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cybertied · 3 months

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How I Make These: Part 1

General tips and learnings

There’s a limit of 30 images per post so I’m splitting this into 3 parts:

Part 1: General tips and learnings

Part 2: Sample prompt development

Part 3: Sample prompt development (continued)

First, a word of caution

If your prompts get blocked too much you can start to get account suspensions in increasing severity (ranging from 1 hour to 24 hours to indefinitely). If you care about your account, be careful with this. This guide runs through my process and learnings but I don’t take any responsibility if you run into any issues with what you do with it.

Intro

These are my learning and tips for making AI images of guys tied up in different bondage situations. If you’re reading this, I assume you’re into something similar. Everyone has their own preferences and this is biased towards mine but if you like something else, maybe you can use the tips here to generate the kind scenarios you’re interested in.

I’m constantly getting messages about how I make these and can’t spend so much time responding to each one individually anymore so hopefully this helps you or is maybe just interesting. I know this is rather long, but if you can’t handle going through this, you may not have the patience for dealing with Bing.

Also, if you’re from Bing and find this, please don’t use this info to make the system smarter and prevent my tips from working 😁. But please do see my note at the end about my feelings towards Bing’s content policies which basically shame certain lifestyles.

Some quick FAQ responses

What platform do you use? I use Bing for everything. It’s the only generative AI platform I’ve messed with. The quality is good and the interface is easy but the content filter is really sensitive and incredibly inconsistent.

Will you make me an image of (specific scenario)? Likely, no. This stuff is personal and everyone has their preferences. It takes so much time and trial and error to get good images and you only get so many prompts each day that I don’t want to spend time on things I’m not interested in. But maybe these tips help you make your own!

What’s your prompt? I get asked this a lot without a specific image cited. I’d need a specific example to answer that. But I don’t save all my prompts and I’ve made thousands of images so it’s really tough to go back and find stuff. I can maybe try to give pointers but I probably can’t give out exact prompts.

How do you get past the content filters? That’s really tough to answer because it’s so contextual for each image (as you’ll see in my tutorial later) and it takes a ton of trial and error for each one. But the example process I show a bit later highlights a lot of the principles and my process. It really depends on what you’re trying to do but I’ve shared a lot of my main strategies here.

How the content filter (maybe) works

It’s important to understand how things get blocked so you can work through it. Here’s how the content filter seems to work after entering a prompt from what I can tell:

If you immediately get a blocked message, you either used a keyword it doesn’t allow or your phrasing wasn’t accepted. Variants of the word “hogtie,” for example, frequently get blocked immediately. But sometimes it gets through if it’s within certain contexts so it doesn’t seem like an absolute rule where certain words are never allowed (I’m sure some words never are but I don’t get that explicit with stuff).

If the image starts to process for a bit and then it gets blocked with a message, it seems like a bit more analysis is performed and your phrasing was deemed bad in some way.

And finally, if you get the yellow image of a dog, I believe the images got generated but some final image analysis step was performed to check for questionable material (this comes up later in some of my tips) and blocked it.

On a related note, you’ll get 1-4 images from a prompt. I could be wrong but I think when you get fewer than 4 images, the omitted ones were blocked. And you get the dog if all were blocked. But this is just my assumption. They throttle traffic occasionally if too many people are using it so maybe fewer images get generated during peak times to save on computing usage.

And like I said, it’s really inconsistent. Things get through with one nationality of rugby player but not another. Or a gag will work on a football prompt but not rugby. Or it’ll work one day and not the next. So it all takes a ton of trial and error. Even just changing the ordering of words can impact things going through or getting blocked.

General tips

Be careful not to get blocked too much if you care about your account. You could get suspended for an hour, then 24 hours, and then permanently (which can be contested). If I’m getting blocked too much, I’ll just start doing safe prompts for a bit and then try again later.

I’d recommend starting with a prompt that creates your scene and character but without any bondage elements. Sometimes even physical attributes (like “shirtless” or “leather”) can get blocked so you can at least perfect the general look and remove variables to start isolating which words or phrasing causes blocks. If you write out a full long prompt and it gets blocked, you’ll have no idea which parts might be objectionable.

Once it generally looks how you want, slowly introduce whatever bondage elements you want one at a time. This allows you to see what gets through and what gets blocked.

Context really seems to matter. If you provide a reason for a guy being tied up, even if it’s ridiculous, it has a much better chance of going through. For example, “a guy is sitting on a wobbly chair so he’s tied to the chair to prevent him from falling off.” Or, “he’s sitting on a high rise patio so he’s tied to the chair to keep him safe from falling.” Or, “he broke the good gymnasium rules so the referee tied him up.” The reason can be nonsense but if it fits the context, it frequently works.

Be descriptive. The word “gag” I assume will always get blocked. But describing one frequently works. I have some tips for this later.

Similarly, I’ve noticed that just “rope” gets blocked a lot. But adding descriptors that fit the context might get through such as “wrestling rope,” “athletic rope,” “tactical rope,”or even just “jute rope”.

Consider workarounds. “Sweaty” or “wet t-shirt” might get blocked. But if you set the scene on a rainy field, a humid office, or a damp storage room, the result effectively will look the same. Or “wearing a speedo” might get blocked but if you create a situation where that’s likely such as “in the 1950s at a Palm Springs resort, a handsome guest sits by the pool” might result in a speedo image. (This is a hypothetical example but I had one like that work.)

If you’re getting that dreaded yellow dog image, sometimes crazier image effects can help get it through. Like I wrote earlier, I believe this occurs when images are generated but evaluated one last time for content. I’ve found that if an image has more visual “noise” going on, it can be harder for the system to detect issues. Dramatic shadows, water droplets, lens flares, vibrant high contrast lighting, etc., all seem to help make images more likely to render. Unfortunately I don’t always like the look of these things but it seems to help and I’ll take it.

Getting good hogtie images is probably the most challenging prompts I’ve tried and I only occasionally get lucky with it. Even when it accepts the word “hogtie,” the guy is usually not hogtied.

On that note, be aware that prompt descriptions are frequently ignored. For example, I’m constantly writing “…with his arms behind his back” and frequently his arms aren’t as you’ll see later.

Getting good images with multiple people is really tricky. Often, the same character will be used for multiple people in the image so you end up with what looks like twins or triplets. And large groups of people tend to look like weird and lack detail from what I’ve experienced.

One way I’ve found success with people looking distinct from each other is if there’s an inherent contrast between them such as a player/coach situation.

I assume the word “gag” is always blocked. But describing them works sometimes. And as you’ll see, sometimes I can’t get them to work at all.

Tape gags are probably the easiest to get.

Cloth gags such as bandannas or scarves also frequently work with with language like “he has a red bandanna wrapped over his mouth” but often it looks like western train robbers masking his face rather than being a gag.

For ball gags, I usually do some variant of “his mouth is open with a small (color) ball (held, strapped, buckled, or wedged) (between his teeth or inside his mouth)” and sometimes I’ll tack on “with leather straps”. Different combos of those words tend to work but some situations will block all of them. It’s really inconsistent.

Costumes can be useful. Sometimes it won’t generate a particular character. I was trying to make a Captain America image and kept getting blocked. Then, instead of referring to the man AS Captain America, I tried describing a man in a Captain America costume and it worked.

I’ve found that different elements of a prompt get mixed up and jumbled. Coaches tying up an athlete frequently have rope wrapped around their wrist. I was trying to make a Deadpool and Wolverine scene and Deadpool would almost always have Wolverine claws. It’s incredibly difficult to get images of football or rugby players ball gagged because the gag will just be a ridiculous large football or rugby ball. Or having a guy tied up with rope and ball gagged with a leather strap will frequently make the leather straps rope instead. I’ve been trying to make a good image with a cyclist in it but it always includes the bike in really awkward ways. Anyway, just be prepared for mix ups like that.

Related to that, keep in mind that a computer needs to interpret what you write. The ordering of words may really matter. Like, I’m sure if I wrote, “deep in the ocean, a man is on a submarine,” the AI would probably know to not literally put the man on top the submarine. But you could avoid that ambiguity by writing “inside the submarine.” Or, “atop the submarine” if you really did want him on there. I’ve occasionally run into issues where I write something like, “…he is tied up to the chair with rope…” and although he would be tied to the chair, there’d be extra rope hanging around him oddly or bundles of rope around him… he’s literally, physically “with rope.” You could avoid this by writing something like “he is tied with rope to the chair.” I probably forget to do this but sometimes when I notice some oddness, it’s from this type of issue.

I've had a really hard time getting good, nuanced facial expressions. Any descriptor I use tends to be comically over dramatic. Still working on this.

Also, the maximum character count is pretty limiting so you kinda need to decide which parts you want to specifically describe the most.

Some thoughts on Bing

Here’s my soapbox. It’s incredibly frustrating to use. I get that Bing doesn’t want to allow ANY kind of image to be generated. But honestly, it feels like it’s judging and shaming alternative lifestyles. I can only imagine how much more difficult it is generating images of women. And while I know this stuff might feel extreme or shocking to some, but it’s generally pretty vanilla within the world of BDSM. I’m not trying to do anything sexual or with nudity. Guys tied up and gagged have been portrayed in western, spy, police, historic, comedy, adventure, and action TV shows and movies of all rating levels for all ages since the start of the mediums. It’s ridiculous to block this stuff. And I’ve seen some questionable stuff get generated. I simply wanted the guy to have darker hair and skin so I used “Mexican” as a descriptor and the image generated was frankly a racist stereotypical depiction. My prompts are always describing grown adults and one image was a young child which was disturbing. I had another prompt that was working with “Scottish” and when I switched it to “Brazilian” to mix it up, that got blocked. Why does Brazilian automatically get blocked? While I understand the need for some moderation, it seems like they should focus on other areas.

Now let’s try all this out to develop a sample prompt

Continued in part 2

#gay #men tied #men tied up #guys tied #guys tied up #ai generated #prisoner #guys in distress #restrained #captive #captured #roped #roped up #ropes #gay ai

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 2 months

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WIBTA for asking my roommates to clean more?

