#or like not rich but middle class in california

[beannary]

ok what do rich people rooms look like

[ooglywooglies]

the other thing about this income topic is middle class isnt fucking real youre either rich or youre poor

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Let’s Fall Out of Love

Divorce Part 1

Fully co-authored with @elvisabutler 💋

Thanks: are due to so many friends on here who helped craft this timeline and concept and helped me hone the motivations into something I trust our readers will find evocative and sympathetic. Y’all know who you are, thanks for being my buddies

Warnings: 18+ for thematic and sexual material. Strong language and bitter accusations between spouses, mentions of drugs, divorce proceedings, lying to spouses (for their eventual good???) mentions of past infidelity, Colonel Parker being the worst, poor Elvis being in a bad place with his health and mentally -and dub con smut. It is in no way non con but the context, the lack of voiced or implied consent and the aggression make it dubious. It is fairly clear both parties are engaging in hysterical bonding, still the scene is dubious as is the language used by the man regarding a wife having no say in it. So please heed that.

Note: it was the attempt of the writers to craft a rather cinematic experience with this fic, one aim was to skip times and have plenty of fade to black moments. Please note the time stamps above each scene to keep track of progression. Anything that is not clarified in this chapter will either be clarified in the next part or else in others. You’re of course welcome to ask questions.

|| 10th, APRIL 1977 ||

Divorce. Lil Tink is divorcin' him. Lil Laney is gonna be his ex-wife.

The thought rattles around in his aching brain as he chases her up Graceland’s stairway, past the portraits of their children and the plaques celebrating their successes and haunting likenesses of younger selves. Both of them home for a brief stint after Vegas Showrooms and California Courtrooms.

Home -it won’t be his home much longer, she’s gonna see to that.

Divorce.

It had taken up half his year already but he was so sure, so damn sure all she needed was to make a fuss and threaten like she does and then it would cool down, smooth over. He was ready to humor all sorts of shit and then she went and pushed for more. More money, more assets, took out a damn lien. His Tink who happily chucked half of custody at him without a fight has now drug this little show on for months, all for a couple more bucks.

She’s takin' everythin' he's worked so hard for, takin’ it all, going back for more even, just to make sure she can still be taken care of in the conditions and standards he had raised her to.

Spoiled lil middle class girl grown into a spoiled, hardened rich woman.

“Till death do you part”, he hurled the promises at her over the phone, as soon as that court order had landed in his hands -but if ya ask Elaine, he's been dead more times than she can count. Maybe he's dead to her in everythin' but body. Ain't that the other joke, he feels half dead even in body.

"Elaine Presley! Turn 'round when I'm talkin' t'ya! Ya know I hate it when people do that” As if she’s required to listen to him or required to pay attention after two decades of focusing so much of her attention and time and energy on a man who has forgotten all of that. On a man who’s forgotten that he’s married to her. That’s forgotten he has children with her, a life he promised her, and not to his manager who's twisted so much of what was between them into this. Whatever this is.

"Why?" She spits still climbing stairs she's climbed a thousand times before. Faintly she hears Marie playing in her room and a surprising amount of silence from Jack's and her heart twists. They don't need to hear this. None of her children do but her youngest- oh her youngest deserve to think their father is still something resembling a good man.

"Why?" As if Elvis is some sort of parrot, he repeats the question back at her. His confusion colors his face, warring for control with his anger and frustration as he follows her through the padded master doors. "Why? The hell kinda question is that?”

“I told you come by and grab those things you said you needed so badly.” she hauls open one of his drawers and the thing squeals on its track from her violent tug. “So do that. If you wanted to chat then we coulda chatted somewhere else. Or, you know -a year ago? Ten?”

“I’m just askin’ why.“ He embraces her own wording and tries to get nearer her, hem her in against the dresser like he’s done countless times before in this very room with dazzling success.

Elaine slips away between them like water and he’s left bracing himself on the smooth wooden top.

“I’m not actively trying to be a shrew.” she murmurs as she turns away and goes to the other side of the room, opening the wardrobe, “No matter what you believe. I told you that you’ll be welcome in this house no matter what, so that’s why.’I’m not allowing you to come around -you just can, it’s your mama’s house still, for all I’m concerned.”

“No, no I mean- why’re you throwin’ this away?” He emphasizes it with his hands, a pleading gesture that sweeps the whole room and its host of sacred memories. He’s used this before but that was back when he figured it was all one big tantrum. Signing custody papers has rather shaken that hope, delusion, comfort.

Tink purses her lips and he notices her face has gone so white this summer, rarely in the sun and addicted to wearing black like some melodramatic Prima Donna. She does look stunning in the papers all decked out in veils and heels, he’ll give her that. He doesn’t know when she turned from being the heart of the operation to the glamor of it all -and he the opposite.

“What’s my favorite color these days?” she asks him instead.

He stares at the sable color he’s seen her wearing for months now and sighs in exasperation, “Shit I dunno -black?” he swings, knowing it’s a miss the second he says it.

“I can’t do this anymore.” she informs him, like color has broken up a twenty year long marriage and he grinds his teeth so hard he thinks he cracks a filling. The pain adds to his headache that matches the pounding in his chest and the roaring in his ears builds to such a degree he’s honestly terrified for them both.

“Stop this.” he warns her, quite sure she knows the red hot fit she’s stoking with her callousness and hurt that she won’t help him out of it like she used to, that she’ll let him go into a blind rage and then blame him for it, no doubt. “I know when you’re lyin’, woman, and I ain’t ever seen a more lilly livered liar than you right now.” he snarls and tries a last appeal that comes out as a barb anyways, “You wouldn’t be goin’ on so rash if your daddy were still alive,” he jabs a finger at her, “guess I can be grateful he ain’t, so he’s not breakin’ down my door for explanations ‘bout a offense you won’t admit to me!“

Elaine absorbs this blow with a wavering face before the nonchalance cloaks her features once more and Elvis would resort to smacking it off her if he were a different sorta man. “Black is practical, that’s why I wear it. It’s not my favorite though.” she simpers, clutching at the shoe she’s picked up from the floor, something for her hands to worry, to hide her own anguish at having to keep him in the dark. To lie repeatedly to him as he breaks apart, she didn’t know it would cut him up so much.

It’s a mess, this web of connections that used to prop them up, used to be a community. Now it’s a den of tattle tales and if one of them suspects she’s anything but angry at Elvis, that this this divorce and seizing of assets isn’t a scorned wife gone nuts, but rather a calculated endeavor to get at his manager once and for all -well Charlie will spill to Vernon and Vernon will spill to Elvis and Elvis will have all the fuel he needs to plead her right back into complacent heartbreak in his arms -before he goes on tour again and murders himself from the workload.

“I’m on orange kick, actually.” her voice is hoarse.

“Then I’ll buy ya some fuckin’ orange curtains and you’ll stop divorcin’ me.” he jabs a tinged finger at her and he looks like he might fall over, his face is so flushed and sweaty, from pills and passion. Elaine readies to catch him, break his fall if he tips. At least here there’s carpet, unlike the hotel hallway that busted his head last year.

“I’m rather in the mood to buy my own from now on.” she lies and sweeps past him to get to the closet.

She never gets past him. His hand darts out and engulfs her dainty wrist, tugging her back and in a spin like he practiced in his movies so many times, a romantic, gallant, possessive gesture that lands her smack against his broad chest, locked in with an arm around her shoulders.

"Buy your own, hm? Gonna sell my mama's house to do that? Gonna sell ya children's home to do that?"

“Elvis, you get your damn hands off me.” she bites back, throwing her weight on his forearm that might as well be made of steel, so little room does she gain from her effort.

"Never minded my hands on ya before. Even 'fore I married ya, it was fine for me to touch ya. To inspect that lil house of yours to make sure it could have all those lil babies ya wanted. Gave 'em to ya didn't I? Gave ya every last one and two've ‘em are even still with ya till they leave." Never mind that Jack's been bouncing between here and California in an effort to do what he's wanted to do since Elvis would play sharks in the bed with him. "But now you're wantin' my hands off. Goin' on 'bout gettin' new curtains yourself."

His words are punctuated with spit and a hissing anger Elvis doesn't normally indulge in. The bitter anger she used on the road with champagne making her head float in a sea of lies and wants and needs and a twisted sort of love till she had to call it. She can feel her jaw tensing up at his calloused fingers finding their way under her chin, tapping at first to try and have her look up at him before clenching around it and tilting it upward instead.

"Who is it, Laney? Who's the person who's gonna take care of ya? Gonna help ya buy those curtains? Get Marie those cameras? Help Jack and Rosie pay for those commie schools of theirs?" With each passing word Elvis’s voice drops lower and lower in octave until he's reaching levels Elaine's never heard. Against her will, her body shivers in his arms. A sneer crosses his lips- a twisted version of his raised lip that everyone knows and loves. That raised lip she's kissed before with laughter and jokes on how "if you keep doing that your face'll stay that way, Naughty." It shouldn't be there like this and yet it is. "That why ya dragged me to our lil Ella Bella's weddin'? Figured the Martins could spoil our daughter rotten away from you and your new caretaker? Your new piggybank? Don't get shy on me now, Laney! Who's the lucky sonuvabitch who gets to have my wife?"

Elaine's learned how to be composed in every situation with Elvis. She'll shoot at the Colonel over love handles and movies that killed her Elvis's spirit. She'll titter at army wives mocking her house and implying she couldn't keep up with being Mrs. Presley and growing a second set of twins in two years. She'll handle losing little Joesphine with a body that betrayed them all and with a smile on her face because Mrs Kennedy had just lost hers and then John died and the US can't handle their Irish Catholic and their Southern Baptist Camelots falling to pieces all at once. But this, this is too much. This is her soon to be ex husband mocking her. Like she'd have had time to find someone else who would take care of her, like taking care of Elvis and their children allowed her to seek any other comfort than in the aging movie star her husband sought to emulate once upon a time before realizing he's just a man too. The aging movie star she considers one of her nearest and dearest friends and who'd- who would be her caretaker if she let him.

Knowing her luck it'd end up worse than this.

No, this is Elvis throwing out an insult to her character, the one he'd have defended till his dying breath except for when she turns on him like Red and Sonny did. Their book's gonna be coming out sooner rather than later and- she's made it obvious he can't trust a soul any more.

It won't do either one of them any good to react. It's not going to help her escape from his grip that's a vice around her. It won't help him see what she's doing and how she’s doing it for him. But she is only human just as he's only human and her lipstick covered mouth opens in defense of her own honor.

"What makes you think you deserve to know?" He can't see through everything to see why shes doing this, so why should he get an answer. "You won't have to worry, we'll all be taken care of. And you can be rebranded! A seasoned entertainer who's free as a bird to do whoever and whatever he wants. Or oooh -maybe the colonel will pick you out a new wife. Pretty little fool to take my place, without trappings like children -or brains."

“I chose my wife.” it sounds like a beg, anger and hurt battling for the upper hand in Elvis’ heart, his hand squeezes her chin stronger, watching her lips pucker just that little bit. Such a soft mouth has no right being so stern and derisive as it’s been these past months, once upon a time he knew how to make it gasp and smile with a word, a kiss, a mere glance. “I chose you, and you promised. It ain’t me breakin’ that promise, ain’t me sayin’ I can’t do this no more -I-I-I’ve spent my goddamn career givin’ you all this, I gave up w-women for you, I gave up movies for you, when you come to me with what’s wrong I do my damndest to fix it. Now you won’t tell me nothin’ but orange curtains, and if I thought those’d fix us I’d be out the damn door right now, headed to find you the best in the country. I would, Laney, you know I would. I’ve given-“ he stops to gasp in a ragged breath, unsure of what part of himself he hasn’t poured into his Tink, entrusted to her once caring little hands, vulnerability poured like so much oil into her heart for safe keeping, his flaws and secrets tucked safely in the little nooks and crannies of her generous mind. “I’ve given-“

-So Damn Much.

“I’ve given you my life.” His Laney stares back at him entirely unmoved, her eyes hard and sharp with their ebony liner, the squish of her lips beneath his fingers barely dismantling her disdain for him, “And seven children from my body. I never said you weren’t a good man,Elvis, or that you're not generous, but we both know we don’t want to go toe to toe in measuring costs for twenty years in heaven. And I’m saying, -I can’t do it anymore.”

“Anymore?” it’s bothered him all these months, that word and he wonders what she thinks she’ll have after this, like they’re not so intertwined and connected that, like twins, they will forever feel what the other feels, want what the other wants, a string tied between them from countless, immeasurable amounts of time spent merged as one, “I ain’t ever not gonna be in you, woman, once mine -always mine. What’s there for ya after this, huh? Seven children -twenty years! -Goddamn I’m in you!” he shakes her at that and sees a spark of something he knows light up her eyes.

Elvis slides a hand from her shoulders, down over her sternum and feels her heaving intake of breath at the missed feeling of his hands on her, down past the tie at her waist, down to the planes of her firm belly, just a little swell and some soft skin that speaks of the souls they once made with their love. He presses his hand, large and warm and cupped to that precious sanctuary, kneading it, lifting it, weighing it just that little bit in his palm.

The little house is empty.

Elvis outright laughs at his mistake then, a booming, jarring laugh at having forgotten just who he’s got in his arms. He can feel Elaine’s violent shuddering along the entire length of him at the strange sound in their gloomy bedroom. Or maybe it’s from the dig of his fingertips at her womb, like he’ll claw inside it from the outside if he’s barred from plundering her the natural way.

Sweet Miss Phipps, Elvis thinks, with her hungry mind and starved body, so damn eager to be possessed, to be made good use of, to be pumped full and burdened with child again and again. He shoulda kept her swollen this past decade, prioritized her hunger over the tours and then, maybe then, she’d not have gotten notions like this.

“God gave me a remarkable woman.” he murmurs to himself in realization, his hands loosening their grip on her jaw to run the backs of his fingers against against the soft swells of her cheeks and Elaine’s heart speeds up in recognition of the shift in his demeanor, that thrumming resolution taking over his body behind her and helplessly her own responds to it.

As if she's another person, someone she would counsel to resist, to stay strong, Elaine feels her face turn towards the caress of his ringed fingers, towards the admiring touch that’s been her joy to wake to a million times, a touch that’s brought her purpose and comfort for twenty years. Her mouth falls open with a surrendering quiver and she makes no move to avert her mouth when his fingers sweep over her face and across her lips in a revenant mapping of his wife’s well known features. Her tongue darts out to taste even a sliver of his salt, she tastes metal instead as his ring glides by. It’s a heady feeling for anyone to realize Elvis Presley intends to fuck them, it’s entirely heightened by a familiar knowledge of his capabilities and a divinely witnessed right to his person.

It’s no villain staring down at Elaine, pressing himself to her -the distance has been necessary all these months to keep her anger and fear prominent, to remind her of the need for such dire action as divorce, the slightest, kindest of touches from him would dismantle that resolve, that garish image in her imagination. Now she’s close to the finish line, so close he’s fully panicking and she can feel the lightness of soon being free of her deceit. He’s no villain, he’s just a good man who has hurt her, who hurts himself more often and worse than how she’s hurting him. And soon they’ll be able to save each other. Just not today.

His hand slips to her throat and he kneads it, contemplating the give and delicacy of her pale flesh, and her responses, the languid subjugation of her body to his touches, just like he’d taught her in this very bed across from them.

She sees when his eyes flick up from her throat to their marriage bed and it’s like a million hummingbirds erupt in her belly in disbelief, in panic, in a frantic sort of hopeful missing.

“Elvis-“ she doesn’t know if she’s trying to warn him, trying to remind him of the wrongness of what he’s thinking, or if it’s a beg for him to ignore her sensibilities, to take her and make her that new little wifey with the carefree face and the mindless little head.

His face is dark and flushed like he gets when he’s aroused, his features seeming to get richer with the heightened intensity of his feelings and she can feel the sweat break out behind her through his silk shirt, slicking up her own back through the gauze of her dress. Elvis’ eyes drop back to her face, remaining there with a million intentions painted therein but not a single flicker of wavering shows.

Elaine had no reason to be as startled as she was when she felt his hands drop to her waist and spin her around, picking her up beneath the ribs with his astounding strength and tossing her like he would rag doll on his karate mats. She landed with a silly bounce amongst the bedding. It could have been romantic if he had any blue left to his irises as he looked down at her, sauntering to the foot of the bed himself and surveying her where she lay.

“Wife.” he greeted before taking hold of a footsie in each hand and spreading them apart for him to step between her legs.

"Elvis." A whisper as if saying his name any louder would unleash something they might both come to regret. As if it'd cause the dam she's locked her emotions in this entire ordeal will finally break. If she calls him husband it's over. He knows her inside and out, every crevice and dip in her body and soul has been mapped by him. The lie will come apart with a simple utterance of his title that he still has in this moment. The title he still has for three more weeks.

"Elaine." Her name comes out in a shaky breath that she can tell he's attempting to control, to rein in. Those blue eyes she's fallen in love with more and more as years had gone by are an inky void, pupils covering every inch they can and not just because of some pill he had to take or because she had watched him die right in front of her. Both their tongues dart out to wet lips and catch errant drops of sweat before she hears the *clink* of his belt.

That noise isn't new to her, the jangle and clanging of the metal a familiar sound. In the quiet of the room, in the quiet of the house? Of their home? It steals a breath from her lungs as sure as his body pressing down on her would have. The belt sounds like one of the heaviest ones he owns and a shiver unbidden rolls through her body as the cacophony of that gaudy belt gets louder and louder in her ears. Each breath takes effort, forcing air between the two of them that threatens to stifle any calming thought or action. A final puff of air- of his breath- warm and humid runs across her hair, forcing a loose strand of it to move.

Elaine doesn't. Elaine doesn't move an inch even as his belt finally comes off in a subdued flourish and a minor curse. Her eyes focus on the gaudy little harem lamp above them even as Elvis drops the belt ever so gently next to her body. It still clangs against the rings of his hand and its own golden links.

Sweaty and warm, his bejeweled hand moves to cup her cheek. "Mrs. Presley." he breathes her title into her lax mouth like it’s Holy Spirit anointed before slotting his mouth against hers with firm conviction in the rightness of his claim to her.

"Elvis."

It's not fair that all this force, all this passion, all this wanting that has -if she’s being honest- waned for her at times over the years is coming out of him only now, now when he thinks he’s lost her. Now that he’s more fool than he’s ever been. They’ve been alone too often in their marriage, if not separated by miles and oceans, separated by intent and interpretations of it.

“Still mine, for a few more months you’re still mine. Ain’t nothin’ you can do about it. You jus’ take it, jus’ take me, Laney”

And if she weren’t blinded herself by a heartache the proportions of which were only matched by losing a child, she might think every grip and clash of their bodies tells her he wants her every bit as bad as she wants him.

Still.

Mindless and hazy she waits for him to notice how every give and shudder of her own frame declares her want for him. He thinks he’s forcing the matter -but all he’s doing is giving her some false hope to curl around and cry over when the fissure finally splits apart.

I wanted you. But I thought I was alone in it, she thinks she hears them both saying it with every lewd squelch and pant.

It’s cruel confirmation of how entwined they’ve become, how much knowledge of the other they’ve collected over the years that he can make her writhe even under these circumstances, have her shattering beneath him effortlessly like older, kinder, gentler times. It’s made worse when she can feel him slow, stopping partway in that familiar way when he’s edging himself, intending to make her go round the loop once more, the familiarity of it makes her want sob, not from any hurt of the present, but at the notion this may be the last time she feels it -they both want this to last. And that unity is a mocking thing, all context considered.

He’s sweaty and she’s trembling, there’s so much warmth coming off his angry frame that she feels like curling inside the furnace and letting him make her forget anything beyond this physical connection that was never in doubt, the sheets are cold and dry and foreign against her back by comparison and she thinks of sleeping alone amongst them for the rest of her life. Elvis seems to sense this weakness of hers, one he wished he supported sooner, taken advantage of back when she looked so indestructible but was privately fraying at the seams, trying to hold the whole fairytale together. He shoulda done this sooner.

Old dog, new tricks, maybe, but Elvis has always been clever, opportunistic even, and he keeps his thrusts shallow and tantalizing as his wife gasps back to life beneath him and he keeps her close, his hands wound into her hair, hairy forearms beneath her shoulders, her ankle caught somewhere near his ear and his sweaty nose dripping onto her cheek.

“C’mon now Tink, you’ve thrown your fit,” he reasons to her in a coo that is underscored by the cajoling gait of his hips rocking into her, it has her clenching around those first few inches of him again, “ya made your point. Don’t -don’t do this to us baby. You c’mon back now. Ain’t anythin’ out there that’d satisfy you like us. Ain’t nobody else needs ya more dan hims does, satnin, don’t leave hims, baby.”

A good fuck, that’s all she needed, he’s sure of it. Or a couple of ‘em. He shoulda started dishing them out in Palm Springs but he’d been so angry when she filed and she’d been so cold. A couple of good fucks, that’ll solve it.

And to be heard. Which -she’s gotten that, all of America’s been hearing how he can’t keep his own wife.

