#i only have like. half of one section left before the first chapter is done! i'm expecting it to come in at around 8k | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

be-my-ally · 1 year

Text

The first meeting, and other firsts.

An Empty Promises chapter! Crossposted on ao3.

Fic 1 references events that are technically sandwiched between two sections of this one but the main events there take place after this, and on the phone comes after both.

So this series is a little like my baby… and I’ve had this half-written for ~ six weeks while I became distracted with literally everything else. It’s entirely self-indulgent - just finally giving some backstory to fic 1 and on the phone. I have two later smutty, shorts in the works too - because, honestly, Elvis just constantly wants to spank reader (who is a whole 5/6 years younger than me so is ABSOLUTELY not an author insert, no way…) and uh, I really don’t have a problem with that.

pairing: fem!reader x elvis (1964-5)

warnings: 18+, slight innocence kink, little bit of daddy kink, oral (p + v receiving) ... elvis reads reader's diary.

wc: 11.6k

You’d noticed him hanging around the past couple of nights, although you’d done your best to ignore him. It was difficult. His characteristic pretty face and charm drawing you in. He’d barely been through the door when you’d recognised him. Recognition came and with it, the sudden spike of adrenaline and nerves that made you almost too anxious to acknowledge him. You’d barely just had the courage to wave hello the first time, pleased that he was seated far enough down the counter that he was Louise’s responsibility and not yours - you weren’t sure you’d have been able to get yourself together as quickly as she had. He’d stayed for a single cup of coffee, black - although the envious looks he’d given to the cream and sugar on the table made you suspect this was learned behaviour rather than a true preference, looking like perhaps he had just wanted a few private moments to himself, before leaving pretty quickly and quietly. You assumed that was the first and last time you’d get to see him up close. You’d lain awake that night, regretting everything, wondering what could have been - at the very least you could have had a signed napkin or something. He’d been right there, you’d been able to see the comb-marks in his hair, where the strands had been split, the tiniest hint of a lighter brown at his roots, you’d been able to see his eyelashes - fluttering in pleasure at the heat of his drink. You couldn’t deny you’d studied him, even if you hadn’t managed to bring yourself to talk to him. Somehow though it had worked to your advantage; it must have been part of the reason he came back so many times in the following week - that so little fuss was being made of him in your quiet little diner.

The second time he’d come in with a group - all men, that had burst through the doors loudly; you’d looked up to frown at them for making such a racket when you’d noticed him in the middle of the crush. He’d looked up at you and you’d smiled shyly, your knees wobbling less this second time. You’d still had to take a deep breath before coming around to the two booths they’d squished themselves into, building yourself up for the faux nonchalant air you hoped you could give off. You’d managed to make it through their order without embarrassing yourself, although you know you blushed when you overheard one of them asking if they should “take out that pretty waitress?” You were the only one still working out front. But whoever had said it never materialised at the counter - and they’d left as raucously as they’d arrived not long after.

The third time he was drawing attention to himself - not intentionally but he had come at a far busier time of the day than the strange hours he’d come in in the past and well, he was pretty conspicuous despite his clear efforts to look smaller. Still, he’d signed everything anyone thrust at him, and had seemingly happily chatted and flirted with the girls that flocked around him. You felt awkward that you had a desire to join the gaggle of girls surrounding him, embarrassed now that you’d seen him not once, not twice but three times, and never said a word directly to him, to go over and ask for something as trivial as his autograph. Louise had left a little over ten minutes ago though, and with her the other girls who had turned out to be her friends, and now he was alone and you could see his cup was empty. You took a deep breath before heading over with the coffee jug to offer him a refill.

“Uh, would you, sorry - hello, would, could I - would you like another refill?” You tentatively manage to spit out, your hand shaking slightly. You pointedly don’t look directly at his face, staring at the cup on the table. He sounds amused when he replies;

“That’s mighty kind of you honey, thanks.” You go to pour, immediately splashing some on the table - although thankfully not on him. Although that may have been more becuase of his quick reflexes shifting his legs quickly out of the way.

“Oh, no, oh - gosh, sorry, let me just grab a -” You wipe it up with a napkin as you cringe, but when you start to walk away he grabs your wrist before it could leave the table.

“Could you - stay a while? I’ve been trying to catch you alone.” It’s the first time you look at him properly, and your breath catches in your throat, he’s so pretty. It’s startling to see him up close in person, so used to seeing it through the glass of a television screen or inanimate on a record sleeve - to watch his face change, his nostrils move as he breathes, his hair shift as his head moves is as intimate a thing as you could think. As you study him you notice that maybe the difference is in the makeup; the ability to see his pores, or the softer hair, falling into his face but either way he looks younger than he usually does. But at the same time, more solid, less transient and three dimensional - you can’t imagine refusing him a thing, especially with his eyes staring into yours, so much bluer than they looked on the screen. You nod, and he gestures to the seat in front of him.

“If - if someone comes in I’ll have to go - I can’t, I’m saving for college -” You look around nervously as you take the seat, but there’s just an elderly couple in the back corner booth and a workman on a stool - no-one who needed assistance or who hadn’t been served. He nods, agreeing, as if he could possibly understand the desire to keep a job out of necessity. So you sit there and talk. He’s polite, in that wonderfully southern way, but you can tell from the way his eyes glint, and the corners of his mouth turn that he’s also got a mischievous side that he’s trying to repress - that he’s trying to impress you somehow. It makes you squirm in the booth seat - how on earth could Elvis - Elvis who a few months ago was rumoured to be dating Ann-Margret be possibly trying to impress you? You don’t even know how he’s been managing to sneak around, be so on his own, how there’s not bodyguards and press. You’re a little town just outside of Memphis so it wasn’t like it was far for him to travel for a hint of anonymity, if that was what he was trying to achieve. But why he’s even in town at the moment is a mystery to you - shouldn’t he be off in Hollywood filming, or doing press? Why would a man of his age and position would even be interested in you. Sure, you’ve got enough self-awareness to know you’re okay looking - with enough make-up and your hair done you’re usually pretty satisfied; but you’re not California - not movie-star cute! Still, somehow he makes you forget your self-doubt when you’re lost watching his lips move as he talks. He looks you directly in the eyes, so hard that you’re always the first to look away, it’s difficult to handle the intensity of his gaze. But he’s chatty and kind, and doesn’t wholly monopolise the conversation - although you wouldn’t mind if he had; his life endlessly more entertaining than your own. So, despite your slight discomfort and nerves you sit there, and talk, and your celebrity crush rapidly blossoms into a real life crush right in your chest in real-time.

A week later, you’re going mad - falling hard. Even though you berate yourself for it - for getting ahead of yourself, for falling so easily - for so many reasons. You’ve seen him twice more at the diner, and by sitting elsewhere from the other boys, and ensuring he speaks only to you, he’s made it pretty clear you were his main purpose in coming. You would regret the fact that he’s not been coming in everyday, cursing whatever kept him, if it wasn’t for the fact that you’ve spoken to him on the phone every night. Sometimes twice a day, often little inane chats that mean nothing, but somehow everything.

You’ve never had a boy who talked to you like he did, like you were his friend. You wonder if you should find it weirder, that he likes this kind of talk, the kind of talk that you know how to do. You’ve always found boys so different - you’ve never known what to say to them. Found it awkward to know what to say without being accused of flirting, or alternatively being too aloof. But with him it’s easy - you chat about your days, he asks you what you’re wearing, what you’re thinking - he asks you about your friends, the daily dramas and who’s seeing who now; despite only knowing of them for such a short time he always seems interested in what you have to say. It’s novel in so many ways, to have someone care what you have to say, your parents were supportive but dismissive and you often felt on the fringes with your friends. Although you notice, but don’t think too much of it - his voice distraction enough, that whenever you try to bring up anything of a more serious nature, perhaps something you’d read in the paper he always tells you the same thing;

“That’s not for you to worry about darlin’.” So you don’t, in fact you stop worrying about a lot. He seems to be taking care of a lot of things for you.

He’s charming and handsome and flashy - famous, in a way that you struggle to wrap your head around. Wealthy in a way you can barely comprehend - he’s already sent you flowers and expensive dresses and had, just yesterday, palmed you a little box with a wonderfully thin, gold chain and heart pendant. Jewellery - jewellery for a girl he’s just met. And you know you’re getting ahead of yourself, you’ve only really known him a week or so but suddenly you find yourself hoping when he calls you doll, or baby or little girl that you’re his doll or baby, or that actually you’d be his girl. You know its too early and if she wasn’t already then your momma would be worried about you catching feelings this fast but you just can’t help it he’s just so, so… everything.

You’re leaving work, slightly later than usual and you hurry across the dark parking lot towards the sidewalk that would lead you to the short walk home. But when you’re halfway across you suddenly notice that he’s waiting for you, leaning against his car. He’s dressed up in black on black, his hair slicked up and back, and he looks so sleek and suave and just plain attractive that your tummy flips when you see him. You do a double take, not expecting to see him stood there so casually and you rush over to him. He kisses you on the cheek in greeting, like an adult - which, you think, you are but it still felt like you were playing grown-up most of the time, and you can feel the blush rising on your cheeks where his lips had touched you. His light hold on your waist. It’s the first time he’d done anything quite so obviously romantic. He opens the door and gestures you in,

“Thought I’d take you out?” You agree easily, it’s not too late that you’ll be expected home and even if you were there was no way you’d turn down this chance. But as you sit down and he goes around the car the thought pops into your head that maybe he didn’t mean any of it romantically, after all, why would he want to take you out? You’re probably misinterpreting everything. You silently panic, until, as he starts to drive away he glances over and grins at you; one of those grins where he looks more boy-next-door than movie star, and reaches over to pick up your hand, holding it in his and placing them, entwined, on his thigh. It’s that exact moment, as you stare at your joined hands, that you know you’re ruined. You’d give him whatever he wanted if it meant he’d continue to grip your hand in his like that. That there’s no coming back from this now - even if he only means to play with you or toy with your feelings you’d allow him, that if he wanted you to be his girl at home, like you’d heard he’d had - or one of his easy girlfriends, you’d agree. You’d agree to whatever tiny scrap of attention he would bestow on you that might recapture the tummy-flipping excitement, the immense happiness of having his attention on you.

He takes you out for a simple dinner, you’re actually a little surprised, he’d assured you that your dress was fine (although you were thankful you’d changed out of your uniform) so you weren’t expecting too much, but you were still surprised it wasn’t anywhere fancy but just simple good food, that he’d clearly enjoyed with gusto and a Pepsi to wash it down with. But, as you’re growing to know and understand him a little better you’re starting to realise that often it’s the simple things that remind him of home that he likes the most - he’d almost cried at a slice of pie in the diner, saying it tasted just like one that his mother liked. And now, dinner over, you sit there in a dress he’d sent you only a day before, that you’d decided against saving for best when another had arrived the next day, slightly lost for words. What do you even have to say to him that could interest him? He teases you about this, clearly understanding or simply used to girls going silent around him;

“What’s keepin’ you so quiet tonight? You just too busy thinking how cute I am?” He grins at you like a little boy, and you can’t help but return it. You relax, teasing him back,

“No - just thinking about how I should shimmy out the window in the bathroom.” He looks shocked for a a second before breaking out into infectious laughter; clearly not expecting the response. When you both stop giggling he puts his hand on the table, palm up, and waits for you to put your hand in his. When you do, he clasps it tight, turning it over, and examining your hand - he tuts at the bitten nails, but flips it back over without mentioning them further. He holds onto you when he speaks next.

“I want to make it really clear baby, in case I haven’t been so far. I don’t want you to misunderstand. I, -uh, I really think I could like you a lot, and I wanna get to know you more. I think I already do, doll, but I - I really think I’m already fallin’ for you a little. I’d like to do this again - take you out, and the like?” You hesitate he’s so overwhelmingly in a different world to you that you can’t imagine why he’s suggesting this - as much as you want to agree. You worry your lip as you think of what to say, his eyes boring into you.

“You won’t… you won’t be ashamed to be seen out with me? I’m a waitress Elvis, and I’m not even in college yet - I’m not like those other girls, I’m not an actress or anything; and I don’t wanna be.” He shakes his head,

“I’ve had them other girls honey, and I want you.” You look down at your still intertwined hands and you don’t know why you’re acting like you don’t know how you’re going to respond.

“Sure Elvis, sure, we can - give getting to know each other a go.” You want to question him, ask him about the other girls you hear he has, hasn’t he brought that girl over from Germany? But you can’t bring yourself to mention it, slightly worried that it might remind him of something, make him rescind the offer.

He wordlessly picks up the check, leaving ample cash although he made you simultaneously frown and laugh at the absurdity of it all when he confesses that he had no idea how much he left and that he doesn’t usually carry his own cash so he has no idea how much anything costs anymore. He opens the door for you as you leave, keeping his hand on the small of your back the whole time, and asks

“So what’dya say? Wanna come back with me - be my girl? Wanna take you home?” You stop, in the parking lot. That wasn’t quite what you’d discussed before.

“You want me to be your girl El? You sure?” He nods, hurrying back to grip your hands in both of his, looking at you deep into your eyes, pleading with you.

“Want you to be all mine baby, want you to come back to Graceland with me, we can play house honey, we can - look, I just - I take care of what’s mine and I just want you… want to treat you real nice. You won’t have to save or work anymore - you can, you can just do whatever you like.” It’s far more than you’d considered possible, but his blue eyes were so convincing and a tiny furrow forms in his brow that you just want to smooth out by any means possible. You almost don’t consider the implications of what he’s offering - far more than his girl, he’s offering you everything.

“Well, ok then.” He pauses with his hand on your car door handle, still holding one of your hands,

“Well, you don’t sound too enthus’astic ‘bout it.” He doesn’t sound pleased, and it causes butterflies to immediately form in your stomach worried that you’ve upset him - you’re desperate to reassure him - to please him again and you shake your head,

“No, no, I am, I promise - it’s beyond my wildest dreams, but uh- it’s just, you’re gonna have to convince my daddy yet first. He still wants me to go ta college - you know, make a real woman of myself, and I don’t see how that fits.” He smiles with utter confidence;

“Don’t-ya go worrying that little head of yours on that, I’ll deal with all that when it comes round to it.” He kisses your knuckles, before opening the door and pushing you in, walking around to the other side. You’d noticed before that he liked to touch you - it seemed to be his way, indiscriminately brushing his fingers over whatever he could reach. But now that you’d given him some form of permission his hand doesn’t leave your thigh the whole drive home, except for a moment when he catches your hand again, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss against your knuckles before bringing them together onto his thigh again. Much the same as the journey there.

You’ve never had this casual closeness with a boy before. Your tummy is flipping nervously the whole drive home - you can tell it’s entirely normal to him, and you don’t want to give off the impression that you aren’t also used to it. It feels grown-up, adult, in the same way that his kisses on your cheek hello make you feel mature despite your age. You don’t realise he can tell this, in the shifting of your legs beside him, the way that you hold his hand a little too tight. And you also can’t tell that he likes this, but he does. He pulls up, half a block away from your house.

“Don’t want the neighbours peepin’ baby, or your Pa comin’ out here with a shotgun.” He offers as an explanation when you look over at him puzzled. You wonder what on earth for, when he’s leaning an arm over the back of the seat, and wrapping it around you, pulling you in closer. Your thigh starting to overlap his. He looks down at you, at your lips, and you look back at his, nervous all of a sudden.

“Are you gonna, you gonna kiss me Elvis?” You whisper, nervously. He nods,

“If,” he rubs his neck a little bashfully, “If that’s alright with you, honey, I sure would like to.” You rush out an agreement, curling into his hold. He presses a hand to cup your chin, fingers brushing your neck, and brings your heads closer together. He smiles when you’re close and you’re almost giddy with excitement - you still can’t believe you’re about to kiss Elvis, and you’re trying not to think too hard about it, or worry yourself, but he grasps hold of you, in complete control, and suddenly you’re utterly confident that the situation - that you are in safe hands. When your lips finally do touch it’s not like a kiss you’ve ever had before, although you’d only had two, but in comparison it’s not at all like the wet slimy kiss of Trevor or the tentative pecks of Bobby - it’s soft but unyielding and damp but not wet. It’s how you think it should feel, being kissed. You imagine it’s how champagne feels, the fizz building up in you. It makes you want to get up on the seat, kneel closer, as close as possible, it makes you feel alive. Your eyes close and you’re lost in the sensations as you contemplate who it is you are kissing, and consider how he got so good at it. He’s a gentleman, not forcing anything into or on you, just going with what you’re signalling. It makes you squirm in your seat against him, tingles being sent from your chest to your stomach. He leaves you chasing him, breathing heavily still and leaning across the front seat, when he pulls back. He presses a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth before leaning back again. You sit like that for a few minutes, his arm still wrapped around you, leaning against his chest. You would have expected your mind to be racing, but strangely you’re calm, and can’t think of much beyond how much you enjoyed that, how much you can’t wait to do it again. After a little while he shifts you slightly, although his arm remains wrapped around yours and he wordlessly puts the car back into drive, coasting down to to pull up to your house. He gets out when you arrive, rushing around to open your door for you, and you pretend to be calm about it but inside you’re screaming, “Oh god, he kisses like that and he’s still such a gentleman - such a nice boy.” He presses a kiss to your cheek before sending you off to the front door,

“Next time I come through - I’ll come in baby, wanna see your little room, but for now I’ll call ya honey,” You nod, looking back at him sliding into the car again,

“You promise El?” He looks back at you through the open window, holding his fingers up in a scout salute,

“I swear it baby, I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

By the time you collapse into bed, your mind alight with the events of the evening, you still can’t quite believe it. You look around the room - trying to picture Elvis stood there, it’s difficult to picture him amongst your school awards still on the wall. Or laying on your bed - your stuffed animals dotted around. Still, you think as you snuggle down into your comforter, soon you won’t need to imagine - he’d promised you.

——

It’s just barely a week later, and you’re having a rare few days off from the diner while they were closed for renovations - a fact you were particularly happy about when you received a phone call from Elvis letting you know he was ten minutes away and asking if you were alone. You had of course immediately agreed, although afterwards panicked in having such little time to prepare, thankful that your mother had gone to visit her sister today while your father was at work.

You rush to open the door when you hear him knock, thankful that he’d rang ahead to warn you that he was passing by and that you’d had the small chance to tidy up a little, and freshen yourself up even if it was in a hurry. You couldn’t help but just stand there when you opened it, still in shock at seeing Elvis stood there on your doorstep - tight trousers and short sleeve blue shirt slightly open, looking like he’d just stepped off of a film set. He lets you gawp for a second, face filling with mirth before interjecting a moment later -

“Well…, aren’t ya gonna invite me in?” You stared, but nodded and you open the door all the way but before you can take a step back he was squeezing past you, apologising as he brushed against you as he walked in. You peer out of the door before you shut it tightly - trying to make sure no neighbours had been watching him come in, unaccompanied, into your house when they surely knew your parents would be out. When you turn around you catch him glancing around your entrance way, peering his head through the archways into the kitchen and living room and he nods approvingly,

“Nice little place you got here doll.” You smile, pleased that he approves but also slightly embarrassed at his qualifier - you know it’s small, nothing special, your parents never had much money to spare although you were always treated well.

“Oh well, I know it’s not like - like where you live but …” He interrupts you before you can go any further, shaking his head.

“Oh no, no, honey. You misunnerstand me - up til a couple’a years ago I’d dream about a lil house like this one - we never had much either.”

You smile back at his bashful expression. “Oh well, then. Glad you like it!” You do a little curtsey, and then immediately inwardly cringe. Why on earth did you just bob like that. He smiles at you, as if you’ve somehow just endeared yourself to him further but then glances up at the stairs,

“So, uh, you gonna show me your room?” He nods his head at the stairs and you giggle back at him, teasing him.

“My! How forward you are Mr Presley. Wanting to see a girl’s room before you’ve even taken her on a second date!” He winks at you, before taking the stairs two at a time, his forearms flexing as he grips the handrail. You’re not even wholly sure what is so attractive about it but you can’t resist simply watching the back of him, trousers and shirt tight on his skin, as he runs up.

“Yep! That’s me, now you gonna make me guess or you coming up too?” You laugh, following him up the stairs - suddenly nervous about its girlish decoration; you’re an adult (although admittedly, only just) but you take comfort in the familiarity of your childhood room, the same patch of stain from the nail varnish you spilt when you were thirteen, the marks on the doorjamb tracking your height, the familiar bed linen - a mismatched selection from all your major life stages, one pillowcase from a set when you were seven, another from when you were twelve, underneath your newest ‘grown-up’ set. The quilt your mother made you atop it all. You rush ahead of him to nervously lead him to the door and turn back to apologise about the childish decor only to flush, watching him inspect the wooden letters on your door - oh god, how embarrassing - you start to stutter out an explanation,

“Oh gosh, they’ve been there so long I forget they’re there - I don’t know why we even bothered with them, there’s only one of …” but your apologies falter on your lips as you watch him trace them almost reverently.

“I like ‘em baby - ’s cute, lets everyone know where you are. Could have found your door all on my own.” He turns his attention back to you and the room and you watch him take it all in. He glances over at your bookshelves, school books still stacked in them, and over at your bed with the little painted daisies on the wooden frame, the pile of teddy bears at the foot. He sneaks a peek over at your dresser and you follow his eyes where you see a scrap of white hanging half out of the drawer, your own eyes widen and you rush to close it with faux nonchalance from a knock with your hip.

He smirks watching you, but ignores it and you watch him go to take a closer look at your desk. You perch on the bed, waiting for him to have looked his fill and turn his attention from the room to you, but he’s distracted by something on your desk. He picks up a leaf of writing paper from where you’d left it out - to dry - your daddy won’t buy you the fancy paper with the designs already on it just to send to your friends who live right around the corner so you paint them on yourself; little trailing leaves and flowers on the borders. You freeze as he stares, examining your doodles with a little furrow in his brow - he can’t possibly remember.

