#tl;dr i don’t want to work here lol

[remxedmoon]

What are your thoughts on ISAT's magic system?

AUTISM BLAST

okay long rambly post incoming. for the record like 90% of this is pure unfiltered headcanon. and almost all of this is about colors. sorry if this is hard to follow!!! i need to get this all out of my system.

oh also! a lot of this is based on a really good post by @/chronologically-challenged that shows off the differences between each character’s craft style! go check that out it’s really good

okay!! so!!! colors. this is just my own thing, but i personally like to color code the different types of craft!

don’t worry about those middle tones yet just put a pin in those

there’s still a little bit of color variety within craft types (for flavor), but generally, rock is blue, paper is yellow, and scissors is red. i’m not going to lie to you i only did this because the splatoon testfire had these colors. it’s also why my triplets designs are colored like that!

i think these colors also just fit the descriptions of these crafts? red feels like a more aggressive and active color, which matches how piercing craft is generally more focused on dealing damage, blue tends to be calmer, which matches protective craft being more supportive , that kinda thing. something something children’s hospital. yellow is a bit of a wildcard here lol, it just looks nice with the other two.

putting aside the colors for a mo! don’t worry those’ll come back soon. i’ve also been thinking a lot about how dual craft types work, though this is a little more speculative. i’m entirely basing this on how mira works. basically, one craft type seems to be more ‘dominant’ over the other. while mira is both paper and scissors, she’s still weak to rock, her basic attack is scissors, and her scissors skill (jolly round rondo) does much more damage than her paper skill (artsy silent burst). she behaves more like a scissors type, with an extra affinity for paper. which i think is interesting!!!

in terms of colors, i think this would manifest as mira’s craft being tinted orange, as a mix of both her craft type’s colors! this is partially what those uncategorized colors are for. while her scissors attacks are only slightly tinted, her paper attacks would be a lot closer to orange! and this would apply to other dual crafts as well. a rock/paper type would have more greenish attacks, a rock/scissors type would have more purply ones, etc etc.

i think this color mixing would also apply to single craft types trying to use a craft type that isn’t their own, though it’d prolly become less pronounced the more a person ‘gets used’ to using that craft type, so to speak. in a while rockodile would be pretty solidly purple, while rock bottom is more of an indigo color, and odile’s craft skills probably only slightly tinted as well.

ok!!! that was a lot about colors. i’m really fucking normal about colors. onto craft styles!! this is still kinda about colors tho sorry. also, again, go check out @/chronologically-challenged’s post if you haven’t already, it’ll prolly explain this better than i will

for a tl;dr on that post, each country has a different way of using craft. the forgotten island has lightless craft that tends to manifest as stars and zigzags, vaugarde has big, rounded bursts of grey craft (with smaller circles around it), and ka bue’s craft is more diamond shaped/triangular and tends to be on the lighter side.

this is also the part i’m a little less sure about. i haven’t drawn these out in my normal style!! so a lot of this is subject to change. sorry about that!

anyways. i wanted to preserve the island’s lightless craft while still making it colorful, so i decided to give it a sort of. halo effect? i guess? i wanted it to vaguely resemble the ring of light around a black hole or a solar eclipse, but that is a lot harder to do with the zigzag shape of the craft + my color limitations. and as i’ve recently learned, glow effects look really weird with my pixelly art. so this is all just flat colors 😓

shhh don’t mind the art here i’ve totally posted it before 🩶

vaugarde is pretty simple comparatively!! the craft is a sort of midshade ingame, so i just made the main color the normal craft colors. not much to say here!

and ka bue is in a similar boat! i did kinda draw it in my odile sprite redraw, but i didn’t really look at references so it’s kinda boring looking there. not much to say here either!!

and!! as we can see from the king’s special attack art, craft styles can kinda mix together. king’s style follows the general shape of vaugardian craft, but keeps the shade and stars from the forgotten island! i think it’d be fun to play with that a little more teehee. i imagine these are a lot more variable depending on how engrossed someone is in a culture, hence why odile’s craft doesn’t borrow from vaugarde’s style. unless she does? it’s not like we see other ka buans using craft in game. who knows.

also because i forgot, some extra bonus doodles of that craft color mixing i mentioned earlier! yipee!

and that’s it!!! there’s probably some other stuff that i am. currently forgetting. but this post is absurdly long enough!!! thank you so much for the ask i’m so sorry for autism blasting you about isat and color theory. am i still cool. here’s all of my craft doodles as compensation for reading this giant infodump. i’m so so sorry.

[adreamemporium]

Hi! Since you saw Ewan at CCXF and outside of it, I wanna ask if you think Ewan loves fan saying hi to him or he only did it to be polite? Also is there anything else you can share about your meeting with Ewan?

I’ve also seen some people on here saying that they think Ewan looked uncomfortable at times at CCXF. Whats your thoughts on that?

Hi, nonnie!

About your last question, I couldn’t see anything because I was behind them so all I could see was their back lol. Also the audio wasn’t great and with all the screaming I couldn’t hear anything. I thought everything was going well because all their managers and their team were behind them and they were smiling. I already saw the interview on YouTube and I think the whole thing was messy and cringe, the questions weren’t that interesting, that guy saying Mexican women would love to keep him in their homes… So as a whole, that was a mess. Minutes later I saw him in the thunder stage and he was relaxed, so I don’t think there was a problem after that. What I think is that he is way more calm when you are talking alone with him and that’s the real Ewan. He does an incredible job on stage, but we shouldn’t get fool, he has a reserved personality.

About the rest of your ask, have in mind that I’m again talking based on what I experienced, I would say he truly loves saying hi to the fans. We have to consider that we are talking about the same guy that takes the time to send little messages to his fans when he receives fan mail.

The first time I saw him I was working and he was doing press, so the two times I talked with him were brief and it was just a kinda random talk lol it was when he told me he needed a hat for the sun. That day I mostly saw him work while I was doing my own.

The second time I met him he recognized me and smiled to me, so I said hi and it was when he made room for me to sit down at his side. We talked for a few minutes (although I felt it was for hours lol) about how different book!Aemond is to the show version and I told him I loved what he and Leo did with the character and they were the reason Aemond was my favorite character cuz when I read the book he wasn’t my fav. He simply smiled and thanked me for what I was saying. I told him I had a fanart and that it would mean the world to me if he could signed it and he took the time to admired it before doing it and see the details.

But I think what I will treasure the most (apart from having one of my Aemond designs autographed) will be when I gave him the dragon egg I made for him. I explained to him that I’m a dragon fan since I was little and that back during got s1 I couldn’t find the dragon eggs to buy them, so I made them. While I was saying all of that he was attentively looking at me and listening, so when I started to take the egg out of my purse he started to realize what I was gonna give him and had a huge smile when he saw the little green egg and simply excitedly exclaimed “Vhagar!”. I swear he looked like a little kid with a toy, he took it and started to see all the details, asked me how long it took me and then he told me “You’re a legend!” and hugged me. I swear to god I wasn’t expecting it and almost died in that moment. His manager asked me if I wanted a picture and he quickly said yes because he wanted to show the egg, so she kindly took it, we talked for a few more minutes and then he asked me if I was going to be at ccxp, I said yes and he told me he hoped to see me there and then we said goodbye. And that was it. 🥹

I swear to god he is everything the rest of the cast have said he is: the loveliest person ever, a complete angel, super gentle, incredible thoughtful, kind, a fantastic human being… and I have just quoted Elliot Grihault, Harry Collet, Tom Glynn Carney and Fabien Frankel only.

So tl;dr, if you ask me, no, he didn’t do it just to be polite, he truly cares and enjoys saying hi to his fans. He truly listen to what we say and takes him time with us. What it is import here is to ALWAYS respect him, his privacy, his boundaries and not be invasive. He is open to meet us, make sure we aren’t nervous, listen to what we wanna say, tell us that everything’s ok… but let’s not forget that at the end, he is also a human being as any of us and he does has a reserved personality.

PS. BTW, I just wanna add something else. When I was literally admiring my design with his autograph and saying it would have a pretty frame, both, his manager and him, said “aaw” lol 🥹

Here is my design:

[kendsleyauthor]

#11 anon here again! glad to hear you’re still taking prompts. i love your and mary’s works ❤️ im shy so i stay on anon, but seriously, so much love to you guys! anyway, if youre so inclined, might i suggest prompt #1? keeping it simple. #11->1 lol. all your characters are awesome — i don’t think andreas and lorelei have been prompted yet, so maybe this can be a vote for them? but also, id love to hear more about the godlike trio; they’re so fun! what is their origin story?!! again, dealers choice, and thank you kindly !💕❤️

LIVING NIGHTMARE

TW: Drowning, fearplay stemming from genuine anger

Print / Trinket Universe (Andres and Lorelei)

~1800 words

G/t dialogue prompt list

Thank you so much for the prompt and the love, beautiful! I know it's been a long time, but I am determined to catch up as much as I can!! As far as the Godlike trio, it would be sooo fun to explore their origin story one day! It is dense, but it essentially involves human sacrifice, trickery, and immature nature god politics 😋

As for THIS story-- reader, if you're new to the trinket universe, this interaction may be startling lol. The TL;DR for this particular situation is that Lorelei must live in secret for her and Andres' safety 👀

@marydublinauthor 🌸

Drowning.