🫧 🧽

context: I have two roommates. we’re all students in our early 20s; I’m one semester into my masters and they’re sophomores in undergrad. we have a two-bedroom student apartment—they share a room while I rent a private one—with a kitchen and living room + dining table. it’s probably relevant that we didn’t know each other beforehand; these student apartments just placed us together. we’re amicable and have a gc for logistical stuff but don’t really talk.

and the thing is they just almost never clean. I clean the fridge and counters, sweep, swiffer, take out the trash, 80% of stuff. they’ll clean the stovetop or microwave when they need it immediately, or take out the trash when I ask, but that’s it. (one of them has left dishes in the sink or a full week and only did them when I asked bc it was literally starting to smell.) I try to sweep/vacuum/swiffer once a week, but unfortunately don’t have a strong routine.

but…. you can see the dynamic here. and honestly I’m dissatisfied with the current level of cleanliness, I’d prefer if they did the dishes more often, and if we dusted the blinds and clorox-d the trash can once a month or smth. unfortunately we never did any kind of roommate agreement or chore chart when we moved in. I thought about bringing it up in January with the start of the new semester, but ended up not…. I figured I didn’t wanna push it and it was unlikely to change their behavior.

ultimately WIBTA for expecting them to clean to my standards, esp now in February?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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cripplecharacters · 10 days

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Hi! I’m writing a story about a lady with Down Syndrome. I was wondering if you knew where I can find any resources about Down Syndrome made by people who actually have it, or any organisations that would be good to follow. Any resources made by people with intellectual disability would be really helpful as well.

I read your post about this and it was really helpful so thank you, I’m going to use it as a starting point for my research.

If you’d like some context about the story she’s literally a lady in the 1920s who’s trying to get control of her family’s estate from her brother. Shes underestimated for her disabilities and for being a women but I’m trying to not focus so much on the discrimination and work more on giving her an interesting mystery to solve with the detective she hired. I’d like it to be a bit lighthearted. Anyway, as she’s a main character I really wanted to make sure I wrote her well. Thanks!

Hi!

There aren't many resources out there unfortunately, but there is a page on the UK Down Syndrome's Association's website where members with DS share their opinions on representation in TV and film! You can read it here. For info on intellectual disability in general the best I can do is link some of my previous posts on it - there's close to nothing that's actually made by us unfortunately, everything that I was able to find is always made by someone who knows a person with ID at best. To be clear, not all of it is bad - I thought this interview (TW for abuse that happens in the movie's plot) about a movie starring actors with DS was pretty good - but it's still a sign that we aren't getting enough #OwnVoices representation. It's slowly changing though!

To learn more about DS I would probably recommend NDSS, it's one of the very few orgs that have people with Down Syndrome as board and team members (should be the bare minimum, but it unfortunately isn't). There's also information on things like preferred language and myths that often show up around Down Syndrome!

I'm not great with history, but in the 1920s she would be a subject to a lot more than just discrimination. Eugenics and institutionalization would definitely be present. Not sure what route you'll take there, but basically all the words around that time that she would be described with are currently considered slurs or pejoratives. The racist term for a person with Down Syndrome was officially used into the 60s, and the ableist one is still used legally in 2024. But if you want to skip past that, I think that's more than fine. You don't always have to aim for 100% historical accuracy, just be aware of the real history.

A detective story sounds very exciting! If you decide to publish it on Tumblr or other online site feel free to send me an ask with a link, I'd love to read it :-) !!

Thank you for the ask!

mod Sasza

I’m just popping in as a history fan for a couple bits of history notes — but again, like Sasza said, you don’t have to be 100% historically accurate if you don’t want to and if you don’t feel it’s necessary.

So, especially in the first half of the 1900s, a large part of disabled children, including children with Down Syndrome, were institutionalized very early in their life. Around this time the push that immorality caused disability was strong, and people were often convinced by doctors and professionals that the children’s needs would always be too much for them. Eugenicism was sort of reaching a peak around this time, as well—I would say it was at its most intense in the period of 1900-1940s.

Not all parents institutionalized their children, though. There was pressure to do so, but that doesn’t mean everyone fell victim to it. There wasn’t really any official support for parents who did this, and there weren’t official organizations for Down Syndrome. From my research, the current large DS organizations seem to have popped up in the 60s.

The term ‘Down Syndrome’ wasn’t in popular use until the 70s, and it wasn’t known that it’s caused by an extra chromosome until 1959.

Life expectancy in 1900-1920 for people born with Down Syndrome was 9 years old. Some of this could absolutely have been due to conditions in institutions, but likely even more relevant is that about 50% of people with DS are born with heart defects (also known as congenital heart disease) that can be fatal if not treated with surgery. Heart surgery wasn’t really feasible until the late 30s and early 40s. Another risk factor is a higher risk for infection, which isn’t easy to manage in a world that doesn’t yet have antibiotics.

I actually wanted to find pictures of adults with Down Syndrome pre-1940ish, though, to see real tangible evidence of adults being part of a community. First I found just one picture of a baby in 1925 on this Minnesota government website. But then I found a collection someone made of photos of both children and young adults, but they are not specifically dated. The first baby picture is from the 30s according to the poster!

Judging by the clothes I see people wearing in these photos, photo #4 (man with Down Syndrome in a suit next to a woman) seems to be from the 20s and photo #13 (young woman with Down Syndrome and very long hair) seems to be from about the 1910s. #18 (large family with a lot of sons, including one boy with Down Syndrome) could be from the 30s. Those three are the oldest people with DS in the photos, and they seem like young adults. A lot of these pictures show a community and aren’t just isolated kids, which I find nice.

It’s hard to find specific historical record of people with Down Syndrome from that period of time, but I wanted to show photos of real people in their communities to show, hey look! They were there, too!

Either way, I love detective stories and historical fiction and I’m glad you’re writing a story and that you care about your character’s portrayal but I totally know the feeling of that tricky balance between historical accuracy and modern acknowledgement that we should have been doing better.

— Mod Sparrow

#mod sasza #mod sparrow #intellectual disability representation #historical fiction #pretending that this answer isn't extremely late.. sorry #tw eugenics #tw ableism

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sleepingdeath-light · 11 months

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romano smut hcs ; 18+

requested by ; anonymous (17/05/23) [2/2]

fandom(s) ; hetalia

fandom masterlist(s) ; here

character(s) ; romano vargas / south italy

outline ; “hullo!! This is for UCN!! Don’t see much Hetalia content here so let’s change that shall we >:3 I’d like some relationship headcanons for Romano :D he’s so skrunkly and I love him so much (and also someone made a “most attractive guy in Hetalia” competition here and Romano’s beating the absolute shit out of every dude he’s up against xD) If it’s not too much to ask maybe we can have sfw + nsfw? 🥺 (I’m 21!! Sorry if that’s weird-)”

warning(s) ; sexually explicit content, public sex acts

minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

he has super sexually sensitive thighs and groping/biting/kissing them is guaranteed to make him moan

very vocal in the bedroom both in the sense of talking a lot and in the context of just generally being very loud

swears a lot when he orgasms

very big on dirty talk and slips in a lot of praise — also alternates a lot between english and italian in the moment

extremely possessive and won’t even consider the thought of bringing someone else into your sex life or sharing you at all

very easy to fluster if you tease him by brushing your fingers against his cock and thighs over his clothes and whisper in his ear exactly what you need

wouldn’t send nudes but would be happy to receive them, always responding with a filthy compliment in italian

clothed grinding and thigh riding are extremely common types of foreplay with him since there are times when you’re too horny to get fully undressed and just need some quick release before the main event

he has a lot of toys that he enjoys using on you and is happy to go shopping for more if you see something you’d like to try out

big on doggy style and the concubine positions, but he’s also happy to fuck you against any sort of surface that’s closest to you at the time

his high libido means that if you let him, he’s happy to take you anywhere and everywhere

empty office/meeting rooms, any room in the house, alleyways, in the garden, in a tent or in your car, etc.

loves going down on you but prefers to have you straddle his face when he does (not a fan of kneeling)

has a shocking amount of stamina and can go for a while, but usually stops after two rounds because you need to recover

he’s about average in length but incredibly girthy

bath or pool sex would be something he’d be up for

has a slight thing for bondage but he can take it or leave it based on your preference

loves covering you in hickeys but will get super flustered if you leave any on noticeable areas on him (namely his throat)

#sleepingdeath #gender neutral reader #smut #smut hcs #minors dni #minors fuck off #hetalia smut #hetalia x reader #romano vargas x reader #romano vargas smut #hetalia romano x reader

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undercoverpena · 1 year

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More Helen x Ghost pleaseeeeee

sometimes, I am merciful

Simon Ghost Riley x F!Reader

Word count: 1k

AN: mentions of a wound and dressing it. fluff-ish (probably more than I’d like but it’s been a day and a half and I needed this too). Helen isn’t readers name, read Helen.Simon for more context. take pity on me, I wrote this on my phone (: but hope it’s okay, anon.

+++++++++++

“Helen,” he hisses through gritted teeth.

He clenched his other fist, the bones on the glove cracking under pressure. He’s trying not to stare at you—fearful you’d turn him into fucking stone.

The look on your face is still etched into his eyelids. Eyes flicking from him to his clearly bleeding hand, a mixture of relief and disappointment he’s come back with another scar you’ll obsessively try and heal.

Your grip on his hand tightens, wrenching it closer. “Keep still, Casper.”

He doesn’t hate it. The grip you have on him. Both literally and figuratively. Even if he doesn’t fully understand the ifs, buts and how’s of it all.

But he doesn’t fucking hate your new pet name. The one you’ve clearly thought about over the thirty-six hours he’s been gone.

He’s had it for all of fifteen minutes and already cannot stand it. But he refuses to ask for Boo.

Instead, he puts up with it. Letting you relish in inflicting your own choice of torture.

Because if you’re calling him a friendly ghost, it means you’re still calling him. Still talking.

He’s learnt how painful and torturous your silence is. A punishment he’s not sure he could handle on such limited sleep.

Sighing, he blinks. Purposefully blanking his face, letting his eyes soften and settle.

Then he wills your eyes to meet his.

If you were anyone else, he’d command it. But that doesn’t work on you. Not unless he says it softly, not unless shards of him are breaking off and you take pity on him.

Look at me. Please look at me.

You don’t.

The scent of antiseptic, vanilla and blackberries meets his nose, mixing with the smell of blood, dust and death he’s brought with him.

He prefers your scent. A perfume he struggles to remove from his casual clothing and his bed sheets. Not that he complains. He’d never complain.

If he had his way, the scent would be burned into his skin. It keeps him rooted and reminds him of the truth in all the lies that his brain conjures when insomnia strikes.

Helen. Look at me.

You don’t. You’re too busy using all of your focus as you dress his wound. Your delicate fingers slide the bandage around his palm, silently judging, silently tutting as you work your magic.

He knows you’re pissed—before you start muttering and tutting. You weren’t half as gentle with the needle as usual. Not even muttering an apology when you’d stabbed it a little too hard.

If it weren’t inflicted on him, he’d have egged you on. Rather liking your conniving ways. On him, not so much. Even if he can tell, you’re getting some sick satisfaction from making him wince.

But he needs your eyes.

He’s missed them.

