#Bay and Emmett

[ficzhub]

Guys if I wrote a fan fic about Bay and Emmett from Swtiched at Birth, how many of y’all would read it?

[phantompoguefangirl]

NO BUT FOR REAL WHAT WAS THE REASON???

what was the point in that bemmett montage if they aren’t end-game

[wowthatsextra]

Emmett is always cheating lmfao. Like whether it's on or with someone, where there's cheating there's gonna be Emmett 💀

(I am in mid S3 when Bay cheats on Tank with Emmett - I do not feel sorry for Tank though. I know I should because at this point he hasn’t done anything but his rapist ass already gets way too much sympathy in this show and I'm gonna enjoy watching him suffer as much as I can)

[spockvarietyhour]

Only had 12 slots so did not include NX-01, Archer's Toy ship, Nomad, Ares IV (which eaglemoss never produced, get on that next company) and Friendship One, but I am always thinking about them

[biliciouseleanor]

part of the reason why i can't rewatch switched at birth, it's because of what they did to Bay and Emmett. 🙄

[phantompoguefangirl]

NO FOR REAL.

They even did a future dream where Bay gives birth to Emmett's twins, or at least it is implied that she does.

But then the writers were like nah screw Emmett...here comes TRAVIS.

WHY? WHAT WAS THE REASON?

I could write an entire novel on how the switched birth writers forked up their own show in season four when they ruined Bemmett and turned Emmett into a terrible character. Like you spend four years making an iconic couple and proving they’re soulmates by pairing them together in any dream/A.U shown on the show about the switch- and then you don’t make them endgame? Then, you also practically replace Emmett with Travis as far as character story lines go? Because let’s be honest, that’s practically what the writers did. It’s been like three years but I still get so mad when I think about how the writers messed their own show up SO BADLY.

[badwolfrose34]

Switched At Birth

I know it’s a really small fandom. But I hadn’t found too many fix its for Bay and Emmet. So if anyone is still wanting those, I made one! The two of them totally belonged together. I kind of dragged Travis and Tank through the mud a little. But if anyone wanted me to write a follow up clearing Travis’ name, I can!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63320404

[jjsstars]

you with the watercolor eyes || on my tiktok

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Consider this a part 2 of Can't Escape the Nightmares cuz I keep getting ideas for this story 🙃

Pairing(s): Jasper Hale x Human!Reader, platonic!Rosalie Hale x Human!Reader

Warnings: mentions of past assault, mentions of past rape, noncon themes discussed, reader is jasper's mate, platonic!rosaliexreader, human!reader, nightmares, trauma, ptsd, dark content, mention of blood, brief mention of murder/death, hurt&comfort, ft the cullen fam, yes i'd like to sign up to be protected by rosalie ✋🏼, and my depressive ass could certainly use a man like jasper lol

Words: 1253

Summary: It was hard for you to be outside. Not after what happened. And with the Cullen house surrounded by a sea of towering trees. . . It was difficult for you to even step onto the wrap around porch. Everything about the outside reminded you of that day in the woods.

They'd smelled your blood from miles away, noticing that it grew closer and closer until Rosalie was upon the doorstep with you dangling in her arms. Your eyes were open, though void of expression; merely staring at these near angelic looking family with gold hued eyes.

Your injuries were nothing major, yet your blood yanked at their olfactory senses.

And Jasper was helpless when, eyes being engulfed by jet black.

The expression in Rosalie's expression though kept him at bay.

"Get him out of here. He can't handle it." Rosalie snaps, her hold on you growing tighter.

Intently watching Jasper's every move, you see the rigidity of his frame and the back and forth sawing motion of his jaw. He must have ground his teeth to oblivion, at least that's what you thought.

Never imagining the true inner turmoil that was engulfing his every sensibility. Jasper's perpetually cold skin suddenly felt like it was on fire. A monster scratched at his mental door. A monster that wanted to taste every inch of your skin before sinking his straight, razor teeth into your delicate paper-like flesh.

