather than beauty, but now three years later everything is close to being just as perfect as it was before.

But if there is one saying she wholeheartedly believes, it is that woman plans and man laughs.

Her daughter had been so upset that day and had ended up exhausting herself in Demi’s bed and she thanked whatever force up above for that when she woke in the middle of the night to the sound of rustling in her daughters room. Making sure that her daughter was still asleep she crept silently down the hall, baseball bat in hand, prepared to defend her family from whoever the hell was in her home.

Evidently nothing could have prepared her for what she would find in there, as she walked into her daughter's room and was met with the cornflower blue gaze of a familiar waifish thirteen year old boy.

When he had first started coming around, he was more like a stray cat whom her daughter fed once; annoyingly underfoot but manageable enough with a hose. But the more time he spent the more worried she became.

All of which the day before when she had idly asked her daughter what she did with the boy that day only for her sweet little daughter to innocently respond, “he told me not to tell you.”

Her friends tried to tell her it was puppy love and that it would eventually pass, and just to give it some time to fade. How intervening may just make it worse. But something in her gut told her that there was something about the way he looked at her daughter, the way he spoke to and about her, the way he acted, and that something was that it was all very wrong. If she had to liken it to anything, she imagines that this is the same way a hunter looks upon his mark.

It was beyond anything she’s ever seen in a grown man's eyes, so she never thought she could see something like that in a child's eyes.

Her daughter remained innocent to it, and slowly but surely Demi was trying to edge that boy out of their lives. Sent him home earlier and earlier, kept her from the shop and in the fields, even began to go out of her way to pick up her daughter rather than chance it with walking home by herself.

But now looking at the boy as he eagerly ransacked her daughter's dresser, did she realize she should have better listened to her instinct.

‘Oh hi Miss Demi,” he would say, as though he just wasn’t caught rifling through her daughters drawers. He was clutching tightly to a truly pathetic and haphazardly put together bouquet of flowers, that seemed to be dripping something from the stems. “Do you know where Y/N is? I just wanted to give these to her.”

It was only as she turned on the lights did she see the true horror to be had. Candy apple red, as though it could ever be that innocent, blood was dripping between his fingers and onto the wooden floors below, his face giving no indication that he even noticed, his eyes continually darting behind her as though waiting for someone from behind. The flowers in the chaotic bouquet tell a story of all kinds of love, but the one errant, still-thorned rose tells the story not of love, but of something else… something dark and unspeakable.

Demi acts immediately, grabbing him by the wrist and by the ear and getting him the hell out of her house. For all his protests and attempts to escape her grip, he was no match for the fury of a mother, and with the ruckus the boy is stirring up she silently thanks god that her daughter is such a deep sleeper.

It hurts her having to leave her daughter home alone, but she knows that her daughter's biggest threat is in her grasp.

She’s had to drop the boy off enough times to remember where he lived and she knows his mother well enough to instinctively know she is no doubt up worrying over him. She was proven right seeing the light bleeding through the front windows of the small home.

He is out of the truck before Demi can even fully park it, and he bolts to the door, probably hoping that she will then be forced to leave without talking to his mother about this whole thing. But he is stopped as said woman flies out of the house and catches him in a massive bear hug on the small porch.

He has parents who care for him so much, yet he still acts like this? She wonders to herself. She sees the woman giving her son once over before coming across his wounded hand that had by now begun to congeal and stop bleeding.

“If you know what’s good for him, you’ll make sure he stays the hell away from my property and I best never see you sniffin’ around my child again, boy,” Demi would say, voice ice cold interrupting this warm reunion, pointing a single finger in this boy's face.

“Demi, what’re you talkin’ ‘bout?” his mother would ask, already putting him behind her back, willing to defend him with her life apparently.

Wouldn’t you do the same, a small part of her says.

“Y’know I expected more from you,” Demi said to her fellow mother. “I never would’ve expected you to be the type to raise a boy that would break into a little girls room and go through her drawers. The hell were you even tryin’ to find in there?”

He wouldn’t answer her, but he would look her dead in the eye, with a look that told her he was unrepentant about his actions. Though that mask would crack the slightest bit as his mother took his face in her hands.

“Bewbie… is this true?” the woman would ask her son slowly, unwilling to believe. But his downturned eyes do all the necessary talking.

“Mama she’s crazy,” that little shit would say, trying to deflect, and cowering behind his mothers skirts. “We can’t leave Honeybee with her.”

“I oughta knock all your fuckin’ teeth out for whatchu did. See how good a singer you are then,” she threatens, though that hardly helps her case. But she was willing to do a lot worse if it meant keeping her daughter safe.

“Don’tcha see Mama?” he says, gesturing a hand her way. “She ain’t safe with Miss Demi, and we gotta take her with us.” It’s not so much his words that are disturbing, but the complete and utter conviction that he speaks nothing but the truth that has the hair on the back of Demi’s neck stand up.

That boy’s lucky that his father decided to make his way out there and prevent Demi from making good on her threat.

“Buntyn, go inside,” she would firmly say to her son. He looks as though he were about to protest, until she shoots a look and he backs down, and walks back into his home. His mother takes a moment to process her words, though nothing she says has a chance in hell of quelling the fury in Demi’s heart. “I-I think he’s just actin’ out because we’re gonna to be movin’ soon,” she tries to weakly justify.

“I don’t fuckin’ care what his excuses are, Gladys. Keep a leash on that boy o’ yours if you gotta,” Demi seethes, catching said boy looking out at them from the window. She makes eye contact with him, fully knowing he would hear this next part, “Because I ain’t goin’ to be so nice next time.”

Demi turned around with that threat still hanging in the air and hoped to never see any of them again. It’s a long quiet drive from there, and her fury reaches a near boiling point finding that damned bouquet on the floor, forgotten in all the ruckus, to which she quickly chucks them into the furnace. It feels wrong to burn her own livelihood, but these flowers were now in her eyes tainted and unfit to ever be seen again.

The fury doesn’t fully melt away until she sees the love of her life sitting up from her bed.

“Mama where’d ya go?” you would ask, your tiny fists rubbing the sleep out of your eyes as you let out an almost angelic yawn. You are and always will be her baby, and nothing will ever take you away from her.

“Just a stray dog sniffin’ round the house, Rosebud,” Demi would say, lightly scratching her nails down your back, the same way she’s done since you were a newborn. “But don’tchu worry baby, your mama scared it off. Go back to sleep.”

Demi sleeps well that night if only due to the fact that she was able to convince herself (albeit temporarily) that that had all been a bad dream. But once she saw the trail of crimson starting from your bedroom window, there is no denying what had happened the night before. She didn’t get this far by trusting other people's words, so for the next few days the two of you slept in a different room each night. Demi calls it camping and you, her sweet little girl, are all too willing to believe her. She sleeps with one eye open those nights, all too afraid that even dropping her watch for half a second will lead to disaster.

She would find no peace until she heard around town that they had moved somewhere up north. To where? She didn't care so long as he was as far away from her precious Rosebud as could be. Still she is always worried as to the day he may come back, so she can only pray that he’s moved on to another poor girl and leaves you the hell alone.

Part of her wonders if she should warn you in case he ever returns, but this question answers itself when you come home from school wanting to show her how many ladybugs you caught in the schoolyard today. She didn’t want to burden you with this awful knowledge, wanting to keep you innocent from your mothers woes.

Demi wanted to shield you from the world, and hoped that one day, you would also get to live without fearing men. It would take her nine years to realize, by then far too late, that you only lacked fear because you didn’t know what men were capable of.

Demi fears no man.

But she does fear Elvis Presley.

—------------------------------------

Flowers have always been the family business. Fields upon fields of every color in the rainbow going on for acres. Truly even having lived here for years and knowing little to nothing else but this, it still never fails to take your breath away.

To say your family knows flowers, is an understatement. You had spent your days running around the property asking your aunties about the flowers they tended to, and what each of them meant.

You learned from an early age that flowers were always meant to invoke good feelings in people, and it makes you proud that you’re a part of it. So you’re excited to say the least when your Mama surprises you with your very own gardening kit for Christmas.

It’s a rite of passage for those in your family to successfully grow and maintain their own plot of flowers for the first time. You had been given the choice of any flower you wanted to take on, most of them pointing to some of these easiest ones for your first time, the ones that you need only plant and water regularly to eventually bloom. You on the other hand wanted to do something harder. So you chose roses due to both the challenge it takes into growing and maintaining them but also the fact that your farm had them in abundance, so it wouldn’t hit the business too hard if you failed.

But moreover, Mama had always called you her little Rosebud, so it only felt fitting to have these be the first flowers you grow all on your own. These blooms were rather picky about conditions, but you had been watching the women in your family grow them since before you could walk, and so you felt you were up to the task. You were only nine but you wanted to show the rest of them how good you could do on your own.

So you watched the seeds germinate, watched them grow into tiny sprouts in their small pots, planted them neatly apart, gave them plenty of sun, and never forgot to water them. Mama even caught you once or twice hovering over those little pots not wanting to miss a single moment of their growth.

She warned you to temper your expectations, how sometimes you can do everything right, and they still may not grow. But you were full of hope and wanted this more than you have ever wanted anything in your few years of life.

You had taken this seriously, hanging on to every tip you got from your Aunties, being sure to tend to them at the correct times, giving the correct amount of water and watching like a hawk for any unwanted pests. Each day you got the pleasure of watching them grow into buds and you figured they were close to blooming any day.

And that’s why you took great offense when you found a gangly tow-headed boy picking at the red roses you had worked so hard to grow.

He looked to be older than you by a few years, stood a foot taller than you, but you knew boys like him, the type that would stomp out dandelions to make you cry and you weren’t about to let him ruin your hard work with your first batch of rose bushes. You may be 9 but you’re scrappy as all get out, which you prove when you drop your basket of fresh cuttings of the day and all but tackle the larger boy into the dirt.

He gives an undignified shriek as he hits the ground, having been caught off guard, but he does attempt to shove you off until he goes a bit limp upon getting a good look at you. The brief scuffle ends with you straddling him and your little palms pinning his arms down as best as you could as owlish, cornflower blue eyes stared up at you in equal amounts of awe and fear.

“What’re you doin’ here?” you say your little voice indignant at what you thought were his attempts to sabotage your efforts. “Why were tryin’ to kill those roses?”

“I-I-I wa-wasn’t,” he insists, his cheeks burning from the shame of being caught doing whatever he was doing and his hands shaking something fierce as he limply tries to hide his face from you as you clench a tiny fist above you. You see that the briars got him good and little droplets of blood were beading up on some fine scratches on his hands.

If he was trying to wreck the bushes you doubt he would try to do so in such a stupid way, but that didn’t mean you trusted him quite yet. However you weren’t about to let him continue being hurt in your presence, so you stood up and grabbed the band-aids that were in your little kit, and helped clean him up.

“I-It-ts m-my mama’s birthday to-tomorrow, an-and I wanted to get her so-somethin’ nice this year,” he said after a while, solemnly looking at his bandaged hand.

You softened at his words, not having expected his answer, but you can hardly fault him for his reasoning. Afterall you don’t know where you or your mama would be if there weren’t thoughtful people that gave flowers to those they loved.

But you do know how much work it takes to grow them, and maintaining your irritation at his mucking about, you indignantly say “You coulda went to our shop and bought them.”

He goes an even deeper shade of red with your statement, “I-I know it’s wrong to steal, an-and I never woulda done this i-if I had the money to buy ‘em.”

It feels like all of the animosity you have towards him leaves your body at that moment. You and Mama have had your hard times before, and you are very much aware that each flower in your family’s field is worth something. It’s what keeps everyone fed, what keeps the lights on, and puts the clothes on your backs, but even knowing that you have one simple belief; everyone deserves nice flowers.

“Well,” you say to him as you stand up. “You picked the wrong color. You ain’t supposed to give red roses to your mama.”

“Really?”

“If you know anything about the language of flowers, you’d know that you’re only supposed to give ‘em to your wife or girlfriend.”

“...Flowers talk to each other?”

“No, they…” you pause trying to figure out a way to best explain yourself. “Their colors and the types are supposed to tell people how you feel about ‘em.” He draws his brows together, thoroughly confused as to what you’re saying, though that ain’t surprising. Mama often complained that when Men buy flowers, they never think too much beyond price, and boys rarely if ever appreciate them.

You decide that it may do him better, to see it rather than trying to explain it fully. So you take his bandaged hand and you walk him through some of the crops. From the outside, the fields look to be a chaotic mess of colors, when in reality there is a lot more thought put into it as your mother organizes by type rather than color. You are able to give him a run down as to rose color meanings, until you finally arrive at your intended destination.

He goes a little wide-eyed once you take out your gardening shears, but quickly relaxes once you go behind him to the bushel of pink roses. You’ve been cutting and dethorning roses for about a year or two now, so it takes not even a minute to find one in good condition, grab it, cut it, proceed to have it stripped of all its thorns, and casually present it to the blonde boy before you.

You thought he was red before, but as you presented him that rose, he turned redder than the rose he had attempted to pluck. His bandaged hand shakily takes the flower out of your hand, and with a reverence you’ve never seen from a boy when it comes to flowers, he holds it gently with both.

“Pink means gratitude and admiration.”

“What?” his lip still quivering slightly and eyes glassy.

“When you give someone a pink rose,” you explain to him, with a smile. “You’re letting them know that you’re grateful for all they’ve done for you and that you admire them very much for it. It’s the perfect flower to give to your Mama,” you say, giving him a small smile, the look he’s giving you making you feel warm inside.

“Rosebud?” you hear from behind you, and all the warm feelings seem to die in that instant.

“H-hi mama,” you say nervously, whipping around, standing on your toes, as though you’ll somehow be able to hide this trespasser's taller frame behind you. Though you realize how stupid that idea is and quickly take her hand, “Mama come look at my roses, I think they’re gonna bloom today,” you say, trying desperately to turn her around as though she’ll forget she ever saw that boy.

“In a minute Rosebud,” she said, her voice saccharine sweet, that you know by now means she’s mad. “But first, why don’tcha introduce me to your little friend here.”

“...yes Mama, this is… my friend…,” you go wide-eyed realizing you don’t even know this boy's name.

Luckily he picks up on your pause, “Hello, ma-ma’am, my name is uuhh… Elvis… Presley.”

Your mama slowly leans forward until she’s eye level with him, “Well, Elvis Presley,” she drawls slowly, her words friendly, yet the way they’re delivered tells you her feelings for this boy are anything but. “You mind tellin’ me why the hell you’re on my property, botherin’ my daughter, and plucking out my livelihood?”

Elvis looks down realizing that he was still holding the pink rose for all to see, and makes a futile attempt to hide it, only for his skinny wrist to be caught in your mothers iron like grip.

Mama had that way about her, her smile could be warm but her words icy. You’ve seen her like this with the few men that had come through here. Some trying to buy the land, some trying to find one of your Aunties, all of them leaving empty-handed because of her.

But you don’t believe that the boy before you, the one that wanted to get his mama something nice for her birthday, could ever be like those bad men. So you decided to do what needs to be done, “I invited him over Mama,” you say looking down at your muddy boots.

“Rosebud you ain’t gotta lie for him,” she admonishes, though she does seem to loosen her grip on him.

“Bu-but it’s the truth Mama. He’s been sayin’ how he needs a gift for his mama’s birthday, so I said he could come over here to get her a flower,” you mumble, knowing that this is something she always told you never to do.

She takes a long hard sigh before she fully releases Elvis, “You best get yourself home before it gets dark.” she says, her warning punctuated with a very cold breeze, despite it being well into April. He swallows nervously as he makes his way to the road, giving one last sorrowful glance your way before leaving.

“Rosebud,” your mama sighs, giving you a kiss on the forehead. “Sometimes you’re too sweet for your own good, and I don’t ever want to see someone take advantage of that.”

“Ok Mama.”

When he left that day you fully expected to never see him again, until he showed up the very next day wanting to show you his guitar.

After that, Elvis becomes a near constant presence at your farm. Your aunties thought he was nice enough, pinching his cheeks and plying him with snacks in exchange for having him sing for them. You don’t mind too much, as you don’t really have too many friends, and next to none that want to spend their evenings on your farm. You kind of enjoyed having him around, he would sometimes bring a guitar and sing to you, or read his comics to you. Other times he would follow you around as you did your chores and ask about the flowers.

You got used to him being around and even grew to enjoy it. One special day you even decided to share your most valued treasure with him: your favorite fruit in the whole world. One so good yet so expensive and rare in these parts that it’s limited to a once a year treat for you.

“An onion?” he asks skeptically.

“No,” you insist, slightly huffy that he’s not appreciating your most prized possession. “It’s called a Pomegranate,” you tell him, taking it out of his hands so that you could cut into it the way your Mama showed you. “I know when you first look at it, it doesn't look like much,” you say, as you cut at the crown. “But when you really look at it, you’ll find something truly amazing,” you conclude, and with a twist of your wrist you take the top off to reveal an abundance of the small jewel looking seeds, where you see him looking at it in nothing less than utter amazement.

That look in his eyes only grows when he actually tastes the little kernels for the first time, and he ravenously devours his half of the fruit, some of the juices overflowing out the corners of his mouth, and down his face.

You on the other hand savor each and every bite of it. You truly believe if perfection can be found, it would be in that late summer afternoon. The soft sunbeams creeping through from the shade and the perfume of the freshly cut flowers in your basket. The soft breeze that runs through your hair and causes the flowers in the fields to sway slightly as though they were dancing to the music flowing from your friends' beaten up guitar.

“What’d ya’ dream about doin’?” he would ask as he gazed up at the clouds overhead, idly strumming his guitar, his lips and fingertips stained red.

“What do you mean Elvis?” You would ask as you pick at the very last seeds on your rind.

“I-I mean wh-what’d ya wanna do when you grow up, Honeybee?,” he asks nervously, eyes firmly on the fields as though he were afraid of your answer. You roll your eyes slightly at his nickname for you, stemming from the time a bee landed on your hand and rather than swatting it away, you gently blew on it to get it to fly away. But you do decide to humor him anyway.

“Oh…This.”

“Really?” he asks, truly baffled at your answer. “You really don’t wanna go nowhere or-or do somethin’ else?”

“Why would I wanna do anything else?,” you ask in turn, confused at his confusion. “It’s like magic when really think ‘bout it,” you insist, showing him the last few kernels of the pomegranate you have in your hand. “Something so small can turn into something so beautiful.”

“You could plant ‘em anywhere, couldn’t you?” he insists.

You shrug your shoulders at that. “I guess.”

“But what if you couldn’t stay here,” he asks, his tone mournful, but you didn’t pick up on it at the time. “Wha-what if you had to go far away and y-you couldn’t come back?”

“Then I would make a new home,” you dismiss, offering him the last six seeds of your Pomegranate. He looks so surprised by the offer, his eyes a bit glassy before he furiously rubs them with the back of his hand and accepts your offer.

“Honeybee… co-could you meet me b-by your roses tomorrow,” he stutters. “I-i got something’ important to give ya’.”

“Ok.”

“Bu-but don’t tell your mama,” he says to you.

That may be a tall order, you thought at the time. Your mama on the other hand remains coolly indifferent to him, but you always got the sense that she didn’t like him for whatever reason. Nonetheless a promise is a promise.

Mama was probably at her happiest when he stopped coming around. When you learned he moved away, you were sad that your friend would leave without saying a proper goodbye, and you believed you would never see that dreamer boy again.

So imagine your surprise when a few years later an electric, new singer starts making waves across the south. He tried to steal flowers from your farm and now he steals hearts across the country.

Just about every girl in town, if given the chance, will brag how they had known him way back when, some of the more daring ones even claiming to have been his first kiss. As far as what you have heard Elvis may be the only man alive to have had 25 first kisses. The boys were no better, all claiming to have been his closest buddy growing up, and promising any girl that they could definitely meet back up with him if they chose.

Everyone is in an absolute tizzy for his return to Tupelo, you are simply trying to help your family through the rush of orders that has come in with the upcoming fair. Mostly it had been a headache because the new Miss Tupelo had demanded that her float be decorated with only white roses, as she didn’t think the standard red was flattering for her.

Which is fine until your shop is presented with a very special order from the mayor himself for an order of three dozen of your finest roses to be given to Tupelo’s favorite returning son for his homecoming concert.

Mama had initially treated it like any other order, until she saw who it was from.

“Absolutely not,” she said in her sternest voice, you hear from around the corner.

“Demi,” your Auntie Kate would admonish her. “Don’t be stupid ‘bout this. It’s been years and he was just a dumb kid back then.”