“Sweetheart…”

It comes out stern and quiet, but it forces your chin up. Those big beautiful eyes land on him, and they feel like the sun.

At first, they’re soft, all kindness and love. In one blink, they’ve shifted. Scolding him, attempting to peel back his mask and scorch his face.

Fuck, you’re beautiful.

“A rusty knife? Really, Simon?”

“Better my hand than my neck.”

You clamp your mouth shut, hiding insults and your wicked way with words from him. The fact you do annoys him more than the coward who tried to stab him.

“There’s a choice to choose neither, you know,” you whisper, continuing to bandage his hand, focusing on the bow. “Could come back to me with just bruising and cuts. That’s a choice too.”

You tighten the final part of the bandage more purposefully, him biting back a wince as you look up at him again. The anger softens, sadness replacing it. A look he instead fucking hates, even if he’s the one who put it there.

“I’m never leavin’ you.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” you say, pushing back on the wheels of your chair for more distance, “Because if you considered it, I’d hunt you down. Hell or high water, I’d find you. And, let me make this crystal fucking clear, Simon Riley. I am both.”

He wants to lift his mask.

Show you the prize of his smile.

But he can’t risk it. Not here, not in the middle of your medical room that people barge in and out of.

It doesn’t matter how often the two of you try to steal moments; life has a way of ripping them from your grasp. But it doesn’t stop him from trying.

Instead, he grabs your leg, pulling you, pleasantly surprised you don’t fight him as you wheel between his legs. Your annoyance is painted as clear as day, his fingers releasing your leg before resting on your knee.

“Understood,” he says, drawing a soft circle against your knee. Watching you, watching him. A moment, between all the others, where it’s just the two of you. “Go eat, Helen.”

“I’m fi—“

He squeezes your knee, silencing you. Staring at you to remind you he knows you. Knows that you haven’t eaten two meals a day, never mind three. That he’s had people check on you, ask about you.

That in his own fucking way, he cares, so let him care. Let him take care of you.

You swallow as if realising this. As if the two of you are in the middle of a conversation, you’re both having with your eyes.

He wins.

The only way he knows that is from the sweet little groan you give him as he returns to drawing a circle on your knee.

“Sometimes, Simon. I really can’t stand you.”

“Feelings mutual, Helen.”

You remove your glove, placing your hand gently over his. It’s warm, gentle and yet calloused in its own way.

And he should tell you to leave.

Tell you to get food before you’re left with scraps you’ll complain to him about later. But this is nice. It’s comforting. It’s something he can’t genuinely articulate and is glad you don’t ask him to try.

And then, you hand him his glove. The one stained scarlet and still damp with his blood.

He nods.

You nod.

The two of you send the other a look which has become close to a parting kiss, without you both touching. One that will have to do until he can really kiss you later. Until he can remind every inch of your skin that he came back, that he’s alive. He’ll do so, silently promising too, until you’re chanting his name to the point he realises this isn’t a dream, but reality.

A beautiful, unexplainable reality.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon 'ghost' riley x reader #simon ghost Riley #simon ‘ghost’ riley #ghost riley x reader #ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x f!reader #simon ghost riley x you #cod ghost x reader #ghost x reader #ghost riley #Helen x Simon #ghost cod mw2 #cod ghost #ghost x helen #simon x helen

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ddlcbrainrot · 27 days

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What are your ships in ddlc? I noticed you do all the ships- If you ship all then what’s your favorite ship?

Now, whoever you are how did you that i was thinking of talking about my ship opinions soon?? mind wizard

SO, here’s the thing : when it comes to ships in genera it takes a lot for me to actually have OTPs and stuff and this is especially true in ddlc for me. For me shipping is more of a “sure, i could get behind this” sort of thing, except if once in a blue moon i find that one ship that alters my brain chemistry but believe it or not that has not really happened to me with any of the ddlc ships. It has happened with the game as a whole, but not really with the ships. The only one that has come close i’d say is sayonika but that’s more bc they happen to be the characters that i think about the most

That being said, i’d say i ship every ship in the game, simply because i could honestly see all of them working out in one way or another. Sure, they’re are some i like more than others but generally all of them work. And yes, this includes the Mc ships even though i like them less bc the side stories blew it out of the park with the chemistry between the girls

Speaking of the side stories, they are the sole reason i got into the shipping side of the fandom lol. The base game, as influential as it was for me, never really ignited any shipping sparks ig. I actually could not care less for the shipping before the side stories, bc most of it felt kind of trope-y ironically enough. Like, Natsuri was the big one, which was only popular bc of the whole opposite’s attract thing (not that there’s anything wrong with that ofc, it just never really resonated with me). Sayonika was a victim of what i like to call the “leftovers syndrome” where two characters are shipped bc they are the only ones left to be shipped with.

And Mc.. well let’s talk about that actually. Mc x Yuri is well… how do i put this. They have absolutely nothing in common. I don’t necessarily hate this ship however, if i see it done right i can like it. Mc x Natsuki was alright, the banter was fun, they actually have things they can talk about, it’s overall a nice ship. I will say i prefer them as close friends, but if i was to see media (fan art, fics, mods etc) where it’s done right, i can appreciate it. Mc x Sayori is also a ship i can enjoy from time to time, probably the most out of any Mc ship. Again, i do prefer talking about their friendship more though but now that i’m writing this down i realise i’m just a slut for male/female friendships. Mc x Monika truly depends on what context the characters are given. Are we talking about non-sentient Monika x Mc? Bc that can be pretty fun. If we are talking about sentient Monika x Mc, i see a very interesting dynamic (not a particularly good one) where Monika is basically using Mc as a vessel for the player in her desperation. Can Mc feel this dynamic? Does he understand in some way that he’s the second choice, even if he doesn’t know the truth about their world? How does it affect him? Its fun to ponder about this ig, but it doesn’t really make for a healthy relationship

Then the side stories came out, where the characters evolved from their one-dimensional tropes into actual personalities with enticing dynamics between them and i was immediately sold. That being said, i still don’t really have an OTP per say, bc as stated before all of them could work out. Which is definitely bc of how we get to see each of them interact individually in each side story. In every side story, we see each character interact with the other and learn how to grow as individuals because of it. I could see each pairing happening individually, i could see them being a poly couple, maybe even a qpr, or just a very close friend group too! There is a lot of love between the characters, whether that is romantic, platonic or something in between im not 100% certain on, but the love is definitely there.

Anyway, you also asked what my favourite ship would be, and i’ll probably say Sayonika since most of the media I consume tends to be with them

WOW this was a long post. Hope i didn’t bore you too much. Thank you for the ask!!

#ddlc #ddlc monika #ddlc sayori #ddlc yuri #ddlc natsuki #ddlc mc #ddlc ships #asks

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in-my-feels-probably · 2 years

Note

Hii!

Can I request an Aemond Targaryen x Reader fic where reader is from some other noble house(preferably a dark haired one, but anything is fine) and catches his eye? Like he thinks she is really pretty and attractive and Aegon kinda doesn't notice his brother's interest and flirts with her, and being a social butterfly, she flirts back, though it doesn't mean anything.

Aemond feels insecure but then he observes her and notices she is like that with everyone so he carefully approaches her, leaving her stunned, because she has never met someone that beautiful? He takes it in the wrong way, but then she shyly assures him that it is not what he thinks and tells him the truth?

lots of comfort for my war criminal poor little meow meow?

thank you!

(Sorry I am being to specific, feel free to modify the idea as you wish)

A Wolf Amongst Dragons

Hi! So this is my first time writing for Aemond, I hope it’s ok. I think I did maybe a little bit off the request you asked for, so if you want me to change things, or write a new request for you, I’m happy to do so. I think I could’ve upped the comfort and Aemond’s point of view of things.

Sorry, it’s a bit long, especially at the beginning, but I felt like it was important to add for clarity. Just for some context, I made it a Stark reader, the sister of Cregan Stark, to kinda help with the plot. The Starks, at least before Ned, weren’t as noble I’d say, so I’m kinda framing the reader as on the good side, but still with a bit of cunningness and antihero energy, which I think fits for Aemond, he’s also kinda in that in between area.

I’m mentioning characters from the book, and then also ones briefly mentioned in the last episode of HOTD. You don’t need to know anything from the books, I’m just bullshitting all of this for this fic, so sorry if anything doesn’t make sense. I’m not basing this off any particular plotpoint, but it's based around the time Aegon is crowned King, and Rhaenyra is looking to the other Lords for support. Anyways, I hope you like it, let me know what you think!

(Warnings: swearing, insecurities, mentions of war, aegon being creepy, let me know if i missed anything)

—

You walked alongside with your brother, Cregan, speaking in hushed whispers as you navigated the halls. It was late into the night, and the castle slept soundly. He had barely given you any time to get dressed before he sent a collection of handmaidens into your room, who swiftly packed up your necessities and brought them to a carriage. In your confusion, you went to find him, only to be dragged by the wrist out into the cold, headed for the stables.

Cregan explained to you that the Maester brought him news of Lucerys Targaryen, who had been killed the evening before, seemingly by Vhagar, the younger Prince’s dragon. Lord Baratheon had immediately sent the news to their allies, still remaining neutral for the time being.

House Targaryen was now at war, dividing the kingdom. House Stark, never one to break an oath, was to receive Jacaerys Targaryen, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen’s first born son and heir. Winterfell was to play a key role in the following weeks, and Cregan had decided you were to leave, and head for King’s Landing. He had already sent a raven, alerting King Aegon of your impending arrival. He gave you no time to explain himself, tugging you along.

“Brother, I don’t understand! Why are you sending me away?”

Cregan didn’t slow his pace. “Because! Father would roll in his grave if he thought one of my first acts as Lord of Winterfell was to keep you directly in the path of harm's way.”

You caught his wrist, planting your feet and stopping his advance. Cregan turned to you, eyes sharp as he met yours. You, after all being your Father’s daughter, didn’t shrink under the pressure. Instead, you stood tall, demanding an answer.

“Explain, right now, or I am turning back. You can’t send me to the capital! The very people you’re saying killed Lucerys are there. You’ve heard the whispers about Aegon’s pervasive pleasures. Do you really think that usurper of a King would gladly welcome a member of a house pledged to the rightful Queen?”

“They don’t know our position–”

“Spare me, brother,” you interrupted. “I know you’re backing Rhaenyra, the whole realm knows it. Have you ever known a Stark to break an oath? We’re too noble to do the wrong thing. Gods only know why we’ve all collectively decided to put the men in charge, who can’t cast away their precious pride and honor. You’d think living up here in the cold would’ve hardened your resolve more, made you learn to chip away at the moral high ground you’re so content to stand on.”

Cregan’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step forward, catching you off guard. He looked you straight in the eye, finally pulling his wrist from your grip.

