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starryevermore · 3 months

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the house of snow (4) ✧ coriolanus snow

the house of snow ✧ a royal coryo au | pinterest board| ao3

pairing: king!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

series summary: the king of panem is in search of a bride. and, for reasons you can never understand, coriolanus snow has set his sights on you. it would never be a happy marriage, you’re sure of that. but none of that matters, because when snow decides he wants something, he will do everything in his power to ensure it is his.

chapter summary: you realize that there is more to this than snow just wanting a bride.

word count: 2,548

series warnings?: 18+ MINORS DNI, royal au, regency au, arranged marriage, rivals to lovers, obsessive!coryo, jealous!coryo, protective!coryo, eventual smut, eventual pregnancy, more tags to be added later

chapter warnings?: jealous!coryo, manipulative!coryo, not proofread

It brought you an inexplicable about of joy to get on Snow’s nerves. This was certainly a positive if you had effectively no choice but to marry him. It was fair, though, wasn’t it? He gets you as a bride, and you get to drive him up the wall. And, oh, how you’ve annoyed him. The way his jaw ticked, the narrowing of his eyes when you declared that the beautiful kitten he got you would be named Coriolanus. Just after you denied calling him by his name! If you weren’t intent on seeing how far you could push him, you might have cackled in that moment.

The joy, however, was short-lived when Snow actually agreed that Coriolanus the Cat was your first son with him. If you would have known that he’d agree, you certainly never would have made the joke in the first place. Now—with Snow and your mother as witnesses to your agreement—you had to behave when around Snow. Granted, you did make the caveat that you would only behave to the best of your ability, which could be as little or as much as you wanted on any given day. Snow would not let you live the agreement down, though, you knew that much. Any time you could think about stepping a toe out of line, you were sure Snow would be quick to bring up the agreement.

You should have known better.

“What do you think of Snow?” you asked your lady’s maid as she helped you get ready for the day.

She paused as she tied the laces of your corset. “He would take very good care of you, ma’am,” she said.

You hummed, glancing at your reflection in the mirror. Tigris had made you a pale pink dress. Snow favored red, but your mother would kill you if you wore a color as scandalous as red before you were married. Pink, though, was a close alternative. “In the sense that I would want for nothing, yes, he would. But do you think I could grow to love him?”

She bowed her head, but that did not stop you from seeing the face she made. “He can be charming.”

“When it suits him,” you finish. You sighed. “I apologize. I know you cannot speak ill of the King. I just…am so tired of people acting like I should kiss his feet for showing interest in me.”

As she finished helping you into your dress, she said, “I know nothing of marriage, ma’am, but I know enough to say it is not without its struggles. Even if you could have a love match, there would be days you hate him for the most mundane things.”

“But if it was a love match, then it would all be worth it.” A frown settled on your face. “Or perhaps I’m being naïve. Mama and Papa were once a love match, and their scheming to have me married off to Snow is the first time they have truly spoken to each other in years.”

Your lady’s maid squeezed your hand. “All will be well, ma’am. If you can never love His Majesty, you will find something else to pour your affections into. Now, we should head downstairs. His Majesty is never late.”

You laughed. Well, that was certainly not true. Though, you supposed she didn’t know that. “Sometimes he is.”

But, after checking your reflection one last time, you turned and left your room. Your room was at the top of the stairs, so when you walked out, you could see Snow, holding Coriolanus the Cat, as he spoke with your mother. The sight made you giggle. He looked so uncomfortable holding the little kitten. One would think that he had been made to hold a pile of garbage than a sweet kitty.

Almost like he heard you, Snow looked up to where you stood. You clenched your teeth, knowing now that you would have to put on an act. Because of the agreement, you no longer could revel in the private moments where you could do everything in your power to annoy Snow. Now, he expected perfection, and he would receive it.

Slowly, you descended the stairs, your hand dragging along the bannister. The closer you got to him, the more a smirk grew on his face. Oh, you were sure he was reveling in this.

His eyes never left yours. It was unnerving. Any other man in his position would be staring at your body—treating you completely like an object, just a pretty thing to hang off of his arm. But Snow…You weren’t sure. It was almost like he enjoyed tearing you apart, acknowledging your humanity and your independence just so he could squash any hope you had.

Snow passed Coriolanus the Cat off to your mother, who looked even more comfortable than him, when you reached the bottom of the stairs. He held his hand out for you, which you reluctantly took. “That dress looks beautiful on you. Did Tigris make it?”

“She’s the only modiste I trust,” you said.

He smiled. It almost looked twisted. “Then I suppose I should be paying her handsomely for your wedding gown?”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary, Your Majesty—” your mother cut in.

Her words died in her throat as Snow narrowed his eyes at her. At least he also was not fond of her. If you couldn’t like him as a person, at least you might be able to bond over hating your mother. “Do you think you have the authority to tell me how I should and should not spend my money? I shall spoil my bride however I see fit.”

“Of course. I just meant—”

Snow ignored her, and held his arm out for you to take. “Let us promenade?”

A hint of a smile danced across your face. If all of your conversations were limited to despising your mother, then this might not be so awful. You held onto his bicep. “Let’s.”

Snow led you out of the house, letting your mother scramble to pass off Coriolanus the Cat to the butler so that the two of you wouldn’t get too far without a chaperone. “I think she is going to loathe you by the time you propose if you keep this up,” you said.

He snorted. “You think it will take that long?”

“Not all of us are smart enough to despise you at first meeting,” you said. “She likely still has delusions of grandeur, that you are only acting this way in an attempt to sweeten me up to you and after we wed, you will be kinder.”

“Ah. Is it working then?”

You frowned, looking up at him. He was already watching you. Did he ever stop staring? “Is what working?”

“Sweetening you up, as you say,” Snow clarified. He offered you a small smile. “Contrary to what you think, I do not wish for you to be unhappy.”

“No, you only wish for me to be a mindless pawn in your pursuit of power. Snow…If you are trying to make me warm up to you, to even just tolerate your existence as opposed to hating it, you will be disappointed. I will not act out. I will not cause a scene. If you wish for me to provide you an heir, I shall. But I will not, and I cannot, pretend that I am happy with this. You have gotten me a kitten. You have offered me a library. You will give me one of the highest titles in Panem. But you cannot provide me with what I want.”

Snow looked away from you. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. For a moment, you wondered if you touched a nerve. You would not care if you did, but Snow also held your entire life in his hands. He could make you as miserable as he wished. Though you may not like it, this was him being kind in whatever way he could manage. “Would it truly be so awful? Loving me?”

By now, you had reached the square. As your eyes swept through the park, you took note of how well-populated the area was. It was not uncommon at this point in the season for the many courting couples to spend their afternoons in the square. It was certainly better than stuffy teas and tense luncheons. With that, though, came the lack of privacy. Unlike a ball, where the music and the dancing and the overlapping conversations drowned everything out, you were in the open. Anything you said, any wrong move you made, could easily be noticed. It was why, you supposed, Snow liked to ask you to promenade. It was one of the few times you would hold your tongue.

But you could not be silent about your true thoughts now.

Dropping your voice to a near-whisper, you said, “You cannot force love, Snow. It happens organically, with time. With people who do not go at each other’s throats over every disagreement. We are too different. I have told you, I will not sacrifice my ideals to play a happy little wife.”

“I don’t want you to sacrifice who you are. Your ideals, your resoluteness, your inability to ever let something go…That is why I chose you. All I want is your cooperation. If you give me that, I will make everything else worthwhile.”

You nearly rolled your eyes. What more did he want from you? Was it not enough for you to allow him to show you off like you were some doll, to stake his claim on you and say little to anyone about how unwilling a participant you were? “Am I not cooperating now?”

“You are.”

“Then why do you need my love too?”

Snow finally looked at you again. Now, though, his pale blue eyes had darkened. You sucked in a breath. He almost looked…possessed? Was that the right word? He certainly didn’t look himself, the perfect picture of composure. You spared a glance at the couples around you. If anyone saw the way he looked at you, like he might just eat you, no one revealed it.

“I want all of you, and I cannot settle for anything less.”

Why did he insist on this? Why did it matter so much to him? Snow was getting everything he wanted. He would get a wife. He would get an heir. You were from a good family. You were intelligent enough for his standards. You would even refrain from acting out in public. You would play the role he wanted in the eyes of Panem. Why was all of that not enough? What was so important about receiving your love too?

Unless…

You dropped Snow’s arm. He looked at you almost like you slapped him. As the two of you stopped in the middle of the walkway, the other couples started to look more closely. You could hardly blame them. It would certainly be entertaining if you and Snow had a lover’s quarrel (or whatever way they decided to paint this picture) in the middle of the square. But you could hardly focus on them.

“Sejanus was right,” you said.

Snow’s jaw ticked. Oh. You definitely touched a nerve there. But that hardly made any sense. Him and Sejanus were friends. Of course, you supposed in telling Snow that if you had to marry anyone for social status, you would marry Sejanus, it would put a strain on their friendship. Snow sucked in a breath, as if trying to calm himself. Yet, when he spoke, his tone was clipped. “Do not say his name around me.”

“But he, Lord Plinth, I mean, was right,” you repeated. It was hard to take heed in his words when all you could focus on what the revelation at hand.

“I do not care about what he said and whether it was truthful. I would like to promenade, and so that is what we shall do.”

“Snow—”

He grabbed your hand. You nearly jumped away from him. But between his tight grip and the eyes of the ton, you forced yourself to stay still. Snow brought your hand back to his arm, forced your fingers to curl around his bicep. Some of the tension in his shoulders melted away when you touched him.

“There,” he said. He let out another breath. “You promised me you would behave, yes?”

“I—Yes, I did.”

“Then stop talking, and let us promenade.”

Was this the life you were going to live now? Placating a King whose mood could flip at the drop of a name? You had never seen someone become so angry so quickly. All you had done was say Sejanus’s name, and Snow had acted like you committed treason. Was it treason for him? Did he truly view it that way? If you had known he would be so adverse to even hearing you speak about Sejanus, you would have never admitted to him that you thought Sejanus would be an easy man to love. At the time, though, you thought it wouldn’t matter. Snow already had you where he wanted you. The only person truly standing in your way to pursue other matches was Snow himself. Why would you think that admitting your true desires change anything?

Not seeing a way out of this, you bowed your head and did not say another word. You feared what he might do if you stepped out of line. If he was so angry at you saying Sejanus’s name, what could he do if you disobeyed him?

Snow stared at you for a long moment, trying to determine what you might do. When he was satisfied with your compliance, he began walking again, acting as if the spat never occurred. You had been prepared for the rest of the walk to be in silence. You certainly didn’t plan on saying anything else. There was no winning if you did.

“I am going to meet with your father at the end of the week,” Snow said. You sucked in a breath. If he noticed, he didn’t react. “We will need to discuss the terms of our engagement.”

Not knowing what to say, you hummed in acknowledgment.

Snow, however, was not happy with that. “Tell me you cannot wait to marry me.”

Tears began to prick at your eyes. How could your life be stolen from you in just a matter of weeks? How could Coriolanus Snow come in and ruin everything you wanted for yourself? How could he keep demanding more? You considered repeating the same sentence he said, but you knew he would not be satisfied with that.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I cannot wait to become Mrs. Coriolanus Snow.”

His chest puffed out and a smirk settled on his face. Well, at least you knew the right things to say to placate him. That might at least make the marriage easier to manage.

Snow leaned into you, pressed his nose into your hair. It was hardly appropriate, especially in public, especially between two unmarried people. But he was King, and no one would stop him from doing what he pleased, societal expectations be damned.

“Good girl,” he whispered.

#the house of snow: a royal coryo au #coriolanus snow imagine #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x fem!reader #coriolanus snow x female reader #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus snow x y/n #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus snow fanfic #coriolanus snow fan fiction #coriolanus snow fan fic #coriolanus snow fic #starrywrites #starryevermore

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vanwritesfan-fiction · 2 months

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Jack Harlow request: This idea just came to my mind, imagine Jack being out with the kids somewhere and a fan approaches him and gives him flowers. Of course he’s nice about it but the girls are like “ooooo- wait until mommy finds out.” And when you get home they tell you immediately before Jack gets a chance to. 🤣

Mommy's Day Off

"We're not done talking about this!", Jack's voice was gruff and loud, a giveaway that he was frustrated and upset. He was at his wits end in this argument but he wasn't willing to let sleeping dogs lie. He pulled at the curls at the back of his neck as he followed you around the house.

"Jack, lower your voice. Please", you bit back, your hands full of the kids' toys that were left around the house at the end of the night. "I just got Wes to sleep." You too were over this conversation, but you weren't ready to throw in the towel and forgive Jack yet.

You knew you were very lucky to be married to a man you considered your best friend, but that didn't mean you didn't have your issues. It was always the same argument with Jack; you would make plans for the family to spend time together, maybe a long weekend away or a Saturday outing, and his schedule would get in the way.

