#at what point can we start calling this out for the misogyny it is?

[fromtheseventhhell]

Arya watched them die and did nothing. What good did it do you to be brave? One of the women picked for questioning had tried to be brave, but she had died screaming like all the rest. There were no brave people on that march, only scared and hungry ones. (Arya VI, ACOK)

--

The night she was caught, the Lannister men had been nameless strangers with faces as alike as their nasal helms, but she'd come to know them all. You had to know who was lazy and who was cruel, who was smart and who was stupid. You had to learn that even though the one they called Shitmouth had the foulest tongue she'd ever heard, he'd give you an extra piece of bread if you asked, while jolly old Chiswyck and soft-spoken Raff would just give you the back of their hand. (Arya VI, ACOK)

Arya: *restrains herself from acting out when captured by the Mountain and his men because she knows fighting back/being brave wouldn't accomplish anything*

Arya: *takes note of the temperments of several Lannister guards so that she can learn how to navigate around their behavior*

Fandom: Arya is a feral idiot with no self-control uwu 🤗

#arya stark #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #this is really just a small portion of her intelligence and self-control and yet...people can't stand the idea of Arya being more than #the brawn to somebody's brains. They literally can't handle her being her own character or not comparing her to somebody else #mind you this is all on top of how calculated she us when helping with the coup and planning her escape from harrenhal #none of these takes are even judging her based on the books it's all about her in comparison to [x] character...usually Sansa #Ned's /Sun and Moon/ quote has had a terrible impact on this fandom and their perception of the Stark sisters #Arya HAS to be the /wild + reckless/ counterpart to Sansa's cool + collected/ side lol and it's such a joke #even if you thought Arya was reckless for defending Mycah which is debatable she's gone through so much since then #and she would've been dead several times over if she was really as rash and impulsive as fandom wanted her to be #why people can't comprehend both sisters sharing qualities I don't know but it's hilarious considering this fandom's #/don't pit the Stark sisters against each other/ attitude...guess that only counts when it comes to propping up Sansa #at what point can we start calling this out for the misogyny it is? #fandom nonsense

[mazojo]

I am like 20 minutes into Purple Hearts and I am trying to understand so hard how what anything that Luke or his friend say is like, normal and not like, idk, bigotry?

#Netflix outright said be as leftist conservative as possible and destroy those pronoun blue haired people huh #like……… ion like where this is going #i bet y’all 50 bucks by the end of it we will have Cassie be given a 180 like yeah we’ll not ALL leftists are bad #and they are not! you don’t have to feel invalidated but your pollito al opinion #political** #but luke is definetely not a good guy!! like?? their friends are racists right in front of him and they all just laugh and point ?? how #does that make you a good person?? yeah tragic backstory or whatever idk what’s coming but it’s still biggotery and they seem to be trying #yo excuse ir at the end and it just doesn’t really sit right with me #and I don’t like getting political on here nor come here to tell you what to believe or not to believe in #but misogyny/racism/xenophobia/homophobia or anything of the sorts is uh not excusable in my book! #just be a good person dude lol it’s literally not that hard #luke calls woman females he is that sort of dude bro #like the acting is good and Sofia Carson is an amazing singer I just don’t understand what they are trying to do #the message seems to be like yeah. you might differ in political views. but if you are hot you can still makeout maybe! #like you can disagree on things but if you are this much politically strayed from each other I am sorry but I don’t think it’ll work out #so then in the future when you are taking big life choices that oppose political views what then?? idk it’s just very tied to someone’s #moral and value compass that it’s just…. idk sksksk netflix what is going on #I’ll be back at the end maybe I guess I might be wrong who knows I love romance stories but this is starting on the wrong foot for me #anti Purple Hearts #i guess lol #Purple Hearts #netflix

[agender-witchery]

On Project Moon

Hey, this is gonna be long, I'm putting most of it under the cut. This post is about the recent firing of VellMori from Project Moon, I know that it warrants some tags for triggers, but I have no idea what's commonly used, so if I miss something, please tell me.

Additionally, I have written this up in a way that if it escapes the target audience of Project Moon fans, it can still be understood, so with that in mind, there will be Library of Ruina spoilers.

The tl;dr for those who don't wanna read the full thing is that Project Moon was put in a very bad position with some violent extremists targeting them and that I'm not happy about any of what happened.

So, for those unaware, Project Moon has fired VellMori, the CG artist for Limbus Company. Now, a not inaccurate statement that can be made from this is "Project Moon fired a woman for being a feminist" but this is... somewhat reductive. Let's immediately get out of the way that VellMori did absolutely nothing wrong. Some people have said she is a TERF. I've seen no evidence of this. Some people have said she wished death on all men. I've seen no evidence of this.

What I HAVE seen is that VellMori thinks sexual abuse is bad. Now, why would this lead to a firing? The short answer is that a bunch of violent incels, one of which was literally dressed as a clown, came knocking at their office doors.

See, Limbus Company has a "beach" event coming up. In this event, we are getting a water themed outfit for two of the characters, one male and one female. For Sinclair, the guy, he has been given an EXTREMELY slutty mechanic's outfit. For Ishmael, the woman, she has been given a very skintight wet suit outfit. Now, I wanna take care to note that VellMori is the CG artist - she had no hand in these designs, a man made them. I would also like to mention that both outfit designs are amazing, and I will be including them at the end of this post for reference.

Now, upon revealing the wet suit design for Ishmael, a bunch of whiny incels on what is basically Korean 4chan got upset that Ishmael, instead of being in a bikini as is usual for gacha games, was wearing a wet suit. Nevermind that the designs in Limbus Company have always been conservative and that the Sinclair design is the most skin we've ever seen and it's just an open shirt. Again, the wet suit is still super revealing, it's skin tight and this is literally the first design of her that doesn't make her look flat chested. They're not rioting over the lack of sex appeal, they're specifically mad that it's not a bikini.

The incels come to the conclusion that the lack of any skin being shown on Ishmael's outfit is a result of evil feminism. No, I'm not exaggerating. They initially begin harassing the artist who is actually responsible for drawing the outfits, but upon learning that he is a man, set their sights on VellMori because she's a woman, and being an artist is good enough I guess. What they do from here is they start digging and digging and digging on VellMori's twitter, making use of archived pages because many of the "offensive" tweets had been deleted.

I'd like to take a moment to point out that VellMori never actually tweeted anything out here - it was all retweets from a 4-6 year old archive, and retweets that have been long deleted. These retweets contain such transgressive statements as "I'm sick of misogyny" and "If being against patriarchy makes me antisocial, then so be it" and just... mirroring back to men what those men were saying to women. Some people would like to have you think she was calling for death to all men. She wasn't. She ALSO retweeted all this stuff while she was a teenager and well before she worked for Project Moon.

Nonetheless, the incels had decided that feminism was the reason Ishmael had a wet suit and not a bikini and they had found a feminist working for Project Moon. It is at this point that we must take a brief detour and talk about Library of Ruina, Project Moon's previous game.

See, in Library of Ruina, one of the protagonists, Angela, has this whole arc about escaping her abuser and becoming a human. Yes, she is literally a robot, but Project Moon isn't exactly a stranger to symbolism in their stories and a feminist reading of Angela is ridiculously easy. The main antagonist in Library of Ruina is Argalia, the Blue Reverberation, and his crew is called the Reverberation Ensemble. Every member of the Reverberation Ensemble is a violent lunatic who each want to reinforce the status quo in their own unique shitty way. In addition to this, typically in order to reach the titular Library, you would need to be invited. The Reverb Ensemble are the "uninvited guests", the ones who managed to reach the Library and knock down the door without an invite.

Why am I talking about this? Well, the incels decided to start calling themselves the Reverb Ensemble, and referring to each other using names of the Reverb Ensemble members such as Pluto, Elena, and Oswald. Having taken on the moniker of the uninvited guests, they then showed up to Project Moon's office to protest. Over the lack of a bikini. Now, remember how I mentioned someone was dressed up as a clown? One of the Reverb Ensemble members, Oswald, is a clown with an extremely tenuous grip on reality. So much so, that his ideal world is one in which there is no meaning whatsoever. That is the character they chose to dress up as. This is either a case of extreme self awareness or extreme self unawareness.

Eventually, the incels were let into the office possibly as a form of damage mitigation to prevent the crowd of protestors from getting any bigger. This was a questionable decision, but they had a group of violent incels at their doorstep either way, and I don't exactly have full details on this. Regardless, Project Moon had on their hands a group of violent protesting incels, who they felt compelled to let into the building, and who had demands including the firing of their feminist employee. (7/28 update: a translation of the transcript posted to DCInside has surfaced. Please check the reblogs for it. Project Moon was verifiably threatened.)

So while "Project Moon fired a woman for being a feminist" isn't inaccurate it also isn't the full picture. More appropriately, it'd be "Project Moon fired a woman because a group of violent incels who weren't satisfied with a form fitting wet suit instead of a bikini showed up to their office demanding that an artist who did not make the wet suit design be fired because she retweeted some feminist stuff 5 years ago while she was a teenager".

I'm not happy with this. None of this is good. People are allowed to be feminists, and Project Moon stories have always presented progressive ideas to anyone with half a brain to do some basic literary analysis. I can understand why they would cave to the demands of people who were threatening them and showed up to their actual place of work, but at the same time, that's someone's livelihood gone and proof that in the future, the same sorts of people can use the same sorts of tactics to bully Project Moon into doing whatever they want. All of this sucks.

For those who would like to see the retweets in question alongside translations: https://twitter.com/danghwangs/status/1683884236888223744

And for people who would like reference as to what the artworks these incels were up in arms about, Ishmael in the wet suit and Sinclair in the mechanic's outfit.

#my nonsense #limbus company #project moon #VellMori #misogyny #library of ruina

[gyll-yee-haw]

Your age gap writings are so good! Can you write something where the reader is in her 20s in college and Jake protects her from hate from fans or maybe one of his friends is like 'She's way too young for you and she isnt famous or trying to be famous so why are you with her???' and Jake just shuts them down

Thank you so much, babyy <3

I've got a taste for men who are older, can't help it.... 😔

Warnings: age gap, misogyny (not from Jake obv), cockwarming, pool sex, size kink, oral (f), creampie, soft!dom Jake, daddy kink, so many pet names, a hint of innocence kink

Like 3.2k words

---

It was a hot summer day. You were outside by the pool, book open in front of you as the sun burned your skin. You were finally relaxing after an exhausting semester in college.

Poor Jake, though, couldn't join you. He had a lot of things to solve about upcoming projects... you weren't complaining, you were extremely proud. And why would you even complain? Most days he worked from home. He sat with his laptop at the kitchen table, which was separated from the pool area by a glass door, that allowed him to enjoy the view of you in a bikini, living your best life. Well, you earned it, college can be really rough.

More often than not, you would tease him. Like when he was taking an important call and your bikini top would accidentally fall off... or when you (also accidentally) made eye contact with him while enjoying your popsicle a little too much... and all that would lead to him delaying his work just a little bit.

But tomorrow would be different. A few people on his team would come over for a meeting. So you told him you would just hide in the bedroom until they were finished. He insisted that the meeting shouldn't stop you from enjoying your time however you liked, but you said you preferred it that way. Not only you wouldn't feel comfortable having foreigner eyes on you, but you also didn't want to embarrass Jake... you knew by the comments you've been reading the kind of things people called you. You didn't want to give anyone any evidence that you were irresponsible or bad for his career.

-

So, by the time everyone arrived the next day, you were comfortably snuggling on your pillows, searching for something to watch on tv. Or some background noise for you to nap to.

Meanwhile, Jake was downstairs, discussing important things with his crew.

The meeting itself didn't take too long. But as everyone was saying goodbye, one of his oldest friends, who worked on his image's management asked him if it was okay for him to stay a little longer, so they could speak privately. Jake didn't mind and didn't think much of it... after all, they knew each other for a very long time, and would often talk about non-work related things.

"Hey, man." Jake greeted him as soon as the last person walked out. "Sit down, want something to drink?"

"No, I'm okay, I won't take too long, actually." The man replied in a very serious tone. "There's just something that a few of us been talking about and... we really didn't want to bring it up during the meeting, because it's quite delicate."

Jake's face fell. He had been so happy these last days... and the meeting was so successful, he didn't expect to have any trouble soon.

"Actually..." The man continued, as there was no response from Jake. "No one really wanted to bring it up, but... I'm your friend, am I not? I knew I had to."

"What's going on?" Jake asked, trying to get him to go straight to point, instead of explaining himself over and over again.

"It's about Y/N." He said at once. "Listen, man... I know you, I know you're in love and you're happy, but..."

"Hey, don't start." Jake felt his blood boil as he brought your name up. "I know what people say about her. But they don't know her. And neither do you."

"Jake, man..." he shook his head, hands on his waist as he tried get into Jake's head. "Come on, we all know how much shit starts with you don't know her, she's different..."

"Well, and you know that people on the internet are just waiting for opportunity to misinterpret something... at least you should know, since it's your job." Jake shrugged. "I mean... how many times did we have to deal with this?"

"Jake, I'm not talking as someone worried about your career. I know that these comments will die when they find someone else to cancel." He explained. "I'm talking as someone who's worried about you. You know how these girls are... maybe she finds a richer guy before the comments die, you know."

"Get out of my house." Jake closed his eyes and counted to ten, trying to keep his voice low.

"Come on, man..."

"Get the fuck out." He repeated. "If you leave right now, you're just fired. If I have to ask again, I'll make a few phone calls just to make sure you won't be getting another job anytime soon."

"You know what?" The man raised both hands in the air and chuckled. "You do whatever you want, I'm just trying to warn you..."

The look on Jake's face made him walk through the door without saying anything else.

Jake's body felt heavy and he allowed it to fall on the sofa. His heart ached. How could anyone talk about his princess that way? People didn't know how sweet and caring and kind you were. People didn't know how happy you made him.

"Fuck it." He rolled his eyes.

He was stressed and decided to take the rest of the day off. Take the day off to enjoy your company. You relaxed him like nothing else and nobody knew shit about you.

The eager manner he opened the bedroom door made you jump.

"Sorry, baby." He spoke as he climbed up the bed, resting his head on your chest. He left out a frustrated sigh.

"Oh no, what happened?" Your arms automatically wrapped around him. He looked exhausted.

"Just had to fucking fire someone." He replied, feeling his skin crawl. It made him even more angry to remember that asshole's words now, while he was being comforted by you. "Sexist piece of shit."

"Why?" Your eyes widened. He told you it would be a simple meeting... you would never expect things to end this way.

"I don't really wanna talk about it right now." He knew that if he told you, it would ruin your day. It would hurt your feelings, you would get insecure and maybe even feel a little guilty, which you absolutely didn't deserve. "But you could make me feel better, pretty princess."

Your face visibly lit up at the possibility. And that sparkle on your eyes made Jake regret not punching that guy on the face.

"Why don't you put your bikini on, darling?" He suggested. "Wanna spend the rest of the day by the pool with you, how does that sound?"

"Really?" You smiled at him, warming up his heart. "Just you and me, no work?"

"No work." He promised, returning your smile. "Hurry up, angel. I'll be downstairs waiting for you."

You didn't waste any time. You ran to the bathroom to put on your cutest bikini. One Jake himself bought you. You loved it when looking pretty for him could solve his problems. You felt so powerful.

When you were ready, you wrapped a towel around your body and went downstairs. From the kitchen, you could see him inside the pool. His hair was wet and the way he was breathing indicated he had swam a few laps already. You bit your lip. The roles were reversed at that moment. Now you were the one who was appreciating how the sun hit his wet skin so beautifully. His breathtaking body. God, no man your age looked like that.

But his beauty wasn't all that caught your eye. He also looked so stressed. And he tried to hide it as soon as he noticed you approaching the pool.

You tossed your towel on a chair and sat on the edge of the pool, feeling the water cover the lower half of your legs. He swan closer to you and placed his hands on your knees, which you took as sign to spread your legs. As soon as you did, he stood between them and cupped your cheeks with both hands, placing a sweet kiss on your nose.

You shivered as drops of cold water rolled down his fingers through your neck.

"I love you." He said, out of nowhere. "You make me so fucking happy."

"I love you too." You smiled, placing your hands on top of his, still on your face.

His hands went to your waist and he caught how your body reacted, letting out a laugh.

"What? Water is so cold..." you felt relieved by seeing him laugh.

"It kinda is." He admitted, and you knew that look in his eyes. He had an idea. "Why don't you come here and keep me warm, huh?"

"Alright, but give me a minute." You took a deep breath.

"Take your time, baby, I'm yours all day today." He leaned down, spreading your legs a bit more so he could place little kisses on the inside of your thighs, dangerously close to what your bikinis barely covered. "In fact, I'm yours all the time. Everyday. Even when I'm not here, you're all I think about."

"Yeah?" You bit your lip, bringing your hand to the back of his head, grabbing his hair very gently.

"I do." He continued his trail of kisses as he wanted to make sure not an inch of your thighs wouldn't feel loved. "If I could have my mouth on you all day I would, princess. For the rest of my life..."

He grabbed your thighs, making you move foward a bit. Then he used two fingers to pull your bikini panties to the side before getting his tongue on you. He licked your folds up and down slowly, like he was trying to discover what you tasted like. Like he didn't have you for breakfast that very morning. And the way his tongue began to work afterwards, hungrily, in and out of your hole, indicated he liked it very much.

He used his other hand to finger you, one finger in and out slowly, until he felt he could accommodate two, and as your moans got louder, he began curling them inside of you, all while he licked and sucked on your clit with passion.

Your hips bucked against his face and you pulled his hair, trying not to fall inside the pool, since you were dangerously close to the edge.

"Jake!" you gasped loudly. "Gonna cum, gonna cum..."

His mouth was working too hard on your clit and no force in the universe could make him stop at that moment, so he wasn't really able to reply, but you took that as a sign that he really wanted you to. And you did. You screamed his name, pulling his hair hard enough to make him moan against your core. When you were finished, you had to push him away, cause he didn't want to stop.

"Please... it hurts, too sensitive..." you begged.

He separated his mouth from you, wearing an unbearably gorgeous grin. Then he removed his fingers, immediately sucking them clean.

"Taste so fucking good, baby, can't help it, want more..."

"Fuck, Jake, I..."

"It's okay, princess. Won't you join me?" He helped you fix your bikini as if nothing had happened.

"I will, turn around."

He immediately understood what you meant. He turned his back to you and you hopped on it like a koala, gasping as you felt the water involving your whole body, arms and legs wrapping tighter around Jake's body.

"Easy, baby, you'll get used to it." He chuckled, moving around the pool with you in his back.

He was right, soon enough you felt your body relax against his.

"See, I'm keeping you warm." You said, kissing his shoulder.

"Oh, sweet girl..." he laughed. "That's not what I meant."

Your eyes widened at the realization. "Oh... I'm sorry, I'm so stupid."

"You're not stupid. You're my sweet, innocent little girl, aren't you?" He comforted you.

"I guess..." you felt your face grow warmer.

You untangled yourself from him, feet touching the floor. He turned around to face you.

"You're so pretty." He murmured, touching your face softly.

"Wanted to look pretty for you." You smirked. "Make you forget all your worries."

"You did it." His hand wrapped softly around your neck. "You're such a good girl for it."

"Hmm..." you started feeling him through his swimming shorts. "You're so hard."

"Yes, pretty girl. You did this." He brought his lips to yours, brushing softly as you reached inside his shorts.

His hands went to your hips and he kissed you to distract you from the fact he was getting rid of your bikini panties, then threw them somewhere outside the pool, keeping an eye contact that was enough to make you clench around nothing. He pulled his shorts down just enough to free his cock.

"Ready, baby?" He asked sweetly and you nodded. "Don't move, okay? Stay very still and relax."

You wrapped your legs around him and he entered you slowly. When he was all the way in, he stopped everything, just held you tightly.

"Just wanna relax with my pretty girl today." He said, giving your forehead a kiss. "Cock buried deep inside her, where it belongs."

It was the way he spoke the dirtiest things in the sweetest tone that always drove you crazy. That made you wanna bounce on his cock like no tomorrow. That made you moan under your breath, but he always, always heard you.

"What's wrong, princess?" He mocked.

"You're so fucking hot..." you almost cried as you watched him lift your bikini top and pinch your nipples.

"So cockdrunk and I didn't even fuck you properly." He kept playing with your tits.

"Please..." you whined.

"Y/N, it hasn't been 5 minutes." He kissed your neck. "Be patient, I thought you were a good girl... I just need a break, can't you see that?"

"I'm sorry." You moaned. "But... but you can take a break, and maybe I could move, just me?"

"Come on, you can do better than that." He laughed at how incoherent you sounded. "I know you know how to beg, baby. Just say the words, you have to be more clear."

He pinched your nipples again as he saw you hesitate.

"Jake, fuck!" You moaned in pain, feeling your pussy squeeze him. "Let me sit on your cock, PLEASE. I will be good, I promise..."

"That's better." He removed himself from you, earning protests. "Calm down, baby, I'm gonna do what you asked, unless you wanna be a brat..."

You bit your lip, to keep quiet.

He fixed his shorts and got out of the pool, signaling with his hand for you to follow him, and you did, like an obedient puppy obsessed with it's owner.

He sat on a chair, beside the pool, legs spread, waiting for you. You had to take a moment to appreciate his body again. His hairy chest, with a matching beard. He was so big... his thighs, his posture so masculine. The way he looked so intimidating, but was the softest when it came to you... he was perfect.

Soon enough you were standing between his legs. He kept eye contact with you as he got rid of your bikini top, directing his mouth to your tits as he grabbed your ass with both hands, hard enough to leave a mark.

"You're so fucking gorgeous." His voice was filled with lust as he spoke. "Gonna be a good girl and sit on my cock now?"

"Yes, fucking love your cock..." you agreed, feeling dumb as you saw it throb when he pulled it out of his pants.

"You're such a dirty girl, saying things like that... I mean, I know you love my cock, but jesus..." he mocked you with a smirk, helping your straddle him.

"Don't like it when I talk dirty, daddy?" You asked innocently.

"Fucking love it, baby, can't you see my cock throbbing? Come on, angel, make daddy cum like you promised, be good to me..."

He didn't even finish his words before you managed to get it inside of you, moaning at how good he stretched you.

You started moving up and down at a nice pace, knowing both of you were just too horny for games. Knowing that you only had the illusion of being on control because you were on top... but he could make you regret the smallest teasing.

"Fuck..." he moaned both at your movements and the sight of your tits boucing.

One of his hands cupped one of your breasts as the other one went to your hip, a sign that he wanted it harder. And you gave it to him harder.

"You're so good to me, such a pretty baby... you're gonna make me cum."

"Need you to!" You already looked and sounded like a mess, boucing on his cock as fast as you could, feeling your pussy start to squeeze him. "Need to you to cum inside, daddy..."

"Of course, baby, you deserve it, yeah?" Both his hands were now on your hips, handling you like a doll. "All of daddy's cum belongs to this pretty pussy..."

You cried out as you came again. So much harder. And he just kept thrusting hard, his thighs hitting your ass made a sound so loud you could barely hear him.

And then he came too, as deep as he could. He rested on the chair, breathing heavily and you collapsed on his chest. A few minutes of the most absolutely perfect peace he felt in days filled the air, and he breathed it in.

Not even your whines and protests when he pulled out could interrupt it, he just chuckled.

"Shhh it's okay, little one." He said sweetly. "Just wanna take care of my princess."

You accepted, feeling safe as he wrapped a towel around your body and stood up with you still in his arms. He carried you bridal style to the bedroom.

"Waaait! No!" You laughed as he tried to put you down on the bed. "We're still wet!"

"That doesn't matter, we'll change the sheets afterwards, come on..." he rolled his eyes. "Just wanna look at you for a second."

"You've been looking at me a lot these days..." you mocked him. "Watching me through that glass door, I see you pretending to work..."

"It's just hard to believe you're mine." He admited, intertwining his fingers with yours. "I'm afraid you'll disappear if I look away."

"That's right, I'm yours... and I'm not going anywhere." You promised, placing a soft kiss on his lips. "I love you, Jake."

You had no idea how much he needed to hear that. Of course he knew it, but having moments like this, so intimate, even more than the sex they just had, gave him strength to face all the bullshit people said about you and him. Cause in the end, this is what he was coming home to. He felt safe.

"I love you so much, my princess."

#jake gyllenhaal #jake gyllenhaal x reader #jake gyllenhaal fanfic #jake gyllenhaal smut #jake gyllenhaal x you #jake gyllenhaal x y/n #jake gyllenhaal imagine

[percervall]

I'm not a woman (I'm a god)

Pairing: Toto Wolff x Horner!reader Words: 3194 Warnings: Greek Mythology AU, descriptions of misogyny and sexism, Christian Horner is painted the villain, implied age gap (both are legal adults), smut, masturbation, p in v, loss of virginity, no beta we die like my sanity during f1 silly season

In which you claim what's rightfully yours

---

As the meeting progresses, you can’t fight the urge to speak up any longer. Had you still been at RedBull, you would’ve; you would have bitten your tongue until it bled because your father didn’t much care for your opinions, as he called it, despite the fact you had spent years on getting your Masters and then spent another three years on studying all the strategy calls the team had ever made to see where things could improve. No, your father allowed you to sit in those meetings just so he could keep an eye on you. But you are no longer under his watchful eye and scrutiny; Toto Wolff made sure of that. Oh, people like to say that you were stolen from the RedBull garage, your father playing the role of victim like he was born to do so, but nothing could be farther from the truth. You weren’t stolen like the 2021 Abu Dhabi Grand Prix; no, you chose to be claimed by Mercedes and their team principal. Thus, here you are, part of Lewis’ team as a strategy engineer, about to do the one thing your father always reprimanded you for: speaking out against a figure of authority.

