#I'm not really a fan of his tantrums because a) I feel I'm a bit like him

[woofety]

When he wins and for how he plays Rublev makes me really wish he would improve his temperament on court, because I believe it would help him playing even better

[samofmine]

"Stop looking at me like that!" Sam says, high pitched and annoyed, but well, no. Dean very much can't stop looking at him like that.

(aka I couldn't stop thinking about this so here's a weecest with sam in a cropped top and the inner chaos it ensues on dean)

Like what, anyway? He just hopes he's not drooling.

Sam came home an hour ago. He insisted on going shopping for his own clothes, saying Dean never got his right size, the pants looked too baggy and the shirts too loose. Well, forgive him if he doesn't want Sam parading the shape of his body to everyone. He gets enough catcalls from creeps in gas stations and sideroad bars as it is.

But Dean can't really use that as an argument, so yes, go the fuck ahead and buy your own clothes if you're so self sufficient, he said, and oh how it bit him in the ass.

Sam's fashion preference happened to be a pair of ragged jeans, red converse sneakers, and a freaking cropped top. A white, loose cropped top, short enough he can see everything from under Sam's nipples to the curve of his hipbone, loose enough it reveals Sam's collarbones as he moves.

Sammy's stomach. The smooth, milky skin wrapping around his small waist. His hip bones. Hell, even his belly button. Dean feels dizzy.

It's not like Dean's never seen it before. He bathed the kid, changed his diapers, but it's all a distant memory now, since Sam's puberty hit and he started acting like such a girl, shy to even be in the same room as a shirtless Dean, and god forbid Dean ever needs to piss when he's in the shower, because he will be throwing a tantrum before he even gets to step inside the bathroom.

Whatever. It doesn't matter. It would take more than bitchy mood swings and annoying brattiness to make Sam any less endearing to Dean.

He's still his little brother. His baby. Dean's everything.

He's not saying he misses the closeness, the tangled limbs under bedsheets when it was too cold and lying too close together when they had to share a crappy motel fan during a heat wave. But now that all of that is in the past, he simply wasn't prepared to see so much of Sam.

He wants to put his hands on each side of his waist and see if they still fit perfectly.

He wants to brush his fingers under his belly button and see if he can still track the goosebumps running through his body by watching his skin from close enough.

He wants... He wants.

He won't do any of that, though, because he doesn't want to be yelled at and he definitely doesn't want to deal with a moody Sammy for the rest of the week.

So, he stares. Sam has to grant him at least that.

"Looks weird, I know it." Sam looks down, and Dean notices his hands are trying to cover his stomach. "Just stop staring. It's hot today."

Dean blinks. What. What?

"What?" He can't help it. "Why do you think I'm staring? D'you think I'm gonna make fun of you?"

"Well." Sam looks at him, all bitchy faced. "Why else?"

Dean wants to laugh. Or cry. This is ridiculous.

If I could take a picture of you like this and keep it next to my bed so it's the first thing I see everyday, I'd be doing it right now. Seriously. Just give me a camera.

Obviously he can't say any of that. So.

"Why don't you wear a skirt to complete the look?" He teases, but crap, that was not the right thing to say, not just because the image of Sam in a skirt crosses his mind and he feels faint from it, but because of Sam's pained expression as soon as he heard the words.

"You're a jerk." Sam says and lies down on his bed, his back to Dean. He pulls the covers on top of him as if he's trying to hide.

Dean moves before he can even rationalize it. "Sammy, c'mon." He says, sitting on the edge of Sam's bed. "I was joking."

"Leave me alone." He gets in response.

Dean takes a deep breath, tries to go through his mental Sammy manual to see if he has any way of fixing this.

Feels like nothing he can say or do will make any difference.

So, to hell with it.

"You look good." He says. If Sam's gonna be pissed at him anyway, let it be for his honesty instead of his bad jokes.

Sam tenses up under the blanket, Dean notices of course.

"You don't mean that." Sam's voice is smaller, vulnerable, tugging on Dean's heartstrings like nothing else does.

"Of course I..." He sighs in frustration. "Let me see you."

Sam turns to lie on his back just so he can look at Dean, confused. Well, at least he's looking at him.

Dean grabs the blanket and pulls it down.

"Stop! Give it back." Sam whines, pulling it back. He's so goddamn loud, for no reason.

Dean rolls his eyes and holds Sam's wrists to make him stop.

"Let me see you, Sammy." He says, in a way anyone else would think is an order, even their dad, but only Sam knows this is him pleading.

He lets go of Sam's wrists to put the blanket away. Sam lets him.

Dean takes a moment, takes in the sight.

Sam's hands are still shyly on top of his stomach, hiding it.

Dean swallows dry.

He slowly reaches and moves Sam's hand so he can touch him, fingers almost shaking from the excitement, and Sam's stomach clenches under his touch.

He looks up to meet Sam's eyes. He's looking at him, nervous and flushed and beautiful, and Dean wants to keep him to himself, wants to lock them inside this room and throw away the key or fucking swallow it, because no way in hell he's ever going to allow anyone else to see Sam like this.

"You look good." He repeats, not recognizing his own voice, it comes out strangled and pathetic and he has to take a deep breath.

"Thanks." Sam says softly, so damn soft, Dean doesn't think locking him in the room will be enough. He's gonna have to eat him.

He brushes his fingers lightly across Sam's stomach and he squirms, fucking squirms, laughing under him.

"Tickles." Sam whines.

And, well, if doing that will make Sammy lose the scowl, game on.

Dean starts to tickle his tummy, laughing along with Sam as he drinks in every movement.

"Stop!" Sam laughs, grabbing his hand.

The pause in their movements is too long and with their eyes locked Dean forgets to breathe.

"Well, do you believe me?" He says once he remembers, "Or should I say it again?"

"I believe you." Sam says, shyly.

"What was that? I didn't hear it." Dean leans down, closer to hear him better.

"Shut up, you heard me." Sam is still smiling.

"How come you're always avoiding me lately?" Maybe now is not the time to talk about this, he knows Sam's good mood is fragile and he shouldn't be tempting it, but. He has to know.

"I'm not. I just... Feel weird around you."

"Weird?" Dean asks, confused.

"I don't know. Shut up." Sam says, but he's still smiling, even though it's a more nervous smile. "Just... Weird. Like I always want more of it. Don't ask me to explain it, I just know I shouldn't feel this way. I just do, though."

Dean blinks at him, digesting.

"It's probably cause we spend most of the time in small rooms with not enough space even to have personal space."

Nerd, Dean thinks.

But such a cute fucking nerd. He has no idea what he's even talking about but at least Sam isn't tired of him or hates him. He just feels weird, and Dean can totally understand that.

"You're such a weirdo." He says, not holding back his smile. Sam laughs weakly and Dean feels high on it.

Maybe that's why he leans in and kisses his forehead.

He feels Sam freezing under him but it's been so long since he let him this close, so damn long, he can't stop.

He kisses the tip of his nose.

Sam holds his breath.

Dean kisses his chin.

"De?" Sam's voice is so small, Dean is going insane.

When he meets his eyes again he notices Sam isn't looking at him with confusion or annoyance like he expected.

He decides to push his luck.

"What? I can't kiss you, anymore, either?" He says, testing the waters. "When you were little you wouldn't go to sleep without a goodnight kiss from me, remember that?"

Sam groans in embarassment, but he's still smiling, cheeks tainted pink.

"I was a kid. 'M not a kid anymore."

"So I shouldn't kiss you then." Dean raises his eyebrows.

"Why would you even want to kiss me?" Sam says, not meeting his eyes.

Dean can't even register the question. Seriously.

"Have you looked at yourself?" He says. "How could I not?"

He travels his eyes down Sam's body, his stomach drawing his attention again.

He stares for a moment too long.

"You can." Sam says, almost a whisper.

Dean meets his eyes, not sure what he was talking about. Maybe he got distracted, sue him.

Sam notices and rolls his eyes.

"Kiss me, I mean." He explains shyly "Miss your goodnight kisses, too."

And Dean feels himself buzz with excitement, fingers going numb from wanting to reach and touch and hold and do everything at once.

He sighs in frustration and lets his head drop forward, resting his forehead against Sam's stomach.

"You'll be the death of me." He says against Sam's skin. He hopes it's a promise. Only death could free him from this longing. Maybe not even death.

And there they are. The goosebumps.

He smiles. He can't help but kiss him, right on top of his bellybuton. He takes his time, too, letting his lips brush against the skin, breathing in Sam's scent.

Sam is quiet but Dean can hear his breath getting heavier.

He continues.

He kisses every bit of skin he can reach, lips brushing across Sam's stomach from one kiss to the other, never wanting to break the contact.

"Feels weird." Sam lets out a choked sigh.

"Bad weird?" Dean asks, looking up at him.

"Just weird." Sam says. "Probably bad weird. But I like it."

Dean looks at him, words escaping him.

Sam smiles sweetly and cups his face with his hand.

"I like everything you make me feel, De. Even though I hate that I like it sometimes."

Dean leans back to get a better view of Sam's expression, wants to register it in his brain so he can remember it the next time Sam avoids him again.

"Same here, Sammy." He says, simply, because he has no idea how to put into words the relief he's feeling.

He looks at Sam's stomach, places his hands on each side of his waist. Rubs his thumb against his skin.

"Fits." He says, more to himself.

Sam's hand finds his face again, this time under his chin, making him look up.

They're really damn close to each other. Dean's eyes stop on Sam's lips.

Sam is leaning in. His hand move from his chin to hold Dean's shoulder, both hands, and he closes his eyes and he continues to lean in and Dean feels like everything is happening way too slowly but he could never rush this.

Sam kisses him. It's nothing but a peck, but it's enough to awake the monster that's been dorment inside Dean's soul all this time and he can't stop himself from pulling Sam towards him by the neck, to kiss him better, to kiss him harder, to feel his lips against his tongue.

Sam tries to follow Dean's rythm, letting out small whimpers that make Dean even more hungry.

He guides him so they both move on the bed and he sits him on his lap. Sam's arms immediately lock around his neck.

They kiss for so long Dean starts to feel lightheaded, but he still wants more, because it's Sammy, and Sammy is kissing him back and he wants everything Sam gives him and he almost wants more.

After too long but not even close to long enough Dean lies them down, but they continue to trade kisses until Sam falls asleep first, Dean's hands firm on his waist, keeping them close enough they share each breath. Dean decides this, right here, like this, is where they belong. He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

[satoruhour]

hi t!!! i hope you're well. saw that your requests are open and i'm actually nervous bec this is my first time ever sending a request (⁠๑⁠•⁠﹏⁠•⁠)

may i request gojo being jealous or pouty over reader simping over a celebrity (nct maybe or mark lee especially) (i read that you used to write for nct hehehe) (i'm on nct rabbit hole for the past few days) or or or bassist!suguru teaching reader how to play the guitar maybe?

(am i doing this right? (⁠*⁠・⁠～⁠・⁠*⁠) )

anyway, have a good rest of your day/night!!!

a/n: omg my love im sorry this took so long! i hope you enjoy, i wrote both but ill post it separately :)

five hours. that’s how long your boyfriend’s been sulking and ignoring you and throwing mini tantrums every now and then. all because you liked to tune into youtube a little too much to look at a bunch of boys (“26, mind you! why do they need so many members anyway?” gojo would say) dance and sing at the same time.

“NCT U this, NCT Dream that, what about NCT Tokyo?” gojo paces the room the very first time you explain the whole concept to him — a group of unlimited members while some are sorted into specific sub-groups that represent specific concepts. gojo gets part of it, but doesn’t understand why they needed to be so attractive.

“they do have an NCT Tokyo, actually! newly formed!” you grin, knowing this information would only set him off, and since then, every comeback, every variety show, every photoshoot behind-the-scenes video that you blast on the living room television is enough to get your boyfriend in the most terrible mood.

but one thing that really sets the sorcerer off is your obsession with the canadian singer slash rapper, mark lee. you admired the work he put in — training since he was young and miles away from his family. he debuted at only sixteen and made a name for himself ever since then, always putting in his 200% for everything that he does. mark’s face shows up way more often than the group videos, gojo notices; a lot of the specific fancams that focus on his performance, or those fan-made compilation videos.

it’s not like you’ve been playing videos non-stop, either. you offered gojo to wave his white flag whenever you went to do chores, made lunch, did some reports, but none came.

so you might as well enjoy a few more videos until you break the ice. you reach hour four when you feel a little bad about the glares he’s giving the tv, seated on the far other end of the sofa while you enjoy the fancam videos of fact check.

curiously, out of the corner of your eye, there’s just a bit of change in your boyfriend’s expression, a scowl still deep on his face but his eyebrows are not as furrowed, eyes not as narrowed and squinted as he liked it to be. having dated since high school, you already know what’s going in that head of his — you know he finds mark at least a little attractive, but his pride wouldn’t let him tell you that.

“see anything you like?” you hear the audible gasp of gojo when you call out to him, letting the video go on not because you watched it a couple times already (while not entirely wrong) but you think gojo still outshines any k-pop idol on the big screen.

“no . .” he mumbles, sinking into himself more and more to prevent you from looking at his expression; but the foot-tapping, the secretive eyes, the head bobs all give him away. you know you’ve got him figured out when you scoot over and he doesn’t move, letting you untangle his fortress of shame shown in his body language.

“you can tell me he’s pretty, you know that right?” you giggle, lifting his arm to slot yourself under it. you fit just right upon his bent knees, looking up at the familiar frown on his face. gently, you peel away the blindfold on his face, greeted with the stark blue eyes that you find yourself falling deeper into each day.

“no comment.”

you laugh at his stubbornness, a hand caressing his cheek as you try to contain your smile. even now, he’s not doing a very good job of catching glances at the television and sulking.

“okay, then, i guess i’ll just continue to watch my videos, then, since tomorrow is an off-day.”

