#car singin

[road2nf]

I thought this story was worth sharing, and whether it is read by none or one or twenty five, I’m glad I wrote it down, and I’m glad my brother read DFTBA from a bumper sticker on the highway. I hope someone smiles at the words on this page, before they are swallowed by the deluge of love and care sent by people all over the world with stories just like my own.

To be up front about it, your videos saved my relationship with my brother, Donovan.

He was my absolute best friend growing up, the person that everyone else had to live up to in order to be even considered a decent person.

He was my hero.

He’s three years older than me, and he was a protector as I went through the struggles that “high potential” kids have which aren’t always understood by those in authority positions.

All my teachers wanted to move me up a grade, which ruined the friendships I had cherished as ten-year-olds do. Fast forward six years, and my brother and I grew apart pretty quickly.

I was president of a couple of clubs at school and he was off to Vanderbilt that fall. We stopped telling each other everything, and I didn’t know what to do to keep talking.

We were driving to visit our grandmother who lived an hour away, and it was getting late.

We were keeping each other awake, blaring music and singing at the top of our lungs.

It was one of the best memories I had with him, and then it got better.

As a car passed us on the highway, my brother (pointing, reading a bumper sticker) yelled, “DFTBA!” And looked at me expectantly. I thought he was crazy, and he just kept repeating,

“Don’t forget to be awesome!...Vlogbrothers...John... Hank...none of this rings a bell?”

When I still didn’t understand, he just told me to go on YouTube on my phone and search “John Green pennies” because he couldn’t remember any specific title.

That was it.

Three minutes and fifty seven seconds, and I was hooked. We sat in my grandma’s living room until past 2:30 that morning watching any video that came up.

The most popular, related to the current one playing, and all of Hank’s songs. Since that day, we would run into each other’s room and talk about the videos for hours.

I also have a (totally healthy) obsession with Jane Austen, and watching all the Pemberly Digital projects with him has been second only to reading them in the first place.

We have read John’s novels together, and cried for hours.

This Christmas, my brother made a donation in my name for the P4A and it was the most amazing thing anyone could have ever done for me.

Without ever watching a video, our parents soon picked up on who we were speaking about when ‘John and Hank’ were mentioned, which is astonishing when they can’t even remember the names of our closest friends. I could list off one hundred other things about being a Nerdfighter, but most importantly is saying thank you.

Thank you for doing this and putting yourself out there which is so difficult to do.

Thank you for leaving your children something to be proud of when so many are left with nothing.

Thank you for turning Nerdfighters into Nerdfighters by decreasing world-suck.

And thank you to your wives and families who support you as you change lives on a daily basis.

Thank you for inspiring me personally, and showing me how easy it is to be passionate about writing and words. I thought this story was worth sharing, and whether it is read by none or one or twenty five, I’m glad I wrote it down, and I’m glad my brother read DFTBA from a bumper sticker on the highway.

I hope someone smiles at the words on this page, before they are swallowed by the deluge of love and care sent by people all over the world with stories just like my own.

Many good wishes and blessings.

-Kate Elizabeth

#nfstories #nerdfighters #vlogbrothers #nerdfighteria #dftba #awesome #community #brother #brotherhood #family #hero #connection #friendship #travel #car singin #reading #DFTBA #P4A #project for awesome #kindness #gratitude #thank you #proud #legacy #generosity #change #writing

[seithr]

Randomly remembered the half-reason i call my oc-verse by the name it has while laying in bed. One-half of the reason i still knew, but I had forgotten what had truly, really cemented it jointly until now

(it was a song from my favourite band I haven't listened to in a while.)

(the song fit so well at the time, still does, that i needed to hold onto it for the main protagonists forever, by partially naming their story in reference.)

Does this explanation make any sense? Does anyone know why I'm tearing up remembering this. Aahh

#(I'm emotional because I've been feeling bad about it all lately. enjoying things I make I mean—art or ocs or frivilous things.) #(So remembering that song and when it came out. That I couldn't see them in person. But i held onto it my own way. As something I loved) #(Something I still do love a lot... Parts of me saying no—you don't hate it. No. I'll help you remember more. I'm a little misty about it.) #The song is just The Killers - Run For Cover. I couldn't see them in person all those years ago—family went without me. #All my new oc rework with Zin and Hunter and Caia were like a year old or so. #It's a little silly. But the character Zin's derived from was a lightning mage so I stuck to it—I like monhun's zinogre for what its worth #So there's recurring theme and imagery. Thunder's not lightning but the sound and the feeling after the flash the flame and strike. #There's that meaningful thought—the story is the aftermath of a big tragedy. It matches what I like in monsters and other chars. #And at that time—my favourite band I missed out on puts out a really good song I download everywhere and it goes like: #He motioned me to the sky/ I heard heaven and thunder cry/ Run for cover/ Run while you can baby don't look back/ You gotta run for cover #And it goes on of course. The rest of the song's still really good. There's more that fits but point is; More evocative imagery. #So there. Why my bundle of OCs—Zinadia Hunter and Caia's story—is called Thunder 20XX. minus the 20XX. That's tongue-in-cheek #About some day I'll manage to make something tangeable or broadly shareable with them. I guarentee this century! #Thunder... oh my darling Thunder. Eight years man. More than that if I really want to count pre-rework INTO the complete original work. but #I like that it's definably 8. I like that I remembered I've always loved them a lot. Always been my thing to lean on even by name... #I need to get to sleep. Ive gotten a little more emotional over one song than I'd rather regularly be. Give it a listen maybe? Goodnight #Armour clanking #I need an oc tag #What have you gathered to report to your progenitors?🎶Are your excuses any better than your senator's🎶He held a conference #and his wife was standing by his side🎶He did her dirty but no-one died🎶 #I saw Sonny Liston on the street last-night black-fisted and strong singing🎶Redemption song🎶 #He motioned me to the sky🎶I heard heaven and thunder cry🎶RUN FOR COVER #What are you waiting for—a kiss or an apology?🎶You think by now you'd have an A in toxicology🎶 #It's hard to pack the car when all you do is shame us🎶Even harder when the dirtbag's famous🎶 #I saw my mother on the street last night all pretty and strong singin🎶The road is long🎶 #I said 'Mama I know you tried!'🎶But she fell on her knees and cried🎶RUN FOR COVER #Just run for cover - you've got nothin left to lose...

[kalmeria]

i fucking love how at first glance tatsumi is supposed to be the normal one in alkaloid, he is the most responsible one, always level headed, a reassuring presence, constantly supporting his unit mates etc. and then you look the tiniest bit closer and it’s like. oh honey, you’re so fucked up

#dude will casually say ‘’I too would gladly be nailed to a cross if my death could solve everything’’ in a conversation #(but he also says he doesn’t believe in self sacrifice!!!!!! like do you Get It??) #also he should not be allowed to drive a car #anyways. i do love it when the normal one. isn’t. normal #enstars #kazehaya tatsumi #like even his singin voice. the other three all have some kind of quirk but tatsumi’s I wouldn’t know how to describe. just normal #or maybe this is just me?

[hellonoblesky]

My dad singing the smiths what a guy

#turtledove yells into the abyss #He pulled out a smith’s cd from his collection (aux in our car is broken) and started singin

[firepitbutterfly]

theresssss a wayy to walk that sayz Stay Awayyyyyyyy

#Spotify #was singin in the car earlier

[loveinhawkins]

Eddie quietly falling more and more in love with Steve with every car ride—every time it’s raining, and he watches as Steve does a stupid little run with an umbrella to the front porch so Robin won’t mess up her hair before a marching band concert.

Falling in love with the constancy of it, with every little routine Steve does. It takes a few weeks of listening for Eddie to figure out that when Steve first half-sings, “Good mornin’,” as everyone clambers into the car that he’s imitating the song from Singin’ in the Rain.

Falling in love with how Steve always, always either has the radio on or a tape playing something that he can sing along to, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. How the car’s always this chaotic space but always, always brimming with love and joy—Steve snapping his fingers every few minutes, like, “Oh, Rob, this is our song! You know, when the—yeah, the shift when—no, not that one, the other time that—” (Eddie discovers with fond amusement that many, many songs share the title of ‘Robin and Steve’s song.’)

Steve singing along to the chorus of Mr. Blue Sky whenever Dustin’s called shotgun in the front, and Eddie soon realises, his heart fit to burst, that it’s because Steve must associate the song with Dustin; that he does the same thing with everyone he gives rides to, like it comes so naturally to him, his love for each person intertwined with each song, like he’s making the melody anew every time.

Eddie, tipsy from ‘Graduation Champagne’ courtesy of Nancy, asks Steve once if he has a song tied to him.

“Ah,” Steve says, smiling and bright-eyed in his role as the designated driver, “you have a whole damn catalogue, Eddie.”

And… oh.

Well, Eddie reasons, heart skipping a beat, he doesn’t need to know all of them at once, then. He doesn’t mind waiting, letting each one unfold, like unwrapping an expensive chocolate.

