#and perhaps tend to get more annoyed than I should when they don't

[gillianthecat]

"Salmonellosis is far more common in the USA."

What the fuck does this mean? More common than in other countries? Than other types of food poisoning? Than it used to be? THAT IS NOT A COMPLETE THOUGHT!

[cripplecharacters]

Hi! I’m working on an original character project that I want to include a lot of casual representation in (“casual” meaning that the characters don’t need a justification for being disabled/fat/POC/etc, they just are because people can and do exist that way in reality!)

I was wondering if you had any suggestions for finding resources for drawing facial differences(and maybe other visible disabilities), especially in a cartoony style. I’ve looked through the Facial Equality Week tag but would like to see more examples, and since my art is so… goofy, for lack of a better word, I would love any help I can get in integrating differences without being offensive or upsetting.

Sorry if this is a bother, and thank you for all that you do!

Hi!

I'm not aware of any guides for drawing facial differences specifically (or at least, good ones. There's 1 billion tutorials telling you that scars are just a Singular Line, always, but that's not... correct), but perhaps someone in the notes could help out?

For my own advice, you could check out this old post I made. Because you mentioned your art being cartoony, I would specifically urge you to not overexaggerate facial differences the way they often are. Prime example would be how a lot of cartoons portray strabismus;

It's just a funny gag to them rather than, IDK, how some of us look like. Not to mention that one of these is also a mockery of intellectually/developmentally disabled people with "Derp" in the name, but that's beside the point here.

It's the whole "the character is crazy/stupid/wild/whatever and that's why they have it" that's the problem with how it's often shown. You can also see it in how characters who don't even normally have it will be shown with it for a scene where they're saying something nonsensical, etc.

Another example that's nowhere near as rampant is the like... split-face thing with various facial differences being used. Mostly vitiligo but sometimes also facial palsy. I'm talking about this weirdly perfectly halved face that looks extremely different on each side, often used to signal that a character is two-faced or that the author doesn't know how vitiligo looks like.

[note: vitiligo also shows up on lighter skin. I wanted to make sure it's visible here for tutorial clarity purposes.]

This one is just weird because it straight up doesn't look like that? I have no idea where it came from, but it should go back there. Facial palsy doesn't make someone look like the antique comedy/tragedy theater mask.

Unless I'm forgetting some other annoying cartoon trope, these would be the big ones that you should stay away from.

Outside of that, it's really on a case by case basis on how a specific FD should be drawn because they're so different! A birthmark can just be a differently colored patch of skin, but a craniofacial difference would require some more changes to be included. Alopecia is well, lack of hair, and can be done very easily but ectrodactyly can be more complicated to show properly because of the limitations of a cartoony artstyle when it comes to hands. And while I do think it would be great to see more of those facial differences that tend to not be included in art at all, there's nothing wrong with deciding to go for the things you can represent more faithfully, especially if you're just starting.

I will say that if you're making an honest attempt at being respectful and trying to get it right, most of us will still be excited to see your work. Even if it's not perfect or has some inaccuracies. I will take a "'yeah more or less' correct with a happy, human character" over a "Very Technically correct but tagged as #tw burns and with blood splattered on them" any day.

Lastly, I wanted to share some art featuring characters with facial differences (and other visible disabilities) that are done in a cartoony, or at least somewhat simplistic artstyles (I'm using both terms very widely here, but like. Not Realism) - maybe it will give you some ideas!

Man with Treacher Collins syndrome (also one of the first pieces online where I saw a character with an FD portrayed in such a lovely way! A fav of mine) Girl with Pfeiffer syndrome Too many characters to count! Woman with burns Woman with a limb difference Multiple characters again Animation featuring people with Down syndrome [youtube] Multiple characters, including a girl with neurofibromatosis, a burn survivor, a girl with a cleft lip and another with TCS! [twitter]

If you have a more specific art question ("how do I draw a person with XYZ facial difference?") you can send me an ask on @saszor! I prefer to stick to the writing theme on this blog but would still like to help if you need it:-)

Hope this helps!

mod Sasza

Edit: apologies for the lack of alt text on one of the images, it has been fixed!

[thatfreshi]

I was wondering if you could write Astarion having to tend to a very cuddly drunk female Tav. Possibly having to defend her from other people trying to take advantage of her.

This took me on a very sad adventure

TW - blood and gore, attempted sexual assault, drinking

Recommended Song: Drew Barrymore - SZA

The nice thing about no longer being on wild adventures full of tadpoles and cultists is that you and Astarion can go out drinking like normal people. While your vampiric lover thoroughly enjoys a good glass of wine, he usually stops himself at one. Perhaps he's a little paranoid about you, your safety, but he insists not to have more than one when the two of you are out together. At the house? Sure, he'll finish two bottles with you, the two of you drunkenly laughing by the fireplace, but not when danger could be afoot. You try to tell him he's just anxious, tense, that you'll be alright.

"I'd rather just make sure my love. You indulge all you want darling, I'll be fine."

In one of the more rowdy taverns, you and Astarion sit at a table off to the side, watching people get drunk and dance, bumping into strangers, sometimes fights ensue. As per usual, he nurses his singular glass. You look at him, a gleam of sadness in your eyes.

"Are you sure you don't mind? I can just skip out tonight, maybe we can just drink later, when we get back."

"Nonsense, have your fun my sweet. I insist."

You squeeze his hand.

"Alright then, I'm off to get my second... you can tell me to stop anytime!"

You tease as you slowly walk away, almost backing up into a nearby half-orc. He simply smiles at you, one of those smiles that says everything he's thinking, how he thinks you're precious, how he'd gladly never get drunk again if it meant keeping you. Years ago, he would've never given up a vice for some person. But you, you make this feeling well up in his chest, like he has to hold you close at all times, worried someone will snatch you when he's not looking. You may make fun of him for simply being a paranoid person, but you made it a million times worse.

"I'm back!"

Your voice draws out, and you return with two mugs of beer instead of just the one.

"Already going for three darling? You do remember you're a lightweight, right?"

"I'll be fine. Besides, Mr. Knight in Shining Armor is here to take me home if I throw up on someone."

You lie against his arm, starting on your second drink.

"You did eat before we left the house, right my sweet?"

You look up at him silently. He just sighs, running his hand through your hair.

"Then why did you need to go to the kitchen before we left?"

You giggle a little.

"To... pre-game!"

The laughter rings out of your throat as Astarion sighs, again, more annoyed this time.

"So you're telling me-"

"Already gettin' drunk Aster, it's a great time."

The more and more you talk, the more he realizes your words are becoming more slurred. Perhaps he should've asked before you left, made sure you at least grabbed a bite.

"Alright, you stay right here, I'm going to get you some water and a little snack."

He gets up, swiftly grabbing the two mugs off the table while you protest.

"Hey, I wasn't done with those!"

As Astarion makes his way to the bar, asking for the classic drunkard's care package, he's suddenly nervous. Had you ever been this drunk in public before? Maybe the two of you should just go home, before you somehow get your hands on any more alcohol. After thanking the barkeep for the water and some bread, he comes back through the crowd, and sure enough you have left the table.

"Gods damn it Tav."

After setting down what was supposed to be your little pick-me-up, Astarion quickly moves through the groups of people, knowing you probably just got up to dance. The bard playing tonight was quite excellent after all. However, after looking through most of the common space, you're nowhere to be found. That feeling of panic starts to well up inside of him, where he's only driven by fear. He knows you can't be far, but he also knows most of the tavern-goers here are slimy, horrific people looking for their next bag of gold. Walking through the crowd again, Astarion comes near the back entrance, and hears a conversation down one of the abandoned hallways.