“no! i-i mean . . uh,” gojo is torn between admiring your favourite idol and staying jealous, but he can’t formulate words when you stare at him like that; a crinkle in your eyes and just a sliver of your teeth while your eyes sparkle under the apartment lighting.

“ugghhhh . . i don’t know,” gojo buries his face in his hands, “why do you like him so much anyway? do you like him more than me?”

you hum, striking a faux pose of pondering and your boyfriend only whines again at that, accidentally putting down his knees and your support from behind you is made void immediately. if it wasn’t for your arms that hung around his shoulder, you would’ve landed on his lap pretty harshly.

gojo only huffs after also doing his part: an arm replacing his thighs to keep you from falling. there you hang awkwardly, still faced with gojo’s adorable pout, “mark lee definitely couldn’t have done that. i’ll tell you that much.”

you roll your eyes with a big grin, “oh, you big jealous oaf, c’mere.”

without warning you latch yourself onto him, slightly tackling him into a violent embrace with your lips on his and gojo sighs indefinitely like he’s been waiting all day for it. he just lets you have your way with him, letting you kiss him like you’ve never done before. he hums into your mouth, submitting to you as you climb into his lap.

“so i’m assuming you like me more than him?”

your boyfriend teases as you pull away, hands caressing your sides and sending chills right down to your centre.

“do you really have to ask?” you giggle, fully taking off his blindfold, now, brushing your fingers through his hair. through the corner of your eye, you see him play with the left and right buttons possibly to find a spicy playlist you two could get down to (his words, not yours), but before it can even start:

the playlist’s interrupted by an advert for nature republic with mark’s voice that plays through the speakers, panning out to eight other boys on a beach and smiling as if they’re aware of the torment they harboured.

your sorcerer boyfriend merely throws his hands up in frustration (“oh, come on!”), melting into the couch with a permanent scowl while the living room only fills up with your loud laughter.

[n3xxs]

𓆩𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𓆪

General! Lilia x Gender neutral! Reader.

Fluff, a little bit of angst

SUICIDAL THOUGHTS AND USAGE OF SLEEP PILLS IN THIS FAN FICTION! IF IT TRIGGERS ANYONE PLS DON'T READ IT!

So I was a little bit in the hospital. Like a few days and I'm going to be set off tomorrow when I upload this or the day I am set off. While I was in like the hospital I thought: Lilia is cool let's make a fan fiction. Since I'm making a story of my own and it's about dreams I combined them so yeah.

__________________________________________________

𝑫𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒔. Some people say they have a meaning while other say they are meaningless. You were once one of those people to think that this dream situation was just some random thought. But this one dream has been repeating 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏. It came to the point where you didn't want to wake up. It's wasn't bad. Quite the opposite really. It was magical, something new, something to look forward in your lonely boring life with your pet.

So when you got back to your apartment you were more than happy to just go to sleep. You even skipped dinner. Again. At this point it became a problem but did you care? No not at all. You happily changed into your pyjamas and jumped on your bed hugging the pillow looking up at the ceiling and then burying your head in the pillow while slowly dozing off to sleep.

At the start the general didn't like you because you were human but as time passes he grew a liking to you although you liked him more than a friend that was for sure. What if you never woke up. What if you just stayed? No stop thinking like that it's not right.

When you appeared in the dream you saw 𝐡𝐢𝐦. You smiled widely "General!" He looked back and saw you. He was waiting for you. Like always. He couldn't believe he was falling for a human. But he couldn't say anything to you. You were dreaming and was gonna go away. One day you would find someone else and stop coming here. He got down on his feet taking off his helmet allowing his long dark hair to roam free as his red eyes looked down at your own. He let out a chuckle "You seem quite happy human" You nodded happily and held his hand guiding him to the small cottage you first found in your dream.

You loved baking but you didn't have time because of work so when you had this moment almost every day you always baked something small. Like now. You backed an apple pie. You handed it to him and sat down as he ate it. You knew how bad he was at cooking. You have tasted it once. You lied about you liking it "It's good as always human" you have a bright smile before it becoming a frown and taking the pie "Hey!" He tried reaching for it but was unable since you ran away. For being a general he really let you off the hook huh?

"What did I say about the human part young man?!" He looked at her dumbfounded "I'm probably 100 times if not more older than you" he crossed his arms. All she let out was a pout "I don't care Lilia" his name. Everytime your honey lips said that name. 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆. He wanted to kiss you. To make you his. 𝑻𝒐 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎 𝒚𝒐𝒖. He knew he couldn't though which made him feel...disappointed? Sad? No these were wear feelings he shouldn't feel as the general who leads an army through a war with humans. With 𝒉𝒆𝒓 kind. But she was different. She didn't want anything to do with the war.

You always hated wars. You thought they were useless other than taking the lives of others and Lilia knew that. He smiled at you "Okay [Name]" You felt your cheeks become red and let him eat the rest. You danced under the pretty moonlight as you always made him. You wanted to kiss him and just when you had the courage you woke up.

You woke up with a snap and groaned in frustration trying not to make a tantrum. Well now that wasn't fair! Why!? She knew a way. She went over to her cabinet and took out sleeping pills. She took one and went to fall asleep going into the same world this time being daylight "Lilia!" She yelled at him and he looked over seeing her "I love you!" You yelled in the distance and when he took his helmet you were met with a flustered and surprised expression. You loved 𝐡𝐢𝐦. You loved the person who commanded an army to do the thing you hate. That wasn't right. But you were only dreaming so why? You were stupid. And he was too.

He ran over to you. He was fast because before eyou realized you were in his arms and he was kissing you. You were taken aback but kissed him too. After you broke off the kiss you woke up.

You were happy but then you realized one thing. You weren't dreaming about this anymore. No. That wasn't right. You were supposed to see him every night. What if he thinks you were just using him. What I'd he thinks you were bluffing and making a joke out of him. You loved him. With all your heart. You needed to meet him.

As many pills you took all you did was end up in the hospital. You were laying down looking up and felt something. 𝑻𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔. You weren't one to cry so why? It was a dream so why we're you so attached? It wasn't fair. Why? He was her soulmate so why? You hated life for that. How unfair it was. You despised it. That's why you were so attached to him. He was making you feel like a princess. He danced with you. Played games with you. Told you his story. Held you bridal style when you were with a twisted ankle. He did everything no man in this world would do. He made life easier. That was why.

"Ok miss you will be set off tomorrow ok?" The doctor gave you a smile and you gave her a tired nod. You were tired of this life. You wanted it to end. Should you? No stop it. That was dumb you were gonna get over him wouldnt you? It wasn't so hard. The following day you were set off and fell asleep as normal. When you came in the same place you saw him. He was waiting for you. You started crying "Lilia" He immediately looked back at you.

It seemed as her teleported but he had a concerned exspession on his face. And then 𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔. 𝑯𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒄𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈. Your eyes widened and he hugged you kissing you all over your face "I thought you left! Where were you!?" He looked down at you "I just stopped dreaming. I'm sorry" And then he kissed you. Passionately "I want to try something. What If I make 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆?" Your eyes widened and your face flushed "Lilia what?" He smirked "If I make you mine would you stay. How about we test it"

You blushed but gave a nod. He held you bridal style to the cottage where he set you off on the bed. That night was full of the passion you always wanted. Once you woke up you were with your pet but there was one thing. You were still at the cottage and next to you was 𝑳𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒂. So it worked. She smiled and stood up changing and making breakfast. When Lilia woke up he looked at you dumbfounded but soon smiled brightly and went over to you burying his face in his neck "Your hair smells nice" You giggled and gave him a kiss. Finally you were gonna be happy with him. Forever. So dreams became true 𝒉𝒖𝒉?

__________________________________________________

Ok I know it's reallyyy short and I hate it for that I'm sorry. Forgive me 🙏🙏. I'll try better next time. It doesn't make sense but look. Is it fluffy? It is so shut it pls.

[seeingteacupsindragons]

William and Sherlock are both incredibly disconnected from their own emotions in a lot of ways, and learning to grow past that and reconnect with those parts of themselves is an important part of not only their arcs, but the series as a whole.

Their humanity and their emotions being tied to that is a really strong undercurrent in the series. This kind of undercurrent tends to be strongest when there are, well, nonhumans somewhere floating around in the story, but YuuMori rests its discussion on this without resorting to that trick.

Instead, it works a lot with the way these two main characters think about themselves, relate to themselves and others, how they treat and refer to others, and how they each behave. Both of them can easily be dehumanized because of the not-entirely-healthy way they deal with their emotions at first, and both of them get a handle on their emotions and living with them as they start to remember and participate more in their own humanity.

I also find interesting how they relate to their own emotions, and despite how disconnect they feel from them, how strongly they really influence their behavior.

Sherlock, on the surface, seems obviously emotional. When he likes people, they know. When he's grumpy, everyone knows. When he's excited and happy, everyone knows. He wears his heart on his sleeve, and even in the face of rejection, he never actually stops doing that.

He's a brave man, for that. Honestly, Sherlock is very bold and strong of heart. I think he has to be, for the way he restarted William's.

But being bold of heart doesn't mean you actually engage with your emotions. Equally, it can mean you ignore them.

Despite all I described above above, he's frequently confused and surprised by how he feels (see: being jealous of Mary, see: trying to deal with his frustration with William 'dumping' him briefly, etc.). He suffers through conflicting feelings about Mary, about William and Mycroft, and Irene and Hudson. He's not really that great at handling his feelings. And he acts out when he's upset with no real acknowledgment of what he's doing—he shoots his own wall, he insults John because he's mad, he barely apologizes and tries to avoid the earnest openness it requires he gets extremely high and damages his own beloved, expensive instrument...none of this is really engaging with his emotions or properly dealing with it.

But as we edge toward The Final Problem, John has done a lot of his work on Sherlock and Sherlock is opening up to John and admitting to his fears. He's still not handling them great—stop with the self-sacrifice, boys!—but he can at least understand and admit to how he feels. He can even tell John how he feels about William, and, hell, even Louis, even his uncertainties about their relationship. He knows and acknowledges all of the messiness in there.

William isn't there by The Final Problem. Oh, sure, he manages to tell Sherlock all the important things. But he's taking caveats to protect himself—with the letter, he assumed he'd die and not have to deal with the fallout. He gets there a little bit later, after he stops seeing himself in a role.

While Sherlock is obviously emotional, William tends to be more buttoned up and closed off. I suspect he would probably insist that he doesn't act emotionally at all. Fans sure do. Personally, well. You know those guys who get so caught up in, "No, I'm being logical," while they throw a tantrum when no one agrees with them?

Yeah, that's William.

He's caught up in an environment where everyone affirms his emotional impulses and tantrums as logical and brilliant, when he's really just...Feeling A Way and acting on it. He's upset, he's hurt, he's angry, and now everyone else has to deal with him trying to soothe himself because he literally does not realize these things are a Him problem. He has no idea how to cope with his feelings, because he can't even admit he's having them.

And I very truly don't think he realizes until after The Fall that he was so emotional and so unaware of the emotion that he couldn't try to compartmentalize or account for the bias to see things more clearly.

It's pretty explicit on that rooftop that William sees emotions and being connected to emotions as being human, as having a heart, and Sherlock saved him by reminding him of it. Sure, Sherlock did that way back when they first met, but it was also clear that even back then, that quick connection would lead to William's defeat and their exact situation—even if they hadn't gotten there yet.

Sherlock managed to throw away William's plans because he forced William to feel that restarted heart and actual engage in the world. To remember he's part of it, not being of pure logic who only interacts with the world and isn't of it. Every time William dehumanizes someone by calling them a devil or an angel or a hero, he's disconnecting them from their humanity—even himself.

He doesn't call anyone that afterward. He can finally see the world clearly, unclouded by his forced narrative, by the emptiness he was forcing on himself. The world is beautiful, and he's ready to engage with it fully now.

Because Sherlock reminded him he had a heart, that he was a living, breathing human, and sparked emotions he couldn't dismiss or avoid or pull away from.

Because to be human is to feel, and to be human is to be part of the world, and to be part of the world is to live.

[itspyon]

Now it's the aftermath, it's the next morning for me and really all I have to say it's that it'll be the same for me, it's not like he told me to stop doing something I was doing (except for the truthing), I'll still be making my arts and stuff

Last night I was like "noooo my bedtime fanfics", but now if people want to delete them because it makes them feel bad about it, the last thing I should be doing is throwing a tantrum

I'm a bit curious to hear your thoughts on fanfics, since it's still explicit content

i watched it back an couple of times and i think it's really important to understand the context it was said in

first, that he realised what being an obsessive fan could do to a person once he started meeting us. two, "sometimes you being weird makes me look weird". and three "even when people were saying it to my face"

he was talking about the optics of explicitly allowing nsfw content to exist. how onlookers perceive us and him, not even antis, simply people that are around on his comments or tags seeing very explicit stuff, but also how some fans take nsfw and shipping to an extreme making it their only personality trait

i genuinely don't think he was trying to stop the content from existing. he said in the same sentence that he has never really cared. but he is trying to craft a new image for himself where he wants to make clear that obsession and very direct sexual content and art are out of line

so what we should take out of it isn't "okay fully stop", it's "this has for a long time made you and me look bad and we need to agree to stop that". whether that is deleting the content or doing it only in private, whatever works works, he just wants us to have better optics with other people around us, and be healthier as a fanbase

[ellsieee]

I'm really going to miss SWM despite the sad ending. The actors really did a great job with what they had and could do. I knew the accident was going to hurt me, and that it would be a OE, but I did not expect it to be more like a BE. More about that later. At least we got a whole episode of happy boys before all the shit hit the fan.