“Say…doll, haven’t I received a letter like this?” Surely not. You had hoped when you’d sent it he would read them but you hadn’t really expected him to - fully assuming most fan letters would be tossed out pretty much as soon as they were received. You certainly never would have expected him to remember a letter that if you remember rightly yourself was sent over a year ago. You stutter out a response,

“Oh, oh, no, no. I think you must be mistaken, no, no I would nev-“ He interrupts you, completely ignoring your protestations.

“Yeah, yeah I remember, wasn’t it something like,” He puts on a high-pitched voice in an attempt at imitating you, “My mama won’t let me play your records anymore, says you’re a … what was it, a bad influence maybe?” He shrugs, “Seems to be most of the time anyway.” He laughs and then continues, gesturing with his hands, pacing in front of you “ ’S all coming back to me now, didn’t it go ‘but, when they leave I always put you back on the player, I just can’t help myself - your voice makes me feel things, I tingle.’ ”He returns to his normal voice again, “Weren’t it somethin’ like that?” You cringe away from his laughing eyes, you can only think to protest it but you know as soon as you open your mouth you’ll give it away but you try to do the best you can,

“Wow - I don’t think that was me, but do you really remember so many?” He laughs at your attempt, shaking his head.

“Yeah honey, I remember all the real cute ones doll. especially ones that say ‘sometimes I touch myself and think of you!’ Lord! What would your mama think of that!” You squirm, mortified.

“Oh no, no I really think you must be mistaken!” He smirks at you. Putting the sheet of paper back down - he stalks towards you and crowds you on the bed. You lean back and he follows, placing his body almost entirely over you, forcing you to lie almost completely back. You think he’s about to kiss you and your eyes fall shut in anticipation only to feel him move away a moment later - the pillow moving behind you causing your head to slip lower.

“Well - let’s see shall we?” You blink your eyes open and they immediately widen as you see what he’s holding - the diary from under your pillow. You sit up, reaching out for it.

“Oh no! Elvis! No - no, give it back!” He holds it above your head laughing as he pushes you back, keeping it out of your arms reach the whole time.

“Oh, no, no no.” He’s laughing at your struggles, “Gotta check my sources! See if you’re lyin’ to me little girl. One of these days you girls will find a different hiding place, gotta make the most of it.” He manages to grab hold of your wrist holding it across your body, catching the other between the two of you - pinning you against him - his chest on your back, and holding you with ease. He flicks the book open as you cringe against him. As if it couldn’t get any worse it immediately opens to a page addressed not, as you normally did, to ‘dear diary’ but to one of a few that you’d written ‘dear Elvis,’ across the top. You moan as you can feel the delight radiating off of him.

“Now then - looks like we won’t have to search very hard! Ooh hoo hoo!” he crows at you - “Oh my!” he fakes outrage, humming as he reads the page - you hope against hope it’s the one where you explain that you’d snuck out to see a film of his your mother had banned you from, and not a different particularly memorable entry.

“No way! Elvis - this ain’t funny no more! You gotta, gotta let go of me. Give me the damn book back!” He laughs at you,

“Now, now don’t you be getting too big for your britches little girl, I ain’t afraid to soap that mouth out.” He tickles your side and you giggle, although you feel a sudden surge of heat run through you, as you finally manage to break free. “No, no, where’dya think you’re going.” He sits on the bed patting his thigh and grabbing your wrist again pulling you around. “Back here on daddy’s knee, gonna read you a little story.” You squirm, but nonetheless sit where you’re told. You can’t deny, despite your mild embarrassment, that you’re enjoying yourself.

“Now it goes something like this - ‘Dear Elvis, Today was a rough day at school, Susie and Bryce started going steady and she told me she let him touch her in his car last night! Even though she knows I liked Bryce last year!’ I never will understand why girls get so caught up in liking someone who someone else once liked - why does it matter? Anyway, ‘I worry sometimes that I’ll never find someone who wants to go steady with me. I’m just not pretty enough, or tall enough. Or maybe it’s just because everyone knows I’m going to college.’”

You cringe at his reading out of your inane chatter, and you’re pleased when he hums and seems to be skipping along the page - hoping against hope he was growing bored. But you can feel his sudden smugness, and you just know that written on the page is not a story about you sneaking out to go and see Viva Las Vegas.

“Oooh, here’s where it gets good little, ‘This evening I went around to Natalie’s place - her parents were out, and she put on your new single, she was trying to convince me that the Beatles were so much better, but I think we’re just gonna have to disagree - they’re not even attractive.’ Well darling, at least I’ve got that going for me.” He laughs. “ ‘The thing is though, on the single there’s another song that I’ve heard before, but I don’t think I’d noticed the end - you make all these noises and I don’t really understand what happened but after I got home my panties were so damp through that I had to change them! Just from your voice!’ You start to squirm again, knowing what he’s about to read,

“Elvis - I really think, this is enough now - this is private, I don’t -” He just talks louder over you though,

“ ‘I’m still really wet, in fact, but that’s probably more to do with the fact that I couldn’t help but touch myself. Even though I heard the pastor say it’s a sin.’” His voice is dipping lower as he talks and his hand is brushing your upper thigh close to where you can feel the heat rising from within you, both from a hint of shame but mostly from arousal. His voice is deep and low in his chest and it hits you while you sit there that you’re on Elvis’ lap which makes you squirm all by itself.

He hushes you, “Shh, darling, not done yet, hold still.” And he holds you by his grip on your waist, fingertips gently stroking your side. You can feel his own heat burning against your leg, and you suddenly realise that’s his penis. A man’s cock growing against your own warm heat. You’re not as innocent as you were in that entry a year ago, but you’re not experienced yourself at all and pretty much all of your knowledge is secondhand from your girlfriend’s and their older sisters. You wriggle again, “Now, now let me finish.” He coughs dramatically, flicking the pages out as you whine.

“ ‘Sometimes I touch myself and I slip a finger in, I know I’m not supposed to but I just can’t help myself just thinking of you - of what you could do to me, god I’d do anything to be touched by you, just once.’ ” He skims the rest of the page, and softly closes the book, “Well baby, how does it feel to be touched by me?” His hands rub up your thighs and your eyes slip closed in pleasure as he watches your reaction, nudging them so far up that he’s almost brushing your panties. Your tummy flips, almost on the verge of being nauseous, as you try to catalogue the feelings. He removes his hands and you open your eyes catching your breath, but then he’s leaning back and pulling you down with him. He kisses you, in a way that you’ve never been kissed before, all tongue and teeth.

Then, he starts to kiss down your neck. You’ve never thought of any part of you as super sensitive but suddenly it feels like all your nerve endings are alight, feeling sparks as his lips trail down to your collarbone. You wiggle against him, feeling his large hand span across your back, fingertips pressing in as you push closer to where his leg has slipped between yours. Unable to stop yourself grinding against him a little bit. Your dress catches slightly and it means that for a brief moment the only thing between your warm wetness and his trouser leg are your thin cotton panties and you can feel the rough fabric rub against you, an involuntary moan escaping you.

“Baby, you gettin’ that feelin’ again?” You nod frantically, and he laughs - “Well,” he looks over at the alarm clock on your bedside table, “I don’t reckon we’ve got time to do anything about it now - not got time for you to finish - not before your parents get home.” You stare at him, blinking owlishly, you know, you know how babies are made, you’re not stupid, know that men can do things about it but -

“What…What do you mean? You can…do things about it? I can… finish?” He groans, his head falling back against the pillows.

“Oh!” He groans again, “Lord help me - yeah baby, yeah you can - can make you feel real good; you never? When you told me you touched yourself - it never felt… better?” You shake your head at him,

“I never got very far - didn’t have a clue what I should be doing and it made me awful hot and sweaty, and and it felt terribly tight and I wasn’t sure if I was meant to be and my parents are only the other side of this wall.” He moans so hard it’s almost a keen, swearing;

“Oh God. Oh goddamn. I swear, we haven’t got time now, really don’t have time but I’ll see you real soon, come back over when your mama and papa are home, gotta few things to discuss with them, then when I’ve got you all to myself I’ll teach you. Show you how you do it.” You immediately brighten up, forgetting your embarrassment in your excitement.

“Oh would you! I thought there must be something to it, but maybe it was just - just something some people did and some didn’t. ” You lean back down, catching his lips again. But then you pause suddenly, your insides twisting for a different reason, “Um, but Elvis, I don’t - don’t want you to get uh expectations or be dis’pointed, I’m not, not sure if I’m - I’m not sure I’m ready for, for sex. I’m not, not sure I wanna before, before I get hitched.” He looks in your eyes for a second before nodding,

“No darling, I know. Don’t you worry about it, that’s good, little one, you’re such a good girl for me - just gonna wait until the time is right huh, daddy’ll know when that is sweetheart, don’t you worry about that at all.” You can tell, looking straight into his eyes, that he’s being sincere and something in you relaxes. He pulls you back in for a slightly more chaste kiss, moving his thigh just enough to resettle the pressure and cause you to rut against him again. He lets you rub against him again for a moment before sitting up and pulling away.

“Now baby,” he starts with a plea in his voice, “how’s about you let me have a little somethin’ - just to …uh tide me over in the meanwhile?” You furrow your brow, unsure what you have to offer him,

“Well sure, maybe, I mean I don’t have -“ He jumps in before you can say anything else, interrupting you and talking fast like he’d been planning his moment on when to ask for this thing - like it was something he’d been thinking a while. Like a child sat on Santa’s knee, desperate to convey their desires.

“Could I have whatever it was peeking out of your drawer earlier?” You flush bright red from the chest up, surely he knows -

“Elvis! Those - those were my, my panties!” He grins wolfishly, mischievously at you,

“Well I know that doll, why’d you think I want ‘em?” You stand up to go and get them, although you still can’t imagine why on earth he’d want them.

“Here ya are - they’re not. Not special or nothing - but sure. I suppose.” He glows at you, and you’re still embarrassed but can’t help beaming back at him, watching him tuck them securely in his pant pocket. He stands up, looking over at the clock again.

“Really gotta go now honey,” You nod back at him a little sadly and start to head down the stairs with him. At the threshold to the front door he pushes a hand against it, preventing you from opening it for a moment and instead curls a hand around your waist, pulling you towards him again. You look up at him biting your lip a little, he pulls it from your mouth and keeps a hold of it with two fingers,

“You behave now ’til I see you again, alright baby?” He looks sternly at you, but his eyes are bright, playful, and although you can’t even imagine what he thinks counts as misbehaviour nor how on earth he would know anyhow but still you nod;

“Of course!” He leans down to you - far more chastely than before, just a simple press of his lips on yours.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” You nod again, and he leaves. You breath a sigh of relief as you close the door behind him, watching him hop into his, oh gosh, wow, totally inconspicuous, bright Cadillac all you can think is god, you can’t wait to put this in your diary.

——

The night you moved into Graceland was nerve-wracking. It had been scary enough to be introduced to his father, to his grandmother, but you were also terrified for other reasons. You knew that he hadn’t pressured you before but surely he’d want something in return for having you in his house. For keeping you. But you were wrong again. You’d gone to bed that night, anxiously peering at his ludicrously decorated bedroom when he’d led you in, and he’d tucked you in and pulled you into his arms with nothing more than a chaste kiss on the forehead. Since that first day, he touches you all the time, so physically affectionate that even though you knew it was genuine it felt like he was going out of his way for some reason. Just so that he might brush against you, or have to place his hands on your waist and move you. Anywhere you were sat, he or you would be practically on top of the other, his hand on your thigh or your hand being placed on his. He holds you, all night long, and it’s only the second night when you anxiously kiss him, desperate to at least make-out like you had been doing back home. He allows it, but pushes you away when you reach for anything further, tucking your hands into one of his and pulling you close, lulling you to sleep with your head close to his heartbeat.

The end of that first week was memorable for several reasons. The first, and the cause for the rest of them, was that he’d thrown the first party since you’d been at Graceland. You’d enjoyed yourself immensely - getting dressed up with him - he’d even helped you with your makeup, steady hand tracing your eyeliner. And the night itself had been magical, stuck by his side as he effectively showed you off - dancing together and meeting his friends. He’d been roped into singing and his clear enjoyment of the night had only increased your own. The second reason you found it memorable was that before the party you’d opened the wardrobe in your room and discovered an entire rail of new dresses, all perfectly sized to your exact measurements and style. The third was Elvis slightly tipsy (despite him not allowing you to have more than a sip) or perhaps just high off a good night, clutching you to him, your back to his chest and whispering in your ear;

“You just gotta, gotta say no if you don’t wanna, darling. Not gonna push you - ‘m not like that I promise.” He punctuated his point with a hand rubbing over your stomach, gently, soothingly. You’d stilled at his words, and he’d followed it up with, “Wanna…go upstairs? Let me teach you a few things?” You’d paused in your turning around, and he’d moved his head closer to yours, his lips practically touching your ears. He’d kissed the patch of skin just below as he’d continued; “Be my good girl? Let me show you how?” He’d brushed his other hand down your arm, gently, and you’d been pulling away and up the stairs before he could say goodnight to the others.

Which took you to now, stood in the middle of the bedroom, uncertain really as to what you should be doing. Should you get undressed? Take off your shoes at least? A moment later he’s entering himself, and shuts the door behind himself before striding over to you, capturing your mouth with his. His hands brush against you, but seem to gently hover, and it’s not until you make a little whine does he press them against you, holding you close with a hand on your back, the other coming to cup your cheek and chin. His tongue slips into yours, and you moan as you come up onto your tiptoes, desperate to stay as close to him as possible. He bends further, kissing your cheek and down your neck, sucking down when he reaches your exposed collarbone. You lean into him even further and he wraps both arms around your middle lifting you up, and carrying you over to the bed, even as his head was still buried in the crook of your neck. You can feel the skin rising, burning and stinging as he bites down, leaving a purple bruise where he had been, feel his soft, gentle tongue lapping at it and easing the sting as you let out tiny noises of pain and pleasure.

He puts you down, laying you back, and one of his hands comes around to your waist, stroking across your stomach. It feels like his fingers are burning through your dress, and his fingers - though slender and delicate when you see them on a steering wheel or holding one of his cigarillos, feel huge and heavy as they span your tummy. He kisses you again and you arch into him, and when he pulls back his lips are wet and redder than usual, plump and pillowy soft. Yours feel bitten and sore, tender in the best way. He sits up, pulling his hand out from underneath you, and you gaze up at him. He groans as he looks back at you,

“Oh lord, sweetheart, don’t look at me like that.” You raise onto your elbows,

“Like what?” He doesn’t reply, but looks away and takes a breath, when he turns back to you his eyes are bright with playfulness.

“Right, dolly, time to let daddy play with you,” You don’t know why that flips your tummy, if it’s his use of ‘daddy’ in this context, or ‘play’ or even him calling you not just a doll, but a dolly. But it does. He pulls you up, and turns you, deft fingers unbuttoning the back of your dress’ bodice as he does so, leaning down to press precious little kisses - no more than gentle touches of his lips - down your back when he exposes each tiny sliver of skin. He reaches the skirt, unhooking the button and lowering the zip at the waistband, allowing it to fall open and he eases the little straps off your shoulders. The dress falls to the floor, and you step out of it, you’re immediately self-conscious stood there in just your slip, in its almost sheer silkiness, but its not long before he’s hooking his fingers into the hem, and pulling it up and over your head. He stares for a moment, at you stand there in just your soft cotton bra and panties and you wrap an arm around your middle. He frowns,

“Don’t, don’t hide from me. Just let me look at you.” You blink at him, lowering your arm although a blush rises up from your chest.

“ ’S emnbarassin’ E,” He shakes his head at you, tsking as he does.

“Nothing embarrassing about it baby, letting your daddy look at you like such a good girl.” He glances at your panties, staring for long enough that you shift a little, “I love white, you got more like that? Or do I hafta go out and buy you some more?” You wonder what’s going to happen to these, but you know that the majority of your underwear drawer looks the same.

“No, no, they’re… most of ‘em are like this,” He groans, and has seemingly reached his limit for keeping his hands off of you, moving to touch your hips and run his fingers over your newly bared skin. Goosebumps break out as he touches you and you shiver at the contact. He pats your stomach, before running his hand down to the top of your waistband. He runs his fingers over it, gently, feeling where the fabric rests atop your soft springy curls, and then steps back again. He goes to strip off himself, having discarded his jacket somewhere downstairs - untucking his shirt and pulling it off. As his chest is revealed you can feel your face flaming again - as if it wasn’t already seriously red. He laughs when he looks over at you,

“God baby, you can’t have any blood left in your body - ’sall in your little pink cheeks.”

He throws the shirt to the chair in the corner of the room. He pushes his trousers down, confidently stepping out, he doesn’t kick them aside like you expected a boy might, instead bending, giving you a perfect view of his naked backside, to pick them up, folding them in half and slinging them over the same chair as his shirt. You feel free to ogle at him, considering he had done the same mere minutes before and you’re stuck wondering how people go about the day knowing this is what people looked like under their clothes. You never believed it would be something that you would find especially attractive, you knew men commented on women and girl’s behinds but you never thought it happened in reverse, didn’t think you’d suddenly be overcome with the urge to sink your teeth into the soft flesh there.

When he turns around you can’t help but stare straight at his crotch. You’d seen one before, in your biology textbook and once in a magazine that Natalie’s brother had stolen from their father that you’d all crowded around and giggled at, although not for very long before you’d had to quickly replace it as you heard his father’s car on the driveway. But never had you seen one in real life. You’d felt one, through a boy’s pants as you’d sat on his lap at the diner, you’d felt Elvis’ in fact in much the same way, but even when he’d gently stroked you over your panties you’d never gone so far to touch him unclothed, or even through a fabric layer. You didn’t really know what to expect. But his cock was rosy and already stood a little to attention, where it didn’t seem nearly as intimidating as you’d always expected them to be. Somehow, even without having anything to compare it to you could just tell it was a pretty. You immediately reach out a curious hand, and as he steps towards you, looking amused, you wish you could stop the words tumbling out of your mouth;

“Gosh - I’ve uh, I’ve never seen one in real life….” You try to stem your burning curiosity but you can’t stop yourself “What’s it feel like? Can I, can I touch it?” You pause, remembering your manners, “Please?” He nods laughing and gets himself within reaching distance of you. He places his hand over yours, gently gripping them together, his palm on the top of your hand and guides it towards him. You’re surprised at how smooth it feels, you don’t know why, you didn’t expect it to feel so soft although it’s also a little wrinkly almost and you’re slightly surprised because he seems to have more skin there than the guy in the magazine - it encases just below the head of his cock which is now popping out of the little folds. He lets go and your hand just rests there for a moment, before you squeeze a little, releasing and running your fingers gently over it.

““El, that’s, it’s so soft.” He laughs at you, pupils dilating as he looks at your fingers dancing over him.

“Not for much longer doll,” and he guides your fingers back to him.

“That’s it baby, nice and gentle,” You continue to stroke him, briefly, before he’s putting his hand back down, pulling yours off, “Just need, sorry baby, I know this is dirty, but just need, a lil help here. You gonna wrap your hand around me?” You nod, confused as to why he’s turning your palm up, “Ok, honey, I just need a little, needs ta be a little wetter.” He looks you in the eyes, almost like he’s asking permission, for what though you don’t know - but clearly whatever he was looking for he found because he’s pulling your hand closer to his face. You’re stunned, mouth open, when he brings it to his mouth and licks it, a damp wet stripe being left, before pulling back and spitting straight into it. You recoil a little, but your thighs clench as your core jolts. You blink at him, still shocked, as he pulls you back to his cock, wrapping your now wet hand around him again.

“Ok baby, that’s it, that it’s not too tight now baby, that’s it - oh, just there,” When you brush a thumb over the end of him he moans, so you do it again, and stroke just behind it. “Just a little tighter - oh lord - just make that yittle fist a little tighter darling, up and down now, oh that’s it.” You follow his instructions, and his hips jerk a little in response, you can see his stomach muscles under his soft layer of gentle fat clenching and tightening in pleasure. “God, what a clever girl you are. Learnin’ so fast.” You continue for a moment, until his cock is fully to attention, practically bobbing against his stomach.

“You wanna, wanna say a proper hello to him? Gonna give him a little hello kiss? Go on baby, he’s waiting for you - say hello to little Elvis. He’s so excited to meet you.” And admittedly little Elvis bobs as if he’d overhead the conversation, and from the leaking from the tip he does look excited to meet you. So you obediently bend over to press a little kiss to his rosy pink head. He lets out a little groan, that seemed almost involuntary and he apologises as he pushes you onto your knees in front of him,

“Not really right to do this to a girl - but uh, I suppose, if you’re my dolly, then… it’s fine right?” You don’t have any experience in what you’re about to do, but you’re not so sheltered that you don’t have any semblance of understanding of the act - and you have nothing against it, so you nod again, once again stunned momentarily silent by his surprising actions. You look up at him, from between his slightly spread legs - peering up at his tight chest and nipples, to his smooth, visible, neck to where his blue eyes are practically burning a hole into you. You swallow before trying to find your voice again;

“It’s more than fine,” You pause for a moment before considering what he’d said earlier, “daddy.” He moans, his leg jiggling a little, and you watch as little Elvis twitches in response.

