#I saw this page and got paper so i could print it i love them dearly

[majorproblems77]

Something different today! :D

(now to preface, I'm not an artist so I'm a lil nervous, I just like colouring books)

My 1st page of the linked universe colouring book done.

The line art (Is that right? I think that's the word) is done by the wonderful @beyondtheglowingstars (Or supernova)

I fell in love with your Sky piece and just knew it had to be my first page to colour. The line art was just so soft and lovely and I love Sky and Crimson so much they are beloved.

Hope if its alright if I put it up on my wall. :D

Thank you for drawing this for the colouring book, it's amazing!

Alternative lighting under cut

[roguerogerss]

Show You How Much I Love You

Pairing: Michael Gray x Reader

W/C: 3.5k

Warnings: SMUT!!, the second half is just sex, bit of a praise kink, talk of injuries and blood (not related to the smut!)

Description: After Michael gets shot, you’ve been visiting him in the hospital every day. He has a realisation on his last day there, and when you get home, he shows you how much he’s missed you.

(took a lil break from writing tommy all the time - he will be back! promise! - and did a lil spin for michael. i’ve been OBSESSED with both of them recently. so proud of the smut in this bc it’s literally only my second full on smut!!! let me know what u think babes! b back with tommy shtuff sooooon)

—

You hated the hospital. The building always smelled of antiseptic, slightly bitter, but with the added scent of artificial fragrance contained in soaps and cleaning products. And what was worse, the smell would linger on your clothes and in your hair, even hours after you'd left, and you'd have to bathe after every time you visited, to avoid going to bed smelling like death.

"Morning, Miss L/N." The nurses had gotten to know you over the last five weeks, and they'd always greet you when you came to visit. As much as you hated the hospital, and it's smell, the nurses made your visits very slightly more bareable.

"Good morning, Margaret." You sighed, smoothing your hair down and fixing the fur collar of your coat. "How is he, today?"

"He's had some great news today, ma'am. I think you'll be delighted." Margaret smoothed a hand over your back and then hurried off, the nurses were always on the run. You wondered what news your boyfriend could possibly have gotten that would've delighted you, considering all you'd had the past five weeks was more death, upset, and terrible news.

You climbed the stairs, still fussing over your hair, and your coat, and pulling out a small, pocket mirror to fix your lipstick in. You always ended up going to the hospital dressed like a model, because Michael had told you the first time that seeing you all dressed up had been the only thing he was looking forward to.

You plucked a cigarette from your pocket, and balanced it between your lips as you reached his room, "Miss L/N! No smoking, please! It's not allowed.", You waved the nurse off.

You took a slow drag from your cigarette, filling your lungs, and then pushed the door to Michael's room open. You beamed when you saw him, standing by his bed, something he hadn't done for the entirety of his time in recovery.

He held his arms out when he saw your smile, smiling himself, as though he was presenting a gift to you. "Well?"

"Oh my God, Michael!" You ran for him, giggling as you did, and you were met with a grunt when you dived into his arms. Michael stumbled backwards slightly as he wrapped his arms around you, before regaining his balance. His chest stung in all the places he'd been shot, but he didn't care too much. You looked so happy, something you hadn't been since finding out about the mafia, and he wasn't going to take that away from you.

"Jesus." He laughed at your excitement, "I'm still sore, sweetheart."

"Sorry, I'm sorry, I'm just...You look so much better."

"I feel better. They've been doing physical therapy the past few days, getting me up on my feet, finally got up on my own today."

"Margaret told me you'd had good news, was it this?"

"This, and," He reached behind him and produced a piece of paper from the bedside cabinet. The words "Discharge Notice" were printed in black at the top of the page. "This."

You gasped, "You're getting out? Today?"

"Yes." He nodded, and you clasped a hand over your mouth, ready to squeal with excitement. Michael interrupted, grasping your wrist between his fingers, "But, love, I'd have to stay with you, so it's only if you'll have me. If it'll be too much of a bother, I can stay here-"

"Michael, don't be daft." You moved your hand from your mouth, to press each palm to Michael's cheeks. "Of course I'll have you. It'd be my pleasure."

He sighed and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you close, so that your noses were touching. "Are you sure? It's not going to be pretty for the first couple of weeks. Changing bandages, cleaning bullet holes-"

"Michael." You interrupted him quickly, thumb swiping over a small, stitched scar on his cheek. "Of course I'm sure. I mean, it was only a matter of time before we moved in together, anyway, wasn't it? I suppose, it's not under the circumstances we'd like it to have been, but I want to do it."

A comfortable silence fell on the room, Michael was simply smiling, green eyes exploring yours. You ran your fingers over the new scars on his face, and found yourself frowning when you reached a particularly deep one, straight through his eyebrow. He breathed out, "I love you, so much."

You'd never heard anyone say anything with such passion, but Michael had never meant something more in his life. Tommy always spoke about feeling like you'd been pardoned by God when you should've died, and everything else being extra, borrowed time. He didn't think he could live another day without helping you to feel exactly how much you meant to him.

"I love you too, Michael." He was hardly listening to you, just thinking about things he needed to say to you.

"More than anything, you know that, don't you?" He continued. You looked at him, eyes full of concern.

"What's going on?" You were convinced there was something really wrong that he wasn't telling you about.

"Nothing's going on, my love." Michael smoothed your hair down comfortingly, chewing on the side of his lip while he thought about what to say next. "I nearly died, Y/N. I should've died, John did, and he didn't get to tell Esmé that he loved her again. I need you to know what you mean to me. Need you to know how much I love you."

He let his forehead fall against yours, sighed, and squeezed his eyes shut. Tears were threatening to fall, and he knew you'd get upset if you saw him cry. But you'd already sensed he was unsettled, and you pressed your lips to his cheek, and then to his nose, and then to his lips, he loved how loving you were.

"I'm going to show you how much I love you, how much you mean to me. As soon as I can, I'll help you around the house, I'll do everything I can for you." He clasped his hands together at the back of your neck, holding you far enough away that he could really look at you, breaths slightly shaky. "And when I'm better, really better, I mean, I want to marry you."

Your eyes widened, you supposed you might've looked scared to anyone who didn't know you too well. "Michael-"

"I'm serious. If I asked you, right now, to be my wife-"

You shook your head, a grin making it's way onto your face now. "Michael-"

"Will you marry me?" He sounded so serious. You'd spoken about getting married before, and you'd both meant what you'd said, but you hadn't expected he'd ask you so soon. You'd been together just over a year, but you were both still young, and nearly four months of your relationship had just been casual nights together.

"Are you proposing to me?" You were really smiling now. As much as you were young, and as much as you hadn't quite expected this, you were excited. Of course you wanted to marry Michael.

"If that's what you want this to be." He was smiling down at you, grasping both of your hands in his own. He’d have gotten down on one knee if he could’ve, and he felt a slight pang of guilt knowing this wasn’t quite the proposal you’d probably hoped for.

But you didn’t care. Growing up, you’d wanted a big wedding, with a big proposal beforehand, but having someone who you loved as much as you loved Michael, he could’ve proposed to you at a funeral and you’d have said yes. “Well, if that's what's happening, then yes."

"You'll marry me?" The surprise in his voice was completely unmasked. He’d had no idea you’d actually say yes.

"Yes. Yes, Michael, I'll marry you." You felt yourself doing a little jump up and down out of excitement.

"Are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious!"

Michael arms were around your waist, now, picking you up from the ground and kissing you, completely ignoring the burn in his chest. Your lips always felt made for eachother when he kissed you, and this time was no different, if not even better. You hadn’t been kissing him half as much as you normally would, what with everything going on, and it almost felt desperate, needy.

"Tomorrow, I'll go out, and I'll buy you a ring, alright? Tommy owes me money, I'll use that to buy you the biggest one I can find." You laughed at Michael's excitement. "But this is official. We're engaged, love."

"We're engaged." You repeated, tears in your eyes, and let Michael take your face in his hands and kiss you again. You couldn't quite believe what had just happened - truth be told, neither could Michael - and you certainly didn't ever expect it to happen in a hospital room, but you were excited nonetheless.

"Come on, I've got all of my things packed, let's go home."

-

As soon as you stepped through the door to your apartment, you were apologising to Michael for the "state of the place". You weren't entirely used to having him round, and so felt you had to explain the little messes that you'd often leave laying around.

"Sorry, it's a bit of a mess. I've not been home too often. And it's not as big as yours, I know-"

Michael stopped you before you rambled on about how the fireplace wasn't lit, and you hadn't washed your dishes from that morning, and how you'd left all of your makeup out on the bathroom vanity because you hadn't time to put it away.

"Stop it." He soothed you, pressing a finger to your lips and looking around at your ground floor flat. It certainly wasn't much, but he actually liked your house better than his own. It was smaller, and therefore cozier, and he found the looks he got from neighbours the morning after you'd slept together funny, knowing they'd heard you screaming his name the night before. "It's perfect."

You smiled, half-heartedly, and gestured to the living room doorway, "Here, you can lay down on the sofa, and I can make some lunch. What would you like? Oh, and when do I have to change your bandages, do you remember?" You swung open the kitchen cabinet, searching through the groceries you'd bought the day before. "I'm not sure what I could make. I can go to the store, I think it should still be open-"

"Love, stop." Michael stepped closer to you, hands settling on each of your shoulders. "Just take a minute, calm down, we've got time."

"I know. I know, I just-"

"Don't." He let a hand slip down your arm and into your own, "You've said yes to marrying me today, I'm very much happy dealing with your unwashed dishes, and you can make me lunch any time, now, okay? I'm here to stay."

"Come on, fiancé." Michael grinned at you. "Lay with me, please? Missed you."

You sighed, and turned to close the cabinet door behind you. You were quick to stress yourself out, and normally you'd argue that you couldn't just lay down and forget about the things you needed to do, but you'd missed him too. "Okay."

Michael led you down the hallway and into your bedroom, he'd been here before, but you'd spend most of your time together at his house or at the office, so it felt strange having him in your bedroom. He was one to make himself at home, and today was no different. As soon as he reached your bed, the shirt that he was wearing was unbuttoned and on the floor, and he was sprawled out on top of the sheets, gesturing for you to join him.

You tried to lay down next to him, but he had other plans, hands reaching out to grip your hips and pull you on top of him, one knee on either side of his torso. "Michael!" You giggled.

"Oh, come on. I haven't had any time alone with you in over a month." His hands started to make their way under your dress, and you almost let him, until you snapped back to reality and noticed the bandage wrapped around his body.

"I know." You wanted to, you really wanted to, but you found yourself smacking his hand away before he was able to get past your thigh. "But you're still recovering."

"I'm fit enough." He raised an eyebrow at you, and you were certainly considering it. He could definitely be very convincing, when he wanted to.

"Are you sure?" You stuck your bottom lip out, pouting at him.

"I'm sure, baby." His hands found their way to your waist, and he was looking up at you with what you could only describe as hunger in his eyes, jaw clenched. He made it so hard for you to say no. "Come on, let me prove it to you. Let me show you how much I love you.”

"I don't know, Michael-"

"Please, sweetheart." He interrupted you, "Missed your body. Been so desperate for you."

Hearing him say he was desperate for you had a knot growing in your stomach. You sighed, weighing up the options you had, but ultimately deciding that you'd both be unable to think about anything else if you didn't have sex.

"Okay. Alright, but if you feel like you need to stop, you stop. Okay?"

"I will. Thank you, darling." You could feel him hardening through his trousers, and it had you biting down hard on your lips, having been waiting for this moment to come since he could sit up straight. He'd teased you while in the hospital, talked dirty, touched you every now and again, but it was hard to find a time when a nurse wasn't going to walk in and scold him for being too active, and Polly wasn't going to come in for a visit. "Now, come here."

He pushed himself up, back against the headboard, and dipped his head to connect your lips. It was fast, rough, a clash of teeth and tongue and lips, he'd missed you, and you were making it clear that you'd thought about him for the entire time he'd been in the hospital.

His hands roamed your back, pulling you closer so that you were chest to chest. He could feel his wounds burning when your torso collided with his, but the taste of your lips on his and the feeling of having you so close again quickly dissolved any discomfort he felt.

He was so needy for you, hips bucking upwards to meet yours, hands sliding down to grip your hips, you thought it was the hottest you'd ever seen him. "Fuck, Michael." You gasped out as his lips found your neck, head falling back.

He groaned at the sound of you moaning for him, he'd been waiting to touch you for so long. "Need you, pretty girl. We've got plenty of time for other things later, but I need to be inside you right now."

You didn't need to say another word, you simply nodded and helped him to unbuckle his belt while you hiked your dress up above your waist. His fingers grazed over your lingerie, and you mewled, the feeling almost too much. "Jesus, baby, you're so wet already. Haven't even done anything yet."

"Missed you so much, Michael." You breathed out, an answer to his statement, and simply a statement in itself.

"Missed you too, princess." You loved when he called you pet names.

You watched as he freed himself from his underwear, and his cock sprung up, hard and ready for you. "You're hard already." You mocked his words, and he laughed.

Neither of you wasted any time with foreplay, your panties were ripped off and on the floor with one flick of Michael's wrist, and he was lifting you off of him slightly, and guiding you back down onto his cock.

The feeling of him sliding into you again was euphoric for both of you. You hadn't had sex in more than a month, as opposed to usually being borderline sex addicts, and you knew you wouldn't last long.

You both let out pornographic moans as he bottomed out, Michael's face said it all. His mouth hung open, eyebrows knitted together, eyes wide, you were so tight, he could've came at the feeling of his cock stretching you out.

"Fuck, not gonna last long, honey." His forehead fell against yours and he screwed his eyes shut, just revelling in how good you felt around him. "Are you alright?" He asked, hand holding and stroking your waist lovingly. He was big, and you were so used to him before that you hardly needed any time to adjust, but with being away from eachother for so long, he was almost too much to handle.

"I'm okay. Give me a second. Feel so full." You were breathing heavily, shifting around. It wasn't uncomfortable as such, just a lot to take.

Michael ran his fingers through your hair, soothing you and pressing kisses to your forehead. "Taking me so well, baby. Just take your time."

"Fuck," You moaned, you loved when he was sweet to you in bed. You'd told him months ago that you thought it might've been your biggest turn on. "You can move."

Michael looked up at you, just for an extra check that you were truly alright, and, upon finding no sign that you weren't, bucked his hips up to meet yours. You almost screamed, he knew exactly what spots to hit, and he did every time without fail.

You bounced on him, his hands helping you, lifting you off of him and bringing you straight back down at new angles every time. "You feel so good, Mike."

"Fuck, good girl. That's a good girl." Michael let his forehead drop onto your collarbone, watching your tits bounce up and down. You were so beautiful, he often wondered how he'd gotten so lucky. "Tell me how good I'm making you feel."

"So, so good. Missed your cock so much. Love it so much." Your words were slightly slurred, eyes starting to droop. He loved watching you, how much of a mess you'd get, just from riding his cock.

His hands found your tits, massaging them and twisting your nipples, which always had you screaming for him, and today was no different. "Feel good?"

"Feels fucking amazing." He thrust into you at just the right angle, which had you gasping and digging your nails into his back, leaving little red half moons on his shoulder blades. "Oh, right there, Mike.”

"Shit, baby, are you close?" You were clenching around him so tightly, "Can feel it, you're close."

"I'm so close." You moaned, you were certain your upstairs neighbours would hear you, the walls and ceilings were thin, and Michael was making you yell out in pleasure.

"Me too. Almost there, sweetheart. Hang on for me." He increased his speed, making it even harder for you to hold on, and making your moans fall from your lips even louder than before.

"I don't think I can, Mike." Your legs were shaking like crazy, and you could feel his dick tensing inside of you. You needed to come so badly.

