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fibula-rasa · 1 year

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Lost, but Not Forgotten: The World’s Applause (1923)

Direction: William C. de Mille

Scenario & Titles: Clara Beranger (more about Beranger at the Women Film Pioneers Project)

Camera: L. Guy Wilky

Sets & Costumes: Paul Iribe

Studio: Famous Players-Lasky (production) & Paramount (distribution)

Performers: Bebe Daniels, Lewis Stone, Kathlyn Williams, Adolphe Menjou, Brandon Hurst, Bernice Frank, Maym Kelso, George Kuwa, James Neill

Status: presumed entirely lost

Synopsis (synthesized from magazine summaries of the plot):

Corinne D’Alys (Bebe Daniels), f.k.a. Cora Daly, is a theater star who has “taken the Rialto by storm.” Unfortunately, Corinne also has a desperate hunger for publicity. Her manager, John Elliott (Lewis Stone), who also happens to be in love with her, advises her to be more sensible about her career. A famous artist, Robert Townsend (Adolphe Menjou), has become enamored with Corinne, and wants to paint her portrait. Despite John’s warning that Robert wishes only to “see more of her,” Corinne sits for the portrait.

Robert plans on throwing a party to celebrate finishing the painting but declines to invite his wife, Elsa Townsend (Kathlyn Williams). Elsa comes to her husband’s studio anyway and finds the portrait and a pearl headdress that Robert is going to gift to Corinne. In a jealous rage, Elsa takes a knife to the painting and then to her husband—fatally stabbing him. Elsa also happens to be John’s sister and she calls him in a panic to help her. John arrives at the studio in secret and helps Elsa escape the scene. Meanwhile, Corinne and the guests begin to wonder where their host is, and Corinne then finds the body of the painter.

John convinces the police that Corinne is innocent. Corinne leaves town to avoid the storm. Unfortunately, John then becomes the primary suspect, as he had a notable fight with his brother-in-law months prior. When John is arrested, Corinne returns and confesses to Elsa that she feels morally responsible for Robert’s murder. Elsa then confesses to committing the murder herself. It’s implied that Elsa commits suicide via “the watery route.”

Now that both John and Corinne have been cleared of suspicion, they are free to marry and Corinne has lost her appetite for publicity.

Transcribed sources & annotations below:

Moving Picture World, November 11, 1922

News from the Producers

Conducted by T.S. da Ponte

Changes Titles of Two

Three new titles have been chosen for as many forthcoming Paramount pictures.

William de Mille’s recently completed production from an original story by Clara Beranger, in which Bebe Daniels, Lewis Stone, Kathlyn Williams and Harrison Ford have the important roles, has been permanently titled, “The World’s Applause.” “Notoriety” was the title originally chosen, but when it was found that another company had a prior claim, it was changed temporarily to “Paths of Glory,” which in turn has now given way to “The World’s Applause.”

Mary Miles Minter's latest picture, just completed under the direction of Charles Maigne and adapted from Stephen French Whitman's novel, "Sacrifice," is to be called "Drums of Destiny."

"Racing Hearts" is the title chosen for the new picture Agnes Ayres is just starting under the direction of Paul Powell. This is a story by Byron Morgan, author of the Wallace Reid automobile racing pictures, and Miss Ayres has the role of a race driver who goes in and wins a thrilling speed contest when the regular driver fails to show up.

Both "Drums of Destiny" (titled "Drums of Fate" on release in 1923) and "Racing Hearts" are also lost films.

Exhibitor’s Herald, January 20, 1923

REVIEWS

BEBE DANIELS IN

WORLD’S APPLAUSE

(PARAMOUNT)

A fascinating story of the life of an actress who unwittingly becomes involved in a murder mystery which almost brings about her downfall professionally. Lavishly presented, very well acted and directed in William deMille’s best style. Length, 6,528 feet.

An original story by Clara Beranger provides Bebe Daniels, Lewis Stone, Kathlyn Williams, Adolph Menjou and others with a suitable vehicle in which to display their talents. There is good story interest for the most part, with good surprise value and considerable dramatic suspense in the contest of wits between the detectives and John Elliott and his sister.

Lewis Stone plays the role of Elliot and gives an unusually convincing and consistent characterization. The director, author and producer are to be congratulated upon securing Mr. Stone’s services for this part. Miss Daniels appears in the role of an actress who is a hound for publicity, and the moral of the story shows how ready the public is to condemn these children of the stage. Kathlyn Williams has the role of Elsa Townsend, wife of an artist in love with the little actress, who in a fit of jealousy kills her husband. A difficult role, but played with restraint and conviction. Adolphe Menjou is the artist. Bernice Frank was the maid; Mayme Kelso, secretary to the actress, and George Kuwa, valet to Townsend. James Neill was Elliot’s valet, while Brandon Hurst played James Crane, owner of a string of newspapers.

Corinne d’Alys, popular Broadway star, poses for Townsend while he paints her portrait. On the day he is to display the painting he gives a party at his studio. As the guests assemble, Mrs. Townsend comes to the studio, discovers a valuable pearl headdress which her husband is to give to Corinne, and the portrait of the actress. In a fit of jealousy she strikes him down and leaves the studio with her brother, John Elliot. The discovery of the dead artist throws suspicion upon the members of the party. Corinne telephones to her affianced husband Elliott and he succeeds in convincing the police that she is innocent. Crane takes a hand in the investigation, however, and dogs Elliott’s footsteps. A confession from Mrs. Townsend finally clears Elliott and the little actress, and she no longer seeks the world’s applause, but is content to settle down with John.

The Film Daily, February 2, 1923

A Typical DeMille Entertainment With the Usual Atmosphere

William DeMille Prod.

“THE WORLD’S APPLAUSE”

Paramount

DIRECTOR…William DeMille

AUTHOR…Clara Beranger

SCENARIO BY…Clara Beranger

CAMERAMAN…L. Guy Wilky

AS A WHOLE…Consists of situations and atmosphere intended to provide visual appeal but that is as far as it gets

STORY…Artificial and quite theatrical; flavored with sensational bits that will make it popular with a certain crowd

DIRECTION… Very good as far as production goes and usually handles story with good judgment but ending is too long arriving

PHOTOGRAPHY…Excellent

LIGHTINGS… Good

PLAYERS… Lewis Stone and Bebe Daniels featured with Stone doing his usual good work and Miss Daniels a suitable but not beautiful Corinne d’Alys; others Kathlyn Williams and Adolphe Menjou

EXTERIORS…Few

INTERIORS… Many elaborate settings

CHARACTER OF STORY…Star seeking publicity is cause of man’s death at the hands of his jealous wife

LENGTH OF PRODUCTION… 6,526 feet

Probably because there is a moral to it the unpleasant bits in “The World’s Applause” will have to be excused but it does seem unfortunate that they have to wade so deeply into scandal and sensation providing incidents in general, to get to it. Before you finally learn the lesson of this film—that success is not measured by the amount of prominence you attain—you are treated to some mighty intimate scenes in which a popular stage favorite is the sensuous, central figure. She is very deliberately sought by a famous portrait artist, a married man, who plans his seduction in elaborate style. Of course he has a studio establishment which figures prominently in his scheme and the very innocent young moth runs headlong into the flame heedless of the warning of her manager, who really loves her. The aggravating thing about these petty publicity seekers is that you are expected to accept their sugar-wouldn’t-melt-in-their-mouth attitude for the real thing.