"A gal like you, surprised you're here alone."

He rounds the corner, seeing you and a bulky half-elf, your arms pinned above your head. You seem nervous, but not conscious enough to realize anything is truly wrong. Astarion stalks up behind the wretched man, wrapping his dagger around the half-elf's throat.

"No so alone anymore, are we?"

Your captor surprisingly doesn't stand down.

"You won't do shit. People know me around here, important people, they'd surely have your head if something happened to me."

"Not if I hide your body well enough. And trust me, I have experience."

The two of them are un-moving for a moment as your wrists start to go numb from the pressure. You groan in pain, only causing the half-elf to grab you tighter. As Astarion goes to press his blade into the man's neck, he whips around, pushing Astarion back. Gods, he's tall. You fall back against the wall, trying to nurse the pain in your hands. As Astarion and the stranger fight, you hear the sounds of blades colliding, but your head is spinning. Perhaps he was right about the whole 'eat before you drink' thing.

You're interrupted from your thoughts when you hear a loud thump on the floor. The half-elf almost knocked Astarion out. leaving him on the ground. The stranger then turns back to you, lifting you back up from the floor, going to open the back door.

"What a find. Can't wait to enjoy you."

In that moment, while trying to get his bearings, Astarion realizes this wasn't just someone threatening you, and that disgusting feeling fills his stomach. He remembers how many times he shared his body against his will, and the adrenaline of that anger is enough to get him back on his feet. As you and the half-elf make it out the door, Astarion rushes him, tripping one foot out from under him. And then he drives his blade into the stranger's back, again, and again, and again, and again, and again. He's covered in the sinner's blood, shaking with both rage and misery. The violent display helped sober you up just a little, enough to make you realize that Astarion has killed someone behind the bar, and that it was clearly deserved. He looks up, locking eyes with you, still holding his blade down, as if the dead man needs yet another plunging strike in his back.

"Astarion?"

You ask, your voice full of uncertainty, the past few minutes still a blur. He begins to cry, putting his dagger in the ground, slowly crawling over to where you've ended up on the ground. He holds you tight, almost to the point of pain. He doesn't say anything, and you simply watch the blood pour out of the man's corpse as he grips you tight. Flooding memories cover every space of his mind, seduction, imprisonment, and most of all, Cazador's death.

"Astarion... you're hurting my arm."

You say softly, not fully aware of just how distraught he is, still far too inebriated. You're sad though, because he's sad, and you can't quite put together why. He lets go, wrapping his arms under his legs, crying into his knees. You try to comfort him, despite your state.

"It's okay, it's over now."

You don't even know what's over, but if someone is dead and Astarion is still alive, he must've ended it.

"I know."

He chokes out those two pathetic words, looking back up at you.

"We need to leave."

The survival instinct kicks in, knowing he can't explain why this man has at least five stab wounds in his back. The second one of the bartenders finds this, it'll be over.

"Come, this way, we're going to take the back alley."

Snatching up your arm, Astarion leads you through the darkness, mumbling things to himself that you can't quite hear. The two of you move quickly through the night as you stumble around behind him. When the two of you get home, he gets you some water, leading you upstairs so you can lie down.

"Are you okay?"

Such an innocent question. He knows you'll remember tomorrow, that it's not like you're blacked out or anything, just confused.

"I'll be fine my dove. Get some rest now, it's alright."

It's as if he's trying to convince himself, but it's enough for you in your drunken stupor. You curl up into the heavy blanket cast across the bed, and he leaves a kiss on your head. Not long after, you're drifting off to sleep, exhausted.

As Astarion makes his way to the bathroom, he thinks of the horrific things that could've happened, of how cruel humanity is. He thinks about how you have to be the only truly good person in all of Faerûn. He'll never get all the blood off his face, not while you're asleep. His mirror, his sun, his everything, and you were almost tainted the very same way he was.

When you wake up the next morning, Astarion isn't in bed. You try to reach out groggily, looking for that embrace, only to be left with cold sheets. Thinking back on the night before, the memories start to filter in. The drinks, the half-elf, the stabbing, and Astarion sobbing. The full picture isn't entirely there, but there's enough pieces for you to realize. That man, he found you drunk in the tavern, and tried to take advantage of you.

You stumble out of bed, walking down the stairs, rubbing your eyes.

Astarion is in the kitchen, drinking some tea, his eyes bloodshot. You don't say anything, slowly walking up to him, wrapping your arms around his waist, holding him tight. He puts his tea down and rests his head on yours.

"Are you alright my love?"

"I'm fine. Are you alright?"

You make some space again, looking up at him, holding his hands in yours. They start to shake again, rage and misery. You move a piece of hair out of his face.

"He didn't do anything to me love, I'm okay."

"Just- the thought of- I-"

He tries to hold back the tears again.

"It's okay, you can cry. It's going to be okay."

With that allowance, the permission to let go, he cries again.

"I don't ever want you to feel like that Tav, the way I felt. It's so, disgusting."

"I know, but it's over Aster. It's over now. You're okay, we're okay."

You wrap around him again, and he continues to weep.

"I love you, so much, and they didn't ruin you, I promise."

That worry, that he'll never be the same, that he's forever fractured now, that a piece of him is gone. Innocence, what a loaded word. Those who are guilty make the innocent feel guilty, and those who are guilty feel powerful, and the cycle continues, always continuing. You stand in the kitchen for a long time, letting him get all of the pain out, your shirt sleeve wet with his tears.

"I just wish I didn't have to be scared anymore."

You frown, thinking on his statement, knowing that no one is ever truly safe. You'll both live in fear forever, of those that think cruelty is accomplishment.

"I know."

It's all you can say, because you can't lie and tell him there's a day he won't have to be scared, that one day all the monsters of the world will be gone. There's nothing to learn, no moral, no mistake to fix, just pain. Pain caused by those who greed after anguish.

"Do you think I've changed? Or am I just as I was, a scared, beaten slave?"

"Gods Astarion, of course you've changed. It's the world that hasn't. We're better than them though, even if that's all we have."

Neither of you reach any resolution, nothing that makes you feel better. Instead, you sit on the sofa by the fire, watching the wood go up in flames, softly speaking about the suffering. You lie in each other's arms, sad. Misery loves company, and the two of you sit in that aura of grieving for a long time, grieving his past, grieving what could have been a kinder world. But here, in this sacred space, where feelings are free to run wild, where you can cry as much as you need, that's the only place you're truly safe. And that's alright, as long as it's together.

[666writingcafe]

An Unintentional Trap

Thirteen

I'm tired of listening to Solomon's whining. I want him out of my cave once and for all, and hopefully fetching MC and taking them to him will be enough for him to leave.

If that was the only reason for my trip, I would have just teleported to and from the castle. It's a lot quicker than walking. But I want some time alone with the human disguised as a demon.

During my little venture through MC's soul, I saw a rather alarming amount of demonic energy, more than any type of facade should have. Usually, humans with that much energy either end up evil or dead. Either way, their souls end up really dark. No sparkle at all.

And yet MC's soul remains blindingly white. Some of that could be explained by the angelic influence over it, but in my experience, the two cancel each other out, resulting in a dull, clear-looking soul.

