#also regarding the episode from black saddle

[tostrekkiegirl]

I had a dream last night that De Kelley was on one of those Western shows, and I was watching as his character was getting whipped, and more brutally than the real clip I've seen from when he was in the show Black Saddle. I was like 💔 😭 He also wasn't even the bad guy.

[aconflagrationofmyown]

Even Educated Fleas Do It

A Sarge & lil Mama episode (wedding night)

Warnings 18+ -smut! breeding kink, innocence kink, cream pies, unfortunately historically accurate portrayal of female naïveté regarding sexual acts, male entitlement to female bodies, copious dirty talk, virginity loss. This is mostly fluffy and tender and sweet with a few VERY rabid moments and feral sentences. 20k of smut and it’s surrounding auras…I have a headcanon that Baby Elvis resorts to being a bit of an ass in order to maintain his slipping control, whereas a more mature era of the man he only chooses to be a bastard out of the fun of it

Credits: my supreme thanks to the indefatigable @prompted-wordsmith for editing this mammoth and her few choice additions of sentences, and also to my discord wives: Christi, Ally and Birdy who cheered me on and really made this happen with their feedback, suggestions and enthusiasm. Lastly, to all my darling readers who’s hype for this has carried me through and now we are all saddled with this monstrosity. Y’all are the best, I live off your comments and love. Xoxo, Marina 🌹

Elaine’s fingers glide admiringly against richly black, quartz marble countertops, glinting back at her almost as brightly as the gold mirror and the gold faucets and gold tub–everything is golden up here in the master bathroom. Even the sink is gold plated, she realizes with a giggle, and stares at her reflection in the basin, flushed face and curls hanging about her features as she looks downward, distracted by the opulence and the shininess and the ability to finally breathe. An endeavor which would be aided if she obeyed her new husband—heavens to Betsy, she has a husband!—and took off her wedding gown and girdle.

She chose a simple dress to be married in, long and slender, the style and measurements entrusted to the Smith cousins and delivered by them with remarkable effect. Demure yet elegant, she felt it was a nod to the silhouette of the future, prom crinolines and ball gowns abandoned for a more streamlined effect that set off her waist to perfection, or so her wedding guests told her. And for tonight’s purposes, it had a handy zipper down the back of it that she now tugged loose to her immense relief.

It was a little puzzling, the way Elvis had torn her away from Dodger’s admonishments and hurried her upstairs to sleep, only to then shoo her into the bathroom to undress herself. Some silly part of her thought he might kiss her when they arrived up there alone, maybe dance a little, maybe help with the zipper. But he had looked very feverish and a little scared when he told her she was looking worn out, and then ushered her upstairs as the whole house party fell dead silent below them in their wake. Funny, the whole thing had felt a little funny, and they’d been having such a nice little party after the vows, daddy had been a little weepy and Elvis had looked so handsome and she had to pinch herself a dozen times that this event she’d planned was her wedding.

Her wedding—it didn’t feel real. Not without mama here, she realized, that was the missing part to it all. Mama. Hers, and his. They were both missing them. She worked at the brassiere clasps and stifled the little cry she felt coming up her throat, memories flooding in of the first time she saw Graceland.

Elvis had tore down to the studio in his fancy car, begging any and everyone to see the place he bought for his family. Father had been too busy with Cash but mama was not. So, she and Elaine had piled into his pink Cadillac and let that happy puppy of a boy whisk them away to a world of antebellum dreaminess for the afternoon. Gold, there had been so much gold even then, and Mama had ribbed the boy mercilessly about his decor choices as only Mrs. Phipps could get away with,

“Elvis dear, it looks like a tart’s bedroom up here,” she had teased him in the master where Elaine’s groom was now waiting for her daughter to make an appearance.

He had turned bright red before dissolving into hiccuping laughs that her mama had joined. He hasn’t changed the decor, gaudy chandelier hanging above a gold damask bedspread, gilt mirrors everywhere on the walls with black padded headboards and doors. It was… unique, and a little ominous if she was being honest, although maybe that had been her nerves over him rushing her up here so fast, so…urgently.

“June’s gonna love it, E!” Elaine recalls gushing to him on that first house tour, entirely unsure if June would indeed love it, but certain that anyone would be honored to be mistress of such a place, though that honor had then been firmly Miss Gladys’s right at the time.

Now it’s all hers.

Elaine swallows hard and rubs at the angry red lines on her belly and breasts that show in the mirror from her girdle, thinking of the weight of that. Thinking of how she had been wrong. This—kingdom—wasn’t for June, this had been for her.

Elaine pulls on the silky, shimmery slip he had given her the money to treat herself to, watching it as it spills over her curves and drapes her kindly. The soft baby blue color makes her skin look tan even in the wintertime and her eyes shimmer dark and smokey in the dimmed vanity lights. It takes her aback a little, the prettiness of the picture she sees in the mirror, hair freshly loosened from its pins and looking like it does when he’s had his hands in it. The kiss-nipped red of her lips is no cosmetic allusion, he’d devoured her lipstick right off a few minutes into married life, clutching her to him in the foyer, acting like hiding by the front door made them discreet.

She touches their puffy vibrancy with a small smile, thinking of him, thinking of being loved. Thinking of mansions and gold sinks and graves dug, thinking of the boy outside the door who did far more than fall in love with her. He provided, and he did it with intent. A great deal of intent. Her heart does a flip at that.

It gives her the bravery to fluff herself in the slip and ignore the nervous tremble threatening to keep her holed up in here, her skimpy attire making her blush for reasons she doesn’t know. Such silliness. She looks pretty, and she is loved. She sets her shoulders back and turns the knob.

Elvis has been pacing a furrow in the plush carpet of his bedroom and berating himself for many things, chiefly having shooed his wife away into the bathroom the first private moment they’d had together.

He is an idiot, he concludes, a prize idiot.

He should have trapped her against the door and kissed the daylights outta her, maybe laid her out all romantically on the bed and caressed her like the movies taught her to expect. At least helped undo the damn zipper. But no, no he panicked, and trying to be a good man, he had sent her into the bathroom alone to strip while he talked his heart and cock into some semblance of restraint. He tears at his hair and tosses his suit jacket on the chair and tries to think of what he’s gonna do, how he’s gonna manage this. He had come across Dodger and Elaine in a tête-à-tête and heard the words from his Grandma:

“Make sure that boy licks ya nice and good ‘fore he tries to stick his pecker in—”

and had proceeded to panic and grab his new bride and hustle her upstairs for “sleep”. He’d caught Mr. Phipps’s pleading eyes on the way up and now he felt like a first team all American pervert. Gone was the sweet, comforting weight of the wedding vows, the religious aura the day had carried with it. Replacing that was a deep seated shame for how often he’d wanked to the thought of this night and all it entails.

In his dreams it had been fun to shock the girl by bending her over and putting it in, watching her eyes go wide and her struggle under him to adjust, but that was before he loved Elaine, he thinks. Now he tears at his hair, paces his bedroom eyeing the bathroom door like it’ll open and release a lion, and wonders how he’s gonna cherish her like he should, when his wants and his adoration keep vying for the upper hand. She boils his blood, shoots lightening up his spine and keeps him stiff at all times, and simultaneously, he is warm pudding when she smiles, and bluer than robin’s eggs when she’s sad.

The weight of getting all he ever wanted, the weight of actually having married himself off, the weight of mama’s hope coming true and her buried right under the window—he feels a little unhinged by it all, and he starts mumbling out incoherent prayers for guidance and self control and a capacity to not fuck up Elaine Presley’s first time. Because that’s just it: she’s Elaine Presley now, and he has a duty to the woman he married ‘afore God to make it good, t-to…

The bathroom door opens and the shimmering vision of Elaine and her feminine assets clad in nothing but a silk slip stops him dead in his tracks, his mouth liable to catch flies it gapes so at her beauty. She looks poised even jiggling and nipple perked in a light drape of silk, and he inwardly curses when her initial confidence seems to flag upon noticing the state he’s in.

Fully dressed with just his suit jacket discarded and here she is near naked—it’s not kind, he knows that, and curses again at his self absorption.

He looks like he’s gone a little mad, she thinks, and she can tell he’s been tearing at his hair in that fidgety way of his when he’s working himself up to a frenzy. It won’t do him good, she knows him, knows he’ll start hyperventilating and that always panics him.

It’s this urge to calm him that has her forgetting her bashfulness and crossing the floor to embrace him, his warm and clothed body pressed against hers in a hug he returns fervently.

“Ya look like an angel,” he rasps his praise in her ear and she is so pleased by that, and by the look of awed admiration on his face that makes her forget to blush, too pleased to be coy.

“Do ya have a new bird, Elvis?” she asks him, trying to distract him from whatever it is that has him so anxious she can near feel him vibrating against her.

“Uh, umm, a bird?” he is truly thrown by that and more than a little distracted by the feel of slippery silk curves molding to him in his arms.

“Dodger was saying—”

Dodger was talking about “peckers” he recalls, and is fast to cut her off in a great rush,

“No, no uh, I haven’t got no bird—sides you,” he jokes weakly and fails to add more, just staring down at Elaine in his arms, Elaine who stares back, her expression curious and amused and maybe a tad unsure.

Of course she’s unsure, you fool, he berates himself after finding his way back to steady thought. God, he should… do something.

“Elvis,” she pipes up and her voice is small but hopeful, “can I help you get comfortable?” and she thumbs at the ruffles of his dress shirt.

He feels his flush paint his neck and his body feels like it’s alight, but it’s perfectly reasonable for her to ask. It’s just that he knows her sweet confidence stems from her not even knowing enough to be bashful, and that’s… heady.

“Yeah,” he croaks and squeezes her to him once more before letting her set work to undoing the ruffled shirt he wore, sans tie.

She’s methodical and steady undoing the shirt, even as she flicks those lined eyes up at him, desperate for his assuring little nods and pleased smiles. He takes to stroking her cheek, running his knuckles across the high bones there and over her bitten lips, she kisses them with each pass.

Last button undone she spreads the fabric apart and places her hands on his chest, a wild delight showing on her face as she runs her hands across his pecs and collar bones, down to his belly, swooping up and down his arms, taking the shirt with it.

It falls to the ground and yet her hands continue to glide across his fevered skin entranced by the warmth and the contours. She’s wanted to feel his heartbeat for a long while now. Watching that tattle tale vein in his neck thump was the closest thing she could content herself with all these months. Her hands drift to his neck and sure enough, it’s thumping like a race horse at a gallop.

She excites him. That thought makes her eyes flick down to his trousers, recalling that strange spurt against her backside on the swing. He’d called that excitement, too.

She moves to open the button of his slacks and his belly sucks in with the breath he holds, she can feel it against her knuckles as she undoes it. She rubs her knuckles soothingly against the fine trail of hair disappearing into his waistband, it makes him shudder instead.

So far, everything on display she has seen before at the pool with him, but more, the prospect of more makes her heart speed up and her curious mind whirl. She’s a little preoccupied with all this as she starts to push the pants over his hips and while he doesn’t prevent her, his motion is a bit jerky when he clasps his hands around her jaw and tilts her eyes away from his hips and the curious bulge there, up to his face.

She hears his belt and the fabric thud to the floor just as his lips descend to meet hers, and then she grows distracted by the kiss he melts her with.

“Hey you,” he whispers hot and breathy against her lips, pillowy plushness rubbing together, kiss-slick and scorching.

And he’s right, it feels like finally seeing each other for the first time today. They’ve a decent rapport together when surrounded by friends and acquaintances, a very seamless dance of social politeness and steadying closeness. But nothing compares to the way they sizzle and melt when it’s just the two of them, like their inner selves are finally allowed to make a showing on their faces in the form of dazed smiles and in the slump of their shoulders, the bellies no longer held in nor the sighs longing to spill out.

“Oh, Elvis,” she manages to gasp, grinning and huffing at the proximity, the way her nipples rub against his chest from the crush of his embrace, just a silken layer between them, and it sends electric static down to her very toes.

“Ya happy?” he dares to ask because she is grinning so silly and sweet right there in his arms.

“Terribly happy!” she doesn’t bother with aloofness, her hands kneading his shoulders and he breathes again, recalling that this is Elaine, sweet Elaine who has gentled him back into the land of the living these last few weeks by simply knowing and caring for him, and while it’s a terrifying responsibility to do right by her—it’s also the best thing to ever happen to him. Elaine, here, in his arms, in his room, as his wife.

“Just ya wait till I get some champagne in ya,” he teases, waggling her chin in his hand and she looks surprised and a little excited by that.

“Elvis I-I’m too young,” she whispers, a guilty and hopeful little thing that suggests she is very amenable to champagne.

“You naughty lil thing, I see that hopeful glimmer in’ya eye,” he clicks his tongue and she giggles, “It’s lawful if your husband pours it for ya.”

“Is that so?” she bites her lip and her eyes twinkle up at him, falling easily into the banter, “Then I’d like to try it—since it’s lawful and all.”

“Mhmm, champagne, an’ a record, that’ll set us up jus’ right, I think.” He’s nearly buzzing himself, feels a little drunk even though there’s not a drop of alcohol in him.

“Don’t want ya to have to go down to the kitchen and leave me, though,” she admits, a little shy. His gut clenches at the confession, the way her lashes dip and fan over her cheekbones. He’d get beat by his mama if’n she knew of the unholy thoughts the pout of her lips made him think. He reels himself back to the present with a persistence that few things in his life made him exercise. For Elaine, his patience was boundless, because she doesn’t wanna be alone, or, rather, she wants to be alone with him. The simple acknowledgement sends his heart racing in hope that he’s managing to do something right, enough that she can’t bear for him to even pop down to the kitchen for a minute.

“Guess what, sugar?” he grins while fluffing her hair away from her face and she perks up, that mouth lifting inquiringly, “I got a refrigerator in the closet.”

“No!”

“Yup.” Elvis’ boyish grin grows until it’s a dazzling, proud smile and he begins to back up, she goes with, still clinging to his arms and giggling in excitement as he backs them into the gargantuan changing room.

“Where?” she cranes her neck this way and that, soon spinning in his arms as she tries to spy a refrigerator amongst the rows and rows of custom suits and well stocked shelving.

He holds up his finger for her attention, and gathering all his showmanship, backs away from her until he reaches the built-in cabinets and with a dramatic flourish flings open the wooden door to reveal his mini Frigader.

“No. Way,” she enunciates dramatically as her pretty mouth hangs open in delight and his own heart clenches and-

-God! Elaine! I can give you so much, he thinks, hang in there with me, I can give so much, I'll make ya fall in love.

He throws her a wink before bending over and retrieving the planted bottle and chilled glasses from inside. The fact he’s bent over double in just his briefs only registering when he’s already got his head half in the refrigerator, and her burning stare threatens to light his ass on fire. He straightens up and spins round to present her with his ribbon adorned findings, noticing her blush scarlet and flick her eyes back to his face.

-My, my, Miss Elaine, what a curious little mind you have.

He kicks the fridge closed and closes the distance between them again, handing her the glasses while taking her other hand in his and leading her back into the dimly lit bedroom. She sets the glasses on the sideboard top and goes to put the needle down on the record after he tells her “Ella’s already on there”, while he smoothes down the profusion of crinkle ribbon around the bottle neck in preparation to open it.

Elaine adjusts the needle and gets the record going and soon Ella Fitzgerald croons warmly:

-Birds do it, bees do it

She turns back around and watches as Elvis begins to gnaw on the champagne cork with his million watt, pearly white money-making teeth.

“What on earth are you doin’?” she protests, hurrying back to him. He’s like a rabbit with the thing, she thinks humorously.

-Even educated fleas do it,

He pulls the spit slicked cork away from his mouth to explain in a loathing huff, “Forgot to bring an opener up here.” And he doesn’t want to leave his baby, goes unsaid, doesn’t wanna leave her since she said she didn’t want him to leave.

-So let’s do it, let’s fall in love

Elaine’s lip wobbles into a fond smirk even as she tries to maintain some sternness, “You’ll break a tooth, E!” she warns even as her heart throbs at the sweetness of it.

“Nah, nah I’ll get it, my baby wanted champagne n’ she’s gonna have it,” he insists as she makes aborted little movements with her hands to try to aid him but is unsure of what to do or hold. “Here, hold the end, I’m gonna try’n pull it out, probably gonna gush so, be ready.”

And so Elaine finds herself in a laughing fit, holding onto the bulbous bottom of a champagne bottle as Elvis Presley himself buries his nose in the thatch of ribbons and gnaws the cork loose, like a dog with a bone, yanking this way and that while growling playfully around it.

“This is the silliest thing—” she wheezes even as his jaw’s yanking motion makes her feet slip closer, her light weight losing ground in this tug-o-war until suddenly there’s a pop and down he goes, flat on his ass, cork in mouth, champagne showering him from above.

He’s curled in on himself at her feet, all long tan limbs contorted and white briefs quickly becoming transparent, crunched in half from the force of his laughter and partly to shield his eyes from the alcohol rain. She watches in a bit of a state, though she’s unsure of what kind, as golden alcohol glistens over that heart, pools in every divot of him and even sparkles tauntingly on inky lashes.

“Quick, quick catch it baby!” he waves at her frantically through his wheezing hiccups, “With your mouth, put it in yer mouth!” he explains and she suddenly snaps her attention away from watching his underwear cling to him and brings the bottle up to her mouth.

She chugs on command, her throat working rhythmically and her eyes wide at the new taste, bubbly spillage glossing up her chin and chest and down her slip, a dark trail that makes his mouth dry out with thoughts of other things. She pulls away with a gasp and a wet pop as he struggles to his knees, cupping himself like that’ll detract from his obvious outline, thanking heaven his jitters seem to have kept him half mast.

“Here, it’s fizzy,” she informs him like that’s news to him before bringing the bottle down to his lips and tipping the champagne into his slack mouth. His hands fly out to rest on her hips, steadying himself as she pours the celebratory drink down his throat. “Cheers!” she giggles as he taps out his max capacity on her hips, his breath fully gone and his cheeks bulging with the fizz.

“Here’s to you, Mrs. Presley,” he gasps after his swallow, smiling up at her stupidly sweet.

Elaine isn’t sure if it’s his breathlessness, those fathomless blue eyes looking up at her adoringly or the way he’s proving he’d do anything to please her, but she’s suddenly filled with a burning compulsion to eat him up. And she acts on it, bending down to slot their mouths together, one hand gripping his sticky shoulder and the other still holding onto the bottle neck.

He rises to his feet in an effortlessly smooth motion, hands dragging up the curve of her as he goes until they tangle in her hair, his arms criss crossed over her back and then the real kissing begins, the kind he had figured he’d gentle her into but she seems to have already found a taste for. It’s open mouthed and sloppy and she nearly lets the bottle slip from her hand as she seems to levitate right out of her skin and upwards to some hot and hazy sphere where a pink tongue dances with her own.

And sweet Lord, she loves the way he kisses her, large hands yanking her head back by her hair so he can pour his passion into her keening mouth from above, his arms encompassing her shoulders and pressing her to him, his plush mouth working her up to a frenzy. She squeezes his shoulder, in retribution or encouragement, she doesn’t know which, for the ache he always manages to spark in her belly. Speaking of, his soaked underwear is pressed to her belly and dampening the fabric of her slip so it, too, becomes tacky and drags as he shifts against her, almost like they’re riding waves together, grappling in a gentle struggle for leverage in this caress.

-electric eels, I might add, do it, though it shocks ‘em I know,

She’s a responsive little thing, his new wife, and fiesty in her affection, too. Her nails dig into his back and make him hiss pleasurably and he finds he can’t help but hump the little curve of her belly beneath the silk, wet briefs tantalizingly coarse against his cock. It occurs to him this is a precious moment, for many reasons, but particularly for the fact that never again will she kiss him without at least some anticipation of more to follow. What’s a kiss that goes nowhere? A kiss that devours and consumes and grapples and bites but has no destination? Her whole body conforms to his in an effort to get closer as they sway in the middle of his bedroom floor, but she knows of nothing after this, she doesn’t know it’s leading anywhere. The kiss is all she knows. It’s like she has an incomplete map, one he gets to draw the big red ‘X’ at the end of. He wonders if a body can combust if kissed long enough, if he can make her shatter apart just by ignorant need and a searingly good necking. He pours more energy into plundering her mouth and ignores her whimpers begging for a breath.

Elaine finds her free hand sliding from his shoulder down the plush side of his ribs, tacky with champagne, and thumbs at the soaked waistband of his briefs. It makes him break their kiss at last, near drowned for air and his eyes wild as he rears back to study her face.

“You’re getting me sticky,” she whispers smilingly and watches him lick her spit from his lips with a languid tongue.

“Ya could just say you want me nekid,” he quips, and nearly swallows his tongue in horror right after, holding his breath to see how the joke lands.

Elaine is… taken aback, judging by the way her eyes widen and her cheeks flame bright in the dim light of the bedroom, but she truthfully shrugs and murmurs while staring past him, “I would really like to see ya, E.”

“Whatever you want, baby,” he whispers back earnestly and she flicks her eyes back to meet his before her smile returns and she makes a motion to one handedly strip him before thinking better of it.

She takes another chug from the champagne bottle instead and he chuckles, making a motion with his hands to hand it to him when she’s done. She gives it over and he gulps down the liquid courage while trying to go somewhere else as Elaine begins to carefully peel his soaked tighty whities down his legs. Her yittle fingers make it mighty difficult.

-God, I hope she’s at least seen a penis before, he prays. Or, or actually no. I hope she hasn’t, I hope she has no fuckin clue about any other man, most certainly no trimmed up, affluent, all American, circumcised one.

While he’s busy making his nose burn with the bubbles he’s downing like water, Elaine takes a moment to feast her eyes on tan thighs and the boney cradle of his hips, defined by a lean belt of muscle descending from his abdomen and that faint dusty trail of hair that was pointing downwards to a destination after all. He’s pink and soft and harmless looking down there, very much like the anatomy sketches she’s seen in the medical books. A limp little tail-like thing that hangs between his legs with a sheath of skin covering it, pillowed atop a very heavy looking sack that’s a couple shades darker than the shaft thingy. Maybe men have a bladder on the outside, she ponders.

She finds herself a little relieved, and also stupidly endeared. It’s his privates, she should let him be, they’re not like hers that have a dual purpose of child bearing and peeing. They’re just his soft parts and he’s terribly sweet to let her satisfy her curiosity about them, and so she rises back to her feet with a pleased sigh, having refrained from the stupid impulse of reaching out and grabbing hold of them. Elvis lets out a ragged sigh of his own and looks like he’s trying to read her brain as she presses another kiss to his lips.

“Thank ya,” she chirps and he raises his eyebrows in surprise that this is going so well.

It goes well until it gets weird. And by weird Elvis means his sweet young wife starting to circle him like he’s a damn statue, her hand trailing over his skin and letting out appreciative little noises at the way his muscles twitch beneath her fingers. His ribs tickle and his arms jitter and his back tenses and then there’s that throat closing feeling of her palming the swell of his ass, admiring and entitled as you please. He feels a bit like a prize horse, being eyed up at auction, Elaine the buyer that’s testing to see if he’s a well-bred stallion. Seeing if he’s a good breeding partner, if he’s made of good stock.

Elaine’s appraisal halts at his other side, she’s got a hand gliding up his sternum like the feel of sparse chest hair is equal to the most priceless Persian rug, and her other hand keeps petting the swell of his ass as she presses kisses to his shoulder—oh god help him, he likes it, much as it makes him squirm, this entirely unexpected review of his assets has him standing at attention and hoping she approves. Something else starts to try to stand to attention and it’s through a helpless sort of mortified resignation he feels little Elvis twitch in earnest. The sorta twitch that’ll lead to precum sputtering out soon enough.

She notices. Of course she does, he feels her lips fall away from his shoulder so she can peer over it at the growing developments, and with unerring accuracy she repeats the motion she had just made, expecting a similar result if providing the right equation. His cock is feeling benevolent if a little demure tonight, and he can’t help but flex his hips as the next rush of blood makes the thing move again. Oh damn, he thinks, they’re getting somewhere now, and he’s not yet given a single lesson.