This scene really touched me. Su Yu pushes Wu Bi to achieve his dreams and is there to support him all the way. We also get another hint of what Wu Bi's time capsule wish is. My guess is that he wished for he, Su Yu and Doudou to always be together. Normally it's Wu Bi who is always saying he doesn't want to be separated from Su Yu, but this time, it's Su Yu telling Wu Bi not to leave him, pulling on Wu Bi's heartstrings. 🥹

Why does Wu Bi have a picture of his and Su Yu's epic bike ride framed? Did his mother draw that? Did he get the idea from her? Wu Bi, I have so many questions...

Su Yu wrote a wish card for Wu Bi too. 🥹 I am not ok. 😭

One last shout out to the shipper girl. She knows. 🤭 I'm glad they didn't write her as a crazy person, inserting herself into Wu Bi and Su Yu's relationship and doing a bunch of weird stuff to get them together.

Arghhhh the foreshadowing! When Su Yu said that, my heart filled with dread even though I already knew what was coming. No. They're going to ride their bike together forever ok. 😭

Wu Bi is so completely smitten with Su Yu. It's all heart eyes, all the time. They are so cute. Was this the reward Su Yu was talking about? I thought it would be something 🔞, but taking Wu Bi on a date might motivate him even more. I mean what kind of equestrian center has prince charming equestrian outfits? 🤭 I think they look great, but this totally looks like a date (Doudou is just there to make it look less gay).

Wait a minute... that's not what the director demonstrated! I wanted to see that peck on the lips! Please tell me they shot two versions and we'll see the uncut version later. 🙏

Psycho alert! 🚨 Mo Yi was hella creepy here. I was a bit scared he would actually hurt Su Yu. You can feel all the resentment he has for Su Yu. First his ex-gf wanted to be with Su Yu rather than him. Second, Wu Bi has chosen Su Yu over him and is acting like a little bitch towards him. Not defending him, but I honestly don't think Mo Yi would have felt such hatred and resentment if Wu Bi hadn't started being really rude and bratty towards him after falling in love with Su Yu.

The ultimate sacrifice. 😭 Wu Bi knew there was no way to stop the car safely so he chose to protect Su Yu by crashing the car on the driver's side. Even though I knew the accident was going to happen, it still hurt so much. Wu Bi will always protect Su Yu no matter what. I read some comments scolding Su Yu for sleeping even though he knew something was wrong with the car. My interpretation is that Su Yu wasn't sleeping, he was worried too, but he trusted Wu Bi completely, and Wu Bi told him to rest because he can handle it, so he did. The level of trust and confidence you need to have in your partner for that is just...

I didn't notice this the first time watching because I was too busy wailing, but Wu Bi hugged Su Yu to protect him. FUCK. 😭😭😭😭 For all the unreasonable jealousy and temper tantrums, Wu Bi really is the best boy.

This is so painful, I can't screencap bloody Wu Bi anymore. It killed me that Wu Bi woke up for a second to stare into Su Yu's eyes when Doudou called to complete their OT3, only to fall into a comma again.

Argh this ending! Is Wu Bi alive or dead? I didn't notice that the doctor nods a little when speaking to Su Yu the first time around. Doctors usually only nod when the operation was successful, so I guess Wu Bi is alive but what about the empty house? Only Wu Bi's stuff is still there, meaning that everyone left him? How is this not a BE? 😭

Of course this makes sense as a set up for a season 2 but I feel like they still could have given us a conclusion. Something like Wu Bi lives, but Su Yu left because he knew Mo Yi was crazy and he wanted to protect Wu Bi. Then the new season would be about how the boys find their way back to each other. It wasn't necessary to leave viewers hanging and heartbroken. 😢 And with 24 episodes of 30+ minutes runtime, I felt the team had enough time to tell a complete story. It shouldn't matter that book 1 of the novel ended like the series because the drama should stand on its own outside of the novel. Besides, wouldn't it have been safer just to film the whole thing at once to avoid the risk of not being allowed to film part 2?

There's a lot of doubt that S2 will actually happen, but someone asked Mo Yi's actor if there will be a 2nd season and he said that there should be. I'm not going to get my hopes up too much before there is official news that everyone is shooting again to spare myself any disappointment, but of course I am hoping for a second season. In the meantime, I hope cjd will release the uncut version of the series that she teased about before. I really do love this series so much even though I was disappointed with the ending. I'll have to treat SWM like MODC and skip the end. SWM only has 22 episodes. Yup. 🤡

[simplepotatofarmer]

Hi! Sorry if this is a bit deep and ramble-y but it’s just something that’s been on my mind. Have you ever doubted defending dream?

Sometimes I feel like I’m wrong for feeling bad for him. I feel like I get where some ppl are coming from when they say why they hate him but then am horrified by what they do with that hatred.

I keep telling myself that it’s normal to feel empathy for someone that you could see was facing a lot of shit. I felt bad for him in April, but also felt bad for feeling bad because everyone was saying how he was a horrible person who deserved horrible things. Looking back, and reading some ppls reflections on it, it’s much more obvious how April specifically was just an obscene hate campaign, but even then I have moments of doubt just because of how universal the idea of dream always being in the wrong seems to be, especially in this community.

Even with the most recent incident, where I did step away for a while, I felt bad for him and his friends for the things their fans were doing. But then I also felt bad for feeling bad because so many ppl on here say that the extreme means are necessary.

Even though I am more of a causal fan, I don’t want to live in an echo chamber and I think the ppl in the fandom who I do follow (like you) are pretty rational about everything. I’ve tried following other ppl but there’s just this everpresent hatred of him that I don’t like seeing everyday on my dash. But I again feel wrong for feeling that way. It’s all just frustrating.

i was going to sleep but this is actually a really important ask, in my humble opinion.

the short answer is no.

the long answer is absolutely not, i've never regretted defending him over the things i have defended him over because even if he was a terrible person and not like, a dude none of us know personally who is not perfect and makes mistakes and is sometimes a fucking idiot, those would still be things i would defend him for.

defending someone against absolutely vile queerphobia is never something i'd regret because it's quite simply just the right thing to do. erasing someone's identity because you don't like them is wrong, point blank. blair white or caitlynn jenner are no less deserving of respect as trans women than any other woman.

defending dream against ableism is always gonna be the right thing because you don't have to be a good person to deserve not to be treated awfully due to your neurodivergence.

and like, there's been things i've defended dream on where i don't completely agree with him. i think he's been a little baby sometimes when it comes to mcc but when people were saying shit like he was '''manipulating''' us and noxcrew because he said he didn't want to play in mcc if he had to play buildmart, yeah i'm going to point out that's a batshit take. someone venting and being frustrated isn't manipulation, he was just throwing a tantrum. touch grass yada yada.

and when it comes to my belief that people can be racist in the past and change, that still applies! i still think dream actively tried to be better! he grew up in a bigoted environment, is open about his racist past (and fucking uses the word racist/bigoted, thank god) and is actively working to be better.

that's always going to be true and frankly, i think it's not only weird but extremely telling that a LOT of white people who had formerly defended him suddenly switched up. it just shows that it was never about the harm done and poc but whether or not you liked some white boy.

but i digress.

the thing is, anon, i get why you feel this way. this fandom and online culture as a whole lately is wrought with the belief that consumption of media is a reflection of your morals. that consuming the right media and being a fan of the right sort of person is akin to activism.

it's not. it doesn't fucking matter. there's no righteousness in hating dream. you can certainly be valid in hating him! there's a lot of reasons to dislike him or hate him or feel he shouldn't have a platform. i might not agree with it all but i can see it.

the problem is.... i see why you feel like this and that is genuinely so sad and messed up because how did we get to the point where queerphobia or ableism or body shaming is totally okay as long as it's a certain group and to where people doubt themselves when they think it's wrong! it is wrong but i completely understand why anyone would second guess themselves.

as it stands right now, i don't regret it because i feel it's right. i'm always going to feel it's right.

if something comes out tomorrow and it turns out that it really is more than some instagram dms and the questionable choice of giving out his private snapchat, then i won't be defending him.

but i still wouldn't regret any of my past defense because my defense isn't conditional, my belief that people can grow isn't conditional, and my opinion on things like fandom's queerphobia and misuse of terms like 'grooming' would still stand.

[niuniente]

YES THAT'S THE THING! The only negative thing I have heard about Buffy since it started airing in the late 90's is that Buffy always goes back to Angel, no matter what, and it can get boring.

After all, this is an extremely popular series. A cult classic. It has won lots of prizes and gotten nominations. Has gotten books, comics, a movie. Angel even got his own series!

And here I am, not believing what I'm seeing because the writing just sucks SO BAD AND MAKES NO SENSE and no, you can't say it's because the series is old.

This all is happening in S5. There have been inklings over the course that this series is indeed made by a man, because only a man would write romance or women like that. Nothing super big, just slightly annoying like "oh my god, no woman would actually think or do that".

The problem in S5 is that the series/creator clearly can't either understand what a healthy devotion is OR/AND can't commit to write Spike in one way only. He constantly contradicts himself without any given reason, which in this case would only be a severe mental health issue.

Spike is pictured as this lovesick puppy who would do anything for Buffy, a bit shy and really taking his time to gather his courage to confess his feelings, and who is also making sure that his actions won't hurt Buffy or her family, even if it would hurt or kill him. Like, this soft, gentle, sensitive man who will do anything to keep his lover safe and would never harm them in anyway. Every mother's dream son-in-law.

But Spike is also, at the very same time, pictured from this male perspective of a lovesick man; oh, isn't it romantic how he steals Buffy's clothes to smell them, has built an altar for her, has a Buffy mannequin at his crypt he treats violently when he gets angry, stalks her around her home because he can't help his feelings, how Spike asks her current girlfriend to roleplay Buffy in bedroom because otherwise he doesn't want to have sex with her, how he commissions this personal Buffy sex toy for his own pleasure and orgasms only, and how he kidnaps Buffy and tells Buffy he kills her if he can't have her? Oh, what romantic devotion, this man is SO in LOVE!

AND HE KEEPS GOING BACK AND FORTH! THIS EPISODE, HE WANTS TO KILL BUFFY. NEXT EPISODE HE ALMOST GETS KILLED HIMSELF BECAUSE HE WOULD NEVER ALLOW ANYTHING BAD TO HAPPEN TO BUFFY. WELL NOW HE STALKS BUFFY AND WANTS HER FOR HIMSELF ONLY, BUT NO, WAIT, HE'S ACTUALLY PROTECTING BUFFY'S FAMILY BECAUSE HE DOESN'T WANT TO BRING ANY SADNESS TO BUFFY.

Like, who the hell is he? Do you want him to be the every woman's dream man or every woman's nightmare? He can't be both at the same time, not without an explanation and no, him being a vampire and sensitive isn't a valid explanation for such drastic differences.

And BUFFY? Sweet lord, Buffy! She's all just "eew, no" about this whole ordeal of having an obsessive man who has killed two Slayers (and is apparently the only vampire who has ever won against a Slayer) after her. No worry in the world. No concern that this man could kill or rape her, or hurt her family in his temper tantrum? Just scolds him by saying "gross" and "leave me alone".

And here I thought the biggest issue for the upcoming Buffy and Spike romance would be Angel's existence.

Of course, the series is probably going to brush all this freaky stuff off like "Nah, never happened and look, he was just so desperately in love and Buffy is so very strong she is not afraid of anyone and has no sense of self-protection as a woman".

I just don't understand how this level of character writing is considered even remotely plausible, not to mention something to be celebrated as an excellent cult classic?

Maybe it's just the Season 5. Maybe I'm just too old. And too sad. I just want better for Buffy and Spike, separately and together.

EDIT: OK TURNS OUT THE CREATOR OF THE SERIES HATED SPIKE AND HIS ACTOR FOR MAKING SPIKE A FAN FAVORITE AND RUINING HIS ARTISTIC PLANS, AND THAT THE CREATOR IS BASICALLY JUST A MAN SIZE WALKING DICK. A clear attempt to make fans hate Spike in S5 writing.

[missmaywemeetagain]

Broken Glass Chapter 6 (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x OC Reader)

Character/Fandom: Elvis Presley - Elvis (2022)

Read More Here - Broken Glass Masterlist! 💔🥂❤️‍🩹

TW: Some SMUT (HUZZAH! finally! but it's not what you think, sorry 😇). Anita. Angst. Grief. Temper tantrums/angry E. Some small/little/subby!e & caretaker!Lori. Some historical inaccuracies.

Tags: Fake relationship. Slow burn. Angst. (Sort of) enemies to lovers. Hurt/Comfort.

Rating: Mature/NSFW, 18+, so minors Do NOT Interact   ||      Word Count: 10.9k

A/N: Lord have freakin' mercy, I'm sorry this took so damn long, but the next chapter is FINALLY HERE! For a variety of reasons, this was a doozy for me to get through, so thanks for your patience. ❤️ It's a bit of a rollercoaster of ALL THE THINGS. You want some smut, it's there! Tropes? You got it! Every emotion under the sun? Yep! It is messy? In more ways than one...😏 You've been warned. (And let me know what you think!!)

And thank you SO MUCH for the encouraging comments and support coming in about this work. I was really afraid no one was interested in this one because it's such a slow burn, but y'all are giving it some love and that makes my heart sing! ❤️ Thank you for continuing to reblog, like, comment, and ask! FYI the taglist is being WEIRD and I don't know why so I'm sorry if you don't get tagged and should be!!

Feel free to visit my Wattpad or AO3, if you prefer those reading experiences! xoxoxo

He can’t stop thinking about you.

It’s annoying, really, considering all he’s got to focus on right now. Smiling for the crowds. Getting home. Interviews and pictures. Staying upright. Breathing.

Elvis closes his eyes and immediately thinks about the way your fingers splayed through his hair.

Stop it.

Your thumb catching his lower lip.

This isn’t the time.

Oh, it most certainly is not. He’s finally a stone’s throw from home, working his way through the waiting crowd at the train station, trying to ignore the way his heart is racing and his breath short.

Your hand presses his lower back, urging him forward.

He swears you have some sort of sixth sense in regard to how he’s feeling, or maybe you are really just that good at your job. Unfortunately, all he can think about is the warmth of your body pressed against him and the cool touch of your soft lips on his.