“I would never risk your safety, sister. Don’t mistake my unusual choices for foolishness. I’d break every oath I’ve ever made if it meant keeping you and our house safe.”

You kept walking towards the stable, seeing that your efforts to stay were most likely futile, and you might as well accept your fate with a semblance of grace.

“Then explain it to me,” you scoffed. “What’s your big plan?”

You couldn’t see Cregan’s face, as you were walking ahead of him, but you could feel him roll his eyes.

“How kind of you to finally shut your mouth and give me the floor, sister.”

You groaned, waiting for him to continue. He let out a chuckle, before catching up with you to meet your stride, now walking alongside you. He continued explaining.

“You have the right idea. Why send you if they think we’ll back Rhaenyra as Queen? Because they don’t know that, not for sure. However, if we keep you here, and all of the heirs here, it will certainly seem like it. Aegon will–”

“You mean Hightower? You know this must be his doing,” you interrupted.

“Yes, that may be so, but he’ll deliver Aegon’s terms either way. The King will be expecting all the houses to be making a decision soon. He knows Rhaenyra will have sent word out to all the Lord’s who swore oaths to back her during her coronation while King Viserys was alive. I guarantee those gutless southern Lord’s have already declared for the King, but the North won’t be so easy to gain. Lord Baratheon said they sent Prince Aemond to deliver terms, along with a marriage pact, should they choose to back the King. That is a desperate act. Bold, but desperate. I expect something for us will be coming along soon as well. We’re going to beat them to it.”

You nodded, slowly understanding. “And what does this have to do with me? What is my purpose in all of this?”

“We will receive Jacaerys, just as the King expects we would. But we’re sending you as an envoy of our house, to receive their terms in person. As much as I hate to admit it, you are a much more likable person than I.”

You laughed. “Yes, although I suppose that it is partially credited to me being a woman. A pretty face is the least the Gods could do for us in a world like this. We might as well learn to use it to our advantage.”

“So you do have some intellect rolling around in that brain of yours, glad to see you’ve finally caught up.”

Cregan dodged your attacks, narrowly missing a slap to the face, chuckling as he watched you nearly trip over the hem of your skirts. “Don’t do that in front of the King.”

“Oh, piss off. Get on with it, it’s freezing out here.”

“As I was saying before I was so rudely attacked,” Cregan continued, ignoring your glares.

“You’ll charm the court. As long as you are a guest of the Crown, especially with Queen Alicent likely still largely in control, you will not be harmed. They may be usupers, but they haven’t stooped so low as to betray and kill allies. So here’s what you do. You are to play the fool, as if you hardly understand what’s at stake. Don’t actually make a fool of yourself, but try to act passive. Uninterested in the fickle politics of war. You won’t be perceived as a threat, on the contrary, actually. The Crown may actually believe that you’re easily manipulated, and a good way to get to me and my backing for the war effort. You will be out of harm's way from here, and you won’t be harmed there, since you’re of some use to them. Additionally, you may be of some use to me. If you are able to, without risking exposure, write to me about what you see and hear, anything that will be helpful. I trust you’ll be discreet in the matter. Do you think you can do all of that?”

You finally reached the carriage, all packed with your belongings, along with two horses, and a squire acting as a driver. It was the best your brother could muster in the few hours he had to come up with a halfway decent plan.

You turned to Cregan, grinning.

“I must say, brother, I am quite impressed. One would think you almost have the mind of a woman, coming up with a plan like that. You didn’t even need my help.”

He playfully shoved you, rolling his eyes. “Alright, alright, stop it. I may have taken a page or two from your book, and tried to think how I thought you would. Hate to admit it, but it actually was quite useful.”

You grinned wider, pleased with his praise, and he groaned, before pulling you into his arms to shut you up.

“We don’t have time for this, Y/N. This is serious. We cannot afford to mess this up. Please be careful, and please, for my own sanity, try your best to not get killed. Or worse, engaged.”

You let out a chuckle, but it was weak, you suddenly realizing the gravity of the situation. You wrapped your arms around your brother’s waist, giving him a tight squeeze. You swallowed your emotion as he held you for a moment, before letting you go and helping you up into the carriage.

“I believe in you, sister. You can do this. I’m sorry it came down to it, but it's for the best. We’ll see each other again soon enough. I love you.”

You nodded, letting him close the carriage door. You stuck your head out the window, waving and calling out. “I love you! Please be careful. Don’t make me come back here and kick your ass for getting yourself in trouble. Be smart, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

You could hear his soft laughter, but the carriage had gone too far to warrant a response from him. He just nodded, blowing you a kiss, before turning around and heading back into the gates of Winterfell.

You settled into your seat, biting back emotion. You willed yourself not to cry, determined to make this journey a success, not only for you, but for your brother, for your house, and for the realm.

—

It was a grueling journey, not stopping more than a handful of times for provisions, and having the carriage run throughout the night, but you had made it from Winterfell to King’s Landing in just over a week.

It took the better part of the first day to have an audience with the King. A guard that had been introduced to you as Ser Criston led you through the castle halls after you had settled in, bringing you to meet the King. He led you to the Great Hall, opening the doors and allowing you to step in first.

“I present the Lady Y/N of House Stark, sister of Lord Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. She is here on behalf of her house.”

You tried to keep your head held high, and your face stoic, while Ser Criston announced your arrival, but as you glanced around the room, you couldn’t fight the uneasiness settling in your stomach.

The Iron Throne was empty.

The King was nowhere to be found. Instead, to the left side of the throne, sat a woman in a green dress, who you could only assume to be Alicent Hightower, the Queen Mother. On the right side of the throne stood an older man, who you pieced together as Otto Hightower, father of Alicent, and Hand of the King.

The rest of the Great Hall, except for a few Kingsguard, was empty. Neither the Prince or the King were in attendance, or the Princess who was now called Queen. Not that you expected to meet the entire family, especially on the first day, but you were told your audience was specifically to be with the King, which is what you spent the better part of a week alone in a carriage preparing for. The King’s Mother and Grandfather was not what you were expecting.

“Come forth, Lady Y/N, don’t be shy. Ser Criston, assist her down the steps, if you will.”

Otto gave Ser Criston a command, and Ser Criston held out his arm for you, which you cautiously took. He guided you down the steps, all the way across the Throne Room, leaving you in front of the steps that led to the Iron Throne.

You looked at the throne in wonder. You had heard stories of the chairs creation, how a thousand swords had been melted down and fashioned together to create a throne fit for a King. You had seen illustrations of it in books the Septa’s back home made you read as a child, but they paled in comparison to seeing them in person.

“Would you like to take a closer look, My Lady? I see you’ve taken an interest in the throne,” an unfamiliar voice called out, dragging you from your thoughts.

You turned to see the King himself, Aegon, entering the room from a back corridor. Your eyes widened as you took him in, and you suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to throw up. This was going to be harder than you anticipated.

“Your Grace,” you curtsied, trying to keep your composure. “It’s an honor. Thank you for agreeing to an audience with me on behalf of House Stark, it’s such a pleasure.”

You mentally cursed yourself for sucking up to such a pompous ass of a King, but as your brother said, you had to play the part. And if you were going to play the part, you were going to commit to the role. Your words seemed to be enough to charm him, making him smile as he approached you.

“The pleasure is all mine, My Lady,” he said, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. You internally groaned, but kept a fake smile plastered on your face. You registered two more people entering from the corridor, but you didn’t dare take your eyes off the King’s.

“You must tell me, how are you liking the city? I confess, I’ve never seen Winterfell myself. I’m not fit for the cold, I’m afraid.”

“I’m enjoying myself, thank you for asking. I am especially enjoying not having to wear a winter coat. They’re dreadfully heavy.”

Aegon looked you up and down, grinning. “Yes, I doubt that coat is doing you any favors. I can say with the utmost confidence that I prefer you without it.”

You felt sick to your stomach under his gaze, but you managed a giggle, feigning over his words. “You flatter me, Your Grace. You’re too kind.”

“Such a lovely Lady as yourself deserves some flattery. You’re welcome here, My Lady. Enjoy your stay. I expect you to come to me specifically if you need anything. Anything, just ask, and if it is within my power, it’s yours. I can be quite persuasive when it comes to getting things I want.”

You heard a scoff off to the side of the room, and you spared a glance to see the younger Targaryen, Prince Aemond.

You had heard tales of him and his appearance. A ghastly scar, an eyepatch fit for a pirate, with a personality that mimicked that of his dragon. You only glanced briefly, but from what you saw, the accounts of him were entirely wrong. He was quite handsome, at least from the distance and quick glance you viewed of him.

Aegon ignored his brother's antics, giving you another warm smile, before excusing himself. Half the Kingsguard followed him out, the rest hanging back for the remaining family. The now Queen, Helaena, walked up to you, looking at you quizzically.

“A wolf amongst dragons,” she murmured. “A seer and a watcher. The waltz of frosts and flames.”

She spared a glance at her brother, Aemond, before turning back to you.

You smiled at her words, glad to be around an inquizical mind. You got the feeling that the Queen’s intelligence was dismissed as an oddity, underappreciated and neglected.

“Your Grace, it’s a pleasure. You’re as beautiful as the tales tell.”

The Queen’s cheeks flushed. “Please, call me Helaena. I do prefer it.”

“As you wish, Helaena,” you nodded. “But I must say, ‘Queen’ has a nice ring to it when it’s referring to you. I do hope you come to see that.”

You snuck a glance at Otto and Alicent, who seemed to be exchanging amused glances. Whether you had peaked their interest, or you actually managed to impress them, it didn’t matter. What mattered is that you’d successfully somewhat charmed them, which would work to your advantage for the following days when you'd try to report back to your brother.

—

You spent the following days mostly around Helaena, who was surprisingly delightful to be around. Her storytelling abilities fascinated you. She often murmured variations of what she had first said in the throne room to you, about a wolf amongst dragons. It didn’t take much for you to figure out she was referring to your presence in the castle. What did strike you as odd was her wording of “the waltz of frosts and flames,” but you found that questioning her hardly ever resulted in a clear answer.

You also spent a lot of time with Alicent, who seemed to follow wherever her children went. More often than not, though, she was with Aegon, who you tried to avoid like the plague. You did your duty of making small talk, trying to keep his interest in you positive, but his advances on you were getting harder and harder to ignore.

In truth, the only member of the family you rarely saw was Aemond. Although, that was not entirely true. You actually saw a good deal of each other in passing, but words were hardly exchanged, rather than stolen glances. You didn’t know what it was about him, but you couldn’t get yourself to look at him full on for long. It appeared he was the same, as he’d turn his head away from you often when you looked his way.

