#this was longer than i expected yikes

[emerulynn]

26 👽

Favourite Ben10 fanfiction

Yes this is where the notion page i make to store all of the ben 10 fics ive read come into use

If I can only choose one it’d probably be “Not your friendly Kansas” by Chyme. If “Refitting the mould” (also by Chyme btw) was finished it might take that spot lol I just love Chyme’s fics sm her take on Brooken aligns with mine the most so I would definitely recommend all of her fics (like literally all of them the gwevin ones the non couple ones all of them is chef kiss). I think I favour this particular fic the most because:

1. Sapphics: Rayona x Rook Shar is amazing incredible lovely absolutely beautiful and I’m beating myself right this moment bc I realized I haven’t made any art for them (trust me I tried but Rook Shar is so hard to draw djkskksksksk i’ll try again tho just wait 💔)

2. Headcanons about Revonnah

3. Female characters that barely appeared in the show being fleshed out and those character being Rayona the cottage-core bisexual and Shar yes queen we love a butch lesbian with touches of femme.

4. Sibling bonding

5. Ben and Rook acts like an old married couple in here i love it

6. Just the overall chemistry and bond between Shar and Ben Rook Rayona, Chyme basically wrote a Shar origin story here 😭💖 (I especially loved how she chose her name lol, Chyme’s Shar had another name origin in “Refitting the mould” and theyre both so good)

[teshamerkel]

Does anyone ever try to rescue the Pokémon that become ferals in the mystery dungeons?

Ooh, good question! I’d say if a Pokemon knew that their loved one was was in the mystery dungeon area when it popped up, they’d likely put in a request to have them extracted.

The difficult part of it is that they’d still be under the influence of the dungeon until they were clear of the affected area, so it’d be difficult to drag them along to the exit when they were fighting the whole way. The easiest way would probably be to find the target, grab ‘em, then use an escape orb or something to get out of there fast.

If you’re asking if teams or guilds try to “evacuate” entire dungeons? No. There are definitely evacuations for areas that are showing the first signs of becoming a mystery dungeon, but if it’s already in place then there are just too many feral Pokemon to manage without an entire guild working together to tackle it.

Most feral Pokemon “wake up” once the dungeon fades, and usually they’re left alone in the meantime. They don’t tend to attack one another for some strange reason (only “outsiders”), so they’re actually pretty safe while under the dungeon’s influence.

[thevoidstaredback]

How To Balance Your Daytime and Nighttime Activities So That You Don't Burn Yourself Out More Than You Already Have

Preparations, Danny soon realized, were very much useless. He'd spend a while just watching the vigilante, recording his habits and schedule, following him around and taking note of the little details. Call him a stalker, but he was just trying to make sure Nightwing didn't end up in an early grave.

Not like him.

Any and all preparations Danny had made could not ever fully gear him up for actually talking to the only vigilante he'd ever met. Sure, he knew the guy from afar, but actually speaking to him? Looking him in the eye? Having the other look back at him and actually respond? The closest he'd ever gotten to letting the guy know he was there was when he left food out for him and made sure he had water, sometimes coffee, within reach at all times.

Now that Danny was here, standing in front of the door to Nightwing's - Richard Grayson, he'd learned on day three - apartment, he was frozen. Was he actually about to do this? Could he really risk it? What if Nightwing flipped out?

No. He couldn't think like that. Nightwing's a vigilante, a detective, and an officer of the law. He won't attack willy nilly. Besides, it was too late to turn back now. Danny knew way too much about Nightwing's life to back off now.

Not allowing himself to hesitate any longer, he reached up and pressed the doorbell. He didn't hear the sound, but shuffling from inside alerted him that the man he'd come to see was now moving towards him.

'I hope this goes well,' Danny thought. Then, the door opened. "Good, at least you're taking care of yourself and actually eating proper foods. Now, I'm here to discuss your extracurriculars and how to time manage them properly without running yourself into the ground." He didn't mean to enter the apartment uninvited, but he didn't want to risk Nightwing closing the door on him or something. "I've brought my own board with an ideal itinerary that I expect you to follow." He turned to look at the man. "Any questions?"

Nightwing rook a second to process the words. Then, he said, "Yeah, just one: Who the fuck are you, kid?"

Well, he was in this deep, might as well dig himself a deeper grave. "I would say I'm your new legal guardian, but you're older than me and I can't exactly adopt a fully grown adult." Right? Yeah. Danny sat down stiffly, his bag on the floor and leaning against his leg. He pulled out the binder he'd cleared out and dedicated to helping the older vigilante and put it on the table. "I could say that you're my new legal guardian, but we run into a similar problem." Kind of. Being dead is a legal barrier, so adoption's off the table. Transferred custody on the other hand? Well, he's got that taken care of. Though, he had to wonder, "Could you adopt me?" No, he couldn't think of a way that would work. "No matter."

Nightwing, still standing by the open door, shook his head a bit as if to clear his mind. "I'm sorry, who are you?"

Introductions? Yikes. "I'm Danny! Nice to meet you!" He had no idea how he's not completely bombed this yet, but he wasn't going to complain.

Nightwing didn't move from the door, let alone shake his hand. Danny put it back on his lap. "Likewise, I guess."

"What, no name?" Was that pushing it?

"I'm optimistic, not an idiot." Yeah, he'd towed the line a bit.

Shrugging to try and rid himself of the nervous butterflies in his stomach, Danny opened the binder to the front page. It was mostly so he'd have something to do with his hands, but it proved to be a decent distraction for Nightwing, too. Though, he pushed down a blush when he saw the glittery blue writing. It was the only other pen he had on him and he'd stolen it from Jazz.

The distraction didn't last. "How did you find this place?" Nightwing asked, the door still wide open.

"Doesn't matter." He didn't think the vigilante would take kindly to being stalked followed around the subject of a kid's curiosity.

Nightwing very much did not seem to believe him. "Why do you think I have a day job and a night job?"

Did he- Oh. The man was probably holding out some kind of hope that Danny wasn't saying what he was saying. Oops. Should he apologise? "I'm a realist, not an idiot."

Throwing the words back at him was probably not the best decision. Then, again, Danny hadn't made a whole lot of good decisions since he'd stepped foot in Bludhaven. At least here, there was a chance he could get away with it, relatively scot free. Imagine if he were in Gotham? With how violent Batman got recently? No thank you. He'd rather take his chances with his parents.

Danny did his best to not clear his throat as he flipped to the next page. "First thing's first. Why do you do what you do? Why go out at night to fight crime when, I assume, that's what your day job is for? Why hurt yourself to help other people?"

Those were all questions he'd had to ask himself before the portal destabilized. Why did he do what he does? Why risk himself to help the people who'd never thank him for his help? Why put his life on hold to do the job of adults?

He'd thought he'd had solid answers for them back then, but he wasn't so sure anymore. Regardless, this was a good place as any to start helping Nightwing.

If he could help just this one person, he'd be satisfied.

Part 3 Part 5

Tag List: @flame-343

[cherry-leclerc]

bye bye baby ☆ dr3

genre: angst

word count: 2.5k

inspired by this !

cherry here!... the req was to write about danny boy, but the concept of this was that i was feeling very dramatic, per usual, duh. wrote this today since i’ve had bye bye baby stuck on REPEAT. 2 posts in 1 day, YIKES. enjoy! :)

The ups and downs that take place in your relationship once Daniel is left without an F1 seat. 

“What do you mean you’re out?”

Furiously, Daniel unzips his fireproofs as he ties the sleeves around his waist. Rummaging through his duffel bag, he grows more and more impatient. Taking a cautious step forward, you hand him his water bottle. “Thanks,” he lowly mutters as he takes a long sip. He shakes his head as he looks blankly towards the white wall. “They want someone younger. More talented.”

“But you’re talented, Daniel! You’re better than anyone here!”

Letting out a weak smile, he angles himself lower to hug you before pulling away and brushing your hair behind your ear. “No, I don’t think I am anymore.”

That was 2 months ago when news came out that your boyfriend would no longer be driving for McLaren. It was a complete shock, considering everyone loved the bubbly Australian, but it honestly didn’t hurt anyone more than it did you. Often, he would remind you that he was the one left without a seat and that you should be glad you would both have some time to disconnect and be together. 

Shaking your head as you munch grumpily on a stack of pancakes, you say, “I love that you’re around - of course I do - but what they did to you was completely unfair. Who in their right mind expects good results for a shit car? That’s their fault, not yours.”

Walking around the kitchen island, he lets out a smile. “Relax, baby. I get it. You don’t want me around.” Narrowing your eyes, you fling a pair of gloves at his chest - from his recent addiction to dirtbiking. Don’t even, you warn. He lets out a sigh as he opens his mouth for you to pop in a bite. Digging your fork on a piece of pancake, you raise your arm up to feed him. He hums at the taste. “I was kidding, but seriously - it’s okay. I’ll get over it. You should, too.”

As much as he said he was doing fine, you knew something wasn’t right. He was hurt; felt betrayed and it did him no good to keep rejecting his feelings. But you didn’t bring up the topic anymore. You knew he didn’t like the reminder of what once was.

-

Dirt crunches underneath your boots as you walk up to him and Scotty. The Australians are hunched over, trying their best to fix their bikes as they share a bottle of cheap beer underneath the blazing sun. The 29 year old spots you first as he squints his blue eyes at you. You’re up early. You flip him off as you pretend to kick a pile of dirt at him. He comedically raises his arms as he wiggles his brows. “Chloe is looking for you. I think she’s gonna beat your ass.” 

He quickly stands up as he blows a deep breath directly to your boyfriend's face. You cringe. They share a quick look before Daniel shoots a thumbs up. “You’re good.” Thanking him, Scotty rushes past you as he hands you his left over beer. Making your way over to the brunette, you take a seat next to him as you spill the remaining dark liquid.

“Isn’t it too early to be drinking?”

“Isn’t it too early to be looking so beautiful?”

You muster a glare. “Don’t change the subject, Daniel.” Avoiding eye contact, he just keeps his tired gaze entertained on an Acacia tree. Bringing the bottle up to his lips, he lets out a low whistle. It’s hot. A cold beer helps. “Right,” you mumble as you flicker your own eyes towards the green tree. You can still spot it - your initials and his engraved. He had done it one evening when he and Scotty had one, too many drinks. He had stumbled all the way to you just to drag you and show you. Because I love you. Even when I’m drunk, I love you like crazy.

“Trees getting old. Might be time to cut it down.”

You flinch at his words. “Can I have a sip?” He raises his brows as he hands you the bottle. You just had one, he tries to joke as he watches the way you chug it down. Drying your lips, you crane your neck to look up at the blue sky. “You never minded sharing before.” He can distinguish the way your voice sounds - as if you’re upset over something he might’ve said - but he knows he hasn’t done anything wrong. Standing up, you hand him back the glass bottle.

“Cut the tree. I don’t care.”

-

“And to my beautiful girlfriend - you’re everything to me and I love you. Without a doubt, the best birthday present I could ever ask for.” Raising his Coca-Cola can, the brown eyed boy sends you a wink with a bright smile plastered across his face. A face you’ve grown to recognize. The one you love.

Making his way over to you, he throws his arms over your shoulders as he rocks you side to side. You smile against his chest. “How does it feel to be 34? Do you have bad knees already?” He lets out a toothy grin as he slaps your ass. “It’s just a question!”

“My knees are fine. As long as I can still kneel down in front of you - that’s all that matters, no?”

You blush at his words as you jokingly push him away. This only makes him cling onto you harder. Squinting your eyes up at him, you trace heart shapes against his biceps. You sincerely feel the happiest you’ve felt in ages. This is the Daniel you knew like the back of your hand. “I was thinking maybe we can take a trip. Anywhere, really. To celebrate-”

“My birthday?” He beams. “This is why you’re the sweetest girlfriend in the entire world!” No problem, you shyly respond as you pinch his t-shirt in between your fingers. Kissing you one last time, he excuses himself to go welcome some late-comers. Chole zig zags her way over to you as she gives you a side hug.

“How’d it go?”

You sigh. “He forgot. He completely forgot. I don’t think I can entirely blame him - I mean it is his birthday.” The fact that you have to defend him makes the blonde furrow her dark brows. Shaking her head, she hands you a slice of chocolate cake.

“Never in a million years did your guys’ anniversary slip his mind. What a dick.”

But you’re not even listening. You’re too flabbergasted that he cut his cake without you being there with him. 

-

Whether it was a trip to Vermont for his birthday or your anniversary, it didn’t really matter because you loved every second. It’s almost like he needed this break. To do something different that didn’t feel like a forced routine. You went hiking, apple picking, to a million bars that only served barbeque ribs - and you never felt more at peace.

Handing you a bouquet of flowers, he kneels down in front of you. You roll your eyes as you take the colorful peonies from him - though inside you were shaking like a 17 year old getting her first glimpse of love. “What’s this for?” He shrugs as he takes a seat next to you.

“Just because.”

Those were your favorite types of flowers. Intertwining his fingers with yours, you both continue chatting about anything and everything that crossed your mind. As you both pass by a peach tree, he lets go of your hand as he brings up his camera with sudden determination. Stand right there, baby.

Trying to express your happiness as best as you can, you hug your gift close to your face as you smile so wide, your eyes nearly shut. 

“You’re mind blowing,” he murmurs as he snaps the picture. He takes a moment to admire you as you jog over to him. Show me! He clicks his tongue. “It’s digital. You’re gonna have to wait.” You pout as you pinch his cheek. Bringing your hand up to his mouth, he presses warm kisses.

“I have something to tell you.” Your heart stops; suddenly filled with nervousness as he smiles with giddiness. What is it? “I’m going to be driving again! I mean it completely sucks for Nyck, but I’m just so happy to get back into an F1 car.”

“Nyck? As in the Alpha Tauri driver?” 

He nods. “I got the call last month - a few days after my birthday. Best present ever.” Once again, his words cut you deep without him even noticing. Nevertheless, you force a tight smile.

“I’m so happy for you, Danny. You’re finally getting what you’ve wanted for so long.”

-

When you both get back to Australia, it surprises you a bit how normal things have stayed. He’s smiling more - if that was even possible - he’s laughing louder, too. Roaming the house, you rub your eyes from sleepiness. Scotty and Chloe share a laugh when they spot you. “And Sleeping Beauty has finally woken. I didn’t think that was possible.” Chloe smacks his chest as she sends you a wink.

“Humor me, why don’t you?” Your gaze flickers across the living room. “Where’s Danny?” 

“Outside.” 

Sliding the door open, you step out as you try your best to adjust your eyesight to the bright sun. As soon as it does, your stomach drops. You run up to the brunette as you pull the ax from him.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Startled, he jumps up as he takes his earphones out. “Holy shit. You scared me, don’t do that!” Tears fill your eyes as you analyze the chopped tree. You’re no expert, but even you can tell that there’s no going back. The only result that comes out of this would be for the tree to fall down. Rushing over to you, he checks you everywhere to make sure you weren’t hurt. You brush him off.

“Why would you do this?”

He cocks his head to the side, brown eyes filled with confusion. “I’m so lost, what did I do?” Anger bubbles up inside of you as you force yourself to not yell at him. “You’re okay, so why are you crying? Oh no. Did Scotty wake you up again? I told him not to do that anymore!”

“I’m done.” You wipe your tears as you let out a bitter laugh. “I am so done.”

“What do you mean you’re done?”

“I’m saying I give up! Fuck, I give up. That’s it. You win. I just - can’t.”

He tries to take a step closer but you only distance yourself twice as much. “You’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

“I’ve tried so hard to understand you, I really did, but I’m just as tired as you are. I tried to ease your pain when McLaren let you go, but you kept pushing me away. I tried to be there for you on days you felt like nothing, but to me you were always everything. I tried to not let you see how much it hurt me when you forgot our 5 year anniversary. I tried to not act like it bothered me when you cut the cake I spent hours baking for you, without me. I tried to not act surprised when I found out you kept the news from me about you returning to F1 for one fucking month. But I can’t try and pretend that you cutting down this tree hasn’t broken my heart.”

“It’s just a stupid, old tree-”

“I don’t think you understand! It may be old and it sure as hell could be stupid, but it was ours.” You grab his hand harshly as you drag him to the other side of the tree. His eyes grow wide. I didn’t remember - I swear I forgot that was even there! You let out a wet laugh as you toss your hair over your shoulder. “You’re hurting me, Daniel. Can’t you see?”

“You’re the one who said I should cut it down. You can’t seriously just be blaming me.”

“And who came up with the idea first?” 

He lowers his gaze as he runs his left hand against his clenched jaw. “I’m sorry.” He connects his desperate eyes to your glossy ones. “But don’t say all those things, please. You’re right. I’ve been an awful boyfriend, but no one understands me better than you.” Placing his hands on either side of your face, he lets out soft pants. “You’re everything to me, how could you have possibly felt that way? I love you.”

“Love me like what?” He furrows his brows as he searches for an answer. You scrunch your nose as you push his hands down. “I thought you loved me like crazy.” His stomach churns. “Listen, I love you, Daniel. I love you so fucking much, but even I can see that I’m not you’re happiness anymore. Not the way I used to be, at least. You have other priorities; other plans-”

“No, you’re my priority. You always have been.”

“Except I haven’t. For a moment, you went radio silent. It was a one-sided relationship, but I loved you so much that I stayed. I pushed past it. Then - one random day - your shine came back. You were insanely happy and I thought-” You shut your eyes. You can feel your salty tears trickle down your face. “I thought it was because of me. Now I realize, it hasn’t been about me for a while now. It’s so obvious that the only reason you were cheerful once again was because you got what you wanted. You got a seat.”

“You’re wrong-”

“I’m not.” You let out a shaky breath as you bite down on your lip; a weak attempt to not out loud sobs. “I would have gladly taken part in your pain, but you never let me join you. You never let me get close enough to help you out.” Making your way up to him slowly, you tippy toe as you lean in for a kiss. What hurts the most is that all of a sudden - he’s kissing you the exact same way he did when he first told you that he loved you. He was giving it his all. Pulling away, you let out a low whimper as you feel your chin tremble. Your smile wobbles. “Can’t force something that’s not there anymore, can you?”

Taking him in one last time, you rub his forearm as you gently pat it before you walk away. Daniel feels paralyzed as he watches you go. He’s expecting you to turn around at least one last time and he’s expecting his body to let him run after you, but neither of those things happen.

Hesitantly, Chloe and Scotty make their way to their frozen friend. They had heard the fight, but decided it was best to not intervene. 

“She left.”

The couple share a concerned look as they take in the weak tree that was clearly about to fall at any moment. Chloe sighs as she walks away, making a beeline to find you. Though, she knows you better than anyone. You weren’t going to return. And she completely understood.

Scotty takes a step back as he shakes his head in disbelief. 

“She fucking loved that tree.”

[forzaferraris]

UH OH ! — cl16. [ series masterlist . part ii . ]

CHAPTER ONE / gorgeous.

❛ you should take it as a compliment, that i got drunk and made fun of the way you talked. ❜

summary : usually, birthday parties are supposed to be a close friend's and family celebration, so why on earth are you being dragged along as your friend's plus one?

warnings : implied references to cheating. food mentions. vomiting mentions but not explicitly written. sexual themes, inuendos. a purposeful choice to refuse to write without capital letters. too many taylor swift references. google translated french. no use of y/n but reader is referred to as soleil by charles and that transfers on through all the fic. charles leclerc's toxic relationship. alcohol consumption, drink responsibly. suddenly charles leclerc is actually decent at flirting. inaccurate storyline of pierre's birthday. 2023's silly season just got sillier. live laugh love kika gomes. word count : 1.7k

yourusername just posted to her story . . .

[ caption one: hot girls always do skincare 🧖🏻‍♀️ / caption two: i fear i girlbossed to close to the sun, how did i end up here ⁉️🤨 ]

THE STREETS OF PARIS , were lively enough that you could blend in seamlessly, everyone else dressed essentially to the nines in their finest attire, walking in and out of all the restaurants in the vicinity. you want to cower, wrap the shall around yourself tighter and hide away; you'd never felt more insecure and out of place in the entire month you'd been vacationing in france, until this very moment.

everyone around you exudes the amount of confidence that comes naturally to them that you wished you had, even if you felt genuinely good in the outfit Kika had practically forced you in when you'd briefly mentioned having nothing to wear to the event she'd asked you to tag along to. a part of you wants to remind yourself that you knew better than to expect things to play out differently, it wants to ridicule you for going back on your usual stance of always expecting disappointment to no longer feel disappointed.

you wave off a taxi that pulls beside you, you're already at your destination, and a fleeting wave of nausea makes you want to clench your gut, and hurl what little you'd eaten earlier throughout the day into the hedges beside you; you don't, thankfully. instead, you resort to the safety of your phone, back-and-forth bickering between your best friend and Kika to work up your nerves to get yourself inside the building.

you feel wobbly on your feet, something you will also plan to blame on Kika when you find the courage to get yourself to walk in through the door of the Laperouse, a considerably more elegant spot to eat at than you would have picked, you only dread the fear of looking over the menu and bearing witness to the prices of the food.

the ding of the bell above the door pulls your head out of your phone when you're met with the silhouette of quite possibly the most attractive man you'd ever had blessed your gaze — excluding that one time you'd run into lorenzo zurzolo on a girls trip to madrid and fumbled the whole ordeal so embarrassingly you had to block him on instagram to keep from ever seeing him.

his actions are almost more exaggerated in frustration than you'd plainly described to your friend, his hand is constantly dragging down his face when he pulls the phone away from his ear, promptly allowing you to hear the snippets of french being, basically, screamed through the phone at him. yikes. the phone call seems to drag on and the amount of time you've been staring at this man can be somewhat considered borderline stalking if he wasn't uninterested in the world outside the french screaming match on the phone.

deciding you'd done enough oogling to satiate for the brieft maladaptive day-dreaming you'll experience during mundane errands. with the very little courage you had, you wipe your hands on your dress, pitifully, and tuck your phone into the clutch before making your way inside. you're blissfully unaware of the way the man had turned towards the noise the heels of your shoes had made against the pavement, his attitude doing a complete 180 had him disregarding the remainder of the phone call before finally giving up, a defeated sigh follows the silence of the call being ended.

'i told you so. . .' your brain supplies when you feel even more out of place being inside said restaurant than how you were simply just standing outside of it, you felt both over and under-dressed watching the mass of patrons standing at the front bar along with the glimpses you could get inside the dining room from where you wait at the hostess stand.

"can i help you?" the hostess asks, words sleek with her french accent as she flicks her gaze up towards you before down at the booking book in front of her. you fiddle with your fingers, white-knuckling the black clutch, suddenly unable to find your own words. the woman rolls her eyes, and taps her perfectly manicured finger against the book and you visibly shake.

"elle est avec moi et la réservation Gasly" a voice speaks, standing behind you, close enough to be flush against you, but remaining a finger length away from you, refusing to lift your head, you don't dare look at who's just saved yourself from any more bouts of unwavering embarrassment for the night.

"profite de ta soirée" the hostess grins, it doesn't shine in her eyes and it's clearly a put-on customer service smile, forced to maintain a friendly atmosphere within the restaurant, you're allowing yourself to be lead through towards the private dining room, stepping away from the man, you mumble a simple thank you in your own butchered french pronunciation as you spot kika and find yourself attached to her hip for a majority of the night.

f1wagsgossip just posted to their story . . .

[ caption one: @yourusername spotted arriving at pierre's birthday party / caption two: @yourusername wearing the monot black maxi cutout ]

now, see if you weren't the type of person to be so easily persuaded into joining in on the drink festivities, you wouldn't have ended up with kika as one of your closest friends. you were never one to turn down alcohol, especially open bar alcohol; which is perhaps why you'd found yourself in a state of being a social butterfly, you'd floated around the room, meals long since eaten and cleared by the wait staff left people standing around and conversing.

mixtures of english, french and portuguese filling the room, bits and pieces of conversations you were picking up, but with your minimal understanding of french you found yourself avoiding anything beyond "hi how are you?" and introducing yourself, aside from that you smile and nodded before politely excusing yourself to float around once more.

"are you purposely ignoring me?" there it is, the sound that would haunt your best dreams and your worst nightmares; the shiver that runs up your spine makes you inadvertently cringe at yourself, how were you this reactive to a voice, you're going to blame the entire thing on the amount of sparkling moscato you'd been drinking by the glass.

"hm? no, no i'm not ignoring you?" you mock his accent, turning around to finally make eye contact with him, lips pursed into a line to keep yourself from giggling, the bubbles in your stomach is either your own nerves, the bubbly alcoholic beverage you'd consumed or a mixture of both — either way you feel content enough to be less than self-aware of the situation.

you can almost see the way he visibly lights up at the interaction, the way can't hold himself back from laughing at your attempt to mock his accent, the way his eyes crinkle and the laughter that follows the expression leaves you virtually speechless, you'd never been in a situation where someone, especially not a man. had ever laughed at you in a way that didn't feel the least bit mocking towards you; his laughter subsides and you feel yourself mourning the noise, head tilting to the side before he's taking a sip from his own glass.

"how do you know pierre?"

"through kika, she's the sole reason i'm here" you explain, gesturing with your hands as you talk, the conversation carries on throughout most of the night, new drinks replacing old ones all whilst the distance between the two of you closing inch by inch and shamelessly, perhaps even a little selfishly you allow it.

you allow more than just close proximity, you allow his knee to knock against your own, the hand to graze your waist as his arm moves around you to put his empty drink on the bar. you allow yourself to meet his gaze, hold it and find yourself lower and lower your own inhibitions. the good, the bad and the ugly of a man who hasn't asked for your name and whose name you hadn't bothered to ask for either.

perhaps, it's the events of the night that led you to here, in this heat of the moment pursuit of pure guiltless drunk happiness, lips against the nap of your neck in the back of a taxi, a hand dragging dangerously up your thigh, closer and closer to a spot you hadn't known longed to be touched until now. you're mutual shouts of laughter are shared through the streets of paris, leading into the hotel room you'd been staying in for the week, you're set to check out the next morning, but realistically, what's one night of parisian fun to end your trip with a bang, literally.

"soleil, fuck, the things you are doing to me right now" his voice comes out like a growl against your ear, his teeth dragging along your ear lobe and further down your neck, never biting, just allowing the feeling to pull the breathless noises out of you. your hand finds its way to nestle into his hair, grip tight and pull him away, the way he looks at you, a gaze you're all far too familiar with, lust.

god, had you wished you knew life wouldn't feel so horribly if you'd felt like this the entire time, the way the man finds himself home between your thighs, even as they clench around his head as soon as his tongue flicks against your abused and overly sensitive clit, fingers working their way in and out of your as you're pushed to complete your third orgasm — your hands griping the pillow behind your head, back arching as you moan out breathlessly, the needy coil in your stomach untangling once more as he pulls the orgasm out of you; your left breathless and shaking as your ride out the orgasm on his fingers.

his face is glistening with your juices; god if you were brave enough to take a picture you would have, he looked effortlessly pretty as he wiped his face with the back of his hand and finally pulled his fingers out of you to lick them clean.

you were royally screwed. even after you woke up in the morning, he was still asleep, but check-out was soon and there really wasn't any need to actively remain in the hotel room bed any longer, even if the man sleeping beside you was dreamy, even asleep, you knew alcohol-influenced one night stands were less than impressive to boast about the next morning. so you do the easiest thing to bypass awkward morning conversations, you leave a note with your number and leave.

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liked by francisca.cgomes, yourbestfriend and 489 others yourusername are you happy to have been in paris? oui! tagged francisca.cgomes

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user girl, what is that on your neck in the second pic?? ⤿ yourusername the question is are you a narc?

francisca.cgomes paris couldn't handle us for longer than a week ⤿yourusername where too next gf x

yourbestfriend i miss you come home ! ⤿yourusername i think i might find a new home ⤿yourbestfriend you're really gonna abandon our kids like that?

user since when have her an kika been friends? ⤿user since like forever, they grew up together

yoursisteruser look at you being a slut pookie, we love to see it ⤿yourusername get out of my comments blocked and reported ⤿yoursisteruser can you answer my facetime now, you got a lot of catching up to do, this is new name lore !!!

authors note : hi oh my god, so i'm absolutely nervous to actually have this be posted, it's not been beta read so i apologise in advance trying to edit this myself was the longest task i've come to find myself tethered to. i really like the plot of this story, the smut a lil dry because my smut writing is dry, we gotta work ourselves up to that, later chapters pookies, later chapters. i would have added more to the story, i'm like super inspired by this, but alas the 30 image limit said, no. so we gotta listen !

add yourself to the taglist here !

taglist : @iluminaya @greenbaby12 @therealcap @marshmummy

[teaableu]

First refs for the Even More Disasters au which took me a LOT longer than I bargained for

I wouldn’t be surprised if I changed some things here and there as me and @3lectricinsomnia work on it but this is a starting point

Here’s Somni’s summary of the au: 

Also sorry for my handwriting, I have the typed text below the cut :)

ONE - Experiment 001D-Alpha 9

soldier

draxum trained him as early as possible

not REALLY a ninja, but he’s been partly trained as one

Gets Two out of trouble

Insanely keen strategist/manipulator

follows Draxum’s orders but not blindly

Draxum always on his back, pushing him too hard

Poor self-care

Draxum makes him responsible for Two [would also be responsible for more people if One had more under his command]

LOTS of pressure to live up to expectations

Learned healing to help with Two’s injuries/health [see missing ARM]

Used to being in charge -> conflict with Raph

Hidden City knows he’s trouble

Raised to fulfill Drax’s mission but actually pretty [self-oriented, where he would prioritize his (and Two’s) own interests over Draxum’s if necessary]

Excellent escape artist even without portaling 

TWO - Experiment 002D-Alpha 9

Anger Issues

Raised to follow One’s orders

Minimal training -> less muscle than in canon or than One

Dadxum gets him to focus primarily on recreating what Lou Jitsu destroyed

^^ obviously takes a lot of time, so Two doesn’t really know how to fight and relies on Leo (don’t mind me using their names interchangeably)

Still tech savvy but with added expertise in mysticism and alchemy (thanks Drax)

Desperate for Dad’s approval... doesn’t get much

poor self-preservation

Unethical science (dad-approved)

Evil scientist fr

not really a GOD complex, but thinks he’s indestructible [see ARM]

feels isolated from One most of the time, more like he’s Don’s commander more than his brother

ARROWS (Left to right, up to down)

One:

Retractable claws

Gets them out of trouble

Bro’s got that Bluetooth Heart

[Shirt] Back exposed

Two:

Gets them into trouble

[Goggles] more for protection

Enhanced vision via tech contact lenses

Gas mask for work and trips to surface

Mystic cape in place of battle shell and for stealth

Power source for One’s heart and Two’s arm

Also, possible spine (spike) implants for additional defense, would be attached to nerves and mobile/reactive (instinctive, like hackles)

[Boot] makes him as tall as One

Both:

Both don’t have access to their ninpō, to Drax’s disappointment -> Two has a personal mission to artificially give/activate their mystic powers (lots of self-experiments, yikes)

[crash-and-cure]

Been a Thorn in the Side of Man (Yandere!Elvis x Reader)

Summary: In her twenty years of the business, Jimena’s seen just about the worst Hollywood has to offer. However all of that failed to prepare her for the likes of Elvis Presley. 

A/N: Yikes on bikes, this took alot longer than I was expecting. I would like to personally thank @stylespresleyhearted ​ for keeping me motivated to write and allowing me to bounce ideas off her and on top of all of that making the beautiful mood board above. I was just able to release this on my birthday so there's that lol. Based off of this request.