Whiskey stings her eyes, blinding her. She can’t blink it away—it’s all around her. Immense pressure sits on her torso. Does it count as drowning if she wouldn’t be able to draw a full breath anyway? Her heels slide against the bottom of the glass, tractionless. She claws at the finger pinning her down.

Each swipe weakens.

The pain begins to fade. It’s almost peaceful.

She hears that’s what happens right before you die from suffocation.

Calm.

Quiet.

Free.

But a peaceful death is too much to ask for.

The finger relinquishes pressure, and she is wracked with agony. She draws in a lungful of whiskey and thrashes. Although she wants nothing more than to fade away, to kiss this hell goodbye, her body fights to survive.

She pops up to stand on trembling legs, leaning hard against an ice cube. The coldness burns. She coughs raggedly. Laughter rumbles from above. Her recovering vision registers the giants around her as nothing more than massive blurs of color.

The shape of a hand hovers over the glass before descending upon her again. She manages a single, pleading whimper before she’s forced onto her back, pinned to the bottom of the glass.

Drowning.

Whiskey stings her eyes, blinding her. She can’t blink it away—it’s all around her.

Immense pressure—

“Lorelei!”

The voice was familiar. Loud, but not at all the same as the booming laughter.

She flinched awake, gripping fistfuls of blanket as she gasped for air. Each breath was a painfully overwhelming gift. She squinted in the lamplight which cast the sprawling living room with warmth. The high windows gave view to an overcast night sky.

Safe.

“Lorelei.”

Blinking, she made sense of Andres’ form leaning over her on the side table. To her confusion, there was no softness in his voice, no suggestion that he intended to soothe her from the nightmare. No, he wanted her attention, and anything else she might feel was secondary.

“Andres,” she said groggily.

“What is wrong with you?” He sounded like he was making a great deal of effort not to shout. She shrank away from the bite in his voice. “What were you thinking?”

Frowning, she sat up slowly. She couldn’t relinquish her grip on the blanket—not with the way he was looking at her. She felt like a child using her covers as a shield against the boogeyman. This had to still be a nightmare. There was no reality where Andres would glower at her like that anymore. If he was especially bitter about losing a game, perhaps—but even then, he scowled with a glint of admiration in his eyes.

For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what she could have done in her sleep to piss him off.

“Were my screams of terror too loud?” she managed to croak. “Sorry, I’ll try to keep it down.”

He didn’t seem to register nor care what she said at all. “Madison Jones,” he said flatly.

Her heart climbed into her throat. Now she really wished she was dreaming.

“H-how…” But she knew at once. She must have forgotten to log out of the alias account. She wet her lips. “Let me explain—”

“How?” he snapped, voice rising. “There is no explanation that makes this any less idiotic! You are smarter than this, Lorelei!”

Heat flashed through her, vicious and all-consuming. “It’s idiotic to want to check up on old friends?”

“Wanting is one thing.” The ice in his voice threatened to douse her fire. “Doing… Doing this is…” His jaw worked as though he was too angry to speak. 

He brandished his phone in her direction, the screen aglow. She turned her head. She didn’t need to look. He had gone through the chat logs of her alias and found every incriminating conversation of the past six months. Her hands shook on the blanket.

“I’ve been careful,” she said, softer. “They have no idea who I really am. They think I’m an aspiring player, new to the scene. A long-distance friend that they will never, ever meet.”

Tears pricked her eyes. God, she was pathetic.

And Andres wasn’t helping. He shook his head. “This ends now.”

“Please—”

“No. I cannot allow you to put us in danger like this. How could you be so stupid?”

The wildfire ignited again. She stood, shoving her blanket aside. She didn’t care that she had to crane her neck to meet his frostbitten glare. “So that’s it? You’re ordering me to happily isolate myself from the rest of the world—even with a solution right in front of our damn faces?”

“Zorra,” he cursed—a particular insult he’d never once aimed at her. “Your solution is going to get us investigated and caught.”

Her voice came out like a fist was squeezing her throat. “I miss my friends!”

He scoffed. “Am I not enough for you now?”

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” She staggered two steps back, wondering how this could be the same person who cared for her, protected her. Sinking to her knees, she clasped her hands in front of her. “Should I be like this day and night? Thank you so much for being the only person in the world I can talk to for the rest of my life.”

For a single second, he looked hurt. “Stand up,” he gritted out. “I will not talk to you like this.”

But she was just as hurt and every bit as vicious, and she had to stop now before she said something she couldn’t apologize for. Rising to her feet, she turned her back on him and started for the makeshift stairway that would lead her to the floor. Throwing a pity party under a cabinet or sofa for the night would do her good.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To be alone,” she threw over her shoulder. “I can’t be around you right now.”

The last thing she expected was for him to deny her. Instead of sulking away or simply lapsing into disappointed silence, his voice lashed like a whip and made her flinch. “You are not going anywhere,” he said. “You are staying here. And talking.”

“About what?” She didn’t turn back, placing her hand on the railing. “Delete the profile yourself if it pisses you off so much.”

Silence. She thought that was the end of it, but no. “Come back,” he said through gritted teeth.

She said nothing, starting down the stairs.

A sudden tug at the back of her nightgown made her breath catch. She instinctively tried to wrench herself free, even if it would send her tumbling down the steps. In an instant, she was whisked off her feet. She gave a choked shriek as air whipped past her, and she found herself dangling in front of Andres’ infuriated face.

“Forgive me for not being better company,” he said venomously. “But I am trying to keep us both alive.”

Alive.

She was helpless.

She was drowning again.

“Stop!” she howled, half expecting precious air bubbles to rise from her lips. Her voice pitched into a scream that she only ever heard in her nightmares. “I’m sorry! I-I’m sorry!”

As quickly as it happened, it was over. She only caught a glimpse of Andres’ astonished expression before he lowered her into his waiting palm and released her. She scrabbled back, bumping against his fingers and burying her face in her knees. 

“Lorelei?” he whispered. 

He touched her shoulder, and she screamed. The air whirled again, and she dared to peek out. His hand rested on the side table beside her bed, offering escape. She jolted out of her fetal position, falling to hands and knees in her desperation to get away. Stumbling to her bed, she pulled her blanket tightly over herself, shaking too hard to make it to a better hiding place. She didn’t care how childish it was—she needed to reduce her world to a small space of darkness.

“Lorelei.” His voice was reverent, dripping with regret.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, her wail reduced to a whimper.

“No. No, I am.” His voice cracked. Another gentle touch brushed her back through the blanket, pausing to gauge her reaction. She didn’t scream again, dreading that he was about to pull the sheet off of her. But he didn’t. He kept stroking, his breathing unsteady. “Please come out. I never meant to scare you like that. I…” Silence dragged for several seconds, and the touch of his finger pulled away. “Did I hurt you?”

She quietly assessed herself. “No.”

Another pause.

“Can you show me?” His words were a plea, not an order.

Hesitantly, she sat up and pulled the blanket off her head, letting it fall to her shoulders. His dark eyes searched her intensely for any sign that his rough handling left a mark. Even when he seemed sure that she was unhurt, he stayed close, staring into her eyes.

She broke the silence floating between them. “I couldn’t help it,” she admitted, looking down in shame. “I… I can’t just pretend I didn’t have another life. I miss my friends. My family.”

For a moment, she worried his anger would rise up again. But he looked almost as exhausted as she felt. Glancing at his phone, he pursed his lips. “Your family is not in the chat logs,” he noted.

“I…” She sniffled. “I picked people I wasn’t especially close to.”

“Why?”

She managed the smallest laugh. “I know you think I’m an impulsive idiot. And you’re right, I can be. So I gave myself limits.” Her shoulders slumped. “I knew if I reached out to my family, I wouldn’t be able to keep the secret up. Sooner or later, I’d spill everything just so they wouldn’t have to live another day wondering if I was alive or dead or swimming in someone’s drink.”

He regarded her with raised eyebrows like something was dawning on him. “You were tangled in the sheets when I came in,” he said slowly. His expression fell, and she dropped her gaze. She’d opened up about the nature ofher recurring nightmares before. “It was a bad one. I should have noticed I should have waited.” He sighed heavily, and his finger returned to stroke her hair down. “Are you alright?”

She pursed her lips and shook her head.

His finger paused. “Do you want me to leave?” he murmured.

She could tell that her hesitation hurt him more than anything. But ultimately, she shook her head again. Raising her hand, she found his finger and guided it to her side. She leaned against the warmth of his skin.

