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isuckatwritingsobenice · 4 months

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Infernal Shadows 03

Synopsis: Being one of the most powerful overlords in Hell, you like to keep up with colonies and overlord plans. Recently with the new extermination date out, you hold your annual gala sooner than usual. You hadn’t expected to get in the middle of the already heated feud between the Radio Demon and the head of Vox Tech.

Warnings: She/Her pronouns used for the reader, mentions of blood, voodoo?, Angel Dust being a horn-bag, Reader is referred too as Madame to the public. Vox and Alastor feud because I live for it. Carmilla and Velvet feud because I also live for that. I also really favor Zestial for some reason as a calm mediator.

Song for this chapter: Ludwig van Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D major, Op. 61

A/N: Thank you all so much for your positive feedback & feedback in general on the last two posts!! I really didn’t think this would catch so much attention but I’m so glad people like it. For some reason Tumblr’s being weird and doesn’t want to let me tag certain people, I don’t know why but if anyone does please let me know because I really don’t like that ;/ But I hope you all enjoy this chapter!! Please note that some blogs cannot be tagged, so I recommend checking this post and to check your settings to make sure I can tag you! If anything I can always just message you when the next chapter comes out, and yes I am making this series longer :) it’ll also be posted on my Wattpad soon!

Word count: 3890

Taglist: @dollops-of-delusion @nebusokuxp @scrunchss @rosedasy @valluvz @chesstras @pishybowl @iaaeav @forgotten-blues @22carolina08 @roboticsuccubus83 @doflamingadonquixote @froggyferrets @frompeach @absurd-ash @sillysillyxinnabun @urdariingdoll @delectableworm @immahuman @justaproudslytherpuff @local-mr-frog @angeli-fucking-cat @coldsweetsenthusiast @jadekomaeda @iaaeav @coffeethoughtsandanxiety @lunalixya @pretty-puppy-stuffies @lemonrolls @asimplikeallyall @lunalixya

Navigation!! // Masterlist!!! // Serendipity Writes (event) // Part One. // Part two. // Part four.

Engaging with guests throughout the night had become an exhausting endeavor, and a part of you yearned for the solace of your absence. Nevertheless, you maintained the façade, acknowledging every sinner whose smile dripped with crimson mischief. Having greeted each guest, you discreetly slipped into a shadowed corner, your shadows enveloping your figure quickly, seamlessly disappearing from the expansive room in mere seconds and emerging into an intimate gazebo outside, meticulously arranged beneath the sweeping branches of a weeping willow, you marveled at its unique ambiance. Unlike the earthly counterparts that stood white, the willow in your realm bore a deep crimson hue, its leaves adorned with a subtle, luminous sheen. A gentle smile graced your lips as you leaned against the sturdy black iron railing, delicately cradling a piece of the weeping willow between your fingertips. In the distance, the grand mansion hosting the gala loomed, its opulence contrasting with the simplicity of your secluded retreat. Despite the awareness of etiquette dictating against leaving guests unattended, the need for a mental break led you to this haven, a safe space for you. Reflecting, you acknowledged a desire for better preparation and rehearsal with the shadows, realizing the repetitiveness of conversations with the familiar sinners had rendered the night somewhat lackluster. It almost felt like you had come out of hiding for nothing. Quite the disappointment.

You sigh, massaging your temples, the lace fabric on your fingertips only slightly soothing the growing headache. However, not too far behind, you hear the sound of soft grass. You straighten up and turn around, seeing none other than your long time friend Zestial, who just smiled, nodding at you.

“Why art thou out here all alone on this crimson night?” Zestial inquired, standing by your side with his back against the railing. You resumed your original position, taking a moment to appreciate his father. Mentally noting how much of your grandfather Zestial reminded you of, you kept the sentiment unspoken.

Tonight, Zestial adorned himself in an outfit resonant with his time period, preserving his distinctive color scheme. A dark, meticulously tailored coat with lime green accents draped over his slender frame, capturing the essence of his demonic class. The cloak, adorned with lime green spider webs, unveiled a mesmerizing display when unfurled—his lime green eyes radiating, the upper pair embellished with vivid red irises. Instead of the customary big top hat, Zestial selected a smaller, more appropriate hat with a touch of flair. Dark as the shadows you command, it featured a light grey patch at the front and was finished with a grey-colored skull and a lime green and red-striped feather on the right side, adding a distinctive touch that mirrored his nature.

“Why art thou out here all alone on this crimson night?” Zestial repeated, shifting toward you a bit. Yet you resumed your original position, savoring the quiet ambiance before finally answering him. “What shall we discourse upon during our repast this eventide?” Zestial asked. Though his wording occasionally posed a challenge for others, having grown up in a family of eloquent speakers, you easily deciphered his intent. Something he truly appreciated. Though he was learning to speak more ‘modern’, or as modern as he could be.

“Quite unsure of that. Everything is changing, and I fear I might be left behind,” you expressed bluntly. Zestial sighed in response, a mix of understanding and concern evident in his lime green eyes.

“Madame, thou art timeless,” Zestial said with a bow, his cup proofing into smoke. “I pray thee, vex not thyself o’er so trivial a matter,” he added, his words resonating with both reassurance and genuine care.

You nodded, handing him a card. His surprised expression upon finding two cards instead of one didn’t escape you. “What manner of thing is this?” Zestial inquired, prompting you to summon a shadow for yourself, knowing he would find his own means back to the Gala.

“Carmilla. I am no fool to the both of you,” you said, amusement coloring your words as Zestial shook his head.

“Thou dost astonish me on every occasion,” Zestial remarked, standing by your side as you walked into your portal. Two seats vanished, leaving four empty seats at your table and six occupied.

In your study, you floated scripts in front of you, checking off names on the table list for tonight. With a few overlords left to choose from, Alastor and Charlotte secured seats based on trust and connections. Vox, Zestial, and Carmilla, an unspoken but potent couple, promised intrigue. Reconsidering Velvet for her potential devolution, you weighed each decision with strategic acumen.

Valentino, the Von Eldritch twins, and other weaker options were dismissed, maintaining a careful balance of power and influence. As you weigh the option of inviting Rosie to the gathering, her unpredictable nature adds a layer of excitement and potential surprise to the upcoming discussions. However, this unpredictability could also introduce challenges, creating an air of uncertainty around her contributions. Hopefully with Alastor around, she’d feel more inclined to behave. You check her name off the list.

In considering Stolas, the Goetia prince, his personal issues and tarnished reputation pose significant hurdles. Divorcing from his wife, sleeping with an imp for fun, as well as losing control of his daughter on Earth, it all seemed too risky to get involved with. While his wisdom and influence could contribute positively, the shadows of his struggles may complicate the dynamics, stirring potential conflicts and requiring delicate handling. Someone might get out of line with a comment towards him. His power was incredibly useful, but not worth the risk.

Husk’s transformation from a former overlord to a bartender signals a decline in power and status. While his laid-back demeanor might bring a sense of unpredictability, his diminished influence raises questions about the relevance of his involvement in the current political landscape of hell. Though he was your friend, you needed to keep your reputation pristine.

As the you contemplate the overlords assets, a mix of excitement, caution, and uncertainty envelops the decision-making process. Each overlord’s potential positive contributions are balanced by the looming negatives.

“Madame?” One of your shadows materialized, prompting a nod for them to proceed. “There seems to be some trouble in the lobby between the guests. What would you like us to do?” it inquired. A grimace crossed your face, hoping the disturbance wouldn’t mar your night. “Let me handle it,” you declared, snapping your fingers, causing the script to vanish. The shadow nodded, blending back into a wall for you to step through.

Upon reappearing, you assumed the form of a taller shadow. The room surrounded by guests revealed Vox, Velvet, Alastor, and Carmilla standing in the middle. Zestial, seemingly composed, stood close behind Carmilla, observing the situation. Carmilla appeared visibly upset, with Velvet in proximity, a pointed finger dropping as soon as she noticed your arrival. Alastor maintained his usual wide smile, though it bordered on the eerie, revealing a glimpse of his gums. The scene unfolded, presenting a potential challenge to the serene atmosphere you aimed to maintain during the gala.

Everyone seemed to stop, slowly turning toward you to see your face. Except there was no expression, just the large shadow you had taken form of. In seconds the shadow disappeared, leaving you in the fog, the expression on your face anything but calm.

"Madame I-" Velvet began, but her words were halted by the sight of your lace glove, your hand rising to silence her. Approaching the overlords, you spoke with an air of cold authority.

"My quarters. Now," you commanded, and with a snap of your fingers, smoke enveloped your spot as you vanished. Shadows materialized around the overlords, guiding them to your quarters, leaving the stunned guests in the lobby.

"Well, that was interesting," Valentino remarked.

In your study, the overlords found you seated in your tall, black chair. Its ebony surface featured intricate carvings of black glass, elegant swirls, and patterns tailored to your essence, creating an atmosphere of undeniable authority and refinement.

"I hope you all had fun acting like children," you chided sternly. The overlords lined up, forming a unified front. Leaning against the right side of your chair, you crossed your legs, elbow on the armrest, pinching the bridge of your nose with a sigh. Annoyance laced your words as you questioned, "What did you feel the need to argue about now?" Before Velvet, Vox, and Carmilla could respond simultaneously, you halted them. "One at a time. I'd assume you all handle this like adults, if you even can." The tension in the room hung thick as the overlords awaited their turn to address your inquiry.

“She wants me at her table Vaggie! Me!” Charlotte said excitedly. Vagatha just smiled.

“That’s good! Now you can tell them about the hotel, and maybe someone will be interested.” Vagatha said, and Charlotte just nodded.

“Maybe they-“ Charlotte stopped, observing as people began to crowd around the center of the lobby. Charlotte and Vagatha stood from their spots at the bar to walk toward the center, where the overlords stood. Velvet and Vox were next to each other, while Carmilla, Alastor and Zestial were across. Carmilla and Velvet were face to face. “What’s going on?” Charlotte asked as Vagatha and her pushed their way through the crowds of people.

“Come on, Carmilla, always the mood-killer,” Velvet scoffed, a disrespectful tone tainting her words. Carmilla shot her a stern look, ready to assert her authority.

“Watch that tongue, Velvet. I will not let your insolence slide,” Carmilla retorted, attempting to rein in the escalating tension.

Vox, ever the smooth talker, chimed in, “Ladies, ladies, let’s not turn this into a drama fest. We’re all here for a reason.” Vox said, sternly giving a tight lipped smile to Velvet, silently telling her to keep her shit together.

Carmilla shot a glare at Velvet, who replied with a defiant smirk, “Drama or not, Vox, some of us aren’t here for the ballroom charm.”

Alastor, drawn to the brewing chaos, couldn’t resist adding his flair, “Well, well, a bit of spice never hurt a party, does it?”

Carmilla, unfazed by the chaos, spoke with a calm authority, “Velvet, your insolence is unnecessary. This is not a playground; it’s a gathering of overlords. Act accordingly.”

Velvet, seemingly undeterred, shot back with a dismissive laugh, “Poor Grandma, always trying to play the responsible one. Maybe loosen up a bit? Have a drink will you?”

Vox, ever the smooth talker, added with a slick comment, “Perhaps we can focus on the matters at hand. Save the theatrics for later ladies.”

Alastor, intrigued by the unfolding drama, simply grinned, “Oh the picture box has spoken! Quite intriguing.” The room continued to buzz with tension as each overlord, except Rosie, added their own flavor to the brewing turmoil. As the tension thickened, Vox, with a sly grin, couldn't resist adding his own slick comment to the mix.

"Ah, Alastor, the radio days were quaint, but it seems you're a bit outdated. Television is the future, perhaps you should tune in sometime," he quipped with a wink, the words delivered with a calculated smoothness. The room momentarily hung in a charged silence before the verbal sparring resumed, adding another layer to the complex interplay of personalities at the gala.

With Vox's comment about Alastor being outdated sinking in, the radio demon responded with a sly grin, sharp teeth on display, his eyes displays dials, as the rooms lights began to deepen, "Ah, Vox, your television endeavors are impressive, but remember, I'm not just audible; I'm unforgettable. A little screen time won't change that," he retorted, “This face was made for radio.” He said with a grin, tilting his head to the side, a sharp snap in his neck, his words carrying a mix of amusement and confidence. The verbal exchange between the two overlords added another layer to the already charged atmosphere, each comment becoming a piece in the intricate puzzle of conflicts and egos at the gala.

“See what you did grandma, now you’ve got the two of them fighting.” Velvet said, pointing a finger into Carmella’s chest. She scoffed, shoving her away.

“Don’t you dare get disrespectful on me you brat.” Carmilla said, beginning to heat up with anger.

That's when Madame stepped in, reappearing in the form of a taller shadow, casting a lengthened silhouette in the room brimming with guests. Vox, Velvet, Alastor, and Carmilla found themselves at the center of the unfolding tableau, and Zestial, seemingly composed, lingered just behind Carmilla, quietly observing the escalating drama. Carmilla's visage betrayed a hint of distress, her pointed finger lowering as she registered your reappearance. Alastor, with his trademark grin, bordered on eerie, revealing a glimpse of his gums. The unfolding scene disrupted the serene atmosphere you had meticulously aimed to maintain during the gala, presenting an unexpected challenge.

A hush fell over the room as everyone turned their gaze toward you, anticipating your reaction. However, your face remained expressionless, concealed within the depths of the large shadow you had taken form of. In mere seconds, the shadow dissipated, leaving you in a misty veil. Yet, beneath the calm exterior, a storm brewed, ready to challenge the delicate balance of the evening.

Now, here you all were, sitting in the study after Carmilla had explained the situation.

“Madame, with all due respect,” Carmilla spoke, looking down. “I truly do not believe Velvet is mature enough to be at our table tonight.” Carmilla said.

“Are you questioning my judgment?” You asked sharply, to which Carmilla stiffened quickly, shaking her head then.

”No Madame, I would never-“

“Then do not say foolish things.” You said. Sighing, you shut your eyes, feeling the weight of the situation. Tonight sensitive information would be revealed and Carmilla did have some point here. Velvet clearly could not hold her tongue.

”Vox, control your associate please, or you both will be cut from the dinner tonight.” You said finally, to which he nodded nervously.

“Of course Madame.” He said, nodding to you.

“I wasn’t finished.” You said, looking to Alastor.

“I want none of this technology talk either.” You spoke, staring at Alastor who just smiled with lidded eyes. You knew he was very much upset, but you had forbidden anyone to fight in your home, anyone but you of course. “You all will act like mature adults wether you like it or not. I am not your guardian, I should not be having this conversation with overlords who should know better.” You said, standing. ”Now, all of you, out.” You said, snapping your fingers. Quickly the shadows began to move, ushering everyone out of your study. Everyone except Carmilla. “Not you.” You said to her, Zestial nodding to you and her as he stepped out, giving you both privacy.

“Madame, I didn’t mean what I said-“ Carmilla said quickly. You waved her off, straightening yourself out.

“Nonsense Carmilla, I know you meant well.” You said with a stoic expression. You sit back down, crossing your legs and snapping your fingers to form a chair in front of your desk, ushering her to sit. “I wanted to speak to you about your weapons.” You stated. At this her eyes went wide, before dropping again.

“Oh, very well then. What would you like to know?” She asked. You grinned, before standing again.

“Well, how much would I need to give you for you to make me a personal bayonet?” You asked. She went silent for a moment, before answering.

“Nothing at all Madame.” She said, standing to look at you. “May I ask what for?” She questioned. You shook your head.

“No, just to have on display. I want a new one, the old one I have is quite out of style for me.” You replied. She just nodded, before you waved to her, sitting back down and summoning a script again. “You may go now, and please, do not argue with children.” You commented. She just smiled and nodded, leaving you to your own vices.

It was half-past eleven, five minutes till the midnight bells chime. Everyone in the lobby was beginning to get excited for the entertainment you had planned for the night. Oh, you knew you would not disappoint.

“Madame would like everyone to accompany her on a journey tonight. She has sent me to retrieve you all. She would like to formally welcome you to tonight’s entertainment.” The large shadow said, standing from the topic of the stairs. Behind it was a large portal. It stepped backwards, into the portal, and nodded for the guests to start coming through.

The custom-built coliseum stands as a testament to Madame's vision, a grand fusion of opulence and dark elegance. The circular structure boasts towering columns, but instead of conventional pillars, thick chains rise, intricately linked and serving as both ornamental decor and structural support. The arches, molded in black, curve gracefully around the circumference, evoking a Victorian Gothic aesthetic that permeates the entire venue.

Two larger-than-life statues of Madame herself flank the entrance, capturing her regal poise and adding a touch of imposing authority. The statues serve not only as decorative elements but as a representation of the gala's hostess, a constant presence overseeing the proceedings, she is always watching, all seeing, perfection.

The overall ambiance is one of grandeur and mystery, with the black molding on the arches casting shadows that play into the darker undertones. Every intricate detail, from the chains to the statues, contributes to the unique Victorian Gothic feel of the coliseum, matching Madame’s home perfectly, matching her perfectly. The venue, finally being unveiled to the guests, now welcomes them who are treated to an appetizer course, surrounded by the striking architecture and entertained within the darkly enchanting atmosphere Madame has meticulously crafted.

Numerous shadows, dark and formless, line the entrance walls, extending silent greetings to the arriving guests. Their presence adds an air of mystique and intrigue as they blend seamlessly with the Gothic architecture. As attendees make their way into the coliseum, these shadowy figures create an ethereal welcome, embodying the unique atmosphere of Madame's custom-built venue.

At a separate entrance reserved for the handpicked members of Madame's esteemed dinner table, a solitary shadow stands guard. This entrance, reserved for a select few, hints at the exclusivity and importance of those who will partake in the upcoming dinner. The shadowy sentinels serve not only as silent greeters but also as guardians of the event's secrets, casting an enigmatic allure over the gala.

A singular shadows escorts Charlotte, Alastor, and the rest of the overlords to the exclusive section, leading them to an elevator to bring them to the best seats in the coliseum. The elevator’s interior is a striking display of elegance, with white and black checkered flooring lending a timeless touch. The walls, enveloped in darkness, exude an air of mystery, while black, smokey glass engravings on the ceiling add intricate detailing that dances in the ambient light. Each number on the elevator, indicating the ascending levels, glows a vibrant red, creating a vivid contrast against the monochrome palette.

“Oh I’m so excited! What do you think we’re gonna see? Gladiators? Sinners fight? Oh actually I hope not, I don’t want people to die.” Charlotte said to Alastor. Carmilla just chuckled at her antics while Zestial eyed her with curiosity. Where did Alastor find such a girl and why the princess of all people?

The elevator stops at the top floor, revealing the opening in the middle, which was surprisingly covered with water.

“What is Madame playing at?” Carmilla questioned as the overlords sat in a row at the top. From there they could see everything and everyone.

“I am quite uncertain, yet my anticipation is stirred nonetheless.” Zestial said. The lights around began to dim, and shadows began to pour glasses of water in front of all the guests. Down in the middle of the coliseum was the tallest shadow, the one that seemed to be Madame’s favorite, since it always spoke for her.

“Greetings all. It is Madame’s pleasure to invite you all to the special entertainment tonight. Madame has put together some of hell’s finest performers for your entertainment tonight. I would like to present, preforming here tonight, The Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra preforming Ludwig van Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D major, Op. 61.” The shadow said with a bow, before it vanished just as quick as it came. Then, other shadows appeared, but this time they were different. They were people, performers, with clear outlined silhouettes, faces and expressions, even clothes.

“Hey, Al?” Charlotte asked, leaning over in her seat to Alastor. He let out a ‘hm?’ In response.

“Does Madame own those souls down there?” Charlotte whispered, but before Alastor could answer, a shadow had already cut in.

“Yes. All the shadows here, even yours, Madame owns.” The shadow said quietly, filling Charlotte’s glass cup with water. Charlotte nervously, perked up, but said nothing as she shadow carried on with it’s catering.

