#<- annoying ass behavior to me if i'm being honest

[crehador]

suuuper delayed response but thank you so much for the blushy boy recs!! (p.s. bl recs are also 1000% welcome.......)

my pleasure! (ﾉ´ヮ`)ﾉ*: ･ﾟ

as for bl, i feel like frequent blushing is such a staple of the genre that you'll see it in pretty much all bl. well maybe not all but, like, a lot. a lot a lot

that said, i would be remiss to not recommend neon sign amber (18+) whenever i get the chance because it is my favorite bl manga of all time and features blushy boy saya one of my favorite characters of all time (not just of bl but, like, seriously all time)

i feel like saya's blushiness is especially pronounced in my memory because the whole premise of neon sign amber juxtaposes him with a love interest who is said to be expressionless, so seeing the two of them next to each other just further highlights how expressive saya is

but again, reminder that this is an 18+ read!

i want to say eigyou nika might also be pretty heavy on the blushing… but i can't remember for sure. maybe it just left me with that impression because it was sugary sweet and absurdly cute. been ages since i last reread (this one is also 18+ i think)

[peaachypie]

Payback

Warning :

(cnc, breeding kink, uniform/masked kink, dark!Miguel, p in V, cunnilingus, lactation kink, infidelity and i think that it)

" Coach Terry has a wife ?"

Miguel raise his head, stopping what he was working on.

" mh mh ! Her name is [Y/N], she is so nice, she has a kid too ! He does a lot of.... jokes about it"

" jokes ?"

" yeah, when we don't make enough point he says something like : if i knew kid will shoot that bad i wouldn't have use this excuse to save my marriage ! "

" ... what the..."

" I don't really understand but [Y/N] is so nice with us ... and pretty !"

Gabriella says happily, preparing her bag for her soccer training.

" with his face ? She can't be that pretty."

He says with a unamused chuckle.

" dad ! Don't be a meanie ! "

She scolds him with a frown.

" i'm just being honest."

He shrugs.

" you're just jealous "

She hum with a confident smile, Miguel groan slightly but with a soft smile. He doesn't take it in a wrong way.

" shut your mouth and eat."

" aye !"

She quickly stuff her mouth with food as the big man let out a sigh.

~~

Coming out of his car, Miguel give Gabi her bag as she run out to the changing room.

He walks slowly toward the bleachers.

" um excuse me "

He raise his eyes away from his phone with a slight annoyed stare, he isn't the social type of man. But his hard face quickly fade away as your sigh. He looks up and down at you, taking a good look on your hair, face and body. Especialy body.

" yes ?"

He answers finaly, putting away his phone.

You smile kindly at him. He sees your mouth open to talk but no sound come to his ears. Too focus on staring at you.

How could Terry pull a beautifull woman like you ?

Did you really have a child with this ... thing ?

Does your nipple are hard because of the wind or ?

What ?

He frown at his own mind comment.

He isn't the type of asking himself that, or even staring at a woman body. He doesn't feel guitly too long. He couldn't stop looking at you, he couldn't stop thinking on the fact that he is so much better than Terry.

He could make you scream his name, in every position, everywhere.

He takes a deep breath, he could feel his cock throbbing against his legs.

Dammit. It's been a while since he wanted someone that bad, and he isn't really patient about those thing.

He want you so bad, he want to see you cry on his cock. He want to see you beg for his cock.

The training start and quickly come to an end. His eyes switching to Gabriella then to you. Your ass seem so soft, and your breast so full of milk. He just want to relieve you by sucking your nipple.

He groan.

" fuck..."

~~

23:05 p.m

Gabriella was already in bed, everything was calm until the city needed him, well the city needed Spiderman.

He wasn't really in the mood, he wasn't known for being the " friendly neighborhood spiderman " .

His duty end quickly, beating up vilains wasn't what he prefer to do but it took off your body out of his mind.

He swing around the building before stopping somewhere high. Looking around until he see someone getting in trouble.

You.

He doesn't have any spidersense but if he had one, it would have been so excited right now.

" please ! Someone help ! "

You cry out at someone snatch your purse out of your hand. The vilain didn't run away, too slow for the hero who catch him easily with his web.

Miguel goes grab the purse, not without a dead stare and an agressive behavior.

He slowly goes to you, for you it was nothing.

For him, he was just holding himself from slamming you against the wall and pulling down your pantie down your legs.

" thanks you so much spiderman ..."

You smile to the masked hero, with a gratitude smile.

He keep his eyes on you.

Your tears.

He wasn't listening to his mind anymore, he doesn't care anymore.

" let me take you back to your place."

He goes to you and pick you up in his arm, shooting a web and flying around the city toward your apartment.

Opening the window was the easiest part of this. Putting back on your legs, you turn to him.

" thanks you, you're so-"

" nothing come for free."

He says in a hard voice.

" what ?"

" I need a payback. That fair for what i do in the city. Dont you think ?"

" but... i don't have any money"

" don't worry princesa."

He grab your face with his finger. Holding you.

" i'm not asking for money."

Your eyes widden at his word. One blink was enough to see how fast he was to ripped your dress in a half. You let out a whine as your breast are now exposed to the masked man.

" w...wait ! I ... i have a husband ! And-"

" and ? You want me to keep saving the city don't you ? Who knows maybe your husband will need my help."

You open your mouth to repost but the only sound who come out is a squeak as the hero deprograms his mask over his nose to take a lick on your hardden nipple. You try to move away from his grip, but Miguel hold you close against him. A second moan escape your lips as he take one of your nipple in his mouth, sucking and slighting bitting it. He let out a growl when the warm milk run down his throat.

He never felt this tight in his costume before.

Your hand stay on his shoulder, trying to push him without really trying ... you could do more than that. Was it the fear ?

You close your eyes, your legs shaking a bit as he keep the nipple in his mouth without forgetting the other, playing with it before giving each little buttons a lick.

You didn't dare open your eyes, fighting yourself not to ask for more, or to make too much noise about your forbidden pleasure.

The next thing you could feel was the pillow on your face when he throw you on the bed. Your stomach on the mattress and your legs spread on the edge of the bed.

" what are you ...! No !"

But he didn't listen, raising your dress over your ass. Kneeling in front of your private area, taking a smell on your pantie making your squirm.

He waited for this for so long, he though of this for so long everytime he would jerk off thinking of you. Moving your pantie to the side, his tongue find quickly the way toward your clit. Licking and sucking on it as you bite on your pillow. Tears falling down your cheek as he eat you out like a starved man. His tongue moving inside your gummy wall, sucking up your juice. Your wetness dripping under his chin.

" p...please...haangh...s...stop...."

You whisper quietly, to give yourself good conscience but not wanted it to end either.

" i...i'm sorry Ter...haaah...!"

You let out a scream when he start playing again with the little budge of nerves.

Turning your eyes to him, you looked at him.

Miguel was kneeling in front of your pussy, sucking it while moving his hand up and down his throbbing cock. Precum coming out his urethra.

It was so big, too big.

He get up again, slidding down your pantie on your ankle. Teasing your wet hole with his red tip.

You should scream, but you just press the pillow harder against your mouth.

He spread your pussy lips with one hand, the other holding his cock in front of your entrance.

" Fuck ... look at that, this pretty pussy all wet for me ... you were waiting for this uh ? Someone with a big cock to fill you up properly ? You wanted it, you waited to be fuck like a slut."

His voice is strict and hard, making your pussy clench on nothing. He let out a dark chuckle out of his lips. Pressing the tip at your entrance before slidding inside without putting force.

He groan between his teeth as you let out a moan in the pillow.

He didn't wait for you to get used to his shape. Putting his rough hand on your hips and pouding inside you like a beast.

You cry on the pillow.

" sorrysorrysorry...i'm...hanh ! Sorry...ha...haa...!"

Do you apologize for your infidelity or for loving it a bit too much ?

The wet sound of your pussy being filled up by the hero are the only sound filling the room. Tears falling just like your wetness down your legs.

You could feel the knot inside you getting bigger as he does firm circle around your puffy clit.

" taking me so well princesa..."

He groan, a mix of whimper and a growl.

" taking my cock so well ... is it better than your husband ? Stop apologizing and answers."

An hard slap on your ass wake you up from your bubble of pleasure.

" pleasepleaseplease ...!"

" are you begging me to stop or to cum ?"

" please...'me cum...! Ha...aaa...f...feels good...!"

" yeah ... it does feels good uh ? You want to cum uh ? Clenching around me like if you don't want me to take it out. You want me to make you a momma again ?"

" pleaseplease...'anna be a mom again..."

You cry out, your mind foggy. It was too much, the thrust, the circle around your clit.

Your eyes rolled back to your head as your legs start shaking. The knot in your stomach exploding in a powerfull orgasm.

Miguel groan, he was holding himself for too long. How was he suppose to hold when your pussy feel so tight around his cock ? He groan one last time before filling your womb full of his cum. He stay inside for a few minute before take a step back. Watching his semence dripping out your pussy.

" that a good girl. You did good for me."

He bend over to you, taking your hair to raise your head at him.

" that pussy is mine now."

You nod, obedient.

He was so violent, as if he wanted to mold your pussy to his shape.

He put a kiss on your forehead before putting you to bed, stroking your hair for a few second, then leaving quickly before your husband comes back.

~~

" dad ?"

Gabriella looks at him.

" yes ?"

He raise his eyes to his daughter.

" Coach Terry was angry today."

" was he ?"

" he said [Y/N] doesn't want to be in the same room as him, and that he knew his marriage was bulls-"

" don't you dare say the word."

" ... oke"

Gabriella pout before going back to her room.

Miguel turn back his eyes to what he was working on.

I should reward her for that. Seem like her pussy is really mine now.

[missmaywemeetagain]

Broken Glass, Chapter 9 💔🥂❤️‍🩹

Eeee! I can't believe it's finally DONE! At nearly a whopping 14k, I truly hope this makes up for me not updating this story since September! 🎉 Many thanks to my darling @ab4eva for finally helping me knock this loose and reminding me I could indeed still write! 💗💋💗

If I'm honest, Broken Glass is one of my favorite stories I've worked on. I know it's quite the slow burn and not nearly as smutty as my other works (...yet), but it really does make my creative heart sing and I'm so in love with these two and their stark vulnerabilities. 🥹

I highly recommend rereading Chapter 8 to refresh your memory, but the TL;DR is we left a jealous, ailing Elvis having just found out Lori's big secret from Sinatra and Sinatra calling Elvis out on feelings he hasn't quite been able to admit to himself until now. 😬

This chapter puts us firmly back in Lori's (rather confused) perspective. Elvis is acting weird, and she is feeling the fear of her past nipping at her heels. She's trying to manage her own emotions and health while chasing after Elvis' moody ass, which is going just as well as you'd expect LOL. And of course we have Welcome Home Elvis with Frank Sinatra! You might want to watch the Elvis portions on the show to fully get in the mood--I hope I did them justice! 🥰

Things will really kick into high gear after this chapter, so this setup is pretty important to what's coming. I really hope you enjoy! You can catch up here using the Broken Glass Masterlist ❤️‍🩹

I can't wait to hear what you think!! 💗

Much Love, 

Madi xoxoxoxo 💗💋

TW: references to SA/threats/abuse, Gianni, dissociation, emotional upheaval, nightmares/violence/blood, period-related misogyny, health issues (fainting, constipation, vomiting, etc.), Elvis being an asshole, Elvis being a damn snack, sooties 😏

Broken Glass Chapter 9

March 24th, 1960

Miami, Florida

“Just hang on, Elvis. Come on, open your eyes for me,” you say, patting his sallow cheek, the concrete biting at your knees where you’ve fallen ungracefully to the ground with him.

Your half a cigarette lies smoking and abandoned a foot away—a bad habit you picked up after needing an excuse to get outside after long, stressful shifts at the hospital. You haven’t smoked much since you left New York, not having much need for it when your current job is almost ornamental most days, except in those private, hidden moments away from the bustle of Elvis’ strange life.

But he’d pushed you to that Lucky Strike, what with his aloof behavior since Nashville and then his ridiculous jealousy over Frank Sinatra having the audacity to speak to you and you having the gall to laugh with him.

“You are. You’re jealous. Why? I’m not your girl, so why—”

“The hell you aren’t.”

Galloping in your chest, your heart betrays your tangled feelings about the way he’d acted, the way he’d said those words as if he thought for a moment you really were his girl. And before, how he’d kissed you so passionately…

The memory is interrupted by Elvis’ low groan, his long eyelashes fluttering open to reveal glassy but stormy ocean eyes, thrusting you back into the present emergency. You don’t particularly like the way he’s clutching his midsection or how wheezy and warm he is, but you can’t do much here, especially when people are starting to gather.

He starts, as if coming back into himself, and surprisingly tries to roll up and off you. “I’m fine,” he gasps, shrugging your hand off his shoulder in an uncharacteristic act of defiance.

You might be more annoyed if you weren’t so worried, but your feelings are beside the point right now. Treat him like any other patient, a voice in your head reminds you.

“You are not fine, and we’re going back to the hotel so I can get a look at you,” you whisper firmly in his ear.

He shoots you a petulant look.

“Unless you want to go to the hospital instead?” you throw at him, with a raised brow. That does the trick. His glare softens a bit and his eyes dart away as though he’s been scolded.

It doesn’t take more than a pointed look from you for Lamar and Joe to haul Elvis carefully to his feet. You may only be Elvis’ girlfriend in their eyes, but they do know you are a nurse with some expertise in these situations. And you can’t help but see concern on their faces.

Elvis clutches his midsection again with a gasping wince. The guys lead him to a bench outside the building.

“Joe, tell someone in charge Elvis isn’t feeling well. Lamar, go get the car, please. We’re leaving.”

Your tone leaves no room for questions, but the three men look at you with surprise. In truth, you are a little surprised yourself. Perhaps it’s your lack of outward panic, the calm surety of many a night on the emergency ward.

You can’t say the same for them, seeing the panic brewing in the eyes of Elvis’ friends. Along with that, none of them are used to taking orders from women, and certainly you haven’t shown much vocal backbone in these last few weeks, yet with hardly a pause, Lamar and Joe scurry off, leaving you with Elvis.

He doesn’t speak to you or try to joke his way out of the pain, which is unusual. Instead, he stares blankly at anywhere but you. A sliver of unease winds its way through your stomach, and while you don’t push him, it’s almost involuntary the way your hand falls on top of his.

There is no reaction at first. Is he trying to ignore you? Could he possibly still be mad about the Sinatra thing? Confusion washes over you at the slight, but then his eyes squint in pain and his hand finally grips yours.

You hold back the breath of relief at the response, and before you can spiral too much more into what ifs, Lamar pulls up with the car. With his help, you get Elvis into the backseat.

The drive to the hotel is mostly silent. Joe tries to crack a joke or two from the front seat, but Elvis’ lack of response beyond painful grimaces quiets the short man with the annoying laugh. Elvis continues to shut you out, his hands clasped around his middle now instead of your hand.

It shouldn’t bother you, but it does.

He’s just distracted by his pain, you reassure yourself.

You spend the ride pushing away questions about his behavior towards you and try to focus on diagnosis and treatment checklists, going through in your head what you have to do once you two are alone. It grounds you.

Once you all arrive, the boys help him out, but he stubbornly pushes them away once they reach the lobby.

“I can get to the elevator by my damn self!” Elvis grumbles, his eyes darting around the open space with concern. He’s nervous, you think, about being mobbed in this condition. You’ve gleaned enough in the past few weeks to understand he always attracts attention and it’s almost impossible for him to say no to his fans, even when he’s in so much pain he can barely stand upright. You are continually amazed by his generosity and selflessness in this regard. It’s one of the most endearing things about him.

Luckily, the lobby isn’t busy, and you make it to the privacy of the elevator avoiding interruption from outsiders. The humid air in the small space feels stifling and heavy with concern, but no one speaks as the elevator lurches upwards.

The relief is palpable when the doors open to the penthouse, and without ceremony you help deposit Elvis on the king-sized bed in the suite.

“Should we call a doctor?” Joe whispers to you as you try to shut him out of the room. The look in his eyes shows real worry for his friend.

“No,” you snap back, wanting to avoid any doctors not already familiar with the complexity of the situation. Joe is taken aback, so you continue more gently, “Not yet, at least. Let me see what I can do, and I’ll let you know.”

You can’t close the door fast enough, finally able to rush to Elvis’ aid in earnest, grabbing your medical bag out of the closet.

“Where does it hurt?” you ask, preparing the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope.

Elvis doesn’t respond, looking sullen. You can’t tell if it’s stubbornness or pain that’s keeping him this way though. But the dull hurt of your near-constant headache coupled with his strange mood has your temper feeling short.

“You smoke,” he says with distaste, avoiding your question.

“What?” Distracted, you count the seconds of his pulse using your watch.

“Girls of mine don’t smoke. I don’t like it,” he adds with a petulant glare.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

“Okay, Elvis, I’ll stop smoking,” you placate, “but you need to tell me what’s going on with your body or I cannot help you.” The command is clear.

He looks up at you then, his eyes churning with pain and something else you don’t have time to piece through right now.

“I feel hot an’ short of breath,” he says quietly, almost clinically. “And…” He hesitates, looking down with embarrassment.

You urge him on with a nod as you squeeze the cuff. “And? What’s going on with your belly?”