More than likely, you are just a distraction from how emotional he’s feeling. Being back in Memphis, as unusually cold and snowy as it happens to be, has him some kind of way. Perhaps it is the presence of his hometown fans. Maybe it’s the kindness of Gary Pepper, the young man with cerebral palsy that heads one of his fan clubs, when he says that he’s sorry there aren’t more people to greet him—"It’s a school day, after all.”

Biting his lip, Elvis fears he’s noticeably choked up at that. “I’ll see ya later, pal,” he manages to get out and makes note to find some way to thank the man properly in the future. It’s a testament to people like Gary that he still has fans at all after being away for two years. None of this was promised, neither is it continued to be.

Elvis wonders if he deserves it.

As overwhelmed by the crowds as you’ve been so far, it shocks him when you break ranks to kneel down and introduce yourself to Gary. There is a caring kindness about you in that moment that threatens to break his heart and he’s not sure exactly why. It strikes him that it’s because you have been so walled off behind that tower you’ve built around yourself and for the second time in the last 24 hours, he’s gotten a glimpse of who you might truly be on the other side of it.

And he has the strangest feeling that he is the prodigal prince returning home from a far-off land, with you, his new princess, already tending to his subjects as if they were her own.

A shuddering breath rolls through him at that.

Once again, you notice, shooting him a veiled look of concern. Saying your goodbyes to Gary, you grab Elvis’ hand and press along. You squeeze and he feels like crying all over again.

Get it together, Presley.

He breathes and continues forward, smiling away the feelings that threaten to consume him whole. Bright and cheerful, he plasters a grin across his face as they finally make it to Captain Woodward’s police cruiser. Your hand releases his and he suddenly loathes the fact that he’s pushed into the front seat (Better for the pictures, son, he hears the Colonel say).

But he keeps smiling and waving as they pull away. The truth is, he is happy to be home, it’s just clouded by the unease of the last few days and the fact that he might be goddamn dying. Not to mention the part where he’s not exactly sure what his place in the world is now.

And thirty minutes later, when they roar through the iron music gates, his colonial mansion coming into view for the first time in 18 months, his heart pounds.

Home.

It’s just family and close friends now, which has him sighing with relief as he hugs and kisses them all, yet a tension pulls in his chest. He realizes it’s because one very important person is missing.

Elvis had done a valiant job the past year and a half making sure that he stuffed down his grief in all the right moments and only let it out in lonely hours in the middle of the night. He was too damn sensitive for his own good, and God knows there was no room for that in the US Army, not if he wanted to fit in. So, instead he filled his days with maneuvers and his evenings with music and his nights with getting his dick wet, and there wasn’t much time in between to ponder much else.

But now that he’s here, and she most certainly is not, his mama’s absence hits him with the force of a freight train. A sob threatens to escape, his throat closing around it to keep it at bay, and it feels as though the wind is knocked out of him. Every ounce of exhaustion from the last week seems to close in on him all at once, and the only person who could truly soothe him is dead and gone.

The gentle press of your hand against the small of his back has him blinking and turning to you. He almost forgot your presence in the chaos, which he knows is incredibly rude of him because you are in a strange place with strange people, but somehow, once again, you just seem to know he’s not okay.

He needs space. He needs to breathe. He needs to get his shit together because this day is far from over and he’s already spent.

“Y’all, y’all, I need a minute to get ready for the onslaught of reporters that are on their way. We’ll pick this up tonight!” he shares loudly.  “Lemme give you the grand tour,” he then whispers to you, taking your hand and yanking you past the white columns and into the house.

The smell hits him first. It’s familiar, yet there is something stale about it. Truth be told, he hadn’t lived here long before he was drafted, but it’s the house that called to him, the one meant for his mama. And now that he’s back, he feels certain she’ll reappear the moment he opens a door or rounds a corner.

Your eyes grow wider with every room as he pulls you through hallways and up and down stairs. His speech is as rapid as his tour, and he doesn’t fully stop until he’s in front of his mother’s room, the one he requested remain untouched until he got home. But now that he’s faced with it, he cannot open the door. He falls into a paralyzed silence.

“Elvis?” you ask quietly. “Are you alright?”

After a moment, he clears his throat. “Um, I...this is—was—my mother’s room.”

You pause, then nod. “I know it’s little more than words, but I am so sorry,” you say, squeezing his hand. It prompts him to look at you, and he finds your gaze knowingly, openly solemn. The look of someone who understands loss.

He does little more than tilt his head at you in question, and you sigh deeply in response, as if gathering strength. He knows that sigh, too.

“My mother died when I was fourteen,” you finally speak, “and she was…my everything.”

Fourteen? Dear God. He thought losing mama at 23 was awful, but he has no idea who he’d even be if she’d been gone at fourteen. The weight of just the thought feels impossible.

“Oh, honey,” Elvis manages to get out and suddenly he understands so much more about you, about those walls you keep around yourself. He wants to weep for you.

You shake your head. “It is what it is,” you say, trying to brush away obvious emotion. “I just want to let you know…I understand, is all.”

“Thank you,” he says, squeezing your hand back.

“Is it the same? Her room, I mean?” you ask suddenly.

He’s surprised by the question but nods.

“That’s nice. I mean…it’s nice that you still have some of her here,” you say in a faraway voice, looking at the closed door.

It’s a strange thing to say, and you seem to realize it the moment it’s out of your mouth.

“I’m sorry, that’s…I just…my father got rid of all my mother’s things within days of her passing. I only have a few small things of hers that I managed to steal away before he wiped her existence from our house,” you say so quietly it’s almost a whisper, a lingering bitterness in your tone.

“Little bird…” he starts, but then falters at what to say. His heart aches for you as much as it does for himself, and he feels an anger towards your father that feels awfully similar to the anger at his own when Vernon shacked up with Dee not months after his mother’s death.

A father’s betrayal is no small thing.

It makes more sense to him now why a such a young girl would throw herself into her work and schooling as you have. There’s an inkling of understanding as to why you dropped your entire life on a dime to come work for him when you don’t even care for his music or his fame. But something tells him there’s much more to your story than this tragedy, though by the way you shake your head and shutter off those pesky emotions, he guesses he won’t learn more today.

“What’s next?” you ask, your face now a picture of calm.

“The bedroom,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows to lighten the mood.

Your scoff and eye roll tells him he’s on the right track.

His door is open when they reach the suite, he’s guessing to air it out for his return. He ushers you in quickly, then shuts the door behind him. The plush, dark décor instantly comforts him, the sound proofing of the room shutting out the hustle and bustle downstairs. He can’t help the sigh of relief that leaves his lips.

Suddenly, he can’t get out of his dress uniform fast enough. It’s strangling him. He wrestles out of the jacket, stripping himself of the shirt and tie just as quickly, leaving him in his white undershirt and pants.

“I take it you’re done with the uniform?” you say with a touch of sarcasm and a raise of your brow.

“I’d burn it if I could,” he replies with a snort, “but I gotta wear the damn thing for the Sinatra show in a few weeks.”

You hum and nod. “How are you feeling? Let’s take your vitals,” you say, gesturing to the edge of the bed, and turning round to look for something. You find it in a pile of suitcases left near the door, which must have been brought up while he was giving you the tour.

“Exhausted. Wired,” he answers, flopping on the bed. Oh, how he’s missed his own bed.

“Well, you should get some rest. It’s been a very long few days.” He sits up when you come in close in that serious way you do when it’s time to do your job. His heart begins to race. Faint hints of rose water and jasmine fill his nostrils as you bend down towards him with all your tools in tow. It’s part of the scent that he’s learning is distinctly you and it has him flashing back to holding you close back on the train. When your head leans close to secure the blood pressure cuff, he can almost feel again the way his lips brushed over your skin, how they pressed into your lips…

The thought has him breathless now that he has you in his bedroom.

Elvis shakes the thought away because he shouldn’t be thinking about you like that at all. It was just a rehearsal, a way to get you more comfortable around him, and it had worked. You hadn’t jerked away from him all day and even seemed to tolerate his presence somewhat pleasantly. Or at least without outward distain. He wasn’t about to screw up your progress by having actual feelings towards you. Because that would be ridiculous.

Too bad his body isn’t getting the memo.

“Your pulse and blood pressure are higher than I’d like,” you tsk down at him, “and you seem a little out of breath.”

Case in point.

“You need to rest, Elvis.” You turn away, unknowingly leaving him wanting.

Lord have mercy. He needs to get a grip because right now all he wants is a tussle with you in this big, inviting bed. Instead, he shakes it off and clears his throat.

“No time, little bird. Gotta get ready for all those reporters showing up here in…” he checks his watch, “less than two hours.”

“Another press conference? Elvis, the doctor talked about this—you have to slow down. This isn’t good for you,” you bristle, putting your hands on your hips. For whatever reason, he finds it devastatingly cute. A slow grin begins to spread across his face, but he stops himself before it rankles you.

He rises from the bed, stepping into you, drawn to you in some inexplicable way. He resists the deep urge to grab you by the waist and pull you in tight. You’d probably slap him silly if he did.

“I know, honey, I promise I’ll rest after the party tonight.”

Your brow furrows and the defeated look on your face has him chuckling a little. “There’s a party tonight? You can’t possibly be serious.”

“I never joke about parties,” he says, trying to match your serious face, unable to stop himself from grabbing your upper arms.

You look like you are ready to rip into him but then your demeanor changes completely to one of concern.

“Elvis, this isn’t going to work if you don’t make some concessions. There’s only so much I can do for you if you refuse to help yourself,” you say softly, looking up at him with those crystal blue eyes of yours.

He can deal with your annoyance, but the concern in your tone has him shifting uncomfortably.

You’re right, of course you are, but he doesn’t want to think about how shitty he feels or how dramatically he’s going to need to change things if he wants to get better.

If he wants to live.

“Alright, honey. How ‘bout after the press conference I take a good rest?” he concedes.

“How about that and ending the party at a decent hour?” you add not letting up on the way your eyes bore into him.

A challenge.

It warms his blood the way you stand your ground, bartering with him to get him to do what you want, both in a frustrating way and in a way that doesn’t help his urge of wanting to ravish you with kisses. He pushes that tantalizing thought away as quickly as possible, before it gets him into trouble.

Honestly, Elvis wants to fight you on the subject because it’s his life and his house and his party, dammit, but instead, for whatever reason, he growls out a low, “Fine.”

You nod, seemingly satisfied for the moment.

“Now I have a date with my shower. You can freshen up after I’m done, darlin’,” he says, turning on his heel and stripping off his undershirt as he grabs his kit and heads into the bathroom.

“Okay…wait, what?” he hears your voice pitch up and pokes his head back out as he strips his pants.

“I said you can have the bathroom after me, honey…unless you want to join me?” he quirks a brow. Blood rushes straight to his crotch at the thought of you in the shower with him. He’s very glad for the fact that the rest of his body is concealed by the door, otherwise you might see how Little Elvis perks up at the idea.

“Join y—I—no, Elvis!” you sputter. Your cheeks blaze red, letting him know your mind likely went where his did, which sends a tingle down his spine. “I mean, shouldn’t I just get ready in my room?”

Oh. Well, this should be interesting.

“Honey, you are in your room.”

You blink, looking utterly confused. “Excuse me, what?” You look around, eyes landing on your suitcase in the corner.

“Well, the doc said I needed 24-hour care, little bird. What if somethin’ happens when I’m sleepin’? It’s not gonna do me much good if you are way down the hall when I need ya,” he says matter-of-factly, watching the realization finally hit you. “That and you’re supposed to be my girl, and no girl of mine is sleepin’ in a different room, if we’re bein’ honest,” he chuckles.

The look of fear that crosses your features sobers him quickly, however.

“I-I-I can’t—where will I sleep?” He can tell you are trying to keep your panic at bay, albeit unsuccessfully.

“In that giant bed right over ‘dere,” he points.

Your eyes go wide, the blood draining from your blushed cheeks, and he’s suddenly afraid you might pass out.

Elvis hastily grabs his robe hanging on the back of the door and throws it on over his briefs before crossing the room to you. He doesn’t want to spook you, nor does he want you keeling over, so he leads you to a chair in the corner. Making himself the least threatening he can think to, he kneels in front of you.

You are frozen, staring at the bed with the most trepidation he’s ever seen of a woman in his room.

When he speaks, it’s nice and soft, “Hey, hey, little Lo’, it’s gonna be fine, now. Remember, I ain’t never gonna hurt ya, okay? I’m guessin’ you didn’t think about the particulars when you signed on for the job, now didja? Not an innocent young thing like yourself, ‘course not.”

You shake your head.

“But I promise, I ain’t out to do anythin’ bad to you, honey. I won’t touch you. I won’t hurt you. And just look at that bed—it’s—it’s stupidly big. You can be on one side and me on the other and fit a whole ‘nother bed between us, right?”

You seem to be doing the calculations in your head and finally nod, your shoulders relaxing a little.

“And don’t you worry your little head, I always sleep in pajamas,” he adds, trying to ease you further.

“Oh, Madone, I hadn’t even thought about that…” you start to spiral, wringing your hands in your lap.

“And now ya don’t hafta!” he says a little too cheerfully, trying to steer you back on course.

You keep nodding, as if convincing yourself this is going to work, and he desperately wishes he could put you more at ease. It’s strange, watching you build those walls back up around yourself, brick by brick.

“Yes. Okay. This is fine. This is just part of the job. It makes the most logical sense,” you murmur. Your eyes closed, your chest rises and falls with a few deep breaths.

When your eyes finally open again, they are relatively calm.

“Now, I’m gonna go get ready. There’s room in those drawers over there for your things, and that closet there is yours for the takin’, so you make yourself at home,” he says, showing you what is now your space.

You gulp but nod in understanding.