Whatever bit of sentimentality he’s feeling right now, the sort that makes him wanna spill over how pretty she looks, vanishes in the angry tumult of his recalled humiliation. It fires him up instead and he snorts in his breath above her like an angry bull, perfectly capable of making her pay, making her see some sense, too. The longer she doesn’t reply the more this feeling surmounts the gentler ones and if Elvis were being honest, he knows denial had given way to rage and now bargaining and he’s full on panicking, trying to keep a woman who he shouldn’t have to chase.

She’s his wife.

“Elaine?” even to his own ears he sounds frantic and rough.

She is crying beneath him now, he thinks, that’s not all sweat making her face shine and her lips are taut like when she’s trying to hold it in and he wonders why the hell she’s the one crying. He feels like crying, he’s being left without an explanation or a pot to piss in. And all that while he’s still perfectly capable of proving he’s the best she’ll ever get. It’s like she’s agreeing with him when her hips start to move on their own accord, disagreeing with his teasing thrusts and instead she impales herself up on him, rough and sloppy to the rhythm of her fits of crying.

“I loved you.” Elaine sobs into his neck and he could wring hers for the confusion of it, for the way he just doesn’t get her after a lifetime of trying and how only this, this communion, this passion, this fucking is the only thing they make great sense at. Back when it had a purpose, back when it was to bring joy, to make a baby or five, and even now -to tie her to him somehow.

He folds her body viciously and plants his foot on the bed, thrusting so hard into her with all that wild abandon he knows she’d been jealous of him expending on his audience and not his family. “You greedy lil bitch, you love me,” he growls, “-what a revelation.”

‘Just an ounce of all that passion would go a long way, Elvis’ -he can hear the echo of her stupid little voice even now.

Passion? You want passion, Tink? He doesn’t think he’s ever been so passionately furious when he’s climaxed before ever in his life. For once it’s quite obvious he’s not ‘made love’, war maybe, but not love -and ain’t that another joke, he’d meant to make her love him again.

Elaine tears at his back with her fingernails and hears him snarling at her that he won’t stop, can’t stop, why can’t she stop this nonsense? She grips him harder, she seizes herself as he starts to slow, claws at his back with each vicious pump -seems they’ll both be shifting in their seats next time in the courtroom.

“Elaine?” he sounds so broken, like he does those times when they bring him back from heaven’s gates, it’s mumbled into her neck again like always but this time there’s no drugs to blame, not directly, not if she’s honest. She’s the one killing him. This little plan of hers to save him, just might finish him.

She prays God will be kind, prays he’ll keep her man alive long enough for her to finish this ugly business and restore his freedom, prays that maybe the hot slosh of spend coating her womb won’t be a waste. That she’ll have something of him left, just once more, please just one more. Something left of the man she married. Something to remind her of why they married and of what it was like to be happily married. Maybe just once more she wants to carry his entire world inside her.

“No, Elvis. I-I’m sorry, no.”

When he pulls away, it's not just sweat coating his lashes and his face. This plan of hers might just finish them both.

_______________________________

Every day in that courtroom is another layer of pride and image stripped away from Elvis and her and their perfect Southern Camelot. Every day is another headline for the papers with pictures of Elvis making a fool of himself in a way that can’t be smoothed over by anyone. Every day has cameras being shoved in Elaine’s face as she leaves with another hickey on her neck, bruising and blossoming in a way that looks grotesque when she sees it on the news later that night. The black outfits don’t help the contrast.

Every other day is being thrust against a bathroom stall’s wall with heels digging into Elvis’s back.

“E-Elaine-" He’ll stutter out, the feel of her clenching around his cock making it hard to focus or maybe it was the bite of her nails through his dress shirt. "You stop this. Been grovelin' 'n I deserve to have my wife listen."

"Ex. Wife." Elaine will huff out, words slurring into a quiet mewl as his cock brushes that one spot.

"Wife." An argument and a fact that he'll hammer home until the very last second he can. She never corrects him after the first time, too worried the knowledge would crush him to the point of everything finally giving out.

Jesse has taken to looking askance at her, worried and haunted little looks with fluttery hands at shoulder level that remind her of Elvis before he married her. If she had Elvis’ grit she’d ask her son if he had something to say and tell him to say it.

As it is she just pats his elegant hands, a man’s hands, she realizes, and thanks him profusely for his support, for being there at court with her day after day, missing practice and missing dates, letting a youthful spring and summer slip on by. They’ve been at this for close to a year.

“It’s nothin mama.” Jesse insists, almost offended at the idea he’d be anywhere but by her side.

________________________________

|| 5th, JUNE 1977 ||

When Ann makes her call, Elaine’s heart fills with all the old butterflies and girlish excitement of a past decade. They’ve kept in touch, of course they have, but between the touring, the marriages, and the unspoken acknowledgment of life falling apart from one and coming together for another, there’s less common ground to chat about compared to the days when Elaine used to share her husband and two little vixens named Thumper and Tink got to pick him apart in gleeful adoration like girls with their crush.

“Can I come by?” Thumper asks her, soft and kind but without the playful undercurrent that precipitated all her other visits.

“Well of course you can, you know you can.“ Elaine puzzles, finger worrying the wire in a nervous tick that has nothing to do with anticipation, dread pools in her belly instead.

There’s no children to greet Ann when she comes to the door, Marie at school and Jack away at his apprenticeship in California, Jesse has taken to spending his days in the studio when he’s not needed elsewhere, Daisy on the road and Rosalee in College, Ella married and attempting to assimilate with her in-laws. It feels like a ghost house compared to what Ann recalls. Maybe it’s just the passage of time but something terribly wrong and lonely strikes her at the lifelessness of the grand house, like it’s become haunted without a single death.

Unless it’s the death of the Presley’s as a whole. That would do it.

Elaine stands at the top of the stairs like old times, but there’s no gambit of children to wait for and so she speeds down the stairs at a breezy gait, smiling soft and subdued even as she refuses to be coy with her hug. She wraps Thumper up in a deep embrace and Ann squeezes her back, saying a million things at once by their clutching hold, murmuring little half sentences of condolences and “missed you’s”.

“What’d you come for?” Elaine asks her at the dining table after having supplied ice water and coasters for her guest. Ann turned down the saltines Elaine devoured with peculiar relish.

Always a straight shooter, Elaine. It makes Ann sigh and smooth out her skirt, clearing her voice to repay her candor with like. “I came to see what on earth was going on. To see if you were ok. And, I guess I came to see if it’s really happening. Nobody really thinks it’s happening. Or -I don’t know.”

“It’s happening.” Elaine replies with grim resignation.

“I don’t understand because Elvis says you’re the one divorcing and I always thought if one-“ Ann stops herself to scoff, “-I actually never thought either of you would ever divorce. You’re sincere?”

“It’s happening.” Elaine repeats, shielding her saltine chewing with a manicured hand. The action also flashes her still worn wedding band.

“So it’s not a threat?” Ann marvels, “When Roger insisted it was true, I thought it must be some drastic measure, something to get Elvis’ attention. His cooperation, you know, something to just-“

“-I’ve tried many drastic measures to gain that.” Elaine responds, “ all of them failed. I’d never ‘threaten’ something as horrible as this.“

“But…you’d do something…this horrible.” Ann murmurs, scared to play devil's advocate but utterly confused.

“You don’t know what I’ve been dealing with and, what you saw in the early days of residency, even the stuff on the film sets, it’s like aspirins compared to what he’s on now.”

“So it’s the drugs?” she whispers, heartsick, “You can’t handle being…around them? Around him?” she asks, then adds after careful consideration, “I have noticed you seem, seem still very tactile with him. I see the-“ she waves her finger at Elaine’s collarbones, “-I see the marks. Are you scared of him?”

It is unthinkable of Elvis. It really is, and Ann knows her face must show disbelief even when presented with her friend's mottled skin, and she hates herself for doubting a woman’s account, but if Elaine were to say she’s scared, Ann isn’t sure she’d be able to buy that. Not of Elvis. Even under the influence.

“Gosh no.” Elaine scoffs, a beat too late. “I just can’t do it anymore. All of it. Just the typical little things that build up in a marriage, I suppose.”

She tries to grin and Thumper thinks it’s the weakest acting she’s ever seen. Elaine more convincingly played a virgin in their home movies when deepthroating cucumbers for Elvis’ enjoyment.

“How’s Roger? Elaine asks, through with defending herself and Ann feels lost, adrift and unable to get near like she once did.

“Roger is fine.” Ann replies, “He sends his best. How is Ella?”

“Tell him I’m sorry they brought your name up, last week.” Elaine sighs, no apology offered to Thumper. They both know she’d be offended at an apology for being associated with them. “Ella is decidedly pregnant, that’s what she is.”

“Is she?” Thumper coos, followed by an alarmed quavering of hope and concern on her face. “Elaine, that’s-“ it is wonderful despite the circumstances but Elaine’s brittle posture suggests a to-do about it might sink her. “Congratulations, Grandma Tink.” Thumper settles for, daring to reach across the table top, seizing Elaine’s hand and squeezing its saltine dusted elegance.

“Thank you.” she whispers hoarsely, “She calls me everyday. Reminds me of you and me back when … her man he -he sounds sweet. Of course he’ll be gone awhile and so I’m all she has got to talk to about throwing up each morning and watching things swell.” None of this is how they expected or intended, Elvis and Elaine should both be hovering about and annoying their first grandchild before they’re even out in the world. Instead Ella’s perched down in Texas, no doubt terribly homesick, and Elaine’s talking about grandbabies like it’s another addition to the carport. “Tell Roger we’re sorry they brought your name up. Please tell him.”

“We don’t care.” Thumper insists and Elaine hopes that’s an accurate representation of Roger’s feelings. “He only asked-“ Ann stares out the front windows and down the drive towards the gates, summer colors brilliantly lush outside the house, she’s seen this view so many times it hurts, “-he asked that I make sure that…any…videos, and such, were disposed of.” she winces as she gets it out, once her manager, always her manager that man. “I wasn’t sure which of you to ask about them.”

Elaine stares at her intensely as if trying to read her soul. “I’ve most of them upstairs. Ruined by pregame juice mainly but the labels are sentimental so I’ve kept them.” Ann wonders if they’re ruined at all, and if they are she wonders if it’s by orange juice or by something far more lewd. Elvis never had great aim, “I’m sure Elvis has the ones we sent him under lock and key. Either way, you know neither of us would endanger you. You know that, Thumper.”

“Yes, yes I do.” Ann breathes, resting her chin in her hand, mournful at having insinuated otherwise.

“So you can tell Roger they’re not a worry.” Elaine prods with the shadow of an old smirk, “And you never know, in future it might not be so hard to track Naughty and I down at once.”

“Oh?” Ann squints at her in confusion.

“Mhmm.” Elaine just hums and shrugs her shoulders, the purple little mark on her clavicle shadowing with the movement. “Are you saying the night, Thumper?”

Ann leaves that evening more bewildered than when she arrived. “You were right, Roger,” she tells her husband as she settles beside him late that night, “she didn’t tell me a thing. Not really.”

___________________________

|| 9th, JUNE 1977 ||

“They’re gonna stop pressin’ ‘bout Thumper,” the murmur of his voice registering before the hand on her arm does as they both find themselves heading to the bathroom. It’s a flimsy sort of an excuse and one she’s beginning to think the papers and the news cameras see through.

“That’s good.” Her voice is a little too airy but today’s been a back and forth of yelling and excuses and all Elaine’s thinking about is how one of Daisy’s bandmates called her up from a payphone telling her that they almost couldn’t wake her for the show. The show she shouldn’t be doing but the show that Elaine let her do because she’s been playing being an adult for so long that who was she to argue against it?

“Told her we’d make sure it was- nothing came out. Roger was worried about it. For her image and for his, maybe.”

After all, it’s one thing to just be married to Ann-Margret, another thing entirely to be married to Thumper who’d rolled in the hay literally and figuratively with the Presleys at their lowest point. He’s never minded her continued friendship with them but that was before whispers of infidelity turned into whispers of sexual romps that were taped and stored or pictures that were taken and used as masturbatory material. He's never minded until Joe E, bless his soul, implied he might've seen copper locks in a video from Circle K that Elvis had shown a few of the members of the Mafia. Not that the court or anyone could find such a video.

The lock to the bathroom clicks behind Elvis and he turns around, raising an eyebrow. “Now hold on a minute, she- Thumper thought we’d- I’d never-”

“She didn’t. Roger was concerned. She knows us well enough, Elvis.” Still reassuring him as if they’re not going through what is turning out to be the messiest divorce the world has ever seen and likely will ever see. “I told her as much and she felt bad about asking.”

About the tapes and the photos, not so much about their divorce, Elaine reasons. As much as she wants to fault one of her oldest friends -it’s understandable. That was the purpose of the divorce. To come out of left field and appear to all concerned as if the faithful wife has finally grown unable to force herself to put up with Elvis Presley any more. The Colonel wouldn’t question that and had wanted it for years, if anyone were to ask him. Ann- their lil Thumper wouldn’t have been able to keep her plan a secret, her loyalty to Elvis and Elaine would have put her in a spot that Elaine didn’t dare want to shove her into. No, it was better for her to question the same as everyone else. Maybe if this went well they could all have a laugh about it in Hawaii. Or at the very least, Ann could forgive her.

“Don’t know why she didn’t jus’ ask me, ‘m the one who-'' Elvis's voice trails off when it hits him. Why would she ask the person who likely doesn’t hold most of them. Who’s fixin’ to lose everything in a divorce he desperately doesn’t want. “Least she knows now."

Elaine should agree with him, she should agree with him that at least Ann knows now, but she only knows part of the story. She only knows that the man she fell in love with on a movie set and his wife she maybe sometimes loves as more than a friend won’t damage her the way they’re damaging each other. How even Elaine had to joke that maybe it would be easy to run into them together in the future. Even during these hellish days in court they can’t escape each other’s orbits.

Pretending to not love and care for Elvis is an impossible task when what she’s doing is because her love and her care for a man who is sometimes brutish and stupid and selfish is so overwhelming it threatens to choke her.

At her silence, Elvis allows himself to crowd into her space, hands grasping at her hips ever so gently. "How's Rosalee?"

They're both too tired to fight in this bathroom, their energy having been spent outside of it for everything else. Asking about his favorite daughter, the one who's lived and breathed for her daddy for years feels safe.

"Not- she's not very good, Elvis. It's been- she hasn't really been the same." Since what happened. If things were different maybe she'd be taking the time to relax at home and maybe Daisy wouldn't have run off from guilt and - no. Elaine can't dwell on that even as her eyes start to water.

"It's hard on them." His tone isn't accusing, instead managing to just state a fact. This whole divorce has been hard on all of them. Even if Elaine's the one instigating everything he sees how unhealthy she looks. Feels how her body seems to be breaking down in ways that aren't as flashy as his body but the signs are there.

God knows he's not always been the most pious of men in action, that somehow all his good intentions and gospel songs haven’t managed to pull him back as he skidded down the road to hell, yet he’s got such a hankering to hide in the cleft of the rock once again. Acknowledge he’s a man, a failing man, a wayward husband, a prodigal son.

He finds himself reaching for Laney’s hand, palm up in a way she recognizes without a word. She clasps it without hesitation, in a time worn manner they’ve used before marriages, births, trips, shows, bedsides of sick and dying friends and here in this tiled little haven of the courthouse where they’re allowed to be as vulnerable and broken as their Heavenly Father knows them to be.

They bow their heads and Elvis finds himself begging his Almighty not for a return of fortunes but merely a cessation of tragedies. Elvis’ hand twitches, a pinky disentangling from Tink’s clasp and tickling her belly, like a presentment, like a benediction of nothing more than a heartbroken hunch on his part.

_____________________________

|| 29th, JULY 1977 ||

Elvis regrets answering the door to his penthouse the moment it swings open to reveal Johnny Cash with that sort of frantic and half crazed look in his eyes that Elvis thought he'd given up at the beginning of the decade. Wasn't that a hoot, the two of them swore up and down they had gotten clean for their women, the loves of their lives- the ones that God blessed them with to live out their present and future everlasting lives with- only to fall back into those old habits. What a cosmic joke.

"You're a fool, Presley." Short and to the point in a way that only Johnny can manage. Elvis exhales, wondering what exactly he's done to God to earn one of his oldest friends calling him a goddamn fool at the closest thing he's got to a home nowadays. His lil Schnucki comes to visit him, and Jesse's called once or twice but ever since that- ever since he realized how serious his Laney was about leaving him- Graceland ain't his home anymore.

"Ain't gonna say anythin'? No fight left in you?" The door to the penthouse is kicked in and if Elvis was any other person, or Johnny was any other person Elvis might've jumped. As it is, all he manages is a shrug as he pinches his nose. His head's achin' and his eyes hurt and all he wants to do is sleep. Take something to make every whisper floating in his head die down. An older brother telling him how he's ruined his life isn't remotely something he's got the patience for. Not after today's courtroom.

"Whatcha want me to say, John? Ya know everythin', so whatcha want me t'say, hm? Laney's leavin' me, takin' what she wants and leavin' me poorer than I met her."

Not monetarily, no, Elvis figures he could handle that better than the reality of his Laney, his Tink, the bjggest part of his soul other than his mama leaving him. Elaine's leaving him a man with barely any soul left in him to fight and go on. And he swears- lord he swears he felt something different about her recently. Something swelling that shouldn't.

"What I want'ya to say is that I'm gonna go back to my hotel and me and June are gonna tell each'otha that this whole thing's jus' you all been stubborn as a pair o'mules. Cause if it ain't, I gotta be real concerned June's gonna up and do the same thing on me." Johnny's always been someone who doesn't let Elvis get away with half the things everyone else does. Maybe it's because of how they started things together or how Johnny knows that half the reason he's got June is because of Elvis. Or maybe it was some misplaced need to be a brother to Elvis- to fill in a spot he figures his twin would've.

"June ain't gonna-" Elvis starts before Johnny uses the two inches he's got on Elvis to his advantage, staring the other man down as he cuts him off.

"Lane wouldn't've. Shouldn't've. Yet she is. This ain't- this ain't 'bout whatever damn excuse she's got. Can't be. There's somethin' you ain't tellin' everyone."

More and more Elvis has to laugh at his life and how everyone seems to think he's got some power over his Laney. That this whole divorce and the way he's embarrassing the both of them day after day is just another show. A snow job as the colonel would put it. This would be so much easier if that was the case. It isn't the case though, it isn't the case and Elvis feels his laughter escape him like the boom of a cannon.

"If there's anythin'- The whole damn country thinks I'm an idiot who can't keep his wife and here- I don't need you to be thinkin' 'm an idiot who don't know some grand plan his wife's cooked up. Ain't no plan. Ain't nothin' I ain't already groveled about and cried about in those hallowed halls. Laney jus' don't want me any more."

A silence settles between the two men at that revelation with Elvis breathing sounding so labored that even through the haze of his own drugs Johnny levels a look at his friend. It’s only after he’s sure that the other man won’t pass out and die on him that he actually speaks.

"You- You ain't me. She ain't Vivian. She- Elvis there ain't no way she's- that ain't it. You're both- you two can't keep your hands off each other even divorcin'. She- she still wants ya.”

“She wants my cock, John. Wants my money. Wants my house. My mama’s house. Know I said it was hers the moment we got hitched but- it wasn’t ever supposed to be hers. It’s- It’s ours.” Elvis isn’t one to break down, not in front of certain people and Johnny might be one of his friends that are near and dear to him but he doesn’t want to lose it in front of him. Doesn’t want to cry and blubber like he has been in the courtroom, pleading and begging for Elaine to just see sense. “We don’t- She don’t love me any more. T-That’s all there is to it. No grand con-spear-ah-see. Jus’ my wife wantin’ to be my ex-wife. Don’t know if I blame her. I ain’t-”

“You been a better husband than I was. Better husband than a lotta men. If- if 'Lane wanted to leave ya? She'd have done it back in the 60s. When you were carryin' on wit' what's her name- Swedish girl- fire hair. But she went 'n made friends wit' her. That woman's supposed to be yours till Kingdom Come 'n beyond. This doesn't make a single lick of sense and ya know it!"

One would think that nothing could echo in this penthouse and yet somehow Johnny's booming yell, filled with bass that Elvis is sure have made men greater than him bend and cower, echoes and reverberates in his ears. A stark reminder that Elaine and him seem to affect everyone around them for better or worse. Elvis's heart pumps a little harder as he tries to wrap his aching head around everything for what feels like the millionth time.

"I-I know it don't. This- you know these things don't take this long, John. I've-I been draggin' this out. Stickin' my damn heels in the mud. Anythin' to get her to come back, to see what- anythin' to not lose her. And she's jus'- ain't none of it workin'. Daisy up'n'ran off, Rosalee jus' wants me to be near her mama or her mama near me. Jesse's lookin'-"

"That what it is? Her doing it for the kids?” Johnny’s question has him tilting his head, not entirely unlike the millions of dogs Elvis’s children have had over the years. He ought to be offended Johnny cut him off so easily and without a care in the world and yet Johnny’s one of the few people he’d let do that. “She’s doin’ this for your kids.”