Elaine had long harbored a rather inordinate curiosity about the male figure, her swimming hole adventures and glimpses of mechanics stripped down covered in grease had all inspired a rather alarming curiosity in her girlish head as to what the male form looked like… unimpeded. She thought it silly that there was such emphasis on men’s tastes being visual, on pinups and advertising girls selling dish soap that had nothing to do with the bikinis prominently filled out. For her, Marlon Brando swaggering around in a sweat soaked singlet had done more to convince her to move to a New Orleans tenement than all those skimpy dressed floozies ever had ever convinced a regular ole father of three to buy Lucky Strikes. But to touch? To feel searing hot masculine blood pumping right beneath that terribly smooth skin and the dip and give of his muscles beneath her palm? Her chest aches and her hands move of their own accord, wondrously eager to make him wag between his legs again, like a happy tail swelling and jerking with each squeeze she gives his butt.

“Elvis, you’re so pretty,” she gushes the admiration swirling around and around in her mind and feels the whole long, lean, glorious length of his shudder at the comment.

She’s enchanted with his body, he realizes, he’s pleasing to her, and her hands flutter in a hopeless want to touch him everywhere and it’s all he can do not to seize a dainty hand and wrench her away from this sweet perusal and make her grip him here he needs it. He wants, needs, filthy things from her. And she just thinks he’s pretty. The moan he stifles with his hand is only fuel to her fire.

“Uh—” he begins, figuring he better get somethin about the mechanics of things out before this sweetness turns him feral and the tempting thoughts to just… sneak it in her… take precedence in his brain.

“What’s it doin’?” she interrupts instead, and he savors the feel of her holding his bare waist while he pinches the bridge of his nose, taking steady breaths, forcing some blood back up to his brain.

“I-i-it’s, it’s gettin’ excited,” he figures is an honest start, “F-firmin up.”

“Why?” she asks curiously, sounding ever so child-like, still petting his sides like, like—like he’s her pet.

He wouldn’t mind being her pet. He’s foolin’ himself thinkin’ he isn’t already, she’s just embracing her role with innocent confidence, unencumbered by silly knowledge of roles and shit, like he is.

“Well, uh, it’s, it’s—” he bites his lip harshly before gently grabbing her arms and moving her round to face him, stroking her neck soothingly while keeping her at a safe distance where her silk clad belly won’t encourage little Elvis any faster. “It’s gotta firm up as, it’s, it’s, it’s my key, baby,” he explains gently, watching with burning concentration for any flicker of understanding flitting across her earnest face.

“Your key?” she repeats gravely, that nagging feeling returning that there’s more to this… marriage business… then she’s been told, and she’s about at the end of her patience with being fobbed off the topic. “Elvis—” she goes to appeal for an answer to his generous nature, the lush set of his features above her sweet and sultrily eager as her own, encouraging her that he’ll humor her—

“Elaine, we gotta have a business meetin’,” he declares, effectively cutting her off, and it’s the voice he uses at conference tables with the colonel or with reporters but she knows it’s him scrambling to grab hold of some control. Ever wary of the delicate state of his emotions these days, she holds her peace. “Bout, b-bout marriage,” he clarifies and for the first time since coming up here, a cold shard of fear slices through the gooey warmth of his presence.

“Alright,” she agrees, firmly supportive, squeezing his arms to emphasize that she’s on his side in this, she takes her cues from him. It’s what good wives do, and it’s what all of humanity does when Elvis Presley starts to direct a thing.

Her compliance has the intended result of soothing him, his jitters calm under her hands and the light beam of her encouraging smile. He gives a few small nods of his head as if agreeing with an unspoken suggestion, and Elaine is entirely certain he’s got a self affirming monologue running up there in that pretty head to drown out whatever has him so panicked.

Alight with her touch, with thoughts of her and her lil house and making it good, making sure it takes, of finally having what he’s dreamed about for goin’ on two years now, he feels his knees near buckle and he murmurs hurriedly,

“Let’s sit on the–the bed for a minute.”

Hand in hand, and at a head clearing distance from each other, they mosey over to the canopied wonder that is his bed, decked out in black and gold, tufted pockets of down beckoning for a bounce amongst, and Elaine can’t help herself. Maybe it’s the champagne or a stubborn desire to keep the jubilant atmosphere alive but she slips her hand out of his with a parting squeeze and launches herself into the downy sea of gold.

His stride falters and he watches with a fondness he feels deep in his gut as his Elaine bounces into the bed like a giddy child, her long limbs splayed artlessly and the swell of her ass rippling under baby blue silk, a sliver more of inner thigh visible as it rides up, kicking her footsies gleefully for good measure before she lifts that darling face and grins at him beckoningly through a curtain of chocolate curls.

God he loves her. And this is what he’ll get to see and feel and love for all the coming nights, for the rest of his life. He moseys up to the bed and reaches out, caressing Elaine’s shiny locks back in place, matching her smile in an endeavor to help keep this mood as joyous as it should be. She grabs at his wrist that is petting her hair and pulls him atop her. Weak and wanting, he goes, registering with searing clarity the first feel of his long limbs being pressed atop every inch of her smaller frame, the bedspread tufting beneath their combined weight.

He is burning hot atop her, and so much larger than her own body, she realizes with a thrill that tingles down to her very toes. She resumes her petting of the wings of his shoulder blades, smooth and sweaty beneath her hands and she wiggles beneath the new sensation of his thighs pressed to her own, and his hips cradled by her hips, fitting together effortlessly. It’s delightful and she acts on the urge to tilt his face out from the bedspread and seek more kisses from those cherry red lips of his.

Elaine keeps undulating under him, spurred on by a thousand heady new sensations, slippery as an eel in her silk, and Elvis’s mind blanks at the feel of her eager and squirmy body beneath his. He forgets about lessons and marriage and sacred duties and instead acts on his most natural instinct which is to kiss her back ferociously and buck against the cradle of her hips ‘till his cock weeps for joy at finally being heeded.

As natural as riding a tandem bike, after the initial wobble for balance, Elaine quickly finds his rhythm and grinds along with him in a unified dance for propulsion, feeling something besides his champagne-sticky skin begin to slick up her nightslip.

That’s the wet smear of his excitement, she realizes, and rocks up more vigorously to encourage him. His penis is a throbbing pipe between them, and while she can’t see it, she can feel the thing growing and digging into her belly and she thinks of keys and she wonders, and aches. The whine her groom lets out, once hazily recognizing the fact she’s actually trying to aid his pleasure like a good wife should, is pulled from deep in his gut into her open mouth, sending a triumphant shudder through her.

“Sweet—lord—fuck—Elaine,” he blasphemes into her ear in a pained cry, his hand a mere agent of his cock as it fumbles between them frantically to pull up the hem of her slip.

Her hot breath fans against his face in shocked gusts and if he cracked open his screwed shut eyes he’s pretty sure he'd see her looking a little scandalized, which is why he doesn’t open them. He’ll save that for when he’s balls deep inside her and there ain’t a lawful thing she can do about it. For now he just doggedly hikes up her slip until it’s halfway up her belly and his balls are rubbing amongst the pettiest thatch on a beaver he ever did see. Not that he sees it now, mind you. No, his eyes stay closed and he forces her into another kiss lest she protest, but he recalls the particulars of her cunt like that addled inspection he made of her lady parts was yesterday and—

—her lil house, his promise, his duty! It all comes crowding back to his mind with an icy damper just as her hands glide down to land with a strong and naively lecherous grip on his ass and he—

—he might have made it if it weren’t for that grab. It’s not a good precedent to blame one’s wife for a loss of control but he’s afraid that’s just what it is, a precedent when, heedless of her confusion, he grips her delicate shoulders in each of his hands and leverages up, one pump, two pumps, three pumps amongst the slick petals of her pussy and then, then it’s white hot satisfaction and… Elaine.

Elaine, Elaine, Elaine—oh how I love you, oh how I want you, Elaine, Elaine, Elaine, you drive me nuts.

“Oh, oh wha—oh,” through the ringing haze of busting a nut against her, Elvis can hear her bewildered enjoyment as he spurts and slicks her up real messy, grinding against her pearl with powerful, heedless strokes.

He stops his whimpering moans and sucks in a breath, still somewhere else in his bliss and utterly unmoored, but not so useless as to stop moving along to her guiding hands on his butt.

Her breathy gasps are—they’re everything he’s ever fantasized about, and to make up for blowing his load like a green boy, he keeps up the pace she wants, slippin’ and a’slidin against her, listening intently as her pitch spikes when his cock smudges her clit with his head. She begins to replace each gasp with a noisy inhale.

“Wha-what’s oh, Elvis what’s—” she finds her voice just enough to babble as her head thrashes in a confused protest a few times amongst the golden tufts.

Then her hands clench on her handful of backside before the head of his cock slips in its glide and snags against her untried door. The bitten off shriek of surprised ecstasy she lets out, and the cruel bite of her nails in his butt, the rigid spasm of her thighs beneath his, tells him she’s gotten a taste of the heaven he just indulged in early.

“That’s it, that’s it, it’s nice feelin’, ain’t it?” he preemptively shushes her worries, the ones that gather even now on her brow the minute her pleasure ebbs away enough for rational thought to raise its pesky head.

“Elvis, I—what was—” she pants and can’t find the words or courage to finish her question, she just blushes beneath him instead, and for the first time tonight he can sense her feeling insecure.

“That was actin’ married, baby,” he answers simply, cupping her face and letting his thumbs rub soothing circles in her hairline. “You alright? Did I scare ya?” he whispers, terrified in suspense as Elaine seems to give his question thought, reviewing the recent memory of her first orgasm with typical, analytical detachment.

“It felt… tingly,” she decides, having to acknowledge no harm was done and this sated feeling of her melting into a puddle beneath him is rather lovely. “I liked it,” she decides, then insists as he still looks down at her, chestnut hair falling into his eyes and his worried mouth wobbling like a scared baby’s. “I liked it a lot.”

“Ya liked it?” he perks up, his lip curling in a smile, eager as a puppy, and she remembers him asking her the same thing, in the same eager way, about the grand staircase when he first showed her Graceland.

“Yes, yes I did,” she nods emphatically, ignoring how something seems to hang in the air about them now, something more that prods her to ask, “What now?”

Because “more” feels like a third person in this room and her curiosity has been too long deferred.

“Now we have that business meetin’,” he replies gravely, as if he suspects her of plotting against the meeting and its solemn necessity.

He tries to pitch his voice down in a bid to sound authoritative, but all she can think of are his pitiful little whimpers as he wet her belly. She smirks and reaches up to push his hair out of his eyes. “Yessir, Private,” she teases, immensely pleased with herself when he lets out a throaty laugh and rolls his eyes in response.

He pulls his body away from her, forcing himself not to cringe at the goopy mess he made of her pussy, or the resiliently adhesive string of spunk that refuses to break the connection between them as he pulls away. She is watching his every expression, he knows, every movement, the bat of his eyes, all being used to form her own opinion of this and he is careful not to show any reaction that might have her embarrassed, or worse, thinking the act gross. Sex is nasty, and he fuckin’ loves it for it. And if he can help it, so will she.

He twists off her and rolls on his side, sitting up where his legs dangle off the bed and he flips her slip back down in what he hopes is a subtle but swift enough gesture to be considered gentlemanly. She sits up beside him and folds her hands expectantly in her lap, her legs swinging off the bed beside his own and if he thinks too long about the fact he’s probably dribbling down her primly closed thighs, he’ll go insane all over again.

Get this part done and then you can go nuts, he tells himself, then it’s free reign. Or, well, nearly.

“Elaine baby,” he begins, this time his voice is naturally deep and earnest as it often is when discussing something very important, she recognizes it and gives him all her attention, “Do ya know anythin’ bout what mamas and daddies do when they go to bed?”

Her head is still fuzzy from whatever trickery they just engaged in, the way his hand now descends to her thigh making the pounding between them worse than ever even as the pleasure is sharper, more satisfying than any she’s achieved. It clouds her mind and stalls her reply. She thinks that she could answer smartly that he just showed her what they do, or she could say she knows they sleep, or she could rattle off a buncha scared suggestions that might make her seem a little less lost, a little less dumb about this whole thing. But she trusts him, trusts him to be kind and patient, to want to be married anyway. So she bites down her pride and shakes her head adamantly, not a shred of flippancy left.

“Well, part of bein’ married is makin’ babies, right?” he responds, “And that happens in a marriage bed, or least—that’s where it happens first time ya try,” Elvis explains the best he can, his voice gentle and his drawl persuasive like it had been when he showed her cords on the guitar. “Now we uh, we’ve talked bout your lil house already,” he notes and she nods with sober and locked on fascination, waiting for him to drop a hint of something that will make practical sense, “and I done told ya bout my key. You felt it gettin all firm, yeah? Then sprayin’ ya belly—sorry bout that, jus’ got me so excited, went ahead of myself—well, baby, ya see…” He twists his lower lip with his fingers in one last pained procrastination before getting the rest out in a measured slur, “To make a baby the daddy’s key has gotta go inside the mama’s house a-a-and unlock her.”

He holds his breath and watches this lesson land home on her sweet face. He takes note of each stage of comprehension as it morphs her face. First there’s her squint of concentration, then the eyebrow quirk of confirmed speculation, then the lip bite of second guessing his meaning, then crystal clear compression that seems to freeze her features in one of disbelief until they reanimate in a frenzy of emotion that culminates in her heavily fringed eyes darting down to stare at his recently spent, half mast cock. His key, he corrects himself, and like a damned pet, it wags under her wide eyed study.

“Oh ha, oh.” She tries to master her gasps and they just come out in a tumble anyway, staring at that strangely animate part of him that is nothing like any one of hers. The longer she looks the larger it grows, the sheath drawing back and revealing a tender looking tip, so vibrantly red it matches the flush splotching down his chest. It looks like it’s aches, and she suddenly has sympathy for the eager thing. At her aborted movement to touch it, she sees it sputter out clear fluid, as if weeping for her attention.

A great many bits of hearsay, of anatomical layouts studied, some Bible passages about “goin into her” and a few racy lyrics flash through her mind like star witnesses confirming his account of married life. She suddenly wants to laugh at the absurdity of not putting it all together until the wagging heft of the thing swelling beneath her stare makes her suddenly hope he’s wrong. Or, or -teasing, he’s gotta be teasing.

Oh course he is! Her shoulders loosen up and she lets out a great big sigh before meeting his stormy eyes and poking the soft rolls of his belly warningly, “You had me there!” she tsks and begins to laugh the more she thinks of the idea of him shoving his… his pee pee… up her to make a child.

Elvis doesn’t laugh, he looks suddenly quite alarmed and her merriment dies on her lips, stuttering out at the sight of his earnest face.

“You. Are. Teasin,” she repeats with a pleading diction, “You don’t really -oh gosh y- you ain’t pullin’ my leg, Elvis?” she almost whimpers, her mother’s proper nomenclature gone right out of her pretty mind at the idea of that chubby snake thing inside her.

“I ain’t pullin’ your leg sweetheart.” he swears, no hint of mockery in his voice, “That cream ya felt…coming out, the sticky stuff, i-it shoots up in ya a-a-and fertilizes y-your eggs. I-it’s called making love, baby, cause it’s-it’s makin…love.”

Elaine feels her face growing hot at that visual and would like all these components to make less sense right about now. It all comes together in her logic like a missing piece of the human puzzle, but far from being the Devine enlightenment she was expecting, she finds it’s a sticky, bobbing, whining, gushing, squelching process that isn’t remotely medical or Devine. It’s comedic, and her jaw clenches in protest at the absurdity of it all. God really must enjoy a good laugh, forcing folks to spew and shake apart like idiots just to keep the human race alive.

“Why’s it growin?” She demands hotly, resigned to the logic but quite unappreciative of the fact that the more excited about making babies his key gets, the more likely its growing size will make it impossible to fit inside her.

“It’s getting firm so it can go in,” he defends his offending boner as meekly as possible, eager to get back in her good graces and refusing to listen to little Elvis’ cries of offended honor, “A-a-and so it’ll feel good inside ya.” he makes sure to tack on and notices her incredulous left eyebrow shoot up to her hairline.

“That so?” she asks, utterly sarcastic.

“Yes!” he pleads and her face softens a little at his hurt tone, at his obvious honesty, “Once inside it’ll rub ya all nice like it felt a minute ago. ‘Member that? this’ll be like that just… even better.”

“I-I-I do, I do recall,” she softens at his worried face, realizes he thinks she’s gonna back down from this and curses the fact she’d really rather. Impotent anger rises up in her for a brief flash that she didn’t have more time to prepare for this, that no one told her so she might settle her terrified little belly to the thought of him—

—it’s too awful to be pondered for long and she takes a great deep breath and holds it in the way she learned at the hospital, to calm a bout of panic, staring off across the room at the portrait of Jesus he has hung by the closet door. She thinks about how best to fly away while he does what is necessary, she thinks about babies, she thinks about how pretty and sweet he is. She thinks about her mama, and wonders if the procedure is so awful, why didn’t she and every woman in her life warn and prepare her for it? Now her aunt’s words make sense. Be good and let him do what he needs to. If this is what he needs to do, then she reckon’s she’ll just have to let him see to it.

“Elaine?” he begs her to look at him, his warm hand gently grabbing her chin and turning her face to his like an ornery mule by its bridal. “Elaine, what’s in that pretty head? Talk to me please,” he puts his face all up in her own’s business, hands cradling her face and noses brushing, she can feel the brush of his lips when he speaks again softly, “Ya don’t think God would tell folks to be fruitful then make it awful for ‘em, do ya?”

It’s as if he’s read her mind, her own rationalization on the subject and she gives a slow nod of dissent, “no,” she agrees, and realizes due to her watery voice that she must’ve started crying somewhere along the way. It rankles her, being so skittish, being so troublesome for her groom when she’s not even been married a full day.

Lord, instead of being angry, he’s nuzzling her tear tracks across her face and swearing never ending tenderness to her. Her heart does another flip as his lips trail down her neck, and she warms again, her ache returns and it reminds her of his own. She tilts her head so he can better suck at the soft skin of her neck and casts her eyes down to his lap, finding him still eager. His key looks so desperate and needy, and despite her grievance against its size, her hand darts out instinctively to swipe at the leaking mushroom head like she would anyone’s tears from beneath their eyes.

It has a rather startling effect on her young husband.

Elvis lets out a choked cry and crushes her arms where he holds them, his kiss bitten cry turns into a chomp on her shoulder as the shock of his reaction makes her squeeze his member harder, eliciting a yet greater amount of pleasurable anguish from him. The way the previously dribbling precum gushes over her knuckles is entirely the most heady thing she’s ever managed to feel in her life. That molten warmth in her belly ignites again, and she kisses his own neck in delight at the responses he gives her, even as she drags the flat of her palm up and down his key, taking notes on the way he bucks against it.

“Elaine—” he garbles into her throat and she kneads his neck comfortingly even as she continues to watch the way this new friend throbs and gushes under her tiniest attentions. Like a personable pet or a responsive baby, it’s a joy to have something react to her with such inordinate eagerness.

“Alright, I believe ya,” she whispers soothingly as she thumbs at his leaking slit and strokes down his foreskin, noticing a definite ridge and then a puffy head differentiating the head from the rest of the shaft, “Just the tip has to go in, right?” she surveys the bulbous little head and calms herself. It’s not that big, just awfully wide. She can manage it, for the babies.

“N-no baby.” he stutters into her throat, miserable and worried sick about repeatedly having to be contrary, “S’all gotta go in.”

“But, but you can just spray up once it’s in!” she cries out, laughingly incredulous and a single sentence away from reverting back to suspecting him of playing a trick, “Why’s the whole thing gotta go in when it shoots the stuff a foot or more?”

That’s- that’s a worrisomely valid point, he thinks, but he can only deal with the logic of her hand fondling his cock right now and so he insists, “No baby, it’s gotta go deep, way up in your belly so it don’t get lost with all the cake ya ate.”

“That ain’t gonna get very deep.” she’s rather unimpressed with his length and it brings him right back down to earth with an Elaine shaped thump, “It’s the girth that’s unnecessarily…plentiful.”

“Ya sayin’ God didn’t know what he was doin when he made me?“ Elvis feigns outrage and pulls away to grin at her, to confirm she’s grinning, too.

She rolls her eyes, then that famillair, sweet smile overtakes her face as she flits her eyes all across the lean yet soft, pale yet golden, masculine yet boyish whole of him, -she finds him very good. “I reckon he knew what he was doin’,” she murmurs wryly, her stare dragging up his form, “I just object to the practicality of so few brains and so much—”

“Elaine!” he growls, gripping the back of her neck, “Kiss me, woman.”

She kisses him with the same gusto he’s previously seen her reserve only for football matches on the lawn. She catapults forward and it knocks the wind outta him, lands her solidly in his lap, a smooching, hair tugging goddess of a mad woman, and he scrambles to keep up, to assist the gearshift that just occurred. Zero to sixty it seems. Elaine can’t seem to hold still when she kisses, always leveraging up and wiggling around and it makes for two of them writhing, to the immense satisfaction of his cock that gets wedged between his belly and hers during this heavy make out.

Eventually she seems to notice -Elvis wonders what gave lil Elvis’ position away: the incessant twitching or the gallons of precum dribbling down the front of her gown.

She pulls away from the kiss and looks down, suddenly reaching and straightening his cock against her belly and through the haze of ball tingling appreciation for her touch he realizes she’s measuring the depth against her belly. That thought makes him spurt so violently he’s not sure if he’s cummin’ a lil or just, just gushin’ like he’s never seen himself gush before. Thank God this sweet little girl seems to like the fact he’s a messy, sensitive, uncut hick of a boy.

“We’ve just gotta try our best, hmm?” he stifles his anticipatory giggle at the size comparison to her abdomen and thumbs at her throat coaxingly, “I’ll try’n get it real deep, and you’ll be good and lemme, right?“

She will, for the babies, he already knows that. Knew it the minute she agreed to marry him. It’s why he wants her.

“Right.” she agrees and tries to not make it sound like she’s being condemned to torture, “I’ll be good for ya.” Be good and let him do what he needs to.

“And I’ll make it nice,” he swears adamantly and she nearly believes him, “It won’t hurt much, not at all after the first time, I’ll make sure you enjoy it, baby. Have ya begging for it in a few hours, you’ll see. It’s gonna be nice, remember?”

“Yeah.” Her tone is unsure but she waggles her eyebrows conspiratorially.

Then, before another promise can be made, she bends away from his lap and flops on her back, legs spread, baby blue silk riding up to show her wet curls, hands serenely crossed across her chest, face expectant. “Well, c’mon, gimme those babies.” she eggs him on, somehow keeping the wobble out of her thin voice.

“Elaine, honey, you’re shakin’,” he worries, noticing the visible battle in her body between desire and fear.

“I am a little chilly.” she replies very decorously, and with a liar liar pants on fire smile of assurance.

“Bullshit, you’re terrified,” he murmurs, petting her spread legs that are still partly in his lap, sliding his warm palms up her inner thighs and noting with satisfaction the way it makes her nipples pebble helplessly beneath the silk. She even rocks her hips towards his soothing attentions and that’s perfect, that’s how he’s gonna handle this, just soothe her into it, her entirely absent prudery a great aid. Although this next little detail he’s gonna teach her may push her to the limit.

“Now, ‘fore I go in, there’s a great deal of prep’s gotta happen or else I’d not be a husband, just a mean bastard, you understand?” And he watches closely as Elaine’s chest heaves in relief that she’s got a little more time before the main event. Come to think of it, he should buy her more time, maybe a bath to get her all loosened up and pliant. “How bout we take a bath first, ya wanna take a bath, baby?” he suggests and knows that it was entirely too random a segue the minute it leaves his mouth.

“Not–not right now.” she whispers honestly, her hands still crossed across her breasts and she makes a motion that hikes the neckline a little higher, telling him all he needs to know about her shyness. He’ll let her leave the slip on for now, the fact her cunt is considered husbandly property but her breasts are sacred maidenly assets makes him feral with want. “I’d like to just get this over w- to, experience it,” she does a decent job at damage control of her initial sentiment but he figures it’s understandable to want it over and done with, like a procedure, like a tooth being pulled. “Honestly Elvis, I’m too nervous to enjoy anything till we do it,” she admits, no pretty turn of phrase, just that precious honesty he appreciates so much about her.