“Are you gonna be alright, Lo’?” he asks, though he’s not sure he wants to hear the answer. A desperate part of him wants you to be comfortable here, wants to please you, though he’s not entirely sure why. You’re here to help him, not the other way around.

“Of course. It just…took me aback is all. I’ll adjust,” you say, gallantly, obviously still trying to convince yourself.

“Okay, darlin’.” Elvis pats your hand gently and your eyes meet his with a cautious understanding. Crisis averted, he stands and heads back into the bathroom to clean up.

Based on your hesitation to be intimate on the train, Elvis kicks himself a little for not having the forethought to warn you about the sleeping arrangements, but his mind has been so wrapped up in his own problems, he just didn’t think about it. That and it’s been a while since any girl has so blatantly not wanted to spend the night in the same room with him.

Relishing the heat of the water of the shower unknotting his tired muscles, he tries not to let his ego get in the way about the whole situation. It becomes clearer by the minute that your hesitation around him is less about him specifically and seems much more to do with your experiences and upbringing.

Or so he hopes.

Not that it matters…she’s here for a job, not for romance.

His brain whirrs with a multitude of thoughts as he finishes getting ready. It feels strange being here, dressing in normal clothes, getting ready for a press conference. He thought it would be harder somehow to flip back into being the Elvis Presley. And it’s true, he’s not quite the kid who left. He’s hardened some. There is a man looking back at him in the mirror now, and behind the sparkle of excitement in his deep blues lies the ghost of some cold, hard truths he doesn’t particularly want to face.

Maybe that’s why he chooses an all-black ensemble, playing with texture versus color. He pulls on charcoal trousers, just a little bit lighter than the rest of what he’s picked out. The thick, high-collared black sweater he pulls over his head is offset by the deep, rounded plunge that exposes his chest. Placing a gold medallion there helps add a bit of pizazz to the monochrome get-up, and he finishes with a boxy black jacket that broadens his shoulders and that’s just shy of thick enough to be a coat.

Elvis swoops his chestnut hair up into a somewhat familiar style and notices he doesn’t really need much around the eyes—he’s so damn tired, the darkness that rims them gives him the effect of wearing makeup when he isn’t. His color is up at least, though by the way his heart zips and his body warms, he’s wondering if it is another fever doing the job.

Whatever the cause, he looks pretty damn good, and right now that’s more than he could hope for.

Exiting the bathroom, he sees you hanging the clothes from your suitcase. There aren’t many, he notices.

Gonna have to take her on a shopping spree, he thinks excitedly, by the looks of your simple and conservative wardrobe. If there’s something he loves besides women and music, it’s buying clothes. The thought of dressing you up to match him, fashioning you to him, and being able to give you things you’ve never had sends a thrill vibrating through him. He can only imagine how amazing you’d look all gussied up based on how pretty you already are in your conventional and minimalist style.

You must sense his eyes because you turn and catch his stare. Your eyes widen the slightest bit at his appearance and take him in from head to toe with what he can’t tell if it’s a critical or admiring look.

“Whadya think?” he smiles broadly, turning around with his arms out.

After a moment, you speak, “Well, considering I’ve only seen you in a hospital gown or your uniform, I’d have to say you look…acceptable.” Your eyebrow quirks with a hint of judgement.

Acceptable?

He can’t help but chuckle a little at how unphased you seem to be, and he wonders if you truly see him this way or if you are just hiding behind those walls of yours. Maybe it’s a little of both.

“You might be my toughest audience, little bird, so I’ll take that as a compliment,” he laughs.

You nod. Then your eyes flit to the bathroom. It’s subtle, but he takes the hint quickly.

“It’s all yours, darlin’. I-I’ll, uh, I’ll be downstairs,” he says, stumbling through his words the moment he thinks about you being naked in his bathroom. He’s going to have to get over that, quickly, or else he’s gonna get himself in trouble right quick.

He turns to leave the room and is halfway out the door when he hears you speak again.

“Thank you, Elvis,” you say quietly.

He turns to you, seeing a genuine yet embarrassed look on your face.

“For being so patient with me. I know this can’t be easy, having me…invade your life like this,” you continue, waving a hand.

“I appreciate that little bird, just like I know it ain’t easy for you either. And you…you can invade my life all you want, darlin’,” he says with a flirty grin, trying to lighten the mood, but it comes out more breathless and endearing than kidding.  

Your unreadable but poignant stare rakes over him for a moment, sending a cascade of shivers down his spine. Then, you blink and look away, and it’s gone, whatever it was that ignited this feeling inside him. You seem to be doing a lot of that lately, and he’s not entirely sure how he feels about it, to be honest.

“I’ll see you downstairs,” he says, clearing his throat and nodding before leaving you and closing the door behind him.

Sweat has gathered just above his upper lip. Elvis isn’t sure if it’s from knowing that you are currently undressing in his room or if it’s from the fever. Either way, he wipes it away, takes a deep breath, and makes his way downstairs to get ready for the reporters to arrive.

*

The interview itself is relatively short, a bunch of men crammed into Daddy’s office out back, but before and after the cameras follow him around the estate. He’s charming and polite as he eats bits off a huge fan made, guitar-shaped cake. He poses next to a Christmas tree from two years ago. He laughs and is pleasant and does everything he needs to do to make them happy.

Luckily, this part comes relatively easy for him. There’s no need to fake being excited to be home or for the movies and albums and appearances he’s already been signed up to do. No, his trepidation comes from other things. Like if he will be well enough to follow through on his commitments. Or if he can keep his declining health from the very people who surround him, so gleefully eating up his every word and gesture. And then there is the maneuvering around all the questions about the girls.

He knows Cilla ain’t gonna be happy when she sees this interview with the way he’s got to brush her off, but with recent developments and being back stateside, he has bigger fish to fry. Honestly, the little girl that captured his attention so fiercely in Germany feels a world away, almost like he dreamt her. So much has happened, and while he loves her and has a deep need to mold her to him, there is no way she is ready for any of this. Especially not now.

Plus, there is Anita to consider. Lovely little Nita, who promised to be good for him. The woman he wrote sweet promises to from across the sea as he entertained a multitude of other women in the meantime. The girl his mother begged him to settle down with.

Elvis thinks he should feel worse than he does for fooling around, but what was he supposed to do? Be celibate for two years? It wasn’t remotely realistic, and the situation was made worse by his grief over mama. He needed the company. He wasn’t gonna be sorry for that. But he doesn’t feel great about the lying or for quite accidentally falling for Cilla because Nita will most certainly see that as a betrayal. She already suspected as much in their last conversation, and they’ve been awfully cool with each other since, so he’s not even sure there is much of a relationship to come back to. But he has love for Anita, he knows that.

Sex is one thing, and love is another.

Unfortunately for him, he has the bad habit of being in love with more than one woman at once, most of the time. It’s in his DNA or something. But it causes a helluva problem when he’s got girls wanting to settle down because he can never seem to choose, nor can he seem to bring himself to ever actually break up with them. That damn jealous streak in him doesn’t help either.

Proof positive of this is how he’d sent Elisabeth, the young woman he’d fallen for in Germany right after mama died and made his “live-in” secretary, on to Graceland upon his return, even though they weren’t really an item anymore and even though he suspects she and Rex are having an affair. The thought of that boils his blood despite the fact deep down he wants it to be true because then it doesn’t have to be his responsibility to let her go. But it hurts his ego all the same.

Elvis is full of infuriating contradictions and he knows it, although he’s got enough problems as it is without getting caught up in how it all makes him feel.

Seeing Anita is both something he desperately needs yet also dreads, his stomach rolling with just the thought of it. He loves her still, though he’s not entirely sure in what capacity, but he’s certain she will want what he promised in his letters: marriage and a family.

And one thing is for sure—he can’t possibly start a family with a woman he can’t tell his secrets to, not when he’s not one hundred percent sure if that’s what he wants and who he wants it with.

This should tell him all he needs to know about his future with his little Anita, but the need for the comfort of someone familiar overrides all logic in his feverish brain. He can’t help but call her to come immediately, even though initially he planned for a private reunion after things had settled down some.

“Little,” is all he can bring himself to say when his blonde baby makes it through the front door before the party starts. He doesn’t hesitate to scoop her tiny body up into his arms and hold her like his life depends on it.

And she is warm and familiar and comfortable, Elvis thinks, as he buries his head in her hair and she clings to him. But the moment is quickly overridden by the tendril of doubt that climbs up his spine and sinks itself into his psyche. His heart begins to throb in his ears, and he pushes the bile that creeps up his throat back down with a gulp. Pressing a lingering kiss to her lips, he prays it will feel the same as before, that something, anything will be the same as before he was sent overseas.

It isn’t.

Lord, it breaks his heart a little, a flood of searing heat rolling through his chest when he pulls back and forces his best smile to paint his face. He can’t parse out right now why it isn’t, not exactly, not when she’s looking at him so expectantly. But he has a pretty good idea it’s not just the other women that has him feeling off about this, about her.

It’s cuz you’re a damn lying liar, a bitter voice in his head throws up at him, and you know you ain’t gonna tell her shit about all the ways you’ve betrayed her and especially not how you’re dyin’.

Shut the fuck up, he hisses back.

Perhaps this is why he pretends everything is right with the world, folding her into his arms through the evening, petting and patting her like he never left. He so wants everything to be perfect, to fit like it’s supposed to. He wants—no, he needs—a good woman by his side, to take care of him. Mama knew that. And she liked Anita for it.

But the ache in his heart and in his stomach tells him she’s not the one, yet his innate need to please still whispers maybe, maybe, maybe, matching the rhythmic pounding of his heart.

Later, when he pulls Little up to his room, he tells himself he’s gonna be honest with her, tell her everything and then they can start with a clean slate. But the words get trapped in his throat and he kisses her instead.

Elvis lets his body take over, even though it’s burning up, because this he knows how to do right. His lips plunder hers, hoping for salvation, and her mouth opens, ready and willing to take him. Her mewls and sighs, now those are real, those are something he can latch onto. It doesn’t take much at all to get her under him in his huge bed, his hands and lips exploring all the familiar dips and curves of her perfect form.

“You my good baby? Little was good while I’s gone?” he baby talks breathlessly at her, nuzzling her nose as his fingers dance over her body. Yes, this is familiar, this little vulnerability he lets leak through, this need to be insular and small and needy and taken care of.

She nods, furiously, replying breathlessly, “Yes, of course, baby.”

Elvis believes her, mostly. He wants to. She’s a good Southern girl who promised to wait for him, and he takes that for what it is. Because of this, he won’t go all the way with her, he never does, wanting to keep her pure.

But why? You ain’t gonna marry her.

The thought hits him like a truck, causing him to halt his ministrations.

“You alright, Elvis?” Anita asks, those pretty eyes of her clouding with a tinge of concern.

Shaking it off, he covers quickly, “Y-Yeah, o-of course, Little. Just missed ya, is all. Takin’ it all in.” Throwing a dopey grin on his face helps reassure her and his Little smiles back at him, her tiny hands running over his face and neck and chest until he remembers he doesn’t want to think anymore.

By the time he’s inched his hand up her skirt, feeling the center of her panties damp with slick, his mind finally relents, and his arousal takes over fully. It’s blissful, giving himself over to pleasure after so many days of racing thoughts. After having to fight his body at every turn.

No, now Elvis just slides his hand between her legs, grinding his quickly hardening cock into her hip, not a thought in his head other than bringing them both to the brink. He’s gentle, though, when he slips under the cotton, causing a whimper to escape her as he flits his fingertip over her slit and circles the little bundle of nerves at the top.

Anita keens and grinds into his hand, her hip rubbing deliciously against his length. With a moan, he pulls himself up, moving in between her creamy thighs to perch on his knees. This he can control; this he can satisfy.

“Show me how my yittle baby been so good while I’s gone,” he purrs in her ear. The way she’s panting with want and dripping onto his hand will have him finishing too soon if he’s not careful. “With no one to pet yer yittle kitty, ya must be all tight in there for me, right baby?”

“Mm hmm,” she nods, barely able to get the words out, as breathless as she is.

“Lemme see,” he commands. She opens her legs, knees coming up readily to accommodate him, lifting her hips up when he pushes her skirt to her waist. He smirks when he sees her choice of white panties exposed, the dark little curls visible through the thin fabric and the grey damp patch in the center that shows her need for him. The sight sends more blood rushing to his dick and it twitches roughly, scraping against his slacks.

But that will have to wait because he has an inspection to do, one he takes seriously as he hooks the crotch of her panties with one finger and pulls it to the side, revealing her bare, shining pink petals to him.

Oh, Lord have mercy, how he loves pussy, he thinks, swallowing a groan as he bends his head between her legs. She shudders at his proximity and bucks at how he parts her swelling lips with a long finger. He places a hand over her furry mound and presses lightly to still her, thumbing her clit.

Nita whines at that.

“Be a good baby,” he scolds. She stills. He finds himself wanting to rut into the mattress, but keeps himself on his knees instead, needing to see to her first.

He uses two fingers to part her lips, swallowing a moan when he sees her tight entrance leaking for him. “Aw, look at that. Kitty’s weeping for me, needs me so bad,” he coos. It’s a little wicked how he teases her, dragging a finger through the slick, up and down, watching her clench around nothing. But he can’t help but be enamored, can’t help how he brings his finger to his lips to taste the tang of her there.

“Elvis!” she squeaks, a wanton mixture of need and shock. She watches with wide eyes when he smiles at her before putting his entire middle finger in his mouth, lathing it with his tongue.

“The real test, baby,” he says, then takes his spit-soaked digit and slides it right up into that tight little hole. He can’t help the way he groans at just how damn good it feels to sink into her wet heat.

From the way she gasps and writhes and by how her walls clench around his finger, he reckons she’s passed his little test. “Such a good baby. No one’s been in my little kitty, now have they? I can feel it how good you been,” he praises, punctuating his words with a gentle thrust.