One night the two of them are driving back to Hawkins alone, having spent the day at a mall shopping for Robin’s birthday. They really didn’t need to spend the whole day, had already got her presents within the first couple of hours, but they dawdled, messed around, tried on increasingly ridiculous hats and sunglasses to make the other laugh.

And Steve fiddles with the radio until he finds an obscure station that just plays songs from musicals. And yeah, he sings along, but his voice is a little restrained, almost like he’s shy. Eddie looks at him with a soft smile, suddenly knows he’s seeing something precious, something Steve perhaps reserves for car rides alone. That Steve is letting him into a private moment.

“You have a real pretty voice, man,” he murmurs, quiet enough that they could pretend it goes unheard under the noise of the car driving along.

But as Steve looks ahead, he smiles, and his ears turn red.

He goes for it for the rest of the ride, voice back to its normal volume. He plays it up, trying to make Eddie laugh while they’re waiting for traffic lights to change. Catches his eye and damn near trills, “I feel fizzy and funny and fine, and so pretty, Miss America can just resign.”

And of course, Eddie laughs. Feels his stomach swoop. He knows what this feeling is. Oh, he knows.

As the West Side Story tribute ends, Steve’s voice drops back to his normal register. Turns gentle and sincere as he glances at his wing mirror and sings, almost to himself, “For I’m loved by a pretty wonderful boy.”

Yes, Eddie thinks, you are, you are, you are.

#have a little something before 1) next emotional chapter of nbtdad (an idea from here kinda related to it) #& 2) upcoming emotionally devastating dustin pov fic #steddie #steddie ficlet #steddie fic #steve x eddie #steve and robin #steve and dustin #everyone loves each other so damn much & Steve’s love is like the sun & Eddie is so gone for him ❤️

[todayontumblr]

Thursday April 6.

This Barbie is a Today on Tumblr post.

Hi Barbie!

Hi Ken!

Now we've got that out of the way, it really looks like we are just gonna have to party. I mean, how else are we going to pass the time until July 21, 2023 (or thereabouts)? You've probably seen the all-singin', all-dancin' trailer for #barbie (and if you haven't, you absolutely have to see it right this very moment), but it's safe to say that it looks fun, fun, fun. There is a lot of pink, a lot of good-looking people greeting each other, repeatedly, with either Barbie or Ken, a lot of dancing, a lot of silliness, a lot of perfectly-delivered lines ("I literally go nowhere without them!"), a lot of perfectly-shot shots (the shoes, the flying car) and simply more innuendo than we know what to do with. The year, 2023, and the world is Barbie's—so cometh the hour, cometh the camp. And you better be with us, or we're going to have to beach you off.

#today on tumblr #barbie #ken #beaches #dance off #camp #pink #mattel #margot robbie #ryan gosling #barbie movie #greta gerwig #barbie 2023 #barbie the ? slayer

[sweaty-confetti]

i got super ill about the homestuck kids’ accents and wrote a whole thing

john: your stereotypical american accent that one thinks of, californian but diluted basically. says you guys a lot. pronounces wash kind of like warsh. also sometimes uses weirdly formal language, like television instead of TV, refrigerator instead of fridge, even automobile instead of car - dad’s fault. trained himself out of it cause he thought it was embarrassing, but slips up sometimes.

rose: somewhat of a transatlantic accent, including the speech patterns. picked it up from old tv shows and movies because she didn’t want to sound like roxy-mom (who has a thick mixture of a new york/boston/rhode island accent). but growing up with roxy-mom, she has a bit of that accent too - so it’s this weird mixture of 30% stereotypical American, 50% transatlantic, 20% boston accent. 

dave: texan accent, courtesy of dirk!bro, who spoke in the most stereotypical drawling texan accent ever. as he got older he started to think it wasn’t cool, so he started masking it, but it’s still there. gets stronger when he expresses emotion or when he forgets to mask it. gratuitous use of the word y’all. doesn’t say it over text but it’s a habit in real life. drops g’s at the end of words, like singin’, fuckin’, etc.

jade: obviously had no outside contact with other people other than with grandpa, so she has a slight british accent - kept up with learning to talk by watching youtube videos, so the accent isn’t very strong. also, even before going god tier, had weird canine vocalizations picked up from bec, like growling, whining, even sometimes howling, etc.

jane: very similar to john’s, but sounds…older? not transatlantic, but similar to late 19th century-early 20th century accents, with song-like intonation and faint r’s. heavy emphasized consonants and slight vowel merging with e and i, such that pen and pin sound virtually the same. all in all, what you’d imagine a canadian from the 1800s talks like. 

roxy: the goddamn heaviest stereotypical new york accent ever. a weird super heavy mix of queens and staten island accent she learned entirely for shits and giggles, and also to annoy rose-mom. not very nasally though, unless she’s trying to annoy someone on purpose. a lot of the word like thrown in. doesn’t say it over text, but it’s a habit irl. 

dirk: the flattest most unplaceable standard american accent ever, apart from a hint of a texan accent. learned to talk from the internet and robots, but when he was very young used to repeatedly watch videos that dave!bro left for him and programmed around the house. dave!bro had a heavy texan accent, which is where he picked that up from. drops g’s at the end of words, like singin’, fuckin’, etc.

jake: really heavy, stereotypically posh british accent that sounds like what an american thinks a british person sounds like. but he’s 100% genuine about it and there’s no real explanation for why he does it, other than the fact that when he was very young he used to repeatedly watch grandma’s favorite movies - old british movies. now it’s just a habit and he can’t be trained out of it.

#emo moss talks #homestuck #emo moss writes #beta kids #alpha kids #homestuck kids #homestuck humans #john egbert #june egbert #rose lalonde #john Crocker #jade Harley #jade english #dave strider #jane Crocker #jane egbert #dirk strider #jake english #jake harley #mom lalonde #bro strider #strilondes #homestuck beta kids #homestuck alpha Kids

[marshallsgirl]

Marshall revealing his new song to Y/N

Pairing: Eminem x Fem¡Reader

Warnings: 🔞 MATURE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

Recommended song: Remind Me - Eminem, In Too Deep - Eminem

Author's note: Hey, guys! I was so bored and I wrote this. I may delete it later or idk. Hope you all enjoy it. I love you guys so much! Sending all of you a warm hug🫂🤍

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■♡■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

"I have a surprise for you" Marshall said to me as he enter the living room. Inmediatly I turn off the tv and give all my attention to him. "Guess what" he said.

"What?"

"The song is complete!"

"Whoa baby!"

Here's the thing. He told me he was writting a song about us, but that's it. He didn't talk about ever again. Even if I asked him about it he had changed the topic. So, I was very nervous about it. Because this has happened before. It was with the Revival album. That one song called Remind Me. That one was for me. I still remember when he show me that song.

" did you...That's my fav rock&roll song!" I said when I heared the beat.

"Yeah, that's the song you kept singin' and singin' while you're cooking" he said wanted to laugh at me.

I loved that song. Perfect combination but it was crazy. I mean...he did that for me? He united rock&roll and rap that was so crazy.

"Damn, that's crazy babe" I said.

"See y/n, u make me do things I normally wouldn't do"

"Awww, I love it and I love you baby!"

So, this time I was really nervous because I've been singin' a lot and very different genres. And Marshall...Well, he is so crazy. I didn't know what to expect.

"Are we going to the studio?" I asked him ready to go change if needed.

"No, let's just get in the car". So, we got inside his car. "Are u okay?" suddenly he asked me.

"Yeah, I'm good! I need to hear your song!"

I got too excited and I get very excited when I'm nervous I don't know why, but It's like I got a lot of energy all of the sudden. Anyways, so he says:

"Okay, okay but you need to know that I just got the final mix and I haven't heard it. I mean I know the entire song but I didn't hear the final mix yet" he explained.

"Omg..."

"What?"

"Wait, let me just make myself comfortable" I said while adjustin' my seat a little bit.

At this point he doesn't even hide that he's laughing at me.

"Ready?"

"Yeah, ready"

"Wait, look at me" he ordered and I obey. "I love you"

"Okay, now play the song!"

"Yo, say it back!" he replied.

"I love you, babe!"

And so the music started and he is lip singin': "This could never work, " is what we said at first. But whatever this is, it's working. But we're in two different worlds and (yeah) I'm not your husband (nah), you ain't my girlfriend. All I know is that (what?) When I'm with you, I'm a different person, yeah. And I ain't never met a chick as perfect. Girl, you're a ten, so here I am (yeah)

I literely screamed and Marshall had to stop the music.

"No, keep it goin'!" I argue.