But this Corinne d’Alys spoils it all, or the title writer does it for her, when she admits that her would-be lover will give her everything but “a narrow gold band.” The titles, incidentally, are very bad. There is one in which the true lover warns the girl that the artist wants her to pose for him so that “he can see more of her.” The titles are quite off color in many similar instances. This one particularly seemed to strike the Rivoli audience as a thoroughly fine humorous touch.

William DeMille is following closely in the footsteps of his brother, Cecil, when it comes to making pictures with plenty of pictorial appeal and colorful atmosphere. In this respect the picture is interesting and should satisfy. From a story angle, it is all a matter of taste. Where they like theatrical, sensational stuff, it is all very nice but where they want clean, wholesome stories, it may be different.

Bebe Daniels handles the role of Corinne adequately but she never gives the impression of being sufficiently beautiful to have “The World’s Applause.” Lewis Stone is always capable but deserves a more sensible role. The cast, on the whole, is suitable.

Story: John Elliot’s new star, Corinne d’Alys, is swept off her feet by sudden success. She accepts the attentions of Townsend, an artist, the husband of Elliot’s sister, who paints her portrait. Townsend is accidentally killed by his jealous wife and Elliot is arrested. His sister, realizing Elliot loves Corinne, commits suicide, leaving a confession which clears Elliot and cures Corinne of her craving for publicity.

One of those negative reviews that makes you want to watch a movie more, eh? Moralizing and misogyny on full display! Phew.

The Moving Picture World, February 1923

“World’s Applause” Released January 21

William de Mille, Paramount producer, departed temporarily from his custom of filming stage dramas when he made "The World's Applause," which was on the Paramount release schedule of January 21.

This is an original story by Clara Beranger, who has written the scenario of all of Mr. de

Mille's recent photoplays. Bebe Daniels and Lewis Stone are the featured players in a cast which Mr. de Mille considers one of the best he has had in his long career as a producer.

An ultra-modern note is struck by Miss Daniels in her costumes, it is reported. In each succeeding scene she wears something different from the preceding one, and although Mr. de Mille never allows his photodramas to descend to the level of mere fashion shows, this feature of "The World's Applause" is certain to intensify every woman's interest in the picture, Paramount says.

Variety, February 1923

WORLD'S APPLAUSE

Paramount picture presented by Adolph Zukor. William DeMille production, featuring Bebe Daniels, Lewis Stone and Kathlyn Williams in story by Clara Beranger.

At the Rivoli, New York, week of Jan. 28.

Corinne d'Alys..........Bebe Daniels

John Elliot........Lewis Stone

Elsa Townsend...Kathlyn Willams

Robert Townsend, her husband…Adolphe Menjou

James Crane...Brandon Hurst

Maid to Corinne...Bernice Frank

Secretary to Corinne.........Maym Kelso

Valet to Townsend..George Kuwa

Valet to Elliot......James Neill

“The World's Applause" is a screen treatise on theatrical publicity and exploitation with a twist that a certain theatrical personage's craving for newspaper "notices" and the desire to be the talk of the town boomerangs viciously when she is indirectly implicated in a murder mystery.

The theatrical personage is Corinne d'Alys (born Cora Daly), who has "taken the Rialto by storm," but who is counselled by her manager-lover (Lewis Stone) to cease her craving for the world's applause and deal seriously with her work. This is momentarily disparaged by her

with ensuing developments taking the audience rather interestingly through the usual five-reel span.

It starts with Robert Townsend, an artist who has "arrived" (Adolphe Menjou), becoming enamored with the favored and favorite footlights beauty and honoring her with painting her portrait for the annual Parisian exhibition. Townsend is married to the sister of John Elliot, the impresario, and a parallel situation develops of Townsend slighting his wife for Corinne, and

Townsend interposing himself between the actress and her suitor, Elliot.

At a studio party in Corinne's honor to which Townsend did not invite his wife, the latter enters

through the private studio door and, enraged at her husband's nonchalance, slashes the portrait and stabs the artist fatally. She telephones for her brother, who also enters unbeknown to the guests in the outer rooms. Both slip away, but not without being seen by a newspaper

publisher, whose testimony implicates Elliot, who shields his sister. Elliot is arrested on first degree murder charges, but is absolved when his sister confesses to Corinne. The sister runs away, and there is a suggestion she commits suicide via the watery route.

Not much to the story, but rather deftly handled by DeMille in his customary pretentious manner—never lavish but always in good taste. The captioning is pithy and bright, and such leaders as "the public always believes the worst about an actress" is good lay propaganda for the profession.

Miss Daniels sports a nobby collection of clothes to excellent advantage. Mr. Stone is a sincere opposite, who also has the ability of really acting when called upon. Miss Williams, too, accounted for herself handily.

The picture pleased at the Rivoli

Abel

Cine-Mundial, April 1923 p. 218 & 239

EL APLAUSO DEL MUNDO

(The World’s Applause)

“Paramount” — 150 metros

Intérpretes principales: Bebé Daniels y Lewis Stone. Colaboradores: Kathryn Williams, Adolphe Menjou, Brandon Hurst, Bernice Frank, Maym Kelso, George Kuwa y James Neill.

Argumento de Clara Beranger. Dirección de William DeMille.

Argumento

Corina, actriz, tiene sed insaciable de publicidad y se muere por ver su nombre en letras de molde, bien grandes, aunque sea a costa de escándalo, sin escuchar los consejos de su empresario, Elliot, que la ama. Los periódicos mezclan a la joven en un lío en el que ver un famoso pintor que le está haciendo su retrato. La noche en que el artista va a celebrar con un banquete la terminación del cuadro, se presenta en escena su mujer, disputan, y en un acceso de rabia, la consorte se apodera de un cuchillo para destrozar la pintura y, accidentalmente, mata al artista. La homicida es hermana de Elliot y éste trata de salvarla a to-

(Continúa en la página 239)

NUESTRA OPINION

(Viene de la página 218)

da costa del presidio. Llega hasta a asumir la responsabilidad del delito, cuando las sospechas recaen en su contra, por causa de un disgusto tenido, meses antes, con su cuñado. Pero, justamente cuando la policía va a detenerlo, la hermana confiesa su crimen y Elliot y Corina, sus nombres limpios de mancha, se casan.

Tengo debilidad por Lewis Stone como actor. Quizá por eso me haya gustado tanto esta película, de impecable dirección. Por causa de la reducción de los escenarios, se concentra el interés en el tema y eso añade fuerza dramática a toda la obra, aunque el argumento no tenga, ni con mucho, excesiva novedad. Si se sujeta la película al análisis, se corre el riesgo de dejarla maltrecha. Prefiero, pues, dar sólo idea de lo que a mi me pareció. — Guaitsel.

Translation:

Lead actors: Bebe Daniels and Lewis Stone. Supporting actors: Kathlyn Williams, Adolphe Menjou, Brandon Hurst, Bernice Frank, Maym Kelso, George Kuwa and James Neill.

Scenario by Clara Beranger. Direction by WIlliam DeMille.

Scenario

Corina, an actress, has an insatiable thirst for publicity and would die to see her name in lights, even at the cost of scandal, without listening to the advice of her manager, Elliot, who loves her. The newspapers mix the young woman up in an imbroglio with a famous painter, who is painting her portrait. On the night that the artist is going to celebrate the completion of the painting with a banquet, his wife appears on the scene, they argue, and in a fit of rage, the wife seizes a knife to destroy the painting and, accidentally, kills the artist. The murderer is Elliot’s sister and he tries to save her from prison at all costs. He goes as far as assuming responsibility for the crime, when suspicion falls on him, due to a disagreement he had with his brother-in-law, months before. But, just as the police are going to arrest him, the sister confesses her crime and Elliot and Corina, their names clean, get married.