He clears his throat with a grimace. “It hurts something fierce. It’s, uh, been awhile since…you know.”

You sigh. Logically, you understand how anyone—any man, especially one in his position—might feel embarrassed talking about their bodily functions with a young woman, but it doesn’t make it any less frustrating that he hides these issues from you when it’s your job to know.

“How long?” you ask.

“I dunno,” he shrugs, his face going flush.

“Alright, then, lay back,” you sigh, popping a thermometer in his mouth. Thankfully, he obeys without a fuss, and you pull his shirt up. It doesn’t take much gentle prodding on his lower belly to determine the issue. In fact, you can see the distention on his normally lean frame. That coupled with his pained whimpers and wincing makes it clear that his chronic constipation is rearing its ugly head.

For a normal and otherwise heathy person, it might not cause the severity of issues you have to contend with now. But Elvis is neither normal nor healthy. His pressure and temp are too high, his asthma is acting up, either from the pain or exertion of singing, and you know he’s not going to like the solution. But if he wants to stay out of the hospital and out of the press, he’ll just have to deal with it.

Despite your headache and frustration with him for not communicating readily with you about anything he should, be it his feelings or his health, you urge him to the bathroom as gently as possible, gathering the materials needed from your bag. The caretaker in you pushes everything else away as you prepare the solution and guide him through the process of what must be done.

He goes from furious to ashamed to resigned rather quickly. You are a little surprised at how readily he becomes vulnerable to you, considering the circumstances. The treatment momentarily strips away whatever inexplicable ire he was holding onto. It feels so intimate the way you both quiet and with how carefully you tend to him, massaging his belly and rubbing his back as the treatment works its magic. And after the relief comes, you run a bath, washing him gently, watching as his handsome face finally relaxes. Never has a man looked so innocent yet so beautifully dangerous. He leans into your comfort, too, and as clinical as your brain wants to make this whole experience, you are a little frightened by the realization of your heart aching not just with him, but for him.

He falls asleep in the warmth of the tub. You don’t wake him, knowing how sleep comes for him so irregularly and infrequently, but you are loathe to leave him alone when he could easily slip under the water. Elvis Presley will not drown in a tub on your watch.

Or at least this is what you tell yourself as you take a moment to catalogue such peaceful and unencumbered beauty, knowing very few get to see him like this.

Your mind finally wanders then, back to the moment in Nashville you’ve tried desperately not to think about, when he sang directly to you in so intimate a way you thought you’d combust from the inside out with feelings and urges you barely understood. Fire and shivers cascade down your spine all at once at the memory of his eyes, heavy lidded and molten, as he sang to you about just how right it would feel to be in his arms. It was so seductive, so real, it felt like he put a spell on you. There were no secrets between you in that tiny studio—only want and need.

In those few minutes, he wanted everything from you, and you had wanted to give it to him.

That is his wonderful talent, though, isn’t it? you think. To make others believe in the words of a song. Perhaps he believed them too, in the moment. It sure felt like it.

But he became so incredibly distant after Nashville, just when you thought you’d gotten closer. It was confusing and exasperating, like he pulled the rug of logic and sense right out from under you. It hurt more than it should have to be shut out by him. He hadn’t been unkind, per say, just aloof and detached.

You purse your fingers over the bridge of your nose, wishing it would ease the dull throbbing in your head. Lack of sleep and routine has done a number on you these past few weeks, though you know it’s keeping up with the façade of a relationship challenging you the most. You’ve slowly been getting better at playing the part of the doting girlfriend, to be sure, but the switching from fake girlfriend to nursemaid and back again is altogether exhausting.

And no matter how much better you get, you aren’t an actress. You aren’t used to pretending to feel something but not actually feeling it. It’s getting harder and harder to decern if these complicated feelings you are starting to have for Elvis are just part of your new job or if they are…real.

You don’t want them to be. They can’t be. Not only would it be unethical, but it’s perilous to think—to hope—he might see you as more. You’re not the type of girl a man like Elvis Presley falls for. And even if you were, a smart, practical girl like you knows better than to get involved with a womanizer like him.

A smart, practical girl like you knows any man is dangerous.

Speaking of danger, as soon as you’d left the safety of Graceland, you’ve felt the creeping unease Gianni or your father could pop out at any moment to steal you away back to New York. They have to know by now who you are with, and you don’t hold any fantasy of them letting you get on with your life without a fight. No, they’ll come for you at some point, you just don’t know when or how, and the more you’re out in the world, the more exposed you feel. Your hypervigilance has you always on edge, and you make sure to stay by Elvis’ side as much as possible in the hope he and his entourage will protect you.

So, yes, you are exhausted. The litany of masks you’re wearing to stay functional are crushing you with their weight, and it is taking more of a toll on you than you are letting on. Perhaps that is why Elvis’ mercurial attitude towards you feels so barbed and painful because, by some strange twist of fate, he is the only one in this world who knows even a fraction of who you really are.

And with that thought, you try not to berate yourself too much for taking a stolen moment to gawk at the ethereal man, this god-like Apollo, naked and asleep in the tub. You are too tired to fight the searing memory of how he kissed you today in front of Frank, so possessive and visceral as he clutched you to him like he never wanted to let you go. The way his tongue, oh Madone, how his tongue had teased your lips to part and how you’d melted in his arms, unable and unwilling to resist his charms. He held you close and all you had wanted in that moment was to be consumed by him, embarrassingly so.

Maybe that was why you’d reacted fervently to his jealousy. It is whiplash, this pendulum of his attentions (or lack thereof), and it embarrasses you how easily you’d caved to his kiss, and in front of Frank Sinatra of all people. But then when you were alone, Elvis reminded you so clearly with his words that it was all a lie, while his body and actions screamed the opposite.

It all felt like too much, then, when he’d tried to put it on you, as if you were the one playing with his emotions. He is an infuriating, obstinate man, and it’s even more infuriating how everyone in his circle allows him to be so. It certainly isn’t fair he can also be so generous and kind and talented and handsome and vulnerable…God, it would be so much easier if he was always a spoiled brat and you could hate him for it.

But it’s not that easy.

He scares you. Not like your father or Gianni, no. Elvis scares you because he—

“You alright, Little Bird?” he croaks from the bath, eyes slits against the light.

It startles you, and you realize your head has been in your hands in lament as you spiral. You straighten, blinking away your lingering, dangerous thoughts.

“Yeah, yes, I’m fine. Just…tired.” It is not a lie, and you hope his own exhaustion keeps him from questioning you further.

“Well, we best get you to bed then, darlin’,” he groans, sitting up and stretching his long arms over his head. “Hand me that towel?”

“Of course,” you breathe, handing him the fuzzy, white towel, then you quickly turn away. You don’t want to leave because he may be unsteady on his feet, and it’s certainly not as though you haven’t seen him totally bare, but you feel your cheeks heat slightly anyway at his nakedness.

I’m only human.

Towel slung low on his narrow hips, you’re glad to follow him into the bedroom and not the other way around, worried the heat of his gaze might flay you open and reveal everything you are trying to hide from him. You don’t have the energy for masks right now.

It seems neither does he. He is docile and pliant as you help him into his silken pajamas and under the covers. You’ve noticed the pattern of him doing this after his episodes, putting himself completely in your capable hands.

As you head back to the bathroom to change and do your own nightly routine, you wonder if he’s ever been this way with anyone else, or if it’s just a special part of him set aside for you.

Stop thinking like that. I am his nurse and nothing more.

You keep a healthy distance between you and him when you climb into the sheets. It doesn’t take long, however, for your exhaustion to take the reins, and you quickly drift off, trying desperately not to think about the beautiful man—no, my patient—who sleeps so close by.

*

“Dolo-res, oh, Dolo-res!” The slithering sound of Gianni’s voice sing-songing your name in the dark sends your heart racing and your stomach dropping. His dress shoes click ominously on the wooden floor of your father’s house, slowly, taunting you. It’s as though he knows exactly where you are and is just biding his time. Finding pleasure in your fear.

You try to be as quiet as a mouse, but your breathing grows more ragged with each laborious step. The floor is working against you, like you are trying to run through water.

“Aye, aye, aye, Dolores,” Sinatra sings, the sound slow and distorted. Frank watches you struggle up the stairs, his head tilting and those famous blues giving you a knowing wink from the hallway beneath you.

“You can’t hide from me, Bella,” Gianni purrs from behind you, his footfalls heavy.

“What a break if I could make Dolores mine, oh, mine,” Frank continues the song as though your world isn’t collapsing in on itself, as if you weren’t running for your life. The lyrics feel all too threatening under the circumstances.

Clawing your way to the landing, a sob catches in your throat. He’s too close. You can smell his awful cologne. It makes your head pound and your stomach roll.

If you crawl your way to your room…you could lock the door. You could be safe.

“Aye, aye, aye, Dolores,” Frank croons from below.

Gianni’s hands are frigid when they clamp on your legs and turn you over.

“No, no, no, no!” you whimper.

“Did you get my gift, Bella?” Gianni smirks, feeling his way up your thighs, up under your skirt.

Looking down at your hand, the engagement ring he gave you shines menacingly, weighing your hand down so much you cannot lift it to defend yourself. You open your mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.

“I was made to serenade Dolores,” the song continues, but it’s no longer Frank’s voice from below. No, it’s deeper, and warm, like velvet. And oh, so familiar.

Elvis.

He’s on the landing behind you as he sings. You crane your neck and see him upside down, towering over you, only a few steps away.

“Elvis, please,” you cry. You aren’t sure if it’s a plea for help or one encouraging him to run. He looks down at you, almost absently, like he sees you but cannot be bothered. Perhaps he does not see you at all.

You aren’t sure what’s worse.

Gianni looks up and growls at Elvis, the whites of his eyes disappearing, turning all the way black. Dark, vicious claws form at the ends of his fingers. He looks like a demonic beast, ready to pounce on his prey.

“I would die to be with my Dolores,” Elvis sings, and you know then it’s over. You close your eyes, not wanting to see Gianni tear Elvis apart just for being near you. You feel the heat of Gianni leap over your prone form, feel Elvis being knocked to the ground with a thud. A roar. Screams. The sounds are sickening and the heat of blood spatters over your face.

“NO!” you sob, uncontrollably. Every breath is tainted with your agony.

It’s all your fault.

Then heavy silence.

Your chest heaves with the speed of your panicked breathing and you sense Gianni crawling back over you. You open your eyes, even though you don’t want to.

“What a break if I could make Dolores mine, oh, mine,” Gianni sings quietly, finishing the song, his face and hands stained crimson with Elvis’ blood. He smiles at you, a terrifying white gash amongst the red.

“Mine.”

Then he digs his claws deep into your belly.

You shudder awake, breathing hard enough to know it is another nightmare that wakes you. The sheen of sweat across your brow, the throbbing at your temples reminds you that you are alive, awake, and when you open your eyes, they meet the darkness of the hotel suite. Your cheeks are damp with tears and your hand flies to your abdomen to make sure Gianni’s claws are not deep inside you.

Much to your shock, there is a hand already there, large and splayed across your belly, but completely unthreatening. No, almost comforting. It knocks away the dream, this hand, as you try to puzzle through why it is there, who it belongs to, and why you aren’t afraid. You hold your breath.

A moment passes. You take stock of the rest of you: the queasiness of your stomach subsiding some, the solid warmth pressed against your back, your legs tucked but feet tangled amongst the sheets and another set of feet.

Elvis.

And you wonder if you are still dreaming because of the way his arms hold you tight. You wait for the panic to come as a result of the embrace, but it never does. Your heart skips then slows, beat by beat as you sink into calm, protected warmth, lulled by his slow breathing against your back.

I’m safe.

Sleep takes you with little fuss.

*

Your eyes flutter open. The room is dark, thanks to the heavy blackout curtains Elvis requested, but one look at the clock tells you it’s morning and past time to get up. A shiver rolls through you, which is strange despite the arctic levels he keeps any room he sleeps in because he usually a furnace next to you. But your body already knows what your eyes quickly confirm: Elvis is gone. Not in the bed, or the suite, or in the darkened bathroom.

Puzzled, you sit up and flip on the lamp. Your memory is hazy. Blinking, you vaguely remember a nightmare involving Gianni, but blissfully cannot remember specifics. There is something else you are missing, though, something important, just outside the reach of your memory. A comfort maybe? It doesn’t make any sense. Unease settles over you as you rise, your hand falling unconsciously over your abdomen.

Elvis’ absence bothers you, though you can’t put a finger on why. Perhaps it’s just the lingering dreams you can’t quite remember that have you anxious.

Or maybe it’s because in less than a month, your entire life has been upended and changed irrevocably.

Could be that.

After a glance at the time, you rise and hasten to get ready, knowing you are running late. Elvis will need to be at rehearsal soon. The rush is a good distraction from your muddled thoughts.

When you exit into the rest of the suite, ready to go, it’s much, much too quiet. Your skin prickles at the absence of Elvis and the usual boisterousness of the group of men you’ve become used to being around all the time and the relative safety they provide.

Something is wrong, and a tendril of fear of being alone and exposed winds up your spine.

Oh, Madone, something happened to Elvis.

Gianni.

It’s then that Cliff exits the kitchenette with a cup of coffee and you jump, startled, hand flying to your chest as you suck in a breath.

“Oh, hey, Lori,” he says. “You’re finally up.”

“Madre di Dio, you scared me!” you gasp, trying not to let the panic leech into your voice too much. “Where is everyone? Where’s Elvis?”

“Oh, they went ahead to the studio. I stayed back to drive you, if you still want to go.” He says it with pity, like you’re one of Elvis’ paramours that can just be dismissed on a whim, and frankly, he seems a little put out by this assignment.

“He did what?” Red lines your vision quite suddenly, anger washing away the worry you’d felt only a moment ago. Elvis is not supposed to be without you. It’s the reason you’re even here. He knows it.

And he just left you. Alone. Without a word.

Cliff backpedals instantly, sensing your indignation, looking very uncomfortable. “Oh, I…um…I think he just thought you were tired? And wanted to let you sleep?”

“Oh, I bet he did,” you mutter under your breath. Then you grab your purse and beeline for the door. “Let’s go, Cliff.”

He scrambles behind out you, following you to the elevator. At first, he nervously prattles on about the weather, trying to make small talk, but finally gives up once he realizes your piercing glare isn’t going anywhere.

You tell yourself you’re angry because Elvis has put himself in danger by not having you with him, but you are smart enough to know it’s more than that. He’s treated you like any other woman when you are not.

It’s downright disrespectful.

Furthermore, it put you at risk. Without the safety of Elvis’ protective and insular group, you are exposed. Gianni or your father would have no trouble at all disposing of Cliff and dragging you back to New York, before Elvis even knew what happened.

Because you haven’t told him, a small voice reminds you.

It makes you sick to think of. Your pounding headache is back, and you feel a bit carsick with the intense Florida sun beating down as Cliff drives you to the studio.

Your frustration and fear have you out of the car before he has barely parked. Heels click-clacking on the concrete and Cliff struggling to keep up, you show your special pass to the doorman. You hate the way the man examines your pass as though it were fake, giving you a once over. Cliff nods at the man before he finally lets you both through, and you huff at the slight.

This isn’t like you. Before Elvis, you would have meekly stepped to the side and let Cliff lead, content to fade into the woodwork. Happy, even. Maybe Elvis’ hotheadedness is rubbing off on you because the swell of rage you feel is like nothing you’ve felt before.

Fuming, you finally reach the studio and then stop short at what you see, sending Cliff almost running into you.

Elvis looks the picture of health, none of the pain or vulnerability you’d seen last night anywhere to be seen. In fact, he has a pretty girl on either side of him, both tittering and blushing as he smiles his famous quirky smile at them in turn. Flirting.

Your nails dig into your clutch and your body goes rigid. It shouldn’t, but it makes your blood boil with betrayal.

How dare he.

It’s a stupid thought, and one you try to shake off as soon as it comes. He’s not your boyfriend. God knows he’s flirted—and done much more—with other girls around you before, and it didn’t bother you then. Not really.

But maybe it’s because he laid into you so hard yesterday about Sinatra and your supposed flirtation and about keeping up appearances and his damned jealousy, and yet here he is, blatantly disregarding all of it. Because of double standards and whatever other petty reasons he has for acting so strange with you since Nashville.

Your eyes burn into him and with the little sixth sense of his, he notices. His eyes darken and hit yours intentionally, and there’s not even a hint of surprise or regret in them. Just an infuriating quirk of a brow before the girls steal his attention again.

Like he planned this.

You grind your teeth, forcing yourself to take a breath instead of doing something stupid like slapping that smile right off his pretty face. No, you’ve got to be professional about this. You seethe, trying to reel in all these senseless emotions suddenly swirling out of control in your mind.

For whatever reason, he’s trying to get under your skin. Maybe he thinks he’s teaching you a lesson about yesterday. About Frank. About the smoking. Who knows what else.

Well, two can play at that game.

You breathe in, out, in again, forcing your shoulders to relax, forcing yourself back into your clinical mode. God knows between the last few weeks, your upbringing, and your nurse’s training, you’ve learned how to deal with difficult people.

Elvis Presley has severely underestimated you if he thinks you’ll fold over this.

In another highly uncharacteristic move, you school your features into a relaxed smile as you walk towards him and the girls. You know he senses you even though he’s barely looking, but instead of confronting him or slinking into the shadows, you clip right past him and head towards the other famous men in the room.