You don’t know what the mayor did to your Mama, but it had to have been bad, if he got her this worked up. Of course you’re not about to ask, as they had both pointedly left the room to discuss the matter while you were supposed to be minding the store. Instead you were very intently listening in to whether or not your mother was about to refuse an order for seemingly the first time in years.

“Kate, I ain’t takin’ any chances with this,” Mama declares. “You weren’t there, but if you’re ever gonna trust me on anything, let it be this.”

“Look Demi,” Kate sighs. “He’s willing to pay a ridiculous amount of money for them, and we need to offload some of the roses and it ain’t like he’s gonna-”

She’s interrupted by the bell signaling a customer having entered the shop. By the time you finish with him though, Mama has agreed, albeit reluctantly, to accept the order, under the condition the Kate be responsible for it in its totality

You don’t know what Kate had said to her but you’re glad nonetheless as she would claim once your mama was out of earshot that she was too busy to do this order so she asked if you would please be so kind as to take care of it for her.

Those weeks leading up to the fair, someone had asked Elvis if he was looking forward to reconnecting with anyone special back in Tupelo. As the reporter described it, the young star would look down bashfully at his feet, one side of his mouth curving upwards with only the slightest hint of red on his ears as he proclaimed yes to this humble reporter. “My sweetheart from way back in the day. I lost touch with her when I moved up to Memphis and I am praying every night that I find her this time around.”

If him simply coming back for a day to perform sent girls into a frenzy, the prospect of him coming back to find his supposed childhood love, just about turned everybody hysterical. Reporters from all over had flooded the town and had been skulking around trying to find this mysterious girl that had a hold on one of the biggest rising stars. Even once or twice coming into the shop and asking if you’ve received any calls from Memphis asking to send flowers to a specific girl in town.

Many girls were claiming to be the one Elvis is in fact looking for, recounting their memories of a sweet boy who only had eyes for them. They all followed the same general beats of being in the same class, he was embarrassingly smitten with them, and they rejected him. You had been in different grades and didn’t really know him outside of when he would visit your farm seemingly everyday, so you could hardly attest as to whether or not any of this was true. You do however remember him cryptically referring to one specific girl that had his heart, though in not so many words.

In the days leading up to the last time you would see him, he became very interested in the flowers for romance. He didn’t say that he was planning to do so, but you could tell he was gearing up to declare his love for that girl he never named. Your first suggestion is, of course, whatever her favorite flower is.

He would blanche a bit at that, “She-she loves em all,” he would mumble looking away bashfully and facing the vibrantly colored fields. According to your mama this is man's speak for “I don’t know.” With few exceptions, nobody is without a favorite, and you sigh slightly disappointed in him that he’s apparently ready to declare undying affection for a girl and he didn’t even know that basic but important information about the girl. But you did promise him your help so you gave him some suggestions: Lilacs for new love, Gardenias for secret love, Carnations for deep love, Tulips for perfect love, Forget-Me-Nots for true love, and of course Red Roses for passionate love.

On that day you would find him nervously pacing in front of your first batch of roses. They were now in full bloom and you sadly recognized that you’re going to have to cut them soon. You know that’s the beast of this business, that in order to bring new life in, the old must make way, but it’s only a cold comfort and you hope that whoever they end up with will appreciate their beauty.

He practically stared you down as you walked down the row between rose bushes, but he seems to be shaking as though his knees were liable to give out at any moment, and the closer you got to him, you saw that his chest was practically heaving. You can see as he holds something behind his back and you blatantly try to look to see what it is, only to be stopped as he places one hand on your shoulder.

“What’d you wanna talk about Elvis?” you ask him, slightly worried he may be having a heat stroke.

He swallows thickly before he finally answers you, “M-my folks and I are gonna be goin’ up North,” his eyes downcast as though he were ashamed to admit this, one hand still hidden behind his back.

“Oh, when are you coming back?” you say oblivious to his grief.

He’s taken by surprise at your question, but he does answer with a simple “I don’t know.” But with that he squares his shoulders and through trembling lips he stutters, “Honeybee… I-I-I want ya’ to c-come wi-with us.”

“Ok.” you say, completely ignorant as to the true meaning of his words.

“Really?” his face breaking into the biggest smile you’ve ever seen in your life.

“Yeah,” you say simply. You remember vividly that you were going to say something to the effect of needing to be back home before dinner because Auntie Erin was gonna be making her famous Golden Apple Pie, when you all of a sudden felt your lips being occupied.

You laugh at your reaction to a simple kiss on the lips now, but at the time, it had felt like the end of the world to you. After all, you were so sure that this was how babies were made.

When you had asked where babies came from, Mama nervously answered you with this story: Your Daddy kissed your mama out in front of the red roses, and their love would cause a new bud to bloom where they would find you sleeping in a rosebud.

Back then you didn’t know any better, all you did know was that you didn’t want to take care of a baby right now. You wanted to grow Azaleas next, and Mama warned you that that would be a big commitment to make. And Elvis was going to be moving away, so who was going to take care of the baby?

You were confused and frustrated beyond anything you’ve experienced up to that point, and you did what any overwhelmed 9 year old would do.

You started bawling your eyes out, pushed him down, and ran back home.

Mama would later comfort you and reassure you no baby was on it’s way. She corrected her story and told you that in fact, the couple must be married in order for a baby to be made. (She never did go into further detail as to the process, so you assumed that was the only necessary detail)

The next day, you had felt bad and wanted to apologize to Elvis for the confusion and for pushing him down yet again. You even had a sprig of Lily of the Valley ready as a peace offering and everything, but you wouldn’t see him the next day. Nor the day after that.

You wouldn’t hear about him until about a couple months back when you had been dethorning the roses while listening to the radio. You vividly remember the surprise that came over you the moment the DJ announced the artist behind the song. How could you not? Afterall it marks the first time in years that a rose had been able to draw blood from you, because in your surprise, hearing the name of a ghost from your past, your ungloved fingers met with a thorn perfectly.

There was no doubt in your mind that it was him not just for the very distinct name, but for that song specifically. You remember him singing it while you were in the fields, saying he had heard it from Big Boy Crudup himself.

For maybe half a second you entertain the thought that you may be the mystery sweetheart of his, but just as quickly you dismiss it as the way he describes it as being a long lost love tragically torn apart by fate. You on the other hand pushed him down and cried your eyes out when he kissed you once before never seeing him again, hardly the type of romance worth reading about.

And like a blink of an eye the fair day arrived.

You had been expressly forbidden from going to the fair, your mother giving no real reason beyond “because I said so.” This in turn makes you feel less guilty about your little scheme, as she did not forbid you from choosing that day to be the day you work in the shop.

Men are funny creatures, you realize as you work on the order the morning of. Whoever put in the order made sure to specify that the roses must be fresh yet somehow neglected to mention the preferred color.

You opted for red ones in the end as you have those in abundance and you figure they probably wouldn’t look too closely into the meaning beyond it being the classic rose color. But you do slip in a pink rose in the mix, remembering the first flower you had ever given him.

It’s a big order to fill, which you only realize once you're carrying a comically large bouquet into the backstage area of the fairgrounds. It was a bit of a hassle making it there in the first place as evidently you’re not the first young woman insisting you’re allowed to be backstage. Though none of them had the mayor himself vouching for the order and letting you in.

He was already walking up on to the stage by the time you get there, and all you really see of him is the back of his head. Without knowing what you did, you would be hard-pressed to find any similarities between the man on stage and the boy who had to sing facing away from you lest he get too anxious.

But when he was presented with the key to the city, did you finally see hints of that boy from your memories. The way he kept shifting nervously from foot to foot, how he kept stuffing his hands in his pockets only to take them out, his eyes flickering back and forth between the crowd and the mayor. All of it reminding you of the endearing, stuttering boy who nervously asked you what each flower in your field meant.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen someone move like that before, so jerky and sudden, but also so very fluid when he wanted to be. Oddly enough you’re reminded of snake charming, with that vicarious thrill of watching something that looks so dangerous, but you also can’t look away from. But that begs the question: is he the snake or is he the charmer?

It’s hard to say, especially when he shifted gears to slower, less rowdy songs.

And then one day

I had my love as perfect as could be

She lived, she loved, she laughed, she cried

And it was all for me

There was a bit of a tremble in his voice as he crooned those words out to the crowd, as though he were close to tears himself. It’s here you think you truly find that boy that used to bug you when you were out in the fields.

It felt like all too soon the concert was over and he was stepping behind the stage. What feels like half a million eyes are focused on him as he steps off the stage to where he was met with just as many cameras and questions thrown his way. You almost feel bad for him, that he wasn’t even given a chance to breathe between one stage to another.

His eyes scanned the crowd that gathered around him, but eventually his eyes would settle on the ridiculously large bouquet right next to you. It’s hard to miss, you think, looking at it, but when you look back at him you find that his eyes are firmly set on you and you feel your heart skip a beat.

He’s probably trying to figure out where he knows you from, you figure. It’s been years, you yourself had long ago forgotten about him, but hearing his name on the radio for the first time dredged up all of those memories.

You can hardly blame him though the both of you have changed a lot in the almost ten years since you’d last seen each other and he doesn’t have the benefit of a famous name or your face on TV to jog his memory.

Even still some part of yourself wishes he does remember and you walk towards him with more a skip in your step than ever. But you find your path thwarted by an unwelcome familiar face.

Mindy, whom you’ve known since grade school, when her and her Mama lived on the farm with you until her mama married a new man. You used to be the best of friends but when she moved out she seemed to want to distance herself from you and did so by criticizing everything you did.

Most people would be hard-pressed to name anything she does like, but ask her about the things she hates and she can go on for hours. And of all the things she hates, you think you rank somewhere near the top, given how much she used to talk about you to anyone who would listen. Everything about you was apparently a personal offense to her, with her latest insult being that you apparently had a bunch of cats on your farm, hence your latest and most confusing nickname of “the Cathouse girl.” Though by far her most egregious thing she's ever said was that one day you were going to suffocate from your Mama’s apron strings, and it felt all the worse that you couldn’t even go to her about it lest you prove her point.

She now proudly wears her Miss Tupelo sash over seafoam green dress as she attempts to lift the bouquet out of your hands with a cloyingly sweet, “I’ll take that off your hands hon.”

You move to protest this, but apparently your day has just gone from bad to worse, as you feel a familiar iron-like grip on your arm. “Rosebud, it’s time for us to leave.” You don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

“But Mama-”

“Yeah Y/N, thought all you did was listen to your Mama,” Mindy interrupts you as she finally wrenches the bouquet out of your hands.

“It’s time to go home, Y/N,” your mother says severely, her grip on your elbow unyielding. Your cheeks burn with humiliation, having never felt so small under your mothers gaze, but you don’t argue with her and allow yourself to be pulled away, lest a bigger scene be caused.

Mindy, idly pops her spearmint gum with the most triumphant of smiles, sparing you a simple dismissive twiddle of her fingers before spinning around to present your hard work to your old friend. If there’s one thing you can be glad about in that moment, is that exactly zero other eyes were on you as you conceded to your mother like a scolded child and let her lead you out of the fairgrounds.

Little did you realize at the time, someone was watching.

You get into the truck and sit your fists clenching in anger on your knees, ashamed at what transpired just now.

“Rosebud…” she starts, and you petulantly turn your entire body to face the window with your back to her. “Honey I know you think I go overboard with these things, but you gotta trust your mama here when I say that it’s all for your own good.”

Your nails dig into the meat of your palms, so hard you worry it may draw blood, but a part of you welcomes that. Maybe then she will understand how upset you are with her. She still treats you like a child after all these years, protecting you from some nebulous threat that is both ever present yet somehow not important enough to give a name.

You feel suffocated, unable to defend yourself from insults that you aren’t allowed to fully understand.

These feelings would only double when you would see the next day's newspaper, where an enlarged picture of Elvis and Mindy on the ferris wheel would take up most of the front page. Well there’s your answer as to who this mystery girl is, you think bitterly.

Sweethearts reunited at last, the headline reads.

Though all your anger and fury would end up manifesting into nothing when the real world decided to remind you what was important in life. About a week after the fair, your home would receive a late night visit from the sheriff informing you of tragedy.

It didn’t feel real seeing what was once a colorful store teeming with life and love to now be reduced to a smoldering, skeletal pile of ash. You had been there not even a day ago and now it was gone. The police don’t suspect foul play but they weren’t ruling it out, and as you would learn, the little insurance mama did have on the shop didn’t cover fires unless it could be proven beyond a doubt that it was accidental. So suffice it to say, your family is on its own in terms of getting the store back up and running.

Typically late fall is for drying out maybe a quarter of the left over supply of flowers, storing the rest into the cold storage below the shop, winterizing the bushels for the next season, and shifting focus to seeding and growing the more popular flowers in the greenhouses, but the fire had thrown the ultimate wrench into the plans. A good chunk of the cut flowers had been kept on display at the front of the shop or beneath it in cold storage, and so with them went much of the value in the business.

Your mama is stressed beyond anything you’ve ever seen, but what makes it worse is that she refuses to burden you with the knowledge of your financial situation. Which in turn stresses you out even more about the financial situation she didn’t want you to know about.

About a month after the fire Mama had gone to the bank in an effort to get a business loan so that she could rent a new place, while the others were in town trying to strike up partnerships with other stores on the same street and convince them to buy and sell your flowers. It wasn’t the greatest of plans but it was the only one you were left with so that you may hobble through this year into the next.

They could sell the flowers off to shops in nearby towns, but even selling the rest of the supply wholesale will hardly breakeven for this year leaving you with nothing saved come next season. And even then that’s only if everybody refuses payment for the work they did, which they did offer, but your Mama was having none of it.

Even setting up a stand on your property and selling from there wasn’t an option, as you’re located way too far out from town too hope for those driving by to stop and buy flowers off of you.

You find yourself on one of the rare days in which you’re home alone, as you sit on the porch gazing out at the fields nearly devoid of all flora now. If your mother can’t convince the bank for a loan then all that your family has ever grown will rot, the land sold, and the strange tribe of women that had been collected under this roof would be left adrift. Beauty will give way over to necessity, as these bankers are under the false assumption that people don’t need flowers.

But how can you begrudge the necessity of food at a time like this when your kitchen is looking pathetically sparse these days. You wouldn’t mind too much if you didn’t know that it was a prelude to no food at all.

It didn’t feel right that this would be the end of the farm, your Nana Gail took the dusty lands her deadbeat of a husband left her with and turned it into something beautiful. She passed it on to your Mama, a relative stranger she took in the both of you when your daddy was sent away to die an ocean away.

The farm had survived two world wars and yet it would be a fire that would cause all that the women of your family had built to crumble.

You shake your head furiously at the thought. Don’t let these bad thoughts get to you, you think to yourself. You're truly afraid of where these thoughts may lead you if you let them fester so instead you decide that the kitchen would benefit from some cheery flowers to brighten up the place.

The house is in desperate need of that these days.

But as you were in the dirt to pick Daffodils, you realize you weren’t as alone as you thought, as in the distance you see some dust being kicked up. Your heart jumps for joy thinking that it was your mother, bearing good news, until you get to the dirt road and the unfamiliar black car drives past you.

Making your way home you can see a tall figure step out of the shiny car, dressed all in black. As they turn to look at the house, they strike an unsettlingly familiar silhouette but it still takes you a second to recognize him, even if it was not even a month ago when you saw him last.

Maybe it’s because, in your head, he’s still that gangly tow-headed boy, not this tall dark man in black that stands before you.

“Elvis?”

A devastating grin spreads across his face as he spreads his arms out in a clear invitation for a hug. “Been a long time, Honeybee.”

You don’t know the etiquette as to how to greet someone you haven’t talked to in years, but also whom you’ve seen in passing a few days ago. But you graciously accept the hug and kiss on the cheek he gives you, so you in turn invite him into your home, unsure what else to do in the face of his casual familiarity.

“Hope you don’t mind,” he says, grabbing a basket from the back seat. “But I brought you a lil’ gift.” Your eyes widen and your mouth instantly starts to water at the plentiful bounty within, as no less than a dozen Pomegranates filled that ornate basket. The fact that he brought such a thing, seemingly on a whim, spoke volumes as to how well the music business was treating him more than any sparkling jewel or shiny car could.

“Can I offer you some water or…” you trail off as you put the daffodils in a vase, hoping he accepts, and you won’t have to suffer the embarrassment of having so little to offer such a man.

“If you could be a doll actually,” he says, plucking one of the sweet fruits. “Why don’tcha pop one a these open for old times sake.” You’re silently grateful he asked as you doubt it would have been too long before your empty stomach was demanding for one. “I still remember when you gave me one for the first time.” he idly remarks as you start to cut into it.

You smile at that shared memory between the two of you, though a sorrowful ache settles in your stomach as those days seem so far away now. You gather a few errant seeds from the cutting board and you can’t help the small moan that comes from you, as you had resigned yourself to the fact that you wouldn’t be having any this year.

With the plate in hand you turn around to find your guest frozen in his sweet, before quickly gathering himself as you approach.

“So what brings you back to these ol’ parts,” you ask, placing the plate between you two.

He pops a few seeds off of the ridge, and into his mouth, “Well I came back here because a certain someone left my show before I could even say hello to her.”

You look down slightly embarrassed but a little ecstatic that he realized your absence, “Sorry ‘bout that, we get super busy around this time and couldn’t stick around too long.”

“I get it,” he answers amiably. “It looked like you and your mama had somewhere to be.”

You cringe and look down humiliated that, of all the things he could’ve seen that day, he saw perhaps the most embarrassing moment of your life. You look back and see an expression you can’t quite read on his face as you quickly recover and ask him how the star's life is treating him.

He regales you with all that he’s done the past few years since the music thing took off, and how he’s looking forward to the movies he’s gonna make. He even tells you how he’s just about to finish filming his first one pretty soon, and head back to Hollywood in a week.

The irony that you sit across from him, his dreams once so lofty and out of reach now coming true whereas your simple one seems to slip through your fingers is not lost on you. You have to actively force yourself to be happy for him at this moment, as he’s hardly to blame for your recent misfortunes.

“How are you and Mindy doing?” you ask, after a while.

“Who?”

That really shouldn’t make you as happy as it did.

“You know your old Sweetheart and all that,” you tease lightly.

“Oh… her…” he says, unable to hide the bit of a grimace on his face. “She was… nice?”

“You don’t gotta lie,” you say, laughing a bit at the thought

“She was nice to me,” he elaborates, shrugging his shoulders a bit, before giving a pointed look at you. “She had a lot to say ‘boutchu though.”

“I can imagine.” you say, plucking a few seeds. “Guess childhood sweethearts ain’t all they cracked up to be.”

“Wouldn’t know,” he says. “But enough a all that, how ‘boutchu, Honeybee? Whatcha been up to all these years?”

“Oh you know, ain’t nothin’ ever changes down in Tupelo,” you dismiss, hoping to dodge his question. “Still growing flowers, still selling them,” you say, willing your smile to be more cheerful than strictly necessary.

“Y’know,” he broaches lightly, his fingers awkwardly rapping against the grainy wood of the table. “I actually did stop by the shop before I got here…” he trails off, a solemn air falling over the both of you.

“Oh.”

“Listen, darlin’,” he says, taking his hand in yours. “If you need anythin’ tell me how I can help,” he pleads softly.

“Yo-you don’t gotta be worried ‘bout us, we-we’re gonna be fine,” you stutter, attempting to parrot your Mama’s own words back to him, hoping you’re at least somewhat convincing. He takes your hand in his and soothingly rubs his thumb along the back of your hand.

“Sweetheart if you folks need some money to tide y‘all over for a bit, I’d be happy t-”

“No,” you cut him off. “I can’t accept your money for nothing,” you declare.

“I understand Honeybee,” he says, looking out the window. “But I just moved to a new place up in Memphis. It’s nice but kinda… bare on the outside, and I’ve been in the market for someone to fix that.” he says his steely blue gaze fixed on you. “And then I thought who better than the girl who could grow anythin’?”

You’re genuinely flattered at the compliment, but you can’t help but feel this is simply more of his pity and you let him know as much.

“Sweetheart, I was gonna offer you the job even before I saw your shop,” he says genuinely. “It don’t gotta be forever, just work a couple months up in Graceland, makin’ sure everything set up come spring, then you’ll be home.”

“Graceland?”

“It’s what the old owners called it anyway,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s a house right now, but it ain’t no home.” he looks solemn in his words until his eyes trail to you and you can see in real time as his whole demeanor brightens. “I think you could help fix that darlin’,” he states, his smile making it hard to focus on much else.