“Lorelei…” His eyes flicked up and down, drinking her in with fondness steeped in loving fear. She braced herself for the inevitable—the gentle but firm order to never pull something like this again. But he was full of surprises tonight. “I trust you. Please—give me another chance to be the kind of man you are not afraid to keep secrets from.”

Her tears spilled over, and she pressed a kiss to his knuckle. “I think I can do that.”

(A/N: I've had this on the backburner for so long, I'm glad to finally post it! I'm sorry that my first short story in a while is a gut punch lol 💞)

[the-bi-writer-blog]

I’m 38 now and here are some (mostly positive) things that have surprised me about aging:

When it comes to appearance and comparing myself to other people, I’ve gotten WAY more chill about it, even though I’ve got smile lines and a few small streaks of grey.

You know how, when you visit your old high school/middle school a few years after graduating, and all you can’t think is “WOW were we ever this young?? I thought we were So Grown Up at that age, but damn they’re just babies!”

So it’s like that. The way you feel about middle schoolers when you’re in high school, or high schoolers when you’re in college - they look like fresh faced babies and you wonder why you didn’t see it before.

So that’s the first thing: age-related appearance.

How I thought it would go: wow old people are all ugly and gross, I hope I never look like that

How it actually is: I love seeing laughter lines on my friend’s faces, because I can see echoes of the jokes we shared. I love their worry lines too, since they’re proof of what we’ve survived together.

And when it comes to my own face?

It’s just my face.

I’m WAY more neutral about it than I used to be. I used to see a checklist of things I wanted to change about myself, every time I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror.

Now? I’m honestly too tired and too busy to care about something that matters so little in the long run, and I’d rather use my headspace for something else that actually matters.

(And like, ofc I’m still insecure about parts of my appearance, I’m human. but it just feels SO much less pressing now than it did when I was younger.)

Eventually you really do just look in the mirror, shrug, and say, “Eh, could be worse.” And then you carry on spending time with your loved ones and hobbies, in the home you’ve made.

Also back to comparing my appearance to the appearances of those younger than me: I expected to just feel less and less sexy as I got older, and kind of assumed that maybe older people just kind of grin and bear it if they have sex at all (lol)

But the reality is - I don’t think I look “old,” per se. I just think that everyone else looks impossibly young 🤣

Looking at college kids now gives me that same feeling of seeing middle schoolers when you’re in high school. You’re just kind of like, “Why are these humans so underbaked” 😂😂

Idk. That started out one way and turned into a ramble, but I’ve been thinking a lot about appearance lately, as I begin planning the first steps of my own transition (YAY.) And I’ve been reflecting on how many insecurities really have faded over the years.

It will be the work of a lifetime to accept myself fully, of course. But I feel SO much more calm, centered and peaceful than I ever have before, and it’s been a really lovely surprise.

Tl;dr what they don’t tell you about aging is that it’s Fine, Actually, and you will feel SO much less insecure, I promise you. You’ll let others expectations roll off your back, and stop doing things to make other people happy.

And you’ll start the long (and wonderful) lifelong process of learning to make a home in yourself, for yourself ❤️

[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

[thetwilightroadtonightfall]

so I’ve been trying to think of the best way to talk about Skuld’s fate for a while now and I think I’ve finally got it. My feelings about how she could be handled are a bit complicated (maybe even controversial? lol) but I hope I can make myself clear. This is essentially gonna be the post I point to whenever and if ever I need it later in the future. Thanks in advance if you read this!

If for whatever reason it’s confirmed that Skuld isn’t Subject χ and she gets together with Ephemer in canon (which I don’t believe will actually happen, but who knows), I do genuinely think there’d be something incredibly poetic about both of them leaving behind a legacy together.

Skuld as Subject χ is a super intriguing concept that I want to see get played out in canon, and even outside of that possibility, I would really love to just see her go on her own journey, have her own story where she can grapple with the events of khux in her own ways. But as someone who also happens to love her and Eph’s dynamic, I like to indulge in the possibility of them founding Scala together too.

Believe me when I say that I’m very skeptical of Skuld getting the credit and spotlight she deserves given the track record of how female characters are treated in this series. It would break my heart if Skuld got turned into an accessory or got shafted or worst case scenario, is used only to kickstart the Ephy lineage and nothing more outside of that. She deserves good, solid writing no matter what her fate is, I’m sure we can all agree on that at least.

And then there’s also the question of whether or not Nomura would ever establish a canon romantic relationship, and if he even should do that in the first place. I think it would be great, as long as it’s written in such a way that it doesn’t impede on the other types of relationships he’s already established. It could delve into some interesting new territory that can highlight the themes of kh, and make them even stronger and more profound. But you don’t absolutely need romance in order for that to be accomplished, ya feel?

Do I love Skuld and Eph together? Yes. Do I think they should be together (romantically) in canon? Not necessarily. You can both enjoy a ship AND recognize the nuances involved.

But anyway anywaaaaay, long disclaimers aside, these two characters have been through so much together…they witnessed two apocalypses. They’ve suffered the loss of a dear friend at their hands, along with their other friends as a result of horrible circumstances they had no control over. They stayed side by side as their home collapsed around and on them. But they also laughed together. They looked out for each other, stood up for each other. Encouraged and comforted and teased each other so they would smile.

From the very beginning, to the very end, they had each other over and over again. Clinging to hope with incredible resilience. From party members, to friends, to leaders. They’re both wonderful characters who I have no doubt would support each other throughout the rest of their lives, just as they always have.

I’ll be fine if a romance between them doesn’t become canon, in fact I’ll probably be pretty relieved. But I can’t deny that the idea of the two of them being entwined forever, bonded by the tragedies they’ve been through, yet also by all of their happy times and shared memories, is a beautiful thought to me.

Surviving to see the other side and building everything from the ground up again together, and seeing the legacy that follows their love, is a story worth telling, in my opinion. In the end, if that’s a story left to us fans to tell, that’s more than enough for me. We have so much to work with. Regardless of what Nomura and/or the rest of the writing team choose to do, I don’t need them to be a canon couple to enjoy the profound love and care they have for each other.

TL;DR - Whatever happens with Skuld, I’m down for the ride. As long as she’s present, period, I’m here for it. Just…please for the love of god, let her be written well. I miss her so much and I need all these years of loving her character to pay off

[deliciouskeys]

Hot takes, roughly in order of how much I care…

Homelander and Ryan

I liked the what felt like 2 minutes of Ryan and Homelander that we got in this episode. I know where they’re going with this, but I expected so much worse from the slapping scene that was mentioned in spoilers. Is the Boys writers’ room going on record that corporal punishment may not be justified in the face of sexual harassment? Because I think that’s a controversial stance, especially if there’s a clear work power dynamic at play lol. Anyway, I’m glad they chose this gray scenario, because it’s really hard to be sympathetic with a guy like Adam.

When Homelander says “that’s… amazing”, I think that’s being interpreted as incredulous and dismissive in online circles. I think he’s genuinely surprised that’s what first comes to mind to his son, but I don’t think he’s disdainful per se. In Homelander’s mind “saving people” is very much synonymous with “putting wrongdoers in their place”. And since he sees society (‘in America’) as wrong, his grand plan of supes becoming more of a despotic pantheon over the normies isn’t necessarily in contradiction with Ryan’s desire to ‘save people.’ TL;DR I don’t think HL is dismissing Ryan’s aspirations out of hand.

(Hearkening back to “You people should be thanking christ that I am who I am, because you need me. You need me to save you, you do. I am the only one who possibly can.”)

ETA: ok I need to clarify this part since what I wrote here sounds like HL and Ryan are going to get along great and that’s not what I meant to convey. I cannot field all the DMs! This is a hot take! I just meant that I didn’t expect HL to realize he might not know what Ryan wants because he’s been fucked by Vought. My expectations bar is perpetually low, please keep this in mind. I also despise the oversaturation of portrayals of bratty kids in media so please know that’s just my personal aesthetic bias.

Other Vought peeps

I wish Sage got more screen time. I appreciated ATrain’s taking initiative to escape notice. I do wonder what Ashley would have done if Cameron Coleman hadn’t just broken up with her.

I’m glad Stan Edgar gets to say Homelander is a “Freudian cesspool of random impulse and deep insecurity” right on the heels of e4. “Glad” lol.

Virus farm section

I’m getting a little tired of characters saying “we’re at an impasse” when… they’re clearly not at any real impasse. Victoria could have exploded the Boys’ heads and brought in other redshirts to help find Sameer if she really wanted to. And she paid the price for not doing that. Is the implication that she is afraid of Annie and Kimiko?

As for the virus… well. I’m strangely fine with what Billy is doing. If this virus isn’t even that contagious supe-to-supe, then his plan to keep trying to kill HL with it makes a lot of sense. As for Sameer? Well, if they hadn’t wasted the “last dose” (see below for why that’s stupid) of the virus on sheep, and Victoria didn’t just shrug and say ‘guess that’s that’, and also let the Boys live in the first place, Sameer would still have his leg.