He laughed and let the music continue: ...Can't tell if I'm cheating on her with you or cheating on you with her. But really, nobody's at fault, can't help who you love. Hope they don't ever hear us talk

'Cause we both are getting sloppy. Probably subconsciously part of me's hoping we get caught 'cause I'm not happy here (nah)

With her. Rather have you (yeah) Rather have me too. 'Cause you're not happy there (you're not happy there) With him. Rather have me (I know, but) We just in too deep (I'm in way too deep)

Marshall started singin' it out loud and I was vibin' with it the whole time. It was a good damn song. Honestly, I loved it. It truly was about us, about the start of our relationship, but there were a few things that weren't true like me havin' a wedding ring. It should say: I got a wedding ring. So it's her instead of you.

"That's it. What do u think?" he said not being able to stop smilin'

"Please, play the song one more time"

And he started to laugh again.

"Marshall!"

"Are for real? Did you loved it?" he was surprised.

"Yes, I love it!"

"Y/n..." he laughs again.

"Marshall! You're being so freakin' annoying. Play the song one more time!"

"Yo, you are just sayin that. You didn't loved it!"

"What? I do love it! Marshall!"

"Okay, okay"

He played the song again.

"I'm gonna cry" I said.

"Yo, you're hillarious!"

"That song is good as hell!"

#eminem #eminemslimmarshall #marshall mathers #slim shady #the real slim shady #rap god #eminem pics #marshall mathers x y/n #marshall mathers x reader #marshall mathers imagine #eminem imagine #eminem x reader #eminem x y/n #eminem x you

[oikawazitos]

[ + We're singin' in the car, getting lost upstate ]

　 　﹟ 　 ◌ 　🚃 　. . . 　sex, drugs, etc

#kim taehyung #taehyung #v #bts #levi ackerman #levi #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #aot #snk #anime #kpop #green #icons #moodboard #cotagecore #retro #vintage #garden #alternative #lq #messy #bts scenarios #green aesthetic #japancore #edgy #vibes #garden vibes #bts taehyung #bts moodboard

[kosije]

my band !

c/w ★ ׂ dom!guitarist miguel x sub!fem!reader, dom!rockstar hobie x sub!fem!reader, unprotected sex, creampie, semi public sex, fingering, squirting, size kink, slight exhibition kink, squirting kink, overstim, fb = fuck buddy

rockstar fb hobie who has you backstage at all of his shows. Finishing his set and coming back to fuck you in his tour bus. The whole car shakes and when you cum with a high-pitched moan he shudders out a laugh, speeding up his pace.

"Should have that voice singin' for me on stage. But you can jus' let everyone hear it in here, can't ya darlin'? Gonna be good and let everyone know who got you singin' so pretty, hmm?

And when his name escapes your lips in ecstasy, he cums with you, filling you up so much you're worried your birth control won't work.

guitarist fb miguel who, after finally perfecting a song, practices on you. Thick, calloused fingers rub along your folds through your arousal, before plunging them into you, making your back arch and cry out.

"Shh, you take them so good. Gonna let me fuck you with my fingers?" and when his fingers brush up against that spongy spot that has your hips humping his hand, you nod vigorously, mewing praises.

"That's my girl," he says with a smile that bares his canines as the coil in your gut tightens.

"M-m gonna" you whine, feeling an odd feeling form along your impending orgasm.

"Go on, mami. Fuckin' soak me." And when you can't hold back any longer, and your vision goes white as you feel yourself empty onto his hand in gushes, your moan is guttural. When your eyes clear up, and you finally look at miguel, his eyes are so blown out they look black and cock so hard he flinches at even the slightest bit of pressure.

"Another one. Give me another," he says in a groan, plunging his fingers back into you, as overstimulation rips through your body in a cry.

"C'mon, I know you can. Fuck- I jus need you to do that again, Amor. Then i'll fuck you how you deserve it.

#( ☆ ) spiderman: atsv #( ☆ ) smuts #miguel o'hara smut #miguel ohara #miguel x reader #hobie brown #hobie x reader #hobie smut #spiderman across the spiderverse smut

[silver-screen-divas]

Film and TV beauties. JOI LANSING

Joi Lansing was born Joyce Renee Brown on April 6, 1929 in Salt Lake City, Utah.

She was an actress, model and singer.

Lansing's film career began in 1948, and in 1952, she played an uncredited role in MGM's Singin' in the Rain. In 1955, Joi landed a recurring role as Shirley Swanson on the television series The Bob Cummings Show (1955). It was this series that showed everyone that she could actually act well. Because of this series, Joi began to get larger roles in films such as The Brave One (1956), Hot Cars (1956), and So You Think the Grass Is Greener (1956), all in 1956. In the opening sequence of Orson Welles 's Sed de mal (1958), she appeared as Zita.

After appearing in the comedy film Who Was That Lady? (1960), Joi landed the role of Goldie in the television series Klondike (1960). However, most viewers remember her as Lester Flatt's wife in The Beverly Hillbillies (1962), in which she appeared from 1965 to 1968. As Gladys Flatt, her beauty even surpassed Donna Douglas as Elly May Clampett.

Lansing has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame in Los Angeles for his contributions to television.

#Joi Lansing #beautiful #beauty #actress #hollywood #star #classic #diva #vintage #classic hollywood

[hotvintagepoll]

I am adoring all of these polls and gif sets and just being fed so many hot vintage people. As someone who really hasn’t watched very many classics, are there any movies you’d recommend for someone just starting to dip their toes in older media but unsure where to start?

Sure! I don't want to sway any voting, but I'll put an incomplete list of favorites that involve hot men not still in the bracket below the cut.

Something to note that applies to most of these old movies—older movies have different pacing than modern movies, so some of these might seem really slow or weird to start. There are also different ways of framing gender and agency, for better and for worse. I've italicized the ones that I think are the best for starting with, but go with whatever genre/aesthetic sounds best.

The Court Jester (Danny Kaye, Basil Rathbone)—a circus performer working for a quasi-Robin Hood infiltrates the royal court. Fun comedy that's incredibly accessible and still so light on its feet. Swordfighting, glamorous medieval costumes, court intrigues, and silly accents.

Singin' in the Rain (Gene Kelly)—fun polyamorous musical comedy. The dancing is incredible, but so is the sense of joy and camaraderie between Gene Kelly, Donald O'Connor, and Debbie Reynolds. Genuinely captures the feeling of hanging out with your best friends. 1920s Hollywood, big movie studios, backstage drama, goofy hijinks.

The Adventures of Robin Hood (Errol Flynn, Basil Rathbone)—classic swashbuckler/romance. It could read a little slow to modern tastes but the action scenes are absolutely killer, as is the sentiment of seeing little guys pull down big capitalists evil monarchs. Swashbuckling, labor activists merry men hanging out in the woods, hot men in tights, social commentary swords, a Maid Marian who really holds her own and falls in love with the socialist

Charade (Cary Grant)—thriller/romantic comedy. Audrey Hepburn's husband dies and leaves her a hidden inheritance, and she's racing some skeevy characters to find it. A little bit scary but mostly charming and gorgeous, and you can find it high quality virtually anywhere because they fucked up the copyright trademark in the opening credits. Romance, murders, Paris, 1960s fashion, chases in the night.

Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (Dick Van Dyke)—this movie is divisive for some reason—I personally like peace, love, and joy, so it makes the list. This is a James Bond movie if James Bond had two kids, lived in a windmill in the south of England, and was into cottagecore inventions more than martinis and racism. This is very much a kids' movie so go in with that expectation, but enjoy the gorgeous production design, the wonderfully silly performances, and Lionel Jeffries pulling out every stop as an insane old man. Dick Van Dyke has excellent DILF energy. Magical cars, big musical vibes, fun inventions, and romantic fantasy.

To Be Or Not To Be (Jack Benny)—comedy/drama. A ragtag Warsaw theatre troupe stands off against the Gestapo after the invasion of Poland. TW for Nazis, obviously, but overall this is a comedy with some heft, and kind of shocking to be this ballsy about fucking hating Hitler's guts in the 1940s. Hambone actors, Shakespeare, spies, 1930s gowns. It's been a minute since I watched it so I don't think there are any TWs here, but go forth with caution.

Witness for the Prosecution (Tyrone Power)—mystery/legal drama based off an Agatha Christie story. The performances are campy fun and the twist would be at home in something like Knives Out. Big dramatics, hambones, lots of talking, a bit of a mindbender.

The Lady Vanishes (Michael Redgrave)—mystery/suspense/romantic comedy. It's a little slow to start but roll with it—once the action moves to the train the pacing really picks up. This gets slotted as a thriller sometimes but it's much funnier and gentler than that. There's some period-typical snarkiness directed at anyone Foreign™ by some of the British characters; the British characters are also made fun of. Trains, British people, international shenanigans, mystery, and humor.

All About Eve (absolutely none of these hot men, lots of hot women though)—a legendary actress fights for her life against the rising star who supplants her. Big drama, big performances, lots of gasp! and dahling! and vicious little quips. New York, theatre pronounced theahhtah, drama queens and plotting.