"I said hold on. You can hold it." His face was stern as he said it, dominant side coming out as he grabbed your hips and slammed you down onto him, bucking his hips at the same time. He was going to make this so good for you.

"Fuck, Michael, please." You threw your head back. You felt his cock twitch, and a loud moan come from him, he was going to come.

"Alright, baby, come. Come with me."

Your throat was hoarse from moaning as loudly as you were, but it didn't stop you from screaming his name as your walls tightened around him and you came undone. The feeling of his cum painting your insides never got old, always made you feel like you could go at least another few rounds.

"Oh my God." You panted, collapsing onto his chest as he lay back on the bed. You both lay there, breathing heavily, sweaty messes, for a few minutes. You didn't think you could move very far, your legs were shaking against him.

"Jesus, have I missed this." Michael kissed the top of your head through quick, harsh breaths.

"I've missed this so much." You agreed, heart pounding.

You lifted your head, just enough to see that there were a few speckles of blood seeping through the bandage that was wrapped around his torso. "You're bleeding, baby. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." He nodded, and reached over to your bedside cabinet to grab the small alarm clock that sat there. It read two o’clock. Michael grinned at you.

"Time to change the bandages."

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Day 20: reading together

Masterlist flufftober 🎀

Reblog if you liked it!

“If I didn't love you so much, I'd probably be strangling you right now,” you muttered, watching from your spot on the couch as Spencer broke the spine of the book he had just gotten.

Although you two were very skilled readers, which had brought you together in the first place, your book care habits were very different. You could stand him writing in the books and bending the pages, but the first time you saw the man break the spine of a book you almost screamed to stop him. You were the type who opened the pages only as much as necessary, loaded them into a special bag, and used only post-its and pretty bookmarkers in them.

“I already told you that this is more comfortable and gives life to the books”

“It doesn't give them life, it kills them” you sobbed dramatically, while you raised your feet a little so that he could take a seat on the couch and once he was, he took care of placing your legs on his lap “What is this one about?”

"Physics. I want some distraction”

“Oh, sure,” you laughed ironically, as if it were common to read physics books to clear your mind.

You had been reading, for a couple of weeks, The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks, because the movie was one of your favorites in your youth and you wanted to know how much the book delved into the story of both lovers.

You were used to these kinds of moments with him, because since you had started living together your literary discipline had improved, so you tried to continue with your reading while he started his.

Everything was fine until you tensed when you felt his hand coming down from the cover to hold your leg firmly. You looked down from your book and a shiver ran through you when you noticed that he was able to hold all the flesh of your limb with those hands; big, calloused, and warm, always so expert at touching you just the way you wanted. But Spencer was so focused on the book that he didn't seem aware of what he was doing to you, not even when he started to slowly stroke you with his thumb.

You tried to shake the distraction from your mind and focused on the printed lines, the only sound being the turning of the paper pages in your lover's book. Spencer's fingers traced patterns and drummed on your skin, to the point where you got used to it and stopped paying attention to the tickling he was doing with it.

“What happened to you here?” Spencer asked suddenly, feeling interrupted by curiosity to know the origin of the bump his fingers had touched. You closed your book slightly and looked up to see what he was talking about.

"That? I think it was from a fall when I was little.”

“Sometimes I'm surprised to think how many things I still don't know about you,” he murmured, with unexpected sentimentality. His hand went up and down your leg while he maintained a thoughtful attitude “You are like a book; I think I know you well enough and when I look at you again you have a different meaning or I find something new about you”

“At least I hope you don't break my spine” you laughed and you heard him laugh too. You readjusted yourself on the couch until you were sitting next to him and you placed a kiss on his cheek, so he took the opportunity to surround you from the side “No one had ever compared me to a book.”

“I like being innovative,” he said, quite proud of himself, feeling how you fit better against him.

Once again one of his hands remained busy on your body and with the other he kept the book open, taking a little more time than usual to turn the pages. You carefully opened your reading and continued to enjoy the tragic romance the story told, having your own happy romance at your side.

taglist: @navs-bhat @reidwritings @tricia-shifting14 @spencerslove @vivian-555 @r-3dlips @rhiannonhippiegirl @taygrls @simp4f1 @sdddoobydoobydoo @taintedstranger

[copperbezel]

Zephyr Slip

At the end of last year, before I'd begun working on Bit Cobalt, I ran into some paleoart of Austroraptor, a dromaeosaur (raptor) from Argentina. Austroraptor is one of the largest dromaeosaurs, with a long, narrow, Big Bird snoot, conical teeth that probably point to fishing, and small forelimbs, as well as leg proportions that hint at a runner. Much of the paleoart I saw depicted Austroraptor in waterbird colors, which gave it a soft and friendly appearance, immediately my new favorite dinosaur.

So I drew an Austroraptor and then a robotic one, adding a quail topknot or ahoge feather, and started to think about making a transforming figure that would change from this animal into a humanoid robot. But a transformation from cute robot girl to cute robot girl, except one of them is a dinosaur, seemed a bit redundant, and there would be compromises in both directions that would detract rather than add.

But a couple of months later, I saw a particular motor scooter and something clicked, and the game was on. I love motor scooters, and they're a fantastic accessory for other figures on the shelf. I went through two foamcore prototypes to nail down the transformation, making it as simple and sturdy as I could manage and making sure both modes would scale well with other 1/12 scale figures.

I also started collecting some reference images for details I could nab and integrate, and to nail down the scaling of the scooter.

After I had something that worked, I drew up some concept art for both modes and started modeling. I was able to streamline the design a couple of steps further in the 3D model, and then it was all carving up shapes, fine tuning, etc. Probably the longest phase of modeling was after I had my model roughed out into shape, but needed to build the joints, firm up the edges, define all the contact surfaces, and apply subdivision surfaces. I found it useful to rig the model and set a couple of animation steps in Blender for the two modes so I could simply page back and forth between them.

I had to set the design on the back burner while I worked out the kinks with my 3D printer and built my last couple of projects. Then I made a test print to identify any trouble spots, and after a couple of tweaks to get the feel right, it was time to print and finish the real thing. Zephyr Slip is the first thing I've printed in "color", and thanks to some dyes I need to experiment with more, she won't be the last. That means a much more durable finish for parts that have to slide against one another or clip into place. I did add a gloss coat to some surfaces of the black elements, but it shouldn't show chipping much. (Unlike the kickstand, thanks to my terrible decision to paint its feet.)

Like my previous figures, Zephyr's eyes (and console) are just printed gloss paper under a coat of gloss varnish, and her headlights and taillights have some clear resin poured in over the paint and cured into place for lenses.  Cutting plastic windows like the ones on my Vertigo GT for the lower headlights didn't have the same effect, so they got the same clear resin treatment. The decal designs themselves were made in Blender, because I've given up on Inkscape's interface, but I think they came out okay.

The joints are almost exclusively 3mm ABS rods, although her hip joints are Kotobukiya Hexa Gear joints, which gave me a sturdy pin and hinge in a compact package and without visible pegs. I'm looking into options to make the pegs show less while being easy to remove for the construction and painting process. Despite some care with the tolerances, I did have to widen some peg holes and mush some pegs during assembly to get her pose well and snap together tight into either mode. But everything does clip solidly into place, resulting in a really playable figure. 

As my first fully transforming figure and also my largest, Zephyr Slip is definitely the biggest figure project I've tackled so far, and I'm extremely happy with the results. Posability is probably her weakest area, but she can pounce and emote, and with her solid handfeel and satisfyingly snappy transformation, I'm happy with the design. 

Paleontologically, I've followed most of the proportions of the real animal, although her torso should be a little bit longer, and her tail half again as long. She should also have visible first fingers, and I'm playing into the paleoart meme of bare snouts on dromaeosaurs that shouldn't have them. The proportion of thigh to shin is exaggerated, and the tail should have some left-right sway even if it's inflexible in the vertical axis. But it pleases me that she is both a roughly accurately scaled Austroraptor, and also a fairly realistically scaled scooter (if a bit chunky).

As always, due credit to @aprilpowered and Workbenchmaniac for support and feedback along the way, as well as Nemocyte (Tumblr | Twitter), whose feedback helped me to work out (among other things) the articulation needs of a theropod figure, something I'd never had to think about before.

[iboatedhere]

could I please get "heart shaped sunglasses" as a prompt? I love canon but if there's an AU that speaks to you I'd love that too

I went with a photographer/model AU.

—

Alex didn’t grow up thinking he wanted to be a photographer.

He cycled through dreams that almost every kid has—doctor, teacher, President of the United States, and astronaut. For a few weeks, when he was four, he thought seriously about becoming a T-rex.

When he was thirteen, he found an old camera in the attic that his father had left behind when he moved out.

He watched a half-dozen YouTube videos to figure out how to get it to work, then took a photography class in high school and got a position on the school paper, taking shots of football games and events around town.

He thought he looked cool, carrying around a vintage camera that used real film in the age of sleek digital devices and camera phones, and he was good at it. He received heaps of praise from his photography teacher, won awards in local contests, and even sold a few prints at farmer’s markets and craft fairs around Austin.

Alex majored in studio art in college, focusing on photography and media. He learned about color, composition, and lighting. He studied Ansel Adams, Dorthea Lange, Steve McCurry, and Robert Capa. He thought about becoming a war correspondent, embedding himself in the most volatile parts of the globe and reporting the truth through photographs—gritty, raw, and dangerous.

Where he ended up was someplace much softer.

–

Alex first saw Henry Fox on the glossy pages of one of June’s fashion magazines when he was twelve.

Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar. Maybe Cosmopolitan. He can’t remember. What he can remember is Henry Fox’s wide, blue eyes and golden hair. He remembers looking at the close-up photo of him for too long until June cleared her throat and met his startled gaze with raised brows.

He looked for Henry after that. Sneaking into June’s room or stealing the magazine straight from the mailbox when it was delivered. He’d bring it with him to the treehouse in the backyard and search.

Before Alex even had a word for it, most of the photos had felt exploitative. Henry, too young, around much older models. Odd poses and barely there clothing. Henry never looked happy. He never smiled. Alex would never photograph him like that. He never really thought about photographing him at all. Mostly, he just wanted to hang out with him. Maybe take him swimming at Barton Springs, to a baseball game in Round Rock, or ride their bikes together. He just wanted to make Henry smile.

Alex found out later that Henry’s father was a famous actor and his mother was a supermodel, making Henry one of the world’s biggest nepo-babies.

Maybe doors automatically opened for Henry. Maybe he has a trust fund or an inheritance and never has to work another day in his life. Alex is unsure of those things, but he is certain Henry is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

–

Alex lowers his camera as the art director flutters into the frame, tugging on the strap of Emily’s bikini top and sweeping Henry’s hair off his forehead.

“Perfect,” she says before waving in Alex’s direction. “Okay. Keep going.”

Alex rolls his eyes and lines up another shot.

He doesn't really know what the point of this shoot is. He guesses it’s supposed to be playful…a fun day by the pool where Henry has stolen her heart-shaped sunglasses and perched them on the top of his head while she’s taken his diamond-studded watch and is holding it against her throat like a necklace. But Emily’s bikini is practically see-through, Henry is wearing a pair of swim trunks that hide nothing, and Alex doesn’t understand what they’re trying to sell, aside from their bodies.

So goes the fashion industry.

“Did you get it?” Henry calls out to him without moving a muscle.

Alex blinks through the viewfinder. “What?”

“Did you get the shot?” He asks.

“Oh. Yeah. Probably.”

“Good,” Henry says, “my foot is beginning to cramp.”

He shifts, and Emily hops off his lap and into a robe a PA is holding while Henry stands up, stretches the arch of his foot, and accepts his own robe.

It’s all so fast and formal as if they didn’t just spend the last hour dry-humping each other by a pool at a mansion in Beverly Hills.

Alex isn’t sure if he could pull that off, being that close to either of them and acting like it’s no big deal. Things are easier behind the lens of a camera.

Alex busies himself by pulling the photos up on his laptop. He took nearly two hundred. At least one has to be good enough to go to print.

“May I see?”

Alex nods, and Henry steps into his space, pressing their shoulders together before Alex can make room.

“Christ,” Henry says as he peers at the screen. “Am I really that pale?”

“We can fix it in post?”

Henry hums. “Add it to the list,” he jokes, but it’s not funny at all.

Alex knows that no one is perfect, but he thinks the people he photographs—Henry especially—are about as close to the idea of it as possible. That won’t stop every photo he’s in from being scrutinized and edited to death. They’ll airbrush out the moles that dot across his ribs, the small half-moon scar by his left hip, and the line between his brows. Whatever they do to Henry, it’ll be ten times worse for Emily.

“You’re very good at this,” Henry tells him. It’s not the first time they’ve worked together, but it’s the first time Henry has complimented him.

“Thanks. You make it easy. I mean you guys—you two—you and Emily,” Alex flounders. “You look good.”

“Is it the sunglasses?” Henry asks as he reaches up and touches the thin, pink frames.

“Yes,” Alex answers. “They complete the look. Maybe they’ll let you keep them since they suit you so well.”

“I’ll be sure to ask,” Henry says, the barest hint of a smile on his face.

—

Unsurprisingly, it was June that helped him shape his view of fashion.

When he was younger, he’d point to the avant-garde looks in her magazines and genuinely ask who the hell would ever wear this?

“No one,” She’d tell him as she snatched the magazine away. “Sometimes clothes aren’t meant to be worn, they’re meant to be admired. It’s like how some people go to the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa. Other people find their art in fashion magazines.”

He reminds himself of that each time he attends Fashion Week in London, Milan, or Paris. It’s an art exhibit; the models are living sculptures.

In the front row of the Dior show at Bryant Park, Alex thinks Henry makes a stunning canvas.

His hair is dyed dark brown, a near match to the cropped leather jacket he’s wearing, only half zipped, his chest bare. Alex watches his long legs in oversized wool shorts as they walk down the runway, where he stops at the end, poses, and then continues back. He looks down at Alex as he passes, tips his head up, and disappears backstage.

Only after he’s gone does Alex realize he didn’t get a single photo of him.

–

They let me keep the glasses, by the way.

Alex frowns down at his phone as he tries to parse out the Instagram DM that popped up on the screen.

He has two accounts—an official photography account and a smaller, more personal one, followed only by his family and friends. Alex knows he isn’t famous, not yet anyway, but he knows that people can get weirdly parasocial, and he’d rather not have to purge his main account a few years down the line.

This message, from a GEJames97, was sent to his personal account.

????? Alex sends back.

The ones from the shoot, the next message reads.

This is Henry.

Fox.

Alex’s frown deepens. Henry has an Instagram account. He has nearly four million followers and posts photos of his most recent campaigns at least twice a week. Not that Alex is keeping track.

Prove it, Alex says.

A few moments later, a photo of Henry Fox in the pink, heart-shaped glasses pops up.

Pez told me about this account. I hope that’s okay.

Pez…..???????

Percy Okonjo.

Percy Okonjo is an up-and-coming designer who is best friends with Henry. They have the entire fashion world buzzing with speculation that Henry will start working with Percy the second his contract with Dior ends.

Percy also was a guest editor for Vogue and had an undefined thing with June. Alex doesn’t know the details, and he’ll never ask for them, but it was enough that Percy followed Alex’s personal account.

How long are you in New York? Henry asks, and Alex feels his heart rate kick up.

Why do you think I’m still in New York?

Henry sends him a photo Alex posted earlier of a friendly Central Park squirrel eating a small piece of bagel out of his hand.

Until Sunday, Alex tells him. Why?

Doing anything tonight?

Alex blows out a breath.

Not yet.

Alex has only been at the bar for three minutes before Henry shows up. Alex appreciates the promptness, it gives him less time to be nervous.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Henry says anyway, leaning in to press a kiss to Alex’s cheek that leaves Alex feeling untethered. “Traffic in Manhattan is insane.”