For once, Elvis has to look at Johnny and guess at what he means whether it’s because the man is too stunned to put it into words or because he doesn’t want to even entertain the idea, Elvis doesn’t know. He can hear his heartbeat going a bit too and a bit too hard in his ears as he answers.

“Ya mean- have i been failin’ them too? Have a been as bad of a father to ‘em as ‘ve been a bad husband?” The laugh that leaves Elvis sounds more like a sob than anything else. Johnny purses his lips even as he listens. "Ya mean how I found out I'm havin' a grandbaby through Laney? Or how Daisy's worse than you’n’I together on whatever she's takin'? Or how my boys acted like superheroes for their sister? How my lil Schnucki had- how I had to find that out from the Harrisons and my boys? ‘N I wasn’t there to blow those fools’ heads clean off their necks?”

Johnny realizes right then he’s made a mistake coming here. Or maybe just made a mistake pressing this point like it’s honestly any of his damn business. “You haven’t-”

Elvis cuts him off with a wave of his hand as he steps away, trying to feel less like a caged animal. “That’s right, I haven’t. I haven’t, John. Haven’t been there, haven’t given ‘em what they need. I had one job. Take care of all of ‘em and love ‘em. Failed so- I don’t blame her, John. I- I love her. Ya know I do. You know this sorta love but I can’t, I can’t make her love me again. S-she ain’t gonna love me again. Not the way she has.” His breath comes in short pants as his hand shakes and his leg jitters like he’s a man twenty years and nearly ten children younger. “I tried fixin’ this. The kids- the kids tried fixin’ this. But they can’t- can’t get through to her, these days! They’re all beggin’ and cryin’ and torn up and the Tink I know wouldn’t’ve lasted a week after causin’ such hurt to our babies. Well this new edition of her’s done made it close to a year.”

Johnny opens his mouth to speak only for Elvis to hold up a finger and force himself to take a deep breath, like Laney told him to those times after she thumped his heart back to life for him. Laney’d get what she wants if he died but he’s got a grandbaby he’s gotta see. Wants to try and see. “A year. Been nearly a year and it ain’t workin’. Nothin’- been tryin’ to remind her’ve what we had. What I give t’her. It-” Elvis starts to trail off, the fight that Johnny had put inside him slowly deflating till all he’s left with is the shell of a man who’s bone tired. Bone tired and losing everything no matter what fight he puts up. His shoulders slump.

Watching someone who’s as larger than life as Elvis Presley seemingly fold in on himself feels wrong in Johnny’s mind, but it gives him the answer he needs. It gives him the answer he’s looking for when it comes to just what’s going on with this whole divorce and what’s going on with Elaine and Elvis. His legs cross over to where Elvis is in only a few steps and without missing a beat, his arm wraps around Elvis’s shoulder. Elvis might not be his brother in blood but they’ve gone through enough that- that he wouldn’t leave him out in the cold without a hint of comfort.

“You gotta make peace wit’ it, then. Gotta- The Lord ain’t gonna want to see the two of ya fightin’ till ya keel over and die. Gotta give- If what she wants is to not be your wife any more, ya gotta give it to her. Just to make peace.” His voice isn’t much louder than a low rumble and yet Elvis can hear him clear as day.

“She won’t be my Laney any more. Won’t be my Tink.” A response as if he's a child being denied his favorite toy. Johnny doesn't stop himself from huffing out a laugh.

"But she'll still be Elaine, your children's mama. It ain't like you won't ever see her, EP." But that’s not the problem, that’s never been the problem and from the way Johnny’s looking at him, he knows that. “But ya gotta- it’s not doin’ either of ya a bit o’good to be draggin’ it on and on. Not after everythin’. Been livin’ ‘part for so long-” Johnny trails off, hand moving to rub at his eyes as he shakes his head. “Nothin’ you’ve done’s fixed it. Might not be meant to be fixed in those ways.”

“I-I- I don’t have anythin’ to fall on, John. I leave her it’s jus’ me and-” The medicine I got coursin’ through me, is what he should say. “I don’t know how to not be her husband.”

A silence settles over the two of them, punctuated only by Elvis’s heavy breaths and Johnny’s sharp and quick ones until Johnny settles himself against the wall, crossing his arms and raising his leg to press against it.

“Never said ya had to stop actin’ like you were.”

__________________________________

|| 6th, AUGUST 1977 ||

It’s a supreme irony that after a year of wishing for a cessation of that old stubbornness, that bitter pride of his, when such submission comes in the form of a mute and sullen husband opposite in the courtroom, Elaine feels her heart hammer in her chest, bewildered and terrified as he concedes one settlement after another in quick session.

Jesse gasps beside her at the change, even looks ready to beg her to reconsider her greediness as 90% gets handed over without a hint of the raging qualms her opposition has been voicing for five months.

Only Colonel Parker appears scared as shit, angrily grabbing at Elvis’ limp arm and trying to interrupt his directions with the lawyers. Each new verdict gets waved through by a lazy flick of a bejeweled hand and Elaine thinks the repetition of the gavel granting her all she wants could make for a decent backbeat in the studio.

After an agreement to give up 90% of his catalog, Elaine and Jesse both share a look, heartbroken and relieved that he’s really, truly, finally given up.

It’s obvious to all that it’s a bodily wearing out, Elvis looks awful and no amount of jewelry or eyeliner or Snow Job paraphernalia can hide the fact Elaine’s husband is a sick man. Even the papers who’ve found him easy pickings for ridicule and blame suddenly find some heart for his obvious suffering, even if the compassion is wedged between headlines about his expanding waistline and her latest money grab.

“What’s with you?” she demands and this time it’s her hand around his wrist, the unsteady clop of his boots following her heels after the click of the bathroom latch. When she drops his wrist his gold studded hand lands heavily by his thigh, he makes no move to crowd her, to grip her hair and kiss her like old times. “What was all that about?” she finds herself angry instead of relieved, mimics his lazy hand waves and scoffs in his face. She knew and planned on this day coming, but it doesn’t make it less unsettling as she takes in the victory of her spirit over his. He’s her man after all, her daddy and her provider, tough and proud and one of a kind and she’s beat him at the game of wills. She can feel her eyes pooling and angrily runs a hand under her nose as he stares at her with a blank, droopy expression.

“M’tryin’ to make peace.” Elvis shrugs, it was Johnny’s advice. Whatever it took, even if it meant giving in, he’s the man of their house and he’s here to make peace. Maybe if they end on a kind note he’ll be thought of, invited into the inner circle even even, by the time Ella pops out their grandbaby. “Never cared about the fuckin’ catalogue Tink, was only ever about buyin’ time to convince you to stay.”

The colonel’s panic at this latest settlement, one that finished the final prying open of his carefully constructed facade, one that’s exposed him to years of investigations, jail time maybe -though few outside of Elaine, Mr. Corleone and the FBI know that yet- is like sipping a mojito after a long day baking in the sun for Elaine.

Two decades of her saying he wasn’t right and Vernon telling her to go mind the carpet bill, change a diaper, redo a curl.

It should be refreshing, it should be a tonic to the way she feels shaky most mornings and ravenous in the evenings. Instead she finds herself trembling and laying an icy hand to Elvis’ burning forehead, registering the unnatural heat even in this chilled bathroom. It’s not just the stupid velvet coat, one blue eye is far more dilated than the other now she’s pulled his glasses down. He flinches from it, whether from the brightness of the bare bulbs or her touch, she isn’t sure.

“What’ve they got you on?” she sounds like a frog, throat all constricted and voice thin. She cares, she still cares so much and it could’ve been just yesterday she folded her handsome young groom into that bathtub in Germany and held him through the shakes. She wishes she could ask him ‘why do you always waste my love?’ But somehow, even after all her cruelty, that feels a little mean. “Baby, talk to me, what’s -“

Elvis grabs her hand, gently this time and he folds it with her other in both of his, a tan, sparkly little cage, she wonders how long it’ll take him before he pulls his wedding band off. Will he discard it before they make it out of the courthouse today? “Don’t you fret yourself, lil mama, those days are over.” he rumbles as he squeezes her hands and she wonders if he means days of fretting or drugs, they coincide often enough, “You jus’ take care of y’self, ok?” he sucks in a trembling breath and his glasses pinch between her fingers in his squeeze, “Without me there to nag ya bout it I-I -you take care of y’self.”

“Oh Elvis-'' she whimpers, moving closer, wanting to beg for some forgiveness, all clever plans and well timed revelations beginning to fray as she watches him rally his old magnanimity despite his grief.

_____________________________

|| 28th, SEPTEMBER 1977 || >>

He’s not alone in this concern, Elaine doesn’t know if she has Jesse or Daisy to blame for the way Marlon shows up in Memphis like that Yankee son of a bitch belongs that land bound. There’s never been a reason to see Brando except on one coast or another and it’s jarring for Elaine, seeing him take up space that’s so uniquely Elvis’ property, even if it’s under her name.

To see him in her home. Her true home.

She’s no good at hiding her nerves or the exhausted paranoia of wondering how Elvis will react when he hears of this visit. Marlon reads her like a book and leans against her kitchen counter, acting like Mary isn’t throwing them a million side eyes over the biscuit batter, and asks after her well being.

“Pretty terrible, thanks. And you?” she shrugs, wringing out a dish towel over and over. She doesn’t know when she became so fidgety, nowadays it seems she’s always betraying her nerves with restless hands and she never had that trouble before. Always a baby to hold if she needed the excuse, she guesses.

Her last baby is nine years old. And so she wrings out her dish towels and stares back at an old lover with the weary openness of a woman who doesn’t really care anymore. Elvis has been her one goal, and saving him is killing her as effectively as it is him. Those last days she wasn’t sure he was going to keep making it into the courtroom, shifting in his chair not from her nails furrows but from the repeated shots in his rump. The ones that have killed him a few times over.

Jesse made a visit to him in Vegas. Elaine doesn’t know what he said but her boy has barely spoken since. She asked her son how his father was, quite aware she doesn’t know the particulars from his fevered attentions in the handicapped bathroom of the Santa Monica courthouse. Her man would crawl out of his grave for the chance to make love one last time, it’s not a good gauge. Jesse said he keeps the curtains closed constantly. That he’s not letting anyone up. Charlie barely let Jesse up. His eyes are bad, so bad the curtains stay closed, otherwise Jesse couldn’t tell, couldn’t get a good look at him. He didn’t stay for the concert. Cissy says his voice has held up this time, at least.

“Pretty terrible.” She tells Marlon, because he’s always been more friend than lover, and that’s why he’s in Memphis when it’s a fool's errand anyway.

For all Marlon will speak his mind about this that and the other on things he cares about- yet God does he *care* about Elaine and so he bites his tongue at the first thought that pops into his head. *You've been pretty terrible for years and now you decided to care and do something about it*.

Instead: "You look terrible."

Which is a gross oversimplification of his feelings, but Elaine doesn't watch as his eyes slide over her pale and wan cheeks that look thinner than he's ever seen them. She doesn't watch how his eyes drift downward to breasts that are pressing against the dress she's wearing.

They remind him of when she was pregnant with Marie. They remind him of her breasts when she cried out beneath him against her tiki bar. If he closes his eyes he can picture them bouncing in front of his face, begging for him to bury his face in them. The boy- her oldest boy was right. Marlon doesn't even need to look at her stomach and yet some sick twisted masochistic tendency compels him to as if that'll change things.

It's small. Smaller than he figures any of her bumps have been and yet it's there. Mocking and growing at its own pace.

Proof that Elaine Phipps wants to remain Elaine Presley till one of them dies and maybe even beyond. Marlon can't help the way he exhales through his nose, unable to look away even as Elaine talks,

"Marlon, are you even listening?"

No. But he needs to.

"Mind wandered off, you know how I get, Elaine." He straightens up and tries to stay alert, “So, all this really fixed things for ya, eh?” he quips sardonically and she smiles, rolls her eyes, fully aware he’s not mocking her, he’s mocking the hopelessness of it ever working.

“Yeah. It’s all coming up roses.” she snarks.

“I uh-“ he stipples his fingers on the counter and weighs his next move, “-I heard that Colonel Parker’s recently landed in some seriously hot water. Something about the audits during the divorce and how certain things don’t match up. Got it from the papers, you know how long they stretch a few vague facts. I had to read two whole pages to get ‘fraud’ and ‘debts’ out of them. Anyways, I thought you’d find that nice -hot water, all that.”

“So hot it’ll boil his coat of lies right off with any luck.” Elaine seethes and her sudden passion takes Marlon by surprise. Stirs an old appreciation for just how much verve is always bubbling beneath her doll-like exterior. His fingers itch to let out the excess in a gush around his fingers. “Illegal alien.” She expounds, warming to her argument in the way of someone long overdue a listen, “Would you believe it? All those endless homebound tours -runing Elvis into the ground on the same circuit simply because that greedy fool couldn’t tag along. Couldn’t step outside the country. Always wondered why he never crashed our time in Germany, knew he would if could. Fake, heartless, toad.”

“Fuck him.” Marlon agrees vehemently and Elaine looks up with the same appreciative eyes of a decade past when she got no arguments from him, unlike all the menfolk surrounding her most days. Marlon abides by a simple rule: if it pisses Elaine Presley off, he needs no further research to say it ain’t shit.

“Yes, well, I’ll leave that to the Justice Department, I’ve done my bit.” Elaine sighs, her little victory crow short lived and even with his bias for the unattached Miss Phipps, Marlon can see how hollow her achievements are without Elvis to pat her pretty head for them. “It’s been weeks and I- I’m afraid he’s angry Marlon.” they’re not talking of the Colonel now, Marlon can tell by her love-sick face, “I knew he would be, with the divorce and probably with framing Parker but -he was so kind that day. So kind I thought he might’ve forgiven or just, I don’t know but now, now he won’t even answer my calls. Marie hasn’t gotten through either and -it’s not like him, Marlon, it’s not.”

“You got something pressing to tell him?” Brando asks and doesn’t even bother to hide the way his eyes flick back over her ripening form, pondering if her boy hadn’t been silly after all, going on about her not noticing. If he were a woman, a pretty woman like Elaine still is, Marlon would be weighing those growing tits each day with pride and mesmerization -but then again, Elaine’s had more on her mind than appreciating her own assets like a horny old star who never learned to aim for his own league.

“No I only wanted to-” she bites her lip as if unsure or else what she wants is unspeakably optimistic for a woman who just threw it all away. “I missed his voice.”

_______________________________

<<< || 16th, AUGUST 1977 ||

The knock at the door startled them both. Elvis pulled his back from it and faced it like he was gonna defend his wife from the mob he suspected was outside. Old habits die hard.

“Y’all?” Jesse yelled through the thick wood, “There’s half the city crowdin’ outside, there’s not gonna be a path to squeeze through soon.”

“Yeah alright son, thank you.” Elvis cleared his throat as he dropped her hands, straightening his posture fully. “You ready?” he asked dully, eager to get the worst moment of his life over.

“I gue- I- yes.” she stumbled over her meaning and smoothed out her black jacket.

"Daddy?" Jesse's voice was heard over the wood once more and both Elaine and Elvis took matching deep breaths, sweat droplets falling on Elvis’s eyes with a wince.

It's not pity that had Elaine putting the glasses back on Elvis’s eyes, her fingertips brushing against his temples in a simple gesture she's done a million times before. No, it's her last hurrah as his wife, her last action as his wife. They may have signed the papers within the past hour and legally she may be Elaine Phipps once more but until they walk out of this bathroom and this courthouse she was Elaine Presley, wife of Elvis Presley. A low hum reverbated against her chest before she pulled away, a soft smile across her lips.

"There there, Mopey, all better," she whispered in the sort of tone she only uses for the children when bandaging a hurt. "Let's- let's go face the music."

“Got me more nervous than any curtain I’ve been behind,” he joked even as it falls flat and his breath comes quicker and quicker. This was the beginning of their new life as separate entities. As an ex-husband and an ex-wife.

The door wasn’t that heavy when he shut it earlier and yet it felt as if someone had remade it out of concrete as Elvis tried to push it open once the lock clicked open. He could already see the flashing bulbs from the cameras and the press of the mass of people outside waiting for them. They were no stranger to crowds but this one was one none of them wanted to face. A look was exchanged between the three of them as their shoes clicked against the floor of the courthouse, a silent acknowledgement to try and get to their waiting cars as soon as possible.

"Jess! Mama!" Elvis and Elaine looked up through the mob of people as they pushed and pulled at each other trying to catch a glimpse of the former couple with their oldest son. They found themselves half blinded by flashes of cameras and the sun's own light, trying to find the source of the bellowed words. "We're over heyer!"

Jack then. Jack who was growing more and more into Elvis’s twin if not in bulk but in charm and whose shout sounds something like Sargent Presley’s in the army. Elaine looked at Elvis, biting her lip as she did.

"Soundin’ more like me everyday." Elvis commented as if he was commenting on the weather. It had never been hard to talk to Elaine. Yet in this moment, Elvis found himself at a loss for words. And from the way Elaine was looking at him, the feeling was mutual. Matching pink tongues darted out to wet dry lips and Elvis opened his mouth, his arm outstretched as if he was going to grab at Elaine's only for his oldest son to pop up between them, taking Elaine's arm without a second thought.

"I've got you mama. I gotcha, let's go."

The look he leveled at Elvis made every single moment in this courtroom for the past five months seem like child's play. To have his oldest son look at him like he did with any suitor that tried to come Elaine’s way, hurt. But that was his life now wasn't it? That's Elvis Presley’s life without Elaine Phipps. That's Elaine Phipps's life without Elvis Presley, protected only by her sons and her daughters from a man she once called husband. The man she once loved with every fiber of her being or so Elvis thought. Make peace with it, Johnny said. Make peace with her, Johnny said. Elvis didn't think that it would feel like this.

“I know you do, Jesse. Let me say goodbye to your father.” Elaine said as softly as she could in order to avoid the prying ears of every journalist between here and her car. “Jack and your siblings aren’t going anywhere. Not in this crowd. Even if Jack’d run them over to protect me.”

A smile unbidden crossed Elvis’s lips at the joke between their eldest and Elaine. She wasn’t wrong, but that was his boys and their love for their mother in a nutshell, wasn’t it? Capable of murder to protect her the same as him. She- she would be alright even if- even if what he suspected to be true was.

“Jack drove us here, all of us.” She explained as her eyes flitted across his form one last time to check for imperfections and for signs he might be needing anything. “I’ll make sure Ella calls you about-”

“It’s fine, Elaine. Made my bed, gotta lie in it now.” His eyes scanned across the crowd, even as he winced from the light of the sun and the flashes even through his sunglasses, finally settling on his car with Colonel Parker in the passenger seat, waiting for Elvis with a look of pure displeasure and mild panic on his face. “Gotta get him and I outta here ‘fore I give him a heart attack.”

Elaine’s face hardened at the words, and Elvis, in a fit of nostalgic responsibility for her happiness, moved to place a soft kiss against her cheek, squeezing at her hands as he did.

“S’been the joy of my life knowin’ you, Miss Phipps.”

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

If you’d like to be tagged in this particular series please drop a note below. 🌹

@eliseinmemphis

@ab4eva

@foreverdolly

@powerofelvis

@crash-and-cure

@elvisabutler

@heartbrake-hotel

@stylespresleyhearted

@thatbanditqueen

@crazymadpassionatelove

@myradiaz

@ash-omalley

@arianatheangelgirl

@steph-speaks

@burningloverdoll

@angelface-555

@lookingforrainbows

@missmaywemeetagain

@coolgirl462

@kingdomforapony

@18lkpeters

@richardslady121

@from-memphis-with-love

@lillypink

@artlover8992

@pennyroyalcreep

@notstefaniepresley

@ellie-24

@renaissingle

@waiting4brucewayne2adoptme

@presleyenterprise

@marriedtopresley

@ashtag2887

@dkayfixates

@vampireindistress

@ashtag6887

@i-r-i-n-a-a

@obsessedvibee

@peskybedtime

@goth-cowgirl-03

@stephthestallion

@fav-fanficssss

@loving-elvis

@honeyorangess

@soloangel

@xenaspace3-blog

@60svintage

[thebubblesareevil]

School’s Haunted

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Danny watched students swarm around the front entrance to Gateway High. They were all over the place, way more than Casper High. Danny took a deep breath, only to have it knocked out of him as a Travis smacked him on the back.

“What’s up man, exited for your first day?” Danny scoffed.

“Excited isn’t exactly the word I’d use. Dread, despair, devastated, some other word that begins with D.” Danny shrugged. “ I don’t know man, my last first day of high school didn’t go too well.”

“Oh come on, it couldn’t have been too bad.”

“A few days before, I got electrocuted which kinda fried my nerves for a bit. I ended up getting a lifetime ban from holding anything made of glass.” Danny quirked an eyebrow “Plus my old bully ended up in the same class as me. Not Fun.” He replied.

“Sheesh, we’ll it’s not like this time can be any worse.” Danny’s jaw dropped.

“I’m sorry, did you just jinx my first day, Dude!” Travis laughed.

“If it makes you feel better, I could ask some of my buds on the football team to keep an eye out. Bullies are a pretty big no go around here.” Danny laughed.

“That’s what they all say. There’s always one.” Travis shook his head.