I just want to know what makes the human tick. Perhaps that can explain why their soul is so...odd.

~~~

"I'm still a bit upset at Solomon," MC tells me. "Obviously, not enough to decline your invitation, but I'm probably not going to be rushing into his arms or anything like that."

"Understandable," I respond, making them sigh.

"Am I being unreasonable, Thirteen?"

"No, not at all. He did something incredibly stupid, and you're allowed to be frustrated by his lack of judgement." A slight test. Will they take the bait and trash-talk Solomon?

"I know. It's just..." They trail off.

"Just what?" Another sigh from MC.

"He was worried about me. I mean, I launched myself at a demon twice my size and sent the two of us sliding across the colosseum floor. The fact that I only walked away with a couple of scratches and bruises is a fucking miracle."

Huh. A human that's humble enough to acknowledge another person's emotions? And admit when they act too rashly for their own good?

"Why did you do it, then?"

"It was the only way I could knock Beel out. You saw the pictures, right?" I nod. He caused a lot of damage near the Demon Lord's castle. "He was starting to attack his brothers, Diavolo, and Barbatos when we got there. I had to stop him before he hurt any of them, because with the way he was going at them, their injuries would have been a lot worse than mine."

"So, you sacrificed your safety in order to protect theirs." MC softly smiles.

"That's not the first time that's happened. In fact, I've done it enough to get told off for it."

"I can imagine. Doing that sort of thing tends to shorten one's lifespan, making them die sooner than originally intended." I pause. "Those type of people tend to annoy me." MC's smile grows a bit wider, as if they know something I don't.

Wait.

Have I chewed them out for it in their timeline?

I can't think about that right now. We've arrived at my cave, and the energy feels off. Looking over at MC tells me that I'm not the only one feeling uneasy.

I pull out my dagger.

"Stay behind me," I whisper to MC, who quietly nods. We carefully make our way to the Fountain of Knowledge with no incidents.

Solomon is right where I left him, sitting on the edge of the fountain. And yet his presence does nothing to calm me down.

In fact, seeing him makes me that much more anxious.

Which is strange. I've felt a lot of things when it comes to the sorcerer, but never afraid.

"It's not him," MC murmurs. Solomon and I make eye contact, and I immediately get nauseous.

They're right. This isn't Solomon.

"Where is he?" I ask. The shapeshifter smiles eerily.

"Some place out of the way," it answers. "I wanted to talk to MC in private."

"Yeah, not happening, buddy. I don't trust you as far as I can throw you." An unknown entity that knows MC's actual name can't possibly be up to any good.

"Putting words in other people's mouths isn't polite."

"I never claimed to be polite." This guy is pissing me off.

"Aren't you tired of being told what to think?" He's directed the question at MC. "I don't wish to hurt you. I want you to be happy."

"I've already told you, I'm not interested," they tell the shapeshifter, causing him to chuckle.

"It's cute that you think you still have a choice. You're already on my path. The more you resist, the rougher your journey will be. I'm just offering to make things easy for you."

I may not know the context of his words, but I can tell that they're upsetting MC.

"Alright, that's enough," I interject. "Get out of my cave." The shapeshifter remains still. "Now."

He sighs.

"I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, but it appears I don't have a choice." He waves a hand, and suddenly MC collapses onto the ground.

"What have you done?!" He shrugs.

"I thought reapers were supposed to remain neutral."

"Answer the fucking question!"

"I simply put them in a deep sleep. When they come to their senses, they'll wake up."

Solomon is going to kill me.

Taglist: @lost-in-time-wanderer, @fuzztacular, @dianedancer18, @sweetbrier2908, @flare-love, @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf, @thunderlightning351, @l3v1chan, @anxious-chick, @5mary5, @expressionless-fr, @tenkobitch

[tagedeszorns]

So here's my live reading of "Lord of Excess"!

May contain Spoilers!

I'm only a quarter of the way through the book, which is because (apart from the fact that I only downloaded it this morning) the weather is sunny and warm for the first time this spring, so I've tended to be out and about so far. And being out and about led me to the Warhammer store, where I not only bought some colours for the Beastmen and had a little chat, but also got the miniature of the month (a very nice Terminator) and put it together. And during a little hike I thought about whether I should make him a Salamander, Word Bearer or Emperor's Children.

But I digress. A quarter of Lord of Excess. And so far the verdict is: holy shit, we finally have an author again! This is not a drill! There's a new Emperor's Children writer who understands their mindset, background and motivation!

Yes, Rich McCormick still has to find his way into some things and perhaps take a less narrow view of others - but in principle he's well on the way to growing into Josh Reynolds' huge shoes. (that sounds like Reynolds is a Harlequin. Clown shoes! Honk!)

This makes me very, very happy.

Quick summary of highlights (besides the quotes I've already posted):

McCormick lets Fabius be himself. I want to kiss his eyes for that. (No, Fabius has no appearance - but he's mentioned and speaks through his actions)

He understands that Emperor's Children are not just insane junkies, but gives them different obsessions with perfection (a logistician!).

He incorporates their history and gives space to the wounding they collectively suffered with the destruction of Harmony.

He's able to capture their incredible arrogance and narcissism without ridiculing them (Watch and learn, McNeill!).

He creates personalities that aren't all defined solely by their gene-seed.

The list will certainly be expanded.

But of course it's not all sunshine and roses. I find it difficult to accept certain things when I'm told them but then very consistently not shown them.

If Xantine and Vavisk are such incredibly close friends, I want to see that in their interactions too.

Why do the Adored follow Xantine? So far, it's not clear to me. Too much telling, too little showing. I mean, isn't it funny that Fabius, the man whose picture is next to "Caustic Bitch" in the dictionary, can apparently build and maintain healthier and more stable friendships than a charismatic warband leader with a Slaaneshi demon in his pocket?!

But that's just a minor annoying aspect so far - albeit one that makes it hard for me to like Xantine as a protagonist. Please don't get me wrong - I don't need a main character to be a classic lawful-good Hollywood hero to like him! I adore the characters with flaws, with bad habits and the ones who fight tooth and nail against being heroes. But at least a basic sympathy that makes me care why the protagonists are in trouble and makes me eager to see how they resolve the situation - that would be nice!

In any case, so far: I want to know more! The book is fun! So much!

(Okay, the usual Black Library mantra "There have to be little people in it, not just Astartes!" is getting on my nerves, as it does every time. But, hey, it'll be fine!)

One last thing: Lucius and Fabius pointing and laughing at Xantine, because Clarion/The Composer and Wolver/Key are so much cooler than a stinking heap!

[luneariaa]

☀︎ 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 | 𝐣𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐮𝐚 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝

❥︎ - ; ɢɴ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

❥︎ - 𝐭𝐰 : ɴᴏɴᴇ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜱɪᴄᴋ ᴊᴏꜱʜᴜᴀ 🧡

❥︎ - 𝐚/𝐧 : ʀᴇqᴜᴇꜱᴛᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ,, ᴅᴇᴄɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴡᴇʟʟ 🧡

☾︎ - 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭.

-✰-

"Joshua, you mustn't push yourself too hard. You should take a rest, as you are still sick as ever." You scolded the Dominant of Phoenix, shaking your head slightly in disapproval.

It's your task as his personal attendant, or a caregiver of some sort after all; ever since his childhood years.

Though this is like a normal occurrence for the both of you, you still couldn't help it-- always worried over his natural born sickly condition.

A soft sigh escapes from your lips as you put the leftover food and medicines away after you've made sure he has taken them.

Joshua merely smiles reassuringly at you. "You worry too much. If I were to rest almost all the time, I would never get anything done."

His tone clearly shows that he's gotten used to it, and is perfectly fine by this point.

"Besides, I got you here with me, don't I?" He lightly refers to you with no hint of anger or even annoyance whatsoever. "Even if I do push myself too hard, you'd be there to scold me back to reality."