"You don't think I want to spend the weekend with my family instead of going to LA for some stupid press junket?" He didn't even feel like he had a leg to stand on in this fight, but he was contractually obligated to promote his new movie.

Jack felt like a broken record, having to defend his career tooth and nail against things he knew were more important to them. Sometimes he felt trapped in a cycle, forced to make sacrifices to keep his job afloat while also disappointing the people he cared about most, and it kept happening over and over again.

"I don't know, Jack", you sighed, as you adjusted the pillows on the couch, finding a stray baby sock in the crack of the cushions. "Do you?" You knew that was a low blow, but you were upset and caught up in the moment. You turned to face him, the hurt lingering on his features as he looked at you. "You're gonna leave this weekend, and I'll be here, alone, with three kids. Its not fair how much slack I have to pick up when you're not here."

Jack let out a breath through his nostrils, his jaw flexing as he tried to calm his breathing. "I keep telling you we could get a nanny or my mom offered to help you with the kids, but you keep shooting the idea down." You could feel your body tense, the grip you had on one of Aaliyah's stuffies strong enough to rip the head off at the seams. "Why are you so stubborn about it?"

It may have been unintentional, but Jack sure knew how to push your buttons.

"Because I want my husband here!" All of the items you had in your arms flew across the room when you threw your hands up. Jack stepped back to avoid a heavy plastic toy landing on his foot, as well as your wrath.

"I love Maggie, and she's such a great grandma, but its not fair to ask her to help out all the time, and I sure as hell don't want a stranger in our house around the kids! I want the man that I started this family with? Is that really so much to as for?" God, it felt good to get that off of your chest, even though you knew it didn't solve anything.

"Baby, lower your voice." Jack regretted shushing you as soon as he said it, the look you gave him enough to shut him up for the rest of the night. You took in a sharp breath, prepared to give him a piece of your mind when you heard a cry out in the distance. "Great", you mumbled under your breath, your teeth gritted together.

"Go get him, I'll clean up this mess up", Jack whispered as you left him standing alone in the living room.

****

The next morning, Jack's eyes fluttered open to the sound of Aaliyah running through the house. "Daddy, what're you doing in the libing room?" He sat up, trying to stretch out the crick in his neck from sleeping uncomfortably all night. "Daddy was silly last night, he got in trouble with mama."

Her face scrunched in a way that made him chuckle, her arms draping around his neck as she played with his ears. "Did you get put in time out?"

"I did", Jack lowered his voice to a whisper when he saw you walk past him. "An eight hour time out." He picked her up and headed into the kitchen.

Brooklyn was already eating her cereal and you had a fussy Wes balanced in your arms as you made Aaliyah some oatmeal. Jack had a moment of panic when he looked at the time. "Wait, aren't the girls going to be late for school?"

"We don't have school today. It's President's Day", Brooklyn said with a smile.

"That's right", Jack sighed as he ran his fingers through his messy chestnut curls, "I forgot all about that."

He looked over to you, his stomach in knots after your fight last night. You could feel his eyes on you, but sleep did nothing to fix your frustrations, so you weren't interested in making nice this morning. "I've got the studio reserved today and then I was thinking we could grab dinner tonight when I get home." That had the girls excited, both giddy about going to their favorite restaurant in Louisville. "Sound good to you, babe?" He was desperate to hear you say anything, even a single word.

"Actually, that's not gonna work for me", you uttered with a sarcastic tone. You handed Wesley to Jack, who balanced him on his forearm. "I'm gonna take the day off, go to brunch with my friends, maybe make it a spa day. You can take the kids with you to the studio."

Jack let out a frustrated breath. "I was really looking to buckle down and get some work done today", he spoke out of the corner of his mouth. "I think the girls would rather spend the day with their grandparents. I'll call them."

"Don't bother." You stopped him before he could grab his phone off the counter. "Your dad is spending the day with Clay, and I'm treating your mom to a well deserved day off." You turned to the girls, "doesn't a day with Daddy sound like fun?" Aaliyah let out a squeal of excitement. "Will Uncle Urby be there?" Brooklyn asked, a little bit hesitant about spending the day cooped up in a soundproof room, but if her favorite uncle was there, she could suck it up.

"Yeah, I'll make sure he comes", Jack said as he shot off a text to his best friend. "We're gonna get dressed!" Brooklyn took Aaliyah by the hand and they both ran up stairs to their room.

Alone in the kitchen, Jack turned to you. "I know you're upset with me, but this is unfair. You know how much pressure I'm under to finish this album."

You let out a hum as you gently grazed a finger along Wesley's cheek. "Jack, in all the years we've been married and been a family, I have always been incredibly understanding of you and your work. I've stood by you through everything, and I have never asked you to choose between us or your music career, because I know how important it is to you But I am exhausted. I'm taking this day for me, and you're just going to have to figure it out." You gave Wesley a kiss on the forehead and walked away before Jack could get another word out.

****

"Aaliyah, sit in your seat, please." Jack wiped the sweat off of his brow as he picked the diaper bag off the ground and placed it underneath the car seat.

Getting all three kids into the car proved to be more of a challenge than he was expecting, and he was already 30 minutes late for his slot at the studio and he hadn't even left the house. Wesley had a blowout right after he changed him into his clothes, and Aaliyah was having a meltdown over one of her stuffies.

"No! I need Mr. Effie! I can't leave the house without him", Aaliyah spoke through tears, her arms crossed over her chest. "Baby, we don't have time to find your stuffed elephant, we have to go." Jack said with an exasperated tone. "Now, please, sit in your seat."

"I can't go without him!", she cried out again. "Aaliyah, that's enough." Jack was trying his hardest to control his tone.

Brooklyn looked up from her iPad. "Dad, Mr. Effie is in the laundry room. Liyah got some apple sauce on him yesterday so mom had to wash him."

"Okay, watch your siblings. I'll be right back", Jack shut the car door and jogged into the house to find the stuffed animal. He frantically searched through the pile of clean clothes until he saw a peak of the elephant's trunk underneath. He snatched the toy and ran out the house.

"Thank you Daddy!", Aaliyah wiped her face and cuddled Mr. Effie close. Jack hopped into the front seat and turned to face the girls. "You're welcome. Now listen, I need to get work done today, so I need you to be on your best behavior, okay? No tears, no screaming, just being the sweet girls I know you can be."

"Yes, Dad", both girls said in unison as Jack pulled out of the garage and headed to the studio.

When they arrived downtown, Jack's head was buried so far in the diaper bag to find a pacifier for Wesley, he barely noticed the young woman who approached him in the parking lot.

"Excuse me, are you Jack Harlow?" Jack's head shot up and was on a swivel to see who was speaking. He had a moment of panic that he was being approached by some paps and that was the last thing he needed right now. The girl to the left of him looked harmless enough, nervous even, as she gave him a big smile.

"Sorry, you scared me", Jack chuckled, slinging the diaper bag on his shoulder. "Oh, I'm sorry! I'm-I'm just such a big fan of yours." She stuttered over her words, avoiding eye contact. "Thank you, that's so sweet of you to say. I've gotta get inside, but thank-"

"Hi!" Aaliyah waived at the fan from the backseat. "I'm Aaliyah! What's your name? " She was still too young to understand Jack's career and fame, and thought he just had a lot of friends everywhere they went.

Jack was quick to shut down the interaction. "Baby, get your stuff together so we can go inside." He was very protective of his family, and even though most of his fans were nice, he tried to prevent exposing the girls to the public as much as possible. He turned back to the fan who was now holding a bouquet of flowers in his face. "Oh, are these for me?"

"Yeah, your music has meant so much to me, I always said if I ever met you, I'd return the favor." Jack felt his cheeks heat up with embarrassment, it always meant so much to him when he came across a fan of his. "Thank you, that's incredibly nice of you." He gave her a hug and took a selfie with her before she took off.

"Daddy, those flowers are beautiful! Was that your girlfriend?", Aaliyah asked, her eyes wide at the beautiful bouquet. Jack knitted his brow together. "No baby, I don't have a girlfriend, I only have eyes for mama."

"She's not his girlfriend, but she is a secret admirer", Brooklyn teased as she jumped out of the car. "Mama's gonna be mad when she finds out."

"What's a secret amirer?", Aaliyah asked with a tilt of her head. "Its someone who secretly likes you, and she wasn't a secret admirer, she was just a nice fan." Jack grabbed the car seat out of the car, Wesley sleeping peacefully through all of the commotion. "Let's not tell Mama about this okay? I'm already in the dog house with her." He grabbed Aaliyah's hand as they rushed into the building. "Let's get inside, I'm already so late."

"Dog house?" Aaliyah questioned, looking up at Brooklyn, who just shrugged.

The three year old was learning a lot of new phrases today.

****

It was after dark when you finally got home. You noticed Jack's SUV in the garage when you pulled up into the driveway. You immediately felt guilty for leaving him by himself today, as soon as you left the house, but you had to admit, a day off was exactly what you needed. You had the stress massaged, waxed off, and plucked out of you with tweezers, and you were feeling a lot better.

Still, you knew it wasn't right to leave a fight unresolved, so you brought a peace offering, grabbing the boxes of pizza from your family's favorite place, out of the passenger seat before you headed inside. The house was eerily quiet, with three kids that was rarely a good sign, but everything seemed to be in once piece.

Its wasn't that you didn't trust Jack to take care of things, he was a fantastic father, but even you lost track of the house after a long day.

You flipped on the kitchen light, your breath hitching at the sight of the beautiful bouquet on the counter, full of your favorite flowers. You took a moment to sniff at the roses, your stomach fluttering at the romantic gesture.

You got so caught up in your emotion today, you let yourself forget for a moment that you were married to a man who made you feel incredibly loved and cherished every single day. Sure, you had your problems, but the good always outweighed the bad.

"Mama! Did you have a good spa day?" Brooklyn collapsed into a hug with you as soon as she saw you, making you stumble back. "I did. Did everything go okay today while I was gone?"

"We got to touch all the pretty buttons on the computer today!" Aaliyah exclaimed as she climbed into a dining chair. "You did? Did you behave for Daddy?", you asked, giving the girls some pizza. "Uncle Urby let us take pictures with his camera, it was a lot of fun", Brooklyn chimed in, her mouth full of cheese.

"The girls were very good, I was very proud of them." You felt Jack's presence as he walked into the kitchen, wearing a pair of sweats, his curls hanging in his face.

"Hi", he whispered with a small smile when you looked at him. He wouldn't admit it, but between being upset over your fight and taking care of the kids, he didn't get any work done today. He couldn't get you off of his mind, and all he wanted to do was hug you and apologize profusely.

"Can I talk to you for a second?" You grabbed Jack's hand and led him into the hallway, out of sight of the girls. As soon as you stopped and turned, you pulled him into a tight hug, your arms wrapping around his neck. Jack sighed contently as he held you against his chest, his hands roped around your waist.

"I hate fighting with you", you mumbled into his sweatshirt. "I do too", Jack admitted, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. You pulled back, stroking Jack's beard between your fingers. "I'm sorry. I never should have guilted you for working. I did exactly what I said I'd never do." You felt tears start to build in your lashes, the lump in your throat building.

"You were right, though", Jack wiped the wetness under your eye away with his thumb, "its not fair how much work you have to do when I'm not here. I feel so lucky that our kids have you, because today was a lot, and I can only imagine what you have to put up with every day."

You giggled, pulling him in by the neck for a quick kiss. "I wouldn't change it for the world." He felt so much better now that you two had made up and he had you back in his arms.

"Thank you so much for the flowers too, they're beautiful." You squeezed his hand affectionately as you walked back into the kitchen. Jack had no idea what you were talking about. "You're welcome?", he did a terrible job hiding the inflection in his voice. It didn't connect until he saw the flowers the fan gave him this morning. He'd completely forgotten about them in the rush of the day.

"Mama! Did you see the flowers?" Aaliyah ran over to you, and you picked her up, walking over to the flowers. "I did, they're beautiful, Daddy did a wonderful job."

"Daddy didn't buy these flowers", your middle child had zero filter or ability to keep a secret. Jack cowered, realizing his apology to you was short lived. You looked over at him. "What is she talking about?"

"He got them from a pretty lady. His secret admiral", her genetic dimple showed as she smiled big, so happy with herself for remembering the words. "Your what?" Your eyes were still on Jack, who was nervously biting at his thumb nail.

"Huh?" he perked up, pretending he didn't hear a word either of you said.

"We told him you were gonna be upset, Mama." Brooklyn admitted, biting another piece off of her slice of pizza.

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#jack harlow #jackman thomas harlow #jackharlow #jackman harlow #jack harlow x reader #jack harlow imagine #jack harlow concepts #jack harlow fanfic

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esmedelacroix · 4 months

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21 days til' Christmas

building a snowman with singleparent!miguel o'hara and gabriela⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆

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Gabriela was on winter vacation but Miguel still worked eight hours a day. He may have been his own boss but he still held himself accountable and worked just as much as his own employees. It was only fair.