There is a bit of a pause, and you stupidly realize he’s waiting for an answer from you. But from the almost imperceptible drop in his grin at your hesitation, you doubt it’s the one he’s looking for. “I-I’m flattered but… I-I can’t just leave right now.” you stutter, feeling guilty that he’s now upset with you, and you feel the need to further justify your stance. “My family needs me right now.”

“And this is how you can help ‘em right now,” he argues, reaching into his back pocket. “I can even pay ya’ half upfront now.”

“Elvis, I don’t think that’ll be eno–” you’re cut off by him suddenly slapping what looks to be six hundred dollars on the table before casually going back to picking off the ruby colored seeds. He smiles a bit at the gobsmacked expression on your face, but how could you not be?

Renting out a new space downtown for a few months wouldn’t even cost a quarter of this with the rest being able to go toward everything else. It’s almost funny that previously you never even thought about money, but now it feels like that’s all you think about these days.

“This-this is just for six months of work?”

“Three actually,” he corrects. “The rest you’ll get paid in the Spring.”

You feel your heart thunder within your chest with his words. This would be more than enough money to get your family through the year. But you don’t know if you could do it. Not the gardening part obviously more the being so far away from your family part.

“Can I have some time to think about it?” you question, hoping that maybe the rest will be able to better convince you to go for it or someone else could take the offer.

“Sweetheart I gotta get back to Memphis real soon,” he warns, a lot cooler than before. “So I’m gonna need an answer right now.” You swallow nervously at the intensity of his gaze on you, feeling an uncomfortable feeling settling in your belly, the prospect of leaving home, making you queasy.

“Elvis I-I-I don’t know,” you stutter, your palms clammy as you hold the hem of your skirt with shaky hands, feeling as though the world is somehow closing in on you.

“Well I guess that’s that then,” he says with an air of finality, that only further turns your stomach.

This man is offering a solution to all your current woes and yet you hesitate? You balk at the idea of a couple months of doing the same work you would’ve been doing here? And for what exactly?

You know you should discuss this with your Mama, but you already know what her answer is going to be. It’s the same one she has been giving these last few weeks when you had asked about getting a job to better support the house.

Your daddy never came back from the war so she promised to love you twice as fiercely, for the both of them. She had always done her best to feed you, clothe you, protect you. It’s no secret that everything this farm started from you when she had to support the both of you on her own. And you know for a fact if it was her being offered the job she wouldn’t have even blinked to take it. But you’re about to let that all slip through your fingers because you’re too much of a coward to do what needs to be done.

But even with all that in mind, it’s not your mind that ultimately makes the decision so much as your stomach, as it rumbles yet again as you look upon the basket he left behind overflowing with one of the most expensive fruits you know, a mere taste as to what he can so casually provide you.

You catch him just as he’s about to step out the door, but before you can officially say yes you have one question left for him. “Can you promise me I’ll be home come Spring?”

“Darlin’ I can promise you right now, come Spring we’ll both have exactly what we want.” which is a big promise for anyone to make, but you are looking at the boy who had gone from being only able to sing in front of a single person in an empty field to someone who is now selling out shows to hundreds. There is an odd sense that if anybody can manifest the near impossible it would be him.

It takes you only an hour to pack what you think you’ll need for these coming months, as well as write a barebones note explaining to your Mama that no you’re not being kidnapped and that you’ll be gone to raise money to save the farm. You don’t say where you’ll be but you do promise that you will write as often as you can and that you’ll be home come springtime. You quickly stuff the note and the money into the envelope, and leave it right on top of the basket.

But before you can make it out the front door, you're presented with a bright cheerful looking daffodil, plucked straight from the vase you had put it in. “For new beginnings,” he says with a soft smile.

“How’d you know that?” you asked surprised that he remembered after all this time, but taking a hold of it anyway.

“Hell, all the time I spent down here,” he said, throwing an arm over your shoulder. “Somethin’ was bound to stick.”

And just like that you’re off.

You refuse to look forlornly out at the fields you’re leaving behind, trying to remind yourself that it’s not as though you’ll be gone forever. You’ll be back before you know it, you think, trying to convince yourself, and it’s Elvis’ hand in yours that gives you some small comfort in this incredibly trying time, even as his eyes are firmly set forward.

Though it’s as you get to the state border do you realize that this will mark the first time you’ve been so far from home ever, and you let Elvis know as much.

“There’s gonna be a lotta firsts when you stick with me darlin’,” he says, giving a tender kiss to the back of your hand.

Graceland on the outside is beautiful but… sterile, if you had to take a guess. There were trees with leaves starting to brown for the autumn, the shrubbery was perfectly manicured, and the grass was well maintained but it was utterly devoid of color save for the cars in the driveway.

But then again this is what you’re here to rectify, so you try to be an optimist about it, and try to view it as a blank canvas so to speak. What the property lacked in the moment was warmth and you suppose now it’s your job to bring it.

That first month was all devoted to building the greenhouse necessary to start the entire process. You prefer to start with the seeds rather than skipping straight to the bulbs, so a place where you can better help them grow is ideal. Elvis is all too willing to indulge this and he puts in the order for one but all too soon he has to leave to go and finish his movie.

As much as you knew Elvis, it felt odd being in a house with the owner gone. And while Graceland was far from empty, there is still that unsettling sensation of being there that you can’t quite shake.

Of course not used to being so idle even during the winter, you start to take on other duties around the household. You quickly endear yourself to Miss Gladys with your willingness to take on the chores of the house and she goes out of her way to make you feel welcome.

You like her, she’s the only one who feels as uncomfortable at the opulence as you did. In a lot of ways she reminds you of your own mother with the way she frets over her absent son. This strikes a particularly guilty chord within you, because unlike your Mama, Gladys has the benefit of knowing where her child was at the moment.

“Where ya from sweetheart?” she asks you idly one day as you’re helping her make breakfast early one morning.

“Tupelo,” you say while you beat the eggs.

“Oh do I know your Mama?”

“Probably,” you answer. “She ran the flower shop back there.”

Gladys pauses at that. You can’t see her face but you do hear the hesitation in her voice as she whispers “... Demi?”

“Yeah that’s my mama… you know her?” you ask a little confused at this point, and you wonder if there is some history there.

There is an uncomfortably long pause before she says a simple, “Yeah I think I remember her…” The rest of the morning is filled with an awkward silence as you try to figure out what could have possibly happened there.

That night, before you enter the room to talk to Elvis over the phone, you overhear the tail end of the conversation between him and his Mama. You hear her whisper in a low tone, “I hope you know what you’re doin’ Bewbie.”

Whatever awkwardness that had arisen because of her question disappears soon after that. Gladys happily takes you under her wing once more, bringing you further into the fold of the Presleys and all the dynamics that come with it. She has even begun to refer to you as the daughter she never had which, while you understand is meant to make you feel welcome here, it in fact eats at you considering the state of the relationship between you and your real Mama.

It’s times like these that you truly hate that your family doesn’t have a telephone. You want more than anything to hear her voice, but you know yourself well enough to know that if you were to even visit now you wouldn’t want to ever leave again.

You write to her pretty much every day. Like clockwork for the first month you write to her telling her about your day the same way you usually would, asking her for advice on some flowers, anything really that comes to mind. You had a lot of time that first month while you were helping with planning and building the greenhouse, so everyday you would sift through the hoard of mail to find one bearing your home address.

But it never comes.

That doesn’t stop you from continuing to write to her everyday, handing off the letter to Jerry, and eagerly awaiting her reply.

Elvis is very understanding over the fact that it’s a marathon and not a sprint to make the garden he wanted and every time he’s back home he’s just as eager to see your progress with the seeds as you are to show him. Once you even tried to apologize to him feeling guilty that it’s taking so long to perfect that image of Graceland he had.

“Sweetheart you bein’ there, takin’ care a everythin’ makes it feel all the more like a proper home,” he insists over the phone. “And I can’t wait to get back and see it all.”

This guilt eases once the greenhouse is finished and you can finally get to work with the flowers you’ve planned. Elvis quote “trusted your vision” and wanted you to choose whatever you thought worked best, but he did specify which flowers he absolutely wanted on the property: Lilacs, Gardenias, Carnations, Tulips, Forget-Me-Nots, and Roses.

“I’m a bit of a romantic, I guess,” he said shyly rubbing the back of his neck. You don’t mind too much, as him knowing what he wants by far makes him the easiest man you’ve ever worked with.

Elvis had left you with the understanding that the boys he left behind would be at your beck and call and that should you need anything, not to be afraid to send them to get it. Pots and other such tools were easy enough to send for, but when it came down to other fine details such as soil and seeds, you trusted no one but yourself to find what you need, and so you instead ask if one of them could take you into town to find what you need.

“I cAN-” Jerry, one of the younger ones offered, blushing furiously at his overeagerness that caused his voice to crack slightly. “I mean I can take you,” he says, far more composed this time around. The other men protest, saying he’s too young and that he only just got his license, and ‘don’tchu want a real man drivin’ around sweetheart?’

It was those last comments that really solidified your decision to have it be him, as there was something about Jerry, (16, Lanky, and with a voice still cracking from puberty) that put your mind at ease over all these other grown men, in a way you can’t exactly place.

You stopped going to school when you were around 15 and outside of brief exchanges with the men that used to come into your shop, you haven’t really had much interaction with menfolk in the past 3 years. So that’s where you believe your unease stems from, having been surrounded by mostly women your entire life, being around so many men now is a bit of a shock to your system.

He leads you to his shiny new car, a gift from Elvis for some unspecified favor he did for him, and just like that you’re off. The drive into town is mostly quiet save for Jerry nervously pointing out to you his favorite places in Memphis. You're happy to get out of Graceland, even for a little bit, as you rarely if ever got to explore Tupelo, so being somewhere entirely new was exciting, but at the end of the day there is really only one place you wished to be, the local nursery.

You quickly locate the specific tools you’re going to need and find the best soil for the flowers, and you’re finally able to do what you most wanted. You’re almost like a kid in a candy store as you eagerly look through the varieties of seeds available within the store. As much as you want to take them all you have to be realistic as to not only what would look good, but as to what could be grown on the property to have it looking good year round.

“So err…uhhh… Wh-what’s your favorite flower?” he asks shyly, as you're perusing the various seed packets to be had.

“All of them,” you say without hesitation, not even looking up from the task.

“Really all of ‘em?”

“I’m serious, asking me what my favorite flower is, it’s like asking a mother who her favorite child is,” you say fondly, rubbing your thumb lightly on the little packets that will eventually become the flowers you so love.

He laughs at that, “Why do ya’ love ‘em so much?”

“Well when you grow up on a flower farm, you ain’t got much of a choice,” you quip.

“A flower farm?”

“Yeah,” you clarify. “My Mama and I grew and sold flowers in our shop back in Tupelo.”

“...Yo-you had a flower shop back in Tupelo?” he stutters.

“Yeah,” you say solemnly, this conversation dredging up some very bittersweet memories. “Why dontcha go ring up everything while I finish up over here,” you say.

It's October already, you think to yourself, they probably started cutting down the sunflowers by now. You know that you’re doing more for them here making money and sending it back to them than you would have being an extra set of idle hands back home, still that does little to quell that uneasy feeling being so far from home now.

You’d kept up the writing and have recently let her know how lonely you’ve been feeling here, part venting, part as a means of getting her to write to you back for the first time.

It didn’t work and that sours your mood for the rest of the outing.

The ride back to Graceland is far quieter this time around, and Henry seems to avoid you after that, but you hardly notice as now that you have everything you need, you can really focus all your energy in doing what you came here to do. This is what you’re undoubtedly good at and now that you’re back at it, you don’t want anything to distract you from doing your job and getting back home as soon as possible.

A few days later, as you were finishing up in the greenhouse you would find Jerry sitting next to someone, back ramrod straight as a familiar figure had an arm casually slung over his shoulder. Jerry leaves before you can figure out what that’s all about, so you instead greet the not-so-stranger before you.

“You’re early,” you casually remark to him.

“I missed ya’,” he drawls, a light smirk on his lips that causes a pleasant warmth to radiate from your chest. But his face takes on a more sobering look as he looks at you, purses his lips, and pats the no occupied seat, which you worriedly take. “Actually, I was just ‘bouta go lookin’ for ya’,” he says, before letting out a pensive sigh. “Jerry actually needs a place to stay for a week or two, and I invited him here.”

“Oh that’s nice of you,” you say.

A small bashful smile cracks his somber expression, before the intensity returns and he informs you that yours was the room he offered him.

“I don’t mind sleeping on the couch,” you insist, scared that you may be about to be sent home without the rest of the money to show for it.

“Don’tchu worry ‘bout that,” he said, chucking your chin up to look at him. “I just figured that my bed should be big ‘nough for the both of us.”

His words catch you off guard, and you feel your face burning unsure as to how to respond. He sees your hesitation and backs off slightly before continuing. “Course if you don’t feel too comfortable sharin’ with me I can always putcha up somewhere else,” he starts and you’re about to jump on that offer until he continues. “Though, we might need to take that outta your pay,” he says, and you shrink a bit at the reality of the situation. “Not to mention havin’ to getchu back and forth day in and out,” he continues, rambling on and on about the logistics of the prospect.

“No-no,” you cut in. “I-if you’re really okay with it… then I-I don’t mind.” you say slightly defeated though if he notices he doesn’t say anything about it.

A full grin cracks his face, “Perfect we’ll go move your things right now,” he says as he takes your hand in his leading you up to where your room was.

“...ok…” you said, accepting his offer in a small voice. Though it’s hardly an offer as that would imply you had a choice in the matter.

The next week you want to kick yourself over being so nervous over nothing, as he proves himself to be nothing less than a gentleman all things considered. Yes he does get a bit clingy when he’s asleep and he all but refuses to let you out of the bed when you wake up before him. But in all honesty you welcome it very much.

It helps ease that lonely feeling somewhat as being held by him takes away some of your worry about not belonging here. Everybody seems to give you a wide berth and it was a definite shock to your system considering where you come from, being essentially the baby on the farm you were freely plied with all forms of physical affection your whole life. But you do take comfort in him, even if it is only limited to the night time.

Though when that week is up you idly ask him when you can move your things back into your old room, to which he only responds by wrapping an arm over your shoulders and saying, “Now why would I want my Honeybee so far away from me.”

You’re too shocked at the statement to even think of countering him at the moment, but even when the statement does truly settle for you, you aren’t entirely opposed to it. As it makes you feel far more secure here knowing that he wants you here so much. It’s odd how final it feels in spite of how small the moment was. You’re not just Honeybee anymore, you're His Honeybee, and that’s that.

That’s one of the first things you learned living in Graceland, is that whatever Elvis says, goes. Everybody seems to bend over backwards to his wishes here, and at first it was a little funny if a little perturbing, as you justified to yourself that you were his friend and therefore he wouldn’t put any crazy demands on you even if he was technically your boss.

But it’s only in that moment that you truly realize that you were no exception to that rule. And why would you be? Considering he is the one that is the one supporting not only you but by extension your entire family back home, how can you do anything but agree to his demands?

But that may be being a bit too harsh, as being his girl is certainly not an unpleasant phenomena. He seemed to become bolder with your amiable acceptance to your new found title of becoming his. In short order all of the clothes you brought from home disappeared and were replaced with much finer ones, and he becomes the most frequent visitor in the greenhouse.

Whenever he is around is almost constantly touching you and bringing you close to him at any given moment. And these weren’t exactly touches you were familiar with; Brushing his fingers along your neck to fix your necklace, hand on your lower back to steer you a certain way, rubbing your knee beneath the table (sometimes above your clothes, sometimes not) etc. All new and exciting, in their own ways.

Everytime you see him it feels akin to something blooming within your chest. You think this is why there were so many flowers meant to express love, because that feeling he gives you is hard to put into words.

It was only inevitable that the kisses would come along eventually. First beginning as friendly ones on the cheek before bed, then graduating to something far more… carnal. Almost like he was trying to consume you, and these kisses always left you panting and in a state of shock from the ferocity he displayed only to end it with a very sweet kiss to your cheek and tucking the both of you into bed.

You’re not gonna lie and say you don’t enjoy the kissing but it does give you a good scare when he begins to touch you in other places that are not-so-innocent places as he kisses you: His hand on your bottom when wants to press your body closer to his, the continual rubbing between your inner thighs, his thumb circling the taut peak of your breast.

Though admittedly his new touches were a bit on the scarier side for you, you don’t fight it, and in fact get bolder yourself by taking a page out of his book and giving as good as you got. He seems to relish the reaction he can pull from you, which is intimidating as much as it is titillating.

But these feelings have also been manifesting in some strange ways physically, like you seem to breathe harder when he’s around, and seeing him bite his lip makes your mouth go dry. But this all pales in comparison to the sensation of him rubbing a hand on your inner thigh, and it feels like you go dry everywhere, save for one place. As exciting as it is, it’s confusing all the same, and you above all else wish you could confide in anyone with how you were feeling.

Typically you could freely talk about any lady troubles you may have with your Mama but her inability/unwillingness to talk to you now leaves you to navigate this maze alone. You consider asking Miss Gladys or even Dodger for their thoughts, but the fact that it’s Elvis that awakens these feelings within you, makes going to them seem inappropriate for some reason. But ultimately that only leaves you with one person to go to about your problem despite them also being the cause of it.

Which is how you find yourself sitting on your knees in his bed with a shaky breath telling him how his touches are stirring something in you that you don’t understand.

“Where?” he asks, seemingly innocent but the way he bites his cheek, tells you he’s trying to hold back a laugh at your discomfort. “Here” he says, placing a hand on your lower belly, and while it clenches from the sudden contact, you shake your head no.

“Here?” He asks with a small smile, cupping one of your breasts, and though your breath hitches in your throat and you feel one of the buds harden at his thumbs' attention, that’s not where the worst of the feelings is coming from.

“Elvis please,” you beg, squirming at his touch.

“Oh I think I know Honeybee,” he says one hand now slowly dragging the hem of your nightgown up well past your hips, before he rubs his fingers along the seam of your panties.

In spite of the strangled feeling in your throat, you manage to squeak out a simple “yes,” as tears begin to well up in your eyes.

“Don’tchu worry Baby. I know somethin’ that can help,” he says as he drags the delicate fabric of your white cotton panties down to your knees. On reflex your thighs clench shut immediately but, with a few languid kisses he’s able to distract you from your skittishness and you feel the first tentative brush of his fingers on that sensitive flesh.

As much as you love your home you’ll admit that there was rarely if ever a moment for yourself there anymore. So him now brazenly touching the seldom explored area was mind-boggling for you, moreso when he begins to prod deeper, dipping between your folds and even one finger delving further than any other.

That gets a surprised gasp out of you before you bite down on your lip hard, embarrassed that you're feeling like this while he’s trying to help you. But while you’re able to hold back your noises, you can do nothing to help the way you’re breathing-well more panting- now or the way you’re shivering. You’ve never felt anything close to this in your life, but even this pales in comparison to when he adds a second finger, and you feel like you're about to burst.

“Honeybee… what’d ya know ‘bout baby-makin’,” he asks, seemingly out of the blue.

Part of you wants to act coy and say something like “enough” to get him to continue, but it’s hard to concentrate on any of that as you feel his fingers deep within you. So instead you reply with, “that…that o-ooh-only a Husband and Wife can make oNE.” you yelp that last part as he curls his fingers ever so slightly.

“And that’s it?” he asks with a bit of a skeptical look on his face, and you bury your face in his neck, a bit ashamed that that is the truth of the matter. “Oh Honeybee, you don’t gotta be that way,” he says, giving you a sweet kiss to your nose as he’s still three knuckles deep up your canal. “That’s the right of it, but I don’t think yer Mama ever mentioned that there ain’t no harm in practicin’ before the Weddin’ like this.”

“O-oh,” you say, part as an answer, part an involuntary noise to the way his thumb starts to circle around that pearl between your folds.

“You like that baby girl?” he purrs to you. Your eyes are shut tight and you’re trying to move your hips in tandem with his motions.

“Y-yes,” you manage to whimper, so focused on chasing that feeling he’s causing that you don’t even notice when he drags the straps of your nightgown fully down your shoulders. And it’s as you suddenly feel him bite down hard on the soft skin of your breast do you finally peak with a harrowing sob.

You cling on to him for dear life as wave after wave of pleasure surges through you all at once and you feel as though you’re going to float away any moment. But holding on to him, kissing him, and feeling his skin against your tethers you here, reassuring you that this isn't a dream.