His eyes are burning holes into your back as Frank and Sammy Davis Jr. notice your approach. You appreciate the fact that the two men smile so warmly at you, and not at all dismissively. It was a gamble, as you easily could’ve been rejected by them, too, but your gamble seems to have paid off.

“And who is this pretty young thing?” Sammy asks charmingly, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips. You don’t even have to pretend to blush under the scrutiny of both titans.

“Oh, this is the delightful Miss Dolores,” Frank says, “Elvis’ girl.”

“Ah, I knew that kid had good taste,” Sammy smiles.

“We weren’t sure if you were joining us today,” Frank says, looking not so casually behind you.

Three, two, one, you count silently.

“Oh, well, I—” you start.

“There you are, darlin’! Wanted to let you sleep in after such a long day yesterday,” Elvis says, smoothly sidling in beside you and planting a kiss to your temple.

You hide your smile at your presumption coming true and at the suggestive nature of his comment. A dismissive “Mmhmm,” is all you give him back, though. You don’t even look at him.

“You know, my mother was a huge fan of you both,” you gush instead to the other men in front of you, ignoring Elvis. “She passed years ago, but any time I hear That Old Black Magic or Birth of the Blues, I can’t help but think of her.”

It’s not a lie, nor is the sudden swell of emotion you have at the thought of your mother listening and singing along to those tunes while she made supper. You sniffle and let out a little laugh.

Perhaps you imagine the gentle squeeze at your waist.

“Look at me, getting all flustered,” you say, waving away your tears.

Madone, why am I so emotional today?

“Oh, we’re just honored to be a part of your memories like that, honey,” Sammy says kindly, and you feel Elvis stiffen beside you at the endearment.

“Frank, Elvis, we’re ready for the Love Me Tender/Witchcraftrun-through,” George, the very serious production assistant, interrupts.

Elvis starts directing you away. “Okay, then, baby, why don’t you—”

“Oh, I’d love to hear more about your mother, if you want to share,” Sammy says to you. “Don’t worry, Elvis, she’ll be safe with me.” He winks, reaching for your hand.

“I’m sure she—” Elvis starts.

“Well, how could I refuse the great Sammy Davis Jr.?” you interrupt, a little coyly. Part of you wonders when you became so bold as to flirt so shamelessly with men like this.

You aren’t feeling much like your old self these days.

Maybe that’s a good thing.

Tension ripples off Elvis and you honestly couldn’t have planned it better.

You can tell Elvis doesn’t want to offend Sammy as he hems and haws a bit too long. “Sure, sure, of course. I’ll come find ya after,” he finally gets out, a tad flippantly, and you don’t miss the amusement in Frank’s sparkling blue eyes as he leads Elvis away.

*

If you thought that would be the end of it, you were sorely mistaken. Your pleasure at winning the battle distracts you momentarily, making you think you’ve taught the man a lesson by giving him a taste of his own medicine.

You were wrong.

Instead, Elvis has doubled down on his nonchalant dismissal of you, barely even acknowledging your presence. Suddenly, there are more girls around than before and all of them seemed more than happy to be on the arm of the all-too-handsome singer, even if only for a moment.

You realize fleetingly he’d been true to his word in keeping the girls away before now because of your perceived relationship. But not anymore.

His message seems clear, even though you still don’t understand the reason behind it: You are easily replaced.

If you were actually his girlfriend, maybe that would be true. For a second, you feel the sting of his rejection as if you were just some poor girl fawning over him.

But the reality is much more complicated. Much worse is the dread pooling in your stomach at the thought of being fired and having to fend for yourself against the wolves nipping at your heels. As much as you don’t trust the Colonel, you don’t imagine he’d cast you aside so easily considering everything you know and the pains it would take to bring another nurse into the fold. And Elvis is smart enough to know it. It is a bit of a salve to the fear churning in your belly.

No, what Elvis is doing seems like some sort of strange tantrum, like he’s hurt and sending you a message the only way he knows how. What it truly could be, you have no idea, but having a slew of younger brothers, you understand that sometimes boys just need to wear themselves out with their nonsense. Doesn’t make it any less frustrating or humiliating for you, but you’ve been through worse than an adult man being immature and unable to communicate his feelings.

You almost wish his health was struggling a bit more because it would force him to engage with you. As it stands, he is the picture of health right now and he is only listening to you out of the necessity of keeping up appearances or when you have the gall to talk to another man.

It stings more than you want it to. More than it should.

It��s easy to blame it on the ever-growing fatigue you can’t seem to shake and on the fact you have less experience dealing with these kinds of relationships than most girls your age. It’s not as if you have a lot to compare it to, or even any girlfriends or relatives you talk to in order to help you try and understand what is wrong with him.

A deep loneliness sinks down over you suddenly, threatening to drown you in the overwhelming realization that you truly have only yourself to keep you steady. The worst part is Elvis is the only one who has any understanding of you at all, and for whatever reason, he is shutting you out. You force back the tears trying to spring to your eyes, swallowing your grief and resignation.

Instead of giving him the satisfaction of seeing you mope as he entertains the girls the other guys have procured for the evening, you smile and keep up pleasantries for as long as you can before retiring to the bedroom to read. Not that you are able to, as the words keep swimming in your vision and you stay on the same page for much too long. Finally, you close your eyes against the emotional tide and your persistent headache, and it’s not until Elvis comes to bed that you stir again.

You don’t open your eyes, however, though you can feel him looking at you. His gaze burns through you, making your heart race. There’s a long moment of silence before he finally undresses, gets in the bed, and turns out the light.

*

March 26th, 1960

The studio is vibrating with energy. Not only are the people involved in the show bustling about, but the audience, packed full of young women, is tittering so much that you can feel it in your bones.

Surprisingly, Charlie came out and grabbed you after Elvis’ appearance in the opening. Elvis looked smart in the dress uniform he’d been so glad to be rid of those first days you’d met. While he’d been nicer to you today in general, you are unsure why he wants you backstage after the way he’d shooed you out before the show started. But there are thirty more minutes before his performance, and you are suddenly concerned he’s not doing as well as he made himself out to be.

You make your way back into the dressing room, trying to offset your own nerves. You slept terribly, thinking too much about your future, mulling over every worst-case scenario again and again in your head. But the moment you enter the dressing room, it all goes out the window.

Elvis turns around when the door opens, an absolute vision in a black tuxedo that does everything to show off his long frame. Everything.There’s no helping the sharp intake of breath you try to swallow and the way your feet stick to the floor as you take him in from top to bottom. He is the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome.

His dark hair is swooped back on the sides, but styled tall and soft in the front, adding the appearance of at least three inches to his height and highlighting his long, chiseled jaw. His artfully applied makeup is subtle and does everything to show off his deep blue bedroom eyes.

Eyes that just happen to be swallowing you whole. A wave of heat washes over your entire body. You feel suspended in time and know you are gawking, but despite having spent over three weeks solid with the man, enduring every quirk and his maddening mood swings, you hadn’t been prepared to see him at his best.

Oh, Madone.

He has you locked down with his gaze, and while every professional bone in your body screams at you to be normal, it’s impossible. Every reason you’d been furious with him for the past week is forgotten in the blink of an eye. It’s as if it is suddenly dawning on you why Elvis Presley is who he is and that you’ve been working for him all this time without really realizing it.

“A-alright, everybody out. I need to talk to my Little Bird alone,” he drawls, but the command is crystal clear, sending all the boys filing out behind you. His nickname for you has never sounded so utterly sinful coming out of his mouth before. Your heart thuds in your chest and you hope to God Elvis cannot hear it or see the flush on your cheeks.

The door clicks shut, and Elvis sighs audibly in what seems like relief, his shoulders sagging a bit, and as he deflates, it breaks whatever strange spell he had on you. He adjusts his cufflinks nervously, then shakes his hands at his sides, bouncing on his toes, like he’s trying to expel the nerves out his limbs.

“Are you okay?” you ask, finally able to speak again.

“O-oh, honey, I-I-I-I’m so damn scared, I feel like my heart’s ‘bout ready to fly right o-o-outta my chest,” he stutters, looking at you as though you can provide him some relief. “S’like I can’t breathe.”

This kicks you into gear, the need to make sure he is healthy enough to perform washing away the awe at the handsome figure he cuts.

“You’re okay, just take off your jacket and sit down,” you guide him gently. He doesn’t fight you at all, but you can see the way he trembles with anxiety. The change in him seems strange to you considering the easy ego he’s been coasting on for weeks.

Maybe he’s been such a jerk because he’s been nervous, you think suddenly. As quick as it comes, you push it back out again, wanting to focus on his care.

You don’t have all your things, but you take his pulse, which is noticeably racing, and his breathing seems fast but not wheezing.

“I-I-I’m not dying, am I? W-w-what i-if I-I go o-out there and p-pass out in front of—” He is stuttering so much, it’s hard to understand what he’s saying, but his fear is clear: he’s terrified he’s going to mess up this critical piece of his comeback in front of the world and some of the greatest performers out there.

“Elvis,” you say gently, grabbing his hands in yours and stilling them. Once his fearful, wide eyes find yours, you continue, “You’re going to be just fine. You aren’t going to die out there, I promise. Now, take a deep breath with me.” You inhale deeply, hold, and then exhale nice and long, then do it again until he’s matching you.

In, out, in, out, again and again.

The breathing has just as much effect on you as it does him. The energy in the room calms substantially, your fears and his dissipating a little more with each breath.

You’re not quite sure how long you sit there with him, his hands dwarfing yours, but when he opens his eyes and meets yours, you can all at once see every iteration of Elvis Presley coexisting in harmony: the playful boy, the charming but humble superstar, the fiery and moody young man. He is both the most human you’ve ever seen him, yet the most ethereal in the same breath. The vulnerability and complexity astound you speechless once again.

“You are magic, Little Bird,” he says softly, eyes tracking over your face. Your heart skips a beat, then two. You’re in freefall for a few seconds before you can tear your eyes away from him enough to regain your wits.

When you look back at him, his face is a handsome mask, giving little away. Perhaps it’s just him preparing to perform, locking some of himself away. But something tells you there is more to it than that.

His thumbs trace up and down, sweeping between your thumbs and pointer fingers in the same rhythm as your breath. Somehow it grounds you while still making you feel a bit dizzy. He says you are magic, but he is the one enchanting you and all at once you want to tell him everything. Every single thing weighing on your mind. All your fears. The feelings you are starting to have for him that terrify you. How you see him. How you’ve deceived him to protect him. To protect yourself. It’s not the right time, it never is, but it’s like he’s drawing it out of you with his caress. You can’t bear for him to go cold on you again, not when he’s your only glimmer of hope.

They say the truth will set you free.

The words start to tumble out of their own accord, “Elvis, I need to tell you—”

A sharp rap at the door interrupts your confession before it even starts, and your heart catches in your throat.

“Places, Mr. Presley!” George yells through the door.

“Thank you!” he yells back. His eyes shine with something hopeful behind them when he turns his attention back to you, almost expectant. “Save that thought, honey.”

It’s all you can do to nod, tamping down on the adrenaline pouring through your veins. He leaps up, releasing your hands, severing the connection you hadn’t realized until right now you needed so much. Pulling his jacket on, he adjusts, and you stop him, craving the sense of intimacy that is slipping through your fingers like a sieve. You step up to him, straightening and smoothing the velvet lapels of his jacket. Your hands linger a moment too long near the button and you look at them, unable to stop the heat on your cheeks or to look up into Elvis’ eyes.

“Wish me luck, baby?” he says playfully, but with an edge of need you force yourself to ignore. He squeezes your hands, encouraging you to raise your head. You school your features into something calmer than what you feel.

“You don’t need it. You’ll be amazing and they’ll love you. They already do,” you say. It comes out much more breathless than you’d like, and you look everywhere but in his eyes.

The air gets heavy, crushing all sensibility, and you can’t help your eyes darting up then. His full lips part the slightest bit, his body leaning forward enough to make your breath catch. Suddenly every one of your nerves is on fire, crawling under your skin, something new and forbidden winding its way into your belly.

He’s only ever kissed you in a performative way, playing to an audience, but this, this is different. The way those sapphire eyes drink you in is much too much. You’re drowning in them, wondering how different it will be if he kisses you and not pretend-girlfriend you. He is so close you can smell the now-familiar, delicious waft of his cologne and feel the heat of his breath on your face.

Oh, Madone, we can’t. The thought stabs through your head with a panic, straightening your spine like a ramrod, and Elvis is nothing if not observant. So expertly does he change course you doubt he had any other intention than to press his open mouth to your cheek. The soft feeling has you sighing, but you aren’t sure if it’s in relief or disappointment.

Not unlike the look on his face.

Stepping back breaks the tension in the air enough for you to recover what is left of your wits. You smooth the front of your dress. “Would you like me in the audience or backstage?” You hope it comes out more professional than you feel.

“Needja out front. Wanna be able to see your pretty face unable to take your eyes off me,” he jokes, oozing charm, but his twitching hands and serious eyes belie his nervousness.

“Oh, we’ll see.” You roll your eyes, playing into what he seems to need in this moment from you, though your heart is still galloping enough that you feel breathless. You barely register opening the door and walking back out to your seat in the audience, feeling the roll of anxiety in your stomach, both for his performance and for what you almost let happen in the dressing room.

Before you can spiral too far into beating yourself up, Frank is up introducing Elvis. The girls in the studio go so wild, they sound possessed, chants of “We want Elvis!” devolving into shrieking. You resist the urge to stick your fingers in your ears to protect your eardrums.

But then Elvis, in all his breathtaking beauty, is ambling downstage, managing to be cool, casual, and charming, but also bashful, like he didn’t expect this reaction. And it’s not a put on.

He didn’t think they’d still love him, you realize.

The way he bites his lip, then runs his tongue over his teeth before erupting into an almost embarrassed grin makes your heart flutter at its sweetness because you know just how scared he is. His skill, however, is that no one else does.

He turns to signal the band and the first bars of Fame and Fortune come in. The man who turns around to sing is someone much different than the bashful boy of just a second ago. The sultry look he throws the audience takes your breath away, but as he waits to come in, he can’t totally hold the pose, that lip of his curling up and his tongue trying to banish it in the name of being serious. The girls scream in response, eating it up, and you can’t say you blame them. He looks up to the sky, perhaps saying a silent prayer, to regain his composure before he opens his mouth to sing.

Now, in the last few weeks, you’ve become well acquainted with his gifted voice, but it is not until this very moment you understand the scope of his talent. The spell that he casts over the room feels nearly as intimate as the one he had with you in the dressing room just minutes ago. The nervousness you know is there is so artfully maneuvered that it opens him to the audience rather than pushing them away. Few other stars would get away with smiling and laughing at the reaction of their audience in the middle of their ballad but when he does it, you feel it down to your toes.

Or maybe it’s the how his voice is like silk in your ears, a contradiction of impressively light but warm and rich. The honeyed timbre winds its way down your spine, right into the core of you. It’s not just in your body but your soul, too. The hair on your arms stands straight up, a visceral reaction proving his effect on you isn’t in your imagination.

A woman could fall in love with that voice alone.

Despite the way you want to fight the hold of his performance and its battle in your mind with the man you’re getting to know, it is quite impossible. You get utterly sucked into the tide of Elvis Presley.

He is stunning.

You can’t help the way your mouth drops open and your palms begin to sweat. There is brilliance in every move and sound he makes, and you’re amazed at his ability to include everyone in the room, from the camera, the band and backup singers, to how those bedroom eyes scan the entirety of the audience in one breath. You feel like you’ve been struck by lightning every time they catch yours.

If you weren’t so dumbstruck, you might chastise yourself for feeling so carried away, but it’s hard not to feel like he’s sharing something important with you right now—an essential part of his soul, this thing he was obviously born to do. It brings tears to your eyes.

As the song winds down, you and the rest of the audience mourn its end. But in the split second he bows his head and bites his lip, you see the utter relief that fills him at the realization that he’s still got it. Then the upbeat lilt of Stuck on You comes in and he’s immediately reinvigorated.

He knows he has you all now, and it’s as if suddenly his body remembers everything that made him a star. Sure, it’s toned down some for his new adult image, but those unique movements are still there. He’s playful and energized in a way you’ve never seen him before. It’s not just in his long limbs (which you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from) but also in his voice. Flirtatious and silly, he wraps you all around his snapping fingers.

The girls are going crazy and rightly so: you find yourself having to bite down on your lip to keep from squealing with them. A bead of sweat runs down your spine and you cross and uncross your legs to try and stave off the total, uncontrolled insanity you are feeling trying to reconcile this Elvis with the one you sleep in the same bed with, the one you care for when he’s so ill he can barely function.

Nothing about this is remotely helping the feelings for him you know are brewing under the surface. It’s like being dragged under by a riptide—you can’t fight it, not now, and you just have to give yourself over to the current.

But one thing is for certain: there is nothing sane about any of this.

You can see even Frank is off kilter because when he comes out for the duet, this cool-as-a-cucumber, wildly talented star in his own right is stumbling over his lines. The man is struggling to maintain his dominance as the host and the elder, more refined performer. Sensing what you think is his competitive edge, you watch Frank rebound for control as best he can, but even he has got to know Elvis is in a class of his own. He’s upstaging Frank without even trying.

Part of you knows you are witnessing history in the making. You can hardly believe it. A month ago, you were living an entirely different life. You certainly didn’t care much for Elvis in the beginning, and now you want nothing more than to stay in his orbit. It’s strange to feel so starstruck around him.