"Jazz, snap out of it." Edward motions for Emmett to keep him back. His hiss is low as not to scare you further. Knowing all the horrors you had just gone through

The fog that reduced his head to a warm flush lifts enough for him to finally notice the state you were in.

Large splotches of red and rich purple are smattered across the entirety of your arms and legs, with a giant one blooming on your jaw. His stomach recoils at your lack of clothes. Connecting the visual clues together to realize what had happened and why Rosalie was dyed in a mess of different blood types that didn't belong to you.

You were already broken.

Suddenly that monster was silent, it too watching with baited breath as Rosalie carries you up the staircase and to Carlisle's office. The older blonde vampire quick and on her heels.

Jasper's monster seemed to take that moment to decide something that was against its very nature: it would protect you, guard you and keep you.

There will always be that hunger in him for your blood. But no longer would he be ruled by it.

When exhaustion finally swept over you, Jasper peeks his head into Carlisle's office. Rosalie sat on the floor in front of the couch you were asleep on.

She's in front of him in a flash, barring him entrance with a fatal snarl.

He dare not mess with this gold mama bear.

It was hard for you to be outside. Not after what happened. And with the Cullen house surrounded by a sea of towering trees. . . It was difficult for you to even step onto the wrap around porch. Everything about the outside reminded you of-

"They can't hurt you again." Edward mentions behind you as you stood in the front door, hand quaking above the doorknob.

That didn't relive the nausea in your stomach. Your eyes shut tight and Edward winces when your mind immediately goes to the day that you were assaulted.

When you catch yourself you immediately apologize and take a step back. "S-sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"No, don't apologize." He's firm on this and finally you turn around. Surprisingly, the Cullens had understood the trauma you had gone through more than you would have thought. Every one of them had gone through a horrifying event much like your own. Rosalie's was almost identical to your's and possibly the very reason why she had saved you and killed those monsters who abducted you. And has protected you since then. She reminded you of a mother hen.

When Jasper first showed interest in you, Rosalie actually became aggressive toward him; telling him that you weren't ready for such a relationship. That you needed to heal more.

Jasper never stepped over any boundaries. He never came close to it. He waited. Helped you whenever you asked for it. Approached you tentatively until you told him that he didn't have to tiptoe around you. Many months were required before this. In the meantime you allowed Rosalie (and to a smaller extent, Alice and Esme) to tend to you and repair your fragmented body.

The only time he used his power on you without your permission was when you were asleep and suffering from your all too frequent nightmares.

"If you want, I can go outside with you. Maybe we can take a short walk around the house." He softly offers when you glance back at the door.

They were all so kind to you, never asking when you'd be ready to leave their house. It never came up. In fact you had the suspicion that Rosalie would insist on you living with them from now on. An unofficial part of the Cullen family.

You knew their secret. Living there, it didn't take long to discover that they were not human. From their perfect pale skin, to their golden eyes, there was something different about them. The way Edward was able to anticipate your every needs or how even being in the same room with Jasper had your anxiety simmering down. Even Alice displayed odd signs that you would have normally passed off as some kind of mental illness when she'd stare off into the distance. You now knew it was her getting a glimpse of the future.

"Thank you, but maybe today isn't the day. . ." You force your trembling lips to quirk up into a tentative smile though it could not fool Edward who could hear the inner turmoil in your mind. He never pushed.

He nods and lets you amble back upstairs to safety. The Cullens required no sleep so their bedrooms were essentially just for decoration. Rosalie and Emmett happily gave up their room so that you could seek out privacy when you were too overstimulated to be in their company. They even bought a tv just to put in the room for you. You didn't know what you did in your life to deserve them.

But before you go to your own designated room, you stop in front of Jasper's with a tentative hand raised to knock on his door. You were always nervous when asking him to hang out with you while Rosalie was gone. You'd heard Rosalie whisper to Emmett one night about you being Jasper's 'mate'. She must have thought you were fast asleep but you heard them discuss the possibility of a relationship between you and the other blonde Hale.

It made you self conscious now when you were near him. You'd known that he was. . . attracted to you.