“Fair enough, but we’re pretty tight knit here. Trust me and if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.” He said pushing Danny forward. “Now hurry up, you don’t wanna be late on your first day.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll talk to you later.” Danny made his way through the crowd of teens, using the makeshift map to try to find his class.

“Are you lost?” Danny turned around to see a girl wearing her gym clothes. She looked almost surprised he heard her.

“Yeah, I’m looking for Mr.Graham’s class.” She gave him a huge grin.

“Down the hall, take a left and it’s the first door to the right.” He smiled.

“Thanks you’re a lifesaver.”

“Don’t mention it!” She said as she walked the other way.

With newfound direction, Danny made his way to his home room. When he walked in he saw Matt sitting near the middle of the room, there was an empty seat next to him. He was just about to make his way over when he was stopped.

“You must be our new student, why don’t you come up here and introduce yourself.” Danny froze with dread. ‘Why me?!’

“Come on now! Don’t be shy!” Danny gave up, making his way to the front of the class as Matt gave him a look of sympathy.

“Hi, my name’s Danny Prince, not Daniel, not Dan, not Dano, Danny.”

“We’ll let me be the first to welcome you to our class Danny! So what made decide to come to our wonderful school?” He prompted joyfully. Danny had a dark look of glee in his eye. One Matt recognized from the one, and only, time Danny was invited to join his and Travis’ D&D campaign.

The DM hasn’t been the same since.

“Well sir, I just couldn’t resist sunny California. What with the the beaches and rich history here in Gateway city.” The teacher puffed up his chest in pride. “After my parents died in that car accident I just couldn’t say no when my cousin invited me to live here!” He said cheerily. Mr.Graham paled.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” He hastily responded.

“You’re fine. Figured it was best to get it out now. I’d hate to have to keep repeating it over and over again.” Danny said with wide eyes. The teacher coughed.

“Why don’t you take a seat by Mr. Miller?” He suggested, gesturing towards Matt.

“Probably for the best.” He continued his journey to his seat uninhibited.

“That was cruel.” Matt claimed

“No, cruel is making a teenager stand in front of his class on his first day. That was revenge.” He said with a grin. He heard a giggle from behind him, he turned.

“He’s not wrong you know, it’s practically inhumane.” a girl commented. “The names Simone. Sorry about your parents.”

“Nice to meet you Simone.”

“Likewise, how are you liking Gateway?” Danny smiled.

“It’s great, all things considered. I got a job over at the museum, at the space exhibit!” Danny announced, practically glowing. Simone blushed.

“Oh? Do you like it?” She asked. Matt groaned from Danny’s other side.

“I love it! Dr. Scott even let’s me use the telescope sometimes!” His smiled widened. Simone’s blush got darker. The bell rang.

“What” Simone cleared her throat “what class do you have first?” Danny took his schedule out of his pocket.

“Looks like history first. Shouldn’t be too hard.” He shrugged. Simone pouted.

“I’ve got math first. Maybe I’ll catch you later?” She asked. "Maybe we could sit together at lunch?"

“That’d be awesome! Hey all four of us can sit together!” She stopped as he left in search of his next class. She felt a hand on her shoulder.

“I know your pain.” Matt sighed watching Danny make his way down the hall. He handed Simone a pamphlet, before he too headed to his next class.

She looked down at the paper and read in bold letters

So you’ve got a crush on Danny Prince. Here’s everything you need to know.

At the back of the pamphlet was a museum schedule for space shows.

The bell rang.

She kept the pamphlet.

————————

There are many benefits to being the honorary grandson of the Master of all Time. One of which is the ability to go back in time to study for history.

This has caused Danny many issues. History is written by the victors, and not many of them were interested in historical accuracy. Which is why Danny ended up completely derailing his entire history by starting a debate on Julius Caesar. By the end of class Mrs. Beatle was practically vibrating with excitement. There was not a single silent voice as they questioned what was written in their books. Everyone booed when the bell rang, including Mrs. Beatle, but she promised they could continue the debate the next class.

Most of Danny’s classes ended much the same. Chemistry was especially exciting, they were meant to be doing a simple experiment to show a chemical reaction that would change the color of some paper. Danny’s glowed.

Mr. Thorne spent the rest of the class trying to figure out how.

Danny made his way through math, surprised at how much he enjoyed it.

And that brings him to where he is now.

Gym class.

The class met in the gym only to be led out to the field, for a soccer game to start off the new year. He couldn’t really be mad at Coach Cooper, she was actually pretty cool. But facts are we’re facts, and the fact is Danny hates gym.

Sure he can show off a little, but it was way too easy to forget what was okay and what wasn’t. Way to easy to slip up. He slowly followed the rest of the class.

“Why the long face?” Danny shrugged.

“Not really a big sports fan, plus no doubt Coach is gonna make me take off my hoodie. I really just don’t want anyone staring at my scars."

“Scars?” She looked at him concerned.

“Yeah, fighting ghosts is pretty dangerous. You don’t always walk away unscathed .” He replied with a shrug. The girl froze.

“I’m not gonna fight you.” He watched as everyone started to congregate on the field. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your haunt, but I kinda gotta go to school. You know how it is.” He kept walking, joining the rest of his class.

“Uh, yeah. I do.” She muttered under her breath.

————

Vanessa watched the strange boy for the rest of the day. He was right about the sweatshirt, however he made up a story about a car accident and no one questioned it.

Since the moment he entered the school, she felt compelled to follow him. She hadn’t been a ghost long, but he felt different than anyone else. He felt powerful, terrifyingly strong…and safe.

Everyday she was surrounded by unfamiliar faces, she walked through the halls, watching them go about their day unseen. But this year things were different this year there was Danny.

Vanessa smiled as she watched him leave the school from her perch on the roof. He stopped after crossing the street, turning around he looked right at her and waved. Her smile grew brighter.

This was going to be a fun year indeed.

———————-

Danny quickly made his way back home, excited to tell Diana all about his first day. Travis was right, though Danny would never admit it, and most of the students were pretty cool. He hadn't expected to meet a ghost, luckily she seemed pretty unaggressive. Last thing he wanted was to fight a ghost in the cafeteria...again.

Racing up the stairs he barged through the front door, Diana spun around from where she was sitting at her computer.

"How was school? Make any friends?" She smiled.

"It was great! Sure the teachers were no Mr. Lancer, but they were pretty cool. I made a few new friends, but get this! The school is haunted!" Danny grinned like a maniac.

"Don't you think its a little early in the year to start spooking you classmates?" Danny scoffed, heading towards the kitchen for a snack.

"Cousin mine, its never to early for a good spook. But I'm not talking about me, there's another ghost. I'm pretty sure she was a student there when she died." That got Diana's attention.

"Danny, promise me you won't join forces with the school ghost to reek havoc." Danny gave her the fakest offended look she had ever seen, she raised a single brow.

"Okay, fine. I won't haunt the school, except on Halloween, Frighty would disown me if I didn't scare some teens." He declared dropping the act as he grabbed a thermos filled with ectoplasm.

"Actually, the museum might be doing a temporary exhibit on the history of Halloween. The whole tour is meant to be haunted." she grinned. "I was thinking we could team up and give the Ancient Egyptian crew a run for their money." Diana grinned as her cousin practically started to vibrate from excitement.

"Are you kidding?!?!? That would be awesome!" His feet left the ground as he flew over to the table. "I learned this trick awhile back that I've been DYING to try out!" She smiled as Danny started mapping out plans for a perfect haunted museum.

"We have plenty of time to plan things out," she said laying a hand on his shoulder "tonight however we are celebrating your first day of school in this world so I was thinking we would go out to eat tonight." Danny grinned. "They just opened a new burger place down the street and-" She was cut off by the sound of her communicator. She stepped away from the table as she picked up the communicator, Danny zipped his lips as she answered the call.

It didn't take long, but from the look on her face Danny could tell they would not be going out tonight. Diana sighed after she ended the call.

"I'm sorry Danny, I have to go. Batman has an emergency meeting to discuss some things."

"Is everything okay?" She hesitated before shaking her head.

"Many of the higher priority villains have become increasingly quiet, while weaker villains have been more active than ever. We have been keeping an eye on the situation, however there have been some unexpected developments." Danny nodded.

"Don't worry about dinner, I'll go hang out with gramps tonight and we can do something tomorrow. Just be careful, last time Plasmius went quiet for too long I ended up fighting Pariah Dark."

"You'll have to tell me about that sometime." She smiled "I'll call when I get out of the meeting, hopefully we'll have some time for a movie and ice cream when I get back. Your pick."

"Awesome! There's a new movie that just came out called the Evil Dead that I've been wanting to check out." Diana ruffled his hair.

"Have fun with Grandfather." she said as she headed out.

-----------------

Diana was frustrated, she was meant to have dinner with Danny, instead she was called to an emergency League meeting. The Team found evidence of alien technology being used in the Bialyian desert. The criminal behind the project appeared to be Psimon, a powerful psychic who wiped the memories of the young heroes and put them in extreme danger.

Luckily the Team made it out in one piece, though not completely unscathed.

For the 3 hours they had been going over intelligence by the Team, going over any changes in the conflict, and reviewing other villains recent movements. The more they talked, the more Diana was sure something greater was at play.

To many people were staying far too quiet.

When the meeting finally ended, Batman approached once more.

“Diana."

"Batman, to what do I owe the pleasure?" she smiled congenially.

"What is your opinion of Superboy?" he asked in his usual blunt tone.

"He shows great potential. He needs to work on directing his strength and keeping his temper under control." Diana was quite proud of her new student.

"He's a loose cannon as things stand. We need to keep him under tight supervision." Her smile dropped.

"He may have trouble controlling his temper, but considering everything he's been through in the past months he's doing remarkably well. He listens well and, while stubborn at first, he was an attentive student. Until such a time when Superman decides to train him, I intend to continue with our training." She left no room for argument. Batman nodded.

"If you notice anything-"

"I will handle it personally." She interrupted him, her mood now sour. "And he prefers the name Conner."

"Noted. I won't keep you any longer." He grunted with a nod.

Diana made her way to the Zeta tubes, nodding to her fellow heroes as she passed though her mind was busy. Something was bothering the Bat, and that never boded well for anyone.

She said her farewells and left the base. Once she made it back to the apartment, she changed into her pajamas and pulled out her phone to call Danny. Smiling as she saw messages from her cousin, she tapped the screen to see the pictures.

She choked.

There on the screen, was none other than Vandal Savage, the ruthless warrior who fought against the Justice Society...with neon pink hair trying his very best to look serious in the middle of a meeting. She clicked on the next picture.

It was Vandal again though this time he seemed visibly furious as he stood against the Justice Society... covered from head to toe in glitter. The next message was a video.

Vandal was standing before a group of villains, clearly making some kind of presentation, as Danny and their Grandfather danced in the background. Colorful lights flashing as though they were at a party. From Vandal's twitching eye and the lack of reaction from the other villains... he was the only one who could see or hear them. Upon closer inspection, Danny appeared to be singing along to something. Diana was already at her limit as she unmuted her phone and pressing play, the moment the music came blasting through her phone she had to brace herself against the couch to stop herself from falling from the force of her laughter. She dropped her phone on the floor as the apartment was filled with the sound of-

"WHAT DOES THE FOX SAY?!?!?!?!"

@a-salty-sal@impulsiveasshole@meira-3919@alcorbearson@cute6troll@samgirl98@skulld3mort-1fan@addie-lover-of-stories@amercurio@chronicallyonline-fandomwh0r3 @heirxofxtime @gin2212 @thegatorsgoose@wanderer-of-worlds@terzatheunderscorerima@bright-shade@satanicrutialspecialist@mur-ururu@birdie-24-05@ascetic-orange@cyber-geist@thatrandomsarahchick@dr-syko-pharm-4@observerblock23@addie-lover-of-stories@rainybyday@berseid@pastalavistamf@ae-vixrose@sunflowershine03@theauthorandtheartist@ruelukas22@krzys2000@onlyhereforthechaos@stargirl1331@apointlessbox@mewzaque@distractedducky@cutelittlebeanie@unorthodoxdreamers @universallytacowolfbakery @joseph557@ver-444@icedbluesoul@shark-time@milo-l-l @spookytragedyshark@nutcase8691@idfk-man10 @s1eepyreader @all-eyes-no-dragon@demented-trashcan@avelnfear@tuhguo@genuine-muse@mentalcarebear@britcision@v-inari@redhoneysugarorange@kayekate244@litlecameron@magic-pincushion@mutable-manifestation@@kyrianclawraith@potatoeofwisdom@fisticuffsatapplebees@akikkobara@spooky-fm

[soupofmushrooms]

Thinking...about Iwaizumi Hajime...in California.

Man's taking biology??? And sports medicine?? In English?? In a second language??

And I'm not sure if he comes from a rich family maybe middle class. So it's likely he's balancing his studies while working part-time, and I'm sure he's the studious type too and of course he won't neglect volleyball (I see him joining the university sports team or a community one).

I need the post-timeskip part IMMEDIATELY pls I need to see him I need him????

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Welcome to another edition of Rich People With No Taste. If you can afford this $19.995M, (plus a paltry $74 mo. HOA fee), Mediterranean home in Rancho Santa Fe, California, you can make all 7bds, 9ba, as over-the-top ornate as you like. Who cares, you have staff to clean all the tackiness with a toothbrush.

So, what do tasteless rich people like? Well, they like to put lions in front of their homes. (I have some paper mache lions that I painted pink in mine, b/c I'm a tacky middle class person.)

And, they like marble. Look at the ceilings- each one is dfferent.

They like elaborate carving. That fireplace!

They also like gold, big historic tapestries and paintings, and draperies- yards and yards of swooping, tied-back fabric.

Long halls with fancy walls, curved ceilings, and chandeliers. Lots of chandeliers.

They like tufted upholstered walls and in the home office, a desk fit for royalty, with a big chandelier over it.

They don't cook in or clean the kitchen, so they have fancy carved out counters. Who cares if the help bangs a hip into it?

Super shiny cabinetry with carved details, b/c they don't have to clean the grease off, or climb up to clean a skylight.

Definitely everyday dining room. It's too small to be a formal dining room.

In keeping with current home trends, a family room with a bar is in the open concept kitchen.

Behind the bar. Is that silver bowl a fountain?

Check out the primary bedroom. Yikes! There's so much empty floorspace so you can enjoy full effect of the carpet. Can you imagine how long it would take to vacuum this with a normal sized vacuum?

A huge fireplace is a requirement in the primary.

Check out the en-suite.

Where do you even buy a toilet like that? This ain't no Home Depot stuff.

One of the secondary bedrooms only has a wood floor and store-bought drapes. You have to save some money, somewhere, even though you're rich.

This bath has a larger shower, another gold leaf tub, but a less fancy toilet.

Only 6 seats and flat screen in the home theater? This is unacceptable.

Gigantic laundry room- notice the key in the lock. When you're washing designer clothes, you have to keep it locked.

I wouldn't want to be the one to clean this marble garage floor.

Enter the gated property with a waterfall on the right.

The home sits on 2.70 acres and look at the size of that lap pool. It even has a turnaround.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/6884-Poco-Lago-Rancho-Santa-Fe-CA-92067/2055759984_zpid/

[class-1b-bull]

What do you hc for class 1b's backstories? Also this blog is literally giving me a supply of 1b crumbs and I thank thee 🛐

Thank you so much <3

Not proofread we die like men

Awase - he grew up in a small town that was 90% men. Probably fisherman. Also I think he has an older sister that he calls a bitch all the time but he would die for her. Pretty basic past.

Sen - ya know those basic ass dudes that get 20+ love letters a day. That was him in middle school. Other than that he had a normal past with a normal family (including his 'annoying' little siblings that think hes the coolest person alive <3)

Kamakiri - hes either an only child or the oldest of like 12 kids. He always had to take care if his younger siblings since his parents stayed at work all the time

Kuroiro - he was the only goth in a small ass town. Everywhere he walked old ass farmers would judge him for the way he dressed but now that hes at UA with a few other goths he doesn't care about being judged as much (bro is forklift certified btw)

Kendo - she had a very supportive family and was always praised for her good deeds which made her want to become a hero. Nothing to exciting shes pretty much always been surrounded by love and affection.

Kodai - other than maybe being teased when she was younger for being so quiet shes always been the same as she is now. Normal family and home life lol. I do like to think he family is loud asf tho (not like always yelling but they just have booming voices yk)

Komori - she was probably an only child. And while she was more popular in school than some she preferred to stay home with her parents or walk around in the woods to find mushrooms

Shiozaki - she definitely went to some christian private school her whole life and was probably really sheltered so thats why I think she would be a little akward when meeting new people

Shishida - lives with his rich ass grandma. Idk what happened to his parents but they aint in the picture so he was raised by this sweet little old lady instead and it shows

Shoda - idk why but I think he was raised by one of those hella social single moms. She always went out to partys and had friends over. Having so many new people around him all the time scared little him ngl

Pony - we all know most of her life she lived in America (i think California) so she spent a lot of her life by the ocean. She probably knows how to surf lol. Other than that tho she has a little brother and her parents that lived with her til she transferred to japan

Tsubaraba - his past is 50/50. Either he had a normal life with loving parents in a stable home up til UA or it was fucked up. No in-between (Ya know how class clowns almost always have fucked home lives.)

Tetsutetsu - bros biggest problem in life is having a hot mom. Hes an only child raised by a single mom and though most of his life is normal he cant have friends over because they just talk about how strong his mom is lmao. (She works out often and is the reason tetsu wants to be so strong)

Tokage - if she does have siblings its 2 older brothers and she was raised by her dad after her mom died when she was too young to even remember her. She doesn't mind not having a mom because her 2 older brothers gladly fill in that role for her lmao

Manga - yk how the mha universe is biased against people with mutation quirks. I think mangas birth parents put him up for adoption after seeing his quirk but in less than a year he was adopted by two artists after they saw his love for art <3 he had a normal and happy life since (this is also why his main goal is to make all the kids in the world smile)

Honenuki - Honestly he had an alcoholic single mom or something. She would always come home tired and with bad headaches so thats why hes so good at most house tasks (cooking, massages, cleaning, ect.) Kinda neglected so he matured earlier than he shouldve but he still loves his mom

Bondo - he was adopted by lesbian moms and they raised him to be the gentlemanly giant he is today. He loves his parents so much for how they raised him. His past is pretty normal and the only reason he was put up for adoption was because his birth mom not being financially stable enough or something of the sort. (She does visit him every so often tho)

Monoma - we already know he was bullied for his quirk most of his life but did you know he also lets you save 15% or more on car insurance? (Idk what to put here we already know his past rip)

Reiko - her parents divorced when she was around 8 and her dad won custody of her and she honestly couldn't be happier. Her dad looks cool asf but hes nice as hell to anyone and everyone. He also loves spooky stories and is the main reason reiko loves spooky things. Pretty normal past other than having a cool ass dad.

Rin - he transferred to Japan for two reasons. To go to UA and to get away from his parents. Dont get me wrong his parents were good people but they were kinda disappointed when rin said he wanted to be a hero. That disapproval only made him more determined to prove them wrong tho.

(More on koseis in tomorrows post)

[asshlyyyy]

Absolute Silence Pt. 1

Part 2

This was supposed to be just one part, but I wanted to do so much and I didn't want to make anything too too long! This post takes course over the period of two years. It will be noticeable by the dividers between takes.

There are not many stories/fics out there appointmented to those with disabilities. I certainly haven't read one yet for deaf/ hard of hearing people. I hope I didn't offend anyone by writing this. I did do some research, but it may not all be correct. If you spot something that's wrong don't hesitate to reach out to me!

Masterlist

Pairing: Austin Butler x Deaf!Fem!Reader

Warnings: Some Information may be incorrect, Swearing, Spelling and Grammatical Errors. Let me Know if I MIssed Anything!

Word Count: 2.8k

For your entire life things have always been rough. From trying to get a normal education to trying to work around adulthood. You saw and heard the world differently compared to others. It��s how it’s been since the beginning of your life. You learned to live a certain life and… well it wasn’t that much of a disappointment. 

You were treated differently, and you always were. That never meant that it was okay or that you were okay with it. You generally just wanted to be treated like everyone else. Yet… you couldn’t. Because normal people were able to hear and you couldn’t. You had to learn early on that… that was how life was. 

Was it hard? Absolutely. There was no doubt in your mind that it wouldn’t be. You learned sign language very young. When others would learn to talk, you learned to sign. Yet, you still knew how to talk. You probably sounded terrible, but you knew how to if needed. It didn’t matter much because you couldn’t hear yourself. 

You opted to not use your voice often. It only came out when you saw people get physically upset with you, and when you were getting someone's attention. Your parents taught you how to speak. They told you that it was important how to use your voice in case you were in danger. You could yell for help.

Sure you and your family looked over possible options for hearing. Yet, they were all out of your parent's range of money. Even with insurance, there was no way your family could afford to get you a cochlear implant. You guys were not rich, in fact, you wouldn’t even consider you guys to be middle-class statues. They never shared the price with you, but upon looking it up yourself… let’s just say that… the price of a cochlear implant was like buying a car at full price. 