You feel his fingers leave you, and that paired with him pulling away from your lips causes a small whine to come from you. You’re quickly quieted from the shock of seeing him stick the same fingers in his mouth giving a contented groan, “Course my Honeybee’s got the sweetest nectar he whispers against your lips, before giving you a taste for yourself.

You feel boneless and weightless yet your eyes feel so heavy from all that you just experienced, but for as tired as you are at that moment, you’re not ready to go back to dreaming yet.

“Ca-can I try that on you?” you ask meekly still in a bit of a haze from that euphoric feeling.

A bite to his lip prevents it from being a full blown grin “You sure ‘bout that Baby? Mine’s a lil’ different… well not too lil’,” he says. Clearly amused by your request to make him feel just as good.

“I wanna help,” you insist. He chuckles at how eager you were before he guides your hand down to a prominent bulge in his briefs. You’re not too sure what exactly you’re feeling through the rough cotton, just that it is either intensely painful or pleasurable to Elvis given how his breath hitches and his eyes slam shut. You try to remove your hand but his vice-like grip on your wrist prevents that and you can only further palm him.

You apply a bit more pressure, you take the sigh of contentment as a good sign before you delve underneath the fabric of his shorts.

You watch, a bit fascinated as you work to get the rough fabric down, and suddenly you’re face to face with something you’ve never seen before. A long thick column of flesh stands before you, bobbing slightly as he takes deep breath after breath. The skin feels soft but unyielding beneath your touch and you patiently await his instructions, but that deep groan that comes from him as you apply a bit of pressure makes you feel all sorts of powerful over this beautiful man.

He has you gather the slick from between your legs and even spit in your own hand to make it easier for you to slide up and down the shaft. His eyes are screwed shut, his long lashes brushing his cheeks, and he’s mumbling his praises for you, which only further encourages you.

He’s unraveling before your eyes, and you take great delight in being a witness to it. You’ve seen him dance before so it shouldn’t be surprising how well he’s able to move his hips, but it does add an entirely new context to it and you hope the next time you see him on stage you’ll be able to not think of him like this.

An idea pops into your head, and you decide to jump on it before you lose your nerve, and you give a soft kiss to the very tip of him. He freezes in place, his eyes wide and shocked at your teasing, his chest rising and falling and you feel heat flood your entire being.

“I-I’m so-sorry,” you breath out, embarrassed that you may have unintentionally done something you weren’t supposed to do. “I just th-thought you mi-” you cut off as he chuckles at your obvious distress before giving you a sweet kiss.

“Just surprised me Honeybee, thas all,” he reassures you against your lips, before giving you a little nibble there. “Why don’tcha try that again?” he drawls, trying to not appear too eager, but it’s apparent even to you.

You get right back to it, and you give even softer kisses along the shaft, each one being punctuated by a low moan from him, until you finally get to the very top of him, and you run your tongue along the small slit to be found there.

His hips stutter at that and one second you’re wondering what’s happening to him, the next you’re a coughing mess as that salty stream hits the back of your throat. He’s now just as dazed as you feel his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back, as you settle, and he takes charge in getting you both ready for bed.

As you lay side by side, he has nothing but praise for you whispering how good and perfect you were between hungry kisses until you drift off to sleep.

The next day would mark the first time you didn’t write to your mother. Part because you have already accepted she wouldn’t reply, part wanting to also keep that as private as possible. It also marks the first time in your life you don’t share something that felt so important with her.

Your Mama never liked talking about your daddy beyond saying that they loved each other very much. She never went into detail beyond that believing you were too young to hear them, but she never gave you an idea when you would be grown enough to hear them. But now above all else you want to hear when she knew she was in love with him, because you think you’re falling in love with Elvis.

Scratch that.

You know you are but you would give anything right now to be able to talk to somebody about it. And it’s upsetting that the person you usually talk your worries through is also one of your biggest ones at the moment. But even then you would have been willing to discuss it with her, if only she was willing to do so back.

It seems the more upset you become with her, the more comforting Elvis becomes to you. Even still you hesitate to share your fears with him until he is the one that broaches it.

“What’s on your mind Honeybee?” he says as he draws circles along your hip.

“Nothing much,” you dismiss. “Just trying to figure out when it's best to plant everything.”

His sardonic smile tells you he doesn’t believe you one bit, “C’mon darlin’ I know ya’ better than that.” Which is a bit of an understatement, as it feels like these days he’s able to read you better than you can yourself anymore.

After letting out a long tired sigh, you tell him “I think she’s mad at me,” while you two were settling into bed.

“Now who could ever be mad at my Honeybee?” he says, bringing you closer to him.

“My mama,” you say solemnly, tears in your eyes. “She’s never replied to a single letter of mine, and I write to her everyday.”

“I’m sure she’s just busy,” he tries to comfort you. But they ring hollow knowing that she always used to say- something you even quoted her in your last letter- ‘I’m never too busy for you Rosebud.’ He pulls you close to his chest as he rubs his hand along your back, “Darlin’ your mama is a hard-headed woman- lord knows I got the scars to prove it- but I don’t think she could stay mad at you forever.”

“What?” you say, sitting up to face him fully.

“What?”

“What do you mean you have the scars to prove it?”

“O-oh…” he says with a slight grimace on his face, before giving a bit of an awkward chuckle. “We-well… ya’ remember before I left, I-I asked you to’ run away with us?” You nod your head slowly. “Well that night, when I went back to the farm to tell her… she… she had a bit of a fit.”

“That doesn’t answer my question E.”

His lips form a thin line, clearly reluctant to tell you more, but he does eventually cave with a long hard sigh. “She got so mad at the thought a you leavin’ she grabbed my hand somethin’ fierce, and… and… well…” he trails off as he presents you the palm of his left hand, where you can see some small jagged silvery lines along it.

“She… she did this?” you whisper, lightly touching the scars, unbelieving that your Mama could do such a thing. She was the one who hardly ever raised her voice and didn’t even swat at Bees in front of you. How could she hurt him like this?

“I-I understand not wantin’ your kid to run away,” he says, “but I don’t think hurtin’ one like this was needed. But that wasn’t even the worst part of it.”

“What is it?”

“She… she banned me from ever comin’ back to the farm again. Couldn’t even say goodbye to ya properly,” he says somberly, his eyes sad as he tenderly cupped your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” you say, at a loss for what else you could say knowing what you do now.

“You don’t got nothin’ to apologize for baby,” he says softly, holding your hand in his scarred one. “And listen Honeybee, if she’s so mad that she don’t wantcha back, you’ll always have a home here,” he promises before he gives you a kiss to your temple and turns off the light.

You know the words were meant to be comforting, but they have the opposite effect and make your stomach drop at the prospect that she may be that mad. It has never occurred in your mind that she may be that cross with you for leaving

But like a fowl little seed, those words are implanted in your mind and take root. You wish he had never said those words, but you can hardly fault him for his attempts to console you in your hurt.

Would she ever be so mad at you? You wonder to yourself. You feel Elvis hands wrap around your waist and you remember the marks your Mama left on him in a rage. And that was simply from the idea that you would leave. What would she do now that you've actually left?

Elvis has never had a bad word to say about anybody, but you realize even he was being far more generous than was needed for what she had done. All that over a stupid kiddy idea of running away?

You lay there for hours with the only sounds being Elvis’ steady breathing. The longer you’re awake the more you think about it, which fuels the vicious cycle as those thoughts make it harder to fall asleep. Doubt creeps into your very soul that the home you are so desperate to return to will even be there come spring, and you silently weep.

But not as silently as you thought, as Elvis is awake within seconds. He holds you so close and so tight that it truly feels like he’ll never let go.

“No matter what,” he whispers in your ear. “Your home will always be here with me, Honeybee.”

You’re touched by his words and the way he holds you makes you feel so safe now and you kiss him fiercely, and want nothing more than to be as close to him as possible.

Up until this point you had been reluctant to go that final step with Elvis, pretty much doing everything but that last act. As greedy as he could be with your body (given how many hours he’s spent with his head between your legs), he had asserted you would be the one to decide when you would cross that final line with him. Though from the tone of his voice each time he said it, you figured he was gunning for it to be sooner rather than later.

You don’t know what exactly it is about the idea that you may not have a home to return to that makes you want to attach yourself further to him. You want to forget about everything when you’re with him and he makes it easy to do so. Being with him makes you so happy in way you don’t ever think you’ve experienced on the farm, and you

“Are ya sure sweetheart,” he groans, before his eyes snap shut as you rub your lower lips along his shaft, as you’ve done dozens of times before.

“Yes,” you whine, wanting to feel him the way he was meant to be.

When he finally slides into you, you can’t help the satisfied hum that escapes you, as he slides right into you. You’re on top and he lets you set the pace for yourself, which is good as even with all of your previous practice with him, you still need some time to adjust to the size of him up that secret channel of yours.

You can see the sheer will power it’s taking for him to let you go your own speed, so once the pleasure overtakes the pain, without any more preamble, you begin to quicken your hips and ride him like your life depends on it. It may very well, considering the closer you get to you climax the more it feels like you may pass out before you get to that point.

“This right here,” he grons, rolling his hips up into you rubbing his thumb along that button of yours. “This is where home is.”

“Yes,” you sob, tears streaming down your face, “Home… you.” you cry, unable to finish as he hits just the right spot within and your vision is being blurred by stars.

You feel so whole as he spills within you, and with his now softened cock still snuggly within you, “I love you Elvis,” you sigh into his chest, content to fall asleep then and there, but you quickly realize your mistake as your words seem to reinvigorate him and he takes you a few more times until the crack of dawn. But between his filthy words and his declarations of love one thing he says sticks out to you the most.

“Ain’t nothin’ ever gonna take you away now Honeybee,” he groans as you pick up the pace, his hand squeezing your bottom so tight, only further cementing how secure you are here.

Slowly but surely you stop writing to your mother. What was something you previously did everyday, became every other week, to eventually once a week once February came. And even the ones you do send are limited to very basic and dry summaries of the week, as to what flowers you were focusing on and general questions as to how everybody else is doing back home. Gone are the days of you waxing poetically about your confusion over your feelings for Elvis and you plea for a single response from her. She’s shown her interest in your life, as well as shown how willing she is to be involved with it anymore so you decide to accept it, albeit with a heavy heart.

The last time you expressed anything even remotely emotional with her was how you find it hard to think of the farm as being home anymore when she’s been so cold to you these last few months, and how you doubt you even want to go back.

She doesn’t reply.

Elvis seems to take to his new role in your life surprisingly well. Always willing to help you through your emotional turmoil when he was home and shield you from the rest.

He seems to take great comfort in you as well, and the greenhouse has now even become a place away from all of it. When he’s home one of the first things he does is visit you there, and simply sit with you for a few hours. You think it’s mostly to serve as a breather between all the chaos that is his life outside of these glass walls, but you’re all too happy to help him in this way as he’s helped you.

That feeling of perfection you got when you first shared that pomegranate with him, you feel it almost everyday in that greenhouse with him. The light shining through the panes of glass keeping the place warm, the fresh air coming from the sproutlings in their pots, his soft humming. All of it adding up to a dream you never want to wake up from.

The beginning of Spring came and went and neither of you brought up the fact that you were meant to be back at the farm. The most you do allude to it was you telling him to forward that final payment directly to your Mama, mostly as a last ditch effort to get her to finally respond to you for once.

She doesn’t respond.

You and Elvis decide then and there to wash your hands of her, though it was perhaps the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do. But you can’t keep letting her silence break your heart so you focus all of your energy into two things: Elvis and making Graceland beautiful.

The first one is pretty easy to do considering when he is home, there is little to no distance between you two. He can hardly keep his hands off of you anymore when he’s here, with nights spent under the sheets, and days spent literally everywhere else on the property. He seems to be particularly fond of being in the Greenhouse, loving to see you so in your element in there only to bend you over your work table and take you hot and heavy from behind.

These encounters only make you feel his absence even more, as while you’re not exactly alone in Graceland it does make the big property feel all the emptier. Which in turn makes your second focus all the harder.

You’ve by now planted any and all flowers you intended to and they are all well on their way to growing strong, and now knowing you’re going to be staying, you’re happy that you’ll be able to do so for years to come. Now that you’ve gotten past the most trying part, tending to them is going to be a cinch…

Or it would be if you weren’t so tired all the time.

Oftentimes you find yourself napping in the most inopportune places around the property. Sweet Pea has apparently appointed herself as your official protector while you rested outside and by extension roped Brutus and Snoopy into it as well. You can’t even begin to count the amount of times you would want to rest your eyes for a minute only to find hours had passed and three dogs at the ready to guard you from whatever may come. WHich considering how you’ve been feeling sicker and sicker lately what with the fever you’ve been feeling and the nausea you’ve been having some mornings.

You don’t exactly understand why you’re far more sensitive to smell nowadays. You almost threw up the other morning from the smell of the eggs, which has Dodger and Miss Gladys looking very funny at you. You don’t pay it any mind though as you were just glad that you’re still able to appreciate the smell of flowers.

You’re in a far better mood today, what with Elvis set to return later, you decided to leave a surprise in his office. The roses were in full bloom now, so you decided to pluck a few for old times sake and leave some for him.

As you’re placing the vase down onto the desk, you watch as one of the blooms falls right off the stems and rolls to the other side of it. But when you go to pick it up, what you find is far stranger.

With the amount of fan mail he gets, you wouldn’t have paid the neat stack any mind if you hadn’t immediately recognized your own handwriting on the very top one. ANd you would have taken that as a very crazy coincidence if it weren’t for the fact that it also has your old address on the front.

And it’s not just that one, you find a couple dozen envelopes with your handwriting and address on the front, and an unpleasant feeling fills your belly as you tentatively remove a page from the envelope.

And it’s there that you read your own gut-wrenching words of your loneliness here and your wishes that your mother would write back to you. How you plead for her to reach out if only to reassure you that she’s alive and getting these letters.

You had imagined that they had either been destroyed the moment your mother saw them or gathering dust somewhere in your old childhood home. But now you find them here, a place you know very few are even allowed to be.

She didn’t get any of them you realize looking at the thick stack, an icky sense of violation creeping under your skin, seeing them worn and wrinkled in some places, but somebody definitely read these.

You want to throw up, and not just because of your newfound sensitive stomach, but due to the revelation that if he didn’t send any of them, then that meant… he had seen you be upset to the point of crying over this, all the while blaming your Mama for it and letting you take comfort in him.

Not only that, he read about your loneliness and actively decided to make you feel even more isolated by not letting you talk to your Mama. He held you as you cried over the fact she wasn’t talking to you and said nothing.

Your heart is pounding in your chest and you stagger back so far that you knock the vase full of roses right off the desk. You don’t pay it any mind and leave them and the letters where you find them. You have to get away, you have to go home.

You don’t bother to grab anything (it’s all his anyway), you simply find Jerry and tell him that he has to take you back to Tupelo right now. He’s stuttering trying to make the usual excuses of why he couldn’t take you, but he’s weak to your tears, and he silently leads you to the car.

It’s a long silent trip save for your quiet sobs from the passenger side. You don’t know if he’s intentionally stalling or if the drive is truly this long, either way it feels like forever before you can finally breathe within the Lee County borders.

You take comfort in the landmarks becoming more and more familiar until finally you see your home in the distance. You don’t take your eyes off of it for even a second, afraid it may disappear the moment you do so. You have a hard time believing it’s even real until you stand before the front door.

You hold the doorknob hesitating to open it, fearful as to what you may find on the other side, but ultimately you know that there is no possible way it can be any worse than where you just came from.

It’s oddly shocking how nothing has really changed in the months you’ve been gone. It’s almost as though you just walked out minutes ago, but you yourself feel you’ve changed so much since you were last here. The furniture arrangement is the same, as are the books on the shelf, and even your Mama's house slippers are in their usual spot.

You listen as someone is cooking in the kitchen, and you feel your heart warm knowing that at the very least you accomplished what you had set out to do and provide for your family, regardless of the sick feeling that work has left in your belly.

“Kate that you?” you hear from the voice that has accompanied you your whole life. “I told all y’all to take the da-” she cuts herself off upon seeing you.

You almost don’t recognize her, the streaks of white in her hair, the fine lines in the corners and the heavy bags underneath her eyes, overall speak to the way your absence has affected her these last few months. You feel guilty for every unkind thought you’ve had of her all this time, as you can now see for yourself how much she missed you. She looks as though she’s aged ten years in the months you’ve been away, and you can only imagine how you’ve so drastically changed in her eyes.

But none of that matters in the moment, as she drops everything in her hands and proceeds to take you in her arms and sob uncontrollably. You meet her halfway weeping just as fiercly in her chest, you thought you had run out of tears during the drive, only to find a new spring, as she blubbers in your ear “my baby’s home.”

Even after some time had passed like that, you can’t even begin to form any semi-coherent sentence as you blubber over and over again your apologies for being gone for so long. She’s long since stopped her own tears in favor of comforting you which only makes you feel all the worse.

“Shh, it’s gonna be okay,” she whispers, having long since stopped her own tears in favor of comforting you now. “You’re home now, Rosebud. Everything’s gonna be okay,” and guilt eats at you, that you could ever even entertain the thought that she wouldn’t want you back.

You remain in that state for what feels like hours, with your head in her lap as she smooths down your hair and in spite of all the turmoil you’ve undoubtedly put her through, it’s clear your comfort is her priority. Eventually though she does gather up the courage to ask you where you’ve been this whole time.

After all you’ve put her through you figure that she at least deserves the truth, so you sit up to face her. But before you can even open your mouth you hear the front door open. Any nominal contentment you’ve found being back home all slips away when you hear the familiar heavy footfalls of the man you’ve been dreading seeing all day.

“There you are Honeybee,” Elvis says, leaning against the doorframe, the familiar rakish smile in place. Those words are so familiar yet now they feel foreign as you no longer recognize the man who utters them to you.

It feels like in mere seconds your mama has brought you to your feet and now you stand behind her, and away from him. “What are you doin’ here!?” she shouts, her body tense and rigid, as though ready to defend you from a lion rather than a single man.

He hardly even glances her way, his eyes firmly set on you. “Here to take my Honeybee back home of course.” Your mama doesn’t even waste a second after hearing that, she only wordlessly approaches and takes a swing at him. But he was ready for that, as he easily catches her wrist, and brought her close to him “Ain’t so easy now I ain’t a runt no more?” he says, grinning ear to ear, a deadly look crossing his steely blue eyes.

This catches both of you off guard but your Mama is quick to recover and attempts to shove him right out the door with a mighty “Get outta my house!”

“Not without her,” he says, unnervingly keeping his voice low and cool, as though he were still very much in control of the situation.

He may still very well be, you think.

Before you can even think to help your mama, he easily maneuvers around her only to walk straight towards your frozen figure and put an arm around your shoulder.

“C’mon Honeybee,” he says, blatantly ignoring the tears streaming down your face. “Time to head home,” and you shiver when he runs his thumb along your cheek the way he’s done a million times before. You see your mama look wide-eyed at this familiar interaction, and to your horror so does Elvis. “That’s right you don’t know where she’s been,” he says, giving a faux innocent look while boldly admitting right in front of you he never sent any of those letters. “Why don’tcha tell her darlin’.” he declares, punctuating his familiarity with a kiss to your cheek. You don’t know what’s worse, the look of shock on your mama’s face as he does this, or the dissatisfied look he shoots you when you curl away from him.

Your mama doesn’t need to be a genius to figure out what he’s implying, as you watch her deflate as she looks at you and gives a very defeated “why?”

“Mama,” you whimper, wanting nothing more than to go to her, but Elvis’ arms keeping you firmly in place. “We-we needed the money, after the fire and…”

You stop yourself short as your Mama seems to contemplate your words, only to make some sort of realization of her own before, a look of horror slowly creeping onto her face. “It was you wasn’t it?” She seethes in a low voice.

“What was?” he says, trying to seem innocent but unable to fully mask his amusement at her state.

“The fire…” she said in a small voice, not even daring to continue.

No, you refuse to believe. Ain’t no way he would go that far, but then you remember Jerry’s skittishness when he learned you had a flower shop in Tupelo as well as his reluctance to deny you a single thing, that big favor he apparently did for Elvis to earn his shiny new Cadillac. All of it is making a lot of sense, but you’re still unwilling to go that far for a chance to be with you.

That is until he says, “Now that’s a mighty big accusation,” coolly, with a bit of a smirk as he looks down on her.

You freeze in place at that line. That’s not a no, you think, somehow still wanting to lie to yourself. He steals a glance at you and his face softens as he holds your shoulders and looks earnestly into your eyes as he says, “Honeybee you don’t think I would ever do something’ like that, now would you?”