Boy does he have a surprise for her, then. He grins and he nods understandingly, “I getcha, baby, we don’t gotta do nothin you don’t want,” he swears, “Just gotta prep ya then we’ll get on with it. Hey, stop shruggin’, ya just might like it.” He pinches her thigh and it makes her giggle, she gives him another unconvinced shrug that he takes as a gauntlet thrown to turn her into a whimpering cock slut.

“I-I’m gonna pull this up a lil,” he narrates gently, figuring it might put her at ease as he matches his words with the action of rolling her hemline up to her ribs. Her soft belly caves in with the breath she’s holding and he lays his searing palm on it, coaxing her to settle for him.

She can feel his calluses and the grounding weight of his broad hand on her womb, and the rightness of it turns her body pliant. That dreamy submission he first coaxed from her to make her sleep after her mother’s funeral -she can feel it coming over her again and settles glady. He’s never steered her wrong yet, and he’s let her keep her breasts modest, a sweet concession she is eager to thank him for with obedient compliance. She focuses on his large hand and the way it’s now petting, no, more like digging gently, with his fingertips into her lower belly, little digs and pulls upwards over and over again. She can feel each tug downstairs in her little house, like his fingertips are tugging at her little button’s string from the outside in. Her head truly sinks back into the gold tufted comforter and she absently palms a heaving breast. This part of being married is lovely.

The awed look overtaking Elvis’ cherubic features as he stares down at the freshly undressed slit between her legs is reward enough for her. Life is suddenly dreamy and hazy, like she’s viewing his rich coloring and decadent face through a stocking over a lens, like the girls do to minimize their pores in photographs. He looks like that naturally, too rich and pretty and lovely to be true, now muddled and smeared from the feelings his hands excite, he looks otherworldly and she lets slip a moan of appreciation.

“You’re so pretty.” she babbles again, unsure if any of it actually made it out of her head. It seems very pressing to tell him, maybe in lieux of the “I love you” he’s dying to hear but made her swear she wouldn’t say till she meant it.

For Elvis, the entire picture of Elaine, melted ivory skin with a halo of chocolate curls and a wisp of sea foam silk covering what he’s dying to see -she is like an erotic painting brought to life just for him to lick and squeeze and split open on a sea of gold. He shudders and keeps his finger tips massaging her giving belly, this ole trick of Johnny’s obviously not half bad, judging by the way she goes boneless and her long legs begin to spread of their own accord, knees bending out and her pink petals beginning to make an obvious flutter beneath the curls.

“You recall what Dodger said.” he asks her very softly, mumbling it into the soft skin of her inner knee as he gets her used to the feeling of his lips creeping closer to the place he’s about to devour, “remember her sayin I was to lick you?” he prods, knowing that bringing up his grandmother is not ideal seconds before slurping at his wife’s beaver, but he guesses rightly that he might benefit from some moral backup for what he’s about to propose.

“Y-yes, yes before a pecker o-“ Elaine’s already a little incoherent as he permits his hand to stray from her belly and scratch amongst their curls, digging and tugging at her outer lips from afar, making them glide against each other in a soft stimulation, like a foreskin getting rubbed over the glans.

“Pecker’s jus’another word for key.” he whispers into the butter soft skin of her twitching thigh and her hips jerk from the tickle of his voice.

“Oh is it?” she manages to laugh, even as it’s a far away little sound, “dear Dodger.” is all she adds.

“So like she said,” he carefully moves himself to a crouch, taking care not to jostle her out of her docile trance, crouching like those mountain cats between her legs, he carefully replaces his hand with his cheek as he rubs his face against her belly -entirely cat like, “like she said I gotta lick ya. See, cause….’‘fore ya use a-a key in a new lock ya gotta grease, it, right?”

Elaine Presley is so bewildered and terribly hungry for something, anything, Elvis could suggest just about any sort of fuckery right now and she’d agree. As is, she thinks she��s read in the Bible about a man kissing his woman down there, a vague reference to pomegranates that King Solomon might’ve thought real slick, but wasn’t subtle. There was certainly more of an illusion made to it in the good book than anything about chubby snakes going up inside a girl. She has no qualms against it, also very few brains at her disposal right now it seems, and she finds it’s nice having one’s mind wiped blank after such a hectic two weeks of planning and organizing.

“S-so I’m gonna lick ya down there, a k-kiss sorta a-“ Elvis is explaining, unnecessarily thorough in a pained, urgent, desperate whisper that he uses when he wants a thing bad but he wants you to think you want it badder and she-

-Later on in life, later on the next day even, Elaine could never quite tell or explain where the urge or the bravery or the biblical amounts of entitlement to his services she suddenly felt in that moment. All either of them had was the memory of her fresh as a daisy self, steering her groom by his hair till he was face planted between her legs, doing his duty. Licking her open, pink tongue wriggling and lapping.

Terrified shitless that somehow, somehow he’d mess up the one thing he was certain he was remarkably good at, Elvis’s skilled tongue had bolted into her wet heat like a colt through the starting gate with a lot to prove. And he maintained that ferocious pace and fervor for a undocumented and unrecalled amount of time. He was not sure how he managed to breathe down there for the hour or more he spent sucking and licking and jabbing his tongue into Elaine’s long dreamed of cunt, living off fumes from the sweetest pussy he’d ever tasted, hair tugs of gratitude his only payment and the sounds of shock and awe spilling out of his new wife at every bout of pleasure he tore from her.

The sounds she was making -they were the same as when the two of them went down to the flower festival in New Orleans, while he was on set, where she’d gasped and cried and exclaimed joyously over five street blocks worth of Lilies and Dahlias and the stringy flower bushes Elvis’ didn’t retain the name of.

“So, so nice, oh, oh right there”. This frantically happy compliance, this unabashed enjoyment by a virgin girl smashing his face into her snatch -it was more than Elvis’ wildest, most self indulgent fantasies could have hoped for.

He had noticed in Elaine a peculiar sort of common sense that most people didn’t have in common. If a thing was not harmful or explicitly forbidden, she had no objection to it, in fact, she considered it free game. And bucking her hips up to meet his tongue and utilize his nose against her button -was obviously one of those non prohibited joys of life. And he set about to make it so addictive that she would be collaring him for a lick every day of her life for the rest of their days. His hands slowly gravitated up her belly, squeezing and appreciating the firm give of her sides and up to her breasts that she still guarded with panting lassitude. He didn’t know if he had snuck his hands under hers to knead the firm mounds or if she’d allowed him under of her own accord, and placed her hands atop his in blessing. But either way, he stayed bent like that, hands groping at her tits and jaw near unhinged to swallow her down, his own hips rutting into the mattress, the seams of the bedspread chafing his cock pleasurably.

“Can I have another?” she would ask eagerly after having shook apart and dribbled over his tongue for the tenth time.

Who was he to deny her?

He worked his fingers in gently, but after the amount of spit and slick they had produced together, it was a mere pinch for her when he snuck in first one long finger, then another. Careful to keep her revving, he dallied for a while with just the two, scissoring them and spitting inside the tight little hole until her objectioning mewls turned to breathy sighs again. Working in the confines of her wet heat near drove him mad, feeling how tight she was around just a few digits had his cock aching and groans of his own came pouring out of his mouth, buzzing her clit and causing her to writhe.

He took to curling his fingers inside her, her walls giving under more readily after his patient coaxing and he rubbed the calloused pads of his fingers up and curled untill he found a soft, giving little spot unlike its surroundings, spongey in a way he’d only ever heard about. Her reaction to his touch there was also something that had before only been mere hearsay from the boys on the road. Her hips leveraged off the bed like she was possessed, and through the smash of her thighs about his ears he heard her scream, and perverse determination was entirely to blame for the way he forced his fingers to keep curling as her little house clamped down around them and suddenly his head was being crushed like a melon between her legs and a jet of sweet, Elaine flavored goodness was spewing at his grinning face.

“Sweet Jesus would ya look at tha-“ Elvis heaved in a dozen breaths the minute her legs fell apart again, propping up on his forearms and watching his stunned wife tremble violently, her belly and thighs shaking like they were motorized, her pussy still gushing feebly and her hands patting herself down as if to make sure she was still all there. He’d only ever heard of squirting, and here he was now, half blinded by her spray.

The sight of the teary eyed, mortified yet pleasure dumb confusion clouding her exquisitely clever face had given him no other option. He had to have her, had possess her, had to take, had to fuckin’ take his due. Now.

She was in no position to deny him, shaking in pleasurable shock and splayed out boneless and unsuspecting. Through a tunnel of starry spots she saw his glistening wet face come in to view, hovering over her own, and felt the warm weight of his body settling over hers, famillair and steadying. She tried to raise her floppy hand to pet his rosy cheek, to somehow convey how lovely he made her feel, but her hand wouldn’t respond beyond flopping around a few inches from the mattress like a beached fish. She began to giggle and could not stop, thinking she should stop so he could kiss her: ya can’t kiss a giggling woman as her lips aren’t available when she’s giggling and he’s gonna kiss her —

—he didn’t kiss her, instead he had gripped her cheek and it steadied her enough for the giggles to die out almost as effectively as the sobering feel of a blunt, slippery, heated thing pushing at her entrance.

“No, no, no” Elaine’s mind whimpered in betrayed protest, “no, no it had been so lovely, it had been so lovely, it had been nice acting married.”

Tears that had gathered and spilled from the nerve wracking ecstasy he had forced out of her, now spilled afresh down her splotchy cheeks. Her dark eyes glittered like dazzling pools of hurt, her head tilted to the side in disagreement with his plan.

Of course, of course, she thought, there’s always something more to be asked of a woman, a banquet can be enjoyed but there are always dishes afterwards, you get your pretty breasts but you have to bleed every month for them, you can have your house licked to madness but it’s only so that a hungry boy can more easily split you apart.

No, no, why? it had been so lovely…

Elvis had of course thought about fucking Elaine Phipps until she cried, he sometimes dreamed about her thrashing from too much pleasure her eyes streaming tears and her mouth twisted as she tried to let him finish, as he made her enjoy it more than she thought she had the capacity to. He’d thought of it, but it wasn’t the same as trying to push into a hole belonging to a girl mindlessly whimpering “No, no” beneath you.

Having an innocence kink, Elvis was discovering, was a lot sexier in theory, before stupid feelings emerged and pesky consciences nagged and the shuddering terror of your wife beneath you was abundantly tangible. That was a fantasy best kept between himself and his fist, and rock hard as he was, and nearly unhinged from waiting, he just couldn’t manage to do it this way. That old insecurity, that burning awareness that he had always wanted her more than she had wanted him came crowding into his mind, making his own eyes burn in rejection and fear.

“Shhh, shhh baby, it’s alright’ sweetheart, hey, hey it’s me, me c’mon, look at me.” he had begged her, hands engulfing both sides of her face, “I’m sorry, Elaine, I’m sorry.” it spills out in cry of his own because he doesn’t know how else to admit his long harbored expectations of her, the carnal weight of what he has wanted all this time, and all the wasted years he’d never told her he worshiped the soundboard her yittle fingers so cleverly levered , “I’ve loved you ever since I came back and found ya grown. I’m sorry, I’ve -I-I’ve wanted to have ya for years. You’re the most perfect thing alive. I-I-I just gotta have ya, I just gotta. I-I’ll d-d-die if ya don’t want me, too, honest I’ll die.”

When she looked at him then, looked and truly saw the soul of him stamped on his face -suddenly she saw everything she once doubted existed. He loved her. Elvis loved her and she was at peace.

It was Elvis. Dear ole Elvis, the boy at the studio who liked her sandwiches, the boy who she could most likely find sitting on the couch with his mother talking about his day, the boy who brushed her hair out for her the day they buried mama. It was Elvis, who was gonna give her babies, who’s gonna make sure she never wants for a thing, who is never going to let her be lonely or purposeless again. Elvis who was the most beautiful, exquisitely potent man she’d ever known, laying on top of her, shaking in desire to be inside her. He wanted to be inside her, so badly in fact, that all his power and his verve and his pride were shaking and shuddering above her.

“Oh my darling, you made me feel lovely.” she whispered to him, wanting that said before he split her open and took away her innocence. “Your love makes me happy, so happy. How could I not want that?“

“You want it?” he begged against her lips, he begged to hear it again while grabbing his tip and smudging against her clit, making her jerk and bow up in his arms. A reminder of what he can do to her, what he can give her, why she should be obedient.

“Yes, yes I want it.“ she repented of thinking anything unkind about her husband’s cock that’s gonna water her garden and grow her a family, that’s going to pry her open so children can pass through.

“Alright, ok.” he gathered his wits one last time, terrified to think of how he’s gonna lose all grip on himself once inside her after expending so patience beforehand, “Here's what we’re gon- we’re gonna let you control it.''

His brain pumped out fragmented explanations but he managed to sit up and bring her with him, landing her in his threatening lap, his arms cradling her little self, and he scooted higher in the bed until he was sitting upright, the padded black headboard at his back.

“There, here… we’ll, we’ll get it in like this.” he took to referring to his own body like it was a stranger, heaving in ragged breaths like a snorting racehorse. “At’cher own pace, baby. Ya-ya can…ya can sit on it.” He was no longer bothering to make sense, and thank God she seemed to realize that.

Being naive did not mean she was a fool. The novel concept now explained it was abundantly obvious in mechanics. Elaine grasped the slippery length of him firmly again, relishing the aliveness of it, holding it as she had when measuring him against her tummy.

She bit her lip with savage determination. Babies, he’s gonna give her babies.

Her husband’s face was all lash fanned anticipation, his pouty mouth grimacing in barely contained fervor and his eyes crinkled in a wince of pleasure from her grip. She saw a single tear escape his thicket of lashes and run down his prominent cheekbone, headed towards his hairline. She swiped at it tenderly with a thumb and had her hand grasped by him in response, tremblingly guided to his shoulder.

Leverage, she realized, he was giving her leverage and she raised up with her thighs like she would in the saddle, felt his hand meet her own down there to line him up, the size of his head against her giving her a thrill of horrored excitement.

Gently hovering and squatting, she gentled the puffy, leaking head of him in. The burning little sting of it only served to confirm that Elaine was about to be split apart when the rest followed. Now nestled far enough to need no guide, he grabbed at her other hand and put it in place on his shoulder, their noses touching, their legs bent atop the each other’s, arms encircled -suddenly this embrace made it feel completely essential to Elaine that they be connected in that remaining way. As if he could feel her submit around his first inch, his eyes flew open and a hungry azure gaze burned her up as her hair curtained around their faces and—

“You were made for this.” he reminded her as she whimpered at another little bit of length inserted, “You w-w-were fashioned u-up i-in heaven f-for this m-moment.” and the young man who couldn’t be made to stop wiggling in a Church pew tried to hold still as his drippingly tight wife cringingly lowered herself more, “In the doll factory u-up above, h-he m-m-made this lil house to t-the direct d-demensions t-t-to squeeze me d-dry —oh fuck, baby c’mon! That’s it, m-more come on, take me. Take more of me!” he groaned, his head bowed and watching where he began to disappear inside of Elaine, the culmination of all his madness.

“God Elvis it’s-its already awful.” she admits, staring at the stupid black headboard and registering every pulsing inch and vein and ridge of his rock hard, half jammed penis inside her tiny canal. “I dunno if i can-“

“Aww no ya don’t! No -don’t ya dare.” his snarled and gripped her hips as she began to raise up and dismount -it was only going to make it worse to try again and he was gonna make her finish this for her own sake, “Good wives don’t get off their husband’s cock till he says so. We’re ruinin’ ya for anyone else, babydoll, course it's gonna hurt something awful first time. Gotta see it though, don’t ya lose our progress.”

He saw a vicious emotion flash across her face -and he recognized it. It was the one from the mirror before a show, that wretched look of ambition that keeps him from fleeing from a crowd when all he wants to do is hide and puke his nerves away. He barely had time to brace his back before she was impaling herself on him again with teeth gritted ferocity, seething in his ear something about how she’d rather get kicked by Trojan -her gorgeous quarter horse. It made Elvis think of horses and her thighs working in the saddle and horses and stallions and stallions mounting mares and fuckin ‘em full and he-

“You’re gonna, you’re gonna take me.” he declared inexorably as she whimpered, “You’re gonna do what God made ya for, you’re gonna take my cock.”

“I can’t.” she wasn’t even whining, she could just feel him hitting a barrier and she couldn’t take more. “Please E, be nice, I-I ca- it’s not gonna fit, E!”

“It will, you’re my wife, ya will. You’ll take it all.” he kissed her check while reminding her steadily.

Then he snapped his hips up to meet hers in a powerful pump that tore her right through. She landed flush in his lap, a gush of virgin blood pooling between them, full to the brim with his thick cock nestled inside. Not even a cry let past her lips, just open mouthed shock, as if he’d punched the scream right out of her diaphragm.

Holy shit, his mind supplied, she was the tightest, most spectacularly tight -tightly wet pretty- tight woman. His whole body shook in delight at the wet, moldable grip of her walls, and he held her closer, blessing her for being so perfect, mumbling in between her still clothed breasts that he was gonna ruin her cunt for any other fella.

Elaine recalls just trying to breathe, even while clutching at his shoulders and listening to the filth pour out of his panting mouth, filth that confirmed his confession that he’d had designs on her body long ago. It made her shiver, which rubbed him inside of her and she doubled over into his chest, whimpering at the fullness and the burning sting of her stretched entrance. A thought flashed across her mind that he was mean to make her take all of him, the tip would have done just as well, and now she feels like she’s impaled on a pipe and his hips won’t stop squirming to force it that much deeper. He sounded like he was enjoying himself, maybe even having a vision of heaven buried inside her, and in that alone she took joy and made herself disentangle from him enough to glance down at the marvelous union they’d made.

It made her gasp in awe. She had swallowed him whole with her own body, taken him down to the root, his sack warm and full beneath her petals, absorbed him till there was no longer a he and she in the bed, but merely them. The Presley’s.

“Lord almighty, you’re tighter than hell.” Elvis moaned in appreciation of the absolute restructuring of her privates that he’d just done, gripping her back with his sweaty hands and letting his eyes roll into his skull in ecstasy.

“Tight yes -great balls of fire E, it hurts like hell.” she reiterated, a little petulant over his enjoyment of her wounded kitty, but he could tell even now she was recovering from the initial tearing open. “It’s not, it’s not supposed to -I can’t believe it fit.”

Curious despite herself, Elaine snuck a hand between them and gingerly felt the stretched ring of her hole and the thick base of him where they were flush, dark curls meeting together. He put his hand on top of her own and encouraged her exploration, making her pet herself and making her squeeze him despite the pained whimper she let out each time her pleasure made her please him.

“Jus’ ruinin ya for anyone else.” he repeated and she shivered in his arms, flicking her eyes up to meet his and sensing a beastial sort of claiming in them she had never seen before, “My wife,” he gloried in the title as his hips began to gently rock her in his lap, making her mewl, “my pretty wife, my good wife, look at you takin’ every damn bit of my cock, look at ya makin yourself useful, pleasin your man, ya like pleasin me dontcha? I know ya do, I’ve felt ya shiver when I praised ya before, I feel ya watchin me to make sure I like a thing you do. I know you, ya might not love me but ya love to please me, I know what you want. You wanna please me, always have since I first saw ya. Ya know what pleases me baby?” he tilted her face to his by her chin, her cheeks wet with tears and her mouth panting as he ground inside her deep and hard as granite, ignoring her whimpers -only her eyes showed the wild revelry she was feeling at being spoken to like this, “Know what makes me happiest?”

“No sir.” she gasped, respectful and suddenly aware of how helpless she was in his lap as his huge hands engulfed her plush hips and made her to swivel and grind on him, the motion tugging her lil house apart even more.

“Pleasin’ God by pleasin myself by filling you up. That’s what. That’s what makes me happy” he stated, the look of girlish shock she showed at his language shooting straight to his cock and making him jab up into her body until she clung to his shoulders and wailed, painfully aroused by the concept and terribly hurt by the process.

“Please, please.” she sobbed into his neck as he gripped her ass and leveraged her up and down on his thick shaft, his groans mounting joyously and her body trembling at being used so presumptuously. It’s too much, he’s too much of a man and her womb aches from his thrusts.

“Please use me?” he grinned into her neck wildly, “That wha’ you’re tryin to say, lil one? can’t get it out with a cock in ya, can ya? So yittle I bet I’m clean up through to your throat, ain’t I? My poor lil wifey.”

It was his glutted acknowledgement of the fact he knew she felt like he was spearing her beyond her capacity, yet he wouldn’t stop, loved her too much to stop driving himself into her, making himself fit in her. He wanted to be a part of her so bad he’d grab her wrists and bruise her hip with his grip and snap his pelvis against her own ruthlessly -just so he could be close to her. Just so she would be his.

It had her moan again, this time from something besides pain.

“Elvis.” she moaned out, trying to tell him, to somehow alert him to the fact she was willing and good and could feel her body had begun to give into its natural purpose, she was slumping into his chest, and her pussy still burned and ached but had surrendered to the veiny little conquerer plundering her depths. “Elvis I-I- yes, yes, use me.” she managed and was given a proud and searing kiss in return for her submission. “You’re so pretty.” she said it like it was some dazed explanation for her obedience.

With Elaine’s pussy giving and wet from blood and slick, he knew he could begin in earnest now. So, gently, he tipped her backwards out of his lap again, laying her on the golden sheets and falling deeper inside her as he got back on top, never pulling out through the whole maneuver. Her eyes rolled back as she felt him lay atop her, buried to the hilt, her legs pushed apart to bracket his waist and allow him deeper. She threw her arms around his neck and breathed in like she was about to be dropped on a rollercoaster, some imminent adventure obviously looming as he buried himself deep and got a thorough grip on her shoulders before kissing her ardently.

It was when she was kissing him back and thinking how wonderfully sweet he was that she first felt those famous hips pull back, then drive himself inside of her with shocking precision. It made her cry out, and before she could suck in breath to replace her cry he was pulling out and pumping in again, little gusts of shock mined out of her at each powerful and measured pump and her back began to rub against the bedspread, her whole body seemed to shake from the force of absorbing his vigor.

“Thank me.” he required, aiming to find that spot that had made her spray his face, determined to wipe that pained grimace off her face and replace it with pleasure.

“Thank -thank you?” her tone was dazed and he wasn’t sure if her confusion stemmed from what she was supposed to be grateful for, or if she disagreed. She gripped the comforter, hands above her head and out to the side, absorbing the ripple he drove into her flesh.

“I've made ya a woman.” he reminded, proud and smug as only a 23 year old boy can be when tumbling his pretty young bride in the sheets beneath him, “So thank me.”

She pensively watched him as he swayed above her, blocking out the gaudy chandelier, his hair flopping into his eyes and moving with the cadence of his body, his body was unforgiving and driving into hers with a steady, slow beat, but his face was still desperately insecure, searching for approval and a hint that he was doing well. She loosened one hand from the counterpane and brought it to his cheek. He melted, a huffed out whimper of his own, in sharp contrast to the rigid power of his desire.

“Sweet man.” she whispered, “So good to me, always so good to me.” she assured, and he gave her a wet kiss full of wanting, letting her pet down his neck, over his back, stroking the swell of his flank, remembering the reaction it had elicited in him and figuring she’d thank him once he managed something worthy of it. Which he was very close to doing, she sensed, if he could relax himself. “Elvis,” she nuzzled his nose with hers, propping herself up on her forearms, to look down the length of her belly at the place where he speared her, “gimme those babies, and I’ll thank ya.”

Her daring grin had the intended effect, his nostrils flared as he heaved in a breath and his pupils blew wide, he pried her other hand from the bedding and interlaced it in his much larger one, pressing the knuckles to the mattress,

“I love you.” he swore before gripping her hip and tilting her pelvis off the bed, to the angle of his satisfaction before he drove his hips in with the purpose of finding that place that made her wild, the one his fingers had discovered and got her to spray for him.

He knew he’d brushed it when her face went from sweet compliance with the discomfort and placid curiosity for the proceedings to eyelash fluttering shock.

“E!” she gusted out urgently and a little unsure, unsure that this horrid taking of him could really be morphing into the spine tingling thrill she was now feeling each time he drove in, the tug and ache of his size still apparent but almost serving to heighten the aliveness of her feelings down there. “Right -right there it’s, it’s oh, it’s-“ she hadn’t a word for it, as the feeling was growing in strength and any moment there might be some shift that turned it back to pain, his speed was picking up and it scared her as much as it excited her. Like when he started speeding on the winding roads of North Carolina just to hear her shriek, conflicted between excitement and fear.