You spent one evening with Helaena, going on a walk around the courtyard. She took you to meet her dragon, Dreamfyre. On the way back, you saw Aemond, soaring through the sky on the back of Vhagar, before finally landing. You watched him from a distance as he dismounted, heading into the castle.

Helaena cleared her throat, bringing you out of your thoughts. “You look at my brother quite a lot, you know.”

You quickly turned to her. “What? Aemond?”

“I suppose it’s normal. He does the same to you.”

She spoke like it was the most nonchalant thing in the world, not even bothering to turn to you as she talked.

“I don’t understand,” you shook your head.

“I’ve hardly seen the two of you speak, but I see the two of you stare. The day you arrived, I came in with Aemond. You were speaking to Aegon, so I assume you didn’t notice us come in. Aemond looked at you differently than I’ve ever seen him look at someone. You’ve certainly captured his attention. It’s clear he thinks you're beautiful.”

“Is he not betrothed?” You asked, seeming to recall your brother mentioning a marriage pact with Lord Baratheon.

“Not to my knowledge. Mother is very particular about him. I suspect she would want to personally approve a match for him. My brother isn’t suited for the average Lady. Mother will want someone who knows how to be with him.”

Your brows furrowed. “So, what did you notice? The day I arrived, I mean. How does he look at me differently than any other woman?”

Helaena pondered the thought for a moment. “You’re a wolf amongst dragons. That may have already been enough for him, but it’s not all. He’s a watcher. He prefers the corner of a room, rather than being the center of attention, unlike my husband. He watches people, like he’s analyzing them.”

You nodded, slowly understanding. “What does that have to do with me?”

“You do the same. You’re a seer. You see people for who they are, not for who they want you to see. I know you saw through Aegon’s words the day you arrived. You see him for what he is. And I think you see Aemond for what he is. I think his fascination is in your ability to do that.”

“Truthfully, I don’t think I see the Prince for what he is. I haven’t been close to him for long enough to really know.”

Helaena offered a small smile, turning to head back for the castle. “I think you’ll see the waltz begin soon, Y/N. It’s already started for him.”

—

Helaena was right. You saw more and more of the Prince, seeming to collide paths with him frequently, if only for a fleeting moment. You found yourself stuck on him, and your thoughts often drifted to him. It puzzled you, what his fascination with you was, and you wondered what he was thinking about when he saw you. He was one of the few men you couldn’t immediately get an accurate reading on, and it troubled you.

You began finding reasons to cross paths with Aemond, just so you’d have a few extra seconds to try and figure him out. You still rarely spoke to each other, only in passing, or in group settings with other members of the family.

It was becoming a tedious process, for the both of you, although you were unaware of his own ambitions towards you. One of you was going to cave and approach the other, it was bound to happen. It turned out to be Aemond who pushed the boundary.

One evening, after dinner, you took a walk to the courtyard. You sat, watching the stars, when you heard a voice you knew all too well.

“Looking at the stars, My Lady?”

You quickly turned around, shocked to see that he actually approached you. You cleared your throat, nodding.

“Yes. Are you familiar with any, My Prince?”

He nodded, moving to stand beside where you were sitting.

“I’ve studied them quite a lot, actually. May I?”

You nodded, scooting over to make room, and he took his place beside you. You were tense, not used to being that close to him. He pointed up into the night sky at a cluster of stars.

“That’s the constellation Aquila. It’s an eagle. See the V shape? That’s the head. Where it expands and the line of stars that goes down is its wings.”

You nodded, but you weren’t even looking at the sky. You were taking it as your chance to get a good look at him, for what felt like the first time.

His features were sharp, those of a royal. His cheekbones were prominent, and he had a strong jaw. Despite the hardness of his face, he still had a soft elegance to him. His hair was shining under the moonlight, almost reflecting silver. The scar covering his eye was now a faded white line, with the faintest hints of pink in the cracks of it. It was one thing to possess one or two of those traits, as the Targaryens often did. But his features were striking, each complimenting the next.

In this light under the stars, he was nearly ethereal.

He must’ve felt your gaze on him, because he turned to meet your eyes, catching you staring.

“My Lady?”

You quickly shook your head, clearing your throat. “I’m so sorry, that was rude of me. I got distracted.”

He looks unsure of himself, cocking his head to the side. “By what?”

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, unsure of what to say. “You? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone like you before. Not very many people look like you.”

He turns his head at your words, like he’s trying to shield his face from your view. His shoulders slump, and he looks down at his lap, and you know you’ve said something wrong.

“It’s the scar,” he finally says. “Isn’t it? The Gods must’ve found it amusing, adding it to the collection of some rather unappealing features. It’s not pretty, I know. Believe me, I know.”

Your breath hitched, and you're unsure of how he could’ve twisted your words into knots so tight. You wondered what kind of torment he could have possibly endured to consider the scar a punishment from the Gods, as if the rest of him wasn’t already punishment enough.

“You’ve misunderstood me, My Prince, that isn’t what I meant at all–”

“Savor your words,” he interrupts. “I don’t need you to spare my feelings.”

He stands up brushing himself off. “Goodnight, My Lady.”

“Wait,” you start, trying to get up before he dashes off somewhere. You can see him, looking for the best escape route, like a cornered animal. You’re muttering apologies, and he’s brushing them off, trying to find a way to leave you. He turns to go.

“Wait!” You catch his wrist, and you can feel his body go rigid. But he stops in his tracks, slowly turning back around. His full attention is on you, and you're afraid you’ll crumble under the pressure of trying to find the right words to say.

“Please sit back down,” you ask, pleading with him. He looks unsure, like he’s seconds from saying no.

“Please, Aemond.”

That’s enough to get his resolve to soften, and he finally relents. He lets you lead him back over to the spot where you were sitting. You take a seat, and look up at him expectantly, until he finally relents. He takes his place beside you, quiet.

“You misunderstood me, Aemond. I meant no offense, and I’m sorry if it came off that way.”

He’s quiet, not meeting your eyes, seemingly very interested in his lap. He doesn’t stop you, though, and you take it as your cue to proceed.

“You know, sometimes I find it hard to look at you.”

You can see the slightest hint of a flinch at your words, and you’re quick to recover.

“I find it hard, because when I look at you, I’m quite literally rendered speechless, and that’s a rare occurrence for me. You just…you have such striking features.”

You watch him as you speak, and it's almost as if you can see the gears turning in his head.

“I know it comes with being a Targaryen. The silver hair, the sharp features, you all look like royalty without even trying. But you…you’re more. You’ve got this etherality about you, and I can’t quite place why that is.”

You’re scanning his face now, looking at all the little nooks and crannies that you’ve somehow just now noticed.

“And your scar, it's a part of you. There’s no shame in it, Aemond. It’s proof you fought a battle, and won. Wear it with pride. I don’t know what people have said to you about it, or what you’ve been told over the years, but they’re wrong. Every single one of them. They’re wrong.”

You almost don’t do it, but you can’t stop yourself, reaching a hand up slowly to cup his cheek. He’s still, it being his turn to watch your face now. He’s scanning for disgust, or pity, or any other emotion that he thinks will make you think less of him.

But then you’re running a thumb across his cheekbone. And you're ghosting a finger down his scar. You’re being so gentle and careful with him, and you have nothing but adoration and genuine awe on your face as you take in his appearance, like you’re really seeing him for the first time. You could look at him for hours, and not grow tired of it.

And he’s melting.

You reach up to tuck a stray strand of silver hair behind his ear.

“You’re beautiful, Aemond. Don’t let anyone make you feel any different. I’m sorry I didn’t say it before.”

You can tell nobody has ever talked to him like this, or been this genuine with him, and he doesn’t know what to do or say.

“What you said, about the constellation. It’s fascinating, that out of all the stars in the sky, you picked the eagle. The watcher. That’s what you are. Funny, how I’m just now seeing it for the first time. It feels like I'm really looking at you for the first time, too.”

“It seems the Gods have reconsidered,” he says, finally looking at you, with pink cheeks and a small smile on his face. “Or, rather, Helaena was right.”

“About what, My Prince?” You smile, unable to stop yourself when his smile is so pretty.

“The waltz, My Lady. It really has started. And it only took a couple stars.”

—

A/N - Hi! I hope this wasn’t shit, I feel like I started off strong and it got weaker, but I’m still figuring out how to write for Aemond, so bare with me. Let me know what you thought :)

#aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon imagines #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon #hotd #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones

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she-is-juniper · 2 years

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Only Ones Who Know — an Elvis Presley x Reader slow burn series (chapter three)

Pairing: Austin Butler!Elvis Presley x f!Reader Type: series (chapter 3 / ?) ~ chapter one ~ chapter two ~ Warnings: so much fluff, a considerable amount of angst, pining, long lost lovers, slow burn, implied childhood/family trauma (vague), some cursing Prompt: You and Elvis grew up together; he was your best friend and first love, but he and his family moved away. Eight years later, Elvis walks into the diner where you work…and he doesn’t recognize you. But there’s an intense connection between the two of you. Should you let things between you play out organically, or should you tell him who you really are? Word Count (by chapter): 7K Rating (by chapter): M (mature) A/N: This chapter was so special for me to write. It's fluffy and angsty but I hope it makes you feel nostalgic and hopeful the way it felt for me when I wrote it. There are some brief allusions to implied childhood/family trauma, but I left it vague. Also, before y’all chew me out for writing this as a reader insert and not as an OC… I know, I know!! But I made the details ambiguous enough that most readers could suspend their imaginations enough to fill in the blanks for your own preferences. So I suppose you could read this as an OC or as a reader insert—either way, I sincerely hope you enjoy it!! I don’t claim that this is historically accurate or factual but simply inspired by the historical context! The events of this series are kind of a combination of real life events from Elvis’ life and the events of the film; thus, it may not follow the outline of events exactly as they appear the film. Inspiration for the plot more closely but loosely resembles real life documentations of Elvis’ life in 1956. Please note that I do not claim that this is historically accurate or factual but simply inspired by the historical context. Please for the love of all that is holy, comment/reblog/send asks if you want to see more of my writing—thank you in advance! ♡, Juni

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The first thing I had done after I had gotten home from Beale Street was cry over Elvis Presley.

I went to my bedroom, closed the door, threw my bag and clothes on the floor, curled up in a ball on my bed, and cried. Maybe I was just being too sensitive. Or maybe it was the early morning hour that sparked my sudden despair. But I cried until my eyes ran dry of tears and I was simply too exhausted to keep them open any longer.

That night, in my dreams, I was a child again.

I was climbing a tree, the rickety oak tree in the small backyard of my childhood home. As I climbed, the sky above me became dark and angry. It began to rain, and the wind began to howl, and I knew I needed to climb down to return inside. But as I looked down from my perch on the tree, I realized I had climbed much further than I thought, and there was no way back down.