You had been babysitting Gabi for ages. It had been almost two years since you started babysitting her. She had grown up so much in these past couple of years. Miguel also grew a lot as a parent and as a person.

You and Miguel only became official about six months ago despite Gabi's effort to get the two of you together from the get-go.

You were helping Gabrelia get the last of her snow protection on when you heard the door swing open, You heard fast and heavy footsteps running up the stairs at an alarmingly fast speed. Miguel made his way to the doorframe with his coat still on and his glasses on the top of his head. "Papa's on vacation!" Miguel exclaimed as he held his arms out for Gabriela.

She bolted towards him and jumped into his arms. He lifted her up and peppered her face with kisses until she made disgusted noises.

"Papa! That tickles!" she squealed giggling like crazy.

Miguel gave you a look before giving you a quick kiss.

"We were just about to go play in the snow, wanna join us Miguel?" you asked.

"Of course, I love spending time with my girls," he answered as the three of you stepped outside and began a crazy snowball fight.

Gabriella made a 'snowball' that was almost as tall as she was and tried her hardest to pick it up to throw at her dad.

"I don't think you can throw something this big mama, but we can make a snowman," Miguel suggested.

"Yay! Snowman!" Gabi cheered as she jumped up and down beginning to make the second layer. She was surprisingly good at making snowmen for a six-year-old.

You and Miguel made the head together and all three layers were formed perfectly.

"Gabi, let's go inside and get some clothes and such for the snowman so we can bring him alive," you said, taking her hand.

Miguel watched the two of you giggle and run around the house lovingly. He finally felt complete. He felt like it was his fault that Gabirelia's mother had died that day, he felt like he was the reason his daughter had no mother figure to look up to, and he felt like it was his fault that his beautiful Gabi grew up in an incomplete family for all those years.

That was until you came around and taught him how to forgive himself. How to stop blaming himself for inevitable things. You taught him that he is just a mere human, that every bad thing that happens in his life can't be his fault because he's not the one making them happen.

The two of you came back out with a carrot, scarf, sticks, pebbles, and a hat.

You both sang Frosty the Snowman obnoxiously until Miguel joined in while you gave your snowman buttons, a mouth, eyes a nose, a scarf, and finally its hat, which brought it to life.

"What should we name them?" Miguel asked Gabi.

"Jaxx!" she exclaimed.

Who's that? Miguel asked with his eyes

Kid she likes at school. You answered almost telepathically.

You didn't know how the two of you communicated with just your eyes but it came in handy at times.

Miguel laughed to himself, happy to see Gabriela having crushes and talking to you about them.

"Alright both of you let's get inside and have some hot baths and soup," Miguel said, ushering the two of you back into the house. The two of you groaned not wanting to leave.

"Come on, you ladies are going to catch a cold if you don't," he warned.

To that, Gabi responded by running into the house and going to her bathroom.

"Thanks for looking after her Cariño[honey], I can't express enough how thankful I am to you," Miguel said.

"I love Gabi, and I love you just as much, it's always a pleasure Miguel," you reassured as you draped your arms over his shoulder causing him to pull you in by the waist.

"You wanna know what else is always a pleasure?" Miguel asked.

You looked at him with a puzzled look.

"This," he said as he started tickling you, causing you to erupt into violent laughter.

"Stop- Bahahaha, Miguel please," you barely chuckled out.

He laughed at your reaction before ushering you up the stairs for a bath.

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taglist: @aripet22@to-the-endoftheline

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taizi · 4 months

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where nothing hurts and nothing breaks

one piece word count: 3k written for the its pirates server sake exchange ! my other giftee was @incomprehensi-bull who asked for zoro and sanji interaction. sal i really hope you enjoy this <;3 title borrowed from safe by banners

read on ao3

“Remember,” the pretty girl with tangerine-colored hair says for the fifth time, her smile a fixed, gritted thing on her face, “Sanji is very small right now. The Devil’s Fruit effect isn’t going to wear off for another week at least. If you try to roughhouse with him the way you usually do, he will get hurt, and I will kill you with my hands. Understood?”

“You could try,” the green-haired man replies mildly.

“Why are we leaving Zoro in charge of babysitting again?” the man with the long nose says, to no one in particular. “I mean, we can all agree that this is going to be an absolute disaster, right?”

Zoro scowls, but the skeleton says, “Right,” at the same time the man with the long white hair and bright orange horns says, “I mean, yeah,” and everyone else nods along.

Yonji would have been furious to be made fun of in any capacity. Sanji holds his breath and waits for Zoro to snap at the rest of them, to use his size against everyone smaller than he is, but all he does is lean back against the railing and cross his arms. He looks unbothered to the point of falling asleep standing up.

It’s weird.

“I’m not a baby,” Sanji thinks it’s important to point out. He’s eight years old, which is a lot of years. He thinks his years are longer than most people’s, because he hasn’t felt like the little kid he used to be in ages. That little kid grew up when mama died.

“We know,” the tall woman tells him, her eyes very gentle. She always looks at Sanji like she understands him completely. It’s nice, even if it makes him feel kind of sad. He wonders if she had big brothers who hated her, too, or if it was just her dad. He thinks it wouldn’t be polite to ask, so he doesn’t. “You’re practically a gentleman.”

“Sanji can come shopping with us if he wants!” the reindeer says eagerly. He’s sitting on the robot’s broad shoulder and pats it like he’s inviting Sanji up there, too. They’re both small enough that Sanji could probably fit even without asking the rabbit-girl on the robot’s other shoulder to get down to make room.

Weathered yellow fills his vision as the brim of a worn straw hat slips over his eyes.

“Nope, it’s Zoro’s turn!” the captain replies brightly. That’s Luffy, with a scar under his eye that curves like a smile, and arms that don’t really look strong but can hold Sanji forever without getting tired. Sanji tips the hat back in time to look up at Luffy’s grinning face. “He and Sanji will have fun today and tonight they can tell us all about it!”

Everyone heaves a sigh, but no one argues. Luffy doesn’t throw his weight around like Captain Chas on The Orbit does, but he’s very stubborn in a way that reminds Sanji of the spoiled little kids on the cruise ship who get underfoot at dinner and demand dessert before all their vegetables are gone. In similar fashion, Luffy mostly gets his way because his crew loves him too much to deny him. It’s a strange sort of authority for a pirate captain to have, but it seems to work for them just fine.

Sure enough, Zoro’s shoulders go back just a little, and he levels Luffy with one unblinking dark eye. Accepting the terms and conditions.

Sanji tries not to be nervous. It isn’t fair to compare Zoro and Yonji just because they look similar.

Zoro looks like the kind of person Yonji is going to grow up to be—has grown up to be, somewhere else in this strange future Sanji is living in—and he seems to enjoy scathing arguments as much as Yonji does, too. But he hasn’t hurt anyone smaller than him that Sanji has seen.

In fact, the smallest member of the crew clambers around on Zoro like he’s a walking jungle-gym, and scolds him viciously when he doesn’t take care of himself, and looks up at him with round, bright eyes all the rest of the time. Chopper acts as though Zoro is among the very last people in the world he would ever have cause to fear.

Sanji’s so used to being afraid that he hardly knows how else to be. The people here who call themselves his real family make it hard to be, though. He absorbs their brightness and silliness and fondness every day and slowly learns how to stop holding his breath.

The Sunny is docked for the day at a busy, bustling resort island, with enough lights and billboards that you can see the shine of it for miles across the water. There’s a big map on the wharf, twice as tall as Franky, that notes all the places of interest—shrines up in the mountains, a sprawling sea-side spa to the west, an amusement park further inland, the bright green and yellow loops of a rollercoaster visible above everything else, and hundreds of shops and restaurants scattered all in between.

The Strawhats—that’s who these pirates were, who Sanji himself was, apparently—split up in twos and threes where the road forked but Sanji and Zoro didn’t even make it that far, because there was a market selling produce and all kinds of fresh fish and local goodies right there in the port, and Sanji only had to cast one curious look toward a cart towering with brightly-colored fruits for Zoro to start walking that way. He clears a path for Sanji through the bustling crowd like it’s nothing.

“If you buy more than you carry, don’t cry to me about it,” Zoro says in the same indifferent tone he says everything in.

“I won’t!” Sanji promises, not sure if he means he won’t buy that much or he won’t cry about it.

He was given money—real, actual Bellies—and told in no uncertain terms to come find Nami if he ran out. He doesn’t see how he could! There’s so much in the bag she gave him!

He says as much to Zoro, half-afraid to spend it all just in case it was a mistake. Zoro replies, “Our grocery budget is half of what it usually is while our cook is on vacation. We’re eating simple.” He nudges Sanji’s head with his elbow without taking his hands out of his pockets. “We don’t usually survive off sandwiches and eggs and soup, you know.”

Sanji figured that must be true, because of how grand their ship is, and because his grown-up friends seem to have fun taking turns cooking meals but they’re just clueless enough in the kitchen that it’s obvious they don’t spend a lot of time in there.

“I can cook,” Sanji says for what feels like the hundredth time. “I can cook for all of you.”

“What part of ‘vacation’ did you miss?” Zoro tells him without missing a beat. “Shut up and look at that weird fish.”

Sanji looks before he can help it. That sure is a weird fish! He forgets to keep arguing his case in favor of darting over to ask the fishmonger a dozen rapid-fire questions about their catch that they answer cheerfully.

Contrary to what he said before, Zoro carries all the shopping. The vendors hand the goods over Sanji’s head every time, even though he’s the one forking over the gold for it. The swordsman is very big and strong, and probably all those parcels and purchases weigh absolutely nothing to him, but it’s the principle of the thing.

Sanji tries to imagine Yonji carrying anything for him at all just to be nice. The daydream falls apart instantly, because Yonji only ever took things from Sanji to break them.

“Do you promise you’ll give it back?” he musters the courage to ask, clinging to the cookbook a kind old woman just sold him, unwilling to let it go without making sure. She had smiled and said she was certain her family’s recipes would be in good hands with him and Sanji doesn’t want to prove her wrong before he gets a chance to even try. “You have to promise.”

Zoro gazes down at him with that inscrutable look on his face he’s worn all day. He could probably take the book from Sanji pretty easily but he doesn’t yank it away or twist his wrist until he lets go. They just stand there, sizing each other up. Sanji’s nerves mount with every second but he doesn’t back down.

Yonji would have hurt him already and laughed about it. The first mate of the Strawhat crew simply says, after enough time that Sanji knows he’s taken it seriously, “Promise.”

Surprised, Sanji lets the book go, and watches it get tucked away in an oversized tote bag with the rest of his little treasures. Then Zoro just stands there looking at him, one eyebrow higher than the other, waiting for Sanji to go chasing after the next thing that catches his eye.

Back on the Sunny, Zoro was goaded easily into fights with his friends, and seemed short-tempered any time he wasn’t napping on the grassy deck or drinking from bottles Sanji wasn’t allowed to touch. He didn’t cause problems on purpose, the way Sanji’s younger brother enjoyed doing, but he seemed to have sharp edges and Sanji didn’t know how to get close to him without getting pricked.

But he thinks about how Chopper looks at Zoro. He thinks about the mice in the castle that would run from his siblings but cozy up in Sanji’s hands. Animals know. And then he thinks about the way Luffy trusts Zoro, how he doesn’t have to look to know Zoro will be right where he needs him. Everyone on the crew is quick to tease him and make fun and none of them are scared.

Zoro could have gone with Luffy and the others, but he’s spending the day with Sanji instead. He hasn’t even been mean about it. Sanji abruptly feels really bad about not handing the cookbook over right away.

“My brother has green hair,” he blurts, then stares at the cobblestones beneath his shoes in acute mortification. Why did he say that?

“I know,” the swordsman says, the last thing on earth Sanji expected him to say. “I heard all about your brothers.”

He says it like he’s not impressed by them in the slightest. It’s a weird way for someone to talk about Sanji’s brothers—they’re the best, they’re everything they were supposed to be, and Sanji is the one that went wrong.

Abruptly, Zoro points at a bench. “Go sit. I think your blood sugar is getting low. If you pass out on me, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Sanji finds himself bundled onto the bench with the tote bag in his lap. Zoro set it there as if it was a paperweight that would keep Sanji from blowing off somewhere. That was kind of annoying! Sanji isn’t a baby and he isn’t gonna run off by himself, he’s not stupid.

But the swordsman is only gone for a few minutes when Sanji’s attention is grabbed by something across the street. There’s a grizzled-looking man lounging in the shade of his stall, flicking through what looks like a waterlogged ledger. There are a bunch of crates and cages stacked around him that are empty—except for one.