“Are you going to say what’s on your mind or do I have to make do with your facial expressions?” Toto drawls, making your decision for you. You can feel your heart beating against your ribs as nerves flutter in the hollow of your chest.

“With all due respect, sir,” you start, the room breaking out in a mocking chuckle but you will not let that deter you, “With all due respect, but this strategy will cost you points. You are all so sure that this race will lead to a safety car while experience tells us that the chances of that happening this weekend are 2% at most, and all safety cars deployed in the last six years have been due to car malfunctions. If you want to end up in the points, I would propose a two stop strategy, allocating at least two sets of mediums for the race on Sunday and forgoing softs all together seeing as how much they suffer from tyre deg at this circuit.” The room is dead silent when you finish. Toto’s eyes remain on you, his face a stoic mask.

“Check my numbers if you want,” you add, growing in your confidence the longer this staring contest continues. Toto looks at one of the other engineers, eyebrow raised with a silent command. You hear someone frantically typing as they run the numbers. Leaning back in your chair you take a sip of your coffee, willing your hands not to tremble despite how nervous you feel. Whispers of she’s right flitter around the room as more people join in with re-running your calculations. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling smugly at being proven right four times over. 

“Very well, Ms Halliwell,” Toto says, silencing the room once more. “We’ll try your set up with Lewis’ car and stick to what was already decided on by the senior members for George.” This is as much of a win as you are going to get right now, and you will gladly take it, but there’s a twinkle in Toto’s eyes that has your stomach in knots. You’re not sure whether it’s pride or awe; either way, it fills you with a feeling you can’t quite place yet you know you will crave it for weeks to come.  

When Sunday rolls around, you pray to whoever will listen that your numbers check out. You have gone over the statistics of this grand prix so often that you could probably recite them in your sleep at this point. Had it been any other race, you would have accepted whatever outcome, but this one means more. You need Mercedes to do well here in Austria, but more than anything you need your father’s team to suffer the consequences of their misogyny and ignorance. As you walk into the garage ahead of the race, your heels clicking against the cement, your eyes lock with Toto who gives you a slow smile as his eyes rake over you, taking in the way the stark white fabric of your team issued blouse and your tapered black trousers show off all your assets; you know you look delectable, and you know he knows it too. From the moment you met him for your job interview (which you landed under false pretences, using your mother’s name), there’s been an undercurrent of tension. It should’ve made you cautious, fearful even, of powerful men in powerful places, but Toto has been nothing but gracious, always indulging your retorts and meeting you tit for tat, a flirtatious game of cat and mouse that you’re enjoying immensely.

“I want you next to Bono during the race. You decided on the strategy, it’s only fair you get the recognition –whether it works or not,” Toto tells you. Nodding your head, you put on your headphones and take your place at the centre console. No more hiding in plain view, your father will see exactly what you are capable of –what you could have given him. Fighting the urge to chew the skin around your thumb, you keep your back straight and shoulders back as the race starts. You keep an eye on the weather satellite, scanning for any changes that could mess with the chosen strategy while listening to Lewis’ feedback for Bono, making suggestions for minute corrections to the set up of the car. Bono graciously forwards your ideas to the driver who slowly but surely climbs his way through the field. The RedBulls are still leading the pack, but you’re certain that your father’s confidence will be his downfall. As you had predicted, there is no need for a safety car during the race and, judging by the call to pit by your father’s golden child, they had been betting on one by using the softs at the start of the race.

“You were spot on with the tyre deg stats,” Bono tells you and you can’t help but smile wickedly back at him. There’s five laps left, and both RedBulls are on the hard tyre, which will never warm up in time to benefit from their longevity. George seems to be suffering a similar fate while Lewis is fighting with one of the McLarens for P2. Your eyes remain glued to the feed of Lewis’ on board camera as he begins the final lap. He is quickly gaining on the McLaren and in what can only be described as a masterclass, overtakes it to secure a P2 finish. Lewis’ radio message doesn’t even register; all you can hear is white noise as it dawns on you that you have shown everyone just what you’re capable of. It has whetted your appetite for more –for destruction. 

The team is celebrating a podium finish as if it’s a win, and you suppose to them it most definitely feels like one. You’re standing on the edge where the garage meets pit lane, watching them with a smile on your face when Toto comes to stand behind you.

“I want you front and centre when Lewis climbs that podium. You have earned this accolade and should be rewarded as such. Let your father see what he’s done,” he murmurs, voice low. It sends a shiver down your spine but you manage to nod in agreement.

“Good. Oh, and as part of your reward, I think we should celebrate accordingly in private, wouldn’t you agree? The choice is yours, take it or don’t. No hard feelings either way,” he adds, chest brushing against your back as he leans closer. Swallowing thickly, you nod once more, not trusting your voice as heat pools low in your belly at the insinuation. You can feel him slide something into your back pocket and you don’t have to check to know it’s the keycard to his hotel room. 

During the podium celebrations you stood front row, eyes steadfast on the podium with a smile so wide, your cheeks ached. You can only imagine the tales Crofty and Martin are spinning about you; no doubt making inferences about how distraught your father was to have his only daughter working for the rival. Let them spin their fairy tales, you had better things to get on with –or, more accurately, a better man. Sliding the key card into the lock, you enter the hotel room of your boss. Once you take this step, there’s no turning back, but you are willing to eat the proverbial pomegranate seeds. 

Toto turns around when he hears the lock click and you lean against the door. He looks incredible; sleeves of his shirt rolled up and a few of the top buttons are undone. 

“Wine?” he asks, picking up the bottle from the desk. 

“Yes, please,” you respond, accepting the glass he hands you. Toto smiles, and it’s so sly, bordering on debauched, that it has you squeezing your thighs together.

“Still some manners left in you. I wonder how long that will last,” he muses, raising his glass at you as he sits down on the edge of the bed. 

“They claim you have stolen me from RedBull, much like they claim Hades stole Persephone,” you say, straddling him before taking a sip of your wine. He can’t help but laugh when he sees the twinkle in your eyes, one of his large hands coming to rest on your hip.

“Oh, Meine Liebe, we both know you were not some prize that could be stolen. You saw the hell they created for you and thus you fled so you could set the world ablaze.” His use of a term of endearment is not lost on you, and you crave to hear more of it. 

“Stolen or not, I am here. What are you planning on doing to me?” you ask him, holding his gaze. 

“Oh, I plan on doing everything, darling. Every depraved fantasy you could think of and more,” Toto says as he puts his glass on the nightstand. You grow hot all over at his words. Despite your sharp wit –and even sharper tongue, if your father’s word is anything to go on–, you are about to enter previously uncharted waters. Of course you heard stories from your female friends while at University, devoured smutty book after smutty book, but actually doing any of it? Your father would dig himself a grave so he could roll in it if he ever knew what his little girl was about to do. The nervousness you felt earlier today is back in full swing as you try to find the words to tell him your biggest secret. 

“I-.. I’ve never done this before. I attended Oxford so I could live at home, remain under his watch,” you confess, not even able to say the words out loud. Toto studies your face, filling in the blanks with how your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. 

“No man has ever touched you?” You shake your head as you bite your lip. 

“Have you touched yourself, darling?” Toto asks and while he says nothing that could be construed as dirty, you gasp as if he has. Nodding your head, you can’t help but roll your hips against him, inadvertently grinding your pussy against the hardened bulge in his trousers. Toto swears under his breath, gaze darkening as he tightens his grip on you. 

“Will you show me, Liebling? Will you show me how you make yourself feel good?” 

Even if you wanted to, you’re not sure you could ever deny this man any request; not when he asks so caringly, as if your pleasure is the sole purpose of all of this. Breathlessly, you nod, letting Toto take your wine glass from you while you strip out of your work clothes. As you slide your blouse down your arms, you hear Toto groan as he takes in your figure clad in nothing more than your pale lilac bra and panties. It’s not the sexiest set you own, but it’s one of the few that doesn’t show through the white fabric. Before you lose your nerve, you climb back on the bed, eyes locked on Toto who leans against the footboard of the bed. He gives you a look, so openly full of desire that it makes your head spin and your pussy throb at being the object of his lust. Closing your eyes, you lean back into the pillows while your hand wanders. You can almost pretend you’re alone, your brain quickly supplying all the sordid fantasies you would never dare to say out loud. As your fingers inch under the elastic of your underwear, you can’t help but bite your lip as your hips writhe on the sheets. The tip of your pointer finger rubs against your clit and you gasp at the sensation, head thrown back. You’re already so sensitive, it won’t take much to send you over the edge. Applying the slightest bit more pressure, you begin to rub tight little circles, letting out the neediest whining noise.

“Fuck, you look so good like this,” Toto groans. 

“Please,” you whisper, lifting your head so you can look at him. His legs are spread and he palms his bulge while he watches you pleasure yourself, and that sight alone sends your head spinning. 

“Let go for me, darling,” Toto orders gently, and who are you to disobey him? Your body arches, head thrown back as you come undone under his watchful eye. 

When you open your eyes, you can see movement to your right. Sitting up on your elbows, you watch how Toto strips down to his underwear, and walks into the ensuite. You can feel your cheeks heat up when you spot the foil packets and the bottle of lube in his hands. Toto drops them on the bed before climbing on. Hovering over you, he brushes a strand of your hair back behind your ears.

“I want this to be enjoyable for you. Please tell me when you feel uncomfortable, tell me when something makes you feel good.” You nod, breath caught in your lungs. Toto smiles so tenderly at you that it makes you forget about everything else. He moves his hand from your cheek, down your neck to your bra strap.

“Can I take this off, Liebling?” he asks quietly. You can only nod, too enthralled by him to form words.

“Need to hear you say it, darling. I will always need to hear you,” Toto murmurs.

“Yes,” you whisper, swallowing down your nerves about him seeing you naked. He gently unclasps your bra, moving the straps down your arms before pulling it away completely.

“Beautiful,” he says softly, his eyes taking you in and you fight the urge to cover yourself up. Toto’s hands caress your skin, as if he is trying to commit every line and curve to memory. You arch up into his touch as he cups your breast, his thumb rubbing over your nipple and it sets something alight in your core. Toto’s hands move lower, fingers curling around the elastic of your panties.

“What about these?” 

“Yes,” you reply quietly, lifting your hips to help him. He sits back on his knees, hands sliding down your thighs and his fingers are so close to where you’re aching for him, it makes you whine. Toto chuckles, moving his body over yours once more.

“You want it so bad, don’t you Liebling?” he murmurs in your ear, and the only reply you can form is a quiet uhu. He smiles against your skin, pressing a chaste kiss to your jaw before moving away to fully strip. Biting your lip, you watch him tear open one of the foil packets and roll it down his hard cock. Anticipation and nerves flitter low in your stomach; he’s definitely bigger than the vibrator you have hidden away in the back of your closet.

“We’ll take it slow, okay? You decide how far we go, you’re in control,” Toto reassures you, moving closer so he can lean down to kiss you.

“Okay,” you whisper before his lips are on yours. Your fingers tangle in his hair while he drags his cock through your folds and over your clit. Toto moves his lips down your neck, kissing and sucking gently, sure to leave marks. Your body seems to have a mind of its own as your hips grind against him and you feel a desperation taking hold of you.

“Please,” you sigh.

“Tell me Liebling, what do you want?” Toto murmurs.

“Please.. Need you- need you in me,” you all but whimper, “Fill me Toto, please..” He groans against the skin of your neck at your request. Toto fumbles blindly for the lube and applies a generous amount to his cock and your pussy. Biting your lip, you lean up and watch as he slowly, so very slowly, sinks himself inside of you. The stretch has you panting and you feel how you clench around him. He holds you close, letting you adjust to the sensation of being filled completely. 

“Need you to move, Toto,” you moan, fingers clawing at his back. 

“Doing so good for me, darling. Taking me so well, fuck..” he groans against your skin as he sets a languid pace, and while it’s slow, his thrusts are so deep. 

“Ha-harder.. I can take it.. Please..” you whine, Toto eagerly complying with your demand. The only thing you’re able to do is cling to him as he keeps fucking you, whimpering every time he hits a spot inside of you that brings you just that teeny bit closer to the edge.

“Need you to cum, darling. Can you do that for me?” he asks as rubs his thumb over your clit. 

“Uhu,” you whisper meekly, unable to form a single coherent thought as you feel your orgasm approaching.

“Close.. Toto… Please.. Need.. Need to-..” 

“That’s it. God, you look so beautiful, just taking my cock like this. Come for me, darling.” And with that something snaps, your body arching as you feel your pussy clenching around him in waves. Toto keeps fucking you through it, chasing his own release, but you’re too far gone to pay attention. He keeps pressing kisses to your temple and hairline as he carefully pulls out, making sure the condom stays on. The loss has you whimpering.

“I know, I know,” Toto coos, “I’ll be right back. Did so good for me, so proud of you.” He gives you one last kiss before getting up to dispose of the condom and returns with a flannel to clean you up best he can. He throws it down by the side of the bed, and takes you in his arms. Your body feels completely boneless and you try to stifle a yawn. 

“Take a nap, Liebling. We’ll get properly cleaned up in a bit.” Nodding you allow sleep to pull you under as Toto whispers sweet nothings against your hair. 

written as part of @footballffbarbiex’s kink bingo challenge

It's not the 10k fic I joked about, but I finally managed to write the Greek Mythology AU I've been thinking about since early last year. Wanted to get this done and up before more information comes out during this delayed silly season, so if things feel rushed, it's because they are. This fic was heavily influenced by Bea Fitzgerald's Girl, Goddess, Queen; if you love retellings of Greek mythology, please check it out

Please let me know what you think; you comments, tags and likes mean the absolute world to me! 💜

#f1 fanfic #toto wolff smut #toto wolff fanfic #toto wolff x reader #toto wolff x you #kink bingo challenge

[lightlycareless]

Hiii, I just imagined a scene where Naoya and y/n sleeping in the same bed, but they don't get along, because y/n hates him for the things he did, but then he asks her with the most pleading voice ever: "can I hold you?" and it just melts my heart. (for the arranged marriage au)

Hello!!

This was really sweet and angsty :( I had to write it I'm sorry. lol I won't distract you from it now!!

Anyways, here are the warnings: misogyny. arranged marriage. you're getting yelled at.

Happy reading!!

Also, I'm unsure where this arranged marriage au came from, but I tend to take it as a guiding point as the context behind naoya's and y/n's relationship hahaha—unless this is referring to first it hurts? unsure unsure... hope you like it anyways :3!

If were talking about a marriage that even when having a rough start, Naoya and you still managed to fall in love…

Then we gotta go all the way back to the beginning. Where you don’t know Naoya at all, and technically, Naoya doesn’t know you either.

Yet, he still knew he wanted to marry you. Because of all prospects out there, you were perhaps the best choice… or maybe there was something deeper inside him pushing him to favor you?

But regardless of what you and Naoya think, the moment both clans know of their suitability, an agreement was struck, a marriage of “convenience”—intended to obtain a better future, or at least a more tolerable present.

Due to the nature of this decision, you obviously weren’t consulted. Not even aware of until a week before the grand celebration!

Still, you did your best to call off the engagement. Justify that this union couldn’t amount to anything due to your ignorance regarding the Zen’in and their ways, how you wouldn’t be able to fit in what they considered appropriate, and how unwilling you were to put your family in such humiliation—things that were more than anything, trying to appease your clan’s approval, not truly reflecting your true emotions…

But the decision was firmly set, so much so that as soon as Naoya became aware of the faintest possibility of his engagement crumbling, urged your family to push the date earlier, just so you couldn’t argue against it any longer.

Eventually, the ceremony finally occurs, and while everyone is celebrating the union of a powerful clan and all the benefits that ensued, you couldn’t be any more dejected about it.

It was nothing but evident, even in the pictures taken afterwards, that the only ones happy about this were everyone but you.

How they were elated to see your suffering is something that you’d never be able to comprehend, as well as the “friendly” manner Naoya attempted to approach you, as if trying to distract you from the fact that he roped you into this union, probably even threatened your family into it given his clan’s reputation…

You didn’t want to do anything with him—nothing at all. Not even giving him a chance to get to know him. He didn’t deserve that.

All that he could get from you was nothing.

Nothing

And that would be apparent in the way you’d avoid him at all costs, to the point where even your marriage was not consummated during the honeymoon.

The Zen’in elders had yet to believe that such thing had been the truth; thinking it to be some kind of baseless rumor created from the owners of the ryokan both stayed in order to… well, humiliate the Zen’in heir—either way, they did not believe it. Didn’t think someone like Naoya could’ve allowed such transgression to occur...

But it did.

It was the undeniable truth: you did not want to be near him in any shape or form.

Because you didn’t even agree to marry him, what made them think you’d be willing to be intimate with Naoya?!

Unfortunately, your reasoning isn’t something the elders from both his and your family cared about—they simply wanted to see fruits of this union to cement their agreement as soon as possible.

And to achieve that, they started pressuring Naoya to act.

Naoya would try to first “ease” you by giving you gifts, as his relatives would suggest, for “women, as much as they’re sentimental, they’re also materialistic. Specially the modern ones.” They’d say. “Give them a few things, tell them nice words, and you’ll see how easily they succumb to your demands.”

Naoya didn’t question their patronizing words, nor cared to demand respect towards his wife, because at that point, feeling both humiliated and perhaps discouraged by your aloof behavior, all that your husband wanted was to close the broadening gap between the two, one that had evidently grown bigger and bigger with each passing day.

The gifts started with basic things he believed girls liked, such as: jewelry, clothes, accessories… objects that you didn’t end up paying mind to, or actually liked for they were none of your allure—just to highlight the fact that he knew nothing of you, nor bothered to find out.

Given the failure of this attempt, Naoya swiftly believed you were the type of person that liked to be rewarded with a good time, going out and such.

And while Naoya wasn’t particularly fond of these activities, not when he’s already gotten what he wanted, didn’t mean he was sympathetic to the fact you were nothing but apathetic to his alternatives—if anything, you appeared to be disgusted by them.

Naturally, it didn’t take long for Naoya to grow desperate beyond this point.

Yes, he imagined that something so out of the blue couldn’t sail smoothly at the beginning, didn’t expect it either… but shouldn’t his efforts count for something? Be recognized for what they’re worth? For what they represent?

It’s not easy for him, it couldn’t be for someone raised in the circumstances he did.

But if the things that are worthwhile take effort, then why isn’t he seeing results??

Naoya is tired of the way you dismally behave towards him. The way you always ignore him, the way you act like he’s not even there, when he’s your husband, the man who you will more likely spend the rest of your life with. The father of your children!

Yet, you act like he is nothing.

At the thought, alongside the nth failed approach, Naoya loses his cool.

Dropping everything on the spot and yelling his frustrations at you, careless of who saw, where he was, in such way a way that lets you know he has been holding onto this for a while now—

And that he’s not only capable of that, but more.

Naoya didn’t mean to.

Naoya didn’t intend to… lash out the way he did, yell as loud as he did, insult you as harshly as he had done…

But it simply came out like that.

His emotions getting the best of him, completely overriding any semblance of common sense, decency… and seemingly putting down the last nail onto the coffin this marriage was doomed to be enclosed in from the very beginning.

The only time Naoya manages to snap out of his trance is when he sees the frightened, tearful way your eyes look back to him, body trembling, throat tight, speechless, as you take one, two steps away from him, before turning around and running away, to seemingly nowhere he could find you for the rest of the day.

Your husband was never one to measure his words, care about the way they could impact others, but when he sees the consequences of his actions for the first time in his life, he quickly finds himself regretting all that he done towards you, immediately urged to mend whatever he could before this marriage crumbles even more—if there was anything to rescue by this point.

But as much as he considered himself to be diligent, a good sorcerer, with a keen eye that nothing ever escapes him, he can’t find you.

No matter where he searched, or how many times he’s asked the staff to cooperate, demand an answer of your whereabouts less they wanted to be fired, you were nowhere to be found.

At one point, Naoya believed you had escaped the estate. Even though there was nowhere for you to run given the location they were in, he couldn’t overrule this possibility thanks to your prolonged absence, to the point where he’s already gathering up a search crew to find you—

Until he finds you back in his bedroom, lying on your side of the futon, with your eyes to the wall, as close as the edge as possible, just as you always did when sharing a bed with him, already deep into slumber.

The first thing anyone would’ve done is demanded an explanation from you, seek to know where you’d been, reprimand you for thinking this was even right in the first place…

But all that Naoya could muster is a sigh, relieved to see you again, seemingly well, and there with him once again.

Yet, as much as he is glad to see this familiar sight… he knows nothing has changed.

If anything, it just worsened.

Naoya is tired.

He doesn’t feel like putting up a fight, or stopping you when you inevitably move away from him once he joins you in bed; so, all that he does is dismiss whatever plans he had in mind before changing out of his attire, stepping into his nightwear, slip onto the futon, and drift into sleep, which he assumes will happen in a matter of minutes.

But it doesn’t.

No matter how much he tries, how many sheep he counts or how many numbers he goes through, Naoya cannot succumb to his exhaustion, ignore the presence next to him, nor his desire to be close to you.

Even if you were there, he doesn’t believe it. He can’t believe it.

Because for a moment, for a very, very brief moment, he thought he’d lost you.

And it was the worst feeling he had ever experienced in his life.

He knows, deep in his heart, that his attempts haven’t been nice. He knows that his actions hadn’t been ones that many would consider right when trying to approach their partner, seen them fail countless times in the past—

But even with all these failures, having lead them to nowhere…

Naoya still wants to be close to you. Wants to be in your life, and you in his.

He doesn’t ask for much, he never needed much if he’s being honest.

To simply have you there, alongside him, was enough to achieve what he considered his own personal happiness.

So, with all the pain in his heart for his actions and the relief to have you there with him for another night at least, he is urged to move closer to you. Slowly shifting onto his side and sliding closer and closer to you, until he’s barely inches away from you.

Naoya’s never said it before, but his thoughts always remained the same when it came to it: he loves your scent. The overwhelming way it filled his mind, with thoughts of nothing of you…

Of the shiny way your hair looks underneath the sunlight, how soft he imagines it to be, or at least has the idea from the brief times he’s touched it, regretting how he always seemed focused on everything else but that, how he would do anything to thread his fingers through it, or make your face brighten when he compliments it.

And of course, the undeniable, most vital thing he could not live without: your warmth. The sensation that always welcomed him whenever joining you at night, which he wishes he could bask in all the time, every single second of the day: when coming home from a long day at work, or when he’s feeling particularly down.

Naoya would do anything to have you in his arms, and to not feel like he was forcing you to be there, trapped with nothing less than your tormentor.

Was it too much to ask?

… will he ever live to feel such a thing?

Can today… be the difference?

“Y/N.” Naoya whispers, softly, enough to not wake you up if you’re already asleep, but loud for you to hear if you. “Are you… awake?”

You don’t answer, yet… Naoya knows you’re awake given the way you unwittingly tense at his voice—just about the common way you’d react to him.

But even if this was proving to be the same as any other time… his heart still felt like this could change.

Or perhaps hoped it would.

“… I didn’t mean to scare you, you know?” He continues, but you still do not respond. Perhaps you were asleep after all…

Until a sniffle proves him wrong.

The sound, albeit small, was tremendous in Naoya’s mind, resonating in every crevice of his thoughts, rattling his heart and shattering whatever he had left of it, guilt settling deeper into his soul.

If he had any doubt that he had been a mad monster towards you, the same kind that his family often bred into existence—

Your tears ruled him out of any uncertainty.

To believe he embraced these ideals in the past…

But not anymore.

Because all that he cares about now is caring for you, the way he always should’ve done, and comforting you from the struggles he knows he put you through.

One step at a time.

“Can I… hold you?” he whispers, there’s still no answer from you…

But it’s maybe in the tone he asks you, or because he asked you in the first place, that you don’t do anything when his arms hovers around you, don’t put up resistance when he finally touches you, wrapping you into an embrace and pulling you towards his chest—Naoya taking in your warmth, a sentiment so… soft yet welcoming, he never thought he’d be capable of experiencing in his life.

Yet, he did, here, with you, his wife.

The only woman he has ever set his sights on for something more than just a good time, the only person he feels he could do far more than just have there, living with him, inspired him to go to the end of the world and back, just to see her smile.

Naoya always believed that something silly as this could never happen to him. Thought it stupid, delirious, an invention for people to not feel as pathetic and lonely as they really were.

But now that he’s had a taste of that emotion, or at least something he considered remotely similar… Naoya doesn’t want to let go.

Naoya wants more. Wants to know if he’s deserving of such, wondering if this could be his reality, a marriage that wasn’t built in frustration, fear, the constant disgust for the other, or convenience…

He… wishes to believe so.

All that was left then, was to know if you thought the same.

Maybe, considering you didn’t push him away…

…

…

Truth to be told, you had your own thoughts, your own doubts; naturally.

The question of whether there was any hope for you to begin with constantly lingered in your mind.