You have to think on that for a moment, and you’re quiet until his grip tightens ever so slightly and his face noticeably drops from earnest to frustrated. You swallow deeply as you give a very unconvincing “No, of co-”

“Get your hands off her,” your mama spits, ripping you away from him, but he’s persistent, callously shoving her to the ground and gripping your jaw in his ringed hand.

“Because if it’s true,” he continues so softly even as the cold metal digs into your cheeks. “Then I wonder what else I’d be willin’ to do to keep ya,” he casually threatens a sadistic look in his eyes as a wide grin spreads across his face.

You feel your throat close as he glances down at your Mama, who’s struggling to get off the floor. He lets you go and you’re able to bring her to a chair. You once thought she was invincible but now you see her trembling clearly shaken up by this whole thing. Whatever your mama had; money, influence, respect, Elvis had in spades. She’s effectively powerless against him, but she still finds the strength to angle herself in front of you to try to block him.

She’s afraid of him no doubt about it, but she’s still willing to defend you with her life.

Would he be willing to go that far? You think and you let out a sob knowing the answer already.

“Choice is yours darlin’,” he whispers right next to your ear. “If you’re willin’ to choose.” and then he steps right out onto the porch. You hope in vain that somehow he’s decided to leave, but that quickly dies as you hear him strike a match and you smell the familiar miasma of his favorite cigars.

He wouldn’t, you think, but you can no longer put anything past him. You don’t ever want to truly find out what he’d be willing to if it meant keeping you by him, especially not at your mama’s expense. But you know in your gut how you can protect her.

If you have one thing to thank your earlier crying fits for, it’s that you’re tapped dry at this point, so as you say to her “Mama I gotta go now,” you can say it with a little bit of dignity.

“No… no Rosebud,” she pleads with you holding both of your hands. “Please stay… we can figure this out,” she says, the tears welling up in her eyes, as she comes to the same realization as you do.

“It’s gonna be okay Mama,” you vainly try to reassure her but mostly yourself. “But you gotta let me go,” you sob, wanting to do anything but. And you have to leave her crying in the home she made for you.

You find him leaning against the porch railing, eyes slowly opening as you move closer to him. “Yes Honeybee,” he says, cloyingly sweet, as he wraps an arm around your shoulders.

“Elvis…please… just-just take me home,” you whisper, burying your face into his chest.

“Course sweetheart, anythin’ for you,” he says, and you shudder knowing he means it. You walk away from the porch and you breathe a sigh of relief as he drops the cigar into the dirt and stamps it out. “I really oughta quit anyway,” he says. “Heard it’s bad for the baby.”

“What?” you say, your blood turning to ice hearing that.

“Ain’t it like magic Honeybee?” he sighs as you both get in the backseat of Jerry’s car, the owner of which is pointedly not looking at either of you. Elvis pays no mind to it, instead absentmindedly rubbing your lower belly back and forth. “You plant somethin’ so small, and it’ll grow up to be somethin’ else,” he sighs in contentment, and you close your eyes to yet another revelation that is coming far too late.

“But… but… you said, that it only happens when you’re married,” you say, though your spirit has long since been defeated.

“Don’tchu worry none ‘bout that sweetheart,” he dismisses. “We are gonna get married real soon, and ain’t no one gonna be the wiser.”

There’s something so final in that revelation that you are now forever tied to him not by your own choices, but by his. He chose you.

He knew what he was doing and he knew you didn’t.

Looking back you don’t think there was ever anything within your control. What’s worse is that a part of you wishes you had never gone into his office today and could have lived blissfully, unburdened with the knowledge of what he was willing to do to get you.

You love him, which makes this betrayal feel all the worse. You glance to the side to see the fields of flowers you’re leaving behind, as he slowly slips a ring on your finger. Now he’s not even gonna pretend that you have a choice in the matter, you are going to marry him because he said so.

With his hand in yours you feel as the car transitions from the dirt road to the paved one that will take you far away from your home.

You close your eyes and you don’t look back.

Alternate Summary: In which Elvis sees himself as a triumphant Orpheus when he’s actually a victorious Hades.

Taglist

@venus-haze @djsjs13949 @ilovehobi101 @butlerslut @richardslady121 @giabelia @sydneyyyya @meetme0614 @tacozebra051 @myradiaz @thelifes-world @maythesunshineagain @rakitirakiti @lostteenagetale @j-v-9-2 @eliseinmemphis @dkayfixates @immi547 @thatbanditqueen @marriedtoeddie @cuteejeno @itlover8000 @isthlsfate @mgparker @thatbanditqueen @softsatnin @literally-just-elvis-fics

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iamgodsoopsie · 4 months

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Astarion Headcanons (that you probably won't like) Pt. 2:

Part 1 link

Part 3 link

More Astarion headcanons! (that are mostly me projecting but with an Astarion flavored twist.)

BG3 does an excellent job at depicting SA trauma and the beginning of the healing process/journey. Many of the headcanons I've seen floating around (intentionally or unintentionally) gloss over the uglier side of healing from (prolonged) trauma. I'm not judging anyone for magically healing him, he's fictional after all, but I'd like to make some more ...realistic... headcanons.

Disclaimer: Everyone's healing process looks different, but they tend share commonalities. These headcanons are based on my own experiences. Not everyone who is healing from their trauma will experience what I have or have experienced it like I have.

[Please don't message me with explicit details about your trauma. I am at the point in my healing journey where I can share my experiences, and commiserate with other's similar experiences, but I am unable to support others in a more personal manner at this time. I wish you the best of luck in your healing process/ journey.]

Spoiler warning

Mental illness, SA, & DV Trigger Warnings: I cannot stress these enough this post is much more descriptive and potentially triggering than part one was.

These headcanons are based on an Astarion who is still a spawn and romantically involved with a Tav who honestly loves him and isn't abusive or manipulative. Also Cazador is dead and Astarion got to stab him. They also assume that he himself does not turn into Cazador 2.0 or Wish.com Cazador.

I hope you're ready for abrupt mood swings.

--- One minute he's codependent and can't make a decision on his own because he's overwhelmed, the next he's hyper-independent and will take offense at any suggestion you make.

----- Astarion is aware that staying in either of the two extremes is unhealthy and would eventually lead him to acting like Cazador.

^ This ties into point two: You need walk the fine line between patient and understanding while he processes "200 years of Shit. PURE SHIT!". And at the same time you need to be firm in your own boundaries with how you allow him to treat you.

--- He's gone 200 years without autonomy and has no memory of what life was like before Cazador turned him. He has no frame of reference other than romance novels and watching couples interact with each other from afar.

-----TBH the best thing for him is to stay in regular contact with Halsin. The man has the same flavor as trauma as Astarion while also having strong boundaries and open honest/ healthy communication in his relationships. He can unjudgementally help Astarion navigate the pitfalls of his healing journey through first hand experience.

Plus Ultra Catholic levels of guilt.

--- Guilt for what he did while he was a spawn. Guilt for how he started his relationship with you (even after you've told him you forgive him multiple times). Guilt for how he lashes out at the one person who has shown him unconditional love (you). Guilt because he feels like he's dragging you down into his darkness and tainting you. Guilt because he fears he's pulling you down to bring himself up. Guilt for feeling guilty because it doesn't absolve him of his sins and makes healing harder.

Self-esteem issues

--- He was SA'd for 200 years, he was forced into prostitution, he was tortured in every conceivable way, he was made to do reprehensible things and learned to find "joy" in them because he would've lost all of himself and his humanity otherwise.

------ His inner saboteur (who sounds like Cazador and himself simultaneously- adding to his self hate) tells him that he is disgusting, wrong, filthy, a burden, unlovable, undeserving of happiness, a monster.

------- Like everything else these thoughts will become less frequent and easier for him to handle as time goes on. All you can do is love him while he self-flagellates and hates himself. One day he'll see himself as you see him.

^ Tying into all the points above, especially the one right before this one. You're going to feel useless. Most of the time all you can do is demonstrate your love for him and sit there with him while he is bombarded with years of repressed feelings forcing their way out.

--- In the beginning your attempts to help him will frequently seem to have the opposite of their intended effect.

----- It's important that you be honest with him about how you're doing mentally. It does him no favors if you set yourself on fire to keep him warm.

------- You'll be angry on his behalf and can't exact revenge.

--------- That being said you are helping him so much more than you think you are. I cannot express in words how much just being there while Astarion slogs through the painful process of healing will help him.

^ ALL of these will get less intense and easier to deal with in time. He will heal and move on from his horrid past. But, it will involve a lot of trial and error. He will have periods of exponential growth followed by a hard backslide in progress. But he will get there.

I wouldn't say that loving Astarion is hard, but it does involve conscious effort on both his and your parts.

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thetardigrape · 6 months

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Ed and Izzy are Backward

I've been thinking a lot about why S2 of OFMD isn't satisfying, and I think a major part of it is Ed and Izzy's arcs. In short, they're the reverse of what should have been.

Meta with spoilers under the cut.

Ed's deep fear is that he is unlovable. That he is a monster incapable of being loved. This isn't something we only learn in S2, it's set up halfway through S1 in the bathtub scene and then continually reinforced.

Izzy's deep issue is that he thinks there is only one way to succeed as a man/pirate: be scary. Be the scariest, meanest guy around. His issue is compounded by the big problem of him not being that.

Ed's abuse of the crew is a trauma response. It arises from his fear of being unlovable getting kicked into high gear by Stede leaving and then tipping right over into A Real Fucking Problem when Izzy threatens him.

Izzy's abuse of the crew is a character flaw. He sees himself as better than them, and treats the badly because he views that as the only Right Way to Be A Pirate/Man.

Yet Izzy is given unconditional love and acceptance by the crew without ever apologizing for his behavior, while Ed is made to degrade himself for their forgiveness. Ed is cast into the role of Problematic Community Member Who Doesn't Actually Apologize, even though it's not set up that he's treating his crew like shit because he thinks that's how the world works. Again, that person is Izzy.

And then Izzy on his deathbed tells Ed he has a family and the crew love him, even though we've seen absolutely no evidence of that all season. The crew exiled him, and seem to have let him back only conditionally and at Stede's behest. That's not love, that's grudging acceptance.

Imagine, instead, a season in which the crew recognize that something is really wrong with Ed, and reach out to him despite him treating them badly. Imagine him learning that he's lovable, not just by one person who broke his heart, but by an entire crew who care about him at his worst moments. Imagine Ed receiving the grace extended to Izzy, and being healed by it without needing everything good in his life to come from Stede.

Imagine Izzy realizing that the way he viewed the world isn't actually how it works. Imagine Kraken Ed actually being worse at piracy because he's too depressed to think or plan or care when things go wrong. Imagine Izzy's moment of clarity coming not because Ed was too scary but because Izzy learned that being a miserable angry cunt actually makes it difficult to be successful at anything. Imagine Izzy apologizing to Ed for treating him badly without having to die about it. Imagine that being a factor in Ed's healing, understanding that Izzy loves him even if he does it in a fucked up, broken way, and loving him back. Imagine Izzy realizing that Ed's softness is important to his success the same way Auntie realizes it about ZYS, and in so doing understanding why Ed needs Stede.

One character needed acceptance and compassion and the knowledge that he was loved, and one character needed to learn that other people's feelings matter and that forgiveness isn't given until you show you've changed. The show just fumbled which was which.

#ofmd #ofmd s2 #izzy hands #blackbeard #ed teach #ofmd meta

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imagionationstation · 4 months

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What’s your opinion on people who think 2012 raph is an abusive bully? I think personally they are only children and it shows. People with siblings see this as normal.

I think that people with an opinion on any type of Hamato abuse in the show either haven’t done proper research on the show, they have a rough family life that twists it, or they don’t have siblings.

Since you opened the door for me to get ranty, Imma be a little ranty about more than simple TMNT data.

Now, some people DO have siblings and see this show as abusive, but that’s because of a number of other reasons.

The biggest problem, to me, is the fandom itself.

Let me explain:

You go outside for the first time. When you ask what color the grass is, your entire neighborhood says, “orange.” You accept this as correct, and now you would see all grass as orange. You could hear this for weeks before leaving the neighborhood. At the store, someone tells you, “Actually, it’s green, and here’s why.”

And here you hesitate.

Because wouldn’t that mean your neighbors are wrong? After they all believe it? Everyone says grass is orange. How dare this person say otherwise. You aren’t stupid. You know grass is orange. They’re attacking you and your neighbors. Why would you listen to them?

Likely, you wouldn’t believe them. You’d be more inclined to assume that what you always hear is correct. You would continue to spread what everyone says because it’s what you heard.

This is similar to how people see Mikey. 2012TMNT seasons and certain episodes were hard for me to find when I started looking for the show. Many people rely on the fandom more than show for opinions on it. Negative clips get taken out of context and the favorite moments like Parasitica are blown up until it’s all the fandom can see. I’ve spoken to people who write fanfics about the show, but haven’t seen past the second season.

They rely on the fandom to write, so if the fandom and their friends preaches that Mikey is abused and Raph is the abuser, why would they believe otherwise?

(It’s funny, how Mikey has been ‘abused’ by Raph for years, and yet, he never hesitates to do all of the things that will tick his brother off. He does not waste a moment pushing the buttons of the one person that he ‘fears’ more than anyone else, and turns to his ‘abuser’ before any of his other family members when he’s upset and looking for comfort. Even more interesting, is that the ‘abuser’ will not hesitate to help and comfort the brother that he ‘takes pride in hurting’.)

Everyone who has talked bad about the show has had strings for me to pull at. Not one “Mikey is abused” fan has made a solid argument as to why Mikey feels unloved and unwanted. When they talk about Raph, they often default to- well, Raph is mean to Mikey and that makes him upset. But he doesn’t stand up for himself, so he must be depressed and sad and I’m depressed that my life is bad so if you say he’s not than you’re attacking me. (True story)

It’s exhausting. I don’t like these kind of arguements. Because there’s a different between me saying that a character who is not you and does not share your exact thoughts and feels as well as not knowing the trauma of your home life is not depressed and me saying you are not depressed. Me saying a character is not depressed does not make your feelings any less real.

It just means that the character that I am analyzing from a show that has nothing to do with you in its creation isn’t depressed.

As well as saying that the character that I am analyzing from a show that has nothing to do with you in its creation isn’t abused.

Maybe it isn’t that Mikey doesn’t stand up for himself. (He does.)

Maybe, more often than not, there’s nothing to stand up to.

And, no, I’m not saying you can’t headcanon Mikey as depressed. Or convince the fandom that he’s abused.

I’m saying that if you truly believe that he is, you better be able to give me a cohesive debate and plenty of picture proof that he feels unloved and unwanted or has any depression symptoms laced through the show. And you should also be ready to have me attack that with my own opinion to defend my beliefs.

I have nothing against someone who says Raph is abusive. I’m sure they have their reasons and I’m sympathetic to the trauma and respect whatever reasoning that they give.

I respect them and their right to opinion. I have nothing against that person. I’m not against any person.

I’m against, to quote 2018Leon, “Everything you stand for.”

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heckinconfusedparade · 1 year

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ok wachowski family angst idea

so we know sonic has been with tom and maddie the longest and has spent more time with Tom especially, so he seems like toms favourite

and at the end of the second film maddie says something like “I like sonics new friends, especially the red one” so it seems like knuckles is her favourite

what about tails feeling a bit left out because he thinks his parents like knuckles and sonic better? Sorry if this is worded weirdly I’ve had the idea for a while 😭

Absolutely heartbreaking idea. Let’s do it.

After writing: I got sidetracked. This has become Tails’ origin story. Ended up back on track tho!

(CW: Tails is depressed, mentions of Child Abandonment, mentions of verbal Child abuse, abusive dad mention, mention of parental death.)

How Tails Came To Be

Tails grew up unloved. Everything was a reminder that nobody would ever love someone like him. He's different, and different is bad. His parents threw him away and his caretakers only ever gave him bare minimum, making sure he was fed, clothed, and bathed. He never knew a happy healthy home.

Tails proved them wrong. He found people who loved him for who he is. But sometimes.. those demons come back swinging. He's never felt peace on the inside. There's always been a dark raincloud filling his mind. He always feels a sense of doubt about himself and others.

So whenever he sees Sonic or Knuckles getting more attention than usual, he feels left out. He knows they love him, but his stupid head keeps telling him otherwise. He's never been "good" at communication anyways. He was never taught.

He knows in his heart there's no favourites, but sometimes it feels that way. Tom and Sonic are always hanging out together, and Maddie is always doing yoga with Knuckles. He doesn't have a thing with his parents. The things he enjoys are things that only he can do.

One night he becomes overwhelmed. He sees everyone doing something. Everyone is having fun. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know how to join. All he has to do is ask, but why won't he? Tails finds himself unable to speak up. He retreats to his room and crawls into bed despite it being in the middle of the day. He grabs a notebook from under his mattress. It's both his diary and planning journal. He begins to write about how he feels:

"I hate my head sometimes. I'm always told that I'm super smart, but then why does my head say such dumb things? I feel left behind sometimes. I don't know if it's actually something I deserve. I don't think they're doing it on purpose. 3 kids is a lot. They love me, but I sometimes feel smaller, more than just literally. I feel like it's selfish of me to want more when I already have so much. Love is a privilege. Attention is a privilege. That is what I was taught growing up. I had to earn it, but what more can I do? I want to spend more time with Mom and Dad but I don't know how to ask. Not only alone time because I want Sonic and Knuckles there too. Loneliness doesn't feel nice."

He wipes his tears from his eyes. Tails then hears the click clacks of Ozzy bounding up the stairs. The golden retriever jumps up onto Tails' bed and knocks his notebook from his hands to get closer. Tails giggles tearfully as he gets those slobbery puppy kisses. He puts no real effort into pushing the pup away, "Ozzyyy gross, stop with the kisses!-" he giggles.

Tails hears Sonic coming up. He trained himself to recognize peoples footsteps since the orphanage didn't appreciate his hobby of inventing. Tails quickly hides his book, blows his nose and wipes away his tears. Sonic smiles seeing his little brother "oh there you are! Dad wanted to know if you wanted to play Mario Kart."

"In a bit. I'm in the middle of something." Tails feels his eyes failing him. He wants to cry, and forcing himself not to isn't helping. Sonic knows. He's done it too. He immediately goes to his brother "hey, hey what's wrong? What happened, Tails?" Sonic sits with Tails. Ozzy ceases his kisses and instead lays his head on Tails' lap. Tails doesn't respond to Sonic, but he pets Ozzy. That helps him calm down a bit. Sonic leans slightly on Tails "Just havin' a bad day?" Tails nods. Sonic feels like he's being partially lied to, but if Tails doesn't want to talk about it, he won't push him. Tails leans back on Sonic. The two sit in silence for a little, Sonic passing Tails tissues to clean himself up.

Then Tom appears. "Hey, what happened to asking Ta-" Tom notices the scene in front of him. Tom goes right to his boys, "Hey, buddy, what's wrong?"

"Bad...bad day.." Tails sniffles. Tom looks at Sonic, then back at Tails "Tails, I feel like you're not telling me the complete truth. If you don't want to talk about it right now, that's fine, but I'd like to know what's making you upset."

"I'm tellin the truth.."

"Ok, I'll believe you." Tom is a sheriff. He has studied extensively on how to detect lies. Tails is having tells.

Tails feels guilty. He hates lying. He wants to rip off the bandage, but he doesn't want to hurt anybody...but he knows Sonic will understand loneliness.

Tails takes a breath "I feel... lonely."

Tom looks a little confused "Why? You have us."

"Not that kind of loneliness," Tails continues "I'm surrounded by people all the time, but still... I-I feel like I'm alone."

Sonic's heart breaks. That feeling was crushing for him, and he hates to imagine what it's doing to Tails. "I get it." Sonic says, "It's not fun, is it?"

Tails shakes his head no.

Knuckles and Maddie come up. They had a gut feeling. They see Tails is sad and they go right to him and ask what's wrong. Tails feels himself getting overwhelmed again. His ears pin back. Sonic motions for Knuckles and Maddie to give Tails a little bit of space.

Tails feels he can no longer speak for himself, so he's going to finally let his notebook do the speaking. He takes it out and opens it to what he wrote only minutes before. His tears haven't even dried on the page yet.

Maddie is the first to read. She passes the notebook to Tom then sweeps her son up into a tight hug. Tails clings to her.

"Tails, honey... I'm so sorry. I didn't know you felt that way." Maddie begins to tear up herself. She feels horrible. Tom soon joins the hug feeling the same way. They feel absolutely awful.