The whole thing is madness.

You are still buzzing and a bit dazed when Charlie pulls you backstage. The prideful, overly logical part of your brain wants you to calm yourself before you see Elvis, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a big head around you, but the giddy girl in you doesn’t care. That silly little girl eats up the grin spreading across Elvis’ face and falls straight into his open arms. He hugs you tight, like he means it. It feels real and not for the benefit of all those around you thinking you’re the adoring girlfriend congratulating him on his triumph. The way he squeezes you and presses his lips to your temple feels special and just for you.

“What didja think, Little Bird?” he whispers in your ear.

“Oh, well, the guys did great, and Nancy was lovely,” you hear yourself teasing.

The playful, possessive little growl he makes and the way his fingers press into your ribcage has you fighting unsuccessfully to suppress the shudder of excitement running through you. You curl your toes in your heels trying to absorb the heady feeling it leaves you with to get yourself right enough to speak again.

“Well, I’m a bit loathe to admit it, but you were wonderful,” you finally say, looking up at him and placing your hand on his chest. His heart thumps wildly under your palm and under any other circumstance you might be concerned, but you let it be. This is his moment.

“Better than Ricky Nelson?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow at you.

“Hmm, marginally,” you tut, trying to keep a straight face.

“’Marginally’, huh? I’ll show you marginal!” he laughs. And then he buries his head in your neck, his hot breath and soft lips pebbling your skin and setting your body aflame. You don’t recognize the gasping giggles erupting from you like a schoolgirl.

It’s all for show it’s all for show it’s all for show…a voice in your head viciously reminds you.

“Okay, okay!” you laugh breathlessly, trying to still his ministrations. “I will concede that you, Elvis Presley, are a very talented man.”

“Oooh, am I now?” He wiggles his brows suggestively, sending another wash of heat over your body.

Your mouth pops open, but before you can think to respond, someone cuts in. “Hey, Presley, quit making googly eyes at your girl and get over here!”

Elvis responds by doing the silly little thing he does with his eyes that makes all the girls scream and you can’t help but laugh.

The moment he walks away, taking his warm essence with him, you find yourself deflate a little. It sobers you quickly and the letdown of the entire experience has you unexpectedly emotional. Without his warmth and light, you feel cold and unprotected and alone.

Sneaking away to the restroom, you lock yourself in with shaking hands. Oh, God, what is wrong with me? you think as the tears well and then escape in rivulets down your cheeks. You swipe at them, fighting what you fear is happening but cannot quite admit to yourself.

You refuse to be like every other woman, falling over your own feet for Elvis. Desperate for any sliver of attention, living for his small touches and knowing gazes. Blinded by his talent and fame.

You are not that girl. Breathing in and out, trying to calm yourself, you remember he is just a flesh-and-blood man, and you cannot give another man the power to hurt you again. He is your employer, your patient, and nothing more.

Liar.

Pushing those treacherous thoughts away, you switch tacks. You need to protect him from the storm you know is coming but your survival instincts are doing everything possible to keep you safe, and Elvis might be the only person who can do that. Telling him about Gianni and your background risks his rejection. Your heart aches at the idea of him letting you go, and not just because of your safety. There’s no way you can tell him the truth about you now, not when he’s flying so high, not when for the first time in weeks you finally feel connected with him again.

Maybe too connected.

No, you’ll just have to wait until the right time. You can’t spoil this for him. Talk of Gianni and your father would destroy this goodness, and you can’t let them destroy anything else.

Forcing yourself to put it on the back burner, you paste on a smile and play the devoted girlfriend for the rest of the evening. Every little touch is like tinder catching flame under your skin—his hand around your waist, thumb grazing so near your breast, his fingers interlocking with yours—and the sparkle in his eyes makes your heart dance against your ribcage. It’s easy to believe he truly cares and that he’s yours.

He's a better actor than they give him credit for.

For once, you let yourself lean into it, pretending he wants you. You are swept up into his joy and relief and affection. It’s an addictive and glorious drug. By the time you both stumble exhausted into the bedroom of the suite, your cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

Your body hums a little from the glass of champagne you allowed yourself, mind buzzing with the excitement of the day and from your proximity to the man of the hour. Elvis seems to be much in the same boat, riding high and energized as he takes off his jacket, throwing it over the chair in the corner. The tiny tie was lost long ago when he unbuttoned his top buttons at the studio and sweat glistens in the divot between his collarbones as he begins rolling up his sleeves. You were unaware until this very moment how attractive forearms could be.

Suddenly your mouth feels very dry. You lick your lips, watching his every movement.

Elvis looks up quickly, catching your undivided attention, and his lip quirks in a slow smirk that is both sinful and self-conscious. His eyes flash with a heat that makes your toes curl into the soles your shoes and your pulse flutter wildly.

Oh, no. No. I will not get flustered by Elvis.

Cheeks heating, you look away and focus every ounce of attention you have on undoing the straps on your heels.

Elvis starts to hum a song you don’t immediately recognize, the sound vibrating and warm and sultry. Like a siren’s song, it threatens to hypnotize you. It distracts you enough that you fumble with the stubborn clasp on your heel, unable to wrench the leather free of the buckle. You let out a huff.

“Here. Lemme help, baby,” he says, more a soft command than an offer, the sound wrapping around you like velvet. He kneels before you, placing your foot on his knee, his long, nimble fingers working the strap free. If you hadn’t already been holding your breath, the way he gently massages the crease the strap left on your ankle through your stockings might have caused you to gasp.

“How’d I never notice these pretty lil’ sooties?” he coos, rubbing his thumb into the sore arch of your foot.

You bite back the moan threatening to slip free due to the sensation, but it escapes anyway, as a tiny whimper instead. Perhaps you imagine the way the apples of his cheeks go pink at the sound. Either way, you feel like you are about to come apart at the seams.

He makes slow work of massaging your foot and then placing it back down. You suck in a breath, just as he grabs the other and repeats the action of freeing then massaging it.

“Elvis,” you gasp much too breathlessly. You want to melt into the sensation, but the rest of your body feels like it’s on fire, a molten pit growing in your belly that you can’t seem to stop. You should push him away, you know you should, because this is too much, too intimate, but you can’t seem to will yourself to do so.

“Hmm?” he replies innocently, as if he truly has no idea what he has reduced you to. His hand squeezes down your foot until he reaches your toes. “Oh, honey, why ain’t these perfect lil’ piggies painted?” he asks, near scandalized.

The question throws you. “I…I’ve never seen the need,” you stutter out. “It’s not as though anyone would see them and being on my feet all day in the ward would just ruin them…”

His brows furrow. “Not even with your girlfriends? Or for a day at the beach?” he asks, genuinely confused as to why a young lady would never paint her toenails.

Your heart aches acutely all the sudden. The words fall out of your mouth before you can stop them: “I didn’t have many friends like that. Or time to spend with them. I was busy raising my brothers and then I left for nursing school….”

“Oh.” He says it so softly and full of compassion you nearly want to cry. Then, his demeanor shifts. “Well, all that changes now, Little Bird.” He gives your feet one last pat and then smoothly lifts himself off his knees, going towards the door.

“What?” you ask, confused. This man has your head spinning.

He flings the door open. “Hey, Charlie! Charlie!” he yells into the penthouse.

“Yeah?” you hear Charlie call back.

“I need you to get some nail polish. Pink is best, but red’ll do.”

You hear a long pause, then a shuffle. “Ummm, where am I gonna find polish in the middle of the night, EP?”

Elvis sighs. “Use yer brain, buddy. You tellin’ me none of those girls out there has any polish on ‘em? I have faith you can figure it out.” Then he shuts the door with a grin.

Dumbfounded, you gape at him. “You can’t be serious, Elvis. It’s late and we need to get some rest…I don’t particularly want to paint my toenails right now. And truth be told, I’m not very good at it,” you say, feeling panicked by the whole idea. The idea of him watching you trying and failing to paint your toes makes you squirm.

He just grins. “Good thing I ain’t tired, then, baby! You can relax and I’ll take care of it. Go get in your jammies.”

Your brain feels broken. He can’t possibly be suggesting what you think he is. Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

“Close that purty mouth—you look like a big ol’ guppy over ‘dere,” he laughs, his accent seeming stronger than usual. “Now, go on—get ready for bed,” he orders, pulling you off the bed.

“Elvis—”

“Nope, don’ wanna hear it, honey! Go!”

Which is how you find yourself in the bathroom, changing into the modest but silky, white, button up pajamas Elvis bought for you on your shopping spree a few weeks ago and doing your nightly routine with a flock of very baffled butterflies in your stomach. You are also a little afraid for the state of your toes by the time this is all said and done.

And yet, Elvis manages to surprise you again, not only with the fact that Charlie was indeed able to get his hands on pearly pink nail polish at this hour, but with his ability to paint nails. It’s more than adorable the way he concentrates on getting it right, tongue caught between his teeth, even sticking cotton between your toes to keep them apart. Usually, you would hate having someone touch your feet, but he’s so gentle about it and you are so distracted by how unbelievable the situation is and how a dark lock of hair falls imperfectly over his forehead as he bends over your toes that you can’t bring yourself to tell him no.

As always, time seems to warp with him, and it’s so late it’s early. You find yourself yawning, wiggling your freshly pink toenails in a state of strangely pleased disbelief.

“You like ‘em, Little Bird?” he asks, eyes shining with an unexpected need of approval.

“Yes, they are lovely. If this singing thing doesn’t work out, you could open a salon. The girls would go crazy,” you joke.

He bows his head with a bashful smile, then looks up at you through those long lashes and you feel like the bed has dropped out from under you.

“Naw, this is only for the special lil’ nurses who hafta put up with me every day. No one else.” His eyes twinkle, lighting your body with electricity.

Why does he have to be so charming?

Part of you wants to scream at him to stop being so nice to you. If he knew what trouble you were, what you’ve brought to his doorstep, he’d never be looking at you like this or treating you with such care.

No one since your mother has treated you with such care.

Tears threaten to spring to your eyes, and you push your feelings as far away as you can, as fast as you can.

“Speaking of,” you say, clearing your throat, “I should take your vitals before you sleep.”

Elvis looks confused and maybe a little hurt at your abrupt subject change but recovers quickly enough. “Aww, come on, Little Bird, not tonight. I feel fine, I swear it.”

But you need your armor, and your job gives you that. It gives you space from these stupidly complicated feelings you are having. “Grab my bag and we can prove it.”

Elvis sighs, but does what you say, quiet as you take his temperature, blood pressure, and pulse. When you finish, surprise fills you.

Elvis looks concerned. “What is it? Everythin’ okay? I’m tired, sure, but I feel—”

“No, I know,” you interrupt, “your numbers are good. Apparently a wildly successful comeback performance coupled with giving a late-night pedicure was just the right medicine.” You can’t help but smile at him.

He looks at you wide eyed, then gives you a blinding smile. “Or maybe you’re just that good for me, darlin’.”

Your heart flips in your chest, beating in your throat, but you refuse to let it show on your face. “Sure, mister. Quit your flirting and get in the bed,” you say firmly, only realizing your mistake when he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“To sleep! Go to sleep, Elvis!” you say, rolling your eyes. You cover the blush on your face by turning over to flip off the lamp on your nightstand.

His hiccupping laugh makes you smile in the dark when he slides into the bed next to you. You are acutely aware of the heat of him, and though he doesn’t touch you, you can’t help but sense that he wants to as his chuckles die down to silence.

After a pregnant pause, he speaks again, quiet but direct.

“Was there something you wanted to tell me, honey? From earlier when we got interrupted?”

Your heart trips, then races with both surprise and fear. Thank God he can’t see your face because you are battling the onslaught of thoughts spiraling in your mind.

He won’t understand. He’ll kick you out on the street.

No, don’t keep lying to him. He deserves the truth.

Not now, later.

Protect him, protect him, protect him…

It’s the vision of Gianni ripping out Elvis’ throat that makes the decision for you.

“No, it was nothing,” you whisper shakily, clutching the sheets in your hands.

“Oh,” he says, almost blankly, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say he sounded upset.

But that wouldn’t make sense.

“Goodnight, Elvis,” you say quietly.

“Goodnight, Lori.”

Your stomach drops at how he uses your actual name, all the warmth from earlier gone from his voice. As tired as you are, shame and regret churn in your stomach—a stew of nausea that won’t seem to abate, even after you eventually drift off to sleep.

*

Three more days you spend in Florida, each one bringing even more maddening behavior from Elvis. Somehow, when you weren’t looking, a switch flipped yet again. He’s rapidly vacillating between moody and sullen to downright cold and cutting.

He keeps you close, to be sure, while going water skiing and taking long drives and cavorting with his friends, but the sweet, compassionate closeness from the night of filming the special is nowhere to be found. You feel like an accessory he strapped to his wrist, desperately trying to make sure he doesn’t run himself ragged with all the “fun” he is having. He doesn’t even attempt to hide the flirting and the inappropriate jokes and jabs not fit for mixed company. No, he does it with you at his side, like he’s trying to make a point.

Even the Colonel is distressed, confronting Elvis about spending too much and making the return trip to Memphis one by bus instead of train as some sort of power move to wrangle the star. Elvis just laughs it off, and in what seems to be true Elvis fashion, he seems to spend more rather than less just to stick it to the Colonel. All of it put together reminds you of the adolescent behavior of your younger brothers.

It’s exhausting, running after this moody man-child who acts like you hung the moon one minute and in the next ignores you. You remind him until you are blue in the face that he must rest and have some semblance of a normal routine when he can, instead of running himself into the ground by overindulging in nearly every sense of the word. The man seems to have no concept of the word “moderation” and as annoyed as you are, you are more worried this will lead to another, more serious episode.

It's easy to blame him for the near-constant headaches and exhaustion ailing you. Having to pretend to go along with his antics as his girlfriend while also having to babysit him as his nurse is continuing to run you ragged. Not to mention the emotional upheaval of trying to piece out your own feelings for him and manage your lingering fear about Gianni at the same time.

The worst, however, is the lack of playfulness Elvis had with you coupled with the brooding silence he shoves between you in your very few moments alone. Nothing reminds you more you are just his nurse. The rest, whatever it was, seems a folly concocted by your addled imagination.

You can’t shake the feeling of being punished for some unknown offense. Maybe it is just your guilt brewing under the surface, trying to make sense of this man. It’s hard to break the habit of feeling like no matter what you do and how good you are at your job, you are somehow still a burden to the men in your life.

But it isn’t just that. Every stunning smile or touch he gives another woman fees barbed and has your blood boiling, even though it shouldn’t. Every sly remark about being “tied down” he makes to the guys makes your skin crawl. Worse yet, he starts poking fun at you any chance he gets, edging more into mean spirited with each jab, and even his friends shoot you apologetic looks by the end of the trip.

And yet another full day with them all, coupled with Elvis’ ire, all the stupid jokes, and the rampant gas that all the men seem to have, this time trapped on a smelly chartered bus, has you feeling claustrophobic and ready to throw yourself out the window. It’s unusual for you to feel so bothered by such things—you grew up in a houseful of men after all. You learned early on to keep your feelings to yourself, especially to keep off your father’s radar. Patience for rowdy men has historically been one of your greatest virtues, but Elvis has you digging your nails into your knees and biting your tongue more than once as the bus slowly ambles towards Memphis.

He's just an unruly patient—don’t take it personally, you chant to yourself all the way home. You try, you do, but your stomach ties in more knots with each passing mile and with the memory of feeling cared for by him contradicting everything he’s lobbing at you.

By the time you arrive back at Graceland, you are ruing all your life decisions. Despite reminding yourself of how, logically, you are safer and more secure here than you’ve ever been in your life, you’ve reached your limit of patience with Elvis and his entourage for the day. Maybe the week. Or the month.

Oh, Madone, how am I supposed to do this for the unforeseen future if I can’t make it a month with this man?

At least here you can safely put some space between you. You fly off the bus as soon as the door opens.

“Hey! Hey, where do you think you’re goin’?” he yells from behind you.

Why do you care? is what you want to say, but you swallow the urge instead.

You keep walking down the driveway, away from the house, pretending you don’t hear him. Nothing good can come from you answering him right now, not when you are feeling so on edge. Besides that, it’s hard to think with the throbbing behind your eyes and the slight carsickness rolling in your stomach from being on the bus all day.

“Lori, stop! Goddammit, Dolores, where. Are. You. Goin’?” he shouts, punctuating each word, your name rolling off his tongue like an admonishment. You stop in your tracks. It infuriates you he deems to use your given name like you’re the one who has done something wrong, like it’s your behavior that’s been so poor.

“Away from you!” you shout back at him, unable to keep your frustration locked in any longer.

Your heart sinks, immediately knowing you’ve overstepped but annoyed enough not to quit while you’re ahead. You start walking again, hurrying away as if you can still escape this whole situation.

The chorus of men chuckling and “oooh”ing at Elvis as they amble off the bus does not help matters.

“What the hell did you just say?” he growls low, his large strides hard on the pavement as they try to catch up with your smaller ones. “Hey, don’t walk away from me when I’m talkin’ to ya!”

“Leave me alone, Elvis! It’s obvious you’ve wanted me out of your hair for weeks, so go! Do whatever it is you need to do to get whatever this is out of your system,” you snap, still stomping forward, pulling your coat tight around your middle as you try to reacclimate to the early spring chill in the air. “Go…get laid or something,” you mutter, surprised at your own crassness.