If there was even a reason for you to remain here if Naoya had been nothing but less than desirable, and that’s without even considering his family.

How little to nothing your husband had done to defend you, alongside excusing those that have wronged you, or how he intentionally keeps you isolated from the world for some unknown reason…

And now, intimidated you into thinking your life could be in danger through his own furious actions.

Any other night you would’ve rejected Naoya, just like you always did. You would’ve pushed him away, demanded to keep his hands to himself, as you did your best to survive the night.

It was obvious by this point that you didn’t sleep—no one could expect you to do so in these conditions; how you even managed to stand up in the morning without passing out due to exhaustion was a surprise, but at the same time, it’s not like you could do anything else: whether you tried to separate yourself from him, the staff and his relatives always pushed you against it.

So, it’s why you were here again at the end of the day, in his futon, listening to his surprising request…

Which you should’ve rejected, especially after the horrible way he treated you for rejecting him again.

Yet, you didn’t.

And maybe it was his tone, or maybe it was the fact that he asked you for the first time…

But not only did you not push him away, you stayed there, and allowed him to touch you.

Because at the end of the day, just as Naoya thought it impossible for him to feel something nice, something he once considered delusional, stupid, impossible…

You also wondered if this is what it felt like when having a husband that cared for you.

That held you with intentions of protecting, cherishing, and not to demean and humiliate…

To have a partner to love and be loved by.

Only for tonight, you’ll let his actions answer for you.

I like to think that after this, things begin to improve between the two 🥺❤️

Anyways, thank you so much for sending in this ask! I really enjoyed diving into this particular scenario, agghhhh 😭😭😭 I cried a bit.

Take care, and hope to see you soon!!

(p.s. something like this will happen in my main fic aagagaaggagagaa spoilers)

#ask #naoya zenin #naoya zen'in #naoya x reader #naoya zenin x reader #naoya zenin x you #jjk naoya #naoya zen'in x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk x you #prompt series: jujutsu kaisen

[fromchaostocosmos]

If you will forgive my somewhat clunky metaphor, being a Jew on the Left often feels like I'm in abusive relationship.

I'm most certainly not going to go to the Right not only because of my morals, ethics, and values, but because whether it be overt or covert their end goal is the death and destruction of me, my people, our culture, and everything we hold believe in. It is like the Right is someone who just all red flags and your gut tells you if enter into a relationship with them the only way it ends is with them killing you. But the Left, well the Left seems cool and you get along and have similar view points so you think okay this could work. But it turns out the have some strange friends who have some real not okay thoughts and the Left will say "I'm not really with them you know", but they will still do stuff with and invite to stuff and won't end the friendship when those friends say some real disgusting things. Then as things progress you are not allowed to have things from a different perspective made from the nuances of your history and experiences. Then Left is telling you can't have certain thoughts, feelings, or be hurt by things. The Left is telling you what think is not what you think, what you heard you didn't, what you saw you didn't see, you just don't get it, you don't understand. Suddenly the rules that you both agreed to are being changed on you, and you are being told that you liar and are in fact the one with power and abusive. Not just that antisemitism is not antisemitism and according to Left you call everything antisemitism to delegitimize and downplay and shutdown. Suddenly the Left knows your history better then you and is explaining your beliefs, history, just everything to you as if you don't know it all already and know it better and more in depth. You are alone with no one and the Left is saying you are cheating with the Right when you would never and you just want to make it work. And it all is mess.

That is basically how I feel right now about the Left and how it feels to be a leftist and Jewish.

I mean it has always been somewhat difficult. There has always been a pretty large amount of antisemitism there. But right now it is on a whole kind of level.

I mean there is the old joke about hating Jews being the one thing that can bring the left and right together.

I think a fair amount of what I'm describing other marginalized people's have felt to a degree as well on the left. I do not want to discount those experiences.

I think overall the left needs to do better, I think it needs to stop being so White TM like white focused in its leftism, I think also that using the USA understanding of Race and Racial politics is dangerous and plain unhelpful when applied to global scale.

I think the Left needs to stop viewing the amount of color in a persons skin to what they must be because it ignores so much history and nuance. This doesn't mean we ignore White Privilege because we can not. This means we need to start having nuance and dialectical thinking going on. Such as understanding Conditional Whiteness and White Privilege are not the same.

The Left also needs to take Colorism more seriously as a whole and do more to combat and end it.

The Left needs to learn and understand just how much of the world we live in now is built on so many systemic abuses. And that the very foundation of it, no material that the foundation is made of is Systemic Ableism, Systemic Anti-Blackness, Systemic Antisemitism, and Systemic Misogyny with everything really branching off and out from there.

#antisemitism #jumblr #leftist antisemitism

[souryogurt64]

what did they do now

 It is ridiculous that if a random FOB fan posts on their personal account that it rubs them the wrong way that Pete Wentz/FOB, who are infamous for being misogynistic, are suddenly pushing this whole “Deepthroat a middle aged man!! Get him to pay money for your pussy!!! Wear toddler clothes while doing it too!!!” thing— 

— Andy’s much younger influencer wife goes hunting through the dregs of stan Twitter to publicly put this random fan on blast for so-called misogyny. For months, including the DAY before this happened, I had been declining to answer, mincing words, or evading frequent anons asking me my opinion on this topic because I was nervous about this kind of thing happening due to FOB's tendency to micromanage their fanbase. 

I understand being a woman in music or married to a musician can make you a target for misogynistic harassment. But this post had nothing to do with Meredith, was not tagging Carr or commenting directly on her posts, and is a perfectly legitimate opinion to express. Like I’m not even going to start on why this wasn’t OK. 

But most importantly, it is a perfectly justified opinion to have that Fall Out boy pushing this music and imagery does not make women feel empowered and is icky. Here we go 

This type of music 

To start, on some level, Meredith is right. Women have every right to do whatever they want. Having casual sex or a daddy kink or wearing revealing clothing doesn’t make you any less of a feminist. Music expressing women’s sexuality and these aspects of women’s sexuality can absolutely be feminist speech. 

However, the music of women who have pioneered this style often make music about a variety of topics beyond sex. Their songs about sex often contain a high degree of nuance and a three-dimensional view of women’s sexuality, including the negative things women experience. I’m going to explore several cases of this and then contrast them with Carr’s music. 

#1: Ayesha Erotica

Ayesha Erotica is perhaps the best example of sexually graphic TikTok music as a form of female sexual empowerment. However, her songs are not just graphically about fucking dudes, they are more nuanced and subversive than this. 

For example, “Sixteen” is about becoming involved with a 25 year old who wants to “beat her with his cock” and tries to film her underwear when she’s walking around. While she’s initially thrilled by the attention, the chorus is “Wait, what? I’m just sixteen. And if you try anything funny, you’re going to go to jail” and contains lines like “You know that this is wrong, I don’t want your dirty talk.” 

Her tonal delivery on the chorus is important. She starts off sounding scared and confused, and then moves to more aggressive. Ultimately, this song is about a young girl learning to hold her own and rejecting a guy who is treating her in a degrading way because he has a fetish for her underage body. 

Another song, “Literal Legend,” focuses on her own self-confidence and credits iconic women across a variety of backgrounds, including Lindsay Lohan, Bjork, Courtney Love, Rihanna, Janet Jackson, Paris Hilton, Marilyn Monroe, and Madonna. Many of these women’s legacies include moments where feminist issues have been spotlighted in pop culture, such as such as Rihanna being beaten by Chris Brown, Janet Jackson’s breast on MTV, paparazzi taking nonconsensual upskirt photos of Lindsay Lohan’s vagina, et cetera. While sexual at parts, the song also makes a point to highlight her extreme confidence about her small breasts, a feature that men usually mock and find unattractive; this is a subversion of traditional expectations. 

#2 Melanie Martinez 

Melanie Martinez is frequently and harshly criticized for her over-reliance on the shock value of sexualizing children’s clothing and the daddy kink thing. 

Even so, she almost always explores more nuanced themes regarding women’s sexuality in her music. For example, “Cake” is about how she doesn't want to be valued for just sex and wants to be valued as a person.

“Teacher’s Pet” is about a student being groomed by a teacher in exchange for better grades. While the narrator is initially in love with the teacher, lines like “If I’m so special, why am I secret?”, “Stop calling me your bunny,” and “You don't own me,” demonstrate this is a song about a naive girl ultimately understanding this type of relationship is wrong and rejecting him. 

“Tag, You’re It,” is about rape. “Teddy Bear” is about a nice guy who becomes abusive. Many of her songs are also not about sex. “Dollhouse” is about the facade covering a family’s problems, and “Mrs. Potato Head” is about the pressure women feel to get plastic surgery, specifically by husbands and boyfriends. 

While her image often revolves around the shock value of sexualizing things associated with children, her music primarily deals with feminism and feminist topics. (Even if you can argue that it is poorly written or insensitively handled.)

#3 Scene Queen 

Scene Queen is probably the newest artist doing this that has blown up. While this music is highly sexualized and she relies on the “bimbo” aesthetic, there is a high degree of subverting traditional gendered expectations in her music. “Pink Panther” is about a female orgy. “Finger” is about lesbian sex. “18+” is about male musicians grooming underage fans. “Barbie and Ken” is about Barbie killing Ken. 

#4 Megan Thee Stallion

WAP—about being turned on and enjoying sex— is probably one of the biggest moments for women’s sexuality in pop culture and the controversy women singing explicitly about sex causes. Her other songs, though, explore other themes about confidence and empowerment. “Not My Fault” is about confidence and—like Scene Queen’s songs—sex between women. “Wanna Be” is about independence and dumping a guy who treated you wrong, as is her verse on “Beautiful Mistakes.”  “HISS” is about confidence and empowerment despite getting hate online—and does not revolve around a man. 

In contrast…. Carr

Carr’s music is not like this music, it is different. It is entirely about men, often reinforces typical sexual roles instead of subverting them, except one singular song that is likely putting down other women. Her music and her image also became way more sexually graphic and fetish-y after being signed by Pete Wentz. 

Pre DCD2 

2019

“Vann McCann” is about wanting guys to be more like a famous musician. “Strangers” is about drifting apart from your ex boyfriend. “Blue” is about liking a guy in spite of his struggles with depression. “Without You” is about things not working out with a guy. “Ready Yet” is about ruining a budding relationship with a guy. 

2020

“Shampoo” is about missing your ex boyfriend. “Unsaid” is about drifting apart from your ex boyfriend.  “Mixed Signals” is about not liking a guy back. “Circles” is about being unable to break off contact with your ex boyfriend. 

2021

“Poor Boy” is about not liking nice guys back, and instead wanting guys who will “treat me like a toy,” “make me beg for more,” and leave her after sex. “French Fries” is about not liking a nice guy back. “Airheads” is about liking a guy who doesn’t like you.  “Carrtoons” is about having a crush on a guy. “Kiss Me When I’m Dead” is about rejecting a guy. “Loser” is about wanting a guy to die because you don’t like him. “Sprinter Van” is about wanting to be a “groupie” and have a “one night stand” with an emo guy in a band. “Scary Movies” is about wanting a guy to die because you don’t like him. 

Post DCD2

She got signed to DCD2 around 2022. There is too much album art to catalog all of it, but prior to being signed to DCD2, her album art was often photos of her standing fully clothed, or cute drawings of things like bottles of shampoo. It was not sexually graphic. It takes a turn after being signed by Pete Wentz. 

2022

“Bed Head” is about giving a guy that doesn’t like you back a blowjob.  “Cold Charlie” is about liking a guy who doesn’t like you back. “How To Lose A Friend in 10 Days” is about ceasing communications with a guy who you were having sex with. “Sarasota” is about hating a guy. “Sudden Death” is about being obsessed with a guy your friends hate. “XL T” is about breaking up with a guy. “Almost Famous” is about being sexually involved with a male celebrity. “TV Star” is about being sexually involved with a male celebrity. 

Notably, the album art for many of these songs features her sitting on a toilet wearing red panties. There is also album art that features her in white panties. Also, “Spit” is about being in love with a guy and wanting to spit in his mouth. The album art is a woman spitting in a man’s mouth.

2023

“Sick Bro” is about having “double Ds” and “looking pretty on your knees.” The album art is her in a red bra with emphasis on her cleavage. “Dirty Shoes” is about wanting to have sex with a guy. “Spiral City” is about being sad a guy doesn’t like you back, and includes lines about being “so horny” you want to “break into his house and get naked.” 

“Doctor Doctor” is about wanting to have sex with a guy who is doctor and includes “take my temperature,” which is an anal fetish thing, and implies this relationship is inappropriate. “Step on Your Face” is about stepping on a guy’s face. This is also fetish. “Garbage” is about being mean to a guy you are having sex with. “I Like Dogs” is about things not working out with a hookup. 

“Voldemort” is about being the other woman with a guy cheating on his girlfriend. “Usual Medication” is about having sex with a guy after drinking too much. 

Notably, the album art from this year is her in a toddler tutu and underwear standing over a guy who is looking at and grabbing her butt. This guy is a mechanic working on a car; beyond the pun, it is a reinforcement of traditional gender expectations and a typical porn setup. 

“Industry Kids” is the ONLY song she has that is not specifically about romantic or sexual relationships with men. It is about hating musicians with industry connections that are almost 30 and dress like teenagers. I cannot help but notice that Daisy Grenade, the other girl band on Pete’s label, are in the right age range, and wear a style of clothing typically attributed to teenagers. They have stated in an interview that they were signed because they have connections, and that they lightly insinuated they write songs with Jakob Armstrong, Billie Joe Armstrong’s son, who was also on Pete’s label at one point. 

To compound on this, a line in “Voldemort” also implies that the woman of the guy she is fucking is “faceless,” implying the song title is comparing the woman to Voldemort and putting her down. Never mind everything with JKR.

2024

“Hot Dads” is about having sex with someone’s dad.  It includes the line “pay for my cat” implying this is a sugar daddy relationship, especially as this guy is rich. It is arguably her most graphic and sexual song to date. 

Notably, this is her first song that was produced by Jake Sinclair. Jake Sinclair is closely involved with both FOB and Panic! at the Disco. Tobias Wincorn, who also produced the track, has produced for Panic recently as well. She has worked with many producers over the years (all male), but none of them had such a direct connection with FOB until now. 

The album art features her in a tutu crawling over the lap of a much older man wearing a suit, which is a position and clothing combination commonly associated with spanking fetish material, and it goes without saying that is also implied with the “daddy” thing. 

Conclusion 

In conclusion, her music has obviously gotten progressively more sexually graphic and explicit since becoming involved with Pete Wentz and Fall Out Boy. Her earlier lyrics, while still entirely focused around men, seemed more like music I or my friends would listen to, and primarily was concerned with emotion and heartbreak. The album art often focused on her face and showed her wearing normal clothes and doing normal things people do like eat or be outside. 

Since getting signed by Pete Wentz, and especially since she has begun to work with producers that work closely with FOB, her music and image have become increasingly sexually explicit. It often involves wanting to be degraded, getting money for sex, and fetish material such as daddy kink or rectal thermometers, and concerns themes surrounding relationships that are inappropriate due to power imbalances and age differences. 

Unlike musicians that focus on women’s sexual empowerment and sexual taboos like Ayesha Erotica, Melanie Martinez, Megan Thee Stallion, or Scene Queen, there is no subversion of gendered expectations. These songs also do not explore a nuanced view of women’s sexuality that sometimes involve experiences like grooming, rape, or abuse. 

They also do not focus on any other themes beyond men like self empowerment, self confidence, queer sex, or crediting women who inspire you. They are just about having sex with men, wanting men to like you, and rejecting men. The literal only song that is not about a man is potentially supposed to be some kind of manufactured feud with other women. The only song that explicitly mentions another woman is likely putting her down.

This isn’t music that I listen to. This isn’t music that most FOB fans listen to. This isn’t music that most human beings listen to. This is like Pete Wentz has a vague idea that women singing explicit lyrics like Ayesha Erotica, Melanie Martinez, and Scene Queen are popular on TikTok right now and FOB they think they can sell this genre without understanding it or the women who listen to it—or even valuing women at all—and signed a woman who previously made normal sad girl music with the intention of putting out this image. 

Because FOB are pushing this music so hard and posted a photo of her posing with a member of the band looking disgusted at her wearing clothing items advocating that she is a “Deepthroat Queen,” everybody is constantly asking what we think of this or if we like this or if we think this is cool and for us to make posts about this.  

She—like any woman—is allowed to do whatever she wants and express herself however she wants. 

However, Pete Wentz is not a woman, he is a middle aged man, as are his bandmates. Fall Out Boy are a band that are arguably infamous for being misogynistic. They have a song title that is a joke about how unpleasant it is to have sex with unattractive women. They have a song about wanting your ex to die in a car crash because she had sex with another man. They once had a song title calling a woman a “Myspace Whore” that was changed before being finalized. Pete Wentz has said that “XO” is about groupies, and that groupies are the “wrong kind of girl.” They have a demo about wanting to kill a girl. WAMS is likely an acronym meant to put down women. This is not a band that has EVER advocated for female sexual empowerment or feminism, and in fact has made it clear they hate sluts. 

Most relevant to ME and MY BLOG, I wrote an essay about Fall Out Boy that included a quote from Pete Wentz joking about the term “Grenade Jumper” being slang for how unpleasant is to have sex with fat or unattractive women. These scans, which had been online for 10+ years, were taken down after the publication of this essay and the band began selling an EDITED copy of this interview that removed this quote and changed other quotes. 

Now that a band with such a misogynistic history is heavily pushing music like this, people ARE going to form opinions about it and they ARE allowed to feel negatively about it. If you want to be famous, not everybody is going to love your music. 

It is disappointing and upsetting to many female FOB fans my age or younger that during their decade+ as a FOB fan, Pete Wentz never ever worked with women. When he finally does start mentoring women, it’s women who make music about wanting middle aged dads fuck you and stick things up your ass. While you wear a toddler tutu. Instead of music like The Cab or Panic at the Disco or Games We Play or Ultra Q or Gym Class Heroes. It ruins the illusion that many FOB fans have developed that the band’s view of women and the way they value women has matured for the better over the years. 

Nobody should be harassing Carr online or tagging her in mean posts or commenting mean things on her posts. She is allowed to do whatever she wants. But literally nobody is doing this. 43 year old Andy Hurley’s 30 year old influencer wife got mad that a single random FOB fan felt uncomfortable with the daddy kink aspect, and publicly put that fan on blast for posting about it and insinuated this fan was being misogynistic. TBH, I feel like she knew people were saying this kind of thing on Tumblr already and went looking for someone to publicly embarrass to discourage this conversation from happening at all. 

Just like the interview scans were taken down to discredit my criticism of Pete's misogyny and make me look like a liar. This is fucking ridiculous. Like be serious. 

[stormblessed95]

Hi Stormblessed (dope name btw),

Don't know if this is the best place for this essay or the right time but I need to word-vomit this out, or I'm gonna be a JK-style spaced out zombie all day.

It's a truth universally acknowledged that a big part of the fandom tends to mis-characterize the members based on edits, fanfics and out-of-context clips. Something probably mostly to do with how social media platforms have been pushing for these short videos over the last few years. Why watch 300 hours of original content (some of which is behind a paywall) if you can get the gist of it (you think) from TikToks?

My particular point has to do with how that allows for the narrative (aka made up shit) especially around Jimin to grow. All of the members get that treatment, the maknaes worse due to their popularity, but due to how a big part of Army are also tkk shippers, Jimin is the one who's portrayal often skews more negative. The others' perceptions just are neutral or fantastical in a sense that they're more like badly written male leads. Don't get me wrong, solos throwing around bs is nothing singular to him but no one gets accused (said completely seriously btw) of sleeping his way into BTS or the release of his album.

After I saw this vitriol for the first time I had to actually sit down because wtf.

And then I started wondering why that is, and came to the conclusion that it is:

(Internalized) misogyny and sexism

Blatant homophobia

Jimin is the member the most obviously in tune of his femininity. He hasn't subscribed to gender norms for a decade at least, and once his hyper-masculine-esque persona from the debut days was dismissed, he ventured further. (That isn't to dismiss the growth they all have shown in that area.)

But antis, akgaes, Solos and shippers take that femininity and apply every stereotype and misogynistic idea to JM.

Traits they f.e. hate:

He is openly flirty with many people (members especially)

He is very physical, and touch is arguably one of his love languages and go-to way of comforting smn

He is pretty af and knows it

He's sensual and sexy and knows it

He's cute

He's sweet (aka a good fucking human)

But why does that make "them" hate him so much?

Because they have been taught that these traits in women (like themselves) are bad. What makes it worse, however, is that the men around JM all know these things to be true, acknowledge them as true and compliment him on them. In the case of JK (since this is about Jikook at the end of the day):

He loves flirty JM despite sometimes not knowing how to handle him (ehem the 'shameless convo'). He flirts back (fe the whole live where he was in bed begging for JM to come over)

Tkkers and such love pulling the "JK hates it" card. Which is nonsense, considering how he seeks JM's comfort when he's down (esp during concerts), actively cuddles JM (In The Soop) and never uses all his big muscles to shove JM but rather to just carry him around. Compare that to the jokingly disgusted face Yoongi pulls when Tae tries to hold his hand, and it becomes glaringly obvious that no one who says the members dislike touching each other has a leg to stand on. Calling it harassment goes so far beyond any line of sanity...

JK - like all of BTS - acknowledges that Jimin's beauty is simply out of this world. They are regularly stunned by his appearance

Just gonna point to JK's reaction to Filter, Blood Sweat & Tears, Black Swan, and Set Me Free pt 2 here. JK calls JM sexy so often it's hilarious

* inserts clip of absolutely WHIPPED JK after JM cutely punches him during that performance of Boy With Luv *. Also we know that "cute" his JK's type as he himself admitted.

Jimin has been Jungkook's comfort person for so long, and with such depth that he dedicated a whole trip and video to him. They care for each other so deeply that the only logical conclusion was to go to the military together.

Aka: he is all that they hate in the girls/women in their normal life so they can't do nothing but tear him down. They envy how comfortable he seems in his own skin, how easily he goes from sexy to cute, how loved he is by those around him. On top of that is how gay people are still perceived and treated by a lot of countries around the world. No matter what they say, being an army and shipping men doesn't make you automatically an ally and non-homophobic.

They treat Jimin like they would most likely treat the lgtbqia+ people in real life: something to be careful of, someone dishonest and slutty.

They conflate everything they hate about themselves and gay people and * boom * out come frankly terrifying tweets, fanfics and shit.

Contrast that with how these very same people fetishize the relationship between Tae and Jungkook - either viewing them like men who watch p_rn involving two women, or a self-insert with how little character they have - and that's the state of the army shipping community. They could be Barbie dolls getting smashed together and you wouldn't know the difference.

I'm not saying Jikookers are better in that, but the language they tend to use is incredibly different.

---

That was a lot.

To end on a sweet note: I saw a quote on Twitter "If you want to find out what someone fears losing, look at what they photograph."

And...well. that just screams Jikook

Hi! Thank you, I like my name too 🥰

And yeah, basically I agree. I think there is more to it as well, but that a lot of it could be boiled down to all this. And yeah, jikookers are just as guilty of this too, but not always in the same way. Sometimes in a way that is more fetishizing but is just as harmful. Take it from someone who has seen it all in my inbox from people who feel safe on anon 😂😂

Thanks for sharing! And your quote at the end is SOOOOO cute!

#jikook #kookmin #Jikook antis

[imaginaryf1shots]

My Girls (V)

Words count: 2K

Driver!oc X Max Verstappen

Platonic!Driver!oc X the grid

Summery: Cecilia Hansson daughter of a Swedish billionaire, a race car driver, with a dream of making it big in Formula 1. However she has a few secrets that may hurt her as women are disliked in the sport.

Series Warnings: google translated french, dutch, cursing, child abandment, absent father, drinking, car accidents, Jos Verstappen, misogyny, Christian horner (tell me if i missed anything)

Couldn't sleep so here we go...

This is a secondary blog so I won't be able to respond but I'm adding you all.

Masterlist

Previous || Next

Nosy friends and lunch 

“What?” Cecilia answered the call request coming from discord, her friends have been spamming her with texts and facetime and she hasn’t accepted any calls or replied to any texts, thank you Charles Leclerc for being a snitch.

“Finally!” Lando was the first to speak, Cecilia didn’t even look at the phone, she continued getting ready, it’s still lockdown she wasn’t leaving to meet Max for once… he was coming over for the first time, they’ve been meeting regularly(at least three times a week)  for the last couple of months. At times she’d go after Nathalie fell asleep, she hadn’t taken Nattie with her to Max’s since that day, but she had been talking to him on the phone, like she does with Charles and her other uncles. It was cute how her daughter would talk with Charles in almost all French and with Max in almost all English. Her daughter is growing up like her and her brother, but that’s besides the point. 

“What do you guys need? I’m busy.” 

“We can see, so who is coming over?” Hearing Pierre’s voice made her glance at the phone to see who was actually in the call, of course her friends from karting plus Lando. 

“Oh my god! You all are so nosy, how did you find out anyway?” She asked knowing that she hasn’t said anything, not even to Charles.

“I may have talked to your mum.” Charles confessed with a proud smile.

“You should be scared Charlotte! That’s creepy behaviour!” Cecilia shouted through the phone knowing that his girlfriend is sitting next to him, she heard her laugh. “Why did I give you my mum’s number again.”