“It’s fine,” Alex says, “you’re good. You’re…” Alex trails off because Henry is beautiful in jeans, a t-shirt (that probably cost more than Alex’s hotel room bill), and a Yankees cap pulled low over his face.

“If you want to go someplace else–,” Alex starts.

“Why would I want to go someplace else?” Henry interrupts, raising his hand to wave down the bartender.

“I don’t know. I feel like this place isn’t your usual vibe.”

It’s not a dive by any means, but it’s certainly not the flashy restaurants and clubs Henry usually attends.

“A few months ago, Pez brought me to this place in Chinatown. We followed this woman down a narrow stairwell for what felt like forever, light flickering and water dripping from the ceiling. I would’ve phoned my sister to say goodbye, but I didn’t have cell service. If I can survive that, I can survive this.” He glances around the bar. “I don’t fear for my life at all here.”

“You’re in America,” Alex tells him. “You should kinda always be fearing for your life.”

Henry snorts. “I suppose that’s true, but I am enjoying myself.”

“You just got here.”

Henry shrugs. “Then maybe it’s the company.”

Alex ducks his head. “How long are you in the city for?”

“At least another two weeks,” Henry tells him. “I’ll have a good bit of downtime, but not enough to fly home between shoots. I’m trying to figure out ways to keep myself busy. Do you have any ideas?”

Alex has about a million. He’s been thinking about this since he was twelve years old.

“Have you ever actually been to a Yankees game?” Alex asks, and Henry shakes his head. “They’re in town if you wanna go.”

Henry smiles, big and bright, even in the murky lighting of the bar, and Alex feels like he’s suddenly accomplished everything he could ever want in life.

[upsidedownwithsteve]

I need to know that she's going to art school in philly. A reunion, maybe Eddie helping her move. Her meeting Wayne pls. love your writing!!

The acceptance letter came and two weeks later, you were on a flight.

It had been easy to pack up another suitcase, clothes and belongings flung into the bag, shoes still stained with mud from camp, Eddie’s sweater folded on top, his mixtape in your walkman, never taken out. You packed Polaroids in the front covers of books, printed emails folded neatly between the pages, the letter from the university tucked beside it.

You’d told your parents, got yelled at and then watched them cry. It was simultaneously the hardest and easiest thing you’d ever done. You’d spent the rest of summer at home, thinking you’d craved the camp grounds, the noise, the forest. But each email that pinged into your inbox brought the same excitement and eventually, you realised that it was Eddie you missed the most.

You called him the day the letter arrived. Hands shaking on the plastic receiver, the paper clutched to your chest and you stuttered and stammered your way through an introduction when his uncle

Wayne picked up but god, the feeling that came over you when the man yelled for his nephew and said, ‘it’s your girl, son,’ was completely and utterly indescribable.

You bought your tickets the next day. You didn’t have an apartment lined up, not yet. But your parents took you to the airport and they both hugged you, told you to stay safe and call them when you landed, so things didn’t seem as scary as they once did.

Eddie told you he’d meet you in arrivals and you spent the flight wondering if he’d changed, I’d he’d looked different, if he’d feel different when you hugged him. ‘Cause it had been almost six weeks since you last saw him and almost every bit of communication you’d had with him since had been in black and white, words on a computer screen.

Philadelphia looked like the biggest city you’d ever seen from the sky, and god, maybe it’s cause it was. You’d barely strayed from Michigan before, a summer spent in a forest in Indiana the most adventurous it had gotten. The plane seemed to skim the tops of skyscrapers as it came into land, the sky blue and the ground grey concrete and littered with cars that looked like multi-colored ants.

Big bridges, long stretches of water, roads that criss-crossed over each other and somewhere, hopefully, amongst the brownstones and suburbs, would be your future apartment. You dreamt about paint colours, thrift store coffee tables, how you’d get a couch in the front door, a bed you didn’t have to make every morning.

You thought of Eddie in it, more often than not, maybe, eventually. Eddie in your kitchen, a tiny space, more than likely, Eddie at the stove, sleepy eyed and shirtless with messy hair and coffee for you and him. You thought about the boy in your bed, a proper bed that fit both of you, where you could do more than just kiss and let hands wander.

Your stomach flipped at that, heart cartwheeling in your chest. But maybe that’s just because the plane had hit the runway with a bump and a jerk and oh my god? You were in Philadelphia.

Home.

Eddie was waiting where he said he would, his last email tucked under your arm with the rest of your documents, your boarding pass, your paperwork for the rest of your luggage that wouldn’t be arriving for another few days.

‘I’ll get you in arrivals,’ he’d typed. ‘I’ll be beside the coffee shop there, there’s a huge ass plant, look for that.’

Your heart thumped to the same rhythm of the roll of your suitcase, the wheels clickclickclicking over the tiles and everyone was simultaneously moving to slow and too fast at the same time. You wondered if Eddie smelled the same, if he used the same cologne, if he’d still smell like summer and rain and smoke now that he wasn’t at camp.

Would he look at you the same way? Would he still like you? Would he still want you? Was this a mistake?

You paused, chest heaving and eyes blinking back tears that were brought on with from the familiar feeling of panic but then you looked across the lounge and saw a face in the crowd, right next to a huge fern, right where he said he’d be.

Eddie looked the same, black jeans ripped at the knees, a T-shirt with a band logo on the front that you’d never heard of, faded and sun bleached. He looked a little tan still, like he’d spent just as much time outside in the city that summer as he had at camp. His hair was the same, except he’d cut his bangs, a tiny bit squint, just like he’d told you in an email. You knew there was a new tattoo on his right forearm, a line of trees in black ink, the keast metal thing on his body, he’d said. But it reminded him of camp and summer and a second home.

You couldn’t wait to see it, you’d told him.

You were walking over before you realised, your feet carrying you across the large room with less panic than you previously had. ‘Cause looking at Eddie was like waking up on a summer morning, hazy blue skies outside your bedroom window, cotton sheets, bed warm skin, the smell of sunscreen, rainstorms from the night before, coffee through pine tree forests.

It was familiar, comforting, like home.

He saw you then, grinned like you remembered, wide and all consuming, a bright stretch of a smile across his face, dimples deepening at the sight of you. You picked up your pace when he stepped forward, feet almost tripping over themselves and you flung yourself at him, suitcase rolling away abandoned.

Eddie caught you, groaning into your neck as his arms wound themselves around your waist and he sounded relieved. He smelled the same. Like smoke and rain and summer and Eddie and you clung to him, arms a vice around his neck, squealing when he lifted you from the floor.

“Fuck,” he murmured into your skin, nose pressed to your pulse point. His voice was a rough rasp, thick with emotion. “I fuckin’ missed you.”

You nodded, agreeing, pulling back to press your nose against his, pressing a your lips to his in what was more a shared smile than a kiss - but it felt just as good, just as nice.

[seeminglydark]

Idk if this means anything to you but I'm a comic artist who's had a hard time doing art for a few years. The first four was because of life hardship and lack of time/chronic pain, but now lately I've had time but a mental block. I'm creeping up on 30 and felt bad about myself for "missing out" on my opportunity to be a comic artist. It was really validating to see you post about being 41 (correct me if I'm wrong) especially since you have such wonderful comics that I've been following for a while now. It makes me feel less like I'm wasting my time putting my things in order when I "should" be drawing.

Hopefully this doesn't come across as offensive or anything. It was just comforting and validating. Anyway, big fan! Love your characters a whole lot and hope you have a good day!

Dear Anon

I am 41 years old. I have wanted to make comics my entire life. before my dad got sick, and my childhood kinda fell apart, all i did was draw. after that, i used the stories in my head to cope. life moved on. i was convinced not to accept a partial scholarship to an art school in California. life got hard. i worked at a hotel, and after i escaped an abusive relationship at 22 i hitchhiked/bused far far away to start over. i tried to make comics again, but i had to survive, and so i got another job doing the only thing i knew how to do, hotels. and i worked. and worked. and life got harder and times got heavier and i didn't get time to draw and i worked double hours, 15 to 17 hours a day. and i went four years without drawing a single thing.

i kept working myself into the ground. i was 29 now. i picked up a pen again and drew a red haired boy. he had a hard life and no love and no friends. his problems were on the outside, for everyone to see. he ran away but his problems went with him.

i was 32. surely i was too old now. my time to be an artist was gone. i had no school. no hope. i was so far behind the younger gen i saw online. i cried. all the time. i wrote stories in my email drafts while i worked shifts. i stayed up late trying to learn how to draw again. i cried some more. the boy grew. i called him Fiach. worthy. a raven. later i renamed him Avery. he was like a bird, he had wings, he was my hope. i started writing some friends for him. the people i wished i had around me.

i started finding time and space. i got a new job, something where i was lucky enough to set my own hours. for the first time i had a partner who believed in me. things were hard. but i was drawing now. and that helped.

i went on a road trip and i started drawing pages of an unnamed story on 6 by 8 paper in a sketchbook. i drew 20 of them. 'what could i call this?' i thought. Nothing Seems as Dark...no says my partner. Seemingly Dark. he made me a logo. i was 35. i bought an ipad, i cant do this on paper, its too much story i have too much to say. so i learned how to draw digitally by tracing my own trad art pages.

I spoke to my dad for the last time on June 17th, fathers day that year. he said 'you're good. i'm proud. and you're gonna do amazing things. none of this is your fault. and we will speak again soon.' i didn't know id never hear his voice again. he died a week later.

i turned 36. i kept trying. i'm old, i don't understand the internet. how can i share this?

i stumbled across Lore Olympus. i was introduced to webcomics. id read comics online before but the thought never occurred to me. i opened an account on Tapas. and then i stared at it. what if no one likes it. what if its bad. my art isn't good. i should wait til i'm better. but will i ever really be better? or will i always believe that tomorrow is better? do it now. if even one person gets something out of this story, this story about a boy who is you, a boy who looking for hope, a boy who might make it, then that is enough isn't it.

June 17th 2018 i launched Seemingly Dark.

SD's five year anniversary is in a week. 0ver 700 pages. leaps and bounds in progress with my skills. a printed comic under my belt as of monday. i was always a storyteller. but i was always an artist too.

I am 41 years old, dear anon. I did not truly embark on this journey til i was 35. life got in the way. even now, chronic illness gets in the way. but its worth it. its never ever too late. i believe in you the way my dad believed in me. i reset my life again and again. but I was always an artist. and if thats who you are, and who you want to be, even if things dont go the way you wished they could, you're an artist too.

im 41 years old. i speak about my age, even though i often feel too old to belong in spaces, cuz really, in this case age is just a number. take care of yourself. do what you need to do. and little by little, when your able, carve out your space until it becomes more of a habit. sometimes i think about all the years i lost not drawing or creating. but there's a lot of factors that make me believe had i made my story then, it wouldn't be the story it is now, i needed to live a bit. i needed to find myself. i know this was long, but i just wanted you to see i also had to put my life in order, and getting notes like this reminds me it wasnt at all a waste. im glad i could offer you some comfort. thats honestly the best compliment i could ever receive.

TL;dR I was 35 when i sat down and seriously started making comics, because life always got in the way and so did my confidence. i always feared being too old. im 41 now, still going strong.

[ssinnerplazahotel]

╭──────────.★..─╮

*Chapter Twelve*

╰─..★.──────────╯

WC: 6k

Warning: 18+, age gap, smut, fluff, toxic elvis, manipulation, drug use, it’s the 50s/60s, painful-difficult-devastating-life-changing-extraordinary love

Pairing: elvis x black reader

Disclaimer: full of inaccuracies, inaccurate timeline, inaccurate depictions of Graceland, historically inaccurate themes and items

Masterlist: Prologue, Ch. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11

You didn’t know what was said in the brief meeting that Elvis had with the Colonel the following morning, but a photo op was ordered for an announcement that would be in the papers.

“A photo op?”

“They want a good shot of us for the paper. A more formal introduction for the public.”

You frowned as you were pressured to choose your look for the photo.

“I don’t know. I can’t decide.”

“I like this one.” Elvis pointed out a lime dress with a pink pattern.

“It’s too loud, isn’t it?” You tilted your head as you examined the material.

“Suits the mood.”

“If you say so.”

He was forced out of the room so you could dress and go through hair and makeup. Soon you were preparing to head out for the photo.

“I knew you’d look perfect,” He said when he saw you. “The camera’s gonna love you, baby.”

“Are you sure it’s not too much?” You ask. “The makeup and the dress—it’s not like me.”

“It’s perfect,” He promised. “You’re my girl now so you hafta keep up your appearance.”

“Did I do a bad job at keeping it up before?”

“Oh, you did just fine.” He kissed your cheek and a camera flashed, signaling the arrival of the photographer.

“Let’s get the two of you outside,” He said instructed promptly. “Colonel wants this sent to the press by the end of the night.”

“Why?” You wondered.

“Come on, baby, let’s go outside,” Elvis said, putting his arm around you. “It’s just something he does. He knows how to…appeal to certain audiences.”

You stepped out onto the porch, stopping just before the first step and facing him. “And what audience are we appealing to now?”

“Those good, old, vanilla sons of bitches you always hear about,” He said, making you laugh. “They’re upset now, but they just need to see us kissin and huggin and lovin on each other. As a way to, y’know, convince them that I actually love you and that I’m not taking you in as a concubine.”

“Is that what people are saying?”

“People are saying a lot.”

The photographer gave the two of you instructions on what to do and you went around taking pictures for at least thirty minutes. You never thought taking a photo could take so long.

“Let’s have one with you sitting down and her standing next to you,” He said, gesturing for you to move onto the steps. “Put your hand on his shoulder.”

“How much longer, boss?” Elvis asked—you could tell he was getting restless.

“Just a few more.” He snapped the photos in a rush and finished up, true to his word. “Alrighty, I’m gonna get these to print and they should start circulating in no time.”

The photos were circulating that night. You had only seen a few pages of different newspapers, they all said relatively positive things.

“Where are the bad ones?” You asked.

“The what?” Elvis responded, appearing from the bathroom.

“The bad ones.”

“What’re you talkin about?

You crossed your arms. “Where are all the articles from the people that were standing out there crying their eyes out, ready to take my head off?”

His eyebrows drew together. “I don’t know, birdie. I brought those so you could see how the pictures came out, not so you could catch up on the latest hit pieces.”

“You can’t shield me from them, E, I have to see them,” You said. “It’ll just make things harder if I don’t.”

“Trust me, you’ll be better off not getting too caught up in the press,” He said, joining you in bed. “They chew you up and spit you out. I don’t want that to happen to you. Not my baby birdie.”

You pouted but moved on. “This one’s saying that the coat I was wearing when we got off the plane is sold out now. Do you think that’s true?”

“Enough of this,” He said, taking the pages from you and sweeping them to the ground.

“No~”

“You’ve had enough.”

The phone rang, cutting your rebuttal short. Elvis stood and snatched off the hook. You went to gather the papers from the ground—stacking them neatly on the bed.

“Who was it?” You asked when he hung up.

“I have a surprise for you downstairs,” He said.

“For me?” You chuckled. “What is it?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it? Come on. Liz is here to get you ready.”

“That poor woman,” You said with a frown. “I can do my own hair and makeup.”

“I know, but she knows how I like it.” He took your hands in his and brought them up to his lips.

You hummed thoughtfully and wrapped your arms around his neck. “Do you like the way she does it, baby?”

His eyes darkened and his lips turned up in a smirk. “Don’t you?”

“If you like it, I love it.” You smiled, standing up on your toes to kiss him. “Get out of here so I can change.”

“It’s not gonna be good you keep winding me up and not letting me sing,” He said, pulling your body against his. “I might not be able to keep showing so much restraint.”

“I’m not asking you to,” You said. “I’m yours, aren’t I?”

“You are.”

“Then do what you want with me.”