There’s a distressed bird crammed into a cage so small that it can’t move except to shuffle in place, its head ducked so that its long narrow beak doesn’t hit the bars. It’s making a harsh ticking noise, high and tight and anxious. Sanji shoves the bag off his knees and jumps to his feet, weaving through the crowd and ducking down to his hands and knees before the man behind the stall clocks him. He crawls the rest of the way to the birdcage and lifts it down from the cart into his lap.

The bird stops vocalizing, looking up at him with darting black eyes, its chest heaving. Sanji whispers, “I know how you feel. Let me help.”

But there’s a lock on the cage, and even as Sanji tugs at it, he knows it’s useless. He’s decided to just take the cage away with him when a fist closes in the back of his jacket and he’s hauled all the way off his feet.

He yelps, flailing in midair, and only barely manages not to drop the bird.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?” the man asks, sounding more bewildered than angry. He wrenches the cage out of Sanji’s hands and then drops him.

Sanji lands with an oof on the street, and he automatically curls his limbs in, making himself a smaller target. If he tucks his fingers into fists and hides them under his arms, there’s less of a chance his brothers will break them just for fun. He curls his hands into fists but he doesn’t hide them. The fear is in the back of his mind, but it’s not the loudest thing in there. He’s lived on the Sunny for days now where bravery and goodness come before everything and he must have absorbed some of that, because he’s shaking under the sharp eyes of a big, unfriendly stranger, but he still says, “You should let it go.”

“What was that?”

“You’re not taking good care of it,” Sanji says, louder, “so you should let it go.”

The man’s mouth twists in an unkind sneer. “And I should just toss my Bellies into the Blue while I’m at it, eh? That’s not how it works, whelp.”

The bird is moving around in the cage again, making that dry clicking noise again and rucking its orange and blue feathers up in its anxious bid to get free or somehow create more space. Sanji remembers being tossed behind bars, no respite and no rescue and no one left in his life who cared if he was hungry or cold or afraid. He can feel the metal helmet that encased his head as clearly as if it’s still there. He remembers crying so hard it made him lightheaded, clinging to those bars and wishing he was anything like his siblings, if only so he was strong enough to save himself.

“It’s not your bird, it’s its own bird,” Sanji shouts. “It wants out!”

The man shifts his weight. Maybe he was going to step forward, or turn around and go back behind his stall, or maybe he wasn’t going to move at all. Sanji will never know, because at that moment a shadow falls over him, and he knows without having to look that Zoro has come back.

“There a reason he’s on the ground?” Zoro asks. He almost sounds conversational. “Hope it’s a good one.”

The man obviously feels much differently about giving Zoro the same attitude he gave Sanji. He hesitates to answer right away, staring up at the swordsman the way that little bird probably stared up at him when he stuffed it into that stupid little cage. The way Sanji looks up at Judge and hopes for anything else besides what he knows is going to happen.

“He started helping himself to my wares,” the man settles for saying. “Maybe you ought to teach him a bit about how the world works before you let him loose on it. He’s gonna get himself into trouble running his mouth at the wrong guy.”

Sanji is waiting for the moment when he’ll have to defend himself, to make his case, but it never comes. Zoro doesn’t even ask what happened, he just plants himself like a tree in the middle of the confrontation and lets Sanji shelter safely in his shadow, as steady and immovable as the castle walls of Germa Kingdom.

“And are you the wrong guy?” Zoro says, very interested in the answer. He’s got some grilled skewers in one hand and the tote bag that Sanji abandoned in the other, but even without easy access to the swords at his hip, he is not a person anyone would want to get on the wrong side of. That grumpy sleeping dragon that lounges lazily on the deck of the Sunny is gone and the creature left behind is wide-awake and hungry.

Speaking a little faster, the man says, “Look, mate, I’m just trying to make a living here. If I gave away my beasts every time a tender-hearted little brat teared up over them, I’d be out of business.”

Zoro just says, “He’s eight years old and already more of a man than you’ll ever be. You put your hand on him, and you still have your hand. That is more good luck than most people get in a lifetime. Make it count.”

Sanji is not actually surprised when the man snatches up his ledger book and the handle of his cart, ready to make tracks. The bird is left behind, and Sanji picks himself up and hurries over to scoop the cage back into his arms. The bird makes a sound at him like something is rattling in his throat, but it sounds slightly calmer than before.

When he looks up at Zoro, he finds Zoro already gazing back down at him. He holds out the birdcage and says, “There’s a lock. Will you help?”

“I could break it open, but it might cut itself on the metal. It’s not safe to let it out here, anyway,” Zoro says. “Let’s head back home and get Usopp to pick it open. For now carry it in one hand and eat some of these, tough guy.”

Sanji agreeably accepts a skewer of grilled squid and walks close enough to Zoro that he bumps into him every couple of steps. The bird sticks its beak through the bars and snaps at one of the curly tentacles, sneaking a bite so cleanly that Sanji laughs in sheer delight. He shares the rest of that skewer, as well as the next one Zoro passes him with pieces of tender zucchini and shrimp.

“Didn’t know you liked birds,” he says.

“I don’t really,” Sanji says. “I just like this one. Do you know what kind it is?”

“Robin will,” Zoro replies with the unremarkable certainty in his nakama that Sanji is still in the middle of learning. “What makes this one so special?”

“We understand each other, that’s all,” Sanji says. He focuses on keeping the hungry beak away from his fingers when he adds, “I was in a cage, too.”

Zoro stops walking. Sanji doesn’t want to look up at him and see the face that he’s making, because then he won’t be able to force the truth out. And he wants to. He feels safe enough to do that now, for the first time since he woke up in this strange, bright, wonderful, silly family. He thought it would be Luffy he told, or Robin, or little Chopper, but it’s not any of them.

It’s Zoro. The one who lets his siblings crawl all over him and poke fun and start fights, and only ever turns his teeth on any person outside their family who means them harm. The one who never steps in where he isn’t wanted, but keeps careful watch for the moment that he’s needed. Of course it’s him.

“My brothers are mean to me,” he admits in a whisper. “Yonji likes to hurt me. I’m sorry I thought you were like him. You’re not.”

There’s a moment of stillness, the two of them standing in an out-of-the-way corner, the noise and bustle of the market all pushed into the background. And then, without warning, for the second time that day, Sanji is lifted right off his feet. He squeaks in surprise, but he’s settled on Zoro’s shoulders a second later, and grips at his green hair to steady himself with the hand that isn’t clutching the birdcage.

He stares, wide-eyed, out at this view he’s never been given before.

“Next time we see your brother, I’ll beat him up,” Zoro says without preamble. “I won’t stop until you’re satisfied. And that’s a promise.”

Sanji hugs the bird closer, and breathes in a deep lungful of air that tastes like salt and brine and certain freedom. He can see the ocean from here, and their colorful ship bobbing on the water, waiting for them no matter how far away they wander.

“But you’re on your own with Nami when she sees that bird,” the swordsman adds plainly.

Sanji holds the little bird a little closer and smiles. He understands his nakama much better now than he did even earlier this morning. Zoro might say one thing, but he really means another. Sanji is not on his own at all. Maybe he hasn’t been on his own in a long time.

(A week later, with the Devil's Fruit effects finally negated, Sanji is searing scallops in the kitchen, following one of the recipes in his new cookbook, and Zoro is day-drinking at the table, and Stella the common kingfisher is sticking her nosy beak into spice jars where it doesn't belong.

Sanji says, “I’m releasing you from your promise.” When Zoro glances at him, he adds, “You don’t have to beat up my brother. I’m more than capable of doing that myself.”

For a moment, the swordsman doesn’t speak. He and Luffy can have entire conversations in a few seconds of absolute silence, but Sanji is not quite there yet. He waits with newfound patience for Zoro to come to whatever decision he’s making, rewarded when Zoro says, “No, I’m going to. I have it on good authority that he was mean to a friend of mine.”

Sanji scoffs and looks away, busying himself with the food, so that no one sees his helpless smile except for the obnoxious little bird that his present friend harangued Nami into letting him keep.)

#one piece #opfic #black leg sanji #roronoa zoro #my writing #incomprehensi-bull #op

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myfictionaldreams · 6 months

Note

I know it's already november but i've been so behind and off tumblr BUTTT what do you think our little mafia!stucky trio went as for halloween 🤭🤭🤭 i think there was def some public costumes and some just to wear at home

Sorry, it's taken me a few days to answer this! I absolutely loved trying to think of answers for this, as there were so many options I could have gone with! Thank you for sending this ♥

“Please come out of the toilet; I promise the others won’t laugh. You’ll look great!” you shout through the thick bathroom door, cheeks aching from the amount you’re smiling.

A snicker echoes across the room, and you glare pointedly at the man adjusting his green shirt, hardy attempting to hold back his laugh. You were trying, which was difficult, considering you hadn’t even seen Bucky’s costume yet. Still, even the imagination of it was enough to have you wanting to collapse to the floor and laugh until your belly hurt.

“I don’t believe you, Doll. If I come out and hear one laugh, I’m not going to this stupid Halloween party”. You try not to roll your eyes at Bucky’s dramatics, but if you were in his situation, you’d refuse to leave the house. In fact, you were shocked he had even said yes to the outfit in the first place.

Turning towards the others in the room, you pointed your finger and demanded, “No laughing at Bucky. I really want to go tonight and win this prize for best dressed, and we can’t go without Bucky, so keep yourselves contained!”

“I can hear you smiling, Mama. You’re just as bad as them”, Bucky muttered, leaning onto the other side of the door. You smack your hand over your mouth, hiding the grin and try to compose yourself.

“Please just come out; we’re going to be late!” you say, stepping away from the door and picking up your tiny orange purse that matched the shade of your wig. Approaching Steve, who had remained by the door, you straightened his scarf, which also matched the shade of your wig, as he casually leaned against the door frame, admiring your outfit.

“Right, I’m coming out there. I don’t want to hear a single noise out of anyone; otherwise, you’re fired”, Bucky jokingly threatened as he opened the bathroom door and stepped out to a flood of laughter. In your fairness, you did try to hide the laughs, but looking at the little dog collar around his neck, you were beside yourself with laughter, doubling over and holding onto Steve so you didn’t collapse to the floor. “I hate you all”, he drawled, crossing his arms so the fluffy material of his Scooby-Doo outside stretched to its limits.

“I don’t know, boss, I think you make an excellent dog, especially the tail brings out the blue of your eyes., Natasha sarcastically reasoned with him as she grabbed his tail, but Bucky was swifter to grip her wrist and pushed her away.

“You’re the first to be fired, Romanoff”, he grumbled, adjusting the hood of the onesie with Scooby-Doo’s face on.

You move away from Steve, your heels clicking along the floor as you move, which captures the attention of the grumpy man before you as he admires your Daphne costume. “I’m sorry for laughing! You just look so cute and adorable! We’re definitely going to win the competition!”

You were surprised he had even agreed to it anyway, but you’d promised a separate costume awaiting his and Steve’s return from the party, which you knew would compensate for his embarrassment. Looking around the room, everyone was dressed to perfection. Steve as Fred was the obvious choice, and you loved nothing more than seeing Steve in a tight-fitting jumper, and his little scarf was adorable.

Natasha had initially argued with you, stating she wanted to be Daphne, but you quickly reminded her that in most versions of Scooby-Doo, Fred and Daphne were a couple, so it was only fair that you got to be Daphne. Anyway, Natasha didn’t even have to wear a wig to be Velma, so this choice was easiest. Then came the argument over who was going to be Shaggy and Scooby-Doo.

Bucky initially tried to pull rank over Sam, insisting that there would be many other gangs, dangerous people and high-powered individuals at the party so they couldn’t see him in such an embarrassing costume. You reasoned with him that Sam was the obvious pick for Shaggy, with his wit and sarcasm and that Bucky was still a menacing Second leader for the Rogers mafia, no matter what he wore. Additionally, the promise of a special costume in return had Bucky reluctantly agreeing to be Scooby and Sam, therefore, could be Shaggy.

“I promise this will all be worth it”, you whisper to Bucky, flicking the gold jewel on his dog collar and necklace.

“It better be, Doll”, he smiled finally, staring at your lips before clapping his hands, “Right, everyone gets into the Mystery Machine”.

“You know Buck, you look kinda adorable with a dog collar around your neck”, Steve jokes, attempting to reach for the necklace like you had, but Bucky ducked out of the outstretched hand and then shoved lightly into Steve’s chest.

“You can’t say much - Cute scarf, by the way”. Even though Bucky had been attempting to tease Steve, this only had both men smiling, wrapping arms around each other, and walking towards the exit.

Later that night, you were stuck between multiple costumes for them, having seen at least six different options in the shop that you knew would drive Steve and Bucky mad, so in the end, you wrote all the possibilities down and let them randomly pick which one they’d prefer. The choices ranged from cheerleader, sexy nurse and fairy. They were all stereotypical sexy costumes, but they were all ideas you knew would drive the two men crazy.

Steve reached into the pot first and then Bucky, reading their own pieces of paper and grinning devilishly.