“Don’t try to change the subject Cecilia, when were you going to tell us?” Alex asked, he looked comfy, sitting back on his sofa with a smoothie or juice or something sipping from a straw. In fact they all looked like they were sitting for a gossip session.

“Tell you what? There’s nothing to tell.” 

“Why are you putting makeup on then?” Pierre asked, itching for new gossip.

“It’s just the basic stuff.” Cecilia said, shrugging still continuing with her makeup.

“What did I miss?” George asked, joining the call, Cecilia wanted to pull her hair and block all her friends.

“Little miss secrets here, is getting ready for a date with Max.” Lando told his fellow brit.

“It’s not a date, he’s meeting my parents.” Cecilia said before she could think and sighed, they all howled with laughter.

“You’re already meeting the parents.” Charles said laughing, it was all in good fun, and things have been boring since covid started.

“You all met my parents before, each and everyone of you.” Cecilia said and pointed at them. “You know what, I’m blocking you all.” 

With that she ended the call to finish getting ready in peace, they got on her nerves sometimes. She needs more females in her life.

“I just got here.” George groaned.

“You don’t think she’ll actually do it, do you?” Alex asked, suddenly concerned.

“I don’t think so.” 

“Me neither.” Charles and Lando comforted the others, they just sat there for a while contemplating the duo, and how they thought things would turn out to be like. Charles knew your mother would tell him if he asked.

Cecilia finished getting ready and went to help her mum with the last of the food, Cecilia really wasn’t dressed up, she just had light makeup and a sundress, it was getting warmer now, and they were eating out on the terrace. Seeing her mum in a dress Nattie also wanted to change into a dress as well.

“Go help her, your dad and I will finish here.” her mum said and patted her back, Cecilia took Nattie to her room and made her choose the dress she wanted, midway she heard the doorbell ring, and she knew Max had arrived.

Max was greeted by your dad, he of course saw him before, but it was always from afar they never talked. “Nice to meet you sir.”

“You too, come in please.” Max was led inside he glanced around, this is the house you grew up and lived your whole life in, the penthouse is bigger than the apartment he lives in, for one he rents they own, this one is two stories with apparently a gym. But it felt lived in, from what Cecilia told him is that her dad’s family had generational wealth, but her mum came from a humble bringing, so yes they had the best things in life, but her mum made them know how lucky and privileged they were. As teens they had to work to earn their money, and learn to do things on their own, they never had a nanny or a chef, someone did come in to clean twice a week, so they did their chores, their mum really wanted them to grow up as normal as she could when your dad is a billionaire. 

“I didn’t know what to bring.” Max said and handed her dad a couple of wine bottles, he had ordered online. Looking at her dad, he saw a lot of him in Cecilia and in turn Nathalie, all their colours are her dad, her lips and nose being the only thing he couldn’t place on him.

“You didn’t need to bring anything, but we’ll enjoy it I’m sure.” Cecilia’s dad led him inside to the living room, not the formal one for guests, the one they hosted their friends and family in, the walls were all mostly glass with doors leading to the big terrace. “Cecilia is changing Nattie, the girl took one look at her mum in a dress and suddenly she wants to wear one too.”

“Max! Hello.” Cecilia’s mum walked up with open arms greeting the man, Max had just sat down, stood up quickly just as he was pulled in a motherly hug, she kissed his cheeks like the french one on each side before she pulled back. 

“Nice to meet your Mrs. Hansson.” Max greeted the smiley woman, and he knew where you took your lips and nose from, the perfect blend between your parents.

“Please call me Adeline.” She waved his formalities off. “I saw you grow up with Cecilia, sorry I look like a mess.”

“No, no you don’t… Do you need some help.” Max offered, he could smell the food already coming from the kitchen.

“Nonsense, sit down and talk with Börje, I’m almost done.” With that she gracefully left, sitting back down he faced Cecilia’s dad.

“Cecilia told us you’re quarenting alone.” Börje said and Max nodded, they talked a little about what he was doing since lockdown started, her dad shared how hard it was to run a business from home, especially since HQ was in sweden. 

“Pappa, don’t bore him with your work.” Cecilia called to her dad as Nattie ran in the room to her grand-père before she saw Max and turned to run to him, Max caught the girl and pulled her up on the sofa beside him.

“He’s not bored.” Her dad said acting hurt by her words after rolling his eyes. “I’m not boring you Max am I?”

“No, not at all.” Shaking her head at him, MAx greeted her daughter, before he stood up and gave her a small hug.

“In that case, take care of my child while I help maman.” Cecilia said and turned to her dad. “Can you set the table?”

“Sure thing Älskling.” (Darling) Her dad said and the men moved out to the terrace, there was a cabinet there with a sink and everything for when they had BBQs out there, it was filled with plates and cutlery. Once again Nathalie wanted to help so Max had her placing the spoons and forks in their place. If your dad had doubts about Max before they’re starting to disappear now. He saw Max like the public saw him, only what he presented, and to be honest he doesn’t like Jos but seeing how he talked with Nattie, his instincts as a father were calm. 

After they were done with the table, the men found themselves by the railing, Max was looking at the view, glancing at the girl who was swinging on the small playground set, her granddad had installed for her. 

“Cecilia might kill me for saying this but, when she was pregnant she used to watch a lot of your races.” Börje told the driver he was amused thinking about it now, because if he thinks too deeply all he feels is rage and sadness, an overwhelming feeling of sadness. 

“Did she?” Max asked and turned to copy Cecilia’s dad’s stance, they leaned back on the railing, this is news to him.

“Yeah, she’d say how she wanted to do that, she’d dream of getting in F1. Did you know that Ferrari were in talks with her in 2016 about maybe signing her and having her as a reserve driver.” Max looked surprised at the news, Cecilia got pregnant during negotiations and her lawyer(dad’s lawyers) got her out of the deal with smooth talks and ended things on a good note for future possibilities. “Right when she got pregnant, it took a lot for her to decide what to do. She was glowing when she held Nattie and told us she wanted to get back into racing.”

“She’s lucky she had you supporting her, not many parents would.” Max spoke the truth, wealthy or not, not many parents would have their adult children’s backs like that.

“She’s my girl, even if she’s an adult with a daughter of her own, that's my baby girl.” Börje said, before Max called for Nattie to be careful, right before Börje was about to, the girl took to swinging and then jumping. The set was on a type of foam mat but she could still hurt herself. “Cecilia has always been honest with us, and I can see that you care, not many men would get in a relationship with a woman who has a child, but like I told you, that’s my little girl and I don’t want to see her heartbroken.”

“She won’t I promise.” Max promised his eyes and tone telling the truth, Börje smiled and patted his back. 

“Max, can you help Cecilia bring out the food?” Adeline asked coming out with the salad, when Börje moved to also help she gave him a look, happily married for 30 years now, made him understand her with only a look.

When Max walked in the kitchen he was met with Cecilia taking a baking dish out of the oven before she sat it on the counter. “Need help?”

“Huh, yeah. Mum made so much food you’d think she’s feeding an army.” Cecilia said and looked at all the food sitting in trays and serving dishes, the quantity wasn’t a lot but she made a lot of options. “We'll all be eating this for days to come.”

Max came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, she smiled and turned her head kissing his cheek. “Haven’t been able to say hi properly.” 

“Sorry about that.” She turned in his arms and hugged him around the neck, his arms around her waist, they stood there for a moment before they pulled back, as much as Max wanted to kiss her lips, they’re at your parent’s house and they’re here, so out of respect for them he kissed her forehead before he pulled away and they started bringing the food out, on the last trip she got a bottle of chilled white wine and room temp red one(one of the ones Max brought) along with a wine looking glass that had juice for the little princess. 

Max and Cecilia sat across from her parents with Nattie between her mum and her boyfriend to be(?). They didn’t want to label it, but they are kind of in a relationship. If you spend  time with a man, occasionally kiss said man, talk to said man at all hours of the day and night, go to his house three times a week so you’d spend time together doesn’t that mean you’re dating? Please someone tell Cecilia to make a move already.

Max turned up his charm for the day, he had her parents laughing and engaging in all sorts of conversation, he complimented the cooking, the house, he even managed to talk business with her dad. All points for him in their book. Hearing Cecilia laugh with a man like she hasn’t in over four years made the points easy to give. With eyes that only parents had, they watched how when she laughed as she leaned towards him, her arm falling on his shoulder even with Nattie between them it all looked natural, a family in the making.

Ceciliahansson15

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ceciliahansson15 A little wine never hurt anybody

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username4 soft launch

alex_albon can I be invited the next time I'm in Monaco 👉👈

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alex_albon I WAS TIRED! I'M SORRY

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@luciaexcorvus . @vellicora . @tpwkstiles . @belennasif  . @eugene-emt-roe . @fanboyluvr . @fangirl125reader , @christianpulisic10 . @belennasif . @itsjustkhaos .

#f1 x reader #my girls #f1 imagine #max verstappen #f1 scenario #f1dr #max verstappen one shot #f1 x driver!reader #max verstappen imagine #f1 fanfic #max verstappen x oc

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Broken Glass, Chapter 9 💔🥂❤️‍🩹

Eeee! I can't believe it's finally DONE! At nearly a whopping 14k, I truly hope this makes up for me not updating this story since September! 🎉 Many thanks to my darling @ab4eva for finally helping me knock this loose and reminding me I could indeed still write! 💗💋💗

If I'm honest, Broken Glass is one of my favorite stories I've worked on. I know it's quite the slow burn and not nearly as smutty as my other works (...yet), but it really does make my creative heart sing and I'm so in love with these two and their stark vulnerabilities. 🥹

I highly recommend rereading Chapter 8 to refresh your memory, but the TL;DR is we left a jealous, ailing Elvis having just found out Lori's big secret from Sinatra and Sinatra calling Elvis out on feelings he hasn't quite been able to admit to himself until now. 😬

This chapter puts us firmly back in Lori's (rather confused) perspective. Elvis is acting weird, and she is feeling the fear of her past nipping at her heels. She's trying to manage her own emotions and health while chasing after Elvis' moody ass, which is going just as well as you'd expect LOL. And of course we have Welcome Home Elvis with Frank Sinatra! You might want to watch the Elvis portions on the show to fully get in the mood--I hope I did them justice! 🥰

Things will really kick into high gear after this chapter, so this setup is pretty important to what's coming. I really hope you enjoy! You can catch up here using the Broken Glass Masterlist ❤️‍🩹

I can't wait to hear what you think!! 💗

Much Love, 

Madi xoxoxoxo 💗💋

TW: references to SA/threats/abuse, Gianni, dissociation, emotional upheaval, nightmares/violence/blood, period-related misogyny, health issues (fainting, constipation, vomiting, etc.), Elvis being an asshole, Elvis being a damn snack, sooties 😏

Broken Glass Chapter 9

March 24th, 1960

Miami, Florida

“Just hang on, Elvis. Come on, open your eyes for me,” you say, patting his sallow cheek, the concrete biting at your knees where you’ve fallen ungracefully to the ground with him.

Your half a cigarette lies smoking and abandoned a foot away—a bad habit you picked up after needing an excuse to get outside after long, stressful shifts at the hospital. You haven’t smoked much since you left New York, not having much need for it when your current job is almost ornamental most days, except in those private, hidden moments away from the bustle of Elvis’ strange life.

But he’d pushed you to that Lucky Strike, what with his aloof behavior since Nashville and then his ridiculous jealousy over Frank Sinatra having the audacity to speak to you and you having the gall to laugh with him.

“You are. You’re jealous. Why? I’m not your girl, so why—”

“The hell you aren’t.”

Galloping in your chest, your heart betrays your tangled feelings about the way he’d acted, the way he’d said those words as if he thought for a moment you really were his girl. And before, how he’d kissed you so passionately…

The memory is interrupted by Elvis’ low groan, his long eyelashes fluttering open to reveal glassy but stormy ocean eyes, thrusting you back into the present emergency. You don’t particularly like the way he’s clutching his midsection or how wheezy and warm he is, but you can’t do much here, especially when people are starting to gather.

He starts, as if coming back into himself, and surprisingly tries to roll up and off you. “I’m fine,” he gasps, shrugging your hand off his shoulder in an uncharacteristic act of defiance.

You might be more annoyed if you weren’t so worried, but your feelings are beside the point right now. Treat him like any other patient, a voice in your head reminds you.

“You are not fine, and we’re going back to the hotel so I can get a look at you,” you whisper firmly in his ear.

He shoots you a petulant look.

“Unless you want to go to the hospital instead?” you throw at him, with a raised brow. That does the trick. His glare softens a bit and his eyes dart away as though he’s been scolded.

It doesn’t take more than a pointed look from you for Lamar and Joe to haul Elvis carefully to his feet. You may only be Elvis’ girlfriend in their eyes, but they do know you are a nurse with some expertise in these situations. And you can’t help but see concern on their faces.

Elvis clutches his midsection again with a gasping wince. The guys lead him to a bench outside the building.

“Joe, tell someone in charge Elvis isn’t feeling well. Lamar, go get the car, please. We’re leaving.”

Your tone leaves no room for questions, but the three men look at you with surprise. In truth, you are a little surprised yourself. Perhaps it’s your lack of outward panic, the calm surety of many a night on the emergency ward.

You can’t say the same for them, seeing the panic brewing in the eyes of Elvis’ friends. Along with that, none of them are used to taking orders from women, and certainly you haven’t shown much vocal backbone in these last few weeks, yet with hardly a pause, Lamar and Joe scurry off, leaving you with Elvis.

He doesn’t speak to you or try to joke his way out of the pain, which is unusual. Instead, he stares blankly at anywhere but you. A sliver of unease winds its way through your stomach, and while you don’t push him, it’s almost involuntary the way your hand falls on top of his.

There is no reaction at first. Is he trying to ignore you? Could he possibly still be mad about the Sinatra thing? Confusion washes over you at the slight, but then his eyes squint in pain and his hand finally grips yours.

You hold back the breath of relief at the response, and before you can spiral too much more into what ifs, Lamar pulls up with the car. With his help, you get Elvis into the backseat.

The drive to the hotel is mostly silent. Joe tries to crack a joke or two from the front seat, but Elvis’ lack of response beyond painful grimaces quiets the short man with the annoying laugh. Elvis continues to shut you out, his hands clasped around his middle now instead of your hand.

It shouldn’t bother you, but it does.

He’s just distracted by his pain, you reassure yourself.

You spend the ride pushing away questions about his behavior towards you and try to focus on diagnosis and treatment checklists, going through in your head what you have to do once you two are alone. It grounds you.

Once you all arrive, the boys help him out, but he stubbornly pushes them away once they reach the lobby.

“I can get to the elevator by my damn self!” Elvis grumbles, his eyes darting around the open space with concern. He’s nervous, you think, about being mobbed in this condition. You’ve gleaned enough in the past few weeks to understand he always attracts attention and it’s almost impossible for him to say no to his fans, even when he’s in so much pain he can barely stand upright. You are continually amazed by his generosity and selflessness in this regard. It’s one of the most endearing things about him.

Luckily, the lobby isn’t busy, and you make it to the privacy of the elevator avoiding interruption from outsiders. The humid air in the small space feels stifling and heavy with concern, but no one speaks as the elevator lurches upwards.

The relief is palpable when the doors open to the penthouse, and without ceremony you help deposit Elvis on the king-sized bed in the suite.

“Should we call a doctor?” Joe whispers to you as you try to shut him out of the room. The look in his eyes shows real worry for his friend.

“No,” you snap back, wanting to avoid any doctors not already familiar with the complexity of the situation. Joe is taken aback, so you continue more gently, “Not yet, at least. Let me see what I can do, and I’ll let you know.”

You can’t close the door fast enough, finally able to rush to Elvis’ aid in earnest, grabbing your medical bag out of the closet.

“Where does it hurt?” you ask, preparing the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope.

Elvis doesn’t respond, looking sullen. You can’t tell if it’s stubbornness or pain that’s keeping him this way though. But the dull hurt of your near-constant headache coupled with his strange mood has your temper feeling short.

“You smoke,” he says with distaste, avoiding your question.

“What?” Distracted, you count the seconds of his pulse using your watch.

“Girls of mine don’t smoke. I don’t like it,” he adds with a petulant glare.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

“Okay, Elvis, I’ll stop smoking,” you placate, “but you need to tell me what’s going on with your body or I cannot help you.” The command is clear.

He looks up at you then, his eyes churning with pain and something else you don’t have time to piece through right now.

“I feel hot an’ short of breath,” he says quietly, almost clinically. “And…” He hesitates, looking down with embarrassment.

You urge him on with a nod as you squeeze the cuff. “And? What’s going on with your belly?”

He clears his throat with a grimace. “It hurts something fierce. It’s, uh, been awhile since…you know.”

You sigh. Logically, you understand how anyone—any man, especially one in his position—might feel embarrassed talking about their bodily functions with a young woman, but it doesn’t make it any less frustrating that he hides these issues from you when it’s your job to know.

“How long?” you ask.

“I dunno,” he shrugs, his face going flush.

“Alright, then, lay back,” you sigh, popping a thermometer in his mouth. Thankfully, he obeys without a fuss, and you pull his shirt up. It doesn’t take much gentle prodding on his lower belly to determine the issue. In fact, you can see the distention on his normally lean frame. That coupled with his pained whimpers and wincing makes it clear that his chronic constipation is rearing its ugly head.

For a normal and otherwise heathy person, it might not cause the severity of issues you have to contend with now. But Elvis is neither normal nor healthy. His pressure and temp are too high, his asthma is acting up, either from the pain or exertion of singing, and you know he’s not going to like the solution. But if he wants to stay out of the hospital and out of the press, he’ll just have to deal with it.

Despite your headache and frustration with him for not communicating readily with you about anything he should, be it his feelings or his health, you urge him to the bathroom as gently as possible, gathering the materials needed from your bag. The caretaker in you pushes everything else away as you prepare the solution and guide him through the process of what must be done.

He goes from furious to ashamed to resigned rather quickly. You are a little surprised at how readily he becomes vulnerable to you, considering the circumstances. The treatment momentarily strips away whatever inexplicable ire he was holding onto. It feels so intimate the way you both quiet and with how carefully you tend to him, massaging his belly and rubbing his back as the treatment works its magic. And after the relief comes, you run a bath, washing him gently, watching as his handsome face finally relaxes. Never has a man looked so innocent yet so beautifully dangerous. He leans into your comfort, too, and as clinical as your brain wants to make this whole experience, you are a little frightened by the realization of your heart aching not just with him, but for him.

He falls asleep in the warmth of the tub. You don’t wake him, knowing how sleep comes for him so irregularly and infrequently, but you are loathe to leave him alone when he could easily slip under the water. Elvis Presley will not drown in a tub on your watch.

Or at least this is what you tell yourself as you take a moment to catalogue such peaceful and unencumbered beauty, knowing very few get to see him like this.

Your mind finally wanders then, back to the moment in Nashville you’ve tried desperately not to think about, when he sang directly to you in so intimate a way you thought you’d combust from the inside out with feelings and urges you barely understood. Fire and shivers cascade down your spine all at once at the memory of his eyes, heavy lidded and molten, as he sang to you about just how right it would feel to be in his arms. It was so seductive, so real, it felt like he put a spell on you. There were no secrets between you in that tiny studio—only want and need.

In those few minutes, he wanted everything from you, and you had wanted to give it to him.

That is his wonderful talent, though, isn’t it? you think. To make others believe in the words of a song. Perhaps he believed them too, in the moment. It sure felt like it.

But he became so incredibly distant after Nashville, just when you thought you’d gotten closer. It was confusing and exasperating, like he pulled the rug of logic and sense right out from under you. It hurt more than it should have to be shut out by him. He hadn’t been unkind, per say, just aloof and detached.

You purse your fingers over the bridge of your nose, wishing it would ease the dull throbbing in your head. Lack of sleep and routine has done a number on you these past few weeks, though you know it’s keeping up with the façade of a relationship challenging you the most. You’ve slowly been getting better at playing the part of the doting girlfriend, to be sure, but the switching from fake girlfriend to nursemaid and back again is altogether exhausting.

And no matter how much better you get, you aren’t an actress. You aren’t used to pretending to feel something but not actually feeling it. It’s getting harder and harder to decern if these complicated feelings you are starting to have for Elvis are just part of your new job or if they are…real.

You don’t want them to be. They can’t be. Not only would it be unethical, but it’s perilous to think—to hope—he might see you as more. You’re not the type of girl a man like Elvis Presley falls for. And even if you were, a smart, practical girl like you knows better than to get involved with a womanizer like him.

A smart, practical girl like you knows any man is dangerous.

Speaking of danger, as soon as you’d left the safety of Graceland, you’ve felt the creeping unease Gianni or your father could pop out at any moment to steal you away back to New York. They have to know by now who you are with, and you don’t hold any fantasy of them letting you get on with your life without a fight. No, they’ll come for you at some point, you just don’t know when or how, and the more you’re out in the world, the more exposed you feel. Your hypervigilance has you always on edge, and you make sure to stay by Elvis’ side as much as possible in the hope he and his entourage will protect you.

So, yes, you are exhausted. The litany of masks you’re wearing to stay functional are crushing you with their weight, and it is taking more of a toll on you than you are letting on. Perhaps that is why Elvis’ mercurial attitude towards you feels so barbed and painful because, by some strange twist of fate, he is the only one in this world who knows even a fraction of who you really are.

And with that thought, you try not to berate yourself too much for taking a stolen moment to gawk at the ethereal man, this god-like Apollo, naked and asleep in the tub. You are too tired to fight the searing memory of how he kissed you today in front of Frank, so possessive and visceral as he clutched you to him like he never wanted to let you go. The way his tongue, oh Madone, how his tongue had teased your lips to part and how you’d melted in his arms, unable and unwilling to resist his charms. He held you close and all you had wanted in that moment was to be consumed by him, embarrassingly so.

Maybe that was why you’d reacted fervently to his jealousy. It is whiplash, this pendulum of his attentions (or lack thereof), and it embarrasses you how easily you’d caved to his kiss, and in front of Frank Sinatra of all people. But then when you were alone, Elvis reminded you so clearly with his words that it was all a lie, while his body and actions screamed the opposite.

It all felt like too much, then, when he’d tried to put it on you, as if you were the one playing with his emotions. He is an infuriating, obstinate man, and it’s even more infuriating how everyone in his circle allows him to be so. It certainly isn’t fair he can also be so generous and kind and talented and handsome and vulnerable…God, it would be so much easier if he was always a spoiled brat and you could hate him for it.

But it’s not that easy.

He scares you. Not like your father or Gianni, no. Elvis scares you because he—

“You alright, Little Bird?” he croaks from the bath, eyes slits against the light.

It startles you, and you realize your head has been in your hands in lament as you spiral. You straighten, blinking away your lingering, dangerous thoughts.

“Yeah, yes, I’m fine. Just…tired.” It is not a lie, and you hope his own exhaustion keeps him from questioning you further.

“Well, we best get you to bed then, darlin’,” he groans, sitting up and stretching his long arms over his head. “Hand me that towel?”

“Of course,” you breathe, handing him the fuzzy, white towel, then you quickly turn away. You don’t want to leave because he may be unsteady on his feet, and it’s certainly not as though you haven’t seen him totally bare, but you feel your cheeks heat slightly anyway at his nakedness.

I’m only human.

Towel slung low on his narrow hips, you’re glad to follow him into the bedroom and not the other way around, worried the heat of his gaze might flay you open and reveal everything you are trying to hide from him. You don’t have the energy for masks right now.

It seems neither does he. He is docile and pliant as you help him into his silken pajamas and under the covers. You’ve noticed the pattern of him doing this after his episodes, putting himself completely in your capable hands.

As you head back to the bathroom to change and do your own nightly routine, you wonder if he’s ever been this way with anyone else, or if it’s just a special part of him set aside for you.

Stop thinking like that. I am his nurse and nothing more.

You keep a healthy distance between you and him when you climb into the sheets. It doesn’t take long, however, for your exhaustion to take the reins, and you quickly drift off, trying desperately not to think about the beautiful man—no, my patient—who sleeps so close by.

*

“Dolo-res, oh, Dolo-res!” The slithering sound of Gianni’s voice sing-songing your name in the dark sends your heart racing and your stomach dropping. His dress shoes click ominously on the wooden floor of your father’s house, slowly, taunting you. It’s as though he knows exactly where you are and is just biding his time. Finding pleasure in your fear.

You try to be as quiet as a mouse, but your breathing grows more ragged with each laborious step. The floor is working against you, like you are trying to run through water.

“Aye, aye, aye, Dolores,” Sinatra sings, the sound slow and distorted. Frank watches you struggle up the stairs, his head tilting and those famous blues giving you a knowing wink from the hallway beneath you.

“You can’t hide from me, Bella,” Gianni purrs from behind you, his footfalls heavy.

“What a break if I could make Dolores mine, oh, mine,” Frank continues the song as though your world isn’t collapsing in on itself, as if you weren’t running for your life. The lyrics feel all too threatening under the circumstances.

Clawing your way to the landing, a sob catches in your throat. He’s too close. You can smell his awful cologne. It makes your head pound and your stomach roll.

If you crawl your way to your room…you could lock the door. You could be safe.

“Aye, aye, aye, Dolores,” Frank croons from below.

Gianni’s hands are frigid when they clamp on your legs and turn you over.