Knuckles and Sonic read together. They have a sinking feeling. They had their suspicions for a while that Tails was not telling them the complete story about his past. The way he jumped at loud sounds, or shielded himself if someone came at him a little too quickly was something they all had noticed, but never knew how to address.

Knuckles gulps and clears his throat “Tails.. who told you that love and attention was a privilege?”

Tails sniffles “…. My old teacher, my caretakers, and my.. biological dad. My dad was the only one to say it outright, though..”

“What?” Maddie says softly in disbelief. Tails has never mentioned his biological parents, so everyone just assumed he never really met them.

Tails gets this thousand yard stare, recalling memories that have been buried in time. Tails says “I can’t remember his face.. but I remember his voice. He repeated a lot of things. I remember how he yelled in my face whenever I made a mistake, or when I dared to exist in his presence on a bad day. I remember one time I asked him if he loved me, and he said that he would never love a brat like me. He said that any love and attention is a privilege I had to earn. Mom.. didn’t do anything. She let it happen. I can’t remember her face either, but I remember feeling angry whenever she gave me a pitiful look.”

His family feel their hearts shatter for him.

“Weren’t you in an orphanage?” Tom asks, hoping that’s not the wrong thing to say.

Tails doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. His blue eyes continue to stare off into space, and his facial expression is plain. No emotion anywhere on him. He says “I was. Not because I was an orphan, but because they threw me away. I remember.. when I was almost 4..mom woke me up and told me that I was going somewhere. She said I was going to daycare, and that they’d take care of me there. I remember not knowing what it was, but she made it sound fun. Mom and Dad didn’t say anything when they left me. I waited for them. It took one of my caretakers yelling that nobody is coming back for me to realize the reality of the situation… one day they just walked up to me in the middle of eating cold oatmeal that mom died. I didn’t feel anything. I don’t remember how I reacted, but the caretaker got mad at me and told me I was a heartless freak. How was I supposed to react? I don’t know if she loved me. She never tucked me in at night, never defended me, never hugged me, never ever, did she even not once told me that love me. All she did.. was look at me with pity. She never looked at me like I was her son, she looked at me like a helpless creature that would soon waste away.”

Tails’ words linger in the air and repeat like a broken record on everyone’s minds.

“Tails-“ Sonic starts,

Tails snaps out of his trance and takes a deep breath, “I’m ok. I’m fine. Things got better. Thank you. Im sorry.”

“Why are you saying sorry?” Tom asks, “there’s nothing to be sorry about… and thank you for telling us this. Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

Tails thinks for a moment, then sighs and hangs his head “I dunno.. I don’t wanna talk about it anymore. We’re off topic.” Tails says sternly.

Maddie presses her cheek against the side of his head as she holds him close, “we can talk about it later, and maybe find someone who can help you.”

A smile finally returns to Tails’ face.

“Now…” Maddie starts “..Tails. Have you ever felt like Dad and I play favourites?”

Tails doesn’t respond. His lack of response destroys his parents.

Sonic and Knuckles feel like they took their parents away from Tails.

“We’re so sorry, Tails.. neither of us meant to do that. There’s no excuse for it, and you don’t deserve to be left out in any way.” Tom embraces his son and his wife, “There’s no such thing as favourites in this family. We love you boys equally.”

Tails stays silent. He nods to show he was listening.

“Let’s fix it together,” Maddie suggests, “as a family, ok?”

“Ok..” Tails mutters. “I’m sorry, I believe you, I’m just really.. like, part of me is still in disbelief that I actually managed to find someone who loved me, and that I got adopted into a real family who loves me. And.. I’m really thankful.”

Sonic goes in front of Tails and crouches down in front of him “we’re happy you’re here.”

Knuckles joins Sonic’s side and says “we are deeply sorry for allowing you to feel left out.” Knuckles places a hand over his heart “I swear on my honour to never let it happen again.”

Tails snickers. He finds it a little goofy. His parents let him go so the brothers can have a turn hugging the life out of that little fox.

“Thank you.. really.” Tails says to his brothers. “…and yes, I would like to play Mario Kart.”

Sonic laughs a little “cool, but let’s stay like this for a little longer, ok, baby bro?”

Tails has no complaints.

Tom wraps his arm around Maddie. They do love their boys, and it’s moments like these that remind them they’re doing a good job. However, they still feel like they failed Tails, and wish to make it up to him one day.

Soon, everyone stands up.

Sonic and Tails race down the stairs.

Tails yells “I call dibs on Luigi!!”

Sonic responds “you always pick Luigi!”

“He speaks to me!”

Knuckles let’s out an amused “hm.” Before turning to face his parents, “Mother, we must find a yoga mat for the fox.”

Maddie smiles “let’s make sure he actually wants to do yoga, then we’ll look for one, ok?”

“Alright. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am about to beat my brothers in a game of Karting.”

“Good luck.” Tom says “we’ll be down soon.”

Knuckles nods and goes to join his brothers.

Tom and Maddie had a long talk. Things must change. They’re going to work on including all 3 of the boys in everything.

They also discuss getting Tails a therapist, and maybe the other two boys one too.

Cause they need it.

#tails angst #sonic the hedgehog #sonic the hedghog movie #sonic 2 #miles tails prower #tails the fox #movie tails #tails wachowski #sonic #knuckles the echidna #movie sonic #movie knuckles #tom wachowski #maddie wachowski #sonic wachowski #knuckles wachowski #ozzie the dog #ozzy the dog

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disturbedbydesign · 2 years

Text

Special Girl - Part 2

Summary: You arrived at Harvard as a shy, nerdy girl. You never thought a guy like Lloyd Hansen would notice you. But Lloyd saw you—really saw you—and for a time you became his special girl. Now, years later, you’re stuck in a sexless marriage. Unloved and unfucked for months, you’ve decided enough is enough. The fact that Lloyd has been keeping tabs on you for years has nothing to do with it… or does it?

Pairing: Lloyd Hansen x Reader

Word Count: 6K

Warnings: DUBCON (alcohol use/manipulation); INCREDIBLY unsafe/unhealthy/deadass wrong BDSM practices (Lloyd doesn’t do safewords or aftercare); plus-sized reader/fatphobia; cheating; degradation; bondage, spanking/whipping, gagging; knife kink; blood kink; CNC roleplay; gunplay; rough oral (m receiving); explicit sex (O,V,A); unprotected sex (Lloyd doesn’t wear condoms, ok?); unwanted pregnancies/abortion; physical intimidation/abuse; general toxicity; Lloyd is a psycho and he’s fucking mean—Dead Dove Do Not Eat! 18+ only, no minors.

Series Masterlist

Part Two

You let Harrison play with his Switch on the drive home because you need to think. You never thought you’d see Lloyd again, much less feel his body and his lips pressed against you. Now that you have, you’re right back in that place again—you’re that clueless 18-year-old, desperate and needy and following him around like a stray dog hungry for even the smallest of table scraps. And that’s what he’s always thrown you—just enough to sate the hunger but never enough to eradicate it. You’ve never stopped being hungry for him, though, not for one hour of one day since the first time he touched you. It made you feel desperate then; it makes you feel daring now.

When you get home, you decide you won’t be cooking dinner. Tonight, you’re ordering pizza and opening a bottle of your favorite red. You’re celebrating because you know that Michael won’t want to fuck you tonight, that D-day will come and go without even a hint of intimacy, but you don’t care anymore. You don’t want Michael to fuck you, you want Lloyd to fuck you, and you’re finally willing to admit that it’s always been that way. So, yeah, you’re celebrating, because you’re ready to move on from this half-life you're living.

Of course, you don’t hold any delusions about Lloyd: he’ll fuck the life out of you on Friday night and maybe through the weekend, and then he’ll go off the grid for god knows how long. He didn’t show up to steal you away from Michael so he can have you for himself. He didn’t show up to claim Harrison and play happy family. He showed up to remind you who you belong to, who you’ve always belonged to, and how stupid you are for forgetting.

You’re mine, Porkchop. Your body, your heart, your fucking soul—it’s all mine, and I’ll take it whenever the fuck I want it.

You can hear him saying it like he’s right next to you, and if you’d listened to him seven years ago, you could have saved yourself a lot of heartache. He’d told you not to marry Michael. He knew then. He’s always known what you wanted—what you needed—even when you didn’t.

But a part of you can’t help but wonder if maybe something has changed. Why would he still be watching you all these years later and why would he show up now, the very day he knows you’re deciding whether or not to end your marriage? He’d seemed almost giddy at the idea of you going unfucked for so long, ready to give up on the “spineless loser” you’d decided (against his strongly worded advice) to marry. Is it possible that Lloyd Hansen actually cares? That he has feelings? Are you really stupid enough to believe that he might actually, finally be willing to love you back?

Apparently, yes, you are. Because you still love him. You fucking hate him for everything he’s done to you, but you love him and you need him and you always have. You’d long ago disabused yourself of the notion that Lloyd Hansen is capable of love, and yet here you are still clinging to the hope that he’s not really pure evil—that he only acts like a sociopath because of some deep-seated childhood trauma he’s refused to unpack, that he likes to hurt people because he’s hurting. Here you are yet again, all these years past 18, telling yourself that there’s hope for him, thinking to yourself: I can fix him.

But you decide you’ll still give Michael one last chance, if only to cement your decision to leave. It’s a late one for him at the office—there have been more and more of those lately—so it gives you time to freshen yourself up and put on a Suzy Homemaker dress and fix him a hot dinner. It’s easy enough to put Harrison to bed, exhausted as he is from practice, and once you hear him snoozing away, you return to the kitchen and pour yourself another glass of wine and you wait.

Michael walks through the door at 8:30, tossing his briefcase down by the door with a deep sigh. As he toes off his shoes, you approach him to take his coat and hang it in the closet.

“Bad day?” you ask.

“More of the same,” he replies, and then it seems he suddenly notices you—sees you—along with the table set with candles and the glass of wine poured and ready for him. “You look nice. This is… unexpected. What’s the occasion?”

“Do I have to have a reason? I just know how hard you’ve been working lately. I wanted to do something nice for you. I made you a ribeye and those potatoes you like.”

Michael looks at you and there’s something strange in his eyes—some odd mixture of remorse and anxiety. “I, uh, thanks,” he says. “You really do look beautiful.”

You smile as you take his hand and guide him to the table, and you sit down next to him and pick up your glass. “To my hardworking husband,” you say.

Michael winces a bit before clinking glasses and taking a large sip of his wine.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask. “It’s ok if you don’t.”

Michael sighs as he cuts into his steak—a perfect medium, just how he likes it. “I’ve just got this client that’s been nothing but trouble since the start,” he says. “I can’t get into details, but you know that.”

“I’m sure you’re doing your best,” you tell him.

“I’m not sure my best is good enough in this particular case, but yes—I’m trying.”

You catch Michael up on the latest Harrison news, leaving out all the parts that he might find troubling (which is most of it), and when he’s done with his dinner, you clear his plate.

“Let me get the dishes,” he says. “You cooked.”

“Leave them. Come sit with me.”

You lead Michael into the living room where the fire is blazing and you sit next to him on the couch.

“You look so tense, baby,” you say, and you can’t remember the last time you called him that. “Is there anything I can do to help you… relax?” You run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and he shivers. “Maybe a massage or… something else?”

“Honey,” he says, leaning his head back into your touch, “I don’t know if-”

“Shh.” You press your finger to his lips. “Just let me make you feel better.”

You stand up and position yourself between his legs, kneeing them open wider before dropping to the floor in front of him.

“Honey, really, I can’t. I-”

“Yes,” you purr, “you can.”

You run your hand over the crotch of his pants and you feel nothing at all stirring below, but that’s not atypical for him so you reach around and unzip your dress, letting the top half fall to your waist, exposing your bare breasts. He’s got his eyes squeezed shut and his hands clenched into fists at his side, but the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes heavily keeps you going. You make short work of his belt buckle and the button and zipper of his pants, but when you reach inside his boxers you feel him flaccid in your hand. You’re starting to get frustrated, but you pull him out and start to stroke him anyway, telling him, “Just relax, baby. I’ll take care of you,” and when you feel him start to harden slightly in your hand, he finally looks at you.

“Please, honey. We can’t. I… oh, fuck.”

You take him half-hard in your mouth and his hips jerk off the couch as he curses again. You suck him hard until you feel the blood pumping under your tongue and he’s finally at full mast, and when you take him swiftly down your throat, he whimpers and his thighs start to shake.

“Fuck. Fuck. Honey, please. You have to stop. We can’t. Ohhhh fuck.”

You moan onto his cock and he starts moving his hips a bit, fucking into your mouth gently as he moans your name, but he keeps saying “No, please no,” and the mixed signals are confusing the hell out of you. When you look up at him with your best blowjob eyes, you see that he’s crying and you push off of him, horrified.

“What the fuck, Michael?” you snap.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just… I can’t do this with you.”

“What the fuck do you mean you can’t do this with me? Who the fuck are you doing it with?”

“No one,” he says. “I didn’t mean it like that… it’s just… I just… I can’t.”

“Why?” you yell, not caring if you wake Harrison because you know now this is going nowhere—that it’s all over. Now all you need are some fucking answers. “Why don’t you want me anymore, Michael? What the fuck is so wrong with me you can’t even bear to get your dick sucked? You haven’t touched me for months. I’m your wife and you won’t fuck me. You barely even kiss me anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, sobbing as he tucks himself back into his pants. “I…” He looks at you and he looks so fucking scared but he’s also angry—angrier than you’ve maybe ever seen him. “Fuck, I just… I don’t want you anymore, ok? I’m bored of you and I don’t want to fuck you and you’re too goddamn stupid to take a hint.”

You feel like you’ve been slapped across the face, and you would have preferred a slap (or a punch or a kick or a knife slicing through you) to those words coming out of Michael’s mouth. You’ve heard them before. The tears fall even though you know he doesn’t deserve them.

“That’s it,” you say, your voice oddly calm given the storm thrashing inside you. “I’m done. We’re done. You can sleep on the couch tonight but I want you out tomorrow. I don’t give a fuck where you go.”

Michael hangs his head and stares at the floor. “I understand,” he says. “I’ll go tonight. Just tell Harrison I… fuck, I don’t know… I’m on a business trip or something.”

“Fine,” you say. “Just get out.”

You sit on the couch, finishing the bottle of pinot as Michael packs his bags. You stare at your reflection in the bay window, completely numb as Michael mumbles his feeble goodbye. You hear his car starting and rumbling out of the driveway and you feel nothing—you’re not sad, you’re not even angry anymore. Because it was always going to end today, one way or another. He was never going to want you enough to make you stay, even before Lloyd popped back into the picture. At least now you know—you heard it from Michael’s own lips: he doesn’t want you anymore.

And now you’re free.

***

The weeks after The Game were a blur. You spent your Thanksgiving break in a daze, trying to act normal around your family when you felt anything but. You didn’t exactly regret what happened with Lloyd, but you knew you’d been taken advantage of and you’d never felt more ashamed—because you liked it, you weren’t sorry it happened, and you wanted it to happen again. You told Shay about your night with Lloyd but you fudged the details a bit, telling her that you just made out with him a little upstairs but that it didn’t go any further than that. You knew if you told her the whole truth she wouldn’t get it. She’d see him as a predator and you as his prey, and while she might have been right about that to some extent, you knew she’d never understand the truth: that you were his willing victim.

When you got back from break, you found yourself making any excuse to walk past the Phoenix, hoping to catch him coming or going, but you never did. You felt like a stalker trying to find out what house he lived in and what classes he was taking from Maddie, but she took pity on you and told you the little information she knew about Lloyd (even though she doubled down on her warning to stay as far away from him as possible). He was in Dunster House with a bunch of the football guys so you started taking walks along the Charles even though the brisk fall air was quickly turning to a bone-rattling winter chill. He was concentrating in psychology so you lurked around the psych building. Try as you might to “accidentally” stumble across Lloyd Hansen, he was like a ghost, physically absent but haunting your every waking thought (and oftentimes your dreams, too).

“I don’t understand why you don’t just go to the next Phoenix party,” Shay said as you walked from the coffee shop to your next class. “I mean, you know he’ll be there, and you’re already basically stalking him.”

“I don’t want to go back there,” you told her, but that wasn’t entirely true.

You did want to go back there, you just didin’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how desperate you were. You wanted to just so happen to run into him around campus and see what happened from there, not show up at his doorstep like a starving puppy. But then another Lloyd-less week went by, and that’s exactly what you did.

You went a little less slutty this time, wearing a turtleneck and a pencil skirt that hugged your ample curves. It was tasteful but still showed off the body you’d always tried to hide—the body he’d seemed so enamored of, though a part of you still believed it was all a cruel joke. And even if it wasn’t, he’d made it clear to you that you and your body were to be coveted only in secret. Still, you dressed yourself up and made yourself up and you headed to the Phoenix Club with Shay on the last Saturday night before fall term exams. It was a more lowkey affair than the Game Day celebrations, but it was still pretty crazy by your standards. You were slightly more confident as you approached the door, and the same guy was there screening potential party goers. He smiled at Shay and then, a bit more darkly, at you.

“I was wondering if we’d see you again,” he said, giving you a once over. “Come on in. Lloyd’s probably still running the beer pong table.”

You felt your cheeks flame as you walked past him and down to the basement. So they all know, you thought to yourself. What the fuck did he tell them? And why? You thought you were supposed to be a secret. You grabbed a red solo cup and handed it to the guy operating the keg, who you recognized as Maddie’s (sort-of) boyfriend, and once you had a cold beer in your hand you chugged half of it to ease your nerves.

“Slow down there, champ,” Shay said. “We’ve got all night. You wanna be my beer pong partner?”

“I’ve never played,” you said. “I’ll just fuck you up.”

“I don’t mind losing,” she replied. “It just means more drinks. Besides, it’s fun. You might have some beginner’s luck.”

Shay, always fearless, elbowed her way past the crowd surrounding the beer pong table and you followed behind her, apologizing to the people she’d shoved past. When you got to the keeper of the list, you saw that there must be at least 30 pairs ahead of you.

“Forget it, Shay,” you said, but then you heard him.

“They’ve got next.” Lloyd’s deep voice cut through the cacophony of music and chatter.

“What the fuck, Lloyd?” you heard some girl complain. “We’ve been waiting forever.”

“Sorry, darlin,” he said. “I made my friend over there a promise and I intend to keep it.”

Lloyd looked at you then, and you could feel his blue eyes searing through your clothes and into your skin. You were already sweating in the sweltering basement filled with body heat but now your whole body was on fire. He smiled at you and there was a bit of the devil in it, and that’s when you noticed the tall, skinny blonde girl next to him—who seemed like more than just his beer pong partner—hanging off of him with one arm around his waist and the other over his shoulder.

You were so fucking stupid. Of course he had a girlfriend. You turned around to leave but he called out your name.

“You’re with me,” he said, pointing straight at you. He turned to the girl next to him. “You need a break. You’re shitfaced and I’m sick of carrying your ass.”

“But Lloyd,” she whined.

“Go get some air, drink some fuckin water, get your shit together.”

The blonde huffed and stomped off towards the courtyard as you tentatively made your way over to Lloyd’s side of the table.

“Was wondering when you’d show up,” he said. “Thought maybe you died.”

“I’ve been around,” you replied. “Just busy, that’s all.”

“Whatever you say, Porkchop.” He reached around you to grab the stack of cups on your side of the table and gave your ass a little squeeze before he picked them up to rack them. “You any good at this game? Or, wait, let me guess—good girl like you doesn’t play drinking games.”

“I’ve never played,” you said, “but I want to learn.”

“Oh, I’ll teach you, Porkchop. I’ll teach you everything you need to know.”

To both you and Lloyd’s surprise and delight, you were surprisingly good at the game. The two of you won the first three games you played together, and the more you won, the handsier Lloyd got. You liked it, of course, but it confused you. If he didn’t want to be seen with you, why would he call you out to play with him? Why would he place his hands on your waist to steady you when you took a shot and why would he hug you tight when you emerged victorious? He was acting like you were together and it was obvious to everyone watching—especially the Phoenix guys who had gathered around the table to watch his winning streak. Of course you heard the whispered comments—words like “fatty” and “chubby chaser” tended to pierce through the all the racket and shoot straight into your ear, like they were spoken at a frequency made just for you to hear them. These were the same guys who oinked and squealed at the Game Day party, you knew—the guys who had given Lloyd shit for even looking at you—and yet here he was with you in full view of everyone, seemingly without a care in the world about it.