“So? Which would you both prefer?”, you asked, standing before them, having removed the Dampne heels and hair.

Steve shifted his position from where he sat at the end of the bed with Bucky, already feeling his desire swelling between his legs. “Mine says Red Riding Hood. Oh baby girl, you know I would love to be your big bad wolf and chase you through the woods”.

You tried to ignore the pulse that bloomed in your core as you looked to Bucky with a raised eyebrow, waiting for him to talk. “Mine is Professor and Student”.

Stepping closer to Bucky, you plucked the piece of paper from his hand and then the same with Steves. “We can do one tonight and another tomorrow. Here’s the thing with the one you picked, Bucky. I’d like it if I were your professor and you were both my naughty students; how does that sound?”

Bucky’s mouth dropped open like he would say something, but no words came out, so he silently nodded. “Good! I’ll go and get changed, and both of you just wait here”.

#mafia au #mafia!stucky #mafia drabble #mafia steve rogers #steve rogers #bucky barnes #mafia bucky barnes #mine*#stucky

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youngstarfishphilosopher · 1 year

Text

Puss in boots: The last wish ramble ( Spoilers)

The animation in this movie is absolutely stunning

The relationship between Goldilocks and the three bears is absolutely precious and I love the found family dynamic

Death has such an eerie and honestly terrifying presence about him.

It really shows you a physical picture of how you can never escape death because Death catches up to everyone eventually

Perrito is precious and I hope whoever his first owners were die a painful death

The relationship between Puss and Kitty is wonderfully done and I love them together so much

Its nice to see Kitty finally learn to trust in others agian

I really enjoy Baby and Golide' s sibling rivalry. They act a lot like siblings. They bicker and fight but at the end of the day they love each other

Mama Bear is best mom

Even though death seems happy with his job, he also despises people who do not see the importance of the life they have.

It also displays his reasons for despising Puss.

Death doesn't think It's fair that Cats get so many lives while others only have one

So he is especially angry at Puss because not only does he have nine lives, but instead of being grateful and cherishing the fact that he has the privilege to get more chances of living life to the fullest, he just carelessly throws them away

Death also recognizes that Puss changes and lets him go at the end of the movie

Because Death sees that Puss has learned to cherish his life and is ready to live the last life that he has left to the fullest

Showing that even though Death is cruel, he can also be a fair player

On an unrelated note: Perrito cursing out the three bears was the funniest freaking thing I have ever seen

Jimminy Cricket is a #girlboss

The bakers dozen deserved better

And What did those baby unicorns do to you, you dumb fat plum man?

#puss in boots #rambles #puss in boots the last wish #kitty softpaws #perrito #puss in boots wolf #goldilocks #goldilocks and the three bears

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aconflagrationofmyown · 7 months

Text

but then…Gigi

Warnings: the usual for this universe with crass language and descriptions of bodies (flattering and negative) with use of the words fat, etc. some heavy petting and kissing and talk of blow jobs, age gap, mentions of drugs, mentions of and an actual enema described in the most respectful and vague way that I could manage? strictly caretaking in tone and help regarding serious health concerns

Rating18+: Mature for some sexual language, some sexual scenes, subject matter, dark thought processes and health specifics

Word Count: 10k 🤭

Special Thanks: to baby girls @stylespresleyhearted & @eliseinmemphis who’ve breathed this universe into being and for my friends who gave their input and assurances for this chapter. And to all of y’all who said to go full real and raw in this one, incorporate the hard and ugly parts with the soft and lovely -just like life. Thank you, this urging has helped me go ahead and write something I’m very proud of and hope touches y’all, too.

Graceland at night will always remind Gigi of the first time coming, seeing the house all lit up at the end of the drive's curve, window lights twinkling at her and the promise of his presence inside filling her with butterflies.

Tonight Elvis’ hand is heavy on her ankle and its little chain instead, as it lays in his lap as he drives them up and around back himself, the garage opening like witchcraft without Gigi noticing a single employee besides Sam down at the gate. What a change a week makes.

It’s his home, she thinks fondly at the sight of the back kitchen door. Seems ages since this afternoon when he sent her out here to wait in the garage as he took care of business. They must both be thinking the same thing as they loiter in the Stutz for a little while after he turns the engine off, as if scared some remnants of ghoulish Alden’s might remain inside.

She slips her hand into his big paw at last and he seems to startle out of a reverie in order to give her a tight smile. His sweaty skin glitters from the garage light and it’s muted and pretty as a painting. “Thanks for bringing me home, daddy.” she whispers and if a kid ever got the chance to be brought to the North Pole by Santa, Elvis ain’t sure they’d be more grateful than this shimmery eyed girl child in his seat.

Who the fuck didn’t want this sweet little thing? Who made her so desperate she’s coming home with a washed up old man who’s notorious for having a revolving bed? Elvis chuckles mirthlessly at the thought that even he is so beat that right now he is more preoccupied with how to distract her so he can slip away and do a damn enema.

Life is rarely fair, but it definitely ain’t fair to poor Gigi. The least he can do is tell her,

“Stay put, baby girl.” as he gets out on his side and limps over to the passenger door and opens it for her like his mama taught him, hoping he doesn’t look as stiff as he feels.

He must fail at that. No sooner does she duck her head and emerge from the car, one long leg at a time, than she’s by his side with an arm looped around his waist as if she could support him were he to tumble, kicking the passenger door closed with her still shoeless foot.

Nasty habit that, going around barefoot, he’s gonna have to break her of it, this lack of shoes, and she’s gonna have to shower before getting into bed, no way he’s gonna have grimy sooties in his sheets.

Gigi pulls Elvis’ arm over her shoulder like they’re two marines headed up a beachhead and he’s had his leg blown off, her smile is the only thing keeping him from shoving her off to prove just how fine he is. God. Why?

“What’re you doin’?” he asks instead keeping his feet firmly planted, blinking owlishly at her and she gives in to the temptation to swipe the mop of hair off his forehead. She thinks he looks so distinguished with it swept back, each of his striking features lifted by the volume. She spies some gray roots in the glow of the back door light and it makes her smile, she wonders if she can talk him into styling it the old way again, or a version of it. The way it naturally fell when he was licking her.

“I’m helping ya.” she replies with confused cheeriness.

“I don’t need it.” he insists while squeezing her waist in an attempt to make the blow land softer.

She gives him the closest thing to a suspicious look that he’s ever seen out of this guileless creature. “C’mon in honey.” he changes tactics and taps her butt, getting her to move up the few stairs to the kitchen and willing himself not to wince as he bends his knee.

Gigi is watching him like a hawk and it makes him feel very decrepit and he can just hear the ribbing from the guys about coming back hobbling after taking out a young lady a few years too vigorous for him.

That thought makes him pull his arm off her shoulder and he goes back to squeezing her waist. Which now that he thinks of it, she’s very skimpily dressed still. Just the panties and his jacket. Elvis hopes most of them have gone to bed inside or are out.

The house is far more homey when there’s less people in it, Gigi thinks, as they cross the threshold and no booming bass hits their ears or the tinkling den of party guests. Just the gentle clatter of cutlery and quiet hum of low conversation which ends up being Mary at the sink and Lamar still sat where Gigi got the keys from him at the kitchen counter, eating his burger in between sharing it with Dinah. Dinah who’s making chewing ground beef and onions an art form of seduction. It’s a little off putting if Gigi is being honest which she tries to be but Elvis makes an outright noise of disgust at being met with this in his own home.

“Fuck’s sake Lamar,” he grunts and his friend drops his bun in surprise at the sudden apparition of the two runaways, “don’t ya need to polish a windshield or somethin?”

“I’ll help polish your hubcap, baby.” Dinah purrs into Lamar’s ear and Gigi’s eyes bug about as much as the driver’s.

“Out, both of ya.” Elvis snaps his finger towards the door and Lamar lumbers by with a murmured

“Sorry EP- just sorta happened…”

as he goes with Dinah skipping past them with a wink and a tipsy gait that suggests smoking too much grass in one day.

“Jesus.” Elvis mutters, wondering what the hell is up with this group of friends and holds Gigi tighter lest she pick up on bad behavior as they venture into the den and past it to the living room, seeking out humankind.

There are no Alden’s to be found but unfortunately there is a scene unfolding on the couch of two frizzy blondes clawing at each other while unhinging their jaws like mating hippos, the better to lick each other’s tonsils. Dodger sits to the side in her usual spot in the rocker with her pipe, heedlessly crushing her crossword opposition.

“Tammy!” Gigi gasps in glee at her friend’s scandalous public behavior and the way her red acrylics have torn poor Jerry’s shirts to literal shreds, biceps and fuzzy golden pecs on almost-full display. Not that he seems to mind with the way his hips keep pumping up and his hands are wedged in the back pockets of her cutoffs.

“Jerrah,” Elvis thunders after her exclamation and only then does the hippo-love-fest- cease and Dodger raise her head in order to look Gigi up and down from the anklet on her footsie to the crown of her pretty blonde head, “the hell you doin’?” Elvis demands of his friend, “Comin’ into my home, fuckin’ up the place with b-b-barbecue sauce and ruinin’ d-dinner while y-y-yer at it a-and now neckin’ on m’couch? It’s new, man, got it last month!”

His irate voice turns into a whine at the end and Gigi rubs her hand against his chest in soothing commiseration. “Yeah Tammy, it’s new.” she echoes him.

“Who’s this?” Dodger asks, blatantly ignoring Elvis’ plight.

“I-its Gigi, grandma, ya met her earlier?” he prompts with a confused scrunch of his eyebrows that Gigi finds as cute as a little boy and she gives the unimpressed dame a little wave.

“So many girls in here I can’t keep straight.” she huffs around her pipe.

“Speaking of, uh, how’d it go? Ya know with-“ with Ginger, Elvis means, as he runs his hand down from Gigi’s waist to grab her hand and hold it.

“Oh uh,” Jerry rights himself on the couch and clasps his hands like he has some shred of professionalism left to him in that ribboned shirt, “it’s been handled. Wasn’t pretty but -well, the termination was pretty obvious. Ya gotta be a little more than delusional to push it when your ‘fiancé’ has left to go … out to eat.”

Gigi bites her lip to stall her giggle at his phrasing and burrows closer to Elvis while looking up to see his reaction, follow his lead. The man couldn’t look less sympathetic for her Predecessor and some guilty little cloud that has been hanging over Gigi all evening dissipates under the bright light of his justification.

“Good,” he murmurs lowly, “didn’t want it all fussy, jus’ wasn’t meant to be. Was wrong about it all.” and that seems like a very gentle and kind concession for him to make, just as he doesn’t seem to regret the fact it is very much over.

“Well, uh, now that’s been handled…” Jerry trails off in the manner of those waiting for recognition of a job well done. He doesn’t get it. And so he continues after a beat, “Now that’s done I’ll just be uh, on m’way-“

“-No!” Elvis protests urgently and suprises evryone with his vehemence. “I-I mean don’t go, I need ya man. I-I mean, ya just got here, ya know? A-a-and where’s everybody else gotten to?”

There it is, Jerry thinks with a sigh, he’s needed since the house is empty, it’s got nothing to do with being missed. “Well, Hodge and Ricky spent most the afternoon clearing Ginger’s stuff out at her request and tidyin’ up the master for when ya get back. They’re takin’ the last of her shit over now.”

“Oh.” Elvis accepts this with a thoughtful nod, “Thas good.” he declares softly. “Well, don’t go man, not yet. Not till they get back. You just stopped by and I ain’t seen ya and we can play pool?” Elvis tempts him.

Jerry tries to ignore the way Tammy’s hand has crept into the back of his jeans and is wiggling a finger at his crack. “Uh, ok, yeah I mean- ain’t you tired, Boss?”

“Oh jus’ need a lil refresher, then I’ll be back down, right as rain. I’ll smoke ya.” Elvis replies easily and Jerry picks up on the reason for his insistence like a well trained hound.

A refresher. Be right back down.

Jerry glances over at the cute little stage five clinger holding onto Elvis like he’s a teddy bear she won in a striptease carnival and he gets the memo loud and clear.

“A-a-and it ain’t gentlemanly, you leavin’ Tammy after such a display, a girl’s owed more than that.” Elvis gets desperate enough to pull that one out and Jerry hides his laugh with a dry cough.

“Yeah, yeah I wouldn’t wanna miss seein’ you.” Jerry agrees, “Came just to see how ya were.” he admits the truth of it. “I’ll be down here when you’ve freshened up.”

“Alright.” Elvis nods.

“What’d you two get up to anyway?” Jerry starts a conversation and looks to Gigi for an answer, she doesn’t seem inclined to answer, favoring petting Elvis’ chest instead, but when he doesn’t say anything she picks up the social cue and replies for them both since he seems tired,

“We went back to my place.” she admits breezily, “The only place we could think to hide out. I’m not dressed for anything much.” and she pouts in a way that suggests she thinks she is but an executive decision was made to hide her.

