#Happy Monday love!!!

[banannabethchase]

8 e deanseth or moxseth

Not on Twitter (But Equally Yikes) - also on AO3

~

While on vacation, Seth starts panicking on his phone. Mox is…curious.

~

“Would you put down twitter for five minutes?” Mox groans, sliding down further into the tub. “We’re on vacation, Seth.”

“Not on twitter,” Seth mutters. His fingers fly across the screen, tension in his brow.

Mox floats toward him. “Then what the fuck’re you doing?”

Seth turns the screen away, then looks at Mox with sheer panic in his eyes. “Nothing.”

“Jesus.” Mox cranes his neck. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Seth says. He puts his phone on the side of the hot tub away from Mox. “Want me to blow you in the tub? I can blow you.”

“Oh, you fucked up,” Mox says, grinning. “What’d you do? Tweet a photo of where we are?” He dives over Seth, and then Seth intercepts him and slams him into the water.

“No!” Seth says.

“Okay, now you’re getting me worried.” Mox chuckles, a little nervous. “Seriously. What happened?”

Seth’s face goes full red, spreading to his skin where it disappears into the bubbling water. “I texted the video.”

“Video?” Mox asks. And then he pauses. “Oh. Oh, that video.” He clears his throat. “To, uh. To who?”

Seth looks sheepish, cowed, as he grabs his phone. “Um.”

“Seth,” Mox says. He reaches out and takes the phone. “Who did you send the video to?” Mox looks down and finds his answer. “Fucking hell, Seth.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” Seth whines. Mox can tell he feels like garbage because his pained expression disappears beneath the surface of the water along with his hair.

He scrolls up and reads the message accompanied by the video

long time no see – thought you might wanna see a lot. Seth, btw.

“What a fucking weird way to send a sex tape message,” he mutters. He’s tempted to watch the movie, because he’s only a man, but then his eyes catch on at the reply message.

You’re a screamer. Should have seen that coming. Tell Mox he’s got a pretty dick. How’d you get my number, by the way?

Mox keeps staring until he hears the water splash. “Somehow, my first question is how the fuck do you have Hangman Page’s phone number?”

Seth whines and floats up next to Mox. He shoves his head into Mox’s shoulder. “I was trying to text Claudio and I clicked on Cowboy by accident!”

“Why were you texting Claudio our sex tape?!” Mox asks.

Seth shrugs, and those stupid doe eyes are already softening Mox. “I miss him,” he says, with a hint of a sparkle in his eyes. “And I know you and he hang out, so I figured…” He trails off.

“You still haven’t told me how you have Hangman’s number,” Mox says. “Or, actually, why you have him in your phone as Cowboy.”

Seth presses his lips together. “Um.”

“Seth. What did you do?”

“He was being a dick to you!” Seth says. “I – when you two were feuding, I texted Paige-Saraya, I mean, and she texted me his number.”

Mox holds back on asking how the fuck Saraya managed to get Adam goddamned Page’s number. “And you have him in there as Cowboy?!”

“Plausible deniability,” Seth says, like it’s a reasonable answer. “If I had Adam Page in my phone, it’d be hard to explain. If you saw it, I mean. Cowboy, on the other hand.”

“We know and can tolerate one person with a Cowboy gimmick, you fuckin’ himbo,” Mox says. He shoves Seth’s head under the water for a moment, holding the phone safely out of the way until he lets Seth up again. “You never thought to check the receiver?”

Seth snorts.

“No! No sex jokes right now!” Mox splashes him. “Fuck. Work is gonna be impossible. Hangman’s seen my dick.” He squirms. “Hangman’s seen me fuck you.”

“He’s right, though,” Seth says, and Mox isn’t sure when he’d floated over and straddled his hips. “You do have a pretty dick.” He rolls his hips down.

“Of course you’re hard,” Mox says. He settles the phone on a towel on the side of the hot tub. “Of course you are. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I like it when you get all rough with me,” Seth says, grinning. “And you were yelling at me a little, and you shoved my head under water.”

“Damn it,” Mox grumbles. “Now I’m getting hard.”

“Yeah,” and fuck is Seth’s smile pretty, “I know.”

“Get up on the edge,” Mox says. “I’m not blowing you in the hot tub water. I’ll drown and it’s gross to come in a public pool.”

“Technically this one is private,” Seth says. His shorts are already down his hips. Slut. Mox is in love with him.