I have a soft spot for Lewis Stone as an actor. Maybe that’s why I liked this impeccably-directed film so much. Because of the limitation of settings, interest is concentrated on the theme and this adds dramatic force to the whole work, even though the scenario isn’t very excessively novel at all. If you subject the film to analysis, you run the risk of dealing damage to it. I prefer then to give only the outline of how it seemed to me. — Guaitsel.

Photoplay, April 1923

THE WORLD’S APPLAUSE—Paramount

CLARA BERANGER seems to have dramatized the recent newspaper headlines. An idol whose fame has been built upon publicity gets involved innocently in a murder and the aforementioned publicity turns out to be a boomerang, demolishing said idol. Tritely told by William de Mille, who isn’t living up to early expectations. Bebe Daniels is pleasant enough as the idol.

Presumably, this writer is alluding to the Mary Miles Minter / William Desmond Taylor scandal from February of 1922. Kind of an interesting assumption given that, at the time, Minter was still under contract with Famous Player-Lasky, the same company that produced The World’s Applause.

The Story World and Photodramatist, April 1923

The World's Applause

With the excellent theme of regeneration after a terrifying experience, William De Mille slices his emphasis a bit in the story of The World's Applause; though he presents a warning to all actresses or public servants who, in their greed for applause, get themselves talked about in the wrong way, he misses the hole by a few inches because Corinne D'Alys is not the one to pay the piper most heavily. Even though she claims she is morally guilty of the murder, I found it

difficult to believe her regeneration more than skin-deep, possibly because the suggestion of the suicide of the physically guilty but wholly justified wife fades so quickly into the scene of Corinne's future happiness.

In lieu of convincing plot to express his theme, Mr. De Mille has resorted for public appeal to the tinsel more often found in a C. B. de Mille production—to lavish sets and to gowns for Bebe Daniels as daring and gorgeous as any of Miss Swanson's. For admirers of this young actress, the picture will doubtless be more or less satisfying, but contrary to dramatic principles, to the opposition have been given the histrionic opportunities

It is many pictures since I have seen such an amusing lothario as the unfaithful husband; but pushed too far by his desperate wife, he rises to the breaking point very naturally. The development of the battle of their wills into one of physical violence and murder deserves high

praise as an example of loss of mental control at the moment of physical contact. The stellar role from the dramatic angle is that of the neglected wife—excellently portrayed by Kathlyn Williams. The story revolves around her problem of protecting her home and retaining her

husband's love. It is she who struggles and suffers through her hasty deed, and in the end sacrifices herself that her brother and the foolish enticer of her husband may be happy.

The weakness of the plot is early evident for the first big dramatic scene does not include the supposed lead. While Corinne is in another room with the guests, the artist's wife declares to her husband her intention of being present at the dinner to celebrate the completion of his portrait of the actress. When her husband urgently remonstrates, she seizes a knife and in the old sensational manner slashes the portrait. He seizes her hand, the exasperated animal rises in her, and she plunges the knife into his side. Horribly frightened, she phones to her brother; he assists her to escape and later denies all knowledge of the crime.

Meanwhile the supposed lead, growing tired of waiting, opens the door on the body of the artist. The guests, sensing a scandal, leave Corinne to enjoy the notoriety her desire for applause has brought upon her. The brother is suspected and his and Corinne's financial backers withdraw their support. Instead of remaining to fight it out, Corinne leaves town. The brother is arrested, and his sister is torn between her love for him and her fear of prison bars for herself. When Corinne returns, she goes to the wife and claims the moral guilt.

In a rather confused manner the story rushes through the confession of the wife and the suggestion of her suicide to the inferred regeneration and future happiness of the actress with the recently bereaved brother. Odd thing, poetic justice! Frankly this picture is not up to the De Mille standard; its appeal is to the more superficial emotions and through the eye rather than through the intellect or heart of the discriminating spectator. It is not the clean, wholesome picture I had anticipated.

Picture Play Magazine, May 1923

The Screen in Review

“The World’s Applause.”

If you are a young actress who will do most anything for publicity, this film will be a lesson to you. Otherwise it will be sheer entertainment, cooked up by William De Mille and charmingly acted with Bebe Daniels as the publicity-mad star and Lewis Stone as her manager. The story has really original twists in it and is directed with humor and restraint. Its only flaw is the incredibly silly subtitles. I don’t understand how Mr. De Mille let them get by in one of his productions which always bear a certain imprint of good taste and sophistication.

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heartbrake-hotel · 1 year

Note

Lordy honey yall makin me wanna write my own damn prompt. I got some more little tidbits for ya:

Elvis was turned during his first appearance at the International. But who turned him? I'm thinking there's some sort of deal going on between one the old vampires who invested in the building, maybe even the International's owner and Colonel Parker. They want Elvis to play there for as long as possible, and he isn't getting any younger--so they make it so he can't get any older, either.

At first Elvis is in a state of confusion, because fledglings (at least in my thoughts) are in a sort of fog when first turned. It helps them to adapt to feeding; cue Colonel Parker shoving cigarette girls into Elvis's suite, which he drains dry, much to his own horror when the initial feeding frenzy lifts.

And Colonel Parker isn't exactly picky with what he feeds Elvis: whoever is easy to get up into the suite, and high young girls are the easiest. Elvis tries, when he can afford it, to not feed--he doesn't know that if he drinks regularly then the frenzy won't come, but nobody has told him much of anything. His Sire isn't there, there wasn't any sort of ritual to his Turning as there normally is. No, this was just business.

aLRIGHT WOOHOO SMITTY MY LOVE LOOK AT US !!! im finally getting to this lmaoooo oOOPS 🙈 AND i have some mf THOUGHTS,,

(the orig hc post is here btw) ((idk if yall could tell but it Wrecked my Shit))

also it's been Sooooo long since we discussed this that u now have some Other relevant supernatural!au lore to pull from . so,, i hope u don't mind if i conflate the two universes a lil but ur worldbuilding in you ain't nothin' but a overtook my conscious mind weeks ago and has yet to relent 💝 oh nooooo.. whatever shall i dooooo.. 😏

far too many words under the cut. i, uh.. i may have lost control a lil 🤭🦇 ft. a frankly excessive use of pet names and an e who has been babygirlified maybe more than is appropriate within the confines of the plot (shocking, i'm sure).

right ok so !! vegas as a hub for at least some of the supernatural bc of its transient nature, high tourist volume, and seedy reputation. obvious check

for the most part, unaffiliated vamps stay out of vegas. like you said- it's too hard to monitor their blood concentrations when everyone and their dog is doing truckloads of party drugs well into the night.! but there are, of course, some Old Ones, who saw (or perhaps even built??) the city as their own personal playground btw this blends so seamlessly into the irl high-level mob ties its crazy lmao. marina's bringing up elvis is literally never not on my mind 🙏

if you're rich enough, or powerful enough (or have friends who are enough so), you don't have to fend for yourself the same way, so it's less of an issue. sucking out some rando party girl off the street is faaar beneath the pay grade of the handful of guys at the top, who have their meals carefully cultivated and hand-procured thru what is almost certainly a human trafficking ring

kirk kerkorian [or meyer kohn - u can pick ur universe, here] and the entire board of the international is of course among this group, exerting their power and influence (and perhaps Compulsion) to keep the flow of money running smoothly from the casinos below directly into their cash-lined pockets.