I did cringe when the sheep was vomiting its guts out and Victoria, Kimiko, and Annie were all within Ebola-body-fluid-droplet range of it. Because this thing does sound more contagious than HIV, at least.

If Billy Butcher really needed some more virus I hope he grabbed the carnivorous sheep carcasses. Presumably there’s a gallon of replicated virus right there. Not only does it kill supes, it’s also a virus that replicates orders of magnitude faster than any living thing on earth lol. There are many things that are funny about how they’re researching this virus. Not a single biohazard tissue culture hood in sight. No cell based assays. AAAAANYWAY, it really doesn’t matter. Big fast compound V targeting(?) virus doesn’t need logic.

Overall just not a fan of big loud sequences with ultimately low stakes, so the flying sheep were a lot less fun to me than the e2 fight scene action.

What I think isn’t working

This is minor but after Gen V, I cringe at Sam’s acting. Just that one line they gave him sounded bad to me, and I know it’s probably just PTSD from how much I disliked the end of Gen V but there it is. I’m sorry to those of you who like him, this is clearly personal opinion. Cate is fine, she can stay.

Hughie’s storyline… I don’t even know what to say. Nothing about his parents’ shitty behavior was resolved. And then Hughie was forced to say his dad is his hero to save his mom’s life. And also be the one to euthanize him. What a weird, weird arc.

I’m saying absolutely nothing about Frenchie’s storyline because it is even more inexplicable. @kosmochlor covered it all.

[blessedarethebinarybreakers]

Hey I don’t mean to further flood your inbox and I know I sent an ask a week or so ago. But in church this morning the sermon was on the 1 John passage about how if you hate your brother or sister you don’t love God, and I just. I bet you can guess which political figure immediately comes to mind. I know we’re supposed to love and pray for and forgive our enemies, and it’s not supposed to be a thing where you only do it if you know you’ll get an apology/changed behavior/etc. But the most positive thing I can say where he’s concerned is if he showed up on my doorstep bleeding and starving I would work past my anger to bind his wounds and feed him cuz that’s what you’re supposed to do for fellow human beings. Other than that I have no love for him (or people like him, really). Just anger and immense disdain. Maybe even hate. What do I do with that??

Hey there, I feel you on this. I can also think of maaany political figures I feel this about lol.

I have an old post delving into what it means to love one's enemy and what forgiveness is (and isn't) that I recommend to you.

I'll start with a TL;DR from that post, and then add some other stuff about working through feelings like anger and hate, and close with some reading recs <3

When we find it desperately difficult to love, or to forgive, we can ask God to feel and be what we find ourselves unable to feel and be.

We can remember Christ's words on the cross about the soldiers crucifying him: he does not say "I forgive them," but asks, "Father, you forgive them, for they know not what they do."

He cannot himself forgive them in that moment — not while they are in the act of torturing and killing him, not while they hold all power over him, not even when his compassion allows him to understand that they do what they do out of ignorance — so he asks God to be that forgiveness for them.

When I struggle to feel love for someone who is doing great harm and seems completely unrepentant of that, I turn to God the way Jesus did: "God, I'm struggling to see the spark of You in them. Please love them the way I can't in this moment."

Next point:

Throughout the Bible, the concepts of love and hate are much more about action than sentiment.

If you feel love for someone, yet don't come to their aid when they need it most, what use was that love to them? Meanwhile, if you fear or disdain someone, yet help them in their direst need, you have acted with love.

Furthermore, when it comes to difficult emotions, the good news is that we are indeed invited to bring all our feelings — anger, disdain, even hate — to God. We can be real about what we're feeling.

Scripture shows us this over and over: There are so many psalms, and passages from the prophets, where someone has been hounded and terrorized enough to wish pain or even death upon the ones who oppress them. In one of the most infamous, Psalm 137, the psalmist even goes so far as to wish that their oppressors' children might be "dashed upon a rock" — that everything Babylon has made them suffer might be enacted on Babylon.

These are not pretty feelings, yet they are preserved in holy poetry, because they are part of the human experience. (And tantamount to understanding them is realizing that those praying such things will happen almost never have the power to enact them. The psalmist who wishes Babylon's soldiers experience what they've put the psalmist's people doesn't have the army, the weapons, the power to actually make that happen. They're just honest about wishing it in a moment of collective trauma and grief.)

In all this, I'm not saying God "wants" us to feel loathing or hate — any thought or feeling that puts us at risk of denying another person's humanity is one we do need to work on; but we do that work by being honest about feeling it, rather than being too ashamed to face it or to share it with God.

No pressure to read any of these of course, but here are texts I'd recommend on these topics:

James Baldwin's The Fire Next Time, a brief but rich text in which (among other things) Baldwin grapples with the need to love his oppressor (namely white people) — to affirm their humanity in a way they have denied him. Only in recognizing one another's humanity can we have any hope of something like justice and peace for the generations to come. Baldwin believes this vehemently, but he still acknowledges that it's still not easy, in fact it's one of the hardest things, to love one's oppressors in such a way. .

Cole Arthur Riley's This Here Flesh, another short book rich in meaning. I especially recommend the chapters on lament, rage, justice, and repair for this topic. One thing she discusses is that love is not "niceness," that rage can be righteous, that sometimes the most loving thing we can do is to let a harmful person witness our rage, to call them out. .

The same link from the beginning to that post about what forgiveness is and what it is not

[milli-moi]

I reblogged this as part of a thread on people’s thoughts coming off the Thunderbolts mini comic run but I’ve decided to post it on its own as well. I’m actually not sure how much of this even seems relevant to the original conversation… but I wanted to chime in on the topic as someone who is a reasonably new comic reader.

Tbh I actually still find myself struggling a bit to keep up with writers and story arcs in my head (couldn’t work out what SoL was until right now - sentinel of liberty, right?)

BUT so far I have pretty much exclusively read black widow comics or issues she features in. (I discovered that on the marvel comics website you can search by character and it will give you every issue they are in - sometimes that’s meant she has one line and I am left wondering why the heck I read a whole comic book for that lol)

Personally I have noticed I don’t pay a lot of attention to who has written an issue, but I know I have my favourites. I actually could pin an artist before a writer- Phil Noto is a god amongst all others - but it’s interesting to hear the different thoughts here.

I’ve seen a few posts with people mentioning Nat’s thought process in the Thunderbolts mini run and my ear pricked up. I LOVE writing fanfic that is based on Natasha’s inner thoughts, she is so full of depth. I would definitely think about writing this sort of thing BUT I feel I need to get my source material right in my head.

Basically the tl;dr is this- what should I be reading or re-reading? I think the names and the arcs can make it quite difficult for those getting into comics to understand what they are looking for, and the amount that characters can bounce around between issues and titles makes that even harder. I usually only know what I want to read because tumblr told me…

I know and love the Brubaker and Liu writing but I can’t say I know what the Higgins run was (is this the run following the 2012 end for Winterwidow?)

I just hope that there is more good to come for these two- they need and deserve it.

Please comment anything that might help me in a quest for fanfic thoughts on this, or just generally. Sorry my response was probably a bit of a ramble and may not have all made sense (adhd meds being messed with = brain confusion).

[revenantghost]

Hey! So i must i adore you analysis on Wolfwood as you compared his story beats to maximum and how they got changed, something that I dont really see people commenting on

I must say however, do you think vash and wolfwood are bound to have the same kind of relationship they had in trimax? I adore stampede like crazy and was enjoying it so much until around ep 10/11 where it got cleared they were very much going a seemingly different route than what we thought. And to be honest the moment i saw they pumped Knives and Vash dynamic like crazy got me thinking tristamp will be completely about them and not also Vash and WW/others (which i think is as important as K and V for trigun to work out) or tristamp will be mostly Vash and Knives and WW and Livio.

You seek to have a super optimistic (lol) look for s2 and beyond so i wonder if you think (either by beats laid out by tristamp, maybe i am too blind or pessimistic to realize them) there may be something similar to vash and wolfwood’s relationship in trimax???

Oh man, thank you so much!!! I’m honestly so happy that people even read that rambling because it’s been driving me absolutely bonkers. (I’m just gonna link that post here in case anyone’s interested)

But tl;dr: I think that it’ll be similar! Honestly, I think the Vash and Wolfwood dynamics have to be similar, because that’s such an integral part of Trimax. I jokingly called it the Vash and Wolfwood show to a friend when I started reading it—and yeah, that sums up a lot. Though I REALLY see your worries about this. I think we got a much heavier dose of Vash and Knives to really make the stakes super personal, but I have a feeling Knives will fall into the more distant role he takes in Trimax because, as he says, Nai is dead. Long live Knives.