“It’s a hotel room, dumbass,” Mox says, and he sinks his mouth down on Seth’s cock. He’s already leaking precome, desperate as always. Seth’s hands scrabble at Mox’s shoulders and neck.

“I miss when you had hair,” Seth pants. “Easier to grab onto something.”

Mox pinches his thigh and Seth yelps.

“I’m just saying!” Seth says. “Now you’re all slippery. I have nothing to –”

Mox had reached up and searched for Seth’s mouth to shove his fingers into, and found his spot before Seth could finish bitching. The silence is helpful, save for the moaning around Mox’s fingers.

Mox gets his other hand involved to roll Seth’s balls in his hand, and he grins around Seth’s dick as the moans turn to whimpers. His fingers slide out of Seth’s mouth.

“I – Mox, I’m –” Seth can’t even get out a whole sentence before he’s coming down Mox’s throat, whining some sort of desperate wail. Mox could get addicted to that sound, has gotten addicted to that sound before, and he has to reach his hand into his swim trunks to give himself a few strokes just to stay sane.

“No, mine,” Seth demands. He drops into the water next to Mox and shoves his head underwater.

Mox is too fuck-drunk to stop Seth, and he knows he’s too close for Seth to have an issue. He wraps his fingers in Seth’s hair as he does his best to count in the part of his mind not encompassed with Seth’s mouth around his dick. He’ll pull Seth off if he’s being too stupid about it, but he also knows very well that this isn’t going to last long.

He glances over to the phone where it buzzes. He wonders if it’s Hangman. He wonders if he’s watched the video of Mox fucking Seth into the hotel mattress last night, if he’s jerked off thinking of Mox and Seth together.

Mox’s fingers tighten in Seth’s hair, but, as always, Seth doesn’t take the opportunity to pull off. Probably a good thing since they’re in a hot tub.

“Christ,” Mox groans, arching his hips up and coming down Seth’s throat. Seth’s only gotten better at it over the years, more effective and intentional and bitchy about it. He yanks Seth’s head all the way up, out of the water. “You really did get good at holding your breath,” Mox pants. He falls against the side of the hot tub. “Definitely more hygienic than a hand job.”

Seth beams at him, face drenched and eyes bright. “That’s what I said. This was a humanitarian effort at fucking. We’re good people.”

“You texted us fucking to the man who hung me in March,” Mox says, grabbing Seth in a headlock. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Seth giggles as he rolls in the water to get his legs around Mox’s chest. “Yeah, but are you actually mad at that?” He gets a look at Mox’s grin. “Yeah. Didn’t think so.”

~

Mini Playlist: Peacock - Katy Perry think later - Tate McRae FUCK - Snow Wife Sex Talk - Kim Petras

Video didn't kill the wrestling star, but it sure embarrassed him.

[sheilababi]

May you be freed from every experience that caused you to hide your authentic self.

[wherethesaladthingsare]

WINNER TEAM SULEMIO

[leenathegreengirl]

Happy Omega Monday! Our girl is having a great time and trying to capture all the fun on her holopad! 💚💕

@legacygirlingreen @thora-sniper @sukithebean @thecoffeelorian @neyswxrld @somewhere-on-kamino @clonethirstingisreal @royallykt @morerandombullshit @burningfieldof-clover @tbnrpotato @keantha

[ladystoneboobs]

"Tears," she[Cersei] said scornfully to Sansa as the woman was led from the hall. "The woman's weapon, my lady mother used to call them. [...]" -Sansa VI, aCoK

would love to know the context of joanna saying this to(/within earshot of?) cersei, who was 7yo at maximum. interesting parenting choice to want your very young daughter to be a better manipulator, instead of just treating crying as an honest expression of emotion.

[midnight-melancholiaaa]

astrorum ~ mon mothma portrait sketch

alt version and reference below

pinterest has decided to flood me with white couture outfits and what am i to do if not play andor barbie dressup?

[macfrog]

wish you were here | one shot

thank you lovely anon for this gorgeous request which felt like a huge mug of hot chocolate and a pair of socks fresh from the dryer to write. i hope you enjoy.