There’s a knock on the door, signaling Elizabeth Monroe’s arrival. Elvis had her hired as your full time stylist and makeup artist. Apparently he had instructed her on exactly how you should be styled.

“Nothing but the best for my girl,” He had said when he introduced the two of you.

She didn’t say much as she dressed you, she said even less as she applied your makeup. You figured she was just concentrating on her work.

“Do you like it?” She asked after all was said and done.

“Yes, thank you.” You examined your face in the mirror. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

She met your eyes in your reflection and nodded. “He will.”

You hesitated on your way downstairs—you still felt uneasy being around everyone. You were sure they talked about you when you weren’t around.

Elvis appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “There you are.”

Your anxiety was relieved at the sight of him. “What do you think?”

“You’re perfect,” He said just as someone came to the door. “It’s for you.”

He took you by the hand and went to open the door. Your eyes widened when you saw Andrea standing there.

“Oh my god,” You said with a stunned smile, looking up at Elvis. “Why?”

“I thought it’d cheer you up after the week you’ve had,” He said before addressing her. “Andrea.”

“Elvis,” She said shortly as you hugged her.

“It’s so good to see you again,” You said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Well, I was summoned.” She gestured to Elvis with a sarcastic smile.

“Thank you so much for leaving your post at the gates of heaven, angel,” He responded before stepping forward to kiss your cheek. “I’ll let you ladies do whatever it is that you do.”

“Thank you, E.”

“You’re welcome, birdie.”

You watched him leave before facing Andrea. She looked around the foyer with her arms crossed—her expression bleak.

“It’s quieter upstairs, come on.”

She nodded and followed you. You led her to the office upstairs and plopped down on the black, leather couch.

“Sit.” You laughed, patting the spot in front of you. “Tell me how you’ve been.”

“I’ve been fine.” She took a seat facing you. “I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you in the paper.”

“Yeah, everything happened really fast,” You said. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“Elvis and me.”

She looked off, quirking an eyebrow. “It’s…a lot.”

You chuckled. “Good or bad?”

“Shouldn’t you tell me?”

“Hmmm…good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s good.”

You smiled, she offered a small one in return.

“What happened to Joel from Hawaii?”

“Oh, well…we separated.”

She nodded. “Because you decided to be with Elvis?”

“Well, I mean~ It’s more complicated than that,” You said. “Elvis and I, we just…have history.”

“How far back?” Andrea asked.

“Since before I met you, I guess.” You thought for a moment. “Yeah, a while before I met you.”

“So, this mystery man was…”

“Elvis.”

She continued to look stunned but she laughed now. “For the love of god, you said he was married.”

You laughed along with her. “I had to throw you off somehow.”

“You are so full of surprises,” She said. “First you disappear without a trace, then you show up engaged, and now you’ve left that guy for his famous friend.”

“Oh, god, don’t say it like that,” You complained, laughing despite yourself. “I told you it was complicated. I tried with Joel, but…it wouldn’t have worked out.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m in love with Elvis.”

“Well…you’re causing riots in the streets.” You were grateful for the change in subject. “People are either tearing newspapers from store walls or breaking down the door to find your latest outfit. It’s pure chaos.”

“Really?”

“It’s like you’re famous.”

You smiled, shaking your head in denial. “I don’t know about that.”

Andrea sighed thoughtfully, falling silent for a moment. “You’re so…different now.”

“Good or bad?”

“…I can tell you’re in love.”

*

“A lot of people are convinced you don’t have a voice.”

“Are they really?”

You smiled down at Elvis—the telephone to your ear as you sat in his lap. At first you refused the interview. You didn’t want your voice broadcasted on the radio and you didn’t want your words plastered all over the paper. But Elvis talked you into it, promising to be by your side the entire time.

“You two are so different. You come from different backgrounds, he’s older~”

“Mhm~”

“You’re polar opposites really.”

“Yes.”

“What we all want to know is what you get up to. What do you talk about?”

“Oh, we get up to all kinds of stuff.”

Elvis quirked an eyebrow, gesturing to the slip of paper on the desk as a reminder for you to stick to the script.

“We do all the usual things.” You tilted your head to read the words from the page. “We have…very interesting conversations.”

“What’s interesting to a nineteen year old girl?”

“You should ask Elvis.”

He patted your thigh admonishingly—smirking despite himself.

“Anyway, I’m almost twenty.”

“What do you talk about, almost twenty?”

“You’re so funny.”

“Humor us here in radioland.”

“We talk about all kinds of things. He’s an intellectual.”

“He teaches you a lot, huh?”

“Sure.”

“There are some fans out there that refuse to believe the two of you are the real thing. What do you say to them?”

“I understand, honestly. I can’t believe it myself sometimes.”

You rolled your eyes at that one—cutting an eye at Elvis.

“There’s talk of marriage, any truth to that?”

“Not that we know of.”

“Folks are saying there’s gonna be some serious consequences if you aren’t married.”

“…Is that what they’re saying in radioland?”

“Does that scare you?”

“…Stick to the script, Quincy.”

The interview came to an end and you looked at Elvis with a serious expression. He laughed. “It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“‘Serious consequences?’”

“Oh, birdie~”

“Don’t tell me not to worry.”

He tilted his head, smiling at you silently. You stood with a sigh and grabbed your cigarettes off the corner of the desk.

“Tell me what they’re saying,” You demanded. “Andrea tells me what they say in the paper, E, you can’t keep it from me.”

“They want us to get married.”

“So I’ve heard. Why?”

“Hell if I know. These people want something different every goddamn day. It’s just another thing.”

You struck a match and lit the end of your cigarette. “What are they saying is gonna happen if we don’t?”

He shrugged. “They’ll ban me across the country on the basis of morality, send us to jail, hang us from the ceiling, and whatever else they can come up with. Shit, maybe they’ll send us to the fucking moon. I have no idea what they say in those meetings.”

You took a drag from your cigarette. “How can they force people to do things like this?”

“I don’t know, but we’re sorting everything out as best we can.”

“You keep saying that.”

“And you keep wasting your time worrying.” He rounded the desk, leaning against the front of it as he spoke. “What’s the worst that can happen? We end up having to get married?”

“Yes, Elvis, that’s the worst that can happen,” You said. “That means they have all the control.”

“No one has all the control. It’s a bunch of people sitting around talking, that’s all it is.”

“The last time a bunch of people sat around talking about you you got shipped to Germany.”

“Goddamnit, birdie, will you let it go?”

You turned to leave the office, too annoyed to say anything else, but he caught your arm and made you face him.

“I’m not gonna let anything hurt you or take you away,” He said. “Not when I just got you back.”

You met his eyes without speaking—your jaw set.

“I’ll handle it. Alright?”

“…Alright.”

You weren’t sure what decisions were made or who had put everything together, but, soon, you were getting married.

You had woken up on the eve of your wedding day—unbeknownst to you—to Liz laying out different designs for hair, makeup, and your dress. When you asked where Elvis had gone you were told that he and the rest of the guys were already in Nevada.

“We have these.” Liz showed you the dresses in a hurry. “We can get the dress of your choice fitted and altered overnight. That way it’ll be ready tomorrow morning.”

“What is happening?” You asked, bewildered. “I need to talk to Elvis, right now.”

“There’s no time. You’re leaving as soon as Andrea gets here.”

As if on cue, Andrea came bustling through the door—luggage in tow. “There’s the bride-to-be~”

“Andrea, do you have any idea what’s going on?” You asked. “Who’s orchestrating all of this?”

“I don’t know.” She looked concerned now. “Jerry called me last night and told me that Parker wanted everybody here by eight this morning.”

“Liz, who told you to be here?”

“Parker.”

You looked around the room and stopped one of the people packing your bags. You asked them the same question, although you were already sure of the answer.

“The Colonel.”

You groaned, this couldn’t be happening. The entire place was in chaos around you.

“I’m sorry, but you have to choose now,” Liz said apologetically.

Andrea tried to aid you in making a decision. You could’ve cried at the thought of choosing your wedding dress fifteen minutes after waking up on what you had assumed would be a normal day. You had minutes to contemplate your decision as Liz dressed you in the clothes you would be traveling in.

“I like the V-cut. Don’t you?” Andrea asked

“I don’t know,” You said. “What do you think he’d want, Liz?”

“For christ sake, it’s your wedding too,” Andrea said. “Which one do you want?”

“Leaving for the airport!”

Liz encouraged you to go with your first choice. “It’s the best option.”

You didn’t have time to think as you were ushered from the house. You arrived in Nevada that night after a miserable flight. At the hotel, you were rushed from the car and into the back entrance of the building.

“Where are we going?” You must’ve asked a thousand times already. You were relieved when you saw Jerry meeting you at the end of the hall. “Where is he?”

“He’s been on the phone for hours trying to sort things out with Parker,” Jerry said as he led the way. “He’s tryna to see if he can’t get this whole thing done away with.”

Jerry led you to a conference room that had a long chestnut table at the center with padded office chairs. You immediately spotted Elvis pacing on the telephone. He handed the phone off when he saw you.

“Come over here, birdie.” He guided you to the corner of the room—ducking his head as he spoke. “Are you okay? Is Andrea with you?”

“What is happening?” You asked, matching his low voice. You didn’t recognize anyone in the room apart from Elvis and Jerry. The men sitting around the end of the table all wore suits and had expressions that appeared permanently stern. They didn’t take their eyes off of you the entire time.

“Are we ready to sign the papers?”

“Nah, we’re still figuring some things.”

You shook your head in disbelief. “Is this real?”

Elvis rubbed his face. “I’ve been talking to that son of a bitch for hours. He sent me here to talk to these people but they’re not budging. He keeps saying his hands are tied and there’s nothing he can do.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I have no reason not to. He’s been trying to get the public on our side.”

“This isn’t about the public.”

“It’s not?”

“Is Parker trying as hard as he could be?”

Elvis shrugged, looking off for a moment. “I don’t think they’re gonna let us leave here without signing those papers.”

He was right—they didn’t. Elvis Presley was given until midnight on that day to declare you his wife or risk a countrywide ban on the basis of morality. To which, as a direct consequence, he would be ordered to answer to all statewide warrants made for his arrest. That was only his end of the bargain, there was no telling what they’d do to you.

Your marriage was official by 11:56 that night.

The party following would be strictly for photos—a tight hour of partying for the camera and then off to bed.

“The bride needs her beauty sleep.”

You didn’t get a chance to see Elvis again until you were preparing to walk down the aisle. There had been no rehearsal, you had no idea how it was going to go.

The ceremony happened fast, like everything else. They instructed the two of you on every move you made and had you pause for photos along the way. You said your vows—the generic ones the minister told you to repeat—kissed, and you were escorted directly from the altar into a press conference.

“You just sit there and look pretty, mama,” Elvis said. “I’ll do all the talking.”

You were relieved. You were too overwhelmed by the crowd to speak. You sat by his side without tearing your gaze away from him for more than a minute. You were so deeply and devastatingly in love with him—yet you felt no emotion towards your union. You were married before your eyes and you had no time to react.

“What can we expect from the happy couple moving forward?”

“Keep an eye out for us, you’ll see.”

You were whisked away directly for your “honeymoon.” In reality, you spent hours on a plane by yourself back to Memphis—Elvis was going to be away filming in Los Angeles and you were on your way back home.

You hadn’t had a moment alone with Elvis since the night before the wedding and most of that time was spent calling around trying to get it canceled. You didn’t want to leave without speaking to him, but you didn’t get the chance.

“I need to talk to you,” You tried to tell him as he walked you to your flight. There were people on either side of each of you—obstructing the paparazzi’s view.

“Go up with Ray,” He said, gesturing to the stairway of the plane. “I’ll see you back at the house.”

“Elvis,” You said, still trying to get through to him.

“It’s okay, birdie.” He kissed your forehead before you were being ushered up the steps.

“No.”

“I love you, okay?”

You caught a final glimpse of his back as he was rushed to his car. You were on your way back to the house you had left in a frenzy two days prior. You should’ve felt different. Or maybe you were expecting too much.

Andrea was already at Graceland when you arrived. She greeted you as you walked through the door.

“Mrs. Presley,” She said, hugging you. “Welcome to your honeymoon.”

“Wow.” You looked around the foyer. “It’s everything I ever wanted.”

There was a party happening downstairs but you weren’t sure it had anything to do with you. There was always a party downstairs. A constant conjugation of people.

“You aren’t going to spend every day lying by the phone are you?”

“No, Andrea. I told you, I’m just tired.”

She slumped onto the end of the bed. “You aren’t pregnant, are you?”

You were bewildered by the question. “No, why would you ask?”

“It’s been a week since you’ve gotten out of bed.”

“It has not.”

“It has.”

“It’s Tuesday.”

“It’s Friday.”

Time passed like that whenever he was away. You had thought you escaped that feeling forever but you were being reminded of it all over again. The days didn’t matter without him, they were too long and too demanding.

“Serena and Liz are here,” Andrea continued. She stripped the duvet from your legs and stood to turn the lights on. “There are people here to take your picture.”

You complained and shielded your eyes. “The same people from the other day?”

“The same people,” She confirmed. “They’ve been coming every day. They want you sitting somewhere downstairs.”

“Sitting?”

“That’s what they said.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because it’s a special day.”

“Is it?”

Andrea revealed a tiny black box with a red bow wrapped around it. It only dawned on you then that you had forgotten your own birthday throughout all the hustle and bustle of the last few days. “Consider it a birthday/late wedding gift.”

“You shouldn’t have gotten me anything,” You said, taking the gift. “I completely forgot about it.”

“I didn’t,” She said. “You’re my best friend.”

You were instructed to sit outside with Andrea as you were served sweet tea and lemonade.

“Where’s Nancy?”

“Maybe she didn’t want to be on film.”

They wanted footage of you around Graceland doing everyday things. They wanted insight into what your everyday life was like here—married to the king. Expect, he wasn’t here, and you were being forced to smile in his absence.

“Just pretend they aren’t there,” Andrea said in a grumble. She wasn’t too keen on being photographed but she set herself aside to avoid you looking like a lunatic having lemonade alone.

“What do they want from me?”

“Maybe we should start dancing.”

You laughed.

After the photographers left, you retreated back into the bedroom to continue to wait by the phone. Andrea griped about going out—to which you reminded her that you’d be attacked or worse if you dared to venture out.

“There has to be some way to get out and get a decent drink,” She argued. “Serena can’t call anyone?”

“I don’t want to worry her.”

“What’s his name that follows you around everywhere?”

“Ray.”

“Tell Ray to get a car and call the bar to tell them you’re coming.”

You shook your head. “I’m not supposed to go out without Elvis.”

She scoffed. “He’s probably out having the time of his life.”

“I doubt it. We can drink downstairs.”

“What is this, a five star resort?”

You smiled wearily. You didn’t want to go out anyway. The phone rang, startling you delightfully. You glanced at Andrea, who understood immediately.

“I’m going.” She stood to leave. “Tell him I said hi.”

“I’m really going to.” You laughed as she left, bringing the phone to your ear. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“…Joel?” Your eyes widened in shock.

“Hey,” He chuckled in a tone so casual it made you ill.

“Hi.” You sounded reserved as a result of your shock.

“I-I figured I’d get you here,” He said. “I’m sorry to call out of nowhere like this I just…I saw the news.”

You deflated, eyes closed. With everything else happening you hadn’t even taken a moment to consider how Joel would feel. You felt immensely guilty that he had heard the news of everything from the media and not directly from you.

“God, Joel, I’m so sorry.” You suppressed the urge to cry. “I should‘ve called~”

“It’s fine.”

“It…it all happened so fast.”

He hesitated for a moment. “Yeah, it did.”

“I’m not just saying that, I swear,” You said. “I didn’t even know it was happening. None of us did…”

“That’s kind of what the guys were saying.”