colonel tom parker [a demon again? or perhaps nobody in particular - either way he ends up hellspawn lmao whether literally or figuratively] is acutely aware of this when he first signs elvis on for the hotel's opening season - how could he not be? and of course everything goes perfectly smoothly for those first six weeks in 1969. **ik im twisting ur original idea just a tad but bear w me

but the longer the engagement goes, the more trouble colonel has reining elvis in. he had agreed heartily to those first fifty-eight appearances - purely to fund his upcoming world tour, you understand ("the snowman strikes again!"). but no matter how much colonel wheedles, he's not budging; elvis simply will not sign on for the next year.! he's finally holding his ground... and that's his undoing

coming off the back of his comeback special and last movie, e finally feels like he's got his mojo workin' - the king is back on top! after a looong decade stuffed fit to bursting with his botched movie career, he never thought he'd wrest any semblance of creative control away from the powers that be. but the last year or so has really made him see the value of his own opinion, AND the dangers of continued complacency. so with the backing of his family and extended entourage, he's heading halfway across the world just as soon as he gets off that stage for the last time.

colonel can't have that, not with the remainder of his hefty personal debt hanging in the balance. and with all the dough the hotel is raking in during the first dregs of their opening season, nobody up top wants their prize little cash cow flying away to london or japan or the rock of eternity or wherever he's fixin' to go - not if they have anything to say about it !

and so a plan is devised, swiftly, mercilessly, and without any pesky sense of remorse. after all, what do they have to feel bad about? they're just taking care of business

just after elvis' last performance, he's heading to his packed-up suite to shower and change for what he thinks will be the last time.. the boys are downstairs getting the last of the stuff in the cars and then they'll all head to the airport. he's got just a couple minutes to spare, and he assures them he'll be fine alone. just gonna run on up and change real quick, y'all don't needta worry about me none. [*evil colonel voice* wanna bet?]

he steps into his unusually empty suite, but before he can even shuck the towel from around his neck, his throat is being wrenched to the side in a vice grip as an unseen assailant steps from their hiding spot behind the door. he yelps, tries to throw them off, goes for the gun in his boot, but their grip is like steel, solid and unyielding, and before he can move much of anywhere there's a sharp prick in his neck and a sudden heaviness in his muscles he can't quite shake.

he assumes it's a syringe - he's not wholly unfamiliar with a needle, after all, and why would he suspect anything else? he guesses he's been drugged on account of... well, on account of bein' elvis presley. goddamn sonsabitches don't need any more reason than that. 'course, the sensation is a little different than he's used to - the gauge is unfamiliar, and he could swear he feels two distinct track marks - but by then his head is spinning too much to be certain of anything.

the last thing he feels is a rushing sense of complacency as his legs give out. his vision is swimming too much too see his attacker's face, but they let him go down, hard, and he crumples to an undignified heap on the floor helplessly as they turn to... leave? huh. not what he expected, but he supposes beggars can't be choosers

his sluggishly disjointed musings are broken only by the shadowy figure melting back into the shadows... his increasingly-addled mind knows he should be glad at their sudden departure, but all he can concentrate on is the inexplicable swing out of the vague sense of euphoria that had been the "drugs" kicking in, and a sudden accompanying feeling that he didn't like one bit. he could only describe it as a crawling fear, an absence, a kind of ripping deep in his soul... a pervasive sense of distance, of wrongness so festering he feared it was about to tear him apart from the inside out. he's suddenly certain he's not meant to be alone right now.

he gasps in the worst pain he's ever felt, and at the same moment, he's aware of a rush of footsteps in the hallway outside - he barely manages a wobbly gesture to the door and a slurred request to rip his goddamn tongue out b'the roots to the panicked faces of his boys crowding around his supine form before his vision finally goes dark.

when he wakes up, he's in an all-too-familiar bed. before running for the doctor and his daddy, a frazzled jerry sitting vigil at his side hurriedly explains that without him conscious enough to fill them in, all they knew is he wasn't fit to travel, so they'd unpacked his suite again while waiting for him to return to the land of the living. he's grateful, but assures him that as soon as he's feeling better they'll be heading out again.

he asks jerry to turn down the thermostat and flip off the light on his way out. the heavily-drawn drapes had already ensured it'd been near-pitch dark and freezing, just how he liked it, but he murmured it felt like he was burnin' up from the inside out, and his eyes were too sensitive for even the ambient glow of his bedside lamp. jerry does so and also fetches him a pair of big ol' sunglasses, without a word.

the doctors (who'd been summoned to the hotel; despite protests from the mafia, colonel had suggested that moving elvis to a hospital could be even more dangerous, what with this criminal still on the loose, and vernon had reluctantly agreed) hadn't been able to tell what he'd been dosed with - it'd metabolized too quickly to detect, apparently. all they can tell him after the last four days of monitoring his comatose form is that his vitals have been almost astonishingly strong. the only symptom he's had has been a high fever, but it breaks as soon as he's awake again- and actually, his body temp has overcorrected and is a little low now, is he feeling chilly?

they joke that whatever he'd been given seems to have actually helped him, and he's inclined to agree... despite the fact that they hadn't administered anything to him except an IV drip, in case it had any adverse interactions with whatever he'd been on, his chronic pain has mysteriously vanished. and since he's been awake and in recovery, he's only seemed to get more handsome and charming, no sign at all of being out of it and on fluids for so long. you sure wouldn't have known his recent predicament by looking at him !

he's got a host of baffling new symptoms as well, but nothing that seems dangerous or that points to any kind of diagnosis. he's growing increasingly thirsty, but the buckets of water he's drinking aren't quenching him. he seems to have lost his sense of taste (this one hits him the worst) - at first, the smell of food made him nauseous. now he can keep it down, but it feels like ash in his mouth. his light sensitivity lingers, though for the most part it's limited to natural light, and he takes to wearing the sunglasses often. he seems to have developed a sudden allergy to some of his jewelry - his silver rings and pendants now cause a burning rash. he has them remade in gold and doesn't give it a second thought.

he tells and retells his story to the cops, but they're left scratching their heads; it's widely assumed the panicked arrival of the mafia scared off the creep before they could pull off the rest of their plan. kill him, kidnap him for ransom... seemed like they'd never know for sure, but either way everyone agrees he narrowly escaped a much worse fate. colonel doesn't think it wise for him to be on the road, what with this continued threat hanging over his head, but jerry argues it doesn't seem any better to stay in vegas with this freak at large. and elvis points out that if the bastard follows him overseas, they have bigger fish to fry.

the boys seem confused that the attack doesn't appear to have played into his usual paranoia in any way; he doesn't know quite how to explain it, he tells them, but he feels stronger, somehow. more settled. like if it ever came to it again, he could handle himself. it might just be relieved cockiness, but what didn't kill him made it so he's at least not afraid again. he's been reflecting deeply on psalm 23, apparently.

and so the suite is once again packed up, despite colonel's protestations- this time with elvis under constant supervision, much to his good-natured amusement. it goes without incident, and they make it all the way to the runway before elvis is suddenly doubled over in pain in the back of the limo, sweating and shaking like a leaf.

he's groaning that it hurts, hurts s'bad, but can't say anything more than that, and within seconds the whole caravan has whipped around and is careening back to the relative safety of the hotel. by the time he's being ferried hurriedly up to his room, he's improving steadily, and by the time he's settled in bed and the doctors once more fetched, he's weak and badly shaken but seems no worse for wear.

the doctors can't explain this apparent relapse any more than the first, but tentatively give him a clean bill of health, and two days later they try it all again. this time he makes it within a couple miles of the airport, and it takes him four days to recover. the last time they try, he only makes it four blocks away from the Strip and is bedridden for a week. nobody has any sort of explanation, and the tour is put on hold indefinitely while they're seemingly stranded.