You jump when his bedroom door opens to reveal his figure. "H-Hi."

His smile is always so sweet and even shy. "Hello."

"Um," Your fingers twist the hem of your shirt anxiously. " well, Rosalie is gone. I was wondering if you wanted to hang out for a little bit. . . Esme bought me a new dvd. We can watch it?"

Adoring the way his eyes crinkle when his smile broadens, you take a step back to allow Jasper to exit his room and close the door behind him. "Lead the way, ma'am." Your chest squeezes when that southern drawl of his comes out.

Trusting anyone again wasn't an easy journey. But being cradled by the Cullen family was bound to heal some wounds.

And perhaps water the seed of love that had been planted in your heart by Jasper.

[phantompoguefangirl]

Don't forget Tank

All of Bay’s guys are now hookin’ up with dudes!

[ozarkthedog]

𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞

summary: you help your fiancée calm down in the middle of the night.

pairing: Emmett x afab!reader

warnings: 18+ mdni. mommy kink. breast play. handjob. cum eating. w.c: 865

an: I couldn’t not write this.

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋅ 𝐅𝐢𝐜 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐬

The bedroom door creaked open, stirring you from your slumber. Moonlight pours through the large bay window in your room, painting the cozy bed in bright silver light. You glance at the side table with hazy eyes; it's half past midnight. Emmett should've come to bed a while ago.

You watch your fiancée shuffle across the room, ridding himself of the black Knicks shirt during his trip and tossing it on the floor. His boxers hang low on his hips; sparse auburn curls litter his lower belly before disappearing below the band.

The mattress dips as he climbs onto the comforter and crawls over to you in a daze. His face is puffy like he'd been crying again.

"What's wrong, baby?" You sit up and lean against the bedframe, opening your arms to him. Emmett hugs himself into your embrace, sinking like a lead weight against your chest.

"It's nothing," he sniffles, rubbing the back of his hand over his cheeks.

You rest your chin on his head and rub a soothing hand over his naked back. His unruly hair smells like earth and sunshine. He spent too long running outside today. "Is someone grumpy?"

"Come here, Emmy." You coo, lifting his head to rest on the swell of your breast. His breath breezes across your skin as he stares at the moon, defying your offer.

"Come on. I know you need it." You pester, knowing how much it calms him down.

You ease your tank top strap down your shoulder, hoping he'll come around. He hesitates a moment; the silence of your bedroom becomes deafening just before his eyelashes flutter, his mouth falls open, and he latches onto your left breast.

He instantly starts sucking, forcing your head to fall back against the headboard with an insatiable gasp. "Good boy, Emmy." You coo, running your fingers through his messy locks. His facial hair lightly scratches your skin, making your skin prickle, adding another layer of delicious sensations. He hums against your skin when your nails scratch against his scalp.

Emmett's teeth graze your nipple when he gets overzealous, and you tug on his hair to retaliate. "Play nice."

His hips subtly grind into the bedspread.

"Someone is getting up to no good." You murmur, yanking on his curls once more, only to have him openly thrust into the side of your hip. A grunt rumbles your breast, the vibrations adding to the wicked gluttony.

"You like sucking on Mommy's breast?" You goad, whispering into his hair.

A muffled moan sounds in the silent room.

"Such a naughty boy."

Emmett's boxers are tented, his cock pulses under your touch as you glide your hand atop the thin fabric. "Oh, my poor boy got himself all worked up when he's supposed to be calming down."

You move your hand up and down his hidden length as he suckles your nipple harder. He moans and pants against your skin as your touch grows steadier. "Is Mommy making you feel good?"

You tenderly tug on his wild curls, yanking his head from your breast. "I asked you a question."

You narrow your gaze and run your thumb along his slick bottom lip. A shiny strand of spittle still attaches your breast to his swollen lips. His face is flushed, like he'd just gotten home from a run, eyes blown wide in the silver light.

He nods like he's in a drug-induced haze. "Yes, Mommy. Feels so so good," he slurs; his tongue pokes out and licks his lips like he wants to taste you again.