Anita cries out at that, the sound going straight between his legs. Slowly (because damn, she really is so very tight), he works his finger in and out, watching how she begins to rock with him, how she scrunches her eyes shut when he couples it with tight circles on her clit. His hand shines with her arousal in the low lighting, and the sloppy sound of her loosening has him clenching his legs together. Elvis wants to see her come apart, but at this rate he’s so aroused that it’s likely he’s gonna finish in his pants if he’s not careful.

Honestly, he’s so mesmerized by it all that he doesn’t even care. He’s dumb with her and can’t stop himself from lying down and pressing his lips to her clit, causing her to sigh out in surprise. This wasn’t part of his foreplay pre-army, so he can understand why she nearly levitates off the bed when he swirls his tongue around her and continues to work her with his finger. The tangy taste of her and the way she’s starting to tense around his finger has him dry humping the comforter, the friction causing his own moans to vibrate her core.

She’s panting his name now and all he wants is to make her scream.

Lapping and lathing and swirling, he bathes her sex with his tongue and he knows she’s close, and damn, he is too. He curves up and finds that little spongy spot deep inside while he sucks on her button and there it is.

“Elvis!” Anita shrieks his name, her hips coming off the bed as she clenches and shudders around him.

He digs his pelvis into the mattress as she soaks his hand in her slick. Removing his finger, a deep need overcomes him to taste her release from the inside. He licks her clean, spreading her open and driving his tongue deep into her as she squirms against him. Elvis moans into her soaking cunt and thrusts again and again into the friction of the bed under him, drunk on pussy.

Which is where you find him as you unsuspectingly walk through the bedroom door.

“Oh—my god! I—Oh!” he hears you gasp, and Lord damn him if his orgasm doesn’t hit him so damn hard that he can barely breathe with the combination of factors at play. For some reason, watching you stand there watching him covered in slick and tonguing pussy as his release erupts through him has him inconceivably turned on. It’s like the dial of his orgasm is suddenly turned up from 10 to 100. His cock pulses violently and he can’t stop the groan that emanates from deep within, can’t stop the hot ropes of seed that soil the inside of his slacks, coating his lower belly.

Anita screams, and in trying to cover herself, ends up driving his face deeper into her core. His eyes roll back into his head, and he finishes with another moan and an aggressive shudder.

In his post-coital haze, Elvis slowly removes himself from between Anita’s quivering thighs, sitting back on his heels. He sees you standing there in the doorway, frozen stiff with those crystal blue eyes blown wide and your hand covering your mouth. He’s not sure if he wants to laugh, cry with embarrassment, or invite you into the bed. Mostly the latter, he thinks, by the way his softening cock twitches at the thought. Regardless, as improper as it is, he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from you, and neither can you stop staring at him. Refracting and locked in this strange and intimate gaze with you, he knows he should do something to stop it, to stop this wild desire of his to try bring you into this decidedly pornographic scenario. His breath heaves from exertion and lingering arousal but he remains still, watching you, cum dripping down to his legs and seeping through his pants.

Anita is the first one to move, shoving a pillow on top of her lap with a yelp.

That seems to break the spell and set things in motion. “I-I-I-I’m so, so sorry,” you finally stutter out, covering your eyes, finally looking away.

“What are you even doing in here?!” Anita almost wails.

Oh shit.

When his clouded brain finally realizes the variety of bad implications your appearance brings, he shoots a warning, pleading glare in your direction. But in your mortification, you don’t see it.

“I—I was just coming to get—” you stop, eyes darting, finally catching the wild look on his face.

Anita wiggles around him and pulls her skirt down as fast as possible. “To get what? What could you possibly need to get in Elvis’ private bedroom? You can’t just come in here!” she huffs.

There’s no way that you could know that no one enters this room without express permission, and regardless, he had told you to make yourself at home. He hadn’t been thinking when he brought Anita up here because, well, this had never been an issue before.

You look at him for guidance, but his brain is barely functioning, so he has none to give, sputtering himself. He watches the wheels turn in your brain, how you go to speak, but stop yourself when realizing you can’t reveal that you’ve likely come up to check his vitals or come to bed. Any remotely truthful response is unacceptable, and because you are indeed no actress, it all reads on your face.

Anita jumps to standing, smoothing her skirt. Her eyes narrow, darting from him to you and back again.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding!” Anita seethes, turning on him. “Elvis Presley, what have you done?”

It’s like a bucket of ice has poured over what should be post-orgasmic bliss.

“I ain’t done nothin’, I swear, Little!” he placates, throwing up his hands.

“Oh, don’t you ‘Little’ me!” she points scathingly at him. “You told me she was fixin’ to see some friends down here and y’all were doing her a favor cuz she’d helped you after you hit your head! I should’ve known. I’m such a fool.” Anita’s eyes fill with tears as she shakes her head.

“I didn’t—it’s not—,” you start, trying to salvage the situation.

“Shut your mouth and get out, you silly girl!” Anita snaps.

You look horrified, but he watches as that unshakable face you get when doing your job suddenly slides into place. The look in your eyes when they meet his is apologetic, and then you leave quietly, the door clicking shut behind you.

“This isn’t what you think, Anita.”

“Don’t. Just—don’t. I’m not an idiot, Elvis,” she says, angrily wiping tears off her cheeks. “I just knew there were others…but you were tellin’ all your stories. I just never thought you’d bring them home…”

It both breaks his heart and pisses him off.

“Aw, shit, that’s not the way it is, that’s not the way it is at all, you know how I feel about you…”

“Elvis, I know we were cool to each other last time we talked, but—but you brought home a girlfriend!”

Her tone sets something off in him, flipping that switch inside that always makes him regret his actions later. Maybe it’s because he’s exhausted, sick and because his life doesn’t feel like his own and hasn’t for a long time. Or it’s because he’s truly trapped in this situation and knows there’s next to nothing that he can say to mend this without telling the truth, and that’s out of the question. But he can’t stop the wave of heat that boils through his veins, the one that wants him to burn it all to the ground.

Elvis rounds on her, defensive as can be, the words pouring out of him before he even has a chance to think on them. “You know why—you know why I was cool to you? This very reason, right here. I-I-I-can’t talk to you hon. You mess with my damn head, man. I-I-can’t count on a decent conversation with ya. Ya start throwin’ up all kinds of shit to me. Talkin’ about ‘girlfriends’ and all that nonsense. Been the same since I landed in Germany. You’re just a fuckin nag, that’s all, you’re just a nagger that’s all.”

It's cruel and he knows it by the way she looks like she’s been slapped in the face.

“Are—are you kidding me? It’s one thing when it’s across the ocean, Elvis, but quite another when you bring one of your whores home with you and in the same breath try and seduce me!” she spits.

Irrational, red-hot anger rolls over him at that. He chuckles darkly, livid, “Oh, I didn’t try, honey, I succeeded. And you shut your damn mouth about her. Don’t you dare call her—she’s no whore.”

“Oh, please. I didn’t want to believe it when I overheard Lamar talking about walking in on you two on the train. I wanted to think that you’d left it all behind. You said as much, but you and your never-ending parade of lies…” she says, her voice pitching up and grating on his last nerve.

His jaw clenches, ticking. “Why can’t you be sweet instead of bitchin’ like an old naggin’ ass wife, huh?” he says viciously. “I can’t stand that, I can’t stand it. Baby you’ve got me crazy, you know that? You get worse a-all the damn time, a-and th-th-that’s why I—"

“If you feel so strongly, Elvis, then I—” she starts in again.

“Well, that’s the way I feel about it a-a-and y-y-y-you don’t have to be that way either. Not to the extent that you are.”

Anita tries to interject but he’s countering her every move before she can even play it. They’ve danced this dance before, enough that he knows just how far to push before he breaks her, breaks them.

And he knows that’s what he’s got to do.

“No, you don’t have to be that bad,” he says vehemently, pointing at her, silencing her. “I just know you’re gonna start throwin’ something up to me a-and I don’t wanna hear it. I’m fuckin’ exhausted and try and try to give you what you want, but it’s never enough, is it? You turn me the fuck up, you know that? All the damn time! I-I-I can’t stand it. I-I can’t stand it Anita, I swear I can’t stand it.”

“Well, if you’d do right by me, this wouldn’t be an issue!” She’s crying now, the tears running down her pretty cheeks, smearing her makeup.

Still, he charges forward, his words brutal and cutting. He wants to tell himself this is just an act, but it’s as if every ounce of frustration he’s had the past week, the past few years, is pouring out of him all at once, directed squarely right at Anita. Elvis knows there’s enough truth in all this to make it real. As much as he didn’t want to admit it to himself, he knew the moment he saw her walk in the door that this was through, that it has to be. And that makes him even angrier.

“Naw, if I saw you every damn day, you’d still start that shit.” He raises his voice, tinny and high, horribly mocking her, “’Who’d you see today? You g-got a girlfriend? I’m surprised at you, blah blah, blah,’ and all that bullshit,” he spits.

“That’s a lie!” she wails.

“Naw, it ain’t no lie. Naw, you bring it up every time I talk to you.”

“Maybe if you didn’t make me a fool by flaunting them all in front of me, in the papers and the magazines, and bringin’ your whores into the house, I wouldn’t have to bother you about it!”

There it is again—that word, associated with you, the woman who’s done nothing to deserve such slander, no matter what you have to pretend—and his heart thunders in his ears. Rage fully consumes him. He goes nearly blind with it.

“She’s not a fuckin’ whore! I want her here, and it’s MY GODDAMN HOUSE!” he screams, kicking a nearby suitcase and sending clothes flying. His chest heaves as he tries to catch his now-wheezing breath. “And I ain’t gotta justify anything to you!”

Anita looks as wrecked as he feels, but she manages to straighten and pull herself together in the heavy silence that follows his outburst. “Fine. Then you ain’t got to worry about me botherin’ you anymore, Elvis. This is over.”

There it is.

He closes his eyes as she storms out of the room, the logical, non-enraged part of him hating how he’s treated her, how he’s failed her.

It had to be done.

Letting out a choking breath, his heart feels like it’s about ready to pound out of his ribcage and race right out of his chest. His body is railing against him the way he railed against Anita.

Serves you right, you sonnofabitch.

It’s as if everything is colliding in him at once. The weight of his responsibilities coupled with that of his treacherous body on top of having to push away someone he cares for makes it all feel like much too much. A faraway feeling comes over him, as though he’s watching the way he rampages through the room, tearing through unpacked suitcases like a starving dog in a dumpster, from someone else’s eyes.

Lord, he doesn’t want to care. He desperately wants to pretend it’s all been one of his night terrors—that he’ll wake up in some bizarre place and find out the last few years, since mama died, have all been a figment of his imagination.

But no, he’s knows it’s real. It wouldn’t hurt so bad if it wasn’t. His body wouldn’t feel like this if it wasn’t true.

Racing thoughts mimic his racing heart, his labored breath: Why, God? Why am I given these trials? Is this the terrible price I gotta pay for the fame and idolatry that I never truly asked for?

Elvis hears a mournful, roaring wail before realizing it’s coming from him, that the horrible sound is emanating and rumbling out of his chest. His vision swims with tears and the room spins around him, but there is a terrifying calm in the center of this storm where he finds himself now, watching the wreckage, unable to change anything.

No one will ever understand. I am utterly…alone.

And then the hideous whisper of his self-destructive streak: Burn it all to the ground.

“Elvis!” The door flings open as you barrel through, calling his name, your eyes wide with worry.

Lamar clamors in after you, putting himself between you and Elvis. “You don’t wanna be here for this, girly,” he says, trying to push you back out.

The overwhelming churning ocean inside him agrees. He wants you nowhere near him when he’s monstrous like this. The plea starts in his head… Get out, get out, “Get out!” Elvis bellows throwing whatever is nearest to him at the wall with a crash.

You jump, wincing at the sound, but when you open your eyes, they are filled with determination and something else he can’t parse through in his state.

“Let me go!” you snap at Lamar, fiercely enough to surprise him into releasing you. Then, you are in front of Elvis, your eyes piercing through the cloud of his anger.

“No. I will not go. Elvis, look at me. I will not go.”

The room snaps back into focus so suddenly he feels whiplash.

Blinking, he flounders under your stare. Part of him is livid at your audacity, for not obeying, for simply existing because it reminds him of his dire situation. But another part is desperate for you to make this stop.

Something between a growl and a whimper escapes him as he tries to turn away, but you pull him back. Your cool hands are like aloe against his burning, sticky cheeks. He slaps your hands away, suddenly ashamed that you’ve touched the evidence of Anita’s arousal that still covers his face, that he subjected you to that intimate act, that he got off on it.

“Just leave!” he shouts, heaving, tears of frustration now spilling down his cheeks. He’s dizzy with emotion and from not being able to catch his damn breath. His knees maddeningly buckle under him, and finally, he gives in, sinking his knees into the plush carpet.

“No,” you respond calmly, coming down with him. You turn your head, addressing Lamar, “You can go.”

The quiet order you have given has Lamar leaving and shutting the door without question. If he was thinking straight, Elvis might be amazed at your confidence, but the world is still swirling like mad around him. He doesn’t want you to see him weak or feeble. He closes his eyes, wanting it all just to stop, hoping to disappear.

“Elvis. Elvis, I need you to breathe as deep as you can for me.”

Your tone has him obeying even though he feels petulant about it.

“Again. In through your nose and out through your mouth.”

He does, oxygen shuddering through him.

You guide him like this for God knows how long, your presence a balm to his gaping hole of a heart. His shoulders slump and he starts to feel boneless, the fire of his anger cooling with each inhale and exhale.

Eventually, he can feel you begin to rise, and his eyes fly open in a panic. His hand grasps your arm, and he shakes his head violently.

“I’m not leaving, I’m just going to grab some things from my bag. Keep breathing.” You remove his hand gently, with a soft smile.