Sure, there was the option of hearing aids… but you were deaf from the moment you came out of the womb. Hearing aids were for those who were hard of hearing… not deaf. That still didn’t stop your parents from trying though. They felt at fault that you were this way, but there was nothing they could have done.

You were currently sitting at a small coffee shop. It was only a few steps from your apartment. In fact, it was right across the street. It was honestly very convenient, and since you come in so often they know how to work with you. You sat at a table with your pink iPad in front of you and a coffee next to your side. You were currently working on a design for your fashion class. Early on in childhood, you knew you wouldn’t be able to hold a normal job. So, you searched for jobs that wouldn’t require… hearing, or even communication. 

As you picked up your coffee and looked in front of you, you nearly felt yourself jump out of your seat. There in front of you stood a guy, a complete stranger in fact. He was tall, quite tall in fact. He had dirty blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He fits into that surfer boy aesthetic from California. You haven’t met very many people with blue eyes but… they were truly memorizing. How long has he even been standing there?

“Can I sit?” His lips moved but you heard nothing. Of course, over the years you had pretty much mastered the art of lip-reading. So, you easily knew what he had said. You were also the same person who wanted to be left alone most of the time. 

You brought your hand up to sign that you were deaf. Of course, he wouldn’t understand what you meant, but he would have at least gotten the gist of it. No one ever really dared to learn your language. You truly knew how natives felt when people visited their country and didn’t bother to learn their language. 

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize.” Your eyes widened at his quick hand movements. “I was just wondering if I could sit here. I’ll be gone before you know it.”

You nodded your head quickly as an answer and watched as he pulled out the chair. Who was this man and why did he know sign language? Not that you were complaining, you were just… confused. No one ever put effort into learning sign language unless someone they knew were deaf. Hell, some people wouldn’t even bother to put that much effort into doing that. You smiled softly and shook your head. For once you felt as if you mattered. 

“I’m Austin,” he introduced himself. You nodded at his introduction and signed back your own name. “That’s a beautiful name.”

You felt your face heat up from the compliment. You turned your head away from him to hide your red face. You engrossed yourself back to your design as you told yourself off. You couldn’t just let yourself fall for the first guy you met who knew sign language. There had to be some catch to it. Maybe he used it as a way to lore deaf girls. He could have been a murderer for all you knew!

Maybe you were overthinking this. Okay okay, you were majorly overlooking this, but even so… you were way too nervous to make any sense of a first move. He probably already had a girlfriend. Look at just how pretty he was. There was no way in hell he was single. You can’t just let this opportunity go away though. He knew sign language! Who knew if you would ever find a guy who knew sign language? You had to take this opportunity. Even if it did end in empressement. You let out a breath and looked up at the guy again. He seemed to have found you looking at him cause he turned to face you.

“I know this is very straightforward of me, but could I get your number?” You asked him with a hopeful smile. Austin smiled in return and nodded his head. You were quick to reach for your phone and hand it over to him. You couldn’t believe he even agreed to such terms. Most men would have run away by now. 

“How about you put yours in mine? That way we both have each others?” He suggested as he handed your phone back. You nodded in agreement and watched as he slide over his own phone. You quickly tap your number into his phone and left the contact as your name. As you handed back his phone he signed a quick thank you and stood up. 

“I’ll text you later.” Was the last thing he signed to you before he left. God… you were hopeful that he would text you. You knew nothing about this man but you were so goddamn hopeful that he would text you. 

After you finished up your drink and design, you decided it was best to head home. You didn’t have much else to do. Sure, you could go to the bookstore… but let’s be honest you didn’t need to spend any more money than needed. Yet, you loved to read romance novels. You always wondered what it would be like to have a romance like such. 

Letting out a sigh you pushed open the door to your apartment. You closed the door behind you and reached down to your purely white cat and gave her a quick pet. You placed your iPad on the table and plopped down on the couch. What if you texted him first? No no, that would seem too eager and sad. 

Turning on the tv you figured you could pass the time by watching some movies. It wouldn’t help, mostly because Austin was on your mind. The first boy to talk to you and you were suddenly head over heels for him? God, you were a joke. 

Later on that evening when you woke from your nap you decided to check your phone. For no reason in particular… okay, you were looking to see if Austin had texted you. There were some texts here and there from your parents but- wait a minute-

New Message from Austin

Okay, no way! Sure he said he was going to text, but a lot of guys say that. You were sure that Austin was going to be one of those guys. Boy were you glad you were wrong. You smiled and unlocked your phone and quickly went to the messages to see what he said. 

Hey! Sorry I’m getting to you late, been cooped up! 

No worries! 

How was your day?

Eh, pretty mediocre, though I did have a certain someone on my mind.

Oh?

Mhm

Her name is Y/n

Was he talking about you? Your name was y/n, but that didn’t mean other people couldn’t have your name. What if it was someone else with the same name? That would be pretty upsetting and embarrassing. God, you feel so stupid to let yourself fall for this go so quickly-

And I wanted to know if she’d like to go on a date sometime. 

By the way, I mean you

You let out a gasp. You couldn’t believe it! He was talking about you and he asked you out on a date! Okay okay okay, be cool… be cool. Don’t scare him away right now. Just don’t do it… You pressed your thumbs against the letters and sent out your reply. 

I’d love to!

That was cool, right? It was simple and it didn’t seem too eager. You couldn’t wait to tell your mother about this. All she wanted was for you to find happiness in this dark silent world. If she knew you possibly found someone… God, she would absolutely lose her marbles!

How about tomorrow at four? 

I’ll come and pick you up.

That sounds perfect! Can’t wait!

┗━•❃°•°❀°•°❃•━━┛

Life was going perfectly. Too perfectly in fact. You were worried that something bad was going to happen. That was how it was in the end. You get a taste of happiness and that sweet sweet life of forever. Next thing you knew it all comes hurdling down into the ground. 

“Blow out the candles.” Your father signed to you. You smiled and looked at the people around you. Your family, your friends, your boyfriend. You thought shortly for your wish, which was the same every year and sucked in a breath. You puffed out your cheeks and blew out all the candles. You watched as everyone cheered.

Your older sister came along and pulled away the cake to cut it into pieces. Your mother had her phone pointed at you to capture the moments. Something she always did, even when you were a baby. You felt a soft pair of lips touch your head and you turned to face the person. 

“Happy Birthday, clover.” Austin signed as he gave you an envelope. You smiled at him and accepted the card with ease. Austin liked to call you his clover. His lucky clover in fact. It was given to you pretty early on when he got the role for a movie he’s been dying to get. He says you gave him that extra push he needed. 

You tore open the envelope and pulled out the card. You read it over and when you opened it you saw a piece of paper with a picture of a cochlear implant on it. You looked over at Austin in confusion.

“What is this?” You asked him.

“Your wish is coming true, sweetheart.” He smiled. You felt your heart burst as tears started to form in your eyes. You started to shake your head from side to side. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. There was no way in hell Austin was buying you a cochlear implant. 

“No,” 

“It is. Your appointment is tomorrow.” Austin told you. You let out a small whimper and stood up from your seat and threw your arms around him. There was no way you could ever repay him. The amount of money he is spending just so you were able to hear? That was priceless, and something that could not be repaid. 

Tears started to fall from your eyes quicker than you could react. Austin pressed his thumbs against our cheeks and wiped away the tears. He mouthed I love you and you nodded and mouthed it back. He pulled your face close to his and kissed you gently.

Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough! You were ecstatic the whole rest of the day. Even while in bed you were restless. You wanted to get the doctors. Get everything set up and head into surgery. You wanted this to happen fast. You wanted to be able to hear. You wanted to hear your boyfriend. 

Even while in the car you couldn’t stop moving. Your leg bounced with excitement. Austin was in awe by watching you. You were like a little kid on Christmas morning. Without him, you would have never been able to have this opportunity. And for that, you would be forever grateful.  You turned over and looked at Austin, a huge smile on your face. 

“You excited?” He asked you. A quick nod was your answer. It was a simple answer but it brought forth all your emotion. 

“Super, I cannot wait!” 

It didn’t take too much longer when you arrived at the place. There were three stages to getting a cochlear implant. The first was to do all the questions and tests. The second was getting the surgery, and lastly was healing. Technically there were a lot more steps, but… luckily you went through those when you were younger. 

The appointment went quickly and fast, and you got your surgery date stated. Sure… you had to wait a whole goddamn week… but you waited years just for this opportunity to arise. In fact, you never thought that this opportunity would come. You were grateful for Austin, and you owe him everything.

┗━•❃°•°❀°•°❃•━━┛

“So, you’ll need to change the batteries every so often,” The doctor explained to you. You nodded just to get the conversation to end. You wanted to put it on already! You wanted to hear the world. You wanted to hear Austin. The doctor turned and spoke some words to Austin. You kicked your feet eagerly. 

Before you knew it the doctor handed you the external opponent. You quickly placed it around your air and placed it into place. You looked around ready for anyone to speak. Your eyes landed on Austin. He walked up to you and took your hands.

“Hi clover,” he spoke, and you heard it! You heard his voice. Your mouth opened a bit in shock. His voice… his voice just matched him so perfectly.

“Oh my god,” You muttered out as you heard your own voice. Your hands flew up to cover your mouth. So many things were happening at once. You couldn’t believe this moment! You heard the sound of the air conditioner. You heard the buzzing of the fluorescent lights above you.

You started to tear up. You started to shake your head and soon tears were falling down your face. Austin chuckled lightly and wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his chest. He rubbed your back and nodded towards the doctor as a thank you.

“If any problems arise, give me a call and we’ll get her an appointment. I’ll leave you two be.” The doctor announced. You looked over at the doctor and just felt more tears. You couldn’t believe this. You couldn’t even begin to describe what it felt like to hear it again. 

Austin rested his cheek against your head as you wrapped your arms around him. You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him. You know you kept saying that but… you really did mean it. Austin was your everything, and he gave you everything. He gave you, your hearing back. How many people can say they did that for their girlfriend? Probably none. 

After you calmed down a bit you pulled yourself away. You looked up at Austin. He looked down at you and smiled. He brought his thumbs up to your face and wiped away your tears. He brought his lips down to your face and kissed both of your cheeks.

“I love you, Y/n,” Austin spoke. You thought you were all out of tears, but he just brought them all back. That was the first time you ever heard that. 

“I-I love you too,” you weren’t used to your voice just yet. That was something you were going to need to get used to. Austin pulled your face forward and kissed you. You leaned into his touch and kissed back. This was heaven. You said yes to heaven. 

Mutual Taglist: @darlinboypresley, @emmymaehereeeeee, @venus-haze, @austinstyles

[mjsdiana]

𝙳𝚛.𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔

2007

California

Word Count: 13.5k

𖧷 Fem!Reader, Age Gap, Nipple/Breast Play, Breed!ng K!nk, rough sex, Vulgar Language. 𖧷

College was a battleground, a relentless gauntlet for everyone, no matter their year. Freshmen wrestled with the overwhelming newness of everything, while sophomores and juniors fought to keep their heads above water as the workload mounted. For seniors, the pressure was almost suffocating—the looming fear of plunging into adulthood was real. Updating resumes, applying for graduate programs, chasing down letters of recommendation, and worst of all, the paralyzing anxiety of possibly not graduating at all. Every moment felt like a race against time, but oddly, there was also a sense of peace, knowing that this chaotic chapter was nearing its end.

And there you were, slumped over your desk in the middle of writing composition class, your body betraying your exhaustion. You had been studying for your upcoming final, but now, the stress and the late nights had finally caught up to you. Sleep had taken you in its heavy embrace, shutting out the world, your mind drifting far from the sterile classroom.

Your professor, Dr. Black, paced the rows between the desks, his rich baritone voice filling the room, though you were far too gone to notice. His words droned in the background, lost on you as you slept through his lecture, oblivious to the warning that would soon rattle your bones.

“Remember, class,” Dr. Black announced, his voice rumbling with authority. “Your final exam is in two weeks. I expect each of you to study hard, and remember what you’ve learned.” His footsteps neared your desk, a deliberate pause hanging in the air before his hand came down with a sharp crack against the wood. The sudden force jolted you awake, your heart racing as your eyes shot open.

“And to actually get some rest,” he continued, his tone edged with sarcasm, “instead of partying and drinking like your peers.” His footsteps carried him away, but his presence lingered, the sting of his words settling deep into your chest.

You sat up, groggy and disoriented, your hand instinctively wiping away the small trail of drool at the corner of your mouth. Your fingers brushed against your books, their pages damp from your unintended nap, and you winced in embarrassment. The room around you buzzed with the sound of students shuffling papers and zipping bags, the familiar rush to leave as the clock struck the end of class.

Dr. Black stood by his desk now, his eyes scanning the room with a mixture of disappointment and authority. “I don’t want to hear about anyone not graduating or falling behind in my class,” he said sternly. “You all have a good weekend, and study hard. Class dismissed.”

A tidal wave of movement surged as students quickly packed up, eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere. Chairs scraped across the floor, and soon the room emptied, save for you. This wasn’t anything new. You lingered, knowing all too well that your relationship with Dr. Black wasn’t just about grades. There was an understanding between you—an unspoken arrangement that allowed you to pass his class with an A. But that grade wasn’t earned in the traditional sense. No, it was given for other reasons.

As the last of the students disappeared into the hallway, Dr. Black’s voice rang out, its deep resonance cutting through the sudden silence. “We need to talk, dollface.”

The nickname hung in the air, dripping with familiarity as he moved to his desk, pulling out his chair with deliberate slowness. He sat, his presence looming over the room like a storm cloud.

You took your time, zipping up your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. With a heavy breath, you approached his desk, your nerves thrumming beneath your skin. “Yes, Dr. Black?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

His brow arched, a smug smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “You know better than that.”

You swallowed, heat rising to your cheeks. “Sorry… I mean, Michael.”

He nodded, the correction earning you a brief, approving glance. “That’s better. Now, let’s talk about something important. You know you’re failing my class… again.”

The weight of his words pressed down on you, and you rubbed the back of your neck, trying to find the right excuse. “I know, I’m trying. It’s just… my other classes keep piling on more and more work. I don’t have time.”

Michael leaned back in his chair, his gaze steady as he removed his reading glasses with a casual grace. “So, failing my class is just an excuse now?” His voice held a dangerous edge, one that sent a shiver down your spine.

“No, sir,” you stammered, your throat dry as you struggled to hold his gaze.

His fist clenched atop the desk, the movement sharp and deliberate. “You know better than that,” he said, his tone a warning.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the weight of his authority wrapping around you like a chain. “I promise I’ll get it together. I’m just… struggling right now. I need rest, and—”

“Do you want to come home with me for the weekend?” His question was abrupt, cutting off your words. There was no softness in his voice, only a firm expectation that left no room for hesitation.

Your heart skipped a beat, uncertainty flooding your chest. “I—”

“It’s a yes or no answer, doll,” his voice a slow drawl as he leaned forward, the glint in his eyes like a predator closing in. His arms crossed over his chest, muscles taut beneath the fabric of his shirt, as he watched you squirm under the weight of his unspoken demand. The tension was palpable, hanging thick in the air like an impending storm. It wasn’t just an invitation—it was a challenge, one you both knew had only one answer.

You hesitated, the words caught in your throat, and for a fleeting moment, you remembered the promises you’d made to yourself, the line you swore you wouldn’t cross again. “I thought we said we’d stop doing this,” you whispered, though even as the words left your lips, the truth weighed heavy in your chest. You didn’t really want to stop. You never did.

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening ever so slightly, a dangerous curve that sent shivers down your spine. “When did we say that? Because I don’t remember having that discussion.” His tone was mocking, but there was an undercurrent of dominance, a reminder of the control he had, and the control you so willingly gave him.

“I—” You sighed deeply, feeling the fight drain out of you. It was pointless to resist. You both knew how this would end. “I’ll come home with you.”

The smirk that had teased the edges of his lips blossomed into a full grin, a look of triumph. “Good,” he purred, leaning back in his chair with an air of satisfaction. “I knew you would. Now, be a good girl and stack those chairs for me while I finish some work. Then we can leave.” His voice was low, almost a growl, filled with a quiet authority that made your pulse quicken.

A heavy huff escaped your lips as you tossed your bag onto his desk, the loud clatter of metal hitting wood sending vibrations through the room. The weight of your frustration settled in your chest, but you didn’t dare push further. Not here. Not now.

Michael’s eyes flicked up from his work, his gaze hardening. “Lose the attitude,” he warned, his tone clipped, cold. “I don’t have the patience to fix it while we’re still here.”

You bit back a retort, the words dissolving in your throat as you turned away, your footsteps heavy as you walked to the first row of desks. You began stacking the chairs, one by one, the repetitive motion giving you something to focus on other than the knot tightening in your stomach.

At his desk, Michael pretended to finish grading the last few papers, but you could feel his eyes on you, sharp and calculating, like a hunter watching its prey. Every now and then, you could sense his gaze travel over you—starting at your legs, the length of them just barely exposed by the hem of your skirt. His stare lingered there, imagining what lay beneath the fabric, before moving up, mapping your body with a practiced eye. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this, and you knew it wouldn’t be the last.

You continued stacking the chairs, feeling his gaze like a physical weight. The room was silent, save for the occasional scratch of his pen on paper, but you could sense the tension simmering between you, building with each passing second. His desire was palpable, thickening the air, and the knowledge that he was watching you—memorizing the curve of your waist, the arch of your back—sent an involuntary shiver through you.

His stare wasn’t casual—it was possessive, dark, filled with the hunger he barely tried to hide. Each glance was deliberate, like he was imprinting the image of you into his mind, knowing exactly what would happen once you left this room together. And you, despite the lingering shame, couldn’t help but feel the pull of it, the thrill of being under his control, knowing that the tension wouldn’t break until he allowed it to.

You stacked the final chair, your heart racing, skin flushed under his relentless gaze. The air between you both crackled with unspoken promises, and as you turned back to face him, you saw that his eyes hadn’t left you once.

“You’re finished already?” Michael asked, his tone low but sharp, as if testing your readiness for the next move.

“Yes, sir, I’m fin—”

His expression darkened, cutting you off mid-sentence. “What did I say about calling me that?” His grip tightened around the red pen, his fingers pale from the pressure.

“I’m sorry,” you stammered, voice soft, already feeling the familiar tension settling in. “I keep forgetting.” Your legs carried you closer to his desk, each step slower than the last, your heartbeat echoing in your ears.

Michael let out a long, slow exhale, the tension in his body relaxing ever so slightly. He placed the pen down with deliberate care, its tap against the wood unnervingly loud in the otherwise quiet room. “Come here,” he ordered, pushing his chair back and patting his lap.

With a hesitant glance, you stepped forward, easing yourself into his lap. His hands wasted no time, settling on your thighs with an almost possessive grip, his thumb tracing lazy circles over the fabric of your skirt. The warmth of his touch burned through the thin material, making your skin tingle beneath it.

“I’ve told you about calling me that, and how I can’t deal with it. Correct?” His voice was quieter now, softer, yet no less demanding.

“Yes, Michael,” you replied, your voice just above a whisper, the tension in your chest tightening with each breath.

“Good girl,” he praised, his hand sliding further up your thigh, just beneath the edge of your skirt. “Now just sit here while I finish. I’ll be done soon, and then we can leave.” His words were a promise, but also a command, one you couldn’t ignore.

You nodded, adjusting yourself in his lap as his other hand wrapped around your waist, securing you against him. The rhythmic brush of his thumb over your skirt became hypnotic, each stroke a subtle reminder of the power dynamic between you. His focus remained on the papers scattered across his desk, grading them with precision, though every now and then his attention shifted back to you—his touch lingering, possessive.

The air between you both crackled with unspoken tension. The truth of your relationship—what had started after his divorce—was a weight neither of you could deny. His ex-wife had left him for something younger, and now, in a twisted symmetry, he’d found himself in the same cycle, seeking solace in you. The months since his divorce had been a blur of hidden moments and stolen touches, and here you were again, in the midst of a dangerous, intimate game.

Leaning forward, Michael pressed a kiss just behind your ear, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down your spine. The scent of his cologne, Tom Ford’s Black Orchid, enveloped you—a dark, intoxicating fragrance that suited him perfectly, lingering in the space between you like a spell.

“Turn the page for me, doll,” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm and teasing.

With trembling fingers, you turned the next page, your heart skipping when you realized it was your paper. You swallowed hard, daring to glance up at him, meeting his piercing brown eyes. His gaze didn’t waver, holding yours as if daring you to speak.

“What’s my grade?” you asked, voice barely audible, the question heavy with anxiety.

Without saying a word, Michael reached for his pen, his eyes never leaving yours. He marked your paper with a clean, decisive “100%” and drew a small heart beside it. “Only because,” he whispered, the corner of his lips curling into a faint smile.

You let out a deep, shaky breath, your heart conflicted. “I hate that you do this,” you said, brushing your hand over his where it rested in your lap, your fingers lingering over his knuckles.

“Hate what?” His voice was low, dangerously calm.

“That you fake my grades,” you admitted, the weight of your guilt settling in. “What if someone finds out? What if they get suspicious?”