"Good boy." You purr and cup his chin, leading him back to your breast.

A pathetic moan rumbles from his chest when you slip your hand under the band of his boxers and wrap your fist around his length. His hips jerk, and a whine escapes his lips as he hastily thrusts his cock into your tight embrace chasing his pleasure.

"That's a good boy, Emmett."

He gasps against your skin and washes his tongue across your pert bud. His other hand finds your bare breast, sliding beneath your tank top and fondling the tender globe. A low moan tumbles into the bedroom as you arch your back and press your chest further into his touch. His large, warm hand encompasses your tit, making you melt beneath him.

"Emmy-" you cut yourself off, swearing under your breath as he teethes your nipple, tugging just enough to have you writhing and arousal flooding your panties.

You twist your hand around his length and circle his dripping, bulbous tip with your palm, giving him the right amount of contact to make him see stars.

Rapturous grunts accompany each stuttered thrust as he cums fucking your fist and paints the inside of his boxers.

"Feel better?" You ponder into his untamed locks.

He presses his cheek against the swell of your breast and looks up at you with a lopsided smile as he floats down from his high. "Yeah, I needed that."

You raise your cum covered hand to his mouth; his gluey spend glistens in the moonlight as he dutifully parts his lips. "Clean up your mess, Sweetie."

Emmett licks his sticky cum from the crux of your palm and cleans every drop that stains your fingers with a satisfied groan.

“Good boy.”

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

reblogs & comments are extremely appreciated! follow @ozzieslibrary for new fic updates!

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Hiya there! Can I request a Paul Lahote piece? He imprinted on you but you’re having a hard time coming to terms with it so you try and distract yourself with dating other guys. And maybe Emmett hits on you lol

Thanks for the request! I hope you enjoy!

Requests are open until the 10th! If you are interested in request, please read the rules before you submit.

Submit to my asks box!

You can view more blurbs on my Complete Masterlist

Burdens

_____________________

His words are a whirlwind. You hear them, taking in every sound and syllable. But they are quaking your core. You can feel your muscles tensing. Your body telling you to run, to get out while you still can. To get the fuck out of dodge. 

But his dark eyes are sincere and they glue you, for the moment, to the wooden chair--pressing now too harshly into your bones. “Imprinting is a lot, I know. And I don’t want to scare you, but I had to tell you the truth.” 

You’d just gotten wind of that wolf thing. When you happened upon Emily, all those weeks ago, you noticed the scars. But you didn’t question it. Everyone has scars. Some are just more visible than others. But you helped her get the refurbished sewing machine back into her truck and she invited you over for lunch one day as a thank you for you stopping what you were doing to help. There you met Sam and Paul, and the rest of the pack. 

And the world unraveled from there. The world’s not so best kept secret about them phasing slipping in your presence, though now that you reflect on it a little, maybe that part was on purpose after you met Paul and he looked at you like you hung the stars. You just thought it was infatuation, a crush maybe. But not fate. You could handle a crush. Hell, you can even handle infatuation. Because sure, you thought that Paul was attractive. Sure, you were a little flattered by the glances and the teasing smiles. 

All of that is small, tiny and meaningless. All of that is easy, because it doesn’t require you to give more, to peel back at the veil you’ve hung so artfully for others to see. Fate is not meaningless and you’re not sure you’re worthy of it, of this. 

You shift in the seat, tongue licking at your lips to wet them. “Uh, thank you for letting me know,” you return. Because you are glad to know what is happening, what this means to Paul. But this is not the way you wanted this to go. You can’t go on like this. 

He nods, but doesn’t add anything else to the news. 

“I-I just need a minute to process this,” you tack on. You need to run. You need to get away from this, away from Paul. Away from what’s fallen into your lap. 

“Take your time,” he offers and the words finally unglue you, finally set you free. 

You take off and you hope it’s not rude but you don’t even say bye to Emily. You just leave, carry yourself back to your car and then go home. The good thing is that you don’t live on the rez. There will be plenty of distance. There won’t be fear. 