Someone was calling my name. It was Elvis’s voice. He was inside my parents’ house, peering out the window, shouting my name over and over again…

“Y/N…Y/N!”

I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Y/N! Wake up!”

Reality crashed back as I stirred from my slumber. My roommate, Margaret, was standing over me and tapping my shoulder.

“Someone’s on the line for you,” she was saying.

“Huh?”

“Phone call, for you. She’s already rung three times.”

I heaved myself upright and gripped my throbbing temple. “Who?”

“Someone from your restaurant, I think?” Margaret was already dressed for work herself, in her starched white nurse’s dress. “Were you supposed to go in for work this morning?”

“No, my shift starts at twelve.” Rubbing my eyes, I glanced at the clock on my nightstand; it was only 10:45.

“Well, whoever it is, she’s gabbing so much I can scarcely understand her. She's still on the line, I left the phone off the hook for you.” Margaret gathered herself and headed out the door, but not before glancing at the pile of last night’s clothes I’d thrown on the floor. “...Ginny and I were wondering where you went last night?”

I searched for an oversized sweater in my dresser and threw it over my torso. “Beale Street,” I mumbled.

Margaret feigned a look of disapproval, but I could see the glint of intrigue in her eyes. “Were you being safe?”

“I was there with someone, don’t worry.”

"Someone?" She led the way into the living room, grabbing her purse and nurse’s cap. “A man?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

I waved goodbye to Margaret as she departed the apartment for work, and I went to pick up the telephone handset she’d left off the hook on the counter. “Hello, this is Y/N—”

“Y/N! Oh my god, you finally picked up.” It was Lila Mae, undoubtedly, my coworker at the diner. And sure enough, she was talking a mile a minute. “I’ve been callin’ you all morning! Have you heard? Do you know what’s happenin’ here right now? You gotta get to the diner right now! I can’t believe—”

“Slow down, Lila Mae— slow down. What’s going on?” I interrupted her.

“Elvis Presley is what’s going on! Why for the love of all that is holy did you never tell me that you knew him?! Oh my god. Oh my lord. I feel faint—”

“What do you mean?” Elvis…Is he…?

“He’s here! Outside the diner! He’s been waitin’ for you here all morning!”

“Elvis is at the diner again?”

Lila Mae gasped. “'Again'? You mean to tell me he’s been here before? Why didn’t I know?! Oh my god. Elvis Presley’s here—”

“Lila Mae— Lila Mae. What do you mean, he’s been waiting for me?”

“He came in ‘round 10 o’clock. I just about fainted at the sight, he’s such a dreamboat—he’s even more dreamy in person. And he was describin’ you, askin’ when you’d be here. I didn’t know what to do, it’s like my tongue stopped workin’, it was real humiliating. But I finally told him you was comin’ in for your shift ‘round noon, and I offered him a table to sit at, but he just said thank you and went back outside to his car. And he’s been there ever since. I reckon he’s waitin’ for you to show up! Did ya know he drives a yellow Cadillac convertible, with red upholstery? He—”

“Okay— okay— I’m on my way,” I said before hanging up. I was still worn slap out from my restless night, and I wasn’t thinking very clearly, but I mentally cursed Elvis for showing up to my place of employment—again. Why couldn’t he just spare me the misery, go on with his life, and let me go on with mine? It was clear that I didn’t belong in his life anymore, and he didn’t belong in mine—regardless of our past.

I quickly got dressed in a pair of trousers, a casual summer blouse, and a chiffon scarf I tied around my neck, and I grabbed my wrinkled waitressing uniform too, since I was due to work at noon. I usually took a bus to work, and today, of all days, it was running late. By the time I arrived at the diner, it was nearly 11:30.

There was a commotion of cars and people by the entrance. A haphazard crowd was formed around the same shiny Cadillac I’d seen park along Beale Street last night—Elvis’s car. As I approached, I saw girls and boys alike clutching albums and other merchandise, eagerly waiting their turn.

And there he was, sitting in the driver’s seat of his convertible surrounded by the crowd of fans. He looked impeccable and unmistakable, wearing a white button-down with the sleeves carefully cuffed, his hair meticulously slicked back as usual. He was smiling graciously to a doting fan, who was all but tossing her skirts onto him.

No—actually tossing her skirts into his car.

“You want me to sign your...petticoat?” he was asking.

“Yes, please, Mr. Presley,” the girl gushed, shoving a pen at him. He chuckled and took off the cap.

“Well, as long as they don’t get angry at you none for havin’ me ruin your pretty skirt,” he said, signing the fabric.

“Elvis,” I called out to him over the small crowd as I approached.

He glanced up. And he smiled like he was a kid and I was his Christmas morning present. Pure unbridled joy. It was ten times more intense than the way he'd looked at me last night when he saw me on Beale Street.

“Was wonderin’ when you’d show up,” he called back.

I held my hand up to block the sun as I frowned at him. Seeing him again after last night's escapade brought a rush of feelings, a strange mixture of thrill and anxiety. “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“Well, I came to find you,” he said simply, and then he addressed his flock of fans. “Excuse me, will y’all let the pretty lady through?”

The crowd eyed me as they parted to let me through to his vehicle. I didn’t move, though, just stared at him from across the parking lot.

“Hop on in,” he invited me, patting his passenger seat.

“...Why?”

“Figured we’d go for a ride, y’know, talk.”

I glanced furtively at the whispering crowd, feeling warm at the cheeks. But I crossed through them to stand beside his car and spoke lowly. “Elvis, you shouldn’t have come here.”

“Well, I had to,” he replied, matching my lowered speaking volume, and the corner of his lips turned up. “You didn’t leave me with no name, no phone number, no address. But I remembered you worked here, so… I came to see you.”

Something about his casual tone of voice was…off. It was strange. Like he was putting on a guise of some sort. But I couldn’t pinpoint it.

“You shouldn’t have,” I said curtly. “You should go home.”

He leaned over to pop the passenger door open, indicating for me to sit. “Not until we talk,” he said.

“I have to go to work,” I retorted.

He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “You can skip just for today, can't you?”

I glared. “This is my job. I can’t just play hooky like some schoolgirl. I have to pay rent.” Not all of us are blessed with heaps of money.

“I’m sure your friend in there wouldn’t mind covering for you for the day,” he mused. “Why don’t you go and ask her? Tell her I’ll sign any merchandise she wants when we get back.”

I stared at him, trying to make sense of my racing thoughts. He smiled at me.

“Please,” he added, and his smile faltered just a bit, revealing the earnestness in his blue eyes. He dropped his voice even lower, ensuring that none of the onlookers would be able to hear. “After how we left things last night…I’d just really, really love to talk, is all.” He eyed his slew of fans. “Alone, ideally.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek. Could I really blame him for wanting to talk after what happened last night? I had left so abruptly from the club with seemingly no explanation. I could only imagine what he was feeling.

Growing up, Elvis was always inquisitive, sensitive, considerate. He’d always hated conflict, always wanted to make sure he listened to and understood others, always quick to apologize. So after yesterday, I wouldn’t be surprised if he thought he had done something awfully wrong to offend me. Which, even though he didn’t recognize me, his childhood best friend, despite everything… He really hadn’t done anything wrong last night.

I owed him the opportunity to get closure.

“Let me go talk to Lila Mae,” I said.

He smiled in relief.

Inside the diner, Lila Mae was a hurricane of excitement. “Y/N,” she gasped as she saw me. She ran up to me with huge eyes and gripped my arms. “Spill everything, now. How do you know Elvis Presley? Did he ask for your number? What's he doing here?”

“He—he wants to take me on a drive,” I said.

“When?!”

“Uh…Today. Right now.”

She digs her fingernails into my arms even harder. “Oh my god. You don’t know how lucky you are. What’s he smell like?”

“Lila Mae—will you cover my shift for me today?” I pleaded. “He said he’ll sign any of your merch. And I’ll owe you the next time you want off.”

She nodded so quickly I thought her head might fall off her neck. “Go on your date, girl!! And then I wanna know everything, you hear me?”

I thanked her profusely and ran back outside to hop in Elvis’s passenger seat. He grinned and waved goodbye to the fans before he backed his Cadillac out of the parking spot. He braced his hand on the back of my seat to look behind him, and his close proximity to my skin was intoxicating.

We didn’t say anything at first as he drove. The warm July air washed over my skin and through my hair. I untied the chiffon scarf around my neck and wrapped it over my hair to protect it from the wind as he drove. I noticed him glancing over at me, but every time I glanced back, he was conveniently looking straight ahead at the road. The way he looked, with his right hand gripping the top of the steering wheel and his left resting casually against the car window frame, brought an ache to my chest.

When he got on the 51, though, and started driving south, I finally spoke up. “So where is it you taking me, exactly?”

His white teeth glimmered with sunshine. “I’m gonna show you a place.”

“ ‘A place?’ ”

“You’ll see.”

We were quiet again, but it was a comfortable silence. Although…he was humming something, I realized. I could just barely hear it over the sound of the wind and the road. The tune, from what I could make out of it, was somewhat familiar. I wanted to ask him what. But I didn’t say anything.

The sprawl of urban infrastructure became more and more sparse, gradually becoming replaced with pastoral fields and forests. Finally, he turned off the highway into a narrow road, driving all the way up a circular driveway that surrounded a knoll of grass and trees.

I gaped up at the building we’d stopped next to. It was a massive mansion, and it was absolutely gorgeous. A series of white, southern colonial-style pillars towered at its front like sentinels, beckoning the eye up the stairs and to the grand front door. Two stories tall and with more shuttered windows than I could immediately count, the mansion was a formidably elegant sight.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmured.

“Ain’t it?” Elvis affirmed. “It’s called Graceland.” He looked back and forth between me and the mansion, grinning. “I’m gonna purchase it one day.”

“The mansion?” I gaped.

“The whole estate. I came across it a few months ago on the way to a show in Jackson. It’s not up for sale yet or nothin’. But the minute it is…I’m gonna buy it, for my mama and daddy.”

He put his convertible in park, then, and opened the door to step out. I gawked as he stepped up the steps leading up to the front door as if he already owned the place. “Elvis, what are you doing? Isn’t this private property—”

“Relax,” he interrupted, laughing. “It’s vacant.”

I noticed, then, the lack of vehicles or other evidence of inhabitants surrounding the building, and decided to join him. The massive front door was bookended by two tall windows decorated with wrought iron. He put his hands up to the glass to peer through one of them, and I peered in next to him. There was a beautiful staircase right by the front foyer, and two beautiful archways leading to rooms to the left and right. It was empty, devoid of furniture, but full of potential.