Warnings: Yandere!Elvis so expect themes of obsessive, manipulative, jealous, and delusional behavior. Dubious Consent in regards to coersion being involved. Explicit sexual content depicted that includes Penetrative sex (m/f), oral sex (f.recieving), doggy style and mating press, and not to mention huge breeding kink on his part. BIG TRIGGER Warning for some suicidal ideation on his part. Loss of family members. Drug overdose. Mentions of Pregnancy. Self-loathing. Probably more that I am blanking on. Please do not interact if you are under 18. 

Word Count: I’m gonna be honest, stopped counting  after 30K (don’t judge me)

Then 

There’s an odd sense of calm once one officially accepts that they’re alone in the world. It’s easier in a way to accept that no one will ever truly look out for her, than it is to have to face the earth-shattering disappointment that is having believed for a moment that someone would. 

These are the thoughts going through her head as Jimi slowly folded her daily copy of the Excelsior. 

Most women would be violently mad after having read what she just did, but it was almost a relief to finally have an answer to why he has really been so absent in her life these last few months. It’s not like it should be surprising to her really, this town having shown her for years what it thinks about women like her: Seductive, temptress, exotic, temperamental, alluring… disposable.

It’s a story told time and time again in Los Angeles. Orson Welles and Dolores Huerta, Gary Cooper and Lupe Velez, and now Elvis Presely and Jimena Perez can be added to those ranks of doomed romances. 

I’d rather kiss three black women than a single Mexican woman, those are the words that ring within Jimenas head as she sits at her little breakfast table, though for what it’s worth it is nothing less than a deliberate action. As masochistic as it sounds she truly believes it’s for the better should she ever get to thinking this situation is in any way fixable. 

But even still as she stares unblinkingly at the plain wall of her just recently occupied home, she is a little confused as to why her vision gets cloudy. It takes her a moment to comprehend that she’s crying, something that she so rarely does these days anymore. 

And to think this is all over some musician.

She’ll never forget the first time she met him in person, all the standard camera and makeup testing that comes from early production. She’s far from the most experienced makeup assistant at Paramount, but in their words she’s the only makeup girl they trust to “behave” around him. Having grown up in the business, Jimena’s all but lost her ability to be starstruck by anybody really, so they’re not too far off in this notion. 

As they were explaining the whole purpose of this to the relatively green actor, she looked at him with a critical eye, examining his features, comparing it to other actors she had already worked on in the past, and trying to recall how best to highlight them on screen. 

He catches her looking at him and he shoots her a wicked smile, but where other girls would’ve gotten embarrassed at being caught staring she only redoubles her efforts now that she’s got a better look at his face, arguably staring even harder at him. In a funny turn of events he’s the one that looks away bashfully as though she were the one that caught him looking. 

While her official production title is as the resident makeup artist, she’s personally worked almost every job there is to have on a set save for actually sitting in the big chair and directing. Lights, costuming, talent wrangling, she’s seen and done just about all of it. She had been working behind the scenes since she was 14, where with a little bit of makeup trickery, she was not only able to convince everybody that she was an adult, but that she was the new hire. This would eventually give way to getting actually hired, as they simply trusted the fact given she was already on the lot. 

And somewhere between watching Dorothy Gale throw up in her own purse and seeing Rhett Butler remove his own teeth, did the whole concept of Hollywood movie magic well and truly die in her mind. 

Drugs, drinks, boys, girls, and every other vice to be had, Jimena’s seen even the most clean cut of stars fall into at least one category or another. So when she got the news she was gonna be on a project with him of all people, she had thought she had well and truly prepared for anything this man could throw her way. 

But when she actually gets a good up-close look at him, she starts to get that sinking feeling in her stomach. Not for anything he did or how he looked, but the way he acted. She heard his stuttering words and felt his soft cheeks in her hands, and there was only one thought in her head throughout the whole process. 

Pobrecito they’re gonna eat you alive.

All her years in this business, she’s got a pretty good grasp when people are being genuine or not. And he’s perhaps the most genuine person she had ever encountered. Wide-eyed bumpkin from down south was hardly new, but there was just something about Elvis Presley that made it a tinge more tragic than it would be normally. 

She barely spoke that first meeting, the higher ups weren’t that interested in her words these days, nor did he really try to initiate anymore conversation with the way his mouth was gaping at her. Hardly a new experience, but admittedly a little less unwelcome coming from him. 

So it took her by surprise the first day of shooting when he said “I didn’t get the pleasure of catchin’ your name last time,” he said with a grin as she set down her make-up kit. 

She’s quick to recover with a “Because I didn’t give it.” 

He gives a short huff at that before insisting once again since after all, she’s gonna be around him for the next ten or so weeks. 

“You can call me Jimi,” she says, barely sparing him a glance in favor of looking over the notes of what today’s scene will call for. 

“That really your name sweetheart?” which is not unfair to ask. It wasn’t her first choice, but it is the one that distanced her the most from her old stage name. 

“White people can’t pronounce it,” she justified as she tied her hair up with her favorite red bandana. “So I don’t bother with it here.” It’s sort of the truth, and that’s usually enough to get even the more obnoxiously “nice” ones off her back. 

“Well I’m willing to give it a shot,” he says amiably, apparently up for the challenge that she presents. 

She takes his chin in her hands and with a soft smile on her lips, and while he’s blushing up a storm she looks down at him and says a simple “No.”

He’s taken aback both by her words and the sudden spray of water from the bottle in her hand. She could’ve given a cursory warning to him but she has to remind herself that this entire situation works best when actors are indifferent towards her. 

It’s for the best, she tells herself. The less you say about yourself, the better, she wants nothing more than to keep her Mena and Nena days far in the past. 

Though it soon became clear that it wasn’t meant to be. 

“Y’know…” he starts off as he’s looking at her in the mirror. “Ya kinda look like that one girl, uhh what’s her name.” He says snapping his fingers trying to force him to remember even though you know for a fact who he’s talking about. “Elena Somethin’.” 

“Elena Leon?” she sighs, knowing already where this is going.

“That’s the one,” he would say, snapping his fingers in recognition. “Though, ‘tween the two of ya’, I think you’re the prettier one.”

“Hmm…” she answers, pursing her lips and practically shutting down as he quickly changes the subject to how excited he is to be working on another movie set. She didn’t engage much after that outside of the occasional hum of acknowledgement, until he eventually gave-up and would forlornly read his script. 

That wouldn’t stop him the next day from telling her about how his dumbass cousin made him late this morning and all the antics they get up to back in Memphis.

Or the next when he asked if Pink’s was actually any good or if it’s all just hype.

So on and so forth for the next few days as he would try to get her to talk to him again. 

She had been determined to just treat him like any other actor she had worked with, and just do her job, but then she saw him getting really cozy with a certain girl on set. Now on-set flings are par for the course on any production, and literally anyone else she wouldn’t have batted an eye, but she knows for a fact that that one is known to be dangerous. Well she’s not so dangerous, but her husband is. 

“Stay away from her,” she would whisper to him one day as she applied some eyeshadow trying to imitate a black eye.

“So you do speak,” he says, cracking an eye open, a triumphant smile on his face as though he’s won some great victory over her. 

“Yes, so listen to me,�� she counters, her eyes boring into his to show him how serious she is. 

“Why do you care so much darlin’?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow, a small smile on his lips, still apparently not taking her seriously.

“My job is to keep you pretty for the cameras,” she states, in as matter of fact as she can manage. “You’re going to make that a lot harder if you don’t listen to me, and her husband beats the shit out of you.” 

“She’s married?” he asked, astonished that he could miss such a thing. “M-my manager said she could get me some good roles, that her Daddy is some big-time producer” he argues back. 

“Yes,” Jimena clarifies. “Her husband, who she calls daddy, can get you one very high paying role, and that’s only if you let him watch. If your manager didn’t know this, he’s a dumbass.” 

“Let him watch what?” he asks, confused. Her pursed lips, refusal to meet his eyes, and following silence speaks volumes, as his own cobalt eyes go comically wide as to what she was implying. “Her husband?” he says, and she gives him a small affirmative nod. “And he watches?” A raise of her brows as her eyes slide away from him just reaffirms this unorthodox situation. “So… Wait a second… does he or does he not like it when she’s with other men?” 

“Both,” she states, adding the finishing touches to her work. “He likes to watch and after that he beats the shit out of the boy in question.” And even though she’s pretty secure in the fact that no one is listening in, she still gets close to him to whisper this last part into his ear. “It’s apparently the only way he can get it up anymore.”

The fact that she sees his ears go bright red from just that little tidbit of information just really goes to show how green he still is in regards to how things work in this town. 

“How d’ya know all this?” he asks, more than a little disturbed now.

Not to brag but she regards herself as a wealth of information on the comings and goings of the Hollywood elite. Close enough to the action to overhear everything but low enough in the pecking order that most assume she’s incapable of doing anything about it. 

But this is basic information that even the lowliest of extras were privy to, so you can’t fathom how a man with a near meteoric rise to stardom wouldn’t know this. 

“Are you kidding?” she would in turn ask him. “Everybody knows.”

“Wait if everybody knows then why doesn’t anyone put a stop to it?” he asks, trying to find logic in a city not exactly known for it. 

“Because the only thing more powerful than secrets in this town is money, and he’s got a lot to keep everyone quiet.” 

Besides it’s only a matter of time before something gives in that tragedy waiting to happen. From all the whisperings Jimena’s been hearing, the girl in question has been keeping some rendezvous’ secret from her husband and more or less bragging that there’s no prenup in place. While he in turn has turned his eyes to some pretty little barely legal extra, he’s also very Catholic, doesn’t believe in divorce, and has rumored connections to the mob. 

Not even a week later did she hear whisperings that the very same producer had quickly sold all his stock in Paramount and decided to retire to the French Riviera with his wife seemingly overnight though there are conflicting reports as to whether or not she was seen at the airport. Coincidentally no one has seen hide nor hair from the last lowly actor she was seen running around with. 

Usually she kept her mouth shut about the dirtier details of an incident of this magnitude, but she couldn't help herself when she let him know the full extent as to the bullet he had dodged. 

“That's why you don’t get involved with fixers wives,” she says simply as she grabs the spray bottle for his hair, a little more secure in the knowledge that he isn’t so green anymore.

“Fixers?” he asks, and she laughs initially thinking he’s pretending to not know as is the custom when somebody on the outside asks about them. But then she sees he’s not laughing along with her, and his confusion is genuine.

“You are not kidding are you?” she asks incredulously, truly hoping that this man is not so naive. 

“Can’t say that I am,” he replies.  

Now she has two options, mind her own business and let this boy sink or swim on his own, or enlighten him to the dark underbelly of what it takes to make it in this town. Jimena had spent the last few years keeping her ear to the ground and gathering as much information as she could to one day be able to leverage it to help one person specifically… but that person hasn’t wanted much to do with her lately. 

Still she finds herself leaning more into the staying in her lane option, that is until his wide ocean blue eyes turn towards her, and she feels like a monster for the thought. 

“Well everybody around here has a job, and it’s to make movies that make money. Your job is to make the studio look good on and off screen so people spend money to see these movies,” she says as she runs a comb through his hair. “And when you fuck that up, it’s the fixers job to cover it up.” 

“When?” he repeated, clearly a little offended. 

“Yes, when,” she clarified. “Get caught with a boy, get caught holding something you’re not supposed to, get a mistress pregnant, get a ‘social’ disease, or hell, even find yourself with a dead body on your hands, you just gotta call the right producer and they make it all disappear.” She knows she’s being pretty blunt with the subject but she has been in the business pretty much right out of the womb, so she’s seen some of the worst shit this town has to offer. 

Over the next few weeks she does her best to let him in on the need to know knowledge that is necessary to survive not just in Paramount, but in Hollywood as a whole. 

“If you work with John, he’ll call you a communist for stirring your coffee the wrong way so I would avoid him. Canter’s is actually the place you want to go to for great food, Pink’s is just okay. Gable’s breath smells like death, but he will bury you if you ever mention it. Umm…” she says trying to recall any other helpful advice, though stops when she sees his overwhelmed expression. “Am I going too fast?”

He quickly schools his expression, back into one a more affable look, “Nothin’ you gotta worry ‘bout darlin’”

She is not buying it though.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, unwilling to believe his dismissal. He clammed up even more and looked straight into the mirror until she sat herself right in front of him, crossed your arms, raised an eyebrow, and gave him a look telling him she wasn't about to drop this. 

It’s a bit of a standoff until he eventually lets out a long breath and looks out the window to the awaiting set outside of his trailer, “I don’t know Jimi…” he sighs. “Guess I’m just feelin’ some type a way doin’ all this.”

“Why?” she asks, not really thinking. 

“I don’t think I’m cut out for acting.”

She simply gives a sympathetic shrug of her shoulders, and simply states, “You could be better.” 

He blinks, apparently caught off guard by her bluntness. “You just get right to the point, don'tcha darlin’,” he says with a smile. 

“Hey if you want someone to kiss your ass, you would’ve been better off asking literally anyone else.”

He gives a snort but the tight smile tells her she’s hit the nail on the head. “Alright then sweetheart, what’dya think I’m doin’ wrong?” he asks genuinely. 

Part of her wants to give a very pithy “everything,” but the other part of her is a little thrown for the fact that he is not only listening but actively asking for her advice on the matter. Granted she’s far from an expert considering she hasn’t done it in years, but she’s worked with some of the “greats’ to be confident enough in her ability to know good acting from bad. Besides she’s already going out of her way to let him in on the secrets of this town, so what’s an acting lesson or two. 

“Well for one thing, it’s called acting,” she emphasizes, “Not Wording.” 

“I-I don’t follow.” 

“Look… anybody can simply say the lines, but it’s an actor that can bring a character to life. You gotta be able to get comfortable with the fact that you’re not only being heard, but you’re being seen.” 

“Sweetheart everybody sees me.” 

“Yeah and you’re in charge of how you want to be seen,” she says. “Do you know why I wear the same red bandana everyday?”

“I was thinkin’ cuz you were tryin’ ta hide a bald spot,” he answers, which earns him a swift punch to the nipple.

“I wear it because my options are to be known as the mexican girl or as the bandana girl,” 

“So right now they’re seeing you Elvis, not Deke,” she sighs. “Say what you want about Brando and his annoying refusal to learn his goddamn lines, but he makes you believe every word that comes out of his mouth, because he believes what he’s saying at that moment…Speaking of Brando,” she pivots hard before she gets too passionate about the topic of acting and gives herself away. “Never get into a pissing contest with him. That’s how Anthony Quinn lost out on being a leading man… and I do mean a pissing contest in the most literal sense.”

“I’ll take ya word for it Jimi, but you sure do know alot ‘bout bein’ an actor,” he says giving her a once over that she can’t quite read. “You eva try bein’ one before?”

“You could say that,” she remarks, silently praying he doesn’t ask why she does have these skills. He’d already noticed over the past few weeks how she would be roped into fixing problems that were well beyond the paygrade of the average make-up girl like jumpstarting golf cars or fixing light fixtures. His attention is a bit infuriating, considering she feels she does her best work unnoticed. “When you've been in the business as long as I have, you learn a thing or two.”

“So how long you been in the business?”

Without missing a beat. “50 years.”

He gives a double take at that, and she’s pretty sure he’s trying to discern whether she’s lying or not. She’s not helping whatsoever with her usual neutral demeanor, until for the first time in years she does crack a bit of a smile at him, as she snipes with a, “I’m a very good make-up girl.”

He laughs at that “So you’ll tell me you’re real age but not your real name darlin’?

“Never.”

He gives an amused snort at that but the nice moment is interrupted when one of the PA’s pulls her away so she can help restart Gleason’s heart after his partner apparently got a little too enthusiastic about choking him mid-orgasm. 

After that the relationship between the two seemed to ease up a bit. He no longer felt the need to posture in front of her and they developed something of a -dare she say it- friendship with one another. For her, it’s a pretty novel experience to actually be heard on set for once, and the closer they got she got the sense that he may understand that feeling more than he would like to let on. 

“Any news?” he would ask, knowing full well that she always has the best stories on set. She doesn’t really talk to any of the other actors on set, and they in turn don’t really notice her, so they are a lot freer with their words when they speak with one another in front of her. 

“So… you didn’t hear it from me,” you say as you begin to wet his hair. “But apparently a certain Superman is on his way out and was seen with a younger girl in New York, and Toni is not taking it well.”

“And Toni’s husband?” 

“Taking it worse,” she says simply as she readies the eyeliner. “This was always going to happen, but I don’t think it’s the end of it.” she promises, which would be proven right a few years down the line when George “mysteriously” ended up with a bullet in his head. 

“You’re the reason I don't even bother with them papers no more,” he remarks. 

“They’re not all trash,” you defend. “There’s almost always a little bit of truth in them.” 

“Speakin’ a rumors,” he continues. “I think I finally figured out why you look like Elena Leon so much?” he says, oh-so casually trying to maintain his innocence. 

She stops combing through his hair, knowing that the jig was up. 

“Who told you?” she asks, trying to mentally prepare herself for the same three things everyone said when they did find out. It’s always an awkward subject to bring up especially as it brings up some painful memories of long hours and relationships that have yet to recover. 

“Y’know me and my mama used to watch your movies,” he says with an annoyingly charming smile.

1, 

“I’m glad,” she says in the most neutral tone. 

“Lord I never could’ve expected to meet you here, workin’ behind the scenes. You ever think about actin’ again?” 

2. 

“Oh my sister is the actress now,” she said affably. Something well-rehearsed and practically scorched into her brain since Jimena started working on sets when she was fifteen was to always talk up Elena to anybody who would listen. 

“Well thas a cryin’ shame sweetheart,” he says with a rakish grin on his face. “You were always my favorite.”

That’s new, she thought. Usually they ask her to do the old catchphrase. That or men tend to get weird around the idea of women who look almost exactly the same. 

But the idea of being the favorite is… different. Like every other relationship, she has a complicated one with the idea of being seen. But the idea of Elvis being the one to look at her is somewhere between exciting and terrifying, and it has her heart beating just a little bit faster. 

“Why didn’tcha go back?” he continues. She kind of understands where his curiosity comes from, as someone who so desperately wanted to break into the Hollywood scene it would probably be hard to comprehend someone who knew it and rejected it. 

The Leon Twins were the biggest little things since Shirley Temple. With their indistinguishable looks and charming, if slightly demeaning, premise of one sister only able to speak Spanish with the other, only English, MGM was able to pump out over thirty various movies and shorts starring the adorable little Mena and Nena and their hijinx. 

How is she supposed to explain how her mother made the unilateral decision that her sister was the “good” one and thus the one she decided would have the solo career after Jimena had the gall to go into puberty first and become slightly more distinguishable than her younger sister. Or how she hasn't talked to her sister in months despite the fact they both still live with their mother, and neither of them have acknowledged this. Or how the reason she took this job in the first place was to better lookout for said sister who isn’t talking to her.

How she sees fame as a beast of madness and obsession that will consume her given half a chance as it did with her mother and now her sister. But movies are all she’s ever known and the idea of leaving seems scarier than it is to stay. 

How the thought of having so many eyes on her once again makes her practically want to claw her skin off and she’d rather die than ever willingly step back into that arena. 

She doesn't say any of that, instead she simply says, “Got tired of it,” as she puts the finishing touches on his hair. “I had my time in front of the camera,” and hated every second of it, she thought. “And I think I’m better suited behind it,” and you give a dramatic turn of his chair so that he could face the mirror. “As you can see.”

“Yeah,” he says, taking the hand you placed on his shoulder and looking back up at you. “I don’t know what’d I do without ya sweetheart.”

Seeing his cobalt blue eyes bore into her own, Jimena feels her face heat up, though mercifully it’s hidden under her darker complexion. If Elvis notices her change, he doesn't acknowledge it, and mercifully that is when one of the PA’s calls him to the sound stage. 

Once he’s out she sprays her own face with a bottle to get herself under control. 

In spite of her typically neutral regard for actors there’s just simply something about Elvis Presley that just made her want to throw that all away. 

She had sworn to herself to never get involved with actors, she had seen this song and dance play out many a times before. It comes in different flavors, but the final scene is always the same at the end of the day: the famous white man never chooses the latin girl to be his wife. Arm-candy? Definitely. Date? Yes. Long-time Girlfriend? Sure. Fiance with a wedding date never set? Maybe. Mistress? Obviously. But never the wife. 

Besides, it was the tail-end of shooting and it’s unlikely she was ever gonna work with him again so she decided to just stamp these feelings down and hope they went away. She was afterall an actress once, she can act like he doesn’t have an affect on her now. 

Though this was blown out of the water on the last day of shooting and he would not only pull her next to him for the cast wrap-up picture, but he would also slip an invitation to the wrap-party in her purse. She had gone home hoping to take a nap and forget about Elvis Presley, only for the next curveball of her day to occur. 

“Should we match for the party?” Elena would ask, holding up said invitation. 

“...did… did you look through my purse to find that?”

“We better start getting ready,” her sister would say, completely bypassing the question. “After all it’s not everyday that Hollywood gets a Leon Twins reunion.”

“...yeah, I-I don’t think going would be…” 

“Meeeennnnnaaaa…” she whines, completely abusing the fact that she is the only one allowed to use that name and not catch a fist to the face. “We need to go together, because why else would they just invite a makeup girl to a wrap party?”

Why else indeed? She thinks and she actively has to scrub the way he looked at her out of her mind lest she get any other ideas. 

“Besides,” she says, giving Jimena a light shove on the shoulder. “You still owe me for never introducing me to James Dean.”

“I barely knew him,” she argues back, which is the truth. He only vaguely knew her as “Snake girl” when she was working as a PA for one of his movies. The closest she ever got to him was after she managed to save him, Rock, and Liz from a snake that had trapped them in his trailer and their subsequent thank-you’s being signed photos of each of them that they had their assistants bring to her. There’s a certain irony in the fact that of the few movies to depict the plight of Mexican-Americans in the US, they had no problem giving her, one of the few Mexican crew members, the most dangerous task because everybody else was too valuable to lose.

Looking at her sister, her reflection in many ways, she feels her resolve begin to waiver a bit. Nena was her first job in a sense, as being the older sister it was Jimena’s responsibility to look out for her first and foremost. She took it so seriously that she’s still doing it to this day. 

They have always been so intrinsically entwined as an act. Their tiny hand prints immortalized in front of Grauman’s and the child-sized oscar with both of their names somewhere around here prove that much. But Elena now struggles to find that same level of fame as before, and secretly Jimena doubts that this will ever be possible. 

She couldn’t understand it but Jimena could see the reason as clear as day. 

There’s an unspoken rule about being a latin or black actress in Hollywood when you’re not the star of the show: Never outshine the white leading ladies, because it has to be believable that the white leading man chooses the leading lady. 

Joan Crawford was bad enough with actresses who had the gall to be simply younger than her, but she was especially vicious toward the ones who had skin tone darker than ivory. Jimena remembers one harrowing set where this one little Cuban extra had made the awful mistake of approaching Joan and saying how she wanted to be as big a star as her one day. 

They never did find her ear, and Jimena had made it a point to stop wearing hoop earrings on set altogether. The whole incident was swept under the rug after “someone” accused the poor girl of being a communist, and they did who knows what with her. But that just confirmed her and other girls like her are unlikely to be protected on set no matter how valuable you make yourself.  

Jimena told her sister this story, warning her to dull herself down a bit during auditions, if only to get her foot in the door and get more consistent work as secondary characters. And it was working for a time, but she wasn’t seeing the kind of work she wanted and she largely blamed Jimena for it because of her warnings to play it safe. 

In fact the source of their recent falling out was when Jimena had tried to convince her to try out cinema in Italy or Mexico or literally anywhere else in the world and use that as a branching off point to get an in in Hollywood. She flat out refused saying how she “doesn’t want to die in obscurity like you.” They didn’t talk for a solid month after that and since then it was only the barest of communication between them.  

“Imagine if I was seen with Elvis Presley,” she said now, with stars in her eyes. “The roles would come pouring in after that.”

For all that it left a sour taste in her mouth, Jimena could understand the logic of wanting to latch on to someone who's already getting up there in terms of fame. Fuck the studios themselves sometimes set up these types of arrangements, all for the sake of promoting up and comers. 

And the fact he invited her in the first place, probably means he had something else on his mind for the evening. Besides he’s apparently been a fan of theirs for a long time, it probably wouldn’t matter too much to him to which sister he was handed at the end of the day. 

So really everybody wins with this arrangement; Elena gets a bump to her star power, Elvis gets to fuck one of the Leon twins, Jimena gets to stay in her lane. And it’s with a heavy heart that she agrees to go. 

The evening was apparently so special that their mother decided to make one of her rare appearances before sunset. 

Once after finding out that not only was she one of the famous Leon Twins, but that her mother was THE Gloria Leon-Sanchez from the silent film days, he of course asked what it was like to grow up with a famous mother.

“You ever seen Sunset Boulevard?”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve met my mother.” 

Harsh as it may sound, that was the most generous interpretation of her mother that she could afford these days. What with her practically living in nightgowns and sheer robes, to her constant bemoaning of actresses that apparently stole her career trajectory the likes of which included practically everyone from Rita Hayworth to even her own daughters, the comparison wasn’t too far off.  

Though her mother had largely checked out once the twins had turned eighteen. Elena alone hadn’t been able to reach the same level of fame that the two of them once managed together as the “Firecracker twins.” 

It was a simple gimmick really but had just enough gas to make over 30 movies and short movies about. Adorable twin girls who get up to mischief due to their near indistinguishable looks, Mena the spanish-speaking, spitfire twin that always had a skip in her step to dance with her little, english-speaking, soft-spoken and shyer twin, Nena, who could occasionally be emboldened enough to sing. 

The two of them were a lightning rod for box office draw, having been likened to Shirley Temple levels of fame, but due to their background that hardly granted them Shirley Temple levels of treatment or pay for that matter. 

Her and her sister weren’t seen as people, they were moving props that could sing and dance, and on occasion say their famous “Ayy, No Bueno!” catchphrase. Props that didn’t need to rest, props that didn’t need to eat, props that the less scrupulous producers would occasionally try to lure into an empty room with them. 

Not to pat their mother too hard on the back, but she at the very least helped them avoid the most obvious pitfalls that come from childhood stardom, but made them arguably worse. Like refusing to let the doctor give them “vitamin shots” but would ask if they could just IV Line coffee to their veins. Or never letting either of them out of her sight on sets, but couldn’t really be bothered with them outside of it leaving them with nannies so she could go “audition” for them. Or how she never left either of them alone with any of the men, but did teach them how to mix drinks at the age of nine so they could charm them with their “maturity.” So on and so forth. All of these bad, but after encountering other mothers who wanted to make their kids stars regardless of the cost, it really put things into perspective as to the type of person she could’ve been. 

What happened to her as a kid may have been more palatable to Jimena, if it were a case of that being the only way to keep them afloat. But it wasn’t and the older she gets, the better she understands as to what was stolen from her in their childhood. Their “father” Victor, had the decency to slip into a coma after marrying the formerly famous silent film-actress, and 10 Months later out popped Jimena and her sister, so as to properly claim her cut of his fortune. 

No, it was never about the money for her mother. It was always the fame that she was seeking, even if she had to begrudgingly share it with her daughters. 

Back in those days the Coogan act was more of a suggestion in the studios, especially when they had her mothers implicit permission for whatever they wanted. The long hours, the uncomfortable costumes and the mean men were all things she had done your very best in the last few years to forget about. 

One thing she undoubtedly won’t forget was her mother’s favorite threat when she was a kid and acting up. “¿Quieres que consiga los fijadores?” Gloria would say with a sickly sweet smile on her face, knowing full well no one but her daughter understood her words. Where other Mexican kids were scared of El Cucuy, she was scared of Los Fijadores or the fixers who would take away bad little girls that didn’t listen to the directors, so that their mothers could go back to acting and not have to care for those ungrateful little girls. That would always shut her up for the day, and she would listen until the next time she got fed up and the cycle would repeat all over again. Little did she realize at the time that her mother didn’t have much in the way of influence in the business, not anymore at least, but she took full advantage over the influence she had over her daughters. 

Ironically enough it was rare that Jimena would ever get to that point, but because her sister was the “good one” she would never dare to kick up a fuss, so most of the time the older sister would do it for her. She took her role as a big sister very seriously back then and didn’t mind being the difficult one who held up production if it meant that her little sister got a break.

It was always the two of them against the world. It’s why she even stayed in the business. She couldn’t imagine where she’d be if it was just her alone, as for all the shit her mother put her through, she could at least take comfort knowing that she wasn’t alone. Even when they were angry at each other, even when they wouldn’t speak to each other for weeks, even when she felt like she just wanted to choke her, she could take comfort knowing that they would always be there for one another. 

For the occasion, her sister would choose a bold red dress that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Marilyn or Jayne. It felt a little too much for just a simple wrap party, but it was clear her intent was to draw as much attention as possible.

By the time Jimena made her way downstairs it was clear that it was already working, with the way their mother was cooing over her. 

“So you’re going with Elena to the party,” her mother would remark as Jimena stepped down the stairs.

“Actually she’s going with me.” 

“And you’re going to wear that?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” she says in the way only a mother intent on cutting down her daughters self-esteem could.

Jimena would self-consciously look down at her own understated blue dress, “What’s wrong with it?” 

“It’s just…” she would say, fingering the fabric on her shoulder. “This is Elena’s big night, and we need to do everything in our power to help her stand out.” 

A distraction goes unsaid, something she used to be called for wearing any slightly flattering clothing onset. Even when she did start dressing down, she could hardly say it helped anything but this is an argument she’s heard a lot over the years, and she’s too tired to fight it tonight. “Of course mama,” Jimena would say dejectedly before going back to her room to change into something a little less flattering. A simple black dress, something that is both complementary to Elena’s red dress, but will also hopefully help her fade into the background so that all focus will be given to her sister. 

“Ayy thank you Mija,” she would say, planting a kiss on her eldest’s cheek before they left. “You’ve always been so good at looking out for your sister.”

Jimena had long since accepted that between the two of them, she would always be the second choice. It happened with their mother, it happened with the studios, it happened with every single boy she had been interested in, hell she had even chosen her sister before herself most times. Why would Elvis be different?

That night when he did end up picking her, Jimena could hardly be blamed for indulging in the sensation of the first time in her life someone had chosen her over her sister. 

It was the worst mistake of her life that she would struggle to forgive herself for. Elvis would distract her almost the entire night, and as a result an awful man had sunken his claws into Elena when she hadn’t been looking. Those last few months of her sister's life would be fraught with anger, drugs, and heartache from one Tim Parsons. 

He had been claiming to be related to one of the studio big-wigs and could get her some higher profile auditions. What scared Jimi is that she could not find a goddamn thing about him in all of her little networks. Anywhere else this would mean that he’s a perfectly normal person with nothing so scandalous as to be worth talking about. In this town it meant that someone was just very good at hiding whatever the hell is wrong with them.  

Yet all the evidence that he was bad news came in the form of all the drastic changes she was seeing in her sister. Since puberty, Elena had always been slimmer than her (their mother made sure of that) as a result, she wasn’t quite as gifted in the chest and hips as Jimena. But it was impossible not to notice the fact that she dropped a few dress sizes in a matter of weeks. When Elena begged her sister to take in a few dresses for her, Jimena could practically see her ribcage. Not to mention the fact that she was unusually full of energy even late into the night when she would pace around the house only to make a call to him and then after a quick handoff from his car she would be dead asleep, until he would let himself in and the cycle would begin all over again.  

Jimena knows what these all mean. She’s seen the signs in hundreds of actors before, and she’s never bothered to intervene before. Now it feels like a karmic punishment for her previous inaction, as she can only watch helplessly as her sister goes down the same road. 

It all came to a head the day she finally heard the first thing about this man, and it was truly terrifying: that not only was he not a doctor, but that that wasn’t even his name. He had been forced to change it once his claim to fame in this town became how he was denied an apprenticeship under Dr. Feelgood because his concoctions were in the doctors words “unhinged.” The man who regularly shoots up his patients that have a blend of human placenta and ground up horse bones called another man’s “vitamin” mixture insane. 