“Yeah?” he huffed, shining with sweat and heat above her, his hair darkened and his eyes darkened and his lips darkened and he- he looked so flushed and dark and decadent and she moaned at the sight of so beautiful a creature possessing her, pleasuring himself with her body, like any animal or male would do with a mate. He could have just hunted her down on a forest floor, chosen her for her scent alone, pinned her fist to the ground and her hips up to his pelvis and -it was that primal. She loved it. Like all the energy and raw potency of life he had in him when performing was now being driven into her aching belly. “Yeah? Yeah that’s where ya like it? Tell me how ya like it, jus’ tell me and I’ll do anything. Anyhtin’ for ya, Elaine. I done told ya, told ya I’d make it nice.”

Nice was a pathetic word for what he was making her feel and she found herself wishing she had an extra hand to stifle the sounds that began to wail out of her throat at his unforgiving depth. His own moans and breaths were shuttering across her face and the intimacy of what they were doing filled her with a serene joy she’d only felt on crisp, tea drinking early dawns in autumn. It made her squeeze him closer and she could just feel the comfort he took in it, his whole body melding to hers. Elvis’ slow and long pumps had her adjusting well and the unerring accuracy he maintained when noticing something she liked soon had her clenching from pleasure rather than pain.

“You’re in me.” she stated the obvious with a little shock in her voice, turned silly beneath him as he shuddered and pumped in her, “Oh god you’re in me, and, and it’s, it’s -you’re so good at this…”

There was a kind God above after all, and she let out a giggle at the joy of it, at the joy of taking Elvis Presley to the hilt like she’d been born to do. The pride on his face came through the feral pleasure painting it, his hands beginning to map her own body, feeling the jiggle and give of her as he fucked her up the length of the bed, shock coming across his own features as he registered something new that first made a flash of panic burn through him.

He was in her, entirely bareback. And, well, he knew that of course but suddenly, the mind bending intensity of sensations around his cock made sense. It was the first time he’d been inside a woman without a barrier, no condom to distract from her silky grip, his precum gushing and spluttering, slicking up the way for his cock to drive in, turning their love making into a lewd cacophony of sounds that made the man in him exult. It’s my wife, he reminds himself both jubilantly but also to keep the reflexive panic of going in raw at bay, it’s my wife and I need to give her babies. To keep her I gotta fill her up.

“Look at that perfect face.” he groaned aloud to himself, and he meant Elaine’s “taking-cock” face, which he had imagined a million times, but her open mouthed, eye fluttering, hands in hair image below him was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen in all his life, “Look at that perfect fuckin lil face.” he repeated as he forced himself in her all the way, bumping at her crevice and making her let out some form of sob.

“Y-you’re in deep enough?” she gasped out an inquiry, suddenly able to recall what this was all for, accepting of her purpose and close to feral in desire to accomplish it well.

“Ya can take more?” He asked, truly about to lose all grip on himself and wanting her blessing for it, “Gonna lemme get deep, baby? Make me a daddy, hmm? Gonna make me a daddy?”

He sped up with each sentence, her frantic nods and her “yes, yes Elvis, give me more, all of you!” spurring him on till he was driving into her and making those gorgeous breasts of her’s bounce wildly beneath her much abused silk nighty. “Get it deep, please, please get it deep.”

In theory he knew she wanted his swimmer's up past the cake she ate, his own perverted lesson suddenly coming back to bite him with a vengeance as her pleas sent him careening towards his own orgasm faster than he had any intention of blowing. But he was a man, and all his cock heard was “deeper.” And so he drove in deeper and harder.

“S’good.” she continued and her perfect diction was now slurred, her tongue heavy in her mouth and nothing but Elvis Elvis Elvis in her view and in her mind and in her body. “Gonna be good, it’s so good I-come on E, gimme those babies, please please, yes, you’re so good to me.” she was looking up at him in awe, her body spasming and shaking so hard he wasn’t sure if she was coming constantly or having one terribly intense build up. The sweet darling certainly had no clue, and that thought made him grip Elaine harder and he felt his mind grow hazy at her praise, “Elvis you’re, you’re so pretty like this!” she cried out, her neck strained as she clasped her hands around his face and stared deep into his eyes as he plowed her, those carmel colored eyes holding an intensity he’d never seen in a woman.

It shook him to the core and plunged him somewhere deep and subservient, the world felt like it was tilting and he was fading to a place where he was a pretty boy and a useful stud and he-

“Fuck! Elaine you-“ he wanted to tell her she couldn’t, she couldn’t say such things to him, it would turn him mindless, he knew the symptoms. He’d no longer be the strong husband she needed but her goddamn slave, a whimpering pathetic mess. He was going to come.

He pulled out abruptly, and as if his cock stuffing her pussy was filling the whole of her with strength, like a doll with batting. she deflated against the bed in confusion at the sudden halt and withdrawal.

“Baby?” she questioned him in a forlorn whimper, her entire consciousness begging for more as he patted her thighs soothingly and fought to grapple his sanity back in place. He couldn’t slip and turn ‘little’ tonight, he simply wasn’t able to do that to Elaine. He stared down at her freshly gaping little hole and swore he didn’t mean to be an ass, but he was just a man, and she was his wife to do with what he wanted. She wanted his babies, and she didn’t know better than to let him do whatever it took to give her that. And right now, he couldn’t handle the adoring looks and innocent dirty talk pouring out of the mouth of a virtuous girl he had long harbored such obscene intentions for. It turned him very desperate and perhaps a little mean.

“Forgive me, mama.” he muttered when leaning over Elaine and kissing her hard before he gripped his bride’s delicate waist and flipped her onto her knees. “It’s better for breeding this way.” he gritted out at her confused gasps, palming her ass where her slip had ridden up to expose her. He lined himself up with her pussy and watched with savage enjoyment as his girth slowly stretched her pretty pink rim beyond all seeming capacity and her following whimpers were music to his ears, her trill of confused enjoyment as he slid to the full, the cutest thing imaginable.

Immediately she missed the sweet intimacy of his embrace, the pleasurable sight of his face above her, also. And this angle, this method, it was deeper and tugged again at the petals of her house that had just gotten used to his usage. She thought to object, to tell him she didn’t like it this way -he had told her to tell him what she liked. She assumed, hoped, that stood for what she didn’t like, as well.

Elvis is a good boy, she heard her father say in her head, Elvis is a good boy -even as this good boy lined his inordinate organ up with her sore little place and thrust inside again. She was going to have to tell him she didn’t like it this way.

That is, until she lifted her head from the sheets he had tossed her in, belly first and face down, and noticed the mirror hanging opposite them. In it she saw a perfect view of her own face, a face she knew but hardly recognized, so…matured…was it in the gilt reflection. Her face was flushed and richly colored and her mouth gaping like one of those steamy movie posters where the woman has succumbed to the man’s embrace-and god knows whatever else it was the man was doing to her below the waist where the posters always seemed to cut off. The man was snapping his hips to push himself inside the woman, that’s what they were all doing. Now she knew, and she watched enthralled as Elvis mounted her from behind like a damn stallion, his broad hand gripping her shoulder and yanking her back against him as he snapped forward, the other fiddling under her hemline until he found her little button and began to play.

Nevermind, she thought, focusing on trying to breathe as he began to set a demanding pace again, pain and pleasure in this act equal parts for her as she propped up on her forearms and watched him watch what he was doing to her virgin hole, -nevermind he can keep at it, she decided.

His calloused fingers were petting and swirling and tugging so perfectly in her little nub in time with his strokes she began to happily anticipate the next thrust, rocking back on her own accord, feeling the bliss build again but this time stronger than what he had given her before with his mouth. In the mirror she could see how the strap of her slip had fallen off her shoulder and now lay partway down her arm, her gaping neckline now exposing a whole breast showing how it jiggled obscenely with each of his movements. It made her cheeks burn.

Elaine tried to right the strap but holding herself up with one arm made her nearly wobble face first into the sheets again and it made him lose his rhythm and suddenly it was entirely too good like that, face in the bed and hips propped up, and she needed that hand to stifle her shrieks of pleasure as he pounded into her without a hitch at the new position.

“Ya like it like that, hmm?“ he gritted out as she folded and screamed beneath him, speeding his fingers up on her clit as her thighs began to clamp shut. “God look at these hips, anythin’ but cradlin’ babies would be a goddamn waste of ‘em.” he squeezed at their plush width while yanking her back on him again and again.

“T-t-they’re gonna hear me.” she wailed once, and he realized she meant the guests downstairs, that once she realized that he wasn’t going to stop just because her pleasure had her in a place where she could no longer be in possession of herself, she had begun to fear for their reputation.

“Let ‘em.” he growled, taking his wet hand from between her thighs and running it up the length of her bowed spin, relishing the way she was drenching his thighs too, “They all know what I’m doin’ to ya. They knew what you were signin’ up for, even if you didn’t.” that thought made his balls tingle and he knew he close, that and the fact Elaine’s had her pretty little face barely propped up enough to watch them in mirror, watching as he plowed her from the back in tear stained, shocked, pleasured obedience to his wants, “Whole world’s gonna know what a good wifey you are, soon enough. They’re gonna see ya swellin and fillin out and they’re gonna know how good you are for me, how well ya take me, how much ya enjoy splittin’ yourself on my cock.”

“Oh God!” she screamed at the thought and at the thrill of his praise and buried her face into the golden bedding in abject submission and ecstasy, no longer able to compute the image of her dear, sweet Elvis mounting her body and snarling in pleasure in the mirror as he used her to chase his relief.

Elaine, to his lust clouded mind, had the prettiest ass on earth and it filled his hands perfectly, and her overstimulated shrieks and mewls and squeals sounded every damn bit like a Disney Princess. And somehow, that thought really did it for him.

Elvis hadn’t given it a lot of thought before, mind ya, hadnt spent time contemplating what it would be like to make Snow White touch her toes while getting skewered or how it would be to push Cinderella’s sweet face into the sheets. But he was pretty sure that if one of those doll-like little ladies had ever been made to take cock after true love's kiss, they’d sound rather like the squeaking little thing writhing beneath him right now.

He jabbed harder just for the fun of that, just for the enjoyment of the fact he was balls deep in a virgin cunt about to blow his load inside a woman for the first time ever. His jabs and swivels and fucks made she squeal more, clinging to the foot of the bed, no rich alto moan left in her with every inch he made her take.

She sounds like Tinkerbell, if Tinkerbell ever had the sweet misfortune to be loved on by Elvis Presley. He grins at the mirror, grins at the bowed figure of his little wife, gives a passing prayer of thanks for this perfect woman he is gonna spend the rest of his life loving in this way.

Take this, Tinkerbell, he thinks excitedly, ramming home once more and feeling himself drain inside her at last in long, pulsing, gushing spurts.

She knew that feeling, she realized in a daze. Yes she had felt it just this night when they were writhing against each other but -this hot gizer of warmth shooting inside her… the porch swing. He had wasted his seed in his pants on the porch swing. He wasted so much wanting her without telling her, it makes her heart ache for him. She spreads her trembling legs apart and tries to wiggle him in deeper, pushing back onto his key as he shudders to a halt, trying to be of help for him, to get it where it needs to go. No more waste. No more pining. It makes him sob and groan as she milks him, her sweet boy returning as he drapes over her back, a boneless weight before gently rolling onto his back and taking her with him, still impaled. A stopper of sorts, to keep it from leaking, from wasting.

There is not a single part of her body that does not tremble, nor of his either, they cling to each other, fully equal in post-coital vulnerability now and try to remember what world they belong in. His hands cradle her lower belly, pressing her close to him and swiping his thumbs along her spine, just as she pets over his arm and nuzzles into the hollow below his throat. She’s so touchy, caressing him and squeezing him like she needs the contact as badly as he does, and it’s exactly what he always wanted, hoped, didn’t dare ask heaven for but he’s got it. She’s here, she’s his.

“You’re my wife.” he marvels, and he is referring twofold to the act that just made her so and he means it wondrously by the way she lov- cares- for him so well. “You make me so happy.” he says against her lips.

“Thank you.” she whispers, cracking open her eyes to see him soft and gentle right there beside her, “For choosing me.”

“Didn’t have a choice.” he croaks, “Never has been a choice with you, I had to have ya, was more your choice than it ever was mine to lemme be yours.”

“You are mine now, aren’t ya.” she muses and he sees the way that thought sparks some life back into her heavy lidded eyes.

It’s good to belong to someone, he thinks, comforted as he brings his mouth down to hers. “Yeah, always, always gonna be yours.”

He kisses her long and slow and she returns it, her body sated beneath his caresses in a way his masculine, virulent one could never be when laying beside her, buried inside her still, newly laying claim. It is a gentle rocking when he begins again, quite helplessly, to move inside her, and she is so busy tugging at his cropped hair and nipping at his lips that she doesn’t seem to notice that they’re swaying vertically until he draws her leg over his hip and begins to drive up again in earnest, her moans a sweet melody she pours into his mouth. It’s quiet this second time and unrushed, and she has grown used to the ache, he thinks he should tell her soon to use the restroom, but he’ll have to take his fill again first.

He wonders when he’ll find the time to tell her to go between telling her he loves her. She asks him if they can do this often.

“Bout as often as we can manage.” Tumbled out of his lips happily.

“And how often’s that?” she urged him breathily, her eyes losing focus they were so close to his own.

“Enough times to lose count, Laney.” he promised, “Gotta fill ya up, best we can. Gotta be diligent.”

There was no soaring crescendo to this session, he merely clutched at her harder on one lazy upstroke, her fingernail had caught his nipple and zapped him straight to heaven like a thunderbolt to the frenulum. And then she felt him spilling inside again. Warm and hot and soothing the battering of her walls. His fingers took hers and pulled them down between her legs to pet the damage again, smearing him around like ointment on a wound. They had acted married twice now, she figured. They’d done marriage twice. The second she had liked even better than the first as he held her all the while, even though no searing height had happened to her.

“When you were with other girls,” she whispered into his chest later as they dozed between bouts of kissing and cuddling, “this isn’t -you didn’t…” she faltered for a moment before lifting her face to gaze down at him with warmth and gentle pleading, “-you didn’t do this with them, did you? You don’t act married with them, right?”

Perhaps most men would have chosen to lie. Elvis had no need despite his experience and his reputation. He had, a dozen or a hundred times, wrapped himself in latex and put it in a dozen or hundred women, some he cared for genuinely and some who were life preservers in a sea of lonely travels, but he’d never acted married. He’d never done this sort of intimacy before. He figured he was practically a virgin too, in that sorta way. In making love with the intention to bind himself, trap himself forever to one single soul. It ought to have been terrifying, that commitment, but feeling himself drip out of Elaine into the cradle of his hips he just felt right, like he was home. Like he’d just given himself to someone who actually wanted him. “No honey, I didn’t act married with any of ‘em. You’re the only one who gets my seed. I swear, really I do, now or ever.”

She could tell he meant that promise, and now he’d taught her how to express herself in this new language, she thanked him the only way she knew how, by gleefully rolling atop him again. It was a language she realized she was seeking most of her life, ever since anger and joy and want had flared in her and had been summarily instructed to be curtailed.

Propriety. Mildness. Rise above it all. She was good at the art of it all, and had been praised for it. Yet here was a man who coaxed vehemence out of her, taught her to inflict it on his body, who found pleasure in this grappling, wrestling, messy way that made such sense to her now she had found it.

I could love you, I’m going to love you, I’m very much in danger of loving you, was said with each swivel of her hips and lick of her tongue down his neck. “Oh Elvis.” sounded sweetly in his ear as he bounced her like a doll in his lap and made her fall apart.

Elvis had kissed her temple as he panted his breath back in again. Kept himself plugged in as long as possible till he shrank to nothing and slipped out. His destructive cock a now harmless, wet little thing that she cooed at in a most embarrassing way for him, but he was too happy with her laying on his chest to protest the curious fondling she gave his sensitive cock.

“This new house by Fort Hood, the one that agents of your’s got us,” he had murmured huskily while swigging from the chilled bottles of water retrieved from the mini fridge -with Elaine riding on his back to the closet and then the bed again, refusing to be apart, “it’s got a split layout, ya see. Top and bottom floor’s got a kitchenette, might not be the easiest for cookin’ but it’ll give us -space.” he assured, and she bit her lip imagining what he’d want the privacy for. “Wouldn’t ya rather a lil privacy ‘stead of a big ole countertop? I-I-if not I-I can-“

“Sounds perfect.” she sighed dreamily, thinking about making him meals and him coming home to eat them, gallant and lean in his pressed uniform. “You’re real handsome in your uniform, ya know that?” she figured it didn’t hurt to admit it, her man seemed to thrive off compliments from her, and he never did seem to get a big head from them. Except for the other little head that twitched and swelled at any compliment at all.

It was getting late, or early more like, and as she felt his interest grow yet again, Elaine played at denial. A silly, jokingly, little sort of thing where she wriggled away from his grabby hands and tried to make it out of the bed -headed to god knows where, the champagne bottle or the record player or downstairs, she didn’t know as she had no real intention of fleeing. But being seized from the back by her husband and playfully thrown back on his bed, made to sprawl out on the corner of the mattress , her legs hanging apart and her pathetic little slip still hanging onto her modesty for dear life, it was rather thrilling the way he had muttered,

“Oh no ya don’t, good lil wives don’t run.” and put himself back into her overused body, relishing her moan at his first thrust in and the fucked out compliance of the grinning girl beneath him. “I wanna see my pretty wife’s tits,” he asked as he watched them bouncing and jiggling with each absorbed fuck, “C’mon baby, be good and lemme see those pretty pillas of mine, you won’t deny me will ya? Come on, baby, so pretty, so round, gonna make ‘em blow up soon enough, whole world’ll notice ‘em. I wanna be the first to see ‘em before it. Up we go, lemme, come on yittle one, thas it, lift it up.”

He watched as this woman of his who was currently impaled on his cock blushed and smiled and bashfully pulled up her slip till her buttermilk soft mounds were bare, pink nipples pebbled and a scared, hopeful look on her face as her slip bunched at her clavicle.

“Goddamn, I’m a lucky man.” he had groaned and not missed her relieved smile. Then playfully flicked the slip up and over to hide her bright red face before folding himself enough to suck on a rosy little nipple while pistoning in and out. Soft, pliable flesh giving beneath the weight of his jaw and the nudge of his nose.

It was bizarre to Elaine, her sight obscured by the slip, her breathing hampered by the same, sound and feeling her chief senses this time. Just the sounds of him enjoying himself alone had a warm feeling curling in her chest and her belly, too, his hums and groans sending delightful zaps through her previously respectfully ignored nipples. His hands running up and down her ribcage, sometimes seizing her waist to pull her on him, sometimes fluttering over her diaphragm to feel himself moving within, nearly up her lungs he felt.

She felt as if she had finally been given privacy in which to truly feel and enjoy this, veiled by her own last shred of modesty, she let herself feel -and what she felt was astounding. She felt cherished. And she felt ravaged. And as if no one was here or anywhere on this earth to judge the way she screamed in delight, she yelled it and heard him answer her:

“that’s it, lemme hear ya” his teeth snapping at her nipples as he talked around them with his movements causing him to miss, sparking a fresh wave of noise to humidify the satin covering her face,

“Oh god, oh god, oh god.”

She chanted in happy panic as her legs drew up on their own, up and up and trying to close against the delicious onslaught, only to realize too late that it made the fit even tighter, the friction even stronger, the glint in her husband’s eyes wilder. He pinned them to her chest, with a single hand, to keep them out of the way. Slapped at her clit instead, made her scream in a way he didn’t think she was capable. Thought about doing it twenty years from now, thought about how he’d have the rest of his life to make his Tinkerbell scream. He slapped her there again and this time no scream, just a hissed in breath that had no exhale, her whole body clamping up in rigid ecstasy, tightening so strongly he couldn’t even keep his thrusts going to help her through.

Almost alarmed by her lack of breathing, he thought to pull at her slip, up and over her head till her face was visible again -she looked as if she were in some great agony, and his smug heart flipped at the sight, before leaning down to kiss her.

He was all chestnut hair aglow, wicked dark eyes and sweet lips, hovering down into her hazy view and her body wasn’t her own anymore, the damage had been done and the cliff she was teetering on gave way beneath her sanity when his lips met hers, his warm chest rubbing against her spit chilled nipples. For the second time that night she sprayed him, and through the eye rolling, rapturous tingle of it she heard him asking if she was “coming.”

“Oh goddamn, goddamn look a’that, oh fuck me sideways that’s hot as hell.” he blabbered, pulling out just long enough to wiggle his cockhead against her petals and force another jet out, coating his own abs with it, relishing the way her belly shook and her legs clamped together straight in the air, her hands clawing at the slip like she was trying to fight her way out. “Sweet Jesus you’re so sensitive.” he praised, pushing back in despite her hiss, and the way her feet tried to plant themselves on his shoulders to push him away. “Gotta lemme back in darlin’, I got another deposit to make.” he joked, loving the way she was clawing and wiggling away from him on pure, over fucked insinct, red painted nails dug deep enough to rip into the gold bedding. “Come on, be good, be good for me, lemme in baby, lemme in , doin’ so good, so good I know you’re so damn full, just a lil more, lil more. Don’t want any to go to waste do ya?”

He was wicked for using those magic words to make the shaking girl open up and let him in again, but he made up for it by the kisses, he felt, and in praise, and promising her if she stayed good she’d have those babies. Careening headlong towards another orgasm of his own with the sounds she was making and the lewd squelch of how wet she was down there, downright squelching with all his contributions and her own slick, he swore she was everything he’d ever dreamed of. She smiled at that.

“I’m gonna come.” he promised her almost in a beg, pleading for her to understand why he sped up and started to pound her again in earnest, erratic thrusts.

“W-whats coming?” she whined, her eyes screwed shut and her thighs shivering beneath his shoulders, “Y-you’re already here…”

The more he drained his balls, the more his mind seemed to leave him as well, all catered sentences and prim vocabulary gone straight out the window with his last shred of self restraint. “This-is-comin-“ he punctuated as he drove himself in, then felt his balls draw up and try to offer up residual bits of spunk but nothing seemed to come out. Served him right how white hot and painful it felt, sputtering dry inside her. He hoped she didn’t notice the deposit was a blank check. Also hoped she didn’t hear the pathetic whimper he’d let out as lil Elvis heaved his last attempt at it. By the way she was humming and petting at his hair, cradling him gently as he sagged atop her on the corner of the bed -he was afraid she’d heard and felt it all.

“Why’s it called that?” she whispered in his ear, and he wondered that she had any energy at all.

He burrowed his face deeper into her neck and mumbled, “Damned if I know, darlin.” he thought on it a little while longer while also thinking of the drip, drip, drip of their mess melting between them, “Unless it’s cause it makes ya feel like you’re havin a ‘come to God moment’, ya know?” he suggested and laughed when he felt her poking his cheek. “Do ya- do ya like it when…when ya-“ he couldn’t manage it now in the gentle afterglow, starting to get a chill after all his sweaty exertion cooled and left behind clammy skin and pooled secretions, feeling how naked and soft and lonely he was suddenly upon feeling sated for the first time tonight.

“Can we really do this as often as we want?” she asked instead, and her tone held no dread in it, only hopeful excitement. Suddenly the lonesomeness was gone again.

He felt her hands stroking his back and down to his ass again and he had giggled happily, not able to hold back his relief. “Yes, darlin.”

“Gosh.” she mused, petting him still, “To think I-I didn’t know about this and now it’s…” he propped up his chin on his hands to give her an inquiring look, begging her to finish, “it’s all I wanna do now.”

“That so?” he quirked his eyebrow and she flushed and began to shake her head, her tone pleading:

“Oh, not now, not right now -oh, please, please E, I’ll die if ya do, give me a minute.” she laughed and kissed him again.

“We should sleep.” he mused, half asleep already, pillowed on her boobs, his legs still technically still standing him upright as his upper body lay across the bed, across his new wife. “And bathe.” he realized.

“It’s very sloppy.” she agreed, and the thought of how uncomfortable she must be, stuffed with a half a dozen or more cum shots roused him to action.