Which--until now--is not the name you had for this emotion, for the thundering heart, for the sweaty palms, for the weeping armpits. This is all fear. Because you’re not built for a fate like that. 

The hours turn into days. When you go out, you check over your shoulder. You’re praying Paul doesn’t show up. You’re praying he takes the hint and lets you fade into obscurity, though he doubt without a clean answer he would stay at bay very long. 

But until he did show up, you would do what you can try to scrub from your memory the words he spoke, I’m not asking you right now for anything. But you should know that what I do feel is intense and we can take it slow. 

Maybe Paul would be okay with never. When you flirt with guys out in your daily life, when you agree to first dates, but never second ones, you’re hoping deep down in the back of your mind that Paul’s okay with letting you go. There’s someone better, someone more suited for that kind of relationship. 

You’re not around for a long time, just a good time. That’s all you want, all you care to get. Days turn into weeks. Weeks crawl into three months. Paul calls only once, just to see how you’re doing, knows that between work and life you may still need more time to come to an understanding. 

But you can hear it, the way his voice strains how much this avoidance is impacting him too. You don’t call back, even though that’s how you get off the phone, with a promise you don’t intend to keep. You hope Paul doesn’t call back a second time. 

Your prayer is answered, but not in the way you intended. When you’re out in Port Angeles one night, leaving the restaurant, your date trailing behind you, you spot Paul. It’s rather hard to miss of course, a tall and looming presence and the constant lack of proper attire for the rainy weather. 

He’s leaned up against the streetlamp, eyes sunken in just a hair and it hurts. You know you’re doing that. But that’s all you're good for--heartache buried in the lead of fun. 

“So, can I see you again?”

The question is soft, but you watch the twitch, Paul’s face pinching with surprise and pain. “No,” you return, still not facing the date. He’s a nice guy, studying at the community college until he settles on what he wants to do more. “It was fun and you’re sweet. I hope your next date’s better.”

The date wasn’t bad per se. Maybe a bit bland, clearly the guy was nervous. He was cute. He tried to remember to volley questions your way too during the date, but it ultimately fell flat. The initial intrigue fading when beneath the surface seemed way too genuine. A guy like him would want better, eventually. 

“Oh,” he returns. “Okay.” And it’s clear he’s confused, maybe even pissed at how bluntly you end it. But you’re too floored by Paul’s presence to work the normal charm. 

The good thing is that you drove yourself to this date when the guy leaves you’re not stranded. The bad thing is Paul’s only a mere six feet or so from your car. 

“This is not how I wanted to do this. But I can tell you’re avoiding me,” Paul answers, closing the distance between you too. 

You hazard a step back, wondering if you could duck back inside fast enough. But Paul would undoubtedly be faster. He stops on his approach, hands lifting up in surrender. “There might be a reason for it,” you answers, a little relieved he doesn’t press further. 

“Care to tell me why?”

The night is thick now. There are no stars above. There’s just the yellow light of the street lamps, pockets of light that echo enough radiance to break through the heavy blanket of the night. You want it to swallow you, take you into the darkness and never spit you back out. “It’s kind of a lot, Paul. You basically dropped a bomb on me.”

“I get that. I do. It doesn’t have to be a lot. I just-I’d appreciate you talking to me at the very least though.”

Of course, Paul won’t get it. He’s too in it. He has intense feelings, of course, but they’ve clouded his judgement. He can’t see it like you do. He can’t see the way he looks at you. Like you’re something to behold, something to treasure. Like you were put on this earth just for him. 

And that’s the hard part. 

“You won’t get it,” you retort. “It’s not the same.”

“You’re making a big assumption there. At least give me the opportunity to understand.”

Somehow in all the exchanges you and him have moved closer, feet melting into inches. Somehow moved even if you weren’t aware of it happening, like magnets that must meet because the rules of the universe dictate it. Paul’s face is much too handsome for the frustration that paints it. But he just wouldn’t get it. You’ve convinced yourself of that. 