the colonel is the one who offers a possible solution. he'd been hovering around elvis' room the whole time (like a bad smell, sonny mutters when he's out of earshot), fluttering around with assurances that the hotel would gladly host them as long as they needed, maybe even sign them on for another season if elvis so wished...

when elvis finally roars that he just wants OUT of this place, goddammit in response to vernon's suggestion that he stop working himself up with leaving, colonel finally pounces.

he must put his foot down, he says. his boy is clearly in no condition to travel- no, no, not physically, he hastily amends, when elvis opens his mouth to remind him what the doctors said, but clearly mentally. something about the attack has left him emotionally unstable, it appears, and the idea of leaving, even though he's so sure he wants to, is clearly triggering some kind of psychosomatic attack. why doesn't he make up his mind to stay- not forever, just until his head is screwed on right. he can keep playing the international, and they can find him some head-shrinkers to fix him right up, eh? elvis doesn't see any choice but to glumly agree.

of course, unbeknownst to elvis, the real issue is that his Maker won't allow him to leave vegas city limits. he's been kept totally in the dark as to his situation and is thus totally suggestible, so when the vampire who Turned him (continually employed by the Ancients for just this kind of dirty work) uses their mental connection to Compel him to stay within a certain radius, elvis doesn't even know he's feeling it, much less that it's possible to fight it. his Bat simply obeys without question, to the confusion of his body and conscious mind.

if his Turning had been accompanied by proper ritual, if his Maker had explained any of his new life to him, if he'd received any guidance at all, he'd know he could override this instinct, break the Bond they shared (especially as ill-cultivated as it is), and be on his way. as it is, he's like a dog with a newly-installed invisible fence. a dog who's also growing steadily weaker since his Turning because of his lack of sustenance, mind you.

the colonel knows all this. he also knows that any doctors or psychiatrists that see elvis from this point on will be in the know, be provided by the hotel, and be payed handsomely to tell elvis exactly what the colonel wants him to hear. he send word to the Council that they've got him at last. they rejoice at the prospect of chaining elvis to their stage for an eternity, elvis begrudgingly signs the contract for another engagement, and this is where the real trouble starts...

it's been three weeks since he was inadvertently Turned, and elvis is feeling the affects of not having Fed, though he doesn't realize it. he's weak, he's thirsty, he's snappish, and can somebody turn off those godDAMNED lights !!! the mafia assume it's due to his mental slump and are at a loss except to wait it out, but the colonel thinks he has something to cheer him up. he winks and tells red that elvis will have a few, ehem.. lady visitors tonight, and surely they shouldn't be disturbed. the boys get the hint.

colonel sends up the ditziest cigarette girl he can find downstairs, a perky little blonde, so doped-up out of her mind she's wobbling in her heels. she gasped and flushed darkly when he told her that mr. presley was in need of her services; he hadn't even needed to slip her any cash to incentivize her troubles. he chomped on his cigar and grinned darkly as he watched her giggle her way to the elevator.

elvis, for his part, almost makes it. he'd answered the rhythmic little knock in his robe, loosely tied, and didn't miss the way the sweet young thing at his door gaped at the sight of all that chest on display. before he can even say anything, she's slipped under his arm and further into the room, and he raises an eyebrow and grins as he eases the door shut. he peruses her wares (the CIGARETTES !! im talking about the cigarettes..) more for show than anything else, and hands her a $20 in exchange for a pack he doesn't plan on smoking, telling her to keep the change.

she bends over far more than necessary while stacking boxes back in her tray, and flutters her lashes when she asks him if there's... anything else she can get him. flattered as he is, he tells her, he isn't sure he needs anything just now, but thank you kindly anyways, honey. truthfully, he's not sure he's feeling up for it, but she pouts so prettily as she swings her hips sadly over to the door, and turns back to ask if he's really really sure... the colonel had sent her up with express instructions to give him anything he wanted, she explains, sultry little whine in her voice, and he finds his resolve crumbling.

surely a little kissing wouldn't hurt, he reasons, might even make him feel a lil better, and her eyes light up in glee when he beckons her back over. but the minute she's in his arms, easing her way up to his lips as her eyes flutter shut, he isn't sure what comes over him. they're so close her heartbeat rushes in his ears, and without a thought he's effortlessly snapped her neck (with strength he didn't know he had) and is lapping frantically from her torn throat (pierced with the aid of sharp fangs he's never felt before). she never even saw it coming.

he moans as he sags to the ground, clutching her limp form and still slurping desperately as, for the first time since his attack, his thirst is quenched. he dimly realizes he's done something unforgivable, but his head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton, everything around him distant and foggy. the sense of panic he knows he should be feeling is a far-off twinge, all but muted by the combined cocktail of ecstasy running through him: fresh blood, dope, and a brain fog he can't quite attribute to either.

when she's dry he's sated, the sense of woozy relief hits him so strong that he barely manages to stagger to his feet and stumble over to the couch, chin and hands still covered in blood, before he's passing out for ten hours of the emptiest sleep he's ever had. when he wakes up, all traces of what happened are gone, and with a mind that finally feels clearer than it has for weeks, he almost manages to convince himself it was an incredibly fucked-up dream, so potent that the sweet metallic tang is still blooming on his tongue...

...until of course, the next time it happens. it goes much the same way: the colonel has no trouble locating a girl who'll never be missed- this is vegas, after all- and sends her, high as a kite of her own volition, up to the penthouse to keep company with a disgruntled and starving elvis. he drains her dry before he can even blink, but stays awake this time to spend the next few hours totally blissed out in an uncomfortably drugged haze. the more he comes down, the more he hates not only what he's done but also the way it makes him feel.

thus starts a vicious cycle: elvis, terrified of feeding, swears off blood, until he's half-starved but fighting himself at every turn. the colonel intervenes, sending throngs of low-risk girls up to the suite, where e simply can't help himself anymore, and enters a violent blood-crazed frenzy. he spends the hours after staggering around half-lucid, waiting for the effects to fade so he can convince himself he'll never do it again.

the stronger he maintains his tenuous mental fortitude- the longer he goes between feeds- the more girls he needs in a night to fill him up, and the higher he gets afterwards. he doesn't ask where colonel finds them or what he does with the bodies. he thinks dully that he doesn't much want to know.. it's hard enough on his conscience already.

of course, yet another thing nobody's bothered to explain to poor frightened fledgling elvis is that every time he refuses to feed when he should, every time he feels the welling signs of that dark hunger within himself and shoves them down in distress, every time his instincts are forced to take over and quite literally make him feed, that it exacerbates the mental fog he's feeling.

vampiric lore (which of course he doesn't know) attributes it to a sort of easing-in countermeasure; it's only newly-turned vampires, not fully in touch with their desires, that attempt to starve themselves so, clearly suffering from a mental block regarding the morality of preying upon their former species. to smooth their transition into acceptance of their new form, every time they're forced to feed rather than do it willingly, a potent release of hormones and neurotransmitters floods their system, both to combat any lingering guilt and to make them crave the mental release of feeding just as much as the physical.

if he were to feed normally, if he were to provide his body with the nourishment it needed on a regular basis, his instincts wouldn't have to override his mind this way. he wouldn't be forced to feed so violently or so much, he'd be able to control himself such that he could select his own victims preferentially and even bring himself to stop before killing them, and he wouldn't feel so overwhelmed afterwards.

elvis thinks of his... condition as an affliction, a temptation he lacks the strength to overcome, but really, it's his body's desperate attempt to stay alive when his mind insists on thwarting his ongoing survival at every turn. the bloodlust isn't a punishment but a protective measure, and one he could prevent if he'd take consistent care of his new needs.