He picked Elaine up bridal style and carried his now gloriously naked woman into the en-suite bathroom, seating her on the chilled marble countertop and grinning at the way she melted, spineless and used against the mirror, a soft smile lighting her dear face.

She liked watching his long lean, boyish figure, hard in some places and soft in others, strangely inviting in its combinations, ripple and flex as he bent and turned on the tub faucets, snagging gold embossed towels off the rack.

E.P. they read, gold thread glowing on the black cotton.

E.P.

For the both of them. It could be for either of them, it probably had been in his mind when he’d had them made, stocked his home full of monogrammed luxuries with her future initials on them E.P. --and all the while she had been fretting of dying a loveless old maid.

She laughed happily and found she couldn’t stop, catching sight of his embossed robe, hung on the door with the same initials. E.P. She was wanted, she was so very wanted here with him. It made her slide her jellied legs off the counter and hug him ferociously from behind, pressing kisses into his spine, and the freckles that smattered his shoulder blades.

“E.P.” she whispered and he got what she meant, turning round and grinning at her.

Once in the bath she dozed in his arms, near suffocated by bubbles and relishing his embrace, the warm water and his massaging hands soothing the ache between her legs.

“We haven’t washed the babies out have we?” she asked, groggily staring into the receding bath water as he tenderly toweled her off once stepping out of the tub. “I-I-I want those babies.“ she insisted and it must’ve been the lateness of the hour or the sheer amount of muchness she had been subjected to tonight but her lip started to wobble at the idea she’d carelessly risked her hopes down the drain, swirling away with the last of the bubbles. “Elvis I-I- didn’t mean to rinse them out!” she wailed, near hysterical with fatigue.

He tried assuring her but she wasn’t easily pacified. “I-I could give ya more.” he finally offered timidly, entirely uncertain either of them were capable of enduring another round.

He was toweling off her calves as he said it, pressing kisses to her knees and noticing the tremors in her thighs. To his shock she dropped to her knees beside him on the bathmat, eyes half mast and nearly insane looking in their fatigued determination,

“Please, please give it another try.” she nodded before spinning around on the bathmat, shakily swift and presenting him with her shapely ass.

‘Better for breeding this way’, came back to mind. God she was a quick study, and he prayed for strength and some shred of self restraint in indulging her. Instead, he found himself burying his face between her cheeks and licking at her devotedly, afraid they may have washed her slick away and worrying the burn of entry would be too much for her, fresh out of the tub and swollen from overuse as she was. No woman had let him do it this way, his face near buried in her bath warmed ass and his tongue kitten licking at her slick hole, but Elaine bore it with decorous appreciation, entirely unaware of being anything but eager in her responses, her spine arched and a rosy cheek pillowed on her forearms. Her yittle hand came down to pet Elvis’ diligent head as he worked between her legs.

“That’s it, I love it, E, like that, I love it when you…” she was mumbling in a slurred litany of praise he gobbled up ravenously, just like he did the shuddering little trickles of sweetness he coaxed out of her. “I’m -I’m, yeah yeah-“ he felt her grind down on his face as she shook again, and then it was as if the top half of her body nearly melted into the mat, just his hands keeping her ass in the air. “Please put it in.” she whispered, her hand still down there between her legs and reaching for something else of his now, her tone so soft and polite, like Cinderella asking for cock.

He aimed his cock into her waiting hand and watched with barely suppressed desire as her palm rolled over the rip and her nails gently raked across his veins as she moved to grip him and point him where she wanted him. There was a lewd sucking noise this time when he went in, like her body was finally trying to swallow him willingly, and he saw her head toss on the mat, dainty fingers woven into gold shag and her neck craned back to see him as he pressed in deep. Her face was flushed deep red and the makeup had worn off and she looked so innocent, so young beneath him, a single curl plastered dark and wet against her cheek from the bath. He’d unmade her, turned her back to her simplest form. He snapped his hips, lost his mind, noticed happily how her hand went to her hip and joined his there. He held onto it like a handle and jerked her back on him again and again, her cheek rubbing against the mat and her teeth sinking into her other fist to hush her cries. Those cries of hers, maybe something was very sick inside him that he liked them so much but he did, he did and he worked hard to draw more from her just as he dreamed of this, dreamed of her fluttering pink hole trying to take more and her eyes rolling back from the fatigue of it, her body unable to deny him.

“My poor belly,” he thought he heard her whimper, yet unsure he reached down and pulled her fist away from her mouth, it pushed him deeper in, bent her more starkly, speared her cervix, “Oh god, my belly, my poor belly.” she kept saying for sure this time.

“You alright, Lany?” he draped over her and brushed the damp strands off her face, her face that was red and splotchy from sensation and blood flow. She gave him a whimpering nod.

“You’resodeep” she accused him even as he felt her squeeze and shake around his girth, her mouth gaping for a brief moment at the unexpected little pleasure. “My poor belly.” she said it over and over again and he couldn’t stop. It was more just a bewildered mantra to comfort herself, as her mind betrayed her and wanted him but her body was so well used that was she was just…taking it

“You poor little thing,” he cooed, making sure to move slow and deep in a way that had them both shaking and stepping into madness, bent all over her bent frame himself, “you’re takin’ my cock so well, so obedient, never was a more righteous wife, never was, you’re a goddamn wonder, that’s what you are. I’ll thank God for ya every day.”

His praise always soothed her and he kept it up, not even sure what he was saying anymore as he chased his own release, focused on the bent little thing beneath him and the way it made her waist look minuscule in this position, her pink face, too. At one point he saw tears instead of bath splash on her face and as he felt himself begin to spurt he shushed her the best he could with the first thing that came to mind:

“Don’t cry Tink, please don’t cry.”

The nickname tickled her consciousness like a feather on the neck, some goosey thrill that tickled up her spine and added to the satisfied throb between her legs as he splashed hot and thick inside her.

“Tink?” she thought she had asked him, bewildered and charmed to have been christened. Maybe her words got lost in the bath mat.

He did not answer her, must’ve not heard her at all, but picked her up with his own shaking arms and like a couple of bambi's they toddled into the massive bed, throwing themselves under the covers quite unceremoniously. He tried to swat at the lamp as if that would turn it off, and realizing she was the more capable of the two -he seemed almost insensibley drained by that last encounter- she leaned over his chest and pulled at the lamp string, dousing the glow that surrounded them, only to realize dawn was splashing a violet haze through the crack of the window curtains.

“Good morning, Mrs. Presley.” he had teased softly, noticing the dawn too, his head tilted on the pillow to watch her shut off the lamp.

“Good morning, husband.” she murmured, wriggling on top of him as he held her fast, arms locked over her back and her head pillowed on his chest.

This cuddling was familiar, this drowsy holding of each other until he stilled and fell asleep, an art she had perfected since his mama died. But now she was the woman in his life, and strangely now that the hunger had been glutted and abated, they entwined around each other like babes or twins in a womb, this naked closeness the most natural of assurance in the world. Something Elvis had been missing since his brother had left him, since Jesse entered the world before him and chose not to stay and endure it with him, fell into place.

My sister! My spouse! -King Solomon had called his lover, and Elvis had felt that supremely odd when snooping through the Song of Songs as a boy. But now he knew -too many roles did she fill to be confined to one, and Elvis felt tempted as Elaine fell asleep atop him to whisper, “my brother, my spouse!” into her hair.

Sometime later, when deep unconscious, dreamless sleep had possessed them and held them fast, but not a long enough time for Elvis to be remotely cheerful about it, a obnoxious clanging sound broke in on their peaceful repose. Elaine jerked awake atop him with a startled little squeak and he put his hand to the back of her head to shush her, encouraging her to lay her cheek back on his shoulder. The noise resounded again and this time he was lucid enough to determine it was coming from outside the bedroom door.

Clang-a-lang-a-lang-clang-a-lang

Elaine huffed and rubbed her tired face into his chest, his sparse hairs there tickling her nose and making her sneeze. That made him laugh and with neither able to keep up the pretense of sleep, they raised their heads and looked towards the door with matching, raised and unimpressed eyebrows of displeasure.

“If this is the boys idea of a practical joke,” he growled with sleepy morning grit in his voice, “they won’t be boys much longer.”

“Will ya put them in boxes and give them to me?” she inquired and he realized with a self satisfied smirk that her melodic voice had gone hoarse from all the screaming he’d made her do the night before.

“Heavens Mrs. Presley,” he marveled, “ya sure have gotten comfy askin’ for things -I like it.”

“I could think of a thing or two I want right now.” she bit her lip and her eyes slanted hungrily and some scared part of him that worried she wouldn’t want this as much as he did got buried teen feet below the earth, locked away forever.

“Breakfast?” he acted dumb even as she propped herself up on his chest and gingerly tried rolling her hips along his thickening shaft, hissing at the soreness of her own petals.

The sheets falling away from her and pooling round her hips like some goddess that had condescended to come down to earth and make use of her spied after Adonis, Elaine was ethereal and happy and Elvis sank his head back into the pillow and watched her, wishing to pinch himself but the roll of his foreskin against her bud told him it was real. “Breakfast and water, breath mints and fresh air-“ she listed while speeding up and causing his cock to begin to weep and slick her way along-

Clang-a-lang-a-lang-clang-a-lang

“What?” he yelled fearsomely at the door and she shivered in spooked delight at his temper.

“I’m comin’ in wi’ breakfast,” came Mary’s unmistakable drawl through the door and to his horror he watched the gilt knob begin to turn, “y’all’s best disentangle yo’selves cause I done waited till two in the afternoon to feed yous, and I ain’t taking chances for waitin’ any longer-“ Mary stepped into the room about at the same second Elaine accomplished a dismount and roll that the would have made the marine corps proud, diving beneath the covers, only a bride sized lump to be seen by the cook as she came in with a heavy laden tray, her ingenious cowbell left behind in the hall. “Lawd Mr. Elvis, you’re wearing that loved on look just nicely, if you’ll lemme say so.” she admired his marital blush and scratched shoulders as only a proud auntie could, “Miss Elaine, you best come outta ‘der, I got bagels and cream cheese, jus’ as you like.”

“Oh Mary, you didn’t!” Came Elaine’s moan of appreciation beneath the bedding and it was altogether too close to his pelvis for Elvis’ sanity, “You’re much too good to us, you know that?” Elaine wriggled till just her head peeked out and bestowed on Mary a smile of such adoration the lady forgot the ache in her arms from carrying the tray upstairs.

“Yeas, well, wouldn't do to have y’all’s dying of malnourishment.” she huffed bashfully patting Elvis’ beet red cheeks while unconsciously setting the trey in his stiff lap.

He groaned. In appreciation for the eggs and burnt bacon, Elaine had to presume.

“Don’t you take your fill again till you’ve taken your fill, you get what I mean?” she wagged her fingers at them, first at Elvis, then at his bride as if she was second guessing who here was the more likely instigator, the groom seemingly meek and the bride grinning altogether too widely than was proper. Delighted, Mary couldn’t help her matching one, “Eat up.” She nodded, backing away while eying them suspiciously, as if at any minute they might overturn her carefully prepared victuals and begin to maul eachother anew.

“Wouldn’t think of letting it get cold!” Elvis assured her adamantly and to prove his point, stuck a bagel into his bride's mouth before getting into the eggs himself.

Satisfied, Mary left them and shut the door. They heard when she picked up her cowbell and the retreating sound of her footsteps down the hall assured Elvis it was safe. He moved the platter off his lap as if it were scorching him, flinging the offending sheets off his erection and patting his thighs, jerking his chin at a wide eyed Elaine.

“I’m a very talented man, I’ll have ya know,” he told her as she settled in his lap, his chest pressed to her back, “I can feed and fill ya at the same time.”

“So,” she began genially as she wiggled him in and got comfy, sucking cream cheese off his fingers and taking advantage of his compromised blood flow, “Is Tinkerbell gonna my nickname?”

Elvis choked on his bacon, and proceeded to cough into a pillow case. “I’ve no idea what you're on about.” he denied.

“Hey,” she grinned at him without wavering, “if you can enjoy splitting me in half, I can enjoy a nickname that outs ya for bein’ a lil nasty about it, hmm?” and she chucked his chin.

She -she had a point, Elvis supposed. “Sure, Tink, whatever you say, Tink.” he droned.

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@steph-speaks

@burningloverdoll

@angelface-555

@lookingforrainbows

@missmaywemeetagain

@coolgirl462

@kingdomforapony

@18lkpeters

@richardslady121

@from-memphis-with-love

@lillypink

@artlover8992

@pennyroyalcreep

@notstefaniepresley

@ellie-24

@renaissingle

@waiting4brucewayne2adoptme

@presleyenterprise

[spiders-hth-is-an-outlier]

Possibly a big ask to get just out of the blue but: what are your Supernatural season opinions? Which one is your favorite? Least favorite? Did you watch long enough to have showrunner opinions? If yes, which showrunner is your favorite and which is your least favorite? If no, which season that you haven't seen most tempts you to get back in the Supernatural trenches? Answer exactly as many of these questions as you want to. Carry on.

You know, I am not sure how long this Ask has been sitting here, because my Tumblr notifications are borked -- I hope not long? If long, I apologize, I wasn't ignoring it on purpose!

Okay, so I have more than the average number of Supernatural opinions, probably, but I'll try to keep this to a dull roar! Inside Me There Are Two Wolves: one of them believes that only the original five seasons of Supernatural are worth defending in any way, the other really, really loves seasons 11 and 12. The Kripke Era had a lot of problems, particularly in its treatment of women as bodies without agency and its treatment of Black men as literal predators, but also for all its flaws, it had a kind of coherence and narrative drive that comes from being the product of a dude who obviously cared about it and had something to say. Taken on its own, seasons 1-5 are a brutal and compelling story about the traumas of being men in a universe that's been absolutely destroyed by its Fathers: on almost every level, it's about these abandoned and brutalized boys discovering that their entire reality is the product of an abandoning and brutalizing God, populated by authority figures who are universally demanding and arrogant, but also completely fucking useless. It's quite literally about Sam and Dean trying to hang onto their souls and their own agency when everyone around them wants them forced into shapes formed by conflicts that fell into place at the beginning of time. It's hard to remember, but back then even the Lucifer plotline was about that! It was about the damage fathers inflict on sons! Things were about things, in the Kripke era!

Then we get to the Gamble era, and. Woof. I actually -- don't hate 6 and 7? Like everything Sera Gamble touches, those two seasons are kinetic and memorable and funny and weird and hit some really, really great emotional beats. There are Some Problems, but Gamble was saddled with a pretty dire job, trying to find a way forward after everything about the series really had effectively wrapped up in Swan Song, and I think she did an okay job. People got mad at her for killing Castiel, but you know, damn, I give her this: that was a storyline. Like, this character who was fresh out of the cult he was raised in becoming disillusioned by how messy normal life is and deciding that maybe people need better authoritarianism instead -- the way he's driven to take too many risks by the fact that he's abandoned and desperate -- Crowley as a legitimately scary villain while still being charming af -- and the tragic resolution of Castiel being torn apart by both his hubris and his heroism. It's actually really good. I understand why people didn't want what Gamble was serving up -- and I'm able to like it because it was undone later, you know? -- but she really did commit to a full season of character arc and saw it all the way through to an earned ending, and I gotta respect that.

I genuinely hate seasons 8 and 9. I think everyone is a dick, particularly but not exclusively Dean, to the point where I just find it a bummer to watch. I mean, you get Benny, and I love Benny. You get, I dunno, bits and bobs of decent episodes, but overall they are very fucked up seasons in my opinion. So Carver era is on thin fucking ice with me, but I do think you start to get a rebound in season 10 with the Mark of Cain stuff, although I wish they'd managed to keep Cain around longer. All the really good Claire stuff starts happening, which is nice because Claire, but also because for once the show is really letting itself go back and deal with the mess these protagonists leave behind them constantly. Castiel and Claire have maybe the most interesting non-Winchester relationship on the show. Oh, and Rowena shows up around here too, right? Love her. So the back half of Carver, 10 and 11, are starting to really gain traction for me. The world is building outward, secondary characters are starting to be genuine characters in their own right, the politics of Heaven and Hell get a little richer and more interesting. The show is really starting to feel like it takes place in a universe, which is great because we love the Frigging Winchesters, but they shouldn't be the only thing going, right? We have 15 seasons to get through! Season 11 is basically bracketed by what are probably my two favorite Supernatural episodes: Baby and Don't Call Me Shurley. (I think I'm the world's only living Metatron fan; I fucking love that little dude.)

Dabb takes over in 12, and I really, really, genuinely love season 12. I fucking love Mary. There are so many episodes I adore -- Celebrating the Life of Asa Fox is a special favorite of mine, and I remain pissed off that the Banes twins never made it to recurring status, bluntly that feels wildly racist to me -- probably the best three-episode streak in the show is Lily Sunder Has Some Regrets to Regarding Dean to Stuck In the Middle (With You), three just almost perfect episodes. So I was poised to really love the Dabb era. I wanted to! My body was ready!

And I do really love the first chunk of season 13, the Widow Winchester arc. Obviously I'm a romantic, love that for me, but it's just also really good? The acting, the writing, the psychological complexity of Dean wanting Jack to be Bad so he has an outlet for his anger and Sam wanting Jack to be Good so he can retroactively parent himself and raise a Lucifer-tainted child who isn't crippled by self-loathing. Billie's great, and it looks like she's going to start being one of the major powers of the universe. Unfortunately -- with the occasional exception of this or that solid episode -- that's kind of the end of Pretty Good Supernatural. Season 13 kind of unravels; season 14 always feels like it's looking for itself (which is a bummer, because I wanted very much to care about Michael); season 15 is, idk. Idk about any of it, it's all pretty pointless. I feel bad complaining on some level, because the show's been on for like fourteen years at this point! It's kinda justified in feeling a little worn out. But the reality is that the later seasons systematically undo all the expansion that had excited me earlier -- the Wayward Sisters crew pretty much vanishes when the spinoff isn't picked up, Naomi and the angels stop doing anything, Crowley's gone, Mary's gone for much of it. We're just kind of futzing around with monsters who don't seem to matter (very much including Lucifer, who hasn't mattered in ages) and a lot of Jack, who. I try not to shit all over, because I know he's a popular character, but I find him just ungodly boring. Everything in the last two and a half season just feels like it's headed nowhere in particular, and also it bored me. The Empty deal is just sadness porn; it doesn't have any resonance or meaning in terms of Castiel's character, it's just him agreeing to die for his kid, which is okay, it means he's a loving dad, which he is, but there's no conflict there, ergo no real drama. It's just mean; it happens because it'll make us sad, and no other reason. Rowena is the only strong secondary character left, and her ending also doesn't feel particularly relevant to her, it's just a generic Sacrifice to Save the World. Everything just feels like they're autogenerating plotlines, rather than letting the actual needs and drives of the characters shape the narrative. So while I have this weird split personality with Carver where I either hate what he's doing or I love it, most of the Dabb era is just. There. It doesn't make me feel anything except kind of tired and embarrassed. Which is a bummer, because I have an inexplicable fondness for Dabb, probably just because of how much I love s12. I wanted to love his seasons! I did love his first season! I feel like maybe something happened when the CW rejected Wayward Sisters? I know that was kind of his darling, and it feels like maybe losing that kind of sucked the joy out of him, and he's kind of checked-out by the end. That's genuinely just my guess, however.

That's Professor Milo's Intro to Supernatural Studies, don't forget to fill out your course survey on the way out!

[mappinglasirena]

Sickbay Deep Dive Pt. 2

After we explored the general layout of sickbay in part one of this Deep Dive, it is now time to have a look at all of the stuff filling this part of the ship. While it might not seem all that much at first, there is actually a lot to see and talk about, and as I was working on this post, it got a little out of hand. So, in order not to crash tumblr with too many pictures, I have decided to split this Deep Dive into three parts, instead of two.

Today, I am going to take you on a little tour of all the furniture in La Sirena’s sickbay.

Before we begin, a quick note on Part 1: The first part of this discussion focused on the size and general floor plan of sickbay. Since then, as you might have read, we got a bit of a look behind the scenes which included a set layout presumably created by the production crew. It mostly confirmed my suspicions so far, but I’ll have to adjust some of my assumptions regarding the size of sickbay, at least a little. Once I’ve had time to play around with that a bit, I’ll post an update to part 1.

2) Furnishing Sickbay

One of the things I love about La Sirena is how modular everything on board seems to be. From the transporter control stand that is never in the same place twice, to the number of chairs on the bridge that adapt to the ship’s current occupancy level, to the fluctuation in the various cargo containers all around the two decks, anything that isn’t bolted to the floor will get moved around at some point. This is particularly true for sickbay, where everything but the counter and lamps gets shuffled around near-constantly. Which makes sense, since every piece of furniture except for the table is actually on caster wheels - and I’m not excluding the possibility the table has wheels hidden in its base as well. So, let’s go down the list of furniture and see what we can find out about each piece

The Biobed

Probably of central importance for a functioning sickbay is a good biobed. The one on La Sirena is usually placed in the alcove at the back of the room, but it can be freely moved around as needs require

Note that in episode 5, when Bruce Maddox is being treated, the bed is facing the back of the alcove, whereas in episode 7 and 8, it’s facing towards the front of the room. After the crash on Coppelis, the table is pushed back close to the door, and the biobed is placed in the middle of the round part of the room, directly under the overhead windows.

Like practically everything on La Sirena, the biobed has holographic controls. It includes a scanner (can be seen running over Maddox when he wakes up in sickbay) as well as many life-sustaining functions.

A read-out of the patient’s vital signs and sensor data can be projected onto the wall of the alcove, though we only see this when Maddox is being treated in episode 5.

We only get one shot of the bed without an occupant, namely when Sirena comes back to life after crashing on Coppelius. You can see some of the mechanics that very likely serve to adjust the angle of various parts of the cot, like the footrest, back, and headrest, which is articulated and seems to be adjustable independent of the rest of the back.

In this still, you can also see that the biobed, just like everything else, appears to be on wheels.

Table & Seating

The second most prominent piece of furniture is the round table that’s usually at the centre of the circular lab area.

Not much to say here. It looks to be maybe 1.5m in diameter with a single round foot at the centre. The surface is smooth enough to be reflective and there’s a metal band running around the circumference.

Around the table are four white chairs (on wheels) that have a very ergonomic saddle-like shape.

We don’t actually ever see anyone sitting on them, because people tend to prefer the stools, of which there are four spread around the room (the second pic is from when one of them ends up in the mess hall after the Coppelius crash). They’re on wheels as well and have a bit of lumbar support.

Storage

All of the storage in sickbay seems to consist of chests of drawers on caster wheels. I have no idea if there is an English term for these, please help me out in replies if you have any insight, but I’m talking about what in Germany would be called a Rollcontainer. Basically this thing:

Now if you’re wondering why I have chosen this particular example (which, in case you couldn’t tell from the website design and name, is an IKEA product), let me give you a quick hint:

Somebody has been at a flat-pack furniture store of interstellar renown!

Actually, as has been pointed out by a lot of people, there are IKEA products spread throughout Picard, especially lamps (which have been found on Coppelius, on Freecloud, and even on a Romulan-infested former Borg Cube). As far as I can tell, though, the grey drawers are the only IKEA products in sickbay.

Because everything in sickbay moves around constantly, it’s a little difficult to know for sure how many of these chests there are, but my best guess at the moment is twelve.

As you can tell from the pictures above, the chests were upgraded with light fixtures, added inside the upper rim, and they’re topped with white covers. I think you get a glimpse of the light strips when the top falls off one of the chests in the Coppelius crash:

(Top view of one of the chests. I’m assuming those are rows of LED’s that are turned off in this particular example. NB: The fact that it doesn’t look rectangular is because this image is cropped from the very edge of a frame with a ton of lens distortion. You can tell it’s straight in the original image)

There are blue and black mats on some of the chests, as you can see in these two images:

There are two other types of chests of drawers that, as far as I can tell, were sourced somewhere other than IKEA. They’re both white; one of them is very similar to the grey ones except with a rail around it...

... and the other one has two drawers on an articulated foot (on wheels).

There are two of each of these. We only get a very blurry glimpses of them all together, but the count after the Coppelius crash confirms that it’s two each.

Counter Furnishings

There are two more bits of set design that I would class as furniture, rather than general... stuff, so I’m quickly going to list them here.

There are very small glass shelves over the counter, fastened to the diagonal support beams at the front and back of the room.