The Philadelphia Story (James Stewart, Cary Grant)—talk-heavy comedy, lots of quick banter and period transatlantic accent fun. It's a bit shouty and conflict-heavy at times, but I don't think James or Cary have ever been hotter, and Katherine Hepburn is just wow. Very funny dialogue, relatable characters, incredibly hot across the board. There is one instance of a racial slur (not directed at anyone but still there) and one shove. Some people won't like the discussion of Hepburn's character's choices as a daughter and a wife. With all of these movies you'll see a a range of how female characters are presented and treated, and while some period movies fall hard for sexist tropes, I personally think the performances, direction, and subtext of many of these films actually prioritizes the experiences of the female characters and shows them as living, breathing people, even if they're not framed the way they would be today.

#hotvintagethoughts #asks #recs

[augustvandyne]

Lucy Chen x reader

Reader is there when whatever that guys name is was singing her lullaby and reader tells him to gtfo and comforts Lucy

lucy is my baby and the fact that chr*s even did that is beyond me

get out

You hated this for Lucy.

You hated Rosalind Dyer. You hated that Lucy had to go through what she went through. You hated that they even tried to open this case back up in the first place. And most importantly, you hated the DA.

More specifically, Chris.

He was always flirting with your girlfriend, with you standing right there.

In his defense, but really who would defend him?, he may not have even knew Lucy was in a relationship. Nor that it was with you.

You took your day off to accompany your girlfriend today.

Not only because of Chris, but because you knew she’d need emotional support, and you would never let her go through this alone.

You started the morning out perfectly—you’d made her breakfast and the two of you ate together at the table.

She made the two of you coffee, and you talked like today didn’t have the potential to be one of Lucy’s worst days.

Your mission today was to make sure that didn’t happen.

On the way to the office, the two of you listened to calming music—choices from both of your guys’ playlists.

But you could feel the air still as you pulled your car into the lot.

You put your hand over Lucy’s shaky ones, “It’ll be okay. I’m gonna be here the whole time. You aren’t getting rid of me.”

“No, but Chris might,” Lucy’s attempt at a joke failed, not receiving a laugh from you or herself.

“To hell with him,” You roll your eyes. “This isn’t about us, this is about you, and Rosalind.”

Lucy tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes like normal.

“Come on, you got this,” You say, and the two of you make your way inside the office.

Chris greets the two of you and takes you into the room to begin the interview. Lucy lets out a shaky breath and answers the questions with confidence.

Eventually she needs to take a break, so the three of you go towards the break room so you can refresh.

Chris makes watery coffee for the three of you, and begins humming a tune that the two of you—you and Lucy—immediately recognize.

Stars shining bright above you

Night breezes seem to whisper "I love you"

Birds singin' in the sycamore trees

Dream a little dream of me

You feel Lucy still beside you, and you immediately look at Chris with anger in your eyes.

Lucy reaches a shaky hand back onto a chair placed around the small table, stumbling backwards to sit before her legs betray her and she falls.

Chris tries apologizing to Lucy, but you step in front of his line of sight to her.

“What is wrong with you,” Your voice is low, and Lucy knows that means you’re beyond angry. And any other time she would tell you to calm down, but right now she’s trying to calm herself down.

“I—“

“Don’t answer me,” You laugh bitterly.

“Lucy, I’m so sorry,” Chris tries to side step you, but you won’t allow that.

“Back up,” You put your hand out. “I think you should leave.”

“But—“

“I’m not going to participate,” Lucy shakes her head, tears filling her eyes.

“You heard her,” You widen your eyes to get your point across. “Now leave.”

“Wh—“

“Get. Out,” You enunciate your words, but he still doesn’t seem to get it. “Do you need me to escort you to the door?”

“No.”

“Great, so it’s settled,” You fake enthusiasm. “You’ll walk to the door on your own.”

He gives up with a sigh, turning to walk out the door, to which you add, “Close the door on your way out.”

You stare at the door for a second to make sure he isn’t going to come back in, and when you’re sure he isn’t, you take the seat in front of Lucy.

“Luce,” Your eyes immediately soften.

You put one of your hands on Lucy’s cheek, cupping it in an attempt to comfort her.

She grabs your wrist, leaning into your touch, “Thank you.”

“Of course,” You have a slight frown on your face, still hating that she had to go through all of this again. “When you’re ready to get up, I’m gonna take you out to lunch. And then we’ll go home, and we can put our pajamas on, and watch whatever show you want.”

Lucy gives you a half smile, her eyes fluttering sadly.

“It’s okay,” Your heart breaks to see her go through this all over again. “Well, it’s not, but it will be. I promise.”

You wipe the tear threatening to fall, and Lucy loves you for it—for treating her so well.

“Take as much time as you need. I’m in no rush,” You shrug. “We could sit here all day.”

She laughs, “No you couldn’t! You’re too impatient.”

“Well I’m willing to be for you,” You say, making her give you a full smile—one that reaches her eyes this time.

“Okay, let’s go before you lie some more,” Lucy stands up, her hand still on your wrist.

She grabs your hand instead, making you stand as well.

“But you’re buying,” Lucy made it clear. “And I get to choose the place.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” You shake your head.

#lucy chen x reader #the rookie x reader #the rookie #please ask me about them #send asks #lucy chen #wlw post #obsessed

[aconflagrationofmyown]

Prima Nocta (or the right of the first night) Part 1

Warnings: so so so so many for thematic material. This is dark. Quite dark. This is freshly divorced and verrrrrry bitter and disillusioned Elvis helping himself to the bride of the newest Memphis Mafia initiate. Hugely unreliable narrator, belittling and objectifying of women, dub con because of that, sanctimonious chauvinism, reference to his marriage going very south. no actual sex yet but definitely 18+.

Notes: this got so long from just lead up that I figured it was worth publishing on its own and seeing if there’s interest for a part 2. Sorry for going bonkers on this one, sometimes you just gotta tap into the villain side of yourself. Also, this was inspired by many talks with my previous mutuals about THAT picture of Elvis holding a gun to George Klein’s head at his own wedding…I’m using it for solely for vibes, sorry George

Series: Sky High Lovin -reading Honeymoon might make this even better but not necessary

Dedicated to: Sweet Christi with the wayward mind and all my thanks to Ally and Jane and Elise for spitballing this into existence.

There was a time, not so long ago, when Elvis enjoyed life affirming events like weddings, believe it or not. He enjoyed facilitating days to celebrate love and loyalty and vows before God, promising everlasting devotion. That is, until he learned that “till death do us part” meant about as much to most as a “bless you” did when someone sneezed.

It makes surveying the pink and white festooned hotel ballroom something of an eyesore for him as he lounges back, dressed in black velvet, a sore thumb of ominous derision amidst the pastels, viewing the merry reception through moody, tinted lenses. The familiarly charming table accents of champagne and flowers and paper mache hearts twist his own into something a little furious and decidedly bitter.

A man’s wife betraying him and leaving him and stripping him of his pride and his joy and all his best intentions for her and your child will do that to a man.

Couldn’t even make it a whole decade before she found fault and spread her legs for another and turned his child against the father that loved her.

Sorry for being away so much baby, I was just singin’ myself hoarse to buy you that fuckin ring and car and hair and face and keep you in the style you’d married me for.

Cause it was obvious as all hell that honoring and obeying hadn’t been first and foremost in her mind when she promised forever. Forever to riches and fame, maybe, but not forever to him. She has those now, and he hasn’t got the family he’d prayed an Old Testament God for.

Rather like the pretty lady currently allowing her rodent of a groom to feed her their wedding cake, fake giggles and batting lashes adding to the nauseating act of pretending she can stand being in his company for longer than a couple hours.

Forever, my ass.

Elvis watches her through his shades and with each passing minute the anger burns brighter and his justification steadily builds for the liberty he’s about to commit.

The groom is here for Elvis’ paycheck, the lovely bride is planning to suck that idiot's cock till death doth them part (or a good four years) for the status of being a Memphis Mafia wife, and even the guests now stuffing their faces with pasta and alcohol are here for what Elvis’ money buys.

Loyalty is dead and what’s left is the goddamn food chain, like they’re the animals school tells them they’ve evolved past. In the recent months since his divorce, Elvis has felt a near Devine calling to bring this wicked devolution of morals and motivations to light, to humiliate these homosapiens until some level of shame is regained by mankind. If this is a pack of animals that surrounds him, he is King of the Jungle, and it is a careless and heartless king who lets his subjects run amuck.

He has no appetite for pasta, the hours of frivolity pass him by and he remains aloof, crouching in wait in his chair, running off righteous indignation and primal sufferance. Good things come to those who wait.

That’s what the bride is thinking, Elvis suspects, as the reception winds down and her luxurious honeymoon full of sunbathing and spas, good food and rich wine and the obligatory playing hooky to get out of sex draws nearer. Just a little more time letting fuckin’ Ronnie feed her cake and paw at her, then she’ll be on her way, securely locked into her future of privilege. He’s got nothing against Connie, uh, Sandra, -oh hell what was her name? he consults the gold embossed invitation at his elbow,- He’s got nothing against the newly minted Mrs. Kemp, nothing in particular, except that she’s a woman. And Elvis has a bone to pick and a point to prove with the whole, whorish lot of them.