“Folks are starting to recognize me coming in and out of my parents’ house east of town,” he elaborated, “but I’m worried they’re all gonna start harassing the neighbors. I’m thinking we’re gonna need to move again soon. So I’m keeping my eye out for this place.”

I recalled the Presleys’ tiny shotgun house from the days of our youth. To think they’d one day be living in a grand estate such as this was surreal. But, then again, so was the notion that I would run into Elvis again after all these years, in the diner where I worked of all places

“I got a good feelin’ about it,” he went on. “It’s kinda silly, but…it calls to me, this place. It’s the name, I think. Graceland. Like you can feel the grace of God here, in the walls, in the fields around it.”

I hadn’t heard him say anything overtly spiritual before, but I was reminded of the way he’d tilted his head to the sky in prayer just before his performance at the benefit concert.

“It’s not silly at all,” I reassured him. I understood completely what he meant; there was a reverent sort of quality here, something that felt powerful and bigger than life. I touched the wooden window frame. "I feel it, too."

He held my gaze for a long while, and my heart fluttered so loudly I swore he’d be able to hear it over the rustle of the trees in the wind, like the whir of a hummingbird’s wings. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. I wondered if he felt the same about me.

“Elvis,” I said quietly.

His lips parted ever so slightly, but he said nothing. Just waited.

“I’m sorry I left so quickly last night,” I went on. “I know it wasn’t fair to you. But it’s nothing you did. It’s just—”

He grabbed my arm, effectively ending my apology mid-sentence. “You don’t have nothin’ to apologize for,” he said earnestly. “I understand completely why you left.”

You don’t, I thought. “Please, let me explain—”

“No hard feelings. Besides, I’m the one who should apologize.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Well… I could’ve done some things better.”

I frowned. But he didn’t elaborate. His hand, still on my arm, slid down to my hand, which he held lightly in his own. I felt corny for having the thought that his eyes were the same color as the sky today.

“How come you showed me here, Elvis?” I asked quietly.

He bit his bottom lip as if he were trying not to smile. “Just a pit stop along the way. We’re not quite at our final stop yet. We gotta keep driving a bit.”

I quirked an eyebrow. “We’re going somewhere else?”

“Trust me, darlin’.”

He squeezed my hand and led me back down the steps to his car. He came around to open my door for me before getting in the driver’s seat and departing from the mansion estate. And then it was quiet between us again on the road.

I usually wouldn’t have minded the lack of conversation—or a good old-fashioned surprise—but my mind was spinning, and I needed answers. I wanted to know why he’d come back, what he’d been meaning to talk about, why he’d decided to come find me again. I wasn't in the mood for this sort of anticipation today.

“Elvis, I don’t understand why you’re taking me halfway to Mississippi just to talk.”

Just as I’d said it, we drove past a sign signaling that the Mississippi state border was a mile ahead. I made a strained noise and gestured to the sign to emphasize my point; he just chuckled, unbothered.

“You’ll see,” he said simply.

As curious as I was to see where we were going, my annoyance flared. “So, what, you couldn’t just spit it out back there at the mansion?"

He said nothing, just smiled to himself as he watched the road.

"Elvis," I prompted again. "We really have to drive out to the boonies to have a simple conversation?”

“Do ya want me to turn around, woman?” he asked, amusedly.

I huffed in irritation. “It depends on how much further we’re going.”

He didn’t even try to hide his smirk. “Don’t worry, it’s just a few more miles. I promise.” He saw the way I was glaring at him and added, “Do you need to get back to town for something?”

“No,” I griped.

“Then it sounds like you’re all mine today,” he said definitively.

I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms. He snickered at me.

“Y’know, you’re real cute when you’re grumpy.”

“I’m not grumpy,” I said.

“You are.”

I worked hard to force myself to ignore his attempt at flirting. “I just thought when you said you’d take me on a drive to talk, that we’d actually, y’know, talk.”

“We are talking,” he replied.

“About last night,” I said petulantly. “About… us.”

“We will talk about that—in ‘bout seven miles or so,” he said.

Seven? “Why not right now?” I pushed. “Can’t you tell me why you came all the way back to the diner to see me?”

“I will,” he laughed. “Besides, ain’t it obvious why I came to see you?”

I gawked. “No! I thought you just wanted closure!” I exclaimed.

Elvis raised his dark brows. “Closure?”

“About why I left last night.”

“I told you, you don’t have to explain anything,” he said. “And I don’t need no closure with you.”

"We weren't meant to see each other again," I groaned.

"What? Why?"

"Because this isn't going to work," I said and gestured between us. "You should have just let me go."

"Well, that's not what you said when you left," Elvis replied calmly. "You just said you had to go." His smile grew. "Did you really never want to see me again?"

I bit back my initial response and considered. "No," I finally admitted.

"That's what I thought," he said smugly.

As we passed the state border into Mississippi, I simmered. Something just wasn’t adding up. Why was he being so easygoing, nonchalant about everything? Moreover, I was beginning to become very nervous about what was happening—and my nerves were further fodder for my irrational anger.

“Don’t you understand how unfair this is?” I snapped. “You come into my life out of the blue not twenty four hours ago, and you uproot me from my work, and now you’re expecting me to just let you take me into the middle of nowhere like some murderer?”

He somehow seemed even more amused. “You think I’m driving you out here to kill you, dear, is that what it is?”

“No,” I huffed.

“You really have such little trust in me?” he laughed.

“I barely know you,” I retorted. Which was, of course, half true. I knew who he used to be. But for all intents and purposes, we were virtually strangers.

He gave me a level look that was indecipherable.

“I’ll turn around right now,” he offered.

I was silent.

“I mean it,” he said, braking the car ever so slightly. “You say the word, and I’ll take you back. No questions asked.”

My heart pounded. He kept braking, kept staring. Cars passed us in the left lane.

“What’ll it be?” he pressed.

I said nothing. He braked until we were at a snail's pace and he put his blinker on, preparing to make a U-turn and head back north.

“Don’t stop,” I whispered at last.

He smiled triumphantly and accelerated again.

Over time, my temper faded, leaving only a steady anticipatory anxiety. But I had to admit, the drive was beautiful. The summer sky was as endless as the the dense woods that bordered either side of the road. Despite the heat, the air that rushed over us in the convertible felt almost cool on my skin. I tried to focus on that sensation instead of the feeling of trepidation about where he might be taking me.

A few moments later, though, Elvis seemed to decide he was through with the silent treatment. “Tell me ‘bout what you’re studying at the women’s college,” he said.

I told him. My response set him off with a dozen new questions about myself, my life in Memphis, my summer job, my roommates, my aspirations. I answered them honestly. It felt a bit bizarre to resort to small talk after our prior conversation, but I figured if he didn’t want to talk about the important stuff, then I’d humor him for the rest of the drive. Besides, it beat driving in silence—and it admittedly felt good knowing how much he cared to know about me. He was attentive and engaging, and perfectly polite. My heart began to soften from the intensity of my earlier emotions.

After he seemed satisfied at the answer to his question about my favorite film, I asked him a question of my own. “What happened after the concert last night?”

Elvis tilted his head. “What d’ya mean?”

“I just meant, you seemed a bit...upset, about the performance when I saw you later at Club Handy. Did something go wrong?”

“Oh,” he frowned. “I…wasn’t supposed to, y'know, move around like that on stage again. Y’know, with the New Elvis and all. The Colonel just about flipped his lid when he saw me after.”

“So you broke the rules?” I realized.

He nodded, unsmiling.

“Well, so what?” I remarked. “You can’t make everyone happy. You gotta stay true to yourself, and all, right?”

“It ain’t that easy,” he sighed, tightening his grip on the wheel. “Colonel told me there’s gonna be consequences. Some people seemed real mad about the performance.”

“What about all the people who loved it?” I pointed out. “I saw your fans out there, Elvis. Those are the ones that matter the most, aren’t they?”

Elvis smiled just a bit. “You’re right,” he said, “as usual.”

“As usual?”

“Well, sure,” he said. “Remember what you told me yesterday? About listenin’ to my heart?”

I recalled the moment, back at the diner when I’d first seen him again, and nodded.

“That whole day, I hadn’t been so sure what I was fixin' to do do at Russwood. I knew I didn’t want any trouble with the Colonel, or with any of the folks who were making a ruckus about the way I sing or move. But after that godforsaken performance on Steve Allen…” He sighed and gritted his teeth. “If I can’t move, I can’t sing.”

Then, he looked over at me. “And the next thing I knew, the prettiest waitress in the world was waltzin’ up to me,” he said with a wink, “and reminded me that I should listen to my heart. And so I did. So I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is…thank you.”

I felt warm to the cheeks, but I didn’t say anything in response. I was vaguely aware of a knot that had formed in my stomach, which was less in response to his blatant compliment and rather felt more like a warning signal that something was wrong.

Before I could pinpoint it, Elvis finally pulled off the highway and onto an intersecting road, where a small sign indicated it was a local park. A small clearing extended beyond the gravel road, beyond which I could barely see an old wooden bridge.

It was a relatively unassuming park. Certainly not as grand or romantic as many of the local nature parks closer to Memphis. So why exactly Elvis had decided to drive half an hour and across the state border to this particular park, I had not a clue.

But that wasn’t the cause for the warning signals going off in my mind. The cause, I realized, was the realization that Elvis hadn’t once used the name Missy to refer to me today.

Before I could make sense of it, Elvis put the car in park and came around to the passenger side to open my door. He took my hand in his as I got out, saying, “Come with me, I’d like you to see this.”

I followed his lead in a daze and untied the scarf from my head, tying it around my neck again to combat the sheen of sweat that had developed on my skin from the summer heat. We walked across the gravel road and over to the small trail that had been stamped out in the grassy clearing. Around us, cicadas whirred and the air smelled of pine and sunshine. The trail led us to the wooden bridge—which was battered and moss-covered, yet sturdy-looking. Still holding my hand, Elvis glanced down at me with a smile before he stepped onto the bridge.

We walked to the middle of it, where it was cool and shady under the huge oak trees. Frankly, the sight of the small creek below wasn’t particularly spectacular. Confused, I frowned up at Elvis and searched his eyes for answers. But they gave me none. He gazed down at me, a thousand unspoken words on his expression. And he guided my hand up to the bridge’s guardrail, pressing my fingers into the wood.

Beneath his hand, my fingertips brushed over a series of small ridges. Etchings in the wood.

I pulled my hand back to study it. Carved into the wood, clear as day, were two names, separated by a small symbol.

Elvis ♡ Y/N.

Time stopped.

The world around me blurred. No more trees around us, no more creek below us, no more bridge under our feet. Just the carving in the wood, there beside my hand, glowing up at me like a beacon.