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

summary: you and joel skip jackson’s annual holiday party in favor of some alone time. (not that kind you filthy animals it’s the HOLIDAYS)

warnings: fluff lmao, thirty-year age gap and u can stay mad, set around the holidays but no mention of christmas etc, nothing but love and two hints of sex. that's all. oh and no guitars were harmed in the making of this - joel canonically goes and gets the guitar after the fic ends. dw.

word count: 1.9k 

main masterlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post ��

Jackson is alive with a thrumming heartbeat. Pulsing through the air, bumping gently against the quick-lying snow and filling the otherwise silent night. A steady, rhythmic heartbeat.  

A heartbeat which sounds a lot like Blue Monday, but a heartbeat nonetheless.

The holiday party is in full swing down in the Tipsy Bison. Seven o’clock ‘til late! on flyers plastered all over the commune for the last month. Tommy had tried relentlessly to convince Joel this morning on patrol – It’ll be a good night; You oughta come along, show face at least. At the same time, Maria was on your back about it in the stables.

Y’all hardly come to anything fun, she’d argued.

We come to stuff.

When’s the last time you came to anythin’?

We were – we were at Mike’s birthday dinner.

What – five months ago?

We like alone time.

Alone time? You’re never apart from one another.

Alone time – together.

Neither attempt had been successful. Tommy and Maria had exchanged a disheartened glance as the two brothers passed their horses to you on their return. Joel clipped your cheek, took his gloves off and fixed them onto your frozen hands before making off for home, a proud grin on his face. You’d held your own as well as he had: you two had a clear evening ahead.

He had lit and nurtured a fire, had made himself a coffee and heaped half a damn bag of tiny marshmallows into a hot chocolate for you, but when he’d come through to take his place on the couch, you were already stood out front.

It’s bitter out – a soft breeze, but a thick chill on its wings. The sky a washed gray, heavy clouds overhead. He slips outside, setting the mugs down on the table, and slings a blanket over your shoulders. Kisses the curve of your neck, scruff of his beard tickling your skin.

‘s freezing, pretty bird.

Then keep me warm, you whisper, turning into his arms. He steps back, settling into his chair, flicking his fingers for you to fall down into his wide lap.

You curl up against his torso, your head hooked beneath his jaw. Wonder how drunk Tommy is by now. What is it – nine?

His wrist lifts, moonlight gleaming in the reflection of his broken watch face. Just gone ten. I bet he’s on his ass already.

You giggle into his shirt, breathing in the scent of the pine trees, the smoke from stoking the fire inside, the bite of hot coffee. The echo of voices swelling in merry song turns your attention down the street – two figures hooked onto one another, stumbling through the powdered snow. Some slurred rendition of September melting into All Night Long before the smaller of the two tugs their partner off into a darkened house.

Joel laughs to himself, the bristle of his beard catching on your hair as he shakes his head.

You ask him softly, Will you play me something?

His breath soars, a cloud hot and pale white, past your temple and up into the pastel sky. Gets swallowed somewhere overhead by the wash of warmth from the porch light. He turns his mug until the owl faces the street, the bottom gnawing against the wooden armrest of his chair.

I’m serious.

What do you wanna hear?

That one you’re always practicin’. The plucking one.

Another rumble between your shoulder blades. His chest jolts with a solid laugh. The pluckin’ one.

You know the one.

I know the one.

Will you play it, if I go get the guitar?

Baby, his lungs nudge on your back as they fill, it’s late. We’ll wake the neighbors.

Everyone’s at the dance. C’mon.

And he can’t argue with that. The entire street lies dark, vacant. Yours is the only house with soft-glowing eyes, the muted orange of the fire flickering behind closed blinds. Two figures, tangled in a chair on the dim front porch; a hunting jacket around his shoulders, and his body around yours.

You tug on the blanket, wrapping it around your elbows as you stand. Just once. Play me it once.

Joel’s looking up at you, setting his mug down on the table. Play you it as many times as you want, pretty bird. Just – quietly.

There’s a spring in your step that drags another chuckle from Joel’s lips: the kind that drips like honey down your throat and warms the pit of your stomach – a sweet, comforting thing, a sound you swear was made purposefully for you. Divine and deliberate.

Like – all of him. Like the shape of your name in his mouth, the curl of his tongue as the sound surfs over it. Like the curve of his hand and the way yours so neatly molds into it.

The way it did the day he found you, crouched in the gray backroom of some butchers deep in the city, and took you all the way back to Jackson. Let you cling to him on the back of his horse; your weak arms around his waist, anchored by the heavy jacket he’d thrown over your back. Your ear between his shoulder blades. And that was that.