The ethereal notes of the music filled the air as the performance unfolded. Around the musicians stood ballet dancers, their movements a delicate poetry in motion. Clad in all black, the performers created a stark contrast to the dancers, who emerged with an otherworldly grace akin to figures rising from the depths of water. The dancers moved with an angelic fluidity, their forms intertwining seamlessly with the haunting melody, creating a mesmerizing tableau that captivated the audience. The visual symphony of black-clad musicians and the whisky-hued ballet dancers painted a scene of enchantment and mystery within the grand coliseum. Even down to the dancers, this had Madame written all over it.

Velvet's keen eye captured the essence of the dancers' ethereal movements on paper. With each stroke of her sketch, she depicted the dancers as if emerging from a watery abyss, the fog enveloping their feet creating an illusion of water flowing upward. The intricate details on her sketch paper brought to life the dancers' graceful forms, their figures seemingly intertwined with the rising mist, evoking the enchantment of a waterspout captured in a moment of sublime artistry. Velvet's artistic interpretation added a layer of depth to the performance, transforming the ephemeral dance into a tangible and captivating visual narrative.

Water had begun to swirl, the dancers moving around it, the water getting taller and taller, similar to the way it had when you had first made your entrance at the beginning of the Gala. Now, it was water, and from Charlotte’s seat, she had struggled to make out what was going on. She turned to Alastor to see him holding a pair of opera glasses in his hand. Without you having to ask, he tapped the armrest of her seat. Charlotte turned to the side to see a pair tucked neatly against the front of the armrest. She grabbed them quickly, before looking through them and at the waterspout now forming in the middle. Her jaw flew open, as well as the loud screech of Alastor’s track playing. Vox had short circuited, and Carmilla gasped loudly. Velvet stood silent, but there was evident confusion on her face, while Zestial sunk into his seat, conflicting emotions flowing through him.

“Madame- she’s-“ Charlotte stuttered, and Alastor nodded, swallowing thickly.

“With an exorcist. I know.”

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin charlie #hazbin angel dust #hazbin vaggie #hazbin demon #hazbin vox #hazbin hotel rosie #alastor #zestial hazbin hotel #yandere alastor x reader #yandere alastor #yandere vox #yandere vox x reader #hellaverse #isuckatwritingsobenice infernal shadows #isuckatwritingsobenice

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from-memphis-with-love · 2 months

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Gambling on Your Love - An Elvis Presley Fanfiction

Summary: Mid-'60s Elvis is stuck in a dead end film career that he hates. Until he meets one Francesca Ferrara, a triple threat from Brooklyn, NY on a meteoric rise whose talent rivals his own. The Colonel is determined to put a stop to their hot and heavy romance at any cost, fearing it may hurt his client's career. But Elvis has other plans.

Word count: ~12,000 Warnings: alcohol, cigarette, and pill usage; sexual content and innuendos; mental health and turmoil. Elvis is not a happy camper as we start this story.

The limousine was oppressive with heat. Boozy breath clung in the air like miasma. City lights smeared like paints along the fogging glass. Glittering nails and hairsprayed blonde curls skewed his already hazy vision and he just barely put out his cigarette in the ashtray without scalding Daisy’s—or was it Cindy’s?—sequin dress.

“Hey! Watch it,” she drunkenly giggled in his face, poking him in the chest with one bony index. She looked older, harsher now in the neon lights. Tap tap tap. “You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

He didn’t know what he said in response, but it didn’t matter. She was still happy just to be in a limousine, leaving a party with Elvis Presley. Something she keenly shared with him that she couldn’t wait to tell her friends all about.

Stumbling into his hotel room, ceiling-to-floor mirrors reflecting him back, he didn’t remember the elevator trip up. He heard once that if nothing new happens on a routine route, your brain doesn’t bother to write it down. Just doesn’t think you need to use that extra space for something rudimentary.

Sitting down on a different couch, with a different girl, in a different one of his suites, didn’t constitute much change. The pills he’d imbibed suppressed his lust and he felt himself just going through the motions with her. With himself.

The silence was sharp. Always ringing in his ear. It’s why he liked keeping the party going—he didn’t have to listen to it. She was asleep in the bed, and he wasn’t sure if he was, too, when he stumbled out and into the too empty, echoing living room. The uncomfortable leather couch squeaked when he sat down, cold and sticky. The television was on a late-night variety show. It was an encore for an hours-prior live performance. He held the remote poised at the set, blinking tiredly at the political jab Johnny Carson made, the crowd laughing even when he didn’t say anything funny. He introduced their next guest and Elvis clicked away.

But before he switched to Nightlife, he caught a glimpse of dark hair and a sparkling high cut dress. Elvis clicked back. Trapezing onto stage, jovial and collected, was a songstress he didn’t recognize, though lately he hadn’t been busy with keeping up with anyone else but himself. He didn’t know anyone on set, hadn’t even heard of the director before—it was just another film in a long line of commercially successful mediocrity. Sitting, he watched her as she glowed with something he felt fading away, spilling out of his seams. He leaned closer towards the television, and Johnny introduced her to an anticipating audience.

Her name was Francesca Ferrara. What was that, Italian? Either way, it rolled pleasantly off his tongue. He repeated it out loud, watching as she performed. Her voice was like velvet and when she danced, the notes didn’t even quiver. She retained perfect pitch while going heel-toe, shimmying and sliding, dipping her hips in her glittering gown. He was enthralled, gazing from so far away yet feeling like she was right before him, and he was an awestruck member of the audience.

Grabbing a pill he left close at hand for pangs of severe loneliness, he drank it down with a swig of water, wiping his mouth and saying goodbye with the crowd as everyone waved at lovely Frannie, leaving the stage and leaving him longing for someone he’d probably never meet. Probably wouldn’t even remember.

Waking up on the couch hours later, he had to go through the awkward peel-away of scooting his latest girl out with a fistful of cab fare. “Thanks for the great night,” he clipped, holding the door like a baseball bat, ready to swing. “Of course! I had suuuch a good time with you, I put my number on your fridge for when you’re lonely, big guy.” She wasn’t bothered by his briskness and ambled away without argument, leaving him by himself. A routine start to his days.

Three months later, he saw Frannie again. But this time he was clear-headed, clearer than he’d been in years. And he did remember.

“Can’t y’all be quiet for five minutes? Goddamn pack of cacklin’ hens!” Elvis scolded the rowdy group of partygoers behind him. Their raucous cheers and shouts drowned out any hope of silence. He couldn’t entirely blame them for having fun without him, though, as his attention was elsewhere.

"Is anyone else seeing her?!" he muttered to himself as he absentmindedly jiggled his fingers. The crowd hushed ever so slightly, allowing him to catch fragments of the sit-down interview taking place on the television screen. There she was again, that Ferrara girl. She was just as beautiful as he remembered. Her voice reached out to him like a siren's call, its rhythm hypnotic. Penetrating his very being.

On set, she sunk back into the big red couch, legs crossed demurely in a miniskirt, listening intently as Mike Douglas poked and prodded with his innuendos. Petite, just like Elvis liked ‘em. Fishnet stockings on supple thighs evoked just the right amount of daring playfulness. Then, with suggestive abandon, she threw her head back into the most beautiful laugh Elvis had ever heard. Seeing the soft flesh of her graceful neck made him tingle in a deep, forgotten place inside. She was sensual without even trying. Even better, she seemed completely unaware of her effect on the men around her. The cameraman, for one, must have been completely smitten for the way he lingered on her face. "So, this is the female version of me everyone's been talking about," Elvis mused, a mix of astonishment and delight coloring his voice. "Well, I'll be damned."

Her natural charisma was palpable. Her lips, just like his, bent into an impishly crooked smile that could bring members of the opposite sex to their knees. As she joked with Douglas, it became increasingly apparent why people drew comparisons between them. They both radiated an effortless sensuality that seemed to leap from the screen. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but disagree with the comparison as she palmed the microphone for an impromptu song—he thought she was even better, a force that surpassed his own artistry.

Her voice. It was soulful, raspy, and powerful, yet also warm and velvety. Effortless, even. From the lower notes that were rich, heavy, and dark to the higher ones that rang clear as a bell, she had an impressive range. Elvis surmised that she easily spanned three octaves and a major sixth, far surpassing his own two and a third. The way she easily hit an E6, a note that seemed out of reach for many singers, left him both jealous and utterly fascinated. Her talent and beauty made him question his own abilities, yet his ego pushed him to pursue her. To consume her. Elvis’ breath hitched in his throat and his hands dropped idly to his sides. Accustomed to being the center of attention, he found the tables turning, himself transfixed and unable to tear his gaze away. He silently vowed to meet this Frannie at any cost.

He had never experienced love at first sight before, but this was as close as it gets.

As she continued to sing, her voice dripped raw with passion. Elvis didn’t know how long he’d been watching, but by the time Frannie entered the chorus for the second time, it seemed as if every man in the room had somehow crowded around the television set. Suddenly, the once boisterous party fell into deafening silence.

"Damn, EP, who is that?" Red West, one of the men in the room, practically gaped at the screen, his jaw hanging open. Whoever it was on the stage, he thought she was phenomenal.

"That," Elvis responded with a confident grin, "is going to be my next co-star."

The next day, Colonel Parker jumped down his throat about late nights and partying, always quick to remind Elvis just who tirelessly scouted for him, trying to get him better and better roles. He went from quipping about Elvis’s pale skin and sunken eyes some mornings to blatantly questioning Elvis’s apparent lack of control.

But Elvis could stop whenever he wanted to. He just didn’t want to.

The movie premiere went without a hitch. Everyone at the showing had rave reviews about “Kissin’ Cousins,” but almost everyone in attendance had been family or friends. It’d been a gauzy shield, a curtain keeping reality just out of sight for when the movie would release in theaters just two weeks later.

Even the “good” reviews were hard for him to grit through.

“Good, harmless fun. Pandering, unpretentious, dim-witted fun.”

The bad reviews just cut.

“The songs weren’t memorable, and the dialogue was sitcom levels of easily digestible canned slop for the masses. You’re better off glancing at the poster and thinking up your own plot to stimulate your brain more than this “film” will.”

“Bad. Bad. Bad. Do I need to say anything with depth for a film lacking any? Save your money.”

The critics were tearing him a new one, but he was more successful than ever, making more money than he’d thought possible in a lifetime. Yet there was something lacking. In the women and the cars, the pick-up games, and the palling around with his stunted entourage. His sleepless nights were plagued with visions of a haunting beauty. It kept him ambitious, fanning the dying flame until he was spurred to reach for the phone.

Over the past few weeks, Elvis had sent around on set that he needed to get in touch with Francesca Ferrara’s manager. Someone had to know someone that knew someone. It just took asking the right person, and schmoozing on set with the makeup girls was a pleasant cost to pay as any.

Eventually it did get back to the right person. Her agent was a man named Dominick Archer, and he was notoriously scrupulous with his clients, only taking on the best actors, singers, and scripts. Elvis learned Francesca didn’t just sing here and there, she was lighting up the charts, skyrocketing to the top. Just the other day, he heard her on the radio. It felt like more than a coincidence.

He had to call Dominick. Again. He’d left a message on the receiver, laying it all out in a quick barrage, “Hey, uh, yeah. It’s Elvis Presley. Look, I saw her— Frannie—I saw her piece on Johnny Carson. She was a fireball, Mr. Archer. I need to work with someone like that. I need to work with her. Call me.”

It’d been three whole days since he left that message and every afternoon he scrambled to the phone, checking to see if his call had been returned. Nothing. But he wasn’t perturbed. He dialed the number again. It rang four, eight times—“What? Speak quick.” There was a rustling sound, like the phone was being held between a face and shoulder.

“It’s Elvis. Presley, sir.”

“Oh yeah. Think I heard of you,” Dominick laughed in that sort of nonplussed way that New Yorkers who have seen it all do. “What do you want?”

Elvis blinked. What did he want? “I left you a message. I think a movie with me and Francesca Ferrara would make box office history.”

Silence. Elvis heard Dominick sniff. Discomforted, he continued, “Do you want to work together?”

“Listen, my going rate for outside agency actors is 60/40. I land us a solid script, a good director, all that jazz. And Francesca is listed as the headliner.”

Bigger cut and her name was supposed to be listed before his? Colonel Parker wouldn’t hear of it. But he could be convinced, maybe. If the profit was tempting enough. Elvis would worry about that later. Right now, securing a spot with Frannie was all that compelled him. He had to get this gig.

So, he answered briskly, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Dominick asked back with a smile in his voice. “Well, then we can start talking business. Get your agent to call me.” And that was it. The call dropped and Elvis heard only a dial tone droning in his ear. It echoed hope.

Now to tell the Colonel.

Elvis was not a man who dreaded much, but he braced himself for this conversation. He was not a pacifist but if in the right circles, could be mistaken for one. Normally, he disliked confrontation and always preferred to take the path with least resistance. And he’d been in the same boat with Colonel Parker for years; abandoning ship now seemed unfeasible if not outright impossible.

He didn’t want to waste time with a phone call; he knew Parker would just hang up on him the moment he received any pushback. So, he made his way downtown to his manager’s temporary office, where Parker’s sandal-clad feet were kicked up on his mahogany desk and a cigar hung precariously from his thin lips, the whole office reeking of tobacco and coffee while he shot the shit with one of his terrified assistants. Smoke raced out the door when Elvis swung it open, catching Parker off guard.

“My boy! No knock, no call? What are you doing? Shouldn’t you be on set right now?” He put the phone back on the receiver, only slightly annoyed.

Elvis leveled him with a stare. “Because I had some errands to do. Besides, it’s reshoots with Barbara today, they don’t need me. Look, I…” He rubbed his palms, remaining standing as he placed them flat on Parker’s desk and leaned across. “There’s a girl. A girl, Admiral. You’ve got to see her, she's got the voice of an angel. Francesca Ferrara.” God, he liked saying that name. Maybe it should get first billing.

“Don’t tell me she’s carrying your baby, Presley.”

“No, no. I didn’t get anyone pregnant. I haven’t even met her yet. I saw her on the television. Heard her on the radio! She’s got somethin’, I promise you.”

The Colonel’s chair creaked as he readjusted, stamping out his expensive cigar. His fingers steepled and he asked in a gravely, wet voice, “And I assume you’re going somewhere with this?”

“I want—no. I need to work with that woman.”

Shrugging, Parker retorted, “Get her agent on the phone. Who is he? Not that needle-dick bastard Jenkins, is he?”

“I already talked to him.”

“You talked to him already? When? Why? I—” He shook his head, holding up his meaty, red palms. “Whaddya think you’re paying me for, kid? You let me do all the talking. So. What’d he say?”

Elvis swished the statement, diluting it. “He wants her to get top billing.”

“Absolutely not.”

“And… a 60/40 split.”

“Sixty isn’t enough, you deserve seventy. I haven’t even heard of this broad. Forty percent, my ass.”

“Sir, she would get the sixty.”

Parker rubbed his mouth and jabbed a finger at him. “What are you playing at? You think this is funny? No way in hell.” He started laughing humorlessly, shaking his head. “Sixty percent. You must have fallen and bumped your head, Presley. Now get out of my office.” He flicked his hand but Elvis didn’t budge.

The older man simmered, quietly, wondering with a glare why Elvis hadn’t made himself scarce yet.

“It ain’t right, never letting me pick and choose what I wanna do. You know I’m the star here, right?” He regretted the words before they left his mouth. The delivery, not their meaning. That part he meant through and through.

“So why do you think I’d let you throw away your cut? You really want to make 40 percent and split that 50/50 with me? What kind of bank do you expect to make from that? Think, Presley! Now quit wasting my time and let me get back to looking out for you. I’ve got some calls to make, so scram.”

He refused. If there was ever a time to take a stand, it was now. He was so tired of letting Parker take damn near full control of his life. The finances, the social guidelines, the shitty movies. All of it.

“I said scram! If you don’t get lost, so help me. You know I don’t like gettin’ pissed off, kid. Don’t push me.”

Elvis didn’t move. Instead, he firmly reiterated, “I think it could be a great opportunity.”

The Colonel flew up from his chair. He was prone to being a jackass, but Elvis had rarely seen him so angry. But then again, he rarely defied his manager, having always seen him as someone who, despite his flaws, nearly always got the job done. Bread in the bank, so to speak. Colonel Parker made damn sure it was always in excess, even if it meant taking a generous cut of his star’s earnings. That part, Elvis didn’t mind. It was just money, after all, and he could always make more. What Elvis had begun to resent was the vice grip control Colonel had on him. With an iron fist, he wielded him like a weapon, cleaving his way through Hollywood one mediocre movie at a time. It was him who spearheaded his silver screen career, scheduled his engagements, managed his merchandising contracts. But at the cost of rigid ruling.

Elvis was not allowed to announce he was dating anyone for the “time being,” that being however long his manager saw fit. He couldn’t deposit checks directly into his bank; Parker handled all the finances down to the penny. Nobody important could get to Elvis without going through Parker first–not other producers, managers, or even would-be friends. Everyone had to be vetted by the Colonel, who wasn’t above isolating Elvis when he felt someone with influence was getting too close. The contracts Elvis would find himself pledged to were oftentimes suffocating with how long he would be tied to one studio, making critically-panned but commercially successful slop for the masses. He couldn’t escape the exhausting treadmill of quickie films, and he knew that they were there solely to make money. Funds that the studios would use to finance the more important, artistic projects with serious actors. Ones that weren’t Elvis.

There was a marked disdain for any growth in artistic expression or flexibility. He was proud of his filmography regardless, but there were times he’d felt outclassed at parties. Where it was clear nepotism was the unspoken theme and, ill trained and easily tongue-tied, Elvis would get sweetly nudged aside with smiles by those who deemed themselves more sophisticated than him. Those moments were rare but gutting. It hollowed him out and he didn’t like what he saw. A few years into his movie career, he’d developed painful ulcers that still kept him up at night, and he suffered from debilitating migraines during the day.

“You need to listen to me and listen good, boy.” Boy. Elvis hated when Parker called him that. “You keep bucking up to me like you run the show and I might have to make a stir about your favorite hobbies. I’m sure the papers would love to know what you get up to in your free time, how you spend all that money you earn. In detail.” The insinuation left little to the imagination and Elvis felt threatened to cave, but knew that if he backed down now, things would never improve.

“If I can convince them to bill me first. Would you consider it?”

Parker was already shaking his head, loudly saying, “No, no. I don’t want to hear any more about this.”

“We can negotiate for a fairer split. I’ll make this a one-time deal if it all goes to hell. But if this works, you’ve got to admit that to me and let me pursue it. I barely ask you for anything, Colonel. When’s the last time I asked you a favor that you can remember?” At his lengthy silence, Elvis said, “Once you see her, you’ll change your tune, I know you will.”

The Colonel was still boiling, his round ruddy face tight around the relit cigar, taking a drink of iceless, room temperature water, clear as crystal in a highball glass. “One. You get one chance at picking your own script. We’ll see how it goes. Good parents let their children learn from their mistakes, right?”

Elvis winced. He already had a father, and he didn’t need more scolding. If he was determined before, he was now dead set on seeing this through given that Parker threatened an exposé. But if he could just win something–just this once–it’d put him over the moon. When he left his manager’s office that day, he called Dominick back himself and told him that things were tentatively going well and that they’d stay in touch, but things might have to be worked out a bit more, something the other man wasn’t too thrilled to hear, telling him briefly, “I’ll let you know when something comes up.”

For weeks nothing at all came up. Then the weeks bled into two long months and the seed of doubt bloomed wild. He began to wonder if he’d ever get to be in a movie with Francesca. But he wouldn’t let the dread creep further. He waited patiently, working diligently at his current contractual obligations, not because he was crazy about the film, but because he knew he needed to practice so that he could give the next project his all. He just had a good feeling about this. Something in his gut told him that it would all work out.

Colonel Parker had him slotted for another slop fest of a movie. He didn’t agree to it, but that didn’t matter. Pushing it on him was just par for the course and he deflected, saying he wanted to take a break and relax. But that was seen through almost immediately.