His last sentence genuinely earned an amused look from you, at least a bit; smirking slightly with your head turned away.

"Josh, come on now," you merely chuckled, finally giving him your full attention.

"While your point is completely valid, that doesn't stop me from worrying about you."

A gentle smile adorns upon his handsome face, now holding onto the eye contact as well with a certain fondness being apparent.

And it's completely reasonable, since the both of you have basically stuck up with each other for uncountable years; ever since his childhood years alone.

While you are like, a year or two years younger than he is, you always do your tasks dutifully without a single complaint. Well, unless you needed to. But aside from that, you never did.

"You always tend to my needs even when I didn't really need them. You even brought me books to read with, or even when my Father was away."

"I don't know what I'd do without you."

His ocean-blue eyes wandered out and onto the bright afternoon sky as he spoke those words; reminiscing the old times that have surely passed.

Several birds have even landed on the windowsill of the currently open window-- their' heads tilted adorably for a few seconds, before flying away once again to join their group of friends someplace.

You turned your head to spare him a glance, now noticing that his previous smile was gone, yet still somehow distracted in his own cloud of thoughts.

You even took the opportunity to simply stare at his handsome side profile, though it only lasted for a few minutes or less as you didn't want to be seen as improper. Even more regarding to the clear difference in rankings between you both.

He did notice the stare that you've given him but decided not to say anything, or even choose to not mention anything. After all, it did not once make him feel uncomfortable in some way.

His beautiful, ocean-blue eyes found their way to your figure once more, seeing that you've now seated on one of the vacant chairs nearby while averting your gaze toward outside the window as well.

"You know," he grins a bit as he starts on. "I remember back then; when you stood inside the library, perhaps checking and dusting off some of the old books for Father, and you were so focused that you didn't notice my presence."

"It's quite funny that you screamed a little, even jumping in surprise when you finally noticed me."

An annoyed look became visible from the moment those words left his mouth. Baffled, even.

"Hey, it's not my fault that I didn't notice you that time-! Besides, I didn't even jump that high.." You muttered under your breath as your cheeks became pinkish in pure embarrassment at the old memory.

"It's adorable actually." He chuckles again, this time most likely directed at the current expression you're making.

With your cheeks being puffed out in response to his teasing, you grabbed the cushion that was settled on the sofa and threw one at him; still out of embarrassment.

The cushion did end up hitting him straight on the face, yet he only laughs it off at your actions alone.

"Just know that I could tease you all day if I could."

But you knew better-- you couldn't even stay annoyed at him no matter how hard you tried to be. And he's completely aware of it.

In the end, you've simply given up and decided to laugh along as well. All the while that it happened, Joshua just fell in love more deeply with you than he ever did in the process.

It's just a matter of time whether he admits his feelings for you or decides to go against it.

𝐞𝐧𝐝.

-✰-

@ 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚜.

[kaelio]

Macro/micro for the fetish thing 📏

Ok, I know this ask is because of that entry in Anne Rice's journal where she watched Jack & The Beanstalk (she misremembered, I'm pretty sure this was Jack the Giant Slayer) so she could mack on Ian McShane and was annoyed the giants in it weren't hot enough, but obviously this is relevant to me because I draw micro/macro applicable stuff for a couple fandoms, or I have anyway.

The answer to this is, however, complex! Yes, in a way, but also not really, in a different way.

So first off, I like to write pornography, but it can't really get me off if I was the one who wrote it. Same with fanart. It's a writing challenge with a smack of pay-it-forward, or the sex is inherent to something I am trying to capture, but if I write it myself I'm too close to it; I remember too much of the process or mentally go into editing mode.

But as a result I tend to think of fetishes as both multipliers and ingredients.

As a consumer, I tend to think of fetishes as multipliers. Like, something that you're totally neutral on is a 1x. Something you just can't stand at all, total horny-killer, is a 0x. Hypothetically there's no upper bound but, say, 3x would mean the story is 3x hotter to you because it features that fetish. An example for me would be scat. Hard 0x. The second I see it, I'm out. No matter what else is going on, the multiplier is 0; the story is at a level of 0 hotness. The earlier answer on oviposition is like a .1x. I haven't run into a story with it that was good enough to get me off, but Bloodchild got close, so I'm saying with the deftest of hands, it can work. Micro/macro is maybe like a situational 1.2x. It's a little bump but it's not going to be make or break per se. It could be in a story where it added nothing to me.

Because that's where we get into fetishes as ingredients.

When I'm thinking about an effective piece of erotica, it's got components, right? It's expressing some notion. It'll have different ingredients in it that make up the whole, that make for a cohesive work. I do think that micro/macro can enhance some recipes a bit, but more than that, it's a virtually essential ingredient to others. Let's say you're into werewolf porn. If the werewolf is like, same-entity-size.... I dunno. Like I guess. But isn't the werewolf theme usually leaning on some sort of power dynamic that the savage nature of the werewolf highlights? The werewolf is going to be 140 lbs? Sure you don't want it to be a bit more Big? Or, to make a different point, more Small? That might take you in a funnier direction, more like a comedy premise perhaps, but something's being communicated by the inclusion of some kind of noticeable size difference.

Let's now take it over to tentacle porn. God, I tried. I have on an occasional whim thrown my lot in with Kurt Eichenwald and it just does not take. I can't get off to it. I'd love it if I could. But anyway, let's say someone's being pointedly caressed by an octopus. You can't have that be just a regular-size octopus. Kind of pathetic. Obviously, that octopus has to be bigger than an octopus should be. "Well, what if you add more octopuses, like an octopus gangbang?" Sure, that might work for some people. But for me it comes off as lacking in confidence. Oh, you had to bring all your little octopus friends to nail this twink? Sad.

Now, I am a scaley straight-up. The only limiting aspect to this, for me, is that most scalies seem to have gotten into it from like... Spyro the Dragon? And they're really cartoony. Doesn't hit. As a kid, I had books on ancient Egypt, and I was intrigued by Sobek. Also we had a caiman. And my mother would find people in the classified ads who were trying to sell giant snakes and pay for her kids to go pet (but not buy) the giant snakes so we wouldn't be afraid of snakes, like she was, so as a child I was just overwhelmingly exposed to giant (16'+) snakes. My mother would go dump us off at places where big snakes were so we could observe big snakes, like reptile shows and the reptile house at the zoo. The result of this was super funny but suffice to say I am not afraid of snakes. (Not into vore though! Does nothing for me! Responsible owners don't live-feed.) I want to be super clear: I do not want to fuck animals, never have, but I did want to nail Bleu in Breath of Fire more than you can possibly imagine. However, if I'm doing scaley stuff in particular, one simply has to admit that micro/macro is the baking soda in that quickbread. It's not the part that makes that fetish work, but it's certainly more likely to turn out the way you intended if you put a little bit of it in there. When I made Cardassians huge in my DS9 redesigns, however, that was mostly in service of it being funny since I was a major bottom-Garak advocate, the bigger they are the funnier that is. Also like, whiny old queen giant lizardman is just fun and has room to spitball where like, I don't know, a more straightforward big hot lizard man would utterly bore me. It can't all be baking soda.

[desceros]

i don’t think you have to apologize at all for not having a symphony update tbh! it’s very gracious of you to do so but i hope people remember that it’s your passion project first and foremost and not anything any of us readers (regardless of how involved or invested you allow us to be) should feel we have any say over, schedule wise. i love your writing and will always wait for it, and know a lot of your other readers will probably say the same!