and on top of all that, the particular way his intake is chemically tainted only adds to this anguish, because now he's unknowingly also developing a dependency on the drugs- the painful withdrawal symptoms of which serve to strongarm him into feeding even more frequently.

things are only exacerbated by his performance engagement starting back up; of course, it's even easier to find girls- hordes of them batter the doors to the showroom after every show, desperate for just another glimpse of him- but it also means he's got a responsibility to be right there on that stage twice a night, able-minded or no, and he takes that very seriously.

he's got people to support, after all, so he gets very used to functioning while highly intoxicated, whether that means performing, schmoozing the high rollers in the casino at the behest of his hotel benefactors, or smiling through a never-ending stream of reporters and photographers during every interview and press conference.

this is where the reader steps in !!!

you're one of less than a handful of vamps, just two or three, really, who manage to stick around vegas (and consume healthy blood) without the influence of the Old Ones, a feat you manage by staying off the Strip almost entirely. you stick to the suburbs, both as a way to ensure you're not tripping out after every meal, and to (hopefully) stay out of sight and out of mind of the powerful Ancients who don't want anyone infringing on their territory. this is very fright night remake vibes btw if anyone remembers that

but there's very little to do in the dusty, sprawling desert neighborhoods that isn't centered around maintaining the tourism industry downtown, especially for an immortal with nothing but time (and the occasional meal) to kill. you're nowhere near as experienced as those you seek to avoid, but you've been around the block quite a few times yourself, and sometimes the neon glow of the city lights overrides the quiet boredom of your safely-maintained little perimeter.

tonight is one such night: elvis presley had been headlining the international hotel for what felt like ages, or maybe just a blink - it was hard to judge that pesky human time, when their lifespans were so much shorter than yours. either way, he'd been this era's answer to jesus for a few decades now, and you had to admit you were curious to see him in person at last.

you decide on the midnight show- maybe if you're lucky, you can scrounge up a snack on the way home. you don't bother with a ticket- though you have more than enough human money stored up over the years, you're sure it's no use for what promises to be a sold-out show. the bouncers aren't any deterrent, either- you simply Compel them into checking the list for your name another time, and they let you in without a murmur. the showroom is packed so full, you notice as you survey the area, that nobody could ever notice one more.

you slip into a vacant seat at the end of one of the long tables that line the stage, with a group of screaming fans who don't seem to notice that they don't know you. you can't tell if their distraction is borne more from excitement or alcohol, but either way, you're grateful for the cover. you order a bloody mary as your own personal joke and bide your time until the show starts, perusing the booths that line the floor behind you. you recognize a few familiar Old Ones, by face if not name- no surprise, considering who runs the casino just outside.

eventually, the lights fade and the orchestra bursts into an opening riff. you clap with the rest when elvis struts out on stage, looking resplendent in a white jumpsuit, grinning wide and boyishly and practically glowing under the stage lights. his rings flash as he waves to the audience, courteous and attentive even as he starts singing. when the song's over he introduces himself and some of the VIPs, including the owner of the hotel (now there's a vamp who's been getting himself a lot of press lately), and the heavyset man next to him, apparently elvis' own manager. the man gives a simpering smile and wave to the crowd as the spotlights illuminate the booth, and you wrinkle your nose as you turn back to the main stage. you haven't placed it yet, but something seems off about that one.

elvis puts on a good show, you'll give him that, but the longer you watch, the more puzzled you become. he's slurring just a bit when he jokes with the band in between numbers, and more clumsy than you'd expect for someone so flexible; you'd say it was just another hollywood star using and abusing drugs if he didn't look so... panicked every time. he's twitchy, too, keeps getting down toward the edge of the stage like he's about to move out into the crowd and start planting kisses on his clamoring fans, like you've heard he does, but he keeps jerking himself back at the last second. they seem to think he's teasing, screaming louder every time, and he plays it off with a slow grin, but it's almost like... like he's afraid he won't be able to control himself, like...

ah. there it is

you zero in on just the barest flash of fang in his smile, and immediately suss out what's going on. elvis presley, a fledgling vamp in what is indisputably the worst city in the world for fledgling vamps... strange things are happening every day, aren't they?

that leaves you with more questions than answers, however... questions like where's his Master? why isn't he feeding properly? who's keeping him half-starved and strung-out? and most importantly, does he even know what's going on?

you narrow your eyes contemplatively as you watch him fool with the microphone before prompting the band to start the next song. all it takes is seeing his hands tremble around the cord to make you nod decisively and shoot back the rest of your drink. you suppose you can stick around a little longer than originally planned... after all, it seemed like elvis might need a little help fixing this, whether he knew it or not.

you lingered just a little after the show ended, waiting until the throngs of frantic women had pushed their way back to the lobby before heading after them yourself. you glanced around surreptitiously, locating the nearest elevator bay... and near it, a familiar older man with a cane whispering furtively to a clearly-tipsy young woman, one you recognized from your table during the show. she had caught a silk scarf fluttering down in front of her from the man himself and hadn't stopped screaming until the lights came back on. bingo

you ran one hand through your hair haphazardly, tousling it slightly as you stumbled your way over to them. "oh, there you are! i was looking for you," you chirped. she gasps and waves excitedly in the earnest way only drunk girls do, but your mouth is open again before she can speak and do something incriminating, like ask your name. "who's y'r friend? s'he coming upstairs with us?" you giggle, leering at... what had his name been again? ah yes, colonel parker. you silently gave a sigh of thanks for your heightened senses- you might not have recognized him just from your brief glimpse during the show otherwise.

the colonel glanced you over dismissively, clearly writing you off as another inebriated fan - his mistake, but exactly what you wanted him to think all the same. he gave you a leering grin and tapped his cane as he said "ah, i was just asking your friend here to do a simple personal favor for me..." you hummed disinterestedly until he continued "...on behalf of mister presley, of course." you gasped exaggeratedly and willed your cheeks to flush- lucky you had fed recently.

he seems to buy it, from the way his eyebrow ticks upwards when he sees your reaction "perhaps you would like to... accompany her to his suite, no?" he teases. you nod raptly, artificial stars in your eyes, and he snorts as he pushes the call elevator button for you with the top of his cane. "top floor. you two enjoy yourselves," he chuckles. the two of you giggle as he saunters away, towards the casino entrance.

as soon as the doors slide shut behind you, you straighten up and tidy your hair in the chromatic reflection until you're once again presentable. you brush off your outfit, fiddling until you're satisfied, then take a deep breath. snapping once to get your lightly confused companion's attention, your turn her shoulders towards you so she's making woozy and bewildered eye contact with you.

"hi honey. having a good night? good. this is how the rest of it is gonna go, ok? now you listen to me-"

when the doors opened again at the thirtieth floor, the girl (tracy. she had told you absently her name was tracy) waved distractedly over her shoulder as she walked straight out of the elevator bay and into the nearby stairwell, head filled with what she believed to be an immutable truth about the elevator being out of service. she'd walk back to her room (on the off chance there was anyone downstairs monitoring the floor indicator dial), wake up perfectly safe in the morning, and think nothing of it.

meanwhile, you let yourself into elvis' suite with the key tracy had handed over, a parting gift from the colonel. you left the lights off, made yourself comfortable on the couch facing the door, and waited.

you didn't have to wait long- just minutes later, there was noise outside, multiple male voices speaking over each other as they all piled out of the elevator and headed for the door, elvis' the loudest. "yeah, yeah, i said i'd meet you down there, didn't i? doin' my damn head in... i'll tell ya what, y'all g'head and i'll call down there when i'm done. yes i swear, now git!" laughter and good-natured ribbing faded as the elevator doors presumably closed behind the crowd once again, punctuated with a sigh and the click of the door lock disengaging another time.

elvis didn't seem to notice you as he walked in, leaving the light off as well as he patted his face dry with the damp towel looped around his neck. he leaned against the wall with one hand to brace himself as he toed off his boots, then whipped his dark shades off onto a side table and gripped the bridge of his nose with another deep sigh.