“No, no, no, no!” you whimper.

“Did you get my gift, Bella?” Gianni smirks, feeling his way up your thighs, up under your skirt.

Looking down at your hand, the engagement ring he gave you shines menacingly, weighing your hand down so much you cannot lift it to defend yourself. You open your mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.

“I was made to serenade Dolores,” the song continues, but it’s no longer Frank’s voice from below. No, it’s deeper, and warm, like velvet. And oh, so familiar.

Elvis.

He’s on the landing behind you as he sings. You crane your neck and see him upside down, towering over you, only a few steps away.

“Elvis, please,” you cry. You aren’t sure if it’s a plea for help or one encouraging him to run. He looks down at you, almost absently, like he sees you but cannot be bothered. Perhaps he does not see you at all.

You aren’t sure what’s worse.

Gianni looks up and growls at Elvis, the whites of his eyes disappearing, turning all the way black. Dark, vicious claws form at the ends of his fingers. He looks like a demonic beast, ready to pounce on his prey.

“I would die to be with my Dolores,” Elvis sings, and you know then it’s over. You close your eyes, not wanting to see Gianni tear Elvis apart just for being near you. You feel the heat of Gianni leap over your prone form, feel Elvis being knocked to the ground with a thud. A roar. Screams. The sounds are sickening and the heat of blood spatters over your face.

“NO!” you sob, uncontrollably. Every breath is tainted with your agony.

It’s all your fault.

Then heavy silence.

Your chest heaves with the speed of your panicked breathing and you sense Gianni crawling back over you. You open your eyes, even though you don’t want to.

“What a break if I could make Dolores mine, oh, mine,” Gianni sings quietly, finishing the song, his face and hands stained crimson with Elvis’ blood. He smiles at you, a terrifying white gash amongst the red.

“Mine.”

Then he digs his claws deep into your belly.

You shudder awake, breathing hard enough to know it is another nightmare that wakes you. The sheen of sweat across your brow, the throbbing at your temples reminds you that you are alive, awake, and when you open your eyes, they meet the darkness of the hotel suite. Your cheeks are damp with tears and your hand flies to your abdomen to make sure Gianni’s claws are not deep inside you.

Much to your shock, there is a hand already there, large and splayed across your belly, but completely unthreatening. No, almost comforting. It knocks away the dream, this hand, as you try to puzzle through why it is there, who it belongs to, and why you aren’t afraid. You hold your breath.

A moment passes. You take stock of the rest of you: the queasiness of your stomach subsiding some, the solid warmth pressed against your back, your legs tucked but feet tangled amongst the sheets and another set of feet.

Elvis.

And you wonder if you are still dreaming because of the way his arms hold you tight. You wait for the panic to come as a result of the embrace, but it never does. Your heart skips then slows, beat by beat as you sink into calm, protected warmth, lulled by his slow breathing against your back.

I’m safe.

Sleep takes you with little fuss.

*

Your eyes flutter open. The room is dark, thanks to the heavy blackout curtains Elvis requested, but one look at the clock tells you it’s morning and past time to get up. A shiver rolls through you, which is strange despite the arctic levels he keeps any room he sleeps in because he usually a furnace next to you. But your body already knows what your eyes quickly confirm: Elvis is gone. Not in the bed, or the suite, or in the darkened bathroom.

Puzzled, you sit up and flip on the lamp. Your memory is hazy. Blinking, you vaguely remember a nightmare involving Gianni, but blissfully cannot remember specifics. There is something else you are missing, though, something important, just outside the reach of your memory. A comfort maybe? It doesn’t make any sense. Unease settles over you as you rise, your hand falling unconsciously over your abdomen.

Elvis’ absence bothers you, though you can’t put a finger on why. Perhaps it’s just the lingering dreams you can’t quite remember that have you anxious.

Or maybe it’s because in less than a month, your entire life has been upended and changed irrevocably.

Could be that.

After a glance at the time, you rise and hasten to get ready, knowing you are running late. Elvis will need to be at rehearsal soon. The rush is a good distraction from your muddled thoughts.

When you exit into the rest of the suite, ready to go, it’s much, much too quiet. Your skin prickles at the absence of Elvis and the usual boisterousness of the group of men you’ve become used to being around all the time and the relative safety they provide.

Something is wrong, and a tendril of fear of being alone and exposed winds up your spine.

Oh, Madone, something happened to Elvis.

Gianni.

It’s then that Cliff exits the kitchenette with a cup of coffee and you jump, startled, hand flying to your chest as you suck in a breath.

“Oh, hey, Lori,” he says. “You’re finally up.”

“Madre di Dio, you scared me!” you gasp, trying not to let the panic leech into your voice too much. “Where is everyone? Where’s Elvis?”

“Oh, they went ahead to the studio. I stayed back to drive you, if you still want to go.” He says it with pity, like you’re one of Elvis’ paramours that can just be dismissed on a whim, and frankly, he seems a little put out by this assignment.

“He did what?” Red lines your vision quite suddenly, anger washing away the worry you’d felt only a moment ago. Elvis is not supposed to be without you. It’s the reason you’re even here. He knows it.

And he just left you. Alone. Without a word.

Cliff backpedals instantly, sensing your indignation, looking very uncomfortable. “Oh, I…um…I think he just thought you were tired? And wanted to let you sleep?”

“Oh, I bet he did,” you mutter under your breath. Then you grab your purse and beeline for the door. “Let’s go, Cliff.”

He scrambles behind out you, following you to the elevator. At first, he nervously prattles on about the weather, trying to make small talk, but finally gives up once he realizes your piercing glare isn’t going anywhere.

You tell yourself you’re angry because Elvis has put himself in danger by not having you with him, but you are smart enough to know it’s more than that. He’s treated you like any other woman when you are not.

It’s downright disrespectful.

Furthermore, it put you at risk. Without the safety of Elvis’ protective and insular group, you are exposed. Gianni or your father would have no trouble at all disposing of Cliff and dragging you back to New York, before Elvis even knew what happened.

Because you haven’t told him, a small voice reminds you.

It makes you sick to think of. Your pounding headache is back, and you feel a bit carsick with the intense Florida sun beating down as Cliff drives you to the studio.

Your frustration and fear have you out of the car before he has barely parked. Heels click-clacking on the concrete and Cliff struggling to keep up, you show your special pass to the doorman. You hate the way the man examines your pass as though it were fake, giving you a once over. Cliff nods at the man before he finally lets you both through, and you huff at the slight.

This isn’t like you. Before Elvis, you would have meekly stepped to the side and let Cliff lead, content to fade into the woodwork. Happy, even. Maybe Elvis’ hotheadedness is rubbing off on you because the swell of rage you feel is like nothing you’ve felt before.

Fuming, you finally reach the studio and then stop short at what you see, sending Cliff almost running into you.

Elvis looks the picture of health, none of the pain or vulnerability you’d seen last night anywhere to be seen. In fact, he has a pretty girl on either side of him, both tittering and blushing as he smiles his famous quirky smile at them in turn. Flirting.

Your nails dig into your clutch and your body goes rigid. It shouldn’t, but it makes your blood boil with betrayal.

How dare he.

It’s a stupid thought, and one you try to shake off as soon as it comes. He’s not your boyfriend. God knows he’s flirted—and done much more—with other girls around you before, and it didn’t bother you then. Not really.

But maybe it’s because he laid into you so hard yesterday about Sinatra and your supposed flirtation and about keeping up appearances and his damned jealousy, and yet here he is, blatantly disregarding all of it. Because of double standards and whatever other petty reasons he has for acting so strange with you since Nashville.

Your eyes burn into him and with the little sixth sense of his, he notices. His eyes darken and hit yours intentionally, and there’s not even a hint of surprise or regret in them. Just an infuriating quirk of a brow before the girls steal his attention again.

Like he planned this.

You grind your teeth, forcing yourself to take a breath instead of doing something stupid like slapping that smile right off his pretty face. No, you’ve got to be professional about this. You seethe, trying to reel in all these senseless emotions suddenly swirling out of control in your mind.

For whatever reason, he’s trying to get under your skin. Maybe he thinks he’s teaching you a lesson about yesterday. About Frank. About the smoking. Who knows what else.

Well, two can play at that game.

You breathe in, out, in again, forcing your shoulders to relax, forcing yourself back into your clinical mode. God knows between the last few weeks, your upbringing, and your nurse’s training, you’ve learned how to deal with difficult people.

Elvis Presley has severely underestimated you if he thinks you’ll fold over this.

In another highly uncharacteristic move, you school your features into a relaxed smile as you walk towards him and the girls. You know he senses you even though he’s barely looking, but instead of confronting him or slinking into the shadows, you clip right past him and head towards the other famous men in the room.

His eyes are burning holes into your back as Frank and Sammy Davis Jr. notice your approach. You appreciate the fact that the two men smile so warmly at you, and not at all dismissively. It was a gamble, as you easily could’ve been rejected by them, too, but your gamble seems to have paid off.

“And who is this pretty young thing?” Sammy asks charmingly, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips. You don’t even have to pretend to blush under the scrutiny of both titans.

“Oh, this is the delightful Miss Dolores,” Frank says, “Elvis’ girl.”

“Ah, I knew that kid had good taste,” Sammy smiles.

“We weren’t sure if you were joining us today,” Frank says, looking not so casually behind you.

Three, two, one, you count silently.

“Oh, well, I—” you start.

“There you are, darlin’! Wanted to let you sleep in after such a long day yesterday,” Elvis says, smoothly sidling in beside you and planting a kiss to your temple.

You hide your smile at your presumption coming true and at the suggestive nature of his comment. A dismissive “Mmhmm,” is all you give him back, though. You don’t even look at him.

“You know, my mother was a huge fan of you both,” you gush instead to the other men in front of you, ignoring Elvis. “She passed years ago, but any time I hear That Old Black Magic or Birth of the Blues, I can’t help but think of her.”

It’s not a lie, nor is the sudden swell of emotion you have at the thought of your mother listening and singing along to those tunes while she made supper. You sniffle and let out a little laugh.

Perhaps you imagine the gentle squeeze at your waist.

“Look at me, getting all flustered,” you say, waving away your tears.

Madone, why am I so emotional today?

“Oh, we’re just honored to be a part of your memories like that, honey,” Sammy says kindly, and you feel Elvis stiffen beside you at the endearment.

“Frank, Elvis, we’re ready for the Love Me Tender/Witchcraftrun-through,” George, the very serious production assistant, interrupts.

Elvis starts directing you away. “Okay, then, baby, why don’t you—”

“Oh, I’d love to hear more about your mother, if you want to share,” Sammy says to you. “Don’t worry, Elvis, she’ll be safe with me.” He winks, reaching for your hand.

“I’m sure she—” Elvis starts.

“Well, how could I refuse the great Sammy Davis Jr.?” you interrupt, a little coyly. Part of you wonders when you became so bold as to flirt so shamelessly with men like this.

You aren’t feeling much like your old self these days.

Maybe that’s a good thing.

Tension ripples off Elvis and you honestly couldn’t have planned it better.

You can tell Elvis doesn’t want to offend Sammy as he hems and haws a bit too long. “Sure, sure, of course. I’ll come find ya after,” he finally gets out, a tad flippantly, and you don’t miss the amusement in Frank’s sparkling blue eyes as he leads Elvis away.

*

If you thought that would be the end of it, you were sorely mistaken. Your pleasure at winning the battle distracts you momentarily, making you think you’ve taught the man a lesson by giving him a taste of his own medicine.

You were wrong.

Instead, Elvis has doubled down on his nonchalant dismissal of you, barely even acknowledging your presence. Suddenly, there are more girls around than before and all of them seemed more than happy to be on the arm of the all-too-handsome singer, even if only for a moment.

You realize fleetingly he’d been true to his word in keeping the girls away before now because of your perceived relationship. But not anymore.

His message seems clear, even though you still don’t understand the reason behind it: You are easily replaced.

If you were actually his girlfriend, maybe that would be true. For a second, you feel the sting of his rejection as if you were just some poor girl fawning over him.

But the reality is much more complicated. Much worse is the dread pooling in your stomach at the thought of being fired and having to fend for yourself against the wolves nipping at your heels. As much as you don’t trust the Colonel, you don’t imagine he’d cast you aside so easily considering everything you know and the pains it would take to bring another nurse into the fold. And Elvis is smart enough to know it. It is a bit of a salve to the fear churning in your belly.

No, what Elvis is doing seems like some sort of strange tantrum, like he’s hurt and sending you a message the only way he knows how. What it truly could be, you have no idea, but having a slew of younger brothers, you understand that sometimes boys just need to wear themselves out with their nonsense. Doesn’t make it any less frustrating or humiliating for you, but you’ve been through worse than an adult man being immature and unable to communicate his feelings.

You almost wish his health was struggling a bit more because it would force him to engage with you. As it stands, he is the picture of health right now and he is only listening to you out of the necessity of keeping up appearances or when you have the gall to talk to another man.

It stings more than you want it to. More than it should.

It’s easy to blame it on the ever-growing fatigue you can’t seem to shake and on the fact you have less experience dealing with these kinds of relationships than most girls your age. It’s not as if you have a lot to compare it to, or even any girlfriends or relatives you talk to in order to help you try and understand what is wrong with him.

A deep loneliness sinks down over you suddenly, threatening to drown you in the overwhelming realization that you truly have only yourself to keep you steady. The worst part is Elvis is the only one who has any understanding of you at all, and for whatever reason, he is shutting you out. You force back the tears trying to spring to your eyes, swallowing your grief and resignation.

Instead of giving him the satisfaction of seeing you mope as he entertains the girls the other guys have procured for the evening, you smile and keep up pleasantries for as long as you can before retiring to the bedroom to read. Not that you are able to, as the words keep swimming in your vision and you stay on the same page for much too long. Finally, you close your eyes against the emotional tide and your persistent headache, and it’s not until Elvis comes to bed that you stir again.

You don’t open your eyes, however, though you can feel him looking at you. His gaze burns through you, making your heart race. There’s a long moment of silence before he finally undresses, gets in the bed, and turns out the light.

*

March 26th, 1960

The studio is vibrating with energy. Not only are the people involved in the show bustling about, but the audience, packed full of young women, is tittering so much that you can feel it in your bones.

Surprisingly, Charlie came out and grabbed you after Elvis’ appearance in the opening. Elvis looked smart in the dress uniform he’d been so glad to be rid of those first days you’d met. While he’d been nicer to you today in general, you are unsure why he wants you backstage after the way he’d shooed you out before the show started. But there are thirty more minutes before his performance, and you are suddenly concerned he’s not doing as well as he made himself out to be.

You make your way back into the dressing room, trying to offset your own nerves. You slept terribly, thinking too much about your future, mulling over every worst-case scenario again and again in your head. But the moment you enter the dressing room, it all goes out the window.

Elvis turns around when the door opens, an absolute vision in a black tuxedo that does everything to show off his long frame. Everything.There’s no helping the sharp intake of breath you try to swallow and the way your feet stick to the floor as you take him in from top to bottom. He is the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome.

His dark hair is swooped back on the sides, but styled tall and soft in the front, adding the appearance of at least three inches to his height and highlighting his long, chiseled jaw. His artfully applied makeup is subtle and does everything to show off his deep blue bedroom eyes.

Eyes that just happen to be swallowing you whole. A wave of heat washes over your entire body. You feel suspended in time and know you are gawking, but despite having spent over three weeks solid with the man, enduring every quirk and his maddening mood swings, you hadn’t been prepared to see him at his best.

Oh, Madone.

He has you locked down with his gaze, and while every professional bone in your body screams at you to be normal, it’s impossible. Every reason you’d been furious with him for the past week is forgotten in the blink of an eye. It’s as if it is suddenly dawning on you why Elvis Presley is who he is and that you’ve been working for him all this time without really realizing it.

“A-alright, everybody out. I need to talk to my Little Bird alone,” he drawls, but the command is crystal clear, sending all the boys filing out behind you. His nickname for you has never sounded so utterly sinful coming out of his mouth before. Your heart thuds in your chest and you hope to God Elvis cannot hear it or see the flush on your cheeks.

The door clicks shut, and Elvis sighs audibly in what seems like relief, his shoulders sagging a bit, and as he deflates, it breaks whatever strange spell he had on you. He adjusts his cufflinks nervously, then shakes his hands at his sides, bouncing on his toes, like he’s trying to expel the nerves out his limbs.

“Are you okay?” you ask, finally able to speak again.

“O-oh, honey, I-I-I-I’m so damn scared, I feel like my heart’s ‘bout ready to fly right o-o-outta my chest,” he stutters, looking at you as though you can provide him some relief. “S’like I can’t breathe.”

This kicks you into gear, the need to make sure he is healthy enough to perform washing away the awe at the handsome figure he cuts.

“You’re okay, just take off your jacket and sit down,” you guide him gently. He doesn’t fight you at all, but you can see the way he trembles with anxiety. The change in him seems strange to you considering the easy ego he’s been coasting on for weeks.

Maybe he’s been such a jerk because he’s been nervous, you think suddenly. As quick as it comes, you push it back out again, wanting to focus on his care.

You don’t have all your things, but you take his pulse, which is noticeably racing, and his breathing seems fast but not wheezing.

“I-I-I’m not dying, am I? W-w-what i-if I-I go o-out there and p-pass out in front of—” He is stuttering so much, it’s hard to understand what he’s saying, but his fear is clear: he’s terrified he’s going to mess up this critical piece of his comeback in front of the world and some of the greatest performers out there.

“Elvis,” you say gently, grabbing his hands in yours and stilling them. Once his fearful, wide eyes find yours, you continue, “You’re going to be just fine. You aren’t going to die out there, I promise. Now, take a deep breath with me.” You inhale deeply, hold, and then exhale nice and long, then do it again until he’s matching you.

In, out, in, out, again and again.

The breathing has just as much effect on you as it does him. The energy in the room calms substantially, your fears and his dissipating a little more with each breath.

You’re not quite sure how long you sit there with him, his hands dwarfing yours, but when he opens his eyes and meets yours, you can all at once see every iteration of Elvis Presley coexisting in harmony: the playful boy, the charming but humble superstar, the fiery and moody young man. He is both the most human you’ve ever seen him, yet the most ethereal in the same breath. The vulnerability and complexity astound you speechless once again.

“You are magic, Little Bird,” he says softly, eyes tracking over your face. Your heart skips a beat, then two. You’re in freefall for a few seconds before you can tear your eyes away from him enough to regain your wits.

When you look back at him, his face is a handsome mask, giving little away. Perhaps it’s just him preparing to perform, locking some of himself away. But something tells you there is more to it than that.

His thumbs trace up and down, sweeping between your thumbs and pointer fingers in the same rhythm as your breath. Somehow it grounds you while still making you feel a bit dizzy. He says you are magic, but he is the one enchanting you and all at once you want to tell him everything. Every single thing weighing on your mind. All your fears. The feelings you are starting to have for him that terrify you. How you see him. How you’ve deceived him to protect him. To protect yourself. It’s not the right time, it never is, but it’s like he’s drawing it out of you with his caress. You can’t bear for him to go cold on you again, not when he’s your only glimmer of hope.

They say the truth will set you free.

The words start to tumble out of their own accord, “Elvis, I need to tell you—”

A sharp rap at the door interrupts your confession before it even starts, and your heart catches in your throat.

“Places, Mr. Presley!” George yells through the door.

“Thank you!” he yells back. His eyes shine with something hopeful behind them when he turns his attention back to you, almost expectant. “Save that thought, honey.”

It’s all you can do to nod, tamping down on the adrenaline pouring through your veins. He leaps up, releasing your hands, severing the connection you hadn’t realized until right now you needed so much. Pulling his jacket on, he adjusts, and you stop him, craving the sense of intimacy that is slipping through your fingers like a sieve. You step up to him, straightening and smoothing the velvet lapels of his jacket. Your hands linger a moment too long near the button and you look at them, unable to stop the heat on your cheeks or to look up into Elvis’ eyes.

“Wish me luck, baby?” he says playfully, but with an edge of need you force yourself to ignore. He squeezes your hands, encouraging you to raise your head. You school your features into something calmer than what you feel.

“You don’t need it. You’ll be amazing and they’ll love you. They already do,” you say. It comes out much more breathless than you’d like, and you look everywhere but in his eyes.

The air gets heavy, crushing all sensibility, and you can’t help your eyes darting up then. His full lips part the slightest bit, his body leaning forward enough to make your breath catch. Suddenly every one of your nerves is on fire, crawling under your skin, something new and forbidden winding its way into your belly.

He’s only ever kissed you in a performative way, playing to an audience, but this, this is different. The way those sapphire eyes drink you in is much too much. You’re drowning in them, wondering how different it will be if he kisses you and not pretend-girlfriend you. He is so close you can smell the now-familiar, delicious waft of his cologne and feel the heat of his breath on your face.

Oh, Madone, we can’t. The thought stabs through your head with a panic, straightening your spine like a ramrod, and Elvis is nothing if not observant. So expertly does he change course you doubt he had any other intention than to press his open mouth to your cheek. The soft feeling has you sighing, but you aren’t sure if it’s in relief or disappointment.

Not unlike the look on his face.

Stepping back breaks the tension in the air enough for you to recover what is left of your wits. You smooth the front of your dress. “Would you like me in the audience or backstage?” You hope it comes out more professional than you feel.

“Needja out front. Wanna be able to see your pretty face unable to take your eyes off me,” he jokes, oozing charm, but his twitching hands and serious eyes belie his nervousness.

“Oh, we’ll see.” You roll your eyes, playing into what he seems to need in this moment from you, though your heart is still galloping enough that you feel breathless. You barely register opening the door and walking back out to your seat in the audience, feeling the roll of anxiety in your stomach, both for his performance and for what you almost let happen in the dressing room.

Before you can spiral too far into beating yourself up, Frank is up introducing Elvis. The girls in the studio go so wild, they sound possessed, chants of “We want Elvis!” devolving into shrieking. You resist the urge to stick your fingers in your ears to protect your eardrums.

But then Elvis, in all his breathtaking beauty, is ambling downstage, managing to be cool, casual, and charming, but also bashful, like he didn’t expect this reaction. And it’s not a put on.

He didn’t think they’d still love him, you realize.

The way he bites his lip, then runs his tongue over his teeth before erupting into an almost embarrassed grin makes your heart flutter at its sweetness because you know just how scared he is. His skill, however, is that no one else does.

He turns to signal the band and the first bars of Fame and Fortune come in. The man who turns around to sing is someone much different than the bashful boy of just a second ago. The sultry look he throws the audience takes your breath away, but as he waits to come in, he can’t totally hold the pose, that lip of his curling up and his tongue trying to banish it in the name of being serious. The girls scream in response, eating it up, and you can’t say you blame them. He looks up to the sky, perhaps saying a silent prayer, to regain his composure before he opens his mouth to sing.

Now, in the last few weeks, you’ve become well acquainted with his gifted voice, but it is not until this very moment you understand the scope of his talent. The spell that he casts over the room feels nearly as intimate as the one he had with you in the dressing room just minutes ago. The nervousness you know is there is so artfully maneuvered that it opens him to the audience rather than pushing them away. Few other stars would get away with smiling and laughing at the reaction of their audience in the middle of their ballad but when he does it, you feel it down to your toes.

Or maybe it’s the how his voice is like silk in your ears, a contradiction of impressively light but warm and rich. The honeyed timbre winds its way down your spine, right into the core of you. It’s not just in your body but your soul, too. The hair on your arms stands straight up, a visceral reaction proving his effect on you isn’t in your imagination.

A woman could fall in love with that voice alone.

Despite the way you want to fight the hold of his performance and its battle in your mind with the man you’re getting to know, it is quite impossible. You get utterly sucked into the tide of Elvis Presley.

He is stunning.

You can’t help the way your mouth drops open and your palms begin to sweat. There is brilliance in every move and sound he makes, and you’re amazed at his ability to include everyone in the room, from the camera, the band and backup singers, to how those bedroom eyes scan the entirety of the audience in one breath. You feel like you’ve been struck by lightning every time they catch yours.

If you weren’t so dumbstruck, you might chastise yourself for feeling so carried away, but it’s hard not to feel like he’s sharing something important with you right now—an essential part of his soul, this thing he was obviously born to do. It brings tears to your eyes.

As the song winds down, you and the rest of the audience mourn its end. But in the split second he bows his head and bites his lip, you see the utter relief that fills him at the realization that he’s still got it. Then the upbeat lilt of Stuck on You comes in and he’s immediately reinvigorated.

He knows he has you all now, and it’s as if suddenly his body remembers everything that made him a star. Sure, it’s toned down some for his new adult image, but those unique movements are still there. He’s playful and energized in a way you’ve never seen him before. It’s not just in his long limbs (which you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from) but also in his voice. Flirtatious and silly, he wraps you all around his snapping fingers.

The girls are going crazy and rightly so: you find yourself having to bite down on your lip to keep from squealing with them. A bead of sweat runs down your spine and you cross and uncross your legs to try and stave off the total, uncontrolled insanity you are feeling trying to reconcile this Elvis with the one you sleep in the same bed with, the one you care for when he’s so ill he can barely function.

Nothing about this is remotely helping the feelings for him you know are brewing under the surface. It’s like being dragged under by a riptide—you can’t fight it, not now, and you just have to give yourself over to the current.