Now you need to convince him. But the longer you stare at Paul, the more his sincere gaze bores into you, you can feel the pierces in your veil, can see the tears and all the seams coming undone until you’re blabbering, stumbling over your words, “Because you think I’m perfect. I see it. The way you look at me. You think that what you’re getting is perfection. And I am far from it. I’m full of flaws. I’m fucked up. I have fucked up. I will fuck up again and again and again. I’m not perfect. God, I want space to fuck it all up. To make it messy. I just can’t do that, can’t be perfect.”

His hands are incredibly warm--much too warm and though you start to ask if he’s okay, you remember that he’s carrying the secret, the one that makes him not entirely not human, but not entirely human all the same. Your cheeks are engulfed by his palms. He cradles you ever so gently in his hold that matches his voice, “When the fuck did I ever ask for perfection?”

“You never had to. I see it,” you answer, voice croaking with the tears--thick in your throat as you fight for something of a true breath--but you don’t let those tears fall. Not right now. Not in front of him. 

“And I never will ask for it. I know it’s a lot. I don’t know if I can make it not a lot. I can give you space, but I just need something. Just to know you’re alright out here, in this world.”

“The things you’ll want, I’m not sure I can give.” The tears sting, they’re burning and begging to drop. You let them fall from your eyes. He’d want nothing to do with you if he could see what you’re really like, how you have to drag yourself out of bed most days. How you feel like you’re at war with yourself. How there’s a swirl of something nasty and cynical in the back of your head at all fucking times. 

“Just let me ask first. Let me ask and let me get it wrong. And let it be a mess. But just let me ask first. We can always figure it out from there.”

You shouldn’t believe him. You know that. You don’t have any reason to believe him. But it’s all much too heavy to carry anymore. So you let it all fall and you nod. “Okay.”

[wowthatsextra]

I love how Bay and Emmett are in their own little romcom in John Kennish's worst nightmare 😂

[true-grn-medic]

There was a knock at med bays door. A figure steps in fully clad in a lead lined hazmat suit. Eyes stared froward from the gas mask. Kholer, the old green pyro and current teams liquidator. They were an intimidating figure to say the least. It stared for a long moment before signing with bloodied gloved hands.

"Hurt. Please help."

@liquidate-and-melt

Emmett jerks up a bit at the sound of the door. He clears his throat as he stands up, straightening out his outfit. He was in a more casual look, only wearing his camo pants and his button up.

Kohler, I wasn't expecting you to visit me today. I thought you weren't going out to the old base today?

Emmett pulls on his gas mask, more of a habit than a necessary action. He motions to one of the medical beds with head as he puts on his gloves.

Where are you injured Kohler?

[there-are-many-ways-to-smile]

I figured it out. Daphne is the way she is because she's an only child, well she was raised like one. She only knows how to take and not share. That's why she reacts so negatively to Bay hanging out with Regina, or Emmett. I want to put Ty name down because her and Regina are like he's family but on the real they did not care about that man.

They never call Daphne out for acting like a spoiled brat.. well like Toby that one time

[sayit3x]

Mrs. Bea Juice’s Journal #27

(To celebrate breaking news of intent to greenlight a Beetlejuice 3 movie, here’s an extended journal entry and link to another action-packed chapter of the fanfic it ties into. Happy hauntings, my dears!)

Betel’s magic was always about scaring, attacking, and offense. As he became more powerful over the centuries with a reputation that kept potential threats at bay, he’d never really invested in defensive magic. But after he and Donny had their breakthrough, Betel took a greater interest in Donny’s magic. Perhaps it was an excuse to throw Donny a lifeline, who knows? But Donatello was so eager for any reason to spend time with Betelgeuse, he quickly agreed to tutor him. But Betel could never quite get the hang of healing magic. It takes a lot of patience, focus, and good intent, none of which came naturally to our often manic and misanthropic Betel. 