“Do you still talk with them?”

“Yeah, we’re like family, so…”

You nodded. The circles you were tracing into your knee began to blur with tears as you spoke. “How’s New York?”

He hummed indifferently. “It’s quiet in some places.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Who knew?”

You laughed, trying not to alert him to the fact that you were crying. “Are you happy?”

“I’m figuring it out.”

“That’s good.”

“Are you?”

“Hm?”

“Are you happy?”

“I am.”

For some reason, you felt like you were telling a lie. You were happy. There had been moments in the past few weeks that you felt you couldn’t possibly be happier. But there was a part of you that clung to whatever heartache you had left. Perhaps you wanted to punish yourself with it or use it as a reminder that you weren’t completely heartless.

Joel was silent on the other line but you hadn’t noticed until he spoke again. “I’m glad. Congratulations.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. That’s not why I called.”

“Why did you call?”

He seemed to hesitate before saying—

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Oh…well, thank you.”

“I wanted to say also…” He started. “A-And I don’t want you to think I’m tryin to talk you out of your decision or anything, it's just…it’s a lot happening all at once. It’d be a lot for anyone. So…don’t feel obligated to be something you aren’t because you love a person.”

“…Thank you for saying that.”

“…Anyway, I better let you off of here,” He said, laughing shortly. “I’ll see you in the paper I guess.”

“Yeah.” You cleared your throat. “Don’t have too much fun in New York.”

“I’ll try my best. Take care.”

“You too.”

“O-Oh and, uh, happy birthday.”

You closed your eyes, smiling softly. “Thank you, Joel.”

“Bye now,” He chuckled.

“Bye,” You said, waiting to hear the line go dead before hanging up.

You sat there for a moment, standing abruptly in search of the scrap of paper you used to write down the number of where Elvis was staying. Whoever answered gave you the run around for a while before actually putting you through.

“Who are you again?”

“His wife.”

He answered with an overly delicate tone—one that told you that his failure to touch base hadn’t gone unnoticed even by himself.

“Hey, everything alright?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m~ What do you mean where am I, honey? I’m working.”

You sat down on the edge of the bed. “It’s been a week since I’ve seen or heard from you.”

“Has it?”

“It has.”

“It’s Tuesday already?”

“It’s Friday.”

He tried to dismiss the argument. “You know how time slips away.”

You hummed, agitated. “Yeah, it does that when I don’t hear from you for weeks too.”

“Birdie,” He chided. “Are you checkin up on me?”

“No.” He laughed on the other line. “It’s not funny. When were you gonna call? Next month? Never? I mean, it’s my birthday today. Did you know that?”

“Did I know that?” He asked. “Of course I knew that.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not just kicked back havin a goddamn party, honey, I have shit to do while I’m here~”

“I’m not debating that, E, I just thought you’d call.”

“I was going to.”

“Were you?”

“I’m so glad to hear your voice. It’s like music to my ears.”

“Elvis~”

“I’m sorry you couldn’t stay up here with us, I don’t think it was really a part of the plan before the wedding and everything.”

“It’s fine~”

“Next time I’m gonna bring you with me, show you what Hollywood is like. What do you think?”

“That’d be nice.”

He promised that he would make it happen. You didn’t care if you were together in Memphis or LA, you only wanted to be near him.

“How d’you like Serena and Ray?” He asked.

“I feel bad for them.” You smiled when he laughed. “I don’t see what they’re here for. I don’t go anywhere or do anything.”

“They’re there to make sure you’re taken care of, that’s all. To protect you.”

“I wouldn’t need them to protect me if you were here.”

“I know, baby. What do you want me to do?”

There was nothing he could do. He could stay on the phone and talk to you for a couple of hours but it wouldn’t do any good.

“Birdie?”

“Joel called me a minute ago.”

You weren’t trying to evoke any specific reaction, but looking back now, telling Elvis about the call seemed like nothing more than a desperate grab for attention. He didn’t sound like he felt any particular way about it when he responded.

“Did he?”

“Yes,” You said, guilelessly.

“What’d he say?” There was a slight uptake to the end of his sentence—was he irritated with you?

“Nothing really, just congratulations and everything.”

“‘Congratulations?’”

He didn’t sound convinced.

“He said he wanted to make sure I was okay.”

“Well, I’m sure you thought that was nice and everything, honey, but he doesn’t need to concern himself with your well-being.”

“Elvis,” You said admonishingly. “He’s an old friend.”

“Old friend my ass.” He laughed shortly. “Don’t play with me.”

“I’m not. It was a harmless call.”

“So harmless you’re running to tell me?”

“‘Running to tell?’ Please.”

“I don’t care if you talk to him, I just think he should speak to me first.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my wife. I don’t want him getting any ideas about worming his way back in.”

You laughed, mostly at the thought of Joel ‘worming his way’ back into your life. You loved him—he loved you too, undeniably. However, you’d gone past a certain point with him and there was no going back. The spell was broken and any magic you once had with him was gone.

“I don’t think he’ll call again,” You said. “I’m telling you as a courtesy.”

“Well, I appreciate it.” He shifted on the other line with a sigh. “I’m gonna have to get offa here, baby. They need me.”

I need you, you thought. “Okay.”

“I’m gonna see about getting you and Andrea out here for the last week or so,” He said. “I’ll tell Parker it’s for the press.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. That way I can keep an eye on you.”

You didn’t realize that that would be the last time the two of you would be apart for more than forty-eight hours.

You seldom parted. You were either by his side or within his vicinity. Eventually it became the new normal for you to always be together. It was uncomfortable at first, being around the guys.

You had a feeling they hated you.

*

“What?”

“Where is she?”

“Getting dressed.”

You rushed out of the bathroom—fully dressed for the day—to meet Andrea at the bedroom door. Elvis was off from filming again for a few months and your days had been filled with only each other. Andrea was there, sent by the other guys to get you away so that they could have him.

“They want you downstairs,” She said to Elvis—arms crossed and lips slightly pursed.

“Tell them I’m busy.”

“What am I, your messenger?”

“Are you theirs?”

“Yeah, in exchange for some human decency.”

You stopped them before they kept going. “We were headed downstairs anyway. Right, baby?”

He put his arm around you. “That’s right, baby.”

“I actually need to talk to you about something,” Andrea said to you. “It can’t wait. It’s too important.”

You stepped towards her—concerned. “Is everything alright?”

“Birdie,” Elvis said expectantly, waiting for you to come with him.

“We’re only gonna be a second,” You said with an apologetic expression as you ushered Andrea into the room. “I left something in the bathroom anyway.”

“Straight down when you’re done,” He said, leaning in to kiss your cheek. You smiled and he left.

“What’s wrong, Drea?”

“Nothing, I just said that so he’d go away.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve been inseparable and we’re all suffering because of it.”

You laughed. “Suffering how?”

“Do you realize that I don’t know a single person in this house apart from you?” She sat down on the edge of the bed. “Ray and Serena aren’t even around to talk to these days.”

“I don’t really know them either,” You said, going to the bathroom. “I haven’t even spoken to some of them.”

“It’s not the same. You’re with Elvis.” She met you at the bathroom door, watching as you opened the pill bottle that you’d gotten off the counter. “Again?”

“They help me relax,” You said. “Do you want one? They’re harmless.”

“No.” She continued watching you.

“I’m sorry I haven’t made time for you lately,” You said. “It’s so hard. Nothing exists when we’re together.”

“You poor things.”

“We should head down now.”

Andrea insisted that the two of you go for a round of cards in the sitting room or a walk outside. You agreed for a change—mostly because you felt guilty for not spending time with her.

You had managed to get away that afternoon and you decided to make it up to her. You spent the day relaxing and catching up on some self care. It was a welcomed break that you didn’t know you needed. You had gotten so caught up with her that night had fallen before you realized how late it was.

“It’s the same thing every time,” Andrea complained as you laid in her bed watching television—a fresh coat of polish adorning your nails. “Why do they even bother?”

“You really expect them to get off the island every episode?”

“Isn’t that the point?”

There was a knock at the door that cut your rebuttal short. You looked at Andrea who shrugged and stood carefully to answer it.

“What, Red?” She asked when she saw who it was, a twinge of annoyance lying under her tone.

“He wants the girl,” Red said in a similar tone, obviously forced to fetch you.

You stood to put your clothes back on—Andrea had given you something more comfortable to wear earlier.

“Is that a question or what?”

“Can you send her upstairs?”

“Please?”

“Please.”

“First of all, Red, the girl has a name, and second she’s not here.”

You stopped shuffling around the room to listen.

“What do you mean she ain’t here?”

“I mean she’s not here.”

“She’s supposed to be.”

“Well, she isn’t.”

Red sighed—you pictured him contemplating his next move. “So, what am I supposed to tell ‘im?”

Andrea laughed. “Hell if I know or care.”

“Where the hell is she, Andrea?”

“I don’t know. I’m not her keeper.”

They stood there for a moment, Andrea reveling silently. Red eventually left, mumbling under his breath about going to find you. She shut the door and faced you.

“You should’ve seen the look on his face,” She said through her laughter as she walked back over to her bed. “He’s scared shitless.”

“You shouldn’t play games like that,” You said, laughing despite yourself. “He’s going to want to know where I am.”

“I know, but let’s give him time to squirm at least,” She said, gesturing for you to sit back down. “Come on, humor me a little. This is the most fun I’ve had in weeks.”

You hesitated—you knew you had a choice whether to stay or go, you just didn’t know which outcome you’d rather face. You could stay, but you’d hardly enjoy yourself knowing Elvis would be worried. He’d think you were missing or that you ran off when Red tells him that he couldn’t find you. But leaving meant ruining the night for Andrea, and you were supposed to be making up for abandoning her.

She spoke again. “You can call and tell him you’re with me if it’ll make you feel better. Or you can go, really. It’s just a stupid joke.”

You shook your head, forcing a short laugh as you spoke. “N-No. You’re right.”

“About what?”

“I-I don’t know…you’re always right.”

You laughed nervously and rejoined her on the bed. The phone rang—you both knew who it was.

“Don’t answer it,” You said before she could. “It’s fine.”

The silence between the two of you as the phone rang out was tense, and uncomfortable—at least it was for you. Eventually it stopped ringing and all that remained was the sound of the television.

“Do you think they’ll make it out this time?”

“I sure hope so.”

[scaly-freaks]

letter to inmate 13453-079

I'm not meant to write letters to you anymore.

They let me do it at first, said it would help with the 'therapy.' All these unsent reams of paper crumbling under the pressure of the red ballpoint. Dad got me a montblanc pen. I think he thought I'd like it because I used to 'write' a lot when I was a kid. I keep it in the little box it came in and let Cannibal play with it sometimes. A pen is meant to be used and worn-down, not all fancy and shiny. It reminds me of those polished beetle shells you used to bring me when I was good. Does your sister still collect them? I saw her at court during your sentencing, but they wouldn't let me talk to her. She mouthed something but I couldn't make it out. Her smile reminded me of yours. They all thought I was crying because I was relieved. He'll be locked up till he's dead, they said. He can't hurt you anymore.

They looked happier for themselves than they did for me but I've never been good at reading people's emotions well so I don't know.

I learned yours, still remember them. Does your baby finger still tremble right before you hit someone? They keep writing articles about you. I don't think they actually hate you at all. You're young, handsome and evil. America loves that. I'm not supposed to read about you. I do it anyway. They said you've got another life sentence on top of the first because you cut the face off that kiddy-diddler and wore it to frighten the guards. I pictured you giggling and I couldn't stop laughing. It woke Val up.

He's six now, and he doesn't like living in my parents' house. He asks about you a lot. Still calls you Krampus. I finally told him you're his dad, but I don't think he understands yet what that means. He thinks I'm his only parent and that I grew him from a flower one day and watered him with all my love. I tell him that's why he came out so pretty. He asks so many questions, sometimes I get frustrated and shout at him to shut up. That's when he cries and tells me he likes you better, and demands to know where you are and that you never yell at him.

I didn't tell my family you carved that baby dragon for him. They'd take it off him. I said I made it and they said I'm very talented and oh poor thing, you must have been so lonely down there, you probably needed all the distraction you could get.

So, I've started whittling now. That's my thing. The smell of it reminds me of you, wood shavings and petrichor and that bitter tinge of gun smoke you'd never explain.

Val's hair is down to his back. He says he wants to cut it short like yours, but I don't want to just yet. I'm still attached to brushing it every night. He has that Hightower dimple in his chin, and the wrinkle on his nose and between his brow when he's annoyed, just like you. He started kicking the other children at school so we had to pull him out and we're trying homeschooling now. My family would never say it out loud, but I know they look at him and wonder if he has more of you in him than he does me. It's the violence of his tantrums, I think.

They all pretend to be so very 'understanding' but the truth is, they want us both to get better quickly so they can continue with their lives and go back to pretending everything is fine. When they thought I was dead, that you killed me the same night you snatched me off that dark street, they got their closure and they moved on after grieving. Now the wound is ripped open again. They've forgotten how to tend to it. It's been too long.

Anyway, I don't know how to end this.

Bye, I guess.

a lipstick print is pressed to the bottom of the page, the pucker weak, as if she hesitated.

[megidonitram]

Everyone's Running From Something (ch.3)

A Baldur's Gate 3 University Professor AU

Rating: M

Quick Summary: Astarion and Gale are two University English professors precariously mentoring a troubled 19-year-old and falling in love.

💖Main Pairing : BloodWeave,(Astarion/Gale) 💕Side Pairings: Shadowheart/Nocturne, Karlach/Dammon, Wyll/The Dark Urge, Tav/Tav 💔Past Pairings: Gale/Mystra, Astarion/Sebastian, Astarion/Tav

<=Previous Chapter | Master List | Ao3 | Next Chapter =>

**Please see Master List Entry for Full Content Warnings**

⏰Chapter Warning⏰ None

Astarion took a lap around the building to cool off before returning to his office- The last thing he needed was Gale asking him how he was doing after that little shit-show. Korrilla had also given him something of a runaround after he left Raphael’s office. She accidentally printed his requested forms on legal-size paper (because she forgot that she didn’t restock the printer before break) and then wasn’t sure if being in the wrong formatting would invalidate the paperwork, so Astarion had to wait for her to go get a fresh package of printer paper from the supply closet in the basement, which made him feel like a dick because she had to climb four flights of stairs to do that.

The problem with Korrilla was that Astarion never knew if she was in on Raphael’s torment or if she was just making a series of human mistakes because he made her nervous- though neither answer made the interaction any less annoying.

When Astarion got back to his office, Gale was still there. He was flipping through a heavily marked-up handbook on technical writing for business communications, staring at the pages as if he were either heavily engrossed by the reading -unlikely- or trying to light the damn thing on fire. It only made sense once he stepped into the room and saw Xenia posted up in the corner on her phone.

“Ah, Miss Bellona. Exactly who I was hoping to run into.” Astarion said, snapping the tension in the room like a loose thread. Gale nearly jumped out of his skin. “You look terrible.”

Xenia looked up at him with narrowed eyes, chewing one of her nails on her good hand. “I’ve had a rough few months.” She replied in that flat, desperately-trying-not-to-care tone that made her so fun to tease.

“I’ve heard. What do you need help with?” He slapped down his stack of paperwork on his desk and sat at his computer. Astarion saw Gale watching him wide-eyed, and he wondered how much Gale had pried while he was gone.

“I wanted to get the assignment sheets for my missing work from Survey of Gothic Literature,” Xenia said. Gale casually turned in his chair and pretended to rearrange the books on his shelf, giving them the courtesy of at least pretending to check-out of their conversation. “I thought I should get started on finishing that before the rest of my classes start…”

“Of course, you dropped off around Project… 4, was it? I think I kept a folder with your missing assignments somewhere.” With a few keystrokes, Astarion’s computer lurched back to life, fan buzzing as the machine recalibrated after being shut off for a month straight.