Elvis nods, closing his eyes again because it all still feels too big and the exhaustion he’s pushed off for too long is winning the battle. He hears rustling and the tap in the bathroom turn on, then off, before the padding of your feet on the carpet reaches him again. Sensing you before him, he opens his eyes and looks up at you mournfully through tear-soaked lashes.

You bring a dampened washcloth to his face, gently wiping away the salt of his tears and the arousal left from his romp with Anita. Then you wipe his hands, one by one. He wants to be embarrassed about it all, but all the fight has drained out of him and the action is so soothing that he can’t help but let you continue. He doesn’t deserve this quiet comfort, he thinks, yet is powerless to stop it.

“Up,” you instruct. There’s a softness to it that makes him want to do whatever you ask. You hold out your hands to help him off the ground, then wrap an arm around his middle which he is thankful for when he realizes he’s not steady on his feet. The few steps to the bed are conquered slowly and he falls to the edge quite ungracefully once you release him.

When you seem satisfied that he’s not going to slide off and back onto the floor, you pop a thermometer in his mouth and wrap a cuff around his bicep, taking to task without a fuss. He tries to not let his thoughts spiral again, focusing instead on the swish of your skirt against his knees.

“Hmm, 102.4,” you tut softly, looking down at him with compassion and an eyebrow quirk that intonates an I told you so without it being uttered. “And your blood pressure is too high. Probably from all that…exertion.”

It’s all he can do to just meet your eye, apologies for the multitude of bad behaviors you’ve witnessed tonight caught in his throat. He’s never been good at saying he’s sorry, but he wants to, he does, but he can’t seem to get anything out, much less an apology. Instead, he just looks up at you and hopes his eyes convey the words he cannot say.

You blink in response, your crinkled brow the only fissure in your currently calm exterior. Pushing it away as fast as it appeared, you reach into your bag to retrieve what looks like a bottle of aspirin, handing him two and a glass of water that you must have gotten from the bathroom.

“Swallow those down, and then let’s get you into some pajamas and into bed,” you say, looking at him for guidance on where his pajamas might reside.

He points to the set of drawers across the room. Popping the pills in his mouth, the taste is acrid on his tongue, and he washes them down quickly with the water.

There is something about how you’ve taken over the situation so deftly and completely that has Elvis at your mercy. No one, not even his mama, was ever very good at bringing him down from his bouts of temper, his explosive emotions usually being too big for anyone to handle. But somehow, you employed such a calming presence that he almost wonders if you hypnotized him.

Regardless, you hadn’t run in the opposite direction or turned into a trembling mess before him, and this shocks him, based on what he knows of you and knows of those unfortunate enough to be subjected to his temper. He has not scared you away, and that is something strange indeed.

A sudden and unwavering need for you courses through his tired body and weary soul. It’s different from his attraction to you, something more. It makes him feel raw, vulnerable, and a little afraid at how deeply he craves comfort from you, how he wants to anchor himself to you because he feels so adrift.

Perhaps this is why he gives himself over to your firm but quiet orders, finally deferring to you in a way that is both relieving and disconcerting because he feels so damn small. But he’s just so drained and worn and for once, doesn’t want to be in charge anymore.

His shoulders slump and his limbs feel heavy, so he does not resist when you begin to strip him of his top layers. In fact, the only help he gives is to lift his leaden arms to allow you to pull his sweater up and off, leaving him bare-chested before you. He finds himself desiring the intimacy of letting you take care of him, watching you sleepily through heavy lidded eyes as you move around him. The feel of your fingers brushing lightly against him when you lean close to remove the medallion from around his neck sends his heart fluttering.

You are singularly focused on doing your job, that professional concentration of yours playing over your features, assisting you in your goal of getting him comfortable and resting. There’s no doubt in his mind that you’ve helped others like this in your work based on your deftness, despite your lack of experience with men in general, but part of him wishes he were special—that he alone receives this level of care from you. The possessiveness of the thought swims away and he’s left feeling glad there are no expectations of him, other than to let you work. He relishes in this, letting you maneuver him like a child into his dark, silky pajama top. Frankly, he feels nearly catatonic, so your assistance is both necessary and pacifying.

It's when you undo his belt that a sense of bashfulness heats his cheeks. He’s not wearing any underwear, but that’s the least of his worries. No, it’s the fact that, in his burst of dramatic temper, he had forgotten he came in his pants, causing a sticky, musky mess from his waist to his knee. He only has time to suck in a sharp breath before you’ve already made quick work of his buttons and zipper.

Oh, God.

Elvis’ entire body flushes pink and he bites his lower lip with enough force to draw blood. But you are too engrossed in your task to catch his sudden embarrassment, and you manage to unearth the mess before he has a chance to stop you. He’s gotta give you credit in that you only pause for a moment, almost immediately reaching for the discarded washcloth from earlier and handing it to him wordlessly before continuing with your job of removing his soiled slacks leg by leg. The only hint that belies your composure is the bit of red that tinges your cheeks quite abruptly, but otherwise, you show no reaction to his nakedness or the mess.

Grateful that your eyes are actively avoidinghow he’s frantically wiping his pecker and surrounding areas, he forces his slow and heavy limbs to move as fast as possible. It proves difficult in his unwell state, and by the time he finishes, you are already pulling legs of his pajamas up his knees. You are so efficient that he barely has time to balk at the fact that you are between his legs and eye level with his bareness before he’s raising his hips and you are slipping the silk up to his waist.

A deep relief washes over him, not just for his modesty, but because he feels like he can truly rest for the first time in a long time. For some reason, with you here, he finally feels safe to do so. There is something incredibly soothing in having you take care of him like this. He’s not sure why he ever tried to fight it in the first place.

“Time to sleep,” you say gently, pulling back the covers on the bed.

Elvis is so drowsy and needy that he very much wants to surround himself in your soft embrace and finds himself unable to resist doing so. He unabashedly throws his arms around your hips, drawing you close, and buries his head into your stomach.

“Oh!” you gasp quietly in surprise, tensing under his sudden and intimate touch.

He does not relent, however, only nuzzling deeper into your body and pulling you in between his legs to bring you closer. This need of his to be held and coddled is strong on a good day, and right now it takes over what little is left of his conscious thought. The security of your soft, nurturing warmth is all he craves.

You relax, seeming to realize his intentions are pure, and Elvis feels your fingers begin to cart through his hair and rub his back. He sighs into it. It’s better for him than any medicine and that scares him a little. How could it not when he barely knows you? Yet you manage to soothe something deep inside him that no one else can seem to reach. Maybe he can’t stop thinking about you because you are meant for more in his life.

God has a plan…

The thought settles pleasantly, deep within the recesses of his mind. As you lay him down, covering him with the duvet and he drifts into sleep, he snuggles into the safety of knowing he is in your capable, beautiful hands.

*

Taglist:

@atombombbibunny @yesimwriting @uselessbutinteresting @mirandastuckinthe80s @dark-as-love

@domaniquessidehoe @im-lame-irl @allybrooke05 @hangmanswhore

@jazmin2211  @kvcssghbjbcd @coldonexx @dudinhahoff @whatstruthgottodowithit @tiredbuthappy  @amiets2  @saintmagx

@kvcssghbjbcd @butlersluvbot @babydollie43 @vainbimbo @meladollsims @wstelandbaby @dre6ming @normatural @ash-omalley @xcallmetaniax @galvz-42 @thejezebel @fullmetal-falcon @robinismywife @dre6ming @seaweedbrain00 @amiets2 @mslizziesblog @heisatroubleinapinksuit @calusussss @dont-feel-so-good-peter @rainydayz101 @pizzaisrelationshipgoals  

@liaaacantwrite @kittenlittle24 @kaitaesupremacy @butler-trouble @eliseinmemphis @russian-soft-bitch  @tattywood 

@sassanoe @re3kin @thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle @carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23 @ab4eva 

@fic-over-cannon @lacyluver @littlebitofgreen @paigevis @godlypresley @bugg06 @xhannahbananax03 @artlover8992

@18lkpeters @frozenhuntress67 @girlblogger2002 @kendralavon7 @elvisgf @misspresley @ohjustpeachy1 @whositmcwhatsit @be-my-ally @precious-little-scoundrel @vintageshanny @from-memphis-with-love @prompted-wordsmith @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen @stylespresleyhearted  @elv1s-is-pretty @crash-and-cure 

Reblogs, likes, comments, tips + feedback are extremely appreciated! Please help support your content creators!

[cosplayinamerica]

Susumu Kodai from Space Battleship Yamato Cosplayer: @the.yamato.boy Photo : @m_padron15

Funny enough at anime cons, not a lot of people recognize it as the Space Battleship Yamato, they usually just get hyped over seeing a massive ship at a con or war buffs notice the resemblance. Only a couple of people have recognized it. The ones that do though go nuts. The fanbase is fiercely loyal and even at Katsucon, the official Hotel Liason let me store the Yamato in his executive suite! Alas sadly barely anyone in my age group knows what Space Battleship Yamato is.

C2E2 was the first time I ever brought Yamato to a regular comic convention. The amount of people that recognized it there was actually comical. The cherry on top was that most people recognized it as the Argo or Intrepido.

What I'm most appreciative is that it's a way to bond the current generation of anime fans with the old and offers an opportunity to explore anime history.

Yamato started out as a binding point with my dad and I. He’s always been there for me but was a mystery at the same time. When I was like 2-3~ish my family still had an old Quasar TV with a built in VHS tape player. This was the kind of TV where you could feel your eyeballs melting out from the TV static. Anyway we had a singular VHS tape of Star Blazers- specifically the episodes where Argo uses the asteroid ring and then says goodbye to your families. As a certified Scooby-Doo fan, seeing #1 a cartoon with actual camera angles and cinema techniques was mind blowing to me and really stuck out, #2 there was a journey. The episodic countdown made me so mad because I knew I was only watching a piece of something bigger. My dad realized this and for my 5th birthday he bought me a full DVD set of all the episodes from Season 1. Afterward I drew little Yamato’s everywhere.

Eventually the spark that was Star Blazers would erupt into a burning flame that has become my love for Yamato. A couple of years ago my Grandpa was fighting with terminal lung cancer. We lived in America and he lived in South Korea so commute was tough and I didn’t get to see him all the time. During this time I was also getting bullied a lot and my mom thought it’d be good if I finished my elementary school years in Korea with my cousins so we moved there for a bit. I was a total fish out of water but a lot of my friends built Gunpla. I had no idea what a gundam was so I decided to research and went to Gundam Base Side 3 which is in Downtown Daegu. Remember the remake just came out at this time so there was a huge display dedicated to Yamato 2199. I really wanted a Yamato and had a meltdown in the store, like a full tantrum. I remember coming back to my apartment with my mom and just thinking non stop about it.

The week following, my grandpa took me instead and I’m guessing my mom told me how badly I wanted it because he got me not only a 1/1000 Yamato 2199 kit, but also the Garmilus 3 ship model pack. I was absolutely overjoyed and would not stop playing with that. The kit was later destroyed after a smaller big shelf collapse. He also died about a year afterward. It serves as a core memory and a reminder of him. As I shifted more into model building I dived more into gunpla until I was about 15. Highschool sucked. A lot.

The transition into being a freshman took a lot on my mental health. I got assaulted and the stress of everything caved in and I tried to take my own life. It’s a lot to Unpack and I’m not super comfortable talking about it, but it’s nessacary because of what happened.

Basically I got sent to outpatient which is like full time therapy sessions but school length. As cliche as it sounds, I brought a small Yamato with me. In order for it to fit comfortably in my pocket I froze super glue all over the fins and sharp bits so I would stab myself in the thigh on accident, iykyk. 

One of the things they told us in outpatient as a coping mechanism was that if we ever felt as bad as we did previously, think about the small things, and try on focus things that we would want to stay for. Well oh boy let me tell you, Yamato 2202 was coming out at this time and because of the format they were doing the movie part releases so 4 episodes every 4 months I think and I kept convincing myself that if I was gone, I would not see the end. 

The ending of 2202 not only brought around the end of that purpose but also wholly changed my outlook on my life. “The planets only stay in their places, only we have the power to give them beauty.” – Teresa of Telezart 

To say the ship had an impact on my life is an understatement. It was a reason to live at one point. On March 2nd/3rd when the announcement of Matsumoto’s passing came out I was absolutely devasted. I didn’t eat or sleep the following couple of days.

not a lot of people still know Yamato so in order to make conversation with other anime fans I picked up other shows but Yamato largely was my heart and soul. Matsumoto’s passing was what urged me to finally start. I wanted to build something that would not only bring me closer to Matsumoto but would hopefully give Yamato what it had given me- another life- sort of- maybe a little too dramatic, interpret that as you do idk. 

I want more people to watch Yamato and understand its message. We live in a day and age of constant bickering and isolation. We are all cogs in an economic machine. While we get blinded by work and debate, Yamato exists to teach people that it’s important to have dreams, to chase love and that maybe we can break out of our predicament – To truly know that you’re not alone is the meaning of Love, and that we must meet the challenge and the impossible will become possible – And finally, there is no one right-way to live – are all things that Yamato teaches.

[veveisveryuncool]

so, i was wondering about that mirror AU. first off i wanna say, i really like the designs. but i did have a few questions.

So first off, for Magolor, you say he's basically blind but it looks like he has an eye in his mouth like the original soul version. Is that not an eye or am I just going crazy?

Secondly, You mentioned how Adeline is the most normal of them. So are all the characters basically insane and if so, how would you say they rank on the sanity scale?