Elvis opens the limo door for the bride himself, gallantly ushering in the happy couple before joining them as arranged, the whole merry band of his boys piling in after.

The new Mrs. Kemp, unlike some of his boys wives, had had the good grace not to whine about the lack of privacy and alone time to be found in and around Graceland’s inner circle. As a result Elvis allowed her to choose the more expensive flowers and gold embossed invites and french vintages, even if he knew why knew she’d been disgustingly eager for any chance of her intended husband being distracted from her. Elvis is certain, thanks to first hand accounts from fuckin’ Ronnie himslef, that the groom has sampled the bride already. It’s the way of things in this decadent decade, and she’s no fresh outta the nest baby chick. The fact Ronnie could give no further details about his encounters with his betrothed beyond the mechanics of thrusting above her till he blew his load, made Elvis despair of humanity and suspect Mrs. Kemp had a serpentine pragmatism about this entire arrangement.

Oh my buddy my pal, he thinks to himself as the limo flies through the never dark streets of Las Vegas towards the airstrip, I gave my wife everything and that wasn’t enough, how can you compete? God gave Eve the whole of Eden ‘cept for one measly apple tree -and what did the mother of all mankind do? She took, she ate, she damned them all with her disloyalty.

Ronnie is a damn fool, and while Elvis’ warnings were not needed during the engagement and this marriage has progressed to a limo ride and honeymoon, Elvis is not to be thwarted in his determination to save Ronnie the slow disillusionment, the slow death of any pretense of love in his wife’s eyes, the crumbling of all faith in anything such as Elvis has endured. Better to rip the bandage off now, five years is a long crucifixion.

As the limo parks on the tarmac and the gleaming hulk of the private jet looms over them in the night sky, no doubt Ronnie harbors some pathetic hope Elvis has forgotten his promise.

Elvis proceeds his guests up the jet bridge, cane thumping and carefully harnessed excitement radiating through him as he enters the opulent space, watching with benign magnanimity as the newlyweds board his jet, the boys providing a rollicking group to ferry the new couple to their honeymoon destination.

This was Elvis’ treat, he had insisted the jet drop them off before he heads back to wherever it is he’s supposed to be tomorrow. He’s not lost his appetite for spoiling folks. Only this time, he is gonna get repaid in currency a little more tangible than ephemeral, transient, fleeting loyalty. And Ronnie, kiss-ass, weak-spined fuckin’ Ronnie wasn’t man enough to hold out more than a few minutes when Elvis told him his new bride was the price for being inducted into the inner circle, the intitiation to prove his loyalty to The King.

Predictably, after some pathetic and scandalized objections, some monetary threats by Elvis and some judgmental snickers by the guys, fuckin’ Ronnie had caved and betrayed his loyalty to his own wife before he’d even walked down the aisle to marry her.

“B-b-but d-did the rest of t-the g-guys h-h-have to do this?” Ronnie had protested while they were shootin some pool, leaving the gals the other rooms to wedding plan, “Is it a-a-always this w-way?”

It hasn’t always been, no. Because Elvis hadn’t always been so astute. He had allowed his taste for pleasure and innocence and childish notions of fidelity to cloud his perception of women and the men they married. Elvis once was blind, now he saw, and now there was a currency of wedding nights established in the jungle.

“No one’s forcin’ ya to stay in this group.” Elvis had pointed out while lining up his pool cue with the ball, “you’re mighty welcome to go right on out that door, never receive another check from me or a glimpse of Vegas again, you’ll lose that girl, too, cause she sure as hell won’t be stickin around when all your bells and whistles fall off and it’s just you she’s left with. She don’t want ya Ronnie, she wants what I give ya, which makes me her provider, don’t it?” he reasoned before making his shot, the clatter of the balls deafening against the green felt as the older members of the mafia held their breaths in sick fascination with this new form of hazing. “And now, if I’m her provider,” Elvis had straightened up his posture to watch Sonny mark the score on the board, “that makes me a husband of sorts, an authority, a protector. A sugar daddy. Don’t it? You gonna tell me I should throw you guys a damn weddin’ and honeymoon, buy ya the house you live in and the cars you drive, the clothes she wears and the food you eat cause you hang around me an’ promise to protect me if the time comes? Bodyguard my ass, I could turn anyone to chopsticks before you even woke up long enough to realize a threat. Face it Ronnie, there’s a totem pole in this here life, and no one blames ya for bein’ a few notches down than most in the scale of things, but it don’t give ya much leverage bein’ down there. I give you that leverage. And I’d like to compensate myself for my generosity with a lil marital privilege. Jus’ once, just first night rights.” he took a swing of his coke and watched Ronnie closely, licking the sugar off his lips with deliberate swipes of his tongue, “Or would ya prefer I just wait and fuck her in six monthes when she comes knockin’ on my door sayin’ she just got lost in this big ole place?”

Fuckin’ Ronnie was a coward and a cad and he essentially agreed that he’d rather Elvis fuck his wife on the wedding night and be done with it than always be watching his back, suspecting her of carrying on an affair. Ronnie was a little bitch, Elvis surmised. Gone was any protest that he couldn’t do that to her, that she was a good gal, that Elvis wouldn’t do that to a friend.

Kings had no friends. And tonight Ronnie was oh so close to being officially inducted into the Memphis Mafia, he’d do nothing to jeopardize that . Elvis figured he’d wait until the plane took off to sample the goods, make her husband squirm guiltily over it while his new bride puzzled over why he was so tense.

Out of consideration for her downer of a groom, Elvis handed her a drink, playing the gracious host and taking her mind off her husband's stiff bearing and sweaty pallor.

“Don’t mind him, honey,” Elvis whispered hot and wet in her ear as he handed the drink off, “Ronnie boy here’s just scared of flyin’. You’re not scared are ya, honey?”

Honey….he couldn’t recall her name, Mrs. Kemp’s name, his fatigue and apathy too strong. He stood straight and dug in his pocket for a pick-me-up as he watched her smile and blush under his attentions,

“No sir, Mr. Presley, I’m not scared.” she smiled, “One could think we’re sat in a living room, it's so spacious here.” she added a compliment.

“I’d like to show ya the rest.” he says sitting down next to her, his arm heavy and warm around her shoulders and his gaze intent on her, knowing the effect this has on an ignored woman.

He recalls using that same line on his young bride during their honeymoon, eager to show his own new wife everything he had to offer. Beauty and luxury and care and a damn good fuck in front of the mirror back there. And it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough.

He can feel Ronnie tense further against the back of his hand where he clasps the bride’s shoulder, knowing that the “rest” of the plane beyond this lounge is a conference table, a toilet and a bedroom. Ronnie has had the privileges of being part of the TCB and now he’s about to pay his admission fee, and Elvis smirks at the thought that the man will never ride aboard this jet again without thinking of getting cuckolded by his boss.

The Bride is trying to make sense of Elvis' sudden shift of mood along with her husband’s. Both of them seeming to have swapped bearings, changing from the reception as if the jet’s air pressure had doused Ronnie’s merriment and finally revitalized Mr. Presley from the rather sullen attendee he had been. Elvis can feel her hesitancy to agree in her body language and the way she keeps looking over to Ronnie, as if to figure out his nervous ignoring of her and the way Elvis makes up for it in touches and attention. Beneath them the jet rumbles and takes flight, her little gasp at the heart swooping feeling of take-off a taste of what’s to come, of what he’ll pull from her body, willing or not . He’d rather lure her, try that first, the other can always be resorted to.

There’s an unspoken agreement to wait on this lil tour till the jet reaches cruising altitude, and Elvis spends the wait rubbing her arm and watching her try to make conversation with her groom who finds discussing the latest baseball stats with Red far more interesting than recalling the beauteous memories of the last few hours with his now introspective and mildly panicked bride. It’s funny to hold a woman whose mind is racing, Elvis can almost feel the frantic thoughts and conflicting emotions battering her frame from the inside out like a caged bird against its bars.

Elvis allows the minutes to trickle by and work for him, the soothing sweep of his hand slowly melting her rigidity, the continued abandonment of her husband's attention going from hurtful to frustrating, the innocuous chatter of the fellas talking and laughing around them, the cool air of the jet’s cooling system kicking on, and his warm and broad chest already pressed against her, now beckoning like a little haven for her to cower inside until the confusion passes. He clocks all these developments as the minutes go by, fully aware the boys are making small talk with their minds as preoccupied as Ronnie’s about when Elvis will make his move, their anticipation mounting while her guard drops, finally accepting his closeness without question. The jet rumbles and her drink kicks in and with the wedding fever abated it leaves her drowsy, unmoored.