“So you’re gonna be a good little girl now, right? Do as I tell you?” You nod, he exhales, slowly before starting to instruct you.“You can start by taking just the very end into your mouth, just hold it there for a second.” You do as he says, leaning forward with your mouth, and he sucks a breath in, loudly, as you brush your lips against his tip. You go to move down a little more, and he stops you with hand on your head, “Just, just give me a second, honey, gods, you feel so fucking good.” You still - “If you wanna, you can just, just reach down below, darling, gotta treat all of me nice - just - that’s it baby, nice and gentle with them little fingers.” He praises you as you reach around to fondle at his balls for the first time. He pushes a little further into your mouth, before pulling out most of the way - telling you now,

“Need you to just, just lick me a little baby, no, no - keep it in your mouth, just move your tongue around a bit, oh lord, that’s it right there baby,” He makes a high-pitched whine that you can feel rush through your body from where you’re connected. He puts his other hand around to poke at your cheeks, “Look up at me, that’s it.” He moves his hand to pull yours from his thigh and wraps it around the base of his cock. “Go on, what you can’t get in your mouth you can keep touching.” A moment passes, and he’s telling you, “ Ok hollow your cheeks little one, gonna suck me in, then you’re gonna just relax and let me, let me just fuck that throat and mouth of yours.” You follow his instructions, and he grasps the back of your head to keep you bobbing on him at the exact pace he wants.

“Now, now baby, since its your first time, you haven’t, haven’t gotta swallow it if you don’t wanna - but you may as well have a little taste - don’t want, don’t want it going anywhere but down your little throat in future.” He holds your neck, keeping you in place, as he thrusts into you - practically into your throat although he’s careful not to go too deep, but you still struggle to breathe a little. He grows slightly more erratic as he chases his pleasure and you’re glad when he pulls back so that just the head is still in your mouth, letting you take a deeper breath in.

When he shouts, “Oh god, that’s a good baby, fuck, fuck doll, I’m cumming baby,” you’re able to just have the tip in your mouth - which makes it easier to hold his cum without choking on it. You taste a little before pulling back, holding it in your mouth, your tongue recoiling from the texture. He hands you a handkerchief, embroidered with E.P on the corner, telling you slightly huffily, “Ok, that’s it, just spit it out there.” You do, embarrassed at the unladylike behaviour, and he takes it from you looking at it with distaste as he balls it up and flings it in the direction of the ensuite.

He looks down at you, “You did so good baby, such a quick learner aren’t you! So good!” You can’t help but squirm, your own arousal peaking with the butterflies in your belly again, pleased with yourself, but then slightly worried when he strokes your cheek, expression not as soft as before before starting to haul you up from your knees. Barely giving you time to stand before pushing you backwards onto his bed. “But next time, honey, I’m not havin’ you spit it out whenever wherever ok? So you’re just gonna have to learn to take what I give you.” You’re wide-eyed looking at him, you’re not entirely sure that’s something you want, but he does know best, and you’re desperate to please him so all you can do is nod and agree.

“Uh-huh, of course, just - just gotta get used to it I guess daddy,” He hums back at you, pushing you to lie flat on your back.

“Mmhmm. Ri-ght, ok, baby, your turn now, just lie back and let daddy take care of you.” He pauses, as if remembering something - “Daddy’s gonna get serious now, give you a real introduction - make you finish.” He smooths his hands down the sides of your chest and stomach, goosebumps forming as his fingertips trail down, until he reaches your thighs, where he pulls them up, so your knees are bent and your legs spread. He bends down, holding your thighs down and open, to press a kiss to the fabric separating his mouth and your body. He, laps at it, sucking at the material - the wet spot that was already there growing larger as he adds his damp spit. You wriggle about but he keeps you in place with one hand on a thigh, holding you open, and the other on your stomach, a solid weight pinning you in place. Your panties have gone practically see through by the time he leans back, looks down, and hooks two fingers into the waistband, pulling them down and off of your thighs. He looks at them for a moment, at the combination of his spit and your sticky wetness coating the other side before throwing them also in the direction of the chair.

“They’re mine now too baby.” You shake your head at him - you’ll have no underwear left at this rate.

“Elvis. You’ve already had a pair. I don’t know what you want them for anyway! Told you that last time!”

“You’re mine aren’t you?” You nod, you’ve been moved into his house haven’t you? How much more obvious do you need to be? “Well then, they’re mine too.” You gape at him, you can’t really deny his slightly misguided logic - not without setting yourself up for failure. You go to protest again, but he hushes you, “Stop arguin’ with me, little girl, not gonna get you nowhere.” He pushes your thighs back apart, “I ain’t gonna start something I can’t finish,” and your final protest dies on your lips when he presses a kiss against your mound. He moves his lips down, gently placing another kiss at the top of your vulva.

He licks a stripe down you, opening you up with his tongue, you can feel a gush of wetness at the act, and it seems that he could as well as you feel him smile against you before spearing his tongue a little way into you. He strokes your inner thighs, tickling the little fold where your legs meet your body. You shift to be able to look down at him. He’s been running his hands through his hair too much while you’d been getting him off that it’s no longer slicked up and back, but fluffy and gentle as you move your own hands to clutch at him. You pull gently, and he leans back just enough to look up at you through his dark, eyelashes at you. The sight makes you clench, and when your head goes backwards again, after he moves a finger to swirl around your clit, moving ever closer to the exact spot, you suddenly catch sight of the back of his head in the mirror on the wall opposite. You let out a noise you’d never heard yourself make before and you can’t take your eyes off of him. From the angle, you can’t see much below his shoulders - but it’s enough to send you, along with the physical stimulation, teetering towards the edge. When he finally, moves his finger to touch you directly your hips thrust up of their own accord, and you grind down on him when your body returns to the bed. His lips return to you, and he laughs as he reaches up to blindly pat at your face, he pulls back laughing - “Your lips cold baby? Or my hand hot?” You stutter out a response, really not certain of the relevance of the question,

“I, I don’t know! But can you, Elvis I’m so close, daddy please.” He shakes his head smiling and returns to your pussy with renewed vigour - firmly licking you out and playing with you. You can’t think of anything but the sensations, of how slippery you are, of how wet and soft while simultaneously gently rough his tongue is. He shies away from slipping a finger in, simply teasing around your entrance - although this reticence isn’t shared with his tongue which continues to fuck into you at a rapid pace.

You squirm, feeling suddenly desperate - although for what you didn’t know. He holds you right at the precipice for a moment, and you thrash, tense, until he resumes the exact same licking pattern as before, rubbing at your clit as he does and its like you’ve been released, shuddering and shouting out his name;

“Oh god - Elvis, daddy, that’s - unnh-” Your words cut off into non-verbal noises, huffing out quick breaths and moans as your body quivers. He finally pulls away after you’ve gone stiff in the bed, letting your body relax back from its arched position as you struggle to catch your breath. He runs his fingers over your folds, “God you’re so wet baby,” you squirm, feeling it cool into a thin stickiness on your thighs. He kisses your thigh, spreading the wetness from his lips, whispering - “Such a good girl for me baby - you like that? Your first one?” You can’t do much more than nod in response as you tremble lying there but you manage to murmur out,

“Yes, god, yes I liked it.” He hums at you,

“Well go on then baby, say thank you to daddy. Don’t forget your manners now.” You gasp, heat flooding you again although you’re too tired to want to do anything about it.

“…Tha-Thank you daddy.” He kisses the top of your mound in response and pats at you one last time, before he heaves himself up and leaves. When he comes back he’s dressed in a set of black silk satin pyjamas, carrying a little nightgown for you. He dresses you like you were the dolly he described before, manhandling you into the nightie. He rolls you off of the comforter, allowing him to pull the covers out so that he can clamber in underneath, cuddling you into him. He cocoons you in his arms, clutching at you, and you suddenly feel safe and secure after abruptly feeling unmoored. A tear slips out, for reasons that you’re not quite sure of, and he tuts, holding your head to his chest. It’s not long before you, listening to his steady heartbeat, fall fast sleep.

#empty promises #be-my-ally #elvis smut #elvis Presley smut #elvis fic #elvis x reader #elvis x you #elvis presley x you #elvis presley fanfiction

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just-a-girl-who-wrytes · 6 months

Text

A New Chapter

@dizzybee03

“Look at our daughter!” David exclaimed as the doctor held her up over the drape for you to see. David half laughed, half cried when he saw his Eleanor for the first time.

“I’m so glad she’s here, baby.” You said, suddenly exhausted from the immediate fluctuation in hormones since your daughter had been removed from your body. You were tired, but no less excited that your daughter was safely here.

David was secretly thankful you were not a woman diehard set on one specific way of giving birth. He never understood how people tried to dictate one of the most unpredictable times in any human’s life. That was why when your doctor told the two of you that your daughter was still breech, you had no problems scheduling your c-section. Other means of trying to get her to flip were too risky for the two of you. You were glad to have an operation if meant your baby arrived safely.

David walked over to the warmer to watch the nursing staff take care of his baby. She had started crying and getting fussy with the stimulation. He couldn’t help but cry as he watched this tiny new life. He got to cut the rest of the umbilical cord. He put his finger in her palm and she instinctively grabbed it.

“You are so beautiful, just like your mama, baby girl.” He said to her, “Your daddy loves you more than anything.” He leaned down and kissed her head before the nursing staff took her to be weighed.

David walked back over to your side and sat down.

“How is she?” You asked tiredly.

“So beautiful.” David kissed your forehead, “I’m so proud of you.”

A short time later, you were sewn up, abdominal binder in place, and in the recovery room. Your baby was wheeled in shortly after you were settled. A lactation nurse came in as well to help you with breastfeeding.

You were thankful that Eleanor seemed to latch well and she didn’t lack in appetite. The lactation nurse made sure neither you or David had anymore questions and left the three of you alone to bond.

“I didn’t know I could love you anymore than I did,” David spoke softly as he sat next to the bed by your legs, facing you and propped up on the edge of the bed on his elbow.

You smiled at him, “I didn’t know I could love someone that I have never met before so immensely.”

He hesitated, but you could feel his gaze on you while you stared down at your baby nursing.

“You are so beautiful, baby.”

You grinned, looking up at him.

“I love you so much, David.”

You puckered your lips at him, signaling that you wanted a kiss and he complied. He pressed his lips tenderly on yours with nothing but love.

Once Eleanor was done eating, you gave her to your husband so that he could love on his daughter. You laid your head back on the pillow once she was safely in his arms. You smiled, thankful that your daughter was here and you were both safe and that Deacon was by your side. You drifted off to sleep with a smile.

You weren’t sure how long you slept, but when you woke up, you looked over to see your shirtless husband, still in the recliner beside of you with your daughter, in nothing but a diaper, laying on his chest, curled up on his sternum. He had a blanket over her and was gently rubbing circles into her back.

“Oh, baby,” you cried quietly. The sight of your husband as a new daddy, doing skin to skin with his your daughter too, loving on your tiny new life was enough for your emotions and you began to cry.

David chuckled and reached a hand out to you. You grabbed it and intertwined your fingers with his.

You sat there in silence with your family until the nursing staff came to transfer back to your regular room where you would be until you were discharged. Eleanor went to the nursery while you got settled. You were on bed rest until the following morning - not that your body was quickly metabolizing your spinal block. You had gained feeling back, but could only still move your feet. You laughed at yourself every time you tried to move. It was odd telling your body to do something that it was not physically able to do.

Throughout the night, the nursing staff kept Eleanor in the nursery unless it was time for her to eat. You would breastfeed your daughter and send her back to be cared for while you tried to sleep as much as you could. You were the most exhausted you had ever been. Delivery itself had been a breeze, but the hormone fluctuations were truly whooping your ass.

The next morning, you found you had regained all feeling and movement in your lower body. Once the nurse removed your catheter and gave you some pain medication, you were beyond ready to get out of bed. David and the nurse helped you as you got your legs over the side of the bed, sitting there to adjust to the change in position for a few moments. Once you felt okay, you stood up with your support on either side of you.

“My god, it feels good to be out of bed!”

“You look great, baby.” David said with a kiss to your head.

The first few steps were uncomfortable. It felt like one side of the incision in your abdominal muscles was being tugged on, which was uncomfortable, even though you knew nothing was actually being pulled. As you grew more steady on your feet, your nurse allowed David to be the sole one to accompany you around the hallways.

You were holding onto the inside of his elbow for support as he kept his arm folded across his torso to give you support.

“It feels so good to be out of bed,” you told him quietly as you slowly walked.

“I can only imagine, babe. But you? You my dear are phenomenal. You did so good during delivery, you have been a champ with Eleanor, and you’re up walking 12 hours after a major surgery….” You glanced up at him and saw his wheels turning. “You’re superwoman.”

You smiled up at him and finished a couple of laps before returning to your room and getting back into bed.

That evening, you decided you needed a shower. It had been over 24 hours, post-partum hormones left you in horrid hot flashes and pouring sweat and you wanted to get some of your own clothes on. Deacon helped you up and to the bathroom. He helped you take your gown off and disposed of it in the linen bag before making sure you had all of your personal shower items ready to go. You wanted to pee first so you made your way over to the toilet and quickly found yourself unable to sit down on the toilet without some grounded support.

“Here, baby.” Deacon said softly once he noticed you trying to figure out your predicament and how to lower yourself the short distance to the toilet. He held out his hands and helped you slowly lower yourself down. “You know, it’s okay to ask for help, right?” Your husband asked you with a teasing tone.

He knew that you didn’t like being dependent on anyone unless it was allowing him to show his chivalrous side.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” you laughed.

You begin to unvelcro the abdominal binder around you.

You were uncomfortable, even with the binder, however, you didn’t realize how much support that it gave you until it was laying on the sink next to you.

“You okay, honey?” Deacon asked, studying your face.

“That binder is nice…” you grimaced.

You were finished peeing so you took toilet paper and attempted to wipe yourself, however, your newly incised abdominal muscles didn’t allow you to even get your hand between your legs. An intense burning pain shot up the right side of the muscles in your belly. You knew nothing was tearing inside of you, but damn, it felt like it.

Deacon didn’t let you struggle for another second. He took the toilet paper from you and wiped you while you held onto his shoulder.

He squatted down and pulled your oh so glorious post-partum panties down and got your feet out of them. He threw them away and helped you stand back up. He had the water running and adjusted for you. He helped you step in and then stood at the edge of the shower to make sure you didn’t need to call for his help. His presence apart from you in the shower lasted less than 60 seconds when he noticed that you were unable to even lift your hands up to wet your hair thoroughly because of the pain in your abdomen.

He quickly discarded his own clothes and stepped into the surprisingly room-y shower with you.

You were standing underneath of the water with your back to the shower-head. Deacon reached around you and began massaging your scalp, ensuring that all of your hair was wet. You stood there, arms folded gently in front of you, feeling as helpless as ever. You were grateful for your husband taking care of you but that didn’t change the fact that you were absolutely helpless. This was new to you and you didn’t like it.

David was massaging shampoo into your scalp when he noticed the tears in your red eyes.

“Hey, hey,” he said softly as he rinsed his hands of shampoo and cradled your face. “What’s wrong, baby?”

“I’m so helpless.” You cried. “I can’t wipe myself, I can’t wash my hair, I can’t wash my ass…”

“And that’s what I’m here for, honey.” David continued, his tone of voice felt like a hug to your soul, “You just gave birth to our beautiful daughter. You just had a major surgery. Being helpless is okay right now, baby. It won’t last forever. You will heal and be back to normal, but for right now, it’s okay to need me, baby. It wasn’t my job to carry Eleanor or give birth to her, but it is my job to care for you and I’m so blessed to get to do this.”

David’s kindness and love for you made you cry even more.

“I’m so blessed,” you cried, “I don’t deserve you.”

David chuckled to himself, knowing hormones were the culprit behind your sudden emotional fragility. He gently leaned down to kiss you. “Just as I don’t deserve you, baby. That’s why we’re blessed.”

He made sure that you were okay before he resumed washing and rinsing your hair, putting in conditioner, and washing your body and helping you rinse.

Once you were clean, David helped you step out of the shower. He wrapped you up in a towel while he dried off and dressed so that he could step out into the room to get your clothes.

He returned to the bathroom, leaving the door open, knowing you would get hot and sticky if he didn’t. He took your towel and began drying you off. He was so gentle as he rubbed the towel over your abdomen and hips. You grabbed his shoulders for support and squatted slightly so he could have better access to dry all of you.

You were grateful that you weren’t bleeding much post delivery. Regardless, you didn’t hesitate to step into a fresh pair of mesh underwear with giant pads provided by the hospital. David helped you get your abdominal binder on and shorts, followed by your nursing bra and one of his t-shirts. Once you were dressed, he sprayed detangler in your hair and gently worked your comb through it until all of the tangles were removed.

You felt so much better as you maneuvered your way back into bed. You were so thankful for David and you were so thankful to be clean. The nurse soon came in with a couple of percocet for you.

You looked puzzled.

“I called for some pain meds for you, baby. I know you were hurting during the shower.”

Tears welled up in your eyes again as you gratefully took the meds from your nurse.

“I’m so thankful to have you, baby.” You said to David a short while later as the two of you sat in your room together while you nursed your daughter.

“As I am for you, my sweetheart. I am so proud of you and our baby girl. I am the most blessed man in the universe.”

#david deacon kay #david kay #imagine #jay harrington #swat #swat cbs #baby #newborn #mom #dad #newparents #love #daddy deacon #deacon x reader

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futureslaps · 1 year

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The Captive - Chapter 3

Chapter 2 Chapter 4

Hi everyone 💙

Only one main POV in this chapter (with a mini-Jake POV). I had a lot written and didn’t want to post a massive chapter compared to the others, I want to keep the length fairly consistent. Thankfully, this means the next chapter is practically half-done.

Enjoy!

Since he’d woken up, Quaritch had made an effort to keep his mind occupied. For some time, he searched anywhere he could reach, trying to find a weakness in his prison’s design; a loose section in the wall, a forgotten tool, maybe a rock he could use to work away at his bindings. But Sully had done his job well, and the hut was completely devoid of anything not dedicated to keeping him where he was. Even his vest, which had contained various emergency tools for such a situation, was gone. As was most of his equipment. He’d been left with nothing but his undershirt and pants.

Once his escape plans had been foiled, and when it became clear his death wasn’t imminent, Quaritch switched his focus to passing the time. After all he was clearly meant to be here for the long haul.

He’d briefly attempted some exercises, but his wounds and tightly bound legs made that a non-starter.

Eventually he settled on counting the rings on the tree the hut was structured around and trying to catch various sounds from the outside. It was mind numbing but still something.

Eventually, despite his efforts, thoughts on how absolutely fucked he was started to creep in. As far as he knew, he was presumed dead by the RDA. None of his squad had been left on the ship in those final moments, and he doubted the RDA was eager to launch another ship into enemy territory to recover the wreck and bodies from the last…

And then there was the matter of Spider. When he first woke up, he’d been primarily concerned with Spiders well-being. He still was, but as the hours passed, he began to feel the actual lack of Spider’s presence more and more.

As far as he could tell, at least a full day had passed since the battle. He’d never been away from Spider this long since they’d met in the jungle all those months ago, and the more time he spent alone in the damp, stuffy shack, the more he missed having the kid around.

He missed that bright, genuine smile Spider briefly flashed when he was happy. He missed the passion he had whenever he was explaining something about life on Pandora. Hell, he even missed Spider’s sass and insults, the ones that somehow made him both irksome and endearing.

He grinned in the half-dark as he remembered a few of Spider’s “greatest hits”. Goddamn, he didn’t know when let himself become such a sap when it came to the kid. It pissed him off a bit, but he didn’t mind too much.

If he ever got out of here…

“Let me through.”

Quaritch quickly recomposed himself as he heard a familiar voice behind the flap that served as the hut’s door.

Sully

Quaritch steeled himself. Was this it? If it was, he wasn’t going down without a fight, however weak it may be.

The flap lifted and Sully stepped through, holding a pair of bowls in his hands. And if looks could kill, face Sully wore would have easily sent Quaritch back to hell.

The two men stared at each other for a moment, each trying to put as much contempt into their face as they could.

“Quaritch.” Jake broke the silence.

“Sully. It’s about time you showed up, I was starting to get bored.”

Sully looked like he was about to say something, but bit his lip, and placed the two bowls down in front of the bars. One held water, the other some kind of stew.

Food and water? What the hell?

“What’s this Sully? Trying to fatten me up before the slaughter?”

“You will have food and water while you are kept here.” Sully replied almost robotically, clearly trying to keep himself in check.

“Speaking of here, would you mind telling me why you decided to ‘graciously’ spare my life and dump me in this shithole instead?” Quaritch said, intently keeping his eyes focused on Sully. Truthfully, he wanted the food and especially the water, but there’s no way he was letting Sully know that.

Sully visibly sighed, then spoke, trying to keep his voice level.

“When you surrendered on the Sea Dragon, you asked Eywa’s mercy. As a surrendered warrior, you could not be killed, by Eywa’s laws.”

Surrendered? Asking for mercy?

Hearing Sully describe him like that enraged Quaritch, but he held his tongue for now. He still had to know more about his situation.

“So has your Eywa god commanded you to keep me in jail?”

“Only until your trial.”

Quaritch’s breath hitched at the words.

Trial?

You’ve gotta be shitting me.

“A trial? What trial?” Quaritch responded, his rage starting to seep into his words.

“13 days from now, when the monthly cycle ends, you will be brought before the Na’vi people and judged for your crimes against them, and Eywa.”

With that, Quaritch couldn’t hide his rage anymore.

“Oh, it’s not enough for you to beat me, is it Sully? Now you want to parade me in front of all the blue bastards in town?! You going to tar and feather me before you chop my head off?!”

“You are being shown respect by being granted a trial!” Sully hissed, his own rage bubbling. “Respect you don’t deserve, but Eywa grants you anyways!”

“You should have killed me on that ship Sully.” Quaritch spat. “Spared me the humiliation. But I guess you’re more of a maniac than I thought.”

“I would have Quaritch, believe me.” Said Jake, collecting himself as he turned to leave.