And finally, and I just have to ask this being a fan of both these characters, but you mentioned that Magolor has someone to help guide him, being blind. Is there by any chance that this seeing-eye jester you mentioned happens to be Marx?

ohhh hi!! tysm for asking about this! i'm really glad people took an interest in those mirror world counterparts, it means a lot :]]

ok, to start, i'm gonna talk about adeleine and sanity :D (since the two magolor questions tie in with each other and bc i like talking about her)

here is the "sanity" scale! i put this in quotes because they are all a little bit insane in their own ways <3

adeleine is the "most normal" here, not because she is mentally sane, but because she basically lives the same life she had pre-DL3 (living alone in cloudy parks, surrounded by her living discarded WIPs, having various temper tantrums). obviously, she still plays a role in the mirror-world version of 64:CS, but she let the whole "shiver star oh my god. earth is dead. humans are gone and i'm the only one left" thing completely take over her psyche. she stays up in the clouds, desperately trying to remember life on earth, and maybe– just maybe, convince herself that she's not alone.

magolor is doing surprisingly okay here?? like, sure he barely managed to scrape his way out of purgatory, and now has the remains of his wrongdoings etched into his body, but he's taking it like a champ 👍👍 he denies what happened to him was his fault (even when it totally was), and because of it, his AD experience was ramped up to 11. he feels no remorse for his betrayal, and instead no longer fights kirby simply because he gave up trying. he's also got the whole..eye and crown thing going on. so.

elfilin is next, with him basically being confined to the Pickle Jar. he's trapped in his own mind (forever wandering the isolated isles) and just kinda floats there, waiting for something to save him from an eternity of chaos. i put him above adeleine because of the situation that leads him there in the first place. since the initial splitting of elfilis/elfilin was a lot more messy, it means that they're stuck in a yin-yang scenario. instead of completely good, elfilin is mostly good, and that sliver of darkness increased his susceptibility to fecto forgo, drawing him to lab discovera. the beast pack captures him and tries to fuse him with forgo, but because of the discordance, it's taking a lot longer. the "good" part of elfilin hangs on, trapped in his dreams and slowly losing his grip, which is represented by his constant crying of the blood cell-like orbs from chaos elfilis' fight.

ribbon is. not doing so hot here. not only is she on the verge of breaking (mentally and physically), she has essentially isolated herself to complete an impossible mission. since the crystal was smashed into thousands upon thousands of pieces, she'll likely spend the rest of her life searching for each shard. she wallows in guilt and self-depreciation (even though it's not her fault!!), and is also fighting off dark matter possession at any given point. her will is strong, but how long can she last?

okay!! magolor time!!

magolor's seeing-eye jester is indeed marx! (though he will kill you if you call him that) while mirror-marx is even less of a good choice to befriend than normal marx, their friendship still upholds :]

while yeah, magolor does have a huge-ass eye in his mouth, it's not him that's doing the seeing. the visual information goes straight to the master crown, if this makes sense.

the master crown's power has dulled, now forming a symbiotic relationship with him. magolor provides the crown with a body to host, and the crown's magic allows him survive AD, basic perception (he's not gonna run into a tree anytime soon, but can't read or see faces), and a huge ego boost.

[bcacstuff]

Hello BCAC it's Sam's housekeeper I actually call him Master H as it makes him feel important but we all know who's really in charge 😉.

Obviously I can't tell you exactly where he'll be next for fear of the poor lamb being mobbed (he does have some full on fans if you know what I mean) all I can say is he's working on a few things and he's had me filming him making cocktails again so watch this space.

He's back now from all his events I packed all his suitcases for him (he's got a new set of Unicorn Trunki cases so he can see them better on the airport carousel), I made sure he had lots of choices of outfits but for some reason he kept on wearing the same black jumper whenever he was out and about, that boy has no idea it's a good job when he's at home I put his clothes out for him everyday otherwise he'd wear the same thing over and over. He does make some questionable choices for clothing as well take for instance those tiny swimming trunks he wore in New Zealand I get awful flashbacks when I'm buying pineapples in the supermarket.

Master H is certainly a globetrotter and loves the jet-set life but because he's an A-list celeb (his words) he gets lots of freebie holidays which comes in handy whenever he has a "new friend" on the scene I can never keep up so I just assign them numbers.

The best bit about him being away is at least the house stays tidy he goes from one project to the next, one minute his playing with his Back to the Future lego in his bedroom the next he's making a lego Formula 1 car in the living room and don't even get me started on the mess he makes in the kitchen plants everywhere or "botanical" as he calls them for his next alcohol venture. While he's away it gives me a chance to sort his lego out he throws a real tantrum if he can't find the right size or colour of brick, I always make sure his hip flask is full and at hand to keep him calm.

I will let you into a secret BCAC he's been talking about getting a Scalextric set but he wants the race track to go through the whole house and then into the garden - I'll keep you posted 😉.

Well that's all for now I've got to go and tidy up the garden someone keeps throwing tupperware boxes over the garden wall containing lasagne do people not think I feed him? I've promised Master H once he's had his bottle and I've tucked him in for the night I'd read him a bedtime story of his choice, I just hope it's not one of his Clanlands books again award winning or not there's only so much I can take.

Take care BCAC love to your readers ❤️

So happy to hear back from you Mr. H's housekeeper 🧡, and to see you're all fine and your old self again after your wee accident. We're all very much looking forward to videos of his Scalextric race track. Maybe he can get some ideas from this video

Just keep us posted, I'm sure my readers appreciate your updates 😊 Oh and those tupperware boxes, I think I know where you can send them back to... 😉

[not-souleaterpost]

opinion on gopher

Well no shade at any Gopher fans but not really positive so dont read further if you dont wanna be sad😂

To me Gopher kind of is one of the reasons for my controverial oppinion of the anime being better than the manga:

The most simple and least pretentious way of describing my thoughts and reasons is - I find him unfunny and obnoxious, while also feeling that he is a pointless charachter with wasted potential at the same time.

But to get more into detail...

When did he get introduced (if I remember correctly?): During that whole mini-arc about Maka wanting "to be an angel".

I have many problems with that part of the story, especially with how it turns Maka into some generic "tsundre kawaii girl who not so secretly likes the guy who she is bitchy too"

But I wont get too much into that, just the fact that I get the point - Gopher gets introduced as foil to her in that arc, to kinda give her a reality check of how unlikeable and childish she is acting.

But the point is, that even with the most charitable interpretation of the arc, Gopher IS just by his nature a charachter tailor-made (literally) to be obnoxious and annoying.

And unlike Excalibur, I find the way in which he is just groan-worthy and not charming and soothing (Yeah Excalibur is great, shout out to the OG)

But ok, maybe thats just bad impresions, does he improve later? Not really cause his whole gag stays this kinda creepy quasi incestious obssesion with Noah and idk, dont even wanna write about that part too much lol

But even if one just looks at it as a charachter trait with possible development, it leads nowhere, Gopher being static besides his final gag (which I admit is funny but also a bit ehh with the whole implication of what hes gonna do with 7 naked unconcious bodies...)

Still, one could say why am I'm expecting something out of a gag charachter? Just dont overthink it - maybe I wouldnt if Ohkubo didnt kinda setup a situation where it seemed there could be more to him, only to be just wasted panel time in the end:

What I mean is, the whole setup of him torturing and integoriating Kid - which seemed to be a perfect opportunity for charachter development for both of them - because they actually have some simmilarities:

Both are "created" and "reverant" to their Father-figure, both have unhealthy obssessions and both start throwing childish tantrums when things dont go their way. (also surface details like both seemingly being anime pretty boys appeiling to a specific demographic, with the dark hair and proper dress-code etc)

Yet all that didnt lead to anything - neither Gopher realised that his "master" is horrible compared to the other side, nor did it make Kid reflect about his own obssessions and how obnoxious and ridicolous he must look to others.

Neither was there anything about being sorta non human, "created" not born - but thats excusable cause that was revealed after the fact in Kids case.

Hell, still there could be even some strengthening of both sides negative traits, the tragedy of communication being impossible, but all lead just to an ok gag of Kids face being made unsymmetrical.

But also on a tangent, the whole "black wings" thing also just seems to be derivative - especially when the much stronger parallel of "angel vs demon" with black and white wings was between Maka and Crona, so yeah I think the whole obnoxious Maka and Gopher thing kinda deluded that meaning, but thats more of a pet peeve.

Still, to leave of not with just bitching, but an interesting thought, or atleast kinda funny in a stupid way (enough that I will prolly use it as filler in my iceberg videos):

So Gopher is a creation of Noah. But Noah is just one of seven other creations. Who are made by the Index, which is just a manifestation of a part of the Book of Eibon, which was written by the Wizard of the same name.

How many layers of being a tool is that?😂

[chardonnavs]

( nathalie kelley, forty, cis woman, she/her ) ☼ i know it’s a small town, but i run into DANICA MARQUEZ every time i go to THE TRAIN TRACKS. it’s like they practically live there and not PELICAN TOWN for TWO WEEKS. it must be because they’re ELEGANT and CONCEITED. come to think of it, that’s probably why they’re a VIOLINIST too. but i did hear they want to RE-ESTABLISH HER SPONSORSHIPS SO SHE CAN GET THE HECK OUTTA THIS PLACE, and sometimes they like to PAINT BIZARRE MUGS. rumor has it they also like EMERALDS, but dislike EGGS. what do you think?

what is up, dewers!!!! i'm anne and i'm soooooo excited to play the sdv update while we rp here <33333 i'm gonna summarize some bits about danica here and we can def plot! she is like super new, so i would understand if there isn't a lot of meat to dig into there, so i'm totally down for chemistry and seeing where things go lol

she's from zuzu city, she's a city gworl!

she grew up with 4 other siblings who all went into incredibly stereotypical overachiever fields (doctor, lawyer, engineer, wall street freak)l, so she's lived with the burden of being an overachiever in the arts.

she used to play for the zuzu city philharmonic as associate concertmaster. she was going to try to get a step up, and boy was she on track for all that. but one day, she kinda cracked under the pressure and when a rehearsal went wrong, she lost it. she threw a tantrum and in this day and age, that was posted all over the place. she got dumped from her sponsorships for her bad behavior, and the philharmonic asked her to take a leave. indefinitely.

so that's what she's here in pelican town, living with her aunt to recuperate from the hell that she made of her own life.

she's a snooty booty, and she has a tendency to look down on things that don't reach her standard in her mind.

danica's willing to do whatever it takes to get what she wants, and it doesn't matter who she steps on to get that.

she can be charming if she wants, but she's really cranky right now.

she goes to sit by the train tracks a lot to dream about escaping the valley, and hell, escaping zuzu city at some point. she craves more for herself.

she has a weird taste in art. she loves wacky mugs and other oddly shaped dishware.

she only likes the outdoors when you can't smell the outdoors. huge fan of glamping.

danica used to go to a lot of restaurants and reviewed their food for her own personal excel sheet. she's majorly sad that there aren't that many options here in the valley. ugh!

sorry to say, she's a capitalist shill, she will shop at joja mart if it's easier!!! if she can get a sponsorship from them, then she can take a step in the right direction for the resurrection of her career!

idk if you give her an emerald she might do you a favor or maybe be just a tad nicer to you, she's a huge fan of sparkly expensive things but especially emeralds.

feel free to message me here or on discord (zukospcnytail) to plot or even say hi!!!!!

[plagueybirb]

Random headcanons! Because I have many thoughts and they take up too much brain, so might as well put them somewhere and it's a long one

Skeptic can read QR codes and bar codes. Like physically read them. No scanning necessary.

On that same note, he absolutely cannot read sheet music. It's completely incomprehensible to him

He's definitely hypermobile, and that comes with all the creaking joints, pain, and scary stupid flexibility. Absolutely used it to scare the shit out of people when he was younger. Think bending over backwards to do that freaky spider walk from (I think) The Exorcist

Doesn't mean shit about his balance though. Regularly walks into walls and door frames and is covered in bruises as a result. He definitely trips over his own feet, does that little stumble run thing, and proceeds to act like he almost didn't just lose a fight to gravity

Occasionally stands with his elbows bent and his hands just dangling. T-Rex arms basically. And by occasionally I mean literally whenever he's not holding something, actively doing something, or just has his hands in his pockets

I know this man just sits in the dark in his office. No reason for it, he just does

Owns exactly one dress. It's the Morticia Addams one. I will die on this hill

About his quirk. Using it too much in a short period of time (such as the Meta Liberation Army war arc when he went to fight Twice personally) results in his hands being really sore. He also gets bad headaches from it, and maybe a slight pain behind his eyes. He knows this very well, but chooses to do it anyway. His fear of failure is far greater than any concern over his own well being will ever be

He! Loves! Spiders! All spiders! Has several as pets, names all of them and treats them like his own children

Corporate Goth

Probably had Hawks merch. Dude's a bit of a fan, not that he would ever admit it

A Gorillaz fan as well. Named his tech company after one of their songs and everything

Was the most IPad kid to ever IPad. You could not separate his 3 year old self from his tablet unless you wanted to deal with the worlds worst temper tantrum. Would still probably freak out today if someone were to take his laptop from him.

Slept in a coffin shaped bed in his teen years because he thought it was cool

Dated maybe once in college? Was not all that interested and didn't date anyone again. He's just not interested. Never has been, and might not ever be. He's okay with that, happy even

HOWEVER. In the universe's where he is interested in dating, he's got standards and they are HIGH. Again, dated once maybe in college, was not much of a fan, and didn't date again until his 30s

Doesn't develop feelings or crushes easily, but he definitely falls HARD if it ever did happen. Not that anyone would know, he's both secretive and has the most convoluted flirting strategy on the planet

*sets pen down in a super particular way* "Ah, yes, this will definitely convey my feelings perfectly, I'm so good at this flirting thing"

"What the fuck do you mean I can't ask them out over email it's the most efficient way"

"Okayokayokay, they sat next to me in the meeting, good, time to make my next move" *completely ignores them for the entire meeting except to slide a piece of paper over with nothing but binary code written on it* "Okay, now to wait for their answer. All according to plan"

It's his phone number. In binary code. That he gave zero explanation on how to translate it. So the recipient is just stuck with a sheet of paper with 1s and 0s on it. In the worst handwriting imaginable

Might do more of these someday, this already feels long as it is