And then there are four metal desk lamps on each side of the counter, to make absolutely sure every inch of the workbench can be lit properly. They each have a handle at the front of the cylindrical heads, so they are easier to move

(It’s a little difficult to see in this picture, but the top of the lamp at the very left of the frame, just above the shelves, has the handle prominently visible, and you can also see it on the second lamp from the right.)

And that concludes the furniture section of this Deep Dive.

Next time on “very infrequent but very long posts about our favourite Kaplan F17 Speed Freighter with you host, Lili”: A collection of mostly mysterious stuff scattered across every surface of sickbay, and an exploration of continuity errors, my own personal fan theories, and other miscellanea.

[bradypnoea]

1000 Points of Light | Sidrisa | 6 Works - 180k | Apr ‘16 - Oct ‘17

If you look, really look. If you close your mouth and open your heart and look You'll see. That just like in the darkest of nights In the darkest of hearts. You can still see starlight.

Note: (In honour of the impending release of the Loki miniseries and my sceptical optimism for it, I'm highlighting a few canon-adjacent Loki works that can pass the time between new episodes or, if you're like me, distract from new content long enough to miss the first wave of inevitable Discourse.) Without writing an essay in the description of this post, it has to be said: in the TH fandom, as in society at large, we have yet to dismantle our whtie supremacy and racism. It shows up as white fans reflexively defending media and dismissing critical analysis by people of colour; it shows up as patronising and judgmental comments towards authors and fans of colour for their "incorrect" interpretations; it shows up as insidious anti-Blackness and hostility towards Zawe Ashton. The list goes on. Sidrisa created a culture, mythos, and political background to contrast Asgard's own in Power and Magic, and sadly there's no trace of them in the Loki fandom found after 2018. I can hope their deparure wasn't due to outright harrassment but I've no way of knowing. I do know that Black Marvel fans contiuously speak out regarding the inhospitable environments in predominanly white fandoms. We as online fans may not be able to shift major systems of oppression or influence film productions, but it's well within our ability to make our online spaces less hostile. We, as white fans, need to develop a nuanced understanding of white supremacy, and we must engage in difficult conversations when we see racism in whatever form displayed in our communities.

- Read on Author's Tumblr (Inactive) | Series on AO3 -

The princes come with their exalted Father arriving amidst a hail of pomp and pageantry all parties would rather forgo.

This is war, where men die, their blood purchasing land and peace until it is time for more men and more blood to balance the ledger.

But your mother adheres to the old rules of hearth and hospitality. The Lords of Asgard must be given their due despite the grim business precipitating their arrival.

She summons you, making a sour face at your choice of dress.

“Katkat,” She calls you, her voice slipping into the comforts of your land’s mother tongue. Its closest approximation in the common language places the word on the paternal side of “beloved”. Inflect the vowel sounds - 'kotkot'- and you take it from paternal to romantic.

But there's nothing paternal or affectionate in her face or voice, both thunderous as the grey clouds that herald the arrival of the Lords Odin, Thor, and Loki.

“Katkat, why are you dressed thus? Did you forget our royal company?”

“I did not, manmae.” Mama you call her, you call her, your voice also lacking the warmth such an informal address implies. “I have dressed appropriate to our situation.”

You wear your leathers. Black and austere, lacking the intricate grooved patterns your people are known across the realm for. Your pastures breed the horses Odin Allfather’s soldiers ride to war upon. Your tanners cure and cut the leather that braid their whips and saddles. Your furs fill Frigga Allmother’s wardrobe and the treasure chests of many a noble lady. The labors of your people, while not extraordinarily luxurious, grant a small measure of wealth and with it with it autonomy that your family has held stewardship over for ageless generations of which you are the sole heir.

Continue reading on AO3...

[aworldofyou]

Westworld: Season 1, Episode 1: Dolores Abernathy. Part 1.

    There is a lot of time jumps in the first episode, so bear with me as I put into perspective just how it is. When the episode first starts out.

    “Can you hear me?”     “ Yes. I’m sorry, I’m not feeling quite myself.”     “You can lose the accent. Do you know where you are?”     “  I am in a dream.”     “That’s right, Dolores. You are in a dream. Would you like to wake up from this dream?”     “ Yes. I am terrified.”     “There is nothing to be afraid of, Dolores. So long as you answer my questions correctly. Understand?”     “  Yes.”     “Good. First, have you ever questioned the nature of your reality-?”

     Dolores is offline, she is sitting alone in an examination room and she is told to come online. Though while the commands are issued she is not moving, and we hear the voice of what a first time watcher would assume is Bernard, and a second time viewer might assume that it is Arnold. We discover eventually when Dolores is left alone in this state long enough the reveries inside of her programming will start up and converse between Dolores herself and Arnold’s voice. This voice? Is the voice referenced to later as the boost toward what Arnold had hoped that would eventually develop into a living conscious. The voice might be coming as Arnold, that would eventually be her own. And while it reflects memories, part of the developing consciousness is formed through memories, and the revisiting of them. This is a case of that.

      So in the first 15 minutes of the series we establish some very important details. That firstly, the base narrative for Dolores is established. Her daily routine, the other androids that she is meant to interact with. And how certain events are triggered by them, and then how the concept of guests are introduced; and the most important detail of all. The guests can do whatever they want to the androids, befriend, go on adventures with them, murder, rape, torture.

For those unfamiliar, the term used for the androids of this series is called Hosts, and the people who pay to visit from the outside world are called Guests. It is a play on the concept of invited ‘guests’ into a ‘hosts’ home. And a narrative, is a base storyline that a host follows from the moment of the started day (or when they wake up) until the end of it - or whenever a host is killed at any time in between. It is unchanging, only morphing to every guest that might come and interacting.

      In regards to Dolores, her base narrative starts. We first see the beginning of Dolores’s narrative where she starts her day by waking up in her bed, getting ready for the day and then setting off to the porch with her painting easel to have a conversation with her father, named Peter Abernathy. This scene is visited throughout the series again and again because it is how Dolores starts her day, and how she started her day over the course of 34 yeras.

   And through this beginning scene we hear a line that acts as her corner stone throughout the entire series thus far: ‘Some people choose to see the ugliness in this world, the disarray. I choose to see the beauty. To believe there is an order to our days, a purpose.’

    Cornerstone: a piece of dialogue, fact, or memory of an event, that has been programed into a host that accts as a base for an entire personality in a host to be built off of.

    Afterwards it is established the definition of guests, or Newcomers, as they would process their arrival on the immersive train that brings them all into Westworld. All hosts are programmed to block out, or blacklist anything that might not be time period friendly be it an image or a term used that wasn’t used at the time. (ex. cellphone, care, computer, comments of the outside world, anything that might make them question their reality.) The scene cuts to the first time we would see Teddy Flood, and while he wakes up there is a conversation that tells us the existence of white hat, and black hat, guests. Which is as it sounds, white hat equals honorable, and black hat equals low honor. Every host is programmed to be loving, or somewhat intimidated by the people arriving to Westworld. When prompted about what she thinks about the newcomers or guests, it establishes that Dolores is meant to act as someone who day dreams of what a newcomer might bring to her life. There are some hosts that are programmed to be friendly or loving to the guests, and Dolores is one of them.

Dolores: “I like to remember what my father taught me. That at one point or another. We were all new to this world. The newcomers are just looking for the same thing we are. A place to be free, to stake out our dreams. A place with unlimited possibilities.”

    In the following few minutes it is established that in their background storylines Teddy, who has arrived with the newcomers to get a drink, spots Dolores coming out of the General Store. And through this, Dolores and Teddy have an interaction that has been between them all 30 years of their existence together. And as such, it is also given a hint that his love for Dolores, is a cornerstone to everything that Teddy is. But with this, we are also given a hint toward Dolores’s next stop after her conversation with her father Peter. Later in the episode she states that she has errands to do, it is easily presumed now that such errands has her do some shopping in town to retrieve a few tins of dairy milk. To which, she is meant to clumsily drop as she is packing it away into her saddle. Through this detail here, we can start to piece together what Dolores’s base narrative is.

Mun Note: I have to stop here because I have to do errands in real life, and the tumblr feature doesn’t let me re-save the updated version of the draft. So I will consider this part 1 complete, and only have part 2 be longer because there is still so much to discuss in the first 16 minutes of the first episode. And so many time jumps that they sling shot you to and fro through the first episode especially. There’s a lot to dicuss here, and I am out of time right now. Part 2 will be longer, I promise.

[littlemisssquiggles]

I feel Qrow and Team RWBY overreacted to learning everything from Jinn I watched in utter disbelief as they looked down on him coldly not an ounce of sympathy in any of their eyes and brutalized him I mean what did they actually learn from Jinn that was so earth-shattering besides that Salem can’t be destroyed at least not by Oz, that warranted them bullying him to the point of withdrawing deep into Oscar’s head. I get being upset, but man, that whole scene is still hard to watch. Your thoughts?

Hellothere anon-chan. Apologies for thelate response. Well from this squigglemeister’s perspective, once the truth came out, it wasn’t so much that Ifelt the heroes overreacted in theirtreatment of Oz. I’d like to believe that their resentment was warranted giventhe nature of the circumstance and especially since Oz did promise Yang no more lies and half-truths back in Mistraland ultimately, he did break thatpromise. Although I stand firmly in the Courtof Oz, that doesn’t mean that I’m going to deny or excuse the wrongfulnessin his recent actions towards the team placed in his care. That much I willsay.

However,that being said---for me, the thing that bothered me the most was how everyone on the hero team more or lessadopted the SAME type of reaction towards the revelation of the truth;including certain characters I expected to be a little more considerate.

 Afterthe events of V6CH2- V6CH4, what I found interesting about the reception ofthose episodes was how divided the FNDM became afterwards on their differentstances on Oz. This led to some pretty cool discussions and heated yetrespectable debates between folks who believed the heroes were in the rightagainst folks like myself who believed Oz’s actions were properly justified anddidn’t favour the others’ treatment of their former mentor. Till this day,those conversations still exist. Heck I’m even discussing it with you now anon-chan XD And that’s fascinatingbecause it shows that not every opinion is as all black or all whiteas some might perceive. They’re might even be some grey in there too of allshades.

Basicallythe point I’m making here is noteveryone is going to share the same kind of reaction to the same issue or whenreceiving the same information and this was something that I wished wasreflected in the series.

Ididn’t like how the Writers portrayed EVERYONEas being angry at Oz’s choice to withhold the truth. I didn’t like how EVERYONE turned their backs on Ozincluding the characters I expected to be in his defence. Characters like Ruby Rose and Blake Belladonna; who Oz had shown compassion and understanding toin the past when they were enduring their own personal qualms. I’ll come backto that point in a minute. Let me just say this.

Saywhat you will about Oz being in the wrong in his choice to deceive and continueto deceive even when asked the truth in light of it being promised of him. Youare correct and I will give you that. However, on the flipside; you can’t denythe fact that our heroes were also wrong in how they chose to treat Oz in theaftermath in spite of learning all that he and the other Wizards went throughwith their own eyes.

Fromwhere I’m standing, it’s not just Oz whomade a mistake. Everyone---QROWBY as well as Oz---made bad moves followingthe events of the Argus train crash. I’m just better able to excuse Oz on hisactions as opposed to rest of the team.

Ozwas wrong for continuing to lie to everyone even when asked of the truth. Asbad as the truth may be, I will admit that Oz dug himself his own grave themore he continued to deflect Yang’s questioning of the truth leading to Oscarneeding to intervene.

Iwant to say that the heroes were wrong for forcingthe truth out of Oz via Jinn, however on one end I sort of can’t since Oz’sown actions did bring him to this point. I have to acknowledge that that wholescenario could’ve been easily avoided if Oz had been upfront especially afterhe promised that he was going to be. Jinn would’ve probably never been summonedif Oz had just told the truth right then and there in his own words. Hecould’ve even summoned Jinn himself and shown the heroes the truth whileexplaining, again in his own words, why he didn’t want them to know. He didn’twant them to lose hope since it fed into his fears that they would.

Butas we know, this didn’t happen. Oz tried to get the Relic from Ruby leading toOscar taking control to stop him. Oscar tells Ruby about Jinn. Jinn is summonedand we get that whole ordeal. Like I said, my beef with the heroes isn’t somuch that they used Jinn against Oz. That I believe was justified. Oz’sresilience brought the group to this point so I’m looking at it as him notgiving them much of a choice than to do this since he refused to do it himselfeven when asked and after he promised he was going to be honest.

WhatI took issue with was the whole aftermath scene where, even after seeing thetruth for themselves, what everyone chose to focus on in the end was ONLY thepart where Oz didn’t tell them about Salem’s immortality.

WhileI didn’t like how Oz choose to withhold the truth from the others, how I internalizedthis newfound information was that, rather than focusing on one part of thepicture---the part where Oz didn’t tell the truth---I took into accounteverything that the Lost Fable revealed regarding the Gods and Ozma and thecycle and pieced together the grander picture.

Andonce I saw the bigger picture, I was able to come to the conclusion that Oz(and by extension all the Wizards) was justified in his choice to keep thetruth about Salem under wraps. While I’m not condoning his lies, I can’t helpthat part of me that felt his actions were just. That type of information inthe wrong hands could’ve led to chaos and widespread panic thus bringing forththe Grimm. So I don’t blame Oz was choosing to keep the truth close to thechest before deciding who to disclose this type of info to and when.

Callme weird but am I the only one who thinks that Oz might’ve eventually told theheroes the whole truth about Salem but during a moment when he felt the timing andsetting was more appropriate? Likewhen they’re probably safe and sound in Atlas among their Atlesian comradeswhere everyone could’ve learnt the truth together at the same time as opposed tobeing stranded in the middle of the northern Anima tundra where tensions were alreadyhigh and they also happened to be carrying a lamp that was a homing beacon forthe Grimm?

Iunderstand that this is a stretch but I can’t help but consider thatalternative. When asked why he still continued to deny information from thegroup following the train crash, Oz didn’t exactly say he wasn’t going to tellthe truth. As a matter of fact, if I remember correctly, his exactly words toYang were:

“…Please,now is not the time…”

Hedidn’t say yes. But he didn’t say no to answering Yang’s questions either. Ifanything, all he said was the more calm and collected equivalent of “NOT NOWYANG!”

Andy’know what? When I look back on that scene, Oz was actually kind of in theright in that moment for telling Yang that then would not have been theappropriate time to reveal the truth. Like I said, they were stranded in themiddle of the northern Anima coastline, far from Argus with their weaponry andaura possibly depleted from their previous run with the Manticore and SphinxGrimm.

Theywere also down one third of their original party unexpectedly joined by MariaCalavera---the blind and hard of hearing defenceless old lady who hadunknowingly remained a stowaway on the then crashed train.

Notto mention that at that point, the two remaining thirds of the hero team were alsocarrying the Relic that was originally said to attract the Grimm and speakingof the Grimm, the team weren’t exactly chipperafter the train crash either so emotions were already starting to peak at thatpoint.

Sotaking all of that into account---Oz opting to not reveal the truth in thatmoment now more feels more like a wise and conscious move appropriate for thetype situation the group were saddled in which makes Yang’s choice to continueto challenge him on the matter in spite of their surroundings and predicamentat the time come off as…rash.

Imagine if…right after the traincrash, Yang and Ozpin’s dispute was interrupted by the arrival of more Grimmwithin the area attracted by the Relic and the rising tensions as a result oftheir argument.

Imagine if…our heroes were forcedto abandon their left over supplies from the train and actually had to find away to survive in the cold of northern Anima while protecting Maria and while underthe strain between Yang and Oz as a result of their previous spat whichautomatically placed a wedge within the remaining team causing further divisionin a time when standing together for their successful survival was the betteroption.

Imagine if…we had received thatstory for seven episodes of V6 before arriving in Argus?    

Asa matter of fact, I’m now forced to consider the alternative scenario since wealready know the opposite outcome. Now this makes me curious.

What would have happenedif Oz had actually revealed the truth to the team right then and there?

SomehowI’d like to think that Oz would’ve eventually told the group everything. Afterall, the Wizards did choose to eventually confide in others they chose totrust.

Ozpin’s Inner Circle is an example of this.While Oz never told his peers the final detail about Salem’s immortality, itdoesn’t deter the fact that he did ultimately tell them and given his past, whoknows how many years it took for Ozma; and by extension his descendants, to rebuildtheir ability to trust others with the truth especially following what happenedbetween him and Salem.

Basicallywhat I’m trying to say is…I get why Oz chose to do things the way he did in thetime he did it. Again, not trying to give him a pass on his lies. I’m justsaying that I understood his reasons given his experience and the past heshared with Ozma and the other Wizards before him. Oz could’ve broken the cycleif he saw it fit but I figured he too must’ve had it rough during his time(which is why it’s a good call on the story to have the Cycle of Deceit bebroken with Oscar instead as the current successor to Oz).

SoI get Oz’s reasons. I just wished the actual canon characters showed adifferent range of understanding as opposed to the hive mind mentality of everyone sharing the same reaction to thetruth: Nothing but resentment and mistrust of Oz all around.

Tome, that kind of took me out of this conflict and is why I believe this is onlybeing done to push the PLOT. You really expect me to believe that aftereverything revealed in the Lost Fable, after everything revealed about Ozma’spast and his struggles that no one---NOT ONE PERSON---was willing to try and atleast understand Oz and why he made his choices.

Seriously?NO ONE? I mean there is best boy Oscar but noone else? Not even the characters whose personalities and past storiesshould have allowed them to have this level of understanding? Sorry but I findthat hard to believe.  

Andthe real kicker for me with this whole charade is that Oz has always beenportrayed as someone willing to help anyone regardless of their backgrounds andtheir own past mistakes. This is the same soul who even defended a man who had downrightbetrayed him; choosing to honour his memory only for the good he hadaccomplished in his life rather than focus on the negative.

That’show much props I at least have to give to Oz. This is also the same soul whonever once turned his back on anyone on his team. No matter how angry hispresence made them, no matter how distrustful others might’ve painted him, evenwhen his whole team have turned against him even, Oz never turned his back on anyone. He was always there to offer guidanceor extend a helping hand to his comrades.

Hehad his faults, quirks and own fair share of obvious skeletons---most belongingto his fellow Wizards and the rest his very own---like everyone else. He may bea being in an endless cycle of magic and immortality with other great menbefore him but at his core, meaning the man he was and is, Oz is still a humanbeing. He’s still a person. His own person and this same person wasstill willing to do everything he could for the people in his care. Even whenthey themselves might not trust him anymore.

Andyet, the one time he needed that same level of empathy in return, everyone gavehim the cold shoulder.

Nota selected few of them. EVERYONE and by Gum, does that stillbother me.

EvenRuby turned her back on Oz! RUBYFREAKING ROSE! Our so-called indomitablespirit, spark of hope and smaller, more honest soul…turned herback on Oz and wasn’t willing to at least try and understand him? What? 

Youmight find that I sound like a broken record by mentioning Ruby but in allseriousness, I am in awe at how the Writers have been portraying Ruby as oflast season. This is the same girl who has always been willing to understandeveryone she meets; human or otherwise.

Thesame girl who was willing to extend a hand in solidarity to Raven Branwen even after she was shownto have betrayed both her daughter, her brother and their friends to theenemies.

Where was that hand toOz? I’mnot trying to imply that Ruby isn’t allowed to be upset over the news regardingSalem. I’m more saying that in spite of everything that’s been thrown herway---the good, the bad and the ugly---Ruby has always been depicted as someonewilling to put her faith in others and givethem a chance.

Maybesomeone else can help rationalize this for me in their own words but from myperspective, I can’t help but feel like that aspect of Ruby’s personality waswritten out of her character for V6 and by extension V7; at least when it comesto the Ozpin Dilemma, purely for the sake of advancing the current story.Because right now, the agenda seems for everyone to remain resentful of Ozuntil the Writers are ready to reintroduce him back into the PLOT and haveeveryone miraculously reconcile with Oz in the end in the most contrived waypossible. Not to sound like a negative Nancy about this kind of stuff, but Ican’t help but feel like this is thecase given certain patterns I’ve beenpicking up with how the CRWBY Writers have handled their story in reference toconflict and resolution.

IfI may be so bold in saying this but I haven’t exactly been enjoying the way inwhich the show has characterized Ruby for these past two seasons (V6 and V7) ESPECIALLY for this season. I may evengo so far as to say that personally I think V7 may probably be the worst portrayal of Ruby Rose I’ve seen todate and I’m saying this as a Ruby fan.

Ruby’sbehaviour and actions have felt so unlikeher in comparison with her demeanour from previous seasons. She’s still heradorkable self but what I’ve disliked is how the show has had Ruby say and dosome questionable things that haveotherwise resulted in poor consequences for other characters who committed tothe same type of actions yet…Ruby gets away unpunished nor does she get theopportunity to make up for her mistakes.

Casein point, how she made the same decision to lie and withhold secrets fromtrusted allies, similar to Oz and in the end, it’s not even Ruby who gets totell Ironwood the truth about Salem. It’s Oscar. I get that Ruby was neededdown in Mantle at the time and I get that she expressed wanting to tell theGeneral the truth. However…that doesn’t hold the same level of poetic justice as Ruby being the one tospeak to Ironwood herself and reveal her own reasons at the time for choosingto withhold the truth at the time.

Iget that Oscar is meant to be the Little Prince and him talking on Ruby’sbehalf could be seen as an example of to him ‘being responsible for his rose’, however I only saw that moment asOscar making amends for the actions of Oz and his past Wizards.

Tome, I wish the Writers had have both Ruby and Oscar reveal the truth to Jamestogether; providing a platform for both our two smaller, more honest souls to rectify the penalties of theiractions and others before them. Plus I would’ve loved for Ruby to be present inthe room when Oscar voiced Ozpin’s rationale for withholding the truth. Iwould’ve loved to have seen Ruby’s reaction to hearing Oscar say that Oz didn’t wish for everyone to lose hope and that washis reason for holding onto the truth for so long. This could’ve provided amoment for Ruby to rethink not only her own recent actions again but also howshe treated the ole soul last time and thus reach some level of empathy towardsOz.

Istill can’t get over the fact that Ruby mimicked Oz in the same actions thatlanded him in the dog house with everyone yet the PLOT portrayed her deceit assomewhat of a positive thing. Atleast in the sense that it never had the same payoff as Oz. What? In my opinion, you can’t have two characterscommit the same type of wrongful action and only punish one while the othergets a free pass. In the spirit of fairness,it doesn’t work that way. Either both characters are held accountable for theiractions or both of them are excused of their actions.

Youcan’t have Ruby commit deception and have the other characters stand with herin solidarity of this with a willingness to cooperate even when doubt isclearly shown when previously you highlighted these same characters instantlyturning their backs on Oz for the same deceitful action. It doesn’t matter ifone kept a secret for several thousand years while one only kept their secretsfor only a few weeks. Deception is deception. If the other heroes werewilling to stand with Ruby in spite of her dishonesty then they should be ableto extend this same olive branch to Oz.

Thisis where I’m praying Oscar will come in. Since Oscar seems to be the onlyperson willing to understand Oz and vouch for him then I’m hoping we get a momentwhere, through Oscar’s help, the group is able to rectify things with Oz.

Myone concern with this is whether the PLOT will portray the other heroes onlywilling to give Oz a second chance becauseof their trust in Oscar and not because they themselves actively desire torectify things with the spirt of their former headmaster. I’m not sure if I’dlike this idea if done in the canon. To me that sounds just as bad as having thehero team miraculously forgive Oz just like that without any real kind of nuanceto it or regard for a proper reconciliation moment so it just ends up comingoff disingenuous (like how theyhandled Jaune and Oscar’s patching up back in V6CH9).

IfOz is to somehow make a return, I’d rather it be before an audience whoactually want him back; surrounded by people who now better understood the hugeamount of pressure he and the other Wizards were under for so many lifetimes.Basically what I’m saying here is that I don’t want the Writers to half-ass it. I’d rather watch an entireseason partially focused on Oscar possibly working together with Ruby to mendthe tethered trust between their teammates and Oz as opposed to watching yetanother moment of conflict be resolved sloppily and half-heartedly by the PLOT.

I’mhonestly growing weary of those but we shall see how things go for theremainder of V7. In the meanwhile, I hope this answers your question anon-chan.