She dropped everything the moment she heard that and begged Elena to stop seeing this man. But it was in one ear out the other, and it seems it was hard for her to believe Jimena when for a time she was actually getting her foot in the door for major roles she actually wanted all because of him. However these also came with a price as evidenced by the late nights and vacant looks in Elena’s eyes after coming back from these auditions. The more she did this the more she felt her sister slipping away.

Her mother is no help whatsoever seeing only the results of this shift, and not the consequences. 

“Mija,” she would say to her in one of her rare moments of lucidness. “This is what it really takes. I tried to protect you both from it when you were younger, but she understands now what has to be done to make it in this town.”

Jimena has to bite her tongue, when all she wants to do is scream at her mother and yell at her to look in a mirror and ask if that was the image of someone who made it.

It all came to a head when Elena would beg Jimena to help her “entertain” a casting producer who not only had a thing for latinas, but twins as well. She was practically on her knees pleading for her sister's help with this, promising her twin that this would be the break in her career that she needed. Jimena tried to reason with her that there is no role worth what they’re asking for her, especially since even sleeping with them wasn’t a guarantee for her roles.

Up until this point she’s tried to be gentle about this, but it becomes clear as day that that is no help.

“You watch!” She yelled. “He’s gonna suck you dry and spit you back out when there’s nothing left!”

“At least he’s getting me work! You’ve always done nothing but drag me down!” she sobs, angry tears streaming down her face. “The one time I ask you to do something for me-”

“The one time? Who’s the one that did all the stunts you were too afraid of? Who’s the one who dropped out of school so you wouldn’t be alone on sets? Who’s been talking you up to every producer she’s ever worked with?”

“The same bitch who ruined my life when she fucked Elvis Presley!” Her little sister would snapback. 

That has Jimena clamp her mouth shut, not wanting to own up to what she did that set her sister on this course. But that’s all the confirmation Elena needed before she turned her back on her. 

It was the ugliest fight they had ever had, and it resolved nothing, as they just stormed into their respective rooms. Those days were less Little Women and more Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? Jimi knew that if one didn’t get out soon there would be blood. So when she was offered a project that would be shooting mostly on location in New Orleans she practically jumped at the opportunity, hardly even registering the fact that Elvis was gonna be there as well.

It was only landing in Louisiana and seeing room assignments did she remember why exactly she hated On-location shoots, when “mysteriously” the other seven white women she was sharing a room with all unanimously decided that of all of them, Jimena would be the one that had to take the floor. 

But remembering who exactly was starring in this production, she decided to take a chance and made her way to his room. Though upon arriving at his door, she does hesitate for a moment remembering what her sister said and probably what he will expect if they do share a room. But then just thinking of her sister infuriates her and she finds herself finally knocking on his door. 

Being in New Orleans, all her problems back home would seem so far away, and she could focus on herself for a change. In an odd way it felt like he was the only one who understood her in those days. Of all the people on set, he is the only one who knows how to put on a brave face when it feels like everything you have is slipping through your fingers. 

Him also knowing who exactly she was came with the unexpected consequence of him constantly trying to finagle stories out of her. Really talking to him about her childhood did help put into perspective how wild her formative years were as not everybody can say they got in a fist fight with Wendy Darling or that Shirley Temple taught them how to roll a cigarette. 

He seemed to just understand what she needed in a way no one has ever. It was usually simple arguably unremarkable things really, like anticipating when she was hungry or tired, even before she would admit it to herself, or when she almost lost a finger or when he stepped so this would be the first time she wouldn’t be the one to have to chase rabid animals out after a small alligator somehow got onto the set. He took care of her in a way that nobody had ever done before. 

She wouldn’t define what they had as a full scale relationship, but whatever they had, it was nice just to have something private and out of the public eye. Only later would she realize he had his own reasons to keep everything as discreet as possible. 

They were together almost every night in New Orleans, as it was easy to fall into each other like that. They were both at an uncomfortable crossroad in their life and it felt like he understood her in a way nobody else had. 

She thought she understood him as well, but it was only when she read the article did she realize she never knew him at all. 

They were a week away from wrapping up production, when Jimena got the devastating news. In a newspaper somebody else had been reading on set that day of all things. 

That was the way she learned that her sister was dead. 

She remembers saying to no one in particular that she was gonna call it a day and simply wandered off set, into the unfamiliar city. She walked for hours just trying to wrap her head around the news.

It felt like the worst sort of betrayal to learn that her sister had been dead for days, and not only had no one contacted her, but that she didn’t automatically feel it. Aren’t other twins supposed to just know when the other is hurt? So why didn’t she? Elena came into this world with Jimena, why did she leave without her? 

As a kid her mother told her that she was not a pretty crier, so she’s done everything in her power to never cry, especially in front of other people. So walking around and being surrounded by strangers at the very least did prevent her from devolving into a blubbering mess. But as the day goes on she knows there is no outrunning the inevitable, and that as tempting as it may be to simply walk until she couldn't anymore, she would have to go home soon. 

She would eventually make her way back to the hotel room only to be met with Elvis worriedly pacing around his room. He would throw his arms around her the moment he saw her and start with the condolences, and even the tears. 

She didn’t really want any of that; she just wanted to lie down and sleep forever. But she lets him pull her close and she breaks for the first time in years in front of somebody else. True to her mothers words, it is not a pretty picture.

Full body wracking sobs, snot pouring out of her nose, her screaming and cursing until her voice goes hoarse, the works. Even still he holds her all the same. For all that she’s glad he was there she can’t help but feel so humiliated, but that’s simply one of the many emotions that run through her head along with guilt and anger and regret and just about every other awful feeling under the sun. 

But who else could she turn to that would know even a fraction of what she’s going through right now. Not just to lose a sister, but to lose a part of yourself. 

In a sick way she kind of blamed him. Maybe if she hadn’t been so wrapped up in him these last few weeks she would’ve known earlier, or maybe she wouldn’t have even taken this job, or hell, if she hadn’t even gone to that party, Elena wouldn’t have even met that man in the first place. 

“The same bitch who ruined my life when she fucked Elvis Presley!” Plays over and over again in her head. But it’s easier to be mad at him because he’s actually here to take that anger. 

Though she begins to feel no small amount of guilt for this when she wakes up the next morning to find that he’s cleared everything with the producers, and arranged for her trip back home all on his dime. 

He personally escorts her to the private train room he rented for her and leaves her with a kiss and a promise to see her in a few days. But by this point she’s numb to everything and she simply wants to close her eyes forever.

She barely registered coming home and only that was due to the fact that it’s now on her to arrange everything for the funeral, as it becomes apparent that her mother in her grief is off on another world.  The biggest clue being when her mother greets her at the front door with a hug and a kiss, and calls her Elena. 

“Mena’s still not back yet,” her mother would say with her arms still wrapped around her in the threshold of their home. “So it’s just gonna be us today.”

“Ama…” Jimena whispers, unwilling to believe what she’s hearing. 

“Let's get you to the kitchen,” she tugs at her now lone daughter's arm. “You look like a skeleton these days. They’re not going to hire you if you don’t have a little meat on your bones.” She’s quickly whisked away to the kitchen where she finds a veritable feast, and her mothers hired cook nowhere in sight. Her mother can’t cook, a fact known to both sisters, but between the two of them, Elena never had the heart to tell her. 

“You should listen to your sister more Nena,” she says brushing some hair out of her face after putting down a full plate of food in front of her. “I’ve put a lot of thought into this and I think she’s right on the money with the idea of trying to make it somewhere else and then coming back.” 

“Ama… please listen to me,” she pleads softly with the older woman, wanting to be gentle with her.

“You should really consider Italy,” she would say, not even acknowledging her daughter had said something. “Or France if you want to get a slightly better chance at 

It’s then she realizes that her mother is simply parroting back to her what she had been saying to her sister. All the rage and grief that’s been building up inside her bubbles over by that point. Now is when her mother decides to back her up, when it’s far too late to do anything about it?

“She’s gone!” she shouts. “She’s not here anymore, I’m Jimena!”

Her mother doesn’t look shocked, more resolved as she places her head in her hands. “Quiero estar con Elena,” she whispers through her tears. 

It occurred to Jimena that this was the first time she had heard her mother speak Spanish in years. Alot of her mother these days is very… performative. 

She’s seen it throughout the years how much her mother puts on a show, even simply for her daughters. It’s most apparent when she talks, as rather than using her natural voice, the one that made it impossible for her to break into the “talkies” as she still insists on calling them, she’s instead adopted the mid-atlantic, but the result sounds like if Katherine Hepburn was mocking someone with a Spanish accent. 

But hearing her now, Jimena realizes that this is the most honest her mother has been with her in years. The truth doesn’t make it sting any less. Her mother is gone, she just needs to resolve this one last piece of business to go in peace. 

Just like she played mother to her own sister for years, she could pretend to be the daughter that her mother needed at that moment. And so she unflinchingly took a bite out of ceviche that only tasted like raw non-marinated shrimp and talked about whether or not to go the Josephine Baker route and start off as a showgirl.

The rest of the day is spent trying to ease her mothers guilt, only to pile it onto Jimena. Her mother would not so subtly explain why Jimena has been right this whole time and why ELena should listen to her. She suspects this is some fucked up way for her mother to tell her it’s not her fault, but all Jimena can hear is how if she had pushed harder her sister would still be here.

At one point her mother would “subtly” hint that she called in a favor with an old friend to take “Tim” down to Mexico so that he can retire. Jimena can’t even find joy in the fact that he’s gone now, because what does that leave her with, if she can’t be the one to kill the man who killed a part of her? 

“One more thing Mija,” Gloria says as she runs her nails through Jimena’s hair while they were both laying down in her sister's bed. “Thank your sister for me.”

Jimena hesitates before she asks, that distinct sense of trouble churning her stomach, “For what?”

“For being the mother I could never be for you,” she says, planting a kiss on her forehead. “Mena’s the one I never had to worry about.” And with those final words, her mother settles in behind her and goes to sleep. 

The coroner would later say that the fact that she was able to sleep and not be disturbed by whatever took her, she at the very least went without pain. 

This is fundamentally untrue as she left all her pain to Jimena.

This event had taken the story from simply sad to a tragedy. A young, beautiful starlet dying of an accidental overdose, is one thing, but add in her bereaved former silent film star mother to the mix, and that’s front-page news worthy. And before Jimena knew it, her loss was now the hottest ticket in town, because all of the cameras were not gonna dare miss such an event, and no star was gonna dare miss the cameras. 

It felt that every relatively famous person who vaguely knew either her mother or sister came out of the woodwork to tell some sort of story about them at the funeral. Jimena doesn't really have much to say other than there were definitely some who pulled off the bereaved friend act better than others. 

When it finally comes time for her eulogy, she was not as prepared as she thought. In an odd way it would have been better to look out in a sea of strangers, because looking out and seeing a hoard of famous faces who don’t know a single goddamn thing about her, all blank as there is not a single camera trained on them at the moment is far worse than anything imaginable. 

She ends up bolting to a backroom before she could make a fool of herself and scream at them all for being here when they’re not. She gives a futile effort to calm herself down by looking at all the gifts from well-wishers.

It was almost funny as it seemed everyone's publicist went to the same gift basket guy as there were maybe a dozen of the same arrangements, and she briefly wondered if they were bought in bulk by the studio and sent in different stars names. But one name in particular gave her pause, and she ripped the card off of the basket, unwilling to believe her own eyes that he could be so callous. 

Sorry for your loss

It was hard to comprehend at that moment, and she stupidly turned the little card back and forth unwilling to believe that the man who claimed to care so much for her would only send her an assortment of fruits and cheeses and not even five words. 

It’s all too much at that point, her dress is too tight, she’s all alone, her head is spinning, she’s all alone, her tits hurt for some reason, she’s all alone, she wants to throw up, she’s all alone, she’s all alone, she’s all alone… 

Jimena’s next conscious thought is realizing she’s in a hospital bed, but not in a hospital. The sound stage she’s on does a good enough job of looking like an actual hospital, save for the fact that an entire wall is missing and what looks to be a couple dozen cameras trained on her prone form. She can’t move anything save for blinking but that simply seems to make her situation worse as the cameras proceed to multiply each and every time. 

What does eventually make her accept that this is in fact a dream is when her rotting and decaying mother and sister enter stage left and proceed to rip off the thin hospital blankets. Before she can make any move to protest, she’s quieted with a wave of pain in her lower belly as they both take one of her legs in hand and proceed to spread them wide open for the cameras, each flash searing into her skin like a brand.

She can feel the way her mother and sister dig their fingers into her limbs to keep her in place and helpless as wave after wave of agony seems to flow throughout her entire body. She’s begging for them to let her go, she’s begging the cameras to stop, most of all she’s begging for someone who's not there.

She came to, maybe a day later, this time in an actual hospital with a mild concussion, a baby in her belly, and a broken heart, though they can only officially diagnose the first two. 

She had options for this situation. Every woman, famous or not, in the business knew she had options, it was practically part of orientation that they got a list of ten approved doctors by the studio for this very sickness. It was almost treated as a rite of passage for the backstage girls to have to eventually visit a doctor, it’s simply that common.

Jimena’s never had any reason to utilize this option, having 1. Avoided anybody relatively important to necessitate this, and 2. She had always been careful when it came to something like this. And yet somehow Elvis proved to be an exception to these rules. She had admittedly gotten sloppy after the first time he spilled inside her in New Orleans, as after that first time she figured that if anything came from this she could always just visit one of the studio doctors when she got back to LA. 

But sitting in a hospital bed, that once hypothetical scenario now a reality, it no longer feels as simple as it once did. She’s near catatonic in her indecisiveness until one of the nurses idly asks if she would be open to visitors should anybody arrive. 

And just like that, the prospect of going through with any other option other than keeping the baby made her sick. Because if she did go through with it… then she would well and truly have no one.

It had always been her and Elena against their mother, against the studio, against the world even, but now… she’s gone and it feels like she took a part of Jimena with her. 

Jimena’s good at a lot of things, not great, simply good. Jack of all trades they would call her, able to make quick fixes to a golf cart in a pinch, mix the perfect hangover cure, fix a few busted stitches on a dress or person alike, and practically anything else the studio demanded of her. 

Maybe in another life her wide-ranging skill set would have made her the greatest actress of her generation, able to play whatever role thrown at her. But in this life it just made her feel hollow. As though she herself is empty and without a part to play save for caring for her sister. 

Perhaps it’s true and that’s why she latched onto Elvis for a time, desperately needing to care for someone if only to outrun those fears of inadequacy. But there’s no outrunning anything when half of her is gone. 

As for Elvis, she doesn’t exactly know what to do about him just yet. She knew that telling anyone but him first would result in it getting back to the studio and at best she would be “lightly” pressured to go see a doctor, at worst anybody who asks will be told she decided to “retire” in Mexico. So her best bet was to wait it out and hope he contacts her.

Then one fateful morning as she was contemplating how best to ask the studio for bereavement leave, did she get a copy of Excelsior and she read about an exclusive interview Federico de León got with the father of her child. 

I would rather kiss three black women than one Mexican. 

She thinks she stares at that sentence for a good ten minutes trying to convince herself that she’s somehow misinterpreting this. But the inner smartass has to creep in and force her to face her new reality.

Well… he did more than kiss, she thought spitefully looking down at her belly, now far more prominent than it had been at the funeral months ago. She burns with humiliation and shame as those words run over and over in her head. 

She knows personally that there is almost always a grain of truth to stories like these, having had the scoop on many of them months before they got to print. And the fact of the matter is that it’s hard to believe the studio would allow for these to stand if they weren’t true with the movie coming out soon. 

As far as she knows, the studio has no idea about the affair between her and Elvis, and she’s going to keep it that way. 

What burns her the most is how wrong she was about him, not just as a person but as an actor. That she could’ve ever believed all his sweet words about this grand connection they had and how they were destined to be together. He’s perhaps the best actor she’s ever encountered if he got her of all people to believe all of that shit.  

It’s better this way, she tries to tell herself. In a way it is, as this was always an inevitability because regardless of whether he said it or not, there is no world where they ended up together. That’s not how this town works.

Her job makes her the first one to see actors on a given day, and she’s been forced to think on her feet as to how best to make them not only look but be presentable in front of the camera. 

She’s had to quickly sober up hundreds of actors and she’s had to figure out just the right amount of drink for each of them that will make them functional but not incoherent. Had to cover up twice as many bruises on actresses' faces so no one will speculate what goes on behind closed doors of their producers husbands. She’s even been the one to diagnose more than a few “social” diseases on set and steer them to the right doctors, so as to prevent a veritable epidemic on set. As haughty as it may sound, productions would fall apart without her. 

Low-level she may be, she’s a fixer in this town. She’s not a problem that needs to be fixed. 

And she decides neither will her baby. 

She’s not gonna beg like a fucking dog to be acknowledged by him, nor will she allow for her child to be forced into the spotlight. It destroyed her sister, it ruined her mother, and it almost claimed her once more. 

Elvis may have taken her pride but he won’t have her and he sure as hell will never have her baby.

Now

Elvis will never be used to California weather with its ability to both be hot and dry in the tail end of winter. But he hopes it’ll do him some good of defrosting his bones from the near-year round cold of Germany. Once upon a time he never thought he would enjoy it as much as he does right now.

But he’s found a lot to love and miss about California since he’s been gone so long. 

Not to brag but he’s been with his fair share of women, between actual girlfriends, publicity girlfriends and all the girls he knew at best for only a few hours. None of them can claim to have instilled in him this sense of longing the way she did. 

Nor can any of them claim to have caused as much heartache as she did. 

Bittersweet as they may be, those days filming King Creole he missed the most. It was those days that kept him sane in the lead up to boot camp, and even then some. Though of all the things Hollywood had to offer him, there is only one thing he coveted these last few years.

“You see her over there Billy,” he said to his cousin one day on set as he took a breather from the lights while she fixed up Carolyn’s makeup. “That’s the girl that’s gonna be my wife.” No words have ever felt more right to him. 

It was all the more heartbreaking and humiliating when he had sent Billy to find her and figure out why none of the letters he’d been giving to the Colonel to give to her had been answered while he was in boot camp. Billy would return to Texas unable to meet his eyes as he sheepishly handed him a single note in her handwriting. 

Three black women huh?

That sinking feeling that settled in his stomach as he remembered those words are something he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget. He recognized those words, how could he not? Afterall those are supposedly the ones he said that got him and his movies banned from an entire goddamn country he ain’t ever been to. 

It would be one thing for her to be mad at him for something he did do, but it felt like the worst sort of injustice that Jimi may never want to see him again for words that he never said from a man he never met for some unforgivable slight he never committed. 

Worst of all was how he was surrounded by his entourage who gathered around and were now owlishly looking at him, expecting a certain reaction from him, and simply waiting for him so they could properly react. 

It’s near paralyzing in that moment that he recognizes that his closest friends aren’t expecting him to react, they’re expecting Elvis Presley to react. 

“Her loss,” he remembers saying, feeling every single eye on him in that moment, trying to literally shrug off that scratchy feeling in his throat. He’s supposed to be the biggest heartthrob of America, unfazed when a girl said no because there are no less than a hundred girls that would say yes. 

They all follow suit, and quickly take to promising him a night out and reassuring him that he’ll practically be drowning in pussy before midnight. Though with one look he does put an end to that little episode when their support for him turned into disparaging her. 

He knows that there is no use in even trying to reason with her over letters. Because what can he really say to her in writing if she’s not gonna even bother reading? 

If she already has it in his head that he’s the type of man to say something like that, then no amount of letters will make her believe otherwise. 

He would spend the next year trying unsuccessfully to fall out of love with her. Indulged -perhaps too much- in all that bachelorhood had to offer. All the girls he could pull, all the pills he could handle, but none of it could even match a fraction of the euphoric feeling of being complete when Jimena was around.

She loves him. Or at least she used to. She never said it but he certainly felt loved in a way he’s not used to anymore. It’s not the fanatical worship from his fans, nor the sycophantic adoration of his buddies. Her love is something purer, less selfish, something he doesn’t think he’s experienced outside of his mama since the fame started rolling in. 

He needs her in his life. Because nobody is going to look out for him or try to protect him the same way she would. 

He’s had nothing but time to figure out ways to get her to at the very least hear him out. From there he could start rebuilding the foundation of the relationship and work his way back to her good graces. 

His first obstacle to this plan comes in the form of finding out she is no longer doing makeup anymore, and is now in fact part of the wardrobe department. This is a wrench in his plans considering he attributes her fall for him due to the fact that she practically saw him everyday while shooting. But he tries to look at the bright side of this, knowing that it at least guarantees that Brando and Newman haven’t been getting the same treatment from her. 

The next obstacle to seeing her again is her initial refusal to be a part of the new production, as now with her new title as Costume designer she’s in a better position to pick and choose what she works on. But enough pressure on the director to push for her specifically does eventually have her signing on to the project. 

The final wrench in his plans came the day he had been anticipating for almost two years. 

He’s thought about her non-stop for the past two years, so he almost immediately notices the changes in her appearance. No less beautiful (arguably even more so with her bigger tits and rounder hips, and better fitting clothes), she’s different nonetheless, yet none of that prevents him from wanting to gather her in his arms and promise to never let go. 

But a single look from her his way, stops him in his tracks. And suddenly he’s brought back to the first time he ever met her, mistaking her for his would be co-star, and wondering how he’s gonna get through this shoot when he feels like he’s two inches tall under this gorgeous creature's gaze.

He was prepared for her hatred, he wasn’t prepared for her complete and utter indifference. She had that glazed over look in her eyes, like he wasn’t even there. It reminds him of one of the few times that he dared to question why she does that whenever he asked what it was like to grow up in Hollywood. 

In a rare instance of vulnerability, she would solemnly whisper “It makes it easier to pretend it happened to someone else.” Only minutes after that would she claim to urgently need to go back to her assigned room for the night, the only time she ever did so during production. Next day she would pretend as though nothing happened, and he would follow suit all too willing to indulge her so she wouldn't run off again.

He knows he’s hurt her beyond measure, but to be put in the same categories of things she would rather pretend never happened is gut-wrenching. 

If she hated him, he could’ve worked with that, because at the very least she still felt something when she looked at him. But as the whole session went on it became clear she at the very least wanted him to believe she felt nothing for him. 

He would’ve taken any sort of reaction by that point: an “accidental” pin prick from the needle, a passive-aggressive tightening of the measuring tape around his neck, hell he would’ve settled for so much as a hateful glare his way. But nothing, stone cold professional she is, she simply takes his measurements only to then give her only acknowledgment that he was even there by giving him a simple “all done.” She then moves on to his co-star with all the eagerness of someone about to brush their teeth, just so painfully indifferent to everything in this room.

Regret is a constant companion these days, always whispering in his ear about his shortcomings, but now it feels like it’s practically screaming in his ear what a failure he is to let a woman like this slip through his fingers. 

He’s practically kicking his younger and dumber self for being so cowardly as to miss the chance to tell her how he felt. Not a day has passed since they parted had he not thought about every touch he didn’t follow with I love you, every embrace he didn’t whisper how much she meant to him, every kiss he didn’t beg for her to always stay by his side. 

He had been gearing up to try to broach the subject of something more happening, ideally ending up with a courthouse wedding before he had to be sworn in, though he was willing to accept whatever form of a relationship she would offer him so long as she would still be in his life. 

But then just a week before wrap-up, when everything was as close to perfect as it could be, that is of course when things went to shit. 

Elena Perez, of the famous little firecracker twins, found dead, age 21

It hit him like a punch to the gut when he first saw that. Even though he had never met her, it was devastating all the same, knowing how affected Jimi was gonna be.  

The closest he ever did come to meeting her was when Jimi had brought her to the wrap party for Loving You. 

He was still pretty new to the art of schmoozing, so his night was almost entirely devoted to an ever present smirk that had begun to hurt his cheeks and laughing a little more than necessary at every joke the studio heads made. He was tired but he knew he would find no rest anywhere. But his tune quickly changed when he saw a familiar figure within the crowd. 

He felt his heart go all a flutter when he saw her from behind but then when she turned around there was just something about her that didn’t sit right with him. It was like looking at a funhouse mirror of Jimi, her posture almost ridiculously upright to further push her ample breasts out, her smile a little too tight, but most of all her eyes were a little too hungry, a little too eager to please. The features were nearly entirely the same but he was so used to the casual nature of his makeup girl, it felt so unnatural to see this. 

In another life he may have been all over her by this point, taken her home, maybe if he was feeling generous, been seen out in public with her a few times before ultimately moving on. There were beautiful and eager to please women everywhere he looked, there wasn’t really anything special about Elena Leon. 

But having met Jimi first, he can’t really fathom having much to do with her.

He spent the better part of two hours ducking and weaving her approach, practically sending out his boys as human shields, to keep her away, because he doesn’t exactly trust himself not to give in to her advances, if only for the consolation prize of getting to be with someone who looked liked the one he actually wanted. 

He eventually made his way upstairs after a while no longer wanting to be surrounded by people, as there was only one person he wanted to be with at the moment, and she had apparently decided not to come. 

It becomes apparent that he’s been rewarded for his self- restraint when he finds a backside he would know anywhere on the third floor balcony. Swathed in a pretty if non-descript black dress,  bottle of champagne in hand, she was looking down on the party like an ever-judging guardian angel. 

“Y’know I don’t think they wanted anyone up here,” he would say casually. 

He could see the way she practically lit up as she saw him, a soft smile on her gorgeous face and her eyes warm, probably the first person of the night that was genuinely glad to see him. It’s a novel experience for people to see him and not the star, and it’s something he never thought he would miss. 

“Well you better get outta here before they see you,” she snarked back. 

He laughs for the first time since he got there, and it feels so easy to just settle right next to her and look down on everyone else. He finds himself relaxing for the first time since he’s gotten there.

“So what’s a pretty girl like you doin’ up here all by your lonesome?”

Around a tight smile she says, “There’s already a pretty girl like me down at the party.” He can’t help that he flinches slightly as he thinks about her sister. “I see you met Elena,” she sighs, before plastering a tight-lipped sardonic grin on her face. “So what’d ya think?”

Elvis has the good sense to know a trap when he sees one with women, so rather than using words he just lets out a long breath. 

She gives a short mirthful huff. “Yeah that’s fair,” she taps the neck of the bottle trying to undoubtedly figure out a way to change the subject. “If you say some corny ass shit like ‘I think I’m seein’ double’,” she says in a piss poor impression of his own voice. “I will push you off this balcony.” 

“You sound like ya done it before sweetheart” he smirks, swiping the bottle from her hand, before taking a swig. 

“How else do you think I avoided becoming Charlie Chaplin’s 5th wife?” The simple statement catches him off guard that champagne threatens to come back up his nose. 

“... ya serious?” He closes his eyes in relief when she snorts.

“No,” she chuckles, with a hand wave. “I pushed him off because of something else.” Her eyes slide away from him and zero in on one of the partygoers below, before he could dare ask for any further elaboration. “Oh hey… Brody’s here and… uh-oh so is Frank.” 

He follows her eyeline to find that she’s wearily looking at ol’ blue eyes himself who has decided to make an appearance. “Ya’ got a story ‘bout Frank?”

“I got a story about everyone here.” With a slight smirk, she would hold two fingers up and ask, “Wanna know how I got these scars?” 

She regales him with not just that story but others of what she’s been asked to do on set. Some were funny like having to fish a toupee out of an oscar winner's mouth to more harrowing ones of being asked to check the pulse of particularly heavy drinking stars. Anybody else, he doubts he would have humored such tales, but it’s when he started hearing other people tell even wilder stories of her that ranged from snake-wrangling to resetting famous stars' bones after some sexual misadventure, did he learn early on never to doubt her stories. 

“So you come to these things often?” he asks after her giggles had settled down.  

“Never,” you answer. “But Elena convinced me we had to come to this one especially,” a bit more solemnly as she looked down at the familiar figure down below at the party. “You know when we were little, we used to climb up onto the roof and watch the parties from up there to tell funny stories and avoid the adults, saying how we were never gonna be like them.” There’s warmth in her voice, but sadness in her eyes as she gazed down at her mirror image at the party below. 

Being a twin is not something Elvis liked to dwell on. His Mama had always talked about Jesse watching over him since he was little, but rarely if ever did he really contemplate what it meant to have a brother who wasn’t there with him. 

It feels as though he was supposed to have someone that was meant to always be with him and look out for him, but now they’re not here and now he’s doomed to a life of loneliness. This thought is only further reinforced by the way you look at your sister, and something almost akin to jealousy shoots through his being, that she can have you and not value you. 

Not like he could, a voice whispers in his head. 

“What’s it like being a twin?” he would ask before he could lose his nerve. Though he does immediately clamp up at not just the suddenness of the question but the ease he was able to ask it. He’s tried to broach the subject of Jesse a few times throughout his life only to chicken out at the last minute in fear of upsetting someone, namely his mama. 

Though the regret is instant as he watches her mood drop immediately and face him with a disgusted expression, that he can’t quite understand until she says with no amount of venom missing, “No I’m not gonna ask her if she’d be interested in a threesome,” she says, far too quick to have him not believe that this isn’t the first time she’s heard this. 

He feels his face immediately go up in flames as to how grossly his words have been misinterpreted. “N-no I-I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly trying to salvage the situation and gets a hold of her before she can fully turn around. 

“Mmhmm,” she hums dismissively, looking down at the hand that holds her wrist and looking down on him as though he’s the scum of the Earth. 

“Darlin’ I-I swear it ain’t nothin’ like that, I just… I…” he stutters out wondering if there’s anyway he can truly explain his interest in her status as a twin without coming off as creepy, but one look at the full moon shining behind you is all the signal he needs to be honest. “Ain’t too many people know this,” he starts, taking a steadying breath trying to find that courage of two men he’s supposed to have. “But I-I had a brother, and…” he swallows hard at this one, always a sensitive subject in the Presley household. “And he-he didn’t make it…” 

She looks at him with a critical eye, undoubtedly searching for any sign of falsehoods on his face, only for the hard look to melt when she realizes he spoke nothing but the truth. 

“Oh, umm…” she says. “I-I’m sorry to hear that,” her voice dripping with guilt at the assumption. 

“It’s fine,” he reassured you. “He was gone ‘fore I even got here.”

It’s hard to talk about Jesse with anyone, because what more can anyone say about him other than he should be here but he isn’t. He has no memories to reflect sadly on, just wishful thinking about who Jesse could’ve been or even who he would’ve been if had him in his life. 

“I really don’t know how to describe it,” she says, putting down the bottle she had in her hand. “Because she’s always just… been there, and I’ve always been the one to look out for her.” 

“You’re the older one?” he asks with a bit of a laugh.

“Yeah,” she affirmed. “I’ve been doing it my whole life. Stayed up and held her hand when she was too scared to sleep. Did all the stunts she was too afraid to do and broke a couple bones. Threw tantrums when we were filming so she could get a break that she was too nervous to ask for. Dropped out of school so I could get a job on set, so she wasn’t alone. Hell, the only reason I’m here at this stupid party is because she thought she could get in touch with someone who could help her career.” Each admission is met with a more resentful tone, only for her to then try to chase away the taste the words are leaving in your mouth, by taking back the bottle.

“O-oh,” is all he really has to say to that. 

“She’s awful,” she admits, but a sardonic smile begins to creep up on her face. “I love her so much.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes,” she asserts. “There’s no one else in the whole world I would’ve done those things for. I guess that’s what it’s like to be a twin, take care of the person who's been here since you were born. It’s like… having to take care of any other part of your body, but this one is just constantly away from you and you can do nothing but worry.”