As he watched the other man turn, a thought forced its way into the front of Quaritch’s mind.

Spider

He had to know something.

Before he had time to think, he spoke.

“How are the kids, Sully?” He cringed internally as soon as the rushed words left his mouth.

(…)

Jake stopped midway across the hut’s forward half.

Huh?

Was Quaritch trying to goad him over Neteyam? The way he had spoken made the question sound … almost sincere? Why would Quaritch care about any of his kids?

Jake wasn’t going to stand here and ask himself those questions now, though. Not with Quaritch behind him.

“They’re all fine, Quaritch. No thanks to you.”

Jake knew it wasn’t exactly true, but he wasn’t about to discuss his family’s issues with his worst enemy.

He covered the rest of the distance to the door and quickly left.

(…)

Quaritch caught a glimpse of the outside world as he watched Sully leave. It was sunset, there was a beach, a village…

The canvas flap locked him back into the hut’s world.

He lay on his back and let out a long sigh. He had a lot to think about.

Goddamn traitorous asshole. Thinks he’s high and mighty with his “Eywa” and “trials”.

So, he had an expiration date. He didn’t know what this so-called “trial” implied, but it couldn’t be anything good. He had no doubt what judgement he’d get, and he had no doubt what would happen to him after.

13 days to live. No hope of rescue…

Quaritch reminded himself not to focus to much on his prospects. The last thing he wanted was to go crazy and be led to his death as a lunatic.

The rest of the conversation…

He cringed again over his stupid final question. He’d sounded like he’d lost the plot. What the hell was he thinking?

Maybe he’s going crazy already.

At least he knew Spider wasn’t locked up like him, he assumed Sully would have let him know if he was. Quaritch knew Spider though, and very much doubted he was “fine”. He’d seen Spider when he was “fine” before. On the Sea Dragon during the village raids. In the jungle. It wasn’t good. He felt the urge to talk with Spider, as if he wasn’t so close yet so far.

As he turned his attention to the food Sully had left, he wished more than before ever he could see Spider again, even for just a moment.

Things are certainly not fine for anyone in this story at the moment ☹️.

I’m overjoyed at the response this has gotten so far. I’m not a huge writer by any means, so this truly means so much to me! 🥺 Thank you to everyone who has read!

#avatar the way of water #recom quaritch #avatar 2 #spider socorro #miles quaritch #avatar quaritch #avatar jake #avatar kiri #atwow

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raaorqtpbpdy · 1 year

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Death by Exposure

Written for the Phic Phight Prompts: At first Danny had been worried sick that Wes had figured out that he was Phantom, but when no one believed him it had sort of become funny. Still, after the anti-ecto act, and the GIW, and his own parents very public very violently vitriolic screeds against ghosts, Danny had to wonder what he'd ever done to Wes that the guy would risk exposing Danny to all that. (from @hpwotters-blog, or at least I think that's you're tumblr.), Wes Weston wakes up to find an injured Phantom on the fire escape. (from @half-deadmagicperson), With how much time he spends on basketball and his delusional conspiracy theories, no one would ever suspect that Wes Weston has another secret hobby… (from @kadziduo), And Wes has been spending more and more time around Fenton and Co. lately - hey! he’s only trying to get some much-needed evidence against them, not trying to get all buddy-buddy with them. And anyway, they’re an entirely annoying bunch, so he wholeheartedly blames them for the fact that he’s currently being monologued at by the ghost holding him hostage. (from @a-closet-emo)

Chapter 6: Exposal

AO3 Link

[Warnings for kidnapping and violence]

The ghost took Wes to the the medieval history section of Amity Park museum, where he bound Wes to the rack in the exhibit on medieval torture devices. It wasn't enough to put Wes on an actual torture rack, though, no, because then, the ghosts started to monologue.

"Do you know who I am, friend of Phantom?" the ghost asked, but Wes knew the start of an evil monologue when he heard one and he wasn't dumb enough to interrupt by trying to answer the rhetorical question. "I am Prince Aragon, rightful ruler of the Medieval Realm. Your friend Phantom, and his friend Sam, my would-be bride, were the ones responsible for influencing my foolhardy sister to betray me, and now they shall pay."

Well, at least Wes knew who to blame for the ghosts currently talking his ear off. If Sam still refused to trust him after this, he was going to revolt.

"They poisoned Isadora's mind with their twenty-first century ideas," the prince spat. "They made her think she was worthy of my throne, my crown, my amulet! They'll come to regret it, now that I've taken away something precious to them. The ghost boy will return my amulet to me so that I may reclaim my kingdom, or you will pay the ultimate price."

"Woah, time out!" Wes requested, shaking his head—the only thing he could move while on the rack. "You know Phantom is half human?"

"Of course," the prince scoffed. "The halfa is well known throughout the realms."

"You're fucking kidding me," Wes scowled. What a sick joke this had to be. He'd been trying to convince humans that half-ghosts were real and Danny was one for months, only now to learn that the ghosts knew the whole damn time. "Unbelievable."

"I don't see what you find so difficult to believe." Aragon looked down his nose at Wes like he was something the prince had had his servants scrape off the bottom of his shoe. "The ghost boy will soon see the ransom letter my loyal archer left at his abode. In the meantime, we will wait."

"So... did you just grab me because you saw me leaving Fenton's house?" Wes asked. "He has a sister you know; what if I'd been one of her friends instead? I mean, I was there with Danny, but I'm pretty sure Sam hates my guts and will not care what you do with me."

"Silence!"

"I'm just saying, you could've thought this plan through a little better," Wes told him. Aragon raised a hand in warning and Wes clammed up. Stupid Fenton. Stupid Manson. Stupid Foley, too, while he was at it, because when one of them were involved, they all were.

"This plan is foolproof," Aragon insisted, "which is essential, because Phantom and his fellows are certainly fools. I will have my amulet back, and once my power is restored, I will become the great dragon I was born and died to be, and lay waste to this feeble mortal realm before returning to my kingdom to face my mutinous sister and make her regret ever standing up to me."

Wes knew better than to speak up, but he couldn't help thinking that, despite his claims otherwise, this Aragon creep really didn't sound like the victim here. Honestly, Wes just felt bad for his sister, whoever she was, far having to live with him for who knew how long. And Manson, who... wait, what did he mean when he said 'would-be bride' before?

"Hold on, were you planning on marrying Sam Manson?" Wes asked, vaguely disgusted. "Why?"

"She was selected by the halfa wretch as the most suitable human bride for a glorious ghostly monarch such as myself, and I needed a queen," Prince Aragon responded. "I'll be answering no more questions from you, cur. One more word, and I'll rip out your tongue." Wes snapped his mouth shut, pressing his lips together in a thin line. He very much wanted to keep his tongue, thank you. "Your friends should be here any minute."

Wes waited silently for nearly twenty minutes after that. Being kidnapped, as it turned out, was very boring. Eventually, though, Fenton and his friends crashed into the museum.

"Sorry we're late," Danny said. "The note on the arrow that got shot through my window just said to come to the most medieval place in Amity Park, and Tucker thought it was the castle hole at the miniature golf course."

"That's a joke, right?" Wes asked flatly.

"In my defense, I didn't know Amity Park had a history museum!" Tucker said. "Seriously, how long has this been here?"

"Amity Park Museum was established 1939, but this wing was added in 1952 to accommodate growing attendance and a greater number of exhibits," Sam read off a plaque on the wall. "So about seventy years, Tuck."

"Enough rabble!" Aragon shouted, silencing the teens, "Give me my amulet or your friend will face the fiery inferno!"

Danny wasted no time in firing off a ghost ray at Aragon, throwing him into the wall. "How about you amuLET Wes go, and we take you back to your dungeon to rot?" Wes groaned at the pun. Aragon was already getting back up. "Get Wes free! I'll deal with this asshole!" An arrow whizzed passed Danny's head and he turned to see an archer behind him. "Okay, maybe be quick about it, because I don't know how long I can handle both these guys at once."

Wes could practically hear Kyle's voice in his head snickering out a 'that's what she said' through his shit-eating grin, but Wes tastefully refrained from speaking the joke into being. Kyle was ten times the menace Phantom had ever been. Once Sam and Tucker got his hands free, Wes urged them to help Danny, assuring them that he could unbind himself the rest of the way. As soon as he was off the rack, Wes crawled under the din of the battle above him to his backpack, which Aragon had cast to the side when they arrived.

Trying not to get hit by the ecto-blasts, arrows, and other medieval weapons that were getting thrown around, he fished around in his backpack for the wrist ray he'd literally never used before. It was buried at the bottom, under books, pencils, and numerous crumpled papers, but once he got it out and on his wrist he activated it. As soon as he turned to join the fray, he watched Danny sucking Aragon into the Fenton Thermos. Too little too late, he supposed.

"Damn," Wes grumbled, deactivating his wrist ray. "I really wanted to shoot that royal bastard in his disgusting face." Danny laughed.

"Don't worry, I got plenty of hits in for you," he assured. "You good on your way home or do you want an escort? You know, to make sure you don't get kidnapped again?"

"I think I'll be okay," Wes said, rolling his eyes at what he assumed was some kind of barb about him not being able to handle himself. "Ghosts aren't exactly known for kidnapping people on the regular."

"Well... if that's—if you're sure then—"

"What Danny means to say is that he'd feel better if you let him walk you home," Sam said. "You'll have to excuse him, he's gets anxious about this kinda thing."

"Oh, because he's obsessed with protecting everyone and blames himself for me being kidnapped because it was kinda his fault?" Wes guessed.

"Bingo," Tucker shot a finger gun Wes' way and winked.

"Guys!" Danny complained. "You don't have to call me out like that!"

"Yeah, alright." Wes shrugged and grabbed his backpack off the ground. "I don't mind if you wanna walk me home." Danny brightened, and changed back to human form before they all left the museum and Sam and Tucker split off to head to their respective homes.

"Thank the Ancients we were able to just fight Aragon," Danny said after a few minutes. "I was worried he might have you in some kind of magical trap or something that would only open with the amulet."

"Yeah, that would've been bad," Wes agreed. "You didn't hear him monologuing at me, but he was totally planning to destroy the whole town if he got it, so it's good you didn't give it to him."

"I couldn't have, even if I wanted to," Danny admitted. "I have no idea where his amulet even is. It might be buried in my closet somewhere, or at my locker at school, or in my parents lab, or somewhere in the Ghost Zone, like, I genuinely don't remember what I did with it at all." Wes snorted and burst into a laugh.

"Some hero you are," he teased. "Can't even keep track of your shit."

"I actually think I may have given it back to his sister," Danny said thoughtfully. "I should ask her when I go to drop him off in her dungeon. I should probably know the location of the magic amulet that can turn its wearer into a dragon."

"Yeah, probably," Wes agreed. "You're not just gonna set him loose back in the Ghost Zone, like you usually do?"

"No, he's a criminal, even in the Ghost Zone. He abused his sister and the citizens of the Medieval Realm for sixteen-hundred years. He doesn't get to just fly free after that. He still has fifteen-hundred and ninety-nine years left on his sentence."

"Huh... okay then." Wes nodded in consideration. That seemed like a suitable sentence. Aragon was really annoying. "He deserves it."

"Totally."

They reached the door of Wes' apartment building and said their goodbyes. Danny waited outside until he saw the light in Wes' bedroom turn on, just to be safe.

A little while later, Wes remembered what else he'd learned from Aragon, and he got the chance to complain to Danny about how unfair it was that literally all the ghosts knew who he was but no humans ever believed it, and the rest of them laughed in his face. One good thing did come out of getting kidnapped by an evil ghost prince, and that was that Sam and Tucker were less guarded around him. It seemed like being personally targeted by a ghost was some sort of rite of passage to become Danny's friend, and Wes had passed.

In any case, he'd been more or less accepted into their little clique now, and being around them without Sam and Tucker scrutinizing his every word and smothering him with their suspicions presented Wes with tons of opportunities to study ghosts, and to gather evidence that they weren't what the G.I.W. and the Fentons claimed they were.

It wasn't enough yet. Probably wouldn't be for a while. But one day, Wes would prove that ghosts were sentient. One day, Wes would get those genocidal anti-ecto acts repealed. He'd get the G.I.W. disbanded. He'd change the world's entire understanding of ghosts, one way or another. And then—then he would show everyone that Danny Fenton had truly been Danny Phantom the entire time!

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#phic phight #phic phight 2023 #fic #things i wrote #death by exposure #danny fenton #wes weston #sam manson #tucker foley #prince aragon #dp #danny phantom #kidnapping tw

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thorin-apologist · 1 year

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the big debut

sooo ive been writing this bagginshield fic on and off for the past 2.5 years, it isnt quite finished but im going to start editing and posting chapters very soon (expect month long hiatuses because im terrible) but i just wanna get it out there!!! so heres the prologue, which will be posted to ao3 along with chapter 1 whenever i finish editing it. if so much as one person likes this shit im gonna be spurred on to work faster. ANYWAYS heres the prologue under the cut!! (approx 2.7k words, no TW just slight angst)

Prologue

“You’d think I asked my cousins to die and leave behind a parentless child,” Bilbo said bitterly to Balin. He was getting quite sick of Thorin Oakenshield hastily leaving any room Bilbo walked into. In this instance, it was one of Erebor’s libraries.

“He doesn’t resent your decision to leave us,” said Balin as he led Bilbo to the section of books written in Westron. “In fact, I think he’s more ashamed of how upset he is – he thinks it is you, and only you, who should be allowed to grieve at this time.”

“Sounds ridiculous enough, so you’re probably right.” Thorin’s strange, stubborn ways never failed to exasperate Bilbo, even after one and a half years of knowing him. “So, is he just going to hide from me until I’m gone?”

“I’ll talk some sense into him, laddie.”

Bilbo perused the shelves with Balin at his side, flicking through books and handing Balin the ones that caught his eye. Although he had to force himself to skip over the thick, heavy, leatherbound volumes, he was determined to take as much of the Lonely Mountain he could carry back to the Shire with him, regarding all his chosen books and keepsakes as his real fourteenth share.

On the 22nd of September, just days ago, Gandalf had stopped by the Lonely Mountain to wish Bilbo a happy birthday - though of course, this was not his sole motive for coming. He joined the dwarven birthday celebrations, eating and drinking and singing with them all through the night, waiting until Bilbo’s merry mood began to dissipate with exhaustion before taking him aside and extinguishing any residual cheer left in him.

“I am sorry that I must dampen your spirits on a day of celebration, but there will be no right moment fit for this news and it’s best that I get it over with sooner rather than later.” Gandalf paused, waiting for the sleepy smile to slide off Bilbo’s face. “Upon my last visit to the Shire, I learned the news that your cousin Drogo and his wife Primula had drowned in a boating accident not long before my arrival. This was mere months after their son Frodo was born. He was taken in by the Brandybucks and will live at Brandy Hall indefinitely.” Gandalf fell silent again, but not for nearly as long as Bilbo needed to process the blow from this information. Gandalf’s next words echoed from far away: “Today is his first birthday - he shares the day with you. He would have a better life at Bag End…”

Bilbo had viewed the Shire as something he would ultimately return to when it pulled hard enough at his heart, but until that moment came, it wouldn’t hurt to stay in Erebor a little longer. However, a month had turned into two months, and two into three, and three into ten, and still he had not felt compelled to leave. It was only at this horrible news that he realised that life went on without him there - hadn’t stopped in his absence, waiting patiently for him to return at his leisure. In the end, it was the grief of losing two dear relatives, the thought of the orphaned boy, and the guilt of completely missing something so important that prompted his journey back to the Shire.

Balin must’ve done as he’d promised and given Thorin a talking to, because he finally came out of hiding and approached Bilbo just before his official send-off the next day. It was dawn, so the Lonely Mountain’s vast foyer was empty apart from him and Thorin. They faced each other in dim light by the towering entrance gates, Bilbo with an armful of books that Thorin narrowed his eyes at.

“Haven’t you outgrown burglary, Master Baggins?”

Bilbo smiled at Thorin’s folded arms, knowing he was not in any real trouble. “Maybe not. Why, going to banish me for it?”

Thorin laughed softly and dropped the stern façade. “Take whatever you desire. Erebor is forever indebted to you.”

Bilbo’s bare feet shuffled sheepishly on the smooth stone floor. He always felt awkward whenever anyone acknowledged his part in reclaiming Erebor. His actions had led to victory, but also to devastation for so many people, and the latter was what he remembered whenever it was brought up. He tried to push it from his mind, not wanting to dwell on it during his last moments inside this place. “Don’t tempt me, I might take something expensive.”

Thorin asked questions about Bilbo’s route home, whether Gandalf would accompany him for the whole journey, and if he had enough food and supplies to last them both. None of these things warranted a private conversation before the rest of the company came down, but Bilbo was glad for it to be this way.

Despite his close friendship with Thorin, they had rarely been alone together over these past ten months. Thorin was either out on regular visits to Dale and Lake Town, overseeing Erebor’s reconstruction, or being forced to sit down and look over what Bilbo liked to call ‘kingly paperwork’, which mainly consisted of reviewing outdated laws and renewing old trade agreements. Thorin worked hard, but for all his work, Bilbo knew that his gold-sick mistakes still plagued him. In any case, it was in Thorin’s nature to be among his people, joining in the grunt work instead of lounging on a throne and ordering others around. Bilbo enjoyed helping with the paperwork when he could, usually accompanied by Balin and sometimes Dain Ironfoot – Thorin’s most trusted royal advisors. On many occasions, Bilbo was invited to dine in the King’s private hall, meant only for royalty and any desired guests. This party usually consisted of Thorin, Fili and Kili, their mother Dis, and often Dwalin, Balin, and Dain. Bilbo would’ve liked to have seen Thorin outside of these settings, but this was virtually impossible. Now that he was leaving however, he knew he would cherish all the time he got to spend with Thorin’s family and the rest of the company.

The small talk drew to a natural close and a short silence fell. Thorin broke it.

“Do you have any intention of returning?” Thorin said it casually enough but refused to meet Bilbo’s eye. A book began to slip from under Bilbo’s arm. He caught it and wedged it back into place. Thorin added, “It will be a sore loss for Erebor’s counsel.”

“Balin will keep you right,” said Bilbo, stalling as he thought of how best to respond to the original question. “I would hate to never return. I hate that I’m leaving now.”

Thorin brightened. “So, you will come back? When you are able, I mean.”

Now it was Bilbo’s turn to avoid Thorin’s eye. “It’s not that simple. It was irresponsible of me to stay so long. Really it was irresponsible to come in the first place.” Thorin nodded, his eyebrows sinking back down. “Not that I regret it,” said Bilbo quickly, “No, not at all. But I have family; obligations…” Bilbo bit the inside of his cheek. “And I have already let them down by not being there. The funeral would’ve been months ago. And the boy, he needs—”

“Yes, of course. I know,” said Thorin gently, quelling Bilbo’s anxious rambling. “I know you must go back to your family. It was selfish of me to hope for anything else.”

On the contrary, it warmed Bilbo to know that Thorin Oakenshield wanted him to stay. A bolder Bilbo might’ve made it known to Thorin that he felt equally selfish, and that if Thorin elaborated on what he hoped, it might just persuade him to abandon his plans. But this conversation was already looking to become uncomfortable. Bilbo needed easy, clean goodbyes today.

Luckily, it was at that moment that the chattering of Fili and Kili began to echo into the foyer. They soon emerged from a connected hallway, accompanied by Dis, whom Bilbo had come to like very much. She had silver-streaked dark hair and a strong nose, like her brother Thorin, but she shared the same kind brown eyes as Kili. However, her beard was by far the most impressive of all her family; tamed, glossy, and styled in intricate braids.

“Knew he’d be the first one down. Thorin! Changed his mind yet?” Fili called as they all approached. Thorin rolled his eyes.

As soon as they came to the place Bilbo stood, Fili and Kili pulled him into a group hug, making him drop most of his books. Bilbo decided drop the rest so that he could reach up and put an arm around each of their shoulders.

These two had come especially close to death during last year’s war, as had Thorin. In the recovery tents as the battle died away, Bilbo sat at their bedsides with Dis, who had been a part of the army from the Iron Hills but had not managed to get to her family during the fight. During this time, she had opened up to Bilbo, telling him stories about Fili and Kili as children, and some surprising tales about Thorin in his youth. Bilbo learned about Frerin, her and Thorin’s brother who had been killed in battle before he could come of age, and of Dis’ late husband, who had died alongside him. It was then that Bilbo realised that her sons and Thorin were the only family she had left, and how close she had come to losing everything.

“Tauriel sends her love,” said Kili as he and Fili broke away, “she and Legolas are working on repealing the Elvenkingdom’s law against marriage between dwarves and elves. You might run into them in Mirkwood, actually – if they don’t end up banished again.”

“If I come past the Elvenking’s Halls, I’m marching inside and giving Thranduil a piece of my mind on the matter,” said Bilbo.

Dis stepped forward, smiling at him. “You are sweet, Bilbo,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It has been a joy to have you here. Our family will never forget what you have done for us.” Fili and Kili nodded in agreement.

“It has been an honour to be allowed to stay here for so long,” said Bilbo graciously, choosing again to ignore the uncomfortable latter statement.

“Don’t be silly, I am reluctantly allowing you to leave us,” she said. Bilbo smiled.

Dwalin and Balin came down next. Bilbo pretended not to notice Balin’s overly wet eyes, not wanting to copy them. Next came Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur. It had been Bofur whom Bilbo had ended up spending the most time around during his stay, as he was simply wonderful to be around; always finding ways to make Bilbo laugh after such a dark time. He gripped Bofur especially hard when they hugged, receiving hearty pats on the back in return.