Tristamp season one is a prologue, confirmed by the team very purposefully calling the continuing work the final phase despite saying the sky is the limit on future content depending on fan support. It speed ran a lot of stuff, and I think that was knowingly done because the staff has stated multiple times that they needed everything to be as perfect as possible, but they didn’t know how it would do. I don't even know if they thought they could do a second season. Trigun has historically not been popular outside of the cult following ’98 had in the west—Trimax was just an afterthought that many fans hadn’t read before Tristamp grabbed us all by the throats.

To touch on the other relationships, I like that Tristamp is that it's already expanding on characters that I felt could have spent more time in the spotlight. Like, I'm very eager to see where they take the girls! Because Meryl’s falling into the same role but with a vastly different career in this, and she’s already way more present . Why are they following Vash? How present will the girls be? MILLY!!! With Meryl ripping down Vash’s wanted poster at the end of season one, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s her mission to clear Vash’s name, and hijinks ensue. She already has deeper ties to Wolfwood than any other version before, which makes both of them stronger for it. I’m nervous to see how this all plays out because change scares me and I love this story so much lmao, but I do think it’s good! I already went off about how I love how important Meryl already is in the story, she’s a foil to Vash and the faith in himself he never had, and I feel like that only strengthens and reflects against the foils Vash and Wolfwood have going on. And Milly! I’m so excited to see where they go with her.

But this does change everything with Wolfwood. I keep thinking that Tristamp has changed Wolfwood fundamentally and keep needing to go back and rewatch because he is Wolfwood. He’s younger and rougher around the edges, but he’s still that moron I know and love. (Sometimes I’ll be reading fic and I don’t even realize that the person’s only seen Tristamp because they just get him and the dynamic right—Orange is doing a good job even if it scares me deeply lol)

I do have complete faith that they need to and will let Vash and Wolfwood’s dynamic shine just as brightly as it does in Trimax. I think, actually, a lot of that comes from outside of the text, though I could probably do another rewatch to pick up on all the loose threads they’re laying down to grow Wolfwood’s character and his dynamic with Vash in particular.

First, a new bit of info I saw recently is that the director, Kenji Muto? Apparently hasn’t even seen ’98, or at least hadn’t seen it as of making season one. Of course there are other writers on staff, and the crew has admitted to being huge Trigun nerds, but if your only exposure to Trigun is Trimax??? Wolfwood is massively important to Vash. Doing that dirty would be greatest sin you could make against this franchise.

Second, Nightow is so involved in creating this. He was involved way before most manga authors are brought in on anime, and even said that pretty early on he basically gave it his blessing and said that they got Trigun. (Though he still approved everything from then on as well.) And Wolfwood and his story arc in Trimax is so powerful and so moving. Nightow obviously had some significant investment and emotion in it, in Wolfowod and Vash’s relationship and journey. Like, I cry at things sometimes, generally just ooze tears, but Nightow and this damn manga made me sob. I can’t imagine he would tell the crew they understood Trigun without Wolfwood’s character and his ties to Vash being a priority. I know typically Japanese creators won’t throw shade at adaptations like we see in Western realms, but I rarely see the level of enthusiasm Nightow has for this project.

Okay, because this is getting long, and I’m getting into Trimax spoilers next, putting this next bit under a cut, continue at your own risk.

It’s actually funny, because for the end of that Wolfwood post, before I started my rewatch for it, I originally had a pretty specific prediction about what would happen. Then the ‘sky’s the limit’ on future content came out, and idk what to expect. I thought that the next season was going to be the Vash and Wolfwood show ala Trimax, we were going to fall in love with Wolfwood, and we were gonna have him couched at the end of that season. Because the couch is so essential, it’s so critical, but my god do I want this man to survive the narrative, if only once, and have it mean just as much. (Can you tell I’m torn on this every second of every day of my entire life) And after writing up that whole post I’m even more confused because I have no idea where the fuck they’re taking him. But at the same time, we have major plot threads tying us to that scene so much earlier. The vials existing way earlier, Livio and Razlo being introduced, that line about grieving but still deserving to smile and eat that Wolfwood gives Vash in the episode he’s introduced??? We're making everything more coherent and tied together, and fuck, we're screwed.

For now, all I’ve got is that I think some shit is going to happen to Wolfwood during our two-year time skip, maybe something with Chapel, idk how they’re going to inevitably use Livio against us, but we saw a softer Wolfwood in Tristamp. He needs to harden to be who we know. Orange said they’re going to be more like their other selves here, and though Wolfwood already has some faith in Vash, but he does not have faith in humanity. That’s the growth we have yet to see, and that’s what is really at the core of their relationship and development. It’s still there.

Many people who read Trimax are absolutely gutted and wrecked by the couch. That defines a lot of readers’ experiences—Wolfwood’s character arc is an absolute masterclass in writing a satisfying and meaningful conclusion for a character. So for them to change this much about someone who is that important, they have to have a plan, and a damn good one for Nightow to sign off on it. I’ve seen folks talk about how apparently the team spent the most time working on Knives, Vash, and Wolfwood’s characters (this one I haven't seen a source for), but as you said, we can already see it in the brothers’ relationship. They have a plan for Wolfwood. It’s only a matter of time before we’re wrecked by it.

Yeah, they are gonna keep doing stuff that you or I won’t agree with, or that we think could be better. Every version of Trigun is pretty flawed in certain ways imo, even though it might be beautiful or a favorite piece of media. But all of the concerns of mine that Orange could answer in the first season, they did so with flying colors and blew me out of the water. So don’t get me wrong, I’m scared. I’m so fucking terrified. Both Vash and Wolfwood are my favorite characters in Trigun in such different, integral ways to me. I love them deeply. And Orange is changing so much.

But Orange adores Trimax as much as I do. Nightow is 500% on board. So I’m biting my nails about it, but I choose to have faith. We’ll get wrecked by this adaptation, and I’d bet money on it if I had any lol

OOF, THAT WAS LONG. I hope this was actually helpful/useful and not just incoherent feral rambling!

[monstersinthecosmos]

As a fellow Marius lover, I always find it kind of disheartening how most of the content/fandom talk about him (meta, fic, fanart, etc.) revolves around m/m ships (Marius/Armand in particular but I’d even go as far to include Marius/Daniel here) when, in my opinion, Marius is like the one male character in the VC universe whose relationships with women are far more interesting than his relationships with other men (the only other character might be Lestat but even then it’s pretty 50/50). They’re so monumental and so full of complexities and pain and so much love and they define him and inform his character in ways that I think, his relationships with men simply do not. Interesting/hot under the right circumstances? Sure but like ARE YOU GUYS SEEING THIS MAN??? AND HOW HE RELATES TO WOMEN??? It’s one of the best things Anne ever wrote and I can never get enough of it and it makes me sad how little content there is of it and I feel I can never say this out loud because I would never want to make people feel bad about what they ship (truly not my intention here) but ugh SO MUCH potential there for life changing discourse and meta about Marius and the women he’s loved and lost and have shaped who he is and there’s like… nothing.

Tl;dr the reason I’m sending this ask is because I’m a firm believer that you must be the change you want to see in this world and because YOU get it! And every time you post or write about Marius/Pandora (or Marius/Akasha! Or talk about Marius/Bianca) an angel gets its (black) wings. You are seen, you are loved and appreciated tysm <3

OKAY FIRST OF ALL THIS WAS SUCH A DELIGHT TO GET IN MY INBOX, SECOND IM GOING TO BE COMPLETELY HONEST AND ADMIT I FEEL TOO INCOHERENT TO TACKLE THIS TOPIC HAHA. I don’t feel articulate enough to do it justice. And I don’t say that to be obnoxious and self deprecating but like in all honesty idk how to synthesize it neatly but I think you’re sharing some GREAT IDEAS. 

I have to say this in bullet points because I don’t feel equipped to string this into a cohesive post:

Marius was based on Anne’s husband, and Marius/Pandora was based on their marriage!!!!! And I think it explains a lot about why their relationship feels so fuckin POTENT to me, like it’s so genuine!!!!!!! And like knowing that I think it makes sense why she wrote him so HOT lol. Like she’s just writing thirsty stuff about her husband right? LOL

Also like insofar as there’s a lot of genderfluidity in VC there’s also something vaguely misogynist about it at times. And Anne Rice was a mega feminist and her work had so much womens lib in it!!!!! So I don’t think it’s intended as misogyny at all vs. Anne having conversations about gender and maybe her own relationship to gender. I think enough characters have said vaguely misogynist stuff that it makes me think it’s an Anne Problem vs being Watsonian. (This is also a historical/time period issue and we can discuss another time if and when vampires are supposed to break out of that when they transcend humanity and social constructs even when they’re still saying weird sexist shit at their big ages.) But I say that to say all VC characters are a tad sexist, even if perhaps she was writing with the intention of her own male power fantasy/male superiority/penis envy. AND THAT MAKES MARIUS VERY INTERESTING. 

Cause like really the three main ladies in his life (Akasha, Pandora, Bianca) DO define him so much! And we don’t see him pine for Armand the way he did for any of them! Why!!!