“You’ll get a vacation when I do.”

And the Colonel didn’t plan on one anytime soon with as many movies he had lined up for Elvis. They had started to lose their shine in his eyes and while they were more commercially successful than ever, he’d never felt more out of touch. Just going through the motions.

He saw her face on a billboard one morning in Chicago while stepping out of the bus, the sun illuminating her like some angel. Performing live, but the dates had already passed. He’d missed her by 6 hours. They might have even been in the city at the same time. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. How would he introduce himself? What would she say when meeting Elvis Presley and learning he was smitten with her? Surely it wouldn’t be a hot pursuit, he just needed to be near enough to her. He could perhaps convince her to feel what he felt too. Or maybe it was all a silly fantasy, keeping him shaking on stage for the thousands in attendance at the premiere.

Tonight, he’d almost been assaulted by an over-excited herd of young fans grouping too close to the flimsy perimeter fence, sending it toppling and knocking into his knees. He wasn’t injured but seeing people literally willing to hurt themselves to get a chance to grab at his coat sleeve or tug at his pants leg was enough to disturb him for the rest of the night. He didn’t talk for a while, just sitting and staring in the silence of his suite, the bus stationary for the next 4 hours. He couldn’t sleep when it was moving, it just tossed his stomach to bits.

He clicked on the radio, swapping between stations to maybe catch a glimpse of her, but there was nothing. Just brassy tunes to lull him to sleep.

When he and his entourage checked into a hotel halfway to Memphis, he didn’t bother glancing at the machine, not ready for another dollop of displeasure after his latest film was panned by critics again. He thought it wouldn’t dagger as hard this time, but it never got less twisting. It was impossible to not take it personally.

“Do you want to see someone simultaneously over-act and under-perform in the same film? Then Fun in Acapulco is the watch for you.”

What was he doing so wrong that he couldn’t see? He wanted what he idolized in other stars, the natural ability to convincingly portray a role. Perfect, practiced, performances with organic delivery. It was only when he went back and rewatched these movies himself did he see his flaws. The framing, the diction, the lostness in his expressions. He just wasn’t grounded enough. And of course, the material itself was complete shit.

“You can’t relate to any of Presley’s latest characters because there simply is no relatability. This isn’t Mike, it’s so clearly Elvis Presley through the weakly played facade. This isn’t acting. It’s lying.”

He needed to stop reading into the criticism. More money meant more money. There was value to it all, merit in his every success, even if they lacked any spiritual nourishment. Even though he felt hollow at the end of nearly every day.

Sitting in front of the television, too tired to call a girl over, too jaded to invite his friends around, he flicked on the set and slouched with a glass of water and a rattling bottle. Out of the corner of his eye, red flashed intermittently. On the phone stand, the machine blinked, gently prying for his attention. He was walking without thought, hands outstretched, mouth dry.

Elvis hit play, listening to a half second of rustling. A wet lip smack and a cigarette-accented inhale. Then, Dominic Archer’s tinny voice clicked through the receiver, “Might have a bit for you, kid. Jake Turner, a talented headliner at a famous casino is tired of the routine, starts a hot romantic encounter with the mysterious new card dealer on the run from her past. You and Frannie. Previous deal stands, Presley. Give me a call. Your manager is a fucking asshole.”

He played it again. Listening intently to every word. This was textbook glitz and glam that Colonel Parker frothed over, but just enough meat for Elvis to really sink his teeth into the role. There was no way this wasn’t going to be a hit. Two stars burning bright on screen. It was too easy to pitch. He just had to have patience and persistence. He’d beat Parker down with enough persuading. He wasn’t so spiteful to say no to possibly the biggest check of his life, was he?

Fuming. The Colonel was quiet; always at his angriest. He looked over his tightly intertwined hands at Elvis. The young star laid it all out once more, repeating in firm earnest that this was the right move for his career.

“How’s this any different from the other movies you have me in, Colonel?”

“What’s different is that she’s asking for a bigger cut and to be the headliner. How do you think that’s going to make you look?”

“No one cares. I couldn’t tell you who the headliners for the last twenty movies I’ve seen were! You know this is a golden opportunity. You gotta see the bigger picture here!”

The lack of a response left Elvis unnerved. Parker was either thinking or stewing, about to blow his top.

But he surprised Elvis when he said slowly, bluntly, “60/50. That’s my takeaway cut from whatever you receive, as your manager. For going out on a limb for you.”

“Done.” No hesitation. Something that made a nerve in Parker’s jaw twitch. But Elvis didn’t give a shit if Parker wanted a king’s share of the money. He could have it. As long as he got a chance to finally shine in a decent role, with a decent director, with a co-star that actually had some chops!

“Let this be a lesson when this fails. And I promise you, it will fail.” The words were harsh and calculated, delivered with carelessness as Colonel Parker shrugged, waving him out. Elvis looked at him, stunned at the lack of motivation. No encouragement. Nothing. He shouldn’t expect it, but there was something overwhelmingly frustrating about silently sharing his hard-won earnings with someone like him. He wanted a change but didn’t know where else to start.

Taking himself more seriously was the first step. And he raced to return Dominick’s offer with a resounding “Yes, sir! Let me start by apologizing to you on my manager’s behalf—”

“No need. We start filming in May.”

May. The month couldn’t come fast enough. He was still a few weeks away, flirting with cold blue spring mornings and balmy evenings. He needed to move back to Las Vegas for filming. He liked the house enough, but it was out in the eerie quiet desert, and he could always see eyes bobbing like ghosts out on the pitch-black horizon. It was spooky being there, so he often never went. Parker came too, insisting that phoning it in wasn’t an option, even if he was clearly sour grapes about the entire trip there, about booking an apartment long term, about coming to the early filming every day (and every other weekend).

“A female director. A female lead. You’ve got to be out of your mind,” Parker scoffed.

Cassandra Morgan was an innovative filmmaker with a unique approach, renowned for passionately exploring complex characters. Elvis watched one of her movies after he settled in while housekeeping cleared the cobwebs. There were some huge spiders always waiting for eviction when he left his Vegas home for long stretches. But the pool was glittering and the pantry was restocked. There was life in the house again and he found himself walking around, wondering how Frannie would like everything. Most men didn’t care to decorate their spaces with fine art and designer furniture. He could see her dazzled by the globe glass chandelier painting the sunken marble living room with dappled prisms. Or her lounging by the infinity pool and gazing out onto the native garden.

Elvis barely slept that night. So nervous was he that he actually downed some whiskey, suddenly aware of the smell of alcohol leaking from his pores, or the mauve pitting of his eyes when slumber escaped him. He wanted to be at his brightest for this. He felt like an unpaid intern at some big wig exec’s office, knees turned in and gut doing flips.

The studio was a sun scorched walk across bleached white concrete, but he made it as far as two steps past the gate when a cart rolled up to collect him, puttering him across the long stretch. He didn’t see his manager amongst the crew. His make-up artists were sweet gals, older than he expected, enthusiastic to be here. Delia and Margo. On set, there was a dip in professionalism as everyone swarmed him, happily introducing themselves.

His neck craned and his eyes flitted about the room, constantly searching for her. What would she be wearing? What would her face look like when she finally met him? What perfume would she smell like? “Get a hold of yourself, Presley,” he muttered to himself.

Back stage, he got powdered up for rehearsals, having breezed through the script on the long plane ride to Vegas. It was his seventeenth read-through from start to finish, mesmerized by the similarity between himself and the character he was supposed to play. Jake was also bored of his routine performances and craved something meaningful, something new and fresh in his monotonous life. That something was Frannie’s character. And he knew that the chemistry that was sure to fire between them would translate flawlessly to the screen. This was a once in a lifetime film. He could feel the makings of a classic in his hands. He just had to act his heart out. There was a duet, even though the scene was supposed to be a playful conflict, with the two of them fighting over the right to the microphone during a shared bit. Making music together sounded too good to be true. He couldn’t wait.

On stage for rehearsals of the first scene, he recalled in the script that Frannie’s character wouldn’t be revealed until the first ten minutes in. It opened with a shot of Elvis playing the piano, a slower number than Elvis was used to, but Jake’s style of rock and roll was heavy on the roll. The guitarist was an actor he wasn’t familiar with, but the film barely had any focus on him other than a side plot knocking up a cocktail waitress.

The director was a lovely, warm woman in her late 50s. Elvis shook her hand and was surprised with its firmness. There was a boyish twinkle in her weathered eyes and she seemed born to direct with her motherly cadence. She patted Elvis on the upper back with her big meaty hand, walloping him good and cheering, “I couldn’t believe it ‘til I saw it. You know you were my first choice. Something tells me you understand this character very well. I’m glad you chomped at the bit. I know we’re going to make great things together. I’m gonna make you act yer heart out, Presley!”

Cassandra’s canvas chair creaked loudly as she hunkered down and took her lavalier and shouted, “Action!”

Though he was heartened by the director’s enthusiasm, he couldn’t help but feel a welling sense of disappointment as well. He thought he’d be seeing Francesca by now, but she was nowhere to be spotted, at least until he practiced his lines and the narration that he was supposed to record over the scene. He was struck, mid-sentence, when the metal exit door creaked open and a figure slipped into the darkness of the crowd, whispers lighting up in greeting to welcome the shadow in. The dim lights warmed, and Elvis could see her clearly.

She walked on set that day, a star. He knew just looking at her that she was born for this.

His rehearsal was short and clean, and Cassandra was overjoyed to have seen him in action, clapping for him and thanking dress for whoever picked a white suit for the opening scene. It was stark against the black Wurlitzer. They chose to film in Vegas for real slot machines to rent, adding authenticity to the vibe. The irony of the jackpots going off in the background wasn’t lost on him.

Francesca Ferrara was a silent marvel, blending in, strikingly indistinguishable when she wanted to be. She leaned against Cassandra, and whatever muttering they shared made them both laugh sweetly behind their hands.

“Oh stop. Get up there, sweetheart. You can worry about makeup later.”

She was fussed over for a moment, her hair brushed and a clean sheen of red applied to her cupid’s bow lips. He was struck right through, clutching his chest as she rose up the set steps.

The spotlight was cast, its honeyed glow illuminating her as she walked in from the left of stage. It made a halo in her hair. She was intense from the moment she took center and began her performance bold and clean and with grace in her casual attire. A black dress top and red silk skirt. She already looked the part of an ardent card slinger with a secret past (and a secret set of hidden pipes). It was a whisper to begin, lulling the crowd in. She hadn’t practiced any vocals, but what left her was honed and mighty.

Elvis was rapt, standing amongst the crew, attentive on her. She spun and her skirt draped like a second skin against her shapely legs. Her timbre was soulful, all-American in its honesty. She didn’t close her throat around her vowels, she didn’t whisper, she trusted herself to carry every note with masterful precision. Her hair twirled about her face and he could see her alight.

“I can’t believe you’re really here. This is my first time working on a big Hollywood budget kind of thing.” A crew member tried chatting him up, murmuring low so that she didn’t interrupt Frannie’s practice, but it was distracting him. He nodded politely but tight.

“Uh huh. It’s the big leagues alright.”

“I’m Sherri. I’m the one who put you in white. It’s totally your color, hun.” She was way too young to be calling him hun.

He didn’t mean to be rude, but Frannie was consuming his attention, singing, wondering to the audience with song when her life would finally take a turn for the better. When would she finally find the man of her dreams? Did he truly exist? It was over and she went out as gracefully as candlelight in the wind, curtsying with her ankles crossed and skirt held aloft.

The spotlight on her shuddered then flicked off when the air conditioning unit for the studio hummed to life. Frannie exited stage without preamble. She wasn’t looking for anyone. She wasn’t looking for him.

He watched her meander through the backstage with grace, never a step out of line. Her movements were taken with such… precision. It was like a dance she never stopped, on her toes with a devastating smile. A smile Francesca rarely titled his way, substituting instead for raw surmisal. It was almost like she was waiting. For him to make a fool of himself. He followed her around set, but she was just out of reach somehow, and whenever she got close enough for him to start a conversation, someone would intercept his path and vie for his attention.

“When I told my Dad I was going to be working on a film with Elvis Presley, he couldn’t believe it! Do you mind if I get an autograph? I promise I won’t always be pestering you like this. I just have to shoot my shot. I loved you in Jailhouse Rock and King Creole! Haha, ain’t that what life is? A couple of good moments.”

Elvis grinned, finding the kid endearing. “And all the rest is trying to chase them. What’s your name, young man?”

“Edward! But all my friends call me Eddie. So, you can call me Eddie for sure, Mr. Presley! And I’m—and I’m just a gaffer. But if you ever need anything you just send for me. Say the word, and I’ll have it done. We’re all here for you!” He was filled with enthusiasm, bright eyes wide with wonder as he pulled out a notebook with only two other signatures on the first page. A young buck in the cinematography world. Elvis smiled back.

Thanks for always looking out for me, Eddie. From your pal, Elvis Presley.

“You ain’t tearing up, are you?” Elvis laughed when Eddie’s face pinkened as the young man clutched his notebook tight.

“No sir, dust in my eyes. It’s just so… dusty up there in the scaffolding.” He sniffled, smiling at him before politely, letting Elvis get back to finding Frannie.

“Hey, do you know where Miss Ferrara went?”

“I think she stepped outside for a smoke?” Eddie pointed towards the glowing exit sign and Elvis booked it, keeping his gaze fixed straight so that no one would be tempted. He made it to the door and pushed, stepping out into the shaded alleyway.

Elvis spotted her instantly. She was smiling to a kindly makeup extra who was puffing away, giving her a little wave before she finally turned her attention towards him. She didn’t have a cigarette, she’d just stepped out for air.

Her gaze nearly tipped him over and he couldn’t remember the last time a girl really made his heart skip, but here he was, thinking up one liners, sweet nothings, compliments about her glossy hair—something. Anything. But when he opened his mouth to finally break the handful of seconds’ silence, she offered out her elegant hand for him to take. It was warm, her fingers hugged lovingly by glittering jewels. Did she feel the sweat in his palm?

“And you must be Elvis Presley,” she grinned, taking back her hand and leveling him with a look. There was that flicker of resolve in her fierce eyes, just like on stage at Johnny Carson’s show. When the stage light was a halo behind her head and he heard her voice warble, not with falter, but with emotion, constricting her elegant throat. He had to have her. That kind of conviction was rare in a woman.

“Francesca.” He cursed himself for not kissing the cool back of her palm. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

“I’m sure,” she teased, but with a bit of venom in her purr. “So, what’s a big star like you doing on a movie set like this? Isn’t the role a little... non-traditional for you?” Heavy with insinuation, he wasn’t quite sure how to approach her question, to approach her. She was of a different cut. He knew he’d never met a woman like her.

“When I saw you on Carson, I knew we had to mix some of our star power together. For the good of the movie going people,” he joked. “Give them something like they’ve never seen before.”

Francesca smiled, but it lacked warmth. She was analyzing him. “Then let’s make magic together, Presley.” She said unconvincingly and he realized at once that she had no faith in him. That sinking feeling that he got at those uppity parties, of immaturity and shallowness, washed over him in waves now. She hadn’t even seen his rehearsal and she already doubted him. Was this a mistake after all?

“You can trust me, Frannie, I’d never—”

“Only my friends call me Frannie. Just call me Miss Ferrara, please.” Her voice was pretty, lightly accented with a New York lilt. He could smell her perfume. She was even more stunning in person. Suddenly, he was dizzy. “I’m getting back inside and out of this heat,” she offered. Fall couldn’t set in quickly enough.

Elvis watched her sway away without an argument, wondering how he’d already screwed this up. He’d never really had to introduce himself to anyone, to make a good impression. He just showed up and was the life of the party. Ladies flocked to him and guys wanted to hang out with him. Approaching a guarded woman was a new beast entirely but he was undaunted. Tailing after her, he slid his hands coolly in his pockets.

“So, what are you doing after this? We can talk over dinner.”

“I’m too tired to talk. I still have another two hours of rehearsal, Elvis Presley.”

“Well, maybe tomorrow. Or next weekend.”

“I’m busy next weekend.”

“Okay. Well,” he stumbled to open the door for her and she didn’t regard him as she trotted on through without breaking her stride. “What about the weekend after that?”

“Busy then, too.”

Elvis’s face flattened. “I get the message, Frannie—cesca. Francesca Ferrara. Uh, Miss Ferrara.” He was approached by some crew members with notepads and proper autograph books, pictures of him. They mirrored how Elvis felt, tailing after Francesca, who left him to his groupies.

“I was there at your premiere in Memphis last year! I spent my whole Christmas bonus on those tickets!”

“Mr. Presley! Are you busy after this? A bunch of the crew were going to Marco’s for lunch. Cassandra’s treat!”

“What are you asking him for? Of course he’s going! Elvis, come on. Pile in with the rest of us!”

Elvis laughed, eyes glancing for an out. He’d rather just have a day to wind down since his scene rehearsal was finished for the evening, but he relented, placating them with a smile and joining in. Somehow, Elvis’ Memphis crew found him and jumped in their own cars to follow. Frannie was nowhere in the sight and certainly hadn’t booked a separate ride to the restaurant.

It was dim and the portions were tiny and the conversations were ones he’d had thousands of times already.

“Who’s your favorite artist?”

“Did you ever freeze up on stage?”

“Do you have a favorite song to perform?”

“What do you think you have that makes you Elvis Presley?”

He was tired. He wanted to be someone again, not a thing, an object, an idol, an undigested voice. No one wanted to know a deeper, more meaningful him. It was always about the act, the playing, the singing, and the glamor. Didn’t anyone want to know what his worst fear was? What kept him getting out of bed everyday when there was almost nothing worldly left for him to achieve? How for a time, he felt he couldn’t go on living after his mama died? He had everything, fame, money, charisma. He could reach for top shelf trim whenever he desired and yet his heart was always empty. Tired of the vices, he longed for a connection. And he promised himself that tomorrow would be in line with his goals, that he’d make Francesca see that he had more to him than critically panned cheese and charm.

Francesca just didn’t like him. He was a ham. A sock hop with fourteen moves under his belt exactly. She counted them. He fubbed his lines and under spoke, his voice almost an indiscernible mumble at times. Other times he was just bleakly shouting without a hint of emotional inflection. She felt there was wasted potential there. But for the moment, he couldn’t act to save his life and yet he was the center of attention. No matter what he did, people loved him. It was like Francesca had a meter for detecting bullshit and Elvis was riddled with it. What he did have going for him was his flair. His artistry. His charisma. And God help her, that voice. His voice was like a whiskey hammer, strong and soothing. It rolled over her like black silk, a lover’s caress.

He took the thunder in almost every rehearsal scene he was in. If they had to act like they were in a bitter argument, Elvis was always more emotional, more explosive. If they had to practice their duet, she could feel him trying to suffocate her voice with his. And to make it all worse, he did all this obnoxiously and obliviously. She knew what he was trying to do, emphasis on try. He clearly wanted to impress. Not just the director, but her. He wanted Frannie to take him seriously. But if one-upping her was all he had, then he’d better be prepared for filming, because she was holding back right now, letting him burn all the glory he wanted. Sprinting hard and fast, not realizing the length of this endurance race. She stayed with him, jogging aloofly alongside, performing her part for rehearsals. Never missing a day, even if she wasn’t required on set.

Not only was Presley grating on her nerves, his meddling weasel of a manager with the shark eyes and angry red cheeks, always glared at her whenever he graced them with his presence. He never stopped trying to talk her agent down, to make a change in the headliner decision. It was Francesca’s one request. She didn’t care about the money nearly as much as Dominick, which is why she gave him such a generous 20% cut (that he objected to time and time again, saying she needed to build her estate up and enjoy her youth while she still had it). She just wanted to be a star. For everyone to know her name. Ask anyone for anywhere who Elvis Presley was, and they could tell you. Ask anyone outside of young people who Francesca Ferrara was? Deadpan stares.

To say it was irritating would be an understatement. It wasn’t fair to her to watch him prance in the limelight like a show pony. But at least he wasn’t the highest billed, and she held that close to her heart with pride. Dominick could work magic; he was the only man involved with this she had any faith in.