Oin and Gloin soon joined the throng, and finally Ori, Dori, and Nori. Now that everyone was there, there was no point in delaying the inevitable. Dwalin and Dori headed over to either side of the gates and hauled the chains that opened them. The gates slowly parted outwards, revealing the bare grounds stretched out before the Mountain. The only things that had been added since the battle were some hastily built pens and huts dotted here and there. Mist obscured the horizon and muted the low-hanging sun’s rays.

Just outside the gates, Gandalf was standing by a cart attached to two horses and laden with all of Bilbo’s things. Bilbo and the company walked forwards into the chilly autumn morning. He reached the cart and loaded the last of his books. Gandalf looked down his long, crooked nose at him with sympathy in his eyes. Without saying anything, Gandalf gently patted Bilbo on the shoulder and boarded the cart. Bilbo turned around to face the fourteen dwarves, who were already huddling around him. They all took it in turns to embrace him (with some coming back for seconds), wishing him good luck and a safe journey.

When it was Thorin’s turn, he murmured in Bilbo’s ear as he held him, “Please write.” Bilbo nodded into the thick furs of Thorin’s cloak. They came apart for a moment. Then, to Bilbo’s shock, Thorin brushed his forehead against Bilbo’s. It was brief, but unmistakeable.

He heard a murmur from the group and hid his face as he climbed into the cart. Bilbo had been around dwarves long enough to know the gravity of that gesture. Bilbo valiantly tried to maintain his composure as he faced his dwarves for the last time.

“I will visit, if I can,” said Bilbo to the group, though he was looking at Thorin. Maybe it wasn’t as impossible as he had been telling himself; he might be able to find a babysitter once Frodo was old enough. Another impulse of irresponsibility might attack him again, and he could find himself running out the door without a handkerchief or a second thought. He would have to try a bit harder to fight these impulses now that he would have a child to look after. But if the last year and a half had taught Bilbo anything, it was that he could never be certain of what he might do next.

“You’d better,” Dwalin growled, and many of the others agreed in mutters.

“And likewise,” said Bilbo, his voice dangerously close to breaking, “you are all welcome at Bag End. Anytime.” As soon as you can, as often as you like, as many of you as Bag End can fit.

Gandalf took the reins and started the horses, guiding the cart away from the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo tried to keep his gaze on the dwarves, trying to burn their faces into his memory as they shrank away from him, but found that his eyes began to well. So, he twisted back around in his seat and faced the road ahead.

As soon as all the formalities regarding Frodo's adoption were dealt with, he had written a letter to Thorin, recounting his journey home, and greatly emphasising that he would love for them to meet again soon. The local postman would've surely fainted if Bilbo handed him a letter addressed to Erebor, so Bilbo entrusted his letter to Gandalf, who claimed he would be flitting to and from the East and West on ‘business,’ and would make sure it was delivered in good time.

Months later, Gandalf returned with Thorin's strangely formal response; that he would like nothing more, but he had to prioritise his duties as king and the ongoing restoration of Erebor. Bilbo understood of course - he had his own duties, what with being something of a parent, to be getting on with. Instead, he kept Thorin up to date with lengthy letters containing details of his contrastingly quiet life in the Shire, and many questions about the wellbeing of the other dwarves and what life as King under the Mountain was like. Sometimes he asked for advice on bringing up his nephew, as he knew Thorin had experience with Fili and Kili.

Bilbo wished for the same level of enthusiasm and detail in Thorin's replies but did not get it. In fact, each letter Bilbo received became shorter and more impassive than the last. Each time, Thorin found excuses to turn down Bilbo's (now somewhat persistent) attempts to reunite, whether it be in Erebor or Hobbiton. Bilbo couldn't fathom why this was. Thorin had earnestly requested that Bilbo write to him. Surely, he was not so busy that he couldn't write more than a few sentences. And if he was, why couldn't he get one of the others to write for him? After four years of this, Bilbo grew tired of how one-sided their friendship had become, and let frustration get the better of him. Halfway through a letter wishing Thorin a happy 200th birthday, he switched his tone and stated that Thorin need not reply if he no longer had the time of day for him.

Six more years passed, and he had not received another letter.

*****

aaaand because theres absolutely no way you could guess whats actually gonna happen in this fic just from the prologue, here’s a cheeky synopsis!

After years of lost contact, Thorin turns up on Bilbo’s doorstep with an awkward greeting and a dire warning. Upon learning about Gandalf’s uncharacteristically sinister plans regarding the ring, the hobbit and the dwarf king decide to take matters into their own hands. But are their hands the safest ones to carry the ring? (Spoiler: absolutely not).

#hope this at least intrigues someone lmao #if ive used a word/punctuation wrong PLEASE let me know i havent gone to school in 3 years #my fic #bagginshield #the hobbit #lotr

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estravens-tits · 9 months

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Hi! I would like to thank you for posting about this book daily, I desperately need content. I have no idea how asks work, but I am curious: when did you first read the book? How many times have you read it? What other Hainish books have you read? Have a nice day!

Thanks for the ask! This turned into a personal midnight rambling, so sorry for the length.

I spent a full year with The Left Hand of Darkness on my to-do list. In the span of that I actually picked up the book and read the first 10 pages on two separate occasions. And then promptly forgot about it. (Luckily I keep to-do lists all around me or nothing would get done.)

I finally read it this May because I had just graduated college and was worn-out after a week of entertaining relatives and fielding questions about when I'm going to get married and what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. I needed a few days to be in another world.

There's some things that you read really fast because you need to see the culmination at the end as soon as possible. And there's some things you read slowly because the experience of the book feels just as important as the ending. The Left Hand of Darkness was supposed to be a short distraction but it ended up taking 2 weeks to read because I needed it for that long.

There's usually an exact moment when I KNOW a book is going to stick with me. For The Left Hand of Darkness, it was in Chapter 6 when Estraven is laying in an Orgota hospital bed, shoeless, homeless, and half dead after his narrow escape from Karhide. An Orgota inspector comes to question him to discern if he should be sent to a Voluntary Farm, but Estraven cannot bring himself to care enough to answer, even though these questions are crucial to his continued living. When asked about his future in Orgoreyn, Estraven simply laughs in the face of the Inspector. When asked how he will return to Karhide, he responds "By coffin."

This scene isn't the lowest point in the book, but I think it IS Estraven's lowest point. He is freshly cut off from everything he loves with no hope of returning and not even the clothes on his back to bring into his new life. It's the only time Estraven, a normally meticulous planner, has absolutely no plans for the future and is so tired of trying to make them that he just gives up and laughs instead.

Though in a very different situation, I felt a weariness of my own while waiting in the lull between college and the rest of life. I was tired of working for a future that never materialized. I no longer had the strength to keep fielding off the urge to just give up, lay down, and die.

There is one thing conspicuously absent in Estraven's life: regret. He does not think about things that could have been different, simply accepts the present and moves forward. In those two weeks of reading, I made a plan for what to do next. Or rather, I stopped thinking that the ideas I already had needed to be perfect before they could be implemented. Because no matter what I plan, things will not turn out the way I want them to. My future will never be what I expect. I have made an uneasy peace with that. Failures are inevitable but my regret about them doesn't have to be.

I would estimate I've read The Left Hand of Darkness 2 times since May, mostly through going back to highlight a section, which turned into reading the whole chapter. Le Guin's ideas have helped me consolidate my own. I have come to believe that uncertainty is a fact of life. But more than that, I am capable of surviving uncertainty, living in it, and enjoying life despite and because of it.

I actually haven't read of Le Guin's other books yet because I think it will be good to have them waiting for another time when I need them. Something to look forward to in the future.

#the left hand of darkness #tlhod #ursula k. le guin #therem harth rem ir estraven #lhod #left hand of darkness #ursula le guin

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anotherhumaninthisworld · 6 months

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How was Danton responsible for the 10th of August insurrection?

According to L’école révolutionnaire des Cordeliers (published both here and as chapter three of Danton: le mythe et l’histoire (2016)) by Raymonde Monnier, ”on August 10, Danton is a key person of the situation created through the insurrection.” As evidence for this, Monnier first and foremost lifts the following decree from the section of Théâtre−Français, signed by Danton on July 30:

The section of Théâtre-Français declares […] that the fatherland being in danger, all French men are called upon to defend it; that there no longer exists what the aristocrats called passive citizens, that those who carried this unjust title are called as much to the service of the national guard as to the sections and the primary assemblies to deliberate there. Signed: Danton, president. Anaxagoras Chaumette, vice-president. Momoro, secretary.

According to the memoirs of Chaumette, Danton was still in Paris on August 5. One day later, we do however find him in Arcis, signing a decree granting his mother a house, seemingly so she had something to fall back on was he to perish during the insurrection.

As for Danton’s role in the insurrection itself, he had the following to say about it during his trial held one and a half year later:

I am accused of having retired to Arcis-sur-Aube at the time when the journée of August 10 was being planned. To this accusation, I respond that I declared at that time that either the French people would be victorious or I would be dead. I ask to bring forward as witness to this fact citizen Payen. […] Pétion, leaving the Commune, came to the Cordelier Club. He told us that the tocsin would ring at midnight and that the next day must be the tomb of tyranny; he told us that the attack on the royalists was planned for the night, but that he had arranged things in such a way that everything would be done in broad daylight and would be over by noon and that victory was assured for the patriots. As for me, I only left my section after recommending to notify me would anything new happen. I stayed in my section for twelve hours straight, and returned there the next day at nine o'clock. This is the shameful rest in which I indulged, according to the report. Danton before the tribunal on April 3 1794, as reported in Bulletin du Tribunal Révolutionnaire

I had prepared August 10 and I went to Arcis, because Danton is a good son, to spend three days, say goodbye to my mother and settle my affairs, there are witnesses to it. After that, I was very much in evidence. I didn't go to bed. Although I was an official at the Commune I went to the Cordeliers. I told Minister Clavières, who came from the Commune, that we were going to start an insurrection. After having arranged all the operations and the moment of the attack, I lay down on the bed like a soldier, with orders to warn me. I left at one o'clock and went to the Commune which had become revolutionary. I issued the death warrant against Mandat who was in possession of an order to fire on the people. The mayor was arrested and I remained at the Commune following the advice of the patriots. Notes de Topino Lebrun, juré au Tribunal révolutionnaire de Paris, sur le procès de Danton et sur Fouquier-Tinville (1875)

On December 12 1793, Lucile Desmoulins wrote a long description over what she had experienced during the night of the insurrection four months earlier, a description where Danton gets mentioned multiple times:

After dinner [on August 9] we all went to D(anton’s). Her mother was crying, she was sad, her father looked dazed. D(anton) was resolute. [Lucile then goes out with Danton’s wife and mother-in-law for a while]. When I returned to D(anton’s), I found madame R(obert) and many others there. D(anton) was restless. I ran to madame Robert, I said to her “will they ring the tocsin?” “Yes,” she told me, ”but tonight.” I listened to everything and did not say a word. Soon I saw everyone arming themselves. C(amille), my C(amille), arrived with a gun!… O God! I sank into the ground, hid myself with both my hands and started to cry. However, not wanting to show so much weakness and say aloud to C(amille) that I did not want him to get involved in all this, I waited for a moment when I could speak to him alone, and I told him all my fears. He reassured me by telling me he would not leave D(anton’s) side. I have since found out that he exposed himself. […] No one in the street, everyone had gone home. Our patriots left. I sat down near a bed, overwhelmed, devastated, sometimes dozing off, and when I wanted to talk, I was nonsense. Madame D(anton) and R(obert) reasoned. D(anton) went to bed, he did not seem to be in a hurry. He hardly went out. Midnight was approaching. One came to search for him several times. Finally he left for the Commune. The toscin of the Cordeliers rang, it rang for a long time! Alone, bathed in tears, on my knees by the window, hidden in my handkerchief, I listened to the sound of that fatal bell. In vain they came to console me, this fatal night seemed to me to be the last! D(anton) came back. Madame Robert, who was very worried about her husband, who had gone to the Faubourg Saint-Antoine as a deputy through his section, ran to D(anton), who only gave her a very vague answer. He threw himself on his bed. One came several times to give us good and bad news. I thought I noticed that their plan was to go to the Tuileries, Sobbing, I told them I thought I was going to faint… In vain did madame Robert ask for news of her husband, no one gave her any. She thought he was marching with the faubourg. “Yes,” she said to me, “if he perishes I will not survive him! But this D(anton) who remains in his bed, he, the rallying point, if my husband perishes I will be the woman to stab him!” Her eyes were rolling. From that moment on I never left her side. What did I know what could happen? To know what she was capable of… We thus passed the night in cruel agitations. C(amille) came back at 1 o’clock, he fell asleep on my shoulder. Mde R(obert) who was next to me seemed to be preparing to learn of her husband’s death. “No,” she told me, “I can’t stay here any longer! Madame D(anton) is unbearable to me, she seems to be calm, her husband does not want to expose himself!” […]

Another diarist who mentioned Danton’s role in the insurrection was Scottish physician and travel author John Moore:

It is not to be imagiened however that [the insurrection] originated in an instantaneous resolution of the various sections of Paris: all had been arranged by a junto of men, of which Danton was supposed to be a leading member, and of whom the electors of the sections were the tools. A journal during a residence in France, from the beginning of August to the middle of December 1792 (1793) by John Moore. Diary entry August 22 1792.

Two other contemporaries who attributed a leading role to Danton, albait much longer after the fact than Louise Robert and John Moore, are Billaud-Varennes and Garat:

After June 20, everyone was making small hassles at the castle, whose power was growing visibly: Danton arranged August 10, and the castle was struck by lightning. Mémoires sur la révolution ou exposé de ma conduite dans les affaires et dans les fonctions publiques (1795) by Dominique-Joseph Garat

Danton, one of the condemned in Germinal, as a member of the Convention, was admirable in his courage and resources in 1792 and 1793. He had made August 10. Note written by Billaud-Varennes in the 1830s

Finally, Villain d’Aubigny also left a more detailed description of Danton’s handling of Antoine Mandat, the commander in chief of the national guards who started disobeying orders during the insurrection, in his Principaux évènemens, pour et contre la Révolution, dont les details ont été ignorésjusqu’à présent: et prédiction de Danton au Tribunal révolutionnaire, accomplie (1794):

I go down into the courtyard, I find citizen Dufresse there, who pulls me aside and says to me: I come from Danton, who, at this moment (around two o'clock in the morning), is at the Commune, to inform you that we have just discovered an infernal conspiracy against the people in favor of the court; that this conspiracy is about to break out; that Mandat, general commander of the national guard, is at the head of this conspiracy […], that during the agitation and confusion that such a discovery had necessarily thrown into the Council, Danton, fearing everything for the people in such terrible circumstances, had hastened to transport himself, with several members of the Commune, notably Rossignol , to the general staff, where Mandat was; that he had summoned him, in the name of the people, to follow him immediately to the General Council, to give an account of his conduct; that this traitor, believing himself certain of the success of his dreadful projects, and still unaware that his treason had been discovered, had had the audacity to reply to him that he did not recognize this so-called Commune, made up of factions and rebels; that he had no orders to receive from it, and that he only held his conduct accountable to that of honest people; that Danton, throwing himself upon him and seizing him by the collar in the middle of his staff, said to him: “Traitor, it will force you to obey it, this Commune, which will save the people that you betray and against which you conspire with the tyrant... Tremble! your crime is discovered, and soon you and your infamous accomplices will receive the price!..." Danton and Rossignol take him to the General Council; he is questioned and shown the order signed and given by him to Carle to massacre the people. He turns pale!... he is forced to recognize it, to confess it... he is questioned about his connections with the tyrant and his court, about their projects, about the number of the conspirators... He declares that the Tuileries castle is filled with Swiss guards and all the supporters of the court; that everyone is armed, as are all La Fayette's friends; that the castle also contains a considerable quantity of munitions of all kinds; that, according to these confessions, Mandat had been placed in the custody of Rossignol and several other members of the Commune; but that Danton, who did not lose sight of the salvation of the people and the liberty of his fatherland for a single moment, had at that very moment given orders to all places where armed and insurgent people were to be found, to inform them of the treason plotted against them, and invite them to remain calm until daylight, in order to avoid falling into the traps that were set for them from all sides.

Within 24 hours of the successful insurrection, August 11, Danton also took serment as the new minister of justice (getting 222 out of 284 votes) which, in his biographer’s Norman Hampson’s (1978) words, ”suggests people believed he had taken a leading role.” Hampson does however also remain hesitant to state we actually know anything more concrete about Danton’s role in the insurrection — ”Nothing is known of what he actually did on the tenth, which has not stopped admirers from giving him a leading role or Mathiez to suggest he stayed out of the way.”

I’ve found an example of the first group Hampson’s is talking about in Danton: l’homme d’État. Centenaire de 1789 (1873). There, the historian Jean-François Robinet, besides bringing up the things already mentioned above, also includes the following part, but without including any sources… :

As soon as the possibility of overthrowing the throne and proclaiming the Republic had been demonstrated to him, Danton worked hard to assemble the military force which was to deliver the death blow to the monarchy. For this, he had put the Cordeliers battalion, which he had wrapped around his finger, into increasingly close contact with that of Saint-Marceau, commanded by Alexandre, and that of the Enfants-Rouges, Faubourg Saint-Antoine, commanded by Santerre. Moreover, he was their deputy, when the time arrived and through the ascendancy that he quickly gained over them, the body of the Marseille and Brest Federates, brought from the barracks of the rue Blanche in Cordeliers and placed, for the fight, under the command of Westermann, with the battalion of the Enfants-Rouges. At the same time, he chose the grievance which was to motivate the insurrection and which had to be high enough to legitimize it in the eyes of the greatest number, namely: the refusal, by the Legislative Assembly, to pronounce the forfeiture of the king which was voted on August 6. Finally, when the time for the fight came, that is to say in the night between the 9th and the 10th, "after having settled all the operations and the moment of the attack", Danton proposed in all sections, through his friends, most of whom were municipal administrators, the appointment and immediate sending to l'Hôtel de ville of commissioners with a mandate to “save public affairs”. He arranged the substitution of this new Council, or of the insurrectional group formed by all these delegates, for the old General Council, whose retreat was obtained by the intelligence he had in this assembly and by the direct action of Deforgues, one of his men, who served as master of ceremonies there.

On September 25 1873, a review of Robinet’s work was published in the journal La République Française. The reviewer declared himself scaptical in regards to Robinet’s take on Danton’s role in the insurrection, but him too without citing sources for his version of the story:

Your (Robinet) dantonist view of August 10 is nothing but a plan de pièce. If we had to stage this great day, we would proceed no differently from you: Danton summons the sections, Danton sets up the day, Danton directs the armed citizens, and we would even go so far as to have him ring the toscin of the Cordeliers with his own hand. This is the drama. But history shows something else. We see there that it was the section of Marché des Innocents which particularly and insistently requested a meeting of commissioners to draw up an address to the armies: we see there that it was as a result of the declaration of the fatherland in danger that the convocation of the sections and the appointment of the commissioners took place; we see that the commissioners gathered by the address to the armies did not find their mission up to the circumstances, and we do not see Danton in any of this. It was new commissioners (which did not include Danton's friends either, except for one, Fabre d'Eglantine), who, on the proposal of their committee, composed of Collot d'Herbois, Xavier Audouin, Chénier, Joly, Tallien and Mathieu, decided that an address for the forfeiture would be brought to the Legislative Assembly; it was Marie-Joseph Chénier (and not Danton) who wrote this address; it was the same Assembly which fixed the day for the taking up of arms, after having heard from the faubourgs Saint-Antoine and Saint-Marceau Huguenin and Lazouski (and not Danton); and if it was decided to march on the castle, it was the Brunswick manifesto which naturally gave birth to this idea in people's heads. Threatened with being decimated, the city wanted to have the king as a hostage. On the evening of August 9, it was decided in the sections that the tocsin would sound at midnight, but the commissioners who were sent to the Faubourg Saint-Antoine to agree one last time, resolved that they would only march in the morning, that 'we would form a surrectional council at Ilôtel-de-Ville, and this double resolution was taken on the proposal, not of Danton, who was not there, but of Xavier Audouin, who represented the section of La Fontaine-Grenelle. This is why Clavières came to warn the leader of the Cordeliers and why he went to bed. As for Danton signing Mandat's death warrant, we don't know what you’re talking about. The cordelier did go to Hôtel-de-Ville for a moment during the night as a substitute for the Commune prosecutor, and not as an insurgent, but he did not have a death warrant to sign. The order to take Mandate to the Abbey (there was no other) was given by the commissioners themselves when they had settled in the place of the municipality, and it was in the morning. This is what history shows. So, you say, Danton did not play any role on August 10? Yes he did, but far from seeing him as having a manifold and absorbing role, we believe on the contrary that his action that day was very limited. After having previously taken part in some of the preparatory measures, such as the distribution of cartridges, the barracking of the Marseillais at Cordeliers, etc, he hardly left his section, where he presided, on the 10th. We would even say that Danton's complete inaction at that time would in no way have surprised or offended us. He was too prominent, and even too hindered by his official functions, to fully act.

Robinet responded to the review in a long article with the title Le dix août et la symbolique positiviste(1873)

…If we take into account the decisive intelligence that Danton had in the Insurrectionary Directory, through Santerre, Alexandre, Westermann, Desmoulins and Legendre at least, and if we accept, according to the historians we have cited, that he attended its meetings, if we remember that he had a higher rank within the Cordeliers battalion, which put up such a good show at the Tuileries under Swiss fire, and where so many of his friends were; if we especially remember that before July 14, at the Jacobins, he had provoked the Fédérés present in Paris, already numbering four or five thousand, to take an oath not to leave the capital until liberty had been established and the wish of all the departments expressed on the fate of the executive power, and that the Fédérés, consequently, had, from the 17th, asked the Legistative Assembly for the suspension of the King and the indictment of Lafayette, in a petition written, it seems, by Anthoine de Metz then president of the Jacobins, and by Robespierre, it becomes difficult to deny, like La République Française does, that he had a part (and a most considerable part in our book) in the formation and the leadership of the armed force which made August 10.