“Hey! Stop bein’ such a b-bitch and stop walkin’ away from me!” he roars, grabbing your upper arm to pull you around.

You gasp as his rough touch lances through you, sending a lightning bolt of fear down to your toes. “Get your hands off me!” you hiss, violently yanking away from his grasp. Your heart knocks unpleasantly in your chest, faster and faster as your breath heaves. Part of you wants to run away as fast as you can, but you are frozen in place.

He’s not Gianni, a soft voice whispers. He won’t hurt you.

You want to believe it, you really do, but the fact is you barely know this man. You’ve wanted to believe so badly he is warm and caring, you’ve wanted to trust him because there is no one else you can, but your hopes don’t make it true.

Seeing your distress, something besides anger flashes in Elvis’ eyes and he quickly drops his arm from you.

All your pent-up fury washes over you then and you lash out uncharacteristically. “And don’t you dare call me a bitch when you’ve been acting the way you have,” you spit back at him.

He shutters his look of shock at your outburst so quickly you barely see it before flames darken his eyes again. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. You’re just crazy.” It’s cutting but it’s obvious you struck a nerve.

Blood rushes in your ears, your heart pounding and your head throbbing with a hundred emotions threatening to tear you apart.

You’ve never felt so bold or off the rails before, but the words fly out of you with little thought of the consequences as you point your finger at him. “Listen to me, Elvis Presley: I’m not Anita or one of your sycophantic girlfriends you can play your silly little hot-and-cold mind games with. I’m not crazy. I’m here to do a job. And instead of letting me, you are making it hard every step of the way. For days you’ve been sulking around like a child who hasn’t gotten his way instead of communicating like an adult what is wrong!”

Elvis’ eyes go wide as he reels back like you’ve slapped him in the face. Then his brow furrows, eyes blazing before locking you out once more.

“Oh, you’d know all about mind games, wouldn’t ya, honey?” he says coldly, advancing on you. “Why communicate w-w-when y-you can just pretend it’s not happenin’ and run away? I’m sure your fee-an-cè and his mafia buddies would have a lot to say about that, now, huh?”

Your heart screeches to a stop.

Dio mio…he knows.

“Elvis…” you breathe out, and then you can’t seem to breathe in again. Your shock is eclipsed by the fact somehow Elvis knows your secret. Everything else is forgotten. All your panicked mind can think of is how Gianni or your father somehow got to Elvis and they must be here, now, to take you back to New York.

An involuntary shudder overtakes you as you whisper, “How?”

“Oh, your good friend Sinatra told me the w-w-whole damn East Coast of mobsters is pissed o-off. Called you some mafia princess Helen of Troy and told me to cut you loose, if I-I-I knew w-what w-was good for me,” Elvis barrels on, his handsome face dark and storming with anger.

“What?” It’s so breathless, you aren’t sure you said it aloud. Frank knew? Of course.

Oh, God, everyone knows.

They are coming for me.

The acid in your stomach bubbles, and if it weren’t empty, the contents would be spilled over Elvis’ expensive shoes.

“I-It w-was humiliatin’, not knowin’ what the hell he was talkin’ about! But you wanna know the worst of it, Lori? That I gave you every chance to tell me and you still didn’t. You lied. I thought…” Elvis keeps speaking, his low voice angry and hurt, but suddenly it sounds like he’s in a wind tunnel. All your focus turns inward, though you are vaguely aware that you are shaking like a leaf.

Elvis is going to send me back.

And he has every right. He’s got to protect himself. You were selfish and brought this to his doorstep and didn’t even have the courtesy to warn him. Then he had to go and hear it from Frank of all people.

It was no wonder he’s been acting so strange.

He’s been preparing to let me go.

Your chest constricts and your heart aches. It feels like betrayal, though you know it’s not. You are the one who betrayed him, not the other way around. You’d thought maybe Elvis was different, he’d shown you such compassion at your worst moments, but that was before he knew what you’d dragged him into. And you are a horrible for doing it. Maybe you deserve the hell you know Gianni will put you through.

There is no stopping the tears from pouring down your cheeks.

“I-I’m so, so sorry,” you sob, now a hiccupping, shivering mess.

Gianni’s obsidian eyes and horrific smile when he sees you again flash in your mind. “Hello, Bella…”

Oh, Madone, I can’t go back, I can’t. He’ll kill me. Or worse…

The air in your lungs seems to evaporate, leaving you gasping and dizzy. That weightless space, the one you go to when you can’t bear to feel anymore, awaits you, but you can’t seem to reach it because Elvis is grabbing your shoulders, the anger gone from his eyes and replaced with concern. But he is tethering you to reality when all you want to do is disappear. And you can’t help but feel like you’ve damned him.

Your stomach churns once more and you lose the battle, heaving bile off to the side and onto the pavement. It steals what little strength and air you have left, and the edges of your vision bleed black, like the shadow of Gianni is finally here to take you away.

I’m sorry, is the only thought left when your knees buckle and your body crumbles into Elvis’ arms.

Then there is just dark, blissful silence.

*

Thank you for reading and supporting my work!! As always, likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated if you enjoyed what you read! 💗

Taglist Pt 1

@eliseinmemphis@russian-soft-bitch@tattywood

@sassanoe@thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle@carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23

 @littlebitofgreen@paigevis@bugg06@xhannahbananax03@artlover8992

@18lkpeters@frozenhuntress67@girlblogger2002@kendralavon7@misspresley

@be-my-ally @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen @powerofelvis @from-memphis-with-love

 @precious-lil-scoundrel @stylespresleyhearted @prompted-wordsmith @crash-and-cure @elvisgf @lookingforrainbows @fic-over-cannon @godlypresley @ab4eva @whatstruthgottodowithit @elvisabutler @amydarcimarie@idontwanttoputanything @callieselvisobsessed @captainamerica1235-blog  @xenaspace3-blog 

@simplyamberj@claire-elvisgirl@everythingelvispresley@louisejoy86@deniseinmn @madelynpresley

[atopvisenyashill]

Bro the ppl you stan are so at odds with the other, your level of starkcels are always alicent-sansa stans, which is a shame bc if they open their eyes they'll see the sansa-rhaenyra-catelyn parallels 😔🥀

Messing with my stats fr 😒 (no hate btw, I'm also a sansa-rhaenyra stan)

it GENUINELY causes me pain, and like i get it, the fandom beefs go crazyyyy and i blame both d&d and the shitty way we teach literature analysis in high school for it getting as bad as it has. one of my xwitter moots got into asoiaf thru hotd bc she saw “lesbian undertones & dragons” and got curious & she said the other day never has she been in a fandom as genuinely evil, she was NOT prepared & i would say that’s just xwitter but we’ve ALL seen crazy behavior on every platform & also i can fully acknowledge that i, like many others, have gotten pettier & more quickly annoyed over the years ajsjdj. but my GOD i really do choose the toughest battles for no goddamn reason 😭🤧.

it’s pretty much like a two way split in fandom the way i see it, and i’m speaking in just the most broad, wankified strokes imaginable but -

targnation aka tb/dany(/arya) people who will genuinely honest to god argue that nettles is valyrian & daemon’s daughter bc only valyrians can ride dragons & really disingenuously misunderstand every point you make about how few good options a lot of the people on tg had.

the starkcels, infamous for being staunch jonsa shippers and/or sansa qitn truthers/stans, & they are all hardcore tg-but-usually-specifically-alicent stans. these people never stop BITCHING and NITPICKING, with the worst of it very much directed at being disingenuous about rhaenyra & baela’s motivations, in a very *dakota johnson voice* ellen you know that’s not true, sort of way.

(there’s other radioactive flavors, we don’t need to get into the aegon ii/king jon-or-stannis types on reddit, for instance).

and the problem here is that i call that second group my home bc it is a break off from the Main Branch which is very hostile to jonsa & associated theories, and therefore a lot of the most intensely starkcel people (such as me 😁) congregate there

(which, bizarrely to me, the Main Branch consists of largely tg/dany stans IF they watch the show seriously, if they don’t watch the show well that’s just main branch & it takes a second longer rant to explain that one but all of these groups are very hostile to starkcels & tbf starkcels are incredibly hostile to them aksjd). i Do believe i get the worst of both worlds as i try to exist in multiple subfandoms, altho i’m sure people at other intersections in fandom will disagree (they’re wrong i have it worse).

and this is a fandom just WILDLY HOSTILE to comparisons. u even think the words “sansa & ned are a little similar” and u get tomatoes thrown at you and that’s just her FATHER. i saw a minor meltdown on two different websites bc someone called margaery “the little queen” when “well that’s DAENAERA’S TITLE” brother no character owns a phrase or archetypes, and george’s style is basically just writing the same 12 archetypes that he really enjoys and doing them slightly to the left each time and as someone who loves doing that (there’s so many things to say!!! so many ways it can go if you just tweak one thing!!!!!) this series is crack to me, but if u dare compare two characters that have a different group of stans, even if those characters dead ass have the exact same life on paper, they try to execute you in the town square. so we just ignore the sansa-rhaenyra and rhaenyra-catelyn parallelism even tho it’s very obvious to me, bc it is apparently an insult to george himself to compare two characters he wrote 🤧

anyways sansa-rhaenyra stans of the world unite, there are dozens of us. dozens i tell you!!!!

[greenerteacups]

also just read your favorite weasley post and !! love that Ron is your favorite he gets so much bashing in dramione works im like grrggr he’s not so horrible omg! he has his shortcomings but if you’re literally diving deep into draco as a character who in canon is overtly an ass then why are we destroying Ron’s character to justify the dramione relationship TT poor story building imo, but to each their own!

love your work, excited for what’s to come!!

I think Ron would've had better reception in the D/H fandom if — I mean, for one, if he wasn't a major obstacle to their ship going canon, which is like, not his fault, but also means he's never gonna be the most popular dude on the block — but also if the later books hadn't done him a bit dirty. Without even getting into how their characters change, Hermione becomes a lot more likable in later books when her enduring flaws of bossiness, paranoia, and know-it-all-ing become incredibly useful and appropriate in a literal war. Ron, in contrast, starts as an almost idealized "hero's best friend" archetype, friendly and witty and loyal, and then gets his flaws uncovered slowly. Whereas Hermione wears her faults on her sleeve from day one, Ron's self-esteem issues and empathy problems emerge realistically over time as the plot brings them to the fore. But because JKR doesn't conclude emotional arcs, he doesn't get an actual moment to overcome those flaws and triumph, restoring audience faith and making himself more likable by having overcome struggle.

Draco canonically exists to be a bully and antagonist. The stories are not terribly interested in him beyond that role. But there's something honest about that, since the reader never feels like the text expects you to like him. Draco is awful and owns it. He's narcissistic, cruel, and mean from the first interaction, so he has nowhere to go but up. If you like him, you like him because (probably) you're interested in where he could go in the future or in alternate universes, and how he could overcome his faults (making him extremely likable, because we love characters who struggle and win). He's not a three-dimensional character so much as he is the possibility of a three-dimensional character, and all that potential is really easy to like. Meanwhile, Ron is a three-dimensional character, full-stop. He fucks up sometimes, but in general, the text wants you to like him — problem being, the text doesn't always know how to make that happen, and sometimes it fails. Which can be doubly annoying, because then you feel like you're watching a character getting rewarded for bad behavior.

Now, me? I'm a consistent bitch. Blond or ginger, I'm equal-opportunity: give me a witty asshole with empathy problems and a fanatical devotion to the people they love, I'm locked in. I like Ron and Draco for a lot of the same reasons. I think they're very similar in a lot of ways that get overlooked. And if you ship Draco/Hermione, that should be great news, because you might suppose Hermione has a type.

[dmbakura]

Would you say AA has this sense of thinking he /needs/ to be like Cazador, because that's "what works" and what's "safe"? Like this is who he has to be, and nothing else is viable? That's how I interpreted AA's masking (especially during his sex scene, it seems very insincere and more like what he thinks he needs to be than what he wants) and I can't really make it work with Neil's statements honestly.

I also think he's very much capable of cruelty but the way AA acts is something else entirely to me because it's so goofily a Stereotypical Cartoon Villain Big Bad Sexy Vampire which doesn't really come across as honest in the way, let's say, Gortash's antics seem honest from what we know of the character. Maybe I'm misinterpreting what masking means, idk. I'm definitely not saying it's not honest that he wants to do all that power-hungry shit and that he's secretly a pure tortured soul because that's a lame ass reading that contradicts canon but everything about how he carries himself is so uncanny and all those underlying themes of being really fucking afraid and unable to face what happened/running away from it don't lead me to believe he's living an authentic life, more like he's trapped inside himself.

I don't really see how this contradicts anything Neil said. He never says AA is Astarion's most authentic self at all, or even that he's healthy and confident, only that he stops masking with theatrical deflections.

You also have to account for the supernatural element here too. In dnd lore, most true vampires basically succumb to personality rot and become paranoid and obsessive scheming freaks. I know the 'vampire ascendant' is a new thing and bg3 plays with the lore a bit more but considering this is alluded to by Astarion AND Cazador and heavily reflected in AAs behavior, I'm willing to believe that the vampire ascendant is literally just that but on steroids. Hence the cartoonish behavior lol

Astarion's a complex character. A lot of his arc is a question about how trauma can shape a person and what remains (if anything) after they've gone through something inconceivable, and if they can move past it and reclaim an identity for themself. I don't think it's a coincidence that his background is mostly vague and we don't actually know the kind of person he was before he was turned (unlike *those* fans, I also don't believe 'corrupt magistrate' means he was 'always destined to be evil' or some nonsense like that.) So much of his character is informed by the choices made in the game and how the experiences shape his worldview. He's by far the most dynamic character in the game and people want there to be a simple answer to his character (whether that be 'he's a poor uwu baby who did nothing wrong' or 'he's always been irredeemably evil and is incapable of change') when the reality is there just isn't one.

All this to say, same as what I've been saying from the beginning, both endings for him serve a purpose. They're two sides of the same coin for his character. They are both true to Astarion and his development and they're meant to contrast in ways that make you think deeper about him and his story. They absolutely cannot be taken in a vacuum and I am just so annoyed with people not engaging with the story on this level and wanting there to be simple moral platitudes to everything because they're uncomfortable with complexity.

[xxmia0wm4yh3mxx]

Backrooms POI: Finley and Funny

Name(s): Finley and Funny

Aliases: "the Friendly Partygoer"(Funny) Team BoredFun, Fin+Fun

Dummy grumpy pants (Finley) =)

Funny dont add that in =(

You can't tell me what to do! XD

A stupid annoying idiot (Funny) =(

Hey! thats meeeeaaaaan >=(

Shut up =(

Last known location(s): Level 1, Level 5, Level 2, Level 11,

Known Affiliations: The Pity Partiers are the best and you should visit them =)

look I know they sound suspicious but you should listen to them =(

(Funny and Finley running from a smiler and a more clear, edited version of the smae photo)

Description: Finley and Funny are a unlikely duo of two eneties. (A rouge partygoer and a thought to be extinct partypooper) they have been seen wanderering Levels in deep conversation with one another, running from other entities

We dont do that! >=(

yeah we do actually =(

they seem to have a interest in guns and weapons as they have been seen carring many swords, guns and bazookas and making them as well

YEAH! THEIR AWESOME! right Fin? =)

Yeah i guess their cool =|

they love it =)

They both seem to be neutral on humans, they have been only seen killing them when negatively provoked

Uh YEAH? of course we respond violently to dumb, rude people! thats how it works dummy! =)

I think they're talking about how you clawed someones eye out when they accidentally bumped into you =(

It was level 201! I was on edge! >=(

Level 201 isn't that dangerous dumbass =(

you know why I didn't feel safe... Im not usually like that, honest! you can be a funny joke if you change your perspective! =)

Despite Funny being a partygoer, they have never been seen Hunting or eating wanderers but have been seen eating a prompus amount of Cannibal Cusinie.

Honestly cannbial cusinie so much more tastier =)

Im surprised you haven't gotten fat with how you eat that shit =(

Youda mean? =|

I'm just sayin its not good for you =(

WELL the more I eat, the less their is for the humans, DUH! =)

Finley has been known to be very cold and somewhat hostile to wanders, often pointing guns at wnaders but often never shooting

Don't worry, they only pull guns when they are just when They're grumpy, YOU SHOULD SEE WHEN THEY'RE MAD! HAHAHA! =)

Partygoers and PartyPoopers are infamous for being natural mortal enemies, but Finley and Funny have been seen either neutral or Straight-up romantic with eachother wait, wait, wait, WAIT. what do you mean by romantic? =(

uh fin we've been dating forever you stupid ass =)

Don't tell them that! >=(

Awwww! are you embarrassed?~ =)

im kicking you out of the room =(

Behaviors: Funny Has been known to be friendly albeit very malicious and dark regarding to their sense of humor, often making jokes about murder, missing family members, self harm, destruction, mental illness, or just straight up being rude piece of shit

You just gotta have the right mind set to get my jokes, Or at least a Mind at all! =)

as stated before Finley has been known being, cold, crass, rude, cynical but still helpful even if it doesn't effect them positivly. they have also been known to make edgy remarks reminiscent of that of a middle schooler who thinks they're depressed.