“I think the last thing I turned in was the 2nd character study…” Xenia replied. “…or maybe I just finished it- do you recall reading a paper from me about Miss Jessel?”

“I don’t, but I’ve read nearly a thousand bad-to-mediocre composition papers since then, so it’s likely I just forgot.” Astarion clicked through the expired Canvas shell to skim the grade book and determine which assignments he needed to pull.

“Oh, so my writing's mediocre?”

“I’m sorry, your 1200-word sophomore-level essay demonstrated a pure mastery of your craft. How foolish of me to forget when the beauty of your words brought me to tears.”  Astarion scoffed. He found the file folder he was looking for and printed it off. “Gale, I know you’re terribly busy, but could you grab those papers from the 2nd floor breakroom?”

“Absolutely!” Gale was on his feet and heading for before the request had fully left Astarion’s mouth. He gave Xenia a friendly smile. “Back in a flash!”

“Take your time.” The comment came out a lot more passive-aggressive than Astarion meant it. He watched Gale leave the room and listened for the stairwell door to open and close. Astarion turned back to Xenia. “What did you say to him?”

Xenia shrugged. “He asked about my dad, and I told him that I stabbed him to death.”

“Did you happen to… elaborate on that?”

“No, he didn’t ask.”

Astarion sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know, if you want people to stop treating you like a freak, you’ll have to stop acting like one.”

Xenia crossed her good arm in front of herself and pouted. “It’s not like someone wouldn’t have told him anyways.”

“Probably, but even a complete stranger would make you seem at least a little saner,” Astarion replied.

Xenia went quiet for a moment, her lips twisting into a disgruntled snarl. Her eyes drifted to the water-stained ceiling tiles. Astarion sort of understood her twisted logic. There were a lot of people on campus who treated her like a ticking time bomb, regardless of whether they knew her exact circumstances or not. If people would be convinced that she was a monster regardless, perhaps it was better if she was the one doing the convincing- at least then she was in control. It hurts less to meet someone's rotten expectations than to try your hardest and fail to prove them wrong.

“I suppose you want to know what happened last semester?” she muttered.

“Tell me or don’t.” Astarion shrugged. “I could not care less.”

Xenia rolled her eyes. “You’re such a dick.”

“What I am is a mandatory reporter, so think carefully about what you want to tell me- unless you like filling out copious amounts of paperwork,” Astarion said. “Do you need the reading materials? I could just lend you my anthology since you’re the only one left in the class.”

“I’ve still got my book from last year…” Xenia replied, mind still very clearly elsewhere. “…Do you have siblings?”

Astarion paused. “Yes. 6 of them. Why?”

“How do you refer to them… like in your mind? Do you call them your siblings?”

“I don’t think of the much anymore, honestly. But I suppose when I do, I think of them as their first names.” Astarion sighed. “Is there something you actually wanted to talk to me about?”

“I’m having trouble figuring out how to think of my sister,” Xenia admitted. “I guess she was never really my sister, and she was never really to blame, but…”

“You’re allowed to be angry at her,” Astarion replied. “I think you should be, frankly.”

Xenia mulled over his words for a moment, and Astarion could see her run her tongue along the inside of her cheek, absent-mindedly tracing the contours of her scar. She opened her mouth to say something, but the door in the stairwell creaked open, and she clamed up, wary of being overheard.

***

Gale felt horribly selfish for wanting to bolt out of the office as badly as he did. He wanted Xenia to feel comfortable and safe around him -the poor thing seemed like she’d been through enough- but he’d locked up. It wasn’t difficult for Gale to surmise that she probably didn’t commit patricide for the fun of it- those kinds of actions are usually born out of extreme desperation. However, whenever he thought about trying to relate to her or lift the mood, the impulse was killed by some strange insistence that he was being too personal, too forthcoming, too intimate.

He envied the ease with which Astarion had struck up a rapport with her- it seemed that despite his posturing, Astarion did, in fact, have a few soft spots. Gale told himself that it was because Astarion had leagues more experience in these departments than he did, but still, he worried. This was the first time he’d been on a college campus purely as a professional, and it felt a lot more daunting than he’d ever imagined.

It took Gale a hot minute of wandering around on the wrong floor to figure out Astarion meant “second floor” in the standard British English sense of the phrase, and the break room was actually located on the third floor. He collected the small stack of orphaned papers from the tray next to the copier and returned to Astarion’s -his- office.

Xenia was still there, Idle chatting about the books she’d read while in involuntary hold. “Do you teach V.C. Andrews? She’d gothic lit, isn’t she?”

“I’m not much of an Americanist,” Astarion replied. “If I’m forced to teach Southern Gothic authors, I tend to gravitate towards Falkner.”

“Not Poe?”

Astarion gave her a derisive look, but Gale handed the stack of papers before he could respond. He flipped through to ensure everything was in order and handed them over to Xenia. “You’ve got two more plot summaries, a thematic analysis, and a comparative essay for the final. Work on them at your leisure.”  

Xenia took the papers and tossed them in the tattered messenger bag she’d brought without a second glance. “Thanks!” She said. “Is there anything else I need?”

Astarion put a hand on the paperwork he’d brought in with him, thumbing over the corner before he shot a scrutinizing look over at Gale. “Yes… but we’ll talk about it later.” He said.

“Alight, see you around then.” Xenia shrugged and slung her bag over her good shoulder but didn’t quite get it, and the strap slid down her arm, catching hard in the crook of her elbow. She let out a frustrated groan.

“Here, allow me.” Gale stepped forward and looped the strap comfortably over her shoulder.

Xenia cocked her head and gave Gale a thoughtful look, her dark eyes piercing right through him. “Thank you…” she muttered before she turned and hurried out of the office.

“She seems…” Gale trailed off. He wasn’t sure what Xenia seemed like; he’d never met a murderer before- at least not to his knowledge.

“Shorter than you’d thought she’d be?” Astarion asked flippantly, reclining in his chair. That was fair; Gale had a hard time imagining how someone as little and frail as Xenia could overpower a full-grown man, boxcutter or no.

“Did she really-”

“Self-defense,” Astarion answered several questions ahead. “I don’t suggest asking her anything else about it. She didn’t have a particularly pleasant home life.”

“I’d imagine not,” Gale replied, sitting back down at his desk. He tried his credentials again- still nothing. “-do you know how long it should take for me to be put in the university’s system?”

“Surely you should be in by now…” Astarion replied. He moved to look over Gale’s shoulder. He was so close Gale could feel his breath tickling the back of his neck- he had to suppress a shiver.

Astarion said something, pointing at the computer screen. He had such striking eyes, such a warm brown that they were almost red.

Gale completely missed what. “Sorry?”

“Try logging in without the server address,” Astarion repeated a slight edge in his voice. “Everything after the ‘at’ symbol.”

“Right.” Gale deleted the back half of his username and tried again. The computer loaded and loaded and loaded.

“That’s typically a good sign. Computers on campus take forever to log you on the first time.” Astarion said. He picked up the picture of Yenna and examined it dispassionately. “Cute kid, is she yours?”

“Ah, no… that’s my niece.” Gale felt suddenly and incredibly self-conscious. “I’ve always wanted my own, but it wasn’t in the cards, I’m afraid.”

The admission shocked him slightly, but he supposed it was true. Mystra had never wanted kids, and Gale wanted to keep her pleased, so he went along with that. But Gale had always loved kids. He’d been so excited when Yenna was born that he could hardly put her down. Still, when people asked him and Mystra if they were planning on having kids, he’d just nod dutifully while she explained that he was too focused on his career to think about kids.

“Shame,” Astarion said, setting the picture frame back down.

Gale’s computer screen went black, and then an empty Windows desktop appeared. Success!

“Just in time to log out for the all-hands meeting!” Astarion exclaimed looking at his watch.

“Naturally…” Gale sighed.

[yakkolicious-writing]

The Obituary

"Graveyard at Night" by Rennett Stowe, Modifications: Resized to 3000x1055 pixels is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family Fandom: Animaniacs Central Relationship: Yakko, Dot, & Wakko Warner Wordcount: 2,612 words Summary: Yakko knew something was off about today, and he was right. Today, a certain "special friend" of the Warners, one Yakko didn't like to think about, made his way into the morning paper, forcing Yakko to confront his regrets with how he dealt with the situation. With Dot and Wakko's love and support, can Yakko realize that one mistake, no matter how severe, does not determine his worth as a person? Warnings: This story discusses death and uncomfortable implications of "Chairman of the Bored," a segment of Animaniacs 1993. Rating: T. Not suitable for younger audiences.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56754184

This is probably the single most angsty fic I've written. Lately I've been struggling to continue Animaniacs (I actually haven't seen the full series yet), but Chairman of the Bored is my single least favorite segment, mostly because of Pip Pumphandle, the special friend the Warners have in that episode. If you haven't seen Chairman of the Bored yet... brace yourself. It's something, to say the least. I wrote this fic to give myself some closure so I can get back to watching the show. I hope you enjoy this!

There was something off about today. Yakko didn’t know what it was, but he could just tell something was off. Everything seemed normal in Burbank today: the morning sky was a peaceful light blue, the sun shone just as brightly as it always did, the birds sang happily, and the Warner Bros. staff were just as busy as ever. Surely anyone else would’ve said this was a normal day. If the day seemed so normal though, then why did Yakko feel like something strange was going to happen?

Yakko jumped out of the tower and grabbed the morning newspaper. Yakko liked to stay informed, and his way of doing that was reading newspapers. Maybe it was a little old-fashioned, but he liked the way the papers felt in his hands, and seeing the words in print made them easier for him to take in. Yakko smiled at his unread paper before jumping back up to the water tower and opening the door. He saw Wakko and Dot sitting at the kitchen table. Wakko was busy scarfing down a copious number of grapes, while Dot adjusted the cute little yellow flower in her ears: normal sibling stuff. Yakko closed the door behind him and grinned at the paper.

“Morning paper!” Yakko exclaimed in a singsong voice.

“Yeah yeah,” Dot said, “you got your newspaper.”

“Sis, it’s important to keep up with world events and the news,” Yakko explained, “it keeps ya smart, and knowledge is power.”

“But it’s so depressing!” Wakko whined.

“Yeah, sometimes,” Yakko replied, “but sometimes there’s something sweet in here! Or something really satisfying.”

“Satisfying.” As Yakko said that, he felt his stomach drop. Why? It was just a word. What was his body trying to tell him? Should he not have said that? Was something satisfying going to happen? Was something unsatisfying going to happen? There were so many things that it could be that it just left Yakko confused and worried. This day was shaping up to be anything but normal, and not in the “having fun with his siblings” kind of way.

Yakko sighed and opened the newspaper. As he flipped through the black-and-white pages, he saw the usual stuff: political news, the weather, sports coverage, comics with art styles that screamed that they’ve been going for a while, and the daily crossword puzzle, Yakko’s favorite. Yakko took a moment to examine the crossword and its clues for a moment, his tail wagging as he did so. Dot looked over at Yakko, saw his tail wagging, and giggled.

“Aw, does Yakko love his crosswords?” Dot asked.

Yakko promptly grabbed his tail and only let go when he was certain it had stopped wagging, not saying a word to Dot. Then, he resumed looking through the newspaper. Eventually, Yakko saw the obituaries. Obituaries, though not as gloomy as the political news, were still quite depressing. Usually, Yakko would skim through the obituaries with a frown before moving onto something else, just so he could have the knowledge, and that’s what he tried to do today. Yakko looked at the obituaries and saw if there was anything interesting. At first, everything seemed normal: a seventy-eight-year-old man who died of a heart attack, a ninety-year-old woman who passed peacefully in her sleep, a forty-two-year-old father who died of cancer. Yakko didn’t know any of these people, but they seemed like fine people who were very loved, and he felt sorry for their loved ones. This is why the obituaries were so gloomy: it was always the better people who ended up on those pages. Sometimes someone who was a bit more morally dubious ended up on the pages, but it wasn’t too common.

As Yakko read through the obituaries, he saw something unusually interesting. A sixty-three-year-old man was hit by a bus. His eyes bulged, alerting Wakko and Dot.

“What did you find, Yakko?” Dot asked.

“This is the most interesting obituary I’ve read in a while,” Yakko began, “this old guy got hit by a bus!”

“Whoa!” Wakko said.

“Is there anything else?” Dot asked.

“Let me see,” Yakko replied.

Yakko began to read the obituary in more detail.

“He was hit by a bus on July 15th,” he began, “he was known for his rich life experiences and his strong desire for human connection. Family members remember his stories about his many meetings with celebrities fondly for how they aided their sleep. In his spare time, he could be found socializing at parties and bonding with people over cheese balls.”

The Warners’ faces sunk. Now, Yakko knew why today felt so off. Yakko read the title of the obituary. It read “Pumphandle, Francis ‘Pip.’” He looked at the photograph next to the obituary, and there was Pip’s face. The same droopy eyelids, slightly wrinkled face, and bald spot on the top of his head as there was when the Warners first had the misfortune of meeting him. Wakko and Dot leaned over to read the newspaper, and they saw Pip’s photograph as well.

“Pip died?!” Wakko asked.

“Looks like it,” Yakko answered.

“He was so young!” Dot cried, “well, actually, not really, but still.”

“Whoever wrote this sounds like they couldn’t come up with a lot of nice things to say about him,” Wakko said.

“Yeah, I think you’re right, Wakko,” Yakko replied, “seriously, who would actually put that he ‘bonds with people over cheese balls’ in an obituary unless you had nothing really nice to say about him but don’t want to be mean? That’s like saying a cult leader had great people skills!”

The Warners smiled and laughed at Yakko’s joke and how ridiculous the obituary was. However, after a moment, Yakko’s smile faded into a frown and his laughter died. He looked away from his siblings as they hooted and hollered, Dot occasionally cackling like a witch on helium. Wakko and Dot didn’t seem to notice that Yakko stopped laughing, and when Yakko noticed that, he sighed. He handed the newspaper to Dot, who took it without hesitation, and sat crisscross on the sofa.

Yakko had a lot of feelings about the day they met Pip. To say that day was a good one for him and his siblings would be the worst lie ever told. Pip would not stop talking about the time he met Bob Barker, and he would do anything to finish his story. When the Warners tried to leave, Pip was on the bus they were on. When they got home, Pip was inside the water tower. The Warners got no sleep that night thanks to Pip. Pip even decided he would take part in their bedtime routine at the same time as the Warners. Why Pip thought that was a good idea is a mystery that Yakko will never know the answer to. What Yakko did know was that Pip decided to sit in the bathtub with him and Wakko, and when it was time for bed, Pip had claimed Wakko’s bed before Wakko could, forcing the brothers to share Yakko’s. The Warners didn’t do anything to Pip other than make sarcastic jokes at his expense: he wasn’t outright hostile to them in the way a lot of unscrupulous figures they met were. Even then, Pip was so determined to tell his story that he didn’t seem to care that the Warners didn’t like him. Pip eventually left, but the silence he left was so deafening that the Warners chased him down, begging for another story: they didn’t find him, much to Yakko’s relief looking back.

It was only after Pip had been gone for a few days that Yakko let what he did to him and his siblings sink in. Pip had basically stalked him and his siblings, got in the bath with him and Wakko, and stole Wakko’s bed all for a story that ended in Bob Barker eating a bologna and cheese ball sandwich. Yakko was horrified that he let this happen. The Warners didn’t have any trusted adults in their lives. The closest was Dr. Scratchansniff, but he could be a killjoy sometimes. Yakko wouldn’t dare tell Scratchansniff about Pip anyways: it would only tell him that he was a failure of an older brother. Without any trusted adults, Yakko was often seen as the guardian of the Warners. He didn’t like to be seen as a father figure, just a cool older brother, and Wakko and Dot helped to take care of him too some days, but as the oldest of the Warners, he felt it was his job to make sure the chaos that he and his siblings got into wasn’t too much for them. This was absolutely too much. By not hitting Pip with a mallet or crushing him with an anvil when he had the chance, Yakko put not only himself, but also his siblings in danger. Most days, Yakko tried not to think about it, but now, Pip was relevant again. He was gone, but he only recently died, meaning that Yakko had to think about Pip and their fateful meeting once more. He hated thinking about it. It was a cruel reminder that something needed to be done, but nothing was done. For Yakko, it made him feel like the worst person on the planet.