Elvis, however, worryingly acted like he was about to star in his next big flop and bring Frannie down before she truly had the chance to shine on her own merit. If she was going to lose, she didn’t want to keep herself tied to him. She’d be “that one girl in that one Elvis movie. What was it called again?” She shuddered to think about her future if this big break didn’t pan out. Was hitching herself to the Presley wagon a mistake?

So, she dedicated herself ten-fold to her theatrics and practiced hard, applied herself harder. She was in the dance studio in her free time, honing her skills, tightening her spirals, widening her devastating smile. Slowly, but surely, she would sway them all. Make them all her adoring fans.

Tonight, it rained hard on the tin studio roof. The lights were low, and the stage echoed with the whispers of her feet pittering across the lacquered floor. She didn’t have on shoes to give her blisters some relief, and the added grip made her even more agile. Music played in her head. For this scene, she was supposed to be in a round. The camera would cut to each character lamenting their current situation in harmony, longing for their dreams to one day come true. In the next scene, she would be alone in her dingy motel room, sitting on the bed and counting her cash, hiding it in the mattress. The dance would intersperse, haunting and flighty, like a specter, because that was her character’s life. Bouncing from one place to the next, always on the run and never somewhere long enough to make a human connection with anyone. She was losing herself, a shell of who she wanted to be.

It seemed like no matter what she did, she would be in his shadow. And for that alone, she disdained him with an unbridled intensity. She snubbed his advances, tossing him out to like feed for hungry extras on set who were vying for their next meal.

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Presley?” Emphasis on the anything.

“You know I’m also a licensed masseuse. I can see so much tension you’re carrying in those doorway-busting shoulders.”

“You seein’ anybody, Mr. Elvis?”

It was eye rolling at first but after a time, rolling them so much gave her a migraine. She downed two ibuprofen, drinking from the canteen and crushing the little paper cup in her hand. She could feel the pills still stuck in her throat and she swallowed dryly, eyes watering to the sound of the director praising Elvis yet again for such a good performance. She hated admitting it, but was Cassandra actually getting a good performance out of him?

Throwing the cup into the garbage, she shook the thought out of her head. No, the only thing the lackey could do was sing and even then, he had to be in a serious mood. He was intent on his perceived conquest of her. She felt like hunted game when she turned a corner to find him conveniently there for her to bump into, hit with the heady wash of his piney cologne. He helped her to her waiting golf cart, hopping into his garish pink Cadillac. He offered her a ride every time and every time she declined him.

“Coffee?”

“It upsets my stomach.”

“There’s a new Italian place down the street from—”

“I don’t like Italian.” Total bluff, she grew up on the stuff. Frannie made sure not to ever eat lasagna leftovers in front of him.

“I have a cabin up in Gatlinburg, you should come out sometime. Perfect view of the stars.”

“I can see them just fine from my balcony.” Another lie. The city lights suffocated any natural starlight. When she looked up, she could see the moon and little else but Orion’s lonely belt. Her disdain was threatening to turn into loathing with his insistent pestering, his constant lackadaisy attitude. He showed up on time the first few weeks, but he’d taken to coming in late occasionally or playing pick-up games on set with his pack of hangers on from Memphis. His routine was without practice.

Cassandra’s enthusiasm waned, but only a tad bit. She wasn’t afraid of scaring him off with critique, telling him to tighten up his act and try it again from the top. Her patience was endless, and she was determined to pull a show-stopping performance from him. Cassandra knew he had it in him. But Elvis struggled with some of the more complex footwork, stumbling once and catching himself, his palms slapping loudly against the stage. He wrung his hands, his wrists swollen and red the next day.

He had to go to the hospital for them to tell him he’d suffered a fracture in each wrist, but that he should heal without any issues after some rest and keeping them in a cast. He was encouraged to wear them on set, but he refused when performing.

“They just slow me down, anyways.”

Elvis missed a few days of filming, stalling production considerably. He was apologetic and embarrassed. Francesca practiced her rehearsals without him, going over her part of the duet again and again. She perfected her choreography, working after hours with a dance coach to help her flexibility. Show stopping high kicks and quick splits. There was nothing that could stand in her way.

She caught him looming once when she was going over another routine, practicing her lines and her placement. There was a cartwheel that kept dropping her voice and she wanted to train the warble out. Everything else was flawless, except for that one note.

“Take me awAy!”

Agh, she did it again! And then she saw him in the back row of chairs that some of the crew sat in. He was watching her. She pretended not to notice.

In make-up today, disaster struck. When Margo was going on about her boyfriend’s new job at the furniture store, her cigarette breath punctuating her words, she uncapped the same red lipstick that was used for Josephine every day. But as she painted the cream across Frannie’s lips, the actress cried out, swatting the tube out of her hand. It hit the ground and rolled, breaking the lipstick bullet off its base.

Margo reached down, taking it in her hands while Frannie cupped her stinging mouth. On the takeaway, there was a line of blood.

“What the hell?” Margo exclaimed, showing Frannie that a sewing needle had been inserted inside the wax. It was sticking out just enough to nick.

The room seemed to tilt. The lights on her cheval glass blurred. Someone had tried to hurt her.

Unceremoniously, the lipstick plunked into the trash and Margo reached into her kit to draw out a fresh backup among the dozen others. She peeled the plastic casing and popped it open, inspecting it, running the tip across her wrist and just swiping clean color.

“This one is just fine, sweetheart. Don’t you worry. We’re gonna get to the bottom of this. I’ll have security tell me who was here last night. They usually keep a headcount. They’re good about that.” But the words were muffled in Francesca’s ears as her heart began to pound.

Who would have done this to her?

She was frazzled for the rest of her rehearsal, stumbling over her own two feet after having danced her heart out during practice late last night. And who else had been there? She knew Elvis and a few extras. Sure, he was annoying but he’d never once seemed threatening. This was just downright malicious.

It took her focus completely off track and she went through the motions without soul, guarded, eyes shifting across the crew, like she might see a sign. Elvis was watching her intently, but then again, he often did.

During her lackluster performance, a loud clang sounded above her. Frannie flinched as a light came crashing down, shattering on impact just a few feet from her. It was small, but if that’d hit her, she’d be knocked out cold.

She breathed a sigh of relief, finding that her nerves weren’t baseline at any point, fluttering high. She laughed the incident off though on the inside, she was rattled. Her lips were sore when she smiled. “That was almost lights out for me!”

“Oh my god! Eddie!” Someone screamed, pointing to the back of the stage, where just below the curtains, a pair of feet could be seen dangling, kicking.

Francesca realized she was looking at the gaffer, Edward, a rope lassoed tightly around his neck and left hand. His teeth were bared as he struggled to push against the tension of the rope, his legs jutting out straight, his free arm wiggling wildly. He couldn’t manage a cry for help beyond a high-pitched rasp.

People were scrambling, trying to find a ladder, but the young man’s face was beginning to purple.

She couldn’t believe what she was witnessing, her legs were moving of their own accord. He wasn’t so high that he couldn’t be reached, or at least his feet anyways. She knew she couldn’t get him down on her own but before she could even try, a man pushed past her, gently moving her aside. It was Presley, looking taller somehow as he lifted his gentle hands up, giving the dangling stagehand a place to stand if only for a brief second. His legs wobbled, knees bowing back, but the crew were all suffused whispers for a brief second, listening for the young boy to breathe.

“Oh my god, Edward, just breathe, honey. The boys are about to cut you down now, just breathe sweetie,” Francesca’s heart was pounding. Presley’s arms were straight up, his sleeves rolling down, his shirt constricting around his powerful chest. She knew his wrists must be on fire, as she could see they were still yellow and purple with healing bruising.

Someone managed to find a ladder and scurried up, hacking the rope after a few of the men gathered together, lacing their arms to catch him. The rope gave and Eddie fell back with a gasp, his face beet red, his eyes bulging, veins completely blown out and bleeding into his sclera. But he was already happily choking, tears freefalling as he profusely rasped, “You saved my life. Elvis, you saved my life.”

“Just relax, Eddie. We’re getting you to a hospital.”

Eddie wheezed, unable to lift his head or move his broken wrist.

“What happened?” Someone asked from the tight circle of concerned faces.

Cassandra shook her head. “It’s that damn scaffolding. It’s going to come down and kill someone.”

Francesca felt superstition warning her that the film might be cursed. Had her bitterness transformed into malevolence and wreaked havoc on set? She glanced up at Elvis through her curtain of dark hair with new eyes. Seeing him jump into action like that had shifted her view of him just slightly for the better. She must have been smiling, because when he caught her looking his way, he grinned back, looping his arm under Eddie’s shoulder and helping him to a stand.

“Come on, big guy. Let’s get you in the car. Wanna tell your old man you got to ride in my Cadillac?”

“No way…” Eddie croaked, “You think I could drive it back?”

“We’ll uh, we’ll have to take a rain check on that. But one day, kid, one day!”

Frannie couldn’t help but find this side of him endearing. So, she joined him. Much to his surprise.

“What if he passes out or something? Looks like you need a hand with him,” she suggested, hopping into the back. When Elvis grabbed the steering wheel, he grunted, frozen. Eddie didn’t seem to notice as he winced and bellyached, trying to find some way he could hold his sprained neck without causing severe pain.

With grace, Frannie grabbed the headrest and leaned forward, her voice wet at Elvis’s ear when she asked, “Do you want me to drive?”

He didn’t answer for a moment, looking straight ahead, the shells of his ears flushing pink. “You know what? Give her a whirl. Just be careful, she’s sensitive.”

Surprised with his casualness, she slotted into the driver’s seat in his place, the plush leather still warm from his body. His long legs needed the space, but Frannie had to scoot up to the steering wheel before settling comfortably in.

The ride was smooth and she took every turn with care, with Elvis pointing over her shoulder. “Now turn right here, traffic’s going to have Main Street backed up.” He’d obviously spent a lot of time in Las Vegas before. He checked over Eddie, telling him, “Now when you tell the story, you can say it was my Caddy, but that you were driven by the Francesca Ferrara.”

She smirked, choosing to take that as a complement, even if he loaded that with patronization. They didn’t have to wait long at all in the ER—apparently any injury above the shoulders was considered high risk and the patient was swept immediately away.

Eddie called his parents, but they were out of town. Elvis volunteered to be his ride and Eddie begged him to just go home—he obviously had more important things to do, being Elvis Presley, after all—but Presley just assured him. “No, no, I really don’t.”

While Eddie was being looked over by physicians, Elvis got them something out of the vending machines, telling Francesca, “See, I told you I’d take you out for dinner one day.”

Frannie couldn’t stifle her laugh. He got her with that. Now she pondered when he was going to ask her again, but she didn’t have to wonder long when after inhaling a pack of cheese crackers, he brought up the topic.

“You know dating on set means asking for trouble. Right?” She asked, looking out at the darkening, orange sky.

“You seem like the kinda girl who doesn’t mind a little trouble.”

He thought he was slick. And maybe he was. “I take my work very seriously, Mr. Presley.”

“Call me Elvis, please,” he insisted. “Come on. Just one date. Dinner. A movie. Horseback riding on the beach. Anything you want.”

“Don’t try to charm me.”

“So, you’re saying I’m charming?” He smirked playfully.

“You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Mama always told me ladies like a man with consistency. I like you, Frannie. I like you a lot.”

She couldn’t detect any dishonesty. It almost seemed like he was earnest in taking her out on a real date. But she still didn’t want to budge on the principle of dating her co-stars. That was a hot pot of drama waiting to blow. Perhaps she could meet him halfway, just this once. Holding up one finger, she told him, “Take me as a friend to the carnival. There’s one next week in Indian Springs.”

He was like a dog with a bone, wagging his tail. He finally got a bite and practically shot up in victory. Elvis pumped his fist boyishly.

“Then I’ll be the best friend you could ask for,” he assured, leaving her with a week to ruminate on if this was the first of many bad decisions with this dangerously likable man.

Elvis watched her dark hair cascade down her shoulders. Her hips swayed sensuously when she walked, inviting his gaze to linger. Francesca drew almost everyone’s eyes, turning heads when she made her way to the ticket booth in her fire red dress, gems glinting on her throat and in her stormy tresses. She splurged on the limitless pass, presenting the back of her hand proudly to be stamped with a bright yellow star, one to match his as he made the same purchase, kicking himself for not covering hers—not that she even gave him a chance. She was adamant on making this as casual as she could.

He wanted her arm in his. He wanted her to lean her pretty head against his shoulder while they walked in step to the Ferris wheel. While she had a big panda bear or something he won her. It seemed so… trivial of her, to pick something like this. Low brow, even. He loved it. There were single moms with lines of unruly children in tow, trash skittering across whatever parking lot the fair rented out, and Frannie was beaming, smiling from ear to ear, eyes reflecting the string lights like fireworks.

“What’s first? I’m real good at ring toss.” He absolutely wasn’t, but anything to get her one step closer to taking him—them?—seriously, was a step in the right direction.

She shook her head, pointing to the carousel, adjacent to a funnel cake stand and a house of mirrors. Trapezing ahead without him, he was starting to suspect he was getting recognized even with his hat on as eyes followed the pair and hands cupped over secret sharing mouths as people whispered.

“I don’t want to carry around some big stuffed animal the whole time,” she remarked about the game of ring toss he mentioned earlier. “And besides, I don’t want to school you in ring toss, it’d just be embarrassing for you.” She grinned, sending a flare of heat up his spine. Dynamite. He tailed after her long strides, wondering how she was walking in those lacquered things that sure made her hips look good.

“Alright, alright. You’re the boss. Let’s do what you’d like first, then.”

She pointed to the Fireball. A sketchy looking hoop of metal with a snake of carts that went in a 360, first fast, then slow, then counterclockwise. It made his stomach churn just looking at it, but she was giddy, eating up the distance between them and the ride.

“If you don’t want to ride, you can just watch,” she suggested, grinning at him over her shoulder. She was egging him on.

“As much as I’d love to watch you get scared all by your li’l self, I’ll join you. My treat.” He sidled in next to her, lifting his arms as the bright yellow cage restraints shuddered down over their shoulders. He evened his breathing, and involuntarily gasped when the ride shot forward sooner than he expected. Frannie was already screaming excitedly, her hair billowing around her thrilled face. They made the first revolutions and Elvis realized that these janky machines, hissing and clanking, gained more heart, more charm and whimsy when you had someone to share the memory with.

Even though they were both a peck dizzy, they stumbled to the game booths anyway. And although Frannie absolutely did not school him at ring toss like she boasted, she did blow him away at darts. Nailing every high value balloon point blank, dead center. She won him a teddy bear in a smoking jacket, with a hot pair of shades to match. He was tickled, taking the little bear under his arm like a treasure, toting him everywhere and even putting him on the carousel and on the whirly swings next to them.

He won her a giant panda bear after spending way more than its worth on his chances at skeeball. His wrists were still sore from his fall on set, but he was determined to win her something memorable and to see the mirth when she embraced it tightly near the end of the night, just how she wanted. It was all worth it.

Frannie introduced him to the delights of obscenely large funnel cake and vinegar fries, and he convinced her to try her first chili dog. She apparently only ever ate them with sauerkraut, from hot dog stands in New York.

“You know, where I come from, a kid would get bullied for eating a dog with no chili.” He made her laugh for the dozenth time of the night and lavished in the wind chime sound. The way she threw her head back. The way her eyes sparkled.

In the house of horrors, she startled him with a funny little, “Boo!” after dashing ahead when he stopped for a moment to fix his loafer. He exaggerated his surprise for her a little and she reveled in it, reminding him happily through different points of the night, “I got you good back there, didn’t I?”

You certainly did, Francesca.

On the way back, he drove with his arm across her shoulders. It was rare that he ever did anything without his crew, but boy was he glad he did tonight. Wind blew in their hair and star spray reflected on the chrome trimming. He could see her dark curves outlined by slivers of moonlight. He felt like he was in a dream as he drove the empty stretch of backroads to the city and finally towards her luxurious apartment. Heart in his throat, his palms were damp when he opened the passenger door and helped her across the sidewalk.

The doorman, Bennington, tipped his hat to her and then looked at Elvis once, twice, three times before his eyes bugged and his diligent demeanor cracked.

“No way. You’re.... you’re—him! Francesca Ferrara, now you have some explaining to do. Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing the—”

“Nuh uh,” Frannie laughed heartily, holding up her palm. “We’re just friends, Bennington. You know I’d tell you if I had a man in my life!”

He smacked his lips at her, back to focusing on Presley. “I’m kicking myself. I thought you had his haircut when you picked up Miss Francesca, but I told myself there was no way! Now, I always said if I saw you in person, I’d have something for you to sign but my boss would kill me if I got ink on my uniform.” He patted his chest but came up empty handed.

“I’ll do you one better,” Elvis proposed, unfastening his diamond and pearl cufflinks. “How about these? They even have my name stamped on ‘em. See?”

Bennington’s mouth was agape, his hands cradled in prayer to hold the cufflinks. “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Presley. Thank you! Thank you so much!” He pocketed them for safe keeping. “Boy, this is the best night of my life.”

“Mine too,” Elvis said, cupping young Bennington’s shoulders and bidding him a good night.

Frannie was bowled over by his generosity. She stopped at the elevator, hitting the call button and waiting for it to come cruising down the transparent glass tube.

“Tonight was fun. I don’t really get to have a lot of fun. My life is just exhausting sometimes. I-it’s nice to get to do something like this every once in a while,” he cooed. Her glossy hair had come undone from its jeweled bindings. She squeezed the stuffed panda he’d won her and smiled that heart stopping smile.

He was devastated, knowing that when the elevator doors opened, he’d be alone shortly thereafter.

“Thank you, Elvis.”

She leaned in to kiss him and his lips were slightly pursed, his pulse rocketing. But she pressed her lips gingerly against his cheek, her perfume suffusing him, all cinnamon and powdered sugar.

“Anytime, Frannie.”

She let him get away with it as she turned her back towards him and entered the elevator, the doors shutting and whisking her up. He could see she was looking at him all the way up. Was she thinking about letting him in? She’d communicated very clearly that this wasn’t a date. So why was he so torn up about being left in the lobby, and walking past cheery Bennington who said with surprise, “Oh, goodnight Mr. Presley! Get home safe. And good luck on set!”

Elvis acknowledged him and returned the gesture, legging it to his car and shutting the door, revving it on the start. And although he was forlorn about going back to his cavernous home in the desert, he glanced in the rearview and saw that hot red lip imprint on his cheek.

Francesca liked him. She just had to give him a chance to make her fall in love. Like he was already falling for her.

#gambling on your love #elvis presley #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis #elvis fanfic #elvis fans #elvis presley fanfic #elvis fanfiction #elvis presley fic #elvis x oc #elvis fic #'60s elvis

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vegasandhishedgehog · 1 year

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I've held off posting for a long time about the issue regarding Build and Poi.

A lot of things have rubbed me wrong about the way it went down, how the people involved handled it in the beginning, I am severely allergic to Twitter, and all in all, it's been so much to take in and digest over the past few weeks. I have no real understanding of law for any fucking country and I am not a source blog for news or updates or translations. Speaking in support of anyone, to me, seems perfectly inappropriate and useless. As much as I have my own personal thoughts and feelings, I'm aware of biases and that's no basis for an open conversation.

That, and well....I've been here before. I don't mean with the thing about the dug-up tweets that caused a riot a few months ago. I don't even mean controversial celebrity trials in general. I'm talking about people I personally knew very well being in a lawsuit where some hefty accusations were made and the community got split over their feelings about it. It's a fucking nightmare. I don't need to repeat those details because it was a different case and projecting any of those circumstances onto the one in question would be wrong.

So I'm only going to say this once.

Cut it out.