Fifty-six. One brown-turned-silver hair away from thirty years your senior. He still remembers before. Talks about movies, talks about computers. Talks about Sarah, when the sun hits the wall at a certain angle and he reckons he could see her standing right there, the soft shadow of her hair dark against the golden wall. When you make a joke and he laughs a ghostly sort of laugh, like he’s hearing the echo of her voice make the same quip three decades ago. He always says she would’ve loved you; you like to think he’s right.

He found you: a lonely little broken heart, and he pulled you to your feet with a rough palm against your own. Hands calloused only from years spent carving wood and pressing the hard strings of his guitar into the fretboard, and nothing else. No violence and no bloodshed; no survival or threat. Music, and patience, and kindness.

And maybe you found him, too, in the same sort of way: roughened up, awkward and messy stitches holding him together. Maybe the two of you nursed one another back to life; each brush of your hands in the dining hall and each meaningful glance while out on patrol sewing those wounds up a little tighter, a little safer.

He sits forward when you hold the instrument out, sweeping a broad palm down the slope of the body. Pinches the pegs one by one, twisting them while his thumb taps on each string.

Come here, he says, beckoning you forward with a flick of his chin. He taps on the seam of his jeans, widens his legs for you to curl up between them at his feet – the way you always do.

Your elbows hook over his thigh, ear pressed against the inside of his knee. Staring up, blinking slowly, eyes glazed with the cold and with the light and with love.

He plucks gently, slow at first. Letting the strings snap with a twang, vibrating enough that you feel the small rattle in your jaw. Your eyes fall closed, head rocking with the light tap of his heel on the porch. When you peer at him through your lashes, he’s watching the skilled movements of his fingers intently; as if he’s as much a spectator as you are – his body doing all of the thinking and working for him.

 So, he sings, and your stomach melts to a puddle, so you think you can tell –

Your eyes close again, the low rumble of his voice crisp in your ears. Like thunder, like the promise of something great and mighty. Something moving, something rolling and changing the landscape of your body, your mind and your soul. The lines between living and dying begin to blur, the seam tearing between this plain and the next.

Did they get you to trade – your lips parting to whisper the words with him – your heroes for ghosts?

His thumbnail dragging down the strings, his strong fingers flitting between chords. Like he was made to sit here, in the dead of night, and carve a space in the world for himself and his voice and for you – lain in the safe scope of his body, protected by his breadth and brawn and lulled by his sweet song.

His breadth and brawn – the parts of him which have kept him standing here. His skeleton, his muscle. But the thing that keeps you warm at night, buried side by side under a threadbare woolen sheet together, the thing that you link your arms around as he leads you home from the nights you dare to visit the Tipsy Bison: are his heart, his flesh, the gray-singed hair which falls in a featherlight wave over his forehead. The hair you sweep from his eyes when he’s on top of you, his hips cradled in yours, that all-encompassing feeling of every part of him filling every part of you.

It all feels that way. The warmth of him, the feeling of being wrapped around him. Hooked around his body, bones intertwined. Absorbing one another, his words breathing life into yours, slowly growing louder and braver with each pluck and strum of music.

We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year.

Your makeups entangling, ribcages locking together, flesh meeting flesh and hair twisting until one day, Tommy will come looking for his brother and find the two of you here on your porch, your arms still draped over Joel’s thigh and his fingers still mid-song. Stuck, alone, together.

What have we found? Joel looks down to you as though asking the question – his eyebrows raised – and you reply, a dumb smile across your lips, The same old fears, and then, together –

Wish you were here.

He plays until his fingers must start to hurt, the way he clenches and loosens his fist. Setting the guitar against your chair, hands hooking under your arms to pull you back up to him.

That one your favorite? he asks, the cold tip of his nose circling yours.

You nod. Only when you sing it.

I like the way we sound together.

You smile, shrinking into his chest again, your fingers surfing back and forth on the worn shirt. I like the way we do a lot of things together.

His hands slip beneath the fabric of your shirt, massaging your waist. He dots a trail of light, damp kisses along your forehead, dipping to your temple, the angle of your cheek until your jaw lifts and his lips are against yours, his tongue parting to lick purposefully at yours.

I love you, pretty bird, he whispers, the words falling sweet and fair on your tongue.

You take a moment to let them seep into your skin. ‘s the first time you’ve ever said that, you tell him.

Joel smiles. He knows. But you knew it already, he counters.