"are you in any pain, mr. presley?" he yelped in undignified surprise and whipped around with a touch of vampiric speed, dropping the towel in his fright to discover the source of your voice. despite the pitch blackness of the room, his eyes locked onto yours immediately through the dark, without needing to scan the empty space around you- another sign of his transition. no mortal could see as perfectly well in this scenario as the two of you could.

"wh- who-" he stuttered some, regaining his bearings, as you cocked your head in evaluation. "i'm sorry to startle you, mr. presley," you say evenly, but pleasantly. "you can drop that shit straightaway, honey, that's my daddy. can jus' call me elvis." he murmurs absentmindedly, as if it hadn't been what he really intended to say but came out by habit. "and now that you know me, may i ask who you are? and better yet what the hell you're doing in my room?" he doesn't sound angry, per se, more resigned than anything, and you smile wryly in response as you introduce yourself. "real pretty, honey, but i'd like an answer to my other question, too." he raises his eyebrow, and you wonder if he's even aware of how much charismatic mental energy he's leaking right now. it was even more apparent to you now why humans throw themselves at him left and right.

"sorry, m- i mean, elvis. the colonel sent me up. i saw your show- you were fantastic, but i had a couple questions." "he did, did he? just wonderful," he almost growls, squeezing his eyes shut. "and some questions, you said? you a reporter?" his voice sounds hard-edged for the first time tonight, but he seems to relax again when you answer with a simple no. "just concerned, i guess." he hums tiredly at your response, vague though it is. "concerned about what, 'bout the show? i'll do my best to answer your questions, honey, but i really don't think there's all too much to be concerned about-"

"elvis, when was the last time you fed?" you can hear his breath catch from clear across the room. "i-i had lunch after rehearsals, but i ain't had dinner yet, if that's what you're askin'... pretty forward way to ask me on a date, but i-" you put a hand up to cut him off. "i think you know perfectly well that's not what i'm asking, elvis. when was the last time you fed properly? on blood?" "...ha! been watching a little too many dark shadows reruns, honey?" his words trip over themselves getting out, and eventually he gives up to just blink at you, speechless, owl-eyed, and afraid despite his frankly pathetic attempt at a cover. he looks like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar only this time the metaphorical cookie jar is a number of very literal human corpses lol

you bite back a sigh- perhaps you pushed too hard there. poor thing is wringing his hands like he thinks you're gonna put him in cuffs any minute. "maybe we should start over- i'm here to help, ok? i wanna make sure you're alright, cuz i think you might have a lot of questions nobody's explained to you yet. c'mere and sit next to me, baby, and we'll just talk" you pat the seat next to you, flipping his casual pet naming back on him effortlessly. to be fair, he is a baby to you- only, what, a couple months old? that's nothing compared to your few hundred years.

he eyes the spot next to you but shakes his head, still looking like a lost puppy. "n-no, i- m'fine over here," he manages. you furrow your brow; he's gonna need to start trusting you if he wants your help, and this is a bad way to begin. "i promise, i'm not gonna hurt you, elvis-" that sure does it. "i'm not worried about that!" he exclaims. "m'worried about me hurting you!"

you breathe out a surprised little oh, suddenly understanding. "is that what you're so worried about, sweetie? i'm not afraid of you." you try to placate him. "y-you should be afraid of me, honey. i am."

and that's the crux of the matter, isn't it? it breaks your heart a little to know that this is what he's been grappling with alone. it's not meant to be like this- with time and acceptance, he was meant to gain eternal companionship (your semi-loner status nonwithstanding). and whoever heard of a scared vampire?

but you put that aside to focus on elvis- and quickly realize there's one more... little thing you might've left out.

"you don't need to be anymore, ok? i'm gonna help you learn to control it." you beckon him over again, and this time he makes it halfway across the floor before you realize you're not sure if you're Compelling him or not. he'll need to learn what it feels like eventually, in order to both use it and combat it, but now's probably not the time. you break eye contact, just in case, and he falters slightly, but keeps coming, putting you at ease.

as he gets close enough to hear your heartbeat, though, his eyes suddenly turn frantic, and he backpedals, once again in the grip of that familiar terror. "you- you have to get out of here, i can't-" you shush him, not unkindly. "oh, sweetheart. that one's my bad, ok? i guess i haven't been very good at this so far," you grin apologetically. "but you couldn't hurt me, even if you tried"

you use your superspeed to whoosh over to his side and back, the only sign you'd moved at all the slight sway of your hair in the breeze it creates- and the golden ankh pendant now swinging from your upturned palm. elvis gapes, hands reaching up to feel the now-empty space around his neck where the necklace rested just moments ago. "how...?" listen i really can't be assed abt the fact he wasn't wearing necklaces this early ok. it was a cool move

"forgot to tell you - i'm souped up, too." you wink at him, flashing your pupils the deep red they turn when you're Feeding. "and also i think a little stronger than you, given what i saw on stage tonight." this is soo cliche im sorry but Spooky Eyes HAWT. i don't feel bad about it actually

the immediate sense of overwhelming relief on his face almost aches to see, and he's crossed the remaining stretch of floor to practically collapse in your arms sobbing before you can blink. it's... very surprising, you'll admit, but not unwelcome, either, and you're sure the uncertainty lingers in your voice as you gentle him softly, petting his hair and rubbing his back and trying not to overthink the fact that you've known elvis presley for all of ten minutes and now... this is happening. whatever this is.

"woah- woah, hey, what's happening? what's the matter, baby?" he's shaking like a leaf as you hold him, trying to work out in what universe this makes sense. "i-i-i ain't-" he manages through tears. "i haven't been able to touch any-anyone this whole time without b-being so goddamned afraid i'd hurt 'em... and i just- i..."

your worst fears for him, first materialized as you watched him onstage and puzzled about the identity of his Master, are confirmed. "baby... have you been alone this whole time?" you whisper. he just nods from his resting place, face buried in your shoulder. IS this a weird level of intimacy for 2 virtual strangers? totally yup. DO i still think its arguably valid considering how desperately lonely i have decided to make this bitch? uh huh :3

you suck in a breath through your teeth, suddenly filled with the fiery emotion you've been tamping down all night- rage. rage at whoever organized this hit, at whoever must be profiting off it while elvis suffers and innocent girls die, at the colonel who's been shepherding bodies in here endlessly and apparently without deigning to give elvis any proper help or training- yeah, don't think you forgot about him.

but before you can do anything about that, you have to do something with the king of rock 'n roll, who's finally quieting down in your lap. you shove the anger back down, the same way you do your bloodlust- the same way you'll teach elvis.

he sits back up, furiously wiping his tear-stained face. "sorry, honey- i don't know what came over me." he barks a laugh but his eyes tell you it's for show. you tut at him, standing up to fetch him a tissue and maybe a bottle of water, if you can find it- you're sure there must have been one waiting for him after the show. his eyes widen again, but before he has time for concern you cup his cheek to brush the last of his tears away with the pad of your thumb, accompanied by a gently chiding look that says i'm not going anywhere

he has enough time to look sheepish before you putter back over to him with your spoils, talking a mile a minute to distract him. "tch, enough of that! that's part of the change- everything you felt before is doubly strong now. it can be hard to separate your emotions sometimes, especially when you're not used to it. you'll feel everything differently now, and twice as hard."

he takes a moment to mull that over as he mops his face and chugs the water bottle, then nods as he meets your eyes again. "i didn't know that, but it sounds- it feels right. what else can ya tell me?" you chuckle darkly, stretching out on the couch. "oh, just bunches, baby. get comfortable, cuz i know you've got questions- and i've got your answers."

over the course of the night, you explain everything to elvis- how he was Turned, the changes his body's going through, all the symptoms and abilities he'll experience now, why he's feeling the way he is, his options for feeding, how his habits need to change if he intends to keep going like this... it's a laborious process, given how little he knows and how much he thinks he does- he's already got a lot of misconceptions to retrain.