>=(

The following Is a interview log with The two eneties and dehila of the m.e.g in hopes to understand their odd situation better

____________________________________

Dehila: *Calmly walks over to Finley and Funny* Um excuse me-

Funny: FINELY SHOOT IT WITH FIRE ITS A SKIN STEALER!

-the tape cuts out for 20 minutes-

Finley: sorry about Asshole overthere *they point to Finny* they can't tell a clicker from a skin stealer

Funny: OH well excuuuuusse me for being jumpy in a plane of existence with cosmic entity cakes and hivemind cults following a dumb bluebird!

Dehila: oh it's quite alrig-

-the tape cuts out again

Dehila: so how did you two meet?

Finley: long story, but after the fun war PartyPoopers decided to stay in the promised land for "preservation of out species" or some dumb shit like that, but I left caused that Was the stupidest thing ive ever heard-

Funny: HA! not as dumb as you wanderering the halls alo-

-The tape cuts out again-

Dehlia: so you two have a bit of a enemies to lovers thing going on huh?

Funny: Eh, I guess, i mean we still fight ALL the time, and they're Super boring if that wasn't obvious! but.. i dunno They're a boring person, but Super fun to be around with! They taught me how to shoot a railgun, We made a bazooka that fires chainsaws, we smoke MJ together, They tell the best jokes! they've kinda become my muse!

Dehila: Aww thats so sweet- wait What about memory-

Funny: Nothing.

Finley: Yeah Funnys alright, Its nice to have someone who gets me, or Not takeing literally everything thing I say personally

Dehila: so funny, what separates you from the rest of the Partygoer?

Funny: Well I hate killing humans for starters, You guys are a alot funner alive, And Also Cannibal Cusinie Just tatses better, oh and also Being unwittingly controled by a giant birthday cake is super lame honestly, plus I'm having so much Fun With Finley!.... but I do miss friends back in level fun...

Finely: *sighs* ..yeah thats the hardest part about leaving..

Dehlia: so I've heard alot about "The pity Partiers" what is that exactly?

Finley: *akward silence*

Funny: Uhh.. well.. Uhhh

Funny:

Funny: you see when you love someone very much-

Finley: they're our kids

Dehlia: All of them?!?! they're like 50 of them!

Finley: 160 actually, Partypeople usally have 40 per litter

Funny: Yeah, why do you think were everywhere?

Finley: Anyways don't worry about them, their (mostly) harmless, right fun?

Funny: I think I have something in my teeth

Finley: yeah just don't hurt them alright?

________________________________________

log ends

[sesshy380]

For the gift thing, how about something casteshipping with eggnog for a prompt?

I was going to wait another week before posting any of my Holiday Prompts, but this one has been done for a few weeks now, so I'm throwing it out into the wild.

This ended up as an Office Party AU. Enjoy!

Atem sipped the hot cocoa in his hands, subtly listening to the conversations being carried on by the people around him and eyeing others as they celebrated the holiday festivities. He was glad to see that everyone was enjoying the party he’d set up for them.

Most of the people that attended these things worked in one of the offices or cubicles of the building, so seeing one of the janitorial staff was a bit surprising. Though, given who this particular janitor was…he shouldn’t have been.

He’d seen the white haired man a few times, and had even spoken to him on occasion. The man made it clear how he felt about the higher-ups, apparently not realizing Atem’s role in the company.

He had to admit, he liked how refreshing it was to have someone that was straightforward and honest with him, instead of kissing ass in an attempt to get into his good graces. He’d thought about revealing his position to the janitor a few times, but decided to wait until the right opportunity presented itself.

Right now, the man was getting a lot of annoyed glares. The fact that he kept walking up to everyone and slinging an arm around peoples shoulders like they were all close friends probably didn’t help.

Every group he approached treated him the same: Shrugging off the arm, rolling their eyes (sometimes with an arrogant scoff), and the group walking away to be somewhere else. He didn’t seem to be too put out though, as he’d just shrug and move onto the next group.

After massively failing to be included with any of the groups, the man finally made his way over to where Atem had been casually observing the room.

“What a snore-fest,” the man commented as he leaned on the wall and turned a scar-stitched eye towards him. “I always hear how wild these things can get. I have to say, I feel really let down.”

This prompted a smile and a small laugh out of Atem. “I suppose their boss being in the room keeps them on their best behavior.”

“Pffft, who cares,” the man said dismissively. “You can’t tell me he set out alcoholic eggnog with the expectations of his underlings being on their best behavior. No, this man wanted to see them loosen up.”

Atem glanced at the cup in the man’s hand. “I see you had no problem giving it a taste-test.”

The man took a large drink from the cup, making it obvious he enjoyed it.

“Best I’ve tasted. My guess is this shit is made from scratch with some top shelf booze. None of that cheap store-bought crap spiked with something just as cheap. Honestly…” He motioned towards everyone else in the room. “...those stuck-up assholes don’t know what they’re missing out on.”

Atem peaked a curious brow. “It’s that good?”

“Fuck yeah,” the man said casually. “Here, you should try some,” he said while holding the cup out towards Atem.

Atem took the cup from him, then gave him a sly glance. “Before I go drinking out of the same cup as you, can I get a name? You seem to have a bad habit of keeping your badge hidden when working.”

The man chuckled. “That’s because it keeps getting caught on everything when I’m cleaning up after these slobs…not that they care to know the name of the person that has to plunge the toilets after them. Seriously, that guy over there, he should lay off on Mexican food. I’m this close to calling a bomb squad each time I see him walk into the mens room.”

Atem couldn’t help but laugh loudly at that remark, and the man joined him, earning them quite a few stares.

“The name’s Bakhure,” the man stated once both he and Atem had subsided from their laughter.

“Well, Bakhure,” Atem said while raising the glass in his hand. “It’s nice to know that you enjoy my personal recipe.” He took a swallow and handed it back to Bakhure, who seemed to be suddenly piecing things together.

“Oh shit…you’re the boss…like…the Big Boss…”

“Hmm, I don’t know if I like ‘Big Boss’,” Atem said while pretending to think. “I think ‘Corporate Asshole who doesn’t have a clue what it’s like having to come to work sick because they can’t afford the day off’ was much more creative. Sadly, no one has been able to tell me if the ‘lowly peons’ like being able to accrue paid sick leave regardless if they are part or full time.”

Atem waited to see Bakhure’s reaction, feeling amused as it was obvious that more things were beginning to fall into place for the man.

“Okay…I gotta admit, that was a real breath of fresh air. We don’t spread whatever one of us has through the ranks now, because we can actually stay home and rest instead of coming in with a fever.”

He looked warily at Atem. “How come you never told me you were the one running things?”

Atem quietly laughed. “And ruin the opportunity to hear an honest review about myself and how I’m running things? Why would I have wanted to do that?”

“Okay, let me rephrase the question. Why tell me now?” Bakhure asked earnestly.

Atem sighed, keeping a pleasant smile on his face. “Because I’ve been curious for a while now as to whether you genuinely didn’t know, or if you just didn’t care who I was. I’ve also been curious if you’d be like everyone else and just start backpedaling and trying to kiss ass.”

Bakhure snorted. “I only kiss ass in the bedroom…and occasionally bite.”

Atem gave him a curious glance. “How much eggnog have you had?”

Bakhure grinned. “Not nearly enough.”

“So…does that mean…?” Atem asked, giving Bakhura a knowing look.

“Depends. Will sleeping with the boss get me a raise?”

Atem laughed again. “I was planning on giving you one anyways…but it would mean having to take on a new position.”

Bakhure gave him a playful look. “I like new positions.”

“I meant within the company,” Atem clarified, trying to keep his face from betraying his other thoughts to the rest of the room.

Bakhure’s playful look turned to disappointment. “Oh…”

“Though,” Atem began, his voice low and seductive, hoping no one would overhear what he said next. “If you wanted, we could go up to my office and ‘discuss’ the new position in more detail. Maybe grab some more eggnog on our way out? I’m certain you are more than qualified for multiple ‘positions’.”

Bakhure raised his cup in a toast to the air before downing the rest, licking his lips after.

“I assure you, I am very qualified…and I won’t leave you disappointed.”

Atem gestured for Bakhure to take his leave first, both stopping by the bowl of eggnog before heading towards the room’s exit.

[mikey-2003]

Dr eggman analysis from the first 4 classic games:

Okay so I basically just decided to finally play sonic origins story mode (and knuckles's story later), and reading the original Manuels, I'm just gonna make an analysis of his character from the first 4 classic games.

SONIC THE HEDGEHOG (1991)

First things first: dr eggman's always Sonic's enemy before the first sonic game. But a few things I noticed:

#1, despite being motivated to take over the world, he is always focus on sonic the hedgehog, as he sees himself as the nemesis of sonic. This definitely ties into his egotistical and narcissistic behavior, as he sees himself as so much more, while sonic doesn't as he always beats him. Eggman finally makes himself more threatening by using animals inside the robots to beat sonic once and for all.

#2, once he heard about the chaos emeralds, he never cares about destroying the environment around him. If he wants to get what he wants, he will do anything in his power to obtain the chaos emeralds.

#3, sonic 1 is the first time eggman uses robots that have animals inside robots. In sonic 1's Manuel, it is stated that he did this to turn the island's wild life against sonic himself. This is where he is confident that this plan still works, as in later games up until even now, he still uses animals as batteries for his robots.

#4, eggman's line "Sonic... that annoying, cheeky hedgehog. He's the one who's always ruining my great plans. This time, I'm going to crush him with the power of my science! Heheheh..." is the very first example of dr eggman's self love. And not the kind of self love where you think he wants everyone to love him cuz of the fact that you're not good enough, NO, eggman's self love is genuine and he has alot of it here. Eggman's confidence is always genuine when he wants to beat sonic, as he always states that his plans are great, and he will crush him with the power of HIS science. He is truly confident that he will beat sonic every time, and let's be honest even in later games, he came so close to doing so. The confidence is so genuine, it actually makes me love him.

SONIC ORIGINS cutscene.

One thing I noticed that I MIGHT misinterpret on this cutscene of the first game, is that eggman is gesturing sonic to go after him. He is SO confident in his plan, that he will deliberately let sonic go after him cuz he thinks he can actually beat sonic this time around. (At least... I think?? Idk, these cutscenes don't have much dialogue, so I'm probably interpreting it wrong. But to be fair, it wouldn't be out of character either.)

SONIC THE HEDGEHOG CD.

After his defeat in the first sonic game, eggman took notice of little planet.

After reading this, I noticed a one thing.

When eggman sees sonic, he just shrugs it off as convenient and just shoots him. Eggman definitely still has that confidence that he can beat sonic from the 1st games as he had a fearless smile. This time, he plans to use the time stones to take over the world. This guy's confidence is SO great, it genuinely makes me love him.

Fun fact: the CD manuel story is a retelling of the game's opening cutscene.

Metal sonic is stated to have the same level of abilities as sonic and can go faster. Eggman shows that he puts alot of research into what he is building overall, as this does not look like a half-assed robot. However even despite this, metal sonic still loses. And what is eggman's reaction to this? He just leaves him behind. If someone fails to do his work, he doesn't care about said creation anymore until it is convenient to use them again. Talk about selfish.

In the bad ending of sonic CD, after eggman loses, he just laughs it off, as he knows he will come back to just dominant the world again using the time stones. While this ending isn't canon, as the good ending is canon according to sonic origins final cutscene, I'll say that this does still tie-in with his extra confidence he has about himself conquering the world.

SONIC THE HEDGEHOG 2.

After sonic CD, eggman chases after sonic when he flew the tornado to west side island.

Yeah, eggman's grudge against sonic is so great, that instead of simply ruling the world in his own right, he just chases after sonic the hedgehog. But there is one reason he does this..

He always goes after sonic because he acknowledges that sonic is the one that'll ALWAYS beat him no matter what. He knows that sonic will always get in his way. And you can tell he means business, as he starts destroying the environment, creating explosions to the island itself. Skipping to wing fortress, we gotta talk about this.

In wing fortress zone, he shot down tails' plane at first site. This is so sonic cannot get to eggman so easily. Despite sonic getting in the zone and chasing after eggman.

In the end of the zone, eggman uses a laser to shoot sonic. This is kinda a lame (but fucking hard, jesus) boss fight, but at the end... instead of eggman making an Expression of fear or anger, he is still laughing as he leaves.

He knows sonic cannot chase him, he knows sonic is stuck as he has no way of getting to him. This is the TRUE reason he shot tails' plane, so he cannot get into the death egg. BUT, one thing eggman underestimated tails', as he already rebuilds the plane to help sonic up.

Except no, because when sonic arrives, he has mecha sonic MK1 already here.

This is his 2nd metal sonic, but it is much more bulkier and the only major ability is his spindash. However, his spindash is sharper due to the sharp quills he has.

However sonic still beats him, but eggman has a backup plan.

The death egg's giant robot mech. I'd say in this instance, his confidence got too much in the way of this fight, as he is in an unstoppable mech suit and he knows he can beat sonic, he thinks it cannot work in Sonic's favor. However... sonic has beat him.

SONIC THE HEDGEHOG 3/SONIC & KNUCKLES/SONIC 3 & KNUCKLES (jesus christ..)

For the remainder of this, we'll only use the knuckles meeting eggman scene in origins, as his meeting in the Manuel seems to contradict his meeting in the origins cutscenes.

In the sonic origins opening cutscene, eggman is soon throwing a temper tantrum after exiting the death egg robot. He was THIS close to beating sonic with the awesome power of the death egg robot, however, after being defeated eggman is just pissed off and rightfully so.

Then... when he sees the master emerald, his confidence has grown for a bit, but than knuckles shows up and was almost about to beat him up. Eggman shows his acting skills to knuckles to take advantage of his naivety as he easily recognizes that he is the only native to angel island. He claims that sonic and tails are the ones going to steal the emeralds. This works and they're a team.

However, in spite of gaining knuckles' trust, he still does the usual converting animals to robots and turning the environment into his own favor. He uh... really loves doing this, it's basically a tuesday to him after doing this the first time in sonic 1.

Throughout the game, eggman's actions in this I'd say are more careful around sonic, while also taking more drastic changes. First of all, the act 1 boss fights. In the end of each 1st act, there's ALWAYS a boss fight, and the primary reason is because eggman needs to stop sonic from getting close to foiling his plans all the time and I'd say he learned his lesson about being extremely careless about sonic, as he is always planning ahead of each robot to face off against him.

In launch base, eggman finally manages to launch the death egg, but he is still stopped by sonic. Yet here..

Yeah, eggman laughs it off and leaves, because he knows the master emerald will have enough power to bring the death egg back up. (Note: this only exist in the sonic origins version of sonic 3, but I feel like it fits eggman's character.)

Later on, he finally betrays knuckles and steals the master emerald for himself. The reason he waited so long is because he is more focus on HOW he's going to steal it, as knuckles will know that he is not on his side at all. Of course, at the end, when knuckles was fully distracted by sonic, eggman finally takes action into stealing the emerald, and as a one last f*ck you to knuckles, just shocks him with electricity.

Eggman finally rises his death egg up and sends his egg robos (which I always felt like were the inspiration for the E 100 series robots later in the series) to sky sanctuary to take down sonic.

Fast forward, sonic destroys the death egg's shield to eggman, which causes eggman to have a slight freak out about the whole thing and runs away before turning the tables with his giant egg robo, with the power of the master emerald. However, in spite of this power, it gets destroyed, but eggman laughs it off and leaves before being jumped on by sonic alot.

In doomsday zone, he is not gonna give up on using the emerald. He simply runs away from sonic, because at this point, sonic is now In his hyper/super form and eggman is fully aware that it is invincible, so all he can do is fly away but not before sending lots of missiles at sonic to slow him down. Eggman gets defeated by sonic though.

https://youtu.be/or5oBytYqII?si=s1ZhCasVBqvOuSDK

In the ending cutscene of sonic origins, eggman is just floating in the water, visibly pissed off at his constant defeat with sonic at this point since sonic 2 and now. However a flicky shows up, and pops eggman's floating... thingy and that's the end of the sonic Quadrilogy. Despite eggman's confidence, he is simply just always losing to sonic because he seems to always underestimate his opponent. And this ending brings an irony to his ending, as in the beginning, he bends nature to his will, while in the end, nature beats him. Lol

HOWEVER, one thing I'll take note is that eggman's self love and narcissism is the driving force behind the character, and you can see that it is REAL, not a sorta coping mechanism because he "hasn't been loved in all his life", no, he genuinely loves himself and is VERY confident that even after all if his defeat at the hands of sonic the hedgehog, he always stays positive and comes up with a new plan to destroy THE HEDGEHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOG!!!!! (Yay, cringe sonic 2 reference.)

I love eggman's character, and I love how confident he is in the first 4 games, and how he always manages to stay in control of his plans in between games, never staying behind. And I love the narcissistic and egotistical characterization of him in the 1st game's manual, he is just... SO good. He is such an evil person, and I love him for it. He wants to rule the world because HE thinks HE deserves it, and sonic always gets in his way.

I'm making this cuz I don't see anyone do much of this guy (except egg emperor), and I'd figure I do this

Also, later game facts:

1: he is named dr ivo robotnik (E-VO is the pronunciation, not Long I-VO. Get this right people. XD), while eggman is a nickname. It is implied he coined nicknamed before sonic 1, as he still called that in the japan versions of sonic 1-sonic adventure 1.