(as an aside: something i noted when i first started following you in december was how prolific you were… like the fact i could check your blog every day and there was some food?? i was floored. but even your current posting sched impresses me—the fact that you say you’ll have something out one day and on that day IT IS OUT. idk maybe i am used to my old fandoms being more casual or being interrupted by life, as fandoms with adults tend to be like. so you writing and sharing as much as you do is not something i take for granted. thank you as always.)

(i hope this message reads as appreciative / friendly as i intend it to be hhhh… i’m sorry if not…)

thank you for your kind message! i have a rather long one in return, i do apologize, but it is me, so we should probably have all seen it coming! :D

so, i've kind of talked about it here and there, but i have a wrist that is pretty sensitive to overworking. in high school, i would practice music for hours and hours every day without properly stretching or taking breaks, because no one told me i should do so. as a result, i really wrecked the tendons, and my ulnar nerve in particular has a tendency to flare up. it's quite painful when it hurts, and before it starts properly hurting, i experience i kind of buzzing numbness that is distinctly uncomfortable. it's not severe enough for surgical intervention, but it's definitely a limiting factor in what i'm capable, mechanically, of doing in a day.

back around november/december, i was posting a lot more. but that was with me disregarding my wrist and pushing through the pain, such that for the first couple of weeks in january it was nearly impossible for me to write. this was emotionally agonizing, because i love writing so, so much, and i wanted to share everything in my head with all of you! i felt like i was failing on a precedent i had set for myself, and it's very irritating seeing my mountain of projects getting bigger because i can't write quickly enough to put a dent in it and not just because i was coming up with more ideas (which is, to be clear, still suuuuch a problem haahahhaa).

it got to the point where i started confiding in my partner and my friends about my issue, and they all insisted that i start slowing down. and they're right! i was being reckless with my health, knowingly this time, and they're absolutely correct that i need to take breaks. take days where i don't write. days where i rest, and stretch, and let my wrist heal and recover.

i know it sucks as a reader, i really do, especially if you came on board during that time when i was being super active. and i'm not apologizing, per se, since i'm certainly not going to apologize for prioritizing health over hobby. but i do understand the... hm. i'm going to say frustration, but perhaps i mean the disappointment, or the whiplash maybe, from having someone going from posting very very frequently to less so. i'm still what i'd categorize as an active, prolific writer, but it is infuriating to know that, without this injury, i'd be capable of much more. it annoys me to no end, i swear! but i am purposefully stepping back, for my health, and for the worry of my friends and love ones.

all that said! nothing is on hiatus, nothing is being cancelled, none of that. it's just going to take me longer to work through things than any of us would like, hahahaha. so i really do thank you for your sweet and encouraging message, and i appreciate all of you for every thoughtful wish you send, all of your funny comments on my fics, and your support. i'm actually getting to the happy problem that there are so many that it's not quite feasible for me to respond to all of them individually, but i do read and treasure each one. this is the most uplifting, positive fandom i've ever experienced, and it really does make a difference as a writer knowing that people are filled with joy when i share my art and then go and spin that joy back out into the world.

[idyllic-affections]

a love unlike any other.

summary. what would kaveh be like with a younger sibling who graduated from the vahumana darshan?

trigger & content warnings. lighthearted, brief mentions of (playful, not serious) violence & brief alcohol mentions.

tropes, pairings, fic length, & other notes. fluff, slight angst. kaveh & younger sibling!reader. 0.7k words. they/them pronouns used for reader. haikaveh is implied in this post. reader and kaveh are both implied to be neurodivergent.

author's thoughts. k. Kaveh...... the beloved............ he has ROTTED my brain and i am starved of platonic kaveh content (i am starved of all kinds of platonic content but that's not the point) so yk what? i will feed myself!!! i love being a writer because it means i can satisfy my own content desires hehe.

imagine kaveh with a younger sibling who graduated from the vahumana darshan.

he loves and adores them so much!! he's generally very passionate and so he is not at all stingy with his affections towards his precious sibling. whenever he and his sibling are together, he's always touching them in some way, whether it be holding their hand or gently leading them along by the dip in their back or absentmindedly drawing little shapes on whatever skin is exposed. there simply needs to be physical contact. kaveh does not make the rules; he merely enforces them!

(of course, kaveh understands that sometimes physical contact is uncomfortable and perhaps even painful. he respects that and, during those times, won't touch them unless they ask, verbally or not. he understands their nonverbal cues very well.)

the siblings are apart more often than not, as their individual jobs keep them busy, but they're practically attached at the hip when they are together. alhaitham would claim that this is annoying, but in his words, "[name] would be a better roommate than kaveh. they're far more tolerable."

it's debatable whether alhaitham is being completely candid or if he just wants to piss his boyfriend roommate off.

i like to think that kaveh's nose scrunches up cutely when he's very focused. this trait passing onto his sibling is something that would absolutely wreck him beyond repair. he would find it so cute on them.

when it's possible, body-doubling is something of a must with kaveh and his sibling—just sitting in the same room in calm silence, working on separately on their own projects... at least, the silence would be calm until kaveh goes into an absolute fit because archons, how did he miss that simple mistake in his work??? they find these little rage episodes very funny.

well... it's funny until they, too, find a simple mistake in their own work, making them mutter curses to the gods above for mocking them like this.

contrary to popular belief, [name] did offer to shelter kaveh when he went into debt. he was the one to refuse. it led to a very amusing argument for bystanders. it was like a battle of manners; [name] was insisting on welcoming him into their home, while kaveh was insisting on not encroaching upon their space.

they're well-off, however they do travel quite a lot as a vahumana graduate, so they don't have a particularly established residence in sumeru. kaveh insisted that living with them in the little space that they have should only be a last resort. how stubborn.

little did kaveh know, they secretly alleviated some of his debts by meeting up with dori behind his back and paying part of what he owed. it was the least they could do to help.

even if they get into silly little spats sometimes, as many siblings do, both of them tend to forget about it within the hour and act like nothing happened.

like kaveh, they find the sages' idea of wisdom to be... foolish, if they're to be quite frank.

kaveh is always so quick to come to their defense, whether that be by defending their liberal ideas of what wisdom should be from the sages or fending off the occasional monster in the wild. he always seems to know when they're in some kind of danger.

they can protect themselves, but... well, it's nice to have someone like kaveh around to protect them.

it's almost like a love language of sorts. no-one gets to call his sibling an idiot except him!

(archons forbid alhaitham ever does; it would end in bloodshed /j)

imagine them taking kaveh to mondstadt on one of their trips!!! he would love mondstadt, swooning over how openly they embrace the arts and perhaps getting just a little drunk. he'd just be so purely enamored with the city of freedom, i think.

having the arts be shunned so terribly in sumeru is certainly a saddening thing, so they're glad to bring kaveh away from the sages' suffocation when a situation allows for it.

[name] is convinced that kaveh and alhaitham are dating.

kaveh is, without a doubt, someone who wears his heart on his sleeve. he's more of a lover than a fighter, really, so they've decided on being just a little tougher than their brother solely for his sake.