Elvis is stunned into silence for a moment as he looks at her, because she is able to finally put into words that anxiousness that has been eating at him his whole life. Even with all the love and reassurance he felt as a kid, there’s always just been that missing part of him that no one has ever been able to understand. 

But there’s one part that eats at him still.

“And does she take care of you?” he asks, more curious than anything at this point. 

That question catches her off-guard as she rips her eyes away from him and furiously looks down at the party, before she smiles and looks back at him to ask “Wanna hear who Clark Gable had a secret child with?”

Another time he would’ve been very interested in the topic, but seeing her obvious panic as she tried to avoid the very subject keeps him focus. “Don’t do that,” he pleads softly, brushing a few errant curls out of her face. “Don’t shut me out.”

She leans into his hand a little bit and he feels her jaw clench as she tries to get a handle on herself. “I must sound like a crazy person to you,” she says. Granted anyone else, he might’ve thought that, but this is Jimi, the girl who is never bothered by anything. He was witness to how she nonchalantly filed her nails before putting out a camera fire. Watched as she hardly broke her stride when some yahoo tried to scare her with a halloween mask. Hell he’s seen her put out a match with just her fingertips, and only to stare him down to get back onto set. 

She’s seen the worst this town has to offer, and yet it’s her seemingly one-sided relationship with her sister that has her on the verge of collapse. 

Not if Elvis had any say about that.

He takes it as a good sign when the normally touch-averse Jimi doesn’t immediately pull away from the hand on her shoulder, so he decides to take a chance and fully envelope her in his arms. She stiffens somewhat but otherwise accepts it, and he feels his heartbreak over the unspoken truth that she looks out for Elena, but no one looks out for her.  

“I think it sounds like…” he says, taking her chin in his hands, “ya care a lot darlin’, and it don’t sound like she appreciates it as much as she should.” 

The ever present indifferent shell she had built over the years cracks with that simple statement of understanding. She has such beautiful doe eyes hidden behind a hard stare, and for only having known her for a few weeks Elvis can appreciate even the chance to see behind the mask. 

But he wants to know more. He wants to know all of her.

It feels almost magnetic, the sudden pull he felt towards her in that moment. Nothing could stop him as he leaned down to kiss her full lips. Everything else in the world seems to fall by the wayside, the party, the people, even the city itself no longer existed to him as he held her in his arms. 

Their first time with her was nothing short of magic. It felt like the first breath of air after being held underwater for so long. 

They just seemed to fit together so well, a fact that couldn’t be denied even as their first time was a quick and dirty session on a balcony under the light of the moon. Like they had been so desperate for each other years even before they met, and now it all culminates to this. 

They don’t even really remove their clothes, he just unbuckled his pants on the deck chair while she sat astride him, moving her skirt up her waist and move her panties to the side. Her moans as she slowly impaled herself on his length sound like music to his ears and he can’t help the low groans as he tries to prevent himself from closing his eyes too much wanting to burn the image of her taking his cock while the full moon gives her a truly angelic look behind her. 

He wants so badly to hold her but even now she denies him that as she puts a hand over his chest and rides him like she’s trying to tame a bucking stallion. He’s just as enthusiastic for this as he grips her thighs in his hands and 

The whole encounter is over and done within a matter of minutes after that, but he’s just glad that she came to and now he didn’t have to feel the shame of finishing before her. She collapses on top of him trying to hold herself upright while he holds her close to his chest as he gives a few lazy thrusts to ride out the rest of his orgasm. He’s never felt more connected to anybody than her in this moment and he wants to truly seal this perfect night when he raises her chin to try to capture her lips.

But she pulls away slightly at the motion, “... I… I should go…” she whispers, and he’s not too sure if she’s saying that more to him or herself. 

“...I-if that’s wh-whatcha want baby…” he says, not having the heart to deny her anything, no matter how much every single other part of him is screaming at him to make her stay. The inner conflict practically paralyzes him where he layed and he could only watch as she quickly fixed herself up. It’s mesmerizing to watch, as with only a few quick adjustments, Jimi looks good as new, save for the kiss-swollen lips and the slight uneasiness in her stance, it’s as though nothing had ever happened. 

That hurts in a way he can’t explain with words. The idea that the relationship they’ve built in the last few weeks will amount to a one time thing that they go their separate ways from. 

But what can he do to stop her if she doesn’t want to be here anymore?

So with all the boldness he’s learned to fake over the last few years, he grabs a hold of her wrist, and tries to give some type of meaning to this whole thing. “Wait darlin’.” He makes a conscious effort not to grip too tight lest he scare her off, but just enough to let her know he’s serious. “What’s your real name?”

Bathed in light of the full moon right behind her, a soft smile on her face as she looks at him though not without that twinge of sadness in her eyes. “Jimena Gabriella Perez.” she said as though it were a good bye.

And with the way she walks away without even a glance back, it’s clear that it was. 

He sits there for he doesn’t even know how long just in his head and staring up at the moon. He knows realistically he should be making his way back downstairs, but all desire to mingle with other people seemed to dissipate as he stared up at the full moon. Besides there’s only one person he really wanted to be with at the moment and she apparently could hardly wait to get outta there. 

He stared up at the night sky for the longest time trying to gather his thoughts about the situation, trying to figure out why it felt like every nerve in his body was screaming at him not to let her leave. It was all kinds of backwards yet somehow still fitting that he learned her name only after sleeping together. 

But try as he might, he can't justify keeping her here when she clearly wants to go. 

It felt as though he had known her for years rather than months. In a way it was sort of the truth due to having seen her movies as a kid, but never in his worst nightmares could he imagine the near debilitating feeling that rests in his chest at the prospect of never seeing her again. So he closes his eyes and tries to make peace with the fact he’ll never see Jimena Perez again.

Jimena Perez… JP… Elena Perez… EP… 

His eyes shot open at that realization, and as he hurried to make himself somewhat presentable, he berated himself for missing something like that. He has never believed in coincidences and this was far too specific to be anything other than some sort of sign. 

But to his chagrin, it’s as though she had dropped off the face of the Earth. 

The next day, all anybody could talk about was the scene that the Leon girl made of herself standing on tables and practically flashing the studio head with an impromptu can-can dance, until her sister pulled her off and quickly escorted her out. 

It would be another year before he would see her in person again, and that was only because he specifically requested to have her on-set for what he thought would potentially be his last movie. But even then he’s able to find a modicum of peace with that, if only that he will have her in the end, and this whole ride has been worth something. 

He doesn’t know what’s more terrifying, the idea that he’ll never be able to communicate how he feels about her or the prospect that he will and she’ll reject him all the same. He even at one point resorted to trying to write them down in order to sort them out. 

But each time he tried to put pen to paper it felt like his mind went blank, because how can he explain that it feels like she’s the piece that’s been missing his whole life. That the only time he’s felt whole were the few weeks they spent together. That it can be no coincidence that their names and family names match so perfectly, and it’s gotta be a sign that something else is at play here. 

But he realizes that he’s gotta put in the legwork to make fate happen too.

Requesting to have her be In New Orleans, and he planned on working his way to slowly form a friendship into something more permanent. Of course she did throw a wrench into that plan almost immediately the first night when she showed up at his hotel room and declared the couch for herself because she refuses to stay where she was assigned. He wouldn’t have her anyother way. 

It’s easy to fall into each other once more, as though it hadn’t been almost a year since they last saw one another. He hopes that maybe this time around he would be able to show her even a fraction of what he feels. In an ideal world they would already be on their way to a courthouse to make it all official so that no one would bat an eye when he brought her to Germany, but even he realizes what a tall order that would be. He’s not one to plan ahead, but he figures it’s gonna be a longer process than he anticipated with her, but Jimi’s worth every moment.  

But just like that it all seemed to fall apart.

As sad as it makes him to wake up without her, he’s used to it by this point, but what does worry him is why she wasn’t  in his trailer when he arrived on set. It ate at him that seemingly no one cared beyond the grumblings from the other makeup girls who were now having to work more because she’s missing in action. He knows he’s gonna get an earful for this alone from her considering how much she wants to keep their involvement a secret, he does blatantly ask about her by name. 

It becomes clear what exactly happened when he notices a discarded newspaper on the director's chair. He immediately calls for a halt to the production so he could go out and look for her, fearing the worst. But due to the already tight schedule practically everyone refuses to do so, even after hearing why exactly she was gone.

At that point he just walks off set and swiftly dispatches every one of his boys to go search the city. He even gets in on it and drives around for a few hours all in an effort to find her, but he returns to his suite so he can pray and pace and worry and hope she comes back before sunset. 

When she does get back, the faraway look in her eyes tells him she hasn’t been crying, but the way she’s all clenched up like she’s actively fighting herself from doing so in front of him. He’s having none of it and he brings her into his arms.

It’s only then that she seems to collapse in her grief, and he holds her still knowing that there’s nothing else he could do right now. He’s never seen her like this and immediately he recognizes that he will only ever know a fraction of what she’s going through in that moment. 

Elena was a real person whom she’s known all her life, Jimi had confided in him how she’s put her through the absolute wringer with their mama favoring her and her inability to recognize what her sister has been doing for her sake. Jesse has always just been gone, and Elvis could imagine him in whatever way he liked as an older brother. Jimi knew her through all of the ugliest bits of their lives and loved her all the same, even as she slowly spiraled downwards. 

“Jimi…” he whispers at a loss for words. He knows that nothing he says could possibly fix this situation and it makes him feel all new sorts of helplessness to the situation. 

“Why didn’t I feel it when it happened?” she asked out loud though he gets the sense she isn’t asking looking for an answer from him. 

He could hold her tighter so that she wouldn’t feel so alone right now. The rest of the night, and well into the next day, is a blur as he as he waivers between trying to comfort her and arranging for her return to California. He wants to go with her but despite the already tight schedule for filming and the looming date of his induction he’s hoping to be able to at least see her one last time before boot camp. 

He remembers finding her red bandana as she was packing everything up, and contemplating telling her. But he selfishly wants a small piece to hold onto until the next time he sees her so he slyly slips it under his pillow, and he promises to himself he would give it back once he saw her again.

But of course the lord himself seemed to laugh in his face as his stunt apparently cost a few extra days of filming and between everything else going on in the lead up to his induction, he couldn’t be there for her. The Colonel had a few of his own men physically hold him to prevent him from getting on the next train to LA after he heard about her mama passing, the only thing swaying him was the Colonel’s promise that it would only be one more day of shooting. One day turned into three and before he knew it he was whisked back home to wait out until his induction, with the only acknowledgement from the Colonel being that he made sure to send condolences to the surviving Leon daughter. 

He can only imagine what she went through losing her sister and mother so close together, difficult relationship and all. He would lose his mama only a few months later, and it felt as though every breath threatened to be his last one. Knowing she went through all of this alone, it’s little wonder why all of the letters and invitations he sent at Fort Hood went unanswered.

Sitting in his mothers closet, not wanting to have his grief turned into a photo-op for the press. He now understands why Jimi left the business in the first place. It was as though he was trapped in a fish bowl, drowning and everybody was fighting to be the one to witness his last breath. It makes him feel all the worse for letting her go through that alone.

His biggest regret is that she had to go through all of this alone. He had tried his hardest to try to head back West to see her only to be thwarted each and every time. No amount of Love was gonna thwart Uncle Sam from getting his dues. And before he knew it he was on a ship headed to Europe.

He almost had to relegate himself to the fact that the relationship is unsalvageable after all of it. Truly after experiencing loss himself, he can’t imagine any scenario where she could forgive him, as he could hardly forgive himself. 

But for the sake of making tomorrow seem even the minimum amount of bearable he forces himself to dream that things can be fixed and they would eventually be happier than ever. 

Because if they don’t… then what’s the point?

After all they had gone through separately he knew in his heart that there would never be anyone who could understand him like she could. A twin without a twin, and a child without a mother, a lonely soul surrounded by others, and most of all a person in desperate need of love beyond simple admiration. 

There had always been an ever-present hollow feeling in his life, something he never even recognized until she was no longer present to relieve him from that emptiness. She understands him more than anyone ever will, and the idea of letting her go without a fight is something he simply can’t do.

The almighty himself has tied them together unlike anything he’s ever seen before and to choose another path would be blasphemous at this point. 

All his thoughts on who Jesse would’ve been have been answered when he pointed Elvis in her direction. He has to believe that he wouldn’t do him dirty by bringing him to his soulmate only for fate to snatch her away all the same. He has to believe that things will get better, otherwise what’s the point of continuing on?

But he has to grin and bear the hell that will be trying to live without her in Germany. But if his time in Hollywood taught him anything, it’s how to pretend to be someone he’s not.

It’s easy to pretend to be the good Sergeant Preseley in Germany, charm the pants off a couple girls, do whatever he’s assigned to do by the higher-ups, take whatever the doctors give him so that he can do both, abstain from playing music, act like it’s not killing him, etc,. Behind the scenes he becomes needier than ever, truly fearing being alone now of all times, because he doubts he could keep this up without an audience presence. 

Everybody has seemed to become the audience regardless of how close they previously were to him, it’s hard to think of them as anything else considering that he’s playing a part for them all so they could believe that he’s fine. 

This all adds to his longing for Jimi, knowing that she saw through him easily and he never had to worry about being anything less than himself around her. 

But playing his role helps ease the ache that stems from every thought that she brings to his heart, as then it can be somebody else experiencing that devastation. So he bides his time and plays his part in Germany. Trying to fill that sinking feeling he got in his chest every time he thought about Jimi with more partying, more drugs, more women, just more everything. Even with all that, that sinkhole in his chest seemingly grew bigger and bigger every morning he woke up and she wasn't with him. 

His heart has been broken since the day he was born, and it has been a mad scramble for the pieces for everyone ever since. His brother took a piece with him when he left, as did his mama, and everybody else who had a piece had been doing jackshit to appreciate it. 

He had only one piece of it left really, and he had spent his entire life trying to find someone who he could trust to take care of it. And like a goddamn miracle his brother was able to answer for him, and pointed him in her direction. And finally he found the person he could give that final piece of his heart to. 

But she hurt him in a way that no one has ever been able to do so. She didn’t take advantage of his heart, or reject it, or even betray it. Worse yet, she couldn’t recognize what he was giving her. The life Jimi had been living had turned her cynical to his intentions for her. And every fear she may have ever had about him had been proven true with just that one little article. 

He can’t even blame her for being angry, as he doubts he would’ve been able to keep a lid on something like this in her shoes. But he can’t dwell on it, he can only move forward and try his best to fix this. 

It had truly felt like the world was conspiring against him in that year, as he had to watch as everything he loved slipped through his fingers, all for what. All for a dream that he wasn’t even sure was worth it anymore, nor something he could actually be a part of. 

Being enlisted and overseas already, there was always the lingering threat that if anything happens with the Reds, he’s already here to fight the good fight and all that. Be the good soldier, who would gladly lay down his life for his country. 

Really he just wants to lay down. 

Sometimes forever. 

In the worst days he was so sure he was gonna die there, whether by an enemy hand or by his own, he couldn’t decide. Really the only thing that kept him going was the slim chance that she would be willing to hear him out if he ever came back stateside. Those nights he would hold onto that small piece of her trying to convince himself of the illusion that she’s waiting for him, and dying here would only mean he would lose any chance of seeing her again. 

At one point it stopped smelling like her and he resorted to ordering a bottle of her perfume just to preserve the illusion that she was still waiting for him. He probably doused the cloth with a quarter of the bottle, and inhaled half of that all to maintain the illusion of her still willing to come back to him eventually. He’s sure if that hadn’t worked in easing his nerves he would’ve downed everything in his medicine cabinet and called it a night.

He’s put everything he is into this hope that he could possibly get a second chance, full well knowing he’s undeserving of one. 

So he’s not about to let her go so easily.

Jimi’s actually not that hard to find on the lot, especially now that she has a door with her name on it. She’s certainly made her way up, having turned her previous doodles in the margins of production notes and discarded scripts into a new position complete with a title and an office.  

He knocks at the door with her name on it, and waits a moment, what sounds like the dumbo soundtrack quickly being drowned out by the heart-pounding in his ears. She doesn’t keep him waiting long, as she opens up the door only to immediately close it just enough so that only her head is sticking out. “Fittings are next week,” she says neutrally before she then proceeds to try to close the door in his face. He is too fast though as he shoves his foot in the crack and pushes it open. 

“Jimi, please,” he pushes the door further, but stops once he sees the panicked look on her face. He holds his hands up in surrender but makes no move to remove the foot.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath in annoyance, before she opens her mouth again. “If I promise to talk, will you leave me alone after this?”

So sure of himself he nods, truly believing that he just needs to explain and then they can go back to the way they used to be. 

She puts a hand on his chest to motion him to step away from the door before she herself comes out. She does so in the oddest way possible, by sliding herself between the door and the frame, as though she was trying to prevent him from seeing inside her office. She looks back inside and tells who he presumes to be the others she shares the office with that she’s gonna get lunch, and to hold everything down. 

“So you want to talk? Talk then,” she states, breaking that line of thought as she leans against the bulletin board.

He figures she would have such a no nonsense reaction like this, and takes a steadying breath in order to deliver what 

“Jimi… I know why you’re mad,” he starts off slowly. “Believe me I would be hoppin’ mad if i read that…”

“I forgive you,” she cuts in. “We done here?”  

“Wh-what?”

“Are we done here?” She repeats slower this time to really emphasize her words. 

“N-no Jimi,” he begs. “The things the papers said are just lies. I ain’t ever said that”

She gives a short mirthful laugh when she hears that, “Elvis if I had a fucking dime everytime I heard that line,” she rolls her eyes. “But it’s fine. I don’t care anymore. I’m not in the business of telling the papers anything, so you don’t gotta worry about everyone figuring out you’re a hypocrite.” 

“But… I’m not…”

She pats his cheek and gives a thin smile as she pushes herself off the wall, and gives a dry, “Of course you’re not.”

“Jimi listen to me,” he begs, briefly wondering why Jesse had to pick the most stubborn woman alive for him. “I never said any of that.”

“Mhmm,” she hums, the thin line of her mouth and the way she’s checking her nails for dirt, telling him she has no faith in his words. 

“Jimi,” he pleads with her, taking her hand and placing it on his chest. “You gotta believe that I would never say somethin’ like that. I love you so goddamn much and I especially ain’t never wanted to hurt you.”

She may not be able to rely on her knowledge of him, but he knows her well enough to know that she recognizes good acting from bad acting. Watching as her eyes soften from their previous hard stare, he knows that she understands that this is far from an act. This is by far the most honest he’s been with anyone since his mama passed, and the doubt in her own assumptions of him shows all over her face.

He thinks he’s finally getting through to her, until she glances behind him and he watches as her dark eyes harden once more. “You don’t love me, and it doesn’t matter what I believe Elvis,” she snatches her hand out of his, and walks back towards her office before slamming the door.

He stands there for he doesn’t even know how long, trying to justify why he should even keep breathing at this point, his catatonic state only helping to prevent him from doing something stupid in the face of the worst rejection he’s ever had. This isn’t a girl laughing in his face over being asked to the school dance or a stuffy actress looking down her nose at his hillbilly ways, this is a part of his soul refusing to come back to him. 

This can’t be the end, a voice in his head whispers. He tries to repeat these words in his head if only to make the hope he has a little more real. He knew it wasn’t going to be as easy as him returning, and she would automatically throw herself into his arms. He already knew it was going to be an uphill battle for her love once again, but the flat-out rejections and refusal of his declaration just made everything so real in that moment.

When Jimi cares, she does so with all her being, and he knows at some point she cared enough about him to befriend him, and there’s no way that all disappeared in the last two years. To some extent she still cares about Elvis, and that’s why he refuses to give up on her so easily. 

But she’s not one to be swayed so easily. 

Gifts and letters and songs for her, are all met with the same stony indifference that has marked her status as near untouchable. Her schedule is next to unpredictable as it seems that everytime he does try to send someone over for her she’s conveniently out of the office. 

Each rejection further drove him closer and closer towards that edge he’d been resisting since he landed in Germany. He would toss and turn at night, not wanting to be alone but at the same time wanting no one but Jimi with him. It’s even worse than it was before considering the fact that she’s so close that he could almost touch her, but she’s like smoke, he can see her there but never truly grab a hold of her.

Something that only intensifies once shooting actually begins and he knows just how close she is day in and day out on the lot. It’s nothing short of torture to have all that he needs in life so close, yet just out of reach. 

Off camera and out of the studio he’s barely keeping it together, the years of pretending to be okay in front of people only barely enough to sustain the image he’s made for himself as well as doing the job he was tasked with. Everybody wants a piece of him now that he’s back, and he doesn’t know if he has any left to give anymore.

It all came to a head one day when he walks into the wardrobe building and sees one of the girls holding a small toddler girl. It strikes him how similar the little girl looked to Jimi back in her firecracker days, even down to the ribbon tying her hair back. He muses for half a second that that’s what their daughter would look like, and then it hits him like a ton of bricks that may never come to pass. 

He’s trying to make her not hate his guts, and with how little success he’s been having, he’ll be lucky if she even looks at him again before he’s Dodgers age. He’s closer to never having her love him again than he is to someday. 

He had come with the intention of showing her the bandana he had been holding onto all of these years, to show how devoted he’s been to her. Now holding it in his hands and remembering that initial promise to give it back to her, he realizes what a fool he’s been. He’s been selfishly holding onto something that��s not there anymore, because he was too much of a coward to actually do what he needed to get what he wanted. 

He didn’t want to believe it was too late for them, but seeing that little girl, he realized how much time he’s lost. Where he’s spent the last two years nurturing his love for her, she's been feeding her hatred for him. If he’s gonna be in love with her for the rest of his life, she’ll hate him for the rest of hers. 

She’s made it clear that she wants nothing to do with him anymore, and he can’t blame her for it. He should’ve been there for her, damn the consequences, but he wasn’t and now he has to live with what he did. 

Though once he gives it back, jury's out on how much longer he will live.

Resolved in his need to do right by her, he solemnly walks to the costume department with about the same enthusiasm as he would the gallows. Perhaps there is no coming back from this, and perhaps he wouldn’t deserve one either way. He was a coward who let what he wanted walk away time and time again, not having enough will to hold on to her. 

And he doesn’t have the strength to try to hold on any longer. 

Finally as he’s just about to turn the corner to where he knows her office is, only to stop in his tracks, and realize that once he gives it back… it’s all over. He’s strangely okay with that once he reconciles he won’t be feeling that way for much longer.

Turning the corner he sees a familiar figure looking at a bulletin board, and standing right beside her was a significantly smaller figure.

It takes him a moment to realize what he’s looking at, but the second he does it feels like all the air has been sucked out of his lungs. 

He’s tempted to look down at his own feet to reassure himself he's still on solid ground, and that the floor hadn’t been taken out from under him, but truly no force on Earth could make him look away from the little one at her feet. 

The boy is standing barely taller than her knee, wearing light green overalls with what looks to be a little yellow duck on the front pocket. His honey hair - a few shades darker than Elvis’ own natural locks- is slicked back on the sides allowing for some bronze curls to hang over his forehead but it’s really his face that comes like a punch to the gut to Elvis.

Vain as it may sound, Elvis knows his own face, even when it’s softened with baby fat and slightly darkened from the California sun, and that’s all he sees when he looks down at the brown-eyed little boy that’s clutching onto a woman’s skirt and idly sucking his thumb. 

It’s as he’s wondering what happened to his eye color when the eyes in question finally take notice of him, and the little boy rapidly tugs at the pencil skirt he’d had a tight grip on. In his head he’s still trying to justify any other way someone could have a little clone of himself that isn’t the most obvious answer, until he watches Jimi crouch down in her heels as she gently strokes the little boy's plump cheek. 

“¿Que paso Papi?” she asks, adoration in her voice as she brings him close to her face, before planting a kiss on his cheek. 

The boy, too shy or too young, to answer only points a chubby little finger his way, his dark eyes wide in wonder. As her eyes follow, Elvis sees her jaw clench and most of her previous warmth seemed to sap out of her at the very sight of him. It truly feels like the first time she’s actually looked at him in a long time without her eyes immediately sweeping over him dismissively, so he can’t help but welcome it. 

In one fluid motion, she competently scoops up the small boy up in her arms and begins to make her way towards him, her heels clacking ominously as though she were an oncoming vengeful mother goddess set to rain down fire upon him. 

Elvis is usually quicker on his feet but it feels as though they had been replaced by cement as he’s frozen in place with no sign of escape. But he doesn’t think he really wants that anymore as it now gives him a better look at the boy.

“Can I help you?” she asks, painfully neutral, as though she’s simply asking what he wants for lunch and not in fact holding a mini version of himself in her arms. 

“Wh-” he starts but has to swallow before he can get too choked up. “What the hell is this?” 

“It looks like,” she answers and he perks up at that both eager and fearful of what she has to say. “My old bandana,” she states, much to his confusion, until he follows her dark eyes to the fabric still within his grasp. 

Her flippancy just enrages him, “You know damn well what I mean!” pointing a finger in the direction of the small boy in her arms. Guilt quickly eats at his belly as the boy turns from him and buries his face in her neck out of fear, as she continues to look at him with the disdain in her eyes only growing.

“Oh…” she says dryly as though she only now remembers the boy in her arms, even though she had been consistently rubbing soothing circles on his tiny back since he got scared. “This is my son.” A simple no-nonsense answer, but he doesn’t miss the way she neglects to mention a name. “You can go ahead and throw it away, I don’t need it anymore.” 

He wants to say something about that. He wants to be mad at her for being so goddamn stubborn about this as though his whole world isn’t being rocked right now. But he can’t muster any of that as he just finds himself just wanting to look at the boy in her arms some more. The little one looks back and forth between the two of them, but he does seem to settle after gauging that his mama is not in the least bit shaken by the man before them, and adopts her bored looking expression, though the boy does keep a wary eye on him even as his mother turns them both away from him.

“Wait,” he says as he quickly grabs her elbow. Her hackles rise at just that little bit of contact, like a rattlesnake coiled up and ready to strike, but he won’t be stopped from knowing the truth. “Is… is he-”

“No,” she cuts him off, before looking over his shoulder and closing her eyes- seemingly in annoyance- only to then plaster a wide phony smile on her face as she looks at him. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention.” saccharine sweet, as though she had been in a completely different conversation before ripping her arm out of his grasp and walking past him. “I’ll be sure to add those notes into the costume.” Without even a goodbye she rushes past him.

He turns around to see the second most gut-wrenching thing of the day as a woman approaches Jimi and hands over to her another child,and he realizes it’s that same little girl from earlier. The love of his life expertly balances the additional toddler on her other hip as she plants a swift kiss to her cheek before exchanging a few words with the woman in front of her and walks back down the hall, not even bothering to look back at him.

That woman quickly approaches and stands in front of him, obviously trying to run interference between the two of them. Trying to keep the two of them apart like everybody else has seemingly made their mission. 

He honestly hears nothing of it as he starts to tail Jimi down the hall, his entire focus is on the little girl, heart-breakingly sweet with her little cherubic face, her dark curls held at bay with the red ribbon, as she opens and closes her tiny hand at him as though to once again say good-bye. Meanwhile the little boy, whose face is still firmly in his mama’s collar, risks a quick peek back at him before quickly burying himself back in place as the echo of yherour heels on the linoleum floors lessens as she gets further and further away. 

He’s able to catch her before she can get out of the building, quickly blocking her from the exiting door. She still has that infuriating cool expression on her face, looking at him as though he were a mere inconvenience on her way out the door. 

“Jimi…” he pleads, taking her shoulders in his hands forcing her to look at him. “Jimi, look me in the eye, and tell me they ain’t mine.”

She gives him such a cold stare that he can feel a shiver travel down his spine, the dread of her words tying his stomach in knots, as he anticipates her answer. Somehow she’s able to make it all the crueler, even as her (his?) son starts to suckle on the collar of her blouse, while her (their?) daughter has managed to dislodge a chunk of her thick dark locks from her braid and begin to play with it. 

“Why would I want them to be yours?” 

A punch to the gut, a kick to his face, a knife to his heart, those are all the things he would have preferred she had done over saying that. For a second, even she seems taken aback by the cruelty of her own words, until that hard look returns to her eyes as the little boy begins to pat her cheek for attention. 

She looks down at him with a soft smile on her face before giving them both a kiss to the forehead and sidestepping him in order to get out the door, not even bothering to acknowledge him.

He doesn’t know how long he stays in that spot but by the time Joe (or was it Charlie?) finds him and he’s practically stiff as a board, and just about as responsive. Nobody fights him on it when he just declares that he has to call it for the day, so it’s not too long before he’s kicking off his shoes and crawling underneath the covers still fully clothed. His mind raced, doing its best to put together what the hell he had seen today. Trying to comprehend how much of himself he had left behind with her. 

When he started making waves he had to have the most awkward talk of his life with the Colonel to always wrap it or at least become proficient in never finishing inside of a woman, because the last thing he needed was a baby. And he was for it completely, nowhere ready to settle down yet, and with everything looking so vibrant and new to him, he saw no end in sight. 

He can think of one night in particular back in New Orleans, after almost twenty hours on set, Jimi had excused herself from any of the usual get-togethers and headed straight to his room. After she had declared that her room situation is unmanageable she had set up shop initially on his hotel room couch, though lately they hadn’t even been bothering with that pretext. So it wasn’t too shocking to find her in his bed, spread out on her front like a starfish in nothing but a simple slip. 

What was shocking was the wave of contentment that washes over him seeing her there, just the utter feeling of rightness that the image brings. The powdery blue slip gorgeous on her dark skin tone, and he has to hold back a groan when he sees how high it’s ridden in her sleep giving him a tantalizing view of the back of her thighs, just effortlessly sensual, even in her sleep. He can’t imagine anything better to come home to. What he found even more tempting was her defenseless pert nose, and remembering the way it would scrunch up when she smiled. He knows he’s either going to get that reaction or swift punch to the chest for what he does next.

She still manages to keep him on his toes when she simply does both after he peppers her face in kisses. He reels a bit from the blow, playing up the injury just a little as he sees her shoulders bounce a little in poorly held in laughter.

“They gotchu workin’ to the bone sweetheart,” he remarks, as he rubs the spot between her shoulder blades that has her giving a euphoric groan. He is genuinely offended that the studio would make her have to work like a dog, all for a single line in the credits. 

“This whole production would fall apart without me,” she sighs, while he lets out a laugh in agreement. 

“You ever think about quittin’?” He asks a bit off the cuff, but he can’t help it seeing the woman he loves running herself ragged for people who sure as hell don’t care for her. 

“Maybe,” she answers through her drowsy state, turning to face him directly. “I don’t think I would leave, but maybe if I get married I would probably do something with less hours, like costumes.” 

He felt his heart speed up a little when she mentioned the word “married” but not in the way it used to do when other girls brought up the idea. No, rather than having that sour feeling in his belly, he’s practically giddy over the prospect with her. “So I guess ya just waitin’ for the right actor to sweep you off ya feet darlin’?” he brings her close, smiling into her hair and absentmindedly stoking the hand she lays on his chest. 

But this happiness is ripped away by a simple snort from her, only to then be further crushed into dust as she has a full-on laughing fit at the mere prospect.

“No,” she says, wiping the tears from her eyes, trying to get a hold of her laughter, unknowing of how soul-crushing her words are. “I’d never marry an actor.”

It feels like every ounce of hope for the future saps out of him at that moment. 

“O-oh wh-why’s that?” fighting to keep his face from showing the devastation he feels inside. A knife in his heart would have been preferable at that point, because then she would have at least acknowledged he had one to break. 

She gives a mere shrug, of her shoulders, “I don’t really know how to explain it other than it wouldn't work.”

If he were a braver man, he would have had the balls to ask her “If that’s true… then what’s all this been about?” But he's a goddamn coward and this question dies on the tip of his tongue, far too afraid of what she may answer. 