Stop being self-righteous. Stop taking extreme positions and cutting off friends whose thoughts and views vary. I don't care how convincing one side or the other is to you right now - we do not know the truth and there is a fairly long wait for us to have it laid out for us. If you look at those supporting the opposite side as you and don't think of yourself as also potentially supporting a guilty person, please take a moment to reflect. What is your goal by acting that way? To be right? To feel right? To "weed out the idiots"?

Curate your experience all you like, but cutting people off to such extremes is going to make for very small corners and very nasty echo chambers. This fandom looked itself in the mirror and got so ugly the mirror shattered and we're all just shards now. Little pods of pro-this, anti-that, unsure-something-or-other, etc. There's still so many unanswered questions, and evidence to be reviewed and cross-examined. Some of you will still choose to deny the outcome because it doesn't match the narrative in your head. But before you reach that level of desperation, I simply ask that you put your energy toward making and keeping this fandom a place where people can come for escape.

I won't judge you for being open about who you support here, if you have chosen a side. But attacking and othering people really doesn't make you the better person and you're not gonna get some kind of badge of honor for being woke. A lot of us are just people who come to fandom because it's what brings us joy in a world that is very fucked up, so coming into that space to start fires and burn bridges is really shitty. Making people feel uncomfortable to speak up because they might be attacked or cancelled for merely wanting a proper discussion is awful and I've seen enough.

For those of you who could really use a shoulder to lean on, my offer is here. I can't promise to be a perfect support, and if you're looking for some kind of mediator in an argument that won't be it. But I encourage anyone who needs to get their thoughts and feelings out to take that opportunity privately. Take a step back or a break if you feel like that's gonna help. If you're still unsure, do not hesitate to use any resource you can think of until something works. This has been hard on mental health for some people and it deserves to be acknowledged and given the attention necessary to help people recover.

I still love many people in the KinnPorsche fandom. I still love KinnPorsche. I would love things to heal, regardless of whatever comes out of this lawsuit. I would still love another season of the show if it were possible, for current and upcoming BOC projects to do well, and for the other actors and creators impacted to still enjoy happy lives and careers. I hope this post encourages thoughtfulness and honesty, and most of all, unity. If you've read this far, thanks for at least considering my input.

#kinnporsche #build jakapan #poi patchayamon #be on cloud #boc

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ukrfeminism · 1 year

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10 minute read

Thousands walk past every day without noticing it or knowing anything about the lives being transformed inside. Nestled behind the sunflower-hued door of a Georgian terraced house, on a busy Brighton street, the Brighton’s Women Centre (largely known by its acronym the ‘BWC’) – is home to those facing unique difficulties, in particular those at risk of reoffending.

The need for a place like this is great: statistics show that compared to men, women who receive a custodial sentence (prison time) are more likely to be complex and vulnerable individuals, who’ve experienced trauma and abuse – and while 95% of male prisoners’ children remain in their own homes when their father is incarcerated, the same can be said for only 5% of children whose mothers are jailed.

One woman who knows about this heartache first-hand is Hayley*, an evidently caring and straight-talking 43-year-old mother of five, who has been engaging with BWC for six years.

“I’d reached the point of no return when I first came here,” she tells me, as we sit in a quiet meeting room in the centre’s attic, leaflets about the help on offer scattered across a nearby table. “My life was a mess, a shambles really.” Hayley, like many women who’ve been to prison, has dealt with addiction issues, abusive relationships, and unstable housing, all of which contributed to her committing an offence and serving time whilst pregnant. When she left HMP Bronzefield six years ago, Hayley describes herself as ‘broken’.

“I’d started to wake up when I was arrested, but when I came here, it was the first time I really felt I was being listened to and that there was hope of change. I was pregnant again, with a set of twins, and I’d already had three daughters taken off me. Was I really gonna go through that again?” she shares, reflecting on how far she’s come since first walking through that sunshine yellow door. “When you go through the justice system, you meet a lot of people and go to a lot of places. You meet probation officers, and they’ve got your file in front of them… you instantly feel judged.”

She adds, “You’re scared to be totally honest about your situation in case it comes back to bite you later on. People get scared they’ll lose their children if they ask for help [with a substance abuse issue]. You feel you’re drowning. But it’s not like that in BWC, it’s a women’s only space that has a different energy. There was no chaos in the building, it was just calm.”

Hayley was first referred to BWC under court orders via her probation officer following a pre-sentence report, which she says is what ‘saved’ her from another stretch in prison. She now also credits her case worker, Marion, for also ‘drip feeding’ her information about the signs of coercive control, narcissism and abuse too, during their chats over cups of tea. “I started to feel a bit empowered and could recognise behaviour that wasn’t right for the first time.”

Unlike a refuge or shelter (accommodation for those fleeing abuse), the function of a women’s centre can sometimes be confused – which is understandable, given that the likes of BWC seem to… do it all, for anyone in need of help. As well as having staff on hand for practicalities such as housing issues, financial problems, mental health support (counselling and psychotherapy is available) and food poverty (the latter being the service that’s seen the biggest increase in demand over the past year), women’s centres provide a safe space to talk – which can ultimately be the biggest game-changer for many. There’s also a cheerful nursery on site, Toy Box, so that mothers can attend appointments without fretting about childcare.

All of which is why the newly announced £15 million government cash injection into 40 women’s charities and centres in England and Wales, like the BWC, that support those at risk of reoffending, is so crucial. But is it enough, given that a recent Women In Prison report found nearly half of all women’s centres are concerned about their survival? What else can be done to stop women – and mothers in particular – from going to jail, and tearing apart families in the process, traumatising a new generation? Why are 3,219 women ending up in prison each year in the first place, with most having committed a non-violent, low-level offence?

Victims before perpetrators

“We often say that women who’ve gone to prison were victims before they were perpetrators,” says Damian Hinds, Minister for Prisons, Parole and Probation, who joins me at BWC. “We know female offending is typically driven by factors such as drug and alcohol abuse, domestic violence, and mental health issues. Around 60% of women in prison have experienced domestic abuse and about half have some kind of drug problem, so we need to tackle those underlying issues with earlier intervention and better support, to stop the cycle of offending.”

He praises the Female Offender Strategy that began in 2018, with the aim of tackling the root causes of female offending and reducing prison numbers (Hinds’ team also shares that between June 2018 – June 2022 the number of women sentenced to immediate custody fell by 37%).

However, whilst news of the funding is a welcome step in the right direction "that provides a much-needed respite for organisations working tirelessly to meet the needs of at-risk women, or those in contact with the criminal justice system”, there's still a long way to go, says Sonya Ruparel, the Chief Executive of Women In Prison (a charity that has supported women in the criminal justice system for 40 years). Their work sees them have a presence inside prisons, in the community and ‘through the prison gate’ as they help women to resettle in their communities.

"The money is providing a temporary solution to a long-term problem, and this £15m available pales into insignificance when compared, for example, with the £200m the government are investing in an extra 500 prison places for women," she explains. "Despite the government’s commitment to reducing the women’s prison population, they are projecting it will rise by up to 35% in the next three years.

"Without real investment in services that support women to address the root causes of crime such as domestic violence and abuse, debt and homelessness women will continue to be unnecessarily swept into the criminal justice system."

Female inmates, the majority of whom have been convicted of fraud (14%) or shoplifting (19%), also have to grapple with being incarcerated by a system designed with men in mind, and it is estimated that women sent to prison are seven times more likely to self-harm than men. Each year, 17,000 children are impacted by maternal imprisonment too.

Helping women to break the cycle of trauma is something that Lisa Dando, Director at BWC, and all her staff, are passionate about. They explain that a ‘trauma-informed’ approach is key when dealing with any woman living with multiple disadvantages [something that can be lacking during arrests, for instance, if officers haven’t been specially trained] and that a shortage of decent emergency accommodation sees women who’ve recently left prison instantly set up to fail.

Too many are housed far from home – away from their support networks that help them to stay sober and happy – and are forced into mixed gender living situations, with shared bathrooms, toilets, and broken locks. All of which see their fight or flight responses fire up, particularly if they’ve been victims of domestic abuse or sexual violence. It’s much harder to stay sober when you’re scared and lonely.

The UK also continues to put pregnant women in prison, when other countries don’t. “Women give birth in prison here,” Dando adds. “I don't understand why the children are being punished for a crime their mothers have committed. The prison system is damaging in so many different ways and I'm also not convinced that the rehabilitation work that takes place inside, especially for women on short term sentences, which the majority are, has enough time to really make a difference.”

She adds, “It seems illogical [to break families up in this way] when there are alternatives, like women’s centres and non-custodial sentences, that are proven to work.” Dando, of course, caveats that this does not mean she supports people who’ve committed violent or very serious crimes going without punishment.

It’s a sentiment that Hinds seemed to agree with during our interview too, along with the need for better trauma support training to be instilled across the justice system as a whole. “Trauma-informed services and spaces for these women are vital,” agrees Marion Taylor, Manager of the Inspire project at BWC, who has worked with Hayley. “It’s about working with women in a way that recognises they have trauma in their backgrounds, that shapes the way they’ve developed and react to certain things.” Consistency is also key; BWC is able to offer twelve sessions with a therapist, whereas the NHS offering typically hovers at around six to eight.

Part of the newly announced funding, of which BWC has received £761,280, will also be spent on creating better links between women’s centres and the police, which (as suggested by the Casey review) is rife with misogyny, racism and homophobia. “[The review] is a big part of why we wanted to form a partnership with the police, to divert women away from contact with them if possible,” Dando explains. “We want to step in early and provide a different model of support, to protect women from having to experience being in a police cell or the damaging effects of a service that is struggling. We’d like to bring a different view and educate the police on a new way of working.”

In terms of feeling the impact of previous government cuts to services, Dando diplomatically says that since she “joined fifteen years ago, it’s been peaks and troughs” and that currently, the centre looks set to be financially ‘safe’ for the next two years. She highlights the financial gains of custodial sentences being a last resort too, pointing out that incarceration costs around £42,000 per inmate compared with a community sentence coming in at around £2,000. Around 87% of women given a non-custodial sentence do not go on to reoffend either. Dando adds, “And really, we’re all at risk of needing a women’s centre if our circumstances suddenly change.”

When asked by Cosmopolitan UK as to whether the new £15 million funding allocation is enough for women’s services, Minister Hinds said he feels it’s a “substantial investment” and that the scheme will reduce the £18 billion overall cost of reoffending for the taxpayer. “Female offenders also benefit from other support the justice and health systems provide, like the Probation Service and Government’s £3 billion 10-year drugs strategy investment.”

Coming back from darkness

Someone who is a prime example of a non-custodial sentence working is Sarah*, a 60-year-old animal lover who explains that she snapped after a long-running dispute with her neighbour escalated during lockdown. The neighbour, she says, made an illegal roof garden on their building, that Sarah repeatedly said wasn’t safe – and her point was proven when a dog later fell off and was injured. Later on, whilst in the vet’s surgery, an argument between the neighbours grew heated and Sarah admits that she pulled her neighbour’s hair.

Her situation, Sarah points out, is a prime example of circumstances changing in an instant – and to her credit, she repeatedly acknowledges that she shouldn’t have become physical in that scenario. “I do sometimes wake in the night and think how could this happened? I pulled her hair. Yet I've been punched in the past, and it never goes to court. It was all just blown completely out of proportion… I used to work for probation, I spent five years working with one parent families.”

Ultimately, after sleepless nights spent imagining how she’d survive in prison, Sarah was given a non-custodial sentence of community service work, which she completed in a PDSA charity shop, “I was put in a position in court, where if I opened my mouth and tried to stand up for myself, I knew I would go to prison,” she reflects. “So I stayed quiet and left it to my solicitor, who managed to reduce my sentence down to 50 hours of non-custodial work.” Alongside her sentence, Sarah was also issued an eviction order, which is what led her to BWC to seek help with housing.

“It was last chance saloon,” she shares. “I’d tried to access other services but found they weren’t able to move fast enough for me. It had reached the stage where my family were exhausted with it all too. My kids are older – my daughter is a doctor and my son's a respected musician – they came with me to court, but they didn’t have the facilities to help me, whereas women’s centres do. Even things like utility bills, I've brought them here as I just couldn’t have handled them alone.”

Now, Sarah is in a much better space – both mentally and physically – having found alternative accommodation with BWC’s support, and once her 50 hours in the shop were up, she decided to stay on as she found it good for her confidence and sticking to a routine.

Hayley now says she’s now able to be there for all of her children and is clean and sober. She is also single, having broken free of her pattern of repeatedly entering into abusive relationships, and tells me she’s teaching her 17-year-old daughter to spot the red flags that she missed early on. “My kids have seen a lot of things and experienced a lot of trauma, they've seen me beaten up, drug dealers come through the doors, windows being smashed… But now it's like, mum's not that person anymore,” she says. “They can see I'm not running to men, or looking for a man to fix me, or putting up with being spoken to in a certain way. I can finally set the right example.”

For now, it sounds as though the likes of BWC and the forty other women’s centres that have received funding at least have a little space to breathe – but is allowing them a moment to pause and catch their breath really enough? Especially given that new stats show one in five people in the UK are living in poverty right now, and that debt and homelessness are precursors to potentially committing an offence. Is it right that women’s centres have had to fight so hard – and wait so long – to receive adequate financial support in the first place, given the incomparable work they’re doing? And whilst these forty centres can feel short-term relief, plenty of other incredible organisations around the UK are still struggling. Let’s hope this is only the beginning of the recognition, and that the pressure all women’s centres are feeling will be eased on a more permanent basis in the near future.

*Name has been changed

You can donate to Brighton Women's Centre here and Bankuet, the food bank association that work alongside the BWC, here

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evolvingchaoswitch · 1 year

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Consequences

*My first fanfic in over a decade, some of the things I think should be brought up in Season 2 like Xavier having PTSD after being falsely imprisoned. Enjoy this one-shot (possibly more in the future)

It had been three weeks into the new term after the unexpected semester break at Nevermore and everyone was trying to adjust and move on after the events of last semester. From his dorm Xavier watched the falling snow outside and started to reflect on how October affected him. Xavier crossed the empty half of his room as he was still in there alone and made his way over to his laptop to get some of the thoughts that were spiraling into order. Using his laptop as a diary it seemed to be the perfect place to vent as it was a method that Wednesday was almost guaranteed to overlook considering her luddite tendencies (though she had no problem connecting with Enid over break but not one text for him) and after typing in his password (Anish Kapoor 192131119) he opened a familiar program typed in a different password (Cassandra 2022) and started to type.

Date November 20th 2022

Today I overheard that Wednesday has a stalker while she was chatting with Enid in one of our few shared classes, and I am bracing myself for when Wednesday decides I’m the stalker based on the fact that I got her the phone and turns the investigation on me again. I’m sure it won’t take people long to be on board with what Wednesday said in our mutual acquaintances they did last semester when I was arrested. Not one person in my group made so much as a peep of “I know the evidence looks bad but he’s innocent. I’ve known him for years” or “I know Wednesday does shady shit to enact justice you might want to verify how the evidence was found” not a word. Not from any of the Nightshades, not from any of the Administration that had taught me over the years and nothing from Ajax was what hurt the most.

What made Wednesday more believable as a person than me? I had never emptied a bag of live piranhas on anyone or destroyed public property in a magnificent blaze (It was dope) or manipulated the people around me into dangerous situations. I had visions as well and for longer that Wednesday so why was the fruits of her emerging powers more valuable than mine? Or was it simply because I am worthless and no matter what I do to fit into groups it will always be hollow and never a meaningful relationship, it’s all fake because I’m not worthy of authenticity in relationships; I am worthless.

I’ve been doing my best to avoid unnecessary interactions with Wednesday this term, moved most of my classes to a different time so I’m not in as many shared classes and decided to sit towards the front of the class next to a student whose name I do not remember but who keeps to themselves so no chit chat required. I am mentally preparing myself to be confronted by Wednesday or to overhear something along the lines of “I didn’t text you/Xavier over the break because I felt I didn’t need to, it was obvious that you/he used this gift as a way to get closer to me to insert yourself/himself into my daily thoughts. Since I have not echoed back with feminine gratitude you/he have lost interest and have receded in interaction since there is nothing to be gained for you/him. Therefore the offered of friendship was a smokescreen at best to set in place for more personal situations and you/he failed '' or some other equally hurtful and somewhat misandrist statement.

I thought I meant what I said the last day I saw her, that I would be more than happy with just a text, until I got home to the large empty mansion where I live. I was left to my own devices no surprise there, for the remainder of break while Dad was on tour which left me with a lot of free space to be upset. I cried in the shower, in my room, really anywhere I felt the need to because I wasn’t able to show this level or pain to anyone at Nevermore, not anymore and my masking would have to get even better, though it was good enough to fool Wednesday she just thought that I was an elitist snow afterall.

It was during the night that I fully realized that the things I said to Wednesday about our possible friendship going forward was not going to happen. I’d go to sleep to replay the events of the month before, the humiliation, betrayal, the feeling of having people drag you away for a crime you didn’t commit though as an Outcast I have to worry about that anyway. Sometimes it would be Wednesday that put me in the chains only to brutally decimate my character, other times she took justice into her own hands and performed a vivisection on me and even when her evidence proved her wrong she still left me on the table to die, no remorse and no apologies. Still haven’t gotten one from her at all, not that I expect one.

I took down my studio at home, I couldn’t bring myself to paint or draw anymore, not after my own work was used as a basis to condemn me. I’ve stopped drawing even here at Nevermore not that I feel anyone has noticed or that I no longer go to the shed to paint, my stomach rolls every time I go near it. My safe haven from the bullshit of my life was turned into perdition and I could never go there again. Nevermore no longer had a Tortured Artist just a tortured soul among its ranks and I don’t think a single person would notice or care.

I used my drawings to make sense of the visions I had, to get the images out of my head so I could assess them but I have found taking sleeping pills helps me avoid my visions and the nightmares that plague me, so win win right? Everything will be fine at the end of the year. I will pack my things and go somewhere far away from here and start over. Maybe if I go somewhere where no one knows my face or my story I can start over and maybe find some kind of happiness for myself…..LOL.

Saving the draft under password Xavier closed the lid of his laptop before drawing in a deep breath. Returning back to the window he could see Wednesday in the distance, and immediately moved from the window. As long as he could reduce the amount of time they interacted in a group setting or alone the better. He had to keep the mask in place and that was so hard to do when engaging with her. Xavier could feel the weight of the chains around his neck dragging him down every time he looked at her, and he could never shake the feeling of being condemned and some part of him would always be in that cell.

The consequences of daring to have a crush on Wednesday Addams was harsh but now he knew better.

#xavier thrope fanfic #netflix wednesday #wednesday addams #mentally unstable #ptsd problems #hurt/comfort

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traumasurvivorshelpingsurvivors · 1 year

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i'm a secretive person. i keep a lot of secret. i do have people i trust with my biggest sins tho, who thankfully still accept me as i am. but there's still one thing i never told anyone: my serious struggle with hygiene.

for some reason, admitting i struggle a lot with it to the point of not showering for weeks at a time is just not something i can do. i know that this stems from living with people who are super hygienic and take cleaning seriously, and are quick to get grossed out by even slightly dirty stuff. but also? hygiene, or the lack thereof, is smth that is considered a valid insult by a lot of ppl, even progressive ones. i'm not in the mental state to convey my thoughts much, but what i do know is the shaming of unhygienic and dirty people has gone so bad to the point i'm more willing to admit my biggest wrongdoings that drag me down with guilt than admitting i can not shower for weeks at a time. as someone whose value is basically "i don't care whatever you do as long as it doesn't hurt anyone", it's wild that i consider admitting my actions, which did hurt ppl, as easier than admitting to being unhygienic, which doesnt hurt anyone.

it's also annoying, ngl. like, the fact that i'm too constantly exhausted to the point of not even being able to take care of myself just shows how much my mental state has deteriorated. but because my biggest symptom is the lack of hygiene (which i dont have the guts to admit to people), i cant openly admit that im struggling. whenever i try to open up and seek support, people always say to try doing this and that. but i cannot! if even showering is too hard then how am i supposed to get the energy for things that require more spoons! but ofc i cant say it, not when i have zero guarantee that the other person wont shame me for my lack of hygiene. i do want an outcome where after admitting how much i struggle, the other person turns sympathetic. but seeing at how these ppl treat unhygienic people... yeah nah. never gonna admit it

Hi anon,

Please know you're not alone.