Maybe it was all a front, you thought. Maybe he actually liked you enough to want to be with you openly. Maybe he was grown up enough not to care what his buddies think. Lloyd sunk the final cup of your fourth winning game and you smiled up at him as he raised his fists up above his head and cheered, talking shit to the losing team who had 5 cups to chug. Lloyd turned to you and you thought for a moment he was going to kiss you, but instead he just grabbed your ass and leaned down and spoke into your ear, “Let’s go upstairs. I’ve got something else I want to teach you.”

The second Lloyd got you in the master with the door closed, he threw you against the wall and stuck his tongue down your throat. His hands were everywhere, roaming over your body and kneading your flesh like dough as he moaned into your mouth. He held you against the wall with his body and you could feel him already hard through his jeans. You grabbed onto his shoulders and squeezed, the firm muscle barely giving under your fingers, and then he pinned your arms above your head with one hand while he shoved the other up under your skirt. His mouth didn’t leave yours as he pushed your panties to the side and ran his fingers across the slick at your entrance, grunting when he felt your wet heat coat his fingertips. He slid two thick fingers inside you without warning and you gasped at the burning stretch of it.

“So fuckin wet and tight, goddamn,” he said against your neck as he pumped his fingers in and out of you. He tried to knee your legs open wider but your skirt was too tight. “Take this shit off. All of it. I wanna see you.”

He pulled his fingers out and you clenched around nothing, dazed and breathless against the wall.

“You want me to do it for you, Porkchop? I’ll fucking shred every scrap of clothes you got on to get to that sweet little pussy.”

“Don’t,” you said.

“Then hurry the fuck up. Don’t keep me waiting.”

You scrambled to get out of your clothes, first your sweater, then your tank top, then your skirt, and when you stopped at your bra and panties, Lloyd tsk tsk’d you.

“I warned you,” he said, and then he ripped your panties straight off your body. He went for your bra next but you got it off before he got a chance to ruin that, too.

“There she is,” he said, taking in the sight of you standing naked in front of him. “Get on the bed. Now.”

You walked over to the bed on wobbly legs but you weren’t fast enough for Lloyd. He grabbed your arm, spun you around, and tossed you backwards onto the mattress, watching you bounce as you hit it. He ripped his shirt over his head with one hand and shucked off his jeans, and you licked your lips at the sight of his cock through the gray boxer-briefs that left nothing to the imagination.

“You missed my dick, didn’t you? Look at you, you’re practically drooling for it. You want my cock in your mouth, Porkchop? You wanna get stuffed full of me again?”

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Beg for it,” he demanded, stroking himself through the fabric. “I wanna hear you fucking beg.”

It should have been demeaning but it wasn’t because it’s all you’d been thinking about for weeks. In your head, you’d already begged him for his dick a hundred times.

“I need your cock, Lloyd,” you whined. “Please. I wanna suck it. Wanna feel you in my throat. Wanna taste you. Please give it to me.”

“I dunno, Porkchop. Might have to do better than that.”

“Fuck, Lloyd, please give it to me? I’ll be so fucking good for you if you give it to me. I’ll do anything you want just gimme your fat fucking cock pleeeeease?”

One hand still palming himself, Lloyd snapped with the other and pointed at the ground. “Get on your knees and beg me for it like your life depends on it because it just fucking might.”

You slid off the bed and onto your knees, crawling towards him and looking up at him with needy eyes. “I need you, Lloyd. I can’t stop thinking about you. I need your cock so bad. You can do anything you want to me please just fucking give it to me. I’ll die if I don’t get it.”

“That’s my good little slut,” he said, shoving his boxer-briefs down and kicking them away. “Go ahead and take it. Take all of it. You know what to do.”

You’d been preparing for this moment. After last time, when you felt completely at a loss for what to do, you’d looked up some blowjob tips on the Internet and discovered that your performance last time must have been seriously lacking. Of course, he hadn’t really wanted you to suck his dick; he’d wanted to fuck a hole in your head, and you’d let him do it, which seemed good enough for him then, but this time you wanted to impress him. You grabbed the base of his cock and swirled your tongue around the head a few times before taking it between your lips and lapping up the precum from his slit.

“Mmm,” you said, looking up at him. “You taste so good.”

“Such a little cumslut, aren’t you?” he said, and you nodded. “Keep going.”

You dragged your tongue from the base of his cock to the tip before spitting on it and taking him in your mouth. You used your hand and your mouth together, just the way you’d read about, and your cheeks were already burning from how hard you were sucking him.

“Goddamn, Porkchop. You been practicing while you waited for me? You been sucking off other guys wishing it was my dick in your mouth?”

You shook your head no with his cock still nudging at your throat.

“Just me, then? This the only dick you want?”

You nodded.

“Goddamn right,” he said. “This mouth is mine, you got that? I see you even talking to another guy with it I’m gonna slit his fuckin throat, you hear me? You. Are. Mine.”

You nodded again, taking your hand away and preparing to take him all the way down, but before you had the chance, Lloyd grabbed your hair and pulled your head back.

“Fucking say it. I wanna hear you say it.”

“I’m yours,” you said, and oh god you fucking meant it. “I’m all yours, Lloyd.”

“That’s right. Now suck the soul out of my dick like a good little slut and maybe you’ll get a special treat tonight.”

You took him down your throat, gagging and choking on him the way you knew he liked—the way that made him curse and moan and his hips start to jerk of their own volition. You bobbed on his cock for a while, making a mess of yourself and staring up at him with wide eyes that watched him watching you with a mixture of awe and self-satisfaction and just a hint of cruelty when he grabbed your head and started to fuck your face.

“That’s it,” he said. “Take it. Just like that. Such a good little whore for me. You were made to take this dick. Do it so fuckin well.”

You were lightheaded from lack of oxygen by the time he pulled out of your throat. He bent down and grabbed you under your arms, lifting you to your feet as you coughed and choked down air and walking you back towards the bed.

“You ever been fucked, Porkchop?” he asked, and you shook your head. “Didn’t think so.” He pushed you backwards and your legs fell open for him like they had a mind of their own. “You gonna let me fuck this tight little pussy tonight? I’ll be real gentle with her, I promise.” He ran his fingers through your folds and you whimpered each time they grazed your clit, and when he pulled them into his mouth to suck them he moaned at the taste of you. “So fuckin sweet.”

Your cunt was throbbing with need for him but you didn’t know if you were ready. It’s not like you hadn’t thought about what it would be like with him, even fantasized about it and made yourself cum to the thought of it, but in the moment you were afraid. His dick was just so goddamn big and you knew that, despite his promises, Lloyd Hansen was not the type to be gentle about anything.

“Will it hurt?” you asked.

“A little,” he said, “but I know you’ll like it. You know how I know?”

“How?” you asked.

“Because you’re special, Porkchop.”

He crawled up onto the bed and hovered over you, dragging his teeth down your neck to your shoulder and biting the spot where the two met. He bit you hard and you hissed, but fuck it felt good and you wanted him to do it again—to leave his marks all over your body, inside and out.

“Do it,” you whispered. “Fuck me, Lloyd. I want you to.”

“I know you do,” he said. “I could smell it on you the second you walked through the door tonight. Your little cunt is so fucking ripe and ready for me, but I’ll be nice and make you cum first. You wanna know why?”

“Because I’m special?” you asked.

“That’s right,” he replied. “You’re my good little slut and you get to cum before I fuck you.”

Lloyd kissed his way down your body—hungry, open-mouthed kisses with tongue and teeth that left marks on your breasts and your tummy and your hips. When he got to your thighs, he grew ravenous, his big hands squeezing your flesh with a bruising pressure as he took a mouthful of your upper thigh in his mouth and bit down hard.

“Fuck,” you cried out, and he just laughed.

“You like it,” he said—it wasn’t a question, and he was right.

He gave the other side a matching bite mark and you bit your bottom lip bloody as you clenched around nothing.

“First,” he said, “I’m gonna stretch you out with my fingers. Then, I’m gonna eat this sweet cunt until you’re shaking and gushing on my face. And then, Porkchop, then I’m gonna teach your tight little pussy how to take this dick. You ready?”

You weren’t. You never could have been ready for what he was about to do to you. He fucked you with his fingers—one, then two, then three, then four with his thumb on your clit and his teeth breaking the skin on your thigh. He lapped up the blood as you came, and when he kissed you after you could taste the coppery tang of it. He ate you out like it was his last meal, your legs pushed as far back as he could get them so he could get his tongue into your ass, too. That made you squeal, and he laughed against your flesh as you squirmed under him. You couldn’t have gotten away if you wanted to, though. He was holding you down with just one arm across your waist but he was fucking strong and you knew it.

You didn’t want to get away, though. You wanted everything he had to give you, and when you came on his tongue you grabbed two fistfuls of his hair and you pulled it hard as you cried out, “Oh, fuck. Fuck me, Lloyd. Please fuck me.”

“You ready for it?” he asked.

“Yes. God. Please,” you replied, though you didn’t yet know what you were begging for.

“I don’t have a condom,” he said, “but I’ll pull out. Do you trust me, Porkchop?”

You always did and you never should have.

Even at 18 you knew better than to have sex without a condom but he’d brought you right to the edge and you were fucking aching for him and he knew it. He could have stopped, run downstairs and grabbed a condom from one of the million college kids down there who had one, but he knew you’d let him fuck you raw the second he got you upstairs. Maybe he even knew that first night. You weren’t thinking straight, already cockdrunk and he hadn’t even stuck it in you yet. From the very first time you met him, and every single time after that, Lloyd Hansen could always get exactly what he wanted from you. He knew exactly how to pull your strings and you let him. Every single time, you let him.

Lloyd spit on his dick and rubbed it in between your puffy folds, drenching himself in your slick before he lined himself up with your entrance.

“Deep breaths, Porkchop. This is gonna sting.”

Just the tip of him had you clawing at the sheets and your eyes watering, and it just kept going. He moaned low as he pushed his way inside and when you thought he was all the way in, you looked down and saw it was only halfway there.

“Fuck, it’s so big, Lloyd. I can’t. I can’t take anymore.”

“Yes you can,” he assured you. “You can do it. I know you can. My special girl. You feel so fucking good, you know that? Come on now, just breathe. You can take it. You were fucking made for me. You’re mine, remember? This pussy is mine. Say it.”

“It hurts,” you whined, the tears slipping out the corners of your eyes.

“Say. It.”

“I’m yours,” you cried, tears flowing freely now.

“Fuck, baby. You know how hard it makes me when you cry.” He snapped his hips and moaned as he shoved the rest in you and you felt like your insides were on fire. “There it is. That’s my good girl. I know it’s big. You’re taking me so well. Such a good fucking girl for me.”

“It hurts so bad, Lloyd.”

“I know, baby. I won’t move yet, ok? You’ll get used to it. It’ll feel so fucking good, I promise. Just trust me.”

He stayed that way, deep inside you, as he kissed your face and your lips, licking the tears up as they fell. Your pussy was still burning from the stretch of him but you started to feel something pleasurable inside that pain and you clenched around him involuntarily.

“Oh, fuck. I gotta move, baby. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

You didn’t understand why he was apologizing until you did, because when Lloyd started to move his hips he went from slow and shallow strokes to hard and deep in under a minute. It hurt like hell but he looked so fucking sexy on top of you, sweat-slicked with his hair wild and hanging down in his face, his eyes rolling back in his head and his mouth open in a perfect pink oval as the most animal sounds came out of him. You gritted your teeth and you took his dick, however fast and hard he wanted to give it to you, because it made you feel powerful—that you were the one making him lose control like that, that you were the one he wanted to claim as his. You took it like a champ and you didn’t cry and you didn’t tell him to slow down or to stop because you weren’t boring, you weren’t ordinary; you were Lloyd Hansen’s special girl.

“Oh, fuck. I can’t stop. I can’t fucking stop. Your pussy’s too fucking good I’m gonna cum.”

You knew you should have said no or stop or shoved him off you but the truth is—and you can be honest about it now, after all this time, after everything—you wanted him to cum in you. You wanted to feel what it felt like for him to lose himself inside of you. You wanted to feel it all—everything he had to give. So you let him, and the sound he made… you can still hear it even today if it’s quiet enough and you close your eyes and picture him on top of you in that room. You can see his neck veins popping and his jaw clenching and you can hear it: that feral growl that you could feel rumbling in your own chest as he blew the first of many loads inside of you.

Because, you see, Lloyd Hansen doesn’t wear condoms. That, he says, is a you problem.

He pulled out of you and his dick was Harvard crimson and white—the evidence of what you’d just let him do to you dripping off his cock onto the expensive bedspread below you. He ran his forefinger up his shaft from the tip to the base and gathered some of your mess on his fingertip and then popped it in his mouth.

“You know what they say about virgin blood?” he asked. You shook your head, too in shock at the sight before you to speak. “It’s got magic powers. Like a spell. It binds people together.”

He gathered some more and pressed his fingers to your lips, painting your blood and his cum on you like lipstick. You didn’t hesitate. You stuck your tongue out and licked your lips clean. It should have tasted awful but it didn’t; it was magic.

“You wanna go again?” he asked.

“Yes,” you replied.

PART THREE >>>

#lloyd hansen fanfiction #lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen x you #lloyd hansen #chris evans #chris evans characters #the gray man #special girl

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cavinginhisfvce · 1 year

Text

'Unlovable"

Pairing: Harringrove. Fem!Billy x Steve Harrington.

Angst. Miscommunication. Conflict resolution. Unplanned Pregnancy. Mentions of abortion.

This started as a hc post, but quickly spiraled into this mess.

Fem!Billy who believes the fleeting attention of men twice her age is the only way she'll experience love in this lifetime. Even if it's just a little glimpse of love that comes from red knees and bruised wrists, she counts that as a win.

She knows, realistically, that this isn't love. Not the kind that they sing songs about. Not the kind where you want to shout it from the rooftops.

Love was never meant for girls like her. She's too loud, too aggressive, too much like herself. Not enough like the soft girls. Soft girls like Nancy Wheeler, whose smile is like the sun and the waves wrapped up in a pretty little bow.

Even when Nancy shows her rough edges, she's praised for the strength she harbors.

When Billy shows her rough edges, the kind that you develop from years of mistreatment, and abuse, she gets called disgusting.

She hears her father shouting in her face that she's an unlovable whore, like her mother.

She hears Steve telling her she's too abrasive to be anything but a hidden thing. She hears him whispering Nancy's name in place of her own.

It hurts, like nothing she's ever experienced.

But, Steve calls her every night. Steve seeks her out, and not Nancy.

To Billy, it feels better than random men who don't care when it hurts. Who ignores her soft sobs of displeasure in favor of getting off.

Because, despite Steve wishing she was Nancy, he always makes her feel good. Always makes sure she's comfortable and enjoying herself.

It's a win. A luxury that Billy isn't stupid enough to give up.

He always kisses away her tears, ones born of passion, rather than pain. He treats her like he well and truly loves her. Even if he calls her by the wrong name. Even if he wishes she was someone she'll never be.

The day he utters 'Billy' as he finishes inside of her, is coincidentally a week after she found out she was carrying his child. Two days after she made the appointment to terminate the pregnancy.

She isn't stupid enough to have a baby with a man who doesn't want her. She was proof that children bred of obligation and expectations, instead of love, grow up differently than those born from parents who love each other. Parents who would protect and cherish the child they share.

Steve, unlike previous times, doesn't immediately pull out, instead he thrusts into her once more and leans down. He presses a kiss to her neck, mumbling so softly Billy could've missed it.

"I'm tired of pretending you're Nancy. Tired of pretending I don't want you, Billy." He pauses, trailing off. Billy thinks maybe he's done speaking, but again, he's whispering against her warm, flushed skin. "Please keep the baby…"

Billy startles at that, her eyes widening. She wants to shove him away, demand what right he thinks has to tell her what to do with her body.

But, she does neither. Because her brain can't focus beyond the fact that he knows.

He knows and she didn't tell him. She didn't tell anyone.

"How'd you find out?" Her voice is so soft, it barely registers as hers to her own ears.

Steve takes a moment to answer, his lips brushing against her shoulder as he shifts his hips.

The action reminds Billy he's still nestled inside of her. A small gasp punches its way out of her at the almost overwhelming sensation.

"Carol volunteers at the clinic you went to during the holidays." He clamps his mouth shut, certain that Billy will tear into him. But when she doesn't, he continues, "she saw your file and sort of freaked out. Called me and chewed me out for making you get an abortion." He laughs lightly, the sound feels like a lifeline amongst Billy's impending doom.

"She didn't stop yelling until I told her I didn't even know."

Steve sniffles, and Billy finds herself wanting to card her fingers through his hair, so she does.

He leans into the touch almost instantly.

"I'm sorry." She doesn't need to say why, Steve knows why. He gets it.

In truth, Billy didn't want an abortion, she's always wanted at least one child, one she could love the way she wished her mother or father loved her.

But, she also hadn't wanted to be a single, teen mom. Didn't want to do it all alone.

She tells Steve as much, the words just barely forcing themselves out of her.

Steve just peers up at her, a ghost of a smile on his lips, "we can do it together. We can be better than our parents. We'll show everyone that despite our shitty parents, we can do better. Be better."

Billy glances at him, her own lips pulling into a soft grin, "who says I want my baby to be half prep?" Steve just laughs, dropping his head down to gently nip at her shoulder blade, "if this isn't what you want, say so and I'll support you every step of the way. I'll go with you to the appointment, I'll take care of you afterwards. I'll take care of you forever.

But, if you do want this, I promise to be the best fucking boyfriend, and father to our child."

Billy lets out a shuddering breath, her eyes filling with unnecessary tears. They've been doing that a lot more lately.

She nods softly, her fingers gently tugging at the strands of his hair wrapped around them, "okay, Pretty Boy. We can do this together." Billy clicks her tongue, peering at him with a mischievous glint in her bright blue eyes. "But you're telling Max, because I will not listen to her scream about becoming an aunt."

Steve almost immediately agrees, he knows Max will chew him up much like Carol, only for a different reason, but he couldn't find it in himself to care right now.

Instead, he dips down and claims her lips in a kiss that takes her breath away, and leaves Steve feeling a bit winded himself.

What's left unsaid is how to break this news to Billy's father and step-mom. She knows her dad will fly off the handle. Knows he'll make a mess of things.

But, she also knows that Steve will be by her side. She knows he'll pick up the pieces if need be.

They both know they have a lot to truly talk about, especially given the nature of their relationship before now.

Steve, who thought Billy knew he wanted her, but was only pretending for her sake.

And Billy, who thought Steve could never want a girl like her. Not when girls like Nancy Wheeler exist.

Fuck, they had so much to work through before their relationship would ever truly be stable, and secure, but they'd weather the storm together.

#billy hargrove #billy antis dni #billy hargrove deserved better #billy hargrove protection squad #harringrove #steve harrington #fem!billy hargrove #give me fem!billy or give me death #alt fem!billy #harringrove angst/comfort #unplanned pregnancy #mentions of abortion #fuck neil hargrove #mentions of unhealthy relationships with older men #slightly lemon #billy not billie #fem!billy just needs love and healthy relationships #steve was stupid at first #he knows better now #at first he hooked up with her to fill the void nancy left but he quickly realized he wanted billy #but he couldnt tell her bc he thought she wouldnt want him #so in an effort to keep her in even the smallest way he kept up the facade of seeing her as Nancy #unbeknownst to the heartbreak it caused her #they'll figure it out in the end #theyre both incapable of communicating until their hand is forced #theyre made for each other tbh

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aspoonofsugar · 2 years

Text

Just Another Cinderella Story

Cinderella is the Queen of Fairy Tales and one of the most universally known stories, with at least 345 different versions. So, it is no surprise this allusion is so relevant in RWBY, which gives it to one of its key characters and a Queen in her own right ;)

Not only is Cinder’s allusion at the root of her tragic past, but it is also important for her current storyline thanks to a series of symbols and motifs elegantly interwoven into the narrative. This meta will explore said imagery by focusing on 4 key elements found in all Cinderellas stories:

Evil Stepmother

Fairy Godparent

Prince

Slippers

The Stepmother, the Godparent and the Prince are found in the series twice: in Cinder’s background and in the main story itself. This shows that Cinder is stuck in the cycle of abuse. No matter how powerful she becomes or that she is now an adult. Deep down she is still a broken child, who can’t find her freedom.

When it comes to the Slippers, they are instead present in at least 4 different shapes, which makes them incredibly important for Cinder’s arc. They foreshadow the outcome of her story and can be used to explore Cinder’s character in all her complexity. In short, just like in the fairy-tale, they tell us who the real Cinder is, what is her major conflict and the characters, who’ll help her deal with it.