2: he wants to build eggmanland as his perfect utopia, as stated by sonic adventure 1-onward.

3: he idolizes his grandfather gareld robotnik, who is the inspiration of his genius. Despite this tho, he isn't afraid to tarnish gareld's legacy, as he tried to claim shadow as his own during shadow 2005, so that he can take advantage of him.

4: eggman's the best, you know it.

Anyways that's it, bye.

[mangoposts]

Hi hi! I really don't mean to bring this out for any longer but I feel like this is a safe place to talk about my feelings on it?

I didn't watch the podcast but I saw a bunch of clips on Tiktok and knew I didn't want to watch this one, but I assumed I was just overreacting or being too sensitive (which is very likely- I'm a sensitive bitch lol) but then I get on Tumblr and see that people are mad/upset at Nick and Chris (for good reason)

and honestly I'm so relieved that most of you feel the same and it's not just a bunch of "yOu kNoW tHeY'rE sIbLiNgS rIgHt?" or people making the "Matt has anxiety 😞 they're so mean" type of jokes that were never fuckin funny to me tbh. (I hope you know what I mean-)

they need to fucking cool it with interrupting Matt and then saying stupid ass comments like they did today... It's honestly so old and if they think it's funny- it's not! it's just annoying.

Anyways I love you!! And I hope you're doing okay <33<33

I'm also sorry for the rant!! it's just kind of rare when the fandom reacts like this y'know? It makes me not feel alone in my feelings about their arguments.

Yeah honestly, i know a lot of people feel this way often when it comes to the Nick/Chris against matt situation and a lot of people don’t get to express how they feel for Matt without others thinking they’re too emotional or that it’s not a big deal. I want my account to be real regardless of what people think, and today just proves that. I don’t care if it seems dramatic to people. It’s genuinely upsetting seeing them team up on their own brother so often and shoot him down. I want people to know it’s OKAY to be upset with Nick and Chris because their behavior shouldn’t be normalized. Yes, they’re siblings. Yes, they’ve been through a lot and they understand one another. That’s no excuse to be mean and discourage him when he tries to speak. I want everyone on my page to feel comfortable talking about this because it’s not dramatic

I love you too and im glad you feel comfortable enough to be honest here

[system-of-a-feather]

(Disclaimer: this post was written in two parts, the first half was done the day before but not posted cause I didnt feel it was a complete thought, the second half was added after. I did not edit or touch the first half as I like to keep space for the thoughts of myself as they were; i also have passive chronic amnesia so Im not 100% sure if everything is on the same page; regardless that is just context)

Honestly, I think the thing that is important to keep in mind when interacting with syscourse - or specifically for us cause the only one we really care about is the tulpa discourse - is that you are never going to force or change anyone's mind who is so set that they are sitting on tumblr and pulling the dumbest arguments out of their ass to support their claims and I do think those that spend their time arguing with @/sophieinwonderland and @/cambriancrew - while honestly doing the dirty work no one wants to do by balancing out their bullshit posting so mad respect - are largely wasting their time if they do ever think that a mind will be changed.

The only reason to ever engage or talk about the stuff they (and the clique that actually buys into those arguments) talk about is solely to make an example out of how incredibly deep their interalized racism and just disregard for POC goes and honestly looking at them as anything other than a stubborn white person is putting more emotional energy than its worth.

Because genuinely, in a weird way and me doing what XIV calls "The Riku Thing" of looking at a really negative, annoying, and/or harmful thing and finding the bright side silverlining to it, I do kind of appreciate how astonishingly White TM they are because their unapologetic and loud nature makes a really big spectacle for a lot of people who otherwise would not understand how bad certain issues are look and go "what the fuck" and in its own way, it brings good publicity to the issues AAPI and eastern cultures go through in a western and white predominant area.

AAPI issues often go under the radar and are disregarded due to a number of reasons, but honestly? This is the most I've ever seen people actually talk about how white people take advantage of eastern and Asian cultures (relative to the size of the community in question) save for the brief blip of when Stop Asian Hate got loud during COVID where sinophobia blasted up and a bit surrounding Cyberpunk as a genre when Cyberpunk 2077 came out.

In that regard, I'm kinda glad they are so loudly racist and White TM about AAPI cultures. It makes for good publicity and awareness by being the example of just the Usual Bullshit and it starts better conversations. I'd honestly prefer a loud bigot to a quiet insidious one cause the loud ones at least can serve part of a message and be ignored.

Anyhow, this is all just to say that bigots will be bigots and you can argue with them all you want and call them truthful statements like "bigots" and "racist" but thats about all you can do to really control their behavior. Those balancing out their bullshit arguments, mad props - I could never cause that shit is too toxic and too much of an investment, but it is respectable work. (insert "it aint much but its honest work" meme at yall)

---(cut between original thoughts and the added bit)---

That said, I'll just say it as the fact that it is, those two and those that follow their rhetoric do not care at all about AAPI individuals and are just racist. We don't have to debate it and it's honestly not up for debate and while we could put our energy to trying to tear down their following and make them shut up, in a world where the KKK still exists and thrives, its an unlikely and futile of a goal to try ti achieve.

Instead its best imo to treat them like the public case study of white and western abuses to AAPI culture, particularly since time and time again they redisplay some of the most classic and frequently used techniques white and western individuals do to try to excuse their shit.

If you wouldn't give a person arguing with any other loud and proud bigot, its best to just accept that bigots be bigots and rather than banging your head against a wall, put it up for display on the museum wall as a means of education and awareness.

Theres no point in talking to bigots about how they are bigotted. There is, however, a point to displaying it for those less effected and usually not given the opportunity to sed it in full get a much closer look at some of the shit we deal with

I like to think that while a lot of white and western people suck, that a lot of them genuinely are trying their best with the limited awareness, access, and understanding that they have.

I dont feel as though I would be correct calling them and bigots a "small minority", but I'd like to think they aren't the majority and I honestly appreciate those willing to learn and better understand and so ya know? Whats a better way to explain it than with a live dancing monkey that loudly and proudly displays the behaviors in question for all to see.

Anyhow, I digress. Take this as you will. I am just throwing some insight and personal thoughts about specific users in hopes that some people who might be overly stressed about it might find a little more peace moderating the topic

[mitsukiwa]

Baby, love me cause I'm playing on the radio.

Previous I part 5 I *My wattpad user is 6arelyhuman_ if u want the outfits visuals u should read it there*

WARNING!!! There will include: angst, fluff, smut, love triangle

Summary: You love bill and there’s no doubt in your heart, unbeknownst to you he feels the same way. You both have to overcome challenging events that leads the both of you to grow apart, what happens when his twin brother feels for you? Will you be able to crush his heart? What will you do to prevent hurting them both?

On the way there the boys were all conversing except for bill, who was glued to his phone; he wasn't necessarily using it but checking it every ten seconds. Which if I was being honest did annoy me.

When I did try and include him in the conversation, he only hummed while still looking at the phone.

"Who's the lucky girl?", "Or guy?" George hastily adds.

Tom was driving, Gustav was in the passenger seat and as for me and George we were in the backseat with Bill.

Bill turns the phone away from George, bills cheeks flush red.

"No one"

Yup, there's that high pitched tone in his voice he does when he's lying. Bill was always bad at lying.

"Clearly their something if they have you checking your phone every five minutes" George retorts.

Bill let's out a puff of air finally relenting.

"Fine, yeah, she's a girl I bumped into at the store, and we exchanged numbers" he saids scratching the back of his neck nervously.

Every second that went by along with every word that left his lips, felt like a sharp knife stabbing deeper and deeper into my heart. I feel heat behind my eyes, I look out the window to avoid them from seeing me.

I blink my tears away. I didn't want the mascara to smudge, I wipe beneath my eyes Incase any black smudged.

I disassociated myself.

George shook me back when we got to the club, saying 'we're here'.

▀▄▀▄▀▄🄽🄴🅇🅃▀▄▀▄▀▄

The line to enter was fairly long, there would also be times when fans recognized us and stopped for a picture.

Tom wasted no time in chatting with some bimbo in the line.

Gustav and I were talking about Hamburg. George was beside bill, talking about the girl bill was talking too.

I heard bill behind me say "I invited her, she said she'll be here in 15"

I stopped mid sentence, Gustav asked if I was okay.

"Are you okay?" He had a worried expression.

"Mhm" I lie, not giving a verbal response.

"You sure?" He had a skeptical look.

"Yeah, I'm fine really" I try and assure him. He stares at me for a few seconds long before finally leaving it when I flash him a smile.

The line had now moved up, we were now next, each of us showed our IDs, before everything the bouncer gave us a nod waving his hand dismissively. We weren't the required age but since his daughter was a fan of the band he's given us that privilege.

He nodded firmly for us to enter, the five of us stalk in.

We open a metal door revealing a bar and blasting music with neon lights.

"Let's get drinks!" Bill yelled over the loud music.

The five of us walk up to the bar. We sit on some vacant stools.

"I'm gonna get shit faced" George saids.

You weren't going to judge him for that, he had recently broken up with his girlfriend of three years, she had said she couldn't do the long distance with him being away on tour for months.

He really did love her so you did infact understand his heartbreak.

"Don't get too drunk last time you woke up at some random ass place you didn't know" I say.

"Yeah, take her word for it" Tom agreed with me.

"at least I don't wake up with two random girls I don't even fucken know in my bed" George saids.

"At least I know how to keep a girl satisfied" Tom retorts his signature smirk making itself known on his face.

It started getting more heated up, when Tom mentioned Georges Ex, Cassie.

George had stood up with fisted hands, Tom did too.

Bill and I had to push them away from each other.

I was angry at both of them for their childish behavior. Gustav calmed down George whilst I had to calm Tom.

I knew Tom would still be upset; he had a tendency of holding grudges.

"Guys let's not cause a scene" I say looking around to find a few people staring at us. The bartender looks at us warily. I knew she had been close to call the security, I wave my hand dismissively at her.

"Everythings fine"

She nods, returning back to making drinks.

"George was the one who started it" Tom points an accusing finger at George. I roll my eyes at him.

"No I fucken didn't"

"Guys come on, let's not fight over something as dumb as this" Gustav saids.

Gustav was kind of the mediator in our group. Bill was also sometimes, but if it involved him, he was always right. He was just petty like that.

"Ima go dance" Tom said, walking away from the bar, and to the dance floor.

" I need a drink" I say, letting out a sigh.

"Me too" Gustav saids.

"Me three" bill also adds

"I'll also have one" George buts in.

I motion for the bartender to come over, "hello, what can I do for you guys" she asks with a smile, if I said she was beautiful that would an understatement, she was gorgeous.

Light blue eyes that seemed to shine under the neon lights of the club.

Dirty blonde hair that sat just beneath her shoulder.

"I'll have a tequila" bill orders.

"I'll have one of those too" I say

Gustav and George ordered a beer. The bartender whisked away to prepare the drinks.

In the corner of my eye I see bill pulling out his phone. He lets out a gasp that has the G's and I heads turning to look at bill.

"She's here" he whisper yells.

I was curious and sad to see how she looked. It already hurt a hell lot that he was talking to some one he may potentially start dating.

Suddenly the seat I was sat on felt uncomfortable, I couldn't help but fidget with my hands.

I didn't know what happened next but bill got up and made his way out the bar.

"Where'd he go?" I ask Gustav.

"He went to meet her upfront"

'oh' I say. Oh was nothing compared to what I really wanted to say. I wanted to cry, or yell. I felt frustrated at myself, and mad at bill.

Even though it wasn't exactly his fault.

The bartender slides the alcohol to us, without second thought I down the liquid. And another, along with a few more that accompanied those.

"Woah, your gunna make them run out of supplies, tone it down a little" Gustav saids.

I roll my eyes at him. "Gosh, gustavi your no fun" I whine out.

He chuckles at me, I pout at him.

"Stop being mean" I slurred.

Yes, I was drunk. It takes me about four drinks tops to get drunk.

"I'm not mean I'm nice" he answered with a playful tone.

I wave my hand dismissively. "Not even"

I was about to raise my hand once again to ask for more drinks but mid way Gustav pulled my hand down.

"No more" he states firmly. More like demands.

"Fine, no more" I emphasized 'NO'.

He smiled at my comprehension.

" Guys, do you think that bartender would give me her number if I asked?" George asked.

With all due respect it seemed she wasn't interested in George but in Tom, but don't tell him it'll crush him and his heart of gold.

"Sure man, go ahead" Gustav saids shrugging his shoulders.

I wasn't going to comment on anything, so I just nod my head at Gustav's words.

The bartender comes back with two Bacardi's, not a third one sadly.

They count down to down their shots, "you guys are such a buzz kill"

"We're only looking out for you, mini bill"

I roll my eyes at the nickname. They always called me that when we all met back in middle school. Apparently I'm sassy like bill, which I wholeheartedly doubt.

I blow a strand of hair from my face, over and over to pass time.

I look back at the dance floor.

" Guys I'ma go dance" I was letting them know just Incase.

The song playing

They nodded at me, with that I got up and made my way to the dance floor. I managed to find a not so crowded area on the dance floor and began to dance, I started off by swaying my hips, my fingers running up and down the length of my body.

My eyes closed while I danced to the song that had just came up.

I began to feel lonely so I look around for someone to dance with.

Though I really didn't have to look long, a male came up to me, and said over the loud blasting music.

"wanna dance, sweetheart?" I nod my head.

I press my body on his, I feel his hands grip either side of my hips, I don't mind though. There was so much going on this just couldn't add up. Maybe I'll have him for a night. Who knows? I mean he's not quite bad looking either...

He closes any space between us, leaving us both pressed together if that's even possible.

We were both dancing for a few minutes, when I feel his lips latch onto the side of my neck, leaving open mouthed kisses, I move my head more to the side to give him access.

He starts sucking on the sensitive skin there. I know it'll bruise, though I don't mind.

His hands slide down lower and grope my ass.

I'm about to tell him something about it, when I feel his body being roughly pushed off me.

The guy yelled out 'what the fuck, man!"

I flicker my eyes to him on the ground then over to the man standing before him, Tom was fuming, both of his hands fisted in a tight clench.

"Don't fucking touch her" he grits out at the man on the ground.

The man on the floor raised his hands up in surrender. "She wanted it man, I was giving her what she wanted".

I roll my eyes at him. Wow, such a wuss

Tom turned to you with an angry expression.

"What the fuck? You were gunna asleep with this piece of shit?!" Tom yelled at me.

I shrugged. "I don't know, I was considering it, but, uh, on second thought I think I'll pass"

Tom's face got even more angrier, if that's even possible.

I'm sure that vein on his forehead would pop any second now.

He roughly grabs your forearm, dragging you out of the dance floor.

I would have been scared if someone else were doing this to me but then again it's Tom.

"Ouch, that hurts Tom"

He stayed dead silent, his hold seemed to tighten around my arm.

Yeah, okay so now I was scared.

I began to struggle out of his hold on me.

"Let go of me, you're acting like a prick"!

My complaints went ignored. I couldn't even see his face, just the back of his head.

I looked around anxiously, occasionally stumbling on my heels.

My arm went limp when I saw Bill and some girl at the bar area. She was giggling, and Bill had on a huge smile. I scowl at them. And with the alcohol In my system I was by far worse.

I turn back to Tom. He's still dragging me.

"Tom, take me home, please" Tears were threatening to fall out from my eyes.

He halts his steps before turning around and looking down at me.

His mouth slightly dropped when he saw my red rimmed eyes and puffy nose.

"I don't wanna be here anymore" I let out weakly.

He looked around, his eyes landed on what I also had seen.

He lets out a quiet 'oh' He swiftly picks me up bridle style, I yelp out.

"Those heels look uncomfortable, plus you hate heels" was his excuse.

"Yeah, I hate heels" I admite.

I lay my head on his chest. I close my eyes, but with every step he took my body would shake in his arms.

When we got outside, he walked to the parking lot over to his car.

He opened the passenger door, and sat me down.

"He looks happy" I say out loud.

Tom freezes, glancing at me. He was in the midst of putting on my seatbelt.

"I mean, if you think so" he shrugged. " He seems bored if you ask me" he says.

"No, he doesn't" I slur.

He was just saying that to make me feel better.

"Whatever you say" He clicks on my seatbelt.

Silence

"The other you is so much better" I sigh out.

Tom squints at me. He raises an eyebrow confused.

I continue, "you know, when he got rejected on that audition, I wanted to beat up those judges"

Tom couldn't help but laugh at you, you always made a fool of yourself when you were drunk.

"Yeah,me too"

My head perked up. "Really?" I ask.

"Yeah, I wanted to egg their cars and pop their tires, but looking back on that now I would have gone to jail."

I giggled at him. "You're so stupid Tom."

He chuckles at me.

"Sure, I am".

"Do you really think he likes her?" I ask weakly, voice above a whisper.

Tom looks at me then down at my lap. He looks at my eyes, then ruffles my hair. Flashing me a smile. An actual smile, not a smirk of his, or a slight smile but a genuine smile. It's contagious so I feel myself also smiling.

"Give that little head of yours a break, yeah?" He taps his index finger on my forehead. I scowl at him.

He pulls his upper body out of the car, closing the passenger door. He walks over to the other side, he opens the door of the driver's side. Stepping into the car. He sits himself down, clicking on his seatbelt.

Before he presses the on button on the car, he looks at me and saids, "I will show you I'm better than the other me"

I feel a pit in my stomach the second those words process in my head.