But again, I’m having a hard time actually checking up any of these facts…

#danton #georges danton #i swear studying danton in detail is always just #10% things danton himself actually said/did/wrote #60% contemporaries gossiping about danton #15% historians arguing whether danton was a Corrupt Bastard Spewed up from Hell or based actually #15% other historians saying ”actually we don’t know what the f danton was up to 95% of the time so let’s just move on with it”#i’d even say he’s a harder read than robespierre #frev #french revolution #ask #but can we at least appreciate louise actually said ”i’m stabbing the bastard if my husband dies”#and lucile’s reaction was ”i better keep an eye on this girl or else she might actually do it.”

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vex-cti · 2 months

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[LONGPOST] I just finished... Final Fantasy VII: Rebirth

I wanna write down all my thoughts before I delve into more in-depth online opinions. I'm writing this on the same day as having done the last two chapters of the game, so I may have not had time to process the story completely. However, I've been playing this game for the entire month and I got a lot to say. Obvious spoilers ahead, but I'll still try to keep some things vague enough.

Okay Square Enix, you win, I'll use photo mode

Graphics in video games are like how attractive a dessert looks, it doesn't dictate how it will taste, but it makes you want to try it. Rebirth feels like one of those games that is finally showing what the PS5 is capable of, with environments extremely rich in detail, superb lightning that's both colorful and conveys the right emotion for each scene, this is the prettiest Final Fantasy has ever looked, even compared to 16 which had some optimization issues and dull lightning in some areas, specially towards endgame. No single location in Rebirth feels half-baked, what used to be single screens and flat textures in the original have been completely re-imagined to have their own identity. I will talk about more about the open environments when I talk about gameplay and exploration.

Reliving the moments: Going above and beyond

The cutscene direction for this game is absolutely phenomenal, I love that they have amped up the campiness of the original 7, while also being faithful to the serious and emotional moments. What shines even more in Remake is the excellent writing when it comes to the characters, their performances are full of charisma, and it made it clear to me why the cast of seven ended up becoming so iconic to gaming as a whole. Every scene with these characters interacting, no matter if it was the dullest of sidequests, made everything entertaining. But the best part of Rebirth, like its predecessor, it's when it brings back the iconic moments we all wanted to see. The Junon Parade, Costa del Sol, Red XIII and Cosmo Canyon, Barret and Corel, and many more of these moments have barely altered from how they happened originally, reliving these moments feels like watching a high production TV Series based on a book you loved as a kid. If you love the original FFVII but have no intentions of playing the remake due to how things change, I at least recommend you look up the scenes that do stay faithful.

Some things left me wanting

Still, Rebirth only covers up to the end of Disc 1 section of the story, and has some blatant teases from trailers and the game itself that left me wanting. The Planet's weapons are mentioned and different versions appear, but there's no Diamond or Ruby weapon superboss yet. Both Cid and Vincent make their debuts near the final chapters, but are not playable for now, which left me a little disappointed. And this lets me segway perfectly into the other best part of Rebirth...

Can I just say I love the portraits in this game? Love me some PNGs

When I first played Part 1 of the Remake saga, I felt like I had no idea of what I was doing with the combat, I found the action-hybrid system too complicated and visually cluttered I felt like I was brute forcing every fight and not really enjoying myself. I finished the game and didn't come back to it until early this year where I decided to do Hard Mode for the Platinum, and this time I had a way better time, now understanding the combat system and each fight better. It makes for a flashy, semi tactical game with very visceral and satisfying animations, powers, character building thanks to materia, the importance of positioning, blocking, switching aggro, it felt like the realization of what games like FF12 and 13 aimed to be.

So imagine my surprise when Rebirth made it even better. Fundamentals are still the same, new skills were to be expected, but my favorite new addition are synergy skills. Not only do you get special commands you can perform with your partners in the party with extremely satisfying animations, you also have synergy real time action commands which reward you for being more reactive and agressive, now adding perfect blocks and counters, now every time you play with a different team composition you're gonna feel the difference of having Barret or Red or Yuffie as your partner, as you get access to different skills.

They also help you build ATB for characters not actively controlled at any given time, which is an excellent quality of life improvement. My only nitpick is that despite the menus allowing you to have 3 different party compositions and even allowing you to set the leader for each, Cloud is mandatory. Cloud is of course good at everything, so it's not the worst thing, but it does suck that I can't play as a team of Barret, Red, and Yuffie at any time in the open world. Though you can do that at virtual combat challenges or the colliseum. This feels like an oversight.

Fortunately, this meant I was playing around different characters all the time, because they're all great, and it feels super satisfying to set the right materia for each one according to what you envision them to be and complement their abbilities. Some are obvious: give Yuffie the steal materia, give Aerith healing materia. But who gets to be the mage, the debuffer, the buffer, the tank, that's up to you. I found Red XIII + Darkside materia works extremely well thanks to his Reaper Claw abbility and his health regeneration, sort of like a bestial Dark Knight, great crowd control and support all around. Cait Sith takes some work to get used to, and requires lots of setup, but his luck based gameplay can have some serious benefits, I'm sure he will come in handy in hard mode. Yuffie plays almost identically to her DLC, and she is excellent for handling boss fights with multiple parts or different weaknesses.

Exploring will either be fun or tedious, depends on who you ask

I feel like the other primary component of the gameplay, which is the exploration and traversal, will be a bit more divisive. It takes tropes from standard open world games like towers, points of interest, fast travel, loot locations, hunts, there is nothing new or original about it. However, that doesn't mean it can't be fun. Completing areas feels like I'm playing a collect-a-thon akin to Sonic Frontiers, where while it may not be the most exciting thing in the world, it is very relaxing for me, as I take in the sights and look for ways to get to new areas and find the next rare fiend. What I enjoy about the world design is that areas are not large, but are very packed and designed in such a way where you can't get everywhere by just looking at markers on the map, sometimes you do have to look for clues on the environment to get to where you need to, meaning you're looking at where you're going more than your tracker, which is great, but you still get the benefits of one. So it's a nice compromise, not as open ended as BoTW or Elden Ring, but not as braindead as a Ubisoft game. However, completing these areas can take a while, and if you're like me and plan to do all of them, don't be surprised when each area can take you up to 10 hours if you want to do everything.

"No seriously Cloud, I'm still waiting!" -Sephiroth, 100 hours into your game file

If you remember FF16 (I love that game too btw), you might remember how universally hated the sidequests were, not so much for their stories, but for their large amount and lack of variety. It seems like Rebirth is an active effort to avoid those same mistakes. Most sidequests in this game has you doing something different, have an entertaining story or character development attached to them, or even have you doing something dumb like bringing chickens back to their sweet innocent mother, or following an Ex Shinra employee in some brutal gold saucer challenges. I won't say every sidequest is a winner, at the end of the day, they're still busywork, and never will a game make you feel good saying "Congratulations on your progress, you have unlocked even more sidequests to do!". Still, I have to commend them, they do not bombard you with them, you can do a few at a time and be good for the next area, and the rewards allow your party to access more skills.

They have some of the most fun music too

The sidequest also introduce an excuse to have you do more of the minigames and take on their harder difficulties. And BOY did they add soooo many minigames, I could not believe I was encountering a new one what feels like every hour. There's something both horrifying and admirable about the devs commitment to bring back the spirit of a ps1 classic in this way. Have you noticed that triple AAA games basicly don't do minigames anymore? Yea fishing games are still around I guess, but Rebirth is not ashamed to harken to those videogamey roots and sheer goofiness. Red football, Fort Condor (love the reinterpretation), Super Dolphin Sunshine, and so many more. Enjoy youself with these minigames, and pick your least favorites too because there will be at least one that will make you want to break your controller. Contenders for me are Glide de Chocobo for it's terrible camera, and Gears & Gambits for having an overwhelming amount of Gambits for such a simple minigame (even FF12 had you start with a small amount). Still, there is more bad than good here. What I was not expecting was a brand new card game, akin to Triple Triad in 8 and 14: Queen's Blood.

*Insert Yugioh abridged reference here*

Not only did I not expect a new card game 2 hours into the game, I did not expect it to be so good, and have me thinking about different deck builds, deck synergy, strategies, and ways to one up your opponent with some smart plays. Queen's Blood is an extremely fun time sink and nice break from all the combat and normal exploration. It can be overwhelming at first, and having so many different cards with effects each is a hassle I've seen many not even wanting to bother with, finding some of its rules to be too confusing. I will say that if you're not constantly updating your deck with better cards you won't be making much progress, but you also won't know what cards are better if you don't play enough to get what your objective is, so it's best to start getting into it the sooner you start the game. Do make sure you take note of some of the later puzzles and challenges, as they can teach you strategies to make comebacks on hard duels.Screw the survival challenges, though.

But the journey isn't quite the same, after all

Perhaps the stuff I have the least things to say about, are the new elements to the story, which are more prevalent during the beginning and ending sequences of the game. I was honestly intrigued at the start, the tension and anxiety felt in this unknown timeline Zack has walked into, and the mystery surrounding the true fate of our protagonists, as it shows you bits and pieces of more information the further you progress, I was curious to where things were going. Unfortunately, the ending provided even more questions than answers, and I still feel like it's not as emotionally impactful as perhaps it intends to be, maybe due to the lack of clear information. I understand it wants to keep itself vague with the idea of multiple timelines and universes colliding, or what Sephirot's actual plan is. But it does make things like the Whispers feel even more pointless than when they showed up in Remake, but at least their presence has been reduced, as expected. Areas where changes to the story were most effective were when they were not pointed out to be a product of a split timeline, like the conclusion to the Junon festival, or the Gongaga reactor sections.

But of course, what most people were more curious about, was how was the ending going to change, we all knew it was going to be different no matter what. And while I feel like these convoluted elements do take off some of the emotion of the original scene, there is one element which does seem to align these new events with the emotions of the original: Cloud himself. For he experiences the events of the ending differently from the rest, and it's left unclear how reliable is his perspective. Add Sephiroth's manipulation of Cloud's emotions and he becomes this genuinely creepy and ruthless shell of himself. This new problem does not completely go away by the end, as Cloud is not fully aware of it yet. But with how the new version of the ending has unfolded, it left me with these feeling of doubt and... hollowness, confusion, not sure if to be sad, or hopeful. Which I feel is exactly how Cloud feels as well, as his human nature is questioned.

Despite thinking a faithful story remake would have been more satisfying, I can't deny these new events had me thinking about the story of FInal Fantasy 7 in ways I could connect emotionally to it even more. Perhaps, what this game truly achieved for me, is remind me just how much I love this franchise, for its extremely creative worlds and creatures, to its unique stories and unforgettable characters. Rebirth is a celebration of Final Fantasy, a joy to look and play, to relive and to guess. It's got one more part to prove if these changes to the narrative were really worth it, nonetheless. And honestly, I hope they don't keep relying on vagueness as much.

But when they are not being vague, I promise you, every moment, old or new, will feel exciting.

#final fantasy vii #ff7 rebirth #ff7 rebirth review #review #iranted #now when someone asks me what i thought about the game i can just copy paste this #no but wait then they would find my blog #i did not think this throuuuuuuuugh #i wonder if babyboi will want to ever do a final fantasy marathon with me hmmm i got so much to say about all games #i should also mention the towns in this game are WONDERFUL #and the gold saucer date had me internally sobbing

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sprites-writing · 9 months

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Chapter 13: Vigilante Shit

yeah I know its been like a year whatever

okay notes for this chapter:

1) It's no longer Miss Avocet that Freya found when taking Jake back to the present, it's now Miss Dove in case I decide to continue the series I don't have to work around Miss A being dead

2) I wrote this in less than 24 hours don't judge me too harshly

3) welcome to the wdid revival where its been four years since I wrote chapter one and my writing has improved drastically and I will (eventually) rewrite the first 2 chapters of this

4) also Freya is horny af for Enoch for a good portion of this because I was reminded about how fucking fine Finlay MacMillan is while rewatching the movie to write this

anyways Freya POV, 1523 words, enjoy

chapter 1 chapter 12

Between Miss Dove and Jacob, we were all quickly put to work.

Emma, Jacob, Enoch and I were put in charge of collecting tools for the others while they worked on latching the windows and barricading the doors. In the chaos, Abe’s nightly phone call was forgotten about until the familiar ringing filled the parlour.

The three of us glanced between ourselves before I gently eased the hoe from Jacob’s hands. “I think you should answer it tonight,” I murmured. Looking like he was half in shock, he nodded and quickly scurried off.

“Not entirely sure that was the best idea of ours, but yera, it can’t be worse than all the times we snuck out,” I said with a shrug.

Enoch gave a surprised snort, “Frey, I don't think anything can be worse than that.”

With a knowing smile, Emma took her section of the tools and left the sunroom. Enoch and I both hesitated, the makeshift weapons in our arms a glaring reminder that we were running out of time and yet still we stood there, our soft breathing and the racket from the parlour the only sounds.

“I’m proud of you, y’know,” whispered Noch. “Even if the others aren’t, I am. I’ll always be proud of you.”

I inhaled sharply. For some reason, this moment felt like it was crossing some unspoken line of ours, and it was quickly heading into a territory I wasn’t sure I was ready for.

“And because I know that wonderful brain of yours like the back of my hand, I know that you’re overthinking it but you, Freya Róisín Aoibh O’Sullivan, might have just saved us all.” The way he easily pronounced the Gaelic of my middle names sent a wave of hunger crashing through me. Although this was far from a new feeling for me, it took me by surprise every time.

It was like suddenly every single little thing he had done in the last sixty-five years slammed into me like a train. From the quirk of his lips to the gentle slide of his hand across my lower back to when his shirt was soaking after our weekly swims to the feeling of his fingers tangling in my hair while he slept, it all added up to me pretending like there wasn’t an ache in me that I didn’t think anyone else but Enoch could fix.

He smiled at me like there wasn’t anything different even though he had just added fuel to the fire inside me that he had lit a long, long time ago. As he walked away I stood there, trying desperately to shove the desire threatening to consume me down, down, down to where I could pretend it wasn’t there.

It wasn’t like I was some sort of blushing virgin. I was raised by my older sister for fuck’s sake. With no parents there to beat the fear of God into us for lusting, Máire had a habit of going after the boys around town and, more often than not, they’d end up in her bed. After enough times of Siobhan and I walking in on her, we learned to avoid our small house during the afternoons, instead playing with the other kids nearby. And, although it wasn’t allowed by Miss P, Victor and I found more than enough time to sneak away for an hour or so. Even if it benefited him far more than it benefitted me.

I sighed and resigned myself to the low heat pooling in my gut despite the horrible situation we found ourselves in. Returning to the parlour, I quickly started passing out the tools, trying to not let the way my friends, my family, were flinching as they took the tools, bother me.

Before long we were all standing against a wall, Miss Dove in front of us holding Miss P’s crossbow. “Now children,” she began.

I glanced at Enoch from where I stood beside him, wordlessly asking him if he was alright. I knew this would be killing him inside right now, remembering what happened in his loop in London. He squeezed my hand gently.

I’m alright.

I gave him a reassuring look and turned back to Miss Dove.

“Now that you’re all here, there’s a few rules. Your primary job is to stay safe. Leave the Hollow to me, I don’t want to see any heroics. Now, those of you with garden tools, I must insist that you—” Miss Dove was cut off abruptly as the Hollow pulled her through the window.

A mixture of gasps and shrieks left us as the danger we were in truly hit us. Jacob lunged towards the crossbow she had dropped and quickly aimed it at the window.

I frantically scanned the room, looking for some kind of sign as to where it was only to find nothing. The boards that were left from Miss D rattled as it entered the house, sections falling back into the garden.

As Jacob stood up, Enoch ran from where he was, throwing himself between Jacob and the Hollow.

“What are you doing Enoch?” I yelled. He glanced over his shoulder at me and his moment of distraction let the Hollow grab him.

Never in my life did I feel the terror that went through me as it picked him up. Not when Máire died, not when I killed Millie, not when Miss Gannett found me. The shadows from its tongues were the only thing that let me see what it was doing while he struggled.

I ran towards him, calculating where the Hollow was as I moved. I reached where I thought a leg was, my palm smacking the floor with a force I was only aware of because of the sound. It slammed Enoch into a window, shards of stained glass cutting my skin, desperation stopping me from feeling the pain.

I tried again, my hand aching from missing again as Jacob urged the others to get to the attic. For the third time I lunged, this time half a foot to the left and felt my hand grasp cold, scaly flesh. I squeezed, the Hollow’s tongues dropping Enoch as it died.

Completely forgetting that Jacob was still in the room, I rushed to my best friend. The moment he had stood up, I cupped his face in my hands.

“Are you alright?” He nodded.

I threw my arms around his neck, forcing him to take a few steps back as he adjusted. “Don’t do that to me again.”

“I won’t, I promise,” he said, burying his head in my neck.

We stayed there for a moment, just breathing each other in, until Jacob cleared his throat. With one hand, I flipped him off as Noch gently put me down.

The moment my feet hit the ground, the remainders of the window crumbled. Confused, I looked to Jacob only for him to be staring wide-eyed at the hole in the wall. “Run,” he whispered.

As we rushed to the stairs, the doors to the parlour were ripped off of their hinges, the second Hollow following us to the attic.

Once we were upstairs, Jacob quickly started to figure out a way for us to escape. “Okay. All right, um…” he looked around the small attic, twelve peculiar children watching him.

“Shit! It’s almost reset!” He opened the window, the familiar flashes of the bombs flaring outside. “Fiona, is there anything you can do with that tree?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding.

“Be careful, Fi,” begged Hugh.

Fiona slid out the window and down the slick, steep surface of the roof, landing on the gutter.

Once Jacob said that we were escaping through the windows, I turned to Claire, motioning to pick her up. She leaned away from me. “Claire Bear, I know you’re scared about my peculiarity but we don’t have time. The Hollow will get through at any moment and we need to get you out the window now.”

She hesitantly let me pick her up and hold her as we slid down the roof, the shingles scraping the shit out of my legs as I focused on not balancing wrong and sending both Claire and I to our deaths. Once we were down, I sent her over to where Jacob and Emma stood helping the younger peculiars to the tree branch Fiona had grown.

I turned back to where Enoch was holding onto the windowsill with one hand, helping Horace out the window. When he landed beside me, I yelled over the rain for him to “Go, go!”

“Enoch, come on!”

As he fell down the roof, I grabbed his arm to keep him from falling. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy!” he said. I rolled my eyes at him and started climbing over to the rest of the wards right when the Hollow burst threw the doors.

As carefully as possible, we followed the others down the branch, Emma and Jacob staying at the back to guide the little ones.

Before they even got to touch the ground, the bomb hit the house and we watched as the loop closed.

Pronunciation notes for her middle names and her sisters' names:

Róisín Aoibh: Ro-SHEEN Eve

Máire: Mor-uh

Siobhan: Shi-VON

yeah I'm well aware that that one line about the others flinching away from Freya when she gave them the tools is awkward but I can't be assed to fix it

chapter 14

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marikn · 3 months

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A little snippet from my merthur boarding school au (wip-- fic to be posted soon!)

I mentioned this idea forever ago, and I've been thinking about it nonstop for like a year. Finally, I have enough to start sharing it!

I currently only have one and a half chapters but the plan is to post it to ao3 once I have at least three done. Stay tuned! But for now here's this :)

It had all started over the summer. The Penn family had been seated around the breakfast table, the father at the head, the daughter to his left and the son to his right. Their housemaid had shuffled in at the usual time to deliver the morning paper. As he always did, Uther Penn acknowledged her with only a nod, finished his breakfast first, and then opened the paper to the second page. Anything actually worth reading could be found there, he always said. No use in reading the gossip on the front page. His children often questioned this philosophy, but they had long since discovered that he wouldn’t be swayed from it. They’d developed their own system, anyway. While their father skimmed the inside pages, Morgana’s job was to discreetly read the front page, and Arthur’s was to redirect Uther’s attention when needed by asking about another section. This morning, he’d inquired about sports articles.

In predictable Uther fashion, he grumbled at the question and quipped something about patience, before flipping through to find the newest football passage. It was all very routine. Everything from Uther’s subtle smile as he read the passage aloud for Arthur to hear, to the mid-August breeze drifting through the open patio doors fit into the easy peace of a Sunday morning at the Penn household. The whole thing was so relaxed, in fact, that Arthur began to fall into a daze. The drone of his father’s voice mingled with the birdsong outside to create a lullaby that covered his brain in a fine fuzz. His stomach was filled after his meal and the sweet scent of the garden graced his senses with every gentle draft. His eyelids grew heavy.

It was all shattered in an instant, however, when Morgana dropped her fork. The cutlery made a loud clanging as it struck the plate beneath it, and sent a jolt of electric shock through Arthur’s entire body. All eyes turned to her. Without saying a word, she lunged for the paper and frantically smoothed it out on the table. All was silent for a moment. Then–

“Father,” she whispered, voice tense and eyes wide as they found Uther’s. She turned the paper so both her brother and father could see what she was pointing to.

There on the page, beneath Morgana’s elegantly manicured fingernail:

“—body found in Albion Woods, identified to be thirty-four year old Helen Mora. Police are opening an active investigation to gather information about the deceased and any potential leads as to her cause of death. According to the detectives assigned to the case, authorities cannot dismiss suspicions of foul play at this time…”

Arthur felt his blood go cold.

Albion Woods…

“How close to the school was she found?” Uther took a drink from his coffee, still surveying the article from across the table. There was a pause as Morgana read the passage again.