But one thing is for certain: there is nothing sane about any of this.

You can see even Frank is off kilter because when he comes out for the duet, this cool-as-a-cucumber, wildly talented star in his own right is stumbling over his lines. The man is struggling to maintain his dominance as the host and the elder, more refined performer. Sensing what you think is his competitive edge, you watch Frank rebound for control as best he can, but even he has got to know Elvis is in a class of his own. He’s upstaging Frank without even trying.

Part of you knows you are witnessing history in the making. You can hardly believe it. A month ago, you were living an entirely different life. You certainly didn’t care much for Elvis in the beginning, and now you want nothing more than to stay in his orbit. It’s strange to feel so starstruck around him.

The whole thing is madness.

You are still buzzing and a bit dazed when Charlie pulls you backstage. The prideful, overly logical part of your brain wants you to calm yourself before you see Elvis, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a big head around you, but the giddy girl in you doesn’t care. That silly little girl eats up the grin spreading across Elvis’ face and falls straight into his open arms. He hugs you tight, like he means it. It feels real and not for the benefit of all those around you thinking you’re the adoring girlfriend congratulating him on his triumph. The way he squeezes you and presses his lips to your temple feels special and just for you.

“What didja think, Little Bird?” he whispers in your ear.

“Oh, well, the guys did great, and Nancy was lovely,” you hear yourself teasing.

The playful, possessive little growl he makes and the way his fingers press into your ribcage has you fighting unsuccessfully to suppress the shudder of excitement running through you. You curl your toes in your heels trying to absorb the heady feeling it leaves you with to get yourself right enough to speak again.

“Well, I’m a bit loathe to admit it, but you were wonderful,” you finally say, looking up at him and placing your hand on his chest. His heart thumps wildly under your palm and under any other circumstance you might be concerned, but you let it be. This is his moment.

“Better than Ricky Nelson?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow at you.

“Hmm, marginally,” you tut, trying to keep a straight face.

“’Marginally’, huh? I’ll show you marginal!” he laughs. And then he buries his head in your neck, his hot breath and soft lips pebbling your skin and setting your body aflame. You don’t recognize the gasping giggles erupting from you like a schoolgirl.

It’s all for show it’s all for show it’s all for show…a voice in your head viciously reminds you.

“Okay, okay!” you laugh breathlessly, trying to still his ministrations. “I will concede that you, Elvis Presley, are a very talented man.”

“Oooh, am I now?” He wiggles his brows suggestively, sending another wash of heat over your body.

Your mouth pops open, but before you can think to respond, someone cuts in. “Hey, Presley, quit making googly eyes at your girl and get over here!”

Elvis responds by doing the silly little thing he does with his eyes that makes all the girls scream and you can’t help but laugh.

The moment he walks away, taking his warm essence with him, you find yourself deflate a little. It sobers you quickly and the letdown of the entire experience has you unexpectedly emotional. Without his warmth and light, you feel cold and unprotected and alone.

Sneaking away to the restroom, you lock yourself in with shaking hands. Oh, God, what is wrong with me? you think as the tears well and then escape in rivulets down your cheeks. You swipe at them, fighting what you fear is happening but cannot quite admit to yourself.

You refuse to be like every other woman, falling over your own feet for Elvis. Desperate for any sliver of attention, living for his small touches and knowing gazes. Blinded by his talent and fame.

You are not that girl. Breathing in and out, trying to calm yourself, you remember he is just a flesh-and-blood man, and you cannot give another man the power to hurt you again. He is your employer, your patient, and nothing more.

Liar.

Pushing those treacherous thoughts away, you switch tacks. You need to protect him from the storm you know is coming but your survival instincts are doing everything possible to keep you safe, and Elvis might be the only person who can do that. Telling him about Gianni and your background risks his rejection. Your heart aches at the idea of him letting you go, and not just because of your safety. There’s no way you can tell him the truth about you now, not when he’s flying so high, not when for the first time in weeks you finally feel connected with him again.

Maybe too connected.

No, you’ll just have to wait until the right time. You can’t spoil this for him. Talk of Gianni and your father would destroy this goodness, and you can’t let them destroy anything else.

Forcing yourself to put it on the back burner, you paste on a smile and play the devoted girlfriend for the rest of the evening. Every little touch is like tinder catching flame under your skin—his hand around your waist, thumb grazing so near your breast, his fingers interlocking with yours—and the sparkle in his eyes makes your heart dance against your ribcage. It’s easy to believe he truly cares and that he’s yours.

He's a better actor than they give him credit for.

For once, you let yourself lean into it, pretending he wants you. You are swept up into his joy and relief and affection. It’s an addictive and glorious drug. By the time you both stumble exhausted into the bedroom of the suite, your cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

Your body hums a little from the glass of champagne you allowed yourself, mind buzzing with the excitement of the day and from your proximity to the man of the hour. Elvis seems to be much in the same boat, riding high and energized as he takes off his jacket, throwing it over the chair in the corner. The tiny tie was lost long ago when he unbuttoned his top buttons at the studio and sweat glistens in the divot between his collarbones as he begins rolling up his sleeves. You were unaware until this very moment how attractive forearms could be.

Suddenly your mouth feels very dry. You lick your lips, watching his every movement.

Elvis looks up quickly, catching your undivided attention, and his lip quirks in a slow smirk that is both sinful and self-conscious. His eyes flash with a heat that makes your toes curl into the soles your shoes and your pulse flutter wildly.

Oh, no. No. I will not get flustered by Elvis.

Cheeks heating, you look away and focus every ounce of attention you have on undoing the straps on your heels.

Elvis starts to hum a song you don’t immediately recognize, the sound vibrating and warm and sultry. Like a siren’s song, it threatens to hypnotize you. It distracts you enough that you fumble with the stubborn clasp on your heel, unable to wrench the leather free of the buckle. You let out a huff.

“Here. Lemme help, baby,” he says, more a soft command than an offer, the sound wrapping around you like velvet. He kneels before you, placing your foot on his knee, his long, nimble fingers working the strap free. If you hadn’t already been holding your breath, the way he gently massages the crease the strap left on your ankle through your stockings might have caused you to gasp.

“How’d I never notice these pretty lil’ sooties?” he coos, rubbing his thumb into the sore arch of your foot.

You bite back the moan threatening to slip free due to the sensation, but it escapes anyway, as a tiny whimper instead. Perhaps you imagine the way the apples of his cheeks go pink at the sound. Either way, you feel like you are about to come apart at the seams.

He makes slow work of massaging your foot and then placing it back down. You suck in a breath, just as he grabs the other and repeats the action of freeing then massaging it.

“Elvis,” you gasp much too breathlessly. You want to melt into the sensation, but the rest of your body feels like it’s on fire, a molten pit growing in your belly that you can’t seem to stop. You should push him away, you know you should, because this is too much, too intimate, but you can’t seem to will yourself to do so.

“Hmm?” he replies innocently, as if he truly has no idea what he has reduced you to. His hand squeezes down your foot until he reaches your toes. “Oh, honey, why ain’t these perfect lil’ piggies painted?” he asks, near scandalized.

The question throws you. “I…I’ve never seen the need,” you stutter out. “It’s not as though anyone would see them and being on my feet all day in the ward would just ruin them…”

His brows furrow. “Not even with your girlfriends? Or for a day at the beach?” he asks, genuinely confused as to why a young lady would never paint her toenails.

Your heart aches acutely all the sudden. The words fall out of your mouth before you can stop them: “I didn’t have many friends like that. Or time to spend with them. I was busy raising my brothers and then I left for nursing school….”

“Oh.” He says it so softly and full of compassion you nearly want to cry. Then, his demeanor shifts. “Well, all that changes now, Little Bird.” He gives your feet one last pat and then smoothly lifts himself off his knees, going towards the door.

“What?” you ask, confused. This man has your head spinning.

He flings the door open. “Hey, Charlie! Charlie!” he yells into the penthouse.

“Yeah?” you hear Charlie call back.

“I need you to get some nail polish. Pink is best, but red’ll do.”

You hear a long pause, then a shuffle. “Ummm, where am I gonna find polish in the middle of the night, EP?”

Elvis sighs. “Use yer brain, buddy. You tellin’ me none of those girls out there has any polish on ‘em? I have faith you can figure it out.” Then he shuts the door with a grin.

Dumbfounded, you gape at him. “You can’t be serious, Elvis. It’s late and we need to get some rest…I don’t particularly want to paint my toenails right now. And truth be told, I’m not very good at it,” you say, feeling panicked by the whole idea. The idea of him watching you trying and failing to paint your toes makes you squirm.

He just grins. “Good thing I ain’t tired, then, baby! You can relax and I’ll take care of it. Go get in your jammies.”

Your brain feels broken. He can’t possibly be suggesting what you think he is. Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

“Close that purty mouth—you look like a big ol’ guppy over ‘dere,” he laughs, his accent seeming stronger than usual. “Now, go on—get ready for bed,” he orders, pulling you off the bed.

“Elvis—”

“Nope, don’ wanna hear it, honey! Go!”

Which is how you find yourself in the bathroom, changing into the modest but silky, white, button up pajamas Elvis bought for you on your shopping spree a few weeks ago and doing your nightly routine with a flock of very baffled butterflies in your stomach. You are also a little afraid for the state of your toes by the time this is all said and done.

And yet, Elvis manages to surprise you again, not only with the fact that Charlie was indeed able to get his hands on pearly pink nail polish at this hour, but with his ability to paint nails. It’s more than adorable the way he concentrates on getting it right, tongue caught between his teeth, even sticking cotton between your toes to keep them apart. Usually, you would hate having someone touch your feet, but he’s so gentle about it and you are so distracted by how unbelievable the situation is and how a dark lock of hair falls imperfectly over his forehead as he bends over your toes that you can’t bring yourself to tell him no.

As always, time seems to warp with him, and it’s so late it’s early. You find yourself yawning, wiggling your freshly pink toenails in a state of strangely pleased disbelief.

“You like ‘em, Little Bird?” he asks, eyes shining with an unexpected need of approval.

“Yes, they are lovely. If this singing thing doesn’t work out, you could open a salon. The girls would go crazy,” you joke.

He bows his head with a bashful smile, then looks up at you through those long lashes and you feel like the bed has dropped out from under you.

“Naw, this is only for the special lil’ nurses who hafta put up with me every day. No one else.” His eyes twinkle, lighting your body with electricity.

Why does he have to be so charming?

Part of you wants to scream at him to stop being so nice to you. If he knew what trouble you were, what you’ve brought to his doorstep, he’d never be looking at you like this or treating you with such care.

No one since your mother has treated you with such care.

Tears threaten to spring to your eyes, and you push your feelings as far away as you can, as fast as you can.

“Speaking of,” you say, clearing your throat, “I should take your vitals before you sleep.”

Elvis looks confused and maybe a little hurt at your abrupt subject change but recovers quickly enough. “Aww, come on, Little Bird, not tonight. I feel fine, I swear it.”

But you need your armor, and your job gives you that. It gives you space from these stupidly complicated feelings you are having. “Grab my bag and we can prove it.”

Elvis sighs, but does what you say, quiet as you take his temperature, blood pressure, and pulse. When you finish, surprise fills you.

Elvis looks concerned. “What is it? Everythin’ okay? I’m tired, sure, but I feel—”

“No, I know,” you interrupt, “your numbers are good. Apparently a wildly successful comeback performance coupled with giving a late-night pedicure was just the right medicine.” You can’t help but smile at him.

He looks at you wide eyed, then gives you a blinding smile. “Or maybe you’re just that good for me, darlin’.”

Your heart flips in your chest, beating in your throat, but you refuse to let it show on your face. “Sure, mister. Quit your flirting and get in the bed,” you say firmly, only realizing your mistake when he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“To sleep! Go to sleep, Elvis!” you say, rolling your eyes. You cover the blush on your face by turning over to flip off the lamp on your nightstand.

His hiccupping laugh makes you smile in the dark when he slides into the bed next to you. You are acutely aware of the heat of him, and though he doesn’t touch you, you can’t help but sense that he wants to as his chuckles die down to silence.

After a pregnant pause, he speaks again, quiet but direct.

“Was there something you wanted to tell me, honey? From earlier when we got interrupted?”

Your heart trips, then races with both surprise and fear. Thank God he can’t see your face because you are battling the onslaught of thoughts spiraling in your mind.

He won’t understand. He’ll kick you out on the street.

No, don’t keep lying to him. He deserves the truth.

Not now, later.

Protect him, protect him, protect him…

It’s the vision of Gianni ripping out Elvis’ throat that makes the decision for you.

“No, it was nothing,” you whisper shakily, clutching the sheets in your hands.

“Oh,” he says, almost blankly, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say he sounded upset.

But that wouldn’t make sense.

“Goodnight, Elvis,” you say quietly.

“Goodnight, Lori.”

Your stomach drops at how he uses your actual name, all the warmth from earlier gone from his voice. As tired as you are, shame and regret churn in your stomach—a stew of nausea that won’t seem to abate, even after you eventually drift off to sleep.

*

Three more days you spend in Florida, each one bringing even more maddening behavior from Elvis. Somehow, when you weren’t looking, a switch flipped yet again. He’s rapidly vacillating between moody and sullen to downright cold and cutting.

He keeps you close, to be sure, while going water skiing and taking long drives and cavorting with his friends, but the sweet, compassionate closeness from the night of filming the special is nowhere to be found. You feel like an accessory he strapped to his wrist, desperately trying to make sure he doesn’t run himself ragged with all the “fun” he is having. He doesn’t even attempt to hide the flirting and the inappropriate jokes and jabs not fit for mixed company. No, he does it with you at his side, like he’s trying to make a point.

Even the Colonel is distressed, confronting Elvis about spending too much and making the return trip to Memphis one by bus instead of train as some sort of power move to wrangle the star. Elvis just laughs it off, and in what seems to be true Elvis fashion, he seems to spend more rather than less just to stick it to the Colonel. All of it put together reminds you of the adolescent behavior of your younger brothers.

It’s exhausting, running after this moody man-child who acts like you hung the moon one minute and in the next ignores you. You remind him until you are blue in the face that he must rest and have some semblance of a normal routine when he can, instead of running himself into the ground by overindulging in nearly every sense of the word. The man seems to have no concept of the word “moderation” and as annoyed as you are, you are more worried this will lead to another, more serious episode.

It's easy to blame him for the near-constant headaches and exhaustion ailing you. Having to pretend to go along with his antics as his girlfriend while also having to babysit him as his nurse is continuing to run you ragged. Not to mention the emotional upheaval of trying to piece out your own feelings for him and manage your lingering fear about Gianni at the same time.

The worst, however, is the lack of playfulness Elvis had with you coupled with the brooding silence he shoves between you in your very few moments alone. Nothing reminds you more you are just his nurse. The rest, whatever it was, seems a folly concocted by your addled imagination.

You can’t shake the feeling of being punished for some unknown offense. Maybe it is just your guilt brewing under the surface, trying to make sense of this man. It’s hard to break the habit of feeling like no matter what you do and how good you are at your job, you are somehow still a burden to the men in your life.

But it isn’t just that. Every stunning smile or touch he gives another woman fees barbed and has your blood boiling, even though it shouldn’t. Every sly remark about being “tied down” he makes to the guys makes your skin crawl. Worse yet, he starts poking fun at you any chance he gets, edging more into mean spirited with each jab, and even his friends shoot you apologetic looks by the end of the trip.

And yet another full day with them all, coupled with Elvis’ ire, all the stupid jokes, and the rampant gas that all the men seem to have, this time trapped on a smelly chartered bus, has you feeling claustrophobic and ready to throw yourself out the window. It’s unusual for you to feel so bothered by such things—you grew up in a houseful of men after all. You learned early on to keep your feelings to yourself, especially to keep off your father’s radar. Patience for rowdy men has historically been one of your greatest virtues, but Elvis has you digging your nails into your knees and biting your tongue more than once as the bus slowly ambles towards Memphis.

He's just an unruly patient—don’t take it personally, you chant to yourself all the way home. You try, you do, but your stomach ties in more knots with each passing mile and with the memory of feeling cared for by him contradicting everything he’s lobbing at you.

By the time you arrive back at Graceland, you are ruing all your life decisions. Despite reminding yourself of how, logically, you are safer and more secure here than you’ve ever been in your life, you’ve reached your limit of patience with Elvis and his entourage for the day. Maybe the week. Or the month.

Oh, Madone, how am I supposed to do this for the unforeseen future if I can’t make it a month with this man?

At least here you can safely put some space between you. You fly off the bus as soon as the door opens.

“Hey! Hey, where do you think you’re goin’?” he yells from behind you.

Why do you care? is what you want to say, but you swallow the urge instead.

You keep walking down the driveway, away from the house, pretending you don’t hear him. Nothing good can come from you answering him right now, not when you are feeling so on edge. Besides that, it’s hard to think with the throbbing behind your eyes and the slight carsickness rolling in your stomach from being on the bus all day.

“Lori, stop! Goddammit, Dolores, where. Are. You. Goin’?” he shouts, punctuating each word, your name rolling off his tongue like an admonishment. You stop in your tracks. It infuriates you he deems to use your given name like you’re the one who has done something wrong, like it’s your behavior that’s been so poor.

“Away from you!” you shout back at him, unable to keep your frustration locked in any longer.

Your heart sinks, immediately knowing you’ve overstepped but annoyed enough not to quit while you’re ahead. You start walking again, hurrying away as if you can still escape this whole situation.

The chorus of men chuckling and “oooh”ing at Elvis as they amble off the bus does not help matters.

“What the hell did you just say?” he growls low, his large strides hard on the pavement as they try to catch up with your smaller ones. “Hey, don’t walk away from me when I’m talkin’ to ya!”

“Leave me alone, Elvis! It’s obvious you’ve wanted me out of your hair for weeks, so go! Do whatever it is you need to do to get whatever this is out of your system,” you snap, still stomping forward, pulling your coat tight around your middle as you try to reacclimate to the early spring chill in the air. “Go…get laid or something,” you mutter, surprised at your own crassness.

“Hey! Stop bein’ such a b-bitch and stop walkin’ away from me!” he roars, grabbing your upper arm to pull you around.

You gasp as his rough touch lances through you, sending a lightning bolt of fear down to your toes. “Get your hands off me!” you hiss, violently yanking away from his grasp. Your heart knocks unpleasantly in your chest, faster and faster as your breath heaves. Part of you wants to run away as fast as you can, but you are frozen in place.

He’s not Gianni, a soft voice whispers. He won’t hurt you.

You want to believe it, you really do, but the fact is you barely know this man. You’ve wanted to believe so badly he is warm and caring, you’ve wanted to trust him because there is no one else you can, but your hopes don’t make it true.

Seeing your distress, something besides anger flashes in Elvis’ eyes and he quickly drops his arm from you.

All your pent-up fury washes over you then and you lash out uncharacteristically. “And don’t you dare call me a bitch when you’ve been acting the way you have,” you spit back at him.

He shutters his look of shock at your outburst so quickly you barely see it before flames darken his eyes again. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. You’re just crazy.” It’s cutting but it’s obvious you struck a nerve.

Blood rushes in your ears, your heart pounding and your head throbbing with a hundred emotions threatening to tear you apart.

You’ve never felt so bold or off the rails before, but the words fly out of you with little thought of the consequences as you point your finger at him. “Listen to me, Elvis Presley: I’m not Anita or one of your sycophantic girlfriends you can play your silly little hot-and-cold mind games with. I’m not crazy. I’m here to do a job. And instead of letting me, you are making it hard every step of the way. For days you’ve been sulking around like a child who hasn’t gotten his way instead of communicating like an adult what is wrong!”

Elvis’ eyes go wide as he reels back like you’ve slapped him in the face. Then his brow furrows, eyes blazing before locking you out once more.

“Oh, you’d know all about mind games, wouldn’t ya, honey?” he says coldly, advancing on you. “Why communicate w-w-when y-you can just pretend it’s not happenin’ and run away? I’m sure your fee-an-cè and his mafia buddies would have a lot to say about that, now, huh?”

Your heart screeches to a stop.

Dio mio…he knows.

“Elvis…” you breathe out, and then you can’t seem to breathe in again. Your shock is eclipsed by the fact somehow Elvis knows your secret. Everything else is forgotten. All your panicked mind can think of is how Gianni or your father somehow got to Elvis and they must be here, now, to take you back to New York.

An involuntary shudder overtakes you as you whisper, “How?”

“Oh, your good friend Sinatra told me the w-w-whole damn East Coast of mobsters is pissed o-off. Called you some mafia princess Helen of Troy and told me to cut you loose, if I-I-I knew w-what w-was good for me,” Elvis barrels on, his handsome face dark and storming with anger.

“What?” It’s so breathless, you aren’t sure you said it aloud. Frank knew? Of course.

Oh, God, everyone knows.

They are coming for me.

The acid in your stomach bubbles, and if it weren’t empty, the contents would be spilled over Elvis’ expensive shoes.

“I-It w-was humiliatin’, not knowin’ what the hell he was talkin’ about! But you wanna know the worst of it, Lori? That I gave you every chance to tell me and you still didn’t. You lied. I thought…” Elvis keeps speaking, his low voice angry and hurt, but suddenly it sounds like he’s in a wind tunnel. All your focus turns inward, though you are vaguely aware that you are shaking like a leaf.

Elvis is going to send me back.

And he has every right. He’s got to protect himself. You were selfish and brought this to his doorstep and didn’t even have the courtesy to warn him. Then he had to go and hear it from Frank of all people.

It was no wonder he’s been acting so strange.

He’s been preparing to let me go.

Your chest constricts and your heart aches. It feels like betrayal, though you know it’s not. You are the one who betrayed him, not the other way around. You’d thought maybe Elvis was different, he’d shown you such compassion at your worst moments, but that was before he knew what you’d dragged him into. And you are a horrible for doing it. Maybe you deserve the hell you know Gianni will put you through.

There is no stopping the tears from pouring down your cheeks.

“I-I’m so, so sorry,” you sob, now a hiccupping, shivering mess.

Gianni’s obsidian eyes and horrific smile when he sees you again flash in your mind. “Hello, Bella…”

Oh, Madone, I can’t go back, I can’t. He’ll kill me. Or worse…

The air in your lungs seems to evaporate, leaving you gasping and dizzy. That weightless space, the one you go to when you can’t bear to feel anymore, awaits you, but you can’t seem to reach it because Elvis is grabbing your shoulders, the anger gone from his eyes and replaced with concern. But he is tethering you to reality when all you want to do is disappear. And you can’t help but feel like you’ve damned him.

Your stomach churns once more and you lose the battle, heaving bile off to the side and onto the pavement. It steals what little strength and air you have left, and the edges of your vision bleed black, like the shadow of Gianni is finally here to take you away.

I’m sorry, is the only thought left when your knees buckle and your body crumbles into Elvis’ arms.

Then there is just dark, blissful silence.

*

Thank you for reading and supporting my work!! As always, likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated if you enjoyed what you read! 💗

Taglist Pt 1

@eliseinmemphis@russian-soft-bitch@tattywood

@sassanoe@thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle@carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23

 @littlebitofgreen@paigevis@bugg06@xhannahbananax03@artlover8992

@18lkpeters@frozenhuntress67@girlblogger2002@kendralavon7@misspresley

@be-my-ally @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen @powerofelvis @from-memphis-with-love

 @precious-lil-scoundrel @stylespresleyhearted @prompted-wordsmith @crash-and-cure @elvisgf @lookingforrainbows @fic-over-cannon @godlypresley @ab4eva @whatstruthgottodowithit @elvisabutler @amydarcimarie@idontwanttoputanything @callieselvisobsessed @captainamerica1235-blog  @xenaspace3-blog 

@simplyamberj@claire-elvisgirl@everythingelvispresley@louisejoy86@deniseinmn @madelynpresley

#broken glass #broken glass ch 9 #elvis presley #elvis #elvis presley x reader #elvis x reader #elvis fanfic #elvis fanfiction #if you’re looking for trouble #you came to the right place #elvis smut #elvis x oc #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis x dolores #elvis presley x oc #elvis 1960 #frank sinatra #italian mafia #1960

[aresianrepose]

Before the semester kicks off and murders me, @disniq​ asked for my essay on Jason Todd and hysteria. So, without further ado, here is an actual essay (fucking dissertation) because I refuse brevity. It is extremely long. I’ve split it into sections so you can find the section header and read what you want. This does not encompass all the narrative trauma themes and lived experiences that this boy holds, just specifically hysteria. 

Jason Todd, The Hysteric & Bruce Wayne, The Batman

I think it’s a common reading that Jason Todd is girl-coded and the patron saint of victims, at least within the circle that I’ve fallen into within this fandom. There are plenty of meta discussions on why those readings stand, so I’m not going to reiterate them. A pillar of him being girl-coded and someone trauma survivors have latched onto as one of our own has to do with being written in the context of hysterical femininity. And let me just say, I don’t think that writing was done in a way that he was intentionally coded as hysterical, but it is a function of our patriarchal society that this coding was used on him albeit without the explicit purpose of writing a hysteric story. 

For the purpose of this post: the word woman includes ciswomen, transwomen, and any person who is socially positioned as a woman regardless of gender identity. I include the positionality here because anyone can experience misogyny and sexism depending on the perception of the perpetrators either interpersonally or systemically. 