As these nights usually talking leads to kissing and while she is willing she offers first to use her mouth, and while he doesn’t hold back the groan when he hears this, he knows that that won’t be enough for him even if he can’t pinpoint why. 

“Okay,” she yawns, as she lifts her hips up, presenting her ass in the air while she wraps her arms around a pillow and sleepily buries her face in it. “But you gotta do all the work.” 

She’s done this before, tried to feign indifference toward the act, and tried to play it off that she didn’t absolutely enjoy it each and every time. This is a game that Elvis has yet to lose. 

He knows her well enough to know how to get her going even when she insists she’s not in the mood. How a light touch up her spine as her perk her ass up, while a nibble to her ear has her making the most adorable little noises. And still it feels like he learns something new about her everyday, with today’s new lesson that she loses all of her carefully crafted composure when he sits on his knees and raises her thighs over his shoulders.

She lets out a surprised gasp as she barely catches herself on her hands, only for it to turn into a low moan when he takes a long lick up her slit. Nothing tastes sweeter on his tongue than the evidence that she wasn’t as disinterested as she claims, and with her so nicely open for him now he plunges his tongue as deep as he could go. 

Any semblance of composure is gone the moment he had almost entirely upside down, her arms shaking with the effort to try to keep herself up. 

“You like that sweetheart?” he whispers, only slightly muffled by her flesh. 

“Yes,” she moans enthusiastically as he feels her small hand palm at his still clothed length, and he gives a little chaste kiss of appreciation on her clit that has her gasping for air. While any other night he would’ve gladly indulged her need to taste him, he did promise to do all of the work. So as he delves his tongue as deep as it could go he knows she’s good and ready as he feels her slick drip down to his wrist as he rubs that button of hers. 

She lets out a devastating sob as she comes, and before she’s had a chance to recover barely had time to recover before he’s flipping her over and pressing her knees to her chest as he thrusts inside all in one motion. Her back arches and her mouth opens and closes repeatedly, gasping for air as though she could feel him all the way in her throat. 

Entering her is always such an indescribable feeling, somewhere between euphoric and comforting. And there have even been days when the only thing on his mind on set was how best to get her alone so that he could get her like this once again. As he crams his cock at a steady rhythm, he imagines it’s the same way everyone else who goes to work on a regular job pictures being home at the end of the day. 

If he was a little rougher that night, it was only so that she could feel a fraction of his anguish that she caused. He both envies and resents her ability to be able to picture a life without him, when no future of his would be complete without her. 

He had spilled in her before that point, but it had always been an accident as something about her made him slower on the draw than he was with anybody else. But in that moment before he knew he was gonna cum, seeing her thrash and arch her back and push even further into him, time seemed to slow for a second and there was a moment where he saw quick as lightning just the image of her heavy and glowing with a baby.

His baby.

He can’t remember a time he came so hard, and with the way she collapsed back in the pillow he knew she was just as affected by it too. The way she’s quaking with every breath before peaking out at him through the curtain of her hair is something he doubts he’ll ever forget as places light kisses on her shoulders to add some tenderness to the rough act. 

With great reluctance and curiosity getting the better of him he pulls out his softened member, and he’s treated to the most erotic thing he’s ever seen in his life as he watches his seed slowly drip out of her folds. If he wasn’t absolutely sure that that last one had taken everything out of him he would be ready to go again from the sight of this alone. 

Something in the back of his head whispers to find something to plug her up to really make sure it takes this time. But before he can act on this he sees her get her bearings on her, and she reaches between her legs. She gives a soft curse as she sees his spend on her fingers, before making a move to roll out of bed towards the bathroom. But he was quick to snatch her back and tell her to just lay with him until he fell asleep. She would only give an annoyed little huff, and give sleepy demands for beignets for breakfast in return for this favor.

He slept easier that night with his hand on her belly, believing that he would be able to find a way to keep her with him. 

This would be far from the last time he would spill in her during production, but it would be the last time he could call it an accident. If he’s being honest with himself he thinks he fully intended to get her pregnant in some sort of convoluted plot to get her to settle down with him. That once she had a baby in her, she would have no choice but to marry him and leave it all behind. No more ungrateful sister or disparaging mother, Jimi could finally focus all of her attention on a family that would take care of her back. 

But then everything happened all at once, and suddenly she was beyond his reach, and soon she took with her all of his hopes of having a life worth living. 

Since his career had taken off, more than a few women had already accused him of fathering their babies. Of the few of them that weren’t talking outta their ass, he had seen a few of the kids, and while there were some that may have had a few features similar to him, none had come close to the little clone boy he had seen of himself in Jimi’s arms. 

Others woulda chalked it up to just him getting older and wanting to settle down and any baby with a passing resemblance woulda done this to him. But there was something even beyond longing, it was that sense of rightness that has been missing from his life for a long time, something he wouldn’t’ve gotten with just any baby. 

On the day they were shooting with the babies he tried to test this theory. But even holding a few of the kids, not a single one of them was able to stir anything close to that fatherly warmth that just looking or even thinking about the two little ones she held that day. 

It’s not like he felt nothing holding these babies, like he wished them any harm, but he more or less cared about them the same way he would care about a random puppy: fun to play with in the moment, but didn’t really mean he cared enough for the hard or messy parts of taking care of it. 

As he’s holding probably the biggest one of the lot, he realized this one is still smaller than either of his babies. Someone off-handedly asked how old this one was, he feels his throat close up at the answer. 

A Year, he thinks to himself as he hands the slobbering infant back to its mother. How much did I miss? Can they walk? Can they talk? 

Even as their mamas were packing them up to leave for the day, all of them would wave goodbye to him, but none of it compared to the heart-wrenching feeling remembering those two little ones she held in her arms. 

In his heart he knew they were his, he didn't care what she had to say about it. 

Two people, both from a set of twins, get together and create the two most beautiful and perfect babies he’s ever seen, and she thinks that means nothing? That she can just step away from him and deny him his rights as a father?

What did he miss all this time away? The boy was standing on his own, so did he already take his first shaky steps? The little girl was babbling nonsense to him, has she been able to actually make words?

Lord, he doesn't even know their names. He has so many questions and next to no answers.

But even for all the anguish it’s causing him, he can feel it in his chest how their existence has reinvigorated him beyond what he thought he was capable of anymore. He had been on the cusp of hopelessness, fully believing that without he wouldn’t be long for this world without Jimi. 

But seeing them was like seeing a light at the end of the tunnel, now knowing that Jimi couldn’t get rid of a piece of him, proves it’s not too late for them.

So he went about getting answers the same way she taught him to: ask the crew. To his luck everybody seemed to know something or another about what Jimi had been up to the last few years. Through the various tidbits here and there he was slowly able to piece together a story. 

How some asshole had taken advantage of her grief after losing her entire family with promises to take care of her in her time of need, and how he didn’t even wait till the ink was dry on the marriage certificate before scurrying his ass back to Mexico leaving her with less than half of her inheritance and a couple of babies in her belly. She came back to Paramount as a costume designer a couple months back after calling in a few favors with some of the higher-ups, and has been flagrantly breaking the rules by bringing the babies on to set. 

Jimi wasn’t lying when she said that make-up girls hear everything there is to know in this town. Unfortunately he finds out the hard way that that goes for all of them, even those that now work in the costume department. 

“I hear you’ve been asking about me,” a familiar voice would coldly say as she wrapped the cape around his neck. 

He doesn’t have to look up to know who it is, but he does look around to make sure the other make-up girl was gone. This at the very least confirms that she’s keeping her cards as close to her chest as possible, and trying to prevent anybody from figuring it out. 

“I had a right to know Jimi,” he answers, not looking directly at her face but through the mirror. A trick he learned when he first met her when he wanted to get her genuine reaction on something, he could only do so when she thought she wasn’t being looked at directly. It still proves to be true when he sees her jaw clench the slightest bit at his comment. 

 “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says apathetically but immediately contradicts herself when she gives a firm yank to his hair so that he’s looking right up at her. 

He gives a small grunt, though he does smile a bit at finally being able to get a reaction out of her. “Well now, last time I saw you like this-”

“Elvis,” she cuts off sharply before she grits out, “Leave. It. Alone.”

Now it’s his turn to react as his jaw clenches in frustration at the audacity. “Why should I?”

“Elvis…” she says slowly like he’s a child. “What do you think is going to happen if you are the father?”

He opens his mouth to argue with her, only to come up short. He hadn’t really thought farther ahead other than being able to have them all in his life. But what would that mean for them?  How would people react to him not only having kids now, but having them this whole time and only now stepping up? 

“That’s what I thought,” she says, placing down the comb. “Don’t worry,” she pats his cheek, maybe a little harder than necessary, “Nobody’s gonna believe they’re yours after what you said.”

He explodes hearing this, “How many times do I gotta tell ya?! I didn’t say that shit!” He stands to his full height to tower over her.

“It doesn’t matter Elvis!” she says, raising her voice for the first time since he’s known her, not in the least bit intimidated by him. “Do you really think they’re gonna just accept that you had two kids out of wedlock, and especially with a Mexican woman? Especially now that they’re trying to sell you off as this wholesome family act, do you think the studio is gonna stand for that shit.” Her eyes begin to go a bit glassy as she says the next part. “Your career might be in danger, but my literal life is at stake if they even think I could be a threat to the comeback they’re trying so hard to make happen for you.” 

She squeezes her eyes shut at this point like she’s trying to will the tears back into her eyes, and her chest seems just a step away from being considered heaving, making it clear to Elvis she is trying so hard to keep the image she’s crafted for herself intact. Elvis can appreciate how yet again he’s the only one able to look past the curtain and see her for who she is. 

Finally after taking a deep breath her bloodshot eyes open and she gives a somber, “Do you know how my last movie ended?” Her voice severe and distant, her hands placed on the hinges of the trailer door. 

He’s a little stumped by the heel-turn of this conversation, but he plays along if only to convince himself he still has a chance to convince her otherwise. “You got your folks back together didn’tcha?

“No,” she says bitterly. “That last movie ended with the worst box office turnout of the year, because it was banned in most southern states -including yours- because the white man ended up with the mexican mother,” there the sardonic smirk on her face tells him she finds little humor in what she’s saying. “The studios forced us to tell that story and blamed us when nobody wanted to see it…” 

“Jimi,” he starts placing a hand on her shoulder before she rips it away. “Baby, it’s a different time now,” though even he realizes how hollow those words are. 

“Let me finish!” she shouts, tears trailing down her face as she looks back at him. “This isn’t a movie,” she declares. “There is no happy ending for anybody if you keep digging. Not for you, not for me, and especially not for my babies.” 

Our babies, is on the tip of his tongue, but he holds back.

“I’m not gonna have my babies a part of that life Elvis,” she glares at him. “They don’t need you. I don’t need you.” She turns her head and he can see the tears that threaten to fall in the corners of her eyes. “So just… leave it.”

And with seemingly the final word, she walks out of his trailer and he falls back heavy into his chair, utterly exhausted by the encounter. His chest feels tight, the shallow breathes he’s able to take doing little to remedy the feeling, his hands shaking out of fury and grief for the life that’s been stolen from him. On top of all of that his vision starts to blur with the tears clouding them, but that doesn’t stop him from noticing the movement in the mirror. 

He quickly gathers himself as best he could and turns to face whoever just entered his trailer, but he finds himself alone. That is until he looks at the mirror again.

He knows he must look a mess right now, but the mirror doesn’t reflect that whatsoever with the stony features he sees looking back at him. Elvis knows his face, and he knows when he’s not looking at his face. But Elvis knows who this is even before he opens his mouth with the only words he’ll speak to him.

“Go getcha girl,” Jesse whispers. 

And just like that he’s gone, and Elvis looks at his own reflection once again. With that little bit of brotherly guidance, Elvis comes to one startling realization: She’s right.

She’s right, this isn’t a movie.

So that means he doesn't gotta be nice about getting her back. 

He’s spent the last nearly two years planning how he was going to apologize to her over something he didn’t even do. Where is the justice in that? It’s as though she’s only capable of seeing him in the worst possible light. 

If she want’s a villain so goddamn bad then he’ll give her one. 

What a cruel power did God give to women. To take a piece of man, to mold and create something so wonderful and joyful, only to be able to deny him that if she felt so inclined. Usually the duplicitous ones will take from one man and claim it to be from another, all for gain, but Jimi is far more sadistic with this power, to hold two little mirrors in her arms and deny him his very own image. 

It’s enough to drive a lesser man insane.

No.

She’s not gonna deny him this. 

Jesse may have gotten him started on this path, but he can no longer just rely on fate to bring them together. He will take matters into his own hands, and they will be together. 

He remembers the first time he had seen one of her films as a kid. It was his 8th birthday and he had begged his Mama to let him go to the movies to see literally anything that day, and it so happened to be that one where the two sisters unintentionally thwarted some robbers in their house. 

He remembers laughing as Nena was sent into one room only for Mena to rip down the hallways as soon as the door was closed much to the confusion of the would-be criminals. He remembers the fear he felt when Mena seemingly fell out a window with the next shot being one of them lying on their stomach on the ground only for the next scene to reveal they had pulled the old switcheroo. He remembers the end when their parents finally came home and were glad that them burglars didn’t get their most precious treasures- their daughters. 

Most of all he remembers glancing over at the empty seat next to him and wondering if these were the sort of antics him and Jesse were meant to get up to. His mama never kept his brother a secret from him, always telling him how he’d have the strength of two, but he always knew on some level she would have preferred two regularly strong boys rather than just one really strong one. 

That feeling he got when looking at the vacant seat next to him is the same feeling he gets everytime he looks at his Hillcrest home now. The realization as to how fundamentally empty a home is without a family to fill it. 

Fate denied him his brother before he even entered the world. Death had snatched his mother out from under him. And that horrible Stanley woman was working double time to take his daddy away from him too. He’s not about to let Jimi keep him away from any more of his family, just because she wants to be stubborn.

Now, knowing of their existence he knows he needs them in his life. He needs her in his life. 

The PI didn’t disappoint, when you got enough money and notoriety in this town, they tend not to. He hardly batted an eye when Elvis had mentioned that there were kids out there that were potentially his, though he did give a funny look when Elvis told him he actually wanted him to dig up proof that he was the father, which is apparently rather novel in this town. 

Though what the PI brings back is painful in its own way. He mostly focused on what could be dug up through paper records both legally and illegally obtained: house deeds, birth certificates, medical records, wills etc.

That’s how he finally learns the names of his children.

Alejandro and Mireya.

Big names for babies that are so little, he thinks to himself. Only to realize that they will one day grow into them, and he’s wasting time not being with them. 

By all accounts, Jimi’s doing just fine: house is paid off, bills get paid on time, food is plenty, and she’s apparently in the market for a nanny. But a deeper look revealed that she’s pissing through her savings right now and with the way things are going she’ll be out of money in maybe another ten years, something she must have realized if she came back to work at all. Elvis finds himself exasperated that her stubbornness will cause her and the little ones to sink before she ever thinks to ask for help.

But it's the few and far between snapshots of the little family that threaten to do Elvis in. He has to fight the urge to frame them as they are all so wonderfully domestic. Strolls through the park, trips to ice cream shop, stops at the grocery store, and everything else that would paint the perfect family portrait of a young, beautiful mother and her two adorable babies. 

Everything except for a father. 

Though some of the most painful ones to look at were the ones from her day at the beach with them. He can almost pretend that he is the one behind the camera, that he took these pictures of her and the little ones on a family outing and not in fact a shameless voyeur of the life that should by all rights be his. In one of them, they were facing the camera as they looked out to the vast ocean before them, Jimi crouched down by the shore line as she held their little hands so they could properly get their feet wet. She wears a wrap around her one piece bathing suit in a facsimile of modesty and he already knows she turned a few heads that day. Little Alejandro is wearing a swim ring and practically wrapped around Jimi’s leg while Mireya’s wearing little floaties and pulling on her mama’s hand to try to go deeper.

So wholesome and idyllic, he can practically picture the entire day in his head. 

How he would come up behind her and swing them back and forth on the shore line as though he were about to toss them in while they squealed in delight.

How he would play with them in the sand until she insisted on them taking a nap under the umbrella while their parents could have a breather to have lunch. 

How she would lay beside them and from his position he could shamelessly leer at their mothers figure. 

How the day would knock them out on the car ride home and they would both quietly bring the little ones in the house and place them in their cribs and how she would wrap herself around his arm as they both gazed down at the two little miracles before them.

How he would bend her over right outside the hallway and fuck her raw so that they would never have a day at the beach without babies. 

If that wasn't what Norman Rockwell pictured for the ideal family life, he doesn’t know what is.

Those last few weeks of shooting, he could hardly function knowing they were all out there, the few who knew what he was going through were unsure how to approach him. Some learned quickly that he wasn’t about to be questioned on this, others had to learn the hard way. 

After the last day of shooting, Elvis would only idly register the fact that he had been sitting on a lounge chair staring vacantly at the pool. He hadn’t meant to, he just remembers after breakfast wondering how he’ll probably teach them how to swim there, and then all of a sudden the sun had already set for the day. 

His buddies had apparently gotten so worried, they had ended up calling in reinforcements. 

“Now my boy,” a familiar voice would say behind him. “I hear we been losin’ focus lately.”

As though on reflex Elvis feels his jaw clench in distaste. In a way the colonel was the best and worst choice to be the one to come talk to him. The worst because after learning what he knows, he wants little to do with the man anymore and the best because he needs someone to take out all this anger on before he can see the mother of his children again.

So Elvis really has to put all of his acting abilities to work at this moment, as he plasters on a phony grin and grits the teeth he’s liable to start gnashing at any moment. “I reckon I been more focused now than I been in a long time, Colonel.”

Bypassing what he just said, the man sits down on the lounge chair right next to him. “That’s not what I been hearin’ ‘from your buddies.” Elvis can see he has the clown head cane, which he adds to the list of things he’s finding infuriating about the man. 

“And what they been sayin’?” 

“How an old flame reared her head recently and has been getting in your head with some foolish notions of slowing down now of all times,” he says. “My boy, I warned you ‘bout women like this before. They can’t appreciate the hard work we been doin’ to make this life here, and simply will take from men ike us.”

As sour of a taste as that statement leaves in his mouth, that at the very least confirms that Parker doesn’t know dogshit about the sitation. He’s reminded of that time how she complained she never has time to take a cigarette break or something will catch on fire. Something that was proven true only moments after she put one in her mouth and then ten men were screaming fire. She would casually stroll up to it, extinguisher in hand, and use the inferno from the stagelight to light her cigarette before putting it out. 

“You don’t gotta worry no more, my boy,” he starts patting around his jacket, only to pull out two cigars and a set of matches. This and the story gives him an idea as to how to prove his own convictions.

“Why’s that Colonel?” Suspecting what he’s getting at, but willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. 

“I had a word with the young lady you were so fond of back in New Orleans,” he started, every word of his making Elvis want to scratch his own skin off. “And rest assured we came to an agreement after a few words from yours truly,” he says as though that will somehow placate him. “She wants nothing more than for us to leave her and her little ones alone, and of course we can accommodate that,” he lights up a celebratory cigar and hands his client one as well as though they were in some anti stork club.  

He once made the mistake of calling the Colonel something of a father figure to him, and he’s never been more disgusted with himself than right now. But he stays silent as he lets the “Colonel” before him dig his own grave. 

“Trust me son, I get the urge to want to settle down,” he reassures him. “But you’re young and it ain’t like you don’t got all the options in the world. Next time ‘round you can have some babies with a proper American girl”

The Colonel doesn’t know it yet, but this statement truly solidifies his fate. 

He doesn’t get it. None of these assholes get it. How can they? They ain’t ever lost someone like he did, like she did. They can’t see the value of family because they think that he can just make more of them with someone else? As though forces of a higher power hadn’t gone out of their way to bring them together. 

Elvis can do nothing more than kiss his teeth at the older man’s ignorance, as he slowly but deliberately grabs the cigar from his mouth and looks him dead in the eye as he slowly stamps out the cigar on the unvarnished wooden side table. 

Jimi was right. Words are nothing at the end of the day and it’ll be actions that will show them all how fucking serious he is about this.

“Those are my babies, and she’s my girl. And I ain’t gonna hear nothin’ more ‘bout it.” Elvis gets the pleasure of watching the Colonel gape like a fish only to then go red in the face as he goes back and forth between him and the small flames that are now beginning to dance on the table. He cuts him off before he can get another word in edgewise. “‘Sides I think marryin’ her would do wonders for my reputation down south.”

The portly man is surprised by his clients words and tries to quickly recover from the shock. “Son, I-I don’t think there’s notin’ down there we need to worry ‘bout,” he scolds as though Elvis were a child, trying desperately to reign him in.

“I used to think the same thing, ‘till I hired that PI to look into Jimi…” Elvis starts as he cuts the cigar, not even bothering to acknowledge the man’s concerns, “... and a few other things.”

“...what other things?”

“Funny you mention that Colonel. I had him look into where the hell those quotes came from. Y’know the ones that got me banned from Mexico. And boy did he have a story to tell,” his words are comically gleeful as he brings the cigar to his mouth. “One with high up there politicians, birthday parties, and blank checks. A story… my manager apparently knew all too well, but ain’t ever bothered to tell me.”

The only thing that could be heard in the moment was the light crackling from the flames between the two of them, and from it’s light Elvis can see the way that the sweat seems to pour off of the man in front of him. They both know that it has nothing to do with the fire.

“So-son, this is… it’s-it’s more complicated than you think,” Parker stutters, trying to desperately wrench back control of the situation. But Elvis already knows that the next chance he gets, he’s gonna cut ties with him… but Parker certainly doesn’t. And so for the time being he still has a role to play in this production. 

“Now there’s two ways to take this,” Elvis says leaning back on the wicker chair as the flames begin to get higher and higher, attracting the attention of his boys outside, and they rush to try to do something about it. One single hand gesture from him has them all frozen in place, awaiting his command. 

Good, these motherfuckers needed to be reminded who exactly is in charge here, even if he had to burn this whole place to the ground. 

“One, a simple mistake that my manager made and will now do anythin’ to fix if he wants even a chance at his contract bein’ renewed pretty soon… or two…” he brings the still unlit cigar to the now three foot flames on the table beside him, the closest thing he’s done to acknowledge them. He even briefly blows out the flame on his cigar, really trying to draw it out, enjoying the way it makes the older man squirm in his seat. It’s only right considering how much grief he caused trying to hide his secret so long. But if Jimi had taught him anything about Hollywood, is that shit like this don’t stay buried forever. “My manager for some reason can’t leave the country and didn’t want me leavin’ it neither.” 

It's an interesting experience to watch a man go from red in the face to completely white in horror. He opens and closes his mouth in disbelief more than a few times as though god himself will put the words in his mouth to smooth over this misstep. Any doubts Elvis had about the PI’s story melted away with each little tick the man before him made. 

Jimi had taught him what makes for a good and bad actor, and boy oh boy did Parker make for a shitty one: the shifty beady eyes, the nervous tapping on his cane, the constant swallowing and clearing of his throat. 

“So Colonel,” he states with a smoky breath, and no amount of venom missing from his voice for the man that- albeit unintentionally- cost him so much time with his family. “What’s it gonna be?”

The flames are by now as tall as a full grown man, and the fire has now fully engulfed the low table that was once there. All the boys are nervously shifting and shuffling about, wanting to put it out before it can get out of hand, but the hand that Elvis holds toward them keeps them in place, not a single one of them willing to go against him. 

The message is clear to everyone though: give him what he wants or he will burn them all, and not just metaphorically. 

“I-I,” the old man stutters looking down at his feet undoubtedly looking for help even from Hades himself, only to see as an ember finds a new home on his lone client’s pant leg. 

Elvis does not acknowledge this. 

Parker looks back up at him, only now comprehending who the hell he is dealing with. 

“I’ll see what I can do my boy,” he finally answers breathlessly.

“Now that’s what I like to hear, Parker,” he gives an amiable clap to his shoulder before gesturing to the rest to take care of the inferno before them. They’re all in a dead sprint to deal with the fire and Elvis gives his foot a cursory dip in the pool to extinguish the flames creeping up his ankle, before walking away without another word to any of them. 

With the Colonel and everyone else willing to do anything to get back in his good graces, things seem to run a lot smoother now. 

Finding a lawyer willing to handle paternity suits is easy enough in this town, finding one that is willing to fight to establish his status as their father however… practically every lawyer that was consulted said it was near impossible for them to do so without the mother’s consent. Without even knowing who exactly they were meant to be representing they said the whole thing would be a wash if at the end of the day the mother remains obstinate against it, and regardless of any blood tests, no judge would believe that a woman would willingly say no to the support a man like Elvis could offer if it wasn’t the absolute truth that he wasn’t the father. 

Needless to say that Elvis could only rely on the legal route so much. Though he did learn a few interesting things as to what would happen to children if the mother is deemed unfit.

And from there, he begins to cook up a truly awful and perhaps downright evil plan but he knows that the prize is worth the risk.

It’s gonna rely on all of his skills as an actor, and she’s been in the business too long to not know an act when she sees one. But he has one major advantage over Jimi in this department: She already expects the worst from him, so him doing this wouldn’t be a stretch in her eyes.  

Even threatening to dig a little deeper into whether or not they were his, made her pull back even more, she’s not gonna make this easy for him, and part of him doubts he would want it to be so. He knows he’s not without options, and that women would practically tear down the door to be the one to give him babies.

But how can he just let her go? 

Jesse couldn’t be here with him, that’s why he sent her his way. Elvis needed someone who would look out for him no matter what. And with Elena gone, Jimi needed someone to look out for. The two of them fit together like puzzle pieces really.

So he has to be smart about this. Nothing gradual because she will bolt the second she even gets a hint as to what he’s planning. So he takes a step back and allows the PI to learn all he can about her new schedule and what she’s got in the works. 

She’s still working for Paramount, though only barely, as she now apparently only comes in once a week to talk with directors and drop off designs. Though it’s clear this is not for much longer as she’s apparently been tapped by some production company down in Mexico to come work for their wardrobe department. 

It becomes apparent that he needs to work quickly if he wants to pull off his plan, when his request to have her work on his next movie is denied for the simple fact that she is apparently only sticking around Paramount long enough to finish off a few other productions. He’s honestly a little glad for this change, it just means he can put his plan to action a little earlier and they can be together sooner. 

So it’s not even a week after the end of production does he find himself standing in front of her small, new house in East LA. 

Elvis knows his influence on women, and despite what the papers say, he’s tried to use this for good. So when he walks up to Jimi’s door and knock, he does admittedly ham it up with the hand to lean on the door frame and the slightly unkempt hair falling over his forehead, a look he knows would make any woman weak in the knees. Especially a 13 year old babysitter.

The girl (Letty, he’s pretty sure the PI said), seems to be confused more than anything else, uncomprehending as to who stands before her. She’s far from the first or last to have this reaction but it shows that Jimi is playing her cards far too close to her chest that she wouldn’t know why he’s here.  

“This here’s Jimena’s place?” He asks though he already knows the answer from the PI that’s getting paid hourly. 

“Ye-yes,” she stutters, reaching a hand out only to quickly snatch it back as she confirmed he was really here. 

“Perfect,” he grins, and he sees her look down bashfully. “I’m here to pick up the babies.”

This confuses the poor girl even more. “She… didn’t mention that.” Elvis has to hold himself back from telling her she couldn’t keep a father away from his children, but honeys and flies and all that. 

“It’s a bit of a surprise for her.” He answers.

She’s still apparently unsure of herself, as she gives a weak point back inside the house as she says,“I-I think I sh-should ma-maybe call her.”

“How much you gettin’ paid by her?” he asks affably, though a little annoyed at the girl continuing to keep him from his babies.

“Five dollars a day and an autographed picture of Marlon Brando,” she answers, though she looks back down at her feet, as though embarrassed to be talking about another star she preferred in front of him. He doesn’t take it to heart, remembering Jimi complaining how she had more autographs than she knew what to do with.

“How ‘bout this,” he pulls out his wallet. “I’ll give you 50 and get you a personal meeting with Marlon, if you get the lil’ ones ready to come with me for the day and don’t say nothin’ to no one ‘bout whatcha saw today.” 

The teen gapes like a fish at the offer and though Elvis knows it’s good for his plan that she didn’t automatically refuse his proposition, it is nonetheless disheartening that this is the girl Jimi had entrusted his babies to. 

“I-I-I,” she looks at her feet, as though they’ll have the answers for the dilemma. “I don’t think I can let them g-go with a stranger.” she puts a bit more of her weight onto the door fully intending to close it. 

“That’s the best part kid,” he pressed a palm to the door. “I ain’t a stranger to her.” The girl has no idea what kind of danger she’s in, and Elvis attributes that almost solely to Jimi’s influence. What’s a few lies when he knows he would do far worse if she dares to keep him away from his children any longer. 

“Don’t let them papers know this,” he says in a conspiratorial whisper, full well-knowing that’s exactly who she’s gonna go straight to the moment she gets the chance to do so. “Y’see their mama and I… well we been seein’ each other for awhile, and now stubborn women she is, she don’t wanna go no further ‘til I can prove I’m ‘father material’ so I came down here to prove her wrong.” 

She furrows her brow in confusion until her eyes go wide. “Wait… go further? As in…” 

He takes a page out of Jimi’s book and gives a pursed grin while his eyes slide away from her, not even trying to deny her assumptions. Seeing her hold a hand to her mouth to cover her dramatic gasp, Elvis would like to think Jimi would be proud as to see how far his acting abilities have come. 

The girl is apparently all too eager to play cupid as she quickly invites him in with a big grin on her face and ushers him towards a sitting room. Despite how cool he’s playing it he’s a nervous wreck on the inside, feeling like he’s about to walk into a test he knew he didn’t study well enough for. 

But that all disappears the moment he lays eyes on them. 

They can already do so much, he thinks as he watches them play though they don’t notice him,  Mireya holding a whole baby conversation with her stuffed animals in between trying to feed them dry cheerios while Alejandro is making little humming noises around the pacifier in his mouth as he crawls to drive his little fire truck around. Eventually the tiny boy drove the toy straight into Elvis’ foot. 

The small boy looks up at the new figure, and with the way he looks at him, Elvis doubts he remembers him. So he tries not to take it too personally when the boy silently gets up and scrambles behind one of the couches, only to then peek over the corner, as though to make sure he’s still there. 

“Ale, Mimi, come say hi,” the young teen says in a soft voice before she turns around and leaves him alone with them. Those names feel much more fitting of the small babies he’s pictured in his head, and even more fitting as he leans against the door frame of the little sitting room.

Mimi almost immediately begins to toddle over to him with a little stuffed doggy tucked underneath her arm. She looks at him and again there is not an ounce of recognition in her eyes as she merely approaches him wraps her arms around one of his shins before immediately going back to her toys. 

So much for the instant connection he was hoping to have with them, but he tries not to get too discouraged with this as he approaches. He crouches down next to his daughter and picks up a stuffed monkey and uses it to tickle her neck a little, and that has her shrieking in delight.

This does seem to settle Ale somewhat as he slowly comes from behind the couch to watch the two of them. Though he plops down right between them with his engine in tow and gives a wary look toward Elvis as though he means to act as her protector. He didn’t know it was possible to have a skeptical look while sucking on a pacifier, but his son somehow manages to do just that.

Elvis notices something in the boy's front overall pocket and when he reaches a hand to investigate it, his son is quick to react with an overhead swat to the intruding hand. Elvis can’t help but laugh at how very Jimi that reaction is. 

Before he knows it the bags are all packed and it’s time to go. Ale looks more confused than scared as Elvis picks him up with his wide brown eyes, while Mimi on the other hand is in awe of being so high up and she immediately starts trying to reach for things that he thinks would usually be out of reach when held by her mama. 