they want to protect him, too, after all. his heart is so purely good in ways even the most talented haravatat student would fail to describe, and they'll hold it tenderly in their hands until the day they die. not a soul on teyvat would get to hurt him, genuinely hurt him, and get away with it. [name] will make damn sure of that.

such a sentiment is how they and alhaitham became something akin to friends, actually. perhaps i'll have to expand upon protective [name] and equally protective alhaitham in another post.

please consider reblogging, it helps me out quite a lot!

[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.

*

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[absolutebl]

Well from your recent posts I've gathered that you are not a Big (with a capital B yes) fan of A Boss and a Babe so it's probly safe to say this . The reason i haven't watched this series is bcz I find the leads eerily similar looking?? Like if not siblings but atleast like distant cousins ??? Idk why but i can't unsee it now. Help .

Oh I don't think they look alike at all. Sorry, I don't know how to help you.

Maybe focus on specific features? Think of it like you were sketching them as a portrait artist? Like they have different mouth shape, eye shape/placement, cheekbones, and hair lines. Force (left) has a thinner straighter mouth more sculpted, slightly higher more prominent cheekbones, much heavier lidded eyes (he looks sultry and sleepy most of the time), slightly broader nose, longer face over all, and a prominent Adam's apple.

Book (right) has more delicate and finer features, his face is more heart-shaped and proportions are different (where his features fall on his face), smaller slightly pouty mouth, thinner nose, slightly rounder cheeks, close but less deep-set eyes. He's also lighter skinned. For all these reasons he's cast as the uke in their shows, as they are pretty much the same height, age (Book is actually a little older), and deferential politeness IRL, it could have gone either way.

(I don't make the rules, the yaoi gods do.)

Your Moment of Academia

If you're still struggling, there could be more/other reasons for this.

There is something called the Cross-race effect which may be impacting you. (The way to train your brain out of this one is to just keep watching tons of dramas, fashion, MVs made by cultures not your own. More info and discussion on this in this episode of All in the Mind podcast: The human drive to connect – and divide)

There's also Prosopagnosia to consider, although that's a lot rarer than modern peeps make it out to be.

I've also always felt like Dunbar's number may come into play with this kind of thing too. Like perhaps the human brain just has a limited max capacity for facial recognition storage.

So you might do better if you focus on their mannerisms and way of speaking which are completely different. (Siblings usually share vocality and mannerisms especially if they were raised together.) Body language and their way of holding themselves, smiles, eye crinkles, use of eyebrows, etc... Very few actors can move on from these tells.

Book has a more mobile face (which is why he suits comedy so well) but Force's is more emotive and expressive in nuance. He's uses more micro-movements, like little eye crinkles and a little crooked smile.

Their voices are very similar, but Force's is more burred, and a little more monotone (rare in Thai). He has a mellow soft way of speaking especially around the ubiquitous krap. Book has a rounder, wetter way of speaking, his kraps are more sharp and clipped.

All that said, IMHO you don't have to bother to watch either of ForceBook's series. So far this pair has been ill served by GMMTV. So if it wigs you out, there is plenty other, better BL.

Also if you want to actually watch a BL where the characters are some iteration of siblings, I'm sure Japan is there for you. If not, there's always the stepbrothers trope...

I have to say, I tend to way MORE annoyed when characters in a show who are meant to be siblings look absolutely nothing alike. Like bone-structure level "qua?" I know blood siblings don't always look alike, but they rarely look so completely different as we often get in TV or film the world over.

Way back, I did a series of actors in BL who I thought SHOULD play brothers and these are my favorites:

Mark Siwat Jumlongkul and War Wanarat Ratsameerat.

Now those two boys look related. To me, anyway.

(source)

[shallowseeker]

okay so, yesterday I found your spn meta by chance and fell in love with them 'cause more than writing they're like images, like they really depict things and I just immediately understand what you mean instantly + I started to rewatch Steve Yockey's episodes 'cause I feel like I like his writing (lots of queer! lots of rom-com references! but it's all done so intellingently, I love it!) but ALSO sometimes it doesn't translate to me + I just saw you wrote about "Optimism"= I GOTTA ASK: what's your take on "Optimism"? I don't understand what the Zombie story and the Musca one should reveal about the characters. Visually, it looks like the Musca = Charlie, so Harper and the zombie are ??? I'm mad at myself 'cause I don't seem to get what the show is telling me so I'm hoping you can share what the show tells YOU and, vicariously, I can get it as well (lol). THANK YOU!

Hi! Hello!

Oh, really? That's so cool. I still have trouble thinking of myself as a "meta writer." I don't mean to be. I just like to ramble. But cool! It's probably mostly that we think alike and are sympatico in some key ways. :-) Always fun to find kindred spirits!

///

O P T I M I S M

I have so many thoughts on Optimism. It's one of my fave episodes! I actually did a re-watch-slash-convo with some friends on Discord and just transcribed the very, very, very LOOONG bulk of it today!

I haven't written much on the Musca. After spending a lot of time of @scoobydoodean's blog, I've just about decided the Musca plot is actually a Sam's emotions-through line more than it is a true dark mirror. Even AU Charlie is cheeky about it:

AU CHARLIE (annoyed at Sam, about the Musca): Your nifty metaphor has holes.

Basically, Charlie is saying that mirrors aren't one-to-one, and that trying to force-fit them into being one-to-one can be super annoying sometimes.

//

CHARLIE - Every two hundred years there is "bad egg". When a male fails to find a mate, he abandons his community and starts using peoples bodies to "nest". Binding them together with a viscous goo. And when the goo fits...

//

The Musca/fly is at face-value:

A) A bodysnatcher plot: In that regard, it could be like all angels, demons, or anyone inhabiting a body. (Cas, Lucifer, Michael, Crowley, etc.) Ergo, it's a dark, uncharitable Cas mirror the way Dave Mathers outlaw wraith was in Tombstone. It could be saying that Cas "failed" among "his own people" and cruelly took up space in a human body. But that would be grossly oversimplifying the whole situation, saying that Cas "should have stayed with his people," which ofc doesn't work.

It, as Charlie says, "has a lot of holes." @ilarual has written a lot about the totalitarian structure of Heaven. And Sam himself wants Cas around. As far as metaphors go, it's a dud for Cas.

B) It's a failure to thrive plot: Because the Musca "failed" in The Real World with its Own People, perhaps failed to live up to The prescriptive Dream of Success (TM), now it's wreaking havoc on others.

Sam himself "failed out" of Harvard. He "choked." Kevin Train and Patience Turner are also Failed Gifted Students. Losers who didn't live up to their potential. This could even apply to Chuck, binding together his characters because he's a Loser with a capital L.

///

ANYWAY, I feel like the Music plot is a "red herring" for a few reasons.

One: The main Harper plot is about breaking narratives, about not relying so much on books. And then Charlie says this:

CHARLIE: Goo. So, yeah. I'd say this is the right place. Now, I'm just trying to figure out what we are dealing with. Thus, books.

Aside: Later Cas says sarcastically in Ouroboros that Sam and Rowena, "Have many, many books."

So, there's this niggling indictment of trying to find too much truth in books...

///

Two: Sam has a tendency to see something and, like, imprint on it. He tends to fall into "It's just like me!" instead of speaking frankly about the present situations and emotions.

*In American Nightmare, he sees Madga Peterson, an abused child* -> "She's just like me!"

*In Somewhere in Between Heaven and Hell, he sees someone lying about something completely unrelated to his current situation* ->"Omg, they're lying to them, like I'm lying to Dean! It's just like me!"

*In Lost & Found, he meets Jack Kline, who is Lucifer's son "OMG, he's just like me!" -> *spoiler alert* Jack is not in fact much like Sam at all. -> Sidenote: instead of speaking frankly about how Dean is grieving, how Lucifer killed Cas and likely killed Mary, he uses complex euphemisms with Jack, ones that actually obscure the reality of the situation! This winds up annoying Jack and making him pull away from Sam.