The History and Context of Hysteria

To understand the context, we have to look at the history and oppression of hysteria. Hysteria (in the modern context of psychology) emerged in the nineteenth century and is difficult to define by design and often applied to traumatized, unruly, and broken women. The main patriarchs who contributed to hysterical study were Jean-Martin Charcot and Sigmund Freud. I only mention this because it’s important to know their names moving forward for any of this to make sense. The beginning of this started with Charcot literally putting women whose lives had been marked by rape, abuse, exploitation, and poverty on display in his Tuesday lectures (which were open to the public) to show his findings on hysteria. This was actually seen as restoring dignity (fucking yikes) to the women because before Charcot these hysterical women were cast aside and not treated at all. In Charcot’s work, the women’s speech was seen as simply “vocalization” and their inner lives, their stories, their words, were silenced. After hearing a woman cry for her mother during one of the public sessions Charcot remarked, “Again, note these screams. You could say it’s a lot of noise over nothing” (Herman). 

This led to Freud, Charcot’s student, wanting to surpass his teacher by discovering the cause of hysteria. This was disastrous. Freud started with listening to the hysterics. In doing so, he learned and believed them about the abuse, rape, and exploitation of their pasts. He then published his work and gave a lecture on it. The work rivals even contemporary psychological work on trauma in it’s level of compassion, understanding, and treatment of survivors. However, he was then labeled a feminist (this was all happening during the first wave of feminism) and professionally ostracized. How in the world could these aristocratic French men be sexually abusing their wives, sisters, and daughters??? Insanity, truly. And... This always fucking gets me. He recanted his work and then told his patients they all imagined it because they wanted to be sexually abused by their husbands, brothers, and fathers. This set back the study of trauma by literally a century. One colleague called his work “a scientific fairy-tale” simply because he had the audacity to believe victims. Also, I want to point out that the famous hysteria case during this time was the case of Anna O and she was ultimately villainized by the entire psychological community for going into crisis after her care provider abruptly ended their therapeutic relationship after two years of DAILY sessions. 

Anyway. We can see how the power of these men over vulnerable women silenced, pathologized, villainized, infantilized, and used male ‘logic’ to completely destroy their credibility and lives under the guise of care and hysteria. Even when credible men lend their expertise and voices to the victims, their voices are silenced. This particular iteration of hysteria lasted over a century, and we are still dealing with the consequences of these actions and ideas within our social construction, medical and mental health care, interpersonal relationships, and more. Patriarchal pillars such as hysteria don’t die. We saw it move from hysteria to schizophrenia (which used to have the same symptoms of hysteria before the diagnosis changed in more contemporary psychology) after this which led to widespread lobotomies and electroshock therapy (my least favorite case of a lobotomy being done is on a woman who was diagnosed with LITERALLY ‘narcissist husband’) to depression in the 40s-50s with the over prescription of benzodiazepines to house wives to keep them in a zombie state (these prescriptions were sometimes double and triple what we take today with the intent of medical catatonia). In my opinion, as well as other counselors within the feminist therapy theoretical orientation, we are currently seeing it with the emergence of borderline-personality disorder. Think about how BPD is treated and demonized for a second. I professionally know therapists who refuse to work with BPD clients due to this villainization and just fucking gross perception of victims.

These are just the highlights, but it shows the history of hysteria. There have been centuries of women being marked as hysterical and the cures have ranged from lobotomy to bed rest (which sounds not so bad but read the Yellow Wallpaper and get back to me on that one). While the Yellow Wallpaper is fictional, the life behind it was not. After the traumatic birth of her child the author, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, was remanded to bed rest by the authority of her husband and doctor. Within the sphere of medical control, hysterical women are often treated as children while their doctors make decisions for their mental well-being without consulting them, or they hide the truth of their procedures for “the woman’s own good” and because “she’s hysterical and wouldn’t comprehend the logical need for this.” She then had a mental break due to the treatment. Again, we see hysterical women being silenced, infantilized, discredited from their own experiences, and under the narrative control of male logic and voices. 

Hysterical women have often historically been seen as beneath men, except for when they’re dangerous. Listening to victims is inherently threatening to the status quo because all trauma comes from a systemic framework. The framework that upholds patriarchal power. It’s easy to see why that would be seen as dangerous to powerful men. We saw this with the European witch genocide in which oppressed women were targeted and wiped out under the excuse of what was considered women’s work. (Before this time, witchcraft wasn’t tied to any religion and was mostly just seen as women’s work. It was targeted specifically to have an excuse to persecute widows, homeless, disabled, and vulnerable women who no longer had men to reign over them during a time of political unrest and scarce resources). This time period saw hysterical and traumatized women demonized as dangerous, evil, immoral, hypersexual, and supernaturally wily. A threat to the moral fabric of society. 

(Interesting history side note: this caused the view of women’s base traits we have today. It stemmed from the Victorian era that came after this time period in which women learned if they behaved a certain way, they would be spared the stake. For example, before the witch trials, women were actually seen as the ones with unsatiable sexual appetites, something we culturally prescribe to men now.) 

Notice how none of this has to do with the actual abuse that happens to the women, but instead the labeling and treatment of women when they are already showing the symptoms of abuse, trauma, control, exploitation, and rape. 

Jason Todd, The Hysteric

So, how does this relate to Jason Todd? To say that Jason has experienced trauma would be an understatement. Extreme poverty, loss of parent to death and addiction, loss of parent to the justice system, parental abuse, manipulation, witnessing violent crimes, witnessing the aftermath of sexual abuse and assault, arguably (not explicit in the text) his own sexual trauma, witnessing the dead bodies of victims, a violent death, and subsequently a violent resurrection. There’s also an argument to be made for being a child soldier and how that is romanticized up until he dies, but the text does not treat this as traumatizing.

Now, I’m not going to dive into the trauma he experienced. The purpose of this is only to look at how he’s framed as hysterical in the narrative, and as I stated, hysteria was a word slapped on women after they tried to talk about their trauma or exhibited symptoms (or were just unruly women). Jason does embody many facets of the victim experience and this is just one of them. 

Feelings vs “logic” - Firstly, it is really hard to talk calmly about things that you carry, your experiences, your trauma, and things that specifically harm you. It is easy to talk calmly about things that don’t. This is why there is an abuse tactic of gaslighting or silencing victims by framing their very real reactions to harm or their triggers as abuse, this is known as “reactive abuse.” This tactic is also employed in oppressive settings where the privileged group will often default to ‘winning’ a debate by being able to remain calm while the marginalized group whose life, personhood, etc is being harmed by the things being discussed and are unable to have a sterilized, emotionless debate. 

Both of these settings fit Jason nicely within the moral context of vigilante comics. He fought back, he didn’t lay down, and he will do what he deems as necessary to protect himself and others from his fate. This, however, is framed by Bruce and others as being just as bad as his murderer or even just as bad as Joe fucking Chill. To put this in perspective of a real world equivalent. Combine every billionaire on this planet into one person and instead of their shitty business practices murdering people, they did it with their own two hands. And due to their resources and political power, they would never, ever stop killing or be reasonably contained. More people would die with absolute 100% certainty. Would killing that one person make you equally bad as that person or violating the sanctity of life? That’s the moral question that Bruce puts onto Jason. While the moral question inherent to Jason is actually, is there a line worth crossing to provide reasonable safety (for yourself or the nameless community)? There is actually a difference between those two questions and the reactive abuse framing is certainly a choice. Also, it is funny to me that a man with the amount of power Bruce has (and frequently misuses) can lecture a murder victim on the misuse of power and morality. Are we supposed to be agree with his stoic, philosophical lecturing to a marginalized, abused, murder victim? (yes, we are). Bruce leverages (personal) philosophy against victim’s voice for their own safety, and take a wild guess which one is framed as logical and reasonable.

Jason’s morals come secondary to Bruce’s philosophy in a universe where there is still harm being done (but it’s an acceptable harm). Why is killing the line? Bruce is regularly destroying families and lives by feeding them into the prison industrial complex while supporting it with his whole chest. Or he’s disabling and seriously maiming people with the level of violence he uses. 

Crying - Throughout the entire story of Under the Red Hood, we never once see Bruce emote while interacting with Jason outside of tight grimaces. With the exception of the shock he shows at the Joker’s life being threatened, which... Okay, suuure. We never see him cry during any of their interactions, but we do see Jason cry. Specifically, we see him crying when he’s at his most emotionally vulnerable and physically dangerous to the toxic male power fantasy. This kind of vulnerability is rarely shown by male characters, and when it is, it’s usually done with a mist of a tear in their eyes or their face is hidden. There are a few narrative devices that allow men to cry, but they are the exception rather than the rule. Usually, it’s to play for laughs, infantilize, or emasculate. Here, we see Jason combine the violence of a bad victim, bucking the system of power, and fully crying. Just slide right into that hysterical coding like a glove. Jason often shows his feelings entirely. Time and time again, the readers have seen Jason have breakdowns, cry, and be overcome with grief. This is tied to his portrayal as hysterical and unstable in the narrative, but in actuality it shows his capacity for love and how vastly impactful his death was. 

This fits nicely with the next point that Jason fits into the hysterical box. Love is framed as one of his key faults. A son reaching for his father. 

Love - One of Jason’s defining features is the amount of love and compassion he holds. He’s willing to put up with any treatment, shoulder blame, and sacrifice himself for others to almost an unhealthy degree. However, this doesn’t extend to what he defines as his baseline safety. This one line of safety is the one thing that can’t be crossed, even with all of the love he feels for his father. He desperately wants to feel connection, have a family, and be loved in return with the same unwavering ferocity love that he gives. This is such a fucking key part of the victim experience, especially victims of childhood trauma. The desperation to just be chosen. He’s raw and honest with his reasonable expectation for love to provide safety for him and that is framed as hysterical, needy, unstable, naive, and fucking childish. Victims know what they need to have safety, and this framing as Bruce knowing what’s best for Jason and literally giving a cold shoulder to his needs is disgusting. 

Less than - Jason is portrayed as less powerful than Bruce even though they have similar expertise. There are so many instances of this that if you just open any media they both appear in, you can close your eyes, point, and land on an example. It makes me die laughing every time I remember that the Arkham games made Jason just one inch shorter than Bruce. Like, they can’t even be the same fucking height, that’s the level of insecure masculinity surrounding this relationship. Jason cannot and will never be able to be on par with Bruce because of his hysterical femininity and the power of Bruce being the self insert for the toxic male power fantasy. This power dynamic applies to the other batkids as well, but specifically in Jason’s case there is an element of hysteria. The reasons change because he’s so inconsistently written but usually he can’t surpass or even meet a stalemate with Bruce because he’s too emotional, he’s unstable, traumatized, and simply Bad. It’s even explicitly stated by Alfred in Under the Red Hood. 

Victim blaming - Jason deserved to die because he didn’t follow orders. Jason deserved to die for not following his training. Jason deserved to die because he was an angry Robin (oh no a child had an appropriate reaction to sexual violence). Jason deserved to die for being human.

Infantilization - Jason is repeatedly infantilized in contrast to Bruce. When given the ultimatum at the end of UtRH, Bruce speaks to Jason like a child, or a bad dog. Ordering him to do things like, “enough!” or “stop this now.” Bruce knows what’s best for Jason (and for everyone in the entire world), we should really just take his word for it and not the victim’s. Imagine staring at a 6 foot wall of a man and scolding him like a child. Beyond that, as mentioned above, his views of love and safety are framed as childish. Even though they are actually leaning more toward collectivism rather than the rampant individualism that Bruce so strongly defers to. (also, just a side note, collectivistic methods in healing from trauma is actually the only scientifically reliable way to heal. Every other method has absolutely abysmal results and higher rates of relapses.)

Silenced and Safety Villainized - Jason is silenced in his own story, acceptable and honored when he was dead and met with vitriol in life. All of the love given to him as Robin turns to ash as soon as he collides with Bruce’s power and morals. I think any survivor can relate to the experience of being told that what happened to them was a long time ago and it’s time to move on. Or even that they’re leveraging their own safety to get what they want in a manipulative way. Regardless of whether or not there was any accountability or justice for the harm done to them. Alfred asks Bruce if he should remove Jason’s memorial in the cave like two seconds after learning of his resurrection because Jason’s methods of securing safety for himself and using his own voice to define his story. Bruce was able to tell Jason’s story when he died. He was able to memorialize, grieve, and ultimately define Jason’s story because Jason wasn’t there to speak for himself. When Jason does speak for himself, he is villainized and literally stripped of his past significance as Robin (or a good victim) by Alfred within seconds. This is reflected in real life with adoptee advocates speaking about how adoption is unethical/harmful/traumatizing and subsequently being framed as ungrateful, selfish, etc. They were little perfect victims without voices before they grew up and could speak for themselves.

Erased - Gestures at the entirety of how Jason is either talked about or completely erased during the 90s Tim Robin run. He wasn’t convenient to talk about, as victims rarely are. This also ties into how Steph’s death was erased and Babs was written like she “won” at trauma by simply... beating it??? 

Dangerous - Jason is framed as threatening the basic fabric of society (in a story with vigilantes this is hard to do, so they have him oppose the no-kill rule, and then doubled down on Bruce’s characterization of no-killing). Anything that bucks the status-quo is usually marked as villainous in mainstream vigilante/superhero comics, but this is a step beyond that into the interpersonal and political sphere. Hysterical women are often framed as dangerous, villains, snakes, and treacherous (the other side of this coin is weak, pathetic, and pitiable) because they are victimized and then have the audacity to do something to the system about it. Whether that be the system of their immediate families or the political sphere. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Jason was paired with Talia in Lost Days to hammer this point home to the reader. It could’ve just as easily been anyone with access to the Pit that rescued him, but no, we had DC’s favorite brown, treacherous, venomous, female punching bag. 

Bruce Wayne, The Batman

Bruce fits well into the father, enforcer, and logical man slot in Jason’s hysterical story. There is a history of ownership throughout women’s history when it comes to their subjugation to men. Women actually couldn’t be put on trial before the witchcraft genocide because they weren’t seen as legally a person. Their male owner would be put on trial instead. Women would go from being owned by their fathers to their husbands after entering marriage, the most dangerous woman being one who isn’t owned (orphaned, widowed). Bruce does treat (and even thinks) about Jason like he’s something that he owns. He’s his protege, his son, and his responsibility. 

The narrative function of Bruce as a perpetrator in Jason’s story. 

“The perpetrator asks the bystander (reader) to do nothing. He appeals to the universal desire to see, hear, and speak no evil. The victim, on the contrary, asks the bystander (reader) to share the burden of pain. The victim demands action, engagement and remembering” (Herman). 

Bruce does remember what happened to Jason. He keeps a permanent memorial to his dead son. However, this doesn’t translate into any kind of tangible action. He doesn’t do anything to actually stop the murderer who took his son’s life and he continues to throw child soldiers at the problem of crime (how many children have died for the sake of his no-kill rule at this point?). When met with the reality of his inaction, he fits into the perpetrator’s role like a glove:

“In order to escape accountability for his crimes, the perpetrator does everything in his power to promote forgetting. Secrecy and silence are the first line of defense... If secrecy fails, the perpetrator attacks the credibility of his victim. If he cannot silence her absolutely, he tries to make sure that no one listens... From the most blatant denial to the most sophisticated and elegant rationalization... One can expect to hear the same predictable apologies: it never happened; the victim exaggerates; the victim brought it upon herself; and in any case it’s time to forget the past and move on. The more powerful the perpetrator, the greater his prerogative to name and define reality, the more completely his arguments prevail” (Herman). 

I think it is simply fact at this point that Bruce is the head patriarch in Gotham if not, arguably, in the entirety of DC. That level of power in the narrative cannot be ignored, especially when faced with the very real, screaming voice of a victim that Bruce uses all of that power to silence. Bruce, because of his status as patriarch, default protagonist, and self-insert for the toxic male power fantasy, has the ultimate power to name and define reality. Especially to the reader. Bruce doesn’t deny what happened to Jason, because that’s physically impossible to do. But what he does do is ensure that no one listens to Jason, discredits him, and rationalizes his own inaction, actions of violence towards Jason, and victim blames.

Here’s Bruce using the most base form of denial and victim blaming:

After this panel, Bruce also revokes Dick’s access to his childhood home simply for asking a question.

This theme extends to other members of the batfam because of Bruce’s narrative power over them. It’s why we can’t have Dick, Steph, Babs, or even Damian step in and relate to Jason’s trauma or vindicate him. Even when we, the readers, can see parallels and wonder why these conversations or bonds aren’t forming. Jason HAS to be a lone wolf because he is hysterical and a threat to the system of power. This also shows why most of his runs in group settings outside of the batfam fall apart or fall flat. If he was humanized by any other character or had his trauma validated in any actionable way, it would be recognizing the failure of the toxic male power fantasy. The readers are not supposed to see the flaw in this system that allows the bodies of children to pile up and sympathize with one of their voices. It would be a crack in the system of power that exists not only in the source material, but very much within our real world.

Side note: Jason is allowed to interact with others in a wholesome and validating way when he no longer threatens the systemic power of Bruce. When he is silenced by the writers and plays the “nice victim” (like Babs does), he is allowed connection. Only when his healing is done in a way that doesn’t demand action and is only his personal responsibility (gotta love the rampant individualism). If he is hysterical, demands action, and asks for someone to be held accountable for his death, he is shoved away into a lone wolf box. Examples: Gotham Knights (from my very basic understanding, I haven’t played the game, only seen play throughs) and WFA. Victims are acceptable if they do their healing in a neat little box and stay there, but hysterics are the ones who step outside of that box.

Red Hood, The Political Voice of Hysteria and Trauma

Red Hood is deeply political in terms of hysteria and trauma. Herman stated that victims and those that authentically care for them or listen to them intently (whether that be interpersonally, clinically, or professionally) are silenced, ostracized, and discredited. Survivors need a social context that supports the victim and that joins the victim and witness in a common alliance. On an interpersonal level this looks like family, friends, and loved ones. However, trauma is systemic and the social context mentioned above must also be given on a wider social scale. For this to be done, there had to be systemic change and political action. Jason had the interpersonal social support and witnesses to his trauma ripped from him by Bruce. So, we see him move onto a systemic level of addressing trauma in his own political way. He literally cannot escape Bruce and this constant trigger because of Bruce’s philosophy and just... fucking power to define reality... being re-enforced constantly in DC no matter where he tries to go. So, he tries to heal by taking the systemic issue of perpetrators who cannot be held accountable or have fallen through the cracks of accountability into his own hands in a very personal way. A one man political movement.

Whether his methods are moral or ethical doesn’t really matter in the overall framing him as hysteric. He simply has to be opposed by the male power fantasy in some significant way. This shows that the goals, needs, and work towards victim’s and the marginalized’s freedom is dangerous, doomed to fail, and ultimately unethical if the victim is framed in a villain light instead of the more pathetic/pitiable iteration of hysteria. 

You can see how this is not only problematic but also reflects the real world values instilled in arguments against human rights movements (which are intrinsically tied to victims rights). Defunding the police is dangerous, the MeToo movement is dangerous, abolition is dangerous, trans rights are dangerous, etc etc etc. Think of the victims voices tied to each of these movements and how they are integral to the real change offered by these political movements. You can’t have human rights violations without creating victims. And you can’t have political movements surrounding human rights without listening to victims.

We can also see how the individuals within these movements are ostracized, villianized, and often silenced (sometimes ultimately silenced with death) because they rally against the systems of power that victimized them. The framing of traumatized, vulnerable people as hysterical is integral to upholding the system of power that traumatizes and harms them.

A popular comic book movie adaptation that highlights the importance of Jason’s hysterical framing and how it impacts the political narrative/how he is written is V for Vendetta. To be fair, it received an insane amount of backlash by conservatives (not within leftist or liberal spaces) for V’s methods in over throwing fascism, but only because of the movie’s release date being so close to 9/11. V and Jason have many parallels, it’s only the lack of hysterical framing that makes V more palatable to the viewer. We are told, not shown through behavior, that V is traumatized by his past and he does not pick a fight with the protagonist that functions as a toxic male power fantasy. He is the protag, with his version of Bruce being men who are not framed in a sympathetic, heroic, or relatable light. 

Additionally, there is literally an unemoting mask standing between the viewer and V, whereas Jason takes off his helmet to allow the reader to see every aspect of his trauma and pain. V readily dehumanizes himself into an idea, rather than a person. Whereas Jason screams to be seen as a person in a very hysterical way. So, we can see how the framing of Jason as hysteric against the logical, heroic man greatly impacts how the audience reads him when contrasted by a very similar political story/character who uses similar (and arguably more violent) methods to meet his ends. (This just made me realize that I would die for a Jason adaptation written by the Wachowski sisters). 

Jason’s work as Red Hood is seeped in leftist, victim, and community centered politics. His portrayal as a hysterical antagonist (at best an anti-hero) is rooted in misogyny and upholding patriarchal, capitalist, and the prison industrial complex systems of power. He is the righteous embodiment of “the personal is political” for victims. Even his Robin run draws attention to and shows correct, angry reactions to the system of patriarchal power in sexual violence.

Patriarchal Writing and Enforcement

Jason is girl-coded and hysterical because he’s supposed to be emasculated, discredited, and disliked by the reader. He serves the narrative function of boosting the toxic male power fantasy of Bruce and in doing so, the writers use one of the oldest tropes in the book (one that we have all subconsciously been taught since birth) to get the reader on their side. Make him a hysterical woman. 

References: for anyone interested in furthering their understanding of any of the concepts mentioned above and to, you know, use sources for my own writing.

Barstow, A. Witchcraze

Bondi, L., Burman. E. Women and Mental Health: A Feminist Review

Freud, S. The Aietology of Hysteria

Gilman, C. P. The Yellow Wallpaper

Herman, J. Trauma and Recovery

Ussher, J. The Madness of Women.

Van der Kolk, B. The Body Keeps the Score

Wilkin, L., Hillock, S. Enhancing MSW Students’ Efficacy in Working with Trauma, Violence, and Oppression: An Integrated Feminist-Trauma Framework for Social Work Education

#jason todd #bruce wayne #hysteria #dc #meta #clovis writes #listen I regularly have to write 20-30 page research papers on therapy theory and mental health #I'm so sorry this is so long but it is actually impossible to shorten it #one of my profs once said I write in a way that's academic but still readable and know the meaning of brevity #and I was like: sir I've never been accused of brevity before #this took 3 days to write and get my thoughts straight on it #remember: you asked for this lol #holy fuck the word count on this is nearly 5k I'm so sorry #I literally can't proof read this because my brain has shut off from reading this post #there's probably some stuff misspelled and also missing from this but I'm done with it lol

[lokiina]

We gotta talk about 'Victor'

It is the only post I'm going to make about this and it's here to function as a purely heads up, what you do with this information is up to you but I've watched this unfold a few times now and just wanna give a proper warning to the folks on Tumblr since he's now showing his mug here.

There is a man the instagram Cyberpunk world now knows very well. The problem is I could list a dozen names because he is constantly throwing a tantrum saying a bunch of toxic shit deleting his account so there's no trail and remakes. He's gone through NUMEROUS names at this point to cover his tracks but his character always looks pretty much the same so it's really obvious it's him. His current chosen tumblr name is 'victor2077' as I discovered yesterday.

He's burned through all his attempts at relationships on instagram and has now made his way here. He will try to sweet talk you, he will try to flirt with you and get with you if you are 'female' enough for him. He wont give a shit if you're in a relationship and he will shit talk you behind your back and twist any story to his benefit. He's creeped on numerous women in the community already and hates the word no. Can you see where I'm going with this? He's lied about people and rallied 'friends' for targeted bullying of people he dislikes. One of the sweetest people I know just today deleted a bunch of accounts because of him and friends.

The man has burned just about every bridge he's ever had on Instagram, and his tantrum fits before deleting accounts after being called out for shit behaviours have included graphic violent misogyny and homophobia. Which I've also just confirmed with someone on Instagram that those are his most common rants in DMs. About how "women belong in the kitchen, Gay people are disgusting" etc etc. That type of jam. The I walked out of a time machine and don't know what year it is, style of insults.

So, he's made his way here and I just think you should be aware. I've already blocked the man everywhere I possibly can, I know he shit talks me to people cuz he's mad I know all this (also my content is too gay for him lmao). My Cyberpunk fandom experience literally started on instagram he was one of the first people I ever interacted with. So I don't give a shit what he has to say about me, I know it's mostly BS and based in deep rooted homophobia.

At this point I'm just trying to protect other people from his fuckery. I'm not asking you to bombard him with messages/hate, that wouldn't make this any better than shit he's done.

If you feel so inclined, block him ignore him, don't give him power.

You wanna follow him, that's up to you. Simply proceed with extreme caution.

Thank you for your time.

#text post #PSA #I'm tellin you the instagram side of this fandom is sayin good riddance

[tabithatwo]

Lowkey imagine the breaking my silence meme bc it feels real for this sentiment but I don’t want to add it here okay? Are you ready? Are you prepared for me to maybe piss you off a little idk how this will be received so just keep an open mind (or don’t I can’t control the gates of your brain I guess but at least I’ve warned you!!)

I think the fact that the two main ways of categorizing jackie taylor are, when boiled down to their simplest terms,

(1) popular mean girl who is a selfish bitch who I hate

(2) loser girl failure who isn’t actually popular or talented who I love

is ummmm sort of telling.