“Ya went to the apartment?” Tammy is grinning wildly and she scoots closer to Jerry, patting at the seat next to her for a juicy retelling. Elvis shuffles the Siamese twins that he and Gigi have become over to the couch and gently disentangles her to sit next to her friend, exchanging a vehement look with Schilling.

“Yes we did!” Gigi is glowing with the memory and his heart aches.

“Who’s this again?” Dodger repeats, too distracted by the sight of a panty clad woman on the red couch to go back to her crossword with full mental capacity.

“This is Gigi, Dodger.” Jerry repeats gently but with more volume as if that’ll sink in better.

“Yes, I’m Gigi.” she’s eager to make a good impression, bless her and her full cotton-crotched display. Elvis starts to creep away in a stealthy little meander from the couch now that Gigi is facing away from the stairs.

“You from Memphis?” Dodger asks sourly, and this plays well into his ploy, Dodger has two moods -not giving a rat’s ass about what happens around her or else being a goddamn one-woman inquisition.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Born?”

“In Memphis, ma’am!”

“Your parents?”

“Mama’s French but Daddy is from Hardiman county.”

“French, hmph.” Dodger picks out the one unacceptable nugget and latches on, “I went to France once…”

Elvis can taste the inquisition coming on and it should buy him a good thirty minutes. Thirty minutes should work if he can just relax and not fuck it up with nervous retention. A ticking clock always makes him clamp up. He bites his lip and reminds himself just how awful it would be for Gigi to learn what his regimen requires. He takes the first step soundlessly, then the second. He’s made it to the third by the time he hears a distant-

“Oh Gigi!-“ from Jerry and the feel of a soft hand on his elbow. She looks so at home on his stairs that Elvis feels like marveling, like she was meant to go up to this sanctum-sanctorum that he trusts so few to see. Not for the first time today he feels as if he’s being looked at with eyes as unconditionally loving -and presumptive- as his Yissa’s.

“Are we going up now?” Gigi asks in a giddy little whisper and Elvis wonders if she really just tore out of the living room and Dodger’s chat in order to be with him. Not even housebroke, this one.

“Gigi, it ain’t polite leavin’ Dodger like that.” he rebukes gently and the glee fades into consternation.

“S-she knows I went to help you!” she whimpers in protest and behind her ear he can see Schilling get up and whisper something to Tammy. It better not be any particulars.

“That’s real sweet darlin’ but I’m gonna be right down,” Elvis soothes, his hand cupping her cheek, “be right down, and family’s very important to me, Baby Girl. I’d like ya to get to know my people.”

It’s a thin excuse with one of those people being her best friend and the other his friend. He imagines it’s not the most appealing thing to sit and be grilled on genealogy by Dodger but Gigi is just gonna have to bear it.

“Can ya do that f’me Gigi?” he prods like it’s a great commission and she’s got watery eyes again and he really cannot believe someone is this sensitive, like God sent her out into life half baked with too thin a skin.

“Yeah, daddy.” she agrees softly, glancing up the stairs to where he’s barred her from going after inviting her up just this afternoon -it makes no sense to her.

He’s never seen a more dejected creature than Gigi as she slinks back to the living room, much to Jerry’s relief and encouragement, and takes her seat beside Tammy with crumpled cheerfulness. Elvis sees her wipe her eyes with the back of her wrists, like a kid, before perking up and turning back to Dodger with faux investment in the conversation.

Elvis climbs the stairs and wonders how he’s gonna manage this night after night. Hell, some mornings he needs it, too. Suddenly the irony hits him of wanting a girlfriend to stay only to now find the reality of that much too oppressively clingy for his pride. He doesn’t know what he’s gonna do about it but for now he opens the padded doors to his room and notices with satisfaction the orderly sanitation that Hodge conducted on the place. He leaves his door adjar, no fear of intruders in this house with its well worn habits and spoken and unspoken rules. He calls up Yissa first and foremost, and while she’s in the middle of something she drops her project and they eat up a good bit of his thirty minutes with conversation. Not that he minds or counts. He’d sit on burning coals every night if that’s what had to happen to talk to his little girl. When she has to go he hangs up the receiver and goes about setting up his routine in the bathroom.

Below him, Gigi crosses and recrosses her ankles under Tammy’s smirking scrutiny and tries to listen to Dodger’s questions with due attention even as Tammy whispers filthy questions in her ear about her time with Elvis.

“Haven’t you got any shoes?” This is Dodger’s most recent concern.

“Yes ma’am I do.” Gigi patiently insists.

“Never see you in any shoes.”

“Well I- it was a pool day, you see?”

“If ya got shoes you should wear them.” Dodger moralizes and Gigi can see her point, even if she doesn’t agree.

“Yes ma’am.” she murmurs as her heart wanders upstairs where she’s seemingly not allowed.

“Get my grandson to buy ya some shoes.” Dodger points at her.

Tammy, who’s not even bothering to act like she’s listening to Dodger, starts to crack up in laughter at this berating of the point, she catches Jerry’s eye in her mirth and like lovers often do, they set each other off into a series of giggles that soon lose their context and Gigi is left more alone than ever.

She looks about the place and thinks of a million things she’d like to ask Elvis’ grandma, if he had a normal grandma. One of those cuddley, gingerbread types that the world had led Gigi to believe were ubiqtous. Instead there’s just this aged artifact from another century, smoking her pipe and staring at Gigi like she’s the oddity.

“Is that weed?” Gigi asks hopefully, nodding at the pipe’s smoking bowl.

Upstairs Elvis had slipped into a plush blue robe he uses exclusively for these purposes to keep the chill away, and having ordered his accouterments, had proceeded only a small way into his routine when the damn intercom blared to life and spooked the ever lovin’ crap outta him. He fumbled with his tools and lost his progress, angrily washing his hands so he could buzz back.

“Elvis, come get yer floozy,” Dodger was saying over the loud speaker, “she’s cryin’ in the den.”

Of course she was, he seethed and felt like breaking the glass in his frustration over no one being competent enough to wrangle a single teenage girl from intruding on him for half an hour.

“Gigi, she don’t mean nothin by that!” he could hear Charlie’s voice faintly in the background and the fact that even with reinforcements they couldn’t handle this made Elvis laugh in manic hopelessness.

“Tell her to grow up, Goddamnit, or I’ll send her home.” he roared through the intercom, punching the button with a vicious jab.

It was quiet for a few moments after that. Fed up and miserable with pain, Elvis stepped away from the button and grabbed another enema bulb and poured in the saline, warming it in the sink and slicking up the catheter with a lubricant that used to remind him of happier times -now his mind associates it with this. He released the button before hearing the response - downstairs Gigi’s sobbing whimper and Tammy offering her friend support by calling him an ‘ass.’

Unable to get the angle right he gave up his attempt to do it standing and grabbed his allocated mat for these purposes, fluffing out a black towel over it. This activity was something he did more of the set up for than anything else in his life. In decades. Having his crew carry the cases of supplies around was humiliation enough, he didn’t need anyone around him to get a firm impression of the details, which laying out towels and lubing up tubes inevitably gave. Mystery was important for respect, and there weren’t no mystery here. And little, if any, dignity either.

Elvis got down on the mat with a brutal pop of his left knee. He heard his own whimper and it sounded like a wounded creature, not at all himself. It was cold down here on the tiled floor with just a thin mat between him and the marble but he could lay down at least and reach behind himself and make his tense body relax enough to accept and dispel what it needed.

Getting up and to the toilet from the ground was the hard part. And he’d bite that challenge off when he needed to.

“Daddy?” he heard faintly outside his room, through the barrier of a wall and half closed door, but while his sight suffered and his body failed him, his ears were sharp as ever and for a brief moment his heart leapt at the unexpected joy of his Lisa coming early. Then he heard again, “Daddy?” And that wasn’t Lisa at all, she didn’t call him daddy and she’d never be so tentative upstairs.

Too committed to his procedure and unable to interrupt it, Elvis held his breath like he was playing hide and seek as Gigi repeated his name closer, inside the bedroom, gently but with so much sadness in her tone.

So she’d ventured up here anyway.

He tensed as she drew closer to the bathroom, drawn by the light under the door in the otherwise darkened room. This tenseness was gonna screw up his enema, he was gonna retain at this point.

“Elvis, you in there?” she asked gently on the other side of the wood and he let out a shaky breath at the inability to deny any longer, fearing she’d try the doorknob of he was silent and in his trust of his home’s stable order, he hadn’t bothered to lock it.

Gigi turned everything topsy turvy and he felt like a young kid again, getting overwhelmed when changes came to fast and nothing familiar would remain just so. He felt his breath coming fast and his vision starting to spot. Such silliness for a man in his forty’s.

“Yeah baby girl, I got in the tub for m’head.” He lied, counting on the compassion she had previosuly shown for his ailment to bolster his story. He has no body of water to splash for emphasis so he stayed stock still on his side on the cold floor and waited with baited breath for her to accept this. “And I had’ta call Lisa.”

“Oh good!” she cooed from outside, and he smirked at the confirmation that he still knew how to play ‘em. “You coulda told me, Daddy! I’d be quiet as a church mouse and coulda run the tub for you and washed your hair for you so you didn’t have to strain your shoulders.”

Did she think he needed to wash his hair? He put his hand to his head and felt grease and immediately regretted it as part of that was now lube. “Aww, you sweet thing.” he complimented her kindness vaguely even as he panicked at the thought that his lie would require a wet head. God he was so tired, he came home so he didn’t have to pretend and here he was on his bathroom floor, puttin’ in a Oscar worthy performance with a half quart of saline up the ass.

“You shouldn’t be so silly, Daddy.” she scolded sweetly and he rolled his eyes, thinking ‘if she only knew.’

“Oh?”

“I love to help you.” she insisted and she must’ve had her lips presssed to the door gap, she was so breathy and close, he could picture her smushed face now and he wanted to tear up at the sweetness. “Will you let me wash your hair, Elvis?”

He didn’t know if it was his imagination or not but he thought he saw the door handle wiggle like a hand had put weight on it. “N-n-no, I-I,” he stuttered out urgently, “I-I-I ain’t comfortable w’that.” he begged, “Not tonight i-I-i’m shy, Gigi. Believe it o-o-or not I-im shy.”

And that at least was a God’s honest truth.

“I know.” she murmured back and sounded like she was smiling herself, “I noticed. I didn’t expect that of you, but I really like it. Makes you cuter somehow.”

And being considered cute was a real heartening thing for a fella to hear, tipped on his side as he was, like a beached whale. Elvis grinned into his hand and let himself savor that. The feeling came again that Gigi really liked him as he was, except for his temper, maybe, and he could hardly fault her for not enjoyin’ it. But she liked him. As he was.

“I’m just gonna sit outside here and be with you.” she declared gently and to his alarm he heard the sound of shuffling like someone sitting down in front of the door, “We don’t haveta talk if you wanna be quiet. I understand, with your head hurtin’. I just couldn’t be away from you any longer. Please don’t make me be away from you, Elvis. It’s all I want, to be with ya.”

Elvis stared unblinking at the caulk line at the bottom of his tub. It was right at eye level down here and the varied thickness of it made him irrationally annoyed, he reached out and picked at a gloop of the dried stuff with his bitten fingernail.

“Ok.” he answered, utterly terrified.

How the hell was he gonna get off the floor, hobble to the John and do his buisness without the sound of any convincing bath effects -and her sitting right outside the door. How the hell. He figured it would be better if she were distracted.

“Tell me ‘bout your French mama.” he requests the first distraction that comes to his mind.

Gigi eagerly takes off on a tangent about her mother who was an artist and rarely in one place, how she had been born in Normandy and credited their breasts to good Norman cow milk, how she painted replica Monet’s on commission and was accordingly sued and how Gigi enjoyed being taken overseas to visit her French relations and go apple picking in the orchards and swimming in the sea -and Elvis listened to the narrative, told in her sweet voice, and allowed himself to be lulled, trying to relax before he made the effort to finish this business.

“-the seashells in Normandy are gigantic, some as big as my palm!” she was telling him as he sneakily turned over and raised himself on his knees, “Of course they wouldn’t be so big in your hands, your hands are so big and beautiful and could hold two of mine but -but they’re big. Does hawaii have big seashells?”

Elvis grunted in effort of holding it in until he could get where he was going and he still had concerns about noise with her right there. “Mm, pretty big.” he grunted out and a thought came to him as he gripped the edge of the tub for leverage to stand, “Water’s gettin’ cold, hold on sec I’m gonna top it off with some hot, won’t be able to hear ya.” he fibbed and reached to turn the handle so it gushed out a roar of water.

Satisfied with his cover, Elvis grabbed again at the tub’s edge and anyhting else that might aid his poor knees in getting off the damn floor. This is what trying to cut back on the pain meds got him, such debilitating pain that he could hardly get off the floor when just a few months ago he was able to kneel down for kisses on stage with only veiled discomfort. Not this agonizing ache and strange weakness in his limbs. He clutched at the tub faucet with it’s handled shape and pushed up.