In the last few days he’s had ample time to imagine what exactly it would feel like to hold them in his arms, but all of it pales in comparison to the phenomena of the experience. Elvis is a man that has dabbled in many pleasures over the years yet all of that pales in comparison to just the utter rightness of this moment. 

It’s an indescribable, euphoric feeling that makes him never want to let go of either of them, even if one is seeming indifferent to him while the other tries to squirm out of his grasp.

He had been prepared to sneak out the back with them or pass them out the window to Jerry before sneaking to the car, hell he contemplated that he would even have to simply grab them and run. He never in a million years would’ve imagined it was as easy as scooping them both up in his arms and taking a brisk walk out the front door to the car while the babysitter hands over a baby bag to him. 

The fact that it was so easy was just further proof that he needed to get them out of there. What if it had been some crazy man that came in today and not him that took them? 

“E.P. What the fuck?” Jerry asks, more tired than confused. 

“Let’s get goin’ already.” 

The car ride gives him some time to truly appreciate how beautiful his babies are.  

Mimi has Jimi’s thick dark hair and her pouty lips, and those coupled with the cornflower blue gaze that came from him, he can already hear the heart's (and the kneecaps, Elvis will personally see to it) breaking across the country. And where Ale seems almost his exact copy, he can see Jimena’s touches here and there with the way his hair curls or the slight upturn of his nose. Truly it would be a crime to deprive the world of more pretty children like these two. 

Mimi in turn seems to also be fascinated by his face, and he takes a few playful nibbles that has her squealing in delight. Though she does lose a bit of interest in him as the car starts and she gets to see the world around her rush past her. She makes sure to point out every animal she sees whether it be a dog, a cat, or even a squirrel, and Elvis finds himself enjoying every moment of it as it feels like he’s looking at this whole city through a new lens.

“Mida, mida,” she squeals in her tiny voice as she points to a bird. “pajado!”

Ale on the other hand is just looking up at him owl-eyed, too in shock as to what’s going on around to look at anything but at his father. He clutches on to his little firetruck like a shield still unsure of this whole thing but Elvis takes it as a small victory that he isn’t balling his eyes out. Elvis resorts to trying to make faces at him to get him to crack even a little though it becomes apparent that what this kid lacks in looks from his mother, he more than makes up for by having her personality, as he barely twitches at any face. Granted it is hard to tell around the pacifier he refuses to part with. 

Jerry remains blessedly quiet for the rest of the car trip though Elvis doesn’t miss the occasional stolen glance from his young friend. The man -boy, really- had initially been on the side of letting sleeping dogs lie, and now Elvis pushes down the petty urge to hold up his own son to his face and have him try to deny his own image. 

Elvis’ living room could honestly give Santa's workshop a run for his money with the sheer amount of toys and playthings that occupy it now. All his boys had apparently been working overtime trying to make Elvis forget how skeptical they had been in his beliefs, and trying to worm their way back into his good graces. 

His daughter practically dives headfirst into the large pile of stuffed animals to be had, meanwhile his son stands in the middle of a treasure trove of toys, his red engine hanging limply from his hand, practically overwhelmed by choice. He eventually does settle on a set of blocks that he takes to stacking up only to ram his truck into the makeshift tower. Elvis can’t help the chest swelling contentment he feels in that moment seeing his babies love their new home so much.

He hardly sees anybody else all day, and he’s glad for it. He didn’t want any of them sticking around too long, as this was his chance to bond with his babies properly, and he didn’t need any of them to distract them. Aside from the occasional maid coming in to bring snacks or to change a dirty diaper, he gets an entire uninterrupted afternoon with the two. 

Mimi was so eager to play with him and show him all of her little toys, with her favorites being the little stuffed dog she hadn’t let go of, it’s neck floppy as she clutched it in her tiny baby hand. 

Ale thinks he’s subtle as he eyeballs Elvis most of the afternoon. He is not. He all but gapes at him when he thinks he’s not looking, only to turn around and try his darndest to look very busy with his blocks or cars when Elvis looks over to him. 

He tries to approach the toddler, only for the boy to rebuff him each and every time by shuffling to the opposite end of the room, and setting up shop there. Elvis has to remind himself to be patient, knowing that his son is handling being in a new strange place with a man he only barely knows better than most kids would so he has to let the boy approach him first. 

He could tell just by the way he watched Mimi like a hawk, that he was the older of the two, the same way Jimi always said she was with her sister. His weary attitude towards him only began to thaw out when Mimi stumbled over a block, somewhat able to catch herself on her hands but that doesn’t prevent her from still hitting her little forehead on the carpeted floor. Immediately father and son are at her side to comfort the wailing girl, Elvis crouching down to pick her up and rubbing her back, trying to imitate the few times he’d seen mothers do this, while Ale not fully understanding what’s wrong with her, only to tries to climb his father to try to take the girl in his own little arms and rest his head on her back. 

After a few more tears and she had been allowed to thoroughly ruin his shirt, Mimi was able to calm down and go back to playing as usual. Ale seems to only then realize that he had gotten close to his father, and nothing bad had happened, so blessedly he doesn’t seem entirely too opposed to his presence anymore. 

The only major hiccup of the entire evening was when Ale had entrusted Elvis with his most treasured toy. Elvis almost burst into tears when his son had reached into the front pocket of his overalls to pull out a small matchbox car, one that appeared to have been red at one point but had since faded into a light pink. 

This coupled with Mimi’s favorite stuffed toy being a stuffed beagle… Elvis is not one to just name anything as signs from God, but those two together had to mean something.

And it’s frustrating to say the least that Jimi refuses to see this. 

The twins begin to wind down around the evening, with full bellies and comfy pajamas on it’s not too long before Mimi practically falls asleep where she was playing, her little bottom in the air as she drooled all over her little blue doggy that now acts as a pillow.

Ale is far more stubborn about the whole thing, refusing to sleep even as he jealously looks over to his sister before stubbornly rubbing at his dark eyes and continuing to play with his toy cars. 

“Don’t go down so easy now do ya’ son?” Elvis says as though he’s actually commiserating over his miserable sleep with a friend and not his toddler son. “You get that from me,” The boy at the very least now tolerates him being so close, but Elvis isn’t going to try to push it by picking him up. Instead he would gently pick up his daughter and hold her in one arm, while offering the other to his son, a clear invitation to the boy.

In spite of all his mulishness, Ale does eventually give in and makes little grabby hands signaling he wants to be picked up, and Elvis does admittedly melt a little at the sight. He’s quick to accept the invitation and picks the little boy up and takes them upstairs. 

The nursery room as of right now is pretty barebones, having had to rearrange many things in the house, so as to make it a home for his family. But he thinks his boys managed to at least get the essentials with a crib and a rocking chair, and he figures that they can build from there. 

The experience of not just holding his children at the same time but of actually getting to do the fatherly thing of singing them to sleep is incomparable to anything he’s ever had the chance to experience. Something so new, yet at the same time feeling like his whole life was leading up to this point. Mimi’s already asleep and he knows better than to wake a sleeping baby, so he sets her down in the crib first before sitting down in the rocking chair with his son in tow. Elvis admittedly doesn’t have a wide knowledge of lullabies, and he briefly panics for a moment until remembering the one he’s performed maybe a dozen times in the last few months.

They call your daddy Big Boots

And Big Boots is his name

It takes a big man to wear big boots

That's your daddy's claim to fame

It feels only appropriate to sing this to his own son, and in a way he’s glad that he performed this before meeting either of them. He doubted he would’ve been able to keep it together singing this to any other child now, knowing they were out there. Much to his relief, Ale eases up a little on his chest, resting his chin on his arms to better look at his father, not so defensive anymore. 

Gonna tell you a little secret

You won't believe it's true

Did you know your daddy, Big Boots

Once wore little boots like you

Ale for the first time today removes his pacifier from his mouth and presses his tiny hand to Elvis mouth, seemingly entranced by the music leaving it and unbelieving that this is coming from a man and not a radio. 

But where he was barely keeping it together while singing, Elvis can’t help his reaction when Ale lets out a soft little “daaa…” 

His throat seems to close up and he has to blink away a few tears, but that doesn’t lessen the grin on his face. “Th-that’s right son,” he breathes, through quivering lips, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I’m your daddy.”

Something about that statement seems to settle something in the boy, as he finally puts his head on his chest and his breathing seems to even out. It’s as though he had been the ever vigilant man of the house. But now knowing that his daddy was home, he can finally lay his head down and rest. 

Eventually he has to put him down once he sees Mimi start to fuss in her sleep, waving an arm around and grasping for something, but she quickly relaxes once her brother is within her grasp. 

Elvis sits to watch them for a time, they’re simply so hypnotic to observe. The way they breathe in tandem and seem to gravitate toward each other, in a world of their own right now. It makes him wistful for the brother he never got to know. But wherever his brother may be right now, he feels joy that he can carry out his will and finally have a whole family once more.  

One look out at the sun setting and the clouds rolling outside his windows, he knows it won’t be too long before she arrives. He wants to be able to relax but he knows he won’t be able to until all of his family is under his roof. But he knows her well enough, to know she’ll be home soon. 

Finally he sees an unfamiliar pair of headlights shine behind the gates, before coming to a screeching halt and a familiar silhouette stands in front of the lights, to give a futile shake at the front gate. He can imagine she’s yelling to be let in, even muffled through the patter of the rain starting to really come down and the thunder rolling in the distance, he can just barely make out her voice. 

He sees Lamar unlock the gate for her, but the moment his guard is let down she takes off running towards the front, which is when Elvis takes this as his cue to start heading down to meet her. 

She was in no way prepared for this weather if her near see-through white blouse was anything to go by. Her makeup is running slightly, streaking down her cheeks making it impossible to figure out if it was rain or tears running down her face. All fury and passion, just like he loves her. 

She angrily stomps past him, still trying to ignore him only for him to block her with his full body.

“How many times?” she grits out. “How many times must I turn you away?”

“I don’t know darlin’,” he whispers in a just as low voice. “As many times as it takes ‘til you figure out I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“Cut the crap Elvis!” she shouts. “Where are they!?”

He responds with a single finger to his smirking lips. “If you wake ‘em, you gotta put ‘em down again.”

This immediately has her try to run past him towards the bedrooms, but he catches her in one arm over her waist and he sits her on the dining room table, sure to plant his hands on her knees so she doesn’t get any ideas. 

“That’s enough Elvis,” she tries to rip his hands away from her. The way she’s all clenched up, lets him know that she would scream at him if it were an option. “You’ve had your fun, now just let us go.” 

He just further smirks. “Y’know after all the things I learned ‘bout the last two years for you, I kept askin’ myself one thang,” he says pushing himself off the table to stalk towards her. “‘Why the hell is she still here?’”

Her jaw clenches tight at this, unwilling to meet his eyes. “I had to do what I had to do to support My babies.”

“Considerin’ what my guy dug up,” he starts making his way towards the table that has had her whole life laid out upon it. “You coulda worked anywhere else and left Hollywood behind a long time ago.” The heavy clench of her jaw and the daggers in her eyes tell him he’s getting close to the bullseye. “No,” he says, holding her chin between his fingers. “You stayed cuz you was waitin’ for me to get back.”

This infuriates her and she gives him a good shove, but he’s no longer in the mood to indulge her little tantrum so he stays put. 

“Is that what you wanna fucking hear Elvis, then fine! They’re yours!” she shouts, a bit of a tremble in her voice. “Are you happy now? Will it help you sleep better at night knowing they’re yours? ”

“I’ll sleep better knowin’ they’re under my roof.”

She freezes at this admission. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talkin’ ‘bout the fact that you and the little ones are gonna be movin’ in with me.”

The silence that passes is near deafening and he gets the pleasure of seeing the reality of the situation set in in her face. She gives a short mirthless but undoubtedly forced laugh but there’s no denying the fear in her eyes. 

Good.

After all, she was the one that wanted this when she wanted so badly to make him a villain in this. He’s not, he’s a father. 

“All this time, I thought you were stupid,” she says, that sardonic, slightly scared, laugh still laced in her tone. “Turns out you’re just fucking crazy.” Anybody else he would’ve been offended, but he lets her barbs slide right off his back, because truly words are all that she has left anymore. He’ll let her have them. “In what world do you think this is gonna play out like you want it?”

He gives a soft smile and raises a hand to take her chin, only for her to quickly smack it away. 

“The world the studio pays for.” 

She gives a derisive snort, “And you think they’re gonna pay for you to ruin your image.”

He simply smirks at her, finding her ignorance cute. For all that she knows how to work the system, he understands how the system works. More importantly he understands that the system works for him. His only direct response is to slide her the papers his people drafted up for him.

“What the fuck are these?” she asks, her voice lower, trying to mask her genuine confusion.

“That there is the copy of the marriage license ‘you’” he uses air quotes, “signed six hours ago, and an officiant from the studio officially signed off on these.”

“I-I don’t understand,” she says, her voice smaller than he’s ever heard from her.

“Now Jimi let me tell you two stories, only one of ‘em’s gonna be in tomorrow’s paper,” he says, gently rubbing her cheek that she quickly slaps away. He retaliates just as swiftly with his hand splayed across her collarbone to lay her back on to the large dining table, just below the neck, not enough to choke her, but just enough to remind her who the fucking man of this house is. “One is how I went and got married to a single-mother of twins and I adopted them as my own.”

“I would neve-”

“Or…” he cuts in as he puts a little more pressure on her neck. “And this one is the one the studio prefers… I marry some random girl they pick out for me and we end up adopting two poor little orphans, ‘cause their mama decided to run off to Mexico in the middle of the night.”

Almost like he planned it, he can hear the thunder roll in the distance as the threat hangs in the air. In his heart he knows he would never go through with this, but Jimi doesn’t have to know. 

All the anger drops from her face at that moment, in its place he sees something he’s never seen in her eyes: bold-faced fear. She showed her hand the other day when she told him why she wanted to keep the secret. He didn’t want to have to do this to her, but if it’s between having her fear him and staying with him vs not and her walking away, he will pick fear every single time. 

He needs them in his life.

He needs her in his life. 

“So you choose darlin’, which ones it gonna be,” he takes her chin between his fingers. She flinches slightly but knows she’s in no position to turn away from him now. “Either way… they’re comin’ with me.” 

Elvis is not a gambling man, and he wouldn’t do this unless he knew what her answer was gonna be. She’s just as crazy for family as he is, she wouldn’t be able to handle not being able to have them. She’s probably the only one who is capable of understanding what he would do for those two as he has no doubt that she wouldn’t do the same in his shoes. 

But between the two of them, only one of them had an entire studio willing to do whatever it takes to protect his image, no matter the expense. 

And for all her worldliness and experience, she knows full well what happens when you get on the wrong side of the studios. She spent the better part of two years trying to prevent them from learning this, because making her disappear and having her babies get lost in the system would have been nothing to them. 

He’s proud of her ability to successfully keep her and their babies alive in his absence, but he’s over her needlessly defiant nature to insist that they’ll never need him again.

He wouldn’t say he’s proud to see that defeated look in her eyes, but he does get the sense of relief knowing that he’s not going to lose anymore family today. 

“Let me see them,” she whispers, barely audible over the rainfall just outside the window. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and he’s practically giddy that she didn’t try to stop him. 

He finds them just where he left them, sleeping soundly knowing that their father is here to protect them, even from their mothers stubbornness. Ale is spread out like a starfish, one foot continually nudging his sister, while one hand is tightly balled up and a thumb in his mouth. Mimi on the other hand is squirming a bit, her little sock covered feet restlessly kicking at the blanket and her brow furrowed in her sleep. On pure instinct alone Elvis rubs a soothing hand on her belly until she’s calmed down enough and he quickly tucks her back in. 

The look of surprise on her face wasn’t part of the plan but is welcome nonetheless. “Y’see how important a daddy is sweetheart?” he whispers into her ear. 

He doesn’t exactly love the tears now freely falling out of her eyes, but he 

“I’ll stay,” she whispers, through her tears. “I’m staying for them.” She asserts but the words feel so hollow now. Even still he rewards her acquiescence with a kiss, more for himself and having been so patient for her. 

Even with her promises to stay now he knows that this is far from over. He knows that the next time she has them both in her arms is gonna be the next time she makes a break for it. He’s already let everybody know to never leave her alone with them, and he’s got some things in the works to make sure to make her face as recognizable as his own so she doesn’t get any ideas of trying to disappear. He’s even got a hail mary plan in his back pocket to deal with that doctor just in case he ever needs something big to keep her at his side.

But one thing he can absolutely do right now is work to get another baby in her so running won’t be so easy next time. A message she gets loud and clear the moment he works the zipper of her skirt down the mouth-watering curve of her ass. 

“Elvis please,” she half-heartedly bats away his hands. “Not tonight…” 

He’s been on a winning streak of getting exactly what he wants lately, and he’s not about to let her break that. He backs her against the wall of the hallway only to then nestle himself between her legs.

“C’mon baby,” he whispers in her ear, and he’s glad he can still get that same shuddering reaction from her, he remembers all too well. “It’s our weddin’ night and we gotta get to work makin’ it all official. ‘Sides you owe me more babies for keepin’ ‘em away so long.” 

He can’t help but be reminded of that beach fantasy he had not too long ago and while he would love to make that into a reality, he figures that he at the very least owes her more than a dirty quickie in the hallway for their wedding night. 

Besides, they'll have all the time for that in Hawaii.

So instead he opts for the classic groom move of lifting her up in his arms and carrying her into his -now their- bedroom. He doesn’t care none to be gentle with her clothes, she’ll be lucky if he cares to be gentle with her tonight after all the shit she’s put him through. 

Ever the contrarian, she obstinately looks out the window and looks as though she wishes to be anywhere else right now as he peels the wet clothes off of her body. He’s been half-hard since she walked through his door, but little Elvis stands at full attention now that he can behold his wife fully. He finds the cosmetic differences that having his children has caused her body, with the near invisible stripes he feels on her belly and her temptingly darker nipples, but what he sees first and foremost in her body is his future. 

That world-shattering knowledge that she will be where all of his seed is planted and he will never have to suffer being alone again. He has to push these thoughts aside lest he spill all over her belly like a green boy, and he has to remind himself that there’s no need to rush anymore now that he has her beneath him. 

He has to temper himself before he gets ahead of himself so he spreads her legs to dive head first for her pussy. 

He knows he has her when a simple kiss to her clit has her clenching her thighs over his ears. While it’s with reluctant acceptance does he acknowledge he wasn’t her first, he takes great pleasure knowing that he’ll be her last. It was frankly insane to believe that no one had ever done this to her before, as after he had gotten his first taste of her there was little else he wanted to do more than this. 

He remembers joking with her that he now understood where her womanly sweetness went given the lack of it in her personality. It’s true nonetheless, arguably she tastes even better than he remembers. Though he imagines it’s the same way a man dying of thirst calling his first sip of water the sweetest taste, considering how much he’s pined for her. 

Now that he’s been able to ensure she’s sufficiently wet enough he lets her hips fall back on to the bed, as he unbuckles himself, unwilling to waste another moment to undress himself, so that he can once more feel that connection he almost lost.  

Finally being able to slip into her feels like finally coming home, there’s truly no other way to describe it. He didn’t even get this feeling when he walked through the threshold of Graceland. 

“Elvis,” she sobs into his shoulder. For all the love she claims to have lost for him, her body has certainly not forgotten as he feels her thighs clench tightly around his hips, trying to keep him as close as possible. 

He quickly grabs a hold of the back of her knees and he forces them all the way back practically to her ribs. Her pleasured and shocked cries ring out though the room as her new position gives him a new angle to work with. He’s a man on a mission to ensure that he leaves a mark so deep that she’ll never be able to leave again. 

Forever, and just that thought alone has him frantically bucking into her over and over ripping her away from one orgasm to yet another as he chases his peak. One of the many he would have in that night alone, to try to make up for all the lost time. 

Once it’s all said and done and he’s sufficiently satisfied that her sleepiness isn’t being feigned, he carries her back to the bed properly so that she can rest and be ready to be the perfect mother for their two (hopefully more) little ones tomorrow. He wraps an arm around her, knowing how slippery she can be, and he rests easy knowing she’ll be there come morning.

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[queerofthedagger]

all this growth and this decay

[Steddie | T+ | 2,9k | ao3]

you will open your wounds / and make them a garden —Wale Ayinla

One of the weirder things in the aftermath of hell dimensions and surviving by the skin of his teeth is seeing Steve Harrington kneel in the middle of a flowerbed, elbow-deep in soil.

Eddie watches him for a little longer than he probably should; the methodical movements of his hands, hair pushed back carelessly, the skin revealed by the loose tank top that, frankly, should not be doing it as much for Eddie as it does.

Sue him; he survived the apocalypse, so he might as well enjoy the aftermath.

“If you’re determined on staring, Munson, at least hand me the hose, will you?” Steve says without turning around, not sounding too bothered about it. Eddie’s still glad that the sticky summer heat hides the flush that rises to his cheeks at having been caught.

“What are you doing anyway?” he asks, once he nudges Steve with the hose and drops down to sit next to him on the warm stone.

Beyond the property, the forest is humming with the August afternoon, everything bright and languid and achingly peaceful.

“If the bushes aren’t taken care of regularly—“

“Not that,” Eddie cuts in with a huff of laughter. “Why are you gardening in the first place? Didn’t exactly take you for the homey type.”

Steve cuts a glance at him, all raised brow and judgmental twist to his mouth. “What, not metal enough for you? Expecting me to chew on Demobats in my free time?”

“Yikes, don’t say that. You know what I mean.”

Steve shrugs, all casual, and scans the rose he has been working on as if it is the most fascinating thing in the world.

Eddie looks at Steve the same way, so perhaps it is a good thing that Steve isn’t looking back.

“Do you know what a pain rose bushes are if you let them run riot?”

Eddie doesn’t; if anyone had asked him ten minutes ago if he thought that Steve Harrington might have the answer, he would have laughed.

Which, really, is probably on him; the last couple of months should have gotten him used to Steve constantly flipping the script on him.

“Still, didn’t expect you to do it yourself,” he says, watching the careful way Steve’s hands push the soil into place.

Steve shrugs, still not looking at Eddie. “It’s nice. I don’t mind.”

It’s the way he says it, quiet and a little tired; or perhaps it’s the way he brushes his fingers over the dark green leaves, his expression oddly pensive. Or, perhaps, it’s all Eddie reading into things—in the end, it doesn’t really matter.

In the end, he watches as Steve waters the rose bushes, careful not to wet the leaves, and chews on the feeling that the explanation he has been given covers only the smallest part of it.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t explain why Hawkins High’s former king suddenly took up gardening; fortunately, Eddie has always liked a bit of a riddle.

---

For the most part, Eddie does not, in fact, think too much about it. Between navigating Hawkins and its continued animosity, the kids, and his ever-growing crush, it isn’t exactly among the top ten things he has on his mind.

He’s reminded of it once October rolls around, the days golden and cool in the evenings.

He spends most of his time at the Harrington residence these days, some nights with Robin, others—most—only the two of them, talking and watching movies and spinning fantastical plans for a future that Eddie still struggles to believe he is allowed to have.

It’s a rainy afternoon, the first real cold one of the season, when he arrives after his physical therapy. Truth be told, the main reason he still goes at all is that Max would never forgive him if he quit, and he still hasn’t learned how to say no to her in the slightest.

The house lies quiet and dim when he lets himself in, which is unusual in itself. For the briefest second, panic wants to climb up his spine, but he pushes it down. Takes a deep breath and walks through the foyer into the living room, and the air still trips out of his lungs with relief when he finds the patio door open, curtains billowing.

The rain has slowed to a drizzle, but puddles are scattered across the porch, and the ground beyond is a riot of colors from the maple trees’ leaves.

On the far end, Steve is kneeling in front of the rose bushes, a stack of cut fir branches beside him.

Eddie grimaces at the gray sky and pulls his jacket closer around himself. In the end, his curiosity wins out, though (or, if he’s honest it’s all concern, but these days any pretense about all the godforsaken emotions Steve causes in him is a welcome one, in Eddie’s books. There is only so much a guy can take before he has to have some serious concerns for his own sanity).

“Hey,” Steve says, once Eddie comes up to him. “I didn’t expect you back this early; you can wait inside if you want, no use in us both getting drenched.”

It’s such a Steve thing to say. Eddie’s fingers are itching to run through Steve’s wet hair, to tip his head back. To make him look at Eddie, perhaps become a horrible, pathetic cliché and kiss him right here in the quiet rain.

“What are you doing here anyway?” he asks instead, burying his hands in his pockets.

“Winter-proofing,” Steve says, as if that makes any sense. “They dislike soil frost.”

Eddie blinks. “Okay but—can that not wait until it’s, you know. Not raining?”

It finally gets Steve to look up at him, a small crease between his brows. The hoodie he is wearing is washed out, fraying at the seams, and he looks tired.

Then again, he always does; it is just rare not to see him pretend otherwise.

“It’s impossible to say how far the temperature will drop tonight. Really though, just wait inside, I’ll be done in a moment.”

His hands are dirty with soil, pink with the cold. There are pine needles everywhere, the smell of them mixing with the rain.

By now, Eddie likes to believe that he has come to know Steve fairly well—hell, it would be quite sad if he didn’t, considering how much time they spend in each other’s pockets.

It’s clearly important, he can see that much. It’s clearly something Steve doesn’t necessarily want to explain, although Eddie is mostly sure that he could needle an answer out of him if he tried.

He’s strangely reluctant to do so, though; the thing he doesn’t understand—about the importance of rose bushes, about Steve’s sudden brittleness, about his own hesitation—is why.

It doesn’t stop him from curling a hand around Steve’s shoulder briefly, squeezing. From saying, “Alright, I’ll warm up some food then,” and letting his hand linger for a moment, for just this little bit more warmth, before going back inside, leaving Steve to his garden.

---

Eddie grows used to Steve’s strange affinity for plants, ironically, when winter washes across the land and most of his gardening gets focused on the various indoor plants that somehow, Eddie hasn’t paid much attention to before.

It’s a thing, though, their presence and Steve’s calm care for them; his herbs on the windowsill in the kitchen, thyme and mint, rosemary and sage and basil. The orchids in the living room that seem fickle even to Eddie, and the ivy climbing up the balustrade of the stairs.

It’s a thing, even when Eddie moves from spending the nights in the guest room to spending them in Steve’s bed, legs tangled together, mouth to skin. When still, some nights, he wakes up alone, knowing he missed one of Steve’s nightmares. How he finds him tending to one plant or another, steady hands and quiet voice.

Eddie will wrap his arms around Steve’s waist, those nights, letting the warm weight of his body leaning back against Eddie’s chest calm them both; he still knows that if he asked, Steve would tell him.

These days, it is more a matter of feeling that he should get it than the charm of a riddle, but something about it remains just out of reach.

---

Spring crawls across the land slowly, spindly fingers pushing back against the seemingly ever-lasting gray. All thoughts on gardening aside, Eddie cannot wait—for longer days, for fewer clothes, for all of his, Steve’s, and Robin’s plans that wear titles like Chicago and two-bedroom apartment.

For now, though, March is still struggling to assert itself, and Eddie is picking up Max from physical therapy. She has been getting better, can walk mostly fine without a cane, and the progress of the last couple of months has made her a little lighter, too.

Still, there is some kinship between them about the months they spent listening to Mrs. Parker droning on about exercises and discipline, about the gritted teeth and pulling scar tissue, and how this godforsaken town has never learned to mind its own business.

They are driving down Maple Street, Bowie playing quietly because it’s a compromise they both can live with. It’s a detour, but it’s Wednesday, which means the market stalls downtown are open, which means they are going to get donuts from that one stall that makes them with enough sugar that they can feel their teeth rot in real time.

Eddie pulls into the parking lot and ignores Max as she climbs out of the van—their deal, after all; he doesn’t help, so she lets him pay. If it works, and all that.

It’s busy, which, of course, doesn’t stop people from staring, but they ignore it. Eddie thinks that if there is one thing he would like to leave behind once he finally gets out of this hellhole, it is for Max to let all the small-town bullshit roll right off her.

Eddie’s never mastered it as well as he would have liked, but he has high hopes for her.

They get their donuts—dark chocolate for him, glazed for her—and huddle around one of the bar tables somewhat out of the way.

It’s when he sees it, one of the stalls at the far end of the market. It’s not been around the last couple of months, ever since autumn made Steve cover his garden with branches of fir, but Eddie remembers it from last year.

He nudges Max, keeping his voice casual when he says, “Hey, mind if we stop at the plant stall for a moment?”

“Sure,” she merely says, her grin knowing, and pops the last bit of her donut into her mouth.

There is a reason she’s his favorite, really.

Truth is, Eddie has no fucking clue about plants whatsoever, and until he started being friends with Steve, he did not much care either. He can admit, though, that there is something pretty about it, and perhaps that’s the point; to make that empty house into a bit more of a home, some self-chosen colors amongst whatever nightmarish monster of decoration the elder Harringtons had let lose however long ago.

He runs his fingers over the petals of some tulips when Max says, “Don’t get cut ones.”

Eddie turns to frown at her. “What?”

“Bouquets; he doesn’t like them.”

Under different circumstances, Eddie may have at least tried to pretend that he didn’t know who she was talking about, but he has been turning over the matter of Steve and gardening for well over half a year now. Steve has never been much help, all Eddie’s assumptions that he could simply ask aside, and no matter how much he has turned it over and over, it always felt like he was missing something obvious. Something that he should get.

So, Max remarking upon Steve’s preferences for flowers, of all things, makes any urge to pretend take a backseat.

“Why not? They are less work, aren’t they? Put them in a vase, give them some water—“

“—Watch them die,” she interrupts with a shrug. She isn’t looking at him. “He likes the work, though; to keep them alive, watch them grow.”

And oh. Oh, Eddie is a goddamn idiot, isn’t he, he thinks as his heart stumbles into a violently painful rhythm.

Steve with his nail bat crusty with blood, always jumping in first; Steve, always ready to be the one to pick the fight, kill the monster, do what needs to be done. Offer up his rose-thorned heart to spare everyone else their shreds of remaining innocence.

Eddie swallows the revelation down like burning absinthe, and if Max notices his sudden unsteadiness, she is kind enough to keep it to herself. He asks the old woman inside the stall for her most long-living plant, barely pays attention to the price, and tugs the dragon tree sapling under his arm as he and Max make their way back to the van.

He has no idea yet what to do with this new piece of information, isn’t even sure Steve is aware of why he’s doing this himself. What he does know is this; if he were to love Steve Harrington for the rest of their days, it still would not be enough.

Fuck him if he isn’t going to try, though.

---

When he finds Steve in the kitchen cutting herbs, of all things, he kind of wants to cry, although it would feel rather selfish, all things considered.

So he carefully puts the sapling on the counter and offers Steve a smile when he turns, raising a brow at the plant first, at Eddie second.

Eddie crosses the distance and wraps his arms around Steve’s waist from behind; slips his hands beneath the worn sweater, traces the path of the scars. With his forehead between Steve’s shoulders, he breathes and breathes and breathes.

“Hey, you okay?” Steve asks when the silence stretches. He turns in Eddie’s arms, knife forgotten and hands heartbreakingly gentle on Eddie’s face. “You’re starting to freak me out a bit here, sweetheart.”

Eddie laughs and it comes out wet, but god. God. 

“Difficult to explain,” he says, because damn it, this shouldn’t be about him, this shouldn’t be—

“Try me, then,” Steve counters, mouth quirking.

Eddie loves him so much, it would be enough to grow a garden of its own.

“That’s why you do it, isn’t it?” he says, not making any sense. “The plants, the gardening, taking care of them—something to keep alive, to take care of? To… I don’t know, something good.”