“Nobody will, doll,” he said firmly, his confidence unshaken. “I’ve told you this for months. Stop worrying.” He placed his pen in the jar, signaling the end of his work for the day. His hand slipped to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as he pressed another kiss behind your ear, sending another wave of shivers down your spine. “You know I wouldn’t let us get caught.”

“Okay,” you whispered, more to convince yourself than him.

Michael gently pushed you off his lap, his hands lingering a moment longer to squeeze your behind playfully. “Grab your things. I’ll meet you out there soon. You know the drill.”

You nodded, the routine familiar now. Gathering your bag, you moved towards the door, your steps heavier with each passing second. But just as you reached for the handle, his voice stopped you.

“Wait,” he said, waving you back with a crooked finger. He stood now, pushing his chair in with a deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving yours.

You walked back to him, your heart thudding in your chest. “Yes, Michael?” you asked, looking up at him, your eyes pleading for something you couldn’t quite define.

Without a word, he leaned down, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, lingering kiss. “Only because I haven’t had one from you in two days,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire. “Now go.”

Your cheeks flushed as you turned back towards the door, the lingering warmth of his kiss still burning on your lips. The classroom door clicked shut behind you, the sound echoing down the long, empty hallway. The evening air slipped through the open double doors at the end of the corridor, sending a cool breeze rushing over your flushed skin, a welcome contrast to the heat that still pulsed low in your body. Each step you took seemed to echo louder than the last as you made your way toward the parking lot, the dull thud of your heart quickening with anticipation.

You unzipped your purse with shaky hands, fishing out the extra key Michael had given you—an act of trust, of control. The sleek black Mercedes Benz sat waiting in the staff parking lot, its tinted windows glinting under the fading sunlight. The privacy the windows offered wasn’t for him—it was for you, his most prized secret. His obsession with privacy extended beyond the classroom and into every aspect of your relationship, a boundary he was determined to maintain.

With a quick press of the key fob, the car unlocked with a soft click. You slipped inside the passenger seat, closing the door behind you, the scent of leather and something distinctly him enveloping you. You tossed your gray sweatshirt into the backseat along with your bag, leaning back against the cool leather as you adjusted your white spaghetti strap top, your breasts straining against the thin fabric. The cool air sent a shiver through you, making your nipples harden, the sensation unmistakable even through the light material.

You exhaled, glancing out the windshield as you saw Michael approaching. His long, jet-black hair flowed effortlessly with the wind, each step he took deliberate and measured. His sunglasses hid the intensity of his gaze, but you knew his eyes were fixed on you, taking in every detail of how you sat waiting for him. His aura was intoxicating—strong, undeniable, and it held you captive.

Michael tossed his briefcase into the backseat without a second glance, slipping into the driver’s seat beside you with the same effortless grace. The door closed with a firm thud, and he let out a deep breath, adjusting his posture as he buckled his seatbelt. His eyes drifted over to you, lingering on the way your breasts pressed against your top, the tension in his jaw tightening as he clenched his teeth.

“What?” you asked playfully, feigning innocence as you adjusted your straps, your breasts bouncing just enough to catch his attention.

He didn’t look away this time, his eyes darkening with barely restrained frustration. “You know better,” he said, his voice low, the warning clear as he turned the key in the ignition. The engine purred to life, but his attention remained divided between you and the road ahead.

“I didn’t do anything,” you teased, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you leaned back, letting the tension between you simmer. The car began to move, his arm casually resting behind your seat as he navigated the empty streets. There was something about the way he drove, the calm control in every motion, that made you feel undeniably safe. He had a way of making the world disappear when you were with him, and it was addictive.

“You did,” he murmured, his gaze flicking to you again, lingering on the swell of your breasts. “Sitting here with those pretty things out like that.”

You chuckled softly, the teasing banter between you only adding fuel to the fire simmering beneath the surface. Reaching out, you turned on the radio, the soft notes of Tevin Campbell’s Tell Me Where filling the quiet cabin, the smooth R&B melody creating an intimate soundtrack to the tension building between you both. His hand flexed on the steering wheel, and you couldn’t help but notice how tightly he was gripping it.

The city lights blurred past like distant stars, mere fragments of a world that seemed so far away compared to the intensity of the man beside you. Michael’s presence was magnetic, pulling you in with an irresistible force. His scent, rich and musky with hints of Tom Ford’s Black Orchid, filled the car, wrapping around you like velvet. Every breath you took was saturated with him, each inhale drawing you deeper into his orbit, where escape was neither possible nor desired.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable; it was thick with unspoken tension, the kind that made your heart race just by sitting near him. As his hand slipped from behind your seat, he placed it on your thigh with a casual possessiveness. His thumb traced slow, lazy circles over the fabric of your skirt, each brush sending a shiver up your spine. It was a small gesture, but one that had you teetering on the edge of restraint, your pulse quickening under his touch.

The hum of the engine matched the steady thrum of the music, the bassline vibrating subtly through the car’s interior. Michael, ever the music lover, kept the volume just high enough for you to feel it beneath your skin. His attention remained fixed on the road as he pulled into the familiar subdivision, the soft glow of streetlights casting long shadows against the perfectly manicured lawns of the neighborhood.

As he turned onto his street with effortless grace, the house loomed into view—his sanctuary. The wrought-iron gates parted at the press of a button, the soft whir of machinery signaling your entrance into the place that had become a world of its own. He drove inside the garage slowly, the space filled with the echoes of the car’s engine as it came to a stop. Michael’s hand lingered on the gear shift for a moment before he pulled the keys from the ignition, the silence settling between you like a held breath.

Unbuckling your seatbelt, you followed his lead as both of you stepped out of the car. The cool concrete of the garage floor was a stark contrast to the warmth of his hand as he reached for yours. His grip was strong but gentle, the veins in his hand prominent beneath his smooth skin—a reminder of the power he held, and the tenderness with which he wielded it.

Without a word, he led you inside, the door closing softly behind you as you both kicked off your shoes, placing them neatly by the entryway. The familiar scent of home surrounded you, a mix of cedarwood and something uniquely Michael. Before you could take another step, he moved with surprising speed, lifting you effortlessly and tossing you over his shoulder as though you weighed nothing.

“Michael, put me down!” you protested with a playful squeal, your laughter echoing off the walls as you wriggled in his grasp.

“Huh? What was that?” he teased, his voice full of amusement as he carried you through the house, his strong arms keeping you secure.

You couldn’t help but giggle as he climbed the stairs with ease, his steps steady despite your playful resistance. When he reached the bedroom, he tossed you onto the bed, the soft mattress bouncing beneath you as you landed. The playful tension between you both only heightened, your body still buzzing from the contact and the thrill of his unexpected actions.

“Are you still mad about me calling you old?” you asked with a smirk, adjusting your top as you sat up.

Michael shot you a glance over his shoulder as he headed into the walk-in closet, his expression unreadable but the corner of his lips twitching. “Huh?” he called out again, the playful tone in his voice unmistakable.

You sighed dramatically, slipping off the bed and padding across the plush cream carpet toward the closet. The soft fibers cushioned your every step, muffling the sound of your approach. Inside, you found him already hanging up his black blazer, his movements methodical as he unbuttoned the cuffs of his sleeves. His eyes, however, were fixed on you, watching your every move with quiet intensity.

“I asked you a question,” you began, folding your arms across your chest. “Are you still upset, or—”

“Huh?” he interrupted again, his lips curling into a teasing smile.

You narrowed your eyes, though you couldn’t help but smile back at him. “Seriously?”

He chuckled, finally breaking his playful act. “I’m teasing. But yes, I’m not old. Especially not when I have the stamina of a twenty-year-old.”

You rolled your eyes, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed your reaction to his words. As he started to unbutton his shirt, you stepped closer, brushing his hands away gently. “Let me,” you murmured, your fingers taking over the task of undoing each button with careful precision.

He watched you, his breath steady but shallow as you worked your way down the row of buttons, your touch light but deliberate. “I can’t stand you,” you said with a half-smile, though the truth was that you couldn’t resist him.

His eyes remained locked on yours, the intensity between you growing as you reached the last button, your fingers brushing against the warmth of his skin. “You’re lying,” he whispered, his voice low and full of knowing. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your cheek, the space between you shrinking with each passing second.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Not with the way his scent, his touch, and his presence enveloped you so completely. The air between you thickened, charged with an unspoken intensity. Every breath you took was laced with the faint aroma of his cologne—smoky and dark, a whisper of warmth that wrapped around your senses. His fingers traced your waist, pulling you in closer, his grip firm but full of promise.

His chest was solid beneath your hands, the heat of his skin radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt. As your palms moved lower, you felt the faint ridges of his abs, the tension in his muscles betraying the restraint he was holding onto.

“Anything you’re wanting to do?” he asked, his voice a low murmur. His hand slid beneath your chin, tilting your face upward until your eyes locked with his. The way he looked at you—his gaze deep and penetrating—made it impossible to hide the rush of desire pooling inside you.

You swallowed, the words barely a whisper. “No, not really.”

He raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You need to study, doll. Especially for my class. I’m not the one grading the final exam—it’s the state.”

Your stomach dropped, panic flashing through you as your mind scrambled to process his words. “Are you serious?” you asked, your voice tight with worry.

Michael’s expression remained serious for only a beat longer before a smirk crept onto his lips. The smirk widened, and then he was laughing—rich and deep, the sound filling the room. You scowled, smacking his chest in frustration. “You’re such a fucking ass,” you muttered, irritation flashing in your eyes.

But Michael was already pulling you in, his laughter fading as his hands cupped your face, guiding you into a kiss that was anything but playful. His lips crashed into yours with a hunger that had been building for days, the distance between you during that time making the contact all the more intense. His lips were soft, warm, and carried the faint taste of vanilla, a sweetness that contrasted with the heat building between you. He kissed you like he was starved for it, pressing you up against the wall with a force that made your breath hitch.

When he pulled away, both of you were left gasping for air, the taste of him lingering on your lips. His forehead rested against yours, his breath hot against your skin as he spoke, his voice huskier now. “I’m serious though, you need to study. Not just for my class, but every other one. This isn’t Michael talking, doll. It’s Dr. Black.”

You barely registered the words, still reeling from the kiss, but you nodded, playing along. “Yes, sir. I’ll study,” you said, your voice dripping with faux innocence, a knowing gleam in your eyes. You were pushing his buttons, and you both knew it.

The shift was immediate. His hand shot out, wrapping around your throat with a speed that made your pulse spike. His grip wasn’t tight, but it was firm enough to send a shiver of anticipation through you. His thumb pressed lightly against your skin as his eyes narrowed. “What did I say about that?” His voice was low, dangerous, a warning.

“Michael, I—I’m sorry,” you stammered, reaching up instinctively to loosen his hold. But he didn’t let go completely. His grip relaxed, his thumb brushing lightly against your neck, reminding you of his control. The tension between you crackled like electricity, your breath shallow as you stared into his eyes.

“You know better,” he growled, his voice laced with something darker now. “I taught you a lesson last time. Or did you forget?”

The memory hit you like a wave—him taking you in his office after one of his lectures, your body pressed hard against his desk, bruises marking your hips from the rough edge of the wood. You hadn’t forgotten. Not at all.

“No, Michael,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, a tremor of excitement running through you. You were playing with fire, and the heat was intoxicating.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re testing me, and I can see it. That little grin on your face… I promise, if you keep pushing, you’ll get exactly what you want by the end of the night.” His words sent a jolt of anticipation through you, and your body responded before your mind could catch up.

You wanted it. Wanted whatever he had planned for you. The thrill of his dominance, the raw power he exuded—it always left you wanting more.

With a swift motion, Michael shed his shirt, replacing it with a plain white T-shirt. The tension in the room didn’t dissipate—it lingered, thick and heavy in the air. You both stepped out of the closet, his eyes following you as you walked back toward the bed. His gaze was possessive, taking in the way your body moved, the subtle curve of your hips.

“I’m going to grab your things. Be a good girl,” he said, his tone commanding but laced with something softer—an underlying promise.

You watched him walk toward the bedroom door, the weight of his words sinking in as he disappeared down the hallway. Left alone, the room seemed to shrink, the air thick with anticipation. A wicked thought crossed your mind as you stood there, your hands moving to the waistband of your skirt. With a slow, deliberate motion, you slipped out of it, tossing the fabric aside and leaving yourself in only your panties and a thin tank top. The cool air kissed your bare legs, and you could feel the heat rising in your chest as you lay back on the bed, waiting.

Reaching over to the nightstand, you grabbed the remote, your fingers trembling slightly as you flicked through the channels aimlessly. The television illuminated the room in soft, shifting hues, but it barely registered in your mind. Your thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in the anticipation that had been building since Michael left the room. The quiet hum of the TV did little to distract you from the tension simmering beneath your skin—the unspoken desire that hung in the air like a thick fog.

You could feel it—every nerve in your body alive, tingling with the thrill of what was to come. The waiting only intensified it. You wanted to push him, to see him lose control, to make him forget the restraint he so often held onto. You wanted the real Michael, the one who unleashed himself fully only when he decided the moment was right.

The faint sound of footsteps echoed up the stairs, slow and deliberate. Your heart skipped a beat, your pulse quickening as you shifted slightly on the bed, your skin brushing against the soft sheets. And then, he appeared. Michael’s tall frame filled the doorway, his presence dominating the room before he even stepped inside. His gaze was fixed on you, dark and hungry, taking in the sight of your bare legs stretched out on the bed, the cocoa butter lingering on your skin giving it a soft sheen under the dim light.

He walked in with a casual confidence, the door clicking shut behind him as he tossed your bag onto the bed. His eyes never left you, roaming over your body with a possessive heat. He didn’t speak immediately, just watched you with a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. His every move was deliberate, slow, as if he knew exactly how to drive you wild without saying a word.

“So,” he finally said, his voice low and teasing. “You just decided to get half-naked without my permission?” His eyebrow arched slightly, the hint of a challenge in his tone.

You rolled your eyes, though your breath hitched as he sat beside you, his proximity igniting the air between you. “I’m not naked, Michael. Relax.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmured, his arm snaking around your waist. With ease, he grabbed your legs and placed them over his lap, his large hands firm but gentle as they settled on your smooth thighs.

His touch sent a shiver through you, and you raised an eyebrow at him. “I thought we were going to study?” you teased, though your voice came out softer than you intended, the heat in his gaze making your words falter.

Michael turned his head, his eyes locking with yours, the playfulness in his voice fading into something deeper, more intense. “I changed my mind.”

Without breaking eye contact, his hand moved with precision, pulling down the front of your shirt just enough to expose your left breast. His fingers were warm, strong, and they kneaded your skin in slow, deliberate circles. “So pretty,” he whispered, his voice rough with desire as his thumb grazed over your hardened nipple, sending jolts of pleasure through you.

You laid back, your breathing shallow, watching him with parted lips as he pulled down the other side of your shirt, his hands now cradling both breasts. His thumbs moved in synchrony, flicking over your sensitive peaks with the kind of expertise that came from knowing exactly how to unravel you.

“You like that?” he whispered against your ear, his breath hot against your skin, his voice a low rumble that made your pulse race.

“Yes,” you breathed, your voice barely audible, a soft whimper escaping your throat as your body responded to him in ways you couldn’t control.

Michael shifted closer, his broad chest pressed against your back, supporting you as his hands continued to work over your body. His touch was deliberate, calculated, as if savoring the moment. His lips brushed against your neck before his mouth found your breast, his tongue flicking across your nipple with the same lazy, confident rhythm as his hands.

The sensation was electric—his tongue warm and wet as it swirled around your nipple before his lips sealed around it, sucking softly. You gasped, your fingers gripping the sheets as a rush of pleasure coursed through you.

“Fuck…” you whispered, the word slipping from your lips as he teased you further, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin just enough to send another wave of heat through your body. His other hand remained steady, kneading and massaging your breast with the perfect blend of pressure and tenderness, every movement coaxing more desire from you.

He knew exactly what he was doing—knew exactly how to keep you on the edge without letting you tip over. His tongue flicked back and forth, slow and deliberate, his teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, but not enough to satisfy the growing ache inside you. It was a sweet torment, and you found yourself arching your back slightly, pressing yourself closer to him, needing more of the heat, more of the contact.

Michael’s breath hitched slightly as his lips left your breast, and his gaze burned into yours, filled with an intensity that made your stomach flutter. The way he whispered against your skin, his breath warm and teasing, sent a shiver down your spine that you couldn’t control. His words hung in the air, tantalizing and almost mocking.

“I could do this all night,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly. The closeness of his mouth to your ear made you tremble, each syllable dripping with temptation. “But you’re not ready for that yet.”

A soft whimper escaped your lips, your body responding in ways you couldn’t suppress. The yearning within you grew fiercer, every nerve electrified by his touch, yet he pulled back, just enough to leave you aching, his hands still teasing you, but refusing to give in to what you so desperately craved.

“I am ready,” you breathed, your voice tinged with desperation. “What do you mean?”

Michael chuckled low, the sound reverberating through his chest as he leaned in and kissed your cheek. “Being in my office is different than being here with me,” he whispered against your skin, the sensation of his lips against your cheek making you shiver. “But if you claim you’re ready… alright then.”

His hands slid to your waist, his touch firm yet gentle as he effortlessly lifted you, positioning you onto his lap. The heat radiating between you was palpable, the moment charged with an unspoken promise.

“Take your top off, doll,” he said softly, his voice soothing yet commanding, sending a thrill through you.

Your fingers found the hem of your top, trembling slightly as you lifted it over your head. Michael was quick to assist, pulling it from your grasp and tossing it onto the floor without a second thought. His hands immediately returned to your breasts, as though they belonged there, kneading them in slow, deliberate circles that made you arch toward him. You moved closer, your body pressing against his as his lips latched onto your right nipple, his tongue flicking against it in slow, tantalizing strokes.

A gasp slipped from your lips as you steadied yourself, your hands gripping the headboard for support. His mouth was hot and wet, leaving your skin tingling with every flick of his tongue. He sucked your nipple with just enough pressure to send waves of pleasure through you, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh before he released you with a soft pop.

His lips trailed up your chest, leaving a heated path in their wake until they met yours once more. His kiss was slow and deep, filled with the kind of hunger that left you breathless. His mouth molded against yours, intoxicating in its warmth, his tongue slipping past your lips to claim you. It was a kiss that felt like it could consume you, a kiss that reminded you just how much power Michael held over you.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark and heavy-lidded with desire. His hand caressed your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he stared into your eyes, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You want to do something for me?” he asked, his voice low and filled with promise.

You smiled back, a playful glint in your eye. “What’s that?” you asked, your hands trailing up his stomach, feeling the firm muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt.

Michael thrust his hips against you teasingly, a smirk forming on his lips. “I need you to take care of something for me,” he said, his tone laced with that same dangerous edge that always sent a thrill down your spine.

A knowing smirk spread across your face as you slid off his lap, positioning yourself between his legs. “You know I will,” you whispered, your voice sultry, filled with promise.

Your fingers moved to his belt, deftly unbuckling it with a practiced ease, the leather slipping from the loops with a soft hiss before falling to the floor with a muffled thud. You unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, the sound loud in the quiet room, each click of the zipper only heightening the anticipation building between you.

As you pulled his briefs down, the tip of his shaft was already peeking out, thick and hard, the skin taut and flushed. Your hand slid around the base, your thumb brushing over the vein that pulsed with his need. You licked your palm, letting your hand glide over his length, the thick skin peeling back to reveal the pink, swollen tip.

He was already hard—pulsing, ready, his arousal clear as the slickness of his precum coated your fingers. His breathing deepened as he watched you, his eyes half-lidded with desire, his fingers threading through your hair in a gentle but firm hold.

You leaned in, your tongue flicking out to trace the underside of his shaft, following the curve of his hardness from the base to the tip. The heat of his skin against your tongue was intoxicating, the taste of his precum salty as it hit your taste buds.

A soft groan escaped his lips as you swirled your tongue around the head of his shaft, your mouth closing around the tip as you sucked gently. The weight of him in your mouth felt heavy, but it was a sensation you welcomed, the warmth of him filling you as you took him deeper, your lips stretched around his girth.

His hand tightened in your hair as you bobbed your head slowly, your tongue tracing every vein, every ridge as you worked him with deliberate care. You could feel him throbbing in your mouth, his body reacting to every flick of your tongue, every soft suckle. His low, rumbling moans filled the room, and the sound of them made you want to push him further, to see him unravel completely beneath your touch.

“You’re so good at this,” he breathed, his voice strained as he thrust gently into your mouth. The praise sent a surge of warmth through you, making you even more eager to please him. You sucked harder, hollowing your cheeks as you took him deeper, your hand stroking the base of his shaft in time with the movements of your mouth.

The tension between you and Michael was so thick, it felt like the air itself was electrified, crackling with desire. Every touch sent waves of heat through your body, every sound, every breath amplifying the intensity of the moment. His grip on your hair tightened, fingers tangled in your locks, and you could feel his control slipping as you quickened your pace. His hips moved in sync with you, each slow, controlled thrust sending him deeper into your mouth. His breathing became more ragged, each exhale a low, primal growl that reverberated in the pit of your stomach.