He was a few pounds too much and after some strain and little progress, the faucet snapped out of its fixture with a deafening clatter that sounded like the ceiling had caved in, reverberating around the tiled room like a thunder clap. He fell back on his kneecaps with a searing thud.

“Lord have mercy!” he heard Gigi exclaim clearly over the roar of the empty tub, and that was because she was right beside him, having burst in with all that loving presumption at the first sound of distress. “Oh daddy, what happened? Ya slip comin’ out?”

She couldn’t get a good read on the situation with it so dim and simultaneously shiny in here, besides the confusing aspects of Elvis being dressed in a robe and dry headed as if having been out of the tub for awhile and him crouched beside it as the absent faucet still roared from its pipe against the empty porcelain. His bathroom was mainly gold, with flecks of black in the tile and accents and it disoriented her, so busy and gaudy she didn’t even notice the mat beneath her feet, assuming the spread out towel was another odd addition that went with the solid gold faucet lying wrenched from its place in the tub.

“Elvis, here, my hand!” she turned the tap off so he could hear her better and tried to get him to look up but his face was turned down with his hair hanging into his eyes. “I’ll help ya up, daddy.” she assured again, and stepped closer, crouching to brace her track hardened thighs for the ordeal of hefting such a sturdy man onto his feet.

On her way to him Gigi stepped on a clear little carton, rather like a baby bottle but far more collapsible. It was empty and squished under her foot, she picked it up curiously. “What’s this?” she asked him innocently.

He looked over at her then, up through a fan of golden lashes so thick and stiff you could hang your hat on them and answered in a dejected growl, “It’s a goddman enema, Gigi.”

She squeezed it once more till the empty thing wheezed and realisation dawned on her face. “Oh, duh.” she laughed and chucked it aside without a second thought before offering her forearm as a handle for him to grip, he rather dazedly let his hand curl around her tan flesh, “If you’re in here doin’ those ya really oughta have somebody nearby to help.” she berated him and once again he thought of Lisa and was beyond glad that it wasn’t his little daughter seeing him like this. No, it was just this big tittied sweetheart who he’d remember fondly through a haze of shame once she leaves him tonight. “Ya should have someone near to help ya get up if you’re in trouble,” she went on, “I know you’re shy. But it’s just me! I’m shy too and I let you see my pussy.”

Like that’s remotely the same as helping a man shit. “Girl,” he rebuts solemnly as he staggers to his feet with her help, feeling the liquid slosh in his gut, “some things are best left between a man and his toilet.”

“Yeah ok,” Gigi conceds, then strikes back right away, “but right now there’s nothing but a lotta distance between you and your toilet. Let me help. C’mon. This is a really pretty robe, by the way. You should always wear blue. And red, I suppose. You look so good in red. Well then there’s black, you’ve always looked good in black,” Gigi babbles and before he knows it he’s sat on the porcelain throne as she tugs the aforementioned blue robe away in the back for him, Gigi herself, lost in a world of the photos she’s cut from the papers of him at his concerts as she continues on “-and I like you in oranges, too. Never thought yellow was the best but I’ll have to see it in person. Pink makes you look kissable-“

“-Gigi,” Elvis whispers in a small voice, “could ya turn around, a’least?”

“Oh! Of course!” she spins around and faces the open bathroom door that she walks over to and shuts, confining them both in here. He means to ask her how she got away and made it all the way up here without interference, he has a buncha pussies for bodyguards. He doesn’t know Gigi was personally escorted upstairs by Dodger who was fed up with the girls tears, who pointed out the master bedroom doors and everything.

“You need to wash your feet, been in the garage and walkin’ in the street’n’shit.” he says for lack of anything better and to minimize the utterly irregerous ordeal of having a woman here for this. Bathrooms just don’t get shared for this shit. They just don’t. But here he is, losing control of one more aspect of his life. All he can focus on right now is letting the thing do it’s job so this ain’t a waste.

“Ok.” Gigi answers obediently and starts shucking her clothes without preamble, stripping down to her naked state in front of him for the second time today and she gives him a bashful grin over her shoulder like she should be the shy one before standing next to him again and turning on the shower tap. The tub and it’s damaged faucet is separate and he’s glad of the patter of rainfall that fills the room and after feeling it for temperature, Gigi soon steps in and begins a faithful lather of her body, starting with her feet.

Elvis watches transfixed as she sudses her little pink toes and the well formed shape of her heel and thumbs at her arches. He wishes to God he was in there doing that. As it is, the little show makes him forget his surroundings and he finally relaxes more than he had been able to all night. Suds are dripping off the curve of her titties like a chocolate fountain splashing off strawberries and he reaches behind him to flush without tearing his eyes from the sight, grateful for the distracting sounds of Gigi humming one of his songs and the fizz of the shower.

Whether the noise alerted her or she’s just intuitive, Gigi glances up as he gathers his robe about him and braces to stand up. “Daddy, I said Let.Me.Help.” she punctuates her sentence with aggravation that bounces off the shower wall like she’s in a stage play. She’s stepping out of the still running shower, all shiny and dripping, before he can protest, and she stands in front of him bare and gentle and he could weep at the sweet expression on her face, so devoid of anything but affection and determination to be of help.

He wonders if this is how mama felt, when she got tipsier than she’d ever have the courage to admit, when he helped her up stairs or into bed and ignored the smell of the alcohol and the slur of speech. The staggering ineptitude of a parent whose child has suddenly had to take over caring for. Mama always used to pat his head in the morning, a silent acknowledgment for his kindness but also his silence, covering her nakedness like Noah’s faithful sons.

He wants to cry. He misses mama so much, misses her assurances and her approbation that she sees him trying to do his bestest. He finds his forehead leaned against Gigi’s slick belly before he means to and finds he’s weeping with her hands in his hair before he can stop it.

“Daddy, sweet daddy, you bear up with so much.” she’s murmuring in broken hearted tones and he hears her sniffling too, and maybe it’s her saying it but it’s his mama talking though her, he’s sure of it. Here in this Gethsemane of his pride and dignity, he weeps at being found out and instead of scorn he gets warm flesh melding into his own and soft messages from his mama.

“Gigi -Jesus! -I-I dunno what to say.” he gasps, ragged and hoarse.

“You don’t? I don’t, more like.” she whispers fiercely, “The whole nation would apologize to ya if they knew how bad it’s gotten. And you never breathin’ a word. Lord daddy, you’re stronger than anyone I ever seen.”

He doesn’t feel very strong, staring at the broken faucet lying in the spatter of shower drops.

“Do ya need to do another?” she asks gently, soothing his hair off his sweaty forehead, “I’ll get it ready.” she offers.

“No, m’set.” he mumbles.

“Be honest.” she warns.

“I swear, m’done. Just beat.”

“Maybe the fennel oil helped?” she hopes and maybe she’s got a point, this was easier than some.

“Maybe it did.” he’ll give her that and smiles against the curve of her belly.

“Why aren’t you usin’ coffee in the enemas instead?” she inquires much to his bewilderment, “It’s good for your liver and less abrasive on the gut. Saline just shreds you.”

“Really?” he grunts, this cute girl knows a thing or two after all, “Never heard that.”

“We’ll have to see if they help, get you a bucket and tub too, they’re easier to manage.” she decides and he wants to protest that she doesn’t get a say in such things but the fact she’s talking about a future where she’s here and meddling with enemas makes him a little woozy with hope. Gigi makes a mental note of calling up a friend who’s majoring in nursing and asking for any and all books and tips that could help in a situation like this. “Let’s get you washed and put to bed.” she encourages him, scratching at the base of his head and feeling the steam roll off of him, inflammation and exhaustion pouring out from his skin, “no way you’re up for shooting pool with Jerry.”

“Oh that was just to get him to keep an eye on you.” Elvis laughs as she helps him stand, never once planning on playing pool tonight of all nights.

Gigi rolls her eyes at him and pouts at his deviousness, Elvis is just glad she’s focusing on that and not the surrounding accouterments any longer, “It really hurt me you didn’t want me with you.” she informs him with grave maturity that somehow makes a mockery of her nineteen years, she looks more fragile than ever, even in this attempt at communicating her needs.

“And I don’t want ya seeing me do this.” He replies as gently as he can as the shower roars next to them and fills the room with billows of steam, “Like I said, some things are between a man and his toile-“

“-and his toilet, yeah. But I’m me!” she explains with a wide smile and he’s really got no clear, available arguments against such impregnable, optimistic, self-exalting while at the same time being utterly selfless -logic.

It’s like arguing with a very pretty lunatic, one with ripe tits still shiny from her shower and crooked little front teeth behind full lips and eyes that could convince him of anything at all -and Elvis wonders if this is how folks feel with him. Is he this infuriating? Do they get a thrill of confusion and reward in doing what he asks? Is it some sorta weird ass loop over and over that has them denying then agreeing right after, again and again?

“Let’s get you in the shower daddy.” Gigi is saying with a roll of her eyes at *his* silliness and Elvis watches in a sort of disembodied trance as she undoes the thick tie holding his robe closed.

This is another thing he was gonna take slow. Getting naked, touching and being touched no faster or intensely than what he directed and allowed. And…well, there it goes, his robe and his resolve opened up and pushed off his shoulders as slow as a strip tease while this perfect young thing has her watching face transformed from caring into something so hungry and admiring he actually feels his pulse quicken.

That’s more like it, the natural order of things is somewhat restored when the caregiver shifts from viewing him with solicitude to viewing him with the divine and fathomless want that is feminine arousal.

But still.

Sweet Jesus, it’s been forever since someone reacted to his body that way. The face sure, the man -yes, and the legendary presence is a given. But that’s all outliers of him, of poor little ole Elvis alone in his own room, in his own house, without the trappings. Nobody in a long while has taken the trappings off and moaned like a paid whore at the sight of something so utterly human and a little faulty as his body now is. A body Elvis has fought and lost against for well over a decade now.

The robe puddles around his feet and he expects it’s time to get in the shower if Gigi would pull her eyes up from his protruding gut. She’s already seen it once today when she unzipped his jacket. After an overly long review where he can actually see her crane her head down to try to see his pecker -jokes on her, the gut hides it- and up his treasure trail to his chest and his neck and his chin and his lips-

-Gigi throws her arms around his shoulders and kisses him. The sight of him naked and hairy, manly and huge, with a hanging belly too much for her to hold her desires back any longer.

Elvis is as warm as she remembers and with his body unimpeded by a tracksuit or a robe she can now fully press her body against his, standing toe to toe with their heights not too dissimilar, making it wonderful and easy to kiss him as she presses herself to every inch of his tacky skin, so much muscle and discipline polished beneath the soft and hairy bulk. It makes her feel small, just how wide and broad and large he is in comparison to her, tall and lanky as she is, she’s never been little before, but with this bear of a man she could curl into his barrel chest and pull the hairy curtains closed and be tucked away from it all. Like a fairytale princess in her favorite oak.

“I want you to crush me.” she moans in his ear as she curves her body to align with the pouch of his belly, her ass stuck out for optimal contact and Elvis groans in response, seeing the pair they make in the fogging mirror.

Something in him responds to the rightness of the image presented, fogged by the steam and softened where they’re two pink cherubs caught in an embrace, her soft breast resting on the dome of his furred chest.

Both complimentary but untraditional in their combination, - a sorta Gainsbourg and Birkin vibe where everyone’s left wondering how exactly the gargoyle got the maiden -or the thickening rockstar got this sweet piece of ass- but nobody doubts the sex is blazing hot.

It’s sexy as hell and the temperate side of himself that health and Ginger had been striving to coax into the fore, plummets into a lava filled grave at the primal, loin swelling satisfaction of Gigi and her nakedness pressed to him, writhing against him, reveling in him and trusting in his masculine abilities to satisfy her.

He grips an ass cheek in his hand, spanning from hip to crack, and crushes it to him meanly, pinching her soft skin with hsi rings, his other arm flung about her ribs and pressing her nearer there, too. Gigi lets out the happiest cry of completion at him granting her request. It’s breathless and short from the lack of air left in her lungs.

“This how ya like it?” Gigi hears him rumble darkly in her ear and she feels herself dribble at his voice alone, finding the feeling of all his strength and power pressed to her more overwhelming that any self-brought pleasure.

She can only nod her head frantically in agreement, his grip too hard and tight for anything else, she feels like she’s floating and somehow that’s more grounding for her than anything else she’s ever felt in her life. He must feel her shudder as he responds with one of his own and readjusts his grip on her butt, fingertips grazing the underside of her cheek and teasing the folds that lead to where she’s a wet mess for him.

He teases there for a moment, tiny, ticklish little swipes to the back of her waxed pussy lips and then he curls his fingers again and grips harder than even before, into her plush ass and he lifts her up to her tiptoes by the hold, making them level before slotting his mouth against hers, the closest thing to sloppy in his kisses that she’s yet experienced from him.