It's okay to be secretive, you don't have to share anything you don't want to, and you deserve the right to choose what is known and what is not. However, you don't deserve to feel silenced about things you'd like to talk about.

It makes sense why hygiene may be a struggle for you - not having enough energy makes it really hard to do such a big task like showering, and afterwards can be even more exhausting.

Please know that not only is there no judgment here, but I understand the fear of scrutiny in this society where everyone is expected to stick to a specific hygienic routine and anyone who doesn't meet this is immediately seen as disgusting, without considering the contributing factors.

I understand that desire for all odds to be in your favor, that anyone who knows about your hygiene habits would be understanding and supportive. It can be really hard to accept that some people simply won't understand and will be disrespectful, but that it's more a reflection of them than you. You are valid no matter what critical people have to say. Internalizing that message is definitely easier said than done, but it is possible.

I think there is some pride to take in the fact that despite you saying that you can't openly admit you're struggling, this is a public space, and so hopefully some of that shame can feel lifted.

I hope I could help. Please let us know if you need anything.

-Bun

#mod bun #trauma talks

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counselormarklarson · 28 days

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Individual Counseling in Charlotte: A Path to Personal Growth and Wellbeing

In the bustling city of Charlotte, the demands of daily life can sometimes be overwhelming. Whether it's managing career pressures, navigating personal relationships, or coping with mental health challenges, everyone can use a supportive space to process their experiences. Individual counseling offers a confidential and nurturing environment where residents of Charlotte can seek professional guidance tailored to their unique life situations.

Understanding the Importance of Individual Counseling

Individual counseling is a therapeutic approach focused on one-on-one sessions between a counselor and a client. It is designed to help individuals explore their feelings, beliefs, and behaviors, work through challenging or influential memories, identify aspects of their lives that they would like to change, better understand themselves and others, set personal goals, and work toward desired change.

For those in Charlotte, individual counseling provides an invaluable resource for dealing with the specific stresses of modern urban life, such as job stress, relationship dynamics, family responsibilities, and personal growth.

The Benefits of Individual Counseling

Enhanced Self-Awareness and Personal Growth: Counseling provides a safe space for self-reflection which is essential for personal development. It helps individuals gain deeper insights into their motivations and helps uncover areas for personal improvement.

Improved Mental Health: Individual counseling can help manage symptoms of mental health issues like depression, anxiety, PTSD, and other emotional and psychological challenges. By working with a skilled counselor, individuals can develop strategies to cope effectively with their mental health conditions.

Strengthened Relationships: Through counseling, individuals learn better communication skills, which can improve interactions with others, enhancing personal and professional relationships.

Effective Stress Management: Learning how to handle stress effectively is another critical benefit of individual counseling. Counselors can provide tools and techniques to manage stress in healthier ways, preventing stress from overwhelming the individual.

Crisis Resolution: For those facing immediate personal crises, individual counseling can act as a crucial support network offering guidance and professional advice to navigate through tough times.

Why Choose Individual Counseling in Charlotte?

Opting for individual counseling in Charlotte allows you to work with professionals who understand the unique cultural, economic, and social environment of the city. This local understanding can bring additional insight into the therapeutic process, making the counseling experience more relevant and effective.

Moreover, Charlotte boasts a diverse array of counseling professionals with various specializations, ensuring that anyone can find a counselor who suits their needs and can address their specific concerns in a personalized manner.

Finding the Right Counselor

Finding the right counselor is a critical step in the journey toward mental health and personal growth. When looking for individual counseling services, consider the following:

Qualifications and Experience: Ensure that the counselor is licensed and has experience dealing with the issues that you are facing.

Specializations: Some counselors specialize in specific areas, such as anxiety, depression, or family counseling. Choose a professional whose expertise aligns with your needs.

Personal Comfort: The success of counseling often depends on the relationship between the counselor and the client. It's important to choose someone you feel comfortable talking to.

For those living in Charlotte, individual counseling offers a pathway to a more fulfilling and balanced life. It provides tools and insights that help individuals navigate their personal and professional challenges more effectively. By investing in individual counseling, residents of Charlotte can take important steps toward improving their mental health, enhancing their relationships, and achieving their personal goals. Whether you're dealing with life's daily stressors or more significant emotional issues, individual counseling can offer the support and guidance you need to move forward.

#Charlotte #individual counseling

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king-of-the-frog-wizards · 1 month

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The Last Human

In fiction there are many depictions of what the “last human” would appear to be- particularly that of the apocalypse kind, and it’s usually something grim or something most wouldn’t even recognize as human (at least from my experience).

I’ve seen “The Last Human” depicted as a soldier who just shot the other remaining human on a battlefield- ignorant to the fact that he’s condemned himself to total isolation before his inevitable death. I’ve seen “The Last Human” depicted as a husk of a corpse, kept alive only by technology deemed on the cusp of being supernatural- existing only as a warning to those that live after them. I’ve seen “The Last Human” depicted as a survivor in space, tragically observing as our lovely world is destroyed or they are endlessly far away to know that they are all that’s left of our species.

These depictions are wonderful, they capture the many ways we can go down with our metaphorical ship- with the last survivor given the responsibility to bear witness of our demise, in all of it’s tragedy (or hope, depending on the story) to form a last remark as we give way to oblivion. However, there is a depiction that is my favorite- as I see it as a great reflection of what we are (or in this case *were*) capable of as an entity.

I do not think the last human would be found on an endless battlefield or off in space alone- there would be another human there, a corpse or some other iconography or manifestation of someone. The Last Human would approach them, whoever they were, and would embrace them in whatever appropriate way- rolling through the complex and endless well of emotions being the “Last” of anything would bring- only so many people have the responsibility and the tragedy of being. Depending on this person they may decide to opt out of the rest of this task, to which only the truly heartless would blame them. Most would likely go mad from the isolation and develop some mental health related disorders with said isolation.

I’d like to think “The Last Human” wouldn’t be alone, they’d have something there to keep them company- even if it was a relic item that reminds them of someone. A creature, a sentient robot, some other adaptation of Man- something would be there with “The Last Human”- whose final duty is to document our final days and be living last remark that I described before- to be the warning, but also the sign of hope- and a plea that we won’t be remembered for all the evil and cruelness we have done, but for the love and pleasure and endless pool of creation we were.

“We weren’t all bad,” says the woman “Most of us were in love, with one-another, with life, with death- with all that was and will be and is. We were born to struggle, to create and solve problems, to experience the Universe for whatever time we are blessed with before returning home- I’m just in the doorway now, taking one final look for us before I join them in the kitchen for dinner.”

The Last Human will go home surrounded by friends- either of their own creation or those discovered. They may not speak our language or be able to grasp the importance of this final transient moment for us, but to The Last Human all they perceived was love and comfort- even if they hurt so much.

We’ll be waiting in that Kitchen for them.

(This post isn’t for anyone, or is about any franchise in particular- I just have some thoughts about this subject I wanted to carve onto my Blog’s walls to satiate something in my head)

#TW: death #tw: suicide

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spellforexloveback · 9 months

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Harness Positivity With Practises Negative Energy Removal In Dallas

Energy is the core of the entire world. It covers not only the physical realm but also the spiritual one. In its neutral state, it is neither positive nor negative. It is the pure form of universal power, i.e., the source of all beings in the world, whether dead or living. Even so, when tampered with using external force, its nature becomes corrupted and negative. That causes bad effects to happen to anyone who faces such transfigured power. These effects make up a long list, as seen during the process of negative energy removal in Dallas. Out of these, the most common ones are emotional disturbances, mental health degradation, and loss of happiness in daily life.

Thus, to help you understand how to counter corrupted power, we will learn about its effects and how to remove them from your life. So, without further adieu, let’s start!

Effects Of Harmful Energy Observed During Negative Energy Removal In Colorado

Cynical power is a volatile form of energy whose uses and effects stretch across a wide spectrum. Though so, the aspects they directly affect are similar in any case. These aspects include emotions, relationships, family, friends, professional life, and personal comfort. With such effects on personal life, ruin becomes inevitable. Thus, to recognise signs of corrupted forces in your life, you need to understand their effects. Some of these observed during the process of negative energy removal in Colorado are as below.

Emotional Turbulence: The first area where corrupted energy attacks is a person's emotional balance. If you feel extremely overwhelmed, anxious, sad, or angry, it can be one of the first effects of corrupted powers in your life.

Difficulties in Relationships: People are highly reliant on their relationships with others. When an enhanced sense of confusion, arguments, misunderstandings, and conflicts becomes a part of them, life’s key support pillars draw out.

Increasing physical ailments: The soul and body are intertwined. The disruptive effect on one causes the opposite effect on the other. Thus, it is common to see physical signs like headaches, fatigue, immune dysfunction, and muscle tension. This observation was made during the analysis of negative energy removal in Boston.

Consistent Demotivation and Lack of Interest: Harmful powers mess up the natural flow of positive energy in the human body. That demolishes the feeling of ambition and motivation and makes people unable to look toward their end goal and stay motivated.

How To Remove Harmful Forces from Your Life?

If you find all these symptoms present in your life, you need to start working on removing them. With the help of the insights from the process followed for negative energy removal in Boston by Psychic Raman, below are the best ways to get rid of corrupted forces from your life.

Reflect and become self-aware: Take time to reflect on your recent days and understand what has acted as your triggers. You can learn how to approach and avoid them by mindfully recognizing them.

Meditate: Meditation is the best method to align the forces imbalanced in your body. Meditation does not need to be just sitting down and closing your eyes; it could be anything that helps you make peace with yourself.

Be in a positive environment: The environment is essential for creating energy balance. The right company can help you resonate positive vibes and fend off negative energies.

Clean your surroundings: Cluttered and dirty spaces are great magnets for tampering forces. Cleaning it out and adding some cleansing crystals can help attract positive energies.

Learn to Set Boundaries: Taking over every piece of work someone tells you to do without setting any boundaries can exhaust you very easily. Overexhaustion is a great reason for the breeding of negative thoughts. With a lack of mental strength, you will become an easy target for disrupted energies to enter your body and life.

Final Note: The corruption of natural energies is real, and its effects can leave a person in ruin in no time if not tended to properly. While measuring the level to which it is present in your life is impossible. Thus, if you find the above-stated effects observed in the ritual of negative energy removal in Dallas, then start implementing the ways to remove negative energy. If you want professional help to further ensure that your negative energy gets removed accurately, contact the renowned psychic Raman today and remove harmful energies from your life!

#Negative Energy Removal In Dallas #Negative Energy Removal In Colorado

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sincerelyauden · 1 year

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It’s a Privilege to Write Reflections

“My parents were tasked with the job of survival and I with self-actualization. What a luxury it is to search for purpose, meaning, and fulfillment.” https://twitter.com/bosefina/status/936724598632210433?s=46&t=eUnSZpwZ1Ebuig5w0WZpxQ

Whew. That was a lot.

I didn’t realize my late twenties were going to be focused so much on reclaiming myself, but I guess this is the battle I will be fighting for a while.

Last year’s reflection was very critical of the previous years’ reflections - especially the ones I posted in 2017 and 2018. It makes me think about what I imagined were the right choices at that time, especially with the knowledge and resources that were available to me at that age; this brings me to the topic of immigrant generational gaps and childhood trauma.

When I started therapy last year, I thought it would be easy to just blame everything on my childhood trauma. “I was raised this way in this environment with the choices made by this parent!” And I’m realizing how I would just blame that trauma and experiences for my own current shortcomings - again, escapism and lack of accountability.

It’s such a long journey, this whole healing thing. It’s exhausting. It’s exhausting having to always work on myself mentally. It’s exhausting to always challenge myself from not going back to my previous coping mechanisms - things I’m so familiar with. It’s just so exhausting.

And honestly, I did not even want to write this reflection. I actually considered skipping this year’s post because I felt like I’ve done way too many reflections this year that I just didn’t want to do this. It’s all so exhausting.

So I’m just going to be casual in this one - choppy sentences, unorganized thoughts, and unproofread sentences.

I worked on myself all year. I worked on recognizing the toxic traits I’ve lived with this past 26 years. Escapism? Healthy to a moderate degree. I prided over being very independent - so much that I never asked for help. Yeah, that was something I had to work on too. Anxious-avoidant attachment, they call it. Of course, it stemmed from how I was raised as a child and always having my walls up and lacking trust on anyone to meet my needs.

Easy things to blame on my childhood upbringing, definitely. This is why the quote I included in this reflection is so important to me. I needed to remind myself to not blame my parents for how they raised me. I felt like, in my situation, my mom did the best she could with what she knew that time and what she had to deal with. Like, she immigrated to a foreign country and work to feed a whole family of five. She worked enough so I could have this luxury of self-fulfillment and search for identity as my crisis in my twenties, rather than job or financial security.

Even with that though, I do not dismiss my own experience. I grew up constantly being the pacifist. Always having to take the neutral side to avoid confrontation and trouble (hello people pleasers). So a lot of it was about reclaiming back my confidence and becoming more selfish; learning how to say “no”, taking up space, and being confidently myself.

So, one of the biggest favors I did for myself this year was coming out as gay to my mom.

Did I need to? I thought I was lucky enough to grow up in a very welcoming environment where I didn’t feel the need to come out until I was 26. This begs the question: Do I need to keep coming out to everyone I know? To people I trust?

Who knows right?

Maybe I would be comfortable enough in my own queer skin to just be shamelessly gay.

I’m almost 30 and I’m just slowly coming to terms with who I am and the people I surround myself with. And honestly, that was another big journey of the year. Choosing which people I want to take with me through my thirties. I wanted to form genuine relationships and maintain the ones I truly treasure.

And it was hard because I was still navigating through who I trust in my personal and work lives - whose ideals and values do I want to live by and live with in this coming decade? Who do I want to be to myself and to my friends?

Anyways, this was a very empty reflection. Future Chris, please be nice to me. I’m tired. I’m tired of having to be the therapist for myself and for my friends. I’m tired from working 48-hour weeks to fund this damn 15 months of travel (please analyze this. I don’t know how I will view this in the future but the escapism attitude here was off the rails and I really don’t want this escapist Chris back).

I’m just tired.

Only future Chris can decide how this year was, but for now I just want my peace. I just want to be happy with myself and be a genuine soul.

I am tired and I want to rest.

#2022 #2023

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attemptsonherlifepdf · 3 years

Text

bojack horseman and bo burnham: the art of acting like you’re acting and the comedy of misery

at the core of bojack horseman, raphael bob-waksberg’s 2014 comedy, is a story about the relationship between performance and depression. the protagonist of this renowned tragicomedy is best described as a sympathetic villain; he is shown to clearly be in the wrong across various events of the show, and is explicitly referred to as a bad person, but the audience is granted deep access to his personal struggles, resulting in some portions of the audience finding themselves on bojack’s side. the duality of his character is complex, but can be broken down into some core components, that all stem from the impacts of stardom and performance. the standup comedy of bo burnham arguably echoes this sentiment in real time. having been a performer from a young age, burnham creates work that serves as a satirical commentary on the life of entertainers. he uses original songs to explore the reliance upon and resentment for his performative nature both onstage and within his personal life. both the comedian and the netflix show are widely understood to be thinly veiling their critiques of the entertainment industry behind a particular brand of witty and absurd humour.

both bojack and burnham’s content openly criticises their audiences and explicitly states the manufactured nature of the narrative the audience is fed. in the fifth season of bojack horseman, the show satirises itself by having bojack star in a police procedural drama, parts of which are actively written by other characters to reflect events of bojack’s life. the titular character he plays, philbert, is the epitome of selfish male angst, and an example of what bob-waksberg’s show could have been; another story about a sad and angry man whose guilt supposedly makes up for the people he has hurt. according to bojack, philbert teaches us ‘we’re all terrible, so we’re all okay’, an interpretation that is harshly disputed by diane: ‘that’s not the point of philbert, for guys to watch it and feel okay. i dont want you, or anyone else, justifying their shitty behaviour because of the show.’ this moment is a direct reaction to some of the online reception bojack horseman has received. various circles of the show’s fanbase have found themselves relating to the protagonist to the point of defending his untoward behaviour, a response not intentioned by the show’s creators. this is not the only example of bob-waksberg’s ability to make his work self-evaluative. in season six’s exposure of bojack and sarah lynn’s problematic relationship, characters question their sexual encounter from the first season. the writers use this as a way of examining their own choices, and the harmful tropes they played into when using this exploitative sexual encounter as a gag. this self-evaluative quality is what sets bojack apart as a show that assesses the performance it participates in, much like the comedy of bo burnham.

bo burnham is known for directly addressing his audience, particularly in terms of discouraging idolisation and parasocial relationships. some examples of this manifest as responses to hecklers rather than a planned bit in the show, for instance:

heckler: i love you!

bo: no you don’t

heckler: i love the IDEA of you!

bo: stop participating!

he actively addresses the issues posed by being an entertainer, and encourages the audience to understand and recognise that his onstage persona is just that: an exaggerated persona. not once does burnham claim to be fully authentic onstage, and even moments of authenticity we see in his latest special, inside, are staged. we make the assumption that having the physical setting of a stage stripped away grants us a more personal look at the entertainer’s life, but he makes it clear that even in his own home we still see the aspects he has carefully constructed rather than the full truth. arguably though, parts of the show really are authentic; in his monologue during make happy, bo deconstructs his own show in a way that is similar to bojack horseman’s later seasons, admitting that all he knows is performing and thus making a show about the more mundane and relatable aspects of life would feel ‘incredibly disingenuous.’ in his attempts to separate himself from this onstage persona he actually manages to blur the lines between what is acting and what is now part of his nature as a result of his job. this notion is echoed in bojack horseman as bojack’s attention seeking nature is attributed to his years acting in front of a camera every day.

bo suggests that the era of social media has created a space in which children’s identities mimic that of an entertainer like himself, describing the phenomenon as ‘performer and audience melded together.’ in this observation he criticises the phenomenon. bo attempts to force the audience to recognise the ways in which their lives are becoming shaped by the presence of an audience and to some extent uses his own life as a warning tale against this. he points out the way in which the ‘tortured artist trope’ means that your cries for help or roundabout attempts of addressing mature themes such as substance abuse, mental illness and trauma become part of that on stage persona and therefore become part of the joke. both bo and bojack address these topics in more discrete manners earlier in their careers, but this eventually becomes expected, and thus they are forced to explicitly detail their struggles with these topics in order to be taken seriously. even then, portions of the audience are inclined to see it as part of the persona or as something that fuels the creators creativity and thus does not need to be addressed as a legitimate issue. the emphasis on creating a character or persona promotes the commodification of mental illness: any struggle must be made into a song or a joke or a bit, must be turned into part of the act in order to have value. this actually serves to delegitimise these emotions and create a disconnect between the feeling and the person, as it becomes near impossible to exist without feeling as though you are acting. even when an artist’s cries for help become blatant, they continue to go ignored because now they serve the purpose of creating content that criticises the industry they stem from. online audiences can be seen as treating bo burnham and his insightful work as existing to demonstrate the negative effects entertaining can have, and because this insight is useful or thought-provoking to audiences, he is almost demanded to keep entertaining and creating. in response to this demand, his work becomes more meta and his messages become clearer, and the more obvious his messages, the more people he reaches. this increases audience demands and traps entertainers in a cycle fraught with internal conflict.