Steve’s brows furrow, his eyes skittering away, through the kitchen, back to Eddie. The afternoon light is soaking tentatively inside, and it has been a long time since Eddie has felt this untethered; he’s not sure why this feels so monumental, only that it does. That he shouldn’t have missed this.

“I’m not sure…” Steve starts, shaking his head, shoulders tensing. “It’s not that deep, honestly, just—“

“Steve.” Eddie’s voice doesn’t break, but it’s a close thing.

Steve sighs. “It’s… Nice. To make something grow for once, you know, instead of…”

“Yeah,” Eddie whispers, his voice rough. He leans his forehead against Steve’s, breathes him in. “Yeah, I think I get it.”

Because he does, is the thing, the same way he has been pouring himself into their relationship, into his friendships with the kids, with Nancy and Robin and Jonathan. The same way he is tired, so tired of destruction and decay; he has no idea how much more true this must ring for Steve.

He still thinks that he should have gotten this sooner, that it should have been obvious, but he doesn’t apologize. Perhaps, in the end, it doesn’t matter, isn’t really about him or them. Either way, Steve seems content enough where he is, breathing slow and even in the dim kitchen, the smell of thyme and sage still lingering.

“So,” Eddie finally says, pulling back just far enough to grin at Steve. “Update for the flat search then, huh? A garden, or at least a balcony; can’t risk having you take up knitting next, my tattered reputation would not survive self-knitted scarves.”

Steve’s laughter is unexpected and bright, his head falling back so that Eddie can trace the familiar spattering of moles. He nuzzles his nose against it, the crook of Steve’s neck his favorite place in the world.

“Christ, but I love you,” Steve murmurs, his voice turning quiet once more.

It isn’t the first time either of them has said it, but Eddie’s heart still jumps and trips all over itself. He takes Steve’s face between his hands, makes sure to hold his gaze. Says, “For what it’s worth, I think we are growing this, too, just fine.”

He kisses Steve before he can answer, but he doesn’t miss when the dragon tree ends up on the windowsill of their bedroom that same night, re-potted and watered with care.

He doesn’t miss the way Steve’s fingers clench into his skin, trembling and desperate, when Eddie whispers, “Good, you are so good, Steve,” a vow pressed into his skin.

Eddie makes a second one—hours later when Steve is long since asleep—that he won’t stop saying it until Steve believes him, too.

[ashwhowrites]

Hi I've never requested before but I was thinking abt best friend!Eddie who's always been there for you. And when a guy leads you on, he realizes he's in love w you and confesses to u. Idk I was thinking abt it, and it has me blushing and shi 🤭

I used she her pronouns in the request but it can be gender neutral too idk whichever u prefer ❤️

Very cute request! I miss fluff Eddie :) starts a little angsty

I hope this what you were looking for

I had the worst writers block trying to figure out how to write this to where I liked it, so if you dislike it please tell me because I will scrap it and try again 😭 not proofread :)

Y/N has been in love with Eddie since she met him her junior year. It started as a big crush on the curly haired boy but grew the more she was with him. Now she stared at his lips a little too long, wondering what they tasted like. She hugged him just a little bit longer than anyone else. She felt like she was giving hints but he blew right past them. Bragging about his latest hook up after his gig. The same gigs she went to every week. Trying to hold tears back when she'd watch him walk out the door, a new girl hanging on his arm.

She had to accept Eddie Munson was not into her. She needed to move on.

Moving on was a tad bit easier than she thought. After she watched Eddie walk off with his latest date, a guy sat next to her.

He was beautiful. He bought her a drink and they talked for hours. For once she left the hideout with a smile and not in tears.

She gave her number, waiting patiently for him to call.

~~

Her and Eddie were in the middle of game night with hellfire. Screaming as they played.

She was in the middle of fighting with Dustin over the rules when her phone rang. Eddie picked it up as she was occupied.

Placing the phone on the counter near the wall, he walked over to the table.

"um Y/N?" He said. She looked up at Eddie, stopping mid argument.

"yes?" She sighed

"some guy named Logan is asking for you?"

Eddie didn't know why, but he hated the way she smiled and jumped out of her seat. Racing to the phone in seconds.

"Logan hi!" Eddie hated the way she sounded excited.

Who the fuck was Logan?

"a guy is calling for her?" Dustin questioned

The group all looked at each other confused. She never once said anything about a guy she met.

When she came back, still smiling and giggling

Eddie couldn't help but speak up

"so who is Logan?" He asked, smiling. A teasing look on his face.

The look of him smiling at her reminded her just how much he really doesn't care

So she allowed herself to like Logan more than ever.

"um a guy I met at the hideout last week. He's very sweet and cute. I had a really good time getting to talk to him and he asked for my number." She smiled. Blushing as she remembered his charming smile and flirtatious looks

Eddie deflated. She met this guy on HIS territory. HIS band's territory. A place where HE was welcomed and accepted. Logan met HIS girl at HIS second home. It almost felt like a knife in his back

"you met him at my gig?" Eddie scoffed, "really at a bar? You expect something to come out of a guy at a bar? You know what guys at bars are there for right?"

"take home their fifth groupie for the week?" She snapped back. She lets this guy sleep with every girl he sees and never once judged him for it. She gives her number out, hoping for the guy to at least call and he tries to make her feel stupid for it?

Eddie was taken back by how angry and pissed out she sounded. He bit his tongue, because technically she was right. But that didn't stop him from being angry at her and even more angry that he didn't have an argument.

"nothing to say now huh? Maybe he only wants me for sex, and that's fine. But at least he asks for the girl's number you asshole." She stood from her chair, scraping loudly against the floor and she stomped upstairs to her bedroom. Slamming the door and locking it.

Hellfire could let themselves out

~~

"yikes dude. She got your ass" Jeff laughed. Eddie sent him a glare that caused him to stop.

"um Eddie. Not to kick you while you're down, but that was a total dick move. She seems really upset" Dustin said softly

"shut up Henderson. I'm aware that I'm an asshole and she's fucking pissed. I don't need you to paint me the damn picture!" He snapped, hand slamming down on the table. Dustin flinched at the sound and shrunk in his seat.

~~

Eddie gave her the time to cool down before he went up to her room.

His tail between his legs as he knocked on her door

"Y/N?" He asked softly

"GO TO HELL MUNSON" she screamed back

"if you're mad at me then I'm already in hell. Talk to me please?"

He had a plan the second she opened the door, it was time to pull his puppy eyes out. Stick out his bottom lip slightly and begin apologizing.

He heard her sigh and get up from her bed. Opening the door with a very annoyed look

"don't even start with puppy eyes" she pointed her finger at him, letting him pass into her bedroom.

"I'm sorry. That was a total dick move and unfair of me. You were right to call me out on all my hook ups. If you want to date this guy or even just have sex with him. It's not my place to say anything." Even though it killed him to think about her moaning underneath some douchebag from the bar, a douchebag that wasn't him.

"why did you?" She asked, head turning to the side, "why did you get pissed off about it?"

"I don't know. Something about it just made me feel like I got kicked in the stomach." The one thing he adored about her was whenever he didn't understand a feeling, she knew what it was. He never held back from details of what he felt with certain things. She just knew him.

"like you want to cry and beat him up at the same time? Almost like it physically makes you ill to think about him and I together? Romantically and sexually?" She asked

He was taken back from how perfect her explanation was

"yeah exactly. It's almost like I can't even think of you being like that with someone else." He thought out loud. Not noticing the weight behind his words

"Someone else? As in you think of me that way with you?" She questioned

He blushed. He didn't realize how much he thought of her in that way until she asked him.

"I guess I do" he confessed, looking at her as he tries to process what this all meant

"that feeling. That's what I felt when you'd ditch me at the bar every week. Watching you flirt with countless girls and them getting you, your mind and body in ways I refuse to let myself think about. You hurt me really bad Eddie. And just when I finally felt like I was okay with you and all the girls, because of Logan, you made me feel stupid for thinking he liked me. You made me doubt him before we even went on a date. That's not fair." She ranted looking everywhere but him.

But her eyes snapped towards him when she heard sniffles. Looking up at him, his eyes were red, tears falling fast down his cheeks and small hiccups in this throat.

"Eddie?" She asked softly, reaching her hand towards him

"don't" he said, stopping her hand, as he shakes his head. "I don't deserve to be comforted right now"

She nodded as he kneeled to his knees. Tears still working down his face

"I'm so sorry. I didn't know I was making you feel like that. I should have paid more attention to you. I should have noticed you were upset. I'm sorry for ditching you, I never should have ever left with girls knowing you were right fucking there. You were right fucking there!" He's never been this upset with himself. All these years he could have talked to her and been with her

"Eddie stop. I never told you I was upset. You can't blame yourself for all of this. We both weren't communicating. But I need to know if you like me more than a friend or not?" She didn't want to answer this question for him. She wanted him to say his feelings for once.

"Yes I do. I think if I saw you get even more beautiful than you are for another man. Let him take you out and kiss at the end of the night. I don't think I could handle it" he confessed. He felt like he now understood his feelings. And he understood what he needed to say to make sure she knew. "Do you still like me?" He asked

She tried to ignore the damn puppy eyes. The way he looked up at her, on his knees, with tears in his eyes. She could barely handle it.

She sighed and kneeled in front of him

Cupping his face softly as she wiped his tears

"I do Eddie but I can't throw myself into this to get hurt"

"I won't. I swear. I'll try so hard for you to do this right. Please give me the chance. Baby please?" He begged. Holding her hands on his face.

She nodded with watery eyes

"let's try it" she said, leaning in slowly

His eyes raked over her face. Watched as she leaned in. He leaned in and met her half way.

Lips connecting in a hurry. The kiss was fast, needed, and desperate. Kissing harder every time either went to pull away. Not wanting the moment to end. Heads empty, just feeling their lips finally meeting together for the first time.

"thank you" he sighed as they pulled away

"don't make me regret this Munson" she laughed through her tears.

He laughed through his tears as well. He should have known all along it would be her.

Tags!

@bmunson86 @mxcheese @ladymunson @michaelfuckinglangdon @z0mbie-blah @biittersweet @mirrorsstuff @slightlyvicked @micheledawn1975 @ago-godance @magnificantmermaid

[luminetti]

𝑶𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒅𝒖𝒆 𝑨𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒚 ༺♡༻ Chapter 2

༘⋆Notes: sorry for the wait! This chapter turned out a lot longer than expected and I had more I wanted to include but it was too difficult to fit in. Ch3 will have more conflict, so until then, enjoy some fluff and pure idiocy at the end.

༘⋆ Chapters: ┆[1] ┆[2]┆[3]┆[4]┆[5]┆[6] ┆[7] ┆

ao3

It goes without saying that you had absolutely zero plan for taking in a near-corpse. Amongst the various other oversights, you were particularly struggling with finding a way to sneak breakfast into your room every morning. Despite Gale’s remarks, you thought yourself to be fairly crafty. The good ol’ ‘stuff-a-pancake-in-your-pocket’ trick was one of your proudest ideas, even if your company refused to see the ingenuity of your ways. You thought it worked well enough for the time being, but with Gale’s slow healing and several pockets worth of maple syrup, you reluctantly decided to look for other options.

Unfortunately, your search was ultimately cut short one night in the kitchen by none other than Sebastian Neredras, your eldest sibling.

“Put the bread down.” Sebastian spoke from the doorway, arms crossed. Ever since your father had died, Sebastian had taken on a more authoritative role with you and Euphemia. Though you would assume that he had more important things to worry about than interrogating you at eleven at night.

Turning slowly to face him, you slipped the thick piece of focaccia into your dress pocket. “What bread?”

He closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. “Tav Neredras,” he began, hauntingly calm.

Yikes. Full name.

“What is it for?” Sebastian continued, sternly.

From behind him, you could see Euphemia watching from the foyer, distraught.

“Don’t look at her. Look at me.” He shifted his weight, blocking Euphemia with his body. “Bread. Explain. Now.”

You tore off a piece of the focaccia in your pocket and popped it into your mouth. “Midnight snack?”

Sebastian’s fingers tightened into a fist and he took another slow breath in. Turning around, he diverted his attention to your sister. “Phemie, by Jove, my fist will–lovingly–be through this wall if you don’t tell me this instant.

You focused all your efforts into burning a stare into your poor sister’s eyes. Out of everyone you’ve ever met, she had the loosest tongue by far.

She apologetically met your stare as she blurted out, “He’s a Viscount!”

From the doorway, you watched as Sebastian’s posture visibly stiffened and he turned with bone-chilling fluidity. “And who, exactly, is ‘he?’”

Mustering up your best innocent smile, you cleared your throat. “Gale Dekarios.”

“–of Waterdeep.” Euphemia chimed quietly.

Sebastian hastily strode towards the guest room with Euphemia in tow. He had just barely placed one hand on the door knob when your sister cleared her throat, eyes flashing towards your bedroom door.

In disbelief, Sebastian slowly crouched to his knees as if all energy had finally left his body. His eyes closed and his chest heaved with several drawn out breaths. “Tell me you didn’t.”

You silently teetered on your heels. “I, uh, I think we both know.”

His breath came out all at once in a shaky exhale. “Phemie, please offer the Viscount a proper dinner.” Sebastian slumped against the wall, utterly defeated. “I will set up the guest room.”

“What about-

Sebastian held up a hand, cutting you off with his eyes still closed. “I can’t- I don’t- I’m not even going to start with you.” Pointing to the corner of the dining room, he waved you away. “Just sit. Sit and think about your actions.”

✣ ✣ ✣

To your surprise, a fortnight passed by fairly smoothly. Sebastian most definitely not gotten used to Gale’s presence, but he was handling it… well. Gale was more like a house pet than anything else. You and your siblings each took on different roles when it came to caring for the Viscount. Euphemia started to cook larger portions for each meal while you managed his healing process. Sebastian probably helped in some way as well, though he was quite adamant that it was not his issue to deal with.

Gale seemed to be faring well, despite his situation. You had been routinely checking up on his wound, changing the bandages when needed, and tracking the medication that he was on. Despite your consistent encounters, you knew almost nothing about the Viscount and vice versa. Well, that was until about a couple days after he was ‘accepted’ by Sebastian and moved into the guest room.

It began slowly.

Every so often when you came to check on Gale or bring him dinner, he somehow found a way to slip in a question about your personal life. Your favorite colors, foods, flowers, all of which he managed to slowly pluck out of you, night after night. Honestly, you were pretty astonished at his perseverance. However, you were perhaps even more astonished at your own reciprocity, easily relinquishing facts and anecdotes about yourself each time he asked. You were fond of most colors with the exception for certain shades of orange, you could not stand tomatoes, and you were particularly fond of eglantine flowers.

Occasionally you even found yourself asking questions back to him. After only a week you learned that he prefers the color violet, enjoys fancy wine, and his favorite flower is–appropriately–the violet.

“I never did ask,” you began one night, sitting down for the routine bandage change. “How did you manage to get this?” With the wound exposed you could see the ripples where the bullet tore his skin alongside the taut scarring that covered the edges.

Gale bristled as you pressed a cold cloth dipped in medicine against his abdomen. “It was a duel,” he explained. “I had received a letter from someone, requesting to meet on the outskirts of Waterdeep.”

You removed the cloth to apply more ointment. “Sounds like quite some havey-cavey business.”

He chuckled, humorlessly. “I’d have realized it sooner had the letter been adequately labeled with the true correspondent.” Sitting up, Gale leaned towards you, allowing for easier access to his wound. “In place of the woman I was expecting was a man who demanded an affair of honor–a duel, in her name.”

For some reason you couldn’t fight back a sharp pain in your chest at the mention of his old flame. Well… you assumed it was old. “I suppose tabletop games are more your style,” you offered, attempting to liven the gloomy atmosphere.

Gale let out a heavy breath, his body easing at your change of subject, seemingly relieved. He placed a hand on the new white gauze covering his abdomen, thanking you quietly as you collected the old bandages and exited his room.

As you walked down the hallway, you found yourself heading towards the withdrawing room. Adorning the walls were your paintings from over the years, a variety of several still life subjects and a couple portraits of your siblings. The soft glow of moonlight beamed into the room, illuminating the thin layer of dust on each surface, appropriate for the lack of usage in the past couple months. You had been so occupied with Gale’s condition that you hadn’t had the chance to even think about painting. The more you examined your surroundings, bittersweet nostalgia festered in your gut, tugging you towards your abandoned easel.

A quick paint wouldn’t do any harm, you thought to yourself, placing a fresh canvas on the platform and settling into the stool. You stared at the large white cloth for a couple minutes, considering your subjects. There was still life of course, but you had painted pretty much everything in the room already. Well, everything except the old chessboard. For as long as you remember, that chessboard had never moved from the small table in the corner. Sebastian had spent hours in your youth attempting to teach you the most popular openings, despite your inability to remember which way the ‘horse’ piece moved. A subject for another time, you decided, looking for something else.

A faint glow of purple caught your eye through the window. Looking closer, you spotted a small patch of violets in the garden, accompanied by various other colorful flowers.That’s right, Euphemia loved floriography and had taken an interest in gardening several years ago. Before your father’s death, she had several flora related projects. One of which being an attempt at a rainbow garden with ombre flowers packed neatly in the dirt.

Instinctively, you felt your hand rise, placing quick strokes along the canvas and blocking out the basic shapes of the garden. Once you were satisfied with the sketch, you fished around for your palette and paints, blowing off the dust and flicking away dried pieces stuck to the tubes. It didn’t take long for you to fall into a rhythm, painting like you had years ago. Maybe it was the way your mind quietly wandered, or the soft scratch of bristles on canvas, but you found yourself drifting off as you worked. Your movements slowed until finally, you let your head rest in your arms beside the abandoned paint palette.

The next thing you knew, a warm palm gently nudged you awake. The moonlight from before had been replaced with bright morning sunbeams that bore down onto you and your painting as you awoke.

“A bit of an odd place to sleep, but whatever suits your fancy,” a warm voice resounded in your ear, startling away your grogginess.

You jolted awake to see Gale observing your unfinished painting, looking it over.

“Oh, good morning.” You yawned, stretching your aching back.

Gale’s attention turned back to you, standing quietly off to the side.

Gale?

Standing?

Snapping upright in your stool you stared at him, standing right in front of you as if perfectly fine. “What are you doing up?” You rushed to your feet, placing a hand underneath his arm and hustling him into the chair beside the old chessboard.

“There’s no need for this,” he complained, but sat anyway despite his protests.

Surely it hadn’t healed that fast?

You hesitantly nudged the bandage covering his stitches, waiting for a response. To your surprise, he made no move to flinch or push you away.

“Nothing?”

He shrugged in reply.

“How bizarre..” you pondered out loud. What could have possibly quickened the process so much? You certainly weren’t that good at medicine.

If Gale was surprised, he didn’t show it. In fact, he looked quite bored of the topic, as if his good health was old news. Instead, his focus turned to the dusty chess board.

“Do you play?” he asked, instinctively setting up the board.

It had certainly been a while. You barely remembered what the pieces did. You knew the pawn and King can one square per turn, but that’s about where your memory left off.

“Of course I play,” you confidently countered, scooting your chair to sit across from him. “Quite masterfully, actually.”

Gale’s brows rose in disbelief. “”Really now? Well, I’ll be sure to perform at my highest.”

In a matter of about four turns, he had your King completely pinned in checkmate. From across the table, you glowered at the board.

“Yes, quite masterfully,” he chuckled, amused at your bewildered expression.

“These things are useless.” You toyed with the pawn between your fingers, tossing it back onto the board where it rolled miserably in a circle before coming to a pitiful stop. “What even is this?” You picked up a strange paintbrush-looking piece.

Gale stifled a laugh, watching you scowl at the small piece of wood like it killed your entire family. “That would be a bishop,” he spoke as he gently took it from you. Placing it on the board, he slid the piece diagonally across the squares.

“As far as it wants?”

“As far as it wants.”

You hummed, absently watching as he deftly reset the board. Gale seemed brighter today. Gone was his sickly hue, replaced with a much warmer liveliness.

He made two moves, starting by moving one of his pawns two spaces forward, then pushing out his bishop several paces diagonally.

“This is an opening. Bishop’s opening, if you want to get technical,” he told you, gesturing to the board. “It’s a specific series of moves to set up for a specific strategy.”

You stared as he deftly played against himself, taking pieces back and forth until he had won. And well, lost.

There was a sense of expertise in the way he moved around the board, as if years had been spent practicing. You found yourself wondering if he taught himself everything he knew, or if it was learned from someone else. Either way it was certainly impressive.

“So you’re an egghead?” 

Gale shuddered dramatically, clutching his heart. “Harsh words! I’ll have you know, I prefer ‘well-read.’”

Alright, sure. You admit he was charismatic. The way he looked at you through eyes creased by a smile never failed to elicit a strange uplifted atmosphere. You couldn’t help but feel a bit lighter than air whenever he was around.

“My brother used to be really interested in chess,” you started. The ambience of warm sunlight and good company left you relaxed enough to begin rambling about whatever came to mind. “He tried to teach me but I didn’t get it at all so he gave up and tried to teach Euphemia, but that didn’t work out cause she felt bad about ‘getting her soldiers killed’ so he gave up again.”

You told him about your attachment to the knight piece, which you only recently learned was actually called a ‘knight’ and not a ‘horse’ like you originally thought.

On the subject of horses, you had one as a stuffed animal, actually. Bought from a local vendor and gifted to you by Sebastian for your tenth birthday. He had suggested horse-like names, like Chestnut, or Horace. But in childlike fashion, you settled on the name ‘Horse.’

“How creative,” Gale spoke, snapping you back into reality.

You stared at him puzzled for several seconds until coming to the mortifiying realization that you had bombarded him with tales of your childhood stuffed animal.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he grinned, a glint of mirth in his eyes.

The room felt significantly warmer than before, making you squirm in your seat. “You should’ve said something sooner.”

Gale chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled, almost too earnestly to be genuine. “On the contrary, I’m a bit disappointed that I said anything at all. You showed no signs of stopping.”

“Please, don’t remind me.”

He waved you off, leaning back in his seat. “You listened to my chess talk. It’s only fair.”

You pursed your lips, still a bit mortified. “It’s your turn in that case. Drone on.”

“Drone?” He dramatically gasped, placing a hand over his heart. “I’m offended, I was under the impression you were interested. Is chess not riveting to you?”

“What can I say? As a chess master, I need something more mentally stimulating.”

Something glinted behind Gale’s eyes as you spoke, breathing slowly out his nose as he watched you. As he leaned forward his earring swung lightly, catching your attention. You hadn’t noticed the little metal piece before. Circular in shape but adorned with a small purple gemstone, shining brighter than the average jewel. It seemed far more ostentatious than jewelry you expected Gale to wear. Somehow, the gaudy earring never seemed to catch your attention over the man who bore it.

“Something more stimulating?” He repeated, thoughtfully. “What do you know about mages?”

The sudden change in topic startled you back into attention. Mages were certainly uncommon, only few known people being able to wield such a power. Some thought that mages were too dangerous to live amongst the Ton. Others thought mages were nothing more than an old wives tale until a high ranking noble had revealed their innate abilities, but you had been busy in your painting phase while it happened. You hardly remembered how it ended. You silently chided yourself for not paying more attention to the happenings of the Ton. Perhaps Euphemia would remember. You made a mental note to ask her eventually.

Between nonbelievers and 

“I know they exist,” you started, raking your brain for any helpful bits of information. “I know they are quite rare. I’ve never met one if that’s what you were asking.”

Gale inhaled shortly, shoulders rigid and tense. He fidgeted with the fabric of his shirt, gently rolling it between his fingers. “And if you met one, what would you think of them?”

“Did I know them prior to knowing they were a mage?” You asked, unsure of where he was headed.

He nodded.

With hesitation, you continued. “Then they would still be the same person, would they not? I don’t think it would change my impression of them.”

Gale exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized he was holding, shoulders easing slightly as he relaxed back into his chair. “Yes, I agree,” he replied, letting his hand return to the tabletop and releasing the fabric he was toying with. “Are you busy tonight?”

Your mind spun in confusion at another quick change in topic. “I believe so? Why do you ask all this?”

He waved you off, earring twinkling as he abruptly stood from the table. The air felt lighter than before and Gale now wore a bright smile, eagerly putting the chair back in its place. “I’d like to see you back here tonight after dinner. I have something to show you that I think you’d like.”

Feeling your cheeks redden, you sputtered. Meeting you late at night? Has he always been so forward? “But we aren’t even courting yet.”

Gale paused in shock as he failed to stop his smile from growing, his own ears beginning to bloom with pink. “Courting?” He repeated, voice soft and honeyed, the world pleasantly rolling off his tongue.

The feelings of mortification rushed back to you and all of a sudden you felt transparent in front of him. “I have greatly misunderstood, haven’t I?”

Blinking, he seemed to startle himself back into reality, clearing his throat. “My apologies, I hadn’t intended to imply… Not that I wouldn’t- I mean, only if you wanted- I just-” Gale stuttered, nervously cutting himself off and refusing to meet your gaze.

“I’ll be there.”

Gale’s  eyes caught yours and he took a deep breath. “I promise I’ll make it worth your time.” He gave you one last look before withdrawing from the room, leaving you alone as the door swung closed.

taglist:

@vhaldren

[ismyverynaturethatofthedevil]

Brilliant comment I read on YouTube about Armand’s life. (Will link the video if you want to watch it)

@residentialpsycho1075

9 months ago (edited)

This is one of my favorite novels. It definitely has the trigger warnings for child slavery, child rape, pedophilia, child prostitution, child grooming, brainwashing, torture, and so on; it's not what everyone can tolerate, but I feel like it helped me grow as a person. It's a book I had to contemplate afterward. (I was quite shocked to encounter this material in my middle school library, though. Yikes.)

Armand allows us to experience his life in those times and the ups and down. He is an easily-influenced child who wants to be the leader of the pack and is rarely alone, even as a vampire. He is ALWAYS a child and never fully breaches the cusp of being an adult, and this is of critical importance to his character. He strives to have companions and to be admired by them. As Andrei, he's influenced by the monks and even dreams of holing himself up in the ground to starve to death with them some day. As Amadeo, he quickly adapts to Roman life and becomes the leader of all the boys there. He excels in being crapicious, which is how his master instructed him to act. Once he's been kidnapped, tortured, and brainwashed as Armand by Santino and his cult, he adapts to their teachings and follows their orders even long after Santino is gone. When Lestat first meets him and destroys the cult, Armand begs to go with him only to be assigned to watch after the Theatre des Vampires for a hundred years. When Lestat returns and Armand hopes they can finally travel together, Lestat betrays his expectations by only wanting his blood to recover. He no longer needs Lestat's approval and lets Louis destroy the vampires there before traveling with Louis as his companion. Even once he separates from Louis, he stays and guards New Orleans for Louis and Lestat, protecting them from other vampires until they arise. He leaves with Daniel before uniting with the other vampires. Conveniently, he's bought an island in Florida for all the vampires to hang out together and meet each other.

He's a teenager struggling with having a group to belong to. He's easily influenced and can be quite impulsive and destructive at times. Although he's been through a lot, he can't define himself or his own identity as an individual rather than a member of a group.

Armand can be regarded as having been brain-washed twice. Although the second time was by Santino and the cult, the first time is as a slave. He "loves" Marius because Marius rescued him by buying him, and he's grateful to his hero/owner. He also loves Marius's appearance and his paintings. However, this is an unhealthy and predatory relationship where they are not equals and will never be equals. Should anyone mistake the two as having such a good relationship or having had one, Armand snaps readers of this by always referring to Marius as his "Master," even in modern times. This reminds the readers that Armand is a slave Marius took advantage of, and Marius acknowledges this.

Marius himself lusted after Amadeo, but he wanted Amadeo to grow to his preference and also be more obedient to him. I appreciate how the pair describe this love as selfish. Although Armand was happy with him, it's also true that Marius took advantage of him and his situation. He never asks about Amadeo's home or religion since these were not part of the description Marius was grooming him to have. It's only when they visit Kyiv that Marius appears to truly realize Amadeo has his own story and background aside from being Marius's ideal lover and that Amadeo is actually... a person.

When Armand makes his human friends with unconditional love, Sybelle and Benji, a childlike woman and a mature twelve-year-old, both are whom could be viewed as Armand's peers given their mortal ages, Marius turns them to give Armand a new group to be with but also to tie Armand more to the world of the living, so he doesn't try any more trips to Heaven. Unsurprisingly, this involves Marius breaking his own rules to never turn a child into a vampire.

It's quite shocking the first time through, but Armand's representation of a teenager trapped in time while struggling to have his own friends and never maturing into adulthood is striking.

Marius's "good guy" reputation is tarnished beyond repair after this book.

I'm not entirely sure what the metaphor of the child's dress in the wall means, but I suspect it might represent Armand being a child or even a decorative item (slave) that was abandoned when hard times fell. After reading the previous books, Armand knows quite well that Marius refused to rescue him from the cult once Marius found out about him again.

As a middle schooler, the series hit me a bit differently, and I couldn't appreciate it to this degree. It may have slightly traumatized me since it was my first exposure to written sex descriptions and featured and underaged slave and his master. WTF was this doing hiding in a middle school library??? Once I recovered from that, I empathized a lot with the tragic Armand as a teenager myself. I struggled with depression from undiagnosed Celiac disease, and I absolutely loved art. The Vampire Armand taught me a lesson that, even if you commit suicide, you may end up in a worse situation than you started with. If you remain alive, you can encounter something really worthwhile and meet people who love you unconditionally.

I'm glad it has different meanings for different levels of comprehension.

[bettsfic]

hi betts!

i’ve been a fan of yours for years now (training wheels is one of my favorite stories— not just fics. stories— ever, and i really admire your style. as a writer myself, i want to ask how you’re able to keep your motivation up to complete your projects? i feel like i start out so motivated when i fall in love with an idea, but once that fevered haze fades, it’s almost impossible for me to get the motivation i need to write. i have a few wips that i feel so guilty about not finishing/not wanting to finish/wanting to finish but being unable to get the inspiration to. so, in short, how do you maintain the motivation to finish your wips?

thank you so much! i'm glad to hear it; training wheels is still very dear to me.

first, if you want a step by step guide to finishing your wips, i wrote a tutorial earlier this year in my newsletter.

also as i've said elsewhere, i believe it's more important to follow your inspiration and interest where it takes you even if it means not finishing things. one of the reasons i love fanfic is because it's the only genre i can think of where you get to read unfinished works and be present during the writing of them.

but you asked about *my* motivation to finish things, and i'll say it's taken me a long time to build the endurance necessary not only to complete big projects but also complete them to my satisfaction. in my experience, the better you are at finishing things, the worse you become at starting them, and so whereas i used to have a million wips and ideas happening at once, now i can see the ridiculous endeavor ahead of me and pick my battles more knowledgeably.

also, i don't finish everything, especially not right away. sometimes i sit years on a story before i eventually come back to it. but i've found that it's inevitable that when i put something down that i care about, i'll come back around to it when i'm ready. it's not something i have to force. my attention and interest bounces around all over the place but the things i love, i love forever. so i'll always come back around to them.

most importantly--and this is really very important--i lie to myself.

here are the two main lies i tell myself:

"this is the best thing i've ever written," and

"i'm almost done."

being a little delusional is a huge benefit as a writer. if you're too honest with yourself nothing can get done. but i've always had a natural talent for convincing myself of things that aren't true and although that's gotten me in a lot of trouble in all other aspects of my life, in writing it keeps me just far enough away from reality that i can finish things.

the process is something like this:

vague story idea!

will probably be very small, the shortest story i have ever written in fact

begin writing

feels good, feels organic

no no that's not right, bad vibes

start over

ohhh i see what i'm trying to do

outline the tiniest, easiest outline i have ever made. five bullet points. this happens, and then this and this, and the story ends. EASY

will finish by tomorrow, probably

write write write

will finish by tomorrow, probably

write write write

definitely tomorrow, almost done

check word count. 25k. uh oh

doesn't matter, almost done. have *checks* four out of five bullet points to go

write write write

five point bullet outline no longer effective

re-outline. five points turns into five pages. uh oh

check word count. 60k. big yikes

but! almost done! will finish tomorrow, probably

write write write

get stuck? how? but the outline...

the outline is ineffective. re-outline.

check word count. 100k. :(

almost done :)

a plot knot arises. spend six hours staring at a wall to undo the plot knot

plot knot is more insidious than expected. open new document. start over

*now* i'm almost done

rewrite, restructure, reorganize

check word count. 20k. :(

write write write

check word count. 200k. :((

weeks-long fugue state during which i am god

awaken to filthy apartment. i have not eaten a vegetable in many days. i have not seen the sun.

eat a broccoli

go outside

am i living? am i truly living? is this all life is? am i loved? am i worth loving?

return to safety of fictional world to avoid existential despair

write write write

will finish by tomorrow, probably

so it's really less about motivation to finish and more about motivation to chase down an increasingly elusive feeling of joy through immersion into worlds of my own making and control. it's way easier to run away from something than toward it.