Elvis waits for the perfect moment to pounce and is rewarded for his patience. The cool blast of the AC has made her begin to curl towards him and he’s met her halfway and it’s not till her head almost nods weakly to lay on his shoulder that her sensibilities prick her and she jerks it back up, another little gasp. It makes his repeated,

“Lemme show ya round, honey, got all sorts of remarkable stuff up here”

sound like a gallant cover for her lapse of decorum. Predictably, she shakes herself upright and gives him a polite nod of thanks, their first mutual, unspoken communication acknowledging something the rest of the room isn’t privy to. Her loyalty is slipping and all it took was a few minutes of heating her up with his embrace, a few whispered teases and buying her a whole damn lifestyle. To her credit she looks to Ronnie as she rises, asking him to come along in a coaxing voice Elvis knows is her trying to get her new husband to even look at her.

Elvis watches her try and fail at this from the curtained doorway leading to the back of the jet, thinking it makes a striking picture. A bride still dressed in white, bending over to try to catch her husband's eyes as he watches TV in his rumpled tux, the entire plane’s worth of masculine attention directed on her, except for the man who swore to worship her. Perhaps the disillusion will go both ways tonight, maybe women aren’t all merley bitches in heat, maybe some start out intending to be faithful and good and content.

Elvis has yet to meet a woman faithful and good and content once he puts his mark on them, they spend the rest of their lives day dreaming and closing their eyes when their husbands are in them and clogging his phone lines, kidding themselves that they’re special. He’s saving her the sin of coming to his room in a couple of months or years and saying she got lost while dropping her silk nightwear down her frame, an old and familiar expression of invitation on her face. She might not know that’s in her future otherwise, but he does. And he’s gonna save her the wait. When she wants something she’ll come to him now, not her husband, and he will have the discipline to make the right choices for her.

Elvis holds the curtain aside and beckons her with his fingers, and she would be angrier that he has the nerve to summon her away from her husband if she weren’t so humiliated at being ignored by the man. Frustration at their man makes women very susceptible to comfort, Elvis knows this intimately, and in their strong desire to be understood and soothed, they’ll spread their legs for the first person who tells them they deserve that attention.

She ducks under his arm, into the shade of the conference room with an attitude written on her face. Elvis drops the curtain behind them, the prey corralled. Nothin so easy as a woman scorned, nothin’ quite so hungry and quite so fierce. He hopes she’ll take out some of that miffed little ‘tude out on his back with those fancy nails his money bought her. It makes him smirk in anticipation and he can tell she finds that unsettling, her huffy bearing faltering once she notices him just watching her move round the glossy table top, suddenly aware of their seclusion and the fact she left her groom behind for a tour of the jet. She’s beginning to doubt her choice, doubt her loyalties.

Honeymoon off to a damn good start, she thinks sourly.

It’s innocuous, standing at opposite ends of a conference table with a man who is your husband's closest friend and at whose house you’ve eaten multiple dinners. There’s nothing wrong with it, but she feels her skin prickle none the less like she’s in danger, like those eyes observing her through shaded lenses are not fully human, not fully beneficent. She curses Ronnie for humiliating her, for his weird mood these past weeks making her feel isolated, for her past making her paranoid of this assessing male gaze.

She’d met a panther in the woods on an Appalachian bike ride once. They’d stared each other down as he had crouched and observed, his eyes fathomless and intent, the muscles of its body undulating in readiness beneath sleek black fur. Her mouth had dried out exactly the same as it does now when her shy smiles aren’t met with anything besides those assessing eyes and that crooked smirk that holds no fondness for her, no pride in his jet, no amusement at her awe of his wealth. A smirk of pure and smug knowingness.

Then he calls to her and the warmth of his voice melts her fear. “Check out this icebox, honey”

Her face lights up like a kids in the yellow glow of the refrigerator light as she bends over to look inside, white stain skirt hugging her perfectly and he gathers that all that athleticism has done her good, she could probably ride a man for hours without tiring, judging by the firm curve of that ass.

“See anyhtin ya’d like?” he asks her casually, laying a light hand between her shoulder blades as she reads rows and rows of labeled refreshments.

“Oh, uh, no, no, the drink was enough for now. Thank you Mr. Presley.”

He used to correct folks when they called him that, and used to punt the honorary title to his father. But nowadays he finds “Mr. Presley” might be closer to “your majesty” than mere “Elvis” -in which case he’s stopped putting little floozies at ease by asking them to call him by the name his mama gave him. That’s a name used by a wife back when he was happy and respected and alive.

“C’mere, I wanna show ya this television back here.” he beckons again, removing the heat of his hand from her back and she breathes easier with him taking the lead, she’s able to watch his imposing figure unobserved as he leads her past the conference table and into a small hallway with a large, showbiz style mirror.

Elvis swaggers right on by the marvelous monstrosity with its low counter and doused bare bulbs, but she can’t help herself. A flicker of childish glee taking over as she flips the switch on the wall and makes the bulbs buzz to life, brilliant as a spotlight in the inky gloom, illuminating them from the knees to the ceiling in a gaudy reflection. The sudden blast of light makes him pause on his trek to the bedroom and he joins her in looking at their reflection.

“Hell, honey,” he drawls amused as he takes in her fresh little wedding set and his decadent black suit, “we look like cake toppers.”

She laughs at that, a sweet unaffected thing that is music to his ears, and no doubt a screech to Ronnie’s. Elvis finds his grin growing at that thought and she mistakes it for joy. She laughs again, aborted little chuckles tapering out.

“There’s a tv back here, too?” she asks, embarrassingly at ease with entering a bedroom in the company of Elvis Presley.

Interestingly she doesn’t even glance at the bed when he ushers her in, she’s peering at the walls and the built in furniture for a peek of a screen.

“Mhmm, keep lookin, it’s hidden.” Elvis follows her and shuts the door behind him, a quiet click she doesn’t hear as she’s got her back to him, busily creaking open dresser doors and clapping in commendation upon finding the tastefully camouflaged TV set.

“How wonderful!” She praises and his heart does something funny and nostalgic over unpretentious enjoyment of what he has to give her.

One day it’ll be old hat to her and she’ll be like all the other wives, naggin’ and bitchin’ over keeping up with each other, forgetting about what it was they ever wanted, consumed with one upping each other and dominating the pecking order, spending Elvis’ money not for pleasure but for bragging rights. For now he watches this young woman bounce in her heels over a hidden TV set and makes a pact with himself to be nice, to gentle her into this ruination.

Then he recalls she married Fuckin Ronnie, and that twists his gut in reminder she’s a practical gold digger like all the rest. And he doesn’t mind that about her, he just hates the dishonesty of pretending she’s in it for more, and her ignoring him for a tv irks him as disingenuine.

“Wanna kick back and watch somethin, doll?” he asks her and sees the exact minute his words make her back and shoulders stiffen beneath white silk.

“Uh, on this one?” she’s scared to ask, scared to sound like she’s accusing him of suggesting it, scared to suggest it and give him ideas.

“They got the damn game on the other.” he answers her smoothly, coming up behind her and reaching round her to power it up.

“Elvis.” she dares to sound reprimanding when all he’s done is stand behind her and punch a button, she’s the one who walked into a bedroom with a man who isn’t her husband.

“Gonna be a long flight, three more hours I reckon.” he is patient with her.

“Y-yes.” she hesitantly agrees, watching the screen flicker to life, “And I wanna spend it with Ronnie, exc-“

Liar! He doesn’t let her turn around, he puts his hands on her shoulders and keeps her facing the TV, keeps her away from the closed door she’s not yet noticed, he nuzzles his nose into the crook of her neck telling himself, gently, gently, tempt her, tempt her. “Doesn’t seem like Ronnie is eager to spend it with ya.” he mourns low and sympathetic in her ear and she gasps at his brutal honesty, at the fact he’d have no tact to pretend he didn’t notice.

“Elvis, t-this isn’t right.” she parrots her mother or her favorite tv show or some rote set of rules she doesn’t really embrace.

“What ain’t right, honey?” he rumbles, keeping his hands on her, moving them from her shoulders down her arms, then swooping them up again and fingering at the sides of her neck, delighting in the shiver her body yields up to him.

If he hadn’t been so aloof before, she figures she might not feel so electrified by his sudden, all consuming touch. But it’s not just that, he’s kept his distance from her since she started dating Ronnie and in her star struck insecurity she’d made no move to become friendly with him.

Now this, this intentional hovering and the petting that tastes like something she’s only ever heard about. It’s Elvis, Elvis petting her in her wedding dress on the way to her honeymoon destination and that’s simultaneously about as predictable and uncredible as can be. Elvis, who’s been the ephemeral host for countless of lovely parties, Elvis who’s been the presiding specter over all their schedules since she became part of the group, Elvis who has been the magical name on the credit card used for everything she ever wanted. Elvis Presley, the man who achieved all there was in life by 21, and has been bored by it ever since. What did she expect him to be, a fatherly figure?

“Did you like your weddin’ honey?” he asks her after her raging thoughts consume the time she should have spent answering and protesting him.