Like there’s that aspect of sexism where women can be infantilized by men who don’t think they’re being unkind and it makes me wonder, especially when the author is a boomer, like where is that line between condescension and respect? I don’t have an answer here, this is too big-brained for me LOL but like he is SO devoted to the women in his life and I just wonder like if he sees them as creatures unlike himself, you know? 

This is headcanon territory but I bet he’s such a fucking sub to Pandora lol and it just thrills me that he spent 2000 years begging Akasha for affection and she ignored him the whole damn time wow. And he continued to simp!

AND ALSO LIKE, I think people DO NOT DISCUSS THIS OFTEN ENOUGH, but did we forget that he chose Armand because he needed a Bianca rebound? He was absolutely TORTURED by his love for Bianca and picked Armand because he didn’t want to kill her oh my god. Oh my god!!! HE KEPT HER LETTER IN HIS POCKET OVER HIS HEART OKAY??? HE DIDN’T WANT TO DRAG HER INTO HIS COLD AND FATAL DOMAIN????? Fuck lol

It’s so fucked up that he didn’t go after Armand but spent like actual fucking millennia trying to find Pandora. HE KNEW EXACTLY WHERE ARMAND WAS AND LEFT HIM THERE LOL BUT PANDORA HAUNTED HIM EVERY NIGHT OF HIS LIFE FOR CENTURIES.

After everything he wound up spending like 200 years with Bianca or something and ?????? CORRECT because Bianca was the fledgling he actually wanted!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

But it’s odd, I know I’ve said this 337589235 times, but Marius like. Has an idea of the person he wants to be and he tries SO HARD to live by logic & reason and he just can’t reconcile with the fact that he has EMOTIONS. And so like part of the person he wants to be like, open/empathetic/wise and he begs his lovers/students/fledglings to CHALLENGE HIM when he’s not actually healed enough to be challenged? And to me there’s something kinda like, extra spicy about it when you’re in Rice World and you’re a lil sexist; how much that burns EXTRA when it’s Pandora or Bianca sticking up to you or AKASHA FUCKIN IGNORING YOU. 

Just really incredible that this person who is like the epitome of a patriarch has such fucked up relationships with all the women in his life. And like he underestimates these women, like the way he tries to manipulate Bianca and she leaves him! PANDORA AND AKASHA ARE UNAVAILABLE TO HIM AND BIANCA FUCKIN LEAVES.

akasSHA JUST IGNROING HIM!! JUST STRAIGHT UP FUCKIN IGNORING HIM FOR 2,000 YEARS!!!! HE'S OBSESSED WITH HER!

Anyway Enkil is ignoring him too but he doesn’t give a shit about that guy tbh lol 

Also the amount of space he gives Eudoxia and Zenobia in his book like there’s more here too but tbh it’s midnight and I can’t start unpacking. I just think like, in 2000 years it’s interesting how Eudoxia wound up having such a lasting impact on his life. 

I did just peek at the Eudoxia part and I’m dying, he goes “Her face was small, oval, and as close to perfection as anything I've ever beheld, even though she bore no resemblance to Pandora who was for me perfection itself.” CERTIFIED WIFE GUY.

What kinda mommy issues are we dealing with here? HIS MOTHER WAS A SLAVE THAT DIED IN CHILDBIRTH AND HE INHERITED HER GENES AND LOOKED LIKE HER AND DIDN’T LOOK LIKE HIS FATHER & BROTHERS? AND HE’S SORT OF AN OUTCAST AS A HUMAN LIKE ? THE STIGMA HERE? AND THEN HE SPENDS 2000 YEARS WORSHIPPING HIS NEW MOTHER??? PERHAPS YOU COULD SAY ENSLAVED TO HER? IDK MAN. 

IS THIS ALSO WHY HE WAS SO OBSESSED WITH LOSING PANDORA?

The irony too, and something I think a lot of people miss, is that he DIDN’T WANT TO MARRY PANDORA LOL. He wanted to be betrothed to a child so that he could FUCK OFF and NOT get married because she wasn’t old enough to get married! He fucked off! He went exploring! He said this is not for me! 

AND TO GO OUT INTO THE WORLD AND BE MURDERED BY HIS MOTHERS PEOPLE???? IDK. 

I’m not sure how these last two points tie into anything but I just wanted to mention his complicated relationship with Pandora and his own heritage lol. And then Akasha like DELIVERS Pandora to him because she’s like “wow this guy needs somebody lol and I am not emotionally available” — Akasha who was famously a violent genocidal radfem and who would not approve of his relationship with Armand but explicitly allowed him to have Pandora and Bianca. IDK WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN! 

Did Akasha approve of these women because she knew Marius was completely pussywhipped and would worship them and she wanted to see someone mommydom the fuck out of him and she knew that Armand would never be that person? 🫢

And again I want to say like, taking the author into consideration!! Anne Rice had a HORRIFIC relationship with her mom so you see these themes pop up occasionally in her work. DESPITE ALL OF THAT SHE IS STILL A FEMINIST AND WRITES ABOUT MATRILINEAR FAMILIES like The Great Family or the Mayfairs. But thinking about Mothers in Anne Rice Works makes me think a lot about this like, the damage they can do and the voids they can leave even when you’re a feminist and love women! You see a TON of this with Gabrielle and I always think that Lestat & Marius are such similar characters that you can do a lot of extrapolating or backwards engineering to ask questions about them and how they work, since we get SO MUCH Lestat POV in this series to work with and how we can zoom out sometimes and ask like, what is common across her entire body of work and what is more specifically common between Lestat & Marius and WHAT EVEN MORE INTERESTINGLY is a result that they were both based on her husband in their inceptions. 

Like how much of this has to do with Marius’s actual feelings towards men vs women on purpose, or how much was subconscious author bias, how much was simply that Anne Rice based him on her husband and she was THIRSTY, idk. It’s always hard to say in VC because Anne was such an intuitive and self-indulgent author and the stories are so weird!!! So your mileage may vary!

But I agree with you that these are FASCINATING relationships!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And I like Marius/Armand too (I recently made a post about how I didn’t “””””ship”””” them but then I spent 2 months working on a M/A fic every day and now I think I’ve corrupted and converted myself LMAO) but yeah like. There’s such a lack of substance between them in the end. He treats Armand like he’s temporary, fucks up and moves on, and it’s such a departure from how DEVOTED he was with all his other partners. 

Wow I didn’t think I had a lot to say, sorry about that. !!! EVERY TIME I BROUGHT A POINT UP I THOUGHT OF 5 MORE POINTS GOSH I COULD TALK ABOUT MARIUS ALL DAY.

[maracujatangerine]

73.1 Forum Discourse

CW: institutionalised slavery, dehumanisation, box boy universe, pet whump

Previous

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Posted by u/GreenBookworm 3 days ago:

Hi!

So, I haven’t really posted here before, but I’m at my wit’s end and I really hope that some of you can help me.

I have a male pet that I got from some less-than-ideal circumstances. He’s been with me for over a year now and he is really making progress. I think he is trusting me more and more and it seems like he is getting over some of his previous experiences.

Still, he wakes up from terrible nightmares very often. I’m not sure how to comfort him and how to make him feel safe. What do you think, how can I fix this situation?

TL;DR: My pet has terrible nightmares, what can I do?

Futureiteration77 – 3 days ago: How many times per day are your beating him?

ManiacalTiger – 3 days ago: I have a similar problem. My pet is always crying at night and keeping up the rest of the house. What do you recommend?

Futureiteration77 – 3 days ago: At least twice per day or they have too much pent up energy. As an pet owner it is your responsibility to help them manage and release this.

ManiacalTiger – 2 days ago: I have been doing at least three times and still have issues.

Blue_prominence – 3 days ago: What kinds of nightmares? Can u get him to give u more specific details? B specific.

GreenBookWorm - 2 days ago: Idk, really. He doesn’t like to talk about it. It is usually about the training, I think. Sometimes he talks about white rooms that are neverending - that is usually the exact phrase that he uses. Sometimes, it seems to be about his former masters. (He’s had several.) He screams and cries, sometimes he just seems… empty. Do your pets act the same?

Imaginativesloth – 2 days ago: Get him retrained.

Densecircus281 – 2 days ago: ^^ Good suggestion. That’s what I did.

Fancycyclone1565 – 2 days ago: Try NyQuil and Dramamine, both available OTC. Sometimes we also give ours an edible to help them sleep soundly all night.

Throwaway7966123 – 2 days ago: You could ask him if a nightlight would help.

AbsentSnark – 2 days ago: That’s ridiculous!!!!!! He won’t know that, it will only make the problem worse!! This is terrible advice. People shouldn’t come on here without having a basic understanding of how helpless and brainless pets are. It is shocking how much misinformation and bad advice is out there.

GreenBookWorm - 2 days ago: That is a good idea! I haven’t thought about that, thanks! Does your pet have a nightlight? Does he or she have nightmares, too?