You know, too. Mhm.

Alright, he groans, slipping his hands under your thighs and hoisting you up to his height, bedtime.

It’s only ten, you complain, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders as he carries you inside. It’s too early to sleep – Joel.

Didn’t say we were goin’ to sleep, he mumbles, kicking the door shut.

[starmocha]

the day bleeds into nightfall Zayne/MC | 1242 words | AO3 She was coming home soon.

A/N: So, um, you know those text messages you get from the guys when you don’t sign in for 30 days or more? Yeah…this stemmed from that…oops.

She was coming home soon.

It had been over a month since she was assigned a mission in another town. Zayne always worried whenever she was taken far away from him, though he knew she was a strong, capable fighter able to hold her ground against any wanderers no matter how big or small.

He couldn't help it. It was in his nature to always worry about her, to fuss over her, nag her—love her.

To assuage his worries, he kept up the text message exchange, finding solace in sharing tidbits of his mundane life with her as he waited for her to return home.

She was coming home soon.

Zayne passed a poster, pausing to examine it before he snapped a photo on his phone.

He typed out a message:

They're holding a new Kitty Cards event next month. Didn't I promise you a rematch last time?

He attached the photo and hit sent. He took another glance at the poster, and resumed his walk home, already seeing her seething across from him when he would, without a doubt, win again.

She was coming home soon.

It seemed his schedule as of late had been packed with surgeries after surgeries. He hadn't been home much recently, choosing to sleep in his car or office for a little bit instead out of mere convenience. When he needed sustenance, the cafeteria food would suffice or he would stop by one of the eateries near the hospital. For some reason, lately he didn’t care too much for taste, finding no pleasure in the meals he ate. He simply needed food from a biological standpoint, desiring only the energy they would give him to carry on with his life.

Remember to eat and sleep on time, he sent the message at noon and then reclined the seat in his car for a few minutes of shut eyes before his next scheduled surgery.

She was coming home soon.

Zayne mindlessly scrolled through the suggestions of movies on the TV's streaming app, finding nothing particularly interesting. He passed the different movies displayed, not reading the titles or even registering the thumbnails, but eventually he finally settled on a random psychological thriller, though his attention continued to remain elsewhere.

As the opening credit started, Zayne looked down at his phone, already typing away a new message for her:

The movie you wanted to see should be released by the time you come home. I'll buy us tickets. Hurry back.

She was coming home soon.

It's going to rain next Thursday. Dress appropriately, and don't dilly-dally in wet clothes.

He stared at the sent message, and without thinking, sent another one as an afterthought:

I can't always stay by your side.

She was coming home soon.

One day, after a particularly long meeting with the hospital's esteemed medical staff, Zayne returned to his office and noticed the potted plant on his desk near the window.

He settled into his seat, grabbed his cup of water, and poured the remaining liquid into the pot. He looked at the growing plant fondly before snapping a single photo to attach to his message:

The daffodil we bought together is thriving. Hurry back so you don't miss its flower.

He leaned back in his chair, chuckling softly at the memory of her mistaking garlic bulbs for daffodils.

She was coming home soon.

He visited the bakery near the hospital, the very same one where they had run into one another during an afternoon rain shower.

As he stared at the assortments of delectable pastries in the glass display case, he found that they did not brighten his mood as usual. In the back of his mind, he could hear the different voices competing to be heard.

Zayne breathed in sharply, wanting the voices to be silenced, and ordered one mille-feuille, not noticing the workers' surprised expression, unused to seeing the sweet-toothed doctor order so little.

When he returned to his car, Zayne opened the cake box and scooped a single forkful into his mouth.

If I have something sweet, I'd be happy, even if it was a bad day.

He dropped the plastic fork and broke down in his car.

That evening, he sent her another text:

Have you eaten yet? There is a new hot pot restaurant that opened downtown. Hurry on back to me. I'll let you indulge to your heart's content.

She was coming home soon.

He heard the hushed whispers, caught the sympathetic glances from his peripheral vision.

Greyson told him it was okay if he needed to take time off. All of the doctors at the hospital were ready to cover all of his shifts for as long as he needed.

At first Zayne dismissed everyone, baffled by their unusual reactions. It was just another normal day. Patients were in and out of the hospital like clockwork. There was no time to waste with small talks like this.