during bojack’s second season, bojack’s date asks him, ‘come on, do that bojack thing where you make a big deal and everyone laughs, but at the same time we relate, because you're saying the things polite society won't.’ this moment exemplifies how aspects of his genuine personality have now become a part of his persona and this is demanded of him in genuine and serious situations, undermining the validity of his emotional reactions. he immediately makes a rude comment to the waitress at the restaurant they’re in and satisfies his date by performing that character he has set himself out to be. some circles of the fan base have argued that bojack is written as a depiction of somebody with borderline personality disorder, offering a psychoanalytical lens through which to view this notion of performance. a defining symptom of borderline personality disorder is a fluctuating sense of self; having grown up on camera, being demanded to perform to others as young as six years old, bojack’s sense of self will have been primarily dictated by the need to act. whether this acting is for the sake of comedy, or as a representation of masking his mental illness, when they need to act is taken away bojack entirely loses his sense of self and relapses into his addictions: ‘i felt like a xerox of a xerox of a person.’ burnham’s depictions of depression run along a similar vein; in his new special he poses the idea that his comedy no longer serves the same personal purpose it once did for him. he questions ‘shit should I be joking at a time like this?’ and satirises the idea that arts have enough value to change or impact the current global issues that we are facing. burnham’s ‘possible ending song’ to his latest special, he asks ‘does anybody want to joke when no-one’s laughing in the background? so this is how it is.’ implicit in this question is the idea that when the audience is taken away and there is nobody to perform his pain to, he is left with his pain. instead of being able to turn his musings and thoughts into a product to sell to the public, he is forced to just think about them in isolation and actually face them, an abrupt and distressing experience.

the value of performance and art is questioned by both bojack and burnham, particularly during the later years of their respective content. burnham’s infamous song, art is dead, appears to be a direct response to the question ‘what is the worth of art?’ he posits that performing is the result of a need for attention (‘my drug’s attention, i am an addict, but i get paid to indulge in my habit’) and repeatedly jokes throughout his career that the entertainment industry receives more respect that it deserves (‘i’m the same as you, im still doing a job or a service, i’m just massively overpaid’). his revelations regarding the inherent desire for attention that runs through all entertainers is frequently satirised in bojack horseman. bojack is comically, hyperbolically attention hungry and self-obsessed, and the show has a running gag in which he uses phrases along the lines of ‘hello, why is nobody paying attention to me, the famous movie star, instead of these other boring people.’ his constant attempts to direct the focus of others towards himself result in bojack feeling like ‘everybody loves you, but nobody likes you.’ his peers buy into his act and adore the comical, exaggerated, laughable aspects of his character, but find very little room to respond to him on a genuinely personal level because of this. interestingly, bojack appears to enjoy catering to his audience and the instant gratification it produces, whereas bo burnham becomes increasingly candid about his mixed feeling towards his audience. ‘i wanna please you, but i wanna stay true to myself, i wanna give you the night out that you deserve, but i wanna say what i think and not care what you think about it.’ he admits to catering to what audiences want from him, but resents both the audience and himself in the process as it reveals to himself which parts of his character are solely for the sake of people watching him.

within bojack horseman, this concept is applicable not only to the protagonist, but to the various forms of performer demonstrated in the plot. towards the show’s end, sarah lynn asks ‘what does being authentic have to do with anything?’ to which herb kazzaz responds, ‘when i finally stopped hiding behind a facade i could be at peace.’ this highlights the fact that because entertainers are demanded to continue the facade, they do not receive the opportunity to find ‘peace.’ this sentiment is scattered throughout the show, through a musical motif, the song ‘don’t stop dancing.’ the song stems from a life lesson bojack imparted to sarah lynn at a young age, and becomes more frequently used as the show progresses and bojack’s situation worsens.

sarah lynn is also used to explore the value of entertainers; in the show’s penultimate episode, she directly compares her work as a pop icon to the charity work of herb, arguing that if she suffered in order to produce her work. it has to mean something. she lists the struggles she faced when on tour: ‘i gave my whole life...my manager leaked my nudes to get more tour dates added, my mom pointed out every carb i ate, it was hell. but it gave millions of fans a show they will never forget and that has to mean something.’ implicit in this notion is the idea that entertainment is the epitome of self-sacrifice. there is a surplus of mentally ill individuals within the industry, largely due to the nature of the industry itself, but some may argue that the cultural grip the industry has, and the vast amounts of respect and money it generates annually, gives the suffering of these prolific individuals meaning.

the juxtaposing responses entertainers feel towards their audiences manifest as two forms of desperation: the desperation to be an individual who is held accountable, and the desperation to be loved and validated. we see both bojack and bo depict how they oscillate between ‘this is all a lie’ and ‘my affection for my audience is genuine’, or between ‘do not become infatuated with me im a character’ and ‘please fucking love my character i do not know how to be loved on a personal level.’ bojack explicitly asks diane to write a slam piece on him and ‘hold him accountable’, similar to bo’s song ‘problematic’ in which the hook includes the phrase ‘isn’t anybody gonna hold me accountable?’ for his insensitive jokes as a late teenager. their self-awareness is what enables their self-evaluative qualities, but self-awareness is its own issue. bojack grapples with a narcissistic view of his own recognition of his behaviour before settling on a more nuanced, albeit depressing take. originally he makes the assumption that in recognising the negative aspects of himself, he is superior to those who behave similarly: ‘but i know im a piece of shit. that makes me better than all the pieces of shit that don’t know theyre pieces of shit.’ eventually, during his time at rehab he is forced to reconcile with the fact that self awareness does not, to put it bluntly, make you the superior asshole, it just makes you the more miserable one. the show does, however, make a point to recognise how the entertainment industry protects ‘pieces of shit’, prioritising their productive value over how much they deserve to be held accountable, demonstrated using characters like hank hippopoalus. the show itself obviously stems from the entertainment industry, as it is a form of media produced by netflix, one of the most popular streaming platforms available. bojack horseman and bo burnham represent the small corner of the industry that is reflective enough to showcase the damage it inflicts. this is powerful in terms of education and awareness, and urges audiences to question their own motives and versions of performance, but the reflection alone is not powerful enough to help the artists in question. burnham’s candid conversations surrounding his mental health continue to reveal a plethora of issues somewhat caused or sustained by the nature of his career. within bojack horseman, bojack is only able to stop hurting other characters when those characters construct a situation that forces him to face consequence, his introspection alone is not enough. while bojack ends on a message of hope, suggesting to the audience that reverting back to the status quo is not the only acceptable way for events to end, it leaves stinging lessons and social commentary with the audience regarding the unnatural and damaging narrative that performers live through. on a similar but markedly different note, bo burnham’s work and personal progression is playing out in real time, and not in a way that is as raw and genuine as it appears. each bit is planned, even the most vulnerable moments that appear unplanned and painful. his latest special is not entirely devoid of hope, but does translate to audiences as a somewhat exaggerated look around the era of social media and the development of performance, using himself as an example.

the absurdist humour that often acts as a vehicle for poignant statements or emotionally provocative questions is very specific to each media creator. bob-waksberg’s use of puns, tongue twisters and entirely ridiculous circumstances served to simultaneously characterise his points as an expected part of the show’s style of humour, similar to bojack’s emotional instability, but also to make them appear gut-punching in comparison to the humour. burnham’s work is similar in that poignant but blunt statements are often sandwiched between absurd and exaggerated jokes, making them stand out via contrast but not giving the audience too much time to dwell upon them as they are said. performance art is second nature to entertainers, and is presented a an issue that is infiltrating the general population via social media rather than solely affecting the ‘elites’. bojack horseman and bo burnham present the duality of artists simultaneously attempting to level the playing field and increase their chances of survival in the industry, and encourage audiences to know that everyone is bluffing and you’ll never have the right cards anyway.

i.k.b

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sneverussape · 3 years

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What kind of person do you think lily was? There's a lot said about her in the series, but i have trouble reconciling pure, shining paragon lily with someone who would marry someone that spent years tormenting her friend, 4 on 1.

ooh boy this will be a LOT. i can't even promise it will be coherent but i'll make an attempt to be. (going under a cut to save us all the grief).

first off, i think it's fair to state that one of the biggest drawbacks of lily's character is how she was written. she is a plot device. she exists to boost other characters’ narratives: she's simultaneously the Rich Boy's trophy wife, the self-sacrificing mother of the Boy Who Lived, the best friend slash lost love of the Fallen Hero, and, at the same time, also no one at all. lily is a character with little to no background and character development that she can barely stand on her own two feet without any of the associated (usually male) characters to prop her up. it absolutely sucks but that's how it is. that's how jk wrote her.

given that and working with the scraps that we do have, my opinion of lily is...complex. i try to give her justice by trying to understand her context, the workings of her mind, and the possible pressures she was subjected to, but it can be challenging especially since lack of canon pushes you into a space where you have to put them in Either/Or situations. my opinion of her has also changed as i got older. when i was younger (i read the books waaaay back, as they were getting released in fact) i only saw her as an extra character (i was most interested in snape, if that's not obvious enough, but neither did i think snape was 'obsessed' with her as a lot of hp fans now think). i saw her and snape as good friends who had had a falling out, and that he'd probably had a crush on her at some point, and it got naturally overtaken by guilt etc when she died. then when i reread some chapters containing her, i was quick to put her in the Bad Friend camp. i don't think that now. i think that she, like snape, was a complex human being who made a lot of questionable decisions but shouldn't be entirely vilified for them.

my main thoughts of her that are kind of built on material from canon as well as what jkr has said herself:

- she was not posh. she grew up in cokeworth, in the same town as severus. i don't think she was middle class as a lot of fics portray her. i think the evanses were slightly better off than the snapes but they were all working-class, and living was a day-to-day struggle. the kids spoke in the local accent, their clothes were all worn and patched over, there were no green spaces or public infrastructure for kids to safely play in, and they were all mostly running wild about the town since all their parents had to work. food was something to be thankful for because there was never enough, and sometimes they had to share with their neighbors. that's the kind of setting i think lily and severus grew up in, although severus suffered abuse on top of it all. it's possible that lily did too because of the setting (post-world war 2, poverty, adults dealing with repressed trauma from the war, etc) and it wouldn't even be that surprising if she had been;

- she and petunia got along fairly well up until the point lily found out she was a witch and, as a result, became friends with severus. it's stated in canon that petunia had also wanted to attend hogwarts with them, going as far as writing to dumbledore to allow her admittance. her jealousy upon his rejection had festered and grown into outright hate that she projected onto harry as an adult, but i don't doubt that she continued to love lily even after her death and despite how she treated harry. i think as kids they had stuck together and were very close, but magic had torn them apart. suddenly lily had a world of her own that petunia wasn't welcome in, and that would have hurt. pottermore stated lily attended vernon and petunia's wedding or engagement party but james made a right mess of it. i think lily TRIED to maintain their relationship but external factors always got in the way. i don't doubt she had also loved her sister very much;

- i don't think she had any other friends. she may have had a lot of acquaintances but i think her only real friend, the one who saw her for who she really was, was severus, and i think, at a certain point in their lives, she saw that as a weakness and resented it;

- i think, from the interactions we saw in canon of lily with other people, that lily had a penchant to please people, especially the ones who ranked higher than her in terms of power dynamics - petunia (who was the older sister), professors (sluggy comes to mind, the head of slytherin with a lot of connections), even the marauders whose actions she defended. it's not necessarily a bad thing, but i've always seen it as her being borderline manipulative. i noted that she wasn't the same with severus (based on their conversations, especially the ones in 5th year, before SWM) because he's lower than her in a lot of aspects, being a slytherin and quite likely of a lower social standing. she could boss him around and tell him to piss off and he probably wouldn't have minded. she actually strikes me as someone who could have been in slytherin; a perfect arrangement, save for the fact that she was a muggleborn. i think lily knew her place and the cards she was dealt with more than anyone, but she was also determined not to stay there;

- this brings me to the point as to why she ever went out with james potter in the first place. i think her friendship breakup with severus was inevitable because they were in the middle of a burgeoning war and both of them were being pulled to opposite and opposing ends. as an added complexity, i think she also wanted to be better than being muggleborn lily evans of cokeworth, best friend of the evil greasy slytherin git, and her way out was to associate with housemates who were in the upper echelons of power. like, we don't even know what her life was like in gryffindor tower. ron was poor, but he was also a pureblood, so that may have saved him from ridicule. but what if you were a poor muggleborn, with a northern accent to boot? in the same way severus trained himself to be more posh, lily could have done the same and could have furiously tried to blend in. maintaining a friendship with severus would have ended in heartbreak as there were too many risks and it likely outweighed the gains. this was the wizarding world too which is much much smaller than the muggle world and relied on connections more than anything. openly siding with the marauders would have saved her skin and secured her a future (which, as we all know, was forfeit anyway but whatever);

- jumping to the jily relationship, i honestly think it was also not one that was meant to last. iirc jkr projected a lot onto lily, so i'm surmising jily reflected a lot of her own failed relationships. i think james and lily had a less-than-ideal relationship, one that involved abuse (verbal, emotional, mental, physical, take your pick, but at least one form of it), and i think she may have been unhappy in the last year of her life, living in hiding with none of her own friends (if they even existed) and seeing no one else but james' pals. her only light in that darkness was likely harry as she couldn't even see her own family. i think, during those times, she thought a lot about the home she left behind and, as a consequence, her lost friendship with severus. she probably missed him, and i'm sure she must have been very lonely.

in sum, i don't think she was the Virgin Mary figure a lot of hp fans paint her to be. imho she had her own questionable but utterly human moments, and i just tried to fill in the blanks as to why she would have acted the way she did. i don't think it was easy to be lily evans at all, and majority of the 21 years of her life was likely a struggle.

#lily evans #and the cards she was dealt #i wish we knew more about her tbh #ask #hp #also mentions #snape #of course

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remsmoonlight · 3 years

Text

— title : theatre square

— word count : 2.2k words

— pairing : daigo dojima x reader

— summary : nothing but a nice day spent with Daigo in theatre square .. also Daigo still hates the fact he still sucks at the ufo catcher

— warnings : nothing but a few curses here and there

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* requests are open ! / requested by anon *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

An unending chatter of noise that bleeds into each other from the various conversations of people going about their daily lives as they are captivated by their conversations through their mobile phones or the shopping trip they are using as a way to catch up with their friends to those just on their lunch breaks from their jobs — all do not take in that which surrounds them as you do, your eyes jumping from person to person. While you wait, you find yourself making a story up for each of them, using the game from your childhood to entertain yourself until your date arrives.

As the minutes pass your excitement by, the bright blue of Kamurocho dulls as does your enthusiasm. Time aches by every time you bring your wrist up to check the time on your watch, not a message to say they’d be late. Nothing. A heavy rush of air takes the plunge out of your lungs and into the air, with dejection and gloom the bricks that build its body. You wonder why a person would ask you out only to leave you without even a whisper to communicate their lack of interest despite being the one whose idea it was. People are confusing.

“ What are you doing here by yourself? “

Your view is interrupted as you turn to the recognisable voice behind your shoulder, a forced grin is plastered onto your features — hope courses through your veins that it’s not blindingly obvious that you’re drenched from the stormy clouds of misery above you.

“ Daigo? “ You ask as surprise lights up your eyes as you survey the man. “ It’s been a while. “

Your friendship with him had occurred by accident. There’s not a day that passes in the town where there’s not a poor soul being harassed on the street for some odd reason or another, it’s just you’d never thought that you would be in that very position. Often, you would walk the streets of the neon metropolis making yourself as small and as insignificant as possible.. However on that day your lone bubble had been burst completely. One moment you’d been blissfully content in your own comfort zone as you dipped and weaved in the crowded streets and the next you’d found yourself surrounded by a swarm of drunks.

Had the universe sensed your predicament, the unpleasant experience lasted no longer than a wore on fleetingly as your lips whispered its silent gratitude. They’d scattered once an order to cease had been uttered by Daigo, as if they’d never been there in the first place, not even a shadow in their place. Apologies had been issued and usually you’d not even stayed long enough to accept them but his words were as remorseful as his eyes were true.

“ Yeah, I had something to deal with. “ He responds, digging his hands into his pockets.

“ It didn’t happen to involve this town being under siege, did it? “ You question him, a brow lifts up knowingly as your expression shifts.

His past had been no secret, you made no move to judge — his actions spoke louder than any riotous melody should weave the ability to. As you stared down at the scene from your apartment high above the glowing lights of the town, all you could see was a maze of smoke littering various areas you know well, especially as you’d walked their path that very morning. Terror prevented you from leaving, the unknown of what could occur should you walk that path played into your fear with an unyielding grip on your body.

“ These past few weeks have been something. “ He swallows lightly, his circumstances have certainly altered in the passing days. “ You haven’t answered my question. “

“ I was waiting for someone.. “ You shrug with a mousy chuckle, preferring to not let on how disappointed you feel. “ I don’t think that’s happening now. “

“ Who would stand you up like that? “

It would be a falsehood to say that he’d never imagined a closer relationship between the two of you the more he laid eyes upon your form. Noting mentally how you would persistently shine brighter than venus yet everyone who interacts with you would gravitate towards you as if you took on the form of Jupiter and they became an additional moon to orbit your infectious laughter. No sooner than he’d met you, he fell under the spell that many who interacted with you had — becoming one.

“ Well, we’re not all too close. I’m not bothered about it really. “ You lie, your words to anyone else would have gone amiss, but he’d picked up the soft falter in your voice.

“ Let’s go. “

Your gaze follows his retreating form, your body still glued to the spot it has occupied on the bench. Had you anything to say your mouth would be opening and closing like a fish, it’s not long until you manage to snap yourself out of the stupor he’d led you into and you’re both now standing outside the Club Sega arcade. A mist of uncertainty begins to fog slowly as the wheels turn in your mind, you’d only ever seen him settled into establishments where alcohol was served. Just what has he been through recently?

Chords of a catalog of sources flow through your hearing as your sight scans the area, electronic notes from the games move in rhythm with the joy those emit from the entertainment they gain from the amusements to the despair others make vocal as they lose a battle or have run their turns out on the UFO catcher. Fingers slip into your as you feel yourself tugged into the direction of a game with large seats, already knowing the game you know you’re terrible.

“ Why not another game? I’m horrible at this. “ You complain as you stare at the intimidating structure of the game.

“ It makes it easier to beat you then. “ He chuckles, a spark softly swaying in his eyes as he turns his attention to you.

“ You’re not being fair, Daigo. “

“ The aim is to win, you’re just going to have to try harder to beat me. “

You do as he says. It takes a colossal effort to direct your mind to organise itself in order to give yourself a fighting chance at winning, and it does work — to an extent. A thread of tame curses tumble unceremoniously from your lips as your character is knocked out once more, and the distractions from the male finding humour in your disaster beside you does not help your cause. Your eyes roll as the game ends once more, with you failing to get a win over Daigo, there’s no need to turn to face him for the smugness radiates off of him in waves.

“ See? I’m awful! “ You whine as your shoulders slump in defeat.

“ Let me make it up to you.. “ Daigo speaks with a comforting tone, no longer relishing in his victory. “ I’ll get you one of those toys from the UFO catchers. What one do you want? “

Your lips twist and turn as your teeth sink into the flesh to bite on them in contemplation as you eye up the prizes from your position, the lengthy distance doing nothing to hinder you as the sight of a pillow pups toy stands out confined to its glass prison. The golden retriever is too irresistible to the childishness within you as your eyes narrow as you reluctantly share your desire for the toy with him.

“ Make sure it’s the golden retriever one. “

“ Yeah, I got it. “

“ I hope you do. “ You comment in a steady tone, a palm leaning on the pane.

The music begins and you scrutinise the scene before you with an eager eye as the metallic claw first moves left. Determination chisels itself into his features as his brows lower in a physical representation of his focus. To win the plush toy would be the most simplest effort in the world yet it would be the first step in treating you how he should have been treated at the start. Truthfully, he’d wanted nothing to do with forging bonds that could be so easily disintegrated, however he could never build up the strength to tear himself away from you. Instead of feeling drained from the human interaction, he’d leave your encounters revitalised.

A groan leaves the both of you as the first attempt leaves all of the toys still confined to their places, the one you specifically want at the back firmly in the middle. A tough spot, you remark.

“ Fuck. “

Giggling to yourself, your teeth shine brighter than any star as they are on full display from the action as the frustration of the man is surprisingly amusing to you. Again, the claw had found itself short of where it should be, and the last chance of retrieving the toy desired so much is shown clearly on the metallic panel.