Like. Stay with me. I’m not hating on anyone. Actually, if you’re in group one I am hating on you a little tbh and you can clock out early and start sending me that hate anon now lmao cause this post isn’t really about you. But group two! stay with me for a minute because I get you! I really do! But I want to challenge that thinking and sort of examine it.

Why do we need to twist jackie into something else to like her? Like, if you see jackie as kind and loving and generally just a teenage girl trying to do her best, right? Why then do parts of her have to be “explained away” to a degree? She’s the striker and captain of a nationals bound team. Why does she have to not be a successful athlete to align with the sweetness that you see in her? Yes, coach martinez tells her she isn’t the best on the team, but we see how they treat allie who isn’t actually up to par. There’s nothing to indicate that jackie isn’t very good. Why does she actually have to be friendless besides shauna? Yes, it’s clear those two are codependent and mostly attached at the hip, but in the pilot we aren’t given reason to think that jackie is some friendless unliked girl. She’s socializing with different people and they seem to like her plenty. When she lines the team up yeah, there’s eye rolling, but they listen to her and they seem to mostly take her compliments fondly. She’s homecoming queen, that’s decided on by people voting you in and, generally speaking, you have to be liked and known by a lot of people for that to happen (again if you’re someone who thinks she’s an evil manipulative bitch somehow, this isn’t directed at you lmao).

Why can’t a girl be pretty and decently popular and talented at her sport and be kind and lovable? Why do we see a girl like jackie and need her to be secretly bad at that shit and not widely liked to find her palatable?

Like (1) girl is either truly pretty and popular and talented, so she’s a bitch OR (2) girl is sweet, so she can’t actually be pretty and popular and talented.

That’s the formula we’re fed constantly and I’m really tired of it cause it’s rebranded misogyny that we internalize and accidentally project onto the world tbh and I’m guilty of that in ways, like I’ve been there!!!

But idk. Yeah, Jackie is awkward at times and not good at popping deer tendons and embarrassingly earnest and a lot of other things along those lines!! But you can be all those things and still be everything else she is y’know? That’s sort of my whole point.

Anyway, let girls be good at things without that making them a bitch is what I’m getting at, I guess. Because I see a lot of people defend jackie from the “she’s a mean bitch” hate by saying “no she’s not, she’s literally got one friend and she’s not even good at soccer.”

And it’s like WELL idk about that!! And even if that was true, why is THAT the automatic defense against someone calling her a bitch?? Why are those two things so heavily equated and not even viewed as a logical leap? Why is the defense not to bring up all the kind loving things we see her do, but to chip away at the traits that she possesses that we are trained to find obnoxious or hateable in women, but aren’t fucking innately bad?

Anyway just a thought! I don’t hate anyone for making a joke about girlfailure jackie okay! Some of those are so funny and legit but it’s an overall trend I’m discussing! And like the idea that to be a girlfailure in the ways that she is, she must also be not well liked and bad at the shit she loves! Just an observation! <3 <3 <3

#I love having a long absence from tumblr and immediately saying THIS lmao but like! idk! on my mind! #I might have another absence tbh my month is batshit but I DO plan on getting to my mountain of asks I SWEAR #anyway!!! jackie taylor is very special to me!!! #jackie taylor #shauna shipman #jackie x shauna #yellowjackets

[astaraels]

You don’t get how bad I need your fem!gallavich headcanons 😭😭 (that being said pls - with no pressure - share some 🙏🙏🙏)

OKAY DON'T WORRY I'VE GOT A LOT OF THEM TO SHARE WITH YOU I HOPE YOU'RE READY FOR SOME GOOD WLW FEM!GALLAVICH FEELS (these may be a little all over the place but just roll with me here okay? okay here we go)

to start with, Ian is a nickname for Lillian, Mickey is a nickname for Mykhaila (Ukrainian feminine form of Mikhailo)—they'd still go by Ian and Mickey, because if Lip can be a nickname for Phillip then all bets are fucking off :p

technically all of this started with my brain going "lesbian gallavich with hella self image issues" because they don't feel like they can measure up to their "prettier" sister (Mandy and Fiona) but both of them thinking the other is gorgeous as hell. Mickey being kind of a femme/butch (which is why she's the one who calls the shots with her brothers, she's the tomboy compared to Mandy), and Ian wanting to be all pretty and femme but doesn't think there's a point to it because money and also she doesn't think highly of herself

things would be way different for them both as lesbians—Ian would definitely still be the forgotten middle child, although she and Lip would still be Fiona's backup ("you two are my rocks") because I refuse to believe that girl Ian wouldn't be just as committed to ROTC and fitness as canon Ian. She'd be able to kick anyone's ass any day of the week. I think she'd really look up to Lip and ofc he'd love Ian as his little sister but like, with the same kind of condescending vibe he gives Fiona and Debbie? Although maybe since they're practically twins his misogyny toward Ian wouldn't be as blatant.

she'd still be taller than him (tallest Gallagher no matter what!) and have long red hair that she just throws back in a bun or ponytail all military style. I can't see her having short hair just because short cuts can be a lot to maintain, better just to let it grow and keep it pulled back. (I know, I've thought way too much about the little stuff lol)

Mickey would be very punk. With an undercut and all kinds of piercings. Mandy gets more attention from boys but Mickey does get her share, although of course she's like blegh. She'd rather be kicking ass and taking names and proving to her dad that she's just as good at being a fuckin Milkovich as Iggy and Colin—she's got more brains than both of them combined and she's smart as a whip when it comes to doing math, as well as where scamming people is concerned. Terry would begrudgingly acknowledge this but never misses a chance to put her down because she's just another dumb bitch. Only serves to make Mickey more determined to show what she can do, though, and her brothers and cousins are no match for her when it comes to scrappy back alley fighting. She climbed to the top of the heap early on and punches out anyone who tries to take her on.

Ian absolutely falls in the lesbian stereotype of wearing flannel constantly. I feel like she would want to do girly sorts of things but like, doesn't feel she'd measure up to Fiona or other girls so she just sticks with "comfortable" as her main fashion staple. Her and Debbie probably share a room too, although as I said above, she's still super close with Lip. Debbie would ADORE her big sister, would look up to and admire Ian because they've got so much in common—it might even be that she finds Ian's lesbian porn and that's how she knows about it ("penetration isn't required for sex to occur").

I'm not sure how they'd meet in this au but it would still probably involve Mickey chasing Ian around trying to beat her up lmao. my original thought was maybe like, either Mickey chased after Ian because of something Lip did in a reverse of canon, or Mandy thought Ian was talking shit about her. Regardless, the idea of 5'1" Mickey chasing after 5'9" Ian is hilarious especially because I feel like Ian would end up being almost six foot tall by the time she's done with puberty.

even once Ian and Mandy end up being bffs (there'd definitely be some miscommunication, but Ian doesn't wanna get murdered by the Milkovich siblings, so she manages to clear the air with Mandy when she can get away from Mickey and their brothers), Ian probably wouldn't tell Mandy she's gay, gotta keep that shit on lock. So once they're besties she's gotta endure all the boy talk and be like oh haha yeah totally…but at some point Mandy would figure it out, probably because she's not dumb and also Ian "play what cool" Gallagher is not as subtle as she thinks she is. But Mandy, other than asking if Ian has the hots for her ("you're beautiful, but I like you better as my friend"), is actually pretty chill and realizes she doesn't actually mind hanging out with a lesbo. Yes, Ian and Mandy and Mickey would use all the derogatory slurs that get used towards lesbians, although Ian is used to the casual homophobia and Mickey is the most homophobic gay ever (I feel like she'd definitely call herself a fag and a dyke once she gets more comfortable in her identity).

idk how the whole grooming thing with Kash and Ned would transfer over—maybe Ned would be some rich lesbian cougar who wants a kept girl or something. But that's unfortunately a big part of Ian's character, the middle kid who's the only one to be physically abused (and yeah, Frank would still hit Ian, boy or girl), and is desperate for any kind of affection so attaches to anyone who gives it. Kash might be a (seemingly) meek wife to some bruiser of a husband who's short and has small dog syndrome, and that makes her sympathetic in Ian's eyes, thus making it easier for her to take advantage of Ian. I try not to think about Kash too much but it is an important part of Ian's self-image

I'm gonna talk about s3 in its own post because I have some Thoughts and Ideas for some changes to make things interesting :p

season 4 would be really even more depressing because I think that when Ian is manic (there'd be no running away to the army because she couldn't use Lip's identity; instead she'd go straight her sugar mama and from there calls Monica when things get too wild) she'd end up getting pimped out by Monica to really gross straight dudes—not that there aren't creeper lesbians who like younger women, but in general it'd be easier for her to find a job stripping at a regular club (lesbian bars don't seem to have the same opportunities as a straight bar or a men's gay bar do wrt making money). Poor Lip and Debbie finding her in the skimpiest outfit, worse than anything Fiona ever had to wear for a job, with way too much makeup on and dollar bills tucked in her underwear, coked out as hell, skinny enough you can see her hipbones, brain and mouth going about 300 miles a minute...ugh.

But Mickey coming and bringing her home safe and sound <3 beating up the skeevy guys trying to roofie her <33 watching over Ian while she sleeps <333

In a happier train of thought, I love the idea that Mickey really likes Ian's long hair and plays with it when she's not really thinking and Ian gets all 😍😍😍 because it means Mickey might like her omg. Mickey has a partial undercut and Ian loves the texture of the shaved part of her hair. Tells her not to let it grow back out and everything.

Mickey having to stand on her tiptoes to kiss her stupidly tall gf ("You're too tall, Red" "Complain all you want, Mick, you know you like it”). Mickey likes getting manhandled but only by Ian—anyone else tries it and they're losing a hand. But Ian shoves her against a wall and does her whole cocky, smug, looming thing and Mickey can't help but melt in her arms (not that she'd let Ian know about it, not at first; gotta make Gallagher work for that shit. Just cause she's a fag doesn't mean that she's anyone's bitch!).

I also like to think that Ian would try the super femme thing in s4 era and Mickey, once out, would be a little more comfortable being more butch, but they both come off as a mix? I just love the idea of fem!gallavich playing with gender stuff in that very specific lesbian relationship with gender—on one of Mickey's more butch days Ian jokes and calling Mickey her boyfriend and Mickey being like oh

personally I feel like Mickey in her dyke era (s5) is an absolute pint-sized powerhouse, and still an absolute fashion icon because those cut-off vests? the tank tops? perfection🤌🏻

most of my thoughts are of early gallavich because I think things would go much differently since Sammi can't call the MPs on Ian in this au, but lemme just say that there's some fun stuff I'll be adding in another ask to add to the DRAMA

#gallavich #fem!gallavich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #shameless #leinth answers #rule 63 all the things

[powderblueblood]

YES! NO! OKAY! I DUNNO!

ronnie and eddie volunteer at the hawkins high carnival to start their senior year off wrong right. wc: 2.4k warnings: eh, none. swearing. era-typical misogyny and shit. ronnie ecker gay as hell. was this inspired by the opening scene of bottoms (2023)? maybe! mind your business! requested by the lovely @joejoequinnquinn

“The thing is, man, when Ms. Kelley calls, you answer.” Ronnie shrugs through a mouthful of kettle corn and Eddie can almost hear the like Ghostbusters! She doesn’t even need to say it. 

“Kelley did not call you, first of all–”

“--well, no, we met at the market. Which is way more intimate, if you think about it. Romantic.”

“Second of all, this is a total fucking betrayal of your anti-school spirit ethos.” Eddie, with his wound cloud of cotton candy stuck in a cone, gesticulates wildly. Dude’s even scaring away the flies that might dare land on it. "What, you’re all pep squad now because you gotta nosebone some teachers into giving you scholarship recommendation letters? Volunteering for the fucking carnival?” His hands go up, a makeshift bandleader for the jaunty circus soundtrack that twinkles through the humid September air. “What’s next, the Young Republicans?” 

Ronnie’s whole face crushes in disgust. As per usual, she’s overestimated his perception in these matters. Dumbdumb is totally missing the point. 

“Edweiner,” she says, adjusting the strap of her overalls, “What I think you’re failing to essentially recognize here is the fact that–look around!--there are girls here.”

Damn fuckin’ skippy. Cheerleaders, nerd girls, regular girls, artsy girls, band girls, chess club girls, girls all wearing marginally hipper clothing than they usually would. Because the Hawkins High school carnival is prime hunting ground for hookups. 

Not that Ronnie's looking for any such thing, but it doesn't hurt to see how the other half live.

“Yyyyeah, girls that have spent the last four years ignoring u–” 

Okay, ixnay. Ronnie cuts Eddie off right at the knees, shoving a full palm into his face.

“Mmmm, glass half full me for a hot sec,” y’know, god knows what brought this optimism on for Ronnie. Maybe her job directing lowly freshmen toward the gaming booths, maybe it’s the kettle corn that kind of tastes like carpet, but she’s rolling with it, “These are girls that are still in fuck-it-it’s-summer mode. Girls that are entering their senior year of high school. Girls, okay, girls who may have finally realized that the social hierarchies of Hawkins are total bullshit and want to start off their year with a bang.”

She and Eddie stop in their tracks, identical brown eyes staring each other down. 

“A finger bang,” Ronnie encourages.

Eddie blinks, slow and spacey, like a cow.

“Fruuuhm you.”

Again, with Eddie’s shaking of the fucking cotton candy. There’s a wasp trapped in there right now. “Are you fucking high right now? Are you insane?”

“Technically, yes!” Ronnie can smoke and bike, it’s fine. “Hereditarily, jury’s still out!” Eddie sorta cringes at that one, and she smirks. “See, I can make those jokes, because of the loopy mom of it all. You can’t make those jokes.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Cue disheartened shrug. ”But. Y’know. We can leave.” 

Her metalhead comrade grimaces, Reeboks kicking through the grass as a bunch of freshmen scatter in his path. 

Ronnie sighs real big. “We can leave… if you’re too chicken to stay.”

Pump the fuckin’ breaks. Ronnie keeps walking a few paces, intentionally leaving Eddie in her dust.

“Ronald James.”

And then she pivots. All that’s missing is Ennio Morricone playing from the heavens. Or the PA, whatever.

“Edward… ward.”

Eddie squints, his heavy brown knitting furiously. “You just call me a chicken?”

And Ronnie shrugs, cool as crushed ice. “If it walks and it buh-kawks.”

Scoff. Scoff. Scoff. Eddie’s whole torso is wracking with scoffs, he’s like a courtesan dying of consumption with scoffs, he’s about to keel over with scoffs, he quite simply can’t believe–

“Quit hawkin’ up hairballs and square up, pardner!” Ronnie yells. 

Enough with the theatrics! It’s like clicking in a seatbelt, the way their competitive nature with each other activates. Just add chicken and they are off, Eddie flinging his cotton candy to the wayside, the sticky mess hitting a nearby kid. The two of them jostle through the carnival, tracking on up to the sad-looking shooting gallery that’s being manned by one of their greasier classmates that neither of them recognise. Eddie, that big-handed buffoon, beats Ronnie to the punch of slamming down his fluorescent green tickets. 

“Hi! I’d like to shoot to kill, please,” he booms. 

The kid just stares at him, shifting to the left. “‘kay. Whatever. It’s three turns.”

Ronnie rolls her eyes as Eddie slams the pellet rifle into his shoulder– she’s seen his hand-eye coordination, alright? It sucks dick, the dude can barely walk in a straight line. It’s a miracle he can play guitar at all! 

Ptew! The first of the little tin duckies barely makes it away with its life, narrowly avoiding a blow to the head from Munson. Ptew! Second one, not so lucky. 

Eddie, roving around with the rifle for his final victim, yells to Ronnie. “Looks like havin’ a dad with a rap sheet pays off, Ron!”

Ptew! Third and final. Eddie’s face peels back into that terrifier of a grin that’s like, okay, calm down, Bozo the Clown.

“Pfff… beginner’s luck,” Ronnie tuts.  

“Like you’ve ever even held a gun before,” Eddie says and pivots back to the kid manning the booth, who’s passing him his prize. “Hold on, nonono, gimme that bear. The like, the zebra print one. With the fuck me eyes.”

The volunteer carnie doesn’t budge. “You only hit two. The bears are if you hit three. You win green Papa Smurf if you get two.” 

And gingerly, Eddie accepts the little off-brand Smurf. Where do they get this shit? Does it fall off the back of the same truck that carries Bev’s off-brand liquor at The Hideout or what?

Whatever, Ronnie grabs the rifle from him and settles it against her shoulder. She can already hear Eddie tutting like, there’s no way and don’t embarrass yourself, Ron, but the thing is–ptew!--you don’t get to be as good of a drummer as Ronnie Ecker–ptew!--without learning a little precision. 

Ptew!

“What?” she shrugs to an open-mouthed Munson as the pimply kid passes her a big ol’ overstuffed bear, with the fuck me eyes painted on and all (weird feature. Ronnie might regret having this in her bedroom later on), “Like it’s hard?”

Eddie huffs, because that’s a boy that hates to be shown up even if he spends so much of his loser ass time being shown up. But, it’s usually not by Ronnie, so! 

They keep movin’ through the fair, like that old folk song goes, two heat seeking missiles looking to outdo each other. Ring toss? Piss. Cornhole? Are you fucking kidding me? Balloon darts– okay, so they maybe blew their wad a little early by going straight to the gun range but there’s gotta be something… 

Then, Ronnie spots it, because it’s all flailing and water and choking and drama and shit. 

Dunk tank.

She yanks Eddie over by the collar. 

Whoever the poor sucker was that they’d been dunking made an extremely dramatic exit. Ronnie overhears something about, ‘What do you mean, you never asked him if he could swim!’ squawked from the irate mouth of one Nancy Wheeler. Because of course she’s involved in cruise directing this, somehow. Like, where does she get the time? How does she have even a minute gap in her schedule for this? How can someone look so pretty when she’s stressed? 

Then, next thing Ronnie knows, ol’ Blue Eyes Wheeler is walking towards them. Orbs of azure all ringed apologetic and Ronnie’s rooted to the ground, she can’t move, she can’t think– 

–and naturally, Nancy’s looking at Eddie.

“I would usually never, never ask this…”

“He’ll do it.” She says it without hesitation, without thinking, without considering Eddie, like, at all. 

Which naturally makes him bark, “I’ll do what?!”

“Be the dunkee. Be the dunked man,” Ronnie hisses, eyes flicking from a confused Nancy to an enraged Eddie. 

“Oh god, would you? Please?” Nancy asks, almost begging– and look, the girl knows how to turn on the charm. She might not be Eddie’s type, not in eight million bajillion lightyears, but it’s near impossible to say no to her. “You can swim, right?”

“And it’s just about time for his yearly bath! So! Heh!” Ronnie gasps a little too loud for her own good, earning a gravitational pull back from Nancy and Eddie. No? No giggles for that one? Fine.

Eddie just shakes his head, sour expression immovable because he knows there’s no saying no to this– it’s for charity. A dumb charity he doesn’t care about, sure, but it’s for charity and also a girl is asking him and also he is determined to not look chicken. Ronnie knows this. It’s why she keeps winning.

“Yeah, Wheeler, I’ve been known to doggy– hold this,” and Eddie pushes green Papa Smurf into Ronnie’s chest, peeling off his jacket on the ascent to the dunk tank. 

Nancy lingers by Ronnie a second, resting her forehead against her clipboard. 

“Oh, thank god. We might actually make our donation target–like, everybody’s gonna want to drown him.”

A beat. Nancy raises her permed head, glances toward Ronnie.

“Did I say that out loud?”

“You did.”

“Sorry.”

“Eh, I get it.”

Nancy flutters on by, muttering something like a thanks and a good luck and an I really hope he can swim. 

Now, to his credit, Eddie makes for a pretty great picture of defiance as he straddles the plank, still fully dressed in his Hellfire shirt (Ronnie’d call nerd, if she wasn’t also wearing hers) and his shredded up jeans. Then it occurs to her that he may not have completely disrobed because he’s not wearing underwear. And that’s disgusting. Moving on.

Ronnie lets him have it, for a while anyway. Nancy was onto something– an alarmingly hefty line of would-be dunkers start to gather, everyone from cheerleaders to underclassmen trying to prove something. Not to side with the idea of gender conformity or whatever, but the couple of cheerleaders that step up to the mark don’t quite throw hard enough to hit. The sophomore that follows them is thrown off his game immediately when Eddie pretend-lunges at him, devil horns at the ready. 

Gareth, their newest freshman recruit and Ronnie’s personal drum mentee, sidles up beside the tank to hype up his fearless (pffft) leader. 

“Doin’ pretty good up there, Eddie!”

Loud enough for Ronnie to hear, Eddie hollers, “Piece of fuckin’ cake, freshman…” 

“Gareth…” he mumbles.

“...I’m gonna be bone dry ‘til the end of this shift.”

Well, y’know, so like, he asked for it. 

Ronnie tosses their hard won stuffies to the side and elbows a couple of basketball players out of the way. Cue watch it, freak!, yadda yadda, who cares, give her the ball!

“That’s what the last girl who hooked up with you said, right?” Ronnie bats to Eddie, stretching her arms above her head like a pitcher. 

If she’s not mistaken, he’s relieved to see that she’s cut the basketball boys (who’ve got much more experience tossing balls than she does) out of the way. 

“Ecker, I’ve seen you in gym class! You throw like an amputee! Bring it!”

Again, he asked. So Ronnie goes ahead and winds up. 

Eddie, in all of his your ass should have learned by now have you not been watching do you not see the signs ego, turns to Gareth. 

“See, Ronnie doesn’t seem like much of a girl but she does throw like o–”

Boom! And the metalheads goes down into the murky depths, not unlike Gareth’s DnD character that Eddie so mercilessly merked at the last Hellfire session. Ronnie doesn’t hold back a cackle, seeing Eddie resurfacing like a drowned river rat and spluttering. 

“Ffflfpfpfl! Fluke! That was a flu–” he jabs a finger through the mesh to something behind Ronnie’s head, “Wheeler, that was a fluke throw!” 

“Is he floating? Oh, good.” Oh. Nancy’s back. Nancy’s back and she’s watching Ronnie. Oh. Oh that’s… Ronnie makes the grave error of glancing over her shoulder to see Nancy grinning, clipboard bound to her chest. “She’s got two more to prove it, Eddie.” 

“Just take the–” Eddie struggles to make it back to the plank, sodden clothes and all that shit, “Just take the ball because she’s not gonna get–”

Bullseye! See, that’s how you don’t choke in front of a pretty girl and all the rest of your classmates, dude, you just wind it up and get it done! Ronnie’s buzzing with a touch more adrenaline now, and it’s going straight to her mouth. 

“Come again, water boy?!”

“Water boy?” Eddie babbles once he floats upward again, struggling under the weight of, I don’t know, his waterlogged hair to straddle first position.

“‘Cuz you’re wet.”

“Not your best. Not your b–”

Not even a full sentence out and Ronnie’s put him back under again. Hello. Why has she never tried out for softball. Would that be too obvious. This is kind of making her wacky, a little.

“What was that, Munson? Whawassat?” Ronnie stomps as the poor bastard tending to this wretched machine helps a soggy Eddie back onto dry land. “Couldn’t hear you over the sound of women’s rights! Can I hear it for women’s rights?! … Ladies?” 

Zero response. Crickets. Nancy Wheeler’s even disappeared. 

Scooping up their stuffed creatures, Ronnie’s shoulders sag– and she narrowly gets out of the way of Eddie, who’s racing towards her, helicoptering his soaked hair. 

“Don’t be– don’t be shaking your Lassie locks at me like some damn dog! Jesus Christ… my sweater.”

“My apologies to the Gap by way of the Salvation Army,” Eddie sneers, draping a towel over his head as he struggles to put his shoes on. 

“One more?” Because Ronnie’s nothing if not sympathetic, alright? Dude’s drenched. She'll let him win this one.

Squelching, Eddie nods. And just like that, to their left, shining like a beacon with a trail of suckers lined up outside…

“One more… to prove we’re not…” …staffed by a multitude of cute-as-a-button beauties…

“We’re not chicken…” …glowing with the radiant halos of fuck it, it’s summer, fuck it, it’s my senior year…

The Kissing Booth. 

Ronnie and Eddie each wear a thousand yard stare. 

Eddie, for reasons pertaining to freakdom and Ronnie, also that, but jacked up to a degree of potential social pariah. God, could you imagine? Could you imagine if she had the nerve to go completely fuck it, completely hetero-nuclear and march on up there with her dollars in quarters dug out of the couch and be like, Yeah, Tina Burton. Lay one on me. Oh, you’re switching shifts? Oh, that’s okay, I can wait… And who is that? Nancy Wheeler? Well, hell! Isn’t it just my gay lucky day!

Because Ronnie can imagine. Is imagining. 

“But I'm… I’m kinda cold.” In truth, Eddie’s kinda turning blue. That September chill is starting to set in, finally… so it’s back to the parking lot they go. 

“And I’m kinda hungry. You shouldn’t kiss people when you’re hungry, right?”

“No, that’s how they discovered cannibalism.”

“Right. So let’s–”

“--Big Boy Burger?”

“For the big boys, yep.”

#published by powder #r. ecker by powder #e. munson by powder #ronnie ecker vs the world #ronnie ecker #eddie munson #cant tell if this sucks dick or not but like screw it we're here to mess around #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fluff #i guess???