“They didn’t mention the school.”

“They’ll want to question you, Father,” Arthur said carefully. He, too, reached for his coffee and took a sip. It was cold.

“Yes, I suppose they will,” He reached to retrieve the paper from Morgana. “I’ll have to contact Geoffrey. See if we can mitigate the intrusion.”

“You’re just going to– what– pay them off?” She asked, incredulous. “This could be serious! And you’re trying to hush it up?” Uther didn’t appear to have heard her. He was busy scanning the page again. Arthur swallowed.

“She’s right, Father,” he watched Uther’s reaction closely. “It could look suspicious if one of our teachers turns up dead and we resist investigation.”

“Her death in itself reflects poorly for Pendragon. The last thing we need is an investigation.” His father took a huffing breath and tossed the paper down. He continued to stare at it for a moment, his eyes far away. There was a beat, and then Morgana scoffed and shoved herself away from the table. Arthur watched her stalk out of the room, leaving an uncomfortable silence behind her that engulfed the two still at the table. Uther had reached for his coffee again, and as he took a drink Arthur stared down at his own mug.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you were close.” He indicated the paper with a twitch of his index finger. Uther smiled tightly and dipped his head. Then he called for the maid to clear the table and Arthur excused himself.

#merlin au #merthur fic #merthur au #merlin #bbc merlin #merlin fic

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zealouscanonindeer · 1 year

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8. Nocturnal visit

Series Masterlist

Emily Cartwright:

His hands were shaking, just a bit. I could hardly avoid noticing, after all, but I decided not to remark on the fact, for his sake. Overall, his manner was very businesslike as he unlaced me, working as quickly as he could, I expect, to avoid prolonging the moment. Of course there was nothing I could say or do to make him feel any more comfortable about it, let alone informing him that he would most likely have to cinch me back into the infernal device in the morning! Instead, I attempted a bit of small talk.

"That had to be the worst cup of coffee I've had in a long time," I observed, and he paused briefly in his task.

"Even so," he replied, continuing with the laces, "I wish you had managed to drink more of it. We both need to remain alert tonight, in case our nocturnal visitor comes."

"It tasted like mothballs," I countered, taking the first remotely deep breaths I'd been able to since that morning. "I know all about suffering hardships for the sake of polite society, but there is only so much I will endure."

"Such as a corset, I suppose." There was, I noted, more than a hint of irony in his voice. At least he was starting to see the humour in the situation.

"You know," I replied, half-turning to glance wryly over my shoulder, "If I weren't so fond of you, a remark like that would have earned you an elbow to the head."

He glanced up, his mouth twisting (through whether it was twisting up or down wasn't readily apparent) and his voice as neutral as only he could manage. "I'm honoured to have earned milady's approval." He returned his attention to the eyelets. "I'm nearly done… There."

Now freed of that modern curse of ladyhood, I took a few moments to work the kinks out of my complaining spine, and then pulled my robe on to spare him any further discomfort.

"Now, tonight," he continued, "before you turn in, make certain that the door and window are securely locked. I suggest you try to stay awake if you are able, and listen for any intruders. I shall be right next door in the study, keeping vigil, so if anything happens, just shout and I shall come immediately." He paused, and then looked me in the eye. "Do you have any questions before we take our respective posts?"

I didn't, so he returned to the study. I set to work kindling a fire in the hearth, both to warm the room and to test Horatio's story about the hearth's temperament. Once the fire was kindled and crackling comfortingly in the hearth, I checked that the door was locked and the window latched and shuttered. Finally I climbed into bed with my physics book to read myself into sleepiness. I was not, however, planning on getting much sleep tonight.

Sherlock Holmes:

After I concluded with that disagreeable task, I left her to finish her nocturnal ministrations and I mine. As I pulled on my dressing-gown over my night-dress (so that if anything happened to attract the attention of our hosts, we could at least put forth the illusion that we'd both been sound asleep in the same bed before they arrived), I noticed from the corner of my eye a book on one of the shelves that hadn't been quite pushed in flush with its neighbours. I pulled it off the shelf and glanced at the cover: _Herbs and Herbalism_ was the title. I lit the hooded lantern I had packed, setting it on the floor by my feet, and sat down in the wing-backed chair, stretching my slippered feet out towards the fire, to examine the book further. I noticed almost immediately that a localised section of the binding was weakened, as though the owner of the book had read a specific chapter repeatedly. I set the book, spine down, in my lap and let it fall open where it would, which turned out to be at the opening of a section entitled "Valerian", and started reading.

I do not remember exactly when I drifted off to sleep, the book still open in my lap.

Emily Cartwright:

When next I awoke, the room was deathly cold and pitch black; the fire had obviously gone out, but I had other concerns at the moment for what woke me up was a small shuffling sound, like someone trying to make no noise at all. I remained where I was, feigning sleep and hoping that I was just hearing things or, if not, that it was just Holmes checking on me. No – I couldn't delude myself on that, for the stealthy sound had come from too near the bed.

An icy hand brushed my left breast through the material of my nightgown. I drew breath to scream but my attacker's other hand clamped quickly over my mouth while the first hand grabbed my breast more forcefully. I grabbed at the arms holding me down, trying to push them away, but leverage was not in my favour and the Ghost, whoever he was, bore down more forcefully. In the process, the hand that muffled my screams shifted slightly so that the heel of it was now pressed up under my nose.

I couldn't breathe.

The bastard was trying to suffocate me!

Anger and desperation lent me new inspiration, and I started grasping about beside me, trying to find my physics book, which I remembered I had set on the bed beside me before extinguishing the lamp. My fingertips found it at last and I clawed it towards me until I had a secure grip on it.

Force times velocity… the phrase surfaced in my terrified brain as I swung the book as hard as I possibly could at the spot where I judged the Ghost's head to be. As the book connected, a terrific shock jolted up my arm, and I heard a stifled grunt. I swung again, and those terrible hands were off me. I kept swinging blindly until my numb fingers lost their grip, and I felt the book tumble into the corner.

Not knowing if the Ghost was still there, not knowing if he was hurt, or angry, or stunned, I filled my lungs and screamed with every ounce of strength I could summon.

Sherlock Holmes:

The sound of screaming from the bedroom tore through my slumber like a sharp knife through paper. Fear, dread, dismay – all these threatened to immobilise me, but I pushed them aside, snatched up the lantern (which, thank God, was still burning) and launched myself from the chair, causing the book I'd been reading to topple gracelessly to the floor.

I was through the connecting door like a shot, un-hooding the lantern so that I could see any intruders. To my frustration, I saw none – but I did see Emily, looking very fragile in her nightgown and still screaming with such terror that I knew that I'd been only moments too slow, and I saw her beloved physics book lying near the wall under the window (which, incidentally, was still closed and shuttered). I set the lantern on the bedside table and took her by the shoulders in an attempt to jar her from her hysteria – only to have her lash out blindly, clawing at my face. I seized her wrists, but she continued to struggle.

"Emily – Emily!" I said sharply, trying to bring her out of her shock. "Look at me!"

Her eyes seemed to focus then, and she stopped fighting me. Seeing that I was no longer in immediate danger of being blinded, I released her wrists. Almost immediately, she flung her arms around my neck, hugging me tightly with the grim desperation of a drowning woman.

I felt absolutely wretched. It was largely my doing that had landed her in the situation, and then I'd further betrayed her by falling asleep – falling asleep! – when she'd trusted me so implicitly to keep watch on the bedroom where she'd been sleeping – where she'd been attacked.

The only thing I could do now to salvage the shambles I'd made of the investigation was to find out what she remembered of her attack. However, I needed her relatively calm in order to question her, and pushing her away while she was in this state would have been heartless and thus quite out of the question. Instead I held her close – feeling the violent trembling in her limbs, her heart hammering frantically in her breast, and her breath, warm but shallow, against the side of my throat – and did my level best to help her re-gather her scattered wits.

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bottlecaprabbitgames · 1 year

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Weekly Update for 3 April, 2023

Hello, everyone! Welcome to the first weekly update of April!

Mind Games: Trepidation

So, where are we with MG:T?

As of earlier this week, I fully finished fleshing out Scene 1/4 of Chapter 6! I'm also on the very last choice of Scene 2 and it'll be finished, but it is a rather varied section as it changes depending on a choice you made earlier in the chapter, so it might take me a hot second to finish it off. Very exciting, however!

I'm also half-way done with Scene 3's roughdraft, and then all we'll have left is Scene 4, but Scene 4 is an alternate POV so there likely won't be any choices to write, just some variations, if any. We have only a little left to get through, so I'm very hopeful that Chapter 6 is still on track to be released this month!

Chapter 6 is also sitting at a little over 10,000 words! My goal is to hit at least 12,000, but I do feel this will be a shorter chapter, which is totally fine! There's quite a bit I want to go back later and add to, but for now, I am happy with how things have gone so far. Super happy, actually, as almost all the choices I've written so far will have impact as the series progresses, either from you guys setting up more customization or by what you choose to reveal... or keep hidden. And some other interesting things, hehe.

But, overall, I am very satisfied with how Chapter 6 is progressing, and it will all be released as one major update (might also add some other stuff to update along with it, maybe more achievements, other stuff tbd). We will be following the same update pattern as last time: Patreon, Discord, public. I'm really excited to get it out to y'all, as the friend I drop snippets to and discuss stuff with to brainstorm has been STOKED the entire time we've talked!!

Now, as a fair warning, progress this coming week is very likely to be slow. As I posted on here before, my mom has only been home a few days after a 16-day stay in the hospital as she developed gangrene near her broken hip, and she has a lot of care we have to give her. I'll be going this week to finish my training on how to change her bandages (I actually know how to do it, there's just one specific part I'm not so good with, so her wound care nurse is gonna make sure I have that down pat), as I will have to do so on the weekends and any day her home health nurse or wound care nurse are unavailable. Quite a bit of pressure!

And, I also know most of you guys are aware The Wayhaven Chronicles by the amazing @seraphinitegames (just in case you aren't) has its third book releasing this week, and I am gonna be very honest, I'm gonna be absorbing it through my very eyeballs LOL. I am going to be diving in whole-heartedly to enjoy Mason's route and possibly A's or Nate's.

I've also really been in the mood to play games lately, so I'm planning to take time out to indulge a little bit, as I took a good... 5? 6? months or more away from gaming much outside of recording, and given I have Fatal Frame 4 and the OG Resident Evil 4 to lets play... WELL, I am definitely considering dropping loads of time into both and just relax when I can this week!

Alright, I'll see you guys next Monday!

#weekly update #mind games: trepidation #mind games #interactive fiction #if

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ninjathrowingstork · 2 years

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Not Quite Free

Chapter 4: Indexed

Sierra Six|Court Gentry / OFC

(What the fuck am I doing? Oh shit, shit shit!) The muffled “thud” of palms smacking the steering wheel was accompanied by a frustrated goan. “This is so dumb. This is dangerous. He’s dangerous.” She’d been talking to herself half the drive, and Tori still hadn’t managed to talk herself out of the near-panic. It had hit her, driving out of the parking lot, just how much had happened since only the night before, and despite having slept and awoken and had food in that time, the delayed reaction, like her adrenaline drop that had only hit once she was back at her hotel after the park shootout, had finally hit once she was really alone again. (I’ve got a motherfucking CIA hit man asleep on my sofa. Ex-CIA) she corrected herself. He’d made sure to mention that. (And something about having outlived his usefulness). Good lord it was like something out of one of the yellowing paperbacks she’d borrowed from her Dad’s shelves as a kid. Was any of it true? (He could have been anyone that day, then showed up because he crossed the wrong person and made that whole story up because I demanded answers. ) But still.

She kept turning the questions over as she stopped by the office, empty and silent on the weekend. As she collected papers and left a note reminding her team she’d be out the next week, once the project was done, all she could think of was his intense eyes and how he’d looked at her. The way he’d looked at her with questions or confusion, or, the one that both made her uncomfortable and willing to keep this dangerous stranger (dangerous, *handsome* stranger) a traitorous part of her brain filled in, in her home, when she’d stopped him from actually fucking sewing up his own side with one good hand or cleaned away the caked blood from his bruised face or every other time she’d offered comfort or basic-ass hospitality and he’d had that look like he was confused anyone would offer to help him. Parts of his story kept running through her head as she picked up canned and packaged foods, some fresh produce she knew they’d need for the first few days up in the cabin, and then a stop to the toiletries aisle, remembering the man on her couch.

“They used us”, he’d said, “indentured servitude”, whatever that meant. (Goddamned spy fuckery), whatever it was hadn’t been good, she knew that much. Not for him. Something else he’d said, or rather the spaces between what he’d said was bothering her, as she threw items into the cart in the clothing section. Sure, doing wet work for the CIA was going to be unhealthy, long-term, and sure any structure built around a chain of command would do things to the idea of free will, but what the hell did he mean by “indentured”? (Those scars, some of them. . . ) some were old , and while she thought one of his tattoos was familiar and went along with his history of covert, deniable killing, if she was right then the puzzle of a man stretched out on her couch was even more worrying. (That scar on his wrist, I’d swear that’s a burn. Did someone brand him?) It, too, was old, but for some reason the shape brought back hazy memories of playing in a parked car with her siblings as a kid while they waited there, the light golden and dusty and then. . . what? (I’ve seen that before but where???).

Another stop for a few more things. More questions. (Whatever the fuck he’s been through could follow him here. I should have let him walk out earlier) She shuffled through a rack of jackets. (No. This is the right thing to do. ) And that was it, right there. It was possibly bringing whatever world of danger he’d stumbled out of and into her life again, but something about the places he’d been and people he’d worked for was off just going from his responses to her help, and he’d told her he at least wanted to be one of the good guys, so there was no way she could kick him out, even if that’s obviously what he’d expected. And it was, maybe, also a little easier to decide because under the damage from what must have been a savage beating and the exhaustion, he was hot as fuck. (Ok yeah, he’s def fine as hell). The long, jagged scars carving down his arm she’d seen while helping him change the night before did nothing to diminish the smooth, powerful grace of his build. His hair had dried from the washing the night before to a sandy blonde, and the morning light had turned it into strands of gold spilling over his face as he’d blinked awake up at her from the makeshift bed on the floor that morning. She’d been honest with her reply, though, he really did look like death warmed over, though.

Shopping completed, somehow she stuffed all the bags together into the car. (Fuck that’s right, was he also surprised when I gave him a shitty sick bed on my floor? Did he think I’d leave him to go to sleep on that chair?) She had friends who were vets, and there were some active duty guys at her gym, and even they were normal, mostly. Old habits and shit they’d brought home, but she’d guess that at least most of them wouldn’t try to hobble out the door on a bum ankle like that. (Listen girl, you’re not keeping the hot, injured stranger around just because he looks at you like that.) “Or because he’s got the driest, most surprising sense of humor you’ve found in ages,” she added aloud. It was the right thing to do, she told herself as the car pulled back into the lot. The rest didn’t hurt, though. Danger be damned she’d make sure Court was ok as long as he’d stick around. This man had been through hell, she was sure of that, and been through too much with no backup or help once the danger had passed (did it ever really pass, for him?)

By the time she’d made the trip back to the elevators, passing the spot he’d stopped her only the night before, where his blood had been streaked across the wall, she’d made her decision. He’d limped back into her life, and dammit she wasn’t going to let him disappear again into some corner to recover from his injuries alone.

The air in the apartment was still when she opened the door, dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun filtering in at an angle through the window. Silent. Calm.

“Court?” She called softly, rounding the corner and approaching the sofa. Hopefully he really was still there and (he’d better have goddamn listened and not tried to-)

“Hrrmh?” Came the groggy reply.

He was there, still stretched out on the cushions, a book he must have pulled from the nearby shelf open face-down on his chest as he groggily blinked awake at her. At least, this time it looked like he really had been sleeping, unlike that morning when she had a suspicion he’d already been awake before she’d arrived. “Oh thank fuck, you’re still here.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up in his half-smile. “That’s a nice change to how you usually greet me. And I thought you’d wanted me to stay here?”

“Well one of us gets to be predictable then, and yeah I did?”

“You acted surprised I was here?” He half-sat up, staring at her, carefully moving the book to the floor.

“Yeah, I didn’t really expect you to actually listen to all that earlier.”

“Oh.” He dropped back onto the pillow with a small grunt at the impact. “Well I’ve already been on the wrong end of a manhunt before, didn’t care to repeat the experience and have you tracking me down like this to drag me back inside, so staying seemed the better option.”

That drew a grin from her (goddamn this man) as she deposited several of the bags in her arms onto the coffee table before ferrying the rest the short distance into the kitchen, to leave them on the table. “You know, you’re a lot funnier than I’d expect from an ex-assassin.”

He gave a half-shrug with his good shoulder as she returned. “Hey I try, you do what you’ve gotta do to keep things fun and stay sane. Most of the agents who ran me didn’t appreciate it though. Too serious.”

There was more there, she knew, but if she kept poking it’d only lead to more pain.

Instead, she hooked the straps of the surplus duffel, hoisting it onto the coffee table. “Before we eat, this is for you. Tori slid the bag across the table to him as she walked around, before fishing inside for what she’d tucked on the top. “Here,” setting the item in this outstretched hand, she watched Court’s eyes go wide. “Prepaid phone, you mentioned having someone you were also trying to protect and I noticed you didn’t have a phone with you and I’m about to kidnap you into the mountains I thought you’d like to let them know you’re ok. . .” she cut herself off, realizing she was rambling. “Anyway, there’s enough loaded on there to last you a while. The number’s on the packaging. . .”

He was still staring at the phone, wide-eyed, then with a groan swung his legs to the floor and pushed himself to sit upright. As he turned the phone on and the small chime of it turning on sounded, she again trailed off. Focused on the device, he punched in a number and she started fishing the paper take-out containers from the other two bags while it rang. As soon as it connected and he heard the speaker on the other end’s voice, the blonde man’s shoulders sagged, eyes shutting in relief. “Hey, Claire? Yeah it’s me, I’m still alive.”

(Claire? A girlfriend? Wife?) She’d had no expectations someone in his world would have a partner, but had to fight down the sudden thought. (Stop it, you had to reason to think he was single or that he’d be more than the hot stranger on your couch.)

“Yeah, kid, it’s good to hear your voice too.”

(A kid?) Letting them talk, she went back to the kitchen to grab the last bag of supplies she’d bought for him.

“Hey, yeah I’ll come back as soon as it’s safe, but things got a little too exciting taking care of those guys and I’m gonna need some time- no, it’s not as bad as last time, I’ll be ok, I promise.” There was a surprising gentleness in his voice. “But I’m somewhere safe for now-” at that, he glanced up at her, half-smiling, “-and I’ll be laying low for a few more weeks so you hang in there. What’s that?” A pause. “ A spy show, huh? Yeah I’ll give it a try, if you think I’ll like it. Hey, I can’t talk long, but this is my number for now, if anything happens.” He leaned back against the cushions with a sigh. “Yeah. Miss you, too.” And with a beep, the call was ended and he gently slid the phone onto the table. “Thanks for that.” There was that look again, and he looked like one more worry he’d been carrying had been lifted.

“Who’s Claire? I know, I shouldn’t pry, but-”

“No that’s fair, with everything you’ve done” He ran his fingers through his hair,thinking. “She’s. . . she’s the niece of the guy who. . . recruited me. Got me out of somewhere bad.”

Her eyes flicked to the tattoo on his right hand, hoping he didn’t see her looking (the five dots, yeah I think I can guess where he was before). She wouldn’t ask yet, though.

“He was raising her, and the closest thing to a family - to a dad - I had in. . . Well, it was a really long time.” Court sighed, leaning forward to rest his good arm on one knee. “Anyway, he died and I’m all she’s got left. She’s all I’ve got left. Got her somewhere safe,and I was leading the folks after us away when. . .” He gestured vaguely at his injured state.

“So. . . you’re basically The Witcher?” She grinned at him, breaking the serious mood.

“The who now?”

“You know, book series, famous monster hunter warrior guy, gets handed a kid to raise as his daughter by Destiny after her grandmother dies? Anyway, there’s a show, maybe we’ll get to it while we’re at the cabin.”

He half-smiled back. “Claire told me about this other cartoon, something about a spy family she said I’d like.”

(Ok yeah knowing their story that’s a good one.) “That’s definitely appropriate for you two, it’s a good show. Anyway,” she waved at the full duffel still sitting on the coffee table, “that’s for you also.”

Leaning forward, he started digging through the duffel. The amusement from a moment before faded into something unreadable as he dug out the couple of pairs of joggers and sweats and pajama pants, tshirts, a hoodie, and, at the bottom, a green flannel jacket. All the softest fabrics she could find, and all neutral earth-tones and blues. He held up the small bag of toiletries she’d included, staring at it with what uncomfortably bordered on awe. “Tori, this is. . . thank you. Again.”

“Hey, I did say I was getting you more clothes."

"I thought you meant a new set, something to get you your brother's stuff back." He looked thoughtful, his own words hitting him as he continued to dig through the bag.

"Court, we're going into the mountains for at least a week, you're gonna need more than one set of clothes. Your old pants and boots can be salvaged and used once you're up and moving again, but until then you can at least be comfortable."

"Oh." He looked consideringly at the bag, then stared hard at her, before looking back down at the bag of clothes. " Oh. It's uh, it's been a while since I was anywhere long enough to need to do laundry."

It was stuff like that, he said it so casually but it always hurt to hear him say. (When was the last time he called anywhere home?)

He kept digging in the bag, holding up a plastic-sealed package.

"Like the rest, I got the sizing off your other clothes. Hope they fit."

Raising one eyebrow, he glanced back at her, the smile returning to his eyes. "Hey I thought you weren't looking last night."

Despite herself, Tori could feel a slight blush creep into her cheeks. "I did still have to help you change, and couldn't help noticing."