Ghosts can regenerate to varying degrees, and the more powerful the ghost, the faster they heal. Some can even control the process, slowing it down if desired. So it was unlikely Betel would ever need to heal himself and, beyond family, he didn’t care about anybody else enough to worry about healing them. Thus, after a few frustrating failures to mend papercuts, Betel asked Donny to teach him how to create shields and protective barriers instead. It was the most time they'd spent talking together in centuries and Donny did his best not to irritate his twin. We weren’t exactly sure how Betel would use his newfound skill, but we felt better knowing that if there was something out there more dangerous than him, he’d have some protection against it.

All the while, the 1950’s marched on. The Korean War ended in 1953 and became the “Forgotten War,” to the frustration of surviving soldiers, overshadowed in American consciousness by World War II and the rapidly approaching Vietnam War. But the conflict overseas fed into the existing fervour of the Cold War at home, and by the time McCarthyism began to wane mid-decade, the damage had already been done. 

Yet there were glimmers of hope in the brave humans who fought back against the injustice all around them. De-segregation took a step forward with Brown v. Board of Education in 1954 and Rosa Parks’ bravery on a bus in Montgomery, Alabama helped rally the people under Martin Luther King Jr.’s banner of nonviolent resistance. But progress towards equality was painfully slow, and the movement was not without bloodshed. The brutal murder of 14-year old Emmett Till in 1955 further galvanized people across the country, but even still, it wasn’t until 1957 that the first in a series of federal Civil Rights laws passed. And the struggle for justice continued.

Throughout this tumultuous decade, many Americans watched history unfold from the comfort of their own homes with the widespread adoption of television. Betelgeuse had absolutely adored film since it was first invented, and even loved the predecessors of cinema long before then. We’d enjoyed early magic lantern shows back in the 17th century, and the animated illusions of zoetropes and phenakistoscopes in the 19th century. In the 20th century, we often went to the movies as part of our monthly outings, which became much more exciting after “talkies” revolutionized film with synchronized dialog. As genres emerged, Betel naturally leaned heavily into horror movies, but also comedies, and (unexpectedly) musicals with their larger than life productions and impressive dance sequences. His interest there would play a heavy hand in his curriculum at Juilliard a few decades later.

But television meant pop culture was now at Betelgeuse’s long-nailed fingertips, and he was fascinated. Suddenly, information about the world was accessible, beyond the constraints of haunted houses, radios, and newspapers. It was being beamed over the airwaves, straight into a box in the living room. We could see global events, local news, culture, and counterculture evolving before our eyes, nearly 24/7. It was strange being able to remember when the printing press was invented and then witness television become commonplace within just a few hundred years. The privileges that come with a long afterlife, I suppose.

Similar progress had been made in the sky, as commercial transatlantic flights finally became common in the 50’s. Now, the world was literally at one’s fingertips and the living could go back and forth across the ocean in just a few hours. So, naturally, the Neitherworld below followed suit. But the powers that be didn't see a reason to build up an entire complex airplane and airline industry. Why bother? Ghosts had already been using doors as shortcuts to get between nearby cities for centuries. And if you wanted to go somewhere between doors, many ghosts learned to fly or teleport when they got older, which bridged the gap. And, already dead, we didn’t exactly need the safety that a giant metal can in the sky afforded the living.

Instead, since there was never a shortage of doors in the afterlife, the Neitherworld invested in making their network of doors more robust, connecting them locally within cities, more broadly throughout a country, and even internationally across borders and oceans. Airplanes still existed in the afterlife, mind you. They did supply runs to the least inhabitable parts of the Neitherworld and transported ghosts who sought out such places. But air travel just wasn't efficient most of the time. And as much as afterlife bureaucracy was anything but efficient, using doors as transit let the dead roam for miles instantly. With the doors network expansion in the 1950’s, ghosts could now go back and forth between countries below ground. Suddenly, we could go back to Neither-Europe and make our way topside effortlessly. Betelgeuse was still not allowed to set foot in Rome, and we had some trepidation about returning to Italy in general, so we opted for an evening in London or an afternoon in Paris instead. The convenience of near-instant international travel might be one of the only perks about being dead.

This journal dovetails into a Beetlejuice fanfiction epic that I'm posting chapter by chapter here:

Chapter 26 "The heart in the sand" is now up.