"hey, maybe you're the one who's been watching too many dark shadows reruns lately!" you mean it as a joke, but he flushes. "well, s'not like there's a, a handbook or anythin'! i've been tryin' to study up!" you burst out laughing, and he laughs with you.

at one point he orders up dinner for the two of you, which provides the perfect opportunity for you to offer him a creature comfort- "food? yeah, you can eat food. it won't sustain you, but you're free to eat for pleasure." at his pained look, you give him a knowing smirk. "i bet it tastes nasty right now, doesn't it?" he nods glumly, eyeing your super-rare hamburger, and you chuckle, eyeing him as you take an exaggerated bite. he groans in annoyance, and you laugh as you lick your fingers clean. "don't worry- that'll pass. it's your instincts' way of telling you that you're malnourished- kind of a deterrent from stuff that won't actually keep you alive. you'll be back to your peanut butter and banana in no time, promise." he cheers, and orders up a bottle of champagne, just for that.

"that's another thing- we metabolize differently. your system can tell the difference between the liquid calories it needs and the solid calories you're feeding it just for fun. you won't derive any energy from human food, so you can't gain weight. no reason to store fat," you shrug. "but it also means-" you clink your champagne glass with his in a mock toast, "-you can't get drunk." he sputters, "well, why'd you even let me order the bubbly then?? this shit's expensive, so they tell me!" "i like the way it sparkles! it tickles my nose!"

the hours come and go, but the two of you barely notice, so wrapped up in your conversation. that's another thing you explain- how he'll need much less rest now, if he keeps himself healthy, but that until he's being nourished properly he'll be fatigued and need to sleep pretty much like before. he admits that he was practically nocturnal beforehand, anyway- he hadn't even noticed this one change among so many more pressing.

his drapes were heavy-duty, but you could see just the barest sliver of skyline out the window as the sun began to rise. "it's almost dawn," you whisper, conscious of the fact that the vampire before you is very young, and has had a very long night. a very long month, to be perfectly honest. he hums from where his head is resting on your thigh- you'd encouraged him to lie down an hour ago when he kept breaking off his sentences to yawn hugely. actually, you'd encouraged him to get some rest and you'd talk more later, but he'd refused to go to bed, assuring you he wasn't tired 't all, just sore from the show- he got muscle aches, you know, and he needed to stretch out. you hadn't been convinced then, and you were even less so now, keeping a fond eye on him (fond?? when had that happened) as he drowsed in your lap.

his end of the conversation had started lagging about the same time you started running your hand through his hair, until he was practically purring in contentment. you huffed in amusement. "more like a kitty cat than a bat, i think." he cocked an eyebrow and grinned salaciously, though he didn't open his eyes. "oh honey, i'll show you a cat... a pussycat, to be precis-" "HEY!" you swatted him teasingly and he snickered, settling down again. "keep it clean, presley." "yes, Master." you paused in your ministrations at that, just long enough for his brow to furrow. "you don't have to call me that." "yeah... but can i? i mean, would'ya mind if i-?" his voice was quiet, but sincere. "...ok. but only if you want to." he can hear the smile in your voice without looking, and it makes him smile, too.

"you do have a real one out there, y'know." "i know. but they ain't ever helped me none- all they've done for me is turn my life upside down and leave again. but you... hell, honey, i've only known you one night, and already things are starting to feel right side up again." you sit with that for just long enough to feel pleased before you reach down to tweak his nose. he giggles, and your bid to give the both of you a break from being so fucking earnest goes off without a hitch. the tension stays broken, but the tranquil mood remains.

"guess you're stuck with me again- i can't make it all the way home in that," you venture eventually, nodding at the lone streak of sun making its way past the blackout curtains to pool on the floor behind the piano. luckily far out of the way, or he might've had a particularly unpleasant awakening of his own, had he stumbled through the patch accidentally. he shifts minutely, well on his way to sleep by now. "mm, sounds jus' awful," he drawls, answer delayed only slightly by the fact that he's snoozing, his voice is so quiet that without your enhanced senses you'd have to strain to hear it. "can't imagine quite how i'll make it through if you've gotta stick around s'more." "even dead to the world, you maintain your sense of humor, huh, baby? and those lady-killer tendencies, i see" "yeah, well, i have killed quite a few lad-" "elvis!" you laugh, scandalized, as he huffs a laugh as well as he leverages himself up to sitting.

he rubs his eyes as he tries to get his bearings. "s'pose that's my way of asking real tactful... what happens next?" "well, first we've gotta detox you." "what, from the blood? i thought you said-" "nope, not from the blood. from the drugs in the blood." "from the w-" he gapes, looking shocked and hurt, and also a little appalled at himself. "i really am sorry to break it to you, sweetheart- there's a lot going on with you right now, and only some of it is due to... this," you reach up a hand to thumb at one of his fangs, which had slipped out as soon as you started talking about blood. "the rest of it is a combination of the vegas lights and whoever up top orchestrated the whole thing." he nods slowly, expression inscrutable. "we'll take it slow, i promise. ok?" "yeah," he nods more steadily now. "yeah, i trust you."

"well, then, mr. presley- are you ready?" he nods his head as if on instinct, then has the decency to look confused. "ready for what?" you smile, fangs out. "to start getting you fixed up... so we can take down those bastards responsible for this." he just stares at you a moment before a slow grin starts to take over his face, eyes darkening to match the quite literally bloodthirsty expression in yours.

"let's get to it."

#blurb #ask #goddamn will they EVER let each other finish a sentence.???#sorry dialogue is Not my forte 🙈 im a prose kinda girlie hardcore #also yahhhh i just kind of . totally abandoned the ending to cater to my h/c fantasies. sorry not sorry 😎#halfway thru the second block of bullets i realized the hc format was completely pointless and i had basically written a full fic #on the other hand im nothing if not a stubborn bitch so.. not changing the formatting now.!#if u think about this too hard u start to see a lot of plot holes #or at least further questions about the specificities of vamp lore in this au #to that i would recommend u pls ignore them 🥰#GODDD i started writing this directly in the ask. like a fucking FOOL #knowing FULL WELL how this stupid post editor not only eats ask drafts for breakfast and spits out their bones #but ALSO that the even STUPIDER copy/paste restrictions would hit #since theres a character block limit separate from the character POST limit 🙄#so ive had this tab open for almost a week and have just been walking on eggshells around my laptop praying to not lose it dfghj #MASSIVE SIGH OF RELIEF TO POST IT TBH #also smitty ive got a sidenote for u as well but its gonna go on main lmao. one sec #oh god............ just realized i did the ff.net thing with the in-text ANs 😳😳#pOST CANCELLED; EVERYBODY GO HOME

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