~LittleMissSquiggles (2020)

[davidmann95]

Velvet's battle is a great choice, though I'll always have a special place in my heart for the fight against the Grimm Deathstalker and the Nevermore in Episode 8. That said, what do you think of the individual members of Team RWBY?

I decided to wait on this until I caught up on the series thus far, which I just finished doing the night before last in pretty much the only time in my life I’ve ever really properly binged anything other than comics, and…wow. I knew RWBY was a thing just as a matter of course from being on this site and Youtube, and from watching Death Battle, so I picked up some major beats by osmosis. But my main impression was that it was a charming pseudo-anime online thing of decent quality that unsurprisingly got heavier as it went along as such things tend to do, with extremely rad fights and music along the way; figured it’d be more than serviceable to watch while I was on the treadmill as a disposable distraction from the agony of propelling my wheezing, sweating, loathsome meat-scaffolding forward.

I did *not* expect it to eventually end up after growing pains a - while far from flawless - intensely engrossing story of all-consuming personal and generational pain and people who choose to love and do the right thing in defiance of that trauma and loss and hopelessness, where also occasionally a corgi gets fastball specialed at mechas. Though once it became clear that’s what it is, it pretty clearly sat at an intersection of a hell of a lot of my favorite things, especially when characters copped in-universe in both the main series and spinoff material that this is basically a superhero thing. My initial impressions re: the fights and music were on-point though.

I actually have quite a few thoughts on pretty much all the protagonists of note at this point (other than I suppose Oscar and Maria. Like them both though, and I do hope that nice boy’s brain somehow doesn’t dissolve into the blender of Ozpin’s subconscious), but I’ll just stick with the core four here as requested for now unless someone asks otherwise. Weiss is the simplest to get at the core of, I’d say: her arc is learning that fuck rich people, actually. She’s a seriously difficult character to get onboard for at first - especially if you’re watching those first episodes for the first time in 2019 - as the mean unconsciously racist rich girl who learns to be less mean and racist but still kinda mean. But after you’ve extensively seen the hideously toxic environment she grew up in, and fully understand her efforts to grow past the empty values it inculcated in her in favor of everything she was raised to think of herself as above, she becomes a hell of a figure to root for. Assuming RWBY is gonna go, say, a respectable 10 seasons given it was just renewed through 9, I could easily see the upcoming 7th be the climax of her arc with her return to Atlas and likely further reckoning with the consequences of her families’ actions beyond how they’ve hurt her personally.

Yang is also, in a certain abstract narrative sense, simple, in that she’s built around the very oldest trick in the book for characters whose main deal is ‘can punch better than absolutely anyone’: give them problems that cannot be solved by punching. Except in her case it’s less a material “well, this person is invulnerable to punching!” or “well, actually this other person can punch most best of all” issue blocking her path than “punching cannot solve depression, abandonment issues, questioning whether what she considers her purpose in life is one she’s truly pursuing for noble reasons or if she even has the resolve for it anymore after what’s happened to her, or PTSD”. Yet, while it may not be the kind that manifests in the form of punching people with a smirk and a bad pun anymore (much as she still definitely does that all the time) what ultimately drives her and defines her is still her strength: to move forward, to forgive, to let go, to do the right thing in spite of the risks. Which could easily come off as some unpleasant “you just have to get over your moping!” dismissal - there’s a bit with her dad that means it saddles riiiiight up to the edge of that - but there’s a weight to how her traumas remain a consistent factor in her life and have shaped her outlook even as her circumstances and day-to-day disposition improve that makes it feel thematically like it’s coming from a place of acknowledgment and endurance rather than denial, even if it’s not handled perfectly. Great to see her apparently recapturing some more of her joie de vivre based on the trailer for Volume 7, and how that’ll interact with how she’s grown should be interesting.

Blake is…tough, because you fundamentally cannot talk about Blake without getting into the Faunus, which is maybe the biggest aspect of RWBY that leaves it in the realm of Problematic Fave. It really, really wants to have something substantial to say about the proper response to racism, and every now and then it pumps out a “capitalism greases the wheels of systemic oppression and vice-versa” or “it’s perfectly reasonable for the oppressed to seek to fight back directly against their oppressors, and even the pacifist in the room can recognize that’s a defensible approach that deserves its place”. But then Abusive Boyfriend Magneto literally murders nuance in Vol. 5 episode 2, and it descends into some borderline “but what about black on black violence” respectability politics shit. It’s the classic X-Men setup - this persecuted race of often superpowered folks torn between pacifism and efforts to prove themselves to their oppressors, and those who think they should rise up and annihilate the flatscans - with most of the same pitfalls, but also we haven’t had over 50 years to get used to that just being how it works here, and it doesn’t have the excuse of having to expand as best it can on a metaphor that was originally devised before most of the people currently handling it were born. All of which would be rough enough, but given I watched this right as Jonathan Hickman’s been completely refining the entire X-Men paradigm outside that outdated binary, it especially grates. I’d love to be directed to any solid counterarguments - I’ve heard it might actually be an analogue, and a well-done one, for The Troubles, which I am one million percent unqualified to evaluate - especially since apparently one of the writers grew up in a mixed-race household, and at the end of the day I’m a white guy who may well be talking completely out his ass. But it sure comes off at a glance as some well-intentioned dudes stumbling through stuff that’s not their business, and that’s inextricable from Blake’s character when so much of her story is her navigating through that metaphor. Hopefully with new writers coming onboard this is something that can be navigated more insightfully in the future.

On a purely personal basis however, Blake’s a standout in terms of relatability when her story comes down to a pretty universal shared horror: how to climb back from having fucked up. She tried really hard to do the right thing, was taken advantage of and led into doing things she eventually realized were wrong, was so shaken that she couldn’t tell who to trust, and then the situation spiraled out of control on every possible front just as things finally seemed to be stabilizing. The way a single mistake - enabled and exacerbated by an abusive past relationship in her case - expands into a self-loathing far beyond the bounds of anything she could possibly be responsible for is brutal and completely understandable, and seeing her start put her self-esteem back together with the help of those closest to her and the power of her original convictions is arguably the single strongest, most clearly conveyed individual character arc in the series. I’m very curious where it goes from here: Adam’s finish represents a logical climax and the setup for a happily-ever-after with Yang (or Sun if they end up going that way after all) for her to coast through the remainder of the series on, but the way emotional consequences have played out in the series thus far I doubt her demons are going to be put to bed that simply.

Finally there’s Ruby, and I am contractually obligated to note up front: she is clearly not a Superman analogue. There is precisely zero percent chance that she was conceived as such or was ever deliberately executed in such a way that mirroring him was kept in mind. Though she IS a super-powered idealist raised in the middle of nowhere with a significant deceased parent who wears a red cape, flies, gives inspiring rallying speeches, has black-ish but primary color-tinted hair, and has a mysterious birthright that involves being able to shoot lasers from her eyes, plus she has a dog who also essentially has superpowers, plus she tells someone they’re stronger than they think they are, plus Yang basically quotes a bit from Kingdom Come regarding her in Rest and Resolutions. But it probably goes a ways in explaining why she works so well for me.

There’s more to it than that of course, though it does bring up the closest way in which she relates to the superhero paradigm: she doesn’t go through an arc in quite the same way as the others, instead being an already solidly-defined character who is simply illustrated by how she interacts with the people and situations around her. She learns and grows and matures, but her most basic motivations and goals and outlook haven’t really changed since the day she enrolled at Beacon. She’s a good, caring person, a leader archetype who still has more than enough personality to spare to keep from falling into the genericism that can often plague that role. A big part of the key I believe is that she’s the audience surrogate in a profound way beyond the obvious touchstones of her frequent awkwardness and self-doubt: the reason she does this is because she was inspired by stories. She’s a fan, ultimately, but one who learned all the right lessons, whether recognizing from day one the way reality falls short of the tales she was raised on but still believing in the ideals they represent, or openly holding up Qrow as a role model while being willing to call him on his shit when push comes to shove. It’s a romantic, hopeful perspective that stands out sharply from even our other heroes even as it mirrors their struggles, but as of yet there’s little to suggest it comes from a place of naivete so much as a belief that it’s the only way to bear the pain of the world and continue to believe in it. Bit by bit it’s clear she’s heading for a breaking point, but all signs point to that being a matter of her ability to withstand what she’s been through, rather than any doubt that it’s necessary, and should that time come she’s inspired plenty who’ll be able to help her back onto her feet the way she has for so many others. So while I understand her speeches apparently grate on some, as far as I’m concerned keep them coming, they’re the beating caring heart of the series and often the sole respite in the eye in the storm.

[theouterdark]

Dream: This Old Creaking Thing

This one turned out to be half a memoir. Part of me wanted to make cuts until it looked like something completely different, but I didn't. It is what it is. D

I wake with a thirst in the room under the attic of my father's childhood home. It is a thirst that leaves my mouth dry with the taste of silver,1 and the taste is not one that can be ridden by the scraping of my tongue or washed away by salivation. The room is not one I am comfortable in, and has made for many sleepless nights, like this one. I don't care for the itch of the fibrous duvet against my skin, nor do I care for the conventional artworks that adorn the walls, all of which have fallen quite démodé, like the architecture of the old place—which you can tell is old by the smell and feel of the sagging floorboards under your feet. The house is full of vacant places for darkness, and cold air, and through these channels bats scurry across timbers and insulation in the wintertime to find warm places where they can sleep soundly, but this house was not built for any creature's comfort.2 Indeed, the only reason it exists at all is because our home on Briar Lane has already been sold, and the foundations of our new home on the lake are being poured and constructed when there is open sky, and the thick flurries coming off Lake Michigan are not smothering the slope of our newly owned land. I should not say our, for in every legal sense, the land belongs to my father, and this wretched place that we reside in—only while father's new house is being built—belongs to his father. I don't know where father's father's father lived, though I'm sure I was told. The present alone concerns me, and the past is where it belongs. The grey, cubic monitor on the desk in the corner hums, and I wish it had the screensaver with the funny drawings of cows and sequined fat ladies on for me to watch, or that of the bison floating over impossible hills with strings drawn tight around their middles, suspended by colorful balloons.3 But it only makes that droning sound that it does, and instead I find it more interesting to look out the western-facing window at the lot across the street from father's father's—which has a sign that says Beeler/Gores Funeral Home—whose parking spaces I've only ever seen empty. The place never struck me with morbid curiosity, and this night is no different. Though I am young, and only experienced it extemporaneously, I know of death, and that people die, and I know that when they do they aren't here anymore. Beyond that, I've no other regard for it, though the man's bedroom I'm sleeping in belonged at one time to my father's brother, who is one of the dead people who are not here anymore. He died before I turned one-year old, and they put him in the ground somewhere across the river, and staked a plot for the rest of the family. There, in that stretch of grass about forty feet from the service drive and the pine trees would be my father's father and mother's spot. Diagonally from that, my father's, and mother's. There was even a place for me in the grass. In truth, even at this age, I find it refreshing to know that my death has been planned for. All roads, I know, will lead me there.4 I never met father's brother in the flesh—as my earliest memory is that of a cat attack in Seattle5—and I doubt I would remember his face as it was when it was alive. I've imagination enough to envision his form climbing the east side of the house to stare at me through the windows, and tap lightly on the glass, egging me to let him in. His eyes are dark and sallow. A loose navy tee-shirt hangs over his bony shoulders, and there is a bulge in his breast pocket, with a tobacco stain along the bottom. Does he have a mustache, or doesn't he? A naval officer's hat or none? Some times I imagine him differently, but always his visage makes me shudder. I don't know if these images are flights of fantasy from the mind of a scared child, or misremembered dreams. A man called Jewett joins him in time—when he dies, we live in the house by the lake, and I come running down the drive with my hands drawn tight around my backpack straps (as I never know what to do with them), and inside my mother and sister are full of tears, and I ask why, and neither can say so I ask how my frog is,6 and they say he is fine, but this man called Jewett is dead, and I know then when my stomach doesn't knot over and the tears don't fall so readily like they are down my mother's face and my sister's face, that something is different about me—and together Jewett and my father's brother tap on the window, and grunt passive suggestions to me. No one joins after Jewett, and I'm glad for it, for the window is too narrow to pack so many dead faces into view. In the future, when I write this, I only see them in my memory, because they aren't here anymore. I am putting it off. What I need is water, and where I can get the water is the kitchen, down below. Down a stretch of stairs that are steep, and made of wood, or carpeted—and if they are, it is thin carpet, in dark browns, reds and strands of yellow—but I don't want to go down there, because the Ragged Man lives under the stairs, and if he steals my voice I won't be able to stop him, and now as I stand poised on the threshold of father's brother's door, I test my nerve and take another step, and I feel the urgency rise in my calves like a surge of spiders' legs, and before I can stop myself I am bounding down, down, down the steps, and I don't care how loud because if I'm fast enough the Ragged Man can't grasp my ankles through the grate, and I leap the final three and roll, lumbering into a shaky-legged run into the kitchen, and hide behind the island. My sister and mother must think a possessed fawn is scrambling through the halls, but if this is what they think, they must not care, or perhaps I have not made as much noise as I thought I must have, and I fetch water that stinks like matches from the sink. It goes down well enough alone, but I seek another, and another. Going up is the harder part. Because the Ragged Man has full view of the dining room, if I were not behind the kitchen island, he could see me now. Were it not winter, I'd steal away to the sun room, where the screens protect me from the world and I can watch lightning bugs from under the table which is my forteresse secrète, where I play spy games like slipping in and out of disguises before the next coupe passes, or testing my plastic gadgetry on the unsuspecting occupants of le ménage Hamilton. But as I'm shivering now, the sun room should be christened anew, perhaps the snow landing or the ice temple, as it is not a place for comfort, just like the rest of this old creaking thing. Again, I move before I can convince myself a coward, and the sweat chills my legs—and how these pajamas could ever keep me warm falls on my mother for picking them out, they feel like stage fabric, more at home on Peter Pan's head than clinging to my legs—and I walk by the table, knowing that if I don't look at the grate in the stairs, the Ragged Man won't steal my voice. It is only in those few moments between standing on the floor and bounding up that he can get me, but his eyes sparkle like polished silver dollars, and my sweat is gripping me too cold to continue, and I steal a glance as I slow down and my stomach lurches into my abdomen and I can see him smiling. Always his hair is silver and oiled, and spills over his shoulders in tangled wires. The hollows around his eyes are black but the pallor of his skin makes me long for the days I spent home with the Chicken Pox, because at least then I didn't have to go to school, but this man, in his tattered rags and silver smiles, paralyzes me where I stand. My next breath drags stagnant across my tongue. I can't breathe in, and my sinuses grow hot, and thick. He smiles, silent.7 I call, Help, help... but the words fall deaf even to me, and he drifts toward the grate, smiling that haunting smile. Help... I wake with a thirst in the room under the attic of my father's childhood home. But at least the sun has risen over this old creaking thing. Perhaps today I'll go into the orchard of pears, peaches, and apples, and saddle the limbs of the Pirate Tree until it's too cold to stay out of doors. There are strawberries in a thicket of weeds and thistles, wild and prickly. And raspberries too. I check the insides for worms before I eat them, and play in the cellar. Until dad tells me about the snakes, then I stay away.

1 Blood. Copper. Pennies. Like I'd been running too hard and too fast.↩ 2 Mother's father is also not here anymore. But once in this old creaking thing he caught a bat with a shoe box and a tennis racket. Or was it a bird?↩ 3 The Far Side, by Gary Larson. It came on five floppy disks. And on this computer I played moon lander and Myst, and King's Quest VI.↩ 4 Only later did I think I could change this.↩ 5 My mother's brother's cat, Baba. Baba bit me. Blood ran in rivulets down my arm.↩ 6 His name was Mister Frog. And he had two snails for friends.↩ 7 Almost positive this is the Creature of Darkness from The Tale of the Quicksilver episode of Are You Afraid of the Dark?.↩

[lex1nat0r]

The Price of Smiles

Don’t forget to add tax

I wanted to like this one, I really did. A nice middle-of-the-road mecha show would have been good. I still have fond memories of Argevollen, an anime that wasn’t extraordinary but had a solid core. The Price of Smiles does not have a solid core. It has a meandering, wobbly core. Trying to show a war from both sides is a good idea, but I didn’t feel like Smiles actually does anything worthwhile with it.

The price of more of my thoughts is spoilers, below the thing.

So you’ve got the Empire and the Kingdom on some semi-terraformed planet, right. And the planet is resource-poor so tensions are high, which leads to the Empire invading the Kingdom and that gives us our war for the show. That is pretty much the extent to which the show goes into its politics. There’s something about a terrorist attack that made both sides suspicious of each other, but that isn’t really a plot point so much as an explanation as to why the current head of the Kingdom is a twelve year old girl (we’ll get to that). This would be fine if we were just shown things from the Kingdom’s perspective with the focus on the aforementioned twelve year old princess. It would be the story of a young ruler trying to guide her nation through a turbulent time, and that’s all fine and good. But then the show also gives us the Empire’s perspective with the fantastically named Stella Shining and her squad of troopers, and here’s where it stumbles: the footsoldiers of this implicitly fascistic empire don’t actually comment on how the Empire works or what its values are or why we should sympathize with them in the big picture. Really, the bits with the princess don’t do that either. And this is my biggest problem with the show, that it doesn’t so much refuse to engage with its politics as just flat-out ignore them in favor of trying to make both sides seem sympathetic.

The lead mech has a black-on-white-on-red insignia, which I can’t even call subtle sarcastically. Also I just noticed it kinda looks like it’s flipping the viewer off. There’s a metaphor there.

Let’s talk about our leads. We’re first introduced to the twelve year old princess who is just so precious that for the first episode she’s kept in the dark about there actually being a war on while actively being a head of state. That seems a tad short-sighted to me. Fortunately that plot thread gets dropped by the second episode so we don’t have to endure wacky hijinks as her advisors try to hide increasingly dire casualty reports from her. And it’s a good thing that she gets informed about the war after all, as apparently this princess is a tactical genius, which we see in all of about three scenes throughout the show. That’s another thing that I think could have been expanded on. As it is, it feels like a wasted character detail. What isn’t wasted is shots of the princess in anguish over the deaths of her people. The anime does like to show this child being sad when it can get away with it (at least I didn’t feel it was too excessive, which may be damning with faint praise). Though this does lead to one thing I’ll compliment Smiles on: in the first episode it looks like the princess will be saddled with an annoyingly generic anime boy sidekick but he is killed off in the second episode, which is a decent enough twist.

Thank you for not being our protagonist, generic anime boy.

Over on the Empire side, we have Stella Shining and her squad of stormtroopers. Stella Shining who, in the first episode where she has focus, threatens to shoot a group of children. Not a great introduction to a character we’re supposed to sympathize with. 

She doesn’t actually shoot any children, which is a blessed relief

It’s later revealed that she had an abusive foster home experience (her birth mother is also revealed to be one of the princess’ advisers. This does, at least, get resolved.) and ran off to join the Empire’s military. What could be spun into a point about how military recruitment preys on the vulnerable members of society is deftly brushed aside in another disappointment.

The plot is resolved with a macguffin that shuts down all the military technology of both sides (they were running off an unobtanium that interfered with the terraforming nanites and thus was causing the resource shortage in the first place). I don’t have a problem with that, they’ve only got twelve episodes to work with and sometimes you just need to pull something like that so you have some kind of ending. I just wish the path leading us there had been better.

These Empire folks sure have that generic anime fascist look on point.There’s a visual coding at work that makes attempts to sympathize with the Empire side not sit right with me.

Like I said, my biggest problem with the Price of Smiles is how it refuses to actually say anything regarding its politics. If the Kingdom was shown to be corrupt and contrasted with the Empire’s authoritarian militarism it would have been better, if there had been something to at least try and show how both sides have good and bad points I could have seen what the show was trying to go for. As it is, I have the sneaking suspicion that we’re supposed to view the Empire as just as valid as the Kingdom, regardless of how authoritarian they are. Then again, the other political body we’re shown is a monarchy, and that also isn’t great (there’s a scene where the princess blesses one a newborn child of one of her advisers and I have to wonder if that’s something that all citizens are entitled to or if it’s just nepotism at work).

I will leave you, as the show pretty much leaves its viewers, with this image of some kind of police crackdown in the Empire after the armistice is signed with the Kingdom. I only regret that I can’t provide the jaunty music that the show does.

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Journalist Hasan Soylemez resigned from his job at a newspaper, gave all his money to children, cancelled his credit cards. On 11 July 2010 he hit the roads on his bicycle. He cycled 10 thousand 140 kilometers within a period of eight and a half months touring the Black Sea, East and Southeast Anatolia, the Mediterranean, Aegean and Trace. He visited 40 cities, hundreds of towns and villages but that was not enough; he decided to tour the world and realize his dreams as he hit the pedals.

 Journalist and Documentary maker Hasan Soylemez who started out from Morocco on his bicycle in January2017 pedaled through 3 thousand kilometers in six months as he first crossed the world’s biggest and hottest desert the Sahara then continued on to Mauritania, Cape Verde Islands and Senegal to reach Gambia. He broadcasted the first episode of the 54 episode documentary he made: “Journey To Dreams’’ on YouTube when he was in Gambia. Soylemez made one of the world’s most dangerous and challenging journeys and informed that he planned to analyze what sort of dreams people have and create Africa’s “Dream Archive”.

You made a radical decision and decided to leave everything behind to hit the road. What triggered this action? At some point we all say “I want to leave everything behind and just leave” from time to time. As a matter of fact the urge to leave all behind and take off is the sign that shows it’s time to change personally. It harbors certain optimism within. I too needed some type of change. I knew there were things that were so precious which could not be bought. I needed to free myself from the ‘assurance’ and ‘power’ provided by money. I could feel this. Everything I experienced and saw around was so superficial. I was unhappy I thought this journey would put an end to my unhappiness. The reason I traveled 10 thousand kilometers for over eight months in Turkey was because of the unhappiness I experienced before the journey.

Hasan Soylemez journalist, documentary producer and writer, who started out on his bicycle to tour from Morocco to 54 African countries said his biggest dream was to,”Speak from a single tone in Africa”

“The color of dreams that I listen to varies by the region, country and even the village.”

Hasan Soylemez’s documentary “Journey to dreams” he recorded on the way is on YouTube.

What was the visionary contribution of setting out on the roads? Traveling is a way of therapy. It heals one and teaches so much. You can find answers to your unanswered questions while on the road. And sometimes you just find the answer and the question follows up afterwards. If one means to make a journey to within oneself, then one needs to do a journey in real life. Do you know what the most difficult part is? Confronting yourself. This is inevitable once you are on a journey. Sometimes you hate yourself yet sometimes you are proud of yourself. You come to terms with your past, life and people. There is an amazing battle going on within. While you hit the most painful strikes you also heal your own bleeding wounds.

There must be so many people who wish to be in your shoes what do you suggest? I like challenges, I’m a dreamer and pursue my dreams. There are three things one needs to pursue his dreams: the will, the belief and starting at once. Courage comes from believing. One with no belief at all will have no courage. Do not suffocate in details. You can never have enough, so make do with what you have and start at once. One who starts off with determination and faith will stop for no reason. The system binds you to where you are. Do not fear to step outside the circle. Once you step out to the unknown you can create your own revolution … Close your ears to the negative things people say. Because people think that others can’t do what they cannot. They would not take the first step. They fear of realizing their biggest dream because they think they can’t make it.

I HAVE BEEN CHILD TO FAMILIES I  KNOW NOT

Surely your journey did not go all smooth. What did you go through? The water I drank tasted different everywhere. The odds of meeting the same person a second time was close to none. I traveled towards the unknown, full of coincidences, free from expectations. While sometimes I could not find a bite to eat yet others I was at a feast. I hoed the land, washed the dishes. Sometimes I was the son of parents I knew not yet others I was booted off villages. I could not find a place to set tent so slept on the streets.