It was only when Dot realized she was holding the newspaper that she realized that Yakko moved. She stopped laughing and looked around the tower before seeing Yakko on the couch. She elbowed Wakko to get him to stop laughing, and he too looked at Yakko.

“What’s wrong, Yakko?” Wakko asked.

“Why’d you move?” Dot added.

“I’m thinking about when we met Pip,” Yakko said, “how he wouldn’t stop shaking our hands… we traded each other off… we tried to run away from him but he followed us home… he… he got in the bath with me and Wakko! He stole Wakko’s bed! And I did nothing about it!”

Wakko and Dot’s eyes switched focus between each other and Yakko as he ranted. Yakko’s eyes filled with tears, and his fists were clenched in balls of rage. Why did he let that happen? Why did he put his siblings in so much danger? How could he sleep at night? Yakko got up, stormed to his room, and slammed the door behind him. Wakko and Dot’s eyes shrunk when they heard the slam. They exchanged glances, but those glances were all they needed to know that they knew what they needed to do. They jumped out of their chairs and ran to Yakko’s room. They knocked incessantly, Wakko with both of his fists.

“Yakko, open the door!” Wakko cried.

“We’ll bust down your door if we have to,” Dot began, “and then we’ll replace it, because we love ya!”

Dot and Wakko only stopped knocking when they heard Yakko’s footsteps. Yakko opened the door. He looked a lot more tired than he did before he ran off. His eyelids drooped, as did his slightly reddened face. His frown looked plastered on, and it caused his entire face to sag. Wakko and Dot both gave Yakko their best puppy eyes.

“Can we come in?” Dot asked.

“Sure,” Yakko said, “why not.”

Yakko walked back into his room, Dot and Wakko not far behind. Yakko plopped onto his bed, grabbed his pillow, put it against his face, and began to scream into it. Wakko sat next to Yakko and patted his back gently. Dot stood up with her arms crossed.

“Jeez, Yakko, you’re a mess,” she said.

“Dot!” Wakko glared at his little sister.

“OK, OK, maybe that was a little mean,” Dot said, “I’m sorry, Yakko. It’s just… I’ve never seen you this upset before.”

Yakko lifted his head from the pillow and sniffled.

“I hate myself,” Yakko said.

“Don’t hate yourself, Yakko!” Wakko replied, “we’re not mad at you.”

“You should be,” Yakko began, “I’m supposed to be looking out for you guys. Of course, we’re all supposed to look out for one another, it’s what good siblings do, but… I shouldn’t have let him so close to us. I understand he wasn’t exactly a jerk in the same way a lot of the people we meet are, but there’s a point that shouldn’t be crossed, and Pip crossed that point and we did nothing about it. I did nothing about it…”

Dot put her hand on Yakko’s shoulder. He looked at her and sniffled.

“Yakko,” Dot explained, “we’re not mad at you. That was a long time ago. None of us knew what to do with Pip. He was just so… strange, you know?”

“Yeah,” Yakko replied.

“You know, I was mad at you in the moment when you swapped our hands out and made me listen to Pip,” Dot said, “but I don’t think I would’ve done anything differently than you, especially since I swapped myself out for Wakko.”

“Yeah, you did do that,” Wakko replied, “but I probably would’ve swapped myself for one of you two if I had to talk to him first. After eating all those cheese balls, that is.”

Dot, Wakko, and Yakko chuckled, Yakko wiping a tear from his eyes with his finger.

“I just… I just wish things went a little differently that day,” Yakko said.

“Pip drove us crazy, Yakko,” Dot replied, “when he finally left us alone, we wanted to hear more from him! For some reason!”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” Yakko agreed, “but either way, we’ve got each other now, and Pip… well, considering what happened that one time we were in Sweden, I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again anytime soon.”

Wakko and Dot hugged Yakko as tightly as they could. Yakko smiled at each of them for a moment before wrapping his arms around them as well and closing his eyes. The Warners hugged each other for ten minutes straight until they decided they had enough.

“I think I’ve had enough news for one day,” Yakko said.

“Me too,” Wakko added, “all that thinking made me hungry.”

“But you just had a ton of grapes!” Dot replied.

“I know! I’m hungrier now!” Wakko explained.

“I’m a bit, uh, too shaken, right now, to uh, make breakfast or anything like that,” Yakko began, “so why don’t we get dressed up and go out for waffles or something?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” Wakko answered.

“Sounds like a plan to me!” Dot added.

Wakko and Dot ran out of Yakko’s room, and Yakko beamed. He couldn’t change the past. He couldn’t change his feelings. If Yakko could make it so he and his siblings never met Pip Pumphandle, he’d do it in a heartbeat. However, that wasn’t the way the world worked. Life was full of experiences, some fun and others not so much. All that Yakko could do was be the best older brother he could be. He felt he wasn’t perfect by any means, but even after what had happened with Pip, Wakko and Dot still loved him dearly, and that was enough for him. Whether Yakko deserved forgiveness or not was something he wasn’t sure if he would ever know, but if Wakko and Dot felt he did, then that meant the world. Pip was gone now, but Yakko, Wakko, and Dot were still here, together, on the Warner Bros. movie lot, in the water tower, just the three of them. Now, they could enjoy some waffles together, and hopefully, Yakko could move on from the day he and his siblings had the misfortune of meeting Pip. It wouldn’t be easy, but with the two best younger siblings he could ask for by his side, Yakko knew that he had people to lean on.

[hungerpunch]

scraping brain out

sometimes i get frustrated or genuinely confused about why i still struggle with my relationship to my body so much when i'm like.. mostly fine with it these days. why do i still pick my face until it's bloody everywhere when i'm stressed. why do i pull the skin off my lips until they're bleeding and swollen. why am i so, so afraid of being looked at, why does attention make my skin crawl, why do i cringe when people talk about me even if it's positive?

it's like my brain routinely suppresses the reasons and then i remember. oh yeah. i was violently bullied from the ages of 8-18. i was physically attacked by kids of all genders. i was stalked. i was hurt. i was humiliated at every opportunity. verbally degraded at every opportunity. oh yeah, in seventh grade i came to school and someone had tacked up a list of ugliest kids in the grade and i was number three. oh yeah, a girl stole my journal out of my backpack and read pages aloud in the cafeteria to a rapt and mocking audience. everything about me was an easy target. i was super short. i had a flat chest. then i got glasses. then i got acne. then i got braces. my hair was always frizzy and could not be tamed. i was queer and they knew it before i did. they smelled my fear. they were amused by my anger when i tried to fight back. it wasn't even just in school. they appeared at my softball games. they followed me home. i was dragged through a creek, crying and full of thorns from bushes. i was pushed down into a ravine and when i climbed back up they pushed me back down, again and again until it got dark and they had to go home. i was chased and pinned and pinched and spat on and sat on and laughed at and laughed at and laughed at. i had my phone number printed on hundreds of pieces of paper and scattered all over the high school, all over the parking lot, with salacious rumors attached. i had to change my number. people asked me on dates as a joke. people asked me to dances then stood me up, collecting bets from their friends. they drove their cars along the sidewalk and screamed slurs at me. during class they blew spitballs into my hair and my face. they called me dirty because of my acne even though i was sitting in monthly dermatologist appointments, trying new things, obsessively cleaning myself.

adults saw and did nothing. in fact when my attempts to defend myself occasionally drew blood from my abusers, i was the one reprimanded. i couldn't bring myself to tell my parents the extent of it because they thought i was tough and i wanted to be tough. i didn't want to be soft. i didn't want to need help. i didn't want to change schools and leave my handful of friends.

and this is just school kids. i can't even get into family.

i have had profound healing via therapy, about reuniting with my younger self and loving them unconditionally. i know i protected me because nobody else did. i get confused about the way my adult self moves and reacts because my brain keeps this all under a lid, so i can function. then i remember. i get frustrated because i think, shouldn't i be healed by now. shouldn't i be past this. shouldn't i be better adjusted. but the truth is, no. i still haven't let this poison from my blood enough. i think it's important to understanding me as a person. i think it's important to understanding my perspective. i think it's important to understanding i didn't have anything remotely close to a normal childhood. i think it's okay that it still plagues me. i think it's okay.

[anonymous--weirdo]

seven~scott mccall x isaac lahey

Ship: scisaac

Genre: major angst

Warnings: Character Death, Child Abuse, Violence

______________________________________________________________

Scott sat down in the swivel chair by his desk, his pen to the paper, and watched as the blue hue spread into a small circle on the page, yet no words were written. Scott didn’t have them. He wanted to write about the color blue, the ocean, how deep and mysterious it was, and the beauty of swimming in it until you were lost and struggling to find your way back. He wanted to write about melodies that soared through the air and took you to safety and happiness.  Thoughts of true love flooded his mind, the way it makes you feel alive and real. Like you're invincible, and nothing could ever hurt you. He threw the pen onto the desk and placed his head in his hands, tears welling into his eyes in frustration. Then he felt a gentle hand on his back, causing him to flinch away. 

“Scott come on, your mom is downstairs waiting on us. We have to leave man,” Stiles said softly and helped his best friend up from the chair, frowning seeing the state of him. 

Scott didn’t reply as he made his way to the car. He ignored the pitiful looks he got as he sat in the backseat. He looked down and on the floorboard he saw a balled up hoodie with Lahey 14 printed in vinyl on the back. He scooped it up from the floor and cradled it in his arms. He laid his head on the window, soft tears fell down his face as he closed his eyes and got lost in his thoughts. 

   The look on Isaac’s face was ingrained into Scott’s mind when he suggested he should run away and move in with him. The soft shock and almost terror sent chills through Scott’s spine. However, Scott felt he had no other choice. The bruises never stopped, the whimpering and wincing at each little touch didn’t stop and Scott couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted his boyfriend to be safe and so they planned it out, they would leave three nights from then. During the week Isaac would inconspicuously take all of the things he loved and wanted to keep out of the house and move it into Scott’s. The plan was flawless. 

Two days before Isaac was said to move in completely and Scott hadn’t seen Isaac at all. He let his thoughts get the best of him and shot him a text. He was trying to limit the amount of messages they sent each other or how often they talked in the halls of the school. The worry however, was too much for Scott to bear, especially when the situation was so delicate. 

[ Hey, checking in. I haven’t seen you all day and I am worried about you < 3 ] he sent with his bottom lip tucked into his teeth and the phone hidden slightly under the desk. 

[I’m okay darling, just a bit under the weather today. The plan is still a go I promise < 3 I love you] 

Scott read over the message and smiled to himself. He should have known there was nothing to worry about.   

The day had come and Isaac still hadn’t been at school. The worry came back despite the constant texts he received from his boyfriend. The ticking of the clock seemed neverending as he waited for class to end. When the shrill bell rang he exited class and walked down the dreary hallway, rain was never a good thing in Beacon Hills, it made the atmosphere of the entire town eerie and sad. He checked the time and for any new messages from Isaac. He glanced toward Coach Lahey’s office and saw the lights off which was unusual for this time of day, the pool was indoors and it made sense for practice to still be on despite the rain. Being the nosey boy he was, he approached the office and peeked inside, it appeared as if no one had been in it all day and his blood ran ice cold. 

Scott arrived at the Lahey household, the rain pelted against the window of his car. The rough pelting of the rain on his car only made his anxiety increase, his foot pressed the pedal harder as he sped to the Lahey residence. The street lamps passed in a blur as the dark clouds loomed overhead. He almost missed the house due to how fast he was going, he slammed his foot onto the brakes skidding into the driveway as he shoved the gear shift into park. He slung the door open, not bothering to shut the door or even take the keys from the ignition.

He sprinted to the door banging on it, “Isaac!” He screamed and banged harder, “Isaac, baby, open the door! Come on let me in!” he begged and knocked, despite hearing movement in the house no one came to answer the door, “come on Isaac!” he couldn’t take not knowing where his partner was or if he was okay. He kicked right above the door handle and under the dead bolt watching as the door kicked in. 

His eyes were locked on the mess, if Scott wasn’t the forced entry it would have looked like a robbery took place. Each step he took made the floor attempt to whisper a silenced secret, he thought of what the walls would tell him if they could talk. The tragedies they could write would outdo anything Shakespeare ever did. He rounded a corner and saw a large dent in the wall, it looked as if something was slammed into over and over again. As he crept through the house, kicking something, hearing a clink, he looked down and saw broken glass scattered on the floor, a small puddle of blood with it. Then he heard it, a loud groan from the tired floorboards and looked up. That was when he saw him, a grotesque looking man, with dark beady eyes and an animalistic smile. He looked like a boogeyman of sorts, and for Isaac he always had been. 

“If you're looking for Isaac you best be going,” the man smirked, “the brat is long gone. This is your fault, should have just left him alone.” he let out a laugh.

“What did you do to him? You sick son of a bitch! Where is he?” Scott growled at the man. Rage coursed through his veins as he stared at the monster in front of him. This creature  had caused Isaac so much pain and had never once had to face a consequence for it. That ended today. 

Scott lunged at the man causing him to stumble back into the table. Scott’s vision blurred as his fist drew blood from the man’s face. He couldn’t stop himself. With each punch his anger didn’t seize. He shoved him to the ground, the adrenaline fueling his strength and he landed harsh bone cracking kicks to the man's side. 

“Isaac came downstairs!” he called out assuming his boyfriend was hiding in his room, the feeling of the things hands clawing trying to force itself free from his violent clutches did nothing. He glared down into the man's eyes. He rammed his shoe into the other’s chin and watched as his eyes went closed effectively knocking him out. He glanced at the stairs and ran up them into Isaac’s room, it was almost empty. The one thing left was a shattered picture frame of a blonde woman and a four year old Isaac. Scott frowned not seeing Isaac though. 

He sprinted back down the steps and looked around before he saw a door he could have sworn was a portal to hell, he glanced back making sure the monster was still knocked out. He made his way down the steps and saw a deep freezer with a padlock chain on it and the fear set in, he knew where his boyfriend was. Scott ripped the chain lock off the freezer and opened the lid, the top had his name scratched into it alongside it desparte claw marks aching to be let out. He scooped the blonde boy from the freezer, his heartbeat was vacant and Scott screamed. The anguished cries rang down the street as he held Isaac’s body close to his chest placing isaac’s hand over his chest begging for five more minutes as he looked at the other’s fingertips. The blood under his nails was long dried and the soft purple that stained his lips had properly set in. Dark black and blue bruises were littered over his skin and the mark on his back showed what had been thrown into the living room wall repeatedly. The fear in the other’s ocean blue eyes was still evident behind the peace it seemed death had brought them, Scott gently closed his lovers eyes. 

“I should have been here faster, I love you Isaac. I love you so much” he whispered softly and buried his face in the other’s soft blonde curls. Tears dripped onto Isaac’s pale cold skin. He held him closer to his chest refusing to move. Why should he move? Isaac was never going to move again, Scott could spare 10 minutes of the rest of his lifetime to just hold Isaac in a gentle way. 

Scott felt a hand on his back and it forced him to flinch away, he looked up seeing Stiles, his best friend. The thoughts ran through his head. How could he not get there faster?  How could he have let it get this bad? He should have saved him, that was his thing he saved people. And the one person he needed to save the most he couldn’t. 