Let’s now start dancing with our Cinderella and see the woman who appears once midnight strikes!

CINDERELLA’S FIRST DANCE

You're no good I hope you know That your life is of no use And the truth is that No one's ever loved you

At her root, Cinder is a child, who is unloved in 2 different ways.

On the one hand there is an Evil Stepmother, who hates her:

On the other hand there is a Fairy Godfather, who does not love her enough:

Madame’s violence and abuse and Rhodes’s indifference and weak love are why Cinder is who she is. In a sense:

Cinder: Without you I am nothing. But because of you, I am everything.

Madame and Rhodes were Cinder’s everything and even now everything Cinder is can be traced back to them. Symbolically, their failure as parents runs so deep that Cinder doesn’t even get a chance to go to the dance:

Rhodes: Then we’ve got about seven years.

Cinder: For what?

Rhodes: To train you for the Huntsman exam.

Cinder’s big festival is meant to be the Huntsman exam, where she can show the world who she really is. Not a worthless slave, but a skilled Huntress. However, the Evil Stepmother’s hate and the Fairy Godfather’s lack of love make so Cinder never gets this opportunity and she slips deeper into the cracks of the system.

At the same time, Rhodes does not play only the part of the Fairy Godmother, but also that of the Prince, which means he fails Cinder in an additional way.

Deep down, what Cinder wants is not to be a Huntress, but to be free and loved. This is why Rhodes becomes a beacon of hope in her horrible life. She imitates his hairstyle, looks forward to his visits and is sad whenever he leaves. This turns their sparring sessions under the moonlight into true dances:

Ozpin: If you think about it, fighting and dancing aren't so different. Two partners interlocked, although one wrong move on the ballroom merely leads to a swollen foot.

After their dance, the Prince is supposed to meet Cinderella covered in ashes and dirt. However, he still recognizes the beautiful girl thanks to the slipper and takes her to the palace. This is what Rhodes is supposed to do. He should see Cinder for who she is and accept everything about her. However, he doesn’t. The moment midnight comes and Cinder shows herself in all her complexity, Rhodes refuses her and brings tragedy to them both.

The Prince’s refusal forces Cinderella to fight for her freedom. In the process, she takes her 2 Slippers by force:

Rhodes’s Twin Swords are important plot devices in Cinder’s flashback, as they drive Cinder’s actions and kick in both Cinder and Rhodes’s first meeting and Cinder killing her adoptive family. At the same time, they clearly serve as Cinder’s first pair of Slippers. She uses them to “dance” with her Prince during their training sessions and she is given one as a memory of their last meeting:

Moreover, she is promised the other once she is ready to become a true Huntress (aka a Princess):

Rhodes: Just a few more years and you won’t need your guardian’s permission. You’ll be free.

Finally, as all weapons, the Twins Swords are metaphors for Cinder’s true self:

Just weapons? They're an extension of ourselves! They're a part of us! Oh, they're so cool.

To be more specific, they are intertwined with Cinder’s wish for freedom in 2 complementary ways:

They symbolize power, which Cinder wants to use to free herself (active)

They are gifts from a loved one, who can free Cinder (passive)

Cinder is both a violent victim, who wants to punish her tormentors and a victimized child, who wants to be given care and gifts. She wants not to be hurt and to matter for someone. She is angry and hungry. This is her duality, which is conveyed by the Swords. She manages to walk on a fine line between these 2 sides of herself until Rhodes betrays her. By this point, she has her dream of love and care broken and is left with only a longing for power.

However, she can’t free herself with that. Cinder needs both to affirm who she is through her own inner strength (active) and to be helped by someone in doing so (passive). How can she succeed, though? To discover it, let’s see how her Cinderella story is repeating itself in the present and if there is any hope for the cycle to be broken.

THE EVIL GODMOTHER��S SLIPPERS

Salem is the Evil Godmother, who combines the Evil Stepmother and the Fairy Godmother. She is basically a mix between Madame and Rhodes, in terms of both Cinder’s desires and of Cinder’s abuse.

It is clear Cinder envies both her “parents”. On the one hand she wants Madame’s power and status. On the other hand she wants Rhodes’s freedom. These ideas manifest in Cinder’s persona and demeanor. She dresses like the Madame, but fights like Rhodes. She wants to be at the very top of the system, like Madame in her eyes is. However, she also desires to be an outsider, like she believes Rhodes to be:

Cinder: Like you? You can do whatever you want, go wherever you want.

This is why she exhibits conflicting behaviors. She presents herself as a force of chaos, who refuses society’s hierarchies and rules:

Cinder: You Atlas elites are all the same! You think hoarding power means you'll have it forever, but it just makes the rest of us hungrier. And I refuse to starve.

However, she deep down keeps applying classism to herself and others:

Watts: You think you're entitled to everything just because you've suffered, but suffering isn't enough! You can't just be strong, you have to be smart! You can't just be deserving, you have to be worthy! But all you have ever been, is a bloody migrane!

She wants to destroy society, but also for others to see she is at the very top of it. This is why Salem, who is somehow outside the system (she is literally above the cycle of life and death) and yet controls it becomes the mentor Cinder wants to emulate.

At the same time, Salem is Cinder’s bad parents in one and traps Cinder in abuse, just like Madame and Rhodes did.

In her childhood, Madame is Cinder’s abuser that forces her to obey through pain and fear. Rhodes brings instead dreams and wishes into Cinder’s life. He promises a better future in exchange of her being a good girl, who handles her abuse “correctly”:

Rhodes: But hurting them isn’t going to make your life any better. You can run, but you’re going to be running for the rest of your life. Or you could find another way to handle it.

Madame embodies fear and Rhodes embodies wishes. Together they are why Cinder is unable to leave the Glass Unicorn. Salem obtains the same result, but manages on her own.

She controls Cinder through fear and violence:

And manipulates her through promises and desires:

She uses both weapons according to how she needs Cinder to feel and to behave. In this way, she balances being Cinder’s abuser (Madame) and her mentor (Rhodes).

However, the desire Salem promises to fulfill is just a pale imitation of Rhodes’s one. Rhodes represents freedom and love, while Salem embodies power. This is because Cinder has given up on the formers and has shifted her focus towards the latter:

Cinder: I want to be strong. I want to be feared. I want to be powerful.

Salem promises to turn Cinder into a copy of herself and delivers through costumized slippers:

It is not by chance Cinder’s emblem appears on her back the moment she takes Amber’s powers. It symbolizes that the Maiden powers are the Slippers Salem is using to make Cinder dance for her. This is also why, the moment she gets the powers, Cinder burns Midnight and starts making her own weapons out of magic and glass:

It is as if she is trying to overcome Rhodes by making a statement. She does not need his teachings and weapons anymore because she can now make magical slippers out of thin air. She is a Cinderella that needs no Fairy Godmother nor Prince. Still, Cinder’s Maiden powers are not really hers, but rather Salem’s and they come with the side effect of slowly turning Cinder into a Grimm, just like those she used to clean:

Cinder’s hunger for power is only trapping her into abuse and servitude. She does not realize that her current slippers are rooted in Destruction and leading her towards monstrosity, rather than humanity. Still, if there is Darkness, there is also Light and Salem’s Grimm Slippers are juxtaposed to the Prince’s Silver Slippers:

Maria: The Creatures of Grimm were made by the God of Darkness, but your light comes from his brother.

THE PRINCE’S SLIPPERS

Ruby and Cinder’s connection is set up in volume 2, when Cinder goes to the dance under the condition she must be back before midnight:

Emerald: It appears all the dancers have partners.

Cinder: How long do I have?

Mercury: You should probably be home by midnight, to be safe.

Her magical evening has her dancing with a young charming Little Red Riding Hood:

And losing her glass slipper (her weapons and clothes), so that she can disappear into the crowd and leave her pursuers with questions and mystery.

Ruby meeting Cinder the night of the dance and after Ozpin draws a parallel between dancing and fighting leaves no doubt: Ruby is the Prince, who will see Cinder for who she is and save her. To fulfill this role, Ruby is equipped with her very own pair of slippers:

Ozpin: Ruby Rose... You... have silver eyes.

In The Wizard of Oz Dorothy’s slippers are silver, just like Ruby’s eyes, which RWBY’s Wizard himself conveniently points out for the viewers to notice.

However, the Prince’s first attempt to use her Slippers on Cinderella does not really work out. It becomes instead a traumatic moment for both girls. Ruby activates her eyes out of shock and grief, freezes a giant Wyvern and strips Cinder of her new-found powers kickstarting her quest for revenge. Cinder is defeated when she thinks to be invincible and this leaves a huge psychological scar, which she tries to hide with arrogance, anger and hate. At the root of this failure, there is this:

Ruby: You said the light only reacts to Grimm, but... I used it during our battle at Haven. It reacted to Cinder.

Maria: “Maybe there was something there you just weren’t seeing”

Right now, Ruby is unable to properly see Cinder because Cinder is doing her damn best to hide her victimhood and humanity. She presents herself as a monster to hide her vulnerability and Ruby’s challenge will be to see the person behind the grimm. The Child eaten by the Big Bad Wolf, as @misstrashchan explains in this great meta. Only in this way Cinder can escape midnight and the time that stopped with Rhodes’s death can start running once again.

This is also why the setting of their first dance will probably be the stage of their final one:

Beacon Tower is a giant clock and its fall symbolizes both the Beacon of Hope losing its Light and the Time being frozen, just like the Grimm at its top:

Taiyang: Things at Vale are under control, but the school... It's... it's not that simple. That thing, whatever it is, doesn't seem to be dead. Don't get me wrong, you did a number on it. But it's not disappearing. It's... kind of... frozen. I know that doesn't sound too bad, but it keeps attracting more Grimm to the school.

The Wyvern is symbolic of all the characters’ trauma. It is a monster which is now where once the light was, like an untreated festering wound. It is Ruby’s trauma, that she buries deep within herself, so that it is inoffensive, but also impossible to solve. It is Cinder’s who is pushed into the shadows of society, until she becomes strong and dangerous enough to resurface and bring destruction. Just like the giant Grimm. So, for the 2 characters to solve their respective issues, it makes sense that they would meet again where their relationship began. This time, though, they can do things properly: the Hunter saves the Child and Cinderella is freed.

Thematically, both characters will be asked to choose between Creation and Destruction. Will Ruby choose to save or to kill with her eyes? Will she see Cinder as the Grimm that she has become or as the child she once was? And will Cinder choose Salem (a mother figure, the past) or Ruby (a child, the future)? Will it be power or choice that grants her freedom? And what will Cinder do once unchained? Who will she be when Midnight comes?

To answer these questions, it is necessary to firstly understand who Cinder is right now. Luckily, the last pair of Slippers makes it clear.

CINDERELLA’S SLIPPERS

Emerald and Mercury are taken in by Cinder in scenes that mirror respectively her first and last meeting with Rhodes. This conveys 2 things:

Emerald and Mercury are weapons she picks up, just like she takes the Twin Swords from Rhodes (by stealing > Emerald) and Madame (by killing > Mercury) in the 2 above mentioned scenes

Emerald and Mercury are Cinder’s childhood selves she is unconsciously trying to rescue

This duality is specifically why her bond with Emerald and Mercury is so nuanced. It is familial on some level, but Cinder’s experience with family is abusive, so she weaponizes and objectifies the kids.

In short, she turns who could have been a real family into a pair of weapons to use against her enemies. Her fight with Amber makes it clear:

Cinder is able to win against the Maiden specifically because she uses Emerald and Mercury as tools and smoke screens. She sends them after Amber, so that they can distract her with their abilities (Emerald’s semblance that confuses Amber and Mercury’s legs that let him withstand her elemental attacks). She joins the fight later on to deal damage, but is quick to fake her defeat, so that Amber’s focus stays on the kids. Finally, she finishes Amber off when her guard is down. In short, Cinder is symbolically using Emerald and Mercury as the Twin Swords, all to get a better pair of Slippers:

This frame’s very telling. The focus on Cinder’s feet hints to the Slippers, just like the similar frame in Midnight. However, here there are all 3 pairs of Slippers:

1) Midnight - Cinder’s past, the Twin Swords and Rhodes, whom she is desperately trying to leave behind

2) Amber - Who Cinder superficially wants to be, someone powerful, who has ironically just lost a fight against Cinder’s childhood selves

3) Emerald - Who deep down Cinder is. A crying child hungry for love:

And a thief/assassin:

It is really no surprise that Amber is defeated specifically because she fails to realize that the crying child she offered an apple to and the girl attacking her are actually one and the same:

It is just like Rhodes fails to reconcile Cinder’s 2 sides and dies because of it. It is just like Cinder loses herself by repressing the hurting inner child behind the mask of a powerful Maiden.

In short, the Maiden powers are who Cinder wants to be, while Emerald and Mercury are who she needs to accept that she is. They are also the only Slippers that are not given to her, but that she chooses freely, which should be indicative of their importance for her arc.

Finally, Emerald and Mercury are the conclusion of a cycle of abuse that starts with Madame and Rhodes, goes on with Salem and Cinder and reaches the kids:

I'm the one Who rose out of filth and was loved by no-one

Overrun By the hate and the beatings defiled by a father

(I mean... if you read these lyrics together you literally get Cinder’s backstory)

Emerald was not loved, while Mercury was hated. Neglect and abuse. An indifferent society and a cruel family. Together they explore 2 sides of Cinder’s trauma and together they make the One (Cinder). Just like the Twin Swords turn into Midnight and the 2 Slippers of Cinder’s emblem draw an empy heart.

However, Cinder has failed to use her most important pairs of Slippers wisely, so far. Instead of healing through the kids, she is failing them, just like she was failed:

1) Her first meeting with Emerald parallels her first meeting with Rhodes and Madame. Superficially she acts as Rhodes by offering food and becoming Emerald’s idol. However, she is deep down acting like the Madame and trapping Emerald in a cycle of abuse:

Cinder: Don’t think... obey.

2) Her first meeting with Mercury parallels her last meeting with the Madame and Rhodes. Once again, she seems to be acting in the opposite way of her failure of a parent. Rhodes condemns Cinder, while Cinder praises Mercury. However, she does not aknowledge Mercury’s victimhood. She simply pushes Mercury on the path of violence for her own convenience, just like she was driven on that same path by Rhodes:

Cinder: Mercury... Tell me, are you anything like your father?

So, Cinder abuses the neglected child and neglects the abused one in what is just a tragic repetition of her life. Switching between neglect (at its best) and abuse (at its worse). What’s interesting on this dynamic on a writing level is that Cinder does not really treat Emerald and Mercury all that differently. However, the relationships she has with them appear as distinct. This is because Emerald and Mercury themselves are different people, with different experiences and reactions to abuse. The result is that they give Cinder back different fragments of her past self, just like 2 misshaped pieces of glass in a very fascinating mirror game.

The result of Cinder’s mistreatement of Emerald and Mercury is that they both leave her in the episode Midnight (so literally she loses them at midnight :P):

And once again their current situations mirror the Twin Swords in Cinder’s flashback:

Emerald is found by the Prince and her friends. She is saved and accepted because people are able to empathize with her, just like Rhodes empathizes with thief Cinder.

Mercury is instead stolen by the Evil Godmother and taken away from Cinder. It is a way to prey on Cinder’s frail sense of identity and to exercise power over her. He is the killer Cinder, whom Rhodes likes to ignore and who gets stuck in abuse.

So, Emerald is the Slipper she loses at midnight and is found by people who can save Cinder. Mercury instead is the Slipper taken away by the Stepmother as a punishment.

However, only together the Slippers make Cinder, as they are 2 different sides of her personality. Both kids need to be saved and empathized with, so that Cinder herself can be understood and helped. After all, the Slippers are meant to bring the Prince to Cinderella and this is probably what Emerald and Mercury will do. As for how this will happen, different outcomes are possible. As for now, I think the most interesting one is:

Emerald, as the Emerald Tablet, brings Knowledge to Cinder by confronting her. She should be the one to call Cinder out and show her who she truly is. This would also fit with her arc. Emerald is a survivor victim whose main flaw is her idealization of Cinder. So, for her to truly see the kind of person Cinder is and to challenge Cinder to see herself would fit.

Mercury, as the Messanger God, should connect the stone (RWBY) with the alchemist (Cinder). Because of this, it would be interesting if he were the one to empathize the most with Cinder’s most wounded part (he embodies it, after all) and to help others see it.

If this happens, it would also work as a chain. Emerald is helped and helps Mercury, who, in turns, makes Cinder more understandable to others. In general, though, Emerald and Mercury might share their roles of messangers of truth and mediators. What’s sure is that they will have a conflict with Cinder (like all abuse victims with their abusers in RWBY), but also inspire her to be better (like the other kids-mentor couples).

With their help, Ruby and the others will see Cinder and Cinder will see herself. Once this happens, the Prince will save Cinderella and Cinderella... what will she do?

MIDNIGHT - HEROES AND MONSTERS

A near unstoppable force, Cinder is now something more than human... And simultaneously... something less. Midnight struck one last time that night, Never to be seen again. The clock forever stopped in the waltz with Fire, Turned to ashes in Scorching Caress. "Who are you again?"

Cinderella ends with the protagonist being saved and becoming a princess. So, Cinder’s story will probably end with her becoming a princess too. This means she’ll finally become a true Maiden, which is exactly what she has been trying to do up until now. The problem is that so far Cinder has been going at it wrong. She is trying to be a Maiden (Salem’s Slippers) to run away from who she truly is (Emercury, her own Slippers). However, this does not work because you can never be your ideal self if you do not face who you really are.

This is precisely the point of Jaune and Pyrrha’s foiling when it comes to heroism:

On the one hand Jaune wants to become a hero to run away from who he is:

Jaune: Cause this is always what I’ve wanted to be! My father, my grandfather, and his father before him were all warriors! They were all heroes! I wanted to be one, too. I was just never good enough.

This is why he symbolically enters Beacon through cheating. He acts as someone he is not.

On the other hand Pyrrha is a hero simply because that is the person she wants and chooses to be:

Red-Haired Woman: I don’t think she would regret her choice, because a Huntress would understand that there really wasn’t a choice to make. And a Huntress is what she always wanted to be.

The choice between being a hero and being herself is never really a choice because being a Huntress is a part of who Pyrrha is. So, her final sacrifice is not really a negation of the self, but a result of who she deep down is.

Cinder is currently acting like Beacon Jaune, but instead of hiding her pain and insecurities by becoming a hero, she has chosen to be a monster. However, the truth is that she is just a human and humans have both Destruction and Creation within them:

Pyrrha: It’s not about why; it’s about knowing. Understanding dark and light helps us manifest our Aura. Everyone has some of both.

Once Cinder rediscovers her own humanity thanks to Ruby saving her and is reminded who she is by Emerald and Mercury, she will finally choose who she wants to be. This choice is clearly going to be key for the whole series. Basically, the Maiden of Choice will choose what the story theme is:

Salem: But even the most brilliant lights eventually flicker and die. And when they are gone... darkness will return. So you may prepare your guardians, build your monuments to a so-called "free world", but take heed... there will be no victory in strength.

Ozpin: But perhaps victory is in the simpler things that you've long forgotten. Things that require a smaller, more honest soul.

Is victory truly in a simple soul (aka humanity)? Or will humans choose darkness over light? Can a monster really turn into a hero? Do humans have this strength? The one to answer this question will probably be Cinder. And by doing so, she will also fulfill her destiny:

Pyrrha: When I think of destiny, I don't think of a predetermined fate you can't escape. But rather... some sort of final goal, something you work towards your entire life.

Salem: You’ve fought your whole life unwaveringly for what you want and here I am holding you back instead of lifting you up.

Cinder’s final goal is freedom, just like Pyrrha’s heroism and Penny’s friendship. Just like the other 2 maidens, she will get it, against all odds. However, it won’t be the freedom from everything that she has dreamt of, but rather the freedom of doing something only she can:

There's a moment that changes a life when We do something that no one else can And the path that we've taken will lead us One final stand

There's a moment we make a decision Not to cower and crash to the ground The moment we face our worst demons Our courage found

(..)

I may fall But not like this – it won't be by your hand I may fall Not this place, not today I may fall Bring it all – it's not enough to take me down I may fall

Choice will be Cinder’s Freedom.

#rwby #cinder fall #ruby rose #emerald sustrai #mercury black #salem #rwby rhodes #rwby salem #rwby meta #my meta #once upon an allusion

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