Temporarydaybreak987 – 2 days ago: It may be difficult to face the time apart but retraining by professionals is the best option for both pet and owners.

Sunset_Lover – 2 days ago: I suggest finding a separate, soundproof room where you can lock him up at night. Even if he starts crying, it won’t wake you up. Edit: If you don’t have spare room you could use a muzzle

DeepSeaSquid – 2 days ago: if your Pet is a cuddly type, you can let him sleep near you? Mine is really needy and since I let him in my room his night crying has reduced almost completely. But again, it depends on your Pet’s type.

RueTheNymph – 2 days ago: I swear, those people. If you treat him softly like that he will never stop being clingy. Give him few beatings or whatever form of punishment he responds to the best and he will learn not to waste your time

DeepSeaSquid – 1 day ago: Thank you very much for your useless advice. Have you considered that my Pet is clingy because I want him that way? And if beatings simply worked then there would not be a need to make this post, hmm?

RueTheNymph - 1 day ago: You shouldn’t be allowed to be an Owner

DeepSeaSquid - 1 day ago: Lol, forgive me for wanting to have a lapdog

roses-and-embers - 1 day ago: @DeepSeaSquid nothing wrong with wanting to cuddle, but are you sure your Pet is not crying on purpose to manipulate you into letting him into your room?

DeepSeaSquid - 1 day ago: That’s a valid suspicion, but I am sure he’s not doing it on purpose. He’s having nightmares even if I’m not at home and someone else is watching him, besides he’s too well-behaved to dare to try and manipulate me.

*

This post is a collaboration with brilliant @distinctlywhumpthing and @octopus-reactivated. ✨❤️✨

It is a crossover AU with Leo from Distinctlywhumptning’s Unintentional. We also have a cameo from Octopus-reactivated’s Decima from Title me Miss. For Lydia and Coriander, this is canon.

*

Tag List Part 1: @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @whumpzone @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning

[cloud-based-and-rainpilled]

Staged 2 thoughts!! (this will take a Year because I have a Lot of feelings)

tl; dr at the end

Hmmm I don’t see how it’s a love story yet

Staged 1 works well enough on its own but the second season is really essential as a companion piece upping the emotional ante (which is exactly how I feel about Good Omens 1 & 2 lol)

The opening scene mindfuck; The meta! We have reached levels of irony not previously seen possible

Who do I thank for the tacky Zoom interview show background? It deserves top billing

HE DOESN’T WANT THE GOLDFISH TO BE LONELY (metaphor) and then it FUCKING DIES

Celeb cameos in season 1 being all “hey! I like you!” in season 2 like “you are tearing them apart. I hate you. scum

Also the themeing of Michael Sheen and David Tennant being on their own “side” VS everyone else……….. Simon Mr. Writer Sir i see u and unfortunately i am in your walls

The writing feeling less theater-y works for the meta and I’m wondering whether they always had a second season in mind or if it’s just that well written

Was really hoping for a Colin Firth & Hugh Grant cameo ngl :/

The music didn’t annoy me as much this season since it was more of the horn oomp-pah-pah than the piano. Idk maybe my mind just changed

I didn’t know Whoopie Goldberg could be terrifying but here we are (also I forgot her name isn’t Whoopie)

“I think the wizard fucked your ass” ???

Setting up the awards and the baby was peak *pops P* comedy 🤌 Definitely needed since it gets Sad as it goes on

Welsh kink spotted!!! And so fucking blantant I was scandalized

“I’ll shove it up my ass where the rest of the excrement goes” Michael casually asking David to peg him. Nice

More bad magic. More pls and ty

Also moar Nina pls. T’was but a brief beautiful bluster in the wind

Tbh missed a lot of Michael & David’s back-and-forths VS season 1 but I get that’s… the point

Everyone agreeing David is whiney and annoying lmao get wreck’t

Also I forgot they don’t have air conditioning in Englandland ‘cause my man is sweating in every scene he’s in (unless that was intentional in which case… go on…)

The ladies!! That meta ending with the Bechdel test… I see you…

Still love Georgia and Simon’s sister (who I apparently don’t respect enough to google her name); I like Anna now too! She’s got this kinda quiet sarcastic edge I didn’t notice the first time. They all played off each other well in their 3 some (phrasing) scenes

Big amongus sus react that Anna has better chemistry with the two of them than with Michael of which there is literally zero chemistry. Compared to Georgia and David who are just electric with each other it’s honestly distracting

Actual torture watching them break down as other actors play them and drive their friendship apart, it’s fascinating to watch especially on top of it being themselves but, like, not we swear

“Am I your best friend” “No” Fuckin REJECTED !! looser!!!

Oh huh I can see how this is a love story, interesting

The David Tennant fanboy (he is a Real actor I just can’t think of his name) served juicy vomiting SFX realness

“So you’ve made love with him” BROTHER

It took me 87 years to realize warthog and mongoose were in reference to Timon and Pumbah lol <- I am not looking up how to spell this

The bannister being part of the bookshelf why did this make me laugh this hard

Ken Jeong actually reaching into the heart of everything and casually tearing into it Temple of Doom style and leaving everything to ruin lmao

I miss people getting too close to me (feral noises)

Ewan McGregor is cute and I am shallow 🥰

AU where Simon Pegg and Nick Frost did Staged and honestly it would still work aside from being dangerously heterosexual

Simon & Nick doing the Staged 1 back and forth but literally? mmmm that’s sum gud meta

Oh right I forgot the actual writer Simon’s in it too. He’s still good. I like his Zoom tantrum

Jim Parsons unconvincingly looking for his phone after he casually tells David that he and Michael are obviously in love and everyone sees it lmao

David Tennant has the unique ability to make this absolutely insane face reserved specifically for the emotion “oh shit I’m in love with Michael Sheen” which like

I could kill the Good Omens costume department rn I stg take off those fucking sunglasses I’m so mad

Ohhhhhhhh yeah this is a love story

The Frozen snowman being the big bad final boss of cunt, oof you gotta love a good villain

Michael’s monologue the only one not in the kitchen area just breaking down completely I mean *claps until my hands fall off* he put his whole pussy into it. The frustration? The despair? I mean it felt like an audition monologue (in a good way) he walked through the valley in the shadow and death and came back a broken man with a fuzzier beard

CATE BLANCHETT ZOOM SNIPE

Apparently people didn’t like Phoebe Waller Bridge in the new Indiana Jones movie which I haven’t seen but idk I thought she was pretty funny and hot here. *ding*

MOOMIN MUG SPOTTED

The use of travel as a metaphor for feeling stuck emotionally *clenches fist*

“I like silence” *screaming from the other room*

“It’s like gas filling a room” <- fascinating way to describe their dynamic, it’s specifically referring to aimless conversations that snowball and “fill up a room” but it could also refer to the palpable energy between them— like even through the abstraction of a computer screen there’s this magnetic force that’s just riveting, it’s hard to describe

“We haven’t talked about love” > Seen at 2:17 PM LMAO

Michael alone with the black frame lingering shot. Acting and editing and directing choices so simple and on point. everything hurts

Struggling to say goodbye on Zoom physically reaching out unable to leave the frame that whole scene was just. You can just feel the love through the screen, it’s so layered and intimate despite essentially being “No you hang up first”

Zoom wedding! He stayed!!

I wonder if that’s Michael Sheen’s actual best friend. That would be cute

Anna whispering and telling him “nah I know your bestie is literally an hour away but he can’t come over lol” like??? why? let them love each other I cannot handle this villain arc

“I have to bring that one otherwise my tits will explode” Wait wasn’t she drinking earlier though? #ShivRoyMoment

“I was standing outside your job for four hours because I love you” <- dog from Up moment

Yes he is legally a Hobbit

The car window as an abstraction like the Zoom boxes *continued feral noises*

The direction of David putting his hand on the window and Michael walking away only then revealing Anna and the baby far in the background? We’re in 3 dimensions and they are all painful!!

Okay yeah I get it it’s a love story but I thought this was a comedy haha right guys why does everything hurt

It ends on that meta moment between David and Georgia which I can only assume is to set up for the third season although I dunno if that was planned at the time as well. It’s ambiguous but not distracting if they didn’t make another one

tl; dr: Staged 2 is a unique and excellent addition to Staged 1. The added meta textual layer of the other celebrities breaking down their relationship based on Staged 1 allows for a lot of “hiding behind my hands so embarrassed” moments, but also by pitting them against each other, it reveals their actual love for each other through the bickering. Season 1 on its own is a nice vignette of its time but season 2 with it adds a tension and intimacy that really takes both over the top

Kinda dreading watching Staged 3 since it seems like people overwhelmingly like it less than the other two because of the loss of the Zoom format and constant arguing, but I’m already in this far deep so I’ll stick the landing

To wit— awwwwwww, they love each other!

[morvantmortuary]

hello! i just found your account and i’m in love with your ocs! pls, let me know if you still write and if your requests are open?