You wrapped both hands around his thick shaft, your fingers barely meeting around his girth. The slick sound of your stroking and sucking filled the room, a symphony of raw, unbridled lust. Michael thrust harder now, pushing himself deeper, his hands pressing you down until your lips kissed the base of his shaft. The sound of your gags echoed through the room, your throat constricting around him, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t want to.

“Just like that, baby,” Michael groaned, his voice thick with pleasure. “You know just how to make me feel good.”

His grip on you loosened, giving you a moment to catch your breath, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you slid your mouth back up to his tip, your saliva coating his length, making every stroke smoother, more deliberate. Your tongue danced over his swollen tip, circling it slowly, teasingly, feeling the way it pulsed under your touch. He was close, you could feel it, the tension coiling in his body like a spring, but Michael wasn’t ready to give in just yet.

You arched your back, lifting your ass into the air as you continued your ministrations. The change in position drew his attention, and you could feel his eyes on you, watching you from the mirror’s reflection. His gaze traveled down the curve of your spine, lingering on the swell of your hips before settling on the wet spot in your panties, a clear indication of your own rising need.

“Keep sucking, baby,” he growled, his voice thick with lust. His hand rested on the back of your head, guiding you gently, but letting you take control. You shifted your position, taking him into your mouth from the side, your lips sliding along the length of his shaft. The angle allowed you to feel every inch of him, the way his veins throbbed under your tongue, the way his muscles tensed as he fought to hold back.

Michael’s gaze was intense, his eyes dark with desire as he watched you. He was mesmerized by the way your lips wrapped around him, how your hand struggled to fully grasp his girth, how your eyes flicked up to meet his, silently pleading for more.

“You taste so good,” you whispered, a wicked smile playing on your lips as a trail of saliva dripped from your chin.

Michael chuckled, low and deep, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “Come here,” he whispered, his tone soft but commanding.

You pulled him from your mouth with a soft pop, crawling up his body slowly, deliberately, your every movement teasing him as much as it teased you. When your lips met his, the kiss was fierce, filled with the pent-up hunger that had been building between you. His mouth moved against yours eagerly, tasting himself on your lips, his hands roaming your body, feeling every curve, every inch of bare skin.

You sat against his hardened shaft, grinding back and forth, the fabric of your panties doing nothing to hide the heat between your legs. Each roll of your hips sent sparks of pleasure shooting through you, the friction driving you closer to the edge. Michael’s breath hitched as you moved, his length trapped between you, the pressure of your grinding sending him spiraling.

He pulled away from the kiss, his hand cupping your face as he stared into your eyes, his gaze heavy with want. “Just put it inside,” he whispered, his lips brushing against yours, the words almost a plea. “I know you want to.”

A smirk curled on your lips as you leaned in closer, your breath mingling with his. “I like teasing myself better,” you whispered, your voice sultry, teasing.

With that, you reached between the two of you, pulling your panties to the side. His shaft slid between your folds, the heat of him so close, yet not quite where you both needed it. You moaned softly as you moved, the slickness of your arousal coating him, each grind sending shocks of pleasure through you both.

Michael’s hands found your hips, his grip firm as he pushed you down harder, needing to feel more of you, needing you closer. “Put it in,” he whispered again, his voice more urgent now. His breath was hot against your skin as he pleaded with you, his restraint hanging by a thread. “Teasing yourself isn’t going to help anything. Put it in.”

The tension between you two was palpable, every fiber of his body taut with desire, his length throbbing against you, begging for release. You licked your fingers, slow and deliberate, each movement a tease as you slid your hand between the two of you. With a soft, deliberate touch, you guided the tip of his length against your entrance, the heat of it sending tremors up your spine. The sensation made you shudder, your body aching for the fullness you both craved, yet you held back, pushing the moment further.

“No, sir,” you whispered, your voice a sultry tease, knowing exactly how that word ignited something primal in him.

His eyes darkened instantly, that familiar spark flaring into an inferno. “What did you just say to me?” he asked, his voice a low growl, vibrating with intensity.

You bit your lip, a playful smirk curling on your lips. “I said no, sir.”

Michael’s grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging into your skin, a silent warning. “Quit playing with fire, baby. You know better than that.”

A thrill shot through you at his words, your body reacting to the delicious tension. “And what if I don’t want to, hmm?” you teased, grinding against him again, feeling the way his shaft twitched in response. “What if I want to feel that burn?”

His grip became almost punishing, his fingertips pressing hard into the curve of your waist as he held you in place. The heat between you two was unbearable now, the teasing had reached its boiling point. “Keep going,” he warned, his voice dripping with danger. “See what happens to you. We’re at my home. I’m not holding back tonight.”

You locked eyes with him, challenging, daring him to take control. “Yes, sir,” you said, the words laced with one final push.

That was it. His restraint snapped. A fire roared in his dark brown eyes, something wild, something unstoppable. Before you could react, he grabbed you by the ankles, yanking you from his lap and tossing you onto the bed with a force that sent a gasp from your lips. Your body barely had time to register the shift before he was on you again, dragging you to the edge of the mattress, your hips pressed into the bed, your body arching beneath him.

Without a second thought, Michael gripped the waistband of your panties, and with a sharp, ripping sound, he tore them clean off. The cool air kissed your exposed skin for a fleeting second before his hot, hard tip brushed against your slick folds, teasing you with what was to come.

And then he thrust into you—hard. The sheer force of it made you scream, but before the sound could fully escape, his large hand clamped down over your mouth, muffling the cry. His body was pressed flush against yours, his breath hot against the back of your neck as he leaned down.

“I told you to stop,” he growled, his voice low and rough, dripping with the kind of power that left no room for argument. “Now look at what you’ve done.”

His hips snapped against you again, each thrust deep and forceful, leaving no time for you to adjust. He filled you completely, the delicious stretch of him making your body tremble. Your walls clenched tight around him, but you were so slick, so wet from all the teasing, that he slid in and out of you with a primal, relentless rhythm.

You moaned against his hand, your sounds muffled but no less desperate, your body caught between the pain of the roughness and the overwhelming pleasure of him filling you, pushing you closer to the edge with every punishing thrust.

His grip on your waist was bruising, holding you in place as he took control, as he made you pay for every teasing word, every taunt. His hand moved from your mouth just enough for you to gasp for air before he pressed it down again, his pace unrelenting. Your body rocked against the mattress, the friction of it only adding to the intensity as he slammed into you, over and over, each thrust harder than the last.

“You wanted the burn?” Michael’s voice was low, guttural, vibrating through you as his lips brushed against the shell of your ear. His length drove deeper into you, the angle perfect—so perfect that each thrust made your vision blur, your entire body trembling as pleasure shot through every nerve. “You got it.”

A moan escaped your lips, muffled beneath the grip of his hand still covering your mouth. You tried to pry it away, but he was too strong, his fingers pressing down with a dominance that sent a thrill through you. Each time his hips slammed into yours, the sound of skin meeting skin filled the air, sharp and rhythmic, mixing with your ragged breaths and soft whimpers. Your arousal dripped down, soaking the fabric of his black slacks and briefs, the evidence of your desire clinging to both of you.

He lifted his hand from your mouth, but there was no relief in it—just a shift of control. His fingers, rough and calloused, slipped between your lips, his middle and ring finger pushing into your mouth. “Suck on it,” he ordered, his voice a rough, seductive growl in your ear.

You obeyed, sucking on his fingers, tasting the salt of his skin as your tears welled up—tears of both pain and overwhelming pleasure. Your body was trembling, quivering beneath the intensity of it all. He thrust harder, deeper, your walls clenching tightly around him as he pushed you further toward that edge. His fingers went deeper, making you gag slightly, the sensation sending a wave of heat through you. And then, just as suddenly, he pulled them from your mouth and shoved your face down into the covers, forcing you into submission.

Both of his hands gripped your waist like a vice, holding you in place as he pounded into you with a relentless rhythm. Your body responded instinctively, your hips arching upward to meet each thrust, the tension in your core tightening, burning, desperate for release. Your slick heat pulsed around him, clenching with each stroke, the pressure building higher and higher.

A sharp, stinging smack landed on your behind, the sound cutting through the air and echoing in the room. “Always testing me,” Michael muttered, his voice rough with exertion, his control slipping. He brought his hand down again, harder this time, the recoil making your body bounce against him. “Always pushing me past my limits.” Another smack, harder still, your cries of pleasure muffled as you bit into the covers, the sensation overwhelming.

Your mind was a haze of need, pain, and pleasure, all swirling together in an intoxicating mix. Every nerve was on fire, every inch of your skin alive beneath his touch. And just when you thought you couldn’t take any more, Michael’s hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back roughly as he pulled you up against his chest, your spine arching. Your body recoiled against his hips with each thrust, your moans breaking free as you struggled to hold yourself together.

“I’m sorry, Michael,” you gasped, though the words were hollow. You weren’t sorry—not even close. You wanted this. You needed it. The ache of him, the burn of the pleasure, the intoxicating mix of pain and surrender. It was exactly what you craved.

“No, you’re not. Don’t lie,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. His voice was thick with dominance, with lust, his grip tightening in your hair as if he could read every wicked thought running through your mind.

His hand fisted tighter in your hair, and in one fluid motion, he moved you from the bed. Your body stumbled forward, but he guided you, pressing you hard against the cold, reflective surface of the mirror. The glass chilled your skin, contrasting sharply with the heat of his body pressed against yours. The sensation was overwhelming—the cold, the hardness of the glass, and the burning heat of him still buried deep inside you.

“Fuck, Michael, don’t stop,” you moaned, your breath fogging up the mirror as your cheek pressed against it. The reflection showed both of you—your body arching, his frame looming behind you, powerful and commanding.

He didn’t stop. His hips snapped harder against you, each thrust a brutal, calculated force, his pace relentless. You could feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your slick, soaked folds, the obscene wetness coating his shaft with every movement. The sound was slick, raw, echoing in the room alongside your moans and his deep, guttural groans.

Michael’s gaze never left the mirror, eyes blazing with an intensity that could burn you alive. His reflection was the embodiment of raw power, primal and untamed, the shadow of a beast that prowled behind the guise of a man. His muscles rippled under sweat-slicked skin as he drove into you with relentless, savage precision, every thrust a punishing testament to his control. The dim light caught the gleam of his skin, highlighting the feral hunger in his eyes as he drank in the sight of you—writhing, trembling beneath him, utterly at his mercy. He looked like a predator who had finally cornered his prey, savoring each desperate gasp you made, every arch of your body as you struggled to keep up with his brutal pace.

Your body was pliant, your hips rolling back into him with helpless rhythm, driven by some desperate instinct to meet him, to take him deeper, harder, as if the force of him splitting you apart was the only thing keeping you grounded. His hands tightened on your waist, fingers digging so hard into your flesh that pain and pleasure blended into a dizzying haze. The promise of bruises lingered like a dark secret between you, marks that would serve as reminders long after he was done, and the thought made the fire raging inside you burn hotter, wilder.

His lips curled into a wicked sneer, eyes narrowing with predatory satisfaction as he watched the way your mouth hung open in a wordless cry. The sound caught in your throat, choked off by the sheer force of his next thrust, the movement so deep, so violent, that it made your vision blur and your legs shake. You were his. Completely. Irrevocably. And the dark satisfaction glittering in his gaze promised you would never forget it.

“You wanted this,” he growled, his voice a low, guttural snarl that sent a tremor straight down your spine. His words were thick with feral intensity, vibrating through your body as though they carried the weight of something dangerous, something untamable. “Now take it. Every fucking inch.”

Your breath came in ragged gasps, each one a battle as the brutal pace he set tore through your senses, leaving you overwhelmed, teetering on the edge of oblivion. “Michael,” you managed, the sound barely more than a broken gasp, fingers scrambling to reach back, to find some purchase, some way to slow him down—but he was quicker. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist with bruising force, slamming your arm against the mirror so hard the glass trembled in its frame.

“You don’t get to stop me,” he hissed, breath hot and heavy against your ear, sending shivers of heat racing down your spine. His voice was a cruel whisper, edged with the dark promise of things far more dangerous than what he’d already given you. “You wanted to be fucked like this.” His breath caught, and then he growled, low and savage, as he drove into you again, each thrust harder than the last, forcing your body to take every inch of him. “Now you’re going to take all of me.”

Your legs quaked beneath the force of him, thighs burning, every muscle trembling violently as you struggled to stay upright. But he didn’t care. The way your body trembled, the way your breath hitched, only seemed to spur him on, fueling the raw hunger driving him. His grip on your hips tightened, pulling you harder against him, forcing you to take him deeper, harder. Your fingers clawed at the mirror’s edge, nails scratching desperately as your body bent to his will, every thrust pushing you closer to breaking.

Suddenly, his hand was in your hair, yanking your head back so viciously you cried out, the sharp sting rippling through your scalp. His breath was ragged now, a harsh rasp against your neck as he dragged you out of the room, your legs barely able to follow the fevered pace he set. He was possessed, driven by something dark and primal, his control slipping as his need for you took over. The hallway blurred around you, and before you could catch your breath, your body collided with the railing, the hard wood digging into your stomach as his hips slammed into you from behind.

The creak of the wood, the sharp slap of skin against skin, your breathless cries—they all melded into a symphony of lust, filling the empty space around you. Michael’s pace became brutal, his thrusts wild and unforgiving, each one sending shockwaves through your body, making the railing groan beneath the relentless pressure. Your legs trembled, barely holding you up, but you couldn’t stop the way your hips rolled back to meet him, the way your body begged for more even as it threatened to break under his assault.

“Look at yourself,” he rasped, voice thick with a mocking satisfaction that sent a fresh wave of heat surging through you. He yanked your head back again, forcing you to meet his gaze in the reflection of the hallway mirror. “So fucking desperate for me.” His words were a cruel taunt, his eyes burning with the dark thrill of watching you fall apart under him.

His hand slid up, rough fingers gripping your jaw, forcing your mouth open. “Open your mouth,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for hesitation, no room for anything but obedience. You parted your lips, but it wasn’t enough for him. His fingers pressed harder, opening your mouth wider, and then—before you could react—he spat into your mouth, the act so raw, so degrading, it made your entire body shudder with the force of your arousal.

He didn’t wait. His lips crashed down on yours, the kiss brutal and unforgiving, his tongue claiming your mouth with the same savage intensity he’d taken your body. The taste of him flooded your senses, and your nails dug into the wood of the railing, scratching, clawing as the overwhelming heat between your legs built to an unbearable crescendo. You could feel it coming—your release, teetering on the edge, just out of reach—but Michael wasn’t done with you yet.

His grip on your face was rough, unyielding, his pace growing erratic as his need became more desperate, more feral. “You’re not done,” he growled against your lips, his words barely audible over the sound of your bodies colliding, the wet slap of skin against skin filling the air. “I’m not done with you.”

Your muscles quaked, your legs barely holding you up as the tension inside you coiled tighter, hotter, threatening to tear you apart from the inside. “Michael—please,” you choked, voice breaking as your body trembled violently, every nerve on fire, the pressure in your core unbearable. “I can’t—”

“You can,” he hissed, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with the cruel satisfaction of knowing just how close you were to breaking. His fingers tightened on your hips, pulling you harder against him, deeper, as he drove into you with punishing force. “You’re going to cum for me, and then I’m going to fill you.”

The command in his voice, the sheer force of his dominance, shattered the last thread of control you had. Your body convulsed violently as your orgasm ripped through you, sending shockwaves of pleasure so intense they left you gasping for air. Every muscle clenched, your walls tightening around him as your release tore through you, and you screamed, the sound muffled against his lips as he kissed you through it.

“Fuck,” Michael groaned, his own control slipping as he felt the waves of your release milking him. His cock throbbed inside you, his core burning with the need for release, but he held back, his eyes locked on yours in the mirror, watching every shudder, every twitch of your body as you trembled beneath him.

“You want me to cum in you?” he taunted, his voice thick with lust, a dark promise lingering in his words. His eyes glittered with danger as his pace became erratic, each thrust harder than the last. “Is that what you need?”

“Yes,” you whimpered, the word barely a breath as your body quaked, still trembling from the aftershocks. “Please, Michael… I need it. I need you to fill me…”

His eyes darkened at your plea, the hunger in them growing into something feral. His fingers dug deep into the flesh of your hips, holding you in place as if he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go. “Shit,” he groaned, his voice rough and strained, a raw edge to his words. You could feel the moment his control shattered, the tension in his body unraveling with every wild, desperate thrust. He wasn’t holding back anymore.

Each movement became more intense, more punishing, and the air between you thickened with the heat of his desperation. Your breath hitched as his hips slammed against yours, the brutal force sending shockwaves through your body. With one final, devastating thrust, he buried himself deep inside you, his release hitting you like a wave, his cock throbbing as his warmth surged into you, flooding your core. You could feel every pulse, every ounce of his claim, seeping into you, leaving you branded as his. The heat of his release filled you, hot and thick, a visceral reminder of who you belonged to.

As Michael pulled out, you gasped, your legs trembling violently, barely able to support your own weight. His eyes followed the trail of your shared essence as it dripped down your thighs, the sight sending another shiver through your already spent body. You tried to stand, but your legs gave out, and you collapsed onto the floor, a satisfied smile tugging at your lips. You had pushed him to his limits, unleashed the side of him that was raw, untamed, and it left you both breathless.

Michael stood over you for a moment, his chest heaving, eyes still dark with the remnants of lust, before disappearing back into the room. The sound of his footsteps faded, leaving you lying there, your body thrumming with exhaustion, aching in the most delicious way. Your core throbbed, every nerve alive, your limbs too weak to move. You had wanted this—you had craved the way he took control, the way he shattered all restraint, and now you were left basking in the aftermath of his desire.

When Michael returned, his shirt was gone, revealing the sculpted lines of his chest and the taut muscles still flexing from exertion. He kneeled beside you, his touch unexpectedly gentle as he scooped you into his arms. You let your head fall against his shoulder, the warmth of his skin a comforting contrast to the fire still burning inside you. He carried you with ease, his strength undeniable, and laid you down on the bed, his movements soft despite the intensity of moments before.

“Stay here,” he ordered, his voice low and commanding, though the care in his eyes was unmistakable. You barely managed a nod as he disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of water rushing filled the quiet, followed by the low hum of the shower. Moments later, Michael returned, naked now, the water already glistening on his skin as he helped you off the bed. Your legs wobbled beneath you, still weak from the aftermath, but his strong arms were there to support you as he led you into the bathroom.

The heat of the shower embraced you both as you stepped inside. You were too exhausted to stand, your body spent, so Michael guided you to the small bench inside, his touch firm but gentle. The water cascaded over both of you, soaking your skin and washing away the remnants of the wild encounter. You tilted your head back, the sensation of the water and Michael’s fingers combing through your wet hair lulling you into a peaceful haze.

“Next time, don’t push me,” Michael murmured, his voice a low, gravelly hum that seemed to melt into the steam swirling around you. The way he said it sent a deep, resonant vibration through the air, one that wrapped itself around your senses and made your pulse flutter. Kneeling before you, his body was bathed in the hot shower spray, rivulets of water cascading over the strong, sculpted lines of his broad shoulders, the droplets clinging to his bronzed skin like liquid desire. His eyes—dark, smoldering—held yours with an intensity that left you breathless, a look that promised both punishment and pleasure.

His hand reached up, sliding into your soaked hair, fingers curling through the strands with a possessive kind of gentleness. The water slid between your bodies, warm and slick, adding to the heat that seemed to pulse from him, enveloping you both in an intimate cocoon. Each deliberate tug of his fingers sent a subtle pull of tension through your scalp, his touch both tender and commanding, a perfect mixture of restraint and power. You felt your breath quicken, each inhale a little more shallow, each exhale a soft shudder of anticipation.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he tilted your head back, forcing your eyes to meet his. The steady stream of water flowed down your neck, but all you could feel was the searing weight of his gaze, like molten heat pressing into your skin. His lips were so close, his breath mingling with yours, the air between you thick with unspoken desires. You knew this look too well—the hunger simmering just beneath the surface, barely restrained by the thin thread of control he still held over himself.

A wicked smirk danced at the corners of your lips, the tension only heightening the delicious heat pooling low in your belly. Your body hummed with the memory of his hands, of the way he had dominated you earlier, and now, standing before him, the need to provoke him again was irresistible. “Yes, sir,” you purred, your voice a sultry whisper, deliberately teasing, each word laced with a playful challenge. The smile on your lips widened, daring him to take the bait.

His expression darkened instantly, the shift so subtle yet so charged with intent that it sent a thrill rushing through you. The grip on your hair tightened, just enough to make your scalp tingle, the possessive pressure sending a spark of pleasure straight through your core. His lips curled in a dangerous smile, a quiet warning flickering in his eyes, but you could see the hunger there, smoldering like embers waiting to ignite. “Didn’t I just—” he began, voice thick with promise, but you were too quick, cutting him off with a playful glint in your eyes.

“I’m playing, Michael,” you murmured, your voice dripping with mischief, the wet tendrils of your hair clinging to your face as the water slid down your body. Every drop seemed to heighten your senses, each teasing word designed to stoke the fire between you both. His gaze flicked down your body, lingering on the way the water kissed your skin, the way your chest rose and fell with each breath that came quicker, more shallow, the anticipation nearly unbearable.