“Scott, you have to set him down. My dad will be down here in a little bit, this is being treated as a homicide.” Stiles said, “you're lucky you didn’t kill his dad or else you would be in the back of that cop car not him.” 

“He was supposed to move in with me tonight, Stiles. Almost all of his stuff is at my house,” Scott whispered and refused to let his lover go, he couldn't. “Now what am I supposed to do, Stiles? I was supposed to save him!” Scott growled looking up at Stiles. 

Stiles sat next to Scott and looked at him “come stay with me for a few nights. Being around his things isn’t good for you right now.” Stiles said and tried to convince the boy, “I can call your mom. I'm sure she won't mind. Just don't let yourself be alone with the thoughts.” he begged his best friend and slowly helped him lay Isaac on the basement floor. He tugged Scott off the floor and helped him up the stairs. 

Scott watched the trees pass by as they made their way to the funeral. He thought of the late night phone call they got from the coroner, Isaac died two days before Scott showed up. He kept replaying the text messages in his head. They sounded like Isaac. But that’s the thing with psychopaths, they're good liars. Scott wished he could have noticed a difference in the text, one little thing to show that he was texting the devilish man rather than his lover. But he couldn’t other than the solid timeline from the coroner he would have still thought he texted Isaac those two days. He wanted Isaac back so bad, he wanted to hold the other male in his arms, run his fingers through the soft curls. He wanted to hear Isaac’s gentle whines about Scott messing up his hair but never once stopping him. He just wanted Isaac back. Instead he was left with memories. Memories of the sweetest boy to ever grace the earth. 

Scott thought of the eulogy he didn’t write. He was supposed to give it in less than five minutes. Stiles wrote him one to speak if he couldn’t write it, and it was placed in Scott’s suit jacket pocket. If Scott would have been in the right state of mind he would have thanked Stiles, hugged his best friend tight and never let go. But he was distant, he barely ate, barely slept or left his room. He hadn’t been to school since the incident. He just stayed in bed Isaac’s favorite scarf held close to his face as he took in the now fading smell of his partner. 

They arrived at the funeral and looks of pity followed Scott’s footsteps. It was the smallest funeral ever held in Beacon Hills and it pissed Scott off. Isaac deserved something, he deserved more than the nine people who showed up. He remembered the first funeral he ever went to, it was his mom’s friend. He watched as a woman went up in from the crowd, tears in her eyes barely able to speak a single word through her sobs. He remembered thinking ‘It can't be that hard, no one could be that sad.’ and it’s so easy to think that when you're seven years old. He suddenly understood that woman at seventeen, as he made his way up in front of the small group of people who showed up for his boyfriend. 

  He placed a shaky hand on the coffin in front of him and looked over the lavender flowers on top, they represented calmness and he hoped that is what Isaac had now. He let out a choked sob and shook his head, he couldn’t do this. His knees buckled beneath him and he fell to the ground. He wanted to beg, he wanted to join Isaac. He felt someone crouch down and arms wrap around his body, he glanced back expecting his mother from the way he was being held but it was Stiles. He turned around hugging Stiles. Sobbing into his best friend’s chest. Stiles didn’t pull him back to his chair in the very small crowd. He let his best friend cry into his chest. 

“It’s okay, you’re allowed to cry Scott. You're allowed to feel sad and angry. Let it go,”he whispered and placed his chin on top of Scott’s head as he held him. They had nowhere to be and the people in the crowd would wait until Scott was okay, even if they had to sit there forever. 

“I miss him Stiles and he’s barely been gone a week,” Scott sobbed out “how am i supposed to do the rest of my life without him?” He asked sadly and clung tighter to the boy. “I was supposed to love him for eternity.” he sniffled. 

“And you will Scott, nothing will stop the love you feel for him. It will never end. You may not believe in soulmates but I do Scott, and he was yours. However much like the sad playwrights and poets say, fate is a cruel mistress. But you can’t give her that much power. Let Isaac live on through you Scott. It’s what he what have wanted, and that is cheesy bullshit and what you're supposed to say but it's true. “ he said and pulled his best friend up from the ground, “now, get your ass on front of this crowd and deliver the best goddamn eulogy they have ever heard.” He said and patted his shoulder, “and I will stand by your side the entire time. I will always stand by you Scott.” he promised. 

With Stiles by his side, he cleared his throat, “I was supposed to pre-prepare something, and I couldn’t. I don’t know how to write about Isaac in the past tense because he was supposed to be my future. And I suppose if you believe in the afterlife, he might still be. But right now, I want him to be the present. And I want to stand up here and tell you all the beautiful things about him and his life. But to be honest, his life was a nightmare. But I don’t want to dwell on that. Isaac Lahey is the definition of beautiful in my book. He is so sweet inside and out and never would never wish harm upon anyone. He likes scarves and overplayed ABBA songs. The night he asked me out, we were listening to Honey Honey. And he laughed softly; it was the prettiest sound I have ever heard. He told me he loved me before he asked me out. I think that describes him well. He loves to jump headfirst into things. I love him, and I will love him forever. Until my heart stops beating, and I will think of him every time I hear the disco tones of ABBA, even if I will forever argue with him that the Mama Mia Soundtrack is better." Scott let out a small laugh and glanced at his best friend, “he will always be my forever. Even if he isn’t here I won’t let him die. “ he promised the small crowd and walked to his seat with Stiles, who kept a grounding hand on his arms the whole time. 

[breitzbachbea]

💖🛒🎢

(And I wanna ask more, but this seems like enough for now.)

Ohhh, inch resting ones!

Fanfic Writer Emoji Asks

💖 What made you start writing?

Already answered here!

🛒 What are some common things you incorporate in your fics? Themes, feels, scenes, imagery, etc.

For obvious, be it very personal reasons, grief plays a major role in many of the things I write. Loss of a loved one, but also the mourning of chances not taken, of paths now seemingly blocked. (The latter has a lot of overlap though with me trying to not romanticize Organized Crime, so it's not just 'here is someone grieving for their past self and that is something normal we all go through', but 'Living this life will never make you happy and instead lock you into one of your potential worst selves').

I liked some good eating metaphors, even far before I knew what was going on metatextually, but now it's kicked into hyperdrive. Food, teeth, hunger, all those are things that often find their way into my writing, in minor ways.

I also love a good historical allusion, goddammit. To be fair, I don't know how many I've actually written into my writing, but I very often think about how I could represent characters with elements from myth or history. I adore a historical nickname, even if it is rather for the parent generation. Fernando's nickname being 'El Rey', and thusly Antonio at first being called 'El Principe', before the other senior Spanish mobsters realized he's pursueing a different style of business conduct and so he got stuck with 'El Conquistador'. Salvatore being known as 'Caesar' or 'Dionysius of Palermo'. Haunted houses, HUGE thing. The English office being a former Victorian era factory, Michele's house made to resemble a Roman villa, the O'Connel's house formerly being a house where in Industrial times, dozens of people lived in crammed conditions. Two of the Danish subordinates are directly based on two heroes from the medieval German epic 'Kudrun'. Dolcetto's cat is named Machiavelli and Lovino is the reason.

🎢 Which of your fics would you call your wildest ride?

I can't judge this one on subject matter (Though I guess, as far as fucked up shit goes, La Sicilia dell'eterna notte gets disturbing very quick for something with less than 500 words). Therefore, I will go for the writing process. No Rest For The Wicked was written within a week, with no prior planning whatsoever and with a deadline for rarepairweek to meet. That was some topsy turvy shit. And the latter half of Italian Affairs, like the last third I guess, is a rollercoaster ride - both in its creation and within the actual text.

But the award has to go to The Amulet. I still have to have a call with Emi and iron out the last comments, before I print the 70 pages out and proofread them. And then I can finally, FINALLY upload them.

I started writing the first draft of the story on paper in January 2017. The idea of wanting to write something with my Greek and Turkish OCs had been ghosting around my head for a while. But I initially started writing because I was stuck on Italian Affairs and none of the characters would talk to me (e.g. everything I wrote in their voice sounded ooc), so I started writing something else to 'make them jealous'. Absolute pro tip btw, pivoting away from one story when you are stuck with another will do wonders for making you inspired for the first story again. Get out of that rut. Anyways, so I started writing that draft and then continued doing so when I had a free minute at school, until the story was done. I then typed up the draft and did a first round of revisions. I tried to find beta-readers for it, which also worked in 2019. But I still didn't publish it, because the beta never made it to the end. And then it sat and sat in my drafts, while I worked on other projects. My writing improved, my standards raised themselves. And I began to see why the story had always bugged me. I saw that I would have to scrap the whole thing and start from scratch, with extensive research and some soul-searching. And this is what I did - Before I was able to write part 3, I spent weeks hovering up information about the Turkish Republic and the 2014 election and so on. Only for it to vaguely matter for half a page in this 70 page epos. (But worth it, I love learning stuff). I eventually got dear Emi as a beta, who immensely helped to improve this text. Let's all hope that after 6 years of work, it'll finally see the light of day.

[thebiggestnope]

Gus and Ozzy giving gifts!

Ozzy held up the handknit scarf for Gus to see and beamed at him. “Oh Gus, you made this yourself? How did you hide it from me while you were making it?”

“I have my ways.” His green eyes twinkled. “Do you like the color?”

“I love it! Bright purple to match my coat. It’s perfect.” He wrapped it around his neck and sat up straighter, delighted to sport Gus’s gift. “Are you ready for mine?”

“Yes please!” Gus closed his eyes and held up his hands. He felt a weighty object laid carefully on his palms. He opened his eyes and saw it: A rectangle neatly wrapped in green paisley wrapping paper, the edges crisp and perfect, the bow matching. 

Ozzy, still wearing his scarf, looked supremely pleased with himself. “Go on. Open it.”

Gus undid the paper, letting it fall away to reveal a leather-bound tome. “Oh you got me a book!” He winked at him. “I hope it’s a good story.” 

“It certainly is,” said Ozzy. But as Gus examined the gift, he grew puzzled. There was no title on the cover, and it didn’t seem to be a normal book at all. He leafed through it, and saw that the pages weren’t printed by a printing press. They were written by hand. Ozzy’s hand. He noticed the headings. Our first kiss. The picnic by the river. Dinner with the Madrigals. A hike up to the precipice. 

He paused to read one of the entries.

“I told you we were going on a hike and took you up to the ridge. Your leg started to hurt so we stopped to have lunch looking out over the entire encanto. We kissed right as the sun started to set and you whispered that you wanted to hurry home so we could…”

“Ozzy, what is this?”

Ozzy grinned. “Well, a couple of months ago I overheard you telling Teo that you were worried about remembering things. Which is understandable, of course. You’ve lived a long life, and there’s so much to remember.”

Gus kept flipping the pages. There was more than just words here. Photos were taped inside. Mementos. Here were the pair of friendship bracelets that Mirabel Madrigal had made them last year, frayed because Gus and Ozzy had worn them until they’d fallen off. Here was a bus ticket from when Ozzy had come to visit Gus when he was in the city for treatment. Here was some confetti Ozzy had saved from a festival they’d attended over the summer. 

“I wrote down some of my favorite memories so you’d always be able to reference them whenever you want. That way, it will be harder for you to forget the details.”

There were drawings in the book too, Gus realized. Here was a sketch of himself sleeping with Ms. Colombia in his lap. Here was a little watercolor of Gus’s paella. Ozzy was getting good, Gus noted.

“So now you can take this out and read all about our adventures. You can look through the life we’ve built together. You can hold it in your hands.” 

Gus kept flipping pages and he noticed that shorter, more mundane entries were interspersed with the longer ones. The first time you met my sister was immediately followed A time when you wrapped your arms around my waist when I was cooking. Our one-year anniversary was juxtaposed against A typical bath for Gus and Ozzy. All of it presented of equal value. None of it taken for granted.

Tears pricked Gus’s eyes. “I… Oz, I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you like it!”

“Of course I do. But…” He thought of the memory problems he’d been developing. Of the way his mind was beginning to falter and fade. Of the incident of getting lost on that horseback ride over the summer, and how he’d begged Viv to conceal it from Oswaldo. Of how he hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell Ozzy what the doctors had known for months: That Gus’s accident so many decades ago was going to give him early-onset dementia, and it would all be downhill from here.

Ozzy looked stricken by the tone of Gus’s voice. “But what?”

“But..” Gus swallowed and wiped his eyes. “But why is most of the book blank? You left so many pages empty.”

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” He gripped Gus’s knee. “So we can fill the rest of the pages together with all the years of memories we have to come.”

Even if Gus had wanted to tell Ozzy, he couldn’t have. His voice was lost to weeping. 

[loremonster]

If you got a taste for fantasy and don't mind series fiction aimed at 10-13 year olds, reccomend seeking out the Diadem series by John Peel

Some of my earliest episodic memories, where I can lay them out into a timeline and describe entire moments rather than a sensation or two, are sitting in my mother's lap with my eyes straining, scanning, trying to figure out how what she was saying went with what was on the page, and the book she was reading was the second book of that series. ( IDK what happened with book 1, 404 file not found 🤣 Guess the Long Term Record had to start somewhere )

In middle school I donated the copies ma read to us to the school library, but only volumes 3-6... because the spines of 1-3 were so worn pages were falling out.

I have written to Mr. Peel, who enjoys letters from fans. He is very kind in his reponses, and encouraging to aspiring writers.

My brother has since married and had two adorable kiddos, and when they got to the age where they wanted stories read to them? He reached out and asked if I still had the ones ma read to us.

So between me and my lovely we repaired the spines and set the pages back in place ( wood glue, tiny paintbrush, scrap paper and a straight edge to fold the scrap paper around so you ONLY paint the spine, and just enough to set the page in place ) and used some clear tape to fix up the covers and preserve their beautiful oil painting style images that are FULLY accurate to how things are described in story AND the covers make a big continious image side-by-side.

I was sad I could only send the first 3, but the rest of the books can still be found to buy or borrow... even if the new print cover is sad compared to the originals. ( sigh )

Those cheap lil paperbacks bought at schoolastic bookfaires and from mail order catalogs Before Online Shopping Was An Accessable Thing In Rural USA ( oh god I feel old, I can remember that shit. I was 9 but I Remember 🤣 ) have now made it to their third generation. With care, they might survive to see yet more. Last I visited my middle school, volumes 4 and 6 were on the shelf. I pulled out volume 6 to admire the cover... for a kid to bolt from the return box, to the aisel, and then look crestfallen when they saw me Holding The Next Book.

I laughed and handed it over, said I was just remembering an old favorite. I wonder if that kid remembers that, feels so serendipitious remembering it.

Those books, that one set of six, have all had adventures of their own; and the Love Shows Even More. In dried bits of glue smeared flat under clear packing tape, and a desperate caretaker using glittery nailpolish to rebind a page.

I fully agree with the above point,

Truely, The People's Books.

obsessed with mass market paperbacks. their pleasing rectangular proportions. how they fit badly in a hoodie pocket so you can drag them around everywhere with you like a temporary little buddy. the way they fit in your hand because they're MADE for human hands and not as bookshelf decoration. the way the pages feel when you riffle them gently with your thumb. How pristine and crisp they look when you get them and how creased and folded they look when you're done, even if you try to be nice to them. how that wear is okay, how that's correct actually, because they're made with the philosophy that books aren't meant to be PRETTY, they're meant to be read. that little ripple new ones get on the left side from where you hold them when you're reading, the way the ripple only goes as far as you've read, because u change stories by reading as they are changing you. how you can find thousands of these creased and folded and loved little dudes in every thrift store and used book shop and neighborhood library and you can instantly see the ones that someone carried around in a backpack for weeks or read to pieces or gave up on halfway through because they wear being read like fresh snow wears footprints. I love these poorly made, subpar little rectangles so much. truly the people's books.