///

IMHO...Sam isn't...naturally all that great with emotions.

He tries really, really hard, and he loves patterns, but he's always seeming to force-fit situations and scenarios into neat little boxes so he can passively-aggressively use it to indirectly communicate something he feels about himself.

He has a very cognitive empathy style. Bless him.

///

So what's REALLY going on here?

Well. In this episode, he wants Charlie to stay. He wants Charlie to stay and fill a void the other Charlie left behind. He wants Charlie to stay really, really badly. And he beats around the bush about it.

At first, he sidesteps his own emotions by passive-aggressively implying that it's Dean that in fact needs her.

CHARLIE: He'll be fine. Your brother, I mean. He's got other friends, right? SAM: Plenty. Uhm, he used to have a pretty damn good wingman. CHARLIE: So call that guy to check on him. SAM: That guy was you. CHARLIE: No, it wasn't. SAM: Right, I, uh, sorry. I didn't mean that.

And then by trying to make the case fit her.

He's very indirect and weird about it. Because he's Sam. (It's a contrast to the effortless, awkward-but-honest communication style we see from characters like Jack and Dean in this very episode.)

SAM: Charlie, you can't just quit and go live on a mountain somewhere. People need people. CHARLIE: Why? Cause they're the luckiest people in the world? SAM: Look, come on. We just do. We're social animals. CHARLIE: Emphasis on animals. SAM: Yeah, but you're also a hunter. The things that we've seen, it's not so easy to just walk away from it all. Believe me, I've tried. Our Charlie tried. CHARLIE: Yeah, well again, she ain't me. It's my life, Sam. Not hers. And not yours.

Ah, yes. Instead of saying, “I want you here,” it’s, “people need people.”

And Hell, sometimes indirect communication works! Like how Dean and Cas use Felix the snake to indirectly communicate with Jack in Peace of Mind!

But the difference with Sam is...he's not using this indirect communication style to find out how Charlie feels (the way Dean and Cas use the snake to suss out how Jack feels).

No, he's using the whole thing to try to tell Charlie what he thinks is best for her! To tell her things, not find out things.

Eventually, he breaks and says what he actually thinks, but only after AU Charlie is starting to lose her patience with him:

SAM (faux-sadly): Got to say, I do feel kind of bad for the Musca. I mean, he could have been happy if he'd stayed with his people. Didn't have to go off on his own just because... CHARLIE (exasperated): Okay, I get it. I am just like the bug and I shouldn't go out on my own.

OMG, Sammy! It's okay if we want to hit Sam sometimes, right? I too wanted to hit him after he said this to Charlie.

CHALIE: But your nifty metaphor has holes. I wasn't looking for love. I found it and I lost it. And I didn't kill people and literally nest in their body parts so...(Scene cuts to other Musca removing the body of the dead one) SAM: Okay, yeah I know, I know, How about this? Don't leave. 

(Aside// I think this is a cheeky nod to the fact that Cas and Dean weren't looking for love either. In fact, they tried (and keep trying) really, really hard not to love each other. Their real life was faaaar more complicated than some simple "bodysnatcher plot.")

But thank God--Sam finally says outright what he needed to say to Charlie: Don't leave.

Now, it probably would've been better if he's gone a step further: "I don't want you to leave," but for Sam, this is pretty good progress.

SAM: Hear me out. Sure some people can do bad things when they're desperate or scared. But the guy we just saved, he has a wife and children. I'm not saying that all people are good people or even that most people are but if we help people then maybe they'll help people and all that. And that's worth it. Even with all the tears and death. It's worth it. CHARLIE: Just to be super clear, I am not like the fly monster. (Sam chuckles) But, I'll think about staying.

So I think OVERALL the Musca plot is really about highlighting Sam's difficult communication style, and I think it's intentionally being cheeky about it how it's using a "really "dumb metaphor" with gaping holes!

It's about how Sam tries to force-fit the case of the week into saying what he wants it to say...instead of just saying it.

///

I think Sam has a little bit of a "mental main character syndrome." He sees a scenario and moves directly into cognitive empathy, reading the situation and thinking:

How can I apply this to myself? Or make it a stand-in for either something I want to believe about myself or a stand-in for something I want to say indirectly?

Sometimes you'll see ppl insist that Sam is the "MC" because every storyline tells you "something about Sam." But I'm more in the camp that it's Sam's inherent cognitive style of empathy at work, desperately reworking anything and everything to make it apply to himself.

Whereas Cas and Dean (and Jack) have a truer emotional style of empathy, connecting with people for who they actually are, as they are.

That's not to say that both styles can't be manipulative when we want them to be. But Sam really struggles with his style in a way I feel like Dean and Cas do not. Dean and Cas perhaps don't even realize what effective communicators they actually are!

///

My other thoughts on Optimism:

[misc-obeyme]

Re: this if you don't mind me expanding on it, I've always liked the thought of dealing with the cast (particularly the brothers) in a very blunt and straightforward way. As much as I love them, they don't need to be coddled and in the wrong situation, it could easily feed into an idea that they could get away with anything.

It probably depends on the 'crime' (sometimes literal, honestly) and their response. Beel is one I can't see doing it as much with, because he tends to show remorse and do what he can to repay for his mistakes a lot more often than his brothers. Because he's a sweetheart. <3

Mammon, though? Asmo? Belphie? Hell, even (especially, depending on the circumstances) Lucifer. Yeah, no, they're going to learn and I'm going to teach them.

Talking bad about your brother or someone outside of the HoL when they don't deserve it? You're going to face them and give them a good, earnest apology. Destroyed or sold someone's property? You're going to pay it back without complaint. Being immature in how you handle your frustration with someone/thing? You're going to therapy- more than I'd already encourage, anyways.

Kindness and tolerance is all well and good, but there's only so far it can go. I think I'd respond more along the lines of "I'm dating a group of adults, and if you don't want to act like adults, then you can deal with it when I don't act like I'm dating you."

Yes of course you are always free to expand upon any such posts from my blog!

And okay, blunt is probably the best way to go and I definitely think they could end up taking advantage of an MC who isn't, even if they don't mean to.

I fully agree about Beel, he's the only one who ever seems to be genuinely sorry about stuff. I mean we can barely get a "sorry" out of Lucifer at all. While I can't remember if anybody else has apologized for anything, I don't think they're as frequent as they should be.

I commend your willingness to teach them, though. That's the part where I'd be like I'm sorry but you're all ancient beings and you're gonna hafta figure this out on your own. I'd be a terrible devilsitter lol.

I kinda think this is why I generally prefer the side characters in most cases. They're not perfect by any means, but most of them do seem to be more mature. Obviously Barbatos is competent as hell and I'm like yes, someone I don't have to worry about being a total menace all the time. I think Simeon wouldn't be problematic either because most of the trouble he's caused was in the name of something good. Solomon is the least mature perhaps because he can be a tease and an asshole but I also think he's got a higher maturity level than some of the brothers.

But this is one of the things that used to annoy me about Lucifer. I think he tries to be the parental figure to his brothers, but he's just not very good at it. He treats them too much like kids and so they continue to act like kids. Not that he's any better, but he likes to think so. No wonder it's always so chaotic!

While I think it's interesting to consider an MC that loses their shit, I'm quite fond of MC keeping it together and whipping those fools into shape instead. The characters all realize that MC is the one thing they care about the most, so they start to think about things in terms of what MC would want them to do.

[johaerys-writes]

WIP Wednesday

Another Wednesday, another WIP! After breaking my own damn heart with the last disasters chapter, I thought I'd have some lighthearted fun with the omegaverse AU and torture Achilles some more. So have a snippet from the next chapter of As Fate Would Have It, which is finished and should be up tomorrow (when I have more brainpower to finish editing 🫠):