The space between you crackled with tension, the heat between your bodies a palpable force. Michael’s eyes raked over you, his gaze as sharp as a caress, following the path of water trickling down your skin. He didn’t need to speak for you to feel his desire—it was in every glance, every tightening muscle in his jaw as he fought to maintain control. And then you saw it, the moment he let go.

He rose to his full height slowly, water cascading off his chiseled frame in thick rivulets, every movement deliberate, his dominance radiating from him in waves. His hand, still tangled in your hair, tugged your head back just enough to make you arch into him, the angle allowing him to loom over you with a primal, magnetic energy that left your legs trembling. The heat of his breath against your damp skin sent shivers racing down your spine, every inch of your body hypersensitive, aching for his touch.

“Didn’t I tell you not to push me?” he growled, the words a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through your chest, settling deep in your core. His voice was a dark promise, laced with a sensuality that made your entire body react—a shiver, a soft intake of breath, your thighs clenching instinctively as you felt the molten need inside you flare to life.

But you couldn’t resist. The defiant glint in your eyes returned, a slow, teasing smile playing on your lips as you looked up at him, your heart racing, your body thrumming with the delicious tension between you. “I guess I like pushing you,” you whispered, the words escaping your lips in a breathless rush, your voice barely above a whisper, every syllable a challenge.

Michael’s reaction was immediate and powerful. His grip in your hair tightened, pulling you to your feet with a swift, commanding motion that made your breath hitch. Before you could even think, his mouth was on yours, fierce and demanding, his lips crashing against yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. His kiss was punishing, overwhelming, his tongue invading your mouth with a sensual brutality that left you dizzy, clinging to him as your knees threatened to buckle beneath you.

His hands roamed over your body, rough and insistent, every touch igniting a fresh wave of desire that spread like wildfire through your veins. He pressed you back against the cool, slick tiles of the shower wall, the chill of the ceramic a stark contrast to the burning heat of his body against yours. You arched into him, a soft moan escaping your throat as his hands found your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh with an intensity that left you trembling, your body alive under his relentless touch.

The sensation of his length hardening against your thigh made you gasp, your body responding instantly, heat pooling low in your belly as the weight of his desire pressed into you. You could feel the raw power in every move he made, the way his control slipped further away with each passing second, leaving only the wild, unrestrained need to claim you entirely.

“Michael,” you gasped against his mouth, your hands clinging to the slick muscles of his back, nails digging into his skin as the fire between you blazed hotter, more insistent. His name left your lips like a plea, a desperate, breathless sound that only seemed to fuel him more.

He broke the kiss just long enough to press his forehead against yours, his breath ragged, his lips brushing against yours as he whispered, “I’m not done with you yet.”

Every inch of the house became your playground, the walls and floors bearing witness to the unbridled passion that surged between you and Michael. The air was thick with heat, filled with the sound of gasps, groans, and the raw intensity of skin on skin. You felt his strength envelop you completely, as if he was everywhere at once—his hands, his mouth, his body—pushing you further, taking you deeper into the kind of pleasure that blurred the line between pain and ecstasy.

“Look at me,” Michael growled, his voice rough with desire as he pinned your wrists above your head against the wall. His eyes blazed, dark and molten, as his lips hovered just inches from yours. The warmth of his breath teased your mouth, but he didn’t kiss you—he wanted you to beg for it.

You trembled beneath him, your body a mass of overstimulated nerves, each second of denial making you ache for more. “Michael… please,” you whimpered, your voice barely a whisper, the need in your tone undeniable. You tried to push against his grip, but he held you firm, his control unyielding.

“Not yet,” he whispered against your lips, a teasing edge in his voice. He pressed his body harder against yours, his length throbbing against your thigh, making you gasp. His lips brushed yours, barely a touch, just enough to leave you panting. “Tell me what you want.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears, every nerve in your body screaming for release, your thighs trembling as the ache between them became almost unbearable. “I want you,” you moaned breathlessly. “I need you.”

He smiled against your skin, dark and wicked, his teeth grazing the tender curve of your neck as he trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat. His voice rumbled against your pulse. “I want to hear you beg for it.”

A soft, desperate moan escaped your lips, your hips arching instinctively into him. The friction sent a wave of pleasure crashing through you, but it wasn’t enough. “Please,” you breathed, your words coming out broken, needy. “I’m begging, Michael… please.”

He chuckled, low and dangerous, his hands releasing your wrists only to grab your hips, pulling you against him with a force that left you gasping. “Good girl,” he growled, his lips finally crashing down on yours with an intensity that left you dizzy. His kiss was brutal, claiming, his tongue demanding entrance as his hands roamed your body, touching, teasing, claiming every inch of you as his own.

The night became a blur of heated skin, tangled limbs, and moaned words of encouragement as he drove you to the edge over and over, his strength seemingly endless. Each thrust was deeper, harder, and you could feel the power in his body, the dominance in every movement, every breathless command whispered against your ear. His hands gripped your hips tightly, lifting you, turning you, taking you in ways that left you breathless, your body completely at his mercy.

“Don’t stop,” you gasped as his hands gripped your waist from behind, pulling you against him in a rhythm that left you quivering, toes curling in pleasure. You were on the brink again, and he knew it, his body in perfect tune with yours as he drove you higher, his control unwavering as you spiraled toward release.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against your ear, his voice a deep growl that made your stomach flutter, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulder. “You’re not going anywhere until I say.”

Hours passed, but time had ceased to exist in the haze of your passion. His body never tired, his touch never faltered. He coaxed every ounce of pleasure from you, pushing you further than you thought possible, leaving you trembling and utterly undone beneath him.

When you finally collapsed onto the bed, your limbs trembling with exhaustion, your skin glowing with the remnants of heat, you were completely spent. Your mind was a blissful haze, your body too sated to move. You could still feel the echoes of his touch, the delicious burn of your muscles, the lingering hum of pleasure that pulsed through your veins.

Lying there, panting softly, a smile curled on your lips as you felt the mattress dip beside you. Michael slipped into bed with you, his strong arms wrapping around your body, pulling you close. His skin was still warm, the heat of his body comforting against yours, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths as he held you. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head, his lips brushing your damp hair, the gentle gesture a stark contrast to the wild energy that had consumed you both moments before.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, his voice soft now, the dominant edge replaced with something more tender. His hand slid over your back, a lazy caress that soothed your still-tingling skin.

A contented sigh escaped your lips as you nestled closer to him, your head resting on his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat calming the last of your ragged breaths. “You wore me out,” you whispered, your voice soft and drowsy, but a playful smile tugged at your lips. “I don’t think I can move.”

He chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound that rumbled through his chest and vibrated against your cheek. “I told you not to push me,” he teased, his fingers trailing lazy circles along your spine. “But you never listen.”

Your lips curved into a sleepy smile as you pressed a soft kiss to his chest. “I like pushing you.”

His hand stilled, and he tipped your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes softened, the dark intensity replaced with something deeper, something more profound. “I know you do,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate. He leaned down, pressing his lips to yours in a soft, lingering kiss, a kiss that was filled not with passion, but with love.

As you lay there, wrapped in his arms, the wild, chaotic passion of the night gave way to a quiet, peaceful contentment. His touch was tender now, his kisses soft and soothing, and the connection between you ran deeper than anything physical. In the silence of the room, with your bodies intertwined, you knew this was more than lust, more than desire.

It was love.

Even as sleep began to tug at you, your body heavy with exhaustion, you felt the unspoken bond between you. No matter how many times you pushed him, no matter how intense the nights were, it would always come back to this—the quiet, unshakable love that held you both together.

And in that moment, with his arms around you and his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, you knew that this love was what mattered most. The passion, the chaos—it was just an expression of the deeper connection you shared, the love that would always be there, no matter what.

[artdcnaldson]

i have soooo much lore in my head surrounding patrick & art and how they grew up… their little quirks… etc…. sigh

i always think of patrick growing up in some giant estate in connecticut or massachusetts (pre!stanford au my beloved……). his family is super powerful. in politics, most likely. idk his dad mayb is a federal prosecutor or something and his brother + cousins + uncles are in politics. running for congress and senate etc. like the kennedys. i also imagine them having like a summer home in the hamptons or mayb deleware or somewhere random. mayb its his grandparents.

art… he’s less figured out for me. i looove midwest art. growing up primarily being raised by his grandma in her little farmhouse. mayb his mom died. his dad is kinda evil. whatevs. i also have thought about like. pacific northwest art. or northern california art. colorado art. nebraska!!!!!!!hmmmmm. i think they’re super catholic….. (catholic trauma midwest art… he’s so ethel cain kinda). this might be kinda unpopular but i think of his family as like. fairly middle class. mayb his mom’s parents were loaded (hence why he goes to boarding school. they pay) but they don’t really talk to him anymore after his mom died…… he lives w his dad’s mom in her modest little house. either a farmhouse or a little craftsman. i put too much thought into this…:(

tashi i haven’t thought about as much but. she’s def giving like socal. or texas!!!!!!!!! i think her family wasn’t like. super poor and struggling. but they weren’t rich. just average middle class.

lots of ppl headcanon the academy as being in florida… so that’s usually what i think about… but. i love the idea of it being somewhere else. california maybe. only bc i’m a firm firm believer in west coast best coast. anyways. sorry for talking your ear off…………….

NEVER EVER apologize to me pookie <3 u are a delight to have in the inbox <3

Why does Pacific Northwest art also make so much sense to me…….. teenage granola art going to national parks and hiking during his summers at home :((( bringing Lily to his favorite trails he used to hike growing up…. Put me down now lord I’m ready !!!!!!!!!!!

[beardedmrbean]

People still thinking the president or any other single world leader has any say on the sway of the economy and the price of things is wild. Trump becoming president again won't change inflation or any of that, and he's a clown for thinking he can, just as much as he is for anything else that clumsily tumbles out of his mouth from his syphilitic brain.

The only thing him becoming president again will affect in economic regard is it will arguably get potentially worse; all the billionaire parasites back him, because they know he'll be fine with them continuing to greedily gouge the rest of us. Remember: they saw record profits equal to the number which was the net amount that the middle class lost, during 2020/the first year of the pandemic.

America is kind of fucked for the next four years regardless. We haven't had such a "pick the lesser of two evils" choice like this in a long, long time.

POTUS sets the budget and economic policy for the fiscal year, congress approves it or makes changes and sends it back.

State department with all the various ambassadors and such that do the wheeling and dealing with other countries on trade deals are part of the executive branch, of which the president is the head.

The only thing him becoming president again will affect in economic regard is it will arguably get potentially worse; all the billionaire parasites back him, because they know he'll be fine with them continuing to greedily gouge the rest of us.

Three years ago, Joe Biden spoke onstage at a think tank event, opining on wealth in America. “I love Bernie, but I’m not Bernie Sanders. I don’t think 500 billionaires are the reason why we’re in trouble,” he explained. “The folks at the top aren’t bad guys. I get in trouble in my party when I say wealthy Americans are just as patriotic as poor folks. I’ve found no distinction.”

And, based on who they supported during the 2020 election, billionaires don’t think Joe Biden is such a bad guy, either. About 25% of America’s billionaires donated to his election efforts, either directly or through a spouse, according to an analysis of records filed with the Federal Election Commission. By contrast, Donald Trump received money from only 14% of American billionaires.

The 230 Biden backers include the founders of companies like Patagonia, DoorDash and Netflix, Democratic megadonors like George Soros and Henry Laufer, as well as billionaire members of some of the country’s richest families like the Waltons, the Pritzkers and the Lauders. Broadly, they tended to hail from the coasts. More than one third live in California. Another 27% are based in New York. It makes sense, then, that about a quarter of them got rich in tech and a third made their fortunes in finance. On average, the billionaires gave about $170,000 to the Biden campaign and its joint-fundraising committees, which split their receipts with the Democratic Party.

Mike Bloomberg never donated directly to Biden’s campaign, but he threw $100 million into super-PACs supporting the Democratic nominee. ___________________________________________

America is kind of fucked for the next four years regardless. We haven't had such a "pick the lesser of two evils" choice like this in a long, long time.

Covid messed a bunch of stuff up the economy was one of the bigger things for sure, right up till then things were starting to look like they were going to pick up big time for us over here.

Successful renegotiation of NAFTA that looked to put more money in everyone's pockets especially Mexican citizens in Mexico because of the various worker protections baked into the agreement.

Had a good trade deal with China ready to go and both sides were on board, that one would have favored us here in a lot of places too, we had some pretty good leverage at the time that helped.

Not sure if he managed to get NATO countries to start paying their fair share or not, but he did try.

President can only do so much it's true, it takes two to tango so the nations we're trying to set up trade deals with need to play ball as well, that and the congressional rubber stamp.

Guy made some bad moves too, printing trillions of dollars was not a good plan for one, but that's not the point really.

Point is that the president as the head of the executive branch has a lot to say about the economic future of the nation.

Another point is ya I agree, giant douche or turd sandwich.

I won't vote for either, I'll try and find someone I can agree with on the majority of issues so long as they don't cross any of my red lines.

[mr-system-of-a-downer]

American Fiction is great because it makes you think about class and race once you get past the absurdist comedy elements of it. Monk is obviously a black man, but he comes from money and is a several time published author on top of having a gig as professor at a fancy university in California. He hates the stereotypical depictions of black Americans in the media, but it almost comes off as self internalized racism (on top of his already clear self loathing) due to the fact that he’s completely divorced from the metaphysical place known as “The Hood.” yeah he’s valid for wanting to be recognized as more than just a black author, but it almost loops back to frothing jealousy that his stories (which we are told to be quite good) aren’t as popular as low brow stories about The Hood, because he sees it all as beneath him.

and I think that in of itself is pretty interesting to look at. Every black character we see in the story except for his family’s housekeeper/maid and her security guard boyfriend is at least upper middle class and well educated. The only time we see a “ghetto” black persona is during the scene when he’s writing “Fuck” (and even that part has some interesting implications about the backstory among other things) because otherwise, and excuse my Ebonics here, it’s all just bougie ass niggas. for a story partly about being black in America, there’s no character in it that could be called a stereotypical black American, but there’s definitely lots of rich people who happen to be black.

I hope y’all see where I’m going with this because ngl I feel like I lost the thread.

I’m going to watch 2 and a half long breakdown disguised as an anime movie now.

[cherienymphe]

Do ya’ll not remember rafe and topper playing golf and htting golf balls w no regard to who’s around😭 They are rich southern boys, they r def playing golf and tennis. Nate from euphoria is like middle/upper middle class and goes to public school so yea he’s playing football

Thank you! There's levels to it. California is in the top 5 states for lacrosse and that's why they were playing that shit in teen wolf. Let's just be transparent about our biases because we know if we were shown Rafe Cameron playing basketball or football we'd be going 🧍🏾‍♀️🧍🏾‍♀️🧍🏾‍♀️golf makes sense for him 😭

[kp777]

By Jake Johnson

Common Dreams

Jan. 9, 2024

"Almost nobody says we should have the richest pay the least. And yet when we look around the country, the vast majority of states have tax systems that do just that."

Nearly every state and local tax system in the U.S. is fueling the nation's inequality crisis by forcing lower- and middle-class families to contribute a larger share of their incomes than their rich counterparts, according to a new study published Tuesday.

Titled Who Pays?, the analysis by the Institute on Taxation and Economic Policy (ITEP) examines in detail the tax systems of all 50 U.S. states, including the rates paid by different income segments.

In 41 states, ITEP found, the richest 1% are taxed at a lower rate than any other income group. Forty-six states tax the top 1% at a lower rate than middle-income families.

"When you ask people what they think a fair tax code looks like, almost nobody says we should have the richest pay the least," said ITEP research director Carl Davis. "And yet when we look around the country, the vast majority of states have tax systems that do just that."

"There's an alarming gap here between what the public wants and what state lawmakers have delivered," Davis added.

In recent years, dozens of states across the U.S. have launched what the Center on Budget and Policy Priorities recently called a "tax-cutting spree," permanently slashing tax rates for corporations and the wealthy during a pandemic that saw billionaire wealth skyrocket and company profits soar.

A report released last week, as Common Dreamsreported, showed ultra-rich Americans are currently sitting on $8.5 trillion in untaxed assets.

According to ITEP's new study, tax systems in just six states—California, Maine, Minnesota, New Jersey, New York, and Vermont—and the District of Columbia are progressive, helping to reduce the chasm between rich taxpayers and other residents.

Massachusetts, which has one of the more equitable tax systems in the nation, collected $1.5 billion in revenue last year thanks to its recently enacted millionaires tax, a measure that improved the state's ranking by 10 spots in ITEP's Tax Inequality Index. Minnesota has also ramped up its taxes on the rich over the past several years while expanding benefits for lower-income families, ITEP's study observes.

"The regressive state tax laws we see today are a policy choice, and it's clear there are better choices available to lawmakers."

But the full picture of U.S. state and local systems is grim. In 44 states, tax laws "worsen income inequality by making incomes more unequal after collecting state and local taxes," ITEP found.

Florida has the most regressive tax code in the U.S., with the richest 1% paying a mere 2.7% tax rate while the poorest 20% pay 13.2%.

Florida is among the U.S. states that don't have personal income taxes, which forces them to rely on consumption and property taxes that are "nearly always regressive," ITEP notes in the new analysis.

"Eight of the 10 most regressive tax systems—Florida, Washington, Tennessee, Nevada, South Dakota, Texas, Arkansas, and Louisiana—rely heavily on regressive sales and excise taxes," the study says. "As a group, these eight states derive 52% of their tax revenue from these taxes, compared to the national average of 34%."

Aidan Davis, ITEP's state policy director, said that "we've seen a lot of states shift their tax systems to become even more regressive in recent years by enacting deep tax cuts for the wealthiest."

The report points to Kentucky's adoption of a flat tax and repeated corporate tax cuts, which "delivered the largest windfall to families in the upper part of the income scale and have been paid for in part through new or higher sales and excise taxes on a long list of items such as car repairs, parking, moving services, bowling, gym memberships, tobacco, vaping, pet care, and ride-share rides."

Davis said that "we know it doesn't have to be like this," arguing there is a "clear path forward for flipping upside-down tax systems and we’ve seen a handful of states come pretty close to pulling it off."

"The regressive state tax laws we see today are a policy choice," said Davis, "and it's clear there are better choices available to lawmakers."

[br1ghtestlight]

i don't watch sitcoms (especially older white middle class family focused sitcoms) very often but watching clips of them on instagram has me appreciating that the belcher family is like actually working-class Poor because the jokes where kids are like "omg are we poor??" are not my favorite thing. and they're always SO RICH in their big fancy houses in california it's so annoying. you can tell they've never thought about a single person or circumstance outside of themselves in their entire lives, even the parents

the belcher family is a much more accurate protrayal of an american family tbh especially in 2024

[tomorrowusa]

Filthy rich Republicans wish to tax poor people more so that the rich can get even more tax brakes when the GOP is in power. That's pretty much the story of Eric Hovde.

Hovde is running against incumbent Wisconsin US Senator Tammy Baldwin.

Wisconsin is a fairly moderate state. But it features some of the most despicable Republicans outside the old Confederacy.

In 2017, Sunwest Bank CEO Eric Hovde advocated for reforms that would raise taxes for 72 million Americans, including retirees and low-income earners. Hovde, a Republican, is expected to announce a U.S. Senate campaign in Wisconsin soon. Hovde, who has been endorsed by national Republicans to challenge Democratic Sen. Tammy Baldwin in 2024, made the proposal in a Nov. 18, 2017, appearance on the radio program “The Vicki McKenna Show.”  [ ... ] Analysis by the nonpartisan Tax Policy Center found the plan would have also raised taxes for middle- and working-class families as well as retirees. “More than 80 percent of the tax increase would be paid by households making about $54,000 or less, and 97 percent would be paid by those making less than about $100,000,” wrote Howard Gleckman, a senior fellow with the organization. “Low-income families with children would pay the most: Achieving Scott’s goal would slash their after-tax incomes by more than $5,000, or more than 20 percent. A Scott-like plan would raise taxes on middle-income households by an average of $450.” Scott’s plan failed to pass, but he has not given up pushing for it. If Hovde were to join him in the Senate and support the measure, it could gain traction. In Wisconsin, Scott’s plan would have raised taxes for 32% of people, according to analysis by the nonpartisan Institute on Taxation and Economic Policy. 

Hovde wants to take away your healthcare in addition to raising your income tax (if you're not a millionaire).

Hovde ran unsuccessfully in the Republican primary for U.S. Senate in 2012, and during that campaign he called for a total repeal of the Affordable Care Act, which in 2022 made it possible for 212,209 individuals in Wisconsin to obtain affordable health insurance coverage.

The Eric Hovde and Donald Trump Agenda: Take Away Critical Health Care Protections From Wisconsinites

Hovde doesn't even live in Wisconsin. Just sayin'...

Bice: Eric Hovde may run for Senate in Wisconsin, but he's living large in Laguna Beach, California

Did I mention that Eric Hovde is an anti-abortion fanatic.

ERIC HOVDE ON ABORTION