He looks ahead, driving out of the parking lot and to my apartment complex.

© Mitsukiwa 2023-Do not copy,post or translate my work anywhere.

[heir-less]

You have to admit though, if a video was released of Meghan playing the piano (or any musical instrument), Sussex stans would be reacting exactly the same. It’s a pretty impressive skill to have, especially because I’ve never seen any other royal play an instrument.

Well, yeah, a lot of it is just stan behavior like I said in the tags, it's stans being stans. I think what gets my goat about the Kate stans is that their compliments are always based on some form of vaguely regressive worldview. Maybe that's just, again my bias sticking out (see, I admit I have bias like a normal person, thank you other bitch-ass anon that I won't answer) but sometimes it feels way more passive-aggressive in tone.

It would be okay, if like, they were like "OMG SHE'S SO PRETTY, WE STAN, OMG MOTHER"

But instead, they're always like "She is a REAL princess with REAL class and elegance that few OTHER WOMEN can replicate." How many times do we see posts about Kate having true beauty and grace, implying there is something inherent to her that just makes her better? All the fucking time. Meghan stans . . . really don't do that and I'm going to be honest, not many other stan groups do, either. Usually, they talk about their talents and skills as talents and skills they worked for or are gifted at, not hand-picked out for you by God because you won the hereditary monarchy draw. Looks are really the only exception where you get the "blessed" angle. Playing the piano is definitely a talent/skill, but all they're talking about is how beautfil Kate looks with any actual praise for what she's doing coming second or not at all. Here are some comments form British Vogue's Instagram as an example:

Is there anything the future Queen of England cannot do?! What a vision. True class right there

She is such a beautiful women and just so classy. They are Fortunate to have her

Some can't stand success, the Princess of Wales is amazing in all her splendor a stunning gem

When you compare this to other comments about non-royal celebs, there is a key difference in tone. Both comment about how beautiful and talented the subject is, but only one has that underlying passive-aggressive tone. Only one implies that where there is "true" class there is also trashy, low-class, filth that Kate raises above like the world's whitest cream.

Their compliments of Kate are almost always rooted in her inherent superiority as a future queen over other women. I get that this is the sort of unspoken part of Kate's job, but it's still really fucking annoying and in general (not always, but in general) her stans are actually extremely racist and misogynistic so it's going to give me ick a lot of the time when they go on about "real womanhood" because we know exactly what they mean. Anyone who isn't a thin, white, cis-hetero, wealthy woman need not apply.

[yourhighness6]

I Just Listened to the First Episode of Braving the Elements and I Know I'm Late to the Party but I Have Very Incoherent, Babbling Thoughts About It

(now that I heard Janet and Dante talking I needed to draw young Zuko and Korra. I think they'd be friends. Like, they'd get into fights [with Sokka, too] about who's muscles are more impressive and dumb jock stuff like that. Their respective girlfriends would be so tired.)

Anyway, I think the UGGs ad was a great way to start this out. Really set the tone. I'm also vibing to the theme music cuz I literally haven't listened to it since I rewatched the finale a couple of weeks ago.

[I had no idea Dante Basco was in a dance group as a child I'm laughing for no reason now. I shouldn't judge though I was a drama kid too lol]

I feel like they're doing the whole "the LIGHTS, the CAMERA, the CINEMATOGRAPHY" thing while they're talking about the opening scene. you know what, i'm fine with it.

Basically them:

"Kataang."

"...And I digress,"

The animal crossing segment is cute Appa finally getting the appreciation he deserves

"thINgS HapPEn SoMEtiMeS" has the same energy as Zuko telling Suki "oh, sorry about that" when she reminded him he burned down her village

"I love GranGran" do you Zuko? DO you??

(jk they get along after the war when he apologizes properly)

Aww they brought up Greta Thomburg. I forgot how old this podcast is, but that was a really great message about how the young are the ones saving us and stuff. As a Zoomer [do people still say that?] I can say confidently most of us have no idea what we're doing but we're opinionated and we're here and we're ready to fight for the environment and social justice and shit

HE SWORE

HE SWORE TWICE

HE SWORE THREE TIMES IN LESS THAN TWO MINUTES

Idk about ya'll but I don't think Nick should be letting Mr. Basco represent them I mean that was like three whole "damn"s that is some inappropriate behavior right there

"they're people of privilege" This hit me so hard for no reason. Like it's really obvious, especially in Book 2, that despite all of the abuse Zuko went through he was still in that whole royalty mindset where he basically expects things to be handed to him for most of his arc.

I mean, yeah, that speaks for itself, and there are other instances too. I think Zuko's arc largely corrects a lot of his entitlement, which is a great thing to see throughout the series, but IROH. For some insane reason, maybe because he's very wise and seems content with the little things in life and is basically trying to oppose books 1 and 2 Zuko in every way possible, I never really thought of him as privileged but now it's so obvious that he is. IDK I think that was an interesting thing to point out. It almost makes me value Iroh more because he obviously had to go through a similar journey to Zuko's unlearning all of the arrogance that came with his position and came out of it on the other side as a kind, wise individual who cares deeply for other people and puts the fate of the world before his own. Still interesting to think about on my next rewatch of B1 though, I'll have to start looking out for those behaviors in Iroh.

ANYWAY

Dante Basco, trying so hard to be impartial: "Kataang!"

Janet Varney, one with Zutara nation, apparently: "Meh"

OMG THEY TALKED ABOUT THE SPYGLASS!! I know that scene with Zuko standing on the boat was supposed to be all suspenseful and scary and everything

But I just laugh

I can imagine Aang being like "Aww Zuzu thanks for noticing"

OMG I love Katara finally getting some recognition!! Like there's this meme about the world being saved by "nagging" or whatever and it kind of annoys me. Like, she's calling Sokka out on all of his sexist behavior and that's "nagging"??

Let's be honest it's because she gets kind of "emotional".

Whatever. She deserves to be emotional. Let's be honest the Avatar world was saved by Katara deciding she was done putting up with her brother being a misogynistic ass. [END RANT]

Okay, honestly, I liked it. It was funny, it was cute, I can see it being good, I'll keep listening to it... But, I felt like we were only getting surface level thoughts? There were a few moments where I was like "GODDAMMIT JUST SAY WHAT YOU THINK" which is kind of annoying on a podcast that's supposed to be reviewing the episodes. Like, really? That heavy pause after Dante mentioned Kataang? Janet hesitating to say what she thought when it came up again? C'mon guys, I know you don't want to start anything but the ship wars are not stopping no matter what any of us do at this point because there will always be people on both sides of the war that are toxic and like to start drama. They're not saying everything they want to about the ships and that's a fact. We know it. They know it. Bryke knows it. Also, Dante having not read the series bible was funny but it's only going to be a good joke for so long. Know your shit if you're doing a podcast on it.

I might just be complaining because I need to complain, it's only the first episode, after all, so I want to be clear that I really did like it. 10/10 would recommend, I just hope they maybe get more into the fandom stuff as we go along instead of just looking at the episode. Dig a little deeper, discuss controversial stuff, have a little fun with it, READ THE SERIES BIBLE.

(btw I might make more Korra and young Zuko fanart. It was fun, and now I have ideas for them meeting in some weird spirit world thing)

[mythropigman]

I hope one day you learn kindness and a sense of empathy. You're a kid, but it's evident you refuse to learn from your mistakes - instead just flipping them around to seem like the other person's problem.

I don't think you can even pull the young card, because while everyone matures at a different pace you've been cut slack for that exact reason countless times.

This behavior will not get you far in life, but giving thought into how you make other people feel /will/.

The people who dislike you aren't trolls out on a witchhunt for you, they're people you've upset in someway. Instead of taking that information and seeing what you can do to improve yourself, you run away to a new account where you do not leave these people alone. You're doing the thing they do not want you to do, of course they will dislike you. Hell I'd say you're doing what you don't want /them/ to do to you, and doesn't that give some perspective?

Yeah I've made mistakes, I can be very rude and mean at times with or without knowing it. All honesty mate yeah I hurt those artists in some way, but just to be clear I move accounts to accounts cause of this shat and the fact people won't leave me alone about this when ik what I did, most people still rub this in my face like Doo Doo crap both from the past and now when I know what I did was wrong and in all honesty whenever people do that ik what their saying is true, but sometimes I feel like your just trying to make me feel bad then I already am. (like c'mon ik what I'm doing ik what I'm saying don't repeat me) and we still going on with this. If you don't want me to follow you again do or say the magic word and I won't? And right now on this account, I don't think I've bothered anyone right now, but if I am cause I dead ass literally just liked their post and gave them a compliment and that annoys them cause I said it all they need to do is just simply press the block/mute part. And who knows maybe your right maybe I am running away from my mistakes but I do see them and how they felt towards people, and I fuc- fricken am working on that, people will remember the things I've done but you've also gotta remember that was a long time ago both in my younger years and probably months/weeks ago or last year, idc if you get mad at this part it's just facts and that deed is over so stop bringing it up when that happened centuries ago.

Yeah I do see my mistakes and how they effect people, I see how people still react when I comment on their art posts even if it's a nice comment, even if it's a question I politely ask only for it to not be answered cause the question came from me because of what I've done to them/others, but honestly it's ridiculous, yeah I've been rude to you once or twice with or without knowing it, I have been brutally honest to you about your art cause I'm not the type to lie, and yeah Ik how rude I can get when I'm angry with people. (If your an og follower of mine you would know how I react when people think I'm being rude even though most times I'm just being very honest or I said something they didn't get) and what still gets me is the fact most of those artists (I've said this so many times) have came up with assumptions and think I'm weirdo and not talk to me because of that when they never knew the full picture (don't you dare do that when you know nothing of the sort. Ever, to anyone of the sort. Especially me, cause I won't take to kindly about it. Your an adult, a legit young adult, you can be mature enough to hear people out before making the story in your own head. Doogie (translate to idiot)

Now listen. I can promise I can control the things I say on here and do, I can promise I won't use it in the dumbest slightest reasons, but I will also promise that I will use it if necessary or if you need to just hear the damn truth. And I'm dead set.

Sorry if you get upset at that part, but sometimes you just gotta hear what I have to say about you and your actions towards me (did). idc if you cry or get angry at me because of this **boohoo**. I will use this attitude towards you if I have a reason or cause you need to hear it. And i have a lot of reasons right now to use it on those types of artists.

But again. That happened a long time ago, and like I said many times. It is now in the past, yeah ik what I did, They were Rude, Offensive, Disrespectful, and Disappointing things to hear from me. (And in most cases I'm not even being rude to you, I'm just being the most brutal honest person you can meet, I will not lie to you I will tell you the truth that will get you effed off and I'm sorry if you can't handle my honest reactions or opinions) I am improving myself, and I'm not saying I'm going too far with my jokes because literally other people do the same and you don't tell them off but me😬 ik the jokes are offensive, but I obviously don't mean them, no one here gets them and that's fine, so I am trying and doing the best not to go overboard cause ik you guys won't take it as that like me or others like me.

I also like to mention like I said about the "run away to a new accounts" thing, I'm not pointing you out I'm saying this to others, but it's honestly a dog move of you to tell my guests (new followers) the past things I've done and said, I will tell them myself that when I get the chance when when they need to know, I don't remember giving anyone the right to tell my new followers/fans about this to tell them/show them that because that's my business to tell, not yours.

If you want to still talk to me about this stuff still. Don't send a ask, say it to me in DMS personally. If you wanna go on that path still. My guests will obviously have the right to know about this, but no one has my right to say it out loud for them only me cause it's my business to tell. (My guests if your still curious go look at my @8orisporkfolio and @bearlypigest to see what has been happening lately and if not I will explain soon eventually just don't come up with assumptions without hearing the full story just yet)

Look man. The things I've done and said are very not "out there" or "welcoming" things I've done, but it's honestly just something you need to just let go of now (i'm not using the excuse of me going "cause I'm still young" anymore cause I'm sorta mature enough to understand this now) you don't have to forget it, but it's better to maybe forgive me for it cause I've already apologized about it and I'm already working on not doing that stuff to you or others anymore, that's not a good excuse but that's that. I've already forgiven those that STILL Know nothing about the things they had assumptions about. They didn't ask for my forgiveness but forgiving people is more better then hating them for your whole life because they made one or a lot of mistakes. Like this one,at this point. I do want you to forgive me not because I want want you to but because it's better then just hating me for that long without knowing anything or even getting to know the real me first yk? I really am a kind person once you earn my trust or just spend more time with me and get to know me better I'm not originally a rude or mean person

Again. this is your choice, I think this is better, you do not have to talk to me but forgiving me is better then just hating for this when you don't fully know everything, but again. If you want to be this way that is fine with me I'm not angry or disappointed because of that cause that's your personality or whatever, I'm just saying this is a better way to deal with the situation rather then just reminding me of my mistakes over and over when I already know what I did was wrong and you just build up more guilt inside of me, this is your choice I'm not forcing anyone I just think this is better.

But again. Just stop with this. Ik what I'm doing, what I'm saying, and how it effects people. Do not keep bringing this up at random occasions those artists don't really know much about the full picture to they can't say much without knowing.

Hell if your ass keeps doing this just ask me and I'll tell you the full picture (bloody dm me next time to) is it that hard to FRICKEN ASK ME THE FULL STORY IM NOT GONNA FRICKEN BIT YOU THE FRICK BRO

But yeah this is the last time I'm apologizing, I'm sorry for what I did, I think forgiving me and just leaving this behind is better, but that's your choice if you want to have an excuse to hate me without knowing me or the story for your whole life, I'm not mad or forcing you to, I'm just saying it's a good idea rather then this, your choice. It's not worth if you think deep about it, and if you don't think of it and have this as an excuse to hate me still and not get to know me personally or the full story for the rest of your life as I'm still walking on this earth.

Your not cool buddy just drop it💘

[gwyns]

tbh with you after finishing acosf and the bonus chapter for the first time, all I knew was I didn't want Elain and Azriel to end up together. I wasn't remotely passionate about Gwynriel and Elucien but I definitely knew E/riel isn't going to happen.

Mainly bc through out the whole series even if 3.5 books of it was from Feyre's pov and first person I didn't felt any spark between them. between Nesta and Cassian? NO DOUBT I new they were mates. as casual reader you can feel they're mate material. but even that rescuing scene everyone keep talking about that it's the main reason they're going to end up together fell falt for me!! bc Lucien wasn't there and I'm sure if he was... no one could've stopped him.

like acosf was the last nail in their coffin! sjm could've made me believe that they're endgame specially when it's 3rd person but she didn't even try lmao. but still I was like well... she made me like Nesta! she made me fell in love with her and understand her in a way it felt personal. she made me fall in love with Nessian and Feysand so she can definitely write E/riel that I might change my mind about them... but I was unsure and I was trying to convince myself lol (the way I kept telling myself that it's gonna be okay lmao)

but then I read the bc and it was over... I was done! the way Azriel thought about Elain made me cringe multiple times. the way Elain felt so small in that scene made me uncomfortable and the way he questioned Cauldron as he has some claim on her? oh all I could see was red!!! so that's why I was sure E/riel won't happen and even if it does I was done with this series I'm not even kidding...

so yes this was my experience with the book! and I brought this up bc I saw one of the E/riels say that if they didn't join the fandom they would've known people shipped Az and Gwyn and their irl friends also didn't know that...

honey sorry to break it to you but you need to raise you standards. bc if you didn't notice how toxic that interaction was... I feel sorry for you</3

e/riel has always felt boring to me. like yeah they have some cute moments but where are the moments that make me grin, stop reading and squeal for a second because the chemistry is making me go insane? sjm knows how to write this very well so her not including it is a choice she made and it's a very telling choice

like even sjm ships i don't particularly care for have these moments, i'm not a huge manorian fan but that "i'll bleed whatever color you want me to" line is SO. GOOD. like it stops me in my tracks everytime i remember it exists. tell me, does e/riel have even one comparable line together? i can't think of any that aren't said by other characters. all the conversations they've shared (and that's not a lot btw) don't have anything with that kinda spark in it

that's something i don't see people bring up much... lucien wasn't present when elain was kidnapped. feyre wouldn't need to find a volunteer if he were there because you can bet your ass he'd do anything to help elain and feyre if we're being honest. the fact that az had to be goaded into even helping is hilarious, the only reason that man went was because nesta bruised his ego and he wanted to prove he was good enough to do it. that and, as i've seen others point out recently, it was somewhat of a culmination of feyre's arc with him. he taught her to fly therefore he was there when she first flew. that makes much more sense narratively than whatever garbage e/riels throw around

az has a lot to make up for in my opinion. his behavior in that chapter was... gross, to say the least. i was annoyed with him beforehand because of that side of the fandom, but his chapter was the first time i truly felt disappointed. it was there somewhat when he attacked eris at the high lord's meeting and made mor so uncomfortable but... idk his chapter was on another level. i felt so disgusting reading his parts with elain and rhys. his parts with gwyn tho? brought out the best in him and made me remember why i liked him so much in the first place. sjm wrote that chapter very deliberately and those who refuse to see it are just upset their predictions aren't happening

it's funny they say that when it's quite literally the opposite. my best friend who i've mentioned before is a very casual fan, didn't even see how elain and az could be shipped because in her words, "elain and lucien are mates". she's read a total of two and a half sjm books and already knows her formula lol