(people still use that steve rogers psa meme, right?)

hello, darling 🖤 I’m sorry it took me so long to get back to you!

to be honest, this ask sent me into a little bit of a tailspin - through no fault of yours, you’re perfectly fine and I’m flattered you wrote in!! ♥️ it was just one of those things where I thought it hadn’t really been that long since I posted something, and I try to still hang out and reblog pretty often, until I realized I probably haven’t really posted a new snippet since… whenever I posted the teasers for Vol. II? :’D and my last full piece was probably paint the town red, so I just had a small spiral of gloom at how long it had actually been since I posted anything of substance for my necromancers.

things had been getting kind of intense between being on the job market and trying to work on my stupid fucking dissertation, so obviously compared to when I started this blog in the second year of the pandemic, I hadn’t been having as much time to write. now I have a full time Real Person job and I’m in the last semester (PLEASE GOD) of said dissertation work, so while I’m in a more stable place than I was last year in some ways, things have gotten even more intense in other ways, and honestly I’ve been kind of stressed about how little time I’ve been able to spend here :’D

so like, while I don’t blame you at all for asking if I’m still writing for them, I had a bit of an “OH NO щ(ﾟДﾟщ)” reaction bc I just realized that while I think about the Morvants constantly every day, that… doesn’t always transfer to blog activity lol

I also have to admit, I had a hard time with comfort asks/requests for a while, bc I got way too in my own head about writing them. I was worried about everyone having a similar word count or romance factor bc I wanted them all to seem fair and equal, but then I also got worried that they were going to be too repetitive and same-y and people would get bored. and like!! it’s not that deep in the grand scheme of things, I absolutely am aware of that!! :’D but eventually I got embarrassed I was taking so long on top of that, and I just kind of paused the ones I was writing bc I got too hung up on myself

in the middle of all this, I was having ideas for Maxi as usual (he’s my first and thus designed to be my own personal comfort blorbo ngl), but I’ve been trying more to focus on Hex, Seth, and Rora, so I was kind of tabling what plot bunnies I did have to keep waiting for ones that I didn’t yet… and thus, here we are :’D

so like. maybe this is an excellent ask for me to hit “reset” with, and just remember that I Am Just Writing For Fun, and that I’m just sharing them to have fun with y’all, and start fresh in my own brain by getting rid of all the dumb rules I seem to have made for myself before I post 🖤 I think I need that, I think that sounds nice ✨

so!! tl;dr I’m so sorry I vomited all that at you omg what is wrong with me, I’m definitely still writing for them as frequently as my new work schedule allows, and please feel free to submit your request for whomever and however you like 🥰 I’m still working on a bunch, but I’m going to make it more about posting them and less about making them Just So!!

thanks for taking the time, I really do appreciate it 🖤🖤🖤

[makeste]

[39 weeks later]

well all right then. I owe some explanations and some updates, so let's just get straight to that.

1. "what the hell, makeste. you can't just disappear for nine months and leave a sign on your blog that says "gone leavin'.'"

yeah I know. sorry guys.

so there are a lot of reasons for my long absence, but when you boil it all down, the essence is basically as follows: at its absolute max capacity, my ADHD brain is capable of keeping up with any two of the following: (1) work; (2) school; (3) tumblr. that's it. only two. no more and no less.

and for years this has not mattered at all because school was no longer in the picture! but as mentioned in my last two update posts, as of this past January, I had to start taking classes again for career advancement reasons, meaning my brain was quickly overloaded and something had to give. so yeah. I can assure you the past nine months have absolutely sucked and I am not AT ALL sure that it was worth it, but it is what it is.

I also want to add that I never intended to basically fall off the face of the earth anywhere near to this extent, let alone for this long. but in retrospect I probably should have seen it coming, seeing as this is not the first time it's happened, sob. and also in hindsight, towards the end of last year (during which I was already struggling to keep up with the weekly BnHA reactions) someone mentioned that it sounded like I was showing signs of being potentially close to burnout. turns out that observation was spot on lol.

so yeah. tl;dr, burnout + an obnoxiously busy real life schedule + a sprinkling of good old-fashioned ADHD "somehow I always underestimate how hard it is to restart something after taking a long break from it, and the longer I go without returning the worse it gets" brain shenanigans (more on that last part further down).

2. "MAKESTE. WHILE YOU WERE GONE, IN THE MANGA, THERE WAS A THING -- "

yes I have unfortunately been spoiled about The Thing.

3. "so wait, exactly how spoiled are you?? CAN WE TALK ABOUT THE THING"

I will make a separate post to talk about The Thing! I expect that many people will want to talk about this, and tbh I've really been wanting to talk about it too! I'm telling you, when I say the past nine months have sucked, I mean they have truly SUCKED, you guys. school is so fucking boring and I miss rambling about fandom stuff so fucking much.

anyway but with that said, ~*~PLEASE DO NOT TALK ABOUT ANY SPOILERS IN THIS POST~*~. I don't want to delete anybody's comments! but I will if necessary because I am a spoiler narc and I don't want to risk accidentally ruining stuff on the off chance that a non-spoiled person comes across this post. so yeah. however please do feel free to message me or comment in my other post (which I will link once it’s up; eta: here it is) if you do want to talk about The Thing.

4. "so aside from The Thing, are you otherwise caught up with the BnHA manga currently?"

so here's the hilarious part: no, I am not caught up. not even remotely. literally the last chapter of BnHA I read was chapter 339, which is the most recent chapter that I liveblogged, all the way back on December 31, 2021. I literally have not read a single new BnHA chapter in the year of our lord 2022 lol. :') basically for the same reasons I mentioned in my previous update post. tl;dr, reading/liveblogging a single new BnHA chapter is a minimum 4+ hour commitment for me, and by this point I have accrued a backlog of... oh sweet lord. 35 total chapters lol. so yeah. that's approximately 140 hours of catch-up that I need to do, which is paralyzing just to think about.

I do still plan on catching up, obviously! I'm just not sure how, lol. I may have some time to spare this weekend, so I might try to binge a few chapters and see how it goes. then I'll have to come up with some sort of sustainable posting schedule. I've been thinking about this for a while and I might try to do a Mon/Wed/Fri thing if I can swing it, but I don't want to commit to anything for sure yet until I see how those first few chapters go. fingers crossed, though.

anyway so I guess that's it. post is getting long. anything more will just be rambling.

sorry again, guys. how is everyone? what did I miss. aside from twitter dying and tumblr welcoming the refugees into our culture by inviting them to participate in the newly created fandom of a nonexistent 1970s mafia film.

[puckpocketed]

please teach me how to be normal a sport fan 🥹 how are you still positive and cheery when your teams are struggling 🥹

i dont want to alarm u but i think You may be the normal one here ..?. ur talking to THEE hockeyblr outlier. i root for teams that are mortal enemies LOL and as for how i remain cheery… >looks cutely at my 19 wins san jose sharks <3 ahahaha

TL; DR nothing will ever be more important than The Bit. losses come second to having a LAFF. to quote my caked up sharks exwife: FUN MUST BE ALWAYS

breaking character below the cut🦈

more seriously: i think you’re allowed to feel your feelings about sports. i certainly do! it���s not that i never get upset or sad, or even angry. i simply... do not take losses to heart. it truly is NOT that serious to me. i feel those feelings, it hurts for a bit, and then i move on. maybe i think about it a little longer if it was a close game — but it’s not like i could’ve done anything about it.

to be clear, i don’t think the way i engage with this sport is more or less normal, optimal/superior, or even feasible for other people. imo…feel your feelings because being a bit sad about your hockey team losing is natural!!

and i don’t know if i could “teach” anyone, but here are some quick hits about my thought process:

i like to shitpost, i think losses are good material for that. idk. funny > sad

tragedy narratives are delicious, almost better than happy endings (something in me is deeply fascinated by failure — hence, my interest in teams starting when they’re in a deep skid). narratives > sad

i just.. like the game. i like to see good hockey being played, i like to think about smaller things — personal triumphs from my favourite players, funny moments in the game, broader strategy… i also like to focus on the details, micro plays that highlight reels will miss but are endlessly entertaining (to ME) cool hockey > sad

i know that i don’t really know these guys in the end, and as much as i make a fuss over them they’re just some strangers who are really good at a sport.

… if i could get deep and poetic here; i simply have bigger things on my plate. hockey might be a lifelong obsession, but it’s never going to eclipse everything that’s actually real to me. i care more about the kind of work i want to do for my communities, the art i’m making, the stories i want to tell with my writing. the actual life i’m living! a loss is small compared to all that. why linger on it and take it to heart when i could have a little fun?

also also you probably didn’t mean it in a serious way, but i’m gonna take this opportunity to get on my soap box about it: if your sports team losing is seriously affecting your mental health, it is worth taking a step back and examining why. please try to get help. I am very much of the mind that if you are deeply upset to the point of worsening mental health by something like sports/losing in a game, then there may be underlying issues that are influencing your ability to emotionally regulate.