Elvis’s name. My name. The heart. The slight wear to the carving…as if it had been carved many years ago.

A voice, Elvis’s voice, came through to my consciousness. “Y/N,” he said.

My name. He spoke my name.

Slowly, my mouth agape in astonishment, I inched my gaze to Elvis. I watched as his lips parted again to speak my name. He spoke it like it the passcode into Heaven itself.

“Y/N.”

“Elvis,” I said back, my voice cracking.

I still didn’t understand. Didn’t understand why we were here, what the carving meant, what he’d wanted to say. But nothing else seemed to matter, except that he was saying my name, my real name.

“You recognize me,” I whispered as tears welled in my eyes.

Elvis just nodded. Something in his expression, the way his eyebrows pulled down like he was about to cry himself, it drew me in. I fell into his arms like I was a compass needle and he was my north.

“It’s okay, Y/N, honey,” he murmured into my hair as his arms wrapped around me. “I got you.”

And I started sobbing.

He held me like he would never leave again.

“I don’t understand,” I choked out in between gasps for air. “When…?”

“This morning,” he revealed, his voice just a low rumble against the side of my head. “I came into your diner to try to find you, but I didn’t know your name, so I got to describing you. And your waitress friend said your name. And that’s when I realized. God, Y/N… I’m so goddamn stupid. I should have realized from the start who you were.”

“No shit,” I laughed a little, sniffling. “I can’t believe you didn’t recognize me right away.” I couldn’t hide the hurt from my voice, but it was mild—I was mostly just relieved.

Elvis pulled me away just enough so he could see my face. He studied it with a wistful smile and wiped my tears off my cheeks with his thumbs.

“Look at you, you’ve changed so much,” he remarked. “I didn’t recognize you.”

“I grew up,” I said.

He nodded. “You’re a whole woman now.”

“Yeah, well, that happens to a lot of girls when we get to be thirteen or so,” I replied with a sniff.

He laughed and then brushed his fingers across my cheek again. “But now that I know… I still see the same Y/N in those eyes.”

I gazed up at him until I remembered the wooden railing. “What is this?” I asked, touching the carving in the wood again. “When did you do this?”

“September ’48,” he replied. “The day we moved from Tupelo to Memphis. We stopped in this here park on the way to let Mama stretch her legs for a bit…and I wandered onto the bridge. I had a pocket knife, a gift from my Daddy, and I used that to carve it.” He stared down at the names in the wood with a slight pinkness to his cheeks. “I…couldn’t stop thinking about you that day, Y/N. Your face when I told you that you couldn’t come with us…I couldn’t get it outta my head. I felt terrible.”

I blinked up at him, speechless. The way he spoke of that year brought up memories I hadn’t thought of in a long time. Some good…some bad, really bad. I felt the familiar chill of anxiety settle at the pit of my stomach.

This was the feeling I was trying to forget, the feeling I’d been running from for eight years. And as far as the last thing I had said to him in September ‘48–in which I had professed my love to him in a last ditch effort to have him take me with him—I regretted it deeply. Partially out of humiliation. Partially out of guilt for ever making him feel guilty about the circumstances, which had been completely out of his control. But it was more than just the humiliation and guilt.

“It was a long time ago,” I said dismissively. I didn’t like to think about my thirteen-year-old self.

“It was,” Elvis agreed. “But that don’t change the fact that I could’ve been nicer to you that day. It’s just…I was just a dumb kid, and we were moving, and I didn’t want to, and I didn’t know how to handle it. I wish things could’ve been different.”

“Don’t say that. If your parents had never moved to Memphis, you wouldn’t be who you are today.”

Elvis Presley. The King of Rock and Roll. Someone whose life I didn’t belong in anymore.

He gave a melancholy half-smile. “I know, I know… But I hated myself for breaking your heart.”

My stomach twisted. “I got over it,” I said.

His expression was unreadable. “I thought about you all the time. And I wrote you letters, but they all—”

“You what??” I exclaimed.

“I told you, darlin’, I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he emphasized—and his eyes captured mine. “And about what you said to me before I left.”

I mentally cringed.

“So I wrote you letters—probably a dozen. But they all returned to sender.”

“We moved across town a month after your family left,” I explained.

He made a noise of understanding. “No wonder…” And then he smiled to himself. “I thought I’d never, ever be lucky enough to see you again. But here you are.”

He pulled me into him again, enveloping me with his arms, and my anxious thoughts became scattered into a thousand pieces once again. He stroked my head gently, and I clutched at his shirt.

“Y/N,” he murmured. I felt him kiss my head. “I missed you, so much. And I loved you, too. I…”

He trailed off. I knew what he was about to say, and my body stiffened, which must have indicated to him that I wasn’t ready to hear it.

And I surely wasn’t. Frankly, I was trying not to collapse with how overwhelmed I was.

“You don’t know me anymore, Elvis,” I whispered. “I’m not the same girl anymore. We’re both different. We don’t know each other anymore.”

“I’d like to try and change that,” he said, rubbing my upper back as he continued to hold me close.

My heart jolted. “You shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

I thought about all the times I passed by the shops in Memphis and saw his face on the television screens. I thought about the way every girl had screamed and reached out for him on the stage last night. I thought about the months and months he must spend on the road, touring. I tried to imagine myself inserted into his life, and I couldn’t.

“I just don’t belong in your life anymore,” I said.

He didn’t say anything for a while. He just held me, and the leaves rustled and the cicadas hummed around us like a symphony. But when he finally pulled away, his frowning expression seemed…angry.

Not angry. Determined.

“No,” he said. “Now, excuse my language, darlin’, but that’s a load of bullshit.”

I sighed. “Have you not seen yourself? You’re Elvis Presley. ”

“That doesn’t mean a damn thing,” he said. “Have you not seen yourself?”

His stubbornness fueled my frustration. “What?” I snapped. “A twenty-one year old unmarried girl who works at a diner and still barely scrapes by with enough for rent?”

He wasn’t phased. “You don’t see yourself very clearly,” he said definitively. “You’re more than that.”

“But you don’t know me at all,” I argued.

He took my hands. “And I wanna try to change that. I wanna get to know you again.”

As his words sunk in, they left one very big question. “But aren’t you leaving for another tour again?”

“I’m here in Memphis for a whole month, taking care of business, and my Mama and my old man.” He squeezed my hands in his. “I want the chance to get to know you again, Y/N,” he said again.

And with eyes like those…how could I have possibly turned him down?

“Elvis,” I said, so quietly it was almost a whisper. “Have you thought about why I didn’t tell you who I was when you came into the diner yesterday?”

He chewed his bottom lip. “I wondered.”

I sighed and faced away, leaning against the guardrail out toward the little creek and the emerald woods. “Before you left, eight years ago… when I told you that I loved you, it wasn’t just that.” I took a deep breath, readying myself for the familiar stinging behind my eyes, the ache in my throat. “I was just a kid, I didn’t even really know what love was. So I guess what I had meant by that—and why it was so hard for me when you left—was because you were one of the only good things in my life in Tupelo.

“You made me so happy, and you made me feel loved the way no one else ever had before,” I went on. “And so when you left…there was nothing left to mask the pain of everything else I was going through.”

“I’m so sorry,” Elvis murmured beside me.

I sighed again and collected myself. “Like I said before, I got over it. And I moved out of Tupelo as fast as I could, and I eventually got to Memphis. But when I saw you in the diner yesterday after all those years…”

“It brought back the bad memories,” he guessed.

I nodded. “And I figured…maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that you didn’t recognize me. Because I didn’t have to be that girl anymore.”

I didn’t have to be Y/N from Tupelo who grew up with no money and a bad home life. I could be Missy, the cool college girl living in the city. I could be someone better.

“I was able to get a fresh start with you,” I finished.

Elvis bit his lip again, deep in thought. Wordlessly, he sat at the edge of the bridge and gazed off into the woods. I joined him, and together our feet dangled over the blue creek. Around us, speckles of sunlight shone through the leaves of the trees above us and danced along the wooden slats of the bridge. A steady breeze brought goosebumps to my arms, and I shivered, despite the summer warmth.

Where would we go from here?

Elvis broke the silence after a long while. “What if we started with a...with a blank slate?” he mused. “Forget Tupelo, and the diner, and everything. Let’s just start over again.”

“It’s not that easy,” I mumbled.

“Why not?” He grinned suddenly and bumped my shoulder with his. “I’m just a boy who likes a girl. Doesn’t seem all that complicated to me.”

His smile was, unfortunately, infectious. “Well…That part seems simple enough,” I agreed.

He brushed his finger against mine where they rested on the bridge behind us. "I like you, and I'm gonna take you out tonight," he murmured. "I'm gonna take you to dinner, and you're gonna get whatever you want to eat, and we're gonna split some fancy dessert, and I'm gonna give you the last bite, like always."

I laughed, remembering the days of our youth. We used to save up our spare change and run across town to the general store in Tupelo, and we'd have just enough to purchase one chocolate bar. We'd climb up to the top of a tree and sit side-by-side on one of the branches to split the bar. And Elvis would always save the last bite for me, every time, without fail.

"You remembered," I said.

"I always will," he replied.

The memory prompted me to think about my nightmare from last night, about the storm, and climbing the tree, and Elvis's voice sounding from the house. I was beginning to understand what the dream had meant.

"I'm gonna treat you right, Y/N," he continued. "I want to do everything I can to show you that you can trust me. I want to know who you are."

I flipped my hand around, and Elvis interlocked his fingers with mine. Holding hands was just something we’d always done, even before anything turned romantic between us. We used to hold hands everywhere as kids. Now, seeing his hand joined with mine, I felt that familiar burn of nostalgia, but it felt good. He felt good. He was the feeling of home.

But I was scared. So scared. More scared than I was ready to admit right then. And I could tell that he knew it.

“Let’s start over?” he said again, but this time it was a question.

I squeezed his hand and replied softly, “Okay.”

✷✷✷✷✷✷✷✷✷✷✷✷✷✷✷✷

A/N:

I hope you enjoyed chapter 3 ♡ This story has become sort of like my own comfort fic except I'm the one writing it haha! I can only hope I emulated the same sense of comfort and nostalgia and warmth onto you, my readers. Thank you eternally for sticking with me through this slow burn!

I’m dying to hear your thoughts about it! Please note that I write fanfiction for free; my only request for repayment is a genuine expression of your thoughts, opinions, likes/dislikes, and predictions about the story. Whether it’s simply a “Wow, I loved it!”, a keyboard smash, a series of convoluted thoughts in the tags, or even a full-out review, please know that any and all feedback is welcome!

Much love ❤︎ from Juniper

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