“ Let me, Daigo. “ You comment, pushing him to the side with a weak force. Rolling your shoulders dramatically, you grab the controls of the game. A breath is held as the claw makes its way left, the toy stands out temptingly from its position. I have to get this, it’s so cute! You do not listen to the prompt to let it descend from Daigo just yet, allowing it to inch its way further back ever so lightly. Your eyes are transfixed as you watch the toy is clutched in a clumsy hold, your heart speeds up at the sight of the lessening grip with each jagged movement that leaves the toy released earlier than it should.

A relieved sigh is released as it falls through the empty space at the last minute, just managing to pass through with seconds to spare.

“ I’m still shit at this. “

“ So you know how it feels now? “ You ask him with a smirk, interlocking your arm with his as you reflect on the surprisingly good time you have had with him. “ Ooh, let’s go to Café Alps, I fancy something sweet. “

The proximity between you both is small, with both hands secured firmly in his pockets Daigo enjoys the basic experience. A buzz of energy bubbles between the two of you as you converse interactively, you can’t help but notice a level of tension has been removed from his shoulders, the man next to you appearing a little more relaxed. The walk is short to the café, you can’t help but continue to stare at the bright displays of the stores as you pass by as if you’re witnessing them for the first time. Life is certainly vivid and lively in Kamurocho.

You turn your attention away from Daigo ordering to the life outside from your spot on the cushioned wall couch. It doesn’t go unnoticed that darkness has overtaken the skyline completely, even with the glistening neon lights the stars fight to make themselves seen.

“ Thank you, Daigo. “ You begin, a leading inflection heavy on your words as you sip slowly on the hot liquid. “ I have to ask though, what’s this all for? “

“ Does there have to be a reason? “ He deflects as you cock your head to the side in response.

“ You’re you. There’s always a reason to everything you do, I know you that well at least. “ You respond, before placing a piece of the chocolate parfait. A short wiggle of your shoulders at the enjoyment of the sweet treat lends some amusement to Daigo before an air of sobriety returns to his outward expression.

“ I haven’t been the best to you. “

“ Dai — “

“ Please, let me finish. “ He interrupts suddenly, eye contact unwavering as he continues to study your form. “ I had you as a friend but even then I would hold you at arms length more often than not. I’m surprised you’ve put up with me. “

“ I’m not going to say you’ve not been difficult.. But you don’t see what I do. “ You comfort, there had been days where he’d been more insufferable than a child, but you know humans are more than one dimensional creatures.

A culture of existing in a positive bubble perpetually is no way to live, for it denies you the chance to feel the emotions that slash your soul deeply. Is it easier to think it would be easier to live if you only experience happiness? Perhaps. But never does the find feel clearer after releasing the negativity that darkens your walls.

“ Huh? “

“ You’ve been through a lot, it’s not excusable to be an ass but it’s understandable. “ You shrug with little effort, shaking your head nonchalantly. “ Besides, you haven’t been as bad as you think. You’re human, you have your off days. We all do. “

“ Still, I don’t want to be an ass to you. “ He confides, moving his hand to envelope yours. There’s a surging warmth that the pair of you notice simultaneously threads between fingertips more seamlessly than when ink glides onto paper with the grace of a bird that soars through the bright blue sky.

He’d lived long enough in a world built of paper, using it as a means to escape the reality the world so harshly has built into it.

“ Then don’t. “

#Daigo Dojima x reader #Dojima Daigo x reader #Yakuza fic #Yakuza imagine #Daigo Dojima imagine

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neonscandal · 2 years

Text

The Moon Also Burns

Pairings: Megumi, Yuji & Nobara (platonic), Megumi & Yuji (platonic)

Genre: Angst, Introspection, Emotional

⚠️ Content Warning: Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Character Death

Word Count: 3.3K

Status: Complete

Summary: Megumi, usually cool and detached, reflects on Yuuji and their differences since they met as his noticeable absence has bred a gnawing grief.

Inspired by the second EP and animation sequence that I find so devastatingly wistful and perfect after ruminating on this brain worm yesterday.

EXCERPT

For a while, it escaped the other students’ notice, the way Yuuji would capture these passing moments. Some were bizarrely mundane like study groups or training. They dulled in excitement as time dragged on and they became routine but Yuuji would still insist on recording them, perhaps because he knew better than anyone how fleeting they were. Yuuji had made a place for himself in this world and in the hearts of those around him. With the fervor he approached everything, you would never think he was living on borrowed time. While jujutsu sorcerers frequently faced their own mortality, Yuuji’s carefree demeanor made it easy to forget he had an actual expiration date at all.

A/N: Contains spoilers or implied spoilers through chapter 164. Characters might be a little OOC a bit toward the end but, in light of everything up to chapter 164 and after, they might understandably be a little less steely. Let me know what you think below!

—

Megumi awoke to the painful feeling of his own knit brows. How long had they been like that? Furrowed in anguish, he massaged them with two fingers before giving up and burying his face into his pillow. Tears he hadn’t realized had gathered and dampened the cloth before he raised his face and pat at his wet cheeks questioningly.

His lids felt heavy once again, struggling to recall what could have perplexed him so much in his sleep. It was the first time in a while that he felt as if he’d slept at all. He turned to face his alarm clock while the numbers 5:23 burned red and reminded him he still had over three hours before his first alarm. He tried to feign sleep, hopeful to immerse himself in a dream once more but couldn’t help but to toss and turn. Mentally, he called back to the peace he found in his slumber. He was certain what drove him to tears was not the dream itself but rather how far removed it was from reality.

He rolled over once more, 5:34. Realizing the fruitlessness of trying to drift back to sleep, he raised himself up on his elbows and washed a hand over his face dejectedly. He canvassed his room, light slowly beginning to pierce his curtains and glimmer in the modest space. It suddenly felt foreign to him. Before he knew it, he was on his feet dragging along the same path he’d tread night after night, morning after morning.

He was reluctant before, having someone invade his space so casually. There were a bunch of empty rooms, after all. Jujutsu High wasn’t exactly a school known for its bustling student populace. It was small and extremely isolated. As were many of the students who ended up here. Just kids whose abilities often meant they were persecuted in the worst of cases or outcasts in the best of scenarios.

Megumi was a little different where that was concerned. He was young when his abilities manifested and in the care of the strongest sorcerer in recent history. On the one hand, he received the support and training from someone who’d always been in jujutsu society. On the other, he had the balance of Tsumiki, his step-sister who was not a sorcerer and kept him grounded in his surroundings as a regular person. This was before she wound up the victim of a curse, herself.

From then, Megumi simply chose to sequester himself. Never getting close to anyone because he knew their proximity to him could bring them misfortune. Or more specifically, another heart wrenching goodbye for him. While he wasn’t strong like Gojo, he had a knack for surviving situations greater sorcerers had perished in. In fact, even Tsumiki’s curse was an ever present reminder that good people were frequently casualties where uncaring, unfeeling scum like himself went on unscathed. Or maybe that’s what he told himself while ensconced in a shell of survivor’s guilt time and time again. Years went by like this until one person effortlessly pole vaulted over the wall he’d built around himself.

His hand gripped the doorknob timidly. He knew there was no point in knocking, there was no one to let him in. Or rather, no one to reiterate that the door was open because the door was always open.

One thing about Yuuji Itadori is that he never locked his door to anyone. Not Megumi and his cool nonchalance, Nobara and her comically large ego, Maki and her hostility, Inumaki and his penchant for trolling, Yuta and his crippling anxiety, Panda and his affinity for endless questions nor Gojo and his infinite capacity for nonsense that frequently inconvenienced others. Yuuji welcomed everyone wholly in a way that gave grace to what they considered their flaws. In fact, he’d frequently put said flaws on pedestals as pillars of their strength.

He would remark how Megumi always kept a level head, Nobara was his go to for hair and skin care, Maki was an intimidating bad ass, Inumaki was always able to make everyone laugh, Yuta was thoughtful about everyone and their feelings, Panda always made him think hard about stuff and that Gojo, his beloved sensei, kept everything interesting. Nanamin, as he’d been affectionately known, always made him feel safe. Even if it sometimes felt like he was being babied. Yuuji was loud with how much he cared for everyone and the dorms had come to feel so silent in his absence.

Megumi would always make it this far before slumping in front of Yuuji’s door until his legs fell asleep beneath him or someone would shoo him to bed, warning against colds and fevers. In the stillness of the early morning, he pushed past his base desire to wilt at the door powerlessly.

Turning the handle, his eyes were nearly blinded by the sunlight that poured into the abandoned room through ever drawn curtains. He smiled grimly thinking how on brand that was of Yuuji before walking in. His room was just as modest as Megumi’s as he came to Jujutsu High with very little. But the personal effects that littered Yuuji’s room seemed to bring more life than the bare necessities of his own room.

Slowly, he made a lazy circle around the room, first stopping at Yuuji’s desk. Loose papers with Yuuji’s scrawled handwriting spread haphazardly, assignments with due dates long since passed. A thin layer of dust gathered on a number of manga stacked to one side, clear distractions from any attempts at doing homework. Megumi ran a finger along the broken and weathered spines of some of Yuuji’s favorite series. An unexpected chuckle escaped his mouth as he recounted all the times Yuuji would liken cursed techniques to the special moves in whatever manga was presently rotting his brain.

A stop at the window treated him to the sprawling landscape of Jujutsu High’s manicured grounds. How many times had Yuuji taken in this sight, probably in some silly power pose readying himself for the day? Another chuckle as Megumi realized only an idiot like Yuuji could look at the same sight day after day and never tire of it. He contemplated closing the curtains but knew that would just steal a part of what made this room Yuuji’s. Instead, he inhaled the sunlight with closed eyes, steadying his breath. The birds outside the window chirped relentlessly, unaware of the intruder taking in their song.

Yuuji’s partially made bed rounded the tour and Megumi couldn’t help but laugh disapprovingly. He was raised by Gojo and even he managed hospital corners, what was this? It looked like Yuuji woke up one morning and hastily threw the covers back, knowing he’d have time to do a proper job later before tearing out of his room, late for an adventure. His pillow looked like it still cradled the shape of Yuuji’s head.

Megumi stretched a hand down to smooth a crease in the pillow before resigning himself to just spill into the bed instead. As if the memory that the pillows and covers held could somehow be made flesh once more if given a host. He couldn’t recall how much time had passed since Yuuji last slept in this bed, but judging by how faint the smell of his hair products were, he knew his presence was nearly faded. The thought made his stomach plummet down to his feet.

How much longer would this room feel more like a museum than a dorm? The place had felt more like a home than anywhere he or the other students had been in a long time. Yuuji could always be counted on to cook something up late at night that the students would share, family style. Smothering their late night laughs into their hands to avoid the ire of whatever teacher was on duty. Yuuji kept a library of manga and movies as after care from tough missions and would frequently take part in the shenanigans dreamt up by Inumaki or Gojo if only to make someone smile. Little did he know, a glimpse of Yuuji in one of Nobara’s animal headbands was usually enough to pull at the corners of anyone’s lips. He always did his best to fill in the gaps of his friends’ lives so his absence seemed to hit everyone in similar measure.

Megumi rolled on his side facing the wall and felt the shape of a smart phone still plugged in beneath him. Countless missed calls and text messages flooded the home screen and Megumi rolled his eyes, internally chastising Yuuji for leaving a phone plugged in for so long knowing that’s how batteries lose their lifespan. Give something too much power and, eventually, it’s sure to break down.

He sighed as he unlocked the phone and scrolled to the photo album. Familiar faces splashed by as he scrolled. Some were smiling portraits, others were group candids but most of the pictures and videos focused on Yuuji’s time and connection to Jujutsu High.

In retrospect, it made sense why he’d clung to moments like these and saw the beauty in their simplicity. He appreciated the softness of each of his friends when they weren’t paying attention. They’d all built tough exteriors, battle tested time and time again, tempered by loss and humbled by their weakness despite their age. But with his camera, he could steal glimpses of Nobara chewing on her pencil or he’d catch an elusive smile from Megumi after a Gojo prank backfired and he’d treasure it. With limited time, he sought meaning in everything and wrung love out of everyone, grasping for happiness in the same way sand spills through an hourglass. Who were these pictures for?

The last video on his phone, the whole gang gathered on the beach, a rare reprieve from studies and missions. Gojo had dragged everyone out in their winter coats, even though it was off-season and empty. They playfully flirted with the ebb and flow of the shoreline, knowing the water would be ice cold as Gojo watched over them from the van he’d commandeered. Their breath created small clouds with every word. How many times had they witnessed a sunset that meant nothing? This one was special. Unbeknownst to them, it was the last they saw with Yuuji and, alas, one another as a group.

Megumi recalled sullenly the crestfallen look on Yuuji’s face as he stared at his friends through the small screen of his phone. Maybe he’d already known by then that this would be the last video, the last group picture, because there was an unmistakable tinge of sadness as he rejoined them. He stared fondly at everyone as if in thanks, even as Nobara playfully ground her fist into his hair.

Megumi watched the video over and over, losing track of the number of smiles that blurred in front of him. Thick tears welled up before he clutched the phone to his chest in sorrow, closing his eyes. His brows found a natural furrow once more as his earlier dream shifted into focus. Of course, Megumi had dreamt of that Cheshire smile and the laughter of his friends. How long had it been since that laughter didn’t hurt? He could still feel the way Nobara’s hand felt clasped in his as he’d drag her away from a shop, could feel the weight of Yuuji’s arm slung over his shoulders any time he said something cheesy.

As his eyes opened, he caught the teasing gaze of Yuuji’s Meg Thee Stallion poster, a staple from his first day at Jujutsu High. Megumi wheezed a breathy laugh as he wiped away tears from one of his eyes, the other locked on Meg. He recalled Yuuji’s proud preference for tall women with big butts and how he’d insert that trivia as part of his introductions to new people regardless of whether it was appropriate for present company or not. Megumi dug the balls of both of his palms into his eyes, an attempt to dispel the vision of Yuuji in his mind’s eye.

Megumi could never be that declarative. When asked what his ideal type was, after a beat he was forced to admit that his ideal person would always be someone who was compassionate. Nothing else mattered. It had been a long time since Tsumiki had been left in a coma, she was one of the best people that Megumi knew. After that, he’d spent so much time in auto-pilot until the warmth of Yuuji’s genuine concern for his friends and later, Megumi himself, jarred him from his reverie. Yuuji made quite the splash in Megumi’s life. He forced him to stop looking at crowds as faceless and hopeless people and focus on the fates and motivations of each person. Everyone was worth saving if it meant one out of every thousand was a Yuuji Itadori. Yuuji, who shone bright like the sun with his silly pink hair and unbridled smile, carved paths into everyone’s heart.

A light knock at the door drew Megumi’s attention. Without response, the person entered quietly and smiled weakly at Megumi’s patchy, tear streaked face. Nobara stood shrinking in on herself in nervous anticipation, looking as though she could crumple to the ground at any moment. Her remaining eye studied Megumi with concern. She drew a hand up to her mouth, highlighting a morose smile. “He’s here,” she breathed.

Megumi shot up and threw his legs over the side of the bed. “Gojo is back?” his voice was hoarse from lack of use. He crossed the room fluidly and grabbed Nobara into a hug not knowing what Gojo’s arrival would bring. He let out a ragged breath into the crown of her hair, bracing himself for the news. “Do we know-?”

The doorknob began to turn slowly sending the hair on the back of their necks standing. Collectively, they both held their breath as a weathered bag breached the doorway held by a scarred hand. Their eyes followed the arm and melted into disbelief as Yuuji stared back at them.

The pregnant pause seemed to suck the air from the room, no one could believe the sight before them. Yuuji’s expression was one of pain and guilt with a flicker of relief. He lowered his eyes as his arm fell to his side.

“Itadori.” Nobara was the first to break the silence as she threw her arms around his broad shoulders. “You’re-you’re alright!” Tears that had gathered in her good eye began to fall freely.

Yuuji closed his eyes as he wrapped an arm around Nobara, his brows knit together solemnly. He exhaled heavily.

Megumi studied the reunion, taking in the difference several months apart had made on Yuuji’s appearance. He was taller and slightly bulkier though the angles of his face seemed sharper. He’d not said a word but, knowing Yuuji, he wouldn’t speak of the horrors he’d undergone at the behest of the elders. Megumi agonized over the thought before crossing the distance and hugging them both. His comrades in arms, his best friends. Two people who had taken a battering ram to the walls he put up around his heart. In the moment he didn’t have words for either of them, so many times they’d come so close to losing one another. This was surely the most harrowing, the most grueling but here they were, together once more. “I’m glad you’re safe,” Megumi announced roughly.

Yuuji inhaled deeply, so grateful for the warm reception, the last several months weighing on him palpably. He blinked back his tears, grateful his face was not in sight of either of his friends. “Thank you. I’m okay,” he reassured quietly, more for his own peace of mind. “Hey - were you in my bed!?” Yuuji laughed, breaking the embrace and dropping his bag. He reached up and touched his shaggy hair before winking at his friends, “ya miss me or something?”

Nobara threw a limp hand at his chest in jest, “we were worried sick, you dummy.”

Yuuji hazarded a hand to brush tears away from her eye. He studied the scar on her face somberly, remembering the evening in Shibuya that had nearly taken her life. That night, and many nights that followed paled in comparison to recent months under the thumb of the elders.

Nobara turned away from his gaze unexpectedly, her hand still resting on his chest. She could feel his heart beating but still doubted the indefinite stay of execution he’d been granted. That’s what it meant, his return, right? But they’d already lost so much, she found this hope too good to be true.

Yuuji lifted her chin gingerly before beaming, “you’re just glad I’ll be able to point out the best places to eat again. If we relied on your tastes, we’d have never had bullet sushi!”

She jokingly beat away his hand, embarrassed in that moment to be consoled by him. She haughtily threw her head back, rolling her eye. “Whatever, we’re going for soufflé pancakes whether you like it or not,” she sniffed, wiping the last of her tears away. She turned on her heels and made her way to the door begrudgingly. She had plenty more to cry over but felt that Yuuji deserved some space after what he’d just survived.

“Kugisaki.. I missed you too.” Yuji confessed, not turning to watch her leave. Megumi still stood before him, a pensive expression on his face.

Suddenly making up his mind, Megumi ruffled his dark, spiky hair, “Thanks for not jumping out of a box this time.”

“Gojo-sensei definitely tried..” Yuuji admitted with a lopsided grin.

Megumi bristled inadvertently, expecting much the same from his ridiculous guardian. He was at a cross between believing Yuuji whole heartedly and knowing Gojo would take more care given the morale of the students. “You.. okay? With everything that happened?” Megumi grunted.

Yuuji contemplated deflecting with another joke but knew Megumi’s piercing eyes wouldn’t be satisfied with brushing off months of torture and interrogation. “I will be okay. I’m back, aren’t I? Now, more than anything, I know how fragile of a hold the remaining elders have on us. They’ll do anything to maintain that power…” Yuuji absently rubbed his hands together, feeling the ragged edges of scar tissue.

Megumi exhaled months worth of worry and fear, content just to be back in Yuuji’s presence. There was something different about him, a grit or an edge. While he hadn’t completely been robbed of his light, Megumi could see something had been shaken within him. This change recommitted Megumi to the mission of toppling the Jujutsu caste society if it meant protecting Yuuji and others like him.

He nodded silently, an unspoken attestation to this end. He rest a reassuring hand on Yuji’s shoulder, one that lingered as if to transmit some of the fire that had just been lit within him. Yuuji would burn like the sun once more and Megumi? He would show the remaining elders just how much havoc the moon could wreak.

#neonfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #jjk angst #jjk fandom #jujutsu kaisen #jjk megumi #jjk yuji #jjk yuuji #jjk nobara #megumi fushiguro #yuji itadori #nobara kugisaki #jjk fanfic #sunshine boy #itafushi #itafushi angst #give it back

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