It delights her. This gritty, unmeasured side of him that doesn’t take things in measured and calculated amounts. She wants to be mauled and squeezed and have the crescent indentions of his fingernails on her ass. She wants to be irresistible to him, she wants him to appraise and enjoy her like she’s both precious and objectively the only thing he wants to squeeze and fuck for the rest of his life. She’s ready for that life. Gigi mauls him back, careful to be gentle with her pressure but she kneads his soft sides and the thick cording of his neck, so full of strength but also inflammation -and she suddenly recalls the shower.

Having broken their kiss, they both glance over at the pattering water. And it’s better this way, neither having to break up the moment, they both just seem to agree and proceed to amble over in a waddling embrace and step into the lavish shower.

Gigi has already washed but she won’t be the one reminding Elvis of that as he squirts a generous amount of shampoo into his hands and grumbles about her stupid drugstore lemon shit. That wanting to have him paw at her and be a little sleazy in his touches is gratified by the way he spends too long on her boobs, something that is traditionally a rather clean body part. But his boyish little smile and the single minded lostness on his face he suds up their heavy weight and let’s her large pink nipples slide through his knuckles, his pink tongue poking out at the corner of his mouth as he gently jiggles the slippery firmness of them, makes Gigi sigh in dreamy delight that she can bring him joy by standing in the shower and letting him wobble her boobs, clapping them together one minute and jostling them the next to make the soap suds slid and back and forth along the runway to her nipples. They might have stayed at that game all night, both quite invested in never letting one little congregation of bubbles slip off the Cherry red cliff onto the shower floor. But Elvis yawned once and just like that they decided it was time to wash him and go to bed. With a sad kiss goodbye to one of her large nipples, Elvis allows for the roles to be reversed.

Of course washing him was strictly utilitarian. What was she on about, lathing his shins and his thighs and squeezing his ass like he was a nineteen year old girl? And what was it about Gigi rubbing his shoulders as she went and then turning him around into the spray to wash it off as she started to work at his front, giggling to herself as she swooshed his chest hair into certain patterns with the slippery soap. She even hefted his own boob flaps up, something he fuckin’ hated even existed right now, and she did it with heavy lidded eyes and bitten lips like she was getting off on this, on swishing suds around his large belly before squatting to get her first peak at lil Elvis.

He was still soft, or mostly so, but what shocked Gigi was how thick he was even in repose. Laying heavily on his thigh, his length was nothing much, decent but not particularly matching of his long limbs, but his thickness was to a degree that she wished she did have the stupid Lemon Up shampoo to compare it to, it wasn’t too far off. She didn't know dicks came in that size, the sorta size that makes babies heads coming out seem like not much of an escalation. Alright maybe not that big but he was large, very thick and cutely stubby and Gigi wondered if maybe it was swollen like the rest of him, if it changed with age or weight, if his pink and vulnerable little head was always peaking out of its tan sheath and if his stones were always so large and heavy, asking for the same treatment as her boobs got.

She cupped them with a dollop of shampoo in her hand and jostled the heavy sack gently and with joy in her heart. Elvis lurched forward to lean his forearm against the shower wall to steady himself.

“Gigi, honey, be brief.” he begged and if he’d have commanded her, then she might’ve popped the heavy balls into her mouth just to show him what she thought about him always denying himself any fun, but Elvis was begging and above her his belly heaved with his labored breathing and much as she wanted to see him swell to life, she cared more about seeing him rested.

Reluctantly she finished with a swipe and rinse to the back of his sack and between his crack which made him jump like a critter ran up it instead of a diligent hand. Gigi liked it when he was boyish and shy like that. It makes her press a kiss to his floppy little dick, so heavy and promising in its shrunken state and he lets out a scandalized groan at the feel of her nibbling at the tip with her lips.

“No, no honey don’t.” he begs and gives her a hand to pull her up, she remains steadfastly on her knees with a hand on little Elvis like he’s a handle of some sort. “Good girls don’t do such things.” He explains gently but with firmness, “There ain’t no need, that’s not somethin’ I need from a sweet thing like you.”

Gigi is far from relieved. In fact, if the shower spray weren’t so universal he’d think her eyes were welling with tears for the zillionth time tonight.

“What?” he barks in absolute confusion.

“But I wanna suck you!” she begs, hoarse and throaty and -she’s definitely back to crying again, sweet Jesus, he’d gotten himself a huge tittied young woman who cried over not being allowed to have his cock in her mouth.“I practiced just for the odd chance I ever met you!” she pleads in a desperate cry.

“What?” Elvis looks down at her perturbed and has to admit, unsettled as he is by this, she sure does look pretty right at cock level.

“I practiced with a nice guy who was cut so I had to pretend.” she explains mournfully and Elvis hauls her bodily up by her elbows against the tile to understand this riddle.

“Thought you said you were a virgin, baby.” he chides in confusion about the aspect of practicing for him.

“I am!” She swears, “But I practiced for you! See, I can-“ and she sticks her fingers back to her tonsils with only a small gag that makes Elvis’ masculine heart twinge in admiration.

But he’s better than this. He’s beyond appreciating her gag control and needs to know about this so called nice guy. “Darlin’ who’s this feller?” Elvis has a knack for recalling names and he’s gonna shoot this sonuvabitch if he can find him.

“He was a sweet trucker,” she explains with dreamy reminiscence, “about your age or older, and he fixed my flat tire when it popped near Jackson last year. He was real sweet and I wanted to thank him. He shared his Sundrop with me and he had one of your albums on the radio in his cab. So we talked about you and I told him how I loved you -this was a year ago- and how I wished I could meet you and show you how I loved you. And he lived in Meridian, see, and he sounded a little like you and he had dark hair and this gorgeous belly and when I sucked him I listened to your voice singing through the radio and pretended it was you.”

She finishes this saga with a simple head nod, like that’s all real tidy and normal. Elvis just gapes and a million feelings rush through him, horror at the fact she’s this gullible and unprotected, followed by burning pride at the idea of having been a preoccupation of her’s for so long. Some of this smacks of psycho stalker fan and he should probably run for the hills but Gigi pretended to blow him a year or so ago with a flabby truck diver and Elvis has a vision of that happening again if he somehow screws this up and she ends up on her own again.

That just can’t happen. He shuts his mouth and coughs, realizing that just can’t happen. “Do you like fat men, Gigi?” he asks soberly.

She looks a little hurt by this before replying with wounded devotion and a wobble of her wet lip, “I only love you.”

Elvis sighs and shakes head in astonishment and presses a kiss to the top of her wet head before turning off the shower stream. She likes it when he rolls his eyes at her but doesn’t push her away, Doesn't say she’s silly, just kisses her into compliance. She likes that.

She likes it even better when he was wet and large in the shower grinning down at her, wrapping her up in towels they had to waddle to the drawers to get in dripping pairs.

“You’re somethin’ else, baby.” he tells her but never says it’s too much. She’s waited all night for him to tell her she’s too much it she’s too clingy or she’s too effusive and he hasn’t said it yet.

Gigi helped him step into his silk pajamas pants, he was strangely meek and appreciative of this sort of help and it made her sigh with relief, letting her guard down as she did up the buttons of his sleep shirt under his smiling gaze. She had to ignore the chill of the room on her bare skin, gooseflesh pricking beneath chilled droplets, but it was worth it for the way his eyes ravished her with searching adoration, every single part of her.

Elvis offered her pajamas of her own, too, matching his own. She declared she never could sleep in clothes and the shocked little O of his mouth made her giggle, then he looked hurt and tried very hard to persuade her to try it for him.

“C’mon baby, everybody needs ‘jamies.” he sweet talks to her, holding open the waist band.

“I can’t sleep in them! It’s got elastic!” she sounded like a child forced to eat collards.

“Gigi, wear some pajamas,” Elvis tried sternness, “do it for your daddy, now.”

She sobered up at that, while remaining dried eyed much to his relief. With a slowness of movement and a grimace of distaste that showed her dislike, Gigi took the pajama top from him and slid it on.

It hung there unbuttoned with her bare cunt out and her belly and tits and legs and everything nearly, except for her covered arms, and then she smiled at him with self sacrificing serenity in her eyes while murmuring, “Only for you, daddy.”

And that’s how they ended in bed with Gigi in nothing but an open silk pajama shirt, sans bottoms, with an embroidered E of her right yam.

“I can’t believe they expect you to tour like this.” she muttered as his sweet expressions turned to grimaces and groans upon stretching out on the mattress. Tired from just entertaining a girl and her friends. The closest to angry he thinks Gigi is capable of as she scrunches her brows in frustration and he finds he has to hide a smile instead of telling this little girl to mind her own. She’s frustrated for his own benefit.

“I got good days and bad days.” he explains, turned on his side and stroking her face where it lay on their shared pillow, the room dark except for a lamp on, showing them in the mirror above. “Today were tougher than some, not ‘cause of you but jus’-“

“You woke up with a migraine.” She recalled and he is touched by that.

“Yeah, and had to take more pills for it.” he agrees, “and I gotta take s’more before I can sleep.” he warns her but Gigi just hums and keeps on kneading the back of his neck in a way that is liable to make him start drooling.

“When do we leave for the tour?” she asks, setting in and slinging her naked leg over his hip comfortably.

His heart skips a beat at her presumption. Then it plays catch up and bounds so hard he feels winded as he gasps, “September.”

“We’ve gotta get you better by then.” she mutters, “And you’ll have to help me with midterms, it’ll be crazy trying to pass long distance.” To herself Gigi ponders on whether she might have to push back school in order to be with her Daddy, the thought troubles her none because she’d fail it a million times in order to get more time with him. As long as he’ll have her and even then she knows she’d never be able to leave him as compliantly as Ginger had.

Elvis contemplates the fact she’s willing to risk college for him, that she depends on him for midterms and his belly tightens at the thought in anxious hope.

He turns on his other side, hoping for some relief from the belly ache. Without fail she follows and curls around him,seeking to understand he can’t take the heavy pressure of laying on it, and she is jetpacking on his back like a clingy koala, legs and arms woven around him until he’s half laying back on her.

“Baby Girl, I’m gonna smother ya.” he resists a little laugh as she has him in something close to a wrestling pose, legs wrapped around his hips from the back and arms over his belly, his back smashing her boobs.

She lets out a happy moan instead, “I want you to.” Gigi insists and sounds close to climax at the feel of his weight on top of her. She keeps her hold on him tight, content with feeling enveloped by him as droplets of water drip from his hair onto her chest.

Pretty lil weirdo.

“S’like a elephant layin’ on a junebug, we can’t sleep this way.” Elvis finds himself grinning at the comical image reflected in the mirrors above.

“But it’s all I’ve ever wanted.” she begs, “I’ve dreamed about this. Take your pills daddy’s and we’ll go to sleep now.”

Compliant in his bewilderment, Elvis props up and measures out his doses in his palm, swallowing them down dry before lying back, trying to aim for the mattress but Gigi wriggles beneath his bulk again and he prays he doesn’t get another lawsuit on his hands come morning for smothering the life out of a teen girl.

“Do you want a burger?” she asks softly in his ear, right as he starts to relax in her protective hold. He’s got his arms criss crossed across his body to hold her own as they hug him.

“Uh, umm, no -I-I-I’m -I’m sleepy.” he drawls, torn at the lovely idea of a burger after such a long evening but then again, his head is pillowed on boobs and Gigi’s fingers are swirling shapes in the hair on his belly under his shirt. He doesn’t really feel like ever leaving. She makes a better mattress than any amount of money could ever buy.

“Ok, honest?” she whispers in his ear and he smiles into his pillow at her childish earnestness.

He presents a wobbly pinky for her to witness his solemn oath and she happily hooks her littler one with his and they curl round each other, it feels like a promise of more than just midnight burgers. A promise of him helping with midterms and her never having another man in her life.

To his surprise, just as he starts to drift off, Elvis feels Gigi’s hand slither beneath the waistband of his silk pajamas. He thought she’d gotten the message he’s not up for it, the preliminary little snores from the sedatives underscoring his point, but all she does is cup his soft package in her palm, like it’s the most precious wobby in the world for her, and promptly starts snoring little snores herself.

Elvis tries to savor the feeling of her holding him through the night and as he slumbers, her voice manages to break through the fog of dreams talking about midterms to come, about his tour in September — with his surety in their future aided by the promise of their still clinging pinkies, sleep comes easier than it has in years.

I hope y’all enjoyed, thank you for reading and thank you for all the prompts that got us here! We are working on a prompt list because after his chapter we open it up to jumping around with prompts. But don’t feel like you’ve got to wait till then, go ahead and send in whatever you’d like and I’ll see what I can cook up! 🌷 xoxo

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marinas-drafts · 7 months

Text

but then…Gigi

Part 5