[jcbbby]

oooooh buddy. yikes yikes yikes. okay, this is my first just straight up smut fic. this is NOT my usual thing at all, so like…this may be absolute garbage??? I’m sorry in advance lmaoooo. this is also like, SO LONG I feel like, because I just literally don’t know how to get the fuck to the point and I just keep writing? lol side note, this is for those who have ever needed to get railed in a sun dress. ;)

If you’re not comfortable with this type of fic, please don’t read! I still love you either way! <3

Warnings: 18+ only MINORS LOOK AWAY, rpf but in an alternate universe, age gap (reader is like 19, Jamie is 34), p in v sex, unprotected sex (do not try at home, kids), oral (female receiving), obvious major power dynamic issue lol, kinda a slow burn? Idk what I’m doing

*************************************************************

It was a warm and humid late May Friday afternoon. You walked through the courtyard, tossing your hair up into a loose bun to get it off your neck in this heat. You dressed for the temperature, wearing a short yellow sun dress with spaghetti straps, complete with strappy sandals showing off your pedicured toes. You were ready for your week-long stay in the Florida Keys, a cliché but nevertheless exciting college summer vacation. Your first year of college was ending, and the only thing that stood in your way of you and your friends’ trip was your final exam for Professor Bower’s class.

Truth be told, you were a little disappointed to be finishing his class, even though it was just a standard required English literature course. You often found yourself absentmindedly staring up at him as he sat on the edge of his desk, a pen tucked with soft blonde locks behind his ear, leading a group discussion on the assigned reading. His high cheek bones, chiseled jaw, pale blue eyes, the wrinkles that would form in the corner of his eyes as he smiled at wonderfully thought-out opinions and analyses from the students, his charming British accent.

There was that one time he leaned in close at your desk to look over your work, feeling the warmth of his body radiate against you, his cologne lingering for a few moments after walking away. How he said your name when calling on you to answer a question. How you would drift off into a daydream wondering how your name would sound leaving his lips in a much more intimate setting… You spent the whole semester in his class feeling a yearning deep in your core. You were going to milk today’s time in his classroom as long as you could. Perhaps you had also worn the outfit you had chosen for more than just the heat wave, hoping to catch his attention just once before parting ways.

The campus was quieter than usual, with many students having already finished their exams and left for the summer. You had some time before your exam and decided to stop by the café on campus for a coffee and last minute study session. After being handed your drink, you went to take a seat on one of the couches and took out your notebook, scanning over the pages of notes.

“Ah, a little cramming session?” A familiar voice said in front of you.

You looked up from being buried in the pages to see him, Professor Bower. He was dressed much more casual than usual. In a pair of black jeans with a white t-shirt and a black blazer over it.

You smiled. “Oh…well, you know. Couldn’t hurt, right?” He looked incredible; you loved this more laid back look on him. Not that he didn’t look great in a tie as well. “You look like you’re ready for summer vacation.”

He looked down at his outfit and back up to you with a chuckle. “Yeah, I figured I’d tone it down for this last day, maybe help everyone relax for the exam… you look like you’re in summer vacation mode as well. You look…very nice.” He looked you up and down, lingering a little longer than you expected somewhere below your eyeline.

You blushed and felt butterflies in your abdomen. “Oh um…thank you. I-I’m heading south after this.” You cursed yourself in your head for saying it like an innuendo.

“You don’t say, how fun.” He grinned. “Well, I better go get everything printed. I’ll see you in class. Good luck on the exam, Y/N.”

You nodded with a meek smile as he turned and headed off in the other direction. All you could think about were his eyes on you, how you would have loved to see what his hands would have done, and how tightly your thighs were squeezing together.

****

The classroom was dead silent during the exam, except for the scribbling of pens and pencils across pages. Jamie was sitting at his desk at the front of the room, glancing over his macbook every so often at the room. You found it hard to focus after your encounter earlier, looking up frequently to gaze at him. On a few occasions, he caught you, your eyes meeting for a brief second before you frantically and embarrassingly looked back down at the exam. He would smirk to himself as you felt your cheeks grow hot. You’re blowing it, you thought to yourself.

One by one, each of your classmates brought their finished exams up to the front, with Jamie quietly telling each of them to have a good summer.

“30 minutes left, guys.” He announced to the few of you remaining.

He looked directly at you, holding your gaze for what felt like an eternity before going back to his work on his laptop. You looked back down at your exam, now furiously writing, worried that you wouldn’t finish because of your distracted mind. Not only were you embarrassing yourself in front of the hot professor, but you would also fail his class. Before you knew it, it was just you and Jamie left in the classroom. You glanced to the clock, swallowing hard.

“Time’s up, love.” He said from his desk.

You sighed, gathering your belongings and making your way to the front. You handed your packet to him. “I uh…I didn’t finish. I’m sorry…”

Jamie tutted as he reached for the papers. “Even with that last minute study session?”

“I guess I was…a little distracted…” You shifted on your feet.

“Distracted?” Jamie leaned back in his chair. “Anything you’d want to talk about?” The look in his eyes felt ravenous, like they were reeling you in as prey.

“I don’t know…” You started as he stood up and began walking around to the front of the desk. You felt your breathing get heavier and a sudden wave of confidence washed over you. “I-I uh…kept thinking about how good you look in that blazer…”

Jamie let out a soft chuckle as he came to sit on the front of his desk like usual. “Is that so?”

You turned slightly to face him. “And…how good you’ve looked all semester...how I’ve been hoping you’d notice me…” Your entire body was electrified, being this close to him, desperately wanting his hands on you.

Jamie smirked, taking your arm and guiding you in between his slightly spread legs. Your breath hitched. His hands rested at your hips, sending aching pulses straight to your pussy.

“Darling, I’ve noticed. You always wearing those short skirts, twirling your pen in your mouth in class, not even knowing you’re driving me wild…but we both know I can’t get involved like that with a student…as much as I want to…” His voice was low, you felt his hands start to caress your hips and move towards your ass.

“But I’m technically not your student anymore…the exam is over, I’m done with your class.” You put your hands on his chest, leaning into him, feeling his chest rise and fall with more force. You craned your neck up at him.

He snorted a laugh. “You know I meant as a university student here in general…fuck, you look so good in this dress though.” His hand now resides firmly on your ass.

You began tracing circles with your finger on his chest, looking up at him with your best doe eyes. “I won’t tell if you don’t tell…” You whispered, pressing yourself into him, feeling him harden beneath you.

Jamie groaned quietly with a slight chuckle. “Oh, you’re gonna be the death of me....fuck it.”

He hungrily pressed his lips into yours, both of you immediately softly moaning into the other’s mouth, overwhelmed with want. You move your hands from his chest, wrapping them around his neck. His tongue greedily asked for entrance at your lips, which you wasted no time allowing it in, twirling yours with his. A semester’s worth of desire was erupting inside you, finally coming to fruition.

As you both clumsily tried to get more of each other’s mouths, Jamie’s hands planted firmly on the underside of your thighs, lifting you up against him. Your legs instantly wrapped around his waist as he spun around, sitting you down on his desk, never once breaking contact. He slid the blazer off over his shoulders, tossing it on to his chair behind the desk. You didn’t know he had tattoos. He had always worn blazers or long sleeve button ups. It was a welcomed surprise, you always had a weak spot for tattoos.

You pulled back from him, allowing you both to catch your breath. “You wanna fuck me right here on your desk?” You asked playfully.

“I’ve wanted to fuck you on this desk from day one.” He smirked, placing another kiss on your cheek before turning away.

He slipped over to the door, twisting the lock with a click. You were already so wet with anticipation, but you were still relatively new to sex, and suddenly felt a pang of apprehension creep in. You weren’t a virgin, but you weren’t exactly experienced. Aside from a less than notable prom night at a motel, you hadn’t seen much action. But this was a man, a probably very experienced man, and you were worried about impressing him.

Turning back from the door, he paused just for a moment, taking note of your changed body language. “Hey, you okay? You know, we can stop here if you want.” He walked back to you, standing between your legs, placing a hand on your outer thigh.

“No, no I’m fine. I want this. I want you…I just…I’ve only had sex once.” You looked away, embarrassed.

Jamie chuckled. “Oh, darling…” He cooed as he brought his hand to your cheek. “You can trust me. I can go as easy as you want.” His gentle care turned you on even more.

You brought your hand to his on your cheek and pulled it down, pressing it to your aching heat between your thighs, looking up at him with glassy eyes. “What if…I don’t want you to go easy.” You whispered. “How about you teach me something new, professor…”

His eyes went from where you placed his hand, and back up to your eyes. “Shit…you’re so wet.” He breathed; you felt his fingers lightly moving against your clothed cunt. “You sure you want this?”

“Mhm...god, I want you.” You nodded, staring at his lips, hoping his fingers would find their way under the barrier separating them from where you needed them.

Jamie crashed his lips into yours, as you clamored your hands over his shoulders and arms, hoping to pull him closer. His hand remained between your legs, teasing you with pressure that just wasn’t enough. You brought one hand down to his emerging bulge, caressing him through his jeans. A soft moan came from his throat as he rocked his hips slightly, before pulling away from you and taking your hand off of him. You looked confused.

“No, no. Your hands stay above both our waists, got it? Now, lie back.” He smirked.

You did as he said, slowly lowering yourself back on to the desk, keeping eye contact with Jamie. He remained between your legs, a hand on either thigh. He slowly pushed his hands up toward your hips, bringing the bottom hem of your dress up with them, exposing your light blue panties that were splotched with your excitement. He smiled to himself seeing how turned on you were for him. He glanced up at you, just scanning one more time for any sense of hesitation, before hooking his fingers around the band of them, and sliding them down your legs.

He tucked them into his back pocket, bending over you, meeting your lips again. He nipped at your bottom lip, as he reached back down, tracing a finger lightly over your slit. Your hips bucked upward, begging for more stimulation. Jamie smirked against your lips as he took his finger to your clit and began tracing tight circles. He moved his lips from yours down to your neck, biting and suckling, no doubt leaving marks that would take a few days to fade. You squirmed under his touch, aching for even more.

“Professor Bower…” you moaned.

“Call me Jamie, love.” He said against your neck.

“Jaaamiee…” You moaned again.

“Fuck, I love the sound of that.” He groaned, removing his finger from your bundle of nerves, a whimper leaving your mouth at the loss of contact.

He pushed you slightly backward, giving him the right angle now to place a delicate kiss on your thigh. He smirked up at you briefly before then moving planting his mouth on to your eager cunt. His tongue worked euphoric circles on your clit, not wasting any time also plunging a finger inside you. You gasped, grinding your hips down into his face, tensing yourself, your hands automatically tangling themselves up in his hair. Suddenly, he stopped.

“Hey. What did I say? Hands above the waist, or I won’t touch you anymore.” He said sharply.

“But…it feels so good…I can’t.” You say, catching your breath.

“Well then I guess we’re done here.” He started to stand up.

“No! Please…please keep touching me. I’ll be good.” You bit your lip.

Jamie smiled devilishly as he sank back down to his position. “That’s my good girl.”

He returned to working on you with his tongue, pumping in and out with his finger. You tried to stifle your increasing moans, not wanting to draw attention to yourselves. Jamie moaned into your pulsating heat, causing vibration, and sending shockwaves through your core. You gripped the edges of the desk, trying to follow Jamie’s rule, writhing under him. You bucked your hips up as he slipped in a second finger, pumping rhythmically as he swirled his tongue.

“Shit…shit I-..” You breathed.

“You’re doing so well, baby. That’s it. I’ve got you.” Jamie pressed a hand to your lower abdomen, increasing the growing pressure in your belly.

Without thinking, you grabbed his hand, gripping it tightly as you squirmed, feeling your release building. He smiled against you at this innocent and intimate gesture, intertwining his fingers with yours, still suckling your sensitive bud. He curled his fingers upward inside you in a beckoning motion.

“Jamie, fuck, I-…I’m gonna…”

"Yes, love. Go on, cum for me. Cum just for me." Jamie kissed and nibbled on your inner thigh.

You felt your orgasm crash over you. Your legs quivered as your head fell back in ecstasy. He caressed your hand in his with his thumb as he kept rubbing your clit with his other, helping you ride out your high. He came back up to your lips as you came down in a haze, tasting yourself as he kissed you.

“You still with me, love?” He asked chuckling, pulling you to sit upward again.

“Yeah…no one’s ever gone down on me before. You’ve set the bar really high, though.” You panted, buzzing all over.

“Good.” He smirked, leaning into kiss you again.

You couldn’t wait any longer, you needed him. All of him. Right then. You brought your hands up to his belt, eagerly undoing it as he smiled against your lips. He assisted in removing the belt and pushing his jeans down, his cock springing out over the band of his boxers as he pulled them down. He spit into his hand and wrapped around his cock, stroking himself a few times as he stared at you, taking you all in with his eyes before he had his way.

"I need you...I need you right now, Jamie. Please." The words poured out of your mouth, dripping in lust.

Jamie chuckled. "So desperate for me...you're so good for me."

He lined himself up with your waiting cunt, still seated on the edge of the desk. Slowly, he pushed himself in. Your breath hitching as his width stretched your walls, and he let out a moan as he bottomed out. He kissed and bit at your lips as he paused a moment for you to adjust to him, before starting an even and pace of slow, deep thrusting.

“God, I’ve thought of this while I’ve fucked my hand so many times…shit. You feel so good around me, baby.” He said in a gruff voice before burying his face into your neck, his teeth looking to leave more bruises.

“Me too.” You whispered. “Mmm, fuck me, Jamie.”

“Mmm, say that again, love. Say my fucking name.” He groaned, thrusting deeper.

“Mmmm, oh god, please fuck me, Jamie.” You moaned into his ear, your hands sliding through his hair, gripping his blonde hair tight as your eyes closed.

In a swift motion, Jamie pushed you down on your back again, pulling your legs up into his arms. His pace quickened, thrusting hard and fast into you from this angle. With your legs open and held up like this, he was hitting exactly where you needed it. He was fucking you like he wanted you to never forget it, and you knew you never would; you could never after this.

“You’re my fucking girl.” He grunted. “Say it.” He delivered a hard smack to the side of your ass cheek, with your legs still on either side of him. You let out a yelp as his large hand made contact with your soft skin.

“I’m your girl.” You panted. “I’m your girl, Jamie.”

He continued pounding into you. Both of you had long since given up trying to stifle yourselves. You reached down to your clit, circling it with your fingers, looking Jamie directly in the eye. He smiled wickedly with a chuckle as he watched you touch yourself while he fucked you. You felt him twitch inside you, being driven wild at the sight before him.

“Fuck, baby...that’s so sexy…I don’t think I can last much longer.” He gripped your thighs tight in his hands. “Where do you want it?” He asked.

“Inside.” You moaned. “I have an IUD. I want to feel you cum in me.” You arched your back, feeling a second high approaching.

“Okay. Fuuuck. I-…I’m-“

He reached his released, throwing his head back with a string of expletives. You felt his warm, thick seed spill into you, sending you over the edge at the sensation. You clenched around his cock, your body quivering with pleasure. As you both came down from the euphoria, Jamie’s pumping stopped and he stayed still, not yet pulling out of you. He let your legs fall and pulled you back up towards him, his hand sliding up into your hair, while his other hand rested on the small of your back. He placed a delicate kiss on your lips, pulling back as your sweaty foreheads rested together while you both caught your breath.

“Well, I think you passed the exam.” Jamie chuckled.

You laughed. “I’ve always been a bit of a teacher’s pet, hm?”

He slowly pulled out of you, reaching over to a roll of paper towels kept near the whiteboard to help with cleanup of the mess you had both made of yourselves and the desk.

“So… I’m teaching a poetry class next semester.” Jamie began as you finished straightening yourselves and the room up. “If you’re interested in any further extracurricular activities...” He winked.

“You know, I just might switch to being an English major. I suddenly really love literature classes.”

[wysteria-clad]

“I haven’t laughed like this in a long time” with the Moon Knight boys might actually end me, I am BEGGING you please!!

The hair problem

paring: moon boys x fem! reader; established relationship

a/n:

my writing style is slightly different in this one.

Marc is a silly idiot in this one, don't take him seriously, he likes to tease you playfully.

Thanks to @imgoingtofreakoutnow for Spanish words and phrases 💗

warnings: cutting your own bangs lol

genre: fluff

------

You shouldn't have done that. You should not have done that. But it was too late now.

Fifteen minutes ago, you have been scrolling pinterest and pictures of girls with cute bangs caught your eyes. Your eyes lit up at the mental picture of you having a full front bangs.

Part of your mind warned you not to do it by yourself. But you ignored it. You opened youtube for watching tutorials. Hey, how hard could that be?

Two tutorials later, here you are. A chunk of your luscious locks on the bathroom sink.

"Shit. Shit" you drop the kitchen scissors. Yes kitchen scissors. Look, you were in a hurry and I'm not gonna judge. We've all been there.

You don't know if you should laugh or cry.

You stare at your reflection on the bathroom mirror.

It was too short than you expected and too blunt. Your thick uneven bangs rests at your eye level, few strands longer than the rest, reaching down the corner of your right eye.

You laugh to yourself, mix of panic and humor sense at your mistake.

"Okay, I can fix this" a lie you tell yourself. A sigh escape your lips. You just need to trim a little bit at the same level. That's it.

A bad idea, really. But you are desperate to fix your bangs. You bring the trimmer near your forehead, accidentally trimming your right eyebrow in the process. Yikes. You didn't realise it until after the deed was done.

"Where is it?" you mumble to yourself with half belief, searching for the electric trimmer Marc keeps, opening and closing the doors of couple shelves.

"Fuck!"

Could this get any worse? You mutter few more profanites. Half of your right eyebrow is gone.

You should have resisted the urge and gone to sleep instead. Any urges and thoughts after 9pm was a bad idea. Now you knew that.

"Y/n, baby, where are y-" Marc stops himself, finding you in the bathroom, his eyes fixed on your bangs. "Oh my God" he pauses, "what happened?" he chuckles as if trying not to laugh fully.

"Can someone smack him for me?" you cross your arms.

"Hey!"

"Oh, love, I'm sorry" Steven strides towards you, cupping your face in his hands. "It's alright, Y/n/n. It's not that bad. We can fix it, yeah?"

"So it looks some level of bad?" you pull away from his loving embrace momentarily to glance at the mirror again.

"That's not-"

"I'm sorry. C'mere" Marc cuts off Steven, opening his arms in hugging gesture.

Okay fine, maybe you could hug him, you think.

His eyes moves from your eyes to your bangs.

"Don't you dare-"

"You look like Dora" he bursts into fit of laughter. His unrestrained laughter fills your ear. "I haven't laughed like this in a long time"

You couldn't help but think how lovely it sounds. When was the last time you heard him laugh like this? You laughed too at the beginning. Maybe, it's not that bad. He wouldn't actually do anything to hurt you intentionally. Besides, it's just hair, it always grows back, you mentally shrug, somewhat consoling yourself. But that doesn't mean, you forgive him that quickly.

"No, you laughed at me" you swat his extended arm playfully with a pout.

"What happened to your eyebrow?!" his expression changes when he finally notice the part of missing eyebrow when he moves the bangs.

"You really want me to ask that?" you sigh exasperatedly.

"I can shave my eyebrow too, if it would make you feel better" Steven fronts, determined to make you feel better. Oh, darling.

"No we are not shaving our eyebrow" Marc protests.

You couldn't help but laugh. Steven ever the sweetheart. But why not play a little with Marc. You can tease back too.

"Actually, I'd like that. We can match!"

"Hell no" Marc Spector would jump off a cliff for you, bring the moon closer to you if you wished. Probably be would shave his head too if you asked. But shaving half of his right eyebrow? Nah, mate. Not happening.

You can see him looking in the mirror and arguing with Steven. "No"

Marc resists hard not to grab the trimmer as Steven wanted to do it. Alright, that's when you decide to interfere and tell them you were just kidding and you were playing with Marc for his teasing earlier.

"You are evil"

"Oh, shush you big baby"

You watch Marc punch himself in the face. "Ow!"

"Doesn't feel great, right?" Steven sasses. "That wasn't me though" he smirks.

"That's for teasing my princesa" you hear Jake's accent and a smile blooms on your face.

"Our girl, Jake. She is our girl" Marc was quick to correct him.

"Not when you make her sad, hombre"

You giggle at their banter.

"Hey" you gently cup Jake's face, making him look at your eyes. "I belong to all of you" you smile. "And I know Marc was just messing around, don't worry about it, okay?" you assure Jake.

He presses a kiss to your head. "Let me fix it" he makes you sit next to the sink. "Eres hermosa, no importa qué, querida", he lifts your chin up with this fingers ever so gently, making you look in his loving eyes. With a kiss to your nose, he makes you giggle and grabs the scissors to cut off the uneven pieces and make the bangs look even. And he did.

Marc apologised again later that night. He wouldn't stop until he heard you laugh.

Now your bangs rests right above your eyebrows and after you styled it with a straightener, it actually looks pretty cute, not gonna lie. Thanks to your man Jake.

[mewmckenna]

Thoughts about Eliza x William and Nash

As we have come to the end of season four of MSATD, I have been rethinking some of the aspects of the show. From the very beginning of the show, I was a hardcore Eliza x William shipper, as I think most people were, but recently I have certain reservations about this ship and it's all Patrick Nash's fault.

I have always been a fan of William as a character as I think about his character arc and the development he has gone through over the season. I rewatched parts of season one recently, the end of season one, and yikes he really was just saying things. However, William has grown and he has certainly become more supportive of Eliza’s career, going so far as to go out of his way to help her and compliment her skills when she doubts herself. I don't dislike William and Eliza as a couple now, but I find that they are no longer the most intriguing option for me anymore though I know they are almost certainly going to be endgame. Perhaps they could be enough for me in another world where there is not another option for Eliza sitting literally Right There, who does not and has never had the same scruples about her gender and her abilities.

The issues that Patrick has with Eliza are not because of those aspects of her identity, but rather the areas where their personalities, styles, and sometimes morals do not align. That being said, they also tend to work through issues much quicker and easier than Eliza and William do. Their problems tend to only escalate when their goals deviate and Eliza and Patrick can disagree about things without it becoming a bigger problem. Nash wants to protect his business and Eliza wants to prove herself and to do the right thing. These goals do not always align and this causes friction between the two. This, however, seems to be something Patrick is actively working on as he mentions both in season two and season four how she makes him want to be a better person. Also, while William spends much of the first couple of seasons actively trying to get Eliza to change and become more like what their society wants her to be, Nash never has this expectation of her, having only known her as a detective. This is therefore a common area of disagreement for Eliza and William that she is able to avoid with Patrick.

Eliza and William also have this issue of differences in goals but I’m not sure how the writers are planning to rectify the issue. As Arabella says in season 3, Eliza will always choose her job over anything else, including William. While I am personally not a fan of Arabella because of the whole Victorian-pick-me-girl thing she has going on, I do agree with her here. We see this issue being brought up again in season 4 when William decides to go to America. He knows that a future with Eliza could only happen if something in their relationship gives, and at this point, it seems like it’s going to have to come from him. His idea of marriage has certainly changed over time, but his issues with Eliza’s position remain, as he says when he tells her that he leaves. William can’t continue working with the police while she is an investigator and she will not stop working just so that they could be married. 

William himself sees the impossibility of the situation, and frankly, I think that the only way that they could end up together would be for him to leave Scotland Yard and come to work with her at her agency. Eliza has of course already offered this to him once in season two and he was very much against the idea, but I think in season five William might have enough development to understand where she’s coming from. That being said, as they are now, I would honestly hate for either of them to have to give up their ambitions for the other. Perhaps William is going to get even more development in season five and decide to give up on his career with the police. If not, the end of this show will be rather shocking for the larger audience lol.

[jazzy---j]

CC3... and just my problems with sjm as a whole.

Soooooo, yeah. that was a bit disappointing. I wanna start off that due to the problematic nature of SJM I wanna make it clear I no longer financially support her. When I first began reading her books I was in high school and didn't know much about whose books I was reading. Most of it was just pick up a book, read the summary, if I liked it I bought it. But now as an adult who is on booktok and all the other bullshit (it's a whole mess) I can see all of a book and author's pros and cons and be like, "nah, I'm not doing that." And you know as a black woman, I cannot just be and do what I want and damn whoever it may impact or the consequence. I don't get to live in that world. I feel like I have somewhat of a responsibility to not contribute to the harm that the world already does to marginalized people around the world. That's just me personally, black people are not a monolith and this way of thinking doesn't apply to all of us.

Anyway all that being said, I am a book reader who is invested in whatever story they are reading and want to know what happens. So I read CC3.., but was sailing the high seas while I did it if you know what I mean. And let me just say... yikes. The problematic things that SJM does in real life and all that those issues mean really do shine in this book. I mean I always knew white authors have different experiences than me so I don't expect something that caters to me when I read their books but, idk sjm makes all the problematic things just so apparent. And it's just generally hard to read. There can't be any separation between the art and the artist in this one guys. I'm a political science and history major in real life so I spend my time studying political theory and structures of power in historical contexts. Hopefully, I can work to better understand those structures in our current present and with my intersection of activism (I am very passionate about that in my day-to-day) work to make a better world for marginalized people. So when I read SJM, I see some very troubling themes in her work. Themes that can perpetuate misogyny, racism, and imperialism. And it just makes me queasy reading it. It's not fun for me to read that. The way she used the oppression and discrimination of people as a major plot device, that the heroes have to defeat but in real life be ok with taking a birthright trip is just... a type of cognitive dissonance that I can't even put into words. and don't think I forgot the Breonna Taylor incident that she still has on her Instagram. if you don't know what I'm talking about look it up on TikTok, many black book readers have created multiple videos explaining that whole situation.

Now some people may be like, "What the fuck are you talking about. I don't see any of this." And like that's cool maybe because of what I'm studying I just see it everywhere. But I just have not been able to shake this ickiness in my gut about her work. The most thought-out example of the problematic nature of her work that I have is the description and characterization of the Illyrian people.

Now the way she physically described the illryians is as brown-skinned, with dark hair, and brown or dark eyes. This does put them in a very racially ambiguous position but to describe them as brown-skinned makes me picture brown people who in real life are racially recognized as black and brown people. People apart of brown communities are usually Southeast Asian or Arab people. They are marginalized in real life through various forms of oppression displayed in orientalism perpetuated mostly recently by the United States in the last 30 years (the war on terror, but this behavior goes back so much further). The Illyrian people's cultural characterization coupled with their physical description aligns with the negative aspects of Orientalism. Literally, the illryians are described as "backward", "barbaric", "slow to change", and stuck in timeless, old antiquated traditions that encourage the abuse of women and children. Sjm describes an indigenous people (she makes it clear that the illryians are native to the night court and nowhere else) as "savage" culturally, in their interpersonal relationships, and communally. That is just described as inherent to the people (except for a couple of characters who are "the good ones", or "not like that" and lucky enough to get away). Culturally they are described as being constantly in a state of conflict, preparing for and/or enjoying that conflict. I'm so sorry but that is Orientalism, literally the definition of how Orientalism was used to justify the colonization of the Middle East and parts of Asian during the colonization period and again when the western powers and the United States had a vested interest in interfering politically and economically in the region in the last couple of decades. That same language was used to describe the people of the Middle East and justify their oppression in the West. The exact same words. I did not understand the connection until I took a Middle East: politics and society class about two semesters ago and again that same language was used when we were learning about Orientalism. I went back to read some of acotar again and I saw all of that in relation to the illryians and I was like, "oh, oh no." I really don't know what else to say. To me, the relation is very very clear and makes my stomach just drop when reading it.

And the thing about it is it did not have to be this way, SJM did not have to characterize them like that. There is no real narrative function of this characterization, they are not the bad guys of the story or the main antagonist. In fact, the main characters need them to actually defeat the evil. SJM at the base made an interesting indigenous group of people that could have been a unique culture in her narrative landscape and added to her world-building. Instead, she wrote harmful stereotypes about vaguely racialized, marginalized people that directly mirror a marginalized group of people in the real world. Now was that her intention or just the subconscious influence of Orientalism in our society coming out without her awareness? I mean i cannot confirm from the horse's mouth that this is the case right? She has never actually said this. But her stance on current world events that are happening right (Palestine and Gaza strip) does not give me a lot of hope that she is completely unaware. But either way, this can hurt people in the real world. In the book, because the Illyrians are characterized the way that they are, the main characters are put in a moral position of opposition, that is the the dynamic. And to me, that dynamic is hard to read knowing what I know and what actually happens in real life to people that the Illyrians mirror. it begins to be super easy to just live in that moral opposition that can stripe away people's humanity and value. Azriel's contempt for his people and desire to destroy Illyria and the culture is a good example of what happens to these groups in real life. This is just one example of things in her work that can be problematic.

And listen I'm not writing this to tell you to stop reading her, to tell you what to do with your money, or who to like/support. That is not my job. I just wanted to share some of my thoughts and give whoever is reading this food for thought. And hey I might be reading too much into this, and just going way too deep. It is just hard for me to enjoy her work anymore knowing and seeing what I see. I can't really ignore that icky gut feeling.

And hey do I think sjm is a good writer? Eh... that is a whole other blog post. I could go really deep into her world-building, story choices, and what I think might just be lazy writing. But there are some aspects that I do like and are unique. But guess what? The fandom's fanfic writers are the light in the tunnel in this situation. As they often are in other fandoms. they take the actual cool and fun things that SJM created and build on them in a way that does not negatively depict the representation of real people. In a way that is not narratively disappointing. In a way that is just fun for everyone to enjoy. Free of charge they express their talent because they love to do it for however long they want to. Fanfiction is an amazing system that I hope and pray won't get messed up. Like one of my favorite creators @separatist-apologist posted about last week, "I think no matter what happens, we've all spent so much time reading fic and developing headcanons that whatever SJM does isn't going to live up to the fantasy we've created...". And I for real felt that and I just wanna shout out to all the fic writers who make this space fun despite all the fandom fuckery and SJM fuckery.

@separatist-apologist, @thehaemanthus, @the-lonelybarricade, @moodymelanist, @ablogofsapphicpanic, @vidalinav, @vikingmagic33, @c-e-d-dreamer

There are more that I probably missed. So you know thank you guys for making things fun and giving me something to read that doesn't give me an icky feeling when I read.

So yeah, thank you for coming to my ted talk. this turned out to be hella long but you know once I started I couldn't stop. If you have any questions, my ask box is open. Again these are just my thoughts. you don't have to agree and I'm not trying to change your mind. I just needed to share this somewhere.