With a smile, he tossed the pack of boxer briefs onto the table with the rest of the clothes.

She watched silently for a moment as he re-packed the bag with a methodical efficiency, fingers lingering just a moment on each piece. She’d guessed right, she mentally applauded past-her’s observations. (Two times doesn’t mean always, but last night’s tactical gear and the plain, sturdy stuff he had on when we met didn’t seem that comfortable for convalescing. Sure some pieces were a little pricier, but damn they’re worth it for him to have something nice.) It was an odd realization, that he wasn’t used to having anything soft near him, but (he was so grateful for that spot on the floor and to get to sleep on the sofa. This man clearly isn’t used to expecting anything more than what’s just necessary to survive, and-)

“Tori?” The question cut off her musings as he again inspected the bag of toiletries again. “One question, why. . . sasquatch?”

That drew a surprised laugh from her. “Hey, it’s good soap and I wasn’t gonna get you some ‘ten-in-one all uses’ stuff, this stuff smells like pine trees and is gonna be nicer on your skin and hair.”

Court’s half-smile as he considered the products was thoughtful. “Hey, that’s my favorite type, there. Less to pack, less to leave behind.”

There was also pain there, but instead she stood, leaning to unpack the bag in front of her. “Well, you’re gonna like this better. And while you’ve got that all out, I thought you might wanna shower before we eat, since the food’s gonna get cold if we wait too long.” A jerk of her head indicated the paper containers at the end of the table. “And I picked up stuff to waterproof the bandage over your stitches.”

He leaned forward to inspect the boxes and plastic-wrapped packs, hair falling over his forehead as he agreed (which she very much did not want to reach out and tuck back into place), and somehow they got him to his feet and moved to sit on the kitchen table (and she tried not to feel the warmth of his bulk leaning on her shoulder or his uninjured side beneath her hand where she braced him).

With a sigh, he gathered up the hem of the borrowed shirt to reveal the bandaged wound. “Here, I’d do it myself but then you’d just yell at me again.”

The man seemed serious, but by now she could hear the joking tone in his voice. Grinning, she crouched to inspect the bandage. The gauze she’d taped down showed a few red spots, but he hadn’t bled through; her stitching had held. She told him as much, “another non-expert opinion, but it looks like the stitches are holding and you’re not gonna bleed out again.”

“That’s good, don’t know how much more I’ve got left to lose in me.” The edge of his mustache quirked with the small grin.

“And I’m running out of towels for you to bleed on.”

“Sorry about- hmm.” He grunted as she lightly swatted him on the leg.

“Hey, those were my towels and you not bleeding out was more important.”

He was still grinning that half-smile of his, but he seemed almost. . . surprised. (Yeah, tough guy, I give a crap about you not dying.) She wanted to reach out, to hug him, when he reacted to basic kindness like that, but (keep it together, you don’t know him that well yet.) Instead, she reached out to gesture at the hem of his shirt. “Here, I can help with that also.

“You want me to. . . take off my shirt?”

“No, I want to help you take off your shirt. Court, last night you could barely raise your hurt shoulder to take the old shirt off alone, remember? You’re about to shower so let me at least help you again while we’re here, ok?”

He looked away, not meeting her eyes. “I’m not. . . this isn't the first bad fight I’ve been in, Tori.”

“You mean the scars?” Ducking, she tried to catch his eye. “Court, I helped you off with your shirt last night so yeah, I’ve already seen them.”

“Should have known you looked at those also.” It was a thin attempt at a joke.

“I saw the scars, I saw your ink, it’s nothing shocking, so will you let me help you do the same thing now that you’re not about to pass out?”

With a sigh, he agreed, and together they peeled off the borrowed shirt. Six sat, hunched, shirt bunched in one hand and the other hovering protectively over his wounded side. On anyone else, she’d have said they looked. . . scared? He stared at her, challenging, questioning. “Well?”

Now that she had a chance to actually look , now that he wasn’t on the edge of consciousness and she wasn’t caught up in the urgency of the moment, she finally could appreciate just how built the man was. Tall, muscular and powerful with a smooth grace, the scars strewn across his pale skin doing nothing to detract from just how beautiful the man was. (Well I think you’re unfairly hot and just where did you come from and how did you end up here in my kitchen?) That’s what she wanted to say. “Well what? You got your shoulder torn up and didn’t have anyone yelling at you to let her sew you up, is all. You’re not terrifying or horrifying, Court.” Much more diplomatic.

That seemed to satisfy Court, for the moment, and he allowed her to stretch the waterproof strips over the bandages on his side and forehead, before supporting him around the corner and down the hall to the bathroom. A quick trip back to the living room, and he had the new toiletries and a set of clothes. The mischievous grin returned, and he glanced over at her as she pointed out the towels she’d left for him. “Thanks, and I think I can take the next part of this from here.”

With a short laugh, she closed the door behind him.

As the sounds of the water running began, she turned covering the remaining distance down the hallway to her room, where the door was closed, like when she’d left it,

Something was different, though. Crouching down, she picked two small small objects up from the gray carpet. Bobby pins, the clear plastic ones that she’d found were the only type to match her hair. She’d wedged them into the doorframe before she’d left, an old spycraft trick she’d done half as a joke, half to see if he’d actually stay on the couch. (They blend into the carpet so he might not have seen them, or else he knew they fell and left them so I’d know.) Know he’d gone into her room. Easing the door open, she checked that everything looked like it had when she’d left. She made her way back to the living room, scooping the food up and sticking it in the warmer drawer so it didn’t congeal by the time they sat down, and putting away the last of the perishable goods for their trip.

Back in the living room, she picked up the book from the floor where it’d been forgotten, and grinned at the title he’d chosen. As she turned to set it on the coffee table, something else out of line caught her eye. One of the game boxes lined up by the console under the TV had been moved. The sound of the water cut off just as she was picking up the slim plastic case from where it now rested, on top of the row. Grinning, she set it by the book, on the low table. (Thought just his tattoo was in Greek, didn’t guess he’d actually go for the Ancient Greek stuff also.)

“You were right about the soaps, you know.” He’d managed to move so quietly, even on the sprained ankle, she hadn’t even heard him open the bathroom door.

Trying to hide her surprise, she turned to see her guest, still shirtless, leaning on the wall by the opened door. If it hadn’t been for the still-fading bruises and the long strip of bandage running up his side, she’d almost have thought he’d just walked out of a magazine shoot, with the water still beading on his hair and skin finally free from the last traces of blood and grime. She hoped, distantly, that he took her staring for surprise at his entry, and not her staring in awe at his physique. Somehow, despite the injuries, he’d showered so quickly, barely more than a few minutes she’d guess. (Was that out of necessity, or because he was limited for time before?) “The soaps?”

“Yeah, I can’t say I’ve ever smelled this much like a pine tree before, except for that time with the pine sap and the Bulgarians. . .” he trailed off. “Long story. Classified.”

“Of course, classified.”

“Anyway, that was. . . nice.” Holding something out to her in his good hand, he gave that little half-smirk. “You wanna help me back on with my shirt now?”

She didn’t, really , he looked perfectly fine with just the soft pajama pants, the waistband untied and riding low on his hips and skin still glowing from the shower, but she did anyway, helping him hobble to the table again, carefully peeling away the bloodied dressing. He watched ,silently, as she worked, examining the line of black sutures running down his side.

“You know, for someone who’s never sewed anyone up before, you didn’t do a bad job.”

(That’s right, he wasn’t watching as I worked last night, he was too out of it by then.) Um, thanks. I’m honestly just grateful they held and you didn’t bleed to death on my kitchen floor last night.”

“I’m grateful for that, too.”

As she helped the injured man slip the fresh shirt up his arms and over his head, she tried not to think about all the videos she’d watched learning how to stitch someone up. Then she noticed how the dark green fabric of the shirt clung to his broad shoulders and chest and fell to drape softly over his muscular stomach, and she tried to only think of the videos again. Excusing herself to go retrieve the elastic bandage he’d left in the bathroom, Tori took the moment to remind herself that he was hurt and needed help and this was not the time to get distracted by his physique. His ankle had turned an even darker purple since the night before, matching the deep shade of his blackened eye. Carefully, she rewrapped the ankle and only his quiet grunt as the bandage compressed the swollen joint showed how much it hurt.

“Ok, we’re almost done, and then you can get this propped up again.” Collecting the old dressings and the packaging from the supplies, she turned to go throw the mess away when a hand on her wrist stopped her, pulling her back around to face him. His expression as he stared down at her from his perch on the table was unreadable, but there were mixed questions and a longing that made her stomach flip.

“Tori, why. . . why are you doing this?”

“Patching you back up? Or helping you get your shirt back on?” She was pretty sure what he was asking wasn’t that, but dammit she was going to make him say it.

“No, why. . .” he shook his head, pausing for a heartbeat before meeting her eyes again. “Why are you helping me? This is way more than I asked for, more than I deserve. I could have people on my tail now, dangerous people, and you’re putting yourself in the line of fire just having me here.”

“Again.”

“What?”

“I’d be in the line of fire again, remember?”

His shoulders drooped slightly at her reminder. “Yeah. That’s what happens around me.”

“Hey, we got through that last time, if anyone shows up now you’ll be able to get us out of danger again ok?.

He looked away, unconvinced.

“And for why I’m helping you,” she reached up, gently touching his cheek where the bruise was beginning to spread already, nudging it until he looked back at her. “It seems flippant to say that it’s because you have to even ask that question, but really it’s because it’s the right goddamn thing to do.” That was what she’d decided really made her keep him here, to order this strong man who’d been through unnamable hells to allow her to make his recovery from the latest one a little easier.

Eyes narrowing in skepticism, he shook his head. “No, no one does-”

“Court, people really do just do things because they want to do something nice for someone, ok? So just let me do this? Please?”

He let out a deep sigh, his fingers unwrapping from her wrist as he finally nodded in assent. “Even after I told you what I was?”

What. What, and not who. After what he’d told her before, the words set off more alarms for her. (The way he acts whenever I just do something kind for him, with anyone else I’d be asking if they needed help and a friend to get them out of there quickly) Quickly tossing her armload into the trash, she returned to gently lay a hand on one shoulder, hooking the other thumb over her shoulder. “That guy, the one who wrote the book you had out, he said something about how evil begins when we start treating people like things, and you’re not a thing, ok?” She let her voice slide lower, softer, pressing on before he could reply. “I know what you told me you did before and I know that life couldn’t have been very forgiving, but you came to me for help and now I know you’ve got a kid out there somewhere wanting to know you’re ok also, so I’m gonna make sure you’re safe and have time to recover so you can see her again, alright?

“But you don’t know me.” His voice was barely a whisper.

“I know enough.” Once more, she touched his cheek, making him look back at her. “Anyhow, danger has a way of bringing people together and since we’ve been through a shootout together already,” she shrugged one shoulder as she reached for the last item she’d bought for him, “after that we’re practically best friends. And anyhow, I did invite you over, so you’re a guest here.

Hearing his own words echoed back finally made him grin again, breaking the seriousness.

“And I doubt you’ll be that thrilled with me either, once I make you wear this.” Hoping she’d finally lighten the mood, she brandished the item.

“A shoulder sling? Tori. . .”

“Hey it’s supposed to take a couple of weeks at least for a dislocation to finally heal, with whatever shit you’ve done to the soft tissue, so yeah, at least once we’re on the road.”

“I don’t-”

“Yeah, you’re gonna wear it, and at least give that shoulder a rest for a few days.”

The seriousness of a moment before banished, she got him to slide back off the table, and supported him across to the sofa where he was again installed, now sitting with his bad ankle on a pillow on the coffee table. It felt like hours had passed since she’d gotten home, by the time she retrieved their food from the kitchen and had it set out to eat.

He stared in amusement at the food, raising one eyebrow at her. “Comfort food?”

Laughing, she replied that yes, it was tomato soup and a deluxe grilled cheese sandwich. “Swung by my favorite place, and even though I know you’d eat anything, it’s hard to go wrong with their sandwiches.”

“Does yours have. . . fruit?”

She grinned, humming happily as she bit into the melted cheese. “Yup, brie and sliced apples and fig jam.” It was bliss. “No one else does these. Wanna try?”

They ended up swapping sandwich halves, and Tori grinned wildly as he tried the unusual combination, his eyes sliding shut in bliss. “Good, right?”

“Yeah. Good”

As they ate the sandwiches and soups (his, tomato and basil, hers, broccoli and cheddar which she very much kept for herself), they slid into an easy conversation. “So, enjoying the book?” She gestured at the hardback, still sitting among the lunch debris.

“It’s. . . different.” He half-grinned over the cup of soup at her. “Cursed or not, I think there are worse fates than being made postmaster instead of getting executed.”

“Probably,” she considered, “and probably worse bosses to have than the Patrician.”

“He actually kinda reminds me of someone I used to know, only a little more. . . terrifying.”

“Yikes.” Her eyebrows rose slightly.

“Oh, he was ok. Got me through a lot of shit. Got me into a lot of it himself, but nothing I couldn’t get out of,” he added.”

“Yeah that sounds about right for the character.”

“Also, Moist?”

“Yeah,” it came out as a laugh.

“After ‘Moist’ as a name I can’t say the one I grew up with is that terrible.”

The one he grew up with, she noted. Definitely more there, for later. “What, Court?”

For a moment, he looked down into the soup, paper take-out cup cradled in his left hand where it rested in his lap and stirred the contents. “Courtland. It’s short for Courtland.” He looked up at her, ruefully. “Been a long time since anyone called me that, also.”

Ignoring what layers of meaning could be there, she raised her own paper soup cup in a toast, “Courtland. You’re right, that’s still a sight better than ‘Moist’”.

He glanced at the book again, where it sat, and she offered it for him to take on their trip, since it seemed unlikely he’d ever ask on his own. “You’re welcome to read whatever, and if you like that one I can recommend others of his. Got some fun ones about assassins,” she grinned mischievously.

“Speaking of assassins,” he reached over, grabbing the green plastic case from the table. “Really, Tori? I’ve known a bunch over the years, and I don’t remember any of them having a ‘creed’”.

The casual way he said it had her lunging to set down her soup before she spilled it, as she exploded with laughter. “I was wondering if you were looking at it because of that, or the Greek thing!”

“Greek thing?” He cocked an eyebrow.

“You know, the ink,” she waved at his arm. “While I recognize some of the letters, I don’t actually read Greek, and didn’t know if it was, you know, a thing.

Following her motion, he looked down at the writing on his forearm. “Oh. Sisyphus. He’s, you know, the guy pushing the rock up the hill because of the gods.”

“Yeah, and as soon as he gets to the top it slips and rolls back to the bottom.” Her voice was soft as she replied. “A punishment from Zeus for twice trying to cheat death.”

Sadly, he looked down at the box in his hands.

"You wanna play?

That got an eyebrow raise and another small smile. “The last time I played a video game, the woman was shaped more. . . triangular,” and he drew the pointed shape in the air, drawing a laugh from his companion.

“Yeah, we get a ton more polygons in boob mechanics now.”

“Anyway,” he slightly raised his injured arm, wincing, “I’m still winged, so why don’t you play instead.”

He tossed the case to her, and she caught it before it landed in her lap. “You wanna watch me, then? She winked.

It was his turn to grin, “well when you say it like that. . .”

Eventually, they got the food remains picked up and everything arranged, and her chair slid around beside the arm of the sofa where his pillow from the night before still sat. As the opening music began, she felt some of the tension from the past eighteen hours finally melt away. Starting up a new save file so he could see the story from the beginning, she easily slipped into the first tutorial battle and setup and choosing her character.

“Wait, so you can play as either character?”

“Yep, same story for the brother or sister, only which character takes which part changes.”

Court seemed interested as the story unfolded, shaking his head in amusement as she climbed very naked giant statues, exhaling in what might have been his laugh at her battle antics and praise of how magnificent her character looked.

He stilled at the first flashback scene, the little girl training to fight with a spear with her father,

“So she’s Spartan?”

“Yeah, that and Sparta are pretty important.”

“They look like a nice family.” There was something in his voice. “Until something happened?”

“Yeah, something happened.”

She played as the afternoon slipped by, the golden evening light slipping away as she finally accepted a mission to kill a Spartan general, and then the flashback faded in. It was the same as each time she’d played before, the Spartan leaders preparing to throw a baby off the cliff, the child version of the character trying to save their sibling and accidentally killing them and an elder, a tender moment with their father as voices called for him to cast out the child, and then the heartstopping moment when he flings them off the cliff. And then, the line that always got her and she spoke along with the warrior on screen, “the Wolf of Sparta is my father!”

Beside her on the sofa, Court had gone very still. He was staring at the TV still, but she wasn’t sure he was actually seeing it anymore. As the titles to the game rolled, she lowered the controller into her lap. “Hey, wanna take a break?”

Wordlessly, he nodded yes.

(I thought something in the game might get him to tell me more about himself, but I didn’t expect him to look like. . .) She didn’t know what to name it, except perhaps reliving a flashback of his own.

She ordered pizza, somewhere she didn’t have a usual order they’d notice was different, and while they waited she flipped over to a show and watched another of her favorites, one, she explained, about a found family of thieves and a hitter for hire working together to help people instead. Eventually, the food came, and they ate quietly as the show played. The evening passed, the leftovers packed away, and she helped him up to use the toothbrush she’d included in the toiletries, before returning him to stretch out along the length of the sofa again.

“Tori?”

As she returned to her seat, she glanced back over at his upturned face. “Yeah?”

“This is. . .nice. Thanks.”

“Court, I-”

“The pillow, I mean. They don’t issue them like this to us assassins.”

That drew another short laugh from her. His hair had flopped over to lay on the pillowcase, and she found herself once more wanting to stroke it as it shone in the low lights. The episode finished, and another started. Eventually, his breathing changed, deep and steady in slumber (I should probably call it a night, also.)

About to retreat back to her own room, she looked back at the sleeping man one more time. He looked so peaceful, asleep. He’d seemed more relaxed as the day went on, and now, asleep, the last of the wariness and guardedness had slipped away. Putting aside any thought about how his boyish handsomeness must have helped with his old work, she instead reached over, finally running her fingers through his hair, stroking back the strands that had fallen into his face. “Good night, Court.”

It wasn’t until she’d crossed the room when he muttered a soft, groggy “that felt nice.”

“Shh, you’re sleeping.” Grinning back over her shoulder at him once more, she headed for her own bed.

The next morning, she quickly finished packing, saying how she wanted to get an early start driving for the cabin.

“And you’re sure we’ll be safe up there?”

She gave him a look. “Court, I’ve spent enough summers up there to know the terrain and we’d know long before we got there if anyone was following us.”

Sighing in frustration, he flexed the fingers of his bad arm, where it sat in the sling she’d coaxed him into wearing. “It’s just. . . I was trained to be a very good killer, and it’s just,” he paused, rubbing his eyes, “I’m usually the one checking if a location is secure, ok?”

He didn’t like this vulnerability, she realized. He was probably not used to being unarmed and having to take someone else’s word someplace was safe before he could let his guard down. He’d trusted her here, but now that he’d had a day to rest. . .

(I know what’ll help. He can for sure use it better than I can.) A moment later and she’d returned to the living room, watching his eyes widen as she set the locked black case on the table in front of him, opening it up to show him the .22 automatic inside.

“Where was this. . .”

“Where was it yesterday when you searched my room?” She finished, grinning at him.

“How’d you know?” One-handed, he’d scooped up the weapon and glanced up from his quick inspection. “And this isn’t a bad piece.”

“Thanks, that’s another of the changes from after the first time we met. And you missed the clear hair pins in the doorframe. Old spy trick I’m surprised you missed.”

“Yeah, well they don’t train us to look for hair. . . stuff, I guess.”

“And the gun was in my headboard, where I keep it now.”

He nodded in approval, setting the gun back into its foam nest in the case. “That’s coming with us?”

“It is, thought you might want the added security up there.”

Watching her stand, his calm professionalism from a moment ago slid back into the look of surprised gratitude. “I- thank you.”

Eventually, she’d moved both their bags out to the car, along with the supplies and the gun case, carefully hidden under the bags in the back. There were more, she explained, that had been left there the night before, but most of what they’d need in nonperishables would already be up at the cabin. Finally, the last step was moving him back out to the car. With his zip hoodie draped over his bad shoulder and sling, a cap pulled down low over his eyes, a single flip-flop on his good foot, and sporting the joggers from his bag, he looked like the farthest thing from a CIA-trained killer.

“What?”

She tried, and failed to hide her grin as she looped an arm around him and they began the journey down to the car. “Just thinking how you look so different than the last time we came this way.”

“I think most looks would be an improvement on being half dead in my own blood.”

“And I think you look kinda adorable like this. In sweats, I mean, not the still bandaged up part,” she added.

That got a grin from him in return. “That’s also better than ‘pathetic’, so I’ll take it.

They made it, slowly, out to her car, and he leaned against the side as she fished the keys from her pocket to unlock the doors. She’d left him propped by the trunk, and he looked almost surprised when she reached for the front passenger door.

“So not the trunk, then?” She really couldn’t tell if it was a joke or not. "If anyone's watching for me. . ."

“Nah, that’s what the hat is for, anyway it’s already full.”

He gave the trunk door one more look before allowing her to help him into the seat. “Had to ride back there a time or two, never very comfortable, so thanks for this.” And still, it might have been a joke.

Finally, they were out and on the road. (Once we’re out of the city, we’ll be safer. It’s a four-hour drive there.) She thought of the five dots on his right hand. They’d rung a bell before, and she’d confirmed the night before. Prison ink, and she was pretty sure the one on his left hand was as well, though the meaning less sure. (We’ve got a long drive ahead of us and I’ve got more questions for him to fill the time.)

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