It was just another normal day. Like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, and the—

Zayne froze in the middle of the operation, his hands shaking as he heard the staff around him fall into a state of panic as the fifteen-year-old patient started experiencing Evol-related complications during the cardiac surgery. Normally level-headed, he found that he was unable to will his body and mind to act accordingly. He stood there, watching through blank eyes, this perfectly crafted world of his crumbling as the memories of the past three months stared him down in the surgery room in a cruel taunt.

She was coming home soon.

She was coming home soon.

She was coming home soon…

At first, he couldn't hear any of the yelling from the surgery staff. Everything and everyone sounded like they were underwater, just muffled voices competing to be heard. Even everyone's movements seemed sluggish, as if time had slowed down, prolonging this hellish moment.

When Greyson rushed in and yanked Zayne away from the surgery table, screaming in his face, he immediately snapped out of his daze, and moved quickly to stabilize the patient, barking out orders to the staff.

By the end of the grueling, nerve-wracking hour, the young patient pulled through to everyone’s relief. Within twenty minutes, Zayne put in his request for an extended leave and offered his sincerest apology to the patient's family for his carelessness.

As he quietly left Akso Hospital, he heard the hushed whispers again, seeing the sympathetic glances from his peripheral vision.

He wished he was deaf and blind.

For the first half hour, he drove aimlessly through Linkon City before he found himself leaving behind the neon lights and heading to the cliffside on the outskirt of town overlooking the city. On the horizon, the colorful lights of the city competed for dominance with the bright stars in the night sky.

Zayne pulled out his phone, his fingers were already typing out a message for her, recalling his earlier incompetence. Halfway through the message, his eyes landed on the past conversations. He shakily scrolled up, reading the familiar one-sided conversation with an increasingly fast heartrate.

His breath hitched when he finally found one message from her, dated three months earlier:

Zayne, when I come home, let's make up for lost time! My treat!

He dropped his phone and screamed.

Three days later, he placed a small bouquet of jasmine for her.

“I miss—I love you…”

She was not coming home.

[imbluefox]

it’s just a cute bow

[macksartblock]

Thank you do much for all the amazing fanart!!! You're one of my favorite artists in this Fandom. All your pieces have so much story and personality packed into them, and the colours are always so evocative. Great work!

I can't stress enough how sweet this is to hear, thank you so much <3 that being said dear anon I am sorry your ask is being associated with my burden LOL

[kayatoastkkat]

HEY IS THAT THE DEATH POTION HE'S HOLDING HELLO?????

okay but omg?? his eyes flicking back to the mirror to see if Jekyll is there going "haha i was being /j" BUT HE ISN'T THERE???? LIKE OMG WHEN HYDE REALISES HOW HORRIBLY UNCONTROLLED HIS INNER MONOLOGUE IS WITHOUT JEKYLL THERE TO BRING HIM TO HIS SENSES JKSKDKSKFNDKLGE

how much you wanna bet that Edward "Surely These Conses Won't Quence" Hyde is going to regret smashing these potions in the next 0.1 seconds

[leenathegreengirl]

Sweet little Omega, the perfect Flower Girl for Echo & Aiko’s wedding! Although I’m sure we can all agree that she’s prettier than any flower in the galaxy! 🌸💚💕

@legacygirlingreen @thora-sniper @sukithebean @thecoffeelorian @neyswxrld @somewhere-on-kamino @clonethirstingisreal @royallykt @morerandombullshit @burningfieldof-clover @tbnrpotato @keantha @anxiouspineapple99

[yeonbam]

this scene is so ACTUALLY family coded like just backs turned to each other, one who is apologising and the other who has forgiven him already, one who needs reassurance and one who reassures, hugging someone's back to make the last of their doubts and anger melt. it's so comforting. It's executed so well because it's both romantic but also deeply platonic.

I'm also just so glad he said this because I think it kind of automatically lossens the weight of all difficulties a little. they are family so they will stick together through thick and thin, no matter how difficult it is, without abandoning each other. this is probably so meaningful to joke after being publicly denied recognition by his father. and also because the one thing he ever was to be accepted despite being himself.

such a reminder that a real family is also the one place that gives you unconditional love and the one thing you own as much as it owns you.

[beccawise7]

Hug of the week...

Sometimes, we just need one.

Spread the love & be good to one another.

~beccawise7 💜🖤

[loving-elvis]

My favorite 50s!Elvis photos, part 179 of ∞; On The Road