The hands descending to her hips and squeezing there hint a warning prompt even as his gentle tone reminds her of all he has done for her, his inexhaustible benevolence -which it seems something has finally exhausted. She begins to panic, no need to see those panther eyes when the heat is radiating off of him, sexual intent potent from his aura alone, no need to feel a crude gesture or have it spoken out in clunky declarations of desire. Ingrained self doubt takes hold of her for one brief moment before the scratch of his sideburn rubs against her cheeks and the hot press of his lips against her neck tells her it is not vanity making her project on him, Elvis Presley really is trying to seduce her mere hours after her vows, a few yards away from her new husband and his friends.

“Mr. Presley!” she resolutely stiffens in his embrace and tries to turn and leave his hold of her and he lets her so far as she’s spun round and facing him, her stern tone wobbling out when she’s met with the hypnosis of his expectant stare, “Y-yes it was lovely, thank you.” she stammers out, fear and primal instinct kicking in and guiding her to cower and simper her way out of this, her boldness having bounced off him like shotgun shells off cement. Nothing but damaging to her. “T-thank you for all you did.” she tries again, her tone unsure as his face remains unreadable, his eyes burning and unblinking behind his shades, lit with white hot something in the glow of the tv screen. “You’re very generous.” she admits, tacking on every obeisance she can think of while resolutely ignoring the feel of being held to his chest, near eye level with the gap of his shirt and the chains glittering on his skin. “I need to rejoin my husband, sir.” she begs, begs that she doesn’t want this, denies she’s ever hoped for this.

Idly he wonders if she’s being honest, then he watches her swallow thickly as she catches a whiff of his scent.

Suddenly he crushes her to him, her mouth smashed to the metallic, skin warmed nest of his chains, pinning her there with a hand to the back of her head as his other reaches for the hem of her skirt and drags it up and over her ass, palming it even as she shrieks in shock, “Tell me, Mrs. Kemp,” he growls in her ear, “did you go after Ronnie cause he was near me, or did ya come for the money and stay in the hopes I’d pay attention to your little self? Was you countin’ on me gettin lonely some night an’ sendin’ your husband on an errand so I could get my fill of his wife? Is that what keeps ya from gaggin when he’s on top of ya? Is that the hope?”

Elvis’ fingers find the band of her lacy panties -honeymoon lingerie his money bought her- and he snakes his hand in, down the warm curve of her ass and along her crack, dipping between clenched thighs to rake through predictably sopping wet folds. She gave the whole resistance act a good try, but her womanly body responds to dominance, and Elvis is dominance incarnate. It’s in her weak nature to drip for him, plain and simple, and so he swipes and dips and drags his fingers through her as she fights against his chest, pounding her fists impotently against the velvet of his coat.

“Shhh, shhh honey, I know, it ain’t your fault.” he is magnanimous, gracious as King Solomon. “This, honey, this is what hope tastes like.” he brings his glistening fingers to her snarling mouth and shoves them in against her tongue, savoring the way her choke distracts her from the obvious defense of biting him, “Taste that? That’s how hope tastes, and there ain’t anyhtin’ more harmful than hope. Makes a purgatory of your life. Doesn’t let ya be satisfied with what ya got, won’t let ya get dissatisfied enough to wanna change anythin. You just hope and hope and your life goes by, while you’re hopin.”

She whimpers around his fingers, wilted white silk in his arms, dress bunched up obscenely in the screen-lit room. He strokes her cheek with his spit wet hand, the ring faces of rubies and diamonds and priceless gems caressing her tears away, lulling the creature back to her basic instincts, hypocrisy and futility purged away beneath Elvis’ healing hands. “I ain’t gonna let you go on hopin for years and years,” he enchants her with whispers, rocking her now as she whimpers in catatonic fascination, “I’m gonna gift ya with knowledge.”

Everything she’s given up while fighting to get herself on a jet like this, married to a man of means, with a house and a steady future and a predictable timeline stretching out before her -security at last! -all of it crowds her mind, the devil and the angel on her shoulders whisper in a traitorous debate. Of course life isn’t how she wanted at eighteen when she expected to marry for love, yet of course her mature self is pleased with this match. Those can both exist, and she planned for them to exist in a tidy world where Elvis Presley wasn’t an option, because he’s not. He’s not offering himself, doesn't even have enough dreams of his own to bother with lying about it to buy them both a minute of reprieve from the disillusioned hellscape that is life in one’s thirties when you comforted your starry eyed twenties by telling yourself it gets better. Then to no one’s surprise -it didn’t. The one last insupportable piece of this maturing puzzle that would cement her growing up forever is tasting this then going back to Ronnie. It’s out of the question and she doesn’t give a shit what he’s going through right now, or what Ronnie thinks about her angering his boss, what she needs is the peace of mind that comes with not knowing.

“You can take your knowledge and shove it.” she snaps out of the pliant heatstroke his embrace caused her and shoves him away, only succeeding at making room between them because he’s so surprised by her sudden surfacing out of the trance.

One final thrash of the prey and he watches with amusement as she stumbles in haste across the flickering room, yanking open the closed door and steadfastly booking it to the front of the jet. Headed to the shelter of a man who promised to protect and defend her and cherish her and swore it all while counting his bonus for selling her out.

Elvis watches her till she and her crumpled white dress fly past the brightly mirrored hallway and disappear from his vantage point through the doorway. He picks at his nose and thinks about what he might like to take on this little experiment, and having procured a few items of use saunters after her at a leisurely pace. He sets them on the conference room and table and watches as she pulls back the curtain and steps into the lounge, her whole being vibrating in a way that is not subtle or discreet about what just occurred between them.

It’s warmer in the lounge, just pulling the curtain back wafts warmth into the ice box chilled areas of the plane that Elvis frequents, it makes her tremble with relief. She’s back in public, back where he won’t try anything. Ronnie, to her angry bewilderment, is still glued to watching the TV like he didn’t even register her absence. But his mere existence will still work for what she needs. She needs to belong to someone and sit beside that person for three hours while his boss cools off.

She is not prepared for the way everyone in the lounge spins round to look at her once registering her presence, looking with absolute surprise as if her reemergence was the surprise, not the lengthy plane tour to the back bedroom. It makes her seethe inside, they thought she’d go through with it, damn animals that they are, all “what happens on the road stays on the road” and carefree chauvinism inherited from their boss. She has to remind herself why she wanted this life in the first place, has to recall the perks and the wages and lavish reception.

Red and Joe now flank Ronnie and her seat beside him is taken up by those two manspreading oaf’s. Desperate, she decides to play at being cute and makes to sit on her husband’s lap, spinning round to find Elvis watching hehe from the curtained doorway as she tries to lower herself down to perch.

“Babe, I can’t see the damn screen with you like that.” Ronnie has the churlishness to complain and she wants to scream at his denseness, the way pushes at her lower back to tip her out of his lap.

To save herself the humiliation of face planting on the plane floor she chooses to stand of her own accord and catch herself from the shove. She sees Elvis’ lush mouth frown behind the cigar he’s lighting up.

“Don’t be an ass to her Ronnie, she’s your wife.” he reprimands and she gets a funny feeling of appreciation for being defended in all this. Her loyalty teeters towards the man she has to remind herself she needs to escape from. “Or have ya forgotten, ya unchivalrous bastard?”

That’s a little harsh but the memory of Ronnie not giving a damn about the fact she was almost assaulted -that’s harsh word for that too, her traitorous mind supplies- reminds her that she isn’t happy with him at all. But in fact, come to think of it, she isn’t pleased with any one them, and there’s no where to go on this damned plane. It starts to make her skin crawl, the realization that she’s surrounded by men who would either not believe or else not care if Elvis went through with the forceful attentions he was showing her back there. Who would believe her if she said he forced her?

“Ronnie I’m tired and my seat’s been taken!” she argues with him, “I just wanna sit down. Lay down, even!” she begs, thinking of how best to clear the couch of anyone but him so that no one takes liberties and sits down beside her.

“Then go lay down in back where there’s a fuckin’ bed? Why’d you come out?” he snaps.

“Cause-“ because Elvis Presley tried to take liberties, that’s why, but she feels strangled watching how all the men await her answer with a little too much investment, the way Elvis is still watching her behind tinted shades and a haze of cigar smoke.

“You get all bitchy when you’re tired, go lay down and take a nap, honey. I’m watching the game.” Ronnie suggests her worst fear and it infuriates her how he’s changed just since he slipped a ring on her finger.

“Ronnie please-“ She whimpers and would give anything to know why Joe is leering up at her with a sly grin. There’s no time to think on it as Elvis’ ringed fingers close around her elbow and tug her back towards the curtain.

“C’mon honey, ya heard your husband, let’s get ya situated.” he coos and her fingers turn to ice from the shock of it all.

“I don’t wanna!” she protests, “Ronnie!” she tries one more time while being backed away from her husband by his boss.