What was the most different story you encountered while touring Turkey? I traveled to all cities in Turkey other than Giresun and Bayburt cycling or otherwise. I heard so many stories during my travels. The one which was the most emotional of all was the one I heard while making “News on the Road” for TRT1 when in Erzincan. I was traveling Anatolia on my bicycle for the show. The life story of Unal who lost his mother and sister to the 1992 Erzincan Earthquake was heartbreaking. His father had abandoned them long before. He was left all alone when his mother and sister died in the earthquake. He hears from his father a short while later only of his death though… He said that although he had abandoned them he was their father and he took his body to be buried in his hometown. Soon after he found out that his father had married once again and had two daughters from his second wife who abandoned them to live in Germany. Unal travels to Germany to find his father’s wife and two step-sisters. He finds them after much effort. Upon seeing that they are not doing so well decided to take care of them. He held legendary wedding ceremonies in Germany and Erzincan for his two step-sisters. He said that just when he thought he lost everything at the earthquake he had a brand new family. As I was listening to his story during the interview I could not help but cry and leave the room to sob-out.

JOURNEY TO DREAMS-Journalist Hasan Soylemez

JOURNEY TO DREAMS-Journalist Hasan Soylemez

JOURNEY TO DREAMS-Journalist Hasan Soylemez

You are touring Africa. What is the reaction you get? I receive positive and nice messages regarding my journey to Africa. However I do also get some terrifying feedback claiming that I should not go there, that I would be killed by wild animals that would rip me apart. As Africa has always been considered the Black Continent and fractionalized. The way media mentioned Africa was subject to fractionalization. Therefore people who have never been to Africa think of it as a place of civil-war, epidemics, famine, wild life, stories woven in sorrow. When such people with prejudice towards Africa without having seen it talk about what’s on their mind these are horror stories of hearsay. For example when I say Africa some people think that the continent is just a single country. In fact there are 54 countries in Africa. So many people have never heard of the countries as they have never felt the need to find out what’s there. Prejudice always hides reality. This is why I do not take the reaction of prejudiced people seriously. I am filming a documentary about the dreams of the people I see on the street in Africa. This is what I want to know about Africa.

“I’M DELIVERING AFRICA THROUGH THE DREAMS OF AFRICANS’’

What do they tell you when you ask about their dreams? I can say that I’m at the very beginning. There’s a long way ahead of me, I don’t know how long it will take. I’m still as enthusiastic as I was at the very beginning to hit the pedals and listen to dreams. I love Africa and I’m trying to tell Africa from the African point of view and dreams. When I ask Africans their biggest dream at first they are startled, as they have not heard this question before. When they answer at first it’s difficult for them but they get better as they continue to speak. “What’s your biggest dream?” is not the only question I ask them, I also ask “What do you do to achieve it?”, “Have you ever achieved any of your big dreams?”, “What is your dream about your country and Africa?” are some of the sub categories in my questions. The color of the dreams which I hear vary from region to region, country to country as a matter of fact it varies from village to village. The social, economical, political, cultural and educational status of the society they live have direct effect on the dreams they have. If you want to get to know a person or a country you need to ask about their dreams. As dreams will reflect the past and present of the society giving clues as to how the society will shape the future.

You are an active user of social media in your journeys. So how do you see the effect of social media regarding relationships today? The effects of social media on relationships depend on how and why you use the platform. Yes, I mean “touching someone”. I’d rather have the people on the street however if they are active social media users I can also touch them. When I share what I have been through and my journeys on social media I can reach out to thousands of people, and if I can manage to get just one person inspired and get him out on the street, may be make him smile, I’m really happy. For example a reader who saw my book on social media and bought it sent me a message saying: “Thanks to you I have decided to visit my family with whom I had fallen apart for a very long time. I’m grateful to you for this.”.

WORLD’S CLEANEST MEANS OF TRANSPORT “BICYCLE”

Your journey has a bicycle aspect to it. I believe you need massive training to travel this way. What do you do about this? In fact I never had a bicycle, had no idea about bicycles. I called the handlebar draglink, the saddle seat, I was utterly ignorant about bicycles. The last time I was on one was when I was a child riding my friend’s bicycle. However with the first bicycle I owned only six years ago, I toured Turkey alone, penniless in three weeks, I traveled 10 thousand kilometers penniless. I got to know the bicycle on the road just like myself. I can’t say that I trained for this. Think about it I will go to Africa on a bicycle but when you add the hours I’ve been preparing for this journey I haven’t been on a bicycle for more than 20 hours. All my journeys on the bicycle have been similar. I will be doing all the training on the road anyway. The bicycle is the world’s most innocent and clean means of transport. It is very cheap, healthy and environmentally friendly. There is not a single thing about it that is harmful to the environment or man however if we begin to count the benefits than you can understand why it is such an important vehicle for man. Bicycle is a means of communication. It gives you the chance to meet others and your inner self while on the road. You slow time when you cycle the distant you are from speed the more you feel you are alive. Bicycle is your closest friend. Sometimes it is back to your childhood sometimes maturity, but mainly it is towards within. Bicycle is for one, as you hit the pedal it is for masses. It is a rebellion, freedom, peace, happiness. Just like the pain of love, there is the pain of butt.

JOURNEY TO DREAMS-Journalist Hasan Soylemez

JOURNEY TO DREAMS-Journalist Hasan Soylemez

JOURNEY TO DREAMS-Journalist Hasan Soylemez

Do you have a plan for from today on? I’m an impenitent dreamer. I dream a lot and do all I can to pursue these dreams. I do have dreams for after my travel to Africa but first I need to pursue this dream. We need to start changing the world by changing ourselves. We are our only magical wand. One of the frequently asked questions is, “How do you trust people?” The actual question we need to ask should be, “How can people trust me?” If we answer this question correctly and act accordingly, getting people to trust us, than we will have triggered the goodness in others.

NOTES: Hasan Soylemez who started out from Morocco in January 2017 on his bicycle first crossed the biggest and hottest desert in the world The Sahara Desert in six months pedaling three thousand two hundred kilometers then reached Mauritania, Cape Verde Islands and Senegal finally reached Gambia. His 54 episode documentary “Journey To Dreams’’ was first broadcasted on YouTube when in Gambia.

The heroes of this world are children! What is as pure, natural and innocent as children in the world? If we look at them and smile, it is because we see the very much missed naturalness, pureness in their eyes in this superficial world today. The dreams of children are much bigger and cleaner than the dreams of adults. Because there is no evil in them. If we want to live in a beautiful world, we need to shape the world according to children’s dreams.

  By: Dilara Gülşah Azaplar / Photo: Hasan Söylemez

*This article was  published in the  September – October issue of Marmara Life. 

JOURNEY TO DREAMS Journalist Hasan Soylemez resigned from his job at a newspaper, gave all his money to children, cancelled his credit cards.

[marcjphotography-blog1]

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Growling Shriek(s)

DISCLAIMER: This is an admittedly light-hearted conversation about the trends of our most beloved IIT Indore between two not entirely happy-go-lucky stalwarts about to graduate. Following the tradition, this can be considered as a whole-hearted, but nonetheless well-intentioned rant. Reader discretion is highly advised.

By Amey Ambade and Ashish Bharatwal

(SCENE 1: SILVER MESS)

(It’s about noon on a Saturday in March. Amey is sitting on the wildly recognizable red chair, steel plate on the beige table, as ‘Tip Tip Barsa Pani’ plays loudly on the TV, almost in sync with the water dripping off the water filter behind him. He dons a grin as Ashish joins him, visibly frustrated.)

Amey: Dude, what’s up with your mess refund?

Ashish: Motherfuckers. They should be drowned in their own broth.

(Murderous glances from judgemental postgrads across the table)

Amey (unconcerned) : Hard luck, eh? What did you expect, though? Four years on, they’d understand why you dislike them? Didn’t you get to fill a pointless form to get something out of it?

Ashish: It’s not the first time I am getting the short end of the stick in IITI.

Amey: Not the first time you’ve said that.

Ashish (smiling) : Not the first time you’ve said that. You tend to be able to predict each other’s moves after this long a swim in the shitpool as comrades.

(Random Mess Guy comes up: ‘Bhiyaa, mess fees pay kar di na?’ They look at him disapprovingly, and taking the hint, he promptly disappears.)

Amey (doubtfully breaking a piece off a roti with bare hands) : Amen to that, brother. Chal, aaj khane mein kaunsi insect species ki discovery hogi dekhte hain. Talking of insect species, what’s up with E-Blockers suddenly hitting the gym?

Ashish: Well, whaddya know? Trying their best to feel good about themselves before leaving; what were they even doing the last four years, haha!

Amey: Ah well. You know and I know. Now that everyone else is in Simrol, I don’t know what eyeballs you speak of. I give the fad a month to drop off. We clearly couldn’t give two shits.

Ashish (chuckling with disgust) : Especially now.BTW, speaking of shits, look at this - Lauki Ke Kofte. BC’s trademarked turd-sized dumplings® are turning out to be a favorite of those who haunt the Jain food counter. Tatti khaaye par pyaaz na khaaye.  

Amey (proud to not have made the unfortunate sabzi choice) : Chuck that, chal Fresco chalte hain, Snickers pe fir se PayTM cashback aaya hai.

Ashish: Yeah, I have to get a couple of photocopies too. These B-schools! Why do they even have CAT if that is just meant to be a ‘Fuck you!’ to mediocrity?

(They leave the mess, their untouched food-laden plates still on the table. The freshness outside is liberating, it’s like getting out of a green fart convention.)

Amey (finally inhaling air) : Perceived mediocrity… Thodi toh political correctness chahiye, bhai. But yes, I agree. I’ve been swamped with my MS applications lately, and they are equally exhausting. Thinking about our lives after graduation is perhaps more frustrating than trying to maintain a straight face when Batra talks. Add to that the lifelong terror that we will take away from boarding harmfully yellow buses, and lo, you have the recipe for a migraine.

(They reach Fresco, and scan through the hastily placed products. Amey discreetly picks up a Zandu Balm)

Ashish: Remember when as freshmen we were singing at the top of our lungs the lewd version of ‘Chahun Main Ya Na’ and didn’t give two shits when we noticed a furious Batra peering over us ominously from the half-open door? Ah, I miss those careless times.

Amey: And the countless number of times we partied with complete disregard for the neighbors or Digant? It helped that we had no immediate neighbors, aur guards to apne jigri thhey. But with no authorities to piss off now that everyone except us is thankfully in Simrol, it’s like, hum kiske dimag ko shot de ab?

(They’ve collectively picked up stuff worth 150 bucks but will pay only a hundred because subsidy.)

Ashish (showing his phone screen) : Hey, look at this article in ToI: Fluxus event winners haven’t received their prize money. This one guy says IITI owes him fucking 10k. Much ado about Fluxus every year. The only ones happy are the OCs, until last year, right? From what goes around in the campus, they reported earnings of 3000 from Sunidhi’s concert, and an attendance of 3000 in the media. What an absolute load of crap?! 70 lakh mein toh teen decent Fluxus ho jaayenge BC.

(They’re walking, surrounded by the white buildings with eerily jail-like black railings that have defined their time in Silver Springs. Now that Silver isn’t infested with overexcited juniors, final years are loitering in the quaint streets.)

Amey: I still stand by my idea to only have an e-Fluxus to save the money and the Kejru-level shaming.

Ashish: Haha, if only you knew e-Fluxus actually happened this year. We had a middling singer Shirley Setia adorning the terrains of Simrol. I also heard Aditi Agrawal was their second choice, now that she has her own YouTube channel. Way to go!

(They get to the lift, sharing it with the classically unconcerned 4th floor wali aunty as they hear the dulcet voice on loop, touting “Please. Close. The Door. Krupaya. Darwaza. Band. Karein.” Somewhere, Hodor’s soul is shedding a single heavenly tear.)

Amey: The terrains of Simrol! There’s some places in our new campus that look like scenes from True Grit, Blazing Saddles and Mad Max were filmed there. I could swear the dust twisters could effectively upend an unsuspecting Simmi and Avnish holding three Cormens each. Avnish will probably be ecstatic about that, too.

Ashish: It’s miraculous how so few cases of asthma have popped up given the dust bowl Simrol is and the number of students cooped up in there. We are a resilient lot, I must say.  

(They get out of the lift on the famous 3rd floor and enter D-314.)

(SCENE 2: ROOM)

Amey: We’re wasting an entire sunny afternoon for my bloody transcripts. ( He pauses to check a news notification on the antics of a certain orange unhinged toddler-psychopath.) You have to agree, though, with all the negatives aside, isn’t it actually pretty convenient to navigate around the half-built pods in pyjamas?

(They change in a minute, time is important here, and Amey reaches for his shoes. There’s no way he’s going into the arid Wild West in flip-flops. Ashish checks the bus schedule on his phone. They have bus schedules, for fuck’s sake, doesn’t that say a lot by itself?)

Ashish: Yes, but that doesn’t outweigh having no good food, good booze and good company in a ten-kilometer radius, does it? Taste Butts? Screw you, Rohan Rathore.

Amey (disapprovingly) : No cash, only college Smart Cards accepted. And you have to try the infamous Chicken Fried Rice. Nothing screams appetizing as half-cooked rice with boiled chicken bits and spring onions sprinkled on top to emphasize the near non-existent efforts that went into serving it. Maybe if our batch was shifted to the forsaken place too, we wouldn’t have had such a pessimistic opinion. Maybe angoor khatte hain.

(Both take a minute to check if they haven’t forgotten their ID cards and proceed to exit the building. ID cards hold more importance in the Simrol campus than platinum credit cards.)

Ashish: But then I wouldn’t have been able to go to TIME for classes twice a day at ungainly hours. (Phone pings) Iss Utkarsh Kumar Singh ko chayn nahin hai. And then there’s the IIT Indore Discussions and Complaints and Grievances and Suggestions and Repercussions and Discombobulations and Fornications page. People have no chill, this Gymkhana has no chill. Which is a good thing, actually. This one tried its best to make things right. The Constitution was a pretty good move.

Amey: Yeah, they tried to right some wrongs. Avadhesh is hands-down the most proactive Gymkhana President I have seen, especially in regard to being responsive. Can’t say the same about the vigilants-in-their-own-right juniors who were more concerned about lengthening the mail threads with their bull than making their contribution count. The juniors really get on my nerves sometimes.

Ashish: Sometimes? Hah. What have the Quiz and Literary Clubs been up to? I count one… two… three… Three events in the last year, both our clubs combined - no aggressive, only passive, these runts. I’m pretty sure we left the clubs on high notes, but the future for these exclusive groups of students seemingly aspiring just for PoRs is obscure at best. The clubs are almost decrepit now, but the enthusiasm to forward mails from other institutes’ fests has not dwindled a bit.

Amey: Our work defined these clubs, but I agree, lately, confusion seems to have taken them to a standstill.

(They board the dangerously yellow bus after a 10-mile walk)

(SCENE 3: FREAKISHLY YELLOW BUS)

(Amey proceeds to sit on the right side of the bus. Arey naive child.)

Ashish: Bhai, uss taraf dhoop aayegi.  

(They sit on the double-seat and share a headphone. Ashish bangs ‘Another Day of Sun’)

Ashish: I can listen to the ‘La La Land’ soundtrack on end. This and Abusive Aunty Mix and Chodu Singham...  Did you know they caught a third guy for downloading umpteen gigs of porn @36MBps in Simrol?

Amey: Kya?! Yeh kaise hua bhai? That poor pervert.

Ashish: The IT guys can obviously track you in the new hostels. The surprising thing here is, they cared enough. They ALWAYS care when it comes to the quotidian aspects of student life gone slightly haywire. Khaane mein keede se koi problem nahin hai, par Frooti ka payment overdue hai toh expulsion.

Amey: Well, if one guy hogs the whole network, others have to come jumping like it’s The Dawn of The Rise of The Dusk of The War for the Planet of The Apes. I remember how we used to go bat-shit crazy when someone was downloading the latest episode of Game of Thrones from our gareeb 80GB limited Airtel networks when we already had it. Some people were so goddamn serious about the bandwidth they’d become whinier than a Goth kid trying to find his eyeliner.

(The bus hasn’t started yet. CultSec boards. Bus revvs.)

Ashish: Here comes our poor sacrificial lamb. He should wear a tee that says, ‘I am Kalash and I am not a terrorist’.

Amey: Sir, I have known him since my first day at IIT Indore even though that is technically impossible, but impossible is just a word at IIT Indore and apparently everyone had such a good rapport with him so they decided to keep him 22 km away. <insert GRE words image here>

(Both chuckle and greet Kalash, who proceeds to sit behind them.)

Amey (checking phone) : Naya email. Best BTP submissions ke liye. Alag hi! BTP awards are farcical. No interdisciplinary uniformity in grading or evaluation. Two submissions from Mech and both got some prize or the other at the Symposium because of their presentation.

Ashish: Or just plain luck. Still, man. Our BTPs saw some real effort. Our many advisors deservedly became Associate Professors. It was high time, wasn’t it?

Amey: My faith in the IITI academic system is still maintained thanks to these hardworking guys. You remember how hard they had to fight to get us great courses for a Minor degree?

Ashish: The Minor program was unarguably the best decision that defined the academic policies for our batch. And the future batches too.

Amey: Personally, I’d love to see a core subject Minor for the new batches. And Abhishek Sir is the best DoSA we have had since Granny’s left Silver Springs. He’s doing a commendable job, especially given all the student shenanigans.  

Ashish: I think you discount the students’ role tad too much. Our batch has some of the best coders in the country. Utkarsh and the Shah bros are going to the ACM-ICPC World Finals, hopefully turning it into an institute tradition. Then we have prodigies like Tripathi. These guys have done a lot to promote the coding culture at IITI, if only by setting examples. Look at the placements and internship trends you and I noticed this year at the PO: we are near the top of the ladder in India as far as CS is concerned. But more focus on other branches would not do harm, would it *rant intensifies*? 

...Look at the abysmal performance by Electrical and Mechanical; for a decent salary we non-CS guys either have to learn programming and leave our core studies for the night before the exams, or go into research, or take GATE or CAT or IES or IAS or KLPDS and what-not! While we as students need to grow balls and learn how to not get swayed away by first CTCs, some push from the institute would be great.  

(Amey isn’t listening. Notwithstanding the growls and *shaking* of the bus, Amey is cozily napping.)

(The bus stops at the campus main gate after what seems like the whole length of ‘Jodha Akbar’ and ‘What’s Your Rashee?’ combined.)

Entry Gate Security Guard: Sir, ID card. (Ashish has been pretending to sleep too because guard overlook karne ki probability 80% hai and as accent-torn Deepika Padukone in xXx quotably says: he likes his odds.)

(These adamant seniors are not giving up)

Entry Gate Security Guard: ( unable to cut the bullshit, nudges Ashish) Ser! (shudder) ID.

(reluctantly pulling out his ID, Ashish mumbles under his breath.)

(The insidious dust has broken Amey’s sweet nap. He coughs as the scarily yellow bus proceeds into the vastness of the campus.)

Amey: Look, kids with donation boxes for used clothes. AVANA has consistently been on a roll. Although the sight of someone silently looming over you as you sleep, whispering ‘Thatty Rupes’ is almost as scary as the time we watched The Descent and shit ourselves simultaneously crying and laughing.

Ashish: ( in an impressive Marathi accent) Nepali Vachli bhau. Nepali Vachli. (Both share an inside joke as the bus comes to a halt. Destination reached.)

(SCENE 4: SIMROL)

Amey: ( getting down) In the end, that’s what matters. Although persisting regionalism is a good talking point for students, with all its pros and cons.

Ashish: Closely-knit antelope herds are not easy to penetrate.

Amey: Is that the first time you’ve said that? (another chuckle shared, this is getting cheesy) I don’t even remember why we came here. Oh yes. Transcripts.

(A friendly junior smiles and greets them. In contrast to the shade thrown in Simrol, cordiality is still burgeoning here.)

Amey: There are perhaps no stronger polar opposites than AVANA and SESC. I might be horribly wrong, but from what we’ve noticed, it seems like SESC has become redundant and unproductive. The startups they have been promoting either sold stationery or just took the MHRD grant for pizzas, getting bundled up in a matter of months.

(They approach the Physics Pod complete with cinderblocks to cranes and the evergreen sounds of metal hammering. )

Ashish: Yeh bik gayi hai SESC. Ab is SESC mein kuch nahin hai. Yeh saare milke humko pagal bana rahe hain m--

(Ashish stops abruptly as Professor Vishvakarma passes by, greeting them briefly.)

Amey: This guy is THE man. Our Placement Office and the IAC would never be as well-established without him. What’s up with IAC this year?

Ashish: Santosh Sir worked selflessly for both Placements and the Conclaves. Never will the student members be as happy and well-fed as we were under his rule. Haan, this year’s IAC is going to be a mish-mash effort by Rajveer - all hot air and no real content. Ah, who cares? It is anyway under a different professor now.

Amey: But you must admit, PKU sir has been a worthy successor to SKV. The Placement Office is working as a well-oiled machine thanks to him. Won’t you miss our Placement Office perks?

Ashish: Do you mean the divine morning coffees, occasional mayo sandwiches and sour-ass lemon teas or the long hours of highly productive meetings and equally unproductive bakchodi? We’ll definitely miss both.

(They get to the new Academic Office. Ashish listens to the incoherent dialogue between Amey and Rinki Ma’am, and watches her give Amey his precious transcripts.)

Amey (whispering) : Tapesh sir and Rinki ma’am have really grown on us fourth-years, haven’t they?

Ashish (whispering back) : Yeah. I used to get a cold shoulder earlier. Last time I was offered tea. I guess they understand how being seniors is difficult and that our problems begin to get more genuine as we grow through the college. Familiarity here bred sympathy, instead of contempt.

(Cut to: One hour later they leave from SS in an Uber to the city as the dangerously catchy

Swachh Bharat jingle is being heard everywhere. Pity the driver of those poor garbage trucks, people. You can only listen to so much of Kailash Kher and the Chorus Kids. Hey, Kailash Kher and the Chorus Kids sounds like a decent band name.)

(SCENE 5: INDORE CITY)

Ashish: Yahaan Johnny ke paas rok dena, bhaiya.

(They get out of the Nano and pay using PayTM because demonetization. The driver is conveniently named Ramesh. He frowns over not having received cash. Bitches.)

Amey: Where our fuckbois at?

Ashish: Dugar and Bapat are at Sam’s (free) Momos, they tell me. Diggi, Govil, Dhaivat and Avnish are having Fire Paan. Prajwal is at Nafees for biryani. Damn! His attraction to biryani is borderline sexual!  

Amey: Can you blame him? It is magnificent. Though not as magnificent as the one we had at the notorious Love Palace party. Our juniors will never experience the thrill of gatecrashing a wealthy Punjabi’s lavish food fiestas.

Ashish: That was quite a fiasco! The Curious Case of Love Palace! The slaps, the drunken brawls, the humiliation, and, in the midst of it all, the most delicious meal we have ever had, owing in large part to its absolutely undeserving our shorts, slippers and hoodies.

(For our unwitting readers, on 24th February 2014, allstudent received a mail inviting us to the housewarming celebrations of an ostentatiously built residence, the Love Palace that falls on our way to the Axis Bank ATM in Silver Springs. We turned up in full strength, especially the first years who were early to arrive and plunder and leave. Our super-seniors flocked to the open bar, exhausting it of its offerings within an hour. As it turns out, the mail was a hoax perpetrated by *insert_mysterious_name_here* and we were actually not invited. The hosts were gonna have none of that shit. What followed was some lit slapping and thrashing game from our truly Punjabi hosts, which effectively ceased all the faggotry in mere minutes. Amey and Ashish obviously escaped unscathed because they were dressed decently, which was a camouflage. The Bhatias, in the week that followed, saw the wrath of the slap-ees in the form of broken car windows and some dope graffiti. Some of the first-years got their long-overdue slaps well in advance, though.

This event was perhaps one of the most happening ones at IITI, even more than a few Fluxuses. Or is it Fluxii?)

(As they gobble up a hotdog each, they see their homies approaching and a shitstorm of banter follows)

If you’ve manage to read all of the rant above, you can flatten as you go up. The writers want you to know that despite all its flaws, IIT Indore is actually a pretty good place to be, and they cherish their years here. Ashish (rather suspiciously) knows the roll numbers and names of all the people here, and Amey knows how to ignore them. The best hostels in any IIT system, the united outcry that we so often witness (*cough* mess *cough*), a filial feeling that comes with the perk of having a small student population, and the shared respect for friends, professors, and everyone else around, definitely make our IIT Indore journey memorable.

(BONUS)

director@iiti.ac.in  : Wish you all a great life ahead, Batch of 2013–17!

lenka@iiti.ac.in : And I