"You never answered my question last night." 

"What question?"

"Have I sworn an oath of celibacy to you after all? Or was last night's scene just a one time thing?"

Achilles' jaw clenches. Alcmena has drifted closer to their table to refill Phoenix's cup; when she notices Achilles' eyes on her, she blanches and hurries away, tending to the tables far down the hall. 

"Are you that eager to bed that serving girl, beloved?" Achilles asks acidly. His scent has turned sharp once again, prickling Patroclus’s nostrils. "Had I known you were so desperate for her, I would have made her part of our arrangement." 

Patroclus flushes, embarrassed yet still annoyed at the snide and derisive remark. "This isn't about her— it isn’t about that at all. I just need you to tell me exactly what I've agreed to here. And I'll have you know," he adds, perhaps a little more petulantly than is required, "I'm not desperate for anyone. I could have anyone I wanted in this palace, and there's nothing you could do to stop me." 

It is an empty threat; Patroclus' half-hearted attempts at courting have been disappointing at best, but Achilles doesn’t need to know that. 

Achilles glares at him, affront writ clear and sharp across his features. The sound of his chair being pushed back is startlingly loud in the half-empty hall; Achilles springs to his feet and stomps away, his breakfast largely untouched. 

Patroclus gets up after him with an exasperated huff, cursing under his breath. The second time in less than a day that he’s had to abandon a meal early because of the prince's whims. He follows him out of the mess hall and across the yard, towards the palace's main building.

"Wait." 

But Achilles doesn’t. He walks straight past the training yard, the gym and the baths, and into the small secluded yard of the inner palace where he usually has his lessons. 

"Hey," Patroclus says once they're finally alone— he's too proud to admit that the brisk walk across the palace grounds tired him out, but he’s sounding more winded than he would have wanted. "I'm talking to you." 

"I am not," Achilles hisses. He makes his way to the carved bench beneath the shade of the olive tree without sparing Patroclus a look. 

"You don't really have a choice in the matter." Patroclus sits decisively beside him. "I have a right to know. You can’t avoid this conversation forever."

Tagging forth to @baejax-the-great @vimlos @cata-liinaa @annalyia @juliafied @figsandphiltatos @darlingpoppet @aristi-achaion and anyone else who would like to share a snippet of their work!

[tododeku-or-bust]

Re: The noise in public transit posts

I had no clue that it being "polite" to wear headphones/not play loud music on public transit was a white supremacy thing. I've gotten really annoyed at people (though usually just ignored it) cause I see things from a disabled person's POV. Super loud music Hurts especially if it has lots of bass. (Which now that I am actively thinking about it's either a POC or some white dude in a sports car and I don't know if that means anything or I'm overanalyzing again...) I've been in the car with my dad before when someone was playing music loud enough we could feel it and he had to stop the car cause it triggered a severe vertigo wave.

There are Loads of things that make public transit inaccessible and so I tend to get annoyed when there is something that people can do to make it easier and they either don't think about it or they actively ignore it. I definitely understand now that as a whole, politics of noise is in favor of white people (like So many other things.) But this does bring up the questions of, where is the line drawn between letting people live their lives, and making for an accessible city? How do we define what is and isn't ok when playing music on a speaker? And the biggest question, how do we avoid being racist in the endeavor to be accessible?

Thanks for the new outlook! I would love to hear some thoughts on this.

Well first, please don't put words in my mouth. I didn't say that being polite to wear headphones is a "white supremacy thing". I said that the Right to Comfort was a "white supremacy thing". The idea that you are so entitled to public space and your comfort in it that state violence should be enacted to maintain that comfort (even if it means detrimental and biased effects on other groups of people) is a white supremacy thing.

There are Black and Brown disabled people too! And they have to consider that yes, those things are annoying, but they are ALSO in danger of increased policing bc their disabilities and discomforts will not be treated on par with a white person's! So in this solution...who is it for? What is it really accomplishing? Who is really safer, in the long run? Because based on the interaction I just had, there's plenty of racism involved in the decision.

I addressed some of your question here. What I believe to be the core, racist issue revealed is here.

If everyone wants everyone to wear headphones, maybe we need to start having stations to buy cheap headphones! Lobbying to get phone jacks put back in phones. Maybe having specific train cars meant for silence only, for those who have sensitivity issues. I don't have all the answers.

To be honest, you're going to have to do your own research on this, if it means so much to you. Perhaps looking into disabled activists of color that discuss these things without utilizing policing. I guarantee there are people who have talked about this far more patiently and eloquently than I! But at the end of the day, if we don't come up with something that won't put my entire community in danger for the comfort of a few, no I'm not supporting it. 🤷🏾‍♀️

[veliseraptor]

Hey Lise, I know this is asking you to harken back to your MCU days but did you ever come across a meta post that was like, "we shouldn't compare Loki and Bucky's trauma; Loki's trauma is much more like Steve's pre-serum trauma and look at how ✨awesome✨ Steve is and how he dealt with that same trauma? Loki has no excuses!" Because I did and it still makes me mad to think about to this day.

If I'm remembering the post you're thinking of properly - and I definitely may not be, I could be thinking of a different post entirely (the staple of "compare the antagonist's trauma to a protagonist's trauma, comment on how the protagonist handled it sooooo much better and how that indicates that the antagonist deserved what he/she/they got, because the way somebody handles trauma is determinative of their goodness or evilness as a person" is a recurring tradition across time and fandoms, I'm sure there are multiple posts), that's not actually what I got from the one in question? perhaps it was just my lens, but (again, if I'm thinking of the same post), I recall it being relatively morally neutral, or at least more about looking at the ways in which "actually while the easy comparison is loki and bucky due to the position they occupy in the narrative, loki and steve have more in common in some ways and that's interesting" and I read it as, personally, a bit of a stoki manifesto.

like, "actually these characters people don't tend to associate/look at together have some very interesting parallels! isn't that neat?" more than anything coming with a moral judgment.

but getting this ask made me go back into the depths of my blog (truly, the depths) to track down the post I'm at least thinking of, and remarkably enough actually managed to find it (given that the post in question is from 2013), and...reading it from the perspective of Fandom Discourse in 2023 I can definitely see what it is you're saying, and I think if I saw it in Fandom Edition 2023 that's probably how I would read it, too, and get annoyed about it. but looking at it from the perspective of where things were at that time, before the great villain/victim discourse of Winter Soldier kicked in, I actually feel a relative minimum of judgment from the post? Like, it does describe the different choices steve and loki make in response to their experiences in positive/negative terms, but it doesn't then progress to (at least in my reading) "and that's why loki is evil and NO EXCUSES" (Fandom 2023 Edition), but stays at just...letting it be about divergent character journeys coming from similar-but-different places? idk.

like, at the very least this one acknowledges that the "bad" character was genuinely hurt and having an understandable emotional reaction. which is not necessarily something one sees these days.

idk. maybe I'm being too generous. but then, I am more inclined to be generous to a post made in 2013 concerning this, when the pattern of discourse in fandom was a little different, than I would be reading a similar post now. perhaps that's unfair.

but I did link this specific post in several "why you should ship stoki" masterposts at the time, so if your read on this post is accurate then I feel very okay about taking it elsewhere.