“Oh for fucks sake just do what he wants!” Ronnie begs with something akin to frustration but the red hot blush sweating up his neck suggests he’s humiliated to be caught saying it.

“Beg your pardon?” she hisses in disbelief, feeling Elvis’ hand clamp on her arm just a little more, maybe to keep her from marching up to Ronnie and smacking him.

“Just, just give him what he wants. Just tonight.” Ronnie spills the beans far sooner than needed and Elvis wants to roll his eyes at how fast they went from taking her for a nap to admitting to something far more sinister.

The bride’s head swivels from viewing her husband to Elvis and back to her husband and the room full of men who’s thrumming interest in her makes her wanna bolt straight out of the plane now she knows why. It’s sickening yet so strongly in character for them she doesn’t waste many moments in disbelief, it all makes sense in a horribly predictable way. Every one of these fella’s grinning at her discomfort are pathetic in her eyes, as pathetic as men who’d prefer to watch naughty movies than better themselves as lovers. Somehow in the mess of it all, Elvis alone stands out as something a little less deplorable. Even if it’s just his brash and demented honesty she admires.

“Y’all planned this?” she asks dully, scanning each lip licking face, ending with her husband’s sullen one, “This was all planned out? You offered me up? You goddamn, two faced bastard-“

Elvis loops his arm around her waist to prevent her from launching at Ronnie and clawing him to shreds. His chest is searing her through the silk on her back and his hands grab at her more than they need to in order to restrain her. It makes her pulse pound and fury swirls inside her, battling with the cold dread of weakness and helplessness.

“Ronnie made a little deal with me.” Elvis is drawling in her ear in so soothing a way it almost counteracts the nauseating confirmation, “And now, we can watch you runnin’ round this plane for hours to get away from me like a Junebug in a bottle but that ain’t gonna change how this night ends. How bout ya just be sensible, hmm? Just cause he’s a lyin’, no good sunnuvabitch don’t mean you gotta turn bad yourself, ya know? He gave ya instructions, ya can still be a good lil wifey and honor and obey him, can’t ya?”

“Why?” she persists, but feebly this time, not knowing if she’s asking her husband who keeps his face averted towards the screen or the man whose hands are mapping out her body in full view of his friends. “Why y’all gotta do this?”

“I told ya honey,” Elvis murmurs, rucking the hem of her skirt up passed her knees, “hope’s a dangerous thing. I don’t allow it in my house. An’ you’re part of my house now, ain’t ya?” he pets at the damp plushness of her inner thighs as the men stare and she struggles to find a way to empower herself while caught in such a feeble position. Hurting Ronnie, twisting the knife a little more like he’s done her is all she can think of at the time. “Don’t you belong to me, sweetie?” Elvis is prodding once more and his cheek is clammy and hot against hers, the cigar smoke pungent around them.

“Yes sir.” she agrees while sneering at Ronnie’s reddened face.

“That’s more like it.” Elvis’ voice gentles to something a little less frightening than before but all the more terrifying for how sure and smug it sounds. His hands grab at her breasts and she can’t help the whimper she lets out from the presumption, no doubt it’ll only get worse. “Since you’re so eager to stick close to ole Ronnie and include e’rbody in our private business, I reckon it’s only fair we conduct this lil interview on the conference table, hmm?”

When she cranes her neck to look behind him and past the curtain, she can see the shiny table top littered with items it didn’t hold when she made her hasty exit passed it; scarves and a strange sort of plastic wand, that stupid police flashlight and a box of cigars are clumped at its foot in an ominous hodgepodge.

Admitting to being frightened by it would strip away her last bit of autonomy in this and so in a bid to act unbothered she slips out of Elvis’ hold and walks on her own two feet into the room, turning her back to Ronnie before shifting herself to sit on the cold, hard surface of the table.

“Is this what you had in mind, Mr. Presley?” she asks him meekly and makes sure to let her legs fall apart just so. She thinks she’s going to have some control in all this, the silly little thing, thinking he’s a man with regular tastes and base preoccupations, easily distracted from the purpose of this like any other. And the purpose is not pleasure -though he intends to draw it from her till she is broken from it- but purity of intention and nature. A lie dressed in white no more, but a wanton woman giving in to her true nature. Only he has the power to bring this out in every one he meets, and to purge it all the same.

Elvis Presley eyes her, as do all the men in the lounge just past him, until with an approving little hum and smile that is almost pleased, he steps towards her, yanking the curtain closed behind him and leaving them (somewhat) alone together in the dimly lit room, full of anticipation.

And maybe dread.

#elvis fanfiction #elvis presley #sky high lovin #Prima Nocta #elvis fanfic #elvis imagine #elvis x reader #elvis au #70s elvis #elvis the king #elvis film #elvis aaron presley #austin elvis #elvis x you #Elvis #elvis movie #elvis photos

[silverzoomies]

Ooh you should do like headcannons of what it’s like sleeping next to Peter or having kids with Peter

ohhhh my gosh this is so intimidating, but i'll try my best !!

💙peter maximoff headcanons💙

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💙sleeping next to peter💙

listen, anon...

i personally don't imagine he sleeps

like, at all. ever

but if he did? he's either one of two sleeper types

he might crash like a log. and you won't be able to move him once he's conked out. like good luck tryin' to roll him off you

if you gotta get up? sucks to suck. you're stuck there for a while

but he could also be the type to toss and turn in his sleep

like, all night. super restless. kicking his legs and everything

might even talk a lot in his sleep, rambling incoherent babble

you'd wake up to him saying shit like, "ohhhh shit. forgot i left the cats in the car."

but he doesn't drive. he doesn't even have cats. what's he dreamin' about??? does he dream as fast as he moves????

he might also switch gears a lot. going from super clingy, to super distant really quick

one moment, he's got his cheek pressed to yours, snuggling super close. needing to be near you so bad, otherwise he'll literally die

the next, he wants his space. stretches himself out on the other side of the bed. and if you come too close, he lowkey groans about it. but like affectionately

he's like a picky cat hopped up on too much adrenaline

i don't think he'd be too overly affectionate, though. if anyone wrapped him up in a cuddle session for too long, he might get pretty antsy. just in case he's gotta move

don't even get me started on the potential for morning wood

💙having kids with peter💙

would strive to be the best damn dad ever, and you can't convince me otherwise

since he grew up without a dad himself. he wouldn't want his children to grow up feelin' the way he did

he'd try to be super present in their lives, and very involved. even if things got a little too overwhelming sometimes

he'd wanna be nothing but supportive and loving of all their hobbies and endeavors

peter knows when to set boundaries, but he'd have a tendency to be a little too lenient

once his kid got a little older, he'd be so tempted to drag them into some harmless trouble. to your dismay

like, they'd start pulling pranks on you together. but the pranks are as simple as pelting you with water balloons when you're least expecting it

or, oh no! he ran them to mcdonald's for somethin' to snack on. without you! and right after you said you were gonna make dinner that night too! they'll ruin their appetites like that!

"okay, but they really wanted nuggets. wouldn't stop askin' about it. they even said please! what was i supposed to do? say no!? look at this face!!" and he gestures to your kid's precious doll face

if his kid is born with mutant genes, he'd be so goddamn proud

and a little worried too. he'd be terrified of how his kid would be treated in school, especially for bein' different

that is...unless you enrolled your kid at charles's school. most ideal scenario honestly. peter would feel way more content then

his kid definitely wants to become a great, x-men hero like their papa someday

he introduces his kiddo to his favorite music wayyyy early on. like, your newborn is resting in their crib. and he's playin' pink floyd like it's a lullaby

"honey, we really gotta make sure this lil rascal's educated, don't we?" but he's talking about exposing them to david bowie

but if his kid grew up listening to all the genres he doesn't, he'd still be as supportive as he could

his kid likes lil nas or lady gaga or somethin'? he's takin' the whole family to a live show. he's wearing the merch. he's learning the songs. he's singin' those songs in the crowd

i do think he'd get pretty anxious, though. might worry he's not a good enough father. maybe thinks he's not cut out for it. you have to reassure him all the time: he's doing the best he can. better than you could ever hope for

he's busy with hero work and teaching a lot of the time. when he starts to get a lil too absent, he's terrified he's neglecting his kid in some way

but he's got no idea his kiddo thinks the entire world of him. literally the coolest dad ever in the history of the universe. his kid will go to school and be like "yeah well my dad's quicksilver"

he's the kinda dad who's gonna splurge on christmas gifts. so many, you won't be able to see the floor. you're worried he stole them all. but he swears on his life he paid for everything. he's gotta set a good example, after all !!

impossible challenge: try not to feel soft after thinkin' about him sitting in his kiddo's bed. readin' a bedtime story. doin' silly voices and pointing at all the pictures

the bedtime stories are x-men comics

#wow this is a lot sorry ksdjghdskjgsg #txt #peter maximoff headcanons #peter maximoff x y/n #peter maximoff x you #peter maximoff x reader #long post